Booty Text from a Muscle Bitch

A booty text dropped on my phone from a musclehead I’d met at the Olympia Fitness and Performance Weekend in Vegas last month. “In Boston.” was all it said. One magnificent sweaty gun, flexed, with a tuft of sweaty dripping pit hair was the photo he included.

From where I live outside of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, it’s over an hour into Boston at the best time. Winters add ten or fifteen minutes to that. But there I was mesmerized by that huge ball of rock-hard muscle —— and the memories of a month ago in Vegas.

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Back in the present.

My Rod was stiff and leaking looking at the photo Jack texted and remembering the first part of our Vegas hook-up. I texted back: “If that hole is still as tight as it was a month ago boy then I’ll stretch it out for you!”

“Yes, Sir!” was his text back almost immediately. He followed with his hotel, room, and how long he’d be in town.

My text back was terse. “You’ll travel here. Advise ETA.” I gave him my address.

It was a quick wait. “Uber in 5. Heading down. ETA an hour and eleven minutes.”

Guess he was going prepped, I thought. I hadn’t showered since the gym because their hot water was out and I had just got home when his text came up on my

Screen. I was ripe. Lucky muscle bitch!

I took a look around my house. Then another because nothing seemed out of place or needing attention. Then I said fuck it and went into my bedroom and stripped off my workout gear except for my stinking jock strap.

The wait for Jack to arrive passed quickly in spite of him being forty minutes late. The snow and ice were brutal. I hoped he would tip the Uber driver well. He texted apologies and location three times before I told him to just relax and I’d see him when he got there.

When he knocked on my door it was firm and manly-sounding. No joke, it turned me on. I opened the door to his tall stature, pink cheeks from the cold, a very trendy wool car coat and scarf, and a bulge tenting in his pants.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, looking me up and down. “Thank you, Sir, for having me,” he said formally.

I laughed. “I haven’t had you yet! Get the fuck inside. My balls are icing up.”

He laughed and came in and immediately kicked off his shoes by the door. Then he turned and offered his hand to shake.

I looked down at his hand and then up at him. “Are you selling insurance, or are you here to get a load of brotein up that tight cunt of yours?” He looked uncertain and dropped his hand. Then I reached out and pulled him into a hug. “Come here, ya dumb muscle jock!”

He threw his big muscular arms around me, and I hugged his cold coat and smelled his neck. Nothing but sweat, wool and soap. No cologne. Good boy.

“Thank you, sir,” he said into my neck.

“You’ll show your appreciation for my hospitality soon enough. Like now actually. Strip and pose for me.”

His face lit up. “Fuck yes! Sir!”

I noticed for the first time that he had a backpack he’d been carrying by a strap. He dropped that and shrugged off his coat and was going to drop it when I pointed to the hall coat closet. He went there to hang it, and I walked into my great room and took a seat in my one Biedermeier chair and spread my knees wide with my feet planted far apart.

The chair isn’t that comfortable, but it’s the only one positioned with a clear view to the hall closet. His ass and upper body inside his fitted shirt was a sight to savor. My butt sweat was probably ruining the fabric seat, but priorities!

Jack had his coat and scarf put away and turned to see me sitting at the far end of the great room. He grinned as he stalked toward me like he was hunting. He continued until his knees touched mine. Each of his feet planted inside my spread.

I wanted to enjoy him stripping. But I also wanted to keep him guessing. I reached out and rubbed his thighs with each of my hands. “Flex!” I ordered and his already hard thighs went to defined mounds of his magnificent quads in my grasp. I rubbed up and down and allowed my thumbs to pass near enough to his pea-sized balls that his breathing missed its cadence.

His muscularity was awesome. His man-parts not so much. I suspected roid effect had caused shrinkage but I hadn’t asked him when we met in Vegas. What did I care? It was his muscles I was after — notably his tight pussy muscles.

