Gesso

Note to Readers: This series concerns the adventures of a friend of ours. It's been embellished and fictionalized, partly by her as she told it, and partly by me. I have her permission to repeat it.

*****

I get in the car, pull off my sandals and toss them in the back, pull my keys out of my handbag and double check that my earrings and necklace are in there, then I start up and pull out. Already I feel a little wetness spreading into the crotch of my romper. I won't be able to keep it all in, but I want to lose as little as possible. Another twenty minute drive to the northeast part of town. An older neighborhood, not particularly prosperous looking, but the yards are nice, and there are a lot of big trees. I pull into the driveway of one of the larger single-story houses on a corner lot, at the wooded edge of the subdivision, brown brick walls and darker brown shingles on a hip roof. Two very large old trees are in the front yard, one a pecan and the other a tall magnolia. On the side is a live oak in need of pruning. There's little grass in the yard, much of it shaded and covered in old leaves and twig drop from the big trees.

I don't bother to put my sandals back on as I walk to the front door. It's hanging open, covered only by the unlocked screen. The windows are open in the same way, and I hear fans running inside. I don't announce my presence. Inside it's at least as hot as outside, and maybe even more humid. The fans move the air around, but there is little cooling effect. I drop the romper, tossing it to the arm of the couch in the living room to my left. Suddenly a loud metallic clang reverberates from the rear of the house. At the end of the hall, the kitchen is on the left side behind the living room. To the right the floor drops off a step into a slightly sunken den.

The source of the clanging is immediately obvious, and I already knew what caused it. The den has been set up as a very well equipped weight lifting gym. In the middle of the room is a power rack, to the sides are a cable pulldown machine, an incline bench, a deadlifting platform, and a hyperextension rack. A flat bench is inside the power rack, with an Olympic barbell on the hooks, loaded for a 350 pound bench press. That lift is complete, and the lifter is just now rising from the bench.

"Carl..." my voice lilts. "I have a cunt full of another man's cum, and I need you to push it all out and replace it with a cunt full of yours."

Carl faces me and smiles, and I almost lose that precious load of semen. My jaw drops. I'm not seeing anything I haven't seen many times before, but I have the same reaction every time. The view is simply too spectacular.

Not so much the face -- not a bad face, but it's not as easy on the eyes as Taylor's. Ruggedly handsome, some might say, "primitive" might be the description of others. I call him "my Denisovan." A wide forehead, slightly sloping back from heavy brows that roof eyes a little on the small side. His cheekbones are prominent, as is the jaw. His nose is also prominent, in fact, lips, chin, every feature of that face is prominent. It's a face made for an artist.

From the neck down, though... The only adjective I can possibly use is "flawless." Muscular, of course, as you'd expect of someone with a full weight lifting gym in his den. But more than that. Lean, his upper and lower body both perfectly developed, joined by a tight waist with washboard abs, a true six-pack. Broad shoulders, powerful arms, and bulging quadriceps and tight round glutes to match. Carl strongly reminds me of one of the classic old-school bodybuilders, maybe Reg Park or John Grimek, those who built their physiques in the era before steroids, before diuretics, before six percent bodyfat was expected.

He has eyebrows, but other than that his body is totally hairless. Scalp, face, chest, back, belly, legs, arms, pubes, scrotum, all are shaved completely bare. There is nothing blocking the luscious view of that luscious physique. There are no tan lines, either. Like me, he's naked whenever possible, and he has an open back yard with a high privacy fence, allowing him to spend a lot of time nude outdoors. Not just at home, either. We have a special place we go when we can.

Naturally, my eyes caress his entire body as he stands facing me. Just as naturally, they linger on another of his notable assets. His cock is about the same length as Taylor's -- a good length. It's not as wide, without the "flight deck," but nice and thick anyway. The shaft is almost perfectly circular in cross section, there's almost no taper between the base and the frenulum, a smooth uncut expanded glans, and a conical taper to the tip of the foreskin. When flaccid, he still extends outward as much as downward, and when erect, it's a straight forty five degree tilt with almost no curvature. I call it "Rocket Cock", because it reminds me of a missile ready to launch. Carl's foreskin tends to remain in place even when he's hard, so if I want to expose the warhead it has to be retracted manually. Or womanually.

