Hard muscle. Trophy Material
"Perfect." He thinks as soon as he enters the gym and discovers that, just as he expected, it is deserted. He has the whole place to himself.
He has a name, but everyone calls him Soccerkitlad, or 'sir'.
The Iron Titan isn't the best gym in town, but it's the one that opens earliest. Soccerkitlad doesn't mind being the center of attention at a gym... in fact, it's one of his favorite haunts... but sometimes he just needs to focus on training to maintain that physique without anyone bothering him.
Early in the morning, the Iron Titan is empty, with only Soccerkitlad and the sleepy coach, who wonders how anyone could possibly want to train at that hour.
But when Soccerkitlad leaves the locker room ready to work out, he immediately notices that something has changed. The atmosphere of the gym is different, and he hears the familiar sound of weights being picked up and put back on the rack.
There's someone else at the gym.
He quickly dismisses it. One or two people aren't going to ruin his morning, especially if they don't bother him with nonsense or try to get him to take them to the showers or the bathroom.
And then he sees the newcomer.
"Fuck..."
What he sees leaves him speechless. A man he has never seen before. A man with an admirable physique who, obviously and unlike many, doesn't skip leg day, lifting heavy dumbbells with effort but without hesitation.
Grunting like a beast.
That man doesn't look up from his exercises to look at him, he's too focused. But Soccerkitlad realizes he's been staring for too long and, snapping out of his reverie, decides to get to work.
"Uhn...!"
After some cardio and warming up, Soccerkitlad moves on to the heavy weights. He's finding it harder than usual, but the reason is quite obviousā¦
"Damn, why did I have to put so much weight on it?" He thinks, regretting having exceeded his planned weight for the session, which was already quite a lot. Part of him wonders if he did it to try and impress the stranger, and as he does, he notices a boner starting to grow in his pants.
It also doesn't help that he's been noticing a strange scent in the gym for a while now. At first, he thought it was the stranger's deodorant, but then he realized it was more like the man's own body smellā¦ a mixture of sweat, leather, pheromones, and something else he can't quite put him finger on. Whatever it is, it's driving him wild.
After a while he notices how the smell increases considerably, and he doesn't understand why until, when he opens his eyes after lifting the barbell with effort, he encounters a sight he did not expect.
"Uh ..."
The first thing he sees is the man's prominent bulge, just inches from his face. The smell now fills his nostrils, he can almost taste itā¦ and he loves it.
"You've got some heavy weights there, bud." The newcomer says. Upon hearing his voice, Soccerkitlad finally takes his eyes off the bulge and looks at the newcomer's face, who in turn looks at him with interest and his hands on his waist. "Do you need a spot?"
"A spot?" He thinks, feeling offended. With muscles like his, it's been more years than he can remember since he's needed a spot. And yetā¦ yet...
"Sure, thanks." He says.
The newcomer smiles, and Soccerkitlad feels like melting.
A couple of hours later, both men are in the locker room.
They've spent all that time working out, sharing tips, and getting to know each other a little. The newcomer, whose name is Ryker, is already in the showers, while Soccerkitlad keeps replaying that morning's workout, with a boner in his pants.
Then he smells that intense scent again. But it's not coming from the shower, noā¦ it's coming from Ryker's gym bag, lying on one of the benches.
Soccerkitlad can't resist and carefully opens the bag, receiving an intense dose of the smellā¦ the source? Ryker's sweaty underwear. The smell is too muchā¦ it's like it turns on all the parts of his brain related to pleasureā¦ he can't help it andā¦
He presses Ryker's shorts against his nose and mouth, breathing deeplyā¦ losing himself in the pleasure it gives himā¦ enjoying every secondā¦ so much so that, before he knows it, Ryker has finished the shower, even though he hasn't even undressed yet.
He puts the shorts in his own bag and gets out of the gym.
A few days later, Soccerkitlad returns to the Iron Titan.
His mind keeps racing, wondering if Ryker will be there. He's eager to see him again, but he's also afraid Ryker might have noticed him stealing his underwear.
He won't take long to find out the answer.
"About time we meet again, dude."
Soccerkitlad is speechless to see that, on this occasion, Ryker is wearing a tank top that leaves his armpits exposedā¦ and accessible. The logo on the shirt fits him like a glove. He is a beast... and Soccerkitlad feels like a prey... a willing one.
"Hey..."
"Where are they?"
"What... what do you...?"
"Came on, dude, don't play dumb. I know you have my shorts. We were alone at the gym that day. Fuck, I'm sure you even brought themā¦ and that you're having trouble parting with them."
"S... sorry... I..."
"Oh, don't feel bad, man. You gave me a great idea." He said in a conciliatory tone. "Put them on."
"What...?"
"My shorts, put them on." Ryker repeats. "Come on, on top of stealing them, you're not going to give me the pleasure of seeing you put them on?"
