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New Tanner, The
|(Author's note: Just so you know, this was a "free flow" story. I had no intention of anything when I set pen to paper, I just wrote off the top of my head. Now, in truth, I did put it through a second draft, but the changes were minor. I upped the narrator's weight class, for example. Nothing major. Enjoy this for what it is and let me know what you think. It's got some interesting potential, I think.)|
|There was something in the New Tanner – it didn’t take us long to figure that out. Whether some chemical or potion or combination of the two, we didn’t know. Use the internet, buy bulk from overseas, live with what you get – it’s the gamble.
I ended up with a big huge crate of this shit, some hundred bottles, so I was hoping for the best. I was competing that weekend in my first NPC event as a Light-Heavy. Thirty-five years old and it was gonna be my first time onstage – finally, I was gonna be a REAL bodybuilder, a competitive bodybuilder.
My training partner and coach was my buddy, Andre. I’ve known him about five years, I guess, from the gym. A veteran of several bodybuilding competitions himself, it was Andre who talked me into entering the regionals here. Training, cycling, dieting, posing, Andre’s been there for me the whole way. He’s a brother.
Like me, he goes through women like water, working them only so long as it takes to fuck them. We’ve spent many a happy hour trolling for pussy in those dark wood and brass rail yuppie bars, dressed in tight shirts to show our abs, our clean shaven bodies, manicured, plucked and processed, gold chains around our necks and wrists. We almost always get lucky – compared to the losers and old men in competition, we look that much better.
And chicks dig muscles, no matter what they say. I mean, ultimately, they’ll call you vain, eventually they’ll bitch about the time you spend in front of a mirror, usually there’s a scene when they find your hidden “supplement” box in the closet, but the first time you fuck, she WILL get off on your abs. Count on it.
Andre understands. He’s got the same obsession with his physique as I do with mine. We both know that to succeed – especially in bodybuilding – obsession is what it takes. He’s got a competition of his own in two weeks, so we’ve been able to keep each other on-track during the cutting phase.
Since this was my first, I was lucky to have Andre there for me, so I didn’t look like a fuckin’ goof. We were in this old theatre and using this big, mirrored, rehearsal room for contest-prep. Andre spread an old bed-sheet in the corner, taking advantage of mirror-space on two sides, staking our territory. We dropped our big gym bags on the far corners and shucked our sweatshirts. Andre wore a black Under Armor sleeveless tee, displaying his own chiseled physique. A thick gold chain hung down over his upper pecs. He wanted anyone who looked at him to know that HE could’ve be competing here as well. He was not to be ignored.
I stripped out of my t-shirt, too, exposing my lilly-white, fresh-shaved torso to the room. There were a couple of other guys here, not many yet. One of the big heavy-weights was in the far corner opposite us – his hot-as-fuck girlfriend oiling him up. Fuckin’ HUGE – made me glad I was a class down, a light-heavy. I might win my class, but I’d never beat a gargantuan like that in the Overall.
“She’s fuckin’ SMOKIN’!” Andre half-whispered to me as he followed my gaze, so the big guy wouldn’t overhear us. “Think those are real?”
“Who fuckin’ CARES?” I asked, turning around. “Long as she let me tittie-fuck ‘em.”
“I hate them hard ones,” he said, kneeling down and pulling his stuff out of his bag, his “tools” – sponges, cloths, oils, the new tanner I’d just gotten. “Oh, shit! I forgot my fuckin’ gloves.”
“Your what?” I asked, flexing in the mirror. I looked good – I was definitely gonna place, though Andre didn’t want me to be disappointed if I didn’t win my first contest – placing was a good-enough goal. The lighting in here was terrible – general fluorescent, not the dramatic overhead lighting you get onstage, set-up to make your muscles look better. Maybe it was best if I didn’t look – I might psyche myself out before I got to the stage. It didn’t help that I was tanless. “What are you talking about?”
”My fuckin’ rubber gloves!” he said, reaching for the bottle of tanner. “Now I’m gonna get this shit all over my hands and I’ll be fuckin’ orange for three days. I knew I forgot somethin’, too! Damn it!”
I laughed. “Mr. Experienced…”
He snorted. “Shut the fuck up and stand here. Let’s get this over with.” He examined the bottle. “What’s this shit? The bottle ain’t even in English.”
“New tanner,” I said, continuing to flex while he opened the bottle and squeezed some liquid-gel onto the sponge – sniffed it. “I got a case of it from online someplace – someplace overseas – AMAZING price!”
