Muscle worship

by piotrpjs

Massive title-winning bodybuilder Mickey is working out at the gym late one night when he grabs the attention of a fellow patron.

Mickey Flexman was ecstatic. Three days ago he had won the Mr. Universe title and he was now the first bodybuilder/strongman in history to be both Mr. U and World’s Strongest Man. He had won the strongman competition just three months earlier at a weight of 420 pounds at just 5-foot8. Incredibly, in three months preparation for Mr. Universe, he had dropped his weight to 350 pounds of incredibly ripped muscle, his body/fat ratio dropped to just 4% and his arms and thighs were covered in freaky veins.

One of the judges (who had had Mickey pose for him, privately, several times) told Mickey that he had won because he was the first Mr. Universe contestant to come on stage, ripped, at over 320 pounds, with 28” arms and 68” chest! Mickey was overjoyed to hold both titles, not least, because he knew it would thrill his numerous muscle-worshipping clients. (Although he no longer needed this source of income he loved getting off on guys, and chicks, salivating over the prospect of feeling all the muscle he had developed.)

Two weeks later he was back in the gym working out insanely in order to maintain his freaky mass at around 320-350 pounds of solid vein-engorged muscle. He had various regular clients lined up and he needed to be as freaky as possible. It was around 10pm and Mojo, the gym owner, called out: “Mickey, I’m off now—don’t forget to lock the front door when you’ve finished. Oh, and you’re on your own except for a guy down the other end on the treadmill. He’s just checking out the gym—be nice to him, won’t you!”

“I will,” grunted Mickey, instantly forgetting about the new guy as he concentrated on heaving his massive thighs up and down on the hack squat machine.

Mickey’s thighs measured around 38 inches and tonight they were encased in the tightest pair of spandex leggings it was possible to imagine. He had started off with some ‘light’ repetitions on the hack squat machine (around 500 pounds!) and was slowly heaving up the weight and then, in good form, slowly lowering the weight to the original position. As he lowered the weight the spandex emphasized the bulging cock and balls tidily encased between Mickey’s upper thighs. (Mojo had often broached the subject with Mickey suggesting that he wear more loose-fitting clothing, fearing that “some of our members are spontaneously cumming at the sight of all that meat!”) 

Mickey secretly (and not so secretly) enjoyed the attention but, for now, he was more concerned about completing the 20th rep of his final set on the hack machine. By now the sweep in his thighs was incredibly flared and the burning sensation in his insanely pumped-up legs was excruciating as he struggled to finish the final rep. 

“Er, excuse me,” piped a nervous voice. “Er, may I ask you a question?” 

Mickey let out an involuntary “Fuck!” as, startled by this sudden interruption, he struggled to finish the rep and release the safety bar. “Who the fuck are you! Never interrupt a guy while he’s in the middle of a set—have you ever been in a fucking gym before?”

“I’m sorry,” said the stranger, “and no, this is my first time in a gym. I’ve been standing over there watching you train your legs for the past five minutes and I cannot believe how much muscle you’ve packed on your frame! By the way, my name’s Joey and I’m in LA for another week before I go back to London.” 

Mickey didn’t know what it was about this guy (maybe his polite ‘Englishness’) but he started to calm down. “Okay, Joey—my name is Mickey Flexman—now what was that question?” 

Joey, normally a shy, geeky 24 year old came straight to the point: “Mr. Flexman, would you pose for me at my hotel for $500?”

“Oh sure,” said Mickey, “call me on this number tomorrow evening around 8 and we can arrange a time and a proper fee!—if you don’t know, I am the reining Mr. Universe.”

“Great!” Joey cooed, losing some of his initial shyness, “but, before I go, would you do another couple of reps on the hack squat machine—just so I can see those incredible slabs of meat on your thighs—close up?”

“Okay, but most guys go nuts over my veiny biceps.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Joey, “I am a total biceps worshipper—but I want to save that for when we next meet -and when you have had a chance to pump them up to insane proportions.”

“Okay, thighs it is.”

