You don't respond. Don't move toward the showers. Don't say anything.
You just turn and head straight for the locker room.
Your feet move fast, too fast. You push through the door and it swings shut behind you with a heavy sound that echoes in the small space.
Your street clothes are where you left them. Jeans folded on the bench. Shirt on top. Shoes underneath.
You grab them. Bundle them under your arm.
You should change. Should strip off the Lion's Den gear and put your own clothes back on. Should take the time to do this right.
But the thought of being naked again in this space, of stripping down, of staying here one more second—
No.
Your hands are shaking slightly as you grab your keys, your phone, your wallet. Shove them in your pockets. The gym shorts don't have deep pockets. Everything feels precarious.
You can still feel everywhere Karim touched. His hands on your hips during the stretches. On your shoulders. His chest against your back. His palm flat on your chest when he said "Steady."
You can still smell him. Musk and salt and sandalwood. It's in your nose, in your lungs, on your skin.
You need to leave.
You walk back through the gym. Still wearing the muscle shirt that gapes at the sides, showing your ribs every time you move. Still wearing the shorts that end mid-thigh, that show everything.
Karim is at the front desk area near the door. He's writing something, head bent over a clipboard.
He looks up as you approach.
His eyes take in the gym clothes. The bundled street clothes under your arm. He knows exactly what this means.
"Good work today," he says.
His voice is calm. Unbothered.
Nothing else. No attempt to stop you. No comment on the fact that you're leaving in his clothes.
You mumble something. Thanks, maybe. The word comes out thin and unsteady.
Then you're pushing through the door. Up the stairs. Out onto the street.
The door closes behind you. You hear the lock engage.
You're standing on the sidewalk.
In gym clothes that aren't yours.
In shorts that end mid-thigh, that barely cover anything.
In a shirt that shows your ribs, your sides, the curve of your chest when you move.
It's early evening. The street is busy. People everywhere, heading home from work, going out for dinner, living their normal lives.
You start walking.
No destination in mind. Just away. Away from the gym. Away from Karim. Away from what just happened.
You're breathing hard. Not from exertion. From everything else. From running.
A man passes you on the sidewalk. Older, gray hair, dressed in tight jeans and a leather jacket. His eyes drop. Take in the shorts, your exposed thighs, the outline of your cock still visible through the thin fabric even though you've softened.
His gaze lingers for a second too long before he looks away.
Your face heats.
You're too visible. Too exposed. Everyone can see too much.
Another block. You pass a bus stop. A woman, no not just a woman, but Marla from the vet’s office, is waiting there and looks up from her phone as you pass. Her eyes travel down your body, then back up. Slow and assessing.
You cross your arms over your chest. The muscle shirt gapes wider when you do, the deep-cut armholes showing more, not less.
Your throat is tight. You feel naked. Might as well be naked.
The shorts are so short. The shirt shows everything when you move. Every step feels like being seen. Being looked at. Being assessed.
Another man passes. Mid-thirties, wearing a suit, confident stride. His eyes drop immediately when he sees you. Scan down your body. The shorts. Your thighs. The outline of your cock visible through the fabric.
His gaze is hungry. Appreciative.
He doesn't look away when you notice. Just meets your eyes and smiles slightly. Keeps walking.
Your cock twitches.
Just once. But it does.
Heat pools low in your stomach.
You shouldn't like this. Being seen like this. Being looked at like this. But you do.
Your cock is filling again. Not fully hard. But interested. Responding to the attention. To being visible. To being wanted.
Three blocks now. Four.
Every person who looks makes it worse. Makes you more aware. More exposed. More aroused.
Your cock is half-hard now. The shorts do nothing to hide it. Can't hide it. The fabric is too thin, too worn, stretched too tight.
A group of college-aged girls passes. One of them looks, does a double-take, giggles and whispers something to her friend. They both look back as they walk away.
Your face burns. But your cock throbs.
You duck into a doorway. Stand there with your back against the brick, breathing hard, trying to calm down. Trying to think.
But all you can think about is:
Karim's cock against your face. The weight of it. The warmth. His balls grazing your jaw. The scent of him when you inhaled.
His ass pressing down on your cock. Ten reps. Ten times and you didn't stop it. Didn't say anything. Just took it. Just let it happen.
And now you're standing on a city street half-hard in clothes that show everything, and strangers are looking at you, and part of you likes it.
You look down at yourself.
The Lion's Den logo on the shirt. The lion's head in gold. Same as the tattoo on Karim's chest.
You're marked. Branded. Walking around in his clothes. His gym. His rules.
You push off the wall. Start walking again. Faster now. Head down.
Six blocks. Seven.
You spot a coffee shop. Duck inside.
The bell above the door chimes. The space is warm, bright, smelling like espresso and baked goods. There are a few people scattered at tables, laptops open, headphones in.
