By AbsMan420

I was on fire. My freakin' pecs were on fire. So pumped, my muscles were like swollen sacks, ticks, balloons full of blood and raging testosterone. My skin was stretched so tight over the bulk of it that it felt like it was about to burst.

It was fuckin' awesome! My chest was as hard as my cock - just as sensitive. Every muscle was my cock, now. I was MAN.

It didn't feel to me like I'd been doing the same set of incline presses for almost two hours. I lost count of reps a while ago - once it got into the hundreds, I got confused - too much to keep track of. Instead, I just got off on the feeling, this constant sense of thrusting and flexing. I can't describe it - in-fucking-credible. I didn't want it to stop.

Like I said, I wasn't aware that it was 7am until Brad showed up for work and stopped me. He didn't realize at first that I'd been repping for almost two hours non-stop - or even that it was ME, I think - his main concern was that I didn't have any clothes on.

"Hey, buddy," he called as he approached the bench - like I said, I don't think he recognized me. "You can't be liftin' naked, bro. You gotta be wearin' something. You know the rules."

I didn't stop - I couldn't - I couldn't even respond, I was so involved in lifting. I had the obsession-level of a teenaged boy. I just kept repping and repping - another, get another.

"Buddy?" he said. "Hey!"

But then he saw the dilemma, the REAL dilemma. He recognized what was happening to me - he saw one of the big freaks stuck in the second stage, stuck in an endless loop of mindless repping - he'd obviously seen it before. "Aw, shit," he mumbled, walking around to the front of the bench.

I wasn't able to focus on him very well - the lifting, the pump held my attention - I just wanted to get a few more reps in - but I aware of Brad kneeling down between my legs, at the base of the incline's padded seat - it's IMPOSSIBLE not to notice someone with Brad's width. He might not have been as big as Palumbo, or even Woody for that matter, but he was FAR larger than any normal man - HUGE compared to those bunny-fags. A heavy, not a super-heavy. I remember the first time I saw him, when I thought he was life breathed into perfection.

There was something damn sexy about him.

Maybe it WAS his overall width, maybe the roundness of his muscle that always made him sexy to me. Maybe the heavily freckled skin of a true red-head, even if he DID keep his hair so short it was hard to tell, and his entire body shaved - also evident in the shadow of his beard. Maybe it was his big, round nipples, maybe the peak of his freaky biceps, out of proportion with the rest of his physique (his biceps were so big that he could hold his arm at a ninety degree angle and still touch the muscle with his fingertips - try it, see how big that is).

I don't know what it was about Brad, but I'd always found him attractive.

So when he knelt down between my legs and took my dick in his mouth, sucking with a skill that put Rook to shame, I was sorry that I wasn't able to look down at him, to watch his big, bald head bob on my cock, those heavy shoulders wedged between my legs, those thick traps.

No, as I squeezed at the top of a rep, Brad squeezed my balls, suddenly taking my entire cock deep into his throat, and I shot a load that I'd been denying for almost three hours. I thrust my hips and shoved myself into him, shooting a solid volley of cum, while I flexed my upper pecs and finally found the strength to rack the weight.

"Thank you," I panted, releasing the bar and stroking his head.

"My pleasure," Brad said, as he licked my cock clean with wide-tongued, big dog licks. "I'm really gonna grow from THAT one! That was a helluva load! You're still not supposed to lift naked, though."

Then he looked up at my face, over the swollen triumph of my pecs, and he recognized me.

"Strong?" he asked.

I smiled. "Hey, Brad," I said, enjoying the new depth of my voice. "What's up?"

"Holy fuck," he said, standing and backing away from me, trying to take the reality of my identity in. "What the fuck happened to you? What the fuck have you done?"

I stood then, and even though Brad blocked me from my reflection, I could feel how big I was. I was aware of my new size. The man who stood from that bench was a new Jeff Strong, new and improved, bigger and better than ever.

