By AbsMan420

Warming-up with skull-crushers, Woody could see how distracted I was, overloaded with information, trying to sort instead of trying to rep. "I knew you were going to worry about it," he said, sliding forty-fives onto the curl-bar.

"I'm not worried so much," I said, leaning against the preacher bench. "I know that once the gear hits, I'll put it aside. It's a lot of information, Woody. I'm just trying to go through it."

"You think too much," he mumbled, lying on the bench and beginning his set, letting the bar sink to just above his pate, then pressing it back up in the air. He moved it with an ease that would make one believe the bar had no weight on it at all, much less ninety pounds. After twenty, he stopped, set the weight on the floor and stood, looking at me closely. "You need to put it aside now, bro. We're workin' out."

"I know... I will... it's just..."

"No," he said, holding up one hand in a "stop" motion. "You need to put it aside NOW. When we're workin' out, NOTHING matters but the workout - nothing concerns you but the pump - you leave your everyday shit outside. Here's how." With his big paw, he grabbed me on the side of the neck, pulling my to him, until he was speaking directly into my ear.

"What are you...?"

"It's another little trigger courtesy of Dr. V," he whispered. "Listen. 'Woody requires workout-level motivation. NOW!'"

A shudder went through me, the sudden realization that I had even less control over myself than I'd thought - I HAD been hypnotized, for real. They HAD done something to me, something to my mind, something... something...

Something awesome!

I suddenly felt like I did in high school, right before kickoff at the big game, right before the ref blew his whistle at a wrestling match, that same sense of anticipation - of HUNGER. Need. My petty, stupid, human concerns drained away as easy as a piss in a parking lot, leaving me with excitement and focused energy - desire.

Why the fuck was I upset with Woody? Because he made me feel like THIS?!?

This was fucking awesome!

"Holy fuck," I said quietly, but with force, as Woody released me and stepped back, an anticipatory smile on his face.

"How's THAT feel?" he asked.

I laughed, a quick bark, then said, "Is it my set yet?"

His regular, toothy smile broke out on his face. "That's what I'M talkin' about!"

We quickly hit our forearms together (like we were professional baseball players - before their steroid woes), adjusted ourselves in our singlets, and I went down on the bench to do my set. All that mattered now was the weight - all that concerned me was the pump. What had I been worried about before that could've distracted me from this?

I felt fucking awesome! I mean, I passed ten reps before I realized what I was doing, stretching, getting my head into the muscle, feeling it when it was working - muscle memory, remember how this feels... triceps squeezing. I added some close-grip bench presses with the bar before I handed it off to Woody.

I was light-headed when I sat up after the set, but I knew it was the onset of the gear. I welcomed it, opening myself to it. No fear, no worries. Only muscle. "It's starting," I said, shaking my head even though I knew it wouldn't clear - little blinders formed that allowed me to see nothing but muscle. When I stood up, I caught a quick glance at myself in the mirror, the light shining down from above. At two-hundred thirty pounds, I looked damn good - a light sweat and a ruddy complexion. I flexed.

Woody added a couple twenty-fives to the bar. "Yeah, startin' on me too," he said, shooting me a quick smile as he grabbed the EZ-curl bar and settled on the bench for his set. "But we got a long way to go."

I stood at the head of the bench while he repped, spotting him even though he didn't need me. Fact is, I enjoyed looking at his body as he worked, stretched out flat, and in this position, I could look at myself in the mirror at the same time - I enjoyed watching him get a partial erection as the buzz of the gear came over him, his cock demanding more and more space in his singlet, inching out to his hipbone as he pushed the weight up.

I knew how he felt.

But it wasn't about fucking and sucking - Woody's cock was prime for both - it was about feeling like a man, understanding that power, strength and size were primal urges. Domination. Defeat.

I got the exact same confident chubby on my set. When Woody and I faced each other, we had the same cocky smirk, too. "Now you're starting to get it," Woody said, punching me in the pec. "Let's get the weight up."

We took the twenty-fives off the bar and put on another set of plates - a hundred and eighty pounds on skull-crushers! Now, THAT weight could live up to its namesake.

But we were unstoppable.

I mean, I never even doubted I could do it. I never entertained the thought. When Woody put the bar in my hands, I knew I could handle it. It wasn't "Would I get any reps?", it was "How many reps would I get?" That was the realignment of thought. Man, I wish the guys at the "Fitness Factory" could've seen this!

I love skull-crushers! Laying there, you bring the weight back and you see that bar descend on your forehead - with your hands so close together in the grip, the amount of bar exposed is almost exactly the same size AS your forehead, like it's a cattle brand, and if you touch it to yourself, you lose and everyone'll know - they'll see that big red dent on your forehead, so you press it back up, feeling the flex of your triceps and the activation of the stabilizer muscles in your shoulders. Leverage versus gravity, with power and size as the outcome. Skull-crushers fuckin' rock, man!

But we abandoned them after that set - Woody was determined to keep moving. "Arm day is about pump, and pump's about speed," he said. "We gotta keep the pace. Besides, I'm trying to time this out for you."

