Muscle Worship

Muscle Worship

(muhs-uh l wur-ship): a fetish involving a heterosexual, masculine and well-built male who allows a (typically submissive or effeminate) homosexual male pleasure, touch and/or admire him in a
sexual manner.

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“How’d you do it?” asked fifteen year-old Piers Polkiss in ultimate interest, watching his friend Dudley Dursley from behind. Dudley had come back from Smeltings, the private school he attended, with new biceps—impressive muscles on his arms and a taut upper chest. All throughout the school year, Piers had told himself to quit thinking about Dudley. He figured it was just a phase that was bound to pass as easily as it had come in second year. However, seeing Dudley again, particularly with these newly developed traits, was nothing less than invigorating.

But Piers was trying very hard to be straight.

Dudley turned away from the mirror for a brief second, to throw Piers one of his famous cocked-eyebrow glances. “Easy,” he muttered deeply, turning back to the mirror to show off some more with a tight-armed flex. “Exercise, had to eat ruddy shit for weeks.”

Piers giggled, and tried to stifle it into a cough. He wished he had a deep voice like his best friend’s, and he also tried to tell himself he wanted biceps like Dudley’s. But in the back of his mind, he knew it was much nicer to look. “Right, well…” Piers replied, never knowing what to say anymore. He was so terrified he was going to make an error. If Dudley found out, Dudley wouldn’t want him around. And he didn’t want to risk that at all. “It looks good,” he offered, and paled immediately.

“Thanks,” Dudley replied, throwing him a glance through the mirror. “You know, you could work out, too,” he said. “The girls like it.”

Piers tried to act interested. “Oh yeah? How, you think?” ‘I shouldn’t have said a bloody thing. Now I’ll have to learn the finer points of weight-lifting.’ If there was one thing Dudley wasn’t good at, it was emotive conversation. The topics they covered were usually rugby, boxing, rap music, fights, and big “tits”. (Piers, however, always had very little to say on the last issue.)

Always more than willing to offer his expertise, Dudley turned around, brandishing a small dumbbell in his left hand. He began to pump it as he spoke. “You know, first I started out just with weights like this, but then I moved onto that—“ he gestured to an enormous weight on his floor, enormous to Piers, at least, who stood at only five foot five and figured he’d fall to his face if he ever dared lift that. “My coach had me running, too, that was fucking stupid but it paid off,” he continued loudly.

Piers watched him, transfixed. Everything Dudley said was so pointless to him, but he hung onto every single word. Nothing Dudley said was significant; it was all logical, straight-forward and blunt commentary about very comprehendible things, not boring or dumb but highly minimal.

And still, Piers couldn’t help but gawk at his best friend, the robust blond with bangs that stood up, sticky from the gel which he meticulously wet his hair with every morning; Piers imagined him doing bench-presses, sit-ups, flexing those muscles and rocking at boxing, punching some dope’s face in.

“Dude,” Dudley was saying.

Piers stared at his thick arms with his mouth hanging open.

“Piers!”

He looked up. “Oh, sorry—was I?—I mean, no, I was listening, I just—“

“Fuck, you were like, stoned or something,” Dudley laughed, apparently not bothered by Piers basically glazing over during his exercise lesson.

“No, I’m fine!” Piers insisted. ‘You’re fine,’ he thought. ‘I mean, NO, that’s stupid, OUT OF THE QUESTION.’

“Why does your face look all funny?” Dudley asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What?” Piers inquired, trying desperately to look normal.

“Nothin’,” Dudley shrugged. “But, Piers, seriously. You could start pumping weights and get some strength. Then you wouldn’t look so scrawny or whatever. No offense.”

“None taken,” said Piers lamely. He knew he was scrawny and he had no qualms about staying as such.

Then Dudley leaned toward him. “See? Feel it,” he stated, gesturing to his arm.

“No, that’s okay!” Piers exclaimed in a higher tone than usual, though his eyes focused in on that strong, toned arm. ‘How many kids have you beaten up with that arm?’ he wondered dreamily.

“Hey, come on, it’s okay, just feel it,” Dudley urged.

“No, it’s—“

“Feel it!” Dudley commanded tersely.

With a slight tremor in his legs, Piers did just as he was told. He scooted forward on Dudley’s bed and let his pale hand surround the top of Dudley’s arm. He lightly gripped the boy’s muscle and then took his hand away in a flash. Sweat was gathering at the back of his neck.

“Well, what do you think?” Dudley questioned.

‘Are you trying to tempt me!?’ the nearly-swooning thought abrasively. “It’s great,” he said, trying to be casual. “Very nice.” ‘Holy shit, get me out of this room!’

But Dudley was staying firm in his position just in front of Piers, so the poor boy had nowhere to go. “Better than before?” he wanted to know.

