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|Sitting at my computer, failing to write my column, I'm unable to get my job
done because I can't get thoughts of the gym out of my head - I keep hearing
their voices over and over. Rook in the locker room afterwards: "You never
pledged a fraternity? You never heard of hazing?"
Brad in his office: "Well, what do you want me to do about it, dude? Robinson's bigger than ME. If I'd have come into the shower and found you, there wouldn't have been much I could've done about it. He could've conceivably ordered ME to join you guys - not that he ever would... I think. (He's got more respect for me than THAT.) But if he DID, I'd have to do what he says - he's got me by thirty pounds. It's the first rule, dude: always obey the bigger man."
And their solutions were worse than their rationalizations.
Rook: "You gotta do what you gotta do. I'm gonna get big. And I'll pay whatever price I gotta - even occasional humiliation."
Brad: "So work your ass off, get bigger than him, and turn the tables. Suck it up, Strong - don't come whining to me."
That big monster Robinson had forced us to wash him after his workout, forced us to soap-up his swollen, over-pumped muscle, forced us to kneel before him with our hands behind our backs while he ejaculated across our naked chests. He forced us to worship him.
And I think he forced us to like it.
See, this is the point I keep coming back to. No matter how I've defined my sexuality in the past - and though I've never had a homosexual experience before, the thought has never repulsed me, just never intrigued me enough to do anything about it - I NEVER would've expected myself to have responded the way I did then.
I'd been as hard as a rock - and when he shot, when he blew that load of cum across my pecs, I came, too.
What the fuck was wrong with me? WAS I being hypnotized? DID that device that "scanned" my retinal pattern for the security system actually have some different effect on me? Did that shit I let them inject into me change me? Was I already in their power?
Rook could see it weighing on my mind as we climbed the steep stairs out of the gym, dressed in our street-clothes again, our cum-stained gym-wear tucked to the bottom of our bags. "Don't get me wrong," he said, opening the security door at the top of the stairs, "I don't ENJOY being humiliated by big bodybuilders. But I want to get big more than I care about it." He shrugged, tossing it off so easily. "We're the new guys. It's the price we gotta pay."
We walked down 64th, or 92nd, or 101st - whatever the cross-street was, the one I'm bound to keep secret - and by the time we reached 8th Avenue, he had me pretty much convinced that it was nothing more than a fraternity stunt, nothing more than motivation to get huge myself. "Yeah?" I said. "Well, when I get big, I won't treat the new guys like that."
He smiled secretively. "You might be surprised what gaining twenty pounds of muscle will make you do." He looked away, speculatively. "I only hope THAT trend continues."
We traded cell numbers and made tentative plans to meet the next day - Sunday - then he hopped in a cab and took off downtown. I walked the remaining ten-or-so blocks to my apartment, wondering how different I'd be at 225 than I was now. I tried to visualize myself in the reflection of the shop windows I passed, but just couldn't. I tried to put my head on Rook's body, but had trouble.
And Rook had said he'd been smaller than me!
My chest was still pumped from my workout - my one-rep workout - which was what made me believe they were telling me the truth. I'd never had a pump like that - never felt that full, that hard - never been so swollen as my pecs were then. That pump, that feeling, that incredible feeling, it went on and on. As I type these words now, some eight hours later, I STILL have it! It hasn't gone down at all.
Seriously, a little more than eight hours have gone by, and my pump is as fresh as if I'd just gotten up off the bench. It's amazing - it's torturous. I can't stop touching it - can't stop looking at it.
I'm erect again!
Even as I grab my dick and start to beat off for the fifth time since I've gotten home, I know I'm going back to the gym tomorrow. Whatever the hell they've given me, whatever it's doing to me, I like it.
I like it a lot.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was an orgasm that woke me the next morning. I hadn't had a wet dream since I was fourteen or fifteen, but I knew it for what it was immediately. Of course, I'd been dreaming of the gym, watching huge men squat ridiculous weight, dressed only in posing trunks, sweat rolling down their backs - and they included ME in their group - I was ONE of them! - my greatest fantasy - so I shouldn't have been surprised, I guess. But all of a sudden, I just felt it go. In that dream-state, I looked down at myself, trying to identify what was happening while at the same time coming awake to feel my real cock shooting inside the confines of my tight underwear.
I laughed - because what the fuck was I, fourteen again? - and then went to clean up.
I pulled my t-shirt off and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Then I quickly looked down at myself to confirm it - as if the mirror would lie. No, I wasn't still pumped - though there was a moment when I kind of hoped for that - but cold, my chest was now the same size it had BEEN when I'd had it. I mean, my chest had grown INTO the pump.
I was bigger.
