FRICTION FICTION: MR COLLEGIATE by Greg Nero (1981)

[monshanjik]

ART BY HARRY BUSH

MR. COLLEGIATE

By Greg Nero

(Numbers.May.1981)

PART ONE​

"We're mighty proud to have an award winning bodybuilder training at The
Adonis," boasted the gym manager, for something like the third time in
ten minutes, as he finished filling out the last of the forms. The award
winning bodybuilder was all he had talked about since Brett signed up
and, impressive though the guy might be, he was starting to get on
Brett's nerves.

Not that Brett didn't get off on bodybuilders, far from it, he creamed
his jeans every time he passed a set of sharp, defined muscles. But this
award winning number sounded just too good to be true. And if he was
true, then what was the point in hearing about him because he'd either
be super straight or already busy with a long string of guys?

"Yup, even though he's still a senior and could train on campus, Chuck
comes here. Says it's too crowded on campus. Says there's too many of
them cocksuckers in the showers."

That did it. "Yeah, got to watch out for those cocksuckers," agreed
Brett, trying to keep a solemn face. "Them cocksuckers are everywhere!"

"Remember what I told you," snapped the manager. "Don't get in Chuck's
way and don't do anything to get him mad. He really takes his training
seriously and he doesn't like people disturbing him. I've seen him get
real nasty if he thinks someone is goofing around."

Brett picked up his gym bag and headed for the locker room, grumbling to
himself, "All this hassle just to lift a few weights. Maybe I should try
the gym on campus."

"My advice is don't even look at him when you're in there!"

Ticked off by the lecture, a slow fuse burned within Brett as he changed
into jock, shorts, T-shirt and sneakers. "Some guy wins one rinky-dink,
two bit state muscle contest and everyone treats him like he's God's
gift to bodybuilding."

He yanked the door to the weight room open, spoiling for a fight, and
snorted, "All I can say is he better look damn good!"

Standing just inside, hands on his hips, Brett slowly peered around the
cavernous room. What with all the old barbells, dumbbells and black
rubber mats strewn about, the gym looked more like a medieval torture
chamber than a place to stay in shape. But, then, that was one of the
reasons Brett decided to join The Adonis in the first place. It wasn't
like one of those sterile uptown health clubs with plush carpeting and
racks of shiny chrome weights. It had some character, a kind of gruff,
ballsy charm; a real man's gym. Just the place for a twenty two year old
stud to keep his sleek, head-turning physique in top form.

"Okay, so where is this Mr. Collegiate, who I'm supposed to avoid like
the plague?" Brett knew it was only nine thirty in the morning, but he
hadn't expected the place to be deserted. He cursed his new job for
making him workout so early, thus missing all the hunks who exercised at
night.

Catching a glimpse of a white T-shirt, his eyes locked on a moving form.
But, no, it was only a mousey executive type, who looked like he'd get a
hernia bending over to tie his shoes.

"Well, it's definitely not him," Brett sniffed, watching as the man
stumbled nervously among the weight racks looking for something he could
handle.

"Oh, Mr. Collegiate! Come out, come out, wherever you are!" Just then,
out the corner of his eye, Brett caught sight of moving skin and turned
for a better look.

"Oh, fuck!" Brett's smug grin slipped off his face, his mouth went dry
and thousands of butterflies took off in his stomach. After whistling
softly, he nodded and sighed, "Now, there is a bodybuilder!"

Brett and Chuck were about the same height and from there on they were
as different as night and day. Where Brett had dark hair and brown eyes,
Chuck was blond and blue eyed; where Brett gave the impression of a
lithe, agile gazelle, Chuck immediately conjured up visions of a massive
Bengal tiger.

Massive was certainly the word to describe Chuck. He must have weighed
at least 200 pounds, maybe 210. And all of it solid muscle. It was
incredible how much he had packed on that frame of his. Mind-boggling.

