Tag Archives: gym rat

Downlow Thugs at the Irontop Gym

Here’s the first chapter of Downlow Thugs at the Irontop Gym, a fantastic new tale about muscular black alphas and the lusty twink who services them!

Kyle loved his job at the Irontop Gym of Compton. He had initially thought he would feel out-of-place — he was a flamboyant twink, and the regulars here were burly macho thugs. The Irontop Gym appealed mainly to men, and in Compton, it was strictly Nine Tats gang territory. That was where all the top gangbangers in the city worked out. But it also had a reputation that helped make it an ideal workplace for Kyle.

That’s because everyone knew the Irontop Gym was a place straight men could swing downlow… very low on the downlow. He loved the muscular sweaty bodies all around, demanding service and release. What happened here, stayed here, so a lot of men got their nut off and then went home to their wives, bitches or hos, pretending nothing had happened. And the pay wasn’t bad either — Kyle was a licensed physical trainer, so he did alright.

Most of his clients were not very sexy though. The handsome studs and thugs who filled the gym, and who occasionally asked for a blowjob, were mostly too poor to pay for a trainer. Even if they did want to hire one, they’d feel self-conscious hiring a slim gay man. That wasn’t very gangsta.

But Kyle did okay on an hourly wage and the extra money he got from the older gentlemen who actually needed a physical trainer — he got paid from their insurance companies (or Medicaid, though Medicaid paid so little that Kyle barely even thought of it as a portion of his income). Whenever he didn’t have a client, he kept his eyes open for someone who might give him a taste of their cock.

When he saw Samson, Kyle knew he’d be tasting that meat sooner or later — he just moved like a straight nigga who let gay men suck him off. He had that horse-cocked swagger that made Kyle’s knees weak. Samson was middle-aged, at forty-one years old, though you’d never know it from looking at him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a dense mustache and a square jaw. He wore low-hanging gray shorts and a white wifebeater that revealed the layer of salt-and-pepper hair covering his broad chest.

“Yo, you my trainer?” he asked. He had a deep, gravelly voice that made Kyle’s knees weak.

Kyle nodded. He took a deep breath and steeled his nerves. For a moment he thought he wouldn’t be able to do this, that he’d react like a lovestruck teenager and there was nothing he could do about it.

But at last his professionalism took over. “Yes, sir. My name is Kyle,” he said. “Let’s talk about your goals. I got the medical sheet from your insurance company, but what are your personal goals? What do you hope to gain from our meetings?”

Kyle took a deep breath. Samson had taken a bullet to the thigh a few months ago. He lifted up his shorts to show Kyle the scar. Kyle touched his trunk-like thighs, and his hands shook he was so aroused. He caught a peek of the dingy white pouch of Samson’s jockstrap peeking out from the leg of his gray shorts.

The din of the gym filled Kyle’s ears, drowning out Samson’s voice. All Kyle could think about was that delicious-looking bulge in Samson’s shorts. He inhaled deeply of the musty scent that wafted off Samson, who had a permanent scowl on his face.

“Yo… Kyle,” Samson said. It took him a moment to remember Kyle’s name. He rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. Was he angry? He came across as angry, Kyle thought, his heart pounding, but Kyle felt sure he always looked like that. Samson was an intimidating man. His pause hung in the air like a stormcloud waiting to burst. He glared at Kyle. “You gay, right?”

“Uh… yeah,” Kyle said.

“You distracted cuz you wanna suck my dick?”


“I ain’t mad atcha,” he said. “You got somewhere quiet? You can suck me, Kyle. Then we do our work togethuh. Got it?”

“Well, uh, I…-“

“Shut up. Say yes or no.”

“Uh, yes.”

“Good,” Samson said. He stood up and turned around, so that his big plump asscheeks were right in front of Kyle’s face. Kyle drooled. He had to force himself to stand. He gestured towards the back of the gym.

“Uh, there’s a storage closet back there.”

“Let’s go, nigga,” he said. “I’m glad you ain’t white. I don’t like letting white queers suck my dick. Feels like a surrender.”

“Uh-huh,” Kyle murmured. He was too distracted by his own erection and the rippling of Samson’s muscles beneath his shorts and his wifebeater.

The closet was mostly empty, just a few exercise machines that weren’t in use. There was a bench press in the center of the closet, and it was there that Samson sat. He continued scowling in Kyle’s direction.

“Don’t mess around, nigga,” Samson said. “I ain’t come here for a blowjob, I still got shit to do. We ain’t makin’ love or whatevuh. Be quick. Just drain my nut so we can move on. Got it?”

Kyle nodded and sunk to his knees.

