Here's an example first chapter, i think its pretty good
Chapter One:
The gym closes at ten on Fridays. I know this because I've been watching the clock since nine-fifteen, willing the last few stragglers to leave. The owner, Marcus, tosses me the keys with his usual "lock up when you're done" before heading out. He trusts me. Has since I started coming here five years ago.
I wait until I hear his truck pull away. Count to sixty. Then I move.
The weight room sits empty, mirrors reflecting nothing but equipment and shadows. I've been planning this for weeks. Maybe months, if I'm honest. Every time I stretch after a workout, every time I catch myself in those mirrors, the thought creeps in: *what if?*
I lock the front door first. Double-check it. The blinds are already down—they always are after nine. My hands shake slightly as I walk back through the cardio section, past the free weights, to the far corner where the yoga mats live.
This is insane. But I'm alone, truly alone, and if I don't try now, when will I?
I grab three mats, layer them for cushion. The mirror runs the full length of the wall here. No avoiding my own gaze as I start to stretch. Simple stuff first—touching my toes, butterfly stretches. My body's still warm from my workout earlier, muscles loose and compliant.
I've always been flexible. Gymnastics as a kid, yoga as an adult. But this requires more than flexibility. This requires courage I'm not sure I have.
I strip off my shirt first. The gym air conditioning hits my skin, raising goosebumps. My reflection stares back—broad shoulders, the V of my torso narrowing to my waist. I've worked hard for this body, but right now it feels foreign. Like I'm seeing it for the first time.
The shorts come off next. Then the compression underwear.
Naked in the gym. If anyone saw—but they won't. Can't. I made sure of that.
I sit on the mats, legs extended. Start with forward folds, breathing deep. With each exhale, I fold deeper. My flexibility has always surprised people. "You're built like a linebacker but bend like a yogi," an ex once said.
The thought of him watching—no. I push that away. This isn't about anyone else. This is about me, about curiosity that's eaten at me for years.
I bring my knees to my chest. Roll back slightly. My spine curves, vertebrae separating. I've done this position a thousand times in yoga class. But never naked. Never with intent.
My cock hangs heavy between my legs. I'm not hard yet—too nervous—but there's weight there. Length. I've been blessed in that department, though it's never felt like a blessing. More like something to manage, to be careful with.
I roll back further. My legs come up and over, feet touching the ground behind my head. Plow pose. In class, this is where the instructor would tell us to breathe, to relax into the stretch.
I'm anything but relaxed.
From this position, I can see it. Right there. Closer than it's ever been to my face. The angle is awkward—I have to crane my neck, tilt my chin down. But it's possible. Fuck, it's actually possible.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I stay in the pose, just looking. The head is darker than the shaft, the foreskin partially retracted. I've seen my own cock thousands of times, but never from this angle. Never this close.
I think about all the times I've gone down on other men. The weight on my tongue, the taste, the way they'd gasp and grab my hair. Is that what I'd taste like? Feel like?
The thought sends blood rushing south. I watch, fascinated, as I start to harden. The angle changes as I grow, bringing the head incrementally closer.
This is the moment. Do it or don't.
I curl forward another inch. My lower back protests slightly—I'll need to warm up more next time. Next time? I'm already planning a next time?
Another inch. I can feel my breath on my own skin now. Hot, humid. My cock twitches in response, and I have to suppress a nervous laugh. This is surreal.
One more curl forward and—contact.
Just the briefest brush of lips against skin, but it's enough to send shockwaves through my body. I made contact. I actually did it.
I ease back, breathing hard. Not from exertion—I could hold plow pose for ten minutes easy. But from the sheer intensity of what just happened.
My cock stands fully erect now, curving slightly toward my stomach. The logistics are trickier with a full erection. I'll need to adjust the angle, maybe prop my hips up more.
I roll out of the pose, shake out my limbs. Catch my reflection in the mirror—flushed face, dilated pupils, cock standing proud. I look debauched already and I've barely started.
