By AbsMan420

I slipped my new membership card in the elevator slot and pressed the button marked "locker room" - the doors closed when it lit. I felt more like a member of this secret gym now than I ever had before - now that I had something tangible. All I had left to do was grow, and it seemed like Dr. V would see to that. He said I could weigh over three-hundred pounds by the time I was done, if I was willing to put in the work.

And I was more than willing to weigh three-hundred pounds.

When the elevator settled, I stepped into the locker room, around the corner from the meds room. My locker was on the far-side of the lounge, but the place was practically empty, and here it was... 2:30?!?

Two-thirty? I'd been in the doctor's office for four hours? What the hell...?

But I couldn't get upset about it. I knew he'd knocked me out - it had just been for a little longer than I'd initially thought. There was no reason to be upset. Dr. V was trying to help me.

And just like that it was gone.

I grunted. How unlike me to NOT stress out - how good it felt to not freak over something so inconsequential. Dr. V said he'd released a few things for me, perhaps this was one. If that were true, if he'd really done that, I would be so grateful.

Flashing on the man gave me a chubby, and I sported it almost proudly as I walked to my locker.

How interesting that Dr. V had clued into my clothing inhibitions, recommending me to go shirtless in my up-coming workout, because I'd had the same thought while packing my gym bag this morning. Not about going shirtless, but about having the confidence to wear something a little more risque than I had before - hell, all the other guys in this gym dressed like little minxes, why shouldn't I? I wanted to show off, too.

Of course, I didn't own any of that kind of stuff, that kind of workout wear. If I wanted to sport that look, I was gonna have to go shopping. Today, because both pairs of my compression shorts were soiled, I slipped on a tight jockstrap - hoping it would help control my hyper-amped cock when I was working out. Over that I wore a pair of cotton gym pants, charcoal gray with a white stripe down the side. I also put on the t-shirt that Dr. V had challenged me to leave off during my workout, figuring, if I'm just gonna sit around sipping on a protein shake, I was gonna do it clothed.

As I put the t-shirt on, one of those... - (What did Prince call those ripped-up pretty-boys who stalked the locker room looking for sex? I liked the name - thought it was funny. Oh, yes) - ...one of those GYM-BUNNIES sat down, straddling the bench next to me. He wore only a pair of red spandex hot shorts, and from the way he displayed himself, legs spread across the wooden bench, it was obvious he wore nothing beneath. He had the body of a model on the almost-too-muscular side of the spectrum - one of those Undergear/ lingerie catalogue/ fantasy leather-ware kind of guys. One of those guys who sold "lifestyle" videos on the internet, taking showers in posing trunks or flexing out by the pool.

I mean, he was painstakingly perfect. Everything, his skin, his teeth, his hair, plucked and primped and preened beyond perfection. He had no body hair, no evidence that any was growing back in or would in the future, only a painfully healthy glow, a bit of a sheen, actually. He was handsome in a way that made me think that he had to have had some work done - nobody was that flawless. Strong, square, dimpled chin, high cheekbones, even his puckish little nose looked a little too puckish.

Hazel, bedroom eyes, and lips that looked easy to kiss, he was the guy Prince had argued with the other day - the leader of the group that had accosted me. What the hell was his name? Something Italian. Romagna! - that was it.

"Hi," he said, pressing his hands on the bench in front of his package, flexing his triceps as he spoke.

"What's up?" I asked, as I put on my gym shoes.

"You about to work out?" he asked - he had kind of a high-pitched voice that he tried to make sound lower when he spoke. It was just as ingenuous as the rest of him. "You gonna go get geared up?"

"In a bit," I said. "Waiting for a buddy to get here."

He snorted, and sarcastically intoned, "Who, Prince? Oh, please Strong, why do you want to be one of those freaks? Such a waste."

I gave him a sideways glance, tying my sneakers. "What are you talking about?"

He shrugged and sat up straight on the bench. "Do you wanna be one of those three-hundred pound, over-muscled idiots?" he asked, making a motion toward the gym. "Get stared at everywhere you go, unable to buy clothes that fit unless you have them specially tailored, become so muscle-bound that you have to have someone wash you because you can't reach your own back - is that what you want?"

