Sending a SPARK
The gym in Vienna’s 7th district was one of those rare 24/7 places that felt more like a private club than a commercial chain. No reception desk, no staff after nine at night, just a sleek glass door that unlocked with a phone tap and a quiet hum of air vents. The space was small, maybe two hundred square meters of polished concrete and mirrored walls, but it was packed with everything a serious lifter needed: heavy dumbbells up to sixty kilos, a squat rack that never had a line, and a row of cardio machines facing the tall windows that looked out onto a quiet courtyard. In the summer the place turned into a sauna, which was why the owners had finally decided to install a proper air-conditioning system before the real heat hit.
Patrick arrived at 6:30 sharp, the way he had every weekday for the last two years. He was twenty-eight, built like the cover of a fitness magazine, and he knew it. Short blond hair cropped close on the sides, smooth chest and abs that gleamed under the overhead lights because he had almost zero body hair except for a light dusting on his forearms and calves. He wore his usual uniform: a white tank top that clung to every ridge of his pecs and shoulders, and black compression shorts that left nothing to the imagination about the thick, smooth thighs he had spent years sculpting. His cock, even soft, made a clean, mouth-watering outline against the fabric; he liked the way it looked, liked knowing eyes sometimes lingered.
He dropped his bag in the empty locker room, stripped off his hoodie, and stepped into the main floor. The place was silent except for the low buzz of the overhead lights. No one else came this early. The first regulars trickled in around eight, right when he was usually finishing his shower. Perfect solitude.
He started with shoulders, pressing heavy dumbbells overhead while the burn spread down his arms and into his chest. Sweat began to bead on his smooth skin, sliding down the deep cut of his obliques. By the time he moved to the squat rack his tank top was damp and his shorts felt tight in all the right places. Working out always made him horny. The pump, the heat, the way his body looked in the mirrors; it was better than foreplay. He caught his own reflection, adjusted the waistband of his shorts so the head of his cock sat just right against the fabric, and smirked.
At 6:55 the front door chimed softly. Patrick glanced up from his set of pull-ups and saw the handyman step inside carrying a large toolbox and a couple of long cardboard tubes that probably held ducting. The guy was maybe twenty-five, broad-shouldered, wearing the standard dark-blue work trousers and a short-sleeved company polo that stretched across a thick chest. Brownish hair, short but a little messy, and a glimpse of dark hair curling at the open collar of his shirt. Even from across the gym Patrick could see the guy’s forearms were covered in the same dark hair, and the back of his neck looked thick and furry where it disappeared under the collar. Patrick’s stomach tightened with interest.
The handyman gave a quick nod, nothing more, and headed toward the back wall where the old AC units were mounted. Patrick remembered the email from the gym owners: construction this week, no major disruption, new system would be worth it when July turned the place into an oven. He went back to his pull-ups, but his focus had shifted. Every time he lowered himself he could see the handyman in the mirror, bending to measure something, the work trousers pulling tight across a solid, muscular ass. Patrick finished his set, heart pounding harder than the workout required, and walked to the water fountain near the back.
Up close the handyman smelled faintly of clean sweat and some woody aftershave. He was taller than Patrick had first thought, maybe a couple of centimetres, and built like someone who hauled tools and climbed ladders for a living. The hair on his arms was dense and dark against tanned skin. Patrick’s mind supplied the rest: probably a hairy chest, a happy trail disappearing under that belt, thick thighs under the trousers. He felt his cock twitch inside his shorts and forced himself to look away.
Back at the dumbbell rack he picked up his phone out of habit. SPARKR was already open from the night before. He had checked it after his last hookup, a quick thing with a guy from the gym across town who liked to get fucked in the showers and then disappear. Patrick scrolled idly, looking for any of his regulars who might be free after work. Then a new profile popped up at the very top of the “nearby” list. No picture, no bio, no stats. Just a blank silhouette and the little green dot that said the guy was online right now. Distance: 30 metres. Patrick’s pulse jumped.
He looked across the gym again. The handyman was on a short stepladder now, reaching up to the ceiling unit, shirt riding up enough to show a strip of lower back covered in dark hair. Patrick’s mouth went dry. He hated blank profiles on principle; they felt like games. But this one was right here, breathing the same air. Patrick tapped the profile anyway and hit the SPARK button, that little lightning-bolt icon that simply meant “I noticed you.” No message, no pressure. Just a signal.
He set the phone down and went back to his workout, chest presses now, each rep slower than usual so he could watch the handyman in the mirrors. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. No reply. The SPARK stayed unanswered. Patrick told himself it was nothing; the guy was working, probably straight anyway, probably had the app for curiosity and nothing more.
At 7:40 Patrick finished his last set and headed for the locker room. The handyman was still at the back wall, but as Patrick passed he felt eyes on him. Just a glance, quick and almost guilty, but it landed on Patrick’s chest, then lower, before flicking away. Patrick felt it like a hand on his skin. He pushed open the locker-room door, stripped off his tank top, and let the cool air hit his sweat-slick torso. His nipples were tight from the pump. He peeled the shorts down slowly, cock half-hard already, thick and smooth and flushed. He stood there naked for a moment, letting the fantasy settle: the handyman walking in, eyes wide, that furry chest heaving.
Patrick stepped into the shower stall, turned the water hot, and soaped himself thoroughly, stroking his cock just enough to keep the edge without tipping over. He pictured the handyman’s hairy thighs spread wide, pictured burying his face between them, tasting sweat and skin. The fantasy was so sharp he almost moaned out loud.
When he stepped out of the shower, towel low on his hips, the handyman was standing just inside the locker-room door, pretending to check something on his phone. Their eyes met for half a second. The handyman’s cheeks were flushed under the stubble. He looked away fast, but not before Patrick saw the way his throat worked on a swallow.
Patrick smiled to himself, slow and knowing. He dropped the towel, giving the guy a full, unhurried view of his smooth, muscular body and the heavy swing of his cock, then reached for his clean clothes. The handyman turned and left without a word, but the air between them felt charged now, like the first crack of thunder before a summer storm.
Patrick dressed, checked SPARKR one last time. The blank profile was still online. Still no reply to the SPARK. But the green dot pulsed like a heartbeat.
He left the gym at 8:05, the first regulars just arriving. As he stepped out into the cool Vienna morning he felt the beginning of something electric. This week was going to be very interesting.
… To be continued
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