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|First there was their rehearsal. This was timed to happen between the morning
pre-judging and lunch. I climbed into my tightest muscle-leather and rode the
bike to their hotel. When they saw what I was wearing, I could tell their dicks
hardened a few inches.
Shit! He likes leather too! We're in luck up to our necks! Just wait till I get hold of that stud's butt in his leather!
Meanwhile they had to wait impatiently also for the pre-judging to end. They sat in the front row of the seats commenting lewdly on the merits, physical, sexual and otherwise, of each (male) competitor. I noticed They weren't prepared to waste time watching the women.
They checked their props, arranged their setting with the crew, focused their special lights (they'd had various equipment sent over from the States, complete with special control console which they now taught the local guys, through me, how and when to operate it. More consultations with the follow-spot operators, then a dry run of their show, with the sound tape, while they mimed their way through it. Once they'd been through it all three times they'd had enough. And so had everyone else. Time for lunch.
After shaking hands with the effusive and grateful organizer of the show, they carried me off to the most expensive hotel in Manchester for lunch. And then they dropped their bombshell. While my jaw dropped lower and lower their Click-'n-Clack Brothers' duet went something like this:
We've been talking a lot about you since you left us last night -
Not just about how we're gonna fuck you tonight after the show -
But about a more permanent relationship.
Yeah, mauling your beautiful muscles and fucking them very night -
We feel we've gone just about as far as we can go with our act and, even though it's been a world success and made us very rich, we need a change.
And we think you're that change!
Shut up and listen!
(Yeah but what........)
Shut up or you don't get fucked tonight!
Don't get to fuck us either!
(I didn't know which was worse, so I shut up and left my jaw on the floor)
We want you -
We're inviting you -
We're inviting you to come back to the States and train with us and make the Karamazov Brothers into the Three Karamazov Brothers!
(Silence my end)
Well, whadda you think, kid?
(I guess it was the "kid" that did for me)
But. My job - and I'm so much smaller than you - and......
Hey, that's peanuts! In a month in Las Vegas you'll have made five times as much as you can make over here in a year -
- And as for size we're gonna start growing you tonight!
Along with all that "growth" we're gonna make you real big in the gym, training our way!
Shit, guys, I don't know what to say!
Don't say anything till tonight when we're fucking. But be sure you say it then, OK? Think about it all afternoon and answer us after we've fucked. OK?
Hey, don't make him run before he can walk, brother! Steve, come back with us for three months and see how you like it - and us. We're pretty sure we're gonna like you, but if you feel you can't handle it when the three months are up, we'll send you back a lot richer than when you arrived., OK?.
Me: Guys, I really don't know what to say. I'm bewitched bothered and bewildered. Your offer sounds just great - like some dream I've been chasing these last months. Yeah, I'll think it over and let you know tonight.
Lunch over, they dragged me, willing and unwilling, up to their room but, once they'd locked the door, all they wanted to do was seal their offer with hugs and kisses, seizing me and squashing me between them, deep-throat kissing me, mashing my glutes and my pecs, twisting my nips, all that till I came. Only when I had loosed my torrential splooge, shuddering and spasming between their two hulks of muscle, did they let me go and show me firmly to the door. They were going to sleep until I came to collect them for the show that evening. Then I was to attend them during their warm-up in the pump-up room and help them to get ready for their act..
"And don't forget to bring your toothbrush - it's gonna be a long night!"
Of course I spent the rest of the day in a total daze. Weighing up the pros and cons of going, not going with them. Shit, we hardly knew each other and here they were offering me Paradise on a plate! Somehow all the practical objections paled into nothing beside the promise of what the future might bring. And what would it bring here? More of the same, training other people, dieting, carbing down, carbing up, and all for what? Certainly not for the kind of riches they were indicating could be mine, and certainly not for what I could achieve personally with their help.
I decided to say, give away nothing until they finally popped the question - whenever that might be that night.
The star that shone above all doubts and desires was the image of being One of Them - the Karamazov Brothers! That would surely mend all my earlier shattered Olympic hopes and vastly overtake Bodybuilding Contest Glory - a glory that might be in my reach anyway! They seemed determined to make me as big as they were, and that "big" was bigger than Olympian already!
Already I could "feel" my muscles answering to them, swelling, hardening into mega-mass like theirs. As I was riding home from their hotel, I flexed my pecs on the bike, spread my lats and tightened my quads, imaging them growing and bulging obscenely out of my leathers. Imaging their bis being flexed under my nose, my dick squeezed between their mighty quads, a giant dick splurting splooge down my greedy throat while mine rammed up the fuck-hole in between of a pair of huge glutes.
In my effort not to cum, I nearly fell off the bike; somehow I made it home, yanked off the leathers and boots and collapsed on my own bed, star-blinded.
