Kris Evans





LogoLevi's Muscles — Chapter 3

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




Approx. 5,300 words








IE SETTLED INTO HIS COUCHES in front of his rock fireplace. He didn’t light it; it was August after all. He’d gotten us some beers. He spread his long, enormous arms across the couch where he sat and smiled at me. I just stared from the opposite couch.

“That was a pretty good meal,” he said.

“Yeah, it was.” I glanced around the two-story room. “Your uncle keeps a nice place—or I guess I should say, you keep a nice place here in your uncle’s cabin.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Yeah, it’s very comfortable.” He took a sip of beer.

I did likewise. Whenever he moved—and even when he didn’t, I guess—I studied the ripples and swells of his muscles. He was a work of art. For muscle-worshipping types like myself, the man was pornography.

“Whenever you’re ready, we can jump in the hot-tub,” he said, “if you want to.”

“Oh, yeah. That’d be cool,” I smiled nervously. “But don’t we have to wait, like, a half hour or something?”

His laugh was all-consuming. “Well, first of all, that’s an old wives’ tale. Believe me, I’m an occasional lifeguard. There’s no actual rule about that. And besides, I think the the old tale refers to getting cramps while you’re swimming. I think it’s a bit safer sitting in a hot-tub,” he chuckled.

SwimmyI pondered the concept of Levi being a lifeguard at a swimming pool. Inwardly, I just shook my head. I couldn’t imagine how that would work out. If I saw him up on a high perch, watching the swimmers, I’d be frozen in lust. How could anyone get any swimming done while he was there? Just sitting up there in sunglasses… watching… in just some kind of Speedos thing… just… fuck….

“Oh, yeah, I guess…” I said timidly. I don’t know if it was the beer, or the previous drinks, but I found some courage: “Can I ask you a question?”

“I think you just did,” he smiled.

Fucker. He beat me to the snark. I should have used that line when I had the chance. “Damn, I was gonna use that on you before, but I didn’t know how sarcastic you were.”

“Oh, I can be… quite.”

“Fair enough,” I said sipping a bit more for the last bit of courage I needed: “Do you ever compete in bodybuilding contests?”

“You bet,” he said. “I love to compete.”



“And… how do you do?”

He gave the the cutest smirk ever and said, “How do you think?”

I sneered at him. “Bastard.”

He laughed again; I decided at that moment I absolutely loved making Levi laugh. “I do okay…”

“You probably hardly ever win.”

“Ah, the sarcasm… yes, you’ve definitely got it. And yeah… hardly ever. Only, like, when I actually enter a show.”

“Bastard,” I rolled my eyes at him and he laughed. “But really, you…” I scanned his muscular body, “…you probably win all the time, huh? I mean, fuck, Levi, I’ve never seen anyone as big and defined as you. And I’ve been to a lot of bodybuilding shows, man.”

“Like looking at the big muscles, huh? Like I thought…” he grinned.

I didn’t respond.

“Well, yeah, actually I’ve won everything I’ve entered. Five shows in all.”

“No shit.”

“No shit.”

“Not surprised,” I smiled, once again assessing his body as he sat there.

“Only thing I don’t like about competing is that I have to shave. It can be a major task.”

I mumbled a soft, “Fuck,” and then said, “…yeah, there’s a lot of hair there… I mean…” I stared at his gorgeous, manly, hairy chest. “…on your chest. It’s nice and thick… I mean, it’s pretty thick hair.”

He smiled and took another drink. “Yeah, can’t help it. Genetics, you know.”

“Well, you have not only the hair genetics, but fuck, what a foundation you have… I mean, shit.”

He nodded and smiled. He genuinely didn’t seem to tire of my compliments, ogling and sizing up his physique. “Thanks. You gotta work with what you have….” He winked at me.

And fuck. Winking. He was so fuckin’ damn cute—on top of being huge. “Bastard,” I sneered.

And was rewarded with another laugh.

“Are you training for any contests right now?” I asked, pushing my luck, hoping he didn’t mind discussing the topic.

“Naw, summer’s pretty busy here, you know. I’ll probably find a contest in the spring to do. All depends.”

“And you’re how old?”


“Fuck. You’re so huge… you could easily go for late 20’s, just because of your size. Not that I’ve ever seen anyone, of any age, who looked like you.”


