The third room was as large as the others, and this time there was a surfeit of exercise equipment—free weights of all kinds in a long array against one wall, bench press, curling station, the works; even a stationary bike for spinning and an elliptical machine. There was a butterfly station, too, more or less at the center of the padded floor, and this was currently occupied by a man that was, without even a glance at Ardo standing naked and hard in the doorway, drawing to himself every particle of Ardo’s attention and every thought in his flickering, dumbstruck brain.
The man who was working out on the butterfly was breathtaking, a masculine ideal not only realized but transcended. He was blond and fair, with alabaster marble skin tinted the faintest coral pink. He was, as he had first discerned from his blurry silhouette, tall and rangy, with powerful but compact muscles as defined as if they’d been carved by chisels by a sculptor in love with the musculature of strong, athletic men. But this man had been crafted to a level of compelling beauty beyond—well, beyond human, Ardo thought. His heart thundered in his chest as he understood that this was more than a man, more than any man he’d ever kissed or touched or fucked, all of which was now an urgent need suffusing him from mouth to hands to shivering cock.
His outstripping even of the ultimate male paradigm was all the more compelling for being so matter-of-fact. The man was naked, gorgeous, perfect, but he was at the same time sweating, working, flushed with exertion. He was equipped, impossibly, wondrously, with four perfect, male, muscular arms, the embracement by which was Ardo’s newest and greatest need as he raked his hungry eyes over them; yet he was working them as hard as any gym-rat, working his arms like any man seeking to constantly drive himself further and further toward physical perfection. He was, at the moment, pushing himself through a difficult set with his rear set of arms, his face a mask of concentration, as his front arms tried to hold themselves awkwardly out of the way while the stack of weights lifted and clanked down rhythmically behind him. By the pump on them and the sheen of sweat on their pale surface, though, Ardo could see they had had their turn.
Ardo loved that the other man was naked like him, and hard as fuck like him, and at the same time Ardo was captivated by the raw potency of the man’s two immense, rigid cocks, one slightly overlapping the other and both so iron-hard that they barely shifted as he worked. The sight of them, huge and hard and sweat-sheened (or was it sweat?), sliding slightly against each other as the other man shoved the weights brutally up and down, seemed to such Ardo in, filling his vision, as his own dick flexed and swelled in aching sympathy, yearning, Ardo realized with a shiver deep at the bottom of his spine, for the inseparable twin it had never known it had wanted.
Ardo was so consumed by this telescoping vision of the other man’s massive, inflexible erections that his mind lagged a second in recognizing the finality of the clang of the stack of weights dropping home. Ardo’s eyes jumped up from the other man’s dicks, past his heaving, sweat-damp, thickly-muscled and workout-pumped chest, to the man’s impossibly handsome face. He took in another involuntary breath. The other man’s eyes were dark gold, and so beautiful that Ardo shivered. They met his gaze, pinning him, before dropping to Ardo’s own rigid cock and back.
“You’re up,” the other man said once their eyes met again, his voice a warm baritone, betraying even in so short an utterance an undertow of a Georgia-peach drawl. The man’s expression was bland and neutral, but his eyes were shining as he stared across at Ardo.
Ardo’s words had left him. He merely nodded once. But then the double meaning of the other man’s words seeped through his amazement, and he felt his lips curl even as heat rushed again into his cheeks. “Yeah,” he rasped. “I sure am.”
The other man got up from the machine, rising to an impressive height. He crossed the room to him, his gait slow and loose-limbed. Ardo couldn’t decide what to watch: the strong thighs and calves, trumpeting the power and stamina to run for days or pound tirelessly up a thousand stairs, yet so perfectly shaped and proportioned, they could gain the cover of a fitness for him all by themselves, that Ardo wanted wrapped around him in the kingly bed he’d left behind; the carved abs that twisted slightly as he moved, half-obscured by two raging, blood-pinked, pre-slicked obelisks of erotic power that made Ardo’s mouth water and his hands twitch; the swollen, oversized pecs still damp with the sweat of a serious workout, the salty musk of which Ardo yearned to taste with his eager tongue; the strong, pumped upper arms that brushed and flexed against each other that seemed to cry out for Ardo’s hands and fingers to caress and grasp; or that handsome face, fringed by short, flaxen hair, a face that filled his vison when he reached it even as the other man came up to him, towering over him by a foot at least, golden eyes blazing down at him, wine-red lips calling to his own.
