Re-reading this one I realized my propensity to want to name every protagonist Roger was confusing even me, and I wrote the damned thing. So you have my guarantee that these 10 inter-related short stories are Roger free, for once! – rpj
What a hot little fuck, I thought to myself.
The new boy in the weight room was maybe 5’9, maybe 160 pounds sopping wet. But he was packed in all the right places. His skin-tight navy blue Underarmour shirt showed off his well-worked traps, delts, and pecs; hugged his minuscule 28 inch waist; and accentuated his veiny 15 inch biceps. Plus flawless pale skin, a great face, thick dark eyebrows (a fave), and dark hair cropped short in a high and tight. The baggy shorts that hung down to his knees and the short black socks kinda spoiled the effect but, hey, I’m old! I grew up with knee high socks and short shorts! He was blasting his biceps (obviously his favorite part to work) when he looked up and saw me standing 10 feet or so behind him. The barbell stopped in midair.
“Holy Fucking Shit,” he exclaimed.
I smiled my little smile and gave him a quick wave to say, Yeah, thanks, I appreciate it! Then I went to the end of the dumbbell rack—the very end of the dumbbell rack, the end no one thought the gym needed until I bought the dumbbells—and picked up the 200s, which I began to curl, alternately, one smooth rep at a time.
The 60-pound barbell fell from the hot cutie’s hands—so much for not dropping weights!—but I kept right on cranking out reps: 5, 10, 15, 20.
“Shit, Mister,” the kid said. “You’re the biggest motherfucker I ever saw.”
And, you know, quite possibly I was, although there are other guys out there as big or bigger than I am. Still, at 5’11 and 330 pounds, with body-fat in the single digits, there weren’t many men—even the ones on magazines covers—as big and built as I was. I pulled up the hem of my oversize sweatshirt and checked my eight concrete-block abs, all covered with thick black fur.
“You like what you see, kid?” I asked him, knowing the answer. It was 10:30 a.m. and except for the two of us the weight room was empty. He nodded, his eyes wide, deer in headlights wide. “Cool,” I continued, “I was gonna practice my posing in the locker room but since it’s just the two of us here, you can critique for me out here, okay?”
I bent over and stretched my arms out to him. Nothing happened. “Uh, kid,” I said, my voice muffled by my pec cleavage, “You’re gonna hafta get this off me.” I swear his knees were knocking as he did so. When I stood up I was no more than six inches from him. I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head.
And, well, why not?
My 66 inch chest was only a little bit shorter than he was tall; my monstrous biceps, 25 inches cold and now closer to 27 thanks to the intense curl session, were bigger than his quads. And speaking of quads, he finally noticed that each of mine was way bigger than his waist, straining the fabric of my track pants to the bursting point.
“Holy Fuck,” he said again, this time noticing the other bulge in my pants. I was getting off on his reactions and my python, 8 inches soft, was beginning to stir, tenting the fabric in a truly obscene fashion. Before he could pass out, I started posing:
Right biceps, Left biceps, Front double biceps, Side biceps / chest, Front lats, Most muscular. The kid sat on the bench, a dazed expression on his face, his jaw slack. I noticed the bulge in his extra-long gym shorts.
Not bad, I thought. The kid’s got 8½-9 inches easily.
Then I turned and gave him a full lat spread.
“Ungh ungh ungh!”
He was panting like a freight train.
Uh oh, I thought. I returned to starting position and looked at him in the mirror. His face was beet red, the wet spot on his baggy shorts prodigious. “Relax, kid,” I told him. “Happens to the bet of us.”I stuck out my meat hook of a paw: “Carl,” I told him. “Carl Prescott.”
He looked at my hand like it was a concrete crusher (well, on occasion) and I thought he was gonna squirt again when he felt the power of it. (Which is what happened with Denis Cyplenkov that time but I don’t think he’d ever seen hands bigger than his own!)
“Bobby,” he replied. “Bobby Branson.” I let go and put one hand on his shoulder, using the other to lift his chin so he was looking up into my eyes, not into the forest of curls covering my mammoth chest. “Pleased to meet you, Bobby,” I said. “How ‘bout you clean up and then we’ll go get some smoothies, okay? Looks like you could stand some replenishment!”
He shook himself like a wet dog—or as if he were coming out of a trance. “Sure, Mister, uh, I mean, Carl, that is, that would be great!” I watched him head to the locker room, then took the 200s and started doing alternating overhead triceps extensions. Somewhere between reps 25 and 30, I said to no one in particular:
“I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship!”
“Stop playing and ram it home, Bullpup,” I said into the pillow. He’d been licking and fingering my hole for an hour and if I didn’t get it soon my eyes were gonna roll back in my head.
“You sure you’re ready for this, Big Daddy?” he asked. I could tell by his ragged breathing and hoarse voice that he was ready for it. “Yeah, baby, bring it…”
At 5’11 and 330 pounds of powerlifting muscle, my ass is about as thick as the continental divide. It takes a good eight inches just to get to my pucker. Not to worry, though. Bullpup has 13! I felt the lubed up head, about the size of a small apple, pushing through my amped up glutes, glutes that can squat 1000 pounds for reps, and he gasped and grunted as muscles most men don’t know they have wriggled around his bludgeon.
It breached my sphincter and I gasped.
When I found him, I was 40, he had just turned 18. Newly arrived in Atlanta, the geekiest freshman at geeky Georgia Tech, playing chess on a sunny afternoon in Piedmont Park.
At 6’1, he was a couple of inches taller than I was and skinny as rail. I mean really skinny, 135 pounds sopping wet. He had on a bright purple polo shirt, size small, and olive green cargo shorts, both of which swallowed him up. Looked great with his flawless coal black skin, though! He looked up as I sat down—unobtrusively, I thought—and I thought his eyes were gonna pop! I guess he wasn’t used to having 250-pound furry as fuck, built like a brick shitter watching his game and his opponent mated him in two more moves.
