Chapter 10: Alan Ritchson 3
The coffee from Oliver’s reusable cup had gone cold in his car. Kenny sat in the driver’s seat outside a modern, windowless building in a secluded part of the Hills, the engine off. He could still smell Oliver on his skin, a ghost beneath his fresh shirt. Don’t be a stranger. The words felt like a stone in his pocket, something solid to worry at.
He checked the address again. Alan Ritchson. A different kind of client. A different kind of energy. Kenny shut down the part of him that was still in Oliver’s sunlit kitchen, and opened the door.
The private gym hit him with a wall of conditioned, cool air and the sharp, clean scent of citrus disinfectant overlying the primal odor of sweat. It was vast, lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors that multiplied the racks of calibrated steel and the intricate lattice of cable machines. Sunlight streamed from high, slanted windows, catching the motes of chalk dust in the air.
And there he was.
Alan Ritchson lay flat on a weight bench, a monstrous barbell loaded with thick plates hovering above his chest. His body was a landscape of engineered muscle—broad, dense, veined. Each pec was a separate slab, beaded with sweat that glittered under the lights. His triceps bulged as he controlled the descent, the bar bending slightly under the load. A low, guttural grunt echoed in the space as he pushed the weight back up, the steel trembling at the apex of the lift.
Kenny leaned against the doorframe, waiting. He knew better than to interrupt the set.
Alan racked the bar with a final, thunderous clang. He sat up, grabbing a towel, his breath coming in deep pulls. He saw Kenny. A grin spread across his face, wide and uncomplicated.
“Kenny. Right on time.” His voice was a rasp, shredded from exertion. He wiped his face and neck, then draped the towel around his shoulders. “Just finishing up. Season four. They want Reacher even bigger. More… monumental.” He said it without ego, as a simple statement of work.
“Looks like you’re there,” Kenny said, his own voice finding its professional ease. He walked further into the room, the rubber floor muffling his steps.
Alan leaned back on the bench, spreading his arms wide along its padded edge. The pose was deliberately inviting, a king on a throne of sweat and effort. His grey tank top was soaked through, clinging to every ridge of his abdomen. “Been thinking about you,” Alan said, his eyes dark and direct. “Missed that mouth of yours.”
It was a blunt instrument of a statement. There was no poetry here, no moonlit exploration. This was about consumption.
Alan hooked a finger into the neckline of his tank top and tugged it down, exposing his left nipple, a tight, dark peak against the flushed, massive pectoral. He nodded towards it. “Start there. I’m all warmed up. Skin’s hot, blood’s pumping. Everything’s sensitive as hell.”
Kenny approached. The smell of him was intense—salty exertion, the faint chemical tang of a pre-workout, pure masculine heat. He knelt on the gym floor, the rubber gritty under his knees. He didn’t use ice cream or tricks. He put his hands on Alan’s sweat-slicked ribs, feeling the incredible density of the muscle beneath, and leaned in.
He licked a broad stripe up the center of Alan’s chest, tasting salt. Alan shuddered, a full-body tremor that made the bench creak. Kenny focused on the nipple, circling it with the tip of his tongue before closing his lips over it, sucking it deep into the heat of his mouth.
“Fuck yeah,” Alan hissed, his hand coming to the back of Kenny’s head, not guiding, just holding him in place. “Just like that. Work it.”
Kenny obeyed. He sucked and nibbled, using his teeth to apply a sharp, grazing pressure. He bit down, and Alan growled, his hips lifting off the bench. “Harder. Don’t fucking pamper me.”
Kenny bit down again, properly this time, until he felt Alan’s body jolt with the pain-pleasure of it. He soothed it with his tongue, then moved to the other side, repeating the ritual. He was a mechanic servicing a powerful engine, focused on the response. Alan’s breathing grew ragged, his other hand fisting at his side.
After a few minutes, Alan pushed him back gently but firmly. “Okay. Enough foreplay.” He stood, a tower of muscle shadowing Kenny. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his compression shorts and pushed them down, along with his briefs, in one rough motion. His cock sprung free, thick and already fully erect, curving upward against his heavy stomach.
