MAC MEN 3: THE SHUDDER CHRONICLES CONTINUES

[Guest randyrawman]

We lie there together on the spooge-stained mattress for a while, then untangle ourselves and reluctantly slip back into our clothes. Before I leave the building, I turn around and look at the empty space and imagine it full of sweaty, primal man-fuckers. The thought of it makes me throb, even after I’ve dumped a huge load.

Angel walks me out to the parking lot. “If you want some special gear to wear to the party, I can go with you to shop for it,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Chaps, a harness, a jock, some briefs with no ass, whatever you want,” he explains. “I get a discount. I have a friend who works at a place.”

“A friend?” I say, cocking an eyebrow.

“Yeah, a friend,” he says, “like you and I are friends. We hang out, we have fun, we swap things…stories…recipes…spunk.”

“Let’s go in a couple of days,” I say. “I might not be able to walk tomorrow.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” smirks Angel. “Hold on, I got something in my car I want to give to you.”

As Angel runs to his car, it notice the denim around his asscrack is darker than the fabric surrounding it. Could that be my fuckload? Is my manseed slowly leaking out of him?

“Here,” he says, handing me a CD with no label.

“What’s this?”

“You’re probably going to want to work out extra hard before Shudder, not that you’re body’s not hot as fuck as it is. This is to help inspire you. Load it into your iPod and listen to it as you work out,” he advises me. “You probably won’t want to play it at any children’s birthday parties.”

“Got it,” I say.

“And don’t—I repeat, don’t--play it in your car on the way home,” he says. “I want you to be in a gym full of sweaty, pumped muscle fuckers when you hear it for the first time.” Angel laughs, imagining the moment. “Then text and tell me about it.”

With that, he pushes me against my car and kisses me. I can still taste cum on his lips. “You did good today, Randy,” he says sweetly. “I can see it in your eyes. You’ve changed; there’s a confidence there, a kind of power. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you,” I say. I’m proud of me, too, because I’m not just dreaming it now. I’m living it.

On the drive home, I get stuck behind an accident but I’m too blissfully worn out to care. To pass the time, I let some globs of cum seep out of my ass, reach into my sweats from the front, scoop it up and bring it to my lips. Each time I do this, my cock’s a little harder as my hand grazes past it. If other drivers notice, I don’t fucking care.

The next morning, I wake up and for a few minutes, I wonder if everything that happened yesterday—the warehouse, the mattress, the marathon flip-fuck cum-swap with Angel—was just a dirty dream. But when I rise to walk to the bathroom, the sweet, hard-earned ache in my asshole says to me, “It happened, Randy. You fucking did it. It’s real.”

I dress for the gym in a royal blue fitted Nike dry-fit tank and black nylon shorts that are cut a bit high to show off my cycler’s quads. I consider going commando but after what Angel said about the CD, I’m a little afraid not to.

I load the disc Angel gave me into my Powerbook, that trusty, gleaming gadget that led me to my debauched destiny. The CD has ten tracks on it:

1) Where Do You Think I Want You to Shoot It?

2) Drop It Deep

3) Fuel Injected

4) Overflow / Lick It Up

5) Snowballer’s Chance in Hell

6) (Riding in on a) Carpet of Cum

7) How Many So Far?

8) Churn

9) Second Ring of Heaven

10) Deep Seeded Need

I fight the temptation to listen and just transfer the tracks to my iPhone. I drive to the gym, check in and put my bag in a locker. I slip my earbuds in, check my appearance in the mirror—I look good. There’s a swagger there, I didn’t have before. From the back, I see my hard-earned V leading down to my glutes, which seem extra perky today. Could my butt be more toned from one breeding?

I step onto the treadmill and lift my right foot on the sidebar, to stretch my hamstring before I jog my two-mile warm up. This stretch is another not-so-gentle reminder that my asshole is still deliciously sore from Angel. I press ‘Play,’ and wait.

A warm synth pad fills my ears, then a tribal drumbeat kicks in on top of it. I’m thinking ‘Big deal, this is just a typical dance track,’ but then the vocal track kicks in. We’re not talking Rihanna or Ke$ha or some other dance diva of the moment. These vocals are pure testosterone. It’s men; full-throated, deep-voiced men, who were clearly recorded while in the act of fucking or getting fucked…or maybe fucking and getting fucked. My cock gets rockhard in my jock. It’s all so fucking loud and vulgar and hot that I quickly scan the gym floor to make sure know one else can hear it, that this is my little secret.