"What do you mean?"

He smiled enigmatically. "Just keep the pace," he said.

On one side of the cable-crossover, we did reverse-grip pulldowns with the straight bar - which really centered on the medial-head of the triceps - and super-set single-arm kick-backs on the other. From the cables, it was possible to see Palumbo plodding around the leg area, but I was so focused on my own workout, I was barely aware of him - I wasn't even sure what he was wearing (gray spandex hot shorts - ). At one point, he and Woody exchanged a wave, but I don't think there was anything more than that.

It was about repping, and flexing, and squeezing the muscle, forcing the blood into it - MAKING it grow rather than marvel at growth as the bi-product. "Nice," said Woody, as we flexed side by side, comparing pumps. I didn't think of Woody as being eighty pounds heavier than me - merely a goal to shoot for. His size stopped intimidating me.

Controlling my erection was a different matter altogether. The flexing, the repping, the workout was so stimulating to me. It was as good as sex, at least - hell, BETTER than any of the sex I'd had before I joined Apollyon, when I'd been nothing but a skinny-ass loser.

My cock pointed straight up, mostly due to the fit of the singlet, but that same tightness, that tight binding, kept it in control. Moderate control. It was getting more and more difficult, especially as the truth behind the sexuality of working-out became more and more clear. Working out was just a way to have sex with your muscles, another path to a more masculine orgasm.

Another wave. This one deeper, like leaving the shallow end of the pool unexpectedly, without a healthy breath. As much blood flowed to my cock as to my triceps - they both throbbed with their pump. "Oh God, Woody," I mumbled as I repped out the reverse curls. "I'm getting close..."

"Control," Woody said, standing next to me instead of doing his own set of kickbacks. "Think about control, Strong. Think about your muscles, not your cock."

"But my muscles ARE my cock!" I screamed, releasing the bar, dropping the weights down to the stack with a solid "CLANG!"

"Control yourself!" he barked, pushing me away with a jab of his forearms, like I was nothing more than a football tackling dummy. It forced me back a couple of steps - hell, I almost tripped over a weight stack. And even though the action took my mind off my cock for a few meager seconds, I was suddenly pissed at him for constantly pushing me around. I was getting pretty fuckin' SICK of that! Before I even realized what I was doing, I launched at Woody as if we were in some collegiate wrestling match - I was ready to fight. I was ready to challenge him.

I was ready to beat Woody into the ground and then fuck him for good measure - THAT was how powerful I felt at that moment, how lost I was in my own sense of masculinity.

But Woody was ready for me, that much was obvious. My charge meant nothing to a man who out-weighed me by eighty pounds. Reaching out, he had me in a full-nelson before I even realized what was going on, easily controlling my two-hundred thirty pound rampage. "Stop it!" he said forcefully, a cop to a perp, hauling me to the mirror, until I was merely inches from myself. "Look at yourself!" he said. "Say it!"

When I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw a wild animal - a beast. I saw a side of myself I'd never seen before.

And fuck, I liked it.

"Say it!"

Looking into the red-rimmed eyes of the animal before me, that sexy, manly part of myself, I growled. And obeyed. "Control," I said, though the words tried to hide behind my lust. "Muscle before cock."

Nothing happened - no transformation, no magical manifestation. Just lust. Lust and muscle. And cock. Lots of cock.

Woody smacked my head into the mirror, hard enough to annoy me. "Say it like you fuckin' mean it!" he ordered, a Drill-Sargent with his rod pressed against my ass.

"CONTROL!" I bellowed at the mirror, glaring into my own psychotic eyes. "MUSCLE BEFORE COCK!"

This time, something clicked. Hard to describe, but it was like, the energy that had been building in my groin as well as the blood that had caused my erection both suddenly... dispersed. Just... drained away into my body, absorbed by my muscles instead of my sex organs. And as it absorbed the energy, it was like my body BECAME my cock - the need to fuck was replaced by the need to lift.

No... fucking and lifting were the same.

The second stage washed over me like a welcome wave of Pacific surf.

And without fear of cumming, I opened myself to it.

It wasn't that my real cock was dead, as a matter of fact, quite the opposite. My muscles might have replaced my cock, infused with sexual energy and masculine drive, but the actual organ, the fleshy bit of trouble between my legs stayed a full and comfortable half-mast in my singlet. It, too, was on display, so it looked its masculine best, still a symbol, but its power, its drive, its motivators, that all belonged to my muscle.

And now my muscle was getting the erection my cock used to have, a massive, swollen hard-on.

When I turned to face Woody, I realized immediately that he hadn't reached this plateau, this level of understanding - he still struggled to physically control his sexual organs rather than accept this truth and move to the stage in which I now found myself. This place of clarity amidst incredible power.

Why would anyone not want to feel like this, like a full-body cock?

"Are you okay?" I asked him, my voice hoarse and rough, like to a buddy in a huddle.

He panted, hands on his hips, trying to ignore his erection. "In a minute," he said, having a difficult time looking up at me. "Are you?"

I flexed the two big cocks that were my arms in a double biceps and said, "Never felt better."

