The first time he saw the guy, Steve was in gym. He wouldn't have even noticed him except that he said, softly, “Excuse me,” as he brushed past him to get to the pec deck. Steve was standing near the free weights sucking on his bottled water.
He, Steve, was eighteen years old. It was mid-May, less than a month before graduation. Steve lettered in baseball, football, basketball, wrestling and track. The only reason he didn't letter in tennis or hockey or volleyball is because the school didn't have those teams. He was a jock, through and through, with a body that performed whatever task he set it to effortlessly and flawlessly. He didn't excel at any one sport so he wasn't a Captain or a Quarterback or a Forward. He didn't really want to stand out at all if he could help it, because there was another side to Steve he didn't want anyone to know.
The girls liked him because he was “a nice guy” which translates into “he doesn't force his dick on you.” He dated pretty girls but they all lost interest after a while because, although he was sweet, attentive and, to be blunt, a gorgeous hunk of studly teen flesh, he was too sweet. He kissed on the lips but didn't open his mouth. His hands never went under a blouse, never fumbled with a bra clasp, never copped a feel of any kind.
The girls knew what the deal with, but the guys wouldn't have believed it. Steve was a sports hero. Steve lifted weights and ran track and field and clobbered his opponents on the football field. Steve whacked the shit out of a baseball and Steve didn't dance.
At least, no one ever saw him dance.
Well, almost no one.
Cary lived across the street from Steve. Cary was a fag. Cary colored his hair, and Cary listened to Madonna (and admitted it!) and Cary drew pictures of muscular bodies on his PeeChee. Cary wore tight pants and wanted to be on the cheer squad and sang in the choir. And Cary didn't give a fuck who gave a fuck about him.
Except Steve. It happened that Steve and Cary shared one thing in common, that being a last initial. Steve was a Taylor and Cary was a Tatum. Consequently, the two found each other sometimes in the same place standing next to each other in alphabetical order. And every time Cary was near Steve, he found himself in lust because Steve was, as mentioned, a gorgeous hunk of studly teen flesh. Although they were the same height, Steve was genetically gifted to such an extent that Cary almost felt like the guy was leaching his strength and masculinity from him when they were together. If nothing else convinced Cary that he was 100% into guys, being next to Steve (or even in the same room) could do it every time.
And also because Cary could see Steve's bedroom from his own, and one fine night he discovered that he could also, with very little trouble, watch Steve get undressed. He could sit at the desk where his iMac sat, and put it on sleep mode so the screen wasn't glowing, and wait until the point, in the heat of long Summer nights in this pisant backwards redneck town, that Steve would go up to his bedroom and strip naked to crawl between the crisp white cotton sheets of his bed and sleep there, alone.
The first time it happened, Cary about shit a brick. He was sitting at his computer cruising AOL chat rooms pretending to be the studly muscle hunk he imagined (and wished) he really was, getting it on virtually with another (very probably fake) studly muscle hunk when he glanced over from his screen to look into the shining night skies and noticed the light flick on across the street. The houses on the block were all exactly alike, and his bedroom was exactly across the street from Steve's.
He couldn't help but know the guy lived there. Who could miss him? He was beautiful, and he acted like he wasn't. He was really nice to Cary, to everyone really, and laughed at Cary's jokes, even the stupid ones. They didn't really know each other, but who cared? If all he ever got out of their acquaintance was to be able to look on Steve's innate masculine magnificence, he'd be satisfied with that.
But then this got thrown into the mix. He was watching the window as Steve entered his bedroom and stripped his shirt off, tossing it somewhere. Then Steve stood there, right there, in his window, and started to unbutton his 501's.
If he could see Cary, he didn't give any indication. He stood there with his lean, muscled torso and his hard muscles of his arms flexed and bulged as his hands slowly opened his jeans. He shoved them off his hips and trampled his way out of them and stood there in his skivvies, his tighty whities, his Y-fronts.
And then, miraculously, he dug those rough, athletic hands down inside his underwear and started playing with his dick. Cary's AOL partner was soon forgotten as he watched a real muscle hunk giving him a show from across the street. At first he was totally self-conscious about watching Steve's solo gratification because, he figured, if he could see Steve, Steve could see him. Cary's lights were off (to set the mood) but the iMac was glowing on his face and shirtless torso brightly. Once or twice, Cary swore that Steve was looking right at him as he continued to dig down in his shorts, even flashing his equipment once or twice before wandering away from the window and flopping on his bed. Cary could still see Steve's lower legs lying across the covers after he tossed his underwear across the room—did he do that so Cary could see?—as he finished doing his dirty work and turned out the lights. But it didn't end there.
Almost every night for two weeks Steve would appear like clockwork to stand in his wide-open window and fondle himself to erection. After the first few days, the shorts came off, too, and he simply stood there completely naked and glorious in the light from a lamp staring out his window caressing his fine, fat dick and, occasionally, twisting his nipples like a porn pro.
Cary was about 100 feet away, he figured, but he could see it all. From Steve's footballer's shoulders to his swimmer's chest to his runner's tight belly to his, well, whoever the fuck was blessed with a mighty tool like the one he got to play with every night.
