Tiny Feet - Part 01 (Patreon)

Starting a new ongoing short series about your strange encounter in the gym sauna (story by AlienEtiquette) Enjoy! ❤️🦶🏻

The heavy wooden door closes behind you with a thud. The sauna is dimly lit and the steam is thick. Someone must have really doused the rocks, you think. You glance around, peering through the heavy curtain of moisture for your friend, but you don’t see him. In fact, there’s only one other person in the room with you: the man that both you and your friend had been ogling for the past hour, out on the gym floor. The same man who’d been smiling in your shared directions. The same man who’d winked at you and your friend on his way to the lockers, kicking off a game of chicken between the two of you to see who would be the first to cut their own workout short just to go after him, both of you understanding that the “loser” would have to endure whatever playful slut-shaming was honor-bound to follow.

Your friend hadn’t lasted long; you’d watched him abandon his set not a minute later, and without even bothering to re-rack his weights. The moral superiority you felt for being able to contain yourself carried you through the rest of your own workout, which you’d finished with an extra set just to add a few inches to your pedestal, and also to distract you from the sting of missing out.

You’d expected that by now the man and your friend would have gotten to business in one of the private showers, but you hadn’t heard any running water. You’d even double-checked the stalls, discreetly peering down the row of them in search of a drawn curtain and the sounds of heavy breathing. But the showers, like the lockers and changing area, were empty. At that point you’d gotten excited, deciding they must have both gone into the sauna and interpreting the move as an invitation to join in on the fun.

But now your friend is nowhere to be seen in the small, wood-walled space. The man is sitting off to the left with one of the gym’s blue-striped towels draped across his thighs. He’s hunched over like someone who’s been sitting in the heat for more than a moment, looking down and resting his head in his hands, his elbows propped upon his knees. As you take a seat on the opposite bench you think you hear him mumbling something towards the bench, and that’s when he notices you, first with his eyes and then by sitting up. He smiles at you and you smile back. You try not to stare too hard at the view being offered by his 90-degree manspread.

It’s difficult to see every detail in the low light and through all the steam, but you can make out a pair of heavy-looking balls, imitating their owner’s posture in the intense heat and resting plump against the bench.

“Hey,” he says. The towel over his crotch draws further up when he rubs the sheet of sweat on his legs. He slouches forward again, resting his forearms on his thighs.

“Hey,” you reply. You glance down again at his crotch to take advantage of the better view, and realize the man appears to be sitting on something, some pair of objects poking out from underneath his sweaty junk.