Gym Boys (7 page)

HEART ON
Michael Bracken

T
he scrubs worn by the staff and the average age of the people using the exercise equipment made the medical center's cardiopulmonary rehabilitation center nothing but a high-priced gym with short-term memberships paid for by various health insurance plans. In my early fifties, I was younger than most of the other patients, but that didn't make me any healthier. Only a few weeks earlier, after decades of inadequate exercise and poor dietary habits, I had undergone quadruple heart-bypass surgery. Following surgery my cardiologist had prescribed—in fact, had demanded—my participation in rehab.

Other than the occasional use of hotel fitness centers while traveling for business, I had not been inside a gym of any kind since college, so when I first shuffled in I was unprepared for the number and variety of fitness machines filling the rehab center. Treadmills lined one wall; stationary and recumbent bicycles lined another, and arranged throughout the remaining space in some pattern that I could not fathom were various weight machines and equipment that I could not identify at first glance.

The physical therapist assigned to my case—a hot little number in his midthirties who would have made my cock rise under other circumstances—took me into a private room where he weighed me, measured me and discussed my cardiologist's rehabilitation plan. As we talked, he attached a trio of electrodes to my chest, sticking them where my hair was only beginning to regrow. Wires from the electrodes trailed under my shirt to a transmitter that hung from my belt and sent data about my heart to an EKG at the nurse's station in the center of the outer equipment room.

Then he led me out of the private room, stuck me on a treadmill set to the slowest speed and walked away. I could barely keep up and I stopped the treadmill after a few minutes.

Trevor noticed my distress and hurried to my side. He helped me to a nearby chair. “You're already out of breath.”

“You,” I said with a wink, “take my breath away.”

He laughed and patted my hand. “You're in no condition to make passes, Mr. Tate.”

“Call me Bob,” I said. “And if I was?”

When he leaned forward and whispered in my ear, my physical therapist provided a workout incentive that I had not anticipated when I'd shuffled into the rehab center an hour earlier. “I'd fuck you so hard your heart would break the EKG.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Get well,” Trevor said as he straightened, “and we'll see what happens.”

An elderly woman was struggling on one of the stationary bicycles so Trevor left me sitting in the chair while he attended to her needs. I watched him work with the woman. Even the loose-fitting blue scrubs couldn't hide the classic
V
of his figure— broad shoulders, thick chest, narrow waist, and tight ass held aloft on muscular legs—nor could it hide the tantalizing bulge of his personal exercise equipment.

I remembered when just the thought of unwrapping the package of a man like Trevor would have given me serious wood and weeks of masturbation fantasies, but as I sat watching him work with the woman my cock didn't even twitch once. I had not noticed any significant diminishing of sexual performance prior to heart surgery, so I didn't know if the lack of response to Trevor's sex appeal was a cardiovascular problem or a side effect of all the drugs pumping through my body.

Trevor was back at my side before I had time to overthink the cause of my dangling dick. With his help, I returned to the treadmill for a few minutes more but I didn't do much else during my first visit to the rehab center.

“I want you to strut out of here when you finish rehab,” Trevor said during my second visit as he attached the electrodes to my chest before my workout, “looking and feeling better than you have in years.”

Though his fingers did not linger and he didn't act in any way that might be considered unprofessional, I appreciated Trevor's touch. My previous relationship had ended almost a year before my surgery and the last two men to touch my chest had been the one who broke my heart and the one who cracked my chest to put it back together. “I bet you say that to all your patients.”

“Of course I do,” he said, “but with you I mean it. Take a look around. With most of these people I'm just trying to ensure they can take care of themselves when their insurance benefits expire. I'm expecting something more from you.”

“A broken EKG?”

He smiled as he switched on the transmitter hanging from my belt. “But not today.”