It was on the third week that the dancing started. Cary just could not fucking believe it. He couldn't tell what the tune was, all he could hear were the soft thumps of bass that made it across the empty night to him. But Steve was a go-go boy! He stripped naked and started to twist and pivot and vamp and vogue right across the street! He was moving like a man trying to seduce someone, and if his target was Cary there was precious little he'd have to do to win him.
Cary knew without a doubt that Steve's closet held more than his sweat-stained T-shirts and stretched-out jockstraps. No straight guy moved like that. Steve could give Ricky Martin lessons! His hips were lubed with something supernatural, and when he swung that tight ass around for a view Cary blew his load every time.
He wanted to go up to Steve and ask what the fuck was up, that he watched him every night, that he saw what he did and did Steve see him? Was he putting on that show? It was getting hotter and hotter as the summer nights grew warmer and more sultry as if he was applying more and more pressure on Cary to get his ass over there and put Steve out of his torment. Was this a come-on?
But he couldn't believe that. It was too overt, too obvious, and too fucking nasty to be a come-on. Steve was simply allowing himself total freedom before bedtime, and the light was his challenge to himself. Cary could hear Steve's thoughts as if he was thinking them. “C'mon Steve, you pussy, fucking strut your stuff! Come out of the closet! Face up to it! Be free! Fuck them and their little minds and attitudes! You're a hot fucking stud muffin and you need to show it off.”
Cary was out of the closet because he couldn't fit into anymore. Steve was comfortably stuck inside.
Except for 20 minutes every night.
So Steve spent the days leading up to graduation still closeted behind the safety of the walls he was building. He thought it would be easy, that he could manage to hide himself away until he could get the hell out of this tiny town and off to college in New York or L.A. or San Francisco or some fucking place where they at least recognized that gay men existed.
But that was all before Steve got a load of him, the guy, the young man with the soft voice who said, “Excuse me,” to him in the gym and brushed past him on the way to the pec deck. The guy who brushed past him and allowed his hand to linger just a touch longer that it needed to on Steve's ass cheek. The guy who rubbed up against him, moving his cock across Steve's hip (there was no denying it) and then made eye contact and rocked Steve's world to its foundation.
Because he was beautiful. How had Steve missed him before that moment? The gym wasn't too full, as was usual this early in the morning. Steve preferred a private workout, and about the only time the gym was empty was when it opened first thing in the morning, just as the sun was dawning. Now that he looked around there was hardly anyone there at all. In fact, the only two other guys in there were headed out, towels over shoulders, talking about some shit and laughing.
It was just Steve and this guy. This gorgeous guy. This guy whose looks and body and poise and manner and stance and, well, everything about him was screaming through Steve's blood, rattling his bones, riding a lightning bolt directly to his pleasure centers and erecting a tent in his shorts.
There was his body, to begin with. He was wearing a white T-shirt that was too small for all the prime muscular flesh it was trying, and mostly failing, to contain. The thing looked painted on, the cotton fibers stretched so thin they were almost shiny. They coated his obviously well-trained torso with an almost sheer netting of material that clung to each carved pectoral, every rippling abdominal, and the rounded brawn of his wide shoulders in an altogether amazing way.
Steve's eyes became glued to his body as he moved toward the weight machine, at the way his muscles moved, at how they fit together, at the way he carried himself so self confidently.
Oh, and also at his ass, which was amazing.
Steve almost forgot where he was as he watched the guy. When their eyes met, he could swear the guy knew him. When he smiled, that beautiful man, in his sly and secret way, the smile said he knew something about Steve that no one else did. And when he started working out, that was when Steve's world started to change.
Steve found himself staring at the guy, and the guy met his steady gaze with those dark, almost black eyes and that knowing smile on his lips, one end twisted up a little higher than the other. His hair was dark, dark brown. Almost as black as his eyes. And when he started working the machinery, his body started showing itself off to its full capabilities.
After the first pump, it was like something was inflating him. Each successive pump built him bigger and bigger. His chest exploded, swelling fat and thick and hard with power. His arms would go back and his chest would stretch and then Steve watched the muscles go wild as they shoved the weight again, the fibers twisting and swelling around each other. His shoulders joined in on the fun, bulging higher and stronger and not receding, not relaxing, just getting bigger and bigger.
How was this happening? Who was this guy? This guy watching Steve watching him growing before his eyes, his whole body seeming to swell with more and more powerful brawn until, finally, that T-shirt began to rip.
It started under his arms. Steve heard the seams tearing open, then watched as with the next pump his lats shoved right through the shirt. The dark wetness of his pits opened up, then, and the shoulders came next. They pushed up higher and higher until they were simply too large to contain and they ripped the cotton apart.
The guy relaxed his torso as he released the weight, and his smile grew suddenly brighter and more open, and with the next pump his chest blew up like a balloon and the shirt stretched and stretched and finally tore apart right down the center, displaying the guy's tanned and sweaty collection of muscle and the deepening cleavage between his still developing pectorals.
And he still grew larger. As Steve watched him, his own shorts tented and sopping, sucking in the moist air in short shallow breaths, now smelling the guy's intensely male smell, the stink of his sweat and the power of his workout that was pressing his body to do impossible things, the dude shoved the weights forward again and the T-shirt literally tore itself to shreds off his unstoppable and incredible upper body. It was as if invisible hands grabbed the white cotton and ripped it all away. It flew from his body as if the pressure of his growing muscles had exploded outward.