The scale had me at 201 - a pound up from yesterday. But more than what the scale said, I could see it. One day - one rep! - and I could see a difference.
If I'd been anxious to go back to the gym before, it was nothing on the way I was Jones-ing then. Still in my underwear - my THIRD set of cum-stained drawers since I'd joined Apollyon - I grabbed my cell and called Rook.
It was only when I heard his half-asleep voice that I realized the time. "What's up, bro?" he asked, shaking off the veil.
"Rook," I said nervously, "I grew. I'm bigger."
"No kidding. Jeff, you joined Apollyon - if you're gonna call me every time you grow, I'm never gonna get any sleep."
The next words were out of my mouth before I even knew I'd said them. "Well then, since you're up anyway, what time you wanna work out?"
He laughed, and I heard him stretching while he spoke. "Give me an hour." Then the phone went dead - he hung up.
That was one of the most torturous hours of my life - you know the ones, where the clock slows down just to tease you? - but I made use of the time by dressing and re-dressing in one outfit after the next, posing in the mirror to find the one that made my new chest look its best. I decided on my compression shorts instead of a jockstrap after trying on both, figuring that the tighter I was held, the less likely I was to shoot during my workout - I remembered yesterday when I almost came simply by walking in my loose boxer briefs. I optioned my baggy gym pants and a loose-fitting Under-Armor long-sleeve t-shirt, which fell on my chest well, but wouldn't show everyone I was the smallest guy there, either.
It was Sunday in the very early a.m., so mid-town was nearly empty, a few dog-walkers and bodega-owners spraying the sidewalks - one after the other - as I made my way up-town to 64th, 92nd, or 101st - whatever it was. I swear, I fairly skipped. I was that pathetic.
Typing my code into the keypad (my social-security number backwards), I entered the front hallway - "The games are over - time to train!" painted on the wall. But the slogan was wrong, I thought. The games had barely begun. I went down the hall to the retinal scanner.
If someone were to get in the front door, which to me seemed highly unlikely, but in the event that someone stalked the entrance, or lucked into a nine-digit code, the retinal scanner would stop them before they got any further. Apparently, no non-member had ever gotten beyond this door - that's what Brad had said.
Of course, in my fantasy the retinal scanner was really a mind-control device, subtly altering the viewer until he became whatever submissive jock-slave the Master desired. See? Just thinking about that caused my dick to stir in my pants - just approaching the gym raised my anticipation level, now I was thinking about that shit again. I needed to calm down. I couldn't afford to think about fantasies.
I wasn't gonna cum on the first rep today.
Control. Control. Control.
I typed my number into the keypad and the screen lit with my name "STRONG" across the top and a QuickTime clip of a bodybuilder doing a lat-spread. "Back Day" and "Have a good workout, Strong" printed beneath. A digitized, recorded voice came over the speaker, saying, "Please look in the retinal scanner."
I likened it to a periscope in my last description, and I still stand by that image. Trying to control my fantasies, I pressed my face against it, sealing my eyes into the dark hole.
A red sweep across my vision - no fantasy, no mind-control, no orders from an unseen Master - just a momentary flash, then the same computerized voice saying, "Positive match. Welcome, Jeff Strong."
And the buzzer buzzed before I could react further, so I pulled the door open and went inside.
"Where you work for the worship!" said the slogan on the wall. I laughed. Wrong again. After the scene with Robinson in the shower yesterday, I was here working to NOT have to worship.
As I descended the stairs, I watched myself in the over-head mirror, and I could see how my shirt fit me differently with my bigger chest. Amazing! I couldn't wait to work out again. As I descended the stairs, my hunger for muscle grew. By the time I hit the gym-landing, I'd left the real world behind me. I was here to work out - to grow. Maybe that thing really DID hypnotize me...
Even at 6am on a Sunday morning, there was somebody here. The place was open 24/7, though the medical staff only worked on weekdays, but there wasn't a GYM staff, per se. Brad clearly handled administrative responsibilities, but I don't think there was a regimen of salespeople and "trainers" over-crowding the place. There was certainly nobody there now. Brad's office door was shut and the lights were out. I think the lone body in the gym was the guy I could hear training deep in the bowels of the free-weight area. I couldn't see him from here.
There was nobody in the locker room, though it too showed evidence of recent activity. It kind of surprised me. My old gym was ALWAYS busy on Sunday morning - folks getting their workouts in before going to church and whatnot.
At my locker/ changing area, there was a Post-It note from Brad, in the shape of a flexing biceps, reading, "Strong - appt tomorrow (Monday) 10:30am with Dr. Rinaldi in the med suite. Don't be late. Try to get more than one rep today! LOL"
Fucker, I thought, tearing the note down and putting it in the pocket of my jeans.
