On My Way

By falseyedee

Not a story so much as a description of an experience.

Damn, I look good now. I really do. Not that long ago I was a slender gym rat. I spent a couple hours at the gym every day and made excruciatingly slow progress in my attempts to bulk up. I was a hard gainer and had only managed an 8 pound gain in 18 or 20 months.

It was frustrating. But even more frustrating was the weight [read that "muscle mass"] I'd lose if I missed a week at the gym. I probably gained those 8 pounds 3 or 4 times.

But now, wow. I can hardly believe that I'm me. I look different. I feel different. This morning I woke up and was pleasantly surprised that the muscles I had yesterday were still here. I felt the weight of my new muscles, gravity pulling the denser, larger muscles downward toward the center of the earth. I saw the double hump of my chest rising and falling with each breath. Each pectoral mass swelling upward, firm and smooth. I raised my right hand up over my body to feel my left pectoral. It isn't a huge muscle by any means, but it's larger than it's ever been, larger than I'd dared to dream. As I reached my right hand over to feel my left pec, my right pec flexes and "pops" higher. My pectoral fills my hand and protrudes above my rib cage even when I'm lying down.

I really enjoy that my chest is finally developing. I enjoy that my abs are finally turning from a smooth undifferentiated stomach to an increasingly firm and rigged six pack. I enjoy that even though I've always been slender, my waist is now even smaller than it was before. I enjoy that my legs are getting stronger and developing an outward sweep from my hips to my knees. I enjoy that my legs are developing that tear drop muscle just over my knees.

But what I really love is the increased size of my biceps. They are big, round, hard and veined. They are bigger than they should be. Well, bigger than they should be if you want a symmetrical build. My friends tell me that I need to cut back on the arm training and focus on my chest, on my back, on my shoulders. But I love my bulging biceps.

My biceps curve upward and outward from my fore arms toward my shoulders even when my arms hang lose at my sides. A thick vein runs over the front of my biceps from my shoulder down to my fore arms. When I lift my arm up and make a muscle, even when I'm not flexing, it mounds high and round. It looks firm and round like an orange or grapefruit. Then when I flex, the muscle pops up and splits into a double peak that looks like it's carved granite. The muscle shifts forward and back as I rotate my fist forward and back.

When I put on this sport shirt this morning I loved the sensation of the thin cotton fabric wrapping snuggly around my chest as I fastened the buttons from the bottom up my torso. At first, I loved the feeling of my big biceps being wrapped tight by the shirt's short sleeves. The hem of the sleeve doesn't even reach the mid-point of my bulging biceps. In the mirror I saw myself in the shirt. My big arms filling the sleeves, testing the seams, the body hanging open, draping over my firm, large pecs, my six pack abs rising and falling with every breath. I flexed and bounced my pecs and the shirt spread further open exposing my entire chest.

I began to button up the shirt. At first, there was not change as I did up the buttons at the bottom. Then I started doing the buttons just below my chest and the shirt got increasingly snug around my torso as each successive button was fastened. As I worked my way slowly up the front of my shirt, my biceps bulged as my arms bent. The sleeves got tighter and I could hear the seams creaking. Then the fabric began to slide down the growing mountain of biceps muscle up toward my shoulders. Eventually, the sleeves were bunched and gathered in the valley between my biceps and shoulders, my softball sized biceps completely on display. I dropped my arms to my sides and the fabric couldn't slide back down my arms. My biceps are too big.

I paused to enjoy the sensation of comfortable tightness around my torso. I liked the way the shirt was snug around my torso and loose around my waist. I liked the way my exposed pectoral cleavage looked. I continued to do up my buttons and loved the way the shirt was now tight around my chest. I had to roll my shoulders forward and pull the shirt closed over my pecs to easily fasten the buttons. When I relaxed and let my shoulders go back to their normal position, the shirt got tight around my chest and back. The buttons over my chest tipped slightly toward the left as the shirt tried to spread to make room for my burgeoning chest muscles.

I gazed at myself in the mirror, matching the image in the reflection to the physical sensation of shirt tight around my hard, swelling bulk. The shirt is too small on me. It never looked better on me. My chest looks good. My arms are too big. My skin is taut over the firm, thick masses of muscle I've built. The sensation of my muscular body pushing against the fabric that tries to contain it is incredible. The sense of being bound by the cotton shirt enhances the experience of being bigger and stronger. I'm bound by the shirt's fibers, but my body is stronger than they are.

I breath deeply and feel my chest expanding, pushing against the restraining shirt. As I breath deep I can feel the fabric binding me tighter and I can see the shirt spreading apart in the gaps between the buttons. I breath deep and my chest grows and the buttons strain to keep the shirt closed. The feeling of being barely contained only heightens the feeling of being bigger. It makes the intellectual knowledge of my being bigger and more muscular real. This shirt used to fit me. It once buttoned without feeling tight or snug. My arms once hung free in the sleeves that can no longer accommodate their mass. I breath in deeply and flex my pecs. I hear a crack. I breath in more deeply and flex my pecs and traps and bring my arms flexed hard forward in a muscle hug and the back of my shirt shreds, as the seams of the arms give way, as the buttons fly off bouncing from the mirror and skittering across the floor.

I'm on my way. •

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