I stood up off my knees. John was primed for fucking. I was starting to prune so I shut off the shower. I straddled John, aiming my dick at his center. With a single thrust, it sank into his ass. Bill and I watched each other as we spit-roasted John from both ends. Bill's face flushed red. We were both close to shooting off. I knew Bill wouldn't hold out much longer, not with the deep-throating John was putting down on that cop cock.
Slurp
.
Slurp
.
I knew from experience that he wouldn't stop until he'd gotten that nut. The man is ravenous, so I wasn't surprised that he could keep up with us. The occasional moan and “Fuck yeah,” echoed throughout the showers.
“Damn, this some good ass.”
“Take this dick.”
“Take it.”
Who knows how many dicks this bottom had taken up his ass? The backs of my thighs were on fire. Fuck, I couldn't hold out any longer. As I slid out, I jerked thick streams of nut across his pimpled ass.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck yeah.”
“Fuckin' cum.”
Bill continued to work his mouth.
“Yeah. Fuck his mouth.”
“Suck that big fuckin' dick.”
John started sucking Bill faster.
I looked up at Bill as he thrust his slab of cop dick in John's mouth.
“Fuck his face.”
“Damn, man you can suck a dick.”
“Here it comes,” Bill said. Before another word rolled past my lips, Bill came.
Gulp.
Gulp
.
“Take that cum,” I said.
Bill eased his dick out of John's mouth. John lapped up the few drops of jizz from the spout of Bill's dick before he collapsed on the floor. I was exhausted. Our dicks were limp against our thighs.
Damn that was hot.
Bill treated us like we weren't even there as he got dressed, buckling his shiny black holster back around his waist.
I stood naked before him.
“You want to umâdo this on the reg?” I said in a cocky tone.
“They're gonna start cracking down hard on this place so you better stay out of here. Tell him to do the same. Better get dressed. The janitors will be by here soon to clean.”
I put my clothes on, leaving John to shower off. The last time I saw him he was working at one of the bookstores on campus. I think about John sometimes, wondering if he has a lover, or has maybe converted to heterosexuality or is cruising some gym shower someplace.
* * *
Bill was outside in the lobby of the movie theater.
“How was it?”
“Good. Slow at first, but pretty good.”
“My wife wants to see it, so we might try to make it by next week.”
“You should. It's a cool movie,” I said.
“Well, have a good night. It was good seeing you again,” said Bill.
“You too. Take care.”
The following week I went to Montgomery Gym. They had remodeled the building and turned the showers into a classroom. It was the end of an era. I left knowing that it was one of the hottest spots I had fucked in.
MR. SAMPSON'S MUSCLE PALACE
R. W. Clinger
I
was a beef-head all the way and had the muscles to prove it. At twenty-three, my biceps were the size of watermelons and my abs were like speed bumps. I couldn't tell you how thick my neck was, but all my queer friends and fellow workout buddies said it looked like a barrel. All those guys loved my hulking, hairless and ripped chest, not that I blamed them. And let's not forget to mention the tube of uncut cock between my legs. The dick was almost nine inches long when it was fully erect and two inches thick. Think porn-quality stuff. Think XXX all the way. And think
ouch!
Because I knew what to do to please a man.
My boss, Dean Naylor at the
Village Herald
, was into redheads and queers, but still wouldn't provide me with a serious article to write. I would have let him bounce up and down on my dick if he gave me the John Doe murder down on 6th Street, or drug deals that were being practiced after midnight behind the First Lutheran Church on Dixie Street. But Naylor denied having an attraction to my beefy bod and fall-into green eyes; I knew better. In the end, I got stuck with the shitty stories: favorite places to buy teacups in the city, hoarders, and a new flavor of ice cream at Renaldo's Splits & Fountain Bar.
