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  1. RayWild16

    Cory & The Machine #NSFW

    WARNING: This story contains scenes of a violent nature. Some readers may find these scenes offensive. Please do not read on if you feel like this applies to you. PART ONE “Errrrrrch…” “Twenty-two and a half.” “Aw, c’mon, man!” “Well, pump it, man! C’mon. Squeeze.” “Ah, shit.” “Yeah, man. Twenty-two and three-quarters.” “Arrrrrch!” “Just a little more. One more pump, Cory.” “Ah, God, man. I’m startin’ to cramp.” “Little more. Yeah! Twenty-three!” Cory dropped his arm to his side, but the swollen biceps seemed determined to maintain its size, now that it had been abused for the sake of attaining the magic number. Twenty-three inches. He shook his upper arm and pressed on the release point just below the deltoid until he could bend his arm freely. “Man, Cory. That was beautiful, all pumped up like that. Big block’a biceps sittin’ there. How’s it feel?” I could tell what he wanted to say. I knew what he was feeling. Like it was going to cum. Like the muscle was going to just up and spurt right there on his arm. But Cory wasn’t that way. He kept it all to himself. So I almost mouthed his reply, the same reply he always gave. “Feels alright.” “Yeah. Alright.” I could tell he would need a little time to put things right in his head again, after such an effort. So I left him to brood, or whatever it was he did when he wouldn’t talk to me, and went over to the pec deck. I think he was a little jealous. I had hit the magic mark about a month ago and hadn’t even had to cramp up to get it. But, man, you should see this guy compared to what he looked like just twelve months ago. He’d walked into the gym wearing long sweat pants and a jersey-hooded top. In the middle of summer, yet. I don’t know what he thought he was hiding or why he thought he had to hide it. What showed, though, would have been enough to catch my attention even if his clothes hadn’t. His face was beautiful. Hard, chiseled features just sharp enough to make you hope the body was the same without being severe. Though the clothes were baggy, you could tell they hung on a solid frame. The front of the sweat pants were molded around what seemed to be a rather lengthy protrusion which hung a considerable way down his right pant leg. I thought I just might have found a match for my own ten inches. Everyone else in the place was hunkered down on a piece of gear, too wrapped up with their efforts to worry about what walked through the door. I was working the desk that morning, so it was up to me to see what this walking sauna wanted. “Hi. Can I help you?” “Ah, just looking, actually.” “Lots to look at. I’m Michael.” I extended my hand but was met with a look which asked why. I’m not the type to get annoyed easily, so I figured I’d just wait and let him make the next move. “Anything you might be interested in here?” He ran his gaze up and down my six foot three inch frame and his eyes told me all I needed to know. He wasn’t cruising me. He wanted to have a body like mine. They all did. Everyone who walked into the place started out wanting to have my body. For their own, I mean. Most of them who stuck around ended up getting what they wanted, though it took a while for them to accept the body they were born with. But this guy was different. I tried to see through the layer of fleece to what he had beneath. Hard to tell. But one thing was for sure, except for a little difference in hair color (mine is brown, his blonde) and eyes (my blue to his…God, what was that? Green with little flecks of gold in them…easy, Michael) we were definitely cut from the same mold. If there was anyone who had ever walked through that door who could have my body with the proper amount of work, it was him. And I mean ‘have’ both ways. “How much does it cost to join?” I reached behind the front desk and pulled out a membership agreement which had all the prices on it. As I turned back to hand it to him I saw his eyes zip back up to eye level. I wondered how far down he’d gotten before getting caught. “Here. This will tell you all the membership options. You can have a seat and look it over now, or…” His eyes were locked firmly on mine. “I have severe perceptual dyslexia.” I guess the blank look on my face must have told him… “I can’t read.” No fear. No embarrassment. No remorse. He just couldn’t read, that’s all. “Have a seat. I’ll go over everything with you. You want me to read this to you, or just answer questions.” “Go ahead and read it.” I did. It took about fifteen minutes, with all the ‘thou shalt’s’ and ‘thou shalt not’s.’ At the end, I asked if he had any questions or if he wanted me to go over anything again. “No, thanks. I can remember it all.” I didn’t know what that meant. I mean, if he had an eidetic memory and all, why couldn’t he just read? That dyslexia shit must be a real bitch. “Why don’t you look the place over a bit. You’re welcome to use any of the gear. And most of the folks here are happy to answer questions.” “Okay.” And with that, he headed out onto the floor. He spent the next hour, and I mean a full hour, watching each station be worked by a person. He had a few questions, but seemed to sense the need to let the members get on with their work. But it wasn’t hard to see that each encounter was a pleasant experience for each person he interacted with. It must have been the gold flecks. I sat back down at the desk to do paperwork, glancing up occasionally to see how he was doing. I finally decided he was going to behave himself and got lost in my duties. At one point I looked up