Description Kevin finds out about an app that allows its subscribers to touch its handsome, muscular models with a new kind of virtual technology. His buddies are psyched to get in on the touching… but Kevin, who’s been getting more and more admiration for his looks and the body he’s sculpted for himself, realizes he wants to be appreciated with more than just yearning gazes and salacious comments. He wants to be touched.
|Updated||15 Sep 2017|
To all appearances BodyReverence is just another Instagram-style photo-sharing app packed with pictures of hot, hot guys. But there’s a second layer of membership that a lot of people don’t know about. For the cost of a pair of ultrathin VR gloves that wirelessly connect to your phone or laptop and princely monthly subscription, you can do what you’ve always dreamed of—you can reach through that impenetrable glass screen, right into any of a hundred live feeds, and touch the smooth, sculpted, perfect bodies that man after man are lining up to flaunt for your approval and arousal as they lounge and relax, reveling in the caresses of the men reaching out for them from all over the world. It wasn’t even about sex—the models wore at least shorts, and you could only touch them where their skin was exposed. It was about sweet, gentle friction as your palms, your knuckles, your fingertips dragged along the hard bulges and carved contours of some of the most perfect men ever to have existed.
A couple of my buddies at the gym told me about it after a workout one day in late November. One of them had bought the gloves a couple months back, and not a week had gone by since where they hadn’t gotten together at least a couple times to share the gloves and fondle, caress, and stroke these yummy, gym-carved models as they lounged at home or walked along beaches or even as they worked out, tanned skin gleaming with beaded sweat across thick delts and pumped pectorals. The best part was that the models were clearly enjoying the effect of multiple pairs of virtual hands roaming and massaging their well-worked muscles, responding with encouraging murmurs and more often than not popping major wood in their off-limits shorts. At this point I expressed disbelief—the VR gloves were one thing, but did the models actually feel the touches and caresses? My buddies assured me they absolutely did, and that the app and the models made a big deal of this and of showing their reaction. You could even smear sunscreen on them in some feeds, and once they’d even helped a dozen other subscriber-hands smear slick body-paint over a laughing and very aroused model.
In the app, my buddies told me, you can show the other virtual hands or not, and they liked to do it both ways—sometimes loving the experience of sharing this sun-baked hunk sprawled languidly on the long lounger by his dazzling SoCal backyard pool with ten or twenty other equally appreciative guys, other times leaving the other hands hidden and enjoying the encounter in a way that felt more intimate and alone.
“You should check it out, Kev,” Raj told me with a wink, as we clustered around one of the tiny round standing tables in the health bar at the gym after our workout.
“Hell, you should be a model,” Matty put in grinning. Maybe the app had emboldened him, because he reached up and started to stroke my thick upper arms through the snug long-sleeved compression tee I was wearing with obvious appreciation. But then, Matty was pretty handsy anyway. “You’ve got the face for it,” he said, “and you sure as fuck have the bod.”
It was only recently I’d actually started believing comments like this, since I’d got bit by the iron bug pretty late and it was only now that I was in my mid-20s that my bod had started busting out with muscle. I was already developing a very healthy following on Instagram and Youtube, and Matty and Raj had been helping me shoot my videos lately. But the whole experience had been kind of weird for me, and I realized now that it was exactly because the appreciation being sent my way was diluted—filtered through the glass of the laptop or phone screen.
I looked down at where Matty’s hand was still stroking me and thought, “Fuck, yeah.” But I didn’t want to let on just how much of a revelation this simple grope was in combination with their story, so I looked pointedly at his hand and said with a smirk, “Hey, exposed skin only, dude.” I flexed a little under his hand just to let him know I wasn’t too displeased, and he chuckled as he pulled his hand away.
“Oh, you’re a natural,” he said.
Raj had pulled out his phone. “I’m putting in a referral for you,” he said, and started typing and tapping on his screen. “There’s a place in the members area where you can get a bonus for bringing in other members, and I think there’s one for—yes, you can suggest models.” He whistled. “Shit, there’s a nice bounty if they’re accepted, too.”
“Does your grandmother know you’re feeling up hot guys in your spare time?” Matty teased him.
Raj snorted, eyes still on whatever form he was filling out. “She’d subscribe herself if it wasn’t just for men.” He seemed to finish what he was doing and pressed send. “There, I sent them your info,” he told me.
