by TS Escher
My watch beeps indicating midnight. I’m right on time.
The sliding doors welcome me with a familiar whoosh, and my skinny frame passes the sleepy clerk with a gym bag. Giddiness overwhelms me as I flick my keycard over the scanner. It responds with a happy chirp. I fucking love this place.
“Happy anniversary!” the clerk calls behind me. My breath stops short in my chest. How does she know?
“I’m sorry?”
“Happy anniversary!" she repeats. "Five years of membership today. How does it feel?”
“So happy I could cry,” I respond with a meaningful smile.
“Me too, Michael," she says with a flick of her eyes toward the computer. Her cleverness makes me smile even more. Lifting my name from their electronic files is a smooth move.
"I'm Marie by the way."
"Thanks, Marie. Let's both cry from happiness." I joke. Unexpectedly, a broad smile plasters across her face. Her eyes start to well up with tears. Fuck. I did it again. Be careful with your words, idiot!
Ashamed of myself, I turn away. As I stride toward the stairs, Marie begins to wail. I hope this crying fit doesn't last long.
I have a way of implanting emotions - no, obsessions – in people. Once I speak the words, I have no control. The perks of this ability are, to put it mildly, a mixed bag.
As I place my hand on the stairway banister, my excitement grows. I take a moment to reminisce about this very day, five years ago.
"I don't care if he's fucking dead!" Bryant screamed as he threw his gym bag on the desk in his office. He loosened the collar on his shirt in anger, attempting to relieve the building tension in his pencil neck.
"Bryant, it was a stroke! If my dad doesn't recover," my voice began to crack, a lump formed in my throat. "If he passes and I don't get a chance to say goodbye... I'll never forgive myself.”
“The future of our firm rests on this case, Mike! You will stay until you finish your work. You will forget your father for now and keep a shark-like focus. Forget to eat! Ignore sleep! Damnit, I want you to hold every last drop of piss in until you dot every 'I' in this brief. When you do everything - and I mean everything possible to wrap this up – you can go home and take care of your family. Hell! I'll even give you tomorrow off.”
How fucking generous. I glared at Bryant in disbelief, fuming as he snatched his oversized coat. He wrapped it around his puny body, swimming in it. I eyed his gym bag as he ripped it off the desk.
"That's right," he mumbled, confused by my mirrored phrasing.
“Same to you,” I said. My grimace warped into a diabolical smile. “Have a great workout!”
“Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba!” a little girl screams as she runs past me, snapping me out of my memory. Her mother, clad in black spandex, huffs down the stairs after her. “Let’s get to the car, Bambi!” Why the hell are kids here at this time of night?
I scale the stairs, giddy with excitement. As I reach the top, I scan the floor, then breathe a sigh of relief. It's empty, except for...
Bryant, lifting in a faraway corner. His eyes focus with intent on the mirror as he lifts a loaded barbell with a steady rhythm. My loins stir as I spot him. As I take each step toward him, I feel another surge of erotic energy.
I take my time, savoring five years of hard work. Bryant's hard work. All two-hundred and seventy pounds of it. Bryant Morris is now unrecognizable. He was a scumbag, and now… he's a god. He should thank me for this, but he won’t. The exhaustion made him mute years ago. I guess that is what working out 24-hours a day will do to you.
“Feeding time!” I exclaim, shaking Bryant’s gym bag at his reflection. I drop it unceremoniously on the floor, then fetch a heavy shaker bottle of a mass-building shake. I give it a good jiggle to blend the chunks. "Must be your curling hour, eh?"
His eyes do not acknowledge my question. He stares straight ahead, keeping perfect form without a moment of rest. His boulder-like biceps are stretching his skin to the max, threatening to pop out.
“Open up!” I say in a sing-song voice, popping the cap.
His mouth drops open as I place the bottle to his lips. I tip it upward and the thick shake slides down his throat. He gulps it down with gusto, not missing a rep. A glop of the white ooze leaks out and plops onto my gladiator’s chest. I lick it off. Delicious.
Next, I fetch a pound of shaved roast beef from the bag. It’s warm, but should still be safe. I slide my fingernail across the stickered price tag, unsealing it.
“Here comes the airplane!” I say as I zig-zag a fistful towards his mouth. I press the mound of beef hard against his lips, forcing them open. He gobbles each bite like a hungry puppy, taking in massive gulps of air between mouthfuls. Drool drips down his neck.
"You like that - don't you, my little muscle fishy?" I say, patronizing him. "All have to do is feed you eight times a day, and you grow so big and strong!"
He continues to curl in time. His reluctant, bored expression betrays the ripples of forced concentration across his brow.
Now his hard belly, full of food, swells as he pumps the weight. I wrap my arm around his tree-trunk waist, my hand drifting downward. I swear, it has a mind of its' own! My fingertips brush against his throbbing dick. His titanium-firm rod tents his unwashed gym shorts.
How did I not notice? Of course, he's hard! A whole day has passed since his last release. It is all part of his feeding schedule.
I wrap my other arm around him, sliding my hands up his torso, my digits riding the surf of his abdominals. My touch stays very light, teasing him. I trace my favorite parts of his body. The cobra-like flare of his lats and his fuzzy nipples stretched tightly over the twin peaks of his enviable chest.
My fingertip swirls around my favorite detail – a shark tattoo on his left shoulder. The old Bryan regretted this tattoo. He chose it while wearing Sambuca-goggles after his cousin’s crazy bachelor party. It didn’t suit him then, but it definitely suits him now.
A vacuum blares to life downstairs. We're running out of time! My eyes roll in annoyance as I thrust my right hand down his shorts, getting this show on the road. I watch his unflinching reflection from behind as my palm wraps around his thick, smelly cock. I jack it off with enthusiasm.
I decide to cheat a bit, popping the button on my jeans with my free hand. My dick flops out, and I slide it down his waistband. I rub it along his crack, my sensitive head cresting at his taint with each thrust. His glutes clench with each additional heavy rep, hugging my hard-on, making me harder with every flex. I run my tongue across the hard-earned crevices in his broad back.
Then it happens! Bryant's pale lips part as his eyes roll back in his head. Drool begins to drip down from his jawline onto a pulsing bicep as it rises and falls. He lets go of a guttural rumble signaling an orgasm. I stop stroking and try to catch the ocean waves of thick muscle-cum in my hands.
With a cautious eye towards the stairwell, I scoop my hand out of his shorts. My gaze shifts to his, now refocused on his conditioning, as I bring my hand to my impatient tongue and lap up every drop.
A cleaning woman scrapes the vacuum against the metal steps as she climbs. I wipe my sticky hand across Bryant’s gym towel and compose myself.
“This okay?” she asks, nodding towards the Hoover.
“Not a problem. Just wrapping up,” I reply.
I give Bryant a quick peck on the shoulder and fetch my bag. “Okay fishy, gotta go! But I’ll be back for feeding time in,” – checking my watch – “three hours!” The barbell clatters to the floor as Bryant’s takes a purposeful step toward the dumbbell rack. Time for deltoids!
I beam as I pass the cleaning lady. Fuck, I love going to the gym!
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