Piers could only gape. Was Dudley Dursley asking Piers to judge his appearance? Or was he simply wanting to prove just how much he’d bulked up? Or was he totally self-conscious now and utterly obsessed with food and weight, suffering from an eating disorder and looking to Piers to set him right?

Piers attempted to sort out which of these fantasies was the best, and then figured that this wasn’t the time. “What do you meaning?” he squeaked, and then corrected: “What do you mean, I mean?” He paled again.

“Oh,” Dudley shrugged, but looked uncomfortable, too, all of a sudden. “Just… ah, wondering.”

“Wondering what, though?”

“Nothin’,” Dudley shrugged, but his eyes said different.

Piers fingered the blue denim bedspread and tried to focus on the poster of the black-haired swimsuit model on the wall just ahead of him. Her smile was cheesy. Her waist was barely visible. Her legs were stick-thin. Her tits were huge. ‘How could you have that hanging on your wall?’ Piers wanted to scream. ‘How could you be attracted to that?’ He’d always distrusted that swimsuit model, ever since Dudley had nailed her up last year. ‘She’s probably got some lifeguard for a boyfriend! She’s tacky! I mean, the bitch can’t even get a proper shirt!’

Fearing the silence, Piers looked up to see that Dudley was still staring at him. “What?” Piers asked stupidly,” I mean… I don’t really think you look better than before, no.”

“Huh?” Dudley asked, his facial expression changing only slightly. Why, though? Was he hurt? Upset? Confused? ‘Or just unable to feel?’

Piers kept playing with the bedspread, sliding his fingers up and down it. “I mean, I never thought you looked bad, is what I mean,” he went on quietly,” you look healthier, I guess, but not better, I mean—“

“For real?” Dudley asked, just as quietly. “Because I only lost a few stones and everyone’s acting like the fucking earth changed.”

“Nothing changed,” Piers replied meekly. “You’re just Big D.”

Dudley seemed slightly dissatisfied. “But you like my muscles?” he urged impatiently.

Piers was growing more confused by the second. Dudley was never a bloke to ask others’ opinions on his looks. Dudley was usually completely and totally confident. Maybe he was having an Early-Life Crisis. Piers wondered if he should worry.

What was Piers supposed to respond with? ‘Yes, they make me sweat!’ or ‘More than you know!’ were totally out. “Yeah, Dud,” Piers said, feeling in danger of having a nervous breakdown if they didn’t change the conversation fast. “You look good.”

“I notice you looking, you know,” Dudley put in.

Piers blanched. “O-oh yeah?” he stammered.

Dudley was looking away now. “Yeah.”

“I’m just… impressed, is all!” Piers declared. “I mean—I’m not, you know…“

“Yeah, well, you can touch them again if you want to,” said Dudley nonchalantly.

‘Is this a test?’ Piers wondered, but his fingers tingled at the thought. ‘Maybe just once. He just needs encouragement. Potter probably mocks him for being big, he probably just wants me to make him feel good.’ And more than anything, Piers definitely wanted to make Dudley feel good.

“Go on,” Dudley said, still looking at the floor, that stupid red dumbbell poised in his palm.

Piers swallowed his own saliva down and instructed his heart to stop racing. If he made one wrong move, he’d be decked for sure. Piers tried to pretend that the thought of being beaten up by Dudley wasn’t tantalizing. He got to his feet, the difference between he and his friend now utterly obvious: Dudley towered above him, Piers’ head reaching the other boy’s chin; Dudley was a dirty blond and Piers had uninteresting brown hair with no other hues, and it hung floppy over his forehead; Piers was skinny with gentle angles and Dudley was all harsh, rounded squares.

Feeling like some sort of toy poodle as always, Piers ambled forward a few steps until he and Dudley’s feet were almost synonymous. He could almost feel the rise and fall of Dudley’s chest. He reached out his hand carefully and slowly and let it fall once more on Dudley’s arm.

Without really thinking, Piers ran his fingers over the expanse of his friend’s huge limb, feeling the small, blond-white hairs bristle under his touch.

“That’s good,” Dudley murmured.

“What?” Piers asked, alarmed, dropping his hand almost instantly.

Dudley eyed him strangely. “What’s the matter? Just keep going.”

‘I don’t know what he’s playing at. He doesn’t seem freaked. Maybe he’s too thick to notice I fancy him—maybe it’s just some good-natured bonding,’ Piers tried to tell himself. He didn’t need much convincing. If he could pretend to be straight and still get to touch Dudley, he was going to go for it. He eyed his friend’s sizeable chest—a huge frame hidden beneath a pale blue jersey, his torso looked so stiff. Piers placed his hand just above Dudley’s right pectoral, and exhaled. The boxing certainly had done wonders; the firmness was commendable.

