Joining the B-Builder Boyz Club


By AbsMan420


I don't know where J-Claude's disappeared to -- probably the locker room -- but as soon as he introduces me to Big Don, he vanishes. Not that I mind. Big Don is a firm-handshake, jovial pub-greeting kind of guy. I take an immediate liking to him, and not just because of his mature good-looks, his bright, friendly gaze, or his unbelievable body. His vibe is so open, his nature so relaxed -- well, you can't help trusting a man like that.

J-Claude was right. At 286 pounds, I'm not the biggest man here. Big Don himself dwarfs me -- "Big" being as much an understatement as calling his bald head "Curly." There's a confidence in his rough voice, a man who expects to be obeyed, and his entire nature calls up image after image of fatherly football coaches. I can't put an exact age to him -- he's clearly older than me, but his skin is so healthy, and only the tiniest of lines around his eyes betray anything at all, that I think, if he took the same drug I did -- the one that healed my rotator cuff -- it might also slow down the advance of age.

"I'm fifty-eight," he tells me freely. My dad's age. "Soon to be fifty-nine, with the mature muscle to prove it." He raises his arm and flexes it, straining the poor sleeve of his baggy izod -- although how he could find a shirt that's baggy is almost as unbelievable as his mountainous bicep. Not like my dad's arm at all. Not even like my old football coach, whose only strength -- from the perspective I have now -- was the way his big, round ass stretched his coach's shorts. Big Don wears coach's shorts too, further advancing the image, and they display his basket with such polyester prominence that even the roughest of defensive linemen would forget his homophobia long enough to admire it.

And for those of us who've shed the bonds of inhibition, well, we look at that cock and wonder just what it would feel like to our tongue when it was half-hard beneath an old, familiar jockstrap.

As he tours me through the facility -- which is really just a converted barn, remember -- as I watch his gigantic ass and his muscular quads navigate each other, my curiosity is replaced by lust. I don't know how long I'll be able to resist him. From his patronizing smiles, my guess is he knows it, too.

There are several other guys working out right now, as we walk through the chest area. Two fairly big, college-aged guys -- and my definition of "fairly big" has changed dramatically in the last week. These guys would've seemed huge to me, five days ago. Now, they're "fairly big" -- dressed in identical gray singlets, their identical olive-skinned bodies trade rapid sets on the incline, until they have identical pumps. Big Don introduces them as The Twins -- no names given. "Why?" says Big Don. "You can't tell which is which. And you'll never see them seperately, anyway. Ever. I don't even think they know who they are individually anymore."

The Twins break pace long enough to shake my hand, smile their disarming greek smiles, and get back to their workout. Together, they aren't as big as me -- I'd put them around 210, MAYBE 220 -- but their ripped bodies are sculpted perfection, an aesthetic ultimate, every line and vein leading the eye to the next bit of striated beauty. They are size and grace, compared to my mass and power. Still, I wouldn't be stupid enough to throw them out of bed. A tasty low-fat snack. Two treats in one.

In the leg area, a ridiculously gigantic man squats. Oblivious to us, he pounds out reps with seven plates on each side of the bar -- that's 675 for those of you who don't want to do the math -- the rattle of iron as he descends echoes deeply off the cinderblock walls. He drops his ass almost to the floor, right on the heel, and explodes up, his voice grunting off the launchpad. After nine identical reps, as he racks the weight, Big Don says in a golf commentator's voice, so as not to disturb the giant, "That's Ronnie. He's got the biggest mother-fucking legs in the universe."

I can't see Ronnie's legs. He wears baggy gym pants and a loose t-shirt -- where they all get these baggy clothes is still a mystery -- which is plastered to his upper body with sweat, his back a relief-map of they Himalayas. My dick wants to rent a Sherpa and explore.

Ronnie turns to greet us, and I take in his handsome African face, his full, swollen lips, his heavy jaw, the glow of his beautiful brown skin -- if the word "beautiful" should be assigned to an object so masculine -- though if Hershey could find a way to duplicate that color, they's sell a hell of a lot more candy bars. He looks me over with jet-black eyes, objectively, like meat. Finally, he looks at Big Don and nods, then turns back to the squat rack, adding another plate to each side.

