Andy… October


Helmut had closed the butcher shop for two weeks so he could go back to Germany for a family wedding. It had been my first time off since the summer started, and I used it to good advantage. I'd upped my workouts to twice a day, 3 hours each. The muscle mags I was reading now said that more than an hour a day was overtraining, but that's a bunch of bullshit if you ask me. I'd been slabbing on size and strength left and right. T-Bone was still helping me out with my training, but at this point he was basically just slamming on the plates for me, then stripping them off. I was a fucking dynamo at the gym, steam rolling thru the workouts, getting all jacked up, bloating my mass with pump, veins popping out as I charged from lift to lift. And now, at 6'8, 398lbs, I was the biggest mutherfucker that gym had ever seen. I woke up Saturday morning with my usual hardon. I stroked it for awhile, my hand all rough with calluses on top of calluses from all the heavy lifting and grip training I was doing. I didn't mind the roughness of my hand big dick was plenty sturdy enough to handle it. I didn't want to pop one out this morning though, I wanted to focus all my energy on training, so I got up and went done to the basement to get a sick pump going before my workout. Like I said, I'd been working my grip real hard. I'd gotten to where I could grip three 45lb plates with one hand and lift it off the ground. I'd hold it there until my forearms were on fire with pain. Amazing how fast that would happen, making the muscle burn like a blowtorch. After 5 sets with each arm, my forearms would be scorching. I'd hold my arms down to my sides and feel the blood gushing into them, until my fores were so thick with veins, it was like nothing I'd ever seen before. Pretty soon I was going to bump up to the 100lb plates and really get a crushing grip going. The other grip work I really liked was to wrap one hand around the thick end of the Olympic bar. Then I'd lift the bar off the rack and slowly raise the far end up and down using just wrist strength. Sometimes I would do reps until the pain was so intense, my knees would start to buckle. I'd even push myself until I puked from the pain. Afterwards, my hands would be shaking like crazy from the intensity. A few minutes of recovery, though, and it felt like my hand strength had doubled. Maybe tripled. I was pretty sure I could grab the end of the bar then, and dent it in with my grip. But then the plates wouldn't slide on right, so I hadn't tried it....yet. My grip work was so hardcore, the my whole upper body would get jacked up with it. Flexing into a most-muscular shot in the mirror, and my huge traps would mound up and out, my delts all thick, biceps swollen, and fores like Popeye's, only super veiny and even stronger! I was pretty sure I could take the little wimp apart. The only drawback so far to massing up so much (and I was determined to bust 400 by the end of the week), was that I'd get so goddam hot. Just warming up, I'd start sweating buckets, and the basement mirror would fog up from all the steam I was putting out. Even working out in just my boxer briefs, I'd be drenched. The bigger I got, the more heat I was putting out. Today, I went outside in just my briefs, to let the cool fall air try to keep me from imploding. October in Wisconsin is usually pretty cool, and it felt good, but I was aching for a good chilling. I noticed that the pool was still open, which was odd this late. The pool guy had usually come by now to cover it. I went over and check the pool thermometer. The water was 54 degrees. That outta cool me off, I thought, so I dove in. What a rush of relief. The cold water sucked the heat out of me and felt amazing. I swam to the far end of the pool, then back again. I did a couple more laps, and felt so good, I wanted to keep going. But I hated turning around at the ends. I'd always hated the turning, even as a little kid. Always got water in my ears. Suddenly, I had an idea. I got out of the pool, and went to the cabana. I dug around in the storage bin, and pulled out what I was looking for, an unopened box with resistance cables in them. My mom had given them to me for my 14th birthday, hoping it would get me to exercise. I had no interest back then, but now, the stretching rubber cables, like huge rubber bands, might work perfectly. I got back in the pool, and looped the two cables around the base of the diving board. Then I stretched the handles over my big feet, turned around, and started swimming toward the other end of the pool. I felt the cables pull back on me as they grew taut. I swam a little harder. It was working, the bands were holding me more or less in place, as I swam harder and harder, crashing my big arms into the water like propellers. It felt so good, being able to swim full out, not slowing down for the turn, and the cool water keeping me from overheating. I swam and swam, I'm not sure for how long. I had like a runner's high, only in the water. I felt like I could have gone all day long, but suddenly, I noticed a shadow at the edge of the pool. I pulled my head up and saw someone standing there. It was Pete, the pool guy. Pete was in his early twenties and had been our pool guy for a couple of years. He was a good-looking, safari kind of guy, always in his khaki shorts, polo shirt, his blond hair bleached even blonder by the sun. Even the ends of his eye lashes turned gold. "Hey, Andy," he said to me, "what are you doing?" Pete had never seen me use the pool. Pete had never even see me by the pool. When I was a fat kid, I rarely came out here, and never ever without a shirt on. "Isn't it a little cold for a swim?" he asked me. He leaned down and picked the thermometer out of the