As I started to dress, Rook came into the locker room, wearing warm-ups and the t-shirt he'd clearly slept in, his hair disheveled, his gym-bag casually tossed over his shoulder. He sipped a coffee from Starbucks. "I'm only gonna let you get away with this a couple of times," he said, tossing his bag to the floor in front of his locker. "Then you're gonna have to wait and work out at a decent hour."
"Not a morning person, are you?" I asked, smiling.
He grimaced in answer. "It's a good thing gearing up gives you the rush it does," he said. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be here at all."
He wore another wrestling singlet over a tight jockstrap, a loose t-shirt over that. His arms were a little out of proportion with the rest of his physique - his chest was his weak point. "Compression shorts," he commented when he saw me slide them on, "very smart. The tighter you can keep the package, the less of a chance you'll cum unexpectedly. C'mon, let's get geared up."
Together, we went into the med room, excited as kids at Christmas - I confess I was actually looking forward to it. How different than I was just yesterday, when I was condemning steroids and all that went with them. Now I was getting a chubby in anticipation.
Rook opened a drawer and pulled out two pre-loaded syringes, tossing one to me. From a jar on the counter, he got several alcohol swabs. "Which side did you put it in yesterday?" he asked, opening a pad and cleaning the needle.
I touched the butt-cheek that Brad had injected. "Right," I said.
"Then do the left today. Always the opposite. C'mon, let's do it at the same time."
He pulled his t-shirt off and the straps of his singlet down, leaving only the jockstrap in place. I yanked my gym-pants and compressions shorts down just enough to expose my ass, but keep my privates covered. I mimicked the way he cleaned the needle, rubbed a patch of skin and quickly jabbed the needle into himself.
It didn't hurt - maybe stung a little - but certainly felt odd as I pushed it through the deep skin barrier, until it sunk easily into the muscle mass. As I emptied the chamber, my hard-on intensified. The same thing happened to Rook, and he made no effort to hide it or apologize - so neither did I.
We cleaned up quickly, tossing the re-capped darts into a medical waste can and heading back to the locker room. "Let's go stretch," Rook said. "We got about ten minutes or so."
Hanging from one of the chin-up bars, enjoying the stretch through the muscles of my back, a couple of vertebrae cracking as gravity forced them to re-align, I looked around.
The only other guy on the floor was an even bigger beast than Robinson. Dressed only in a unitard that was cut like thong in the back and sneakers - My God, I thought, the things people wear in this gym! He did leg-presses with very nearly every forty-five pound plate in the place. There had to be at least half-a-ton loaded on the machine, if not more. "That's Palumbo," Rook said when he saw me looking. "He's a really nice guy, a big softie, but not too bright. It's like, the bigger he gets, the dumber he gets." He chuckled.
"Maybe that's HIS fantasy," I said, watching the big man get his feet into position on the platform. His legs were unbelievable, almost out of proportion. We watched Palumbo scream out his set, getting eight full reps with that impossible weight, lowering the sled until his ankles touched his ass, until his knees sank into his pecs. When he finished pressing, he swung the rack closed but continued to crank out some calves. Finally, he climbed to his feet and posed in the mirror, pumped and cut. He exploded from the confines of the gray unitard, his exposed ass and monstrous legs belied an unbelievable amount of power. It was almost impossible to control my cock. He was having trouble controlling HIS, too - his erection pointed straight out in front of him. He wasn't well-endowed, this monster Palumbo, and the size of his legs did nothing to help the illusion, but he still seemed proud and masculine, his sense of self not wrapped-up in the length of his penis. Fortunately.
And then, unexpectedly, MY rush hit me. I could feel the compound jack my system - I could sense the testosterone suddenly flowing through me. Unable to resist, I started rep-ing out some pull-ups. My body was immediately amped, the power overwhelming me. When I flexed at the top of the movement, I became suddenly aware of each individual muscle-fiber. The stretch at the bottom, the squeeze at the top, over and over, it was almost sexual - the movement became a full-body thrust.
I'd passed forty-five reps by the time I'd realized what I was doing, but didn't stop - I didn't need to stop. I could fuckin' do pull-ups forever, my back was so strong. And the repetitiveness of the motion seduced me, and excited me. I WAS my back. Fuck yeah, man! Mind in muscle.
It was Rook who stopped me, who literally pulled me from the bar. He grabbed me by the hips and pulled until I dropped to the floor. "Whoa, Jeff! Whoa!" he said. "Don't trip out, man. Keep it under control."
"Aw, fuck," I said, my tone cross. "Why'd you stop me, Rook?" My back was already getting pumped. It felt good.
