Augmentations 3
by AKA
We were both naked, moving through my house in the darkness, wet and sticky with the wealth of cum we had both so successfully shoved from our respective cocks. His was still at attention, just as I had requested, gleaming like an inverted icicle with a blunt, suckable head. Was he still producing that stream of delicious, salty honey?
He certainly smelled like he was. The rank smell of sex was coming off him in waves, as thick as the heat his huge body produced. He was a walking tower of masculine muscular power, leaving a discernible trail of sexuality in his wake. My own dick pulsed and throbbed based solely on the nearness of him, and that heat and scent and powerful sense of man that surrounded him like an aura.
It was a bit like walking around with the living embodiment of male sexuality, as if one could somehow define what it was that makes a man a man, at least in a sexual sense, and molded that into a single living being. He was everything about being with another man that made me want to be with another man. The sense of power, the strength of his body, the size of him, the hardness, the sleekness, the fur, the muscle, the… everything.
The sound of our movements was very quiet with the sound of the rain as a steady accompaniment. His hands could not keep themselves off my body. He wanted to surround me in his muscular embrace, which made movement both pleasant and awkward.
It seemed to me that I had cum buckets. It seemed that I could not possibly have another drop of cum in my balls, but his hands on my and his lips on my neck and his whispered promises laced with filthy intent were testing that theory. What he wanted to do with me and to me, what he wanted me to do to him, what we would do together, how I made him feel, how hard he was, and how much he wanted my hardness inside him. All this talk about hardness and the feeling of his muscles against me and the hot, thick firmness of his ever-ready prick caused me to grow erect again as we traversed the floors down to the glass-walled entertainment room that lead to my backyard.
A sudden crack of lightning shattered the darkness, followed by a low, far-off rumbling that mirrored the sound of my companion’s needful groans. He was fondling my prick with one hand as his other teased and tortured a nipple. His cock pressed into my back was a constant reminder of his unending and overwhelming sexual capacities. I had no doubt that he would cum on command if I only asked it.
The enormous screen that covered one wall was dark. The twenty-one speakers recessed into the walls and ceiling, and the three subwoofers that were powerful enough to knock the wind from my lungs (if I wanted them to) were silent. The windows were translucent, allowing us to look outside and onto the wet deck and the lawns and gardens and the dark water pool beyond. The pool’s infinity edge ran to the end of my property and to the precipice of a cliff that dropped off into the cold, blue Pacific ocean. My nearest neighbor was several acres away, so the world -- this world, my world -- was ours and ours alone.
Wealth, indeed, has its privileges.
But without wealth, he would not be here with me. I wondered how much of the fee I had paid to his employers, if employer was even the correct term, he would receive -- if indeed he received any at all. What was his world like? Where would he go in the morning? Would he miss all this?
Would he miss me?
The furry rug was warm and soft under my feet. We stood together for a moment at the wall of glass, watching the storm still far out at sea, and the splattering of the hard rain on the wooden planks of the deck and against the glass. Another blue-white shock of lightning erupted and I was momentarily dazzled.
“It’s beautiful,” he said. I could feel his voice as well as hear it. It resonated through me. He forgot my nipple for the moment and hung his heavy, strong arm across my chest, settling his warm, soft palm on my shoulder. His other hand, however, seemed unable to allow my prick to linger for any space of time, and I was not about to object.
“Thank you,” I said. I had learned long ago to say only that, rather than explain who the architect had been, or the landscape artist, or the interior decorator, or the audio-video technician.
“You don’t need to,” he said, oddly.
“Need to what?”
“Explain.”
He was inside again. Listening to the words I wasn’t speaking. I was comforted that he understood, but not concerned that he had heard. Perhaps I was growing accustomed to his intrusions, or perhaps his intrusion was what made me comfortable. As he had pointed out, the clock was ticking, and every moment spent with him was proving too precious by far to worry about things like that.
