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.

You know how they say, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas”? I’m about to violate that sacrosanct covenant.

Remembering Jack the muscle bitch.

A month ago it was typically frigid cold out, many of my clients reduce their sessions in that week before Christmas to concentrate on holiday preparations and I needed a break. A bud of mine who has a muscle targeted supplements store had planned better and had a room at the Venetian for when the Olympia Fitness and Performance Weekend was being held there. He’d got me interested in it earlier last year when he came back with stories of forty or fifty thousand mostly men, mostly muscled, mostly into muscle in one place. The stories he’d told had us both hard but he and I don’t swing that way, so we sent a couple of booty texts and got ourselves a muscle bitch to help us out.

Afterward he’d asked if I wanted to go to the next one. He’d even take care of the registration if I’d wear his store gear and promote his online business he had started. We’d agreed to split the convention discount room with him IF I could get cheap air, neither of which came with his invitation. He looked it up while we sat there still smelling of sex with the muscle bitch and found us air fare cheaper than an Uber to Logan for the flight!

Now as I think about it I should write about the Las Vegas Uber driver we had some five-star service from and then some, if you know what I mean.

The Las Vegas experience wasn’t what I had expected exactly. It was a full-blown trade show with less accent on muscle exhibition than I would have preferred. I am not knocking it and will go with Don again this year if he offers.

One of the Weider models caught my eye in particular. Against their type he was tall and showed hairy arms, pits and the part of his pecs that were visible from his tank tops. I caught his eye too and got wide and inviting smiles from him when we passed one another.

“That stud wants you,” Don nudged me after we’d run into him walking to the exhibit hall.

“I wish!” was my comeback with a laugh.

“Bud, he did everything but drop to his knees,” Don joked.

“I must have missed all that,” I joked and gave Don’s well-developed shoulder a push.

“He’s not wrong,” I heard from a familiar voice behind us. I turned so suddenly in our walking that the Weider stud plowed right into me. Damn was he solid. And DAMN did he smell GOOD.

“Excuse me the clumsiness!” he apologized unnecessarily. I just stood there dumbfounded. I have great gaydar with the “is he interested” upgrade and I’d missed it. He one firm hand on my chest and his other firmly wrapped around my upper arm. Both were hot as blazes. His piercing brown eyes with green highlights blazes as well. “You okay, Stan?”

Using my name took me off guard too. Then I remembered my convention type badge. “I’m okay. And I’m sorry. It was my fault.” I finally scanned his name tag and said, “Jack.”

His hand felt my hard bicep and tricep and he grinned without either of us taking a step back. His hand on my chest also made a rub over my pec and caught my nipple which went right to my balls. I’m sure my breathing was loud.

“I’m glad,” he said still grinning. “Not just that you’re okay but also that it was your fault.” He winked and my dick was inflating.

Don had stopped walking and stood a few steps away. “I’m going on in. I have a meeting set-up. You really don’t need to be down here for anything I had planned for a couple of hours, actually until a late lunch at three,” he said not subtly. Then said, “I won’t be up to the room before that.” If that wasn’t enough he added, to Jack, “He’s a tough one to please, but my guess is you have what it takes to satisfy Stan.” His grin was more of a smirk and he raised and lowered his eyebrows twice when he looked back at me when he walked away.

I turned back to Jack, feeling flushed. I knew I had to be blushing. “He’s —“

“A great wingman?”

Jack’s deep voice was smooth and oh so full of suggestion. It made me shiver.

“That too,” I answered.

We stood there like that grinning at each other until it got awkward for him apparently. “So,” he said and waited.

I won’t say I was entirely comfortable that my buddy had basically brokered my hookup with this muscle-head. But my dick was telling me not to mess-up the opportunity. That switch in my brain flipped.

“You think you’re man enough?” I asked him in a low voice.

“Yes, Sir, I hope to be!” he answered without hesitation. He also emphasized the “sir” which told me all I needed to know.

