Chapter 16: Muscle Mommy Mayhem
The smell of synthetic strawberries and fouled leather was ripped away, replaced by a thick, humid blast of chlorine, mildew, and the cloying sweetness of body spray. The neon here was harsher, buzzing angrily behind frosted plastic panels. Bob’s back slammed against a bank of cold, scratched metal lockers, the impact knocking the wind from him.
He was shirtless, wearing only straining neon-green shorts that felt two sizes too small. Before him, the air steamed.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” The voice was a gravelly rasp, tinged with chemical aggression. “Skinny little thing, ain’t he?”
Three of them. They weren’t just fit; they were architectural. Delts like cannonballs, traps sloping up into hair cropped close to the scalp. Veins traced road maps over their tanned, oil-sheened skin. They wore matching metallic purple stringer tops and microscopic shorts, every crevice and cleft prominently displayed. Their names, he sensed, were Brick, Rax, and Gunner.
Brick, the one with the most veins popping on her forehead, got in his face. Her breath smelled of chalk and pre-workout powder. “You’re gonna fail your last rep, newbie. But don’t worry. We’re here to… spot you.”
She shoved a heavy, cool Olympic barbell into his hands. It was already loaded with one huge plate on each side. Bob’s arms screamed in protest, buckling instantly. He sank to his knees on the slick, wet tile, the barbell clattering across his thighs, pinning him.
“Oops,” Rax purred. She straddled the barbell, her thick, muscular thighs flanking his head. She wasn’t wearing anything under her shorts. A coarse, neatly trimmed thatch of hair was right there, inches from his mouth, smelling powerfully of sweat and something sharp, like ammonia. “Gotta strengthen that core, baby. Let’s do some… neck presses.”
Gunner, behind him, gripped his head in hands that felt like industrial vices. They forced his face forward, into Rax’s damp, musky crotch. He gasped, and she ground down against his mouth, the barbell digging into his legs.
“Lick it like you’re trying to get that last scoop of protein,” Rax commanded, her voice hitching as she rode his face. Her muscles tightened and released rhythmically.
Bob’s tongue moved, lapping at salt and sweat. His body, obedient to the scene, responded. He was hard, painfully so, trapped under the cold metal.
“He’s getting the idea,” Brick grinned. She squatted behind Rax, her face level with Bob’s ass in the green shorts. With a rough tear, she ripped the fabric away. “Now for the real warm-up set.”
A thick, gloved finger, slick with something from a unmarked squeeze bottle, prodded at him. It wasn’t lubricant. It was a mentholated gel that burned and froze simultaneously. He yelped against Rax’s flesh.
“Quiet,” Gunner snarled, tightening her chokehold on his head. “You gotta feel the burn to grow.”
Brick’s finger pushed in, knuckle-deep. The stretch was sudden, brutal. She worked it in and out, the gel creating a bizarre, fiery numbness. “Tight. We need more expansion. Rack time.”
They moved him like a piece of equipment. The barbell was hauled away. Bob, shuddering from the anal intrusion and the face-full of pussy, was dragged to the squat rack. They bent him over the padded bar, chest down, ass high. His thin arms were wrenched back and secured with rough resistance bands to the uprights, holding him in a cruel, back-arched present.
Brick, sniffing her gloved finger with a grotesque, appreciative grunt, stepped back. “Form is everything. Gunner, you’re on spotting duty. I’ll supervise the… depth.”
Gunner moved in front of him. She grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head up. Her other hand unbuckled her shorts, freeing a thick, phallic cock that was definitely not standard-issue. It was veiny, angry red, and glistening with a oily sheen. “Open wide for your protein shake, pencil-neck.”
It slammed over his tongue, hitting the back of his throat. It tasted of rubber and salt. She began to fuck his face with short, punishing jabs, each one cutting off his air. His vision sparkled at the edges.
Meanwhile, Brick was behind him again. One finger became two, scissoring, stretching. The burning gel was everywhere. “He’s accepting the load up front. Good. Let’s increase the resistance.”
A third finger joined, then a fourth. His asshole burned, a ring of fire being stretched beyond sanity. Brick’s breathing grew heavier, more focused. “Almost… there. Gotta break the plateau.”
With a sudden, brutal twist, she forced her entire thumb in alongside the four fingers. A screaming, tearing sensation bloomed inside him. It wasn't pain as he knew it; it was a horrifying, full feeling of displacement, his body making room for something it was never meant to hold.
“FUCK YEAH!” Brick roared, her voice echoing off the lockers. “FULL FIST ENGAGEMENT! FEEL THAT STRETCH, YOU LITTLE BITCH! FEEL THE FUCKING BURN!”
Bob couldn’t scream. Gunner was face-fucking him too hard, her muscular hips pistoning, her balls slapping his chin. He gagged, tears and snot mixing with the sweat and pre-cum on his face. The world narrowed to the triple assault: the choking thickness in his throat, the monstrous, knuckled fist sawing in and out of his ass, and the burning cold of the gel that seemed to seep into his bones.
Rax joined, climbing onto the squat rack behind him. She positioned her own formidable ass over the back of his head, lowering herself until her sweaty, musky cleft smothered him, sealing Gunner’s cock deeper into his mouth. He was buried at both ends, a twitching, muffled sandwich of meat and muscle.
The pace became frantic, punishing. Brick hammered her fist into him, grunting with each thrust like she was deadlifting a personal best. Gunner’s throat-fucking became jerky, erratic. Rax bounced on his face, her ass cheeks clapping, dripping sweat directly into his nostrils.
“Gonna… Gonna peak!” Gunner snarled.
“SQUEEZE HIM!” Brick yelled. “MILK IT OUT!”
Bob’s body convulsed, a powerless, wrung-out vessel. Gunner pulled out of his mouth with a wet pop and aimed her throbbing cock at his face. A hot, thick, chalky-white paste shot across his eyes, his nose, his mouth. It tasted of artificial vanilla and chemicals—protein powder mixed with something else.
As he choked on it, blinding him, Brick finally, with a final wrenching twist, pulled her fist from his ass. A strange, hollow, sucking sound followed. She immediately shoved her gloved, soaking hand under his nose. “SNIFF IT! SNIFF YOUR HARD WORK!”
The odor was a violent cocktail of menthol, sweat, and deep, internal musk. He vomited a little, the蛋白粉 mixing with bile on his chin.
They released the resistance bands. Bob collapsed onto the wet tile, a broken marionette. His limbs twitched. His ass felt like a gaping, frozen furnace. He could barely see through the drying cement-like paste.
The three muscle mommies stood over him, high-fiving, their pecs flexing.
“Good session,” Brick panted, wiping her gloved hand on his hair.
“See you tomorrow for leg day,” Rax laughed, giving his limp form a kick with her toe.
The buzzing neon seemed to grow louder, drowning out their retreating footsteps. The glitchy synthwave tune from the house, that taunting “FUCK ME” loop, began to bleed in at the edges of his hearing, warring with the drip of a leaky showerhead. It was coming again. The transition. He couldn’t move. He could only lie there in the puddle of sweat,蛋白粉, and his own sickness, waiting for the next set to begin.