Muscular Man for Rent

by Emeric Varady

With his inhibitions no doubt numbed by the whiskey he’d drunk, he followed through on my suggestion with alacrity. He deposited his glass on the coffee table, and then he stood up and stripped. Underneath his suit and dress suit, he wore expensive-looking underwear—a tank top and boxers, of soft, clinging white cotton— and socks. He took off everything, throwing his clothes carelessly down onto the floor. Naked, he was actually quite attractive. He had a nicely tone, well-proportioned body, with a perky ass and a generously-proportioned, uncircumcised cock. I was beginning to think, yet again, that tricking with him wasn’t going to be a particularly onerous chore. On the contrary, it held every promise of being a delightful way to spend the evening!

  “Would you like me to pose for you?” I suggested.

  “Please.”

  I guessed that he would enjoy seeing my muscles in action, so I ran through the standard poses that are mandatory at most physique contests—front double bicep, front lat spread, side chest, side triceps, rear double bicep, rear lat spread, abdominals with one thigh extended and tensed, and, as a climax, a “most muscular” display. He was mesmerized.

  “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” I coached him.

  “Yes, very much.”

  “I’m glad. Do you have any special requests?”

  “Well—” Probably as a result of the whiskey he’d consumed, combined with the fact that we were both naked, he seemed a lot more self-confident, and less shy about telling me what he wanted. “Maybe one thing. May I see what’s inside your gym bag?”

  I hadn’t anticipated that request! But I maintained my poise.

  “Of course. Go right ahead.”

  He went to get it—which gave me an opportunity to see his broad back and his pert little bare behind—and, when he came back, he resumed his seat in the armchair, with the bag in his lap. Unzipping it, he began to rummage through its contents. He inspected everything, one item at a time—the rolled-up towel, my training shoes with their reinforced arches, my socks, my sweatpants, my tank top, the fingerless leather gloves I used sometimes to grip a barbell—everything!

  But he seemed especially intrigued by two pieces of my workout gear. The first one was my lifting belt. It was thick light brown leather, indelibly stained in places by my sweat; the belt was wider in the middle, to support the wearer’s lower back.

  “This looks as though it could do some damage,” my john commented. “Have you ever beaten anybody’s ass with it?”

  “Lots of times.” This was a lie; but I knew he’d hoped to hear me reply in the affirmative. And a smart hustler has to be a good, quick-thinking improviser.

  “Would you be willing to use it on me?”

  “If that’s what you want, sure.”

  “Fuck!” he exclaimed. I could tell that the idea turned him on.

  He set the belt aside—and picked up my jockstrap.

  “It’s all wet,” he reported. “It’s just soaked in your sweat!”

  “Yeah. I sweat a lot when I work out. I would imagine that jock is a little funky, from rubbing against my crotch under my sweatpants, all during my workout.”

  He had the athletic supporter wadded up in his hand. Now, he raised it to his face and pressed it against his nose. He took a good, long whiff.

  “Fuck, oh, fuck,” he moaned, without taking the jock away from his face. “It smells so sexy … so manly!”

  I smiled indulgently at him, from where I still stood in front of the couch, naked.

  “If you think that jock smells good,” I suggested, “imagine what the real thing smells like—and tastes like. My crotch,” I specified. “My cock and balls.”

  Still sniffing the jockstrap, he looked at me, with eyes bright with lust.

  “Will you put this on, so I can see what you look like in it?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  He tossed me the jock. I caught it, and then I performed a sort of reverse striptease, taking my time bending over to put my feet inside the athletic supporter, pulling it slowly up over my legs, and, once it was in place around my hips, tucking my genitals into its pouch, and adjusting the waistband. I even turned around and showed him my ass, as I playfully pulled the two narrow straps connecting the waistband to the pouch away from my butt cheeks, only to let go of them so that they snapped back into place. Then I turned around again, to let him see the front view.

  “Some guys are into jockstraps,” I remarked, casually. “Are you?”

  “Yes! I think they’re hot. Please, leave it on, for now.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “And these. Put these on, too. Please.” As he spoke, he pulled my fingerless leather lifting gloves out of the bag, and he tossed them to me, too.

