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|It was a pain in the ass shaving - pardon the pun. I never realized what a
contortionist one needed to be to clean up one's ass-crack. I mean, I'd already
hit my package and trimmed my bush back, and frankly, shaving my chest, arms and
legs was no big deal - though I went through three razors doing it - but damn,
the butt was a pain. I wondered if there was a web-site that would show me the
proper technique. I'm sure there was - I'd have to "Google" it sometime. I
doubt it would matter to Woody, as long as it was done.
I'll tell you what shaving did do for me, though - it gave me a great opportunity to get to know my new body, to inspect every sinew and line and swell of muscle my now two-hundred and twenty-eight pound frame sported. And let me try to tell you what THAT felt like. To run my hand up over the ridges of my rock-hard abs (Thank you, Prince!) only to find myself caught up on the base of my pecs, to feel the slope of my powerful new hamstrings, to touch this muscle here and that muscle there. To touch and touch and perhaps never stop touching myself.
No matter how many times I masturbated - and it'd been four since Woody fucked me about two-and-a-half hours ago - I was ready to go again almost immediately. THAT was the most incredible change so far. I was becoming a stud - and I mean the REAL definition of the word, a well-bred horse only intended for fucking.
Pulling back the shower curtain, I was able to see myself in the mirror, completely smooth for the first time - that got me hard again. I looked like what I now was: a real bodybuilder. There was no mistaking the fact that I lifted weights, that I was strong, that I was a man. A real bodybuilder stud.
I posed there in the steamy mirror for a few, practicing the moves Woody showed me, the proper technique, until my erection throbbed so badly that I had to stop and jerk off. I was almost a little annoyed by the interruption... until I came - and I've described my orgasms before in this text, how they keep getting better and better, more and more intense, as unbelievable as I know that sounds. But when, for the fifth time in less than three hours, I shot, my spunk hit the mirror over the sink with such force that it splattered back on me.
God DAMN that felt good!
Everything felt good - the way I had to adjust my walk to accommodate my new size, the way I'd bump my shoulders on door jambs because I hadn't left myself enough room for clearance, the way I'd struggle to try and put my old clothes on, feeling them rip, their seams tear as they tried to cover me. I had this gloriously joyful scene as I went through pant after old pair of pant, pulling them up over my muscular quads only to have them rip open. How I laughed. Almost every stitch of clothing I'd owned fell to the same fate. I enjoyed it so much, I pretty much destroyed everything. Goodbye, old life! Hello, new age!
Well, not to crap on the image, but my old underwear still fit - stretched though it may have been - so I wore a pair of familiar briefs under some of the new spandex shorts I'd purchased. I tentatively glanced at myself in the mirror - I'd never been much on spandex before - nervous until I actually saw how amazing I looked in them, how my cleanly-shaven legs were thick enough now that I didn't look like a freakin' stork, rather an athlete - a diesel marine. A bodybuilder.
A bodybuilder STUD.
Unlike my old pants, like my underwear, most of my t-shirts still fit too, though stretched to the point of ridiculous compromise. The one I ended up wearing to the gym - which may've said more than I cared to - was a campy throw-back from "Bob's Family Restaurant" that read "Big Boy" with a corporate logo of the roly-poly sprite holding a waiter's tray loaded with flapjacks over his head. On my new torso, it was like somebody had painted the shirt on me - it used to be loose.
Another erection - another hand job.
This time, I tried my best to catch my orgasm in my hand so it wouldn't get all over the living room, but mostly failed. The power of the moment was so great that I could barely maintain consciousness much less keep control of my cum - this one even brought me to my knees.
But what was truly amazing was how quickly I'd recover after those moments. No exhaustion, no disorientation, just this wave of satisfied relaxation and the sudden readiness to go again. My cock had been half-hard constantly since my workout with Woody - hell, before that! My cock had been half-hard since I'd met Dr. V this morning, when I'd been twenty-five pounds lighter.
I got the paper towels and wiped up my hand, my cock, the living room floor, tucked myself back into my shorts, and set out for my old gym before it happened again. It was too easy to be distracted by myself.
