Cycle One

Target Two

By AbsMan420

"Cycle One: Target Two" is the thematic sequel to "Cycle One," not a second chapter. Although you don't need to read "Cycle One" to enjoy this story, this author believes that the larger canvas provides a more enjoyable reading experience. The reader might also be interested in reading this author's "King Rex" series (all stories available on this brilliant MGS archive site). Again, not required reading for the following, but a nice background on the origins of "Cycle One," the revolutionary new sports drink.

We wouldn't be called contenders if we were the only team in the division. Not pathetic, exactly -- we maintained win-percentages that were good enough to make the alumni happy -- but we'd never be a school that brought home big championships. The talent and necessary capital to purchase said talent just wasn't available. We were simply too-small a college.

It wasn't like the staff was bad. Again, small -- head coach and three assistants -- but even there, a unique mix of experience. All four of us former players, even if Coot hadn't seen game-action since the sixties -- Big Bear Davis was probably the most well-known, if not the most experienced. He'd played pro-ball until his knee gave out in the mid-eighties, one of the best offensive linemen to play in those days -- three-hundred pounds when three-hundred pounds meant something. As big and furry as his namesake, Bear carried his weight in his shoulders and legs, but carried his bulk strapped around his middle, a keg-sized gut rounded and hard from years of steroid abuse and gluttonous consumption.

At the opposite end of the spectrum was me, former QB who never made a career beyond college -- beyond THIS college, as a matter of fact. I played for the Warriors in the early eighties, third-string quarterback -- ended up writing stats on the sidelines -- earning my nickname -- and just... never left the job. When no pro bid came in my senior year, and Coach John offered me to stay on to do the job I'd been doing for the previous three, I just took it. I guess I've never really gotten out of college -- I mean, that was fifteen years ago.

I wasn't a bad athlete, though I never saw a lot of clock time. And at six-feet, one-hundred seventy-five pounds, I was an ideal quarterback. Fast as shit and no bulk to carry. Certainly the opposite of Bear Davis, who joked with me about my metabolism, swearing that someday he was gonna teach me how to eat. I was every bit as skinny as he was fat.

I just happen to be good at administrative bullshit -- paperwork, scheduling, all that stuff. All the stuff that Coach John never puts a mind to. I love the man, don't get me wrong -- he was MY coach in the day, MY mentor -- hell, he was almost my father -- but he wouldn't know how to fill out a requisition form if his life depended on it. That's what I was for. That's what gave Coach John the necessary time to develop his other habits, ones a little more vile than football.

He and Bear had taken to smoking cigars lately -- they were smoking the afternoon this all started, during our pre-summer-training camp meeting. We were all sitting around Coach John's office -- with the window mercifully open -- while they puffed away. Coot coughed up his disagreement -- "Some of us have heart conditions, you know!" -- but they just made him trade places with me, saying, "Stats can take it!"

We were just getting past the polite chit-chat and into the meat of the meeting -- how we could possibly manage to win ANY games in the coming season, missing last year's seniors -- when there was a knock at the door. "C'mon in," Coach John called, tamping his cigar into his ashtray. He was wearing a golf shirt with the Warrior logo and his standard BIKE-brand polyester coach's shorts. A barrel-chested man, Coach John was proud that, at fifty, he was still able to bench his body weight -- certainly Bear Davis couldn't do that anymore, he'd joke -- but he was still a far-cry from the kind of shape he'd been in when he played the game. Coach John was in married-man shape -- gone, but not quite forgotten. I was certain he wore the coach's shorts because of the wide-elastic waistband, helping to keep his stomach in control.

So, this guy came in -- and the best way to describe him? Well, first understand that football coaches are used to seeing big guys. Over six-feet, over two-fifty, that was fairly standard for linemen, even in college -- even in OUR college. At that, the linebackers usually tagged in somewhere around two twenty-five, two-thirty.

Well, this guy -- this guy was BIG. I mean, linemen, when they're startin' to get up into the high two-hundreds, carry around a lot of bulk muscle -- heavy, loose, laden with protective fat to absorb hits. It's the nature of the beast. But this guy dwarfed even the biggest lineman -- this guy was GIGANTIC -- and he was ALL muscle, not an ounce of fat on him. Even though he wore a shirt, even though he wore a PLAID shirt, you could tell he had a great build, and that's really saying something. He wore a pair of khaki cargo shorts, which somehow had to be altered to fit his proportion -- his thighs versus his waist -- exposing calves so hard and cut they incurred the Hope Diamond's jealousy.

He was so well-groomed, so meticulously manicured that you could only imagine him spending obsessive hours in front of the mirror perfecting himself. An exacting haircut, a painfully smooth shave, two perfect rows of perfectly white teeth caught in the alpha-smile of a salesman. He stood inside the door, his hands on his thin hips which exaggerated the v-shape of his torso, and took in the room. Because of Bear's exhalation, the guy looked like he was stepping from a cloud -- from a dream.

"Gentlemen," he said, smiling, his voice deep and melodic, "my name is Sam Bennett, and I rep a product that's gonna change the way you play football."


Turned out he was an author -- a real author -- published and everything. I mean, none of us had ever heard of him, or read one of his books, but he was still published. Matter of fact, he'd just done a lecture at the college -- he was an alum -- and he was looking to be the writer-in-residence here this summer for a series of graduate-study workshops.

"A writer?" croaked Coot. "With a build like that?"

Another winning smile. "Writers have plenty of free time," he said. "I spend mine at the gym." Then he shrugged. "I bet I can type faster than any of you."

We laughed. Of course, Bear Davis asked why we hadn't seen him on the field when he was a student here -- we could've used his size. Leave it to Bear Davis to only be concerned with size.

