A number of guys spilled out into the hallway from the steam room when I exited. My long-haired man walked about a dozen feet in front of me, through the dimly-lit halls of the bathhouse. He looked over his shoulder to see if I followed. My flip-flops slapped against the dirty carpet as I picked up speed in his direction.
I was aware that the bully was among the three or four guys who’d followed me from the billowing steam. When I turned the corner down the hallway where the long-haired fellow had his room, I could see the bully making a beeline in my direction, clutching his towel around his waist as he walked double-time after me. “Dude, you gonna fuck him?” I heard him stage-whisper. “He’s hot! I wanna watch you fuck him!”
Once I rounded the corner, I picked up the pace myself. The long=haired man had opened his door and paused in it to see if I was coming. I slipped in behind him and closed the door, so that we wouldn’t have unwanted company.
He had the dimmer switched down low. We were alone in the near-dark. Without any words between us, I removed my steam-damp towel and hung it on the doorknob. He loosened his, lay it on the tiny table between his bed and his locker, and lay down. In the interior twilight, he was a dark, lean streak against the luminous white sheet. One of his hands drifted down between his legs. It was too dim to tell what he was doing down there.
I knelt on the bed. His legs automatically parted, then lifted. When my hand searched for his hole, he sighed. He was already moist down there, but I added to the slickness with some spit.
“Can you go again?” he wanted to know. His voice was shy and hopeful.
Oh, I could go again.
Getting into him was a problem. The little guy was so tight, so little used, that it felt as if the head of my dick pressed against a cement wall. I had to check twice to make sure I was aimed at the right place. Eventually, though, I felt something give way. He gasped; his legs began to tense over my shoulders. I continued to push in, taking it slow, moving in and out in measurements too small to measure, increasing and relaxing the pressure. I got an inch in, then two, then a third. Then, as he let out one long shuddering sigh, the bottom five eased in, all in one go.
Once I was inside, he relaxed enough to let me fuck long and hard. He didn’t kiss. There was a strong smell of cigarettes to him that might have put me off, anyway. The way he looked at me as we stared at each other was almost more intimate than a kiss, though. The guy had soft green eyes that, set against his dark skin and the raven-black hair splayed over the pillow, looked all the more eerily pale and out of place. He stared directly into my own eyes. His lips were parted slightly. From time to time, when I’d thrust in deep, a tiny puff of air would issue from between them.
He really was feminine in aspect. That puts off a lot of men, but the quality suited him. His small, fine features matched the lankiness of his frame and the beauty of his mane. His hands, too, were small and narrow. As I continued to fuck him, his long fingers reached up and touched my cheeks, my temple. Stroked the sides of my head, cleared away the mess of dark blond hair hanging in my face.
When droplets of sweat would fall from my face onto his, he would merely blink and let them remain.
It was when he whispered, “Please,” that I realized how close I was to shooting. My mouth opened as my breaths became rasps. He nodded—just slightly, barely perceptible to the eye. His hands cupped my face, holding it still, as we stared into each other’s eyes. “Please cum in me,” he said.
The words were so polite, so gentle, that I couldn’t help but oblige. My fourth load of the afternoon spewed inside him. Only when I was shooting did his eyes closed. His head rolled back onto the cushion of raven hair. His small dick, hard and uncut, shifted from one side of his abdomen to the other, leaving behind a shining snail’s trail of ooze.
His hole clenched down around the base of my dick, refusing to let it go as it pulsed out the last of my semen. We had an awkward couple of minutes in the cramped cubicle trying to shift around into a mutually-pleasing position without me pulling out. At last, though, we settled down into a spooned position on our sides. “Don’t go,” he whispered softly.
I ran my fingers through his tresses. They were as soft and sleek as they were shiny. “I won’t,” I promised.
For two more hours and two more loads we stayed tied together. It was both intense and passionate—two things you don’t always find at the baths.