Full Body Workout 1

"Now come over here, Rick," the host calls. "Stand right there."

In nothing but a pair of bright blue shorts, I stand in the glare of the studio lights with the audience's eyes on my shredded torso. "Everyone, this is Rick." No it isn't. That name's just in the script.

"Now check out those abs! Come on, give us a flex, Rick." I do, to an exaggerated chorus of oohs from the bored-out-of-their-minds crowd. "Those are some amazing abs, aren't they? I bet you all wish you had abs like Rick here. Well you can—in only twenty minutes a day!

"What you do is strap on my latest invention, the Ab-omatic 6000! Just tighten the belts here—" his hands graze my hips as he straps on the ridiculous-looking device "—and you turn this switch on and—watch those abs jump! Look how hard they're contracting!" Of course they are. I'm making them do that. The device works, but not THAT well. "What Rick's doing is he's getting a full workout with none of the WORK. I bet that feels good, doesn't it, Rick?"

My fake smile is just as much of a workout as what I'm doing with my abs. And it's just as important, if not more important. You see, what people are really buying is the belief that they don't need to rely on the old, backbreaking methods that have worked for decades. They want to believe there's an easier way, a quicker way, when there's really nothing else for it but to suck it up and lift weights for endless hours in the gym. You'd certainly never see a pro bodybuilder fiddling around with a hunk of plastic like this.

I sound like I resent this, but actually it doesn't bother me in the least. Infomercials have become my bread and butter ever since Jason—a friend from my gym who's also on stage right now—got me my first gig in '98. Maybe it's something to do with the start of the new millennium, but it seems there's a new TV fitness infomercial shooting every week these days for all those people wishing to finally get in shape in the year 2000, and I can't count the number of hours I've spent shirtless, doing repetitive motions while sitting in or wearing increasingly ridiculous gadgets in front of blazing hot lights and bored audiences.

And several of them have been with Cliff, the host gesturing to my ripped torso right now. He may be hawking hunks of plastic that are just going to wind up in people's attics, but he's the real deal. Even now that he's in his early forties, he still ranks among the best bodybuilders in the world. I know what I am, a fitness model with the "ideal" body type, ripped and muscular but not big enough to freak people out. What these companies need is a model that most people want to look like—and most people don't see themselves as a veined-up muscle bull like Cliff here. But after a hugely successful career, he's got the name and reputation to convince people to buy, even if they'd rather look like "Rick" than him.

"Thanks a lot Rick. You're looking real good," he says, unstrapping the device from my stomach. But to be totally honest, glancing over at those muscles makes my gut tingle more than the stupid device ever did. His black tank top looks like it can barely restrain the bulges that swell and shift with every movement. I can't look at him long because the sight of his trim waist holding up a set of four swollen boulders—bicep, pec, pec, bicep, straight across in a line of striated muscle—is enough to squeeze my cock and make it throb.

If I'm not careful, I'll spring a massive hard-on right here in front of all these people in my shiny blue shorts. How'd he react to that, huh? "Now check out Rick's dick, everyone! You ever see a stiffy like that? I bet you all wish you had a cock like Rick here. Well you can—in only twenty minutes a day! What you've gotta do is just yank down these shorts here and wrap this belt around his cock like so..."

We're done filming in an hour, and I finally head back to my dressing room to towel off and get dressed. I glance wryly at the complimentary Ab-omatic 6000 that's been left for me along with a handwritten note from Cliff. He's a decent guy and he always treats his models well. The female fitness models haven't had any complaints about him, which is sadly more than can be said for some of the other hosts I've had to put up with.

I say bye to my buddy Jason and make my way out of the building with a detour to piss out what feels like two bottles of H2O on the way. I'm standing at the urinal, just feeling the heat of my piss start to gather at the base of my dick when the door swings open and Cliff saunters over to the urinal next to mine. "Hey," he says. "Hey," I say, deliberately keeping my eyes fixed on the white tiles in front of me. There isn't much else allowed between guys in this social situation, is there?