“Nah,” Samson said. He caught Kyle’s chest and lifted him back up to his feet. “Use yo’ words, nigga. Tell me you understand me.”

Kyle blushed. “Uh… I’ll be quick. I’ll suck you off as quick as I can. I won’t mess around.”


Samson spread his legs so the edge of the bench was beneath his crotch. That gave Kyle perfect access to his dick. Kyle stroked it through his gray shorts, but then Samson snorted liked he thought Kyle was being slow. Kyle blushed and pulled those shorts down.

He had a massive cock, which made Kyle grin. He had rarely seen anything so huge. It was long and thick and dense and fleshy, and Kyle could feel it throbbing even though it was still limp. He flopped it against his face. He kissed the tip and let his tongue tickle the piss-slit. Normally Kyle liked to tease straight men like that, but it seemed Samson didn’t want to take the time. So Kyle put the entire tip in his mouth and started sucking.

“Yeah, good boy, keep suckin’ just like that,” Samson said. He groaned as his dick stiffened up, and all that flesh turned from soft and clammy to hard and moist, throbbing in Kyle’s throat.

Fuck you, nigga! Come here and say that to my face! There was an argument out in the main gym. It sounded like a crowd formed and cheered the combatants on. All Kyle could hear was cheering and hollering.

The cock in his mouth was so thick he could barely fit in at all, but the more he sucked, the more he could swallow. It tasted like pure, unadulterated manhood, and the flavor reminded Kyle of all the imagined sex he had here — whenever he was bored at work, all he had to do was glance around to see overstuffed basketball shorts, pubic hair peeking out above the waistband, gruff voices echoing and cocky swagger everywhere he looked. Normally when he finally found a nigga willing to get his nut off in Kyle’s mouth, Kyle ended up disappointed — the reality didn’t live up to his imagination. But Samson was exactly what he had hoped, and it reminded Kyle of all those other men whose cocks he had only sucked in his dreams.

Come at me then! That fight sounded like it was getting more serious.

He considered going up there to stop it, but he knew that was silly, not just because he didn’t want to stop sucking Samson’s cock. Kyle was a weak gay twink — he was in good shape, but he was skinny and small. There was no way he could break up a fight, and anyway the bodybuilder Alain worked today as well. He would be able to stop the fight. Before Kyle even thought of that, he thought he could hear Alain’s Senegalese accent resonating in from the hallway.

“Ignore them niggas,” Samson said, flaring his nostrils. “You wanna suck my dick, you focus on my dick. I ain’t lettin’ you suck it on a fuckin’ lark or whatevuh, nigga. We ain’t stoppin just cuz some niggas is throwin’ punches up front.”

Kyle nodded to show his understanding. He certainly didn’t want to stop, and it did sound like Alain had broken up the fight before it got too serious. Wanting to be sure Samson appreciated the blowjob, Kyle looked up at him — straight thugs loved it when cocksuckers made eye contact — and grabbed his big meaty hands. He guided them to the back of Kyle’s head.

“Oh? You want me to facefuck ya, huh?”

Kyle nodded.

“You into that nasty shit, nigga?” Samson said. He started grinding his hips, shoving his dick in as Kyle struggled to open his throat. Samson muttered to himself. “Get that shit in there, nigga. You wantin’ this, don’t try and fight back now.”

Kyle wasn’t trying to fight back, but Samson’s dick was simply too big to deep-throat. It was all he could do to get half of it in his mouth, which felt like it was going to make his neck explode. He enjoyed the sight of Samson’s massive body swaying, rubbing, humping his face. Samson periodically glared into Kyle’s eyes, his harsh thuggish glare sending a wave of submission, fear and arousal through Kyle’s body.

“Keep on lookin’ me in the eye. When you suck a superior nigga, you look ‘im in the eye. That shows respect,” Samson said. Whenever Kyle accidentally closed his eyes, Samson gently pried them open again. He sneered at Kyle as he spat in his hand and lubed up his cock with it. His arrogant look made Kyle shiver with terror.

But Kyle loved every moment of it. He always enjoyed massive dicks sticking in his throat, leaking precum into his belly, and the swinging of heavy balls against his chin. His favorite activity was submitting to big thugs like Samson, allowing them to use his throat to satisfy their own carnal desires.

A brief spurt of pain erupted in Kyle’s nose — Samson had found a clothespin, which he used to shut Kyle’s nostrils. That forced Kyle’s throat to open even wider a few seconds later, and the last of Samson’s cock squeezed down his throat.

