Sabotaging No Nut November - Chapter 2

The metallic tang of iron and stale sweat hit me the second I pushed open the gym doors. Perfect. My kind of hellhole. Mason was already there, predictably, under the harsh fluorescents, grunting like a wounded bull as he slammed weights onto the bench press. His back muscles rippled beneath a sheen of sweat, the tank top clinging to every ridge and valley. Fucking Adonis complex, this guy.

"Hey, big guy," I called, my voice bouncing off the concrete walls. "Ready to get humbled?"

Mason racked the bar with a final, echoing clang and sat up, wiping his face with a towel. His chest heaved. "Humbled? By you? Dream on, Hornball." He smirked, but his eyes flicked to my wrist, where the traitorous smartwatch sat. "Just here to spectate, remember? Hands in pockets."

"Who says I need hands?" I shot back, grinning. "Maybe I'm just here for the view. Strictly scientific observation. Studying the effects of testosterone overload on muscle mass." I gestured vaguely at his biceps, thick as my thighs.

He snorted. "Whatever. Just stay out of my way." He moved to the squat rack.

That’s where I made my move. "Hold up," I said, striding over. "Your form’s looking shaky, Mace. Saw it last time. You’re gonna blow a disc looking like that." Total bullshit. His form was textbook. But the hook was set.

He paused, mid-setup, suspicion warring with competitive pride. "Shaky?"

"Yeah. Hips too far forward on the descent. Lets me spot you? Get you deeper, safer." I kept my tone light, helpful. Missionary fucking positioning myself as the concerned spotter.

He hesitated, then shrugged those massive shoulders."Fine. Don't touch anything unnecessary."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I lied smoothly.

He loaded the bar, settled under it. As he began the first squat, I positioned myself behind him, my hands hovering near his hips. "Okay, deep breath… down… feel that stretch…" My voice was low, deliberate. On his descent, I placed my palms firmly on the hard curves of his hips. The heat radiating off him was intense, the damp cotton of his shorts rough under my fingertips. I felt the powerful muscles bunch and release beneath his slick skin. "Control it," I murmured, leaning in slightly, my breath hot on the sweat-damp nape of his neck. "Feel that pull right… there."

A tremor ran through him. Not from the weight. I kept my hands rooted, applying gentle pressure inward, guiding his movement. My thumbs brushed the sensitive dip just above his ass crack where his shorts rode low. He grunted, shifting his weight. "Easy, Evan."

"Just keeping you aligned, big man," I said innocently, letting my fingers drift lower for a fraction of a second, grazing the top seam of his shorts. "Wouldn't want you to… strain anything." His heart rate monitor vibrated faintly against my own wrist where I stood close. A tiny, thrilling buzz.

The workout became a dance of plausible deniability. Every spot, every correction was an excuse. My knuckles brushing his inner thigh as I "checked" his knee alignment during leg presses. My forearm pressing firmly against the sweat-slick small of his back during deadlifts, making him arch just a fraction more than necessary. "Core tight, Mason," I'd breathe, and feel the involuntary clench ripple through his abdomen. The air thickened, saturated with the smell of exertion, rubber mats, and something else… something hot and primal. Mason stopped talking, his breathing harsher than the workout warranted, a flush creeping up his neck that wasn't just from exertion. His watch vibrated again. Longer this time.

By the time we hit the locker room, the tension was a live wire. Steam curled from the open shower stalls, the rhythmic pounding of water echoing off the tiles. Mason peeled off his soaked tank and shorts, tossing them aside. He stood under the spray, head down, water sluicing over the sculpted planes of his back and shoulders, running in rivulets down the cleft of his ass. Fucking glorious. And utterly vulnerable.

I stripped casually, moving to the stall next to him. The water was hot, almost scalding. "Hell of a session," I called over the roar, lathering soap. "Feel cleansed? Purified? Ready to face another day of noble abstinence?"

He grunted, not looking at me, scrubbing vigorously at his chest.

"Must be tough," I continued, my tone dripping with faux sympathy. "All that sweat… all that heat… building up." I let my gaze linger. "Especially tricky bits to wash, huh? Takes real discipline. You sure you can handle washing that," I nodded pointedly downwards, "without getting… ideas?"

That got him. He snapped his head up, water plastering his dark hair to his forehead, his eyes narrowed. "Shut the fuck up, Evan."

"Just saying!" I laughed, flicking a spray of water from my fingers straight at his chest. It hit his pecs, beading on the hard muscle. "Looks tense. Need a hand?"

"Fuck you," he growled, but it lacked its usual force. He retaliated, shoving a powerful jet of water from his own showerhead straight at me, soaking my face and hair.

I sputtered, laughing. "Oh, it's on!" I lunged, grabbing for his showerhead, twisting it away. He grabbed my wrist, big hand like a vise. We grappled, slippery and laughing, but the laughter quickly turned guttural. He tried to pin me against the cold tile wall, our wet bodies slamming together. Chest to chest, hip to hip. The sudden, shocking heat of him pressed full-length against me. Water pounded down on us both. I could feel it all: the hard ridges of his abs against mine, the thick column of his thigh wedged between my legs. And lower. So much lower.

Pressed against my hip, rigid and hot even through the water, was the unmistakable, solid thickness of his cock. Thick and heavy. Fully fucking hard.