By AbsMan420

When I woke, sitting on the floor nuzzled in the crook of the flat bench and its rack, a gigantic pair of legs filled my vision. Not mine - wouldn't that be sweet? - and even bigger than Woody's, if such a thing was imaginable. No, it was Palumbo - I woke at the feet of Palumbo, the muscle-freak, as he and Woody were talking. When we made eye-contact, Palumbo pursed his lips and blew me a kiss, then smiled a stupid, evil grin.

"He's comin' to," Palumbo said in his deep, sandpaper bass, indicating me to Woody.

I glanced over at Woody, staring down at me from the other side of the bench, arms crossed over his bulbous chest. He smirked when our eyes met and said, "Well, that was quite a show. You're lucky it was just the three of us in here."

Palumbo snorted. "Yeah, prob'ly woulda made the whole gym cum!" That was when I noticed the big wet spot on the front of Palumbo's gray spandex hot-shorts.

"YOU came...?" I said, my voice still groggy.

Palumbo barked out a laugh, reaching down and gingerly adjusting his package with those big, sausage fingers. "Yeah, well," he stammered, indicating Woody, "with your... uh... buddy here screamin' out triggers at the top of his lungs... ANY of Dr. V's guys woulda."

Woody was stone-faced. "He'd been in the second stage too long," Woody said, defending himself to the bigger man. "I had to take action."

Palumbo went back to facing Woody, returning to the argument they'd obviously been having while I was unconscious. "Didn't seem like he was havin' no trouble to me," Palumbo said to Woody, squaring off, "and I was watchin'. No, I think you was pissed 'cuz he beat you so easy. He done you, so you got back at him using the only weapon you got - those triggers. He beat you fair and square, Atwood, then you did somethin' nasty. That's how it looked to me."

"Well, that just PROVES you're a fuckin' moron."

Palumbo prickled, almost shape-changing into a fighting stance, that's how smooth that transition was, how instantaneous. "Are you challenging me?" Palumbo asked with an incredulous tone, his chest swelling. "You CHALLENGING me? You remember what happened last time you done that?"

"I remember."

"I fuckin' mopped... up... the... floor... with you!" Palumbo said, speaking slowly, emphasizing each word with a jab of his thick finger. "And I'm even BIGGER now! What the fuck do you think you're gonna do against me?"

Woody bristled, maintaining his stance. Confidently, quietly, he said, "Whatever I gotta."

Palumbo laughed, spreading his arms and expanding his chest. He tapped his own pecs a couple of times. "C'mon, bitch," he said. "Bring it on."

Woody remained surprisingly calm. "I don't wanna do this," he said, but his tone said he would if he had to.

"Nah," Palumbo said, with a nod toward me, taking another step toward Woody. "You don't want your boy here to see you lose. You don't want him to see what a big fuckin' fag you turn into when you're gettin' dominated by one the real men around here."

"Stop it."

Palumbo glanced down to me to make sure I was still listening, but remained focused on Woody. He continued to smirk. "See, boy, your buddy Atwood here LIKES to get fucked. He likes it a lot. But there's only a couple of us in this gym big enough to do the job and frankly, uh... we like more of a challenge. That's what he's trainin' YOU for. He wants to get you big enough to fuck him - that's all. He's ain't turnin' you into the musclegod you want to be. No, he's turnin' you into the boyfriend that HE wants you to be."

Woody's veneer crumbled, his face betraying his inner-fury. "Fuck you," he said, nearly spitting the words out.

Palumbo snorted, as if laughing off the idea. "Never you," he said. "And never again."

They stood face to face, their chests expanded - the only superior muscle-group for Woody - staring each other down like professional wrestlers in front of the camera, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

"I'm three-hundred thirty-six pounds," growled Palumbo. "You sure you wanna do this?"

"I'll do what I have to do to protect the boy."

Palumbo chuckled, a deep bass that echoed through the density of his rib cage. "Yeah, yeah, protect the boy. Hey, if you're that worried about the responsibility, how 'bout I take him off your hands for a while? Huh, little man, how 'bout that? How 'bout I take your boy here and show him what it means to REALLY put on some size? How 'bout that?"

Woody shook his head. "No," he said.

"Don't worry, mommy. I'll return him when I'm done."

This time, a sense of finality. "No."