I turned to face him, surprised at how fearless I was. He struck me as the kind of guy that had been a cocky-ass bully when he'd been a teen - the kind of guy that would've tortured me - a "popular" boy. If I'd never met the guys at this gym - Prince, Woody and the like - this pretty gym-bunny in front of me might've seemed like he was something special. Now, I just looked at him with contempt. "Yeah," I said. "That's what I want. I want to be a big fuckin' freak that can't buy clothes that fit and needs some pathetic little slave-boy to wash me." I stood, and added, "Maybe you'll get lucky, Romagna. Maybe I'll let it be you."

He snorted a laugh. "Yeah, you think big muscles are gonna make you a man," he said, also standing. He was about a half-head shorter than me, but about fifteen pounds heavier - ripped and cut, his body fairly well sculpted as it was built. Aesthetically, Romagna was without compare - except for being eighty pounds lighter than I wanted to be. "But I'll tell you," he continued, "muscles aren't what make you a man. If you're gonna become a slave to something, it might as well be the right thing."

"And what's more manly than muscles?" I asked, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

Romagna smiled, showing those perfect teeth. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked, reaching down and stroking his package tenderly through the spandex. "Your cock, my friend," he said. "It's all about your cock. And what the gear can do for that is WAY better than any workout you'll ever have. You shoot up and have sex instead of exercise, you'll experience levels of ecstasy you never thought possible. That's what Prince didn't want you to know the other day, that you can gear up, serve your cock instead of your muscle, and still improve. I haven't worked out in two years, Strong, and you gotta admit I'm just about perfect."

I DID have to admit that - I'd had the same thought less than a minute before he'd said it - though his saying it about himself kind of turned me cold. He closed in on me, sidling up seductively.

"So, what do you say, Strong? Let's go gear up and fuck. You won't be sorry, man. Once you have a scene with me, you'll never want to work out again. I'll get you the kind of body that everybody'll want to be with instead of stare at." He flicked his eyebrows and pursed his lips. "What do you say?"

He kept catching me off-guard, this one. I'd run the emotional gamut from anger to shock to intrigue, never sure where he was gonna fire from next. I mean, he'd gotten me all pissed off, insulted my dreams, then he started coming on to me! What the fuck WAS it with this guy? And as he shifted weight to move his head into position for a kiss, I strong-armed him away from me, pushing him back with my left forearm until he tripped over the bench.

Suffering even small indignities didn't seem to suit Romagna well. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?" he asked. "You're turning me down?!? Are you KIDDING me?"

I snorted - for a change. "I think that's what that meant," I said.

"What kind of a fuckin' idiot are you? Do you SEE this body?" He held his arms out to his sides, showing me, turning around so I could see his magnificent ass, round and hard - it WAS the perfect ass for fucking. (Where had THAT thought come from? Some deep, primal, instinctual place maybe.) Romagna ran a hand down his own torso, enjoying the feel of himself - but play-acting, because he knew the gesture was considered sexy. He probably used it in a video, probably practiced it for hours in front of a mirror. That's all Romagna was. "Nobody turns me down. What the fuck's your problem?"

"No problem," I said, walking out of the locker room. "I'll be more than happy to fuck you... AFTER my workout. See ya, Romagna."

"You dumb fucker," he called after me. "You don't know what you've just done! You made a bad enemy today, Strong. Even your freak friends aren't gonna be able to help you."

Fuckin' drama queens, I thought. But instead of continuing the confrontation, I just shot him the finger over my shoulder as I walked out of the room. He didn't say anything more after that - maybe he hadn't seen it.

