I'm shaking as I approach the gate, palms slicked with cold sweat, heart slamming, stomach twisting. I'm really doing this, about to go through the gate—finally, after walking past it every day on my way to and from work, hearing the repeated clank of massive weights that would crush my slender frame, the deep manly grunts echoing in a massive chest, wrenched out of his throat as his herculean muscles strain and the barbell lifts, every sinew shaking, swelling, pushing against his skin, groaning fuck yeah fuck yeah one more, the guttural climax of each rep rumbling in my gut and in my cock, do it just fucking do it yeah, my dick pressing painfully against my zipper as I stall, listen to the roars of deep muscular satisfaction as he flexes and sweats and forces his body to powerful extremes, right on the other side of that gate.
A tall wooden fence surrounds his yard, but sometimes this gate in the side is open a few feet, and when I hear him blasting through an intense workout, I can't help but briefly glance through when I walk by, see those unbelievably pumped up mounds of muscle bulging in his tight workout gear, the sweat pouring down his back and between his pecs, spreading a dark stain that makes his shirt stick to his thick bulges of muscle. Just a momentary impression as I pass by that gate, but it burns in my memory so I can analyze every detail later. Sometimes I wonder if I'm exaggerating in my memory, making him out to be bigger than he is—but then I'll catch a glimpse of him again and he's bigger than even my wildest wet dreams.
But that had been the extent of it until today. In fact, in the 25 years that I've been on this earth, I've never gotten to feel the toned taut up-thrust of a muscular man's bulging body under my hands, never gotten to do more than gaze with longing at rippling midsections and ballooned-out pecs. So many times I've fantasized about the way those muscles would feel, their heat, power, and hardness, the way they'd swell and jump and flex under my fingers, against my face, against my cock.
And then today I found a letter from a top bodybuilding organization addressed to him in my mailbox, dropped off there by mistake. The only thing that kept me from panicking was realizing that I had a duty here, I had to do the right thing. So I carried it to his front door, wiping my hands on my shirt so he wouldn't find a damp thumbprint on the envelope. I thought I'd just drop it in his mailbox—but the moment I lifted the lid to slide the letter in, his front door opened and my heart all but stopped.
He was in a thin white muscle shirt that exposed every bulging, brawny inch of his huge arms, biceps exploding out, forearms riddled with veins—and his pecs were so large and round that they swelled out of the sides of the arm holes and made clear ridges below his throat, his nipples distinct at the bottom of their broad sweeps, the shadows of his unbelievably cut abs showing through the thin material below them. Blue shorts struggled to reach around his wide thighs and draped tightly over the ponderous bulge between his legs—a fullness so prominent that nobody could help imagining what he was packing, interpreting the different curves as the fat snake of his cock and the pair of spunk-filled balls it rested between, their size and weight filling him with the need to fuck out his manly seed.
"Hey, thanks man." When he took the letter from me, he grinned out of the side of his mouth. In his late twenties or early thirties, with black hair shaved close on the sides and refusing to lie flat on top, dark eyelashes, strong jaw covered in stubble, full lips. Fucking gorgeous, sensuous, virile. "Got just one week to go till the big show. Think I'm ready?" flexing his right arm, making his bicep thrust up forcefully. He took in the obvious awe on my face, smirking, cocky—yeah you like to show off, you know you're a fucking musclestud don't you. You've got that fierce glint in your eyes saying I could make your cock fucking explode, make you thrash and wail and sweat and howl as you blow a thick wad all over your own fucking face.
"Y-you're huge. I've never seen a bigger bicep in my life," I managed to stammer out. I'd normally be too shy to admit this out-loud, but bodybuilders just accept it as a compliment, right? "You're definitely going to win."
"Yeah? Thanks," as if it was nothing, crossing his forearms, making his pecs press up. Fuck, he looks so hard. I'm desperate to know what that feels like. "I was just about to work out. I could use a spot. How 'bout you help me out?"
"R-really?" It took a few seconds for me to process that, and then I'd barely managed to gasp out my agreement before he tossed the words "Then meet me out back" over his shoulder and went into the house, closing the door behind him, leaving me with one final impression of those blue shorts hugging his perfectly round bulbous asscheeks.
I was stunned for a moment, thinking maybe I'd imagined it all. But then my feet automatically took me to the gate, to this moment when I push it open and finally walk into that weight-strewn yard, with the blistering August sun searing my shoulders, gleaming off the metal and iron, making his tanned skin gleam and his white shirt glow as he heaves massive weights onto a barbell.
