by Sean Reid Scott — First published years ago.
[NOTICE: This story contains vivid descriptions of homosexual encounters. There's lurid, kinky sex here. Homo sex. It's prolly straight out of HELL, if you're inclined to hold the religious perspective. Really, this story is not for those who button the collar tightly. If you can't stomach this kind of smut, skedaddle. Likewise if you're under 18.]
This story switches between first person and third person—and between first person voices.
I hope this isn't too distracting!
SO THERE I WAS, JUST MINDING MY OWN BUSINESS... walking through the forest on my weekend excursion.
Sometimes I just like to get away from the city. There's so much noise there—so many people—so much "stuff" going on.
But up in the mountains, in the woods—it's quiet. There's no one to bother you, to ask you to flex your muscle for them, to ask you if they can feel, to ask you to take your shirt off, to ask you how much you can bench (the all-time most-common question), to beg you to pose for a picture (so annoying sometimes), to ask you questions about 'roids (don't take 'em).
Yeah, it's peaceful up here. Nothin' much happening except for birds singing, squirrels scurrying their nuts, creeks flowing. Plenty of privacy.
Of course, even without the reflection of windows in the city, I still am hornier than hell about my muscle body. Bet those squirrels wish they could pack my nuts. Yeah, dream on, my furry friends. These nuts are for my fingers alone this weekend.
As I lift my big legs to step over a couple of branches, I hear a moan or something, coming from behind a tree. Curiosity engaged.
I quietly, softly sleuth around to the side of the tree, where I find this guy, working his cock like he's in love with himself (what sincere bodybuilder isn't?). Aside from his adorable, massive physique, I can see the guy is also model-quality-gorgeous. God, what a magnificent hunk! He's stripped naked, except for his boots, and he’s lying back on a red blanket. A few feet away, his clothes are piled, and I notice on the sleeve of his shirt a shield for the Forest Service. The dude is a Ranger.
He's stroking himself slowly. The guy's body is fiercely muscled, and the biceps and triceps of his stroking arm bulge as he wraps his fingers tightly around his ginormous cock. He breathes hard, and his abs ripple with each breath. His stroking is slow and deliberate—clearly this federal employee is taking his time, enjoying all that nature has to offer him.
Wish I had his job!
A twig snaps under my boot and the hunk jerks his head. Our eyes meet, and his initial horror at being discovered is immediately replaced with something more base—more feral—more lusting.
I recognize that look very well.
Hell, like I just said, that's one of the reasons I come up here. To get away from the fawners, the worshippers, the lusters.
But with this guy—well, lets just say I'm not minding the fact that his eyes are undressing me.
And yes, they are.
I can see him stare at my bull neck—a neck built by years of football training, and—more recently—uber-heavy shrugs down at the gym. His eyes move down my traps, onto my shoulders. His mouth opens in disbelief—and that's saying something, 'cuz this guy is built like a brick shithouse. He licks his lips. His eyes move onto my chest, which is encased in a T-shirt that fits perfectly. He gazes at my pecs, and I see his hand tighten around his cock. A sliver of pre-cum slithers out his piss slit as he marvels at my plate of armor.
Then, he looks lower, at my abs; each ridge and bulge is easily visible beneath my shirt, and my waistline pours into my jeans like milk from a pitcher.
Then there's my legs. Bigger-columns-than-are-in-front-of-the-fuckin'-Supreme-Court support my massive body, and Ranger Dude has to force himself to breathe as he realizes he’s been holding his breath.
He's stopped stroking now. Frozen in amazement that such a god could be found roaming through the forest—his forest.
His lust for me fights with his feelings of insecurity. Clearly, he's used to being king of the forest—his gigantic arms, thick chest, skinny waistline and thick, powerful legs attest to the fact.
But now, he's more than met his match.
He swallows hard.
"Don't let me interrupt you," I smile, stepping into the clearing. "Looks like you're having quite a time, there, Ranger."
He glances over at his piled clothes, acknowledging how I knew his occupation.
"I'm sorry, sir," he says nervously. "I didn't expect anyone to come by here." He tries to hide his throbbing boner, but ever since I came into the picture, it has only hardened, lengthened and thickened. I stifle a grin at his use of the word, “Sir,” since he’s obviously at least ten years older than my 20.
"No worries, man," I smile. I take a look around at the towering fir trees, then I look back at him. "I'd probably be doing the same thing, if I were out in the woods all the time." I look down at his hand, which has started to slowly stroke again—obviously involuntarily. "Shit, Ranger, you've got one rock-hard cock you're workin' on there. I'd offer to lend you a hand, but it looks like you have everything under control," I smile.
