Gym fantasy

by Richard Jasper

A few chance encounters at the gym build a connection between a pair of hot, growing guys.

I saw him eyeing me from across the gym, looking in the mirrow as I walked from the locker room over to the leg press machine.

“Nice,” I thought, admiring the his height, a little more than mine I guessed, and leanness. He was doing triceps pushdowns. “Yes, very nice.” They weren't as large as mine, not surprisingly, but they were lean and well-defined.

I had just finished doing shoulders and lats and I looked w-i-d-e. At 5’10 1/2 and 190 lbs., there is still a lot of work I need to do but that day I was well aware that there were few people in the gym my height who were as wide as I was. He noticed.

“And he's Asian, too,” I thought. “Yummy! Don't see too many here in Midtown Atlanta.”

I started piling the plates on the leg press machine, six 45 lb. weights on each end. Total: 540 lbs. In the mirror, I saw his eyes widen, so his grip on the triceps bar slip slightly. He was impressed, I could tell.

I cranked out ten solid reps, sweating and grunting by the time they were done. I looked up and saw that he had moved to the leg curl machine—directly behind my station.

“Not exactly a logical transition,” I thought, “unless there is a different motivating factor at play…”

I smiled as I walked past on my way to the water fountain, then stopped to say “hi” on the way back.

“My productivity just ain't what it ought to be on Monday morning,” I offered by way of introduction.

He gave me a startled glance. “Jesus, I'd hate to see you on Friday,” he said, nodding toward the leg press machine. “That much weight would get *my* attention on a Monday morning.”

I laughed.

“Well, yes,” I agreed. “It is a bit much. I neglected my legs for years and now I'm really into it. Working legs really turns me on these days.”

He gurgled slightly, not quite sure whether to respond…

I finished the leg presses and he finished his leg curls.

“Want to do some trap work?” I asked.

He looked at me skeptically.

“Well, I doubt I could handle the same poundages you use,” he began, tentatively.

“No, that's where you're wrong. I don't go really heavy like I do on legs and, besides, I've already done shoulders. I'm going to do curls and upright rows.”

We did three sets of each, he doing about 20 lbs. less than I on each exercise.

“See what I mean?” I asked after the first set. I could tell he was pleased.

When we finished we headed toward the locker room, I shrugging my massive shoulders.

“Dammit all,” I said, “these traps are sore as hell. I guess I really bombed them.”

He grinned. “Then you've picked the perfect workout partner,” he said. “I am *very* good at massage.”

“Great!” I replied. “Then maybe you can massage them before we hit the showers?”

We stood in front of the mirror. I crossed my arms across my waist and removed the t-shirt in one fluid motion. I heard his slight intake of breath.

Slowly, firmly he massaged my traps. I leaned my head back so that my neck became even more bull-like, my well-defined traps nearly mountainous.

“Shit, man, these are hard as rocks,” he said.

I murmured. “You're doing fine. It feels wonderful.”

He was standing so close that when his member began to engorge I could feel it through his sweatpants and my shorts. As he continued to work it grew harder and harder, having a similar effect on my own brawny organ.

Finally, I turned to face him. He dropped his hands to his hips. I dropped my shorts on the floor, then reached my calloused hands (can't find lifting gloves I like) to his face, which I pulled down to mine, giving his soft, moist mouth my best thermonuclear kiss…

“Yo, Mike,” I said, as he walked by my station.

“Yes, Richard By-the-Way?” he replied, teasing me again about my habit of saying “I'm Richard, by the way,” when introducing myself to new folks at the gym.

“Would you do me a favor and spot me on this set? I haven't bench this much before…”

“Why certainly,” he nodded.

I was doing 225 lbs., which isn't that much but it's still more than I had ever done previously.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked. Mike had been paying attention to me since I joined the gym in July. I was pleased that he knew it was more than I had ever done before.

I looked up at him and smiled.

And smiled. And smiled.

I mean, Christamighty damn! Is there anything nicer than looking up at a 6’3, 195 lb. hunk, all muscle, salt and pepper crew cut and an absolutely gorgeous mustche? With your head six inches from his crotch? Ummmm….

“Uh, Richard, are you ready?”

“Oh, yeah, here we go.”

He lifted off and I took it slow. One, two, three, four, breathing in and out, pausing slightly after four, five, six, seven.

My arms were beginning to tremble and he moved closer, ready to grab it. I could feel his crotch leaning against my head!

Eight, nine.

“I didn't think you could do this much,” I heard him murmur.

TEN!

“Wait!” I grunted as he reached for the bar.

Eleven, twelve.

I was groaning by that point.

I dropped the weight back and he caught it, lowering it to the stand.

I sat up, feeling dizzy, feeling pumped.

“Richard!” he said. “I don't believe you did that. How much more than you usually do…?”

“Oh, I don't know,” I gasped. “Maybe 40 lbs….?”

“You're really getting into this, aren't you?” he asked.

I grinned.

“All it takes is the proper motivation…” I answered.

“Such as…?”

I grinned wider. “Well, having your crotch against my head, for one thing…”

He tweaked my tit.

