Muscle Men, page 2
He whispers, “Rematch, bossman. Definitely.”
MR. MUSCLE PUMP
Steven Bereznai
There’s the crackle of fluorescent lights, a clank of weights and grunts of pain. The pungent smell of bronzer, sweat and baby oil mix in the air, making the place smell like a locker room tanning salon. But only the best of the best, the hottest of the hottest, the most muscular of the muscular have made it to this elite venue: it’s backstage at the Mr. Muscle Pump Championships.
The finest corn-fed boys from across the Midwest have been building their physiques for this one moment, a chance to show off their bods before a crowd of worshipping fans and merciless judges, waiting to see them strut, flex and pose.
Strict dieting and torturous workouts have gotten them this far, along with brutal waxing sessions that have left them looking like silky smooth muscle pops. Now it’s time for the finishing touches before the men take the stage.
Some of the competitors wear tank tops, their pecs and nipples toppling out of peekaboo spaghetti straps, but most are stripped down to skimpy posing trunks that are as close to naked as the rules allow. There’s plenty to look at: delts, quads, glutes and biceps, ripped and buffed from hours in the gym and a few steroids thrown in for good measure. The guys check each other out, sizing up the competition.
Amidst the slabs of muscle, Rodney Jarrod stands out. His nickname’s “the Rod,” a name he more than lives up to. Rumor is he earned it back in military college. He got booted out for cracking heads with his pistol. The story’s true, more or less, but one glance at the massive mound in his crotch and it’s clear what weapon he was using—and it wasn’t skulls he was busting open.
His rugged face is ugly handsome, with a high forehead, a crooked nose and a chin you could break a chisel on. It’s the kind of mug you’d expect to find in a boxing ring, where the Rod has in fact spent much of his time.
He takes a cursory glance around the assembled muscle dudes pumping up, and decides it’s time. He lets his oversized flannel shirt fall to the floor, and the friendly banter, the clanking of weights, the squirt of baby oil onto taut muscled flesh all stop. The Rod keeps his face stony but on the inside he smiles. The mind fuck has begun.
There are whispers of “Shit, man” and “What the fuck!” and “Mother of Christ.”
After that, there is silence. The room is drinking in the Rod, dressed only in a pair of cutoff jeans that barely contain his tree-trunk legs, monster ass and a cock that’s started to swell.
His body’s a network of dense muscle fibers and crisscrossing veins. The Rod is synonymous with vascularity. He adjusts the grapefruit-sized bulge in his cutoffs and starts doing arm curls, barely noticing the weight he’s easily heaving. His body swells larger. So does his crotch. Several of the room’s muscle jocks swallow nervously.
The Rod drinks in the nervous attention, but only for a second. These dweebs are too easy, and the Rod’s a man who likes a challenge. His gaze darts casually over the assembled bodybuilders, landing on the man he’s searching for: Trey Trojan, Mr. Perfect, three-time Muscle Pump Champion. He’s the man to beat.
Or the pussy to fuck, Rod thinks. Everyone else gives Mr. Muscle Pump apprehensive glances. Rod brazenly eyes him up and down. It’s good to see the dude in person at last, not just his image plastered on the cover of a whack of muscle rags, his pretty boy smile as shiny as his polished bod. In person he looks even better.
Mr. Perfect is a steel statue come to life. His waist is tiny, his shoulders ridiculously wide, his pecs firm yet bouncy, all in symmetry with his thick arms and thicker legs. Even his calves, a common weak spot, flare like upside-down teardrops. All this muscle is draped tightly in smooth skin bronzed to perfection, with one thick vein running over each bicep. Boyish blond hair cascades across his high cheekbones. He’s just turned twenty and looks like the freshest of meat.
The other bodybuilders shudder. One look at his Olympian physique, and everyone knows Trey Trojan is going to saunter away with another Mr. Muscle Pump title. The Rod shivers, but not out of awe. Unlike the suddenly meek muscle boys in their banana thongs, he’s after a trophy the judges can’t award.
Trey struts his way, basking in every reflection he catches of himself from the mirrors lining the room.
“What are you looking at?” Mr. Muscle Pump snaps. So, the kid’s talking to him. Who knew there was room within his selfobsessed vanity to notice anyone else? The Rod pretends to stare dumbly at the boy and doesn’t respond. Someone with more brains and less self-assurance than Mr. Muscle Pump would have realized the larger man was just biding his time.
