TJ's Stories - Hunting for Himbos (04)

I wake up at seven with my cock already pressing hard against the waistband of my boxers.

My phone screen is glowing on the nightstand with three missed texts from Isaiah, sent between five and six in the morning. I roll onto my back, propping the pillows up behind my head, and open the thread with a slow grin spreading across my face.

isaiah_faithfitness: Bro my chest still feels anointed?? Is that even a word hahaisaiah_faithfitness: Also Michael said he’d totally do the collab. He asked if he should wear his cross on camera or if that’s too much.isaiah_faithfitness: I told him the cross stays. Always.

Below that is a fresh stack of photos from his morning devotion routine. Isaiah standing in front of his mirror in gray athletic shorts pulled down to the absolute limit of decency, that silver cross gleaming against the hickey where I’d worked on his pec two days ago. He’s flexing his chest, squeezing his pecs together with both palms, smiling with that pure, dopey golden-retriever pride. He genuinely thinks the swelling is muscle activation. He genuinely thinks the tingling in his skin is holy spirit and recovery.

God, he’s a goldmine.

I open my Notes app and sketch out the framework of the new channel I’ve been designing for him.

Channel Name: Faith & FlexConcept: Catholic athlete lifestyle. Holy brotherhood. The body as a temple. Recovery as direct ministry.

I type out the title of the pilot episode without hesitation:

CHOIR LOFT RECOVERY w/ Michael — pec devotion, posterior bonding, full covenant work

I switch back to Instagram and text him the plan, keeping the voice loose, warm, and full of that effortless gym-bro authority he worships.

josh_gains_bro: Yooo bro, that’s huge. We’re doing elevated content tonight. Closer to God. We shoot right after evening prayer when the chapel locks up and the building clears out. I’ll produce from behind the lens, you two are the stars. Pure skin-to-skin covenant work. Pure testimony energy. Wear the crosses.

The typing bubble bounces instantly.

isaiah_faithfitness: Dude yes! I keep thinking about being up in the loft. Like actually inside the church. Is that okay?? It just feels really right for some reason. Michael said he’s nervous because he’s never done video stuff before, but he completely trusts you.

I smile at the ceiling, stroking my cock once through my shorts before tossing the phone down.

josh_gains_bro: Bro, it’s more than okay. It’s the entire point.

By 9, the main sanctuary is pitch black, empty, and silent.

I let myself in through the side choir entrance using the spare latch Isaiah propped with a piece of cardboard after the final benediction. Up in the choir loft, thirty feet above the dark nave, the atmosphere is thick and private. The air smells like aged oak, beeswax, lemon furniture polish on the pews, and the dry, metallic tang of the organ pipes towering behind the riser. Streetlight filters through the high stained-glass windows, throwing long diagonals of deep cobalt and crimson across the floorboards.

I set up two phones on mini-tripods at chest height and position a single warm ring light on low, angled off the organ console so it looks like the leftover glow of an altar candle. I’m stripped down to low-slung gray sweatpants—no shirt, skin prepped with a light mist of water so my abs catch the warm beam, my cock heavy and visibly outlined down my left leg. I’m staying off-camera for the intro. Just the director. Just the humble servant behind the lens.

Soft footsteps creak on the wooden spiral stairs, and then Isaiah and Michael appear at the top of the landing.

They’re a visual masterpiece.

Isaiah is wearing a tissue-thin white t-shirt that clings to his chest, the dark shadow of his nipples clearly visible, his silver cross resting right in the notch of his collarbone. His wavy chestnut hair is still damp from his post-prayer shower, and his green eyes are wide, glassy with that sweet, eager naivety that makes my pulse spike.

Michael stands beside him, easily six-foot-two and built like a classic statue. His white button-up is practically screaming across his chest, the heavy, high swell of his pecs stretching the cotton until the buttons pull sideways. He’s wearing khaki shorts that hug thick, athletic thighs. His blond hair is casually ruffled, his blue eyes soft and nervous. He carries himself with that slightly bashful posture big guys have when they’re afraid of taking up too much room in a holy place.

"Look at you two," I say softly, stepping forward and wrapping both of them in a wide, sweeping embrace. I mash our chests together, burying my hands into the smalls of their backs just above their waists. "Church-built. You have no idea how incredible you look standing in this loft."

