Smith's Gym is usually pretty busy. Bodybuilders of all sizes and ages crowd its famous floors from six in the morning 'til we close at ten at night. But tonight is Sunday and the place is almost deserted. Even Vern Smith, the owner, is out on some errand. I'm just sitting behind the desk, reading a copy of "Muscle Mag" and getting a hard-on.
There are only three guys on the floor. Joe Cianelli, still fresh from his victory of winning the Amateur Mr. America, lays on a low bench doing his presses, while his lover Pete Patowski (who placed second in the same contest) is spotting him. Joe wears enough body oil to lube up a hundred dicks, but he's got enough class to put a towel under him to keep grease off the bench. At about fifteen minutes until closing, I know that those two will be in the showers; they know that I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to. Not like that jerk, Bob Morrell.
Bob Morrell struts around here like he owns the place. He's six foot one, blonde, blue eyed, with a body that could stop traffic five blocks away. He just turned pro this year, and ever since he started training for Mr. Universe you'd think he lives here. He's on a double split system; he comes in around lunch time, then again later in the evening. And he ALWAYS takes his sweet time. After his evening workout, he goes to the steam room, then takes a nice relaxing shower, not getting out of here 'til close to eleven.
Vern Smith, the owner, won't let me say anything to him. Smith thinks Bob gives the place class. He won't allow me to mention anything to Bob about his running around barefoot, which is clearly against the rules; foot sweat corrodes the carpets. Vern Smith wants him to stay here and attract more clients, as if we needed more.
I've told Smith how obnoxious the guy is, but Smith would just smile and say, "Don't let it bother you. People like him always get their comeuppance."
But I've got plans for Bob Morrell. I'm about to give him an evening he'll never forget.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Joe and Pete stroll on back to the locker room. Bob just finished his calf raises. Wearing red shorts and no shoes. He's been working out pretty hard tonight, but the arrogant fuck has barely worked up a sweat; he doesn't want to soil up his reputation as some kind of Greek god. The way he acts, you'd think he's above human feeling. But I found out different. One of his ex-tricks, a guy I met at a leather bar the other night, gave me the low-down on Bob Morrell and his secret weakness, something that drives him crazy and makes him a slave of whoever finds out about it.
"How 'bout giving me those inversion boots, Sport?" Bob asks, as if talking to some kind of amateur. It's been years since I've bothered to compete, but I'll put my bod against his any day! He's got a smug little grin on his face. Silently, I hand him the inversion boots, which were right behind me, and pretend to get back to my reading.
Bob struts over to the iron braces he had set up high on the east wall for pull-ups and inversion exercises. In no time he has those grey padded boots with the stainless steel braces strapped on to his salon tanned ankles. He leaps on to the overhead bar and flips himself over with catlike agility. Hands folded behind his bleached blonde head, he begins his upside down crunches, abs rippling like an accordion. Time to make my move.
"Hey, Bob!" I yell, trying not to laugh.
He stops, no doubt stunned that a mere gym instructor would dare to speak to His Majesty.
"Smith showed me a new exercise with those. Works the abs ten times better than what you're doing."
"Oh, yeah!" he exclaims, this time with real interest.
"Smith thinks you'll make Mr. Olympia some day", I say, really laying it on, "And so do I." I knew he'd like that, the stuck-up son-of-a-bitch.
"Yeah?" he says, just hanging there. Then, suddenly, a suspicious look grows on his stupid face. "How come he never told me?"
"He's going to. He just doesn't give special attention to just anybody, you know." I amble toward the hunk, my left hand holding a pair of props for my upcoming prank.
I continue to talk, not wanting the dummy to figure out what I'm up to. "Why don't you just stretch out your arms down to the floor?"
He obeys. Just like that. His arms are magnificent, a good twenty inches around the biceps with thick brown hair growing at the pits. I get a pair of hundred pound dumbbells and place one near each of his arms. I attach them to his arms with my toys, the heavy-duty handcuffs I'm carrying. He raises his brows as he sees them.
