Beefy Exhibitionist Royd Roided's Gym Lifestyle

All of my gym’s equipment has been retrofitted to minimize cheating and to maximize sexual response.

I am usually lashed to a piece of equipment for an hour at a time.

All seats and padding that contact any part of my body have been wired for electricity or vibrations or both.

Electrically charged vibrators jut up from where only a bench or padded seat once existed.

Metal conductive strips are clearly evident on back pads, arm pads, shoulder pads, and even on the leg pads of the various machines.

Eye bolts have been meticulously welded to every part of every machine. And bungee cords are hung through the eyes and modified weight belts, leg irons, shackles and spreader bars are attached everywhere, just waiting for me to sit down and be secured in for another “workout”.

Pneumatic pistons poke out from every corner of the gym, attached to every piece of equipment – including my acrylic shower stall, clear lucite dining table and chair, and my bed. Most of the pistons have a leather ball strap connected to the end of the piston, although some of the ball straps seem awfully far away from where the rest of my body would be located...

Paired with each pneumatic piston is a suction tube that looks like a farmer’s milking device.

In addition to the chalk trays, “lube” trays have been placed throughout my new home.

While there are no bed linens to speak of – only a heavy, thick, black leather “sheet”, the bed looks more like a torture device than a place to sleep and rebuild my overworked muscles. The sides are studded with eye bolts and the bed has 8-inch holes, allowing access if necessary from below. More pistons, suction tubes, and shackles are visible through the holes in the bed.

Outside walls have been replaced with floor-to-ceiling windows, and SIR is now selling tickets to outsiders who want to watch my forced workouts.

Gym owner SIR and my trainer COACH decided that they’d make more money selling tickets, than keeping the gym open to members, so the gym is my new private “glass” home.

I cook, eat, sleep, shower, shit, shave, workout, and relieve all of my sexual tensions in plain view of anyone (and everyone) who pays the fee to the gym owner.

Twice per week I am shaved from head to toe. The shaving ritual is done while I am suspended by my wrists and shacked to the floor by my ankles.

Twice per week my “shaver” is selected from the outsiders using a lottery system. Most take this job very seriously, although they usually enjoy dwelling on my prick, balls and ass much longer than I’d like. It only adds to my frustration. From experience, let me tell you that you don’t want to be flexing your ass and hips, and thrusting your prick into the air when someone is wielding a razor nearby.

Once a week I am measured from head to toe in front of my ever-growing audience. All measurements are maintained in plain view and weekly wagering is abundant.

The temperature is maintained in my new habitat so that there is never a need to wear clothing. In fact, there is no clothing available anyway.

Everything I do is done completely naked and usually with a raging erection, which has become so commonplace it borders on mundane.

The fantasies, however, have grown steadily, and never become boring, and never fail to keep my erections hard as steel.

SIR has also installed an intercom system that allows the outside viewers to make any howls or comments they feel might “heighten” the tension of my situation. This is only done during selected times during the day. Most of the day (and all night), hypnotic scripts are piped through the intercom. One hypnotic suggestion after another bombards my conscious and subconscious mind – most of the day and all night long. This has taken me to the point of being on auto-pilot. I somehow know what to do and where to go every minute of every day (and night). I move from one exercise to the next. I know when it is time to eat, shower, shave, have measurements taken, and even “perform” for my audience.

My performances are scripted subconsciously during sleep and are used to help pay my way. I somehow know when it’s time to perform, and I somehow know exactly what I’m supposed to do, but beyond that, my body is on auto-pilot. The performances usually involve props and sometimes even one or more guests to my home. I sometimes feel that my performance involves actions that I would have previously never even considered doing, but I can’t argue with the results my body clearly shows. Besides, when I am performing, the more I get “into” my performance, the more sexually fulfilled I feel. After a good performance, I feel completely sexually satisfied – like I’ve just experienced the longest and most intense orgasm of my life. Unfortunately, the feeling never lasts very long, but it is a worthwhile reason to give every performance my all. After all, my only mission in life is to continue making my body better (and hotter) so that my trainer and my gym owner can afford to maintain “my program” and justify converting the gym into my new home.

Once I reach the goals they have set for me, I’m told I will go in search of a protégé. Unfortunately, I will need to train a new “show man” to take over the reins, so to speak. But, in an effort to boost ratings, I will have to share my accommodations with the new trainee until the gym owner and my trainer feel they have “milked” my shows for everything they can get. With a “roommate”, I can only image what kinds of shows I’ll be doing in the future.

But, in the meantime, it’s just me. And today it’s calves day. So I subconsciously and almost mechanically, walk over to the seated calf machine, lube up the seat, add 10 45’s to start, and ease myself onto the seat. Instantly the pneumatic piston harnesses my nut sack and begins to tighten. Shortly thereafter, the milker moves into place and slurps up my stiff cock. A weight belt tightens around my waist. Again, unconsciously, I raise my arms to accommodate a pair of wrist straps that tighten and hold my arms overhead. As the buzzing, sucking, and electrical tingling begins, I drift off into my hypnotic workout. I hear the intercom click on and the voice of “hypnosis” fills the room. Slowly and methodically, I pump out one excruciating rep after another in cadence with the hypno-voice. Plates are added automatically as my 1-hour calf workout continues and my lower legs are set on fire. Orgasm after orgasm is induced, but I never increase or decrease my rep cadence. I can hear cheers from outside the glass as one ejaculation after another is registered on the old spooge ticker – displayed overhead, and always incrementing, like a “now serving number...” counter at a deli line. But my focus remains constant. My purpose remains clear. My sexual tension remains higher than ever.