“See you in the shower…?”

“Always prepared,” I nodded.

“Uh, do you mind if I watch?” I asked, quietly.

The dance studio was across from the weight room and I had seen Chad go in to practice his posing routine.

“Oh, not at all,” he grinned. “In fact, it's kinda nice to have an audience. Makes it more real that way…”

“Well, I promise I'll be quiet,” I said. “I don't want to break your concentration.”

Chad had been making my dick hard since the first day I walked into the gym. I was 19 and just getting into weight-training. He was a 23-year-old grad student who had been working out since high school. It showed. At 5’11, he was just my height but, unlike me, he was 230 lbs. of solid muscle. He was massive.

He started with a double biceps pose, his 21-inch guns twin bowling balls on either side of his mountainous deltoids.

Then a side chest shot. Before going to the gym I had seen pictures in magazines of guys with 54-inch chests but never up close and personal. I could feel my own chest tingling at the mere thought of being that large.

Then he turned to directly face the mirror and spread his lats. I had never seen anything so broad, so hard, so thick. I gasped…

Then he turned to me face me, smiled his megawatt smile, and said, “Well, how am I doing…?”

I cleared my throat, then said, “To tell you the truth, I don't know whether to laugh or cry?”

He raised an eyebrow, quizzically. “What do you mean?”

I could feel myself starting to turn red. “You have the kind of body I want to have someday, and I'm sitting right here five feet away looking at what I want to be, and I have no idea whether I can ever look like this…”

He threw his head back and laughed, then looked right in my eyes.

“Richard, don't be ridiculous,” he said. “There's absolutely NO reason that you can't be this big or even bigger.”

I smiled, tremulously. “No?”

“I've been watching you since you came in here the first time in July,” he said, which caused my eyes to widen. “Look, come over here, stand in front of the mirror. Now pose…”

I did the same routine he had done.

“See?” he said, running his fingers along my biceps and triceps. “They're not well-developed yet, but you've only just started. but But they're perfectly shaped and you've got *GREAT* muscel tie-ins. Richard, you can be at least as massive as I am…You're a classic mesomorph.”

I turned to him, he was just a foot away.

“You really think so?” I said, finally, grinning my best grin.

“It's just a matter of time, hard work and a good diet,” he said.

“Well,” I answered, “and a coach would be nice…”

Then he put his massive arms on my shoulders.

“Yes,” he answered, “a coach can help a lot. Do you want one? You can have it if you do. All you have to do is ask…”

He leaned back against the booth and put his hands behind his head. His massive arms bulging, his shirt straining and crumpling, trying to encompass the breadth of his shoulders, the mountainous height of his traps.

“God,” I said, “do you really know how gorgeous you are?”

He blushed and grinned.

“I'm just big, that's all,” he muttered, looking off to the side.

“No,” I answered, “it's not just that. Great hair, great eyes, great smile. And a killer body. God, you don't kow what I'd do for a body like yours…”

He snorted.

“There's no reason you can't have it,” he said, matter of factly. “Jesus, Richard, you're not as well built as I am, no, but how long have you been serious about this? Six months? You're *much* better built than most guys. It's just a matter of time…”

It was my turn to blush.

“Do you really think so?” I asked.

“Come on,” he said by way of reply. “It's time to blow this popstand. Besides, there's something I want to show you back at my room.”

Outside, the rainclouds had finally dissipated and the temperature was dropping—fast! He shivered.

“You don't get this in Houston much, do you?” I asked. “Down to 35 tonight…”

He put his hulking arm around me and we scurried to my car.

In it,his heavy hand rested on my thigh. I turned to him, then, and asked:

“Just what is it you want to show me back at your room?”

He laughed.

“The mirror,” he said, slyly. “I want to show you just how much potential you have. Just well you compare to me. Just how huge you are already. Just how beautiful you are…”

I stopped him with a kiss, a long, lingering, deep, passionate kiss, clasping his bull neck in my two strong hands. It went on for a long time…

“There are a few things,” I said finally, coming up for air, “that I would like to show you, too…”

He looked at me dazedly.

“I'm ready,” he gurgled.

I started the car…

I had been working in the newsroom for a year when Jerry, the managing editor, told me that the new reporter was looking for a roommate—as was I. After a year in a crackerbox apartment I was ready for something a bit more spacious and refined, but on the salary I was getting I could only do that with a roommate.

I gave Mike, the new guy, a call in Baton Rouge. He sounded really nice on the phone and he was quite willing to delegate responsibility for picking out a new place to me.

“I'll see you in a couple of weeks,” he said, and that was that.

Of course, neither of us counted on the fact that Jerry, consummate practical jokester that he was, was setting us up for yet another belly laugh.

It was a hot, steamy August 1st when Mike arrived, the way only northeast Louisiana can get hot and steamy.

Consequently, when he knocked on the door of the apartment, I was wearing nothing more than gym shorts and a towel around my neck—I had been doing my mid-morning pushup routine and the sweat still clung to my naked torso.

