Dan had always been a king of the iron jungle at Muscle Fitness. At 6’1” and 245 pounds of competition-grade muscle, he owned the free-weight section. His chest was a thick, striated shelf, his arms peaked like softballs, and his abs carved deep enough to cast shadows even under the harsh locker-room lights. But there was one man who made every head—including Dan’s—turn: Derek “The Beast” Harlan, the gym’s resident muscle bad boy. Derek was a walking monument of rebellion and raw power—6’4”, 285 pounds of vascular, tattooed perfection. His skin was perpetually bronzed and glistening, as if he’d been oiled up just for the mirrors. Ink covered him like a second skin: massive feathered wings stretched across his enormous pecs, the feathers detailed in black and fiery orange that seemed to ripple when he flexed. Tribal patterns and flames crawled down his boulder shoulders and sleeved his arms. Lower, just above the waistband of whatever he wore, a savage heart-and-flame tattoo pulsed over his ridged lower abs, the design disappearing teasingly into his crotch.
Dan had watched Derek for months—stealing glances during lifts, feeling that strange twist in his gut that was equal parts envy and something hotter, darker. Derek was cocky, loud, and merciless in the gym, grunting through sets like the weights owed him something. And tonight, the locker room was almost empty. Most guys had cleared out after the evening rush. Dan had just crushed a brutal chest-and-shoulder pump, veins popping like ropes under his skin, when he popped that new “nano-recovery” capsule he’d bought off some underground forum. Supposed to flood the muscles with growth factors. Instead, it hit like lightning.
A wave of vertigo slammed him. The floor rushed upward. Lockers soared into skyscrapers. Dan’s towel slipped off his shrinking body like a collapsing tent. In under sixty seconds he stood naked, one inch tall, heart hammering against his tiny ribs on the cold tile. “What the fuck… no, no, NO!” His voice was a pathetic squeak. He sprinted—bare feet slapping across the vast expanse—toward the benches, but every step felt like running through molasses. The world was too big, too loud. Footsteps thundered from the shower area.
Derek emerged, still damp from a quick rinse, water beads tracing the deep valleys between his pecs and rolling lazily over the wing tattoos. His cock hung heavy and thick between tree-trunk thighs, the head glistening faintly, balls low and full. He was naked except for the towel slung low on his hips, and he moved with that lazy, predatory swagger that made Dan’s stomach flip even at normal size.
Dan waved his arms like a madman. “Derek! Down here! It’s me—Dan! Help!” But the giant didn’t even glance down. Derek dropped his gym bag with a boom that vibrated through Dan’s bones, then yanked the towel free. His full, muscular glory filled Dan’s sky. The lower tattoo—flames licking up from a stylized heart—flexed as Derek reached into the bag and pulled out his favorite jockstrap: white with bold red-and-blue stripes across the wide waistband, the pouch already stretched and worn from countless savage workouts.
Dan saw his chance. The jockstrap landed on the bench edge, pouch facing up like a soft white hammock. He sprinted, scrambled up the fabric like a mountaineer, tiny hands gripping the weave. The material was still warm, faintly damp with Derek’s earlier sweat, carrying a thick, masculine musk that made Dan’s head spin and his own tiny cock twitch traitorously. “Derek, please—look down! I’m right here!”
But Derek was already stepping into the leg holes, massive thighs flexing like pistons. The world lurched. Dan tumbled headfirst into the pouch as the giant yanked the jock upward in one smooth motion. The stretchy fabric snapped into place, sealing Dan inside a humid, living prison. He was slammed face-first against the smooth, heavy weight of Derek’s balls—two massive, warm orbs that dwarfed him completely. The skin was velvet-soft yet taut, lightly dusted with short dark hair that prickled against Dan’s bare chest. Above him, Derek’s thick cock settled like a warm, heavy log, the shaft already half-hard from the casual handling, pinning Dan firmly between balls and dick.
“Fuck, this thing fits perfect,” Derek muttered, voice a deep rumble that vibrated through every inch of his body and straight into Dan’s bones. He gave the pouch a casual, possessive squeeze—huge fingers pressing the fabric tight. Dan was crushed deeper, his face buried in the crease where scrotum met thigh, the heat and scent exploding around him: pure Derek—salty sweat, musk, faint soap from the shower, and that underlying raw testosterone tang that made Dan’s lungs burn and his tiny erection throb painfully.
