The following story is a work of fiction, set in the format of reality. Any resemblance to real people is entirely coincidental in nature, and is not meant to accurately depict, nor reflect upon persons in towns, cities, or governmental areas, in which the story is staged. If a sexual scene involving male-to-male relationships offends you, then you should not read this story. Additionally, if you are under 18 years of age, in most state and countries, you are not allowed to read this story by law. This is fiction. Do not forget, in real life, to think about 'sexual safety matter'; got condom?
"Muscle Jocks For Domination " 02 wriTten by T. Chase McPhee
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Lying there in bed, the sun peeks through Steve's miniblinds, casting straight lines across his bare body.
"That time already?" He says to himself.
Picking his head up from the pillow, he looks down his body. His hand is still wrapped around his wilted stalk. From last night, his dark, blonde treasure trail, below his deep bellyhole, shows a few follicles standing up, but most of that tight trail is weighed down with pasty cum.
"Oh man, I hate that!" Steve exclaims, loosening the crusty, stale cum from his trail and pubes. "Oh well, no sense putting it off."
As Steve rises out of bed, he does a few, minor stretching exercises, right arm up, hand behind his head, left hand comes up to meet right elbow, then vice versa with the other arm, maintaining a tight ab wall with each set. Included are a couple of noisy yawns. He bends over, doing an `illegal' lunge, to each side of his body.
"Damn, if I didn't get so lazy and kept a wet cloth on my night table, I wouldn't have to worry about vacuuming up the cum-crusts every week."
Steve laughs to himself. Who's he trying to kid? The effort outweighs the strain of vacuuming a hundred times over!
Looking at the alarm clock, Steve moves his right arm behind his back, grabs his right wrist with his left hand, pulls up on his wrist and bends to the left.
"Oh shit! I gotta get moving or Fitzsimmons'll have my...."
Stopping short, on that thought, Steve's mind wanders to Anthony Bonomolo. His chat with Rick yesterday, his twenty-six year old bud, in the company gym really got his curiosity piqued. All the time he sashays to the jon, he's thinking about the rumors he's heard and whether they are fact.
"Hmm, I wonder if Anthony really does `work' work for Fitzsimmons after hours, or?"
After entering the shower, more thoughts come to mind. Whether actual or made up, it doesn't phase Steve. In the fantasy chamber, eyes closed, he begins to daydream, as his morning erection gets stroked. Picturing in his mind, in Fitzsimmon's office, Anthony enters. With his own aspirations to serve integrated, Steve imagines Ritzsimmons ordering Anthony to strip his clothes, calling out each article.
"The jacket, boy. Now the tie... shirt... undershirt... " a hand-stroke presses with each named item, "come here, boy," Steve imagines Fitzsimmons dictating, in a rough, masculine voice.
Somebody in another flat, must've flushed the toilet. The shower turns cold, rustling Steve out of his fantasy.
"Shit always happens, when it gets good!"
His complaint to himself subsides, along with his cock, as the cool water cascades down his body.
"Noooooooooo! Don't fail me now!" Steve whimpers, stroking frantically to keep his erection alive.
Turning the showerhead to the wall, Steve beats his shaft back into submission. Slowly it returns to it's hardening state.
"Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Oh yeaaaah. Got you hard again," He tells his 8.5c. "Yeah baby.. yeah baby..." Now, as a team, "Let's go for it!"
Even though pings of the water are hitting his body, Steve works up his mansweat, working furiously to bring his orgasm to fruition.
"Yeah! Yeaaaaaah! Yeaaaaah, take it, Anthony!"
Teetering between the now and fantasy, Steve strokes into the best jerk off, sending ropes of cum, his mind recording his own memories of Anthony standing there, bare-chested in Fitzsimmons' office, fingers tweaking nips, mashing them, crushing them as he twists Anthony's nubs.
"Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!" Steve calls out.
Hi s face to the wall, in place of moving the spraying water, to shower him, Steve gasps for air.
Coming out of his orgasmic feat, Steve kids to himself, "Could be worse without all that cardiac workup!"
Now realizing he's wasted an enormous amount of time, getting ready to head to the office, Steve jumps out of the shower. Half-dried, the towel goes along with him, into the bedroom. Shucking it onto an armchair, Steve neglects the long mirror, which normally he would do some flexing to a made up beat, as he casually danced, swinging his hips, as he donned his wardrobe.
Not today, as he flings open the closet door, exclaiming, "Oh shit! What am I going to wear?"
When in doubt, he thinks, go for the basic white. In haste, he skips the white tightey-tee and feeds his arms into the sleeves. From making too many of the same mistakes, Steve learned to start buttoning the shirt from the collar, down. The small interior affords Steve the power to reach the drawer handle of the dresser. Normally he would pick up the black, lowrise brief, examine the threads, even smell it, contrasting a fresh, washed scent with the end-of-the-day manscent. Quickly he pulls the briefs up his lightly haired legs, snapping the elastic way below his navel. He gives the treasure trail a little stroke with his fingers, as if petting man's best friend.
