Skimpy young Ben, stuck for Christmas in a bumfuck town on the high plains, is astounded that Max, the bartender keeping him company, is a total musclebear stud! He resolves to come back in a year a bigger and better man and with Max’s encouragement does just that.
9 parts Added Sep 2020 6,383 views 4.0 stars (5 votes) 6,657 words
In the original version of this story I used the names of actual bodybuilders [for the contest in Part 7] and… one reader had a very public hissy fit over my selection of one of them. Mostly because in this fantasy this fantasy version of a real guy placed in the top three in a fantasy contest. Go figure! I’ve changed all the names—but you’ll know them anyway.—rpj
It was New Year’s Eve and Ben was all alone in the hotel bar of some podunk town on the high plains. He had been reluctant to take the assignment in that part of the world at that time of the year but he was still new enough at the job that he didn’t want to wind up on his boss’s doo-doo list. As it was, his flight had been canceled and here he was in East Buddha instead of back in Chicago with his friends and family.
“All alone,” he muttered to himself.
“Ahem,” the bartender said. “I’m here!”
Ben had barely noticed him but now that the guy behind the counter had spoken…
“Wow,” Ben blurted. “You’re frickin’ built like a tank, aren’t you?”
The big guy chuckled. He was just about Ben’s height it seemed, probably plus / minus half an inch in relation to Ben’s 5’11, but he looked to have a hundred pounds of muscle on Ben’s skimpy 140 pounds. The big guy smiled, then put out his hand.
“Name’s Max,” he said. “What’s a good looking kid like you doing in a dump like this?”
Ben told the story, and then started asking Max about training. “That’s my New Year’s resolution,” Ben said. “To get big like you!” Max grinned. “You’re not likely to do it one year…” Ben sighed. “No, I guess not,” he answered. “But I’m tired of being skinny.” Max gave him a glance. “Ya know, you’re in really excellent shape from what I can tell,” he pointed out. “Lightweight, yeah, but you have excellent proportions and it’s clear what you’ve got is all muscle.”
Ben pointed out that in high school he’d been a lot bigger, close to 200 pounds in fact, but that it had been all blubber, thanks to a bad diet and an endless stream of video games. “In college, I got the diet figured out and I discovered I really loved cardio,” Ben observed. “I do an hour a day, six days a week.”
Max whistled. “Jeez, no wonder you’re skinny,” he said. “Ever tried the weights?” Ben blushed. “I never felt like I’d be any good at it,” he replied. “I do about 5-10 minutes of floor exercises after I do cardio, you know, pull ups, push-ups, and that sort of stuff.” Max nodded his handsome head. He was an older guy—maybe 35 to Ben’s 25—with a dusting of silver in his thick black hair and sexy goatee but sexy as hell.
“So how big do you want to get?” Max asked, casually. Ben swallowed his martini olive and spluttered. “Uh, well, you know, big,” he answered, finally. Max shrugged his broad shoulders. “Kid, in your case that could be anything,” he observed. “Just about everyone is bigger than you are. You talking Fitness Model big or bodybuilder big or powerlifter big?”
Ben blushed again. He’d never actually gotten around to admitting it to another human being, much less an attractive guy…”I wanna be fuckin’ huge, Max,” Ben blurted. “I wanna be as big as you!” Max’s smile was blinding. “Or bigger, right?” he asked softly.
What the hell was in that martini, Ben wondered. He was feeling sorta dizzy and his eyes weren’t focusing on anything other than the sexy salt-n-pepper curls at the base of Max’s thick powerful neck.
“Let me tell you just how big you want to be,” Max continued, his voice sounding like it was coming from far away. Ben sat there staring at Max’s chest hair for a long time and then… “What?” he stammered, jerking back to reality. “Ya know, Max, that all sounds like really good advice! You ought to be a personal trainer instead of a bartender.” Max chuckled. “That’s my other job, kid.”
Ben reached across the bar and shook Max’s hand again. “I gotta hit the sack,” he said, adding: “That 6 a.m. wake up call is gonna be here too damned soon!”
