The Knight and the Acolyte Book 8 Chapter 9 The Knight s Passion
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Mr. Milky Way: Bodybuilding's Night Of Shooti free porn video
As the lights went up in the auditorium, Butch Taylor switched off the microphone and stepped away from the podium. He was glad for the break, but he wanted more too. Butch knew that the best was always last. The final posedown was his favorite. The best of show in every competition, and tonight would be no exception.
Mr Milky Way muscle extravaganza had attracted some of the best competitors. These were men with style. Size, too. But not just walking chemical factories. Butch liked that. He liked the place for old-timers and amateurs. Upstarts and young bucks got their spots to mix and mingle with superstars and legends.
This was fun. The audience ate-up the antics when the posing got hot and heavy. Pump-heads against heavy muscle dudes. Lots of show-offs. Butch had been damn close to creamin' his shorts. Now he needed to cool off. He headed to the locker-room.
Everyone had cleared out. Runners-up and semifinalists had puked and pissed their last. Their tanned and buff physiques were mingling with friends, fans and fast- talkers.
Butch took his handy dopkit and headed into a vacant stall. Zipping open the black leather, he could not hold back his smile of satisfaction. Inside was the prized replica molded from the pecker of professional bodybuilding's superhero. Butch remembered the successes of the once naive k**, now a first name legend. Untying his baggies, he rolled them down his hefty quads. The loose cotton slid down his calves to his feet. Butch pushed up his t-shirt, above his pecs and over his nipples. He wanted to be a naked as possible when he squatted to ride the dildo into his puckered asshole.
Butch spit on the plastic pecker's flaring head, and then slathered some of his precum into the spittle. Spunk was cheesy under his foreskin. The stink tingled in his nostrils. His first, then his second sphincter sucked in the tool. The long slide into his asshole and against his prostate was exhilarating. His rock solid dick slapped the prickly hair of his shaved inner thighs. Butch was ready to start stroking himself to a humongous orgasm when he heard the locker-room door open.
Someone was walking in with soft, naked footsteps. Realizing he had not closed the stall door, Butch bolted upright. The dildo surged deeper into his butthole. Butch pulled up his baggies and tugged down his shirt. He stepped on the hopper handle to flush the toilet. Toward the sinks and mirrors, he glimpsed a double vision of Mike Miller. Butch sucked in his sphincters with a couple of twitches, trying to accommodate the dildo, make himself comfortable.
Fortunately, Butch was at ease with Mike, who at 52 was the "old timer" in the masters' category at Mr Milky Way. Butch liked Mike. He savored seeing age thin Mike's skin, like his own. Although they had grown up together in the sport, Mike was still a competitor, while Butch was an announcer and promoter. Trim and pumped, sure, but not prime aged beef like Mike, Butch sauntered over to a sink and started washing his hands.
He was looking. at Mike only in the mirror. He talked to the reflected image. "Mike, I'm really glad to see you looking great. You're one of the best."
"Yeah, thanks." Mike grumbled. "But what can I do now? In my day it was biceps and triceps, pecs, lats and a trim waist. Things have changed. Besides the rest, a guy's got to have quads so big they make your dick look like a peanut. Striations on your glutes, and more ripples on your tummy than any washboard my grandmother used. "Butch!" Mike sighed; "It's a changed sport. Look," he implored, holding out a skimpy three ounces of shiny red nylon. "I gotta wear a bikini like this get attention."
Mike stripped out of the sateen, square-cut trunks he had on. The kind of suit that was in fashion when Steve Reeves was a heartthrob. "What do you think?" He asked. "It's an extra-large, but is it my size?'
"Mike. Don't ask me to comment on the size of your manhood. But sex and show, that's today's game." Feeling his own dick start to swell, Butch splashed cold water onto his face. "Lots of these bucks like to showoff and that includes what's between their legs. Butch reached for a paper towel. He needed to cool off. His sphincter was eagerly sucking the plug end of the dildo
Mike was shimmying into another bikini. Two Mike Millers; one live; the other a mirror image. Butch suctioned the dildo against his prostate. He wanted to shoot his load.
"Yeah, it works for you!" was Mike's mumbled reply. He rolled the black bikini down his legs. Then he stepped into the red one. Stretching it over his thighs, he tucked in his fully loaded nut sack and his pecker into the iridescent pouch. The stretchy nylon spread and settled over his jewels like a thin coat of shellac. "It's like wearing nothing but a coat of paint." Mike thought, as he left the locker-room, and felt the jiggle in his walk skooch the skimpy skivvy deep into the crack of his dimpled glutes. And, "1 can still give Butch a damn good eyeful and a bitchin rise." A wise-ass smile crossed his face.
Kip Dekker and Vince Tandy were already backstage. Mr Short and Mr Tall, they each did an exaggerated double take as Mike Miller strutted toward them. Vince, head-honcho of the duo, whistled a low, sexy note. Mike acknowledged it with a nod. The shiny red pouch, filled as it was, made a sure attention grabber, and Mike wondered if he looked at least as naked as he felt. He fidgeted at the waist bank with his thumb, but there wasn't any other way to adjust the fit. A drop of sweat and oil rolled off his nose and spotted the front of his suit, right over the head of his dick. Mike was definitely circumcised. He hitched at the waistband a both sides of his hips. The clingy brief was mighty thin.
