Gym Boys (18 page)

Sweat flung off his chiseled chest and decorated Twink's flat stomach. As Mike continued to pound the blond, creating a scene that resembled porn stars in action, Twink whimpered and begged for more ass-work.

Mike was happy to oblige, and rocked his hips into the boy's ass, pulled away and rocked into him again with Herculean power, which shifted the netting and Twink east and west.

Our eyes met for the briefest time. Mike didn't seem at all surprised to see me, and he released a palm from one of Twink's ankles and gave me a thumbs-up with an eager smile, while his center still bucked the boy on the net.

There was never a time in our three-year relationship as city roommates that I hadn't wanted to try out his skin for size, to become sexual with the jock's built frame. Unfortunately, such an occasion never transpired between us because I always thought that Mike was straight and into female cheerleaders. Had I known differently, realizing that he enjoyed a man's tight ass and close company, I would have been quite pleased to share both with him, even if I considered myself a top.

I was just about to enter the room and join the two, having every intention of banging my roommate's rear as he did Twink's, when Mr. Sampson moved up behind me in the hallway, grabbed me by my right bicep and said, “Come with me, Ginger. I have some things in mind to do to you.”

I was pulled away from Mike and Twink's antics and led to the final room, which was empty except for a steel chair, lube and two latex condoms. As I was pulled into the room, I asked Mr. Sampson, “What are you going to do to me?”

I wasn't startled. Maybe I should have been, but honestly, I wasn't. Instead, I was thrilled that the black god with his firm chest and solid middle had an interest in me. How'd he know that I craved African American men, desiring their extra-large dicks and dark-colored skin? Could Mr. Sampson read my mind, or what?

He ignored my question. Rather, he faced me, drew a finger down and along my tee-covered chest and asked, “What do you think of my muscle palace?”

“Let's fuck around and then I will tell you.”

He laughed.

I laughed.

And then we undressed, dropping clothes to the cement floor, prepared to get busy with each other's flesh in a man-connected-man scene that would have left some queers blushing with utter astonishment.

Mr. Sampson sat down in the chair, toyed with the black and rigid spike at his center and said, “Lick this, Ginger.”

I didn't have a problem providing men—especially dark-skinned ones—with a tour of my mouth. In fact, I often suggested such a treat; he had simply beaten me to the punch. I fell to my knees, opened my mouth and inhaled his cock as if it were a treat at a buffet.

I gagged on his shaft as it blocked my airway. Warm saliva dripped out of the corners of my mouth. Half of me believed I would drop to the floor in a state of unconsciousness because of his black cock inside my system, but I still found air to breathe through my nose.

Slurps, licks and sucking ensued on most of his chocolate-colored dick. In doing so, I strummed his balls, squeezed the hairy pair, tugged on them, and even ran a finger along the thin line of asshole between his spread thighs. I admit today, some years after this event with the black beast, that he almost suffocated me because of his inflated size. Not only did I choke on his post, but I also believed I was suffering from asphyxiation. Although I was not a master at eating cock, I felt that I had accomplished my best work with Mr. Sampson, believing that he was satisfied by my oral play because of his grumbles and occasional gasps.

Was he about to come? I thought so but wasn't sure. Perhaps this was why he said, “Stand up, Kurt, turn around and bend over.”

Again, I listened like a very good boy. He bent me over in rushed motion and I felt half of his face inside my bottom. He squeezed my ass with both palms, dragged his plump tongue against my opening and became hungry behind me, licking and lapping at a hole that we both knew he was going to fuck by the end of this evening's queer blending.

One in my position would have been a little shocked to have his bottom bitten and spanked by a pump-buddy, but I wasn't in the slightest. Instead, I rather enjoyed his gnawing at my center and the swift bites to my orbs. I would be a liar if I didn't admit that he had sent me into a spin of excitement, longing for his massive dick to be plunged inside my ass instead of his tongue. Not that I was complaining, of course.

What transpired in that small room was XXX-gratifying all the way. I felt woozy in front of him, and almost lost my balance a few times because of his center-licking but caught myself at the very last second before tumbling to the hard floor. What
was
hard just happened to be the cock at my center, which bounced up and down because of his mouth and eating. At one point, because I was so elated by his irrepressible appetite, a bubble of precome leaked out of my cockhead and dribbled to the floor.