He laughed. "If I hadn't stopped you, you would of done pull-ups until you'd shot your wad all over the fuckin' floor. You gotta keep it in control, man."
I knew he was feeling the same way I was, not only because I could see it in his face, but because his erection was obvious in his singlet, pointing in the same direction as mine. So I tried to take his advice, but try NOT to think about cocaine when you're in the middle of a cocaine rush. All I wanted to do was workout.
We went to the Hammer Strength lateral rower, loading it up with plates, warming up with two more than I usually did in my heaviest set. God damn, it felt good to handle that weight, to know how heavy it was but still control it. To own it.
It was power!
Pure, male, unadulterated power.
Stop, I thought. Stop thinking that way. Don't get distracted. Don't lose control.
And then Palumbo caught my eye, about ten feet away, standing at the squat rack and watching us - watching me. Watching me struggle with my buzz, enjoying it if the smirk on his face was any indication. "Hey, new guy," he said. "First time?"
"Second," I said, fighting to just keep my breathing under control. I just wanted to scream - and fuck - and do my reps!
He grunted in acknowledgement. "Then I got just what you need. C'mere, I want you to spot me."
Rook was right there, getting between us. "I got you, Palumbo. It's his set." He motioned me to the machine and took a few steps toward the giant.
"I don't want you, Rookie," Palumbo said, holding up his hand in a "stop" motion, then pointing to me. "I want him. What's your name, new guy?"
"Jeff," I said. "Jeff Strong."
He smirked again - apparently, that was his laugh, tilting his head back slightly and slowly blinking his eyes - and said, "That'll be a good name for you... eventually. Now, get over here and give me a spot, Strong."
I turned to Rook and winked, then started over to Palumbo. Rook mouthed the word "control" but watched nervously, his hand on his own erection. He rocked to and fro, trying to keep himself steady, as buzzed as I was. As Palumbo must have been, too.
He had six plates on either side of the squat bar, no shoulder pad - not that with his traps, he needed any cushioning. The gray cotton unitard really only covered his lower torso, shoulder straps blocking his nipples, and then his entire leg and ass exposed from the thong base. It was the kind of thing one only expected to see on ballet dancers and fey little Undergear queens, so it was almost out-of-place on someone the size of Palumbo, whose giant muscle blew out from it. Yet somehow, he made it look masculine.
"You know how to spot a guy squatting?" he asked, looking at me via the mirror while he leaned against the bar.
"Yeah," I said as I took the finally few steps carefully, the compression shorts I wore rubbing uncomfortably against my hard-on.
"I shouldn't need you for this, but I like havin' someone there." Slipping his head under the bar, finding his grip, he took the weight off the rack and onto his back. As he stepped back away from the cage, I got into position behind him.
He was huge before me, a little taller than I was, so I stared almost directly into the mass of his lower traps. His back was so wide and so thick that I almost couldn't reach around him to settle my hands on his rib cage.
When he descended in the rep, I could feel the sweep of his hamstrings press into the top of my quads - his horse-like ass into my lap. My raging erection pressed against him.
When he stood, and flexed those legs until they were as hard as iron, when he squeezed the halves of his ass together, he grabbed my cock with them, purposefully pulling it into the unbridled mass of his muscle, deep into the crack between his cheeks. As he stood, and flexed his legs at the top of the rep, he swayed his hips in a gently seductive way, rippling the muscle along the length of my dick.
Unable to help myself, wrapped around this bloated beast, cock buried deep in the muscle of his ass with only a few layers of material between us, I came. I couldn't help myself. I screamed, thrust against him weakly a few times and then fell away from him, losing strength, lying on the floor and pumping out the rest of my uncontrollable orgasm.
He racked the weight and leaned against the bar for a moment, obviously trying to control his own cock, which pointed straight up in his unitard. He didn't touch the little thing, but kept his hands on his hips, and focused on evening out his breath, which skipped and sparked like a man about to blow. It was clearly a battle for him.
Finally, when he had himself back under control, he turned around, standing over me as I stupidly lay on the floor and finished ejaculating beneath him. "My name's Palumbo," he said, with that same smirk. "You're not gonna get bigger than me - I'll stop you." He reached out and offered me a hand, which I took. Helping me to my feet, he held me until my legs steadied themselves, then spun me around and swatted me on the ass. Genuinely smiling, he said, "Welcome to Apollyon, Strong - nice to meet you."
Walking back to the locker room, workout over, I passed Rook, and by the wet spot in the crotch of his singlet, I realized that he'd cum, too. He smiled kind of sheepishly, a little apologetically, shrugged and said, "Sorry, dude. That was hot."
Arms around each other's shoulders, laughing, we walked to the locker room.
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