“Yeah, bitch, you a fuckin’ legend, nigga, hell yeah…” Samson said. He sounded surprised that he was enjoying this at all. His gravelly voice resonated in the tiny closet. He lightly tapped Kyle on the back of the head whenever he tried to pull away to take a breath, and he used both hands to hold Kyle in place. “Don’t quit now, nigga. You got me started, and I ain’t gonna stop ‘less you force me to.”

Kyle had no idea how long that lasted. He was dizzy from lack of oxygen, and all he could think about was his strained throat sputtering and choking. His face was a deep burgundy shade as his lungs cried out for air.

“Yo nigga, you ready fo’ nut? Huh? You better be, cuz it’s comin’.”

At last it was over. Samson stopped moving with his dick all the way down Kyle’s gullet, so Kyle could feel his balls crawl up in his sac where it rested against Kyle’s chin. Kyle’s hands gripped Samson’s plump brown asscheeks the best he could with Samson sitting down on the bench — he was leaned forward enough that Kyle could stroke the sweaty crack with both hands.

Samson grunted and groaned, lips moving like he was talking though no words came out. He closed his eyes as the first drops of cum spilled down Kyle’s throat. Kyle felt it pouring down his throat like he was chugging sour beer, and he loved the feel of Samson’s balls draining down his throat while they throbbed against his chin.

“Fuck yeah, nigga, swallow that shit… don’t spill none…”

Since Samson’s dick was so deep inside Kyle, his cum sprayed right into his gullet. Kyle didn’t taste it at first, he just felt the creamy heat seeping into his stomach and spreading to every corner of his body.

But when Samson finally pulled out, his dickshaft brought so much cum up with it that it coated Kyle’s tongue. He sighed as the flavor of semen finally overwhelmed his senses.

“Damn, nigga…” Samson chuckled. “You sure you wanna be a trainer? If you was my ho, I’d treat you right. Just consider it, nigga. You sign up wit’ me, and I’ll make sure you get fucked silly e’ry day.”

A blossom of desire exploded within Kyle, and if he weren’t out of breath, Kyle would have screamed “yes!” without a second thought. But by the time he recovered, it was clear that Samson was kidding, and even if he weren’t, Kyle didn’t want to be a ho. He was sure Samson’s idea of treating a ho “right” was not going to be as much fun as Kyle wanted.

Samson tucked his dick back in his jockstrap. He frowned at Kyle. “You feel better now, nigga? Can you concentrate on my leg instead of my cock?”

“Yes, sir,” Kyle said. He blushed, but Samson was entirely right to do this — now that he had tasted Samson’s cock, Kyle could focus. “Let’s get your leg stretched out. Stretching is very important to the healing process, that’s actually more important than the exercise.”

Irontop Gym of Moscow, Russia

Here’s a sample chapter from Irontop Gym of Moscow, Russia, a new story from the Irontop Worldwide series of hardcore gay gym rat erotica. This story contains outrageous verbal homophobic alpha male bullying, so it’s only for those with a strong stomach.

Moscow was a beautiful city, and Wilson was excited to be there. It wasn’t the safest city, but Wilson enjoyed a little danger — if not, he would never have taken a job opening new gyms around the world. Once his gym got fully funded and staffed, it would be the largest Irontop Gym in Europe. He was proud of having gotten this far all by himself.

The “soft opening” had gone well. A little foot traffic, and two signups — not bad for the first day for the first gym in the chain’s Russian expansion. They didn’t have the facilities fully built yet anyway, so Wilson was hardly expecting a stampede.

The one worry Wilson had was crime. Both of the two first day signups were young men who looked like hoodlums. They had broad, crude faces, like tamed cavemen, with pale skin and rough-looking tattoos covering their limbs. They had paid in full, so Wilson accepted their money, but he remained unsure. They were joined the next day by two of their friends, who used their respective guest passes.

The four Russian toughs stripped off their shirts and began loudly working out. Wilson avoided watching them too closely, not wanting to attract attention — he was openly gay but had gone back in the closet for his time in Russia.

The men encouraged each other in Russian and, Wilson guessed from their tone and bravado, they insulted each other as well. It almost turned to a fight a few times.

The one time Wilson stood, heart pounding, to break up a conflict, it stopped right away when they saw him coming. The two men who were bumping bare chests and yelling at each other glared as they resumed their workouts.

Finally they were done, and they disappeared into the showers. Wilson was glad to know they’d be leaving soon. He became suspicious, however, when he didn’t see them come out of the locker room.

He hurried back to check, and heard them talking in fluid Russian. They were laughing, in the showers, which were running. He snuck close enough to see, but he remained in the relative darkness while they were in the well-lit shower, so they couldn’t see him.