Way to make friends and influence people, I thought as I went to the juice bar - which was nearly attached to Brad's office. Brad was in there shuffling papers when he saw me approach - he stood and met me at the door. He had changed clothes since his workout - no doubt the Daisy Dukes were soiled now - wearing only a pair of red and black striped spandex shorts and gladiator-style sandals. The colors didn't really work on him, a redhead himself, with his freckled and uneven skin, but the mind-blowing size of his legs made up for it. He hadn't lost a bit of his pump - probably wouldn't for hours yet - nor the plump afterlife of his erection. "What's up?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Want to get a protein shake," I said. "Killing a little time before my workout."

"Waitin' on someone?" Brad asked, leaving the doorway and stepping behind the bar. He smiled teasingly. "Prince is already here."

"He is?" I spun and tried to get a view of the workout floor. Unfortunately, up on this platform area here at the juice bar didn't allow me to view the entire gym.

When Brad laughed, I turned around and faced him suspiciously. "What?" I asked, smiling slightly.

Brad measured the protein powder into the blender as he spoke. "You," he said. "You got a little crush? Has your fairy-tale Prince come? That's so cute!"

"Oh, fuck you," I said, and we both laughed.

"What flavor?" he asked. After I replied "strawberry," he continued to play with me. "No, dude, I think it's cool. Prince is a good guy. If you want somebody to slap his dick across your face, Prince is your man." He laughed again. "I didn't know you were into that stuff."

"I didn't either," I said. "It just sort of happened. But I got some kick-ass abs out of it!" I raised my shirt and showed him, surprised at my own spontaneity.

He brushed it away with a motion. "Yeah, yeah," he said in a bored tone. "I seen 'em. I seen 'em." But that didn't stop him from adjusting his dick, which had begun to grow again. He turned off the blender and poured the shake into a tall Styrofoam cup, then handed it to me. "There's almost fifty grams of protein in that," he said, "so drink it like it's Prince's cum."

I snorted, sighed, and rolled my eyes dramatically. "Man," I said, "you're not gonna let this go, are you?"

He acted shocked. "Oh, HELL no!" he said. "I'm gonna be laughing at you about this when you're three-hundred pounds and forcing your cum on some new-bie yourself." He reached over and slapped my shoulder. "Welcome to the fraternity, eh? Tell me, how did your appointment with the doc go? Must've been okay - I notice it's four hours later."

I drank a little of the shake - it went down easy. I was surprised by how hungry I was, how anxious my body was for nutrients - for protein. "He's a good guy," I said, licking my lips. "I like him. He thinks I can BREAK three-hundred pounds. He said the computer model showed three-seventeen!"

"Holy fuck," Brad said, adjusting himself again. "You know that computer model's conservative, right? Most guys average about twenty pounds more than their initial projection. That's almost three-forty, dude. Holy fuck! You're gonna make a fortune! You're gonna be HUGE!"

That was the first time anybody had said those words with that kind of enthusiasm. I can't tell you what that did for me. (Although, anybody could probably guess "erection" and they'd be right.) That I was turned-on so much by the IDEA of being huge proved to me that Romagna was completely wrong - and his followers were idiots, too.

Masculinity was expressed in the size of a man's muscle, not his cock. That suddenly became so clear and obvious to me - an epiphany - a new personal philosophy.

"Fuck, man," I mumbled, and drank my shake.

It was just about then that Rook showed up, descending the main stairs, dressed in his street clothes, with his gym-bag over his shoulder. "Hey, guys!" he called when he saw Brad and me. "What's up?" he asked as he took the stool next to mine. "I was hopin' I was gonna run into you." He shook Brad's hand, then mine. We each greeted him in turn, but it didn't stop his speech. "I gotta tell you about last night!"

"What?" asked Brad disinterestedly from behind the counter. "You finally get laid?"

I chuckled a little, which prompted an angry reaction from Rook. "Fuck you!" he said to Brad, then to me, "You, too."

Brad smiled and started back to his office. "I got work to do," he said. "Tell HIM all about it. I'll put the announcement up." He winked at me - I think he assumed Rook was the guy I'd been waiting for - and disappeared.

I turned back to Rook. "So, you got laid..." I said, taking another gulp of my shake.

"Yah..." he said, clearly annoyed, "though dick-bag there's taken all the fun out of it."

