Kris Evans





LogoLevi's Muscles — Chapter 1

by Sean Reid Scott  This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.




Approx. 4,500 words








ISAT BACK INTO MY RECLINING lounger on my deck, looking out onto the beautiful, grassy common area of the resort where I was staying. The morning coolness was almost epic in how it relaxed me. It was so serene, peaceful and just damn beautiful.

The forecast was, as usual for August here, for the upper 80s, and wall-to-wall sunshine.

Yet in mere minutes, I’d be so distracted that I wouldn’t even notice how gorgeous the place was.

Still, it was times like this that made me grateful for having filthy-rich parents—parents who could afford a summer cottage like this. Parents who were supportive of me enough to let me stay here for a whole month every summer. Alone.

Mom and Dad had “rewarded” me this monthly extravagance every year in support of my continuing achievements, academically. I’d put myself through pre-med, and even though they didn’t contribute to that (I’d insisted I wanted to do it on my own), they felt compelled to “gift” me this time every year since I started college. Now that I’d started medical school, they continued the tradition.

And I didn’t argue.

My parents are pretty cool. Maybe not as progressive as I’d like, but they’re cool in their own way. Not sure how they’d react to my coming out, but that’s a whole (n)other topic.

And here I was, at the very beginning of an entire August of solace, relaxation and fun.

At my side table, I had my coffee, a mimosa I’d just made, my reading glasses, and my Kindle. The sun had just risen, and I’d already finished my cardio for the day, so now it was time to “center” myself by exercising the “little gray cells,” as Hercule Poirot would say. Not that I was going to lose myself in anything strenuous. Most likely, I’d find some erotica to read. Can’t think of a better way to start the day.

The automatic sprinklers for the huge common area that the cabins surrounded had shut off about 15 minutes earlier. At this time in the morning it wasn’t uncommon to see a few maintenance people checking on things and trimming plants—and of course one day a week someone hauled out a big riding mower and cut the lawn.

That was common. What wasn’t common was what I suddenly saw walking around the corner of my deck. He’d walked between my place and the neighbor’s cabin. (I say “cabin,” but these were big, luxurious homes, actually.) He came into view just as I picked up my coffee and prepared to take a sip. The guy wore a T-shirt that the resort’s maintenance employees wore. It was a kind of military/army green, with the resort logo in off-white over one pec. He also had on the standard khaki shorts that they all wore. But this man was decidedly unique from the other resort employees: He was muscle to the nth degree.

I mean, I actually could not believe what I was seeing. Here? In Central Oregon? Just walking around as a resort employee? All this? All this muscle?

My point of view was from his side—his profile—as he walked, so what I first noticed was his mammoth chest. I mean, holy HELL! The enormity of chest muscle cantilevered out over his skinny waist like it was some kind of marvel of engineering! I could see his closest nipple under the extremely tight shirt; it pointed downward because of the excessive bulk of pectoral muscle. Pectoral muscle the likes of which I’d never actually seen. This chest was matched for size by his traps and delts. It was mind-boggling.

But even though his pecs and shoulders were obviously more prominent than should be legal, as he traversed from one side of my view to the other, it was his fucking gigantic, bulging, lean-as-fuck arm that grabbed my attention. The size was incredible. And more than mere size: the definition! His triceps and biceps, even hanging apparently relaxed, rippled with defined mass! The size of his arms forced the sleeve of his T to bunch up into the deep crevasse that separated his triceps from his boulder deltoids. And it was a deep crevasse. I’d never seen anything so powerful-looking—and so fucking gorgeous—in all my life. And I’ve been to more than my fair share of bodybuilding shows. And I’ve seen more than my fair share of muscle videos and pix on the web. And I’ve jerked off to more than my fair share of said images. Trust me. I know lean, ripped, huge muscles when I see them.

And I was definitely seeing them.

I dropped my mug of coffee. It made a loud clank as it hit my side table.

