A New Story: Jake and TC Chapter One: Jake by silicondog@earthlink.net The gym was closed for the night when I heard his rental pull into the parking lot. It was a subcompact that swung around until it was directly in front of the doors. I walked out as the driver’s door opened. Then I stopped. I could just see that someone big was hunched over the steering wheel, and two long, jean-clad legs awkwardly unfolded. Big tanned feet wearing sandals braced him as he wriggled out the door and stood. Way over my six foot one, close to seven. A broad tanned face and close beard with a few strands of gray mixed with the brown, and a hard neck sloping down into shoulders that were trying to pop the seams of a red t shirt. I had barely time to try to read the logo on his shirt, "Harley Davidson, Alice Springs, Australia" before he offered to shake hands. "Hello, Jake." The voice had a deep bass drawl. I shook his hand, or rather, I instinctively put my hand into his before I saw my own hand vanish into his own, veins riding over thick tendons. For a second, I thought he was trying to crack open every joint I had in my hand, then the pressure was gone. "Thanks for meeting me" he started. He sighed, two carved shields of muscle stretching the t-shirt. "Can I ask you for something?" I cleared my throat. "Uh, sure." "I called the rental agency from the car, and if you could return this" - he grimaced and tilted his head towards the little car -- "and get my pickup truck out of the garage, they should be finished fixing it by now." "Can you imagine me being booked into this little riceburner?" Now he was incensed. "Hell, this car’s a dumbbell, not a car." He had a glint in his eye towards me. Casually sliding up a sleeve over a ham-sized bicep, Jake planted himself in front of the car’s hood. Clamping his fingers onto the bumper, he straightened -- and the car’s front end glided up in his grip. Then he curled his arm and the entire car followed, veins swelling up into his pumpkin-sized shoulders and the bumper creaking around the grip of his fingers. Without breaking a sweat or breath, he returned the car to the ground. He flashed a feral grin at me. "I’ll be starting a workout when you come back" he promised. "I always need to get the blood pumpin’ after sitting in a plane." "I’ll get your truck for you in the meantime" I offered, and he pulled a duffel bag out of the passenger seat and slung it over a football-sized delt. On my way back from the airport terminal, I remembered my "interview" to get the job at the gym. At the time it wasn’t much, but between semesters I needed the dough. A quiet place, though, close to the airport and next to a big metal recycle yard it wasn’t glamorous. But, Jake told me over the phone, it was a place where you could work out in peace and quiet. I pulled Jake’s truck into the gym’s parking lot and climbed down. Looking back, I could see that whoever owned it before Jake had gone to the state university and their parking sticker was still on the rear window. The gym was dark, though, and the lights in the offices on the second floor weren’t lit. Where was he? Then I listened, and heard the music from the metal lot. The wall looked strange, and when I walked over in the moonlight, I could see a huge plate of steel that had formed part of the wall had been shoved aside. Inside, the music was booming away and there were lights in a big metal shed, surrounded by old car and truck parts. Walking towards the light, I could see that there were railroad tracks crossing the yard, and old locomotive pieces that looked like dinosaur bones. The boombox echoed off the metal walls and I found Jake. Or where Jake should have been. In the center of the old shed was a wrecked pickup truck with no wheels. In the truck’s scoop were the carcasses off what looked like car and truck engines, stacked to the top. Then I heard a grunt from under the stack of metal -- and it shifted up into the air! The mass of metal creaked and shifted as its center of gravity shifted back and forth, while the truck’s rear lifted up. I heard a thick grunt, and then the truck returned to level. I had found Jake. He had put two stacks of locomotive wheels on each side of the truck to keep it level and a flat metal place underneath the rear axle. Sitting on the plate, his butt under the axle, he was doing shoulder presses -- stripped down to his jockey shorts and cross-legged under what had to be ten tons of scrap steel. As I watched he did another rep, tendons and veins bursting across his shoulders and arms, extending his arms against the quietly rattling mass over his head. "Nineteen" I heard him mutter. Then, with one last shove, those arms powered the weight over his head one final time. Leaning forward, he rested the truck on the wheels. Before I could say anything he rose, as agile as a cat. If Jake looked strong in the light, here he was a riot of muscle pumped across tanned skin. His barrel of chest was coated with a dense layer of hair, matted with sweat. But I could see each cobblestone of his belly clearly against the pattern of body hair, armored muscle wrapped around a belly only a little thicker than my own. "I do enjoy a workout" he archly grinned, seeing my confusion and liking it. "Especially after sittin’ in a plane all day long." "Would you believe they had the nerve to ask me questions?" He scowled. "Like, why I booked myself into two seats?" "’Ma’am’" he mimicked himself, "’I bought two seats because I need two seats’". "’We have to ask these questions’" he answered in a falsetto voice, "’especially when you pay for the seats in cash.’" He snorted. I told her that "I was fighting in Vietnam before you were born, honey, and don’t need no lessons in security." A grin. "It’s where I got the first taste in working out, real deal." As Jake taked, he walked over to the side of the garage. Walking back out of the shadows, I could see a long metal beam in his right hand. It was as long as Jake was tall, thick as my thigh, and he carried it as easily as I could carry a