Wearing a pair of ultra-tight jeans and a loose fitting white string tank which hid hardly any of my tanned top half, I rode to the hotel where I met their "personal" limo and driver, kindly provided by the muscle-minded local Merc dealer who was sponsoring the show (and paying heir huge fee), and took them off to warm up in the pump-up room.
They caused a sensation as they shed not only their flattering mole-skin jump suits but also every vestige of underwear. Their sexual glory was there for all to see but they behaved as if no one was in the room except themselves - and me. If I had wondered how they coud dispose their huge equipment while performing acrobatics, I needn't have worried. First of all a skin-thin flesh-colored thong pulled their long fuck-poles between their legs, then a blue-silver glittering exhibition thong went on top of that, their huge nuts filling the pouch to capacity. That afternoon they had thrown me a skimpy jock made of some strange clingy, elastic material and told me to wear it tonight. ht jock tonight and now I could see why. If I hadn't, I would be cumming all over them: half the competitors were risking their contest chances by doing just that and having to change their own posers in a hurry.
When the brothers started to flex and warm up there were audible groans all around the room as Russian muscles flexed and glowed, and veins popped all over the place like rivers suddenly loosed from a dam. Instead of using equipment to warm up, they used each other, straining and pulling isometrically against each other's strength. It was like a slow-motion graeco-roman wrestling match, neither giving way to the other's powerful muscle. It was the most sensual muscle display I'd ever seen and, boy! was I glad I was wearing that ultra-tight jock!
Then it was my turn to risk disaster: they threw me a pot of some kind of tan-colored grease and told me to massage it into them. Actually it was not grease but some kind of color which, whe ir dried, gave them a dramatic sheen under lights without being in any way slippery or endangering the handholds that enabled the act.
I'd always enjoyed oiling up muscle studs' muscles for a contest. That's when muscles feel at their best and their inevitable reaction is to flex and relax jin response to the third party's hands, or embraces, depending on who's doing it. It always mad me hard when some one was oiling my muscles up for me.
Now these two muscle monsters used the opportunity to tease me in Russian about what they were going to do to me tonight. Even though they spoke in Russian I could feel my face blushing hot red and my dick straining to react inside the tight prison of the jock they had given me.
Yeah, you can feel that dick growing, bulging, wanting to cum! Is it throbbing, boy? Wanna feel a good hard dick up your backside, boy? Get fucked both ends, boy? Wanna fight your pecs against mine, boy? Wanna squeeze my big glutes while I sit on your face, jerking you off, boy? Wanna lick my big muscles, boy? Lick those thick throbbing veins, boy? Want me to hold you upside down so you can swallow my brother's dick, boy?
And on and on they went, oblivious of the effect they were having on me and those who were still goggling at the three of us. Later I discovered this was their way of psyching themselves up for their act. Then they could go on, adrenalin rushing through them, and perform the most amazingly impossible feats of strength, balance and muscle ever seen by man.
And was I to be part of all this? Could I really be as big as them? Even with all my gymnastic training could I ever be good enough for them? Could I possibly back out with all that staring me in the face? You'll see.
If I ever had doubts, these were dispelled by what happened at the end of the evening's show. The two of them came back on stage - they had already had tumultuous and unending applause for their act, and now they reappeared in their more-or-less naked glory to present the prizes to the overall winner of the night. Once they had persuaded the dazzled champ to leave his statue on the ground (for me to pick up) and had raised his hands in theirs for a victory salute, they threw him on to their shoulders and paraded him around the auditorium to the screams of adoring fans and back on to the stage for more photographs.
I was real jealous. And they could tell I was. Their grins said it all. And their grins promised more for that momentous night.
After they had shaken all the obligatory hands of fans and officials, they pleaded their flight to Paris to avoid sitting through the banquet. Before I knew it, we were up in their room: I was commanded to lock the door and come into the shower to remove their show-color.
And so the great seduction began.
Not that the operation needed any help.
Squeezed between the two giants in a shower built for one person at a time made it both awkward and ultra-sensuous as I turned from one to the other. Or one turned me round from the other. Three pairs of hands were everywhere, and not just where the comp color had to come off. I had none, after all, but that didn't stop the other two pairs soaping me up whenever, and wherever, possible. Not to mention the constant total body contact we were all enjoying. The water was automatically lubing our muscular masses and the gel the hotel provided was only going to make things more slippery and more suggestive. Rammed up against each other in the tiny space we couldn't help maximum physical contact and the brothers were certainly determined to make me feel just how tight-packed we were as we slid and writhed against each others' muscles. I certainly wasn't going to complain - at least, not until Sergei started to shove his soap-lubed dick up my ass. Unfortunately, (or fortunately depending on how you see it) when I turned away to avoid him, we were pressed so tightly together that Alexei immediately shoved his up me instead. So I exerted all my force to turn Sergei around and shoved mine up him.
But I told you all this at the beginning of the story.