"How many socks you got in there, big boy?" Vince said in a mock, sultry whisper.
Mike's eyes darted at Vince. He shrugged toward Vince and moved over to the light control panel. His hands dangled self-consciously in front of the spotted nylon. He tugged at his pecker, accentuating his endowment. He checked out Kip, who had a shit-eating grin, "The same size dick always looks bigger on a small man." Vince knew that was Kip's thought. It was his too. Mike knew Kip had eight inches, uncut. "A little foreskin can't make a hell of a lot of difference," Mike thought as he tugged at his dickhead again, stroking it and his posing suit. He stretched the fabric, hoping to loosen it, to make more dancing room. He know Vince ands Kip wanted to psych him out, bring him down from top mental form
Mike peeked into the auditorium. A muscle-head wannabe was playing with the toggles on the light panel, flashing the house lights on and off. Mike ducked further behind the curtains. In a few minutes all three bodybuilders would be on stage for the final posedown. Kip and Vince were checking their oil. Flexing. Mike scoped their tiny black posing suits. Tight. Mike hiked his brief higher at the sides again like he saw so many young studs so. If the sides of his brief rode high on his hips, that emphasized the full beauty of his lean, muscled quads. He admired himself. He enjoyed his brash exhibitionism. "Studly, dude!" he thought. He hiked at his bikini again. He was pleased a pig in shit. "This contest is mine to lose." Vince was tough to figure out, but Mike surmised that Kip was quietly bummed-out. "Mine to lose. Showtime!"
As the house lights dimmed and the stage lights flashed on, the three finalists listened to Butch Taylor greeting the audience and priming them for the competition's finale. The theme from "Rocky" started blaring over the public address system. It rose from loud to deafening before stopping abruptly. The crowd hooted and whistled and clapped and stomped. Butch waived at the fans with a patting motion, trying to quiet the tumult. Gripping the podium with both hands, he nodded agreement with the crowd. The dildo shimmied in his ass. He wondered whether his sphincter would pop for the plug end that crammed between his ass-cheeks. "Folks," he schmoozed. "OK, folks," he ventured again. But the crowd was making it own party. The hoopla was becoming frenzied. Butch signaled to the muscle-head at the control panel. The house lights dimmed and the stage lights went out. Only the pin-spot in Butch Taylor remained on.
As the commotion muffled, Butch started his spiel about the importance of Mr Milky Way. He praised the three finalists, citing their many prizes and business ventures. He acknowledged the judges, Wheater Industries, and all the various sponsors, organizers, volunteers, and jock-sniffs. Butch signaled for the stage lights again. The music rose too; Prince's "Sexy MF" blared from the amplifiers. "The right ride for the moment," Butch conceded. Over the whistles and catcalls from the audience, Butch shouted, "Hey, everyone of these guys is as sexy as pootie-tang." Well, he knew he had a hard-on. But the irony of his remark escaped him. "OK, let's go!" The music ratcheted up a notch. "Our first finalist. Representing the masters' category, 6' 1', 215 lbs., our hunky senior citizen, at age 52, Mike Miller."
Mike sauntered on stage. A coy smile illuminated his face. The dig about his age was not lost on him. Applause mingled with "Go! Mike!" and "Show us what you got, old man!" Halfway across the stage, Mike shifted into a side double biceps pose. Strictly against the rules, but a sure crowd-pleaser. He winked and waved while the crowd hooted and cheered. A few feet over, He stopped on his mark.
Kip padded on stage next. He was nearly in place before the crown quieted enough for Butch to introduce him above the din. "In the short man's category, 5'2'. 133 lbs., the little man who shows he can, Kip Dekker." Kip raised his arms high, flashed toothy grin. Then he took a deep bow, touching palms to toes.
Butch glanced sideways at Kip's bent torso. The melon-butt, high and form, looked tongue teasingly tasty. Butch gripped the lectern more firmly to steady himself, but he damn well wanted to grip his cock. He moved forward, pressing his thighs and crotch against the wooden panel. A picture flashed through his head of his rod reaming Kip's butthole. Butch rose on the balls of his feet, rocking gently even more forward He eased up and down as though doing calf-raises. His pecker got a good rubbing against the lectern. Butch pushed so far into the podium that he thought he could feel his nuts pressing against the podium. Several long minutes passed while Butch was in his daydream and until the restless crowd snapped him back to reality.
The crowd was in overdrive. Two buff puppies in the third row were standing on their seats; shirts stripped off; pants down around their ankles. They were getting on with their own pose-down. Their friends cheered them on. The lighting engineer cruised a spotlight over the pair. The crowd rocked. Arms waived, trying to slap the guys on the ass.
"Great show, guys! You look really hot in those Calvin's, but the wet shorts contest is at the bar down the street." The pups slid into their seats and high-fived each other and anybody they could reach.
