Muscle Men, page 10
Yes, those T-shirts would be much better off, off!
But then again, my chin was very sore!
“You’re the money!” I heard someone say and looked up to see the gorilla-jawed, buzz-cut quarterback who had elbowed me.
I then looked down to see that I was still completely naked, my lean body glistening, having been snatched from the dorm showers. My hands were tied behind my back. I was in a rickety, broken chair in what looked like a derelict, rat-infested basement.
“Welcome to the attic,” Buzz Cut screamed in my face.
Now I saw the window with its curtains drawn and the vaulted ceiling. Nobody has secret meetings in basements anymore, duh! This must have been—
“—the attic of Alpha Gamma Fuckya!” I was shouted at. “You’ve been chosen by the fraternity as tonight’s prize!”
“Prize?” My lip cracked and started bleeding again.
“You heard me, bitch! You’re here to be won.”
“Won by who?” I should have said by whom, but I was bleeding and dizzy.
“By whom, bitch!” shouted Buzz Cut, surprisingly astonished by my mistake. “Jesus, it’s a good thing we don’t need you for your grammar skills! We need you for the end-of-year physics exam! You and your nerdy brain will be the prize for the winner of tonight’s fight, and I for one intend to win. You’re gonna help me pass tomorrow’s test, or else!”
“Or else what?” I asked fearfully.
Buzz Cut didn’t actually have an answer prepared and simply spat one out in straight rage. “Or else we’ll make you wash every one of our jockstraps…with your tongue!”
He glared at me, his eyes and nostrils flaring like those of a demon from hell, but as I looked at the wall of muscled shirts in front of me all I could see were angels from heaven—in tight, torso-hugging T-shirts, with lats for wings.
I hid my increasing desire. At least that was the plan. Unfortunately my cock was less subtle. It made its way down my thigh like a plane on a runway until it took off, ascending straight up, defying both gravity and my brave intentions not to make a bad situation worse.
Buzz Cut stared at it in horror and rage, as did everyone else, including myself. “Are you listening to me, pervert! Or are you too busy having some sort of faggot fantasy!”
I gulped nervously and stammered, feeling the heat of my erection against my belly. “N-n-neither! B-b-both! Yes! No! Shit!”
My rantings just made him madder. He was pushing the already high, tight sleeves of his T-shirt farther up his bulging biceps, true comic-strip style, and bunching up a fist, ready to beat the pleasure and desire out of me, when suddenly a piercing whistle cut the air.
It was a whistle of confidence, the sexy kind I could never make, the one that hot New York bankers in designer suits conjure up when they need a cab, with two moist fingers probing their mouths and manipulating their tongues as they blow.
Everyone ducked and covered his ears as though a missile had just passed too close overhead. Slowly the crowd of Fuckya frat boys turned then parted to reveal the one man in the room I hadn’t noticed before, probably because of the wall of testosterone blocking my view.
This man—the one with the sexy whistle—was sitting at a bench press that I also hadn’t noticed. He was unforgivably handsome, with a strong jaw and a flash of freckles across his perfect nose, the last sign of something innocent and sweet on his manly face. He looked to be around my age—perhaps twenty, maybe twenty-one—but his body was that of a man who’d been working out since he was a young boy. The sweat stains around his armpits and down the middle of his pecs suggested he’d just finished lifting, and now his bouldered shoulders and heaving chest looked as though they could rip their own way out of his fraternity T-shirt. Then there was the matter of his gym shorts, tight and also bulging.
Quickly I blinked away the lure of his crotch and looked once more at his face, his iceberg blue eyes, the generous locks of his raven black hair. Instantly I wanted to run my fingers through those locks, but as though reading my mind he indulged in that privilege himself, using one large hand, fingers splayed, to push bountiful strands away from his beaded forehead, raising his arm high. I could almost smell the scent of his armpit, sweet and dangerous, irresistible.
My cock thumped eagerly against my stomach, an unruly dog pawing at the door. Luckily for me nobody noticed; they were all watching the muscle-bound god, obviously their alpha male. All but one had a look of adoration on his face—Buzz Cut.