to find him standing before me at the desk. I had no idea how long he had been there. His eyes locked onto mine and wouldn’t let go. “So?” He looked like he had already made up his mind. “I’ll start with a six-month membership without the classes option. I’ll provide my own lock and I’ve got insurance already.” “Well, that doesn’t leave me much to ask except how you want to…” “American Express.” Now what’s a guy who can’t read doing with an AMEX card? I was quickly learning that this “can’t read” thing was more of a big deal for me than it was for him. He took it out of his wallet. Platinum? What the hell’s going on here? I ran it through the verifier and entered an amount double of what his membership would cost; standard practice to cover incidentals and such. He caught my look of amazement when it came back with an approval code. He signed the credit slip with a scrawl that looked only slightly less decipherable than most people’s signatures. We filled in the forms together, him supplying answers, me the pen work. I thought he would clam up when it got to the personal data, but he fed it to me like it was my business to know and his to tell. “What’s your first name?” “Cory.” I wondered if his folks had known he would grow up beautiful enough to carry that name proudly. I knew it had to be either Cory or Stefan. “Middle initial.” “S.” I didn’t ask. We finished the form — I have to admit I was disappointed that the address he gave was a post office box — and then I took him back to the locker room, assigned him a locker and showed him where the towels and such were. Each time I indicated a location of something his eyes would flick to the spot for an instant and then back to me. His eyes hardly ever left mine. But instead of feeling threatened or uncomfortable, I felt like he was really interested in what I had to offer him. I straddled one of the benches that ran between the lockers and indicated he should do the same. He didn’t hesitate for an instant but joined me, facing me; his knees just inches from mine. “Look, Cory. I don’t know if this is any of my business, but in a way, I guess it is. I gotta ask. You ever had any experience with this stuff? Y’know. Working out?” “I had a friend who did it. I used to watch him. He had some equipment in his basement that he and his wife would use.” “But you’ve never done this, yourself?” “I tried some of his stuff once in a while.” “I don’t know if you noticed, but most of the folks out there, especially the ones who are really serious, have someone to work with.” “Like my friend and his wife.” “Yeah, though I don’t know too many boy/girl teams.” “They did it just for fun. Said it made the sex better.” I barely was able to keep my eyebrows from hitting the ceiling. I was dying to know what his part in all this was. With surprisingly little effort several scenarios came to mind. “Yeah. It does that, alright. Are you thinking of getting your friend to join the club, as well? Be your workout partner?” “He’s dead. They died in a car crash a few months ago. His mom said I could have the gear if I wanted it, but I didn’t know what to do with it.” This was getting weirder by the minute. Cory narrowed his gaze just a bit. He asked me, “Do you have a workout partner?” My old partner — partner in workouts, partner in business, partner in just about everything else in my life — my old partner had decided life on the coast was too much, or too little, or too — something — for him. Six months ago he‘d split, leaving an envelope with a terse note of apology and the papers to his half of the business signed over to me and notarized. He had even taken care of having his mail forwarded, so I didn’t even have the pleasure of NOT forwarding anything to him that might have appeared in my mailbox — not that I would ever have stooped to such a petty act of revenge, but he didn’t even leave me the opportunity to decide that. So it was as if I’d written: ASK ME IF I HAVE A WORKOUT PARTNER… AND WHILE YOU’RE AT IT, ASK ABOUT MY SEX LIFE, TOO in bold letters across my forehead with a red indelible marker. No, I had no workout partner. And then, Cory said the magic words; words I had been beaming into his mind, willing him to say. “It seems to me that if I were to work with you, it would be easy, us being so similar in build, and all.” Damn! Did that actually work? I wondered just how similar ‘similar’ was. I had on a pair of cut-off sweats that reached down to just above my knees and a tank top, so he had little trouble seeing what I had. He, on the other hand, was still wrapped up like Nanook of the North. I figured I had to take a chance. “Kinda hard to tell, with all that clothing you have on.” Cory immediately stood up and unzipped the jersey top, allowing the front to fall open. There seemed to be a brief moment of decision, then he pulled the two sides apart and shrugged it off his shoulders. It fell to the floor. So did my jaw. Chiseled. Like from a block of translucent marble. I mean, we’re talking individual fibers of muscle glowing underneath nicely tanned, flawless, blemish-less, hair-free skin. And did I mention the veins? Big fat ones over each biceps. Thick over his hairless forearms. Millions of them all over his hairless pecs. And did I mention his pecs? Hard. Flat. Very solid. His nipples were long and thick. And very erect. Not a lot of bulk on his frame, but not a lot else, either. I guessed maybe three or four percent body fat. Not starving or anorexic. Just hard. Like my cock. And did I mention my cock? My cock began to stir and I wondered if I should even pretend to be worried about him