I had not considered myself out of shape prior to my surgery, but clearly I was. The purpose of rehab was to increase both my stamina and my strength, and I spent most of my first few visits shuffling along on the treadmill. Then Trevor started me on the weight machines and gave me exercises I could do at home with two-pound free weights. Over the next few visits, when he wasn't flirting with me, he slowly increased the treadmill speed and the treadmill incline, just as he slowly increased the weight I lifted on the weight machines. After several weeks I realized that my body had changed and was still changing. Not only was I able to walk longer distances at higher speeds without losing my breath, my pants were looser and my sleeves tighter around my biceps. Though my weight barely changed, fat was morphing into muscle.

Just as important—to me, at least—my cardiologist weaned me from several of the drugs I'd been taking. The combination of frequent exercise and diminished chemical side effects rejuvenated my cardiovascular system, and during the last few weeks of rehab my cock responded whenever Trevor touched me or I had impure thoughts about him. Twice during the last week of rehab I awoke in the middle of the night while dreaming about my physical therapist, surprised when I attempted to roll over and found my progress impeded by an erection as firm as any I'd had presurgery.

“Ready for graduation?” Trevor asked when I finished my last scheduled workout. By then I had—at least once during the previous weeks—lifted, pulled, pushed, pressed, squeezed, spun or walked on every piece of exercise equipment in the rehabilitation center gym. At home I had moved up from two-pound free weights to fifteen-pound free weights, and I had returned to work with no restrictions on my activities.

Trevor led me into the same private room we'd used when I had shuffled in for my first day of rehab. After I sat on the stool, he had me remove my shirt and again he measured everything. Three inches had disappeared from my waist and my biceps were three-quarters of an inch bigger around. I hadn't believed it was possible, but I was in better shape than when I had arrived. Even my chest hair had regrown, obscuring the ten-inch scar bisecting my chest.

“You've made a lot of progress,” Trevor said. He sat on a stool several inches shorter than mine, facing me with his left hand resting on my leg, just above my knee. “It's amazing what you can do now that you couldn't do when you first shuffled in here.”

“You wouldn't believe what I'm capable of now.” I stared straight into his pale-blue eyes as I reached out and placed my hand on top of his.

He glanced down at our hands but didn't pull his away. When his gaze again met mine, he asked, “Are you healthy enough for private therapy sessions?”

“My doctor seems to think so.”

“You realize your insurance doesn't cover private therapy.”

I smiled. “What are you suggesting?”

The vertical scar indicating where the surgeon had entered my chest was no longer the angry red welt it had been, but it was still sensitive to the touch. Trevor pressed the tip of his index finger to the top of the scar and traced its length down between the wires still attached to the electrodes stuck to my chest, causing me to shiver. No one had ever touched my scar like that and it was a more intimate act than any other he could have done. My cock reacted immediately, tightening my pants.

“You're not my patient anymore,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I can do this.” He leaned forward and lightly pressed his lips against mine. After he drew back, he searched for any sign that I might have been offended or taken aback by his action. When he saw none, he continued. “You can't stop exercising just because it's no longer covered by your insurance. You'll need to join a gym or find some other way to continue the work we've done here.”

“But who will ensure that I'm on the right track?”

“I can continue to do that for you,” he said. He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “I even know a few exercises we can do in private.”

“You'd be willing to do that?”

His left hand slid up my thigh until it stopped less than an inch from my rapidly swelling cock.

I glanced at the door. “Someone might interrupt us.”

“Don't worry,” he said. “The door's locked.”

Trevor undid my belt buckle, unbuttoned my jeans and slid my zipper down. I lifted my buttocks so he could slide my pants down, and when he did the transmitter still hanging from my belt clunked against the stool. I barely noticed the sound and didn't think about it as Trevor reached inside my boxers and wrapped his hand around the base of my cock, capturing some of my untamed pubic hair in his fist.

“I'm surprised it's so hard,” I said. “I haven't been exercising it recently.”

“Well, it seems to be up for a little physical therapy.” Trevor watched my eyes as he stroked upward until his encircling thumb and forefinger reached the helmet head of my cock. Then he stroked back to the base.

