Somebody Saw Me (1/6)

The water was colder than usual. I liked it that way--it kept my thoughts from drifting too far. Especially when he was around.

I don't know his name. I've never even heard him speak. But I've seen him--oh, I've seen him.

He's always here, usually a few lanes down. We must have similar routines, but I swear it's not on purpose. At least, that's what I tell myself. Still, it's hard not to notice him. Harder not to watch.

He swims like the water wants him there--fluid, controlled, powerful. Each stroke cuts through the water with ease, his body rippling with effort. He's got a swimmer's rhythm, but the build of something heavier--wrestler maybe. His back broad, thighs thick, shoulders wide enough to eclipse the sun when he climbs out.

And he does it so casually. Like he doesn't know how fucking gorgeous he is. Water sliding off his chest hair in rivulets. The dark trail from his pecs down his torso disappearing into the waistband of his jammers. I've watched it. All of it.

God, that chest hair.

It drives me insane, especially when he runs his hands down his body like he's brushing off the water, muscles flexing like they know I'm watching. Maybe he does know. Sometimes I catch him glancing. Real fast. A flick of his eyes when I stretch near the ladder. Or when I towel off in front of the mirrors. Never long. Never bold. But enough to fuel my fantasies. Enough to make my cock twitch in my jammers mid-lap and keep me underwater longer than necessary.

I don't even know if he's gay.

I don't even care.

Today felt like any other day--until it didn't.

We crossed paths near the wall during cooldown laps, close enough that I could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow. He didn't smile. Just looked. Then ducked underwater again.

By the time I climbed out, he was still mid-lap. I didn't wait. Didn't want to push my luck. My dick had already threatened to misbehave in the last twenty meters, and the last thing I needed was to walk poolside with a semi. So I wrapped a towel low around my hips and headed to the showers.

The humidity hit me instantly. Hot, steamy, thick. The tiled corridor echoed with the distant splash of water from someone rinsing off outside. I picked the last stall--the one in the far corner. Habit. Privacy. I liked the sound of water cocooning me in isolation.

I turned the knob and let the hot water pound down on me, forcing myself to focus on the feeling, the temperature, anything but him. But the image was already there, burned into my skull: the way his thighs moved when he walked, how his jammers hugged his ass like second skin, the slight bounce of his cock underneath. He probably had no idea how devastating he was.

I leaned forward, palms flat on the wall, water pounding my back. My thoughts didn't wander far--just to him. His mouth. His hands. The weight of his body against mine. I felt my cock swell, half-hard already. I didn't touch it. Not yet. But the urge was there, pulsing.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath.

I gave it a minute, then reached for the soap.

And that's when I heard it.

Clack.

Something hit the tile behind me--hard and wrong. Not soap. Not a bottle. It had a different kind of weight.

Then--knock knock knock.

Soft. Three quick taps on the stall wall.

I turned, slowly. Water still running. Steam rising. My heart pounding.

There it was--half-lit in the steam, glinting beneath the shower spray. A phone.

A fucking phone.

My skin went cold despite the heat. It hadn't slid under the stall wall from outside--it had dropped into the stall. From above.

Someone had just tried to drop a phone into my shower stall.

No. Not tried--they had.

I stared at it, blinking water from my eyes. The screen was still on.

I stepped closer, heart hammering.

Camera app. Active.

Facing me.

I bent down slowly, picked it up. My wet fingers slipped on the case as I brought it up to eye level.

My heart slammed against my ribs as I opened the photo gallery.

There I was. A blurry, still-loading thumbnail.

Naked. In this stall. Just now.

Fuck. Someone was recording me.

I started shaking. It was like my brain split--one part screaming report this, now, the other paralyzed by a perverse kind of disbelief. Or shame. Or worse--curiosity.

I swiped through more.

Not just me.

As I flicked through the gallery, my pulse climbed higher. More videos. Different guys. Same angle. Different days. All of them showering, unaware. Vulnerable. Naked.

This wasn't a one-time thing. This was a system.

This was someone's habit.

I should report this. Walk out, tell the lifeguard, call security.

But instead, I explored his phone.

Snapchat. Locked.

Instagram. Locked.

Most apps were locked. At least the guy wasn't completely stupid.

But the SMS app? It was open. Wide open.