Max gave him a wave as Ben headed to the lobby. “Just remember what I told you, OK?” Ben turned and gave Max a big thumbs up.
“You betcha, Big Man,” he said. “You won’t recognize me when you see me this time next year!”
Max grinned big.
That’s the plan, he thought to himself. That’s the plan!
Back in Chicago, Ben attacked the gym and the weights in the gym like a man possessed. He spent an hour a day with the weights, six days a week, confining his cardio to 10 minutes on the rowing machine before each workout and 10 minutes of stretching afterwards. He worked one or perhaps two body parts each day and if he ran out of exercises he went and asked one of the trainers, so much so that he became known as “What do I do Next?” Ben, aka (secretly!) “The Pest.” After the first couple of weeks, Ben stopped asking questions, partly because he’d absorbed everything the trainers’ had to say, partly because he was doing his own research online. Before long, the trainers were coming to him for advice:
What was he eating? How many calories was he consuming?
How much was he sleeping?
What supplements was he taking?
“I eat everything and anything,” he said, “so long as it’s whole food.” Steaks, pork chops, hamburgers, fish, chicken, peanut butter, even tofu and other plant-based protein, plus every kind of fruit, every kind of vegetable, salad, very little bread, some rice on occasion, oatmeal in cold weather. “In other words, exactly what I’ve always eaten,” he added.
How much? “Until I’m not hungry anymore,” Ben pointed out. “And then a little bit more.” It didn’t occur to him to observe that he’d never been hungry before in his life and now he was hungry all the time.
But what about supplements?
“What everyone else takes,” he replied, a bit tartly. “A multivitamin, some calcium, enteric aspirin, fish oil.”
“Look,” he said. “It’s not magic. Eat big, lift big, get big, that’s all.”
No matter what they thought Ben was really doing, what he was really doing actually worked. Every couple of weeks Ben was back at Target or Marshall’s or Ross buying a new set of shirts or a new pair of pants. Interestingly enough, pants were more of a challenge than shirts. His legs were getting bigger and bigger but his waist was still a ridiculously slim 29 inches.
His friends and co-workers were admiring and complimentary which Ben found alternately embarrassing, flattering, or annoying, depending on who was doling out the compliment and what kind of follow up questions they asked. Ben’s single friends kept insisting that he needed to buy some tight shirts and visit out to the bars now and then but he just laughed, that was so not him, after all! He kept wearing the same baggy long-sleeve shirts and loose corduroy pants than had been his winter attire since high school.
By the time April rolled around, Ben had begun to realize that in addition to having spent a fortune on food, he’d gone through multiple sets of clothing and that he could make a sizable donation to the Salvation Army of just the stuff he no longer fit into. Plus he had maxed out in terms of dress shirts at Target et al.—he could just barely fit into a size 18½ / 34-35 and that was the biggest size they had! Ditto, extra-large v-neck undershirts fit like a glove and had a tendency to ride up on his shoulders.
April 11 was Ben’s 30th birthday and he woke that morning to find an unexpected e-mail in his in-box:
Happy birthday, handsome! Here’s hoping you’ve been able to make good on your New Year’s Eve resolution!
How much do you weigh now? I’m sure you’ve gotten big!
All the best and have a great day…
Max from East Buddha
max (at) resolutions dot com
“Wow,” Ben said aloud. “How did he get my e-mail?”
He promptly wrote back:
Great to hear from you, Big Guy! How did you get my e-mail? And how the heck did you know it was my birthday?
Gym has been great! I keep buying new clothes! I guess that’s a good sign, huh?
Looking forward to hearing more…
Ben in Chicago
The next e-mail from Max showed up five minutes later, while Ben was finishing his coffee.
Great news! You gave me your card at the bar, as I recall. And we share the same birthday, so of course I remember! I’m 52 today!
How much do you weigh now?
