1: Leo (The Denver Hyatt)

Despite all the sweat and pit musk of the last hour’s activities, my hotel room still smells like this morning’s stale coffee from that never-been-cleaned coffee pot on the desk. I look at myself in the full-length mirror. Not a thread of clothing on my skin. I’m approaching 30 in just a couple years and my youth is apparent.

I try to see myself like a guy would see me for the first time. “Masc presenting” (or whatever), with black hair cropped close. Blue eyes and a touch of black fuzz dusting my cheeks and chin, with a mustache on my lip. A little hair across the breadth of my chest and a light patch around my navel. My pecs and biceps are where I focus the majority of my time in the gym — and it’s apparent. I may not be as defined as an Abercrombie model or a pro footballer, but the modestly defined slabs of steak on my chest and the beefy meat of my “bis and tris” look pretty good, if I may say so. Rounded shoulders to tie it all together. Not to mention, I worked my ass off for that bicep vein.

I’ve got a nice muscle gut. My abs are strong and rock solid with some definition (especially if I’m flexing).

I turn my attention away from what a guy might see when he sees me for the first time, to what the guy who just left my hotel room did to me.

Those guts red and achy. The feeling of a dull pressure in my belly finally subsiding. I inhale deep and stretch my stomach, and give it a nice rub with the palm of my hand.

I don’t think I find anything as hot as I find gutpunching. And fuckin’ hell, that guy was good at it.

-

I arrived for my Hyatt stay at about 6AM after a red eye flight. It was Sunday, but I had work to do to prepare for Monday’s consultation. I didn’t feel like shelling out $5.00 for a coffee nearby, so I made my way up to my room and switched on the coffee pot.

I shed my jacket and tee shirt before slipping off my jeans. This was all work that could be done in my underwear. That was the best part about working at The Sterling Group — as consultants, we spent a good 75% of our time elsewhere. Advising the best strategy for a company in Los Angeles, in Chicago, in Houston, in Philly. But at the end of it all, I got to go back home to my apartment in the Lower East Side that Sterling actually paid me enough to rent without roommates.

Complementary hotels in cities across the country? Fuck yeah. A salary to afford an apartment in New York? Brilliant. And I had already arranged for a guy to meet me here in Denver at this Hyatt.

Online, he said his name was Mark. His profile described him as a “bear daddy with a gut and guns” and according to his pics, he wasn’t lying. He was about 55 (or 60-to-65 with good skincare) and had what looked like a hot, solid, round gut with surprisingly defined quads below. His chest was thick and wide, and those guns… what are they? Nineteen inches? Twenty? They didn’t look all that muscular — just big — but I was ready to see for myself.

Not going to lie, though: When I sent him a pic of myself, he did say that he was going to “fucking destroy” my guts. So naturally, I’m hard just thinking about his visit later this evening.

Somehow — chalk it up to Herculean strength — I managed to resist jacking off all day, despite the thought of Mark coming in and pounding me. I even fit a nap into my schedule from 3-4PM. I can still smell that shitty hotel room coffee, though.

I had an early dinner; something light, of course. I took a moment to hit up a smoke shop nearby to grab a new bottle of poppers, too.

Poppers are a total game changer for guys like me. As much as I’m into gutpunching, there’s something about the way poppers relax your body and give you a nice (if brief) head high that makes gutpunching feel that much better.

Being that it’s winter, it’s already pitch black outside by the time 7PM rolls around. I’ve closed my laptop and changed into a well-fit tee shirt and a pair of low-cut ass-hugging jeans to accentuate my muscle butt.

Mark had to drive into the city from way the fuck out wherever he lives. He owns some ranch land out there west of the city. He said it would be about an hour and a half drive for him, and he texted me that he was heading my way at 5:30. I responded to him with simple directions on how to get to my room.

Any minute now. I was feeling anxious, but I don’t know why. I love this shit. But there I was, pacing in my hotel room. To occupy my time, I turned off all the lights and shut the curtains. Never mind, one lamp on.

Hell yeah; this was hot, dim mood light.

And then a quiet knock at my door.

Suddenly, my gut felt empty inside. Do other people call this “butterflies”?

