I'm very excited to be part of the Nifty archive! If you enjoy reading Nifty as much as I'm enjoying telling my story, please make a donation to the website: http://donate.nifty.org/
This is my first story ever, and I welcome feedback from other subs like me, or from doms who have something to teach us. I will respectfully respond to any and all messages. Humbly, Danny. mrkonigssub@gmail.com
Yesterday, after beginning my journal as ordered, I got dressed for my training session with Mr. Stark.
Getting dressed for the gym is a ritual I've come to take great pride and pleasure in, knowing that each item I wear is a gift and an order from Mr. Konig, my Sir. On my neatly made bed I laid out a swimmer-cut jockstrap, a black stringer tank, grey rugby shorts, and crew socks. My cock was still half-hard from thinking about the previous night's party as I pulled the jock up my thighs. "I like for you to wear jocks, boy," my Sir once told me. "They present your ass as a gift to the men of the world." Sir is right, of course. As I arranged my tingling bulge in the jock's pouch, my bubble butt felt framed and lifted, and my cock stirred a little more at the idea of my hole on display. I slid the grey rugby shorts on next. The cut of them showed off my swelling thighs, and lifted my package up and out even more. Next came the black stringer-cut tank, that hugged my waist but let my lats spread out from the t-back, and the skinny straps in front curved from my traps along my pecs and showed my nipples when I moved my arms. I earned the tank when got my chest measurement to 46 inches, and I wear the reward like a knight wears his armour, swelling with pride at the body I'd been building for my Sir's pleasure. I reached down and felt my meaty chest and rubbed my nipples, sending electric sparks through my muscleboy body. "Fuuuuuck" I moaned as played with myself. I was horny and ready to put my body to work. I sat on the bed and slid the crew socks on, then, for a quick moment, laid back with my legs spread wide in the air. "You're a good boy, a good whore," I thought to myself, smiling. I hopped down from the bed and opened the bottom drawer of my little dresser. My leather drawer.
Other than my cuff, which I never take off my right wrist, my most prized possession is a pair of black leather combat boots. Given to me after my first year of service to Mr. Konig, the handsome boots are thick, heavy black leather that I keep cleaned and polished, per my Sir's instructions. I slipped my feet into them and pulled my crew socks up so the tops showed, then laced the black leather strings to the last eyelets. The way they hug my feet, calves and shins makes me feet powerful and protected. The smell of the leather, their weight as I walk, and the black satin sheen make my balls stir. I tied them in double knots and gave my room once last check to make sure it was up to shape, then headed out the service door behind the kitchen and out the alley to the main street.
It was sunny and dry as I turned down the street that led to the gym, about a mile's walk from Mr. Konig's house. The sun felt good on my skin, and I could feel my muscles moving as I strutted over to the sunny side of the avenue. In a few blocks I passed the entrance to campus, where I was a student six years ago. I should write "student." After failing two semesters in a row, I dropped out of school and started hustling instead, go-go dancing in the local gay bars and doing "privates" afterwards, hooking up with customers who wanted a different kind of show. Hustling became my only weekend pastime. I was a lost boy back then, partying too much, with no direction and no real plan for where my life was going. I became a loner, having wet dollar bills stuffed into my thong or getting my cock sucked for money by strangers.
I'd been a skinny teenager, but in college I'd become buff. My build was the only area of my college life where something went right. I didn't like my classes, but I'd loved the university weight room, pumping iron and cruising in the showers afterwards. When I finally dropped out, I was denied access to the school gym and the pleasures it brought me, and I felt even more lost. I couldn't afford the private gyms in town, and I had to make due with pushups and sit-ups in my dingy apartment. I stayed in shape enough to be a stripper and to hustle, but I couldn't train like I wanted.
I looked up and saw a couple of hot-looking frat boys, all-american types in college jerseys, heading along the sidewalk. As they passed they eyed me up and down, smirking. It was a look I have been growing used to: a mix of envy and mockery. Whether they could admit it to themselves or not, I knew these young men admired my body. I was now muscular in a way even straight men envied. Mr. Konig had seen to that, arranging for my training and facilitating my growth. I looked like a young bodybuilder now. I also looked like a whore. My clothes were slutty and body-conscious, and I drew stares wherever I went. My ass and my bulge, my pecs and nips, my biceps and thighs were all presented in a way that said "Come Fuck Me." Mr. Konig had seen to that, too. "You're a whore," he told me one night. "You'll dress the part." I made eye contact with the college boys and smiled as I passed. Maybe one of them would jack off after class, thinking about fucking the muscle guy he passed on the way to school. You never know.
I turned left down the alley that lead to the gym. Up head I saw the heavy steel door with the big "MM" logo bolted to it.
Masters of Muscle was one of the gyms I used to wish I could join back when I was broke. The back alley weight room is owned by Mr. Stark, a former competitive bodybuilder, now private trainer and coach to some of the hottest men I'd ever seen--including Mr. Stark himself.
