"Quiet day, eh?" I say to the desk attendant as I drop off my ID card.

"Yeah," he says, barely looking up from his muscle magazine, moving his mouth as he reads. He's pretty, but not the most articulate guy around. Still, eye candy is eye candy and I watch his biceps flex as he idly scratches his chest until I am ready to go into a diabetic coma. Fuck, I think, wanting to feel that rock. A little turned on now, I make my way down to the locker room.

After changing, I trot off to the main weight room and give it a quick scan. It's deserted, except for some guy doing bicep curls. I can only see his back, because of the way he's standing. The other cars must belong to the racquetball players, I think.

I look back at the guy doing the curls and my eyes bug out when I see that he has two big 45-pound plates on each side of the bar. He's wearing a yellow t-shirt that is old and threadbare, and gray sweats. His head is shaved and he has a thick bull neck, with massive traps rising up along each side.

I stare at his amazing back. Even through the shirt, I can see the thick ripples and curves of hard-worked muscle. His lats spread out like barn doors. He's grunting the last few reps out, "...10...11...12..."

Then he puts the bar down with a solid thunk and turns to get a drink. Before I can look away, he catches me staring at him. I'm in double shock now because I can see the crow's feet around his eyes, little wattle of a neck the only part of him that doesn't appear hard and ripped. A thick white walrus moustache frames his lips and tufts of silver fur peek over the neck of his shirt and poke through the thin material.

He sees my shock, knows it's because of his age, and he seems none too happy about it.

He asks in a gruff voice, "What are you looking at?" The smart answer I have on my lips dies away as my heart begins to pound. "Well, son," he continues, "I asked you a question."

I'm a grown man, but when he calls me "son," I feel a tingling down to my crotch. "Don't you think old men should have muscles?" he asks, and brings his right arm level with his shoulder. He starts to curl his fist up, making sure I get an eyeful of his bowling-pin forearms, veins snaking all over the furry muscle. I watch wide-eyed as the peak begins to form as his biceps pulls into an ever-growing ball.

My eyes bulge as the biceps bulges, peaked and hard, swollen large. He sees me staring, my mouth open and chuckles. "Guess you weren't expecting Grandpa here to have muscles like this. Hope you're not too disappointed."

I realize with a start that I'm drooling and I'm glad we're the only two people in the weight room. He bounces the massive mound a few times, then slaps the rock ball with his other hand. It makes a solid, satisfying sound. He moves closer and I feel awash in the power radiating from his body.

"Well, boy, what do you think? Would you like to feel this big hard gun? I was just curling 225 pounds when you walked in; want to feel how strong an arm like that is?"

"Yes, sir," I manage to whisper, as he moves closer. Oh God, it's shiny from his sweat and looks so big and hard. I reach up a tentative hand and let it hover over the massive shape, waiting for this huge muscledaddy to give the OK.

"Feel it, boy! Feel what years of lifting heavy weights have produced. Every day I pump iron so that I can have this god-like body. And so I can show it off to wimp-boys like you. Think that you're strong because you can do curls with 40 pounds? When I'm 90 maybe that's all I'll be able to do....."

I place my hand firmly on the old man's arm and gasp because it's like feeling a rock, except it's warm and supple. I start rubbing my hand all over the rigid muscle while he looks at me, making encouraging noises; he must like getting felt up. How many hundreds, maybe thousands, of slobbering muscle worshippers has he had cumming over the years?

"You like that, son? Big fucking grandpa's got harder muscles than you'll ever dream of having. Take a lick." He reaches his other hand behind my head and forces me against his hard arm, pressing my nose and mouth into his rockhard biceps. I grab onto a pec to balance myself and then I really need help standing up - shocked at the hardness and density of the mound of muscle.

He takes his hand away from my head (not that he'd have to hold me against his biceps!) and reaches his other hand between my legs to hoist me up. It's hard to breathe because my face is smothered in solid muscle, but I gasp at the ease at which he lifts me.

