Muscle on My Mattress

One of the first things I noticed when I started interning at this company was Matt, our "fitness consultant," a professional bodybuilder that's been hired to keep the office in shape by running exercise classes in the company gym and making various recommendations.

As a muscle fan, I've known about Matt for a couple of years. One of the best bodybuilders today, the 33-year-old multiple award-winner is especially known for his massively defined abs, which bulge out with unbelievably deep trenches in between. He's also an amazingly gorgeous and sexy man, with his short black hair roguishly spiked when he poses onstage, and his dark stubble smouldering on his cheeks and firm chin. At work, there was nothing I wanted more than to admire him all day long, but I simply couldn't take part in one of his classes. I'd get a constant hard-on I could never hide from my coworkers.

Last month, however, I did go to watch him compete at a bodybuilding competition here in town. I knew he wouldn't recognize me, so I gave in and bought a seat close to the stage. I watched him grind out pose after pose: his handsome face scrunched up with effort as he flexed the swollen muscles all over his body, flashed a toothy grin at the audience, and then grunted out another hard flex, the sweat and oil dripping down his tanned slabs of rock-hard flesh, his bulging package almost obscene, lying on top of his thick thighs barely encapsulated in shiny aqua-coloured posing trunks.

You see, I've always been turned-on by musclemen, though I've never gotten to feel one in person. I've slept with a couple of the guys at my university, but none of them had muscles I could really get my hands on. After all, guys with muscles like that tend to be straight. So my cock was as hard as an iron stake not just throughout Matt's performance but for hours afterwards, the mere memory making me hard again even if I'd just jerked off.

After he was handed the trophy onstage, I bought a large glossy souvenir photo of him showing off his amazingly chiseled stomach in an abdominal-thigh pose, but I couldn't make myself take it over to him at the table where he was signing a big stack of them.

It's a month after that contest and I've just checked in at a hotel. I'm about to graduate with an undergraduate degree in business administration, so my university got me an internship at this company a few months back. As part of my training, I've been sent to attend this conference with several other employees. The conference is something about creating a healthy work environment in the digital age, but the content doesn't much matter to me since I'll basically just be running errands for my coworkers.

The desk clerk has just given me my assigned room number and pointed out my roommate. For a moment I don't recognize him, just admire the gorgeous stylishly-dressed man with broad shoulders filling out his blazer, the perfect ass rounding out the back of his dress pants. And then he turns around and I realize it's Matt. I guess because both of our last names start with letters at the end of the alphabet, we ended up assigned to a room together.

All the saliva disappears from my mouth and my stomach starts to quiver, but thankfully the suit covers up most of his muscles so I can keep my composure. It's his flashing eyes, brilliant teeth, and thick neck that make my pulse thunder as I quickly shake his hand before my palms get too sweaty.

"Sorry I don't come to your classes," I say. I'm six feet tall, but he has a few inches on me so I have to look up at him. "I'm still finishing up my degree, so I don't have much time to work out."

"Really?" he grins as we head to the elevators. "You must work out a little, though. I can tell you're in shape. But feel free to come to the classes whenever you've got some time."

"W-well, I..." He thinks I'm in shape? I mean, I do exercise regularly, but not very intensely. He's probably just being polite. "I'll try... sometime."

Standing next to him in the elevator, I can breathe the deep hot scent of his flesh, with a subtle hint of a spicy cologne. I swear, the air is boiling hot in there and I tug at the collar of my shirt, the sweat breaking out on my brow. It's like I can feel static electricity arcing from him to my entire body, and yet he seems completely unaware, making small talk about the conference. Finally, we step out onto the sixth floor and we head to our room at the end of the hallway. He slides his key across the lock and lets me enter first, wheeling my luggage. What I see inside makes me drown in a cold sweat.

It's not that the room is terrible (although it's pretty underwhelming). The problem is the large, single Queen-sized bed in the center of the room.

"Hmm... maybe there was a mistake?" Matt says, coming up behind me, sounding a bit bemused. "I guess I should check."

