18: Oliver (Wichita)

Fuck, I thought.

I had a job in Lincoln, Nebraska that I needed to get to, but after arriving in Dallas for my layover, storms in the area caused the airport to cancel all the flights. With the storms forecasted to rage until the following evening, my second flight to Lincoln was nixed, and here I was stranded at DFW Airport with no way to get to my final destination or my home.

I walked away from the desk, phone in hand, ready to call my boss and let her know I wouldn’t be able to make it to Lincoln and that I might have to meet the client virtually. As I weighed my options, I took notice of a man who had been in line behind me and was now, too, walking away from the desk.

You couldn’t help but notice him. He was huge – a powerlifter, if I had to guess – with massive arms and a huge chest. Nice powerlifter gut on him, too. Handsome face, though he did have a noticeable expression of worry as he paced around the concourse. He ran his hand over his buzzcut, then down his face and over his beard. You could tell he, like the rest of us, had somewhere to be.

He wore a Huskers tee (fitted to that massive build), which told me he might be Lincoln-bound, too. But what was I to do with that information? I’m traveling for work and don’t exactly have time to figure out if he’d let me play with that body when I have to focus on getting to my job.

“I can see if I can rent a car and drive. I’ll get to Lincoln late, but can still do the job. I’d just meet the client on Wednesday instead of Tuesday,” I said to my supervisor over the phone as we weighed out how to fix this predicament.

“Don’t bend yourself outta shape,” she told me. “If it doesn’t work, it doesn't work. We can reschedule if we need to. Just be safe.”

“You got it.” I hung up the phone.

“Hey, uh, did I hear you’re driving up to Lincoln?” a gruff voice asked from behind me.

No fucking way, I thought.

Of course, it was him. The man. The mountain of a man. Of course it was.

“Yeah,” I replied, a build-up of anxiety and excitement already pulsing in my belly. “Need a ride up there?”

Bold of you, I thought to myself.

“I’d appreciate it,” he said. “I’ll pay half of the car if you want to carpool.”

“Let’s go.”

We walked over to the car rentals, aware that we may not be the only people with this in mind. Thankfully, the line wasn’t too bad. After a quick exchange with the desk attendant, we loaded our luggage into a RAV4 and pulled out of the airport and into the storm.

“Thanks again, handsome,” the man said. “I’m Oliver, by the way.”

“My pleasure,” I replied. “I’m headed that way, anyway. No trouble at all. I’m Leo.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Rain streaked down the glass as lightning raged in the sky overhead. Occasionally, a strong gust of wind forced me to correct the car as it was nearly pushed from the lane. Both of us sat in silence for the first two hours, unsure what to talk about, instead taking in the storm raging above us. Occasionally, Oliver would comment on the wind or the lightning, or would pull a granola bar from his bag, which he’d kindly offer to share with me (he did this three times – I began to wonder how many granola bars the man traveled with).

“Oliver,” I began, as we approached the two-and-a-half hour mark of our drive. “You don’t look like an ‘Oliver’. You look more like a ‘Titus’ or a ‘Max’ or something else… like ‘Hercules,’ maybe.”

It was a poor excuse for a flirt, but he laughed. And hey, he called me handsome first.

“Thanks,” he said. “Not gonna lie to you – I’m the biggest man I know, too.”

Fuck.

“Powerlifter?” I asked.

“Yeah, but not professionally,” he said. “Goal is to get into the Olympics.”

“Not far off, if I had to guess.”

“You’d be correct,” he smirked.

There was a lull in the conversation. Oliver watched the storm, but I noticed he didn’t even attempt to play with his phone or any other distraction, as though he was leaving himself open to more conversation. I wondered if he was hoping one of us would make a move, but neither did. More time passed as we watched the storm, which was either huge as fuck or following us north.

“So, uh,” I began, “I’m about 190-200 pounds. Bet you could bench me easily.”

“Easily,” he laughed. “With one arm.”

Woof.

“Lincoln’s still another five or six hours up,” I said. “We should stop for the night when we get to Wichita.”

He looked over to me with a smirk. “Yeah, let’s get a room along the highway somewhere.”

He openly adjusted his cock in his seat.

“If you’re so interested in my bench press,” he continued, “maybe I can show you how strong all this muscle is.”

“I’d enjoy that.”

“You didn’t strike me as a sub before.”

“I’m a switch, but would definitely sub for the right guy.”

The conversation was tumbling out of my mouth like a drunken horse. “Trapped” in a car with this total stranger, something unconscious in my mind was practically making me throw myself at him… but, built the way he was, I couldn’t blame myself.