seeing me get hard. His eyes were still locked on mine, searching for something. I waited to see if he would flash a look at my crotch, but they stayed even, steady. I tried to be as polite, but curiosity got the better of me. I intended to just let them drift down, as though I was professionally appraising his body for future reference, but by the time I got to the flat, rippled surface of his abdominals, I had given up all pretense. And, sure enough, as my gaze ran down to his waist, I could not help catch a glimpse of what was steadily, very dramatically, becoming an insistent bulge in his pant-leg. And did I mention thick? I mean, like mine thick. Cory’s cock grew harder, thicker, quicker than I had ever seen a cock grow hard and thick. I thought he might pass out from the loss of blood elsewhere. I mean, I’ve gotten a little light-headed when my tool started draining off too much blood too quickly. Like now. It was a good thing I was sitting down. Or at least it was until I started really getting hard. Then it became really uncomfortable really fast. When I finally pulled my eyes away from the swelling that decorated Cory’s leg, I found myself still locked in his gaze. No irascible smile. No mischievous grin. No sly raising of the eyebrows, asking wordless questions, raising unthinkable hopes. Just that same, steady scrutiny. I didn’t even know if he was waiting for anything. What was I supposed to do? Strip, as well? “Nice.” Cory’s head cocked to the side a bit. “What?” The question startled me. Didn’t he know what he looked like? Didn’t he know what affect he was having on me? “Your body. Nice. Good foundation there. You set your mind to it and I could have you big as me in a year.” I was hoping to get him to extend his membership. “One year?” “Yeah. I think so. You gotta be ready to work, though.” “I work. That’s not a problem. When do we start?” How about tonight? My place? “How about tomorrow morning? I’ve got a guy that comes in and covers the desk in the morning so I can get my own routine in.” “That’s fine. What time?” “Eight o’clock?” “Fine.” My eyes dropped intentionally to his erection which was pressing with great persistence against the fabric of his sweats. This guy was hung. Thick, long, and…and…leaking. Man, I couldn’t believe the size of the wet spot which was spreading out just a couple of inches above his right knee. And he seemed to be completely unconcerned about it. Not the least bit uncomfortable, either physically or emotionally. Did he walk around with a ten inch hard-on and a gallon of pre-cum dripping down his leg all the time so that it didn’t even matter? “You seem to have developed quite a leak there.” “Yeah. Happens all the time.” “You ever, uh, take care of it?” “Sometimes. Sometimes I just leave it alone and it goes away after a while.” The guy gets a ten inch iron rod down his pant-leg and doesn’t even want to do anything about it? Man. I mean, I’d heard of self-abuse, but this was ridiculous. And here I was, my own cock so hard and throbbing it was beginning to peek out from the bottom of my shorts. I could feel my rather considerable balls begin to churn and I thought I was going to cum in sympathy for what this guy must be experiencing. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any more. “You want me to take care of that for you?” “Sure. If you want. Can you make it hurt?” That did it. The floodgates opened and three feet of bench before me was suddenly slathered with a thick coating of my hot, unexpected cum. Look, ma. No hands! And Cory was just as suddenly down on his belly on the bench, licking up every last drop of that sudden deluge. I mean, I’d seen lines of coke disappear slower than that. And he didn’t stop there. His lips grasped the head of my still protruding cock and licked and cleaned it, allowing me the opportunity to admire the knotted, rigid muscles of his back at close range. When he had completely drained my cock of its contents and licked the exposed portion of it clean, he stood back up and made a motion so swift my eyes could hardly follow it. One second he was clothed from the waist down. The next he was completely naked. Hard thighs. Hard calves. Hard abdominals and obliques. Hard, firm ass. And hard, hard, hard, hard cock. I mean a mean-kinda hard. It didn’t look like I would need to do much to make it hurt. It was already doing a pretty good job on its own. And the reason I knew that was that I was staring right at a duplicate copy of my own prodigious tool. He’s cut were I’m cut. He’s veined were I’m veined. His balls hang down where my balls hang down. And he is thick — and I mean thick — where I’m thick. I knew exactly what this cock wanted. I knew just where to chew, just where to suck, just where to lick and tease, and just how much it wanted to be squeezed. And squeeze I did. I grabbed it with both hands and wrapped my fingers around as far as they would reach. And then I squeezed. I squeezed and pulled it down, forcing it to bend until it was pressed against his bloated ball sac. And then I grabbed that sac and its contents and began to squeeze them as well. I pulled and squeezed and looked up to see what he was feeling. Cory’s eyes were clamped shut, his face screwed up in silent suffering. But there was a look of such joy beneath that exquisite agony I knew he was getting exactly what he needed. And his body was becoming more tense by the minute. Corded muscles, sharp and defined, began to press against each square inch of his skin. His arms raised and reached out, each hand grabbing a lock on a locker and pulling against them. He was not huge, not