“Shouldn’t try out new tanners on the day of a competition, Eddie,” he said, running the sponge down my back. It felt warm. He grunted, and ran a few more.
“I take that back. This stuff goes on pretty smooth, rich color. Nice. I don’t think it’s gonna turn you orange.” He squeezed a little more onto his sponge and continued painting my lats. “Yeah, if this stuff dries as nice as it goes on, you got a winner! Lower your pants down on your hips.”
He spread it on my lower back, gently pushing my torso forward while he did it, to stretch the area and paint evenly. Going down as low as the top of my ass, he said again, “Yeah, this stuff goes on nice. It like, darkens in the separations and automatically highlights the peaks. Your back looks fuckin’ AMAZING!”
“I wanna see,” I said. “Where’s that hand mirror?”
“In the bag there,” he said, indicating it with his head. “You grab it – I got this shit all over my hands.”
It was a big hand mirror, like they had in the barber shop so you can check the back of your head in the wall mirror. I did the same thing, turning around so my back faced the wall mirror and I faced the room.
Andre was right. He’d painted from the top of my ass to the bottom of my lats and I looked fucking incredible! I could see every cut and every fiber and every bit of separation, even with the bad light. The deep brown in the crevices stood against the warm golden highlights at the peaks. Look at the Christmas tree in my lower back – it’s NEVER been that pronounced. Damn, that new tanner really brought out my best.
More, the stuff tingled – I swear, where he painted, I felt like I had this incredible pump in the muscles, like I’d just did a back workout.
I started to feel as good as I freakin’ looked!
He painted my front torso next, running the sponge over my broad pectorals and my tight, rock-solid abs. Over the past couple months, Andre and I had become ab-freaks, working them almost any spare moment we had. Now THAT bordered on obsession, but it sure as hell was paying off now. As Andre ran the sponge over the brick-like ridges of my abdominals, the color soaked into the skin and the deep brown ridges between the abs deepened even as we watched, even as I flexed in the mirror. Because of the tanner, my abs were even better.
I started to get a hard-on. I couldn’t help it. Even as he had me raise my arms, even as he painted the separations in my serrats, the underside of my pecs, the front of my lats, my armpits, I could feel the tingle, the pump, see the noticeable improvement. I couldn’t help but get hard. My dick snaked its way along the ridge of my posers – fortunately, I was still wearing my sweat pants, so it wasn’t obvious.
Andre painted my shoulders, and then down my arms – we watched the veins swell and appear, flowing down my bis and breaking into tributaries through my forearms. I was swollen and thick… and pumped! I flexed my arms as he painted them, holding me at the wrist and running his sponge down the inside of my biceps, over my forearm. For a brief second we made eye contact.
“Legs,” he mumbled, like he was in a trance. “We have to do your legs.”
While I pulled off my sweats, standing in my flip-flops, and pulled the seat of my trunks in so they gathered in the crack of my ass, so Andre could paint my glutes, Andre hit my traps and neck, dabbing the tanner like butter on fresh-baked bread loaves. My traps were so round and high – I did a “Most Muscular” into the mirror. No hiding my chubby now.
Andre noticed it, but didn’t say anything – a true friend. He knew there was nothing wrong with getting off on yourself – isn’t that what we’ve trained this long for? He probably does the same thing at home in front of his bathroom mirror as I do in front of mine. He probably jerks off to his own reflection just as much as I do.
Besides, this tanner has made me look fuckin’ better than normal! It didn’t just make me look bigger, it made me FEEL bigger, too. I was buzzin’ on myself – I was feelin’ cocky and relaxed, confident and proud. I was fuckin’ cock of the walk. I’d never felt like this before. Andre was usually the cocky one, the leader of the two of us, the Alpha – but I liked it. I liked it a lot.
Other guys were coming into the room and setting up around us, but I swear to God, I hardly even noticed them, I was so caught up in Andre painting me. As he knelt before me and ran the sponge down my legs, over the sweep of my quads, over my thick, striated hamstrings, I felt like he was worshipping me. I felt like he was a common mortal kneeling at the feet of his muscle-god. I was getting off on the idea.
As he painted my inner thighs, I spread my legs and moved my package out of his way with my clean hands, so the posers wouldn’t get stained. His hands were a mess, like they’d been coated in chocolate brown, but it was hard to miss the veins shooting up his bloated forearms, the clear and obvious pump in his biceps.
He looked up in my eyes as he ran the sponge over the inside of my leg. I swear, in his gaze I saw this weird mix of adoration and – this is gonna sound weird – this kind of… lust almost, like he was… you know… INTO me. Sexually.