And then the guy rose slowly from the machine and came toward Steve again, his unblinking gaze locked on Steve's, and again he moved by him so closely that he pressed himself onto Steve's aroused body, rubbing his slick and mighty muscles across Steve's body, moving his hand down to cup Steve's firm ass, shoving his fat dick against Steve's own erect member and he said, again, “Excuse me,” in his soft and deep voice and he smiled and then he was approaching the thighmaster, as Steve called it. And he sat down and swung his ankles behind the paddles and started pumping up his legs.
And, if anything, they reacted even more enthusiastically than his upper body. The cables of muscle erupted outward, suddenly pumped with strength and power. They shredded themselves as their definition grew more and more distinct, as the muscles of his thighs swelled and pushed out against the copper skin with its soft coat of dark fur. Then his shorts started experiencing the same sad fate as his shirt had. The sheer size of his growing legs ripped the side seams open. And there, between his legs, something else finally started showing signs of growth.
Steve could see the guy's dick swelling between his legs. It was literally growing bigger, but not because it was becoming hard. It appeared to be experiencing the same growth that the rest of him was having. It was becoming larger and larger, now shoving angrily against its cotton cage, bulging like an over-inflated balloon. Steve could see the head of the growing man's prick swelling outward, ripening, growing fatter.
Then he stood up, and he walked again toward Steve, who was frozen in place, and he said, with his powerful tone, “Excuse me,” and rubbed himself and his sweat and strength across Steve as he moved around him, almost through him, almost making love to Steve with his closeness and intimacy and sheer size and Steve felt the guy's enlarged cock like a snake, like a firm and juicy burden down below, press against his own painfully hard dick.
And the guy moved finally over to the curling bench. And he picked up a bar overladen with iron, almost drooping with the weight, and he started to slowly build up his arms to match the rest of him.
And now that he was warmed up, it didn't take hardly anything at all to get them there. From the first curl, they bulged like they were being inflated, and probably they were. Inflated with strength and power and incredible size. The muscles of his arms swelled so fast and so huge that it almost looked cartoonish. But the strength he possessed and his innate muscular development was clearly etched on every inch of him.
He was a beautiful, tight-bodied wonder when Steve first saw him fifteen minutes ago. Suddenly Steve was looking at a vascular, super- strong, muscle-fat body still topped with the guy's amazing and perfect face. The face with the sideways smile and the dark, dark eyes.
The face that was turned in his direction through the whole process, the face that was now, still, looking directly at him as if this show was for him, all for him.
The guy stood up and stretched his overwhelmingly beautiful and powerful new body and, finally, the growth between his legs managed to do what his legs could not as his shorts began to rip open, too. There was no zipper to burst, no snaps to pop, the size and weight of his growing dick simply tore through his shorts and then he flexed something, somewhere, some collection of power and strength that made the shorts literally tear themselves apart and he started walking over to Steve totally fucking naked.
Steve couldn't breathe. He couldn't talk. This was impossible. This was amazing and this… this had to be a dream. It had to be.
The beautiful naked man, his copper-skinned body dusted with dark curls, his muscles bulging thick and fat, his dick swinging like a pendulum, impossibly long and impossibly thick, and his two fat and round balls hanging low behind that tool, and his dark, dark eyes came over to Steve again and paused in front of him. His whole body glistened with sweat, like polished metal, slick and smooth and perfect. The guy reached forward and down and took Steve's workout towel from his hand and lifted it to his face.
He paused and breathed in Steve's scent from the towel, sucking Steve's sweat stink into his powerful body and smiling. Then he wiped his face off and scrubbed the towel across his scalp, turning his silken mane into a messy nest as if he just crawled out of his bed, then he rubbed the terry cloth under his arm pits, bunching his huge shoulders into swollen balls of brawn.
And across the wide thickness of his chest, the muscled hemispheres, across his hard round nipples, down his rippled six-pack. Then he slowly pressed the towel into his moist pubes and then lower, wiping down his ample and luscious prick, the length of the thick shaft and the dangling bud of the helmet, and underneath it, on his two big nuts in their hairy sack, and then he turned and showcased his tight, firm ass, the two round globes of it as he polished his wide, rippled back and then down to his tight waist. Then he grabbed the towel, Steve's towel, and wiped the sweat from his butt cheeks and then lower, underneath, and then between them.
“Thanks,” he said, and tossed the towel back at Steve.
And then, the most beautiful and powerful and amazing man Steve had ever seen wandered naked toward the exit and disappeared.
And Steve started to breathe a gain.
……………………… Graduation was hard for Cary, literally. He and Steve would be sitting next to each other until their names were called. When he sat down, Steve looked at Cary and smiled, said, “Hey, Tatum, how they hangin'?” and Cary said, “All right, Steve. How are *your* balls?” The look he got in return could have been read as either, “What the fuck did you just say to me?” or “What do you know that you aren't telling?” Cary read it as the first statement.
It wasn't meant that way.
Because in the days following Steve's strange encounter with the muscular miracle man at the gym, he could think of nothing else. His fantasies all now involved that man, and they were about watching him grow, watching his muscles swell and bulge, watching his eyes as he looked back, that smile on his face, and the glistening sweat that slicked his skin and sweetened his scent with a powerful masculine spice.