"But... here?"
"Yes. Here. Now."
Ryker's voice is obviously more of an order than a request.
Soccerkitlad, without really knowing why, obeys.
Under Ryker's piercing eyes, who clutches his own bulge throughout the process, Soccerkitlad removes the clothes he still had on, and slowly puts Ryker's deliciously scented underwear over his own glorious boner. For some reason, he does it slowly and without haste, as if he wanted Ryker to enjoy it.
Sadly, the show ends too soon.
Soccerkitlad didn't expect to enjoy wearing Ryker's underwear so much. The shorts fit him quite well. Although they smell strongly of Ryker's scent, after several days the sweat has dried.
Then he look directly at Ryker.
"There. Happy now?"
"Not yet." Ryker replies.
"What?"
"Now these." Ryker says after opening his gym bag and taking out some pants and a t-shirtā¦ the same ones he was wearing the day he met Soccerkitlad.
"But, those are..."
"Exactly. And just like my shorts, nobody washed them."
"What do you..."
"Put on my clothes, go to the weight room, and start lifting like you've never lifted before. You can be sure that I'll be watching you every second."
"Ok..."
"It is 'yes sir'." Ryker corrects.
"Yes, sir."
And so he does.
And with each exercise and each repetition, Ryker's scent, present in the air and on the clothes he wears, becomes more and more ingrained in his mind, becoming his whole world.
Ryker's scent and the need to lift weights.
When he finishes the entire series of exercises planned for that morning, Soccerkitlad looks at Ryker, who nods towards the locker rooms.
Without needing further explanation, he obeys.
When Ryker follows him a few minutes later, he finds Soccerkitlad standing in the locker room, doing nothing, staring blankly, with his clothes soaked in sweat.
He takes a few seconds to look up and down his new toy.
"Fuck. You smell soooo good now." Ryker says, moving closer to smell Soccerkitlad's neck, who in turn raises his head to give Ryker more room.
Ryker inhales deeply.
"You smell like meā¦ and I bet you fucking love it."
"U... yeah... yes, sir..."
"Good boy... Why don't you take an extra dose?"
Ryker grabs Soccerkitlad's head by the nape of his neck and guides it towards his sweaty chest. Without thinking too much, Soccerkitlad inhales deeply as he strokes the muscular man's torso, which makes Ryker smile with satisfaction.
"Yeah... just like that... you are doing great... now... take off the shirt and show me how MUCH you love flexing those muscles for me, muscle-boy." Ryker whispers in his toy's ear.
It is both an order and a fact at the same time. Soccerkitlad is overwhelmed by the need to flex his muscles for Ryker's enjoyment. Suddenly, it's as if nothing else matters to him.
"Yes, sir..."
And he obeys.
"Fucking perfect..." Ryker murmurs. "I knew you'd be my perfect trophy muscular man."
His words fill Soccerkitlad with satisfaction and pleasure.
"Seeing you flex those muscles makes me happy, and nothing gives you more pleasure than making me happy."
Again, Ryker's words are not a question or a suggestion, or even an order, but something moreā¦ an absolute truth that is etched into the mind of his trophy man.
"Uhn... Happy..."
"Hush now... trophy men do not talk when they are flexing..."
"..."
"Good... fucking good. Let's go to my place. There you can keep flexing and pleasing my eyes, trophy manā¦ and I have the perfect uniform for you."
A short time later, Soccerkitlad is in Ryker's apartment, dressed in his new uniformā¦ a butler jockstrap and a matching collar and bow tie. The perfect trophy muscular man.
So still he looks like a statue.
Ryker's orders, he changes pose every so often,
So perfect. So happy.
All his mind can think about is flexing, posing and pleasing Ryker.
When Ryker comes out of his room and gazes at his new toy with interest, the trophy man doesn't speak, doesn't even look at himā¦ his job is just to pose and flex his body, but when Ryker smiles at the sight, the pleasure he feels is indescribable.
Ryker mutters something about whether his trophy man's ass can flex that much, and how he plans to test it later in his bedroom. His toy can barely register his words, but if it involves flexing and posing, he knows he'll give it his all to please Ryker.
The perfect trophy muscular man.
Ryker sits down next to his toy and leisurely lights a cigar.
The cigar smoke reaches Soccerkitlad, and if he were still in control of his own thoughts, he would deduce that this was the ingredient in Ryker's scent that he hadn't been able to identify in the gym.
But now all she cares about is posing and flexing.
He is Ryker's perfect trophy muscular man.
@soccerkitlad
Not sure whatās happened to me these past few daysā¦
Ever since meeting this fit, new dude in the gymā¦
ā¦ My minds gone blank and I just canāt help flexing and posing for him.
I am @rykerground perfect, Muscle trophy manā¦
Iām under his controlā¦