Ben stared slack-jawed at the screen. “He’s 52?! But he’s such a hunk!” And then it hit him: “I don’t know how much I weigh!” He had to dig the bathroom scale out of the bottom of the linen closet. He wiped off the dust, positioned it in front of the sink, and stepped on.
217 pounds exactly.
“That can’t be right!” he exclaimed.
He tried it five more times and the results came back, more or less the same, from a low of 216.7 to a high of 217.6.
217 pounds! Thanks for asking! I’d never gotten around to weighing!
He didn’t see Max’s response until after he got to work.
Great work, Big Guy! That’s 77 pounds more than you weighed in December, right? You’ve definitely gotten B-I-G!
How much are you benching now?
Ben did the simple arithmetic in his head: 77 pounds was 55% more than he had weighed on December 31st! 77 pounds was 7 pounds per week, or a pound a day! “That’s impossible,” Ben muttered, as he looked at himself in the men’s room mirror.
“What’s that?” Parker from Accounting asked. Ben chuckled. “It’s impossible that I could weigh 217 pounds,” Ben replied. “There must be something wrong with the scale.” Parker gave Ben a quizzical glance. “Uh, no, not impossible at all,” Parker said, matter-of-factly. “I’m 195 pounds myself and you make me look like a twig!”
Ben looked in the mirror at Parker’s reflection. Parker was the stud of Accounting, handsome, athletic, and well-built, the kind of guy Ben had always wished to be. And clearly smaller, less muscular than Ben, even though both of them were wearing dress shirts and rep ties.
Returning to his desk, Ben tapped out another e-mail.
Bench = 385.
Less than a minute later Max’s reply arrived.
B: How many reps?
“D’oh,” Ben thought, of course.
M: 4 sets, 10 reps @ that weight.
As soon as Ben hit the send key another e-mail from Max arrived:
Single rep max?
“Now that is a good question,” Ben said, to no one in particular. “I wonder what the answer is?”
“Danny, how do I calculate my single rep max?”
What does the Pest want now?
Danny Ross looked at his questioner. Damn! The kid really was growing like a weed, wasn’t he? “Single rep max for what, Ben?” Danny answered. Also 30, Danny was the gym’s personal trainer and a nationally competitive bodybuilder. At 5’8, he weighed 245 pounds in the off-season and on stage he was a ripped-to-shreds 220 pounds.
“Bench press,” Ben replied. “I was just curious. I’ve never tried to max out!” Danny gave Ben a sharp glance. “How much are you doing now?” Ben licked his lips. “Well, I usually do 4 sets, 10 reps when I bench,” Ben answered. “385 pounds.”
Danny choked on his power drink. “Damn kid,” he said, “that’s about what I do!” Ben just grinned. “Cool beans! So how do I…?” Rolling his eyes, Danny crooked his finger and said: “The only way to know is to do it! Follow me!”
At the bench Ben loaded the bar with the weights he’d been using for the past 2-3 weeks: six 45-pound plates (3 on each end), and two 25-pound plates. “Don’t you want to warm up?” Danny asked. Ben’s puzzled expression was all the answer Danny needed.
“Okay, then,” Danny said. “Let’s take off those quarters and put on a couple of full plates.” Ben blinked. “I don’t think I can do ten of those,” he pointed out. Danny snorted. “That’s not the point,” Danny replied. “We want to find out your single rep max, remember?”
Ben positioned himself under the bar. He cranked out 10 perfect reps.
“That’s 405, Ben,” Danny said. “And you didn’t break a sweat. Are you playing me?” Ben shrugged, as if to say I don’t know what you’re talking about! Danny put on a couple of quarters: 455 pounds. “Don’t worry,” Danny said. “I’m gonna spot you. Let’s see if you can get one.”
Before Danny could give him a lift off Ben had the bar off the stanchions and cranked out five quick reps before slowing; with Danny’s help, Ben managed a sixth and a seventh rep. “Uh, Ben, how much do you weigh?” Ben blushed. “217 as of last night,” he said, shyly. Danny shook his head. “Boy, you just benched more than twice your weight for reps—that’s crazy!” Ben pulled off the quarters and replaced them with 45s.
