Bodybuilder Catches You Staring Ch. 03

It is dark, dank and there is little space. As this encounter goes on, the muscles of my back are pressed against the wall of the narrow alley, wearing against the taut fabric of a t-shirt already struggling to hold in the huge, muscled body it's stretched over.

I let go of the train creep's head -- I haven't bothered to ask his name -- and let it fall forward. As his head droops, I hear a splat as my spit fall from his face.

I leave him like this for 30 seconds or so, daring him to say something, look at me, or ... do anything. He doesn't. Doesn't even dare ask for more, because he is in full understanding of the dynamic between us.

If someone was watching this encounter on CCTV, they would horrified by the sight of me towering over this gasping, sweat-soaked pen-pusher. They wouldn't realise that the worst thing I could possibly do now is to walk away from this scene. I know men like this as well as I know the contours of my body. I knew him the moment I saw him hypnotized on the tube, from the moment I felt a pair of eyes follow the progress of a drop of sweat on my thigh. If I walked out of this alleyway, he wouldn't get off his feet until morning, at the earliest, and, for weeks to come, he would addictively revisit it, hoping I would return.

Whoever he is, he knows that for a man so shriveled, small and pathetic as him to feel part of the Sexual World -- to partake in what he sees on TV, in ads, movies, porn -- that it can only be borrowed. Never his. Struggling to fit my massive cock in his mouth makes him, for just a night, part of something. For the next twenty years, every time he jerks his little Duracell dick off, he'll remember the feel of my monster looming heavily over him, plunging into his mouth and pressing it open. He'll remember the tight feel at the corner of his lips that indicate how much he has stretched to accommodate just the tip of a real man's manhood.

Now, though, he is still on his knees, facing away from me, head lowered.

"Raise your hand," I say, "and open your palm. Face it to the sky."

He does, and I flop my cock onto his outstretched hand. Now I am deliberately feeding the fantasy of the next twenty years. I want him to remember the exact way this felt: the groaning weight of my huge meat in his hand, the feeling of barely being able to lift it, the pulse of thick veins somehow carrying enough blood to keep my monster erect.

"Close your hand," I say.

He tries, and obviously cannot. As I watch his delicate fingers vainly trying to meet each other, I flex the muscle under my cock and feel it stiffen and swell in response. I watch his fingers move even further apart as I do this. His thin, unmuscled arm start to tremble as the weight gets too much for him, but I keep pulsing kegels, making sure that the memory of his small hand getting forced open by my cock is engraved onto his brain.

His arm is seriously trembling now, and I feel some tiny spark of admiration for him. He knows what he has to do and he's doing it.

I heft my cock off his hand, raise it and then thwack it back down. I do this a few more times to let the sound of my hard, heavy meat slapping his hand reverberate through his mind.

I step back slightly and, out of his sight, start pumping my cock. It's a much better fit in my large, barbell-calloused hand, though still too thick for me to fully close my hand around it.

Right next to his ear, I let him listen to sound of fat, far-bigger-than-foot-long cock being jerked off. My foreskin moving up and down. The soft sound of my fat cockhead escaping, and then being covered again.

I look down at the subject of this torture. He is doing remarkably well, and hasn't once reached for his own puny dick, even though he is squirming to join in, to be a part of his better's sex life.

Even so, I can see that he has cum, definitely more than once. The grey of his suit trousers is darkened in the crotch, and the weak smell of his cum is just about sensed under the heady smell of my sweat.

After a few more minutes of this torture, this smell is added to by the first few droplets of my precum. What he can smell now is a hot, heavy scent, as if you walked into a space that a large animal has just left. A smell that tells you that you should get the fuck out of the space in case they come back.

The precum coating my cockhead adds a satisfying wetness to the sound of my long, slow jerks. Another one for his memory bank.

I let my cock drop, draw my hips to the left and then bring them back rapidly. Another new sound, as my cocks smacks him in the face. I see his pants get darker in response as he cums again.

He impresses me by not making a sound. The man on the train, who whimpered without meaning to, has grown up.

Without saying anything, I put my hand back to his throat. He responds instinctively, and leans his back again and opens his mouth, into which I drop my cum-soaked cock head.

The second he tastes my pre-cum, he understands that he has been given a gift. I tap his cheek to encourage him, and he starts working his tongue around my cock head, like a dog licking peanut butter. His mouth fills with spit, as if he has just smelled steak. I remove my cock and he swallows the cum-laced spit, exultant in the knowledge that he has taken some part of me into him.

I let him swallow before forcing my cock back into his mouth. This time, he understands, is different, and I won't be satisfied with his little tongue darting around my cock. I start pressing further and further into his mouth, then down his throat, adding my hands to the process to keep his jaw forced open. For his part, he has clenched his fists in an attempt subdue his gag reflex. Which has not worked, to judge by the sounds he makes.

I keep battering at the walls of his throat, the ram of my cock making inch-by-inch progress as the minutes go by. His eyes are swimming behind closed lids, and in the millisecond breaks between thrusts he lets out animal groans of pleasure.

Even though I can only fit a bare third of my gigantic cock in, I soon start to feel a tightness in my balls. I place size 16 boots on his crotch, pressing just enough to feel that hard lump under the accumulated cum stains. Switching my gaze to his hands, I see that he is flexing and unflexing his fist in rhythym with my thrusts. I start to roll my foot over his dick to the same tempo. Through the boot soles, it feels like a marble.

Then a hot rush tumbles up from the deepest place in me, and thick streams of hotter cum shoot from my cock, filling his mouth in the first wave, and in the next blasting stickily down his throat. Fire roars through me and I keep pumping, running my hand up and down every thick inch, spraying him with more cum each time I do.

I still have his mouth forced open, and I keep it so until, wave after wave, I have stopped cumming. I lift my cock out of a lake of its own cum. As this happens, the lake bursts its bank, and cum spills over the edges of his mouth, running down his face and body. I ease my boot of his crotch and take my hands from his mouth. He responds by gulping down as much of me as he can, and then, like a cat cleaning itself, scrabbles to collect as much of the spilled cum from his clothes, lifting each drop to his still eager tongue.

That's the scene that I leave in the alley. Soaked in and sated by my cum, the next few weeks are going to be different for him. Next time I see him, I expect to see him standing a little taller, maybe filling out his clothes a bit more, jaw a bit more defined. And it won't be too long until I see him. It never is.