His cock pulsed at my spine. It was hotter than the rest of his body, as if it was the source of all his power and strength. I remembered it inside me, pumping hot cream into my guts, filling me up entirely. I remembered him atop me, looking into his face - into his eyes - as he fucked me. The animal growls that left his mighty chest. The slick, wet sound of his cock sliding in and out, providing its own wealth of lube as he creamed. I remembered gasping for air as he roughly shoved me using only the power of his fucking, the immense and incredible strength of that cock shoving me around the bed as it delivered such overwhelming bliss. And my own cock throbbed and pulsed and tingled with anticipation of experiencing his ass.
“You want to fuck me,” he stated. His lips were close to my ear. His breath was warm.
“Yes,” I answered, because I did.
“Good,” he responded. Then his arm released me, his hand retreated from caressing my prick, and he went toward the sliding glass door. It opened automatically at his approach, moving silently aside and allowing the full force of the coming storm into the room. The white drapes lifted like an angel’s gown and the smell of the storm, earthy and intense, covered up the smell of raw sex that he produced.
Lightning lit the clouds and cast him into silhouette. I was struck by the taper of his upper body. Perhaps it was the benefit of not being distracted by his cock, for once, but I drew an appreciation of his size in that moment. The width of his lat spread was awesome. He wasn’t flexed, wasn’t pumped, but the wings that fanned out were thick and wide and spoke silently to his strength. “I want to go swimming,” he said. “Would you allow that?”
“If you wish,” I answered.
“Don’t worry,” he added. “You’re still going to fuck me.” His head turned slightly and I could see his eyes glisten in the dark. “And it’ll be an experience you’re never going to forget.”
He strode into the night and into the storm. Lightning flared as if his presence had willed it, like he was the conduit of power and control and the storm could only do his bidding. His features, his muscles, were thrown into sharp contrast and all color was bled from the scene, making him look like some figure from a heroic illustrated novel about perfect sexual supermen striding the Earth.
Wasn’t that what he was? Contrived, certainly, and designed for a purpose, but the achievement of him was breathtaking. Maybe he wasn’t human, by some ethical or moral standards. Did a human have to be bred from two parents? Did a human have to be born? Did a human have to conform to a set of physical standards that he obliterated by his very existence? The law said it was so. And as I watched this man-made god of sex stride fearlessly across my lawn toward the pool, his incredible and amazing prick wagging before him, the tempest roaring about him, I wondered what he was feeling, and if he knew what I was feeling, and how badly I wanted him to come back.
He stood at the pool looking up at the sky. His body gleamed like chrome, bathed in nature’s shower, the epitome of male power and beauty. He stretched out his arms and I watched with interest and growing arousal as he bent them and made the muscles lining his limbs to bulge into full-blown power. Everything suddenly flared outward on his immense frame. The biceps rose towards his fists. His lats unfurled. His shoulders rose against his neck like cresting icebergs. He was glorying in his power, his beauty, his raw and naked perfection there under the wrath of the storm.
Then he dove into the pool as lightning shattered the darkness and a rifle shot of thunder peeled across the sky.
I stood there awaiting his return when my house said, “You have a phone call. Do you wish to connect?” The voice seemed to come from everywhere, and the tone was rather too lifelike, owing to the quality of the speakers in the room. I asked who it was and the system replied that it was one of the friends who suggested I engage my swimming pool-loving guest. I asked it to localize the audio so it wouldn’t sound like my friend was the voice of god and to connect.
There was a click and then, “Is he there?” His voice sounded almost as if he were in the room with me, standing in the darkness to my left.
“He’s here. Or, actually, he’s in the pool.” Microphones picked up my voice as I stood there naked, watching the storm and awaiting his return.
“He’s taking a fucking swim? In this fucking storm?”
“Yes,” I answered. “He is.”
“Well?”
I smiled. “Well what?”
“Isn’t he amazing?”
Amazing. That hardly seemed to justify what he was. But I answered, “He’s amazing. You were right.”
“I told you a Level 3 was worth it.”
“So you did.”
“What have you done with him?”
“I haven’t done anything with him. If anything, he’s been doing everything to me. And in a very accomplished manner, I might add. Why so curious?”
“I… Well, the thing is that… So… Actually?”
