By Voyager

Chuck stood in front of me, his chest expanding and contracting with his heavy breathing. As was usual, he was totally focused on himself, going on with a stream of monologue about how pumped he felt, how strong he was, how… I was lost in my own thought process at the time, though I knew I should have been listening to him to avoid any further eruptions of anger. Still, what I saw in front of me was amazing. Yes, size wise, all I saw was skin and muscle, lots and lots of muscle, but that was just it…I should not have been seeing any muscle at all. I should have been staring into his neck, and though that in itself was beefy, it was not awe inspiring.

No, I was looking at his chest. Just at the point where the two pecs would split, leaving a huge gorge between the two cliffs that rose up on either side. His absence of chest hair only made that more pronounced. Trying to do some quick calculations, I would guess that I was now three or four inches below where I first was when Chuck came to visit earlier in the day. That was less than four hours ago! Good lawd, four inches in four hours? Looking side to side, I also saw his body had compensated for his additional height by adding on even more muscle to where it looked like he was even wider, even more packed with muscle, even bigger than before. My mind searched for a reason, an explanation. Calming it as best I could, I tried to look beyond the logical to the illogical.

Piecing everything together, I could only come up with this. Whenever Chuck really strained his muscles, pushed himself to the brink, he released something inside of him that caused this magnificent growth. Something deep within came rushing, piling inch upon inch of thick muscle on his frame, and this muscle was almost super-muscle, giving him inconceivable strength even beyond people his size, if there were any people his size anymore. Testosterone had to have something to do with it, I guessed, as his rages indicated that he was overdosing on über quantities of that hormone. That would also explain the craving for more. He was like adrenaline junkies who always want the next high. And…

“AHEM”, came a voice right in front of my face. I had been lost so long in my own thoughts that I didn’t even realize I was airborne again. I had to be, or Chuck was bending down, and knowing the way this day had gone, that was not really in the realm of possibility. The face did not look happy. “It is not nice to ignore your muscle god”, he said, “…and I will have to think up an appropriate punishment for you, little man. Now, I am thinking that somehow having you ride my glorious bicep (he flexed with his free arm) gave me this rush of power. Even holding you up is easier, though it was never an impossibility being that you are so puny.”, he sneered, using one of my joking words to try to insult me. “Now”, he continued, “I want more. More of that rush. More power. But what do I do. Having you hold on to my bicep again, though I am sure a thrill for you, would not be much of a challenge for me. How do I raise the bar?”

His eyes lit up at the last sentence. “Bar…bar…of course!”, he said, still holding me up. “Where do you keep your weight set, assuming you have one?”, he asked, reviewing me with disgust. I told him it was in the spare bedroom. “Good, go get it”, he said, about to put me down. Halfway down, he stopped, and brought me back up again. “No, that might give you a chance to escape your muscle god, foolish as that would be.” He looked around the room and saw some hooks on the side wall. Years ago I told him that my house was at one time a ranch house that had been renovated. However, the hooks that were there, which I never knew what they originally held, were made to hold great weight. They were heavy duty and bolted directly into beams. He walked me over to the hooks and proceeded to hang me on one.

Geez, where were we, gym class again? What was next, running my shorts up the flagpole? I knew if I could wriggle free, I could get down and possibly get out. I also knew that I would probably make quite a noise falling on the floor, alerting the musclebound giant in the other room. Could I outrun him and those legs? Probably not, at least not in this situation.

My plotting was interrupted by another insult from Chuck, this time coming from my ‘weight room’. “Is this all the weight you use to bench? Pa-thetic.” I heard the sound of iron plates and collars slipping off the bar and then saw Chuck bringing in the bar itself to the living room. Carefully, methodically, he put the bar on the floor and bent down. He placed his two monstrous feet on the bar, in the center, and took each end of the bar in his hand and proceeded to pull up. He was bending the bar! A solid iron barbell bar! Would this day of incredible sights ever stop?

It took effort from him, as well as a lot of grunting and a few choice swear words, but the bar was giving way, inch by inch, until he had bent it into an oval, the two ends overlapping each other. He brought this oval over to me and put my feet, then my left, then my torso, then part of my chest through it. At that point, he put his two gargantuan hands on either side of the oval and began to press in, compressing the bar even further. I couldn’t believe it…he was making a harness of sorts…for me.

When he stopped, it was tight, though not so tight that I could not breathe. I was snug within it, and had my lower arms free so if I felt I was slipping, I could grab the bar with both hands. I would try not to do that, for fear he would make it even tighter.

“Now”, he began, “I am going to do some curls, and guess who is going to be the dumbbell”, he said, laughing at his own dull pun. "And when I might begin to tire, your punishment will kick in. When I tell you, you will begin worshipping your muscle god, by licking his bicep.”

