Backyard Gym

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32


I’m shaking as I approach the gate, palms slicked with cold sweat, heart slamming, stomach twisting. I’m really doing this, about to go through the gate—finally, after walking past it every day on my way to and from work, hearing the repeated clank of massive weights that would crush my slender frame, the deep manly grunts echoing in a massive chest, wrenched out of his throat as his herculean muscles strain and the barbell lifts, every sinew shaking, swelling, pushing against his skin, groaning fuck yeah fuck yeah one more, the guttural climax of each rep rumbling in my gut and in my cock, do it just fucking do it yeah, my dick pressing painfully against my zipper as I stall, listen to the roars of deep muscular satisfaction as he flexes and sweats and forces his body to powerful extremes, right on the other side of that gate.

A tall wooden fence surrounds his yard, but sometimes this gate in the side is open a few feet, and when I hear him blasting through an intense workout, I can’t help but briefly glance through when I walk by, see those unbelievably pumped up mounds of muscle bulging in his tight workout gear, the sweat pouring down his back and between his pecs, spreading a dark stain that makes his shirt stick to his thick bulges of muscle. Just a momentary impression as I pass by that gate, but it burns in my memory so I can analyze every detail later. Sometimes I wonder if I’m exaggerating in my memory, making him out to be bigger than he is—but then I’ll catch a glimpse of him again and he’s bigger than even my wildest wet dreams.

But that had been the extent of it until today. In fact, in the 25 years that I’ve been on this earth, I’ve never gotten to feel the toned taut up-thrust of a muscular man’s bulging body under my hands, never gotten to do more than gaze with longing at rippling midsections and ballooned-out pecs. So many times I’ve fantasized about the way those muscles would feel, their heat, power, and hardness, the way they’d swell and jump and flex under my fingers, against my face, against my cock.

And then today I found a letter from a top bodybuilding organization addressed to him in my mailbox, dropped off there by mistake. The only thing that kept me from panicking was realizing that I had a duty here, I had to do the right thing. So I carried it to his front door, wiping my hands on my shirt so he wouldn’t find a damp thumbprint on the envelope. I thought I’d just drop it in his mailbox—but the moment I lifted the lid to slide the letter in, his front door opened and my heart all but stopped.

He was in a thin white muscle shirt that exposed every bulging, brawny inch of his huge arms, biceps exploding out, forearms riddled with veins—and his pecs were so large and round that they swelled out of the sides of the arm holes and made clear ridges below his throat, his nipples distinct at the bottom of their broad sweeps, the shadows of his unbelievably cut abs showing through the thin material below them. Blue shorts struggled to reach around his wide thighs and draped tightly over the ponderous bulge between his legs—a fullness so prominent that nobody could help imagining what he was packing, interpreting the different curves as the fat snake of his cock and the pair of spunk-filled balls it rested between, their size and weight filling him with the need to fuck out his manly seed.

“Hey, thanks man.” When he took the letter from me, he grinned out of the side of his mouth. In his late twenties or early thirties, with black hair shaved close on the sides and refusing to lie flat on top, dark eyelashes, strong jaw covered in stubble, full lips. Fucking gorgeous, sensuous, virile. “Got just one week to go till the big show. Think I’m ready?” flexing his right arm, making his bicep thrust up forcefully. He took in the obvious awe on my face, smirking, cocky—yeah you like to show off, you know you’re a fucking musclestud don’t you. You’ve got that fierce glint in your eyes saying I could make your cock fucking explode, make you thrash and wail and sweat and howl as you blow a thick wad all over your own fucking face.

“Y-you’re huge. I’ve never seen a bigger bicep in my life,” I managed to stammer out. I’d normally be too shy to admit this out-loud, but bodybuilders just accept it as a compliment, right? “You’re definitely going to win.”

“Yeah? Thanks,” as if it was nothing, crossing his forearms, making his pecs press up. Fuck, he looks so hard. I’m desperate to know what that feels like. “I was just about to work out. I could use a spot. How ’bout you help me out?”

“R-really?” It took a few seconds for me to process that, and then I’d barely managed to gasp out my agreement before he tossed the words “Then meet me out back” over his shoulder and went into the house, closing the door behind him, leaving me with one final impression of those blue shorts hugging his perfectly round bulbous asscheeks.

I was stunned for a moment, thinking maybe I’d imagined it all. But then my feet automatically took me to the gate, to this moment when I push it open and finally kaçak iddaa walk into that weight-strewn yard, with the blistering August sun searing my shoulders, gleaming off the metal and iron, making his tanned skin gleam and his white shirt glow as he heaves massive weights onto a barbell.