“Clothes off. Now,” Alan commanded, his voice leaving no room for discussion. He sat back down on a nearby adjustable bench, spreading his legs wide, an obscene display of casual power.
Kenny stood and undressed quickly, folding his clothes onto a weight plate. The air felt cool on his skin.
Alan watched him, his eyes like scanners. “Come here.” When Kenny was within reach, Alan pulled him close, between his legs. He put his massive hands behind his own head, elbows flared, presenting his entire body. “You know what to do. Worship it. Every fucking inch. This is what you’re here for.”
The instruction was clear. This was not a mutual act. This was veneration. Kenny started at the top, with the broad, columnar neck. He licked and kissed his way down the thick trapezius muscles, over the deltoids that swelled like cannonballs. He paid dutiful attention to each bicep, sucking at the crook of the elbow, tracing the roping veins with his tongue.
He worked down the carved ridges of Alan’s abdomen, the skin tight as a drum over each defined square. He nipped at the hip bones, then dropped to his knees again. He nuzzled into the dense thatch of hair at Alan’s groin, inhaling the potent, animal musk. He took Alan’s balls, heavy and tight, into his mouth, rolling them gently with his tongue.
“Good boy,” Alan murmured from above, his chest rising and falling steadily.
Kenny licked up the thick, prominent vein on the underside of Alan’s cock from root to tip, then took the head into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the flared ridge. He sank down slowly, taking more and more, his jaw stretching. Alan let out a satisfied groan, flexing his abs.
“Use your hands, too. Work my chest while you suck me.”
Kenny reached up, his hands finding Alan’s sweaty, massive pecs. He pinched and rolled the nipples hard, twisting them, mirroring the ruthless suction of his mouth. Alan’s composure began to fracture. “Shit, yeah… that’s the combo… fucking perfect.”
The pace quickened. Alan’s hips began to pump in shallow, insistent thrusts, fucking Kenny’s face with growing force. Pre-come leaked onto Kenny’s tongue, salty and bitter. Kenny gagged slightly, tears springing to his eyes, but he didn’t pull away. He doubled down on the painful attention to Alan’s nipples, twisting and pulling.
“Gonna come,” Alan announced, his voice a graveled punch. “Swallow it. Every drop.”
The command was absolute. A second later, Alan’s body locked, a statue of tense muscle. He shoved himself deep into Kenny’s throat and released with a roar, a hot, pulsating flood that hit the back of Kenny’s mouth. Kenny swallowed convulsively, again and again, until Alan finally stilled, spent.
Kenny pulled back, catching his breath, the taste still thick on his tongue. Alan’s hand ruffled his hair, a rough, casual gesture. “Good. Fucking great.” The giant man looked down at himself, at his own softening cock, then back at Kenny with a calculating gleam. “But we’re not done. Get me hard again.”
He leaned back, that command in his posture. Kenny’s jaw ached, but he nodded. He climbed onto the bench, straddling Alan’s thick thighs. He bent to the massive chest, his mouth finding a nipple once more. He sucked it deep, his tongue flicking rapidly over the pebbled surface while his hand reached down, wrapping around Alan’s spent cock.
He worked him with a firm, knowing grip, his fist pumping the thick shaft in a steady rhythm. His mouth alternated between cruel bites and wet, sucking kisses across Alan’s pectorals. He could feel the twitch against his palm, the slow, incremental return of life.
“Talk to me,” Alan grunted, his voice a low rumble beneath Kenny’s mouth. “Tell me what you’re doing.”
“I’m making your cock hard again,” Kenny murmured against his skin, his hand speeding up. “I’m sucking on your tits until they’re raw and you can’t think straight. I’m going to make you come just from this, just from my hand and my mouth on you here.” He bit down, sharply, on the other nipple.