He looks sheepish, and then his mind wraps around what I just said. He looks up at me and our eyes meet.
"Come to think of it, maybe there is something I can do to help you with that," I say looking at his monstrous cock. As I lift my T-shirt up over my head, the Ranger freezes again. His hand tightens around his penis and his eyes widen as they begin to take in the magnificence of my upper body.
I don't pose. I don't have to.
Suddenly everything is quiet. You know how all the animals hush—the birds stop singing—right before an earthquake? Yeah, like that. The whole fuckin’ forest seems to cum to a stop as I reveal my rippling, massive upper body.
Just standing there, relaxed, my huge physique, with its insane striations and definition—paper-thin skin that covers muscles more thick, powerful and huge than the Ranger has ever dreamed of—well, just having me standing there, relaxed, it's enough to send the bodybuilder Ranger over the edge. Ropes of thick, white semen begin to shoot out of his cock, into the air. You can hear the splooge plop onto leaves and twigs between his legs and beside his torso. Some of it lands on his abs and chest. A few more streams burst out and land on his chin and neck. All the while, he is just holding his cock still—looking at my upper body.
"Hell, Mr. Ranger," I smile. “You're a quickie! I haven't even taken off my jeans yet. Haven't even flexed anything yet.” I lift my right arm and flex it—the biceps grows and splits into two rippling heads mounted on a triceps that could pass for a watermelon.
Ranger Dude moans and squirms as even more of his jizz erupts into the air.
"Can't control yourself, huh, Mr. Ranger?" I grin.
God, I love hiking. And camping.
Within the hour, I have the Ranger slung over my shoulder, hauling him back to my camp. It's going to be a good weekend.
“HERE’S YOUR BREAD, GUYS,” the waiter said to the two young men as he placed the napkin-wrapped warm treasures on the table. The smell was heavenly—the Olive Terrace was known for its complimentary bread. “Your soups will be out in a minute.” The waiter turned back toward the kitchen, knowing that at least one of the guys would have his eyes glued his own broad back and tight muscle butt.
He was right. He was usually right about these things. He could tell when he had an envious guy in the palm of his hand. They gave off signals, and Bice was very adept at reading them.
Bice was one of the more successful (and popular) waiters at the Olive Terrace; and with good reason—not only was his level of service unmatched, he was friendly and outgoing. This—and the fact that he was built like a cross between Michelangelo’s David, Adonis himself, and Hercules—saw Bice’s tips exceed those of all other wait staff at the Terrace—ever.
Really, for a 20 year old (hell, for a man of any age) Bice’s physique was astounding. His arms were the first thing you noticed. Then you realized that those guns hung from the broadest rack of shoulders you’ve ever seen. Wide delts, for sure—but much of Bice’s shoulder width was from plain good genetics. An advantage he played to the hilt by building them out with heavy, heavy weights. Then you saw his chest, and all you could wonder is how much that guy could bench. Your mind tried to figure out if he was a bodybuilder or a powerlifter, but you couldn’t cum to any certain conclusion. Until you took in that waist. In the polo shirt that Bice wore at work, his narrow abs supported his rack of pecs with such svelte grace that you wondered—how.
And then there were those legs. Columns of wide muscle. When he walked back in to the kitchen of the Terrace, the patrons, in unison, watched and marveled at the impossibly hot muscle butt that was held up and displayed to perfection by the twin towers of quads, hamstrings and calves. Then he’d bend forward slightly, to pick up an order from the cook’s window, and you’d see the broad wings of his back. Coffee would spill, and flatware would fall onto plates.
Bice’s boss loved him—he brought in scores of customers. However, he also caused a huge rise in their costs of replacing dishes. The manager did the numbers, though, and realized that the replacement costs were more than offset by the increase in revenue whenever Bice was on duty. Seems a lot of people had caught on to Bice’s schedule, and whenever he was on shift—the waiting area filled up quickly.
Bice was confident, that’s for sure. Some might even say he was cocky. But he could afford to be. He made women swoon and men envy, and he knew it.
As the two guys at the table continued their conversation and started on the bread, Matt, the guy Bice had pegged, kept glancing around the crowded restaurant to see what he could see. He was always on the lookout for muscle, and despite the fact that he had already found today’s Supreme Object of Muscle Worship in that waiter, he liked to see what else was going on. Hell, that waiter was actually more than just today’s prize—he took the week, month and year prize! He was unbelievable!
Matt shifted into crowd-confirmation mode now. This is where, after finding a SOMW, you start scanning the crowd to see the effect the aforementioned god is having on everyone. As expected, whenever the muscle waiter walked by, there were stares and comments amongst the patrons. Mostly just stares.
