Body Parts I

[michaeldavid]

This was my first story ever. I’m gonna try and move all my old stories over.

I needed help moving. New job, new area and all. I didn't have a lot of money but wasn't about to kill myself carrying my meager, but heavy items to my new walk-up. I checked the old yellow pages I found on the stoop. And there it was, an answer to...prayer? 

"Rick Moves You," was the company name, with the by-line of, "A little cash buys a lot of muscle." I appreciated the double-entendre of the company name, even if it was just wishful thinking. I called. Rick answered.

He was available, he said, with what sounded like a smile. Another tease? I was in a town known for beautiful gay men. Perhaps I'd be lucky. He sounded young, but definitely of the jock, athletic tone. That is, if a voice can really tell you anything. After all, mine is misleading and I regularly get called Ms. on the phone. 

"How many will you be bringing? I'll have a couple of beers for each of you ready. It shouldn't take more than 30-45 minutes to get all the stuff up and I'm glad to take an end of the sofa if you'll knock off the price a little."

"Rick moves you, baby," he chortled. "I got this. We'll be done in 30 minutes and you needn't break a sweat."

OK - hold up! That's ridiculous! Cocky in the ad - cocky on the phone. I just knew I was setting myself up for failure here, but I decided to be less cautious and put my money and hopes on the line. He said he'd be here in ten as he lived nearby.

I was waiting on the stairs when he came running up the street. Not a jogging pace, mind you, running. Like in a race. He was fast. He was blonde and actually balding a bit. You know, when the hair is receding a touch and makes you look like a testosterone farmer. That's right - I actually wrote 'testosterone farmer.' I'll explain.

This is the guy who's face has seen some sun, with a few tiny wrinkles at the corner of his eyes because he's a smiler. Farmers are smilers. His teeth are as close to bright white as looks natural - but they aren't perfectly straight. His significant arms are lightly bulging the end of their T-shirt sleeves and the tanned skin is covered with a golden hair that's only visible at the right angles of light. The testosterone in his body makes those little hairs stand erect. They flow over the skin following the contours of the muscles. The perfect cup of the delts, swirling into the thin cord atop the triceps. You suddenly notice the forearms are ridiculous...like the size of the upper arm at certain angles...when he shakes your hand. The hands are rough but clean. His nails super short. He is about 6 ft 3. Whatever else he's packing...he's a testosterone farmer!

Rick had to ask a second time where my stuff was, because I was amazed. I vaguely indicated a truck a few spaces down with an open back. He surveyed the items and said he'd start with the oversized easy chair my friend and I had struggled to load through doorways and downstairs in my hometown.

He scooped up the chair even easier than I expected and turned toward the building, his eyes asking for directions. I stepped out of the way with the intention of grabbing a box or two to follow him up with when I noticed him hop the front steps two at a time with the easy chair overhead with the seat resting on his head and the back covering his back. I was looking for a glimpse of his arms raised above his head when I saw them. Ricky, (as I'd decided to call him for the next few weeks of masturbatory sessions), had a body part to compare with no other. Every ounce of his physical glory culminated in his calves!

Those were lower legs. Oh, my God! I've never been a leg man - - but chalk me up permanently for dark meat! First off, the skin was THE shade of golden brown models usually paint themselves to get. The hair wasn't that kucky, too-long and pubic type. It was just so manly. So thick. Each individual hair looked like it could win a fight. They, too, like the arm hairs were SO erect. They weren't blonde. They were a nice, dark brown. It made me realize this kid would have a delicious bush. The skin had a tiny hint of sweat that caught the light and made the leg look so functional.

You should have seen the chords that attached that mother of a calf into his shoe. Only then did I realize the shoe almost looked oversized for his height. Big shoe, big foot, big man. There were two or three parallel chords on each side of the leg that looked like tubes headed into the shoe.

The calf looked, all at once, both super high on the leg...like he leaped steps all the time for work outs and altogether longer than any bunch of muscle should be on a leg. Seriously, this was like a biceps flexed on the back of his leg. It looked deep, thick, ripe. I wanted to bite it. To swat at it to feel the girth and the thickness and the glory. God, I wanted to cum on that leg.

