DAVID 114
[Note from ManOfSteel: I always enjoy hearing and seeing reactions to David, especially if they inspire fantasies, dreams, stories, etc. Colin Graham has submitted several stories to me, and I thought it would be nice for someone else to write the text for a change, so here, in his own inimitable style, is “I’m Brad”.
And on that note… introducing Brad. Brad will not be a character on his own, but rather a periodic nemesis and additional “actor” with David. Brad is from the beaches of California and is certain his reason for existing is to be God’s gift to all women and inspiration to men less fortunate than he.
“And let’s face it… who isn’t?”
Sigh. Yes, Brad. With an attitude like that, I thought his debut would be perfect for this story. I hope you enjoy.
(Brad texture by Rick Thornton)]
I'm Brad
by Colin Graham
“My name’s Brad, and yours is…?”
“David.”
I rose to shake your hand as soon as you came into the room. I’m six foot three and the best part of 300 pounds and I would guess you gave me a couple of inches and a few pounds more. It’s not often I get to meet someone as tall and big as me, let alone taller and bigger, and the closer I got to you—still standing in the doorway—the stronger the vibes I sensed.
You stood there, your vast muscle hardly contained in the “Prime Beef” tee you were wearing, and I wasn’t going to apologize for the way mine were squeezed into my scarlet helanca wrestling outfit. It was like two lions sizing up the territory. I got the feeling you didn’t much like being challenged by someone near your own size—maybe that’s why you still stood in the doorway of MY territory.
Wow! Those vibes! I was stiffening by the second and, for the one moment I allowed my eyes to leave yours and drop down to the front of your jeans, I could see you were too. Same height, same age, same build, same muscle. Shit, yeah—same muscle. Apart from those very few inches, from the neck down no one could tell us apart, as long as we had our clothes on, but from the neck up it was a different story. There you were, with your Mediterranean tan and dark Superman quaffed hair, me with my thick blonde curly buzz-cut and my electric beach-induced golden hide. But it was the eyes that really sorted us out. By rights my fair Greek curls should have had blue eyes and your Celtic darkness should have had black ones, but mine are dark, dark pools of inky green, inherited from my Italian grandmother who married a blonde Adonis from somewhere in the north of Greece. And yours are sapphires the same color as the Aegean Sea before the sun goes down. They glitter from under wide-spaced, perfect eyebrows: it’s the eyebrows that give you that imperious look.
Opposites attract? Other differences? We both have high, Slavic cheekbones; your jaw is squarer, mine has a bigger cleft in the chin; your nose is long, thin and aquiline, mine is wider and broken. Your lips are picture-perfect, mine are much wider and fuller.
After a few moments of this challenge, I move behind you to close the door. So we reverse our positions and now I have the sun in my eyes and you have the advantage… We prowl around each other, sizing up the muscle and, inevitably, involuntarily our muscles start to flex. Finally I surprise you by pressing you back into a chair and going behind my desk. You are, after all, here for an interview, not a posing contest.
Pretty soon after a college-worth of wrestling championships I got scouted by the WWE training school and found myself meeting up with guys like Triple-X, Buff Bagwell (to whom I lost my heart for a while) and Goldberg, first at trainers then as opponents. I was always big, and I made sure I was always cut; this went a long way to establish my popularity with the screaming ladies—and a good pack of the screaming gents too. I wrestled “pure” and was known for it; I was good at being able to escape from practically any hold and turning the tables on the big guys. This made me popular with the boys and girls but not with some of the big flesh guys and certainly not with the management.
While it lasted I had a good time, made a good name for myself on the circuits and on the TV. But the good times went sour when the company’s policy turned from pure wrestling to pure “showmanship which meant a total disregard for the rules, bashing guys on the head with metal chairs and all that crap.
That’s how I got my nose broken and why I started to reconsider my situation. I took out a few ads in the mags and used the considerable money I had saved over the three years to open my own wrestling gym. I was making almost as much now as I was in the ring. The name I had made there didn’t hurt either.
Of course I had the flakes to deal with, the muscle worshipers, the fans, and the college kids. I enjoyed teaching the kids the pure stuff: some came to me to prepare for the WWE school, some were successful as pros, some were not. When some of the more hardened pros began to realize just how well the new kids were being taught the real stuff, they started to come along to “improve” their technique—if any. And they had the real money to burn.