They were circlejerking. Each one had the cock of the man to his right and was stroking it furiously. Wilson got the impression it was a competition of sorts, but he wasn’t sure what the rules were. They were each concentrating, like they were rushing to finish first.

Wilson considered jacking off — he knew he didn’t want to be outed as gay in Russia, so he couldn’t afford to get caught. But he couldn’t bring himself to look away, and he wasn’t sure he could watch without masturbating. The men had big muscles, with a fleshy, worn look of people who worked hard rather than sculpting themselves in a gym like this one. Their bodies shook and flexed as they stroked each other’s uncut cocks.

“Hey, you!” one of the men called out in thickly accented English.

Wilson’s blood ran cold as he stepped forward. He had been caught. Luckily it was before he was touching himself, so it looked only like he had walked in on them. Were they embarassed or angry? Wilson couldn’t quite tell.

They burst into Russian chatter, interspersed with a few words of hard-to-understand English. It seemed none of them were truly fluent in English, but it didn’t stop them from trying. They barked orders at each other and at Wilson, and they stopped stroking each other’s cocks but didn’t let go. They just stood there in a circle manhandling the throbbing cock of the man to their right.

They beckoned for Wilson, who hesitated before joining them. They smiled as though they were about to beat him up, but instead they just pointed to their cocks. Wilson still couldn’t quite be sure whether they were going to hurt him or not, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk away from their rough naked bodies.

All Wilson could think was that they wanted blowjobs. But they weren’t gay, and Russians weren’t likely to be on the downlow, were they? Wilson hesitated even though ever fiber of his being told him to get on his knees and start sucking.

There was a piece of bread on the floor. Before Wilson could figure out its significance, one of the Russians grabbed his arm and wrapped Wilson’s hand around his cock, pantomiming stroking him off.

“Soggy biscuit!” Wilson thought as he finally figured out what the bread meant. He didn’t realize that Russians played Soggy Biscuit, but it seemed these Russians did. Of course, he thought, they didn’t see this as gay because it was a contest of manhood; it was hazing maybe, or an initiation.

Nobody even seemed to notice that Wilson was rock-hard before anyone touched his dick. In no time his pants were around his ankles, and one tattooed ruffian was stroking him off while Wilson jacked off the man to his right.

The hand on Wilson’s cock was rough and callused. In almost any context, it would have been a big turnoff, but here, it turned Wilson on even more, reminding him that this straight thug was a low-class straight macho, probably a blue-collar worker (if not a criminal, which seemed likely). Wilson’s dick pulsated precum all over the thug’s fingers, but he kept stroking as though he didn’t notice.

Was this a common game for them? They were playing rather as though it was, like this was an everyday prank and they didn’t even consider that it might be new to Wilson. Wilson, for his part, tried to pretend this was normal — if they did this regularly, he’d have to find a way to get an invite each time.

The smell of manjuice and ballsweat filled the air even before anyone finished. It was so strong it felt like Wilson had planted his nose right into someone’s balls as they shot their load.

The first two Russians sprayed their juice almost at the same time. One pearlescent wad after another landed on the piece of bread, and the smell of semen filled the locker room. The other Russians laughed when it happened, and they made disgusted faces — Wilson got the impression they complained about touching cum and the odor of semen clogging up their nostrils.

Wilson wanted to lose, knowing he would get to eat all that cummy bread. But he’d also look suspicious if he did it too willingly, and he wasn’t sure what a straight man would even do — should he fight about it?

The big, rough man stroking off Wilson was next to cum, and his big muscles jiggled as he covered the entire piece of bread in a huge torrent of cum. That left only Wilson and the man to his right, the youngest and smallest of the Russians.

The semeny odor that filled the room grew even stronger now that the bread was soaked in it, and the only two remaining cocks were spurting precum enthusiastically. The bread looked so tasty with manfluid that Wilson could already taste it in his mouth.

Wilson was still planning to cum last when he nutted unexpectedly. It looked like the young Russian was nervous and awkward being jacked off by a man, so he hadn’t finished yet. Wilson felt tremendous relief flooding his veins as his balls drained onto the piece of bread.

The men, except for the youngest, all burst into laughter, clapping and encouraging the young man to finish up. He blushed and closed his eyes, taking over his own dick as he hurried to ejaculate. One of the bigger Russians even pranked him by humping his asscheek for a few seconds, stopping only when the younger Russian glared at him.

At last his lean, wiry body shook as he orgasmed. Wilson stood close, as he saw the others do, apparently unaware or uncaring of the drops of cum that splattered on their thighs.

He shot a desultory load, no doubt too nervous to really be excited. When he was done, he picked up the piece of bread — which fell apart as chunks of semen dripped onto the Russian’s hand. His buddies chanted something in Russian, and even Wilson found himself joining in though he didn’t know the words.