At that moment Chuck was doing curls with about a hundred pounds so
intensely that he looked like a man possessed. The effort of pumping
heavy iron showed in his pain wracked face, in his contorted muscles
flushed with oxygen enriched blood and by the gallons of sweat pouring
off his body. His ragged T-shirt and shorts clung so snugly they were
like a second skin and did little to hide the development beneath them.

That development didn't stop with hard, rippling muscles, either. Even
from a distance, Brett could clearly see that Chuck's jock was having a
tough time containing the swollen meat in its pouch and he could only
guess at how big the thing was fully erect after going through some
pumping of its own. He had a feeling that Chuck's cock would be in
perfect proportion with the rest of his body, a real prize winner. Just
thinking about the possibilities gave Brett a surging hard on.

With a grunt, Chuck finished his set and dropped the barbell to the
mats. If he was pleased with himself, he sure didn't look it. In fact,
he looked like he was in one very bad mood.

"What the hell are you staring at, faggot?"

Brett was caught so much by surprise that he didn't realize at first
that Chuck was yelling at the mousey executive and not at him.

"1 catch you watching me one more time, faggot, and I'll rearrange that
face of yours! You got that?"

"Oh, geez," groaned Brett. "The guy's a redneck. Well, so much for ever
getting it on with him. If there's one thing I do not need, it's having
my face rearranged."

The mousey executive must have thought the same thing. As fast as he
could without actually running, he picked up his towel and made for the
door, followed all the way out by Chuck's scowling gaze. It never
occurred to Brett that he was going to be standing in Chuck's line of
vision until — BAM! — Chuck had him in those flashing, angry eyes of
his.

"Oh oh." Brett felt his knees start to buckle and tried a quick smile to
show that he was the friendly type. Then, before Chuck could say
anything threatening, he hurriedly walked over to a distant corner and
started doing pushups.

All the while he did those pushups Brett could feel Chuck's eyes boring
into him, trying to reach right into the deepest part of his brain,
wondering who he was and what he was doing there. It wasn't until he
heard the weights clanging in the other corner again that Brett was able
to get his breathing anywhere near back to normal. He wasn't easily
scared, but his first meet-ing with Chuck had been downright unnerving!

Brett went to the gym every second morning after that and, to his
amazement, Chuck remained as surly as ever. Even after a week, the first
thing Chuck did when Brett entered was snarl. Oh, not right to Brett's
face, but Brett knew the snarl was for his benefit anyway. The first
couple of times the snarl really got to him and he half expected Chuck
to physically attack but, after he got used to it, he simply ignored the
greeting, smiled a "hello" of his own, and started in on his warm ups.
He did toy with the idea of snarling back, just to see what would
happen, but he never had the guts when the time came to do it. What
became even more frustrating for Brett was knowing that, just as he was
interested in Chuck, Chuck was at least mildly curious about him. Right
from the first day they fell into a ritual of trying to watch the other
without getting caught. The "Sneak-a-Peek Ritual," Brett called it.
Easier said than done, he found out.

Brett soon learned that the easiest way to sneak a peek was by
pretending to look at himself in one of the wall mirrors, then using the
mirror to see what Chuck was up to. Even that method wasn't foolproof,
though, because nine times out often he'd end up catching Chuck trying
to sneak a peek of his own. When that happened, Brett couldn't help but
grin at him, as if to say, "Gotcha!" even though he knew doing it only
antagonized Chuck further.

All the games were driving Brett up the wall. It was ridiculous trying
to pretend someone he was interested in didn't exist, so he decided the
time had come for a little more direct action. He began leaving the
protection of his own corner and using equipment all around the gym,
even if what he wanted happened to be right next to Chuck.

The first time he walked near the muscle stud to get an extra weight,
Brett was sure he saw Chuck clench his fists. He dismissed the incident
by telling himself, "The guy may be a redneck, but he wouldn't really
hit me just because 1 walked near him."

