Catching the Gym Rat
© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
Toronto’s January light came thin and grey, like it had already decided the day would disappoint anyone who expected warmth. Randy rose anyway, knocked out twenty minutes on the rowing machine, then pulled on sweats that could pass for streetwear and walked the six blocks to campus. He told himself motion kept the engine primed; the truth was that he was worried if he stopped moving, he’d lose his direction.
Liam had faded faster than most. Two weeks, give or take: enough time for the sting of refusal to register, not enough for it to matter. The boy’s “I’ll do better” texts had slowed to one-line apologies, then vanished. Randy muted the thread rather than delete it. Muting felt clinical, merciful even—like shelving a file instead of shredding it.
Classes filled the mornings: endocrine pathways, pharmacology problem sets, the slow unspooling of second-year med that left everyone half-numb by noon. He spoke when an attending expected brilliance and fell silent when classmates bickered over minutiae. No one noticed the difference.
Afternoons were for the hospital wards or the anatomy lab, but evenings belonged to the apps. January offered an unending parade of boys chasing comfort sex to dodge winter gloom. Randy granted it, always clear about roles: his apartment, his rules, their mouth or their hole, then Uber home.
He cycled through six bodies in eleven nights. A tattooed bartender who wanted forced silence but couldn’t stop narrating every thrust. A master’s student who promised tears, then shrank from a single slap. A dancer who pleaded for rough use, came untouched in ninety seconds, and burst into giggles when Randy reminded him orgasms without permission were unacceptable.
Each scene ended the same way: a polite goodbye, the door clicking shut, the apartment settling around Randy like a coat two sizes too small. The physical high evaporated before the shower steamed the mirror. The emptiness stayed, a familiar ache behind the ribs that no amount of cardio or Cum-and-Go discipline managed to burn out.
By the second weekend of term, he’d stopped pretending novelty might fix the problem. Still, he kept the rhythm—class, clinic, hookups, sleep—because breaking stride felt perilously close to admitting defeat.
Friday evening, he hit the campus fitness centre late, aiming for the hour when New-Year-resolution amateurs cleared out and the serious lifters hadn’t yet arrived for their midnight rituals. The space echoed with the low clang of plates and the faint adrenal scent of rubber flooring. Randy grabbed a squat rack, set a modest weight, and let muscle memory take over. Down, drive, lockout. Again.
On the third set a voice drifted across the aisle: “Mind if I work in when you’re done?”
He racked the bar and turned. The guy was maybe twenty-two—broad-shouldered, solid legs under charcoal joggers, dark hair damp at the temples. Not conventionally beautiful, but there was a steadiness in the way he met a stranger’s gaze that made him stand out amid the show-offs.
“Two minutes,” Randy said.
“No rush.” The stranger offered a crooked half-smile, then moved to a mat for stretches. He lowered into a deep lunge without checking a mirror, spine straight, breathing controlled. Functional, not showing off.
Randy let his gaze linger. Ezra had the kind of body that didn’t ask for attention but got it anyway — built more for power than aesthetics, but no less beautiful for it. His thighs were thick under charcoal joggers, long muscle lines tapering clean from hip to knee. A faded maroon T-shirt clung to his back, darkened in patches with sweat, pulled just tightly enough to hint at the bulk across his shoulders and the cut of his chest underneath. His arms were dense with tone, veins visible when he flexed his wrists, forearms dusted with a light trail of hair that ran up toward a pair of strong, square triceps.
His skin was a warm olive tone, flushed deeper where the blood pushed hardest: at his neck, his cheeks, the stretch of forearm that caught the gym lighting just right. Thick brown hair fell messily across his forehead, damp at the edges, pushed back carelessly with one hand when it slipped too far into his eyes.
The face beneath it wasn’t model-perfect — too angular, like he was cut from stone— but it held. It was handsome in a way that felt earned: dark eyebrows, strong browline, a mouth that looked like it could do things Randy would enjoy.
There was no cologne. No excessive grooming. Just the scent of clean sweat and the calm, practical confidence of someone who didn’t need to perform masculinity, he just inhabited it.
Randy finished his last reps, stripped the plates, and gestured. “All yours.”
“Appreciate it.” The guy slid under the bar fluidly, no wasted motion, focus inward rather than on who might be watching. He powered through five clean reps, racked the weight, and exhaled, a single sharp breath, controlled.