His eyes turned to hateful slits as he glared at the man on the bench press, like a tribesman who had been number two for too long. “If you think you can beat me, Mason, then bring it! I need that pass in physics and I’m ready for you!”
Mason, the god, stood. “I need to pass too, Bobby.” Oh, Jesus, his voice was so calm, so confident. “And if it means getting physical over physics, I’m ready too.”
Despite being slightly larger (and certainly uglier) than Mason, buzz-cut Bobby’s throat clacked at the response, nervous and mad. But he stood his ground nonetheless. At least he tried. It was a difficult thing to do when Mason threw down the gauntlet by peeling off his shirt. Actually, let me do this scene justice…by replaying it in slow motion…and please forgive me if I embellish a little…but Mason didn’t just peel off his shirt—he teased it off over every last inch of his torso.
First his hands crossed each other in front of his belly before hooking the hem of his body-hugging tee. His fists lifted it just a little at first, hoisting it up three inches to reveal a navel buried deep in muscle and surrounded by a trim forest of stomach hair—so much hair for a man that young, yet so under control, so beautifully clipped, so admirably well-maintained. He lifted the T-shirt higher to reveal a four-pack, then a six-pack, then a glorious eight-pack, because let’s face it, nature smiles on some guys—as was I.
Each pack was blanketed in that neatly manicured young male’s mane, a little matted in areas from sweat, twisting into inky trails here and there. He pulled the shirt higher to reveal nipples. They were small and milky brown, waiting for someone to drink them, begging for someone to suck on the trim fur around them before clenching those hard buds between his teeth.
I swallowed hard and glanced down, noticing the glimmer of precum in the eye of my tortured cock. It was a good thing that nobody was looking my way. Mason still had everyone’s undivided attention…
…as he pulled the T-shirt up to fully reveal his bulking chest…
…as he tugged the shirt over his head, messing up his bouncing black locks…
…as he threw the sweaty tee on the floor and flexed his pecs.
First the left.
Then the right.
He was like a young male lion about to take charge of the pride, giving off so much intensity and testosterone I thought I was about to cum right then, right there, even with my hands tied behind my back and my legs crossed trying in vain to stifle my stiffy.
Not to be defeated before the fight even began, buzz-cut Bobby suddenly ripped—yes, literally ripped; apparently hot men really do that—the shirt off his wide, muscle-carved back. I’m sure I heard a telling sigh escape one of the other spectators, but everyone ignored it, much too focused now on the two subjects who began to step out a circle, turning the attic into an arena in which to fight.
The others formed a ring and included me in it so that my rickety chair became the best seat in the house, so close to the action I could smell the perspiration as Mason stepped in front of me. For a moment he stood with his back to me, sizing up the opponent opposite him. I could make out his perfectly muscled ass beneath his gym shorts, and again my cock flinched. Then suddenly he turned around, and for a heart-melting moment he smiled at me. “Don’t worry, Ethan,” he said, winking. “You’re mine.”
I gasped, completely taken aback. Instantly I wanted to know how this stranger, this god, knew my name. But all that came out of my mouth was, “Look out!”
While Mason was busy winking at me, buzz-cut Bobby charged him.
Before Mason could so much as turn, Bobby brought his fist down onto Mason’s right shoulder like a sledgehammer.
A bloodthirsty cheer rose from the encircling crowd as the mighty Mason twisted and buckled under the blow, every meaty muscle in his body jolting heavily as he came down on one knee.
Swiftly Bobby followed the first blow with a left hook to Mason’s jaw, striking while his opponent was still down.
Blood flew from Mason’s lips as a smile spread across Bobby’s.
“You sure you don’t wanna quit now before I mop the floor with your pretty face?”
Mason wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shook his head. “Fuck you.”
Bobby laughed and shrugged. “You wish.” This time it wasn’t his fist he used; with Mason still down on one knee, buzz-cut Bobby threw a foot up into Mason’s jaw as though he were kicking a football.