Behind the counter, a young guy looks up. Early twenties, maybe. Slim build, auburn hair that looks like he's been running his hands through it. He's wearing an apron stained with coffee, sleeves rolled up to show pale, freckled forearms.
His eyes land on you.
On the gym clothes. The too-short shorts. Your bare thighs. The muscle shirt gaping at the sides.
His gaze travels slowly. Down, then back up. His lips part slightly.
"Hey," he says. His voice is soft. A little breathless. "What can I get you?"
You step up to the counter. "Just need to use the restroom."
"Oh. Yeah. Of course." His fingers tap against the counter, a nervous rhythm. "It's, uh, single occupancy. In the back. Past the—" He gestures vaguely, his eyes flicking down again to your legs, your hips, the outline of your cock still visible through the thin fabric.
His cheeks flush pink.
"Thanks," you manage.
"Yeah. No problem." He's still looking at you. His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip. "I'm Liam. By the way. I work most days. If you ever..." He trails off, fingers twisting in the hem of his apron. "If you want coffee. Or anything."
The way he says "anything" makes it sound like an offer.
You nod. Don't trust yourself to respond.
"Bathroom's unlocked," Liam adds quietly. His eyes meet yours. Hold for a moment too long. "Take your time."
You make it to the bathroom and lock the door.
Finally, you can change.
You pull off the muscle shirt. The shorts. Stand there in nakes for a moment, looking at the Lion's Den clothes in your hands.
You should leave them. Throw them in the trash. Walk away from all of it.
But you don't.
You fold them carefully. Put them with your other belongings.
Then you pull on your underwear, jeans and t-shirt. Your regular clothes. Safe clothes. Covering clothes.
You look at yourself in the mirror.
You look normal now. Same as before.
But you're not. You can still feel it. All of it.
You leave the coffee shop. Stand on the sidewalk for a moment, dressed normally now. Invisible again.
The code is still in your phone.
"Good work today" echoes in your head.
What did that mean? Was it dismissal? Or see you next time?
You walked six blocks in those clothes. Let people see you. Let yourself be seen. And part of you liked it. Part of you wanted it.
Just like part of you wanted to stay. Wanted to see what would happen in those showers. Wanted Karim to touch you again.
But you ran.
Ran and kept running.
Even while wearing his clothes. Even while carrying his scent. Even while your cock was half-hard from being looked at.
You ran.
The door is still there. The code still works.
And you kept the clothes.
You just turn and head straight for the locker room.
Your feet move fast, too fast. You push through the door and it swings shut behind you with a heavy sound that echoes in the small space.
Your street clothes are where you left them. Jeans folded on the bench. Shirt on top. Shoes underneath.
You grab them. Bundle them under your arm.
You should change. Should strip off the Lion's Den gear and put your own clothes back on. Should take the time to do this right.
But the thought of being naked again in this space, of stripping down, of staying here one more second—
No.
Your hands are shaking slightly as you grab your keys, your phone, your wallet. Shove them in your pockets. The gym shorts don't have deep pockets. Everything feels precarious.
You can still feel everywhere Karim touched. His hands on your hips during the stretches. On your shoulders. His chest against your back. His palm flat on your chest when he said "Steady."
You can still smell him. Musk and salt and sandalwood. It's in your nose, in your lungs, on your skin.
You need to leave.
You walk back through the gym. Still wearing the muscle shirt that gapes at the sides, showing your ribs every time you move. Still wearing the shorts that end mid-thigh, that show everything.
Karim is at the front desk area near the door. He's writing something, head bent over a clipboard.
He looks up as you approach.
His eyes take in the gym clothes. The bundled street clothes under your arm. He knows exactly what this means.
"Good work today," he says.
His voice is calm. Unbothered.
Nothing else. No attempt to stop you. No comment on the fact that you're leaving in his clothes.
You mumble something. Thanks, maybe. The word comes out thin and unsteady.
Then you're pushing through the door. Up the stairs. Out onto the street.
The door closes behind you. You hear the lock engage.
You're standing on the sidewalk.
In gym clothes that aren't yours.
In shorts that end mid-thigh, that barely cover anything.
In a shirt that shows your ribs, your sides, the curve of your chest when you move.
It's early evening. The street is busy. People everywhere, heading home from work, going out for dinner, living their normal lives.
You start walking.
No destination in mind. Just away. Away from the gym. Away from Karim. Away from what just happened.
You're breathing hard. Not from exertion. From everything else. From running.
A man passes you on the sidewalk. Older, gray hair, dressed in tight jeans and a leather jacket. His eyes drop. Take in the shorts, your exposed thighs, the outline of your cock still visible through the thin fabric even though you've softened.
His gaze lingers for a second too long before he looks away.
Your face heats.
You're too visible. Too exposed. Everyone can see too much.
