This story, modified to protect the anonymity of those involved, blends fact and fantasy.
Reader feedback is welcomed, and the author will do his best to answer questions and respond to comments. Contact him at hairy.jacques@yahoo.com.
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As I hung up, Greg's last words echoed in my head. What, exactly, did he want to talk about?
I didn't know. All I could say for certain was that I was going to find out. He was coming over in just a few hours.
I know it's weird, but I sort of got butterflies in my stomach, as if Greg's visit tonight was some sort of big date. I started to think about what I'd wear and what sort of food I should prepare.
At about 6:15 my doorbell finally rang. As I soon discovered, it was Greg.
He was wearing his USNA "PT" (physical training) uniform, which consisted of dark blue mesh nylon shorts beneath a white t-shirt with navy blue piping on the sleeves and collar. The shirt had the Naval Academy crest above his left pectoral muscle. His hair was matted down, beads of sweat had collected on his face, and his shirt was soaked with perspiration. It clung so tightly to his torso that I could see not only the nubs of his nipples but also the outlines of his muscles.
He was breathing heavily as I let him in. He leaned forward a bit and grabbed his knees, as if standing up straight required too much effort. "Sorry," he apologized, still panting as he turned up his head to make eye contact. "I wanted to see how fast I could get here."
"How long did it take?" I asked him.
He stood up straight again, wiping his forearm across his forehead. "I timed it," he said, breathing heavily. "Just under three miles in eighteen and a half minutes."
"That's fast," I said. He untucked his t-shirt and absentmindedly lifted it up to finish wiping the sweat from his face. My eyes darted down to take in the view of his exposed torso. His muscles were pumped and gleaming with perspiration. His treasure trail, matted down and darkened by the sweat, punctuated his abs and pointed straight toward the bulge in his shorts. Was he wearing anything underneath? I wasn't certain.
He reached behind his back and winced a bit.
"You okay?" I asked.
"I think I pulled a muscle," he said, retrieving from the back of his shorts an envelope that he'd tucked into the waistband. He sheepishly handed it to me. "Here are the tickets," he announced. "Sorry they're all sweaty."
I could feel not only the dampness of his perspiration but also the warmth of his body heat. My cock twitched in my jeans, making me aware of the effect he was having on me.
That's when Greg grabbed his hips, closed his eyes, and twisted his torso, first to the left and then to the right. He winced each time.
"Dude," I said, "you're in pain."
"It happens," he answered matter-of-factly.
"How long can you stay?" I asked. "I can get dinner going if you want me to."
"Unless you're hungry," he said, "I can wait a bit." He paused and then gave me a hopeful smile. "How long do want me to stay? I'm free for the rest of the weekend and definitely not in any rush to get back to that prison."
I could feel my own smile broaden. Was he really suggesting he spend the night? There was only one way to find out. "You're welcome to spend the rest of the weekend, Greg. My wife's not getting home until late tomorrow night."
"That's awesome," he said. "I was hoping you'd say that. I took pass and don't have to go back until dinner tomorrow."
I gestured toward the couch. "Have a seat," I said.
He hesitated, grabbing the bottom of his shirt and puling it away from his skin. The sweat-soaked fabric had been stuck to his torso. He looked at me sheepishly. "You sure? I don't want to ruin your sofa."
"I could get you a fresh shirt and shorts," I said. "If you want," I added, "you're welcome to take a shower."
That's when he started to shimmy it up his torso. I couldn't help but stare. He was giving me a good show, revealing first his abs and then his pecs. He raised his arms as he pulled the shirt over his heard, treating me to a view of his armpits. With his shirt now removed and stretched over his head, he flexed both biceps. He turned his head to sniff his right pit.
We were only standing a few feet apart. When he turned his head and made eye contact, I could see the subtle variations of color in his eyes--a complicated but attractive mixture of brown, green, and grey. "Do me a favor?" he asked, no doubt remembering the night before and knowing that I'd accept his invitation as a command. "Take a sniff," he said. "Do I need to wash off?"
With his arm still raised, he stepped toward me. My back against the wall, I didn't have much choice -- and I didn't want one. Even so, It took me a long second to lean forward. I wanted so badly to plant my face in his pit but fought the urge. I could feel my cock expanding in my jeans. I didn't know what game he was playing. Should I act as if I didn't want to smell his sweat? The truth was the opposite. I knew that his pheromones would not only make my head spin, they'd make my dick leak.
