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His Masters voice
|I heard it before I saw it. Booming up the stairs while I was shaving after breakfast. Rich and dark.
“Ask him to come and see me when he’s ready, will you? I’ll be in the gym.”
Jeeves didn’t get further than half-way up the stairs: I was already galloping down in the new HotSkins singlet and pants I had found in my closet. Hoped I would make a good impression. He’d never seen me himself yet. Shit! Why didn’t I get up sooner and get toned up? At least the breakfast carbs had filled me out some.
I couldn’t see him when I got into the gym so I threw myself under the bench press machine and got going. Flexing hard, stretching wide, breathing properly for maximum squeeze - as I pushed up for the tenth rep I saw him, standing in the spotter’s position. He took the weight off me and I stood up.
The smile was wiped off my face. Shit, the guy was at least a head taller than me and twice as wide! And he was only wearing tight hotpants which revealed everything he had and more. Shit!
The Adonis grinned.
“Been having a good time? Coach tells me you’ve been working hard.”
“And my pilot and Brett tell me you’ve been playing quite hard too - though not hard to get, I’m glad to hear! And that’s all good news.”
I hardly heard what he was saying. I spread my lats and lifted my pecs, flexing my abs and my bis, hoping I wasn’t going to disappoint this - this…. Fuck, what can I call this God? To begin with, he was young! I was expecting some venerable statesman with tired muscles hanging out of his tank top, and here was this guy - not a day over 35 - the most magnificent piece of muscle meat I could ever imagine. Every muscle was toned, honed, full, striated, every part of him a well-worn cliché: the melon delts, the baseball biceps, the washboard eight-pack, the huge sweep of the pec slabs, the dollar-sized nips, pointing down, the giant package, the more-than-Tom-Platz quads ….. The whole, giant, beautiful, perfect package.
He turned slowly so I could see the magnificent sweep of his back, the jutting rear delts, the extremely thick profile of his delts and pecs, the great horse-shoe triceps, the tiny waist, the BIG glutes, the hauser-like hams, the huge diamond calves…..
“Like what you see? Did I surprise you?”
Realisation dawned -
“Shit, yes! You’re - “
“Yes, I am - your ‘morphed wonder‘. You think it was you, waving my picture around in your drunken stupor that got you over here to me? No, that was only a coincidence. I truly am always on the search for potentially great physiques to invite for my contests and to help bring them towards what I consider perfection. And I nearly always get let down. Are you going to let me down? Somehow I don’t think so, though I caught a note of desperation in Brett’s voice when he told me about you this morning. But then I remembered everything my tattooed scout told me about you - “ Shit! Another misjudgment! “ -after he’d seen you in Helsinki. He said coming second was a mockery of judging - like those crooked skating judges at the Olympics. I made my enquiries - yes I know your Boss quite well - and I made my choice.
So you’re here, and I’m here. Shall we get on with it?”
In my confusion I started to babble incoherent thanks and apologies and questions and -
“Come on, pal - no need for all that.”
He put a massive arm across my shoulders and walked me the length of the gym, up to the big window that overlooked the pool. The touch of those wonderfully huge muscles nearly sent me round the bend, but I forced myself to listen to what he was telling me about the plan for the next 10 days before I went home - or whatever. He would be training me himself (shit - would I ever get through it?) and monitoring my intake of nutrients very closely.
After this morning’s first workout a doctor would be taking blood for tests: this would be a regular occurrence as it was vital to adjust balances and compare our blood types as we went along. (?whatever!) He, the Master, would be implanting a special electric contact up my fuck-chute to ensure maximum contraction on every rep of every set at every workout. Eventually this would be controlled as my own actions insisted on the charge. I would no doubt find some of his methods bizarre, even alarming, but I was not to worry - all in a good cause!
“So - shall we start? I know what you were up to all Saturday night so we’ll have to start with a good flush out. Don’t want anyone else’s DNA to get in the way! Strip off!”
We both did: if possible, he was even more godlike without the piece of cloth that was covering his genitals but, since my own recent growth, I didn’t feel ashamed to follow suit. Bending over in the shower while he inserted a douche-flusher was another matter.
