|His lifting partner is also a bouncer at a local sports bar, one that features pool tables and female waitresses in tight halter tops, and he's worked his way through the ranks, earning a scandalous -- though among men, enviable -- reputation as a lady killer. He's always been an athlete, football, hockey, baseball, the three big ones, and he's naturally big, athletic without bulk: six feet, 190, hard and cocky.
They have a great lifting relationship, these two. They're buddies, comfortable enough with their heterosexuality to flex in front of each other. They compare chicks and conquests. Both the Athlete, who's big enough to be a bouncer -- his shoulders alone could've gotten him the job -- and the other guy, the Cop, who isn't small, either. Wiry and tough, the Cop is sleek and ripped, his high tight, his jaw sharp.
The Cop would go to the bar on some nights when his buddy was bouncing, so to skip the cover, and they would do shots eagerly supplied by the waitresses, hoping either or both of these guys would get drunk enough to take advantage of. They often let themselves be. It's all good.
The bar hires another bouncer to work weekends, the volume heavy. This guy's a bodybuilder, thick and mountainous with muscle. The Cop meets him late that first night, introduced by the Athlete. Handshakes and sports talk later, the three have bonded in the way that men who drink do. The Bodybuilder isn't fast to ogle the women, and though the Cop and the Athlete are dissapointed, they dismiss it as regular enough -- a guy like this SURELY has a girlfriend -- and go right back to talking sports.
During the week, while working out, the Athlete and the Cop discuss the Bodybuilder. Does he do steroids, etc? The Athlete shows little sympathy for steroid use -- which is probably what's kept him from going pro -- thinking that steroids are not only cheating, but gets a man bigger than he's naturally meant to be. "Weightlifting is for sports conditioning," he states glibly. "Bodybuilding is more for vanity than sport."
The Cop laughs this off, even though he secretly wishes to be huge. He disagrees with the Athlete, and would probably do the juice himself if he felt he could get away with it. But he's doomed to be 185 the rest of his life -- even though his abs have always been easy. And that Bodybuilder's waist had looked just as good as his did in a tight shirt. And that guy had amazing pecs!
The Cop's schedule changes abruptly that next week, suddenly working the night shift, and he's unable to get to the bar. No big deal, chicks'll be there, his buddy's gotta work anyway. They still catch their workouts together, in the afternoon. The Athlete fairly chatters about the Bodybuilder, relating incidents and drinking stories to the Cop. The Bodybuilder can sure put 'em back, and he and the Athlete have become sudden buddies.
The Cop notices the Athlete flexing a little more, fixating on his abs -- which he's NEVER done -- and they begin throwing new exercises into the mix, the Athlete giving complete credit to the Bodybuilder. The Athlete is getting stronger, all his weights are up. The Cop makes a joke about steroids, and the Athlete laughs him off, punching him playfully in the gut. No steroids. No way.
The Athlete is noticably bigger, or maybe just that his clothes are tighter. He's always been a loose sleeveless t-shirt and baggy nylon shorts kind of guy. The Cop knows something is up when the Athlete one day wears spandex. "Ah, fuck you," the Athlete says, shouldering him. "You wish you had legs like these. So you could show 'em off."
"You're puttin' on some size," the Cop says.
The Athlete nods. "I guess I am. I don't know how. I'm not doin' nothin'."
The Cop says, "I need to be doin' that nothin'."
The Cop tells the Athlete that he's free that night, and is gonna come over to the bar. The Athlete smiles, because the Bodybuilder's working, too, and the Athlete says the Bodybuilder's been asking about the Cop, when he was gonna see the Cop again. There is a tone of near reverance in the Athlete's voice when he speaks of the Bodybuilder.
When the Cop changes the subject, and asks about what waitresses have been his victims, the Athlete shrugs him off with some lame excuse about conserving his energy for lifting, and quickly changes the subject back to a story involving the Bodybuilder. Some waitress had joked about him and the bodybuilders being gay lovers. He laughs about it. Imagine.
That night at the bar, the Cop is wary of the Bodybuilder, even though the huge man gives him no reason. They drink, the waitresses happy to see the Cop back, all of them complaining about lack of action with the Athlete. The Cop dutifully flirts, while the Athlete and the Bodybuilder hang back by the door, talking quietly, making look as if working. The Bodybuilder whispers something in the Athlete's ear, and the Athlete looks up suddenly at the Cop, and smiles. "Are they talking about me?" the Cop thinks.