Walking down the streets of the city in a pair of spandex shorts, a tight t-shirt, my backpack and sunglasses, I began to understand the power I'd gained. The looks I'd given myself in the mirror of lust, and surprise, and deep, deep appreciation? They were the looks I saw on the people I'd pass on the street, the fags and the "tuffs" and the working-class joes. The stares of the old men, the unexpected glances from women, the cat-calls of construction workers, I'd never been treated like a sexual object before, like nothing more than a piece of meat.
I liked it.
It took everything I had to NOT smile, to maintain my "cool."
My old gym was about five city blocks from my apartment - and this was the first time in my life I'd wished it was further away. I resisted the temptation to walk around the block an extra time, just to show off - though I liked the anonymous stares, I wanted to see what the people I knew would think. And walking around the block one more time could be interpreted as stalling. Sure, I was nervous, but I didn't want to put it off, either.
Believe it or not, my gym was called the "Fitness Factory." I know. I rolled my eyes the same way when I first heard it, but what's a better name for a yuppie gym? One of those three-floor jobs, locker rooms and free-weights on the first floor, cardio equipment - bikes, treadmills, elliptical trainers - and indoor track on the second floor, spinning room, yoga space, cardio-class area on the third. For the truly lazy, an elevator connected all three.
I'd been a member here for five or six years, so I pretty much knew everybody, if not by name, certainly by face. I mean, there's always a social aspect to any gym, even the most hardcore - hell, even "Apollyon" to a degree (though most gyms didn't feature uncontrolled orgasms as a signal to end a workout) - but the "Fitness Factory" was a meat market in a whole different way from "Apollyon," where they at least feature prime cuts and quality rump roasts. The "Fitness Factory" could almost be considered a straight bar. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)
The kid behind the front desk, Kyle, was a student at one of the city colleges, though I was never clear on which. A pretty little nothing, he didn't recognize me as I entered, and barely afforded me more than a glance as I checked in, holding my membership card up to the little scanner.
"No greeting, Kyle?" I asked as the little "beep!" accepted my card.
Kyle looked up from the textbook opened before him as I took my sunglasses off. "Jeff?" he asked, like he'd just figured it out. "Is that you? What the fuck, dude?"
I smiled. "What?" I asked with an open-armed gesture so he could see my whole torso. I liked playing the ignorance angle.
"What do you mean, 'what?' - you're HUGE, dude! What the fuck?"
I shrugged, heaving my massive, new traps. "Yeah, I've been puttin' on a little weight lately."
"A little?" he asked, giving me the once-over. "I'd say a little more than a little."
"That just shows how often you look up from your textbooks," I said, backing up toward the locker room, letting him get the full-body view. "Or maybe it shows that I wear baggy gym-clothes too often."
He nodded, still with that look of disbelief on his face. "Maybe you do," he said. "Damn, dude, you look great! I never realized you were in that kind of shape. We should get some pictures of you for the brochure."
I smiled, and pushed the edge a bit further. "Only if you take 'em," I said, and winked at him.
He blushed and looked away - I loved that moment when straight-boys realize they're inadvertently flirting. What power he just gave me - the realization of how simple it would be to seduce him - that embarrassed look was his admission, rather, his submission. I knew it as concretely as I knew my own name. I could have him if I wanted him, with almost no effort at all.
And that really made me NOT want him. I mean, there were guys out there who'd present me with a challenge, a struggle at least, some sort of resistance to overcome - THOSE were the guys I wanted. Not some little pretty college-boy who'd give it up faster than Speedy Gonzalez. Where was the fun in that?
What an interesting thought from someone who, just four hours ago, was himself begging a massive bodybuilder to fuck him? Oh, brave new world that has such sexually-charged muscleheads in it. I chuckled at my own bad paraphrasing - there was a joke almost no one would get, DEFINITELY not Woody.
And why would that even matter? I thought as I walked to the locker room, that Woody wouldn't get a reference?
Where was the advantage in being smarter than everyone else? That three-hundred pound dumb-ass Palumbo did pretty well for himself.
Frankly, so did Woody.
What if the only way to get to three-hundred pounds was to give up some of your smarts? I wondered. Would you be as anxious to do it, then? What if every time Woody fucked you, or you climaxed while you were working out, or you entered the second stage buzz of the gear, you got stupider? What then?