But when Brett saw the fists involuntarily clench a second time, his
eyes widened and he mumbled, "Maybe he would hit me."

Near the end of Brett's workout that same morning it happened that both
he and Chuck stopped for a rest only ten feet apart. They leaned stiffly
against the wall and stared straight ahead, both pretending the other
person wasn't there, both obvious in his discomfort.

Deciding on a frontal attack, his heart pounding in his ears, Brett took
a deep breath and casually said, "Man, if it gets any hotter in here,
we're going to start frying."

Without acknowledging Brett directly, Chuck replied sarcastically, "If
you don't like it, you can always leave."

"I didn't say anything about leaving," smirked Brett. "I just said it
was hot."

Chuck pushed himself off the wall and snarled, "1 don't talk when I'm
working out, asshole." Picking up a barbell, he turned his back and
started doing curls.

Fuming, Brett finished his workout in half the time without once
bothering to look at Chuck.

When he finished, Brett let the weight drop to the floor with a
deafening crash and stomped angrily to the locker room. With his hand on
the door knob, he paused to collect himself and put a big smile on his
lips. He turned, looked Chuck right in the eye — he knew Chuck would be
watching him — and in his happiest, cheeriest voice called out, "I'll be
seeing you, stud!"

Chuck stopped dead in the middle of a rep. "What the fuck did you call
me?"

"And the name's Brett, stud. Call me asshole again and I'll rearrange
your face!" Without giving Chuck a chance to reply Brett gave a wave of
his hand and walked out.

Two days later, Brett was back. From the minute he walked in he felt
Chuck's glaring eyes on him, following his every move, watching his
every step. Chuck looked like he'd been chewing a mouthful of nails
since their last encounter. Happy, he was not.

Still in a feisty mood of his own, though, Brett really didn't give a
damn. In fact, deep down, he kind of liked the attention. "At least he's
not ignoring me," he kidded himself.

An hour into his workout, while pausing for a rest, Brett couldn't
resist looking over to where Chuck was working on the bench press. There
must have been at least two hundred and fifty pounds on the bar as Chuck
raised it effortlessly from his chest eight times in rapid succession.

"Damn, he's impressive!"

Racking the weight, Chuck stood and walked over to a mirror, where he
stripped off his T-shirt and stood relaxed before his reflection,
cataloging every plus and minus in his physique. As far as Brett was
concerned, Chuck had no minuses. He would have taken him "as is" without
a second thought.

Chuck's pumped muscles rippled slightly as he casually shifted his
weight from one foot to the other. He didn't yet have the huge size and
hardened density that older, more experienced builders possess, but
everything there was clearly defined and in perfect proportion. Each
muscle had been carefully carved so that it was not only shapely and
well formed but also flowed smoothly into the next, thereby creating the
perfect whole. Chuck was nothing short of a Greek statue come to life.

Seemingly satisfied with himself relaxed, Chuck whipped through a few
poses to check his flexed musculature. Front double biceps, side chest,
abdominal crunch, lats from the front. He looked good, very good.

It was at that point that Brett noticed the bulge in Chuck's jock was
bigger than usual — and growing. In fact, it was a miracle how that
jockstrap was staying in one piece at all, what with that slab of meat
straining against it. Brett couldn't help smiling at the impossible
thought of Chuck freeing the engorged flesh and letting it go through a
posing routine of its own.

"What the fuck are you staring at, faggot?" Chuck had turned and was
facing Brett from a distance of thirty feet, fists clenched.

Brett's first reaction was to lie through his teeth and say he wasn't
staring at anything but, surprising even himself, he calmly answered,
"You."

Chuck's hands went to his hips. "Why?"

Not flinching for a second, like a gunfighter staring down his opponent,
Brett replied, "Because I think you're one hell of a bodybuilder."

Chuck studied Brett a long time before idly scratching his chest and
saying, "Is that right? You really get off on muscles, huh? I'll bet you
suck cock, too."