But damn, the firehose has dried up. No matter how swollen my bladder is, none of it's getting out with that musclegod next to me. I'm not even looking at him, but his presence is a physical force. A heat and a tension from the proximity of his huge body. He's still dressed like he was onstage, in a black tank top and shorts, so his fully exposed right arm's just an inch away from me. An erection is the last thing I need right now—besides the fact that I can't piss when I'm hard, there's the whole problem of if he notices. I mean, he's not looking, but what if he did? I doubt I'd get any more calls to work with him. It's looking like I don't have much choice in the matter, though, 'cause I can already feel that tingling fullness gathering.

And then there's the rustle of his shorts as his arm moves to free his cock while he grunts with satisfaction. Since he's wearing training shorts with no zipper, he must've pulled out just his dick or even his whole package and let it hang out in front, buoyed up by the waistband under his balls. I can sense from the position of his arm that he's letting that tube of meat fill his palm, and there's the pounding splash that means his fingers are heated with the running stream of piss shooting up his shaft and spraying the urinal.

Fuck. I'm getting so fucking hard now, to the point that I can feel my foreskin rolling back over my sensitive glans and I have to take a slight step back so my rising dickhead won't touch the wet white porcelain. He obviously notices my movement because he rumbles, "Nothin' coming out? Sorry man. Didn't mean to make it hard for you."

"Huh? No, I—" I can't help glancing to the left, and I see he's still staring straight ahead, not looking at my erect cock, so maybe he didn't meant it THAT way. But it breaks my fixed gaze on the wall, and glancing over at his chiseled face means those fantastic pecs bulging in his shirt automatically draw my gaze down—and I can't help but keep going till I see he's shaking out the last drops from the thickest, meatiest cock I've ever seen. He's completely soft, but it looks the way most guys look when they're springing a boner. That penis is like a fucking flexed forearm, with thick purple veins and a swollen mushroom cockhead. It's like a muscle pumped up vigorously over an hour in the gym.

"F-Fuck!" I breathe, the air forced from my lungs by the sight.

He looks over, sees what I'm staring at, and grins. "Full-Body Workouts by Cliff. I mean what I say."

"You mean, you trained your cock to get that way?"

"Sure. In only twenty minutes a day." A fucking cheeky wink, but damn it's charming. It's no wonder he can get people to phone in.

"Don't tell me—"

"Yep. That thing you were wearing today can train more muscle groups than we advertise. Not just your dick, but your PC muscle. But 'cause of regulations and all that—people need to be careful, you see. Your dick's not meant to get pumped up too fast. We figure guys'll go nuts and injure themselves if they find out. I mean, tell a thousand guys they can work out their dick, and how many of them do you think will stick to twenty minutes a day?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I get it."

"But you won't tell anyone. And now that you know... hey, you're a big boy. You can handle yourself." Which is when I realize I've still got a deathgrip on my straining cock, which is leaking a good glob of precum. Grinning out the side of his mouth, he stuffs that muscled dick in his shorts and leaves.

The next day at the gym, I tell my buddy Jason about the whole thing. "That piece of junk?" he scoffs, "I tossed that thing in the trash as soon as I got home. You seriously believed that?"

"Hey, listen. I'll believe anything a guy with a dick like that says," I shrug, but all he does is roll his eyes and we leave it at that. To be honest, I'm not sure if he'd share my appreciation for Cliff's muscled cock. Nothing ever seems to break his composure, and there's always a slight distance between me and the immaculate smooth planes of his body, even though I've often fantasized about it. Changing and showering next to him in the locker room at the gym, I've frequently noticed what a gorgeous dick he's working with, in addition to all the other assets of a professional fitness model. There's nothing I'd like more than to discuss it with him in as much detail as possible, but it seems this conversation's been shut down.

However, that doesn't stop me from strapping the device onto my dick that night and turning it on. Instantly, my cock starts to clench, like when you bring yourself right to the edge and stop stroking, so your cock jerks a few dry times. The sensation seems to build, though, a fuzzy tingle that grows somewhere inside my cockhead as the jerks slowly get stronger and stronger. After ten minutes, the cum is dribbling out of my slit and onto my lower abs, my dick on fire as the device continues to milk it. Then for the next ten minutes, I strap it onto the muscle between the base of my cock and my ass. By the end, the muscles all around my genitals are aching and weak and I doubt I could even get an erection. But it's a satisfying exhaustion, and it makes me want to do it again.