I quickly snapped a few screenshots: the gallery screen with video thumbnails, a few images that clearly showed different guys mid-shower, and a close-up of the most recent one--me. My face was partially visible, blurred in steam, but still unmistakably me.

Then I opened a new message, typed in my number, and sent them.

Sent. Delivered.

Proof? Acquired.

I kept scrolling.

There--buried between a beach pic and some gym selfies--was a mirror shot.

Him.

Shirtless. That chest. That hair. That scar. It was him.

More photos. A girl wrapped in his arms. Long hair, warm smile. One had a heart emoji over it.

Girlfriend.

Of course.

Straight. Hot. And apparently filming naked men in the showers when she wasn't looking.

I felt sick.

And hard.

The knocking stopped, but my pulse didn't.

I held the phone like it was going to explode. My skin burned, not just from the hot water, but from adrenaline, from rage, from shame.

He'd been filming me. Him. The guy I'd been crushing on for months. The fantasy. The untouchable, probably straight, hairy god from Lane 3.

I should've felt sick. I did. But also--off-balance. Disoriented.

Angry in a way I didn't fully understand.

I wasn't just humiliated--I was shattered.

All those moments where I thought he might've looked at me... I thought I was projecting. Fantasizing. But maybe it wasn't in my head. Maybe he really had been watching.

But not like that. Not like this.

And yet, part of me--fucked-up, horny, trembling--was still hard.

Still reacting to the sound of his voice I made up in my head. His scent lingering from the pool. The thought of him holding this phone. Setting it up. Choosing me.

I wanted to scream.

But I didn't scream. Didn't run. Just stepped forward and yanked the stall door open.

There he was.

Just outside. Steamed up, dripping wet, jammers soaked against his thighs. He jerked back in surprise, like he hadn't expected me to actually do it.

His eyes locked on mine--wide, guilty. He looked like a deer caught mid-sprint, breathless and terrified.

"You saw?" he asked.

His voice--husky, raw. And real. For the first time, he wasn't a silhouette in water. He was here, flesh and fault, and still goddamn beautiful.

I nodded, clutching the phone tighter. Water dripped from my chin, between my collarbones, down over my chest. I didn't care. I didn't reach for the towel. I just stared.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then stepped into the stall.

I didn't move. I let him.

We stood there, heat pressed between our skin and the shower mist, not touching but close enough to feel the air shift.

He didn't say anything again.

He didn't have to.

The look on his face said everything.

Please. Please don't report me. Don't ruin my life.

He didn't say it aloud, but I heard it anyway.

It was in the way his eyes locked on mine, wide and pleading. The way his shoulders curled forward, like maybe if he made himself smaller, I'd go easier on him. The way he inched closer to the phone in my hand, not subtle--like maybe he could grab it and run.

His eyes dropped--first to the phone still clenched in my hand, then to my body. Naked. Wet. Exposed.

But I was already ahead of him.

I lifted the phone. Tilted it so he could see the screen.

I tapped it once, and the message thread popped up.

My number. The screenshots. Sent. Delivered.

Proof. Safe. Outside of him. Outside of this stall

His face collapsed.

The last bit of hope bled out of his eyes. He looked like he might be sick.

There it was: that flicker of fight, gone. No plan left. No escape.

Just him.

And me.

The silence between us was heavy. Hot water still poured behind me, mist curling around our bodies. I was still naked. Still vulnerable. But I didn't feel powerless anymore.

I was the one with the evidence.

I was the one deciding what happened next.

He lowered his gaze--ashamed, trembling, waiting.

And even now--even now--he looked fucking beautiful. The water from his hair traced slow lines down his temples, over his cheeks, across the line of his jaw. His chest rose and fell, thick with hair, shining with sweat and steam. His jammers clung to his thighs like they were painted on, and I could see--he wasn't totally soft anymore either.

Sick.

Twisted.

And, yeah, part of me understood it.

He looked up again, helpless.

I held his stare for a long second. Let it settle in.

Then I spoke. Just one word.

"Out."

His brow furrowed, uncertain.

"Go wait outside," I said, quieter this time. Flat. Final.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no words came.

Instead, he nodded.

He turned, slow, almost dazed, and stepped out of the stall.

The door swung closed behind him with a soft, wet sound.

I stayed standing there, heart racing, the phone still in my hand. Water hitting my back. The taste of control still fresh on my tongue. Shame pooling somewhere behind my ribs.

I stared at the door.

He was on the other side of it.

Waiting.