MR. SAMPSON’S MUSCLE PALACE
R. W. Clinger

I was a beef-head all the way and had the muscles to prove it. At twenty-three, my biceps were the size of watermelons and my abs were like speed bumps. I couldn’t tell you how thick my neck was, but all my queer friends and fellow workout buddies said it looked like a barrel. All those guys loved my hulking, hairless and ripped chest, not that I blamed them. And let’s not forget to mention the tube of uncut cock between my legs. The dick was almost nine inches long when it was fully erect and two inches thick. Think porn-quality stuff. Think XXX all the way. And think ouch! Because I knew what to do to please a man.

My boss, Dean Naylor at the Village Herald, was into redheads and queers, but still wouldn’t provide me with a serious article to write. I would have let him bounce up and down on my dick if he gave me the John Doe murder down on 6th Street, or drug deals that were being practiced after midnight behind the First Lutheran Church on Dixie Street. But Naylor denied having an attraction to my beefy bod and fall-into green eyes; I knew better. In the end, I got stuck with the shitty stories: favorite places to buy teacups in the city, hoarders, and a new flavor of ice cream at Renaldo’s Splits & Fountain Bar.

So I was hot, a stud, and I could write. My degree in journalism was obtained at Temple. I didn’t have a boyfriend, stayed away from sugar, and I liked to work out at least four times a week, sometimes five; it all depended on my schedule. And I had a great pair of balls, which almost prompted me to walk into Naylor’s office, strip out of my khakis and too-small tee and show him my cut frame so he would give me an intriguing and serious article to write. The guy probably would have urinated himself with surprise at my drooping balls and thatch of thick red hair above my shaft. Saliva would have maybe dripped out of his mouth. But those actions didn’t happen because I played it cool; I needed the job, the paycheck, and showed him respect.

Naylor didn’t work out, but I didn’t hold that against him. He was still handsome, with his firm jaw, broad shoulders, and dark scruff on his chin and cheeks.

I sat across from him at his desk, adjusted my cock and balls (for his pleasure) a few times in his presence, and listened to the story he wanted me to create.

“There’s a new gym in town I want you to do a piece on, Kurt,” he said, checking out the khaki outline of my private parts between my thick thighs. He licked his lips and smiled, delighted with my available goods.

“Is it Pulls and Pushes on Mercer Avenue?” I asked. The mentioned gym was thirty days old and my roommate, Mike Puller, worked there.

He shook his head, passed me a business card and said, “It’s a private gym. There’s no sign out front as of yet, this is how new the business is. Some of its patrons are calling the place Mr. Sampson’s Muscle Palace.”

I wanted to laugh but didn’t. Instead, I looked down at the black-and-white business card and saw that there was an address and nothing more. No phone number. No manager’s or owner’s names. No website. No witty blurb to advertise the place and lure fellow beefsters such as myself to work out there.

“I’ll give you three days for a story. No later.”

I accepted the writing gig, fingered the plain card and left his office so he could masturbate and unload the hard dick that he was hiding under his desk from me.

My straight roommate, a twenty-four-year-old muscled jarhead who’d spent two terms in Afghanistan, looked at the business card Naylor had given me and said, “I know the guy who runs that place.”

“Mr. Sampson?”

“Darnell Sampson. He’s big and black with muscles the size of planets. He has dreadlocks and a grin that will make you come inside your boxer-briefs, without the thing even being touched.”

“You’re fucking with me, Mike,” I said, disbelieving him.

Mike was now a physical-fitness trainer and knew the right things to eat, the vitamins to take and the weights to lift. He was making a protein shake at our kitchen counter, scooping chocolate powder into a blender and talking to me. “Cross my heart. I’m telling the truth.”

I checked out his well-built frame again and found his pretty-boy blond looks irresistible. He was into Nebraska cowgirls though, and I didn’t stand a chance with him. There was no way of converting him to a cocksucker anytime soon, even if I was drop-dead chiseled and interested in taking care of my body.

“How do you know Darnell Sampson?” I asked.

