All we share is blue eyes and an insatiable desire for muscle mass. He's fair, I'm dark. I'm 190 pounds to his 250. Both going for contest wins - his the Nationals, mine the junior USA.

We only ever meet in the gym - I'm his workout partner, he's mine but, as his contest is next October and mine's not until the following April, he takes precedence. He takes precedence in everything and I'm happy to let him, after all he's bigger than me and knows more - workout schedules, diet, "supplements". He works us both as hard as hell - takes as much responsibility for my nutrition and chemicals as he does for himself.

We may be the same height, 5'10", but it always seems as if he's a head and a half taller because of his superior bulk.

I say bulk, but it's not that kind of bulk. He looks as if he's morphed, but he's not. Not a day in the year is he anything but cut and full. Fucking perfect from his massive square head to his large feet. A jaw that squares off from below the ears, cleft chin, wide mouth, long straight nose. (Killing smile, when it's used.)

His great traps go right up the back of his head and arch down to the thick rear delts and rhomboids; shoulders three and a half feet wide; his pecs are huge and thick and the nips inevitably point straight down, the three belts of muscle clearly defined as they meet in the middle with a cleavage deep enough to squeeze your dick. His 59" chest is aided by the widest, strongest set of lats anyone has seen in a stage; big bis may need a little more peak but..; thick, thick tris bring the arms up to 22" at last count.

His best angle is when he's doing a Side Tricep: then you can see the thickness of the arm, the depth of those cream-inducing pecs, the tiny 30" waist which is a deal smaller than each leg with it unbelievable tree trunk quads and hams, and the calves as big as his arms. The unbelievable abs are buttressed by thick obliques which reach down his front and seem to grab on to his generous package - generous even when seen in posing trunks.

I'm no slouch in the muscle department but I still feel insignificant against all his magnificence. The legs make me feel faint, they're so huge. I just want them locked around me for ever.

I just want to be him. I just want to be his.

As far as I know he's straight and as far as I know he has no idea I'm not. There are always plenty of pretty birds flocking around us two muscle guys but neither of us encourage them ("in training, you know") and his size and one-track intensity seems to keep them all at bay.

Our workouts are conducted in comparative silence and at white heat but, the hotter they get, the hotter I get until I feel I can't contain myself much longer. Two months out from his show and now I feel I have to put this to the test.

He's waiting for me to swig down some carbs before my next set. He's leaning against a rack. I deliberately trip and fall forward against him. He catches me by the elbows and pulls me up. When my face reaches his pecs I press my cheek against those amazingly thick slabs of muscle meat. He forces me to my feet and we're eyeball to eyeball.

I look him in the eye longer than I should - unflinching, unblinking we stare at each other. I'm determined not to break the moment - until he does, three long breaths later. God the feel of those arms wrapped around me as I pull in close to his chest - such a fucking challenge! Am I home dry or not?

Nothing is said. Pushes me down on to the bench and takes up his position to spot me. Forces me through some extra reps I can hardly manage and the rest of the session is conducted at high speed , max intensity, and in complete silence.

Shit, I think. I've lost him.

He chooses a shower as far from mine as possible. Don't know whether to cry, apologize or what, when I feel his hands soaping my wide back. Still silent. To make matters worse my dick rises to its full height. Suddenly he grabs it from behind, grabs it hard, and I feel an equally hard boner thrust itself between my quads.

I want this, he whispers in my ear, and you want mine. But we both want to get big so you're just going to have to work extra hard to get whatever it is you want.

Whatever, I stutter,

He leaves me in the shower. How can I help but jerk on my steaming dick, jetting my streams of milky splooge into the hot shower? When I come out, he knows what I've done because he says that's the last time either of us do it till after the show - his show.

Don't know how I had the stamina to get through those last weeks of blasting workouts - and enforced celibacy. Don't dare to try any more funny stuff either. I think the only thing that got me through it was watching his muscle thicken, harden, watching the veins start to run across each taut muscle belly. He seemed to grow and grow, refining himself as he grew. Like some magical morph movie he took my breath away as he swelled way beyond the guy I first started to work out with.