Derek didn’t notice the extra squirm. He just smirked at his reflection, adjusted the waistband so the red-and-blue stripes sat low on his hips, and strode out to the gym floor. Every step was an earthquake. Dan bounced and slid helplessly inside the pouch, rubbed relentlessly against the giant’s shifting balls and thickening cock. The heat built fast. Sweat already began to bead on Derek’s skin, trickling down the deep cuts of his abs and funneling straight into the jock.
The workout started with squats.
Derek loaded the bar heavy—four plates per side—and dropped into the first rep. Dan was smashed deeper into the pouch as those tree-trunk quads exploded with power. The pressure was immense, the giant’s balls tightening and rolling over him like living boulders. On the rise, Dan was lifted then slammed back down, grinding against the thickening base of Derek’s cock. “One… two… fuck yeah,” Derek growled, each grunt shaking the tiny man. Sweat poured. Salty rivers cascaded over Dan’s body, soaking him completely, filling his mouth when he gasped. He could taste Derek—pure, masculine, overwhelming. Despite the terror, Dan’s hips bucked involuntarily, his tiny cock sliding against the slick, heated skin.
Rep after rep. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Derek’s quads pumped huge, veins standing out like cables. Inside the pouch it was a sauna of motion and musk. Dan’s world narrowed to the relentless friction, the way Derek’s balls churned with every powerful thrust, the heavy cock now fully hard and throbbing against his back.
Derek lay back on the bench, massive pecs—those winged tattoos stretched gloriously—rising and falling like mountains. Dan felt every breath, every powerful press. The jockstrap strained as Derek’s core tightened, the lower flame tattoo flexing inches above the pouch. Sweat dripped from Derek’s chest in fat drops, splattering the fabric and soaking through. Dan was drowning in it, sliding helplessly up and down the length of the giant’s shaft as Derek powered through set after set. The cock pulsed, leaking a thick bead of pre-cum that smeared across Dan’s chest and belly like warm oil. The scent was intoxicating. Dan whimpered, grinding himself shamelessly against the slick, veined underside, lost in the overwhelming dominance of Derek’s body.
“Goddamn pump is stupid today,” Derek snarled to the empty gym, voice echoing. He didn’t know the tiny bodybuilder trapped in his crotch was the reason the sensation felt extra good—every tiny struggle, every frantic push of Dan’s hands against sensitive skin only made Derek’s cock twitch harder.
Shoulder presses. Cable flyes. Heavy rows. Each exercise turned the pouch into a washing machine of sweat, heat, and raw power. Dan lost track of time. His entire existence was Derek’s crotch: the heavy, rhythmic bounce of balls against his face, the thick cock sliding over his body like a living pillar, the endless flood of sweat that left him drenched and gasping. Fear had long since melted into something darker—pure, helpless lust. He came twice without even touching himself, tiny spurts lost in the flood of Derek’s pre-cum and sweat, his body shuddering in ecstasy against the giant’s balls.
Finally, after nearly an hour of brutal training, Derek’s body was a glistening, vascular masterpiece. The wing tattoos on his pecs looked alive, shining under the lights. He strode back to the locker room, each step sending fresh jolts through Dan’s exhausted, cum-slicked form.
Derek peeled the soaked jockstrap down his legs in one smooth motion. The fabric stretched, then released. Dan tumbled out, slick and gasping, landing on the crumpled white towel with its red-and-blue stripes—the same one in the corner of the locker room. He lay there, chest heaving, covered head to toe in Derek’s sweat and scent, staring up at the towering god who still hadn’t noticed him.
Derek stood naked, cock still half-hard and glistening, muscles pumped to the extreme. He reached for a fresh towel, massive foot hovering inches away like a descending cliff. Dan tried to crawl, to wave, to scream—but all that came out was a hoarse, broken moan of exhausted arousal.
Derek’s shadow fell over him. The bad boy smirked at his own reflection, completely unaware that the rival bodybuilder he’d just used as a living cock-warmer was now a tiny, cum-drenched speck on the towel at his feet… ready for whatever came next.
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