"Moving on, we have a final finalist for Mr Milky Way. In the tall man category, 6'2", 235Ibs, 32 years old, Vince Tandy." Wild cheers and applause greeted Vince as he strode on stage. He walked heavy and wide, twisting his waist, emphasizing his massive upper-body, towering rhythmically over his mighty legs. Vince was ripped and proud.
What startled everyone, what really got the crowd going was the surprising appearance of Vince Tandy under the lights. His skimpy black thong melded into his crotch, masking him with what seemed merely a shadow. As Vince turned, Mike Miller and the others on stage saw that Vince's bikini was nothing more than a gauze pouch, its threadlike string of a waistband held in place by oil and sweat if anything. Vince had made a quick backstage change, and now he had a leg up with his sexy, nearly nude display.
Kip shuffled uneasily between the two taller men. He worried, for he was likely to be overlooked and forgotten. Vince had always been his buddy. They trained together. They were pals. They had decides to wear the same kind and color of posing suit for the competition. Now here was Vince, not just in something different, but in something that practically wasn't even there.
Butch was bug-eyed. His throbbing cock prodded forward, jutting his baggies to a prominent peak. A sight not unnoticed by Mike Miller, whose smile changed to a stupid grin. Something ticked in his head, and something twitched in his crotch. His eyes moved from Butch to Kip to Vince. He scanned the audience and scouted the judges at their table. Mike glanced again at the tent Butch's dick was making. He figured, "What the hell! This night is mine to lose."
While the auditorium lights flashed on and off, the roar hardly abated. Over the din, Butch announced the series of compulsory poses. Like three living sculptures, each of the finalists moved into their positions.
Mike hiked the sides of his suit every chance he got, pulling the red nylon up and away from his body, squeezing his cock and balls against the sweaty wet cloth. Each stretch and release loosened its fit, making the bikini say yet cling. Mike was definitely going to ride out this competition on a wave of style and sex. By the time the compulsory poses were finished. Mike was reeling with euphoria and adrenaline.
Because he had drawn the short straw, Kip was first with his freestyle routine. Mike and Vince stepped away from center stage. Kip's routine was professional and polished. Smooth, but quick. Not a knockout. Still a small man always has a lot of goodwill with the crowd. Kip was no exception
When Kip backed into the shadows, the audience seemed to hold its breath. Then Vince Tandy leaped into the center spotlight light a big cat onto its prey. Fixing every turn with a surly glare, Vince psyched the crowd with his attitude. Foot stomping accompanied shouts of "Vince! Vince! Vince!" Even without music, Vince would have been a showman. With heavy metal rock anthem blaring, he was rocked. A full frontal display of his hammered quadriceps wound down his routine, followed by an upper-body turn to a side double-biceps. Great stuff. These moves brought the fans to their feet. Vince turned from his batwing lats, quickly flinched his pecs, shook and tensed each leg, and the crowd hooted and cooed. Vince drilled each move to its max. Then, flicking the elastic string at each side of his posing pouch, Vince stretched his shoulders back.
Between each thumb and index finger, Vince stretched the elastic thread higher. He was riding high. He felt indomitable. Vince pulled the elastic tauter. It snapped, leaving a string clinging, wet against his oiled right thigh. He felt a flush of nerve and knew he could not loose his cool. Only for the briefest instant, Vince stood timidly still. Sweat kept the gauzy pouch in place. Vince braced his shoulders and danced his pecs in an alternating rhythm. He felt as ease. At the summit of his career he would pull though.
From the packed house, A rowdy voice hollered, "take it all off!" All around the auditorium, there were boisterous echoes. The stomping chant of "Vince! Vince! Vince!" changed to calls of "Strip! Strip! Strip!" Another rabble-rouser hollered, "Get naked!" Vince kept calm and eased into his last hot shot, a side double biceps. The crowd roared it approval. Vince sensed oil shimmer under the hot spotlight, down his pees. Down his abs. Down into his shaved, hairless pubes. As he turned, he also felt the gauze slither with each shift of his feet. Cautiously he fumbled for the loose elastic string that dangled over his thigh. Never losing his bright smile and his regal confidence, Vince Tandy eased out of the spotlight to stand in the shadows, leaving the next, seeming final act to Mike Miller.
In the shadowy dark of the stage, the pin-spot waited empty. In his head, Mike Miller heard a silent drum-roll. "What the hell? Was he crazy? Was he losing it?" He rolled the sides of his red bikini posing suit under his palms and shimmied it over his highs. When it fell to his ankles, buck-naked, Mike stepped away. The rush he felt was awesome. He hooked the sweaty nylon skivvy with a toe and kicked it into the circle of light on center stage. Automatically his. dick started to engorge. It swelled heavy and thick, aching for even the single stroke that would pump it to full hardness like every other muscle of his massive physique. A lick away from its full, thrusting glory.