  I pulled them on, securing them around my wrists.

  “Now I’d like you to just stand there—and maybe flex your muscles for me—while I touch them,” he said, meekly.

  “Help yourself.”

  He came over and stood beside me. He had an erection. So did I, although mine was trapped inside the sweat-soaked pouch of my jock. He didn’t touch his own cock. Instead, he used his warm hands and his soft lips on my body. He stroked and kissed my flesh, while I tensed the underlying muscles, making the various parts of my body respond to his touch and return the pressure from his hands and mouth. His mustache tickled my skin. He began to lick me with his tongue. He lapped at my stiffened nipples, wetting the big solid brown cones with his saliva. Silently, he urged me to raise my arms above my head, so that he could get his face against my armpits and sniff and lick them.

  “That’s right,” I told him. “Worship that fucking body of mine. Touch and lick me everywhere. Show me how much you like my muscles. Make me feel good.”

  He quickly became even bolder, reaching down to fondle my cock and balls through the jock, and putting his hand on my butt. When one of his fingertips traced its way down the deep cleft between my ass cheeks and rubbed lightly and tentatively over the pucker of my sphincter, I reached down and grasped his wrist. But not to restrain him, and keep him from touching my ass. No, I was encouraging him.

  “Play with my ass,” I invited him. “Put your finger in there, if you want to.”

  He wanted to. He penetrated my manhole with his finger. He began to work it back and forth inside me.

  “That’s right,” I said, encouraging him, to go in deeper. “Dugd az vjjadat a fenekembe [Stick your finger up my ass].”

  I remained passive for a moment, letting him probe my relaxed anus. But then I tightened my sphincter and my glutes, simultaneously. I trapped his hand between my clenched buttocks, and his finger inside my hole.

  “How does that feel?” I asked him.

  “It’s incredible.”

  “Imagine how that ass of mine would feel, squeezing a dick like that. Do you like to fuck, or get fucked?”

  “Both.”

  I decided it was time to move things along, a bit.

  “Maybe you’d like to suck my dick,” I suggested.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Then get down there and get busy. Mónikázz meg [Give me a blow job]. Suck my cock,” I commanded him, deliberately using a rougher tone of voice, because I was curious to find out whether he was as submissive as I now suspected he might be.

  With a suppressed cry of excitement, my john sank to his knees in front of me, and he nuzzled the pouch of the jockstrap. Once again, he inhaled deeply and repeatedly, sniffing the aroma of my sweat. He licked the pouch, tasting my sweat as well. He applied his open mouth to the bulge my cock made, sucking it through the jock.

  But after a moment, he apparently found this indirect contact frustrating. He pushed the pouch of the athletic supporter aside, freeing my genitals, and then he captured my cockhead between his lips. His fingers hefted and juggled my balls as he eased the fat tip of my bloated prick past his tongue and sucked it deep into his mouth, moaning with pleasure as my salty pre-cum seared his taste buds and my meat throbbed again
st his encircling, slurping lips. I spread my muscular legs wide and bit my lip as I enjoyed the hot, wet pressure of his mouth working on my cock. He was a damn good cocksucker! He knew how to use his tongue to lick every bit of a stud’s penis, while he applied a strong, nonstop suction from deep in his throat to milk the glans.

  I put my hands on his bare shoulders and pulled him closer to me, ramming the full length of my erection down his throat. I fucked his sexy face with my rigid phallus. Seeing him, naked and servile, kneeling before me with my meat choking him, really aroused me.

  I allowed myself to be selfish for a few minutes. I just stood there and enjoyed being blown. But, of course, was john was getting what he wanted. I flattered myself that he was enjoying himself, too.

  He proved it when, gasping for breath, he pulled his mouth off my cock. Grasping me by my thighs, he whispered, “Turn around. Let me see your ass. Let me eat your ass!”

  I turned my back to him. Squatting slightly, while he remained down on his knees, I pushed my butt into his face. He grabbed the two ass straps of the jock and used them to hold my buttocks in place, firmly pressed against his face, while he probed between them with his lips and tongue. He found my asshole, kissed it, and then he kept his open mouth glued to it while he penetrated me with his tongue.

