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  1. EmoJock186

    The Str8 Masseur (Part 2)

    Cody’s text read: “ Here’s his number and address. Tell him I sent you. He’s a big fan and always gives a discount to my clients. Enjoy!“ The masseur worked in the far north of the city. It would take two transfers by subway for a total of 45 minutes. He better be cheap, Sean thought. Outside the air stirred with early summer. It was Sean’s favorite time of year. Hormones were awakening, and the first sight of bare skin excited the senses. A loose tank and shorts would be plenty comfortable, and of course in the hotter months, Sean always went commando. He looked at himself in the mirror. The bright yellow of his shirt set off against the caramel of his toned body. Who was this superhero before him? A grin on his face and a gentle breeze caressing his balls, he set off for the nearest station. Sean had the cocksure stride of a prize bull. Not only was he taller than most men at 6’2, but was stronger, broader and twice as confident. He kept a cool pace. Never rushing as to soak in every bit of attention his gorgeous body — and dick imprint — attracted. Since ballooning to 100kg, Sean noticed more strangers on the street staring at his muscled frame. He felt an odd power. Men craned their necks to glimpse him. Their wives tsk-tsk’d but still darted furtive glances. Their curiosity only encouraged his horny display. A bodybuilder’s life was spent perfecting form, tone and mass to achieve the embodiment of beauty. As far back as the Greeks, the male physique had been worshipped as the height of these ideals. It was only natural these strangers appreciated him. Why deprive them of the pleasure? With that in mind, he slipped off his tank and continued to walk. The sun felt good against his light brown skin. After a solid hour of chasing the pump, his chest and triceps were pink and swollen. A fine sweat formed on his nakedness. Over the winter months, Sean punished his body with round after round of sets, and it showed now. The glistening curve of his torso appeared carved in stone. Indeed, he was as dense as stone. He was a man sculpted by sheer will power and testosterone. Passersby openly gawked. The base of Sean’s cock tingled. Were they noticing his muscles or just his junk growing harder and harder? In a few minutes he’d be at the subway. There was plenty of time to flex here and there. Two women walked by. “Disgusting,” one said while her friend’s eyes tried to bore a hole in his shorts. A group of college boys in baseball uniforms howled as he cut through. “Did you see that guy?” they said to one another. At that Sean pitched a full tent in his shorts. By the time he reached the station, he was on full display.
  2. CW: m/m, voyeur, incest, muscle worship, muscle growth. (read part 1) Things only got worse after graduation. Or better. I'll leave that up to you. For me, my muscle fetish had only just begun, reinforced by years of superheroes and cartoons, exaggerated by That Night. I'd taken to referring to it as That Night in my journal, the night I first saw my muscle freak brother being licked from head to toe in his bedroom. Anyway, after graduation, I kept up on my swimming and Nate kept on lifting. He quickly gained a reputation, despite being a freshman. How could he not? He had already packed on a ton of extra mass since leaving high school. I didn't have the stats I wanted, his weight and how much he could bench, but I believed my own eyes. He didn't just look bigger. He looked like he was getting bigger faster. His shirts fit like they'd been picked out of the kids section, pulled so tight across his muscle tits that little holes had already torn over his bust. Yeah, that's what happens when you stuff rock hard pecs the size of couch cushions into a shirt and not a tarp. Those pecs turned every top he wore into a midriff-baring delight; the shelf of his pecs lifted his shirt up from his waist, revealing the twisted labyrinth of his 10-pack abs. They looked like they could crunch coals into diamonds. Worse, their extreme V-shape was like a huge arrow that pointed downward. Nate's junk was the first thing anybody noticed. I know the school nurse had questioned if he had some kind of condition. Nobody should be that big and that hard that often, but I knew the real reason. I knew he turned himself on being so big. I knew he got hard just existing in that hyper-pumped body. I knew he orgasmed just taking in his own reflection, without even touching