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|With thanks to Tony for the idea and the push . . .|
|He'd started out life as a skinny kid, but he hardly remembered that. Rocky's parent's had overcompensated by feeding him to help him gain some weight, and what he did remember, back as far as kindergarten, was being the pudgy kid, the fat boy, the geek, the nerd, the last kid chosen for any team. They'd even given him the nickname, Rocky, to lend him a more rough-and-tumble, regular guy image, or self-image. Whatever. It hadn't worked.
So, like so many boys in so many stories, when Rocky hit puberty and started to find himself getting new and different feelings about almost everything, especially his place in the world of his contemporaries, he decided to do something about his perceived inadequacies. He determined he would not be the fat-boy geek or the skinny dweeb any more. He would enlist his parents' desire for his normalcy and acceptance and use it to better himself.
At only twelve, he was too young to join a gym on his own, but he talked his dad, who trained at a local facility, into taking him along and teaching him how to work out. He nagged his parents into fitting out a room in the basement as a workout room for him, with just a few basics, like an adjustable bench, a rack for a barbell, a set of dumbbells, and a decent stack of weight plates. He also badgered them into taking him to the health food and supplement store where they talked to the muscled-up guy behind the counter about what he should be taking to burn off his body fat and build his muscle.
Armed with his determination and an endless supply of pills and awful tasting powders, which he religiously mixed into milk or juice several times a day, he began to chart a new course for himself. He ran. At first, once around the block almost made him throw up, but soon one mile became two, then three, and within a few months, he was running at least five miles every day after school. He went to the gym with his dad three days a week. He was the only kid his age there, although there were a few older guys who came with their dads, too, and whose budding buffness made him hunger to change. That hunger drove him to his workout corner of the basement every day, even days that he went to gym, where he pushed as much weight as he possibly could.
Time crept by, as it does for kids that age, anxious to grow up, and in Rocky's case, anxious to see change. Changes were happening, but it seemed to Rocky that they were almost imperceptible. He was getting taller, but not as fast as some of his friends. He was sprouting hair in new places, and if that could have made up for his height, he did seem to be outpacing his buddies in that regard. He may have entered middle school at only five feet nine inches, but he already had enough of a bush and pit hair to draw comments in the locker room. And the inches he lacked in height he was making up for in the size of his meat, which seemed to have gone from boyish to biggish in a matter of months. His six inches, completely soft, drew more stares, to Rocky's embarrassment, than the rapidly spreading pubic hair that it hung from. But what he wanted was to be buff and big, and the rest hardly mattered to him. A thousand crunches a day with a ten pound weight held behind his head was barely making a dent in his abs, although the running had pretty much melted the fat away. He could, if he flexed hard, see the beginnings of the dips and ridges that would eventually become a six pack, but how long did it take? He'd flex his arm and see the barest suggestion of a muscle bulging. It didn't matter that none of the other guys his age even had that much. He was naturally of a thicker build than the others, which only started becoming apparent when puberty kicked in full force. His narrow hips had exaggerated his love handles when he'd carried that baby fat, but as it fell away, they emphasized the smallness of his waist and the high, round curve of his butt. He did notice those things, looking in the mirror, wishing he were a stud instead of a loner nerd.
Middle school was an eternity, during which Rocky did grow from five nine to five ten and a half. By fourteen, he was sprouting hair all over his chest, and the trail that had starting creeping up his belly from his pubes got thick and heavy and grew right into the chest hair. His legs were dark with hair, and his beard had come in so fast and so heavy that he had a dark shadow of stubble right after he shaved. He let his pants or shorts hang low because it made him feel good, somehow, that he had more to show than the other guys. It did embarrass his some, but he hid that and felt good about being able to appear cool about getting hairy so young. His trail spread out and joined up with his pubes so that, even moderately low-hanging clothes showed that wide-spread tangle of dark hairs reaching out across several inches of the waistband. And below that display of early manliness, his still-growing meat—his long, fat dick and his so-called bull balls—had kept pace with his hair in growth and made its thick and heavy eight inches soft known by the bulge that always, unavoidably, pushed out a noticeable bulge in the otherwise flat hang of his khaki or denim. He heard the teasing behind his back, and he tried his best to find underwear that would minimize the obvious. Never loose boxers for him, he wore only tight briefs or boxer briefs, but, no matter how snugly they held his package, they were little help diminishing the growing bulge. His constant embarrassment made him more determined to get big enough to deflect attention away from the unwanted notoriety he was getting as "hairy boy," and "bull balls," and "donkey dick."
