It was the second stage, I'd heard Woody say as I'd collapsed. I was entering the second stage of the gear, like I'd seen Prince do yesterday during our leg workout. In that fleeting moment of recognition, I remembered what it had done to him. I remembered the beast he'd become, swollen and pumped, primed and hungry. I'd watched him grow, his muscles swell. I remembered the sexually dominant rage it'd given him - what a surprising turn-on that had been.

And now it was happening to me.

More accurately, it was happening and ending at the same time. I could feel myself gaining mass and size, but shooting the buzz away through my uncontrollable orgasm. Flexing my muscles helped hold the lingering effects of the moment inside - and each time I flexed, I was aware of a little more mass - but I knew it was fleeting, because I could feel it dribble out the end of my cock.

A tidal wave of masculinity had crashed over me, and now, as the surf flowed back down the beach to the ocean that spawned it, it had left me changed. I lay there on the gym floor flopping like a fish, twitching, flexing out of sequence - I regained control of my physical, only now I commanded a new body.

"Well, holy shit," said Woody, standing over me, hands on his hips, rock-hard beneath his gym-shorts. "Look at you, little bro. Damn!"

I felt different - I felt the change in weight, the shift in balance - but when I looked in the mirror, the guy I saw staring back wasn't who I'd been expecting.

It was me.

But it was me like I'd never been before, not even in the richest of private fantasies - I'd never visualized myself like this. It's one thing to put your head on somebody else's body, but it's quite another to see your OWN body developed and muscular. My own lines and shapes, my own mass, my own cuts and veins, I couldn't believe it.

Yet, there it was, all the evidence right there before me.

I was bigger than Rook, or any of those Gym-Bunny guys, still nowhere near the same league as Brad or Prince - and Woody was a whole weight-class above them! - but there'd be no doubt I was a bodybuilder - a no-shit, no-hiding-it, no-disguising-it bodybuilder. Look at me, at this size I could compete in and easily win any state-level competition, though I would probably be too light to go regional, especially at my height. Still, it was unbelievable.

"Oh my God!" I whispered, flexing at my reflection. My shoulders and traps were a little out of proportion, but give me a couple more workouts and I'd even up - especially considering that I hadn't worked arms, yet (or even CHEST, really...). "Oh, my God, what's happened?"

Even my face, somehow. No double-chin anymore, strong lines - by just looking at my face, you could tell I was a bodybuilder - you could tell how in-shape I was, how little bodyfat I held - lower forehead, wider jaw. Handsome in a way I'd never been before - masculine. Even the heavy new five-o'clock shadow heightened the effect.

I was me, but I was better than me. I was me transformed - me as I was always meant to be, masculine and muscular.

Woody smacked my pecs with an open palm, testing their size and hardness, smirking while inspecting. He threw a quick jab to my abs, but I was able to flex in time to stop the blow. Though I couldn't help but grunt, I didn't let him know that it had hurt.

"Nice," he mumbled, then grabbed my nipples and squeezed so hard that I did let out a yelp. "We didn't expect it to be this dramatic."

"What?" I asked, fairly breathless, panting, my nipples on fire.

Woody stroked my new muscles as I stood there at attention and passively let him - I resisted the urge to reach out and touch his cock, fighting the confines of his gym shorts. I flexed for him as his hand went down the ridges of my abs - then he grabbed my package and weighed that, too. He looked me deep in the eye as he squeezed my balls.

"Even Dr. V didn't think you'd put on this much. He was worried that entering the second stage this early in your training might drive you over the edge - you know, make you a little insane. But I knew I could bring you back in time." He smiled and pulled me in a little closer, until our pecs were touching - we flexed them against each other. "And do you know why?"

I smiled coyly, my hand almost instinctively finding his cock, taking it in my grip. "Because you're in control," I whispered.

His smile had that devilish tint to it again. "And do you like the new body I got you?" he asked. "Are you grateful I took you to the edge like that?"

"Yes, Sir," I said, massaging his cock. "Very grateful."