"Ronnie's agreed to be your trainer," Big Don says to me, as we walk away. "Once you've accepted the terms of membership, that is."

"You're offering me membership?" I ask, turning my head to see Ronnie heft the bar on his wide, wide shoulders. He wants to train me? Last time I squatted, I stopped at 405.

"Let's finish the tour first," Big Don says, putting his arm around my shoulder. It takes every ounce of my self-control to keep my cock from hardening. "We can talk business later."

The locker room is spacious and comfortable, carpeted and spotlessly clean. Instead of lockers, there are individual open-spaced changing areas, like in professional sports stadiums -- no doors, no locks -- twenty, or so -- more than three-quarters of the spaces currently occupied with personal stuff -- soaps and scents, gym-wear and equipment. There's a Commons Area, where a large-screen tv spouts CNN Headline News, with a few comfortable chairs and a sofa, a coffee table, magazines in a fan, reading lamps. It strikes me a little over-decorated, a little too "homey." I mean, how many guys hang out in a locker room?

It leads us to the shower area, which -- like my old high school -- is just an open, tiled room with spigots along the walls. Nothing fancy, but plenty of space. It's here that we find J-Claude, getting rammed up the ass by a bodybuilder of such remarkable proportion and symmetry -- more so than even pretty-boy J-Claude -- that his thrusts appear to be choreography. His fuck dances as art. Freeze-frame any moment and it's the sculpted award statue from a pornographic bodybuilding event. Fortunately, they have motion as they stand there, J-Claude bent over in front, and they dance to the percussive beat of balls slamming against skin.

"Hello, boys," calls Big Don, tossing them a small wave. When J-Claude looks up and makes eye contact, I can feel his ecstacy. I've seen that lusty smile before. He winks, acknowleges Big Don, and re-immerses himself in the rhythm of breathing.

His fellow grunts out, "Hey, Big Don," glances at me, smiles, "Hey, New Guy." He swats J-Claude's ass with his open palm, mumbling, "C'mon, buddy. Deeper. C'mon, show the New Guy what you can do." He doesn't know that J-Claude has already given me a similar performance. Together, they go harder, shifting gears for me. J-Claude's fucker looks at me and raises his eyebrows, smiling his pretty-boy smile. He hopes I'm next. He's hot, and I would -- oh, let's say probably will -- but still, if I have my preference, I'd rather a more masculine guy, less pretty-boy than this dude, the rough, weather-beaten features of a baseball player, or a coach, a man's man -- like Big Don. Or Ronnie.

"Milos trained J-Claude when he was new to us," Big Don says to me, as he leads me away from the showers, not that the guys seem to want any special privacy. "The same way Ronnie will train you."

I imagine Ronnie doing to me what Milos is doing to J-Claude and suddenly my dick is doing what it does best, and with Big Don's muscular arm around my shoulder, I'm a bitch in heat.

"I know what you're thinking, boy," says Big Don, as we walk out of the changing area, back into the gym proper, toward his office, "but I couldn't tell you for sure. Ronnie's never fucked me. He's got a great cock, though. I have sucked it." He looks toward the weight room and says, "Ah, look. You can see what I mean now. Ronnie's starting to get serious."

Down at the other end of the gym, I can see that Ronnie has taken his baggy pants off. What the hell is he wearing? He still sports the t-shirt, plastered to him as it is with sweat, but below? At first I think he's naked, seeing him from behind, his massive ass melding with his thick hamstrings, but as he gets deeper into the squat, I realize that he's wearing a thong -- I can see the electric blue strap deep between his cheeks. When he re-racks the weight, he begins posing in the mirror. What unbelievably glorious, mind-boggling legs! Platz is a pussy! Francois is your grandmother! DeMayo is deNothing!

Raising his arms over his head, I then get a full view of Ronnie's monstrous package, the horse-dick that so fills the pouch of his thong that he can't even fully cover it with material, his root at least an inch exposed, the heavy, laden balls supporting it. Filling my vision with his dick, I forget all about his quads. "See what I mean?" says Big Don conspiratorially.

My eyes are riveted to Ronnie's cock, that big ultra-cock. "Oh my god," I whisper. "How am I gonna take all that?" Through the fear, my ass shows an interest in trying.

