21: Bentley (Hudson)

The train rumbled north along the Hudson River, the scenery outside my window slowly transitioning from the urban cityscape of Manhattan to the lush greenery of the Hudson Valley. I adjusted my tie as I sat back in my seat, feeling both excitement and anxiety about meeting this new client. The Sterling Group had high hopes for this consultation as it was part of their new push to bring on more boutique firms as clients. Securing this guy, who already had a reputation for his discerning eye, had fallen on my shoulders alone.

As the train pulled into Hudson station, I gathered my backpack and stepped onto the platform. The air was crisp, a welcome change from the stinging air that seemed to pool over Manhattan as a result of the auto congestion. I popped the client’s address into Uber and hailed a car.

"Nice place," the driver whistled as we pulled up to a stunning two-story home overlooking the river. I thanked him for the ride and took a breath before approaching the front door.

Before I could knock, the door swung open. There stood my client, Bentley… something. Suddenly, I couldn’t remember his last name. He was tall – taller than my 6’3” frame, even – with a muscular build that filled out his crisp white tee perfectly. Thick black glasses framed his face, accentuating the stubble on his jawline.

"Leo Driskill?" His voice was deep, resonant.

I cleared my throat. "That's me. You must be Bentley."

He grinned, extending a hand. His grip was firm, strong. "Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?"

I followed him inside, trying not to stare at the way his shoulders moved beneath his shirt. The house was as impressive inside as out, with large windows offering panoramic views of the Hudson River.

"Water would be great, thanks," I said, setting my backpack down.

Bentley nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. I used the moment to collect myself, reminding myself that this was a professional meeting. But as he returned, two glasses in hand, I couldn't help but notice the way his biceps strained against his rolled-up sleeves.

"So," he said, handing me a glass, "The Sterling Group. I've heard good things."

I took a sip of water. "We're excited about the potential of your firm. I've looked over the deck you sent Kate last week, and with the right communications strategy, I think we could really expand your reach."

He leaned against his desk, his shirt pulling tight across his chest. "I'm all ears, Leo. What did you have in mind?"

As I launched into my initial thoughts, I tried to focus on the task at hand. But part of me couldn't help but wonder what he was doing later.

I’m kidding. I’m very professional.

I’d worried that I wouldn’t be able to impress this so-called “impossible client” I’d been assigned, but over course of our three-hour discussion, we kept it casual and cool. But the more he expressed, the more he laughed at jokes about the business… the more I felt myself drooling over his arms. Metaphorically, of course.

As we sat down for lunch on Bentley's expansive patio over the river, I couldn't help but steal glances at him. The way the sunlight caught his stubble, the curve of his biceps as he reached for his water glass – it was intoxicating, and being that we were having lunch, all business talk was suspended.

Bentley was outlining his goals of expanding his patio to accommodate a hot tub over the river, but I found myself lost in thought, still struck by the way his shirt hugged his muscular frame as he gesticulated.

I nodded along, trying to focus on his words, but my mind kept wandering. There was something in the way he looked at me, a glint in his eye that suggested he might be just as interested as I was. When he went to show me where his next home project would materialize, his gaze lingered a beat too long when our eyes met.

After lunch, we were back in his home office talking language and communication strategy.

"And what do you think about the Clinton Hill campaign?" Bentley's deep voice reflected a slight desperation.

I cleared my throat. "I think we're on the right track. Your ideas align well with what we had in mind, especially the SEO plan for that new DMA you're wanting to break into."

He grinned in relief. "Great minds think alike, I guess."

As we continued our discussion, I monitored the way Bentley leaned in when I spoke, the casual brush of his hand against mine as we reached for a pen – it all felt charged. I, in turn, wondered what it would be like to run my hands over those broad shoulders, to feel the strength in his arms. What kind of gyms do they have out here in Hudson? What kind of routine did he follow to maintain that impressive physique? Likewise, he seemed to find any excuse to make physical contact with me – a pat on the shoulder here, a gentle touch on the arm there.

After work, I headed back to the quaint bed and breakfast where I was staying. The old floorboards creaked under my feet as I climbed the stairs to my room.

I flopped backward onto the bed, sighing as I stared at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above me. The meeting had gone well, professionally speaking, but there was no denying the electric undercurrent that had run through our entire interaction.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out, my eyes widening as I saw a Hudson area code on the screen.

"Hey Leo, it’s Bentley. This is my personal line. Why don't you come back to my place? We could go over a couple more details in a more relaxed setting."

