MY NAME is Shawn Wells, but most everyone knows me as the Sauna Slut.
I’m called that because I habitually hook up with gorgeous guys for quick sex in locker rooms, bathhouses, gyms, shower rooms, and—my personal favorite—saunas. Steam rooms, smoke saunas, Turkish baths, sweat lodges, infrared saunas: I’ve tried them all, and been fucked in all. It’s not a bad way to have fun, release some stress, get rid of metabolic waste, and indulge in delicious hot and heavy action in a clean, sweet-smelling environment.
Who am I? I’m a small blond twink. I’m only five foot three, slender to the point of skinny, and I always wear ridiculously tight clothes. I have a reason for that. I like clothes with character and challenge. And believe me, putting on jeans two sizes too small is a feat fit for the gods. Doing this especially after a soak in a hot tub or a leisurely stay in the steam room, when you’re still a bit sweaty and swollen from said trip, is virtually impossible. I swear, every time I manage it, I lose five pounds in the process.
In my professional life, I’m a personal shopper. Yes, I can imagine you think that’s a fabulous job, getting to buy luxurious things with other people’s money. Alas, it’s grueling work, having to run around a hundred different places for that one special, just-right object. Not to mention having to endure clients who are very particular about details, who have a great deal of disposable income but little sense of the value of money, and who do not know how to work well with others, least of all underlings.
Anyway, on with my story.
I don’t go to bathhouses of the pure, unadulterated sex variety so much anymore, not after I found Hot Haven. That place is my absolute favorite. The refurbished and modernized three-story warehouse has a well-stocked gym, three pools with different temperatures, plus a hot tub area, a recreational space with drinking and dining facilities, and a dozen different kinds of saunas. The bathhouse has existed for three years or so, and I’ve adored it from the start.
Can’t begin to tell you how many times and in how many ways I’ve had sex there.
Like today, for instance, when I’d arranged a meet with Enrique in the showers after work. He’s a lawyer, a bit on the sleazy, manipulative side when on the clock, but off it he’s a nice guy. Plus, he has an eight-inch cock with a Prince Albert piercing in it and a snake tattoo on his hip. Yeah, it’s a bit overkill, but honestly, when that monster is shoved up my ass, I couldn’t care less.
My paying client for the day had been a new one, a very finicky old woman coming from old money, and the job was worthy of the high fees I charge. Because after four hours of listening to her long list of demands, I was ready to strangle her and feed her clucking tongue to her poodle, though not necessarily in that order. Don’t get me wrong. I’m high maintenance about certain things too, so I understand people with class and means can be the same. But I am a specialist, an expert in my chosen field. If she had no interest in anything other than a delivery boy, then that’s who she should have hired. The postal service does that kind of thing; I don’t.
In other words, by the end of business I was pooped and looking forward to hot steam and steamy sex.
I entered Hot Haven with my shoulders slightly slumped, weary to the bone, ready to relax and enjoy myself. The moment I walked through those double doors and that waft of eucalyptus and lavender, with a hint of moisture and heat, reached my nostrils and my skin, I knew I was in heaven. I was home.
I inhaled deeply and ambled forward, savoring my special sauna time. The polished stone floor leading to the reception desk gleamed like water. Wood-paneled walls showcased fine carvings of sauna implements and Chinese river dragons, and the plush sofas, tall ferns, and glass coffee tables gave off an air of sophistication, comfort, and fine taste.
“Hi, Shawn.” A cute brown-haired guy smiled at me from behind the counter, pushing his round glasses up on his nose. They had a tendency to slide as he stared down at the screen of the computer; he was never willing to actually sit down to work the front desk.
“Hi, Toby.” Toby Macintyre was the sole owner of Hot Haven, and therefore my idol. He kept an apartment on the third floor for convenience, though he lived somewhere else—I knew not where—alone. Briefly, I puzzled over why he was behind the counter and not Heather, the usual receptionist, with golden hair, legs up to her chin, and a pretty awesome boob job, if I dare say so as a devout gay guy.
“The usual?” He smirked at me in that shy way of his, and I grinned back.
“Yup.” My usual was three hours of uninterrupted sauna time. Well, one hour of sex and two hours to unwind and relish the variety of saunas, showers, and baths.
Toby took my cash and exchanged it for a locker key. “Enjoy. Play safe.”
I winked. “Always do.”
No way was an unsheathed cock getting anywhere near my nether regions, no matter how relaxed and pliant my hole and channel got. Thankfully, Toby had a pretty good idea what drew a certain percentage of the clientele to the establishment, and with that in mind, there were bowls of condoms and packets of lube in nearly every corner. In that sense, this place was much like other bathhouses in the area, though cleaner and more respectable. And no prostitutes hung out here. I may have been a slut, but I was a free slut.
After a quick nod, I walked off. As I did so, I glanced over my shoulder at Toby, who was engrossed in typing something on the computer, his brow scrunched in concentration. He was the boy-next-door type, with lovely chocolate eyes and an engaging smile. He had this cute little button nose, and while other people frowned, his nose wrinkled. It was so endearing.
But alas, he was not my type. I preferred gym beefcakes, muscular weight lifters, big brawny bears. Basically men who knew exactly what they wanted—an ass to fuck—and took it to the extreme, no compromises. I was an unashamed bottom and loved getting my rump pounded hard, fast, and deep.
I met up with Enrique at the locker room. He was undressing, and the sight was indeed one to whet the appetite.
“Hey, Shawn,” he called out the moment he saw me. I said nothing because I was too busy staring at his sun-kissed skin, bulging biceps and pecs, ripped abs, and that delicious V-dip down to his cock, though his piece of meat was still covered by his jeans. He chuckled, catching my attention. His dark eyes twinkled at me. “I’m up here, gorgeous.”