that horse cock that had to be stuffed down one leg of his painted-on jeans, all the way down to his knee. Heck, he could make me cum without touching myself, whenever he flexed a watermelon bicep for some girl and his cock throbbed against his thigh. The girls? Unlike myself, a scarecrow that couldn't find a date, he was popular with the ladies. They had to line up just to stand next to him. There was no end to the train of women ready to get a taste of him. Busty girls, fit girls, flat-chested girls, skinny girls, thick girls, cheerleaders, nerds, geeks, gymnasts, teachers, other students' moms... I couldn't tell if he had a girlfriend or if they were all his girlfriends. That is, until Oceana came. She was something else. You could tell just by looking into her eyes--which I tried just once and never again. Behind those deep browns flecked with icy blue, I saw myself. Not my reflection, but actually my own hunger, my own desire, the same drive that kept me scouring the internet into the early hours of the morning beating my aching purple dick to the biggest muscular beasts I could find, to the insane morphed muscle that I hoped deep down my own brother would soon come to resemble: unbridled muscle lust. She had it and she had it in spades. I saw her appetite plain as day. Nate and Oceana became inseparable. She was more than just another young body to use like a wad of tissue. She was the closest thing to a real trainer that he ever had and his body positively blew up under her tender care. I remember wondering what she could have possibly contributed to his workouts; Oceana wasn't exactly buff or anything, although she was fit, tall as a model, long legs, washboard abs, long wavy black hair, cute face with thick eyebrows and a great smile on a square jaw. She didn't look the part, but her hunger made her the perfect candidate. My brother continued to sample every girl that came his way, but Oceana was special. I wouldn't know how special until the middle of the semester, but before I get to that, there's another story I should mention and some clarifiers I should make. You might think this story is about Nate, and you wouldn't be wrong, technically, but it's really about the journey of my muscle fetish from innocent infatuation to obsession. I continued to spy on my brother most nights of the week, peeking through his bedroom window to watch him lift weights or flex or fuck the brains out of a blonde or brunette. I did a lot of window shopping. I didn't and don't consider myself gay. Bicurious is a phrase I ran into years later and that might be more accurate. I was on the hunt for a girlfriend, too, if anyone could ever notice me in my brother's mountainous shadow, but at the same time, I was whacking off to bodybuilding competitions and pump room videos. When reality itself became unsatisfying, I turned to erotic stories on sites like Metabods. I even took up drawing to create my own hideously gorgeous muscle freaks, put them up in the shower and beat my meat to their inhuman bodies, destroying the evidence afterward. I couldn't let anybody know I had these feelings. Especially my brother--I still thought he'd kill me if he discovered what I was doing. Probably rip me in half and eat me. This unfortunately meant that the one thing I never got to do was the one thing that dominated my thoughts 24-7. Touch. I wanted to touch a jacked bodybuilder's muscles, just once, feeling all that mass piling up under smooth skin, bulging with a flex, fibers tensing, veins pulsing, feeling a muscle swell in my hands, grip it hard to see if I could even put a dent in it. I'd wanted to feel that for years. I finally got my chance one night and got more than I bargained for... "Ah shit." I couldn't tell what Nate was doing or what was bothering him. Whenever we showered after a swim (for me) and a workout (for him) on those late night trips to the gym, I made sure to not look. I showered with my back toward him. The last thing I wanted was to get caught gawking with a hardon for all his bulging shredded meat. But I could feel him staring down at me. "Hey, bro," he said. His voice was loud and heavy, so close behind me. I glanced over my shoulder but just to show I was paying attention. "Yeah? What is it?" I replied. "Forgot my crap. My back scrubber. Can't reach anymore, dude." I turned around a little more, swallowing hard. The golden brown edifice of his body came into sight. "Y-you can't reach?" I managed. "Yeah. Fuck. My back. Been hitting the weights too hard, I guess. Too big and sore," and he laughed, "so could you...?" (access the full story at patreon.com/pumpculture)