He repeated the motion several times until a bead of precum glistened atop the tiny slit. Then he leaned forward, took the head of my cock in his mouth and locked his lips around my glans. He licked away the drop of precum and spanked my cockhead with his tongue as he tightened his fist around the shaft and pumped hard and fast.

My heart began to beat hard and I gripped the stool with both hands to keep from scooting off of it as I thrust my hips forward and back in rhythm to the pumping of Trevor's fist. My balls began to tighten and my cock grew even stiffer. I knew I was about to come, and I couldn't have stopped myself even if I had wanted to. I didn't know how thick the walls were or how well the door sealed in sounds, so I bit my bottom lip to keep from crying out.

I came hard, so hard I jerked involuntarily. I might have fallen if there hadn't been a wall only a few inches behind me that kept me from going backward off the stool. The sudden change in my position caused my pants to slip from my thighs, taking the transmitter with them down to my ankles and pulling the trio of electrodes from my chest.

My cock throbbed inside Trevor's mouth as I fired warm cum against the back of his throat. He swallowed and swallowed again, holding my cock in his mouth until he had sucked it dry. Then he drew away, leaned back and looked up at me.

“You,” I said, repeating what I had told him the first time he'd put me on the treadmill, “take my breath away.”

I slipped from the stool, tucked my semierect cock into my boxers, and put my clothes in order. Trevor took the transmitter from me, grabbed the clipboard with my paperwork and opened the door. Then he walked me to the nurse's station and looked at the report generated by the EKG. He looked up at me. “You didn't break it.”

I lowered my voice as I leaned across the desk. “That thing was recording?”

“Until it fell off,” he said as he tapped the report. “I'm no doctor, but I think your heart's made a remarkable recovery.”

“Not a complete recovery,” I said. I told him about the man who had broken my heart almost a year before my surgery.

“No surgery will cure that,” he said.

“But continued exercise with the right partner will.” I invited him to dinner the following Friday.

Trevor came directly from work, still wearing his blue scrubs. I greeted him with a kiss and led him into the kitchen where I was preparing boneless pork chops with an orange marmalade sauce, had au gratin potatoes in the oven and a spinach salad in the fridge. I handed him a bottle of wine to open and soon we were flirting, sipping wine and watching the pork chops brown.

“Have you found a gym?”

“Not yet,” I admitted. “I really haven't looked.”

“You should start,” he said as he touched my bicep. “You don't want all our hard work to disappear.”

I also didn't want lectures from my cardiologist, who had been quite impressed by the amount of progress I had made in such a short time, thanks to the exercise routine Trevor put me through. “I'll start tomorrow,” I said. “Tonight, though, you promised to show me a few exercises we can do in private.”

He placed his wineglass on the kitchen counter and then captured my face between his hands. He covered my lips with his and kissed me long, deep and hard. I wanted to wrap my arms around Trevor and pull him close, but I held tongs in one hand, my wineglass in the other, and couldn't reach the counter to put them down. That didn't stop my tongue from meeting his and engaging in a fiery dance of desire.

The kiss didn't end until my knees grew rubbery and I felt as weak as I had the first day Trevor put me on a treadmill. He drew back, picked up his wineglass and said, “That's just the warm-up. Wait 'til we get to the stretching exercises.”

I wanted to rush through dinner, but I didn't dare. Once I confirmed that the potatoes were done and the chops were perfect, I served dinner in the dining room. As we ate, we talked, laughed, flirted and drank our way through the bottle of wine.

We didn't bother clearing the table when we finished. I took Trevor's hand and led him into the bedroom where I had already turned down the sheets, had a fresh tube of lube on the nightstand, and had been burning a vanilla-scented candle since midafternoon.

We peeled off our clothes, tossing them aside without care. When we were both naked, I took a moment to appreciate Trevor's sculpted body, which was even better than I had imagined it, before I grabbed his ass and pulled him to me. Our cocks collided, shifted, and then my cock pressed his abdomen and his pressed against mine.