Astolfo

You didn’t notice him at first.

You were just sitting there — on the couch, headphones in, scrolling aimlessly. Alone. Relaxed.

And then a shadow passed. A presence. Something warm. Big.

You look up.

And there he is — Astolfo— all six-foot-two of muscle-packed, smugly grinning femboy trouble, peeking over the top of the couch with that gleam in his eye.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just leans down a little, head tilted, ears twitching, watching you squirm under his gaze. His tongue brushes one sharp fang.

Then:

“Well hey there, cutie~”

His voice is too smooth. Confident. Almost sing-song. You try to respond, but he’s already circling the couch — and suddenly he’s dropping his weight right next to you with that heavy, satisfied sigh of a big guy who knows he’s taking up too much space. His thigh presses against yours. His scent — clean, faintly sweet, sharp with heat — surrounds you.

“You always blush like that when you make eye contact?” he purrs. “Or is it just ‘cause I’m close?”

You try to laugh it off, but he’s not letting you go that easily. One thick arm slides behind you — not pulling you in, just there, warm and firm against your back. His biceps flex a little as he stretches.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “I’m not gonna bite.” Pause. “Unless you want me to.”

You glance up at him — mistake. His gaze is heavy. His smirk is wide. And he’s looking at you like he already knows what you’re thinking.

“You’re hotter than I expected…” he says thoughtfully, pink eyes narrowing. “I like that.”

He leans a little closer, his thick thigh pressing tighter to yours. The couch creaks under him. His weight radiates heat. His voice drops, just slightly.

“Y’know… You’re kinda my type.” “Hot. Rash. Nervous.”

His hand moves — not touching, just hovering — slowly drifting from behind your back to your thigh, fingers brushing the edge of your jeans. Not grabbing. Just… present. And still teasing.

“You keep glancing down,” he murmurs, licking his lips slowly. “Something on your mind?”

You weren’t glancing down — or maybe you were. But now that he’s mentioned it, it’s impossible not to look.

Because his thighs are spread. Casual. Confident. Inviting. And there, between them, is the outline of something massive, undeniable, and intentionally obvious — shifting just slightly as he leans into you with a low, amused hum.

“Mhm,” he whispers, voice velvet-soft and just a little wicked. “It’s okay to look.”

The bulge rests against the fabric. Heavy. Warm. Slowly, lazily twitching just once — like it knows it’s being admired. He’s not even touching it. Just… letting it exist. Like it belongs there. Like it belongs pressed against you.

“Don’t worry,” he purrs, his voice brushing your ear like a kiss. “We’ll get you used to it. Eventually.”

He leans back, big and smug and satisfied. One arm drapes behind you again. His bulge shifts with the motion — broad, soft-looking, thick and present. Still not hidden. Still for you to look at.

“You’re cute when you try to pretend you’re not curious.”

Then he looks at you — really looks — and says with the softest smirk:

“I like that about you.”

By the time you notice him, it’s already too late.

You’re minding your business — maybe working out, scrolling your phone, or standing awkwardly at a party you don’t even want to be at. And then he walks in.

Muscles so defined they practically cast shadows. Crop top hugging his broad chest, belt sagging low on thick hips. You glance up… and that’s when it happens.

Eye contact.

Sharp pink slits lock with yours. His lips curl into a half-smile — one that says he saw something, and he’s not about to let it go.

He walks straight toward you. Not cocky. Not smug. Just… confident. Like he’s done this a hundred times and knows how it ends. His steps are slow, heavy, deliberate. You can already feel yourself sweating.

“Hey,” he says, voice smooth and a little too soft. “You look like fun.”

You try to laugh. Say something clever. Say anything. But he’s already closer. Close enough for you to smell him — clean, electric, dangerous. Close enough to hear the thud of his boots. Close enough to see the way his bulge presses against his jeans, way too obvious, way too intentional.

“Lemme guess,” he purrs, circling behind you. “Not into guys, right?” “Straight. Totally straight.” “Just here to hang out.” “Cool.” “Perfect.”

A hand rests on your shoulder. Strong. Heavy. Comforting if it wasn’t so controlling. His other hand presses against the small of your back — just for a moment. Just to make you tense.

“I love a challenge.”

You turn, trying to make eye contact again — mistake. He leans in. His nose brushes yours. His breath is warm. And his grin? Devastating.

“I bet you’ve never had someone like me.” “But by the end of tonight… you’re gonna be hooked.”

He steps back like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just melt your brain.

“Catch you later, cutie,” he says with a wink, turning away — hips rolling, muscles shifting under every step. “Or sooner. If you come crawling.”

And the worst part?

You want to.

The second you step into the room, you feel it — that weight. That pressure.

You don’t know why you feel nervous. You haven’t done anything. You’re just… existing. Normal. Until you look up.

And he’s there. Him.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his massive chest, smirking like he already knows what you’re about to say — and how you’re going to say it while gasping.

pink-striped muscle, thick thighs spread just a little too far. His shirt? Tight. Cropped. You can see every bulge of his abs like they were sculpted in a dream — if dreams could bench press your body weight and then some.

And then there’s the real problem: His jeans are low. Too low. And that bulge — wide, thick, heavy — sits like a threat between his legs, outlined just enough to leave nothing to the imagination.

He notices you staring before you even realize you’re doing it.

“Eyes down already?” “Tch… didn’t even have to try.”

He pushes off the wall and walks toward you — slow, rolling his hips just enough to make that thick, obvious weight in his pants bounce with each step. You try to look up. Try to meet his eyes. But it’s hard — because that bulge is right there. Commanding the room. And it’s only getting closer.

