Date: Thu, 5 Jan 2006 08:19:43 -0800 (PST)
From: T. Chase McPhee <survivalgame@yahoo.com>
Subject: Muscle Jocks For Domination 02

The following story is a work of fiction, set in the
format of reality. Any resemblance to real people is
entirely coincidental in nature, and is not meant to
accurately depict, nor reflect upon persons in towns,
cities, or governmental areas, in which the story is
staged. If a sexual scene involving male-to-male
relationships offends you, then you should not read
this story. Additionally, if you are under 18 years of
age, in most state and countries, you are not allowed
to read this story by law. This is fiction. Do not
forget, in real life, to think about 'sexual safety
matter'; got condom?

"Muscle Jocks For Domination " 02
wriTten by T. Chase McPhee

%

Lying there in bed, the sun peeks through Steve's
miniblinds, casting straight lines across his bare
body.

"That time already?" He says to himself.

Picking his head up from the pillow, he looks down his
body. His hand is still wrapped around his wilted
stalk. From last night, his dark, blonde treasure
trail, below his deep bellyhole, shows a few follicles
standing up, but most of that tight trail is weighed
down with pasty cum.

"Oh man, I hate that!" Steve exclaims, loosening the
crusty, stale cum from his trail and pubes. "Oh well,
no sense putting it off."

As Steve rises out of bed, he does a few, minor
stretching exercises, right arm up, hand behind his
head, left hand comes up to meet right elbow, then
vice versa with the other arm, maintaining a tight ab
wall with each set. Included are a couple of noisy
yawns. He bends over, doing an `illegal' lunge, to
each side of his body.

"Damn, if I didn't get so lazy and kept a wet cloth on
my night table, I wouldn't have to worry about
vacuuming up the cum-crusts every week."

Steve laughs to himself. Who's he trying to kid? The
effort outweighs the strain of vacuuming a hundred
times over!

Looking at the alarm clock, Steve moves his right arm
behind his back, grabs his right wrist with his left
hand, pulls up on his wrist and bends to the left.

"Oh shit! I gotta get moving or Fitzsimmons'll have
my...."

Stopping short, on that thought, Steve's mind wanders
to Anthony Bonomolo. His chat with Rick yesterday, his
twenty-six year old bud, in the company gym really got
his curiosity piqued. All the time he sashays to the
jon, he's thinking about the rumors he's heard and
whether they are fact.

"Hmm, I wonder if Anthony really does `work' work for
Fitzsimmons after hours, or?"

After entering the shower, more thoughts come to mind.
Whether actual or made up, it doesn't phase Steve. In
the fantasy chamber, eyes closed, he begins to
daydream, as his morning erection gets stroked.
Picturing in his mind, in Fitzsimmon's office, Anthony
enters. With his own aspirations to serve integrated,
Steve imagines Ritzsimmons ordering Anthony to strip
his clothes, calling out each article.

"The jacket, boy. Now the tie... shirt... undershirt... " a
hand-stroke presses with each named item, "come here,
boy," Steve imagines Fitzsimmons dictating, in a
rough, masculine voice.

Somebody in another flat, must've flushed the toilet.
The shower turns cold, rustling Steve out of his
fantasy.

"Shit always happens, when it gets good!"

His complaint to himself subsides, along with his
cock, as the cool water cascades down his body.

"Noooooooooo! Don't fail me now!" Steve whimpers,
stroking frantically to keep his erection alive.

Turning the showerhead to the wall, Steve beats his
shaft back into submission. Slowly it returns to it's
hardening state.

"Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Oh yeaaaah. Got you hard again," He
tells his 8.5c. "Yeah baby.. yeah baby..." Now, as a
team, "Let's go for it!"

Even though pings of the water are hitting his body,
Steve works up his mansweat, working furiously to
bring his orgasm to fruition.

"Yeah! Yeaaaaaah! Yeaaaaah, take it, Anthony!"

Teetering between the now and fantasy, Steve strokes
into the best jerk off, sending ropes of cum, his mind
recording his own memories of Anthony standing there,
bare-chested in Fitzsimmons' office, fingers tweaking
nips, mashing them, crushing them as he twists
Anthony's nubs.

"Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!" Steve calls out.

Hi s face to the wall, in place of moving the spraying
water, to shower him, Steve gasps for air.

Coming out of his orgasmic feat, Steve kids to
himself, "Could be worse without all that cardiac
workup!"

Now realizing he's wasted an enormous amount of time,
getting ready to head to the office, Steve jumps out
of the shower. Half-dried, the towel goes along with
him, into the bedroom. Shucking it onto an armchair,
Steve neglects the long mirror, which normally he
would do some flexing to a made up beat, as he
casually danced, swinging his hips, as he donned his
wardrobe.

Not today, as he flings open the closet door,
exclaiming, "Oh shit! What am I going to wear?"

When in doubt, he thinks, go for the basic white. In
haste, he skips the white tightey-tee and feeds his
arms into the sleeves. From making too many of the
same mistakes, Steve learned to start  buttoning the
shirt from the collar, down. The small interior
affords Steve the power to reach the drawer handle of
the dresser. Normally he would pick up the black,
lowrise brief, examine the threads, even smell it,
contrasting a fresh, washed scent with the
end-of-the-day manscent.
Quickly he pulls the briefs up his lightly haired
legs, snapping the elastic way below his navel.
He gives the treasure trail a little stroke with his
fingers, as if petting man's best friend.