“But I mean, your face… your face though… you look like a teenager. Babyface, man.”

“Ha!” he laughed. “Well, I don’t think I’ve ever been called that.”

I smiled and raised my glass in a toast. After a moment of comfortable silence I went for the prize. Yeah, the booze was emboldening me. “Man, it’d be amazing… I mean… to see you up on stage, putting everyone else in his place.”

Once again his dimpled dented with his heavenly smile. “Well, I’ll have to keep in touch with you and let you know when I decide to do a show again.”

I nodded. “That’d actually be cool.” But I was running out of avenues… I was hoping against hope that I could talk him in to taking off his shirt. I mean, yeah, he was already wearing a pretty-much transparent tank top, and yeah, we were planning on getting into the hot-tub pretty soon. But I really wanted him to do it in here, in better light… and to actually flex for me. It’d be different in the water.

“You’ve been to a bunch of shows,” he said. “But do you ever compete?” he asked.

“Me?” I glanced down at my runner’s build. Okay, maybe a swimmer’s build. I looked back up at him. “Yeah right.”

He was serious, “No, actually you could do pretty well in the physique division, man.”

“Really? You think?”

“I mean, you’d definitely want to bulk a little, but you really have a nice build, Callum. Very well proportioned, man.” He was looking at my body pretty intensely.

“I’ll take that as the highest compliment, coming from the man of muscle himself,” I laughed.

He smiled back. “Well, I’m serious. You’re right there, on the edge of competition. Probably could get there in a year or so. …in physique.”

I actually thought of it for a second. But no. I was pretty happy with my build—at least considering my genetics. And I really favored running the most. But still, having him say all that… fuck, I was beaming inside.

“…one is your favorite?”

Holy fuck, not again! I must have come across like the biggest schmuck in the entire world. He must’ve thought I was beyond rude for not paying attention to what he said. “I’m sorry?” I said, red-faced.

“Oh, I was just wondering, when you go to bodybuilding contests, what poses do you like? Which one is your favorite?”

Holy shit. Was he really willing to move forward on this? This is exactly where I wanted to go. “Oh, I guess… well, the double-bi is always a benchmark, you know? But only if the guy has decent arms I guess.”

He sat forward. Yeah, this is exactly what I was hoping for. I gulped hard at what was coming. With a dramatic flair, he slowly raised his arms—with his fingers extended at first, then as he bent his elbows, he wound his hands into fists and flexed his biceps. “You mean, like this?” he smiled.

Holy… fucky, fucky, fuck! His arms ballooned and hardened into a couple of soccer balls! Rippling, growing soccer balls! As he held his arms up, he began to tremble with the effort of tightening them. And the result was the most freakish, separated, distended mass of split biceps peaks imaginable. Even beyond what you could imagine.

I got sick to my stomach. Truth. The display of powerful manliness and stunning virility was beyond the pale. And even though he was exerting obvious effort—it was so hot how he trembled when he strained to make his muscles bigger—in order to show off to me, his beautiful face never lost its gorgeous appeal. The man was perfection. All wrapped up in one enormous package. One gigantic arresting muscle package.

“Holy fuck,” I burst. “I’ve never… seen arms like that!”

He relaxed and lowered his arms with the same grace that he’d used to raise them. “Thanks.”

“Holy fucky, fuck,” I continued, “No wonder you always win! I mean… I didn’t doubt it at all… I mean, the minute I saw you, I thought, holyfuck, that’s the best muscle body I’ve ever… I mean, just wow!” I was falling into a vortex of muscle lust, and my mouth was not going to save me. It was pulling me down farther and faster.

“Thanks,” he said politely, with just a tinge of a twinkle in his eyes.

I tried to collect myself. I needed to adjust my boner in my shorts.

“Any other poses you like?” he taunted. Fuck, the fucker had me so pegged as the muscle worshipper I was.

“Oh… all of ‘em, I guess… you know… I mean… I can’t imagine you have a weak body part anywhere, right?”

“Oh, everyone has a weak part,” he said. “But everyone has a favorite body part too, I guess.

“I suppose. What’s yours? Favorite body part?”

“Chest, I suppose.”

