Mohawk Nation
by AKA
I guess, like everyone else, I first became aware of them through their calendar. I don’t want to admit it, but that was my first exposure to the men of Mohawk Nation - a silly, glossy wall calendar designed to titillate the admirer of the make physique.
There are always plenty of them around. They appear like magic at about the same time, featuring athletes or bodybuilders or models or porn stars, all in various states of undress from the shirtless bare-chested men to those who grin and bare it all, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Me, I like a little fantasy. The hint of something amazing, without the blatant exposure. The outline of a thick cock pressing against fabric, the suggestion of the ridge of the helmet against white cotton briefs. Sure, I’ll admit I’m turned on by the sight of a nice, juicy prick, but isn’t there something more erotic about keeping a few secrets hidden away?
Anyway, the calendar. At first, it was like those French footballers, you know the ones? They came out every year, black and white images of those athletic men hiding their privates behind balls and equipment. Every image highly charged with sexuality and fantasy. The Mohawk Nation calendar was similar. Printed in full color, though, so that the men on its pages seemed to be reaching out toward you from your wall. Almost hyper-real, and every detail of their bodies presented in loving detail. Every vein, every curl of hair, everything seemingly so airbrushed and perfected that the men couldn’t possibly look that good, but it didn’t really matter, apparently, because they sold a shitload that first year.
I bought one. Sure. I mean, you saw them. How could you not? Even if they weren’t 100% real, they were just too fucking amazing to easily dismiss. Twelve gorgeous men, with a few things in common. All of them were build like brick shithouses. Muscle on top of muscle. Thick, hard, bulging and amazing. Secondly, they all seemed to be extremely well endowed, though thankfully (as far as I was concerned, though I seemed to be alone in my opinion) there were no overt images that exposed every inch of them. And then, of course, there were the mohawks.
I suppose every calendar needs a gimmick, and that was theirs. All the men, no matter how else they looked, sported a mohawk across their heads like a vertical crown. No names were attached to any of them, besides the month they were featured on. Twelve stunning, absolutely gorgeous men who, in every other way, seemed as different as could be.
Mr. January was a Latin god, with smoldering dark eyes and a lascivious grin on his lips. His chest, which was amazing in itself, had two fat nipples mounted on it which seemed ready to be licked like chocolate kisses. He wore a pair of sky blue Speedos that were forced low on his hips by the sheer heft and obvious size of the meat they were expected to hold. You could fucking grate cheese on the guy’s abs.
February’s man was a golden god, with bright blonde hair and turquoise eyes. His lips, full and moist, were practically wrapped around your dick as you looked at him. He had the face of an angel and the body of a fucking construction worker, with thick arms and wide shoulders tapering down to an absurdly small waist. And there, again, hidden behind a pair of red squarecut trunks was the obvious outline of a shank of sexmeat that could choke, well, me.
March brought me an African king, whose lusciously dark skin shone like metal. He had a prominent brow and wide, beautiful eyes, with a killer smile that managed to imply exactly what he wanted to do to your body and how capable he was to be able to do it. He looked tall in his photo, though his body was the most heavily muscled, yet. His pecs were like boulders and his legs were as wide as his waist, and then there, again, at the center of his amazing body was another captive cock that had to be ten inches long and thick as a beercan.
And on it went, month after month. The red-headed beauty with the green eyes and the fine treasure trail down his abs leading to a hint of auburn pubes peaking over his tightie whities in May. The bearded, hirsute, musclebound man’s man with dark, thick fur lining every inch of his impressive frame in August, and that cigar chomped between his lips like a dick. October’s Asian behemoth, with his smooth, silky skin and that massive length of cock nestled inside a pair of black satin boxers, and finally the almost unbelievably beautiful man gracing December’s days, with his bronzed skin, those ice blue eyes and a mohawk crest almost as huge and impressive as the bulge that made his athletic supporter sag low and full.
And there, between their pectoral globes, the small silver medallion that seemed almost suspended there. The medallion was a kind of familial crest or royal seal, a simple circle with an X scribed within it, and a small symbol housed in each wedge. So small, it was difficult to discern what the symbols were, but in the coming months these gentlemen, and more like them, would soon be appearing in magazine, coffee table books, videos and artwork celebrating their beauty, power and ultimate masculinity.
