Gay Muscle Worship

My cock slaps against his straining abs, pressing against the bulges and sweaty ridges. I ride his bucking cock, pinching my nipples.
*****
A tight torso flaring out to broad pecs and lats so thick they prop up his tanned massive arms packed with muscles that flex at the slightest movement. His head’s shaved and his jawline’s dark with stubble.
Working out’s always had a strange fascination for me. I remember looking at pictures of bodybuilders as a teen and feeling a dangerous nervous chill that made my hair stand on end and settled deep in my gut in mysterious ways. It made me shut down my computer and vow not to look at them, but I always returned.
And when I started working out after graduating from high school I always used to find my cock rock-hard by the end of each set. It’s the feeling of power building up in my body, the increased circulation, “getting pumped,” I explained to myself. “These other guys must get it too”—those other guys in the gym who I found myself glancing sidelong at during my sets, the ones with muscles I dreamed of having, thinking about what it’d be like to feel those muscles flex all over your body when you walk, pump iron—jerk off.
But I didn’t let myself look at them for long because there was something strangely invasive about it; not invasive in the sense of invading their privacy—they were just working out normally in a public gym, grunting and roaring as if they WANTED to be looked at anyways—no, invasive in the sense that they somehow got under MY skin, made me feel sick and strange. A weird sensation unlike anything else I knew. I knew what it was like to look at a woman and masturbate. Sure, you looked at a...