Now, sated for the time being (only for the time being), Sergei gave tongue (no, I did not mean that kind.)
"OK, out of this shower and down to business!"
But it seemed they meant it. We toweled off and wrapped dry ones around our midriffs. Sergei insisted we sit in three armchairs, each provided with a copious supply of vodka (imported by grace of Karamazov). Alexei starts off by quizzing me about my gymnastics: did I still practice? Yes. How about the injury. No longer a problem. How was I in my gymnastic routines compared with my Olympic days? Better, if anything.
Sergei interpolates "How many times a week do you have sex?" Not often enough. "Why not?" Alexei shuts him up, but Sergei caps the discussion with "We can soon fix that!".
We want you to consider seriously coming back with us to train and eventually joining us in the act. WHAT? We've already told you we find ourselves at a crossroads and now we discover you are too. What have you got to lose?
Come with us for a few weeks, all expenses paid and we'll ship you back first class if it doesn't work out. Now, have another vodka while you think it over.
What did I have to think over? And what did I have to lose? Nothing but my job - and where was I going to get with that? Anyway, these two fuckers were so darn seductive: Sergei had deliberately let his towel fall open and now he was wagging his woody at me and grinning over the top his glass. Alexei pulled his towel off and flicked it at Sergei's dick - hard. Both the flick and the dick.
A few practical questions from me and reassurances from them and the deal was made. Yes, I'll do it!
Whoops of delight, towels off, more vodka and on to the bed.
My head buzzing from the alcohol and the excitement, Sergei pulled me down on top of him and Alexei threw himself on top of me. Almost immediately this muscle sandwich became a mass of writhing muscle. Now an alcoholic sweat lubricated our bodies as we went slipping, sliding, squeezing, punching, grabbing, kissing, jerking on our way to nirvana.
Our hard dicks were very conscious of each other's desire as they telegraphed demands to our brains. Completely uninhibited we kissed, sucked and fucked in a hundred different and unknown positions. I was fully aware that the two brothers were making me their focus as if they were both determined to see that I understood that thid was what life with the Karamazovs was going to be like.
As Alexei sunk his huge dick into me at one end and Sergei at the other while massaging my weeping member in his calloused hand I felt, for the first time since the Olympic Team, that I belonged somewhere. That I belonged with them.
Once Alexei had filled my love channel with his muscle-juice he sat on my hard studpole, laughing as he bounced up and down to the root, forcing me to cum. Sergei shut him by standing over us and shoving his log down his brother's throat. Then it was my turn to fuck Sergei. I was half-way there when Alexei shoved his pole in alongside mine. Sergei yelled and started to pump his pelvis up and down on both our dicks.
Now I really felt I belonged with them, especially when Alexei and I exploded simultaneously inside Sergei, and he shot his torrent straight into my mouth. We ended (this part of the session) by sharing his splooge between our three mutually kissing mouths.
Now, did I belong or what?
We lay there, spent, me sandwiched between their two muscle hulks, and talked. They told me that they'd be off to Paris for a few days (I hoped they had no show tomorrow night - a tomorrow which was now today!) To give me the chance to get things straight. We'd meet again at Heathrow and fly back to Las Vegas where their trainer would meet us.
Yuri was the real Karamazov - they had borrowed his name when they opened their act - they would call him in the morning and tell him what had happened between us - at least, the relevant parts. Yuri would now be my trainer too - entirely responsible for exercise, diet and his own special supplements. I'd have to knuckle down and do whatever he instructed. He had made them and now he would make me.
Sergei let me know with nods and winks that "made" had more than one meaning - even in Russian.
Then they began to stroke me - Alexei first, then Sergei joined in. Their touch was so soft, so seductive, so frighteningly, amazingly sexy, that the four-handed treatment was almost more exciting than the crazy, vodka-tonic sex we had just enjoyed. Between them they drove me crazy as their hands sought out ever part fo my body, exposed and unexposed. Several times they ahd to push me back and calm me down, determined to extend the treatment as long as possible.
I could feel my nuts churning up with new supplies of muscle-milk and Alexei told me that the longer they made me wait to better it would be. Just hold it back, boy! Shut your eyes and lie back.
I did as I was told and forced my libido to relax. I found that by not allowing my muscles to contract with the excitement, I could really appreciate the Russian massage 300% more than before. They cooed and whispered delicious obscenities in my ears as they stroked and stroked and..........
Then suddenly fingers thrust in and pummeled my prostate and I erupted, spasm after spasm for what seemed like minutes on end. It was the most exquisite cumming I had ever experienced. They joined the glistening jizz on my chest and face with their own pent-up offering, the proceeded to massage it all into my muscles.
I was hardly conscious of a warm wet towel cleaning me up as I fell asleep in the arms of the two giants. God knows what they did to me after that. Whatever it was, they were welcome!
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