Slowly, he did gain weight from all his work and the pounds of supplements ingested. He entered high school at a hundred eighty five pounds, which, the coach said, when he tried to talk him into going out for wrestling, was not bad for a five-ten-and-a-half guy. But Rocky didn't want to go out for wrestling. He didn't want to put on a singlet and tangle with some guy in front of all the kids, especially imagining how he would look in a singlet, on full display. No. He just wanted to pump weights and get big. But no matter what he did, it didn't seem to be happening like he'd pictured it.
He thought by now, by fifteen, he'd be getting built and buff. Oh, sure, he did have fifteen inch arms, twenty six inch thighs, and his chest was forty-two and starting to show some definition to his pecs. Even his lats were getting a little spread to them. They should. Hell, he did enough work on them. And he'd kept his waist to a tight twenty-nine and was showing a definite six-pack. But damn it, he still didn't look like a really buff guy. He wanted to be a muscle guy, now, with all this work, and even if he could flex up some muscle, even if some of the kids were teasing him, lately, about being a muscle dude, or a bodybuilder—meaning queer, he knew by how they said it—he still didn't feel like he was getting anywhere. He saw one shape in the mirror and another in his head. He could feel he was tight, but walking around school, even in the locker room, he still felt like the pudgy nerdy guy. When the guys looked at him, or made comments under their breath to each other about him, he knew they were talking about him by their glances and looks—he just knew they were making fun of him for being a damn geek. So he'd go home, lift even heavier weights, and look at some pictures of some really huge muscle guys, dream about being so muscular that no one would make fun of him, and he'd jack off his eleven inch boner.
Jake started his student teaching his last year at State. He'd just turned twenty and felt anxious about the prospect of trying to start yet another new life, this time as a grown-up gym teacher. But he was used to it. Being a military brat, as they called him, he'd been in and out of a dozen schools and three universities. Never any advance warning or notice. His dad's top secret work had them picking up and moving at a moment's notice, and, consequently, Jake had grown up pretty much a loner.
Luckily, he had the looks and easy charm that won him at least superficial admiration, so he did make friends easily. But he rarely got close to anyone. Instead, he pursued solitary activities. He ran, he swam, he worked out, he did countless calisthenics in true military style, and he spent hours at his computer playing games and cruising x-rated sites. He didn't particularly like the entanglements that invariably occurred when he dated, so most of his sexual experience was between virtual images on his monitor and his right hand. Relationships always took a back seat to his school work and athletics. Those he could take with him, transfer from place to place, and they asked for nothing in return.
Jake left a wake of frustrated girls and a few disappointed guys behind him, but he barely noticed. He was aware that he attracted quite a few hotties. They saw his six-two, lean and carved body wearing clothes like a model, his handsome, chiseled, sandy good looks, angular bones, full mouth, and eyes as dark as bittersweet chocolate, and they swooned inside for an intimate moment with him. A few aggressive girls did get a brief but breathtaking answer to that prayer. His lovemaking was practiced and skillful, owing more to reading about how to pleasure one's partner than to any special endowment. In that department he was adequate, but nothing beyond average—a fate which he accepted but which he could never overlook. He told himself over and over, "it's not the meat, it's the motion." So he made himself an expert. He was, however, an eternally disappointed expert. Not that he felt cheated. He was perfectly, acceptably, averagely endowed. He just looked in the mirror and wished that the good looks he enjoyed extended down into his briefs. That one shortcoming, in his mind, leveled everything else to the rank of average Joe. Good looking, hopelessly average Joe.
In the locker room the first day at the high school, he encountered a kid who brought up all those feelings, and he found himself pissed at the guy but drawn to him by some strange familiarity. It was after regular hours, and a group had been working out in the weight room where Jake was supposed to be in charge. It was an extracurricular activity that always fell to the new guy, coaching the would-be weightlifters and football jocks. Jake was cleaning up in the locker room, ready for his own shower after the allotted hour in the weight room. The kids were showering and dressing, but the one kid in particular had caught his attention. A great looking kid, he'd seemed shy and insecure, which struck a too-familiar resonance in Jake. This kid stripped to his briefs, moving quickly in the way guys do when they are trying not to be "seen" and not to appear as though they are shy at the same time. It was a flash of whities Jake saw as the kid hung up his shorts in the locker, then a brief peek at an extraordinarily hairy and well-endowed groin, and then the white terry towel was wrapped tightly and the kid headed for the showers. But as he walked, the towel couldn't hide the thick curve below the spot where the kid's dark treasure trail disappeared into the folds. Jake hustled to follow him to the shower, also mindful of not being obvious.