He calls me over and then lies down on the bench, which is set at a slight incline, pushes himself beneath the bar, firm fingers gripping it, lats spreading out wider than the bench, his stomach sucked in and tight below his massive chest, abs so carved they’re visible through his shirt, legs wide enough to let the heavy bulge in his shorts dangle between his giant thighs. I know where to stand, but I feel awkward and useless when I do. There’s no way I could lift the bar if he had a problem, but I could at least undo the collars and slide the weights off, I suppose.

My hands are resting on the bar when he lifts it out of the rack, brings it down to his chest and thrusts it up with immense force, his power rushing through my hands and tingling all over my body. I’m using the band of my boxers to keep my cock pressed up against my stomach so he won’t see it, but it’s so hard that it’s thrusting away from my body nonetheless as I watch him grind out his set, the scattered veins scrawled over his arms getting lumpier, the blood pumping through them as his muscles swell and swell, each rep making them thrust out, so I can practically see them grow as the shiver of intense contractions ripples through them.

I can only imagine what it must be like, feeling your muscles getting pumped like that, engorged and rock-hard, making your skin so tight, like your entire body’s a veiny muscled shaft full of manly strength desperate to fuck and fuck and blast your hot load all over the fucking place.

And the sweaty mounds of his pec muscles are bunching together, ballooning in the sweat-soaked cotton, the fabric made transparent, his dark nipples showing through, his stomach sucking in and the bottom of his ribcage standing out, the fabric of his shorts high over his thick veiny thighs, and I swear I can see a thickening bulge in those shorts, see the shape of a swelling cockhead. He’s grunting as he strains, his arms shaking, fighting for the last rep—until he clangs the barbell back in place, breath rushing from his manly chest.

One hand wanders down to rest on his tight stomach, rub back and forth a little. He’s so lucky that he gets to touch that body every day. It’s available to him every single minute of every single day.

Then I can barely believe my eyes when that wandering hand wanders even further south to tug at the hardening bulge in his shorts, massage his heavy balls. “Getting pumped always makes me fucking hard,” he rumbles with a snicker. “You mind?”

I’m not sure what he’s asking, but I stammer out “N-no. Of course not” anyways.

“Good. ‘Cause I was leaking all over the damn place.” And he reaches his hand right into the sweaty hot shorts and pulls out his fat dick, the head moist with precum. He lets it lie flat against his stomach, three-quarters of the way to the vertical slit of his navel, which is visible through his sweat-soaked shirt. “Let’s do this!”

And he grabs the bar and begins pumping iron again, with that amazing cock pointing at me out of his shorts, quivering and rising away from his stomach as it hardens further and further, the veins darkening, the skin flushing, the shiny precum starting to dangle off his cockhead. “Fuck, come on!” he roars; the bar thrusts under my hands, his pecs swell and bunch and his cock rises, hovering over his taught, sucked-in stomach, the sunlight making the precum glisten on his tip as he grunts and pushes up the bar, his muscles shaking and swelling, his shirt getting wetter and wetter with manly sweat, his cock lifting and the precum wobbling, dangling, stretching down to those taut muscles.

“Fuck, come on, one more!” he roars, the muscles jump in his arms, the cords in his pecs ripple, the muscles in his cock tighten even harder and push out another fat dollop of sticky juice—and then the bar clangs into place and he’s panting and sweating, swinging his arms, feeling their hardness. He’s finally done, his entire body flushed and toned and wet, his cock shaking and shivering and dribbling and straining, desperate for release.

He gets off the bench, grabs the soaked thin bottom of his shirt and pulls it off, the fabric rolling up over his muscled torso, barely squeezing past the lats that flare out from his sides when he brings his arms over his head. He wads it casually in his hands, then tosses it to the ground.

“Man, I’ve always gotta blow my load after a workout,” he says, and yanks his shorts down a little further so his cock can swing free. “I guess you know what that’s like, huh?” I’m not sure what he means by that and if he’s actually looking at my cock when he says it. But I’m distracted as the built-up precum in his stiff dick pours out in a thin translucent stream that dangles, then finally lets go and falls to the sunbaked kaçak bahis ground. Fuck, he’s got such a juicy cock. Such a hard wet muscular fucktool that I’d like to choke down my throat before drinking his flooding manjuice.

