I'll Use You Later

1.

I'll admit I always had an interest in muscularity in men. A friend of mine -- he's a psychologist -- told me that it was natural. He said everyone, whether male or female, straight or gay, is attracted to rounded parts of the body: the breasts, buttocks, and the rounded limbs of the bodybuilder. But none of this explains my interest in penises.

And, although I had gone to the gym for most of my life, I had never put on much weight. In the bodybuilding magazines I read, they called people like me "hard gainers." (My wife always laughed at me for reading these magazines. She said it was "pretty gay" to look at all those half-dressed, muscular men. But, why the nagging teasing? These magazines were intended for straight men.)

Okay, I have another confession to make. Over the course of reading these magazines, I, like a teenage girl who develops a crush on a matinee idol, began to notice a certain guy more. The truth is, he looked like my old homeroom teacher at the private school I'd attended in Richmond, Virginia. Mr. Harrison: he had been thrown out of school for molesting teenaged boys.

It was only recently, in therapy, that I'd relieved the experience. Discussing it in therapy was a strange thing in itself, because I had a weird feeling that the analyst was getting off on the whole thing: Harrison exposing himself to me during detention, making me "worship" his cock on my knees and later telling me that if I told anyone I'd "never see his cock again."

I had never told my wife these things. I knew she would make demeaning remarks and even call me a faggot. And when I told the therapist about that threat, he laughed. I don't know too much about these things, but I'm pretty sure that's not professional.

"What did you say to that?" he said with obvious pleasure. His short gray beard shook as he asked.

"I don't know," I said.

"But you never told anybody."

"No, no. Not till this very moment."

Again he laughed. How I hated him. And then his prescription to me was that I join a gym to deal with stress. (He seemed to put extra emphasis on that word stress.)

Actually, I went right from the therapy appointment to the gym. Still feeling blushed with shame, I went through my routine -- circuit training. I was preoccupied, thinking how everyone treated me like I was some kind of underling. I couldn't understand why? I was kind of short at 5' 8" with messy, colorless hair; I was kind of skinny. But I had a good job as a software marketing executive. I always figured myself for an average guy, nothing like this guy -- the one who standing there looking right at me.

The stranger was tall, at least 6' 1", with pale blue eyes and soft brown hair. He had thick, rounded, proportional arms and shoulders and legs like a young oak tree. He was saying something to me. He wore flimsy shorts as if to show off his "bulge" -- disgusting.

He was saying something to me. "You're doing that wrong if you want to put on pounds."

"Oh, oh," I said. "Oh, really?"

He smiled as if he could tell I was not worth talking to, turned around and headed toward the locker room, leaving me to notice his rounded and muscular ass. "I'll never see his cock again," I thought humorously to myself, remembering the therapy session.

I was almost done with my workout, and when I went to the locker room, he was still there. Another guy, older and balding, was with him. This guy was really big, clearly a serious bodybuilder. As soon as I entered the narrow space -- I couldn't help but notice -- they fell silent.

"Well, I'll tell you about it later," Steve (it was stenciled on his gym bag) said to me.

"Okay," said the big guy and motioned to me. "Not in front of the fag, huh?"

Steve laughed. "He was ogling me earlier. They shouldn't let these fairies in."

The big guy, who seemed none too intelligent, just snorted with laughter. "Want me to kick him out so we can talk?"

"Wait," said Steve. Suddenly, abruptly, he pulled his shorts down, revealing a thick and long cock, starting to get engorged, much bigger than mine. He looked straight in my eyes. "Don't worry, little girl," he said. "Maybe I'll use you some other time."

I was staring. I was breathless. I was also mortified at the way I was being treated. They acted as if I were lower than dirt.

"Hey," the big guy began, looking at me, "you could do that thing you do. Get the money from him."

Finally, I found my voice. "What the hell are you two talking about?"

Steve pulled up his shorts and turned around. Then he looked at me. "Girls will usually do anything I want," he said.

"Really?" I tried to sound aggressive. "I find that hard to believe."

"If I show them my tool." His smile was almost apologetic. Then he turned to me. "Want to see?"

"I want to see this," the big guy said.

Steve walked right up to me as I cowered on the bench and then it occurred to me. The brown hair and blue eyes: it was just like Mr. Harrison from school. It was like the model from the magazines whom I'd admired. Steve resembled both of them.

"Get down," he said in a low, gentle voice. "Lower, so you're eye to eye with my tool."

The only way to get lower was to get down on the floor, and I did it. He eased down his shorts so his penis was inches from my face. It was thick, strong, magnificent. My mouth was open. I was breathing hard. And, as if it were a sound from a distant place, I could hear the two of them laughing uproariously.

"I know we've only just met," Steve said in a reasonable, cajoling voice, "but I wanted to ask you a small favor."

"What is it?" I said.

"You can feel me," he said, his voice calm and understanding. And that was what Mr. Harrison had said to me. He had asked me to "feel him."