He was breathing heavier. The outline of his small hard-on was pulsing ever so slightly. I let my thumb brush it and he shivered and I thought his knees might buckle.

“Sir, I might —“

I rubbed the palm of my hand over his hard-on and then ground into it.

“Oh fuck, Sir!”

He threw his head back as his body trembled, and he locked his hands behind his head. His huge guns were displayed and stole all my attention.

“Sir, I’m — SIR!”

I realized I hadn’t stopped grinding the heel of my hand against his hard dicklet until his body shook harder and he shouted. It was too late. The muscle bitch contorted his face and let out a loud, low moan.

“Aaaahhhhhhh! Oooooh! Fuckkkkkkk!” and a spot appeared on his crotch and then grew with each spasm of his body.

I reached and got hold of his entire package somehow and squeezed until his whole body was doubled over and he was supporting himself by his hands on the chair arms. “You ask for permission first!” I growled.

“Yes, Sir!” he panted. “Sorry, Sir. But fairly speaking you — “

I used my free hand to grab his neck. “Did you come all the out here to be a disobedient little bitch and to be thrown out in the snow to ride back with wet pants? Is that what you’re here for?”

“No, Sir!” he strongly said with a bit of choking. “Sir, what you do to me —“

“Get those soiled clothes off!” I cut him off and let go of his neck with is bit of a push.

His face went from distress to a smirk. “Yes, Sir!” I let the smirk pass and sat back.

Jack’s muscles under his form-fitting polo shirt and tightly-tailored khakis were not only mesmerizing they were tantalizing. I almost told him to hurry the fuck up as he hopped on first one foot and then the other to get his socks off and the to unbuckle and open his slacks. He looked me directly in the eyes and zipped down to reveal his gooey jockstrap pouch, then slowly pushed his slacks down over his thickly muscles thighs until they fell to the ground by his ankles. Still looking at my eyes I was taking every muscled mound of his legs from his meager bulge to the taper from his calves down.

Jack’s hairy feet were beautifully constructed if not huge (like mine). Da Vinci could not have done better had these been his Vitruvian Man model. I allowed myself to settle my eyes on them again and felt the pump in my crotch.

“Would Sir like me to continue?” he asked and it broke my thoughts.

I gave a “continue” motion with my hand and he did. Instead of pulling off his shirts, which I now knew were the long sleeve stylish olive v-neck over a white of some sort underneath, he slowly pulled his jock strap down until it, like his slacks, fell freely past his knees to his ankles and stepped out of it. This time though he lifted the fallen garment with his toe and offered it to me with his foot nearly touching my face.

The heady aroma of his cum in what was clearly a well-seasoned jockstrap was better than poppers. My Rod throbbed and leaked as I sat. Add to that the tensed muscles of both his legs as he balanced on one foot and left his left leg extended and I was simmering just below a boil.

I let the muscle bitch hold that pose until he was beginning to strain. Then finally reached up and took the cum-soaked jockstrap and dropped it to the fireplace mantle beside me. A flash of disappointment crossed his face then he quickly reset before his foot was again planted on my floor.

Jack’s roid-degraded dicklet and pea-sized balls were the only degrading aspect to the sight of his chiseled naked lower body. His thick but shortened bush was an offset and bolstered his masculinity. Sorry if it’s not PC (but I’m not), but I enjoy a big dick on a man when there’s a choice.

Jack didn’t ask for permission to remove his shirts, and the real show began. His perfectly-struck abs undulated as he revealed more and more, huge slabs of pecs danced as he pulled them up and over his head, finally revealing the magnificent guns and forearms.

Fluidly he struck a double-gun pose and dropped his shirt as if it was part of the choreography. He went through a series of poses now completely naked and showing every ripple of sinew and mound of muscle. My breathing quickened and my saliva pooled and caused me to swallow heavily a few times.

