Caught in the Showers

CW: over the top, far-fetched smutty work of fantasy and domination. Humiliation, semi-public exposure, non-consensual elements, tons of SPH. Not romantic or realistic. Skip it if it's not your thing. Otherwise, enjoy.

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It was an oppressively hot summer day, and I had just put myself through the toughest workout possible on the lackluster equipment available at the club's small gym. I had signed in using my father's membership card. It was a weekday, I was off work for the week, home from the city.

I hadn't noticed any golfers on the parched green or players in the sun-baked tennis courts as I drove up, nor had I seen anyone else in the old manor that housed the gym and locker room. While benching I had whipped my shirt off in the weight room, having the unairconditioned space to myself. Not that anyone would have been offended to discover me bare chested. The place had a very old-school clientele - some of the oldest members still did laps in the pool completely nude and without a hint of self-consciousness.

As I finished my work out I admired my lean, muscular build - I was shining with sweat. Alone in the locker room, I stripped fully and left my dripping clothes on the bench, clutching the towel in my hand as I made my way to the four shower stalls off the bathroom.

I watched myself in the mirrors, my sweat-slick body, my pecs pumped from my workout, the way my cock bounced between my legs. As I walked I ran my fingers through the light smattering of golden hair that dappled my chest, belly and crotch. I enjoyed the feeling of exposure, showing off my ass to the empty locker room.

At college I had developed a bit of an exhibitionist streak, delighting in being naked in spaces like this, displaying my well-muscled body. Now in my 30s I still took the opportunity to strut around nude - locker rooms and showers were a safe place to do this, to show off my body and discreetly see other men's bodies too.

Plus, exercise always made me horny. As I stepped under the shower and the cool water fell on my naked body I gripped my stiffening penis.

I should have known better than to play with myself in the showers. but it was a stall with raised, saloon swinging doors and I thought that I could keep myself concealed. A man passing by should only have been able to see my bare feet and well-trimmed toenails, the light hair speckling my ankles.

I had gotten into this habit at my own gym in the city, which had similar shower stalls. I had become an expert in listening for approaching footsteps, the slap of shower shoes, or the opening of a door, and would give it a rest the second I sensed anyone was nearby. Truthfully, because I knew it was wrong and dangerous, the act became heightened, the riskiness eroticized. Though it embarrassed me to name it, it felt naughty. Playing with myself in a place like this.

I hadn't cum for a few days now and just rubbing my palm on the underside of my erection made it pulse needfully. I placed my left hand upon the wet tiled wall and leaned into it, then spread my legs wider. I closed my eyes and took my hard-on in my fist. In my mind I began to play a frequent fantasy - of being observed like this. Caught masturbating in public.

I imagined being watched, that this wasn't a private stall but a large gang-style shower with multiple steaming heads. Men coming in and out, gawking at my self-abuse, elbowing each other, maybe ridiculing me in harsh baritone while others cackled with throaty echoing laughter. Recording me with their phones, calling others over. A laughing stock, an obscene spectacle. I had never had a gay experience or even a conscious lust for other guys but in this fantasy I was being watched by other men. The object of their disdain and ridicule.

I thought of my whole naked body, what a man would see if he caught me in my compromised position. My lowered head, my back, my taut butt cheeks. My naughty backside, startlingly white even against my pale skin. My flexing calves, my pumping shoulder. Caught red-handed.

I opened my eyes and looked down, letting the shower stream massage my scalp and the nape of my neck, and stared at my aching pecker. Not the longest or thickest, but right now surely the hungriest. Its usual pink was radiating magenta, ready to burst. I continued to tease it with my palm.

"One-handed bachelor sex," I had once heard masturbation called. Spanking the monkey, slapping the salami, choking the chicken. Even the descriptions made it seem ridiculous, buffoonish. I luxuriated in it, the lewdness of it. Playing with my pud in public. I spread my feet wider and stuck my rear end out, almost going into a squat position, wiggling my hips as I slowly stroked my cock. I wanted to feel as perverted as possible. And I wanted to be caught in the act.

I moaned out, quiet and hesitant at first and then echoing around in the stall loudly. A goonish groan of self-pleasure. I reached the precipice of orgasm, one hand furiously whacking off while the other stimulated with my nipples. For the next few minutes I closed my eyes and lost myself to my outrageous fantasy, keeping myself on edge and panting like a dog.