I did. I took his penis in my hand, my forefinger around the base and my thumb holding the dense tube aloft. It felt amazing. I wanted to squeal with joy like the little girl he said I was.

"I would like you to loan me fifty dollars," he said. "Now, get up."

I did and when I did both men saw the front of my sweats. They were soaking wet with pre-cum and my small cock was stiff like a candlestick. Again the laughter. Turning around to escape from it, I rooted around in my gym bag and counted out the bills.

"Pay me back, okay?" I said as I handed them to him. I knew he was going to use it to buy steroids from the other man.

"Oh, sure," said Steve. "Maybe I'll use you later." And he turned around to talk to his buddy.

As far as they were concerned, I didn't exist anymore.

2.

Getting home, I was about to do something I had done before. My analyst had coined an obnoxious term for it: hate-masturbation. I was literally shivering with anger at the bullies at the gym. Even more, though, I was outraged that they had treated me like a gay person. They were clearly gay, I told myself. And they were pumped-up monsters who had forced me to do two things I didn't want to do: touch another man's penis and give him $50. But that thought led to more thoughts, and the angrier I got, somehow, the hornier I got. Had he tricked me into paying him for the privilege of touching his cock? Was he joking or did he really think of me as a "girl"? Did that make me a kind of slut? I was in a frenzy, but I knew I had to get past my wife before I could masturbate. He, Steve, that asshole, he seemed to be in love with his own cock. What a brainless jerk! But I had only encouraged him by acting so stunned by the sight of his horrible, ugly appendage.

"You always try to hard to please other people," my analyst had said.

He had been talking about my wife, Valerie, and there she was at her desk, signing some legal briefs and instantly recognizing that I had a secret.

"What's with you?" she said.

"Nothing. Don't you say hello anymore?"

"Well, you're saying hello right now," she said crudely. She was referring to my still-visible erection.

"I get that after working out."

"You get that when you're about to jerk off," she said. I started to object, but she cut me off.

"Oh, go ahead. Your muscle magazines are in the study."

I hung my head like a little boy and headed toward the study. What else could I do?

"Wait a minute," she said. "If you're going to use up all your energy looking at your musclemen you should at least take care of me first." Saying this, she pulled back in her chair and spread her legs. Her repulsively hairy bush was in plain display through see-through knickers.

I was defeated. I got down in front of her chair and pulled down her panties, which were already glistening with moisture. I knew the taste was going to be strong. Don't get me wrong: I love pussy. And I like giving her head more than getting it. But sometimes I find the taste and smell disgusting. I have to admit that the disgust only adds to my pleasure.

I pressed my face against her hairy pubis and began to lick. Her plump thighs closed around my ears as I did. And, getting more excited, I pulled my own sweats down and started to pull my foreskin. As I did, with my ears covered, I could have sworn I heard a low voice -- not my wife's voice -- saying "I'll use you later." It began to repeat in my head: "I'll use you later." So casual, as if I were a toy or a tool of some kind. Tool. That word brought back the image of his fat tube. What made him so sure I wanted him, that I would do anything for him if he exposed himself to me? He seemed to think he could hypnotize people with his cock. And then I remembered that he had said women obeyed him when he showed them his "tool." Would Valerie obey him too? With that thought I started to come, just as I heard her cries of orgasm. As she came, her thighs tightened around my head in her excitement, smothering me and forcing me to cry out in protest.

"Good job," she said as I extricated myself. "And you killed two birds with one stone." She was looking at my semen all over the rubber mat under her desk area.

I was embarrassed that she saw it, and, stupidly, I started to wipe it up with my hand. I was wiping it in a frenzied way, getting my hands covered in my juice. I don't know what got into me.

"Why don't you get a towel?" she started to say, but she trailed off, watching me with apparent fascination. "Are you going to put it in your mouth?" she asked in a whispery voice.

I stood up, needing to wash my hands. "I'll get a towel," I said.

She was very still, watching me. "No," she said evenly. "Lick it."

"Okay," I said, and began to lick my fingers. She watched me do so, and I liked her watching me. It was as if she finally found me interesting. I licked with more enthusiasm, putting on a show for her.

She took this in as she looked through my gym bag. She was looking for money. She pulled out fifty dollars. Holding it in her hands as if it were evidence of some wrongdoing, she asked me, "What, exactly, happened at the gym?"

She could see that I was hard again. "I loaned a guy fifty bucks."

"You did? Why?"

"I felt sorry for him. He was really hard up."

She shook her head, dismissing this. "No. You're not like that. What really happened?"

I shrugged. "He asked," I said, "and I gave."

She seemed to be in a dream. "He asked and you gave?" she repeated.

We faced each other.

"Well, get it back! We can't afford to loan money to strangers. Do you understand me, princess? Get it back?"

"Don't call me that," I said.

"Well, men who eat come and give other men money because they have big muscles are not really men," she said. "Get it back."