Steve went to the gym every morning as usual, but he hadn't seen him since and he wasn't about to ask any of the other guys about him. That would look suspicious.
But the gym trips weren't all for nothing. He'd doubled his efforts, spurred on by what he saw, wanting that same huge muscular power and overwhelming masculine presence himself. So as he sat next to Cary, who had seen his sudden development from afar but was now witnessing the veins that popped along his forearms and the way Steve's shoulders swelled inside his graduation gown he wondered if the guy sitting next to him, as rumor had it regarding the members of the football team, was wearing absolutely nothing under his black taffeta shroud.
He almost missed hearing his name being called. He was hearing his friend David, the only other out student at the school, explaining the rumor. “When they announce the class to the audience,” he said, his Asian features animated with humor and anticipation, “and the rest of us are tossing our hats or whatever, the football team is going to unzip their robes and streak across campus. The rest of us will stand there on the football field with our parents in the stands watching the primest of prime muscled flesh bouncing and swinging its way in front of us.” He pushed his finger at Cary's chest. “And you, Mr. Lucky, will be standing right next to Closet Case,” as he called Steve, having been filled in on the guy's late night shows for Cary, “when he strips down and sets off.” He laughed. “Maybe you'll finally see if what you think he's got from across the street is what he's really packing in his Fruit of the Looms.”
“Cary Tatum!” He heard his name called and he accepted his diploma, paused for a picture as he shook the principal's hand (the homophobic prick would never ordinarily even recognize Cary's existence) then returned to his seat in a hurry because he wanted to see if there was a cuff of pants sticking out under Steve's full-length gown or if all he saw was bare ankle.
But he missed his chance, and before he had time to catch his breath Steve Taylor, campus hunk and dancing dream, was standing next to him. Cary's heart was racing. Steve was only a couple of inches taller than him but at the moment he felt terribly small.
Then Steve leaned toward him, he actually drew closer to him, and said, “Watch your feet when they present the class.”
His heart skipped a beat. “Huh?”
Steve turned toward him, he was smiling, and he winked. “It's a surprise, Tatum.” The class was assembling around them. The announcements were up to the W's. There were only a handful of diplomas left to give. Steve raised his hand to the zipper at his collar. When the sleeve fell away, Cary saw Steve's well-muscled arm, firm and meaty, and no shirt or jacket beneath. “One I know you'll enjoy.” He still smiled. He meant what he said. 'Jesus!' Cary thought.
“You know Cary,” Steve added, bending even closer, “You're a very attentive audience.” He started unzipping the robe. The hot June wind swirled around them. “I hope you'll be around this summer.” He reached his crotch, bending slightly to reach the end of the gown as the zipper released. “I'd hate to put on a show with no one watching.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, I'm proud to present—”
They both heard the principal's amplified voice. Cary felt off- balance, hot, dizzy. He watched Steve pull his graduation gown open.
“—The Class of 2001!”
All around them chaos broke out. Hats flew skyward, tassles flying, shouts and screams filled the air. Steve dropped his gown off his naked body. He was totally nude beneath, wearing only Nikes. His body gleamed in the afternoon sun. Cary's eyes couldn't gather all of his beauty in fast enough. His chest and arms, his flat belly, his long neck, his shoulders and hips. His dick. His big fucking dick. His cock and balls. He was everything promised—more than that. His body was so beautiful, so amazing. There, inches from Cary's touch.
“See you tonight, Tatum!” Steve was still smiling.
And he was off. He shoved by Cary, moving him aside almost carefully, and then charged into the pack of naked, wild boys whooping as they ran. Cary watched two dozen guys, those on the team ballsy enough to go through with the dare, break out of the erupting student body of black robes, their pink and copper and chocolate flesh stark and exposed among the flailing dark nylon. The screams and shouts suddenly swelled even louder as the pack of muscled streakers ran toward the audience, jumping and running and leaping, pumping their fists in the air, strutting and flexing and proud in their naked perfection.
Tight, trained asses and wide bulging backs disappearing across the campus as the cries died down and the audience recovered. And Cary stood there, frozen, dumbstruck, with Steve's empty robes at his feet.
Almost everyone was out partying that night except Steve. He had a date to keep with a weight room the next morning and he was determined that by the time the summer ended, he'd have the body he saw on the guy who was now a permanent fixture of his fantasies.
He watched for Cary to come home that night but he was apparently out with his friends, whoever they were, so Steve's nightly show had an early curtain. The truth of it was that telling Cary he knew he was being watched, that his evening physique displays were not simply private gyrations but were, instead, designed to get the other dude hot and bothered actually intensified Steve's exhibitionist desires. Knowing you had an attentive audience was one thing, and the voyeurism was interesting but hardly unexpected—everyone, after all, knew Cary was gay and he certainly made no secret of it and Steve knew he had a hot body, hell half the reason he spent so much time developing it was that he got off on himself—but having another pair of eyes worshiping you, even from afar, watching your every move, tracing the lines of your muscles and wishing they were the hands caressing your cock… Steve found that he was even more excited by the prospect.