“Venezia tower,” I told him.

“Lead the way, Sir,” he said unnecessarily, as I had already started walking.

To him behind me I said, “No get in front of me. That way I can watch your ass all the way there and enjoy what I’ll be using when we get there.”

“My pleasure, sir,” he answered, already passing me.

Good choice on my part. His slacks were well-tailored for his very well-developed glutes. The bounce of each with his steps was mesmerizing, and six murders and a forest fire could have been going on along our path and I wouldn’t have noticed.

We got on the elevator with several other people but were first and at the back. I reached down and rubbed his butt-cheek and pressed my middle finger into his crack and found his hole. He hummed a note of satisfaction and moved a little to grind into my probing digit. The elevator was too fast though and despite four stops before my floor we were there too soon.

I gave Jack’s butt a push but didn’t remove my hand as we left the elevator. He didn’t resist nor did he mention what the people still in the elevator thought.

We walked the hall like dancers side by side, me leading by my hand on his ass. When we got to my door I realized the card key was in the wrong pocket and I had to use the hand on his ass to get it. Rookie mistake!

Once inside I walked directly past the muscle-head who’d stopped just inside the door. I took a seat in an easy chair with my back to the window. “Strip and show me what ya got.”

“Yes, Sir!” he agreed eagerly and stepped up close in front of where I was sitting.

Without ever breaking eye contact he slowly removed his badge and tossed it onto a desk near his side. Then he pulled up his tank and then pulled it over his head and more carefully laid it over the back of the desk chair, only briefly looking away from me for long enough to lay out the shirt.

Jack’s upper body had obviously been perfectly honed and steroid-enhanced as obviously as his exposed arms and shoulders and the muscles of his torso straining the tank. But the reveal make by breathing stop for a moment. Short dark chest hair across massive muscle-tits then tapered downward with the drastic taper of his v-shape to his tight waist. A very hard looking six-pack and the beginnings of his cum gutters were included in the muscles that danced for me as he moved. The glimpse of dense hair in his pits had my balls churning. Too many body builders shave who don’t even compete. To say I like my men to look like men to the greatest degree would still be an understatement.

Jack unbuckled his belt and then unbuttoned his slacks. When he went for his zipper I stopped him. “Shoes and socks first!” I ordered sharply.

“Sir!” he quickly agreed.

Jack uneasily bent and pulled one foot up and unlaced the knot in his dress shoe, pulled it off stumbling just enough to need to steady himself on the desk and then carefully set it on the floor. He then pulled his sock off and let it fall into his shoe. I enjoyed the sight of his naked wide foot with dark hair down to his ankle above it.

When the muscle man had both shoes and socks aligned on the floor he stood again in magnificent muscular splendor facing me. “Shall I continue now, Sir?”

“Guns. Show me,” I told him.

The musclehead struck a double gun flex which made my dick jump.  He rotated his wrists and the sinew and muscles in his forearms, biceps and delts undulated.  His thick neck showed every artery.  I realized I was rubbing my tight crotch only after he had.

Jack began to cycle through additional poses showing-off his magnificent upper body.  Arms up, down, one up and the other down, flexing his dramatic pecs and then turning his abs into an animated washboard, rotating at his tiny waist.

Somewhere in there I’d opened my pants and freed my straining hardon.  Had I not I feared damage from its bent confinement.   Jack’s eyes were wide when he saw my size and his eyes met mine with a moment’s hesitation.  Then that passed as his attention maintained my eye contact while he continued showing-off.

If his pants were bothering him he showed no sign of it.  He had begun swiveling, bending and lowering himself, and his pants showed themselves to be of a fabric which accommodated the strain.  It also showed the definition of his quads to an effect which had my dick snot flowing freely down my thick veined shaft.

“Pants,” I prompted him.