But again, Bennett laughed it off. "I wasn't in any kind of shape when I was in college," he said. "Certainly nothing like I am now." He flexed his chest so quickly that it popped beneath his shirt. Not waiting to be invited to sit, he took the chair between Coot and me, the mass of his thighs forcing him to spread his legs wide. I noticed they were shaved. "Don't get me wrong. I would've loved to have played. If only..." Again he shrugged, raising his unnatural traps, which almost reached his ears anyway. "Well, I can make my contribution now."

Coach John retook the lead. He smiled himself, leaning back in his chair as he re-lit his cigar, his high Greek forehead creased in interest. Coach John was a handsome man himself -- though in a completely different league from Sam Bennett, a buff and waxed pretty-boy. Coach John, with his blunt features and balding head, his heavy five-o'clock shadow and thick, Selleck-esque mustache, could hardly be called pretty. Ruggedly handsome would be more accurate -- if you were attracted to a "man's man." Oh, what the hell did I know? What kind of judge was I about a guy's looks?

I knew both men were attractive, though in completely different ways. Wasn't that enough? It wasn't like I was looking because I was interested.

"We appreciate any help we can get," said Coach John, taking a drag. "What exactly can you do for us?"

Bennett quietly clapped his hands together and rubbed them like he was putting on lotion. "Well," he said, his baritone as smooth as his skin, "I rep a sports supplement that can only be called revolutionary. There's no other way to describe it. It's quickly changing the way men get in shape."

Bear grunted, exhaling through his nose. "Salesman."

Sam Bennett -- the salesman -- stood, putting the profile of his massive ass right in my face. "No, no, you don't understand," he said. "I'm not trying to sell you anything. Not at all." Quickly, for someone of his substantial mass, he stepped out the office door, retrieving something he'd left in the hallway -- a cardboard box, the size of a case of beer. "Just the opposite," he said, placing the box down square in the center of Coach John's desk. "I'm giving you a gift, maybe the greatest gift you've ever gotten."

"You sure do talk like a salesman," snapped Coot, already dismissing him. "A little too smooth with the verbiage."

With a confident jerk, the almost over-muscled Bennett ripped the cardboard lid open, exposing the twenty-four gray bottles inside to the light. "I told you I'm a writer, and that's true," he said. "I just do this on the side. And like any job -- especially sales jobs -- it comes with a certain amount of perks. As part of an incentive program the company has for its salespeople, I'm allowed to sponsor individuals or groups through our program. Like I said, I'm an alumnus. And I just, well, I just want to give somethin' back -- I have a personal interest in it."

Again, the winning smile, and he pulled the sports bottles from the case, tossing one to Coach John first, then Bear Davis, then me -- then, as an afterthought, he offered one to Coot. Coot waived him away. "Thanks anyway," the old dog said, rarely so polite -- he must be intimidated by Bennett's size -- though I've never known Coot to be afraid of anything. "I don't need none o' that shit."

Same sports bottle I've held a million times, this one industrial gray, with a logo reading "Cycle One" in red and gold muscular letters. Didn't look like anything special. "'Cycle One?'" Bear Davis read. "Didn't that used to be a line of dog food? You know, like different kinds for different dogs?" He chuckled. "Didn't I used to feed my DOG 'Cycle One?'"

"I remember that" Coach John laughed. "But 'Cycle One' was for puppies. You fed YOUR dogs 'Cycle FOUR.' That was the food for the fat ones." Laughing, he set his cigar down and cracked the seal on the bottle.

"I think marketing is working on the name," said Bennett, always with that smile. "They're probably going to change it before we go national. It's not the first time I've heard the dog food joke." He watched intently as Coach John sampled a bottle -- first, a sip, then -- with a legitimate smile breaking out on Sam Bennett's face -- Coach John tilted his head back and quickly chugged the rest of the bottle down. He said his obligatory "ah!" as he righted his head, tossing the empty in the trash.

"Definitely not dog food," Coach John said. "It's good. Goes down easy." He smacked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "Even's got a nice after-taste."

Bear Davis swirled his bottle. "Sounds like fine wine," he said, raising it to his hairy face and taking a healthy snort, then a swig. He swallowed, and immediately took a hit from the cigar in his other hand. He grinned while he exhaled, saying, "After-taste is always better with a hint of stogie." He finished his bottle this way -- drink, toke, drink, toke. Bear wiped his bearded-mouth on his sleeve. "Not bad at all," he said.

Bennett turned to me. "And what do you think?" he asked, smooth as a snake, muscular as a gorilla.

Without even hearing any warning signs, I said, "I don't know. Let's find out." Cracking the seal of my bottle, I asked him, "Will it make me as big as you?"

He shrugged, raising his eyebrows. "It might," he said. "I've seen it do more dramatic things."

There was a moment where I wasn't sure if he was serious or not, then he smiled broadly, laughing at his joke. The others joined him, except Coot, who impatiently waited for the interruption to end. Bennett saw my embarrassment and said, as if apologizing, "You never know."

Almost to spite him -- and keeping eye contact with him the entire time -- I drank the bottle down.

Truthfully, it was damn good.


He left us four cases -- "One for each of you!" he said -- although Coot had flat-out refused to try any. His loss. Frankly, it was the best-tasting sports drink I'd ever had. Didn't taste like chemicals or a shit-load of sugar -- more like honey. It wasn't carbonated, but I swore it almost tingled on my tongue.

Bennett would be back in a month, when his writing-residence began, but he gave us his card and his company web-site before he left, in case we ran out. "With four cases?" said Bear Davis. "Even with an appetite like mine, I doubt we'll run out."

Bennett shook hands goodbye. "Whatever," he said. "In case. You never know."

