It was much the same as last time, but maybe a bit more practiced. I had begun by massaging his 28” smaller bicep, giving it deep rubs at his command. Mitch had begun moaning, partly due to that, partly because he was once again starting to pleasure himself as he rhythmically flexed and stretched his bicep. He eventually ordered me to begin pressure on his forearm, like last time, to cause it to grow. And it was even working…I was able to keep his arm down somewhat, though using a tremendous amount of energy. It was a losing battle. His arm was raising a little bit more each time (not to mention something else raising a bit each time) as he began serious concentration on growth. He did do some encouragement, saying, “Good, good, keep it up” to me, but the more concentration he devoted to growing, the less words he used.

Slowly his arm resisted my body, each time getting closer to the flex. His breathing became rapid, more labored, and a sheen of sweat was forming on his body, making it that much more difficult for me to maintain a good grip. Closer and closer his arm got to a 90 degree angle, pushing me further and further upward. Just at his moment of victory, when his new strength (and something lower) released, he hitched his arm around my waist and went to full flex, pressing his forearm against my stomach and his bicep against my back. “You’re being a good ragdoll!”, he bellowed as he pumped out a few more sets.

He recovered much more quickly than the last time, only having to pause a bit for breath and stamina after his feat of curling into me. With me still in that position, he walked over and took the measuring tape and put it in my hand. With his free hand, he lifted me up and adjusted me so I was sitting, straddling the crook of his arm, my back against his forearm, which was nearly as wide as I was. “Measure”, he said, half request, half order. He told me to grab onto his upper arm and began to move his forearm up and down, trying to get the best pump he could for his bicep. It was an amazing site, seeing his bicep grow out of his arm like a mushroom cloud. Putting my hand on it, then both, I was overwhelmed with the power flowing through it and felt a little woozy. That made Mitch smile. Through a somewhat strained voice, he said, “That’s as big as its gonna get…start measuring.”

Stabilizing myself, I wrapped the measuring tape around his flexed mountain, making sure I wrapped it around the widest and highest parts. “32.5 inches”, I announced. “YES!”, he said, pumping both arms, causing me to sail out of his arm and onto the floor. He looked down a bit sheepishly and said, “Sorry about that”.

Scooping me up like I was a discarded piece of paper, he flashed that wicked grin again and said to me, “I know I have the size…let’s see about the power”. He paused and put his hand against his mouth in a thoughtful pose. Where Chuck would have talked out his thoughts, Mitch remained quiet, almost contemplative, as he decided his next move. Not a good thing if I was going to have any chance of escape. Where the hell was Doctor Morgan?!

He walked over, me in hand, to my bedroom. Ut oh, I thought, this might not be good. Instead of throwing me and him on the bed, however, he went over and picked up the barbell bar. Yes, that barbell bar…the one that Chuck bent and straightened time after time to show off to me. Mitch picked it up, examined it, looked puzzled that it was a bit uneven, shrugged his shoulders, and took the bar. We headed outside. He still was polite enough to go through the door instead of going through the door, as Chuck had done.

Outside was his rented truck. It was so big it looked like it got gallons per mile instead of the other way around. Hell, though, I guess if you were seven foot two and 350 lbs (good lord, what he must be now?), you would need a big vehicle as well.

He placed me against a smaller tree with a narrow trunk and pressed the bar against my chest. Ugh, I had been here before. Bending the bar with amazing ease, he firmly secured me to the tree. “All the better for you to see with”, he said.

Mitch went over to the truck and got on his back. His triceps splayed out along the asphalt, having nowhere else to go. With his legs, he pushed himself gently under the truck, as it was a tight fit even though the truck had a high ground clearance. Positioning his arms in a classic bench press position, he grabbed two places on the undercarriage of the truck. He blew out a breath and began pressing upwards. Slowly, but evenly, the truck rose off the ground, the sound of metal groaning because it now did not have the ground to support its weight. The truck went up once, then twice, and then a total of 10 times before Mitch’s somewhat wobbly arms brought it down to the ground with a thud. Sliding out from under the truck, his chest scraped against pieces that it hadn’t scraped against when he slid under the first time. When he stood up, I could see that even those massive pecs were swollen, with blood rushing through the thick slabs of meat. Slapping the dirt and grime off of his hands, he said, “Now that’s finally a worthy chest workout for me”. He then rubbed his hands over his pecs, feeling how swollen they had gotten, looked at me, and then grinned.

Unbending the bar and letting it drop on the ground, he hoisted me up and brought me over to the truck. Still holding me with one arm, he bent at the knees, put one hand under the front bumper of the truck, and easily lifted it up a good foot. “And he thought he was strong”, he said quietly, not thinking I could hear him. The relative silence was broken by a loud THUD, as the bumper tore away from the truck, sending the truck downwards and leaving Mitch with the bumper in his hand. Placing me on the hood of the car, he took the bumper and started to wad it up like a piece of paper. Once it was compacted, he wound up his arm and tossed it into the distance, further than I could really even see. I was glad I lived in a rural area…less chance of someone getting hurt from that projectile. “Glad I signed up for that damage insurance”, he said to me, bringing me inside.

Throwing me on the couch, he again felt his pecs, rubbing the newly swollen muscle, admiring how much bigger they were, impressing even himself. Looking at me, he said, “Let’s see if we can get them even bigger, oh he with the magic hands” I looked at him, knowing better than to argue, but also trying to figure out the logistics. “And how to you propose to do this?”, I asked. Smiling at me, he said, “Why these abs of mine will act as your seat and, if you do this right, you are going to have one hell of a backrest. And if I you are very lucky, it might be more than just a backrest.”

He lay down and stretched out to his full height, patting his abs, saying, “Come have a seat”. •