“Good depth,” Randy noted.
“Thanks. Been chasing form over numbers lately.” He straightened, wiped his palms on a towel, then extended a hand. “Ezra.”
Randy shook it. Firm grip, calluses that spoke of real work. “Randy.”
The conversation might have ended there. Gym etiquette suggested nodding and moving on. But Ezra didn’t shift away; he rested the towel across his shoulders and tilted his head. “You in the med program? I’ve seen you near the labs.”
“Second-year. You?”
“Kinesiology grad. I’m the boring research assistant who babysits undergrads in the biomechanics suite.” The grin turned self-deprecating. “And reviews far too many posture videos.”
Randy caught himself watching the faint rise of Ezra’s chest beneath the fitted tee, the disciplined way he breathed through recovery. There was a quiet confidence here, none of the peacocking he’d catalogued all month.
A beat passed where neither of them looked away.
“You free tonight?” Randy asked, voice neutral.
One eyebrow lifted, equal parts curiosity and acceptance. “Depends what free means.”
“My place, discussion, drink, maybe more.”
Ezra’s smile widened, not coy, not overeager, just sincere. “I could use an interesting evening.”
Randy checked the clock on the wall: 21:12. “Thirty minutes to finish up, then meet me by the lockers.”
“Deal.” Ezra re-gripped the bar and dropped into another set without further comment.
Randy turned to the dumbbells, pulse steady but sharper now, the hunt instinct waking with a stretch and a yawn. He squashed a few more reps, finished his routine, and headed to the locker room. A quick rinse cleared the sweat, but he left before his hair fully dried. Ezra was tying his shoes at the bench, headphones already stashed, face open, waiting.
“Ready?” Randy asked.
“Lead the way.”
They stepped out into the brittle night air side by side, breaths fogging in tandem. Ten minutes later, Ezra followed Randy through the door to his apartment on Sherbourne, ignorant of the tests lined up just behind the apartment door. Randy unlocked it, stood aside, and let him cross the threshold first, eyes tracking every micro-gesture: curiosity, caution, perhaps a strand of genuine excitement.
Interesting indeed.
Ezra stepped inside without hesitation but didn’t wander. He paused just past the threshold, eyes scanning the apartment with quick, economic precision. The space was clean, deliberately spare — a lived-in minimalism that said more about Randy’s need for order than any aesthetic. One couch, one chair, a low shelf of medical texts and neatly stacked coasters. No art on the walls. No dishes in the sink.
“Nice place,” Ezra said, voice low but even. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t fill the silence with questions.
“Shoes off,” Randy said.
Ezra obeyed immediately, toeing off his sneakers and setting them beside the mat. No hesitation. No sarcastic comment. Just done.
That was test one.
Randy gestured to the coat hook by the door. Ezra shrugged off his gym jacket, revealing the full outline of his upper body in that damp, clinging tee. The sleeves strained just enough around his delts to be satisfying. His chest was broader than Randy had realized in the low light of the gym. Built for function. It was the kind of body that got better the closer you got to it.
“You want water, beer, anything?” Randy asked as he stepped into the kitchen.
Ezra tilted his head. “Whatever you’re having.”
That earned a flicker of approval. Subtle, but there.
Randy pulled two waters from the fridge. No need to soften the edge with alcohol. He handed one over. Ezra took it, unscrewed the cap, and drank with easy confidence.
“You ever been here before?” Randy asked.
“Sherbourne?” Ezra said, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Yeah. Lived down here during undergrad for a year. Roommate situation was hell.”
“Now?”
“Cabbagetown. Basement unit. Weird landlord, good light.”
Randy nodded, filing it away. The kind of guy who paid attention to sunlight.
He moved to the couch, sat, and let a beat stretch out. Ezra followed suit but didn’t sit too close, didn’t angle in like he was about to pounce. He just mirrored the posture, elbows resting loosely on his knees, water bottle between them.
“You always that direct at the gym?” Ezra asked, finally glancing over.
Randy looked at him evenly. “When it’s worth it.”
Ezra smiled a little. “Fair.”
Silence hovered again. Not awkward, just measured. Ezra didn’t seem to need to fill it. He took another sip of water, then sat back against the couch, spine long, hands relaxed in his lap. Calm. Comfortable.