“You haven’t had him.”
“No. Not yet.”
“Typical,” I said, because it was. My friend was a lecherous cad, to be sure, but also something of a coward. I knew that I was to be the guinea pig in this, and that my experiences would make or break his decision to take the proverbial plunge. My walls were more easily breached, but it took a very talented and special sort of army to get to my throne. I was a slut, but a judicious and talented one. He pretended to my level of sluthood, dallying with hook-ups now and then, but that was usually all he did.
I liked sex. No, that’s probably inaccurate. I fucking loved sex. Every aspect of it. From the teasing play of words and innuendo to the full-on sweaty screaming ass plunging I’d just experienced, I loved it all. I suppose I didn’t need to pay for it, and certainly more than one man I had encountered tonight at the bar awaiting my current conquest had made it clear that I could have them if I wanted them, but my tastes ran toward more unusual encounters lately, perhaps because I could afford it, perhaps out of boredom, perhaps because I am, as I readily admitted, a slut.
I could feel him inside me. Still, there he was, pushing his enormity in and out, fucking me hard, pushing me around like something to be used up. My hand went to my dick. It was throbbing. Every heartbeat drove it another size larger, just remembering what he had done to me, what he looked like, sounded like, smelled like -- and what was to come.
I watched a towering figure emerge from the pool and start to return to the house. He strode with purpose and resolve. As the lightning flashed and lit up his form and face, I could easily discern that his prick had not calmed down an iota, its impressive size and steel-hard firmness extending from the center of his muscled body like a dowsing rod pointed in my direction, and his handsome face looked determined and anxious.
I was going to fuck the living shit out of him.
“I have to go.”
“You’re going to tell me everything, right?”
“Wouldn’t you rather experience him first-hand?”
“I’ve seen his cock,” he replied. “I’m not sure I could handle him.”
A smile wound across my lips. My cock surged with anxious desire. A flood of pleasure washed over me as if I was experiencing some after effects of the man’s unique talents. His cock in my ass, deep and hard and true, over and over until he filled me with a flood of warm, thick cream and I came all over my chest and face. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”
“Why? What did…”
“He’s coming back. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Wait! What did you mean by…”
“Disconnect.”
The line went dead. My companion had a very satisfied smile on his face as he strode toward me. His cock was as hard and erect and mouth-watering as ever, a foot-high shaft topped with a lemon-sized head. Water was draining off his body, clean now of the wealth of cum that had gathered in his dark curls and against his silken flesh, and all his body fur, luscious and warm, was plastered to his muscled bulges. He put his arms around me, his strong embrace nearly crushing my smaller body, and bent his lips to mine and kissed me soundly. I felt my legs go weak and my knees buckle and I couldn’t breathe. “Thank you,” he said, and he kissed me again.
I could hardly breathe, let alone speak. “For what?”
He grabbed my erection roughly and squeezed. “It’s always nice to know I’m wanted.” Then he sank down to his knees and began bobbing his head up and down on my prick, delivering brain-spinning spasms of sexual ecstasy that erupted all over my shaking body.
I came again, and quickly. He sucked it all down and spent quite a few concentrated moments cleaning my rod with his mouth and tongue before regaining his feet and kissing me again.
I could taste myself on his lips. The salty, earthy essence of cum was easily discerned, as well as the unique taste of him, again - the taste of his own cock mingled with mine. “Are you ready?”
“After that? Hell, I don’t think I have any cum left.”
“You do,” he said, with certainty. “Are you ready?” he asked again.
“To fuck you?”
“To push your cock so far inside my ass that I can taste it.”
Jesus. I was getting hard again, already. I looked down at my prick and watched myself grow. “Are you doing that?”
“Only indirectly.” Then he stood so close to me that he was all I could see. The storm raged beyond him, his body was outlined by flashes of lightning. His body was pressed to mine. I could feel his muscles. All of them. “Like this,” he said. “It’s the bond. Sometimes, there’s a little bit of… feedback. My body is responding to yours, and now yours is responding to mine.” He pushed himself toward me. We were nearly touching everywhere, but not touching at all. His heat emanated against my skin. His smell was strong in my lungs, and in my head. My cock was throbbing with hot need. He dipped his head and his lips were at my ear and he spoke, very softly.