Okay, true. You never knew. Still, ninety-six bottles was a lot of liquid -- well, ninety-THREE now. Bennett shook everyone's hands -- even Coot's! -- then he left, as quickly and as suddenly as he'd come. The office seemed less crowded once his mass was out the door. We all breathed in the silence.

Then Bear Davis spoke, almost completely down to his cigar's nub. "Well," he said, "that was unexpected but welcome. You know, if some grateful alumni-butcher, wanting to 'give something back,' would show up right now with a side of beef, my day would be just about perfect."

I indicated the empty bottles of "Cycle One" in the trash can, the after-taste still sweet on my tongue. "Don't bears usually prefer honey?"

When he flicked his cigar stub at me, I dodged it easily, laughing. Bear snorted. "Laugh all want, Stats. Someday, I'm gonna teach you how to eat."

Coot piped up, grumbling. "Okay, okay, you got some free drinks. Lucky you, prohibition's over. Can we get on with the meeting, please? Some of us shit on a schedule."

"Gentlemen," interrupted Coach John, his big, Greek body rising, his commanding presence reasserting itself as he put the case of "Cycle One" on the floor next to his desk, "Coot's right. Remember football?"

We did. Although I don't think any of us were really focused on it. If they were like me, they were startin' to feel kind of weird. Kind of warm.

Kind of horny.


We all started working out the next day, though none of us made the connection between our sudden desire for exercise and the sports drink we'd had. As a matter of fact, we drank more of it during that first workout. I mean, why wouldn't we? It made sense, right? SPORTS drink -- working out. That all three of us had the same urge at the same time didn't strike anyone as odd, either. Except maybe Coot, who refused to join in the workouts, claiming himself to have been "too old for that kind of mid-life crisis foolishness."

We met that next morning as normal, but instead of coffee and donuts, Coach John suggested we work out instead -- said he was feeling all this unfocused energy and he wouldn't be able to think about football until he got rid of it. Besides, it wouldn't be a bad idea for all of us to get in a little better shape, he said -- he said, patting Bear Davis' substantial gut. No argument from Bear or me -- both of us felt the same way.

So there we were, three old coaches getting back in shape, lifting in the phys-ed building gym, empty now in the summer, where we had our privacy and our dignity as we began the painful process of moving back time. Naturally, each of us drank a bottle of "Cycle One" while we lifted -- hell, Bear Davis had two! Again, we each commented on how tasty it was, but nobody knew what it was really doing to us.

I mean, I knew I was feeling horny, and masculine, and strong, but at my age, when you feel that good, you don't question it. At least, you don't confront it directly. You ride, you ride, you ride the wave. You flex in the mirror and remember a time when you were nineteen and playing college ball and had an inexhaustible energy supply and a constant lust -- that's what you do. Well, that's what WE did.

And that's what we did for days. We rationalized how we were feeling until the physical changes grew so pronounced we couldn't deny how unnatural it was. Unfortunately, it seemed that by the very nature of the stuff, the further along you got, the less you cared. You felt so good, you didn't want to admit that you might be affected, addicted. And by then it was too late.

I knew there were changes in me. I could see them in the mirror -- I could see them on the scale. In one week, I went from a loose one seventy-five to a tight two-hundred and ten. My pant size went from a tight thirty-six to a loose thirty-one, except I couldn't get thirty-one's on because I couldn't get them up over my thigh -- for a skinny guy, that felt very cool. I was getting broader and thicker, and I loved it.

And I guess I knew that it was the "Cycle One" that was causing it, but like I said, I didn't care. I looked on it exactly as Sam Bennett had presented it to us -- as a gift, the greatest gift a man could ever get. And once I had that realization, and once I discovered I was really okay with it, I upped my intake of the stuff, resolved to maximize the benefits.

Besides, the changes in me were hardly as dramatic as what was happening to Bear Davis. If anyone were to accuse at the three of us of taking some drug and going through some sort of transformation, they'd point to Bear for their strongest argument -- I would just be further proof. Not to belittle what was happening to Coach John, because that was fairly amazing too, but Bear Davis was becoming a completely different man.

With a nod to his namesake, Bear was gluttonous in his consumption of "Cycle One." He had a bottle in the morning instead of coffee, an open one constantly on his desk in our office. He'd actually started taking a bottle along to restaurants when we'd go to lunch, motioning the server away and drinking it over ice. "At this rate, you're gonna be through your entire case in a week," I said to him once, half-joking, before I'd put two-and-two together.

"Leave it to you to do the math, Stats," he said, smiling, showing teeth within that well-trimmed muzzle. "Besides, there's always Coot's Case."

Bennett had meant it as a gift for the four of us, whether Coot wanted his share or not, so when we divided it up, Coach John, Bear and I each took a case, calling the remaining one -- the one we'd each already HAD a bottle from -- the one sitting unused in the empty locker in the coach's locker room now -- "Coot's Case." It had become sort of a joke over the last couple of days -- a running gag. If someone wanted a bottle while working out, but didn't feel like walking to the office, they'd shout, "Grab me one from Coot's Case!" because it was right there in the locker room. Coach John was notorious for it when he was in the middle of his ab workout, propped on the incline board, not wanting to break reps to get it himself.

Anyway, by the morning of the fourth day, when the physical manifestations were just starting to really kick in for me, I was feeling mighty good. I'd biked into work that morning, pumping up the big hill leading to the college, sipping the "Cycle One" in my water bottle, taking the mountain easily, remembering a time -- just days ago! -- when the mountain would beat me, enjoying the way my newly-muscled legs filled out my bike shorts. I'd just chained my ride to the post outside the phys ed building, and was debating whether to wear my bike shorts all day instead of changing into my warm-ups -- they looked THAT good -- when I heard the low, dense grumble of an open carburetor across the empty parking lot.