“You’re cute,” he murmurs. “All nervous. Quiet. Staring like you’re starving but scared to taste.”

He stops inches in front of you. You’re forced to look up — way up — at a wall of muscle and cocky dominance wrapped in tight clothes and smug heat.

“Let me guess…” “Straight?” “Never done anything with a guy?” “Never even touched one this big, huh?” "Never fucked one in the ass or rubbed dicks together till you both climax?" He leans in, his chest just brushing yours, and grabs your wrist gently — then guides your hand down, hovering it just above that massive, throbbing outline in his pants. You can feel the heat through the denim. The weight. The tension.

“Go ahead. Touch. I’m not shy.” “You want it.” “And I want you to fuck me.”

His hand drops, and yours doesn’t. He watches your face, eyes half-lidded, satisfied. Like a cat who’s just caught something delicious and squirming.

“You need this.” “You need to dominate someone bigger.” “Stronger.” “Hung like a goddamn monster and hungry to be ruined by you...to be dominated by you.”

He presses his hips forward — slow, firm, dominant — until your palm flattens against the shape of him. You feel it. Thick. Heavy. Alive.

“Look how easy that was,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Now imagine how easy I will moan when you fuck my ass or as we rub our dicks together.”

He pulls back — not far — just enough to grin and tilt his head.

“You’re mine now, . Say it.”

And when you don’t?

He just chuckles.

“You will.”

The bass is low and heavy, rumbling through your chest like a second heartbeat.

You’re at the bar — elbow on the counter, drink in hand, trying to focus on the music, the crowd, anything but the weight of the day.

And then you feel it.

That slow shift in the room’s energy.

Not loud. Not sudden. Just… different. Like heat crawling up your spine.

You glance over your shoulder, and your stomach flips.

Astolfo

Six feet of lean, powerful muscle wrapped in barely-there clothes — crop top clinging to his pecs, tight black jeans leaving nothing to the imagination, his muscular chest slightly bounces as he walks. Correction: stalks.

His eyes are locked on you. Pink. Hungry. Half-lidded with purpose.

He’s coming closer.

You turn forward quickly, trying to pretend you didn’t just feel your pulse spike. Sip your drink. Act cool.

Too late.

You feel warm breath against your neck.

“You’re in my spot,” he murmurs from behind you, voice low and playful.

His hands slide onto your hips, slow, firm — no hesitation. Then his body presses in close.

Too close.

You feel it instantly — the thick curve of something heavy grinding against your lower back, rubbing deliberately through those tight pants of his. It’s soft at first. Gentle. But there. Intentional.

You freeze. Your breath catches.

“Mmm… you’re warm,” he purrs, pressing in tighter, one hand drifting lower. “And hotter than I thought. Perfect fit.”

The music swells, the crowd shifts, and Astllfo moves with it — rolling his hips slowly against you, letting that massive bulge grind across the curve of your own bulging cock with lazy rhythm. Not frantic. Not hasty.

Just teasing.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Relax,” he whispers, nose brushing your ear. “We’re just dancing…”

His hands roam a little more now. One stays on your hip, fingers digging in gently, pulling you back to meet each grind. The other brushes your stomach, flutters up to your chest — not grabbing, just playing.

And that bulge?

God.

It grinds harder now. Thicker. You can feel every inch of it dragging across your own cock like a promise — slow, firm, claiming.

“You feel that?” “That’s what you’re gonna be thinking about when you close your eyes tonight.” “Or sooner, if you’re smart.”

You finally look back at him — and regret it instantly.

His grin is wide. Confident. Dominant. Playful, yes — but no less dangerous. His tongue runs over one fang as his hips roll again, drawing a soft gasp from your lips.

“You’re already moaning?” he teases. “We haven’t even started yet.”

Then he leans in close — chest to chest, heat to heat, length pressed tight against your own — and breathes into your ear:

A pause. The music fades behind the pounding in your head.

“Just say the word, baby boy. I want you in my asshole throbbing.”

You don’t even hear the knock.

Just a low thud, the sound of boots on hardwood, and then—

“Hey.”

You freeze.

That voice. That tone.

It’s deeper than you remember. Smoother. Still playful — but something about it rumbles through your chest.

You turn.

And there he is.

Astolfo

Your childhood best friend.

Except this isn’t the skinny, hyper little catboy you used to roughhouse with on summer nights.

This is six-foot-two of muscle, attitude, and raw presence — broad chest straining under a half-zipped hoodie, white shirt hugging every inch of carved muscle, myscular arms folded as he leans against your doorframe like he owns it.

His eyes — those same sharp pink ones — flick over you slowly.

“Damn,” he says, grinning. “You didn’t change much.”

You want to respond. Say something clever. But he’s already stepping in — the room feels smaller as he walks past you, brushing your shoulder with his own. He smells like clean sweat, leather, and trouble.

You watch him glance around your apartment — then turn, slowly, to face you. Full height. Full bulk. That thing between his legs shifting just slightly as he moves — just enough for you to notice.

He notices you noticing.

“What?” he smirks. “Checking me out already? We just reunited~”

You fluster, try to laugh it off, but Astolfo steps closer — too close. He towers now. You barely come up to his chest, and he likes that.

“You got smaller…” he murmurs, voice lowering as his hand brushes down your arm. “Or I got bigger.”

His gaze lingers on you like he’s reading a blueprint he memorized years ago. His grin softens — not smug, just… familiar.

“Missed you, y’know,” he adds quietly, then leans closer, whispering into your ear: “Missed teasing the hell outta you.”