“Yeah!” the opponent said, pumping his fist. “I’ve been waiting all month to beat you!”
I knew his opponent was the top-rated player in Atlanta. Maybe this skinny black kid had all his muscles in his head! Well, maybe in his shorts, too—that was one helluva bulge he had down there and every time he looked my way it seemed to twitch a little bit bigger!
Mr. Purple Polo looked like he was gonna cry.
“C’mon, kid,” I told him. “I blew your game, I owe you coffee.”
Marcus slammed his mighty dong in all the way to the hilt. I felt my insides rearranging themselves. He pulled out slowly and then went in again just as quickly. It was like doing the parachute drop from the top of the fucking Empire State Building. I saw stars. Then he picked up the pace. My ass was a concrete wall, his super-cock a jack hammer. Who was gonna give it up first?
That was five years ago.
I wasn’t looking for sex with an 18 year old, much less a relationship, but by the end of his first semester we were living together. His parents, Carl and Brenda, an Air Force master sergeant and a registered nurse, weren’t thrilled that their full-ride academic scholarship only child was living with a gay white man twice his age. But he was a grown up, what were they gonna do? It didn’t hurt that I offered to pay his way if the scholarship ever ran out.
“I want this,” he told them and at the end of the day that was sufficient.
He also wanted muscle and I promised to teach him everything I knew. He ate it up, oh God in heaven did he eat it up. In a year he put on 70 pounds of solid muscle. At 205 pounds he was benching 405 pounds for reps and maxing out close to 500. By the end of the second year, he’d caught up to me, both of us 285 pounds of sculpted beef, both benching more than 800 pounds, each of us passing the others personal best from week to week.
That was three years ago. He completed his engineering degree at Tech and now he’s working on a master’s in international affairs at Emory. He’s got to be the biggest grad student in Emory’s history!
In three years he’s added another 120 pounds of muscle. At 405 pounds he now has 75 pounds on me. He weighs exactly three times what he did when I met him and he benches 1500 pounds, the world’s record by 300 pounds (eat your heart out Ryan Kennelly…)
Bullpup was beginning to sound like a Bull Moose. The sweat was running down my back like a river. The headboard was knocking plaster off the wall.
“Ooh, dewd, ooh, dewd,” he yelled. “I’m gonna jizz!”
I bucked and shot my seed into the 1000 thread count designer sheets as he shot his into my hot daddy ass. What more could a man want?
I was 22, he was 35 (I found out later…) Sitting in OutWrite Books in Midtown Atlanta, immersed in queer theory, I only looked up when he sat down across the coffee table from me. My jaw dropped. So freaking handsome!
I was guessing late 20s at most, Latin (probably) or some Mediterranean mix. Thick, wavy black hair (cut short), prominent but perfectly shaped eyebrows, classically handsome face, olive complexion, stubble for days. And then I noticed his body. Holy shit! It was probably no more than 5’7 but he was b-r-o-a-d and t-h-i-c-k, the pecs straining the fabric of his white v-neck t-shirt, his muscular neck a thick fireplug (men’s necks are so phallic, don’t you think?) rising from mounding traps. For all the tightness through his chest (acres of swirling black curls, woof!), the shirt was loose around his waist but the looseness did nothing to disguise his cobbled abs. And his arms, oh my god! Twenty inches cold, not even flexed, a prominent pencil-thick vein running down each biceps head, another map of veins on his ham hock, furry forearms. And…
“Hey,” he said, lifting his coffee cup in a quick salute. Killer smile, dimples, and a twinkle in his eye. “Name’s Joey, Joey Borelli.”
Later he said he thought maybe I was autistic. It was nearly a minute before I replied. I was thinking. He’s talking to me?!!
I mean, okay, I won’t sell myself short. I was 5’11, 160 pounds, competitive swimmer. Nice wide shoulders, good triceps, ripped 28 inch waist. Shaggy brown hair, clear complexion, dimples of my own, clean-shaven. A twink (which I hated) or maybe a good-looking nerd (which was probably a better description.) But still…
Furry as fuck muscle guys never looked my way, or scowled when they did. But he was smiling at me!
“Neal,” I finally said. “Neal Peterson.”
He nodded at my book. “So how’s Eve Sedgwick Kosofsky today?” I looked blank. “Oh!” I blurted. “The book. Slow going…” He set his cup on the table, leaned back in the chair, and clasped his big thick hands behind his head. “You should take a look at Gorilla Suit by Bob Paris,” he suggested. “I’m guessing you’d get a lot more out of it.” I blushed furiously! How the hell did he know I’d just finished it the day before?!
“Oh, man,” I said. “My favorite book. And Bob Paris, what an inspiration! Such a body. And when he didn’t shave his fur? Holy moly!” I was getting a chubby, thinking about Bob and looking at Joey, who chuckled and gave me a nice flex. Crap! I thought I was gonna lose it right then!
“You’ll have to check out my collection sometime,” he said. “I collect everything related to bodybuilding—magazines, books, posters, arts, vids, you name it.”
I laughed. “You collected the bod, too! You’d give Bob a run for the money!” He finished the last swallow of his coffee and looked at my cup, which was empty.
“I was gonna go take a jog around the park but my apartment is just across the street,” he said. “Want to check out my junk?”
That was 10 years ago. Needless to say, I took him up on his offer. I checked out his junk, the stuff in his apartment, the stuff in his pants. Man that was sweet! Nine inches of uncut Italian-Cuban-Polish kielbasa. And, yeah, it turned out he was 5’7 but once he shed his clothes he was even bigger than I thought, 220 pounds and 5% bodyfat, 50 inch chest, 30 inch waist, arms closer to 21 inches when they were fully pumped, 28 inch quads, the whole deal.