The muscle head’s show was briefly suspended as he complied.  He was quick and efficient and folded his slacks and bikini briefs (no judgement!) neatly as he had his shirt.  In a blink he was fully exposed and posing again.

In that blink he became a muscle boy in my eyes.  His dick was small to the point of potential distraction and his balls were far from that, more like peas in an oversized sac.  The muscles he had so carefully cultivated recaptured my attention with no effort.

“Turn,” I told him.

Again he complied immediately.  His back was vast and a study in symmetric perfection.  His legs from butt to ankle were promising of an energetic hold on my waist or aggressive bucking back into my fuck.  His feet were disproportionately small for his stature and drew my notice to his hands and fingers which mirrored the proportion.  He could use both on my rod when the time came.

Jack’s muscles were mesmerizing as he continued to cycle through poses and flexes. But my hard rod needed more.

“You have me worked-up, boy!”

In a break from his pose cycle Jack bent over from his waist, grabbed his coconut-sized calves and stuck his head through his spread legs to grin at me.  “I certainly hope I am, Sir,” he told me.

His beautiful hole was darker surrounding his pink opening.  No bleaching for this muscle bitch!  And his magnificent glutes, his strained forearms, his hams — my balls were on fire.

I got up from the east chair and shed my slacks and kicked off my shoes all into a careless heap. My jock strap was wet and gooey from the volume of my pre when I roughly pulled it aside to free my rod. I took another step and a half and jammed my head against his puckered intake port and smeared my juice against his resistance.

“Condom, sir?”

“You want this cock or don’t you, boy?”

“Sir, I — “

“YES or NO, boy?” I snarled and pushed into him harder.

He didn’t answer with words.  He took a breath, I felt his pucker push toward me and then he pushed back with his butt onto me. “Holy shit,” he hissed.

I stood my ground and allowed him to push himself at his own pace. I didn’t have to wait. After the initial push and the flash of searing heat engulfing my helmet, Jack let forth another long moan as he pushed back steadily until his butt was tangling my pubes by grinding into me.

“Dude! That’s one big fucking cock on you.” I waited a beat and then he was back. “Sir.”

I couldn’t wait any longer. I planted a hand at his waist and another on his shoulder, and I began a withdraw and then an insertion. He cursed continuously as his tight hole gripped the length of my throbbing rod. From my side it felt like I might lose some skin but clearly he didn’t mind so why should I?

It wasn’t long until we were both grunting like boars, rutting hard and fast, sounds of sweaty flesh smacking clapping as background. His hole’s enjoyment was shown in the messy juices my Rod was churning inside him along with my pre which was flowing. He was still tight as hell and I wanted to ask him when the last time his hole was used if I remembered afterward.

“Fuck you’re huge!” the muscle bitch huffed as he rammed back into my thrusts.

“You’re tighter than an otter’s pocket!” I replied. The phrase was once said by an army mate referring to a very tight ass he’d used.

“When did you last fuck an otter?” he shot back and I felt him clench harder on me and caused my head to nearly pop out. It also caused my balls to start the blast-off sequence.

“Who gives a shit? I’m going to fill you full of my babies in about a minute.”

“I fucking want your baby batter, Sir!”

“Oh fuckkkkk here it — “ I couldn’t finish because it seized me and I went rigid with my rod planted deep. Lights flashed behind my eyes as the dam broke inside me. I was blasting so hard my body spasmed.

“That’s it, daddy! Pump me full! Oh fuck yeah,” the muscle boy yelled.

I came down slowly and gradually. When I went to pull out he said, “Please, Sir!” and clenched hard. I felt some of my cum and his ass juice pushed out when he did it and it sluices over my sac.

“It’ll take me some time,” I told him.

“Is that a promise, Sir, that there’s another where that came from?”

He let me pull out without answering. But he pounced on my softening member and went at the job of cleaning me up with intent to do more than that.

“Good boy,” I told him and looked at my watch. There were hours before I had to meet Don downstairs.

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.