“You ready for this?” Danny asked, looking at 495 pounds worth of iron. Ben nodded. “Let’s do it,” he said. This time he let Danny—and Bruce, another one of the big guys—give him an assist on the liftoff.
Three perfect reps.
Bruce’s eyes were in danger of bulging out of their sockets. He could bench that much—just barely—and he outweighed this kid by a good 60 pounds. Danny slapped on a couple of 10s: 515 pounds.
Ben settled himself under the bar, closed his eyes, and moved his lips. If Danny or Bruce had been able to read lips, they would have known what Ben was saying to himself.
This one’s for you, Max…
The bar went up, stayed there, came down slowly, went right back up, slammed down on the stanchions.
“Fuck me,” Bruce said, to no one in particular, although it occurred to Ben that that might actually be a lot of fun. Danny stuck out his beefy hand. “Ben, it’s official! Your single rep max for bench press is 515 pounds—298 pounds more than you weigh!” Bruce clapped the kid on the back. “Welcome to the club,” Bruce said. “You’re one of four guys in the gym who can bench more than 500 pounds. You, me, Danny, and Big George.”
Big George was even bigger than Bruce!
“You’re officially B-I-G now,” Danny added.
That night Ben sent Max e-mail:
Figured it out.
1RM = 515.
I guess that’s pretty good, huh?
It was a week before Ben received a reply from Max. It wasn’t like he was expecting one right away but the lack of immediate feedback nonetheless notched up his energy level in the gym. By the end of the week he was benching 515 pounds for reps. When it arrived, the e-mail presented another challenge:
Great work! What are your other stats?
“Other stats?” Ben said aloud, his eyebrows scrunching together. He wrote back immediately:
Other stats? What do you mean?
Also: Missed e-mailing you this week!
This time Ben had to wait only a minute for a response:
Sorry, I was in West Buddha! Stats = You know: Arm measurement, chest measurements, waist, quads, calves, etc.
“Danny,” Ben said, next time he was in the gym. “I need to take my measurements.”
Danny looked up from his copy of Muscular Development and nearly dropped his teeth. Ben was noticeably bigger than he’d been a week ago.
What the hell is this dude on? He wondered for the hundredth time.
“Come into my office,” Danny replied, shutting the door after Ben. “Now strip down to your drawers.” Ben wasted no time following Danny’s instruction and Danny let out a gasp as Ben’s physique became visible. Ben was full, thick, and hard as a rock, with separations you could lose marbles in, they were so deep. “On the scale first, then we’ll measure,” Danny managed to choke out, his voice hoarse.
Ben weighed 5 pounds more than Danny had at his last contest and was just as hard and just as ripped. On stage he would be hard to beat although given Ben’s extra height (three inches taller than Danny) Danny had the benefit of appearing bigger.
“Damn, boy,” Danny said. Ben lifted an eyebrow. “Let’s do it,” Danny said.
And so they did. Arms, chest, shoulders, neck, waist, quads, calves. When they were done, Danny had a raging hard on and given his size down there (8 x 6) it was hard to miss.
“I guess I’m doing okay, huh?” Ben asked. Danny spluttered. “You’re fucking phenomenal, what are you talking about!” Ben grinned and put his muscular hand on his crotch. “There’s one thing you forgot to measure,” he pointed out. Danny licked his lips. “We can’t measure that here, ya know.” Ben looked like he was going to pout. “But I’m off work in an hour,” Danny observed.
“And my apartment is around the corner.”
That night, while Danny was snoring in Ben’s bed, Ben sent Max another e-mail:
Hey, Big Man, thanks for asking! I hadn’t thought to check those out. Here’s the news:
Biceps: 20¼ inches
Neck: 20 inches
Chest: 51 inches
Shoulders: 56 inches
Waist: 30 inches
Quads: 27 inches
Calves: 20½ inches
Pretty good, huh? Danny, my trainer, seems to think so! Oh, yeah, and: 10 x 7!
