Putty In His Hands, Ch. 1 By Northern Light northernlight1@hotmail.com
(Any and all comments gratefully received and replied to.)
Getting fit wasn't going to be easy, and I've not been the most disciplined man in the world. No, this was going to take something extra. This time I needed help, and so it was that I talked to the monitor at my gym about finding a personal trainer.
"Very useful if you're willing to follow the routine, Dave," Karen said. "If you're going to cheat, and stop at the Krispy Kreme on the drive home from the gym, then you're just going to waste a lot of money."
"A Krispy Kreme has never crossed these lips," I said to her, lying through my teeth.
And of course she knew it. The extra 10 pounds I was carrying around my 32-year-old midsection wasn't coming from my overindulgence at the salad bar.
"Well, if you're going to give it an honest effort, I'll recommend a few trainers," Karen said. "What's your preference: men or women?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"In trainers, you pervert!" she scolded me, then saw by my grin that she'd been had.
"Ah, trainers," I said. "Of course. Men. I don't want to be embarrassed by having a woman tie me into a pretzel then leave me a twisted heap in the gym."
"Hey," Karen said, "that's one of the few fringe benefits of training a man! I know. I've been there."
She slid a sheet of a half-dozen names across the counter to me. One of those listed lived only a couple blocks from the gym. No excuses for him to miss a workout, so I circled his name.
"You'll like John," Karen said, seeing my choice. "He's thorough, experienced... and he is seriously built."
I looked up, startled, then noticed it was me who'd been had. Karen was trying to hide her smirk as she turned back to her work, taking a membership card of two members who had strolled in.
"John Barnes," I said to myself. "OK, Mr. Barnes, you might have just gotten yourself a new client."
We arranged to meet at the gym the following Tuesday evening for a get-to-know-you session, a casual discussion about my fitness goals as John took me through each apparatus.
"Did I tell you?" Karen almost whispered as we walked past her control station. "Seriously built!"
I hadn't noticed until then, but now I was opening my eyes to him. Karen didn't know my leanings, but then, neither did my new trainer.
John took me through the array of machines, pen and notepad in hand.
"I want to drop 10 pounds of flab and add five pounds of muscle, to start," I told him. "It's summer. I want to look better in my Speedo."
He looked me up and down and said, "Oh, I don't know. I suspect you look just fine. But we'll get you looking finer."
I smiled, a little lost for words as I felt a slow burn in my cheeks and gave thanks for the fact he had turned away and was bending down to adjust a weight stack on the hamstring machine. He was wearing snug athletic shorts -- I figured he wore a support beneath them, given the way he generously filled them out -- and a baggy, sleeveless T-shirt.
He rippled every time he moved, not grotesquely so, but like a man who was very, very fit. Karen was absolutely right. Seriously built. If she had designs on him, she'd have to get in line.
"So let's get to work, Dave," John said, and for the next 90 minutes he guided me through exercises I didn't know existed. And he worked the muscles I didn't know existed, either. By the finish I felt like I'd run a marathon in quicksand.
"Great first day," John praised me as I dragged my weary body out of the gym. "You've got promise. Listen, I have to schedule a few appointments and make a few calls. I'll meet you in the lobby in 15 minutes, OK? I want to review what we've done."
"If I'm not there," I said, "send out a search party."
John laughed, as he had easily and frequently during our session, and turned into the lobby. I shuffled into the locker room and stripped down, stepping under the blissful spray of a hot shower. I could have stayed there forever.
My mind wandered as I soaped up, and I couldn't shake the image of John. He wore his life well, comfortable and happy in what he did. I had doubted the idea of hiring a personal trainer, but now I was glad I had. And if I survived until tomorrow, I was looking forward to working with him again.
It was the sound of two men coming into the locker room that snapped me out of my daydream, and I quickly turned to face the wall, surprised and even a little horrified to see that, as I had been thinking about John, I had become almost fully erect.
John was waiting for me in the lobby, making notes in his appointment book, and stood to greet me.
"Got 10 minutes, Dave?" he asked. "I'm just down the street, and I've got a couple of books on workout technique. You can borrow them until Thursday if you want."
"Sure," I replied. "You just want me to see how miserable my lifting technique really is."
We laughed together, and I followed him to his place, a trim townhouse five minutes from the gym.
"Want a coffee or a juice?" he asked.
"Juice would be good. Do you live here alone?"
"Yeah. I had a roommate for a year or so, but it didn't work out."
He studied me to see how I'd react to what he'd say next.
"He kept kicking me in his sleep."
If John was expecting me to faint, he'd be waiting a long time. Instead, I considered the remarkable coincidence, and the fantastic news that this guy liked... guys.
"Same reason I threw out my roomie," I told him, and he blinked hard at my words.
"Really."
Both of us were playing this game well, if in fact it was a game.