“Great, another retard,” the champ snorts, earning nervous laughter from the other muscle boys.
The Rod smiles a wicked smile, and a hush falls on the room. Mr. Muscle Pump doesn’t notice.
He steps in front of the Rod to admire himself in a mirror. He wears an eye patch–sized baby blue posing pouch. His navel pouts as it pokes out from the hard ridges of his abs. He strikes a Most Muscular pose. Striations fill his chest, his smile dazzles and his teeny trunks disappear into the crack of the most gorgeous ass the Rod has ever seen. It’s thrust tauntingly toward him, flexing and filling with ridges of definition. Before the competition is done, the Rod knows, he’s going to fuck that ass.
His strong hand settles on Mr. Muscle Pump’s rounded delt. The blond straightens in surprise, looking up at the Rod.
“Nice panties,” the Rod growls. “Where’d you get ’em? Victoria’s Secret?”
The kid’s face turns snotty.
“Do you know who I am?”
“I do,” the Rod replies, a mean grin spreading over his rough-hewn features. “But do you know what you’re about to become?”
For just a second, Mr. Muscle Pump loses a fraction of his attitude—after all, the Rod towers over him and carries pounds more muscle—but then Trey reminds himself who the champion is.
“You need to learn some respect, freak,” Trey begins. He never finishes the thought.
With a speed that belies his bulk, the Rod grabs the kid’s nipples and squeezes. Shocked, Mr. Muscle Pump takes a wild and clumsy swing, but the Rod squeezes harder and Mr. Muscle Pump’s bulging arm falls limp at his sides. Then Trey Trojan begins to quiver.
It’s ludicrous, really. He’s a light-heavyweight, which is still plenty big. When fully dressed, his arms pop his sleeves. His ass splits open his jeans. His pecs are a sweeping vista of slab muscle merging into a deep canyon—he could be titty fucked, no problem. Yet like many muscle boys who are obsessed with the perfect pump, he can be ruled through his nipples. The Rod squeezes harder.
“I’ll tell,” he quavers, his voice no longer deep, now whiny, like a brat from a boy band crooning to teenage girls while wetting his pants over their jock boyfriends.
“Tell who?” Rod demands.
There are all sorts of people the kid could complain to. Security. The judges. His mom. Apparently she’s a pit bull of a woman. But the Rod knows that Mr. Three-Time Muscle Pump Champion is not going to say a word—certainly not by the time the Rod’s done with him.
He twists his grip, Trey gasps in pain, and the bigger man lowers his arms, pulling the boy’s nips into elongated tips.
“Stop,” Trey hisses, the word barely heard.
It’s too late. Mr. Perfect, his massive polished muscles squeezed into a pair of skimpy baby blue trunks, sweat now streaking his perfect tanned bod, falls to his knees, his mouth mere inches from the Rod’s bulging crotch, still sheathed within his cutoff jeans.
The other muscle boys elbow each other, gasping and twittering.
A camera crew from a muscle website, taping some pumproom action, captures the whole thing.
“Lower my jeans,” the Rod orders.
“No,” Trey says, but his tongue, nervously licking his shapely lips, betrays him. The Rod tugs more forcefully on the kid’s nipples. Mr. Perfect’s meaty pecs bob up and down. Trey could call for help or put up a fight. He’s the champ and could have the Rod booted from the competition. Instead, Trey Trojan’s muscled arms move like they’re on marionette strings, fumbling with the Rod’s belt and the buttons of his cutoffs, slowly pulling them open. The Rod’s cock tumbles out. His cutoffs stay on.
The Rod’s not wearing posing trunks. Doesn’t need ’em. At no point did he intend to step on stage. This is where the real competition, and the real champion, will be chosen.
Mr. Muscle Pump gazes at the Rod’s dangling sausage and huge balls. The blond bodybuilding star blushes, the flush flooding his face, running down his solid neck to the top of his massive pecs. But his pretty blue eyes do not look away. The Rod releases his hold on the kid’s nipples; he gasps at the sudden rush of blood to his aching nips, and he looks ready to keel over. Instead, his face falls into the Rod’s crotch. The kid immediately pulls away, shaking his blond hair as if to clear his senses, but it’s too late—he’s caught the Rod’s scent, and there’s no going back.
