Chrissy Jenkins, the 45 year old lesbian trainer, looked over Randy Washington’s shoulder at the two hulks involved in ritualistic sadomasochism at the squat rack. Their giant bodies were heaving impossible weights for multiple reps, barely alternating between sets.

“It’s crazy, isn’t it?” Randy allowed. “I thought I’d seen everything I was gonna see with Roger and then kid shows up and he’s growing even faster than Roger did. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Chrissy nodded.

“Me neither. You boys putting something in the water these days?”

Randy laughed.

“I’d be a rich man if it was that easy. These other poor suckers would be down on their knees begging for it.’

Finished – for the moment – with their leg workout, Roger and Ricky lumbered over.

“How long has it been?”

Roger looked askance at Chrissy’s question.

“Since?”

“Since Ricky showed up in the gym, you big lunk, what did you think I meant?”

Roger, per expectation, blushed.

“It was six months ago today,” Ricky piped up.

“Unbelievable,” Chrissy said again. “I’d offer to take your measurements just to make sure I’m not really dreaming but you’re too damned sweaty.”

Randy chuckled.

“Oh, I’m sure the boy knows…”

Ricky and Roger alternated calling ‘em off:

“Height: 5 feet 7 inches.”

“Weight: 210 lbs. – all muscle, of course!”

“Neck: 19 inches.”

“Chest: 48 inches.”

“Biceps: 19 inches.”

“Waist: 27 inches.”

“Quads: 29 inches.”

“Calves: 19 inches.”

Chrissy whistled.

“That’s, like, what…”

Roger shifted his gaze from Ricky to Chrissy.

“That’s 90 lbs. in six months,” he said, looking deep into her eyes. “About half again as fast as I grew in my first six months.”

Ricky laughed and blushed.

“And what about you, big man?” he asked in his light tenor. All his new muscle mass hadn’t changed Ricky’s charming, boyish voice.

Roger came close to shuffling his feet, then straightened up.

“330 lbs.”

That’s all he needed to say. The rest was obvious. Roger was world class in a way that no one in the gym had ever dreamed of being because no one in the world had ever been that built. He was the same height and same weight as Coleman or Atwood in the off season – but he wasn’t in off season shape. He was in near-contest shape, like he always was.

“And when are you…?”

Roger snorted.

“Oh, Chrissy, let’s not go there again. You know the whole competition thing isn’t my bag. You know me, I don’t want a stage – I want a dance floor.”

Chrissy’s eyebrow quirked.

“But what does Ricky want…?”

* * *

That night Ricky’s 11-inch pile driver was pounding Roger’s sweet spot (it was Tuesday night, so it was his turn – not that they wouldn’t change around three or four times in a single evening but they liked the routine.)

It had taken about a month to get Roger to relax enough to let Ricky fuck him. Not that Roger was a reluctant bottom. Far from it, in fact, Ricky thought. The main problem was that when

He

Let

Go

As he was doing just now, things

Tended

To

Get

Broken

Craaaassh!

Ricky had Roger’s wrist manacled to the steel bed posts but, as had happened on more than one occasion, Roger’s colossal bucking had knocked over the nightstands.

“Damn,” Ricky grunted. “I spent $200 on that lamp!”

Roger flexed his arms and the bed posts swayed dangerously.

“It’s OK, babe,” he said, between ragged breaths. “I’ll buy you a new one…”

Ricky twisted Roger’s nipples, hard.

“Hey, big man,” he said, “I’ve got something to say to you while I’ve got you here locked up…”

“And with your giant cock up my ass, yeah, I know, your favorite time to have a conversation…”

Ricky giggled.

“It’s about what Chrissy said…”

Roger stopped writhing and looked him in the eye.

“You want to compete…?”

Ricky nodded.

“Hey, babe,” Roger said, “that’s fine with me. I’ll help anyway I can. Just don’t make ME do it, OK?”

Ricky drove his tongue down Roger’s throat – and felt a club head knocking on his backdoor.

“You already ready for more, big man?”

Roger just growled. •