“Jesus God,” I thought looking at him standing there in the door frame wearing khakhi shorts and polo shirt, “what a little stud puppy he is!”

And then he laughed.

“This *is* a joke, isn't it?” he asked. “You can't really be Richard, can you?”

I chuckled in response.

“You just haven't gotten to know, Jerry, yet,” I answered. “Mutt and Jeff is his idea of high comedy.”

As I said, Mike was the perfect stud puppy. Half-Italian, half Cajun, he had glossy black hair, gorgeous olive-toned skin, clean shaven with classic features, and sultry eyes.

He was also, at 23 (a year younger than I), all of 5’8 inches tall and 130 lbs.

“Jesus you're big,” he said and I realized that for all his pseudo-macho affability he was more than a little intimidated.

“Well, yeah, I guess so,” I answered. “I'm 5’11 and 220 lbs, which I guess is what, about 80 lbs. more than you weigh?”

“Uh, make that about 90 lbs.,” he asnwered. “And not an ounce of fat. How long have you been training…”

We settled into a routine fairly quickly. Mike, for all his south Louisiana macho swagger, was a really sweet guy and I was pleased to have such a good roommate. It didn't hurt, either, that he was one crackerjack reporter—and impressed that I was as knowledgeable about the city and the paper as I was, not to mention the fact that I was considered the best “feature” reporter on the straight news side.

The only problem was…

“Jesus, Richard, do you really have to work out in the apartment?” he said one night, as I was finishing my 2nd set of 75 pushups. “Or if you do, could you leave your shirt on?”

I sat back and grinned. I realized what was going on and I wasn't going to let him off the hook. Also, the thought of having his hot little body next to mine…Well, I wasn't going to give up that easily either.

“No, Mike, I can't. I get most of it done in the gym, but this is stuff I need to do and this is the time I need to do it. I'm sure you can understand, that…” I said, slyly.

After that, he started taking showers whenever I started working out, generally right after I started and lasting until after I was finished. Cold ones, apparently, since he was always shivering and a bit blue when he came out.

My bedroom door was immediately opposite the bathroom and I took to standing there, totally pumped, leaning my massive shoulders against the doorframe, nothing more than a towel around my waist, waiting for him to come out. He had no problem seeing that I was semi-aroused, but he pretended not to notice.

One night, though, I could see him glance down and his eyes widened.

“Well, you know what Arnold said about 'the pump,' don't you? He said it was better than sex. I don't know if it's better, but a pump is a pump, even so, don't you think?”

He fled to his bedroom without answering.

“Hey, Mike,” I said the next night, “you don't have to take a shower this time. I'm gonna keep my shirt on while I do the pushups. You're beginning to get as shriveled as a prune.”

He glowered at me, but this time he stayed. The fact that I had called him on his sneak escapes meant that he had to stay and be macho.

The shirt was crewneck and skintight. I did two sets of 75 pushups non-stop, the muscles straining the fabric with each up/down repetition. By the end of the third set I was beginning to sweat and by the middle of the fourth set, he couldn't take it any more

He headed for the shower, but that just made me all the more determined.

I finished the fourth set, which had been my maximum.

Then I did a fifth set.

Then I did a sixth set.

I had never done so many pushups at one stretch. A grand total of 450. By the time I finished I was groaning like a water buffalo with each rep. My arms and chest were on fire and the veins on my arms were bulging beyond belief.

I lifted my arms and realized that my shirt was glued to my body.

“I guess this is it,” I thought to myself.

I went to the bathroom door and pounded on it. The water cut off instanlty.

“Hey, Mike, I need your help,” I grunted.

The door flew open instantly and there he stood before me, soaking wet, the stud puppy with soap still in his hair.

“What's the matter?” he asked, concern in his voice.

“Well, shit,” I said, “I did too much and now, well…”

I tried lifting my arms, which felt like they were fully 21 inches this time, but they only came up to my shoulders.

“I overdid it and now I can't get my shirt off…” I said.

His eyes were so wide that I thought he had gone into shock. I bent over so that my head was looking down at the floor, the same level as his crotch and just six inches away, and stretched my tree trunk arms out in front of me, so that they were on either side of him.

Slowly, cautiously, like a dog sniffing a new animal, I felt him reach across my incredibly broad back, slip his fingers underneath the cotton, and begin pulling the tee up my back and over my head. As he pulled it down my arms, I began to straighten, so that he had to move closer. And by the time they were to my wrists, we were standing hip to hip and he was looking up at me in something that compares favorably with the phrase “religious awe…”

“Mike, there's something I've been meaning to tell you,” I said, looking down at his angelic, studly face.

“I know,” he breathed huskily. “You're totally fucking gorgeous, do you know that?”

“I'm gay,” I answered.

“I know,” he said. “I am, too.”

With that, I gently slipped my hands beneath his elbows and lightly lifted him to eye-level. The fact that I could handle dumbbells weighing as much as he did made it feel effortless.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Put me down and I'll show you,” he answered.

I lowered him easily to the floor and in one swift motion he descended to his knees and took my brawny organ in his mouth…

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