Coach Caught Him Breeding Me in the Locker Room Shower
He topped me after in the showers of my high school locker room.
The locker room is all movement and noise at first—guys shoving each other, the staccato snap of towels, the clatter of shin guards tossed into open duffels—but it thins out, minute by minute, until it’s just the two of us. Soccer ran late because Coach got a bug up his ass about “commitment,” and even the first-year students dragged ass getting their stuff from the showers, but now the doors click shut behind the last of them. The echo is weird and huge. I’m at my locker, pretending to organize my shit, but my senses are dialed into every shift in the air behind me, every scuff of Matt’s sneakers on tile.
I catch his reflection in the metal slats: Matt’s sitting two rows back, elbows propped on his knees, scrolling his phone with the kind of focus reserved for people who aren’t actually reading anything. Sweat still slicks his neck and darkens the blue of his jersey. He’s bigger than he was last spring, shoulders heavy and broad, thighs pushed thick against the bench. His hair is still wet and sticking up at odd angles. I try not to make it obvious I’m looking, but it’s obvious—I’m obvious.
I can’t help it. The air feels charged, crackling. Every time I reach into my bag to retie a cleat or restack my books, I’m rolling his body over in my mind, the way he moves, the lines of muscle under skin. The thump of my own pulse crowds out actual thought. I smooth my shorts, twist my socks tighter around my calves, and start the entire performance over again, drawing out the second as long as I can.
Matt glances up, and for a second, I think he’s about to say something. Instead, he runs a hand up the back of his neck and goes back to his phone. But then he looks up again, and this time our eyes meet in the blank reflection of the locker, and it’s like a live wire between us. I wonder if he can tell, if he knows the way I think about him, if he can taste the hunger in the room the same way I can.
He shifts on the bench, taps his foot, and does that thing where he bites the inside of his lip like he’s holding something back. Maybe I’m reading into things. Maybe he’s just killing time until I leave.
A couple times he almost gets up, standing and then sitting again, like he can’t decide if it’s safe to move. I let the silence stretch, let the seconds pile up and get heavier, until even the quiet is loud. There’s something sweet about it, the way neither of us wants to break the spell.
Finally, I pretend to forget something and double back to my locker, just to give myself a reason to be near him. He notices. His eyes flick up, sharp and dark, and suddenly it feels like the whole room is watching.
I take a breath, brace myself, and wait for the moment he’ll finally say what he’s been thinking.
When the last guy left, Matt finally spoke, voice shaky. “So, uh... you staying late for extra stretching or something?”
I shrugged, my heart pounding. “Guess I just like the quiet.” I met his eyes. “You?”
He gave a small, crooked smile. “Yeah, guess so.” He looked away, fidgeting with his phone. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” I replied.”
“You ever … you know, done anything? With, uh, a guy?”
My mouth went dry. I shook my head. “No. Have you?”
Matt’s cheeks colored. “No. Not really.” He hesitated, then: “I mean, not at all.” He glanced up, searching my face. “But I think about it sometimes. Wondering, you know, what it would be like.”
I stepped a little closer, so close I could smell the sweat and grass on him. “Yeah. Me too.”
He swallowed hard. “You ever … wanna try?”
Electricity sizzled through me. I nodded, barely daring to breathe, and Matt let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he admitted.
“Me either,” I said, and managed a nervous grin. “Are you gay?”
He exhaled, relief softening his face. “No. I mean, I don’t know. No.”
The air between us is so charged it almost feels visible, like an energy you could reach out and touch. Matt’s fingers hover, then land on my forearm—light at first, just testing, barely grazing the fine hairs. His hand is trembling. I should be the one to break the stalemate, but I’m frozen, afraid of ruining the perfect tension that’s blooming in my chest. He clears his throat, and his knuckles flex against my skin.
I let my arm turn, giving him more surface, more invitation. His palm flattens, heat radiating through me, burning off the last traces of hesitation. I lean in, close enough to feel his breath on my cheek, and the world narrows down to the point where our bodies almost touch. My heart is a supernova in my chest. I want to say something cool, something grown-up and unbothered, but every word I know has fled the scene.
