dirtiness

The shape of him is obscene, those two fat muscled thighs dimpled by the grip of Hickey’s fingers — he’s the stuff of filthy fantasy, every athletic clinch Hickey ever held in memory long enough to have a vicious wank over in private. Hickey grinds against him, feeling the fat weight of his prick and balls shift against the pressure of his own hard thigh— he could crush them in one hand if he felt like it, if he could span them, or he could take them in his mouth and bite. Sol reeks of sweat, and his shirt is wet with it; Hickey sucks his sodden shirt collar into his mouth and jerks with his teeth.

“Slow down there, mate,” Tozer says, raking both hands up his back. His bare belly lies against Hickey’s body, and he can feel the hair prickling there. “We’ve got time, haven’t we?”

Hickey makes a noncommittal sound, and releases his prick just long enough to grope at his sides where the muscle lays heavy. His own body is burning, the kind of clean-burning adrenaline that courses through him after disciplining his body into doing exactly what he wants it to do.

No one’s supposed to go in here; it’s lucky the water’s still on, and it gives the whole affair a frisson, as if any moment the God-bothering chairman of the volunteer committee might wander in off the pitch and go ballistic. Hickey mouths his way down Tozer’s chest, rucking up his jersey to lick the sweaty thicket of hair between his pectorals — he tweaks Sol’s nipple between two fingers, hard enough make the soft flesh tent up against his hand and spring back.

“Christ, what tits. I could rub one off between them.”

In saying as much Hickey raises his head long enough for Sol to press him in a haphazard kiss. He’s obliging, for a big man; Hickey breathes in the smell of his sweaty skin until it’s a full-formed taste in his mouth, pressing his face to the hollow of Tozer’s underarm where the sweat of the playing-field is still running. Sol is tugging himself off through his shorts, one big-knuckled hand rubbing over the outline of his thick prick; Hickey wriggles in close against him and presses him harder against the wall.

Sol claps a hand against him, richly companionable and yet still firm enough to smart. “All right, now. I like to see what I’m getting too, so.”

Hickey pulls up his sweat-damp shirt to show him a stretch of naked torso.

“Does this pass muster?”

Hickey has seen Sol in photographs, reduced to constituent parts — stout cock, thick legs, a flash of hairy hole captured in cell-phone angles over the shoulder — but he hasn’t extended the same courtesies. His physique lends itself more to lean muscle than Tozer’s heavy strength, and his own body is naturally near-hairless, a state which has engendered in him a lifelong appreciation for coarse bristling legs and chests and armpits. All the fine invisible hairs of him are still prickling with desire.

“You’re a pretty one then,” Sol says, reaching out to cup his hand to one soft-swelling pectoral — like you’d go after a girl, Hickey thinks, but then girls have never been his strongest suit. Tozer thumbs at the small pink nipple there, but as it hardens it only makes Hickey vaguely irritated with him.

Hickey lets his shirt drop and rocks back against Tozer hard, hip to hip and thigh to thigh. “You’re not here to look, are you? I’d have thought you’d seen enough. Thought you’d told me plain enough what you wanted.”

Hickey bends him over the bench, with its rubbery grating making diamond-prints against the flesh of Tozer’s forearms — Tozer has to cling to it with fingers and toes, despite its breadth, and his wide muscled arse is a treat there thrust out in the air. Sol looks back over his shoulder as if he’s waiting for something. Hickey kneels there beside him to admire what he sees.

Hickey plays at him with lips and tongue, mouthing through his spandex shorts and tasting salt and acrid detergent. Hickey has known all his life that he’s gay, that he wants to fuck men and that he loves their bodies, and even if he’d been brought up blindfolded in a dark room he would have known that by the smell of them — memories of school gymnasia and exercise yards, homosocial arenas for triumph and humiliation.

“This is what you wanted, yeah?”

Tozer is quick to make his assent in monosyllables.

