1) Moments after I posted my plan to clean house, Arthur Napiontek knocked at my front door. Adorable Art was dressed in khakis and a sleeveless t-shirt, and he carried a bucket of soaps and rags with him. I was once again struck by those gorgeous boulders for shoulders he has. He wore a sly grin as he asked, “Where would you like me to start?”
When there was another knock at the door, I was standing in the kitchen with a bourbon, watching Art as he scrubbed the floor on his hands and knees. Watching his khaki-clad ass swing back and forth as he scrubbed, I think it required a another, louder knock at the door to break me out of my reverie. “Keep scrubbing,” I told Art as I padded off.
You guessed it: upon opening the door I was greeted with the stunning form and ridiculously handsome face of Greg Plitt. Greg was in very low-rise jeans squeezed around those tree-trunk thighs and muscle butt. Like Art, he wore a sleeveless t-shirt, showing off his tremendously thick arms. He caught me staring, slack-jawed, at his bulging biceps. With a cocky grin that told me he knew the effect he had on mere mortals, he said, “I heard you could use some help with some heavily lifting.”
As I promised you, dear reader, once both of these cleaning hunks had arrived, my agenda for the day changed dramatically. I called Art over to join us in the living room, and we pulled all the furniture out. I told the boys I’d like to see some arm wrestling with those guns they were both packing. Greg rolled his eyes dismissively as he looked at Art’s model-perfect body. I had both hunks stretch out on their stomachs on the floor. Art was sincere as hell, but when I said, “Go,” Greg just played with him a few seconds. Art’s face turned almost as red as the hair on his head as he strained against Greg’s astonishing power. Greg chuckled, letting Art gain an advantage. Art had the back of the big man’s hand a half an inch from the floor when Greg finally stepped on the gas pedal and slammed Art’s hand hard to the floor as if Art was a child.
Art was embarrassed, but no less enthusiastic when I suggested a two-on-one. Greg looked up at me, sizing me up for several seconds, and then he took another assessment of Art. Finally he shrugged, smiled coyly and accepted the challenge. I stretched out on my stomach shoulder to boulder with Art. Greg planted his elbow on the floor and held open the palm of his hand. I grasped his hand in mine, though truth be told, his hand pretty much swallowed mine whole. Seriously, I had not appreciated how huge his hands are! As he squeezed my hand, I could feel the irresistible power coursing through his arm. Frankly, I’m no slouch, but I was quickly convinced that I’d do no better than Art in a head-to-head. But when Art placed the palm of his hand against the back of mine and wrapped his fingers around Greg and my grasped hands, I could also feel Art’s strength coming to a focus. I thought at that moment that Greg may have bitten off more than he could chew. Through gritted teeth, I grunted, “Go,” and Art and I slowly began to press Greg’s arm backward. The bemused smile on Greg’s face quickly faded, and he pursed his lips in concentration, finally halting the progress of our advantage. Every ounce of strength I had was pouring through my shoulder and arm. My hand felt like every bone was about to be crushed, but when I saw a bead of sweat pop out on Greg’s forehead, I knew we had him. I was sure Art saw it too, because I felt a renewed rush of strength pressing against the back of my hand.
All three of our arms were quivering with exhaustion after several seconds of our stalemate. I was past the point of exhaustion, really, but I was determined to see this muscle god in front of me suffer a humiliating defeat. His arm gave a fraction of an inch suddenly, and we held the back of his hand a mere three inches off the floor. One more burst of energy, and I was certain we had him.
But then, Greg began to growl. His face grew flushed with effort as he continued to clench his teeth. The growl was deep and fierce, and I simply could not believe that he was pressing both Art and my hands backward. It was slow going, but after a few seconds he’d wiped away our advantage completely, and our upper arms were perpendicular to the floor once more. Greg’s sustained growl continued as he forced our hands backward. My wrist was in excruciating pain, and I closed my eyes to concentrate everything I had left into resisting his power. We kept losing ground though. I opened my eyes and stared in awe at Greg’s gargantuan, flexed bicep, bigger than a grapefruit. The back of Art’s hand was finally pressed to the floor with me still staring at Greg’s awesome bicep.
Greg’s face opened up in to a wide, confident smile again. He flashed his pearly whites, as all three of us gasped, our arms numb. “Nice try, boys,” Greg said. He moved to pull his hand away, but I grabbed our grasped hands with my free hand and held tight. Art dove on top of Greg, spinning around and hooking his forearm across the big man’s throat. Greg tried to reach for Art’s arm, but I pinned his forearm to the floor underneath my chest.
It was over quicker than I’d expected. Greg was unconscious in little over a minute. Art and I tied his wrists over his head to the banister of the stairs (reinforced for just such an occasion) a few minutes later, after working hard to hoist his massive hardbody off the ground. Art stripped out of his khakis, then proceeded to strip Greg’s jeans off of him. We waited a few minutes, catching our breath, until finally Greg roused again.
I couldn’t get the image of Prometheus Bound from my head, as I grabbed Greg’s t-shirt by the front of the collar and ripped it off of him. He initially struggled against his bindings, but once he was convinced he was trapped, he just looked into my face with that domineering grin. I took my time, feeling up and down the length of his muscled body, now dressed only in very brief bikini underwear. Typically I’m not really into underarms, but I was irresistibly drawn to lick both his lightly hairy, sweaty pits. His salty taste on my tongue, I stepped back and gave Greg a wink.
Art stepped forward at that point and stripped out of his t-shirt. Like Greg, he was now encumbered only by his white briefs. “Start slowly,” I told him. Art flexed his fists, as he tilted his head, examining Greg’s armored core. Realizing what was on its way, Greg lifted his chin and taunted, “Give it your best shot, kid.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent with Art and I trading turns on our Prometheus punching bag. Impressively, it took over an hour before Greg was really showing the effects of our blows. Another hour after that, his head was hanging low and the once powerful god was whimpering his submission.
Art and I untied Greg. You might imagine there would be hard feelings, but trust me, no one was left unsatisfied by this session. In fact, freshly showered, the three of us were on the couch finishing off a leftover bottle of champagne I had in the fridge from the celebration the night before.
Sidelineland 