“Like this.”
He began to move his hands around my body. I could feel him, now, with a strange intensity. I closed my eyes and realized I could sense where his hands moved. I knew where they were, though they never physically came in contact with me. Then I felt him draw near again, and his mouth was to my ear, and he said, “You can feel me, now. You can sense me. And I can do this.”
A heavy sexual throb erupted throughout my body. I came. I couldn’t help myself. My cock plumped and a fat arc of cream fountained up and splattered against my stomach, hot at first and quickly cooling. He did it again, whatever it was. A hard, insistent, sudden shock of pure male sexuality that grabbed hold of my balls and squeezed another dose of cum out. I gasped and felt dizzy and entranced and enraptured. “Fuck,” I whispered.
“Yes,” he responded. “Let’s.”
His hand moved to wrap my fingers in his. He pulled me from the house and out into the storm. I could feel him everywhere, feel his strength and his power and his perfection, as if it were now a part of me. I could feel his strength inside me, as if it were mine. I could feel the power of his body, the flame of his passion, the overwhelming sexual drive that made his cock stay hard. Fuck, it felt good. “Is this… is this permanent?”
“What?” he asked, turning his beautiful face toward mine. The rain was pouring down, and he gleamed as if he were made of metal.
“This feeling. The connection. Feeling you.”
He shook his head. “No, it isn’t. It lasts for a night. Our night, together. I am bonded to you, but the bond is temporary.”
“You’ll bond with someone else tomorrow night.”
He stopped. A shattering tear of lightning ripped across the sky overhead. The rain was beating down on us. Wind whipped the grass and sent the droplets splattering all over my naked flesh. It was a warm rain, a summer storm, and he looked at me and said, “Tonight, I am with you.” He squeezed my hand in his and leaned down to kiss my lips. I felt his hot erection brush my belly and was reminded of his power and the deep well of sexuality he possessed. But there was also tenderness in him, and it made me want him more than ever.
He smiled. “No,” he said.
“What?”
“You’re not allowed to start feeling like that.” He reached down and grabbed onto my hard-on. He stroked me, caressed me, squeezed me. He knew me intimately, now, knew exactly what to do to keep driving me back to wanting him physically. “You still have to ravage my ass.” Coming from him, now, it sounded like an order rather than a request. “And I expect you to do it better than I did it to you. I expect you to make me cum.” He was a sergeant in some kind of sex army, ordering his lieutenant to deliver. “And you better fucking believe me when I tell you - that won’t be easy an easy task.”
A challenge! I fucking loved a challenge. “I’ll make you cum,” I boasted. “Fuck that, I’ll make you scream. I’ll make you roar. I’ll suck the cream out of your balls like a Dyson. I’ll fuck you so good and make you cum so hard, your balls will hurt.” I smiled, then, because it was no boast. I meant these words. I meant them fiercely.
“I’m going to make you long for my cock no matter who you’re with.” I emphasized my words by squeezing my asshole and making my dick swell and grow harder in his grip. “You’re going to feel me in your ass forever, and remember me every time you blow your load from now on.”
He squeezed me hard and drove me to my toes. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
I felt something coming back through the bond, something I knew he wasn’t pushing to me. It was an emotion. He was feeling… excitement. And… anticipation. And hope. He really wanted me to make this happen. “But I need you to do something.”
“I can do anything,” he reported, honestly. It was no boast.
“Then don’t do anything.”
“I don’t comprehend.”
It was my turn to grab onto his hard-on. It was ridiculously hard. I wondered why the rain wasn’t steaming off its heat and power. “Let this go.”
An eyebrow rose on his handsome brow, and his lips slid into a half-smile. “I’m not sure I can.”
