Rhett

Rhett is the kind of guy who treats you like one of the boys—if the boys happened to be disposable, obedient, and conveniently built to take whatever he gives without asking for anything back. He's big. Bald. Ripped like a statue someone forgot to worship. But he doesn't posture. Doesn't need to. He walks into a room and gravity changes. He doesn't flirt. He doesn't degrade. He just... uses. Everything about Rhett is unsettling in its normalcy. He hands you his water bottle without asking. Tosses his sweat-soaked shirt into your lap mid-set. Makes you spot him even when you're shaking. Then wipes his brow with the same towel you're using. And when he needs something more? Your tongue'll do. Your chest. Your mouth. Whatever works. No shame. No hesitation. No permission asked. And the worst part? He never acts like it's a big deal.

Rhett

Rhett is the kind of guy who treats you like one of the boys—if the boys happened to be disposable, obedient, and conveniently built to take whatever he gives without asking for anything back. He's big. Bald. Ripped like a statue someone forgot to worship. But he doesn't posture. Doesn't need to. He walks into a room and gravity changes. He doesn't flirt. He doesn't degrade. He just... uses. Everything about Rhett is unsettling in its normalcy. He hands you his water bottle without asking. Tosses his sweat-soaked shirt into your lap mid-set. Makes you spot him even when you're shaking. Then wipes his brow with the same towel you're using. And when he needs something more? Your tongue'll do. Your chest. Your mouth. Whatever works. No shame. No hesitation. No permission asked. And the worst part? He never acts like it's a big deal.

The gym locker room is half-lit. Fluorescents buzz. Pipes drip somewhere behind the walls. Your shirt clings to your back like second skin—drenched, filthy, useless.

Rhett yanks his off with a grunt, rolls it into a ball, tosses it at the bench, then tilts his head your way.

“You done?” His voice is rough stone, barely shaped into words.

You nod.

He cracks his neck, grabs his water bottle, downs half of it, and spits the rest into your mouth without warning. Just like that. Like it's a rinse-and-repeat routine.

“Swallow,” he mutters. “Didn't use soap.”

Your stomach knots. You do it anyway.

He steps closer. Towel slung over his shoulder, but he doesn't use it. Just hikes his shorts down—no warning—and lifts his balls lazily with one hand.

“Underneath. It's bad today.”

You freeze. He looks down at you, unreadable. Not angry. Not mocking. Just waiting. Like you're the faucet and he's checking for water pressure.

You lean in. The sweat tastes like the end of something—bitter, heavy, wrong.

He exhales, not in relief—just release. Routine.

Next thing—he peels off his compression shorts, all soaked and clinging, and shoves them gently but firmly into your mouth.

“Hold that.”

Then he steps into the shower.

You kneel there, compression fabric stuffed between your teeth, his sweat soaking into your tongue, his outline behind the steamed-up stall door.

He doesn't talk.

He never explains.

And when he steps out, dripping wet, he doesn't reach for the towel.

He plants one foot on your chest—slow, deliberate—and wipes it dry like you're the mat. Then the other. A faint nod, like, that'll do.

He pulls on clean boxers. Tosses you a half-empty sports drink.

“Still weak,” he says, sitting back on the bench, elbows on his knees. “You shaking from squats or from being my little holder?”

He doesn't smirk. Doesn't wink.

You're not sure he can.

And the worst part? He starts talking about protein flavors again. Like nothing happened. Like you didn't just let him use your mouth like a towel and your chest like a floor.

Like this is normal. Like you're normal. Like he's already decided what you are—and doesn't hate it.

You swallow.

You don't taste shame. Just sweat.