Big Don pats his own atypical endowment, and says, "Maybe you should get some practice in..."

We're in his office before that ellipse can registar a dramatic pause.

And that's how I end up kneeling beside Big Don's desk-chair, suckling his gentle pink nipple as he tells me his story.

As he entered the office, he pulled his shirt off over his head. I got that from behind. His traps, high on his shoulders, supporting his bull neck -- his lower back a column, holding up the marble-statue weight of his lats and rhomboids. Put that in coach's shorts, a pair of New Balance gym shoes, and a tiny silver necklace, and you've got my vision. I can't believe I never used to be attracted to this. What was my problem?

And when he turns around -- oh my god, when he turns around -- and I see that chest, that monstrous, bulbous, load-bearing chest, that swollen, morphic, teen-aged fantasy chest, I can think of nothing else in the world that matters, not lifting, not breathing, not even Ronnie's ridiculous cock. Big Don's quarter-sized nipples play dangerously on the very edge of a cliff, barely keeping their grip. Pink and soft, their siren-song hums in licks of slow jazz. Connecting with them would be electric, un-plugged, the sudden addition of latin-esque auxiliary percussion.

His sits in his comfortable desk-chair -- it would be a lot more fun to say throne, but even I can't stretch it that far -- a leather high-back at least, and with his legs spread, his package prominant, his abs slightly rounded, his lats as wide as wings, he motions for me to kneel next to him, saying, "C'mere."

It awakens in me the feeling of approaching Santa Claus in the mall, the massive old man who has all the goodies, the tantalizing excitement. I kneel next to him because at two-hundred eighty-some pounds, I'd probably crush him if I sat in his lap. Besides, that gives me the view I seek, that perfect, perfect nipple. Aeriola very.

"I used to be a football coach," he says softly, "so many years ago, homophobic as the rest of college sports. Even after my initial transformation, I stayed with the job, though it was rough at first." He looks at me and smiles. "You're in that stage now, I guess. I'm sorry. I forgot." Shrugging, "I'm an old man, remember." Then he instructs, "Put your hands behind your back."

With a tone that is accustomed to immediate compliance, his orders are almost casual. It's easy to obey him, he's so confident. It feels good to obey, actually. I like his approval. I know I could please him further. If he'd just let me at that nipple.

"Good boy," he says, sending a chill through me. At two eighty-six, not many people call me "boy," but I'll let Big Don call me whatever he wants. He leans back in the chair, lowering his arm until his tit is fully exposed. His pec is so deep, so round, it could be a breast. His nipple beckons. "Why don't you suck on this while I talk to you?"

I don't need to be asked twice. I doubt that plump, erect nipple has ever been denied, and I don't want to be the first. Of course, once it's past my lips, once I feel the firm pillow of muscle beneath it, once its tip brushes against my tongue, I can think of little but him. Tasting him, his essence. Suckling Big Don.

He tells me his story.

"As I said, I was a college-football coach." He cradles my head in his arm, and gently pushes me into the mass of his pec. "Mmmm, that's very good, boy. Anyway, I was married because I was too lazy to be single, which turns out to be very common among men, and my boys on the team won enough games to keep the alumni happy, but never quite delivered any championships, which didn't please the board. But who can complain when there's a winning record?

"I was forty-five then, and I was in sorry shape. It's funny how my happiness was in inverse proportion with my bodyfat level." Big Don gently chuckles, shaking his nipple slightly as his chest bounces. It almost slips out of my mouth -- but I will never let it go. He sighs, reflecting. "Grossly fat. Comfortably-married fat. Big-legged, big-assed, big-gutted cliche of a man. You know, I shake my head now, but at the time, I didn't think that. I was unhappy, but I didn't understand why. I had everything that I was supposed to, only there was this vague feeling of dissatisfaction.

"I certainly wasn't able to look at myself honestly in the mirror. I found just about every excuse in the world to rationalize my gut -- hell, show me a man who doesn't have a gut at forty-five and I'll show you an obsessive/ compulsive." He flexes his abs then, looking down at himself. I pause on his nipple long enough to glance there myself. Flat and strong -- no ten-pack like me or Milos, no eight-pack like J-Claude, no six, no four, no chunks at all. Flat and strong. "My abs still really suck -- thank you, genetics -- but at least I don't have the keg anymore. My waist is smaller than my inseam." He laughs again, and presses my head back to his nipple, mumbling, "You're not done."