Again, I was defeated. "Okay," I said.

3.

"Tell me something," Dr. Ross said. "Are you looking forward to seeing Steve?"

"No," I said. "I mean, I want my money back."

I looked at my psychiatrist and saw two things. His hand seemed to be under his desk, as if he were jerking off. Or was I imagining it? And, with his other hand, he was covering his mouth to conceal his laughter.

"Do you think you should demean your patients by laughing at them?" I challenged.

"No, probably no," he admitted. He didn't seem sorry at all. "But let's get back to it. How did you feel when you performed oral sex on your teacher?"

"Terrible," I said. "I was confused and humiliated. It was big."

"Did you feel like a girl?" he asked.

"Why do you ask that?"

"Did you?"

"Sure. At that age, I was confused about my gender."

He was masturbating. I was sure of it. He was bobbing up and down slightly and his right hand was securely in his lap. (Maybe he was texting.)

"You were imprinted," he said.

"Imprinted?"

"That experience molded your sexuality, your destiny. You will always meet that brown-haired, blue-eyed man." As he completed this astounding declaration he sighed. I was convinced he had had an orgasm.

Again, I went right from the therapy appointment to the gym. Getting changed for my workout, I was relieved to find that Steve wasn't there. I quickly got dressed, hung my suit in my locker, and snapped the lock shut. But as I turned toward the door, Steve stood looking at me.

He walked in, right past me, and to his locker. He took out two sets of clothes, his skimpy shorts and a pair of pink woman's spandex tights. He didn't even look at me.

I knew I should walk out the door, but I was thrown into confusion by his unfriendly attitude. Was he just an absolute asshole? Or had I done something to offend him. I looked toward the door. Then I remembered about the money.

"Hey, would you mind paying me back?"

He looked up as if surprised to see me. He was in his boxers, hanging his trousers in the locker. Then, as he pulled off his boxers, he turned to me and smiled. I had to admit, it was a very handsome smile.

"Yes, I do owe you something, don't I?"

"Damn right," I said in a lame attempt to be tough.

"I wanted to ask you something too," he said as he pulled off his boxers. Then he took a step toward me, grabbing the pink tights in one hand. With a swipe of his other hand, he pushed my keys from the bench onto the floor.

"Sorry," he said.

I instantly bent over to pick them up. I kept them with me while working out. But as I tried to straighten up, I felt his hand on my head. He was holding me in a bent-over position, directly facing his hardening tool.

"Hey!"

"Well, here's the favor," he said. He removed his hand and I straightened up. "I'd like you to wear these." He handed me the pink tights.

Putting them on, I was surprised to see that they fit. They were a large size and I was pretty slender. They felt strange and good and I got hard instantly.

"Now get on your knees, woman," he said.

I just did it. I got on my knees in the pink tights before him.

"Open your mouth," he said in a gentle, cajoling voice.

I did and he eased his cock into my mouth. It began to reach full hardness; it was enormous. He slowly pushed it into my mouth, not far enough to choke me, and eased it out. I felt as if he were giving me lessons in how to please a man.

"Pretty good," he said. "That really feels good." He kept talking, saying increasingly bizarre things. "I'd like to take you home with me," he said in his soothing voice. "I have an extra bedroom. Or maybe you'll sleep with me. In the master bedroom." His hands gripped the back of my head. "You could do everything for me. Cook and clean for me."

As he spoke I was in transports of excitement and pleasure. His cock, long and hard but with silky skin, seemed to encapsulate masculine power. I felt as if I were protected. Or rather, I felt that as long as I pleased him I would be protected.

"I'm going to come now," he said in his rich baritone. "You're going to swallow it."

I looked up at him like a child looking at a kindly adult and nodded. I felt his cock push deep into my throat and tried to open my throat to suppress my gag reflex. I was proud that I could take so much of him. Then I felt the first mighty spurt, and I began to swallow like mad. Then another and another and another. I was out of breath and I hadn't even started my workout yet. As his cock began to soften, I kept it in my mouth like a loving slut, sucking the last bits of semen out of it. I felt like his manly fluids gave me strength.

He helped me up and turned away to finish getting dressed. He pulled on a jersey but when he turned around he was still wearing the boxers, and his penis was hanging out the slit in the front. It went practically down to the middle of his thigh.

I couldn't ask for the money now.

"You have a wife, don't you," he said.

"Yeah."

"I'd like to meet her."

Something in me said, stop, go no further. Mr. Harrison had once said that life had turning points, but that these turning points came at casual times. If you weren't alert you would miss their importance and make the wrong choice. I think that's exactly what I did.

"Okay," I said.

"Maybe I'll use her later."

I was horrified by what he had said, but showed no feeling. Steve's friend, the same one from before, was just entering the locker room.

"Can we get this faggot out of here?" he said.

Steve looked directly at me. "Get out now, slut," he said.

And I went to work out in my pink tights.