Without seeming too enthusiastic, I opened the door to see Mark, who, as I hoped, was more handsome and rugged than in his pics.

Alright, I’ll say he’s probably 55. Pretty solid 55, yeah. Square jaw, still holding onto his full head of hair, and with some nice “mountain man” vibes I was really getting into. Massive chest already visible though the flannel shirt, my god.

He took one of his large calloused hands and cupped the back of my head, bringing me in for a kiss. I could smell (and taste) the wintergreen gum he was chewing.

“Lose the shirt, man,” he told me. I let slip in a prior conversation that I love being commanded around (if I’m the one taking the punches, that is). He must have been in gutpunch mode already. No pleasantries to get us started.

Alright. I was game.

I whipped the tee over my head and off of my body. Without a pause, his hands came up to cup my pecs, rub them, and squeeze them.

“You’re my muscle sub tonight, Leo,” he growled. He maintained eye contact through the whole statement, waiting for my “Yes sir.”

With my pecs still in hand, he walked me back to the wall, forcefully shoving me against it. I felt my dick twitch. Taking a step back, he shed his flannel shirt to fully reveal his hairy chest and gut.

“Feel it,” he said. “I want you to feel the muscle. Feel the power that you’ll feel in your guts later.”

No one’s ever said something like that to me before, but my cock was rock hard as I ran my hands across his chest. I should stop saying “chest” because it was more than that. He had straight-up muscular pecs. I ran my hand down his gut, too. Just as I’d imagined, it was solid. This guy had a fuckin boulder beneath his chest.

As I worked my hands back to his pecs, he flexed his right arm for me. Yeah, I’d say he probably had 20” arms. What I didn’t see in his pics is that his arms aren’t just big, they’re actually fuckin’ muscular. The muscular quads in his pics should have tipped me off. This dude is built like a powerlifter or something and he’s got my guts in his crosshairs.

He reached for the new poppers I had sitting on the desk, uncapped them, and put them to my nose. I closed one nostril and inhaled.

“Yeah. Yeeeaaaah,” he whispered into my ear. One hand on my shoulder, he was leaning in. Speaking close to my ear, looking down to my gut. He rubbed his fist up and down my belly for a moment. “Relax your abs.”

I exhaled the poppers while the rush spread through my body. Through my brain, my groin, and of course, my stomach. Another thing poppers do to me is that, in addition to how much I already get off to gutpunching, they make me want it more.

I noticed him feel my abs go totally slack and hang over my unbuttoned jeans. He exhaled onto my neck and I saw that bulge in his jeans grow tighter.

Fuck, I thought to myself, please punch me.

His 20” guns pulled that fist back and gently punched into my soft gut. Though the punch was gentle, he followed through, pressing his big fist deep into my navel. I felt the breath forced out of me. Fuck, his fist felt so good crushing my unprotected guts and we hadn’t even really started yet.

He pulled back once more, and again gave a gentle impact into my soft abs, pressing in deep. He repeated a good five or six times, gently working my belly into his beatdown.

“More,” he said, picking up the poppers and bringing them to my nose. I inhaled.

Hold.

Exhale.

A stronger punch lands deep in my navel. A straight-in hook. And another. Every punch pressed in deep before he pulled back for the next. I can feel my guts beginning to ache, and aching for more.

Another round of poppers in my nose, and he walks me to the wall opposite the full-length mirror. “Watch your gut get destroyed,” he said. “I better not feel any muscle in here.”

He pressed on my gut a few times with his fist as he said it.

He stood slightly to the side so I could see my 6’2” frame in the mirror; my developed obliques, my beefy pecs and arms. My gut, totally unflexed, retained most of its shape, but without flexing it hung out a little bit, especially around the lower guts.

“Loosen up, loosen up,” he commanded, tapping my belly with his fist. He sank a quick hook in right after, and though I was intentionally keeping my abs relaxed already, this one really caught me off guard. In the mirror I saw my gut go concave, my muscular obliques flare out with the impact, and felt the intense impact deep in my core. It sounded like he struck a sandbag.

He kept his fist anchored as deep in my belly as he’d punched it and maneuvered in front of me again. One fist in my gut and one on my pecs, he came in close to my ear.