"Oh, come on, man, don't be so dramatic. You remind me of that Romagna creep in the locker room."

"Romagna?" he asked, looking around me toward the locker room door, then sighed - dramatically. "Those guys are HOT."

I shrugged. "Whatever." Another sip of shake. "So, you got laid...?"

He re-arrived at his story, at the monologue he'd so carefully practiced before coming to the gym. Only now, he seemed distracted by something, continually shifting his attention from me to the locker room. He spoke quickly. "You know, a month ago I was a skinny little fuck, barely a hundred-seventy, awkward and gangly. I couldn't get laid in the most desperate of circumstances - and I refused to stick my dick through a hole in some wall, you know? I had some integrity."

He snorted at the thought, and continued. "A month ago, man! Now, at two-twenty-five and eight-percent bodyfat, fuckin' EVERYBODY wants me. I go to a bar, and I'm one of the hottest things there. Do you know what that fuckin' feels like? Do you know what that's doin' to my ego? I can pick and choose, man! Me! And that guy last night was one hot mother-fucker. He NEVER would've talked to me a month ago - never. And last night, he begged me to let him fuck me. Begged me!" He shook his head like he still couldn't believe it, then he leaned in close, confidentially. "It was the best sex of my life," he said quietly, like he didn't want to admit it. "I fuckin' love this, Strong."

I smiled and drained my cup, tipping the last of it into my mouth. I was about fifteen pounds behind Rook, but I already knew how he felt. The whole experience was pretty fucking amazing. "I'm right there with you on that, bro," I said, patting him on the shoulder.

He kept eyeing the locker room. "I bet I could even tempt those gym-bunnies now. Fuck man, I bet even Romagna would want me lookin' the way I do."

I didn't tell him about what had happened between Romagna and me. No need to crush his burgeoning ego. I DID say, "I don't think Romagna's the kind of guy that turns a lot of people down." I snorted. "As long as you remember to tip." I laughed at my own joke. Rook didn't.

"I'll be back in a minute," he said, standing suddenly. "I wanna see."

"Oh, come on, Rook. Don't do that..."

"No, no, no," he said, waving me away. "I wanna see what it takes to tempt the great Romagna."

"I told ya," I said. "The right amount of money."

"Yah," he said, walking to the locker room. "We'll see."

I shook my head as I watched him go - dumb-ass.

And about a minute later, as I tapped the last drops of shake from the bottom of the cup and threw it away in the waste bin, there came a sudden, sharp whistle from the direction of the locker room. Though I expected to turn and see Rook standing there with a thumbs-up, dopey grin on his face, instead, the gigantic form of Woody filled the frame.

"Yo!" he shouted, a boisterous smile on his face. "C'mon, pretty boy!"

I chuckled to myself as I crossed the floor to him. He threw a massive arm around my shoulders, gave me a little squeeze, then pushed me into the locker room. "Time to get geared up," he said, leading me to the meds room.

"How was your appointment, Woody?" I asked as we passed my locker and the lounge area. Hardly anybody was around - I didn't see Rook or Romagna anywhere.

"Ah, it was nothing," he said, shrugging. "I was having some motivation issues. He fixed it."

"In twenty minutes?" I asked. "What'd he do, hypnotize you?"

He laughed. "You're a funny fucker," he said, smacking my back. "I definitely like you."

He continued to grip my trap as we went into the meds room. Again, I half-expected to see Rook or Romagna, but instead, there was another man. Mediterranean or middle-eastern by the look of him, golden-skinned with dark features, proportionately, he was nearly as massive as Woody, though much shorter - I'd put him at five-eight or five-nine. He was also much older, in his mid to late forties, and his balding maturity was one of his most attractive features.

Also his exposed ass, from which he pulled the empty syringe.

"Hey, Nasser," Woody said, with an open-hand wave.

"Woody!" said this beast from the middle-east, through his heavy accent. "How goes it for you?" Instead of waving, he threw the used-dart into the medical waste can. As he pulled up his shorts, he looked at me, eyeing me up and down. "And who is your friend, this fine-looking American boy?"

