Bodybuilder Catches You Staring

It's summer on the London Underground, and it feels like there is no air left in the train cabin. There is also no space. Part of that is my fault. I am visibly taking up two seats. But I'm not rude, I'm just physically huge.

Each of my thighs, barely held in by 4XL denim shorts, takes up an entire seat. The sweaty meat of each quadricep, spreading as thighs do when sitting down, strains against the thick denim of the shorts. Trickles of sweat are threading between my coarse, dark leg hair, wetting the edges of the shorts. You are watching a droplet now, work its way down the inside of my thigh, fall and lightly splash on the train seat. I am watching you watching, though you haven't realized it yet.

I take a deep breath, though it feels like there isn't enough air in this entire train for me. The breath lifts my thick, muscled chest into the air, pulling my back up straight and making me, for a second, even larger. Everyone else plays the game that you're supposed to play: sneaking quick glances at the muscled giant, trying to figure out if I am 7 foot or 8 foot, pretending they were looking at the advert behind me. When my chest inflates, their interest increases in the advert. Predictably. You are still looking at little beads of sweat spring from the dark twists of hair poking from my too-tight shorts. I catch you licking your lips.

I'll play a different game with you.

I drop my hand to my crotch, feel the slight damp of my own sweat. Looking elsewhere, I idly thumb my package, rubbing a thick, calloused thumb over my bulge, tracing its contours. I keep rubbing, very slowly, for about half a minute. Just enough so that my cock starts thickening. The strain on my shorts gets more intense, and anyone looking can now see a drumbeat pulse at my crotch. My thighs feel like they are beating too, swollen with blood from a tough workout, desperately wanting to be free of the choking denim.

You're still watching. As my finger glides over the swelling in my pants, I see something similar happen to you. Similar, but not at all the same. A small lump appears in the front of your pants, that you easily hide with your hands. I'm a mountain next to your molehole. I drop my massive, barbell-hardened hand over the mound of my bulge, just to show you how little it covers.

Some passengers have noticed how you haven't played the game and looked elsewhere. The carriage is feeling even hotter. Everyone gets a little bit worse at the game, except for me. I look out the window, or check my phone. I pretend I don't notice the python shaped bulge push its way down the leg of my shorts, parting the denim as it goes. I pretend I don't notice that you let out a small moan when you realise, after 20 seconds of this progress, that I'm still not fully hard.

Time to finish up.

Still looking out the window, I lift my waistband slightly to let my hand in. Like every other guy on a train in 35 degree weather, I adjust ,my package, lifting the sweaty, heaving ballsack from where it was stuck to the thick muscle of my thigh, and pulling the obscene bulge up, tucking it into my waistband. For less than a second, I let you glimpse my cockhead—shiny, pink and monstrously big—before I cover it again with my shorts.

You moan. No, more of a whimper—like a cornered animal. And you finally look up.

What you see is this: I am sitting forward, staring you directly in the eye. My tank top has slipped slightly, and a thick pink nipple, setting on a chorded dome of muscle, is visible. My hands are clasped together, causing my biceps to slightly strain and push against the passengers next to me, who are busy pretending that don't notice the iron pressure exerted by flexed, 40 inch biceps.

"Get off, now."

That's me again.

Another chorus of passengers pretending not to notice whatever is happening.

I think you are paralysed, because you don't nod or speak or, in any way, acknowledge what I've said. But when the speaker announces the next stop, you get up.

I get up too, and the carriage plays a queer game of lego, trying to make space for the obscene hugeness of my body to pass by. You walk in front of me, looking ridiculous in comparison to me. You feel smaller than you've ever felt.

You press through the crowd of passengers trying to enter. When they see me, they all back away to make space. I duck down to get through the door. My crotch is mostly at face height for the entering passengers. When I pass, anyone with eyes can see the huge swelling of my bulge, can smell the mixture of sweat, sticky precum and testosterone.

Once I am out of the train, I put a hand on your shoulder and squeeze my thumb into the untrained muscle of your back. I can tell, from the way the muscle stiffens, that you're in pain. But you don't make a sound. And that's when I think that this could be more interesting than I realized.