Even as he did, he wondered why. Was he trying to torture himself? To make sure he felt even more average? Or was it just healthy male curiosity that leads guys to compare? At any rate, he took the shower next to the kid.
This kid was not going to give him much chance to see his goods, although he could in no way successfully hide it all, either. He soaped up facing the wall. Jake knew the kid knew he was looking. He saw him glance over a couple times, very quickly, hoping not to get caught. And Jake watched, trying not to openly stare, as the kid soaped himself up. He was a teacher, here, after all. But this kid was fucking built. He had to be a senior, although he had a boyish look to him. Yet the boyishness was only in the features of his face. He was probably the hairiest kid Jake had ever seen, and probably the most muscular. This guy had arms and a chest like a junior bodybuilder, and his chest was covered with hair. His legs were dark with hair, as were his forearms. The treasure trail ran unbroken from chest to groin, flaring at the bottom where it plunged into one of the biggest, densest bushes Jake had ever seen. The kid's leg hair grew all the way up to his pubes and his butt. The only part of him that wasn't hairy was his back, the tops of his shoulders, and his upper arms. It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and the kid had stubble that covered the whole lower half of his face, almost joining up with the chest hair that grew up onto the base of his throat. He wore sideburns, an inch wide, down nearly to his jaw line. His thick, black hair was cropped short, not quite military, and Jake caught a brief glimpse of Bora Bora blue eyes under thick, black eyebrows.
He couldn't explain it, but he wanted to know this kid. He saw the painful shyness that kept him turned away, and he knew in his gut the feelings of inadequacy this kid shared with him, despite obvious physical qualities that set him miles above other guys. If possible, this guy was more aware of his imagined inadequacies than Jake was, and it somehow put those feelings into perspective. He could help him.
Shit, the kid was a fucking heart-breaker and didn't know it. He had the kind of body Jake only fantasized about having now and then when he was especially horny and wandered onto one of those muscle-guy web sites. His arms looked to be at least nineteen inches. His pecs were like thick, round-edged paving stones. His abs, a cobbled path to the biggest meat Jake had ever seen in real life. His legs crowded each other apart with their hard mass, so defined that the hair didn't hide the cuts. His waist was so tight and small, and his hips so narrow, that the hard, high-seated butt muscles achieved some kind of natural perfection, and the flare of his torso seemed unnaturally perfect, the pecs set off by thickly flaring lats under the heavily muscular arms, capped by a pair of delts and traps that were stunning in their thickly molded perfection. And Jake knew that, for some reason, this kid didn't see any of that. He was embarrassed about being so hung, a problem Jake would have gladly taken on, and probably didn't even realize what an incredible build he had, how much he embodied some kind of masculine ideal. Jake knew, at least, that he was good looking in that model way, even if he couldn't get past his own average-ness. But this kid, he could tell, didn't have a clue. Jake was sucked in by some strong force, a recognition, and he knew he had to befriend this guy.
He waited until they were dressed and heading out of the gym. He managed to walk out next to the kid, bumping into him at the doorway.
"Oh, sorry," he said.
"That's okay," the kid answered, glancing over, smiling shyly, and glancing away again.
"Shouldn't've tried to get through the door same time as a guy big as you," Jake persisted.
The kid visibly blushed. "Ha," he half-laughed, embarrassed, and quickly glanced at Jake again.
Jake held out his hand. "Mr. Jacobs," he said. "Jake, out of class. Feels funny to be Mr. Somebody, like my dad."
"Yeah," the kid answered, "the new student coach. I'm Rocky," he said, and grasped Jake's outstretched hand. "Nice to meet ya."
Rocky couldn't believe the new coach, Jake, had been so friendly to him. All the girls could talk about was what a hottie this guy was, and everybody had already pegged him as pretty into himself and aloof. Well, not exactly unfriendly. He smiled and nodded if you said hi, but he kept to himself and didn't open up much to anyone. But most teachers didn't. It was just that this guy seemed young enough to be one of them, even if he was a coach. Rocky had noticed him, of course, and had felt all his old insecurities rush up when he found himself in the same locker room and showers with the guy. Here he was all hairy and goofy, like some animal, and trying so hard to build a decent body, and this guy just naturally had the looks of an Abercrombie model, all sandy-haired and all-American, slender, totally athletic looking body, smooth and tan.