“He came into Pulls and Pushes and tried to bribe me to join his gym. I told him I wanted to see the place before making up my mind. He said that was fine. So I checked the place out.” He screwed the cap back on the plastic bottle of protein and set it aside.

“What did you think of the place?”

He nodded and winked at me. “Just your typical gym.”

“What’s the wink about?”

He tapped the business card I was holding and said, “Use that card to get inside and you’ll find out.”

I wasn’t afraid of anything. Not Naylor. Not Mike. And certainly not a stranger named Darnell Sampson. To prove such a fact, I said to my roommate, “I’ll do that, friend.”

He laughed, but I didn’t know why. Then he pressed the MIX button on his blender and continued preparing his shake.

Two nights later at seven o’clock in the evening I made my way to the address on the business card with my gym bag, judging the place a shithole from the outside. Number 982 Smithton Street was a two-story white building with boarded-over windows, chips of paint missing from its front wall, and a heavy urine smell. There was nothing remotely attractive about the pen and I had almost decided to skip on the story, preparing myself to tell Naylor to fuck off.

I went inside, though. The entrance was down four steps and a gray door welcomed me. I played with its knob, took a deep breath and entered the establishment at my own risk. The stink of man-sweat filled my nostrils once I was inside, and my view took in the surroundings without any surprises whatsoever.

It was a typical gym, just as Mike had said. Weight benches were to the far right. A boxing ring sat in the center of the place. There were two wrestling mats, a number of cycles, just as many treadmills, and numerous rowers scattered here and there. A running track circled the gym’s interior perimeter, climbing ropes hung down from the two-story high ceiling, and a sign painted on the wall to the far left read SWIMMING POOL & LOCKERS, next to a narrow and dim hallway.

There were more men in the place than women, and each sported bodies from hell. It was muscleland all the way, and I felt at home.

Just as I was about to walk toward the locker room area with my gym bag and perform an hour workout, a big-boned black man the size of a dump truck made eye contact with me, smiled and confronted me. He said, “May I help you?” checking me out from head to toe, studying my ginger-colored hair, freckles on my cheeks and nose, green eyes and every pumped muscle that comprised my athletic body.

I passed him the white business card that Naylor had given me. All I could do was look at the outlined dick in his tight running shorts, which were a bright yellow. The tube of cock exposed in its breathable fabric was something of a spectacle. Like my own cock, Mr. Sampson’s was plump and healthy looking. And his bare chest was just as appealing: a heaping mass of veined muscle the color of dark chocolate with hard pecs, alert nipples, and a rippled stomach that needed to be licked.

He looked at the card, nodded, checked me out again with maybe the slightest attraction and reached for my right hand to pump.

The pumping was brisk and powerful. Then he said, “You’re the first hot ginger-head that has walked into this place. Welcome.”

I didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered, but thought it best to go with the latter. I said, “I’m Kurt Rawley, thanks for having me.”

We talked for a few minutes and I learned all the details I needed to know about his establishment for my article, including that he was quite the businessman, owned two other gyms in different cities and planned on opening a fourth in the near future, as soon as this gym was up and running, and financially capable to stand on its own.

Following his mundane details he said, “Make yourself at home, Kurt.”

I told him that was my intention, and the two of us separated. He walked over to a bald beefcake who was lifting over three hundred pounds and I headed for the locker room, prepared to dump my bag and begin a sweaty workout.

The locker room area was similar to others I had frequented in my bodybuilding adventures. Steam room to the right, lockers and benches to the left, showers in the rear, toilets to the far left. Nothing was unusual except for a narrow hallway next to the showers. A sign hung above its open doorway that read MR. SAMPSON’S MUSCLE PALACE.

No one was around to ask what the sign meant. So after shoving my gym bag into a locker, I decided to investigate the hallway, and whatever the gym owner’s muscle palace entailed.

The hallway was long, narrow and sloped downward. I was sublevel before I realized it and in almost complete darkness. A steel door stopped my trek for the time being. The door, I assumed, led outside, probably to a trio of Dumpsters in a back alley. That wasn’t the case, though.

