The Hung Gym Buddy

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The Hung Gym Buddy

"The Hung Gym Buddy" is a raw, electrifying erotic tale about desire, obsession, and the thin line between curiosity and ruin. Fred, a shy young man, thinks the gym is just a place to sweat and forget his problems—until the day M'Baku, a sculpted Angolan with untamed sexual energy, walks in.

With razor-cut muscles, a deep voice, and an accent that drags words like a dare, M'Baku is pure, unapologetic virility. And when stolen glances, accidental touches, and the intoxicating scent of sweat and testosterone become too much, Fred finds himself trapped in a web of forbidden fantasies.

But there's a catch: M'Baku doesn’t seem to notice the effect he has—or does he?

The gym becomes a minefield of sexual tension, where every rep, every drop of sweat, every careless adjustment of that tight shorts pushes Fred closer to the edge.

How far is he willing to go?

Reader's Advisory:
"The Hung Gym Buddy" is an adult erotic fiction work intended for mature audiences only.

All characters and events are fictional, and any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. The story is published chapter by chapter, and the author reserves the right to modify or adjust the plot as needed.

Read at your own discretion—and enjoy the journey.

 

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Scene 1: The First Encounter

The gym was nearly empty at that dead hour of the afternoon, the silence broken only by the distant clang of a dumbbell hitting the floor and the tired hum of the air conditioner struggling against the stifling heat. Fred lay on the flat bench, going through his third set of bench presses with weights so light they barely justified the effort—just enough to make his presence there seem legitimate. His eyes wandered across the mirror, avoiding his own reflection: an ordinary face, an undefined body, a slight paunch visible under his loose t-shirt.

Then the gym door creaked open.

And he walked in.

M’Baku crossed the room with long, awkward strides, as if his body were too big for the space around him. Tall, lean, yet absurdly defined—every muscle looked sculpted beneath his dark, gleaming skin, even without the rigidity of someone who’d been training for years. The black tank top, tight and already a little sweaty, clung to his broad shoulders, emphasizing every curve of his arms—veins bulging on his forearms like ropes under the skin, his biceps rounded even at rest. The gray shorts, loose but not loose enough, swayed with his movements, and Fred couldn’t help but notice the heavy bulge adjusting with every step, shaping the fabric in a way that made his stomach twist.

"Shit." Fred quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the dumbbell. But five seconds later, he was already stealing another glance.

M’Baku stopped in front of the rowing machine, staring at the cables as if they were a puzzle. Clumsy, yet with a presence that dominated the space, he tugged at one cable, then the other, testing the weight with rough movements. The muscles in his back stretched under the tank top, his shoulder blades casting deep shadows as his forehead furrowed in concentration.

"He doesn’t know how to use it."

Then M’Baku glanced around, searching for help, and his dark eyes locked onto Fred’s in the mirror.

One second. Two.

Fred flushed, choked on his own breath, and turned away too quickly, making the bench creak.

"Fuck, I look like a creep."

But it was too late. M’Baku turned toward him, hesitant, and then—with a heavy Angolan accent, slow and thick, the words coming out as if translated on the spot—he spoke:

— “Bro… you know how to adjust this damn thing?”

His voice was deeper than Fred expected. Warm, rough, carrying a resonance that vibrated in the chest.

Fred swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

— “Uh… yeah.” He stood up too fast, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Fuck, Fred, get a grip."

As he approached, M’Baku’s scent hit him like a punch to the gut—fresh sweat, salty, mixed with a hint of sweet coconut oil and the natural musk of his dark skin, all wrapped in the cheap deodorant that, on this man, smelled like pure testosterone. It was intoxicating.

Fred pointed at the weight stack, avoiding looking at the shorts that now clung even tighter against the seat, the fabric straining dangerously.

— “You change the load here.” His voice came out rougher than usual.

M’Baku tilted his head, his lips slightly parted, his wet tongue flicking briefly over his white teeth as he watched.

— “Ah… got it.” He pulled the cable again, testing it, and the muscles in his back tightened like steel cords under the tank top, the fabric riding up to reveal a strip of dark, sweaty skin above the waistband of his shorts. “It’s heavy.”

Fred didn’t know where to look. At the huge hands, the throbbing veins in his arms, or the bulge that now seemed even more obvious with the effort?

— “You… new here?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

M’Baku let out a sound between a laugh and a grunt, deep and rough like a diesel engine.

— “Got here today. Never been in a gym before.”

"Jesus." Fred imagined those enormous hands gripping a barbell, the muscles in his chest heaving under the tank top, the shorts straining under the weight of his own body—

— “Want some help?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.

M’Baku looked at him, his dark eyes fixed, almost hypnotic.

— “Yeah.”

Just one word, but Fred felt like he’d been zapped by electricity.