I read the message twice, a grin spreading across my face. Who did he think he was kidding? This was definitely not about work.

"Sure thing. My evening's open," I typed back, hitting send before I could overthink it.

As I got up to freshen up, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and laughed to myself. "So professional."

I splashed some water on my face and ran a hand through my hair. This was either going to be something incredible or a spectacular mistake. Either way, I was curious to see what Bentley had in store.

The Uber pulled up to Bentley’s picturesque home. I stepped out, the golden light of the setting sun painting the landscape in warm hues. My heart raced as I approached Bentley's front door.

Bentley stood on the porch, waiting in his same black slacks from earlier. But the crisp white tee was gone, replaced with a black tank top. He yawned and stretched his arms overhead as he greeted me. His thick black glasses caught the light, and his stubble seemed more pronounced than earlier.

"Leo, glad you could make it," Bentley said as his yawn subsided, his voice low and tinged with something I couldn't quite place.

I stepped inside, and Bentley closed the door behind me. The air between us practically crackled.

"I've got a confession," Bentley started, running a hand through his hair as he smirked. "After lunch, I realized why you looked so familiar to me all day. We've talked before, years ago, online. About gutpunching."

I couldn't believe it. I didn't recognize him at all.

"How long ago was that?" I asked, my voice echoing across his living room.

"Few years back. We never met up, but I never forgot. When I realized it was you, I had to reach out."

I leaned my ass against the back of his sofa, the possibilities flooding my mind as I took in the sight of his huge arms and beautiful gut — and new understanding that he’d invited me over for some gut work. "And are you still interested in that?"

"God, yes," Bentley breathed. "Are you?"

"More than ever," I admitted.

We moved towards each other slowly.

Bentley's eyes were settled as he looked at me. "Leo," he said, his voice husky as he reached out and placed his hands on my biceps, squeezing them as they hung at my sides. "Please. Punch me."

The air in Bentley's home was charged as I stood before him. His words hung between us, an invitation to explore what I’d been wanting all day.

"Let's not waste time," I said with a smirk, my voice steady despite the pounding in my chest.

He steadied himself against the wall and placed his hands behind his head.

I grabbed him by the tank top, pulling him toward me.

“No, no,” I said. “Strip.”

We moved almost in unison, shedding our clothes with a sense of urgency. His tank came off first, revealing a chest made of thick slabs of muscle, tapering down to a rounded belly, the firm muscles within it undulating as he pulled his clothing this way and that as he stripped — a gut that begged to be wrecked. My own shirt followed, exposing my sculpted torso, each muscle honed and ready to power my fists into the huge man before me.

I took a step back to take him in fully. Bentley's overall physique was impressive, but it was his gut that held my attention — a soft, relaxed, eager dome that I ached to drive a fist into.

I approached him, my fingers brushing lightly over his stomach. Bentley inhaled sharply at my touch, his muscles quivering under my fingertips.

"You want it?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Bentley nodded, his eyes wide with anticipation.

I pulled my fist back and delivered a soft punch to his belly. The impact was gentle, but the sensation it sent through both of us was undeniable. Bentley's breath stuttered, and a low moan escaped his lips while my fist drove softly and deeply into his pliant gut.

I hit him again, a little harder this time, and Bentley's body lurched backward slightly, his back colliding with the wall. The sound of my fist connecting with his flesh filled the room, a rhythmic thudding punctuated by Bentley’s deep grunts.

With each punch, Bentley's eyelids flicked shut hard, his lips parted, and his breathing became more labored; I watched as he surrendered to the feeling. His guts grew more spongy with every strike, the feeling of his intestines compressing radiated through my fist each time.

At Bentley’s labored begging, I intensified the force behind my punches. His gut jiggled slightly with each hit, and I couldn't help but be mesmerized by the sight of it absorbing each punch. My impacts became more brutal, plowing into his navel and into the center of his rounded gut. Beneath my fist, his loose innards squelched and flattened, the movement of every loop of intestine barely perceptible under my knuckles and fueling the solid erection between my legs.

Bentley's hands came up to rest on my shoulders, steadying himself as I continued my assault on his stomach. His legs trembled, threatening to give out beneath him, but I wasn't done yet.

"Oh, fuck… please, more," Bentley gasped, his voice strained but full of need.

I obliged, my knuckles pressing deeper into his soft bowels, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine. His slutty little reactions fueled my own insatiable need.

