Mutual Muscle Worship

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Working out’s always had a strange fascination for me. I remember looking at pictures of bodybuilders as a teen and feeling a dangerous nervous chill that made my hair stand on end and settled deep in my gut in mysterious ways. It made me shut down my computer and vow not to look at them, but I always returned.

And when I started working out after graduating from high school I always used to find my cock rock-hard by the end of each set. It’s the feeling of power building up in my body, the increased circulation, “getting pumped,” I explained to myself. “These other guys must get it too”—those other guys in the gym who I found myself glancing sidelong at during my sets, the ones with muscles I dreamed of having, thinking about what it’d be like to feel those muscles flex all over your body when you walk, pump iron—jerk off.

But I didn’t let myself look at them for long because there was something strangely invasive about it; not invasive in the sense of invading their privacy—they were just working out normally in a public gym, grunting and roaring as if they WANTED to be looked at anyways—no, invasive in the sense that they somehow got under MY skin, made me feel sick and strange. A weird sensation unlike anything else I knew. I knew what it was like to look at a woman and masturbate. Sure, you looked at a picture of a woman and stroked your cock until it exploded. That was simple. You could do the same thing even without the picture, of course, with just one hand wrapped around your cock and your mind blank.

But looking at those guys’ muscles, thinking about them, wrenched me deep inside, filled me with a strange dread that I thought I couldn’t understand, that I could only relieve by pumping iron. And when my dick got hard during a workout it was from the blood pounding through my body, not the thought that my muscles were expanding and tightening like the musclestuds flexing their massive arms and feeling the ridges of their abs around me as their workout burned into them, standing in front of the mirrors, lifting their shirts to check out each others’ six-packs, brushing a hand down each others’ stomachs to feel their firmness—

I wanted to become them, and over the years gradually I did. I’m twenty-one now and I’m one of those guys lifting his shirt to check out his ripped six-pack in the mirror, flexing my arms to see how the veins bulge after an intense workout, feeling the swollen burn as my muscles get pumped practically to bursting. I keep to myself, though, headphones in my ears, avoiding conversations. I’ve exchanged a few words with some of my fellow bodybuilders, but that strange gut-twisting dread starts to build deep inside me so I do my best to avoid them.

There’s one guy I can’t help staring at every time I see him, though. My idol. An absolute muscle god. He’s in his mid-thirties and those extra years of training have swelled his muscles insanely, a tight torso flaring out to broad pecs and lats so thick they prop up his tanned massive arms packed with muscles that flex at the slightest movement. His head’s shaved and his jawline’s dark with stubble. He grits his teeth and contorts his virile face as he blasts out his reps, broad neck thickly corded. His shorts keep rolling up over his wide thighs. When he’s in the gym, I always find my eyes drifting to him. Sometimes he’s noticed and we’ve briefly made eye contact, but I shift my gaze away guiltily.

Then one day, I’m checking myself out in the mirror after a workout, seeing how swollen my veins have gotten, how pumped up the hard bulges of my biceps and triceps are, when I see him saunter up beside me, a grin on his face. “You’ve come a long way, man,” he says, and suddenly I’m in that situation I’ve seen before but never let myself watch head-on. Two muscle freaks checking out each others’ gains. He can see I’m caught off-guard and explains, “I’ve been seeing you here over the last couple of years. Talk about a transformation!”

I can feel the heat rush to my face. “Uh… thanks,” I stammer, thinking that I must be coming across as a total idiot. What kind of man looks like me and then freaks out when someone compliments him?

“I’m Shawn by the way.” He offers his hand and I shake it, tell him my name. His palms are rough and his grip is strong. Hard veins are scrawled across forearms the size of most guys’ calves; my eyes automatically follow them up his arms. “Do you compete?” he asks, and when I tell him no, “You could. You’d do well. Might even win. Let me know if you need any tips, OK?”

“So you compete?” I wince. Duh, that was obvious.

“Sure. The gym’s my life, man. It’s how I make my living.”

“You work out for a living? I didn’t know you could earn that much from competitions.”

He grins. My stomach turns a flip and that strange sensation fills me with a confused mix of wanting to both run away and hear as much as I can from him. “Most guys can’t earn that much from competitions, no, and I can’t either.” He glances around, drops his volume a bit. Speaks confidingly, “Listen, Ankara escort there are other ways to make a buck when you look like we do. Go on, let’s see those guns. Yeah, like that.” He grins at the size of my baseball biceps bursting up from my arms, which makes me want to flex even harder. “Plenty of guys would pay a lot of money to watch you do that, you know.”