I decide to start training my PC muscle first to make my dick nice and hard before letting the machine make me cum. It seems like just my imagination at first, but I could swear my cock's starting to flex harder, like a muscle that's gathering strength. A week into it, my cock actually spits cum up to my navel even though my jizz has always just dribbled out. Feeling the building strength in my cock makes it practically impossible for me to keep my hands off it. I'm tempted to strap on Cliff's device for more than twenty minutes, but I remember what he said and manage to reign myself in.

There's nothing that says I can't flex those muscles on my own, though, so one day when I've been desperate to get off for hours, before I even start using the device, I just lie naked on my bed, staring down at my dick pointing at my face, feeling the strength of my erection, which hovers a few centimeters over my abs.

With my newfound control, I squeeze my cock muscles and feel my shaft swell from the inside as blood rushes into it even though it's already rock solid. The pleasure makes me squirm on the bed, my hard-on straining upwards and swelling, the cockhead puffing out and darkening, a pearl of precum forced out. When my engorged cock falls back down, I flex again, obsessed with the burning swell of my swollen dick—

And I start flexing it regularly so my cock lifts and falls, lifts and falls. I time the squeezes to every bounce of my cock and soon my entire shaft's filling with the swelling pleasure of pumped-up muscles, the skin stretched taut. I'm moaning with the intensity, flexing my ass, stretching my feet with the need for release, the heat and the tension building. Keeping this up instead of grabbing my dick and pumping it wildly is one of the hardest things I've had to do. It swallows my entire mind, my entire body. Every nerve and thought is focused on that ramrod dick flexing and flexing—

Fuck, my muscles are wound so tight, bouncing, straining, leaking, I've gotta squeeze it tighter—tighter—FUCK—oh fuck I can't take it—I can't fucking take it! With a groan, I clamp down hard and don't let go no matter how my muscles ache, how tight I get, my head thrown back and my stomach clenching as the pressure builds till my cock's gotta burst, gotta fucking explode—

And there's a fat splat against my mouth; I gasp in shock and salty cum dribbles over my lips as my dick sprays high and fast up my chest and down my toned abs again and again, my mind reeling with the strength of my spray, the power of my cock, and the fact that I was able to do it without even touching myself once.

My pumped-up cock finally stops jerking over my cummed-up torso, but it's still sharply angled upwards at the base of that mess, not losing any of its stiffness. There's no way I'm going soft now, not when I can scoop up that cum with my hands, working my fingers into the sticky wet grooves between my toned abs, and use that manjuice to lube up my straining fuckpole, hear the squish and feel the slick heat as I work that cum into my dick, grease up my foreskin and ballsack, and rub faster and harder. The pleasure of finally letting my hand run wild over that satisfying thickness, feeling it fill my fist, makes me cum all over again, spurting spunk into my navel and gumming up my pubes.

After another month of training, I think my dick's just as muscular as Cliff's was. It's not any longer than before—I'm still about seven inches long—but it's certainly a girthy fuckrod, even flaccid. The muscles at the base of my cock are so hard it's like I've got a permanent semi, and getting an erection is like feeling that first seize when you're about to blow your load, when your entire cock is hard and locked in one extended squeeze before it releases and the cum starts flying. As soon as I get turned on, my cock hardens and rises to the point that it's angled almost directly up, when before it just stuck out straight. If I didn't have such control over my muscles, that feeling alone would make me blow a fat wad in seconds.

I've been called up to shoot B-roll for Cliff's next infomercial—another ab device, but this time based on a legitimate training technique, where you get on your hands and knees and use a wheel to roll out and back, so it looks like you're basically humping the floor.

Anyways, they need to shoot those scenes they splice into the infomercial when they're showing the numbers and announcing, "Call now and we'll throw in THIS." For some reason, these jobs almost always involve working out in a room with hardwood floors and ample morning sunlight streaming through the windows. I'm not surprised when I see Cliff's using his own enormous house for this, though I am surprised that the other model's my skeptical friend Jason-usually they get one man and one woman for these things. So there I am, humping the floor in Cliff's living room while a cameraman films us. Life's pretty strange sometimes.

It doesn't take more than half an hour. I'm constantly aware of Cliff's presence, like my dick's a heat-seeking missile, but he's a complete professional and never makes reference to our little encounter. Then he's already seeing the crew off and Jason and I are heading to the rooms we've been assigned to change in. Except that instead of going to the bathroom where I changed before, I follow Jason into the guest bedroom he's been assigned.