Brett nodded. "Yup. Anytime you want to give me a try, just drop your
jock."

The sneer melted off Chuck's face. He stood there for something like
thirty seconds, looking lost and confused until, finally, pulling
himself together, he quickly glanced about to make sure no one else had
heard and then growled, "If 1 wasn't in the middle of my workout,
faggot, I might take you up on that."

With that, Chuck grabbed his T-shirt and walked back to his usual comer.
He still had his famous scowl but, somewhere along the way, he had lost
his swagger.

Brett heaved a deep sigh of relief. "I have got to stop living
dangerously."

Deciding it was time to make a tactical retreat, Brett picked up his
gear and headed for the locker room. At the door he stopped and turned
to face Chuck. "About the blow job. There's no hurry, it's a standing
offer."

Motionless, Chuck returned Brett's gaze for a long time without
betraying any of his own emotions. Then, just as it looked like the mask
might start cracking, he broke contact, mumbled a quick, "Go fuck
yourself," and slid onto the bench for more presses.

Muttering a soft, "Damn," Brett pushed the locker room door open and
walked out.

Waking up Monday morning, the idea of lifting weights didn't appeal to
Brett at all. In fact, just thinking about barbells caused his stomach
to turn. But then, his stomach had been turning all weekend. It was the
party after work Saturday night that had done it. Between busting out
with new friends and trying to down his unrequited love for Chuck, Brett
went out of his way to get smashed. It didn't take long, and he had a
lot of fun doing it, but he sure paid for it the next day.

Sunday, Brett didn't even try getting out of bed until late afternoon
and, when he did, on the first attempt he got only as far as the
bathroom. As for eating, the mere thought of food gave him the dry
heaves. "So this is life in the fast lane," he'd tell himself each time
his stomach rumbled ominously.

No, it wasn't the desire to pump iron that got Brett to The Adonis
Monday morning. It was his determination not to go through another day
without seeing Chuck. He figured he'd visit the gym, watch Chuck a
while, go through the motions of a workout, then call in sick and
collapse. "Oh, the things 1 do for that guy," Brett murmured.

Striding out of the locker room into the heat of the gym, Brett took one
look at Chuck working out in the far corner and knew the effort getting
there had been worth it. With his muscles pumped, his bronzed skin
glistening with perspiration and his form fitting shorts straining at
the crotch, Chuck was a Herculean fantasy come to life.

"Hmmmm, you can kick sand in my face anytime," whistled Brett, already
feeling ten times better.

When Chuck looked over and gave his usual scowl, Brett waved and called
out, "Morning, stud!"

"One of these days I really will beat the shit out of you!" roared
Chuck, pausing with about three hundred pounds on his shoulders just
long enough to deliver his warning.

"Promises, promises," sighed Brett, making his way to his usual warm up
spot. He was so glad he'd kept his gym appointment, he really was
feeling better. In rapid succession, he did thirty pushups and fifty
situps.

It must have been the situps. Brett barely finished the last one when
the room suddenly started spinning and myriads of tiny flashbulbs popped
in front of his eyes. For a second he thought he was going to throw up
but, mercifully, the churning in his stomach subsided after a few
seconds. "Guess there's nothing there," he shrugged.

As soon as he could, Brett gingerly crawled to the nearest wall and
leaned back against the rough concrete. Wrapping his arms around his
knees, he closed his eyes to wait out the storm and moaned, "This is
definitely un-cool."

"Brett?"

It wasn't so much the voice as the gentle squeeze of his shoulder that
made Brett open his eyes and slowly lift his head. He was surprised to
find Chuck squatting in front of him with concern written all over that
handsome, tanned face of his. Brett gave a weak smile. "Hi."

"Hey, you alright?" Gone was the hard, threatening snarl.