Mason’s head flew back and his entire body contorted before folding to the floor in front of me.
As the crowd continued to chant and cheer, I stared down at the gorgeous, fallen god at my feet. Blood trickled down his chin. It had splashed onto his heaving chest and matted the hair there. Suddenly my heart ached for this battered beauty, until soon I heard myself say—beneath the noise of the frat boys but loud enough for Mason to hear—“Get up!”
Groggily Mason looked at me, strained, confused. “What did you say?”
“I said, get up! The physics lesson starts now! Newton’s first law of motion states that a body is either at rest or moving in a straight line at constant velocity, otherwise known as the law of inertia.”
“So?” Mason checked to see that his jaw wasn’t broken.
“So get up, then get out of the way.”
“What?”
“Just do it!”
My voice must have been more forceful than I realized because despite his obvious pain Mason obeyed my command without any further question or hesitation. One moment he was on his feet and back in the ring. The next, disgruntled by Mason’s failure to accept defeat, buzz-cut Bobby charged at him like a bull.
Mason glanced at me, then back at Bobby. He held his ground, then a split second before impact, instead of fighting, Mason sidestepped.
Buzz-cut Bobby’s momentum carried him straight into the crowd of onlookers, and with several loud grunts and groans Bobby sent himself and a group of stunned frat boys crashing to the floor.
Mason shot me a somewhat surprised and appreciative grin, licking the blood off his perfect teeth. I couldn’t help but notice him steal a glance at my still stiff cock. I saw that his own crotch was beginning to bulge beneath his tight gym shorts, leaving little to my already overworked imagination. “Thanks,” he said. And there was that wink again.
Across the room, an enraged buzz-cut Bobby had pulled himself to his feet.
“Any more lessons?” Mason asked me.
“How much do you weigh?” I thought quickly.
“A hundred and ninety pounds.”
“How much does he weigh?”
Mason shrugged. “Two-ten. Maybe more.”
“Charge him,” I said. “Don’t worry, he won’t use your sidestep tactic. He’s too stupid and far too mad.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded. “Newton’s third law. To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. The forces of two bodies on each other will direct them in the opposite direction.”
“Translation?”
“Slam into the motherfucker as hard as you can and brace yourself. He’s heavier. He’ll fall harder.”
Mason took a deep breath, took a step back, then with all the speed he could muster within the enclosed space he charged at Bobby.
Bobby grinned and accepted the challenge, running as fast as he could at Mason.
Both men dropped their shoulders low, like knights in a joust, ready for the collision. Mason held his breath as the two hulking combatants plowed headlong into each other before ricocheting apart and flying backward through the air.
Having braced for impact, Mason thudded against the floor, rolled, then seemed to bounce straight back onto his feet. Buzz-cut Bobby, on the other hand, slammed against the floor so hard that every last breath of air was knocked out of his lungs. Eyes wide, veins in his neck bulging, he wheezed and gasped desperately for oxygen.
Mason was already storming over to his flattened foe. He seized Bobby by his thick forearm and jerked him to his feet. While Bobby stood spluttering, Mason threw a punch that landed square in the middle of Bobby’s face.
Buzz-cut staggered backward as the blow popped his nose open and a starburst of blood covered his face, but it also seemed to knock the air back into his lungs.
Mason quickly dealt a second blow, this time to Bobby’s cheekbone. But buzz-cut seemed to absorb the strike before responding swiftly with a powerful uppercut to Mason’s chin.
Stumbling unsteadily, Mason teetered backward before turning and losing his balance altogether, falling to his knees in front of me, his face landing right in my lap.
I shuddered, mortified—stunned—thrilled.
Mason simply lifted his giddy, wobbling head, his cheek brushing against my erect cock on the way up, his manly stubble rough against my silky stem. An electric shock of pure delight shot through my entire being.
“Any ideas what to do next?” was all Mason could slur, blinking back the dizziness, his mouth so close to the engorged head of my cock it were as though he was talking into a microphone. I could feel the heat of his breath—and yet Mason did not remove himself or even seem to mind at all.