“You mean, like, online?”

“Yeah.” Then slipping it casually into the conversation: “And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you they’d pay three times that if you were willing to show them even more.”

Gaping at him, I blurt out, “You mean like jerk off?” A sudden thought twists my lower gut, makes the blood throb in my head. “Do YOU actually do that?”

“Sure, why not?” speaking low, but without a hint of shame or reluctance. “I work this hard, I might as well get paid for it. And it’s a fuckin’ turn on too sometimes.”

I glance around the gym, but nobody’s watching us. Just two guys having a private conversation. I’m only going to ask this out of curiosity: “Uh… so how does a thing like that work, exactly? You just use your webcam or…”

“If you’re some regular guy with a set of weights in your apartment, go ahead and beat yourself off in front of a webcam for a few viewers, sure,” he chuckles. “But if you want to make the big bucks, and if you look like WE do, there are plenty of professional websites that’re willing to pay us to be in their videos.”

“Us? So… you think they’d want me too?”

“Dude, not only are you fucking ripped, but those shorts can’t hide the fact you’ve got the best ass I’ve ever seen. Guys’d line up to check you out, and they’d line up to pay for it too.”

His words make my stomach clench. A strange buzz settles deep in my balls. At first I can’t believe he’s talking this way, but then I suddenly realize, of course he talks this way. He’s a bodybuilder. Muscles are the tools he uses in his profession. He needs to be able to talk about something like this casually. Why would he be squeamish about complimenting another guy on the body he’s been working hard to craft? We do this to be admired. It’s a fucking COMPLIMENT. Don’t get so uptight about it.

“So they’d expect me to jerk off—” Suddenly I realize that I’m talking as if I’ve decided to do it. The money IS tempting, I must admit. Though I have a vague feeling that’s not why I’m asking. “Alone, right?”

“If that’s all you’re comfortable with.” He shrugs. “You can earn twice that as a duo, though.”

“Huh? You mean, like—” My mind reels and I check once again to see if anyone’s paying attention to us. “Listen man, I’m no porn star—definitely not a gay one—and I have no intention of becoming one. I’m straight.”

“That’s not what I meant. Come on, you’ve gotta know what I’m talking about. There’s muscle worship—just feeling each other’s muscles. You can even keep those shorts on. Preserve your ‘modesty.’ Not that different from guys in the gym.”

As if talking about something totally normal, he continues: “And then there’s a step further. Show it all off. But you don’t even need to touch the other guy’s cock. Even if you just jerk off next to each other—couple of guys hangin’ out poundin’ their meat, you know how it is. Plenty of bodybuilders do it. There’s a huge difference between jerking off—showing off what your body can do—and fucking a guy on camera. You see that, right? I mean, you jerk off anyways, so why not get something out of it?”

I have to admit it makes sense. And hearing him talk about this is somehow satisfying, makes that buzz in my gut vibrate even more. It’s dangerous and confusing all right, but somehow I’m starting to wonder what it would be like if that feeling got deeper, harder. “Have you… ever done that? Jerked off with a guy on camera,” feeling the sentence in my mouth, tasting it. I can almost smell the strange musk of it.

“Nahh,” he says. Then continues, “But just ’cause I haven’t found the right guy. Someone I could trust that the studios would also want.”

His dark eyes meet mine and I can’t look away. My whole body’s tingling now, that weird ache trembling in my balls. “But… what about me?” I ask. “Am I the ‘right’ guy?”

“You might be.” He rests a hand on my shoulder, massive arm muscles flaring. “The two of us together, I think we could make a fuckload in just twenty minutes. The viewers’d eat it up.” That grin again. “So? Think you’d be up for it?”

My Adam’s apple bobs in my thick neck as I gulp deeply. And nod.


We’re set up in a studio made to look like a locker room. Supposedly we’ve just worked out, gone to the locker room and started admiring each other’s work (with bright lights and two cameras pointed at us and a crew of several guys). We’re in tank tops and Shawn’s wearing gym shorts while I’m wearing a tight pair of white briefs. Now that I’m here, now that they’ve shouted we should start, I’m overwhelmed with the thought that I have no idea what I’m doing, what I’ve gotten myself into. My heart’s pounding sickeningly, Ankara escort bayan a trembling in my stomach as I stand in front of him, everyone focusing on us. I’d almost cancelled several times in the past few days, but a subterranean desire wouldn’t let me, a vague but insistent fluttering throughout my body.