Snorting again, as if what he heard from Woody was too incredulous to believe, Palumbo looked around, licking his lips before continuing. "I don't think you're following me," he said. "And you guys think I'M the dumb one. Lemme put it another way. I'm takin' the boy, and you're shuttin' the fuck up about it and gettin' out of here - OR I'm gonna beat you down so hard that you'll be weeks recoverin' from it, battered and bruised and broken, and I'll end up with the boy anyway. You want him to see THAT?"

Before Woody could answer, I spoke. I wasn't sure if it was my place or not, and I'm positive I was breaking some etiquette rule somewhere along the line, but I didn't care. I couldn't stand to see Woody take some beating because he felt I needed protection. No, I needed to be a man and stand up for myself. "No, Woody," I said, kneeling on my side of the bench. "Don't do it. Not on my account. I'll stay with him."

Woody only looked at me momentarily, but it was possible to see the depth of his feeling reflected in his eyes. "No," he said. "It's not your decision to make, Strong."

"What the fuck are you talkin' about?" Palumbo said incredulously, reminding me more and more of a bad ethnic movie - as he became emotional, Palumbo became more and more New Jersey Native. It was the most animated I'd ever seen him. Mostly, he just stalked the squat area, slowly moving from set to set, which everybody thought was because he was stupid. "Of COURSE it's his decision to make! Duhhh... It's his fuckin' life, sweetheart. Not yours. Just 'cuz you were afraid to train like the real men do don't mean that he has to be."

"Dr. V gave him to me to train."

"Then go cry to Dr. V. Right now, the biggest man in the gym is tellin' you to get the fuck out of here. Hell, even the BOY is tellin' you to get the fuck out of here. And for some reason, you're still stayin'! What the fuck's your problem, Atwood? Don't you know when you lose?"

They glared at each other silently for a second or two, a slight smirk on Palumbo's face. At one point, Woody shifted his focus to me, weighing his options. Finally, he broke the moment, and backed up a step. "You haven't heard the last of this," he said to Palumbo.

Palumbo blew him a kiss. "Talk to me after you've gained thirty pounds, sweetie. Until then..." He waved goodbye.

Woody looked at me. "Be careful," he said.

"I will," I said, winking.

"Oh, that's so precious!" mocked Palumbo, then to Woody, he said, "Get the fuck out of here!"

In defeat, Woody turned, and stalked into the locker room.

"Finally," mumbled Palumbo when Woody was out of sight. Turning his attention to me, he said, "Stand up. Let's get a look at you."

I'd been so caught up in their confrontation that I'd completely neglected what had happened to me. As I stood, I immediately noticed that my center of gravity was different. I was heavier - I could feel that. Putting my hands on the bench to push myself up was the first time I noticed my arms, the size of my arms! If I'd gained weight, most of it was there.

Even bigger than they'd been when Woody pulled the plug on my workout, my arms had grown to over twice their former size. I was awed by them as they pushed me up, the prominent horseshoe of my triceps, the grapefruit peak of my bis, the ham-hock forearms and powerful hands. The strength - they felt so fucking strong!

Of course, I was bigger all over, thicker through and through, but I wasn't aware of how much until I stood and saw myself in the mirrors. "Holy fuck," I said as I stared at my reflection, back and forth between the mirror, looking down at myself, and touching. "I'm huge."

Palumbo snorted. "You're nothin'. Maybe two-forty-five, two-fifty. You're gonna walk out of this gym tonight two-eighty, two-ninety. Hell, play your cards right and you could bust three-hundred. Then you can go home and fuck some manners into your boyfriend."

I posed in the mirror. "He's not my boyfriend," I said - I didn't want to use Woody's term: "Master" - double bis, side tris. Fuckin' huge!

"Maybe not," said Palumbo, "but soon he'll be your bitch."

We looked at each other and he started laughing. I smiled.

"I thought so," he said. "Let's go."

Not surprisingly, we made our way to the leg area. I shouldn't have been surprised. I mean, after all, I was with Palumbo, and I've never seen him doing ANYTHING but legs. I wondered if he even worked anything else. He didn't have the greatest chest - Woody's was thicker, better shaped - but nothing could compare to Palumbo's legs. Nothing. Gorgeous, over-sized freak.

But he didn't set up the rack for squatting, though he took the bar. "We're gonna deadlift," he said. "You wanna put on overall body mass, this is what you do. But first..."

