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Jackstacked

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"Blow-Up Doll"

The blinking fluorescent bulb overhead sputtered weakly, offering little more than a feeble, flickering glow. The room itself was timeless—a windowless, concrete box where the stale air seemed to press in on my skin, heavy with sweat and spent testosterone. It could have been day or night, but in here, time had lost its meaning. The only markers of its passage were the dull aches in my joints and the slow, steady creep of my growing mass.

I was barely stirring awake when I heard the familiar sound—the sharp clap of his boots against the cold concrete floor. Slow, deliberate footsteps, each one heavier than the last. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know it was him. The weight of his presence was unmistakable, always looming, always expectant.

The bed creaked as he reached it, and I felt the mattress dip slightly under his hand as he lowered it just enough to straddle me. Without a word, he crawled over my torso, his rough palms trailing over the shelf of muscle that had grown larger since his last visit. He settled onto me like he always did, his thighs squeezing the sides of my ribs, his breath already coming in low, needy huffs.

Then I felt it—the heavy, familiar press of his cock sliding between my pecs.

I exhaled slowly, deliberately, and squeezed them together. The muscle slabs ground against his shaft, hot and unyielding, veins straining beneath the thin layer of skin. He let out a guttural groan, his hips thrusting forward, driving himself deeper into the crevice I had carved from hours of relentless chest work. His cock strained against the living vise of my pecs, and I could feel him trembling slightly as he pushed harder, seeking more friction.

He growled low in his throat, and without breaking rhythm, he reached over to the nightstand, grabbing the thick, black marker he always carried. The plastic cap snapped off with his teeth, and he dragged the tip along the outer edge of my pecs, drawing a sharp, dark line where the meat ended and his cock still remained exposed. The cold ink left a stinging trail on my sweat-slicked skin.

He grunted again—frustrated. I released my hold, letting my chest fall open slightly, and he growled in annoyance as his cock slipped free from the crushing grip. With a final, strained breath, he crawled off my mass, his sweat-slick thighs rubbing against the hard ridges of my obliques as he dismounted. His feet hit the floor with a heavy thud.

But he wasn’t finished.

Before leaving, he turned sharply and stood in front of my face, still heaving with exertion. With a smug, satisfied smirk, he grabbed the base of his still-hard cock and lowered it toward my line of sight. He pressed the tip just above my clavicle, letting the heavy shaft rest against my upper chest. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged it downward, letting it glide over the canyon between my pecs.

“Still not enough,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with lust and mock disappointment.

He stopped once he reached the black mark he had drawn. With a slow, taunting gesture, he placed his finger at the end of the line and stretched it further, holding his thumb and forefinger apart to measure the gap. His eyes narrowed slightly as he gave me a wicked grin.

“You’ve still got a good three inches left to cover,” he sneered, his voice low and dripping with condescension.

I stared at the gap—the last few inches that still separated my pecs from swallowing him entirely. My breath came in slow, deep gulps, my nostrils flaring slightly. My skin was still slick with sweat, my chest heaving with each inhale, rising and falling like tectonic plates. I could feel my heart pounding, sending surges of blood into the swollen slabs of meat that pressed against my collarbone.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not yet.

My fists clenched at my sides. The striations in my forearms pulsed, veins snaking over thick, sinewy cords. My traps bunched against the mattress, pressing into the already strained fabric, making the cot groan under my weight.

He chuckled darkly, already heading for the door. His boots thudded heavily as he crossed the concrete floor, his cock still semi-hard, glistening from the remnants of sweat and pre-cum that clung to my skin. “Next time,” he muttered over his shoulder, without looking back, “I better feel less of me and more of you.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

And I lay there, panting, staring at the ceiling.

I could still feel the smear of his cock against my skin, the sharp, cool ink from the marker still stinging faintly. My breathing was slow, measured, as I flexed my pecs again, clenching them together with everything I had. The muscle swelled against itself, trembling slightly with the effort. I gritted my teeth, forcing the fibers to contract harder, my veins tightening into hard, roped ridges.

I imagined it—the next time. When he would come back. When he would press himself into the ravine of my chest and finally feel nothing but suffocating, constricting muscle all around him. When I would squeeze so hard that the only thing left of him would be the groan of pure submission on his lips.

Three inches.

I was going to erase them.

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Yusif

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Jackstacked

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Kurtis Wolfe, Size Queen (2018)

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"... that's a lot of meat"

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𝗔𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗺 𝗣𝘂𝗰𝗵𝗸𝗼𝘃 𝗏𝗂𝖺 𝖳𝗂𝗄𝖳𝗈𝗄

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F*gs go to massage therapy school if they want to live their real purpose.

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Ivan Alexiev via Instagram

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Breathe in and grow