Beyond the door was a set of six, red-illuminated underground rooms without windows or doors. Three were positioned on the right, and the other three were on the left side, forming a zigzagging pattern. Each room was different in size and content, which, after investigating, left me speechless, intrigued and quite awestruck, all at the same time.

Three hairy bears were in the first room doing a threesome circle jerk. One of them called out to me, “Come on in, guy, and help us crank these dicks.”

I winked, grinned, and decided to move to the next room, which was empty.

The third room was larger than the previous two. Chains were affixed to the wall, as well as an eighteen-year-old Asian boy with a limp dick and clamps on his nipples. Some S/M fucker with a whip and leather mask was beating him. The boy loved it, asking for more.

Room number four was occupied by six young gym rats who performed an eye-catching orgy. Moans and grunts echoed within the room as the collected men acted out their top and bottom positions with great delight.

The fifth room was a huge surprise for me and I had to take a second look, just to believe that the events inside were real and not a figment of my imagination. My roommate, Mike, was there with another guy, a twink with blond hair and a cheerleader’s build. Twink was on his back, sprawled over a swinging net. Mike was in the buff, ripped and beautiful, and had his cock jammed inside the little twink’s tight and hairless ass. His palms were secure around the boy’s ankles and kept Twink’s legs open for easy access. The two rocked back and forth in hyper motion. Mike’s bulbous ass was a fine piece of art as it thrust forward and then pulled away from the boy, which proved that he was fucking the beginner gym buddy with all his weight.

Sweat flung off his chiseled chest and decorated Twink’s flat stomach. As Mike continued to pound the blond, creating a scene that resembled porn stars in action, Twink whimpered and begged for more ass-work.

Mike was happy to oblige, and rocked his hips into the boy’s ass, pulled away and rocked into him again with Herculean power, which shifted the netting and Twink east and west.

Our eyes met for the briefest time. Mike didn’t seem at all surprised to see me, and he released a palm from one of Twink’s ankles and gave me a thumbs-up with an eager smile, while his center still bucked the boy on the net.

There was never a time in our three-year relationship as city roommates that I hadn’t wanted to try out his skin for size, to become sexual with the jock’s built frame. Unfortunately, such an occasion never transpired between us because I always thought that Mike was straight and into female cheerleaders. Had I known differently, realizing that he enjoyed a man’s tight ass and close company, I would have been quite pleased to share both with him, even if I considered myself a top.

I was just about to enter the room and join the two, having every intention of banging my roommate’s rear as he did Twink’s, when Mr. Sampson moved up behind me in the hallway, grabbed me by my right bicep and said, “Come with me, Ginger. I have some things in mind to do to you.”

I was pulled away from Mike and Twink’s antics and led to the final room, which was empty except for a steel chair, lube and two latex condoms. As I was pulled into the room, I asked Mr. Sampson, “What are you going to do to me?”

I wasn’t startled. Maybe I should have been, but honestly, I wasn’t. Instead, I was thrilled that the black god with his firm chest and solid middle had an interest in me. How’d he know that I craved African American men, desiring their extra-large dicks and dark-colored skin? Could Mr. Sampson read my mind, or what?

He ignored my question. Rather, he faced me, drew a finger down and along my tee-covered chest and asked, “What do you think of my muscle palace?”

“Let’s fuck around and then I will tell you.”

He laughed.

I laughed.

And then we undressed, dropping clothes to the cement floor, prepared to get busy with each other’s flesh in a man-connected-man scene that would have left some queers blushing with utter astonishment.

Mr. Sampson sat down in the chair, toyed with the black and rigid spike at his center and said, “Lick this, Ginger.”

I didn’t have a problem providing men—especially dark-skinned ones—with a tour of my mouth. In fact, I often suggested such a treat; he had simply beaten me to the punch. I fell to my knees, opened my mouth and inhaled his cock as if it were a treat at a buffet.

I gagged on his shaft as it blocked my airway. Warm saliva dripped out of the corners of my mouth. Half of me believed I would drop to the floor in a state of unconsciousness because of his black cock inside my system, but I still found air to breathe through my nose.

