From: silicondog WARNING: If you are under eighteen or find explicit sexual references offensive and male to male sexuality, read no further. By silicondog@earthlink.net at: http: home.earthlink.net/~silicondog/gallery.html and http: www.geocities.com/WestHollywood/Village/2013/2013.html This is a continuation of another story on this site: Mr. Asia by silicondog@earthlink.net The following story is intended for adults over age 18 interested in male to male sexual fantasy. The following story also depicts unprotected sex. As said, it's fantasy. You are reality. Practice safe sex. All characters in this story are fictional with no resemblance to any real persons implied. Standing just a foot before Mr. Asia, the body that had won the Mr. California contest for four straight years was a six-foot-two sculpture of dense, intricate muscles that flowed under deeply tanned unblemished skin. He only wore a sun- faded Speedo, its fabric now a faded red. It outlined two tennis-ball-sized lumps held out from being crushed against his thigns; if you looked closely enough, you could see a few of the thick veins of Rory's cock as it coursed across his belly under the fabric, pushed out to the hip. He had high chiseled cheekbones and a thick trimmed moustache; the black curls of his hair were neat and thick down to his collar. Like the jaws of a tiger, Mr. Asia's arms clamp around Rory's torso and yank him forward, their great chests slamming into each other. His hands clamped behind Rory's back, Mr. Asia looked into Rory's gray eyes from six inches away and snarled as his biceps ground into Rory's lats. Veins and tendons tried to burst through his skin as Mr. Asia leaned into Rory bare body, the plates of his chest challenging the tanned slabs of Rory's body, his six-pack grinding across the eight separate cobblestones of Rory's belly. In his first burst of strength, his swelling chest against his opponent's peg-like nipples, Mr. Asia's arms grind over Rory's skin as he tries to bend his spine back, but Mr. Asia's eyes widen as he feels the great swells of his arms and chest grind against the heavy plates of Rory's torso. Under Mr. Asia's pumped arms, Rory's body feels like a marble statute. With a deeper snarl, he doubles his efforts against Rory's body. In two sharp rips, his biceps burst the seams of his lycra suits, their vein-streaked peaks breaking through the shiny black plastic. His only reward for this is the light layer of sweat that breaks out on the great planes of Rory's back as his impassive face changes to a light smile. Rory lazily lifts his great arms and clasps his hands behind his neck, and the confidence of Mr. Asia begins to melt before the unyielding density of Rory's armored chest. Rory's cock, more covered than restrained by the fading red Speedo, begins to pulse across to his right hip under the sun-faded suit. His breath hissing through his teeth, Mr. Asia begins to feel the pain of his muscles against the sweating marble of Rory. With a new heave, he tries to lift him off the ground but Rory's dense torso is as rooted to the gym floor as a tree. With another crack, Mr. Asia's uniform begins to tear across his shoulders, as the heaving, separate heads of his deltoids break the seams, but only the drops of sweat beginning to trickle across the brown iron of Rory's shoulders reveal anything of the terrible pressure that Mr. Asia is using, pressure that only a month earlier had a Mr. Olympia begging for surrender, his 280-lb. hulk bounced in the air as Mr. Asia's chest had crushed his breath and strength from his body, his spine bending under Mr. Asia's arms like a carrot. His teeth bared, Mr. Asia commits his last reserves to crush Rory, and now his lats spread to the point that he can feel his uniform tear down his broad back. Over his trimmed mustache, Rory's eyes are confident of the battle he has won as Mr. Asia's biceps, now bruised against Rory's armpits, begin to weaken. Mr. Asia feels the first breath of panic as Rory begins to flex his chest against Mr. Asia's, the great curved plates of teak-hard muscle swelling out with breath, and he feels Rory's great torso swell against his arms, he feels that his hands are about to lose their grip behind Rory's back. The stink of Rory's armpits only a foot away, Mr. Asia makes his last gamble. He releases Rory and jumps away, just enough to plant his thick legs firmly; then, spinning fiercely, he launches a spinning kick against Rory's belly. Against another target, his kick could have broken a man's