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Remembering Ken - Part 2
Well, it's been a couple of days but the mood has struck again and the muse is with me. I wonder what the muse of erotic muscle stories looks like. I would imagine not much like those described in Greek mythology. Anyway, I'm back in my armchair and I've been looking at my favorite bodybuilder and muscleman sites online for a bit. My cock is feeling nice and heavy, swinging around playfully in my house pants and the right hormones are definitely flowing.
So there I was with my hands on the mounds of Ken's chest. I rubbed a little and gave a test squeeze. Un-flexed muscle has a certain feel to it: a firmness that is quite satisfying but hold the promise of such power. Looking directly into my eyes and without really any other visible signs of movement, he flexed his pecs – hard. What had been thick, slab-like and firm sprang outward to form hard, taught, unyielding, globe-like mountains of manflesh. The muscle was like steel – repelling my fingers from the impressions they had made.
I thought for a minute I was going to cum in my pants right there. In all of my years of dream and fantasy, lusting after monstrous men and doing the filthiest things with and them, I had pretty well prepared myself for the visual, but nothing can prepare you for the tactile. The sensations being transmitted from my fingers and palms through my brain and down to my cock were beyond what I could have imagined.
Now the only thing I hadn't expected about Ken from the photos I had seen online was that he is hairy: really hairy. This guy is definitely what you would describe as a hirsute male. At the time, he had been recently shorn, but not too recently and most of his body was covered in a medium length stubble that was quite scratchy. This was the first of two things that I would come to not enjoy about that afternoon.
For all my lust and desire to hold and to be held by huge, enormous muscles, I just don't really like body hair all that much. The right kind of five o-clock shadow on a man's face is one of the sexiest things I can think of, but between the neck and the legs, the skin needs to be smooth and soft. I don't mind a little crown of neatly trimmed hair just above the cock, but armpits, chest, stomach, balls and ass should be as bald as the day he was born. The legs have to be either smooth or hairy enough to be called "hairy" and the same holds true for the forearms.
OK, so you might say I'm really picky. And that is probably true. However, we're talking the realization of my fantasies here, so I think I'm allowed to know what I like. The fact that my muscleman had the body hair equivalent of five o'clock shadow didn't make me enjoy his physique any less, though it did keep me from licking and tasting him all over – just too scratchy on the tongue.
So there I was with my hands pressed against the iron meat pillows of his tightly flexed chest. My face must have indicated the new thrill I was experiencing, as Ken grinned at me in response. He brought his hands up and poked my chest a couple of times sort of roughly. I didn't really respond to that and I think it was his way of seeing if I like it rough. I don't.
After a short pause, while my brain continued to drink in the sensations I was experiencing, the last inhibition dissolved and I was suddenly all action. In an instant, I couldn't get enough. I couldn't feel and touch enough of his body at once. I grabbed him by the bad of the head and thrust myself at him, plunging my tongue into his mouth, tasting him from the inside.
My hands were a frenzy of motion. Every time they found a new muscle, a new bulge to explore, they would stop to absorb the feeling, but then move again instantly to see what other wondrous shapes were to be discovered. His body was so big, so hot, and so hard – my hands and my nerves were moving well beyond any sort of conscious control I had within me, operating according to animal instinct, fuelled by lust.
Reliving these moments is making my heart race again. It feels now almost as it did on that day, though I know that the intensity that afternoon was far, far greater. My cock has swelled to its fullest size and it is straining in its skin. My balls have become highly sensitized and the vibrations coming to them through my thighs as I type on my laptop are causing them to stir.
After a few seconds of hands flying and squeezing everywhere, locked at the mouths, we broke our kiss and looked at each other again. The room was lit only by the small lamp on the desk and what daylight was able to make its way around the drawn curtains. The lower lighting served to emphasize the size and definition of Ken's muscles, highlights and shadows stressing the delicious bulges.