I held my breath until I felt the wetness against the tip of my nose. That's when I almost lost control, inhaling a bit too deeply to sustain the pretense that I expected to be grossed out. I wanted to smell him. Fuck, I needed to. Maybe it was just the effect of his pheromones or maybe there was something associational about his aroma. He smelled like a locker room full of buff, naked teammates, some sweaty and others merely damp and vaguely soapy after having showered. His scent was noticeable but noticeably fresh, with only a subtle hint of musk. "It's not just from the run," he almost whispered. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my ear. It sent tingles down my spine. "I didn't get a chance to shower after wrestling practice."
I tried to respond in a way that was honest but also noncommittal. "You smell fine," I said, "but if you'd feel more comfortable after a quick shower you're welcome to take one."
He stepped back a bit, dropped his arm, and once again winced in genuine pain.
"Jeez, Greg, are you okay?" There was real concern in my voice.
"It's my shoulder muscles. An old injury. They still get knotted up sometimes."
"Can I help somehow?" I asked.
He looked away and hesitated for a moment, as if gathering up his confidence. Then he looked me in the eye, tilting his head a bit while smiling and squinting, as if he needed to charm me in advance of asking a huge favor.
"You any good at back massages?" he asked. "Whenever this happens, that's what the team trainer does," he explained. "The muscles are all connected. Once he works out all the knots, I'm good to go."
"Is the floor okay?" I pointed to the rug in front of the sofa. Greg smiled. "Perfect," he said.
He surprised me when he shucked off his nylon shorts. Now he was down to nothing except for his tighty whities. They clung to his full, muscular ass just perfectly. He laid face down with his arms extended along his sides. I straddled him at the waist and got on my hands and knees above him. "Where should I start?" I asked. Since the knots were concentrated in his right shoulder blade, he told me to start with the left one. I'd see what the right one should feel like after I'd successfully relieved the tension.
Honestly, I was just happy to get my hands on him and make contact with the warmth of his flesh. As my hands raked over the length of his back, Greg's soft sighs told me that he was enjoying the contact, too. After his left shoulder blade, I avoided the right one, concentrating instead on the techniques I knew would please him. I ran my hands up along his spine. I dipped my hands into the dampness of his pits, feeling the scratch of the hair there and then furtively inhaling his scent. I worked down each of his arms, reveling in the pliant bulk of his muscles. I pressed my thumbs into the base of his spine, drawing little circles while admiring the surprisingly thick "devil's patch" of hair that fanned up above the waistband of his briefs from between his butt cheeks.
I got brazen and let my thumbs wander south, pushing down by a couple of inches the elastic of his BVDs and exposing the tops of his firm, full, and muscular buttocks. I could feel my cock throbbing in my jeans as I circled my thumbs around the tops of his ass cheeks. Greg sighed appreciatively as I used the tips of my fingers to press into his muscles there. Meanwhile, I just appreciated the view. I had only revealed the top quarter of his backside, but I could see enough to know that Greg was even hotter than I thought. At least in my eyes, that is. The cute little patch of hair at the base of his spine thickened as it trailed down into the cleavage of his ass cheeks, which themselves featured a nice frosting of brown fur. I got really daring and allowed my fingers one swipe down the length of his ass crack. I sniffed them -- quickly, silently, yet almost reverently. This sweaty stud was mine.
As much as I wanted to do so, I couldn't allow my fingers to massage his ass forever. I turned my attention toward the base of his neck and worked my fingers up through his hair to massage his scalp. I even reached around to his face, smoothing out the muscles of his forehead and eyebrows. He was practically purring, and of course my cock was still throbbing. I could feel it rubbing and leaking against the loose fabric of my blue jeans. I could hardly believe that my hands had the honor to serve, please, and soothe the hot, muscular, masculine young body of a United States Naval Academy wrestler.
"Ready for your shoulder blade?" I asked him. He mumbled something unintelligible, indicating his assent. "Tell me if I'm hurting you," I said.
He winced again as my fingers dug into the muscles around his right shoulder blade. The muscles here were definitely tight. I worked the tips of my fingers in little circles, coaxing out the stress. I could feel his muscles relax as his groans turned into moans.
"How you feeling, buddy?" I asked.
"Amazing," he sighed.
I decided to up the ante: "Now that I've got your back, why not flip over so I can massage your front?"
He hesitated. "The thing is," he said, chuckling, "I'm kind of stiff there, too."
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