The Mohawk Nation became something of a dynasty, its growing membership of gorgeous and muscular men appearing with growing regularity as their fame and infamy grew. Because these men were more than mere showpieces, more than another pretty face mounted on a spectacular body.
There was something more about them. Something tangible and sexy, like an aura they projected, or a sphere of complete masculine power and authority. It was hard not to fall under their spell, and if one were lucky enough to encounter one in person… well…
Let me try to explain based on my own first in-person meeting with a member of the Mohawk Nation. I was at my gym, early in the morning, my usual hour before work when I could get in a good workout and not be bothered by the meat market the place could become in the afternoons and evenings.
I was on the treadmill, my headphones stuck in my ears, concentrating more on my workout than anything else - until my eye was pulled toward the shape of a man unlike any I had ever seen before.
I say my eye was pulled, and that’s what it felt like. It wasn’t that I was merely drawn to him because of his size - because he was huge - or his clothing, of which there was very little, save for a pair of workout shorts that hugged his impressive ass and a tight tanktop that barely managed to contain the assembled muscular development bulging along every inch of his torso. As soon as he entered that cavernous space, I could feel a kind of magnetism about him, as if he was a lodestone and I was made of steel. He was a black hole in space, a vortex that drew everyone toward him without escape.
I didn’t recognize him from the calendar or the book. But the crest of dark black hair across his otherwise clean-shaven scalp and the twinkle of silver around his neck announced who and what he was, even if his impressive build and awe-inspiring presence didn’t. Everyone who was in any way familiar with the Mohawk magic had studied every one of those photos with a microscope. Sure, we all figured, they had to be Photoshopped. Nobody really looked that perfect. No one was so handsome, so built, so absolutely masculine to that degree, except fantasies and morphs.
But there he was. One of them. Placing 100-pound plates on each end of a barbell, the muscles of his arms swelling with mass, his face an utterly calm mask of inhuman beauty and perfection, before lying his muscular frame down on an inclined bench and pumping out prefect reps one after the other as if those hundreds of pounds weighed nothing at all.
It was unbelievable. It was incredible. I watched him as he moved from machine to machine and bench to bench, loading ungodly amounts of weight before quickly and easily pushing his body to lift, heft, and curl more than anyone could or should do.
And he never stopped. Never took a breather. He was a machine or a robot or something, and I watched his body swelling with brawn as he pushed blood into his muscles and they grew larger and larger along every inch of his tall frame.
And then he stopped, and he turned, and he was walking toward me, looking into my eyes, coming closer and closer. I watched him approach and my heart was beating fast and my face flushed and my whole body heated up. A sexual god, a perfect man, was walking toward me with a look of feral need and intense lust clearly evident in his eyes. How big was he, anyway? Six-six? Six-eight? Were his treads shaking the building, or did it only seem that way?
Then he was mounting the treadmill next to mine, and turning the revolutions up, and he was running with steady, even strides, and not even breathing hard.
I think I was frozen or something. It all seemed otherworldly, or as if I was existing inside a dream. He was massive, and beautiful, and a kind of heat came off his body, and a scent as well. Not the stink of sweat, but something like it, something raw and carnal, something that zeroed in on my erogenous zones and made my skin tingle and my cock throb and swell. Watching him move, watching the play of his muscles beneath that flawless flesh, the bounce of his pecs, his prominent nipples rubbing against the material of his top, the shifting of his massive sexual equipment housed in the crotch of his shorts, even from the side I could see the outline of the head of his prick as it pushed and bounced and rubbed itself all over - it was all too erotic and too exciting.
I think I was standing there staring at him for several minutes before he turned his head and locked eyes with me. A kind of spark shook me, something like electricity that coated my skin in tingles, and I felt myself suddenly heating up with longing and desire under his scrutiny. He opened his lips, his sensual, full, kissable lips and said, “Hello,” and then he smiled and I realized I was standing there in my gym staring at him.