  3. CW: m/m, ff/m, voyeur, incest, muscle worship, muscle growth. I'm currently nursing a healthy addiction to extreme muscle growth. I'm not talking about the normie stuff, either. They don't make 'em big enough. I grew up in the gym, hung around a lot of fitness instructors and bodybuilders, thanks to my parents' jobs. My dad did power lifting, rubbing shoulders with men who had bowling balls for shoulders. My mom taught yoga, teaching classes full of perfectly toned, impressively flexible women. The Southern California summers were hot and California's reputation for beautiful people held up. Built up the nostalgia for muscle. My first dirty magazine was a muscle mag. Seeing a chunk of muscle tits, male or female, got my gears turning in ways nobody who wasn't built like an ox ever could after that. But I was just beginning to lay the foundation for the obsession to come. My early teen years were spent collecting bodybuilder magazines and photographs, stuffing them into hiding spaces under my mattress or in my closet. I taped bodybuilding events and muscle beach parties over the ends of random VHS's. I idolized weightlifters like Lee Priest and Cory Everson, or the cast of American Gladiator. Hell, all I had to do was walk to the beach to get an eyeful of human candy walking around nearly naked, muscles cooking in the sunlight like a barbecue. I ogled over buffed out heroes in shows like He-man and Dragon Ball Z--I especially loved the transformations that caused Goku's muscles to swell impossibly. It got to be that I spent so much time thinking about muscles growing bigger and bigger that looking at real life bodybuilders didn't do much for me. Remember that episode of The Real Ghostbusters where Venkman got possessed or something and grew into a hulking muscle beast? Or when the Genie on Aladdin impersonated Arnold Schwarzenegger? Feelings I'd never felt before. Even the biggest pumped up musclebound giants and giantesses at the local gym couldn't get me excited like that anymore. It didn't help that I myself got into swimming and stayed there. I was lean and that was it. Nicknames like skinny-bones-Jones or beanpole stuck, even after becoming a teenager. I tried lifting weights, sure. I dieted and did the regiment but just couldn't build any mass. I wasn't a gainer. But I knew a gainer. My kid brother. Nate was a year younger than me. We are not twins, stop asking sarcastically (or at all, thanks). He spent the same amount of time in the gyms and fitness classes that I did growing up, except whereas I came out looking like I could swim laps around anybody my age, he came out looking like he could out bench any other kid we knew. And it got worse as we got older. Worse or better, that's up to you. He had hand-me-downs from yours truly and they almost never fit. By age 16, the shirts looked like crop tops on him. He was already passing 200lbs somewhere around that time. Then he brought the gym home. For the next few years, as we finished high school and got into college, we shared an addiction: muscle growth. For me, it was an obsession from the outside looking in. For him, it became a way of life. It's like he never needed to rest. When we weren't in school, Nate was either hanging out with friends--he was quite popular--or lifting weights and eating. He kept me up until all hours of the night in his room, even though it was in a detached building at the back of our property, banging the irons together, dropping them on the floor, grunting and groaning and growing. My daydreams were terrible. On the night of our 18th birthday, we had a big party, tried our best to embarrass him in front of his friends, but he disappeared with Veronica and Jessica until we thought they'd gone off to the movies. I had a sneaking suspicion they hadn't gone far. I waited until the rest of the guests had gone and my parents were asleep, then I snuck out of my bedroom and stealthily made my way across the backyard. The leaves crunched underfoot--I had to go slow. I came around the corner of his converted shed, obscured by some dark bushes. At the far end of the little building, a light was on, casting a white square on the grass. My heart was pounding in my ears and I strained to listen over its thudding for the sound of voices inside. Instead, I heard the crashing sound of the weights hitting the floor. I couldn't hear any voices. I thought about turning