“Dude, did you hear me?” Roger brought Matt back to the conversation.
“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry… what?” Matt fumbled.
“Have you chosen your vacation days yet?” Despite Roger’s impatience, Matt’s companion had no idea what Matt was thinking about, nor what he was looking at whenever the water happened by. He was oblivious to things muscle—at least as far as envying musclemen. Sure, he recognized a well-built guy when he saw him, but it stopped there. No envy, no self-deprecating comparisons, and certainly no lust.
But not Matt. Matt was so in to muscle that it was scary. Despite his straight outward appearance, Matt was hopelessly in lust with anyone who’s chest measurement was larger than his waistline.
“And the lentil?” the waiter said, startling Matt with his immense presence. He was holding two bowls of soup.
“Here,” Matt said, motioning to the space in front of his chest. Matt was a gym rat. He worked out continually, some of this devotion admittedly due to his desire to build himself up into the musclemen he surreptitiously desired, but much of his constant presence in the gym was simply because he lived for muscle. He made every opportunity to see it. So, because of his multiple hours in the gym, Matt was no slouch in the beautiful-body department. He could definitely hold his own among the lesser gods. No one would accuse him of being a pencil-neck, geek, or least of all a twink, that’s for sure.
Matt watched as the waiter’s thick forearms danced their spaghetti-veins all over hell. Instant boner alert. As the waiter’s fingers released the bowl, the forearm fibers wriggled with striations that would make a pro bodybuilder feel jealous. God, that was a thick arm!
“And the vegetable beef for you, sir?” the muscle waiter said to Roger.
Roger nodded politely, again, completely oblivious to the effect the waiter was having on his dinner companion.
Bice made sure his eyes met with Matt’s as he withdrew, and he noticed the well-built guy had copped a look at his name tag.
After the main courses were brought and half consumed, Roger excused himself to use the facilities. Bice grabbed the opportunity to check on Matt.
“Everything okay here?” he said, smiling. He could tell Matt was nervous—the kid was averting his eyes quite a bit.
“Oh, yes. Thanks,” Matt said.
“I thought you’d like the spinach ravioli,” Bice smiled. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“Yeah, it’s great,” Matt said. God, this guy is so nice! I can’t believe he’s staying so long at the table! I hope Roger never comes back! Matt thought.
Bice brought a fingertip to his temple, and his biceps bulged and split in two. His striations and definition were amazing! Fuckin’ ginormous arms! “Say, do I recognize you from the gym? Do you work out at 22-hour fitness?” Bice asked.
“Oh—naw,” Matt answered. “I go to Belly’s”
“Oh. I hear that’s a pretty nice facility.”
“Yeah, it is. Can get crowded in the evenings, though,” Matt replied.
“Yeah so can 22-hour. But I usually work out in the morning—got this gig here at the restaurant most evenings,” Bice said.
God in heaven. He’s like every fantasy! No—scratch that! Every fantasy would be kneeling in front of this guy! And he’s TALKING to me! Matt thought. He fumbled with his food, nervous as hell. “That sounds good,” he said. He didn’t know what to say. He felt like a nerd.
“I’m Bice,” the waiter said, extending his big arm.
“I know—I mean, nice to meet you,” Matt said, practically spitting on Bice’s torso as the embarrassment overcame him. The handshake was warm and firm. How many waiters actually introduce themselves to customers, and shake their hand?
“And you are…” Bice probed.
“Oh, Matt. I’m Matt.”
“Well, I sure will have to check out Belly’s. You look like you get in some major work over there, Matt,” Bice smiled.
“Me?” Matt said, shocked. “Hell, coming from you, I—I mean, you’re huge!”
Bice smiled. “Thanks, man. Yeah, I love working out.”
Matt was so flustered, he didn’t know whether to spit (again) or wind his watch. Bice could tell he was causing some major confusion and fear, just by engaging the kid like this.
Matt looked up at the huge hunk, meeting his eyes in this rare moment, and said, “Apparently so.”
Bice grinned. “Well, nice to meet you, Matt. I gotta start paying attention to the other guests.”
“Yeah, sure. Nice to meet you too.”
Matt was only mildly successful in not choking on his food while Bice walked away. He looked away from that ass and back for a second and saw a number of the guests staring at the huge musclegod as he walked.
Roger returned a few minutes later, completely oblivious to Matt’s state of mind.
They split the tab; Roger gave Matt cash and Matt used his credit card. Of course, the tip was enormous.
“I’ll just need your phone number under your signature—restaurant policy,” Bice said as he handed Matt the small black folder that contained the Visa slip.
Matt had been to the Olive Terrace scores of times, and he hadn’t remembered having to give his phone number before….