I switch legs and keep listening to the cacophony of grunts and groans and moans and sighs, all artfully edited and looped together to form rhythm patterns and even melodies. Occasionally a word or phrase will pop out, like, “In me, fucker, in me,” “Breed it, baby,” or “Where do you think I want you to shoot it?” which is the title of this particular track.

“What the fuck is on this CD?” I text Angel.

I’m into my second mile, my cock so hard in my jock it hurts, when Angel texts me back. ‘Actual audio from Shudder parties.’

I imagine some hot teamster type running around the warehouse with a boom mic and a leaking dick hanging out of his cargo pants.

‘Genius,’ I text back. ‘Who put it together?’

‘Oscar.’

‘Who?’

‘Bred me on cam for you.’

‘Oh. Man of many talents.’

Have you gotten to ‘How Many So Far?’ It’s like Beyonce’s countdown song, but w/ loads. LOL.’

‘Dick too hard to run. Hope you’re happy.’

I get off the treadmill and head to the free weight area. My dick stays rock hard through my workout as the hits just keep on coming. “Flood me, fucker, flood me. I feel it, I feel it shooting. Beg for it, boy. Beg. For. Seed.” Between sets of curls, I reach into my shorts and adjust my dick, so it’s pointing diagonally up. The leaking head is nearly popping out but it’s much more comfortable than the previous position.

A track or two later--as robotic stud voice says, “Sperm Me,” over and over in my ears--I’m doing lat pulldowns when a tattooed Polynesian hunk in head-to-toe Underarmour flashes me a smile. I’ve seen this stud here before but never interacting with him. He’s an avid swimmer and I’ve often enjoyed watching him get out of the pool in his old school blue Adidas Speedo and strut those granite butt cheeks to the locker room but he’s always struck me as straight or unavailable. But that wasn’t a very straight smile. Sperm me sperm me sperm me sperm me.

“What are you listening to?” he asks, between tricep push-downs. “You seem like you’re in another world.”

“Is it that obvious?” I say. He nods. “It’s a hot mix of some sexy dance tracks a friend of mine put together. Very unique, one-of-a-kind kind of stuff.”

“You know Oscar,” he says, with a grin. He tilts his head down and stares into my eyes, while his bulging tris contract and release.

Oh shit, I think, we’re gonna fuck. I know it…right then. It’s fucking on. I’m going to be one of those guys I’ve always heard about and envied, those guys who fuck and breed at the gym. Who knows? I may have to start allotting extra time into my workouts for buttfucking. I’m sure this kind of thing happens to Angel and his posse all the time, but it’s excitingly novel to me. A hungry smile, a loaded look and few carefully selected words are uttered and bam, it’s fucktime.

“Well, actually, I haven’t met Oscar, face to face,” I say, straddling the bench for another set of pull-downs, “but a friend of mine is a good friend of his so you know…”

“There’s some kind of DNA connection there,” he says.

“Bingo,” I say. When I stand up from the bench, I feel cool air on my cockhead but I’m not sure if it’s real and my dick’s popping out or in my mind because I’m so boned. I’m afraid to look so I just walk over to the guy and offer him my gloved hand. “I’m Randy,” I say.

“Bryan,” he says, taking my hand in his and giving it a long leather-to-leather squeeze, “with a Y.”

“You’ve heard Oscar’s mixes, I take it?”

“Actually, no,” says Bryan. “But I’ve heard of Oscar’s mixes. I’ve always wanted to check them out.”

“Come do crunches with me in the aerobics studio. You can have one earbud, I’ll have the other.”

“God, that’s so intimate,” he says, with a laugh.

“I know,” I say.

We walk together to the aerobics room and sit on the floor facing the mirror. I put one earbud up to his right ear. “I’m going in, okay?” I whisper.

“Please,” he says.

I insert his earbud, then put the other in my left ear. “We have to stay close together,” I say.

“Okay,” he says.

I scroll through the titles I haven’t heard yet and pick “Churn.” Side by side, Bryan and I do work our ab muscles and listen to a slow burn of a jam, like if Sade had a cock. It features a recurring sample of what sounds like a wet, sloppy used asshole getting reamed for the umpteenth time. That’s probably exactly what that is.