Rain streaked the windows while the dark clouds rolled overhead, flashing brightly between rounds of thunder that we couldn’t hear above our conversation and the hum of the car’s engine.

“What type of stuff do doms do to you?” He flexed his fist and cracked a knuckle as he did so.

“I’m a pain slut, man. All-in for impact play. Closed fist, pound into my gut.”

“Oh, I’ve definitely gotten into gutpunching with a sub before,” he responded, smirking. “And you’ve got one hell of a build, bro. If we had the chance, I’d put you to the test.”

I let out a soft laugh, as did he. For now, both our attention turned to the road as the rain began to deluge harder than before. While an innate sense of danger overcame us as the road became practically impassable, we also recognized that after about five hours of driving in the rain, it was time to pull off the road and rest.

Wichita’s modest skyline was barely visible as a screen of lightning backlit the town. There much closer to us was a roadside motel: the Sunflower Valley Motor Inn and Cafe. I exited I-35 and pulled into the dirt – I mean, mud – parking lot. Under the torrential downpour, Oliver and I ran in and booked two rooms… I didn’t want to presume that we’d share a room, and it was Oliver, in fact, who spoke first to the attendant and asked for two.

Winnie, who appeared to be Queen Elizabeth II’s redneck American sister, handed us two keys. As Oliver stepped over toward the door, Winnie handed me a receipt to sign. I handed it back to her and she winked as she took it.

Ma’am.

Oliver and I took our bags and walked to our rooms, said goodnight, and shut our doors behind us. I wondered if all the car talk had been just that – talk – but figured I’d make the best of my evening, anyway.

As the storm gave way to a beautiful golden hour, I stepped out to the office to grab a microwave dinner. (What? It’s all that was available.) Walking back to my room however, that mountain of a man was walking toward me from the stairs. His room was on the first floor and mine on the second, so I didn’t see any other reason for him to be there than to be walking to my room. My interest was further piqued, however, due to the fact that he wasn’t wearing a shirt.

“Just on my way to get some ice,” he said, smiling.

“Huh,” I chuckled. “I may have some in my room if you want to check.”

He laughed, “Get in there, let’s tear the place apart.”

I opened the door and let us in, closing it behind us – and immediately whipped my shirt off my body. He took in the sight of my build, knowing I wanted to give my belly over to him.

Oliver whistled. “You don’t know how badly I need to kick the shit out of a jock.”

He approached me, taking the meat of my pec between his finger and thumb.

“How about I take us both over the edge?” he asked. “We had a rough day and I’d like to get some frustration out.”

“I’d be pissed if we made it to Lincoln and you hadn’t.”

He smiled, took my jaw in his hand and led my face in for a gentle kiss. He lingered for a moment. His lips were so tender; the scent of his body masculine and understated. He concluded the kiss and slowly pulled away from my face.

“That’s as gentle as things are gonna get, Leo.”

“I’m counting on it.”

I reached up and took his arms in my hands. I’d never played with a man this size.

“How big are these arms?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

He smirked. “I’m not a bodybuilder. I don’t measure. Last I checked, though, they were 23 inches.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Mine, by contrast, are only 17 inches.

He flexed his arms as I squeezed them, then his pecs as I made my way over. I didn’t even bother asking his chest measurement. His body, while flexing, was genuinely solid. Carved of stone. He wasn’t a bodybuilder, but absolutely could have been. If he wanted to take powerlifting professional, he could have. It did make me curious what he actually did for a living, that he wouldn’t want to take his body and fitness into any professional space. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t my business.

I recentered my thoughts: What would this muscle – this power – feel like in my gut? I was ready to find out. Oliver, still flexing his biceps for me, allowed me to take his arm in my hands. I took his fist and directed it down to my abs, keeping eye contact with him.

“Fuck yeah, Leo. I’m gonna own your belly.”

“Yes sir.”

He moaned.

His large left hand took me by the back of the neck as his right hand began massaging my relaxed abs, his stirring fingers rearranging my guts as he massaged them.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Keep it loose. You’ve never been beaten like this.”

He pulled his fist back and blew his first punch through my soft guts, forcing an UH! from my body.

“Fuck, yeah,” he growled. “No resistance, man. I want to feel your organs squish.”

The punch that had rocked my bowels a moment before had hit with such incredible force that I felt pressure in my head; as if the blood in my guts had been forced into my forehead. I can’t recall another time when I’d had to steadily myself and regain my sense of direction as a result of a punch to the stomach, but in that moment, that’s exactly what happened.

Oliver didn’t notice. 

A second punch flattened my navel into my body as my servile intestines strained under the pressure; my lungs emptied with a hearty grunt.

“I wouldn’t have guessed all that muscle would be this soft,” Oliver sneered. “You really do take it relaxed.”