But there was no Cary tonight. Steve sat on the windowsill still in his shorts and closed his eyes, feeling the warm summer night wind flow across his bare skin. His hand rested on his dick, lying quiet and limp in his shorts. Somehow, without Cary there driving him on, he just wasn't into it.
What was it about Cary, anyway? The guy was cute, no doubt about that. He had potential. Kind of a thin looking guy, never went in for sports, never saw him doing much physical activity of any kind. But Steve wondered why he had this… desire for Cary. Was it just because he knew the other guy was like him, so maybe he could finally be comfortable around another guy without worrying that he was sending the wrong signal? Was he hoping Cary knew things Steve didn't?
And he was, after all, damn cute. Although Steve hated using that word. “Cute.” Made Cary sound like a puppy or a doll. But he was cute, dammit! He was fucking cute, with his big bright eyes and beautiful skin and the way he smiled. He always seemed so relaxed with himself, so self confident and just… comfortable.
Steve barely even knew his favorite voyeur and couldn't say why, exactly, he decided one night to allow the guy across the street, who he knew watched him anyway, to get a show like he never expected.
And Steve never expected to enjoy it so much, either. Jerking off was so much better when Cary was watching him. He could almost feel the other set of eyes worshiping his body and watching his moves. It was as if Cary's observation was a caress or a form of permission for Steve to do everything he wanted to. To feel himself and his own powerful muscles, to move his hands across his skin, down into his shorts, to expose himself utterly, completely, in every way he could be uncovered and still maintain the safety net he'd built.
And then today, he tore part of the net away. Steve told him he knew Cary was watching him. Then he stripped naked in front of the guy, feeling a rush of adrenaline and a sort of sexual exhilaration watching Cary becoming aroused, seeing the desire and need in the other guy's face and the way his eyes drank his body in. He wanted to, in front of everyone, grab the guy's face and kiss his lips hard and full and deep and fuck what anyone thought. He wanted to.
So tonight he wanted to put on a show like Cary never saw, never even dreamt of. He wanted to look directly at the guy's face as he beat off. He wanted to lick his digit and bend over and finger his tight little hole. He wanted to drop a gob of spit on his hard, red tool and jerk himself slowly, so slowly until the load in his balls was thick and hot and then cum stream after stream as Cary watched. He wanted to get his muscled body so hot and bothered that he'd do all the things he did to himself for someone else, lost in a haze of sex and desire, using every inch of his prime powerful body to its pornographic filthiest.
But the lights never came on across the street, so Steve retired early to hit the gym before the sun came up.
Cary sat in his darkened room and watched Steve sitting on his windowsill. He came home from the graduation stunned and embarrassed, completely confused and wondering what Steve's little game was.
Was he being cruel on purpose? He didn't sound like he was trying to be mean or mocking in the moments before he stood there naked in front of Cary, displaying for him (and everyone else, it had to be said) that he was just exactly as beautiful and muscular and amazing as he seemed to be. That his clothes, if anything, concealed that he looked even better than expected. That everything about his body, from his wide shoulders to his tightly muscled belly to his low- hanging cock was as close to male perfection as a guy could possibly get.
But why was he doing these things?
He might be able to understand it if Steve ever showed the slightest interest in him, or even looked at him. He certainly watched Steve enough to know if the guy was looking back. But he never was. And it seemed very certain now that all the rumors and his own suspicions were true, that Steve was gay and wanted him… or needed him watching.
Maybe that was it. Steve was some sick fuck who got off on the watching. Which, up to this moment, Cary was very happy to fulfill. He loved to watch as much as or more than Steve liked being watched. But before he was getting away with something, and now Steve knew he was watching, he knew it all along! And he wanted Cary to watch! He enjoyed it!
Which was, for Cary, another sort of turn-on altogether. He wished he were in that room with Steve. He'd let the guy get hot and bothered, strut his stuff, get himself hard, then Cary would teach him a thing or two about what that dick was for. If Steve thought this long- distance worship was hot, wait'll he got a load of what two guys in the same room could do.
But then Steve was gone, and Cary had nothing to show for the night. He lay on top of his sheets and tried to dream the good dream with Steve in it. The really good one.
Steve was in the gym early the next morning, excited to begin his “Summer of Muscle” as he referred to it. He wanted to enter college a different guy, a guy to make other guys stop dead in their tracks. A guy bulging with strength everywhere, an overwhelming image of masculine beauty and power too beautiful and muscular to ignore. A guy to make straight guys consider switching sides.
As far as Cary was concerned, Steve was mostly there already. All Steve had to do was ask.
He was feeling pretty horny this morning as well. Since Steve didn't get a chance to work his bod into a sexual frenzy last night, he was doubly charged up and ready to work his muscles until they screamed.
There was no one else at the gym when he walked in at 5:30 in the morning. He'd jogged to the building from his house to warm everything up so he could dig right in and start building the man he saw in his mind—when that man walked through the doors looking just as gorgeous and amazing as he had so many mornings ago.
Again, he was the handsome, sleek young man he'd been before all his muscle, and his horsedick, swelled into being. Steve was determined not to have this meeting go as the last one had, with him tongue-tied in awe and wonder at the guy. So he finished his reps with the dumbbells, set them aside and walked directly over to the guy who was stretching his long limbs and twisting his firmly muscled body as Steve approached.