Whipping the dress slacks off the hanger, Steve jumps
into them, zipping up, commenting, "So much easier
when it's deflated!"

With socks on, dress shoes, any long tie that matches
the brown suit and white shirt, Steve heads for the
door. He stops at the little round mirror to fix his
hair with his `natural comb', his hand.

"Damn! Forgot to shave.. oh, maybe nobody'll notice."
Then Steve conforms to, "I'll play dumb!"

Into his car, Steve then notices that all that rushing
around, skipping the shave, affords him the status to
be on time. With the traffic more moderate than a
normal commuting day, Steve decides to stop at the
local donut shop he passes by each day.

"Ah, the gods are in my favor!" Steve proclaims, as he
pulls into the empty parking lot.

Stepping out of his car, he enters the donut shop.

"May I help you?"

`Whoa'! Steve says inside his brain, `You sure can!'
He makes an abbreviated assessment of the Indian youth
behind the counter.

Tall, medium skin, black hair, sideburns, stache, rich
bed of chest hair showing at the top of the v-neck,
Steve definitely decides he needs help.

"Um, sure," Steve replies, deciding to make this the
kid's big sale of the day. "I'll have a hazelnut
coffee, a fat free blueberry muffin... no, make it a
dozen...."

Before Steve can utter anything else, he watches the
Indian kid speed into action at the coffee machine.

"How would you like that, sir?"

"Like what?" Steve asks back, by now semi into
la-la-sexland.

"Your coffee sir? Milk, cream?"

"Milk. Fat-free if you have it, please."

With his order intact, on the counter, the young kid
begins summing it up on his register. Steve then
notices he gazes around the shop, already thinking,
`what's up?'.

"Um, I hope you don't think I'm being forward, sir,
but your shirt...um..."

"My shirt? What about it?"

"The buttons near your beltline."

Steve looks down.

As he notices what the Indian kid is referring to, the
youth answers, "You've got it buttoned wrong."

"No way!" Steve says to himself.

Holding the tail of his necktie up, pinioned between
his chin and chest, Steve fingers the buttons. Then he
realizes he's not in his bedroom at home and maybe
should be doing this in a private place. He stops and
looks backwards, at the door.

"It's okay. It's a slow morning. Nobody's around. I'll
let you know if somebody is coming. Go ahead. Fix
yourself."

"Hey, thanks. It would save me time running to the jon
and back."

"No problem, mister."

In order to resurrect the problem, it necessitates
Steve to take hold of his shirt, stretching it a bit
out of his pants. Without his tightey-whitie tee shirt
on and his beltline below his bellyhole, his medium
blonde-to-brown treasure trail is well visible against
the white skin. As Steve is fixing himself, he gazes
up, seeing the youth follow every detail. At first it
was a quickie glance, but then as subsequent glances
follow, Steve notices the Indian kid `staring' at his
progress. He stops, just as he's ready to button up,
covering his flesh.

"Um, you like?" Steve asks.

Flushing, more white than a red embarrassed look, the
kid replies, "You work out?"

`Oldest trick in the book,' Steve thinks. Maybe Steve
was expecting more, but accepted whatever the kid
offered.

"Yeah. Does it show?"

But Steve gets an extra kick when he hears from the
youth's lips, "Oh, much more than that shows, mister!"

Then recounting his thoughts, the youth dummies up.

"Oh, sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have said that, but..."

"No, it's okay. You can say that. Um, what is it that
you like?"

"Like?"

"Hee hee... yeah, you see, folks might think I'm
bonkers, but I have this fetish for.. well, I don't
normally tell people this, let alone strangers..."

Reaching over the counter, the Indian kid extends his
right hand, replying, "If we introduce ourselves, then
we won't be strangers. My name is Raavi Omparkash"

Lifting his head, dropping the tie down, as his head
bobs up, the reply follows with a smile, "Steve
Kestner. Nice to meet you, um did you say Ravy?"

"Yes. Raavi. My parents added an extra `a' to my name.
Normally it's spelled with one `a', but they chose to
be different."

"I see. Hey, the time. I've got to be going, Raavi.
Nice to meet you."

"But wait, Steve."

Looking on the counter, to spot if he forgot anything,
he waits.

"I forget something?" He replies, with the capped
coffee cup and dozen bagged muffins in hand.

"Yes, you forgot to tell me what your fetish is?"

"Oh that, hee hee..."

Just then, the little bell above the door rings, as
another patron enters.

In a subdued tone, Raavi says, "I'd still like to hear
about it, Steve. I get off at four. What time do you?"

"Hmm, if I ever get there, but I leave the office at
three."

"Great. Um, would I be too forward in asking you for a
lift home? I don't own a car."

As Steve left the donut shop, he thanked his lucky
stars more than once!

%

Continued.....

Copyright 2006 T. Chase McPhee
This story may not be sold or made part of any
collection without prior written permission.