His smile went away - he nodded. "I'm gonna fuck you now, boy," he said matter-of-factly. "And then you'll be completely mine. Do you want that?"

Without missing a beat, without a shift in my eye, without any of my old hesitation, I said, "I DO want that. I want it bad. I need it."

Not a smile, but certainly a look of satisfaction, a slight nod. "Yeah, you do," Woody said. "Let's go."

This time, as we walked to the locker room, I DID reach out and grab the waistband of his shorts, attaching myself to him. He made no indication that this was bad or good, just continued on - almost as if he'd expected it. I felt an odd sort of pride being with him like this - there was a part of me that wanted to brag to every guy we passed that this big beast was about to fuck me. Not that anybody was paying any attention to us, so caught up in their own muscle-sex workouts.

God, I loved this gym.

As we entered the locker room, Woody said over his shoulder, "You don't got any posing trunks here, do you? Or any thongs or anything?"

I shook my head. "Just the jockstrap I'm wearing."

He exhaled with a sigh. "Put that on the top of the list," he said. "We gotta get you some posers - and, uh... I want to see you in some thongs, too. I'm not a big jockstrap fan."

"Okay," I said - again, simple acknowledgement. I couldn't argue with Woody. Just obey.

He motioned me to the scale next to the showers and I hopped on eagerly. I think I've spoken before about the meaning of weight to a skinny guy - well, a FORMERLY skinny guy now, I guess. For me, it was all about the numbers. Even though I knew it was ultimately an aesthetic sport, I still wanted to see the proof on a scale.

Four days ago, on Friday of last week, the day I joined Apollyon, I had just hit two-hundred pounds, mostly due to my abundance of body-fat - I was easily carrying ten pounds of flab around my waist. Now, late Monday afternoon, with almost no fat to be seen on my body (thanks to swallowing Prince's orgasm), the scale balanced at two-twenty-six - a little over, actually. Two-twenty-six...and a half!

"Holy shit!" I whispered, checking to make sure Woody didn't have his foot on the platform, adding his own substantial mass as a joke - but he hadn't. It was all me.

Woody stood behind me, that ridiculous grin on his face. "Not bad," he said, crossing his arms before his massive chest. "Only eighty pounds to go 'til you're one of the big boys."

"Seventy-four," I said, indicating the scale. "Seventy-three and a half."

He came up behind me and put me in a headlock, holding me in his strong grip. I could feel the heat of his pecs against my shoulder blades. "Ninety-one 'til you're bigger than me," he growled. "So don't get cocky." Laughing, he kept his arm around my neck as he led us across the dressing area.

There were three posing rooms attached to the locker room - they reminded me of racquetball courts with their tiny doors and frosted windows. Like the meds room, like airplane restrooms, they had a little sign under the knob that read "occupied" or "vacant" in red or green, respectively. One of the posing rooms was "occupied," so we went to the far one.

Woody locked the door after we got inside.

It wasn't a big room, nowhere near the size of a racquetball court, more like nine by twelve. The wall opposite the door, the short wall, was completely mirrored. (The thought that flashed through my mind was, "That's a big-ass mirror.") General, overhead lighting - though a softer color than fluorescent white - mixed with small spot-lights hung in various angles across the ceiling, it didn't take much imagination to visualize the stage of a competition.

There was a stereo system attached to the rear wall - the one with the door - and when Woody turned it on, the room suddenly filled with the baritone-rumblings of Toby Keith - (I confess a mild disappointment that Woody was a country-western fan.) The overhead lights were on a dimmer switch, and Woody pulled them down until the room was almost completely dark but for the spotlights. Now, it really was a stage.

"Take your gym pants off," Woody said. "I'll show you some poses."

Woody wore a pair of white bikini briefs under his shorts, cut almost as dangerously low as posers. Barely covering his entire package with material, the waistband rode just above the base of his cock, covering the small amount of pubic hair that Woody allowed himself.