The guy seemed at first to take no notice of him. He was so focused on his warm up that he never even met Steve's eyes, but when Steve said, “Hi,” he slowed his warm up and then stood erect, shaking his arms loosely as he scanned Steve's body.
Steve felt almost exactly as if he was being sized up. The man's direct gaze was slightly embarrassing, as if he was looking not just at what Steve was showing on the outside, but what he was hiding on the inside as well. Maybe it was those eyes. There was no color in them save the darkness that looked outward. His face was smooth and sculpted, nearly expressionless like a perfect mask. Then he slowly started to walk around Steve's body. Steve could recognize a hint of the scent that had saturated his towel after the guy wiped himself down with it at the end of their last meeting. “I'm… I'm Steve.”
“Yes,” he said, “I know.” His voice brought back their last encounter full and hard. The soft, deep growl that came out barely above a whisper. Still, in the large empty room, it rang in Steve's ears and shocked him like a deep, hot kiss on the mouth.
Steve wrinkled his brow. “So, you know my name but I don't know—”
“Take off your shirt.” It was more of a command than a request. The guy was standing behind him, so he couldn't see what expression, if any, crossed over his mask of male beauty.
Steve simply complied. He pulled the ends from his sweatpants and tugged the gray cotton shirt over his head, holding it limp in his hand. His muscles were pumped and hard, vibrating from his workout. Suddenly, hands were on his shoulders, squeezing firmly. They moved down his back. They felt smooth and lithe, but so warm and commanding that he simply stood there as they moved across his back.
One was on his side, above his hip, and it circled around to the front. He tensed involuntarily, making his abs jump out like a carton off eggs, but the other hand came up to his neck and slightly massaged him, feeling so good that he felt it all the way down to his balls. “Relax,” the guy said. “No one is going to hurt you.” The hand crawled over his shoulder and across his chest, bringing the two into an embrace back to front. The guy's voice was in his ear, very close, he could feel his warm breath when he said, “You're very beautiful, Steve.”
“I—” He gulped. The words reached through him.
The hands continued to caress him, moving all over his flesh as the guy moved to stand in front of him again. Both of his hands were on the tight, rounded plates of his chest. The touch of them felt both rough and tender, they massaged his skin and muscle and when Steve looked up the guy was looking directly into his eyes. “What do you want, S teve?”
“Tell me what you want.”
“I'm not sure—”
The guy's face finally changed. He smiled, slowly at first. Then the smile reached those dark eyes and his whole face changed. It became warmer, more handsome. Steve wanted nothing else in the world, suddenly, than to have the man's lips pressed to his.
The guy tilted his head and leaned forward, and gave Steve his wish. The guy leaned forward, his hands moving around Steve's muscled torso, pressing their mouths together. The kiss was soft at first, tender and warm, then his strong arms pulled Steve closer and the kiss became more passionate, deeper. He opened Steve's mouth to his and pushed his long tongue inside. It felt thick and hot in Steve's mouth, and he kissed him back eagerly, returning the embrace, wrapping the guy up in his bare, muscled arms, his fingers digging into the guy's soft silken mane.
The kiss deepened. It was Steve's first time kissing another guy, and his hunger was suddenly swelling. Everything he dreamed of, all his hidden secrets, all his desire and denied passion was boiling up inside him, bubbling through his blood. He wanted this never to end, this feeling, the hard embrace, the hot, wet kiss, the feel of another man's bulging body pressed against his own, the hard brawn of it, the pure masculine power.
But it did end, finally. He felt the other man pulling away, the build-up of heat inside him dampening. His lips reached to hold the guy's mouth to his own, but his arms fell away and then they stood there, looking at each other.
“Is that all?”
Steve felt an anger fill him. What was the guy doing, playing with him? Toying with him? “What the fuck is up with you?”
He was smiling again. Then he moved around Steve, said, “Excuse me,” and went to the pec deck.
Things got weirder fast. As Steve watched, he felt a distinct sense of déjà vu. It was as if the other morning was repeating itself exactly. This time he walked over to watch the guy work out, to see what happened to his body, how he was growing so huge so fast, what the muscles looked like.
The guy was wearing the exact same outfit, even. Steve hadn't noticed that, he was too engrossed with finding out who the guy was when he had been so… blissfully interrupted.
The guy set his arms behind the padded levers of the machine and started pressing them together. Immediately, Steve could see that his chest was swelling. Each pump produced a bigger growth of muscle. He could almost hear the guy's body grow, his power swell as his muscles bulged larger and larger. The tight shirt started developing the same small tears along the seams as his body grew, and then his thick lats swelled suddenly outward like wings and the T-shirt ripped open. Then his shoulders bulged thick and fat and round and the shirt tore more.
The guy smiled—Steve remembered that, too, from the last time. The guy smiled and pumped a final, hard push of the weight and the shirt exploded off his body, ripping itself apart to expose the deep, hard development that was suddenly everywhere on his torso.
This close, Steve could see the muscle fibers clearly. They pulsed and bulged, sleek and fat with brawn. His chest was now two rounded globes of power, with thick cables erupting out from the deep separation between. His had a six-pack of rippling muscle on his tight belly that swelled and retracted as he breathed. He allowed the paddles to relax back, stretching his huge chest wide and flaring his thick lats before standing up.