I twisted the side of my mouth. “I dunno, guys,” I said. “Do you think they’ll really want to use me?”
“Dude,” Raj said. “You’ve got amazing raven-black hair, turquoise eyes and the cheekbones of the gods.”
“Plus you’re built like a young superhero,” Matty said. “I’m surprised you’re not in already. Hell, I’m surprised they haven’t recruited you for the inner circle already,” he added, glancing down at my crotch.
I frowned. “The what?”
“One thing at a time,” Raj interjected. “C’mon, I still have some Christmas shopping to do.”
By the time I got home from the gym there was already an email from BodyReverence in my inbox, telling me they’d reviewed my online presence and that they’d be thrilled to add me as BodyReverence model. In exchange for a commitment to be online and available for tactile appreciation for at least three one-hour live feeds a week, or one two-hour feed, they’d pay me almost as much as I was making now at my job as a senior accounting specialist (yes, some gym rats also love math!)—and the more I was online, the more I’d make, the amounts seeming the climb almost exponentially. They’d send me the BR-Box to plug into my computer, which helped facilitate the 3-D feel of the feed from my end, and supplements I would take before each session that would allow me to feel the touches of the subscribers as if their hands were actually stroking my hard, muscular body. I was relieved to see a clause that said outright prohibited sexual encounters, stating in no uncertain terns that the virtual touch only worked on exposed skin, and a minimum attire of gym shorts or the equivalent must be worn at all times. At no time was the model allowed to touch himself, especially not in an area that was not exposed to the subscribers. Any kind of touching more aggressive than a caress was prohibited—in fact, could not be transmitted—and resulted in the banning of the member,
I looked down at where I was stroking my own heavy pecs as I read, my dick thickening in my jock. I wanted my body, my muscles, to be admired, and not just from afar, with yearning eyes and lurid, frustrated comments. I wanted my body to be felt, to be stroked, to be loved by guys who knew just what made for real, masculine beauty. I digitally signed the contract and emailed it back before I could change my mind.
A week later, I stood on my back deck wearing only a pair of loose black shorts, phone in hand. I lived in the woody suburbs of Savannah, and my house was at the end of a cul-de-sac beyond which there hadn’t been much development, it was just me, a lot of trees, and some fairly noisy birds. It was a little cool today, in the 60s, but that was just fine. I’d taken two of the large, pale supplement gel-capsules with water a half-hour before, but I wasn’t feeling any different. I bit my lip, pressed “Go live” on my model control panel, and waited.
Only seconds later I suppressed a gasp as a pair of hands gently grasped my shoulders and began stroking and massaging my traps and delts with slow, affectionate expertise. It wasn’t just the feel of the hands on my body, or that they were in motion, shifting the physical fibers of my flesh as if they were physically, actually present. No, what really took me aback was that they were warm. The breeze was just cool enough from the redolent woods behind my lot that my skin felt pleasantly cool too, and the press of warm hands felt amazing even leaving aside the pleasant, pleasuring things they were doing. My dick thickened rapidly, and I knew I’d be hard in no time.
“Hi,” I whispered, and felt an answering squeeze before the hands resumed their appreciation.
Another pair of hands joined the first on my shoulders, caressing and gently kneading the muscles there, and I almost moaned. It’s true that my shoulders are one of my best features, and they tend to attract people’s hands—especially since I started working out and my traps and delts bloomed like the desert after a rain. At work people will come up to me while I’m working at my desk and just start rubbing my shoulders from behind as they talk with me, or just rest their hands on my shoulders, their thumbs sliding along the bulge of my traps as they chatted obliviously on. I’ve even had it happen a couple of times in line at the store—some guy behind me spontaneously wrapping his hands around my shoulders without being quite sure what had moved him to do so. So I wasn’t too surprised by the early emphasis in that part of my torso. Soon, though, more subscriber-hands joined in, and though I couldn’t see them I could feel them as they touched and caressed almost every inch of my torso, then my legs, and even my neck and feet. I was rock hard and rigid with intense arousal, and it suddenly occurred to me, in a spasm of fear, that I might not be able to make it all the way through to the end of my one-hour session without blowing an incredible load, killing my BodyReverence modelling career before it even got off the ground.
