Date: Tue, 12 Mar 2024 22:16:06 -0700
From: sean@seanreidscott.com
Subject: Key To My Heart - Chapter 1

Key to My Heart • Chapter One By Sean Reid Scott

NOTE TO THE READER This story is pure fiction. The characters are
fictional; they are not based on any real people. So just relax.

This story contains homosexual themes and depictions of sex between men. It
is intended for Adults Only. Please do not read if you are offended by this
subject matter.

KEY TO MY HEART by Sean Reid Scott

CHAPTER ONE

It was the first day back at college after the Christmas break. We'd
actually had a few extra days off because of a snowstorm that hit just as
everyone was getting back to campus. So sad.

But now, the new term had started in earnest, and my best friend Greg and I
were in the campus library, studying up a storm. Winter term was going to
be a bitch. The class load was horrendous.

I say we were studying up a storm, but in truth, I was... let's just say I
was a tad distracted. Because sitting two tables away, right in front of
me, was the most jacked, ripped, buff, handsome bodybuilder I had ever
seen. Ever. And that was saying something. Because I was an aficionado of
masculine, jacked, huge muscle. I'd seen it all: Pros, amateurs, wannabes,
models, Internet sensations, scads of bodybuilding shows (in person),
exhibitions, movies, porn, TV... if it was muscle (and it had to be good
looking for me to really appreciate it) I'd seen it, classified it, put it
in a database, and... of course... masturbated to it.

And this guy... fuck, he was numbing my mind with his body. I was ready to
go tilt. I hadn't ever seen the guy on campus, so I figured he was a
transfer. I would have remembered him, for sure. He was making my cock
hurt. Fuck I couldn't believe what I was seeing!

"You might want to get some kind of tape... or glue for that," Greg said.

I blinked myself out of my trance and looked at him. "Wha? What are you
talking about?"

"Your jaw. It's practically dragging on the floor your mouth is open so
much," Greg chuckled.

My face flushed with the heat of my blush. I glanced back at Mr. Black
Stallion for just a second, then back to Greg.

"Yeah, him," Greg said. "Dude, you need to stop staring, man. People are
gonna start to wonder."

"Wonder?"

"Yeah. About you," he said. "You're gawking all over that muscle dude over
there. It's pathetically obvious, man. People are gonna think you're gay or
something." He resumed typing on his laptop; without looking up while he
typed, he said, "Not that there's anything wrong with that."

I chuckled at him. I knew Greg wasn't homophobic. But I hadn't actually
come out to him either. We'd known each other since second grade, and
shared everything. Almost. I told myself that I hadn't come out to him
because of my specific "brand" of gay. I was kind of embarrassed by it: I
was hopelessly, emphatically, empirically, undeniably, indubitably addicted
to muscle. Big, ripped, jacked muscle. And well... Black muscle dudes go
straight (no pun intended) to the front of the line, thankyouverymuch. And
this library dude was the most jacked, gorgeous specimen of Black muscle
that the universe had ever produced. I nearly started crying.

I'm not even kidding.

He was wearing a dark gray, long-sleeved t-shirt that hugged everything
perfectly--without making it look like he was trying to show off. For sure,
the dude did not need to show off. Honestly, the guy could wear four parkas
and you couldn't hide that physique. I just wanted to whimper. Name a body
part, and this guy had it multiplied exponentially (except for his waist:
his hips and waist were so tiny that it just fried my brain--it didn't seem
possible to have a waistline that small supporting all that beef) so that
the entire package was just mind-numbing. Thus, my dropped-jaw stupor. And
Greg's not so subtle observation.

Truthfully, I was the one who wasn't being subtle; I'll give you that. My
eyes were super-glued to this hunk.

There was no way in hell I was gonna get any studying done now.

Who knew that the world's best built man attended Collegiate University?!
Right here in Podunk, New England!

"Dude, you're still staring," Greg said looking up from his laptop.

"Fuck, Greg, just look at the guy!" I hissed in my best library
voice. "I've never seen someone so fucking jacked! His proportions are
astounding! Look at him and tell me you're not impressed."

He looked over at the stud. "You're totally right, man." Then he looked
back at me. "But you look like you're about to bust a nut over the dude,
man. Pull it back before they call the cops on you for stalking."

I frowned and sneered at him. "I'm just admiring. And fucking amazed, okay?
Don't worry about it."

Greg shrugged and got back to studying.

And I got back to ogling.

Just then the guy stood up and went over to one of the walls of books
nearby.

Holy fucking fuck. Standing up, the muscle man was... he was art in
motion. How someone so big, so perfectly-muscled, so proportional, so
powerful looking, so... fucking PERFECT could just walk around looking like
that.... I think I actually whimpered.