"You used it," I accuse him, as he casually towels off while looking into a full-length mirror by the bed, just dressed in his red shorts which perfectly complement his black skin. "'Threw it in the trash' my ass! You fucking used it too!"

"No idea what you're talking about." He feigns indifference, checking out how his abs look in the light coming through the window. I can't blame him. The guy's muscles are toned to perfection, and he's got unfairly handsome looks and a heart-stopping grin that've earned him modeling jobs in various states of undress (the pictures of which I've kept for, uh, posterity).

"Oh, come on." I've crossed the room and I'm standing behind him now, but he's still just looking in that damn mirror. "You've been strapping that thing on your dick just like I have. The way your package was swinging around out there, I thought they'd stop shooting and fire you on the spot. Couldn't you at least put on a jockstrap or something?" I'd known for a while I'd need to take precautions so the camera wouldn't get an eyeful.

"What? You think I'm freeballin' it? At work?"

"It sure looks like it from where I'm standing."

"Yeah? Well then you're close enough that you can check for yourself. Don't make accusations you aren't prepared to back up."

"W-What?" I'm totally caught off guard, but when a smug grin tugs at his lips, I forge ahead. "You think I won't?"

"Be my guest."

There's a sudden charge to the air and I'm right behind him now, close enough to smell the sweat from his workout, feel the heat from his body. My tone changes. "You sure about this?" as my right hand slips around his waist, ridged with bone-dry obliques. I can feel the skin on my arms prickling.

"Go on. Tell me if my training's paying off." And my hand brushes the hard surface of his lower abs, then squeezes under his waistband, dipping into the humid pouch in his jockstrap. Yep, he's wearing one. Mission accomplished. But my hand's not going anywhere.

There's a certain fascination to a sleeping cock. The temptation to rub it, knowing that it will respond, that it will come alive under your skin and grow, revealing its size, heat, and strength. The anticipation thrums through me as my hand is filled with his cock and balls, slightly moist with sweat. His flesh and mine are hot in that hidden space, where we can both sense the first stirrings of his cock, feel the pulse throbbing through his muscular organ, feel the space get tighter and the bulge start to visibly grow in his shorts as I caress his manhood, standing behind him, pressing up against his rounded ass, hearing the rush of his deep breaths and smelling his manly desire.

There's no more room in that restrictive pouch, so I use my other hand to pull his shorts and jockstrap down and strip his ass bare. Now his muscled cock is sticking out, eight inches long with my hand wrapped around its base. My own erection's strong enough to push out the waistband of my shorts and it's prodding him in that bulbous ass (which I've admired countless times in the locker room). Unable to take it any longer, I tear off my own shorts and jockstrap so we're both fully exposed.

He turns his head to the side and whispers to me, "Tell me how that muscle feels. I've been working day and night. Getting it nice and pumped. You think Cliff'd be impressed too?"

I grin at him, gently stroking him off. "I dunno. How'd you like to show him our gains?" And then I raise my voice, "Hey Cliff! You out there?" I can feel a jolt of surprise flash through Jason. But let's be honest here. He knew full well that the door was open, and there was a reason we both left it that way.

"Well, well. Looks like that workout's got you both feeling pumped up," his deep voice rumbles from the entryway as he strides in, dressed in a black tank top and training pants. I'm struck again by how massive he is, cannon-ball pecs straining under his shirt, ripped-as-fuck biceps veiny and rippling, wide-flaring lats making it impossible for him to fully lower his arms. Standing in front of us, he looks down at our erect-to-bursting cocks. "Now, which of you guys has been working the hardest?"

He grips Jason's dick, making him stumble and roll his eyes back in his head, making him gasp in so his stomach muscles tighten. "Oh fuck," he moans while Cliff's hand slowly slides up his shaft.

"Yeah, that's a fuckin' hard cock. But let's check out your buddy here." And when the friction from his calloused grip rumbles through my shaft, my entire body tenses with expectation and desire. "If you've been training properly, those cocks should be under complete control," he says. "If you're strong enough, you should be able to hold back your cum as long as you want. Either of you guys learned that yet? Maybe we should find out. The winner might get something good."