Weirder still, I was into him being into me.
He took his time painting around my package, underneath my legs as I squatted before him and then over the halves of my muscular ass. What the tanner had done for my upper body, it doubled for my legs. Every ounce of ripped, corded muscle was magnified by the gel that Andre spread over them., every vein swollen and pumping. It was impossible NOT to flex – impossible not to stare at myself in the mirror.
My hard-on intensified, stretching the posers but still contained by the spandex pouch – not that I really cared. Hell, as good as I looked, I wanted my competitors to get a load of what they were up against. I would’ve glanced around the room to see them for myself, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away from my reflection. I looked fuckin’ unbelievable, even in this crappy light. Wait’ll I get onstage!
Andre abandoned the sponge, tossing it into a plastic bag with a quick motion, and began spreading the oil with his brown-stained hands, bringing us into direct contact.
His hands were warm and confident, slipping across my swollen muscle – there was a certain… reverence in his touch. “You look fuckin’ incredible,” he murmured, smoothing the oil into my skin. “So fuckin’ big… so fuckin’… MANLY. A… muscle-god.” He dropped to his knees again, running his hands over my cobblestone eight-pack, then reached around and took my glutes in his hands.
And then, just kneeling there touching me, Andre’s eyes rolled up into his head and he fuckin’ CAME – I swear to God, fuckin’ shot a load in his pants right there in front of me, moaning a little and slightly bucking his hips.
But here’s the thing – it totally didn’t bother me, or even strike me as odd. As a matter of fact, as good as I looked, as good as I felt, I wasn’t even surprised by it. The way I felt, when I got out onstage, I expected it would happen to quite a few people in the audience, too.
Suddenly, I wanted to feel that power.
Yeah, Andre’s worship had empowered me – I wanted more. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, keeping his head bowed, but looking up at me. “I couldn’t help it.” He sighed heavily. “You look so good. I just want to touch you. I can’t help myself.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I said, breaking contact with the mirror just long enough to look in his eyes. “Looking like I do, it’s surprising more people haven’t started spontaneously ejaculating.” I smirked. “Wait’ll I get onstage.”
“Eddie, I think maybe there’s something in that tanning gel.”
“You think?” Focus back to flexing in the mirror. I was bigger than my biggest pump – and this tan made me look so much better. No, scratch that. This tan was MAKING me better – I didn’t just LOOK bigger. I WAS bigger. And pumping up even more.
“Yeah,” said Andre, distracted by my posing. “Just from the little bit I got on me… on my hands… I feel… funny. Different. And you… you’re coated in the stuff. You must feel…”
“Little man, I feel fuckin’ GREAT! Don’t I LOOK fuckin’ great?”
There was no denying that. Even Andre was starting to get hard again – he had to adjust himself, leaving a brown stain on the front of his sweatpants. Not that he much cared – all that mattered to him now was MY perfection. “Better than great,” he said. “Perfection.”
Apparently, the judges agreed with him – I was the clear winner from just the compulsories. Even IF any of the other light-heavies had come close to me in build, none of them had my charisma, my stage presence. When I went onstage, the audience was enraptured by me. Whatever the tanner had done to me, it put whoever looked at me in the same spell.
I was aware of it backstage, standing around with the other guys as we waited for the pee-wees and the middleweights to go. Everybody was checking everybody else out, though everybody was pretending they weren’t. When they’d look at me – and they almost couldn’t help but look at me – they’d invariably have to reach down and adjust themselves in their posers. Gay or straight, they couldn’t help but be attracted to me – hell, Andre was a straight as they came, and he was helplessly in my power – I looked THAT good. This tanner made me look that good.
The one heavyweight I remember from the prep room, the one with the hot fuckin’ girlfriend with the super-huge titties, was staring at me from across the backstage area, just staring and playing with himself through the thin material of his posers. His tan was uneven, poorly painted – he could use an Andre instead of a girlfriend. Someone to worship him and paint him right. Instead, he just stared and diddled.
He had me by nearly forty pounds of muscle, but his meat was blocky, not sculpted. Aesthetically, I was by far his superior, but the fans always went for the freaks. I would have a hard time beating him if we both got to the Overall.
But once out onstage, I had to reassess.
The audience was riveted to me – I could FEEL the energy, the eyes upon me. They were mine from the moment they saw me. They cheered through the compulsories – especially the front thigh/ ab pose, which displayed my rack and led the eye right to my half-hard cock, jutting out before me – but when I did my solo routine, they too fell under my spell.