The Athlete disappears to the bathroom, leaving the Cop alone with the Bodybuilder. While making small talk about headline sports, one of the waitresses interrupts them, taking a drink order from the Cop. As she turns toward someone else, the Cop is suddenly aware of the Bodybuilder behind him. Then the Bodybuilder's arm is over his shoulder -- buddy-buddy -- and the Bodybuilder is whispering in HIS ear. The Cop can barely make out words, because of the noise in the bar, and he gets no clear idea of what the Bodybuilders says.
When the Bodybuilder stops talking, he backs away, back to the door. Confused, the Cop turns around and looks at him, trying to figure out what he'd said. When the Cop focuses on the Bodybuilder, the light of the door casting shadows under his muscles, making him look even bigger, the Cop suddenly feels himself get a hard-on. And not just a hard-on, an insistent, demanding, unignorable erection that fairly bursts from his jeans on its own.
The Bodybuilder smirks as the Cop discovers his dilemma, and nods his head toward the bathroom. The Cop fairly leaps away at the suggestion, not even questioning.
The bathroom -- two stalls -- unoccupied, so the Cop locks the door behind him. All he knows right now is the need to touch his cock, his need to cum. He hears the words of the Bodybuilder, blurry and indistinct, echo in his mind as he faces the toilet and jerks himself off. A few savage strokes is all it takes and the orgasm bursts from deep inside him.
When he's done, he briefly considers what he's done, but dismisses it as soon as he hears a knock at the door. He unlocks it as he washes his hands, apologizing to the guy waiting. He's not sure if he's drunk -- he's only had two beers -- but he's got a great buzz, calm, relaxed, but awake and aware, like caffeine on marijuana. Back at the door, the Athlete sits on a stool, the Bodybuilder next to him, and the Athlete has the same stupid grin that the Cop finds on himself.
"How ya feelin'?" asks the Bodybuilder, understated. The Athlete grins.
"Feel fuckin' great!" says the Cop.
The Athlete laughs, and the Bodybuilder smiles. They both clap him on the shoulder, mock punch him in the abs. "Told ya," says the Athlete. He indicates the Bodybuilder, "This guy's pretty awesome. Tell him that story you were telling me, about those guys who wanted to pay you to worship you...."
They talk the rest of the night, the Cop rivited to the Bodybuilder, much like the Athlete. The waitresses frustrations grow.
He has great workouts that week. Both he and the Athlete hit the weights better than they have in a long time -- their focus is tremendous. Right before a set sometimes, he can almost hear the Bodybuilder murmuring in his ear, and before the blood can gather in his dick, he explodes off the rack and does his set. He's never felt so masculine.
In his uniform, on patrol, he gets off intimidating the bad guys, scum punks thinking they could take him. His sleeves are just tight enough that the veins stand out in his arms, and he enjoys the way it makes him look. Obviously, the bigger he gets, the better it'll feel -- the logic is inescapable.
Eagerly, the Cop approaches the bar that night, hoping to see the Bodybuilder -- actually, hoping the Bodybuilder will whisper something else to him. From the parking lot, the Cop sees the bulk of the Bodybuilder's muscle in the light over the door, checking ID's and generally towering over everyone. But as the Cop gets closer, he realizes that it's NOT the Bodybuilder he sees in the doorway, it's the Athlete, grown to huge proportions, bigger than he was even at their workout that afternoon. Almost as big as the Bodybuilder, who stands behind him, the Cop sees now. The athlete has the mannerisms of the Bodybuilder, that same self-satisfied smirk, the incessant need to touch himself. When they see the Cop approaching, both nod and punch his fist. "Hey," they say in near unison. They're even dressed alike, each with a heavy gold chain outside his bouncer shirt, small, identical cell-phones clipped to their waists. The Athlete has buzzed his hair down to the same #1 Fade.
"Well, look at you," the Cop says to the Athlete. "You've gotten pretty big."
The Athlete smirks. "Yeah," he says, flexing his chest. "I'd really kick some ass in football season, if I was gonna play this year."
"Not gonna play?" the Cop asks.
"Nah. Football -- 'specially an injury -- will get in the way of my training. And I wanna compete, maybe."
"But you've always been an athlete," the Cop protests. "You've always been into contact sports."
"Bodybuilding's a sport," says the Athlete. "I'm still an athlete. I'm just a bodybuilder. C'mon, man," he says, "you know how good it feels to be big. You wanna be big just as much as I did. Right? Doesn't he?" he asks the Bodybuilder, who approaches them.
"You wanna be big," says the Bodybuilder. "All guys do." He leans into the Cop's ear. "Lemme tell you a secret," he says, and then mumbles, whispers. The Cop can't make out the words, but he doesn't stop listening, either. Why were his instincts warning?