I could not stop the look of revulsion on my face. Lick another man’s sweat, no matter how large a bicep? Never in all of my flexing and strength fantasies had I even considered that. That attitude must have registered on my face, for he brought his hands on to the sides of the oval. “Is that alright, or do I begin to compress this circle more?” I could feel the bar begin to give and the tightness increase on my body. “No, it is fine, muscle god….sir”, I replied, knowing later I would want to wash my mouth out with Ajax. That broad grin came to his face again. “Good to see you are learning quickly, little man”.

“First’, he continued, “I need an appropriate handhold to use.” He slipped his meaty hand between my chest and the bar and squeezed the bar tightly, screwing his face up in tense concentration, then gritting his teeth, then grunting loudly and long. When he had finished, he released his hand from the bar, showing an indentation where is hand was. “There is my handhold”, he said, forcing me to look down.

The additional 40 lbs or so of weight did not even phase him as he took me down from the hook and brought me into the center of the room. Standing up, he began with his arm straight out, ‘proving’ his strength to me silently. He then began to slowly bend his arm, with me in his hand. My view changed radically from a view of Chuck’s ever growing body, to his legs and the floor, to his bicep, and then back again. Say what you will about him, (and I did) his bicep was awe inspiring. It rose up to greet me at the top of the rep, almost touching my face, it was so huge. Perfectly rounded, symmetrical, with veins coursing over the top of it, feeding it with each pump. It got to see it many times on that ride.

Then the dreaded part came. He was tiring. He wanted to be rejuvenated. “Next rep, little man, you will begin worshiping my mountain of power”, he barked, and began his flex. There was no way out of this…his bicep grew closer and closer…loomed on the horizon. Instead of pulling away his arm at the top of the rep, he kept it still, his bicep within ‘range’. I closed my eyes, stuck out my tongue, and made contact. The sweet and funky taste of his sweat hit my tongue as it gently scraped along his flex.

“Oh yeah, ohyeahohyeahohyeah”, moaned Chuck as this was happening. It seemed with each flex, each touch of my tongue on his bicep, he was going into a deeper state of euphoria. On each negative, I could see his shorts getting tighter and tighter as he was getting more and more excited. His face showed pure bliss, even as he moaned out, ‘more’. Soon his arm could take no more, but he wasn’t done with the blissful episode. Literally tossing me from one arm to the other, he moaned, ‘Continue’, and I didn’t even get a chance to simply be lifted, but went right to his other bicep.

Each flex and each lick sent him further into ecstasy and the bulge in his shorts further and further out, to where the waistband was pulling away from his marbled abs. As if in a trance, he began walking with me, never missing a flex, into my bathroom and picked up the lotion that I use with the Victoria Secrets catalog and brought it into the living room. He unleashed a monster from his shorts, not even bothering to pull them down. His member must have been a foot long and would have stretched a tube sock for width. I guessed that the testosterone helped that, though I really didn’t know…that was not part of the youth group education I had given to him and the subject never really came up.

Soon, lotion in his hand, he rhythmically stroked himself in time with his flexes of me. The moans became deeper, more guttural, and the shuttering had begun again. “Yes, YES, YES”, he bellowed, “I can feel the power coming”. With that he flung the arm holding me wide, thankfully hanging on to me, as I was bound by the bar. His other arm he used for aiming, and caused puddles to form on both my living room carpet and the kitchen door, a good 15 feet away. As this was happening, he actually growled, like a beast that was being let loose from its cage. After that, he just kept repeating one phrase, “The power…the power…the power”.

Slowly, he brought his arm back in front of him, still dazed from what had just happened. I gathered my wits and remembered I needed to test my theory. For the entire time of this ‘curling’, I was directly in line with a picture on the opposite wall. It was approximately at my eye level. I looked at it again. I was looking a good several inches above it now. My doubtful side took over…but he moved you when he flung his arm to the side. It could be that, I thought.

Doubt was removed a moment later, as he put me down in front of him. I checked to see if I was standing straight up. Even with the weight of the barbell bar around me, I was. I looked directly ahead. I was eye level where I was before this began, the beginning of the gorge. Wait…now I was seeing the gorge. Wait…now I was seeing a deeper part of the gorge. Wait…I was eye level with his nipples. He was growing right in front of me!

The vertical growth seemed to have stopped, to be replaced with horizontal growth. His pecs and back widened by a good foot, his arms had muscle piling on them as I watched, his abs grew deeper crevices, and I heard a tearing from both his shorts and his shoes. I was standing in front of an over seven foot goliath, impossibly muscled, and with strength before that was able to bend steel bars. What could he do now?

And there I was, right in the path of this testosterone charged mountain who was pissed as hell at me, and I was bound up in a 40 lb bar… •

This collection was originally created as a compressed archive for personal offline viewing
and is not intended to be hosted online or presented in any commercial context.

Any webmaster choosing to host or mirror this archive online
does so at their sole discretion.

Archive Version 070326