hockey stick. "Now this is a workout" he smiled like a wolf. Sitting on a stack of old wheels, he held the beam in front of him. He clamped his fur-dusted pillars of muscle around the bottom of the beam, and slid his arms around the top until he had it in a full-nelson. "What are you gonna--" I started, then I saw him contract every muscle from his ponytail down to his jockey shorts. I heard a quick cracking of steel being crushed against those huge thighs, and Jake arched his immense body against the metal beam. After only a second, his grunts started to be answered by the creaking and grinding of the steel as it began to bend under his tremendous strength. Jake shoved his body even harder against the beam, and those arms made the steel moan and wail like it was under the strength of a car crusher. He body shone under the light like a seal and he crunched deeper and deeper, the end of the beam arching under his massive body. Finally, with one last thick grunt, he had the metal at a 90-degree angle! Jake relaxed -- and the metal fell to the concrete floor with a loud clang. The concrete even cracked under its weight! It was everywhere dented and warped where his muscles had compressed it, and it was now bent like a paper clip. "This is good stuff" he mused. Not like that cheap Soviet steel I played with in ’Nam. Those tanks? Those turrets bent like paper clips." Smiling at me, he stretched his neck muscles. A drop of sweat slid off his nose, and he sniffed. Before I knew what he was doing, I saw him lash out with his arm -- and his little finger hooked itself into a belt loop of my jeans. "Trust me" he said. Then he lifted me. Up. Straight up as if I was a doll, until I was directly over his head. Next I felt him reach with his other hand, and pulled my t-shirt out of my jeans, and with a few sharp yanks, start to peel it sideways across my body. I felt my skin start to tear against the shirt, so I lifted my arms over my head (or sideways) and he peeled the shirt right off me! The cool air across my bare chest, Jake gently plopped me back on my feet. I looked up to see him, t-shirt in his hand, lazily wiping his immense body. Starting from his thick neck, he slid the cloth over each of his furry shields of pecs, into the deep crevice between his chest muscles, and under each of the pecs. Wadded up, my shirt then got the treatment from the cobblestones of his belly. Then he casually wiped each of his big arms, and, wolfishly grinning lifted the elastic band of his jockey shorts and dug the shirt deep into the basket. He looked me in the eye, and then casually flipped my shirt back into my lap. It was now gray, and it stunk like each of the Dallas Cowboys had sweated into it. I looked right back at him, and took the soggy cloth in my fingers. I wriggled myself around until I got it back onto my own body. It smelled like each of his muscles, and felt cold and salty against my own skin. I had it on backwards and inside-out, but I didn’t give a shit. We looked at each other, him admiringly at me and me at those big brown eyes that had a glint of helter-skelter and brains. If he looked like a bear, he was smart enough to hunt by himself. If he wanted a tasty SUV driver, he was smart enough to pick the lock -- or strong enough to peel the door off to get at the tasty meat inside. "Shower" he announced. "It’s too dark to do the locomotive." With that, he stood and I followed him out, across the junkyard and through the gap in the wall separating the gym and the shed. Jake grabbed the big slab of concrete that had been ajar, fitted it across the gap like it was styrofoam, and wedged it in tight, the wall creaking and crunching against his pressure. He saw me looking around. "What’s your problem?" "The dog" I answered. "I’ve heard it barking." "Thanks for reminding me." He reached into a crack of the concrete wall and pulled out what looked like a TV remote. He clicked it twice, and we both heard barking sounds. "Keeps the tourists out" he explained, putting the remote back. He walked back, and let me stare at him as I followed: a riot of cables and tendons across his shoulders and lats spread like wings over a butt as tight and as muscled as a wrestler’s. The ground crunched under his big bare feet and the boombox kept blaring old sixties songs as we walked. We both walked across the silent gym into the shower. He left the boombox on the counter, and slid his damp shorts off as well. I stripped down fast, before he helped me again. I wasn’t surprised when he moved into the shower next to mine, and I couldn’t help but stare at him as he turned his back to me and stretched big arms until his palms actually touched the ceiling. I took my chance and started to soap up his back, sliding my fingers across tanned and weathered skin so tight I couldn’t have pinched it. At rest his muscles felt like skin-coated granite and when he flexed they felt like big cables sliding across his bones. I couldn’t squeeze his veins enough to find a pulse. He turned around to face me, and lazily leaned towards me in the dark steam. I felt before I saw a huge spike of muscle slide back and forth on my belly, though it was so big it took me a second to recognize it as Jake’s own boner. As the head slid back and forth over my own cock, it felt like it was as thick as a beer can and from where Jake stood, had to be damned near a foot long. "Now" he purred, "did you get my email?" What? But his eyes meant business. His voice, too. That cockhead kept sliding around my own erection, gently poking at my balls. Then I remembered: the list of repair jobs he wanted done before he arrived. "Yeah, they’re all done." The veins of his cock glided over my balls. "And is the jacuzzi fixed"? "Yeah, that too" I answered. I felt the veins of his cock against the inside of my thighs as it slid between my legs. Then as Jake arched back slightly, that cock took some of my weight. Then all of my weight. My feet floated a few inches off the ground and I saw Jake grin broadly. "Good" he purred. Oh, oh. To be continued.