“Nobody ever comes back to the club once they’ve left for the day.” My voice is a shadow of its usual self.
Mathias rubs his bottom lip under his teeth. “Good, because I want to watch you wash too.”
He waits for me, eyes trained on my face, his bite digging deeper. I wrap my fingers around my cock and I don’t know which of us groans. Perhaps we both do. The friction is delicious, and I fight the urge not to close my eyes and lose myself to it. I cannot miss a second of this show.
We both begin sliding our fists up and down. Long, slow strokes at first. I’m banking up images of Mathias touching himself, squeezing the head of his cock as his hand crests the tip, memorising the throaty moans he makes. It’s fucking unfair I can’t watch his face and his cock at the same time.
I’m not even aware of the sounds I’m making, the faces, I don’t care. Whatever I’m doing, Mathias is eating it up.
“Fuck, Owen. Holy fuck,” he whimpers, fist speeding up.
His cries echo through the shower block. They’re dampened by the deluge of water we have to keep restarting, and now I’m locked in a battle with myself not to finish too quickly. To wait for him. It’s a losing game.
I’m so fucking close, and he’s right there in front of me. Incredible. Naked and wet, fucking his own hand, panting into the downpour, gritting his teeth, eyes rolling upwards. He has one hand in his hair, his body stretched out in that delicious way . . . like a gourmet buffet ready to feast on.
He’s three feet away from me, and I’m desperate to close the gap and touch him, but I need—at a marrow-deep level—to watch this man come. I need to witness him fall to pieces, splinter, shatter, and then slowly pull himself back to reality. I need to know the faces he’ll make. See his jaw slacken, his brows furrow, his pupils dilate. And the sounds. Fuck, I need to hear those too. Does he cry out, or does he whine, or is he silent?
“Oh, fuck.” I’ve thought about him too much, worked myself too hard, and now I’m cresting that hill. I stop moving my fist, block Mathias’s perfect form out by closing my eyes, and wait for the rush of my building orgasm to subside.
“No, keep going,” Mathias pants. “I’m there too, fuck, and I really wantto see—”
“Mr B?!” A whiny voice cuts through the shower cubicle. It’s immediately followed by the hard slapping of feet as Orlando Oakham-Goodwin crashes into the steamy room. “Are you in here—” He locks eyes with me. Mathias and I drop what we’re doing and turn to face the wall. “Oh, god. Oh fuck, Mr B. I’m so sorry.”
Mathias and I try to hide ourselves under our palms, but Mathias is struggling. There’s too much of him, and I’m already grieving for a moment ago.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. Daze’s gonna kill me, but . . .” Lando grabs his backside and stumbles towards the twin toilet cubicles. “It’s coming out the other end now!” Then he barricades himself inside the end one.
I turn to Mathias. “We have approximately ten seconds to wash and get the fuck out of here.” I hate that I know this from experience, but we do not want to be around when the fallout hits.
Mathias is softening, and I am too. I’m desperate to march him outside into the yellow fields and finish both of us off, but of course it’s Sunday, and the pressure of a full day in the pub is already weighing heavily on me.
We wash in rapid time. Lando whimpers. His toxic fumes seep through the gaps in the stall, causing the entire locker room to become uninhabitable. Mathias and I only have our underpants on, but we grab the rest of our things and change in the car park. It’s gloriously sunny and warm for mid-April, and the area is empty of every vehicle except Lando’s sporty little Audi. Even Daisy’s Fiat is missing. So much for making sure her best friend got home safely.
While we dress, Mathias and I don’t talk about what just happened. We don’t even look at each other. I steal covert glances at him now and then, but his entire body is angled away from mine. I want to kiss him, hold either side of his face in my hands and bring my lips to his, make up for the humiliation, but once more Orlando Oakham-Goodwin fucks everything up.
“You’re gonna need to call the plumbers again, Mr B.” He stumbles into the daylight, shielding his face from the sun as though he might combust like a vampire.
I do that parenting thing and mask my groan behind an eye roll. “I’ll send the bill to you. Get in the car. I’m driving you home.”
“My dad’s gonna kill me,” he says, but he climbs into the back seat and curls himself up in the foetal position without any more protest.
His dad won’t kill him. He won’t give a fuck. Warwick Oakham II probably isn’t even in the country right now.
“Come on, I’ll drive us all home.” I motion my head to the passenger side and Mathias climbs in. He has to push the seat as far back as it’ll go. Conversely, I have to pull the driver’s seat forward. Lando’s legs are, if possible, longer than Mathias’s.
It takes the same time to drive back from the club as it does to walk through the fields, and I spend the entire fifteen minutes breathing in the scent of a clean Mathias and wondering—plotting—how to get him all to myself again.
22
Sunday 13th April 2025
Mathias
My social battery runs flat during lunch. I’ve somehow been roped into sharing a table with Tom and Bryn, their two kids who are somewhere between the ages of six and ten, and Bryn’s mum Cerys who’s visiting her son, son-in-law, and grandkids for the weekend.
Like almost every Welsh mum I’ve ever met, Cerys is of course a massive rugby fan. She talks nonstop about how fucking stupid the Bengals are for not signing me this season, but how everything works out in the end because she wouldn’t be eating roast lamb with me today if it weren’t for their terrible oversight.
I havechicken, because I don’t like lamb. It tastes how shoes smell. I can’t explain it any better than that. Though I do opt for mint sauce on my peas because spearmint and petit pois is a god’s tier combo.