He phones the front desk while I check out the bathroom. There's a nice large mirror over the counter, but no bathtub-just one of those shower stalls with a slightly recessed floor and a door that closes. At least it's a pretty large shower. Large enough for two, in fact, a devious little voice in my head can't help whispering longingly. But no, I can't let myself think that way or I'll drive myself crazy before this conference is over.

When I return to the bedroom, he hangs up, saying the hotel's completely booked. Twin rooms are especially popular during a conference. "Whatever," he shrugs. "It doesn't matter, right? It's just a bed-and a pretty uncomfortable one from the looks of it. It doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother you." He smirks and says, "Don't worry, I promise not to lay a finger on you" with a deep laugh from his gut.

I'm sure he doesn't realize I'm gay, and he's just trying to make the absurdity of feeling uncomfortable in this situation apparent. And sure, for straight guys it WOULD be absurd to be embarrassed because what could possibly "happen"? And, you know what, it'd be absurd for me to be embarrassed too, because so what if I'm gay? I know I'm not going to try to do anything to him without his consent. Just because I'm gay doesn't make me a rapist! True, there might be some other awkward things that could pose a problem, but I can handle them...

So we'll add that to a whole host of other issues with the room I don't want to think about, like the busted AC, a suspicious red stain on the carpet by the window, an iron that doesn't work, a faulty lock on the bathroom door, a saggy mattress with noisy bedsprings, and a missing remote control for the television. Clearly the conference's organizers had spared no expense in arranging this hotel for us.

It's already past ten, so we start getting ready for bed. I find my pajamas in my luggage, brush my teeth, and so on. Matt goes into the bathroom to change and when he comes out a few minutes later, it's all I can do not to stare. It's as if I'd forgotten all about the muscles that were hiding under that professional suit of his, and what a strong power they have over me. But now he's wearing a white tank top that exposes the enormous bunching muscles of his ripped arms and does little to hide the heavy overhang of his massive pecs. And those famous abs actually push out his shirt in eight clear bulges-you'd need to pour a bucket of water on even most bodybuilders to get their abs to show like that; and his curved, toned ass is tightly gripped by a pair of white briefs, distended in the front by a ponderous bulge that actually pulls down the front waistband of his underwear, exposing a few inches of his lower abs, like a sheet of iron with several veins standing out.

I force myself to take just a quick glance at him-a perfectly ordinary instinctive action; anyone would look briefly at someone who enters the room-and I quickly turn away (Don't stare don't stare keep it respectful he doesn't want you ogling him) and focus on organizing my clothes, trying to stifle the stirrings in my cock.

"Guess there's no need for sheets tonight, huh?" his deep voice rumbles and I swallow hard, wondering for a moment what he's talking about and if he can tell I-

But then I realize he's talking about the busted AC, so I mutter an agreement with a choked voice. I get the feeling he's expecting me to say something else, but I can't think of any small-talk to make. I can barely think at all.

"Right then," he says. "I'm gonna turn in. Early start tomorrow. G'night!"

"G-good night!" I manage to call back, and I hear him settle onto the right side of the bed, the inferior bedsprings groaning under upwards of two hundred pounds of muscle. He turns off the light on his side of the bed, and I go to the bathroom to change into my T-shirt and stuff my thickened cock into my boxer shorts when it loses some of its stiffness.

I return to the bed, climb up onto it and feel the mattress sagging down towards him. After turning off the lamp, I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, sensing the heat rising from the deeply-breathing muscleman beside me, the richly satisfying manly aroma of his flesh filling my nostrils.

The curtains are parted slightly at the end furthest from the bed to let just a little light in. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I start making out more details. The white of his undergarments shows up particularly well, and when I tentatively take a look in his direction, I realize I can clearly make out the shadows of his sharply-defined back muscles under his shirt.