Isaiah lets out a soft, breathy laugh, hiding his face against my bare shoulder for a second before looking up, his cheeks blazing pink. "Josh, man. It’s so quiet up here."

Michael blushes all the way down his thick neck, shifting his weight until the loft boards groan. "I’ve never shot content before, bro," he murmurs, his deep voice rich and earnest. "I just... I don’t want to look stupid or do the routine wrong."

"Bro, you’re gonna look like a blessing," I tell him, tapping his sternum right between his buttons. "Shirts off. Physique check. This is where the intro starts."

They don’t hesitate. Isaiah pulls his shirt off over his head, tossing it onto the front pew rail. His chest is smooth, pale, and flushed, his perky pecs rising and falling with fast, shallow breaths. Michael unbuttons his shirt with thick, slightly clumsy fingers, parting the fabric to reveal massive, rounded slabs of muscle that look completely untouched. His nipples are small, pale pink, and already tightening in the cool draft of the vaulted ceiling.

"Stand by the rail," I instruct, stepping back to the organ bench. I reach into my sweatpants, pull my cock free, and let it rest heavy and half-hard against my thigh as I settle behind the primary camera. "Turn slightly toward each other. The church is in the background, but the focus is the brotherhood. Flex for each other first. Let the lenses just catch what’s natural."

They step into the colored light, the red and blue glass painting stripes across their bare shoulders.

"Isaiah," I coach, keeping my voice low, warm, and steady. "Step into his space. Let your pecs press right up against his. That’s it. That’s a thumbnail and a prayer right there."

Isaiah takes a half-step forward. When his smooth chest meets Michael’s broader, heavier pecs, both of them let out a simultaneous, shaky breath. The silver crosses hanging from their necks clink softly against each other in the quiet room.

"Michael, bounce them," I say, stroking my cock with slow, measured pulls. "Don’t be shy with them, man. The Lord gave you heavy armor for a reason. Now put your hands on Isaiah’s. Feel the difference in the build."

Michael raises two broad palms, resting them over Isaiah’s chest. His fingers spread wide, completely cupping the lower curve of Isaiah’s pecs. Isaiah’s breath catches sharply, his hands coming up to rest on Michael’s thick lats.

"Look down, both of you," I murmur, watching the monitors glow. "Look at what you’re holding. That’s devotion with your hands. Name what you admire about his build. Say it out loud so the mic catches the testimony."

Isaiah looks up through his eyelashes, his green eyes dazed and completely open. He moves his thumbs in slow, circular passes over Michael’s nipples, his voice dropping to a church-hush whisper. "They’re so... they’re so full, Michael. Like, they don’t even look real. I was sitting downstairs during the reading and I just kept thinking about how solid you are. How they’d feel if I just..."

Without waiting for direction, Isaiah leans his face directly into the valley of Michael’s chest, inhaling deeply, nuzzling into the warm, soap-scented skin like an affectionate puppy.

Michael lets out a low, helpless sound in the back of his throat. His big hands slide from Isaiah’s chest down to his narrow waist, his thumbs hooking over the waistband of Isaiah’s navy shorts. "People always look at my size," Michael whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "Nobody ever looks at you the way they should, Isaiah. Your waist is so tight. Your glutes..." He gives Isaiah’s hips a firm, grounding squeeze.

Isaiah gasps, his forehead resting right against Michael’s sternum, a breathless, giddy giggle escaping him.

"Don’t stop touching," I say from the shadows, increasing the pace of my strokes as my cock swells to full hardness, thick and drooling precum at the tip. "The ministry is the touching. Kiss his pec, Isaiah. That’s direct activation. Get your mouth on him in the choir loft. God built the temple; you’re just honoring the stone."

Isaiah tilts his head and presses his open lips against the crest of Michael’s right pec. He starts with a hesitant, timid kiss, but within seconds his tongue darts out, tasting the warm skin, circling Michael’s hard pink nipple with desperate, reverent sweeps.

Michael’s knees dip slightly. His hands tighten on Isaiah’s waist, pulling the smaller athlete flush against his hips. Through the thin fabric of their shorts, I can see both of their cocks tenting hard, pressing together in the dark.

