Body Shop Read online

  Body Shop

  Where Muscle Men Hustle

  by

  Emeric Varady

  and

  Sandor Vass

  Translated from the Hungarian

  by

  Sandor Vass

  Copyright © 2018 Emeric Varady

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except for the use of brief excerpts in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published by: Emeric Varady

  Cover design by: SelfPubBookCovers/ Viergacht

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Introduction: Hungary’s Muscle Men

  Chapter One: Grunt and Sweat

  Chapter Two: Better Sex Through Chemistry

  Chapter Three: All Through the Night

  Chapter Four: Husband and Wife

  Chapter Five: His Blond Muscle God

  Chapter Six: Pounding the Muscle Pup

  Chapter Seven: More Than One Man

  Chapter Eight: His Secret Admirer

  Chapter Nine: A Married Man Becomes a Sex Object

  Chapter Ten: Compensatory Sex at its Best

  Chapter Eleven: While the Wife’s Away

  Also by Emeric Varady

  Author’s Introduction: Hungary’s Muscle Men

  Budapest, like so many other cities, has its bodybuilding subculture. The pumped-up, physically imposing and even intimidating muscle men, are scorned as freaks by some, but they are admired to the point of idolatry by others. There they are, especially in warm weather, strutting about the city’s streets in shorts and tight-fitting T-shirts or tank tops, exposing themselves, displaying themselves. They’re the modern equivalent of Greek gods, the epitome of masculine perfection.

  As for certain gyms—! What are they, except hotbeds of sodomy, portals of vice? And thank God that such facilities, such resources, exist!

  Gay men are especially susceptible to the allure, the manly siren call, of hard, bulgingly muscular physiques.

  None of us is naïve. We know that a good, weight-trained body can be a huge asset in any urban gay community. There’s a potential element of fetishism in this idolatry, to be sure. But a little impassioned muscle worship—or a lot of it, for that matter!—never hurt anybody, surely.

  I’ve played this game myself, so I know whereof I speak.

  This fictional narrative, based loosely on some of my own experiences and those of my gym buddies, chronicles the unabashed and uninhibited homoerotic adventures of a big young guy whom I’ve chosen to call Konrad. My bodybuilding buddy Sandor Vass has collaborated with me on this manuscript, including in it a few of his own experiences. Apparently, I’m not the only muscle slut in Budapest!

  As for our protagonist, Konrad—he’s representative of the many muscular young men who, while working hard to improve their physiques, don’t hesitate to take time out every now and then to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh. Even the most dedicated iron pumper can be forgiven for putting his hard-earned muscles to recreational use, as a change of pace. Or even forgiven for exploiting his physique, for profit. What bodybuilder hasn’t hustled, at one time or other, to make ends meet?

  Konrad, assuredly, is no saint. But then, saints aren’t usually lusted after by mere fallible mortals, are they?

  Chapter One: Grunt and Sweat

  Budapest had several health clubs which catered to an upscale membership. The interiors of these facilities were elegantly designed, spacious and well-lit. They offered aerobic and spin classes. There were indoor swimming pools. There were juice bars, where the members could order not only juice, but custom-made protein drinks. The workout equipment on the premises represented the latest technology in the fitness industry. Personal trainers were on the staff, to assist the members.

  The Body Shop had none of these amenities. It was a real, old-fashioned iron pit, a small, no-frills grunt-and-sweat gym. Located on a narrow side street in the city’s downtown business district, tucked between two storefronts, the place would be easy to walk or drive past, were it not for its neon sign in the front window, next to the entrance door.

  Part of the sign consisted of a bright red stylized outline of a bodybuilder’s physique, with the neon tubes bent into sinuous curves to suggest the muscle man’s head, shoulders, arms, pecs, butt, and thighs. The glowing figure had one arm raised, with the biceps flexed and bulging.

  It was fashionable in Budapest for bars, restaurants, shops, and other businesses to give themselves names in English, French, or Italian, to confer a hint of exoticism, cosmopolitanism, and “class.” Above the muscle man’s figure, The Body Shop’s neon sign advertised the gym as such, by name, in English, in large vibrant red letters. Underneath the tubular bodybuilder, in a smaller neon script, was the Hungarian equivalent of the establishment’s name, Karosszériaműhey—which technically refers to automobile body work, but, thanks to the image of the flexing guy, the play on words was obvious enough.

  Year round, in the warmth of spring and summer, and also on cold autumn and winter nights, the neon figure maintained his lonely vigil. He was a beacon, summoning the hardcore muscle enthusiasts to where they could find a home, and the company of like-minded men.

  The Body Shop at least had a steam room—a small space with tiled walls and floor, and built-in wooden benches to sit or lie on. The steam supply was efficient, and the room could get very hot, filled with a dense, damp fog.

  After completing his workout, Konrad was relaxing in the steam room with his gym buddy, Enre. Both young men were dedicated amateur bodybuilders, and both were taking the steam, nude. Theoretically, The Body Shop was coed. If a woman chose to join, she wouldn’t be turned away, provided her money was good. But in fact no women belonged to this comparatively austere gym. The ambience was masculine to the point of an oppressive grunginess, and it would take a female with balls, so to speak, who’d want to train there, when so many more attractive options were readily available. The “woman’s locker room,” a cramped space, hadn’t been used as such within anyone’s memory, with much of its floor space appropriated for storage.

