3: Jacob (Central Park)

All day long I chatted with this guy, Jacob.

Just a typical Tuesday in the office, except that Jacob had me hooked; totally distracted me from all my work.

We don’t work together (thank god — I’d never get anything done), but we met online a couple weeks back and he finally shot me a text at about 8 AM today. Nonstop chatting from then til now, about 6 PM, as I’m on the L train back to the East Village from my office.

He discovered he was into gutpunching a couple years back when he came across a bunch of videos on Twitter, but hasn’t had the opportunity to meet another guy into it in person yet. Too bad for me he lives in The Bronx.

Gonna be honest: I’d love to meet this dude, but he doesn’t want to come all the way down to my place and I can’t pull myself to trek all the way up there.

But it was right about then that he shot me another text:

Meet me at Central Park? Let’s go deep in the woods late tonight. Rest up, kid.

11:30? I replied.

See you there.

I slid my key into the lock and entered my apartment.

It was only about 6:30 now, so I had a little time to kill. Might as well eat now, and yeah — get a little rest.

I spent my time looking over this dude’s photos and reading his texts to me. He chose to reach out to me specifically because he’d been wanting to try punching a guy whose abs are relaxed. He described it like "having total control", and that he loves "the thought of a stud willingly allowing a bull dom to punch his organs with no protection."

I had four separate pics of him flexing his biceps. They were magnificent. He was a big guy with a healthy, round belly, and was probably about 30 or 35 years old. But his biceps were monstrous. I wouldn’t be surprised if his biceps, triceps, and shoulders were the only muscles he worked out because of how beefy they looked. Fairly handsome face, too. A nice beard. Cute coiffed hair, too.

Meet me here, my phone chimed again. He’d sent me a pin to a location in the woods. He was right, it was deep in there away from the trails. And be sweaty for me, he added.

Aight, bet. If that’s what he wants, that’s what he’ll get.

As the night inched closer to time, I took the train up to the Upper West Side, near where I would want to enter Central Park to access the part of the woods I’d meet him at.

A few blocks from this subway station was a branch of my gym, where I thought to visit for a good hour and a half before our scheduled meeting. He wanted me sweaty? He'll get me sweaty and pumped.

I’d already worked out that morning before work, but it had been leg day. This time, I hit my arms. Bis and tris.

Toward the end of the workout, I had to drop the weight way down just to get the reps in — but the pump had my guns looking thick and that’s all that mattered to me. By the time I checked out, I had a deep sweat marks running down my back and chest while my hair stuck to my forehead. I could smell my own pits.

From the gym, I jogged. Just an extra bit of work to keep the sweaty momentum going.

I carried only a small waist pack but was otherwise only dressed in a loose tank top and some short nylon gym shorts. While the summer would usually make folks want to venture into the park on most evenings, it was late at night and beginning to lightly mist. I was simultaneously thrilled that the muggy weather might keep people away and anxious that Jacob himself might cancel.

Deeper into the woods I jogged, farther and farther from lampposts on trails and passing cars. It was about 11:32 when I got to the pinned location — Jacob was already there. His hot gut was unfortunately covered in a black tee. He wore a baseball cap, too. Our meeting couldn't have felt more covert.

“Hey bro,” he said to me, walking toward me. “Fuck, dude.”

I could feel the heat radiating from my body from the workout and the jog.

He immediately went for my biceps. He grabbed my right arm, wrapping both hands around all the pumped muscle of my upper arm. “Woooof,” he whispered, trailing a hand from my arm to my right pec, cupping it and squeezing.

He was only about 5’9”. I felt like I towered over him with my 6’4” frame.

“You a muscle sub, boy?” I could appreciate his flirting.

“Yessir,” I answered. He still had one hand on my arm and one on my chest. I flexed my bicep for him.

“Fuuuck,” he said. “Let me in here.”

He pulled my shirt up slightly, but I finished the job, winging the tank top over my head and off my body. I was flexing for him, contracting my pecs and abs so he could see.

He didn’t say much as he ran his hands over my muscles. I was dripping in sweat, though it may have partially been from the mist out here in the woods.

“Relax your abs,” he said. I did, and the modest abs of my muscle gut loosened out, the lower abs pushing the waistband of my shorts out slightly. My abs still had very little definition when flexed, but when relaxed all definition they did have was lost as my gut rounded out.

He pulled out his bottle of poppers and took a hit himself before offering it to me. I took a hit. I felt the head rush, but reveled in the yearning they made me feel in the pit of my belly.

He held up his fist in front of my face and looked me in the eyes. “You want it?”

“Please, sir.”

“Please sir, what?”

“Please punch me. Punch my gut.”

In our conversation through the day, we’d covered how to begin. Soft punches driven in deep. He was game. He did just that.

He tapped his fist on my navel a couple times before driving it deep into my gut. The breath pressed from my body and onto his shoulder as he leaned in, forcing his fist in as far as it would go. My back was solidly up against a tree, so there was nowhere for me to go — my guts absorbed the whole force.