“Fuck… I mean, yeah. Your pecs are so… hair… I mean, they’re so big, and thick… and…”

He sat up tall again and slowly rolled his pecs under his see-through shirt. Like I mentioned before, his tank top really did nothing to hide anything. As he flexed his chest—just for me, mind you—you could see his areola and nipples moving, and the waves of muscle moved from up to down and all over the world. The worlds. Each pec was a planet unto itself. Massive, undulating, orgasm inducing.

Indeed, if he didn’t stop showing off I was in serious danger of coming. Truth. Here I was, one-on-one with this perfect muscle man, and he was showing off to me. I didn’t know I could get so painfully hard. And now that I thought about it, there was no way in hell I could get into a hot-tub… not now… not with him… not under these erect circumstances. No way in hell

Levi stopped flexing and sat back. “You like that, huh?”

I couldn’t admit it. “I mean… you know… you’re obviously… amazing.”

“Well, thank you. I’m glad you approve.”

My mouth, un-commanded from my brain (I swear) blurted out, “Do I ever.”

He chuckled. “Good. Thank you.”

I tried to push myself back in to the couch and collect myself. I was hot. I was flustered, I needed some more booze. I took another sip.

“So, do you want to go out there?” he nodded to his deck, where his hot-tub sat.

Fuck yeah. And see you take off that tank top? And those cut-offs? “Well, I dunno,” I said, reality saving me. “Like I said, I don’t have my trunks.”

“No problem,” he said in all seriousness. “I don’t ever wear one in the tub.”


“But if that makes you uncomfortable, we don’t have to….” He genuinely looked a bit disappointed. “But seriously, man,” he continued… and his eyes seemed to rake over me, “you definitely don’t have anything to be ashamed of, dude. You’re really well-built. Really good proportions.”

“Oh, well, I dunno. I’m sorry.” I hated all of this. I wanted nothing more. But I’d be damned if I was going to walk out there with my flag pole raised to full mast, in front of this god and everybody—obviously showing him exactly what all his muscles did to me. Fuck no.

And what the fuck was with him complimenting my body?

“No worries,” he said. He took a good, long look at my crotch.

I squirmed to pull my legs together and looked for a couch pillow to cover myself with. Nothing around. I’m sure I looked like a shy schoolgirl trying to be chaste.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said.

“I think you just did,” I snipped with a smile.

“Touché,” he grinned. But he looked at my crotch area again with seriousness. “Do I make you uncomfortable? I mean, when I flexed for you? Did that make you uncomfortable?”

“Me? No! Not at all, man. I think you look like no man I’ve ever seen! Amazing!”

He smiled. “Thanks. It’s just because… well, you seemed to kind of be uncomfortable while you sat there, while you were looking at me flex. There,” he said, “it seems like you are squirming. Is that couch okay?”

Fuck, he was outing me. I could see he was trying to be non-threatening, but for sure he was outing the fact that I had this protuberance in my pants. “Oh, yeah,” I said, “it’s very comfortable, man. I just… I dunno. Might be that I ate too much.”

“Ah… I see.” He sat back, seeming to be satisfied with my answer. But he wasn’t. “Because, well, I just wanted you to know that… it’s not uncommon….” He clearly glanced down at my crotch again.

“Not… uncommon?”

“Your reaction.”

“My reaction?”

“Yeah. It’s happened before. And just so you know, I don’t get offended by it at all. So please don’t worry about it.”

Fuck. “I… I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He smiled softly. “I’m actually sure, Callum, that you do.” He raised one eyebrow.

I coughed. Where was a pillow? What guy doesn’t keep some damn pillows on his couch? I couldn’t say anything.

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, man,” he continued. “We don’t have to talk about it. I won’t bring it up again, if you don’t.” His smile was a tad devilish now. And he’d put just the right amount of emphasis on “up” to make his meaning clear.

And obviously, I had brought it “up”. Or, it had been brought “up” as a natural response to what I was seeing. Again, I didn’t say anything.

He shifted on the couch, seeming to want to change the subject. As it turned out, the subject wasn’t that far off from where we’d just been. “So, if I took off my shirt and found some posers, would you want to see me flex my muscles for you?” Yeah, like this would be totally different than what had been bringing me “up”. The fucker.

“Oh, well….”

“I mean, you said you like going to shows and all….”

“Yeah. Oh, yeah. That’d be cool. That way I wouldn’t have to wait till spring to see… your routine.”