John handed me a glass of juice and saw me bending sideways in a weak stretch, wincing.
"You've damn near killed me in one session," I complained mildly, already feeling his workout throughout my body.
"Well, you'll feel sore for a day or so," he said. "But you'll come back stronger. Maybe we'll get back to it on Friday instead."
"Oh, no. You've got me into this, we're sticking by the schedule."
He took a long sip from his glass, paused, and spoke again.
"Dave, listen. I got into training only as a sideline to my massage therapy business. I've got a studio downstairs. If you're not in a hurry, and if you're really hurting..."
"What, you'll make me hurt some more?"
We laughed again, but I didn't hesitate to take John up on his offer.
"I can't remember the last time I had a good massage," I said. "If you have the time, I'm all yours."
"Promises, promises," he replied, letting the words hang in the air for a bit. "OK, first door on your left downstairs. On your stomach first. There are towels in the studio. Drape yourself if you like."
The studio was warm and smelled pleasantly of aromatherapy oils. I stripped down and turned to see myself in a full-length mirror on the back wall. Not bad, but I was hoping for better soon. I was determined to see results with John.
I was thinking about him again -- "Promises, promises," he had said -- and there was no surprise about my erection this time. I climbed up on his table and lay on my stomach, having forgotten about the towel to drape over myself when I heard the soft rap on the door.
"Ready for me?"
If John only knew the half of it.
"Uh... kinda. I haven't draped myself. Is that OK?"
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
"Dave, I have seen a naked man once or twice," he said lightly, moving behind me. "Glad to have you naked, in fact. It makes my job easier. Nice ass, by the way. It might need some extra attention tonight."
I shifted and felt the charge through my swollen cock, and hoped it would subside, being pressed into the table.
"Another one of your specialties?" I asked as he briskly rubbed some oil between his palms.
"Never underestimate the powers of a strong pair of hands," he said, slapping them onto my shoulders, beginning to knead. "Now tell me about this former roommate of yours."
I sighed deeply at John's touch, feeling him begin to unknot the muscles. As I relaxed I shifted again, spreading my thighs ever so slightly as I dug my toes into the the towel on the massage table. There was no question I had exposed myself further for John, but then, that was the whole point.
"We were close for about two years," I began. "He moved in with me, but things just didn't work out. Then he was transferred to Boston, which made everything a lot easier."
My face was buried in the pad at the head of the table, but I knew John had moved around in front of me, judging by the angle of his hands.
"Too bad," I heard him say. "But tell me: was he a good lay?"
I froze at his words for an instant, unsure whether he was pulling my chain or trying to see for certain if I hadn't been kidding about my kicking roomie.
I lifted my head, planting my chin into the pad, and now I was staring directly into John's crotch as he leaned over me and pushed his hands from my shoulderblades to the small of my back. He was bulging conspicuously, straining at his grey athletic shorts.
"He was a fantastic lay, John," I said, sounding as composed as I could. "Fantastic."
I gathered my strength to continue: "But I can guarantee you he wasn't hung like you," and I craned my neck to get as near to his groin as I could. He didn't back away, and might have even leaned in a shade. I was so close I could smell him.
John's hands stopped on my back.
"And how would you know how I'm hung?"
"For God's sake, I may be crippled, but I'm not blind. And... say, aren't you finding it a little warm in here?"
I heard him exhale, almost nervously, and he agreed.
"You're right. Either I should turn down the heat, or I should lighten up a bit here."
"I vote the latter."
"Know what?" he said. "So do I," and he stepped back and peeled off his T-shirt.
"That's not enough, my friend," I insisted. "At least one more item."
I was loving every minute of this, and I watched wide-eyed as John smiled then hooked his thumbs in his waistband and pulled his shorts past his hips, dropping them to the floor. My suspicions were proven right -- he was wearing a white athletic support, and I suddenly gained a new respect for the strength of nylon. His jockstrap was harnessing an immense package, one that seemed to be growing before my eyes.
"Yeah, that's better," he said, stepping to my side, his palms once more on my back.
"So what about your roomie, John?" I asked, feeling his oil-slick fingers push past the base of my spine to my butt. He took my left cheek in both hands and began to knead strongly, dipping down to the crease at the top of my hamstring, then slipping provocatively to my inner thigh. As he massaged my flesh, he was moving to within a half-inch of grazing my balls -- and he knew it.
"Good guy, but he traveled a lot and I guess he found Mr. Right elsewhere," he said. "With his stuff gone, I've been able to convert this room into my studio."
The words "no hard feelings" were barely out of his mouth as he reached in and felt something very hard. I nearly jumped off the table, and as my hips came up off the table, I afforded him complete access to what hung loose and thrust out swollen between my legs.
"Roll over, please," he said. I did as I was asked, and by now I was putty in his hands. The way I saw it, there only a bulging athletic support between us and heaven on earth.
(to be continued)