  The facility was really an all-male preserve. As a result, nudity in the steam room was standard procedure.

  Enre and Konrad had no inhibitions about being naked in each other’s proximity. They leaned back on the benches with their legs spread, exposing their genitals, relaxing their tired muscles, basking in the hot, humid embrace of the steam which swirled about their bodies.

  Konrad was working at a dead-end nine-to-five job, to make his living. He really lived for the moment, late each weekday afternoon, when he could punch out and head for the gym. There, he vented all of his frustrations, working his muscles, testing himself, striving always to work out harder, to lift heavier weights and do more reps, to develop his body. His time at The Body Shop compensated for whatever was lacking in the rest of his existence.

  And, inevitably, he associated The Body Shop with sex. Unabashed, lusty sex between
like-minded, well-built, pumped-up men!

  “Good workout?” Konrad asked, as he and Enre perspired together.

  “Yeah,” Enre replied. “Now I’m feeling kind of on edge, though. I usually do, after I hit the weights.”

  “Me, too. Not too tired for sex, though, I bet?”

  Enre grinned. “I’m never too tired for that, no matter how my muscles ache.”

  “I know the feeling. Only too well! Want to come to my place and play around for a while?” Konrad asked.

  Enre leaped at the chance. “Yeah,” he agreed, eagerly. Coyness wasn’t a part of either young man’s personality.

  Konrad grinned. “Let’s hit the showers, then.”

  After they showered and dried off, it was almost an annoyance to get dressed, because the moment the two guys arrived at Konrad’s apartment, they stripped naked again. In the bedroom, they got right down to it. They were frequent fuck buddies, who always enjoyed having sex together. But they didn’t require much in the way of foreplay, especially not after a workout. Technically, the penis may not be a muscle—if it was, and it responded to stimulation by growing, every man would be hauling around a male organ of gargantuan proportions! But exercise seemed to have the blood flow down to a cock, giving it the equivalent of the “pump” which a muscle experienced when it was worked hard.

  Both Konrad and Enre were sporting hefty, healthy erections at the moment.

  “I need to have it sucked,” Konrad declared—an announcement which was somewhat redundant, because his cock stood up stiff and proud and ready, obviously in need of relief. “Get down on it, will you?”

  “Sure,” Enre agreed, with his usual complacency. When it came to cocksucking, the muscular young stud was ever ready, and he prided himself on being very skilled at fellatio. He could even deep-throat the longest, thickest dicks, usually without any real difficulty.

  Konrad lay back on his bed, already tense with anticipation. Enre provided some of the best mouth and tongue action he’d ever had. The only thing which Enre liked more than sucking a cock was eventually bringing it off, so that he could swallow the cum. He always got especially aroused when he was servicing Konrad, who not only had a hot body, but an oversized phallic endowment. Konrad’s prick, when hard, was a real mouth filler and throat choker, just the sort of implement Enre liked best.

  Lifting his head a bit, Konrad grabbed the two pillows from the head of the bed and stuffed them under his head and shoulders, propping up his upper torso. At the same time, he spread his heavily muscled legs, giving Enre room to kneel on the mattress between them. Quickly, Enre settled into cocksucking position. Taking his friend’s dick in his hand, he slid his fist up and down on the hotly pulsing shaft. Not that Konrad needed any manual stimulation to get or stay hard. He was fully erect, ready to be serviced.

  Pulling back Konrad’s foreskin and exposing his glans, Enre feasted his eyes on the sight of the turgid cock flesh for a moment. But he was too aroused, too hungry for that cock, to be content with just looking for long. He smacked his lips and wet them with his tongue, while his fingers stroked the other bodybuilder’s big penis.

  Konrad groaned. “Come on, buddy, don’t tease me. Put it in your mouth. Suck it!” He was getting impatient. “Quit fucking around,” he instructed Enre, rather curtly. “You know what to do. So do it! Start sucking.”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry,” Enre protested.

  “I am in a hurry. I really need to drop a load. Uh! You’d better blow me good, you dirty, stinking muscle boy whore!” Konrad snarled. “And you’d better start blowing me now!”

  Meekly, submissively, Enre nodded. Ordinarily, he was a tough, streetwise young guy, who put up with no attitude or bullshit, from anyone. But he was truly putty in Konrad’s hands. It was though the other bodybuilder could cast a spell upon him, at will, rendering Enre helpless to refuse the other muscle man anything. Even subjecting himself to Konrad’s whims, being humiliated by him, was a source of perverse pleasure for Enre.

  Enre’s warm brown eyes smoldered with lust. He was quite taken with Konrad. Enre was well built, exceptionally hard-muscled by any ordinary standards. But Konrad was a few years older. He’d been working out longer. Thanks to this head start, he was bigger than Enre, more massive, with a truly heroic physique, one which was worthy of a young Hercules. There was undeniably an element of hero worship in Enre’s adulation of Konrad. To Enre, Konrad represented an ideal, a goal to strive toward.