I decided to start moving, distracting myself by walking around my yard and maybe into the trees. The link between my phone and the BR-Box supposedly had a quarter-mile range, and it would alert me if I got near the edge of the range; and I needed to do something more than stand on my deck and get stimulated. I started walking, heading for the steps. The hands, of course, were unaffected, though the ones enjoying the feel of my not-unimpressive thighs and calves seemed to quicken, appreciating the chance to feel my muscles in motion, and a few more shifted in that direction. More subscribers joined in—I was popular. I felt dozens of hands exploring my pecs, more touching my abs and even more ranging across my long, slightly damp back. Hands touched my cheeks, caressing my jawline, softly knuckling my cheekbones, as if trying to tell me with touch how handsome they thought me. More hands. One subscriber was carding his fingers though my thick, longish black hair, and just that felt pretty amazing—intimate, in the midst of a hundred intimate touches over every exposed square inch of my body. My dick was quivering with need, aching for some of those touches to be directed his way, and I almost laughed with the intensity of the frustration that came with the prohibition one even my own touch relieving the desperate need of my thick, achingly hard erection.
By now I was a little ways into the woods. There was a fallen log ahead of me, and I went and sat on it, reveling in the loamy scent of the woods and the sun breaking through the trees onto my tanned skin and the soothing, stimulating, tender adulation of two hundred hands, all deriving simple pleasure from the aesthetic appeal of my unusually well-made body. My head lolled back as I let it all wash over me, skin tingling, cock raging. I heard a soft beep—there were five minutes left, amazingly. Some guys were signing out, but most were staying on until the end of the feed, some them quickening their caresses, and more than a few now using only one hand on me while the other hand was, perhaps, otherwise engaged. I laughed, not begrudging their release (I’d be getting my own soon enough), and the strong hands on my flesh, stroking me and enjoying me from head to bare feet, seemed like they might bear me up into the clouds.
And then, as the time wore down on my first BodyReverence session, a strange thing happened. I felt my head gently clasped from both sides, thumbs gently tracing my cheekbones as other hands continued to run through my hair or stroke my neck or brush my nipples or fondle every exposed part of me. The hands clasping my head brought me forward just a bit, and, taken slightly off guard, I went with it. And then, to my utter amazement, I felt invisible lips brush against mine.
My pulse sped up, even as my mind rebelled. The VR hands were one thing, but how could there be VR lips? But the kiss these warm, talented lips pressed onto mine swamped all other thoughts, and I opened for him, parting my lips to accept a warm, long tongue as we feel into a kiss so deep I barely noticed when the phone on the log beside me beeped three times, as then suddenly all of the sensations—the hands, and the kiss as well, vanished, leaving me bereft and horny as fuck. Without thinking about it I yanked down my shorts right then and there, in the middle of the woods, and with three quick jerks I yanked my rigid, pre-slick cock to a geyser-like series of eruptions that left me dazed and breathless, spots swirling in my vision and the trees swam overhead. I could still feel all of those hands, but even more than that, I could still taste that mouth, that tongue, that delicious kiss.
Well, I was sold. I was done for. From then on I was scheduling five sessions a week, then ten, then twenty. I quit my job—my first week’s check from BodyReverence was more after taxes than my monthly check from my old job. I started working out on feed in my home gym, and it seemed like I was getting major results too, gaining eight pounds of muscle the first month and fifteen the next month after New Year’s. My cock was heavy and half-hard all the time, too, as if it was getting a workout just from the amount of time I was spending boned and straining for release.
I did other stuff on feed, too. They don’t recommend you drive while you’re on feed, but I did go hiking, the BR-Box in my bag, and even tried some time on my bike (I ended up walking it, but it was still fun). I pushed further. I went to public parks and plazas, basking in the sun and the pleasure my exuberant fans gifted me with, my erection hidden behind a double jock and a sweat rag wadded up conveniently over my thick boner.
And every time it was sixty minutes of exhilaration, incomparable to everything I’d ever experienced, from the moment those first hands touched my shoulders through the accumulation of a hundred or two hundred eager worshippers of my growing, hard-crafted, beautiful, intensely aroused body. And then, at the end, in the last moments, came …the kiss. I wondered about the kiss—did all the models get this sweet, passionate moment of lips and tongue at the end, or was it just me?—but more than that I hungered for that virtual but very real-feeling mouth plundering mine every bit as much as the feeling of hundreds of hands pampering almost all the flesh of my nearly naked body.