He searched through the rows, obviously looking for a particular
volume. His back to me now, his latissimus dorsi fanned out like manta ray
wings. I'm surprised he could maneuver without knocking the walls down. But
fuck he wasn't clumsy. He was ballet itself: Graceful, smooth, and just
eye-poppingly stunning. He found his selection and turned around. He gazed
back to where he'd been sitting, but didn't move. His body was partially
turned so that his magnificent monument to pectorals everywhere was at just
the right angle to just make me want to crawl under the table and melt into
oblivion, like the Wicked Witch did on Oz. (I'm melllllting, I'm
melllllting....) But then I'd miss the show.

And what a fucking show it was. The guy's shoulders and traps were a
soliloquy to muscular perfection. His arms--fucking fucking fuck his arms!
Even covered by his long sleeves, his biceps and triceps were distinct,
detached bulges of individual muscles that were packed together to form his
arms. The various heads of muscle were individual mounds and protrusions of
powerful, fucking gorgeous size. And where an ordinary man's legs would be,
this muscle man had Corinthian Columns that were thick, rippling
powerhouses. Again, you could see the mounds distend and move under his
jeans. Fuck, all of the sudden I knew how I wanted to die: I wanted that
dude to put my head between those legs of his and squeeeeeeeze the life out
of me. I wanted to voluntarily place my head between his legs, and move my
hands over those rippling quads... to feel that power while he snuffed the
life out of me. I wanted to hear my neck snap from the force of his mammoth
legs, I wanted to watch the stars swirl around my head as I lost
consciousness.... Fuck... just imagining that scenario nearly made me cum
right then and there. Please don't judge. I am who I am, okay?

The guy... why was there not a riot in the library right now? Why were
people not just slashing themselves and... what is that phrase in the
bible? ...weeping and gnashing of teeth! Yeah... There should be
that. Wherever this guy goes. Lots of weeping. Oodles of
teeth-gnashing. And throw in some renting (as in tearing) of one's clothes,
for good measure.

The stud's entire body was a symphony. I know I'm going off the rails with
my metaphors here, but you'll forgive me if my brain quite possibly has
turned to Quaker Oats right now.

Anyway, he stood there, presenting me his profile and giving me a few
moments of imaginary sex with his body. He looked to my right, not at a
complete profile, but as I said, with his body not at a true right angle,
but maybe at a 120-degree angle (see picture at left), that let me see how
his peerless pecs pulled and puuuuuullllled the shirt fabric into line upon
line between those planet-like globes.

His nipples. Just kill me now.

That waist again. I just could not get over how a man of that size could
sport such a svelte waistline. His hips had to be narrower than my
own... and did I mention that I was kinda small? Like 145 pounds dripping
wet. This guy looked like he'd max out the elevator capacity all by
himself. The only way I'd ever get in an elevator with this dude is if he'd
promise to strip while we moved up to our designated floor. That'd be worth
the risk for sure. Hell, I'd...

Suddenly, I noticed that he'd been standing there, in that relaxed
position, for quite a few seconds. And it was his new motion that stopped
my inner diatribe in its tracks. Because his movement was only his
head. And he was rotating it... slowly... so that... he... was
now... looking... right... at....

Oh fuck.

...Me.

He just gazed at me, as if he was just relaxing and enjoying the scenery. I
was his scenery? Fuck me with a sledge hammer!

What should I do? Oh fuck there was nothing I could do. Because full-on,
looking at me with those dark brown eyes of his... the man was as gorgeous
as he was jacked. And his eyes were glued to mine! And my eyes were glued
to his! As if I couldn't peel mine away from his (which is a totally
accurate depiction of what was going on) I was spellbound... unable to
move.

Then he gave me a very slight smile. It was subtle, but definitely a
smile. A genuine smile. Right at me.

Please sir, may I kiss your feet? I did not have a foot fetish. Until
now. Whatever this guy had (which was pretty much everything, EVer) I had a
new fetish for it. Please sir, can I feel your muscles? I truthfully
believe that if he came over and engaged me in conversation (which--who am
I kidding.... I was nothing) I would have said those very words: "Please
sir, can I feel your muscles?"

And then the Perfect Physique gently turned and walked back to where he was
sitting.

"Ollie, for crying out loud, you're going to wet yourself if you don't pull
it back!" Greg hissed me out of my stupor... again.

I didn't have the nerve to tell him I'd already almost done exactly that. I
gave him some big eyes, as if to say, I can't HELP it! But he wasn't buying
it.

"Come on, Ol. We need to get you out of here. Maybe some cold water in your
face will help." He stood up, gathering his things.

Not even a full-on cold shower was gonna help me at this point.

