Hardest Part of the Workout
© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
After Mason’s comments, I couldn’t jerk off.
If I didn’t come to dinner right away, he’d know what I’d done and that’d be even more embarrassing than what had already happened so I threaded myself together and headed to the dining hall.
Dinner was loud. I don’t remember what I ate. Something beige and grilled, probably. Something I picked at while pretending to listen, while trying not to stare.
Mason had waved me over the second I walked in. No hesitation. Just a lazy grin and a gesture to the open seat across from him, as if nothing about earlier had been strange.
Now he was at ease again, sprawled at the head of a long table of guys from the team, damp hair curling around his ears, shoulders shining faintly under the cafeteria lights. He cracked a joke that made someone choke on their drink. Reached across someone’s tray like it was his own. The boy wore confidence like it was stitched into his skin.
It was the kind of scene I’d seen from across the room a hundred times, and never felt invited to. Now that I was in it, everything felt louder, sharper, too warm. My clothes clung to my back in a way that made me want to peel them off and run.
At one point, Mason caught my eye mid-chew and gave me a look. A smirk, almost. Familiar, maybe.
I thought about returning it. But then he turned back to the conversation, and I was left sitting there with my tray and a chest full of static.
When I woke up, it was still dark enough that I couldn’t see the ceiling. I lay there for a while, listening to the hum of the mini-fridge and the distant clank of pipes in the walls, waiting to feel like myself again.
Instead, all I could think about was Casper’s hand.
The way he’d grabbed me at the end of drills — firm, like a handshake. Like he needed to rearrange something. He’d said something about my stance, about loosening my hips, and then his hand had been between my legs, flat against the fabric of my singlet, right between my ass cheeks. Just for a second. A deliriously long second.
It had been clinical, probably. I’d seen him correct other guys before. But not like that. At least I didn’t think so. Not with that kind of contact?
At the time, I’d just nodded. Like it hadn’t knocked the breath out of me.
Now, less than twenty-four hours later, I couldn’t stop thinking about it: how casually he’d touched me, how sure he’d been of my stillness. Like he knew I wouldn’t flinch. Or maybe that I would, and he wanted that.
By the time the sun started pushing pale light through the blinds, I was wide awake, still achy from yesterday’s practice and just unsettled enough to want out of my own skin. I got dressed without showering, pulled on my favourite light teal singlet, and headed back toward the gym before most of campus had even stirred.
I didn’t really have a plan. I wasn’t scheduled for anything, no classes until the afternoon, and nobody had asked me to be anywhere. But I couldn’t sit in my room. Every time I tried, I ended up just pacing or lying back down and staring at the ceiling again, like that would do something.
My phone was full of notifications, but I didn’t feel like checking it. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone, or scrolling, or pretending to be interested in whatever distraction might take the edge off. I just wanted to move.
The gym felt like the only place that made sense. At least there, I could tell myself I was being productive. That I was doing something useful. That soreness meant progress and sweat meant control.
I kept my head down as I walked across campus. A couple guys I recognized passed me going the other direction, laughing about something that probably happened at dinner last night. One of them bumped my shoulder by accident and gave me a quick nod, but didn’t stop. I didn’t stop either.
By the time I pushed open the side door to the training complex, the sun had just cleared the roofline of the science building. It sent this watery kind of light through the windows, made everything inside look prettier than it actually was. The mats hadn’t even been cleaned yet. The air still held the ghost of yesterday’s sweat.
I stepped onto the floor and found a corner. Unfurled out one of the thinner mats and grabbed a foam roller. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was quiet, and for now that was enough.
A few other guys had started to trickle in while I worked the foam roller up the side of my thigh. Most of them were upper-year guys, part of the travel team, stretching out in clumps or fiddling with their earbuds like they were too tired to commit to a real warm-up yet.
I kept my head down, but my eyes wandered. One guy peeled off his hoodie and his shirt came with it, sticking for a second before it tugged free. His abs flexed just enough to show off, though I don’t think he was doing it on purpose. Another one was lying flat on his stomach, doing some kind of back extension stretch, and his shorts had ridden down just enough to make me stare longer than I should have.
It wasn’t like I meant to look. It just happened.
Everywhere I turned, there were bodies. Casual, careless, confident. Sweaty or sleepy, limber or stiff. None of them knew how good they had it or how easy they made it look.
Ugh.