"Just a little rough around the edges. Too much vino Saturday night.
I'll be alright." Brett tried his best to sound convincing. Not that he
wasn't touched at the attention Chuck was unexpectedly giving him, but
he was embarrassed at the reason for that attention.

Chuck's eyes probed deeper. "You sure?"

Slowly nodding his head, Brett smiled again. "Positive."

Chuck got up, walked over to his gym bag and rummaged around in it for a
moment. Returning, he tossed an orange in Brett's lap and said, "Eat
that, the Vitamin C will do you good."

Then, before Brett could say anything, Chuck pointed a finger at him and
snapped, "When you've finished it, get your ass out of here and into bed
until you're feeling better! You hear me?"

Striding back to his corner, Chuck shook his head and grumbled, "Shit,
the things I have to put up with around here."

"Hey, Chuck!"

The muscle stud stopped and, looking royally pissed off, slowly turned
to face Brett. "What?"

"Thanks."

Chuck didn't say a word. But the longer he stood there staring into
Brett's eyes, the more his scowl disappeared and the more a shy, boyish
smile began taking its place. Before it got too big, though, Chuck
realized what was happening to him, looked down at his hands and
mumbled, "Yeah, well, that's okay." Hesitantly, he turned and made his
getaway.

"Gotcha," sighed Brett.

-------------------------

Thanks to original poster in Yahoo! gaymagazinefiction group!

Enjoy

 

[monshanjik]

PART TWO
( conclusion )​

Brett was not only back to feeling his normal, chipper self, he was
flying high! It was like his whole world had lit up with brass bands and
a sky full of singing birds. The only thing he could think of all the
time he was away was getting back to The Adonis — back to Chuck — his
Chuck.

Chuck, the guy he thought of every day. Chuck, the hunky stud he dreamed
of every night: Chuck, who came on like a mean son of a bitch, but whom
Brett now knew was warm, caring and feeling. Churk was the man Brett had
been searching for all his life, the man he could spend the rest of
eternity with. Now, all he had to do was convince Chuck of the same
thing.

Brett was practically delirious by the time he changed into his gym
clothes and ran toward the weight room door. He’d been having a long
discussion with himself about whether to be obvious and call out,
"Cumming, stud!" when he saw him, or to be low key and say a simple
"Hi, there." For a second he wished he knew exactly what kind of mood
Chuck was in that morning, but then decided it didn’t matter because he
liked him no matter what mood he was in.

Deciding to go with the "Morning, stud!" Brett stepped eagerly into the
weight room and looked about for his man. Catching sight of Chuck, he
froze dead in his tracks, paralyzed. It was as if an invisible hand had
slapped him hard across the face, leaving him stunned and gasping for
breath. Unable to stop them, tears started welling in his eyes. "Oh, no!
. . . No! . . ."

There was Chuck, laughing and joking and having a great old time with a
bodybuilder Brett had never seen before. Who was he? Where had he come
from? What was he doing there now?

The stranger was about the same size as Chuck, but had nowhere near the
same amount of density or definition. While he didn't possess Chuck's
All-American good looks, he did have a strong animal magnetism that
Brett knew could be powerfully attractive. And, damnit if it didn't look
like Chuck had been attracted.

Chuck had just finished a set of donkey raises for his calves and stood
hunched over, waiting for the muscular stranger to slide down off his
butt. Maybe, just maybe, Brett could have accepted the fact that the guy
was only a friend helping Chuck with his workout. But, then, to watch as
the stranger guided his crotch along the crack of Chuck's ass and give
him a long, lingering pat on the buns . . . no, it was just too obvious!

It had never occurred to Brett for a second that Chuck might have any
sort of life outside the gym, that he might have any close friends or —
worst of all — a lover. But the way that stud draped his arm over
Chuck's shoulder as they talked told Brett all he needed to know.

Brett was about to turn and walk out when Chuck caught sight of him and,
smiling broadly, gave a nod of his head. The stranger quickly twisted
round to see who had entered, smirked, and motioned a "Who's he?" to
Chuck.

