After the first practice, the showers were an intimidating tribute to manliness. I stepped in, uncertain what to do with my hands, or where to focus my eyes.
Wrestling Team Showers by Cody Croquet
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Everyone is 18
Chapter 1: First Day
It all started at the beginning of the school year. I was eager to prove I wasn’t just some scrawny guy who got winded climbing stairs. Wrestling seemed like the right move—tough and disciplined, a sport where I could carve out a place for myself. My older brother wrestled, and I observed him over the years as it cemented his confidence. Never mind that I was built more like a stick figure than a Spartan. The coach had taken one look at me during tryouts and muttered something about “potential,” which I’m pretty now was just code for “we need warm bodies.”
The first practice was a wake-up call. The team was a melting pot of chiseled gods, each one looking like they’d stepped out of a Renaissance sculpture. I, on the other hand, looked like I’d been sketched by a child with a shaky hand. My towel barely clung to my hips, and I felt every inch of my awkwardness as I stood there, trying to blend into the background.
The showers were the real kicker. Open, exposed, no curtains, no privacy. Just a row of shower heads and a cloud of steam thick enough to choke on. I picked the most inconspicuous spot I could find, hoping to disappear into the tile. No such luck. The biggest senior on the team—Jake, the one guy everybody seemed to know—stepped up right next to me. He was built, like he’d been carved out of marble. His shoulders were broad, his chest defined, and his abs looked like they’d been chiseled by Michelangelo himself. His firm, round, and perfectly proportioned ass could have been a centerpiece at a museum of male anatomy. And then there was his low hanging dick, bigger than any I had seen in person. My inferiority complex was on fire at the sight of it, like it had been designed to make me feel inadequate.
He started soaping himself up casually, not a trace of insecurity, running the lather across his chest and down his arms with a casualness that made my skin crawl with envy—and something else I wasn’t ready to acknowledge. I tried to focus on my own chest, scrubbing at it like it might somehow transform into something worthy of comparison. But my eyes kept drifting, pulled by some magnetic force.
“Sup, freshie?” he said, catching my gaze with a quick grin. His voice was calm, amused, like he’d seen this a thousand times before.
“Hey,” I managed, my voice cracking like I was back in middle school. My eyes darted back to my chest, but the damage was done. He’d seen me looking.
“What’s your name?” he asked, friendly enough to make me feel slightly less like an intruder.
"Colt," I said, giving him the nickname I wanted to have at my new school, my cheeks burning as I hadn't even gotten used to hearing it yet. I was trying to keep cool, but inside, I was short-circuiting. Not just because of him—but because I realized I wasn’t sure what I was more nervous about: the exposure, or how much I didn’t want to look away.
And then it happened. That tension. My stomach flipped. My face went hot. And apparently, it wasn’t subtle. My problem stood before me, attached to my body, pointing straight ahead like it had a mind of its own. I was trapped in the prison of having an unwanted erection at the worst time.
Jake glanced down, then chuckled—that low, knowing sound that made me want to crawl into a hole and never come out. “Uh oh,” he said, drawing out the words like he was savoring my embarrassment but then he offered guidance. “Dude, turn around. Unless you want the whole team to bombard you with whistling and clapping. It's a thing here.”
I obeyed, turning my butt toward him and facing the wall like I’d been scolded in gym class. I continued soaping up my arm pits and chest and willing my boner to disappear. I could feel his eyes on me, burning a hole through my quivering body. But instead of walking away, he grabbed a fresh squirt of soap.
“Relax,” he said, his tone calm, almost soothing. “You want me to get your back?”
I knew I could say no. But I didn’t.
“Sure,” I muttered, trying not to squeak.
His hands were broad, calloused from years of practice and lifting weights, but they moved with a surprising gentleness as he lathered me up. He started at my shoulders and focused on the parts of the center of my back that were hardest to reach. I melted, dropping my head as he massaged little knots and sore spots I didn't even know I had. It was fast, efficient, like he’d done this for teammates before. I heard one of the guys from down the row yell, “Hey, save some romance for the honeymoon!”
Laughter broke out, and I wanted to melt into the tile.
“Ignore them,” Jake said, still scrubbing. “They’re just jealous I’m doing a five-star job.” I cracked a smile for the first time since coming in here.
Until his hands went lower.
Way lower. His soapy fingers brushed over my lower back, trailing toward territory I did not expect anyone else to wash. My brain was glitching, caught between panic and other nerves as he washed my hairless globes.
I was screaming internally. Not in fear—but in something way more confusing. Because I liked it. I really liked it.