I found myself wanting to just be that part of me, the BodyReverence model. I went out less, hung out with friends less. Even my closest friends, like Raj and Matty, I mostly saw on Skype rather than in person at the bars or the gym. (And they wouldn’t tell me if I was “seeing” them in my sessions, either, though it wasn’t hard to guess the way Matty smirked on in our video chats.) I lived like this more and more, in almost constant pleasure and arousal, always enjoying either the intense stimulation of a session or the vivid memories of those I’d already experienced, until the night everything changed.
It was a warm night about four months into my life as a full-time BodyReverence model. I was lying uncovered in bed, sheet cast aside, naked and mostly hard. I was half asleep and smiling as I drifted through every moment of the three sessions I had had that day. Then I gradually realized I was feeling a pair of hands that were not just a memory.
I stilled. Had I somehow… left the app on? And live? That wasn’t how it worked, though. Had it switched itself on? As I felt the hands roving with tactile admiration across my impressively thickened pecs, I reached for my phone on the nightstand and pulled up the app. The hands were making their way down off my pecs, pausing to brush my stiffening nips, and a shudder of pleasure ran through me as the control panel came up. Not on feed.
I was not on feed, and yet …
The ghostly fingers dribbled over my hard-packed eight-pack, moving relentlessly down, and they seemed to be headed inevitably my already rigid tool.
Ridiculously, all I could think was that I didn’t have my shorts and there was nothing to stop the hands, forgetting all about how the hands weren’t even supposed to be there in the first place. A little frantically I found the bedsheet and tossed it over my big, leaking boner, pitching a considerable tent; but the presence of the sheet didn’t slow the hands even a little.
I lay there, heart racing and mind spinning and turned on as fuck, as the errant hands slid slowly down my torso, and then… slipped to the sides, grasping my hips even as a new sensation started to become clear to me. Warm breath gusting across my huge, rigid cock.
I reluctantly pulled aside the sheet, but despite there being plenty of moonlight from the bedroom sliding glass doors, there was nothing to see. I was still registering that when I felt what could only be a long lick slide up the side of my stiff, heated shaft.
“Oh god,” I said aloud. The hands at my hips squeezed gently, as if to reassure me, and it did help, because it was a reminder that—liiiick—this was a person, one of my body worshippers, the people I invited to touch me all the time, whose touch, indeed, I craved. More than that, I knew who this had to be. This must be the kisser—the one participant in all my sessions whose ministrations I looked forward to more than anyone else, even if, or perhaps all the more so because they were impossible.
I wanted to speak, to ask the subscriber if it was really him, to ask him, somehow, just how he was able to do the things no one else could. But then his mouth wrapped around my aching cock, and my mind whited out like a storm stripping all thoughts from their moorings. I was awash in wild pleasure as that mouth and that tongue conducted expert ministrations to my eager cock, at last given its own moment of glory after being tantalized and off-limits for so, so long.
I was quickly brought close to orgasm, but the mouth edged me and then drew me back, shifting to my balls while one of the hands took up a languid stroking of my long tool. Then he mouthed his way up the shaft before engulfing my cock again in the full wet heat of his mouth all the way to the root, spiking me straight to near orgasm again before he pulled me back again. Then he began a slow pistoning, engulfing and pulling back, and my hips wanted to buck, wondering if it was okay to face-fuck a virtual mouth; but the hands resumed their gentle quelling pressure of my hips while the pistoning relentlessly accelerated, driving me into higher and higher circles of arousal. It felt like my cock was swelling wider in his mouth, as if it were physically manifesting the increasing pleasure he was giving me, and I gasped, moaning inarticulately with the amazing stimulation. And then, just as I was at the point where I could not possibly bear it any more, I felt the edge of his tongue push hard against the tip of my weirdly widened cock, shoving through the flesh, and the sensation was indescribably euphoric—like the tongue had discovered that the most incredibly sensitive and erogenous part of my cock was somehow the space inside that could only be reached in this very moment. The tongue cleaved down through my cock and I cried out in pleasure, and by the time it hit the base of my dick I was exploding in what felt like two orgasms twice as amazing as anything I had ever known. My mind whited out completely and I feel, reeling with impossible pleasure, into a bottomless black abyss.