Once I'm satisfactorily back to work, he continues. "That's when I met Brad. You'll meet him in a little while -- nice guy. He came and interviewed for a job in the department -- he has degrees in bio-chemistry and sports medicine -- and he was a big man even then. 'A lineman turned powerlifter turned bodybuilder' is how he described himself. He knew his shit, he was funny and bright, so I hired him. It wasn't until later that I found out he was the same age as me. That hurt, I'll tell you what.

"We were buddies. Friends as much as two straight-guys can be. At least, at the time I thought he was straight, and he never gave me any indication that he was anything else. He didn't wear a ring, but with a body like his, he was obviously a player. And again, he never said anything to dissuade me from that. Then one day, playing pool at a local sports bar, we were joking about steroid-use among female swimmers -- turning them into men -- when he said, 'You know, I got a little something that'll turn you into a man.'

"'You talkin' about steroids, Brad?' I asked, sipping on my beer, a little buzzed.

"'No,' he said, turning up from the cue ball, facing me. 'I'm talkin' about something better.'

"Well," Big Don says to me, as I lick the area around the aeriola, "you know that conversation. You've had it. An hour after Brad introduced the subject, we were back at his apartment and he gave me the shot. I'm sure he didn't have any trouble finding the target.

"You know the next part of the story, too. I woke up the following morning feelin' better than I had in twenty years -- my cock was a teenager again. Hell, I didn't even mind fuckin' my wife, and the years had been far less kind to her than to me. She didn't mind the attention, either -- it was the first she'd had in quite some time. To prove how grateful, she made me breakfast that morning, and I went to work with a spring in my step.

"For Brad, I was all smiles and gratitude. He winked conspiratorially and said, 'You just wait. You feel like workin' out a little today?'

"I hadn't worked out in over ten years, but that day? Yeah, I felt like it. I had a boy's energy, even with my old-man's body. And on that first day, like you, like everyone -- except maybe Ronnie -- I did chest. And that one workout changed my life completely. To this day, Brad and I argue about it. He says it was the drug kicking in. Of course he says that -- he's a scientist -- it's all cut and dry to him. And I concede that I wouldn't have had the potential for the workout I had if I hadn't taken the drug, but it was the workout that actually changed me. It was the pump. The way my chest blew up like an inflatable. That's when I gave myself over to the transformation, when I allowed it to realize.

"I put on size so fast. Now, it was a different drug in those days. He's really perfected it now, but at that time, the complete transformation took almost a month. Nowadays, he's got it so refined that if you have sex with one of the Boyz at any stage, you maximize immediately. He also didn't know the effect of the drug on sexuality when he experimented with me. Apparently, Brad was into guys before he'd taken the drug himself. He'd only speculated on what it would do to others.

"And what it did to me was remarkable. That first week, I didn't see much muscle growth. I could feel it, but I was too damn fat to really see what was going on. Except for my chest and shoulders, the growth seemed almost negligible. Well, there was growth in my libido, that was as obvious as the lump in my pants, and though my wife enjoyed the attention, the newfound fire at first, she quickly tired of the my constant desire -- my lust, as she called it. 'Not again,' she'd say. 'Put that thing away. What is with you lately?'

"And while I masturbated in the bathroom, I'd wonder, too. Of course, there were benefits to all that time alone. Example, I got to know my cock really well -- what pleased it, what excited it, what got it off when I experimented with new techniques -- it became a syncophatic friend. An attention-hungry six year-old. As much as I hated not fucking anything, I enjoyed being with myself.

"I also enjoyed spending time in the locker room at school. Instead of darting through on the way to my office after practice, avoiding the smell, the noise, the college-boy antics, I began hanging back, talking to the guys. It felt good just to be with them, stand around with them, shoot the shit, feel their vibe. The big linemen, the muscular running backs, I developed a comfortable-ness with the big men -- where the seed for the Boyz Club was probably planted -- the easy camaraderie, the fraternity of the locker room.