Randy let his eyes trace the line of Ezra’s throat, the hollow at the base of his neck. There was a faint line of sweat still clinging there, just visible under the collar of his shirt. It made Randy’s pulse tick once, slightly harder.
“You clean up well,” Randy said.
Ezra glanced down at himself, then back up. “Thanks. You look like you don’t like small talk, so I won’t ask what shampoo you use.”
“You assume right.”
That got a low chuckle.
Randy set his water on the table and shifted slightly toward him. “Take off your shirt.”
Ezra didn’t blink. He pulled it off in one smooth motion and dropped it over the back of the couch.
He looked even better out of it.
The muscle tone was practical: thick pecs, dense arms, a tight core with just enough definition to make Randy’s cock twitch. There was a fine trail of hair running from his chest down past his waistband, not thick, but there. His nipples were slightly flushed, like his body ran warm. A faint bruise curved along the side of one rib — old, maybe from sparring or skiing, something that involved contact.
Randy stood. Ezra didn’t move.
“Come here,” Randy said.
Ezra rose smoothly and stood in front of him. They were nearly the same height, but Randy still felt like he was the one looming. He reached out and ran a hand along the bare line of Ezra’s arm, then across his chest, brushing over his sternum with just enough pressure to register dominance.
“You get nervous when someone gives you orders?” Randy asked.
“Not if I trust them.”
“Do you trust me?”
Ezra paused — but not long. “Not yet. But I’m open to the idea.”
That answer sent something sharp and low straight through Randy’s gut. Not flattery. Not compliance. Something truer.
He let his hand drop, stepping back. “Bathroom’s at the end of the hall. You’ve got five minutes to shower. Don’t lock the door.”
Ezra blinked. “You want me to wash up?”
“I want to see if you’ll follow instructions.”
Ezra’s lips parted like he might say something, then just nodded. “Got it.”
He moved down the hallway, not slow, not rushed. The bathroom door clicked open. The sound of the water came on a moment later. Steady, no fiddling with temperature.
Randy stood there a moment, still.
This was supposed to be easy. Routine. Another mouth, another hole. But Ezra didn’t move like someone waiting to be used. He moved like someone waiting to be tested.
And that… was new.
The water stopped after four and a half minutes. Randy glanced once at the hall but didn’t move. A few beats later, Ezra reappeared, towel slung low on his hips, droplets still clinging to his chest and thighs. His hair was darker wet, curling slightly at the ends, and his skin had flushed from the heat of the water, neck, collarbone, the faint outline of his pecs.
He paused at the threshold like he was waiting for instruction.
Randy didn’t offer pleasantries. Just: “Drop it.”
Ezra hesitated a beat. Then reached for the corner of the towel and let it fall.
The cloth hit the floor in a wet coil. Ezra stood still.
Randy didn’t look away.
The body was better than expected. His shoulders tapered clean into a narrow waist, his torso lean but solid, with a faint V of muscle cutting down toward his hips. His thighs were thick, dense with power. His cock hung low, relaxed, thick even soft — the kind of weight that spoke to confidence earned, not flaunted. A dark thatch of hair framed his balls, slightly damp, a single drop trailing down the inside of one thigh.
Randy stood, still fully clothed, and stepped in slowly, letting his gaze wander like it was his right.
He circled him once. No hurry. Just assessment.
“Good legs,” he murmured. “Not just for show. Built for force.”
Ezra’s breath caught, almost imperceptibly.
“Arms too. You’re built like a shredder...”
Ezra said nothing. His cock gave the slightest twitch.
Randy came to stand in front of him again, one hand lifting to brush the back of his fingers along Ezra’s chest. Not sexual, just clinical.
“You don’t trim,” he added. “That’s good. You smell natural, like clean skin. Not chemicals.”
Ezra exhaled softly. “Thanks. I think.”
Randy’s eyes didn’t waver. “I’m not complimenting you. I’m cataloguing.”
Ezra didn’t flinch. Just held his posture, grounded, cock slowly starting to swell now under the scrutiny.
Randy’s gaze dropped for a moment, then returned to Ezra’s face. “You know what happens next?”
Ezra nodded slowly. “Not really.”
Randy smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in it.
“Good. Then kneel.”
Ezra shifted to his knees without question, back straight, hands resting loosely behind him. Randy stayed fully clothed—black T-shirt, fitted jeans—forcing Ezra to look up into a face that gave nothing away.