"It was done TO me," I said, flexing my now-massive pecs, making them bounce as I looked down on them - unbelievable, they're mine. "I've been hit by three amps of the gear in the last nine hours. The last time, those fuckin' gym-bunnies ambushed me and Romagna tried to fuck me into becoming one of his slaves."

"You're kidding! What'd you do?"

I smirked, chuckled a little, then matter-of-factly said, "I kicked his ass. It's gonna be a while before he shows his pretty-boy face in here - or at least it'll be a while before you can call his face 'pretty.'" I reached down and adjusted my dick, which had twitched with life suddenly. I remembered the first time I saw Brad - how big I thought he'd been. Now I realized how much smaller than me he was. Compared to me now, he was nothing. I had nothing to fear from him.

He just shook his head, trying to take me in. Casually, I reached out and pushed his shoulder with the back of my hand, so he'd get out of the way of the mirror. I wanted to look at myself, at my incredible new body, and he was nothing more than an obstacle. Something ELSE keeping me from my goal.

You see the bodybuilders in magazines and stuff, and maybe you've even taken the time to fantasize about what you'd look like with that kind of body, but it's never quite real. It's always your head stuck on someone else, you know? Nothing prepares you for when you see your OWN body at that size. When it's YOU. When it's YOUR physique blown up all big - or in my case, bigger. When it's clearly your biceps, your chest, your impossible legs.

It was almost too amazing to take in.

"Holy shit," I said - and I hadn't even begun to flex yet - at just the relaxed me. I was everything I'd ever dreamed of being. I was a creature from other men's fantasies - hell, my own, too. I was bigger than comic-book superheroes, Tom of Finland pencil sketches, "N"-morphs. I was the stuff of masculine perfection, muscular dreams given life.

It was one thing to look at my muscles as I began to flex, but I could FEEL them, too. As I went from pose to pose, each one more visually mind-boggling than the last, I was more taken by what my muscle felt like than how they looked. I mean, I KNEW they looked good - but I'd never fantasized about how it would feel. To feel the blood flow into the muscle, the soft fiber turn rock-hard when flexed, the driving power behind it.

I wondered what it felt like to fuck with a body like this.

To dominate the shit out of some little faggot, show him what true masculine power felt like - to make him submit, now THAT thought brought unexpected pleasure.

Standing there slack-jawed studying me, I began to look at Brad in a different way. He was hot - I'd always thought so - and he had a nice ass, too, muscular and thick. I wouldn't mind fuckin' him. And what an honor for him, to be my first.

What was he gonna do, refuse? I was CLEARLY the bigger man now - that was one of the rules at this weird little gym, wasn't it? Always do what the bigger man says. Not that I'd mind proving it. The way I felt, I could take on Palumbo and win.

Brad would be nothin'.

Now, after thinking about it, all I wanted to do was fuck. If I wasn't gonna lift, then someone needed to get their ass ready, cause I was horny as hell and needed it - like MEN did.

Flexing naked in the mirror, my own chubby started giving me away. Not that it bothered me - what was wrong with being turned-on by yourself, maybe for the first time in your life? And I was one of the biggest guys I'd ever seen. Soon to be the biggest, but I'd get to that as soon as I established my standings in the pecking order - which meant I was gonna have to challenge one or two of these guys (hopefully more, because challenging meant fucking for the victor).

But watching this massive bodybuilder pose naked with a hard-on was a little too much for Brad. Pussy and his rules. "You really need to put something on, buddy," he said.

I turned and faced him directly, holding my hands out to my sides, cock pointing straight at him. "Why?" I said in my now much deeper voice, probably because it was created in a much thicker neck. "What's your problem, Hollibaugh? You can't handle full displays of masculinity?"

He smiled. "It's not about that," he said. "Believe me, I LOVE full displays of masculinity, especially my own - you don't think I got a ICU for nothing? No, believe it or not, this gym is actually subject to the health code - we can't duck every law. Nudity's illegal, bro, except in the locker room. I mean, you can wear as little as you want on the floor, but you gotta wear something. Sorry, Strong. That's the rules."

I rolled my eyes. "Jesus," I mumbled, shaking my head. "This gym and its fuckin' rules."