Have you ever been confronted with someone you find so beautiful that you feel awkward and embarrassed and at a loss for words, as if anything you say would sound stupid or superfluous unless it was “I think you are the most handsome man I have ever seen and I want to be naked with you immediately if not sooner”? I felt that was just then. His simple greeting, the look in his eyes, all that muscle and cock on display - it was too much for me, and I had an urge to escape. He was like a predator and I was a small animal held in his trap. I swallowed hard and tried to smile and licked my lips and found my gaze drifting down the muscled contours of his body until my eyes stopped to rest at the exact center of his huge frame, where his amazing and colossal cock was still shifting and bouncing and shoving intently as he jogged in place.
Then I heard him speaking again. “Do you live nearby?” he asked.
I brought my gaze upwards toward his intense gaze again. His smile was heart-melting and dick-hardening. He had stopped moving, now, and stood on his treadmill next to mine. He was ten or twelve inches taller, and god knows how many pounds of muscle he had on me. Dozens, probably. His neck was thick and powerful. He had turned slightly to face me and was resting his perfect, luscious, lickable ass on one handrail. He brought his meaty arms up and crossed them over his enormous chest, pushing the two massive globes of brawn toward each other and increasing the cleavage by the inch. The pendant he wore rose above the low neck line of his tank top and caught the light, glinting silver against his darkly tanned flesh. His mohawk rose atop his head like a cock’s comb, at least four inches tall and dark as night. “What?” I said, as if lost in some drug-induced haze.
He lips curled into a knowing grin. His teeth flashed like a tiger’s and his eyes narrowed. He had long lashes and thick brows surrounding his bright orbs, making them laser sharp and bright as an afternoon sky. He offered his hand, drawing it from his pac. It, too, was huge, like a bear’s paw. He said, “My name’s Steve,” as I took his warm, rough grip in mine, and I watched the play of his bicep as we shook hands. It was like a melon made of cables of power beneath his paper-thin flesh, bulging and flexing. “I asked if you lived near here.”
“Sort of,” I answered. “I’m a 10 minute drive…”
“Can we go to your place?”
“What?” I asked again.
He leaned toward me, towering above me, seeming to swell outward in all directions, and he put his lips to my ear and said, softly, “Do you want to fuck? I’m really horny after my workout. I want to fuck.” I could smell him. Smell his ass. Smell his balls. Smell his sex. His heat rose into my nostrils, bathed my skin, raised the hairs on the back of my neck. The power of him. The sheer, raw, sexual power of him was radiating from his body in waves of heat and need.
Then he leaned back with that smile on his lips and that look in his eyes and winked. “Can we go to your place?” He pulled his hand from mine and moved it down his torso, over his chest and across his belly and rested his palm against the wealth of cock and balls evident in his shorts and said, “Now?”
He barely fit in my Honda. I probably broke several traffic laws getting us on the road toward my house. His sensual stink filled the cabin of my car and my dick was rock-hard the whole way. I was pumping precum like a hose and didn’t bother to change out of my own workout duds, so I stank too, though I doubt his body was reacting to me the same way mine was to his.
We were halfway home when he moved his huge paw onto my crotch and began massaging my painful erection. His hand squeezed and rubbed and caressed me with an expert touch. “Wait,” I pleaded, “you’re gonna make me cum.” I could feel it. It was too much. The stimulation of him alone was enough, and now he was priming the pump and driving me to distraction.
“Feel good?” he asked. His tone was gruff and deep. It sounded like he needed this more than I did. “Fuck, you’re huge,” he said, and then, “I can’t wait. Pull over.”
“Right here?” I looked at his face.
He was already pushing his hand under the waistband of my sweats. His fingers clawed through my moist pubic bush and he surrounded my shaft with his grip and squeezed me hard. “Now,” he said. “I can’t wait another second.”
He went down on me in my car. Fuck, he was good. I came almost immediately, I couldn’t help myself. I shoved a thick load down his throat and he swallowed with greedy moans and hungry slurps. He was so big, it was wonder we could do it at all, but it was clear to me that this was something he needed, not just wanted, and when he came back up after satisfying me, he pushed his lips to my mouth and kissed me soundly and deeply and with passion. I could taste the salty essence of my load on his tongue. “Fuck,” he said softly, between kisses, “fuck.”
