|« PREV||INDEX||NEXT »|
|Ok, this is a story in progress. I'm interested in finding out what you guys think of it. I'm specifically looking for the "what happens next" ideas as well as any comments on how hot this is for you. Oh, also, please ignore any major errors as I haven't really given this a close looking over as of yet.|
|I've spent much of the last nine years of my life locked in an eight-by-ten room located within the basement of a split-level home sitting on a cul-de-sac in west Omaha, Nebraska. My room has a prison-issue combined sink/toilet, a double bed with a cast-iron frame, a small table sitting next to the bed, a single, caged lightbulb affixed to the ceiling, and a lone, frosted window sitting high on the wall. In one corner of the room sits an I.V. bag hanger with an emptied bag, its tube leading to my right forearm. Next to it sits a large feeding machine, humming softly, its thick tube running up to my abdomen, where it connects to my stomach via a percutaneous endoscopic gastrostomy port mounted flush to my skin.
The daylight dimly filters in through the window, illuminating the room well enough to wake me from sleep. I figure that it's just before 7:00 am, the time of my official wake-up call. As I have countless times before, I instinctively reach down to my forearm with my left hand, carefully pulling off the bandage and gently removing the I.V. tube from the catheter installed into my flesh, then quickly detaching the feeding tube from my stomach.
My stomach growls, voicing its discontent. Despite having been fed around 4000 calories worth of meal replacement formula during my sleep, I am already painfully hungry. I slowly open my eyes, allowing them to focus on the dimly lit room. I glance up to the clock on the far wall to check the time - 6:58 am. Two more minutes until Ben arrives. Two more minutes until I can have meal number one. Two more minutes until I can move forward towards my goal, an extension of the goal I set out towards over a decade ago.
Eleven years ago, I finally did it. I'd been intrigued by muscle all of my life, having secretly lusted after freaky bodybuilders and dreamed of some day becoming one myself. I had always known I was gay, but that was more of an afterthought. First and foremost, I was a myophile - a muscle fetishist of the most intense strain.
So after years of starting and stopping with weight training regimens, I finally amassed the motivation and desire to pour all of my energy into the quest for muscle mass. I started slow, but quickly built up to an extremely intense five-day-per-week workout schedule, a tightly-controlled diet, and an almost unhealthy level of dedication to my body's needs. I stopped going out to clubs, spent less and less time with my friends, and lost my desire to succeed in the workplace. My focus became growth, through training, eating, and sleeping.
And it worked. Within two years, I had gained fifty pounds of lean body mass, ending up at 225 on my six-foot-one frame. I looked great - seventeen-inch arms, a forty-three inch chest, a thirty-two inch waist - but I wasn't happy. In fact, I was miserable. Now, more than ever, I knew that I needed to grow far beyond what I would be able to accomplish with my post-workday training sessions and chicken-and-protein-shake meals. I needed someone who could provide assistance with finances and training, as well as support and motivation.
I started looking through personal ads on the Internet for people offering bodybuilding sponsorships. I posted a few of my own ads as well, and waited. I talked to a lot of flakes, a lot of guys who just wanted sex, or losers who were just trying to talk their way into getting a few nude photos of me.
After talking to dozens of people, I received an email from a man named William Lademann. William claimed to be a wealthy man in his early fifties who was interested in supporting a younger bodybuilder. He was adamant about providing a complete level of support - I would move into his house, focus solely on my training, and let he and his staff take care of the rest of my needs. I would have access to a professional-level gym, any necessary supplements and drugs, and training assistance at all times. William assured me that he would not demand anything in return - I was not obligated to have sex with him or otherwise compromise myself. Growth would be my only goal.
There were negatives, of course. I wouldn't be allowed to have a job, travel, or even come and go from the property without William's permission. He required a five-year commitment, with rigid growth goals. I would be abandoning my life, dropping out of society, and becoming more of a science experiment than a man. But, on the other hand, I had already abandoned my life. I hadn't deviated from my office - gym - grocery store - apartment routine in months and hadn't seen or even talked to any friends that I didn't run into on my daily path. And what would be the point of leaving William's house if I had access to everything I needed?
William and I spent several months getting to know one another over e-mail and the phone. I quickly realized that his taste in muscle fell on the extreme end of the scale. He readily used words like "freak", "monster", and "pincushion" when talking about his plans for me. I didn't know if I was ready to take such a big step, but I was incredibly excited at the prospect.