“HEY MAN,” THE VOICE ON THE PHONE SMILED, “I hope you don’t mind me calling you like this—it’s kinda unusual, I know. This is Bice—the waiter at the Olive Terrace last night?”
Matt nearly dropped his cell phone. “Oh, yeah,” he squeaked out. “Hey.”
“Like I said, this is probably against the rules, so if you don’t want to talk, just tell me; but I wanted to ask you a question about your gym—Belly’s right?”
“Yeah, the one over on Kent Boulevard,” Matt said. He was scared shitless. Why was this guy really calling? Had he noticed Matt looking at him?
“I was planning on going over there and checking it out, and I was wondering if you know anyone over there—you know, in the membership department? Maybe you know if they’re having any specials for new members now?” Bice’s voice was friendly and very convincing.
“Oh, uh—” Matt fumbled with his words. “Hmmm, let me think.” He so wanted to be helpful right now. To say “no” and just end the conversation—that would be an unbelievable travesty. “Hmmmm, well…” Matt racked his brain. He didn’t know anyone there, really. He always kept to himself; didn’t mingle with the employees, except maybe some of the better looking, buff trainers, when the opportunity presented itself. “I really can’t think of anyone off the top of my head. I guess I spend most of my time on the weights, not at the front desk.” As soon as he said the words, he realized how condescending it sounded—but when he was nervous like this he wasn’t very good at organizing his thoughts, that’s for sure.
Bice laughed. “Yeah, that’s definitely true—me too.” He deftly changed the conversation to keep it going. “Hey, do you want to hook up and workout there sometime? Maybe I can get a trial membership or something, and you could show me around? I know their sales guys will do that too, but I bet someone like you could give me some inside scoop.”
Matt knew he didn’t have any scoop at all. “Sure, man,” he said. “Wow, that’d be cool. You going over there soon?”
“Actually, I have to wait till Wednesday. I have stuff going on till then. You free in the mornings?”
“Yeah, I am this week. I’m working swing,” Matt said.
MATT WAS SO NERVOUS, HE THOUGHT he was going to throw up. His hands fidgeted; his stomach churned with nausea; his heart felt like it was beating 200 times a minute.
He sat in the living room of his apartment, with his cell phone between his legs. Bice and Matt had agreed on a Wednesday meeting at Belly’s, but the musclegod called at the last minute and had cancelled. Something had come up.
“But hey, I still want to hook up with you, dude,” Bice had said. “You free Saturday?”
So, here it was, almost noon on Saturday, and Matt waited. Instead of hitting Belly’s right away, Bice wanted to pick Matt up and grab some lunch first—maybe check out a bookstore downtown, “You know, kill some time together…” he had said. Bice had said he’d ring Matt’s cell when he got to the apartment complex. And sure enough, right at noon, the phone went off.
Within a fraction of a minute, Matt found himself descending the stairs out side his unit, looking down on Bice, who was sitting in his Mustang—top down, waiting. (Top of the Mustang was down—not Bice.) It was a warm day, and Matt was glad he’d decided to wear a T-shirt and not a tank top. Bice wore a tank, and Matt just didn’t want the emotional baggage of being seen in a tank top next to that. It would be bad enough as is…
“Hey man,” Bice smiled when he saw Matt. His face was so goddam cute.
As Matt climbed into shotgun, he at once found himself relaxing in the presence of Bice’s relaxing demeanor—and ratcheting up his nerves in the presence of Bice’s astounding otherworldly body.
Bice threw it into gear, and they sped off into the sunshine.
“God, I love this,” Bice smiled as they drove. “I spent last weekend up in the forest—it was beautiful.” He looked over at Matt, who was trying to relax. “Love the outdoors, man.”
“Yeah, me too,” Matt said, shifting his legs. Bice was in denim shorts, and the comparison between the two bodybuilder’s wheels and his own was like the difference between a Renoir and one of those Thanksgiving turkeys that kindergarteners make by placing their hands on a piece of paper and outlining it. Well, maybe not that stark; Matt had respectable legs. But…kindergarteners
Bice’s giant quads were unbelievable—even relaxed.
“So, what do you do in your spare time, besides working out?” Bice asked as the wind whipped their hair.
“Oh, just work, mostly,” Matt said. He wished there was more, but he didn’t really want to tell Bice that much of his time was spent on the Web, jerking off to guys who would weep in the presence of Bice.
“Yeah, I hear ya,” Bice smiled. His muscled arm shifted the gear and Matt had to catch his breath.
A few more questions by Bice (he seemed so genuinely nice—not at all stuck on himself!) and Matt decided it was time to more actively become involved in the conversation. God, he needed to do something to sound like an interesting person.