This time I stack a foam roller under my lower back before rolling into position. The extra height helps. When I curl back now, I don't have to strain as much.
The head of my cock brushes my lips again. This time I'm ready for it. This time I open my mouth.
The first taste is salt and skin and something uniquely me. I've tasted myself before on fingers, in kisses after someone's gone down on me. But this is different. This is direct, unfiltered.
I take just the head between my lips. The stretch in my back is intense but manageable. My cock pulses, leaking precum that coats my tongue. The angle means I can't take much—maybe two inches at most—but it's enough.
Enough to understand why men lose their minds when I do this to them.
The dual sensation is overwhelming. I feel everything twice—the wet heat of my mouth, the pressure of lips on sensitive skin. When I suck gently, my hips want to thrust but can't in this position. The restraint adds its own layer of intensity.
I develop a rhythm. Small movements, careful not to strain. My tongue explores the ridge of my head, the slit that keeps leaking steadily. I taste myself, learn my own responses. When I flutter my tongue just there, my whole body shudders. When I suck harder, my balls draw up tight.
In my mind, unbidden, comes the fantasy: someone watching. Hidden in the shadows of the gym, seeing me like this. Seeing how desperate I am, how I've snuck in after hours just to suck my own cock.
The thought should shame me. Instead, it makes me harder.
I imagine them palming themselves through their jeans. Getting off on my display, my flexibility, my need. Maybe they've been watching the whole time. Maybe they saw me lock the door, strip down, work myself into position.
My hand finds my balls, rolling them gently. The added stimulation makes me moan around my own cock—a strange feedback loop of pleasure. I'm close already. Too close. This won't last long.
I slow down, ease back to just the tip. Breathe through my nose, try to center myself. But the position itself maintains a baseline of arousal I can't escape. Every breath shifts the angle slightly. Every heartbeat pulses through my cock into my mouth.
The imaginary watcher steps closer in my mind. I can almost hear their breathing, harsh and wanting. They're touching themselves now, matching my rhythm. Getting off on my private show.
"Fuck," I whisper, pulling off for a moment. My voice echoes in the empty gym. "Fuck, this is..."
I don't finish the sentence. Don't need to. My body knows what this is.
I take myself back in my mouth, deeper this time. My back protests but I push through. Another half inch. Another. The head hits the back of my throat and I have to fight not to gag.
But I know this feeling from the other side. Know how good it feels to be taken deep, to feel throat muscles flutter and contract. I swallow around myself, feel my cock pulse in response.
That's what breaks me. The swallow, the pulse, the imagined eyes on me. I come with barely any warning, flooding my own mouth. The first spurt hits the back of my throat. I swallow instinctively, taste myself fully. Salt and bitter and human.
My body shakes through it. I keep sucking, drawing out every drop. My cock softens slowly in my mouth, oversensitive but I can't stop. Don't want to stop.
Finally, muscles screaming, I have to unfold. I roll onto my side, gasping. My back will be sore tomorrow. My jaw aches slightly. But the satisfaction running through my veins makes it all worth it.
I lie there on the mats, naked and spent. The mirrors show me sprawled out, debauched. Anyone walking in would know immediately what I'd done. The thought sends an aftershock of pleasure through me.
Eventually I force myself up. Wipe down the mats with disinfectant, twice to be sure. Get dressed with shaking hands. My body feels different—not just from the physical act but from the knowledge. I did it. I actually did it.
The gym looks exactly the same as I turn off the lights. But I've changed. Discovered something about myself I can't undiscover.
As I lock the door behind me, I'm already thinking about next Friday. About what else I might try, alone in the mirrors and shadows.
The parking lot is empty except for my car. But as I drive away, I swear I see movement in the rearview mirror. A figure stepping out from behind the building.
My imagination, surely. Has to be.
But my cock twitches anyway, already eager for next time.