The bikini had landed just at the perimeter of the pin-spot, and Mike followed it toward the light. He did not know how much the audience had been able to see of his shadowy strip and lifted the bikini again on his big toe where he dangled it for a moment like some exotic curiosity. Then he high-kicked it into the crowd. Mike Miller knew this would be his last major competition, his last big show. He wanted to go out in glory. He maneuvered his massive bulk. Size did not bind his movements. He was fluid. Sexy. As smoothly scintillating contrast to Vince Tandy's staccato.
Mike grooved to the catcalls and hoots that quickly turned to cheers and applause. He pecker swayed like a mighty machine, bobbing in motion with his routine, slapping his inner thighs with a gentle thwack, lobbing glittering droplets of sweat off its hammerhead, glittering in the spotlight. Mike felt like his whole body was a mighty engorged dick, a pecker with a rippling, ropy vein snaking from his feet to his head. And he wanted his dick hard and fierce, but he didn't want to touch at. At least not yet. He wanted to get the biggest, hardest boner of his life high there on stage by sheer will power, He wanted to feel it like a mighty pole, and the rest of him just an appendage. A dick, a damn mighty throbbing, thrusting cock with a man attached.
"Make it hard!" Then Mike heard someone shout again, "Make it hard!" "Hard! Hard!" Mike could hear the clamorous chant. "Hard! Hard! Hard!" The momentum drove him, rumbled in the auditorium, pounded through the walls and the floor, surged through his body and pumped in his blood to his dick which throbbed bigger and mightier than any dick had a right to be, proud and glorious, sweaty and oily and glistening with a pearl of precum which began oozing from its slit.
Mike pulsed all over. Fearless momentum drove him, proclaimed him a glorious piece of dickmeat. He slathered the sweat and oil over his body, polished it in the spotlight, swiping smooth caresses over his chest and arms, over his thighs and calves, his rippling rockhard abs. But he did not touch his cock. His cock stood out alone. His cock was proud. Hard and proud.
Before he actually saw the fireplug of muscle, Mike Miller sensed Kip moving into the spotlight. Kip stretched the front of his posing bikini, pulling it forward and down, then snapping it behind his cock and ballsack, thrusting them forward. With his other fist, Kip stroked his dick. He seemed to be in a hurry, making up for lost time. With his thumb, he slid back his foreskin, showing off a knob big as an egg.
Then Vince Tandy was in the spotlight too. Rushing forward, he almost knocked Kip aside. Vince pounced so that his staccato movements slapped his dickmeat from side to side, whipping his inner thighs with loud thwacks. When he stopped dead center, Vince's cock continued its randy dance. Clasping his hands behind his head, Vince began a slow swivel with his hips. Heavily, like the clapper in a bell, his pecker slapped one thigh, then the other with a steady thwap. A hands free beat of his meat.
Kip bobbed his head left and right, like a rapper in rhythm of his buddy Vince's pecker. He was hot. Too hot to hold back. His gonads were churning. Kip squeezed his nutsack. With a sharp, tight pull, he jerked his scrotum and emptied his nuts. Jets of sperm splashed over Vince's crotch. Creamy white jiss spurted right at his dick and balls and splattered on his thighs. Mixed with sweat and oil, a wad cum lunged with a thwack from Vince's pecker back onto Kip. Mike caught a splash too, a high spurge that landed right between his pees and dribbled down to his bellybutton. Mike slurped a mix of cum and sweat and oil onto his index finger. He held it out for the audience, and then polished it onto the head of his dick.
"Shoot! Shoot!" The crowd was on its feet, standing on the seats. Mike looked directly at Vince. He nodded once, then moved his hand to his dick, wrapped his fingers around his hot meat. He unloaded. His cum arched into the spotlight. Mike thought it sailed over the edge of the stage. The crowd roared. Somebody in the front road yelled, "Hit me again!" Then Vince let loose a splurge that hit the stage floor like a glass of spilled milk. Mike matched that with a thicker, smaller wad, and then kept pumping his dick, spitting saliva onto his glans to lube his strokes with a steady ratchet that made his nuts chum. Then cum spewed from his dick a third time, and Mike copped his most muscular pose, the crab, for the crowd, his dick equally hard and proud.
Now Vince was ready to go again. He slicked his palm with spit. Stroked his dick once; then a second time. His entire body made quick, small jolt. Then his pecker twitched and spurted thick, ropy cum. Vince wiped his hands on his thighs, and then spit on both palms. He wrapped his fingers around his pecker shaft, left hand at the base, right above. He pumped his arms in unison, massive triceps extending as biceps contracted. Up and down like he was holding his dick to do curls. Ten reps. Then Vince released his hands, widened his stance the better to display his dick. Thick curds of jiss oozed from its slit. Vince flicked them to the floor with his thumb and forefinger. He eased back. He was spent.
Dick in hand, Mike stepped forward. He massaged his cock, slow and steady, smooth. He swayed his whole body with the in a gentle, rocking rhythm. He tightened his grip. Mike yelped. He felt himself ready for orgasm, but he didn't want it to be dry. If held back, if he gave himself another dozen strokes, he could really drain his nuts. Not a geyser, but a molten flow, the cum soaked his fingers and fist. Long seconds of ecstasy and ejaculation. Mike lifted his cum-slathered hand from his dick and raised his creamy, wet palm toward the audience.