like me, but he was so cut-up, so hard that I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. Yeah, kid. You want to look like me. Well that goes the same for me. I want to feel the pain you’re feeling; the agony, the pressure, the extreme, pulverizing, ecstatic bliss. I want my mind blown like yours is. I want to not think twice about getting a hard-on and letting my huge balls leak all over whatever I’m wearing. I want to walk up to the nearest guy and tell him to hurt me, knowing — somehow really knowing — the guy will know exactly what it is I need. I bit hard on his shaft. I clamped down with my hands, my huge forearms bulging with veins and muscles. Then I took his balls in my mouth and began to chew on them, as well. I didn’t want to kill the guy. I wasn’t out for blood. But I knew exactly how far to go with this. Cory’s cock grew darker. As mine would. It began to throb. As mine would. It began to leak again. As mine would. As mine was. And then it began to spurt. As mine surely would have, had I not just come a few minutes before, myself. And through it all, he didn’t make a sound. Not a grunt, not a cry, not a whimper, not a plea. And when I had drunk down every last bit of what was one of the biggest loads of jiz I had ever been attacked by, he grabbed my hair, pulled it back, and looked into my eyes. “Feels alright.” So, here it was, almost exactly a year later, and we were both sporting twenty-three inch guns. I’d never seen anyone attack a routine like this guy did. I told him how important it was to let the muscle rest and heal, that it was as important a part of the routine as anything else. But for the first couple of months, it appeared he didn’t believe me. It was like he was racing toward some goal, or like he didn’t believe the goal was even possible, or maybe worth it, without a whole lot of pain and suffering. I mean, I understood about the pain and suffering. What bodybuilder didn’t? But this guy was into it big time. And it just got to the point around the gym that everyone stopped thinking twice about this guy running around with a huge erection and wet spot decorating his right thigh. And you could measure the intensity of his workout by the size of both. It was easy for me, at first. Hell, I had six years of work to my advantage. But he closed the gap quick and soon I was playing catch-up to his thighs. Then when I evened that score, his arms would jump ahead. Then his chest. Then his lats. Then his delts. After 12 months, I still haven’t gotten that one back. This guy’s delts are huge. I don’t want to give the impression I have any regrets about this at all. After six years, I thought I’d reached my peak, physically. Twenty-one and a half inch biceps and a fifty-four inch chest seemed pretty good to me. It was easy for me to maintain my body and not have to do a lot of ridiculous dieting and all the other insane things guys aiming for competition had to do. But then along came hurricane Cory and suddenly I’m anabolic Annie again like I’m going for my first state championship. And it felt good. I mean really good. I was getting to the point where I didn’t even mind the fact that I matched Cory’s incessant hard-on, inch for inch, hour for hour. Because there was always Cory to help me tame the beast. As the size of our physiques grew, so did our appetite for stimulation. I found myself withstanding pain he inflicted on me far beyond what I thought the human body could endure. I would marvel at both our tolerances as we pulled and pressed and stretched and punished each other’s body in our work and play. My balls were so tough that I never had to wear a jock anymore. Whereas before, just walking caused them to swing painfully against my thigh if I wasn’t wearing one, now I could take a direct hit and revel in the cramping pain it brought on. The same was true for the rest of my body. Our lovemaking consisted of a lot of wrestling and exertion, pulling and stretching against each other’s increasing strength. And the harder we fought, the harder we came. And came and came and came. We tried to see who could force his way up the other one’s ass with his thick, juicy cock, but losing was winning, so the effort was for the fun of it, instead. He wouldn’t move in with me. He would come over after I got off work and we would screw and suck each other until the wee hours of the morning then do it all over again the next day. But he would never spend the whole night. I told him I felt a need to be with him after we made love but he said that wasn’t something he was into. So, no matter how deeply we kissed, no matter how hot and hard we fucked, no matter how tightly we held each other as our cocks shot their magnificent loads into each others bodies, he was always quick with the good-bye. At one point I tried to make an issue of it, hoping he would at least talk to me about it, explain his need to get away. But all I got was another indecipherable response. “When the year is up. Wait.” And though it’s been frustrating, it seems he’s going to be good to his word. Over the past few weeks, as the year comes to a close, he has been dropping little hints about something he has in store for us. I know enough now that I won’t even bother to get any more information out of him. His most expressive moment is still at the culmination of the most mind-bending, cock-exploding, ball-busting, muscle-swelling sex free-for-all when his amazing gold-flecked eyes lock onto mine and he says, “Feels alright.” All I can do is wait. It’s just a few more days. End Part One
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