BDSM Library - Story: The Hypnotist, Chapter: Part 8

Hypno 9

by Emile

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Now I don't want you to think I just spend my time on the long term destruction of straight muscle cunts like you. I don't want this relationship to be one dimensional - you know, you there at the bottom, and me here on top. Hey, I have other interests too, the gym (obviously), eating, drinking, you know. In fact, my idea of a good night in is just a steak and a can of beer, watching WWF on widescreen. You should come round sometime - I get real pumped watching them smackdown. Since you got that wresting suit, we could even try out some of the moves, just for kicks - tyou know, practice for the boys class. Plus I like getting my cock sucked when I watch TV. Simple things, I know. But I try and mix it up sometimes, you know, get out of the usual pattern. Like this whole mental destruction thing, I mean, there's you and Brad and Charlie, but sometimes I go for somethng light. There was this kid, Davey or Derek or some shit, like it matters, anyway he's been training here a while. Maybe you've seen him around while you've been mopping up or squeezing out some reps. Maybe not though, he's a bit of a shy colt, lots of brawn but a real christian conservative outlook. Anyway so I see him around a bit, working out like crazy, til his guns are popping and his calves are rippling, a regular Cassius Clay. Okay bad call, I just wanted to see you shiver at the name.

So I figure I'll dust off my old powers of persuasion - nothing too hard arse like I had to use with you, just some gentle suggestion. More fun when it's their own free will. So this kid - I mean he's 19 if he's a day - still works out like a demon, even though he's a gun, and I get to chatting with him about it - how he was picked on at school for being a bit of a runt. Yeah, he's a shortstop, nice and compact package. So I ask him, casually, if he sweats a lot when he works out. How when I really push myself, I strain, and it's like a river opens up from my pores. He's pretty colt shy about this, kind of shrugs and nods, yeah he gets a sweaty sheen. I press on - no, not just a bit of sweat, don't you just find that sometimes you're lathered in man stink - like your ballbag is soupy with tang? He's really embarrassed at this, just shugs away, the conversation petering out. Anyway, the seed planted, my suggestion goes to work. The subliminal is a wonderful thing. A day later, and I see him pressing some hefty weights, and sure as sunshine, he's coated in sweat - clothes clinging to his body like there's no tomorrow. So I lean over, ask him if he's noticed the ball sweat now. Bit loud maybe. He presses out the last rep and lowers the bar into the cradle, hauling his torso off the bench. I keep leaning down, so he finds himself uncomfortably close to me, but by his own doing. "Uh, yeah" he pants, close enough his minty breath grazes my cheek. "Fuck man" I respond, almost purring into his ear "then you must fucking hate how your arseknot clenches when you lift, I find that after a big session, sometimes my cornhole is so sore I can't even sit down." I moved away after that, gym talk never lasts long anyway, leaving him to stew on that.

After the gym the next day, I wait til he's headed back to the changerooms, and give him 5 minutes to shower. I saunter in, catching him as he walks back from the shower to towel off. His body is awesome - ripped and glistening, and I can see he's a bit shy about being seen by me just in a towel. I hang there casually, asking him if I was right. There's other guys around, so he goes shy, half squatting as he drops his towel to begin towelling off under my gaze. Hey heaps of guys do it in the gym, it's not like he can really complain, but I can tell my intense gaze is eating in to him. Nice fat dork too, I notice. "Uh, um, yeah, I did" he mumbles. "Shit man, you gotta watch that" I respond, "don't want your shit chute to get too inflamed!" And after copping a final glimpse of his junk, I turn and go back to the counter.

So he comes out, dressed in some preppy shit, well fitted without clinging too much. He heads to the exit, but I call him over, grabbing him in a chummy neck hold as he gets near, tugging him around to the display stands. All friendly, you know, but enough to get him close to me, my pit sweat soaking into his collar. You know the display stands are full of shit - protein drinks and sports bottles, but I stock the clothes carefully. Never know when some tyke will have forgotten something and be forced to squeeze into anything on sale. I'd stocked some satin boxers specially - you know, the $1.99 Wal-Mart kidswear kind, but I ripped out the Fruit of the Loom labels (or whatever shit they were), and glued a 'Pep Sportswear' label instead, plus on the right leg, like a badge. Now, fuck, those kids sizes are pretty small, and the satin shit does nothing to support your tackle - I mean it's for bed or some shit - but you stick a sports badge on, and it's fuckin' street wear! I ask his size (medium), and hand him the middle size on the rack (which is like an XS in regular gear). He's unsure (bucking away from my guns squeezing his neck, maybe) but I shove it in his hands, a 'complimentary gift' for a regular. All toothy smile and "trust me" like, I tell him how the gear will really help with his 'problems'. "Hey thanks man, but I can't take this" he starts, trying to hand the scrap of material back. I back off, shaking my hands - hell no, I'd be offended. "Tell you what" I say, "you wanna pay me back, next time let me get a shot of you working out in the gear - these guys want to run a promo campaign, and I'm sure they'd be interested in a stud like yourself..." He shrugged, as most guys do from my onslaught of goodwill, and slunk out of the gym looking worried, tracks of his own sweat now mingling with mine through the shirt.

