Fitness Club Initiation

The Allen Street Health and Fitness Club is so much more than just a health and fitness club. It is all of those things of course, and it is also a Spa. There are world-class massage therapists there, available day and night for the perfect post-workout recovery.

There are locker facilities, exercise machines, free weights, all that stuff, even an indoor olympic-sized swimming pool.

Nutrition? Of course. The finest pre-, during, and post-workout foods and drinks are available. The water is of the finest purity, and there is a wide selection of the best and most cutting-edge of electrolyte-replenishing beverages.

It has no licenses, is completely unregistered with any city, state, municipality, commonwealth or government. It pays no salaries and reports no taxes. It exists and is busy and full of people every hour of the day, and yet it does not exist.

Not on paper, save this one.

In the technical sense, it is not even a private club, despite the many fit and well-dressed men who can be seen coming and going through either the elegant front doors opening onto Allen Street, or via the more popular, gated and circular driveway, that can be accessed by foot or motorcar, from the house's rear.

In the technical and legal sense, it is a private home, owned by a rich old widow, who can often be seen on the premises, admiring the fit male flesh on display. Because this is only a private residence and not a commercial business, it makes these men her houseguests. She can say who stays and who goes at a word.

Good manners and good behavior are highly prized by the membership, almost most of all.

The members have paid a pretty penny and have passed a rigorous background and physical check-up to get in. But bad behavior could ruin a good thing for everybody, so the widow's word is the final word. The fiction that these are all her guests, and she's throwing a decades-long fitness party, is the one her husband devised on his deathbed to protect her. It was eccentric enough and true enough that it just might work if ever confronted with the harsh light of day. Would it survive a reporter's inquiry? Good thing the widow's husband bought the only newspaper in town decades ago.

She has not had to cancel anyone's membership to-date, that is, there's no gossip that she ever has. Good thing, since she definitely would not be refunding the ample initiation fee nor any of the monthly dues and special assessments.

It started out from a simple desire: a nice place to work out nude, in public with other bodies that want to work out in the nude. This was the idea that the widow's husband had originally possessed.

And then, if those bodies might get aroused by working out in the nude around other nude bodies, then it might be nice to have a place that let's you do something about it right then and there.

"It's what everybody wants to do, so why are we lying about it?" the widow's husband used to say.

Having already the olympic-sized pool that he inherited with the house and estate, it was also easy to retrofit the ballroom into an elegant temple of both cardio and strength training. Mirrors everywhere, originally to reflect the dancers, but now to reflect the sweating, healthy bodies of the exercising members.

The natural high, grand ceiling of the nineteenth century ballroom, easily accommodated the highest-end ventilation, heating, and cooling system, updated each decade or so. After all, the ballroom was originally designed to accommodate more than a hundred dancing, reveling, sweating, scheming, planning, lusting Victorians, and then Edwardians, and always with their human servants.

Nudity was not required, but it was always an option, and the option favored in one way or another by most of the guests. It was not uncommon for members to work out nude but for sneakers and socks, and perhaps a towel around their neck or shoulders. This was thought in fine keeping with the spirit of the endeavor. Feet and toes are delicate things, but the membership were all adults, and more were adult enough to have long walked the earth in search of such opportunities as the Health and Fitness Club provided. Those who did not wish to risk their toes on modern cardio and weight lifting equipment were hardly shunned. But adults are also adult enough to weigh and chance any risks. Of course, the risk of a weight dropped on a foot and/or a toe is far less when the lifter is not lifting any silly type of weight above his casual control. Reps over weight was decidedly the mantra of the Health and Fitness Club.

As the years went on, for those who discovered it, the Health and Fitness Club's pleasures did not go stale. The membership grew organically. In the first decade, only a few friends and their occasional, ever-changing lovers.

But they told two friends. And then they told two friends. And then they told two friends...And several decades later, hundreds of guests, almost entirely male, had circuited their way through the pec decks and free weight benches and steppers and climbers and gliders and runners and all the rest, regularly maintained and changed out over time for the newest and best equipment.