back. Spying on my brother would get me into a lot of trouble! I wasn't afraid of my parents, they were pretty lenient, but my brother? I watched him win a fight in high school. He never lost. He barely had to fight back. Our classmates were typically on average 100lbs lighter than he was at that point and a foot or more shorter. Picking a fight with him just didn't happen and he showed that redhead Daniel exactly why. Sure, he got suspended for knocking him out with a single punch, but he also won the adoration of nearly every girl in school, and even a few of the guys, too, to be honest. I had gone around the back of the wall of his shed at that point, just enough to see through the corner of the window. I swallowed hard. I could see his bed, unmade, disheveled sheets thrown into disarray. I inched closer. That's when I heard the voices. There were no words, just noises. I crept a little closer, edged my face up against the window frame and took a deep breath, then looked in. In the middle of the room, surrounded by his racks of black dumbbells, his adjustable weight bench and towering gear, my brother's back rose, a huge golden brown v like the hood of a gigantic cobra. The wavy black hair of his head nearly scraped the ceiling--he was quickly outgrowing that room. His back and shoulders were covered with a layer of sweat. I'd seen him like this all the time but as my eyes traced the bulging muscles further down toward the ground, my admiration turned to excitement and then to astonishment. He was naked from head to toe. His striated ass flexed and unflexed as he stood there teasing Veronica's long pianist fingers that played over his bubblebutt. Her other arm was wrapped around his thigh. Her curly blond hair hid most of her upper body but I could tell she was topless. Her bra was under Nate's foot. On the other side, sharing him, because honestly there was more than enough beef to feed them both, Jessica had thrown herself around his waist. She was the bustiest girl in school worth talking about, her double D's pressed against his thigh. She was grinding against him, humming softly, playfully. Veronica and Jessica, and even Nate himself, all had their eyes fixed on his reflection in a mirror on the opposite wall. It showed his body from the waist up. Well, as much of him as could fit in it, at least. "What's next?" he said, looking into his own eyes. Hands clutched down in front of his crotch, he bounced his melon-like pecs for them, sending ripples of muscle caressing up through his chest slowly, one side at a time. "More pecs again," the girls moaned. Jessica was rubbing her breasts against him, "How big can they get, Nathan?" "Pump them up, baby," Veronica said between sensual kisses lathered on his hips and ass. "More?" he laughed, slipping back under the bench press bar. "How much this time?" "450!" one of them yelled. "Load it up!" The girls helped each other fit more weight at either end of the bar, devouring his body with their eyes at every chance they got. I did the same. Veronica was definitely topless, I could confirm as a brute fact. Jessica was practically there. Turns out her long black hair, gathered into sweaty strands, obscured a black tank top that was similarly soaked with sweat, doing nothing to hide the swollen nipples of her swollen breasts. But my eyes couldn't leave my brother's body. What a teenage muscle freak. Lying on his back, head toward me, I could look straight down his impressive length. Just past his thick neck and his chiseled chin were his insane pecs, rising like bread from his body, sticking out like twin pillows stuffed under his skin. Muscle tits. He wasn't veiny, he wasn't cut, just plain massive. I couldn't even see his nipples--or his abs, for that matter--past those two brown mountains jutting from his torso, slick with sweat and completely hairless like most of the rest of him. You could thank our Samoan background for that--the genes worked for him at least. The tribal tattoo he got on his left pec last year already looked stretched to the limit. He put his arms under the bar, ready to lift. His chest nearly touched the bar already but his arms could hardly fit. He needed a much wider bench than the one he'd been using since he was still 16. His guns were like footballs, overinflated, looking like they'd tear at the seams. His forearms rippled as he got his grip adjusted. But the worst (the best?) part of my view was his cock. I thought it was his knee at first. I hadn't seen his hardon before, though... since