Every time I touch his arms, he flexes. Fibers under his bicep coil and contract into boulders. Reflex? I dunno. Maybe he's just used to showing off when people touch. If both my hands were wrapped around, fingers straining to touch fingers, thumb straining to touch thumb, they wouldn't come close. And the flexing would make my hands explode apart. I'm sure my own hand would whack myself in the face, accidentally. This muscle bear could bench press a skyscraper and balance an elephant on his nose at the same time. Yeah. He had no neck. Almost. Blond hair cut short into a flat top, touches of grey, speckles in his goatee, perfectly trimmed. A very precise head on top of the wide expanse of shoulders as broad as the mouth of the Mississippi. Or Nile maybe. But softened just a little bit. There's no doubting that the majority of the weight sitting on my crotch was muscle, though.
He had my cock pointed straight at his hole. It seemed to pucker a bit and suck just the tip in before squeezing harshly. It's obvious he doesn't bottom often. His hole is yet another oversized muscle that contracts so hard I think I'll have a permanent kink along the shaft. Or maybe it's going to just break off. Short, quick breathes as he stares unflinchingly. He's determined.
I'm still very hands-y. Tracing every bulge. But when I winced from him trying to fuck himself on my rod with just spit as lube and his ass that tight, I reach up and grab both nips and twisted. I twisted hard.
He howls, his ass loosens it's grip, and I use that moment to thrust up.
I'm in now.
Grab his hips and try to rock him back and forth. It's impossible without some help. Like moving a mountain. But he helps me sway his hips by mere inches. Once. Twice. And he explodes over my chest.
The giant has contracted to an urgent grenade of need.