Key to My Heart -- Chapter Three By Sean Reid Scott
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.
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CHAPTER THREE
KEY'S PARENT'S PLACE WAS NICE. Really nice. High-end part of town. And when his dad came out to introduce himself, it all came together for me. Everything clicked. How had I missed this? Key introduced me to his dad, who said, "Nice to meet you Ollie. I'm Dean Tanner."
Dean Tanner. Fuck. How had I not made that connection? I'd seen the dean's picture in the University catalog. And Key's last name was Tanner. And... "Dean Tanner, yes. So nice to meet you, sir."
Key definitely got his good looks from his dad, even though his dad's physique wasn't at all in Key's league. Still, Dean Tanner was in good shape. "I'm glad it all worked out for you and Key to room together," the dean said. "I know he's been looking forward to it. I'm glad everything worked out so you two could be together."
Huh? He said it as if it was something planned... or something they'd.... What? Been looking forward to it? I didn't understand.
Key moaned quietly, "Daaaad," and gave his father a face that communicated everything: You weren't supposed to say anything!
Oh fuck no. As exciting as that idea may seem--that Key actually made things happen so he could room with me--I was petrified. Horrified. Did the dean know his son was a stalker? A goddamn serial killer?! That he'd met me and figured out a way for us to room together?" So he could KILL ME IN MY SLEEP?!
Oh, holy fuck no.
Keyshawn Tanner, homophobic Dahmer wannabe. I just knew it. This had all been too good to be true.
I tried to ignore these fears, and honestly, when I watched Key pick up those boxes... with those gigantic, steel-belted, flexing, ripped arms, it was difficult to think of anything else.
As Key had indicated, there weren't that many boxes. But it was enough for us to need to stop for a drink of water while we worked. And fucking fuckity fuck. When he lifted the water bottle to his lips, and his biceps bulged into Fucking Neptune....
"Uhhnnngn..." I whimpered.
Key paid me no mind. Why should he? He had hatched his plan: To room up with a pathetic muscle-worshiping HOMOSEXUAL and then stab me in my sleep, cut me up, and put me in the pickle jars just like Dahmer had done. That'll show those muscle-lusting homos to lust after MY body!
Yeah, it had all been too good to be true.
The ride home was quiet, to say the least. Until Key piped up and asked, "Is everything alright? You seem quiet... ever since we left my parent's place."
I had been studying the Interstate Freeway map of veins on his fucking freak-show of a forearm as his hand rested at the top of the steering wheel. I bet the guy never got lost, never needed a GPS--not with a map like that staring up at him from his gorgeously freaky forearm. Damn, I couldn't see how a man could be so enormous, yet so fucking lean and jacked. No fat anywhere. Excessive muscles everywhere. That tiny waist--those narrow hips--the man was perfection to the 27th power! Perfection27! I'm telling you!
"Oh. I'm fine," I lied. Why not just pull the car off the road right here. It's a nice secluded bend in the highway. You can slice and dice all you want, and leave my body in the bushes.
"You don't seem fine."
"It's nothing." No way was I going to voice my suspicions: That Key had pulled strings at the University to get assigned into my dorm room. I wasn't still sure his motives were nefarious... but what else could it be? There was no way in HELL the dude thought I was anything more than mere belly button lint. But something came over me and I offered him a clue to my angst: "So... your dad is the Dean of Students, huh?"
He was silent for a moment, and I saw the guilt form on his face. He inhaled a deep breath--an act I would never tire of: just watching those twin planets of pec muscle rise and fall like that,--then he let it all out slowly with a big sigh. "Yeah... okay.... Yeah, I confess," he finally said. I looked at his face; he looked at me. "I may have had my dad pull a few strings."
I gave him my most incredulous look ever. I'm totally sure I had never, in my life, formed a more incredulous expression on my face. EVER. "What? Pull strings? For what?"
"To..." He paused and sighed again. And the second occurrence of his chest expanding with the big breath was actually worth the impending death I now dreaded. "to... you know... room with you. Fuck, Ollie. I should have asked first. I'm sorry. If you want me to find somewhere else, I will."
"What? What are you talking about?" Again with the incredulity. And it wasn't manufactured. This incredulity was one hundred percent genuine. "I don't understand."