"Do you really think I would have any trouble lifting a little man like you?" he boasts. "I squat a ton for reps, baby. Easy enough to lift a little pussyboy like you...

"You like to fly, Peter Pan? How about this?"

And he flips me up overhead so that I'm staring down at the massive muscle supporting me. Then he starts pressing me up and down, while he looks up at my stunned face.

"Not such a bad boner on you, for a little boy-man. Gets stiff when it's exposed to so much man muscle, huh?"

I can't answer because I've just shot my first load. "How long do you think I can keep pressing you?"

"All day, I hope!! Such fucking power - how old are you?"

"Sixty-five, son and stronger than a fucking ox. I've been lifting for 50 years. Fifty years of hard pumping iron, ever since I was a 15-year-old muscle stud who wanted to get bigger. I was benching 300 before I turned 18."

His hands are calloused and rough on my skin as he swings me around like a father does his two-year-old, then holds me with one arm again as he slips the other between my legs. He starts to curl me up so that I slide down his forearm to lodge firmly against that ball of mature muscle. He twitches it a few times and soon my cock is throbbing in time to each flex of his solid muscle.

"Damn, Sir, you are stronger than any of the other guys in the gym, and most of them are half your age. Show me more how strong you are, please, please, please!" I'm babbling now, but I don't care. All I want is to see this muscledad show off. Of course he's cocky and arrogant - he's had people staring at him, or trying to conceal their awe, for decades.

He puts me down and walks over to the loose weights. He grabs a 45- pounder and puts his fingers in the holes. "Watch closely, son."

I'm staring, stroking my dick, which has hardened again at the display of cocky power.

His muscles begin to bulge a little more as he works his fingers into the hole of the plate. I stare as the hole begins to wide as he pushes outward. He notices me stroking and says, "Son, Daddy didn't give you permission to touch yourself."

My hand whips away. I don't want this freak mad at me.

"Wh...what are you doing?" I stammer.

"Just keep watching, son," he says. "Don't ask so many questions..."

"Is that plate broken or something?"

He chuckles. "Not yet." He continues to push and pull at it. The hole widens until it looks like a giant washer. Then he begins to squeeze two of the edges together.

I moan and involuntarily my hand strays to my stiff rod again

"Boy! I'm not going to tell you again. Keep that hand away from your dick!"

"Yes, Sir! Sorry, Daddy!"

He chuckles again, in that fatherly fashion. The muscles in his arms and shoulders have pumped up to freakish proportions as he continues to squeeze the iron plate. When I hear the sound of ripping cloth, I make a sound that's half moan, half whimper as I watch his t-shirt shredding up along his biceps, finally stopping near his thick neck, fully exposing his mighty arms and the three thick heads of his deltoids. The plate's now grossly misshapen. He stops for a second and holds the plate up for me to see. It looks like a battered rectangle now. He bounces his cloth-covered chest a few times and grunts with satisfaction as the thin material parts to show off white- furred pecs impossibly thick and massive. He sticks the plate between them.

"Can I feel your chest while you do that? Please? I'm begging you!"

He looks at me sternly, but there's mirth in his eyes. With barely a nod, he squeezes his mighty pecs together. The battered plate disappears between mounds of mature muscle, the iron surrounded by hairy muscle, stronger than the metal.

I'm standing in front of him now and reach up my hands to stroke the stronger-than-iron muscle. I sift my hands through the chest fur, and run my finger along his muscle cleavage, feeling for the defeated iron.

"Yeah boy, Grandpa can do a trick or two, can't he? Like the way that furry man muscle feels while it crushes iron? Notice something else boy? That hairy muscle is dry. Haven't even worked up a sweat."

I put my face down by his right pec, see the plate getting squeezed even smaller, and groan, hand reaching for my cock

He notices and slaps my hand away. It stings and I cry out.

"Boy, I told you hands off!"

It doesn't really matter, since that display of brute senior strength has caused me to spurt another load.

He shakes his head. "How many times is that, son? Shit, this fucking muscledaddy makes you cum just by look at you, doesn't he?"