I followed him to his gym bag, discarded carelessly on the far side of the squat rack. He took out a Tupperware container holding a cube of chalk and a handful of multi-colored spandex hot-shorts, exactly like the stained gray pair he wore now.

"Do you have enough of those?" I asked with a humorous bend.

"You kidding me?" he asked, still squatting there by the bag. "I go through two or three pairs of these a night. Don't nobody like to lift in cum-stained shorts. Here."

He casually separated out a pair of the white and tossed them to me, grabbing another white pair for himself - his seemed more sheer than mine, as if it were made of something silky instead of spandex. We had a locker room moment, like adolescent athletes, trying to check each other out as we changed shorts without being obvious about it. It was actually the most endearing thing I'd seen about Palumbo - and who'd have thought I'd ever say that, after our first meeting, where he forced me to cum when I'd spotted him during a set of squats?

I mean, here were these two big, muscular men acting shy about being naked in front of each other, trying to deny the sexuality of the moment. It was... cute.

And with mirrors everywhere, it didn't take much effort to see him. Truth is, Palumbo wasn't all that well hung - he was HUGE with muscle, and I think the only thing that ultimately saved him was that the gear didn't shrink your nuts like steroids did. At least Palumbo wasn't as small as he would've been if he'd been a true roidhead, anyway.

In the stories, it was always about the guy's cock. Not only would the guy get a fantastic body, his dick would usually swell to inhuman proportion, too, making the guy into some super-sexed muscle-stud. Nine times out of ten, as soon as the cock grew, the guy's muscles became secondary to his sexual hunger, his COCK'S need to express itself.

Here at Apollyon, the muscles grew and the cocks stayed the same - except they get wildly, painfully turned-on. Masculinity was measured in pounds, not inches. And if Palumbo wasn't as big as everybody else cock-wise, so what? He STILL had a fantastic, muscular, over-sized ass - the ultimate lineman - and I was thinking about fucking him, anyway, not sucking his cock.

We slid on our white spandex square-cut hot shorts and adjusted ourselves in them, flexed once or twice, admiring ourselves, then Palumbo went for his bag again.

From the side-pocket, he pulled a handful of the pre-loaded syringes usually found in the meds room, separated out two of them and put the others away - he had at least a dozen. "Nobody stops you from takin' 'em," he said when I asked him about it. "And like I said, I go through like three or four of these things a night. I don't want to have to walk all the fuckin' way back there... waste my time."

He handed one to me, then dug out a couple of alcohol swabs.

"I thought you were supposed to wait twelve hours between amps," I said.

"Yeah," he said, shrugging, "if you're SATISFIED, that's how long you wait - that's nice and safe. If you're HUNGRY, you do what you gotta do, right?" He flicked his eyebrows at me, a tiny smile curling the corner of his lip, probably the most pronounced his smile ever got. "You wanna get huge, don't ya?"

I nodded with resolve. "Yeah," I said firmly.

He shrugged again. "Of course you do. If you didn't, you woulda gone home with your boyfriend. Now let's get this party started."

We shot up in our quads rather than our asses - not that he cared, but it was easier to hide what you were doing back here in the corner instead of using the meds room if you took the poke in your thigh instead of your ass. Besides, for him, the muscle was dense enough anywhere - he could take a freakin' dart to the forehead and there'd be enough muscle.

Palumbo got a hard-on just giving himself the shot. "Turns me on," he said. "What the fuck's wrong with that?"

For a first I shrugged. "Nothin'," I said, getting a rod myself.

"I see it gets you, too," he said, nodding to my crotch. "Good. Your cock SHOULD be hard when you lift! What's more manly than fuckin' liftin', using your muscles, showing your power, beating your competition? Nothin'! Nothin', little boy. You show it off the same way you do your pump. Just gotta keep it in control, that's all. Remember, muscle comes before cock."

"I've heard that."

"Most of these guys ignore their cocks when they lift. They're fuckin' idiots. Your cock is one of your most important tools. That's why those guys don't fuckin' grow. They're denying their cocks."

"Yeah, but you gotta keep from having an orgasm," I said. "Otherwise, you're not gonna get anywhere."

"That don't mean you ignore your cock!" he said as we put a couple plates on either end of the bar. "That just means you don't lose control - you just don't let yourself cum."

"But a lot of guys can't control that."