Nothing to hide the honest beauty of the body. The simple beauty of muscles expanding and contracting. The purity of pecs and delts and lats and traps and glutes and taut hammies and of course the abs.

Watching the other exercisers is not discouraged, rather, it is the other great purpose of the Allen Street Health and Fitness Club. To have a safe space where admiring and being admired can be normalized. Hard bodies, soft eyes.

And even with soft bodies, never critically hard eyes, for bodies in all states and stages were to be honored in this temple the widow and her husband created and curated. Honesty and Humanity could be a motto.

The clanging of weights happens. The pounding of hearts and of feet happens. Heavy breathing happens.

Erections happen. With so much blood pumping, with so many hearts racing, with so many fine bodies on display, bodies pumping in the nude as well, erections might last and erections might tend to be on display.

Thus, those stiff hard penises might appear mouth watering to some mouths. To some hungry eyes.

To a pair of eyes belonging to a thick-lipped hunk from across the room working on some lat machine. Tasty, tasty, the perfect reward for all that pumping, for all that sweating. Eye contact is made, a head nod. The erect man on the treadmill, running at seven miles per hour with his dick fully on hard: he's hot to go like Chappell Roan.

No need to head to the single locker room and the single shower area where there are no shower stalls, just all in the open shower heads and tastefully placed benches for--balance. No need to delay at all. Move to a corner of the gym or get to playing on the machines you're using. There are ample stations around the room with sprays and cloths and wipes to wipe down the equipment after use, any kind of use, all kinds of use, and members are diligent in their self-policing and maintenance of the cleanliness standards.

The widow demands a civilized clientele. This is her home, after all.

So it's not uncommon to sit back on the machine you're using, nod to the cute stranger or maybe regular gym friend, and get your cock sweetly sucked by a bro's knowledgeable mouth. When friends have friends in town who've never had a man's mouth on their cock before, the Allen Street Health and Fitness Club is where those friends take them. Members are always permitted a guest with them, so long as the guest is discreet and excellently behaved.

The widow was never herself much for exercise, but she was an inveterate enjoyer of the male form. The secret to her successful marriage, she always said, was that despite the wide difference in ages between herself and her much-older husband, she had such enthusiasm for watching him have all the fun he wanted to around the house, and she never minded the passions he indulged in outside the house, which of course included only very few that she knew he did not want her to watch him indulge in.

But she never tired of coming downstairs at all hours of the day and night, to see her husband fucking the servants on the furniture, sucking the sweaty gym members on the stationary bikes, or perhaps out on the back lawn, engaging in the most obscene game of leap frog she had ever seen. It was so filthy, she positively could not take her eyes away.

The high fees the widow charged to her members were not more than they could afford, for the Allen Street Health and Fitness Club was a beacon to the most successful men in the Valley, and even to those in the region, as it grew in private, personal esteem and acclaim.

They in turn were happy to sponsor the new members whom they thought would most advance the goals of the club best: that is, to have a safe place for the human need for physicality in the civilized world.

The fees provided for maintenance of the facilities to a high and regular standard. Trusted personal trainers and massage therapists were welcomed, either into club membership, or to regular guest status, so that they might meet the club members, for example, on the gym floor or in the Spa's treatment rooms. There, the widow provided a space, usually free of charge, for the massage therapists to see and charge clients appropriate fees for a variety of massage services.

Anything changing hands was nothing more than a gratuity, thus was not taxable and not even income to be reported. Everyone was most happy with this arrangement. Living on the grid but off the grid. Full power and running water, but otherwise invisible.

It was very popular to finish a long workout in the ballroom, then take a long, hot shower in the open locker room. Dry one's self off, and then, without having to put any clothes back on, to walk over for a massage in one of the Spa's ample and well-stocked treatment rooms. Each has all manner of accoutrements should they be needed: river stones, an oil warmer, hot towel warmers, essential oils, CBD oils, Hitachi magic wands, sanitized plugs for the anus, silicone sleeve-style strokers, and a rich collection of inhalants infused with essential oils.

