Jake's Torture Chair


I got home late from the city that evening. I rushed to pull ten chicken breasts out of the freezer, and put them in water to thaw. One of the agreements I had with Jake was that, because I was a freelance writer and had more free time during the day, I would do all the food prep. Jake worked long hours at his Lexus dealership, and went straight from there to the gym. When he got home, he was hungry. And he eats alot. At 6'6" and 320lbs, he was a goddam feeding machine. Already fifty pounds bigger than when he played pro football, he wanted to get even bigger as he trained for an upcoming powerlifting event. He didn't like to miss a feeding. When I heard his car pull in the drive, I started feeling chest pains of panic setting in. When Jake is hungry, he gets a little, let's say, testy. The chicken wasn't even half thawed. I decided that we'd have to go out to an all-you-can eat buffet. That always worked out well for him, if not the poor restaurant owner. Jake came in through the back door. Still in his gym gear, and all pumped up from lifting, he looked huge. His size nearly filled the whole room, and I was still stunned by the extra beef he had slabbed on over the past month. He tossed his gym bag into the corner and turned toward me. "Hey, babe," he said, "help me get outta this damned shirt." He had on one of those Inzer lifting shirts that clung to him like seal skin. I went over to him and grabbed the bottom of it and started rolling it up his torso. Underneath the shirt, his thick hair was matted and swirled with sweat. After ten hours of working and two hours of hard lifting, his smell was pungent. Nearly knocked me over. Especially his deep pits. He had to bend over at the waist so I could tug the shirt up over his massive back and over his head. Then I still had to roll the short sleeves over his ham-sized arms. I could feel the shirt ripping his arm hairs out as I went, and he grunted a little, but it was turning us both on. I finally got the shirt off him and he stood upright. His upper body, now freed of the restricting shirt, seemed to expand even fuller. He was a massive hairy beast. He rolled his enormous shoulders. "Jesus, Jake," I said, stunned by his growth. "Yeh," he replied, rolling his huge chest. "Benched 890 with these suckers tonight. For reps." "No you didn't," I said in amazement. He grabbed me and pulled me into those massive swollen pecs. "Oh yeh, I did, baby...and I outta rape your ass right here on the kitchen floor for questioning it." Just then, he noticed the chicken breasts floating in the sink. "What the fuck is that?" he said. "Well, it was supposed to be dinner, but what's say we go out tonight." "I don't want to go out, I'm tired and I'm hungry NOW," he growled. The whole room got darker as his mood changed. He held me out at arms' length and got in my face. "The one fucking thing I ask you to do.." he snarled in disgust. "Hey, you're hurting my shoulders. I got home late, dinner's not ready, buck up and deal with it!" Someday, I would have to learn not to mouth off to a hungry, 320lb ex-pro football player turned competitive powerlifter. Jake let go of my shoulders and put one meaty hand around my throat. He pushed me back up against the cabinets, pinning me hard. He slowly raised me up the cabinet, lifting my feet off the ground with one hand. "Jake," I choked out. He didn't speak. That was a bad sign. His eyes had glazed over with anger. He rolled his thick fingers up and down my neck, as if deciding how much strength it would take him to snap it. He lifted me away from the cabinet, then slammed me back into it so hard, the doors on the other cabinets bounced open. I kicked at him, but he didn't budge. Not an inch. I reached down and grabbed the kitchen mallet from the counter, the one I was going to use on the chicken breasts. I swung it at his head, but he grabbed my wrist with his free hand and squeezed. Pain seared through my arm and I dropped the mallet to the floor. "Jake...fuckk," I stammered out. His gripped tightened. Before he was able to pinch shut my esophagus, I yelled out "Jake....STOP." This was our safe word. Not very imaginative, but when we first hooked up, and both realized we liked to get a little rough now and then, we decided we needed a code word for when one of us...well, me....might feel like some real damage could be done. I couldn't see myself yelling out "kumquat" or "dradle" at such a time, so we settled on "stop". It seemed to work. Jake paused, and his grip loosened. The glare in his eyes faded, and his nostrils stopped flaring so much. He lowered me to the floor. "You alright?" he asked me, taking his hand from my throat and rubbing it across my face. "Oh, I'm just peachy, you fuck," I answered. rubbing my throat. "Hey, I'm sorry, Scott, but sometimes you just hit a nerve. How can I make it up?" "How about some goddam anger management classes, you big ox." "OK, babe, I could do that