“Who … who are you?” Ardo stammered. His mouth was suddenly dry, and he swallowed hard, licking his lips. His heart battered against the inside of his chest. Now that he was standing over him, inches away, the other man’s body seemed to be throwing off palpable heat. Ardo’s eyes were locked on the other man’s, but he felt the heat of the other’s cocks, as hot as a furnace. When they touched his skin…
The other man was staring seriously down at him. He did not answer for a moment, and Ardo felt a thrill rush through him when he realized that he was just as captivated by Ardo as Ardo was with him. Those golden eyes were dark with longing, with want, with an arousal as powerful and urgent as Ardo’s own. Before he understood what he was doing, his body responded to this revelation, giving in to an elemental need to touch this man, and do more than touch him. His hands rose and slid firmly around the massive biceps and triceps of the man’s nearer set of arms and grasp the mighty brawn there. His body surged with the pleasure of everything his hands were telling him as they struggled to embrace the thick muscle, feeling their strength, the heat of the skin, the sweat from the heavy workout that must have been going on all morning, with periodic breaks to check on the newcomer sprawled in the cherry-wood bed. Ardo let this thumbs brush up and down in a slow, steady pulse, not-so-gently caressing the hard, heavy biceps he was holding. The other man’s stare intensified on Ardo’s as he responded to Ardo’s touch, flexing his forward arms in Ardo’s grasp while simultaneously doing the same with his back arms, causing his swelling muscles to push his hands open even as thick, sweat-damp biceps shoved and nuzzled against the backs of Ardo’s fingers. Ardo hauled in a deep breath and realized he was very close to an orgasm just from this alone, and from the heat of the other man’s body and the intensity of his lust-filled gaze.
The other man swallowed, flexing his arms again for Ardo. “My name … my name’s Ken,” he told Ardo solemnly.
Ardo’s caresses faltered, though he kept his hold on the other man’s—Ken’s—upper arms, not least because it was already hard to imagine not touching him. He felt his lips twitch, and then he couldn’t stop himself from bursting into a grin. “Your name’s Ken?” he repeated, just a little incredulous.
Ken nodded, but his lips twitched too, and now his flexes seemed playful, as if to counter-weight the wonderful everyday prosaicness of his name. Ken, the four-armed, double-dicked muscle hunk. Ardo snorted. “Funny name for a kidnapper,” he heard himself say, not meaning to have said it aloud. He wasn’t sure where the stray thought had come from. Did he really think Ken had brought him here? But who else was there in this strange place?
Ken’s face was instantly serious. “I’m not your captor,” he said, lifting his hands to rest them, warm and comforting, on Ardo’s decently defined, bare shoulders, his rose-marble hands a stark contrast against the dark caramel of Ardo’s skin. Two more warm hands slid up Ardo’s torso to wrap around his lats. The other man seemed to restrain himself from fondling him more aggressively, but Ardo knew as if the man’s touch spoke the words into his skin that Ken wanted—no, needed—to touch him, just as badly as Ardo did with him. Ardo’s own hands slipped further around Ken’s upper arms, grasping his front triceps even as they were sandwiched in by Ken’s thick rear biceps. Ardo still kept his eyes fixed on Ken’s. “I was brought here,” Ken said low and quiet, his southern Georgia accent sounding like a soft growl. “Like you. I came to in that bed, like you. And I’ve slept there every night, wondering if I would be alone in it for the duration.”
Ardo drew his hands higher up Ken’s muscular arms, until he was palming the round, potent thickness of his doubled delts. He kept his hands moving now, massaging the heaving muscle, groping its intoxicating power, fingers sliding along the crevasse between the front and rear delts on each side. Ken followed suit, letting his strong, warming hands wander. One of the hands that had been grasping Ardo’s shoulders slipped around Ardo’s neck, and he licked his lips automatically in increasingly desperate anticipation.
“Who, then?” he said suddenly, his voice rough. He was amazed that he could still even speak. “And why?”
Ken shook his head. “I don’t know who,” he said solemnly. “There’s no sign of anyone else. Not even any cameras, at least that I could see. As for why—?” He, too, licked his lips, and he bent toward him, radiating a need that would not allow much more talking. “I think this is why,” he said, and, using the hand grasping Ardo’s neck, and all the other hands that were coursing over Ardo’s naked body, he drew Ardo against him as he covered Ardo’s mouth with his own.
Ardo opened for him, wrapping his arms around Ken’s strong, extra-thick shoulders even as Ken tightened his fierce, four-armed embrace. The kiss deepened as their lips slid hard against each other, their tongues dancing as they made love to each others’ mouths, both of them unaccountably desperate and needy. Ardo realized he was feeling Ken’s twin erections shoving rudely against his torso, leaving wet trails of precum all over his chest and abs, and his own fat cock thrust of its own accord, rutting blindly against the double pillars clad in hot, slicked-up skin. Their kiss became frenzied, Ken’s hands seeming to grope and hold him everywhere from shoulders to ass as they pursued their unstoppable hunger for each other. Ardo knew he was rapidly hurtling toward a cliff higher and more heart-stopping than any he’d ever reached before.
Suddenly, as if sensing his closeness, Ken pulled his head back an inch, out of their kiss, breathing hard against Ardo’s lips. Ardo heard himself whimper, and a small part of him wondered at the change that had come over him. He’d never needed to touch, to hold, to kiss, to fuck anyone this bad. Never had there been a need like this, ever. But it was a need, and it was agony to be pulled back from it. “What?” he demanded, panting.