Danny says that’s pretty good, too!
Max grinned as he read Ben’s e-mail, then typed out a reply:
I told you you were B-I-G! When are you competing?
“That ought to get his attention,” Max said to no one in particular. Then he shut down his laptop.
“Danny,” Ben asked his new boyfriend. “What do you think—am I good enough to compete?” To Ben, Danny’s reply sounded like:
“Mmmf cbv mmf shb!”
Which was no surprise considering Danny’s face was buried in a pillow while Ben plowed his boyfriend’s juicy bodybuilder bubble butt.
“Cum again?” Ben asked.
Danny levered himself up out of the pillow, despite Ben’s 240-pound bulk on his back.
“Of course you should!” he gasped, then collapsed, moaning, back into the pillow.
A couple of weeks later…
I’m entering the Chicagoland Physique Spectacular at the end of May. If I do well, I might think about the Junior Nationals in July!
All the best…
As it turned out…
Ben totally floored the judges at the Chicagoland competition when he told them he wanted to enter as a novice. They sent him to the open class instead; Ben wanted to grumble but Danny told him to get real and that was the end of it. At 5’11 and 265 pounds, Ben was 30 pounds heavier than the next biggest guy in the super heavyweight class. He made the other competitors look like ballerinas! Not only did he win his class, he won the overall contest.
I won! On to the Junior Nationals! They’re here in Chicago—convenient, huh?
Ben barely made the deadline for the application and under other circumstances he probably would not have been approved; despite having won a fairly significant regional amateur competition like Chicagoland, Ben was just too new! Danny, though, knew the promoter, Bruce, and when he e-mailed Bruce a file of Ben’s latest training pix Ben was a shoo-in.
There was no doubt who the winner was going to be when Ben stepped on the stage the first week of July either. At 290 pounds, Ben was totally ripped, with 24 inch biceps, a 60 inch chest, 32 inch waist, 33 inch quads, 23 inch calves, and freakishly low 3% body-fat. Ben had the mass, the density, the separations, and striations on top of striations. In the open posing session, he stood center stage and, contrary to the way these things usually work, the other super-heavyweight competitors gave him a wide berth. He was that much ahead of all of them that they didn’t want to be photographed standing next to him!
The muscle media, the supplement companies, and all the rest descended on Ben like a pack of piranhas. He was happy to talk to all of them at length but he was unwilling to sign anything until Danny had looked it over. They all walked away shaking their heads. They couldn’t figure out where Ben had been hiding and his story (more than doubling his weight since the first of year) was obviously ludicrous.
Thanks for suggesting I compete—it’s turned out to be a lot of fun! Danny says I was born to do it! Guess what? I’ll be at the Mr. Olympia contest in Las Vegas in October. Maybe you can come down from E. Buddha?
Max spent a happy hour going over the pix Ben had included with his latest e-mail (the first pix he’d bothered to send!) “Yep,” Max said to himself. “He’s coming along!”
He turned back to the computer and started checking flights to Las Vegas.
On the first of August Max received another e-mail from Ben:
Danny left me. Says I’m too big! Can you imagine?
I don’t think I’m too big, do you? I’m enclosing a picture.
“Mmm,” Max said to himself, looking over the JPEG Ben sent. “I can see why Danny thought he was too big!”
He wrote back to Ben:
Ben’s reply arrived less than 5 minutes later:
Chest is up to 64, biceps are 25 cold.
Max pondered his reply.
“At this rate…”
He pecked out another message:
Up for a visit? I could be in Chi Town next weekend.
Ben’s reply was nearly instantaneous:
That would be great!
Which is how Ben found Max moving into his spare bedroom and taking over Ben’s training at a private, by appointment only gym in the SW Chicago burbs. “We need to stay away from a musclehead gym,” Max told him. “Next thing you know the media sharks will descend and you’ll be cut to pieces.”