for you. But for tonight, how about hitting me back?" "What?" I asked. "Go ahead and hit me. Right here on the kisser," he said, sticking out his big chin and tapping it with his finger. "No," I said stubbornly. "Go ahead, I know you want to," he said, jutting his jaw out even more. Oh, I wanted to alright. I wanted to knock him clear across the room for choking me like that. So I did it. I swung at him hard, and connected smackdab in the middle of his thick jawbone. So hard that it turned his head to the side. "Feel better?" he asked, turning his head back slowly to look at me. Not a whole lot better, I thought to myself. He didn't seem to be in any pain at all, and my hand felt like I had hit a steel girder. So I hit him again. That one, at least, took him by surprise. This time, he rubbed his jaw as he turned back to me. "That make you happy, sugarplum?" he said. Goddam brute either didn't register pain like normal people, or he channelled it better. Or a combination of both. And it was pissing me off. And the 'sugarplum' thing, which, depending on the circumstances, could make me melt in his arms, was a little bit too condescending this time. So I braced my hands on the countertop behind me, and I kicked him in the balls. Hard. Jacked my leg up into his groin like I was kicking a game-winning 50-yard field goal at the end of the Super Bowl. A totally chicken-shit move, I know, but I did get some satisfaction from feeling my shin crush up against his big balls and piledrive them against his bulk. He made a whooshing Umph sound, and then the room got real quiet. His face turned dark red, and the vein stood out across his forehead and temple. I could see it pulsing. He leaned into me, pinning me against the counter with his consideable bulk, my face in his huge chest slab, rubbing against his bristly fur. "Payback is a bitch, boy," he whispered in my ear. As he leaned into me, I looked at the back of his neck, the skin all leathery and tough from years of sun exposure, and creased with thick hard muscle. I could cum just looking at that bullneck, soaking in its size and power, thinking of all the times he had plowed down 300+lb pro athletes using that neck for strength. He put his hand between my legs and cupped my crotch in his big palm. He lifted me up off the ground. "Time for the torture chair, sweet tart," he growled. He flipped me up onto his shoulder, and headed for the basement. The torture chair had evolved from Jake's football days, when they would haze a young rookie by strapping him to a chair, and taunt him in various sadistic ways without actual physical contact until the rookie either busted out of the straps or broke the chair apart trying. What Jake realized early on was that a lot of the rookies would sprout hardons during their torment, which just intensified the mockery they would have to endure from the older players. Jake liked the head trip and control aspects of it so much, that he had introduced it to me early on in our relationship. Once in the basement, Jake took me into his weightroom area, and dropped me into the chair. It was an old dining room chair he had gotten at a yard sale, made in a norwegean-style of heavy oak. Jake liked it because the arms and legs were so thick and sturdy. He strapped my wrists to those thick arms, and my ankles to the legs. I didn't resist him on this. I loved the torture chair. Yet, even if I begged for it, Jake would only use it when he felt the need. He thought overuse of it would spoil its effect, and he was probably right. Once he had me secured, he left the room. He did this just to drive me nuts. My heart was already pounding a mile a minute in anticipation. I never knew how long he would be gone, but tonight it didn't take him long. He came back in wearing his striped spandex lifting shorts, the kind that look like crap on most men, but on Jake looked heart-stopping because they highlighted the massive size of his thighs and squatbutt. When he walked up to me in the chair, his crotch was right at my eye level. He was ponderously huge up close. I could feel the heat coming off him. "Ok, smartass," he said to me, "you ready to see what I can do with all this muscle?" "Yes," I choked out, my throat already dry. He leaned down into me. Even his face looked brutal and strong. He got eye-to-eye with me, and stared at me hard. "You sure you can handle this?" he said. "God yes," I answered, although not really sure. "We'll see about that," he said. Then he stepped back and peeled down his spandex shorts, rolling them down over his 36" thunder thighs and past his 22" calves. When he stepped out of the shorts and stood upright, he was wearing only his jock. But not just any jock. The jock he had worn during his football days. That was yellowed and stained from age and sweat. That was threadbare in spots, and stretched to its limit by Jake's growth and pouch size. I wondered if Jake knew that sometimes I put that jock on