Perhaps it was the stranger's smirk that snapped Brett back to reality
but, in a bid to prove to himself and the two bodybuilders that he
didn't give a damn about them or what they'd been doing together, he
nodded back and grimly walked to his own corner.

Brett tried to bury himself in his workout, to channel his frustration
and hurt into pumping as much iron as he could. He vowed to beat his
anguish senseless, even if it meant killing himself in the process, but
the more iron he lifted the tighter his emotions knotted and twisted.
Try as he might, he couldn't get the image of Chuck and "that guy"
together out of his mind.

He didn't have to watch them to know they were petting and stroking each
other as they went through their workout, he could imagine just how
friendly they were getting as they helped one another with their posing
routines, and he knew damn well that a hand went down to pat ass every
time an "Atta, boy," echoed through the air. It was all so fucking
galling! Brett didn't know whether to go over and try beating Chuck to a
pulp or bang his own head into the wall for being so blind and stupid!

Hearing Chuck and the stranger saying their good-byes and telling each
other how much they enjoyed working out together sent Brett into a
flurry of exercising. His muscles were sore and knotted like his
stomach, but he wasn't going to let on he'd been affected by what had
happened in the far corner.

It was only when the stranger called out at last, "See you soon, stud,"
that Brett almost lost control and looked up. Catching himself, he
plowed on with renewed intensity.

Then they were alone. The minutes dragged by and still no sound came
from Chuck's corner. "What the hell is he doing?" fumed Brett. Curiosity
was making his skin crawl but he wouldn't allow himself a look, not even
a quick peek.

More minutes ticked by — still no sound.

Turning to add more weight to the barbell, Brett couldn't help himself
and glanced over to see what Chuck was doing. To his chagrin, he saw
Chuck leaning against a rack watching him. To his even greater
annoyance, Chuck smiled and winked at him. Clenching his teeth, Brett
found the weight he wanted and went back to his barbell.

Cheerfully, Chuck asked, "Hey, how are you today? Ain't going to throw
up, or any-thing, are you?"

Pausing just long enough to reply Brett snarled, "You don't have to
worry about me. I'm just fine."

"Yeah, so I see. You work that barbell any harder, buddy-boy, and you'll
do yourself an injury."

Maintaining his momentum, Brett glared straight ahead and grunted, "Fuck
off."

Stung, Chuck waited in puzzled silence until Brett stopped to take a
breather. Quickly moving closer, he pulled off his T-shirt, struck a
pose that looked something like a discus thrower, and called out, "Hey,
Brett! Brett! What do you think about this one? You think I should use
it at the Jr. Mr. State?"

Brett shrugged and looked away. "I don't care."

Chuck became more insistent. "No, come on, tell me!"

"Why ask me? What do I know?" snapped Brett. "Your friend with the
muscles would be a better person to ask."

Chuck fell out of his pose and stared blankly at Brett. "My friend with
the . . . ? Oh, you mean Marty."

"We were both in the Mr. Collegiate. I know him, but I wouldn't call him
a friend. He was here pumping me for training information."

Wide-eyed, Brett wheeled around and was about to roar, "That ain't all
it looked like he was pumping you for!" When he stopped himself, bit his
lip and turned back to the wall.

Chuck was over to Brett in a flash, clamped a hand on his shoulder and
spun him around. "What the hell is going on here?"

Brett made an exaggerated gesture of surprise and let out a loud whoop.
"Wow, this really is an occasion! The great Mr. Collegiate had deigned
to interrupt one of his all important workouts to come and fraternize
with one of the gym's little people! Well, thanks a bunch, Mr.
Collegiate!"

"What the fuck is eating you?"

"Please notice, folks, the friendly way Mr. Collegiate carries on a
conversation! With all the charm and tact of a Mack truck hitting a
brick wall at 60 miles an hour, he asks, 'What the fuck is eating you?'
That's what I like about you, Chuck, you're so damn blunt."

