Muscle Bound

Christian Falconer felt nervous and jittery as he entered the sports pavilion. Surrounded by a swarm of other competitive bodybuilders, he walked to the front of the auditorium to register and weigh in. After paying his contest entry fee, he went backstage to the “Pump-up Room” to prepare.

By the time he finished awkwardly applying a fourth and final coat of his Pro-Tan, Tom Ketty, a handsome, older, competitive bodybuilder stretching and pumping up next to him with fifteen pound dumbbells, suggested he and Christian assist one another in finishing getting tinted. “I’ve competed long enough to know it takes two to get a whole body fully-bronzed.”

“Sure does,” Christian agreed with the mature bodybuilder. “Some places are harder to reach than others.”

“I’ve learned that the hard way,” Tom mused, as he placed his dumbbells on the floor. He was entered in the Master’s Division, reserved for men over forty. “My best friend was supposed to help me out, but he came down with the flu.”

Ketty then turned around so Christian could do the same paint job on him.

In short time, both men’s skins were dyed several shades darker. Not unlike the other competitors changing skin tones, they contrived to reflect a ridiculously unnatural shade until they slouched toward a shade of mahogany. Their darkened hues made them seem better suited for a politically-incorrect minstrel show than any beauty contest.

Once sufficiently deeply tinted, Christian and the older bodybuilder slowly pumped up side by side. The windows in the huge facility were flung wide open, and a gentle, warm wind bathed the crowded room in a welcome promise of the summer to come. By the time Christian and Tom were ready to go out onstage to perform their posing routines, they were pumped and jacked, the pair of them raring to strut their stuff and show off the fruits of their labors.

That afternoon in Westport, both Christian and his new Muscle buddy fared extremely well. Christian scored a solid victory when he won First Place in the Teen Division, while Tom, in a far more competitive category, placed Third among the Master’s.

Backstage, after the presentation of their cumbersome trophies, Tom congratulated Christian with a strong, brotherly hug. They each then collected their change of clothes, and left the auditorium at the same time.

“Well, Christian, if you ask me,” Tom suggested as they headed toward the parking lot, “I think our mutual success today calls for some kind of celebration.”

“Sounds good to me,” Christian told him. “What’d you have in mind?”

“Well, I’ve been diligent about my food intake for at least the last eleven weeks,” Tom decreed. “Haven’t taken so much as a nibble off the ridge of a potato chip. You think maybe it’s time we broke training!”

Christian smiled his cautious agreement, even though he had no idea what Tom had in mind.

“Hey!” Tom stopped in front of his dilapidated Plymouth and hit the top of his forehead like he’d been struck with inspiration. “My place is just a few minutes from here. So why don’t you just follow me? I laid in a six-pack of Miller’s. I figured if I competed well, I’d want to celebrate. If not, I’d want to drown my sorrow. Either way, I was prepared.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” asked Christian. “Lead the way!”

Tom’s cramped bachelor pad sat in a huge complex on the border of the small Connecticut community. The forty-one year old and the nineteen year old settled in as they chatted innocuously about the contest and about Tom’s humdrum, nine-to-five job as a loan officer at a local bank.

Christian was amazed how much chummier and chattier he and Tom became after they each polished off a few bottles of Miller’s. In training most of the time, the nineteen-year-old was not yet accustomed to the effects of alcohol. Most boys his age had by then at least gone through the sophomoric ritual of binge drinking. But Christian could only lay claim to having shared an occasional six pack or keg with some of his teammates in their homes, when their parents were out of town.

Tom’s unpretentious hospitality, along with the intoxicating brews, helped Christian unwind, and they both soon discovered they shared a ravenous enthusiasm for bodybuilding, as well as a common thirst for getting into ever better shape. Before you knew it, they both stood tall before Tom’s full-length mirror, shirtless, performing for their mutual reflections, improvised encore renditions of their respective posing routines.

The Master’s competitor offered Christian several helpful pointers regarding his posing technique, and complimented him on every part of his beautifully developing body. He was also quick to point out with a forced chuckle, “...And just so you know…I’m not gay or anything. I love girls, I mean, especially women. Older, in-shape women drive me nuts. Hey, can we ever get enough pussy?

“Never!” Christian agreed wholeheartedly as, in unison, they each struck their impressive Most Muscular poses for the mirror. By that point in their flexathon, Christian was more distracted by Tom’s powerful presence than any conviction his host was espousing in justifying his sexual predilection.

“But on the other hand…” Tom chuckled again, mid flex, “maybe it’s also important sometimes to…you know…expand our horizons. We both know you don’t have to be a homo to appreciate how great another well-built guy looks. Besides, man does not live by breasts alone!”

“That’s probably true,” Christian half-heartedly concurred with a playful bouncing of his big pecs.

The sight of this young, naive bodybuilder showing off with such a lack of inhibition, got Tom so whipped up, he quickly dropped the subject of his vaulted heterosexuality and instead just dropped to his knees. With no further rumination, Tom speedily untied Christian’s workout pants, pulled out the big boy’s stiff pecker, and wrapped his mouth around it.

Flustered by this not so surprising turn of events, Christian was all set to protest, to forcefully push Tom off and back away. However, the alien ecstatic sensation emanating from just below his waist felt so damn electrifying, he decided for the time being to postpone any protest.

In the middle of all his dizzying oral activity, Tom freed his mouth from the teenager’s fully extended manhood long enough to mention that what they were doing, how they were fooling around, was strictly a mano a mano diversion, and was in no way related to anything so perverse as same sex attraction. “We’re just letting off some much-needed steam after all that intense training,” Tom assured him.

Their sublime intimacy, such as it was, was abruptly aborted soon enough, anyway, when Christian, still elated by his contest victory, and by then reasonably disoriented by his intake of beer, erupted prematurely and shot a copious load of late-adolescent sperm directly into Tom’s mouth. The Third Place Master’s winner gurgled euphorically while slurping down every last drop of the First Place Teen’s bodily essence.

Oddly enough, post-sloppy orgasm, Tom’s teeny apartment suddenly seemed so much seedier than before; and Christian felt inexplicably both soiled and claustrophobic. A wave of punishing guilt washed over him, swiftly deflating what until then had been the euphoria of his victory.

The big boy excused himself, quickly washed up in the bathroom sink, slipped back into his tight T-shirt and workout pants, thanked his new Muscle buddy for a real unusual experience, then bolted from Tom’s den of iniquity in what between orgasm and departure went from zero to sixty in record time.