The gym was painted black, with heavy iron equipment and old-school weights. No machines or fancy lighting here, just heavy gear and hard lifting in one-on-one sessions with men who loved training. Masters of Muscle felt like a kinky playroom for bodybuilders.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw the shaved head and broad back of my trainer by the bench press. He was wearing lifting singlet, and the sweep of his powerful back and the mounds of muscled ass inside the tight spandex made my pulse quicken. To my surprise, two other men were in the gym with him: a handsome, hairy daddy with a thick brown mustache and trim beard, and a thick muscle boy, a little bigger and a little older looking than me. I was struck by the boy's neck. I was almost as wide as his head, and encircled by a heavy metal chain.
"You're early, Danny," Mr. Stark said, and reached out a beefy hand to clap me on the shoulder. "Danny, this is Mr. Burns, my old lifting partner, and his boy Carlos."
"Nice to meet you both," I said as I took in the sight of Mr. Burns's massive, furry chest, with dark hair leading down to waistband, and Carlos's pronounced bulge. Both men were shirtless, and wearing only gym tights.
"We've been doing some heavy chest work," said Mr. Burns, smiling and panting. "Right, Carlos?" Carlos simply nodded at the hot daddy.
"I can tell!" I said, taking another good look at the hot men. I guessed Mr. Burns to be in his mid-forties, and the boy in his later twenties. I looked at Carlos. He had amazing pecs. Tanned and hairless, his skin was shiny with sweat. "What's your bench?" I asked, admiring him.
Carlos blushed and looked at Mr. Burns.
Mr. Burns stepped in, "Carlos lost his speaking privileges for the month. But he can press 405 on a good day," he said, and put his hand firmly on the boy's collared neck. "Right, boy?" Carlos nodded silently, then looked at the floor. Mr. Burns continued, "Put our weights away, Carlos. Danny, good to meet you. Train hard today."
I smiled at the hot daddy. "I will, sir!"
Silently, Carlos began putting the weights away, and Mr. Burns headed toward the showers.
"Legs day, Danny," Mr. Stark said, and we headed to the squat room.
I turned to get once last look at Mr. Burns strutting into the locker room, and Carlos clearing the bench press. Fuck, they were both so hot!
When we alone in the squat room Mr. Stark leaned against the black cinderblock, looked me and said, "Flex your quads, Danny"
I hit a front pose, my hands behind my head, abs contracted, right leg out and flexed. I tried to make my legs look as big as possible.
"Not bad, but you need more quad sweep to match that beefy butt of yours," he said, eyeing me up and down. "Load up that squat rack. 225 for now. I'll be right back."
I was putting the last plate on the bar when Mr. Stark returned with Carlos behind him. "We're going to need an extra spotter today, and since Carlos is on hand, he'll be helping us out."
I loved the idea of the thick stud joining me for my session. He was still shirtless, and I got another glimpse of the bulge in his gym tights.
"Okay, Danny, get to work."
Mr. Stark put me through a grueling series of squats, all the while he and Carlos stood on ether side of the bar as I went up and down, grunting. I wanted to impress the quiet stud and my trainer alike, so I pushed through as he barked out the counts.
"Three, two... one more! Good, boy." When I'd finished the last rep, the two muscle men helped me rack the bar.
"I want you to do one last set, Danny. But you need to go deeper. Take your shorts off."
I did as I was told, a jolt of excitement shooting through me as I peeled off my tight shorts. I caught a glimpse of Carlos checking out my ass, swollen from the squats and framed by the jockstrap. "Your tank too, boy. I want you to have a full range of motion."
In nothing but my jock and combat boots I stood under the bar and began my final set. I squatted a deep as I could, so low my balls almost touched the gym floor. I began to struggle on my last rep, and Mr. Stark barked to Carlos, "Spot from the front, Carlos, and I'll steady him."
Carlos stepped in front of me as I strained to lift the bar. His meaty crotch was at my eye level. Mr. Stark squatted down behind me, his hands on my sides, and leaned in so close could feel his spandex-clad cock pressing against my ass. "C'mon, boy," he growled in my ear, "I got you. You can do this."
I powered through, rising up slowly but steady, my eyes running up Carlos's beefy body and Mr. Stark pressing into me. I made it to the top and my coach helped me rack the bar for the last time.
"Good boy, Danny," he said, slapping my swollen butt. "Carlos, thank you."
The handsome boy smiled, nodded, and strutted out of the room. Mr. Stark reached down and squeezed my naked thigh.
"You're making great progress, Danny. I know Greg thinks so, too." It always shook me when I heard my Sir's first name, as I was only allowed to call him Sir or Mr. Konig. I was also stirred by the touch of my coach's big hands. "Let's see that flex one more time."
I posed for my coach, only this time I was stripped to a jock and sweaty. Straining to flex as hard as possible, I could feel my muscles quaking and my cock leaking precum. Mr. Stark eyed me up and down. He stepped behind me and wrapped his massive arms around my chest, with my hands above my head, flexing my abs. He began to tweet my nips, and I could feel my cock get harder.
"Good boy. Exhale."
I released the pose, exhausted. Mr. Stark dropped his hands, turned, and started to leave the room. "C'mon, boy, follow me."
He walked over to the locker room, like a buff Marine on a mission. I followed, wondering if we were doing another exercise, hoping Carlos and Mr. Burns might still be hanging out in the gym.
"You need to recover," Mr. Stark said, opening the locker room door for me. "It's time for some protein."