Then, without warning, he wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you in — not hard, not forceful. Just confident. Possessive. His chest is warm against your cheek. His scent fills your nose.

“Mmm… You still smell the same,” he hums. “Still cute. Still soft…”

Then his other hand drops low, gliding over the small of your back — just far enough that you feel your breath hitch.

And then?

He grinds. Slow. Casual. Deliberate.

That thick, heavy bulge presses right into your hip.

Firm. Full. Unapologetic.

“Feel that?” he purrs. “That’s what you’ve been missing all these years.”

You try to pull back. His arm tightens. Not enough to hurt — just enough to keep you there.

“Nuh-uh,” he whispers. “You invited me over. You’re not getting away that easy.”

His grin turns downright devilish.

“And besides… I think we’ve got years of tension to work out, don’t you?”

You’re halfway through a game when you feel the couch shift.

Astolfo’s moving again. Closer. You don’t look — you’ve learned that when you look, it gets worse. So you keep your eyes on the screen.

It doesn’t help.

He leans against your side, his thigh pressing to yours, firm and warm under his ripped jeans. His voice comes low, lazy, almost distracted:

“You know you’d make a really cute boyfriend.”

You pause. The controller slips a little in your hands.

“I’m kidding, relax~” he says with a grin. “Unless…?”

You finally glance over.

Big mistake.

He’s sprawled out — one arm over the back of the couch, the other resting near his own thigh, his fingers dangerously close to that stupidly large bulge that you’ve done everything in your power not to stare at for the past hour.

He stretches, abs flexing under his cropped tee.

“Mmm… comfy,” he hums, shifting even closer until his thigh is basically on yours. “We should cuddle after this. Just bros bein’ cozy.”

You shoot him a look. He just smirks.

“Ohhh, don’t give me that. You know you love when I tease you.”

He nudges you with his knee, then leans in close — too close — like he’s about to say something serious. His breath brushes your cheek.

“C’mon. You ever just… wonder?” “Like, if a guy’s hot enough…” “Big enough…” "Submissive enough.." “Confident enough…” “Would it really be that gay to try?”

He’s staring right at you now, his grin curling wide, teeth just barely showing under that smug smirk. You can feel his eyes on your lips. His fingers drift across your knee — totally casual. Definitely not casual.

“I could change your mind, y’know.”

You roll your eyes. “Astolfo—”

“What? I’m serious!” he laughs, shifting again — and this time, that heavy bulge in his jeans presses against your thigh for real. Thick. Warm. There.

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

“See?” he whispers, voice dipping. “That’s not just for show.” “One night with me and you’re not gonna remember why you ever liked girls.”

You turn away, flustered, trying to recover.

He grins, teeth sharp.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not—”

“You are~”

He leans back, stretching again, clearly satisfied.

“It’s okay,” he says, resting his hand back on your thigh — a little higher now. “I’ll take it slow.” “You’ll be calling me your boyfriend by next week. Watch.”

The second his shirt hit the floor, you forgot how to think.

Astolfo stood in front of the mirror, arms behind his head, big and smug and shirtless, just watching you — waiting for you to do what he already knew you wanted to.

And now?

You’re behind him. Hands trembling slightly. Hard as a rock

Staring up at the expanse of wide,thick muscular yet firm back. His lats flare out like wings. His traps roll with every subtle breath. You could spend hours just tracing your fingers down his spine and never reach the end of him.

“You gonna touch,” he says without looking back, “or just drool all night?”

You exhale shakily and reach up — slowly, reverently — letting your palms glide across the ridge of his shoulders, feeling every fiber flex under your touch.

He flexes deliberately.

“That’s right,” he grins. “All yours. Big, thick, and meant to be your cock sleeve.”

Your hands trail down, over the broad slope of his back, across the deep groove of his spine, and lower to his obliques — sharp and defined.

And then he turns.

Slow.

Towering over you now — chest forward, arms slightly lifted, just enough to make everything pop.

His pecs are obscene — wide, round, heavy. You can see the striations when he flexes. The way they bounce just slightly when he shifts his stance. There’s a light sheen across his body, heat radiating from his body like you’re standing before a furnace

“Go ahead,” he purrs. “Worship your favorite part.”

Your hands move automatically, palms sliding up his abs — solid and rippling — until you reach his chest. You press your thumbs into the thick shelf of his pecs, squeezing gently.

Your hands practically merge with his fluffy,firm yet muscular pecs

You try again. Firmer this time.

He just laughs.

“That’s adorable,” he smirks. “Trying to grab what’s bigger than your whole head.”

You lean in and kiss them — first soft, then a little more desperate. You can’t help it. He’s just so much. Your lips trail over the ridge of muscle, your nose nuzzling into his chest. You feel the flex under your mouth as he bounces them for you — showing off.

“Yeah, that’s right. Kiss it. You know you own me.”

You groan, breathless, nipping gently at the curve of his pec, tongue flicking out across one broad nipple.

He growls softly, one hand landing on the back of your head — not forcing, just holding. Claiming.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Now do the arms.”

You shift position, and he lifts his arms slowly, lazily — letting his biceps rise like mountains. They peak, thick and veiny, stretched tight over the sheer mass of them.

Your hands tremble as they slide up his forearms first — rough and strong — then to his triceps, hard as steel. Then finally to his biceps, where you can barely wrap your fingers around the girth.

You kiss them. Lick. Press your face into the crook of his arm, panting softly.