When he found himself in the locker room with the new coach right there, he tried as hard as he could to act casual, wishing he could blend into the tile walls and disappear, but the guy kept looking at him, probably thinking what a dork he was, some kind of ape boy or something. And even though he knew he should be proud to have such a big dick, it still embarrassed him when it got stares, and he naturally tried not to let it show itself any more than he could help.
But there was something about the new coach, from the few fast glances he could get, something that seemed almost friendly. Understanding. Like he could read into his head about how he felt, and it was okay. It was hard to nail the feeling, but he could tell the guy was hanging back when he dressed, almost like he wanted to be friendly. If only Rocky weren't so shy, he'd have smiled and acted friendly to him. But then, he was a teacher, even if he seemed so young. Everyone said he was so stand-offish, but he didn't seem so bad. Or maybe he was one of those guys who so much knows how hot he is that he just naturally, without meaning to, puts down other guys because he is, himself, a top dog. And Rocky almost never said hi first. That would be taking the chance of looking like a jerk. Especially to a coach. So he dressed and left the locker room without saying anything. Until the guy almost ran him over in the doorway.
After that afternoon, it seemed the coach was taking a special interest in him. He saw him every day after school in the weight room, and, even though the coach helped all the guys—spotting them sometimes, pushing them to lift more and heavier—he seemed to be spending more time with Rocky, encouraging him, pushing him. He was tough and pushed hard, yelling at them sometimes, calling them wimps and stuff. But Rocky seemed to get more of that than the others. He didn't know if the coach was being extra tough on him because he thought he was such a nerd, but he knew he'd benefit from the pushing, so he went along, and he took the lessons home to his own weight room.
"Rocky," Jake said one day after the training class, "could I see you in my office after you clean up?"
Rocky showered and wondered. Was he about to get kicked out of the weight training group? He knew those football guys probably were what the coach really wanted to be teaching, the way they grunted and groaned and acted like animals pushing the weights. Rocky was embarrassed by all that, and just lifted quietly, pushing as much as he could possibly lift, but gritting his teeth so as not to call attention to himself. Probably Jake felt like, with all the pushing, Rocky wasn't getting anywhere. Rocky felt that way himself. Wouldn't be a surprise to be told he wasn't making the grade.
Jake had to watch himself, to make sure it didn't appear he was giving preferential treatment to the kid, Rocky. But there was something about his quiet, serious determination that made Jake want to develop him. He wanted the kid to see himself for what he was, or what Jake saw in him. And there was something else. Jake saw a potential in the kid that he was sure the kid had no idea he possessed. Being a naturally slender guy, no matter how hard he tried to bulk up his muscles, he only succeeded in getting more cut up. Not that that was bad. He had an excellent body, if slender and cut had been his ideal. It wasn't. He would give anything to be muscled up like a bodybuilder. His dad had told him to be patient, that one day the research he was doing might help him break through that barrier, but it was too long coming, and so Jake had let his thoughts about that kind of muscularity rest on other guys. Sometimes, he'd look up bodybuilding sites on the web. He read about methods, techniques, supplements, everything he could find about what it took to create huge muscles. Sadly for him, that included genetics. Maybe some military research might someday be able to push a guy past that hurdle, but for now, he was stuck with what he'd been given. Average. Maybe the best of average, but average. And this kid, Rocky, was everything he was not.
He had the frame. He had the natural thickness of muscle structure and body shape. He had the longest, fullest muscle bellies he'd seen outside the pros. And, he didn't know why it struck him so deeply, except that it made his own feelings of inadequacy so much stronger by comparison, and, for that exact reason, he felt a kind of resonance with this guy. He wanted to help him see himself the way Jake could see him, to help him develop the way he sensed, from how hard he worked, the kid wanted to develop. If he, Jake, couldn't be a bodybuilder, he could help this guy be one. He could see how the kid could be. He could probably get to Olympia size while still in his teens. The thought held an excitement for Jake, which he thought of as helping the kid the same way he wished he could get past his own stupid hang-ups. At least he knew them for what they were. He wasn't sure this kid even knew that. He decided to bring it out, get the kid to open up by asking about his goals, and then, maybe, he could talk to him.
"So, Rocky," Jake leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head, "I see you working very hard in the weight room, and I see you getting more results than the other guys. But you're so quiet. Almost withdrawn. I get the feeling you feel intimidated by those noisy football jocks."
Rocky caught a glimpse of the flat, rock hard, carved abs that showed between the waistband of Jake's shorts and the bottom of the tee shirt that lifted when he'd raised his arms behind his head. He quickly looked away, looked down. The guy had him pegged. He was such a loser. Even the coach could see it.