So I was hot, a stud, and I could write. My degree in journalism was obtained at Temple. I didn't have a boyfriend, stayed away from sugar, and I liked to work out at least four times a week, sometimes five; it all depended on my schedule. And I had a great pair of balls, which almost prompted me to walk into Naylor's office, strip out of my khakis and too-small tee and show him my cut frame so he would give me an intriguing and serious article to write. The guy probably would have urinated himself with surprise at my drooping balls and thatch of thick red hair above my shaft. Saliva would have maybe dripped out of his mouth. But those actions didn't happen because I played it cool; I needed the job, the paycheck, and showed him respect.
Naylor didn't work out, but I didn't hold that against him. He was still handsome, with his firm jaw, broad shoulders, and dark scruff on his chin and cheeks.
I sat across from him at his desk, adjusted my cock and balls (for his pleasure) a few times in his presence, and listened to the story he wanted me to create.
“There's a new gym in town I want you to do a piece on, Kurt,” he said, checking out the khaki outline of my private parts between my thick thighs. He licked his lips and smiled, delighted with my available goods.
“Is it Pulls and Pushes on Mercer Avenue?” I asked. The mentioned gym was thirty days old and my roommate, Mike Puller, worked there.
He shook his head, passed me a business card and said, “It's a private gym. There's no sign out front as of yet, this is how new the business is. Some of its patrons are calling the place Mr. Sampson's Muscle Palace.”
I wanted to laugh but didn't. Instead, I looked down at the black-and-white business card and saw that there was an address and nothing more. No phone number. No manager's or owner's names. No website. No witty blurb to advertise the place and lure fellow beefsters such as myself to work out there.
“I'll give you three days for a story. No later.”
I accepted the writing gig, fingered the plain card and left his office so he could masturbate and unload the hard dick that he was hiding under his desk from me.
My straight roommate, a twenty-four-year-old muscled jarhead who'd spent two terms in Afghanistan, looked at the business card Naylor had given me and said, “I know the guy who runs that place.”
“Mr. Sampson?”
“Darnell Sampson. He's big and black with muscles the size of planets. He has dreadlocks and a grin that will make you come inside your boxer-briefs, without the thing even being touched.”
“You're fucking with me, Mike,” I said, disbelieving him.
Mike was now a physical-fitness trainer and knew the right things to eat, the vitamins to take and the weights to lift. He was making a protein shake at our kitchen counter, scooping chocolate powder into a blender and talking to me. “Cross my heart. I'm telling the truth.”
I checked out his well-built frame again and found his pretty-boy blond looks irresistible. He was into Nebraska cowgirls though, and I didn't stand a chance with him. There was no way of converting him to a cocksucker anytime soon, even if I was drop-dead chiseled and interested in taking care of my body.
“How do you know Darnell Sampson?” I asked.
“He came into Pulls and Pushes and tried to bribe me to join his gym. I told him I wanted to see the place before making up my mind. He said that was fine. So I checked the place out.” He screwed the cap back on the plastic bottle of protein and set it aside.
“What did you think of the place?”
He nodded and winked at me. “Just your typical gym.”
“What's the wink about?”
He tapped the business card I was holding and said, “Use that card to get inside and you'll find out.”
I wasn't afraid of anything. Not Naylor. Not Mike. And certainly not a stranger named Darnell Sampson. To prove such a fact, I said to my roommate, “I'll do that, friend.”
He laughed, but I didn't know why. Then he pressed the
MIX
button on his blender and continued preparing his shake.
Two nights later at seven o'clock in the evening I made my way to the address on the business card with my gym bag, judging the place a shithole from the outside. Number 982 Smithton Street was a two-story white building with boarded-over windows, chips of paint missing from its front wall, and a heavy urine smell. There was nothing remotely attractive about the pen and I had almost decided to skip on the story, preparing myself to tell Naylor to fuck off.
I went inside, though. The entrance was down four steps and a gray door welcomed me. I played with its knob, took a deep breath and entered the establishment at my own risk. The stink of man-sweat filled my nostrils once I was inside, and my view took in the surroundings without any surprises whatsoever.
It
was
a typical gym, just as Mike had said. Weight benches were to the far right. A boxing ring sat in the center of the place. There were two wrestling mats, a number of cycles, just as many treadmills, and numerous rowers scattered here and there. A running track circled the gym's interior perimeter, climbing ropes hung down from the two-story high ceiling, and a sign painted on the wall to the far left read
SWIMMING POOL & LOCKERS,
next to a narrow and dim hallway.