Enrique probably meant his eyes or his face, but I didn’t care. We both knew the score, and the game was on. “Not tonight you’re not.” I added a wiggle to my tight little butt as I circled past him to get to my locker.
He tossed his head back and laughed. His shoulder-length hair waved about. I watched it out of the corner of my eye as I took off my clothes. I was a firm believer that all men, each and every one of them, had something sexy about them. They just needed the right person to coax and cajole it out of them. I was that person.
Enrique and I didn’t shoot the breeze much after that, apart from the casual “how was your day at the office?” plus the monosyllabic grunts that followed. We chose the steam shower for our hookup of the day. The frosted glass enclosure held two low seats on opposite sides of the tiled space, with the steam and rain showerheads above them. The yellow-brown earth tones of the interior were warm and welcoming.
“Want some music?” Enrique offered as he entered, abandoning his towel to the rack outside. The steam-shower room had access to an MP3 player, and Enrique never went anywhere without his Latin music, like Ricky Martin. A bit cliché, I know, but there was no arguing taste. Besides, trying to fuck to that beat was a week’s worth of exercise at the gym.
“No, thanks.” I shook my head, leaving my own towel behind as well.
Once Enrique operated the shower, the space began to fill up with billowy steam clouds, covering both of us, nestling us inside a cocoon of vanilla and ylang-ylang scents. “These smells okay?”
I sighed, pleased and already unwinding. “Oh yes.” It sure helped the mood that these aromas were considered aphrodisiacs. Moisture covered my skin in a fine sheen until I was no longer sure if the droplets were steam or sweat. Not that it mattered since soon I’d be covered in both, plus other fluids too.
The steam shower space was state of the art. In addition to the MP3 player, there was a radio and foot massager. Toby used solar thermal energy in tandem with other technologies, I knew, because it lessened the electric bill and thus reduced overall costs. Toby was progressive, and I loved him. Well, loved him because he had provided me with a safe haven from the cruelties of the cold world outside.
At the moment, thankfully, I was far from cold. Enrique wrapped his arms around me from behind and started kissing my neck and grinding his hardening dick against my cleft. I rocked back, loving the feel of his swollen shaft between my glutes. I had a great ass, tiny and bouncy, tight and perfect. Enrique wasn’t much for kissing, or oral anything. He was typically a straight-to-the-ass kind of guy, and this time was no different. Within five minutes I had my hands braced on the wall as he pounded into me with gusto.
TWO AND a half hours later, when I came out of the locker room refreshed and renewed, with a big satisfied grin on my face, I bumped into Toby. He was carrying towels, but now thanks to my stumbling about, they were in a heap on the floor.
“Shit. Sorry.” I knelt and began to help him gather them back into the neat pile they had been in.
“Don’t worry about it, Shawn. Thanks.” Toby had that tiny smile on his face like he always did, sweet and soft, but kind of fragile and sort of sad too. He offered the gesture briefly before giving all his attention back to the towel mess. I noticed he wasn’t wearing his glasses.
“Where’s Heather?” I asked, frowning at Toby having to do everything when Heather was a no-show. Which was unfortunately frequently since she was a—air quotes—model—end air quotes—and had people to see and places to be seen at. According to her, anyway. Besides, I had never seen her in anything other than that one market catalogue three years and two dress sizes ago.
“She called in sick.” Toby sounded as embarrassed speaking the lie out loud as I was hearing it. He couldn’t even look me in the eye.
I was mad for him. “Dammit, Toby. When are you gonna fire her? She’s never around when you need her. The only thing she’s good for is earning the world’s worst employee award.”
Toby burst into giggles, then blushed at having laughed and clapped a hand over his mouth, a shocked expression reddening his cheeks. “Heather’s a good girl.”
I rolled my eyes. “She may not be the evil bitch queen of models everywhere, but no, she’s not that good. And she’s bad for business. You’re the manager, for fuck’s sake. You’re not supposed to be sitting behind the counter greeting customers.”
Toby’s hands stilled as he sighed. “Yes, maybe. But I can’t afford a real receptionist, with actual credentials. Professionals like that wouldn’t want to work here anyway.”
I scoffed as softly as I could, not wanting Toby to think I felt disdain or anything. “Oh, please. Heather’s a flake. And there are many kinds of professionals. I can find you someone better. Like tomorrow. If you’ll let me.”
Surprised, Toby glanced up at me, hope igniting a spark in his warm, chocolaty eyes. “Really? You’d do that for me?”
I nodded firmly, feeling heroic and confident. “Absolutely. For you and for this place. This is my refuge, you know. I’m not gonna let anyone fuck it up.”
Toby chuckled. “Thanks, Shawn. I really appreciate it.”
Now why did a kind word and a compliment from Toby sound like an angelic choir? I couldn’t say. All I know is I stammered something back and blushed like a teenager.
But the moment didn’t last because all too soon, Toby was back on his feet, a grateful smile gracing his lips, and then he walked off with his towels.
I, on the other hand, stared at his retreating back until he vanished around the corner and out of my sight. Why? I had no freaking idea. I’d known Toby for years, ever since he opened up this place. I wouldn’t have called us friends, but we were far from strangers. What was a good word to describe him? A pal, perhaps, or homie, if I went a bit gangsta. A casual friend worked too, I suppose.
I shook my head in frustration, trying to rattle loose whatever cobwebs hid there, and promptly vacated the place for the warm comfort of my bedroom. Sleep and dreams lay ahead.