From the ground outside it might seem like a single-story series of storage rooms for the indoor pool, but inside it is one of the finest private Spas not on either Coast of the United States, and even nicer than some Spas on those Coasts. Elegant choices in woods and stone and lighting. The widow and her husband were perfectionists when it came to stylish and functional interior design and decor.

Not only were there several, generously-sized private massage rooms, but there were several public massage spaces as well, where what was happening on the table could be observed by others around, as well as a group massage space, where several dozens could sit and congregate in therapeutic touch.

Beyond massage spaces, were several serious skincare treatment rooms, where exfoliation treatments with licensed but moonlighting therapists could be hired at a rate that was more than reasonable to members, but far above what the licensed therapist could receive from licensed clinics and Spas. Utilizing the highest professional standards and the most up-to-date facility space, with the best shower-tables commercially available, a long exfoliation treatment after a long workout or, even better, after a long workout and then a long massage, was the ultimate end to an ultimate health and fitness day.

For those who wanted a break from machines, nude hot yoga classes with endless free towels provided, happened three times a day and twice after midnight. Just because this region was not coastal did not mean the hearts of Club members did not beat twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year.

It was rumored that the nude yoga instructors lived rent-free on the estate's grounds, even perhaps in the estate's main house itself, with the widow. But the joy and pleasures of working out in the nude was understood by the membership as a rare but essential pleasure, rare and hard to find and not to be wasted. While time there did not have to be rushed, and should never be rushed at all, it also did not have to be wasted with gossip.

Pumping iron in the nude around other nude people pumping iron, other flexing buttocks and stiffening cocks, was such a seldom and hard-searched for pleasure, rushing a visit would be a waste.

Even as Health and Fitness Club life became part of the regular routine of the members and their regular guests, for many guests were valued and treasured but could never become members themselves, for reasons sometimes great and sometimes small, but their company was never unappreciated, the constancy of this beacon of life and truth never became something the membership took for granted nor which they ever failed to delight in and cherish as fresh and new. Perhaps it was the continued anomaly that the Health and Fitness Club was in the outside world that kept the experience fresh on the inside for the members, no matter how many times they had seen something such as a member or their guest or often both, waiting patiently and dutifully to suck off anyone who had just finished their set at the squat rack.

Apparently, the sight of the flexing muscles of each subsequent ass was a natural turn on for these people. They enjoyed the kneeling and the waiting. It was said, just watching their faces while they watched a lifter squat, could stiffen any cock with sympathetic arousal.

Empathy was positively in the air of the main ballroom at the Allen Street Health and Fitness Club.

The widow has a linen service handle all of the towels and sheets on a contract. She does not have to worry about the linen company employees gossiping about the number of linens this one private mansion goes through on a weekly basis: she owns the linen company. Such are the advantages of being wealthy in a small, regional city.

Numerous members are and have always been physicians, of course, as two of the original founding members were; one of whom was the personal doctor to the widow's husband, the other whom was her gynecologist. Physicians of various specialties and practices of course, and their nurses, usually the nurses in practice with them, and very often some of the orderly and clerical/reception staff, have made up the most consistent backbone of the Health and Fitness Club's membership over the years. So popular has it been with the region's medical community, as they are now called, that there is almost always a doctor or other medical professional in the house, either working out in the ballroom or in the Spa, in one of the Saunas, in one of the Steam Rooms, or having a Skincare treatment.

A rotating clinic staffed by these doctor-members make up the only weekly obligation of any member. Blood draw, pee in the cup, present the equipment for visual inspection. Members must see the doctor on duty every ten days, which means if a member has been on a long vacation with his family or a long work trip with his office, he has to check in with the doc on duty before he can check in again to the rest of the facilities.