The young Russian gagged as the bread fell apart in his mouth. A lot of it fell to the floor, but it seemed no one noticed, and he had moist bread and cum sticking to his lips and cheeks as he finally finished.

“Good gym,” said the oldest one gruffly. He shook Wilson’s hand. “Not too many rules.”

A Muscle-Bound Terrorist Came Through the Irontop Gym

Here’s a sample chapter from A Muscle-Bound Terrorist Came Through the Irontop Gym, a new story in the Irontop Gym series!


Gary was assigned Mohammed Al-Mansour because he was taking Arabic at the college, and Mr. Al-Mansour did not speak perfect English. But he was good enough at English for ordinary conversation, and Gary’s Arabic was rudimentary at best. Mr. Mansour seemed like the stern kind of man who would not tolerate bad Arabic, so Gary didn’t tell him; he just spoke in English, and Mr. Mansour did likewise.

He tried to act straight too. Mr. Mansour had not given any indication he was a gaybasher, but he was a devout Muslim who had said he only joined the Irontop Gym because he heard it was men-only, and he didn’t want to ever work out with any women present. So Gary assumed he was probably a fervently homophobic Muslim and butched it up as best as he could.

As a physical trainer, Gary had many opportunities to touch Mr. Al-Mansour without drawing too much attention to himself. The less he tried to think about it, the more he could think about nothing else. Mr. Mansour had been a soccer player in his native Lebanon, but was now almost forty; he had retained most of his athleticism even if he had covered it in a thin layer of padding. To Gary, that was even sexier — there was nothing wrong with a six-pack, and he loved looking at men who had them, but he liked men with a little bit of flesh to grab on to as well. Mr. Al-Mansour had just the right amount of extra flesh, and in just the right spots.

When his workout was done, Mr. Al-Mansour strode towards the locker room. It was obvious from his tone and body language that he expected Gary to follow. He did so, both because he hoped to have the opportunity to see Mr. Al-Mansour naked and because he had a feeling he tipped well.

“The showering area is over there,” Gary said as they walked into the otherwise empty locker room. He was mesmerized by Mr. Al-Mansour’s thick ass swaying in his ultra-short shorts. Gary had to clear his throat to gather his thoughts. “And there are clean towels right here.”

“I bring my own towels,” he said.

“Ah, I see. Okay,” Gary said. He was feeling very awkward now, especially since there was no one else around. Was it possible Mr. Al-Mansour was a gaybasher? Could he have lured Gary here to hit him? It was very possible, he thought, and there were no witnesses around to stop him. He backed away slowly.

Mr. Al-Mansour stripped off his sweat-stained shirt and shorts, then tossed them at Gary. The smell of his unlaundered sweat-stained clothes hit Gary’s nostrils, and he couldn’t help but inhale deeply; he tasted the saltiness and a faint earthy smell that was reminiscent of Middle-Eastern cuisine. Gary could only enjoy the scent for a moment because Mr. Al-Mansour was watching him and speaking in a grim and flat tone. “Wash these. I’ll be back on Thursday.”

“Uh, I’m sorry?”

“Wash those clothes,” Mr. Al-Mansour snapped. “Is your brain mush? Do you need me to write it down for you?”

“That’s not really something we do,” Gary said nervously.

Mr. Al-Mansour pulled down his jockstrap. His dick was thick and long, and Gary tried not to look at it. The hair on the man’s chest extended down to his thick crotch bush. Mr. Al-Mansour frowned. “That is something trainers do in Lebanon, and in Britain.”

“Well, we do not have laundry facilities here.”

“Where do you wash these towels?”

“We send them out.”

“It sounds like your problem is solved then,” he said. He sighed and put his hands on his hips. His dick dangled between his legs. “I pay you a fair salary, I expect you to service me as I demand.”

“Yes, sir.” Gary just said it out of distracted obedience to the man’s monstrously thick cock. His heart started pounding as he realized it was obvious that he was gay.

“You are queer, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

He sneered. “Get on your knees.” He hesitated only a moment before shouting, “Now!”

Gary dropped to his knees before even considering whether he should. The smell of Mr. Al-Mansour’s sweat and his musty balls assaulted Gary’s nostrils, and he stumbled over words even though he wasn’t trying to say anything. His own dick jumped to rock-hard in his pants.

Mr. Al-Mansour took one of his own towels out of his locker — it was a dark gray, thin towel with a fringe on either end — and wrapped one end around both hands. He grimaced as he stretched the towel like a bully about to snap it at Gary’s ass. But he just put it around Gary’s head. “Open up if you want my cock in your throat.”