“Sweet. I mean, I’m not shaved at all, obviously,” he said, “but I think if you look close enough you’ll be able to see my off-season definition, under my hair.”

The idea of off-season bodybuilders struck me. Most of ‘em usually looked kinda fat. “Dude, you don’t look off-season. Not in any way. What is your body fat right now?”

“Oh, I took it a few days ago: Seven percent.”

“Fuck. I know a lot of guys go into contests like that,” I said. “I mean, not like that,” I added, indicating his body. “I mean with seven percent fat. I don’t know anyone anywhere who could go into a contest like that,” I said, again ogling his muscles.

He smiled. “Well, lemme go grab some posers out of my bedroom.” He stood and stopped. “If you want…”

Fuck yeah. I cleared my throat again. “That’d be cool,” I said with an effort to be nonchalant.

“Sweet. I’ll be right back.”

I took the opportunity to, as best I could, adjust my Washington Monument.

When he came back, I was glad he actually hadn’t taken off his tank top. I kinda wanted to see the unveiling. But then… he hadn’t changed out of his cut-offs either. He was holding a yellow thing in his hand—not much fabric at all, mind you, and this meant he’d be taking off his shorts right in front of me, and then slipping on the posers. OhLordyLordyLordy. How was this even possible? I woke up this morning a normal man; now I was about to witness, in person, what only the most elite of our world ever witness: Muscle Perfection unveiled.

When he got to the couch where he’d been sitting, right in front of me, he stood at the side of the end and tossed the yellow nylon thingy on the armrest. Without further ado, he pulled on the waistline of his thin tank top, untucking it. I couldn’t actually believe how pronounced and lumpy his abs were—and now fucking sexy and tiny his waist was. He had naturally narrow hips, and with the absence of fat, his hip to shoulder-width ratio had to be astronomical! Just a mind-boggling physique!

With the grace of a gazelle, he pulled his tank top up and over his head, and I now saw his bare upper body. In all its fucking glory. He took a few breaths and just stood there, obviously knowing that I wanted to just look.

“Holy fuck,” I mumbled. I shook my head slightly, not believing what I was seeing. He was like an Internet morph, actually. Just so freakin’ big. Just so sensually gorgeous. I had no idea how much I loved hair up until today. And hirsute or not, his muscles were—hands down—the hottest expression of masculinity and power I’d ever seen. Ever. Just amazingly perfect proportions. Everything tied into everything with grace and symmetry. All those gorgeous muscles, just staring me in the face.

I came. Honest-to-god. While I sat there, looking at this shirtless magnificence, I started coming in my shorts. I hadn’t so much as pressed on myself, and I was filling my shorts with jizz. Holy shit. I did my best to remain still and act like nothing was happening. I coughed, trying to conceal the jerking of my cock. I didn’t know what else to do. This had never happened.

He gave no indication he knew what he’d done to me, just by taking off his shirt. He began to undo his denim shorts. He pulled down his zipper.

And I kept filling my pants. I could feel the warm wetness seeping around my cock.

He watched his long fingers while he opened his denim shorts. OhMyGod: He wasn’t wearing any underwear. His brown pubes became more and more exposed as he pulled his pants open.

I continued to ejaculate

This was happening.

The muscle god was stripping all the way down. While I watched. Just for me.

Continuing, without speaking he started to shimmy his shorts lower. The root of his cock was visible, and it was fucking thick. And it was apparently pretty long, because the end of it was nowhere to be found. Yet. The shaft pointed downward, obviously into one of his legs… and for the first time it occurred to me that I had not noticed how big and long the thing was. I mean, he was commando! So, where, and how, had he been hiding that thing all evening? Had I not even seen it when we were sitting in his rig? Must’ve been that his freaking huge forearm blocked my view. Also must’ve been that I was, a) too nervous to venture my eyes to that area, and b) too overwhelmed by all of his muscles to consider it.

And speaking of forearms, while his masculine fingers wriggled and worked on his zipper and shorts, they caused the muscles in his arms to ripple and undulate. Fucky, fuck. Despite being coated with a light dusting of brown-blond hair, his thick forearms were exquisite in the way they waved with brawn.

He kept his attention on the task at hand—didn’t look up at me to see how intently I was watching. I suppose he didn’t want to make me even more uncomfortable than I already was. (Not possible anyway.)