After watching Jack masterfully cycle through what seemed like a neverending series of poses I finally freed my erection from its strangled position in my distended jockstrap pouch. The muscle boy’s eyes widened along with a smile as he enjoyed my emerging member. I didn’t dare touch myself when my protruding rod steadied after a few bounces or I might spray him with my load. I had plans to deposit that not douse him.

“May I assist, Sir?” Jack asked and waited. I had a moment’s consideration to snap back for him to be clear what he was asking, but those guns! I nodded, and he stepped forward and then knelt down in front of me. Gently he spread my knees farther and leaned down until I could feel his breath on my big nuts and hear him inhale. “Mmmmmmm. Thank you, Sir!”

“It’s not going to suck itself,” I told him and tried not to laugh at the bargain basement porn dialogue.

Jack did laugh, a deep chuckle that for whatever reason was as arousing as the sight of his broad back and golden gate  shoulders. He looked up at me and grinned.  “Thanks for making it fun, Sir.”

Before the moment could become too sentimental he engulfed my cock and swallowed it. His nose hit my bush and his throat strained and massaged my head and some of my shaft.

“Oh fuck!” It was involuntary. The feel of his well-trained mouth and throat was just so good.

“Mmmmrrrmmssssshhhhhmmmmnnnghsss,” he groaned around me. My head took the buzz of his attempt at vocalizing like a lightning rod and the charge jolted my balls and then made my body jerk.

The muscle bitch repeated his growl, and the same effect in my electrified body caused me to grab and clutch the antique chair’s arms hard enough that I thought I might break it. Then Jack brought one hand to my sac and began to massage my big, heavy balls the way he’d learned in Vegas drove me wild. And then to add to my extreme stimulation he reached up and rubbed up my abs, over my left pec and found my nipple and flicked and then squeezed and twisted it.

“Oh fucking hell!” I cried out like a high school virgin being deflowered.

The muscle bitch was going for broke. Those lips, his thick tongue, that throat. He was bobbing up and down with long strokes that had me soaring up. His tit and ball-work was rough enough to have me straining to recite NFL player and game statistics in my head to stay the build-up.

When Jack tugged on my sac that was the trigger pulled. “Awwww fuck I can’t hold back much more!”

“Gfrrrrrrrrmmmmm,” he sucked even harder and increased the intensity of his growls each time he bobbed down and forced my fat dickhead into his throat.

My world burst into bright colors and stars and I could feel like every inch of distance the jettisoned travel of my sperm from my balls up through the length of my cock and into the muscle bitch’s vibrating throat. “GGGGNGGGG!” he gulped as I blasted what felt like a magnum-sized load.

Shot after shot pumped and pulsed through me. Jack hummed and gulped and kept working me with his mouth, throat and both hands until I was screaming and jumping. Finally I had no choice but to shove him my his shoulders, get a knee up on his chest to help and finally my foot on some muscle of his and shove him off me.

The muscle bitch fell back laughing and grinning. Not a drop of my baby batter had escaped his mouth. He held my look for a few and then collapsed back and let out a long, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh,” followed by, “Thank you, Sir!”

I broke character. “Should be me thanking you, Jack. That could very well be the best blowjob I’ve ever had. I know this much; it’s the fastest I’ve cum since I was about twenty! Sorry about that.”

He propped himself on his elbows and gave me another sight worthy of a Michaelangelo-worthy pose of his muscles from neck to ankles. “I know you’re good for plenty more, Sir,” he deadpanned and winked.

I certainly was. Jack stayed for through the full following day and overnight again until he had to leave early that third morning to get back to Boston for the meeting which had brought him near to me.  He happily accompanied me to the gyms I trained in and his muscles were as well-pumped for the duration of his visit as was his butt.  Me, my balls ached from being drained and then demanded for more.  I can’t think of any way or position I didn’t fuck that magnificently tight ass of his or enjoy his muscles and our mixed sweat.

Yet I was left hornier than when he arrived with my libido raging and protesting the necessary return to a more usual satisfaction cadence and methods.