Well, then I saw myself in the locker room mirrors and that answered my question for me. If I was gonna look like this, who the fuck cared how smart I was? No matter what the sacrifice, I was gonna be big - and I still had another hundred pounds or more to go. Imagine what a moron I'd be then!
Chuckling to myself, I dumped my gym bag and went out onto the floor, wrapping my wrist-supports tightly on as I walked. I'd only done it four times, but boy, I could've sure gone for an amp of the gear I'd been shooting up at "Apollyon" - I wondered what a workout without it would be like. At least I wouldn't have to worry about accidentally cumming on anyone.
A Monday evening at a yuppie gym, so it shouldn't be surprising that everyone was working chest. Who was I to be different? Besides, my first chest workout at "Apollyon" was cut mercilessly short by my inability to control myself - one rep! I had something to prove, no denying that.
I'd been a member of the "Fitness Factory" for four years, so I knew just about everybody, most people in that friendly-nod kind of way, where you don't want to confess that you don't know their name, so you never really get beyond pleasantries. I was acquainted with maybe twenty guys, friends with about ten, close to few, but at least I knew names and occupations.
The "Factory" had four flat benches, three inclines, and two declines, not to mention two Smiths and a dumbbell rack so over-stocked as to be able to compete with "Apollyon." (Bernie, the owner of the "Fitness Factory," former competitive bodybuilder himself, joked about being a "dumbbell slut.") On a Monday evening, everything was busy. My buddies Brian and Scot were on the flat bench nearest me, and while Scot was doing his set - a mere 185 - Brian made eye-contact with me from the spotter's stand. "Hey, Jeff!" he said with a small wave.
Then the double-take. The realization that all was not as it should be - or, at least, not as it HAD been. Not only trying to accept and rationalize the additional twenty-five pounds of muscle on my frame, but the highly out-of-character spandex and exposed skin. "Dude," he said, stunned, "what the fuck?"
Scot racked the weight, trumpeting curiously, "What? What? What are you talking about?" as he sat up and looked at me. Then he, slack-jawed too, said, "Holy shit."
"What?" I said, trying to play the moment. "You guys act as if you've never seen me outside of baggy sweats before."
But these guys weren't gonna fall for that - we'd been lifting together for too many years. They knew my body as well as their own, my former weaknesses, my strengths. Even at two-hundred and five pounds - my weight the last time these guys had seen me - I was just barely the same size as them - and I'd come up to THAT weight after almost a year of back-breaking work. I think they were friendly with me initially because they'd seen that progression.
Here I stood now twenty-five pounds heavier than Friday, and in spandex to boot. Boy, was I setting off alarms!
"Bull...shit," Brian said, walking around the bench and facing me. "You're probably fooling people with that line, too. 'You guys act as if you've never seen me outside of baggy sweats before.' That's such bullshit." He poked me in the pecs with his fingers - I flexed them for him, smirking.
"You guys mind if I work in?" I asked.
Scot chimed in, almost whispering. "You on something, Jeffy? What are you on, man?"
"Guys," I said, already exasperated, holding my hands open before me, "I'm just puttin' on a little size right now, that's all. Just workin' hard and eatin' right."
"And taking the right kind of supplements," Brian added sarcastically.
I nodded to him, and conceded, "And taking the right kind of supplements. Okay? Can I work in with you?"
They glanced at each other, and Scot cleared the bench. I warmed up with the one eighty-five on the bar - their second set - and moved it with such ease that I felt kind of bad for the other guys. After twenty reps, I racked it, standing quickly and stretching my shoulders, throwing "backwards" punches and the like. I could already feel a pump start in my chest.
"Ready to move up?" Brian asked, removing the quarters without even waiting for my answer. "You warmed up enough?"
"Sure, sure," I said. "Let's put some weight on that thing."
While Brian did his set - the eight with two twenty-five that he usually did - I looked around the free-weight area, made eye-contact with one or two of the guys, nodded to them, enjoyed the stunned reactions as they realized who I was. Damn, I WAS as big as I thought - they were confirming it. There was a few of the big boys - Bernie's buddies, the in-house steroid crowd - working on the decline. Even they didn't seem that much bigger than me now - maybe they'd even consider me worthy of speaking to.