He actually looked a bit embarrassed. Fuck, I loved how the man showed his feelings. "It's just that..." he bobbed his head back and forth, in an apologetic way, "it's just that when I started to get to know you... well I really like you, man. And you said you didn't have a roommate and all. And well Dad has access to all the dorm assignment shit, and well... I might have asked him to... you know... look into... things."
"Things?"
"Well, I had been staying at my parents place--since I got back from my Peace Corps stint in the middle of the school year. They said there wasn't any room in the dorms at this time. So... I kinda...."
Oh come on. Peace Corps? Was this guy even for real?
"Why? Why would you do that? I don't understand. Your parent's place is a mansion, Key! Why would you want to move out of that, into a tiny dorm room that you--with all that muscle--can barely turn around in?" It was the second time I'd mentioned his body--all the gawking, sighing, moaning and overt ogling I had done notwithstanding. I felt like this was going at an acceptable pace. You had to do it slowly... subtly. Soon, it wouldn't be a stretch for me to steer the discussion into a request to ask him to strip down and pose for me. Everything was working just as planned. I wanted to wring my hands and laugh like an evil vampire or something. Bwaaahahahahaha!
But was his plan going to overshadow mine? All this new information made it seem likely.
He gave me a side-eye. "Because... I like you, man. I just thought it'd be fun to get to know you more."
I squinted at him, obviously not believing a word of it.
He laughed, tossing his head back. "See? Right there. You are so funny... so awesome! Just the most adorable little...." He stopped himself on that word. "I mean... I'm sorry. I don't want you to think that because you're small, I think your just a little guy who's good for a fun time...." He paused for a sec again, thinking. Then he continued: "I mean, it's not that at all. Well, you are a guy and everything, and you are really amazing... but it's not like I don't respect your... strength and shit."
Strength? This muscle god was using the word strength to refer to me? I was definitely not understanding any of this. But as we continued down the road, I started to put things together. Dammit. I'd experienced this before. Too many times in my life. And I hated it. Yeah, all of this had been too good to be true. Key felt sorry for me. True pity. Fuck. I wished so much that I could be bigger.
"That's okay," I said as I looked down at my lap. "I get that a lot. People look at my stature and they feel sorry for me. I'm a cute little kid that they can have fun with."
He pulled the car off to the side of the road.
Well, here we go. I think that bend back there would have been a better choice. But you're the serial killer, so... you do you. I guess that berm over there will work for you to hide my remains.
The tires crunched on the gravel at the side of the highway. He pulled the car to a stop and faced me. "Damn, Ollie. No! That's not what I mean. At all! Do not ever think I think of you that way. You have drive and ambition! You are hilarious. You are inquisitive and brainy! I love all those things about you. Your physical stature doesn't... I mean, I don't look at your size as a bad thing--as a weakness--at all! It's an asset, Ollie! You are smart, strong and determined--not in spite of your size, but because of it!"
And he'd seen all of these characteristic in me, over the course of just a few days?
I'd never heard anyone rattle off such praise for me. Ever. And he did it without even thinking about it. He didn't have to muster up anything, or rack his brain for the qualities he liked in me.
Was this even possible?
He put his big, Black hand on my knee. "Please don't think I think low of you. I don't choose my roommates out of pity. I want to be your friend. I want to be your good friend. We click--you make me laugh so much, and I love talking to you."
I pursed my lips, and I realized I was about to cry. Dammit: No. Here I was, trying to assert my agency in life, and the guy was gonna witness me break down like a blubbering yard gnome? (Do yard gnomes blubber?) No way. I pulled myself together and looked at him. I couldn't bring myself to actually say anything, so I merely nodded. A very shallow nod.
He pulled back onto the road. I resumed lusting after that forearm.
We'd have to talk more about this later.
Or not.
Depended on if I was still alive in the morning. The good news is that he didn't ask to stop off at Goodwill and pick up some empty pickle jars.
WE GOT ALL OF KEY'S STUFF put away in our (our!) room in time to make it down to the dining hall for dinner. It was hard for me to read him now. He was still apologetic about the moving in thing. But I was becoming more relaxed with the possibility that maybe--as unlikely as it sounds--he really did just want to be my roommate. I mean the man was engaging, friendly, joking, sensitive... (all the qualities they ascribed to Dahmer, I suspect). So who knows. Now that he had moved in with me, if I was gonna die, I was gonna die. And again, what a way to go. Just please do it with those legs, Key. Oh fuck yes.