He smirked. "Then let's lift."

The tone of the workout changed, the timbre thickened, intensified. I didn't need him to push me now - I had all the motivation I needed right there in the mirror. No. Instead, he became competition for me. Woody was a hurdle on my journey to be the biggest.

To best him, I had to lift harder than him. To be bigger than him, I had to lift more. That meant I needed him to stop lifting now, so I could. My true objective became clear: I needed to make him cum.

We pulled dumbbells off the rack and started doing alternate curls, finally working our biceps. Because he was the biggest, Woody went first. Massive and pumped, his cock rock-hard in his singlet, Woody stared at himself in the mirror, pounding out the reps - he was only using fifties. When he couldn't squeeze out any more, he threw the weights to the ground.

Panting, out of breath, sweating, Woody fell to his knees, clearly battling his cock -- fool. He didn't know the truth I knew - muscle and cock were one. Why would he refuse to enter the second stage? What did he gain in his useless struggle with his sex organs?

I stepped into the spot he'd just occupied, him on his knees before me, and I began my own set, calmly looking at myself in the mirror, the light shining down from above. Each rep was like a stroke on my cock, each full-contraction a tickle. Curling was masturbating - flexing was sex. That's how good it felt.

And the blood flowed into my biceps and the erection within them flared, and just like that, I felt the muscles grow. No, I flexed them into growing. There was the ultimate sexual act - the forced growth of muscle. All I had to do was squeeze, and keep on squeezing, and I would be the biggest.

Twenty, thirty, forty, the reps flew by.

"Oh my God," moaned Woody, kneeling there looking up at me. "Grow bitch! Grow!"

I tossed the fifties away - they were too easy! With a growl, I seized the seventies.

I wasn't drop-setting, I was up-setting. Definitely upsetting Woody - he could barely control himself.

Repping them out like they weighed nothing at all - easy. Look at me! Look at my fucking arms! I'm huge! Fuckin' huge!

I dropped the weight - I flexed my guns, my big huge python cocks for Woody. Sniveling there on the floor, barely hanging on, he had difficulty looking at me, but he couldn't help himself. Even though he knew he was about to lose it, he couldn't help but look at my incredible arms.

"Look at this shit, Woody," I teased, slapping my left bi with my open hand. The veins throbbed. Every time I squeezed, it hardened a bit more - it just kept fucking growing! "Why don't you touch it? You know you wanna."

His hand trembling, Woody reached up and stroked my swollen muscle - my grapefruit-sized peak. "Oh, fuck," he mumbled.

I leaned down and whispered in his ear, "Not much longer and I'm gonna be bigger than you, Woody. Then I'm gonna give you what you really want. I'm gonna hold you down with these big arms you're helpin' me get and then I'm gonna fuck you silly."

That did it. Woody threw his head back and screamed, orgasming uncontrollably inside his black singlet.

Yes! I thought as he collapsed back on the floor, nearly unconscious. Yes! I win!

Without his interference, I could continue to lift - to grow. I could really beat him. I could beat them all.

God damn, this felt so fucking good! Why was everyone so uptight about the second stage?

So fucking good...

I grabbed one of the straight bars off the bench press to do another kind of curl, putting on one eighty-five to start. Fuck man, just looking at myself in the mirror, curling one eighty-five! - it was the most amazing experience of my life. That monster... that MAN in the mirror? That was me. I was huge, and only getting bigger.

Curls, curls, only grow from curls.

Two-twenty five - two plates per side. I was curling it, barely more than a challenge.


I felt power, pure masculine power. I wanted more.

More! More!

Palumbo caught my eye, watching me from the drinking fountain, wiping his mouth with his forearm and leaning against the mirror. I threw him a cocky smile, a nod, and a double biceps. I wanted to fuck him - or at least lift with him.

I envied him his body - and the price he paid for it.

He smiled back and flexed an arm for me, holding his forearm at a ninety-degree angle, but still able to touch his fingertips to the peak of his biceps. Freakin' massive. His look to me said I still had a ways to go.

Fuck that. I threw the quarters on the straight bar, bringing the total up to two seventy-five - almost as heavy as I'd benched.

I just wanted to get one. Just one. I had to be the biggest.

But as I started to lift the bar off the rack, Woody stood, blocking me from seeing my reflection. He'd regained some of his equilibrium, but was still unsteady. "Strong, stop man," he barked weakly, looking me in the eye. "Don't do it. You've already been in this stage too long. Cum, Strong. I order you to cum."

No! NO!

Another fucking trigger!

The control I had - the power I'd felt - as quickly as I'd realized it, it left me, shooting itself out the orgasm that racked my body, that shook me to the floor, that ultimately blacked me out.

As I collapsed on the bench, my hips bucking without my control, the cum continuing to drain from my softening organ - Betrayer! Weakling! - I felt the blood continue to pump into the muscle - where at least I still felt growth.

My last thought was that, perhaps in my frontal lobes, something else was draining away.

I passed out into a dark, masculine place. At peace with the trade-off.

When I came to, Woody and I were gonna have words. •

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