It didn’t take him long to figure out I wanted muscle for myself, not just for the guy I was in bed with. For years and years I’d convinced myself I was a swimmer and that I’d be absolutely no good with the weights. It took him two days to convince me otherwise. “You’ve got the perfect frame for it,” he said. “Classic mesomorph. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, long muscle bellies, small joints. You could compete with the big boys.”
I was so excited and so pleased. It turned out he was right, too. Since then I’ve more than doubled my weight. At 350 pounds, I’m a frickin’ mountain of muscle. My waist has crept up to 35 inches but my veiny eight-pack looks like it’s carved out of marble, tiny underneath my mammoth pecs (68 inches) and above my sequoia-quads (38 inches.) It still kinda freaks me out that my 28 inch biceps are the same size my waist was when I started!
As for Joey, I don’t think there’s ever been a hotter 45 y.o. man. At 5’7 and 280 pounds he’s a little bit bigger than Branch Warren and his offseason shape is about as hard as Branch’s on season shape! Still furry as fuck and will never compete because he refuses to shave any of it off.
I have way more in the fur department than I did at 22 but still only about half what Joey has. And I like competing so I get out the razor on a regular basis and he shaves me down. And, yeah, we both get totally horned and make a big mess in the shower before it’s all over. Standing on the stage, 315 pounds in contest shape, blowing the other guys away, knowing Joey, who oughta be up on the stage with us, is out in the audience…
After a show I take him to bed and fuck his hot ass. “Gorilla man,” I say. “You are so fucking hot. Look what you’ve done to me.” He laughs. “I told you I collect,” he said. “You’re my mountain of muscle, Big Man.”
Big Man! Every time he says it, I get hard.
Time to hit the gym!
It was Saturday night of the Arnold Sports Festival and the two huge men walked into Tradewinds, the oldest gay bar in Columbus, at 11 o’clock. Everyone else was being charged cover by that time but the doorkeeper took one look at their huge frames and waved ’em on in free of charge.
There were three times more people than usual for a Saturday night, all of the newcomers muscle-obsessed men who came from all over the country to watch the bodybuilding, powerlifting, and strongmen competitions and to meet and greet their heroes at the supplement booths on the convention floor. All eyes turned as one when the huge men approached the bar—what a pair!
Both of them tall and impossibly muscled. One was a mahogany-skinned black man with a shaved head and a thick, jet black Fu Man Chu mustache. The other was blond and furry, with short cropped hair and a perfectly trimmed full beard, reddish brown, like a latter day Robert Redford. Both had on chaps and impossibly huge leather jock straps. The black guy had a leather and metal harness of impossible dimensions, showcasing a chest that made Ronnie Coleman look like Pee Wee Herman. The fur ball had a leather vest cut so that it accentuated the inconceivable drop between his mountainous pecs and the wall of concrete blocks that formed his mid-section.
Before they had their drinks they were surrounded by half a dozen really big boys who were panting like schoolgirls, hoping to chat them up. There was Scott from Austin, the 275-pound power lifter, and Reese, just as big as Scott, the off season aspiring bodybuilder from Seattle; plus the Fort Lauderdale couple and the Palm Springs couple and…
“Nice meeting you, fellas,” they said after the round of introductions and “Jesus you’re fucking huge!” comments had been made. And then they made a bee-line for the tall slender guy (6’2 and an amazingly ripped 200 pounds, they found out later) with the wavy light brown hair and the blue eyes and the long-sleeved sweater and the cords with a really nice bulge in the front. He looked like a piano major trapped in a jock’s bod.
“Hey, man, how you doing? I’m Rex,” the blond guy said, extending a hand that made most sledgehammers look small and weak. “And this here is Kage, my partner.”
The piano major—if that’s what he was—gaped. “You’re talking to me?!”
Rex laughed. “Well, hunny, I don’t see anyone else between me and Kage, do you?”In point of fact, the young guy (as it turned out he was a nursing student and only 3-4 years younger than Rex and Kage) couldn’t see anything except the two of them, they were a fucking wall of muscle.
“Uh, Bryce,” he said. “Bryce Hazen.”
Kage put his massive paw on Bryce’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “So, Bryce,” Kage said in a voice that would put Barry White to shame. “You into muscle like all these other queens?” Bryce stiffened. “Uh, well, yeah, I fucking love muscle,” Bryce said. “But I don’t want to give you guys the wrong impression. I’m not a big old bottom like the rest of these boys.”
Rex laughed. “That’s more like it,” he said. “God we get tired of these great muscle sluts who can’t live without a dick up their ass.” It was Kage’s turn to laugh.”Jeez, Rex,” he chortled. “Talk about pot-kettle-black!”
Bryce blinked. What were these two on about?
“Rex is the power bottom in the relationship,” Kage explained. Bryce was instantly hard. He lusted over these two giants like there was no tomorrow but he wasn’t gonna take their donkey dicks up his ass! “And you…?” he asked.
Kage shrugged his vast shoulders, a movement akin to continental subduction. “I do it all, baby,” he purred. “But most guys—well, most guys other than Rex!—can’t take 13 inches and a mushroom head. I make up for it by being very very oral.”
Bryce had 10½ inches in his cords and he knew how to use it.
“So maybe you want to join us across the street?” Rex proposed, leaning his tree trunk arm against the gritty brick wall. Bryce finally relaxed. “Are you sure the two of you wouldn’t break me half?” Rex and Kage gave each other a look, then struck most muscular poses for Bryce’s benefit. “Who us?” they said together. “We wouldn’t hurt a flea!”