I woke up late the next morning with my head in a fog like I’d tied one on the night before. I did need to pee pretty bad, anyway. Blearily I stumbled out of bed and went to stand in front of my toilet, letting loose, and I my head was sleep-muffled enough that it took me a good minute to realize I was staring at two streams of yellow arcing into the toilet instead of one, just as they were trailing off into dribbles. I squeezed, providing a momentary resurgence of the doubled urine stream, and I heard myself say, “Shiiiiiit.”
The piss finished, I reached down with some trepidation. I could see them, of course, but as with everything else in my life lately seeing was not enough. I grabbed both my long, thick cocks and shook them, dislodging a few more drops of urine and eliciting another low “Shiiiit” from me.
I held onto them, and they started getting hard.
An unexpected thought occurred to me. I walked out of the bathroom and headed for my desk where the laptop was, cradling my swelling erections the whole way, so that by the time I was sitting at my desk I had two fat, rigid, immutable eleven-inch stone-hard cocks in my hand instead of one. I stroked them with a feather touch while I logged into the laptop version of the app.
I hadn’t logged into BodyReverence as a subscriber, enjoying the model end of things way too much. But something Matty had said now came back to me, about an inner circle—and the way he’d glanced at my groin at the time made me think it had something to do with benefits below the belt. The contract, too, had said something about a pay bump for this select group of models, because the sessions tended to be more intense and “maintaining professionalism”—in other words, not blowing your load or saying “fuck it” and pulling down your shorts—was that much harder (so to speak).
As a model I had premium member status as well—I even had the VR gloves, somewhere. Right now, though, I just wanted to look. I moved through the members area and the list of current and scheduled feeds, then slipped into the premium area with access to inner circle models. I pulled up one live feed, visuals only. It was a ginger hunk with very fine muscles lounging by a pool. Despite a feeble effect to distract himself on his phone with a game of Mario Kart he was panting and obviously very aroused, his face and chest flushed red with want, and in his canvas swim trunks I saw the unmistakable, unhidable evidence of two huge, throbbing, hot-as-fuck erections pushing and twitching against the damp fabric.
I opened another feed and saw a tightly muscled, extremely beautiful Italian cover model walking barefoot along an empty beach. To my amazement he was wearing jeans, as if to focus the admiration of the three hundred subscribers currently caressing his body only onto his upper body. I could see that he was incredibly boned in his loose, worn jeans, though, his two super-thick boners bulging massively against his hip. He seemed at ease, as if to be touched, to be incredibly aroused and doubly erect was the best possible life one could find, and the glint in his eyes as the wind buffeted his uncannily gorgeous face and whiffed his hair told of a sequel to this moment, when he would be alone with the sun, the sea, the beach, his big, eager cocks, and the intense memories he was making right in that moment.
I was close to cumming just from looking at these guys, but I opened up one more feed. It was a very good-looking, boy-next-door blond. He was sitting on a train reading a paperback with rolling farmland whipping by, wearing nothing but white shorts and sandals. Though he affected nonchalance his cheeks were red and his nipples were erect, and I was willing to bet he wasn’t able to concentrate on what he was reading thanks to the stimulation he was getting from six hundred subscribers in that moment and the very obvious bulge of three huge cocks straining mightily against his skimpy shorts.
“Fuuuck,” I said aloud, and despite the fact that I was barely touching them my cocks suddenly started erupting as if I’d been jerking them hard this whole time, and as I starred at the shifting mass of this gorgeous boy’s triple hard on I shot jet after jet of seed all over my thick pecs end even up onto my cheeks and neck.
When I was done cumming I closed the feeds until only the premium members screen was up. A large banner announcement took up the top third of the page. Had I not seen it before, or had it not been there? There, under my fake model name, next to a very flattering head and shoulders still photo borrowed from my Instagram, it read: “KEVIN STONE! Next session: today at 11 a.m. His first session in the Inner Circle! A ‘must-touch’ event you can’t miss. Join us… and let him feel your welcome!”
I sat there covered in cum and my cocks still hard, and as I stared at the announcement trumpeting my new status to the elite subscribers of the BodyReverence community, a slow grin spread across my face.