He turned at the doorway and asked if I was OK. I had subconsciously grabbed the railing to keep myself from moving closer and was actually rubbing myself a tad on said railing. (Come on, don't act like you've never done it.)

I told him apartment 3B. He smiled and said, "Cum on." Well, he probably said, "Come on." I had one thing on my mind.

I followed him quickly up the stairs. As the afternoon progressed, I followed him like a puppy. I watched those calves work. I know they could have carried Rick, my stuff, and me up the stairs without the assistance of his thighs if only the physiology worked that way. On one step, that magnificent calf would bunch like it was trying to squeeze OJ from itself. On another, it would lengthen and actually flex like it was going to shove the stair down a floor. I looked, more than once, for the dent I was sure would be left in the cement.

The skin got darker, the sweat only a little more evident after several trips. I couldn't even hardly admire the abilities of the rest of his body man-handling my stuff because his calves were undeniably in charge of my focus...perhaps my being.

And Rick knew it. He enjoyed it. Not in the way a nasty jerk does with a "look at me" attitude, but in a way that showed he liked being noticed and knew he'd be my dream for many a night.

He even stopped once and said he had something in his shoe. He set my half-fridge on one landing and turned around to nearly bump into me. He sat down and I saw that sucker flex and bunch and grow - - very literally GROW as he sat and wrested off his shoe, removed the air that was in it, and returned it to his foot. I hadn't seen the calf from the front. The muscle came around and nearly connected in front of the shin bone. Even that bone looked muscular and could tighten. The columnar chords stood out on either side again. And then he rubbed his elfin' leg. Hell, I had to place a knee on the stairs to keep from collapsing. Those big, muscular hands massaging that gigantic, powerful leg. I had an obvious hard on and asked if he'd like a hand. 

He grinned. He declined. He stood up. He turned around. He grabbed my half-fridge. He flexed those bastards again. And again. One bunched, one stretched. I nearly climaxed in my pants. He finished his job with one more arm load. I paid the man. He waved and ran down the street with those calves screaming my name. Rick moved me.

[michaeldavid]

I woke up thinking I'd explore the new neighborhood as I needed to find the best hash browns in town. I loves me some hash browns. I headed for the bathroom in the semi-dark, rubbing my eyes and thinking how nice the quiet was when I hear a splash. It was only secondarily that I realized my foot was in water at the edge of the carpet leading to the privy. 

"Shit! That better NOT be shit," I said...aloud...to no one. It was one of those comments meant to actually change the situation. As though saying it aloud in a threatening tone would change the universe and somehow FORCE it to not be a crappy situation. Ha! 

I flipped on the light and discovered, to my strange relief, that it was old fashioned, slightly rust-colored, American city hard water. Relief that it wasn't worse somehow mixed with frustration that there is any problem at all still winds up starting a new day, especially a first new day, poorly.

I grabbed a towel off the counter as I had at least taken my supply out of a box and set them there. I grabbed a second one as the first didn't really cover the entire puddle. I opened the cupboard under the sink and reached in to feel a steady leak in a pretty large pipe. Though I had to contort to a somewhat awkward angle, I took a look because it wasn't the typical drain loop that I was feeling. It looked to be a pipe that possibly supplied the entire floor with water and happened to pass through my old apartment. It was leaking steadily. It was slippery and even a little mossy - or grimy. I wasn't used to humidity, but I guessed something could logically grow on an exposed pipe in a swampy bathroom. I used my remaining towel to try and cover the leak since I knew I had no tools to tighten the joint.

Suddenly, I was concerned with the apartment below me. What if their ceiling is damaged? What if they blame me? What if some priceless heirloom is ruined? What if some hulking A-hole lives there that likes to crush anyone stupid enough to knock on his door? Could I disturb them this early? Would they be more upset I tried or more upset if I pretended I didn't know about it?