Gary hurried to do as he was told. One of his hands crept into his shorts to jack himself off, and he hoped Mr. Al-Mansour didn’t notice. He gagged on the tip of the cockshaft the moment Mr. Al-Mansour shoved it down his throat, both because of its size and because it was dripping with fresh sweat.

He got hard almost right away, which made Gary think Mr. Al-Mansour was horny. He grunted a bit too, as though surprised by how good the blowjob felt. Gary wanted to do his fellow gays proud by deep-throating the man’s cock as well as anyone could, but Mr. Al-Mansour’s thick, piggish member struggled to squeeze down Gary’s throat.

He laughed when Gary choked, and spit on Gary’s face. “You want to be female whore, faggot, I will treat you like female whore. You like that?”

“Fuck yes,” Gary said between gasps for air.

“Disgusting.” He began pistoning his hips back and forth, fucking Gary’s face hard. Spit came out of Gary’s lips and stuck to Mr. Al-Mansour’s heavy ballsac as it swung and hit Gary’s chin.

Humiliation pumped through Gary’s veins, and he felt like he was being bullied back in school again; the only difference was that this time he liked it. He had come to love being humiliated by the hot straight studs who came through the Irontop Gym, of which there were loads, but Mr. Al-Mansour was even rougher than Gary was used to.

His throat ached as Gary coughed up a big ball of spit from the back of his throat. He knew how straight guys loved it when their bottoms had so much trouble deep-throating it that they coughed up copious fluids, so Gary didn’t try to stop himself. In no time, Mr. Al-Mansour’s crotch and legs were soaking wet with spit and precum.

He said something in Arabic that Gary didn’t understand, then all his muscles flexed at once. Mr. Al-Mansour grunted as though he was trying to hide how much he like it. Gary moaned. Cum shot out and coated the back of Gary’s throat.

It was salty and creamy and nutty, and its flavor made Gary moan again as he shot his own load in his shorts. He was glad that Mr. Al-Mansour hadn’t noticed him jacking himself off.

“I hate faggots. Practice deep-throating for next week.”

Irontop Gym of Lilongwe, Malawi

This is a sample chapter from the Irontop Gym of Lilongwe, Malawi, a story in the Irontop Gym open franchise.

Wilson Tripper was excited to be moving to Malawi. He was hired by the Irontop Gym chain to open up a store in the capital city of Lilongwe. It was even more beautiful than he had imagined. Wilson had had this vision of a desolate Africa full of deprivation, but while Lilongwe was a poor city, it was clean, colorful and safe. The people he had met so far were kind and thoughtful, and they all spoke English (though he had been told that outside of the cities, almost no one spoke English).

Corporate had already bought the location and equipment from a gym that had closed. He went there right away to see how soon he could open — the old gym must have had some patrons, he thought, and the sooner he got the new gym open, the more likely they were to sign up. A lot of people were only dimly aware of who owned and operated their gym, after all, so if a new one opened in place of the old one, there was a strong inertial benefit.

It was a little ramshackle, and the equipment was basically a couple treadmills and free weights, with just enough benches to look like a real gym. Wilson had seen better-outfitted prison gyms, and he even made the decision to retire one machine that was dangerously broken — it could have fallen to pieces on top of someone at any moment.

There was neither a real locker room nor an office. It was an open space, with a completely uncovered shower area in one corner and a desk near the front door. There were no walls or curtains or barriers of any kind. Apparently Malawian men didn’t have much concern for modesty.

A few men stopped by that afternoon to sign up, explaining that they had been members at the old gym and wished to continue. They liked the way it used to be, and seemed almost hostile at the change. They looked at him with suspicion as he explained that an international gym chain had purchased everything here.

“You’re in luck, it’s all the same equipment,” Wilson said. He smiled and tried to pretend he wasn’t nervous about it. They checked it out, jabbering in their own language.

They were jubilant about it, especially the unused weight set that corporate had sprung for, so it would look like a new facility. They each took turns with it, and jabbered in their own language, seemingly happy with the change now that it was explained to them.

They were surprisingly touchy with each other, Wilson noticed. They chastely slapped each others biceps, waist and ass, and more than once he saw them quickly squeezing each other’s crotches. Was that normal for straight Malawian men? He would later find out that the answer was yes, Malawian men touched each other constantly and did not see it as a homosexual practice.

Then they were finished, and they came to the locker area to shower. They laughed and shoved each other — he didn’t know their language, but Wilson strongly suggested they were bragging about their sexual conquests. Wilson knew he couldn’t leer, but his desk was literally facing the showering corner, so he couldn’t very well look away.