we often swam at the beach, Nate's trunks left little to the imagination about what he was packing when limp. Now, however, the head of the beast was the only thing visible past his pecs, a shiny, veiny, throbbing anaconda arcing through the air, thrusting at the ceiling. God, how could it be that big? How was any of this humanly possible? I stuck my knuckles in my eyes as the girls finished loading him up, begging him to start. He flashed that cocky, confident, macho grin at them and they would've melted into pools if they could. I nearly did. I had to adjust my stance, I was quickly running out of room in my shorts. I knelt down under his window now, peeking in to get a look. The girls were rubbing his pecs as he pushed up the weight again and again, breathing perfectly controlled, like a machine. Their hands slowly moved to his nipples, his lats, his waist and abs, then his dick. There was enough room for all four of their hands. They mumbled slurred lust at his engorged body splayed out before them, twisting and jerking his huge leaking cock as he pumped up his body to their demands. They egged him on, "Bigger, bigger, c'mon, do it bigger..." almost chanting. Fuck. Veronica was touching herself. Jessica bent over and put her mouth over his dick. Or she tried. The head was as big as an apple. Her lips stretched and stretched and Nate moaned, a manly growl that caused the window pane to shudder. "Bigger, baby, please go bigger..." His arms and neck and pecs looked like they were almost burning inside, veins starting to show up, popping. The bench under him creaked, he must weigh a ton. I'd never seen anyone so big--or had I? It was almost impossible to think with my own junk in my hands, playing with the colossal tent in my shorts. Nate slowed down as he rounded 50 reps and then racked the bar with a roar. The walls shook. The girls trembled like leaves in the wind. He sat up, the v of his back flaring, dripping with huge beads of his sweet-smelling sweat. I could taste it through the glass. He stood up, the chicks still on his manhood, looking up and up at all of him. He bent over and gave them a tremendous, freakish crab flex they'd never forget. I could see just past him, only barely, at the reflection of his over-inflated, disgustingly shredded pecs that hung off his chest. Then he turned around. I wasn't ready for it. My heart felt like it stopped. I sucked in my breath with a sharp gasp. I creamed my shorts. He looked as if he'd been shaped out of molten lead. His tiny waist supported heavy lats and massive arms that hung at an angle, absolutely crowded with the muscles of his forearms and his triceps and biceps, his shoulders like bloated strips of steak. His bricks of abs flexed with every breath he took. His over-stimulated, circumcised, purple horse cock flailed and slapped himself in the stomach, stretching thick webs of precum everywhere, all over his abs, his thighs, the girls hands and heads and faces. They were wild with muscle lust, clawing at his skin, biting at his bulging physique--they didn't have enough hands between them to either satisfy their desire or please his burgeoning teen body. Nate walked through them as they hung onto his legs like they were drowning. And they were: in a sea of raging teen hormones. Nate sat at the edge of his bed, closer to the window than before. I could see every muscle in his body tense and relax as he eased his weight down, the bed sinking, creaking, springs in the mattress almost snapping. He looked like he was pushing 400lbs now! The stretch marks on his broad shoulders and massive pecs told the story--they might be unsightly on lesser human bodies, but on his godlike physique, they told the tale of his triumphant growth. He laid back, pillow under his head, arm around either girl. They began lapping up the trickling sweat off his neck and chest, slurping at the pools that collected in the deep chasm between each bloated pectoral. Jessica's nails were raking his abs. Veronica's fist pumped his cock, furiously. He just smiled at them, their obsession. It was his obsession, too, with his own body. Obsession was the only way he'd pushed his genetics and his strength and size so far. Nate had turned his entire life into a machine designed to produce bigger muscles. Everything from his education to his friendships to the food he ate fueled his desire to be the biggest. Nate placed his large hands on the girls' heads and gently eased their faces into his chest, flexing his muscles against their faces. It