Bryce nearly shot his wad right then. He later learned that the two of them together weighed exactly 1000 pounds. Like Bryce, Rex was 6’2 but he was 2½ times Bryce’s size and 40 pounds heavier than Kage, who stood 6’3. At 520 and 480 respectively you could barely tell the difference.
“Besides,” Rex said, running his meat cleaver hand through Bryce’s curls. “You look pretty resilient.”
The next morning on his drive back to Dayton, Bryce was still completely awed by the experience. He fucked Rex six times, Kage tonguing his ass and tickling his balls and pinching his nipples until his brain cells were totally fried. Then it turned out Kage was so turned on by Rex’s insatiable bottoming and Bryce’s turbo-charged fucking that he begged Bryce to give him the same treatment. Afterwards Rex put on a posing routine that was so hot and sensual that Bryce was only vaguely aware of Kage stuffing his monster python cock up Bryce’s ass. When it was all the way in, Bryce felt so full and heavy that he imagined himself as gigantically muscled as the two other men.
“You will be,” Kage whispered in his ear and Bryce unleashed the biggest cumload of his life, one that Rex sucked down like a nursing calf.
“You will be,” Rex said, licking his lips.
And now the boys were flying back to their ranch in California, having issued Bryce a permanent invitation to come visit anytime, and assurances that they’d be back for next year’s Arnold.
Unreal, Bryce thought. But it really happened! What next?!
It was Sunday afternoon and Rex was doing his warm up bench press routine, 20 reps with 20 forty-five pound plates on each side. A lot lighter than his usual warm up because Kage, his husband and workout partner, was off to Shanghai on business. Sitting up, Rex squeezed his gigantic pecs together, rolled his five-foot wide shoulders, and gave his 40-inch biceps a quick flex. The bench was right in front of the door to the weight-room and he looked up as the kid walked in.
Holy fuck, Rex thought, that’s one hot little piece.
“Kid,” of course, was a relative term. At 32, Rex wasn’t exactly an old man and the new guy was probably only a year or two younger, if that.
On the other hand, at 5’7 and 175 pounds of ripped muscle, the newcomer looked like a little kid next to Rex. Well, to be honest, most men did. At 6’2 and 520 pounds of impossibly huge, defined muscle, Rex was quite likely the biggest, most muscular man on the planet. Didn’t help that the newcomer, sporting a superman tatt on his left deltoid and a stylized phoenix on his right pec, was smooth as a baby’s behind and it was clearly natural, too, none of the minor flaws that would indicate shaving or even waxing. Whereas Rex with his shaggy blond hair, big reddish-blond beard, and luxuriant acres of golden brown curls on his chest, midsection, arms, and legs, was a fucking Gorilla!
On the other hand, that’s one helluva log in the guy’s pants, Rex thought. Not quite Kage’s 13-inch python but it was big and thick and it obviously wasn’t even hard.
“That’s a helluva lot of weight you got on there,” the kid said, apparently equally impressed. Rex flashed his best grin. The hulking power bottom was a sucker for a hot little guy with a big dick, just ask his friend Bryce, the long distance fuck buddy he and Kage acquired on their recent trip to Ohio! “I’m Chris Jones,” the kid said, sticking out a surprisingly meaty and strong-looking hand.
Rex took the offered hand in his own huge paw, careful to squeeze—he didn’t want to be dragging yet another guy to the ER with broken fingers! “Rex,” he said. “Rex Mazzoti.” Wonderingly, Rex looked down and noticed that the kid was squeezing his hand. And he was feeling it. In fact, it was kinda painful!
“Mind if I work in with you?” Chris asked.
Rex couldn’t help himself—he laughed. The bar was carrying 10 times the kid’s weight. “Well, sure, but it’s gonna take a helluva while to unload…Chris interrupted him. “That’s okay, that’s the weight I was going to use,” he pointed out. “Saves me having to load it up.”
Rex stared. His jaw dropped. “You’re kidding, right?”
Chris’s big grin lit up the room. “You see the tatt on my delt, right?” Rex nodded. “Just watch.” Chris walked around and stood behind the bench. His powerful-looking hands wrapped around the bar in an underhand grip. He smoothly lifted the 1845 pounds of iron from the reinforced girder-like stanchions and calmly proceeded to crank out 10 perfect biceps curls.
Rex felt faint. All the blood had rushed to his own thick 9 inch tool. “Whoa big fella,” Chris said, steadying Rex with his hands. “Why don’t you sit down for a minute?” Rex regained his composure. “Uh, maybe I need to go lie down,” he said, deviously. “My place is just across the street…” Chris grinned like a Cheshire cat. “I was hoping to get in a good workout,” he purred. “But I don’t see why I couldn’t do it there instead!”
In Rex’s apartment Chris ripped off the big man’s clothes in under 10 seconds. He was superfast as well as super-strong. Then without asking he grabbed Rex by the neck and the crotch and pressed him overhead.
“You didn’t think a guy my size could be this strong, did you?”
Rex realized that except for the height difference Chris would be holding him there with one hand, not two, and would be able to so all day.
“Fuck me,” Rex said. “Just fuck me.”
Chris grinned and carried Rex—one-handed—into the big bedroom with the super king-sized reinforced bed Rex shared with Kage.
“You got it, babe!”
Kage thought Rex was pulling his leg when they Skyped later that evening.
“I’d send you pix,” Rex said. “Hell, I took pix! But you’d swear they were ‘shopped! You gotta see this kid with your own eyes.”
On the other end, Kage chuckled, a low rumble that had the occupants of the hotel rooms on either side of his wondering if they were experiencing an earthquake. “Kid, huh? He fucked you good. Must be one helluva kid!” He could hear Rex blushing, then told the big man the thing he wanted to hear most.