“Yeah, it’s a nickname really. My real name is Thomas Jason Wellington. I went by TJ for most of my life—until high school. When I started working out for football, my buddies noticed that I was getting kinda big. Especially my arms.” Bice lifted his right arm and flexed it.
God help me. The arm was easily as big in inches as Bice’s age, and as he flexed it, the biceps peak grew—and grew—and grew. It was the most un-fuckin-believable biceps peak Matt had ever seen—anywhere, in person, in print, or on the Net. The peak came to a point that would rival the Matterhorn—and then it split, with a freakishly deep crevasse between the pointed heads. The bottom of Bice’s upper arm bulged with lumpy size. Just freakin-unreal.
“Bice—short for Biceps,” Bice smiled. He looked back at the road, but held his arm up for his worshipper to see for a few seconds longer.
Matt knew he was moistening his tighty-whities with pre-cum. He fought the urge to adjust his boner to a more comfortable position.
Bice put his hand back on the stick shift, and Matt’s eyes followed it. The huge man’s hand kind of fondled the head of the stick shift and his forearm again bulged with striated, veiny power. Bice looked down at his muscular fingers as they played with the head, then over at Matt, who’s own eyes were glued to the hand. Bice stifled a grin and continued to rape Matt’s mind with taunts and teases.
I PULLED MY STANG into a parking stall and we both got out. I had Matt wound up pretty tight, and was looking forward to even more fun. I figured some interaction with the public would be a nice touch.
We ordered some sandwiches at a small shop and took our lunches to a table outside. The street was busy with summer shoppers, but not overly crowded.
I restrained myself from doing anything overt—like flexing while we ate, haha. I easily could have, and Matt would have loved it (not to mention everyone else who was strolling by); hell, he was practically stroking himself already, what with his eyes glued to my arms, shoulders and chest. But I really don’t like to go that route when I’m in public—unless someone else initiates contact.
Which they usually do.
Sure enough, about the time I was done with my first sandwich a couple of dudes walked by and one of them practically fell off the boardwalk when he passed by me. He stared at me, and stopped suddenly. His buddy walked right into his back and they both almost fell over. “Dude, you’re stacked!” he said.
I smiled, put down my sandwich on my plate and said “thanks.”
“Where do you work out?” he said.
“22-Hour,” I said. “You guys go there?”
“Naw—LA Fatness,” he answered. “They’ve got a lot of good equipment. Man, there’s no one there who even comes close to your build, though—and we have some pretty big and ripped guys!”
“Thanks,” I said. I’ve found that it doesn’t pay to get embarrassed, so I usually just say “thanks.”
“Dude, how big are your arms?” he asked.
I like it when guys aren’t ashamed to call me out, but that doesn’t mean I have to give ‘em everything they want. “Oh, about twice as big as they used to be, and half as big as they’re gunna be,” I grinned. I could tell he wanted me to flex for him, but I wanted to make him to work for it.
“Yeah, right,” he laughed. “Like that would be possible. You are totally ripped—just huge,” he continued.
So, yeah, now I was figuring he had paid his dues and could be rewarded for his accolades. I raised my right arm, bent my elbow and tightened it. I have this way to flex my arm and make it look huge (which it is), and then I hold it for just a sec, and just when you think it’s the biggest thing this side of Texas, I slightly rotate my forearm and tighten everything all the way. Then the peak on my biceps raises, it splits into two distinct heads, and then it grows even more. It really blows people away.
“Hhhoooooollllly SHIT!” the dude gasped.
His buddy whistled long and low, and then swore under his breath.
Matt looked like he was going to cum right then and there, and if he hadn’t had his hands on his sandwich, I swear he would have been pushing on himself under the table while I flexed.
A guy and his girlfriend walked by and I heard him say to her, “Fuck, did you see that guy’s arm?” She turned around and gaped at it, then continued on with him.
“Fuck, man,” the first guy said. I swear he was fighting with himself not to reach out and touch it.
Before he could, I put my arm down and took a bite of my sandwich. In order to touch, you have to give more compliments and worship.
“So, you have to have won every contest you’ve entered, man,” the guy said.
I finished my bite and looked up at him. I smiled my most puckish grin and said, “I win everything I do.” I stared him down with my smile and he looked away, totally drained.
“Fuck,” he said as he started to walk away.
His buddy followed, pausing to say to me, “Thanks, man. You’re amazing.”
“My pleasure,” I said as they passed by. I took another bite of my sandwich.
Matt was chewing on his food, but he was staring at me. He finally said, “You get that a lot? People just coming up to you and commenting on your muscles?”
“Usually a couple of times a day.”