The dude stopped suddenly and turned his head right toward me.

Shit, he had a gorgeous face too. His hair was brown, but the streaks of blond made it look almost dishwater blond. Might have been the summer sun that lightened it. It came halfway down his ears, and despite not being coiffed, it lent a look of beauty and subdued grace—which was weird considering how extremely buff he was. In a word, he was beautiful.

And okay… this was totally unfair: The guy’s chin had the most gorgeous cleft. Just not fair. FOUL! How was I supposed to recover from not only all this muscle, but a face that had the most adorable dimpled chin on the planet?

Fortunately, none of the coffee spilled on me. Nonetheless, I was embarrassed to hell.

“Are you okay, sir?” he asked with genuine concern.

I’d like to say I answered immediately, but I didn’t. I was dumbfounded. Awestruck. Not to mention embarrassed to hell. Oh yeah, I did mention that.

The man started walking toward me. “Can I help you with that?” He seemed honestly troubled by my situation. He got closer.

And bigger.

Holy shit, he was absolutely huge! Tall: I’d say six-and-a-half feet, easily. Young. Probably my age, if not younger.

At first I couldn’t move. I was actually frozen. I know it sounds cheesy, but it’s true. I was astounded by this guy. Despite probably weighing well into the 300s (I’m not lying!) the guy had a waistline that was easily as small as my own 32 inches. No fuck! And now that he was facing me, full-on, as he approached me the symmetry and size of his muscles just bombarded my senses. That tight T-shirt left very little to the imagination. It hugged everything.

“Are you okay, sir?” he asked as he arrived at the deck. My deck was about three or four steps up from the grass.

“I—I’m fine. Really. I…” I fumbled for my coffee mug; it had landed on the deck. Coffee drenched my side table. I quickly grabbed my Kindle, wiping it off as best I could. “No harm, no foul,” I said, not really knowing why.

He’d stopped at the edge of the deck, watching me flop around like a chicken-with-my-head-cut-off, just patiently standing there. I got the impression he wanted to come up onto the deck to help out, but maybe they had some rule about the “help” not entering the private areas.

I took in a deep, deep breath, abandoned my attempt to retrieve my mug, and sighed deeply.

He was trying to tamp down a smile. I could tell it. The fucker was finding it amusing that I’d practically scalded myself, and he had to know why I’d done it. Had to.

“Are you sure, sir?”

Something in my gut liked that he called me “sir”, even though we were probably the same age—and even though his physical stature definitely placed him at a point on the Western caste scale where he didn’t have to call anyone “sir” if he didn’t want to. Damn, the guy—in spite of being some combination of Superman, Hercules, Samson, Mr. Olympia and Tarzan—was actually turning out to be gut-wrenchingly cute!

And now that I was recuperating from my mortifying display of out-of-control abject shock over his body, something a tad lower than the aforementioned “gut” was liking all of this. Liking it a bit too much, I might add.

The guy, just standing there all polite and reserved, was driving me to the edge of insanity. That was the brain part. The penis part was jumping, thickening and tightening into what I knew would soon be an embarrassing reflection of my sexual orientation. Not that I am ashamed of my sexuality (even though I don’t advertise it, and certainly haven’t told Mom & Dad), but getting a hard-on under my bathrobe in front of the hyper-muscular resort employee isn’t my preferred way to introduce myself.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

He nodded, then looked at the mess I’d made. “I can help you clean that up, if you like.”

Maybe they don’t have the “keep off the private spots” rule after all. My instinctive reaction was to refuse his help. I mean, yes, it was all his muscles that caused it, so maybe I should let him help. Yet of course, that logic was pretty lame. He probably caused traffic accidents just by walking down the sidewalk. And of course, despite my desperate state of confusion and mortification, inviting him up onto the deck would certainly give me the opportunity to get to know him better. And look at his muscles more.

Fucky, fucky, fuck. The man was my absolute fantasy.