After several months of discussion, negotiation, and deep contemplation on my part, I decided to accept William's offer. We had settled on a gain of 125 pounds of lean body mass within the next five years, resulting in a total weight of 350 pounds. I gave notice to my landlord, cancelled my accounts, and quit my job. I sold off what I could and put the rest of my possessions in a storage shed. On my 24th birthday - a cold, January morning - I boarded a one-way flight from Chicago to Omaha, and left my old life behind.
One minute until Ben arrives, and I'm idly tracing the veins in my forearms with my fingertips while trying to ignore my raging hard-on. The cocktail of drugs being pumped into my body every night has a number of obvious side effects, one being the prominent, rope-thick vascular network caused in part by the 25,000 I.U. dose of HCG. There are few areas on my body not wrapped in a web of veins. They run up and down my arms and legs like inch-thick snakes slithering beneath my skin, branching off in a thousand different directions, squiggling, crossing, connecting with each other. My low bodyfat only enhances their presence, my thin skin wrapping tightly around them, showing off everything down to the capillaries. Not even my face is free of these freakish vessels, as they play prominently on my neck, extend up over my shaved head, and wrap across my forehead and brow.
I hear Ben's footsteps as he steps down the basement stairs, carrying my breakfast with him. He sets down the tray of food on the floor outside my room, rattles around his keys as he finds the one that unlocks the door, and slides the key into the dead-bolt's slot. The heavy, metal door's knob turns, and he slowly pulls it open, letting the bright gym light slide across the cement floor. Ben walks in, carrying a comically overloaded tray of food. He's short, but terrifically built - probably five-foot-six and 260 pounds, all muscle - and already dressed in his gym clothes, ready for our morning workout.
He catches me looking at his body and smiles. "Mornin', Cush!" he says as he blushes. "Ready for some breakfast, big man?" He sets down the tray and begins setting out the food on the table.
"Oh, yeah. My stomach's been growling like crazy this morning," I reply in my rumbling baritone.
I eye the spread, trying to decide where to start. Half a dozen chicken breasts, a four-egg omelet, a couple bowls of cereal and fruit salad, and about a gallon of protein-and-milk mix. I dive into the meal, devouring it in less than half an hour. I finish off the protein drink with one hand while rubbing my gut with the other - the burning hunger in my stomach is temporarily sated.
"So, you all jacked up from last night's cocktail?" Ben asks, referring to the mass quantity of anabolics pumped into my system overnight.
"Yeah, I'm ready to go. Damn, did you guys up the test dose again?" I could guess that they had increased the amount of pure testosterone in the mix because I was even hornier than usual this morning.
"Up another 5,000 I.U., big guy. We don't want you slowing down. I wanna see you beat your goal for this month, and we're already half-way through it."
I run back through the numbers in my head. "This month's goal is fifteen pounds, right?"
"Yeah, and you've put on six so far. I think you can hit seventeen if you really work at it." Ben returns the used dishes to the food tray and sets it off to the side. "You ready to get goin', here, or are you gonna just lie around today?"
Ben is a gutsy little guy. He never seems to be afraid of me, and never holds back when telling me what to do. Maybe its a matter of conditioning on my part, but even though I'm vastly bigger and stronger than him, I never disobey his instructions. Then again, maybe its because Ben carries a loaded handgun on his belt at all times.
I lean forward a bit, prop myself up with my right arm, and grunt as I slowly stand up from the side of the bed. I waddle over to the far corner of the room and pick my "gym clothes" up from the back of the chair. I work my forearms into the tent-like t-shirt one-by-one and, holding the shirt in place, raise my arms together above my head. I let the t-shirt slide down my arms, intending for it to slide down over my torso, but it instead slides behind my head. I try in vain to grab the fabric behind my neck with my right hand - the closest I can come is about a foot above my head.
"Ben, you've gotta help me here, man," I say with frustration. "This fucking shirt is always such a pain in the ass!"
Ben rushes over to help me with the t-shirt. "Don't get upset, Cush. Its no big deal." He pulls the t-shirt back up over my head and down over my body, the cotton fabric being stretched thin by my chest and back. He reaches for the shorts and says "Now, I know there's no way you can put these on. C'mon, lift up your left leg."
Ben's right. I couldn't bend over to put on a pair of shorts if I was being paid. I can make an effort, but my chest and 'roid gut get in the way, and, even if they didn't, my legs are too big to reach over. Add this to the fact that I need a mirror to see my feet and I'm a pretty hopeless case. With Ben's hand for guidance, I step each foot into the shorts, leg-by-leg, and let him pull the elastic waistband up over my briefs. He lets me cinch them by myself - an empty gesture of independence, as I can't see what I'm doing - and I do my best to tie a knot with my thick fingers and ballooned palms.