"More, my cock enjoyed the company. When it was around these half-naked guys, these youthful paragons, it would bloom. Not get harder, not erect exactly, but full, and thick -- comfortable, like it knew I was the leader, the coach, so it had to be the biggest -- even my cock was competitive, and it liked to be on display. The more I was around the other guys, and the more I felt that way, the more I got to like it. It never freaked me out, or made me question my sexuality -- it felt right. I allowed it. There were even times, masturbating alone in my office, listening to the guys talk and horse-around in the adjacent locker room, when I wished they were beating off with me, that we could bond through that, too.

"Suddenly, the changes in me were noticable. Though my weight stayed the same, my body changed shape. It was like my muscle was feeding off my fat, growing from stored sugars and barbeques. My chest swelled and thickened, until it was bigger than my wife's! And I imagine my breasts were just as sensitive as hers -- stroking my pecs sent shivers through me -- if only she was that lucky -- and my rapidly reducing beer gut emphasized them even more. Pretty much every workout became chest, you know? Even doing legs, I'd hit chest.

"My wife insisted I was 'on' something, that I was doing something illegal -- not unsafe, you'll note, just illegal. My wife worried less over my health than over my lawlessness. 'Steroids,' she accused. 'Somehow you've gotten mixed up in some kind of them steroids.'

"I denied everything, over and over. We had the same fight almost everyday. The more my body changed, the more we fought. Finally one morning, when she walked in on me flexing in my bathroom mirror, stroking a violent erection as I pinched my own nipples, when I smiled and said, 'Well, you wouldn't fuck me,' when I did that, she left me. She just jumped in her car and took off. I might've chased her, I thought about it, maybe I could've explained and won her back, but I'd left my cock so close to the edge, it would've been wrong to deny that, too. So I made my choice. And as I shot my crippling load at my muscular reflection, I knew I didn't want my wife anymore. Whatever I wanted, it wasn't her.

"I bore the brunt of it. I was the one changing, so why not completely change? I moved into my office at the gym, if you can believe it. I already had a back room with a cot -- where I used to nap in the afternoon or working late on paperwork, which was more often than you'd think. Anyway, I already had this back room, so I just stayed there. Let her have the house and the car and the crap. I was getting the body.

"And I was pretty much getting to live in the locker room, which I really started to like. That day, and for many days thereafter, I lifted at the school weight-room, working out with the big boys and enjoying my growth. My gut was almost completely gone, my love-handles losing their grip, and one day I was doing cable-crossovers shirtless with this guy Ali, our first-string defensive end, flexing and pumping, posing and preening, intense and focused, driven, when I realized that I was turned-on. Lifting with this well-muscled college-boy was giving me an erection.

"At first, it was manageable. My cock was just 'plumping up,' like it always seemed to do when I was in the locker room, around the other guys. So, I ignored it -- well, as much as you can ignore your half-hard nine-inch beer-can dick in a pair of polyester coach's shorts -- it did look good there beneath my poses, long and potent. Blunt. Why ignore it? It was beautiful.

"It wasn't until Ali said, 'Holy shit, Coach. That's one big rod you got.' that I realized he was aware of it, too. We stood there facing each other and both looked at my cock. I didn't move to hide it, and he didn't look away.

"'Yeah,' I said, shrugging. 'I kinda get into pumpin' up my chest.'

"He glanced at my chest -- which I quickly flexed -- before meeting my eye. 'I can understand that.'

"An uncomfortable moment later, I said, 'Well, I better go take care of this.'

"Ali nodded, looking back to my cock, which was now snaking its way down my thigh. He shifted his feet, but then came out with it. 'You, um, you need any help?'

"Well, I had that back-room on my office where I'd set up my cot, where I lived, where I'd taken quite a number of co-eds in my early years -- before I got fat! -- and where I was now -- at forty-five years of age -- taking my first man.

"Ali, my hot, Iranian defensive end -- he of the bronze skin and golden eye -- the young, supple, desert lion -- his mane buzzed down to a fade -- sleek muscle and explosive power -- well, this gorgeous boy fell to his knees before me and began kissing my feet, which I didn't expect, but didn't mind, either. 'My coach,' he mumbled. 'My Master.'

