Woody's width was probably his greatest asset. When seeing him from the front, one is so distracted by his lower pecs that one might not even notice the size of his lats. It isn't until he's seen from behind that he can be truly appreciated for what he is - a wall. A freakin' wall of muscle.

I wanted my traps to be just like his. I wanted that little knot of muscle at the base of his skull, that fold of skin that gave the illusion of his having no neck at all. As soon as I had that, people would KNOW I was a real bodybuilder. A freak.

Yeah, I WANTED to be a freak.

Just do whatever Woody tells you, I thought. Don't think. Don't question. Just obey. He'll make you a monster if you simply obey.

He'd taken his shirt off in the locker room and tossed it into his locker - "So you don't feel all by yourself out there," he'd said, grinning. I didn't mind. Following him to the military press, already feeling pumped from gearing up, I tried to emulate his walk - his strut. I felt almost like his baby brother, trying to be all grown-up like he was. It was a cool knowing that when people looked at us, they knew we were together. I resisted the impulse to reach out and grab the waistband of his shorts so I wouldn't lose him in the crowd, to cement the link.

He warmed me up with some lateral raises using ten-pound plates, though I didn't feel like I needed to stretch, what with the way my muscles were already pumped from the gear, or whatever it was that he'd said to me - what HAD he said? Something about Dr. V...?

Didn't matter. Only the workout mattered. Focus on the workout. Obey.

"Always stretch," Woody said, as I pulled against the frame of the military press, relaxing my shoulder blade. "Doesn't matter if the gear's hit you or not, stretch anyway. You gain a whole lot of flexibility that way instead of becoming some muscle-bound Palumbo, you know? A guy who can do a split leaves a whole different impression than a guy who can't raise his arms above his head. What's the point of havin' all this muscle if you can't do anything with it?"

"No point," I mumbled in agreement. I'd agree with anything he'd say - obey, I thought.

"Listen," he said, holding me by the shoulders and looking me squarely in the eyes, "you CAN'T cum. The rush is gonna hit you, but you can't cum. You may wanna, but you won't be able to. Do you know why?"

"No," I slurred. I was so confused, like a passenger in my own mind. "Why?"

"Because I'M in control," he said. "And you're not gonna do ANYTHING I don't give you permission to do. Do you understand?"

"I..."

"Dr. V made me the trainer, so what I say, goes. Who knows better than you, Strong?"

"You do, Woody."

"Why?"

"Because you're so much bigger than I am."

He smiled. "Right. Good for you, Strong. A lot of guys don't get that right away." He rubbed the back of my head like I was a dog. Funny thing, I didn't mind - I felt kind of rewarded by his humiliating gesture. Then he re-took his former stance, holding my shoulders and staring me in the eye. "And since I'm so much bigger than you are, what does that mean?"

The simple truth: "It means I can't cum without your permission, Woody."

He nodded. "Very good, Strong. Very good. You cannot cum without my permission. You won't be able to physically." He winked. "Now, with that understood, let's get started."

The rush hit me during the first set, with just 135 on the bar, the familiar buzz of the gear. Woody noticed it right away, the change in my demeanor, the sudden intensity of my workout - even with the warm-up weight. This time, the power flowed through my shoulders and upper-back, down my arms, up my neck and into my brain. Maybe because the gear was in my traps and not my ass that it hit me the way it did, I don't know, but the intensity of it overwhelmed me.

I'd never been a fan of the military press. Though shoulders/ traps was my favorite workout day, military press was the one exercise I didn't like. That's why I was always glad to get it done and get it out of the way - get on to things that would get me pumped. Maybe I didn't like it because I was so weak at it - 135, the weight I was warming up with now, was usually my max. It reminded me of the way I felt about squatting, an enemy recently turned into a best friend.

By the time I finished having that thought, I'd repped out fifteen and showed no signs of stopping. As a matter of fact, my shoulders felt pretty good. Woody had me rack the weight. "Slow down, Strong," he said. "Don't give it all up in the first set."

"Sorry, Woody," I said, standing up. "I forget how good it feels when it first hits."

He smirked, adding a quarter to each side. "That never goes away, I'm happy to say. No matter how big you get, that first wave makes for some great surfin'!" He motioned to the bar. "Now let's go, before you get distracted."

Too late, I already was. I was looking at myself in the mirror, reminded suddenly of being shirtless, exposed. I could already see my growing pump. I could already see improvement in my shoulders - one set!

"Let's go!" Woody hollered from the spotter's stand, indicating me to sit.

Damn it, I thought. I'm not obeying fast enough! Why can't I focus?

I'd be lying if I said I'd never tried 185 before, figuring that if I could bench it so easily, I should be able to press it overhead, too - still, the weight had always defeated me.