"What the hell are you doing over there, boy? Jacking off?!" A harsh voice broke my onanistic revery. I turned to see a shirtless, heavyset old man prying open the stall doors and stomping inside. I released my stiffy and it swung around wildly, smacking against my lower stomach. As he battered his way through the doors things seemed to move in slow motion, like my brain was shutting down from the mortification of actually being discovered like this.

I tried to turn from him but as he stepped into the stall, there was no way to hide my boner. He pointed at my groin, the narrow rocket of flesh, and yelled.

"I knew it! You goddamn pervert! You nasty little jerk off!" He grabbed my shoulder, turning me towards him and exposing my erect penis. I quickly tried to cover my crotch but he slapped my hands away. I lowered my head in shame and stuttered an apology.

The wide-set man angrily shushed me. He kept one hand locked on my bicep, and reached over with the other to turn the shower off. He was in my space, crowding me. His densely furred bare chest scraped against my torso. I nervously took a better look at him.

The man was in his mid-60s, solidly built with a sizable and hairy belly. He had a naturally sour face, thick lips pursed peevishly, glowering eyes with deep dark rings beneath them. He had bushy, overgrown eyebrows and a thick walrus mustache under his bulbous nose. I recognized him but didn't know his name - he was just one of the stern-faced older men who made up the primary clientele of the club.

He just wore a pair of white tennis shorts, showing off a wide barrel chest. He had the heavy, wooly breast of advanced manhood, a peppery black and gray pelt that put my mostly bare chest to shame. In that moment of supreme exposure my mind somehow made room to feel a jolt of self-consciousness at how much hairier he was than me. My pecs had only the lightest of coats, while the old man was carpeted. He was an inch or so shorter than me but outweighed me for sure, probably by at least 40 lbs, and I could sense his strength as he wrangled me out of the shower stall.

"Get out of there! Come here, boy!" My feet slipped on the tiles and boner bounced around ridiculously in the shuffle, slapping against my thigh then his belly as he manhandled me. He didn't seem to mind at all that my dick had just bounced against his big stomach. I stumbled as he yanked me out, hardly resisting his grasp. I was so overwhelmed with embarrassment that I could barely see in front of me. In my shame and confusion I just let him take me into custody.

"A jack-off artist, huh?! A goddamn public jerk-off! Playing with your little pecker like a pervert and then shooting your disgusting jizzum where you please, huh? Leave it for poor old Mr. Mossbach to clean up?" He spat out, swatting the back of my head with each question and referencing the ancient custodian who had cleaned the club since my father was a boy. I accepted each of his blows, bewildered.

"I'm going to teach you a lesson you'll never forget." He continued to march me from the shower back towards the locker room. As we passed a mirrored wall I caught a quick glimpse of our ridiculous image - a thickset and apishly hairy old man in tennis shorts perp walking a young, lean, completely naked guy with a rampant boner.

"Move it, pervert!" He snarled into my ear, slapping my rear end with his hand to hurry me along. With my clothes and locker in sight I finally spoke up.

"I'm really sorry, I'll go, I'll-" I struggled to get out of his grasp. He released my neck, staring at me in glowering outrage. Then the big old boar shocked me by slapping me across the face and side of the head, hard. He pushed me into the tile wall, seizing my arms. My face sizzled with shame at my situation, at letting myself get treated like this, but I felt paralyzed in his grasp.

"Quiet! And don't fucking move." His furry chest bumped into mine as he held my arms by my sides. A citizen's arrest. I lowered my head as he stepped back, looking me up and down. He smirked with recognition.

"I know you. Yeah, you're Stu Carmody's boy." My stomach dropped. His breath was warm on my face and neck.

"Never much cared for the faggot. Guess the faggot apple doesn't fall far from the faggot tree, huh? Looks like his boy's an even bigger faggot than he is, though." He emphasized the epithet each time, sneering at me, his teeth gritted.

"With an even tinier cock!" He roared with a cruel laugh, and his hand slapped upside between my legs, wacking my hard-on. I squirmed in place against the wall, feebly trying to close my thighs to protect my boner. It wobbled about ridiculously.

"What do you think he'd say if I told him I caught you playing with your little peter in the showers here?" While his left hand remained clamped on my bicep, his right had reached over and was squeezing the back of my neck. He brought his voice to a low rumble, speaking close to my face.