He put both hands on my ass and massaged in circles with his thumbs. I didn't dare to turn around and look, and my erection problem had not gotten better. On the contrary, I was pretty sure I would be leaking pre-cum at any moment. I was red, hot and throbbing down there, and a big, jock senior was soaping up my ass.
Dear God, please don’t let me be gay, I thought, repeating it like a mantra. But my body wasn’t exactly listening.
Then his touch shifted—just a bit firmer, more deliberate. My eyes shot open, maybe it was an accident, I thought. But his thumb pressed at an angle, right against my hole, that made my knees buckle slightly. He didn’t miss it. When he found my most private entrance, he pushed in, and I saw stars. I gasped—loudly.
He could feel my hole clamp down and pulse from where his thumb was lodged, and instead of pulling away, he pressed in further, pulling out slightly only to push in again. His other hand reached up to my shoulder, massaging it gently, like he was helping me ride the waves of confusion and sensation that were crashing through me.
While his body partially hid the unfolding scene from the other guys, he played with my ass on repeat, murmuring encouraging words while I leaned back into it, unable to deny that I was loving the moment. He used one hand to soap up and massage my shoulders and back, and the other to finger fuck me to oblivion, controlling my body however he wanted. I was putty in his hands.
It was overwhelming, impossible to process how good it felt. My legs trembled, my breath came in shallow gasps, and my mind was a whirlwind of sensations and conflicting emotions. I wanted to protest, to stop him, but my body betrayed me, arching into his touch, craving more. His thumb pressed deeper, coaxing shivers from me as I tried to stifle the moans threatening to escape.
"Just relax, freshie," he murmured, his voice low and steady.
I could barely think, let alone respond. His hands were everywhere, exploring, asserting dominance over my body in a way that should have terrified me but instead left me craving more. Every movement sent electric jolts through me, lighting up parts of my body I didn’t even know existed. My cock twitched uncontrollably, still leaking pre-cum, as his thumb continued to work me open.
The sound of the other guys’ laughter and chatter faded into the background, drowned out by the pounding of my heart and the rush of blood in my ears. I was hyper-aware of every inch of his hands as they pressed against my body, the heat of his skin, the rough texture of his palms, the skilled pressuring of his fingers. I wanted to hate it, to push him away, but instead, I leaned into it, giving myself over to the pleasure he was apparently so adept at giving.
When he found some little button inside me that made me convulse in pleasure, he leaned into my ear and whispered "there it is," and the whisper tickled my ear and made me cum, coating the wall in front of me while my hole pulsed on his large digit. I turned red as my cock spurted squirt after squirt onto the tiled wall in front of me, and his thumb repeatedly pressed inside my body, gently getting slower as my pulses faded.
My breath froze. I had never felt anything like that. My body had reacted before I could even process what was happening. It was like some weird combination of panic, pleasure, and complete system override.
When he finally removed his thumb, I felt empty, bereft, like a part of me had been ripped away. I leaned against the cool tile wall, trying to catch my breath and make sense of what had just happened. My body was literally buzzing, my ears ringing, every nerve on fire, and I knew that nothing would ever be the same again. I learned a new sense of pleasure. I had crossed a line, one I hadn’t even known existed, and there was no going back.
He paused, picking up on my expression, then gave a half-smirk. “You good?”
I nodded way too fast, like my head was trying to break a speed record.
The other guys were still laughing about who owed who a soda or something dumb, but I was standing there, stunned, trying not to collapse under the weight of what I had just felt… and what it meant.
I turned off the water and toweled off like my life depended on it. This doesn’t mean anything, I told myself. Bodies are weird. That was just… nerves. Pressure. Soap.
But deep down, I knew I’d crossed a line. Or maybe found one I hadn’t known was there.
When he was done soaping up, and I was still trying to act like my body hadn't just betrayed every assumption I had about myself, we rinsed off side by side. The steam had started to fade, replaced by the hum of water and occasional shouts from across the locker room.
“So if you wanna level up quick,” he said casually, like we hadn’t just shared the weirdest shower moment of my life, “you gotta work on grip control. Hips too. It’s all leverage.”
“Right... wrestling,” I said, still dazed, pretending to focus on his advice while my brain was stuck replaying the last five minutes like a glitchy highlight reel.
He gave a nod, turned off his water, and grabbed his towel. “Later, freshie.”
“Later,” I said, voice cracking like it had been dunked in puberty all over again.
He walked away, towel slung low, big frame relaxed like none of this was out of the ordinary. His body moved with this casual, effortless bounce that I couldn’t stop watching—even though I knew I shouldn’t be.
I turned my water to cold, hoping to shock myself back to some version of normal. But even as the chill hit, one thing was clear: nothing about being on this team was going to be simple.
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