Of course next time I saw him, he had the gear on, maybe because he knew I'd be offended if he didn't, maybe just cause he only brought the boxers, whatever the reason, they exceeded my expectations. The shorts clung pretty low on his waist - the band almost visible below his tank top, and I was pretty sure there'd be prickhair showing over the top. I guess the waistband didn't stretch enough for his waist. It was lucky, though, the satin at the the top clung to his upper thigh, a bit looser below since they cut the legs loose. Of course this meant his tackle flopped about like crazy, and since they were so short, his cockhead slid dangerously close to the hem, taut enough that you could make out his circumcision scar through the fabric. I went up to him, shaking his hand with a grin, complimenting him on the new gear and asking if it helped. He shrugged a little, he was still pretty sweaty, and I guess the embarrassment wasn't helping. he tugged on the hem absently as we spoke, trying to get another half inch of cover below his cockhead or something.

We broke off fairly quick again, and I pointed out a guy was leaving the machine flyes, knowing he usually put it in his midweek routine. I went back behind the counter and found my camera, a 6 megapixel SLR that can pick up every hair on a boy's cunt from 50 paces, if you know what I mean. Anyway I go back over, and find him trying to get comfortable on the thin strip of bench those machines give you. He was clearly struggling trying to keep his dork hidden while sitting down, and baulked when he saw the camera. "Hey man, look" I said, none too friendly "I've given you the shorts, this is the least you could do." Reluctantly, at my direction he assumed the usual pec flye position - legs apart, arms up on the rests, which lifted his tank up a little, and let the leg holes of his shorts breathe, so his whole gear was on display. I mean you could see prickbush, cockroot, even the fold of his cockshaft over the base of the head (I guess he was cut low and loose). I asked him to smile wide, and snapped off a good half dozen shots, before nodding sagely, and letting him get on with the workout. As he left, I had him sign some release forms for publicity, which he grudgingly did under my gaze.

Maybe he figured he'd never see the shots, they'd sit on some ad mans desk or something, but when he came in next time, he so shocked he actually took a step backwards. There was a 12 foot poster of him, like a banner opposite the door, background taken out so all you could see was the pec machine and him, half naked and grinning, his thick plum cock facing the viewer at head height. The sheen on his skin, sweat tracks on his clothing - it was all in vivid colour. And then there was the copy - some of my best work - "Sweaty balls? Sore hole?" it read in big, bold letters above his head. "Pep Sportswear lets you Breathe Easy" it said at the base. He came over, ashen, and begged me to take it down. "Sorry kiddo" I said "they loved the shot, rolled it out immediately. Gave me a dozen just to put around the gym." He looked up, broad shoulders sagging when he saw others in plain sight from the front, in every corner of the room. "Bbbut, but you can't" he stammered, and I put my hand on his shoulder comfortingly. "Hey man, even if I did take em down, there's the magazines, the other gyms - this thing is national. It'd make no difference. They have the copyright now." He shook his head in disbelief, trudging off to the changerooms to think up a plan. He trained in his old gear that day - heavy long shorts and a proper tee, despite the sweat he worked up, but plenty of guys recognised him from the posters, and he had more than his fair share of new friends coming over and trying to strike up a chat. Sure, this gym is pretty heavy on the man love, and he could've gone elsewhere, but swallowed the lie about it being national, and stuck with us. I wasn't lying about the magazine though - hey most of the gay rags are pretty cheap, and it was worth spending a couple of months of his dues on some notoriety.

So anyway, there you have it. See, pretty minor stuff really. Like I thought of going further, offering him a reshoot and then taking him down to the beach, with some Pepe swimsuits to boot, but hey, he was pretty freaked out, and he probably wouldn't have gone willingly, which was the whole point of the game. Huh? Yeah he's around still, but doesn't come in too much now - only lunchtime, he has a fear of going out after dark. Something to do with his extra sore hole I guess. Hmm? Well I guess someone in the gym got sick of him turning down their advances, and jumped him one evening in the showers. Or maybe someone read the magazine and then ran into him in a darkened alley. Maybe both - sounded like he'd been buttfucked pretty bad. But who the fuck knows anything these days, like I told the cops, at the time I was at home with a steak, beer and TV.