Slurps, licks and sucking ensued on most of his chocolate-colored dick. In doing so, I strummed his balls, squeezed the hairy pair, tugged on them, and even ran a finger along the thin line of asshole between his spread thighs. I admit today, some years after this event with the black beast, that he almost suffocated me because of his inflated size. Not only did I choke on his post, but I also believed I was suffering from asphyxiation. Although I was not a master at eating cock, I felt that I had accomplished my best work with Mr. Sampson, believing that he was satisfied by my oral play because of his grumbles and occasional gasps.

Was he about to come? I thought so but wasn’t sure. Perhaps this was why he said, “Stand up, Kurt, turn around and bend over.”

Again, I listened like a very good boy. He bent me over in rushed motion and I felt half of his face inside my bottom. He squeezed my ass with both palms, dragged his plump tongue against my opening and became hungry behind me, licking and lapping at a hole that we both knew he was going to fuck by the end of this evening’s queer blending.

One in my position would have been a little shocked to have his bottom bitten and spanked by a pump-buddy, but I wasn’t in the slightest. Instead, I rather enjoyed his gnawing at my center and the swift bites to my orbs. I would be a liar if I didn’t admit that he had sent me into a spin of excitement, longing for his massive dick to be plunged inside my ass instead of his tongue. Not that I was complaining, of course.

What transpired in that small room was XXX-gratifying all the way. I felt woozy in front of him, and almost lost my balance a few times because of his center-licking but caught myself at the very last second before tumbling to the hard floor. What was hard just happened to be the cock at my center, which bounced up and down because of his mouth and eating. At one point, because I was so elated by his irrepressible appetite, a bubble of precome leaked out of my cockhead and dribbled to the floor.

Following a string of combined minutes, he slapped my ass hard, pulled his face away from my asshole, said, “Enough,” and spun me around to face him. Then his instruction was simple as he stayed seated in the steel chair: “Roll a rubber down and over my post and apply some lube to it.”

I had always taken orders well as a Boy Scout while growing up in the city, and such a characteristic hadn’t changed in my adulthood, since I enjoyed obeying men.

Once I was through with my task, he told me, “Back up and have a seat on me, Ginger. I want to plug your ass.”

I was horny for a good fuck, particularly with Mr. Sampson and his jockish black skin. Dudes of color knew how to bang bottoms, I had learned, and I wasn’t about to turn down a naughty action with the man. This is why I plummeted my compact rear onto his latex-covered mass, pushed all of my weight over the piece of meat between his legs, gasped with pain, smiled and knew that I was right in visiting his gym this evening, and his underground rooms of queer fun.

All nine of his plump and veined inches entered me with slamming speed, clear down to his balls, which were snug against my asshole and brushed the area between my thighs. As he directed his swollen bulk inside my epicenter, he dug his fingernails into my hips and moaned, “Damn, you know what you’re doing.”

After all of his inches were tucked inside my ass, he started banging my rear with forceful jabs. His fingertips dug into my hip, and he licked an area of my spine.

“Don’t be shy,” I whispered, instructing him.

“Just as I had planned,” he said, and applied gentle bites to one shoulder blade, bruising my skin the way I had wanted to be bruised.

Consistent ass-jabs with his cock occurred, as well as murmurs from the man behind and underneath me. He rocketed into my rear a few times, paused, rocked into it again and pulverized my center.

Jesus wept. No, Jesus didn’t have anything to do with my gym time. Instead, I wept as Mr. Sampson shoved his black dick inside me again and again and again, which caused my bottom lip to quiver with pain and delight.

“Fucking you,” he said to my wall-like shoulder blades, slamming all of his muscled mass inside my rear.

I bounced my gym buddy weight up and down on his dick, and felt dizzy and confused. My breath was lost and a state of inebriated bliss discovered me. I panted for oxygen, and believed that his cock was a hand-weight being shoved up my asshole instead of his nine inches, but still I seemed to enjoy its length and width to the fullest. My ride was nothing less than rhythmic and gratifying for both of us. Quick and smooth bottom-lifts and falls occurred on his cock for numerous minutes inside the red-illuminated room, and gasps of desire filled the space, proving our lust.