The owner of the storefront gym, a young Asian woman who appeared to have some interesting side ventures, was amazed by Ben and more amazed that he would choose Max as a trainer. Granted, the older guy was hot and built like a brick shit house but what did he know about training an Olympia competitor? It didn’t seem to matter, though. Every day they trained, the weights Ben used were a little bit heavier. Every day they trained, his muscles were a little bit fuller, a little bit thicker. On occasion, Cam would leave the gym in the care of her younger sister Lin for 2-3 days while she checked on her other business interests. Whenever she returned, Ben was noticeably bigger, noticeably more muscular than just a few days previously.
“I hate to think what their food bill must be like,” Cam told Lin.
In fact, by that time Max was footing all the bills. Ben’s employer had let him go when it became clear that, no, he wasn’t going to give up training and “slim down,” and no, Ben, wasn’t willing to spend more than 48 hours away from the gym. “I appreciate your generosity,” Ben said. “I really don’t know how to repay you, I mean, unless…” Ben blushed bright red. Max held up a meaty hand, as if to say Stop right there!
“No need for that, kid,” Max said. “You’d be surprised how much an old coot like me can stash away living in a pissant burg like East Buddha. Consider it an investment, okay?” Ben licked his lips. “Uh, Max, you know, it’s not like I’d find it a chore or anything,” he said, clearing his throat. “You know I’ve always been hot for you.” Max grinned and thumped Ben on an arm that now appeared to be larger than Max’s thigh. “Don’t think it’s not mutual, kiddo,” he said, kindly. “But we’ve got work to do, right?”
It occurred to him that Max could tell him to jump off the John Hancock tower and he wouldn’t give it a second thought. Somehow, he knew, Max would make it work!
“If I win, will you fuck me?”
It was the night before the Olympia contest. Max and Ben were sharing a luxurious suite at the Bellagio. Max inspected Ben as a breeder might look over a thoroughbred stallion or a prize bull. Ben was amazing: At 385 pounds (down 30 pounds from his peak), Ben was holding no more than 2% bodyfat. His 77 inch chest was bigger around than he was tall, his 36 inch waist looked minuscule compared to his 40 inch quads, plus his 30 inch biceps were unbelievable in their size, shape, and density.
“There is no question that you will win,” Max replied. “You’re the biggest man ever to set foot on the Olympia stage.” Ben nodded his head, sending ripples up and down the 30 inch granite column that comprised his neck. “But what if I’m TOO big?” Max sighed. “Danny really did a number on you, didn’t he?”
Ben looked down at the expensive carpet, then back up at Max. The expression in his eyes was equal parts pride, uncertainty, and longing. “It’s not about him,” Ben replied. “It’s about needing you.” Max led Ben into the bedroom and dimmed the lights. “There’s no need to wait,” Max said. “I’ll fuck you now.”
Ben stripped and sat on the edge of the bed. His shoulders were nearly four feet across, his chest wider than Max’s own thick, powerful shoulders. Max placed his thick hands on Ben’s meaty pecs. “This isn’t about love, not this time,” Max said, as he slowly stripped. Ben winced. “Not that I don’t love you,” Max continued. “Because I do. And I know it’s reciprocal.”
Ben felt as if he were standing in a high place, staring at the sun, a cool breeze whipping around his shoulders. “This time it’s about power,” Max said. “I need you to understand yours and so you need to understand mine.” Max pushed Ben back on the bed as if he were a kitten and effortlessly lifted Ben’s hulking legs into the air. The breeze disappeared, replaced by a warmth that was like benching 1500 pounds and sex and your mom tucking you in when you had a cold and honey and oatmeal cookies fresh out of the oven.
The world contracted and all Ben could see was Max’s face, but it was a huge face, like a Macy’s day parade, hovering over him with a look that somewhere between a gentle scowl and a prideful smile, stern but encouraging and—yes, truly—loving. And then Max was inside Ben and Ben felt himself go someplace, a place where he was massive, giant oak doors carved for a Gothic cathedral, and Max was the ancient bronze key to Ben’s immense medieval lock.
“Are you too big now, boy?” Max asked, and Ben shook his head. He was filled up. He was complete. “Just big enough,” Ben whispered. Max nodded. “I’ll be with you,” he murmured.