He peels Sol’s shorts down to his thighs, hobbling him and unlocking another wave of body-smell — the creases of his thighs, the crack of his arse, all reeking of clean sweat and acrid masculinity. He’s been a very good boy, hasn’t he, showered and soaped and gotten himself clean for all comers only to go and spoil it all. Hickey feels at him with both hands, mapping the contours of that thick muscled backside, and gives a sharp pinch just to see the skin glow pink beneath his hand.

Sol is wearing a jockstrap, which must be more for Hickey’s delectation than for practicality, but it frames his heavy backside like a work of art. Hickey tongues against Tozer’s hairy arsehole, pressing those thick thighs apart breathing in the salt-sweat smell of him, pungent and thrilling. He rims him until he’s slick and ruddy, fluttering open for Hickey’s fingers and tongue — rubbing the wet pad of his tongue over the dilating ring of muscle there until he can feel the heat of blood making it puffy and reddened. He could finish him off just like this, really, he could — he’d like to suck on those heavy balls of his and taste the sweat, he’d like to bite.

Tozer groans, shifting beneath him like a glacier. “Hang on, stop, I’m not ready—“

Cornelius obliges him and withdraws, fun as it would be to make him come all over himself before he’s even been fucked and then suffer through a drilling with an overstimulated prick. Hickey runs a hand down Tozer’s leg, past the PT tape and scuffs of mud. A little filth adds flavor in these things. He rubs himself off against Tozer’s thighs, and when he comes his orgasm is splendidly efficient, the product of extraordinary discipline. He cleans himself off with the tail of Tozer’s shirt, feeling pleasantly filthy — it would be enough to leave off at that,

“Now I’ve had my fun, and you get yours.” Hickey rubs his sticky hand down Tozer’s back. “What a lovely animal you are.”

“Oh, Christ,” Tozer says with his eyes tight shut, “oh, Jesus.”

The stream of his piss hits Tozer’s sweat-wet back, soaking his striped jersey to a uniform darker blue — the colors of some team he plays for all made up of soldiers and sailors, a pervert’s dream. Sol grunts with pleasure and shifts, sending it splashing against the tile — piss in my mouth, he’d said, I want to taste it, and Hickey will oblige him with pleasure. There’s some private thrill in discovering what gets big men off, and in knowing something secret about each one of them — to know what undermines them, and to be clever enough to use it. Tozer’s thick neck is bent in order to get a better look at him, and his broad pleasant face, his scruff, his beatific little mouth — all of it makes Hickey want to use him shamelessly.

“Open your mouth for me,” Hickey says, letting the fingers of his free hand linger over his own bottom lip like a demonstration.

He can smell the salt of him, the humid pubey animality of an athletic body, and the nearness of his pleasure. When he aims for Tozer’s face it isn’t with any particular accuracy — Hickey relishes seeing his eyes pinch shut and the scarlet heat of pleasure flooding Sol’s throat and collarbone under the heat of his stream, the way his cheek dimples as he groans and tugs at himself. He needn’t bother, really, blissful as he is — all of Sol’s muscles go tight with the force of his climax, which soaks the pouch of his jockstrap in spaff. The gray cotton goes dark and his balls draw up in a pleasing convulsion.

All of that bodily wetness running freely down the planes and swells of that enviable body— sweat and piss and spunk run intermingled and indistinguishable. He takes a moment to let the ensuing impression soak in, and to let sputtering Tozer get his breath back. He could stand there and watch him heaving and choking and be perfectly happy.

Tozer is reeling like a runner at the end of the race, and his piss-wet chest is heaving. Hickey gives his prick a shake and tucks himself back into his brief running shorts with a profound sense of satisfaction.

“So that’s that, then,” Hickey says, wiping off his hands.

“I’m sorry?” Tozer’s blinking his calflike eyes at him, kneeling there with his cock in his hand.

“I’ll be running along now. Clean yourself up, we’ll talk later.”

He strides away with self-evident purpose, and when the hiss of the shower stream starts up behind him, he allows himself a fresh frisson of pleasure.