A Muscle-Bound Cop Came Through the Irontop Gym

Here’s a new sample chapter from A Muscle-Bound Cop Came Through the Irontop Gym, the first story in a new series of hardcore gay gym and muscle-themed stories!
Gary was the only credentialed, licensed physical trainer at the Irontop Gym of Cleveland. That meant he was the only one who could work with clients who were there for genuine medical reasons — insurance would only cover physical training if it was conducted by a licensed trainer. As a result, Gary spent a lot of his time working with disabled people, the severely obese, the elderly and others who needed a lot of assistance when working out.

He enjoyed his job. He liked helping his clients get fit, even if they were not hip or attractive people. But sometimes it was boring. His buddies and coworkers were assigned hot young toughs whom Gary drooled over from afar, the kind of healthy young men who didn’t need a physical trainer anyway. He had always pictured himself working with those kinds of muscle-studs, but he had come to accept the reality of his career.

It had been more than a year since he had a client worth remembering. But when he met Randall Rosenstein, his heart started pounding. He had been picturing a portly accountant — wasn’t Rosenstein a Jewish name? — but Randall was actually a cop. He had been shot in the thigh and was only now recovering fully. He hadn’t walked for seven months.

The first part of his physical training was done; he could support himself with both legs, and his quadriceps were working fine. The Irontop Gym didn’t have all of the equipment necessary for someone truly weak, but now that Officer Rosenstein was able to walk and work on his own, he was coming to the Gym, which meant Gary was now working with him several times a week.

He was a burly cop with a flat smile, a military-style buzzcut and a burly body. His dark blond body hair poked out from the plain white t-shirt he wore to work out. He explained that he had always had a six-pack and was annoyed that he didn’t anymore — seven months of no walking would do that to anyone.

“Well, sure we can try to get that back, Officer Rosenstein,” he said. “A six-pack is difficult at your age, but not impossible. It’ll take a lot of work.”

“I’m fine with hard work. Sit-ups, huh? I’ve been doing like fifty sit-ups a day.”

“That’s not necessary. Sit-ups are not a very good way to exercise your abs,” Gary said, then got down on the mat in front of Officer Rosenstein to demonstrate. He supported himself on his elbows and toes, keeping his back flat. “See? Holding this for thirty seconds a time burns more calories than a sit-up, plus it works all of your abs: top, bottom, obliques, the whole thing. It puts less strain on your back than a sit-up too.”

He stood and Officer Rosenstein got on the ground to try. He wore only a pair of shorts and a t-shirt that was too small for him. Gary almost had to catch him as Rosenstein used the injured leg to support himself, but he was able to keep his balance as he got on the ground.

Gary touched his back to help him keep his back straight. He shuddered with sexual desire when he felt those corded back muscles; luckily, Officer Rosenstein was fully focused on keeping his balance and working on those abs, so he didn’t notice Gary’s lustful look at his back.

After that they went through a standard routine. Gary alternated between normal arm and shoulder exercises, exercising his legs only lightly while he got the hang of Rosenstein’s abilities and his needs. He was doing very well, and aside from some stiffness, had a full range of motion, which boded well for his recovery.

Finally they were done, and Gary went into the locker room with Officer Rosenstein to show him where the towels were. In truth, there were signs everywhere, he didn’t need to show him the towels. But Gary always liked having a reason to go into the locker room, and he rather hoped to come up with an excuse to shower with Officer Rosenstein.

Officer Rosenstein looked around the locker room to see if anyone else was there — there wasn’t. It was deserted, and their footsteps echoed on the linoleum floor. Rosenstein looked at Gary and raised his eyebrows as though asking a question.

“Looks like we’re alone…” Officer Rosenstein said.

Gary nodded. He got the impression Rosenstein was saying he wouldn’t mind a blowjob, but Gary wasn’t sure that was it. A lot of guys knew that they could get their nuts drained at the Irontop Gym — it had that kind of reputation, and nearly every franchise had one gay man like Gary to service the straights. But Gary still felt nervous, and didn’t want to make the first move.