He squuueeeeeezed himself into our postage-stamp-sized bathroom and changed out of the shirt he'd gotten all sweaty while he moved the boxes. It was almost time for dinner. And the whole time he was in there, I was practically banging my head against the desktop, because I'd been denied a look at a shirtless Keyshawn. But then, I later deduced that he planned it that way. Apparently the man knew exactly what he was doing, and his secondary major (besides pre-med) must have been torture.
Anyway, when he emerged in a beige tank top, and those enormous, jacked shoulders and arms were just there on display... well I'm just gonna admit it: We were a few minutes late to the dining hall. Because I had to change my underwear. Serious. That was the first time in my life that that had ever happened. So if you think I'm a pushover for big muscles, A) you're right, of course. 2) I don't ever ejaculate without touching myself. It's just never happened. Ever.
Except then. And look (if the reader will indulge himself) at the picture of Key (next page), as we sat down at the dining hall a few minutes later. Can you fucking blame me?! When he came out of the bathroom, wearing that, and all those tight, undulating muscles just completely filled my field of vision... and well... I came. I just stood there, trying to comprehend what I was looking at. I froze. I was completely still, except for the regular, thrumming beat of my pulsing cock depositing a fucking Old Faithful Geyser amount of jizz into my underwear. I seriously couldn't remember ever making that much semen.
"You okay?" Key asked. He seemed genuinely puzzled at my frozen stupor.
"Uh..." I gripped my desk with one hand, and desperately tried to not show any movement. "Uh..." I repeated as I stared at his muscles. My repeated Uhs probably didn't help my effort to conceal what was happening. But Key was either truly oblivious to what my cock was doing... or he knew about it and showed unparalleled self-control in not bursting out laughing at my lack of restraint.
I'ma go with the former. But only because that's the only option I can choose without becoming entirely mortified.
"Uh..." I kept repeating. "Uh...." At one point my orgasm was so powerful, so all-encompassing, that I had to place both hands on the edge of my desk--just to steady myself. I imagine my fingers turned white with the ferocity of my grip. I closed my eyes hard, and just... stood there... letting my penis squirt and squirt, while I felt the warm fluid dribble down one pant leg. Finally, I was able to open my eyes; I looked down at the desktop and took in a huge breath. Fuck... what an orgasm! I stood there, with my head hanging, but I finally lifted it. I couldn't look at Key, so I just looked at the wall and said, "Uh... I... need to... uh, freshen up."
"You already changed," Key objected. "I thought you were ready to go." Was he serious? Did he not just see me spontaneously cum in my pants, right in front of him? Because of his muscles? This guy was not for real.
"Uh... I was. But... I need to... uh... poop. Yeah, that's it. I need to poop."
He shrugged. "Well... okay." He sat down on his bed and made himself comfortable.
"I'll be just a sec," I said as I fished a new set of tighty-whities out of my drawer. Hopefully I wouldn't need to change my pants too.
And I didn't. We made it to the hall just in time. I found Greg, sitting alone--as usual--and fortunately, at his table there were three empty chairs next to him: One for me, and two for Key, because: big.
"Oh, hey," Greg said to both of us as we placed our trays on the table. I could tell he was taken aback by Key's presence. Keyshawn was indeed right when he picked up on the fact that Greg didn't like him. I kinda think Greg was jealous. But that's just me.
"Hey Greg," I said as Key and I sat down. "Guess what.... Key needed a dorm room. He's been living off-campus. So, well, they ended up assigning him to my room." I looked at Key and smiled, "We're roomies!"
I looked back at Greg, who was more than just a tad dubious. He frowned. To me (alone) he said softly, "How is that even possible, man? How is that...."
I shrugged and said, "Dunno. But we're going with the flow, dude."
Greg wore his suspicions on his sleeve, and I knew that when he and I got alone together he'd read me the riot act. But now... it was time for dinner.
Other people in the Dining Hall gawked while the tank-top-clad Mr. Stallion ate; Greg tried to maintain his manners (and barely did so), and I just enjoyed the muscles--and the oglers. A few dudes walked by and stopped to talk to him. I quickly got the impression that Key was quite used to this. He politely thanked them for their compliments, engaged their conversation, and answered their questions.
