Muscles for me

I’m small, tight, and built like a toy, but I can’t stay away from thick, hard muscle. So I watched them. Two bodybuilders—shoulders like stone, veins popping under golden skin. I thought I was hidden. I wasn’t. They caught me, and they didn’t waste time. One grabbed my wrist and yanked me inside. The other peeled off my shorts like gift wrap. I barely had time to gasp before the first one bent me over the weight bench. My cheek hit cool leather, my ass up and spread. He spit once, rubbed it over his cock, and drove straight in. My ass clenched around him. I cried out. The second man stepped in front, fed me his length until my throat fluttered. They used me in rhythm—one thrust in, the other pulled back—pushing air from my lungs each time they swapped holes. When the first guy pulled out and finished across my face, hot ropes hit my lashes, my lips, my tongue. The second followed seconds later, painting the same sticky map. I licked what I could reach and swallowed, tasting salt and sweat while my little body still twitched around nothing.