How he reached around me with his left hand and jacked me off while banging my ass was spine numbing and a mystery to me since his pelvis corrupted my behind with relentless velocity. Truth was I came rather quickly on the cement floor because of such action. Five speedy hand-thrusts on my cock caused ripples of elation to spin inside my balls. Before I knew it, cream spiraled out of my nine inches and washed over the floor. White pools of the goop collected beyond our feet. I gyrated on his dick in a final north and south motion, felt tingles of euphoria sweep throughout my core and wished that my ride wasn’t coming to an end.

He was just about to come, and he bucked me off his lap and told me to spin around. “Get on your knees and face me.”

I listened like the good gym buddy I was and grinned from ear to ear with selfish pleasure.

Mr. Sampson cranked his nine-inch shaft a number of times, howled with excitement, ground his teeth together and drained his cock on the side of my face. A gush of white sap splatted against my right cheek, then thick cords lined my neck, and one pec. In doing so, huffing and puffing, he said to me, “Quite the load isn’t it?”

I didn’t object, doused in the white shit.

I was just getting ready to use a palm to remove the sticky sap from my skin when he instructed me, “Don’t wipe it off, Ginger. I want to eat it up.”

And he did. The African American leaned over me, extended his pink-red tongue and lapped every drop of ooze from my flesh, satisfying his own need. Dozens of tongue flicks transpired and he moaned, obviously enjoying himself.

Before I knew it, his dick-spray was removed from my skin. Every drop. Every bubble. Not a single line of residue was left, and he was exhausted, just like me.

* * *

Spent, heaving for breath and perspiration covered, I said, “How do I sign up to use this gym?”

“I think you already did,” Mr. Sampson said, smacking my solid ass, snapping his palm against my bottom’s tight skin. Then he added, “Ginger, I rather like you. You can use Sampson’s anytime you want.”

Maybe he was going to be my boyfriend. Maybe not. I knew that orange and black looked pretty hot together, particularly around autumn. Until then, I had every intention of fucking him, and vice versa, mixing our sweat and bodies together with ultimate zeal.

Three seconds later my naked roommate walked into the room. Mike sported a sky-high erection, a wide grin, and pumped muscles everywhere on his body. He thwapped his dick against his abs, trotted up to me, kissed me on my lips, shoved his tongue down the back of my throat and pulled on my still-hard cock. Once he backed away from me, he demanded from Mr. Sampson and me, “I want the two of you studs to fuck me at the same time. Who’s in?”

It wasn’t the Mike I was used to, but I was game. The jock was always on my radar, and always would be. Now was my chance to have him, just the way I wanted him, with or without Mr. Sampson in the mix.

But Mr. Sampson was also game since he said, “Things are just getting heated up in my muscle palace tonight, guys. Let this threesome begin.”

Two days later I handed my article in on time and Naylor complimented me with: “Good job. It’s clean, cut and to the point, with no bullshit.”

I didn’t put anything in the article about Mr. Sampson’s Muscle Palace. The Herald’s readership was far too conservative and wouldn’t have been amused by such findings. Instead, I simply called the place exciting, with functional and high-tech equipment and a smiling staff.

Naylor said, “Sampson just put a sign up in front of his gym today. I saw it on my drive into the office this morning.”

“What did he end up calling it?” I asked, curious.

“Sweat and Tears Gym. Nothing ordinary or spectacular. I’ll add the name to your article so it reads better.”

I sort of chuckled under my breath and realized that Naylor was all wrong about his comment. The gym’s underground rooms called Mr. Sampson’s Muscle Palace were hardly dull or like any other gym in the city. Maybe Naylor would find that out someday. Maybe not. I wasn’t going to nudge my way into his life and hang out with the guy to learn something like that. Instead, I exited his office with other things on my mind, like two needy men who waited for me beneath Sweat and Tears. One was sexy and black, and the other one supposedly liked female cheerleaders, though I knew better. And both of them had cocks for me to ride, among other queer activities, until they erupted with fresh come, of course.