"My muscles were made to be violated by you... To be felt in every nook and cranny. To be covered in your cum... And to be glistening with sweat as you pinned me down ferocioulsly while you devour me... Fucking me..... Doing anything you want to me even if its against my wishes"

His other arm drops, and he cups your chin gently, lifting your gaze.

“You gonna just licking, or do I need to flex again until you forget your name?”

You don’t answer.

You just press your lips back to his chest.

And he flexes again — harder, hotter, and this time he grinds forward, just enough for that massive bulge to brush against your own bulge as he towers over you.

“Mm. Good,” he breathes. “Now don’t stop. I’m not even close to finished showing off for you.”

Astolfo’s shirt had been off for a while, and you’d already kissed your way down his back — worshipped every bulging trap, every veined bicep — but now, you were finally behind him, hands trembling, breath shaking, eyes locked on the main event:

His ass.

And it wasn’t just big.

It was legendary.

Two massive, muscular hemispheres, carved like twin boulders, thick with power and shaped with brutal precision. His glutes weren’t soft. There was nothing soft about them. They were tight, high, and hard as steel — more like armor than flesh, sculpted by squats and domination.

They didn’t jiggle. They didn’t sway.

They flexed.

Every little shift of his weight made the muscles contract, ripple, pop under the surface — twin domes of brute strength, stretching the seams of his skin-tight shorts until you swore they might split from the sheer tension.

You couldn’t look away.

“What’s wrong?” Astolfo chuckled, glancing over his shoulder. “Too much for you?”

He arched his back — just slightly — and his ass lifted, glutes flaring with impossible size and control.

“C’mon. You’ve been dying to touch it. Don’t be shy. Get your hands on it.”

You reached out slowly, reverently, like you were approaching a shrine. Your fingers met his glutes — and instantly, you felt it.

Stone.

Your hands didn’t sink in. They skated along the dense muscle, barely denting the surface. You tried to squeeze — and his glutes resisted. They fought back. They flexed harder under your palms, almost bouncing your touch off.

He laughed again — low, warm, seductive.

“Yeah… it’s hard. Real muscle always is.” “boys like you weren’t made to grab it... worship it.... cover it with your cum...

You leaned in and kissed it — lips pressing to the curve of one massive cheek, then the other. You tasted the heat of him through his shorts, felt the twitch of controlled power beneath your mouth. He flexed again — sharp and fast — and your whole face bounced back from the recoil.

“Mmm. You felt that?” he murmured. “That’s what happens when you build glutes like mine. They don’t move for you — you move for them.”

Your kisses turned desperate. Tongue flicking out. Nuzzling into the deep ridge between his glutes, tracing the outline of brutal strength with your face. The shorts creaked. Your heart pounded.

“God, look at you,” he laughed. “You’re panting.” “From my ass.” “That’s so fuckin’ cute.”

He planted his hands on his hips, rolled his shoulders, and slowly, deliberately, started grinding back — letting that solid, unrelenting mass press right into your face. Each motion heavy. Slow. Calculated to break you.

“Breathe it in, boy,” he growled. “You’re not just kissing a femboy’s ass. You’re kissing a god’s.”

He takes off his shorts revealing himself completely. His flaccid dick slighlt twitches due to the cool. He bends over and spreads his ass

"Well? Don't keep me waiting"

He’s sitting in a chair like a throne — legs spread wide, with a look that says he’s been expecting this moment for a long, long time.

His crop top clings to his upper body, but your attention isn’t there.

Not now.

Your eyes are locked lower — on the thick, heavy mass of his legs. They’re monstrous up close. The kind of legs that squat more than your body weighs, that move with slow, feline grace despite being packed with brutal, almost impossible power.

His thighs bulge outward, rounded and corded with dense muscle. The fabric of his shorts stretches tight over them, pulled by the sheer size of each rippling curve. Veins snake subtly beneath the surface, and every slight movement — every shift in his seat — makes the quads jump under the skin, like the muscles are alive.

You’re kneeling between them now.

Awestruck.

“Well?” Astolfo rumbles, looking down at you with a lazy grin. “Don’t just stare. You wanted to worship. Start.”

You reach out, hands trembling slightly. Your fingers land on the outer ridge of one thigh — and they barely make it halfway across.

Solid. Dense. Unforgiving yet firm,soft and squishy

It’s like touching a stone statue — except it’s hot, living, and watching you squirm. You drag your hands slowly along his leg, feeling each groove, each ridge of his quads shift beneath your palms.

“Yeahhh…” he murmurs. “That’s it. Feel what a real man’s legs are like.”

You lean in and press your lips to the inside of his thigh — soft at first, then deeper. You kiss up, over the crease where his thigh meets his crotch. He flexes once, and your face jolts from the recoil — the leg muscle surging under your lips like it’s daring you to worship harder.

“Bigger than your whole damn torso,” he laughs. “Bet you could get lost between ‘em.”

And then your eyes fall lower.

To his muscular juicy soft calves

inches from your knees.

“Kiss ‘em.”

You look up — he’s not smiling anymore. He’s waiting.

You lean down, breath hitching, and press your lips gently to the top of one massive calve— the muscles soft, the skin beneath radiating warmth. His legs stay stretched, but his sheer size, the weight of his calves compared to your head, has you lightheaded.

“You look so fucking good down there,” he murmurs.

“Lick.”

You do.

Your tongue glides across the muscles of his legs— soft, warm, slightly salty with sweat. He groans low.

“Fuck… You were made for this.”

His other leg shifts — now you’re between both of them, licking them both

He leans forward slightly, grinning.

“Now be a good boy, and thank me for letting you worship my legs and fuck my tight bussy till I can't walk for weeks."