"So what's wrong with being blunt?"

"Oh, nothing at all! Hey, I'm into blunt. I like blunt! Some people,
like your friend, they're into laughing and joking around and having a
good time. But me? No, I come here to get my dose of blunt!"

"YOU'RE REALLY ASKING FOR IT, BRETT!"

Throwing up his hands, Brett shouted back, "Hell, I've been asking for
it for a long time, Chuck, but it seems I can't match the competition!
For weeks now I've tried to get to know you and all I got for my
troubles were snarls. But, one pat on the ass from Marty, and you turn
to jelly! I had my chance and I blew it — no pun intended! So, as they
say, to the victor goes the spoils. See you around, Chuck!"

Tirade over, Brett grabbed his gym bag and ran to the locker room, where
he stripped off in something like two seconds flat. He was heading for
the showers when Chuck came charging through the door like a mad bull
and caught him by the arms.

"What the hell is all this talk about victor and spoils? Do you think I
want to get it on with Marty?"

"BINGO!" exclaimed Brett, fighting to hold back the tears. "Give the man
a kew-pie doll!"

Chuck's face twisted in frustration and he wailed, "I don't want Marty!
I can't stand him, I hate his guts! You're the guy I want! You're the
only guy I want! I've wanted you for a long time!"

"Sure you have!" Brett cried.

Without another word, Chuck drew Brett to him and covered his mouth with
his own, in a hard, passionate kiss. As the intensity of the long denied
contact grew, he wrapped his arms tightly about Brett and forced his
tongue deep into Brett's mouth, exploring each ridge and curve so
intensely that he soon had Brett raised to a fever pitch.

Chuck suddenly broke the kiss and, panting heavily, looked imploringly
into Brett's eyes. "There, now do you believe me? Now do you believe I
want you? Do you want more proof? I'll give you proof!"

Letting go of Brett, Chuck yanked down his shorts and jockstrap and
tossed them aside. He straightened to his full height and stood
anxiously stroking his nine inches of erect cock. "You want proof?" he
asked breathlessly. "I'll give you proof."

Grabbing Brett's hands, Chuck pulled them to his engorged shaft and
wrapped them around it. "You want it? It's all yours. You can have it
anytime, anywhere you want! Just say the word and it's yours, all
yours!"

Overwhelmed, Brett didn't know what to say. Finally recovering his
senses, he threw his arms around Chuck and planted a hard kiss on the
trembling, waiting mouth. How long he stayed like that, Brett didn't
know. Time and space melted in the excitement of being in Chuck's arms
at last. He wanted Chuck so bad. He wanted all of Chuck.

From his mouth, Brett left a trail of wet kisses down Chuck's neck and
over the broad expanse of his chest. He paid particular attention to
nibbling and licking the hard, dime-sized nipples and was soon rewarded
by Chuck's loud groans of delight.

Between impassioned gasps, Chuck began pleading with Brett and pushing
down on his head. "My cock! Suck my cock! My dick is so hot it's going
to explode! You gotta . . . you gotta blow me! Please, please blow me!"

Happy to oblige, Brett got down on his knees and pounced on the massive,
steaming cock rising before him. Unable to take the whole thing in his
mouth at once, he pumped as much of it in and out as he could.

Brett couldn't get enough of that pulsing column! He went into a frenzy
as the huge silky smooth knob slid along the roof of his mouth to the
curve of his throat while the throbbing shaft stretched his lips far
apart with its width. It was truly a cock fitting Chuck's muscular
proportions and Brett had it right where he wanted it.

"Oh, shit!" moaned Chuck, rolling his head from side to side in a futile
attempt to try and contain himself. "I can't hold off much . . . I'm
coming! I'm . . . !"

