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To Grandpa's House We Go
|To recap from when we last left SNR MSL:
He gets into the monster truck with the "SNR MSL" plate and I realize what it means. He starts his truck as I pull open the door on the passenger side and climb in. With a jerk, he steers the truck onto the highway. He looks over at me, kindly, and flexes his right arm for me. I grab hold of it, rubbing my hands all over, tracing the thick veins, squeezing it hard. I'm delirious with lust.
I don't know where we're going, but as long as I can stay with this muscledaddy, I don't care.
|We drive for what could have been minutes, or hours, or days. I have no concept of time because Grandpa keeps flexing his mighty arm for me. At stoplights, he sometimes sticks his forearm between my legs and lets me hump it briefly. It's like rubbing against an iron pillar with veins.
"Shit, boy," he says. "You get this turned on by my muscles, what are you gonna do if I let you play with my dick?" He pulls his arm away to concentrate on the road, but makes his mammoth biceps bounce every so often. "I guess you figured out that I don't normally work out with those wimpy weights you saw me with." He snorts. "Using two hands to curl only 200 pounds."
I gulp. Two hands? Only 200 pounds?
"I just come into the gym now and then to freak someone out. Usually it's more fun when it's some young cocky bodybuilder. But sometimes, son, when it's a little wimpy worshipper like you, that's fun too."
I feel that same tingle in my balls, even though there's part of me that knows I should be insulted by being called wimpy. That this senior is strong and muscular, almost beyond belief, is obvious, but there's something more about him, something that makes me lose my will when I'm near him.
We keep driving to the outskirts of town, where the houses become sparse and properties are huge. Soon we turn into a long driveway and pull up in front of a large house. There are no neighbors nearby. "Here it is, boy," Grandpa says. "Wait." He gets out and I start to open my door. As Grandpa comes around, he frowns and pushes it closed with a forceful slam. My heart jumps at the look on his face. He waits a moment, eyes boring into my own, then opens the door and motions me outside with a jerk of his thumb.
"What did you do that for?" I ask, somewhat petulantly. "I can open my own door."
He looks at me and lifts his hand. Suddenly I'm scared that he's going to hit me, but he runs a calloused finger down my cheek and grabs my chin between his thumb and index finger. "I will say this only once. You do what I want, when I tell you, or you go home, is that clear, son?"
There it is again, "Son," and my nipples start to throb. Fuck you, I want to say, but what comes out is a contrite, "Yessir."
Grandpa smiles and - as a reward? - strokes his thumb against my lips. I part them to let him stick it in my mouth. I should be humiliated, but I suck on it like a dog on a bone, pleased that he has forgiven my disobedience.
Abruptly, he pulls his thumb out and starts towards the back of the house, without bothering to check if I'm following. Of course I am. It's a good thing it's a beautiful summer day, I think, because he's still bare-chested from when he ripped out of his shirt at the gym, and his sweats are in tatters.
We walk around to the back to a huge yard with such a variety of stuff that it looks like a junkyard. I stare in wonderment. "What's all this for?" I ask. I sweep my hand around the yard. There's a collection of boulders on one side of the yard, an old tractor on another. "I don't really work out at a normal gym. And I've been keeping myself under wraps for way too long. So a few months ago I went to a powerflifting meet and talked to one of the producers of the 'World's Strongest Man' contests," Grandpa says, ignoring that I spoke out of turn. "I gave him a little private lifting routine to convince him I should be on the program. Did a deadlift with only 1000 pounds. That's a half a ton, in case you've forgotten, sonny. Of course I held way back 'cause he was already hard in his pants with that lift. Any more and he would have shot his load and peed his pants. You wimps tend to do that when you see so much fucking strength and muscle." He laughs at the memory and I find myself getting hard with the matter-of-fact way he talks about his might. He continues walking over to the boulders to the left of the yard. "So I'm going to be the oldest participant they ever had on the show. What he doesn't realize is that I'm going to be the strongest one they've ever had on. By far. Care to see?" he calls over his bulging deltoid. "Yes, please" I whisper.
"I thought so," he says, and makes a smile that isn't all that nice. "Now you know about the stones they lift, right?" I nod. That's one of my favorite events. "Those pansy stones range in weight from something like 240 up to 325. Have to pick them off the ground and put them on a wall. Well, I have my own set over there." He points to the array of stones in front of him. "But when it's my turn to do it, I won't be putting them on the wall."
"Too heavy?" I venture.
He whirls around and thunders at me; I shrink back. "TOO HEAVY?! Jesus Christ, boy, weren't you watching when I demolished that plate at the gym?!" Angrily, the old man turns away and walks over to the smallest one, and, lifting it up with one hand, tosses it high into the air. Then one after the other, he picks up the others and launches them too.