At one point a trio of dudes--whose bodies showed they definitely knew their way around a gym--came up and practically whipped out their cocks and started spraying him with their jizz. (Okay... slight exaggeration. But you get the idea. He got lots of props for his physique, okay?) Later, Key even flexed his arm for one brave soul who asked to see it. He nearly blasted the lights out with that peaked arm. I am totally, 100% serious when I tell you that I had never, ever seen a biceps peak that high. It split into two! You could totally see the distinct division between the two biceps muscle heads. He was one of the very rare bodybuilders who demonstrated exactly why they called it a BI-ceps.
I was in danger of coming again. Thankfully that first involuntary orgasm in my dorm over Key's muscles had been recent enough to tamp down a repeat performance so soon.
I was just blown away by Key's friendly demeanor with strangers. He was polite all the time.
After the crowd dispersed, Greg turned to Key and asked, "Do you get that a lot?" I could hear the snark in his voice, even though Key didn't show that he'd picked up on it.
Key said: "The people? You mean wanting to talk about bodybuilding?"
Talk about bodybuilding. The most supreme euphemism ever made up. Let's be honest: The admirers weren't interested in bodybuilding. They were, like me, interested in bodybuildERS. And this Black Stallion bodybuilder in particular. They just wanted to see his muscles flex so they could go home and spray their bathroom mirrors.
"Yeah," Greg said. "Do people come up to you a lot and want to talk? Just because you're so jacked?"
"Yeah, all the time."
"Really?" I asked. "Like how often?"
Key shrugged. "Dunno. A few times a day, I guess." He was humble--almost embarrassed by it.
"I suppose," Greg started, "that wearing a revealing, sleeveless shirt..." he nodded at Key's exposed, enormous, jacked shoulders and his mammoth, rippling arms, "...that shows off your body like that... makes more people take notice. You like that, don't you. The attention."
Fuck. I wanted to connect my shoe to Greg's shin, like he had done with mine earlier in the week.
But Key just chuckled. "To be honest, man, I found it doesn't really make a difference anymore. The looks and shit... they do it no matter what I wear: when I'm fully covered... when I'm wearing something like this... when I'm shirtless... it doesn't matter. So, truthfully, I just wear what I want now, depending on my mood." He shrugged again, indicating to Greg that his rude accusation hadn't phased him.
And can we just stop for a moment and discuss what it's like to see Keyshawn Tanner, in a tank top, shrug? Holy guacamole. It's like tectonic plates moving up and down, against each other. And also, just Key's mention of the word shirtless had made my cock jump. "Yeah," I said, "you're pretty hard to hide, I guess."
Key winked at me. He winked at me! Yes, he'd done that before, but now he kinda knew me, so....
Greg, apparently not impressed that he couldn't upset the big guy, pushed himself away from the table. "Well, I gotta get to my room and do some studying. See you, Ollie." He looked at Key and said, "See ya... Keyshawn." I got the distinct impression that Greg had come this close to not using Key's name at all, and instead, maybe using an irreverent tone to call him something like, Mr. Muscles, or Mr. Showoff. He certainly hadn't used "Key." Wouldn't want to confuse anyone into thinking that he and the muscle god were... friends.
Whatever. Greg, you're such a bitch. Go do your studying, dude.
Key and I glanced at each other and we exchanged smiles. Yeah, we both were getting the same impression about Greg now.
WE FINISHED DINNER AND WERE walking back to our room. I walked beside Key down the hall to our door, feeling about a million emotions: I felt small and inadequate next to him. I mean the guy was about a foot and a half taller than me, and easily weighed nearly twice as much as I did. I relished the glances and comments he got, and it made me feel cool and proud to be his friend--to know he chose me to be his friend. I felt hot from the heat that his muscles put off as I walked next to him. The man's metabolism must set records.
But the most overwhelming thing I felt right then was anticipation--mixed with a bit of fear, I suppose. I was about to go to sleep in the same room as this man who was better-built than anyone I'd ever even fantasized about. And that, quite possibly meant, that I'd see him strip down for bed... shirtless... naked? What did he sleep in? Could I sleep at all? Could I watch him take his clothes off without embarrassing myself? (Again?)
My mind was reeling.