"Yeah, well, these fuckin' rules keep this gym running for almost a decade before YOU came along. Seems to me you could stand a refresher course - maybe even learn about consequences. Why don't you come up to my office so we can get this done?"

Ah, so that's what this was all about - the old "come up to my office" bit. He just wanted to get me alone in private. Well, that was fine by me. Like I said, I wouldn't mind fuckin' Brad.

As he led the way there, up by the stairs to the street, next to the juice bar, he kept talking. I couldn't help but find myself in every mirror we walked past - I naturally readjusted my walk to accommodate my new body. "Yeah, not everybody who joins this gym gains a hundred pounds over their first weekend," he said. "I mean, don't get me wrong, you look fucking amazing, but I'm not sure what you've done is healthy. No one's ever..."

"Everything's fine," I said. "I'd know. I can sense my body in a way I never could before. I know it inside and out - intimately. I'm perfectly fine. Well, at least I'm perfect."

He motioned his head to the scale in the stretching area. "Have you weighed yourself?" he asked. "I mean, to make it official."

"Not since last night," I said, chuckling, flexing my bis. "And I may have put on a pound or two since then."

He snorted. "Yeah, maybe one or two."

I knew I hadn't broken three-hundred. I just knew it. I tell you, I could sense that I wasn't yet dense enough, or thick enough, or muscular enough to qualify as one of the big boys, the real men. The freaks. Not yet anyway. But when I found out how close I was - when Brad said the number "297" - my first thought was "Damn, if he hadn't fuckin' interrupted me while I was benching, I could've probably gotten it."

Three fuckin' pounds. It just made me want to eat a couple steaks, you know?

Honestly, I wanted nothing more than to get off this scale and get back to working out.

Right after I fucked him.

"Damn," I said aloud. "Look at that. What the fuck...?"

"Holy shit," Brad said over and over. "Two ninety-seven. Holy shit. That's impossible."

I turned to him and popped my chest. "Obviously, not impossible."

"Maybe, but gaining seventy-five pounds in a day isn't common either, not even around here."

I smirked. "Oh, yeah? What's the usual amount of time?"

"Sometimes as much as a year," he said. "If you're following the rules. And even then, most guys don't get as big as you are now. Hell, most guys don't get to my size. Dr. V seems to... uh... really get results. I wonder how he does it...?"

I smiled mysteriously. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, right," he said as he turned and walked into his office, speaking over his shoulder casually. "Personally, I think it's hypnotism. Yeah, you heard me. I think that somehow, Dr. V has figured out a way to suppress that stimulus overload during the transition to the second stage of the buzz. That's what I think."

I snorted on that, gave him a confused look. "You lost me," I said, following him into his office, shutting the door behind me. "In simple words, please. Remember, I'm almost three-hundred pounds."

He shook his head slowly, as if exasperated. "Don't play games," he said. "You know what I'm talking about. Obviously," he continued, motioning to my physique, "you know what I'm talking about." He leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms just beneath his own wide chest. "How does he do it?"

I smirked and took a step toward him, not attempting to crowd him, really, just limit his space a little - it's the way assertive people take control. "How much you weigh, Hollibaugh?" I asked. "My guess is two-sixty-five, two-seventy."

He nodded slightly. "Somewhere in there."

"You look like you're a hot fuck," I growled, taking another step. "I bet you've topped your fair share of ass, haven't you?"

This time, he smirked. "I'm mostly administration, now."

"So, then, what do you do when you're challenged by someone with thirty pounds of muscle on you?"

He studied me, giving me the once-over. Trying to look casual, he reached down and adjusted his package. "Well, let's see, you've had that body for about twenty minutes and I'm a former collegiate wrestler with a state championship under my belt. You better be REAL sure about yourself, buddy. It'd be pretty fuckin' embarrassing for you if you LOST to a guy you had by thirty pounds. Reputations are pretty important around here."

I smiled and took another step closer - I could reach out and touch him now. "Good, 'cuz I'm lookin' to get one."