Then his hand was on his own crotch and I watched him grow. “Is it far?” he asked.
I shook my head and started the engine, but my eyes were glued to the massive prick he was slowly rubbing toward erection. I watched him grow inch by inch, mesmerized by the size of his equipment as it inched toward the edge of his shorts along his thickly muscled thigh. “Hurry,” he said. “I want to fuck you with this.”
I wasn’t even sure if my well-trained ass could take him, but I was more than willing to give it a shot. I pushed the gearbox into first and took off, trying very hard to keep my eyes on the road instead of on his quickly burgeoning meat. He was making low moans and deep groaning noises as we pulled into my driveway and I pulled the parking brake up so hard I thought I might’ve broken it off. “This is it,” I said. “We’re home.”
He opened the door and extracted himself from my car. He stood up and up - was he even bigger now? His body seemed to expand as he emerged from my Civic, all his muscled unfolding and bulging outward, but nothing was as big or obvious as the foot-long prick that tented his shorts in an almost amusing fashion. He started to extract himself in my front yard and I shoved him from behind toward my front door, aware that the neighbors were already bearing witness to a scene straight out of some softcore muscle worship video and were about to graduate to full frontal in a matter of seconds.
He stumbled slightly and I unlocked my door and ushered him inside, as quick as I could, and he stood there, a tower of muscle and sex, and I said, “We’re home.”
The words had an effect like a key slipping into a lock. He turned toward me and was literally ripping me out of my clothes. His mouth sank to my chest and he sucked my nipple into his mouth, teasing and torturing me with his tongue and teeth. His hands moved down my body and tore my sweats open. My dick, still wet with his spit and my cum, flopped out. It felt huge, much bigger than it ought to, and he grabbed it in his hand and started to stroke and caress me.
I heard more ripping sounds, and realized it was him. His body was literally ripping its way out of its own clothing. The back of his tanktop peeled apart, sending a rend down the center as his back bulged and swelled. He pulled his mouth from my nipple and applied it to my lips, shoving his tongue inside my mouth and I swooned and found my prick throbbing and growing in his talented grip.
I was stripped naked by him in my living room and in moments he had joined me, though I don’t remember how or when he managed to rip himself free of his own garments. It was as if he had managed to grow larger in the space of seconds, so large that his body ripped its way through his clothing and now we stood there in my house, and I saw him in his full glory for the first time.
I was awe-struck. His cock was not yet hard, at least judging by its appearance, but it was easily a foot long and frighteningly thick. Fat veins throbbed all over the shaft and the head was pushing itself free of a wealth of foreskin, dripping honey on my carpet. “Slick it up,” he commanded, and he didn’t have to ask me twice.
I grabbed on and attacked his cock with my mouth, slathering my tongue all over it, swallowing the helmet inside my mouth, sucking and licking and stroking every thick inch of his hot, hard meat. He was groaning and sighing and clearly enjoying my manipulations when I felt his huge hands on my shoulders and I looked up into those bright, clear eyes and knew it was time.
I didn’t think twice. I wanted him inside me. I didn’t care if he ripped me in two. I wanted him pumping my ass until his cannon was shoving a hot fountain of cream into my guts. I played my tongue over his fat cock head and lay back on the carpet in my living room as he grabbed my ankles and physically lifted my ass toward his raging red hard-on.
He was a glorious monster of muscle and sex. His mohawk brushed my 8-foot ceiling. His shoulders stretched wider than my doorway. His chest pushed out so far from his body that I could imagine losing both my hands between his pecs. His belly was an 8-pack of cobblestones that swelled and receded with each breath. He spat against my rosy hole as he held my lags wide and moved his hips forward to position the drooling tip of his massive throbbing hard-on against my ass. I felt the heat of him there, and I closed my eyes and gulped in air and prepared myself for his intrusion.
“Fuck,” he said quietly, “you’re beautiful.”
Then he entered me and a shock of pain and heat erupted between my legs like nothing I’d ever felt before. He was not gentle, by any means, and he pushed himself inside in one thrust, burying his foot-long pole in my ass as if we had been designed that way - his cock and my hole. The pain was like a bright light, like the afterburn of a flashbulb in my eyes that shocked and then faded, and then he started pistoning his hips and thrusting himself in and out of me and the pain cascaded into glorious pleasure.