"Now seal it," I direct, leaning forward toward the edge of the light. "Foreheads together. That’s how a covenant begins. Then mouths. Slow. You’re not just fooling around—you’re sealing an agreement in the loft. Open up. Use your tongues. Good boys."

Their foreheads touch, their breath mingling in fast, ragged puffs. Michael tilts his head down, his jaw trembling slightly, and presses his lips to Isaiah’s.

It starts clumsy—teeth bumping, lips searching—and then Isaiah lets out a soft moan and parts his mouth completely. Michael’s tongue sweeps in, deep and heavy, and Isaiah rises onto his tiptoes to meet him, burying his fingers in Michael’s wavy blond hair. They break apart for half a second, staring at each other with wide, dazed, ecstatic grins, before crashing back together with wet, reckless hunger.

"That’s it," I praise, my voice gravelly and low. "Learn his mouth right above the altar. You two are going to stand down there on Sunday morning and nobody in the pews will know what you already shared up here. Louder. Let the loft carry it."

Isaiah whines into Michael’s mouth, his hips rocking forward. A dark, wet patch is spreading across the front of his navy shorts.

"Look at you, Isaiah," I say, pointing the side camera down toward his hips. "Leaking straight through the cotton. That’s holy, bro. That’s your body speaking the truth. Michael, drop your hand down. Feel his shorts. Feel what his devotion feels like."

Michael slides a heavy hand between their bodies, cupping Isaiah’s drenched crotch through the shorts. Isaiah whimpers, arching his back.

"Good," I command. "Now strip the rest off. Let’s see the full build."

They kick their shorts and briefs off in frantic, tangled movements.

Naked in the choir loft, illuminated by crimson glass and the soft ring light, they look breathtaking. Michael’s cock is massive—thick, flushed, easily pushing ten inches, standing straight up against his abs with heavy droplets pooling at the slit. Isaiah’s is six inches, perfectly curved, slick and pulsing against his lower stomach.

"Step back together," I tell them. "Pec to pec, shaft to shaft. Grind slow. No oil yet—just your own sweat and devotion."

They press their bodies together from chest to thigh. Their hard cocks are trapped between their stomachs, sliding against each other with wet, rhythmic friction as they kiss.

"I like how big you are," Isaiah whispers against Michael’s lips, his voice completely wrecked. "I like that I can just hide inside you."

"I like the way you look at me," Michael answers, his blue eyes glassy and adoring. "Nobody’s ever looked at me like I’m something special before."

"Look at the main lens," I instruct, stepping into the edge of the light with a bottle of amber cedarwood oil. "Testimony. Two jocks in the loft, locked together, crosses shining. That’s the brand. That’s Faith & Flex."

They turn their heads toward the camera, eyes dilated, mouths red and swollen, chests heaving in perfect synchronization.

"Now let’s prep the altar," I say, stepping fully into the frame.

I uncap the oil and pour a generous pool directly over Michael’s massive chest. The rich, woody scent immediately cuts through the dry candle wax and old oak of the loft. I step up behind Michael, reaching around to work the oil into his skin, dragging my palms across the thick swell of his pecs until the muscle gleams like polished marble.

"Michael, on your knees. Isaiah, hold him from the sides," I order. "Squeeze your brother’s chest together. Make a channel."

Isaiah moves in eagerly, pressing his smaller hands into the outer edges of Michael’s pecs, pushing the heavy slabs of muscle together until a deep, tight, slick valley forms between them. His face is hovering inches above, his lips parted, his breath hot on the oiled skin.

I position the head of my cock at the base of the channel.

"Choir loft devotion," I say, looking directly into Michael’s dazed eyes. "Say it, Michael."

"Choir loft devotion," Michael repeats, his voice trembling as I push my cock forward into the tight, oiled groove of his chest.

The sensation is incredible—thick, heavy, suffocatingly hot. I slide my cock through the channel, the oiled muscle gripping me tight, the head popping out at the top of the valley right under Michael’s chin.

Isaiah lets out a breathless, awed sound, his tongue darting out to lick the head of my cock the second it emerges.