“Be home in 72 hours, Man Mountain,” Kage said. “See you—and the kid—then!”
Gordon drove back to Buffalo from his first Arnold Sports Festival visit feeling, well, kinda depressed. It was great to see all his heroes in person (he had tons of pix and dropped a couple hundred bucks on autographs.) Likewise, he’d enjoy meeting up with a dozen of his online buds, friends from Gay.com and the Muscle Forum and Facebook, guys he’d chatted with for years but never met.
Still, it was glaringly obvious that he didn’t really fit any of the niches that tend to dominate life among gay men. At 40, he was 5’11 and 230 pounds, solid but not built. Not quite old enough to be a daddy, too old to be a cute young thing. Too big to be a fitness model, not big enough to rub shoulders with the powerlifters, not defined enough to hang out with the bodybuilders. Ditto, he was handsome and furry but he didn’t have that rugged hyper-masculine quality that people seemed to want.
“Next year…” he told himself, “Next year is going to be different.”
Gordon threw himself into the gym when he got home. He hired a personal trainer and a nutritionist. “What do you want?” Gordon replied without skipping a beat: “Bigger, harder, stronger.” The trainer shrugged. “Separate things; you can get bigger and stronger but not necessarily harder. You can get harder but you may be smaller and not quite as strong.”
Gordon nodded. “Bigger first.”
The nutritionist said. “I don’t care how much bigger you get so long as it’s lean mass.” Gordon showed her his workout plans. “Oh, okay,” she said. “You make that happen and we’ll get you bigger. It’s called a clean bulk.” She knows her stuff, Gordon thought. He had specifically looked for a sports nutritionist and was lucky enough to find one.
A month later, Gordon was 20 pounds heavier, all muscle. At 250 pounds his chest was up to 51, his arms were up to 19, his quads were pushing 30. He still had a 36 inch waist but now he was beginning to look more like a powerlifter than just a wannabe. And his strength was through the roof. He’d always had a lousy bench, never getting past 275, and now he was putting up 405 pounds for reps.
“Damn, boy,” the trainer said. “You’re doing the work. What next?”
Gordon looked at him as if the question was absurd.
“More,” he said. “Bigger, stronger, harder.”
Gordon’s gains slowed after the first month but they were still impressive. By the time summer rolled around, he was up to 280 pounds. His waist was still 36 inches but his abs were now visible cobblestones, his chest had ballooned to 56 inches, and his biceps were 21 inches cold. His trip to Fort Lauderdale caused a minor sensation! He went home with a sore dick and a big smile on his face.
And he was damn strong, too, having set the gym bench press record with a single rep at 645 pounds. He felt like he was watching himself from the ceiling, six 45s and a quarter on each end of the 45-pound bar. It felt damned good.
“Haven’t you had enough?” his nutritionist asked. Gordon chuckled. “Have you seen my latest numbers?” She smiled. “Yeah, I thought that would be your answer,” she replied. Gordon’s body-fat, lipids, sugars, and blood pressure had all come down significantly. He was in better shape than he’d been in his 20s, when he weighed half as much! He was still nine months away from the next Arnold.
For Labor Day he went to Southern Decadence in New Orleans. At 310 pounds, with a 62 inch chest, 34 inch waist, 36 inch quads, and 24 inch biceps, he was sex on wheels. People wanted to know whether he modeled for Colt, whether he was Derek Poundstone, whether he was competing against Ryan Kennelly. He spent all his time with a former bodybuilder and porn star, 10 years his senior, who still looked fucking fine at 6’2 and 275 pounds, his famous chest hair now completely silver. (What was his name? Bull Duffy? Chris Thunder? Something like that!)
When Christmas rolled around he went to visit his family, who were shocked out of their gourds. At 350 pounds he was more than half again as big as he’d been the previous holiday and now it was all muscle. His arrogant asshole brothers-in-law were suddenly totally into him, as if an NFL pro had landed in their midst, each outdoing the other in recounting their gym exploits of old, most of which ended in them saying, “Well, ya know, I didn’t want to get too big.”
Gordon had more fun hanging out with his 16 and 17 y.o. nephews (one by each sister), who were full-fledged h.s. jocks, wrestling and baseball and crew, and totally gobsmacked by their uncle’s new found power. They were both about his height and well-built for their ages, each about 170 or 180 pounds. When he picked each up by one hand and started curling them—easily—for reps they squealed like their little sisters. And Gordon was pretty sure Toby, the older one, was getting a major chubby from it.
Well, well, well, Gordon thought. I guess he and I will be having a talk before too long.
Gordon neglected to tell his buds that he would be in the Arnold again. In fact, he hemmed and hawed and acted like he was probably against it. When he walked into Tradewinds a year after having visited the first time, they had no idea who he was—just some huge, powerfully built bull of a man they all wanted to get to know!
And why not? At 390 pounds, Gordon was a hulk. He had 40-50 pounds of muscle on the likes of Poundstone and Kennelly, who were respectively 2-3 inches taller than he was. Ditto, he had 70 pounds on the next biggest guy in the bar, that hot plastic surgeon from south Texas. Unlike the powerlifters, his 75 inch chest tapered down to a relatively modest 39 inch waist that seemed much smaller thanks to being supported by his 45 inch quads. His 30 inch biceps and 24 inch forearms were pushed out to the side by his sun-eclipsing lats! Plus, for whatever reason, all that testosterone running through Gordon’s system had really amped up his body fur, making it thicker, fuller, and darker than it ever had been previously. When you added the full beard, thick, luxurious and perfectly trimmed, Gordon was a walking Musclebear dream.
“Who..?” “Kennelly’s gay…?” “I saw you at the WSM contest, right?”