BIG bike, looked like a Harley. From the distance of the stadium-sized parking lot, I couldn't be sure -- my specialty was in bikes that were pedaled -- road bikes, hybrids, mountain bikes -- though I could certainly identify the mountainous man riding it: Big Bear Davis, who clearly showed the signs of some sort of metamorphosis. Bear used to weigh over three-hundred pounds, and still looked as if he did, but that the placement of that weight was extremely different, like the weight had defied gravity and moved from his gut to his upper chest, like some Chuck Jones cartoon.

Never saw such a large man on a motorcycle, even if it was a Harley -- and by the way it growled, it had to be. Though with the weight of the bear on it, it might've growled anyway -- or at least groaned. He was dressed in blue jeans -- though where he'd found jeans to fit over his gigantic thighs was anybody's guess -- I mean, his thighs were even bigger than they'd been when he'd had his impressive gut -- as if his legs NEEDED to be bigger. Over the jeans he wore black leather chaps, stretched tighter than when they'd been on the cow, exposing only his suddenly substantial package and his massive ass.

He wore no shirt, only an open leather vest, showing his bulbous pecs which, though round, no longer hung like the saggy breasts of a divorcee. They were strong, high, muscular, evenly coated with gruff hair, as was his stomach -- MUCH smaller than it had been -- no longer hanging over his belt, though still rounded, resembling a roidgut, bloated but firm. His belly was evenly coated in hair, swirling together to form a heavy center line.

The cut of his vest highlighted his upper chest, a slope so high as to seem a shelf. His upper pecs melded perfectly into his rounded front delts. And his arms -- oh my God, his arms! -- thicker than my legs, they weren't even reasonable. I wouldn't think possible. As undefined as the rest of him, they were large chunks of mass coated by thick skin and dark hair. Smooth, round lines that would require a French Curve to accurately draw. He didn't have a "V"-shape -- he had a "U"-shape. That he had ANY shape other than the letter "O" was astounding, but that should testify to the width of his back, as his heavy lats battled the confines of his vest.

The curve of the arm led the eye to the rise of the traps, a challenging hill that had no summit, only to end at the wall of his bull-like neck, itself wider than his caveman head. It looked like he simply sprouted at the ear, his head almost too small for his body. Low forehead, round jaw. His beard even appeared thicker, though still no longer than the flat-top buzz on his head. He was scruffy instead, especially heavy around the muzzle -- like the old-time GI Joe action-figures.

From behind mirrored sunglasses, he smiled, angling the bike for the best show-room view, inadvertently flexing his triceps -- horseshoes too roomy for a Clydesdale. "Hey, Stats," he said over the bass growl of the engine idle, "what do you think?"

I didn't know if he was talking about the motorcycle or his muscles -- both were breath-taking. "Breath-taking," I said, the correct answer for either. "What...? When did this happen?" Also the correct question for either.

He shrugged, those gigantic traps raising and flexing. His movements seemed fluid, graceful, if not a bit slower. "Just picked it up last night," he said, and I wasn't sure which he was talking about, his bike or his body, until he stroked the body of the diesel beast beneath him, as tender as a lover. "Always wanted a Hog, just never had the right self-image. Now, though..."

I looked the bike over, pretending I wasn't looking him over. From every angle, the two of them were massive. Masculine. "What's the big deal about Harleys?" I asked.

With his almost too-small head, he motioned to the bitch-seat behind him. "Hop on," he said, "and I'll show ya."

It was almost impossible to mount the bike without touching him, impossible to settle my hips on the seat without my inner thighs pressing up against his ass cheeks. He took it all in stride -- maybe he didn't realize how much I was struggling. Maybe he was enjoying my struggling. "All set?" he asked, glancing over his round, wedged shoulder -- his wide, wide back. "Hang on."

He set it in gear, revved it once or twice, released the clutch, and we took off, the heavy engine causing the whole seat to vibrate -- even Bear's weight couldn't hold the bike still -- it was strangely erotic, the buzz on my balls, the tremble of skin beneath my hole. He took us around the nearly-empty campus, up the side roads, around the accessways, narrating the whole time. "This's a Road King," he said, "a touring bike. Fourteen-hundred fifty cc's, twin-cam eighty-eight, dual carb -- does any of this make sense to you?"

But I wasn't listening. I was blinded by his back, like trying to see around a muscular wall, like trying to see around the cliff on which you hang, from which you're about to fall -- the smell of the leather in my face -- the sexy vibration of the engine between our legs. I confess I was starting to get a hard-on, my spandex bike shorts providing little cover or confine. I had to slide my hips back before the tip of my erection touched the slope of Bear's big football-lineman ass, but no matter where I moved, I couldn't escape that buzz. It felt so nice. "Stop slidin' around," Bear called over his shoulder. "Keep close to me, so I can balance."

We were back in the phys ed parking lot by then, and perhaps to teach me a lesson, he hit the brakes hard enough for me to slide up into him -- I was unable to avoid touching his mass as I slammed into his back, my cock against his ass, his leather vest against my face -- sexy.

But before I could allow THAT thought to continue, I hopped off the bike, defensive and afraid.

Bear parked, smiling, eyeing my evident erection. I tried to hide it, but felt stupid in the attempt. "Well, Stats," he said, turning the engine off, "now you know why guys like Harleys." He dismounted, and I saw he had the same half-hard hard-on that I was sporting. Even in jeans, I could see the outline of his impressive dick as it pushed out toward his thigh. I can't say I'd ever looked, but I didn't remember Bear being hung that well. Maybe that big cock had always been hidden by his gut. Playfully, he mock-punched me to show all was all right, pulled his cigar-stub from his vest pocket, re-lit it, and started into the building, his redwood thighs barely able to navigate around each other.

"Bear," I said. He stopped and turned, his muscles pumped and heavy, his cock undiminished. "What's happened to you?"