"There could be real consequences to getting caught doing what you were doing, boy. They put perverts like you on lists. How'd you like to be known as a public masturbator? To have to explain this to the cops? I could get you in all sorts of trouble, boy." He looked me square in the eye as his rough hand remained massaging the nape of my neck. I cringed as I accepted his attention. I had never been touched like this by another man while buck naked. It felt like such a violation. I wanted to jump out of my skin yet my boner just wouldn't go down.

"So you better just do what I say and stop resisting if you don't want me to tell dear old Daddy what a perverted public masturbator his pride and joy is, got it?" He grinned savagely, enunciating the words hatefully and leering at me, laughing at my still hard dick.

His hand caressed the side face roughly possessively. I hated being touched by him like this. I flinched, fearing I would be slapped again. He snickered at this and instead grabbed my ear, yanking my head down.

"Come here!" He dragged me a few feet further into the locker room, pulling me painfully by my ear lobe, then sat down on the wooden bench that looked in the shower area. Before I knew it I was over his lap, my belly resting on his right thigh and my face inches from the floor. My hard-on pressed up against his shorts.

The absurdity of the situation was not lost on me, but I was too dazed to resist. Something in his outraged bearing made me compliant, kept me in place there, nervously panting. With a thrilling jolt of shame, I thought of how I had exhibited this kind of cowed reaction to domineering men before.

When guys got aggressive, got in my face, bumped chests with me, I would always back down. It was rare as I tended to avoid conflict all together, but a few incidents came to mind. A scuffle in a college bar over a spilled drink, an argument over a parking space. Then as now I had been unable to react in the moment and had let myself be pushed around, later to nurse a face-searing humiliation as well as a strange, secret sense of titillation at being manhandled. To be selected by a strong and angry man as his victim.

This was new, of course. Never had I found myself butt naked over the lap of a man old enough to be my grandfather. His left hand pressed firmly down on my lower back, while his right hand seized my butt cheek. He squeezed and kneaded the smooth flesh of my buttocks, his fingers curling into the cleft between them. A man had never touched me like this, felt me up, poked at my hole. I couldn't tell if he was acting on sexual impulse or just letting me know that my ass was thoroughly his.

Before I could consider it further he lifted his hand and whipped it back down upon my rump. I yelped at the sharp jolt of pain. Ten more smacks followed in quick succession, his big heavy hand managing to claim both of my buttocks as its target. My legs kicked out reflexively and his left hand secured me in place. The angry old bastard was giving me a spanking. I was a grown man being spanked like a little boy.

Again he smacked both my cheeks at once, then paused before cupping my right buttock. Spank, pause, cup. He chuckled as he waited. I could only imagine what my naked derriere looked like, reddened and jiggling from the impact.

"This is what happens to naughty little jerk off boys like you, got it?!" He hollered.

He wound up his arm and brought down a much more robust slap, then continued with five fast and sharp swats. My back bent up as I squirmed, trying to evade his blows. I brought my hand back to cover my rear end but he grabbed it, twisting it behind me painfully. He lowered his mouth to my ear.

"Got it?!" He demanded, seething. His hot, wet breath tickled my earlobe.

"Yes..." I grunted out.

"Yes what?!" He asked with a spank for emphasis.

"Yes Sir." I warbled in answer. So he was Sir now. He responded with 10 more blows, alternating cheeks. The pain of each layered on top of each other, and I felt my buttocks inflamed with a mounting fiery agony. I lost count as he continued, his hand raising and falling rapidly, and instead I started to cry out, an unbroken wail. I could no longer restrain it.

He laughed above me, a husky, hateful laugh, and began taunting me to "sing." Demanding me to sing for him in my pretty high pitch voice, just like that. Sing boy, sing. And I sang for him. As I was flattened beneath his punishing hand and that horrible, burning pain, I howled out, keening, and kept him laughing with my cries.

At last his hand slowed and both of our voices quieted. He yanked me by the ear and turned my head toward the mirror over the sinks. He lay his upper body over my back, spreading his shoulders to keep me in place. The hairiness and heaviness of his big male form atop mine felt so strange. He dug his chin into my collarbone, his voice rumbling into my ear.