Gordon just laughed. The extra 160 pounds gave his voice a resonance and depth it had never had before. “Relax, fellas,” he said. “It’s ME, Gordon!” Stunned expressions all around, followed by exclamations, comparisons, demands for flexes, bear hugs, strength feats, etc. When he pointed out that he thinking about entering next year’s powerlifting competition and that he was routinely benching 1200 pounds (about 100 pounds more than the world record Kennelly established for a single rep the night before) Gordon was pretty sure at least three of the guys came in their pants.
Needless to say, it was quite a night at the old bar and quite a night in Room 362 across the street at the Red Top Inn where Gordon fucked the daylights out of the three biggest (guys in the bar.) On his way back to Buffalo the next day, Gordon thought to himself.
That’s more like it!
Ten weeks later Gordon was back in his hometown for Toby’s high school graduation. Gordon talked to both of his sisters regularly and Liz, Toby’s mom, had been unusually reticent in discussing Toby’s senior year. That wouldn’t be so odd except that Liz usually talked his ear off about all her kids’ exploits.
“Everything’s okay, right?” he asked.
“Oh, everything’s fine,” Liz replied, acknowledging and not acknowledging the difference at the same time. “He’s just had a bit of a rough patch with his dad. And, no, you don’t need to speak to either of them about it.”
Curiouser and curiouser, Gordon though, as we was standing on his sister’s front porch, waiting for some part of her rambunctious tribe to come open the door. When the door did open…
Holy Fucking Moly!
The young man who stood in the door way, clad only in royal blue gym shorts and a pair of flip flops, was a total beast! “Uh, do I have the right house?” Gordon asked. The incredibly well-developed kid squealed and wrapped his big thick arms around him and lifted him up. Lifted him right off the ground in fact! “Uncle Gordon!” Toby exclaimed. “Thank you sooo much for coming to my graduation!”
Gordon grunted. Here he was, 425 pounds of the biggest, thickest, strongest muscle on the planet, hoisted up in the air by his 18 year old nephew! “Uh, Toby, is that you?” he said. “Mind putting me down?” Toby dropped Gordon like a hot potato—fortunately the front porch was heavily reinforced concrete and hardy plank so he didn’t fall right through it!
“Or maybe you’re not, Toby, maybe my nephew has been replaced by Antoine Vaillant?!” The kid had the decency to blush. “No, it’s me,” Toby allowed. “I’ve been spending a lot of time in the gym. I think I’ve been doing okay, don’t you?”
Jesus, what an understatement.
In the six months since he’d last seen Gordon, Toby had put on an impossible 95 pounds of solid muscle. At 5’11 and 275 pounds, he was totally stacked, with yard-wide shoulders, concrete pillows for pecs, traps that reached his earlobes, delts out here, ripped biceps out to there, all towering over a ripped to shreds 30-inch waist. “Uh, I’ll say,” Gordon said, beginning to bone up.
Stop that, he told himself. He’s your nephew!
Toby didn’t help matters by deciding to give him a casual biceps flex. “Check it out, Gordon,” he said (reverting to his usual method of address.) He casually lifted his arms into a mind-blowing double biceps pose. “Twenty-two inches cold. What do you think?”
Gordon chuckled and then flexed his own 33 inch mountains. Toby let out a whistle. “I think you’ll be caught up with me in no time at this rate,” Gordon said, and then lowered his voice. “And I bet your dad is shitting his pants!” Fred, Liz’s husband and Toby’s dad, was a long since over the hill jock, 6’2 and 240 pounds. He still had the broad shoulders but no tone, no definition, and a belly that spoke of his fondness for PBR. “Well, yeah,” Toby confessed. “That part’s been hard. I keep asking him to lift with me but the bigger I get the more pissed off he gets.”
Fred, you dumb asshole, Gordon thought to himself, as he had done 10,000 times previously over the past 20 years. “I’ll have a talk with him,” Gordon said.
And then Liz and the little girls, Ella and Joanie, and Fred showed up, Liz giving him a peck on the cheek, the girls climbing on him like he was jungle gym or a gorilla, and Fred loudly telling Toby to “go put a freakin’ shirt on, dammit, don’t just stand there on the porch for the neighbors to gawp at you.” The moment of just Gordon-and-Toby was gone until the night before Gordon was to return to Buffalo.
“And what are your plans for the summer?” Gordon asked. They were in the guest bedroom, the door closed since the little girls were sleeping, and Toby leaned against the wall while Gordon packed his overnight bag. “Didn’t Mom tell you?” Toby asked. Gordon knew Toby had been accepted at Emory, otherwise he didn’t have a clue. “I’m spending the summer with you in Buffalo!” Gordon gaped. “Uh, no, she did not tell me!”
Toby looked crestfallen—until he saw the big smile on Gordon’s face! “But that’s a damned good idea! Plenty of room, keep me company—and out of trouble.” Toby heaved a sigh of relief. “And we’ll work out together?” Gordon chuckled. “I’ll make a monster out of you, if that’s what you want…”
The big salami in Toby’s shorts stirred—it was clear that his muscles weren’t the only Toby had been growing! “You tell me what to do,” Toby agreed. “I’ll do the work.”
It was going to be an interesting summer!
Poor Jack! Our asshole dad, the Colonel, is insisting that he go to “boot camp” this summer to put some meat on his scrawny bones. If Jack doesn’t do it, the Colonel isn’t paying next year’s tuition. Oh, uh, I guess I ought to back up a bit. My brother Jack is 19, just a year older than I am, and just done with his freshman year at Emory. I’m just now finishing h.s. and planning to go to UGA on a baseball scholarship.