He looks amazing, pumped up after a preparatory workout. And so confident; he knows what he’s doing. I shyly meet his eyes, and seeing my nervousness, he gives me some advice. “Just think about what they’d do if they were in your situation. The viewers. What they’d want to feel. Don’t worry about it. Just go for it. I’ll get it started. Just flex for me, like you did before.”

Following his instructions I flex my biceps hard for him and he rubs his hands over my bulging arms, feels the striations in my biceps, grinning with admiration. That look on his face, that excitement and desire, even if it’s feigned, makes the blood pound through me faster and makes my legs shake. I forget about the cameras and want to show off for him, show that even though I haven’t competed like him, I can still hold my own.

So I strip off my shirt, feel his fingers trace the grooves of my abs, feel him step closer and run his hands over my back, his breath hot on my neck, hips grazing against mine, my cock starting to stir for some reason, my foreskin pulling back from my growing cockhead and my balls aching. I don’t know why I’m getting turned on from this, another guy feeling me up, and then there’s a stomach-flipping jolt as my cockhead presses against his thigh. An electric bolt. A surge of blood to my dick and now I’m really sporting a tent in my tight briefs. He feels me panic a little and whispers, “Awesome, keep it up. Get as hard as you can. That’s what they want.”

“But I’m not gay—”

“Don’t worry about that. Just be glad you can get it up on film. Tons of guys can’t. I’m about to pop a boner myself. Now pull my shirt off.”

He reassures me with his dark eyes and I oblige, grabbing the bottom of his tank top and pulling it up as he raises his arms, watching the way his torso bulges and twists as I lift the thin material and expose the sucked-in tight pack of shredded abs, the swollen massive pecs, flaring lats, muscled pits below thick arms as wide as his head. He’s fucking HUGE and so unbelievably ripped I can make out every detail.

I throw down the shirt and he flexes for me, makes his pecs bounce and his biceps bulge. For a moment I’m at a loss again, wondering how I should act, but then I remember his advice—what would the viewers want to do if they were in my position? Well obviously they’d want to feel those pecs. So I rub my hands over them as he flexes.

Fuck, they’re huge, they’re so round and defined and the way they bounce and ripple when he swings his arms—I feel his nipples stiffen when my thumb grazes them—yeah I bet they wish they were here, I bet they wish they could lick those nipples, feel those monster pecs squeezing tight against their face, their hands, their cock even—that’s right, they’d fucking love it if I shoved my fat dick between those pecs and fucked them, bet they’d feel so hard against my cockhead, rippling and hot and squeezing tight.

And those abs, those fucking abs. They’re ridiculously shredded—feel how thin the skin is, how it sucks in between each bulging muscle, look at how tight and shallow his navel is, rub your hands over that hard V over his hips where his lower abs end, and feel that trench up the center of his eight-pack which is already starting to fill with sweat as he grinds out hard muscle-flaring poses; I could slide my dick up that trench, feel those muscles squeezing against my shaft—bet it’d feel amazing to blow a fat load all over them, watch the cum soak into those grooves, squelch under my thrusting cock.

I’m so absorbed that I barely notice what I’m doing when I grab my erection, which is painfully squished against the front of my tight briefs, and shift it so it’s pointing to the left, pinned against my hip by the tight white cotton, an obscene arrow pointing to 2 o’clock. I notice one of the cameras pan down to it and I get self-conscious for a second, but he takes my mind off that immediately by whispering in my ear, hot and close: “Time to show off that ass. Give them what they’re paying for. OK?”

I nod and he reaches around me, grabs the rim of my briefs and pulls them down in back so just my ass is hanging out—I’d told him I wasn’t ready to show my cock on film (although I’d let him show off as much as he wanted since it affects his pay)—and he respects my wishes. He rests his firm hands on my muscled cheeks, gets me to flex them as he leans forward and I feel the unbelievably hot hardness of his own erection press against me, rub up the length of my shaft as he breathes on my neck, rubs my bare ass, my cock still pressed flat against my hip in a thin sheath of material.

He begins to speak for the cameras: “Fuck man, that’s the tightest fucking ass I’ve ever seen. Come on, flex that Escort Ankara ass for me. Shit, you had a cock up that ass? I bet you’d squeeze the fucking cum out of it, milk it with that tight ass, make any guy blow a hot load up your tight hole in one thrust.”

I know it’s just for the cameras but his words are making me sweat, making me shake and my dick tremble, my balls filled with molten lead that aches sweetly as I feel his rough palms on my ass, as I tense my muscles for him, rock my hips.