"You okay?" He knew me too well. He could read me better than anyone ever had.
"Yeah. Why?"
"You're quiet again."
"Oh." I purposely didn't look over--and up--at him while we walked. "Sorry."
"Naw... don't be sorry, man," he said. "I just want you to be comfortable." We arrived at the door, and he said, "I get the idea that you might be a bit... intimidated. And I don't want you to feel that way."
I looked up at the beautiful mass of muscle and gave a wan smile. My eyes purposefully--so he could see it--moved all over his physique. "Intimidated? Why would you ever think that?" I cocked my head in mock curiosity.
His smile brightened the hallway by a jillion lumens. He put his hand on my shoulder and said softly. "You don't need to be nervous, Ollie. Okay? Just relax. I don't bite, alright?"
His reassurance didn't help. I pursed my lips and said, "Okay. But there's no way I'm not intimidated by you. I mean, who wouldn't be? I feel like an ant in your presence. I still don't know why you wanted to room with me--why you ever even noticed my existence in the first place. So yeah, I'm intimidated... and nervous. Honestly, you're overwhelming to me."
He fished his key out of his pocket and opened the door. He motioned to me, "After you," and I went in.
It was't even 7:00 yet, so... too early for bed.
"I should probably spend an hour or two studying," he said. "Is that alright with you?"
"No problem," I said. "Maybe I'll just put my headphones in and watch some YouTube shit on my iPad.
He nodded.
I pulled my iPad from the shelf and lay down on my bed. My head was propped up, giving me a perfect, unobstructed view of Keyshawn as he sat at his desk. This was nice. But he hadn't sat down at his desk yet. He was rummaging through his books, getting set up, standing--hovering--over his desk. He turned and looked at me. I pulled one of the pods out of my ear. "Yeah?"
"Um... well, I don't want to make you uncomfortable or anything... but... well... is it okay if I... take off my shirt while I study? I mean, if it's gonna be a problem for you, I can make do... but usually... well, I usually don't wear much clothing at all when I'm home alone in my room."
"Okay, first of all," I sat up and took out my other ear pod, "why on earth would it be a problem for me?"
He chuckled. "Well... dude. From the moment I first laid eyes on you in the library that day, your eyes have been surveying, assessing, measuring, touching, feeling, and ogling me... up and down... every which way but sideways." He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head in an, Am I right? kind of look.
I was grateful he hadn't mentioned that my eyes had also been having sex with him. I rolled my eyes and gave an, Okay, you got me there look.
"So yeah, I know how you feel, Ollie... just in case you were wondering," he smiled. Then his tone became serious... intentional. He spoke slowly: "I do know how you feel." He looked at me with a purpose in his gaze.
Fuck. He knew.
I needed to deflect. "And yet..." I raised my eyebrows, "you initiated moving in with me?"
One corner of his mouth slyly lifted and he said, "Yeah, well, when the right guy likes all the hard work I put in... yeah, I don't mind it."
"Okay... and second of all... this is now your room as much as it is mine. As long as you stay on your side of the invisible line that divides the room, you can do basically whatever you want."
"Oh?" He grinned and raised his eyebrows three times, quickly.
"As long as you respect the invisible line," I emphasized, putting my ear pods back in. I did not want this conversation to revert back to the seriousness of a few seconds ago. I purposely affixed my gaze onto my iPad and feigned watching it. Of course, my peripheral was locked on to what Key would do next.
Oh fuck. He started swiveling his hips and OhMyGawd the man knew how to move. Who knew that a man with those proportions could do that with his body?!
I couldn't help it. I looked up from my iPad: "What are you doing?"
He didn't stop gyrating; he just spread his hands wide while he swiveled those hips of his, closed his eyes, grinned, and said, "Respecting the invisible line, man. You said I could do anything I want on this side of the line, so...." He opened his eyes and smiled down on me while he danced.
I gave him another eye roll and got back to pretending to watch a video.
But then he stopped dancing. He stood still in front of his desk, facing me, and slowly--painfully slowly--started to take off his jeans.
Wait a minute. Didn't he say he was just gonna take off his shirt? What was with the jeans? Should I object? Yeah, right. Like I was gonna object.
