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|"Great pants!" was Dem's first comment as the huge Russian admitted him to
the big suite at the Fairmont he was occupying while zoning up for the
Olympia. Yes, it was newly expected of the judges that they show up on The
Day as buffed and contest ready as any of the athletes they'd be judging and
the Magnificent Fyodor (or Red, as his best friends called him for his
flaming auburn locks and bronzed bod) at his best ever.
The pants concerned were shiny black glove leather, cut high in the thigh and low at the waist-line. Very flattering, especially to the great sweep of quad muscles and the non-so subtle underlining of the genital equipment bulging through the leather. But then, all Russians are such show-offs. From his almost scarlet crewcut to his bare toes via the perfect abs.
Dem, in his white lace-up helanca shorts and close-fitting scarlet tanktop looked overdressed beside (but not out-muscled by) the famous Red Russian who stood there, admiring Dem, up and down. The new white hope of Russian muscledom was certainly a sight for sore eyes. Incredibly handsome, the rugged perfection of his film star features was eclipsed by the perfection of his enormous physique. Not as over-bulked as some of his compatriots, every bronzed muscle seemed to be in perfect condition, perfectly shaped, perfectly massive, and perfectly huge. Every curve of every slab melted perfectly into each other. Every muscle had muscle built on muscle in such a way as to draw the eye and harden the groin. One longed, as did Dem, to see the whole thing naked in its undoubted perfection.
"Sure – one won't hurt."
"Of course, in training you are, da?"
"Da. Only two weeks to go, Red."
"Big day. Yes."
"Even bigger this year, Red." (And a lot bigger than you, big guy!)
"Of course, Demetrius. Last year,,,,"
"Say no more. All vodka down the hatch, da?"
And down it went, giving the handsome Russian's golden features a most flattering flush. This is not his first today, thought the observant Demetrius.
Fyodor banged his shot glass down on the bar. The equivalent of smashing it against the wall, I guess, thought Dem as his sapphire eyes bored into the Russian over the rim of his glass. Those eyes seldom failed to nail their prey and the well-vodka'd Russian muscle god was no exception. He sidled over the white carpet, eyes sliding up and down and over Dem's flexing muscle.
"See something you like, Red?"
"Look very good, Demetrius!"
"Yeah? Like this?"
He flexed a huge, striated, double-headed bicep under the Russian nose.
"Or is it this?"
Fyodor gasped as Dem flexed a most muscular for him, bulging eight-pack and monumentally swollen pecs making light of the helanca tee. The enormous sweep of delineated quads caused a rip in each leg of the bike-shorts. The blue lasered grin never left the Russian's goggling face and Fyodor gasped as he saw that the pose was forcing the shorts into virtual transparency by Dem's giant semi-tumescent package. As if magnetized his hand crept through the air timidly to stroke the thickness of the thirteen inch champion dick.
After enjoying the straying fingers for just a few seconds, Dem suddenly grabbed the Russian wrists and forced them behind the Russian back, drawing the Russian pecs tight against his own.
"Gonna be a good boy, Red?"
The Russian gasped as, with an effort, he pulled his three hundred and twenty-five pounds of muscle and bone back out of Dem's suggestive grasp.
"Sorry. (gasp) Sorry, Demetrius -- don't know what I do….. *Ochen* sorry!"
"Think nothing of it, man!" smiled Dem as he let himself down on to a white leather couch. "How've you been doin', *tovarich*?"
Fyodor had rushed over the bar to knock back another shot or two, thus confusing his already confused mind even further. Finally, seated opposite Dem but out of harm's way…
"Very good, da, very good. Very busy. Many good Russians to train. Very big guys. Like you, Dem. "
"And like you, Red!" said, Dem being tactful and pleasant, as if nothing had passed between them a few seconds ago.
"You look so great in those pants, Red. You into the leather?"
The big, beautiful lunk laughed nervously and blushed.
"Da, I guess you can say so. Say, Demetrius, don't you think leather goes well with big muscle?"
"Oh, sure! Always thought that. In fact, sometimes – "
The Russian interrupted him, so grateful for another subject.
"You do? Good. Good. I like very much. We have no leather clubs in Russia – not like here…"
"You've been to the gay leather bars here, Red?"
"Well….." Some squirming and more blushes. "Once or twice – "
"Great, Red! There's a new one I'd like to take you to – The Citadel. Fantastic. Full of muscle and leather – you'd really enjoy it. What do you say I take you there one night?"
"Er -- oh, sure, Dem -- very good of you. Da, I'd like that…."
"OK – that's settled! I'll collect you tomorrow at ten. Be ready. Pack all that muscle into your leather, OK?"
He was alarmed to see Dem getting to his feet, clearly intending to leave.
"But -- no need to go so soon, huh? Another vodka…."
"No, thanks, Red. In training you know!" laughed Dem as he strode to the door. Fyodor was there like a shot. He grabbed a thick bicep.
"Dem, thanks! Russian leather and American muscle, hah?"
"Russian muscle AND American muscle, OK? And leather for both!"
Nervously, impulsively, Fyodor used his muscular heft to pull Dem's impossible-to-resist bulk into a clumsy and, yes, boyish hug. Dem gave the contents of those leather hotpants a good squeeze as he let himself out of the suite, wearing a catlike smile.
Number Three on the way! he whispered to himself with great satisfaction. His musculificence strode down the Hallways of the Rich and Famous, muscles and equipment swinging together in perfect and dazzling harmony.
As soon as he got home he made three calls. The first was to The Citadel to reserve time and space for the following evening. He made a deal, an expensive one, to be sure, that they would be admitting no one but Big Muscle into the club that night. Then, for the first time since their druggy evening together, he reached Dieter and Kris and issued his instructions. Both men had been so frustrated at his silence over the past few weeks, during which he also refused every one of their hopeful invitations for Fun Evenings, that they willingly complied with every demand.
When he finally hung up, he leaned back on his Persian couch like a great and satisfied cat, his smile reaching from here to eternity.
His Corvette convertible was humming idly in the Fairmont Driveway while he waited for the Russian to come down. The goggling gay parking attendant had been only too glad to call him on the house telephone. Dem knew it wouldn't be long and soon he saw the enormously tall, enormously wide Russian striding through the white marble halls of the reception area. His oiled and flexing muscle was closely encased in his purchases of the day (from Mr S Leather) : knee high boots, a sleeveless open leather bar-vest pushed open by the giant pecs, the massive arms delineated by bands above each bicep and around each wrist. His own tight black leather hotpants and a biker's cap on the scarlet crewcut completed the ensemble.
Everyone in Reception was swooning and even Dem had to admit that the Russian looked dangerously fantastic. He was looking forward to putting it all to use at The Citadel.
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