“I could take this all day,” I managed to whisper out as I tried to catch my breath, unsure if the statement was even true.

His grip on my neck tightened as he walked me to the bathroom. He turned on the shower. As he waited for the water to get warm, he turned and delivered a sucker punch to my lower belly, driving the bulk of the V-shape of my relaxed lower abs deep into my lower intestines and bladder.

“UGHhhhhh—” I moaned as I doubled over, feeling almost as though I’d cum from the impact… but I didn’t.

Oliver again took me by the back of the neck and straightened me up, walking me into the shower.

“Wash me,” he instructed. “I’ve been on two flights and a five-hour car ride. Clean me up.”

“Yes sir.”

We stripped the little remaining clothing from our bodies and stepped into the warm shower. From what I could tell, and if the rumors about steroid use are true, he did not use steroids. His hearty cock swung from side to side as he stepped under the water.

I took some of the liquid body wash provided by the hotel — cedar scented — and began to lather his expansive chest as he flexed it for me.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he said. “Lather me up.”

As I built up the suds on his chest, biceps, and pits, he stopped me. In a swift motion, he swung an uppercut, catching me in my lower belly, driving my lower intestines up into the pit of my gut as he slammed me into the wall. I nearly fell to my knees, but there wasn’t enough room in the shower. Instead, I fell into his beefy body. He caught me.

Without a word other than the baritone grunt he’d just punched out of me, I continued to lather his muscles.

“Fuuuuck, yeah,” he said with a devious smile. “That’s it, little jock. Do as I say and take your beating.”

He began rinsing the water off of himself, but as I went to lather myself up, he stopped me.

“We’re not washing you yet. I like the way you smell.”

I stopped and followed him back into the room; neither of us had dried off. We made a trail of wet carpet as we talked through the room, our bodies glistening.

“You ready to begin?” Oliver asked. 

Begin?

He shoved me hard, practically throwing me into the wall. 

“No fat on this belly,” he said. “No cushion for your guts.”

“That’s right, sir.”

He cupped each side of my lower gut with his hands. “Just a sack of intestines for me. Keep these abs soft.”

“Yessir.”

“No protection for your bowels, buddy.”

“Yes—”

I was cut off by a knuckle-tap against my spine as his fist blew my insides apart. I couldn’t even tell if he’d punched me in the navel or in the pit of my gut — only that the force of it immediately doubled me over.

“Stand up,” he said as he pushed me back up. I wheezed as he did so, but before anything else could be said, another intestine-flattening punch rocked my soft and entirely unprotected organs.

He pulled his fist back as I moaned deeply, then slammed it back into me. His fist drove deep into the pit of my gut, forcing a loud grunt from me as he tapped my spine again. This time, I clearly felt my lower belly bulge out from the displacement of my bowels.

Again, he pulled his fist back before launching an uppercut into my navel. I knew the force of the punch would be extreme — remember how massive his guns are? — but I forced myself to remain relaxed so I could properly enjoy the pain of his power in my guts.

My intestines and all their bulk were briefly rearranged into my diaphragm, eliciting a noise that was somewhere between a shout and a moan, though I think I heard a bit of a grunt in there, too. Unable to breathe, and with a devastating ache in my gut, I crumpled to the floor, desperately clutching my belly.

I flexed and relaxed my abs, just to see if I still could.

“I think I felt every organ in there,” he sneered. “I can’t say I’ve ever felt a gut like yours.”

I moaned as I rolled onto my back, allowing my open belly to heave as I caught my breath.

“You can workout as hard as you want, right?” he said with a philosophical tone. “Right?” (He said as he lightly kicked me in the kidney.)

“Ughhhh, yes sir,” I replied as I waited for my kidney to stop aching. He knelt down so his face was right above mine as I lay there on the floor, gut heaving, my hand on my abs. 

“But no matter how hard you workout, no matter how much muscle you build or how thick and powerful that muscle is…” he said, his tone dominant and cruel as he stood back up.

“…your organs will always be soft and compressible.” He said as he stepped onto my belly, with all his weight on the center of my loose guts.

I fought my instinct to flex my six pack to protect my belly, instead forcing myself to submit to him and his, what, 300 pounds of muscle? I meant to cry out, but couldn’t breathe any air in. Instead my face contorted into a scream without sound. I held my arms out to my sides, my forearms flexed and bulging. But there, under his feet, my intestines were being flattened into the floor.

I could feel my face turning red as the blood was crushed out of my gut and into my head. He may have stood with his heel in my guts for 30 seconds; a minute, maybe, but it felt like much longer.