His hands crept under the desk to his crotch as they stripped off their clothes. Their black skin gleamed, long cocks uncircumcised and thickly dangling between their legs. They each stretched their member to make it as long as possible, then jumped into the showering area to rinse off.

The desk in front of him was large, too big really for him and this small space. But it was also totally enclosed, and the men in the shower couldn’t see anything below Wilson’s upper chest. That gave him plenty of privacy to touch himself.

His hand snaked down to his cock in its cotton slack prison, rubbing it until he swelled to full erection. The African bodybuilders in front of him were crammed into one showerhead, and they laughed as they bumped into each other, pushing each other out of the spray and mock-wrestling. There was plenty of penis contact, which surprised Wilson — he had thought Africans were rigidly opposed to anything that stank of homosexuality.

He pretended to be fiddling with his phone with his left hand, while his right hand unzipped his pants and handled his cock. His shaft was thick and hot, pulsating with imminent orgasm. He hadn’t even touched himself but was near busting his nut already.

The men started speaking more angrily, one of them seemingly accusing another of something. For a moment, Wilson thought there might be a fight. The prospect made his dick even harder, and his heart pound with excitement; if there was a fight, he would need to stand and break it up, they’d see his hardon.

The accused was indignant, but the rest of them soon joined in on a chant. They were definitely daring him to do something. It was interesting enough Wilson felt justified in watching closely, his right hand still stroking. He prayed no one came in at this exact moment, but luckily, no one did.

He was the shortest and youngest, just barely eighteen according to the paperwork he had signed. His name was Madalitso. He sputtered angrily, and refused to do whatever it was he was being told to do. But it sounded like he knew he didn’t have a choice and would have to give in eventually.

The chanting stopped as Madalitso sank to his knees. He closed his eyes, still looking indignant, even defiant. The other man approached him and laughed at his weak position.

It looked like Madalitso was about to suck cock, but that couldn’t be it, could it? Wilson didn’t know, but that was a position he recognized. He had seen more than his fair share of blowjobs begin in exactly that position.

The man approaching Madalitso lifted up his cock and pointed to the spot at the base where it met his hairy sac. Then he let go of his prick as the others resumed their chant, this time low and slow. They all grinned as though this was a huge prank.

Madalitso lifted up the other man’s cock with one hand, then gagged a little at the smell. He hesitated. The man standing in front of him barked an order.

Wilson orgasmed and had to focus intently to avoid crying out. He sprayed the underside of his desk with cum, and he let out a shudder that he managed to disguise as a soft cough. He took a deep breath — he wasn’t going to be able to handle it if this was normal in Malawi. He’d get caught eventually.

Madalitso dived in and kissed that same spot the man had pointed to, where the base of his cock met his sac. Madalitso left his lips planted there for three seconds, counted off by the others with mounting laughter at his humiliation.

He jumped to his feet, looked away and wiped his mouth off. His friends laughed and jeered at him, but he stayed stony-faced and rinsed his mouth off with water. He avoided looking at Wilson as though that would make it even worse.

Wilson was breathing heavily, but he resumed his paperwork as though he had barely noticed anything happen. It didn’t look like the men thought this was strange, so he tried to be nonplussed by it as well. He managed to avoid attracting attention as the men finished showering off, then dressed and left.

“We’ll be back tomorrow, thank you,” said the tall one on his way out the door.

“Can’t wait, sir,” Wilson said, and for once, he meant it.

Irontop Gym of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

This is a sample chapter from Irontop Gym of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, a book by Afra Zaman.

Wilson wanted to leave Saudi Arabia. He loved his job most of the time, but opening the first Irontop Gym in Riyadh had taken its toll on him. No liquor or weed, no open homosexuality, nothing at all for a man like Wilson Tripper to do.

But at last now the end was in sight. As he opened up for his first day, he felt like he was almost ready to go. In fact, there was still a lot to do — he had no staff, for example, which was fine because nobody signed up for a gym on the first day anyway. It was simply a hopeful feeling to know he was on his way to being done with this mission — next he hoped to be opening a gym in Venice, which would be marvelous.

For now he had to make do with this desolate city in an uninhabitable desert wasteland. Oh well, he thought, at least his hotel was nice.

So he just reviewed resumes as he sat at his desk, and tried not to think about how horny he was. Most of the applicants listed home gyms and unofficial personal trainer gigs, but not many had a verifiable work history in the field. Wilson wondered if there was a guy bar in Riyadh; there must be, he thought, but he didn’t feel safe looking for it, much less going there.