At the base, between his legs, his testicles only complete the impression. There's no low-hanging scrotum, the ball sack is well separated, and each testicle sits mated to its mount like the external fuel tank below a fighter plane. It's an unforgettable sight, one that I already have many fond memories of. I wonder at times if real Denisovans had cocks like that.

At my announcement, Carl's cock extends, it's pointing horizontally at nearly full length. Definitely a rocket. With some effort, I recover my tongue and suck the drool back into my mouth.

"Nice," he intones. "We'll take care of that real soon. Now get down here and start your warmups. I'm almost done benching."

I make another effort to keep my pussy locked tight, to minimize leakage as I do some light stretching and twisting. Carl does another set of six reps at 325 pounds, and slams the bar back onto the J-hooks. He's breathing heavily, and his erection has, for now, disappeared. In the central Texas heat and humidity, with no air conditioning, his body is already shiny with sweat, accentuating the outlines of his impressive musculature.

I feel the sweat start to build on my own skin as well. There are full length mirrors on both walls, and I take a sidelong glance as I pass them. I have to admit I like what I see. There's a refrigerator against the far wall, I open it and take out a jug of a flavored sports drink. Carl has another one beside the bench, with several swigs already removed from it. He does one more set of bench press at 325 pounds while I complete my joint warmups. It doesn't take long. Then we both remove the plates from the bar and lower the hooks a notch. I lay down on the bench and arch my back, planting my bare feet on the floor. Carl takes the spotter position behind the bar.

There's no real need for a spotter at the moment, of course, I only have the bare bar to contend with. But I appreciate the view anyway, as his half-erection sways above my face. His balls are walnuts, his scrotum is deeply cleft and divided. Walnuts, drop tanks, bombs? It's still a rocket cock to me! I'm so tempted to reach up and grab him, but my position is hard to maintain, and I need to get this lift over with. I need to keep my core braced and my pussy shut tight to prevent leakage. It's good training, it keeps my abdominal muscles even stiffer, a great strength base for when the lifts get heavier.

I grab the bar with the proper grip and spacing, lift it off the hooks, and proceed to fifteen reps. That's probably the best warmup I can do. Despite my efforts, a little bit of Taylor's slowly decaying seed drips out of my cunt and smears onto the vinyl bench cover. The odor is getting strong, and combined with the smell of sweat coming from both of us, it creates quite the atmosphere in the room. I rack the bar, and grab at my chance. My chance is my right hand squeezing Carl's balls together, and my left tugging downward on his shaft. I let go, and it bounces up to a slightly higher angle than before.

"All in good time, little lady," Carl chuckles.

We add 30 pounds of plates to the bar, making it a 75 pound lift. It goes up easily, five reps. I'm not breathing hard yet. Another thirty pounds. Now Carl seems a little more attentive in his position, keeping his hands below the bar as I unrack it, making sure it doesn't drop. It's a bit of an effort, but I complete five reps strongly. Again, I give his balls and cock a tug when I finish.

"Good!" nods Carl as I stand back up, now breathing a bit more deeply. "Ready to go up a bit? I think you can do five reps at 115."

I've never done so many before. Last week I'd managed three reps at that weight, which was itself a personal best. But I'm getting stronger. Training with Carl has worked an amazing transformation on my body, and my image of it.

"I'm ready! I think I can do it too!"

We load a 35 pound plate on each end of the bar, and lock it with spring clips. I assume the position on the bench, and another small amount of used cum seeps out of me. I take a few deep breaths, squeeze the bar tightly, take a few more breaths, and lift the bar off the hooks. Carl stands ready to grab it if things go wrong, but he won't touch it otherwise. It goes down, then up. Smooth. Second rep, I feel strong. Third rep, I've equaled my previous best from a week ago. It's a little shaky, but I push it through cleanly. Fourth rep, the bar moves very slowly upward. Core tight, I remind myself. Keep those kegels locked down. It's past the sticking point. It's up! Do I have another repetition in me? The bar goes down, touching my sternum at the base. Core tight, I tell myself again. Pussy locked. Keep that ass on the bench.

"Keep that ass on the bench!" Carl reflects my thought back to me and amplifies it. "C'mon, leg drive! Push!"

The bar moves. Ever so slowly, it's nearing the halfway point. There's a tremor in my elbows.