He was absolutely gigantic. And as the lights hit him, and the savage shadows fell across his massive body, showing his cuts and depths to the extreme, he was just about perfect. He smiled in satisfaction when he saw himself, and bounced his pecs quickly at his life-size reflection.

There were hooks and a little cubby on the back wall for clothes, but I just left my gym pants and sneakers in a heap on the floor. Woody was posing as I stepped into the spotlight next to him. I think we caught sight of my reflection at the same time, because we were both stunned.

It wasn't just that I was a junior-version of him, reminding me of a super-hero and his loyal side-kick, it was my OWN look. I was DIESEL now - buffed and pumped, sporty and masculine. Hungry. I looked like the jock I'd always fantasized about being. No, I WAS the jock I'd always fantasized about being.

Or maybe it was the jockstrap that gave that impression. Whatever it was, Woody started to get hard - and I was secretly pleased that looking at my body got him that way.

He led me through a series of poses - the seven compulsories for competition: front double biceps, front lat spread, side chest, back double biceps, side triceps, back lat spread, and front abdominal. He'd show me the correct way to do the pose, then I'd imitate him, flexing over and over as he inspected me. "Lift that arm more," he'd say. "Arch your back a little more." "Don't forget to flex the leg there" as we went through them again and again.

I was fucking LOVING looking at myself in the mirror, watching my new muscle respond to my commands, pop as I flexed - I had an almost perpetual chubby. Woody would take a shot at my pecs when I wasn't flexing hard enough - he painfully worked my lower abs while in the front abdominal pose, pulling my package down with one hand and pressing his knuckle into the muscle with the other. That hurt like hell, so I flexed as hard as I could in resistance.

He suddenly stood and squeezed my nipples with a force that made me groan, closing my eyes and rolling my head back. Just as I was about to collapse, he released one side and punched me hard in the stomach. I gasped, and collapsed in on myself. With almost no effort, he wrestled me to the floor, pinning me beneath his substantial mass. I was helpless. And hard.

"See how easily I defeat you?" he growled. "Now watch how easily I take your hole."

He sat up and grabbed a bottle of posing oil from the towel stand. His back to me, he stripped off his underwear. I saw his powerful, naked ass, a lower back strengthened by hours of deadlifts - yeah, he was MADE for thrusting, a fuck machine. He turned back to me, pouring some of the oil in his hand and spreading it on his cock.

Woody was well-hung, thick and blunt - not as big as Prince, but certainly nowhere near the embarrassing miniature-size of Palumbo. His cock was shaped almost exactly like mine, which made it that much easier to be attracted to. He was a little bigger than me, but my balls hung lower. "You ready?" he asked, kneeling by my legs.

I lay there against the rubber floor, legs spread, pumped - horny. Hungry. He was so big. I wanted to be just like him.

"Oh, yeah," I said, smiling. "More than ready."

He grabbed my ankles and held them straight up in the air, holding both with one hand while he slipped my jock off with the other. Releasing me, he tossed it over toward my clothes. When he turned back, I lay like I was about to do a leg press, my knees folded and almost touching my pecs, like a baby that needs diapering.

After an approving look, Woody slid up between my legs, pressing my wrists into the floor above my head, face to face - he rubbed his forehead against mine, and we acted like horned animals. Pushing my head aside, Woody whispered in my ear - I kissed his neck while he spoke. "I don't want you cummin' as soon as I get inside you. You just wait 'til I tell you - that'll be torture enough."

"Yes, Sir," I whispered, overwhelmed by his heat and scent, the slight sweat that had broken out on his skin. "You're in control."

He smirked. "Like you could fight me." I felt his cockhead press against my hole. I wrapped my legs around his torso, to give him easier access.

His cock was insistent. "Relax," he said. "Relax and enjoy it."

And then he was inside me. Did I allow him access, or did he simply take the hole? Or was it a little of both? I don't know, but suddenly, this three-hundred pound bodybuilder invaded me - he thrust inside. He filled me with his solid maleness - he claimed a space where none had tread. A place where no man had ever been.