The Rod’s cock thickens, and Trey’s pupils dilate as the tip of the larger man’s dick rises upward. Even semisoft, it’s huge.
Mr. Muscle Pump stares. “It’s too big,” he murmurs, even though the Rod hasn’t told him what to do with it. Yet.
The Rod slaps the kid’s cheeks with his dick. Mr. Muscle Pump’s eyes close in ecstasy as his lips absorb the spongy blows. The Rod’s fully hard now, and Trey gazes in awe.
“I…I have to start pumping up,” he stammers.
The Rod snorts and jerks his chin to the dumbbells on the floor.
“Who’s stopping you?”
The two muscle men are surrounded by a wall of hard flesh. Guys with bigger dicks have pulled them out. Guys with steroidshrunken balls keep theirs hidden but stroke themselves within their tiny trunks.
Trey, still on his knees, picks up the dumbbells, blushing now from head to toe, his skin glowing from within. The Rod knew the muscle boy would get off on being watched—he was built to perform in front of an audience. The weights clank and Mr. Muscle Pump’s already rounded biceps pop even bigger, clenching into tight peaks at the top of each curl. And the more blood engorges his arms, the more his jaw loosens, hanging slack.
“Kiss it,” the Rod commands.
Mr. Perfect presses his pouty lips to the tip of the Rod’s cock, still pumping the weights, switching to overhead lifts, his massive shoulders clenching and unclenching.
“Lick it,” the Rod orders.
The blond’s tongue lolls out like a dog’s, sliding up and down the Rod’s shaft. The cock springs up ever harder, now so huge the kid pulls back. His throat undulates.
He begins doing triceps extensions, one dumbbell at a time.
“Suck it,” the Rod demands.
“I told you…it’s too big,” Mr. Perfect gasps.
The other guys snort.
“Come on, pussy,” a meathead with a crew cut scoffs. “You know you want it.”
The other guys snigger. The Rod’s not the only one who’s had it with Mr. Muscle Pump’s attitude.
Trey blushes and doesn’t know where to look, so the Rod helps him. He takes the tip of Trey’s chin, lowers it, takes aim, and shoves his cock deep down Mr. Muscle Pump’s throat. It’s like the kid’s been hit by lightning. His entire body begins to shake, every muscle in his body clenching and unclenching. He drops the dumbbells. He doesn’t need them now to get a pump. From his massive flexing pecs to the tensed glutes tumbling out of his baby blue trunks, down to his enormous quads and calves, his entire body flexes and unflexes as if he were being hit by electricity. It’s the best pump of his life.
His throat opens like a valve and with a mind of its own it swallows the Rod’s rod like a starving man given his first taste of food. He claws at Rod’s tree-trunk legs, gripping them so that he can get a better angle, shoving his head up and down on the massive dick, the muscles he’s worked on so hard continuing their spastic flexing dance.
Whatever else one may say about Mr. Perfect, he has stamina. The Rod’s pretty sure he could go all day. And indeed he will, if the Rod gets his way, which he always does—on his terms.
He shoves the kid off him. Trey falls flat on his ass, shuddering a few more times from his all-body muscle flex before settling into ripped relaxation. He looks more amazing than ever. The other bodybuilders stop their mocking to stare. Trey’s abs are taut peaks and valleys, rippling into his trunks. His nipples are chewable tips set atop pecs that are heaving with labored breathing and dripping in sweat.
Trey wipes the Rod’s glossy precum from his mouth.
He looks at the muscle studs gazing down at him. He’s Mr. Muscle Pump, here to defend his title, suddenly flat on his ass.
“I need to get oiled,” he says, his voice deep and trembling only slightly. Already he’s getting his attitude back. He tries to stand, but the Rod kicks his legs out from under him. “Please,” he begs, “I have to go onstage soon.”
There’s a pathetic crack to the blond’s voice that makes the larger man smile.
“You heard the chump,” the Rod says to the assembled muscle men, “I mean champ. He needs oil.”
A dozen dicks are out in a flash, though none of them come close to the Rod’s. Muscular forearms start pumping away.