Matt’s face is right there, so close I can see the flecks of green in his brown eyes, the faint line of a scar on his jaw from last season’s championship. I see him see me, and the force of it is dizzying. He’s smiling, just a little, not with his mouth but with the corners of his eyes. There’s a deep crease in his brow, like he can’t believe what’s happening.
My hands are at his waist. I anchor myself there, thumbs brushing bare skin where his jersey is untucked, feeling the ridges of muscle and the sticky heat where the game’s sweat hasn’t dried yet. My fingers want to do everything at once—trace his spine, pull him closer, memorize the shape of him. I settle for a gentle squeeze, feeling him shiver.
He doesn’t pull away. He leans forward, tentatively, and our foreheads touch. The weight of his body is steady and grounding, but there’s still a tremor in his shoulders. My eyes flutter shut, half from nerves and half from wanting the moment to last longer. We stand like that for a second, breathing together, swaying a little, like we’re both waiting for the other to make the first move.
Matt’s hand slides down, wraps around my wrist, and for a second I think he’s going to chicken out. Instead, he lifts my hand and puts it on his chest, flat over his heart. His heartbeat thunders under my palm, wild and quick. He lets out a shaky exhale and then, in a voice barely above a whisper, says, “I’ve wanted to do this all season.”
I don’t know if he means the talking, or the touching, or the all of it. Maybe it doesn’t matter. I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and let my thumb draw slow circles against his ribcage. He grins, teeth flashing white, and it’s the most genuine I’ve ever seen him.
He licked his lips. “Can I kiss you?”
Matt’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips, his face open and a little terrified. “Can I kiss you?”
The question hangs suspended between us, a dare and a plea. I nod, but the word comes out on a shaky breath, more hope than sound. “Yeah.” My throat is dry. His hand comes up, hesitant—he’s left-handed, so it’s that one, the fingers callused from years of defense and the palm still warm from mine. He touches my jaw, barely, like I’m made of glass, thumb trembling where it rests near the corner of my mouth. I can feel his pulse in it.
The first kiss isn’t even a kiss, not really. It’s more like the idea of kissing, a gentle brush of lips, so light I almost miss it. He tastes like salt, like energy gel and nervous sweat, and something so clean and honest it makes my stomach drop. The second kiss is firmer, a little braver, the kind you give to see if the world ends. I press back, lips parting, not knowing what I’m supposed to do but wanting to learn in real time. My hand finds his waist again, anchoring us, and he leans in with a shaky exhale, letting the weight of his chest meet mine.
The third kiss is everything, and it’s soft and urgent at the same time; his lips move with this hesitant hunger, testing and retreating, like he can’t believe he’s allowed. I tilt my head, opening for him, feeling the scratch of his scruff and the wet heat of his mouth. Our noses bump, and we both laugh into it, breathless, teeth knocking together. It breaks the tension in the best way possible, and suddenly we’re kissing for real, mouths fitting together with a relief so huge I almost want to cry.
Matt smells like grass and sweat and the shitty body spray all the guys borrow from the team trainer. His jersey still holds the echo of the field, and when I slide my fingers under the hem, I hit bare skin, rigid and damp. He shivers, but doesn’t stop me. His hands are everywhere and nowhere, flitting from my jaw to my neck to the slope of my shoulder, like he’s mapping out the shape of a new country.
We break apart for air, faces inches apart, and I see his pupils blown wide, his cheeks a wild, blotchy red. He looks stunned. I wonder if I look the same.
Matt pulls back, eyes wide. “That … was actually really nice.”
I couldn’t help but laugh; it broke some of the tension. “You’re a good kisser, Matt.”
Matt’s mouth does that half-smile thing, like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to laugh or say something real. His lips are still a little wet, and his breath is shaky on the exhale. “I’m just winging it,” he says, but there’s nothing casual about the way his gaze dips—first to my mouth, then lower, tracing the outline of my body like he’s measuring the distance between wanting and having. It’s not subtle. There’s a hunger in his eyes I’ve never seen before, not even in the heat of a game, and it hits me square in the chest. We’re standing so close now that if I shifted just an inch, I’d feel his heartbeat against my own.