Alan cursed, his hips bucking upward. “Fuck. Yes.” His own hands grabbed Kenny’s ass, kneading the flesh hard enough to bruise. Kenny’s wrist began to burn, but he maintained the pace, a relentless, twisting stroke focused on the head. Alan’s breathing shattered into ragged gasps. “Don’t stop… right there, right the fuck there…”
The second release was quicker, a brutal, tensing culmination. Alan’s body went rigid, a strangled shout tearing from his throat as his cock jerked in Kenny’s fist, spilling hot stripes over his own stomach and Kenny’s clenched fingers.
Kenny released him, panting. Alan looked wrecked, his chest heaving, covered in sweat and spend. But his eyes were still hungry, dark with unsated appetite. He pushed at Kenny’s hip. “Now you. Ride me. I want to feel you come apart.”
Kenny reached for the lube on a nearby shelf. He prepared himself quickly, fingers pushing inside, the clinical stretch a stark contrast to the night before. He slicked Alan up, the man’s cock already stubbornly stiffening again under his touch. Then he positioned himself, guiding the broad head to his entrance, and sank down.
The fullness was breathtaking, a stretching burn that stole his air. He braced his hands on Alan’s rock-hard abdomen, finding a rhythm, rising and falling with a slow, deep grind. Alan watched him, mesmerized, his huge hands settling on Kenny’s waist, fingers digging in.
“That’s it,” Alan breathed. “Take it all. Fuck, you’re tight.”
Kenny rode him with increasing frenzy, the slap of skin echoing off the mirrors. Each downward thrust jolted through him, punching pleasured gasps from his lungs. He could feel the coiling tension in his own groin, a volatile knot tightening with every impact. Alan’s thrusts from below became more urgent, his grip punishing.
“I’m close,” Kenny warned, his voice breaking.
“Not inside me,” Alan commanded, his own tone strained. “On me. Mark me up.”
Kenny nodded, a frantic jerk of his head. He fisted his own cock, stroking in time with his desperate rides. The sight below him—Alan, a monument of muscle being used, completely surrendered to sensation—tipped him over the edge. With a raw, wordless cry, Kenny came, thick ropes of white shooting across Alan’s sweat-slicked, carved abdomen, painting the hard landscape.
The clenching of his orgasm pushed Alan over. With a final, deep upward drive, Alan roared, his release pumping hot inside Kenny, a searing flood that seemed to go on and on until both of them were utterly spent.
Kenny collapsed forward, his head resting on Alan’s sticky chest. The man’s heart hammered against his ear. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing mixing with the hum of the gym’s ventilation.
Then, without a word, Alan moved. He slid out from under Kenny, stood with a slight grunt, and simply scooped Kenny up into his arms as if he weighed nothing. Kenny, boneless and surprised, looped an arm around his neck. Alan carried him, naked and dripping, past the weight racks and into a pristine, steam-filled shower room.
He set Kenny on his feet under the cascading hot water. They washed in silence, Alan’s hands surprisingly methodical, rinsing the sweat and spend from Kenny’s back. It was efficient, not intimate. The steam cleared the last haze from Kenny’s mind, bringing the room and the transaction into sharp focus.
Back in the gym, dressed, Alan pulled a thick envelope from his gym bag. He handed it to Kenny. It was heavier than usual. “You’re worth every penny,” Alan said, his voice back to its normal, measured tone. He met Kenny’s eyes, and for a second, something flickered there—not warmth, but a stark acknowledgment. “You please me in ways my wife doesn’t. Can’t. She’s… not built for this. Doesn’t want it. Thanks.”
The words landed with a cold, clarifying weight. They weren’t a compliment; they were a diagnosis. Kenny took the envelope, the crisp paper feeling alien against his skin. “Anytime, Alan,” he said, his professional mask perfectly in place.
He walked out into the blinding afternoon, the envelope in his hand, the ghost of Oliver’s hug a faint, fading imprint. The smell of chlorine from a distant pool mixed with the scent of money and sex on his skin. He started his car, the engine a dull roar in the quiet canyon, and drove away from the temple of muscle, feeling hollowed out and profoundly, expensively clean.