drove them mad as he continued to pump his swollen muscle tits for them, flex after flex after flex. Their tongues lashed against his dark, rock hard nipples, sticking almost straight toward his toes with all of the muscle crowded above them. When he eased his head back, eyes rolling as they sucked his muscle tits, his face nearly disappeared behind all that immense, corrugated, sweaty, veiny, distended chest. He kneaded their skulls, caressed their hair as they latched on, suckling his pecs, making those nips even harder. Their filthy, slutty sucking noises filled the room. Jessica orgasmed but didn't stop. He bounced his pecs against their heads. They bit at his nipples and he moaned louder, his cock throbbing at full mast, easily larger and longer than my elbow to my finger tips! Jessica and Veronica had a hand each on his shaft now, feeling his heartbeat, as they continued to pleasure his pumped muscle tits. His cock erupted precum, oozing down the many inches of his shaft, covering his tangerine-sized balls, drenching the girls' fingers, sliding off the bed and pooling on the floor. It was as if they'd awakening a sleeping giant, his true sexual powers being explored for the first time. His libido had become an adult in all of its frightening, insatiable vastness. They'd been pleasuring his body for hours and this was the result, an almost inhuman display of sheer masculinity packed so tight under a layer of brown skin that it looked like he might just burst over-ripened by merely lying there. "Holy fucking shit--" I muttered, and that was my mistake. I ducked only just in time as Nate sat bolt upright, scowling at the window. "Did you hear that?" "Hear what?" "Somebody outside!" "W-what's going on?" Nate's bedroom door swung open, banged against the outside of the shed. I heard his heavy footsteps pound against the ground. If I hadn't jumped up on the roof, he would've seen me and killed me. I could see his head coming round the corner as he rounded the shed a couple times--how the hell tall was he?! He went back in. "Time for you to go. Now. There's a hose outside. Clean up." They didn't argue. A few minutes later, his lights went out. In the dark, I could hear his mattress whining as he sat on it again. I could hear the iron clinking. He was thinking and working on his bicep curls, on and on into the night. I stayed up there, unmoving, for hours and hours, regretting that I'd soiled myself. He would've heard me if I'd tried to get down and I was convinced he didn't sleep. But even though I'd narrowly escaped getting my ass kicked by a teenage muscle freak, that muscle freak was my bro and I had seen quite a show. It felt indescribably wrong, no doubt about it, don't get me wrong. I don't care if you think I'm a freak, though. We're all deviants and human sexuality is fucking gross. But I spent the rest of the night up there with an ear to ear grin, let me tell you. I never forgot that night. My muscle obsession had just reached a new level. Check out more at: https://www.patreon.com/pumpculture https://www.deviantart.com/pumpcultureff
  4. Travis

    Big Walt: Senior Brah

    At the gym where I train, there’s all ages. One man I’m friendly with, his name is Walt, seems to be about 65, and he often works out with some younger bodybuilders who are in their early twenties. He told me about something that happened between him and them. He says it’s true. I wrote it up as a story and embellished it with some fantasy. Big Walt: Senior Brah Walt looked forward to his workouts at Body Power Gym. Since retirement, he wanted to get built again, but not like the massive stud he’d been at his peak thirty years earlier. Now, he worked out four days a week. One of the best things about Body Power was the opportunity he had to train with young bodybuilders. Guys in their early twenties became part of his routine. Walt enjoyed the camaraderie he had with them. Sort of a mentor, he thought, even though they jokingly nicknamed him “Gramps.” Walt played along by calling them “dude” and “brah.” In fact, he was old enough to be their grand dad. One afternoon, two of the young bodybuilders, Tre and Daz, asked Walt if he wanted to go out for a beer. After their workout, the three took off in Tre’s Mustang. As they cruised along Sunrise Avenue, Daz asked, “What are you up for Gramps? Craft brew?” The two young men named a couple of places not familiar to Walt. “I’ll leave that up to you,” he said. “How about let’s just go to our place.” Walt thought maybe “Our