Turned on beyond words, we pour our libidos into our workouts and try to out sweat each other, matching each crunch to the beat as the track reaches it’s bellowing climax with a chorus of deep-voiced studs chanting, “Seed him! Seed him! Seed him! Seed him! Seed him! Seed him!” and then a lucky top groaning, “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuucckkk!”

We fall back onto our backs and look up at the ceiling, which has a mirror on it that I’ve never noticed before.

“Oh my God,” I gasp.

“I think I was actually at that party,” remarks Bryan. “I think I was was one of the chanting guys. I don’t know whether I should sue or be flattered.”

My eyes are glued to Bryan’s crotch in the mirror. His Underarmour tights look like they’re about to burst. Fuck, he’s packing. He does a series of small pelvic pumps, like a jackhammer then turns his head to face me.

“Go move that curtain to the right,” he says, gesturing with his dimpled chin to a long piece of fabric that covers one of the side walls. “I would but I can’t get up. You know why.”

“You think I can?” I ask.

“At least you have regular shorts,” he says. “If I stand up, I could be arrested for public indecency.”

I jump up and pull the curtain to reveal a door I’d never known was there.

“See if it’s open,” he says.

I do and it is. I look inside and discover a storeroom used for yoga mats, blocks, steps, etc. I look back and raise my eyebrows.

“There’s a class in here in ten minutes,” he says. “If we go in, we can’t come out for at least an hour.”

I think about the conference call I have for work in 45 minutes. Screw it.

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” I say. “Except in those tights.”

In one fluid movement, Bryan rises and darts into the storeroom, pulling me in with him and closing the door behind us.

“Come over here,” he says, leading me to the corner where two stacks of plastic, shoulder-height step-aerobics steps form a barricade between the back wall and the door we entered through. He pulls me behind them, brings us both down to our knees and smiles. “Hey, fucker.”

“Hey,” I say. “But what if the next class is a step class and they take our wall away?”

“It’s yoga.”

“You really know all the ins and outs around here,” I remark.

“I used to teach spinning here,” he says.

“Explains the ass,” I say.

I reach around and put my hand on his Spandex covered ass. He gently moves it up to his lower back. “Just kiss me for a while,” he says. “Only kiss.”

“Why?” I ask.

“You’ll see.”

Just then, the door opens and I hear the voice of two women; one I assume to be the instructor and the other, a student. They make small talk and grab mats from the stack that’s just in front of our wall of steps. All the while, Bryan and I kiss soft and gentle, not noisy, for obvious reasons. More yogis come in and grab mats. More kissing, our crotch bulges gently brushing against each other, back and forth.

Finally, some New Age-y music kicks in and we hear the class start. Bryan pulls my shorts and jock down. My raging hard-on pops up and smacks my stomach. Just then, the door opens again. We duck down and freeze. A last-minute student grabs a mat, runs out and closes the door behind her. “Fucking latecomers,” I whisper.

Bryan looks down at my rock hard cock. He taps his index finger on my leaking dickhead, then pulls it to his mouth. It connects in one long strand then snaps. He kisses me and I can taste my pre-cum. He pulls my shorts back up but pulls my dick off to the side of my jock then stands back to look at me. “I have a gym gear fetish,” he whispers, “and I’ve been wondering what your pretty cock would look like up against that silky nylon with no jock. Fuck, that’s nice,” he says.

“Take a picture, it lasts longer,” I say, willing my dick to bob up and down in my shorts.

“Fine,” Bryan says, before grabbing my iPhone, snapping a few pics of me with my gym shorts hard-on, and a few with my cock fully out.

“My face showing?”

“Yeah,” he says. “That a problem?”

I’ve taken naked pictures of myself before, a few, but never with the face showing.

“It’s not a problem,” I say.

“True breeding fuckstuds are totally unapologetic,” I remember Angel saying to me yesterday during the afterglow on that cum-matted mattress. “They don’t care if people think they’re reckless whores because they know that deep down inside, everyone wishes that they could be that kind of free.”

Bryan puts my iPhone down and goes down on my knob in one gulp. I stifle a moan. The yoga music isn’t nearly loud enough to drown out the kind of sounds I want to make. Bryan pulls his head off my cock, stands up and kisses me, deep and wet. I turn him around and grind my cock against his nylon-clad ass, caressing those pumped pecs beneath that skintight red Underarmour shirt. Fuck, they feel hot. I start to inch my hand around his waist to feel his amazing bulge. I touch cock way before I’m expecting to as it’s snaking halfway around his waist like a belt.