I started to say something along the lines of, “well, if you insist,” when my better judgement prevailed. “Oh, that’s very kind of you. But really, I can handle this.”

He smiled politely. “Well, if you need anything, really….”

Anything? Oh… pleaseOhpleaseOhplease… “Thank you. You’re very kind.” And then I found something, brain-wise, for which I would forever thank the muscle-gods above. I said, “You all really keep this place looking so beautiful.” I made some kind of motion with either my eyes or my hands, or maybe a nod, that indicated the grounds.

“Oh, thank you, sir,” he smiled. He turned partially to acknowledge my comment, and the surrounding area.

Sir, again. Fucky, fucky, fuck. Did the guy want me to attack him right then and there? You’d better stop with the “sir” thing or we’re gonna have some major problems with my behavior. Socially unacceptable behavior problems, okay?

“Everything looks so nice.” (I wanted to add, from where I’m sitting… but I thought better of it.

“Well, we pride ourselves on keeping the highest standards.” Did he put a slight emphasis of the word pride?

“Well, it definitely shows.”

He nodded and gave a slight smile. AND WHERE THE HELL DID THOSE DIMPLES COME FROM?!

This was decidedly not fair. I knew at that moment my entire month of respite at my parent’s cabin was going to be a disaster. Perhaps, my whole life from that moment on was ruined. I mean, how in hell was I supposed to just go on… pretending that I was just vacationing like everyone else around me, when I knew with all certainty that I would be hopelessly unable to think of anything but this ultimate, huge muscleman?! I knew myself well enough to know that I’d be looking for this guy every waking moment: behind bushes, at the pool (do they let employees use the facilities?), on the bike paths, on the river, at the horse stables… I’d be looking for him, hoping to see him again. And of course, every sleeping moment I’d be dreaming (wet-dreaming) of what this demigod would look like with his shirt off.

“…I hope it’s okay.”

I visibly shook my head to get the cobwebs out. “Pardon?”

“Your Kindle there,” he smiled, “I was just saying that I hope it didn’t get too wet.”

I glanced down at it. It was drenched. Took the brunt of my muscle-shock convulsion. “Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said, picking it up. A dribble of brown fluid poured out of it. It had to be DOA. I held it up with thumb and forefinger, holding out my pinky. I looked at him sheepishly.

The guy started laughing. Dimples again. Snow-white, bright, perfect teeth. And a laugh that was a sexy combination of resonant, deep, and boyish. His entire aura of masculinity was transformed into a confident, musclebound presentation of rippling sinew and childlike innocence.

And I nearly came in my bathrobe.

The man was perfection. For some reason—well for obvious sexual-desire reasons—I didn’t at all mind his laughter.

“I’m… I’m sorry sir,” he said between laughs and giggles. “It’s just the way you held it up. Your expression…”

“Oh sure,” I chided. “Go ahead and laugh.” I chuckled while I set the device back down. “I really ought to send a bill to the resort for this,” I added.

He got serious. Yet, still chuckling, he asked with that childlike innocence, “Oh? Do you think the resort caused that?”

It must have been his humorous demeanor, but it was easy for me to continue with the friendly banter. “Why, I do. I mean, it was you—and all that…” I cocked my head and very obviously noted with my eyes his enormous, professional-caliber physique, “…that… that made me spill my coffee in the first place.” Oh shit. I’d just outed my lust over his body. Fuck.

“Me? I was just walking… out here… to inspect the sprinkler system, sir.” His expression turned somewhat serious, but there was still a glimmer in his eye.

Okay. Now I needed to decide where I was going with this. Did I dare continue to intimate how well-built he was? I remember once talking with a really good bodybuilder friend who said he, as a matter of course, had people mention his physique on a daily basis. True fact. So this guy had to be used to it, right? I decided to take my chances. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Besides, if I overtly admired his body, and he didn’t like that, he was an employee of the place, right? He couldn’t actually make an issue of it could he? He’d just say “good-day” and that’d be that, right?