“Yeah,” he moaned gently into my ear, fist still buried in my gut. He ground his knuckles around for a moment, scrambling my intestines under the force of his fist.

“Fuck,” I whispered back. My eyes were closed, but my hand reached up to feel the massive arm attached to the fist in my body.

He pulled back and stepped away from me. “Surprising how soft your stomach is,” he said. “You’re so muscular.”

“Totally relaxed for you, sir.”

“Fuck yeah, you are.”

He drove another soft punch deep inside. And another. He never left my navel, persistently driving my navel practically into my backbone.

“Show me your pits,” he commanded.

I raised my arms, placing my hands behind my head, presenting my muscular pits and their black fur for him. He put his face in there, sweaty and musky for him. Just like he asked for.

He pulled back from my pits, but I kept my hands behind my head. He sank a solid hook into my belly, earning an involuntary moan and doubling me over. He caught me on his chest before he took his hand and pulled my face up to meet his. “Can you take it?”

“Fuck yeah, sir,” I answered.

With his hand still on my chin he brought my face in for a kiss. His mouth smelled like my pits. My cock was already hard under my shorts.

He rubbed his fist on my navel for a bit before sinking in some progressively harder punches. I tried not to make too much noise just in case anyone was out here, but every impact forced the breath out of me.

“Only in the navel?”

“Navel or lower,” I said. "Or here," I continued, gesturing to the center — the pit — of my gut. "But no higher, man."

He smirked, and delivered a devastating, deep shot right into the pit of my gut, right above my navel. And another. Every time his fist landed, he forced it in as deep as it would go, grunting as he did. Every impact squelched my completely soft intestines against my spine.

He stayed aiming at the pit of my (unflexed) muscular stomach: Each time his large fist crushed my loose belly, I could feel the shockwave of the punch through all my guts. After the third punch, he'd punched all the breath out of me. All that could be heard was the loud, deep THUD of the impact of his muscular fist into the soft meat of my guts for another two solid minutes. How he didn't tire out earlier is practically superhuman. But for me, I reveled in it. The last two minutes had me lightheaded and fiending for more.

There wasn’t much light out where we were but I could tell my stomach was growing redder by the minute and I was just hungry for more. Occasionally he’d let slip a soft “Fuck” as he ground his knuckles in. He stopped for just a moment to squeeze my biceps again. I let him, then felt his belly. It was rounded and very soft; I could feel his body hair through his shirt, too. He didn't even try to impress me my tensing his belly up; he knew that I knew my place today as the sole punching bag. He flexed his biceps showing off their size; a good 16 or 18 inches probably.

He indicated the flexing was over by placing a fist on my navel again. Gutpunching usually makes me sweaty, but with the preceding workout, the mist, and the sweat worked up (by both of us) during the workover, I was dripping.

I took another hit of poppers in preparation. I felt my abs go totally slack and heard him say quietly to himself, “Fuuuck yeah.”

He departed from the pit of my gut down to my navel. As his punch sank deep into my stomach, I heard the sweat pat under his fist and felt a drop of moisture shoot from the impact up to my chin.

Every shot into my intestines was solid — he knew what he wanted. We’d talked about a prolonged gut bashing and he was taking the instruction to a T. His fists were practically nailing me to the tree every time his fist slammed into my navel, crushing my guts underneath.

My cock was throbbing. I stopped flexing my biceps with my hands behind my head so I could pull my shorts down, revealing a thick mess of precum.

He paused for only a moment, staring briefly at my cock.

Breaking the pause, he slammed a deep sucker punch into my navel. Fist still buried in me, he dropped to his knees grinding my guts around as the angle of his arm changed — the grinding of my beaten intestines almost had my eyes rolling back in my head. On his knees, he buried his face in my bush, breathing in deep my sweaty, worked up man smell.

He finally released his fist from my guts and lined my adonis belt with his fingers down to my cock.

“I want you to cum for me,” he said.

“Please, sir. Punch it out of me.”

He poppered me up once again and returned to his knees. He gently pressed his fist into my lower gut for a moment, considering the soft yield of my loose abs, knowing that his big fist was lined up with my bladder, prostate, and lower intestines, just on the other side of my unflexed and jelly-soft muscle.

He let me have it as I jerked, pounding again and again into my lower belly; slowly, he sank every hard punch in as deep as he could. My belly was so beaten and yielding that my gut hanged out much farther over my waistband than normal. I could feel in that moment that to Jacob, my gut was merely a soft sack of meat.

That's where I wanted to be. To lose my humanity and let a bull dom use my intestines how he wants to use them; no regard for my pain tolerance. Every impact straight into my lower intestines sent a shock through my gut that felt like I might cum handsfree, but alas I did not.

“Cum for me, boy.”

He sank another shot into my lower guts, earning a euphoric grunt from me.

And another, turning his focus now to my navel. His fist impacted my unflexed abs to find zero muscle to protect me. The force of his fist bore down on my soft intestines alone, smashing them into my belly, concave under the impact of his fist. I let the force of the punch deliver as deep as he powered it into my guts, involuntarily giving him a hard “Ugh—” wanted out of me as I came on his scruffy face.