“Holy shit,” I say.

“Shhhh,” he says, laughing.

When I crouch down to inspect his ass, I feel the soreness of my own ass. God, that’s incredible, experiencing a physical reminder of a recent red-hot fuckfest just as you’re about to embark on another one. I realize in that moment that life is about fucking--breeding and getting bred--and everything else that happens to us is just window dressing.

I rub my hands all over his glorious nylon clad ass, then peel his tights down to reveal his rock hard globes. I spread them apart with my hands, then dive right onto his hole, tongue first. God, he tastes good, clean and warm and sweaty. I can tell me wants to shout all manner of indecencies at me, but instead he just breathes. I stand up and press my fuckstick into his crack. “I want in,” I breathe, then think, ‘Angel would be soooo proud of me.’

“I want you in,” he replies. “Give me a sec.” He skitters across the room, tights around his knees to the First Aid kit on the wall, digs behind a box of Band-Aids and produces a small tube of Wet. “From when I used to work here,” he explains. “It’s kind of old but who cares?”

“Not me,” I say.

Bryan gets my dick ready, being mindful not to use up all the lube. I’m guessing he wants us to flip but damn, my ass is sore. He removes the top few rows of steps so he can lay flat on the stack. I aim my cock at his sweet ass, touch the tip to his hole, then pause.

“Hold on,” I say. “Were there any rubbers stashed in there?”

“I didn’t see any,” he says, with a boyish shrug.

“Oh well,” I say, then go balls deep in one long, slow stroke.

Bryan lets out the loudest sound either of us has made since we entered the room, but it’s still not loud enough to be heard over the Enya playing in the next room. At least, I hope it’s not. It doesn’t take him long to get used to my dick. After a few slow strokes in and out, I bury it all the way in then slowly wiggle my hips back and forth, exploring every inch of his fuck chute.

“God, you feel good,” he whispers. “Pound me.”

I do just that, in long deliberate strokes, building up steam and then pulling back when I feel my balls start to pull up. Then when the need to seed dies down, I go back at it. I’m honing my skills with every fuck, I think. The mix of having control during sex and losing control during sex, the dance of that, is incredibly exciting to me. I want to be the kind of fucker who can masterfully take a partner and myself to the edge and over it—conscious of every stroke and caress—and also someone who is constantly surprised by new sensations and savage mindfucks. I want to develop mad-skills as a cocksman and still get taken to other worlds by a great fuck.

After a solid few minutes of pounding, Bryan stands up, arches back and whispers, “You’re about to fuck the cum out of me and all over this equipment.”

“And the problem with that is?” I whisper back.

“It’s not where I want it to go,” he says.

He wants to breed me, too. I had a feeling he wanted to. That’s what I want, too. My ass is still so tender from yesterday but man, this stud is beautiful and I really want his fuckload. Besides, when I recount this story to Angel and say, “Yeah, he wanted to breed me, too, but then I pussied out,” it would not go over well at all.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” I say, pushing in balls deep again. “So take your hands off your cock so you don’t shoot. I’m going to pound till I breed and then you’re going to knock me up, too.”

“Do it,” he says, laying his sweaty, humpy pecs down on the steps.

Bam, bam, bam, bam. The only sounds in the room are the slapping of my churning balls on his ass, our breathing and the Middle-Eastern flavored music coming from the class outside. Bam, bam, bam, bam. I feel my nut coming on…less than ten bams from now. Oh, fuck, make that five. “Take it,” I say, so faintly that I’m not sure Bryan can even hear me. “Take my flood of cum.”

I collapse down on top of his back, our sweat soaked nylon tops rubbing together.

“It felt like about seven jets,” I whisper to Bryan, my mouth right next to his ear. “How many did you feel?”

He turns his head so we’re nose to nose, looking into each other’s eyes. “Fifty,” he says. “Now it’s your turn.”

“I want to on my back,” I say. “I want to look up at your hot chest…your sexy fucking face.”

“Well, there’s one mat left,” he remarks. “How convenient.”