He grabbed my arm. "Come on, man. Get up. Put your stuff in your bag. We're
leaving--before you make a total spectacle of yourself."

Um... no. We're not.

Wild horses couldn't... well, you get the idea.

"Dude," I said. "I'm fine. Leave me alone."

Greg put his hands on his hips. "Ollie, you're almost catatonic. I'm afraid
you're going to need medical care."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm fine."

He stood there a moment, thinking, then said, "Well, I cannot bear to stay
and see this train-wreck. I'm going back to my dorm to get ready for
dinner. If I don't hear from you this evening, I'll just check the
headlines on tomorrow's University Rag-Bulletin website. I can read the
headline now: "Sophomore guy looses his ever-loving mind as muscle dude
purées his brain with big Black physique."

"Nice," I said absently while I watched Mr. Black Stallion (yes, I know
it's a crude cliché, but it's the best--and most fitting--thing I
could come up with) sit back down at his table with the book he'd retrieved
from the shelf. Greg's headline would actually be pretty accurate,
unfortunately. I was hopeless. I was a hopeless muscle-loving basket
case. And this new guy was going to ruin me. He was going to be my forever
obsession. I'd had them before, of course. But I knew that I'd never lust
after another man now that my brain had been totally fried by
Mr. Stallion. I was a goner.

Greg had been talking to me, of course. And I hadn't heard a word he said,
of course. But now that he was gone, I was free to lust uninhibited.

And lust I did.

I studied the man, millimeter by millimeter. And I came to the foregone
conclusion that he was, indeed, perfect. At one point, I actually laid my
forehead against my table and just... well... nearly wept.

Did I mention I love muscle?

When I lifted my head and looked at the guy, he was already looking right
at me. I think my eyes were read. I dunno for sure. But I do know I was one
hot, hopeless mess.

I couldn't look away. It was as if his eyes had power over mine. I would
not look away until he gave me permission to look away. Fuck. We gazed at
each other for years. And from what I was seeing, he was just relaxed
and... he looked so content. And maybe a bit amused. But certainly not
upset or angry that I was about to have an orgasm right then in there in
front of Dewey Decimal and everyone... just because he was.

Before he gave me permission to look away, he... oh fuck. Fucking fuck! He
winked.

He winked at me!

At me! He winked at me, and gave me the slightest of smiles--like he'd
given when he was standing near the bookshelf. Oh GodInHeaven, he winked at
me. And then he had the gonads to give up a smirking chuckle.

The fucking fucker.

He wasn't being rude or antagonistic; he wasn't being mean. He was
just... amused. At me. At my pathetic existence. At my meager excuse for a
muscle-worshiping, wannabe, homo-lusting, slithering... muscle
worshipper. Yeah I know I used muscle worship twice in that sentence, but
it bears repeating.

He knew exactly what he was doing to me. He knew exactly what he did to
me. He was--by merely existing--able to de-brain my skull, throw my cranial
organ in a Cuisine-Art ®, and turn it on HIGH. For EVer.

Finally released from the tractor beam of his gaze, my eyes pulled off him
(reluctantly, mind you) and I made like I was looking at something. At
what, I have no idea. It was at that point that I realized my hands were
trembling. Shaking, actually. Now that I think about it, my entire body was
shaking.

But I didn't get to dwell on that little tidbit for long. Because
presently, the Black Stallion was standing up. And he was putting on his
jacket... which, by the way, should have been illegal. Jus' sayin'. And he
was stuffing his laptop and books into his satchel.

Fuck, his coat was one of those long, wool, navy overcoat things, and holy
shit, even totally wrapped in all that fabric, the man was a walking,
talking orgasm. And as far as the walking part goes... he was actually
walking toward me! And his eyes were locked on mine.

And I was going to die.

As far as the talking part goes, get this: As he passed by me... he gave me
another polite smile (yet the smile might have also included pity, in that
he felt bad for my sorry, muscle-worshiping ass), and just for good
(torturous) measure, he threw in his signature wink again, and then he
said, "How's it goin' man...." as he passed by.

"How's it goin' man."

"How's it goin'. Man."

"Howz, itgoin' man."

I could write an entire book on that theme. It'd be a best-seller. Made
into a movie. "Oliver Smith, starring in an Oliver Smith production of,
How's it Goin' Man!

Fuck me seven times this Sunday. The man said words. To me.

I didn't have to spend the night in the hospital. They discharged me about
an hour after the ambulance dropped me off, in fact. The EMTs said they
only had to do chest compressions on me for about 15 minutes; the doctors
were confident I'd have no permanent brain damage (other than the nasty
side-effects of having one's entire cranium whipped, mashed, sliced, and
diced by the most Perfect muscle god in all creation).

So I had that going for me.


-- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
[Chapter 2 is next.]

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