He stepped off my belly and without waiting for me to recover, he grabbed me under my armpits and brought me to my feet as if I weighed nothing.

I couldn’t yet stand on my own — my body wouldn’t allow it yet, not with my gut still trying to figure out what has just happened to it — so he shoved me against the wall, winding me. Holding me up with his arm, he took aim at my loose, hanging belly.

Those gigantic arms launched an uppercut into the depths of my lower bowels, shoving my bulged guts up into my body.

UH!

And Oliver pulled back, and blew another uppercut into my beaten lower intestines. 

UH!

The noise wasn’t even voluntary, it’s just the noise my body made on autopilot as I lost myself to the pain of the impacts. That’s just the noise I make when the breath is punched out of my body. 

UH!

A bit of drool began to trail from my mouth and down onto my wide, hairy, muscular chest, red with erotic desire. 

UH!

I fell deeper into my punch-drunk state, finding myself yearning for the next uppercut into my lower intestines every time he pulled his fist back, just for Oliver to reward my desire seconds later with his fist, again, rearranging my intestines with a deep, forceful impact. 

UH!

I began to, ironically, regain my ability to stand on my own as he was punching that ability right back out of me. 

UH!

The brutal beatdown into my loose innards made my knees into jelly again. 

UH!

I could see the thick — relaxed — muscle of my lower belly, between my cum gutters, swollen and bright red beneath my body hair and pubes.

Oliver, with his hand still on my shoulder, pulled me forward, effectively doubling me over. He shot another uppercut, this one driving deep into the pit of my gut. As he’d pulled my shoulders forward however, the uppercut drove into the pit of my belly, flattened my intestines into my spine, and lifted my feet about an inch off the floor.

The breath punched out of me didn’t even make a sound this time. 

I fell to the floor again, on my hands and knees, one hand clutching my belly, unable to speak or breathe. 

With a raging hardon, still.

Oliver walked to my side and delivered a surprisingly soft kick to my gut, but still hard enough to slosh my intestines around and knock me onto my back.

Again, he stepped onto my liquified bowels. The ability to shout, moan, or breathe was again not an option. He applied all his weight to one foot which sank into my intestines, just as soft and compressible as he said they would be. He placed his other foot on my face, turning my head to the side with his mildly fragrant sole.

He stood there, weight on my guts and other foot lightly stomping on my temple and jaw, until he decided he was done — but no earlier. Not once did he check if I could take it any longer, I just did. 

As before, he picked me up like I weighed nothing, but did not place me against the wall. Instead, he stood me up and fired a cross punch into my navel, blowing me backward onto the bed as my insides absorbed the power and my soft, unflexed six pack rippled like jello.

Before I knew it, Oliver was with me on the bed, holding me in a headlock with my face in his armpit, my body arched backward, opening up my red stomach. 

His pits smelled of musk, which he’d worked up as he’d been using me. Both of us were still dripping wet, only now we were sweaty rather than dripping with shower water. I breathed in deep.

Oliver must have noticed me breathe his musk in, because he responded with a forceful punch deep into the center of my belly as he held me.

UH!

My breath was forced out into his musky pit, which he loved, responding with a devilish Fuck yeah!

Another punch drove into my loose guts, forcing my breath out into Oliver’s pit again, and forcing me to huff his musk as I caught my breath. As I felt my still-hard cock begin to stir, Oliver slammed his fist deep into my navel, then again into my pulverized lower intestines again.

Again and again my breath was forced from my body and his musk huffed back into it until finally, at long last, his fist, buried deep in my bowels, made my cock shoot. Thick white jets splattered across my red, hairy belly and although my face was buried in Oliver’s pits, by the noise he made I could assume a couple jets of cum must have splattered onto him, too.

Oliver stood from the bed unceremoniously, dropping me. He grabbed me, took me from the bed, and threw me to the floor like a ragdoll. I landed hard, winded — again — from my body’s impact onto the floor.

Laying there aching, Oliver approached me.

He spit, the white froth of saliva streaking across my chin and throat. I rolled to my side and went to push myself up off the ground, but my effort was halted by a forceful kick to my belly. 

OOF!

I rolled to my back, eyes clenched, baring my teeth and clutching my guts.

The door shut softly behind him as he exited.

I moaned softly to myself, laying on the ground with an ache in my stomach I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. My abnormally durable intestines have taken some monstrous beatings, but this was incredible.

I closed my eyes and focused on breathing. That is, until my phone vibrated.

It was Oliver texting me from downstairs.

You’re one tough motherfucker. Thanks for that. Rest up, long drive tomorrow. If you’re not broken. ;)

I smiled, chuckling softly to myself as I fell backward into my bed, hand still cradling my beaten guts.