So you sit there and tell me you have “been there, done that” with the bodybuilding contests, the Olympic diving and swimming, the hang gliding, sky-diving, the modeling, and now you want to use your muscle in some good body contact sports that need actual skill. And can I help you?
Even this “request” comes out of you like a challenge, as if you were daring me to say No and want to fight me for it if I do. Your attitude, as I see you getting worked up, is inflating my dick out of sight under my desk. Its helanca confines are not being very successful at confining it.
“Passionate guy, huh?” I say. And stand up.
Immediately your eyes widen as you see my twelve inches distorting the lycra. I’m standing right over you and I can tell you don’t like that either. You push me away and stand up yourself—maybe to hide what you’ve got going on down there, maybe to assert those darned extra inches.
I grin at you unashamedly and say: “Well, come into the gym next door and let’s see what you’ve got!”
As I turn towards the side door, you grab hold and turn me to face you. Very close.
“Are you serious about this? ‘Cos I am!”
I stop grinning, move even closer to say: “Believe me. Very serious.”
For a long moment we stand there. We can feel both our hearts pumping away in the silence. You open your mouth and let the tip of your tongue lick around your lips. We are too close not to get the inference of this, but I decide not to kiss you and turn away into the gym.
“Fuck!” I hear you say under your breath.
“That costs extra!” I quip. A moment and then you have to laugh too.
“Now, dude, strip!”
“Live giving orders do you, Brad?”
“I guess you’d rather be doing that, but that’s what you’ll be paying me for. So get those fucking clothes off!”
You surprise me by pulling off your jeans first. Then I see why. I’ve got really bi-i-i-g wheels myself, but you—you have the most amazing quads I’ve ever seen on a guy. And crazy huge calves which really put mine to shame. The only area on the lower half of your bod that I compete with is your dick. OK, it’s huge—it hangs almost to your knees—and it’s thick, but no longer nor thicker than mine. Maybe your balls hang lower. We’ll see. Meanwhile there’s a bead of pre-cum about to drip from your piss-slit. I take a hand off a hip long enough to rescue the bead from the very tip of your dick. Looking you straight in the eye I lick it off my finger. Peripherally I see your dick twitch.
“Mmm. What else you got?”
You stretch your arms out to their limit turning your palms up to the ceiling. [Ref David 84] The short sleeves of your tee slide up to allow the giant tris to hang under those monstrous bis which are monstrous even before you start to flex them. You look at each one, then you look at me. Then you start to pull the shirt up and away from your abs. Shit, you’ve got a perfect eight-pack. I’ve only got six—six big, hard ones, but only six. [Ref. David 94]
A little further up and another look to pierce my soul as you reveal thick, hairy pecs. You’re staring at me and not getting very far so I grab hold of “Pure Beef” and peel it off you. Up it goes over your shoulders and your lats bunch and sweep out. It’s real hard for the cotton to negotiate those mammoth delts and it takes some peeling. It means our pecs are practically touching when it finally comes off. My hands can’t resist grabbing your half-inch erect nips and twisting them. Your head falls back in astonished ecstasy.
“Like that, do we?”
Swearing, you throw yourself at me and rip off the straps of my helanca and there we stand, two huge studs at bay, getting acquainted with each other’s muscle. Here’s another difference: though our pecs are as built as thick and cum-causingly as each other’s, yours are covered with this fine silky growth of dark hair (except where you’ve shaved around the nips) and mine are smooth as butter except for the vascularity that pounds across them. Your black silk traces its narrow way down the cleavage of your Alpine eight-pack and stops just short of your black bush.
We soon discover that neither of us are wearing anything under our pants as they come off and the two buck-naked musclehunks start to prowl around each other, looking, feeling, punching and stroking at the amazingly similar muscles.
You stand there, challenging me to be as good and big as you are, legs apart, quads flexed. You clench your fists to encourage your own vascularity to rush across your arms, flexing your tris, puffing up your chest at the same time as tightening those maddening abs. [Ref David 48] I have to admit that you’re mag-fucking-nificent. Other than myself, I have never met anyone as perfectly proportioned as you are, with all that amazing size. As our dicks both rise to their full height (and in your case dripping pre-cum on to my floor) I look at you and shake my head, at a loss for words. So you say: “I never thought I’d ever meet anyone like you, pal. You’re bigger and better than any of the Olympia guys—and you can do something with it too—which is exactly why I’ve come to you.”
“How do you spell that word?” C-U-M? Have you cum already? I could make you cum, you know!?”