Following a string of combined minutes, he slapped my ass hard, pulled his face away from my asshole, said, “Enough,” and spun me around to face him. Then his instruction was simple as he stayed seated in the steel chair: “Roll a rubber down and over my post and apply some lube to it.”

I had always taken orders well as a Boy Scout while growing up in the city, and such a characteristic hadn't changed in my adulthood, since I enjoyed obeying men.

Once I was through with my task, he told me, “Back up and have a seat on me, Ginger. I want to plug your ass.”

I was horny for a good fuck, particularly with Mr. Sampson and his jockish black skin. Dudes of color knew how to bang bottoms, I had learned, and I wasn't about to turn down a naughty action with the man. This is why I plummeted my compact rear onto his latex-covered mass, pushed all of my weight over the piece of meat between his legs, gasped with pain, smiled and knew that I was right in visiting his gym this evening, and his underground rooms of queer fun.

All nine of his plump and veined inches entered me with slamming speed, clear down to his balls, which were snug against my asshole and brushed the area between my thighs. As he directed his swollen bulk inside my epicenter, he dug his fingernails into my hips and moaned, “Damn, you know what you're doing.”

After all of his inches were tucked inside my ass, he started banging my rear with forceful jabs. His fingertips dug into my hip, and he licked an area of my spine.

“Don't be shy,” I whispered, instructing him.

“Just as I had planned,” he said, and applied gentle bites to one shoulder blade, bruising my skin the way I had wanted to be bruised.

Consistent ass-jabs with his cock occurred, as well as murmurs from the man behind and underneath me. He rocketed into my rear a few times, paused, rocked into it again and pulverized my center.

Jesus wept. No, Jesus didn't have anything to do with my gym time. Instead, I wept as Mr. Sampson shoved his black dick inside me again and again and again, which caused my bottom lip to quiver with pain and delight.

“Fucking you,” he said to my wall-like shoulder blades, slamming all of his muscled mass inside my rear.

I bounced my gym buddy weight up and down on his dick, and felt dizzy and confused. My breath was lost and a state of inebriated bliss discovered me. I panted for oxygen, and believed that his cock was a hand-weight being shoved up my asshole instead of his nine inches, but still I seemed to enjoy its length and width to the fullest. My ride was nothing less than rhythmic and gratifying for both of us. Quick and smooth bottom-lifts and falls occurred on his cock for numerous minutes inside the red-illuminated room, and gasps of desire filled the space, proving our lust.

How he reached around me with his left hand and jacked me off while banging my ass was spine numbing and a mystery to me since his pelvis corrupted my behind with relentless velocity. Truth was I came rather quickly on the cement floor because of such action. Five speedy hand-thrusts on my cock caused ripples of elation to spin inside my balls. Before I knew it, cream spiraled out of my nine inches and washed over the floor. White pools of the goop collected beyond our feet. I gyrated on his dick in a final north and south motion, felt tingles of euphoria sweep throughout my core and wished that my ride wasn't coming to an end.

He was just about to come, and he bucked me off his lap and told me to spin around. “Get on your knees and face me.”

I listened like the good gym buddy I was and grinned from ear to ear with selfish pleasure.

Mr. Sampson cranked his nine-inch shaft a number of times, howled with excitement, ground his teeth together and drained his cock on the side of my face. A gush of white sap splatted against my right cheek, then thick cords lined my neck, and one pec. In doing so, huffing and puffing, he said to me, “Quite the load isn't it?”

I didn't object, doused in the white shit.

I was just getting ready to use a palm to remove the sticky sap from my skin when he instructed me, “Don't wipe it off, Ginger. I want to eat it up.”

And he did. The African American leaned over me, extended his pink-red tongue and lapped every drop of ooze from my flesh, satisfying his own need. Dozens of tongue flicks transpired and he moaned, obviously enjoying himself.

Before I knew it, his dick-spray was removed from my skin. Every drop. Every bubble. Not a single line of residue was left, and he was exhausted, just like me.