"These are special. Smith just bought them. They're made to go with the inversion boots." God, I can be a cool liar when I'm motivated!
"Oh." he says.
Just from that "oh", I can tell that he's starting to get nervous.
"Now", I say, "try doing those crunches."
He tries. His huge, sculpted chest tightens, veins popping up all over his arms like roots. Try as he does, he can't get far. Just like I planned.
"Come on, Bob, you can do it!"
He tries again, with all his might, making even less progress this time. Finally, he gives up, chest heaving like bellows.
"Looks like I'm just going to have to give you some help." I sigh. Casually, I stroll behind him and drop down to my knees. Before he knows what's happening, I sink my two index fingers into his armpits.
He lets out a yell like a man possessed.
"Hey!" he screams. "Cut that out!"
"I'm just trying to help you lift up." I say, innocently, as I continue.
Christ, does he squirm! He curses me to high hell, but I just keep right on going. Teeth clenched, he fights me with every bit of strength. But it's no use. I have him and he knows it. His curses turn to pleas as he starts to giggle. I just laugh and continue, using all my fingers now and moving up to his ribs. He really starts to buck and laugh, his face getting redder by the second.
"Stop! AAAAAAAAAAAAAgghhhhhhhh! Please! Oh my God! Hahahahahahahahahaha!I can't take it! Shit! Oh noooooooo! Aghhhhhhhhhh!" His voice turns high pitched, like a teenage boy's. My cock is hard as a rock now, fighting its way through the jock under my gym shorts. But I'm not ready to unleash it. Not yet.
"I'm not letting you go 'til you can do one crunch." I say. "How the hell do you expect to make the Olympia unless you can do an inversion crunch with weights on each arm? I'll just have to help you some more." With that, I pull his red shorts up to his knees. His big, muscular ass is already starting to twitch beneath the sweaty jock strap. His cock is almost as hard as mine, and it looks almost as big, maybe nine inches.
I trace the outline of his ass with my finger. That hard butt of his practically dances. He holds his mouth tight to try and hold back the laughter. I don't know why he bothers; he's so sensitive that he bursts out laughing even before I start to get real serious.
"No more! Not again! Hahahahahahahahahaha! Please! EEEEeeeeee! Noooooo! You're driving me crazy! Aaaiiiiiieeeeeee! Stop! I'll do anything, man! Stop! Hahahahahahahah...."
"Anything?" I ask.
Before he even has a chance to reply, I pull down my shorts and jock and whip out my cock. I march around to face him. I shove myself into his hot mouth; he knows better than to try to resist. I have to bend my knees a little, but, what the hell, I'm getting the best blowjob I've had in a long time. His mouth is hot and wet. He's slow at first, but I soon fix that by teasing his ass with my fingertips. Every time he tries to slow down, I speed up my fingers. He catches on quickly, and he takes my throbbing tool all the way up to his throat. His giggling excites my dick, so I decide to pull up his jockstrap and have some more fun.
He must've had that thing on for days. It's pungent and stiff as I pull it up to join his shorts. His meat is hard, long and thick. But first I want to play with his balls.
Just the slightest touch from my finger causes his whole body to shake with laughter. I've found a gold mine of sensation. I'm getting close to cumming, too close. I want to prolong this as much as possible, so I pull out of the hottest mouth I've ever had. My dick is all slick and wet and I give his laughing face a slap with it, just to remind him who's boss.
"Hahahahah...you gotta stop, man! Not my balls! Hahahahahaha! Noooooooo! I can't take it! Not my balls! Not my balls! Hahahahahahaha!"
"Not your balls? Okay, buddy, tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to give you a break." With that, I back away, pulling my shorts up. I leave his sweaty, drenched body and head for the supply room.
I find what I want in no time. When I get back, his eyes widen in horror as he sees what I have in my hot little hands.
