"Actually, I know just how you feel, in my own way."

"Do you? I'll bet you do…you always get me" he smiled. Goshk….

"Well, you must have met some of my new slaves outside," he mentioned in an off-hand way.

"I only met one…and he was Mr. Goddamed Olympia!!" I could still not quite believe who had met me at the door. One of the biggest champions in bodybuilding history. Known for his enormous strength, and his huge legs, glutes, and barn-door back. I'd blown more than a few loads watching this pumped, striated veiny freak in competition videos - he was a powerlifter as well as a bodybuilder. I would have KILLED to get him in front of my cameras, do a whole photo study of him…! I even had the theme picked out already! It was going to be all "anatomical drawing" style. Like, turn to the chapter on the gastrocnemius, and where it's situated and how it connects to the bone, and where the veins are and shit; and then I have my rendition of this dude's calf, only tweaked with Photoshop to make it look like the skin's missing and the muscles are laid open and revealed. Get it? It's a LIVE BODY, but it's reduced to nothing more than muscle, bone, and sinew. Total objectification of muscle. For years I had kicked around the idea of contacting the agent of this Mr. O guy, seeing if he would agree to do it, because he's the BIGGEST MALE MONSTER IN THE WORLD, but I'd been put off by the fact that he he's also got an ego driven out of all proportion by the torrents of testosterone surging through his physique. Imagine: I was always too embarrassed to approach him, and now HE's my boyfriend's puny bitchboy twink cum-licker? This was a bizarre thought, all by itself.

Jeff got a mischievous look in his eye. "You want to see something cool?" I confess I did something real dopey-ass, when he asked me this. I nodded goofily, like some fuckin' twelve-year old. Shit, you shoulda seen the goofy look on my face. See, I'd seen this mischievous look on Jeff before, and it always meant he was about to do something that would get my cock rock hard. "You're gonna love this, Mike!"

Jeff shouts, calling the bitch-boy Mr. O. in, all six-three, 350 lbs. of him. The guy rips open the heavy steel door and walks in, and it's like looking at Mt. Everest, only naked and shaved smooth like a baby. Or, rather, it's like looking at a human erection. Brutal depth to his muscles; huge mounds of pecs, rolling thighs, and all these tight veins everywhere, like rivers flowing from his heart to the surface of his skin, nourishing and irrigating the slabs of meat underneath. You've heard he's kind of a punk, this guy, right? By reputation, he's an arrogant bully. But who the fuck cares about his personality, right? It only adds to his mystique. You know the guy…

So anyway he pounds forward, squares his prize-winning body in a "competition relaxed" pose - that is, everything BUT relaxed. Every muscle group tightened, tensed, to look as big as possible while standing still. But his face - jesus! You should've seen this guy. He's looking up at Jeff like a fuckin' puppy dog, like a worshipful kid. He gulps, awaiting orders.

"Hey man - this is my boyfriend Mike, and he wants to see you flex for him." Instantly, the guy turns to face me, with a real superior sneer, and throws up a double bicep, like "I'm fuckin' made of muscle, man!" And his biceps blow up and shake, and the veins start swelling and bulging out, and his face is getting red, and his eyes are set on me like a serpent's. Okay, well, yeah; I got an erection. I mean, how could I not? Sue me.

Then Jeff says: "Whoa, look at that! You got my boyfriend's cock hard! He likes your muscles, I guess. And why not, you're a god compared to him. But --" And then Jeff stands up, he heaves a half-ton of muscle up onto his thick legs and stands next to the guy, who immediately shrinks to "puny" in my eyes. "You're the strongest bodybuilder in history, but you're nothing but a skinny twink next to me! I fuckin' outweigh you by two hundred pounds, dude! I outweigh you by more than Mikey-boy even WEIGHS!" He gestured to me. "And I used to think HE was hot," he laughed. Thanks, asshole. What made me feel better was the look the Mr. O. got on his face. He was, if anything smaller compared to Jeff than I was next to him, and he was dismayed to hear what he knew to be the truth about his own suddenly-pathetic body. All his life's work…turning himself into a throbbing beast so he could lord it over every man he ever met, even other bodybuilders, was in fucking ashes. I pitied him.

SO during all this, Jeff hasn't moved; he's just smiling. "Mike, do you want this guy to worship you?" Swear to God, that's what he says… he's gonna get Mr. O. to worship ME? "Promise you won't look at me - only him. OK?" Jeff was into playing games. Whatever.

Immediately, Mr. O drops to his knees in front of me, expectant, waiting. Jeff smiles - it amuses him to think Mr. O is on his knees to me, waiting for me to flex. But Jeff can't see the look on this guy's face; I can. He's got this pissed-off expression, like, "Okay twerp, I'm doing this because my God commands me…but you're a small fucker and you and I BOTH know my left nut's got more muscle than your whole fuckin' thigh."

But what Mr. O. didn't count on is, I know I've got the upper hand. Jeff is MY fuckin' boyfriend, and he wants you to perv on me. SO perv on me you shall, you worthless piece of shit. I pulled back the sleeve of my t-shirt, shook out my relaxed biceps a couple times.