* * *

Spent, heaving for breath and perspiration covered, I said, “How do I sign up to use this gym?”

“I think you already did,” Mr. Sampson said, smacking my solid ass, snapping his palm against my bottom's tight skin. Then he added, “Ginger, I rather like you. You can use Sampson's anytime you want.”

Maybe he was going to be my boyfriend. Maybe not. I knew that orange and black looked pretty hot together, particularly around autumn. Until then, I had every intention of fucking him, and vice versa, mixing our sweat and bodies together with ultimate zeal.

Three seconds later my naked roommate walked into the room. Mike sported a sky-high erection, a wide grin, and pumped muscles everywhere on his body. He thwapped his dick against his abs, trotted up to me, kissed me on my lips, shoved his tongue down the back of my throat and pulled on my still-hard cock. Once he backed away from me, he demanded from Mr. Sampson and me, “I want the two of you studs to fuck me at the same time. Who's in?”

It wasn't the Mike I was used to, but I was game. The jock was always on my radar, and always would be. Now was my chance to have him, just the way I wanted him, with or without Mr. Sampson in the mix.

But Mr. Sampson was also game since he said, “Things are just getting heated up in my muscle palace tonight, guys. Let this threesome begin.”

Two days later I handed my article in on time and Naylor complimented me with: “Good job. It's clean, cut and to the point, with no bullshit.”

I didn't put anything in the article about Mr. Sampson's Muscle Palace. The
Herald's
readership was far too conservative and wouldn't have been amused by such findings. Instead, I simply called the place exciting, with functional and high-tech equipment and a smiling staff.

Naylor said, “Sampson just put a sign up in front of his gym today. I saw it on my drive into the office this morning.”

“What did he end up calling it?” I asked, curious.

“Sweat and Tears Gym. Nothing ordinary or spectacular. I'll add the name to your article so it reads better.”

I sort of chuckled under my breath and realized that Naylor was all wrong about his comment. The gym's underground rooms called Mr. Sampson's Muscle Palace were hardly dull or like any other gym in the city. Maybe Naylor would find that out someday. Maybe not. I wasn't going to nudge my way into his life and hang out with the guy to learn something like that. Instead, I exited his office with other things on my mind, like two needy men who waited for me beneath Sweat and Tears. One was sexy and black, and the other one
supposedly
liked female cheerleaders, though I knew better. And both of them had cocks for me to ride, among other queer activities, until they erupted with fresh come, of course.

PUMPING IVAN
Landon Dixon

I
stared at Ivan “the Terrible” Teldov, the dumbbells in my hands curling up and down on their own. The gym owner-trainer was geared up for action in a pair of tight black shorts and a tight blue muscle shirt, his chestnut-brown, rock-hard body glistening with sweat. He was looming over a guy sprawled out on a weight bench desperately trying to wrestle a loaded barbell off his chest, urging the groaning man on in his subtle, profanity-laden, 120-decibel way.

Ivan leaned in even closer, big hands on big, bunched quads, square-jawed face inches away from the other man's tear-streaked one. He screamed at the guy to push out that final excruciating rep, spit spraying out of his snarling mouth.

My cock was the hardest appendage on my underdeveloped 180-pound, eighteen-year-old body as I watched, bulging the mesh in my shorts. I was pumping iron, wishing I was pumping buzz-cut blond muscle-stud Ivan instead.

Just before closing time, it was my turn to get the Ivan the Terrible training experience.

“Round 'em out at the top!” the big man barked, the gym empty now. “Like you're bear-huggin' someone!”

I clumped the dumbbells together over my head, hurriedly banging out another set of chest flies, hopefully to Ivan's satisfaction. The man's dimple-chinned face, bulging bronze body and drill sergeant intensity were more than a little intimidating up close, even after two weeks of getting yelled at.

“You wanna feel it right here,” he growled, reaching down and prodding my chest through my T-shirt. His warm, blunt fingertip ran along the swollen edge of one of my pecs, brushing over a nipple.

I shivered, the dumbbells jumping in my hands. I barely had the strength to bring them back together overhead to complete the set.