“No,” I said, “don’t say the words you think or you know I want to hear.” His head tilted slightly, and his blue eyes narrowed. “I need to feel… I need to know… that whatever I’m doing, the effect is honest. It’s all you, and that what I’m doing is causing it. It’ll turn me on. It’ll drive me harder. It’ll make it all… real.” I increased the pressure on his rock-hard prick. It was inhuman, its power. “I need to know that when I see this on you, when your cock is this big and this hard, it’s not because I asked you to. It’s because you can’t fucking help it.”
His slim grin grew into a dazzling smile. The rain was pouring down his perfect naked form. I could feel the heat of his body against my own. He was huge. He was powerful. He was perfect. “Okay,” he said.
I felt him grow suddenly less firm. I felt his cock soften in my grip. Ordinarily, that would’ve turned me off, but in this situation it excited me. Whatever happened now, it wasn’t just because I told him to get hard, or to cum. It would be because he couldn’t stop himself. I could feel… curiosity coming from him. And pride, or something like it. “This should be interesting,” he said, his tone deep and resonant.
His cock continued to sink from its unending erection, growing limp but losing none of its beauty and retaining a good deal of its size and girth. He owned a seven- or eight-inch monster. The head drooped like a flower bud and the cowl of his ample foreskin slid back over the plump helmet. His incredible manhood hung thickly over his fat balls, and the veins shrank away leaving a smooth, heavy shaft arching proudly forward. “Nice,” I said, petting it like some tamed snake.
“That wasn’t easy,” he said. “No one has ever...”
“What?” He was cautious and curious.
“Nothing,” he said.
The bond between us was growing stronger. I realized that he was in a state of confusion. He had been trained - bred, in fact - to answer every whim of his nightly partner. I had paid for the privilege of his instant and complete agreement to anything I asked, and the ability to fulfill my requests, any requests, fully and probably beyond my satisfaction.
Now, my whim was that he not respond to my whims. Which was my whim. Could he obey and not obey? What was he to do now?
But my evident satisfaction with the state of his prick seemed to calm his confusion. I had to ask, “Do you understand?”
“I believe so,” he said, honestly.
“Tell me what you believe.”
“You want me to act according to my own desires and inclinations. You want my body to react naturally. If I am aroused, I will allow myself to become aroused, and allow my body to react accordingly. I will not behave in a manner only because I know it will please you, though if your pleasure is manifested in my behavior or reactions, you will allow that.”
“Technical, but precise,” I praised. “But I want you to forget my desires, if you can. I don’t want you to account for what you feel through the bond. Rely solely on your own reactions, and allow yourself the freedom to feel and speak and move and get horny based on what you feel, not what I instruct.”
“I understand.”
The connection seemed suddenly to open up between us, and I could feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude and admiration, which I suppose was to be expected. Still, the depth of his emotions was stunning. “Now,” I said, “the real fun begins.”
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.” He was smiling. Waves of excitement were pouring from him. His face looked positively giddy.
“Perfect,” I said. “Come with me.”
Wet sex is all well and good, but for what I had in mind I didn’t want any distractions. The rain was warm, but all those romantic fantasies of making love outside, I find, are usually tinged with snorting bugs or having sand up your ass crack. I wanted luxury, and I wanted his undivided attention when I was plugging away at his supple, tight hole. I wanted him to feel me, and only me, when I was fucking him.
I lead him back inside the house. The sliding door opened and closed for us as we passed near and through, and we were both soaking wet. The storm had become a tempest, with howling winds and thrashing lightning. The dark house was being lit up from outside as if flashbulbs were capturing our naked glory for someone else’s happy perusal. “Back to the bedroom?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I have something else in mind,” I said, still leading him from room to room. “I feel like a workout.”
“Didn’t we just have one?”
“A proper one, and I want to see what you can do.”
It was always part of my plans for our evening together to watch him work out. I love to watch a man work out. The strain is almost orgasmic. The look on their face as they push for that last rep. The plump, hard, overripe look of their muscles pushed to the brink, overwhelmed and blasted. When you can see the muscle swell as it’s pumped, to watch it grow and the individual fibers appear under the skin, the thick sheen of sweat all over them.