Another block. You pass a bus stop. A woman, no not just a woman, but Marla from the vet’s office, is waiting there and looks up from her phone as you pass. Her eyes travel down your body, then back up. Slow and assessing.
You cross your arms over your chest. The muscle shirt gapes wider when you do, the deep-cut armholes showing more, not less.
Your throat is tight. You feel naked. Might as well be naked.
The shorts are so short. The shirt shows everything when you move. Every step feels like being seen. Being looked at. Being assessed.
Another man passes. Mid-thirties, wearing a suit, confident stride. His eyes drop immediately when he sees you. Scan down your body. The shorts. Your thighs. The outline of your cock visible through the fabric.
His gaze is hungry. Appreciative.
He doesn't look away when you notice. Just meets your eyes and smiles slightly. Keeps walking.
Your cock twitches.
Just once. But it does.
Heat pools low in your stomach.
You shouldn't like this. Being seen like this. Being looked at like this. But you do.
Your cock is filling again. Not fully hard. But interested. Responding to the attention. To being visible. To being wanted.
Three blocks now. Four.
Every person who looks makes it worse. Makes you more aware. More exposed. More aroused.
Your cock is half-hard now. The shorts do nothing to hide it. Can't hide it. The fabric is too thin, too worn, stretched too tight.
A group of college-aged girls passes. One of them looks, does a double-take, giggles and whispers something to her friend. They both look back as they walk away.
Your face burns. But your cock throbs.
You duck into a doorway. Stand there with your back against the brick, breathing hard, trying to calm down. Trying to think.
But all you can think about is:
Karim's cock against your face. The weight of it. The warmth. His balls grazing your jaw. The scent of him when you inhaled.
His ass pressing down on your cock. Ten reps. Ten times and you didn't stop it. Didn't say anything. Just took it. Just let it happen.
And now you're standing on a city street half-hard in clothes that show everything, and strangers are looking at you, and part of you likes it.
You look down at yourself.
The Lion's Den logo on the shirt. The lion's head in gold. Same as the tattoo on Karim's chest.
You're marked. Branded. Walking around in his clothes. His gym. His rules.
You push off the wall. Start walking again. Faster now. Head down.
Six blocks. Seven.
You spot a coffee shop. Duck inside.
The bell above the door chimes. The space is warm, bright, smelling like espresso and baked goods. There are a few people scattered at tables, laptops open, headphones in.
Behind the counter, a young guy looks up. Early twenties, maybe. Slim build, auburn hair that looks like he's been running his hands through it. He's wearing an apron stained with coffee, sleeves rolled up to show pale, freckled forearms.
His eyes land on you.
On the gym clothes. The too-short shorts. Your bare thighs. The muscle shirt gaping at the sides.
His gaze travels slowly. Down, then back up. His lips part slightly.
"Hey," he says. His voice is soft. A little breathless. "What can I get you?"
You step up to the counter. "Just need to use the restroom."
"Oh. Yeah. Of course." His fingers tap against the counter, a nervous rhythm. "It's, uh, single occupancy. In the back. Past the—" He gestures vaguely, his eyes flicking down again to your legs, your hips, the outline of your cock still visible through the thin fabric.
His cheeks flush pink.
"Thanks," you manage.
"Yeah. No problem." He's still looking at you. His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip. "I'm Liam. By the way. I work most days. If you ever..." He trails off, fingers twisting in the hem of his apron. "If you want coffee. Or anything."
The way he says "anything" makes it sound like an offer.
You nod. Don't trust yourself to respond.
"Bathroom's unlocked," Liam adds quietly. His eyes meet yours. Hold for a moment too long. "Take your time."
You make it to the bathroom and lock the door.
Finally, you can change.
You pull off the muscle shirt. The shorts. Stand there in nakes for a moment, looking at the Lion's Den clothes in your hands.
You should leave them. Throw them in the trash. Walk away from all of it.
But you don't.
You fold them carefully. Put them with your other belongings.
Then you pull on your underwear, jeans and t-shirt. Your regular clothes. Safe clothes. Covering clothes.
You look at yourself in the mirror.
You look normal now. Same as before.
But you're not. You can still feel it. All of it.
You leave the coffee shop. Stand on the sidewalk for a moment, dressed normally now. Invisible again.
The code is still in your phone.
"Good work today" echoes in your head.
What did that mean? Was it dismissal? Or see you next time?
You walked six blocks in those clothes. Let people see you. Let yourself be seen. And part of you liked it. Part of you wanted it.
Just like part of you wanted to stay. Wanted to see what would happen in those showers. Wanted Karim to touch you again.
But you ran.
Ran and kept running.
Even while wearing his clothes. Even while carrying his scent. Even while your cock was half-hard from being looked at.
You ran.
The door is still there. The code still works.
And you kept the clothes.