Page 251 - Some Dance to Remember

Some Dance to Remember 221

Ryan pulled the barrel out from under his lover’s feet. Kick’s muscles
tensed. His whole body, hanging under the strain, and triggered by the
rush of the coke, took on a pump and vascularity so supernal that Ryan fell
to his knees at the foot of the cross. He watched his lover strain and flex
like a muscular Olympic gymnast performing the crucifix on the double
rings. I always thought, Ryan’s head swirled, that it was to be me who was
to be crucified.
He serviced them both with popper.
Kick locked into a massive body flex. His loincloth, heavy with sweat,
fell away under the strain of his muscle. His dirty-blond cock jutted
straight forward over his massive thighs. He took a huge breath and let
go. He hung, by his massive arms, crucified, head back and haloed by the
shine of the tracklight. Ryan knelt before the sweating muscleman, cru-
ciform above him. He took himself in his right hand and began to stroke
his own hardening flesh. The moment grew mystical as Kick struggled,
flexed, relaxed, flexed, and endured against the hard wooden cross.
It started as night games: heroic sculpture from drawings and mov-
ies. It became some ritual else. Their separate fantasies meshed in the
flesh, then separated in their minds, coming back together, each traveling
separately, traveling together, finding the Ecstasy, the Energy, the Entity,
the boundaries, the limits. Kick was a bodybuilder, crucified, displayed
in all his muscular glory, straining against the bondage, flying with the
bondage. Ryan was his coach, his lover, his priest. He worshiped Kick’s
body from the foot of the cross. Coke sweat poured down Kick’s naked
flanks. The hard rod of his manhood arched over Ryan. The blond man
glowed in the spotlight. He began to moan under the weight of his own
big body. He saw his own face in the mirrors, handsome over his hang-
ing muscle body. He moaned the moan Ryan always knew meant he was
entering the Energy. Ryan followed with his own cock. He clamped the
clips on his own tits. He hit them both with popper and tongued his way
down Kick’s body to his feet.
This was no Imitation of Christ.
This was real.
Kick was more than an alter Christus.
He was the incarnation of the real Christ Himself.
Ryan rose from his knees. He licked the sacred sweat from the blond
fur of the thighs. He touched his Savior’s massive meat. He massaged it,
stroked it, while he stroked himself, until Kick’s huge prick, throbbing
with the tension of the muscle bondage, glistened. His whole body tight-
ened down into a cruciform Most-Muscular position. Ryan’s greased hand

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS BOOK