My cock was virtually screaming with its release. I couldn’t believe that I was looking at this shirtless monster—muscle perfection—pulling down his denim shorts, his entire cock only seconds away from bursting forth. While I was coming.

And when he did burst forth moments later, I literally gasped. Aloud. (I mentioned I couldn’t be more uncomfortable than I already was? Yeah, I just proved that premise wrong.)

Levi payed me no mind.

But I was nearing a state of seizure. Truth. The organ between his legs reached halfway to his knees!

He had to work hard at shimmying his shorts down, over his quads. I don’t know how he did it without ripping them apart. Seriously. They were huge! Once he got them past the tight sticking point, he pushed them a bit more, let them fall to his ankles, stepped out of them, toed them, and with his foot, tossed them up on his couch.

Now, still not talking, and still not meeting my eyes, all innocent-like, he took his hands and began brushing his body, starting with his chest, working his way down. As if… as if there was a bunch of dust he needed to remove. Or maybe… as if he were fluffing up his body hair. Yet, when he got down to his quads (they were pretty hairless, naturally), he continued to move his palms and fingers over them. Like he was just, you know… I don’t know… brushing himself off.

Clearly, as I later concluded, this was merely Levi letting me look at his stupendous, naked physique. He totally understood that if he looked at me, or if he engaged me in convo, I’d flip into some kind of re-boot sequence, unable to… whatever. By “brushing himself off” with his hands, slowly and thoroughly, he was giving me ample time to… just enjoy. Just fucking enjoy.

He brushed off his gigantic arms too. And his pecs again. And his abs. Needed to get a lot of stuff off his abs apparently. Then his legs again. And holy fuck. His galaxy-sized, veiny legs. He tightened one leg into rippling mass, and then the other. And then he dusted them off again, making sure…. Then his hands moved a bit higher, to the top of his legs, and his waist. Then, he actually moved his fingers close enough to his dangling, elephantine cock to inadvertently (yeah) bump it and make it swing to and fro. And he inspected his pubes carefully, pulling and pushing his fingers through them, making sure…. Then between his legs again, and damn if his long shaft didn’t get in the way again… a few times more.

Fucky, fucky, fuck!

I don’t remember exactly when I finished my involuntary orgasm, but it was sometime during this brushing session. I do remember flexing my cock in an attempt to get out the last gurgle sometime while he brushed his muscles off.

His balls were all kinds of big and round. His pubes were thick at the base of his trunk, but he trimmed his balls; they were plump fruits encased in low-dangling sacs of virility. One had to wonder what wonders of induced wonder were held in those twin coconuts. One had to.

And mind you, these genitals were housed on the most amazing body of muscle you could imagine. The entire picture threatened to totally undo me.

Admittedly, his shaft was a wonder. I mean, a wonder of the world. Probably the eighth one. The eighth wonder of the world. I don’t know what I’m saying. He was cut, and the plump, purple head had a thick cut of skin gloriously surrounding it, setting it off as the spectacular beauty that it was. But it was the shaft itself that made me dizzy. Veins? Holy fuck there were veins. Thick? Hell. Long? Bring me the tape measure! Like I said, halfway to his knees. Actually, now it looked more than halfway.

I wanted to groan. So I did. Shit, I was a goner.

He eventually stopped primping his massive muscles and just stood there for a second, pausing, to… to let me look. He decided to put me at ease by lifting one hand to examine his fingernails. Yeah, the guy was so in tune with what I wanted: to look. They must’ve been dirty; he took a very long time to make sure they were good.

When he lowered his hand to his side again, he finally looked at me. Our eyes met. He was silent for a long moment more, and then said matter-of-fact: “What do you think?”

My eyes bugged. What do you fucking think I think?! “Just… holy shit, man.”

He seemed to be satisfied with my answer, but not stuck on himself because of it. “Thanks.” He looked at his posers, sitting on the armrest next to his leg. But he didn’t move for it. He looked back up at me, paused, then back down at the fabric. “You want me to put those on?”

I couldn’t answer.

“So I can pose for you?”

Still, I couldn’t talk. But the thought occurred that he didn’t have to put them on in order to pose. Just sayin’.

