Key to My Heart • Chapter One By Sean Reid Scott
NOTE TO THE READER This story is pure fiction. The characters are fictional; they are not based on any real people. So just relax.
This story contains homosexual themes and depictions of sex between men. It is intended for Adults Only. Please do not read if you are offended by this subject matter.
KEY TO MY HEART by Sean Reid Scott
CHAPTER ONE
It was the first day back at college after the Christmas break. We'd actually had a few extra days off because of a snowstorm that hit just as everyone was getting back to campus. So sad.
But now, the new term had started in earnest, and my best friend Greg and I were in the campus library, studying up a storm. Winter term was going to be a bitch. The class load was horrendous.
I say we were studying up a storm, but in truth, I was... let's just say I was a tad distracted. Because sitting two tables away, right in front of me, was the most jacked, ripped, buff, handsome bodybuilder I had ever seen. Ever. And that was saying something. Because I was an aficionado of masculine, jacked, huge muscle. I'd seen it all: Pros, amateurs, wannabes, models, Internet sensations, scads of bodybuilding shows (in person), exhibitions, movies, porn, TV... if it was muscle (and it had to be good looking for me to really appreciate it) I'd seen it, classified it, put it in a database, and... of course... masturbated to it.
And this guy... fuck, he was numbing my mind with his body. I was ready to go tilt. I hadn't ever seen the guy on campus, so I figured he was a transfer. I would have remembered him, for sure. He was making my cock hurt. Fuck I couldn't believe what I was seeing!
"You might want to get some kind of tape... or glue for that," Greg said.
I blinked myself out of my trance and looked at him. "Wha? What are you talking about?"
"Your jaw. It's practically dragging on the floor your mouth is open so much," Greg chuckled.
My face flushed with the heat of my blush. I glanced back at Mr. Black Stallion for just a second, then back to Greg.
"Yeah, him," Greg said. "Dude, you need to stop staring, man. People are gonna start to wonder."
"Wonder?"
"Yeah. About you," he said. "You're gawking all over that muscle dude over there. It's pathetically obvious, man. People are gonna think you're gay or something." He resumed typing on his laptop; without looking up while he typed, he said, "Not that there's anything wrong with that."
I chuckled at him. I knew Greg wasn't homophobic. But I hadn't actually come out to him either. We'd known each other since second grade, and shared everything. Almost. I told myself that I hadn't come out to him because of my specific "brand" of gay. I was kind of embarrassed by it: I was hopelessly, emphatically, empirically, undeniably, indubitably addicted to muscle. Big, ripped, jacked muscle. And well... Black muscle dudes go straight (no pun intended) to the front of the line, thankyouverymuch. And this library dude was the most jacked, gorgeous specimen of Black muscle that the universe had ever produced. I nearly started crying.
I'm not even kidding.
He was wearing a dark gray, long-sleeved t-shirt that hugged everything perfectly--without making it look like he was trying to show off. For sure, the dude did not need to show off. Honestly, the guy could wear four parkas and you couldn't hide that physique. I just wanted to whimper. Name a body part, and this guy had it multiplied exponentially (except for his waist: his hips and waist were so tiny that it just fried my brain--it didn't seem possible to have a waistline that small supporting all that beef) so that the entire package was just mind-numbing. Thus, my dropped-jaw stupor. And Greg's not so subtle observation.
Truthfully, I was the one who wasn't being subtle; I'll give you that. My eyes were super-glued to this hunk.
There was no way in hell I was gonna get any studying done now.
Who knew that the world's best built man attended Collegiate University?! Right here in Podunk, New England!
"Dude, you're still staring," Greg said looking up from his laptop.
"Fuck, Greg, just look at the guy!" I hissed in my best library voice. "I've never seen someone so fucking jacked! His proportions are astounding! Look at him and tell me you're not impressed."
He looked over at the stud. "You're totally right, man." Then he looked back at me. "But you look like you're about to bust a nut over the dude, man. Pull it back before they call the cops on you for stalking."
I frowned and sneered at him. "I'm just admiring. And fucking amazed, okay? Don't worry about it."
Greg shrugged and got back to studying.
And I got back to ogling.
Just then the guy stood up and went over to one of the walls of books nearby.
Holy fucking fuck. Standing up, the muscle man was... he was art in motion. How someone so big, so perfectly-muscled, so proportional, so powerful looking, so... fucking PERFECT could just walk around looking like that.... I think I actually whimpered.