Before.

Now, one-eighty-five went up with an ease that made me think we should've skipped it altogether and gone right on to two plates. "That felt good," Woody said as I pressed the weight up for the ninth time - he saw the smirk on my face. "Never got that before, have you?"

"No," I said as I racked the weight. "No. C'mon, put another plate on there!"

"Hold on, hungry puppy," he said, rubbing my head from the spotter's stand behind me, squatting down to speak in my ear. "Who controls your workout?"

"You do, Woody."

"Why?"

"Because you're so much bigger than I am." I wanted to roll my eyes. How often was he gonna make me repeat this stuff?

I think he heard it in my tone. "Disrespectful," he mumbled, and wrapped his arm around my throat so my chin was in the crook, his biceps pressing into the side of my neck, squeezing against his muscular forearm on the other. When he flexed, he choked me. Red-faced, unable to breathe, I watched in the mirror as he growled into my ear. "Just so we're clear, I should always hear respect and devotion when you speak to me. You NEVER tell me what to do and you ask my permission before you do anything on your own. I'm not interested in your suggestions, Strong - I control this workout. Is that understood?"

He flexed even harder, the football-sized biceps cutting off my air. I tried to speak, but couldn't, though he took my gags for agreement.

He released me then, settling his hands on my shoulders as I gasped for breath, still squatting there behind me. "Good. I like you, Strong - you're a good guy, even as green as you are - but you got a LONG way to go before you can tell ME what to do. And even if you DO end up getting big enough to force me to submit to you, I'm controlling you today, as I will everyday until you're ready to try.

"Here's what you need to know," he continued, making eye-contact with my reflection. "Dr V put me in charge of you - in essence, he gave you to me as a gift. I told you I was havin' some motivational issues, right? See, I'm the kind of guy who needs a little brother, a buddy, someone to idolize me and worship me - it makes me train harder - I get off on it. And I'm tryin' to bust this little plateau I been on, so I need all the help I can get - motivation most of all. And YOU need someone to train you, discipline you, and get you up to your max weight - it ends up perfect for both of us. Right?"

Instead of speaking, I merely nodded - and even THAT was tentative. I didn't know what to think - my head was spinning.

"Look, I like you, Strong, and I think you like me, too - we have good chemistry. But you really gotta learn who's in charge. And that's me. That's ALWAYS gonna be me. Now don't make me be one of those dicks who always feels the need to humiliate and sexually dominate someone to prove his superiority - unless, of course, that's what you want..."

He smiled that bright, wide smile of his - that I've described before as "boisterous" and "playful" - and flicked his eyebrows at me. "IS that what you want?" he asked, with a smile that subtly changed its tone to anticipatory. "Do you like that? Do you want me to treat you that way? Tell me what you want, Strong."

"I... I..."

"C'mon, little bro," he teased, poking me in the shoulder. "You gotta tell me. You can't lie to me. Tell me what you want."

I wanted to cry, you know? If I hadn't been so concerned about my masculine appearance, I would've probably started. Because it's the fantasy-come-true - it's the idle masturbation scenario that always proves itself successful. It's the sudden discovery that one's greatest hope is irrevocably connected to one's greatest fear. I could never dream of anything more than being swept away into a secret world of hyper-masculine muscle and oddly-satisfying sexual domination. But at the same time, when confronted with the moment made flesh, I was so afraid that I didn't know HOW to react.

My whole life, I wanted to be turned into a massive bodybuilder - I wanted to give up control to someone else and reap the rewards. I wanted to find the freedom in being some mindless muscle-head who only existed for his next workout - his next sexual triumph. If I could only give in to acceptance, allow my true nature to surface, rid myself of this constant anxiety - why, I could probably TRAIN better!

It's what Dr. V would want.

And so I voiced it. To this unbelievable man before me, who apparently needed me for his completion as much as I needed him - symbiotic, not selfish - I said, quietly, "I want you to dominate me." I expected to find a catch in my voice, or have difficulty getting the words out, but that didn't happen at all. They flowed as freely as confession - they removed burden and guilt.

"I'm sorry," he said, smiling. "I didn't hear you."

He thought perhaps that it would be difficult to say for a second time. He was wrong. The more often I said the words, the truer they became. "I want you to dominate me," I said, turning so I could look him in the eyes. "I want you to make me into a massive muscle-head. I'll do anything to achieve that goal."

That smile - that wide, wide jaw. The Cheshire Cat, you know? He put a hand on the side of my head - again, I was reminded more of the way he treated a puppy rather than a person. "That's what I wanted to hear," he said, adjusting his ever-present erection. "As long as we have that understanding. The most important thing we can have between us is trust, Strong. I will never take advantage of that - everything I do will be to get you huge, you understand?"