He calls me over and then lies down on the bench, which is set at a slight incline, pushes himself beneath the bar, firm fingers gripping it, lats spreading out wider than the bench, his stomach sucked in and tight below his massive chest, abs so carved they're visible through his shirt, legs wide enough to let the heavy bulge in his shorts dangle between his giant thighs. I know where to stand, but I feel awkward and useless when I do. There's no way I could lift the bar if he had a problem, but I could at least undo the collars and slide the weights off, I suppose.
My hands are resting on the bar when he lifts it out of the rack, brings it down to his chest and thrusts it up with immense force, his power rushing through my hands and tingling all over my body. I'm using the band of my boxers to keep my cock pressed up against my stomach so he won't see it, but it's so hard that it's thrusting away from my body nonetheless as I watch him grind out his set, the scattered veins scrawled over his arms getting lumpier, the blood pumping through them as his muscles swell and swell, each rep making them thrust out, so I can practically see them grow as the shiver of intense contractions ripples through them.
I can only imagine what it must be like, feeling your muscles getting pumped like that, engorged and rock-hard, making your skin so tight, like your entire body's a veiny muscled shaft full of manly strength desperate to fuck and fuck and blast your hot load all over the fucking place.
And the sweaty mounds of his pec muscles are bunching together, ballooning in the sweat-soaked cotton, the fabric made transparent, his dark nipples showing through, his stomach sucking in and the bottom of his ribcage standing out, the fabric of his shorts high over his thick veiny thighs, and I swear I can see a thickening bulge in those shorts, see the shape of a swelling cockhead. He's grunting as he strains, his arms shaking, fighting for the last rep—until he clangs the barbell back in place, breath rushing from his manly chest.
One hand wanders down to rest on his tight stomach, rub back and forth a little. He's so lucky that he gets to touch that body every day. It's available to him every single minute of every single day.
Then I can barely believe my eyes when that wandering hand wanders even further south to tug at the hardening bulge in his shorts, massage his heavy balls. "Getting pumped always makes me fucking hard," he rumbles with a snicker. "You mind?"
I'm not sure what he's asking, but I stammer out "N-no. Of course not" anyways.
"Good. 'Cause I was leaking all over the damn place." And he reaches his hand right into the sweaty hot shorts and pulls out his fat dick, the head moist with precum. He lets it lie flat against his stomach, three-quarters of the way to the vertical slit of his navel, which is visible through his sweat-soaked shirt. "Let's do this!"
And he grabs the bar and begins pumping iron again, with that amazing cock pointing at me out of his shorts, quivering and rising away from his stomach as it hardens further and further, the veins darkening, the skin flushing, the shiny precum starting to dangle off his cockhead. "Fuck, come on!" he roars; the bar thrusts under my hands, his pecs swell and bunch and his cock rises, hovering over his taught, sucked-in stomach, the sunlight making the precum glisten on his tip as he grunts and pushes up the bar, his muscles shaking and swelling, his shirt getting wetter and wetter with manly sweat, his cock lifting and the precum wobbling, dangling, stretching down to those taut muscles.
"Fuck, come on, one more!" he roars, the muscles jump in his arms, the cords in his pecs ripple, the muscles in his cock tighten even harder and push out another fat dollop of sticky juice—and then the bar clangs into place and he's panting and sweating, swinging his arms, feeling their hardness. He's finally done, his entire body flushed and toned and wet, his cock shaking and shivering and dribbling and straining, desperate for release.
He gets off the bench, grabs the soaked thin bottom of his shirt and pulls it off, the fabric rolling up over his muscled torso, barely squeezing past the lats that flare out from his sides when he brings his arms over his head. He wads it casually in his hands, then tosses it to the ground.
"Man, I've always gotta blow my load after a workout," he says, and yanks his shorts down a little further so his cock can swing free. "I guess you know what that's like, huh?" I'm not sure what he means by that and if he's actually looking at my cock when he says it. But I'm distracted as the built-up precum in his stiff dick pours out in a thin translucent stream that dangles, then finally lets go and falls to the sunbaked ground. Fuck, he's got such a juicy cock. Such a hard wet muscular fucktool that I'd like to choke down my throat before drinking his flooding manjuice.