His forearms and upper arms danced with insane vascularity while he undid his pants button and slowly unzipped them. He wasn't looking at me now; he was watching his gorgeous, muscular hands do their thing. Soon--but not soon enough--his fly was all the way open, and the bulge of his genital pouch spread the zipper apart as far as it could go. He tugged on things, and then kind of pulled that white pouch forward, so it just hung there, suspended in air in front of his crotch, hanging perilously over his zipper opening.
His beige tank top was still on.
He started in on fiddling with his books and laptop again, with that organ just hanging out (still concealed by the thin, white material of his underwear/thong thing). I couldn't see much of his underwear, so I don't know how skimpy it was, but it definitely wasn't boxers, or tighty-whities. Something more... brief. And it hugged his cock and balls like I wished I could do. And it was so prodigious that I marveled at how anything on this man might be regular-sized. Maybe his belly button?
He just moved around his side of the room like that, taunting me with his junk hanging-out there for God and everyone to see... in his pouch... just like it was normal behavior for him.
I made sure to keep my glances at him quick and concealed, but I knew in my heart of hearts (and one particular other organ) that I was not going to win the battle of wits with this muscle man... I would look. I would gawk. I would ogle. There was no way I couldn't.
Eventually he stopped his poking around and stood still again. He didn't look at me. He didn't have to, the jerk (and I mean that in the best-possible way). He knew exactly what he was doing. And he knew that I was incapable of looking away from him. He took in a big breath, and I watched while his magnificent chest expanded and then contracted.
Apparently, he was going to give up (hopefully merely postpone) the shedding of his jeans, because now he crossed his glorious arms and placed his hands at the bottom hem of his tank-top and slooooooowly started to lift it, at the front.
I had pretty-much abandoned the pretense of watching a movie, but when I did glance back at the screen on my lap, I realized it was hopeless anyway... my hands were shaking so much that the picture was blurry. I put the iPad down on the bed next to me, and removed my ear pods. I resigned myself to just overtly watching him. He knew I was watching anyway, so why pretend....
The bottom of his tank-top was up to the second row of abdominals now, and just fucking fuck! I could see the deep, deep gullies between each mounded ab muscle... and the man's lower torso was like nothing I'd ever seen! Individual bulges of ab muscles seemed to almost wave at me. They were like miniature, square loaves of bread. They expanded and shrank with his breaths; it was the most erotic thing ever to see such insane, fat-free definition on a man's abdominals. He lifted the shirt higher, and when he got to the overhang of his pecs, he had to wrestle with it a bit--no, not a bit... this would turn into a grand and monumental feat. It was at this point he glanced over at me again. He gave me an apologetic face... like... "It's so hard being this jacked, but whatcha gonna do?"
Apparently, he had to struggle with this all... the... flipping... time... you know? Such a problem... to have a chest so fucking expansive that you had to squirm and wrestle with your shirts to get them up and over the insane protrusion of your pectoral shelf! Shit. Must be a real nuisance, huh?
I watched with a dry mouth. Probably because it was hanging open. But I think we've already established that flaw concerning my self-control issues.
All during this epic battle to gain supremacy over those twin mounds of perfect manly pectoral gorgeousness, Keyshawn's immense, tempered-steel arms flexed, gyrated, grew, undulated, and struggled to get his reluctant shirt to stretch enough to pass over his phenomenally large chest. And when he finally did accomplish the task (and not without a few more twists and gyrations of that impossibly tiny waist of his--fuck... every microscopic movement the man did threatened to make me start speaking in tongues!) ...the shirt then got all caught in the vast breadth of his upper back. That tank-top was not giving up easily. Yet nor was Key's undefeatable body. Once he shimmied it up over those impossible lats, the shirt got stuck at his head, and for a moment I wondered if he might have to actually cut it off, like I had speculated to myself earlier.
The man was just so fucking wide and enormous that his clothes had to stretch to their limits in order to transit over all those muscles.
Stuck like this, with the tank-top hung up on his head, his face hidden, and his arms up in the air pulling on the fabric, I was treated to the most orgasmic view a person could possibly witness: Key's humongous shoulders, pecs, and wide back muscles narrowed down to his svelte waist, in a magical symphony of erotic splendor. His lats were vast; his serratus formed diagonal lines on the outer flanks of his ribcage. It was so freakin' amazing to watch his torso, so thick at the top, yet so mind-blowing-lean everywhere! The finger-like muscles above and to the outside of the abdominal columns pointed ever inward and downward, drawing the eye to the magnificence of those eye-watering abs, and lower, to the obliques--Oh god his obliques!--which repeated the inward diagonal theme, forcing the viewer's eyes lower, onto the waistline, where the most gorgeous, erotic, powerful display of a "V"-shaped Adonis Belt made me push on my crotch while I watched.
