As the golden god looked around he lifted one arm to scratch the back of his neck and I almost came as those split biceps swelled and contracted; his tank rose to one side to reveal perfect ropelike eight-pack abs, with obliques sweeping down to his groin. He shook his tawny blonde hair - the kind he was never going to lose, steroids or no - and now started looking around as if he was trying to find someone he knew. He was in town for the Nationals, so he didn't know anyone. All the same he paused as he caught my eye; I turned away, embarrassed at being caught staring. but not before I noticed him sweeping his eyes over my own, not inconsiderable physique. I lay down to do my third set of heavy bench presses and got on with it. My engorged packet humped mountainously in front of me as I got flat, hoping he wasn't still looking.

At about the eighth rep, as I started to struggle a bit, I heard this deep voice urging me to "Get it up!" After the tenth he took the bar of me and slammed it back on the hooks. "Thanks," I said, but he was already walking off to do his own thing. And so it went on: whenever I seemed to be in difficulties, he seemed to be there to spot and encourage me - and then walked off without a word. He was working on those unbelievable bis, so I had no chance of reciprocating with spotting for him. As we passed each other during the rest of the workout, he would nod silently and surlily and I would reply in kind.

By the end of the workout I was feeling pretty pumped in my chest and tris, and my dick maintained its semi-engorged state. With Him constantly before me it didn't have much chance to be anything else. Then, suddenly, he stripped off his tank and started to go through his posing routine with incredibly slow intensity. Each pose brought gasps from the onlookers: all working out had stopped at the sight of this muscle god showing his all. Slowly he went from pose to pose, with breathtaking transitions, glorying in his own muscle as he looked in the mirror, seemingly oblivious if his gathering audience.

This member of his worshipping club could hardly endure the muscular perfection that was being displayed so sexily, so hot, as he swept from double biceps (huge cleft) to front lat spread (thick, thick lats and thick, thick traps), to side chest (you could sit a coffee mug on the shelf of those upper pecs while his bicep threatened to burst through that paper-thin skin).

The side tricep shot looked as if the huge horseshoe must fall off his arm and his hams had a sweep almost the size of his quads; turning his back on the mirror, and therefore devastatingly towards us, he executed a perfect rear double bicep, first clenching his elbows down so that the whole of his back jumped out at you in the mirror, then rising to the cleft bicep pose. Seeing this from the front and that giant, knotted, wide back from the rear at the same time was too much for this steel-hardened dick which threatened to break out of my shorts and, muttering a feeble "Excuse me" I passed him and fled into the showers. Once I had the (cold) water running down me I heard the applause from outside. Then I felt safe enough to turn on the hot water and began to relax my pumped and frustrated muscles in the warm shower.

As they were all so busy watching the muscle god perform outside I hoped there would be no one in there to see what kind of state I was in. Because I was. There was something about this guy that excited me in a way I'd never known - he had some kind of charisma or aura that was intoxicating me, beyond any kind of muscle-hero-worship I'd experienced before. I soaped myself up and tried to think my way out of this with violent activity, but this was as hopeless a prospect as keeping calm and "down" while I was still mentally seeing those huge muscles bulging and contracting under stress in his workout. Small hope indeed - I was soaping my back with those useless contortions when the soap was removed from my hand and Someone Else started to scrub my back.

"I ought to stuff this up your rear end!" said that deep voice.

"Go ahead!" I said, trying to be both aggressive and inviting.

"Oh no! I'm not going to waste a good fuck opportunity on you with a bar of soap!"

As I rose to my full dick-height of ten inches, his deep voice asked me why I wasn't competing too that weekend. As he caressed my too responsive muscles almost unbearably I explained that one thing I wasn't embarrassed about was being gay but that, once I'd gone public, the judges began marking me down. Even when everyone said (and I knew) that I was being cheated, that I was bigger, more symmetrical and more cut than anyone else, I could tell that a pro card and the big moneys were being set permanently out of my reach. I have a good job and gave up that particular dream.

He turned me to face him and soaped my chest - swelling pecs and hardening half-inch nips and, worse, full erection - he asked me why I persisted in training myself up to that same standard if I was never going to compete. I told him that I gloried in my muscle and no rotten judges were going to rob me of that tremendous charge I got from maintaining them to competition standard. Then, as he squatted down to soap up my legs and my crotch, I asked him how he knew I wasn't competing the next day and why he was working out on what was supposed to be his pre-contest rest day, he just wrapped his hand around my throbbing dick and said he knew all kinds of things he wasn't supposed to know about people and, as for working out that day, he was only there to make contact with me.