The rhythm of my punches against Bentley's gut was intoxicating. His eyes were glazed over with lust, his mouth slack as he panted out his pleas. "Please," he'd beg, and my fists would connect with his soft belly in a slow, relentless barrage, slamming deep into his bowels and grinding them into his body before pulling back for another.

I mixed up my punches, keeping the man’s guts guessing. A cross punch would send a shudder through Bentley's frame, his body jerking with the impact. A swift jab would draw a sharp intake of breath from him, followed by a low, throaty moan. And an uppercut — what he really seemed to love, his voice echoing off the walls as my fist rammed deep into his gut.

The sensation of his belly under my knuckles was insane — perfectly yielding despite the thickness of it. I could feel the softness of his organs, my knuckles compressing them, sending waves of sensation through Bentley's body.

With each punch, I imagined the impact reverberating through his intestines, the pressure building within him as he surrendered to the brutal ecstasy of the beating. His grunts and moans urged me to delve deeper and strike harder.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, I could feel the sweat trickling down my back, my arms beginning to ache with the exertion. But the discomfort was nothing compared to my lust for Bentley's guts.

Finally, breathless, Bentley's voice cracked out with another plea. "Switch with me," he pleaded, his eyes locked onto mine with a fervent intensity. "I want to feel your guts under my fists."

I nodded, a slow smile spreading across my face as I prepared to surrender control.

I leaned back against the cool wall, letting the solid surface ground me as I relaxed my abdomen, my breaths deep and measured. Bentley's face was focused as he positioned himself in front of me. The anticipation was as thrilling as the sweet ache of the coming blows.

His first punch was an exploration, a gentle nudge that sent ripples through my core. "Harder," I commanded, and Bentley agreed. His knuckles slammed into me, the force of it radiating outwards. The sudden and violent burst of pressure in my bowels, my intestines compressing, squirming under the onslaught, drove a deep groan from me.

He struck again, each hit plowing in deep and crushing my innards against the wall behind me. It was as if Bentley's fists were surging through my gut; the sensation of my bowels being pulverized, my guts being tenderized by his strong hands, overcame me.

Bentley continued kneading my innards. Every strike sent a shockwave through the coils of my entrails, his huge fists punch-fucking the softness of my guts as my legs already began to grow weak.

Bentley's eyes were locked in, his glasses slightly askew, as he watched my reaction to each punch. "You love this, don't you?" he growled through a devilish smirk.

My response was a guttural moan. Bentley grinned. He varied his punches, each one devastating my intestines as I kept my six pack totally lax for him.

I savored the sensation of his knuckles burrowing into my guts, the way my stomach compressed and expanded with each blow. It was as if Bentley's hands were inside me wringing and crushing my bowels.

As Bentley drew back for another punch, I placed my hand on his arm, stopping him mid-motion. Our eyes locked as I took his fist and pulled him, trading places with him as I slammed his back into the wall.

I relished the sight of him, his body flushed with exertion and arousal, his beautiful belly heaving as he breathed.

I zeroed into his guts again, slamming my knuckles into his innards once more. I reveled in the give of his flesh, the malleability of his eager, submissive gut under my power. The sounds I forced from his lips were beautiful — grunts, groans, and gasps tinged with the bass of his voice.

I delivered a particularly vicious blow, connecting fist to spine, his beaten intestines caught in the middle. Bentley's knees buckled. He crumpled, landing with his knees on the floor and his back against the wall, sitting upon his heels. He was a magnificent ruin, his chest heaving and flushed; and his gut a deep, angry red from the relentless pounding I'd beaten into it. I could see his cock, hard and straining.

Fuck, I thought to myself at the sight of him.

Without hesitation, I stepped forward, positioning myself directly in front of him. Bentley's head was level with my crotch, his breath hot against my skin as I loomed over him. His eyes remained glazed over, and he looked up at me with a reverence that bordered on worship.

I leaned over, my shadow enveloping him, and began to punch downward into his gut. Each blow drove deep into the center of his belly, cramming the bulk of his innards down into his lower guts. I could feel his intestines squirm under the impact, the sensation beneath my fists sending pleasure straight to my hard cock.

I punched relentlessly, imagining my knuckles forcing their way through layers of muscle and fat, cramming his intestines down into his prostate. His moans grew louder, more desperate, his body shuddering with every impact.

"You can take it," I growled. "Your guts are tough."

Bentley's response was a series of desperate, needy gasps, his body arching after my fist pulled back from each punch as if seeking more.