“Yeah. Little boys are the best. Their eyes bug out. Sometimes they think I’m the Incredible Hulk. It’s fun to talk to them, and their daddies,” I said.
MY STOMACH FELT LIKE it was in my throat. I don’t know how I was able to swallow anything. When Bice had flexed his arm for that guy, I swear I almost came. Just seeing that dude’s expression blew me away. Bice certainly isn’t afraid to show off a little, but he also doesn’t go around strutting his stuff for everyone. I mean, in a weird way, he’s kind of humble—or maybe he just doesn’t think it’s that big of a deal. I dunno—he’s just totally hot in every way.
After lunch we walked down to a little bookstore. Most of the stores in the town had opened out onto the walkway and had put out tables and displays. People mingled in and out. Of course, I loved watching them, because most of them loved watching Bice. Men, women, teens, kids... even the elderly. It was so cool to watch the watchers.
Bice bought a paperback book. I didn’t get the title, so as we left I asked him.
“Oh, Catcher in the Rye,” he said. “J. D. Salinger died a few months ago, and I heard them talking on the radio about it. I’ve never read it, so I thought now would be a good time.”
“Cool,” I said. I thought for a minute as we walked and said, “But I doubt you’ll be able to identify with the main character.”
“Really? Why?” Bice asked.
“Just read it. You’ll understand. Trust me, you have nothing in common with Holden.”
“So...” Bice contemplated, “...he’s some kind of loser?” He stopped and turned to me with a shit-eating grin.
I just sneered a sarcastic kind of look at him, and he burst out laughing.
God, I loved being able to do that to him.
We ended up spending most of the afternoon walking down that little shop-filled street; and when we got to the end of the road, it opened up onto the beach, which was filled with people enjoying the nice weather. The sunny, warm day had brought out quite a few sun worshippers. There was a volleyball game going on, and lots of people in the surf, as well as on blankets.
“Wanna get your toes wet?” Bice asked me; his face was bright with enthusiasm. As I looked at his perfect, white teeth and his astounding eyes I realized that he not only had the body of a god but he had the face of one too. Just amazing.
“Uh—sure,” I said.
We stepped off the boardwalk and onto the sand. Bice stopped and slowly lifted his tank top off.
His skin was perfect. Perfectly wrapped around his bulging, proportionately perfect muscles. Proportionately perfect, yet oversized just enough to make you dizzy. Everything was big—and ripped.
I almost had to look away, it was so amazing.
God, those fucking arms were over the top!
He dropped his tank and bent over to undo the straps on his sandals. His back was amazing! He stood up and kicked off his sandals, then bent over and picked them up, as well as his tank top. He looked at me with an expression that said, and you?
I got the message, and despite dreading having to stand shirtless next to him, I obeyed. We both walked toward the water with our shirts and sandals in hand, and the people gawked.
I tried to watch their reaction, but too many people gazed at Bice for me to catch.
As we walked past the volleyball game, the ball was served, but the guy who was its intended received was so busy looking at Bice’s physique that the ball bonked him in the head. A few of his teammates laughed, but nobody scolded him; everyone knew what the problem was, and you just couldn’t begrudge someone for freezing in his tracks when this perfect specimen of muscular development passed by.
As we got close to the waterline, Bice dropped his tank and sandals on the sand; I did likewise. We didn’t venture in too far—just up to our calves. The cool water felt good; I hadn’t realized how warm it had gotten. The sun was beating down on us and the water was refreshing.
Bice was playful. He really seemed to enjoy life. He kicked the water a few times, bent down and washed his face in the surf with his hands, and then stretched. “Man, I love living here!” he said loudly, almost shouting.
Me too, Bice. Me too.
AS THE AFTERNOON TURNED INTO EVENING, Matt and I found a busy outdoor restaurant back on the boardwalk. We only had to wait a few minutes for a spot at the bar.
The chicken was great—a good break from all that food I serve at the Olive Terrace. The bartender was a good looking guy who was buff—really dark eyes and sparkling eyes. He gave Matt and me the best service. But I just couldn’t get over Matt. He really had it bad for me in such an obvious way. I think he thought he was hiding it pretty well, but he wasn’t, really. His eyes were all over my muscles; and even though I’m used to it, when I saw his eyes wander all over me, it was a huge turn-on.
I couldn’t wait to get him to my place after dinner.
Or—maybe we wouldn’t go to my place.
As the evening wore on, they had a live band start playing. It was a spectacular evening outside, and people were having a great time. There was a small dance floor, and I just couldn’t resist. I may not be the world’s best dancer, but I do okay. At least, it seems that people like my dancing; or maybe the just like to watch my gyrate like that—haha.