So… “I understand that… um, I didn’t get your name…”

“Levi. Levi Broadacre, sir. Grounds Manager.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Broadacre,” I said. “But I was trying to say, I understand that you have specific duties to perform there in the common area, but…” I raked my eyes over his big, taut body once again, “But… is it really necessary for you to wear clothes that… I mean… such tight-fitting… it’s just that…”

He was trying to stifle down a smile.

“Well, I’m just trying to say… you… I was, well… startled, that’s all.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” he said. He looked down at the ground, all shucks and golly, and scuffed the grass.

“It’s Callum,” I said, “Callum Wannamaker. If you call me sir, I’m liable to treat you like I treat my little nephews. They call me “sir,” and I tend to spank their little asses when they misbehave.”

Levi’s eyes practically bugged out of his head.

Now it was my turn to laugh. Where the hell I found that burst of humor, I’ll never know. But again, we must give thanks to the muscle-gods that be.

“Pardon?” he gasped.

I practically guffawed. “That’s a joke, man. I don’t spank my nephews. Ever. I have been known to tickle them quite a bit though.”

He smiled and relaxed.

For the love of god I wanted him to ask me about tickling him. That was on the one hand. On the other hand, for the love of god I wanted him to just turn and get back to work so I could begin digging my own grave and just hide forever. I was once again mortified at my own actions and/or words. What the fuck was I thinking flirting with this stud-to-best-all-studs?

“Anyway, sir,” he blanched, catching himself, “I mean, Mr. Wannamaker…”

“Callum. Okay?”

He hesitated.

Fucky, fucky, fuck, the guy—muscles out to here, bigger than life itself, more lean and ripped than a skinless chicken—did not want to call me by my first name! And that was so I-kid-you-not-HOT!

“C—Callum. Yes, sir.”

I raised an eyebrow.

He smiled. And did I mention what his smile did to me? Yeah. Kill me. Please. Just do it. Get it over with.

“Callum, well… I don’t remember what I was saying. I’m sorry.”

What? The dude actually looked flustered! At a loss for words? It couldn’t be he was…

I interjected: “Something about… I think I mentioned your uniform… or something.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you,” he said, recovering from his nervousness. And again, I just gotta reiterate, seeing a muscle hunk—no, the muscle hunk of my dreams—get all rattled and nervous… it was the most profound moment of my life—up until then anyway. “I was just going to say… I mean, apologize… I mean, this is all they could find for me,” he said, looking down at his shirt. “It’s XXXL, and yet, as you can see…”

Yes, I can see…

“…it doesn’t… it doesn’t…”

“…leave much to the imagination?” I interjected.

“I was going to say… it doesn’t really fit very well,” he said with honest humility.

Ya think? You’re playin’ me, aren’t you. You’re standing there, all six-foot-seven-or-whatever—all 300+ pounds of pure, Grade-A beef muscle, with a face that any runway model would kill to have… playin’ all coy and demure and cute, just because you can, right?


The fucker totally had me. I nearly melted into a pool of butter. Or whatever. I dunno. Don’t confuse me right now.

I wanted to jump off the deck and rape the sonofabitch. I wanted him to jump up onto the deck and rape me!! (And the reader needs to know that I never, ever use more than one exclamation point, okay?!)

“…truly just want to make sure you’re alright.”


“I was just saying, sir—I mean, Mr. Wa…” he actually inhaled deeply, then sighed, as if it was really difficult for him: “Callum,” he said with stress at the effort. “I want to make sure you’re okay, and I sincerely want to apologize for the mess I caused… I caused you.”

I sighed too. Then smiled. “Dude, I want you to forget all about this, okay? I was just making chitchat. I don’t hold you liable for my reaction to your… I mean… I don’t know what I mean, but truly… it’s all okay, okay?”

He smiled. “Okay. Thanks.”