He seemed taller. Was that possible? His dark, dark eyes sparkled and he stood next to Steve near the machine and turned toward him. The stood chest to chest, skin to skin. The guy had a slick sheen of sweat across his muscled flesh and, like last time, he said, “Excuse me,” and moved his bigger body across Steve's well-trained one. His scent was stronger, deeper and more profoundly male than when they kissed as if he was growing more strongly masculine as well as more muscular.
He approached the tighmaster and sat down, positioning his fine, round ass on the seat and bending his legs behind the paddles to lift the heavy plates of iron.
Steve followed him over and squatted down on his haunches, positioning himself in front of and between the guy's legs to watch them explode. If this happened the same way, he'd be able to witness not only the guy's long legs swelling with growth, but also to watch his dick start to demonstrate its own amazing development.
It didn't take more than a couple of pumps before things started happening. The guy was ballooning with muscle, and after the third flex, with his thighs and calves blooming and growing, Steve could see the guy's bulging basket start swelling. Then the side seams of his shorts began to split, starting at the hem and ripping upwards as the coiled meat in his groin grew more massive with each flex of his swelling muscular legs.
Eight pumps and they were huge. Ten pumps and they were massive. At twelve pumps Steve watched the snake in the guy's loins crawl longer and longer until every inch of its massiveness was pressing so forcibly against the shorts that the seam was stretching itself apart.
Then the guy stood and Steve rose to his feet with him and the fat bulge between the guy's legs subsided as the length of his grown cock relaxed downward, drawn by what Steve imagined being its heavy poundage of blood-engorged meat. The shorts were so tightly drawn against the dude's thickly muscled thighs that the dick, though it clearly wanted to, couldn't completely free itself.
“Excuse me,” he said softly, rubbing his mass of re-developed muscle against Steve's exposed skin. The guy's body dripped with sweat, and the stink of his quick but effective workout rose off his body and surrounded Steve like a mist of sex. Steve took the opportunity of their closeness to try to break this spell, to rouse the guy from the dream of their encounter. As the young man moved against him, Steve sought another embrace, another meeting of their bodies together, another deep kiss to revive the passion inside him, the want of this man and the desire for what he had.
And the guy fell into the embrace easily, lifting his arms and pulling Steve close inside a shared embrace. His more massive body was rock hard and red hot. His skin was shiny and smooth and wet, his muscles like marble under the slick skin that clung to his brawn. And Steve moved his mouth toward the guy's soft lips and kissed him, and found his kiss returned in kind. He reached down to cup the guy's ass in his hand and squeezed. The kiss became deeper, still, and Steve could feel his whole body growing as hot as the man he held.
But again, the man drew away. He met Steve's gaze with his dark eyes and smiled. Then he moved to the curling bench and lifted a bar heavy with plates and pumped his arms to enormity. The biceps became balloons, filling up faster than ever, literally exploding with new, thick cords of power that swelled into each other until the long cables became melons of muscle. The triceps swelled outward. His shoulder s grew even more massive and, after only a few reps, he set the bar down and straightened, turning toward where Steve stood to display himself in his ultimate glory.
Steve found his heart pounding hard and fast and his dick swelling tall and thick as he again looked on what the guy became. He knew what came next, and just like before the guy started to stretch and bend his masses of muscle, showing that his body wasn't just super strong but super flexible as well. And, again, the guy's cock finally outgrew his short's capacity to restrain its developing size and they shredded off his body, his tool spilling forward and down almost a foot long and as thick as a beer can. The head was a red plum, his balls were heavy and round and hanging low behind that massive evidence of his overwhelming manhood.
He walked toward Steve, the heaviness of his dick causing it to slowly swing in a slow arc around his fattened balls, and he stood in front of him, inches away.
Steve didn't have his towel, but he was still holding his T-shirt. So the guy reached down and took the slim cotton garment and wiped his brow with it, then scrubbed it through his hair. The shirt was doing it's best to soak up the guy's dripping sweat but it was just a T- shirt after all.
He took it and lifted one arm and rubbed it under, into the dark forest of curls in the pit. His shoulder muscles bulged and swelled. Then he repeated the gesture under his other arm. The shirt reeked of him already, of his deeply masculine scent.
Then Steve reached to take the shirt and the man paused, giving it to him. And Steve finished the job of polishing the beautiful, massive form before him.
He unwadded the shirt and placed it in his open palm and wiped across the guy's chest. He could feel the man's heat and hardness through the material, feel the shirt dampen against his palm. He wiped down his tight, rippled belly and the sides of his torso, then his arms.
The shirt was sopping, unable to gather any more of the man's steaming heat, but it didn't matter to Steve. The man's eyes watched his movements, and he turned so Steve could rub the cotton across his bulging back, the wideness of his upper which he spread open like wings, down the to the deeply tapered waist, and down further.
Steve sank to his knees as he rubbed his shirt over the muscled mounds of the man's perfect ass. He mopped over the tight mountains of muscular beauty and into the deep dimples on either side. Then the man repositioned his feet to open himself to Steve's tough, and Steve slowly, tenderly pushed the shirt between the globes of the guy's butt, into the hairy crack and down, further down, and onto his tight, red hole.