“I fuckin’ love these guts,” he whispered. His voice was menacing and breathy. “No muscle in the way, huh? No muscle protecting your gut, huh? Just my guns pounding right into your intestines, huh?”

Fuck, I’m gonna cum right here, I thought.

He finally released his fist from deep in my gut and flexed his arms again. I took the opportunity to worship them once more. My god, they were fucking solid. I’ve honestly never played with 20” muscular arms. How much can he curl?

With no warning, he put one of his big bear paws on my pecs and pushed me back against the wall and sank another punch into my navel. By now, each punch was pounding an “oof” or an “ugh” out of me, I don’t know which; it was involuntary. It’s just the noise you get when you’re punching a guy in the gut.

I knew my chest was red with arousal by then, too. He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and kicked them to the side. He removed his socks, too. I did the same, but I removed my underwear, too.

My bush is well maintained just for guys like him to see. My cock, I’d say an average seven inches, had been hard since the beginning of the beating.

“Edge yourself,” he said to me. “But you’re not cumming until I say so.”

Against the wall, I cupped my balls with one hand and slowly jacked off with the other. With my arms together, my pecs looked great in the mirror, but my abs remained unflexed.

He raised the poppers to my nose again.

The rush was intense, and the insatiable feeling consumed me again. “Please, sir,” I said to him. He had a paw on one of my shoulders while the other hand rested on my soft belly. “Please punch me.”

“Yeah?” he grinned. He sank the strongest hook yet into my navel. Fuck, it crushed in deep. The most intense pleasure radiated from deep in my guts. My legs, briefly, felt weak. But I stood. I wanted more.

“Fuck yeah,” I moaned into his ear.

Again, he delivered the same strong, devastating, deep punch straight into my navel. He pulled back, and again I heard the sound of a gym rat punching a sandbag, and again. “No muscle, kid,” he grunted. “Let me punch your intestines.”

He’s probably the best puncher I’ve ever met. Each blow was solid, it was deep, and he was careful to hold his fist in, crushing my guts, before pulling back for the next punch. It felt incredible and I just. wanted. more. He began to rotate and grind his fist in my guts after each punch now that my belly — and all of my body, really — was covered in sweat. His fist could easily glide as he ground his strength into my intestines.

Gasping and moaning in the abuse, I couldn’t help but feel electrified by not only his treatment of my gut, but the smell of our musk as he worked on me and began to sweat, too.

By now each punch practically slammed my navel against my vulnerable guts and into my spine. I couldn’t help but double over. The intense feeling in my gut — which I will not, or cannot call “pain” — made the need to double over all too strong.

“I want you to cum on my shoes,” he said quietly. He quickly put his work boots back on — nude with a rock-hard cock otherwise.

I took the moment to load up on poppers again. I took a good, long, deep hit of them.

“Lean on me,” he said. I draped an arm over his shoulder, still feeling like I need to double over, but he was holding me up. Leaning forward on his shoulder, my unflexed and beaten muscle gut hung out. “I’m gonna punch the cum out of you.”

The effects of the poppers set in and I wanted more, immediately. I didn’t even have to ask. He had one arm around my shoulders while the other 20” gun powered uppercut after uppercut so fucking deep into my lower belly, right under my navel and just above my trimmed bush, that I thought he was punching my prostate from the outside.

Again, and again, and again. I heard him grunt with each uppercut. I saw in the mirror the muscle of my obliques flare out with each impact. I was still jacking off while his fist practically uppercut my lower guts into my navel when I finally came.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, is all I could think. He continued to punch my soft gut just as hard and deep, landing a fist in my gut each time cum shot from my cock.

“Fuck yeah, kid. Fuck yeah,” he said while ropes of hot white cum landed on his tan work boots.

Completed, he brought me in for a bear hug, no pun intended. “That was fuckin’ hot, kid,” he said. “Your gut can really fuckin’ take it.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Nothing makes me cum harder.”

-

I complete my stretch at the mirror and finish rubbing my battered gut. Belly still aches a little, but I could jackoff and cum again just to the thought of the beating I took earlier tonight. Maybe I will, just to clear my head before work tomorrow.