His anger rose. "Then they're fuckin' idiots! You know, I ain't the smartest guy in the gym," he snorted quickly, "not anymore - but I figured it out. And it's the reason I'm the biggest fucker here. My record is ten hours, eighteen minutes in the second stage. Yeah, that's right. Ten hours, eighteen minutes. That was a helluva workout."

"I bet."

"I woulda made it longer, too, if it hadn't been for those meddlin' middleweights - if they'da fuckin' left me alone! But here are all these guys watchin' me and beatin' off while I'm liftin' - you know, they were worshipping me and shit, and that was okay - I mean, I admit I was gettin' off on it and I bet I looked pretty fuckin' AMAZING to them that day, hulkin'-out like that, right? - but then, they're fuckin' shootin' their loads on me while I'm in the middle of a set, or I'm walkin' along and slippin' in their cum. It was fuckin' stupid, man. That smell and shit, it killed me. I was fuckin' DONE."

He did a warm-up set with two twenty-five and got his straps out of his bag while I did my set. "Your form's okay," he said, nodding. "Think about drivin' your legs into the ground as you stand - that'll help."

We continued to go light until the gear hit, then Palumbo started slapping on plates like they were candy. I did three-fifteen for my first working set, but it was so easy, we quickly moved up to four-oh-five. At first, I'd been awkward with the movement - I'd RARELY deadlifted, usually giving some lame excuse about my lower back - but not surprisingly, I was enjoying it now with Palumbo.

"Yeah!" he said, slapping me on the back. "That's the way! Let's put some weight on this thing, huh?"

Four more plates, a total weight of five eighty-five on the bar - I approached it like it was a child's toy. Confident - maybe a little cocky - I stepped up, wiping Palumbo's dry, white chalk across my palms then wrapping the lifting straps around the bar, securing my grip. Palumbo said nothing, no words of encouragement, no quips of advice, unlike Woody, he quietly let me prepare for the set myself, merely watching.

I thought about the power it would take to lift this bar - I knew I had it.

I thought about the kind of man it would take to stand with a five-hundred eighty-five pound burden - the kind of size, the kind of strength - I knew I would be that man.

Once I stood up, I would be that man.

My legs spread wide, looking up to my spot on the ceiling, I confidently began the movement, driving my feet into the floor and lifting with my back, traps and shoulders. Five-hundred eighty-five pounds moved slowly, commanded respect, but at least I moved it. And knowing I could move it gave me the confidence to beat it. A rush of power and sexuality flooded my system - it was possible to FEEL myself grow, as if my muscles WERE getting an erection. I remembered that feeling from before - it was the onset...

And I was at the top of the rep. And I held the weight there in my overhand grip and looked at myself in the mirror, shoulders back, chest out, hips forward, flexed and successful. The light shining down from above, my muscles flaring, I looked at myself, at my masculine, muscular reflection, at the growing erection inching its way along the bottom of the bar, and I wanted more. I wanted much, much more.

I felt the tide of the second stage swelling around me - I felt its power.

God, how I wanted it!

So I lowered the weight and did a second rep, raising it immediately after it'd touched the floor. This time, I imagined myself as a giant cock, and when I stood, I'd be erect. That imagery got me through the rep - which actually seemed easier than my first - it took little effort to use man-power, the power of erection, as a motivator. The water rose around me.

And I could feel a desire for orgasm pounding in my brain, seeking release. But I wouldn't give in to it - it would not dominate me! As I stood at the top of the second rep, I made eye-contact with that growing muscle-beast in the mirror, looking deep into the soul of the man that I was becoming, and I said, "Control. Muscle before cock."

This time, because I knew what to expect, I opened myself to it and welcomed it - I allowed it in - I allowed the flood.

I knew I could breathe underwater.

Again, I could feel myself thicken, as if all the muscle cells in my body became erectors. As if they could fill with blood and grow the same way my cock did. But that was the only thing to which it compared - as if my whole body was getting an erection.

My muscles swelled as I flexed at the top of the rep. I could see it in the mirror - I could see myself grow. But I felt it, too - the thickening...

My legs, my back, my traps and arms, the direct result of deadlifting, I could see evidence of the growth in those. Hell, my legs were easily as big as Prince's, or Brad's, or any of those middle-weights. Bigger. I could compete for sure, probably beat them.

