Hard as Rock

Now it's my turn to watch with astonishment as he consumes the food I'd bought. And when he goes to the nearby stream to wash off the dust of the road, I pace the length of the studio alone, my pulse humming in my wrists, my heart hammering. He returns nude, striding right into the studio. The sun has already mostly dried him except where moisture still pools in the crevices of his muscles, gleaming between his abdominals and down the center of his pectorals, between the huge meaty slabs of his buttocks, and clinging to his black pubic hair in droplets.

"So there he is." He takes in my statue, views it from all angles, and I can't help but compare those twin bodies: one made of white stone, the other sculpted of pure muscle, as hard as marble but supple and alive with rippling tension, the constant swelling and flexing of athletic movement. I would never tire of watching him. "What astonishing talent. The power and discipline of Heracles in stone, indeed. And yet...."

He turns an intense gaze on me, scrutinizing my red face. "It is clear you lack familiarity with how a man's muscles respond to intense conditioning. Few could teach you this. But if you would truly make this your subject, if you desire to depict it faithfully--and I am sure you do--you need to make a closer study of your material."

I gulp, barely able to speak for my mouth has gone dry. "What do you recommend?"

"Come, follow me. I will show you, but not in such an open space."

I follow him to my private chamber, his broad back taking up my whole view, his glutes rubbing against one another, calves flexing. My room feels so much smaller and more intimate when it is dominated by his presence, like having a bull in a stall beside you. "A man's muscles are not the same after intense exertion," he says. "You must already be familiar with this--the burn and the fatigue; I can see that working with rock has given you some muscularity of your own. But as the size of the muscle increases, the effects of training heighten. I am limited without my usual weights, but I can show you nonetheless."

And he begins a series of exercises: using his arms to lift himself off the floor, using his abdominals to sit up--even grasping a rafter and raising himself in mighty heaves; and as he explains the purpose of the various moves, the sweat begins to make his body gleam, veins multiply under his bronze skin, and those muscles which were already so enormous grow even more swollen before my eyes, the thick cords of brawn taking on new distinction, the skin stretching tight against their size. Needless to say, part of me has grown during this whole procedure as well, though this time I feel no shame before him.

He drops down from the rafter and his shoulders rise and fall with the rush of his breath, the grooves of his abdominals tightening and releasing. "Now you see," he says, "how Heracles would have looked after fighting a lion."

"You are beautiful. Astonishing," I say, and I have never before felt how lacking words are. "You are a god, an absolute god, and I would worship you if I could."

"Worship me?" He doesn't scoff at my hyperbole, doesn't humiliate me. Instead, what he says is, "Then seeing is not enough."

He commands me to fetch a container of olive oil, which all Greek homes keep in ample supply. "To fully worship the body, it is necessary to anoint it, to massage the feeling back into it. I would have you assist me. But first, do not get oil on your clothes--your laundress has enough gripes with me already." And when I'm fully exposed, when I'm trembling at the feel of the air on my bare cock, the distant quiver already filling it to its full size and strength, he grins. "The proper tribute," he says. "Now let's begin."

Finally I am able to truly explore the landscape of his body. I rub the oil into his biceps, over the lumpy veins standing out rigidly on their surface as he flexes them to their maximum fullness, his fist making scores more of those veins branch like lightning across his forearms. And I bury my face in his chest, get battered by the rippling dance of those broad slabs as he contracts them--there's so much brawn to flex that I can feel it move like an earthquake across their surface; I suck his nipples, feel them tighten against my tongue, then watch everything glisten as I oil him up, watch the gleaming trails run down into the ravines of his abs, into his navel. And I use my hands to spread the slickness over the sides of his body, where his latissimus muscles flare so widely, giving him that godly V-shape, keep reaching around and down his back to savor the fat swells of his muscled backside, kneading supple handfuls of toned flesh.

And his pride in his own strength is so sensual that it feeds not only my desire but his: I'm so absorbed that I'm startled to feel an inflating firmness press into my thigh, then move left and butt against my straining cock. Finally, I get to take in the sight of this man's fully-erect manhood and it's awe-inspiring: the shaft so thick and veiny, the arrowhead-like purple tip fully expanded, the entire organ almost 12 daktyloi in length [9 inches]. And I'm surprised that a type of translucent sap is trickling from his piss-hole, which I've never seen come from mine. As I watch, his cock bobs with the strength of his pulse and a fresh pearl seeps out, dangles off the tip in mid-air. It's as if he's so eager to cum, or so filled with manly essence, that his organ cannot contain it. I ask him what it is, and he scoops it onto his fingers, offers it to my tongue, says: "The nectar of the gods." I savor the taste of him, lick the rough pads of his fingers clean. I must have more. I am wild with desire.

So I fall to my knees and lick his nectar straight from the source, the smooth fleshy feel of his plum gliding over my tongue; and I lick it, smell it, caress him with my lips, explore the ridge at the base of his cockhead, lick into the folds of his retracted foreskin, work my way down the bulging veins of his shaft as he groans and arches his back, his stomach contracting above me; and finally I suck at the wrinkled skin of his ballsack, its unique texture and the satisfying feel of his heavy stones sucked one by one into my mouth, big as chicken eggs and packed just as full of nutrition.