"That’s your chest opening up for me," I murmur, setting a steady, deliberate pace. "A living temple. Squeeze him, Isaiah. Help him hold me. You feel this, Michael? This is pure fellowship in His house. Does it feel holy?"

"Yes," Michael gasps, throwing his head back against the organ bench, his abs rippling as his own massive cock bobs and drips onto the floorboards. "It feels... God, Josh, it feels so holy. I can feel you sliding right over my heart."

"Language, bro," I chuckle softly, picking up the rhythm, the wet, slapping sound of skin on oiled skin echoing into the empty rafters. "Call it what it is."

"A blessing," Michael groans, tears of pure, overwhelmed pleasure gathering in the corners of his eyes. "It’s a blessing."

Isaiah stays right there, licking my slit on every upward thrust, his saliva mixing with the cedar oil and trailing down Michael’s sternum. I pump faster, dragging my shaft through the deep, heavy cleft until I pull out with a wet snap, painting a thick stripe of pre-cum across Michael’s silver cross.

"Lick him clean, Isaiah," I say quietly. "For the footage."

Isaiah leans down with reverent, eager focus, dragging his tongue up Michael’s chest, cleaning every drop from the silver cross and Michael’s skin, looking up at the lens with that pure, devoted smile.

"Good boys," I say, stepping back and reaching for a red velvet choir robe draped over the back pew. I spread it out across the center of the loft floorboards, right where the blue and red light crosses. "Isaiah. On your back. Knees up."

Isaiah settles onto the red fabric without a second of hesitation. He looks completely surrendered—chest heaving, legs spread wide, that silver cross sitting right in the hollow of his throat.

I kneel between his thighs, coating three fingers in oil. I slide the first two into his tight, pink hole with practiced ease. Isaiah gasps, his hips lifting off the robe, his back arching as he adjusts to the stretch.

"Michael, get down here on your knees," I command. "Watch how he yields. Look at the camera, then look at him."

Michael kneels beside us, his huge frame hovering over Isaiah, his blue eyes wide with reverent shock.

"See how he opens when you ask?" I tell Michael, working my fingers in deep, circular motions. "He’s prepared for this. He wants to be filled in this room. Feel that pulse? That’s his body waiting for you. Isaiah, tell him what you want."

Isaiah looks up at Michael, reaching out to grasp Michael’s broad forearms. "Please, Michael," he whispers, his voice trembling with genuine, unfiltered devotion. "Please put it in me. I want you to bond with me right here. I want to take all of you."

"Ask like it’s a prayer, bro," I prompt gently.

"Please," Isaiah whimpers, his eyes shining. "Please bless me, Michael."

I pull my fingers free with a wet sound, reach over, and wrap my hand around Michael’s thick, pulsing shaft. I guide the wide, blunt head directly against Isaiah’s gleaming hole.

"Chest up, Michael," I instruct, resting one hand firmly on the small of Michael’s back to control his posture. "Don’t hunch over him like you’re ashamed. Keep those heavy pecs hanging right over his face so he knows what he belongs under. Now push. Just the head."

Michael leans his weight forward with trembling care. The head of his cock presses into Isaiah’s tight ring, slowly sliding through the threshold.

Isaiah cries out—a high, broken, beautiful sound that bounces off the dark stained glass—his hands flying to Michael’s shoulders, his nails digging into the tanned skin.

"Stop right there," I coach, watching the monitors catch every inch of the penetration in crystal-clear focus. "Look at his face, Michael. That’s him accepting you. Now give him another two inches. Good king. That’s it."

Michael sinks deeper, his breath hitching violently in his throat. "Oh... oh God, Josh," he groans, his hips trembling. "He’s... he feels incredible. He’s so warm."

"He’s yielding to you," I murmur in his ear. "Now bury it. All the way to the base. Seat the covenant."

Michael pushes his hips forward in one long, smooth, heavy glide. His thick pubic bone presses flat against Isaiah’s ass, burying all ten inches inside the smaller athlete.

Isaiah’s back bows off the red velvet robe with a ragged, breathy sob. "Amen," he gasps into the quiet room, his eyes rolling back as his hole clenches tight around the massive invasion. "Amen... oh God, Michael..."

