Maybe the guy was cute. And, even if he turned out to be ugly, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d treated another guy to a mercy fuck, so to speak. I’d been gaining experience, and one of the things I’d learned was that it was quite possible to have a good time in bed with a dude who might not be exactly an Adonis. What the hell—we all had the same equipment, and some of these guys who were less than male-model handsome tried harder to please their sex partners.
I decided to take a chance.
I took the elevator down to the third floor, headed directly to 3B, and I tapped lightly on the door.
“Come in,” a slightly groggy-sounding male voice said.
I turned the doorknob and pushed the door open an inch. I paused. I heard no sounds coming from inside the room—no conspiratorial whispers or snickering. I opened the door the rest of the way, and I looked inside.
There was only one guy in the room. It was the jock who’d spoken to me in the laundry room. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He was sprawled across his unmade bed, naked except for his boxer shorts. His jeans, jersey, and socks were strewn across the floor. Also on the floor, near a chest of drawers, was his laundry basket, still filled with his neatly folded clothes, which he hadn’t bothered to put away yet. Apparently, he’d been otherwise occupied. He had a bottle of slivovitz in one hand and a glass in the other, and it was quite obvious to me that he’d been imbibing freely. That explained the poor handwriting on the note. He peered at me with alcohol-glazed eyes.
“Come in, close the door, and lock it, for Christ’s sake,” he told me, the words emerging from his lips in a breathless rush. “Don’t let anybody see you.”
I did as he asked. But then I just stood there, looking at him. I had to admit it—he was incredibly fucking hot, despite—or perhaps because of—his somewhat impaired present condition. A dense forest of soft black hair covered his broad, strong chest. Right below his big brown nipples, the fur thinned out as it spread around his navel, before it disappeared under the elastic waistband of his loose-fitting white cotton boxers. I could see a trickle of sweat slowly make it way down his neck and into the groove between his pecs.
His thighs and calves were also hairy, and thick with muscle. His bare feet were large and shapely, which turned me on.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said.
“I wasn’t sure this was on the level.”
“Oh, it is. You won’t tell anybody, though, will you?”
“Of course not.”
“It’ll be our secret.”
“Sure. Ah—are you drunk?” I asked him.
“Stinking,” he admitted, gleefully. “I’ve been sucking this swill down ever since I put my clothes in the washer. I probably shouldn’t have operated any machinery, including the dryer,” he joked. “Want some?”
“Maybe just a sip,” I replied, cautiously.
I moved toward him, took the bottle from his hand, and raised it to my lips. I treated myself to a mouthful of the plum brandy, which was pretty potent stuff, burning my tongue and the inside of my mouth for a moment, before that initial sensation was followed by a warmer, numbing aftertaste.
“If you hadn’t shown up—I’ve have just gotten good and drunk, and jerked myself off, thinking about you,” my admirer told me.
“But here I am.”
“You’re such a hot-looking muscle fuck,” he groaned.
“You can do a lot more than just look at me, if you want to,” I encouraged him. “You can touch me—everywhere, all over—for starters.”
“Fucking hell,” he exclaimed, under his breath. “Come here, will you? Come closer.”
Somewhat awkwardly, I stood there, beside where he lay on his bed. The sweat made the black hairs on his body lie flat against his flesh. He turned toward me, spreading his legs, giving me an even better view of his crotch. He let out a moan and he stretched his arms out toward me, the motion making his pectoral muscles tense and twitch. I could see the outline of his cock through his shorts. It was most promising, and as he half-lay, half-sat there on his bed, his dick was definitely thickening and growing in length under that thin layer of white cotton fabric. It was obvious to me that he was suffering from a hard-on which was just begging for relief.
His hands now reached up far enough to touch my chest. His palms pressed themselves against my pecs, through my shirt, and his fingertips dug into my flesh, as though testing its resilience.
“Oh, big fucking chest,” he declared, in a soft, drunken whisper.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“I’m not gay,” he insisted. “I hope you realize that.”