Randy unbuckled his belt slowly, the faint metallic clink echoing in the quiet apartment. He unzipped, one deliberate inch at a time, letting the anticipation thicken. Ezra’s gaze followed the motion with a hungry focus he probably didn’t realize he was showing.
“Open your mouth,” Randy said.
Ezra’s lips parted at once.
Randy drew his half-hard cock free, let it hover a few centimeters from Ezra’s mouth—close enough that Ezra could smell him, feel the warmth radiating off the shaft—but then Randy pulled back, stroking himself lazily instead. Pre-cum beaded at the tip. Ezra’s eyes tracked it, tongue barely visible between his teeth.
Randy smirked. “You think you’ve earned that already?”
Ezra swallowed. “No, Sir.”
Sir; already. Without being told.
Randy brought the head forward just enough to brush Ezra’s lower lip, smearing a thin line of fluid across it, then withdrew again. Ezra’s breath caught; his jaw twitched, fighting the urge to lean in.
“Close your eyes.”
Ezra obeyed, lashes settling against flushed cheeks.
Randy resumed the slow tease, stroking himself in a steady rhythm, letting the slick sound of skin drag over Ezra’s hearing. Now and then he tapped the head against Ezra’s lips, never staying long enough to allow a taste. Ezra’s breathing deepened, shoulders rising and falling with controlled effort. His own cock had thickened hard between his legs, bobbing slightly with each pulse of blood.
Three more fake offers. Three more withdrawals. Each time Ezra’s mouth stretched wider, tongue edging forward, only to be denied. A muffled whine escaped him on the last pullback: soft, frustrated, no words.
“Keep your eyes shut,” Randy murmured.
Ezra’s chest heaved.
Randy shifted closer, letting the weight of his cock rest briefly on Ezra’s cheek. Ezra tilted into it, inhaling the scent, lips open and searching. Just when Ezra seemed certain he’d finally be fed, Randy stepped forward, pivoted, pulled down his jeans and boxers and planted the round of his ass squarely against Ezra’s face.
Ezra froze, surprise, then instinct. Randy’s hands cupped the back of Ezra’s head, guiding him in.
“You want my cock?” Randy’s voice came rough, edged with amusement. “Earn it. Tongue me first.”
Ezra’s breath spilled hot across the cleft. A moment of hesitation, then his mouth opened. He pressed a tentative lick from taint to top, tasting soap mixed with the salt of a fresh shower and the faint musk that clung to Randy’s skin. Randy exhaled, rolling his hips back to give Ezra better access.
“Deeper,” Randy ordered, fingers tightening.
Ezra obeyed, tongue circling the rim, lips sealing, building pressure. Randy’s pulse thudded in his ears. He pushed back slightly, letting Ezra’s nose bury between his cheeks. Ezra groaned—a raw sound—and worked harder, tongue probing, flattening, dipping just inside. Hands still clasped behind his back, he used only his mouth, jaw flexing with determination.
Randy’s cock swelled fully, hanging heavy between his thighs. He angled himself so it brushed Ezra’s chest, pre-cum dripping onto the smooth skin just below Ezra’s collarbone. Each stroke of tongue sent a tremor through his core.
“That’s it,” Randy growled. “Keep going. Show me how hungry you are.”
Ezra answered with a longer lick, tracing circles, then stabbing gently into the tight ring, breathing through his nose, moaning softly. Randy held him there, letting the slick heat build, feeling Ezra’s obedience in every careful motion.
When Randy finally pulled forward, reclaiming space, Ezra’s lips were wet, jaw slack, eyes still closed as instructed. His own cock stood flushed and drooling against his thigh.
Randy turned back, smacked the side of Ezra’s cheek lightly with the head of his cock, reward and reminder all at once.
“Good,” he murmured. “Maybe you’ve earned a taste now.”
Ezra’s eyes fluttered open—wide, glassy, hopeful—just as Randy pressed the first inch past his lips.
Randy shoved forward without warning, burying half his length in Ezra’s mouth. The wet heat clenched around him, throat muscles fluttering in a quick reflex before relaxing as Ezra adjusted. No protest, no choking theatrics, just a low hum that vibrated up Randy’s shaft.
“Hands behind your back,” Randy reminded, voice flat.