Mickey lowered the weight on the machine so that he could do a couple more reps and really squeeze his thighs hard and give this Limey a real show of black beef!. As he squeezed out the final rep Mickey was suddenly aware that Joey had placed a warm hand over his dick and was starting to fondle it. Mickey immediately became aroused and his 10” dick started to swell and writhe constricted, as it was, beneath the tight spandex. “Hey, man,” I thought you were just into posing?” 

Joey immediately stepped back, blushing with embarrassment. “I’m s-s-sorry,” he stammered “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Offend me?” queried Mickey, “listen you tight-arsed Limey—last week I had three guys worshipping me. One was j/o while I flexed my 28-inch bicep in his face. The other was getting off on my delts and lats—while the third fucker was happily sucking me off. Offended, my black ass!!”

“But,” Mickey continued, poking Joey in the chest, “you don’t just assume that I’m a piece of meat to be touched-up when and if you feel like it. Understand?”

“Oh fuck!” exclaimed Joey, “you see, if I was back in England I would never dream of being so forward. I suppose it was because, after this week we will never see each other again and I was just overcome by the sight of 350 pounds of massive muscle encased in a huge dick! Forgive me, please.” 

He didn’t know why but Mickey’s face crumpled into a huge smile. He pushed out his huge hand towards Joey: “No hard feelings, then—and you can cop a feel of all this beef in a few days time.” 

Joey paused, seemingly distracted. “You okay, man?, said Mickey. 

“Oh, I’m fine” beamed Joey, “I was just thinking about what I’m going to do with 350 pounds of vein-engorged muscle when I next see you.

Four days later, after details had been exchanged and a fee agreed, Mickey arrived at Joey’s hotel room on Venice beach. After the preliminaries Joey asked if Mickey had trained his arms today. “Fuck, yeah,” said Mickey. “I’ve hammered these arms for the past 2 hours and they are pumped.” 

Mickey was about to take off his coat and flex the monsters for his client, but Joey moved across the room. “Don’t show me just yet—we only have two hours and I want to savor the moment. Do you know how big they are, right now?”

“Well, my girlfriend taped them in the gym an hour ago and my left arm was just on 27½ inches.” 

Joey’s mouth became dry, just at the thought of seeing (and touching) a muscleman’s bicep that huge. “And your girlfriend—she’s into big muscles, is she?” (Joey was desperate for small talk while Mickey prowled around the room and began taking various supplements and bottles from a gym bag.) 

“O sure,” drawled Mickey, “that and my big cock, of course. It’s funny, though—I first met her three years ago in a bar. I was wearing a short, tight tee-shirt, and I swear some of the guys in the bar were cumming in their pants at the sight of my 25-inch arms being deliberately squeezed and flexed in order to get a reaction. This girl, Shirley (now my girlfriend), was in a group of three chicks and suddenly she starts bad-mouthing me and saying how gross I looked, how I was making her feel physically sick!” 

Joey (the shy Englishman) interrupted him: “Fuck if that had been me I would have been on top of you in a second, groping all that muscle!”

“That’s not the finish,” replied Mickey. “She then leaves her friends and goes out of the bar. I forget about her and for 10 minutes allow, fuck knows how many guys, to ‘accidentally’ bump into me and grope my arms. One skinny guy whispers in my ear about how he’d like to slip his 10-inch dick between the crook of my arm while I muscle-fucked him—but I don’t do that sort of thing, do I? I then left the bar,” Mickey continued, “by myself and who should be standing outside by an alley way?”

“Shirley?”

“Yes!” Well,” Mickey went on, “I gave her a little show of all this muscle (that had made her so sick 10 minutes previously). Within 30 seconds I was in her panties while she wet herself squeezing my pecks as hard as she could while I flexed them like fuck in her face. She kept moaning about how hard I was and before I could get my face into her pussy she had clamped her lips around my dick while holding on to my arms as if her life depended on it”

Joey was getting hard hearing about this musclefuck but, not unnaturally, he was keen to get his hands on all this muscle, as well. He interrupted: “Did you bring a really tight teeshirt like I asked?” 