He smiled, removing the mirrored sunglasses, exhaling gray, scented smoke. "Same thing that's happening to you," he said. "Except you're not drinking it fast enough." He threw his impossible arm around my shoulders, buddy-buddy. It felt comfortable to be in his grip -- I was aware of his smell -- manly. Powerful. "Now, c'mon. Let's go lift."

In response, I put my arm around his waist, though I could only reach about half-way. I could feel the muscle of his lower back as his weight would shift. Together, still erect, but feeling remarkable less inhibited about it, we went inside.


Bear made me drink a bottle before we worked out, while changing in the Coach's locker room. "How many have YOU had?" I asked him as I sipped, as he slipped on a pair of black spandex workout shorts over his tightie-whities. They rode up over the valley that connected his upper hamstring to the bottom of his ass, showing his gigantic legs in entirety.

"Eighteen as of breakfast this morning," he said, sliding on a baggy, sleeveless tee. He'd cut the bottom off the tee too, which didn't completely conceal the curve of his stomach, but helped. "My case'll be gone before the end of the week. What about you?"

I shrugged, emptying the bottle, almost embarrassed. "This is my sixth," I said.

He deadpanned. "You're fuckin' kidding me. You know what this stuff does, right?" He flexed a double-biceps, the peak of his arms like melons. "You know what this stuff does, and you aren't drinking it constantly?" He hit a front lat spread, which spread, and spread. "You know what this stuff does, and you haven't set up an IV? Look at me!" Side chest, reae double-bis, overhead abs with quad. "Now, stop bein' a fuckin' idiot, finish that bottle, and let's get out on the floor."

We each drank another one while warming up. He beat me through a leg workout -- we squatted, we pressed, we even dead-lifted. Each plate we added led to a toast -- like some college frat party -- and I'd finished two bottles before we'd even started to dead. Of course by then, when Bear suggested it, I was flying so high I would've done anything to show how strong I felt, how powerful I was.

I was growing even as we worked out. I could feel it. Another bottle, another burst. Then a weird feeling came over me. I wish I could describe it better, but it was like I was suddenly in-touch with my masculinity, my sense of self. And that awareness grew even as my muscles did. I suddenly understood my personal power. As I would get to the top of a rep, legs spread, strapped to the bar, flexing my ass hard as I stood, flexing my whole body, seeing all those new muscles in the mirror before me as I beat weight after heavier weight, I knew power. True power. Masculine power.

Sure, my dick would be hard when I finished a big set, laying there heavy across my hip. Obvious. I knew. I knew it was the physical expression of my self-image. It grew to match my ego. It made sense. Bear would cheer when I'd finish a set, pat my back as I'd catch my breath and hand me my bottle while he changed the weight. The only comment he made about my rod was, "NOW you're getting it." He made me comfortable. That the same thing would happen to him during his set made me all the more relaxed, even amidst this incredible flow of energy. It was so fucking amazing!

The way I felt, I could've worked out all day. As it was, we'd been there all morning. We ultimately quit because we had a meeting at noon, and if we wanted to get cleaned up, we had to stop. It was the first time in my life I resented work.

In the locker room, Bear saw me eyeing Coot's Case as I pulled my t-shirt off over my head. "How many have you had?" he asked.

I looked down at myself as I flexed my chest -- it was the first time I'd seen myself since that morning, and I'd been impressed then. I had definitely grown since, maybe twenty pounds during the workout, and I was blown away now. Smiling, I said, "Five since we started workin' out."

He nodded. "Have another."

With a quick, silent nod back, I agreed. As I pulled one out of Coot's Case and quickly chugged it down, I heard Bear begin to undress. I turned around as I drank, just to get a look at him. And what a look I got -- Bear Davis lifting his sleeveless t-shirt over his head, his back to me, the shirt sticking on the thick wedges of his lats. His massive bubble-butt facing me, wrapped tightly in the sweaty spandex that had slipped up over the bottom edge of his glutes, the muscles of his back cascading down to his waist, the ever-shrinking love-handles still taking up space. He was so hot.

As I had the thought, the thought of how sexy this big bear before me was, how powerful and masculine, how strong and virile, as I had that thought, I suddenly felt dizzy. A wave of nausea hit me. Revulsion.

Before he could turn to face me -- and I didn't think I could handle that -- I rushed past him toward the toilet stall, around the corner from the shower/ locker area. "You okay, Stats?" I heard him ask after me, his voice so deep and warm.

"Gotta take a leak," I called back, leaning against the stall as I tried to clear my head. Fuck, too much juice at one time. Like being drunk. What the fuck was happening to me? The room was spinning -- I couldn't focus.

Then I took my cock out of my shorts to piss, and I swear that the moment I touched it, the second I had my dick in my hand, the dizziness went away. The confusion went away. As I stood at the urinal and pissed, the stream steady and strong, as I heard Bear start the shower, the sound of the flowing water adding to mine, everything became clear. I held my cock in my hand and felt it lengthen and grow, pissing away all the crap I used to carry. Cleansing me of old beliefs and useless conditioning, pissing out my impurities, my cock became the size it always should have been.

And so did I.

Finally finished, finally understanding, I undressed quickly and sauntered to the shower. But instead of going to my own nozzle, I just went to Bear's. He turned around when he heard me coming, his round hard pecs, his big, firm belly, the perfect amount of wet hair under the stream of hot water turned into view -- as did his newly-enhanced package. His beautiful, hard cock jutted straight out of his hairy groin, above his swollen, over-sized balls. The curve of his hard-on followed the curve of his gut. Unbelievably thick -- both of them.

There was nothing else to do. There was nothing so right. I knelt before him as the steam rose and took him in my mouth.