water. "68 degrees. Have you had the heater running?" I noticed steam rising up off the water's surface, into the chilly fall air. "Nah," I said, "the heater's been off all summer." Unless you count my nearly 400lbs of molten muscle mass as a heater, I thought to myself. "Huh," he said. "And what happened to the diving board?" I looked over and saw that the diving board was bent rather badly to one side. Apparently, in my gusto to swim hard, I'd overdone it a bit. I took the bands off my legs, and swam over to the board. I put my hand around the base of it, gripped it firmly, and slowly bent it back into position. Well, almost into position. The base was kind of dented up, and would probably never be the same. "How the hell you do that?" asked Pete, looking puzzled. "It wasn't that hard, really." I didn't want to snap the pool ladder getting out, so I hoisted myself up at the deep end and climbed out. I shook the water out of my hair, and looked over at Pete. Apparently, Pete the pool guy had been expecting Andy the fat kid to climb out of the pool. Instead, he was staring wide-eyed and open-jawed at the new, improved Andy. Pete backed away as I walked toward him. He backed up until he bumped into a lounge chair, into which he sat down as I approached him. "My god Andy, is that really you?" Yeh, it was me alright. And I was blowing the mind of our good-looking pool guy. I could imagine what he was seeing. My enormous shoulders had never felt wider. Every muscle on me so taut from my swim. My skin stretched so tight on my arms that I thought the skin might split if I flexed them into a double-bi shot. My abs standing out like cobblestones. Big cobblestones. Thick and hard. Pool water running down my massive pec shelf, dripping off my jutting nipples, erect as fire nozzles from the cold water. My wet boxer briefs clinging to me like wet paper toweling. I walked right up to Pete, my boxers right at his eye level. "You're fucking huge," he said, soaking in my mass. Huge was right. I was more than double his bodyweight, outweighing him by over 220lbs of bulked up power. He braced himself on the chair, leaned back and looked up at me towering over him. I was a foot taller than him if he'd been standing. Sitting, he looked so little. I leaned over and picked up the lounge with him in it. I raised him up to face level. We looked at each other, eye to eye. Neither of us spoke. I lifted the chair overhead and did presses with it. It felt so light. It was making me so horny, feeling my strength. I lowered Pete back to the ground. His face was at my crotch level. He saw my big dick swelling inside my wet briefs. I saw him look down at my thighs, all snaked with veins. "How big's your waist?" I asked him. "31," he said. "These suckers are 6 inches bigger than that. Each." I flexed them, and made the big leg muscles dance and roll and pop. I squeezed my teardrops so hard that he could see the stripes of muscle fibers under the tight quad skin. "Touch them," I said. Pete could no longer speak, only obey. He put his hands on my thighs. His breathing was rapid and deep. He looked back up at me, and his nose brushed the thin fabric that covered my growing hardon. I knew then that I was about to get my first blow job. Pete put his mouth on my briefs and sucked pool water out of them. The rush of pleasure I got in my cock was unbelievable. I pushed his head back, and reached in to pull my big dick out. It flopped out, aiming right at Pete's face. My cock head was so swollen and big, I didn't think there was any way someone could fit it into their mouth. But Pete did it. Wrapped his lips around this big mushroom and sucked it in. Holy shit, I thought, no wonder people pay to have this done. Pete worked my head with his lips and tongue, so that I thought I'd pop right then. But I held back. I had to see how far down he could take my whopper. I thrust forward the tiniest bit, and he took another inch. It almost lifted him right out of the chair, but he took it. My head was spinning from the pleasure of it. This beat jacking off by a factor of 100. I shoved another inch into him. He sort of gagged, but didn't pull back. He just bobbed up and down, bracing himself with his hands on my big solid quads. I grabbed his ears and started to buck into him. Felt so goddam good. I felt the dark thoughts coming, telling me to use this little dude like a toy, what could he do to stop it, just fuck his face into oblivion. Then I looked down at his golden hair. This hot-looking guy, getting pleasure from worshipping my mass. Not caring that I could snap his neck like a twig. Probably getting off on knowing I could. I wondered if he'd pop his load when I shot down his throat. I wanted to feed him my jiz, make him happy. I worried that since I hadn't jacked off that morning, I might drowned him in it, or blow the back of his head off. That's how it felt, churning up inside me, like a backed up gusher. Pete the pool guy was about to get a gallon of musclebeast juice. And he deserved it. Working my dick like a pro. Going so deep. Felt so good. And I came. And came. Spewed inside him, rope after rope, till I heard him choking. Then I pulled out of him and watched as my jiz flew over his shoulder and onto the lounge chair behind him. Another couple of good ropes full. Then he took me back in his mouth and drained the rest out of me. I stepped out of my briefs, and wiped his face off with them. He looked like he'd popped in his pants, just like I thought he would. His eyes had that kind of glazed look. "You want me to close the pool?" he asked me, which was why he had stopped by originally. "Nah," I said, "why don't you come back next week, and I'll help you." •

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