Free Gym Boys by Shane Allison Page B

instead, faster and faster, until I felt wetness on the small of my back where my shirt had ridden up.
    â€œYou made me come, little fucker.”
    He kissed my neck while I cried like a baby.
    â€œShh, don’t cry. I won’t tell, I won’t tell anyone.”
    Tyler thought I was upset, when in actuality, I was the happiest little fucker in the universe and crying out of sheer euphoria. I let him think what he wanted, because I enjoyed the way he was trying to comfort me. He held me close while he tucked my spent dick back inside my shorts, wet tongue on the base of my neck leaving a trail of his guilt on my skin.
    â€œYou okay?”
    I nodded, his jock still clamped between my teeth. He tried to take it back, but I bit down harder. He smirked and patted my cheek.
    â€œLike that, huh? Want to keep it?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    Tyler smiled a genuine smile. His face was inches from mine, and I thought he was going to kiss me, but his expression changed, going from blissful to somber in a blink.
    â€œThis never happened.”
    He shook his head, then gave me one last brooding glare before leaving me alone in the locker room. I wiped the semen off my back with his jock, then wrapped it in a towel and buried it in the bottom of my backpack before heading home. Once I was in the safety of my single dorm, I stripped naked and played with my dick while I replayed the scene over and over. When I inhaled, I could still smell him, as if the scent of his sweat had been tattooed inside my nostrils. The more I drew in his essence, the more I fell in love, not just with Tyler, but with what was to become my greatest addiction.
    Jockstraps. I love the way they cradle a man’s balls so lovingly while leaving his ass bare and open. I love the way they smell after an arduous workout. I love the way they feel when I wear them under my clothes. Buying them online from specialty catalogs is my favorite hobby, but the ones I find accidentally intrigue me the most. Two years ago, I took a management position at a fitness center. One day while inspecting the men’s locker room, I found a jock that had been left behind. There it was, a tangled wad of fabric peeking out from under a bench, like a treasure for me to find. In the following months I found more; it’s amazing how many men forget them. I have amassed quite a hoard that I keep stored in plastic bags to preserve the scent. Each man has his own unique odor, meant to be savored. One in particular is my prized possession. Tyler’s jock. Even after six years, his redolence lingers.
    My collection plays a part in my complex nightly ritual. First, I shower. While still damp, I pick a favorite and remove it from the plastic bag. After inhaling the scent for a while, I rub the pouch all over my skin, targeting my nipples and cock. Once I’m hard, the fabric is balled up and shoved into my greedy mouth. I stand with my face crammed into a corner, then furiously stroke myself to orgasm. Once a week, I change my routine. Saturday nights is reserved for Tyler, and I chew on his jock while I fuck myself with a large dildo, facedown on my bed. The red latex phallus was chosen specifically because the thick crown reminds me of Tyler’s cock. I pretend he’s the one fucking me, owning me, using me for his pleasure.
    Sometimes I cry afterward, I don’t know why. Maybe it’s out of loneliness, or maybe it’s something else, something deeper that I don’t want to discover. I long to have a boyfriend, but I’m not out and meeting new people is hard for someone who is socially awkward. Once, I tried visiting a glory hole, but ran away in terror when I caught a glimpse of the rough clientele. So I live alone, and masturbate, that’s my life. Until last week, when a new client joined the health club.
    Tyler Monroe.
    He still looked amazing. Toned body, like a hairy god. I watched him shower, staring in rapture as he turned those low-hangers