“You have to know something,” Ken huffed, his voice almost a whisper. He was staring into Ardo’s eyes again as they held each other tight and hard, his pupils blown with need.
“What?” Ardo repeated, his heart pounding crazily. He shoved his dick against Ken’s, which were now positively slippery with untold quantities of precum, and was gratified to see Ken suppress a gasp.
“When you cum,” Ken said roughly, and the very word almost made it happen for them both. Ken swallowed and started again. “When you cum, here, in this place,” he said, still breathing hard, lips an inch away from Ardo’s, “stuff … happens to you.”
Ardo understood immediately. He smiled and let his lips brush Ken’s as he did so, wanting him to feel it as well as see and hear it. “Is that so?” he said. Ardo’s fevered mind raced with possibilities. What had Ken been like … before? Had he been this tall, beautiful, perfectly proportioned man, only with the usual complement of arms and cocks? Or had he changed more? He imagined some calm, skinny white boy, taken out of his life, lost in this hidden vale, shaped and grown over and over again by his own orgasmic imperative. Had he been lonely, like Ardo, disconnected and withdrawn? Ardo felt a new layer of need deepening his feelings for Ken: He needed to touch Ken, sure, to kiss him, to love him, to make love to him; but he now was aware of how much he needed to know him, and for him to know Ardo, too.
It was strange, Ardo knew, and even suspicious, this sudden intensity of passion and love and craving for a handsome, transformed man he knew was still a stranger to him. But that was the pitfall of desire. It drowned reason, frying its circuits, making logic useless and misgivings impotent. He wanted to take long days and weeks exploring every inch of Ken’s smooth, perfect skin, stroking every hard curve of bulging, living muscle, mouthing the soft bristles of his jaw and chin and nuzzling his nape, and, with all that, exploring every corner of his heart as well. As long as he didn’t back down from who he was or how he stood for himself, he was okay with that, he figured.
His spinning thoughts brought him back to the changes Ken had experienced, and amusement threaded back through his arousal. More than that, thought, he wanted to know—he wanted to feel—what the man had experienced so far. “You must have cum … a lot,” he teased. “Before I got here.”
Ken’s heated eyes were boring into him, and Ardo wondered if he could guess all the things Ardo had been thinking. “Maybe I did,” Ken admitted soberly, but his voice carried all the strain of holding back from what had been building between them, the white-hot combustion had to happen soon, now, immediately. “You get pretty horny here,” he grated. “But that—” Ken paused, then hurried on as if there weren’t good words for what he was trying to say. “That won’t be anything like this. I can tell.” He drew his brows together, thin blond against flushed and heated marble. “Do you understand?”
Ardo held his stare. Then, as if making a vow, he said seriously, “I can’t wait.” He tightened his embrace around Ken’s shoulders, pulling them together and drawing them back into a frenetic kiss. Ken did the same, holding him hand and caressing his back as they thrust against each other, driving each other toward a momentous, mind-blowing orgasm that would both outstrip anything either of them had ever experienced, and at the same time serve as only the beginning of whatever their lives had now become. Ardo would learn what had happened to him and how he had come to be here, and what he would need to do about it to regain control of his life—he needed all that as much as he needed Ken’s touch and lips and rocketing cum. But there was a delicious curiosity twining around his fevered mind and his hammering heart, as he impatiently pushed toward his own latent, soon-to-erupt transformation into something, like Ken, that was beyond beautiful, beyond sexy—just, beyond.
It welled up in him, a combined and massive surge from their merging, mounting passion, and then suddenly they both exploded as one, thrusting, cumming, erupting with endless cum, a single shared time-stopping orgasm, and as his mind turned white with perfect euphoria, even as he and Ken came together in their tight embrace over and over again, he felt his body shiver and swell and—his chest heaved against Ken’s with the wonder of it—he felt himself become more. The moment seemed to last ages, hanging pure and sublime over the endless ocean of the universe before they fell, drifting and wafting in lazy, slaked spirals down into the bottomless abyss. His last conscious thought was a giddy hope that he would awaken in their bed, and that as he surfaced back into the world in the light of the shaded evening Ken would gently introduce him to whatever changes had come to him, large or small, making clever use to do so of the long and gifted tongue Ardo already cherished, licking the cum from every inch of his body starting with everything that was new and different and finishing with a deep, dulcet kiss.
He let himself drift down into oblivion. As he did so, he was sure that that one niggling, persistent thought—the one that had been growing in him from the moment he’d felt himself drawn to the man who held him now in his shaking arms as if letting go was not even a possibility—the one that said that giving part of himself up in exchange for a flood of sweet, soul-healing joy might not be such a bad deal after all—that thought, despite everything he had ever known and learned, was not going to go away.