"Ok, sit back down. Time for shoes." I fall back onto the bed, causing it to squeal in agony, and lift my feet off the floor. He slides on a pair of socks and then my gym shoes, ties them in mere seconds, and slaps me on the calve. "Let's go, big guy."
When I arrived in Omaha, I was greeted at the airport by Ben Jacowski. He was a little guy, but was very solidly built and quite good looking. He was maybe 28 years old, wore his dark brown hair short on his head and in a goatee on his chin, and was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and a leather coat. He introduced himself, informed me that he was to be my trainer, and led me to the parking garage.
I must have been shaking with anxiety. Perceptive and intuitive, Ben calmed me down by getting me to talk. As he piloted William's Mercedes-Benz on the drive away from the airport, we discussed our upbringings, our interests, and what William was like. By the time we reached the nondescript little tract house in an outer suburb of town, I was at ease, and much more certain in my decision.
I followed Ben up to the front door and into the foyer. Standing there to greet us was a handsome man in what could be mistaken for his early forties. An obviously muscular frame showed through his crisp blue shirt and neatly pressed khakis. Despite his youthful, athletic appearance, his true age was betrayed by the slight greying at his temples.
"Welcome to your new home, Doug!" He extended his hand and introduced himself as William Lademann. "I can't tell you how happy I am to finally meet you. Ben and I have been working very hard to get everything prepared for your arrival. Ben will give you a tour of the house in a bit, but I thought it would be a good idea to sit down together and talk about what we're going to be accomplishing here in the next five years."
Hearing William say the words "the next five years" added a new level of reality to the situation. This little house was to be my home for the next five years, and when I left, I would be a dramatically different person.
We sat down in the living room and discussed in great detail what William and Ben had planned for me. Throughout the conversation, I was again and again struck by William's intelligence, his efficiency, and his forthrightness. He clearly approached this endeavor as he would approach any business deal. I was, for example, given a forecast of my weekly, monthly, and yearly growth goals, food and drug program, and training schedule in a bound workbook. I learned that William would make weekly visits to the house to check on my progress but would not otherwise participate in the process.
Ben was to be my trainer in all aspects. He was well educated and experienced in weight training, physical therapy, nutrition, and performance-enhancing drugs. I would immediately begin an intense cycle of anabolic steroids and human growth hormone, coupled with a seven-day-per-week training schedule and a 6000-calorie diet.
It quickly became clear to me that William was prepared to make a huge investment in my body. Over five years, he would be spending hundreds of thousands - if not millions - of dollars on steroids, food, equipment, housing, and Ben's salary. William was taking every precaution to ensure that his little science experiment would be a success.
They led me through the house, showing me the extensively modified layout. The living room and dining room seemed normal enough, and there was at least one original bedroom on the main floor. One corner of the house had been reconfigured to act as a small apartment for Ben. And the rebuilt, oversized kitchen was obviously designed to allow Ben to prepare mass quantities of food. Ben swung open a large metal door that revealed the steel stairs leading down to the basement. The basement of the house had been arranged into three rooms - my small, spartan bedroom, a large, tiled shower area, and a vast, incredibly well-equipped gym. The walls appeared to be cement block covered in a thick layer of insulation and drywall, every room's unfinished cement floor had at least one floor drain, and the few windows to the outside hugged the ceiling. The door to my room must have been three inches thick and featured a large dead-bolt.
William sensed my uneasiness with the harsh living quarters. "Doug, this may not have been what you were expecting, but from this point on, Ben and I are making all of your decisions for you. We know what's best for you, and, at this point, it's keeping you locked up. The next few months are going to be very difficult for you, and I'm sure you will have many moments of doubt. But in the long run, you will come to appreciate this confinement as a sort of freedom."
"So you're suggesting to me that I can find freedom in a fucking prison cell?" I responded with frustration.
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm telling. You're under my control, now. And when I'm not here, you're under Ben's control." Lademann's stare conveyed the truth of his statements. "You are to obey us in every way."
"So what happens when I'm stronger than both of you? How the hell are you going to force me to do what I don't want to?" I was beginning to panic, and sweat was forming on my brow.
"Still a bad idea, Doug," Ben replied. "We'll both be armed at all times around you, and we're both excellent shots." He lifted his jacket to reveal the handgun strapped to his waist - so that was why he hadn't taken off the coat.