I nodded, a warmth flowing through me - a warmth that wasn't the effects of the buzz I was still having. "Yeah," I said, with a growing feeling of devotion and - dare I say it? - the beginnings of love. "I trust you."

"Good," he said, standing, becoming jovial again. "Of course, that doesn't mean I'm not gonna fuck the livin' shit out of you after this workout!" he said. "I mean, you got a beautiful ass - I'd be stupid not to take advantage of THAT!"

He clearly read the look on my face, because he added, "Don't worry, Strong. I'll make sure you love it." He slapped the bar - the one with two plates on it, now. "Now let's go, before you get cold."

I did 225 easily.

So easily, as a matter of fact, that I couldn't help but wonder if it were somehow tied to my recent epiphany, as if my mental acknowledgement of my true-self somehow granted me strength and clarity. There was nothing I could do to fight this situation at the moment - not that I was entirely sure I wanted to - so I might as well shut up and reap the rewards of training with this massive bodybuilder. And nothing felt more cosmically right for me than training with this perfect specimen - add "gorgeous" to that list (his looks were really growing on me.) So of course, when Woody suggested upping the weight, I jumped at it. Another quarter on either side - 275.

Like I said, I'd never enjoyed this movement. Whenever I'd bring the bar down behind my neck, I'd worry that my shoulders were going to snap right out of their sockets and my arms would flop down onto the floor on either side of me. Again, an irrational fear, but not unlike the way I used to feel about squatting - that my back would break in the middle of the rep.

I've come to learn that those fears represent a lack of confidence about my abilities - and frankly, about my masculinity, too. I'd never really believed that I could achieve my goals - it seems like they were part of the fantasy, as well. Deep down, I had no faith.

How different I've become just by beginning to actualize them. Just to see a small amount of growth, just to feel the shifting base of power that one can only experience through strength, how different it's made me. I mean, what did it feel like to look in the mirror and watch myself press two-hundred and seventy-five pounds? That's more than I'd ever benched. Two plates and a quarter on either side of the bar - when normally I wouldn't get past a thirty-five alone - how magnificent that appeared.

Imagine then watching and actually seeing yourself grow. Imagine, as you push the weight away from your body, you can feel the blood flow into the muscle. You can feel the pump and the added strength that comes along with it. You can feel your muscles stretch against the inside of your skin. It's un-fucking-believable! You're looking at yourself in the mirror, watching yourself move this impossible weight - each rep becoming easier - and watching the muscles of your shoulders swell and grow along with it - right before your own eyes!

At ten, Woody stopped me, pulling the weight back against the rack and settling it. I released the bar and immediately flexed in a crab shot, bringing my arms in front of me and squeezing my chest - my traps POPPED up behind my neck. Damnation, I WAS getting bigger! Taking that shit directly into the muscles was working - I could already see a difference. I could already feel the power.

My cock mirrored the pump in my shoulders, finding its life and its own unignorable needs. When I touched it, it jumped. But I didn't worry about cumming unexpectedly - Woody had fixed that for me. I'd need his permission.

"I'm getting bigger, Woody," I said as I stood, flexing in the mirror.

He snorted. "No shit."

Next, he had me super-set shrugs and plate raises - you know, where you straight-arm a plate up and down in front of you, for front delts. "When your threshold for working out gets longer," he said, "we'll do upright rows before we do this. For right now, though, we need to build up those traps, so shrug we must!"

I liked doing upright rows - it was one of my favorite shoulder exercises - I'd miss it - but, Woody knew best. Traps were a priority. With big traps, everybody would know I was a bodybuilder. There'd be no hiding behind fantasy after that - it would be out there.

Nothing mattered more than that.

We started at 225, but quickly advanced to 315. Woody worked in. "It's one of my favorite exercises, bro," he said. "Why should you have all the fun?"

"Is it okay to workout when you're not on the gear?" I asked, genuinely curious.

That smirk, that smile, how did he manage to make it so sincere, so non-condescending? "Buddy, you can workout whenever and however often you'd like. Nothing can hurt you now - for you, there's no longer any such thing as over-training." He continued talking while he found his grip on the bar. "Don't get me wrong, if you workout without gearing up, you're not gonna make any kind of progress or anything, but it isn't gonna hurt you. Matter of fact, it's kind of fun to go back to your old gym and throw some weight around in front of your buddies. I DEFINITELY recommend that for you."

He hefted the bar up off the rack and began what was for him a very light set. Worth mentioning was how quickly his muscle responded and began to pump up. After a single warm-up set - only fifteen reps - he looked as if he'd been lifting for hours, his veins in sharp relief beneath his thin skin.

