Ten Degrees Hotter
Tuesday morning arrived with the same crisp Vienna air and the same quiet hum of the empty gym. Patrick pushed through the glass door at 6:30 exactly, gym bag over one shoulder, already feeling the low thrum of anticipation in his chest. Yesterday had left him restless all evening. He had checked SPARKR three separate times after work, but the blank profile stayed silent. No reply to the SPARK, no message, nothing. Yet the green dot had been on until late. Patrick had jerked off in his apartment thinking about that thick, hairy neck and the way the handyman’s work trousers had stretched across his ass when he bent over the ladder. The fantasy had been sharp enough to make him come hard, but it only left him hungrier.
He changed quickly in the locker room, pulling on the same white tank top that clung to his smooth, pumped chest and the black compression shorts that hugged every curve of his muscular thighs. His cock already sat heavy and half interested against the fabric, the outline clear and deliberate. He liked how it looked. He liked knowing it drew eyes. He stepped onto the floor and started his warm-up, shoulders first again, pressing dumbbells overhead while the mirrors threw back every flex of his arms and the clean sweep of his hairless torso. Sweat started to gather in the deep lines of his abs. By 6:55 he was into pull-ups, body rising and falling in smooth, controlled reps, when the front door chimed.
The handyman stepped inside carrying the same toolbox and a roll of flexible ducting. He wore the identical dark-blue work trousers and short-sleeved polo, the fabric stretched tight across his broad chest and thick arms. Patrick watched in the mirror as the guy nodded once, almost curt, and headed straight for the back wall where the AC installation waited. Patrick’s pulse kicked up a notch. He finished his set, dropped down, and grabbed his phone from the bench. SPARKR was already open. The blank profile sat at the top of the nearby list again. Distance: 25 metres. Green dot glowing.
Patrick’s thumbs moved before he could overthink it.
Hey. That SPARK yesterday was for you. Couldn’t help noticing how good you look in that work gear. Smooth operator in the gym, hairy where it counts. I’m Patrick, by the way. The guy who’s been lifting here every morning.
He hit send and set the phone face-down on the bench. Then he went back to work, moving to the squat rack, loading the bar heavy enough to make his quads burn. Every rep he could feel the handyman’s presence behind him, the faint clink of tools, the occasional shift of boots on the concrete. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Patrick was dripping sweat, tank top plastered to his skin, when his phone buzzed once.
He picked it up, heart beating harder than the squats required.
The message was short.
Hi. Yeah it’s me. Mike. I’m at work though. Can’t really talk right now.
Patrick read it twice, a slow grin spreading across his face. Mike. The name fit. He glanced across the gym. Mike was up on the stepladder again, reaching overhead, shirt riding up to show that same strip of furry lower back. Patrick’s cock thickened noticeably inside his shorts. He typed back fast, keeping it direct.
We’re basically alone in here. No one else shows up till eight. Locker room’s private. Come over when you want. I’ll be naked in five minutes.
He sent it, then walked straight to the locker room without waiting for an answer. The space was small, just eight lockers, a bench, and the open shower area with three stalls. Patrick stripped the tank top off first, letting the cool air hit his sweat-slick chest. His nipples were tight. He peeled the shorts down next, kicking them aside, and stood there completely naked. His cock hung heavy between his smooth thighs, already thickening, the head flushed a soft pink. He loved the contrast, his hairless body against the memory of Mike’s furry neck and arms. He ran a hand down his own abs, slow and deliberate, then wrapped his fingers loosely around his cock and gave it one lazy stroke just to feel it swell.
The door to the main floor stayed closed, but Patrick heard footsteps a minute later. Heavy work boots. The door clicked open.
Mike stepped inside, phone still in one hand, cheeks already flushed under the stubble. He stopped just inside the doorway, eyes wide as they dragged over Patrick’s naked body. The handyman’s gaze lingered on the smooth chest, the cut abs, the thick, smooth cock that was now pointing half-hard toward the ceiling. Mike’s throat worked on a swallow. He did not speak out loud. Instead he looked down at his phone and typed, thumbs moving fast.
I’m at work. Boss checks in sometimes. This is crazy.
Patrick stepped closer, bare feet silent on the tiles, cock swaying with each step. He stopped an arm’s length away, close enough that Mike could smell the clean sweat on his skin. Patrick’s voice was low, calm, but laced with heat.
“You don’t have to say anything. Just look. Touch if you want. I saw how you glanced yesterday. I know you’re interested.”
Mike’s eyes flicked up to Patrick’s face, then back down to the cock that was now fully hard, thick and smooth and curving slightly upward. His free hand flexed at his side. Patrick could see the bulge growing in those dark-blue work trousers, the fabric straining. Mike typed again, cheeks burning darker.
