Big Man Submits To Small Cock

He raised my legs, and It happened. His pink cockhead, already slick with spit and cum, nudged against my beef-hole, and–not without a couple of yipes from me–he made it. I winced and bit my lip in virginal pain as he got my cherry.
*****
WAR! dum-dum, dum-dum-dum! What is it good for? Absolutely NUTHIN’!
Just change “War” to “Fame,” and you’ve got the story of my life. Absolutely nuthin’.
Back in the day, I got endorsement money for saying, “I wear Gazackstahegen Gym Shoes” or “I always keep my jewels in a Bazonga Athletic Supporter!” Back then Schwarzenegger made his money and fame winning legit weightlifting and bodybuilding contests, but I took a slightly easier, sleazier path.
Thanks to good genes and some bodybuilding routines, I got myself cover shoots for men’s magazines, glistening in the floodlights from an all-over coating of mineral oil. I was buff enough–and good-looking enough–for the muscle mags. I showed up on Wrestle-Crazy covers posing in a jockstrap–even though I didn’t know shit about wrestling, and inside there was no story about me. I was just the horny, buff model.
One of the covers brought lawsuits that went on for years. The tiny white jockstrap they gave me was so tiny it barely covered my cockhead. Legal arguments flew and lawyers got in fistfights about the “outrage” of my balls showing in a publication sold in mom & pop grocery stores.
Those were the Good Old Days. Photographers shooting every part of me but my asshole. Anybody into bodybuilding, wrestling, or muscles knew my name. Paparazzi flashes blinded me every time I came out of a restaurant.
Skip ahead 20 years, two decades of me as a ball rolling through the pinball machine of life. Hitting this bumper-layoff, bouncing off that spring-cancel, getting a bump from a flipper-reassignment, and a long career of...