  And, of course, to Enre, Konrad was a perfect sex object, as well.

  When it came to cocksucking, Enre prided himself on his expertise. He’d honed his oral technique on countless men. Despite his youth, he was as experienced at fellatio as any jaded street corner whore, the kind of slut who, whether male or female, would get down on his or her knees, open his or her mouth, and suck cock in exchange for a few lousy forints.

  As a result, Enre could deliver on demand some of the best mouth, throat, and tongue action which Konrad had ever encountered. Enre loved the texture and smell, the taste, of sperm. He swallowed it greedily, without hesitation, and he’d sucked off so many men that, like a gourmet, he could distinguish one man’s seminal flavor from another, and rank them, accordingly, by their degrees of desirability. He was the cocksucking equivalent of those guys with extraordinarily educated noses who were employed by perfume makers. Enre’s palate, equally sophisticated and sensitive, could judge cum in the same way.

  As Enre closed his hot, soft-textured, and very talented mouth around the violently aroused glans of Konrad’s cock, holding the shaft imprisoned in his fist, Konrad—despite his intense excitement, or perhaps, perversely, because of it—allowed his mind to wander.

  Recently, Konrad had been lusting, so far in vain, for one of the other guys who worked out regularly at the gym. His name was Jakob, and he was one of the few weightlifters who could compete with Konrad for the unofficial title of The Body Shop’s hottest resident bodybuilder. Jakob was a tall, broad, massively built blond man, who had a thick mustache, droopy at its ends, and a very full head of hair, which he wore longer than shoulder length. He usually tied his mane up in a bandana when he worked out, but when he loosened it, the long blond locks, along with the facial hair, gave him a rather archaic look. He might have been a Viking warrior, or one of Attila’s Huns.

  To Konrad, Jakob’s physique was nearly flawless, close to perfection. Konrad had a purely aesthetic appreciation of that fine, hard body. But, on a less exalted level, he also lusted after it. Every time he saw Jakob working out at The Body Shop, Konrad had difficulty concentrating on his own weightlifting routine, because he was distracted by his lurid mental images of Jakob, naked, stiff-dicked, in bed with him.

  In his imagination, Konrad performed every sex act which two men could possibly do together, taking into account their anatomical limitations. In these obscene fantasies, Jakob was a blond barbarian, and always the dominant sex partner, a stern erotic taskmaster, while Konrad gladly assumed the role of the other muscle man’s submissive bitch. He’d do anything to please Jakob, no matter how perverted, dirty, or humiliating the act might be. Ordinarily, Konrad was the muscle stud whom other men admired, desired, and vied to satisfy. When it came to his lurid speculations about being intimate with Jakob, the exact opposite situation prevailed. In his mind, in his feverish imaginings, Konrad was Jakob’s sex slave.

  Konrad and Jakob had a nodding acquaintance. They were politely friendly whenever they encountered each other at the gym. Sometimes, they spotted each other. They had casual conversations, which almost invariably centered around their respective workout routines. If Jakob suspected how hot Konrad was for him, he was good at concealing his awareness. To Jakob, Konrad was just another well-built fellow gym member.

  In his imagination, though, Konrad had his way with Jakob.

  I want him to suck my dick and fuck me in the ass, Konrad would tell himself, in a feverish internal monologue, when he masturbated. I want the two of us to do everything toget
her. I want that big blond stud to be so hot for me that he’ll be my sex slave. Yeah, I can see him on his knees in front of me, naked, with a big boner sticking out from his crotch, and all those muscles of his tensed and flexed and rippling—while his mouth pumps away on my prick and sucks every drop of my goddamn cum from me!

  Thinking about Jakob and the menu of various sex acts which the two of them could run through together, Konrad always had unusually intense jerk-off sessions. Alone in his apartment, lying nude on his bed, he’d stuff both pillows under his head, apply some lube to his penis, and grasp it in his fist. Working his big arm, with its bulging muscles, he began to play with his rapidly hardening cock, sometimes applying just a light pressure in order to tease himself and prolong his pleasure, at other moments squeezing his erection so hard that it hurt.

  Even though, on these occasions, he was usually tired after his day’s work, to say nothing of the fact that he’d stopped at The Body Shop to work out on his way home, Konrad would find that his fantasies were vivid enough to drive him mad with lust. And a good, strong, self-induced ejaculation would relax him and help him drift off the sleep.

  Already, pre-cum was leaking from the piss slit in his glans, which was exposed by the way his hand kept pushing his foreskin down around the upper part of his shaft. With his other hand, Konrad rubbed the dribbled jism over his cockhead, massaging it with his palm. Closing his eyes, Konrad pretended that it was Jakob who was giving him the hand job. Quickly, though, the long-haired muscle stud progressed to first licking the dick, and then taking it inside his mouth ad sucking on it.

  That’s right, Jakob, you big stud cocksucker, Konrad thought. Take it all the way in your mouth. Slobber all over it. Swallow it. Choke on it! Blow me, you muscle bitch. But don’t rush it. Suck that cock slow and easy, make it last. And turn around, so we can sixty-nine, dude. I want to suck on your big prick while you work on mine. Let’s come together—!