The Spotter's Forbidden Rep

My spotter is going to kill me.

The thought isn’t metaphorical. As the barbell, loaded with what I now realize is a hubristic amount of weight, stalls six inches above my chest, the cold steel of the bench seeps through my thin tank top. My triceps scream. My pectorals, which I’ve spent three years coaxing into something resembling a chest, are on fire and failing. The world narrows to the knurled grip of the bar and the two orange plates on each end that seem to be actively trying to bury me.

“Easy,” a voice says from above me, calm as a lake at dawn. “You’ve got it. Just one more.”

That’s Leo. Leo, who spotted my shaky final rep on the incline press twenty minutes ago. Leo, who I met three months ago when we both lingered at the squat rack, recognizing a similar, quiet dedication in each other. He’s a physical therapist’s aide, I learned later over a post-workout shake. I’m a line cook trying to work my way up to sous. The gym is the one place where our different worlds flatten into the common language of plates and reps. Our partnership was unspoken, then spoken, then essential. We sync our schedules. We track each other’s lifts in a shared notes app. We fist-bump after a hard set, a solid, dry smack of mutual respect. It’s been professional. Perfect.

Right now, his professionalism is the only thing between me and a crushed windpipe.

I can’t get it. My arms are trembling violently. A pathetic grunt escapes my lips. The bar dips another inch.

Then his hands are there. Not on the bar, but under it, his fingers brushing against mine where I grip. His touch is electric, a sudden, shocking contrast to the cold iron. He doesn’t just lift. He guides, taking the brutal, crushing weight and making it buoyant.

“I’ve got it. Lower with me. Good. Now, press.”

His voice is in my ear, low and steady. With him bearing most of the load, the impossible becomes possible. I push. The bar rises. He lets me feel the full strain for the last few inches, letting me claim the rep, before his hands, warm and sure, help me guide it back onto the rack.

I lie there, gasping, the blood roaring in my ears. My heart hammers against my ribs. He appears in my field of vision, leaning over the bench. His face is all sharp, handsome angles—a strong jaw shadowed with perpetual stubble, deep-set brown eyes, dark hair cropped close on the sides. A faint sheen of sweat glistens on his temples. He’s smiling, a rare, full thing that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“That was all you, man. That last inch. You owned it.”

He offers a hand. I take it, and he pulls me up to sitting with an effortless strength that sends a different kind of shiver through me. Our hands linger for a second too long. My palm feels branded.

“Thanks,” I manage, my voice rough. “Got greedy.”

“Greedy is good. Greedy is growth.” He claps my shoulder, the impact firm and warm through the damp fabric. “Shower?”

The question is routine. Our post-workout ritual: a final stretch, then the walk to the locker room, the steam, the quiet camaraderie of shared fatigue. But tonight, after that touch, after the way his voice seemed to vibrate through the bench into my spine, the word “shower” feels loaded. It hangs in the air between us, a simple word now wrapped in the memory of his fingers against mine, the heat of his hand on my shoulder. My body is still buzzing with adrenaline and something else, something deeper and more treacherous. I feel seen in a way that has nothing to do with my form.

“Yeah,” I say, too quickly. “Let me rack these.”

The walk to the locker room is only fifty feet, but it feels like a mile. My mind is a riot. The near-failure on the bench has left me raw, my nerves exposed. Every brush of my gym shorts against my thighs feels amplified. I’m hyper-aware of him walking beside me, the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the way his shoulder occasionally bumps mine in the narrow aisle between machines. I’ve walked this walk with him dozens of times, but now I’m cataloging sensations I usually ignore: the solid weight of his presence, the faint, clean smell of his sweat, the way his attention feels like a physical touch even when he’s looking straight ahead.