And that was all Ben needed.
The photo spreads of Ben winning the Junior Nationals had encouraged the other pros to amp up their training. No one had ever seen 290 pounds that ripped and that symmetrical, much less with such a ridiculously small waist.
Carrying 305 pounds on his 5’9 frame, Jay Cosmo was the heaviest he’d ever been. Kai Vermillion was an inch shorter but 5 pounds heavier than Jay; at 310 pounds his onstage weight matched his 2009 max off-season weight. Same for Branch Watercress, weighing in at 5’7 and 280. The kid, Alexey Lesinki, showed up packing 270 pounds on his 5’6 frame. Towering over all of them (literally) was 6’4 Quincy Titmuss, who hit the stage weighing 335 pounds.
In the end, of course, it was no contest. Ben was 5 inches shorter than Quincy but outweighed him by 50 pounds of the densest, hardest, thickest, most ripped muscle anyone had ever seen. Next to Ben, Quincy looked like a twig, Kai was petite, Branch—that massive hunk of uber masculinity—appeared to be a little boy. When Ben stood in front of any of the guys his height or smaller, the other guy literally disappeared, eclipsed by Ben’s gargantuan mass.
Quincy scowled upon hearing that he won third place but his scowl was replaced by a look of awe when Ben, standing stock still as per protocol, inflated every muscle in his body, just long enough to make it clear that even at rest his was far and away the superior physique. Kai, the 2nd place winner, had a different reaction, although no less noticeable, giving Ben a hug that was so tight and so long that the audience began to titter, which gave way to gasps and gales of laughter when Kai finally let go; the big man’s 10-inch hard on was clearly visible in his brilliant lemon posers but the expression on Kai’s face made it clear he had no idea just what all he was flexing as he gave a final bow.
At the end, Ben stood there alone, a big goofy grin on his face, before finally hitting one last double bi pose, his freakish forearms bigger than Quincy’s biceps.
Back in the hotel room, Ben found Max’s note.
You done good, kid! I figured I oughta vamoose before the jackals descended and they started asking too many questions. My job is done (for now!) I’ll see you in East Buddha for Christmas, okay?
Ben sat on the bed, re-reading the note while the hot tears trickled down his face. Eventually, he wiped them away, cleared his throat, put the note in the bedside table. He picked up the hotel phone and dialed the number.
“H’lo,” the soft, sexy voice answered.
Ben paused, but just for a moment.
“Kai? It’s Ben. If you’re still interested…”
“Me oh my,” Ben said to himself when Kai had left. “That’s one strange boy!”
It took three days for Ben to regain the 30 pounds he had shed while prepping for his Olympia win. The muscle media, insane to begin with, were reduced to virtual catatonia. As Ben passed the 400-pound mark and showed no signs of slowing down, they ran out of words to describe him.
Click! Click! Whirr!
The cameras were incessant. From the time Ben got up in the morning until he went to bed at night, the cameras followed, the cameras snapped, the questions—incoherent now—were nonstop. Ben decided to milk it for as much as he could. He visited, it seemed, every gym between Chicago and LA, then up the west coast and down the east coast. He kept growing. Three days before Thanksgiving and six weeks after winning the Olympia, Ben stepped on the heavy duty scale at Gold’s Venice and shook his head in disbelief.
For the photo shoot, the world’s best power lifters had assembled. Ben warmed with 10 reps…1800 pounds.
Then he did 5 more reps…1900 pounds.
The spotters added the final 100 pounds. Everyone knew what was coming. It was clear from a mile off. Still, they gaped, they gawked, they gasped. How could any man….Bench press 2000 pounds?
He did it, of course, one perfect rep. No grunts, no groaning, no shrieks. And shrugged his monstrous shoulders, as if to say, piece of cake. Ben left shortly thereafter and returned to his hotel room in Santa Monica. He opened his laptop and jotted a brief note to Max.
Weight: 501 pounds.