Hooting and hollering. Cheers and pandemonium. Mike Miller had made it: Mr Milky Way.
Mr Milky Way muscle extravaganza had attracted some of the best competitors. These were men with style. Size, too. But not just walking chemical factories. Butch liked that. He liked the place for old-timers and amateurs. Upstarts and young bucks got their spots to mix and mingle with superstars and legends.
This was fun. The audience ate-up the antics when the posing got hot and heavy. Pump-heads against heavy muscle dudes. Lots of show-offs. Butch had been damn close to creamin' his shorts. Now he needed to cool off. He headed to the locker-room.
Everyone had cleared out. Runners-up and semifinalists had puked and pissed their last. Their tanned and buff physiques were mingling with friends, fans and fast- talkers.
Butch took his handy dopkit and headed into a vacant stall. Zipping open the black leather, he could not hold back his smile of satisfaction. Inside was the prized replica molded from the pecker of professional bodybuilding's superhero. Butch remembered the successes of the once naive k**, now a first name legend. Untying his baggies, he rolled them down his hefty quads. The loose cotton slid down his calves to his feet. Butch pushed up his t-shirt, above his pecs and over his nipples. He wanted to be a naked as possible when he squatted to ride the dildo into his puckered asshole.
Butch spit on the plastic pecker's flaring head, and then slathered some of his precum into the spittle. Spunk was cheesy under his foreskin. The stink tingled in his nostrils. His first, then his second sphincter sucked in the tool. The long slide into his asshole and against his prostate was exhilarating. His rock solid dick slapped the prickly hair of his shaved inner thighs. Butch was ready to start stroking himself to a humongous orgasm when he heard the locker-room door open.
Someone was walking in with soft, naked footsteps. Realizing he had not closed the stall door, Butch bolted upright. The dildo surged deeper into his butthole. Butch pulled up his baggies and tugged down his shirt. He stepped on the hopper handle to flush the toilet. Toward the sinks and mirrors, he glimpsed a double vision of Mike Miller. Butch sucked in his sphincters with a couple of twitches, trying to accommodate the dildo, make himself comfortable.
Fortunately, Butch was at ease with Mike, who at 52 was the "old timer" in the masters' category at Mr Milky Way. Butch liked Mike. He savored seeing age thin Mike's skin, like his own. Although they had grown up together in the sport, Mike was still a competitor, while Butch was an announcer and promoter. Trim and pumped, sure, but not prime aged beef like Mike, Butch sauntered over to a sink and started washing his hands.
He was looking. at Mike only in the mirror. He talked to the reflected image. "Mike, I'm really glad to see you looking great. You're one of the best."
"Yeah, thanks." Mike grumbled. "But what can I do now? In my day it was biceps and triceps, pecs, lats and a trim waist. Things have changed. Besides the rest, a guy's got to have quads so big they make your dick look like a peanut. Striations on your glutes, and more ripples on your tummy than any washboard my grandmother used. "Butch!" Mike sighed; "It's a changed sport. Look," he implored, holding out a skimpy three ounces of shiny red nylon. "I gotta wear a bikini like this get attention."
Mike stripped out of the sateen, square-cut trunks he had on. The kind of suit that was in fashion when Steve Reeves was a heartthrob. "What do you think?" He asked. "It's an extra-large, but is it my size?'
"Mike. Don't ask me to comment on the size of your manhood. But sex and show, that's today's game." Feeling his own dick start to swell, Butch splashed cold water onto his face. "Lots of these bucks like to showoff and that includes what's between their legs. Butch reached for a paper towel. He needed to cool off. His sphincter was eagerly sucking the plug end of the dildo
Mike was shimmying into another bikini. Two Mike Millers; one live; the other a mirror image. Butch suctioned the dildo against his prostate. He wanted to shoot his load.
"Yeah, it works for you!" was Mike's mumbled reply. He rolled the black bikini down his legs. Then he stepped into the red one. Stretching it over his thighs, he tucked in his fully loaded nut sack and his pecker into the iridescent pouch. The stretchy nylon spread and settled over his jewels like a thin coat of shellac. "It's like wearing nothing but a coat of paint." Mike thought, as he left the locker-room, and felt the jiggle in his walk skooch the skimpy skivvy deep into the crack of his dimpled glutes. And, "1 can still give Butch a damn good eyeful and a bitchin rise." A wise-ass smile crossed his face.
Kip Dekker and Vince Tandy were already backstage. Mr Short and Mr Tall, they each did an exaggerated double take as Mike Miller strutted toward them. Vince, head-honcho of the duo, whistled a low, sexy note. Mike acknowledged it with a nod. The shiny red pouch, filled as it was, made a sure attention grabber, and Mike wondered if he looked at least as naked as he felt. He fidgeted at the waist bank with his thumb, but there wasn't any other way to adjust the fit. A drop of sweat and oil rolled off his nose and spotted the front of his suit, right over the head of his dick. Mike was definitely circumcised. He hitched at the waistband a both sides of his hips. The clingy brief was mighty thin.