So big. So huge. So much prick shoving against me. I could feel every inch as he fucked my ass, and he found the center of my sexual pleasure and nudged and rocked and pushed against it over and over. I began to shake with pleasure as he fucked me, I had never felt anything so pure and complete. He was a god of sex, the pure source of pleasure, and I wanted this to go on and on and on.
He kept groaning and sighing and whispering, “Fuck, so good,” as he pushed inside me. My cock plumped to erection again and I could feel a fat load of cream building for release. I don’t know how long we fucked. It might have been minutes or it might have been hours. I sank into the oblivion of pure bliss. I felt myself cum and felt the warm wetness of my load splash and linger on my body and then I was cumming again. I swear I was cumming another load, and then another, and he kept fucking me and groaning and whispering, “So good, fuck, so good.”
When he said, “I’m gonna cum,” I opened my eyes and looked at him. He seemed even bigger to me now. Was he on his knees? Was his chest that massive? Big as a barrel? Were his arms so huge? The pendant on his chest was alight, not reflecting but broadcasting its own white glow against his skin. It bounced as he fucked me, and its glow grew bright and diminished as he pushed his cock inside and pulled it out again, throbbing in time to his thrusts. “I’m gonna cum,” he said again, soft and low.
“Cum inside me,” I begged. I was coated in my own cream. My cock was still hard and my balls ached and I knew I was going to cum, too.
“Gonna cum,” he said, and he looked at my face, our eyes met, and he smiled. “Here it comes.”
He pushed deep, deep inside and threw his head back. The pendent on his chest grew too intense to look at and shot out bright shards of blue-white light. His cock swelled in my ass, I could feel him grow suddenly huge, and my guts warmed with the wealth of his load. I came, then, too. My cock shot a fat fountain that splattered onto my mouth and neck and chest.
He shouted a feral sound as he came. Still gripping my ankles, he pushed inside and shoved out his wealth of hot, creamy seed. It felt as if he was unleashing buckets of cum inside me, and I wondered if my belly would start to swell with his unending flood. I could feel him cumming inside me, or that’s what I thought I was feeling. A warmth and a feeling of movement and power, but I soon discovered that something else was happening.
He was looking down at me as he came and he was smiling and that pendant was glowing and he said, “Welcome, friend,” or something like that and I felt this surge of power and sex and suddenly everything hurt, again. I felt that same shock of pain as if he were entering me for the first time, but now it was everywhere. My whole body was bathed in a jolt of hot white pain, and I wanted to scream or shout but my jaw clenched and my hands balled into fists and the pain grew hotter and hotter and I thought I would explode or melt.
And then it stopped, and pleasure took over.
Fuck, it felt good. Everything felt good. I heard him say, “So good, fuck, so good,” and I wanted to say, “Fuck yeah! Fuck yeah, this feels good!” but I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t speak.
And I felt him moving over me, his immense form looming above me and then his skin was warm against mine, his chest pressed against me, the feeling of his breathing in time to mine, his weight pressing down on me, his scent surrounding me. His huge cock was still inside my ass, we were still joined with each other like lock and key, and he moved atop my body and moved his hands over my naked flesh and moved his lips to my mouth and he was making love to me, his fat, gorgeous prick lodged inside me, his rough hands moving across my naked body, and everything felt good, everything felt perfect.
And there was heat against my chest. Something warm and cold at the same time was pushing into the flesh of my chest. He was kissing me and fucking me and cumming inside me and I wrapped my arms across his back and pulled him close. “Welcome,” he whispered. His breath felt good against my ear. He licked it, he kissed my cheek, he kissed my mouth, he pushed himself up and I looked at his handsome face and the crown of blackness across his head and his eyes were scanning across my face and my neck and my shoulders and he pushed himself deep inside and I felt another warm gush and a flood of pleasure erupted all over and he smiled and he looked down toward my chest and he fucked me and came again and I sighed and shook and groaned with bliss.
“Welcome, friend.” He kissed my mouth. “Welcome to the Mohawk Nation.”