The Hot Guy at the Gym Again
Horny, saving myself for my Master, and daydreaming between sets.
In the coming days I’m moving this blog to a new home. I’ll send a note when it happens.
Once it moves, you’ll need to pass a quick age check before reading. In most places that’s a short selfie that estimates your age. In some places, including several US states, the law requires an ID check instead. It’s done by an outside verification service. Be assured that I don’t receive your photo or ID.
Unfortunately, some readers will lose access. In Germany, Italy and South Africa, the law demands things I can’t provide. And in a number of other countries, same-sex relationships and/or adult content are against the law, so I won’t offer the blog there, for your safety and mine. I’m sorry. This isn’t a choice I wanted to make.
Tip: If you start the check on a computer, you can finish it on your phone, and one check covers both.
Back to the hot guy at the gym
I was on the stationary bike when I saw the hot guy I told you about at the gym again. This time he was wearing a tight orange-red dri-fit shirt with a pattern like TV static. The shirt was tight enough that you could see his nipples if you looked. And of course I did. I could barely look away!
House Slave Fag
He was working out on the back extension machine — the one on which you lean forward diagonally and then alternate between lowering your chest forward and straightening back up.
Another guy came to talk to him. That guy was muscular too, but my dri-fit guy was hotter, and so perfectly toned. The dri-fit guy was smiling confidently at him and they engaged in some bro talk. You know, calling each other "bro," bumping shoulders and fists. Whatever bros need to do to communicate, short of fucking.
When the dri-fit guy was done, another guy took over the machine. He was wearing a tank top, revealing round shoulders and large pits. He was bigger. He lifted a 20-kilo plate (that's 44 pounds) as he did the same exercise and I couldn't help imagining him lifting me. I know, I must sound terribly horny, but that's because I am. I haven't been fucked in a couple of months and now that I'm less than two weeks away from meeting my Owner, I'm saving myself for him, just the way he likes it. He expects me to stay safe from any STIs, so he can breed me without worry.
As the toned dri-fit guy was heading off, he slapped his own hamstrings. You know, that part of his leg just below his very round buttocks. Apparently he needed to demonstrate something to his bro. I could hear the slap from 30 feet away. And I imagined he was slapping me. I don't know why. Normally I don't like any pain or violence, but slapping can be tolerable sometimes.
The slap didn't sound too rough. I wouldn't mind him slapping my face like that. Or ass. As long as it's just to assert authority. Well, if he’s slapping my face that's also degrading, especially if there’s an audience. But he'd get away with it because it could be excused as platonic. In some contexts, depending on the culture, it's acceptable to give a friendly slap. Sometimes an age difference or a difference in size might make a guy, especially a bro, feel comfortable to give a friendly slap on the cheek. Or even on the butt cheek. But that can be embarrassing too.
You could get the same awkward, perhaps degrading, effect when a guy pats your head, as if it is supposed to be endearing or that it's a legitimate gesture to reward you for doing something well. The gesture is complete if he also calls you a good boi, of course.
So let’s now put that whole picture together. Imagine a scene with this guy, or even with the Master I told you about a couple of months ago, whom I’d talked to online and then found out he went to my gym, where we exchanged hellos. It would be awesome if the dri-fit guy asserted his authority over me like that out of nowhere but it would be more plausible for the Master who knew my submissive role to do that. Imagine him coming to work out with me on the same machine, the pectoral fly. He might greet me with “how are you, faggot?” and slap me lightly on the cheek. We may be out of earshot, so nobody would hear what he called me but they’d see the slap. And it would be awkward to make a scene. So I wouldn’t. And then when it’s time for my next set, he’d want to get my eyes up from my phone screen and tell me to resume, so he’d slap me again: “ready for your next set, faggot?”
“Yes Sir, sorry,” I’d reply.
“That’s alright,” he’d say, with a casual pat on the top of my head.
When I'd reach my 12th rep, struggling to get the pec fly handles together in front of me, he’d be standing directly in front of me, very close, lightly pushing them to help me finish that last rep. And he’d pat my head again when I’m done, ruffling my hair and saying “good boi.”
If I'm horny and he's already in my head, because I've been looking at him the whole time, it might just push me deeper into the sub headspace and reinforce my submission. I'd forget about the people around us and just think about his manhood, his bulge, very visible through his gray sweatpants.
Suddenly his fingers would be on my chin, lifting it up to look at him, as he stared into my eyes from up close, so handsome and confident.
"Oh, sorry, Sir," I'd snap out of it and get out of my seat to let him do his set.
As he'd take his seat, he'd raise it by a couple of notches, as he's taller than me. It would be a perfect "where do you look first" moment, as my gaze moves between his flexing chest, his beautiful armpit, that large bulge down there, which tempts me just to bend a knee for him, and those reassuring eyes and confident manly smile.
This was all going on in my head, as I was cycling on the stationary bike with a good view to the back extension machine. Keeping the mind busy sure helps me stay on the bike longer.