Holy hell I can get crazy obsessive with thinking things through. For that matter, what if my pipe was blocked because a secret stash of diamonds was placed there years ago and when I fix it, I become a rich playboy traveling the world and hooking up with the hottest men out there. Yes, I'm gay - what other type of guy knows the difference between hard and soft water, I ask you!?

OK - back to reality. I must go and check on my new neighbor. This looks to have been a problem for a few hours or even all night. I can't in good conscience just let it go. I also hope THAT is a trait of gay men everywhere.

I filled the towels once or twice and rung them out in the tub, but you can imagine how much good that did. It certainly sopped up the puddles, but I didn't stop to spend focused time on the details. I put all of the towels around/under the leaking pipe...man, it was big, making me remember the massive calves of the man that had moved me in just yesterday. Rick...yum.

I threw on a cap, non-descript tee, shorts...even though my legs are pasty white and thin and some loafers. I jaunted out of my place and down a flight and hesitated once more at the door. Perhaps the universe was warning me about what was about to occur.

I knocked lightly. I wouldn't say timidly, but my memory identifies the knock as such since I now know what was behind the door. Just as I went to knock again, the door opened and an incredibly large man rested his hand atop the open door. He was so freakin' butch. He had obviously just showered. He smelled so clean. Perhaps his size meant there was a whole bar of soap on him, leaving the scent to waft into the hall. Perhaps his dark and hairy pit exposed through his sleeveless and nearly side-less tee needed so much deodorant that I could easily smell it when the underarm was exposed. Maybe I imagined it because I wanted him to smell great. 

As I said, before my olfactory sense took over, he was BIG. Not muscle-story unbelievably big...just bigger than nearly anyone I'd ever met. His full head of dark hair was only towel dry and he had a thick mustache that looks like 'Lester the Molester' on lesser men. On him...well, I wished he was going to be 1)gay or bi, 2)interested in me, 3)available and 4) everything else I imagined I was going to see as I stole glimpses of him elsewhere. It's amazing how much you can think in mere fractions of a second.

He has cotton sweat pants on to cover his lower half and they were big enough there was no hint at what might lie below. But then he moved his other arm - you remember, the one NOT atop the door frame - to place a closed fist on his hip and bark something about what I wanted.

Time stopped. For some reason, I was fixated on that mitt attached to the club that braced a fabulous ham of an upper arm to a bowling ball he surely called his shoulder which was next to a bull's neck somehow on a human being. What's amazing is those descriptions individually added together to more than their whole and yet didn't look out of place.

Ahhh, it's because he's so tall! Probably 6 ft 5 or so. That's why the other mitt and club can rest so easily atop the door frame. 

With the thoughts of mitts and clubs, I couldn't help but think of baseball. Did you even notice the size of Jose Canseco's, or better yet, Mark McGuire's forearms? Have you ever really looked at the lower arms of true, powerful arm-wrestling champions? Well just know they have nothing on the guy in 2B!! These were the perfect paw and 'leg-used-as-arm' set!

I came too as he asked me again what I needed. "To knead that forearm muscle in my hands...not be able to reach around it and still connect my fingers with both hands...to have you lean over and flex and let me grind my dick into that river of veins and muscle chords you've built on that forearm while you cup my whole ass with you massive hand...all the while tonging me deep with that mouth and 'stache!" I screamed!

In my head, anyway.

I forced myself to look in his eyes, stop the ogling and tell him of my errand. He immediately changed posture and attitude. The other 'leg' came down off the door frame, removing some of that delicious clean man-scent and making me miss his pit. I mean, come on - - who really love arm pits except in porn? I did. Now. Where did that cavernous, muscle-surrounded masculine pit go? I bet the hair in his pit was as thick, glorious and irresistible as the hair on his lip. God, I wanted to suck that upper lip while I mounted his forearm...sorry, off-base again. I was focusing in his eyes - right?

"Yes, I could use help." I answered. He explained his older brother was a plumber, and he had helped said brother for several summers in high school and college so he could probably fix me right up. College educated too!? Holy Hell, please let my Atlas allow me to hold his globes!