"Got a big fuckin' arm here, dope. Want to see it?" His eyes roll, but he plays along, sarcastically murmurs "Oh yes, let me worship your huge bicep, you stud" or something shitty like that.

Pop. Up goes the arm, out pops my pup. I think the guy actually startled a little, he didn't think my arm would be nearly so fat and dense. I'm not much of a "shower"; guys often think I'm just kinda a little "built" until I flex, then the definition comes and I come into my real mass. So now he's interested - though he doesn't want to admit it. To make me feel bad he surreptitiously tenses his arm a little - his own goddamn hamhock bicep quivers, gets hard, blows out toward me a half-inch.

"Make him eat it," says the ever-helpful Jeff. "Shut the fuck up dude," I laugh. "He's worshiping ME, remember?" But I thought this was a good idea, so I step toward the champ, lean over, relax my arm and shake it out, like right in front of his face. He's kinda mesmerized watching the alabaster flesh of my upper arm swing from side to side.

"Now put your mouth on it." Mr. O. spits out a curse - ha HA! - but he does it; he actually puts the meat of my arm in his mouth! Holy shit, was that a turn-on. I can feel the liquid smoothness of his lips, the tickle of his beard stubble, the gentle pull of the inside of his mouth as he sucks in my soft relaxed muscle. "Lick it." He works my soft flesh with his tongue. Actually it feels good; the guy's a good muscle-eater. "Put your teeth on it…that's right boy. Swallow my bicep -…" He's got his mouth wide, his teeth taking in about half my arm, down to the bone. Hate is burning in his eyes.

"Now -" I tense my arm. A jolt of surprise runs through him as my bicep hardens into its 18-inch softball. My arms had such decent natural shape to them I never worked 'em much…'til I met Jeff. He put me through some INTENSE, mind-blowing, three-hour arm workouts to make my arms grow. At one point, I gained an inch in a ten-day period, ripped a bunch of shirts that way LOL! No matter how big and hard my arms got, no matter how much weight I could curl for mind-numbing numbers of repetitions, it was never enough for Jeff. "Bigger - get 'em bigger!" he'd bark. "Get 'em as big as MINE!!" And then he'd flex and try to humiliate me with how my arms couldn't compare to his...and forcing me to suck his damn balloon biceps for hours. That is, until my own arms started to grow, and as often as not I'd be the one putting the headlock on Jeff, forcing him to eat muscle. Come to think of it…in those last few weeks before he left, I could tell that my awesome results were not going unnoticed. Could Jeff's running off to try this insane experiment have anything to do with him getting….jealous? Or, to use the correct term, the one that nobody is ever fucking smart enough in this country to get right….was Jeff getting envious?? Was he afraid I was catching up to him, prompting him to try to find a way to re-assert his physical superiority over me? Damn…that theory is only too likely, with too many deeply fucked-up implications to really get into right now…so I'll just go on with the story.

Obviously, Jeff knows I loved to force him to suck my biceps, so as Mr. O lurches to attention, his jaws immobilized because they're clamped open on my stiffening bicep, I can hear Jeff whistle behind me. "Niiiiice…" he croons.

But even Jeff isn't ready for what happens next. Mr. O's molars are biting down on my peak, see, and I don't like that, the teeth are digging into my flesh, so I crook my arm tighter, and give an extra hard squeeze. My bicep starts to expand to its full size and football shape. At the same time, it's getting hard as a piece of wood - then hard as a rock. Mr. O's teeth are forced back and up, until they aren't even denting the flesh anymore. Finally, his jaw starts to give; it has to, my bicep forcing it open like it's a hydraulic pump, or the jaws of life or some inexorable shit!

Now Mr. O's all scared - see, his jaw is trapped around on my mountainous, straining bi and he can't get off. His head is like, locked onto my hard biceps! And I'm getting bigger, and bigger, and harder, the blood is pouring into my meat and my strength is growing with the pump. I'm almost fully flexed - but he's whimpering already! His eyes are tearing up! Shit, he didn't expect this! My blue vein starts to engorge, the one that shoots down the outside of my arm; it was thick as a pencil, and I could feel it throb against his tongue. His whole head is shaking, my arm is trembling, and I'm panting like crazy, and he's hardly able to breathe at all! And he's looking at me like "I fuckin am gonna KILL you -!" and at the same time he's afraid I'm breaking his jaw. His angry eyes look faint; his traps bunch up like flour sacks on either side of his neck.

Finally, red-faced and sweaty, I slam my bicep to it's fullest peak; his muffled screams tell me his jaw is cracking!! I shout "YEAHHH!" Just then, I drop the flex, and Mr. O flies off me, hits the floor panting, massaging his jaw. I shake out my reddened arm; a ring of teeth mark bands my upper bicep.

"You son of a bitch -" he starts, when he gets his breath. But Jeff, laughing, interrupts. "Holy shit, Mikey! You almost broke his fucking jaw by flexing your bicep in his mouth! You been working out, or what?" Yeah, well, here and there, asshole…. •