Rosenstein sighed. “You gonna ask me anything?”

“Uh… Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

He smiled. “You’re gay, right?”

Gary nodded.

“That’s cool… Most of the time when a gay dude gets me alone, uh… Well, usually… I mean… A lot of gay dudes are into cops,” he said.

Gary nodded again. “Yeah. Uniforms are sexy. That’s true.” Gary got horny listening to Officer Rosenstein stutter over his words some more; a part of Gary wanted to let him keep going — there was nothing sexier than a hot straight guy embarrassed around a gay man — but most of Gary wanted to make an offer. “Officer Rosenstein, are you asking for a blowjob?”

Rosenstein blushed. It didn’t look like he blushed often, so Gary was proud of himself. He didn’t wait for an answer, it was obvious what Rosenstein wanted to say.

Gary got on his knees and grabbed right for Officer Rosenstein’s crotch. He still wore those short work-out shorts that Gary thought were so sexy he didn’t want to take them off. Rosenstein’s cock throbbed through the fabric; it stirred, beginning to get hard as Gary slowly stroked the shaft.

“Your dick looks pretty excellent, officer,” Gary said.

“Open that shit up,” Officer Rosenstein said, working Gary’s jaws apart as he dropped his shorts. He wore a cheap old jockstrap, bulging with crotch hair sticking out the sides. Rosenstein blinked as though surprised he had said that, “Sorry,” he said. “Usually when there’s a gay dude sucking me off, it’s some cheap man-whore trying to get off without a prostitution charge.”

“You do that a lot?” Gary said before diving down Rosenstein’s thick rod. He swallowed it down to the root in one go, his nose nestling in Rosenstein’s crotch hair.

“Ahh… Well, I can’t arrest ‘em all. It’d take forever to process ‘em,” he said. “And ‘sides, I’d probably get some gay rights group on my ass.”

“Sounds hot.”

“Not in my ass, on my ass.”

“You ever punish a perp with cock?” Gary said. He tried to speak with Rosenstein’s moist, precum-leaking cocktip in his mouth, so the words were slurred, but Rosenstein seemed to understand what he meant.

Rosenstein chuckled. “There’s a lot of frat boys out there who think the law don’t apply to them,” he said. “I’d never victimize ‘em, of course. But I do have a lesson plan ready for whenever I meet some smart-mouthed kid who thinks he knows everything.”

Gary couldn’t say anything else because his mouth was full, and Officer Rosenstein was holding his head in place. His fingers spread through Gary’s hair as he began thrusting his hips. It looked like Rosenstein was about to continue his story about the frat boys, but stopped to focus on the blowjob.

The salty pre-orgasmic taste of his cockshaft overwhelmed Gary’s senses. His fingers were stretching up and under Rosenstein’s plain white shirt, but Gary barely paid any attention to the man’s stony pecs or the tufts of thick pubic hair that covered his torso. Officer Rosenstein moaned like a man who wasn’t used to getting such a good blowjob.

He lost his abandon as his dick throbbed and his balls crawled up in his sac. Gary made a moist, mewling sound, suckling every drop of precum he could get.

Salty-sweet cum hit Gary’s tongue, and he made another savoring sound. He moaned around the torrent of semen that filled his throat then, as jet after jet of milky-white cum coated his throat.

Officer Rosenstein slowly pulled out and took a deep breath. “Damn…” he said, “You should give those manwhores lessons, man. You could teach them a thing or two.”

Ebony Downlow

Here’s a sample chapter from Ebony Downlow, the latest story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series.

 

The next day, Quincy had to take care of a few errands, the least pleasant of which was driving his mother to the bus station. He was glad to have her be out of town so she would call his brother for favors instead of him for a change, so once she was gone, he felt like his mood had improved already. He was just wondering if he could find Dwayne and get another taste of that Marine meat when he saw him standing there at the bus station with a girl.