Then without saying anything else he turns and strides into his house, his shorts half down over the tanned rocking globes of his sweaty asscheeks. I stand there, unsure what just happened, how I’m supposed to react. Is it just me, or was that an invitation? Does he want me to follow him? He left his door open. But when is “I’ve gotta jerk off” ever an invitation? Don’t most guys want privacy for that? Most straight guys anyways.

But the sight of that hard ass and that dripping cock won’t let me leave. I follow him inside and immediately hear the slapping wet sound of him beating his meat. I follow it through the living room, my straining dick leading me, until I see the half-open bathroom door. He’s inside admiring his body in all its sweaty, pumped-up post-workout glory in the mirror. He’s slapping his cock, feeling its weight, fingers smeared and sticky with precum, grunting, leaning back, long neck stretching, corded and tree trunk-thick, chest rippling, hand sliding down and up the hard glistening length of his muscled rod. The tension of his rough palms rubbing over his cockhead draws out a groan and a fresh pulse of precum—

He’s massive and golden and dripping and swelling everywhere and fuck yes fuck yes under his breath moaning fuck yes I gotta cum gotta cum, feeling that hard and tight dripping jerking cock in his rough grip, knowing he can keep stroking harder and faster, can make himself cum, spill his fucking seed all over that mirror, pound his meat till he explodes with the virile force of indomitable masculinity and sweat-drenched pumped-up power.

Fuck yeah ohhh fuck yeah—his grip gets tighter, faster, his free hand now rubbing his balls through his sack, squeezing their hardness, feeling the hot sperm boiling in those egg-sized orbs, fucking hot he’s so fucking hot, the sweat gleaming on his muscled chest, dripping down his abs, cock gleaming and drooling, the slap slap of his fist on that meaty fucking cock so fucking hard ah yeah so fucking hard cum for me cum for me I wanna see you cum—and Fuck yeah I’m gonna cum gonna fucking cum—getting harder and faster, the muscles winding up, his stomach clenching, ass flexing, ballsack tightening, hard and wet and so fucking tight ohhh fuck ohhh FUCK—

His cock JERKS and JERKS and a wet white explosion splats in the center of the mirror, hips bucking, ass tightening, and I hear his cock SPIT, hear the cum splash as he sprays all over that fucking mirror, droplets flying to the sides and down to the floor, fist riding his cock as it bucks and sprays shot after shot, massaging his tight balls as they churn out his manly seed, cumhole gaping wide under the hot friction of torrents of cum shooting out of his pisshole—

His entire body’s one flexing muscle, dripping with sweat, the liquid rolling between his round rocking asscheeks, tracing moist tracks down his chest as he groans and pumps his meat, spunk flying into the sink as his orgasm lasts and lasts; he’s still bucking his hips, getting the most out of every wrenching flex of his cockmuscles, now tweaking his nipples, biting his lip, riding the wave of ecstasy until the cum finally stops flying from his cock, though it continues to twitch, flecks of white spray still falling to the pool between his feet, the broad muscles of that rounded ass hollowing as he flexes.

And then he looks up and sees me reflected in the spermed-up mirror, peeking through the door. And the electric tension of his eyes meeting mine fills me with dread and desire.

“What are you, a fucking pervert?” he says, his eyes boring into mine, one hand still lazily stroking his cock, squeezing out his man juice. “Coming into my house and watching me blow my load. Did you get off on that? Did watching me work my cock get you hard, huh? Did you think you could get a free show?”

Bewildered and ashamed, I suddenly stammer out an apology and flee from the house—but the moment I enter the yard an unbelievably powerful force seizes me from behind and thrusts me to the ground, flips me over so I’m lying on the grass, the hot glare of the sun in my eyes—and then a sudden heavy weight presses down on my stomach, the hard wet globes of his ass flexing on me, his flushed softening cock mashed against my chest, smearing his cum on my shirt; and his palms pound the ground on either side of my face, his veiny forearms bracing his massive upper body as he lowers his face close to mine, hot breath on my mouth.

“Thought you could cut and run, huh? Get your free show and go. Bet that got you real hard. Yeah, let’s see,” reaching behind himself to grab my balls, rub the length of my hard-as-a-rock cock, which is straining towards the moist tanned rocking mounds of ass muscle sweating on my abdomen. I gasp as his powerful grip grazes my ultra-sensitive cockhead. “What a fucking hard-on! Who knew a illegal bahis skinny guy like you would have a massive fuckpole like that,” with a sly smirk and a touch of admiration. “Well listen skinny boy, you got off on watching me work out, so you better pay for it. You willing to do that?”