This is stupid. This is my spotter. My gym partner. This routine, this place, it’s my sanctuary from the chaos of the kitchen, from the dead-end feeling that sometimes creeps in after a double shift. Leo is part of that sanctuary. Safe. Predictable. Essential. If I fuck this up, I don’t just lose a workout buddy. I lose the one part of my day that’s entirely mine, built on mutual respect and clear, simple goals. The risk is a cold knot in my stomach. But beneath the fear, there’s a current, pulling me toward him with a force that feels stronger than the gravity that almost pinned me to the bench. It’s the same current I’ve been fighting for months, the one that makes me watch the way his throat works when he drinks his protein shake, that makes my heart stutter when he corrects my form with a hand on my lower back. Tonight, after the rescue, the current feels less like a riptide and more like a destination. The awareness is a live wire in my chest, sparking with every step. What if he feels it too? The thought is terrifying. What if he doesn’t?

The gym is mostly empty, the late-night crowd having thinned out. The only sounds are the hum of fluorescent lights, the distant clank of a weight being dropped, and the rush of my own pulse. I strip the plates off the bar, my movements automatic. I can feel him nearby, rolling his shoulders, stretching his lat with a hand braced against a pillar. I catch the profile of his body, the way his compression shirt stretches across the dense, defined terrain of his back and shoulders. I’ve seen it a hundred times. Tonight, I’m studying it.

The locker room is a temple of steam and subdued echoes. It’s empty save for us. The tiles are slick, the air humid and smelling of chlorine, soap, and the faint, primal scent of male sweat. My locker is two down from his. We begin the practiced, parallel dance of undressing.

I peel off my damp tank top, toss it into my gym bag. I toe off my shoes, peel down my shorts and compression tights. I am hyper-aware of every movement, of the space between our bodies. I keep my eyes on my locker, on the mundane contents: deodorant, a comb, clean socks. But my peripheral vision is a high-definition scanner. I see the blue duffel bag he always carries, the one with the small, zippered side pocket that’s always bulging slightly. He’s joked about it before, calling it his “just-in-case” kit—extra straps, lifting chalk, bandaids, a travel-sized thing of lotion for his hands. “A good spotter is always prepared,” he’d said once with a shrug. The memory flickers, unimportant.

I hear the rustle of his clothes. The metallic scrape of a locker door. A low sigh as he, presumably, stretches. I risk a glance.

He’s standing in just his black boxer briefs, one hand on his hip, the other rubbing the back of his neck. The muscles in his arm cord and relax. The briefs sit low on his hips, showcasing the V-cut obliques that arrow down, disappearing into the dark fabric. His thighs are powerful, dusted with the same dark hair as his forearms. My mouth goes dry.

He turns, catching my look. I snap my eyes back to my locker, fumbling for my towel. My face feels hot.

“Leg day tomorrow,” he says, his voice echoing softly in the tiled room. “You in?”

“Yeah. Always.” My voice is tight.

“Good.”

I wrap the towel around my waist, tucking it securely. He does the same, but his is slung lower, loose. A line of hair trails from his navel down beneath the terrycloth edge. I force myself to look away.

The shower area is separate: a row of six open stalls with white curtains, currently all drawn back. The steam from earlier users still hangs in the air, misting the mirrors and tiles. The sound of dripping water is rhythmic, almost musical.

“End stall’s got the best pressure,” Leo says, already walking towards it. It’s our unspoken rule. We take the two end stalls, adjacent to each other. A partition of white, textured plastic separates them, about seven feet high. It provides visual privacy, but sound travels. Steam travels.

I step into my stall, hanging my towel on the hook outside the curtain rod. I turn on the water, adjusting it until it’s hot enough to turn my skin pink. The spray is needles on my tired shoulders. I let my head fall forward, water sluicing through my hair, down my back. I try to focus on the heat loosening my muscles, on the satisfying ache of a workout well-done.

But my mind is in the stall next door.

I hear the hiss of his shower turning on. The rustle as he pulls the curtain closed. A long, low groan of pleasure as the water hits him. The sound goes straight to my gut, coiling heat there.

We shower in silence for a minute. Then, over the drumming of water, his voice comes, slightly muffled by the partition.