Turning again, Steve found himself face to cock with the biggest tool he ever dreamed of. It was firm and fat and finely veined. The head was long and thick, with a flaring ridge he had a sudden desire to tongue. Instead, he gently surrounded its girth with the shirt and, cupping his hands around the shaft, he dragged the cotton along its length and polished the drooping head. Then he lifted it—it *was* heavy, incredibly so!—and lifted his round, hairy balls into the shirt and caressed them gently, reverently, lovingly.
Then he wiped down his legs, but they remained wet because the shirt was literally dripping now, saturated with hot wetness so that the silky dark hair on his long, muscular legs clung in wavy lines to his copper skin.
He turned again, facing Steve as he rose to his feet. “Thank you,” he said softly. Then he lifted his hands to Steve's chin and drew their lips together another time and gifted Steve with a soft kiss, a tenderness that brushed against his lips so lightly that he almost didn't feel it.
Then he smiled, meeting Steve's astonished gaze, and moved around him toward the exit.
“Not this time,” he said to himself. This time, the man wasn't going to disappear. This time, Steve followed his high, round ass from the gym into the locker rooms. This time he wanted to see where he went, and maybe get the fucker's name.
The guy walked slowly and deliberately through the lockers toward the showers. He moved with a sleek, athletic gait, his hips swaying invitingly, the muscles bunching and stretching in evidence of his vast power. He left a wet trail of footprints on the concrete and Steve tossed the sopping shirt aside (after breathing in the heady aroma of the man's overwhelmingly masculine scent) and struggled to get his sweatpants off, but his boner was making that difficult.
The man turned the corner into the open showers and Steve heard the water engage. It sounded almost like applause to him, as if the empty room was so proud to be able to wash the amazing body it saw that it couldn't help it.
Steve leaned a hand against the wall as he watched the man stand under the steaming flow, He hung his head down and let the water pour over his dark mane. It streamed like a river through the deep development of his bulging power. Steve felt jealousy that the water touched the man everywhere at once, like he wished he could, like he wanted to be all over that beautiful muscular man's amazing form.
Finally he got free of his sweats and walked purposely toward the guy. “Hey,” he called.
The man looked over at him. He smiled, a toothy open smile. An invitation, almost. He straightened and turned, the blasting water showering outward as if encountering a rocky shoal. The hot water flew all around him, some landing across Steve's naked form like drops of fire.
He didn't wait for anything. He went up to the guy, into the hot stream, and put his hand behind the guy's neck and pulled their mouths together. This was no chaste, tender kiss. This was passion and desire. This was hunger. This was want. This was need.
Steve concentrated all his need into the kiss and was nearly shocked out of his skin when he felt a hand on his hard prick. A hand not his own. The guy's touch was magical. He surrounded Steve's stiffy and slowly stroked him. Steve could feel the touch everywhere. The guy was rubbing his thumb along the underside of his helmet, were the head split. His fingers gripped onto him and stroked again, slowly. The kiss went on, and tongues were employed. The guy's felt huge inside Steve's mouth, and he remembered this feeling from minutes ago. The feeling that he had a fat, pliable dick in his mouth, a dick painting a wet trail of pleasure inside him.
He rose up on his toes when the guy's other hand found his ass and his fingers started to dig deeply between his mounds. He felt the tingle of an unknown touch on his asshole, the press of something familiar yet alien. His own ass play was expected, he knew where his fingers would go. This guy's explorations were new, amazing, experienced.
The hot water poured over and between their bodies. Steve felt the man's newly grown muscle pressing against him, the hard roundness of them, the sleekness of the guy's skin. His own hand moved off the guy's neck as he tried to wrap an arm around his shoulders, but he couldn't anymore. The man was so big, now, that he stretched beyond his arm's capacity.
Steve's whole body trembled as his undercarriage continued to experience the guy's well-informed touch. His dick felt harder than it had ever felt before, as if the guy was squeezing growth into it. He tried to relax his ass, to allow more exploration, but everything was overheating. Between the kiss, the stroking and the poking, Steve's body was feeling more overall sexual pleasure than it ever had at one time before.
He could feel his load building, feel himself close to cumming, and he tried to hold himself bad. But the guy was insistent, his touch constant, his passion and power and size overwhelming, and Steve was suddenly shooting his creamy cargo all over the guy's hand, and his belly, and everywhere. The guy was stroking him fast and hard, drawing his seed from him, making his cum harder with each pump until his load was spent and he sagged into the guy's embrace.
The held each other under the hot water. The guy felt so good, his embrace was firm and rock solid. “Who are you,” Steve whispered.
“You know,” the guy answered.
Steve breathed slow and steady against the man's broad muscular beauty, his overwhelming masculine power. “I don't—” he said. “I don't know who you are.”
The guy broke the embrace, holding Steve by the arms, meeting his gaze. The room was fogged with steam, nothing could be seen but the two of them inside the hot, thick cloud. “You know,” he repeated. Then he kissed him, that same tender way, and backed away into the swirls of gray.
Steve stood under the hot spray for a few minutes more, and then went out to get dressed. He found his sweat-soaked T-shirt on the floor near his locker where he dropped it. The guy's strong stink was all over it.
He took it home with him.