He searched through the rows, obviously looking for a particular volume. His back to me now, his latissimus dorsi fanned out like manta ray wings. I'm surprised he could maneuver without knocking the walls down. But fuck he wasn't clumsy. He was ballet itself: Graceful, smooth, and just eye-poppingly stunning. He found his selection and turned around. He gazed back to where he'd been sitting, but didn't move. His body was partially turned so that his magnificent monument to pectorals everywhere was at just the right angle to just make me want to crawl under the table and melt into oblivion, like the Wicked Witch did on Oz. (I'm melllllting, I'm melllllting....) But then I'd miss the show.
And what a fucking show it was. The guy's shoulders and traps were a soliloquy to muscular perfection. His arms--fucking fucking fuck his arms! Even covered by his long sleeves, his biceps and triceps were distinct, detached bulges of individual muscles that were packed together to form his arms. The various heads of muscle were individual mounds and protrusions of powerful, fucking gorgeous size. And where an ordinary man's legs would be, this muscle man had Corinthian Columns that were thick, rippling powerhouses. Again, you could see the mounds distend and move under his jeans. Fuck, all of the sudden I knew how I wanted to die: I wanted that dude to put my head between those legs of his and squeeeeeeeze the life out of me. I wanted to voluntarily place my head between his legs, and move my hands over those rippling quads... to feel that power while he snuffed the life out of me. I wanted to hear my neck snap from the force of his mammoth legs, I wanted to watch the stars swirl around my head as I lost consciousness.... Fuck... just imagining that scenario nearly made me cum right then and there. Please don't judge. I am who I am, okay?
The guy... why was there not a riot in the library right now? Why were people not just slashing themselves and... what is that phrase in the bible? ...weeping and gnashing of teeth! Yeah... There should be that. Wherever this guy goes. Lots of weeping. Oodles of teeth-gnashing. And throw in some renting (as in tearing) of one's clothes, for good measure.
The stud's entire body was a symphony. I know I'm going off the rails with my metaphors here, but you'll forgive me if my brain quite possibly has turned to Quaker Oats right now.
Anyway, he stood there, presenting me his profile and giving me a few moments of imaginary sex with his body. He looked to my right, not at a complete profile, but as I said, with his body not at a true right angle, but maybe at a 120-degree angle (see picture at left), that let me see how his peerless pecs pulled and puuuuuullllled the shirt fabric into line upon line between those planet-like globes.
His nipples. Just kill me now.
That waist again. I just could not get over how a man of that size could sport such a svelte waistline. His hips had to be narrower than my own... and did I mention that I was kinda small? Like 145 pounds dripping wet. This guy looked like he'd max out the elevator capacity all by himself. The only way I'd ever get in an elevator with this dude is if he'd promise to strip while we moved up to our designated floor. That'd be worth the risk for sure. Hell, I'd...
Suddenly, I noticed that he'd been standing there, in that relaxed position, for quite a few seconds. And it was his new motion that stopped my inner diatribe in its tracks. Because his movement was only his head. And he was rotating it... slowly... so that... he... was now... looking... right... at....
Oh fuck.
...Me.
He just gazed at me, as if he was just relaxing and enjoying the scenery. I was his scenery? Fuck me with a sledge hammer!
What should I do? Oh fuck there was nothing I could do. Because full-on, looking at me with those dark brown eyes of his... the man was as gorgeous as he was jacked. And his eyes were glued to mine! And my eyes were glued to his! As if I couldn't peel mine away from his (which is a totally accurate depiction of what was going on) I was spellbound... unable to move.
Then he gave me a very slight smile. It was subtle, but definitely a smile. A genuine smile. Right at me.
Please sir, may I kiss your feet? I did not have a foot fetish. Until now. Whatever this guy had (which was pretty much everything, EVer) I had a new fetish for it. Please sir, can I feel your muscles? I truthfully believe that if he came over and engaged me in conversation (which--who am I kidding.... I was nothing) I would have said those very words: "Please sir, can I feel your muscles?"
And then the Perfect Physique gently turned and walked back to where he was sitting.
"Ollie, for crying out loud, you're going to wet yourself if you don't pull it back!" Greg hissed me out of my stupor... again.
I didn't have the nerve to tell him I'd already almost done exactly that. I gave him some big eyes, as if to say, I can't HELP it! But he wasn't buying it.
"Come on, Ol. We need to get you out of here. Maybe some cold water in your face will help." He stood up, gathering his things.
Not even a full-on cold shower was gonna help me at this point.
He grabbed my arm. "Come on, man. Get up. Put your stuff in your bag. We're leaving--before you make a total spectacle of yourself."