“You really pushed it today on those benches.”

“Had to,” I call back, rinsing shampoo from my hair. “Trying to catch up to you.”

A low chuckle. “You’re closer than you think. Your form’s gotten solid. Really solid.”

The compliment, delivered in this intimate, echoing space, feels different. More personal. I find myself picturing him watching my form, his eyes tracking the line of my back during deadlifts, the flexion of my biceps during curls. Has he been looking the way I’ve been looking?

“Thanks,” I say, my voice barely carrying over the water. “Couldn’t do it without the spot.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” he says. Then, after a beat, “To spot you.”

The water runs. Steam billows, filling my stall, making the air taste wet and warm. I’m achingly hard. I’ve been half-hard since the bench press, and the shower, the proximity, his voice, has finished the job. It’s a stupid, dangerous arousal. This is my gym partner. My routine. My sanctuary. I can’t fuck this up.

I hear the squeak of his hands on soap. The wet, slick sounds of him washing. I imagine the lather sliding over his chest, down the hard plane of his stomach. My own hand, holding my bar of soap, drifts lower over my abdomen. I’m not touching myself. Not really. Just washing. But my touch isn’t clinical. It’s slow. Exploring.

My breath hitches. I hope the water drowns it out.

“You good over there?” His voice is closer. Has he moved to the edge of his stall, near the partition?

“Yeah,” I breathe. “Great.”

Silence again, but it’s a different silence. It’s listening. It’s waiting.

I make a decision, reckless and terrifying. I don’t know if it’s the fatigue, the adrenaline from the near-fail, or the months of suppressed want, but I lean my forearm against the cool, wet tile of the partition. My forehead follows. The plastic is warm from the steam on his side.

“Leo?” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

A pause. Then, from just on the other side of the thin barrier, his answer. “Yeah?”

“I…” What do I say? I think about you when I’m not here. I watch the way your throat works when you drink your post-workout shake. I just got hard thinking about the sound you make when hot water hits your back. “Today… on the bench. When you grabbed the bar. Your hands.”

Another pause, longer this time. I hear his water shut off. The sudden quiet is deafening. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs. I’ve ruined it. I’ve—

“What about my hands?” His voice is low, devoid of its usual easy warmth. It’s intent.

“They were… sure,” I whisper, the confession torn from me. “Strong. I felt… safe.”

I hear a soft exhale. Then, the sound of a curtain ring sliding on a metal rod. Not mine. His.

“My towel’s over here,” he says, his voice still quiet, but clear. “On the hook. Could you pass it?”

It’s a test. A blatant, transparent test. He could easily reach around the partition for it himself. The hook is on the outside. He’s asking me to step out of my stall, naked, into the common area, and hand him his towel.

Every nerve in my body is firing. The professional pretense, the careful boundary we’ve maintained, is hanging in the steam between us, ready to dissolve. I know what I want. The aching strain in my groin is a painfully clear answer. But this is the point of no return.

“I don’t…” I start, the hesitation automatic. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he says, no hesitation at all. “Please.”

That ‘please’ undoes me. It’s a request, not a demand. An invitation.

I turn off my water. The drip-drip-drip is the only sound. I pull back my curtain. The humid air of the shower room kisses my skin. I am completely exposed. My arousal is obvious, jutting out from my body, a stark admission. I don’t try to hide it.

Two steps take me to the front of his stall. His green towel is on the hook. I take it. My hand is trembling. I stand there, facing the drawn curtain of his stall.

“Here,” I say, my voice rough.

The curtain doesn’t open. His hand emerges from the gap at the side, reaching for the towel. His fingers brush mine as he takes it. The contact is a spark. He doesn’t let go immediately. His fingers curl, just for a second, around my wrist. His grip is warm and wet. He pulls, gently.

It’s not a yank. It’s a suggestion. An undeniable one.

I step forward, through the gap in the curtain, into the steam of his stall.