The big bear moaned as I blew him, slowly bucking his hips to match the tempo of my bob. I'd never had a cock in my mouth before -- I enjoyed the pliable hardness, the blunt thrust, the length and girth and potent shape, the tickling hairs and the masculine heft, the soft, rubbery head, the shield and the crown. I liked how it almost choked me. I liked how it filled me. Fulfilled me.

It was so big, I could wrap my hand around its base and feel it touch the back of my throat while still having enough room to stroke it. With my other hand, I grabbed the back of his ample balls, gently pulling -- feeling them churn. The shower water spilled over the curve of his muscle and splashed in my face, waterfalls off boulders.

Bear put his paws on either side of my head and began to fuck, his animal thrusts gaining momentum as he closed in on his orgasm. I wanted it. I wanted his cum as much as a bottle of "Cycle One." Maybe more.

Then, he jammed it back in my throat, one gigantic thrust, and as he groaned, his climax began. I actually felt it in his balls first, as they twitched and released. Suddenly, my mouth was full of him, gooey, salty-sweet, creamy thick bear-honey. Delicious. He shot and shot. I swallowed and swallowed, trying to get every drop, hungry for it.

I tried to suck out more, even as he finished and started to slightly soften. I wanted more. Gently, he pulled me off his cock -- I kissed the head as I leaned back, making eye-contact with him. Bear smiled, relaxed but pumped after his orgasm, the shower water spraying off his shoulders, like an aura. "Told you I was gonna teach you how to eat," he said, laughing a little.

I stood into his embrace, and his kiss. Passionate. Masculine. We exchanged tongues, and while the water flowed around us, he tasted himself. My first time kissing a guy -- kissing a bearded-guy no less -- but I knew I never wanted anything else ever again. It was like coming home.

Finally, it broke, and we traded smirks and glances. Bear felt me hard against his belly, and as we pecked and lightly kissed, he reached between us and played with my insistent erection. I moaned and rolled my head, grabbing his pecs and slightly pinching his nipples. Bear spun me around and reached around me, grabbing my cock and beating me off from behind. I leaned back into him, laying my head on his shoulder -- the curve of his belly fit perfectly in the sway of my lower back. Puzzle pieces.

Hardly a dozen strokes and I shot, never more aware of my power, my strength, my very concept of masculinity than at that moment. It felt great.

Instead of a cigarette, I had a bottle of "Cycle One."


We flexed in the locker room mirrors while we dressed. It was the first time I'd gotten an appreciation for how much I'd gained during our workout. Scale said two forty-five. I thought I looked bigger than that. So did Bear, who patted my back and said his life-long mantra, "Size is more important than weight."

I had a pair of basketball shorts in my locker, big ol' baggy, low thigh, elastic waist gym shorts. They'd always been big on me, and I hated the way they used to make my legs look skinny, so they sat in my locker -- my "emergency" shorts. Now though, they were the only thing that came close to fitting through the thigh, stretched tight across my legs. My beautiful package strained against the material, but the waist-band was still loose, the elastic not completely stretched taught. I'd grown massive through the leg, but my waist-size was still the same.

Bear gave me one of his shirts, with the school logo silk-screened over the left pec, and even though it was XXL, it still fit snugly. Bear was barely able to get his on. All of his old khaki shorts still fit through the leg, but he had to cinch the belt fairly tightly, the leftover leather dangling from the belt buckle down his thigh. Satisfied, we took a final flex in the mirror and went up to Coach John's office, ready for our noon meeting and only now surprised at not having seen him at the gym that morning. I guess neither one of us had thought about it at the time. "Maybe he's out tryin' to buy a Harley," I said. Bear laughed and mock-punched me. Easily, I absorbed his blows.

We heard his grunts before we entered his office, and we found Coach John doing reverse crunches on the edge of his desk, profile to us, shirt untucked, his skin red from exertion, barely beginning to sweat. He was clearly toward the end of the set, raising his legs and flexing his abs, squeezing for second on top each rep. His form was perfect, ideal. It should be filmed for a set of videos on proper workout technique. Wouldn't be bad as a "lifestyles" video, either.

He wore his coach's shorts, though they fit a little more snugly through the thigh and crotch. Even in his shirt, he looked like an athlete in the prime of shape, his exposed forearms ripped and veined, hinting at the hidden development under the material. He didn't look at us, but kept focused on his set for his remaining reps. When he finally finished, he hopped off the edge of the desk with the energy and grace of a teenager, saying, "Craziest thing happened to me this morning, gentlemen. Just LOOK at these abs."

He raised his shirt and flexed for us, though he was looking down at himself. I had seen some impressive stomachs in my time. Hell, mine was better now than almost any bodybuilder or obsessive-compulsive marine I'd ever met. But Coach John's abs were better than any I'd seen in my life.

Carved granite chunks, stacked and mortared with deep crevices and zero fat, lying in the shadow of his heavy pecs. His intercostals fanned into their insertion points, his body ripped enough to teach an anatomy student a thing or two. Veins played heavily through the lower bricks, disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts. He flexed and tightened, and rolled the muscle in ways that showed his complete control. Even with the thick trail of hair that coursed down the middle, he looked amazing.

"Sweet, huh?" he said, frustrated by his shirt, finally pulling it up over his head, showing us his diamond-cut upper-body. His lines were cleaner than sculpture, muscle carved perfectly in flesh. With the shirt covering his head and his arms as he pulled it off, he looked like a piece in a museum, a headless torso in the finest Greek tradition. He wasn't as big as me, though he showed incredible potential -- once he'd had enough "Cycle One."

Every line, every cut led the eye down that magnificent torso, from the fine gold chain around his neck to his hidden package, his well-padded groin. Even as he flexed, Coach John was starting to get hard, his cock plumping up the front of his coach's shorts.