Place” was where they’d go. “You don’t mind, do you Walt? Coming over to our house?” Daz asked. “We got stuff, like whatever.” “Sure. Cool.” he shrugged. Turning off Sunrise and driving via some neighborhood streets, Tre pulled up next to a red pickup that was parked in the driveway of the small bungalow that the guys rented. “Coke’s home.” Walt knew Coke from the gym. At 6’2”, 255lbs, Coke was the biggest, most jacked of the young bodybuilders. Walt, 6’, 205lbs, felt puny next to him. “Hey, take a seat. Chill.” Tre and Daz headed through the living room toward their bedrooms. Walt sat on the sofa, looked around the room, pretty sparse except for the sofa, two recliners, and a huge flat screen TV. Voices called from somewhere, maybe from the kitchen: “Wadda ya want, gramps? We got GrowFast, PumpSpurt, bottled water from Fiji, Iceland, someplace like that, and we do have actual, genuine beer too.” “Lemme try GrowFast, I never heard of it.” “Good choice!” Wearing boxer shorts, Tre and Daz returned the living room. They had bottles of water and sports drinks in each hand and offered Walt a blue or orange GrowFast, then sat on the recliners opposite the sofa. “Coke’s on the shitter. He’ll be out in a minute.” From a combination of nerves and thirst, Walt chugged down the half a litre of orange-colored GrowFast. He felt a rush as it hit his belly. “Good stuff.” Leaning back into the sofa, he relaxed a little. “How long you boys lived here?” Walt knew that the young bodybuilders were men, not boys, but he felt paternal, even protective, toward them. The sons he never had, all his children being female. Strange though, he was learning at least as much from them as they learned from them. But he hadn’t yet learned the generational difference in slang that allowed him instinctively to address them as dude or bro, or the even more recent brah. “Six, almost seven months. We met at the gym and figured it would be cheaper to share a house than pay individual apartment rents.” “Yeah. Smart.” Walt leaned forward, untried his trainers, and slipped them off, socks too. Just then Coke walked into the living room, wearing an orange posing suit. “Looks like you need another GrowFast, Gramps. You wanna try blue this time?” Coke handed Walt a bottle, then eased his muscular bulk onto the opposite side of the sofa from Walt. Together, the two men nearly filled it. In the locker room and showers at Body Power Gym, Walt had seen Coke, even seen him naked, but never so close, so intimate yet casual as this. Walt took a hefty swig of the blue juice. It roiled from his belly through his veins to every muscle he had. He imagined himself growing as big as Coke. At least he thought he imagined it. He took a second swig and a third. He aped the sexy yet relaxed way Coke displayed himself on the sofa. He had a fleeting thought about stripping off his clothes, getting naked. Fukken awesome, dudes. Effen, fukken awesome! -- Were they just thoughts, or did he say them? “How about you try a PumpSpurt, Gramps?” “Yeah.” Walt chugged from the bottle of purple ade Coke gave him. Everywhere on his body, he sensed his veins rising, his muscles pulsing. He saw the thick ropey web in his forearms, the cuts in his thighs and thickness of his calves, the heaving of his chest. His nipples, hard and erect, strained against his t-shirt. His pecs, swelling, pushed his nipples further. Damn. Walt pinched his right nipple between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He pulled and twisted it. My nips are fukken jacked. He moved his hand to his left pec and worked its nipple. To thrust his chest forward and make his nipples rage, Walt raised his arms, hands behind head, fingers interlocked. His traps swelled and his lats widened. His felt his t-shirt stretch. He wanted his strong, hard nipples to pop through it. Fukken man nips, man. “Some workout you had today, gramps.” “You’re lookin big as fuck.” “Pumped, you’re pumped as shit.” “You’re fukken awesome, gramps.” “You’re effen fukken huge.” Totally swole the fuck up, old man.” Daz, Tre and Coke were encouraging him. “You gotta pose for us, brah.” Pose for my brahs, Walt’s mind clicked. Walt looked at Coke and didn’t feel puny. “Here, put this on.” Walt was sure he heard that. Coke had stripped off his orange poser and tossed it to him. Walt pulled down his gym shorts. Underneath, he had a bulge in his white briefs. Suddenly, he felt self-conscious. Still seated on the sofa, he didn’t know how much the young bodybuilders could see. Easy. Easy. Barely