He’s there, naked, water beading on his skin. He’s just as hard as I am. His eyes, dark and intense, rake over me, leaving trails of fire on my skin. He drops the towel. It lands on the wet floor with a soft, wet slap.

For a long moment, we just look at each other. The professional pretense isn’t just melting; it’s evaporating in the heat between us.

“Three months,” he says, his voice a gravelly rumble. “Three months of spotting your fails, cheering your PRs. Watching every drop of sweat roll down your spine during farmer’s walks. Watching you bite your lip on the last rep of every set.” He takes a half-step closer. The heat from his body is a tangible force. “You have no idea the focus it takes to keep my hands where they’re supposed to be.”

“Me too,” I admit, the words a relieved sigh. “Every time you rack a weight for me, I’m watching your forearms flex. Every fist bump, I’m wondering what your hand would feel like somewhere else.”

He reaches out, but not for my cock. His hand comes up, calloused palms and strong fingers, and cups the side of my neck, his thumb stroking the line of my jaw. It’s a possessive, tender gesture that makes my knees weak.

“The program just changed,” he murmurs, his eyes searching mine.

“I know.”

“You ready for the new regimen?”

I answer by closing the last inch between us and pressing my lips to his.

It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s three months of pent-up tension, of sidelong glances and “accidental” touches, of shared protein shakes and silent admiration. It’s hunger. His mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping past my lips, tasting of mint and water and him. I groan into it, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders, the solid, rounded delts I’ve watched flex under countless barbells. He’s real. He’s here. And he’s kissing me back with a desperation that matches my own.

He breaks the kiss, breathing harshly, his forehead resting against mine. Water from his hair drips onto my face. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“Yeah,” I agree, my voice wrecked.

His hands slide down my back, over the grooves of my lats, down to my glutes. He pulls me flush against him. The feel of him, hard and hot against my stomach, steals the air from my lungs. We’re a tangle of wet, slick skin and hard muscle, steam swirling around us like a cocoon.

“Someone could come in,” I gasp, even as I grind against him.

“Let them,” he growls, and the raw possessiveness in his voice makes me shudder. He nips at my earlobe. “Let the whole fucking gym see who you’re working out with now.”

His words, so specific to this place, to us, push me further. His mouth is on my neck, sucking a bruise into the tendon there. One hand tangles in my wet hair, pulling just enough to tilt my head back, giving him better access. The other hand slides between us, his fingers wrapping around my cock. The touch is electric, expert. He pumps me slowly, his thumb swiping over the leaking head.

“Leo…” I moan, my hips bucking into his fist.

“Shhh,” he whispers against my skin. “I’ve got you. I’m spotting you. Just let go.”

The double meaning, the reminder of our roles, of the trust already established, sends a fresh jolt of lust through me. He turns us, gently pushing me back until my shoulders meet the cool, wet tiles of the stall wall. The contrast of the cold tile on my back and the heat of his body pressed against my front is dizzying.

He drops to his knees.

The sight is something I’ll replay in my head for years. Leo, on his knees in a public shower stall, water dripping from the ends of his hair, his broad shoulders between my thighs, looking up at me with those dark, hungry eyes. He doesn’t say a word. He just leans forward and takes me into his mouth.

My head thunks back against the tile. A ragged, broken sound tears from my throat. His mouth is hot, wet, perfect. He doesn’t start slow. He takes me deep, his throat working around me, his tongue doing sinful things along the underside. His hands are on my hips, holding me steady, his thumbs digging into the bone. It’s not just a blowjob. It’s a conquest. He’s claiming me with his mouth, demonstrating a skill and an enthusiasm that has my legs trembling.

I look down, my vision blurred by steam and pleasure. I watch my cock disappear between his lips, watch the muscles in his jaw work. I bury my hands in his short, wet hair, not guiding, just holding on. He moans around me, the vibration traveling straight to my core.

“God, Leo… I’m gonna fail this rep,” I warn, my voice a strained whisper, the gym lingo falling from my lips unbidden.