Mickey realized that Joey was anxious to start. “Oh, sure—I guess you want to see what the new breed of Mr. Universe looks like, up close and personal?” Mickey began taking off his jacket, deliberately exaggerating the process—as if his enormous bulk made the act of disrobing difficult (which of course it did). Even though Joey had a 350-pound bodybuilder in front of him at a height of 5-foot-8 he was still totally unprepared for the sight that unfolded before him. Mickey finally released the second sleeve of his jacket and stood there in a white, insanely tight, teeshirt that highlighted the enormous size of his black arms. The arms were criss-crossed with tiny veins on the bicep with one huge pipe-like vein snaking across the upper biceps. 

But what almost sent Joey over the edge were the huge slabs of forearm muscle covered in veins. Joey had always thought of himself as a “biceps man” but he just had to get his hands on those forearms! “Please may I touch that forearm,” Joey said, reverting to his (overdone) English politeness. 

“Fuck, yes—come here and grope whatever you fancy,” Joey spent a full minute just looking at the forearm, while the muscleman slowly flexed a forearm, making the veins squirm. Joey had a raging hard-on but he was determined to hold off cumming (if that were possible) until he could start his bicep-worship in earnest.

As if Mickey had anticipated this he said: “Do you have a tape measure?” 

In an instant, Joey produced the measure. “Tape this.” With that the man-mountain proceeded to flex his left arm, slowly squeezing as he lowered and raised his arm. He did this for a full 3 minutes while his arm pumped up to insane proportions with sweat and veins bulging all over. “Now you can tape this fucker,” boomed Mickey. 

Joey, by now dripping pre-cum, pulled the tape over Mr. U’s flexed left arm. “O holy fuck” he exclaimed, “27½ inches.” This was the moment when Joey got his first real feel of what it was like to touch a top pro bodybuilder. Nothing could prepare him for the sheer hardness of the muscle and when Mickey gave an extra flex, at the same time pushing his arm into the Englishman’s face, Joey lost it and sprayed jizz all over Mickey’s vein-engorged arm. 

“Fuck—you sure are into arms,” was Mickey’s only comment. Joey’s mind went back a few years to the time he had seen Bertil Fox doing a seminar in London. Bertil was famed for his monster arms—around 22 inches. But Joey’s were over 27 inches—and still growing—or so Joey hoped!

“How big do you want to get these fuckers?” Joey enquired, running his hand along the back of Mickey’s arm—and so drawing his attention to the massive triceps hanging on each arm. 

“Well, with your help, tonight, I reckon I could get them up to a full 28 inches. I need to find something in this room heavy enough so I can pump out around 100 reps in my left arm and flush blood into the muscle.”

“There’s nothing that even remotely fits the bill in this room,” Joey said. 

“No?—how much do you weigh, Joey?” Mickey enquired. 

“185 pounds—but how’s that going to help?”

“Listen, Joey, I won the World’s Strongest Man competition three months ago and I could bicep curl you—no problem.” 

Joey’s dick shot bolt upright at the thought of being lifted by Mickey’s humungous arms. He felt a desperate need to get himself off and pulled down his joggers, but the Strongman, willing to please, placed his giant calloused-ridden hand around Joey’s cock (as if he was using a joy-stick on a play station) and gently moved his hand, backward and forward, with a slight rubbing action. Meanwhile Joey put both his hands around the muscleman’s mammoth arm, squeezed and licked the monster mound of muscle, rolled his eyes, lay back—and imagined he had gone to heaven.

Mickey went to the bathroom to clean up before starting the bicep-curling session he had promised Joey. The muscleman admired his arms in the mirror, now totally freaked out and covered in veins but he noticed a purple-ish bruise about an inch across on his left bicep. “Fuck,” he thought, “he may be a tight-assed Brit—but he’s a fucking whore when it comes to muscle!”

“Right,” commanded Mickey, coming out of the bathroom, “this is how it works. You’ve already taped my arm at 27½ inches—wanna double check?” 

Joey needed no second bidding. He shot over to where Mickey was standing and pulled the tape around the muscleman’s left arm. “Eh?” exclaimed the Englishman, “what’s this—25 inches?” 

With that Mickey flexed his arm hard and the mound of vein-engorged meat shot up and pushed the tape to 27½ inches. Joey spontaneously ejaculated for the second time at the sight of this muscleman, less that 6 inches away from him. 

“Sorry,” said Mickey, playfully, “I was just teasing you…”

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