Muscle Men, page 13
When Sakata let Bobby in, he didn’t see Smith, and could only hope he was close by, hadn’t panicked and fled or, was it possible?, had already been disposed of by Sakata.
“It’s so good to see you again,” said Sakata, as he led Bobby to the rug marked with mystic symbols.
“Thank you, Master. It is my honor.”
“Why have you come?” asked Sakata. “Some of the boys have been reluctant to return after their session with me.” Was the old man suspicious, had he any inkling of what Bobby had planned for him?
A perfect answer, combining flattery with self-interest, popped into Bobby’s head: “Master, I hope to learn from you.”
Sakata seemed satisfied. He asked Bobby to take off his shirt.
Bobby did so and then, at a nod from Sakata dropped his sweats. Sakata studied him, smiled, said again, “Your energy is very strong. I think even stronger than before.”
“I prepared myself for you.”
Sakata skipped the nipple play this time, going right to Bobby’s cock, the effect of his silken touch so immediate and powerful that Bobby had trouble speaking for a moment. Then he said, “Master, I have a special request.”
“What?” asked Sakata, irritated at being interrupted. Having gotten Bobby hard he was about to begin sucking. “What do you want?”
Master,” Bobby tried again, “It is impertinent of me to ask, but…I want to experience your force. Master, I want you to fuck me. Please.”
The old man was so startled by the request, he let go of Bobby, who immediately dropped to all fours and assumed the position many lucky men had found irresistible in the past, with his chest lowered to the ground and his magnificent ass riding high.
“Please, Master,” he said. He kept his head lowered in obsequiousness, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the old man’s rod tenting his flowered kimono.
Still Sakata did nothing so Bobby turned, got hold of the old man’s cock—it was half erect—and stroked it with the technique called “searching butterfly,” a fine fluttering touch on the tip. The old man’s dick grew and stiffened to iron. It went no higher than just straight out, but that was pretty good for an old man, and more than enough to do the job. The only question was, would Sakata be able to resist giving Bobby what Bobby needed to get from him?
Bobby fingered the area just under the old man’s balls and was pleased to feel some pressure in the tube leading from the prostate, semen being summoned up, making its way through… but when he checked the base of his cock and felt the tightened ligaments he realized Sakata was using a “hold-back” technique, blocking the flow. Of course, this would allow him to have an orgasm, quite a powerful one in fact, without actually losing any of his precious cum. That wouldn’t do at all. Bobby wasn’t going to allow this old monster to fuck him without being drained to the deep. He went back to using the butterfly touch and then quickly replaced his fingers with his tongue, warm and wet and just as agile as his fingers,
Sakata’s self-control slipped. Bobby tasted precum. Yes! He whipped back around into the “Please fuck me” position, ass in the air…and the old man, unable to resist this delicious temptation, began pushing into him.
Bobby’s muscle control was superb, squeezing Sakata from the tip on down, then relaxing, letting the old man push in farther, then squeezing, over and over until the old man was deep inside Bobby, gasping and grunting and pounding away. This went on for some time and then the pumping stopped and the old man was shaking and shivering and Bobby thought, “This is it! He’s going to shoot!” but damn it, Sakata was using the hold-back technique, prolonging his ecstasy and, most critically, holding on to his semen, his vital force. Soon he would pull out and have his mouth at Bobby’s dick, sucking up more of Bobby’s essence.
Bobby squeezed Sakata’s dick with his butt muscles, harder than before, determined to keep him trapped until he got what he wanted. The old man tapped Bobby’s back, the classic martial arts signal of submission, meaning, “let go.” Bobby responded by bucking and grinding his hips. The old man tried to escape but Bobby held him and worked him.
Finally the old man groaned in despair and shot a great hot load and still Bobby held on to him, making him shoot twice more until, still held tightly, Sakata collapsed onto Bobby’s back. Bobby released him and he rolled onto the mat, completely exhausted, in a kind of stupor.
Bobby called out for Smith, but he needn’t have bothered because his friend had been watching the whole thing from the shadows and now rushed forward with the rope.
Sakata was too weak to resist Bobby’s quick, efficient work and soon the master was trussed up like a chicken ready for roasting, with his arms behind him and bound tightly to his ankles. Bobby finished the job by tying a gag tightly in place. The old man wouldn’t be able to make a sound.
After that, it was easy for Bobby and Smith to get Sakata into the box. The old man seemed to revive slightly and the last Bobby saw of him as he slid the lid into place were the old man’s eyes looking up at him, blazing with fury. It was, Bobby had to admit to himself, a little frightening, but it stilled any doubts he may have harbored or any tendency toward mercy. The old man was dangerous and had to go back to where he had come from.
Bobby and Smith went directly to the shipping office with their cargo. It cost a lot to send Sakata back to Osaka but Smith was happy to pay.
Later, Smith told Bobby that he thought maybe he should give up the lease on the dojo and move to another town in case Sakata ever came back looking for revenge. Bobby said there was no point in that because both of them were well-enough known that Sakata could always track them down wherever they went. If he did ever turn up again, they’d just handle him again. Bobby really didn’t want to think about it. His mind was on that cute clerk in the hardware store. He had to go back there soon and see what he could make happen.