Scot barely got four during his set, less than I would've gotten just forty-eight hours ago, but I was anxious for him to finish, so I didn't mind that his set sucked. I wanted my turn.
Two twenty-five - for the benefit of the few readers of this text who might NOT work out - was the first big challenge of weight-lifting. It's one of the first indicators of advancement, you know, from beginning to intermediate. Once you own two twenty-five and you've moved beyond it, you've reached a different level in the eyes of the other lifters. You're looked at differently in the gym - you've earned respect.
Two twenty-five is no light weight, and neither is the guy who moves it.
So naturally, even though Scot wasn't really ready for it, wasn't getting quality reps, he struggled with the weight only because he knew he should in order to maintain his "place" in the hierarchy of muscle-heads. Four reps - two with enough help from Brian that they should've been considered Brian's reps - and he was done.
I always got six to eight - more often eight lately - without a spot, better than both Scot AND Brian even though I was just about on-par with their size. I mean, HAD been. Now that I had nearly thirty pounds on both of them, I laid down on the bench expecting a different outcome.
And I got it. Brian gave me the lift off the rack, which I'd always needed before, and I centered the weight, set my shoulders and started the set the same way I always had - tentatively. But I noticed something right away. As I lowered the bar, I noticed it felt lighter, or maybe I was just stronger. Whatever. It was easy. As a matter of fact, it was almost as easy as one eighty-five.
No, it was as easy as a warm-up set with an empty bar.
Bam! Bam! Bam! I just repped them out. Two twenty-five (two plates per side) was as easy as one thirty-five (one plate per side) used to be. I hit ten and just kept going - there was no need to stop. I felt too good - not quite as good as when I'd feel the rush of gear behind it, but still better than I'd ever had in this gym before.
Again, after twenty reps I racked the weight. I'm sure I could've gotten five or ten more, but there was no need to show off. As it was, I'd left both of these guys in the dirt with almost no effort at all. "That felt fuckin' great!" I said as I stood, again stretching my arms and rolling my shoulders.
But Brian wasn't so pleased. He seemed agitated, frustrated. "Well," he finally said, rather, grumbled, "you're definitely on something."
I frowned. "Oh, come one. We've already dispensed with that, haven't we?"
"I don't know, man," said Brian, sliding tens on either side of the bar - two forty-five. "Maybe you shouldn't be lifting with us. You're so big and strong - we don't want to hold you back."
"C'mon, Brian," I said as he settled himself on the bench. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm still the same guy I was."
He laughed. "No, you're not. You just got two twenty-five for twenty, and the only reason you stopped was so you wouldn't humiliate us. Well, too late on that, hmm? So listen, why don't you take your pretty new muscles and your little spandex outfit and go lift with those other roid-heads over there? I think we'd all be a lot happier if you did that."
"Brian, what up...?"
He put up a flat hand to me. "No, dude. Seriously."
I glanced up at Scot, standing at the head of the bench, ready to spot, and he simply nodded his head in agreement. "What's the matter, you guys?" I asked, flexing my pecs. "Jealous?"
THAT got him. Silence. Stony, grimaced silence. We stared at each other for a second, level looks locked in an iron battle - there was a time, before my muscles, where I would've just backed down, where I would've been some submissive little faggot and just did what he said.
But, you know what? Fuck that. I was the bigger man now - and you always OBEYED the bigger man. THAT'S what I liked about "Apollyon" - a clear and concise set of rules.
"What the fuck are you on, dude?" asked Brian, trying to recapture some of his high-school-football-glory-days in his attitude - Mr. Tough-guy. "What the fuck is your problem?"
"I'm not the one with the problem," I said. "I'm the one with the good bench press. You're the one who's taking it personally. I just want to work in with you guys a couple sets and you're bein' dicks."
"No, fuck YOU, Brian," I said, taking a step toward him, only the bench between us - Scot had wisely backed up a step. "So I'm putting on a little size. So fucking what? What do you care? Unless you're jealous."
He snorted. "Yeah, I'm jealous of YOU..."
"Sounds like it to me." Without realizing it, I reached down and adjusted my package - my cock had started to harden.