Four plates - 405 pounds - I let the bar run along my quads during the movement, forcing it over the mound of my package, rubbing my cock on the way up and again on the way down. I liked the way that felt - I liked the way it looked in the mirror as my dick would pop out either under or over the bar, depending on which direction I was heading, literally like I was masturbating with it - it was that hot. And because I knew I wasn't gonna cum, I was even that much more bawdy.

Woody loved it. "Fuck, yeah," he growled, adjusting his own package and smiling. "We gotta get some chalk."

He had a chunk of chalk in a Zip-lock sandwich bag with his gym stuff. Pulling it out, he wiped it carefully across each of his palms and flat fingers, then rubbed his hands together, spreading the chalk completely over the gripping area. Watching me watch him, he smirked, then motioned his head for me to turn around. When I did, he smacked my ass with an open hand, leaving his big white handprint on my gym-pants behind.

He laughed. "Just puttin' my brand on ya," he said in a bad country drawl, then re-applied the chalk, handing it to me when he was done.

After he did his set - he got fifteen before he stopped - he said, "Startin' to get a pump now" as he flexed for himself in the mirror. We put another plate on either side of the bar - five now, four-hundred and ninety-five pounds - then Woody threw a two-and-a-half on both sides, too. "That way you can say you did five-hundred instead of ALMOST five-hundred," he explained. "It's just for braggin' rites. These things don't even weigh anything," he added, waving one of the two-and-a-half's at me before he slid it on the bar. "I've seen guys eat these as snacks between sets."

We both laughed as I spread the chalk across my hands exactly as I'd seen Woody do. I'd never used chalk before - I was interested in seeing if there was an advantage. After I had it done, as I handed the chunk back to Woody, I motioned for him to turn around, then raised my hand as if to slap him - I could only imagine what that big, muscular ass would feel like beneath my palm. Woody smiled. "You don't even want to TRY that," he said, laughing, adjusting his dick (leaving white fingerprints behind). "I'll pound you into the ground."

I smiled in answer and stepped into the rack, found my grip, and mentally prepared for the set. The effects of the gear always seemed to spike right as my hand touched a bar, or a barbell, like the jolt your cock would get when it realized you were gonna have sex. I'd liken touching the barbell to touching my cock, but that's one of the oldest cliches in erotic writing, so I don't dare - even though it was true. My big, steel-laden cock.

I didn't have wraps, but I didn't need them either. My grip was more than strong enough to hold a mere five-hundred pounds. When I took it up off the rack, when I felt how light it really was - well, I don't want to give the impression that it took no effort, because I had to work for it, but it wasn't as heavy as I'd expected, either - my buzz just soared. I was flying through the skyways of power. No. I WAS the power, not just a conduit.

And the weight went up, and my traps exploded. My head bent forward, I felt each rep on the back of my neck, between my shoulder blades - I felt the muscle grow. Swelling with blood, thickening with fiber, my traps rose as I continued the set - I could see them in the mirror.

Woody was screaming encouragement behind me, but I couldn't make out his words, caught up in the buzz like this. Heady and powerful and completely overwhelming, my cock sprang to life, harder now than the bar I'd compared it to two paragraphs before. As the weight slid past it, over it, I resisted the urge to thrust - it felt so freakin' good!

But there was something else, too - something that's not so easy to describe, that's not so obvious. Growing there beneath the excitement of the gear, there was something else. While I was experiencing sexual liberation in the attic, something dark and mysterious lurked in the basement. An oil spill on the bottom of my buzz, a taint almost.

And it, too, had a seductive call. And it was bigger and more powerful than anything I'd ever faced. And it wanted me. It wanted me to taste its power.

I couldn't stop the set. I didn't want to stop. The more I did, the closer this blackness appeared, the bigger it grew - the bigger I grew, my traps three or four times as large as they'd been minutes ago. A few more, and I'd be even bigger than that!

Stop? Why stop? Why not just fuckin' rep until my whole body's fuckin' monstrous!?

Woody was behind me. I could feel him there, his body heat, his presence. He shoved me into the rack, so the weight went into its resting place, but I couldn't stop the motion. Even without the bar, I kept shrugging. I wanted to launch - I wanted to cum, to orgasm, to shoot, to climax, to end this.

I couldn't take it any more - I had to finish it. I HAD to cum!

But I couldn't.

Rock hard, throbbing, the wave of dark insanity creeping up around me, I couldn't cum. I didn't have Woody's permission. Flex and pose and pound and stroke, nothing helped. I couldn't cum.

It was overwhelming me.

And then Woody's voice, from somewhere far away, outside calling in. "C'mon, Strong. Hear me," he yelled from miles off. "You're going into the second stage - you're not ready. Cum, Strong! I give you my permission! Cum now!"

But it was too late. Too late.

I collapsed on the ground as the darkness overtook me. •