Much to his surprise, a patron did show up on that first day. It was a tall, regal-looking man in flowing white robes. He was young, in his early to mid-twenties, with a well-kept beard. He had a wide frame and an arrogant sneer. A muscular tough in sunglasses preceded him, and came to the front desk where Wilson sat.

“This is Prince Faisal,” said the bodyguard in halting English. He had a scarred face and a bushy beard. “He would be interested in membership in your gym.”

Wilson quickly went over the equipment available and rates. It was apparent that the bodyguard — Mohammed — was not fluent enough in English to understand. Prince Faisal, however, appeared to hear every word. Wilson wondered why he had the bodyguard communicate for him if Faisal spoke better English. It must be a power thing, he decided.

“Do you allow anyone to join?” Prince Faisal asked sharply. He had a British accent, but spoke English flawlessly. He must have been educated in the UK, Wilson decided.

“I’m sorry…? We have some membership requirements. Men only in this country, and adults only. Over sixty-five requires a doctor to-“

“I mean… Do you allow Malaysians and other foreigners? Non-white foreigners, I mean.”

“Oh… Yes,” Wilson said. It was obvious Faisal didn’t like that, but that was Irontop Gym corporate policy. Making an exception in Saudi Arabia would be too controversial internationally to even consider.

“That is disappointing,” he said. “You close at seven, yes? I will come here between seven and ten in the evenings, and I will pay for twenty-five memberships. That will help you meet your first month sales goals very much, am I right? I am paying extra so you can keep the gym exclusive to me during those hours. You may allow other acceptable Saudis to work out then with permission from me beforehand. Is that understood?”

“Uh… Okay,” Wilson said. Prince Faisal’s penetrating stare made it hard to say no to him, and there was precedent within the Irontop Gym chain to allow celebrities and others to rent out the entire gym for certain periods.

“I trust you rarely have any customers on the first day?”

“That’s correct.”

“Then I will work out now,” he said. He walked past Wilson, bodyguard following close behind. He spoke sharply in Arabic, and Mohammed stopped.

“Twenty-five memberships,” said Mohammed. He produced a credit card.

Wilson quietly processed the transactions. Aside from the tension of the situation, he was glad to have twenty-five signups on day one. If he had had ten at the end of the first week, his superiors at corporate would have considered that a success.

Mohammed left the front desk. The men’s changing area was right in front of the desk, with no partition — that was, he was told, the normal layout for a Saudi gym. Wilson avoided looking, thinking he should give Faisal privacy.

But when he finished the paperwork, he glanced up and was surprised to see Mohammed pulling down Faisal’s green jockey shorts. Faisal stood there as though he never dressed himself.

Mohammed pulled a jockstrap up and then green shorts. Faisal wore a sleeveless shirt and headed out for the gym.

Wilson bent his head down in his paperwork, trying to focus on that. The thought that he had genuine royalty who was too noble even to dress himself made him nervous, however, and he couldn’t get any work done.

Faisal grunted as he lifted weights in the gym. From his desk, Wilson could partially see into the gym area, and he could see Faisal in a mirror there. He went from machine to machine with Mohammed watching, but neither participating nor encouraging Faisal.

Finally it was done, and Faisal returned to the changing area. Mohammed took off his sweaty shirt and then dropped his shorts and jockstrap again. Wilson found he couldn’t look away as he realized Faisal had a throbbing hardon.

Faisal barked something in Arabic. Mohammed winced and almost stepped away, but Faisal repeated himself.

Mohammed grabbed ahold of Faisal’s cock and gave it a squeeze. He looked away as though pretending this wasn’t happening.

Wilson kept his head down, so it didn’t look like he had noticed. He could only barely see, through the mirror at the far end of the gym. Faisal’s lean, ropy-muscled body contorted as he got hard, and Wilson could even smell his precum.

Faisal barked out another order in Arabic, and the shame-faced musclebound bodyguard got on his knees. Mohammed held out one hand in front of Faisal’s cock, evidently planning on catching all of his cum in one cupped hand.

Mohammed used his right hand to furiously masturbate Prince Faisal, who stood bored and regal as though this handjob was entirely tiresome for him. He grunted like a camel as he shot his load onto Mohammed’s palm.

Mohammed looked at the soupy cum in his hand as though it might come alive. He stood and held it in place. Faisal was very slowly taking a drink of water from a bottle he had brought along, then casually picked up his towel. Obviously, this was a power-game Faisal played, making Mohammed hold onto his cum until he gave him permission to get rid of it.

Finally Faisal walked back to the changing area, and Mohammed quietly wiped his hand off. He looked at Wilson then, but Wilson managed to keep his head down and pretend he hadn’t noticed what happened.