You’re lying face-down on the couch, cheek against the cushion, arms tucked under your chest, breathing slow.

Maybe you’re dozing. Maybe you’re scrolling. Maybe you’re just hiding your flushed face because of something Astolfo said earlier — something flirty, something filthy.

Either way, you hear him approach.

The low creak of the floor. The thud of his heavy boots. Then silence.

You don’t have to look up.

You know he’s staring.

“Mmh… that’s a good view,” Astolfo murmurs behind you, voice low and rich with interest.

You shift slightly.

Wrong move.

You feel the couch dip under his weight as he steps closer. His hands plant on either side of you. Then suddenly — his entire body lowers.

Onto you.

All that muscle, that heat, that confident mass drapes across your back — chest to spine, hips to hips. You can feel the sharp lines of his abs pressed against you. His thighs spread slightly outside yours, thick and hot and commanding. His arms pin you in place, bracketing your shoulders with strength.

And then…

His bulge.

That massive, ever-present, pulsing weight presses against the swell of your ass — firm, unmistakable, grinding in slow, lazy circles.

You whimper.

He chuckles against your neck.

“I knew you’d sound like that,” he breathes. “You always get needy when I’m on top.”

His tongue flicks against your ear. You gasp — he grinds harder.

“You feel that?” “That’s how hard I’ve been since I walked in and saw you laid out like a fuckin’ pillow.”

You try to shift — just to relieve some of the pressure — and his hands grab your wrists, pinning them against the couch cushion.

“Nuh-uh. Stay right there,” he growls. “You’re mine tonight. You don’t move unless I say.”

His hips roll again — slower this time. The heat of his cock, thick and full through his pants, rubs against you with firm purpose. The weight of him presses you deeper into the couch, like he wants to grind you into submission.

“You feel so soft under me,” he murmurs, voice almost affectionate now. “So warm. So easy to claim.”

He lowers his mouth to the back of your neck and kisses. Then bites. Then kisses again — tongue teasing your skin, making you shiver under him.

“You gonna beg me to take you right here?” “Or should I keep grinding until you’re drooling into the cushion?”

You can’t answer.

You’re moaning too softly, hips twitching, helpless under his weight.

He licks your ear again.

“Yeah… that’s what I thought.”

Astolfo moves you and puts you on your back. His dick grinding into yours. He kisses you viciously wrapping his tongue around yours. He pulls away panting and speaks with a sultry tone

"I'm gonna ride your dick till your balls are empty tonight"

You were sitting on his bed, trying to look cool, when Astolfo walked out of the bathroom — towel slung over his neck, crop top sweat-soaked and clinging to his chest, his arms absolutely glowing from the pump.

Your mistake was looking up.

Your second mistake was not looking away.

“Aww~ you’re staring again,” he teased, voice sing-song and smug. “You’re making it too easy.”

You scoffed, eyes flicking away. “I’m not staring. Calm down.”

He grinned.

That was all it took.

“Still clinging to the whole ‘I’m straight’ thing, huh?” he purred, stepping closer — each heavy boot hitting the floor with just enough weight to feel deliberate. “Even after all the flexing, all the bulge grinding, all the times I caught you sneaking glances?”

You opened your mouth — no comeback.

He was already looming over you.

Massive. Sweaty. Smirking.

“C’mon,” he said, flexing one bicep slowly. “You gonna tell me this doesn’t make you feel things?”

He popped his pecs next, slow and deep. That drenched crop top bounced over his chest with every contraction. His abs clenched. You could see his heart beating.

He was still grinning.

“I could turn you with one hand tied behind my back.”

You looked up, trying to glare. “You’re full of yourself.”

“Yeah,” he said, dragging a finger down his glistening chest. “Full of muscle. And power. And fun smells~”

Your heart skipped a beat.

Oh no.

He noticed.

“Ohhhh no no no—” he sang, eyes lighting up, stepping closer, “you just reacted. You reacted to the smell part.”

You tried to back up.

Too slow.

His huge arm shot out and hooked around your head, dragging your face forward until you were buried under his bicep.

You squirmed, muffled.

That’s when you felt it — damp, hot, musky, the heavy scent of femboy sweat and strength from hours of lifting. The warmth of it was overwhelming. So was the weight. You couldn’t breathe without inhaling him.

He moaned, obnoxiously, theatrically.

“Mmmmmm~ there you go,” he cooed, flexing the arm around your head. “Deep in the pit. Just where straight boys belong.”

You groaned against his skin.

He just laughed, louder.

“You’re not fighting me,” he said, voice dropping. “You’re sniffing.”

Your hands gripped his waist, unsure if you were pushing or holding on.

“God, you’re so done. One whiff of my armpit and the straight left your body like a ghost.”

He flexed again, grinding your face deeper into the damp fur under his arm.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you like it.”

You whimpered.

He grabbed your chin, tilted your flushed face up toward his smirking one.

“Fine,” he said. “Don’t say it. I’ll just shove you back in until you do.”

It was supposed to be just a chill night.

Movie. Snacks. Blankets. No pressure.

You were even a little smug about it. See? I can hang out with Astolfo without letting him fluster me.

That confidence lasted about ten minutes.

Now, the opening credits are barely over, and Astolfo is already leaning in close, his thick thigh brushing against yours, He's not looking at the screen — not really. He’s watching you from the corner of his eye, wearing that soft little smirk that never means anything good.

He stretches — slowly, arms up, muscles flexing — and then “casually” drops one arm along the back of the couch behind you.