Aside from the fact that we’re only a year apart and have the same last name, we couldn’t be more different. At 6’1, Jack weighs all of 137 pounds soaking wet. It’s not like he doesn’t have any muscle it’s just they’re tiny little things. And, yeah, he looks skinnier than he is because 37 pounds of that hangs between his legs, a real beaut at 10½ x 8 inches. Did I mention he’s as smooth as the inside of an oyster shell?
I’m a couple of inches shorter than Jack (by the way, I’m Jason) but I outweigh him by 40 pounds and on me it’s all muscle. Like Jack, I have a 30 inch waist but in my case it’s under a big, melon pec’d 45 inch fur covered chest. And, yeah, he’s definitely got me beat down there although 8½ x 7 is pretty respectable, especially for a guy who’s only 5’11.
He’s pale, I’m tanned, he has blond hair and blue eyes, I have brown eyes and dark brown hair. He’s gay and…Well, I’m gay, too. The diff is that Jack, who’s always been a geek with zero interest in sports and 4.0 grade average and high test scores, also has one of those ways of speaking that everyone assumes is “gay” (although in fact I’ve met plenty of people who sound just like him who are straight as an arrow!) Me, though, total jock. Solid B student, above average test scores but nothing to write home about, and a nice mellow baritone that says “sports announcer,” not fagling in training.
The point is that our retired military, over-the-hill jock, asshole of a father has always given Jack a hard time about virtually everything he’s done, from wanting to play the piano when he was 5 years old to making a gloriously illuminated family tree that showed our descent from British royalty when he was 13. And, yeah, I was the fair-haired boy, never a bad word, even when I broke the neighbors’ picture window with an errant softball and the occasional D in worthless subjects like penmanship.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” I told him the night before he left. “Whenever I think it can’t get any worse, he pulls another stunt like this.”
Jack gave me the wry smile, the one he puts on when he’s hurting inside and doesn’t want anyone to know it. “This too shall pass,” he quoted. “He’s no worse than a kidney stone! Besides, maybe it will do some good.”
I chuckled. Skinny as he is, Jack has always lusted for muscle. I can always count on him for a hubba hubba or looking studly comment from him after a heavy workout. I suppose I oughta be freaked by the attention but the fact is we realized a long time ago that we not only loved each other (as brothers), to some extent we were in love with each other. Not that we were ever gonna do anything about it; more along the lines of totally digging, respecting, and trusting each other. Him and me against the Colonel (and, yeah, Mom pretty much ignored the whole deal; easy enough to do when you take that much ambien!)
“Go for it, Big Brother,” I told him. “I want to see some pecs and lats when you get back!” He laughed. “Who knows?” he said. “Maybe I’ll catch up with you.”
As if, I thought to myself. Maybe in 10 years when your metabolism slows down!
I hate to say it but when I got to baseball camp I completely forgot about Jack. Too much work, too much fun, and too much sex. Turns out there were at least three other hot ball players in my cohort who were gay or bi. One or the other of us was fucking or being fucked by at least two of the other three nearly every night! And when I wasn’t playing or fucking I was lifting and eating. I was a good hitter but I wanted to up my power. Eight weeks and 30 pounds of muscle later I was knocking one or two out of the park every day.
By the time I came home I was 205 pounds of solid rock with big 19 inch biceps and a 48 inch chest to go along with my marble-slabbed 30 inch waist, my bulging 28 inch quads, and my big squatteriffic bubble butt. I was now officially bigger than the Colonel, too. Granted, just 5 pounds heavier than his 5’7 and 200 pounds but aside from the broad shoulders all of his was in his belly.
That evening I was still unpacking when I heard this thump-thump-thump, like a herd of elephants trampling up the front steps, and then the front door opened. “Holy fucking shit!” I heard the Colonel exclaim and then—crash!—the sound of someone falling. I ran downstairs and saw this mountain of a man looming over Dad and I was about to grab my baseball bat to attack this thug when the Big Man looked up at me.
“He’s just fainted, Jason,” Jack said, in his usual tone of voice. “Go get a glass of water, okay?”
I ran to the kitchen and ran back just as fast—how could that be Jack?!! Dad was sitting up when I returned and pointing his finger at Jack like he was the Monster from the Black Lagoon. “What the fuck happened to you?” he exclaimed. Jack rolled his eyes. “Uh, Dad, remember where you sent me? Boot camp? It worked!” Man oh man did it work! Jack was totally fucking huge. And I don’t mean like 205 pounds of ripped baseball player huge, I mean 305 pounds of giant bodybuilder huge!
“But how…?” Jack gave me his ixnay look—we’ll talk about it later, his look said.
It was clear the Colonel was too flustered to know how to deal with the change in his senior son, who was now half again as big as he was and insanely muscular to boot. His days of physically intimidating us—either of us—were now clearly over. Mom, who can be observant when she wants to be, insisted that the Colonel take her “out to dinner” so that “the boys can catch up.” Off they went.
As soon as they were gone, Jack wrapped me in a big bear hug and lifted me right off the ground, like I was a bag of feathers. “Shit, Jack,” I said. “You’re so fucking huge!” He laughed—it echoed through me like a big bass drum.
“You wanna see?”
Fuck, did I! By that time I was sporting major wood, my geeky brother turned Mr. Olympia bodybuilder, he was damn right I wanted to see!
He peeled off his XXXL extra baggy sweat shirt and I gasped. Mountains of muscle. His chest was easily 60 inches (61, I found out later), 25 inch biceps, 20 inch forearms (bigger than my biceps!), 34 inch waist. Then he dropped trou—holy fuck! His quads were obviously bigger than his waist, so probably 36 at least, and his calves were as big as his biceps. Fankhouser would be jealous!
“But how…?” I asked again, this time insistently!
He shrugged his now-mammoth shoulders. “I couldn’t really tell you for sure,” he said. “Although it seems like my ultra-fast metabolism decided to flip over to ultra-growth instead! Didn’t hurt that the food was available 24/7 and you should have seen the gym, it put Gold’s Venice to shame.”