Because physicians with local practices made up the founding members, there has been an ever-updating medical office, hidden away discreetly and privately towards the back of the Spa area. And because licensed medical technicians have always made up the membership since it began to expand in the last decade, there have been professional grade lab machines in the back of that medical office to run submitted fluids in a sterile environment and produce rapid results.

Appropriate antibiotics stocked but seldom needed. The membership were a clean bunch, and discreet. Their collective ability to control and channel their passions was what permitted this new institution and what kept it stable.

Also, it was not uncommon for a regular medical examination to, after the patient appearing to pass with flying colors; one more standard ten-day visit in an unbroken string of ten-day visits going back a long string of tens of days; it was not uncommon for a regular medical examination to turn into a thorough medical examination, a rather thorough exam indeed, making sure the patient's penile health, while excellent, was in line with excellent prostate health, also.

All kinds of lubricants, the deliberately soothing and the deliberately irritating alike, were available to the physician on duty. The medical office was kept no less well-maintained than the Spa.

In the history of the Health and Fitness Club, which was not written down or documented anyplace, and any actual records were filtered through so many convenient Limited Liability Companies and fake entities that to piece even some of the story together, one would already have to know something about what one was looking for, there were extremely few documented cases of outside Infection, and only of the bacterial kind, easily treated and dispensed with, and nothing spread inside, as far as anyone ever knew.

Several of the doctors enjoyed having a female nurse with them, especially if the straighter-leaning members were seeking examination and clearance. Nothing was more relaxing for the doctor's purposes than a buxom nurse in a now-outdated low-cut old-fashioned uniform. Scrubs no, facemask, yes. It enhanced the desire. To see what was hidden. To have what was hidden.

Many of these nurses, present as guests of the doctor on duty and not a member themselves, were people also present in the outside lives of the doctors, going with him on kinky trips to kinky destinations where kinky games were played. Enjoyed the life in the upscale underground, enjoying flying high on the delicious opiates that kept them skinny and euphoric that doctors in this region could so easily get, enjoyed the arousal and the desire for them they saw in the hard, and sometimes thick, and sometimes long, and rarely but sometimes long and thick erections that ended up staring them in their masked faces.

The doctors and the nurses both enjoyed the nurses remaining masked until that final moment. That final moment when the impossible promise would be made and fulfilled and then anything was possible.

"Look here, young man," the doctor would say, calling every member young man no matter how old he was, "let my nurse give you the oral treatment, that will relax you and open you up so I can check your prostate." Moving the patient over a piece of equipment. "Bend over here, just slightly. Rest yourself against it. See, she can work on you through there, make sure you're nice and seen to. Meanwhile," the sounds of lubricants, the snap of a fresh glove.

The nurse enjoyed the way the man in her mouth moved, the sounds he made, when the doctor's prostate treatment began. Getting so close to these reluctant ones was part of the thrill that kept her coming back. Feeling their pleasure as they gave in, holding them tenderly or not so tenderly by their most tender part while they were so sweetly vulnerable... the experience was like hospital-grade morphine right into her soul, or so it was to the nurses who kept coming back for this bizarre ritual they could tell no one about, especially not how beautiful it was. Hence the need for hospital-grade morphine right into her veins. Sometimes even when beautiful secrets cannot be told, it becomes a destructive thing.

But most of the time it was just fuckin' fun and mind-bendingly hot.

The feel of her teeth on a man who was not quite enjoying it. Enjoying adding to the patient's distress. Biting for a change. Biting not sucking. Hearing those yelps. No, a patient that was not quite enjoying it. But the doctor was, that was the fun. The doctor was hammering away, getting his grove on and well on. Maybe some of those burning lubricants, those warming but warms the receiver too hot lubricants that this doctor loved most, maybe the doctor had one of those on, easing his way. Easing his way and making his patient's more tough. More sensitive, but that ouchy kind of sensitive. Having fun and giving some of that taken feeling. Blissful release in the medical office.