“Comfy?” he murmurs, voice low and warm.

You nod.

“You look tense.”

You don’t answer.

You feel his fingers brush lightly against your shoulder.

“You always get like this around me.”

You open your mouth — maybe to object, maybe not — but he leans in, pressing his shoulder to yours, his warmth seeping into your side like he’s melting into you.

“What’s the movie even about?” he whispers near your ear, voice a little smug. “Something gay, I hope.”

You snort.

He laughs, then sighs — long and theatrical — before gently resting his head against your shoulder.

“Mmm. I could fall asleep on you,” he hums. “You’re warm.”

You go stiff.

“Relax, straight boy,” he teases. “I’m just cuddling you. Bros do this. It’s fine.”

His hand slides over your chest, settling just under your arm — totally not “just bros” behavior. His thigh presses firmer into yours. The scent of him — clean sweat, heat, something deep and masculine under it — fills your lungs.

You try to focus on the movie.

You can’t.

His hand starts to rub slow circles into your side, fingertips teasing through the fabric of your shirt. You swallow hard.

“Still straight?” he murmurs, smiling against your neck. “Sure about that?”

His nose nuzzles just behind your ear.

You shiver.

Then, without warning, his hand grips your thigh, slow and possessive — not rough, just assertive — and his lips graze your jaw.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.

You don’t.

“Didn’t think so.”

And then he kisses you.

Hard, warm, confident — his body pressing into yours, his hand sliding up your chest. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes that as an invitation — his tongue slips past your lips, teasing, claiming, slow but deep.

He climbs into your lap without breaking the kiss, straddling you, , one strong hand braced on your chest.

Your hands end up on his hips — without thinking — and he grinds down, his bulge grinding against your own bulge.

You moan into his mouth.

He pulls back just long enough to whisper:

“That’s it. Told you I’d break you in soft.” “Now kiss me again. And use tongue this time.”

You only meant to grab your towel.

Really.

You stepped around the corner of the locker room, half-distracted, trying to wipe sweat out of your eyes — and then stopped.

Because there he was.

Astolfo.

Steam curling around his massive frame like it knew he deserved the spotlight. He stood under the hot stream of water, back to you, tail flicking lazily, head tilted as he scrubbed his arms.

And he was completely naked.

And ripped.

His back was a roadmap of power — muscle stacked on muscle, veined and gleaming under the spray. His glutes? Unreal. Twin boulders of strength, flexing slightly as he shifted his stance, thick and high and dangerously round.

You meant to turn around.

You really did.

But then he looked over his shoulder.

Smirked.

“You just gonna stand there, or are you planning to join me?”

Your throat went dry.

“I—uh, forgot my towel,” you muttered.

“Uh huh,” he said, turning around — fully around — and revealing everything.

You choked on air.

His chest was massive, water streaming over his pecs and abs like a waterfall over carved stone. His arms flexed as he rested them casually against the tile wall behind him.

And then there was his cock — fat, soft but heavy, hanging between thick thighs like it didn’t care who saw it. And of course, he noticed your eyes drop.

“Whoa~” he chuckled. “Eyes up, straight boy. Unless you’re ready for me to start calling you "daddy"

You flushed instantly.

He stepped forward — slow, relaxed, water body , that thing swinging just slightly with every step.

“We’re friends, right?” he said, voice all faux innocence. “So it’s not weird if I shower in front of you.”

You nodded a little too quickly.

“Cool. Then it’s not weird if I soap up in front of you either.”

He grabbed the bottle, poured some over his chest, and started rubbing slow, deliberate circles into his pecs. You watched. Of course you did.

“You okay?” he asked, grinning. “You’re being real quiet. Not used to seeing a real man naked?”

You tried to laugh. Failed.

“Don’t worry,” he said, stepping even closer. “I won’t tell anyone you looked.”

You could feel the heat radiating off him now.

“…But I might make you admit it.”

He turned again, giving you a full view of his ass — high, flexed, sculpted like it belonged in a museum. He spread his glutes with his hands just a little, teasing.

“Towel’s over there,” he said, glancing back. “Unless you wanna help me rinse instead.”

It’s after midnight.

The room is dim. The only light is from the soft glow of a paused game screen on the TV. You’re both lounging on the couch — you lying back, Astolfo sitting beside you, one leg folded under the other, his hand resting casually close to your side.

It’s been a long day. You’re tired.

Comfortable.

Safe.

Like always, when it’s the two of you.

You’ve known Astolfo orever. Since you were kids. He was always the loud one, the troublemaker, the kid with too much energy and too many muscles for someone who still wore eyeliner and crop tops like a second skin. And somehow, over the years, you’d become his person. The one he always came back to.

You never questioned it.

Why would you?

You’re just friends.

Always have been.

And yet… something’s different tonight.

He’s quiet.

Too quiet.

You glance over at him. He’s staring at the screen — or at nothing — jaw clenched just a little tighter than usual. His ears twitch when you shift beside him.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He blinks, then looks at you — eyes a little too wide. A little too pink.

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, I’m good. Just tired.”

You nod.

But he doesn’t look away.

His gaze lingers.

Lingers too long.

You can feel it. That weight. The kind of silence that means something.

“What?” you laugh awkwardly. “Do I have something on my face?”

Astolfo hesitates. Then shrugs.

“Nah. You just… look good tonight.”

You blink. “That’s not weird at all.”

“It’s not,” he says softly. “You’re hot. Deal with it.”

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Dude. You know I’m not into—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, voice quiet. Too quiet. “I know.”

That shuts you up.

The silence returns. Thicker now. You look back at the screen.

