Frostbitten

Chapter 1: I’ll Play Nice This Time-2

Not even five minutes later, alone in the showers, we stood beside each other, naked under separate hot sprays. Spirals of steam wafted about our chiseled bodies. I watched the man with his fatless frame roll a bar of Dial over his hairy chest, lathering up his muscle-perfect body parts. White suds congregated between his hulking pecs and the valleys of his rippled abs. He moved the bar of soap along one steel-like shoulder and then the other. Before rinsing, he directed the bar down and over his middle again, into his pubic triangle of dark curls, and then along the drooping c**k between his muscular thighs.

Colm palmed the bar of soap up and down his shaft in numerous runs, somewhat jerking off, toying with his d**k. Once or twice, he swung the bar under his hanging shaft and cleaned his balls. Soapy lather dripped in long strings to the shower’s green-and-yellow tile floor. White, buoyant suds covered the man’s abs and chest, drawing my attention as he continued. Then he spun around, showed off his bulbous and hairless bottom to me, and soaped its delicious looking orbs, one and then the other.

Once he believed his task accomplished, confident and purposely being alluring for confusing reasons that I couldn’t piece together, he called over his right shoulder, “Would you do my back, pal?”

“Your back?” My voice wavered.

“Yeah, my back. Scrub it down. Give a man some help when he needs it. Come on. Don’t be shy.”

Melinda.

Frostbitten.

Mr. Right.

Never had he made that request in our four-year relationship as best friends. Not once had the middleweight athlete strayed over that fine and straight line, desiring my palms against his back, creating creamy suds with the same soap he had just applied to his bulky chest, deflated d**k, and balls. Never.

Our relationship seemed always friendly and of a strong brotherhood, never a s****l adventure between the two of us. Of course, we had showered numerous times together in our pasts after boxing sessions. And, yes, we often used the same bar of soap when one of us forgot to bring one from home. But never, never, did the hairy guy ask me to soap up his back with my straying palms and fingers, desiring my muscled frame to stand behind his and…

“Do it, Daron. Don’t be shy. You know I don’t bite. What’s holding you up?”

I wanted him to bite me, though. Shame on me. Every inch of my body. From head to toe. Every muscle and curve on my body. I craved for him to sink his white teeth into my skin, wherever and whenever he wanted. Helplessly. I desired our bodies to come together in the gym’s shower in ways Melinda didn’t need to know about. They were secrets men in love and lust only knew.

“Do it. What’s holding you up? We don’t have all day.” He looked over his shoulder, shrugged. “It’s just a back, Daron. I’m not asking you to f**k me back there. Come on and soap me down, man.”

Right. It was just a back. A beautiful and muscular back with the most attractive spine, span of muscle, and bones that I had ever viewed. A certain back that I wanted to connect my lips to and lather with kisses, or bathe long and unstoppable tongue-strokes with. A back that I had lusted to be close to for well over a year, almost two years. A back I wanted to press against a boxing mat, any mat, in some untamable s****l act between men.

“Sure,” I said. “No problem, Colm. I’ll scrub down your back for you.”

And that turned out to be my mistake.

Shame on me again.