A few weeks later, Smith received a puzzled letter from the Osaka dojo. The box had been delivered but it was empty. There was a hole about three-by-three feet on one side, as though something had gnawed its way out.
DETAILS
Natty Soltesz
People don’t get it. They turn their heads, their jaws drop in awe, but they don’t appreciate the time it takes for him to look so good, the work that goes into such beauty.
Which maybe explains why he went home with me that night; why he didn’t shrink from my gaze when I spotted him across the club. He saw in my eyes that I understood his dedication. That I was grateful for it.
It took him over an hour to get ready to go out. That didn’t include styling his hair, or washing his clothes, or last-minute push-ups or a dozen other necessary, invisible rituals.
Also, obviously, there was the gym: two hours a day, six days a week, religiously, devotionally. It wasn’t a question of when or if (and it was his contention that if you were the type to say, “I have to go to the gym,” you were clearly doomed and probably wasting not just your money but the resource of the gym itself). It wasn’t a question. He lived to work out. There were times in the early evening darkness when he would get out of his car and see the gym before him, its inner light creating a glow around the place, and he would feel something like awe for what it was and what it meant to him.
He knew how to work his body so that it didn’t look like he used the gym, by which I mean he didn’t appear over-worked or out of proportion—no bulging breasts or chicken legs. He looked like a man: wide, rocky back; flared chest; solid arms; baseball biceps; tight, nubby stomach; firm, round ass; tree-trunk thighs; cut calves. He researched this stuff: he had seven subscriptions to various men’s health and style and muscle magazines (some more reputable than others).
Of course, good genes didn’t hurt. He’d had a nice body in high school even before he’d begun working out. People would say, “There goes another one of those gorgeous Abrito boys,” but he turned out to be the most gorgeous of all.
He tanned, of course. In the spring and summer he was on the roof of his apartment building for a few hours during any given week. In the winter he used a tanning salon. But he knew when to stop—he spent just enough time to get a glow. He tanned nude, thinking it ridiculous to ignore any part of your body. In the beds you had to be careful to spread your legs, though, or you’d get white creases under your asscheeks.
It was just this sort of attention to detail that was lost on people. A good haircut wasn’t cheap, and he had his straight brown hair cut at least once a month. Then, of course, he had to shave, especially before hitting the club. His face, obviously, but he also shaved most of the rest of his body—chest, armpits. He left a trimmed brown brush of pubes over his cock, but kept his scrotum hairless and of course he shaved his ass—the cheeks and also around his asshole.
That was never a picnic, but he’d gotten used to it. He would lie on the bathroom floor and throw his legs over his head. Using a handheld mirror for accuracy was critical. The cheeks were easy—like running a razor over twin bowling balls. The crack was more treacherous, so he was careful around the sensitive skin of his anus, making sure he got every little hair.
This had to be done at least once a week but the results were worth it. He’d even take a second, once he wiped off the shaving cream, to admire his shorn butt—the creamy curves, his pert pink pucker. He’d never actually had a girl go back there, but you never knew, and most importantly, he’d know.
In the shower he’d take care to wash around and in everything he could—even going so far as to poke a soapy finger up his butthole, which was tight and perfect.
Then he dried off and moisturized all over—chest, legs, cock, balls, ass.
Next came cologne. He’d heard people say that they didn’t like cologne on guys, that it was overdoing it, but for him there was no question. Cologne was the one thing that brought it all together, a sort of sexual aura that hovered. It told the world, without anybody even having to see you, that you cared about yourself and what others thought. He used Dolce & Gabbana, splashed it on his neck, chest, and yeah, even down there. He’d slide some on his pelvis, both sides, then bend over and smack a cologne-infused finger against his asshole.
He didn’t dress like the typical club-going douche bag, either. He liked designer stuff, not too flashy, but stylish; button-down shirts, tailored to fit, black or gray, typically; a nice pair of pants that showed off the goods; designer briefs of course—French cut, tight, with a nice big pocket in front.
All told he probably spent twenty hours a week on himself, he’d figured out once. It was practically a part-time job, but it was his greatest accomplishment.
The club was the place to show it off, the fruits of his labor. As much as he’d always gotten a thrill over the fleeting attention he received—the girls coming up to him, oooing and aahing with their girlfriends as they ran their hands over his arms and chest, pressing against the muscle; the guys complimenting his physique, grilling him about his routine—he’d become impressed with the shallowness of it all. With girls, it always eventually came back to them. And guys invariably saw him as a threat.
So I think what I saw that night, what gave me the courage to actually walk up and talk to this paradigm, this god, was the look of curiosity—no, reprieve—that washed over his face. Maybe he knew I was a fag. Maybe he didn’t care. Or maybe he suspected that I got it, that I not only wanted the incomparable gift that he had to offer, but that I also knew the great heights that he’d reached with himself. After all, I was no slouch myself. But I was nowhere near this guy’s level.
“Dull night,” I said to him.
“When isn’t it?” he said, and smiled a brilliant, meticulously whitened smile.