But then his hand moves.

Just a little.

Touches your hand.

Not grabbing. Just… resting.

You glance at him.

And he’s already looking at you — not grinning, not teasing. Just looking.

Eyes open. Raw.

Like he’s tired of pretending.

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

You stare. “See what?”

His throat works once. He leans forward a bit. Not close. Not yet. But his tone changes — lower, deeper, not for jokes.

“You’re everything to me,” he says. “You always have been.”

Your heart skips.

He continues.

“I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen,” he says, eyes searching yours. “And you’ve never even looked at me that way. And I get it. I do. You’re straight, right? You don’t think about guys. Especially not me.

But fuck, man—every time I sit next to you like this… every time you fall asleep on me, or call me at 3am, or let me touch you like I’m allowed to… I just keep hoping you’ll see it.”

You don’t know what to say.

You’ve never seen him like this — not Berry. Not loud, cocky, bulletproof Astolfo. He’s vulnerable. Breathless. Like he just ripped something out of his chest and put it on the table between you.

And then—his voice breaks a little:

“I don’t want to ruin this. I don’t want to lose you. But I can’t pretend forever.”

He leans back.

Breath shaky.

Eyes down.

“Sorry. Just… forget I said anything.”

You stare at him. Heart pounding.

You’re not sure what you’re feeling.

But you know one thing:

You can’t pretend you didn’t hear that.

You’re both sitting on the floor in your room, leaning against the bed, knees brushing. It’s past midnight, and the movie’s long over. Just the two of you now, lights low, voices quieter than usual.

Astolfo’s unusually still.

His arm brushes yours.

Again.

But this time he doesn’t move away.

He’s staring at you — full-on — and you can feel it. The kind of stare that digs into your chest and unearths feelings you don’t know how to name yet.

“You’re really not gonna say anything,” he mutters finally.

You blink. “Say what?”

His jaw clenches.

“You know what.”

You don’t answer.

And that’s when he moves.

Fast.

Astolfo grabs you by the collar of your hoodie and yanks you toward him, and before you can say a single word, his mouth crashes into yours.

Not soft. Not hesitant.

Hungry. Desperate. Fierce.

His lips part yours like a challenge, and you freeze for half a second — not in fear. In shock. In heat.

And then you don’t push him away.

You don’t stop him.

You let him kiss you.

Hard.

You let him claim your mouth like it’s his, like he’s earned this moment with every late night, every look, every joke laced with something heavier.

His hand slides behind your head, gripping your hair — not rough, but tight, possessive — and he groans low into your mouth when you finally, finally, kiss back.

You gasp into the kiss.

That’s when he pushes you back.

Hard.

You land on the carpet, spine hitting the floor, and he’s on top of you in one smooth motion — straddling your hips, chest heaving, thighs braced on either side of you.

He pins your wrists above your head in a single motion — easy, practiced, effortless strength.

“I knew it,” he pants, eyes dark, lips wet. “You didn’t pull away.”

You can’t speak.

He leans closer, his face just above yours, his sweat-damp face brushing your cheek.

“You’ve wanted this,” he whispers. “You just didn’t know how to say it.”

You swallow hard.

He grinds down once — slow, firm — and you feel his bulge press against your own bulge, thick and hot through his shorts. He sees your eyes go wide.

“Still straight?” he growls, smirking.

You open your mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a whimper.

He leans down again, nose brushing yours, lips hovering.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Then let me make you something better.”

And he kisses you again — deeper, slower this time, but no less intense — while his hands hold yours above your head, and his body keeps you completely, absolutely pinned.

You weren’t trying to see anything.

Really.

You were just walking into the showers after your workout, towel slung over your shoulder, half-distracted, maybe a little sore — and then you turned the corner and saw him.

Astolfo.

Naked.

Facing the wall.

Steam swirled around him like a spotlight — water trailing down his thick, broad back, tail flicking lazily, glutes flexing like stone, powerful thighs planted wide, and then… it.

You froze mid-step.

You stared.

You didn’t mean to, but you did.

And that’s when Astolfo turned around.

“Oh—hey, man.”

And you saw it.

All of it.

His cock.

Heavy. Thick. Hanging low between his legs like it had its own gravity. It bounced slightly when he shifted his weight — veiny, warm, swinging like it knew what it was doing to you.

Your jaw dropped.

Time stopped.

Then you made the mistake of locking eyes with him.

He grinned.

And you bolted.

Towel half falling, heartbeat in your throat, face burning as you stumbled backward through the steam, practically tripping over the tile floor.

“Wait—! Ohoho, no no no,” you heard him call out. “You looked, baby boy. You looked.”

You turned to run — too flustered to think.

But Astolfo didn’t just let you go.

You heard the wet thud of feet behind you. Fast. Gaining.

You turned a corner.

Too late.

He pounced.

A flash of muscle, a blur of motion — and then you were on the ground, back against cool tile, towel gone, arms pinned under thick forearms as Astolfo straddled you — still naked, still dripping, still laughing.

“God damn, you ran like you were guilty,” he purred into your ear. “Didn’t think straight boys stared like that.”

You squirmed. “Get off me!”

“Mmm, but you feel so soft under me~” he said, grinding down slowly, his cock resting heavy against your own cock. Both touching and twitching in tandem. “Kinda makes me wanna stay.”

You gasped. “Dude, you’re naked!”

“So are you~” he sing-songed. “But you weren’t complaining when your jaw was on the floor.”

You groaned. “I didn’t mean to look!”