He hesitates, tongue flicking over his lip, like he’s searching for the right words. “Can we … uh, do more?” His voice drops, but the question seems to echo off the empty tile and metal, bouncing around until it lands in the pit of my stomach. It’s not a question I ever thought I’d hear from him, not in real life, not pointed at me. My skin prickles, and my cock strains awkwardly against the damp mesh of my shorts, the erection so sudden and insistent that I have to tuck a fist at my waist to steady myself.
I nod, desperate and a little dizzy. “Yeah,” I murmur, but my voice comes out raw and uncertain, like I’m afraid the sound of it will shatter the moment. I want to touch him again, want him to know it’s okay to want this, to want me. “You wanna go to the showers?” I ask, and the words hang between us, electric, making my cheeks burn with anticipation.
He glances past me, at the row of tiled stalls and the misty glass doors. His Adam’s apple bobs, and I can see the calculation behind his eyes—risk, reward, the thrill of being seen or caught. “Yeah,” he whispers back, but this time the word is more solid, a promise.
He nodded, biting his lip.
We peeled off shirts as we crossed the tiles. Matt’s body was all contrasts: a broad, hairy chest, defined and tapering to a lean waist, dark hair trailing down to a thick, wild bush above his cock. His thighs were powerful, strong from years of sprinting, dense with muscle and hair.
Matt’s cock is already hard—like, so hard it curves up against his belly, the tip glossy and wet, a fat bead of precum rolling down the shaft before he even touches it. I can’t help but stare. It’s huge, honestly, big enough to make me wonder if the whole “jock bulge” thing is actually an athletic requirement and not just a meme. The sight of it—thick, veined, the head angry and flushed—makes something in my chest snap loose. I want to taste it. I want to see what sounds he makes when I run my tongue up the length, to see what he does when I take him in my hand. I feel equal parts terrified and ravenous.
He catches me looking, and instead of laughing it off or covering up, he just lets it hang there—an invitation, a dare. He gives his cock a slow, experimental tug, then lets it slap against his abs, the sound echoing off tile. He grins at the reaction it gets from me—my jaw slack, my breath hitching—and steps just a little closer, arms loose at his sides like he’s not sure what to do with them. His shoulders are tense, but his body language is unmistakable. He wants me to look. He wants me to want him.
I can’t pretend, not now. My own cock is straining against the waistband of my mesh shorts, so hard it hurts. I try to play it cool, but my hands are shaking when I peel off my shirt and drop it on the wet floor. Matt’s gaze rakes over me, hungry and unguarded, and for a second I’m hyper-aware of every square inch of myself: the swimmer’s build, the smooth lines and angles I’ve always been secretly proud of, the sharp contrast to Matt’s hairy, rugged frame. I shuck my shorts, and my cock springs free, already slick with precum, the head purple and throbbing.
Matt’s eyes go wide—he actually whistles, low and appreciative—and for the first time I feel genuinely, undeniably hot. Not just athletic, not just serviceable, but wanted. Desired. The look in his eyes is pure awe, and it gives me a weird, shaky confidence. I step closer, the tile cold under my feet, and stand barely a foot apart from him, our cocks at level, both leaking and desperate.
“Jesus,” Matt breathes. “You’re, uh, bigger than I thought.”
I laugh, not sure what to do with the compliment, and Matt grins at my embarrassment. He reaches out, tentative, and wraps his fingers around both our cocks at once, lining them up side by side. My head spins. The heat of him, the pressure, the friction—it’s almost enough to make me blow right there.
I was a mess of nerves and need, eager and exposed in nothing but wet shorts that barely contained my own erection. I shucked them off, watched Matt’s eyes go wide as he took me in—my own muscular frame, so different from his, smooth and sculpted by swimming, a thin line of hair leading to a trimmed patch at my groin. My cock jutted up, slick with precum, the head flushed and eager.