And oh fuck that ass, the white cotton of his briefs lapping at his perfect asscheeks, hard bulges that resist gravity, the fabric stretched over the gap between them, and as I watch he brings his knees up towards his chest, bending his legs-he sleeps in the fetal position, how cute is that?-and when he does, his underwear stretches down in the back and I can see the perfect V where his lower back meets the top of the golden taut swells of his asscheeks, I can start to see a space where I could slip my cock in between those tight slabs of muscle and-

No, this is wrong, you shouldn't be thinking about him this way. Focus, turn away, don't look. He doesn't want you staring. Do you realize how disgusting he'd think you are? So I turn away, but I can still feel the thick heavy heat of his presence pressing down on the bed, lifting my side of the mattress so I lean towards him slightly. And every time I hear the bedsprings on his side squeak I can picture him resettling, arching his back, the brim of his underwear getting lower, exposing more of his gorgeous ass, and his legs parting slightly so I can see the rock-hard muscle leading right to the bottom of his cock-

There's no way I'm going to get to sleep like this. I'm stiff as a pole and I can't stop thinking about him, just feet away, and I mean, what if he gets up in the middle of the night and sees me lying here with this massive hard-on-what will he think of me? Or even worse, what if I do get to sleep and I wake up in a sticky puddle, my spooge soaking into the mattress and filling the air with the unmistakable reek of spunk. He'd feel so uncomfortable. You can't do that to him, you can't. You can't make him feel uncomfortable and disgusted just because YOU can't control YOURSELF. You need to take care of your own shit. You need to deal with this now.

There's only one way to do that, of course. So after a feverish heart-pounding hour of listening to the deep rush of air and the swelling of his broad chest, fighting to keep my hands off my straining cock, the painful press of it tenting my boxer-shorts, I finally think it's safe to gently slide off the bed (the mattress barely moves because I'm so much lighter, so I doubt he even notices), I quickly grab something from my luggage, moving the zipper as slowly as I can, and I tiptoe to the bathroom, my dick waving obscenely in front of me.

I shut the door gently and raise the dimmer switch just enough that I can make out the shredded abs and gorgeous cocky face of Matt in the middle of his posing routine. I brought the picture with me just in case something like this happened. It wasn't hard to predict that it would.

I prop the picture against the large mirror which covers the entire wall above the bathroom counter, and I finally wrap my hands around my long-suffering cock with a great rush of relief, feeling the deep churning response throughout my meat as I pump my fists. I stare at that picture, the deep trenches between those abs, the hard nipples on pounds of muscled pecs, the arms bent above his head, his lats swelling freakishly to the sides and his shiny aqua posing trunks filled with a massive round bulge-

And I know that he's in the other room, that perfect ass aimed in my direction. I can just picture him bending his legs more, his briefs riding lower and lower, and then he rolls over and lies on his stomach, stretching his legs out, his asscheeks swelling, and I hear the bedsprings squeak slightly and I know he's bending his knees, and then stretching out his legs again, his ass flexing and pushing out the stretched cotton, tightening and jiggling and getting harder harder so fucking tight and-

And suddenly I feel it-the rumbling surge that makes me instantly realize that what's building can't be held back-and oh fuck I'm cumming I'm cumming here it cums and I try to grab a tissue but a hot spray of uncontrollable jism explodes out of my cock and spatters the mirror and I desperately wrap the tissue around my jerking cannon but the second torrent of spunk rips right through the cheap hotel tissue paper and splatters all the way up to the top of the dripping mirror. I desperately grab my spurting cockhead but it shoots another stream of hot saltwater that bursts through my clumsy grasp, ricocheting off my fingers and spattering a wide range of streaks all over the mirror, sink, and counter, and then I just think fuck it what's the point now and I jerk wildly at my pulsing rod of muscle with my cum-soaked hand as I lean forward and spray my load all over that drenched mirror again, the cum from my first shots already pouring down to pool at the bottom-

And that's when I hear the fucking door open. And there's Matt in his tight tank top and briefs, his sleepy eyes widening in shock as he takes in the cum-soaked mirror and me hastily trying to cover up my massive throbbing semen-slicked organ with my hands, but there's no way, it's too big and some last spurts of spunk are still popping out to land on my hands and the tiles beneath my feet-how fucking stupid are you, turn around! And I turn, but really, what good's that going to do now. At least I didn't get any on HIM.

He clears his throat, obviously in shock and unsure what to say as my muted cock thrashes a few last times in my hands. I desperately st-st-stammer out apologies, bending down to grab my boxers from where I'd casually dropped them earlier.