Piers sent a questioning look up at Dudley but the boy was still looking away, seemingly unconcerned or greatly preoccupied. So Piers placed his other hand above Dudley’s left pec and began to knead his knuckles lightly into the boy’s chest.

Dudley raised his head up and Piers paused, blushing furiously. But Dudley only leaned back to set the dumbbell down and then rest his hands back on the dresser. “Keep it up,” he said.

Piers obeyed and kept working his small hands over Dudley’s upper-body. He could feel himself getting an erection, and if it kept going like this, he definitely wasn’t going to be able to make it go away. His hands felt around to Dudley’s back, the two strong shoulder blades protruding sharply. He stifled a moan; his own chest was dangerously close to Dudley’s now, one step would have them pressed together. His fingers snaked back to Dudley’s front, and in one poorly planned move, Piers lightly and slowly traced over the area of the boy’s nipples. Instantly, they went hard and Piers realised too late that he had certainly crossed the line.

“I didn’t—“ he breathed, and let his hands drop to his sides, but Dudley picked them up again and put them back on his chest. Piers could scarcely breathe. ‘What in the FUCK does he think he’s doing? I’m going to get myself KILLED—‘

“Come on, keep at it!” Dudley ordered, running one hand through his hair as though nothing was strange about this situation at all.

Piers listened, and began to stroke the area around Dudley’s nipples, feeling as they hardened as much as possible, wondering if Dudley could possibly be gay, but that was a completely stupid thought, Dudley was the most clichéd straight guy Piers knew, all obsessed with wanking and girls in porn and getting hammered and “fucked up’, getting in fights daily… If Dudley was gay, the entire planet might as well implode into itself, because that meant nothing was as it seemed.

All of these thoughts hardly mattered, though, because now Piers was working his hands up inside his best friend’s jersey, trailing the soft, pale flesh of his lower body up to his hard chest, feeling what chest hair Dudley had prickle under his fingers. Piers’ hands were spidery and cautious; he was afraid he was going to break out into a terrible, cold sweat and start breathing as fast as his heart was pounding. His own lean chest was pressed on Dudley’s now, he stood on tiptoe to work his hands up over Dudley’s shoulders, unable to get over the hard beauty of the boy’s body.

Dudley moved his left hand down to the front of his trousers, unzipping them quickly. “Keep going,” he instructed intensely to Piers in a whisper, and when the dark-haired boy glanced downward, he was stunned to see that Dudley had pulled his cock out and was holding it firmly. Half-hard, it stuck out, thick and as good a size as Piers would have imagined, the tip brushed against Piers’ midsection, he tried to ignore it.

He kept kneading his hands over Dudley, pressing and softly prodding, one hand now on Dudley’s angular jaw and the other tentatively touching the boy’s penis. Dudley smacked Piers’ hand away and put it back onto his pectoral, and took his own cock again in one huge fist. He started out slowly, and began to move the fist up and down the shaft of it, beginning to go faster and faster, grunting deeply as he went. Piers breathed in and out, afraid to move and excited at the feeling of Dudley’s fist bumping his stomach as he masturbated. Piers watched the bikini poster as Dudley jerked off, thinking ‘What now, slag?’ He had won. Seconds later, Dudley shifted with a moan and came, ejaculating all over the bottom of Piers’ shirt.

Piers stood still, not wanting to react, feeling both horrified and completely content, as Dudley rummaged around and grabbed a shirt out of his dirty laundry hamper, carelessly wiping his dick off and throwing it on the floor. He pulled on his trousers and zipped them up again. They said nothing for almost a minute, but finally Dudley grinned almost nastily and stuck his hand in his dresser drawer, coming forward again and tossing an over-sized white undershirt at Piers.

“You can get your top the next time you come over,” he said, in that unaffected tone of voice that lay somewhere between aggression and amusement.

“Okay,” Piers said quietly. He tried to think of something to say, something normal, but his heart rate was still way above normal.

Dudley rolled his eyes and shoved Piers on the shoulder. “You’re such a fucking girl,” he smirked.

“No I’m not,” Piers protested, but couldn’t help but grin back. “Anyhow, I have no tits to speak of,” he kidded.

“Maybe they’re just really small,” Dudley said with a cool shrug.

‘So that’s what this is about,’ Piers thought to himself. ‘Oh well. I can be a girl stand-in. The summer’s getting interesting all ready.’

Dudley kept smiling cockily, apparently more than thrilled that he had cum all over Piers, and pushed past the brown-haired boy to “take a piss”, slamming the door behind him. Piers lifted off his soiled top and put on Dudley’s huge one. It smelled like sweat and cologne.

Piers decided he had no intention of returning it. After all, he decided, it wasn’t his fault that his mother was going to lose it.

fin