I don’t know why I expected it to be less awkward, standing naked in the tiled heart of the locker room with every inch of me exposed and buzzing, but this is so far past awkward it’s almost cinematic. Steam ghosts around the overhead fluorescents and the echo of our breathing feels like it belongs to somebody else. Matt’s eyes sweep over me, and I’m so aware of my own body—how smooth my chest is compared to his, how my tan lines are starker against the pale, swimmer-white skin, how the only real hair I have is the soft brown at my pits and the trimmed patch at my groin, dark against flushed skin. My cock juts up, pulsing, and there’s nowhere to hide.
Matt’s jaw flexes. His erection twitches, thick and hard, and he doesn’t try to cover himself—just stands there, taking me in, like he’s trying to memorize every line. For a second, I catch my own reflection in the misted mirror on the far wall, and I don’t even recognize myself. We look like statues: one of us hairy and broad and bristling with want, the other sculpted and smooth, all taut nerves and trembling anticipation.
He shifts his weight, toes curling against the wet tile, and I swear he’s about to say something else. But instead, he just stares at me, blinking hard, and shakes his head in disbelief. “You look… really good, Caleb.” His tone is half reverent, half shaky, like he’s been waiting for this moment all season and can’t figure out how to make his mouth keep up with his brain.
I smiled shyly. “You too. Really good.”
Matt ran a hand through his hair, then wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me under the spray. His hands Matt’s hand trembles for a second, then he grins like he’s about to leap off a high dive and tugs me, half stumbling, into the nearest shower stall. The tile is cool on my feet, the overhead spray going full blast and echoing like rain in a cave. He doesn’t hesitate—he just pulls me in until we’re barely an inch apart. The sudden white-noise roar of the water makes the whole world feel even more private and electric. I’m shivering, but it’s not from cold.
I’m not sure if I should reach for him or wait for him to make the next move, but Matt doesn’t leave me hanging for long. He presses in, close enough that I can smell his skin—grass, deodorant, the sharp tang of sweat—and then he’s running his hand up my ribcage, tracing the lines of my body like he’s learning them from scratch. My heart is going a mile a minute. Every brush of his fingers sets off aftershocks under my skin, and I have to fight back the urge to just melt into him. I want to be touched everywhere at once. I want to be seen, wanted, claimed.
For a second, we just stand there, water scoring our shoulders and backs, our cocks jutting out between us, droplets catching in the dark hair on his chest and the smooth lines of mine. Matt seems to be searching my face for a sign—permission, encouragement, something. His own expression is so open, so raw, there’s no mistaking what he wants.
Then he moves, fast and awkward, but so real it makes my knees weak. He brings one hand up, cups the back of my head, and presses our mouths together—a harder kiss this time, desperate and sharp. I groan, the sound swallowed by the shower spray, and Matt’s other hand slides down my spine, over the small of my back, and lands on my ass. He squeezes, not rough but firm and certain, fingers digging into muscle. It’s a full-body shiver, from the crown of my head to the base of my cock, and I can feel how much he wants me in the tremor of his grip.
He keeps his lips on mine as his hand explores, tentative at first—just a brush, then a firmer caress. He pulls away, just enough to murmur, “Is this okay?” His breath is hot against my cheek, his face pink from the heat and from, I realize, nerves.
I can’t remember the last time anyone asked me that. Even if he hadn’t, the answer would have been obvious from the way I’m grinding into his grip, desperate for more. But the fact that he does—asks, checks in, makes sure—I want to eat him alive.
I nodded, breathless. “Yeah. More than okay.”
He squeezes my ass again, harder this time—a silent question, a test of how much I’ll let him take. His voice drops even lower, almost lost in the shower’s hiss. “You ever… thought about, like, getting fucked?” I can feel his heart beating against my chest, the nervous energy between us more electric than ever. The word “fucked” lands in my gut with the force of a dive off the ten-meter, and for a split second I forget how to breathe.
I look him dead in the eyes, letting all the want and need I’ve been holding in finally spill over. “All the time.” My voice sounds rough and hungry, even to my own ears. It’s not a confession so much as a dare.