Beach Bod (Patreon)

The way he is constantly looking my way makes me uncomfortable. I’m not used to being checked out like that, and can’t figure out why he is doing it. I’m not a looker by any definition. The kindest word you can use is “lean”, because I’m utterly unable to gain any weight. It’s not a secret to him either, as my pale, twiggy body is almost fully on display on the beach towel. At one point I was doing protein shakes twice a day, and lifting several days a weak. My face was the only thing that became more defined, so I went back to pizza and Pepsi. Yet, he keeps looking my way, one step shy of flirting. I can’t make up my mind if I’m a good kind of uncomfortable, or just creeped out. He’s gorgeous, somehow, I think. Absolutely massive muscle body, great skin, great tan. He probably eats my weekly food budget for lunch, and half his waking time in a gym. The face is kind though, almost dorky, with glasses and a mid level manager hairdo. He’s definitively looking at me out of pity, or finding my body humorous.

No, I’m leaving. That’s enough beach time for today. It’s Monday tomorrow after all, and I could use a few hours to clean the apartment. The board shorts are already dry, so I’m one shirt and a pair of flip flops away from… Oh, God, he’s behind me, isn’t he?

- Going so soon?
- I’m eh..

Ungh! Even his voice is buff.

- Please, stop me if I’m fishing in the wrong kind of water, but I would really like to know you a bit more… intimately.
- Ah… Eh.. No, I’m… versatile. I was just afraid that someone with your body
- …would break you like a bundle of sticks.

I couldn’t help myself laughing at his poor attempt of a joke. Yes, a bundle of sticks is the dictionary definition of “faggot”. Still, there was something to what he was saying. I’ve only ever slept with guys my own size. There was something intimidating in the thought of someone with his mass and strength manhandling a naked me. And while I said versatile I really mean bisexual. So far I’ve always topped.

- Yeah, something like that.
- What if..

 He steps closer, almost getting behind me, and wraps his thick right arm around me. He lets his hand rest on my left pec and with the other hand gently stroke my flat belly. He’s massive, warm, damp, intrusive, and smells of coconut oil and musk.

- What if you were bigger? Stronger. Would that put you at ease?

His hand is rubbing in gentle circles, but undoubtedly moving south. I’ve had fantasies about being together with someone of his physique, as with most body types, but now that it is actually happening I’m both incredibly turned on and intimidated. And this is all taking place on a public beach. Everyone can see what he is doing. What we are doing. For all I know there could be a co-worker  watch me being rubbed by this freak of discipline and dedication. It was getting so hard to focus.

- I… I think so.

He is definitely in my shorts now.

- Big wide chest? Pectoral muscles so large they’ll always be in your peripheral vision? Biceps the size of your skull? Rippling washboard abdominal muscles you can see even through a sweatshirt? Big trunks of legs, making you always take up a bit more than one seat?

- Ungh… Yes.

He isn’t giving me a hand job exactly, but he is doing something down there, and it is the most sexual experience I’ve ever had. I struggled so much to have any muscle show, that what he is describing has never been my fantasy. Half of it even sounds impractical, almost dirty. I’m letting this muscular man make me publicly cream my shorts, and it doesn’t matter if he recited the common law in his deep timbre. Screw decency. I don’t care who knows. My hole body feels electric, like the glow you have from sunburn, before it starts to hurt. He leans in and whisper.

- You better hurry up to my apartment then.

He lets go of me completely and steps back. What a fucking tease! He did that just to get me all worked up and horny and…

The board shorts are straining to contain my thighs, and look more like hot pants on me. My erection is not only obvious to anyone, but visibly way above average. What are people going to think? I erratically look around. No one is paying us any attention. If anyone ever did, they are now pretending two men didn’t just share an erotic moment.

I look at him, whatever his name is. He smiles back, nods, and make a kind of shrug. I’m not sure what he means by it.

Then it hits me.

I look down at my hands, my arms, and recall what he said about pectoral muscles. The shirt is pinching my arms when I move them. Without any basis I’m guessing I could burst the seams if I just flexed the right way. Perhaps that is the only way to get out of it. I’m certainly not going to wear it again. There is no way I could button it.

- My… clothes.
- Pick anything that fits when you leave.
- Leave?
- Yeah. My apartment is over there, two blocks from the beach front.

I feel my abs with my left hand. I never thought I would get to touch such hard, truely three-dimensional abs in person, let alone have them myself. I move my right hand to my left man boob, mirroring how he touched me. I hear a seam rip open. I don’t care. As I feel my firm, massive chest, the notion of going home to clean my apartment seems ludicrous. I can’t think of anything I would rather do than following this unknown man to his unknown location for yet to be determined activities for an unknown amount of time. Did he make me want it? Who the fuck cares?