“Y-yes!” I gasp out, the musky scent of his cock assaulting my nostrils, his heavy moist body squeezing me into the ground, boiling hot from his workout and his jerking off, his ass flexing as he rocks back and forth on me. “Anything!”

“Then give me twenty reps on the bench,” he snarls. “NOW. Let’s see if your other muscles are as strong as this one.”

He climbs off me, demands I get up. My shirt is streaked with his sweat and his cum, my entire body is shaking and I’m breathing in short shallow bursts. He swaggers over to the bench and removes the weights from the bar. “That’s about all a scrawny guy like you could handle, huh? Get over here. And take off those filthy clothes. You’re a mess.”

I obey him, smelling his manly odour on my shirt as I pull it over my head, feeling the relief of letting loose my dick as I strip off my pants and boxers, that sly smirk stealing onto his lips again when he sees how big I am, how sticky with precum my swaying cockhead is.

I lie down on the hot surface of the bench, feeling the sun’s fierce rays pounding onto my body. The bar above me is a straight line against the sky. He stands at the head of the bench to spot me, bronzed skin tight and muscles bulging, dripping, cock still flushed and veiny, rank with sweat and the hot sun baking into his taut skin, baking into his swollen chest, nipples hard, rough palms rubbing his chest and stomach, tugging his moist cockhead in the sunbaked yard as I assume the position. He’s just a foot away from my shoulders, his massive thighs practically on either side of my head. I can see and smell his dangling cock inches away from my forehead.

He helps me lift the bar out of the rack and slowly bring it down to my chest, push it back up again with his hands safely under it. But I’m barely noticing the fire gathering in my arms; all I can see are the muscles rolling and jumping over me, the cock dangling so close to my face, that swollen cockhead glistening and thick.

I push myself closer to him. Because the bench is inclined, my head’s level with that fabulous cock, and the rubbery resistance of his cockhead immediately rubs against my nose and cheek, the long and thick damp weight of his shaft on my face. My arms are shaking now, barely able to support the weight, but I don’t care about that at all. His cockhead’s coming closer to my mouth, closer, and now he leans forward, smearing my lips with a sticky strand of fresh precum. I stick out my tongue and taste him, feel that sweaty salty musclecock against my tongue, make him drool all over my mouth as I feel hot hardness start to flow into his bulbous cockhead, feel his shaft tighten against my face.

He clangs the bar onto the rack, growling, “Did I say you could do that, fucker?” But then he groans as I entice another drop of precum out of his fat cock. There’s no pretense of working out now. He starts rubbing his length against my face, his skin firming up against my tongue—he’s got one of those dicks that gets so hard it curves up, and the precum oozes out of his cumslit and drips all the way down his shaft; he has to wrap his hand around it and force it down so he can wipe the precum off on my lips, push his fat rubbery cockhead against my mouth, leaking, hot, sticky.

“You like my fucking cock, don’t you? I bet you want me to shove it down your greedy throat, feel me blow my load down your fucking throat. Ahhhh, shit—”

I slide towards him even more so my head’s completely past the bench, allowing me to lean my head back, his massive balls right in my face. He grabs that dick and slaps it against my mouth, makes me feel how hard he is, before he guides it past my lips, the underside of his shaft rubbing against my upper lip, the top of his cockhead pressing up against my tongue. The curve of his cock matches my throat perfectly as he drives right to the back of my throat and holds there, letting me savour him, letting me feel his hot hardness.

“How’s that cock taste? You want more? I’ll give you fucking more.” He pulls back and then thrusts forward, making his balls mash against my nose, his thick manly scent filling my nostrils. I’m licking his shaft, teasing his cumslit when it passes by. He groans and his cock flexes, pushing it up harder against my tongue.

He starts fucking my mouth faster, full of the power and confidence of knowing he’s a fucking musclegod, his veins surging and the pressure building inside him, his balls tightening against my face, the sweat dripping off him, that body towering above me towards the brutal sun, his red-hot gleaming muscles corded and swollen, his pecs ballooning out, abs rippling, grunting fuck yeah suck my dick, thrusting into my mouth, grabbing the sides of my head, his thick fingers hard and firm, my mouth full of tightening muscle, manly leakage, you’re such a fucking stud such a fucking stud cum in my mouth cum in my throat, fucking blow your load in me, come on come on fuck me harder yes harder yes fuck yes—

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir cevap yazın