"Yeah. I guess."
"Rocky, they are popular, true, and they are big guys, but in a couple years, they're gonna be big-bellied has-beens, most of them. Do you have any idea how much more potential you have than they do? Tell me, Rocky—what are your real goals? What do you want to achieve with all the hard work you're doing?"
Now Rocky was really embarrassed. How could he tell this guy he wanted to be like one of those big bodybuilders?
"I don't know. I just want to get big, I guess."
Jake put his arms down on the desk and leaned forward. He looked at Rocky until Rocky looked up to meet his gaze. Then he spoke very quietly and very directly.
"Rocky, you are big. You could compete if you wanted to."
"No way," Rocky said, trying to shrink in his chair.
"I'm serious. Look at you. How old are you? Eighteen?"
"Seventeen. Be eighteen in May."
"Amazing. So, just tell me, Rocky. Don't be shy or embarrassed. I'll tell you I always wished I could get big . . . big like a pro bodybuilder. I can't bulk up like that. But you can. You're a natural. Just between you and me, if I were like you, I'd be trying to get as big as I could." He smiled gently, sincerely, earnestly as he paused, looking directly into Rocky's eyes while what he was telling him sank in. "I would," he added, to drive it home, "I'd get huge." Then he said, "So tell me, Rocky. How big do you want to be?"
Rocky swallowed hard. He couldn't believe this conversation was happening. Jake was even more of a cool guy than Rocky had thought. Wow. He'd get as big as he could. Huge. Rocky had never heard anyone come right out and say something like that. The other kids, even the football jocks, acted like building big muscles just to be really muscular was some kind of faggy thing to do. The football players just had to be big for the sport. But Jake understood. And he was confiding in him. And this cool young coach who would get huge himself thought he, Rocky, was big now, muscular. His head was spinning. Jake thought he had potential to be one of those really huge guys. The whole conversation seemed surreal. He realized he was sweating.
"Gosh, coach. I don't know. I just always wanted to be big, to get built, so I wouldn't be such a wimp. But it seems like I never can really get big, or big enough, anyway." Rocky stammered, heard himself blathering but not answering the question. How big did he want to be? He was so embarrassed to say it. But the coach already had said it. Why was he such a wimp? As if having big muscles would fix that.
Jake persisted, his voice quiet, steady, even, his gaze direct. "How big, Rocky?"
"Uh . . ." Rocky felt his heart speed up. He had to say it. He had to tell this guy. ". . . uh, like you said, I guess."
Now Jake leaned back again, smiling. "What I said was that if I had your gifts, I'd want to get as big as I could. I want to get huge."
"Yeah," Rocky answered.
"Great," Jake smacked the desk and made Rocky jump. "Excellent." He leaned close again. "Can I tell you something else, just between you and me?"
"Sure," Rocky said.
"I'd like to make that happen for you. And for me. Make you like my own personal project, if you'd be into something like that."
"You mean be my trainer?"
"Yeah. Your trainer, your mentor, your big brother. Make you grow. Get you huge. You can say it, you know. It's just us, and I get it, Rocky. It would be exciting for me, too, to help you maximize your potential, to get you there." He leaned closer, spoke even more directly. "You want to be huge, don't you? "
Now Rocky leaned forward, too. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I really do."
"I know," Jake said quietly. "It's a hunger. A drive. A need. I understand. I know it very well. When you're alone, looking at pictures and stuff, you think there's no way you could get too big. Even then you'd want more. I saw it in you, in the weight room."
"Yeah," Rocky agreed. He couldn't think of anything else to say. He felt almost giddy that his dream was out and in what seemed like the safe hands of someone who understood.
"Great. Good. Okay." Jake stood up, suddenly making this office visit seem more official. "We'll have to talk more, about supplements and stuff. As long as we're in school, I can't look like I'm giving you preferential treatment, so you'll have to take my signals in the weight room. But you can bet I'm going to push you hard. Are you ready for that?"
"Yes, sir." Rocky felt such gratitude.
"Once you graduate next month, we can get into more of a personal training thing. I'll set up a training center at my place, or we can use a gym, although a gym can be too distracting. I'm more for the one-on-one kind of training."
"Yeah, okay," Rocky said, feeling his excitement color his face. "That would be great."
"A couple more things, then, before you take off." Jake came around the desk with a cloth tape measure in his hand. "Let's get a few measurements on you, so we can chart your progress. Why don't you slip that shirt off for a minute?"