From the spotter's stand, Scot began placating. "Hey, come on, you guys," he said. "Let's all calm down."
Both Brian and I tossed it off at the same time. "Shut up!" we said to him, without looking away from each other.
"You lookin' for a fight, spandex boy?" Brian said, pointing his finger into my pecs.
I slapped his hand away, expanding my rib cage - posturing. "Why? You think you can take me? I think you're all fuckin' talk. I seen your bench press, buddy, and, uh... I wouldn't be threatening anybody if I were you."
"Oh, yeah? What are YOU gonna do, go into a roid-rage? You're not gonna fight me, ya fag. You might tear your little outfit."
I grabbed him by the front of the t-shirt and pulled him in close, over the bench. I WAS getting a hard-on! I was getting off on this. "Maybe I'll tear you a new hole," I said quietly, menacingly. "And maybe I'll fuck it for good measure. Then we'll find out which of us is the faggot - we'll see who's begging for more."
He swung on me then. A body blow, because my arm holding him blocked a shot to my face. But when he connected with the rock-solid wall of abs that Prince's cum had given me, I saw the first look of concern cross his face. I smirked, then drew back for a punch of my own.
And someone grabbed my arm from behind, which kept me from delivering the blow. Still holding Brian by the t-shirt, I turned my head to see Bernie - the owner of the gym, himself a former bodybuilder-turned-fitness nut - restraining my punching arm. Scot had obviously run off and gotten him. "Knock if off, Jeff!" Bernie hollered. "Let him go."
"Mother-fucker's got it coming, Bernie," I said, not releasing the tension in either my grip or my fist. "He swung on me."
And Bernie pulled me back, and a couple of the bigger guys joined him, restraining me, one locked over each arm. I HAD to release Brian. "I don't give a shit who swung on who," Bernie said, now up in my face - though Bernie was a good shaved head shorter than me, which gave him great height for bodybuilding, but not for confrontations. He was only safe because his goons held me back. "You don't fight in my gym! What's your problem, Jeff?"
"He's on fuckin' roids, dude," yelled Brian, himself held by one of the guys who hung in Bernie's circle - one of the SMALLER guys, I was pleased to note. "He's fuckin' crazy! He's havin' a roid-rage!"
"I'm not havin' a fuckin' roid-rage!" I yelled back. "I'm not on roids, you dumb-ass!" I turned my attention to Bernie, indicating Brian with a head motion. "He calls me a fag 'cause I'm wearing spandex, and then cries when I out-bench him. He's a fuckin' pussy, Bernie. And he swung on me first."
"I don't care who swung on who first," Bernie said. "You don't fight in my gym. Get him the fuck out of here."
And the two big gorillas started to pull me away from the scene, toward the exit. "Bernie," I said, protesting, pleading. "C'mon, man..."
"No," he said sternly. "You're out for tonight. You're done. Get your shit under control, and then we'll see about you coming back here." To the goons, "Get him out."
And they man-handled me to the locker room and allowed me to get my gym bag. I was pissed that Bernie so quickly believed Brian over me - I thought, maybe that was the cost of big muscles, maybe everybody would assume the cliches were true. Maybe they were.
In the relative privacy of the locker room, the bigger of the two guys - his name was Chuck; gigantic, his shoulders dotted in acne, he rarely spoke to me beyond a greeting - said, "I bet you would've mopped the floor up with that guy."
I snorted. "Easily."
He nodded. "Winning doesn't mean anything when it's easy. You want a challenge? Take on one of us."
The two of them stood there relaxed, but flexed, and Chuck reached down and adjusted his cock - the same way I'd done when I'd threatened Brian. The other guy smiled.
So did I, grabbing my own package and echoing his gesture. "Maybe I will," I said. "Maybe I will at that."
Point made, hierarchy established, they stopped man-handling me, and just escorted me to the main entrance. At the door, Chuck said, "Whatever you're on, it looks good. Just get that temper under control." And with a flat hand to the chest, he not-so-gently shoved me out into the street.
I had just gotten thrown out of my old gym for being too much of a man. How about that?
With nowhere else to go, I set off for Woody's apartment, hoping that a thirty block walk would calm me down. Instead, the closer I got, the bigger my erection grew.
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