I closed my eyes for a second and focused on the motion, trying to chase some kind of rhythm. The roller pressed into my thigh, and I moved slowly over it, counting breaths, willing myself into focus. It was something to do. Something that felt regulated, even if my mind kept drifting, unbidden, in a state that was anything but controlled.
I hadn’t jerked off since before I got to campus. Practice, Mason’s constant, annoying presence, orientations and class schedules had made that impossible.
I rolled back down the length of my thigh, trying to refocus, when I heard the soft thud of a bag drop beside mine.
Casper.
I didn’t have to look to know it was him.
There was a certain way Casper moved. Calm, steady, like he was never in a rush but always exactly where he needed to be. His shoes barely made a sound on the mat, and yet the moment he arrived, the air around me felt different. More focused. More rigid.
I opened my eyes and glanced over just as he crouched beside me.
“You’re back at it early,” he said, not smiling but not unfriendly either.
“Didn’t sleep great.”
“Yeah?” He nodded like that made sense. “Yesterday was a tough one.”
I gave a vague hum and shifted slightly on the roller, trying not to look directly at him.
Casper didn’t say anything else at first. He just watched me. Not in a weird way, not even in a way that felt intentional. More like he was taking inventory. Scanning the way I moved, the angles of my legs, how much tension I was holding without realizing it.
He nodded toward my hips. “You’re holding weird again.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You’re tightening through your left side. Probably overcompensating. It’s throwing your alignment off.”
That didn’t sound like a big deal, but something about the way he said it made it feel like one. Like I’d done something wrong without knowing, and he was already filing it away somewhere important.
He tapped my shin lightly. “Roll on your back.”
I hesitated.
“I’ll help with your hips.”
I rolled onto my back and tried to act like it was no big deal. Just stretching. Just helping each other out.
Casper knelt down beside me and took my leg behind the knee, lifting it toward my chest. His grip was steady. He didn’t ask if I was good with it. He just did it, like this was something we always did. As though his touch wasn’t going to drive me crazy again. As if he hadn’t slipped his hand between my crack the other day…
“Relax this part,” he said, tapping the inside of my thigh. “You’re still clenching.”
“I’m not,” I said, almost too fast.
He moved my leg out to the side a bit and held it there, one hand under my calf, the other bracing my knee.
The stretch kicked in right away. Not painful, but deep — sharp in that way that let you know how tight everything was. I tried to breathe through it, but it caught me off guard, and I let out this weird half-sigh without meaning to.
Casper didn’t comment. Just adjusted his hand and eased the angle a little. “You’ve got more range than you’re using,” he said, quiet. “You’re tighter than you think.”
I stared at the ceiling and nodded again, even though I wasn’t totally sure what he meant. My leg felt heavy in his hands, like it didn’t belong to me anymore. The rest of my body had gone still. I didn’t know where to look. Every part of me felt like it was too close to him.
He moved my leg again, slower this time, rotating it at the hip.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t trust my voice.
Casper shifted positions without saying anything. He let my leg rest for a second, then picked up the other one and bent it the same way, angling it outward.
“This side’s worse,” he said. “You’re rotating in.”
He adjusted my foot and pressed it lightly toward the floor. Then his hand slid in under my thigh again, higher this time. Way higher.
His palm landed just below my crotch. Not quite touching anything, but close enough that the heat of it made my skin jump. His thumb rested right in the crease at the top of my thigh, and when he adjusted the angle again, it nudged closer. Not full-on contact, but the edge of his hand brushed the base of my dick through my shorts.
My stomach tightened.
At first, I told myself it was nothing. Just part of the stretch. Just his hand doing what it needed to do. But then it lingered. Stayed right there like it belonged.
And that was all it took.
The blood rushed down before I could even think. One second, I was fine, the next I was swelling against the fabric — hard and getting harder. My hips twitched without meaning to, and I forced them flat again like that would somehow undo it.
I didn’t move. My fingers dug into the mat. I stared straight up, not even blinking.
Casper kept his voice even. “Try to breathe through the tension. You’re fighting me.”
No shit.
Casper didn’t pull his hand away right away. He held the stretch for another breath, maybe two. Then, finally, he let go of my leg and leaned back on his heels.
“You’re definitely looser now,” he said, like he was just making an observation.
I stayed frozen. My dick was still hard, pressed awkwardly against the tight fabric of my singlet, outlined in a way that made me want to sink through the floor. There was no hiding it. No adjusting. I couldn’t even shift without making it worse.