"This is gonna end badly."

 

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Scene 2: The Workout (Growing Tension)

Fred tried to keep his voice steady as he explained the movement, but the physical disparity between them was overwhelming. At 5'9", he had to tilt his head back as if looking up at a skyscraper—M'Baku's 6'5" frame cast both a physical and psychological shadow that swallowed him whole. The Angolan's neck, thick as a telephone pole, pulsed with veins Fred could count from arm's length away.

— "You grab here..." Fred pointed to the machine's cable, his fingers trembling slightly. "And pull to here, slowly." He demonstrated the motion, trying not to sound so nervous.

When M'Baku repeated it, he did so with such brute force that the machine groaned in protest. The muscles in his back turned into steel cords beneath the black tank top, creating contours Fred ached to trace with his fingers. His gaze flickered again to that forbidden area—the fabric of the shorts seemed ready to give way under the pressure, molding in a way that should've been illegal in public.

— "Like this?" M'Baku's voice was heavy with exertion, his accent stretching each word longer than necessary.

Fred swallowed hard before answering, his throat inexplicably dry. — "Yeah... but slower. Control the weight." His voice came out rougher than he intended, like he'd spent the night shouting.

He watched, mesmerized, as sweat began trickling down M'Baku's thick neck, following the path of bulging veins until it disappeared beneath the tank top's collar. His scent intensified with effort—a mix of fresh sweat, the natural musk of his skin, and something wilder, something that made Fred think of jungles and predators.

— "How many... reps?" M'Baku asked between labored breaths, his damp lips parting to release hot air.

— "Uh... twelve? But if it's too heavy—"

— "It's not." The interruption came with a flash of white teeth, a challenge gleaming in those dark eyes. "Just getting started."

A shiver ran down Fred's spine. The man was a living paradox—clumsy as a cub but with the confidence of a full-grown lion. And the worst part? He didn’t even seem aware of the effect he had.

When Fred finally stepped away, it took him five paces to realize he'd been holding his breath. — "So... that's it. Good luck."

M'Baku dipped his head. — "Thanks, bro."

Back on the bench, Fred found his concentration utterly destroyed. Every glance in the mirror was a direct hit to his already fragile composure—the way M'Baku bit his lower lip when focusing, how the tank top rode up just enough to reveal a glimpse of toned abs when he stretched his arms, the deep shadow between his pecs when he took a heavy breath.

"Shit, he probably has no idea what he's doing to me," he thought, discreetly adjusting his shorts.

Then it happened. In the mirror, their eyes met. Just for a second. One devastating second where Fred swore he saw a flicker of awareness in those dark depths.

The dumbbell slipped from his sweaty fingers, crashing to the floor with a bang that echoed through the gym. Fred felt blood rush to his face as he bent to pick it up, his heart pounding so hard he feared M'Baku might hear it.

And the Angolan? He simply kept working out, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just turned Fred’s world upside down with a single look.

 

[Fg_bbclover]

Scene 3: Dangerous Proximity

Fred lay on the bench press, his muscles burning with exertion, but his attention was fixed on the distorted reflection in the mirror. M'Baku, just meters away, completely dominated his field of vision. The Angolan worked the rowing machine - each pull made the muscles of his back twist beneath the sweat-soaked tank top, the damp fabric revealing every groove and bulging vein.

The air conditioning failed miserably to cool the space. Fred could feel the heat radiating from M'Baku's body even at a distance - a humid, heavy aura carrying the sharp scent of testosterone and male sweat, mixed with a sweet hint of coconut oil he must have used on his skin.

When he finished his set, Fred sat up panting, the water bottle trembling in his hands. That's when he noticed - M'Baku was approaching, his colossal body blocking the fluorescent ceiling lights.

— "Bro..."

The deep voice made the air vibrate. M'Baku stopped less than a step away, his broad chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweat droplets ran down his sculpted neck, disappearing into the deep valley between his swollen pectorals. He lifted a crumpled paper with those enormous hands, veins bulging on his forearms like river maps.

— "This workout says 'lat pulldown', but I don't know which machine it is."

Fred, still seated on the bench, had to tilt his head back at an almost painful angle to maintain eye contact. The perspective was... overwhelming. seated, he was exactly at hip level with M'Baku - and the gray shorts, already tight by nature, left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

The monumental bulge molded the fabric obscenely, the head evident even through the material. Heat radiated from there like a furnace, and Fred swore he could almost feel the throbbing of that heavy flesh in the air between them.

— "Uh... it's... that one over there." His voice came out strangled, words stuck in a suddenly and inexplicably dry throat. He pointed to the other side of the gym with a jerky motion, looking away too quickly.