My ego grew with my muscles - my confidence thickened like my thighs. I felt so... fucking... good.

But instead of doing another rep, I was driven by impulse - I only followed it because it was so unlike me, and I felt like I should BE unlike me. Instead of doing another rep, I "cleaned" the bar. Rocking my arms, I threw it up to shoulder level, snapping my wrists back to catch it, putting one leg behind me to steady myself, and I prepared to press it over my head. I wanted to be the kind of man that could clean-and-press five eighty-five. I had to be.

Palumbo was behind me, in my ear. "Oh, fuck yeah, boy!" he yelled - he didn't sabotage me like Woody had. He supported my efforts. "Press that shit! Press it!"

The fear was gone. The insecurity was gone. It was me against the bar - and I was gonna win.

It was a Herculean effort, for sure, but the weight went up. With my arms, my shoulders, my chest - hell, even my legs - I pressed five-hundred and eighty-five pounds, twelve plates on a bar, six on a side, up over my head - like a powerlifter.

Like a man.

I forced my arms, shoulders, chest - I forced them to grow. My body would reflect my desire - it HAD to. Nothing less would do.

"FUCK YEAH!" Palumbo screamed. "You the fuckin' MAN!"

I threw the bar to the floor, stepping back. Crashing and clanging with deep, metallic thuds, the bar rolled to a halt. I flexed in the mirror, seeing the changes as I felt them, so much bigger. So much thicker.

Palumbo came over and shoved me in the back, almost making me lose my balance, a huge smile on his face. "Fuck, yeah!" he said, and we hit our forearms together, like the pro-athletes did. "Look at you, mother-fucker. That's the way!"

"I knew I could do it!" I screamed at him, like buddies at a football game. "I fuckin' KNEW it!"

I pushed him in the shoulder, in the front delt, and he looked down at his shoulder where I touched him, and then pushed me back, a smirk on his face. Without warning, we clamped ourselves in a wrestling maneuver, looking for takedown, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders and neck. It was playing, but there was some seriousness behind it, like adolescent lions. He was definitely testing me, gauging me.

Well, I was gonna let him know that I was coming up fast.

But before one muscle-beast could take the other down and display dominance, the metallic chirp of a cell-phone came from his gym-bag.

"Aw, fuck!" he grunted, releasing his grip on me and pushing me off him. The ease with which he did it showed me that, strong as I was becoming, I was still no match for him, really. But that he was battling me at all was a compliment, even mock-battle - I'd given him reason to worry. I resolved then to be the NEXT guy to take his hole.

"What?" I asked. "What's the matter?" Even my voice was different. Stronger.

He indicated the ring with a nod of his head. "That's Dr. V," he said. "I know that ring-tone. Looks like your boyfriend ratted us out." He began to walk to the bag, responding to the sound.

"Ignore it," I said, rubbing my hand across my impossible torso, across the thick, thick pec and the ridges of abs. I wanted to get back to the wrestling - I wanted to experience my masculinity more.

He snorted. "Yeah, right. You ignore a call from Dr. V - I dare ya." Squatting next to the bag, he pulled out the phone, having difficulty punching the button with his big, callused, sausage-sized finger. "Hey, Dr. V," he said when he brought it to his ear, inadvertently flexing his biceps as he did so. "What's up?... Yeah, he's here... Yeah, I DID, but I don't think you got the whole story... Aw, fuck THAT! The boy wanted it... Now? I don't know..."

Palumbo looked over at me as if studying. He pursed his lips in thought before he spoke again. "He looks about two-seventy, two seventy-five I'd say... Gettin' there." He winked at me - VERY unlike him - and continued. "What? No, Dr. V. No... Please... NO!"

And Palumbo suddenly threw his head back and screamed, a hitching, breathy release that could only mean one thing - Palumbo was cumming. "No-o-o-o-o-o-o!"

He fell back out of the squat onto his massive ass, suddenly weak, his legs spread, and I could see the huge wet spot forming on the front of his sheer, white shorts. He couldn't help but touch himself, but play with his spewing cock. He had no control over it.

And just as quickly, the moment was over. Palumbo regained his breath, panting as he was, leaning back on his elbow. He glanced up at me, a rather sheepish look on his face, and offered me the phone.

"He wants to talk to you," Palumbo said quietly.

Unable to resist - though I knew I should - I reached out helplessly and took the receiver. •

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