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Muscle Worshippers: Chapter 3 of 14


LJackson

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Chapter 2 is here.

3

Stephan

Monday, August 4th

 

I started today with the best of intentions, and with the strangest of starts.

All last night I had troubled, or more specifically, restless sleep, dreaming of the boys in the library. I went over and over that performance between the little library guy and the circus strongman, trying to resolve it somehow, trying to make it alright.. Each time the pair of them squared up to one another, and the librarian would bite his lip and look the other man up and down, studying every inch and every crevasse, and the other man would respond by putting on his display.

He'd flex this way and he'd flex that, and lift his shirt or roll up a sleeve, and every time when I thought it would come to blows between them, every time the violence seemed about to break, instead the librarian — the younger guy, or could they possibly be closer in age? — capitulated, was down on one knee, looking up. And still the muscle guy went on, and now he was ripping his own shirt off of his back, now he was burning up and glistening with sweat, his eyes looking angrier and angrier, full of fire.

Now he had taken off his jeans and thrown them at the lad on his knees before him, he was indicating the thick cords and curves of his thighs and calves and glutes, he was smacking his arse and pulling on his fat dick through his posing pouch. He was flexing his hands, as if he was about to pick the librarian up and do — but I couldn't guess what to him.

And then I was stepping into the scene. I decided I had to act. I was taking them both to Tom's flat in Maida Vale, and I knew that Tom was coming home soon, but the lads were dressed in boiler suits and fluorescent tabards. They had come under false pretences, and they were just beginning to realise why I had brought them there. But there really was something wrong with the heating. It was going haywire. They knew they had to undress or they would pass out.

But they were waiting to see who would make the first move. The little guy, the librarian, didn't dare do it. He was certain he'd be humiliated for having that skinny, hairless little body next to the hulk. And the hulk was watching me, thinking that I was going to be getting off on the situation. He thought if he undid his clothing, it would mean he was agreeing to something, admitting to something, asking for something. They popped a couple of buttons because they had to, but now time was wearing on.

And I said, 'There's nothing to it. It doesn't mean anything. We're all men together, aren't we? What happens here, stays here. Our little secret. Look, if it's so easy for me, surely you can do it...?'

And I was unbuttoning my plaid shirt, quite unselfconsciously, quite casually, and opening myself up to all eyes, and the cool air was lifting the hairs on my chest, it was making my nipples stiff. And I said, 'Come on, then,' and one of them had come over to me to undo the button of my fly, and of course I didn't see which of them before I woke up.

Back at Mum and Dad's, in DulwichVillage. I had almost forgotten. The morning train to Upper Norwood went past at the bottom of the garden, rustling the trees along the line as it ran.

I sat up in bed, contemplating my hard dick, which was sticking right out of the fly of  my boxers like a familiar friend. I wondered where those unfamiliar pair were, the little librarian and the muscle fiend, and what they would be doing that day, who they would be with. It would have been the easiest thing to return to my dream and make myself cum in a couple of minutes, but I literally stayed my hand.

It's the beginning of a new way of life for me. My fantasy life can stay in my dreams. It's time for me to be a man and resist the easy path once in a while.

It would be good to go back and be a friend to the weaker man, not just imagine myself noshing on his little flesh-lollipop.

While I was eating my porridge (there's still a way I can get my oats!) I remembered something my sex addiction counsellor had tried to drill into me, before I realised I was past the point of no return, and my police force weren't going to take me back.

Mens sana in corpore mensa.

It's time to get healthy, not just in a gesture, but a holistic sort of way. Body and soul. After all, I thought, I brought that suitcase of clothes, and there's definitely some jogging bottoms that I've always lounged around the house wearing. There's a white vest that would do as well, and my trainers will be fine for a run. So let's not make excuses.

I set off for DulwichPark, listening to the bird song and admiring the flowers and sunshine. This, I thought, was surely the way to go. And it worked — for a while, at least.

I've never been a fitness nut. All that stuff about it releasing endorphins is bullshit, far as I'm concerned. Being six foot eight and broad-shouldered has always been in my favour, though, and I suddenly realised I wasn't too out of shape. I could chase down a younger man. I was springing from foot to foot, breathing hard, clear puffs.

Left, right, Mens Sana, left, right, in Corpore Sano. Left, right, healthy mind, left, right, in a healthy body.