He laughed. “Believe me, when the time is ripe I shan’t need any help. I could practically cum just watching you flex.”
“Oh, is that an invitation?”
And we start to flex for and against each other.
You flex your right bi out to the side. It swells and swells as if it would never stop, muscle piling on top of muscle, and thick veins snaking on top under the paper-thin skin. You kiss your own bicep [See David 28] then look at me and bend it round right under my nose where it seems to grow even bigger, even harder. Not to be outdone, I do the same, matching muscle for muscle. We both go scarlet in the face as we pump and flex those guns.
Then it’s pec time. I do a lat spread, bring my elbows forward to puff up the pecs, bumping them hard into yours. You push your fists together in a most muscular to swell yours into obscene bunches. Then, keeping your fists together, you throw your arms over my head and pull my pecs into yours, so we’re compelled to flex, and flex hard, up against each other, with our weeping studpoles squished between our abs.
You stick out a leg and start flexing those impossible quads into a thousand striations. I can tell by your triumphant grin you know that I know yours are bigger than mine. So, to steal one on you, I twist a leg behind your knee, causing you to fall hard against me. Now it’s my turn to squeeze and our writhing muscles’re like a bunch of boa constrictors trying to strangle each other.
The sweat pours, the eyes glitter, the muscles pump, the breasts heave, the pre-cum drips… We can both give each other points but it’s your eyes that nearly undo me. Glittering, searching, demanding, spell-binding, it’s those eyes glaring from under those perfect black eyebrows, that finally give you your god-like appearance. Our faces and therefore our mouths are so close we almost lose focus. I know you know you’ve gotten to me when you tickle my libido with those dark tones: “So, when do we start?”
“Right now, bud. But—put this on.” I push you away from me and sling you a thong which is as tough and tight as a jock. You catch it and raise your eyebrows. “If we’re gonna wrestle I want your mind on that and nothing else—the rest [indicating your swollen dick] just gets in the way.”
So, the thing goes on but does nothing to hide your massive protuberance and, of course, there’s already a spreading and sticky damp mark. I know it’s damp and sticky because I slap it hard with the back of my hand. “Down, boy!”
So, Wrestling 101 begins. You’re intelligent, sweat-slithery and extremely strong. You learn things fast and you don’t forget them. We concentrate on basic holds, how to get them and how to get out of them. I let you grab me and I eel out of your grip. I laugh to see your frustrated muscles grasping at nothing as I bound to my feet and stand over you. I can tell you don’t like being laughed at ‘cos you use maximum force to pull me down. You want to lay your 300 pounds on top of me and are maddened to find mine on top of you instead.
My dick responds lustily as you desperately flex every thick fiber of every huge part of your body underneath me. All that you achieve is getting me harder and hornier than ever. I shut you up with a quick smacking kiss and start to get up. You pull me down again, wrap your legs around my hips and, just for a moment the sapphires burn into the emeralds. Then, at last, you shove your tongue down my throat. I let this go on for a long moment then pull you up to your feet. “Not on the first date, pal. Let’s wait till next time, OK?”
“Tomorrow—same time!”
“Wow, we have got it bad! OK, tomorrow same time.” Slowly you get dressed—item by item, never taking your eyes off mine as I stand there flexing in front of you. Finally you stand up, glare and leave.
Next day I am amazed to see how much you have retained from your first lesson and I’m astonished to see that you’ve actually thought it all through and are ready for some kine of preliminary bout.
It starts well—especially as we are both skin-dry, in spite of the pump-up workouts we’ve given ourselves. I see where you’re going and I think I know what your plan is, but I’m not gonna give it to you too easy. I smash your every attempt to give me a fall in your first five minute round. Then I start pretending to let you win. You gain confidence from this and start getting really cocky and uppity, dancing around me like some kind of musclegod dervish, making filthy invitations, grabbing at my thong, slapping my butt and all those Can-Am capers. I put you into some new holds you weren’t expecting, then make you replicate them—at first I show you how to get out of them, needling you to over-exert those muscles—then we do it for real and I let you take me for a fall. It wasn’t easy, even so—you’re so darn quick to learn all my tricks, fuck you!
OK, so it’s the “third round”.
“OK, so this is it,” I say, “—we’re even-steven till now—this time it’s loser gets fucked, OK?”
“You’ve been watching too many videos—but, OK, yes, if you say so—loser gets fucked, but that’s not gonna be me!”