Before I recovered, he'd shut his door, told me his name was Barry and offered his paw. I reached out determined to give him a firm shake, but he caught me to fast and I was a limp fish in his hand. You know how that feels...HATE IT! But then, I realized I was actually fully clasped, squeezing unconsciously as hard as I could, and still felt like a limp fish! I reached out my other hand to do the double shake like you see a politician do for a photo at a ribbon-cutting and nearly died.

I touched the back of a hand the size of the best pumped arm I'd ever groped in the 'nice-to-meet-you-I-wanna-feel-your-muscle' handshake. But that was usually while touching the upper arm. I was just touching his hand. It was hard, thick - full of muscle that was flexing in my grip. I swear I couldn't feel a bone as his hand was all muscle. And hair. Black hair that coated just to the point of overload. I could feel it reaching out to touch me. 

You know how babies have that cabbage-patch doll wrist. With a hand and an arm and a space in between that looks like there's an elastic around what should be the wrist? His arm was just the opposite. The tree branch that sprouted from the bottom of that awesomely wide hand was glory in itself. That wrist was so strong - that forearm so big...

Barry broke his hold - took a serious look at me that had me cowering, and headed up the stairs two, no - he's leaping three at a time! And just like that, he was gone around the switch of the stair. I was frozen. Barry leaned a little over the solid half-wall stair and hung his arm down like he was offering to pull me from the water. I swear to God that he gave his arm a mighty flex. He closed that fist and squeezed hard enough to pulverize rocks. That forearm leapt to further attention, because believe me when I say it wasn't relaxed in the first place. A couple of ears of corn attached to a tree branch base is the best way to describe what was between his elbow and me. Every cornel moved and you could have molded steel across that son of a...

"Yes, I'm cumming." Well, he didn't have to know how I spelled it. I jumped up the stairs, struggled to pass him and tried not to stare this time and got to my door. I fumbled for my key and even dropped it and I heard him snicker. He thought I was pathetic, I was sure. I didn't care as long as he let me look.

I let him in, showed him the problem and as he tried to bend down to start working, I blurted an apology because I didn't have any tools or wrenches and I'm sure that's all he'd need and look here, this is the problem and...all because I wanted to impress him.

Barry impressed me. I hadn't noticed, but my countertop simply rested on the cabinets. He said all the apartments were that way. He lifted the countertop quite deftly, (no jizzing here, it wasn't granite or anything nice), but he maneuvered it well and I stepped back noticing my top drawer and the cavity below the sink was exposed. My top drawer with my acne cream and my condoms. He snickered again. I heard it. He is so unimpressed with me and my pasty legs.

He know had enough room to squat and sort of angle his head to look at the pipe. He moved the towels and tried to dry the leaking spot. He dropped that last towel and just grabbed the nut on the pipe. The leaky, moldy, rusty old pipe that was so big around it could supply my floor...perhaps others.

"Oh, my God," I stated out loud. I wasn't talking to him, or my God, but had no other words when he squeezed that nut. His mitt had muscles bulge out between each finger bone on the back of his hand. His wrist suddenly shot out sideways and seemed to become steel. His mile-thick forearm muscles grew around one another making that thing look like DeMayo's thighs and the biceps grew to proportions no human could roid to. He was all muscle, all self-fashioned. I could see that magnificent pit hair again. His smell permeated the room in that instant. I was light headed. I grabbed for the counter that didn't exist and ended up grabbing a handful of condoms. He looked at me and squeezed MORE! What happened between wrist and elbow made me quiver. He watched me watch his arm, and he twisted. 

That was it. Show was over. Barry stood up. With some difficulty, replaced the counter. Difficulty moving it around me, not difficulty handling it. He sort of pushed past me and I followed him to the door, condoms still absent-mindedly in hand. He opened the door, turned and said, "nice to meet you." And I'll never forget this part - - he tousled my hair with that huge hand. He grabbed my head lightly and gave it the slightest squeeze so I could always feel the size, the weight. it gave me one last look at his glorious arm from forearm through pit. That glorious tube of biceps...and that smell! Ah, jizz! I mean, jeeze.

[DawnFire98]

I it. The descriptions of the arms and legs are my favorite part.