His broad back ripples in thick waves of beef, and then an amazing thing happens. As they start to plummet down to earth, he catches them and starts juggling them!
"Oh fuck!" I mutter, mesmerized.
Grandpa's broad delts split into three heads of pure power as he lofts them up again. Triceps power over 300 pounds 40 feet into the air, over and over.
I get lightheaded, because all the blood in my brain is flowing southward. Then as he catches each one, he lets it drop to the earth with a thud, till he catches the heaviest one -- 340 pounds and about three feet across. With a grunt, he powers this one into the ground, the way a football player spikes the ball when he scores a touchdown. I am shocked to see half of it is buried in the earth
The senior muscleman turns to face me. "You watching, boy?" he sneers...as if I could do anything but...
He places a hand on either side of the buried boulder, and begins to press inward. His biceps bulge out into stupendous mountains of muscle, while the striations of his pecs show cables of brawn that look like they could hold up suspension bridges. He continues to press in until I hear a cracking sound. With a grunt and another push, he squeezes the rock harder, until it has shattered. His back expands outward, growing ever wider and I watch the thick muscle separation and veins that stretch his skin taut. I want to touch myself, but I remember how mad that made him at the gym, so with difficulty, I restrain myself.
He turns around, body exploding with the pump. My eyes widen at the size of the dick tenting his jock through the tattered remains of his sweats. I look up to see his eyes on my own. I want to bury my face in his crotch, but his eyes do not give permission to do more than look. "I see that you're impressed by that, little man. Want to see more?" "Please, Sir?" I whimper, thinking he means his dick.
He continues, "Back to the front of the house." And again, without bothering to check, he strides past me. I trot after my musclegrampa, disappointed that his dick is still off limits, but watching the thick roll of his gait, his lats pushing his ham hock arms away from his body. You could watch a movie on that back and I was...
"You know the other one where they lift up the back of the car while facing each other down? A little Toyota Corolla, I think." I nod.
He positions himself by the bed of the truck. "So if I can do this," he says, as he lifts up the back of his double-axle pick-up with one hand, "I'll just flip the Toyota around so that I'm holding the heavier engine side. Then when the joker across from me gives in, hold his car with the other." He puts down the truck. "But what's really pitiful is the ax competition. You know that one?"
"Where they hold these heavy axes straight out till their arms give way?"
"Heavy? Shit, those fucking pansy tools are only 30 pounds, boy!! Is that supposed to be hard to do for the world's strongest man? I'll just take the two Toyotas and do this!" He grabs the ENGINE end of the pick-up, lifts it up and holds it straight out by his side!
I cum again. How many times is that since this morning? I've lost count.
He sees, and without even breathing hard and barely sweating, continues to hold up the 5000-pound truck while he talks to me. "Now this is something that I've timed myself with. Two minutes and 42 seconds with the truck here. I figure with the Toyota I could go for about six minutes or so..."
Six minutes holding a car at arm's length! I go crazy thinking about it.
He lets the truck down gently, and just stands there, letting his power just emanate off him in waves. "Well, son, do you think I stand a chance?"
I gulp and say, "They won't know what hit 'em."
"You got that right," he laughs, reaching down to pick up a cannon ball-sized stone from the ground. "Come stand by me, boy." I quickly run over to comply. Up close, I can feel his intensity, almost as though it is a separate entity. He turns me around, standing behind me and bends his mouth to my ear. "You like big strong Grandpa, son?" His hot breath caresses my lobe.
I quiver and moan involuntarily as he snakes his tongue in and out so fast I'm not sure it has really happened. He reaches over my shoulder with the arm holding the rock. I moan again as I feel his muscle around me. His arm is heavy as a telephone pole and hard as steel, but warm and comforting too.
"I need some new gravel for my driveway," he says, as he begins to squeeze.
My breathing becomes hard and raspy as I realize he's going to do it again. The cables in his forearm begin to thicken and writhe as he moves his fingers around the rock, hefting it, squeezing, searching for the weak spots.
"Now, I could buy the gravel, but where's the fun in that, eh, son?"
My teeth are actually chattering now.
"Are you cold, boy?" he asks, and brings his other arm to wrap around me, cocooning me in his mighty senior beef.
I want to cry but I can't figure out why. Grandpa continues to squeeze the rock. Bits and pieces are starting to flake off and his forearm pumps up even more. Veins, already snaking his muscle, thicken over the expanding beef, falling into the individual fibers.
He grunts, and I quiver again, lost in the pure animal sound of muscle versus stone...and muscle is winning. His tongue snakes into my ear again. "Big strong Daddy's gonna crush this rock to dust..."
"Show me, please, " I whisper. "Please."