"So, my lion, do you like the taste?"

"More than anything," I moan, continuing to nuzzle his manhood. "I want to taste every part of you, want to make you cum and then drink it down. I would drink your manfluid like honey."

His laughter booms, resonating deep in my gut. "Yes, it is good to drink another man's vital fluid. It fills you with vigour. Gives you more energy and makes your muscles grow. But there are better ways to take it." And suddenly a savage fire comes into his voice. "The best way is to be fucked up the ass. Feel a man's cock pound deep inside you and spray his seed. There is nothing like it."

This shocks me. I'd heard rumours that men could fuck each other between the thighs, but not this. "It does not hurt?"

"If you are not used to it, yes. But we fuck each other every day. By the end of our training, we are mad with lust. Often we can't even wait till we've found a bed. Some mornings, I arrive to find one man already with another man's cock up his ass. Whether you want to fill a man with your seed or be filled, there is always someone willing at my gymnasium. And even though you are not one of us, a cock like yours would be welcome. I have seen how much essence you have to give. Ask any of us, and we would milk you dry."

And he caresses my swollen member, makes my eyes roll back in my head as my entire organ burns from the inside, the skin of my shaft and cockhead so tight and my testicles aching right against my body. "Yes," he says. "I have thought of it many times--how I licked your cream off my hand the moment you left the room. How sweet it tasted. Now, I would love to feel you inside me, feel the way you pound a man's ass for the first time. Is that your desire as well?"

"Oh gods," I groan as his fingers continue to caress my shaft. "Please. I want to feel your ass on your cock, feel myself inside you. You're such a god. Such a gorgeous god of a man. Let me fill you. Worship you. Take my cock! Take my cock in your ass!"

"That I can do," he says. "But you aren't ready yet. You never fuck a man dry. We must get you good and slick. Give me the oil."

I pour some in his palm. He rubs his hands together with an expression on his face that reminds me of some cunning satyr in the woods, then grips my cock and works the oil in, his hands twisting and sliding down my length, bringing shivers down my entire body as he rubs my sensitive piss-hole; then he spits on his palm and adds the thick slickness of his saliva to my organ.

"You must lubricate my entrance as well," he says. "Come. To the bed."

It is really just a simple mat on the floor, but for once I'm glad I don't sleep on a wooden frame like the workshop's master: the weight of this man would crush it instantly. He gets on all fours and presents the luscious masterwork of his sculpted ass to me as I kneel on quivering legs. "Use your fingers," he tells me, and I dip one in oil, rub it over his puckered hole. "Not just the surface. Push inside." And I obey, surprised by how easy it is once the initial resistance breaks, and the thought of that hot, tight space gripping my cock makes me dizzy. How could I fit? How could he take it?

But despite my concerns, I find myself begging, "Please--let me fuck you. Let me fuck your gorgeous ass. You're so amazing, so strong. Such an incredible god of a man."

And his voice too is thick with lust. "Then do it!" he commands. "Give it to me. Give me your cock. Give me your seed. Show me what you can do, how you worship a man's body."

So I press my cock's head to his oiled-up hole, feel the delirious moment when our flesh meets, when his sphincter resists and then my cockhead slides through, his hot soft flesh fitting me like a glove. He moans in appreciation and coaxes, "Yes. Keep going. This is nothing yet. Give me your full length." I keep pushing and he pushes himself back onto me as well, while starting to stroke his giant cock, bracing himself on the mat with one hand. "Yes, that's it. Deeper. Deeper! Show me how much of a man you are!"

I feel the heat and the tightness push down my length, feel my cockhead exploring deep inside him till the hard pads of his asscheeks press against my pelvis, till he groans with satisfaction. "That's how you fill a man with your cock, how you stuff your full length in him." His voice is ragged with desire. He roars, "Now fuck me! Pound me with your cock! Give it to me deep!"

I obey my musclegod's commands. I begin the slow, delicious process of withdrawing myself, seeing my wet, rock-hard organ emerging from his moist ass till just the head's inside, feeling the need to bury myself build--then satisfying it, ramming myself home. Harder the next time. Faster. Feeling the tight warmth slide over me, grip my cock, feeling the jiggle of his ass when my hips pound into it, when he arches his back and groans, when the oil squishes out around my cock, out of his hole, and drips down my tight, aching ballsack.

I'm quivering all over, my blood pounding in my ears, the burning need to cum building in my cock, expanding it, filling his warm, slick passage, driving me on faster and faster. His ass slaps loudly against my cock, his hole squelching around it, and we groan and moan and pant; he goads me on, yells at me to fuck him, to ram deeper and harder inside him while he jerks his cock, and I couldn't care less if we're overheard, if the entire house knows I've got my pecker up this amazing muscleman's ass. The master told me to take responsibility, and I'll gladly accept any consequences.

It feels so good, so good to know this musclegod's demanding more, demanding my seed--I can feel it building, churning in my testicles, my cock tightening so it can blast spray after spray of white hot milk inside him. It's so close. That unbearable need. The point of no return. He hears me groan, and demands, "Is my lion getting close? Going to shoot off inside me?" But when I pant a yes, his response surprises me.