We dance around each other, neither of us being able to ignore the other’s magnificence, now enhanced by further pumping and the glitter of sweat highlighting the muscles. I’m the first to grab at your thong, pull you down and yank them off you—get you into a sleeper hold and gag your mouth with the white satin. You spit them out and we roll around a bit. Suddenly you do a kind of spring somersault and reverse our positions into a kind of 69—you butt my vitals with your head and tear my thong off with your teeth.
We indulge our libidos with a lot of deliberate hard-boned dick/flesh contact: I grab your fuckpole and start jerking at it. You do the same to mine. I stick a couple of fingers up your love-chute and you do the same to me, viciously.
“How does that prostrate feel now!” as you grab it between finger and thumb and squeeze. I throw you off, pretending rage, slap your face, your butt, your pecs, press you into the air with both arms and slam you down on the mat. Twist you around into a cobra, pulling your neck back with my elbow with my knee threatening to break your spine.
“Howdya like that, little boy, huh? Musclehead! Howdya like that? Wanna give?”
“Nah, nah! you gasp.
“Yeah, yeah!” I yell, “Give or I’ll break your fucking back!”
“OK OK OK!”
I grab your eight foot wide delts and flip you onto your back, pulling your legs up and wide.
“Loser gets fucked! Loser gets fucked!”
“Aw, shit no!”
“Aw, shit yes! YES!” I yell back as those sapphires glare through the sweat.
“YE-E-E-E-S!!!” and I do a handstand on your feet, swing my legs through yours and crash down onto your pelvis, my fuck-hold ramming itself to the hilt on your huge, pulsing, weeping fuckrod. “Huh! Didn’t expect that, did you?” I yell as I bounce on your dick.
“Aw fuck shit! Gonna cum!” Even as your studpole reaches bottom it erupts spontaneously in surprise and I feel half a gallon or so of your hot, hot joy juices jetting into me “further than man has ever gone before”. I bounce up and down on your dick as you continue the eruptions, squeezing my butt muscles as hard as I can around the luscious thickness of your stiff, spasming fuck-muscle. Only takes a few bounces before I jet my own jizz all over your face and pecs. Just when you think it’s all over I pull off of you, yank you to your feet and drag you to the nearby shower. “Little boy needs to wash his face!” I jeer as I turn on the water.
“Enough of the little!”
“Oh but this won’t feel so little,” I laugh as I turn you around and shove my still-hard pole up between your glutes. While having a great time sliding up and down the soapy crevasse I rub my jizz in your face and pound your glutes as if there was no tomorrow. “Wow! Fuckin’ tight fit! One of these days it’s going right in, cherry or no cherry!”
“No one’s ever gone that route yet. That’s why, you shitface!”
“Oh, poor baby! Would it hurt?”
“Fuck yes, but—Guess I may hafta learn to like it if you’re gonna go on giving me lessons!”
“Yeah, five hundred dollars a session and that’d be extra!” I chortle. I grab your two-fist dick with a coupla handfuls of shower-get and start to give you the works.
“Oh shit! Gotta stop—grab my pecs will you?”
You push my hands up on to your pecs and start jacking yourself as I fill my hands with luscious handfuls of pec-meat. Jeez, it feels so darn good! I mash your huge pec-meat, squeezing your nips between my fingers as I do so. Our two huge soaped-up bods go into overdrive, slipping and sliding against each other, your hands on your fuckrod, my hands on your pecs, and my studpole itching to get inside your virgin ass real hard. One of these days, I promise myself. We can see ourselves mashed together in the full-length mirrors that line the shower. We turn our heads around as far as we can so our lips and tongues can meet to complete the libido-circuit. The fair and the dark, the equally megahuge-musclegods… Not long then before we grab each other even harder and cum with even greater force and relish, confusing the streaming, steaming water and soap with the mixture of our cum.
The next time we meet, you insist first on me showing you all the hard tricks and holds, and you insist finally on giving me a regular fuck on the wrestling mats. Not to be outdone, at our fourth session I might tie you up in the ring-ropes, upside down, and fuck you in my favorite position. You reciprocate by showing me a few fuck-holds I had not experienced either way (Hmmm! Interesting—and useful.) And so it goes on. Day after day. After a couple of weeks we have to admit we are lovers. We celebrate by spending a week at David’s villa in Italy… before we return to California and and introduce David to Triple H so the student can experience a few (heterosexual) holds from the Master—with no risk to that cherry—yet.
2004