Um... no. We're not.
Wild horses couldn't... well, you get the idea.
"Dude," I said. "I'm fine. Leave me alone."
Greg put his hands on his hips. "Ollie, you're almost catatonic. I'm afraid you're going to need medical care."
I rolled my eyes. "I'm fine."
He stood there a moment, thinking, then said, "Well, I cannot bear to stay and see this train-wreck. I'm going back to my dorm to get ready for dinner. If I don't hear from you this evening, I'll just check the headlines on tomorrow's University Rag-Bulletin website. I can read the headline now: "Sophomore guy looses his ever-loving mind as muscle dude purées his brain with big Black physique."
"Nice," I said absently while I watched Mr. Black Stallion (yes, I know it's a crude cliché, but it's the best--and most fitting--thing I could come up with) sit back down at his table with the book he'd retrieved from the shelf. Greg's headline would actually be pretty accurate, unfortunately. I was hopeless. I was a hopeless muscle-loving basket case. And this new guy was going to ruin me. He was going to be my forever obsession. I'd had them before, of course. But I knew that I'd never lust after another man now that my brain had been totally fried by Mr. Stallion. I was a goner.
Greg had been talking to me, of course. And I hadn't heard a word he said, of course. But now that he was gone, I was free to lust uninhibited.
And lust I did.
I studied the man, millimeter by millimeter. And I came to the foregone conclusion that he was, indeed, perfect. At one point, I actually laid my forehead against my table and just... well... nearly wept.
Did I mention I love muscle?
When I lifted my head and looked at the guy, he was already looking right at me. I think my eyes were read. I dunno for sure. But I do know I was one hot, hopeless mess.
I couldn't look away. It was as if his eyes had power over mine. I would not look away until he gave me permission to look away. Fuck. We gazed at each other for years. And from what I was seeing, he was just relaxed and... he looked so content. And maybe a bit amused. But certainly not upset or angry that I was about to have an orgasm right then in there in front of Dewey Decimal and everyone... just because he was.
Before he gave me permission to look away, he... oh fuck. Fucking fuck! He winked.
He winked at me!
At me! He winked at me, and gave me the slightest of smiles--like he'd given when he was standing near the bookshelf. Oh GodInHeaven, he winked at me. And then he had the gonads to give up a smirking chuckle.
The fucking fucker.
He wasn't being rude or antagonistic; he wasn't being mean. He was just... amused. At me. At my pathetic existence. At my meager excuse for a muscle-worshiping, wannabe, homo-lusting, slithering... muscle worshipper. Yeah I know I used muscle worship twice in that sentence, but it bears repeating.
He knew exactly what he was doing to me. He knew exactly what he did to me. He was--by merely existing--able to de-brain my skull, throw my cranial organ in a Cuisine-Art ®, and turn it on HIGH. For EVer.
Finally released from the tractor beam of his gaze, my eyes pulled off him (reluctantly, mind you) and I made like I was looking at something. At what, I have no idea. It was at that point that I realized my hands were trembling. Shaking, actually. Now that I think about it, my entire body was shaking.
But I didn't get to dwell on that little tidbit for long. Because presently, the Black Stallion was standing up. And he was putting on his jacket... which, by the way, should have been illegal. Jus' sayin'. And he was stuffing his laptop and books into his satchel.
Fuck, his coat was one of those long, wool, navy overcoat things, and holy shit, even totally wrapped in all that fabric, the man was a walking, talking orgasm. And as far as the walking part goes... he was actually walking toward me! And his eyes were locked on mine.
And I was going to die.
As far as the talking part goes, get this: As he passed by me... he gave me another polite smile (yet the smile might have also included pity, in that he felt bad for my sorry, muscle-worshiping ass), and just for good (torturous) measure, he threw in his signature wink again, and then he said, "How's it goin' man...." as he passed by.
"How's it goin' man."
"How's it goin'. Man."
"Howz, itgoin' man."
I could write an entire book on that theme. It'd be a best-seller. Made into a movie. "Oliver Smith, starring in an Oliver Smith production of, How's it Goin' Man!
Fuck me seven times this Sunday. The man said words. To me.
I didn't have to spend the night in the hospital. They discharged me about an hour after the ambulance dropped me off, in fact. The EMTs said they only had to do chest compressions on me for about 15 minutes; the doctors were confident I'd have no permanent brain damage (other than the nasty side-effects of having one's entire cranium whipped, mashed, sliced, and diced by the most Perfect muscle god in all creation).
So I had that going for me.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- [Chapter 2 is next.]
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