When he finally got the shirt off, he brought his arms down into a Most-Muscular, an arrogant smirk on his mustachioed face, his erection snaking down his thigh. That was the first time he saw us, and what had become of us. He broke the pose and stared, almost agape. "Holy shit," he said.

"You're lookin' good, Coach," said Bear, hitting a Most-Muscular of his own. His traps rose up past his ears. "But some crazy shit has happened to us, too."

Coach John smiled, inadvertently stroking his furry pecs. "It's the 'Cycle One,'" he said, indicating his body, indicating ours. "That's what's doin' it."

"We know," I said, nodding, hands on my hips. "We've just had a little more of it than you."

Bear crossed his arms before his massive chest, resting them on the swell of his gut. "Looks like you're enjoyin' yourself plenty."

Coach John stood there helpless before us, his cock rock-hard in his coach's shorts. He tried to shrug it off, but made no move to hide it, really. It was like he was proud of it -- I knew how he felt.

Bear came to the rescue. "We've already crossed that bridge, too," he said, grabbing his own growing dick through his khaki shorts. "It's all good."

Coach John looked at me, and I nodded, showing him the rod that was becoming more and more uncomfortable in my own shorts. "It's awesome, Coach," I said, pinching the generous head of my own cock, trying to smile as seductively as I could.

Coach John looked from me to Bear to his own blunt growth. He thought for a moment, then smiled and said, "Let's do it," ripping open the front of his polyester coach's shorts, pulling out his already generous dick. Soon, it would be unbelievable. We joined him, standing there in a tight circle, shorts open -- or front pulled down at the waist in my case -- stroking our meat while flexing for each other. Coach drank another bottle of "Cycle One" as we stood there, thick hands on thick cocks. This was what men did together, circled jerked and drank muscle growth potion.

Coach John was getting close to his climax, his hairy, Greek body starting to shudder as he increased his tempo with his cock. Big Bear and I, who had a little more control over ourselves, adjusted our speed so we'd all be able to cum together. Coach John flexed on every exhalation, abs over and over. Magnificent.

And then, the moment was upon us. Coach John -- and with him, us -- got ready to orgasm. "Gonna shoot," he said through heavy lids and lusty breath. "Oh, man. It feels so fuckin' good."

"Gonna feel better and better," said Bear, pumping himself with equal vigor.

And then, the door behind us flew open with a bang, and there stood Coot, his ragged old body gangly in his warm-ups -- the same pair he'd worn every day for the last ten years. He stood in the doorway slack-jawed, frozen in shock, trying to take in the scene before him, his three co-workers of the last fifteen years standing there beating off together, somehow transformed into huge, gay musclestuds. It was such a hot image, no wonder he was wordless.

"What the hell is goin' on?" shouted Coot, tempting a stroke. "What the hell are you DOING?"

"You gotta stop being late to meetings, Coot," said Bear, not breaking stride, actually turning himself to give Coot a better view. "You'll miss all the social opportunities."

"Faggots!" Coot hollered, in his raspy, old-man voice. "You've turned into a bunch of faggots!"

There was no stopping him -- Coach John shot then -- one cue, as if Coot's words had coaxed it out of him -- throwing his head back and spraying strong ropes of cum into the air. He screamed a deep roar of pleasure, lost in his ecstasy, then fell to the floor, helpless.

Distracted by Coach John's orgasm, we didn't see Coot slip away. The doorway was empty when we turned back, the old man had moved with surprising speed. Bear and I made brief eye-contact, and brought ourselves to immediate climax -- the pleasure coursed through as powerfully and blindly as I'd become accustomed -- fuckin' awesome, even in these strange circumstances. Our cum spattered all over the office floor.

By the time we'd recovered and tucked ourselves back in our shorts, Coach John stood -- a much more muscular Coach John than had fallen a minute ago -- and still not finished. "Gentlemen," he said to us, wrapping his now-gigantic arms around our shoulders, "it would be a shame if ol' Coot got away without a chance to sample this, don't you think?"

We nodded our agreement, wrapping our own substantial arms around him. I could almost feel him thicken.

"Perhaps you boys could take of that for me," he said. "I've got some catching up to do, myself." With that, he released our shoulders, slapped our assed, and sat his growing body behind his desk, popping open a new bottle.

Bear and I understood our orders, leaving the chugging Coach John behind to find the old man. Coot would accept the honey-flavored truth we brought him, or he'd have acceptance thrust upon him.

Either way, he'd better be thirsty.


It took little effort to find him. After stopping by the coach's locker room to pick up "his case," we headed immediately to the old man's apartment -- he'd been living in the VIP suite, the one annexed to the phys ed building, since his wife had died some ten years ago. The door was locked, but both Bear and I had master keys.

We found him in his bedroom, putting his different prescriptions into an overnight bag. "Hey, Coot," said Bear quietly. "Goin' somewhere?"

"I'm gettin' the hell away from you people is what I'm doin'," he said, packing whatever he happened to grab. "I shoulda done it days ago. I knew somethin' was fucked up. I knew it."

I took a step toward him, smiling. "Coot, nothing's fucked up." I put his case of "Cycle One" on the bed. "Everything's great."

"That shit," he said, pointing to the box. "That shit's what's causin' it. Look at you guys! LOOK at you! What has that guy Bennett done to you?"

"Just exactly what he said," said Bear, stepping in close to Coot, crowding him back. "He gave us a gift, maybe the greatest gift we've ever gotten." He took another step, and Coot was trapped. Bear almost whispered, "The kind of gift that wants to keep on giving." Suddenly, he grabbed Coot with his strong, hairy arms, crushing the old man into a bear hug. Davis held Coot easily, spinning him around to face me. Coot struggled in Bear's arms, but barely even budged, a withered stick against a log.

