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Jeff & Mike
|Joe was surprisingly cool about the whole thing, which made me feel a lot better. He didn't tell Mom and Dad, for instance, and he promised not to tell any of the guys in my dorm when we got back to school after New Years. But he told me in no uncertain terms not to be bothering him all the time with my erections. "I don't fuckin' want you perving on me all the time, I got enough distractions with the LSATs coming up. Plus I've got a girlfriend now. And judging by the load you just shot, you're going to need an awful lot of regular servicing, before you graduate." Okay - but what am I supposed to do about it?
"Hell I don't know. Go make some friends in your dorm, get THEM to service your cock with muscle." Do you really think they would? "Who the fuck knows. They're probably as horny as you are." I told him I was afraid - like, I knew somehow, that the kids on my hall might not be cool with pulling off their shirts and flexing so I could cum on them.
"What if they beat me up?" He shook his head, like I was just retarded. "Mikey, Mikey, Mikey. Look at you. You're already fuckin' built for your age! Just like I was. WE - " he'd never used the royal "we" before, meaning me and him - "�we don't get our asses kicked. We do the kicking. Just remember that." Hearing my handsome, buffed-out, jock older brother telling me I was like him, made my heart race for some reason. He continued, idly throwing his arms over his head and turning toward the mirror to examine once more the tan, veiny, bulging contours of his own arms.
"Besides, I never met a dude who didn't like to flex his muscles, and didn't appreciate being looked at, if you ask the right way. Especially for another hot built dude like you're starting to be." My cock stirred again when I heard him say this. "Me and my frat brothers check each other out all the time, and we aren't even queer." He laughed.
"Personally, I dig anybody getting' off on my body, male, female, straight, queer, whatever. Why the fuck else do you think I work out like a dog and strut around campus with my shirt off every day?" He squared his massive shoulders into a tight T, rippling his abs like a muscle model on display, and laughed hard.
Wow - a guy like Joe, who could be such a mean fuck, and a cocky conceited asshole, would definitely not mind if a guy like me asked him to flex� As Joe leaves the room, he looks back at me and says, "By the way bro - if you want to use my weight set, start doing some real heavy lifting, it's in the basement. Knock yourself out." He even winked.
So with my brother's help with training and supplements, by the end of freshman year I had forced my body to get pretty much as muscled up as it could get, for an 19-year-old. I'd catch my roommate, who was on the lacrosse team, and a real asshole, staring at me. I read everything I could about lifting for definition, and about weight control�I was never fat, but my body tends to get big easily, and I found myself getting bulky. I didn't want to be bulky; I wanted to be ripped so I could hang out with the fuckin' studs I could see out my dorm window, throwing a Frisbee around the quad. I almost always finished each workout by getting naked and indulging in an hours-long edge-jacking session.
And I swear to God, the more I worked my cock, the bigger and fatter and more sensitive it grew, and the bigger my loads became. I was always careful to clean my spunk off the bed before my roommate came home, because one time I didn't - and he came back from practice, threw his sweaty jersey and steaming sneakers off, and plopped his big back on the sticky mess. Angry, he forced me to clean his sweaty back by licking my spunk off it, and then lick the bed clean too. Which, as you can probably imagine, was not quite the "punishment" he imagined it would be.
And my voice got lower - and fuller. Finally it got downright husky. Since high school, I've always had what I consider to be a sexy voice. With my slight Florida drawl and my growly and purring baritone, it suits my laid-back sexy intense artist thing to a T.
Anyway, this one day just before the end of term, I overhear a few of the jock studs saying they'll meet at this guy Chris's frathouse, near my dorm. Now, Chris was an acquaintance of mine from home, and a dude I've had a crush on for like, ever. He was cool and popular, and was eagerly sought by several different frats - finally he pledged the most exclusive one, with all the best-looking guys. But he had no idea I was queer, and also had no idea I'd been steadily adding mass during the past eight months. I figured "now or never." I put on some running shorts that made my thighs and calves look especially impressive. When I got near Chris's fraternity I stopped, pulled my sweat-soaked wife-beater off, and started stretching out my hams right on the green. I looked up and saw all these cute jocks staring at me from the porch, where they've got a rusty weight-bench set up. I got scared. I was going to turn around and run home when -- my cock spoke up. Thank God. It said "okay, faggot, you're here. Maybe they're not staring at you because you're queer, maybe they're staring at you because you're bigger and stronger than any of them! Maybe THEY'RE scared of you!" Yes sir, good ol' Mikey's cock, always there to guide me at life's vexing moments.
I took a deep breath and walked right up the steps, my quads all shuddering to hardness above my knee with each step, calves pumping. I nodded a friendly, but unsmiling, greeting to the astonished dudes, and said to Chris, who this fucking dreamy-eyed hairy black-Irish kid with this tight little bod, "Hey man - long time no see. Mind if I work in? I haven't worked chest all week. Spot me, Chris." And without any more ado, I plopped down on the bench, hoisted up the bar. It was light as shit.
"You fuckin' kidding? Put some goddamn weight on this thing!" "Uhhh�we were only warming up, Mike" Chris said, looking uncomfortably at his frat brothers. "Who IS this punk?" they must have been thinking.
"Well, I'm just warming up, too. But I need more than this to warm up, man." Nobody moved. "What - are you afraid a faggot can bench press more than you big jocks?" Looking back, I can hardly believe I said something like that! But I did.
Anyway, Chris, who was pretty cool, started loading plates onto the bar. I pumped out twelve good reps in strict form, clanged the bar back into place, crunched up to a sitting position, and wiped the sweat off my chest with my balled-up wife-beater. "Thanks, Chris�now you. Go for it." I offered him his own weight bench! "Uh�I don't think I can lift that much!" he says.
"Really? Oh, well, okay� we'll take some weight off the bar. But if you don't lift big, how are you punks ever gonna grow as big as me?" Ha HA! I was a fucking snide little freshman.
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