All the time my cock's bouncing up and down in my trackies, and the sun's getting stronger and stronger. My heart's pumping nice and strong, and my cock's getting slick with the sweat now, and it's going: Bounce, bounce, Mens Sana, bounce, bounce, in Corpore Sano. Bounce, bounce, boing, boing, in the peace of a sunny day in DulwichPark.

A hard-on in a pair of trackie bottoms tells its own tale, so I sprawled on the grass, which was dappled with dew, and pretended I had to stretch out my hamstrings. A bloke jogged past, long salt-and-pepper hair tied back, wearing a pair of black lycra shorts with the unselfconsciousness of the straight man.

I don't know what I'm doing with a hamstring so I just did what felt right, my dick still rubbing all sweaty and warm against my thigh, which is warmed up for the first time in ages. God, it felt good. I ran my fingers slowly up my legs, till I found myself massaging my own arse.

And my arsehole was saying, touch me, touch me.

But you never know who's watching, and I told myself I was being ridiculous. All the same, it would look strange not to stretch the other leg, and I'm gently smoothing a finger down the crack of my arse.

I could jog home now, I thought, and find somebody online who's in the mood. Or I could just head for the toilets and see if anyone's hanging about there. I could just do with having somebody else's tongue right there, tracing a line through the warm sweat on my skin.

So those good intentions had lasted about an hour or so. But I told myself, temptation will always be there, and it's up to me to resist it. It doesn't magically disappear, just because I notice it at last. Just because your supervisor notices you calling in sick once too often. Just because you take one of the new Police Constables back to yours and have him fuck you all day, and then it gets about the station and you're dismissed.

It's in my blood, like it's in a lot of bloke's, and I've given in too long, but that's not how I want it to be. I'm nearer forty than thirty now and it's time to think about falling in love as well as in lust.

I got back up and started running again. Bounce, bounce, bounce with my hard dick — but who's going to notice?

As I resumed my circuit of the lake, in the serenity of the morning, I suddenly fell into step behind the other jogger, ponytail man. Lycra shorts man. Best-friend's-fit-older-brother-man. Probably-a-yoga-coach-who-visits-the-barbers-to-keep-his-beard-in-trim-because-his-wife-gives-him-a-look.

And did I mention the lycra shorts?

The curve of his arse as he ran was like something out of Roman sculpture, perfectly formed and glistening like black marble. The hairs on his legs were golden as this pure August sunlight that surrounded us. A dark stripe of a perspiration stain ran down the shoulder blades of his t-shirt, bisecting the words 'URANUS GYMS' and I just wanted to stick my face in there.

Fuck him, said my hard dick, as it bounced. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I forced myself to chuckle by way of reply, and stepped up my pace so that I overtook him. I couldn't stand that sort of temptation hanging around in front of me. Anything but the sight of that arse, making my dick singing loudly away to itself, singing porn film music, boom chicka chicka chicka, boom wow wow...

It was a great plan, but it was my first day out of the stables. I really didn't have the stamina to keep outpacing an actual athlete. I was running too hard in more than one sense, and when the stitch bit into my stomach, I stopped dead to draw breath.

He ran straight into me, the whole thing: yoga-coach-lycra-shorts-salt-and-pepper-bearded-fit-older-brother. I staggered, found my balance, reached out to stop him going (rock hard) arse over (breathtakingly defined) tit. He was blazingly hot in my arms, slippery with sweat. He stank. His blood was pumping hard in his veins, he was breathing like a steam train piston.

My dick was sticking painfully hard out and up into my jogging bottoms. As he stood up, he brushed right against it, looking down in surprise, then up at me. There was a look in his eye. Now, I'm thirty-six, and I know the look that was in his eye. I've never mistaken that look.

I've never ignored it.

'Cheers, bro,' he said, and jogged away, but he gave a long meaningful glance over his shoulder, and he was definitely going slower. Despite the stitch in my side, I went after him.

Off he jogged through the park, and then a sharp left into a mass of huge ornamental bushes. I stopped, looked both ways, and then went after him into the undergrowth.

It smelled of shit and mud and leaves in there. It smelled of roses and wet earth. In a second, though, I had blotted that out with the smell of him. My face was welded to his, my tongue was deep in his throat. My fingers were working the lyrcra shorts, rubbing swirls against his tight buns, dabbing the stretchy material right up into his man-crack. He was making noises and they were going right into my face. His hands were inside my jogging bottoms, working my cock, pumping away at it with both hands. Before I knew what was going on, he was on all fours, like he was going to do press-ups. He was peeling the lycra shorts down his gorgeous, rock-hard arse.