Whipping the dress slacks off the hanger, Steve jumps into them, zipping up, commenting, "So much easier when it's deflated!"
With socks on, dress shoes, any long tie that matches the brown suit and white shirt, Steve heads for the door. He stops at the little round mirror to fix his hair with his `natural comb', his hand.
"Damn! Forgot to shave.. oh, maybe nobody'll notice." Then Steve conforms to, "I'll play dumb!"
Into his car, Steve then notices that all that rushing around, skipping the shave, affords him the status to be on time. With the traffic more moderate than a normal commuting day, Steve decides to stop at the local donut shop he passes by each day.
"Ah, the gods are in my favor!" Steve proclaims, as he pulls into the empty parking lot.
Stepping out of his car, he enters the donut shop.
"May I help you?"
Whoa'! Steve says inside his brain, You sure can!' He makes an abbreviated assessment of the Indian youth behind the counter.
Tall, medium skin, black hair, sideburns, stache, rich bed of chest hair showing at the top of the v-neck, Steve definitely decides he needs help.
"Um, sure," Steve replies, deciding to make this the kid's big sale of the day. "I'll have a hazelnut coffee, a fat free blueberry muffin... no, make it a dozen...."
Before Steve can utter anything else, he watches the Indian kid speed into action at the coffee machine.
"How would you like that, sir?"
"Like what?" Steve asks back, by now semi into la-la-sexland.
"Your coffee sir? Milk, cream?"
"Milk. Fat-free if you have it, please."
With his order intact, on the counter, the young kid begins summing it up on his register. Steve then notices he gazes around the shop, already thinking, `what's up?'.
"Um, I hope you don't think I'm being forward, sir, but your shirt...um..."
"My shirt? What about it?"
"The buttons near your beltline."
Steve looks down.
As he notices what the Indian kid is referring to, the youth answers, "You've got it buttoned wrong."
"No way!" Steve says to himself.
Holding the tail of his necktie up, pinioned between his chin and chest, Steve fingers the buttons. Then he realizes he's not in his bedroom at home and maybe should be doing this in a private place. He stops and looks backwards, at the door.
"It's okay. It's a slow morning. Nobody's around. I'll let you know if somebody is coming. Go ahead. Fix yourself."
"Hey, thanks. It would save me time running to the jon and back."
"No problem, mister."
In order to resurrect the problem, it necessitates Steve to take hold of his shirt, stretching it a bit out of his pants. Without his tightey-whitie tee shirt on and his beltline below his bellyhole, his medium blonde-to-brown treasure trail is well visible against the white skin. As Steve is fixing himself, he gazes up, seeing the youth follow every detail. At first it was a quickie glance, but then as subsequent glances follow, Steve notices the Indian kid `staring' at his progress. He stops, just as he's ready to button up, covering his flesh.
"Um, you like?" Steve asks.
Flushing, more white than a red embarrassed look, the kid replies, "You work out?"
`Oldest trick in the book,' Steve thinks. Maybe Steve was expecting more, but accepted whatever the kid offered.
"Yeah. Does it show?"
But Steve gets an extra kick when he hears from the youth's lips, "Oh, much more than that shows, mister!"
Then recounting his thoughts, the youth dummies up.
"Oh, sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have said that, but..."
"No, it's okay. You can say that. Um, what is it that you like?"
"Like?"
"Hee hee... yeah, you see, folks might think I'm bonkers, but I have this fetish for.. well, I don't normally tell people this, let alone strangers..."
Reaching over the counter, the Indian kid extends his right hand, replying, "If we introduce ourselves, then we won't be strangers. My name is Raavi Omparkash"
Lifting his head, dropping the tie down, as his head bobs up, the reply follows with a smile, "Steve Kestner. Nice to meet you, um did you say Ravy?"
"Yes. Raavi. My parents added an extra a' to my name. Normally it's spelled with one a', but they chose to be different."
"I see. Hey, the time. I've got to be going, Raavi. Nice to meet you."
"But wait, Steve."
Looking on the counter, to spot if he forgot anything, he waits.
"I forget something?" He replies, with the capped coffee cup and dozen bagged muffins in hand.
"Yes, you forgot to tell me what your fetish is?"
"Oh that, hee hee..."
Just then, the little bell above the door rings, as another patron enters.
In a subdued tone, Raavi says, "I'd still like to hear about it, Steve. I get off at four. What time do you?"
"Hmm, if I ever get there, but I leave the office at three."
"Great. Um, would I be too forward in asking you for a lift home? I don't own a car."
As Steve left the donut shop, he thanked his lucky stars more than once!
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Continued.....
Copyright 2006 T. Chase McPhee This story may not be sold or made part of any collection without prior written permission.