She was a dark-haired woman with beautiful light skin, the color of creamy caramel; she was dressed down, in plain sweatpants and a gray t-shirt. She looked like the kind of girl who wore makeup most of the time, but not at the moment. She hugged Dwayne close with tears in her eyes, then turned around and got onto the bus idling nearby.

Quincy hurried away so it wouldn’t look like he was stalking them. He positioned himself so it looked like he was on his cell phone while waiting for a bus, but arranged himself so he could watch Dwayne, who straightened his Marine Corps dress uniform. It perfectly outlined his muscles, and Quincy could smell the starched, pressed cotton from here.

He saw Dwayne stand there as the bus pulled away, and then Quincy resumed walking as though only just now seeing him. Dwayne looked inconsolable, shifting his weight on his feet while watching the bus disappear in the city traffic.

“Oh, hey, Dwayne, what are you doing here?”

Dwayne shrugged and wiped his face. Had he been crying? It looked like he was struggling not to, and his stiff upper lip made Quincy even hornier. There was something about watching a muscle-bound alpha male hold back tears that made Quincy hot. Dwayne sniffled and straightened his back. “I just saw my girlfriend off. I was gonna spend time with her — we was gonna spend this whole week fucking like bunnies. I was gonna destroy her-“ he said softly, and grabbed his cock and balls through his uniform slacks. His shaft was momentarily outlined by the fabric, which gave Quincy an enormous and uncomfortable erection. Dwayne didn’t seem to notice Quincy’s reaction; he just kept talking. “But then… her aunt just died. So, she’s gone, she gonna spend the next week with her parents in fucking Philadelphia.”

“Oh, you poor baby,” Quincy said. “Did she at least get you off before she went?” Quincy already knew the answer to that question, but he had the feeling that he could get Dwayne to put out again if he played his cards right.

“No.” Dwayne made a guilty face. “She wasn’t in the mood anymore… I promised her I’d be true to her, man, and she said she’d take care of me. I just have to get my nuts off. I’m in a hurry though, can you… just gimme a handie?”

“I’d love to.” Quincy darted into the public bathroom, and into the handicapped stall. Dwayne looked around, vaguely disgusted, but he followed Quincy into the stall. It stank and there was graffiti everywhere; there was also the remnant of a glory hole in the stall wall, but it had been filled in with plaster some time ago.

Quincy stuck his hand down Dwayne’s sagging slacks. His dick was already rock-hard, uncomfortably imprisoned by his green Marine-issued boxers. That was why he was so desperate, Quincy thought, his girlfriend gave him a boner and then left. What a poor sport! Quincy wouldn’t have let a funeral get in the way of satisfying sexy men; he wouldn’t have attended the funeral of a person who didn’t want him to treat every moment as if it would be his last.

His dick throbbed, oozing precum from the moment Quincy touched it. He must have been very horny, Quincy thought, with all those pent-up boot camp urges. The more he thought about it, the more he wished he could go see what Dwayne’s time at boot camp had been like; it sounded like the sexiest thing Quincy had ever failed to watch. Dwayne sighed. His shaft was slick with sweat and creamy fluids, which Quincy smeared up and down as he began stroking.

A part of him wanted to take Dwayne’s cock out of his pants, but he thought this was even sexier somehow — there was something primal about it, as though Dwayne was so incredibly horny he couldn’t wait for the time it took his pants to fall down. The moist, sweaty interior of Dwayne’s pants was like a jungle that rained machismo instead of water, and Quincy felt like he could almost taste that salty, musty flavor through his fingers.

Dwayne’s thick, Marines Corp-sculpted body shook beneath his clothes. His muscles trembled and his knees buckled. He moaned so loudly Quincy wondered if people outside the bathroom could hear.