"Come on Tethys, you got it! Keep pushing! You're almost there. Push it through!"

It's like he's coaching me through labor. For a second, the bar stalls. I'm going to have to dig deep. A grunt, then a whimper, bursts through my lips. Another inch. Upwards, another inch. It's now a battle between building fatigue and increasing mechanical advantage. I'm past the hardest point, but I'm also weakening fast. A last, desperate push.

"Lockout! You did it! Fuck yeah!" Carl Jumps for joy, and through tear-glazed eyes, I see his cock bouncing low, as low as I've seen it, and then back up again. It seems to be growing even more now. My bench presses do excite him. I want to grab that cock again, but I can't let go of the bar, and when I do, my arms drop helplessly to my sides. I'm gasping.

"One hundred fifteen pounds for five reps. For a woman of your size and weight, that's an advanced lift!" Carl's voice is as animated as I will ever hear it. "We'll be getting you to elite level eventually, I know you have the potential!"

It takes me a couple of minutes to recover. Carl's cock is rocket solid now, absolutely throbbing.

My arms are still a little shaky, but I'm ready. I flip over onto my stomach, elbows and knees on the bench.

"I'm still full of another man's cum," I pant.

He needs no further hints. He hurries around the rack, positions himself behind me. I feel his hands grab my ass cheeks so firmly, and then my kegels relax and open, responding to the mass of his flesh plunging inside me. I hear the squishy sound of trapped cum squeezing out, and the smell in the room is powerful. Carl thrusts happily, and it feels wonderful. There's nothing fancy, nothing particularly sensual, just raw animal sex, his cock in my cunt, his hands grasping my ass, and me arching my back to ease his access. Between the beautiful sensation of fullness in my pussy, and the feeling of accomplishment under the barbell, my sudden orgasm feels celebratory.

This fuck isn't intended to be a long lasting one. I come quickly, and a few minutes later, I feel the change in rhythm as Carl starts to build. The change is quick. His ejaculation is as voluminous as Taylor's, and he fills me to overflowing. When he pulls out, a long string of sticky pearls splats onto the end of the bench. It will be easy to clean. We both rest for a couple of minutes, then pull the bench out of the rack. It's time for my squats.

My labia and clit are still quivering, but my arms have recovered since my successful benching sets. I straighten up and pull the plates off the bar, rest the bar on the rack safeties, and reposition the J-hooks to just below shoulder height. I slide a couple of ten pound plates on each end, setting myself up for an 85 pound warmup squat. There's no need to try to hold Carl's cum inside me, he's already got the camera out. My first couple of squat sets are pretty hot looking, especially in Carl's mind, as the cum oozes or bubbles out a little each time I go to depth, and forms a long drip to the floor below. He has a whole gallery of pictures, and I know it's one of his favorite jackoff images. I'm happy to oblige.

He has another bar loaded on a set of J-hooks on the outside columns of the rack, which he uses for overhead presses. He watches my squat set, and takes a few pictures, when I'm resting between sets he does his own. He starts at 100 pounds and ramps up to 200 at five reps. His cock is as flaccid as it can be, but it's covered in slime, and as soon as the bar comes to rest on the hooks, I'm on my knees in front of him, cleaning him off thoroughly with my tongue and lips. There's still a little bit of Taylor there, the taste is unmistakable and powerful, especially after having had so much time to ripen inside my pussy. Not everyone likes this strong, musky aroma, but I'm not everyone. It smells manly and virile, and I'm completely captured by it. I can taste the more delicate, feminine qualities of my own juices on there too, and I'd say it adds to the total bouquet of sexual pheromones.

Once my cunt is drained, and Carl's cock is sucked clean, and the trace of our recent fuck is down to sweat and aroma, we hit the weights more seriously. I add another five pounds to my top squat, I'm now up to 160 pounds, although I could only do four reps. It's still progress. Carl moves to barbell rows, while I claim the cable row machine. We work in parallel, each on our own agenda, with little discussion. Occasionally Carl will correct my form or suggest a different weight, but for the most part, we each know what we're doing and monitor our own progress. I can see in the mirrors the pump in my muscles growing as I go.

It's a long, intense workout, Saturdays are the heaviest and longest workouts of the week. It takes us three hours to finish, and the smell in the room is ripe. Carl was wise to leave the windows open.