  He was as skilled at rimming as he was at fellatio. This was turning into a most enjoyable session—for me, certainly; and, I was confident, for him, as well.

  “Nyald ki a seggem! [Lick my ass!]” I told him.

  When he’d finally had his fill of eating my ass, he pulled away, once again gasping for breath, and he stood up.

  “Let’s go into the bedroom,” he said.

  “Lead the way.”

  Chapter Three: Turnabout is Fair Play

  He picked up my lifting belt, and carried it into his bedroom, with me following him.

  He turned on the lamp which was on the nightstand beside his bed. He stripped the covers from the bed, bundling them up into a big ball, which he tossed unceremoniously on the floor. He left the two pillows on the mattress, which was still covered by a fitted bottom sheet.

  It’s odd, what details can stick in one’s memories, in such situations. I didn’t take much notice of the bedroom décor, although its combination of elegance and tidiness matched that of the living room. But I couldn’t miss the huge mirror, measuring about six by five feet, which took up much of one wall. It was positioned so that anyone standing near the bed, or lying on it, could see his reflection—and his bedmate’s, if he had one.

  I also did saw that the bottom sheet on the bed and the matching pillowcases were heavy, soft-textured cotton, in a particularly vivid shade of lime green.

  The lime green contrasted nicely with my john’s flesh tones, when he got on the bed. He still had my lifting belt in his hand, but now he laid it almost reverently on the mattress, beside him.

  “Beat my ass,” he pleaded. “Beat my ass with that big belt, and then fuck me. And don’t be afraid to hit me hard—or to fuck me rough!”

  He lay face down on the mattress, spread his arms and legs in a sort of X-shaped pattern, and then he began rubbing the front of his body, and especially his cock, against the mattress, moaning and grunting with pleasure at the friction of the bottom sheet against his cock and balls, and with anticipation of what it was about to do to him.

  I felt excited, to put it mildly. I was a whore, and I’d run across a few johns who were kinky, in one way or another, and to a lesser or greater extent. But it wasn’t every day that I hooked up with a good-looking guy my own age, who wanted me to beat him. I suppose most of us have a bit of the latent sadist in us, and he was certainly bringing it out in me.

  I wriggled out of my jockstrap, and, because he’d enjoyed it so much before, I tossed it onto the pillow next to his face.

  “Sniff on that dirty, stinking jock of mine, if you want to, while I beat your ass,” I invited him.

  He grabbed the jock, wadded it up in his hand, and pressed it to his face, sniffing it as though it was saturated with some potent drug that could be snorted.

  “Fuck, oh, fuck,” he moaned. “Your man smell—your man taste—!”

  There my trick was, naked, writhing around on his bed with his undeniably very hot, muscular ass stuck high up in the air, just begging to be abused. So I let him have it. Hard! I’m a fairly strong guy, of course—hell, I ought to be, from all the weight I throw around down at gym!—and so, once I got the hang of applying the belt to his butt, I started administering some real punishment. I swung away at his behind and lambasted it for all I was worth.

  The wide leather belt bit savagely into his cringing ass cheeks, dyeing his buttocks and thighs a vibrant red. But he didn’t protest, or ask me to stop. No, he kept begging for more—which angered me, in a perverse way. Now, I wanted to hit him so hard that he would beg me to stop, so that, instead, I could refuse to let up on him. That would teach the fucking little masochist a lesson!

  I switched the ends of the belt in mid-strapping, and I began to smack his ass with the buckle end, of the long, narrow strip of leather which went through the buckle. It was a big, heavy, square metal buckle, and he yelped each time he felt it sting his already chafed and reddened flesh.

  But—to my disbelief, and my further annoyance—he loved it! The harder I hit him, the more he wanted me to abuse his naked and vulnerable body. It was damned hard work, beating him like that. After a while, I was pouring with sweat all over. My chest heaved violently while I beat him, and I was uncomfortably aware of a hot, tingling sensation inside my painfully rigid cock. This freak show was turning me on, too! I was even hotter to fuck him than I’d been before I’d found out just how much of a masochist the little bastard was.