"Beg some more...."
"Please, please, pleeeeeeeease, I want to see how strong you are. It's so hot that anyone can do this, let alone a 65-year-old."
"Fuck, boy. You don't get it, do you? Just because I'm old, you think I shouldn't be strong? It doesn't matter whether I'm 16 or 60 or 160." "Sorry, sorry, sorry!! It's just that most guys your age, well, they aren't so strong or built anymore." "Boy, if you talk about 'my age' anymore like that, you can leave." He starts to pull away and the cool breeze blows through the gap between our bodies now. I miss the warmth of his muscle against my back.
"No, please sir, I won't be disrespectful to you again!"
I can't see it, but I think he smiles and he presses again against my back. I mold to the bulges and curves of his body and he puts his arms around me again. He gives a quick flex of his biceps and the comforting mass is suddenly rock solid against my face.
"As I was saying, boy, I need some new gravel and I like to make it myself." He starts pressing the rock again and I feel, rather than hear, the rock surrender to his power and crack into two pieces.
He brings his other arm from around my waist and drapes it over my other shoulder to take the second piece of rock. My head is trapped between the two massive limbs, as he begins squeezing the pieces individually, crushing them into ever smaller pieces.
Each flex of his arms pushes my head from side to side. Idly I wonder what would happen if he flexed them at the same time. As if he's reading my mind, Grandpa does just that. My head is immobile between two boulders of man muscle.
My cock is aching, but glancing over my shoulder and seeing my hard-on, he orders, "You better not touch your dick." God, how could I dare to disobey this Golden Age Hercules? My head could be squashed by the power in those arms.
He has finished squeezing the pebbles. "Now this," he says, opening his left hand, "is just the right size." He throws it to the ground. He continues squeezing the rocks in his right hand. "This," he says finally, opening his hand to reveal nothing but dust, "is not."
I moan and surrender even further into him. "Sir, may I ask you a favor?"
"You may," he allows, kindly, hot breath in my ear again. "Would you touch my cock? Please? So I can shoot another load?"
"Since when do you need my help to do that?" he chortles, but with his calloused right hand, gently brushes a trail of fire down my body and reaches inside my gym shorts. "It's still damp in here," he chides. His tongue continues to dart in and out of my ear.
I take hold of his forearm with both my hands, suck in my breath. I can't even get my hands around it. He lets it slide that I have grabbed him without permission.
The tips of his fingers graze my dick...
"Cum," he commands.
Fountains of white shoot out of my dick, as if I haven't been cumming all day, but because of him, because of his power, because of the feel of those superman fingers on my dick, because of his command, I'm shooting as though I were super-horny teenager ...
When my cock stops spasming, Grandpa slowly withdraws his cum-coated hand from my shorts.
"Boy," he says sternly. "Look what a mess you made."
"Sorry, Sir, but you said to cum, and I did!" I laugh, but there's an edge of hysteria in my voice. What have I been reduced to by this behemoth of brawn?
He rewards me with a hearty chuckle that I feel all along my body.
"May I take care of that for you, Sir?"
He turns me around and raises his hand to my lips in silence. I reach my tongue out and take my salty warm cum into my mouth. I wash each thick finger with my tongue, and my cock gets hard again when I think of how strong they are and what they could do.
I clean off the cum, look up at him and say meekly, "Sir?" He nods permission to continue.
My tongue travels up along his forearm, thick cables of muscle, covered in a thin down of hair. I lick along the veins that run like rivers over the bowling pin shaped arm. I continue along to his tricep muscle. He flexes his arm so that I see thousands of muscle fibers fanning out along his horseshoe, and I'm not really surprised that I can bury my whole face between the edges. My tongue continues to slurp along the brawny arm. He pulls his arm away from me and raises it out level with his shoulder.
Now I am torn - do I continue on to his pit, or see if I can get to the massive bicep. The cavern of his armpit beckons. The grey hair holds a few drops of sweat, which I lap up with my tongue. The manly sweat is like a hit of adrenaline to me. He begins to talk to me, again in a gentle voice, yet I'm hyperaware of the steel behind his commands. "Clean it out good, boy. Didn't get time to shower at the gym, did I?" My response is muffled, as my mouth is otherwise engaged.
I nuzzle the hairy armpit, my head surrounded by what I now know to be the strongest muscles on the planet
I feel his other hand on the back of my head and it slowly guides my face out of the pit and presses my cheek against his pec. Like a baby, I instinctively seek out and begin sucking, tasting and teasing his thick nipple to hardness.
He chuckles and I lay my ear against his chest, feeling comforted by the deep sound. With his index finger, he guides my eyes up to his arm again. I see that he has clenched his fist and is beginning to bring it up toward his shoulder....
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