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|At 20 I was 5'10" tall and a lean, well-proportioned 160 lbs. I would have
been much happier being bigger but as an enlistee in the good old U.S.
Army I was too busy running by my ass off for people like Sgt. Riker to
get any bigger. I figured someday I'd be out of the Army and in the gym
full-time where I belonged, piling on the carbs, cutting back on the
carbs, and generally bulking up.
"Then I'll show Riker a thing or two," I muttered to myself.
Sgt. Riker was there in my face, snapping me out of my afternoon reverie. He'd given us a 15 minute break from the trench we'd been digging all day and I was taking it under one of the sprawling live oaks of Camp De Soto.
Of course, if he'd just grimaced or even scrunched his eyebrows I still would have jumped. Sgt. Riker was that kind of guy. At 35 years old, he stood 6'2" tall and weighed in at 260 lbs., with not an ounce of fat on him. He had piercing blue eyes, buzzed salt-n-pepper hair, and thick black curls covering every square inch of his body. He outweighed the biggest of his recruits by 50 lbs. and he made the average guy like me look like a piece of spaghetti. It didn't help that the basket he was carrying looked just as threatening as the rest of him. The sarge had some major meat!
Yep, in other words, my nice thick dick wanted to get hard every time I thought about him, let alone looked at him, which was a pretty sorry situation in today's "Don't ask, Don't tell" Army.
"Corcoran, I want you to get over to the infirmary on the double, y'hear?" Riker bellowed at me.
"Infirmary? Uh, what the...?"
"Uh, yes, sir, Sgt. Riker, on the double sir!"
I couldn't for the life of me figure out what was up. Of all Riker's recruits I was the only one who hadn't called in sick a single day of our time together. Not that I hadn't wanted to do so a time or two, but I was just ridiculously healthy.
"So you'll be Corcoran, eh?" the doc at the infirmary said, glancing up from his laptop. "Sgt. Riker said we could expect you to volunteer."
"Yes, sir, Corcoran, sir!" I said briskly. "Uh, volunteer for what, sir?"
"He didn't tell you?" asked the doc, raising his eyebrow quizically. "He must be very sure of you."
And then he told me. The Army was working on an experimental human growth formula. It worked like steroids or human growth hormone, only faster and without the side effects.
"It's all about enhancing human performance," the doc said. "That and the fact that most recruits like you are fairly young and hard as we work you all you don't really have the time to grow the way you would if you were a bit older. We figure we pack an extra 50 lbs. of muscle on anyone who takes part in the experiment. The only requirement we have is that participants be motivated and exceptionally healthy."
"That'ud be me, sir! I haven't had a single sick day and when I'm not on duty I'm in the gym. I just don't have time to eat enough!"
I felt my dick hardening but I was standing with my crotch to the infirmary counter so I didn't worry about it too much.
"That's the deal," the doc said. "If you're serious, sign here and report back at 0800 hours tomorrow."
* * *
Afterwards, I reported back to Sgt. Riker.
"Thanks for the referral, Sarge!"
"Don't get all mushy on me, Corcoran," he bit back. "I'm not doing this for your sake. Now get your skinny ass over to the gym..."
I did so and before too long I was surprised to see Sgt. Riker joining me. I always figured he worked out off post since he was never at the gym. He was wearing sweatpants that bulged and strained to accommodate his massive thighs and a skimpy tank top that clung to his incredibly developed torso. I was doing biceps curls with the 45 lb. bar and a couple of 25 lb. plates on each end -- pretty damned good for a guy my size -- and he went to the next station, loading the bar with six 45 lb. plates.
I figured he was going to do some squats or maybe some deadlifts but then he easily lifted the bar down and started churning out biceps curls, one right after the other, with 315 lbs. I figured he might do four or five but he did eight without catching his breath and didn't break a sweat until he'd do 12. By the time he finished, having done 20 reps, he was breathing hard and the sweat was pouring off his body. I wanted to lick it off of him and my dick was hard as a rock.
He put the bar back, then leaned down and grabbed his ankles, rolling his massive shoulders, then straightening up. He did a couple of side biceps shots, then hit the classic double biceps pose. I'd never asked him how big they were but it was pretty clear they were just about the same size as his head, big, full, hard and perfectly defined.
"Shee-it," I muttered under my breath.
"Caught your eye, eh, private?" Riker spoke clearly and distinctly but so softly that no one would have heard him but me. He never took his eyes off the mirror. "You want some guns like these some day, kid?"
"I know you do, Corcoran. The evidence is ample."
Aaaargh! One of the problems of having a nine inch dick is that when it gets hard, it's REALLY noticeable, especially if you're wearing a pair or skimpy workout shorts. Where we were standing no one else in the gym could see the tent there but Riker could.
"I know the feeling," he added, chuckling.
I glanced down and saw in the mirror something I'd been hoping to see for many months -- the threatening bulge in Riker's sweatpants was now an absolute monster, making the tent in my shorts seem insubstantial by comparison.
I licked my lips.
"Uh, Sarge, could I ask you a personal question?"
He nodded imperceptibly, now flexing his hulking 57 inch chest. "You can ask me anything you like, Corcoran, so long as it's not the wrong question. In which case, you're deadmeat."
"How big are your biceps?"
His lips twitched. I'd guessed right.
"Twenty-three inches, private," he answered. "Not regulation, y'know, they're always getting on my case when it's time for my physical. On the other hand, how many other sergeants can bench press 700 lbs. and run a 10K without breaking a sweat?"
"Uh, sergeant..." I started again, no longer able to keep my eyes off the portion of the mirror where the python-like bulge in his pants was twitching.
"That'ud be 13 inches, private, and that's not regulation either. No more questions but come see me after you get out of the infirmary, got that?"
I headed to the showers...
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