“Ideas on what comes next?” I gulped. I had a pretty good guess at what the answer would be if his beautiful face stayed in my lap much longer, but Mason needed a more scientific response if he was going to win this fight. Or more accurately, win me!
“Force,” I mumbled.
“What?”
“Newton’s second law. Force equals mass times acceleration.” I looked down at Mason’s mighty hands and considered what those generous fists were capable of. “You have the mass, but you’re pulling back on your acceleration which is in turn affecting your force index.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re pulling your punches. You’re aiming short. Don’t aim for his face. Aim for a point beyond his face. Follow through. Keep up your acceleration.”
At that moment, buzz-cut Bobby grabbed himself a handful of Mason’s hair and yanked his head out of my lap. He spun Mason on his feet, but before Bobby could so much as curl his fist, Mason delivered a right hook like a damn freight train.
Bobby’s head swiveled with the blow and a tooth rattled across the floor.
Before the buzz-cut bully could so much as register what just hit him a second fist flew at him. This time it was a hook from the left that sailed across Bobby’s face, opening a gash above the eye then following through, not stopping till it was at least a foot beyond its target.
Bobby lurched backward, tried to hold himself up but tottered precariously on his quivering legs.
Mason stepped up to his opponent, pulled his right arm back, then launched it with all the power he had left in him.
Buzz-cut Bobby was unconscious before his bulky frame shook the floorboards. The entire attic went silent, I suppose wondering as I was if Buzz Cut was even still alive after that last killer blow. An unconscious snort and splutter that soon turned into a low snore assured us he was.
Twisting unsteadily on his feet, Mason turned to me then. “As I was saying,” he muttered as his tongue tried to wash the blood from his bottom lip. “You’re mine.”
The stack of physics textbooks looked well worn, flipped through a thousand times. I assumed Mason had bought them secondhand from another student. Perhaps he came from a poor family. Perhaps he’d gotten those muscles as a teenager working at the local gas station during summer vacation in some tiny Midwest town, topless as he pumped gas into old Chevys, his manly hair only just beginning to sprout across his chest as it grew broader by the day. Or perhaps he worked weekends on a building site, lugging bricks to pay his way through college, his large hands lifting, stacking, pulling, jacking. The fact was, I knew nothing about him, had never set eyes on this beautiful buff creature before.
And yet he knew my name.
“Are you comfortable, Ethan?” He seemed nervous now that it was just the two of us. He had washed the blood from his face. Bruises were already forming.
“How did you know my name?” I was sitting uncomfortably on the edge of the bed in his small room, like a nervous child in the house of a strange spider-haired aunt. Only Mason was no spider-haired aunt. Here in his domain, with his bruises and his cuts, he seemed sexier than ever. Yet there I was, meek and utterly intimidated, rubbing my wrists, which had become chafed and swollen from the ropes. I was no longer naked, at least not quite. Mason had generously put a towel around me. He himself was still dressed only in his gym shorts, which seemed to bulge more than ever now that we were alone.
“You’re hurt,” he said, noticing me rubbing my wrists. He successfully avoided my question by sitting on the bed beside me. “May I?” His voice was soft and caring as he took my forearm tenderly in his hands. His own knuckles were red and grazed, yet all his concern was focused on my wrist. He placed my forearm in his lap and I could distinctly feel his dick hardening against my skin. He began massaging my wrist, pressing it slightly into his groin.
I gulped and felt my guard shoot up—where was my woolen vest, my glasses, a book to put my head in? “We should study.” I glanced at the red digits of his old clock radio on the bedside table. It was almost two in the morning. “We’re running out of time. I’m supposed to help you study, remember? You didn’t get the living hell beaten out of you for no reason.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said, and I felt his cock swell even more against my forearm.
I tried to get up, although I didn’t really want to. It was just a polite gesture, a nervous reaction. I pretended to make for the pile of textbooks, but Mason easily pulled me back on the bed.