“Wait… Uh,” Dwayne said, hyperventilating. Quincy had never seen someone have such an intense reaction to a handjob, and he had to giggle at Dwayne’s contorting face and writhing body. Dwayne struggled to speak between jagged breaths. “Wait, don’t let me… uh… cum in… uniform pants,” he said.

Quincy laughed and undid the zipper on his tightly pressed slacks. Dwayne’s cock stuck straight out the fly, just seconds before the first wad of cum flew out. Quincy used one hand to stroke the shaft, and collecting the cum in the palm of his other hand.

He lifted the puddle of cum up to his mouth, inhaling of the sharp and acrid odor. He heard Dwayne open his eyes, then moan in disgust at the sight of Quincy savoring his cum.

“Ah, man, that is some faggy shit,” Dwayne said. Then he muttered an apology. “I mean, it don’t matter. I ain’t… homophobic no more.”

Quincy slurped down every drop, and licked his palm clean. Dwayne shuddered as though he could taste it, then tucked his limp dick back in his uniform slacks and walked out.

Marijuana etiquette

Here’s a worthy post by a dear friend from the marijuana politeness blog, Cannabismuth.com (which, yes, is also about bismuth, the sexiest of the pentavalent post-transition metals).

I think that the media denigration of stoners is inappropriate. “Stoner comedies” written by people who have obviously never been stoned, broad portrayals that would be greeted with riots if the targets were “feminist lesbians” or “fat nerds”, etc. Stoners are not a bunch of lazy shiftless bastards, and marijuana doesn’t just cause instant Chongism. Suggesting otherwise is poor writing, and idiocy doesn’t become funny because it’s a stoner being an idiot.

This post was sparked by this series of photos which seeks to counteract these harmful stereotypes of stoners. I think that is a helpful addition to the media narratives; hopefully the folks in Colorado, Washington and Alaska can lead the way.

P.S.: For example, the movie Grandma’s Boy. Just because it’s dumb doesn’t mean it’s a stoner comedy, and it certainly doesn’t mean it’s any good.

Ghetto Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Ghetto Downlow, a new story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series.

 

Quincy was just finishing up a customer’s hair when Raheim entered the City Barbershop. He pretended not to notice, but in truth, everyone saw Raheim when he entered a room. He was the biggest and most important gangbanger in the neighborhood, so people paid attention when he came by.

The City Barbershop had four barbers, one of whom was the owner, Paul; another was Quincy himself; there was also a handsome pretty boy named Wilson, whose dick, Quincy nostalgically recalled almost every day, was thick and tasty like a grilled sausage. The fourth barber, however, was who Raheim came to see. He was Daniel, an outgoing and friendly young man, someone Quincy liked a lot — Daniel was a good guy, not a thug at all, not a violent bone in his body, but he sometimes hung out with people who were not as nice as he was. Quincy hated seeing Daniel get mixed up with someone like Raheim.

Raheim and Daniel greeted each other while Quincy accepted payment from his customer, continuing to pretend not to notice what was happening. It was obvious that Raheim had slipped Daniel a bag of something, presumably drugs, which he put away in the drawer of his work area. Raheim clumsily palmed a small wad of cash.

“You comin’ in to my shop to sell drugs?” Paul demanded. He stepped between Raheim and the door. His face was reddened, blustery — he was in a bad mood today, Quincy had noticed it first thing in the morning, and it hadn’t gotten better all day. Shouldn’t have picked today, Raheim, he thought, any other day he’d look the other way.

Raheim shrugged. “No, Pops, relax. Ain’t nothin’ like that goin’ on.”

“Whatchoo doin’ here?”

Raheim had a shaved head, so it was obvious he wasn’t here for a haircut. He shrugged and looked at Quincy. “I’m here for a ride on the neighborhood faggot.” He took Quincy by the arm and walked away from Paul, who glared at Daniel.