The Bodybuilder steps back against the wall, leaving the Cop to stare wordlessly at the Athlete. The Athlete smiles as the Cop tents his pants, as his erection grows. Why is he resisting? The Athlete can't comprehend. It feels so good. "You should go take care of that," the Athlete says, indicating the Cop's hard-on. "Bathroom's that way."
"I can handle the door," the Bodybuilder says. "Why don't you escort him?"
The Cop protests; he's embarrassed. "No, I..."
"C'mon," says the Athlete, grabbing the Cop's upper arm, pulling him into the depths of the bar. "I'll block the door."
He pulls the Cop into the small bathroom and locks the door. Turning around, he sees himself in the mirror over the sink, and does a few quick poses. "Isn't that fuckin' awesome?" he asks, then looks at the Cop, more specifically the Cop's cock. "You gonna take care of that?" he asks. "You probably don't have a lot of time before someone knocks."
The Cop is afraid. Embarrassed. He's not gay. He doesn't think the Athlete is, either. He's never... they've never... "What?" says the Athlete. "You think I didn't come in here and do the same thing every night for the last couple of weeks? C'mon, man, you wanna get big? You know you want to."
And he does want to, that's the worst part. The way his cock is throbbing, he actually needs to. And the Athlete has been his buddy for years, his lifting partner, his brother. It isn't like they're doing something gay -- they're not doing it together -- his buddy the Athlete is just keeping trouble at bay while the Cop does what he has to. He's bein' a buddy. He's keepin' his buddy company. They weren't together.
The Cop feels better about it, relieved almost, accepting, and rips his pants open to get at his cock. The Athlete laughs. "All right," he says. The Cop pounds on his dick, in a hurry, confused by how good it feels to be jerking off in front of his best friend, how natural. He can't look the Athlete in the face, so he looks at the floor, trying hard not to think, trying to get involved in the task at hand, the need. What had the Bodybuilder said to him? And why is it so erotic?
He can feel the Athlete's eyes on him, and he half-waits for the Athlete to say something, to cheer him on, but the Athlete doesn't say anything. And since the Cop won't look up, he doesn't know what the Athlete is thinking. Mercifully, he feels his balls constrict; he's going to cum soon. Thank God, he thinks. He justs wants this moment to be over.
Suddenly, the Athlete speaks. "Hey," he says. "Look at this."
The Cop reacts and glances up before he can stop himself, just as the Athlete flexes his massive bicep, the rounded softball-sized peak, the bloated tricep underneath, the thick forearm. He wants to look away, but he can't, the Athlete's big gun holds his attention. And when the Athlete kisses it, his big swollen python, the Cop shoots his load.
Ecstasy tinged with acceptance. "Oh, yeah," says the Athlete, as the Cop erupts. "Go on, bro." It's just like he's spotting. The Cop is in orgasmic bliss, as the power overwhelms him, and he feels he's shooting for the Athlete's pleasure as much as his own. Great then. Let him.
He finally drains his load, but his head still buzzes as it did while cumming. He's stuck in orgasm, a buzz like a drug. He feels incredible. "Now you feel it," the Athlete says.
"Yeah," says the Cop dreamily, smiling.
The Athlete claps him on the shoulder. "Good," he says. "Clean up and come join us." With that, while the Cop tucks himself back in his pants, the Athlete unlocks the door and ducks out of the men's room. The Cop washes his hand quickly , looking at himself in the mirror, through the haze of orgasm, and likes what he sees. He flexes quickly, popping the halves of his chest back and forth, then hurries out to the waiting Bodybuilder.
The Athlete is already standing next to the Bodybuilder, laughing quietly, when the Cop walks up. "Sounds like you enjoyed yourself," the Bodybuilder says, and the Cop smiles. "Yeah, you're feeling pretty good right now. Stand right here next to me and you'll feel even better."
The Cop moves closer, til he flanks the Bodybuilder on the left as the Athlete does on the right. It feels almost natural to be behind him like this, next to his partner. The Bodybuilder's aura energizes the Cop. That's when the Bodybuilder starts murmuring instructions. Orders. Easy to obey.
For the next week, the Cop lifts alone. The Athlete has switched to the same gym as the Bodybuilder, the muscle-head gym. The Cop wants to join, too, but he's not big enough, yet, says the Bodybuilder. If he wants to come to the big boy's gym, he was gonna have to be a little bigger. So, the Cop begins lifting in earnest. He hits the gym hard, each workout, each rep, becomes about being big enough to join the Bodybuilder.