I could feel it – I’d conquered them. Any of them, all of them, man or woman, ripe for plucking. I could fuck any of them if I chose, my helpless slaves. That’s how they cheered for me as I flexed before them, as I teased them, as I became the object of their desire. That was the energy I felt.
And there was Andre, standing near the back of the house. Though they made a lot of noise, the audience was only half-full at this local event. Just the wives and girlfriends and gym buddies of the competitors. The “big” event was in two weeks – the State competition that Andre had qualified for – hell, that I would qualify for if I won the Overall today. And looking like I do, I just might at that. (Wouldn’t that suck for Andre if I qualified for States and we had to compete against each other? LOL, maybe I wouldn’t let him use my new tanner.)
But there was Andre, toward the back of the house, watching me with that look of adoration that had been there since he’d orgasmed at my feet. With one brown-stained hand, he played with himself through his pants while I performed my routine.
He wasn’t alone. Every man I could see was touching themselves in a similar manner. Some of them were trying to be subtle, many weren’t. They weren’t looking at each other – they were too enamored with me. And though I’d always considered myself straight, it was the masculine energy that was empowering me. That the women were getting off on me was fine, but unimportant. I wanted to submit the MEN – I wanted THEM to worship me.
And then my music was over and my time was up. To their continuing cheers, I hit a couple of extra poses – ending with a “Most Muscular” to their roar (and most probably orgasms, too.) I strutted off stage like a man who’d just given his lover the most incredible sex of their lives. At that moment, I was unbeatable.
The heavyweights made their way on stage as I exited. I made eye-contact with the big brute who’d been staring at me and watched his confidence-level immediately drop. As he passed me, he involuntarily touched his package.
Andre met me backstage while the heavyweights began their compulsories. “That was the most fuckin’ amazing thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said, slapping hands with me. “You had them wrapped around your fuckin’ finger!”
“It’s all in the attitude, Andre. I feel like a winner, today.”
“Let’s get out to the hallway,” he whispered in my ear as we watched the heavies getting called out. “I wanna do some touch-ups on you.”
I snorted, looking at him. “I bet you do. You just wanna get your hands on me.”
He looked over and made eye contact. “I wanna make you look even better.”
I turned and led the way. “Let’s see if that’s possible,” I said.
We had plenty of time, as it turned out. In the time it took them to cycle through the heavyweights, Andre’d had the chance to complete a second coat. He took his time massaging in the finishing oil, running his strong hands slowly and carefully over my body.
“You got a hard-on,” I said quietly, looking down at it, obvious beneath the brown stain on the front of his sweatpants where he’d been touching himself.
“It’s from touching you,” he said, his hands cupping my pecs. “I can’t stop touching you.”
My own cock remained half-hard in my posers, on proud display. Though I briefly thought about giving in to it, I knew I still had a contest to win. Instead, I casually reached out and held his, causing Andre to sharply inhale, a stuttered breath. “And I like the effect I have on you,” I said.
“Don’t, man,” he said, unable to back away. “You’re gonna make me cum again.”
I chuckled, massing his dick. “But I like making my big straight buddy cum. I’m getting off on his worship.”
And so I stopped. I figured, it was enough that he knew I COULD make him cum. We both knew who was in charge, now.
And then we were called back onstage, where they announced the winners.
I hadn’t seen myself since the second coat of tanner, but by the way I felt, and the audience’s reaction to my re-entrance, I couldn’t be better. I had this audience by their collective cock and I could make them cum as easily as Andre. They were completely in my power.
As they should be.
I was pumped beyond pumped, swollen beyond my normal dimension. I knew I’d won my division even before they’d announced third place. Still, when they called my name and handed me that trophy, I threw my arms up in the air, and the crowd went wild, chanting my name.
No surprise either that the big dude with the hot girlfriend won the heavyweight class. What a prick. He didn’t even act grateful – at least I acted surprised. No, he strutted over and got his trophy and then shot me a look loaded with such attitude that I wanted to bring him down right there.
Yeah, buddy, act cocky out here on stage – who was playing with himself looking at who back there?
So we, the winners of each class, were called out for a posedown to win the Overall title.
Everybody knew what it was about – though the little guys put up a nice show, they knew – it was about me versus that big goon heavyweight with the bad paint job. Traditionally, the big man won the Overall, and though this guy had the mass, he wasn’t much of a poser – he twitched as he flexed.