Anyway, I got Matt to loosen up enough to get on the floor a few times; I think the drinks helped him to relax.
Yeah, I know they did. Later, back on our stools at the bar, he was enjoying a Margarita, and he was feeling pretty good. “Dude,” he smiled, looking me over, “everyone in this bar is staring at you.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” I grinned, taking a sip of my drink.
Matt laughed, “Yeah—right.”
I laughed back.
He was looking at my shoulders and arms. “You look good in that tank top,” he said, taking another drink.
“Thanks,” I said. “Hey—I know this little, secret spot on the beach a few miles up,” I continued. “You want to get out of this place?”
“Sure!” he said. He swigged down the last of his drink and we walked back to my Mustang.
The sky was clear, and the warm breeze seemed to make the stars twinkle with brilliance. I had found this spot of beach about a year ago, and had brought a few girls here—and maybe a few guys. I don’t know how it hadn’t been discovered; it was very secluded—and very beautiful.
We left the car in some trees and walked down a short path to the beach. It was closed in on one end by a huge rock formation—inaccessible from the north. The other end of the 100-yard long beach was blocked by thick brush and trees. The sand of the beach was pure and soft, and the tree line was punctuated with a few logs and small rock formations that formed a few very secluded spots that were perfect for spreading a blanket; which we did with the one I had brought from my trunk.
The surf rolled and provided wonderful ambiance. There was a full moon that was so bright it might have distracted someone trying to sleep—but neither one of us was there to do any sleeping.
We took off our sandals and Matt sat down on the blanket. I could tell he had had plenty to drink.
“I’ll be right back,” I said. I walked down to the water and dipped my hands, washing my face. It felt good. When I got back to Matt, he was reclining back on his elbows, looking up at me.
“God, you’re amazing,” he said.
I took the base of my tank top in my fingertips and slowly lifted.
Matt followed my every move.
I pulled it up over my head and let it drop to the blanket. “Sure is a nice, warm evening tonight…” I smiled.
“Yeah,” Matt said, his mouth dry.
I looked around the moonlit, empty beach. “You know, I’ve been here maybe a dozen times before, and I’ve never seen anyone here—day or night.”
“Really?” Matt said, glancing at the storybook scenery…
I LOOKED BACK AT BICE; he was still admiring the beautiful beach. Indeed, it was like something out of a movie. But Bice made the scene look anemic in comparison to his wonderful muscles and gorgeous face. The moonlight cast a matte onto his chest and abs that accented every bulge and valley. A movie director couldn’t have duplicated what Mother Nature was doing to Bice’s torso and arms. The lighting was perfect—and the longer we spent there, the more our eyes adjusted to the blue glow and more and more details became visible.
Bice looked back at me now. “Yeah—really. Never seen anyone here.” He looked down at his long, muscular fingers as they started to fiddle with the button on his shorts. “Yeah. You don’t mind if I take these off, do you?” he asked. “I figure, when else would the opportunity present itself to romp on a private beach?”
“Yeah—really,” I said. “Go for it.” I could tell the buzz from the Margaritas was affecting me. I wasn’t a heavy drinker, and it didn’t take much to loosen me up.
As my cock hardened into a steel pipe, I watched as Bice unzipped himself and pushed his shorts down over his impossible legs. He wore white thong-like briefs. He stood tall and smiled at me.
I wanted to start crying. Never had I imagined someone so well-built and handsome.
“You gunna make me be the only naked guy down here?” he grinned.
I didn’t respond, other than to just swallow hard.
Then Bice hooked his thumbs into his waistline. He pulled the fabric out, and slowly taunted me. It wasn’t like one of those strip-tease acts; no, it wasn’t that blatant. But it was obvious to me that he was having fun with me. Eventually he pulled his thong all the way down and flicked it away with his big toe. His schlong sprung forward; he wasn’t erect—at least not hard—but he could definitely be getting that way. It was big. Thick. Pubes trimmed and manicured. Yeah, he took care of himself. The moonlight reflected off the rim of his cock head. I could tell he wasn’t totally limp. The thing stuck forward—more than a limp cock would.
He smiled at me and put his hands on his hips.
I wanted to die.
“You wanna go for a swim?” he smiled.
I really wanted to just lie there and look at him, but I acquiesced. “Sure,” I smiled. I sat up, then stood. I knew that when all was said and done, I’d be advertising myself with a boner to knock off all boners, but maybe the alcohol was limiting my shame or something—I didn’t care. I guess I figured that by now, Bice knew how much I was smitten with him. At least I hoped he knew.