"Now, I can tell you're pretty upset." William reached up to my face and wiped the sweat off of my forehead. "I think it would be good for you to take a nap for a few hours. And then, when you're feeling better, you and Ben can get started."
I hadn't even realized that I had been backed into my room by these two men. Ben had produced a syringe out of nowhere and swiftly and efficiently injected it into my ass. William was already out of the room, and Ben followed him closely.
"Get some rest, Doug. You'll need it!" William shouted as he climbed the stairs out of the basement and Ben swung shut the door to my room. The last thing I heard was the heavy dead-bolt sliding into place as I was passing out.
Ben motions for me towards gym. I swagger out of the room, turning sideways and sucking in my chest and stomach as best as I can to squeeze through the doorway. Even still, my pecs and back rub tightly against the frame. I walk into the gym and inhale deeply. The place reeks of sweat. Despite Ben's attempts at cleaning out the odor, I've left a permanent mark on this room.
"We gonna weigh in, today?" I ask Ben as I walk towards the two Siltec WS2000L electronic scales sitting along the wall outside of my room.
"You bet, Cush. Hop on 'em."
Each of the scales have a 2000-pound capacity, but William had to buy a second scale when I became unable to fit both feet on the 15"-by-15" platform. If I really squeeze my legs together, I can manage to get my feet about 30 inches apart. I place one foot on each scale while Ben leans over to read the numbers and add them together.
"Ahh, good boy!" Ben shouts. "You're up two pounds from yesterday, beast. Ten-twenty-seven."
One thousand and twenty-seven pounds. I roll the number around in my head. I'm a fucking monster - barely human. I'm easily the most muscular man on Earth. But another thought is floating to the surface. A persistent, nagging desire for more mass. The desire builds up within my mind, taking precedence over my astonishment at my already extreme size, my ever-present sex drive, even my awareness of self. All thoughts are pushed away but my burning, furious desire to inflate my muscles to even more insane sizes.
Ben touches my shoulder and I'm brought back to the present. I've been standing on the scales, unmoving, hardly breathing, my eyes rolled back into my head, for a few minutes. I'm covered in sweat and the vascular network weaving across my body has pushed itself into high gear in preparation for the coming workout. My quickening heart beats are made plainly visible through the determined pulsing of the veins in my forearms and neck. I'm frozen by the surge of adrenaline coursing through my body - I view the weight room as an enemy, and, once again, I've chosen to fight rather than flee.
I slowly awoke to the sound of rain beating against the frosted window of my "cell". Whatever drug Ben had used on me had left me feeling weak and disoriented. I decided that I was better off cooperating with my captors than going through this unpleasantness again.
I rose from the bed, rubbed my forehead in an attempt to soothe my headache, and began to examine my room. While marveling at the combined sink/toilet which, never having been a convict, was quite new to me, I heard footsteps quickly making their way down the stairs. Within seconds, the door swung open to reveal Ben, gun in hand.
"Enjoy your nap?" he asked, smirking at my mussed hair.
"I would have preferred to sleep on my own terms. I've got a hell of a headache."
Ben reached to the mirror positioned above the sink and swung it open to reveal a few toiletries - a toothbrush and toothpaste, a hairbrush, a plastic drinking cup, and a bottle of aspirin. He handed me the bottle and filled up the cup with water. Handing it to me, he said, "Okay, now that your headache is taken care of, let's get to work."
Motioning for me to sit down on the edge of the bed, he briefly stepped out of the room and returned with a chair and a large notebook. He settled his thick frame into the chair and set the notebook down before me on the side table.
"You have five years - 260 weeks - to add 125 pounds of lean body mass. That amounts to point-four-eight pounds per week. There are basically four components to our plan - training, diet, drugs, and rest. Rest will be no problem - when you aren't lifting or eating, you'll be relaxing or sleeping. I want you to get ten hours of sleep every night, as well as a one-hour nap during the day."
"Eleven hours of sleep? That seems like a lot!" I'd never slept more than eight hours a day in my life.
Ben chuckled. "Trust me, Doug. You won't have any problems getting to sleep after I'm through with you."
Before I even thought about a double meaning to his statement, Ben had opened up the notebook and begun describing the details of my regimen. We spent nearly an hour discussing every element of the plan - down to ever last rep and every single bite of food. I would immediately begin intense training sessions - two a day, every day - spending nearly four hours a day in weight room. The extra hours of sleep, coupled with a pro-level drug program, would minimize the risk of overtraining.