Bench: 2000 pounds.
For the love of God, please make it stop!
In East Buddha, Max read the message and smiled.
“It’s time,” he said to himself. He replied:
Time to come home. Let me know when you’re arriving.
It took Ben three days to get to East Buddha. Once he passed the 500-pound mark, the airlines were unwilling to accommodate him, especially not in the puddle jumper he’d need for the last leg from Fargo to East Buddha. Ronnie Coleman’s Hummer was just about big enough, especially if he slouched sideways. Originally Ben had planned to check into the hotel where Max worked as a bartender but Max had scotched that idea:
Just come on up to the ranch. Plenty of room here.
Ben was skeptical but willing to go along with it. He was afraid Max’s idea of a ranch house was an Ennis Del Mar style trailer overlooking the flat prairie of the high plains. He was surprised when Max’s directions led him to a massive stone gate with a tree-lined driveway heading up and over one of the few hillocks in the area. He was more surprised when he crested the hill and saw a stone and timber chalet that looked like it belonged on that estate he’d visited (what was it? Oh, yeah, Biltmore) in North Carolina while he was in college.
Ben parked the Hummer in the circular drive in front of the palatial lodge and crunched across the immaculately tended fieldstone and gravel walk to the front doors, two massive, elaborately carved oak doors that looked like they came from some medieval cathedral in Europe. The doors opened onto a vestibule flanked by massive wooden tables that for some reason appeared to be cushioned in green felt, a giant mirror hanging over each one. The vestibule debouched into a great hall, a good 50 feet long and 30 feet wide. At the end was a raised area, a dais of sorts, with a giant carved wooden chair. Approaching it, Ben saw that it was hugely proportioned, too. He reckoned anyone less than 7 feet tall would find their feet dangling off the marble floor.
“Max?” Ben said tentatively, beginning a 360 scan of the room. “You in here?”
“I’m here,” Max replied, from the direction of the chair. How had he gotten there so fast? Ben whipped around…And staggered at the sight! Max stood before him, no LOOMED before him…Naked as a jaybird! Seven feet tall! And about seven feet wide! Ben felt dizzy. He rubbed his eyes, opened them again.
Max put his giant hands on Ben’s shoulders.
“You okay, little buddy?”
Ben spluttered. It was the first time anyone in a long time had called him little!
“Max,” Ben asked. “Is it really you? I don’t understand.”
Max chuckled, a sound like a mountain collapsing.
“The one and only,” Max replied. “But as I really appear, not as you have known me.”
Ben was hard pressed to say more. He stood there and soaked in Max’s magnificence. He was gigantically, stupendously muscular, ever single muscle an object lesson in hypertrophy, no discernible body-fat, with perfect proportions.
And his cock.
Oh my god, Ben thought. “How big?” he managed to stutter.
7 ft. tall. 1000 pounds. Chest: 200 inches. Biceps: 80 inches. Quads: 120 inches. Cock: 24 inches soft.
“But how?” Ben asked. “Is this some kind of weird magic? Are you a god? I don’t see how…”
Max held up his giant hand. “I’m not a god,” he replied. “And it’s not magic, although I will remind you that any sufficiently advanced technology will appear to be magic to someone unfamiliar with that level of technology.” And with that, Max told Ben the whole story. Where he came from and when, who and what he was, why he was in East Buddha. Finally, he paused.
“So that’s it,” he said. “I’m here because I’m lonely. And I wanted someone to share my life.”
Ben tried to take it all in.
“And you chose me…?”
Max tilted his head and looked down at his young protege.
“Because it was clear that in your heart of hearts this life was something you longed for, something you would never want to give up, no matter what.” Max grinned. “So there’s one question I have for you,” Max said.
Ben looked at the huge man before him. He already knew the question, he already knew the answer. “Yes, Max,” he said. “I do want to be as big as you!” Max chuckled. “Don’t make it stop?” Ben wrapped his giant arms around a leg that was as big as his monstrous chest.
“Please, Max,” he said. “Make it never stop!”
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