Instead of watching me undress, like I had him, while I stripped Bice turned and made a beeline for the water. By the time my naked body joined his in the surf, he was distracted enough to allow me to get my cock under water before he could really pay attention to it. As the cool water moved over my body, my boner subsided.
Bice wanted to play. There was really no organized game or anything; we just romped in the surf, chasing and splashing. He’d dive under the water and come up in front of me and splash me in the face. Then he’d dive away, headlong into the water as I watched his bulging naked frame slink underneath. I followed, and the interaction kind of turned into a game of tag.
And I suppose the reader of this little yarn can guess what happened next.
Yeah—just like you might imagine—at one point in the game, Bice caught me; but instead of simply tagging me, he grabbed me from behind. He squeezed me with his impossibly huge arms and then turned me around. He held my shoulders with his hands.
Then the playing stopped. He looked into my eyes. We stood in the water, the moon reflecting into his twinkling eyes. The water ran down our faces. He smiled gently at me… and then moved his face even closer to mine… and then… he closed his eyes as our lips met. He wrapped his strong arms around me, and as his tongue gently caressed mine, his hands ran up and down my back.
I reciprocated. My heart was beating so hard that I thought I would die. My hands moved over his back, and Bice held me still. He kissed so tenderly, so gently. I felt the heat of his body. The heat of his rippling back and the mounds of individual muscles moved under my palms and fingers.
We kissed for a long time—long enough for me to get hard again, even in the cool water. Bice’s hand found my boner and caressed it. He drove me crazy with his tenderness.
“I think—maybe—we should head back to that blanket,” he said softly between kisses.
I nodded in approval.
MATT WAS SO HOT—and so mine. We didn’t have any towels to dry off with, so we just reclined on the blanket and kissed while we dried. I could tell Matt was enjoying himself. His hands moved all over my body, stopping to feel one muscle, and then another.
I don’t know how much experience Matt had with guys, but god he was a great kisser.
We laid on our sides for awhile, kissing, feeling and caressing; then I couldn’t take it any longer. Matt’s adoring hands were driving me crazy. I was as hard as a rock. I moved on top of him, and he spread his legs. He stared at my face and put his hands on my butt. He was totally inviting me in, and yet he looked afraid.
“First time?” I paused.
He nodded yes.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take it nice and slow.”
I placed my plumb against his sphincter. It was at this point that Matt’s cock began to pulse, and then without any manual stimulation, he began to ejaculate onto himself. He put his hands on my triceps now and held on for dear life. His whole face squinted and contorted. This was one hard orgasm. He panted and shot long, thick streams of cum onto himself.
God, he must have been holding it for weeks! It was a good thing we were out here on the beach, because this would have been a hell of a mess to clean up inside. As it was, the blanket was drenched from his come.
I took the opportunity to began pushing inside. Matt was so into survival mode with his orgasm that he wasn’t able to offer any resistance at this point. Thus, the insertion went smoothly. His virgin ass was tighter than I had had in a long time. God, he was tight. It felt so good.
As Matt started to calm down, I pushed into the hilt. He gasped. I could tell it hurt him, yet he put his hands back on my ass and didn’t let me pull back—which turned out just fine anyway, because all it took was that one initial push to bring me to the brink.
My cock erupted inside him, and his eyes went wide. I collapsed onto him and grabbed his shoulders, tightening my big arms around him. I squeezed with the rhythm of my ejaculations. I buried my face in his neck. His hands stroked my broad back and ass muscles. He seemed to enjoy feeling my ass cheeks as they tightened and relaxed with the pulses of my orgasm. I moaned in rhythm.
So did Matt.
I pushed harder with each subsequent burst, and Matt’s hands moved over the rippling muscles of my tightening and loosening butt cheeks.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he said as I fucked him.
It seemed like it would never end. I hadn’t realized how much this kid turned me on. He was so cute, and such a great fuck. The feeling of my muscles on top of him was so powerful. The fact that he enjoyed my physique so much made my enjoyment exponentially more powerful. This dude was going to need to be fucked—and fucked often.
WE ENDED UP LEAVING THE BEACH at about 2 AM. Bice drove us back to his place. I was exhausted. We fell asleep in his bed—in each others’ arms. I don’t know what Bice was dreaming about, but my dreams were filled with scenes of him flexing and posing for me while I stroked myself off… dreams which would come true only the very next day.
— Fini —
Feel free to shower the author with praise. This story is free. Your appreciation is priceless.
© 2018 Sean Reid Scott
Permission is hereby given (yipee!) by the Copyright Holder, Sean Reid Scott, to reproduce and transmit this work, in its entirety only, for the enjoyment of others only, provided the author's website and email address are noted.
Please contact the author if you experience
orgasm during the reading of this work.