Ben led me into the weight room to demonstrate the workouts and teach me the extreme failure training principles I would be adopting. Towards the end of each set, the last few repetitions of the movement would be nearly impossible to complete. Extreme failure was a process of forcing me to finish the movement with as little assistance from Ben as possible - if a single rep took a full minute to complete, so be it.
After stepping through the entire program, we prepared to get serious and start the first day's training. Ben produced two sets of gym clothes for our use and immediately began stripping off his clothes in front of me. I was surprised to see this level of candidness, and was hesitant to pull off my clothes. Ben noticed.
"Doug, I know this is new for you, but you're going to have to get over any shyness right away. Starting right now, I'm going to be at least as familiar with your body as you are, so there's no need to hide yourself." The shirtless Ben stared directly at me as I stared directly at his perfectly developed, hairy pecs. He cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow, looking down at the bulge quickly developing in my pants. "Man, if you're that horny now, you're going to be out of control in a month."
"I... I'm sorry. You're just really big. And I'm excited about the workout. That's all." I stammered. I quickly pulled off my shirt and pants, replacing them with the workout clothes.
Ben eyed my body as I stripped, examining every line, every crease. "Well, if you don't give me everything you've got for this workout, then you'll have something to be sorry about."
Every workout with Ben has been the same. Sure, the weights change, the movements change, the repetitions change. But from my first workout to today, the level of intensity, the feeling of giving my absolute all, has never subsided one bit.
Ben starts off this morning's chest workout by loading the independent press machine with countless 100-pound plates. Even this massively-overbuilt device creaks as the weight is stacked on. I'm no longer able to perform many traditional movements due to my size - benching, for example, became pointless when the distance between the bar in its fully raised state and the bar resting on my chest was whittled down to mere inches. So we instead compromise by finding exercises that provide a useful range of motion, like this press machine.
He nods to me, and I walk to and lower myself onto the bench, wondering how many exercises I'll make it through before vomiting. Due to the bulk of my thighs and calves, I'm forced to stretch my legs out in front of me rather than keeping them at the recommended ninety-degree angle. We have adjusted the hand grips to their outermost setting, which leaves me doing a motion somewhere between a press and a fly but is the only way to prevent my biceps from getting in the way (they make it impossible to bend my elbow inward beyond a 110-degree angle and have a tendency to bind against my pecs).
As I begin the first set, I'm not sure how much weight I'm pressing, and I really don't care. Ben takes care of the numbers - I just do what I'm told. My world is quickly shrinking as I forget about everything around me and focus solely on completing my set. I charge through the first five repetitions, pushing up the weight quickly but not recklessly, tightening my chest at the top, lowering it back down at about one-third the speed, and moving to the next rep without a second's pause. I can feel the burn building as the acid accumulates within my muscles, feel my face reddening as my neck tightens, feel Ben's stare as he looks down at me from behind the machine, ready to offer assistance at a millisecond's notice. I begin to lose momentum on the sixth rep, yet complete it and the seventh without Ben's help.
On my eighth repetition, the weights freeze midway through the upward motion. My vision is blurry as I lose myself in the effort and I am a crazy blend of hyper-focused and ignored senses. I feel the slight movement of air around my hands as Ben, completely aware of my needs, reaches towards the grips, touching them gently, offering only the most minute quantity of assistance. The weight continues to move upward, ever so slightly, but I instinctively know that all movement is relative, and that even the slightest movement is a significant achievement. After what seems like hours - really only about three minutes - I complete the upward motion of the eighth repetition, squeezing my pecs at the top until tears stream down my cheeks. On the downward motion, I fight against the weight with everything I have left, losing the battle as the arms of the machine accelerate towards the floor, slamming into their rests with a boom and prying my arms apart.
I am lost in a fog of pain and exhilaration, unaware even of Ben's presence until his strong hands touch the back of my shoulders. He assists me as I struggle to sit up from the bench and, in an attempt at keeping me stable, keeps his hand on my shoulder when my torso is perpendicular to the ground. My thighs are at a ninety-degree angle to each other in order to make room for my gut as I sit upright, and my chest balloons over the gut and up towards my head. I'm able to drop down my head just enough to rest my chin in the canyon formed by the engorged, rock-hard pecs. My arms, my shoulders, and especially my chest are dark reddish-purple - they almost look bruised - due to the tremendous amount of blood rushing into the region via the pulsing, web-like vascular system. I focus my mind on the exercise, because I know that I will have no more than a minute's rest before I begin the second of five sets.
I am drenched in sweat, and I've just completed the first set of the first exercise in today's first two-hour workout, and I can't wait to push myself further.
|« PREV||INDEX||NEXT »|
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