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Growing for the Team
|"OK boys, that's it, hit the showers," Dan Hall called. It was a
little early to end practice, but he was having trouble
concentrating. He was restless, horny, adrenalized, and felt like he
needed to go for a run or something. At his cue the twelve sweaty
highschool wrestlers strewn around him on the mats sprang up and
headed for the locker room, slapping ass, stripping off damp t-
shirts, laughing. As they went, their shouts receding, he leaned
against a column with relief and folded his arms across his chest.
Or tried to. He looked down, puzzled, trying to see what was
offering the unexpected resistance.
"Fuck," he thought, with dawning realization. "The shirt is too tight."
He moved to fold his arms again and felt the tension pull into the fabric across his shoulders and under his arms. The seams dug into his skin. His chest muscles bulged forward in the decreased space between his thick biceps, and he found he couldn't get his arms close enough together to fold them how he normally would. Between the taut- stretched white polo shirt and the thick twin bulges of his pecs, he could only manage to grasp the middle of each forearm with the opposite hand. He tried it again� same result, a springy, unyielding resistance born of the too-small shirt and the sheer size of his own muscles. This time, though, he thought he heard a tiny ripping sound, like a few stitches in one of the seams was giving way.
"Shit that's hot," he thought. "I'm ripping out of this shirt."
He brought his arms down to his sides and took a deep breath, then quickly and forcefully brought them up again and forced them into the full crossed-arm position he was originally trying for. The tension in the white polo shirt exploded across his upper body and he felt multiple seams rip simultaneously, the loud tearing sound echoing through the empty gym like a gunshot. The shoulder seams split from the fronts of his melon delts and across the tops of his shoulders; the short seam on the underside of the overfilled sleeve gave way and opened up a triangular hole at each armpit; the side seams split a few inches down from the pits to accommodate the width of his thick back. The veed-out button placket, already stretched too wide by his relaxed musculature, groaned under the tension as more muscle was forced into a smaller space under the tightly stretched fabric; unable to withstand the pressure, the bottom of the V ripped down a couple more inches, exposing the tightly pressed cleft between his hard-mounded pecs.
"What the fuck is happening to me?" he asked himself, smiling faintly.
Dan looked down at the huge shelf of muscle that his upper body now formed, pecs mounded up and compressed behind his meaty forearms, framed on each side by his thick veined biceps. Looking at his shoulders, being able to see his bare skin through the ripped, still- too-tight fabric, was a trip, a fucking rush. A shock of pride and power surged through him and he slammed his arms out and up into a triumphant double-bi. With a second, longer ripping sound, the sudden spread of his lats further decimated the side seams, forcing them open nearly all the way to the lower hem as the curved wings of his lats emerged. The intense upward flex of his chest and delts finished separating the sleeves from the body of the shirt, and the veined, double-peaked biceps split the underside of the sleeve itself all the way to the taut-stretched cuff, so that what had been the sleeve dangled as a useless scrap of torn fabric from the white band of cloth that was still dug into the deep, tight cut between bicep and deltoid, barely hanging on. The lower hem of the shirt, loose around his waist a few seconds ago, was now stretched tightly around the base of his ribcage, held in tension by the high stance of his shoulders and the thick, wide spread of his lats.
Holding the double-bi, Dan turned ninety degrees toward the wall mirror that was used for dance classes and looked at his image. His huge guns, mounded up higher than he'd ever seen, the sleeves hanging off him in tatters -- he was muscular before, but not like this. His wide-flexed pecs ripping the front of the shirt down even further, his flexed armpits and flared lats exposed through the open sides of the shirt. The concave plates of his abdominals showing beneath the lower hem, his navel a flat twisted knot of flesh nestled into the cuts. And his narrow, ripped waist, hugged low by the elastic waistband of his maroon nylon shorts, which could barely contain the thickness of his quads, the fabric tight and shiny and riding up toward his crotch, and the�
Holy fuck, he saw as he looked in the mirror, his cock was� Jesus it was huge, he had boned up here in the gym without even realizing it, his dick wasn't that big for fuck's sake, it looked like a fucking club trapped under the thin maroon nylon. He relaxed his bicep pose and wonderingly reached down to touch it through the shorts. Holy fuck, it was sensitive, the thick defined knob expanding under his fingertips and releasing a thick slug of pre-cum into the fabric. He couldn't get his hand all the way around his shaft; he grabbed the base in his fist through the shorts and was stunned to see almost six inches protruding above it, wrapped tightly in the silky nylon, angling up toward his hip bone. God, it felt good, his huge muscles, his huge cock, so hard and on display, the shreds of his shirt hanging off him. He wanted to just pump out a load right here, it would be so hot to do it in the mirror�
Dan caught himself and tried to pull himself together. "What the fuck is happening to me?" he said aloud this time, half laughing, his voice echoing around the gym.
"That's what we wanted to ask you, Coach," came Hal's voice from behind him.
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