"N-no, uh-" I can hear how stunned and no doubt horrified he is. "I-I should've knocked. I was still half-asleep and I thought you were still in bed, so..." Clearly he hadn't noticed my weight was missing from the bed. I also probably should've turned the lights on all the way. "Look, it's my mistake," he says. "You can do what you want in private. Just-ah-clean up when you're done."

Utterly mortified, I can't bear to face him, but in between the streaks of cum on the mirror, I see him take one last stunned look at the mess I've made, and then leave the bathroom, closing the door behind him. A few moments later, I hear the bedsprings whine as his massive bulk presses down on them.

I struggle to breathe and not to burst into tears of humiliation and shame, furiously scrubbing at my dripping cock with the cheap hotel tissues, and that's when I see it-the picture of Matt, face scrunched up with the blissful tight pain of squeezing his famous abs on stage in front of a hall of swooning fans, that picture now soaked due to my ill-timed orgasm, and I think back to that last stunned expression before he left the room. Oh fuck no, oh no, he saw it he knows!

I think about just getting my stuff and leaving right now, but where would I go? So I clean the bathroom as thoroughly and as quietly as I can and flush the sodden masses of tissues down the toilet. Because a heavy pall of tangy spunk still fills the room, I leave the bathroom door open and hope for the best. I slink back to the bed and carefully ease myself onto it, wondering if he'll wake up and demand I sleep on the floor or even leave, but he seems to be asleep with his broad back to me (I guess he gave up on using the bathroom, and who could blame him). I carefully look away, but I'm feeling so awful about the situation that I don't think there's any danger of getting another erection. I shove my face into the pillow and try to block out the accusing voices in my head.

I barely sleep, but I pretend to be completely out when the sun rises and I feel his weight lift off the mattress, hear his feet pad surprisingly lightly across the room towards the bathroom. I hear the shower creak on, and my cock springs up in two seconds flat as I picture him nude and soaping up his huge glistening body. I can't let him see me like this and I can't face him this morning, so I leap out of bed, dress, and get everything I'll need today before he finishes showering. I coat myself with body spray to cover up the scent of my exertions last night, grab a razor, and rush out of the room, all before Matt turns off the faucet. Thankfully, it takes him a long time to clean that massive body, rubbing the soap into each crevice of his abs and sliding a sudsy hand across his ass and down between his legs so he can-no no stop that focus FOCUS!

I'm kept running errands all day long. I briefly see Matt in the hotel's gym. He's wearing tight grey workout gear (but naturally, how would he ever find workout gear that isn't tight?) and he's demonstrating some training routines for people from various companies. I think he doesn't see me, but the quivering in my gut that's been there all day intensifies and my knees almost buckle beneath me. I wish I could jerk off during one of my breaks, but I don't want to return to the room and I can't risk doing it in a public restroom-not when you're someone who cums as forcefully as I do.

I stay out of the hotel room as late as I can, but finally there's nothing else to do but head back. There's no reason for an intern to be wandering around the lobby at 9pm when the conference ended several hours ago.

I sheepishly open the door and light pours out into the hall. I can hear him moving about inside. If I'm lucky, maybe he's getting ready to sleep already. Closing the door behind me, I make my way past the bathroom and into the bedroom. He must have already showered because he's in the white tank top and briefs from last night. He's lying on his side of the bed, hands laced behind his head, causing his biceps to swell up like melons and his lats to balloon out from his sides. Even lying down, his abs are visible through his tightly-stretched shirt as if he's got an upside-down egg carton under there, and I can see the pendulous heavy bulge in his briefs.

He nods in my direction and looks at me with a friendly openness that shocks me. You'd think he hadn't seen anything last night. "Hey, you're back," he says. "They sure kept you late. Everything go all right?"

"Y-yeah," I manage to gasp out around my fumbling tongue. "Uh-y-yourself?"

"They kept me going all day too, doing the same moves over and over. Damn I'm sore," he groans, rubbing one of his shoulders.

"Uh-I'll bet." Blushing, I busy myself by dropping a few things like my ID and wallet and phone on the desk table. I hear him groan as he sits up and stretches his arms, swinging them across his bunching chest.

After a pause, he asks, "You sleep all right?" My stomach drops out and I start to sweat. What does he mean by that? Is he talking about what happened in the middle of the night?