Bodybuilder Catches You Staring Ch. 02

The sweaty crowds heaving through the tube station pressed their two very different bodies together. When this happened, Mark was harshly reminded of the reality of the situation. This reminder came in the shape of barely-constrained, python-sized cock that pressed painfully into his upper back. The gaze of anyone looking would only take in the muscle-bound Adonis around which the crowd parted. Anyone taking a closer look would notice the obscenely large bulge pressing out from the crotch of denim shorts -- shorts already straining to hold in the great swell of impossibly muscled thighs. No one would guess that the short, dazed-looking guy walking in front of him, stick-thin arms barely touching the thin sleeves of his polo, was part of the same story.

The heat hadn't abated, but it paled against the fire of fear and shame burning him from within. Mark had been completely caught out by his musclebound pursuer. The first quick glances he had allowed himself of this strength-swollen freak, like free samples of some addictive drug, had completely hooked him. He had no idea how much time had passed as he stared in erotic greed at every aspect of his monstrous frame. The particular curve of his pecs, heavy with muscle and authority, jutting proudly from his chest. A tangle of dark hair spilling over strained, sweat-soaked tank top. The delicious pink of a large nipple occasionally springing free from the top's tightness. He had imagined his small tongue eternally circling that nipple, or talking it into his mouth, sucking it, tasting the sweat of a real man's workout. He allowed himself, for a moment, to believe that he could draw, from the depths of his monstrously muscled chest, a sigh from the owner of that nipple. That he could participate, even for a millisecond, in his pleasure. The mere thought of this caused a small, sticky wetness to seep into his briefs.

Remembering that moment now caused him to lick the salt-laden sweat from his upper lip.

Usually Mark struggled to get through these types of crowds. Taller men, in particular, would either fail to see and make way for him, or just jostle him aside as they went on their way. Now, however, though he was being physically and psychically propelled by the behemoth behind him, he found it far easier to make progress through the crowd that naturally made way for his warden. His fear of the situation strangely depleted itself, and that void was filled by the intense eroticism of borrowed power.

A press of people waiting by the elevators meant a pressing of the giant's manhood into Mark's scrawny back. Mark could feel sweat, from heat, arousal and fear, spring from his skin. He thought of that sweat seeping through his shirt, through the strained denim and maybe even wetting some part of that throbbing cock. The idea of their sweat mingling in wet, clinging fabrics caused him to get lightheaded, his own erection dwindling as the blood rushed to his head. He probably would have stumbled forward if not for the pressure of his pursuer's massive body, and the press of the crowd, keeping him upright.

Every now and then, as they eventually ascended the escalator into London's characteristically grey light, Mark felt the subtle pressure of a finger or hand. In the overheated haze of the train carriage, he hadn't paid too much attention to the size of those hands. He had only seen them in proportion to the rest of his body: the enormous swell of his basketball sized biceps, the chorded muscle of his forearms. For the briefest second, he felt a hand brush his right hip, and the quickest drumming of each barbell-calloused finger. The pressure of that giant hand, which easily encircled his tiny waist, completely emasculated him, draining the blood from his face in embarrassment, until it returned, again, in shameful and intense arousal.

He tried to imagine how he must seem in the other man's perspective. He pictured himself from behind, incredibly small when viewed from a height. He put out an imaginary hand and saw himself eclipsed by it. Suddenly, he was jolted back to reality -- some part of his brain wouldn't allow him to pretend to be what he wasn't. The same part brought back the memory of that hand's great weight, and the pressure of his monstrously thick cock. In fact, everywhere he had been touched by the giant was burning hot, as if hot wax had been dripped on him.

They emerged now into the sun. Without the constant noise of the underground, Mark heard more clearly the whispers generated by his mysterious follower. Snatches of hushed conversation snuck to his ears.

"...fucking hell"

"Don't make it obvious but look behind you..."

"... Jesus Christ..."

"...if I died while being fucked by that, I'd die happy"

He was so intent on listening that he almost missed it when, for the first time since ordering him off the train, he received another order.

"Cross that road, turn right and take the first left down that alley. Wait for me there. I'll be as long as I want to be. Do not leave."