But it was too late. The image was burned into his retinas: the perfect curve, the evident weight even at rest, how the fabric stretched when M'Baku adjusted his stance, revealing for a fleeting second the complete form of that colossal virility.

M'Baku looked in the indicated direction but didn't move. Instead, he leaned slightly forward, bringing that dangerous region even closer to Fred's face.

— "Show me?"

The air left Fred's lungs as if he'd been punched in the gut. The smell was now inescapable - pure musk, salty, the primal aroma of a man at the peak of his physical potency. He stood up so fast he nearly tripped, blood rushing to places that made every movement uncomfortably obvious.

— "Sure... just... follow me."

As they walked, Fred could feel M'Baku's presence burning against his back. The Angolan spoke, his warm breath brushing against Fred's sweaty neck:

— "You really know your stuff, huh? How long you been training?"

Fred swallowed hard, feeling each syllable vibrate down his spine.

— "A few months... but I'm no expert."

— "You are to me."

That simple phrase, spoken in that deep voice with genuine admiration, made something inside Fred twist with desire and guilt. He didn't know whether to run or drop to his knees before this god of flesh and sweat.

When they finally reached the machine, Fred could barely form coherent sentences. His explanations about seat adjustments and grips were fragmented, his attention irrevocably trapped by the memory of those few seconds of forbidden sight - and by the disturbing fact that M'Baku seemed to be, more and more obviously, seeking his proximity.

The gym was too hot. The air too thick. And Fred? Completely and irrevocably lost.

 

[michaelnola]

Scene 3: Dangerous Proximity

Fred lay on the bench press, his muscles burning with exertion, but his attention was fixed on the distorted reflection in the mirror. M'Baku, just meters away, completely dominated his field of vision. The Angolan worked the rowing machine - each pull made the muscles of his back twist beneath the sweat-soaked tank top, the damp fabric revealing every groove and bulging vein.

The air conditioning failed miserably to cool the space. Fred could feel the heat radiating from M'Baku's body even at a distance - a humid, heavy aura carrying the sharp scent of testosterone and male sweat, mixed with a sweet hint of coconut oil he must have used on his skin.

When he finished his set, Fred sat up panting, the water bottle trembling in his hands. That's when he noticed - M'Baku was approaching, his colossal body blocking the fluorescent ceiling lights.

— "Bro..."

The deep voice made the air vibrate. M'Baku stopped less than a step away, his broad chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweat droplets ran down his sculpted neck, disappearing into the deep valley between his swollen pectorals. He lifted a crumpled paper with those enormous hands, veins bulging on his forearms like river maps.

— "This workout says 'lat pulldown', but I don't know which machine it is."

Fred, still seated on the bench, had to tilt his head back at an almost painful angle to maintain eye contact. The perspective was... overwhelming. seated, he was exactly at hip level with M'Baku - and the gray shorts, already tight by nature, left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

The monumental bulge molded the fabric obscenely, the head evident even through the material. Heat radiated from there like a furnace, and Fred swore he could almost feel the throbbing of that heavy flesh in the air between them.

— "Uh... it's... that one over there." His voice came out strangled, words stuck in a suddenly and inexplicably dry throat. He pointed to the other side of the gym with a jerky motion, looking away too quickly.

View attachment 178632061

But it was too late. The image was burned into his retinas: the perfect curve, the evident weight even at rest, how the fabric stretched when M'Baku adjusted his stance, revealing for a fleeting second the complete form of that colossal virility.

M'Baku looked in the indicated direction but didn't move. Instead, he leaned slightly forward, bringing that dangerous region even closer to Fred's face.

— "Show me?"

The air left Fred's lungs as if he'd been punched in the gut. The smell was now inescapable - pure musk, salty, the primal aroma of a man at the peak of his physical potency. He stood up so fast he nearly tripped, blood rushing to places that made every movement uncomfortably obvious.

— "Sure... just... follow me."

As they walked, Fred could feel M'Baku's presence burning against his back. The Angolan spoke, his warm breath brushing against Fred's sweaty neck:

— "You really know your stuff, huh? How long you been training?"

Fred swallowed hard, feeling each syllable vibrate down his spine.

— "A few months... but I'm no expert."

— "You are to me."

That simple phrase, spoken in that deep voice with genuine admiration, made something inside Fred twist with desire and guilt. He didn't know whether to run or drop to his knees before this god of flesh and sweat.

When they finally reached the machine, Fred could barely form coherent sentences. His explanations about seat adjustments and grips were fragmented, his attention irrevocably trapped by the memory of those few seconds of forbidden sight - and by the disturbing fact that M'Baku seemed to be, more and more obviously, seeking his proximity.

The gym was too hot. The air too thick. And Fred? Completely and irrevocably lost.

Awesome adventure---gym is always an interesting setting. Excellent...thanks