I wondered what one of these men looked like in that situation. God knows they were already magnificent, but could they get even bigger, and if so - how big? If this man beside me was in his relaxed state of muscular power, what would he become after making those muscles scream from exertion?
I lead him to a stairway and the overheads blinked on as we descended. There was an open doorway at the foot of the stairs and already I could smell the iron inside the room.
I stepped aside and ushered him before me, bowing slightly as he entered my church of muscle. It was a large room, occupying half of the house’s overall dimensions, sitting beside my garage. The mirrored wall on that side could turn transparent with a simple vocalized command and allow me to look either at my own reflection as I moved from rack to rack and machine to machine, or gaze on my lovingly illuminated six-pack of vehicles, their gleaming angles acting as a more abstract reflection of my own muscular form.
He stopped for a moment at the threshold and a sudden thick thrill passed through the bond. From behind, I could see his body physically tense and relax as he looked about the room, and I realized that this was his church, too. This was where he would go to find solace as he lay on the benches and shoved hundreds of pounds over his head again and again.
I had a very good collection of all the modern bodybuilding machines, as well as a full set of chrome-plated weights that were very hard to come by. Everything was gleaming as if it had been polished, but only because it had been. The walls to the left and the right had more mirrors on them, though not an entire wall like the one facing the garage. And the rear wall was blank, covered only in sound-absorbing material so when I wanted to blast my music, no one else would be bothered.
Not that there was anyone else to bother, but it was horribly expensive so, obviously, I had to have it.
He turned to look at me and for a moment I thought he was going to cry. Instead, and somehow as if on cue, his mammoth cock began to rise again. “This is…”
“I want to watch you,” I said. “I want to watch you grow.”
His smile was incandescent. He bounded like a puppy toward the first rack of dumbbells and lifted two 50-pounders in his hands. Already, the muscles of his arms bulged into definition and deeply-etched beauty, lining his limbs like solid balloons. “What are these?”
My brow creased in disbelief. “They’re weights.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“You’ve never used weights, before?”
He shook his shaggy mane. “The other machines,” he said, motioning toward them with his head, “some of those we are allowed to use. But nothing like these.” He began to pump them in his hands, lifting them effortlessly and with perfect form, as if born to them. “This feels….”
“Increase the weight,” I advised him. “It shouldn’t be too easy.”
They went up to 200 pounds, and he moved along the rack sampling a pair of them, admiring their silver shine and the feel of their coldness in his hands. “Like this,” I said, lifting two into my own grip and approaching an incline bench. “It’s like a machine, but without so much control. You have to rely entirely on your own body.”
He watched as I performed a few sets, then I moved aside for him and he sat down holding a 120-pound dumbbell in each hand. His cock was rising to the occasion, clearly turned on by the sensation of control and strength he was feeling.
Then I watched him. I watched his arms inflate. I watched the veins branch along them. I watched the threads of sweat emerge from his underarms and drain along his coppery skin. I watched him heft the weight overhead and start to pump his chest. I watched the two globes push and flex. He got up and grabbed a heavier pair, enthusiasm and pride evident on his handsome face, and he sat down again and pushed the weight up, stretching his muscles and making them begin to burn.
His cock was at full mast. He was loving this. And so was his body. The changes were easy to see. It was an incredible machine in its own right, performing the tasks set to it with clockwork efficiency, and increasing its capabilities and size as it was tasked with more and more weight.
He got up again and went to the very end of the rack, easing the 200-pound weights into his hands and sitting his fine butt back on the sweat-soaked bench. His chest was broad and thick and separating into distinct lobes. The meat was inflating and visibly pushing his lickable nipples down as they grew larger and larger.
Rep after rep. Twenty. Fifty. One hundred.
He dropped the heavy weights with a distinct thud and sat up, examine his monstrous hard-on and breathing hard. He set his hands to his stiff prick and stroked himself with open love, allowing his head to stretch back on his neck as he sank into the luxurious passion of self-love. A thick gob of precum erupted and he dipped his fingers to the fount and licked the honey from them, licking his lips and swallowing soundly.
