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|OK it was indeed. The excited anticipation of the event spurred us on to greater and greater excesses of workout, eating and sex. The workouts were so great: we spotted each other, yelled at each other, timed each other’s ultra-contractions, and fucked.
One of the greatest excitements for me was the new big Brett. Without
sacrificing an iota of his superb shape and symmetry, he had added pounds and pounds of lean muscle tissue on to that gymnast’s bod: now he looked like a winning bodybuilder, easily able to conquer most guys in competition. It was no longer a greatly muscled youth I had in my hands, it was a fucking great MAN and his new muscle made me so horny, I couldn’t keep my hands off it.
“Enough already!” he would yell as once again I plastered my hands on those mountainous, sweeping pecs. “You’re obsessed with my pecs!”
“I’m obsessed with you, you nerd!”
“Nerd, is it? I’ll show you nerd!”
And once again the wrestling would begin. He was so good at it and I took the opportunity of learning a few holds from him. Later in the week this came in useful when Tattoos came to dinner. He seemed like a different guy. Gone were the snarls and glowers and he too seemed extra energized. He wanted to see us both stripped, comparing our recent development.
“He’s still bigger than you, Brett!”
“I know - I hope he always will be. Doesn‘t stop me from wanting to catch up! In fact it helps.”
“When’re you going to compete then? Your dad’s next show?”
“Yeah, probably. But Bjorn’s been improving on his holds recently - why don’t you try him?”
“Shit, Brett, I - ”
“Yeah - why don’t I?” said Tattoos as he started to strip. He measured up to me, glowering.
“Ready for this, punk? Loser gets fucked?”
“Oh, sure!” I groaned.
He chased me into the gym. It was a great time. Big brawny Brett acting as referee and coaching me at the same time. I was a lot bigger now than Tattoos but he was a much more experienced wrestler. I got in a few pins, but most of the time he had me whipped. After I’d lost three pins and got one, Brett, crafty bugger, suggested we oil up.
“That should make it more interesting!” he chortled.
We both “endured” his oily ministrations, getting hornier by the second as that well-muscled beauty slathered and lathered our hard muscles with that oil. He had to strip off to do it, so that was a bonus.
Ever done oil-wrestling? It’s the most sensuous crazy activity ever. You slip and slide over each other’s flexed muscles, often skidding to the mat, leaving yourself open to new and stranger attacks from your opponent. Your genitals become very vulnerable and often used as a weapon against yourself. And now we had Brett’s mighty member swinging between us as he “officiated”.
To cut a long match short, Brett finally decided gleefully that I had lost and must now get fucked. (Oh where were Can-Am’s cameras?) Tattoo’s long thick dick needed no oiling, but maybe my muscle-pussy did so Brett obliged with a whole fucking-fistful of lube.
This was the first time I’d felt Tattoo’s monstrous member since that Saturday night and I’d forgotten just how big it was. It had hardly had time to ram itself into me up to the hilt when bloody Brett stuck his down my throat.
“Loser gets fucked! Loser gets fucked!” he chanted merrily as he drove in and out, keeping time with Tattoo’s thrusts at the other end. In between fuck strokes Tattoo muttered “You owe me this, you know (ram!): if it wasn’t for me finding you (ram!) in that (ram!) God-forsaken country (ram! ram!)…..” When I had been serviced with gallons of fuck-lube by my opponents, and they’d both pulled out of me, Tattoos surprised us by asking us to fuck him!
“Guys, I’ve been wanting to try this since that night when I saw you both eyeing each other for the first time. We’ll do it like this - ”
But, first, Brett had dutifully collected a cupful of my gism to pass on to his Dad for the lab-work.
Tattoos pushed me on to my back and massaged my fuck-pole to its maximum height, then impaled himself on it. As soon as I felt myself contained to the root I started to buck my pelvis up and down to ram it into him still further.
“Yeah, you tattooed loser! ride this horse!” And he thrust down to meet my increasingly violent attacks.
“Now, Brett - get in on this!” he yelled. He leaned forward and imprisoned my mouth with his, and started to suck my tongue down his
throat. Brett knelt down behind him and forced his own dick up Tattoo’s muscle-cunt above mine. Wow! That was a first for us both!
Brett and I were counter-fucking that hard butt when my lover pulled Tattoos off my mouth by grabbing both his man-tits and viciously twisting them. I pushed myself upon to my elbows so Brett and I could reach each other’s mouths while Tattoos was yelling “Harder! Faster!”
We all managed to splurge at the same time and fell back exhausted. Tattoos massaged his wealth of spunk into my welcoming, greedy pec mountains, making sure to make my man-tits as sore as possible.
Another great night was when the Twins came to dinner with Pilot. It was the first time I’d seen the Twins since I left all those months ago and I could see they were a lot bigger now. Their clothes were now really too tight when they’d been loose-ish before. They were getting ready for the contest too.
They demanded a foursome with Brett and me. It was quite a foursome. There was nothing, no pairing, no coupling left unexploited. And Pilot filmed it all on his VCR. After we’d had our fill of sex for the time being, (and Red had arrived just in time for “dessert”) he showed it to us on the big screen in the den and that got us all going again.
Once again I was to be the victim. Gang-bang rape, no less. It seemed that the biggest guy had to receive the most punishment.
Two held me down on the bed, one had his dick down my throat and the other up my ass. As soon as one fucker came, they changed
partners like musical chairs, one fuck after the other. I guess I must have come at least five times, each jet bigger than the one before - proving Dad’s theory that each emission empowered the next!
Not to mention how much I drank down my greedy gullet!
But these were just the evenings. The nights alone with Big Brett were like being in Paradise before the Fall. Beyond ecstasy. There’s something amazing about male-muscle-love: when two bodies cleave together with one soul it is truly a match made in Heaven. And somehow we felt that his Dad was part of us as we made love, exploring each other’s big muscles, provoking each other’s libidos, sharing each other’s hopes and thoughts for the future.
Sometimes we talked deep into the night. Sometimes we fucked late into the next morning. Sometimes we just lay there, nestled together doing and saying nothing. That was often the best - feeling we belonged to each other, body and soul.
The days, as I said, were full of exercise, food, sun and surf. We would run on the beach in our thongs, uncaring of other’s glances and glares, subliminally getting off on the admiration, ignoring the disapproval. Always in step with each other - except when we would fool about and wrestle, collecting a big crowd of excited admirers, of all sexes. Then we’d push through them into the surf to rinse off the sand - emerging with our skimpy satin thongs revealing everything and more as we ran off home again.
Sometimes Dad would call us into his den to sign papers, have things explained, give us homework to do about the business. Neither of us were dunces and somehow we managed to take all that in our stride. But each time we signed something or had another serious lecture about business we sensed a growing excitement as if the Time was drawing near with increasing speed.
Finally, after about ten days of all that, it was here.
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