rib cage, or snapped a two by four. With a terrible thwap, like a baseball bat against a side of beef, his foot snaps out against the engraved armor of Rory's belly. A flash of pain roars across Mr. Asia's foot; Rory stands solid against the kick and only a reddened patch across the tops of his abs testify to the impact. Then Rory makes his first move. With the impersonal efficiency of a man hauling the laundry, Rory grabs Mr. Asia's arms at the biceps and hauls him across to him. His great fingers crushing into muscle, he lifts Mr. Asia's 250-lb. bulk effortlessly, mashing his biceps under his hands. His feet now over a foot off the ground, Mr. Asia can only wriggle like a worm on a fishing hook as his body is enveloped by the great arms of Rory, who returns the hug Mr. Asia had had on him only a minute earlier, but with far more power. Both bodies are sweaty and pumped, but Rory's body now folds the bodybuilding champion of Asia into his arms. Mr. Asia, expecting to be crippled or killed, instead feels Rory's moustache against his right ear, as he leans over to begin massaging Mr. Asia's ear with the tip of his tongue, then Rory's lips against his earlobe. The tenderness of Rory's lips and moustache against Mr. Asia's earlobe is only a conterpoint to the terrible strength of his arms, which in an instant are clalmped around Mr. Asia's torso. Rory's speedo catching in the lycra uniform of Mr. Asia, the suit is pulled down and his cock twists and snarls free against Mr. Asia's heaving belly. His breath squeezed from his lungs and feeling the great, heavy plates of his chest and back being ground against each other under Rory's slick arms and chest, Mr. Asia feels Rory shift around him, the phone-pole sized arms shifting slightly. In a second, Mr. Asia realizes that Rory is now holding him in one hand, bear- hugging him to his torso with only his left arm. He continues to suck and nibble against Mr. Asia's ears, but now his right hand is free. His bulk now held in Rory's left arm, Mr. Asia feels Rory's talon-like fingers begin to explore the tears in his lycra uniform. Digging into the tears, his body held in a vice-like grip, Mr. Asia is helpless as his uniform is steadily and cleanly torn off his sweaty torso. As smoothly as a man peeling a bananna, Rory tears the thick lycra uniform away from Mr. Asia's torso, the toughened fabric stripped away to leave the exhausted torso gasping for air. Rory gazes into Mr. Asia's eyes from a few inches away, and with one last rip his fingers, which had gripped the belt, tears his pants and jock away in one snap. Mr. Asia's cock is now free to the air, as limp as his body. But Rory's great sword, veins chasing veins around and down a shaft swaying stiffly, has already begun to drip, a thick string of precum coursing down. Helpless in the gorilla- like grip of his arm, Mr. Asia can only watch as Rory begins swing his great shaft into Mr. Asia's own groin. His own cock begins to come back to life as it is poked and prodded by Rory's pole. The circumcised head of Rory's cock begins to poke and shove Mr. Asia's own big balls. Once Rory allows the breath to return to Mr. Asia's lungs, his cock has the strength to grow as well. Still holding the defeated Asian warrior aloft with one arm, Rory reaches around to brush Mr. Asia's lips with his own. Their moustaches touch as the American's tongue leisurely parts his lips. Rory's right paw reaches down now and holds together all of their four balls under cocks bouncing against each other. Mr. Asia's tongue begins to duel with Rory's in his mouth and Rory's right hand spreads out under the cheeks of Mr. Asia's ass like a bicycle seat, two fingers on his right cheek, two fingers under the Asian's left cheek, with the middle finger beginning to playfully explore and rub his asshole. Shifting his weight from his left arm to the right hand, Rory how holds Mr. Asia off the ground with just his right hand, the middle finger rubbing and probing Mr. Asia's last set of undefeated muscles. The veins of his biceps and forearms about to break the skin, Rory smoothly lifts Mr. Asia up, up, until the Asian's swelling cock is at eye level. Perfectly balanced on the American's right hand, feeling his shitlocker under the attack of Rory's fuckfinger, Mr. Asia watches as Rory's lips lunge forward and in one swift attack, his thick cock is stuffed into Rory's mouth. Mr. Asia feels Rory's throat clamping around his cock -- and only then does he moan. (To be continued!) HASSLE SILICONDOG: FINISH THIS STORY!