This shock made my cock leap and my balls rise with about-to-explode cum. "No," he said, pulling down on my balls and up on my cock to stifle that explosion, "Don't waste that now - just remember this meeting and that I am not going to take your resignation from the game for granted. Why don't you get a good feel of these muscles you're so jealous of, that turn you on so hard? Don't waste the opportunity - I'm not here forever!"

How could I resist such a conceited challenge? I slid my soapy hands over those huge delts, down the back of those embarrassingly large tris, round to the front of the bis, at which point he obliged me with a flex and pushed my mouth down on to it.

"Go on! Kiss that huge cleft bicep you want so much! Lick it! Enjoy it!"

I did. My hands swept over those mountainous pecs, down the rope-like eight-pack which he didn't even have to flex to display. I slid downwards inside his quads, each side of his growing dick without touching it. Everything I felt, he flexed, even his glutes which welcomed my hands. When I slid my hands into that deep cleft, searching for his pucker hole he allowed my finger to find it and insert for a second, then he groaned and stepped pack a pace - still under the pouring water.

His dick had risen to its full height and the shaft was being squeezed in the cleft between his abs while the steel helmet of the cockhead has being squeezed between his lower pecs as he flexed them. I couldn't let this happen unaided and I opened my lips and my throat to take as much of that sex rod as I could. Greedily I started to milk it with mouth and hands, wrapping my tongue round it as it thrust in an out of my throat. I wasn't going to let him get away with anything now so I slid three fingers up his shit-chute and started to massage his prostate as I had been taught by the great Chris Duffy. My other hand kneaded those beautiful, solid pecs and we didn't have to wait long before my throat, stomach and mouth were filled with his endlessly spouting cum. I swallowed gulp after gulp,determined not to waste a drop of this god's muscle juice.

He squeezed us hard together with those huge arms and backed me into the wall under the jet as he thrust his tongue down my throat. I wrapped my arms around that tower of strength and responded as if he were the lover of all time. That was all I needed. I came as never before and the giant managed to capture at least some of it in his fist - about half a cupful. He sucked it into his mouth, then kissed me as we enjoyed my sweet cum together.

"Now get dressed and get out of here and I promise you some day we'll meet again."

And he left me flat. Against my will I went to the contest the next day and he walked away with the overall title. Everyone was gabbing about this newcomer who had appeared out of nowhere, beyond some insignificant qualifying bout in the sticks. I didn't know if I should make an effort to see him to congratulate him, but decided not to run the gauntlet backstage of meeting all those "officials" who apparently despised me so much - and I certainly wasn't going to be seen outside as some kind of stage-door Johnny or gay fan. I was still wondering why I had never come across this guy in previous contests, in the magazines or, in fact, anywhere on the bodybuilding scene, all of which I knew pretty well. It's not easy for someone as remarkable as him to keep themselves entirely hidden from the whole scene. And where had he qualified for the contest anyway?

I went home, alone, mulling all this over in my confused mind. Now I look pretty good myself, good enough to win contests, though not as big as this god, so I did not want for sex partners, but this guy was affecting my mind and my libido like nobody else ever had. Why the hell hadn't I given him my telephone number or my e-mail address? How could I ever make contact with him again? Would he somehow find a way to contact me? And so on. Very frustrating. And my dick hadn't subsided once since I first saw him. No one has ever had that kind of effect on me!

The days passed, the months passed, and I heard nothing. I couldn't get him out of my mind so I took it out on myself with punishing workouts. With his memory constantly in my mind's eye I strove to get bigger and bigger, but never even approached his total magnificence. Try as I would, my upper pecs never achieved that shelf, my bis never developed that cleft and, though my legs were as thick as tree trunks, they never achieved the beautiful elegance of his amazing sweep. Nor were my ten inches ever going to grow to his thirteen, however much I tried - and I did - with a vacuum pump! And, of course, I had dark Italian curly hair which was never going to emulate his tawny mane, even if I dyed it, which I never would. I bet he never had to shave his chest of that mat I removed every other day to keep the pecs clear and shining.

Eventually, months later, things began to get back to normal but, whenever the time came round for a big contest, I'd search the websites and the magazine to see if he was competing. In spite of qualifying for the Olympia, and all the journalists' forecast of his possible great success, he never appeared anywhere. If it hadn't been for the memory of his hand wrapped round my swollen, bursting dick and his giant pecs pressed against my own in that shower, I might have persuaded myself it was all a dream.

But the dream came later. •