  Suddenly, he turned over onto his back, gasping for breath, his teeth clenched in ecstatic pain, his face dripping sweat. His dick looked huge—purplish-red and swollen with pent-up lust. It was a beautiful piece of meat, really; and once again I wondered why such an attractive guy thought he had to pay for sex. Surely he could find lots of willing freebie tricks?

  And then he started pleading with me to hit his cock with the belt!

  “Beat my dick,” he repeated, breathlessly, staring up at me as though he was imploring me—no, daring me—to do it. “Beat my dick with that fucking leather belt of yours, if you’re man enough! Hurt me with it, you dirty whore. What’s the matter—you’re not man enough to hand out a little real pain?”

  He’d made the mistake of genuinely pissing me off.

  “I’ll show you who’s man enough, you freaky little cocksucker!” I bellowed at him. I raised the belt high as I spoke, and I savored the way he screwed up his face in fear and anticipation. But I didn’t use the buckle on him this time, only the leather—applying it directly to his cock and balls!

  The first blow I struck was a tentative one, impacting only lightly. But he choked back a scream of pain.

  “More?” I asked him. “Or do you want to quit now, while you’re ahead?”

  “More! Don’t stop! Hit me again. I like it!”

  I pummeled his genitals with the belt … light, rapid strokes … delivering blow after blow. He writhed to and fro on the bed, and he sucked in his breath in deep, desperate-sounding gasps; but he didn’t ask me to stop. So I just went right on strapping his sex organs with the belt.

  I have to admit—he took his punishment like a man. Only a few whimpers escaped from his lips while I beat him. Every now and then, he made a move as though to double himself up, in an instinctive and involuntary gesture of self-protection; but each time, he checked the motion and straightened himself out again, continuing to expose himself to my abuse.

  At last, though, I dealt him an especially stinging blow. He yelped, and he twisted himself away from me, bringing his knees up toward his midsection, and putting both of his hands down to his groin to cup and shield his genitals.

  “No, that’s enough! Please!” he cried. “Please!”

  I
desisted. “All right.” I welcomed the brief respite, myself. I was breathing hard, and I was quite literally dripping with sweat, which I could feel running down my body and raining down in droplets onto the floor around my feet.

  He rolled back onto his belly, once again spread-eagling himself.

  “Now fuck me,” he pleaded. “Shove your cock up my ass!”

  “Lube?” I inquired.

  “Top drawer of the nightstand.”

  I slid the drawer open. I saw the tube of lubricant, but no condoms.

  “You want me to use a rubber?” I asked.

  “No. Fuck me raw. Breed my hole.”

  I smeared some of the lubricant onto my erection. And then I got on top of him and I let him have it—raw, the way he’d asked for it. I pushed my cock through his yielding sphincter opening and all the way up inside his ass, in one fierce thrust. He took it, uncomplainingly. Settling down comfortable on top of him, I began to hump him.

  He was a good, hot fuck. He moaned and squirmed under me. He had a way of flexing his sphincter around me, and squeezing and relaxing his inner anal muscles in rapid succession, that made it feel as though I had a guy’s thumb and forefinger encircling my cockshaft, and pinching it repeatedly. He seemed determined to milk the cum out of me with that talented ass of his.

  “Fuck me, fuck me,” he kept begging me. “Pound my hole. Use it. Take me, rape me. Do it rough, do it hard. Hurt me with that big, hard cock of yours! Fuck me, fuck me!”

  I pride myself on my stamina. I’ve trained myself, while fucking another guy, to keep my dick hard and keep pounding away inside him, nonstop, for a long as possible, before I come. (Assuming, of course, that the other guy wants to be the recipient of that kind of a long, rough fuck. But trust me—most of them do!)

  But this hot-assed son of a bitch was too much for me. After about ten minutes of sheer anal-erotic ecstasy, I blew my wad. I shot my full load of hot, wet seed deep into my john’s smoldering ass; and, as I did so, I felt like the most sexually satisfied stud in Hungary.

  I pulled out of him. I got off the bed and stood up beside it, stretching myself, fighting to recover my breath. He lay there on the bed, face down, shuddering from head to foot.