Brett felt the welling surge of Chuck's cock, the tight clench of his
buns and then his mouth was blasted with what seemed like gallons of
searing, sticky . Rivers of it. Rivers of the sweetest tasting
Brett had ever swallowed. It was like honey! It was like . . . like
nothing he'd ever tasted before and yet like everything he knew it would
be. It was fantastic!

Shuddering, Chuck dropped to his knees and gave Brett a long,
passion-fanned kiss. Then, between light kisses over Brett's face and
chest, he panted, "Brett, that was so good, the greatest! But you can't
stop now! You can't stop, I won't let you. You got to finish what you
started. I'm burning! I'm on fire and you're the only one who can put me
out!"

Sliding his hands wildly down the muscular chords of Chuck's shoulders
and back, Brett reached Chuck's sweaty, sculpted buns and kneaded them
like dough. "How? What do you want me to do? Tell me! Quick, tell me!"

"My ass," moaned Chuck. "You gotta fuck me up the ass!" Falling on his
back, Chuck spread his arms along the floor for support and lifted his
legs over his chest to give Brett an unobstructed path. "Hurry I'm hot!
I'm on fire! Quick, fill my asshole with your cock!"

How long had Brett hoped and prayed for that very moment! Quickly lubing
his seven inches with a gob of spit, Brett slid over and pressed the
head of his cock against the tight puckered rosebud. Grabbing Chuck
about the waist, he took a deep breath and slowly pulled himself into
the hot, tight asshole.

Chuck groaned and chewed his lower lip on the first assault but was soon
rocking his head, grinding his hips and moaning loudly as Brett got into
his rhythm.

Pumping like a piston, Brett's aching cock rammed Chuck's butt with a
mind of its own. Racing headlong to a climax, it went crazy each time
the skin stretched tight along its length and gave yet another sharp tug
to the cirsized knob spearheading the assault. It was a hot plunger
on its way to an atomic detonation, with all systems shouting, "Go!"

BOOM! A fiery explosion went off in Brett's scrotum, searing his balls
and sending gobs of hot semen rushing up his shaft. Crying out, he
arched his spine for a second then began a frenzied attack to satisfy
his cock's insistent carnal craving for ass. Only by thrusting his cock
right up Chuck's chute and leaving a gallon of behind would Brett be
able to rest peaceful again.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" screamed Chuck, feeling his insides going sticky with
Brett's sizzling jism. "Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!"

Brett threw his head back and let out a deep-throated moan as his
volcanic-like eruption ran its full course.

Physically exhausted, his man-juice spent, Brett gingerly eased his
still hard cock out the slick, steaming asshole and collapsed onto
Chuck's broad chest. He couldn't have been more content than at that
moment, snuggling happy and secure against his sweat drenched bed of
sculpted muscle. It was all a dream, being with Chuck like that, a dream
come true. He was in heaven.

Wrapping him in his strong arms, Chuck smiled and kissed Brett lightly
on the lips. "What more can I do to prove that you're the one I want?
Anything. Name it."

"Just hold me," whispered Brett.

"I'll hold you forever," replied Chuck, grasping Brett even more
tightly. "Now, get that Marty crap out of your head, you hear me? You're
the only person I'm interested in!"

Brett smiled back sheepishly. "I hear you."

"Good. I may be a little slow in showing it, but once I make up my mind
I want something — or somebody — I never stop until I get it. I want
you, Brett. In and out of the gym. I want you beside me when I win the
Mr. America and I want to be the guy I come home to at night. Got that?"

"I got it, Chuck."

There was a deafening pause before Chuck quietly asked, "Well, how about
it?"

Meeting the waiting eyes with his own, Brett smiled and said, "I think
I'm going to like living with a future Mr. America."

Chuck broke into a broad grin and treated Brett to a bone crushing
bearhug. "I was hoping you'd say that! What say we get cleaned up and
head over to my place? We could work on my posing for a while. I've got
a few positions I think you might find very interesting."