If I only had a forint for every time I’d heard that disclaimer, from a guy who was ready to have sex with me! “Aren’t you?”
“Of course not. I just like to have sex with guys. Not all the time. Just now and then.”
That sounded kind of gay to me. But I wasn’t in the mood to question his logic, or to enter into a debate with him.
“Well, I’m gay,” I declared. “And it’s nothing to be ashamed about.”
“You can afford to be gay. And out.”
His statement intrigued me. “Yeah? Why is that?”
“You’re so good-looking—so well built—you’re such a stud,” he murmured. “It must be easy for you.”
“It isn’t easy for anybody,” I protested. “Not in a society that’s still full of homophobes. But what’s the point of lying about who you really are?”
“I’m not gay,” he repeated. “I just like bodybuilders … jocks … men with muscles … I like you. I like you a lot. Come on, let me show you how much. Let me prove it to you.”
In my opinion, he was a bit fucked up in the head. But that wasn’t my business, or my problem. He’d offered me sex—and I was enough of a selfish cad to be willing to take full advantage of the fact.
“Yeah, that’s enough talk,” I suggested. “Let’s fuck.”
His face lit up. “Yeah!” he exclaimed.
His hand went down to his lower stomach, and then he pushed his fingertips under the elastic band of his boxers.
“Let me,” I told him.
“What?”
“Let me take out your cock.”
He seemed stunned by my boldness. I edged still closer to him. Taking hold of his shorts, I slid them down around his thighs, exposing his cock and balls. The head of his penis was already rising in semi-erection, lifting itself from its bed of black pubic hair. I ran my forefinger slowly along the underside of the shaft, which twitched, while its owner moaned in pleasure.
“Horny,” he gasped. “I’m so damn horny!”
“So I see. Don’t move. Relax. Let me—”
I didn’t specify what I wanted him to let me do to him. But I didn’t need to spell it out. As so often, actions spoke much more eloquently than words. I went down on him.
I lowered my mouth onto the smooth, bulbous glans of his cock and I began to suck it. I could smell that rich, masculine aroma I had inhaled earlier, down in the laundry room. I gave the head of his cock a squeeze, and I was rewarded when a clear drop of pre-cum appeared in his piss slit. I lapped up the drop.
I continued my licking while I slid one of my hands inside his shorts, into the confined space right below his balls. My hand immediately was dampened by his hot sweat, and I could feel a dense growth of hair which ran right down between his legs to his butt. Using his own perspiration for lubrication, slowly and provocatively I slid my forefinger into his tight, puckered asshole. I felt his sphincter muscle tighten around my invading digit, nipping at it. He moaned, and then he relaxed, acquiescing in my probing of his anus. I worked my finger in a little further, all the while running my lips over the smooth, rounded glans of his cock.
By now, my own dick was so hard, it hurt me because of the way it was so tightly constricted inside the crotch of my jeans. I remembered the sexual fantasies I’d indulged in when I’d seen him down in the laundry room. Now, I was actually going to have him. Drunk
or sober, gay or straight, this jock was going to put out for me! My desire for him was so overwhelming that I felt on the verge of losing control. Not wanting to remove my finger from the enticing warmth of his ass, I pulled his shorts down with my free hand, yanking them unceremoniously down around his knees. Grabbing the crumpled cotton fabric, I quickly drew it down still lower, to his ankles. I freed his big feet from the shorts, which I tossed aside.
Now the guy who’d invited me to his room was mother-naked on his bed. His cock, freed from its confinement, sprang out, large and thick. It rose from his hairy belly, pulsating with a fierce, barely contained internal pressure. The bastard was hung! His balls, too, were big, swollen with an intense arousal.
The alcohol he’d consumed had obviously done nothing to diminish his potency.
“Fuck, my dick’s hard,” he complained.
“It sure is,” I told him. “We’re going to have to do something about that.”
“What?” he asked, naïvely.
“I want to suck it,” I announced, in my most lascivious tone of voice.
Groaning, he lay back on the bed, and he spread his legs for me.