Rocky felt the flushing in his face get hotter. He lifted up and wriggled out of the polo shirt. It had been getting more difficult lately to get the tight armbands of the sleeves off his arms. He dropped the shirt on the chair where he'd been sitting. He felt both embarrassed and proud, because of what Jake had told him, standing there exposed down to the lo-rise waistband of his briefs which sat only half an inch higher than the sagging waistband of his short, extremely aware of the dark fringe of hair sticking out for about six inches across his lower belly. He could pull his pants up all day, but they fell right back down like all the other guys. Only his pubes grew so wide and high and thick that they always seemed to show some, no matter how he tried to keep them covered. He felt almost naked in front of the coach, and, somehow, even that was okay now.
Jake motioned for him to flex an arm, which he did. Jake wrapped the tape around it.
"You don't think you're big?" Jake said, holding the tape in place and looking up at Rocky. "Do you know how big this arm is? Cold?"
"Not really," Jake answered shyly. "Over eighteen, I think."
"And you don't think that's big? Think again, muscle boy. That arm measures nineteen and a quarter! Lift your arms."
Rocky lifted his arms, exposing thick, dark patches of hair that filled his deep armpit hollows. Jake stood in front of him and reached the tape around his chest, bringing it together firmly against Rocky's left pec. He had to use a finger to lift hair out of the way so he could read the number. He looked up at Rocky's face again.
"You sure are one hairy kid, for seventeen. And one built one, too. Forty-nine and three quarters, my young friend."
Rocky didn't say anything. The numbers did sound impressive when he heard them said like that. But he didn't know what to say about the comment about his being so hairy. Maybe he should have shaved, or maybe Jake would tell him he should.
In an almost clinical way, Jake put his hands, fingers outstretched, one on each pectoral muscle, sizing up the muscle, feeling its density and hardness.
"Very solid. Good shape. Even with all that hair, you have incredible definition."
He kept talking about his hair. Rocky knew he was blushing like mad, but he wasn't going to give in to that embarrassment. It was too late, now, anyway, and he liked what he was hearing.
"Thanks," he said. "Do you think I should shave down?"
"Oh, hell no. Not if you're not competing. It's actually pretty decorative on you. It looks fine."
While he talked, Jake measured around Rocky's waist. He let the tape drop, but held the end against Rocky's thick trail, adjusting it a couple of times up and down, so that Rocky almost felt like he was feeling the hair on his belly. Finally pinning the end, Jake said, "Thirty and a quarter. Nice and tight. Gives you a great V. Okay, drop the shorts for a sec so we can check the legs."
Suddenly Rocky was afraid that the excitement of the moment might have stirred him up in a way that could be monumentally embarrassing. But he chose to ignore the possibility, hoping his nervousness would have just the opposite effect. He undid his shorts and let them fall to his ankles. Looking down, he was more aware than ever of the ridiculous size of the bulge in his tight, low cut briefs. He carried so much in his briefs that the weight and size of his package pulled down the waistband to expose those pubes that were always showing. Why did his pubes grow so high? Why was he so ridiculously big?
Jake didn't even look, that Rocky could tell. He just slipped a hand between Rocky's legs to pull one thigh far enough out to get the tape around it, deftly avoiding touching anything he shouldn't.
"Twenty seven. Not bad. Need to work those a little harder." He measured his calf. "Eighteen. Well, you're not quadzilla. Not yet, anyway. But with your genetics, the right supplements and hard work . . . In fact, my dad might be coming up with something that could be an answer to both of our dreams. Get dressed."
"What's that?" Rocky answered, quickly pulling up his shorts and struggling back into his shirt.
"Oh, some special military project. Some kind of muscle building supplement that's supposed to be the next step beyond steroids. And legal. And without those bad side effects. Speaking of which," he fastened his eyes on Rocky's with a smile and a wink, "it looks like we might have to get special posing trunks made for you."
Rocky looked down, yanking up his shorts again, which fell right back down, and he could feel his face blushing so much it almost burned.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to embarrass you. But, honestly, most guys would kill for what you have. I mean the whole package. Go home and feel good about yourself. We'll get you huge, Rocky. Dream big. We're going to make some big dreams come true."
"Thanks," was all Rocky could think to say. He opened the door to leave.
"Oh. One more thing," Jake said.
Rocky paused at the door.
"When do you turn eighteen?"
"Two weeks," Rocky answered.
"So, in less than a month, you'll be a graduate and a legal adult. That's good." Jake said. "That's good."
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