“What? No, I…”
Trey’s words are useless. These guys are loaded with hormones, and their shots of cum explode, splashing over Mr. Perfect’s pumped body in huge gobs, white cum trickling down his tanned muscle tits. The Rod grabs a bottle of baby oil, squirting the clear liquid over Mr. Perfect.
“Rub it in,” the Rod orders, and the young muscle champ obeys, coating himself with cum and oil. Only then does the Rod notice a wet spot forming from within Trey’s baby blue trunks. The dude’s spooged himself!
“Number Twenty-two,” an announcer calls, “Next contestant, Number Twenty-two, Mr. Trey Trojan.”
Trey hesitates, still on his knees, gazing up at the Rod, afraid he’ll pummel him if he tries to move. His eyes dart hungrily for the stage.
“Well,” Rod barks, “get going.”
Trey scrambles to his feet, and the Rod gives him a hard shove in the ass with one foot, leaving a clear footprint on the satiny trunks. Trey almost falls but catches himself, his bulging ass wiggling as he stumbles out onstage.
The Rod watches Mr. Muscle Pump’s posing routine. As Christina Aguilera croons “Beautiful,” the three-time champ moves smoothly from a side biceps to a gorgeous lat spread and into his patented tit squeeze, grimacing wildly until it looks like all those amazing muscles are about to explode. As the music stops, he holds his hands up to wave to the wildly cheering fans.
He emerges backstage high as a kite, riding the endorphins from flexing his muscles in the spotlight, the cries of the crowd driving him wild, the smell of cum filling him with a rush. Sweaty spooge soaks his posing trunks. He’s so fucking hot the Rod practically rapes him on the spot.
Mr. Muscle Pump spots the Rod, and the blond blushes instantly, the memory of his subservience dimming his euphoria. He tries to sidestep the larger stud, but the Rod catches one of the pumped boy’s iron biceps in his viselike grip.
“I hear you just got a perfect score for that performance.”
“I did?” The need in his voice is plaintive.
“Sure,” the Rod lies, having no clue. “First time that’s ever been done.”
“It is?”
Glancing down, the Rod sees Mr. Muscle Pump has sprung a wee woody, the youngster’s small dick pushing his microtrunks out by barely an inch. The Rod snorts in contempt—and lust. This is going to be an amazing fuck. Small-dicked guys are always the best.
“It’s too bad,” the Rod says. “Perfect score now means you peaked too early. Now you’re screwed. No way you can blow’em away in the pose down.”
Mr. Muscle Pump’s brow crinkles in confusion, not following the logic. Only someone this pretty could get away with being so dumb, thinks the Rod
“You’ve always got to save the best for last. The judges are going to score you tougher than ever.”
Now Mr. Muscle Pump gets it, and his little hard-on shrivels.
“Is…is there anything you can do to…to help…you know…”
His words trail off, and for a second the Rod plays dumb, drawing out the champ’s discomfort.
“Oh,” he says, “you mean to get you more pumped? I don’t know. I don’t think you could handle it.”
“Please,” Mr. Muscle Pump begs, “I’ll do anything you say.”
“Please what?” the Rod says.
Mr. Muscle Pump looks like a tenth-grade holdback stuck in advanced physics. His polished pecs heave as he tries to divine what’s expected of him. The Rod leans in close, his own overhanging chest rubbing against Trey’s, muscle on muscle. The Rod cups Mr. Muscle Pump’s undersized crotch.
“You should stuff this with a sock, instead of that boy dick. I’ve seen six-year-olds with bigger cocks.”
Mr. Muscle Pump hangs his head, not sure where to look.
“There are two kinds of bodybuilders in the world,” the Rod continues, “The men, and the boy bitches. Want to guess which one you are, micro-dick?”
Trey blushes again from head to toe. He looks ready to pull away, but he wants to win.
“I’m a boy bitch,” he says, biting his lip.
The Rod slides his free hand down Trey’s spine, getting lots of oil on his thick fingers as they disappear into the smooth cleft of Mr. Muscle Pump’s ass. The Rod saws up and down in that crack, against the muscle champ’s warm hole. Mr. Muscle Pump groans and involuntarily gyrates his ass as he leans into the Rod, wrapping his arms around the older man’s thick neck for balance and resting his head into the crook of his shoulder.
“I’m a boy bitch,” he says loud enough for everyone to hear, and then adds, “Sir.”
“Now drop your panties,” the Rod orders.