As I continued to pummel his gut, as if sensing the approach of an inevitable climax, Bentley reached out, his fingers curling around my hips, pulling me closer. He was beyond words, his eyes pleading.

He begged, "Uppercut me," his voice raspy.

I gripped him under his armpits, the thicket of hair there wet under my palms, the musky scent of his pits filling my nostrils. I hoisted him up, his body limp and compliant, his belly distended and soft from the beating it had taken. He was a hunky study in anatomical contrasts — the solidity of his muscular frame and the vulnerability and sponginess of his beaten gut.

With a firm grip, I positioned him for the uppercut. I launched my fist upward, slamming into the softness of his upper belly, right under his diaphragm. The impact was immediate and visceral. His eyes snapped shut, his mouth parting as he struggled to draw breath.

I didn't give him time to recover. My second uppercut landed just below the first, catching him in the navel, my knuckles grinding against his bellybutton. The sound was a sickening thud, like my fist had struck a sandbag.

Bentley's body nearly doubled over with each punch, his breath coming in short gasps, but with no sound as he struggled to take air in. I could feel his intestines shifting under the force of my blows, which felt insanely hot.

I moved downward and began to drive uppercuts into his lower belly. The heavy bulk of his guts compressed under the force of my fist, his insides churning as he struggled to breathe. I could see the imprint of my knuckles on his reddened skin as he finally gained the ability to moan again.

I watched his eyes roll back, his body trying to double over, held up only by my forearm across his thick pecs.

The room was silent save for our labored breathing and the dull thud of my fist impacting Bentley’s gut. The scent of sweat and hung in the air.

He begged, "Hit me in the navel. Right in the fucking navel."

I locked onto his bellybutton, that small, innocent indentation in his lower furry stomach. I drew back my fist.

With a grunt, I launched my fist, putting every ounce of my strength into the punch he’d begged for. It connected with a solid thud, my knuckles sinking deep into the softness of his relaxed gut, right at the navel. The force of the punch drove Bentley back into the wall, his body making a dull thump as he collided with it. All the air in his chest was forced from his body. The soft coils and twists of his unprotected intestines tangibly compressed beneath my fist.

He dropped to his knees, gasping for air, his hand instinctively flying to his gut as he fought back the urge to puke. The punch had been brutal, a violent blow into the depths of his belly, and for a moment, I worried I might have gone too far.

But then he looked up at me, his eyes shining and feverish. "Fuck," he panted, "that was... incredible."

I didn't need any further encouragement. I stepped forward, positioning myself directly in front of him. I grabbed his wet, hairy pits again and pulled him back up against the wall as he grunted.

My fist began to hammer into his navel. The sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the room again, punctuated by Bentley's grunts and gasps.

His hand moved from his gut to his balls, cupping them protectively as he began to stroke himself with the other hand.

I could feel the sweat trickling down my back, the exertion of the punches making my muscles burn.

Bentley's moans grew louder, his body trembling with the effort of him holding back his orgasm until he couldn’t. I could see the strain on his face, the way his jaw clenched, his eyes squeezed shut. He was lost in the pain, his world narrowed down to the sensation of my fist pounding into his bowels.

I could feel the shift in his body, the way his muscles tensed and his breathing changed.

"I'm close," he gasped, his voice strained. "I’m so fucking close."

I drove my fist into his gut again, flattening his bowels and grinding them into his spine. The sight of him, his hand working furiously at his cock, was mesmerizing as I churned his guts.

With a pained grunt, Bentley came, his body shuddering as he spilled onto the floor. His head fell forward as he gasped, his eyes squeezed shut as wave after wave of euphoria washed over him with my fist still grinding his intestines around.

He collapsed back onto his knees, sitting on his heels against the wall before me, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. His hairy chest was a glorious mess, glistening with sweat, and I couldn't help but admire the sight.

I stepped back and wrapped my hand around my throbbing cock. I looked down at Bentley, at his handsome, beaten body.

I stroked myself, but the sight of Bentley's ravaged belly was all it took. I came quickly, shooting across his chest, dripping down onto his red belly alongside his own sweat.

I took a deep breath, relaxing my body. Bentley was still on his knees, a contented smile on his face as he looked up at me.

We stayed like that for a moment, neither of us speaking. Then, with a soft chuckle, Bentley reached out and placed a hand on my thick calf muscle and gave it a gentle squeeze.

I reached down and helped him to his feet, our bodies sliding against each other as I held him.

…does this mean I secured the client?