I smirked. Hearing Jack talk about his gym like a Mr. O veteran was close to giving me the giggles. He noticed and lifted his arms into a mind-blowing front double-biceps shot. “Basically, I lifted six hours a day, ate six hours a day, and slept 12 hours a day. How could I not grow?”
I did the math. We were both gone for 8 weeks (56 days) and during that time 168 pounds. “Fuck, Jack, that’s three pounds a day!” He smiled. “Cool, huh? Of course, that’s just the average. I started out slower than that, then it picked up the pace, and this past week I’ve only gained about 10 pounds.”
Ten pounds in one fucking week!
“Of course that’s nothing compared to a few weeks ago when I put on 30 pounds in three days!” he added (I thought I was gonna blow!) “Still, I’m done with bulking for now. I don’t want to be any heavier than this when I hit the stage in two weeks.”
He chuckled. “Yeah,’ he said, “I’m competing in the Mr. Georgia contest next week. Novice super-heavy. Think I stand a shot?” I was speechless—and my cock was quivering like it was a Saturn V rocket getting ready for liftoff. Jack wrapped his arms around me again and pressed my face into his mammoth pecs. “And, see, I don’t even hafta shave! I’m still smooth as a baby’s behind. Won’t that be convenient when you’re putting the bronzer on me?” I moaned. “Uh, Jack…” His big paw rubbed my bubble butt.
“It’s up to you, babe,” he said. “You know how I feel.”
I’d tell you more but that would be telling, wouldn’t it?
What Jason will never understand is what a mind-blowingly positive experience Boot Camp was for me. I mean, yeah, he gets the awesome physical transformation that occurred, who couldn’t?
But that really pales in comparison to the mental and emotional changes that occurred! I arrived at the camp in rural Otsego County, New York (think “Catskills adjacent”) deeply, deeply skeptical of their claim of being able to “put 50 pounds on you in one eight week session!” I mean, c’mon, that’s not really doable even with roids, is it? What were they doing, turning them into porkers? Really, no, but thanks! I’d rather stick to my ultra-lean 137 pounds (at 6’1!) than turn into a blunderbuss!
Sitting in the reception hall with 20 other recruits, I couldn’t help but glance around the room. Yeah, we were all skinny dweebs. Compared to some of ’em, I actually seemed pretty husky! I swear there was one kid who was 5’4 and all of 90 pounds—he didn’t look like he’d been through puberty yet! At the other extreme, there was one guy who looked about 160 (at 6’3, he was the one guy taller than I was.)
Then I started looking at the photos on the walls, all of them alleged before and after shots of guys who had been to Boot Camp, with their before and after stats and the year they attended on a little plaque beneath each picture. Holy crap! Either the Boot Camp administrators were seriously into Photoshop (and, consequently lying through their teeth) or it really did work. There were 10 guys on the wall, all of whom appeared to have started out skin and bones (maybe the pix were from waaaay before the got to camp), all of whom looked like Jason or better when they were done! The handsomest were:
Henry B. (2008): Start, 5’9, 125 pounds; End, 5’9, 162 pounds
Scott G. (2009): Start, 5’7, 117 pounds; End, 5’8, 160 pounds
Mark L. (2010): Start, 5’11, 137 pounds; End, 5’11, 202 pounds (!!)
Kyle P. (2010): Start, 5’10, 122 pounds; End, 6 ft., 190 pounds
Arturo D. (2011): Start, 6’1, 133 pounds; End, 6’1, 205 pounds
Holy fucking moly! Looking at Arturo’s pic, a skinny black kid transformed into elite fitness model, I thought I was gonna cream my pants. And then the staff showed up!
Coach was totally awesome, 5’11” tall, 295 pounds, thick, wavy salt-n-pepper hair, a thick goatee, and acres of chest hair. He floored us by telling us he’d just turned 50 (he looked 35 tops.) His two assistants weren’t as big but likewise very impressive, one blond and blue eyed, the other looked like he might have been Arturo’s older, bigger, even hotter brother. Both were 6 feet or taller and probably 270-280 pounds. And mid 20s at most.
“Men, welcome to Boot Camp,” Coach said. “Just call me ‘Coach.’ These are my assistants, Kyle and Arturo. If you’ve checked out the before and after pix, you might recognize them….” Great fucking horny toads! They were waaay bigger that they were in their before and after pix and those were only a year or two old. “Yeah,” Coach said. “It really does work, as you can see from these two. And it keeps working!”
He had my attention, that’s for sure, both my brain’s and my cock’s. Looking around my fellow recruits, I noticed I wasn’t the only one sporting wood. In fact, it looked like everyone had a stiffy!
“Now the first thing you need to know is that this is not a prison and unlike a real ‘boot camp’ we’re not going to torture you and try to brain wash you. We’re here to build you up, not break you down.” He went to describe the program:
12 hours of sleep per day!
6 big meals a day!
6 heavy-duty workouts per day!
I know most of you don’t think that’s possible,” Coach said. “That’s where Scott and Arturo and I come in. We’re here to motivate you, to make it happen.” He was right about the skepticism. Most of the cohort looked pretty green thinking about it. “But all of you are physically capable of doing it,” he pointed out. “The only obstacle to success is your state of mind—and we’ll work on that, too!”
I was in awe. It was really happening. I was gonna go home weighing 187 pounds, all muscle—almost a match for Jason! My cock started spasming, soaking the front of my workout shorts. I was aghast and amazed and delighted all at the same time! And it was clear I wasn’t the only one who’d done so, not remotely!
“Now,” Coach said. “Who wants to fucking grow?!”
I did. And I did!