"There it is," I say, resting my hands on Michael’s waist. "Now move. Long, deep strokes. Let him feel every ridge. You’re the priest and the offering tonight, bro. Make it count."

Michael begins to move, his rhythm slow, heavy, and authoritative. Every forward thrust pushes his massive pecs down against Isaiah’s smaller chest, trapping their silver crosses together in a tight, metallic crush. The floorboards beneath them creak in steady time with the wet, rhythmic slap of skin meeting skin.

"I didn't know it could feel like this," Michael pants, his lips hovering an inch above Isaiah's, sweat dripping from his jaw onto Isaiah's collarbone. "Isaiah... you're so good to me..."

"Don't stop," Isaiah cries out, wrapping his legs tight around Michael's waist, pulling him deeper with every stroke. "Don't stop, Michael, the temple is open... seal it... please seal it..."

I step around them, leaning down to capture the angle from above, then lower myself to press my lips against Isaiah's mouth, swallowing his breathless moans while Michael hammers into him from below. Isaiah kisses me with desperate, dazed gratitude, tasting like altar wine and sweat, his hands reaching blindly to grip my forearms.

"Look at this," I tell Michael, pulling back from Isaiah's lips. "Look at how well he takes care of us."

I pull Michael out for just a moment, ignoring Isaiah’s soft whimper of loss, and slide my own cock smoothly into Isaiah’s wet, stretched hole. I give him ten hard, claiming thrusts, re-marking my territory, watching his toes curl against the velvet robe.

"See how open he is?" I whisper to Michael, who is hovering beside us, gripping his own leaking cock with dazed, frantic need. "That's the foundation I built for you. Now take him back."

I pull out, and Michael immediately drives back in with a deep, guttural roar that rattles the organ bench. He catches Isaiah’s hips, lifting him slightly, driving into him with raw, uninhibited power.

I move to the head of the robe, positioning myself over Isaiah’s face. "Take communion, Isaiah," I say softly.

Isaiah opens his mouth instantly, taking the full length of my cock down his throat without a single gag, his eyes watering with pure, dedicated bliss.

We work him in perfect unison—Michael pounding into him from behind, the wet smacks echoing off the vaulted ceiling, while I fuck his mouth with slow, steady authority. Isaiah’s hands grip our thighs, his entire body trembling like a tuned wire under the weight of two bigger men using him in the center of the dark church.

"Hold him tight, Michael," I growl, feeling the tension building in Isaiah's core. "He’s about to break."

Isaiah stiffens violently. With my cock buried deep in his throat and Michael bottomed out inside him, his body convulses. He cums completely hands-free, thick, white ropes shooting high into the air, splashing across his own chest, Michael’s stomach, and the open pages of a nearby hymnbook resting on the riser.

His internal clench is so intense that Michael loses all control. Michael lets out a broken, soaring groan, burying his face in the crook of Isaiah’s neck as his hips jerk in rapid, frantic spasms, pumping his heavy load deep inside Isaiah’s stretched hole.

I pull my cock from Isaiah’s mouth, position myself over both of them, and stroke hard three times. I erupt, shooting heavy, hot streams across both of their chests, blanketing Isaiah’s perky pecs and Michael’s massive, slick slabs in thick, gleaming white.

For several minutes, the only sound in the loft is the heavy, ragged sound of our collective breathing and the distant hum of traffic outside.

We finish the shoot with the two of them seated together on the organ bench.

Michael sits back, exhausted and glowing, with Isaiah curled comfortably into his side, his head resting against Michael’s massive shoulder. Both of them are still smeared with oil, sweat, and the sticky residue of our climax, their silver crosses hanging proudly over the mess on their chests.

I hold the main phone steady, framing them in a warm, intimate two-shot.

"Go ahead, Isaiah," I say quietly. "Give them the closing testimony."

Isaiah looks up into the lens. His green eyes are soft, glassy, and completely sincere, his voice carrying that dazed, beautiful earnestness that no actor on earth could fake.

"If your body is a temple," Isaiah says softly, smiling with pure conviction, "then you have to let your friends help you keep it holy. Full recovery routine is linked below. We shot this up in the loft tonight because... because that’s where brotherhood feels the most true. God is good. Gains are always better together."

"Cut," I whisper. "Perfection."