Ezra’s fingers, which had started to brace on his own thighs, slid obediently to clasp behind him again. Randy gripped his hair with both hands and set a brutal rhythm. Hips snapped, cock pistoning over Ezra’s tongue, hitting the soft palate again and again. Saliva spilled down Ezra’s chin in glossy strings; it darkened the trail of hair on his chest where Randy’s cock slapped against skin between thrusts.
Ezra took it all. He made no attempt to slow the pace, offered no desperate grabs for air. Each time Randy bottomed out, Ezra swallowed around him, throat sealing tight, drawing a grunt from Randy’s chest.
Randy glanced down. Ezra’s cock stood rigid, red at the tip, leaking steadily onto the hardwood. He hadn’t laid a single finger on it. Not once. Every pulse of arousal came directly from being used.
That shot a spark of surprise through Randy’s nerves. Even the “good boys” usually pawed at themselves—or looked for permission to. Ezra seemed content to ache.
Randy tested it. He slowed, let the head of his cock rest heavy on Ezra’s tongue. “You like this?”
Ezra’s eyes were glassy but steady. He nodded without pulling off, lips molding around the shaft in a silent yes.
Randy kept his grip light and let gravity do the work. Ezra opened wider, let his jaw drop until Randy slid deeper on his own weight. He inhaled through his nose, held, swallowed, held again. His throat flexed like a practiced muscle. Randy felt slick pressure all around him, a tight velvet tunnel that squeezed harder each time Ezra swallowed.
Randy began to thrust again, harder now, letting the wet sound fill the apartment. Spit splattered. Ezra’s gag reflex stayed muted; only a faint gasp escaped when Randy drove particularly deep. Randy watched the younger man’s cock throb helplessly, pre-cum dripping onto the floor in slow strands. Still no hand strayed.
Randy smothered Ezra’s face with more speed. Hips blurred. The head of his cock battered Ezra’s throat. The brunette’s cheeks hollowed, eyes brimming from the intensity yet never closing.
“Fuck—hold it,” Randy hissed.
He buried himself to the root and stayed. Ezra’s nose pressed into Randy’s trimmed pubic hair, breath stuttering. Thirty seconds. Ezra’s chest rose against Randy’s thighs in slow, measured pulls for air. Forty. A flicker of strain crossed his brow but he held. Fifty. Randy felt the hot clench of impending orgasm coil at the base of his spine.
He yanked out just before the wave broke, spit-slick cock slapping Ezra’s lower lip. Ezra gasped, throat working, but his eyes stayed trained upward, waiting.
Randy stroked once, twice, aiming back at Ezra’s mouth. The first jet painted the flushed tongue; the next streaked across Ezra’s cheek. Randy groaned, pumping until the last dribble dripped into Ezra’s waiting mouth. Ezra swallowed greedily, then extended his tongue, silently asking if Randy wanted it cleaned.
Randy’s pulse hammered. He’d planned a simple use-and-discard, yet Ezra’s unwavering restraint—rock-hard and untouched—carved a fissure in that certainty. Boys always reached for permission. Boys begged for release. Ezra knelt in his own arousal like it was tribute, not entitlement.
Randy thumbed a smear of cum from Ezra’s cheek and pressed it against his lips. Ezra sucked the thumb clean without hesitation.
“Stand up,” Randy said.
Ezra rose, legs steady despite the ache in his knees. His cock bounced, swollen, begging. Randy pulled his pants and boxer back on and zipped up, still fully clothed, and paced a slow circle around him, studying the trembling shaft, the flex of thigh muscles fighting not to grind.
“You didn’t touch yourself,” Randy said, voice low.
Ezra swallowed. “Wasn’t told to.”
Simple. Direct. No boast, no plea.
Heat flickered deep in Randy’s gut—part hunger, part something rarer. He stepped close, slid a palm down Ezra’s flank, stopping just shy of the needy cock.
“Interesting,” Randy murmured, “you seem like a good boy.”
Ezra’s breath hitched but he stayed still.
Randy traced a single fingertip up the underside of Ezra’s length, collecting a bead of clear fluid, then brought it to Ezra’s mouth and pushed his fingers through Ezra’s lips feeding him his own salty, raw need.
His decision wasn’t final, but for the first time in months Randy felt the thin edge of possibility. Ezra might be more than tonight’s warm body. He might be worth seeing again, worth shaping.
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