Carl has been my coach for two years now, and those two years have been some of the most significant of my life. I was little more than a stick figure when we met, and while I couldn't tear my eyes away from his magnificent physique, I expected him to not even notice me. He didn't, and I had to introduce myself. I assumed I'd be tossed aside in favor of the many other beautiful women vying for his attention, but he acted as though I had no other competition. Soon, I learned that I didn't. The only reason we got together is because I took the initiative. Carl, it turns out, is painfully awkward socially, the shyest exhibitionist I've ever seen. To say he dates rarely would be a bit generous. The truth is he's terrified of women, yet desperately wants their attention and their affection. He comes across as narcissistic and sometimes distant, he's a poor conversationalist, and frankly doesn't have a lot of interesting things to talk about. As hot as his body is, he doesn't often present it well in public, and it seems there are few women other than myself shallow enough to pursue him based on his physical appearance alone. He's comfortable around me, but even that took some time and effort on my part.

Despite his social flaws, Carl has been a good coach. In the last two years I've put on fourteen pounds, most of it muscle. He's advised me on my diet, increased my protein intake, introduced me to creatine, and made me a hell of a lot stronger than I'd ever dreamed of being. My curves have filled out, still enough fat to keep me smooth, but the muscles underneath are visible, and I'm now lean in the best sense rather than skinny. My own confidence has increased, and so has my libido. It was always on the high side, but now it's through the roof. That's not a bad thing.

Carl installs rooftop solar panels for both industrial and residential use. That doesn't mean he's green, or environmentally woke. He's not against it, he just doesn't think about it. It's a job, and it's outdoor work, which he likes. He's a-political, a-philosophical, a-religious, and a-intellectual. He does what he does, and his world is rather narrow. He has little interest in my art, or anyone else's. But he's a raw animal motherfucker, he's been good for my body and my mind, I love working out with him and fucking the hell out of him. Nothing fancy, just raw animal sex. It's the perfect FWB relationship, from my point of view.

It hasn't all been one way. I think I've been good for him too. Having someone to coach, some sense of responsibility for another person, as well as someone he wants to please, to make happy, has brought him somewhat out of his shell. He seems less narcissistic, more relaxed, and less needy than he did originally. It took some experimentation for him to discover his attraction to sloppy seconds. It fires up his competitive instincts, he somehow feels dominant over the man who's semen his replaces. Fucking another man's cum out of me makes him feel like he's won. That has got to be a primeval Denisovan trait.

I'm about halfway through my second sports drink when we finish. We need a shower. We climb in the stall, start the water, and I start soaping up Carl. This is a bonus. Rubbing my soapy hands over his rippling, hairless body is a sensual delight. From his hard shiny scalp, to his cave-man face, his sculpted shoulders, massive chest, bulging arms, the cobbles of his abdomen and the perfect round ass cheeks, the graceful sweeping thighs, down to his surprisingly attractive feet and perfect toes, then back up again. I can't forget the rocket cock, which is now standing high, extended fully, that strained foreskin still masking the tip. I fold it back, and give the exposed head a gentle wiping. Carl shivers with excitement, totally under my control. I feel sexy, powerful, even dominant.

I kneel and take him in my mouth. Not too deep, and not for too long. I need to feel him inside me again. I stand, turn to the wall, and thrust my ass towards him through the streaming hot water. He takes the hint, extending his arms around my tits, grabbing and squeezing my nipples, then using them as handles to brace me as he effortlessly slides his cock inside. I cum quickly, but Carl doesn't. I don't want him to, yet. I could fuck in the shower all day, but Austin water is expensive, and we have places to go.

I thrust my hips forward, and his cock pops out. I turn around, smile, and grab the razor blade from the hanging mesh shelf under the shower head. He's mostly smooth, but there's the faintest hint of bristle, and I want him to be slippery. I turn the water off, mix the bar soap with a conditioning body wash, and suds him again. It takes just a few minutes, scalp, back, front, pubes, balls, arms, and legs. I leave the face for him. Then a few quick strokes on my own pubes, armpits, and legs, and I feel presentable to the world. The water comes back on for a quick rinse, and then we're done and out.

"Do you want to fix a lunch here or eat out?" I ask as we finish drying.