I groaned as he plunged deeper, inch after filling inch. "Just relax," he repeated. "You can take it all. As a matter of fact, the more you take, the more you'll want. I should be hittin' your button right... about... now."

Fully in, fully thrust, the head of his cock pressed against my prostate, throwing me into a sudden state of ecstasy - bliss. His cock was the perfect instrument of pleasure. Something in me churned.

He began thrusting, pulling his cock slowly out and then slamming it back in. He looked me deep in the eyes. I moaned in pleasure, rolling my head and shifting my ass, finding a counter-rhythm to his. I could control some aspects of this new body he'd given me - my new big glutes were good for something. "Good boy," he murmured. His heavy abs rubbed against MY erection, but I couldn't cum. I couldn't.

A torturous minute - another - thrust after blissful thrust. He pulled himself out of me. "Get on your hands and knees," he said - he was drooling, white froth on the corner of his mouth. "Face the mirror."

He knelt behind me, pushing my legs apart and mounting me like a dog. It felt even better from this angle. "Fuck, yeah!" Woody screamed, holding my hips and slamming into me. "Tell me you're mine, bitch. Tell me you're mine!"

"Yes! YES!" I yelled, timed with his thrusts. "Yours! I'm yours! Mind! Body! And soul! Yours! Let me cum! Please, God Woody, let me cum!"

I watched him fuck me in the mirror - I watched the two muscle-beasts fuck and be fucked - God, they looked like they were enjoying themselves. "Gonna be your best ever," Woody growled while he thrust. "Mine'll cause yours. And when you cum, Strong, you'll belong to me completely. Got it? Completely."

"Completely," I moaned, trying to let him in deeper. The more he gave me, the more I wanted.

He roared. "Here...it... comes!" And then he shot. Pushing so far into me that he might cum in my heart, I could feel the rhythm of his spurts. I could feel him fill me.

Tagging my prostate the way he did pushed me over the edge, too - or maybe just that he'd ordered it that way. Didn't matter, as soon as I felt him cum inside me, I shot myself, the muscle at the base of my cock pulsing against his.

And he was right. It was the perfect bliss he'd ordered it to be.

Giving myself to him had been the best thing that had ever happened - I'd never felt this good. This complete. I almost blacked out again from the pleasure. But when everything came back into focus, I knew everything was exactly the way it was supposed to be - (It was the most Zen I'd ever felt - I was completely IN the present moment, lost to anything but what I was experiencing right then. It was perfect.) - everything Dr. V had required.

I now belonged to Woody. I was bonded to him. I was his little brother - and his slave. Innately, it seemed, I knew no one but him could bring me the kind of pleasure I was now experiencing. If I wanted it to last, I'd have to obey.

And grow.

He lay back after he'd pulled out of me, resting on his elbows while I took his cock in my mouth and licked him clean, which just seemed the right thing to do, to make sure his needs were met before my own - I followed my impulse instead of my inhibition. I liked his taste - salty, but with a hint of musky sweetness. After a minute or so, when he started to get hard again, he pulled me off and said, "Why don't you grab some towels and clean up?"

"Okay, Woody."

I wiped down my ass, and the floor, and the spots on the mirror where I'd shot my load while Woody turned off the stereo and re-dressed. "You hungry?" he asked me as he adjusted himself into the pouch of his bikini briefs. "I'm fuckin' starving."

I nodded, even though I wasn't so much hungry as horny. I suddenly realized that I was ready for him again - I WANTED him again. Wow, he had me good - just one fuck and he'd already turned me into some little sex-pig. He'd certainly killed some of my inhibitions. Instead of putting the soiled jock strap back on, I just went commando beneath my sweat pants - I knew I wasn't about to get back into the jeans I'd come here in - (I may as well throw away ALL of my old pants). Even the sweats were a little too snug, and made no secret that I didn't have underwear on.

But since Woody fucked me, I was feeling more like a man than I ever had, and I didn't mind showing off. Let everybody see what I got. Let them ALL want me.

We gathered our stuff and got the hell out of there. •