"How many socks you got in there, big boy?" Vince said in a mock, sultry whisper.
Mike's eyes darted at Vince. He shrugged toward Vince and moved over to the light control panel. His hands dangled self-consciously in front of the spotted nylon. He tugged at his pecker, accentuating his endowment. He checked out Kip, who had a shit-eating grin, "The same size dick always looks bigger on a small man." Vince knew that was Kip's thought. It was his too. Mike knew Kip had eight inches, uncut. "A little foreskin can't make a hell of a lot of difference," Mike thought as he tugged at his dickhead again, stroking it and his posing suit. He stretched the fabric, hoping to loosen it, to make more dancing room. He know Vince ands Kip wanted to psych him out, bring him down from top mental form
Mike peeked into the auditorium. A muscle-head wannabe was playing with the toggles on the light panel, flashing the house lights on and off. Mike ducked further behind the curtains. In a few minutes all three bodybuilders would be on stage for the final posedown. Kip and Vince were checking their oil. Flexing. Mike scoped their tiny black posing suits. Tight. Mike hiked his brief higher at the sides again like he saw so many young studs so. If the sides of his brief rode high on his hips, that emphasized the full beauty of his lean, muscled quads. He admired himself. He enjoyed his brash exhibitionism. "Studly, dude!" he thought. He hiked at his bikini again. He was pleased a pig in shit. "This contest is mine to lose." Vince was tough to figure out, but Mike surmised that Kip was quietly bummed-out. "Mine to lose. Showtime!"
As the house lights dimmed and the stage lights flashed on, the three finalists listened to Butch Taylor greeting the audience and priming them for the competition's finale. The theme from "Rocky" started blaring over the public address system. It rose from loud to deafening before stopping abruptly. The crowd hooted and whistled and clapped and stomped. Butch waived at the fans with a patting motion, trying to quiet the tumult. Gripping the podium with both hands, he nodded agreement with the crowd. The dildo shimmied in his ass. He wondered whether his sphincter would pop for the plug end that crammed between his ass-cheeks. "Folks," he schmoozed. "OK, folks," he ventured again. But the crowd was making it own party. The hoopla was becoming frenzied. Butch signaled to the muscle-head at the control panel. The house lights dimmed and the stage lights went out. Only the pin-spot in Butch Taylor remained on.
As the commotion muffled, Butch started his spiel about the importance of Mr Milky Way. He praised the three finalists, citing their many prizes and business ventures. He acknowledged the judges, Wheater Industries, and all the various sponsors, organizers, volunteers, and jock-sniffs. Butch signaled for the stage lights again. The music rose too; Prince's "Sexy MF" blared from the amplifiers. "The right ride for the moment," Butch conceded. Over the whistles and catcalls from the audience, Butch shouted, "Hey, everyone of these guys is as sexy as pootie-tang." Well, he knew he had a hard-on. But the irony of his remark escaped him. "OK, let's go!" The music ratcheted up a notch. "Our first finalist. Representing the masters' category, 6' 1', 215 lbs., our hunky senior citizen, at age 52, Mike Miller."
Mike sauntered on stage. A coy smile illuminated his face. The dig about his age was not lost on him. Applause mingled with "Go! Mike!" and "Show us what you got, old man!" Halfway across the stage, Mike shifted into a side double biceps pose. Strictly against the rules, but a sure crowd-pleaser. He winked and waved while the crowd hooted and cheered. A few feet over, He stopped on his mark.
Kip padded on stage next. He was nearly in place before the crown quieted enough for Butch to introduce him above the din. "In the short man's category, 5'2'. 133 lbs., the little man who shows he can, Kip Dekker." Kip raised his arms high, flashed toothy grin. Then he took a deep bow, touching palms to toes.
Butch glanced sideways at Kip's bent torso. The melon-butt, high and form, looked tongue teasingly tasty. Butch gripped the lectern more firmly to steady himself, but he damn well wanted to grip his cock. He moved forward, pressing his thighs and crotch against the wooden panel. A picture flashed through his head of his rod reaming Kip's butthole. Butch rose on the balls of his feet, rocking gently even more forward He eased up and down as though doing calf-raises. His pecker got a good rubbing against the lectern. Butch pushed so far into the podium that he thought he could feel his nuts pressing against the podium. Several long minutes passed while Butch was in his daydream and until the restless crowd snapped him back to reality.
The crowd was in overdrive. Two buff puppies in the third row were standing on their seats; shirts stripped off; pants down around their ankles. They were getting on with their own pose-down. Their friends cheered them on. The lighting engineer cruised a spotlight over the pair. The crowd rocked. Arms waived, trying to slap the guys on the ass.
"Great show, guys! You look really hot in those Calvin's, but the wet shorts contest is at the bar down the street." The pups slid into their seats and high-fived each other and anybody they could reach.
"Moving on, we have a final finalist for Mr Milky Way. In the tall man category, 6'2", 235Ibs, 32 years old, Vince Tandy." Wild cheers and applause greeted Vince as he strode on stage. He walked heavy and wide, twisting his waist, emphasizing his massive upper-body, towering rhythmically over his mighty legs. Vince was ripped and proud.