“It’s not feeling like it is anymore,” I said boldly. Uncertainty crossed his face. “Did you see me looking at you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “But so is everybody else.”
“With good reason,” I said, and bought us both a drink. He drank his in one big gulp. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how many calories are in that,” I said.
“It’s not smart to over-deny yourself,” he said, and shrugged. “I’m cutting loose.”
I pointed to a group of girls at the corner of the bar, looking his way, drooling in their cosmo glasses. “I’m sure they’d be happy to join you,” I said.
“Yeah, but something tells me you’d rather they didn’t,” he said, and I laughed. He was savvier than I’d anticipated.
“That’s up to you,” I said, and ordered us another round; again he promptly downed his.
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” he said.
“What are you doing?”
“You tell me.”
“Careful,” I said, and he laughed, and we had yet another drink, but he drank his slowly this time.
“I have a Jacuzzi in my…mansion,” I said, before I could stop myself.
“And you’re so modest,” he said.
“I try. But you know, Jacuzzis are good for the muscles. The skin too.”
“Not really,” he said. “But it sounds pretty relaxing anyway. I’ll drive my own car and follow you, and I’m not making any promises.”
“We’ll hang out. I have my own gym. I have a sauna, too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but I might be out of clean towels for you to wear.”
“We’ll see,” he said, practically rolling his eyes, which I took as a good sign, because to humor me meant that there was respect coming from his end—respect that was mutual, and I think he grasped that, too.
I showed him around my place and had Henry fire up the Jacuzzi. My guest was impressed with the gym, I think, on which I had not scrimped. I gave him a bathing suit, but he was frisky enough to leave it off, so that when he joined me in the Jacuzzi he just whipped off his towel with a smirk and there he was. And beautiful though the whole package was, (perfectly sized, hanging nicely flaccid), it also seemed natural to me that he should be naked, like his clothes were just so much propriety.
“You can stand there for another minute if you want,” I said, but he’d already begun to slide into the water. His leg slipped against mine and he let it stay there. He said he’d had way too much to drink. He said I was trying to take advantage of him, and I told him he was absolutely right.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he said, resting his head on the back of the tub, looking up at the stars.
“You’re here, I’d suspect, because the idea of me sucking your dick doesn’t seem half bad. You’re thinking, He’s nice enough. He’s not some fat ugly thing. Why shouldn’t I give him a thrill?”
“I think you’re right,” he said, and despite my carefully cultivated attitude of being above it all, my heart fluttered and my stomach knotted up. He saw it in my eyes, I think, because he got really teasing. He started running his hands up and down his perfect torso, his wet chest, his stomach, raising his body upward out of the water until I could see that his prick was hard, bobbing in the bubbles.
He gave me a show. He was kind of awkward; it was like he was trying this behavior on for size, but it was undoubtedly turning him on (me too, obviously). He arched his back and stroked his prick; he turned over and lifted his ass out of the water, letting me examine every crack and crevice.
“You want to touch me?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” I said, sounding like Oliver with his empty bowl. He let me run my hands over his solid arms, his perfect chest. Everything was so slick and smooth in the water. He let me touch his ridged stomach. He let me handle his balls and stroke his dick, for a minute. I wrapped my hands around his sturdy legs, rubbed them up and down. I kissed his feet. Then he turned over.
I turned to his back and let my fingers glide down the slot of his spine to his perfect asscheeks. He surprised me by resting his knees on the step and spreading his ass out for me. I think he’d been waiting to do that for somebody for a long time.
I returned his perceived gratitude by eating him out properly. I spent a long time just tonguing the perfect muscled cheeks of his ass, even biting them, which made him squirm. I did some quick swipes with my tongue along his crack, just barely tasting his hole. When I felt underneath that he was hard and ready, I jammed my tongue against his hole. I rimmed around it in circles, lapped it up hard and glided across it softly.
But I guess I was still being too tentative because when I came up for air he reached back and slipped his own finger inside himself.
“That’s what you wanted to do, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Mmmm, it feels good,” he said, and he slipped another finger inside.
“I want to fuck that ass,” I said.
“I bet you do,” he said. “You know you’re barely worthy.”
“I know,” I said, stroking my dick which was so, so hard. “I know but it’s so hot. You’re so hot.”
“Everybody wants this ass,” he said. “But you’re the first person who’s ever asked. That’s the only reason I’m letting you.”
That was fine with me. I grabbed a condom and my lube. As I got us both ready I knew that part of what he was saying was true, but also that he was just as turned on as I was by the thought of somebody using him. People do things all the time for their own satisfaction, but that’s a lonely business, and everyone eventually needs to be appreciated for what they’ve got.
He was tight. I had to take my time. Fortunately he knew how to relax himself, to control his muscles to allow me in. Then I pushed it in him to the hilt, or he sat back and devoured me, either way.
I started feeling like I wanted to get my nut. I was grabbing hold of his asscheeks with each hand, fucking away, and he was grunting so I figured it was okay for him but then he took one of my hands kind of forcefully and brought it to his cock. So I started stroking him and he was so, so hard, and that was when it really started to get good. We got a rhythm going.