And now… were we done? Was I releasing him? Was he free to go?

Noooooo! Think of something to say! Something to keep him here!

“Are you from Portland?” he asked from out of the blue.

FUCK YES! I mean… he wanted to continue the conversation! Oh, yes! Those gods were indeed looking down on me. “Oh, well, yeah. Gresham, actually,” I said, once again thanking said gods for words that worked.

“Really? I went to Reynolds,” he said.

“High School? Really?” I started kicking myself for not following high school sports more carefully. The guy must have been the entire offensive—or maybe defensive—line for the Raiders’ football team while he was there. “What year were you?”

“Class of ’17.”

He was three years younger than me? And he looked like that?

Dude, wherever you’re getting your roids from, they should be using you as their poster boy. Yet he really looked so… nice… not roided out. So well-proportioned. So… well, natural, if that were possible.

“Wow,” I said. “I mean… I don’t remember hearing… I mean, you had to have played football, right?” And why, actually, had we started discussing our personal pasts?

He shrugged. And don’t get me started about those traps and deltoids. And his thick neck. Fuck. “Naw, I didn’t.”

“Oh. I mean… you didn’t? I mean… I guess I understand. But…” Somewhere there must be a football coach who went insane because he wasn’t able to recruit this man.

“Oh, I just liked individual sports more. Started out in track. Then, well, I started working out in the gym… originally to train for shot-put, but then, I got the weightlifting bug.”

“Ah, well, yeah.” I ran my eyes up and down all those bulging muscles again. “Apparently so.”

He chuckled.

And then there was an awkward silence. Where to take the convo…? Do I move forward in verbally ogling his body? Do I let it go?

“Well, I should probably get back to work,” he said.

Fuck. And I had nothing to say.

“But… please, C—Callum,” he continued, “do let me know if I can help you at all. I really feel bad about…” he looked at the dead Kindle and the puddle of coffee. “…that.”

“No worries, Levi. It was nice to meet you.”

He smiled. “Thanks. Nice to meet you too, Callum.”

When he said it, without hesitation like that, it was like velvet wrapping around my ears. Callum. I had no idea my name was so beautiful. Having heard him say it, I would never think about my name in the same way again.

He started to turn, and once again I was treated to a profile view of an arm and a protruding pectoral plate that made me want to cry. How was I ever going to survive, now that I’d seen—and talked to—this?! Then he gave me the full-on view of his back side. His shoulders were so freakin’ wide; his lats were insane; his waist was insaner!* So small! His ass… well we could stop this little yarn right here and now, thinking about those round globes of gluteal muscle! I’m outta here, okay?!

And those legs! How had I missed them?! I think each of his quads must have been bigger than his waist!

I nearly leapt off the deck after him.

But as it turned out, I didn’t need to. He stopped, almost mid-stride. He turned around to face me, and I was instantly grateful that I hadn’t yet burst into tears at his leaving.

“Can I ask you a question, Callum?” he smiled.


“I was wondering if you’re still experiencing any problems with your shower drain in the loft bathroom.”

“Oh? Drain problems? I’m not sure what you…”

“Yeah. We refitted the drain in your shower last month,” he said, turning fully toward me again. “Your parents, maybe? I know you weren’t here.”

“Oh, yeah. Maybe so. I mean, my Mom & Dad didn’t mention anything about it though. So I suppose they were… I mean… I guess everything was… is… working fine now.”

“Well, good. I remember assigning our plumber to follow-up, and his report said the problem had been resolved.”

“Oh, good,” I smiled. “Like I said, my parents didn’t mention anything.”

He nodded. “Well, that’s good. I’m glad it’s working well.” He paused and thought for a moment, then said, “But if you wanted me to follow up and take a look again… just to make sure it’s okay, I’d be happy….”

“Oh, I don’t think that’d be necess…” What the fuck was I thinking? I stopped myself mid-word and made the necessary correction: “But you know, better safe than sorry, I guess.”