Casper glanced down at me — then lower.
He saw. I knew he saw. But he didn’t smirk or laugh or make it a big thing. Just gave a soft little breath, like a private joke he wasn’t going to share.
“Well,” he said, voice casual. “Looks like that helped.”
My face went hot. I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.
“Don’t worry about it,” he added, standing up and grabbing his towel. “Singlets are brutal. That shit happens.”
I swallowed hard, trying to will the blood back to literally any other part of my body.
“You’re good, though,” he said over his shoulder, already walking away. “Wasn’t about me or anything. Right?”
I didn’t answer. My brain had stopped working in sentences.
Casper turned back like nothing had happened.
“Let’s hit two more before I check on the others,” he said, already crouching beside me again. “Keep you balanced.”
Was he serious?
He didn’t wait for a response. Just took hold of my ankle and bent my leg in toward my chest again, this time angling it wider.
My dick was still hard.
Not semi, not twitching — fully, stupidly hard. And I was still in my singlet, lying there face up like an idiot, trying not to let anything twitch or shift or leak. Every brush of fabric made it worse.
Casper stayed focused on the stretch.
“Try to let your knee open. Don’t fight it.”
I nodded, jaw locked. My breath came in shallow pulls, more from nerves than strain.
He adjusted my leg again, then placed one hand just below my knee and used the other to brace the inside of my thigh, not near my crotch this time, but not far either.
His thumb moved in slow, careful circles over the muscle, loosening the tension. It wasn’t sexual, not really. But it didn’t have to be.
I could feel my pulse in my dick. Could feel every inch of where his hand was, and every inch of where I wanted it to be.
I bit the inside of my cheek and stared at the ceiling like it had answers.
Casper switched legs. No comment. No pause. Just kept working me through the stretch like I wasn’t visibly pitching a tent six inches from his hand.
Was this normal for him?
Was I normal?
Casper let the second leg down gently and sat back on his heels.
“You’re good,” he said again, like nothing had changed. “Definitely more open now.”
He stood, wiped his hands on his towel, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he glanced down at me — not long, just enough to let me know he saw everything.
“That was the hardest part of your workout, huh?”
Spoken like a joke.
Like he wasn’t even thinking about what it did to me.
Then he walked off.
No second glance. No smirk. Just that one line tossed over his shoulder like it meant nothing.
I lay there for a few more seconds, chest rising and falling too fast, my dick still aching like it hadn’t gotten the memo. The mat felt sticky under my back. My hands had gone cold.
I wanted to jerk off so badly it hurt.
But I didn’t.
I lay there for a few more seconds, chest rising and falling too fast, my dick still aching like it hadn’t gotten the memo. The mat felt like a stranger under my back. My hands had gone cold.
I wanted to jerk off so badly it hurt.
But I couldn’t.
Not since that night in Mason’s room.
The way he smirked. The way he said, “Don’t let me stop you,” before walking out, leaving the words hanging like some kind of joke.
I hadn’t touched myself since.
And now here I was, hard as hell in a singlet, sweating through my gear while Casper walked off like nothing happened.
What the hell was I supposed to do with this?
I changed fast after practice. Threw on joggers and a hoodie, shoved everything else into my bag, and got out of there like someone might stop me. I had never been happier to be out of my favourite singlet. No matter how cute I thought I looked in it.
I was still hard.
Not completely. But enough.
Every step to class had this faint, maddening pressure between my legs, like my body hadn’t figured out we’d moved on. I kept adjusting my waistband with one hand in my pocket, pretending I was checking my phone, pretending I wasn’t burning alive in my own sweat.
My brain wouldn't stop.
Casper, obviously — his hands on my thighs, his voice like it was no big deal, that line about the hardest part of my workout.
But it wasn’t just him.
There was the lean blond guy by the leg press, the one with a backwards cap and forearms like rope. The short, ripped one doing pull-ups who’d peeled off his shirt halfway through and had that trail of sweat running down his chest like it was charting a course towards my lips.
I couldn’t forget Mason either.
Everything was sex right now.
Or maybe just everything male.
It was like I’d flipped some switch and couldn’t find it again. Everyone looked like they could fuck me. Or had already fucked someone like me. Or had no idea how easy it would be.
And I was going to Intro to Psych with a semi.
Cool. Normal. Totally fine.
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Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
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