He pulls himself off me just when I sense the first surges of an onrushing tidal wave, and he whirls on me--glistening, panting mountains of muscle with his eyes blazing--and he savagely crushes his mouth against my lips, his tongue forcing its way inside and grappling with mine as his palms slam into my chest, push me flat on my back on the mat, and I'm completely covered by his mass, my cock laid flat up my stomach, rubbed by the distinct bulges of his abdomen, and the entire surface of my skin is compressed by his heat and his hardness as he growls, "You've fucked me. Now you'll feel what it's like when a man fucks you."

For a moment I'm terrified, knowing I can't handle his cock--not yet. But he rears up, towers over me on his knees in all his godly, gleaming brawn, those trunk-like thighs on either side of my pelvis and his cock jutting towards my face, the wobbling strand of his nectar landing on my chest. "Guide yourself back in, and see how I fuck you," he orders. I'm so hard I have to sit up just to bend my cock enough so it slips under his sack, those full balls rubbing against my glans, and I manage to find that sweet, moist spot after rubbing my tender piss-hole back and forth against the hard swoop of muscle beyond his scrotum.

And this time he's the one in control, lowering himself onto my rod with the force in those immense thighs till he's fully sitting on me, his massive weight crushing me; then those powerful glutes flex as he lifts back up--I can feel those moist pads contracting thickly against my pelvis as he lifts off. He starts riding me like a wild beast in a mind-numbing display of athletic prowess, the exertion making the sweat pour off him, making the oil drip from his muscles and fill the cracks between his abdominals, which deepen and bulge. All those hours of training, packing on muscle, sculpting sinews, getting bigger and harder and more manly, so you can devote that pumped-up gorgeous body to a wild frenzy of fucking, to wringing a lucky man's cock dry: this is what it means to be fucked by a musclegod.

And his cock's right there in front of me, the whole hard length of him. I'm free to wrap both fists around his thickness, start to pump him, using the oil and sweat from his abdomen to make him slick, watching his piss-hole ooze as it's pointed toward my face. "How does it feel, lion? How does it feel to have your hands full of a man's cock? You never want to let go, do you?"

It's true--he's so heavy and hot, his cock so thick and beautiful. I could stroke him forever, wring his manly essence from him over and over as he howls. It's so satisfying to have both your fists stuffed full of a man's firm veiny length and to see you're not even covering the dripping plum of his cockhead as it thrusts at you, as it keeps oozing sweet nectar onto your stomach.

Everything's squelching, swelling, groaning. He keeps using all his muscles to thrust his body down and up. Keeps crushing me with the weight of his body. It's too heavy. Too hot. Something has to blow, has to explode. The pressure keeps building, keeps building. I'm desperate for relief, desperate to spray up his tight ass. Now, now! Do it now! Grip my pecker with your ass muscles and make me cum now!

But he's the one who lets out a roar first, whose cock squeezes hard in my grip, and a fat gooey splat strikes me in the face and chest before I know what's hit me--then another and another as that meaty pecker flexes in my fists. But he keeps roaring and riding me, his entire body contracting as he blasts out his semen, sprays it all down my chest and stomach--

I can't handle it. Man wasn't built to take all this: the feel of his warm, gooey seed dripping down my face, the salt of it on my lips, its briny scent, the driving force of his slicked-up cum-shooter still thrusting through my hands as he continues to ram his ass down my shaft, the guttural roars of this wild titan--no man could handle all this without blasting his seed with all the force in his body. The pressure suddenly explodes and I cum with the strength of the gods--for once, I know what it must be like to be him, to drown in your own manly force as my cock erupts in his ass with body-shaking jerks, filling him so full of sperm that is oozes out into my pubic hair, all over my balls, spurting and spraying in what seems like an endless torrent of pleasure as he squeezes his hungry ass, forces me to cum till I'm drained of every drop.

He puts his hands down on the mat on either side of my head, bends down and captures my mouth in a furious kiss, his tongue exploring my lips for the taste of his own seed, before lapping up the sticky tracks of his explosion in my beard, on my throat. "Your essence is hot, full of vitality. I would drink it every day." And he takes his time till my softening dick slides slickly out of him, and he flops over on his side beside me, taking in the sight of the man he's just fucked: it makes him grin. And the sight of that grin, with his beard now gummed up with white as well, is one of the most erotic things on earth.

"You must come to Athens," he says. "Meet the other men of my gymnasium. Study us. Worship us, if you desire--as you've worshipped me today. And make statues only you could make. You will fill the city with images of Heracles, Zeus, Atlas. With images of us. I will help you. It is your path in life. I see it, and you see it too."

And I think of how my hands explored that sculpted body; I breathe him in, his sweat and semen, his heat and his strength and his lust; and I realize that it's true--whatever anyone else may think of me for it, I have discovered my passion, the thing I must commit my entire life to: I am inescapably devoted to worshipping men's muscles, and I must share that passion with others so they can feel even one small portion of what I feel and give these musclegods the awe they deserve. So "Yes," I say. "Take me with you. As soon as possible."