[Opening of a planned series based on fantasies coming from my own encounters at the gym (I like to worship and be worshipped). I'm a writer and amateur bodybuilder, hoping to self-publish in the future to help pay the expenses that come with muscle-building (protein, supplements and food are expensive!) so let me know if you think my erotica could be worth paying for.]
Part 1:
Heaving breath presses the great expanse of his chest up and down. Sweat slips over the great curve of his pecs, trickling through the teasing dark of his chest hair before staining the white tank. His chest falls in a great exhalation and then rises up again, muscles flushed with blood and exertion, pressing the little curled black hairs over the rim of the tanktop. The deep intake pulls more than air, drawing towards him the attention of a few nearby weightlifters. In controlled, lazy flickers, feigned disinterest, they feast upon the great heaving which strains hard muscle against the fibres of his top. They can almost hear the protest of the cloth, struggling to contain the heavy, swollen domes.
The breath goes out, and the tank gets a reprieve. It believes itself to have survived. More sweat makes its way down, dropping from the obscene ridge of his pecs, sliding down the strained chords of muscle to stain the white fabric. And then the great gathering again, and it feels the press of those monstrous pecs, attacking and piercing it with the many thick, curled stings, wrenching its fibers apart. It will prove too much, far too much. If not now, then soon. At some point, blood will rush to swell the exhausted muscle. He will suck the air from the room which he dominates by simply being. The great sculptors of his body will take up their chisels, obeying the monolithic sacrifice of his great exertion, of the gargantuan weights which just clattered so near his broad feet, and they will build that muscle again and again, and in its last attack the pathetic sweat-soaked tank will split, screech, rip, shred and I will see the wider forest promised by the poking black hairs, the trail which plunges into the valley of abs and down into heavy crotch.
The tank does not split, and I realise that he is staring directly at me. And he has been for the entire time that I willed his muscles to grow even further, for all the time that I chewed my swelling lip as if to chew through the colossal tanktop that barely adorns the bulging shoulders and obscene chest. But I have been caught before, and I know that the deep red flush of my face can be the result of my own workout, and the stare can be beyond him, to the occupied cable machine I am presumably waiting to use.
Although, that little journey will have wait, unless I am bold enough to squeeze past his bench with the iron rod of my erection jutting obscenely from me. And I could. I could simply say nothing, stepping around the herculean dumbbells at his feet, smiling softly and feeling the tip of my cock, separated only by the sweat-soaked crotch of my shorts, drift against his face. And I could lean so slightly in, foot caught, tripping, flecks of sweat spraying against the great chest, accidentally pressing that unwelcome package against his lips, parting them, surprising him with the taste of my own workout, and, of course, the tantalising precum I can now feel dripping from me.
I have now been resting suspiciously long, and the pounding of my dick, pressing against the thick muscle of my thigh, has begun yearning toward opening of my shorts, pressing in wet excitement toward freedom. I lean over, lower arms heavy with exhaustion and muscle, grasp the two dumbbells and lift them, straining, to my knees. If I am to ever leave this gym I will need to drain the blood from my cock by sending it somewhere else.
Part 1:
Heaving breath presses the great expanse of his chest up and down. Sweat slips over the great curve of his pecs, trickling through the teasing dark of his chest hair before staining the white tank. His chest falls in a great exhalation and then rises up again, muscles flushed with blood and exertion, pressing the little curled black hairs over the rim of the tanktop. The deep intake pulls more than air, drawing towards him the attention of a few nearby weightlifters. In controlled, lazy flickers, feigned disinterest, they feast upon the great heaving which strains hard muscle against the fibres of his top. They can almost hear the protest of the cloth, struggling to contain the heavy, swollen domes.
The breath goes out, and the tank gets a reprieve. It believes itself to have survived. More sweat makes its way down, dropping from the obscene ridge of his pecs, sliding down the strained chords of muscle to stain the white fabric. And then the great gathering again, and it feels the press of those monstrous pecs, attacking and piercing it with the many thick, curled stings, wrenching its fibers apart. It will prove too much, far too much. If not now, then soon. At some point, blood will rush to swell the exhausted muscle. He will suck the air from the room which he dominates by simply being. The great sculptors of his body will take up their chisels, obeying the monolithic sacrifice of his great exertion, of the gargantuan weights which just clattered so near his broad feet, and they will build that muscle again and again, and in its last attack the pathetic sweat-soaked tank will split, screech, rip, shred and I will see the wider forest promised by the poking black hairs, the trail which plunges into the valley of abs and down into heavy crotch.
The tank does not split, and I realise that he is staring directly at me. And he has been for the entire time that I willed his muscles to grow even further, for all the time that I chewed my swelling lip as if to chew through the colossal tanktop that barely adorns the bulging shoulders and obscene chest. But I have been caught before, and I know that the deep red flush of my face can be the result of my own workout, and the stare can be beyond him, to the occupied cable machine I am presumably waiting to use.
Although, that little journey will have wait, unless I am bold enough to squeeze past his bench with the iron rod of my erection jutting obscenely from me. And I could. I could simply say nothing, stepping around the herculean dumbbells at his feet, smiling softly and feeling the tip of my cock, separated only by the sweat-soaked crotch of my shorts, drift against his face. And I could lean so slightly in, foot caught, tripping, flecks of sweat spraying against the great chest, accidentally pressing that unwelcome package against his lips, parting them, surprising him with the taste of my own workout, and, of course, the tantalising precum I can now feel dripping from me.
I have now been resting suspiciously long, and the pounding of my dick, pressing against the thick muscle of my thigh, has begun yearning toward opening of my shorts, pressing in wet excitement toward freedom. I lean over, lower arms heavy with exhaustion and muscle, grasp the two dumbbells and lift them, straining, to my knees. If I am to ever leave this gym I will need to drain the blood from my cock by sending it somewhere else.