He pushed himself up off the desk by flexing his ass - we stood face to face - Brad was about two inches shorter than me and I tried to press that small advantage during our stare-down. I was taller and I had him by thirty pounds - at LEAST - but he stood there fearlessly, both of us somewhere between smirking and serious. It really did remind me of high school.

I really didn't want him to see my growing erection, but the way he kept picking at his own package, I knew he was battling one, too. "You wrestle?" he asked. "A little gut-punching maybe? Hopefully some mutual worship and, uh..." - He flicked his eyebrows - "...a battle for dominance?"

I smiled. "Sounds like my kinda party."

"Only two men invited."

There was a second there, as we stared at each other, that we both resisted the urge to kiss. You could see our heads shifting around, trying to get into position, but denied. Personally, I wanted to fuck him, not kiss him. Brad didn't strike me as a romantic.

"So what are we gonna do," I asked, "trash your office?"

"C'mere," he said, motioning to the door on the far side of his desk. I'd thought that door was for storage, or a closet, but I was wrong.

It was a wrestling room. A no-shit wrestling room. Well, to be accurate, a PROFESSIONAL wrestling room - in that the center of the space was dominated by a wrestling ring (a BOXING ring with a spring-loaded floor), like you would see on "Raw" or "Smackdown!"

Several cameras were mounted around the outside of the ring, a few on the walls and one on a stand, a few lighting towers. The wall behind the ring was mirrored, the others were adorned with old-school wrestling posters and various pieces of equipment and gear - it reminded me of a theme-restaurant with bric-a-brac all over the place.

"What's this?" I asked, looking it over.

He shrugged, the corners of his mouth curling in guilty admission. "We also make videos," he said. "DVD's. It's a good market."

"How 'bout that shit?" I said, sounding impressed.

"Yeah, we do wrestling, lifestyle, a little bit of light porn, mostly just jerk-off stuff."

"No heavy sex?" I asked, meaning it to be a joke, but Brad took it seriously.

"Not at this facility," he said.

I snorted. "You know, when I joined, I thought this place was just a gym."

We laughed together for a couple seconds, each lost in his own thoughts - for Brad, memories, for me, speculation - but still touching our cocks the same way. "So, we should have plenty of room in here," he said. "And this way, we won't get interrupted."

I nodded. "Excellent. This is fuckin' awesome!"

He tossed me a singlet from a cardboard box on the floor - black, with the Apollyon logo on the left leg - and told me to put it on. He stripped off the spaghetti-strap tank top he was wearing and pulled out a singlet for himself - his was white (the symbolism didn't escape me - see? For a near three-hundred pounder, I still had most of my smarts).

"Do I HAVE to wear this?" I asked.

He smirked. "I find it more erotic to START somewhere, THEN get naked. One guy tearing the singlet off another and then raping the shit out of him? THAT'S hot. That's MY fantasy. You gonna play along or are you gonna be a dick?"

I stepped into the singlet. "I'm gonna do more than play," I said, pulling it up over my hulking thighs. "When this match is over, you're gonna call me 'SIR.' You're gonna give me some respect."

"That your fantasy?" he chuckled, pulling the straps of his singlet up over his massive traps.

"No," I said, adjusting my package in the tight, uplifting pull of heavy spandex. "All I want to do right now is fuck. All I want is that hot, hot ass of yours. That's all. And I'll do whatever I have to to get it. And when I'm through, I'm gonna go home and give double that to poor, crybaby Woody. Yeah bud, the next few hours are just gonna feature ME as a fuck-machine."

He faced me, challenging me again. "You're gonna have to beat me first."

"Turn the cameras on then," I said. "That way, my kickin' your ass is documented."

"That's a big word for a muscle-head like you. I bet by the time you've gained five more pounds, you'll forget what it means."

I smirked. "Fuck you."

He nodded toward the ring. "Let's get it on."

But he didn't even get all the way into there before I attacked. It was gonna be a hell of a match, all right. And I was gonna win. I HAD to. Because I HAD to fuck.

And NOTHING was gonna stop that shit from happening. •

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