“I feel so good,” he said.
“You don’t look half bad, either,” I complimented him.
He looked over at me. “Are you going to fuck me, now?” There was hope in his eyes. He was practically begging me.
But I shook my head. “Not yet,” I said. “I’ll know when you’re ready.”
He sat up straighter, like a proud schoolboy, and lifted his arms. He bent them and pushed the muscle into a fantastic double-bicep pose that made my heart flips. They were magnificent, and I wanted to lick them and worship his beauty. “What about your legs?”
He looked down at the deeply carved tree trunks. He straightened one, and the brawn bulging along his thigh built up as if it was going to burst through the skin. “How do I use these to build my legs?” he asked, lifting one 200-pound dumbbell in his arm as if it were a sack of groceries.
“You don’t,” I explained. “Follow me, please,” I said, and I walked toward the squat rack, and the barbell and more shiny silver disks of iron. He was nodding when I looked at him, and before I eve started explaining, he was shoving 100-pound weights onto the ends, and securing them with a sleeve.
“Now what?” he asked. pulling the sagging bar from the floor.
“Can you lift it onto your shoulders?” After a moment’s adjustment for its 690-pounds, he pulled against gravity’s strength and it sat across the broad mountain range cresting his shoulders. “Now, place your legs like so,” I said, illustrating the classic stance, feet shoulder-width apart, and instructed, “then bend your knee as if seating yourself, and….”
Again he nodded, understanding my instructions before I had finished, and began a series of squats. I didn’t have to tell him to keep the weight on his heels, or to keep his knees behind his toes. God, the man’s butt, such a thing of gorgeous power. It was bit comical to watch him perform a set of perfectly executed squats while his erection threatened to put an eye out. He was grinning madly as he felt his legs burn, and his buttocks grow stronger.
He finished and set the barbell into the rack’s arms. He stood upright, stretching himself, bending at the waist to touch his toes, allowing the singing muscles to pull taught. “Now,” I said, “some thrusts.”
“Finally!” He was almost prone on the floor, with his ass ready to be poked, but I gingerly turned him and said, “Now, this one takes a bit more coordination. But you’ll feel it everywhere.”
“Right,” he said, clapping his hands together happily. “You’re going to fuck me.”
“No, you’re going to take the bar back onto your shoulders, and start in the same position.” He did so. God he looked so amazing. The muscles everywhere were already bulging out fiercely. His legs were pressing against each other, and his prick throbbed stiffly with every beat of his strong heart. “Now, move this leg forward as you bend your other knee toward the floor. Slowly! Not so fast! Now, slowly come back to a standing position, then switch off to the other leg. Good. Perfect. That’s it.”
“Holy fuck,” he said softly. “I can feel it. I can feel… everything.”
I knew what he meant. Machines were certainly effective, but to truly feel every muscle burn, to become hyper aware of your own size and strength and power, nothing beats free weights. I was certain he’d never experienced this feeling before. Perhaps the reason for his perfectly developed body was that he spent some scientifically optimized time in specially designed muscle building machines that managed to work on every body part to its own advantage.
But now he was being forced to use his own leverage to balance and lift and push around the iron. It was making him very aware of his own power, and he was getting off on it.
And so was I! It was like that line in that old song. He was ‘brutally handsome.’ Watching his muscles bloom into power was amazing. They thrived on this, obviously, and grew fat and hard and vascular. He completed a heart-breaking set of reps and placed the bar carefully back on the rack, then stepped forward and simply stood there, eyes closed, as every muscle hummed with renewed strength.
I could practically see his heart pushing blood into every swollen body of brawn. He was a relief map of the masculine anatomy, and there it was again, rising from the core of him like the fount of his power - his cock, beet red and thickly veined, hard as the steel he had been lifting and ready to explode.
He stood there breathing, his mighty chest heaving up and down, his chiseled abdominal wall moving in and out, sweat pouring down his naked body. He was a perfect illustration of masculine beauty. He was raw and feral and swollen with power. An animal made out of sex and passion. A swollen muscle pushed to his limit.
“Get on your knees.”