It was plainly obvious what had happened — Raheim and Daniel did a drug deal, and now Raheim was covering it up by demanding some downlow action from Quincy. He should be insulted, Quincy thought, since Raheim hadn’t even asked if he was interested before dragging him away. But of course he would never have said no, and everyone knew that. The City Barbershop was well-known as a place where straight guys could get sucked off on the downlow.

Paul watched them leave the front area. His eyes were narrowed to angry slits — he didn’t want his barbershop to be known as a place for drug deals and tawdry sex. But Raheim wasn’t a man who took no for an answer, and Paul had already allowed quite a bit to happen in the past.

Quincy’s knees were weak as he followed Raheim into the backroom. What was Raheim going to do to him? Raheim didn’t fuck around on the downlow, as far as Quincy knew — he was a powerful enough drug dealer that he had more pussy than he could shake a stick at. He had no need to settle for downlow action.

As soon as the door shut, Raheim pushed Quincy against the wall. He smelled like cheap deodorant. Quincy got hard right away, as Raheim’s ropy muscles pinned him in position. Raheim sneered at him. “You gonna suck me off, right? Swallow that nut?”

Quincy nodded.

“Good. I ain’t come here for that, but if that’s what it takes to get that nigga off my back, I’ll do it. I been in jail before, I know how to do it.”

Quincy dropped to his knees and nervously undid Raheim’s jeans. He was already half-hard and poking through his boxers, that long, thick chocolate shaft gleaming in the dim light of the backroom. Raheim had a toned frame, not big and bulky but lined with curves and strong angles. Quincy desperately wanted to massage his whole body, but he knew that would be too gay for Raheim.

He kissed the tip and let his tongue flicker in and out of Raheim’s piss-slit, then licked it down to the root. Raheim shuddered as his dick got rock-hard.

“Don’t play with it, suck it, bitch,” Raheim said. He put one hand on Quincy’s forehead, the other one cradling his chin and gently opening his mouth. “I ain’t want this, so you gonna have to prove you deserve it.”

He really did want to prove it. A part of him was insulted at how Raheim was treating him, but a much bigger part of him loved it. He had always enjoyed humiliation, especially when it was a big straight macho thug like Raheim.

Quincy gagged a little as Raheim jammed his cock into his throat, but he loved the way its thickness filled him up inside. Hot meat pulsated in his throat, and a few drops of precum leaked down his gullet. His heavy balls swayed and slapped against Quincy’s chin.

“It’s okay to choke on it,” Raheim said. “Ain’t a real blowjob if’n you don’t choke on it.”

His shaft spasmed beneath Quincy’s fingers. He used one hand to stroke off Raheim’s shaft, while his other hand played with his swollen ballsac.

Raheim batted Quincy’s hand away and said, “Nah, no hands. I don’t want no handjob, nigga. This ain’t middle school. Open up, so I can fuck you in the throat.”

Bending his knees slightly, Raheim kept pushing his dick deeper in, until Quincy’s nose pressed against his crotch. Raheim laughed appreciatively and jiggled his balls back and forth so they banged on Quincy’s chin.

“I’m gonna bust a nut in a minute. Don’t you spill a drop, bitch. The Bible says not to spill yo’ seed, and I follow that,” Raheim said. “Look me in the eye so I know you hear me.

Quincy didn’t intend to spit any out. He loved the taste of cum, and he could already tell he would like Raheim’s juice too. He looked into Raheim’s cruel, judgmental eyes and nodded his head. Raheim sneered down at him like he was looking at a bit of dog crap stuck to his shoe and he couldn’t understand how it got there. He closed his eyes when he finally orgasmed, and furtively tweaked his own nipples.

Raheim groaned and Quincy grunted. Cum flowed like a river, and Quincy did choke on it but he managed to swallow it all back down before any leaked out.

His dick plopped out, and Raheim wiped its moisture off on Quincy’s face. “That wasn’t bad for a faggot. We’ll do it again sometime.”