And while I watched... watched this scarcely credible display of manly, muscular virility, I just lay there... pushing on myself, praying to Hercules that this little tank-top disrobing would never, ever, ever come to a conclusion.
Finally, he got the thing up and over his head. And I quickly amended my prayer: Yes, Herc... now all I want to do is gaze at the raw, naked display of upper-body perfection that was now staring back at me. Forget the tank-top. Because now, as Key held the useless thing in one hand and just looked at me, I was staring at the most absolutely stunning work of art ever created--in all of galactic history.
"Uhhhhhnghh..." I heard coming from... somewhere. And then I realized that I myself had been the source of that uncontrollable groan.
Key tossed the tank-top--in slow motion, mind you--onto his mattress, and ignored my whimpering outburst over his bare upper body. He had struggled mightily to discard that shirt, and now he needed to catch his breath, thankyouverymuch. I just gaped at him, watching that breathtaking chest rise and fall, while just a bit lower, his rib cage and abdominals expanded and contracted with those powerful, sensual breaths, and lower, his tiny waistline poured everything into his unbuttoned jeans, like a pitcher of chocolate milk pouring its contents into a glass. He wasn't looking at me. He was staring off into space, as a person who had just won a foot race might do when recuperating.
I had never even considered that something so exquisite could exist.
He inhaled his deep breaths, and I suspected he took a bit longer than was necessary--for my benefit, I think. And holy gucking fod! The spectacle of muscular perfection on which I gazed was... simply... impossible. I would have shook my head in disbelief if I could have figured out how to do that. I had lost all ability to control the most basic of bodily functions.
And yes... that function as well. I felt the warmth surrounding my crotch and waist area. But this might not be what you're thinking. Earlier, when I'd seen him in the tank top before dinner--witnessing the un-covered shoulders and arms of the man--I had spontaneously come because of what my eyes saw... that was one thing. Now, though, I bypassed the orgasm altogether and went straight to wetting myself.
I kid you not.
Somewhere between his unzipping and his catching his breath, I had emptied my bladder without knowing it. The sheer mortification of that fact notwithstanding, I couldn't even figure out how that happened! I knew the why, obviously: Keyshawn Fucking Tanner. But how? How is it that I had lost all control and had unknowingly warmed my pants in this way?
The analytical part of my brain quickly gave way to the aforementioned mortification part, and I let my eyes roll into the back of my head while I pondered how in fuck I was going to recover from this most humiliating event.
For his part, despite the obvious darkening of my pants, Key paid me no mind. A real gentlemen, that man. It occurred to me that I might someday ask him about that: How many guys do you think you've caused to cream their pants, just because they looked at you? Do you think you've made many dudes actually wet themselves for the same reason? Of course, asking that question would require that I admit some stuff. And even though it was obvious, I didn't really want to go there... not yet.
I was racking my brain for how to order a plastic protector for my mattress. Did the university even provide those? Maybe I'd have to go to Amazon. Regardless, I was going to need to do something. If just looking at a shirtless Keyshawn was going to make me wet myself, I needed to plan.
Fuck, I'd probably already ruined the mattress under me. I should probably jump up and try to make sure my pee hadn't seeped through the bedspread, blankets, and sheet. But I was nowhere near being able to accomplish such a complicated task.
Key didn't give me too long to debate with myself. When my eyes rolled forward to their normal position, I saw that he had started....
Oh fucking hell.
I mean, it was the obvious next step in the progression: taking off his jeans. But only now did the reality of that maneuver slam into me. The man was fucking shimmying his pants down... over those impossibly-oversized legs. And with each shimmy, another inch or so of Black, jacked, rippling, quadriceps muscle was revealed. Left, then right... then left, then right... he worked one leg, then the other. He had to do it this way, because: no scissors. Duh.