A feather duster. Just a plain old feather duster with grey and black feathers. I grin wickedly.
"Wha...whatcha gonna do with that, man?" he asks, so scared he can barely get the words out.
I just smile and pull out one of the longest feathers, dropping the duster to the floor. I bring the tip of the feather up to his left foot, which is already twitching. Starting at the top of the foot, next to his third toe, I slowly and delicately drag the tip of the feather down to the heel. He doesn't just laugh; he screams! I'm in hog heaven. I make that feather dance all around, first one naked foot, then the other. He's laughing so hard, his huge chest spasming from not being able to get a good breath, and his face beet red from hanging upside down, that he can't even plead to stop. So I decide to let up just a little. For now. After all, even I need a rest.
He just hangs there, drenched in sweat, his fat cock sticking straight out. He gulps air hungrily. I look at my prize, chuckling to myself when I think about all the fun I'm still going to have.
"Well, what's going on here?"
I spin around, startled as hell. There is Vern Smith, flanked by Joe Cianelli and Pete Patowski, all with strange grins on their faces. I feel the blood drain from my face. They're all dressed alike, leather from head to foot, except for Pete, who wears a spiked slave collar and no shoes.
"Mr. Smith!" yells Bob Morell, "This fuckface tricked me into....", then launches into the whole story, in detail.
My heart sinks. Not only am I going to get fired, but no other gym in town will hire me once word gets around. When Bob finishes, Vern orders Joe and Pete to help Bob down. I unlock the handcuffs.
"You!" Vern exclaims, hands on hips, a scowl on his craggy face. He is a mountain of a man, tall and wide. His black eyes bore right into me. I can't say a word.
"You. You're one of us!"
"Huh?" I gasp.
Bob Morrell, flanked by the two lovers, starts to fly into a rage. He tries to swagger over to Smith, but trips on his shorts. He's forgotten to pull them up, the dumb shit.
"Get him!" yells Smith.
Joe and Pete are on the future Mr. Universe like a pair of wolves. With lightning speed they have him manacled and cuffed, his shorts and filthy jock stripped away. He yells and fights, but the other two are too much for him.
"We're part of a club called 'The Order of the Feather'", Smith explains. "We're into torture-tickling. Looks to me like we have more in common than a serious interest in bodybuilding."
He gives me a wink and a slap on the back.
My mouth moves, but no words will actually come out. Smith can tell I'm having a hard time taking all of this in, so he takes me aside and tells me how he got the idea for The Order and all. Meanwhile, Joe and Pete are driving Bob into hysterics, giving his balls a real workout.
"You know", Smith says, "I always knew you were special. But what you did today was a little out of line. This IS my gym."
"Hey, I'm really sorry!" I stammer. What the hell, I really am. Smith is always really good to me and pays better than any other gym owner in town. "But, I didn't damage anything. I was just having a little fun."
"I know", Smith says, smiling, "But I am going to have to make your initiation a bit rougher than most."
"Initiation?" I gulp. I feel my cock start to twitch.
"EVERYBODY has to go through initiation. Even I went through it, and I started the damn club. But don't worry, you'll be in good hands!" He laughs and strokes my ribs with the tips of his fingers. I giggle and jump, but stay right where I am.
Watching the two lovers playing with Bob's feet, his screams for mercy filling the gym like a weird chant, I know I am in for a long night.
Smith pulls my arms back and cuffs them. His tongue dances on the nape of my neck, and I giggle and squirm helplessly.
"You're coming with me to the office!" Smith growls. "I've got a few phone calls to make."
He pushes me roughly. I look over my shoulder and saw Joe binding the balls of his lover and Bob together with black leather straps. The two captives are in a sixty-nine position, licking each other's feet and laughing uncontrollably.
"Look ahead, fucker." Smith wrenches my head forward. I feel his hand at my crotch. He pulls my cock out and lets it point ahead of us. I gasp as he toys with my balls.
"This is just the beginning!" he snarls.
*** end of story ***