> First Night at Steamworks and Spanky the Human Mudflap

Walked into Steamworks like a man who thought he still had dignity. Paid the door, got the towel that could barely cover a decent cock, locker room already smelled like bleach trying and failing to murder cum. Guys of every shape moving through that wet maze like they had a schedule. I told myself I was just looking. Curious. Tourist energy. Ten minutes later I was hard as rebar and following the sound of wet slaps deeper into the steam rooms because my brain had already clocked out and left my ass in charge.

First room was pure fog and silhouettes. Hands found me before faces did. Some twink with a death grip on my balls whispered something about raw and I almost left. Then the door opened and the planet shifted. Five hundred and eighty seven pounds of man filled the entrance like a blocked fire exit. Spanky. That was the name somebody grunted when he rolled past. Tits like two waterbeds fighting, gut hanging so low it had its own shadow, ass so wide the towel gave up and became a napkin. He looked at me the way a wrecking ball looks at a condemned building. I should have run. I stayed. Curiosity is a disease and I had a full case.

He dragged me into the back steam room where the tiles were already slick and the air tasted like somebody else's dinner. Spanky did not do foreplay. He bent me over the bench like I owed him money and started working my hole with two fingers that felt like bratwurst. When he finally lined up that thing it was less cock and more geological event. Push. Pop. Then the full weight of five hundred eighty seven pounds settled on my back and the world went narrow. He started fuqing like he was trying to dig a well. Deep, heavy, no rhythm, just pure piston work that made my teeth rattle. Every thrust shoved air and whatever else was left in me out in wet blasts. The sound alone should have emptied the building.

Then the poo showed up. First it was just little flecks on the tile. Then a full mudslide. Thick, hot, flying out around that log every time he bottomed out. Looked exactly like a motorcycle stuck in the mud and revving until the rear tire spat brown water in every direction. Splat on the wall. Splat on my calves. Splat up the side of the bench. Spanky did not slow down. He laughed that low wet laugh of a man who has done this before and kept railing me through the mess like the mess was the point. My face was pressed into somebody else's leftover cum and now I was adding fertilizer. The whole room smelled like a porta potty at a metal festival.

He lasted forever. Or it felt like forever while my guts got rearranged into abstract art. When he finally came it was a full body seismic event. He roared, clamped my hips hard enough to leave bruises shaped like dinner plates, and unloaded so deep I tasted it in my throat. Then he pulled out and the vacuum effect made another wet brown spray hit the floor like a garden hose with a clog. He patted my ass with one massive hand, said something like good boy in a voice that could move furniture, and rolled off to the showers leaving me collapsed in a puddle of sweat, cum, and pure human mud.

I sat there breathing like a man who just survived a car crash involving a dump truck and a porta john. Other guys peeked in, saw the crime scene, and either left or started jerking off to it. I cleaned up as best you can with a single towel and shame. Walked out past the lockers with my hole throbbing and my dignity permanently relocated to the lost and found. First night at Steamworks. Met Spanky the 587 pound mudflap. Left a permanent stain on the tile and a permanent story in my head. Still walk a little careful when it rains.