2: Gannon (Leo's Apartment)

What a fucking week.

I’d been home at my East 7th Street apartment for about six hours when my phone chimed. After spending 10 days across three different cities, all I wanted to do was rest and enjoy the comforts of home.

My own bed, my comfortable clothes, and my new couch that I’ve barely had the opportunity to sit on all sounded more inviting than whatever was vying for my attention on that iPhone I’d discarded on the table by my front door six hours ago.

I couldn’t help it. I checked it anyway.

It was Brent Gannon — or, Gannon, as he was called — some guy I met online about a year ago, but never in person. He was a PhD student at Columbia, studying something I’d never heard of before.

“you free?” is all the message said.

I mean, fuck. It’s 8PM and I’m not doing anything, but I do kind of want to keep it that way. I sure as hell don’t want to travel two subways and 45 minutes from the East Village to Columbia, I thought.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to travel,” I texted back. Why lie?

A full minute passed.

“Can u host?” he asked. I know we’re texting, but a PhD using shorthand always throws me.

“Yeah, should be fine.”

“See u in an hour,” he said.

I looked around my apartment. My instinct was to clean, but I haven’t been home in a week and a half. There was nothing to clean up.

I shuffled into my bedroom and flicked on the light. I shed my white tee and plaid pajama pants. I slipped on some light boxers, but remained shirtless.

And I waited.

Though I’d known Gannon for a year, it was a totally surface-level friendship. He’d text me about how badly he wants me to work him over. I’d be on another continent. I’d text him about how I wish I could feel his belly under my fist. He’d have some molecular-something due or a class to TA and no free time to meet.

I’d seen maybe four photos of him. He had never posted online, but occasionally would text me one. He was pretty slim, and I believed he survived on uppers and sandwiches. His idea of keeping physically fit was by setting aside time to bang out 70 push-ups every day before bed. Though his nutrition was abysmal, he did manage to keep a strong-looking chest. A messy mop of black hair sat atop his head, and his eyes were kind — almost dead eyes, really — much kinder eyes than you'd expect from a guy who wanted to be hurt as badly as he did.

But I’ll be damned — I found all that pretty hot.

I’d refreshed Instagram and Twitter too many times to count before my buzzer finally rang. I let him upstairs to my seventh floor walk-up.

I could tell he was actively trying not to pant when I opened the door. I wanted to say, “It’s cool; I’ve lived here four years and I’m still out of breath when I get to my front door,” but I didn’t. Something about him stifling his exhaustion was turning me on.

He was handsome. I have to say. His hair wasn’t quite as messy as in his pics. His chest looked nice, at least under his shirt. I could tell he was pretty slim.

Nice teeth, too.

I showed him to my bedroom. Part of the reason we’ve wanted to meet up all this time is that we’re both into gutpunching where the punching bag guy is unflexed. He’s only ever done it a couple times, but I’m basically a professional by now. I’d given him a ton of reassurance that I’d take care of his guts over the last year. He also knew I enjoyed adding poppers to gutpunching, but hadn’t tried it himself. Though he’d met a guy to punch him in the time between when we first started talking and now, he’d told me after meeting the guy that he was waiting to add poppers into the mix until meeting me. Maybe this would be the night it happened.

I shut the bedroom door and switched off the light. The city gave us that perfect, dim mood lighting through my large window overlooking Tompkins Square Park.

Gannon seemed nervous. Eager, but nervous. He stared at me.

I put a gentle hand on his chest and walked him back up against the wall, and slowly pulled his shirt over his head and off his body. He let his arms fall.

Alright, with the ambient light coming from the window to our side and passing over his lanky body… he was hot. His chest was nice. The sideways lighting amplified his two ample mounds of muscle… not much but definitely there. I reached up and squeezed the lower corners of his pecs, near either nipple, feeling the muscle he’s been building up with those nightly push-up sessions. He groaned a little.

His abs had zero definition whatsoever, but the way his slim belly hung out, relaxed as it was, gave him the hottest Adonis belt. Or, “cum gutters,” as my college roommate once called them.

A light bit of body hair adorned his trim build.

I wanted to be done sizing him up.

I began pressing my finger into his navel. Fuck, he’s soft, I thought. I was almost impressed with how relaxed his belly was. I gently pressed my finger in again and again; slowly, and deeper each time.

He closed his eyes and let me do it, moaning with each press. I moved up to using my fist. I gently pressed it deep into his navel, earning a hot groan from Gannon. I pulled my fist back and pressed it into his lower guts, into the V of that Adonis belt. He groaned once more, but differently. The pleasure in his groans was so apparent and, hoping to treat his belly right, I didn’t want to disappoint. So I had to keep going.

I placed my fist against his navel and rubbed the spot with my knuckles. “You want it?” I asked.

“Please, sir,” he said.

To start things off, the punch was soft. But I drove it in deep. Directly into his navel, still just as soft as it was earlier. I heard the air escape his nose and mouth before he gave me a nice moan. Only then did I pull my fist back and drive it in again. Into his navel, and then into his lower gut.