“Now you’re going to get hard - even cum - but don’t worry. Cumming for you, with all those nutrients in you, is always going to charge up your system rather than deplete it.”
At which he turned the water on. Gently, then a sudden hard spurt which lifted me off my feet and my dick into the air - several of these, then a sucking out which was even more ecstatic for the prostate than the violent flushing. We had been at this for about ten minutes when I realized he was trying to get me to cum. If that’s what he wanted….
I stared straight at him, kind of “inhaling” his muscles, his tanned pecs, his huge swinging semi-tumescent dick - imagining us fucking each other. I’d just got my dick up his ass when a particularly violent jet of water, and the subsequent monstrous vacuuming, triggered my release, shooting powerfully into the air. He grabbed my dickhead and caught as much as he could. The touch of his hand triggered even more spasm and he soon had more than he could handle.
“Excellent. We’ll get this analyzed too. Dry off and we’ll put the plug up you.”
When I came out of the shower he stood ready by the incline bench. I lay face down dutifully but apprehensively. A rather large black dildo with long silver electrodes up the side was greased up and gently inserted to its full depth. Felt great, even when he started to jiggle it around to have the electrodes meet the prostate. A trial run started with a very pleasant throbbing, then it seemed to be fucking me rather smoothly, then there was a sudden blow inside which sent me half way to the moon and back.
“Excellent. Now this.” “This” was a tight black latex cockring with implanted electrodes and “this” was soon squeezing the root of my dick and balls.
“This will balance out the charges with the ones inside and will incidentally prevent you from cumming while doing an exercise. Too messy and distracting. I‘ll wear one myself, for the same reason. Now, bench press.”
This was to be one of the few conventional exercises we were to do for the next ten days but the execution proved to be more than stimulating. He had loaded the bar to what he knew from Coach was my 8 rep max.
“Fifteen of these please.” His knees forced my legs apart as he sat down on the bench so that our crotches were practically in contact. He held a tiny “detonator”. “When I feel you are at the moment of peak contraction I use this to make sure you really contract and hold the contraction for as long as I have this pressed. OK?”
Up we went and, just as I reached contraction, he pressed the button: a shocking, wonderful fist seemed to hammer on my prostate and I was forced to contract more than ever before. But not only the butt-plug: the cockring hammered me too, completing the circuit, he informed me. After what seemed like a long minute, the charge was released and I was allowed to lower the bar slowly and immediately yelled at to push it up again. Another butt-shock and another cock-clamp and another ultra-contraction. I was so concerned with what was going on, and contracting properly that I had done eighteen reps with my eight-rep max before he called a halt.
BY now we were both pouring with sweat, but we went straight on to incline bench dumbbell flys with the same treatment. Only this time he stood with my head locked between his quads so I could feel the charge of his cockring in my face. Then it was pec-dec, with me sitting on his dick instead of having the plug up my ass. He held on to my man-tits instead and squeezed them when we reached contraction. Finally incline bench dumbbell press - same treatment. All this for FIVE circuits. That was chest for the day.
He flung a towel at me and we adjourned for our shake, and the blood test. He explained that his method of maximum growth relied on three things: ultra-peak contraction, very special “nutrition“, and - the final step, the morph equivalent. I opened my mouth at once to ask him all about that but - it was Not yet, not yet - time enough when we get there.
I began to wonder if I had the strength to get through three workouts a day with his grueling methods. Reading my mind, he assured me I would, with the help of the nutrition which would be stepped up daily as I exerted more and more energy.
After lunch it would be Legs. Later, biceps. During lunch he assured me again that, whatever my final decision might be, I would be going home a great deal bigger than I had been at my last contest. And that I would never want to do a “normal” workout again.
He was right about that - I enjoyed myself more than more as the week went on, from one extraordinary workout to another. I really got off on the contraction thing and I was soon able to cause the electrical charge with my own action - and to hold it as long as I felt I could. These contracted pauses got to be longer and longer until, finally, he had to call me down after each one. I was getting kind of drunk on them.
By the end of the second week - my first with him - we were able to dispense with the electrical stuff because I was able to force the ultra-contraction and hold it with nothing but the presence, the example, and sometimes the feel of his muscles to give me the charge.
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