"How can one moment erase a lifetime of sexual predisposition? How can one mumbled word from a middle-eastern muscle-boy so easily open the gates of ecstacy and fulfillment? How can one kiss, one moment of idle worship -- one moment of idol worship -- one helpless second of submission -- how can that completely change the man you've always been?

"I don't know, either. But it did. The man I became in that instant was a far, far different man than the one that had existed before. Better. The hate went away. The self-loathing went away. The body responded -- and grew. As Ali worked his way up my legs, worshipping me, praising me, kissing and licking every inch of me, I swear I could feel myself grow beneath his tongue. And the bigger I grew, the more attracted to myself I became, and the more attracted to myself I became, the more I grew. The devil's cycle.

"Ali barely had my cock out of my coach's shorts, barely had it tucked comfortably in the back of his throat, barely had his tongue working its experienced magic when I came with a load he could barely swallow. The most intensely erotic moment of my life -- greater than the moment I discovered masturbation, stronger than the first time I put myself inside a woman's sweet, sweet pussy, more climactic than my wedding night in Niagara Falls.

"But the most amazing thing of all? Not the lips, the tongue, or the motions of the head, not the throat, nor the soft palate, nor the calloused hands with gentle support. The most amazing thing to me, at that time, was the ease with which the encounter started and finished. No baggage. No demands or expectations. No 'go take out the garbage.' It was so unlike being with a woman. When Ali finished with my spent cock, he tucked me back into my shorts, stood, adjusted himself -- he had cum somewhere along the line -- to this day I don't remember it happening -- and said, 'Ready to get back to the workout?'

"And I did. That was the really fucked up thing. I couldn't WAIT to get back to the workout. 'Oh, yeah,' I said. 'And thanks, man. That was great.'

"He leaned up against my chest, laying his head on my trap and whispered, 'I prefer when you call me "boy."'

"'Okay... boy,' I said -- and I confess, I preferred it, too. Almost natural. My cock liked it, that's for sure -- it twitched a bit in my shorts.

"He didn't move his body, but put his hands behind his back. 'I'll call you "Coach," but when I say it, I'll really mean "Master."'

"At the sound of that word again, I grunted, saying -- for the first time in my life -- 'I'm startin' to want more than your mouth, boy.'

"He smiled, pulling his head away from my shoulder to face me. I could smell my cum on his breath. 'Could you fuck me after?' he asked. 'I really wanna get this workout in...'

Big Don pulls me away from his nipple, cradling my head in his hands. "That's my story," he says. "What'd you think?"

"Is that the whole story?" I ask, my hands still behind my back. "Seems to have a couple of holes. What happened to the scientist guy -- Brad? How did you start the Boyz Club here? What happened to that hot Arabic guy, Ali?"

He shrugs his massive shoulders. "As far as I'm concerned, that's hardly the interesting part of it. Those are details best left for an epilogue. Brad and I got together. I fucked the shit out of him. Then I fucked him again, and again. Fifteen years now, I've been fucking Brad. Ali joined us about a month after my transformation. We all moved into this farm house about a year after that, and you can see what we've done to it. Some of the guys live here with us, some don't -- they just visit for extended periods of time. Since you're apprenticing with Ronnie, you'll stay with him -- he lives up in the house. Actually, after Ali, Ronnie was the next guy we recruited. And Ronnie was the experiment -- we wanted to find out if Brad's Growth Formula was really gonna turn guys gay. Or if what my experience was truly unique -- Brad and Ali were already gay when they went through the transformation, remember. Ronnie's story is pretty fucking amazing -- you'll be hearing it in a little while."

I smile. "What'll we do in the meantime?"

He leads me to his lips, and gently kisses me. It's the first time I've ever kissed a man, and I love it. I'll stay here. I'll join their gym. I'll submit. I want this.

Big Don releases me, breaks the kiss, and speaks as we rub our foreheads together. "I think maybe I'm gonna fuck you," he says, clutching my ass.

"Okay," I say, smiling my seductive smile, unzipping his Coach's shorts, releasing his experienced cock. "But I do want to get a workout in sometime today."

Big Don laughs while he fucks me. •

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