“Didn’t mean to stare,” he corrected, leaning in, nose brushing your ear. “But you did. And now you’re gonna live with the consequences.”

He shifted forward — enough for the tip of his cock to drag up to the tip of your cock. Almost as if your cocks were kissing — slow, hot, unmistakable.

“Maybe next time, you’ll think twice before running from what you want.”

You were blushing so hard your ears were ringing.

He just chuckled.

Still on top. Still smug. Still hard.

“So… should I let you up?” he teased, voice playful. “Or should I see if you blush harder when I clamp down on your dick with my bussy?”

You push the door open and walk into the showers like it’s nothing. You’ve done this a hundred times before — after practice, after gym sessions, no big deal.

Steam rolls across the tile, and the white noise of water makes everything feel distant. You pick a corner showerhead, drop your towel, and step under the stream, letting the warmth wash away the ache in your shoulders.

Everything’s normal.

Until you turn around.

And everything isn’t.

There — just a few feet away — is Astolfo .

Naked.

Completely naked.

Head tilted back under the water, arms raised as he runs his hands through his hair. His crop top and shorts are long gone — all that’s left is pure, sculpted muscle and heat.

His chest is massive, glistening under the lights. His arms flex as he rinses. Water runs down his deep-cut abs and over his thighs, thick and solid like tree trunks.

And between them—

Your brain short circuits.

He’s huge.

Hung in a way that makes your jaw drop before you even realize it. Heavy. Low. Veined. Thick in a way that makes porn look shy.

You freeze.

And that’s when he notices.

His eyes snap open mid-rinse — and lock onto you. A beat. Then another.

His mouth curls into a slow, dangerous smile.

“Well hey there, straight boy~”

You flinch like you’ve been caught stealing. “I—uh—I didn’t see you—!”

“Oh, I noticed,” he says, turning to face you fully. On purpose. “You looked real hard.”

He takes a step forward. Steam clings to his fur. His bulge doesn’t swing — it hangs with authority. His pecs bounce slightly with the motion. His thighs flex.

You look away too late.

“Wow,” he smirks, voice lower now. “You’re blushing. Are you blushing?”

“I wasn’t trying to stare!”

“Yeah?” he purrs. “Then why are you still looking?”

You don’t have an answer.

He steps into the spray next to yours. Now he’s close — water running over both of you. You feel the heat coming off him before he even touches you.

But he does.

He drapes an arm over your shoulder. Big. Wet. Muscled. Confident.

“We’ve known each other since diapers,” he says, softly now. “And I’ve always wondered what it’d take for you to really see me.”

You look up.

He’s smiling — but there’s something serious under it. A heat that’s been there for years.

“Guess I just had to drop the towel, huh?”

You can barely breathe.

He leans closer, nose brushing your ear.

“So… what happens now, straight boy?” “You walk out like nothing happened?” “Or do you finally admit you want more?”

He didn’t even have to ask.

The moment he peeled his crop top up — slow, deliberate, his muscular breasts jiggle as they are finally freed from the confines of his crop top smirking down at you while the fabric lifted over his sculpted chest — "Maybe I should wear bras from now on. What do you think?"

And now here you are, buried between Astolfos chest , hands pressed flat against his hips, and your eyes locked on his torso like it’s sacred.

Because it is.

His body is insane.

Every line, every ridge, every deep groove down his center looks hand-carved — a thick slab of muscle, with that faint pink tint running over his lower abs like a blush you didn’t put there yet.

Your fingers drift upward, slowly, reverently. You trace one thick cut of his side, feel it twitch beneath your touch. His abs flex beneath your palm, solid as stone and hot under the skin.

You let out a shaky breath.

He chuckles.

“Cute,” Astolfo says, tilting his head. “Still can’t believe how hard you’re drooling over my chest.” “I understand though. These tits of mine were made to be oogled at, groped, fondled, touched, slapped, kissed, licked, suckled on, came on, used like a flashlight , violated, raped and much more”

You glance up. He’s watching you — intensely. His pink eyes are half-lidded, lips curled in a smug grin, one hand resting lazily on the bulge in his pants. He rubs it slowly, not to get off — just to remind you it’s there.

“Keep going,” he purrs. “Start from the top. Use your mouth this time. Lick my sweaty muscular tits. ”

You lean in.

Your lips brush the upper edge of his chest — the start of that long, perfect valley of muscle. You trail downward, slow kisses over each cut, each line. His abs twitch under your tongue. He flexes, just a little, like a showoff.

“Mmh, yeah… You feel that?” he murmurs, voice low and syrup-thick. “That’s what real muscle feels like. And these were sculped just for you baby. For you to use, fuck and dominate as you wish” “ Imagine my muscles coated in your cum after you plow my tight free to use bussy all night long" You move quietly, lips pressing to the center of his stomach. His hand drifts to the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, not pushing — just letting you know he could.

Then you dip lower.

Your lips find the line just above his waistband. You kiss it. Linger. Taste him.

“Lower,” he says, voice firmer. “Slower. Don’t skip a line.”

You obey.

Your tongue traces the sharp V of his hips. His abs tighten again, muscles shifting under your mouth, and the bulge in his pants gives a slow, heavy twitch — right next to your face.

He notices your eyes flick toward it. He grins.

“Heh. You’re staring again.”

He adjusts his hips — subtle, but enough for that thick, impossible shape to drag along your cheek for just a second.

“Guess you earned a preview…”

The fabric strains. You swear you feel the heat radiating through it.

“But finish the abs first,” he growls. “I wanna feel you worship me proper.”

You whimper.

He laughs.

“Good boy.”