“Yes. Is there a time I could come and take a look? If you want, I mean….”

“Sure. I mean, yes. Um… When are you… I mean….”

“Actually, it’d probably need to be after my regular shift,” he said. “My days are usually pretty full. I’d need to come and inspect it… maybe in the early evening?”

“That’d be no problem at all, actually. Whenever it works for you. I’m on vacation,” (Duh), “so my evenings are totally free.”

“Cool. Well, actually I get off at 5:30 tonight. I could stop by after that.”

“Oh, I really don’t want you to come over after you’re off the clock or anything.”

“Oh, no, man. It’s totally okay,” he said, taking a few steps toward me. “It’s nothing. And if I do an inspection, I can turn it in for overtime. So really, it’s all part of the job, Callum.”

If he had driven me crazy by calling me “sir,” he was going to make me certifiable if I heard my name come off his lips one more time.

“Well that’s cool,” I smiled. “If you want to come over this evening, I’ll be sure to be here. Any time after 5:30, then?”

His face lifted. “Yes. I’ll plan on that then.”

I nodded.

“You have a great day then, Callum. I’ll see you this evening.”

Great day? Ya think?

He turned with a smile and walked away.

I watched. Intently. Fuck, those lats and shoulders. That ASS.

After he was out of sight, I ran inside, closed the deck doors, double-staired it to my bedroom loft, and within moments I was spraying the bathroom mirror with semen. My climax was so powerful that it hurt. It hurt soooo good. Goddamn, that Levi was the muscle man of my dreams.

And he was planning on coming over, that evening.

More cumming...


— —

* Don’t start. In view of how fried my brain was in the presence of this god, I make no apology for any and all errors of grammar, spelling, or actual existence (or lack thereof) of actual words.






This story is free. Your appreciation is priceless. Please write to me if you enjoyed this story. If you experience orgasm during the reading of this work, well… all the more reason to let me know how much you love me: This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

My very wankable website:


©©: 2020 & 2023, Sean Reid Scott


The above copyright is held under the Creative Commons License, noted forthwith: 

Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs || CC BY-NC-ND.


Additionally, the following conditions apply to reproducing this work:

Permission is hereby given to reproduce (heaven knows us gays can’t do that on our own), transmit and publish this work IF & ONLY IF the following conditions are stringently met (and I mean, stringently!):

    1. Said work must be published in its entirety only. An exception will be made for brief reviews (only if they’re favorable, though), so long as a link to the original website of publication ( is plainly and obviously attached to said review.
    2. Permission for publication is completely and utterly limited to the Internet/Web only. No paper printing of this work is allowed under any circumstances, unless granted in writing by The Author, Sean Reid Scott.
    3. (& this is a biggie:) Any and all publishment of this work on the Web must include the following:
        1. The Author’s name: Sean Reid Scott (with the prominence due such a luminary)
        2. A hyperlink to the home website of publication:
        3. Lots o’ love.
    1. This work (and any derivatives allowed under Clause One, above) must be published on the Web only, for the enjoyment of others only. NO HATEFUL, DEROGATORY, ANTI-GAY, EVIL, BAD or NEGATIVE (in any way) usage of this work is allowed. Nor will it be tolerated. Seanny has lawyers, k? No one is allowed to harvest the juicy, erotic, nasty, smutty stuff from this work and use it to further an agenda of hate and/or not liking gays. Got it? We are everywhere.

The above-cited Creative Commons License is binding. It is full. It is all-encompassing. It is exact and real. Nor does the aforementioned license stand alone regarding this work: The four CONDITIONS noted above (including the three alphabetized “biggies” subjugated under Number Three), must needs be adhered-to in addition to the Creative Commons License cited herein. The Author reserves the right to impose additional conditions (possibly retroactive) regarding the use and/or publication of this work, at his whim, without regard to anything.

So it is written. So shall it be.