Meanwhile, I echoed every pose he hit, smoothly flexing my razor perfect muscle. The crowd screamed, which angered the guy, and he’d hit another pose, wait till I did it, then check me out with the audience, showing his rage and his envy.
We ended up facing each other, growling in each other’s face as we did “Most Musculars,” forcing our traps up. The audience loved it! “It’s MINE,” I roared, driving the point home by flexing my arms.
He shook, and twitched, his dick stole the blood he’d needed for his pump. “No…” he barked, losing the pose, deflating in his defeat. “No…”
And that was it – they called it. I won. I took both my class AND the Overall. I’d qualified for States against Andre in two weeks.
Yeah, the way I felt now, I’d fuckin’ take that, too.
Before I went to get the trophy, I hugged the heavyweight. Contact overwhelmed him, and I felt him orgasm in my embrace, grunting in my ear and hips twitching like they did when he posed. He was lucky he was wearing his black trunks so the stain wouldn’t show. Defeat and humiliation, I thought. Nice combo.
After receiving my trophies and almost endless posing for the photographers, they allowed me to shower in one of the dressing rooms before heading to the reception and dinner.
It was the first time I’d seen myself in a mirror since getting the second coat of the new tanner, and I was busy posing when Andre let himself into the room with the rest of our stuff packed up. I glanced over at him, but quickly went back to admiring my reflection.
“Yeah,” he said. “Look at you! Not just your class, but the Overall! YES!!”
We slapped hands, then hugged each other the way straight boys do, our hands clasped and the other arm quickly around the shoulders, our hips apart.
But then, we came in contact and the tone of the hug changed. That same look of admiration and lust came into his eyes, that irresistible urge he felt to worship me, that power I had over him. Our hug became intimate, as he pressed his body completely against mine. I could feel his erection as he pressed his lips against my neck and gently kissed me.
He worked his way down my body, sinking to his knees. Gingerly, he pulled my posers down over my muscular thighs and inhaled deeply when he saw my hard dick exposed before him.
He had a bottle of the tanner in his pocket, and he squirted a little on his hand, using it as lube while he masturbated me, fondling my balls until they were the same rich brown as my skin. And then he leaned forward and took my cock in his mouth, looking me in the eye, lost in his lust.
His face was stained with tanner like his hands, but he didn’t care. Right then, Andre cared about nothing buy my pleasure. He was worshipping his muscle god. And that was me.
I watched him suck me in the mirror, so I could continue to flex for myself while I steadied one hand on the back of his head. He sucked me and jacked me – for a fuckin’ straight guy, he blew like a whore. Fuckin’ awesome – just what I deserved!
And when I came, when I shot the load I’d been holding back all day, my buddy Andre swallowed every freakin’ drop. He lapped it down like ambrosia – and I guess for him, it was. Stained now with the new tanner, my cock served up the best cum a guy could want, my colored balls churned up more.
“That was fuckin’ awesome,” I said as he licked me clean.
“No more than you deserve,” Andre said, looking up at me, gently stroking my cock as he licked his lips. “You won it all. You even beat that big monster. THAT was fuckin’ awesome!”
I laughed. “I fuckin’ made him cum when I hugged him afterward.”
“I know,” he said, snorting. “Hell, the whole audience knew. I think everybody came with him then, in their heads. It was fuckin’ wild. I’ve never seen anything like that at a bodybuilding competition before. Whatever’s in this tanner has made you unstoppable. Hell, I can’t even resist you!”
I laughed – and flexed quick, popping the halves of my chest back and forth. “Well then,” I said, tossing my posers into his gym bag and walking to the shower, “let’s get cleaned up and get to this reception. Maybe we can sell photo-spread or something.”
“Can… can I wash you?”
I chuckled and pulled him in for a kiss. Breaking it, I said, “I expect it.”
After he washed me, he touched up my tan – it held fairly well through the shower. The stain from the blowjob still marked his face. “I don’t care if people see,” he said. “I want them to know I worship you.”
“You can worship me as much as you want,” I said, “but how about you do it with a tan of your own?”
Not surprisingly, it was a VERY different Andre who stepped off the elevator into the reception. Dark and brown and thickly muscled, it was an Andre on par with ME. With just a few coats of paint and a few blow jobs, Andre and I were equals again.
Dressed as the muscle gods we were, we invaded the reception and recruited followers. No one could resist us, especially after they touched us – and almost everybody wanted to touch us.
It would be interesting to see who won States, now. I looked forward to the competition. After all, I had the whole rest of the case of tanner to use – he only had what I gave him.
We’ll see who looks better.
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