|This is a long love-story, based on growth of both muscle and a triple realtionship.
|I was a 115 pound wimp, he was six foot two of glorious Germanic muscle. I was a miserable, orphaned schoolboy, adrift in my English boysí boarding school, he was Fischer, our PT coach. I couldnít climb a rope like the other guys, his 240 pounds of muscle reached the top in 5 seconds flat. I worshiped the guy, he was merely contemptuous. To me he was a god, to him I was a worm. And he let me know it. At every gym session.
Six foot two. Hair that was so blonde it was almost silver. A Chinese tattoo on the nape of his neck that I later discovered read Eternal Life. I guess it had once hidden under a ponytail. His jaw was so squarely muscular it could chew through steel. Proud, handsome head, set on a long, thick pillar of a neck, trapezii supporting it like buttresses on a cathedral. Sloping thickly down to shoulders at least three feet wide with delts capping them like the armor pieces of a knight. Proudly swelling pecs only seen under a string tank that clung to his abs under the pecline, hardly hiding the protuberant nips that I longed to latch my teeth onto. The thickest baseball bis ever seen on a man, complemented by the iron horseshoes of his striated triceps. A tiny waist belied the swelling of his thick glutes in the lycra hotpants which were inadequately big enough to cover them and the giant bulge in front. But it was the legs.... oh, those quads, huge slabs of creviced muscle matched by the oversize diamond calves.
The whole, always rippling with muscle - he took care to see the display was on permanent exhibition. Whether the football jocks were impressed or merely inspired I donít know, I do know that one of his most contemptuous gestures was to stare at my tented shorts, and ripple in front of me.
In spite of his scorn, I still lusted after that body. Still wanted to be like him. It must have been a surprise to him when, after a particularly hateful and shaming session, I asked to speak to him in private. Usually he went off into his inner sanctum to train one of his favorites with his own special set of weight equipment. Today (Wednesdays were exempt from "special training") he had already stomped towards his sanctum when I called out after him.
I had been emboldened by the vision, earlier that week, of him coming out of my piano teacherís study, knowing full well that Fischer was not interested in music.
"Sir......" He turned slowly and raised one majestic Prussian eyebrow. "Sir, I know you think Iím a hopeless case, but I want you to know youíre the best thing to happen to me since - well, since I saw my first muscleguy on the cover of a magazine!"
The sneer dropped from his face as he instinctively flexed a tricep. "Well?"
I gulped and let it all pour out - I had nothing more to lose.
"I want to be just like you. I want muscles like yours. I want you to train me every day of my life so that I get to be big, even bigger than you. I want to be able to wrestle you and get pinned under those muscles, mastered by you. I want to be able to stand beside you and be proud of us both. I want to outflex you with my biceps. I want to be able to wear lycra like you and let everyone know Iím THE muscle guy. I want it all. I want you."
Pause. Neither of us moved. Blue eyes glaring into grey ones, both unflinching. There it was, out in the open. All he could do was hit me or report me - or accept the challenge.
"Will you, sir? Can you, sir?"
"Can I? Yes. Will I? Youíd have to prove that to me yourself. Not only your determination, but your discretion. Can you do that?"
"Iíll do anything - anything at all - for this - for you."
He must have been impressed because he did something Iíd never seen him do before: he moved in. Stood over me and put his huge hand on the back of my head and rubbed it. Never thought of Fischer being tender, not sure I liked it either, though my dick rose to it s full 16 year old strength as he flexed the other bicep under my nose.
"Kiss it, boy! Let this be a gage between us"
Lustfully I licked all over that hard, huge ball of cleft muscle.
"Enough!" He cuffed me on the back of the neck. That was more like Fischer. I guess he knew that taste of bicep was going to chain me to him for ever - or at least until heíd finished building me into what I wanted to be.
"Every morning, six a.m. Six days a week starting tomorrow. Weíll do that for two weeks and then see how we move on. Now, cut and scram!"
He pulled me in to him, grabbed my balls, squeezed (yes I came there and then), then kicked my butt out of the gym.
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