He leaned in to kiss me again and continued his exploration of my own body. His fingers found the button on my jeans, then the zipper. He tucked his thumbs under the waistband, shucking them down off my legs with ease, and taking my bikini briefs with them on the way. My cock sprung out, freed from its green cotton prison, and grew to its full size. The relatively cooler air titillated my balls, now swinging free in the breech.
I was still too caught up in the hills and valleys of his shoulders, traps and back to be interested in what lay beneath Ken's pants. My fingers explored everywhere. His traps sat up on top the breadth of his shoulders, standing like flying buttresses against the column of his neck. The traps were so thick and tall that I each one filled my hand. They were something to hold onto, handles carved of flesh. My fingers felt and squeezed, never getting enough, the heat, shape and firmness of each new muscle satisfying them only for an instant and at the same time further fueling the desire and lust emanating from within me.
As Ken was stripping me of my pants, the muscles in his shoulders and back danced and flexed, causing the movement of his body as they were designed to do. There is something about all that mass and bulk moving and stretching, rippling, now contracting, now extending, even to do something as insignificant and effortless as pushing down my pants. Words aren't enough to describe the impression it makes.
At this point I am almost in a frenzy. My fingers are moving across the keyboard too fast and I'm losing my ability to type. It is as if they are living those moments of exploration and muscular discover again for the first time and they can't take it all in fast enough. I've taken my pants off and am now sitting on the edge of my chair, with my cock and freshly-shaven balls hanging free in front. The softness of the open air moving across them feels like thousands of tiny fingers bring me ever closer to nirvana.
Ken stepped in, drawing his presence closer to me, and began to kiss my neck and shoulders. As he did this, I felt his cock for the first time, poking against my inner thigh, from inside his sweats. His head felt big and, from the casual way it swung this way and that, his shaft seemed long. He was mostly hard – a condition I like to call "heavy." It's that in-between state, where a cock is mostly full, but still not totally erect. It's firm to the tough, but not stiff and rigid yet. Cocks that are "heavy" tend to swing about as if in slow motion, grazing beautifully against a thigh or another cock, and they are seemingly more sensitive than then raging to release.
The introduction of Ken's cock into my awareness immediately drew my attention below his waist. I lowered my lustful hands, feeling his ass from the outside of his pants. It was definitely a hardcore bodybuilder's ass. Hard and strong, totally lean and striated. Frankly, a bodybuilder's ass is not a particularly sexy thing – it's the part of them that looks the most emaciated when they are in peak condition as there is no fat anywhere. There aren't really any cheeks to knead or play with, but when they tense up, they are as of petrified wood. However, if you have an appreciation for the ultimate in muscularity and definition, they a bodybuilder's ass is part of his beauty.
I moved my hands around his hips and down to feel his thighs. Now as I've mentioned previously, I have a thing for legs. Big, huge, round, swollen, veiny, sick, freaky, monstrous and gargantuan, they light me up in ways beyond the rest of the physique. I love the way bodybuilders walk: the way their legs have to actually move around one another as they step forward because their thighs are too big around to pass easily. I love the way their thighs meet on the inside most of the way down to their knees. I love the way they look from the side, how the quads sweep up and out impossibly and how the hamstrings just dangle, looking like giant hams. I love the way the quads dance and bunch up when they swing from side to side, gaining in momentum and swinging impossibly far out to the side, then snapping into rigid, striated attention at the inner, invisible command of the man who possesses them. And mostly, I love the way the quads flair out from above the knee, making the joint looks so small and insignificant in the overall columns of power that are a bodybuilder's legs.
I want so much to tell you about Ken's legs but I cannot keep this up any longer. My free, naked cock is now raging hard and dripping pre-cum. I reach down every so often to rub a bead into my head, licking my finger clean. My shaft is so full it is visibly throbbing and I have to go relieve it and myself.
Stay tuned, though, there is much more to cum.
This is the first story I've posted to Nifty. Please let me know what you think. I'd also like to hear any ideas or requests you have for other stories or situations involving bodybuilders or other men with huge, overdeveloped muscles. Alex (email@example.com)