“You’re making me fuckin’ hard here,” he continues, his voice growling with lust. “I’m about to blow my load. You ever see a dick this hard?” And he yanks his shorts down, steps out of them, shows me his gorgeous cock. Seven and a half inches long, the barrel of his curved cumcannon thick and heavily veined, the swollen cockhead flushed and shiny and tight with his desire, deep purple, the entire massive organ trembling and pointing right up at my face, heavy balls swaying below, each as big as his bulbous cockhead, full of his man-juice. His dark pubes are cut short and the smutty scent of his arousal fills my nostrils. “Fuck man, I’ve gotta jerk off. I can’t stand it, you’re such a stud.”

Then a sudden devilish urge clenches my gut, electrifies my brain. I know if I say this it’s going to feel so fucking fantastic, as good as an orgasm in itself. But I can’t say it, can I? I can’t. I can’t. Fuck it, I can: “No, let me do it. Let me feel that fucking cock.” And when I say it I know there’s nothing I want more. I want to feel that muscled rod in my hand, feel his heat and hardness and trembling ecstasy as I stroke him. It’s going beyond what we agreed, so I’m taking a risk here but—

“Yeah, you want that?” He grins and I don’t see any surprise in his face. “Go right ahead, grab a fistful, you fuckin’ stud.”

And for the first time I wrap my hand around another man’s cock. Just the thought of that—another man’s cock—sends a shiver through my balls, more intense than anything I’ve ever felt before. He thrusts his hips into my grip, and as I feel my palm rub along his veiny iron-hard shaft I’m starting to understand something. I’d thought it would be just like jerking off without the pleasure of a hand on your own cock, all the work but none of the satisfaction. That’s not true, though. Somehow this is even better. It’s so much fucking FUN.

I begin to appreciate the satisfying thickness of a hard cock in your fist, feeling it get hot, tighten and flex, feeling the tension build under your fingers, hearing him moan and writhe, making him twitch, making him jerk, making his cock spit out a fat bead of precum. “Yes, fuck yes, that feels so fucking good,” and I’m doing it, I’m making him sweat and flex and swear, feeling his massive organ get even more rigid and huge against my palm, stroking his veiny shaft, grabbing his sensitive cockhead and making him hiss, the skin there so soft and tight. I rub my thumb agonizingly over his cumslit and he twists and moans, precum drooling out, slicking up my hand, “Fuck fuck fuck ahhh!”

I’m so fucking hard watching him, and I’m about to lay my free hand on my cock but he beats me to it, starts massaging it through the thin material of my briefs, the white cotton made transparent by the growing stain of my own precum, my purple cockhead clearly showing through. And this sensation is new too—another guy’s hand feels so much stronger and harder and rougher than my own, makes my entire cock tremble and push stiffer and stiffer against my briefs, my balls feeling so full of my cum, full of my need to spray my fucking load as I rub him faster, faster, harder, stiff flesh and dripping precum, bulging veins, twitching muscles, reaching down to rub his heavy balls, feel them tighten against the base of his cock, yes yes fuck yes it feels so fucking good—

I’m watching his whole body tense as I bring him closer and closer to the edge, his balls swelling, nipples hardening, muscles shining with sweat, a look of blissful concentration on his face, his fat cock smelling of sex, abs contracting, the tension building, moaning, growling, twisting, groaning, “Yes fuck YES that feels so good, make me cum, make me cum, make me fucking CUM!” running my hand up and down that veiny rock-hard fuckpole, rubbing his rubbery damp cockhead, forcing a hiss of unbearable ecstasy out of his lips, “Fuck ahh fuck that feels—!”

I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the expectation of seeing that massive manly musclehunk getting harder and sweatier and coming closer and closer to the edge, fixated on that muscled swollen cock, looking at the gasping dripping cumslit, desperate to see the cum rocket out of it, wondering how hard and fast and thick the cum will fly, how hot and wet and salty it’ll be, smell it in the air as I feel it on my hands, my thighs, my chest, my cheeks, lips, mouth, the burning pressure of a pumped-up musclestud cumming like a fucking stallion, his manly strength pounding out of him—show me what you’ve got, show me how you fucking cum, yeah cum for me, I wanna see you pound out that cum, pound it out more and more and faster and hotter and higher and further, drench me, drench me with your spunk you fucking huge-cocked muscle-bound god, make me smell it, taste it, feel it—now NOW cum for me NOW—

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