'I can't fuck you without a condom,' I said.

'Do it,' he said.

'No,' I said, smacking his arse.

'Fine,' he said, and pulled his lycra shorts up again, then indicated with a finger what I should do with my cock. Reader, I fucked that man through the stretchy fabric of his shorts, while he grunted and growled into the twigs and earth of the dirty ground.

I wanked him through the shorts too. His arms were strong enough that he could stay in that position — in the station, they used to call it the plank — for the whole duration of the fuck. I could feel him shuddering beneath me, but he stayed strong, as I slowly penetrated deeper and deeper into his stretch-covered arse, and his knob got harder and longer and more responsive within the same prison of black cloth.

'You fuck so good, tall guy,' he said.

'You gonna cum for me, lycra shorts guy?' I asked.

'Say the word,' he said.

'Cum for me,' I said.

'Fuck me deeper,' he said.

I thrust hard, and felt the lycra rip. I was sliding inside his juicy hole, but his cock was free. I could wank the foreskin back and forth across the pre-cum-frothing cockhead, as he growled and grunted with the exertion and the pleasure of the coupling.

'Cum for me,' I said.

'Okay, bro,' he said, and exploded all over my hand with a sigh, the sort of cum-load that falls in one hot wave, then another and another. I fell onto my knees and sprinkled a load over his arse, and then he was lying on the grass covered in spunk, front and back, with his shorts ripped to shreds. His plump cock lolled in the midst of the mess as he gazed up at me.

'That was unexpected,' he said.

'Yeah,' I said, though in some ways it had become everyday for me. 'What will you do about getting away? You can't walk around Dulwich looking like that.'

'I've got a change of clothes in my gym bag,' he said. 'Tied to my bike. You couldn't...?' He nodded toward the park gates where, I presumed, said bike was locked up. He shrugged and jogged away.

Buzzing with endorphins and ringing with terrible feelings, I jogged through the trees to the gates, brushing bits of leaf and dirt off me. I'd gone over to the sexy side. I'd betrayed myself. I rummaged through the bag, emblazoned with the words 'Uranus Gyms'. Full of curiosity, I turned his things over in my hands. There were bottles of energy drink and bulking powders, there was a laptop and science journals related to the body. He wasn't just a gym-goer, or even an instructor: he was a nutrition expert, a fitness specialist. I pictured his smart apartment, household as trim as he was. Perhaps, despite all we'd done, he had a wife and kids: perhaps it wasn't just a fantasy. He had everything in proportion, not just his body but his life.

I was just a thirty-something, out-of-work bloke with a dick that didn't quit.

When he cycled away, with hardly a smile, I wiped his spunk off my fingers with a wet-wipe and walked home pensively.

I spent the rest of the afternoon unable to settle; finally I decided to cook something nice for Mum and Dad's tea. Prove to them in one area at least I've progressed since I was last living under their roof, eighteen years ago...

Then, after tea, I came up to my room and began a search of local job vacancies. Not a huge amount going, but I've tried not to be deterred. This is a new start. It might well be a bit bumpy for the next couple of weeks, maybe even a month. But after it, I'll come out stronger.

Speaking of which, I found myself reliving the library scene again. I just couldn't put it out of my mind. In the end, the job search gave way to a full on wank session, searching online for images to feed my imagination. I looked at parades of muscle guys from around the world, searching further and further for contests between young dudes and muscle masters. I think I wanted to find one where the little guy came out on top.

No such luck. Maybe I'll have to write that story myself.

In the end I spent the longest amount of time on a site called Muscle Worshippers. It's essentially a cam site, not strictly straight or gay. Guys parade in front of their cams, in their back bedrooms, showing off what they've got. You tell them what you think. Everybody gets off on it, even though nobody seems to get their dicks out. It's all about the muscle, and I suddenly realised what an addict I am, how abject, before mass and strength and power.

I suddenly realised, more than the library kid, I'm going to spend my life on knees.

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4 hours ago, Ro20316 said:

I love the way you tell the story. TOur man character inner strugle is so well done.

Thank you so much! Just wait - the real excitement is still to come. Stephan is about to be tested to the limit.

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