"What the hell are you doing?" yelled Coot, red from anger and exertion. "Let me go!"

I cracked the seal on a bottle of "Cycle One." "We've drank some of these already, Coot," I said, advancing on him. "Sorry. But there's still plenty left to do the job."

"No!" he screamed. "No!"

Bear changed his grip, to stop Coot from swinging his head from side to side, holding Coot's angular, old body with one arm, his head with the other. "Relax, Coot," he said. "You're gonna give yourself a stroke." Even while Coot protested, I held his nose closed and poured the "Cycle One" in his mouth.

He hacked, and spit, and tried to put it out, but I just kept pouring. Finally, in order to breathe, he drank, gulping mouthful after mouthful in order to get air. "You bastards," he said after finishing the bottle, while I cracked the seal on another. "You fucking bastards!"

Bear Davis growled. "Tasted good, doesn't it?"

"No," he said, as I put the next bottle to his lips. "Please, no..."

But he didn't put up quite so much of a struggle this time before he swallowed. As a matter of fact, he drank the bottle pretty easily. He gasped while I dropped the empty to the ground -- the plastic echo bouncing around the room -- and opened another. "No..." he said weakly, but this time he reached toward the bottle with his tongue.

As his struggles lessened, I stepped in closer to him. We were almost touching. During the next, Bear released his grip a little, allowing me to hold the back of Coot's head while I fed him. Coot became expectant, an infantile-hunger awakened. He was starting to slowly buck his hips, beginning to quietly moan. Feeding him his sixth bottle, he sucked on it like a calf to a teat, and he began to get hard.

As I pressed my thigh into his livening package, Bear mumbled, "That's right, Coot. Better than viagra." Bear pushed himself into Coot's behind, counter-thrusting in this slow, erotic dance.

Coot rubbed his hard-on against my thigh, dry-humping me, finishing bottle after bottle, increasing his tempo. I'd cracked the ninth when he said, "Suck my dick. I'll drink it, but suck my dick. Please."

Bear released his arms, wrapping his paws around Coot's torso from beneath, playing with the old man's thickening pecs. Coot took the "Cycle One" from me, bringing it to his mouth as I knelt before him, releasing his raging cock, his white hairy balls.

In less than a bottle, Coot was ours.


Final scene, three weeks later. The first day of summer training camp.

The team arrived over the weekend, moving into the "jock dorm" -- the temporary housing we use over the summer -- where they got themselves settled and fed. The first meeting Monday morning was mostly administrative -- even football had forms -- handing out practice clothes, playbooks, assigning lockers, and that stuff.

9am, the boys began to show up, meeting me at a table just inside the building. I'd check them off the master list, give them a couple of forms, their playbook, their locker number, and send them into the locker room to get their uniforms and pads from Coot.

The guys who knew me commented on my physique, my impressive weight gain. I simply told them I'd felt like getting a little bigger, packing on a bit of size during the off-season -- what'd they think? What I've learned is the average eighteen to twenty-two year old believes that an eighty-pound muscle gain is possible in only a few months -- I wonder if they'd buy the two weeks that it really took. They thought I looked great, compliments abound. When you're huge, everybody's your buddy, even the guys who treated you like shit when you were small.

I wondered what their reaction would be to Coach John and Big Bear Davis, who were being kept hidden until the first practice that afternoon -- right now they were in Coach John's office smoking those nasty cigars. I could smell them from here. There was no way we could pretend anything natural had happened to either of them -- at least Coot and I looked POSSIBLE -- so the timing of their introduction to the team had to be right. The set-up had to be perfect.

So when someone would check in with me, I'd give them their playbook, their practice schedule, another sheet with their locker and uniform specs, and directions on where to find Coot inside the locker room -- in the uniform cage.

And just as they'd turn away, I'd say, "Oh, wait," -- casually, as if I was almost forgetting -- and from a cardboard box beneath the table, I'd pull out a six-pack of "Cycle One" and hand it to them. When they'd question me, I'd tell them we'd picked up a corporate sponsor and this was one of the little perks. I'd say, "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth." That would get a laugh, or a shrug of acceptance, and they'd head to the locker room. If they hadn't tried one by the time they talked to Coot, they'd certainly have tried one by the first team meeting, when we were due to just sit around a classroom, talking through the playbook. Nobody turned down free drinks, especially college-aged boys.

Naturally, we'll have a full cooler available at that meeting, on ice no less -- very tempting. And muscular old Coot had spent the better part of yesterday afternoon filling the sideline water coolers with the honey-sweet sports drink. By the time the day is over, every member of the team will have had at least a taste.

And a taste is all it takes.

I give out six-pack after six-pack. Sam Bennett hooked us up great. He was thrilled with the changes we'd gone through. And he was a great fuck, too. He's now our official sports-drink rep, and he takes extensive weekly meetings with Coach John. It's all so fucking hot.

"What's this?" one of the players asks me, as I hand him a six-pack of "Cycle One."

"It's a gift," I say. "Perhaps the greatest gift you've ever gotten. It's gonna change the way you play football."

He smirks, "Will it make me as big as you?"

I smile when I answer him, shrugging my impressive traps, quickly flexing my chest beneath my team shirt. "It might," I say. "I've seen it do more dramatic things."

Rolling his eyes, he pops one open and chugs it down on his way into the locker room, when he opens the door, I hear him say, "Holy shit! Coot, look at you! What the fuck?"

My smile is so wide that the next guy asks me about it. "You'll understand," I say, reaching under the table, "as soon as you sample this." •

This collection was originally created as a compressed archive for personal offline viewing
and is not intended to be hosted online or presented in any commercial context.

Any webmaster choosing to host or mirror this archive online
does so at their sole discretion.

Archive Version 070326