He begins to resent his job -- it's getting in the way of his training -- although he looks great in the uniform, putting on size the way he is. Finally, when he realizes that he'll never be a bodybuilder until he makes the full-time commitment to bodybuilding, he gives his notice, and feels like a weight's been removed from his shoulders. In answer, he adds weight to his workout.
He can almost hear the Bodybuilder in his ear, talking to him. If only the words were clear. He's certain they're instructions. But when he tries to concentrate on the words, his cock hardens, and he's forced to beat off, and then he's not able to think of anything but muscle and size.
Finally this time, when he orgasms, he hears the Bodybuilder's whisper again, and this time the words are distinct. They ARE instructions, and as soon as the Cop -- soon to be ex-cop -- hears them, he knows enough to obey. "YOU MUST SUBMIT TO MUSCLE," echo the words in his ear, and he knows he must. He dials the Bodybuilder's number.
"Yeah?" answers the Bodybuilder. Even hearing his voice excites the Cop.
"I must submit to muscle," says the Cop, almost begging.
The Bodybuilder laughs. "You heard the words. Good. Sounds like you're finally ready to accept the truth."
The Bodybuilder gives him directions and the Cop drives there quickly. He's tempted to turn on his lights and siren. When he arrives at the Bodybuilder's house, he runs to the door, eager, drooling, his cock stiff in his spandex shorts. "Hey," the Bodybuilder says when he answers the door. He's wearing only boxer briefs. He looks magnificent, pumped and primed. "Glad you're here. C'mon in."
The Cop enters and sees the bulk of the Athlete on the sofa, only in a jock strap. The Athlete waves. "Hey, buddy," he says. "I guess you finally heard the words. It's fuckin' awesome, man." He rubs his own package, smiling.
"Have you heard the words?" the Bodybuilder asks, shutting the door and stepping into the room. The Cop turns to face him. "Are you ready to accept them?"
The Cop says -- and while saying it, knows the truth of the statement -- "I must submit to muscle."
The Bodybuilder laughs, a triumphant, winning laugh. "Then assume the position," says the Bodybuilder. "Like you know how."
With that, the Cop deliberately pulls his shorts down, exposing himself to the Bodybuilder, unashamedly showing his cock. Knowingly, he turns around and bends over, offering his ass. "I submit," he says again. "I submit to muscle." He spreads his cheeks apart, to make it easier.
When he feels the Bodybuilder's cock press inside him, he's lost in ecstasy. He orgasms immediately, and again on each thrust. Once, twice, a hundred times, forever, he's unaware, apathetic to time, just opening himself to more. Does it last an hour, all night, forever? He doesn't know. He passes out to the bliss of the Bodybuilder's cock, and the cheers of the Athlete.
He awakens the next morning, feeling incredible, the buzz of the other night multiplied ten-fold. Stretching in the early morning sun, he recognizes the bed he's in -- the Athlete's -- and he hears someone lumbering around in the kitchen, so he hops out of bed, luxuriating in his continuous post-orgasmic bliss. When he stands, he sees himself in the mirror, and he recognizes what he already knows -- he's a bodybuilder now. His muscle is huge; his body is perfect. As perfect as he feels. Flexing a little, satsified, he heads toward the kitchen.
The Athlete stands there, talking on his tiny cell phone, naked as the Cop is. The Cop says, "Hey."
"Hey, you're awake," the Athlete says. He then speaks into the phone and hangs up quickly. Back to the Cop, "And you're lookin' like you're finally with us."
The Cop poses for him, front double bi, crab shot, side chest. "Yeah," he says. The Athlete smiles.
"Felt good, didn't it? When he fucked you? When you submitted?"
"It was incredible," says the Cop. "Nothing's ever been that good."
"You want it again."
"Yeah," says the Cop, okay with it. "I do."
"Believe me, I know," says the Athlete, moving in close to the Cop, putting his hands on the Cop's massive pecs. The Cop flexes it, so the Athlete can really feel it. The Cop is bigger than the Athlete. Almost as big as the Bodybuilder. More than halfway between. His cock twitches as the Athlete's touch. The Athlete continues, "And he'll do it again, you know. As long as you do something for him."
The Cop fairly pants in anticipation. "Anything," he says, meaning it.
"You gotta bring him more recruits," says the Athlete. "He needs more worshippers. He gets his power from worship. YOU worship him, don't you?"
The Cop knows only bliss. "Of course," he says.
"Me, too," says the Athlete. "Why do you think I brought you to him? I wanted it again, too. And it's even better the second time. Now c'mon, we've gotta get you cleaned up and ready for life in The Stable. We got a lot of work to do."
The Cop lets the Athlete lead him back to the bedroom, where they prepare.
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