and jerked off in it while he was at work. Something in his look told me he did. He adjusted himself in it, then snapped the waistband hard against his skin. "Get ready for some power," he said. He went over to the chin-up bar he had bolted to the beams of the basement ceiling. He grabbed the bar with one hand and started doing one-armed pull-ups. He had his back to me, and I could see the thick muscle rolling, his lat flaring, as he pulled himself up and down, slow and steady. He did ten reps, then switched to the other arm and did ten more, counting out loud with each rep. He dropped down and shook out his arms. "Ahhh," he said, "nice warm-up." I know my cock was warmed up. So was his. He turned to the wall that was all mirror, and, standing sideways, flexed out his lats. "Oh yeh," he grunted, "looking huge." He picked up an old leather weight belt, one with a chain attached to it. The chain was looped through three 100lb olympic plates. He walked back over to the chin-up bar with the weights swinging between his legs. He put one hand to the far left of the bar, the other hand to the far right, and started doing wide-grip pull-ups. His back muscle bunched and rolled. His upper lats jutted out like triangle shaped wings. He grunted out 25 reps, then dropped down with a thud. He turned to the mirror and spread out his back, the weights still hanging between his legs, the back of the belt digging into his massive powerlifter glute shelf. His pumped up back grew wider and wider. Dying to touch myself, I squirmed in the chair, trying to rub my cock against my clothes. "Yeh, you like all this size?" he said. "I know you do. How about I show you how strong I am?" He undid the weightbelt and let it the weights crash to the floor. He walked back over to the chin-up bar and grabbed it with one hand. He tightened his grip, his forearm muscles looking sinewy and fibrous as ship rope. His fingers were denting the bar. With one quick jerk, he yanked the bar right out of the beams. Plaster dust fell from the ceiling, dusting his huge shoulders like talc. He walked over to me and held the bar out in front of him with two hands. "Look at this," he said. He started applying pressure to the bar, and the ends began to bend downward. His gorilla chest piled up high as he bore down on the bar. The veins on his forearms bulged and throbbed, snaking up his huge straining arms and into his shoulders. "Fuckk," I groaned. "Don't you cum. Don't you fucking cum," he grunted at me. I shut my eyes so I wouldn't see his enormous iron-bending muscle crushing the ends together. He put the bar next to my ear, so I would hear it bending. I shut my eyes harder, trying to keep out the sound, but then I could hear him tapping the ends of the bar together as they were forced to meet under the strain of his superhuman strength. I opened my eyes when I heard the clang from the twisted iron bar being tossed across the room. Jake put his hands on my forearms and leaned into me until his huge chest was only and inch from my nose. His pecs were pumped up like two overinflated beachballs. He began to bounce them. "fuckk," I groaned. He bounced them, over and over and over. It was mesmerizing, watching the heavy muscle heaving up and down, watching his control over his size. My arms tried over and over to reach up and touch. The thick crevice between his pecs had to be four inches deep. I strained to stick my face in there, but he inched back just enough so that my nose only brushed his chest hair, through which, thick as it was, I could still see the striations in his bulked up pectorals. The smell of his musky sweat was intoxicating. Jake reached down and undid my zipper. My cock jumped out, free at last, but as crazed as I was for release. "You owe me dinner," said Jake. Then he grabbed the seat of the chair and lifted me up. He walked over to the wall and pinned the chair against it. I looked at his enormous delts as they held me there, all dusted with plaster, the indented center blooming out with marble-hard muscle. I groaned again. "Not yet, buddy," he said. "I'm gonna suck you off so hard, your toes are gonna pop into your feet. You're gonna feed me every drop of juice you got in you. And when you do, I'm gonna grow. You think I'm big now? Just wait. I'm gonna get bigger and stronger than anything you ever dreamed of." Then he went down on me. It didn't take long. He'd only been working me a little bit when his big hands cracked the seat of the chair underneath me. I felt the thick oak give to his strength, cede to his mighty power, and then so did I. I flooded into him, just like he said, from my toes on up. His suction power was as strong as the rest of him. He drained me of every drop of protein I had in me. But I knew that wasn't going to be enough. We ended up going to the buffet after all. I watched as Jake shovelled it in. I swear I could see him growing. •

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