“Be my guest, you muscle son of a bitch,” he invited me.
He put his hands on my head, urging my face back down toward his waiting cock. I licked the base of his erection while my other hand dug deeper into his butt. I slid my tongue up his cockshaft, around the head, and then slowly back down to his sac of balls. I nudged my nose into his testicles while my tongue worked its way along his perineum, inching close to his ass.
Slowly, I slid my finger out of his hole and I replaced it with my tongue. He twitched even more violently.
“Deeper—oh, deeper,” he pleaded, hoarsely. “Oh, get that fucking tongue in there all the way!”
I jammed my tongue in so far that my nose was firmly compressed against the hot, sweaty crack of his ass. I rimmed him furiously for a long while. He moaned and gasped, breathing hard, his body shuddering with helpless lustful response. His hairy buttocks clenched and unclenched, massaging my cheeks.
Having his ass sucked with such enthusiasm and hunger obviously excited him, but it also seemed to give him a few ideas.
“Let me do it to you,” he begged. “I want to suck your ass.”
I pulled out my tongue and I knelt above him. He reached out and began tugging awkwardly at my T-shirt. He was drunk, so his movements were clumsy and uncoordinated. Plus, the T-shirt was a tight fit to begin with, and my sweat had glued it to my skin. I helped him rid me of the garment, which I flung aside. Then I slid my jeans off. I’d dispensed with underwear. Now I, too, was nude.
His hands wandered over my body, feeling my muscles, massaging them, his fingertips pressing into them to test their firmness and strength. I returned the embrace, feeling him up, getting him even hotter than he already was.
Breathing hard as our excitement mounted, we both grappled there on the bed. He got up on his knees and he moved behind me. With his strong, rough hands he spread my ass cheeks wide apart. “I want to eat that muscle ass,” I heard him say. Then I felt his warm, wet tongue exploring my butt crack, tonguing me the way I’d just licked him. I could feel his beard stubble scratching my skin. I let out a moan of pleasure when his lips kissed my anal pucker and his tongue swabbed over it, before he stiffened his tongue and prodded it through the aperture. He licked my ass with the same depraved appetite I had just demonstrated while rimming him. The taste of my manhole seemed to intoxicate him, even more than the slivovitz had. He grunted and snorted like a pig rooting about in search of truffles as he tongue-fucked me.
Finally, though, he backed away, breathing even harder, and he reached under the pillow on the bed. He pulled out a condom packet, which he tore open, extracting the rubber. He put the rubber on his dick. He didn’t bother to lubricate himself. I knew what would happen next, and I welcomed it. He placed his hands on my sides. Then, in one nonstop gesture, he leaned forward and he shoved his thick, hard prick into me. I felt my anal muscles tightening around him in instinctive self-defense. I took long, deep breaths, enjoying the pain, forcing myself to stop fighting the penetration. He settled down on top of me, pushing his cock deeper into me, fucking me with rapid, painful jabs.
“How does that feel?” he asked.
“Great.”
“Your ass is fantastic.”
“Thanks.”
“This is so much hotter than screwing a girl.”
“Tell me about it,” I agreed.
“I’m not doing it too rough, am I?”
“Hell, no.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You can’t hurt me. I’d like to see the woman who can take the kind of punishment I can. Do it harder. Really pound my ass. Let me have everything you’ve got,” I demanded. “Fuck me! Fuck me!”
“You really do like it,” he said, incredulously.
“Of course,” I replied, with insouciance.
He fell silent and he concentrated on our fuck. He was pressed firmly against me. I exulted in his possession of my anus, in the sheer size of his cock. I could feel the coarse black hair on his chest and thighs rubbing against my body. His potency seemed to be filling me completely, giving me that unique blend of pain and pleasure which nothing except being the passive partner in an act of anal intercourse could stir up deep within me.
Not that I was really passive, of course. I wasn’t content to be the mere recipient of his thrusts. I fucked back at him, savagely, forcing him to give me his dick.