He decided to take action, while he grabbed the posers, he said, “Usually when I’m home alone, I don’t use them. But it’s always good to get in some practice with them. You have to make sure they stay put when you’re gyrating all over the stage with the various poses. Especially when you bend down or kneel.” He fumbled with the tiny thong-like garment and continued. “I once saw a guy posing during a contest…” he was intently looking at what his fingers were working on, “…and while he was in the middle of his routine, he fell out of his posing strap. His posers slipped to the side—the whole thing shifted, and well… there he was… his cock and balls… right in front of everyone. Right there on stage.”


Levi chuckled while he pulled his thong open. “Yeah. Got disqualified. They don’t take kindly to wardrobe malfunctions in competitions.”

“Ha. I bet,” I said.

“So yeah…” he pulled the thing open and bent forward. He put one foot in, then the other. While he started to pull the yellow thing up, watching his progress, he continued, “so… I have to make sure I keep everything inside. I’m kind of a big guy, I guess… I mean, you know… this…” he stopped with the posers at about knee level and put one hand behind his cock and balls; he pushed his genitals forward, apparently wanting to note the fact that he was indeed “kind of a big guy.”

Ya think? The dude was torturing me. I realized all of this later. And to be honest, I had a feeling about that when it was all happening. Levi just seemed so uninhibited. So willing to show me everything. Without shame. Not that he was leering at me or anything. He just seemed so oblivious to anything that might be embarrassing.

He bent down again and continued to pull up his yellow posers. They were pretty stretchy, so traversing the tremendous expanse of his quads was quite a bit easier than when he’d had to struggle with his cut-offs. His shoulders, kind of pointing right at me then, were unbelievable. Thick muscles. Bulging and expanding muscles. Obviously hard muscles.

He stood erect now, pulling his posers into place. Yet it would take him a few moments to make everything… all… you know… positioned. And secure. And who knew, but the skimpy garment was probably, like, 15 sizes too small, I’d estimate. Okay maybe that was an exaggeration. But I promise it is the only exaggeration of this entire story, okay. Truth. Regardless, no matter how long he kept his hand down his shorts and moved things around, there was no way that thing could do the job. No way could he go out in public like that. No way they’d let him on stage like that. No way he’d be legal looking like that.

Not that I was complaining, mind you.

His muscled body was tan—richly tan. Perfect, tanned skin. Like a golden Greek god. And the combination of that tan skin, his streaked brown-blond hair and those yellow posers… so incredibly hot. Kill me now please.

The veins of his cock were plainly visible, both behind the fabric and exposed because of the lack of fabric. And his Visible Penis Line (VPL)… gorgeously obscene. OhMyGod. His balls were clearly exposed, at least a portion of them. I’d venture to say that the fabric covered barely half of his genitals, actually. Yeah—not legal.

While he continued to struggle with… everything… he said, “I’d never wear these to a contest, but I like practicing in them. I figure if I can keep everything contained in these, my stage posers will be no problem.”

I eked out a soft… “Yeahhhhh….” I tried to discreetly check myself for signs of wetness down there. Initial inspection turned up nothing visible. ThankGod.

The muscle god finished fiddling with himself and stood tall again. “What do you think?” he asked again.

“Fuck, Levi. Just fucking fuck.”

He grinned. “You like? You think I gotta chance?” he said all coy and sweet.

“Fuck.” Then I added softly, my go-to: “Fucky, fucky, fuck.”

He chuckled. “Thanks.” He made one more adjustment, down there, then looked at me again: “Can I ask you a question?” he said with a sly smile.

I gave him a knowing sneer.

“What would you say is your favorite body part… not just at a bodybuilding show, but on me specifically?”

I swallowed hard. Easy, quick answer: Chest. Then arms. Then legs. Then shoulders. Then abs. Then everything. Of course, this list only considered the muscles not at least partially encased in a sorry excuse for posing trunks. But I couldn’t just blurt out chest. Could I? I mean, we both, by now, knew what was going on here, didn’t we? But we were still playing a kind of cat-and-mouse game weren’t we? Could I just say it?

Apparently I could: “Chest.”

“Really?” he grinned. “That’s cool. Chest is my favorite body part to work out. Second’s arms. Then legs. Then shoulders. Then abs.”

The guy was a mind-reader too.

Levi inhaled a deep breath, expanding his gigantic chest—into the room. He let the air out slowly. Then he extended one hand to me. “C’m ’ere,” he said with a friendly smile.



More? Cumming right up!






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