I pull off my shorts and jock, lie down on the last yoga mat and lift my legs in the air. Bryan pulls the front of his tight tank over his head, so it’s stretched across his broad shoulders. His small brown nipples jut out from the mountains of his pecs. God, what a man. He pulls his tights up, so his cock is out but his ass is covered in spandex and looks down at me. “We got fifteen minutes, tops,” he says. “You want me to eat you or just fuck?”

“Just fuck,” I say.

“I think that’s for the best,” he says. “I just got back from a trip with my sister, where we shared a room. No privacy. I haven’t unloaded in a week.”

“Oh fuck,” I sigh, imagining the monster load I’m going to be walking out of here with.

Bryan grabs my iPhone, tosses one earbud at my face and puts the other in his ear. “We might not be able to be loud,” he whispers, “but they can.”

I stick my ear bud in. He places the phone on my abs and presses play. The final 10-minutes track of Oscar’s megamix kicks in: “Deep Seeded Need” just as Bryan shoves his cock in me. A stud growling, “Seed me, I need it,” in a gravelly voice is sampled and replayed over and over. It becomes like a mantra as Bryan fucks me, carefully to never pull too far away so as not to disconnect us from the music. He leans down and shoves his tongue in my throat as the track builds. Seed me, I need it. Seed me, I need it. Seed me, I need it. When a fucker on the track warns, “You’re gonna get it, boy!” Bryan pulls back, nods his head up and down frantically, then hammers his 7-day jizzload straight into my guts, every rope seeming to spray out on the downbeat.

A warmth spreads all over my insides, but I’m not sure if it’s literal or just in my mind. I’ve read other barebackers online describing the “jizzjoy” that comes with being a breeding hole. Now I know what they’re talking about. Bryan’s cum-shudder seems to go on for minutes. If we had fifteen minutes for that fuck, it’s like he knew to allot five for his orgasm.

While watching him twitch and convulse, I understand something else about the Shudder philosophy. The men of this tribe know how to truly savor the breed. They make a show of it for whoever’s lucky enough to be on the receiving end of your load or in the room cheering you on or on the other end of that webcam with their own spurting dick in their hand. The party’s called Shudder so if you want to cum quietly, without making a spectacle of yourself, well, you’ve got the wrong party.

The feeling of Bryan’s cummy cock snaking out of me is pure fucking heaven. Cumscent permeates the room. I could smell my load when I was getting fucked, but I thought it might have just been in my mind, part of the whole fuck frenzy. Now that we’ve both inseminated and we’re back on earth, the smell is undeniable. “Smells like fuckloads,” Bryan says, taking a big, sweet whiff.

“Yeah,” I say. “About fifty of them.”

At the same time, we both realize that it’s gone silent in the yoga room. “Oh no,” I whisper. Then we hear a chorus of “Namastes” followed by some light applause for the teacher. “Shit,” Bryan says. His cock bounces against his thighs leaving cum streaks as we scramble to get the steps stacked back up and then disappear behind them. The door opens just as we duck down. The class members stream in to dump their yoga mats. I notice a cum drop catch the light on our fuckmat just before the first class member’s mat plops down on top of it. I’m relieved it doesn’t make a squelching sound.

As Bryan and I wait for the parade of yogis to end, we finger each other’s cum-slick assholes, lick our fingers, kiss each other and wallow in our own cumneed.

“That class was really special for some reason,” one of the students says to the teacher. “There was a connectedness to it, a real fluidity.”

‘We’ve got your fluidity right here,’ I think to myself and smile at Bryan.

“Thanks, Tami,” says the teacher, before shutting off the light. The last thing she says before shutting the door and leaving the studio is, “Does it smell like bleach in here to you?”

Bryan and I cover each other’s cum-slick mouths to keep from cracking up. I lean back on the wall just so I can watch him pull all that Lycra back over himself. He’s not the only one with a gym gear fetish. I’m sure his cockhead is going to leave a cumstain on the front of his tights. Bryan knows that, too, and he doesn’t care.

The pride, the exhibitionism, the flaunting of one’s sexual needs and desires is something that sets the Shudder crowd apart. They just fucking own it. I’m sure if the DMV let them, they’d all have customized license plates: “SPUNKSWAP,” “CUMMMMNME,” “JIZZTKR, “NVRWRAP’D.”

And I’m on my way to being one of them.

TO BE CONTINUED