"Yeah, look at that. Bare assed over a man's lap. Look. Look at what you are. Look at what you are, spanky boy." We both looked at the absurd sight in the mirror. A grown man, bare ass naked over another man's lap, being spanked on the bottom like a little boy.

"Why, look at that nice red fanny. Look at your handsome face, it looks like you're about to cry, spanky boy!" He gloated with amusement, poking a finger in my cheek as if to force the tears. I flinched but let him jab at me, toy with me. I made no effort to escape his lap even when he resumed the spanking. I just grunted out helplessly with each wallop, holding onto his hairy leg docilely.

He entered a steady rhythm of thrashing blows on my cheeks, then began to speak again as he continued the punishment.

"That faggot Stu Carmody didn't raise you right and look at you. You turned out to be a pervert. A public masturbator and a faggot just like daddy. Truth is, all the Carmody "men" if you can call them men have been faggots. Pretty-faced faggots and simpering fools. I knew your grandfather, boy, and the old fool was a faggot just the same. You come from a long line of faggots, boy. Never forget that." Each time he said the word "faggot" he brought down his broad hand, spanking both my cheeks at once.

My head spun as he continued with his hateful condemnation of my family line - his words had a strange affect and I found myself believing his nonsensical rant. That we really were all fools. Faggots. Look where I was, after all. Bare-assed and spanked over a man's lap. What kind of man submits to this? What else was I in that moment, but a fool and a faggot?

A few more painful slaps then he rested his hand again, his fingers daringly tracing the crevasse of my keister. He hummed to himself, a self-satisfied little tune, as he squeezed my burning cheeks and his fingers probed my crack. I felt my still hard prick pulse against his hairy thigh. As always, my dick had its own agenda.

Above me, the man chuckled throatily.

"Now just what is that little thing I feel poking at my leg?" He crowed, lifting me off him, putting me back on my feet. He remained seated on the bench, his big hands holding my naked hips. His eyes were wide at the sight of my persistent erection. He looked back and forth between it and my blushing face. He had a big shit-eating-grin.

"Christ, spanked on the ass to tears but still as hard as a rock. You must be a gold-star faggot, boy" He flicked it with his thumb to watch it sway back and forth wildly like a punching bag.

"That is one dinky little cock you got boy. Teeny tiny!" He clung to my hips, studying my reaction to his insult before lightly slapping my chubby and watching it wobble as he continued his tirade. He must have seen something, maybe a ripple of queasy gratification, because he continued.

"God damn, you can't even call it a cock, can you? It's just a little penis. A dinky little boy penis. No wonder you're a faggot public masturbator. How could you be a normal fellow with a penis that small? It's just a little pecker!" He asked, raising his voice in outrage, while keeping his eyes on my boner.

I know I wasn't hung like porn star, but until that day I had believed that I had a perfectly adequate piece of equipment between my legs. Never had any complaints from the ladies. Yet something in his furious insistence made it real, and gave me a beguiling thrill and sickly flush of pleasure. The shame of his words rushed over me like a warm wave. I liked it.

In that moment I felt small, ridiculously small, as small as he said I was. Teeny tiny. I lowered my head, looking at my bare feet between his tennis shoes. He stood up from the bench, standing close beside me so that his hairy belly pushed into my hip.

"How tall are you, jerk off?" The man demanded with a slap across the back of my head.

"6'3... Sir." I grunted out, eyes still fixed to the floor. He laughed, then leaned in close to growl in my ear.

"Well that's a funny coincidence, cause that poor excuse of an erection of yours looks like it's just about... 3 inches long." He held up 3 fingers mockingly, poked me in the chest with them then raised them in front of my face, wriggling them at me. I knew I was almost twice that size but contradicting him felt foolhardy. I just kept my eyes lowered, flinching when he lightly slapped my face and held my cheek in his hand.

"You're one sick little puppy, huh? You like jerking off where other men can see and showing them your little boy penis. You like getting spanked on the bare bottom. You are a pervert, spanky boy. I'm going to have some fun with you." He held my face and forced me to look into his dark, baleful eyes.

"Yeah, teach you a lesson, but have some real fun for myself, too." It felt so strange to have this big craggy face so close to mine. Like he was about to kiss me. His big nostrils exhaled hot air on my neck. His mustache tickled my cheek as he leaned in and spoke into my ear.