He pulls off with a wet pop, his lips swollen and glistening. “No failure tonight,” he says, his own voice thick with want. He stands in one fluid, powerful motion. “Not until we’ve both hit our max.”

The words are a shockwave. We’ve never discussed this, never hinted at roles or preferences. But the way he says it, with such certainty, tells me he’s thought about it. Maybe as much as I have.

“Here?” I ask, the last vestige of sanity protesting. “We don’t have…”

He turns, reaching for his gym bag just outside the curtain. He unzips the small side pocket—the “just-in-case” kit—and pulls out a small, travel-sized bottle of lotion and a single, foil-wrapped condom. He holds them up, a triumphant, almost predatory glint in his eye. Of course. Always prepared.

“Hopeful?” I manage, a weak laugh bubbling up, remembering his earlier words.

“Past hopeful,” he corrects, tearing the foil packet with his teeth. “Been spotting for this specific lift for weeks.”

He sheathes himself quickly, efficiently, then squeezes a generous amount of lotion into his palm. He warms it between his hands, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Turn around,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Hands on the wall. Wider stance. You need a solid base.”

I obey, turning to face the tiles, placing my palms flat against them. The tile is cool and slick. I spread my feet wider, bracing myself as if for a heavy squat. I hear him behind me, the sound of him slicking himself. Then his hands are on me, one on my hip, the other, lotion-slicked, tracing down the cleft of my ass.

I jump at the first touch, a sharp inhale catching in my throat.

“Easy,” he murmurs, his lips against my shoulder blade. The same word he used on the bench. “I’ve got you. Breathe out. Brace your core.”

I force myself to exhale, to engage my stomach, to relax into his touch. His finger is insistent, circling, then pressing slowly inside. The stretch is intense, unfamiliar. It’s been a long time. A low groan escapes me, part pain, part overwhelming need.

“Good,” he breathes into my skin, working his finger gently, then adding a second. The burn recedes, replaced by a feeling of fullness, of being opened. “You’re taking the weight perfectly. Just like a good descent.”

His praise, couched in our language, is fuel. I push back against his hand, wanting more. He scissors his fingers, preparing me with a slow, meticulous patience that feels like agony and ecstasy. His other hand strokes my flank, soothing and possessive. He takes his time, stretching me thoroughly, until I’m pushing back against his hand with a soft, constant whimper. When he removes his fingers, I feel empty, bereft.

Then the blunt, thick head of him is pressing against me.

“Look at me,” he commands softly.

I twist my head, looking over my shoulder. Our eyes lock. His are blazing with intent, his jaw clenched. He’s holding himself back, a sheen of sweat on his brow that has nothing to do with the shower steam.

“Last chance to rerack the weight,” he says, a final warning, a final question wrapped in our code.

“Load the bar,” I plead, pushing my hips back.

He drives forward.

The sound I make is guttural, ripped from deep in my chest. He fills me, stretches me, completes me in a way that is shocking in its rightness. He bottoms out, his hips flush against my ass, and goes perfectly still, letting me adjust, letting the initial shockwave of sensation subside. His body is a solid, trembling wall of heat against my back.

“Form check?” he grates out, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.

“Perfect,” I gasp. “Now move. Please, Leo, press the damn weight.”

He pulls back almost all the way, then slams home. The impact drives the air from my lungs. He sets a punishing, relentless pace from the start, no gentle warm-up. This is the one-rep max. Each thrust is a claiming, each withdrawal a promise of return. The slap of skin on wet skin, our ragged breaths, and the constant drip of water are the only sounds in the world.

His hands are everywhere—gripping my hips hard enough to leave bruises, sliding around to fist my aching cock in time with his thrusts, splaying across my back to pin me to the wall. He leans over me, his chest pressed to my back, his mouth at my ear.

“This is the reward,” he pants, his voice raw. “For all those early mornings. For all the burn. This is your fucking medal.”

“Yes,” I sob, the admission torn from me.