raising his ass off the supple leather, Walt peeled off his whities. He grabbed the orange poser, then slid his feet, ankles, calves, and thighs through its leg openings. He lifted his ass off the leather sofa and pulled the poser over his glutes. He grabbed his cock and balls. Fukken heavy, man. Fukken big and thick. His cock felt like way more than 9.5” he was used to, more like 12” and his nuts were big as kiwis. He stuffed his swollen junk into the poser and yanked the it up. It stretched to the max. As he stood, Walt felt 6’4’, maybe even 6’5”, 260-265 lbs. His t-shirt seemed to shrivel. Rising above his pubes, it exposed his roided belly. Its seams frayed as he pumped himself into a most muscular, crab pose. “Arrrgh!” Walt ripped the t-shirt over his head. Walt looked at the young men. He saw their eyes riveted on him with eager appreciation. He knew their interest in his physique was real, and that posing for them wasn’t foolish. With easy arrogance, Walt assayed his mighty physique through poses, variations and repeats: front double biceps, front lat spread, side chest - right and left, triceps - right and left, biceps - right and left, and three different takes on most muscular. Finished with displaying his massive upper torso, Walt transitioned first to a hands over head abs pose, then into abs and thigh poses, right leg forward first. As he shook his right thigh to accentuate his quadriceps, he couldn’t ignore his mega hard-on. Like a knight’s lance as he rode his steed, Walt’s stiff cock lunged forward, stretching the orange spandex, pulling the poser away from his crotch, exposing pubic hair, and offering peeks of his sac and shaft. Fukken awesome cock. Fukken hair. Fukken balls. Walt transitioned from right abs and thigh pose to left. Shaking and tensing his left quad, he also caused his ballsac to shift. Out popped his right nut with its covering of veiny scrote skin. Walt had been focused on his own mind-blowing experience of being huge. For sure, he had been asked to pose; almost begged, he thought, but once he’d ripped off his t-shirt, what he did was all about him, a show he did for himself and watched in his own mind, even as he performed for an audience of three. Walt had heard sounds and hoots, phrases and words of encouragement: “Yeah.” “Go for it.” “Hit it gramps, hit it Walt, hit it brah.” “Awesome, big guy.” “Go strong. You’re freakin, dude.” “You’re fukken massive. Ain’t never seen you look so huge.” Yet, so focused was he on how beastly he felt, the encouragement wasn’t what kept Walt going; a force inside did. While working on his left quad forward when his right nut popped out of the poser, he took a good look at his ramrod pole, defiant in its orange sheath. He felt dominating and powerful. He was riveted, gripped, transfixed by the explosive force that pumped his muscles to extremes, surged in his nads, and jonesed his libido. Walt turned to display his hulking back. Look at that ass. Did Walt hear it or imagine it? The rear of the poser had wedged itself into his butt crack, so Walt’s booty was on full view. Look at that ass. He blasted out a rear lat spread. Look at that ass. He alternated lat spreads with rear double biceps poses. Look at that ass. He did calf raises. Look at that ass. Walt widened his stance. They want to see my ass. Let them have a really good look. He bent over, maybe to grab his ankles, but used one arm and hand, his left, to reach around and pull the poser out of his butt crack. Show you my virgin manhole, dudes. Show you my fukken anus. Walt tugged the poser from between his glutes. Its taut waistband popped against his right hip, then split. “What the fuck?!” Walt breathed out the phrase, deeply. Time for the big show. Walt let the poser fall to the floor, he stepped out of it. Glad of its freedom, his vigorous cockstand charged forward. His teeming nutsac dropped halfway to his knees. Walt turned. “Holy Fuck!” Tre, Daz, and Coke panted. “Holy Fuck! Holy Fuck! Holy Fuck!” Walt’s pisshole oozed precum. His prostate pounded. His balls heaved. His shaft was choked up with jizz. Let it rip. Let it rip. Walt pumped out a front double biceps pose. His nads erupted. Spunk flew. “Fukken A! Fucken awesome! Fukken big brah to you dudes now!” Walt walked out the door. “Shit, brah, get back here.” Coke, Daz and Tre ran after him. “You can’t go other there naked. You got to come down from the juice. You got to put on your clothes and go home to your wife.”
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