He wins his Heavyweight Class. Glistening, superb, god-like, the favorite of the crowd. With his full muscles cut to ribbons, amazing powerhouse posing routine , he cleans the board. He gets his pro-card yes, but the fools give the overall to some half-way OK light-heavy.

At the Muscle Motel where we all sleep some acne-backed muscle steroid freak tells him he's too big. Since when has either of us cared about getting too big? He takes his revenge out on me by fucking me to the stars. Hard, fast, deep and vicious. None of those words truly describes what he puts me through. I get it in every which way and in every which hole - and he leaves me screaming for more. And then he makes me give it to him. Weeks of pent-up energy and frustration are worked out of our systems that night.

Next day, Sunday, we eat like pigs and rut like stallions but, come Monday, it's back to the grindstone. My grindstone this time. No time off for R & R - we've had all that between midnight Saturday and dawn on Monday.

Now he's concentrating on my workouts. No funny stiff allowed - though there's a lot more humor involved now that his show is over!. No jerk-offs allowed till I win my Overall in April.

By the time of the show I'm big. And hard and cut - just like he was. At the show I feel his eyes burning into me - forcing me to use max intensity in every muscle on each mandatory pose - willing the routine he designed for me to be flawless.

I'm exhilarated but once again he takes his revenge out on me now that I've got an Overall and he hasn't. Fuck fuck rut rut. The feel of those huge muscles pitted against mine now that I'm so much bigger than I was is an aphrodisiac in itself. Muscles react to muscles, flex, squeeze, feel, lick, press, suck, fuck your dick against every muscle available - fuck my dick against that huge quad with both mine wrapped tightly around him. Fuck and be fucked over and over again. Shit, man!

Shit, man, our dicks went everywhere, between lips, round tongues, down throats, up muscle-cunts - mostly his up mine. After all, he has to feel he's the master here.

Now the "eventful" weekend is over, the inevitable, though unspoken question arises: where do we go from here? I'm too afraid to ask - too afraid it could be all over. Contest-wise, no problem, but us? Move in together? Both admit to each other it wasn't just buddy-buddy stuff? Was it just revenge or is it something more significant? I was almost ready to pop the question, bring it out into the open, but the way he won't look me straight in the eye warns me not to pursue it.

That Monday night in the gym we discuss muscle plans but I know our minds are not really on them. It's embarrassing to get the other guys' congratulations - along with some funny looks - so we get out of the gym as soon as we can, without working out. Out in the street - then the bombshell.

He wants Time Out - not ready to discuss anything personal. Give me a week or so.

A week or so stretches to five or six and not a sight or sound out of him. My workouts are feeble and without heart. Everything seems pointless without him. Where is he? they all want to know. Can't tell them. Lovers' quarrel? someone asks. Spots are kindly offered and not so kindly turned down. Guys in the gym seem to sense the "divorce" - even start snickering gay assumptions. I start to get depressed and "fat" because I stop working out. My work is suffering dangerously too. Couple of warnings from the boss. Third time, you're out.

One Friday night late, the doorbell rings. Hammering on the door. Him.

Get packed, we're going . Going? Where? This time of night? Just pack!

Snatches my bag. Throws it into the back of his truck. Get in!

I huddle against the door as he crashes the gears and he speeds off. He jaw is as set as when he didn't get his Overall. He still won't look at me. Just drives into Nowhere.

It's raining.

I take in that unshaven jaw. The straight nose, those full lips, that whole "noble" profile. The quads that overstretch the jeans, the bis that burst out of his T. The pecs that swell a few sizes larger than XXXL. And I start to feel the other kind of XXXL.

We're out of the city. Dark roads. Woods. Suddenly he pulls off the road into some trees.

Come here! Pulls me on top of him. There isn't room, squashed between those pecs and the wheel.

Motel can wait! This is what I want.

And for the first time ever, we kiss.

We kiss and I cum.

Wish list? I've got it all. And more. And much more to come. •