"Nasser, this is Strong. Strong, Nasser."

I held my hand out for him to shake. Instead, he took my forearm in his grip and pulled me to him, kissing each of my cheeks. His beard was rough, even freshly shaved. "It is very good to meet you, Strong-boy. Perhaps together we will have the luck to work out in our futures, if Woody is not so selfish with you, maybe. We know how he likes breaking in the new ones." He smiled at Woody, clearly teasing.

Woody barked a laugh. "Go work out, you desert dweller!" he said, pushing Nasser out the door. "Find your own!"

Nasser, laughing, waved to me, then the door closed behind him.

Woody, still chuckling, turned back to me. "Nasser's an old buddy. He goes to Dr. V, too. Most of the really big guys do."

"Palumbo?" I asked, thinking back to my first encounter at the gym.

Woody shrugged, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, Palumbo, too. Have you met THAT doofus?"

"Yeah," I said, chuckling uncomfortably. "My second day. He pretty much put me in my place."

"He's a stupid fuck," Woody said. "He definitely traded his brains for his biceps."

"It wasn't a fair trade," I mumbled, and Woody laughed - I LOVED the sound of his laugh, so bright and big and unrestrained. Woody was the best by far.

"Nope," he agreed. "Not by a long shot. Now let's get this shit into you and get out there."

"You're not doing any?" I asked, getting a pre-loaded syringe from the drawer.

He shook his head. "Nah," he said. "I already worked out this morning. I'm just training you right now."

I was disappointed. "Aw. It's gonna be a lot less fun that way."

"Oh, don't worry. I'll keep you entertained. Gimme the dart."

I handed it to him and started to pull my gym-pants down until he stopped me. "No, no," he said. "It's not going in your ass."

He saw my confused look and continued. "This is an old trick I picked up when I used to REALLY be on the juice, back in my college football days. We used to take Winstrol and inject it directly into the muscle we were working that day. Hell, man, I know plenty of bodybuilders who owe a particular muscle-group's success to direct injections of Winstrol. So anyway," he said, holding up the syringe, "we were playing around with THIS stuff one time and did the same thing. Bam! Huge gains! It was fucking amazing. It's pretty much all I do, now. Here, sit down right here. Take your shirt off - you're not supposed to have it on, anyway."

I did as he asked, sitting down on the little stool he indicated as he stepped around behind me. "This is gonna hurt a little bit," he said, wiping an alcohol pad on my trap, away from the base of my neck. "But it's worth it." He pinched the muscle together in one hand and poked the needle into the bulge, just deep enough to break the epidermal layer. He was wrong - it stung like hell.

"Ow!" I said.

"Shut up, ya fag," he mumbled, and did the same thing on the other side, in the opposite trap, putting the remaining half in. "There. It's over. You gonna live?"

"I guess," I said, rolling my head around to loosen my neck. "THAT was unexpected."

His smile came back. "You haven't even entered into the unexpected, yet. You just wait."

"What do you mean?" I asked, standing - my instincts were to put my shirt back on, but I didn't.

"C'mere," he said, his smile changing somehow. "I'll whisper it to you. Dr. V told me to whisper it to you."

I blinked, trying to clear my head, suddenly my thoughts were as thick as cold molasses. "Dr. V...?" I mumbled - I felt stoned. Was the shot affecting me already?

Woody leaned into my ear, his huge bulk filling my vision, and he whispered, "Dr V requires workout-level motivation. Now!"

And a change came over me.

I could feel it, as if I was mutating into another person, as if I was only a witness to myself and my body, as if my actions were no longer my own, even though they were, and I was, and...

And the pump began, the muscles in my body swelling in moments to working size - as a matter of fact, the deeper I let myself go, the bigger I got. Then the hunger, the wave after wave of need, the desire for more.

The power.

The blood flowed, the muscle swelled, and the testosterone took over. I helplessly let it - I loved the way it felt to give in!

"Now you're ready to work out," Woody said quietly. "Now you're ready to go."

I followed him to the military press, where my first true workout began. •

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