I began ramping up the strength of the punches little by little, acclimating his unprotected intestines to the beating. A hook into his soft navel here, an uppercut into his spongy lower gut there. Each impact earned a good moan, grunt, or — my favorite sound he made — an unusually sexy “ooh!” from him.

He was still wearing his jeans, but his hard cock was struggling to be free.

After about five solid minutes sinking increasingly strong punches into his fully-yielding stomach, he stopped me.

“Wait, wait, wait—” he said. I feared something was wrong with his guts.

“What’s up?” I held him with a hand on his shoulder and one on his belly.

He took a breath. “Your body looks so fuckin hot in this light. Can I feel it?”

I could feel myself relax. Good — I didn’t break his guts.

“Totally,” I answered.

“The light, just — your shoulders, your arms, pecs, you look insane,” he said, running his hand down my pecs. “And your gut, too.”

“Yeah?” I said.

I flexed my pecs for him, allowing him to take stock of this muscular chest. I did a quick double-bicep pose, too. He squeezed my guns. He ran his hands from my arms to my pecs to my gut.

“Keep this soft,” he requested, pressing his fist into the center of my loose muscle gut, just above my navel.

“Yeah, get deep in there,” I said. “Deep. You won’t hurt me. Trust.”

He really pressed his fist in. I tried not to stumble back, and fuck it felt good. “You like it?” he asked, placing his other hand on my hard cock trapped in my boxers.

I reached forward and placed a fist on his belly.

“Wait a sec,” he said. “I want to try poppers with you.”

I grabbed the bottle for him. I shook it, opened it up, and wiped off the cap. “Block one nostril and inhale with the other,” I told him. “I don’t know if it’s advisable, but I like to hold it for a sec before I exhale.”

He did as he was told. He held it while I set the bottle down on my desk next to us. He exhaled as I turned my attention back to him.

I gave him just a second — only a moment, all I ever want when I’m where he’s standing — before I punched squarely and deep into his navel.

“Oh, fuck,” he said. “Fuck, please sir.”

I didn’t know my cock could get harder, but here we are.

I drove another punch as deep as I could into Gannon’s pliant stomach. He was really letting me in there. I felt nothing but intestines with every punch. Not a single muscle fiber engaged to protect his guts from my fist.

He asked for another hit of poppers. I happily obliged him. I could see his shoulders and chest relax each time the poppers filled his head. I could only imagine the yearning they kickstarted in his belly, like they do mine.

I was so focused on my fists pounding his gut that I didn’t look up. When I finally glanced at his face, I was met with those eyes, now more softened. His mouth, surrounded by soft scruff, barely open. His eyes were locked onto my own. This was the face of a man begging. He was begging for more abuse to his guts.

I removed his pants and released his cock from its denim prison. He grabbed it and began to edge himself. I gave his belly a quick break by flexing my dominant arm and using the other hand to push his face into my pits. He moaned once more — and then surprised me.

Without even removing his face from my pit, he pushed away from the wall and pulled me around, backing me up against the wall. He kept sniffing my pit as he landed a solid punch into my navel; it was a strong, unexpected uppercut that crushed my relaxed guts into my diaphragm.

“Fuck,” I said — it hurt, but it felt fuckin great. “Again,” I commanded him. “More.”

He kept sniffing my pit and even licked it a few times as he slammed his fist into my slackened muscle gut. He couldn’t see my belly, so each punch — all uppercuts — devastated my navel, my lower intestines, and another deep into the dead center of my stomach. Every punch pounding the breath out of my open mouth, myself only able to whisper “fuck yeah.”

I put my bicep down and moved him back to the wall, where he gave me that masochistic beggar face again. I gave him another round of poppers.

He continued to jackoff while I targeted that protruding lower belly. Right where the V of his Adonis belt begins to come together above his cock.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he moaned with each punch until I felt him cum. His gut tightened slightly while he moaned. I pulled my fist back before sinking it in again, harder this time, like I was punching the cum out of his prostate, from the outside of his body.

He exhaled deep as he realized he’d cum all over my lower gut and bush.

“So hot,” he said as he took over the situation, moving me once again against the wall. “Cum for me, sir.”

Once my back was squarely against the wall, he got on his knees in front of me, keeping eye contact. He closed his eyes as he slid his mouth onto my cock.

I put my hands behind my head as he sucked it. I figured he would take aim for my gut, but wasn’t sure.

I was right. My eyes were closed when, from below, he reached up and plowed a hard, unexpected punch directly into the pit of my gut.

“Oh, fuck—” god, it felt so fucking good.

I leaned over, hands still behind my head, making my unflexed navel and lower gut hang out a bit, just for Gannon.

He took the bait.

With a more determined fist, he began pounding into my gut, right where I like it. Punch after punch, feeling like each one stronger and deeper than the one before it. I wasn’t moaning much; just allowed the breath to just be punched out of my fully slackened guts.

Finally, I could feel myself about to cum. I brought down one hand and grabbed Gannon’s head. He knew what was happening. He gave me a stronger, deeper shot into the navel. Then one more. And one more.

I came with his fist in my guts as his throat massaged my cock, swallowing my load.

He stood up using my body to steady himself.

“You look like you’re begging for more,” he said.