“You’re my best lift. My perfect rep.” He bites my shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to brand. “My gym. My rules now.”

His words, filthy and perfect and utterly ours, push me to the edge. The coil in my gut is wound impossibly tight. The friction of his hand on my cock, the deep, perfect angle of his thrusts, the sheer animal reality of him taking me in a public shower—it’s too much. I shatter.

My orgasm hits me like a seizure, blinding and all-consuming. I cry out, a sound that echoes off the tiles, as I pulse over his hand and onto the wall in front of me. My body clenches around him, milking him, pulling him over the edge with me.

With a ragged shout that’s more a roar, he buries himself deep and stills, his whole body shuddering against mine. I feel the rhythmic pulse of his release inside me. He collapses forward, his weight pressing me into the cool tile, his forehead resting between my shoulder blades as we both gasp for air, spent and trembling.

For a long time, the only sound is our breathing slowly returning to normal, and the shower spray, still running in my abandoned stall. The steam feels thicker, charged with the scent of sex and sweat and us.

Slowly, carefully, he pulls out. I wince at the loss, a sudden, hollow feeling following the intense fullness. He disposes of the condom, then turns me around, his hands gentle now, cradling my face. He searches my eyes, his own soft, vulnerable in the aftermath. The raw hunger is gone, replaced by a questioning warmth, and a flicker of something that looks like my own dawning anxiety.

“Okay?” he asks, his thumb stroking my cheek.

I nod, but it’s not entirely true. I’m more than okay physically—I’m buzzing, glowing, unraveled. But my mind is starting to catch up. What have we done? The thought is a cold splash after the heat. This changes the geometry of everything. Tomorrow, at the squat rack, will his hand on my back feel the same? Will our comfortable silence feel loaded, or broken? The risk I felt in the hallway now feels real and heavy. I’ve crossed a line with the one person in this city whose presence is a guaranteed peace.

He sees the hesitation. His smile is small, understanding. “It’s a lot,” he says quietly, answering my unspoken question. “We don’t… we don’t have to figure it all out now.”

I lean into his touch, drawing comfort from the very hands that have just remapped my world. “I know. It’s just… tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is leg day,” he says, a faint, familiar stubbornness returning to his voice. “We’ll hit PRs on squats. Everything else…” He shrugs, a beautiful, fluid roll of his shoulders. “We’ll spot each other. Like always.”

It’s not a neat answer. It’s an acknowledgment of the complication, and a promise to face it together. It feels real.

He kisses me, slow and deep and tasting of shared exertion. “Good.”

We clean up under the still-warm spray of his shower, hands slow and tender, washing each other with a new intimacy. The professional pretense is gone, washed away with the sweat and lotion. What’s left is raw, real, and terrifyingly exciting.

We dry off in silence, but it’s a comfortable silence now, laced with the aftershocks of pleasure and the quiet hum of uncertainty. When we’re dressed in our street clothes, standing by our lockers, the real world waiting outside, he turns to me.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, zipping up his gym bag. But his eyes are asking a different question, a whole series of them.

I sling my bag over my shoulder. My body aches in new, wonderful ways. The anxiety is still there, a low buzz in the background, but it’s outweighed by the memory of his weight against me, his words in my ear, the feeling of being claimed. I meet his gaze, a slow, tentative smile spreading across my face.

“Yeah,” I say. “But you’re buying the post-workout shake. I think you owe me one. And…” I hesitate, then plunge ahead. “Maybe we skip the fist bump.”

He laughs, a rich, full sound that fills the empty locker room, pushing back the shadows of complication, if only for a moment. He slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a half-hug as we walk out into the cool night air. It’s not a fist bump. It’s something more, something unproven and fragile and blazing with potential. The partnership has been upgraded, but the new software is glitchy, untested. Tomorrow, we’ll debug it under the bar, in the grind, in the quiet space between sets where everything that matters has always been communicated without words. We’ll figure it out. We have to.