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He stepped out of the shower stall, still completely naked, and saw David Browning, his mentor, his trainer…he sighed…the man he secretly had a crush on.
David Browning, owner of Balls to the Walls, was standing in front of a sink, shaving. The mirror on the wall had odd shaped patches of steam clinging to it.
While he’d been in the shower, running soap over his chest, down his stomach, lathering his balls and slipping a slick finger into his anus, he’d thought of nothing but David.
Callum had imagined David bending him over the sink in a moment of passion and burying his cock deep in his tight little hole. His own balls would fill to exploding. When David pounded his prostate, Callum would explode, even without touching his cock.
The water had all but run cold as Callum stretched out his hands and used the wall for support. Even the fantasy of his mentor teaching him about man on man love had the power to bring him to his knees.
David obviously hadn’t noticed Callum yet, so he seized the rare opportunity to shamelessly, openly stare.
A snow-white towel was draped around David’s lean waist. Across his back were a few good sized scars. From what, Callum didn’t know. Rather than detract from David's good looks though, the ragged, raised scars only made him sexier.
The towel was fairly thin, not at all like the ones Callum had at home. But this gym-sized piece of material allowed Callum to see the length of David's legs, along with the power in his thighs, and the tightness of his arse.
His biceps were well honed from hours at his own training facility, teaching and demonstrating, which he did while being supportive and full of encouragement.
He'd intentionally kept the place small, he said. It wasn't a big health club. It was more like an exclusive studio in a primo location. David hadn't bought a lot of equipment. Rather, he had a select group of machines that were top of the line and designed for maximum results. His list of clients was A-list, as well.
First class, all the way around. He worked with only one person at a time, and, as Callum knew, David gave each client all of his efforts and energy. Every time he was here, he felt unique and special, even if he occasionally caused more trouble than he was worth.
The older man's patience had no limit that Callum had ever seen. Surely there had to be, though. No one was as rigid and self-controlled as David Browning.
There were times Callum was tempted to goad David, make him snap. He wanted to bust past the damn veneer of sleek sophistication and see the man beneath. And Callum had tried, oh, had he tried to get to the other man. He'd train hard, then completely stop, or he'd over-do it. If he wasn't getting enough attention, he'd show up early, or, with a swagger, show up a quarter of an hour late. But he'd never shaken his mentor.
And that made him lust after him all the more. He'd fantasised about David the entire three months they'd trained together, and damn it, he was getting impatient with want and need. Especially now that he'd seen David in that oh-so-skimpy and tantalising towel. His cock stuck out in front of him, hard as a rock.
He needed sex; raw, passion-filled, down and dirty sex. He needed to be possessed. He needed to be fucked, and not just by anyone, by the one man who meant more to him than any other.
In his more rational moments, Callum wondered why David would take note of another wanna be footballer. He worked with dozens of men, young and old, in shape and out of shape, men with dreams and goals who came here looking for a magic elixir. In that respect, Callum was just another ordinary bloke.
David turned on the tap and rinsed his razor beneath it. He was old-fashioned, Callum noticed. He shaved with a Damascus steel and rosewood straight razor. A Zowada, if he didn't miss his guess. He'd eyed one of them, himself, but he'd been too cheap to spring for one. Maybe he'd have to rethink his decision.
A two-sided Russian leather and linen strop lay on the side of the sink, and he actually had a shaving mug with the company logo on it.
If he didn't miss his guess, David also used a badger bristle brush. Class. Everything about the man screamed class and elegance. No, screamed wasn't the right word. Exuded. David would never scream, as much as Callum would wish otherwise.