He was riding me, slowly, moving his pelvis back and forth. Even in my most lurid fantasies about him, I hadn’t imagined his cock as being this long and thick and hard. While he pounded me, I felt that we were no longer two separate entities, but that we had fused into one being.
While he held himself against me with one hand wrapped around my chest, his other hand explored my lower stomach, and then it rubbed my inner thighs. Finally it took hold of my aching dick and began to stroke it, rhythmically, up and down.
A long time seemed to pass before I felt his body tighten in the telltale throes of approaching orgasm. My own muscles tensed, too, right along with his. I reached down and grabbed the hand he had on my cock, to guide him now, as we both neared our climaxes.
“Jerk me off while you come in my ass,” I coached him.
His breathing became labored and irregular. He moaned as though in pain, and then he whimpered. I felt my loins convulsing. My ejaculation was now inevitable. His fist pumped more rapidly up and down on my cock. I concentrated on how good it felt to have his manhood planted so firmly inside me. He groaned and shuddered, and I felt him shoot his load into the condom. While he was still coming, I shot off, too, sending my hot cum flying through the air and splattering down onto the bed. We ejaculated together as though we might never stop, with an unusual intensity.
He rested against me, breathing hard. I was suddenly aware of just how soaked in sweat we both were. His hand was on the back of my head, his fingers caressing my scalp, running through my disheveled and sweaty hair.
Slowly, he slid his hand away. He still had that dazed, alcohol-blurred look on his face, but now it was undercut by a slight anxiety, as though he was suddenly very aware of what had taken place between us—and he was, belatedly, having second thoughts about it.
“Fuck,” he mumbled, as he turned away from me, sat up, and began reaching for his clothes.
“Anything wrong?” I asked him.
“I don’t know. Fuck,” he repeated, running his hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. “I never went this far with another dude. I mean, I’ve fooled around with other guys, sure. But I usually have girlfriends. Then I saw you around here, and I started thinking about you, and—hell, all of a sudden I wanted to go all the way.”
“Well, as long as you enjoyed it, there’s no harm done.” I sat up, too. I rested my hand on his shoulder and gave him a little caress, to reassure him. I slid closer to him and gave him a chaste,
buddy-buddy sort of kiss on his unshaven cheek. “I’d better get going. Give you a chance to sober up.”
Looking a little more confident, he smiled at me. “Can we do this again sometime?”
“Sure. All you have to do is knock on my door. Or slip another invitation under it,” I added, teasing him.
And he did get together with me, on many subsequent occasions. He soon lost interest in girlfriends. I helped to bring him out.
Oh, and I finally did learn his name, prior to our second sex session. It was Petr. Addressing him as such was so much more convenient than saying, “Hey, you.”
Chapter Four: A Men’s Room Break
Sometimes there can be too much of a good thing.
I was getting so much action there in the dorm, from Petr and from many of the other residents, that it started to distract me from my academic work. To put it bluntly, I was actually getting too much sex!
Of course, I could always have just said no. But I was a horny young son of a bitch, with a healthy and indeed overactive libido.
And so I decided to move into a studio apartment, off campus, but still quite close to it.
It was at this time that I began doing a lot of modeling work. Compared to Budapest, after all, Debrecen was a small city. There weren’t that many hardcore, competitive bodybuilders, as opposed to dedicated, good-looking amateurs, living there. I knew most of the local pros, in fact, either personally or at least by name, reputation, and sight.
At first, I didn’t see any need to have an agent. I may have been a young muscle-head from the provinces, but I flattered myself that I wasn’t stupid. I was smart enough to negotiate a contract myself, and to look out for my own interests.
I got a surprising number of modeling gigs simply by word of mouth. I’d receive phone calls, along the lines of, “We need a guy with a really muscular physique for Such-and-Such a project, and my friend So-and-So told me you’d be perfect for what we have in mind.” When I competed in physique contests, guys would come up to me backstage, afterward, and give me their business cards. “Have you done any modeling?” they’d ask—usually followed, very quickly, by “Have you done any nude modeling? Would you be willing to?”
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