If I thought the monumental labor he exerted with his tank-top was mind-boggling, it was obvious that that endeavor was just a prelude to... this. Key's legs were... well... titanic pillars of muscle. Thick, long, jacked, and in no way given to acquiescence, they were not going to let those jeans pass without a fight. Without a war.
For some reason, my mind brought up the fact that I had no more fluids to release. Yeah, it went there.
Keyshawn, seemingly oblivious to my own conundrum (how was I to survive this?) was intently working and twerking to get those tight jeans down over those grain silos.
I would have put some popcorn in the microwave if I had the presence of mind.
When he got to the very hardest, widest sticking point, Keyshawn stopped his efforts, stood tall, and took a few deep breaths. Again, totally ignorant of my plight (an assessment I would later reverse; the man fucking totally knew he was pithing my brain with his body) he inhaled and exhaled, repeating the erotic chest and ab show from before. He put his hands on his hips, regrouping, and... arms akimbo, he gazed up toward the ceiling. "Fuck," he whispered, mostly to himself. Then he looked at me and said, "I swear someone needs to put zippers on the sides of the legs of these things." He looked down at his jeans, seeming to assess the possibility of that idea.
The fucker. I'd later realize that much (but not all) of this was a show. Yes, he did have difficulty with this. But if he really needed to, he could have done all of this a tad faster. He just wanted to stir-fry my brain. The fucker.
"And ruin this show?" I said, waving up and down his physique.
He sneered at me with mock amusement.
With one big breath and exhale, he bent forward and got back to work. His stupendous arms were dizzying. Their size, vascularity, and rippling leanness made them look so powerful, I thought they'd do quite well at the fire station, filling in for the Jaws-of-life when the department's equipment broke down. Maybe they'd be able to get rid of those prying machines altogether. Seriously, as he pushed, left then right, and each arm's triceps flexed, protruded, and hardened into steel, he literally made me whimper a few more times. And I was way past trying to control it anymore. I envisioned those huge arms pulling metal apart like a can-opener.
Finally, he forrrrrrced the pants down to his knees.
Someone call 911. The dude was gonna be a doctor, right? If he wasn't careful, I was going to be his first patient. Bring me some oxygen. I need air. Water. Fire. All the elements. I need them all. Magnesium... Chromium... Uranium... Turmeric... Zinc.... All of `em. (Yes, I know one of those wasn't an element. But fuck man, my brain was on backup power, okay?)
Key's upper legs were mountains. No, scratch that... they were mountain ranges. Individual prominences, protrusions, projections, and swells jutted out and literally undulated... moving like molten lava--or like live snakes under his skin--making his quads surge and wave with unbelievable size, and just insane definition. And between these eruptions of muscle, cavernous, pronounced gorges of delineation showed off every individual expanse of sinew and power.
It was like nothing I'd ever comprehended as possible. I swear, this man had bigger muscles than Hercules and Samson combined... and less fat on his entire body than a single, skinless chicken. Literally, his skin was so fucking thin... like translucent plastic wrap over those bulging muscles.
I don't know when it happened--it's all a blur now--but at some point Key was able to push his jeans all the way down to the floor. He'd taken off his shoes earlier... so now, he stepped out of the jeans and stood before me, wearing only socks and that white, perfectly-proportioned, skimpy thong thing that hugged his essentials like it was custom made. And maybe it was. Wouldn't surprise me if it had to be.
He stood there, looking at me... looking at me try (in vain, mostly, I know) to take in the vastness, the glory, the mind-bending definition between all those bulging, growing, undulating, swelling-and-living muscles. And all of that size--size and beauty that exceeded all credulity--was centered on a tiny waistline and narrow hips that would have been comical if it hadn't been so fucking exquisite in its beauty.
He stared at me with a serious expression. Almost... not mean, but... stoic. I have no idea what he was trying to communicate. Well, he certainly didn't need to communicate anything. His body did the talking.
And--god's honest truth here--I had to wipe my eyes. Seems I had indeed found another source of fluid to express out of my body. Well, my pores were sweating buckets too, so... whatever.
Finally, his mouth formed a sly smile: "Whadaya think?" Fuck, he was devious, but he was also somewhat innocent, and maybe even a bit... vacant--on purpose, of course.
Shit. I needed to die. There was no reason for me to go on. I was looking at perfection, and there would be no life after Key.
[Chapter 4 is next.] -- -- -- --
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