There were more men in the place than women, and each sported bodies from hell. It was muscleland all the way, and I felt at home.
Just as I was about to walk toward the locker room area with my gym bag and perform an hour workout, a big-boned black man the size of a dump truck made eye contact with me, smiled and confronted me. He said, “May I help you?” checking me out from head to toe, studying my ginger-colored hair, freckles on my cheeks and nose, green eyes and every pumped muscle that comprised my athletic body.
I passed him the white business card that Naylor had given me. All I could do was look at the outlined dick in his tight running shorts, which were a bright yellow. The tube of cock exposed in its breathable fabric was something of a spectacle. Like my own cock, Mr. Sampson's was plump and healthy looking. And his bare chest was just as appealing: a heaping mass of veined muscle the color of dark chocolate with hard pecs, alert nipples, and a rippled stomach that needed to be licked.
He looked at the card, nodded, checked me out again with maybe the slightest attraction and reached for my right hand to pump.
The pumping was brisk and powerful. Then he said, “You're the first hot ginger-head that has walked into this place. Welcome.”
I didn't know whether to be offended or flattered, but thought it best to go with the latter. I said, “I'm Kurt Rawley, thanks for having me.”
We talked for a few minutes and I learned all the details I needed to know about his establishment for my article, including that he was quite the businessman, owned two other gyms in different cities and planned on opening a fourth in the near future, as soon as this gym was up and running, and financially capable to stand on its own.
Following his mundane details he said, “Make yourself at home, Kurt.”
I told him that was my intention, and the two of us separated. He walked over to a bald beefcake who was lifting over three hundred pounds and I headed for the locker room, prepared to dump my bag and begin a sweaty workout.
The locker room area was similar to others I had frequented in my bodybuilding adventures. Steam room to the right, lockers and benches to the left, showers in the rear, toilets to the far left. Nothing was unusual except for a narrow hallway next to the showers. A sign hung above its open doorway that read
MR. SAMPSON'S MUSCLE PALACE
.
No one was around to ask what the sign meant. So after shoving my gym bag into a locker, I decided to investigate the hallway, and whatever the gym owner's muscle palace entailed.
The hallway was long, narrow and sloped downward. I was sublevel before I realized it and in almost complete darkness. A steel door stopped my trek for the time being. The door, I assumed, led outside, probably to a trio of Dumpsters in a back alley. That wasn't the case, though.
Beyond the door was a set of six, red-illuminated underground rooms without windows or doors. Three were positioned on the right, and the other three were on the left side, forming a zigzagging pattern. Each room was different in size and content, which, after investigating, left me speechless, intrigued and quite awestruck, all at the same time.
Three hairy bears were in the first room doing a threesome circle jerk. One of them called out to me, “Come on in, guy, and help us crank these dicks.”
I winked, grinned, and decided to move to the next room, which was empty.
The third room was larger than the previous two. Chains were affixed to the wall, as well as an eighteen-year-old Asian boy with a limp dick and clamps on his nipples. Some S/M fucker with a whip and leather mask was beating him. The boy loved it, asking for more.
Room number four was occupied by six young gym rats who performed an eye-catching orgy. Moans and grunts echoed within the room as the collected men acted out their top and bottom positions with great delight.
The fifth room was a huge surprise for me and I had to take a second look, just to believe that the events inside were real and not a figment of my imagination. My roommate, Mike, was there with another guy, a twink with blond hair and a cheerleader's build. Twink was on his back, sprawled over a swinging net. Mike was in the buff, ripped and beautiful, and had his cock jammed inside the little twink's tight and hairless ass. His palms were secure around the boy's ankles and kept Twink's legs open for easy access. The two rocked back and forth in hyper motion. Mike's bulbous ass was a fine piece of art as it thrust forward and then pulled away from the boy, which proved that he was fucking the beginner gym buddy with all his weight.