What startled everyone, what really got the crowd going was the surprising appearance of Vince Tandy under the lights. His skimpy black thong melded into his crotch, masking him with what seemed merely a shadow. As Vince turned, Mike Miller and the others on stage saw that Vince's bikini was nothing more than a gauze pouch, its threadlike string of a waistband held in place by oil and sweat if anything. Vince had made a quick backstage change, and now he had a leg up with his sexy, nearly nude display.
Kip shuffled uneasily between the two taller men. He worried, for he was likely to be overlooked and forgotten. Vince had always been his buddy. They trained together. They were pals. They had decides to wear the same kind and color of posing suit for the competition. Now here was Vince, not just in something different, but in something that practically wasn't even there.
Butch was bug-eyed. His throbbing cock prodded forward, jutting his baggies to a prominent peak. A sight not unnoticed by Mike Miller, whose smile changed to a stupid grin. Something ticked in his head, and something twitched in his crotch. His eyes moved from Butch to Kip to Vince. He scanned the audience and scouted the judges at their table. Mike glanced again at the tent Butch's dick was making. He figured, "What the hell! This night is mine to lose."
While the auditorium lights flashed on and off, the roar hardly abated. Over the din, Butch announced the series of compulsory poses. Like three living sculptures, each of the finalists moved into their positions.
Mike hiked the sides of his suit every chance he got, pulling the red nylon up and away from his body, squeezing his cock and balls against the sweaty wet cloth. Each stretch and release loosened its fit, making the bikini say yet cling. Mike was definitely going to ride out this competition on a wave of style and sex. By the time the compulsory poses were finished. Mike was reeling with euphoria and adrenaline.
Because he had drawn the short straw, Kip was first with his freestyle routine. Mike and Vince stepped away from center stage. Kip's routine was professional and polished. Smooth, but quick. Not a knockout. Still a small man always has a lot of goodwill with the crowd. Kip was no exception
When Kip backed into the shadows, the audience seemed to hold its breath. Then Vince Tandy leaped into the center spotlight light a big cat onto its prey. Fixing every turn with a surly glare, Vince psyched the crowd with his attitude. Foot stomping accompanied shouts of "Vince! Vince! Vince!" Even without music, Vince would have been a showman. With heavy metal rock anthem blaring, he was rocked. A full frontal display of his hammered quadriceps wound down his routine, followed by an upper-body turn to a side double-biceps. Great stuff. These moves brought the fans to their feet. Vince turned from his batwing lats, quickly flinched his pecs, shook and tensed each leg, and the crowd hooted and cooed. Vince drilled each move to its max. Then, flicking the elastic string at each side of his posing pouch, Vince stretched his shoulders back.
Between each thumb and index finger, Vince stretched the elastic thread higher. He was riding high. He felt indomitable. Vince pulled the elastic tauter. It snapped, leaving a string clinging, wet against his oiled right thigh. He felt a flush of nerve and knew he could not loose his cool. Only for the briefest instant, Vince stood timidly still. Sweat kept the gauzy pouch in place. Vince braced his shoulders and danced his pecs in an alternating rhythm. He felt as ease. At the summit of his career he would pull though.
From the packed house, A rowdy voice hollered, "take it all off!" All around the auditorium, there were boisterous echoes. The stomping chant of "Vince! Vince! Vince!" changed to calls of "Strip! Strip! Strip!" Another rabble-rouser hollered, "Get naked!" Vince kept calm and eased into his last hot shot, a side double biceps. The crowd roared it approval. Vince sensed oil shimmer under the hot spotlight, down his pees. Down his abs. Down into his shaved, hairless pubes. As he turned, he also felt the gauze slither with each shift of his feet. Cautiously he fumbled for the loose elastic string that dangled over his thigh. Never losing his bright smile and his regal confidence, Vince Tandy eased out of the spotlight to stand in the shadows, leaving the next, seeming final act to Mike Miller.
In the shadowy dark of the stage, the pin-spot waited empty. In his head, Mike Miller heard a silent drum-roll. "What the hell? Was he crazy? Was he losing it?" He rolled the sides of his red bikini posing suit under his palms and shimmied it over his highs. When it fell to his ankles, buck-naked, Mike stepped away. The rush he felt was awesome. He hooked the sweaty nylon skivvy with a toe and kicked it into the circle of light on center stage. Automatically his. dick started to engorge. It swelled heavy and thick, aching for even the single stroke that would pump it to full hardness like every other muscle of his massive physique. A lick away from its full, thrusting glory.
The bikini had landed just at the perimeter of the pin-spot, and Mike followed it toward the light. He did not know how much the audience had been able to see of his shadowy strip and lifted the bikini again on his big toe where he dangled it for a moment like some exotic curiosity. Then he high-kicked it into the crowd. Mike Miller knew this would be his last major competition, his last big show. He wanted to go out in glory. He maneuvered his massive bulk. Size did not bind his movements. He was fluid. Sexy. As smoothly scintillating contrast to Vince Tandy's staccato.
