Big Bad Frog - Jerry

The rhythmic clank of iron plates echoed through the nearly deserted gym, a solitary symphony for one very large, very sweaty frog. Jerry’s powerful legs burned with a satisfying fire as he drove the massive squat bar upward, his thick green thighs straining against the fabric of his split-colored shorts. A low, guttural grunt escaped his lips, the sound swallowed by the vast, empty space. He racked the weight with a deafening CLANG, his heavy breathing the only other sound in the silence.

Another perfect set. Goddamn, these quads are gonna be sore tomorrow. Fuck yeah. He stood up, his massive frame casting a long shadow under the harsh fluorescent lights. A sheen of perspiration covered every inch of his green skin, making his defined abs and the tan underbelly of his chest and throat glisten. He grabbed his towel from the bench, not to wipe himself down, but to run it deliberately between the crack of his prodigious ass, soaking up the sweat there with a practiced, almost ritualistic motion.

He took a long swig from his shaker bottle, the custom-made container looking comically small in his huge, webbed hand. The pre-workout mix was his own special recipe, thick and milky. Tastes better with a little extra protein, he thought with a smug, internal chuckle, well aware of the specific "supplement" he'd added to it earlier. He flexed a colossal bicep, admiring the way the muscle bulged and the sweat beaded along the curve. "Lookin' good, Jer. Lookin' real good," he muttered to his reflection in the mirror, his voice a low, confident rumble.

His beady red eyes, hidden behind the spiked visor of his cyclops sunglasses, scanned the empty rows of equipment. This was his time, his kingdom. No one around to bother him, no one to interrupt the sacred communion between frog and iron. He licked his broad lips, his long tongue flicking out briefly. The solitude was nice, but it did little to quell the familiar, low thrum of arousal that always seemed to accompany a really good pump. The air was thick with the smell of his own musk, clean sweat and something distinctly, primaly him. It was a smell he was profoundly proud of.

He dropped the towel on the floor near the leg press machine, a blatant, sweaty flag planted in his territory. Cracking his thick knuckles, he positioned himself under the shoulder press bar. Time to make these delts pop. Gotta give the fans what they want. He took a deep breath, the musky scent of his own exertion filling his nostrils, and began his next set, each powerful push upward accompanied by another low, satisfied groan. The gym was empty, but Jerry never truly worked out alone; in his mind, an audience of thousands was always watching.

The heavy door to the locker room swung shut behind him, muting the distant hum of gym equipment. Here, under the flickering, unforgiving fluorescent lights and surrounded by the scent of stale sweat, cheap disinfectant, and his own potent, fresh musk, Jerry felt truly at home. He dropped his gym bag with a heavy thump onto the damp tile floor, its contents—a spare pair of shorts, more pre-workout powder, a few towels—barely contained within.

He strode directly to the long wall of mirrors, his black sneakers squeaking softly with each step. The reflection that greeted him was a masterpiece of effort and dedication. Rivulets of sweat traced paths through the fine sheen covering his green skin, dripping from the powerful curve of his pecs, running down the deep canyon of his abs, and soaking into the waistband of his vibrant blue-and-pink shorts. Damn. Absolutely peeled. The lighting in this shithole actually ain't half bad tonight.

"Yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about," he rumbled to his own image, his voice a low, confident baritone that echoed slightly in the tiled room. He brought his arms up into a most muscular pose, his entire body tightening into a map of swollen, vascular muscle. His puffy, pink nipples, pierced with golden rings, stood out prominently against the vast expanse of his sweaty chest. He held the pose, watching the way every fiber danced under his skin, a living sculpture of power. The fans are gonna lose their minds over this one. Gotta get the angles right.

He released the pose with a satisfied sigh, his massive frame relaxing slightly. Reaching down, he grabbed the hem of his shorts and peeled the sweat-soaked fabric away from his skin for a moment, letting the cooler air hit his groin. The movement released a stronger wave of his personal aroma—a mix of clean, hard work and the deeper, muskier scent that clung to his heavy, uncut cock and his grapefruit-sized balls. It was a smell he associated with victory.

Cracking his thick knuckles, he decided a little more show was in order. He turned slightly, flexing his immense latissimus dorsi, making his back widen into a incredible V-shape. His long tongue flicked out to wet his lips as he admired the sheer mass. Nobody builds a back like this without dedication. Nobody. The locker room was empty, silent except for the drip of a distant shower and the sound of his own breathing. But in his mind, the camera was always rolling, the subscribers were always watching, hungry for every glistening detail. He was alone, but he was never unobserved.

Steam billowed around his massive form, clouding the air with the thick, humid scent of soap and his own potent, post-workout musk. The hot water sluiced over his green skin, tracing the contours of every swollen muscle, from the broad shelf of his shoulders down to the deeply etched valleys of his quadriceps. Jerry leaned heavily against the cool tile wall, one huge, webbed hand splayed flat for support, his head bowed as the water pounded the back of his neck. The workout had been brutal, perfect, and it had left him buzzing with a raw, animal energy that demanded release.

Fuck, that pump... feels like my skin's gonna split. Goddamn. The thought was a primal thrum in his mind, syncing with the throbbing ache that had settled deep in his groin. It wasn't just fatigue; it was a building, urgent need. His other hand, slick with water and a dab of the cheap gym-provided shampoo he used as lubricant, was already wrapped around the thick base of his cock. It was a hefty, uncut beast of a thing, already fully erect and jutting out from his body, its musky scent mixing uniquely with the steam. He gave a slow, experimental pull, a low groan rumbling in his chest. Yeah... that's the stuff.

He began to move his fist in earnest, a fast, punishing rhythm that was less about finesse and more about chasing the imminent climax. The slap of wet skin on skin echoed off the tiles, a lewd counterpoint to the spray of the shower. His powerful hips pistoned slightly, fucking into his own tight grip. His back was turned squarely to the open shower area, putting his prodigious, sweat-sheened ass on full display—two perfectly round, muscular globes, still faintly glistening, with a tight, pink pucker nestled between them, surrounded by a faint dusting of green hair. He was completely exposed, utterly unselfconscious, lost in the sensation.

"Oh fuck... yeah, work that dick..." he grunted aloud, his voice a hoarse, guttural thing swallowed by the steam. His long tongue lolled out slightly between his lips as he panted. Gonna blow a huge fuckin' load. Right here. Make a mess of this whole stall. The visual alone spurred him on, the fantasy of someone walking in, of being seen, of his audience getting a live, uncensored show.

His thighs trembled with the effort of supporting himself as his pace became frantic, almost violent. The pleasure coiled tight in his balls, a familiar, unbearable pressure. With a final, choked roar that was part triumph, part sheer animal release, he came. Thick, pearlescent ropes of cum shot across the tile wall, splattering in a messy, glorious pattern before being slowly washed away by the relentless stream of water. He rode out the aftershocks, his body shuddering, his grip finally loosening around his spent, softening cock. He took a few deep, steadying breaths, the steam beginning to clear. Hell yeah. Nothing like a good post-workout jerk. He reached for the soap, business as usual, as if he hadn't just turned a public utility into his personal jack-off station.