You’re so smooth. Fuck. I like that. A lot. But I’m supposed to be working.
Patrick smiled, slow and sure. He reached down, wrapped his own hand around his cock, and stroked once, twice, making it throb visibly. Pre-cum beaded at the tip.
“Then work on this for a minute. No one’s coming. I promise.”
Mike hesitated, green eyes dark with conflict and want. Then he set his phone on the bench, wiped his palm on his trousers, and stepped forward. His hand was rough from work, calloused, and when it closed around Patrick’s cock the contrast was electric: warm, hairy forearm against Patrick’s smooth shaft. Mike’s grip was tentative at first, almost reverent, sliding up and down the length in slow, exploratory strokes. Patrick exhaled sharply, hips pushing forward just a fraction.
“Feels good,” Patrick murmured. “Your hand looks huge on me like that.”
Mike did not answer with words. He just kept stroking, eyes locked on the way the smooth skin moved under his fingers, the way the head flushed darker each time his thumb brushed over it. His own breathing had gone rough. The front of his work trousers was tented hard now, the outline of a thick cock pressing against the zipper. Patrick could see dark hair peeking from the open collar of the polo, curling against tanned skin. He wanted to bury his face there, wanted to feel that hair against his lips, but he held still, letting Mike set the pace.
Mike’s strokes grew a little firmer, a little faster, twisting lightly at the head the way someone does when they have done this before but are still nervous about being caught. Patrick’s balls drew up tight, smooth and heavy. He could feel the heat building low in his gut, but he did not chase it. This was only the beginning.
“You like how smooth I am?” Patrick asked softly, voice husky. “I saw the hair on your neck yesterday. Makes me want to lick every inch of it.”
Mike’s hand stuttered for a second. He glanced at Patrick’s face, eyes wide and uncertain, then back to the cock in his fist. He typed one-handed on his phone without letting go.
I don’t do this at work. Never. I’m not even out. Not really. One night stands only. Strangers. Never see them again.
Patrick’s hips rolled gently into the grip, fucking Mike’s fist in slow, shallow thrusts. “Then pretend I’m a stranger. For now. You don’t have to be out. You just have to keep stroking me like that and I’ll come all over your hand if you want.”
Mike’s breath hitched. His strokes sped up, thumb smearing the pre-cum that was leaking steadily now. Patrick could feel the tension in the other man’s body, the way his free hand clenched at his side like he was fighting the urge to touch more, to drop to his knees, to do everything. But Mike stayed standing, work boots planted on the tiles, only that one rough hand moving on Patrick’s cock.
Patrick’s abs tightened, the pump from his workout mixing with the building pleasure. He was close already, the slow burn of the last twenty-four hours finally igniting. He reached out and brushed two fingers lightly over the hairy strip of skin showing above Mike’s belt. Just that small touch made Mike groan under his breath, a low, shaky sound.
“Tomorrow,” Patrick said, voice tight with the edge of orgasm, “I want more. I want to see what’s under that shirt. I want to feel how hairy you are everywhere. But only if you want it too.”
Mike’s hand tightened, stroking faster, eyes glassy. Patrick’s cock throbbed hard in his grip, and then he came with a quiet grunt, thick ropes of come spilling over Mike’s fingers and wrist, landing in warm streaks on the tiles between them. Mike kept stroking through it, milking every drop, until Patrick was twitching and oversensitive.
For a long second neither of them moved. Mike’s hand was still wrapped around Patrick’s softening cock, come slick on his skin. Then reality seemed to snap back. Mike pulled away quickly, wiping his hand on the side of his work trousers, leaving a faint wet streak on the dark fabric. He grabbed his phone, typed fast, and showed the screen.
Gotta get back. Boss might call. This was… fuck. Tomorrow?
Patrick smiled, chest still heaving, come cooling on the floor. He nodded once.
“Tomorrow. Same time. I’ll be waiting exactly like this.”
Mike looked at him one last time, eyes dragging over the naked, sweat-slick body and the spent cock, then turned and slipped out of the locker room without another word. The door clicked shut behind him.
Patrick stood there naked, heart hammering, the taste of possibility thick in the air. He could still feel the ghost of that rough, calloused hand on him. He could still smell the faint woody aftershave and clean sweat that clung to Mike’s skin. He cleaned up slowly, dressed, and finished the last twenty minutes of his workout in a haze of heat and promise. When he left at 8:05 the first regulars were arriving, but Mike was back on the ladder, focused on the ducting, cheeks still faintly pink.
Patrick checked SPARKR one last time before stepping outside. A new message waited.
Tomorrow. But go slow. Please.
Patrick grinned at the screen, typed back a single word, and hit send.
Deal.
The week had only just begun, and already the air in the small gym felt ten degrees hotter.
… To be continued
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