Mike grooved to the catcalls and hoots that quickly turned to cheers and applause. He pecker swayed like a mighty machine, bobbing in motion with his routine, slapping his inner thighs with a gentle thwack, lobbing glittering droplets of sweat off its hammerhead, glittering in the spotlight. Mike felt like his whole body was a mighty engorged dick, a pecker with a rippling, ropy vein snaking from his feet to his head. And he wanted his dick hard and fierce, but he didn't want to touch at. At least not yet. He wanted to get the biggest, hardest boner of his life high there on stage by sheer will power, He wanted to feel it like a mighty pole, and the rest of him just an appendage. A dick, a damn mighty throbbing, thrusting cock with a man attached.
"Make it hard!" Then Mike heard someone shout again, "Make it hard!" "Hard! Hard!" Mike could hear the clamorous chant. "Hard! Hard! Hard!" The momentum drove him, rumbled in the auditorium, pounded through the walls and the floor, surged through his body and pumped in his blood to his dick which throbbed bigger and mightier than any dick had a right to be, proud and glorious, sweaty and oily and glistening with a pearl of precum which began oozing from its slit.
Mike pulsed all over. Fearless momentum drove him, proclaimed him a glorious piece of dickmeat. He slathered the sweat and oil over his body, polished it in the spotlight, swiping smooth caresses over his chest and arms, over his thighs and calves, his rippling rockhard abs. But he did not touch his cock. His cock stood out alone. His cock was proud. Hard and proud.
Before he actually saw the fireplug of muscle, Mike Miller sensed Kip moving into the spotlight. Kip stretched the front of his posing bikini, pulling it forward and down, then snapping it behind his cock and ballsack, thrusting them forward. With his other fist, Kip stroked his dick. He seemed to be in a hurry, making up for lost time. With his thumb, he slid back his foreskin, showing off a knob big as an egg.
Then Vince Tandy was in the spotlight too. Rushing forward, he almost knocked Kip aside. Vince pounced so that his staccato movements slapped his dickmeat from side to side, whipping his inner thighs with loud thwacks. When he stopped dead center, Vince's cock continued its randy dance. Clasping his hands behind his head, Vince began a slow swivel with his hips. Heavily, like the clapper in a bell, his pecker slapped one thigh, then the other with a steady thwap. A hands free beat of his meat.
Kip bobbed his head left and right, like a rapper in rhythm of his buddy Vince's pecker. He was hot. Too hot to hold back. His gonads were churning. Kip squeezed his nutsack. With a sharp, tight pull, he jerked his scrotum and emptied his nuts. Jets of sperm splashed over Vince's crotch. Creamy white jiss spurted right at his dick and balls and splattered on his thighs. Mixed with sweat and oil, a wad cum lunged with a thwack from Vince's pecker back onto Kip. Mike caught a splash too, a high spurge that landed right between his pees and dribbled down to his bellybutton. Mike slurped a mix of cum and sweat and oil onto his index finger. He held it out for the audience, and then polished it onto the head of his dick.
"Shoot! Shoot!" The crowd was on its feet, standing on the seats. Mike looked directly at Vince. He nodded once, then moved his hand to his dick, wrapped his fingers around his hot meat. He unloaded. His cum arched into the spotlight. Mike thought it sailed over the edge of the stage. The crowd roared. Somebody in the front road yelled, "Hit me again!" Then Vince let loose a splurge that hit the stage floor like a glass of spilled milk. Mike matched that with a thicker, smaller wad, and then kept pumping his dick, spitting saliva onto his glans to lube his strokes with a steady ratchet that made his nuts chum. Then cum spewed from his dick a third time, and Mike copped his most muscular pose, the crab, for the crowd, his dick equally hard and proud.
Now Vince was ready to go again. He slicked his palm with spit. Stroked his dick once; then a second time. His entire body made quick, small jolt. Then his pecker twitched and spurted thick, ropy cum. Vince wiped his hands on his thighs, and then spit on both palms. He wrapped his fingers around his pecker shaft, left hand at the base, right above. He pumped his arms in unison, massive triceps extending as biceps contracted. Up and down like he was holding his dick to do curls. Ten reps. Then Vince released his hands, widened his stance the better to display his dick. Thick curds of jiss oozed from its slit. Vince flicked them to the floor with his thumb and forefinger. He eased back. He was spent.
Dick in hand, Mike stepped forward. He massaged his cock, slow and steady, smooth. He swayed his whole body with the in a gentle, rocking rhythm. He tightened his grip. Mike yelped. He felt himself ready for orgasm, but he didn't want it to be dry. If held back, if he gave himself another dozen strokes, he could really drain his nuts. Not a geyser, but a molten flow, the cum soaked his fingers and fist. Long seconds of ecstasy and ejaculation. Mike lifted his cum-slathered hand from his dick and raised his creamy, wet palm toward the audience.
Hooting and hollering. Cheers and pandemonium. Mike Miller had made it: Mr Milky Way.
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