I just nod, then croak out, "I've never seen a display like that before. Didn't think it was possible for someone to be so strong."

He releases his flex and the battered plate drops into his hand. It looks nothing like the round hard plate it did five minutes ago. "Want to see another trick, son?" Grandpa asks.

"Oh God, please, anything!" I cry. I'm quivering and throbbing. "You're the hottest man I've ever seen!" It's all my secret fantasies come true...

He puts the mangled plate longwise between his fleece-covered thighs and squeezes them together. I can hear metal creaking. Immediately his sweat pants start straining and with a sound that makes me cum again, the seam splits, revealing legs so thick and muscular it makes me think I'm looking at rock formations. Huge teardrop-shaped quads, slowly compressing the plate, veins running up and down the thighs, are visible even through the thick gray hair.

I drop down onto my knees for a better look. I want to touch them, to lick them, but he hasn't given me permission yet. And all along, the plate is getting smaller as his legs get closer together until his mighty quads are touching each other and I think the plate's fallen into a black hole.

"Daddy, I can almost believe that you can squat a ton!"

"Almost believe, son? You doubting me?"

"Well, I thought that was just an expression, I mean, I mean, um..."

Scared by the look in his eyes, I back away a little. He grabs the plate from between his legs and holds it in his hands again. He begins to compress it until it looks like a ball. He holds it up so I can see and places it in the crook of his elbow.

"What do you think you're going to do?"

"Boy, I can do anything I want. I'm getting a little tired of all these questions. Maybe you should keep your mouth shut for a while and just watch Daddy, eh?" He starts to bend his arm, holding the iron ball tight.

That massive biceps begins to bulge again as the iron ball get trapped between his mighty peak and forearm. I can't believe it could be squeezed any more, but the power of his arm is compacting it even further. It's flattening, and being shaped into a thin crescent along the line of his bicep, the one that I had felt and worshipped.

He grunts a few times for show as he powers his arm harder and harder over the destroyed plate. I just mutter over and over, "...65...he's 65 fucking years old..."

He can't bend his arm much farther than 90-degrees because his biceps peaks up so high. With a final grunt, he pulls his arm down as far as it will go. He releases it and tosses the crescent in front of me. It lands with a thud. Although it's just four inches long now, when I try to pick it up, it's still that heavy 45-pound plate. I notice that indented in the iron is the shape of the thick vein that runs alongside his biceps. It's incredibly dense, but not as dense as his mature biceps.

"What'd you think of that, boy?" Grandpa asks, smug in his power. Just standing there, relaxed, his muscles twitch and flex, almost as if they've got a life of his own.

I can't answer because I'm in awe of this mighty senior. He pulls off the remains of his shirt and tosses it to me. Immediately I stick my face in it, smelling his masculine sweat, reveling in its dampness. It makes me hard again. When I look up at him again, he's pulled his arms into a massive double biceps. I moan as my eyes rake his body from head to toe.

"Want to see some more tricks, boy?" he asks. I nod dumbly. He looks around him. "Hmm, there's nothing much here." Almost as an afterthought, he grabs an Olympic bar and starts to bend it. Huge muscle bulges even larger and in a flash, he's bent the bar in half. "Shit, that was nothing. You know what, son?"

I can't begin to imagine and shake my head.

"I've got to do some work at home. You gonna come with me? Maybe I'll put on another show for you." Without waiting for my answer, he turns to head out the door. I watch that thick back flex as he swings his arms and I hasten to follow him. I don't even have time to get my stuff from my locker as Grandpa strides out to the parking lot.

He gets into the monster truck with the "SNR MSL" plate and I realize what it means. He starts his truck as I pull open the door on the passenger side and climb in. With a jerk, he steers the truck onto the highway. He looks over at me, kindly, and flexes his right arm for me. I grab hold of it, rubbing my hands all over, tracing the thick vein, squeezing it hard. I'm delirious with lust.

I don't know where we're going, but as long as I can stay with this muscledaddy, I don't care. •