Without making any decision, Mark's body agreed. His mind settled in as a comfortable passenger, watching with interest as he navigated the road and found the narrow, barely-an-alley alleyway that he was supposed to wait in. The alleyway stank, he thought. A few minutes later he realized his mistake: it was he that stank. Between the sweat and several seepings of precum, he smelled like an uncleaned brothel. He compared, in his memory, the smell of his own sweat to that of the mysteriously absent alpha under whose complete command he now appeared to be. His own sweat, produced by heat, nerves and shame, had a pathetic smell to it: like an old man's bedsheets. The beautiful sheen of sweat that he had first admired on his alpha, that sweat running in rivulets through twists of dark hair and staining his overstrained clothes, had the smell of pure sex. No, something deeper than sex, more like an animal lust. It's effect was complete: a hypnotic, will-dampening desire to be desired, in any way, by this god-sized man.

He waited for hours in that alleyway, standing in perfect attention, deaf to the complaints of his body. Memories, etched into his brain, kept him buoyant on lust: the pressure of the stranger's humongous cock against the scrawny muscles of his back; the heady, masculine smell of his sweat; the deep, vibrato of his command; the pink nipple decorating the enormous, muscled dome of his pecs; the shovel sized hand half covering the obscenity of his giant, pulsing bulge; the impossible weight of the same hand dwarfing his waist.

It was dark by the time a presence was announced by the slow, heavy footsteps that marked the long, confident gait of a 7ft tall muscle giant. Mark knew that this was to be the site of his punishment. He knew, instinctively, that that meant he was not to look at his alpha without being granted that luxury. He stood completely still.

The noise of footsteps moved behind him, and the gigantic hand, with all the strength of those swelling basketball sized biceps, dropped onto his face. It more than covered his entire head. He felt the hard, callouses that came from a lifetime of embarrassing every other bodybuilder in the gym. As he waited for further punishment, he felt twitches of power spark through those hands: he could probably crush my skull without breaking a sweat, he thought.

What he instead did was to insert a single finger into Mark's mouth, prying his lips apart. This did not surprise him. What did surprise him was that he asked Mark a simple questions: "Are you ready?"

Mark felt the finger ease out of his throat to allow him to answer.

"Yes," he gasped.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he moaned.

The finger re-entered and was joined by another. Mark felt his jaw pried softly apart. The other hand wrapped around his throat. He stood like this, motionless, for a few seconds, the fingers drumming heavily on his quivering neck. Then, he felt his head press back until he was staring upward. All he could see in the darkness was the barely illuminated double swell of his assailant's pecs. His mouth was painfully dry, a fact which was sensed. From far above his head, a gobbet of spit sailed, landing partially in his mouth, and partially splattered on his chin. Another one followed. And another one, continuing until his mouth was full of his captor's spit, and his face dripping with it.

Then his vision was completely blocked. He did not know by what until a thick, animal smell bludgeoned his nose, and he realized that the giant had his sweaty, grapefruit sized balls hanging over his head.

His mouth was still pried open, a hole welcoming anything that cared to enter it.

Nothing entered it immediately. It was too small to accept the huge package the grazed it's edges.

Mark gulped a breath louder than he intended to, and was rewarded by a single testicle completely suffocating him. He tried to lick his lips, and approximated a sucking of the ball. But it was like a too-big gobstopper: all he could do was feebly lick it. He was not rewarded by any moan of pleasure, and his own erection was confused, shrinking again to puny flaccidity.

The weight was removed, and the heaving ballsack was dragged over his face. He still couldn't see, and was in complete sensory overload from the hot smell of this gigantic manhood. He was allowed gasp another breath before he felt the pressure exerted by the two fingers prying his mouth open increase, and felt an apple-sized cockhead enter that space. It was dry -- not even the slightest taste of precum.

Every atom of his being was fueled by desperation for the giant's cum. He knew if he could taste of it, could ingest this god's purse masculine manna, that he would somehow be able to share, even a tiny bit, in what he had.

He unhinged his jaw, a skill he did not know he had, and began to suck. His body finally began to respond, and saliva flooded the mouth that was still wrenched open. Now that he was able to give some pleasure, his own penis started to assert itself again, rising up timidly, though it was still trapped in his pants. He knew that he would not be allowed to touch it tonight.

His lips and tongue moved in every possible way around that cockhead. His lips, slick with their mixed spit, wrapped themselves around its great, pulsing mass. His tongue caressed the slit, lapping at it like an animal at water, begging it to feed him even a drop of his essence.

He raised himself up on his tippy toes to try to force more cock down his throat, but it was like trying to fit a fist into needle and he gagged so hard that he forced the cock out of his mouth.

He still hadn't heard any sigh of pleasure, but he was now subject to a tut of disapproval, and he knew that his punishment was to be increased.