Description Rocky starts working out to distract attention from his embarrassing donkey dick, only to make himself a spectacle that way too. Once he hits college he catches the eye of student teacher Jake, who sees possibilities for Rocky...
|Updated||01 Jun 2005|
He'd started out life as a skinny kid, but he hardly remembered that. Rocky's parent's had overcompensated by feeding him to help him gain some weight, and what he did remember, back as far as kindergarten, was being the pudgy kid, the fat boy, the geek, the nerd, the last kid chosen for any team. They'd even given him the nickname, Rocky, to lend him a more rough-and-tumble, regular guy image, or self-image. Whatever. It hadn't worked.
So, like so many boys in so many stories, when Rocky hit puberty and started to find himself getting new and different feelings about almost everything, especially his place in the world of his contemporaries, he decided to do something about his perceived inadequacies. He determined he would not be the fat-boy geek or the skinny dweeb any more. He would enlist his parents' desire for his normalcy and acceptance and use it to better himself.
At only twelve, he was too young to join a gym on his own, but he talked his dad, who trained at a local facility, into taking him along and teaching him how to work out. He nagged his parents into fitting out a room in the basement as a workout room for him, with just a few basics, like an adjustable bench, a rack for a barbell, a set of dumbbells, and a decent stack of weight plates. He also badgered them into taking him to the health food and supplement store where they talked to the muscled-up guy behind the counter about what he should be taking to burn off his body fat and build his muscle.
Armed with his determination and an endless supply of pills and awful tasting powders, which he religiously mixed into milk or juice several times a day, he began to chart a new course for himself. He ran. At first, once around the block almost made him throw up, but soon one mile became two, then three, and within a few months, he was running at least five miles every day after school. He went to the gym with his dad three days a week. He was the only kid his age there, although there were a few older guys who came with their dads, too, and whose budding buffness made him hunger to change. That hunger drove him to his workout corner of the basement every day, even days that he went to gym, where he pushed as much weight as he possibly could.
Time crept by, as it does for kids that age, anxious to grow up, and in Rocky's case, anxious to see change. Changes were happening, but it seemed to Rocky that they were almost imperceptible. He was getting taller, but not as fast as some of his friends. He was sprouting hair in new places, and if that could have made up for his height, he did seem to be outpacing his buddies in that regard. He may have entered middle school at only five feet nine inches, but he already had enough of a bush and pit hair to draw comments in the locker room. And the inches he lacked in height he was making up for in the size of his meat, which seemed to have gone from boyish to biggish in a matter of months. His six inches, completely soft, drew more stares, to Rocky's embarrassment, than the rapidly spreading pubic hair that it hung from. But what he wanted was to be buff and big, and the rest hardly mattered to him.
A thousand crunches a day with a ten pound weight held behind his head was barely making a dent in his abs, although the running had pretty much melted the fat away. He could, if he flexed hard, see the beginnings of the dips and ridges that would eventually become a six pack, but how long did it take? He'd flex his arm and see the barest suggestion of a muscle bulging. It didn't matter that none of the other guys his age even had that much. He was naturally of a thicker build than the others, which only started becoming apparent when puberty kicked in full force. His narrow hips had exaggerated his love handles when he'd carried that baby fat, but as it fell away, they emphasized the smallness of his waist and the high, round curve of his butt. He did notice those things, looking in the mirror, wishing he were a stud instead of a loner nerd.
Middle school was an eternity, during which Rocky did grow from five nine to five ten and a half. By fourteen, he was sprouting hair all over his chest, and the trail that had starting creeping up his belly from his pubes got thick and heavy and grew right into the chest hair. His legs were dark with hair, and his beard had come in so fast and so heavy that he had a dark shadow of stubble right after he shaved. He let his pants or shorts hang low because it made him feel good, somehow, that he had more to show than the other guys. It did embarrass his some, but he hid that and felt good about being able to appear cool about getting hairy so young. His trail spread out and joined up with his pubes so that, even moderately low-hanging clothes showed that wide-spread tangle of dark hairs reaching out across several inches of the waistband. And below that display of early manliness, his still-growing meat—his long, fat dick and his so-called bull balls—had kept pace with his hair in growth and made its thick and heavy eight inches soft known by the bulge that always, unavoidably, pushed out a noticeable bulge in the otherwise flat hang of his khaki or denim. He heard the teasing behind his back, and he tried his best to find underwear that would minimize the obvious. Never loose boxers for him, he wore only tight briefs or boxer briefs, but, no matter how snugly they held his package, they were little help diminishing the growing bulge. His constant embarrassment made him more determined to get big enough to deflect attention away from the unwanted notoriety he was getting as “hairy boy,” and “bull balls,” and “donkey dick.”
Slowly, he did gain weight from all his work and the pounds of supplements ingested. He entered high school at a hundred eighty five pounds, which, the coach said, when he tried to talk him into going out for wrestling, was not bad for a five-ten-and-a-half guy. But Rocky didn't want to go out for wrestling. He didn't want to put on a singlet and tangle with some guy in front of all the kids, especially imagining how he would look in a singlet, on full display. No. He just wanted to pump weights and get big. But no matter what he did, it didn't seem to be happening like he'd pictured it.
He thought by now, by fifteen, he'd be getting built and buff. Oh, sure, he did have fifteen inch arms, twenty six inch thighs, and his chest was forty-two and starting to show some definition to his pecs. Even his lats were getting a little spread to them. They should. Hell, he did enough work on them. And he'd kept his waist to a tight twenty-nine and was showing a definite six-pack. But damn it, he still didn't look like a really buff guy. He wanted to be a muscle guy, now, with all this work, and even if he could flex up some muscle, even if some of the kids were teasing him, lately, about being a muscle dude, or a bodybuilder—meaning queer, he knew by how they said it—he still didn't feel like he was getting anywhere. He saw one shape in the mirror and another in his head. He could feel he was tight, but walking around school, even in the locker room, he still felt like the pudgy nerdy guy. When the guys looked at him, or made comments under their breath to each other about him, he knew they were talking about him by their glances and looks—he just knew they were making fun of him for being a damn geek. So he'd go home, lift even heavier weights, and look at some pictures of some really huge muscle guys, dream about being so muscular that no one would make fun of him, and he'd jack off his eleven-inch boner.
Jake started his student teaching his last year at State. He'd just turned twenty and felt anxious about the prospect of trying to start yet another new life, this time as a grown-up gym teacher. But he was used to it. Being a military brat, as they called him, he'd been in and out of a dozen schools and three universities. Never any advance warning or notice. His dad's top secret work had them picking up and moving at a moment's notice, and, consequently, Jake had grown up pretty much a loner.
Luckily, he had the looks and easy charm that won him at least superficial admiration, so he did make friends easily. But he rarely got close to anyone. Instead, he pursued solitary activities. He ran, he swam, he worked out, he did countless calisthenics in true military style, and he spent hours at his computer playing games and cruising x-rated sites. He didn't particularly like the entanglements that invariably occurred when he dated, so most of his sexual experience was between virtual images on his monitor and his right hand. Relationships always took a back seat to his school work and athletics. Those he could take with him, transfer from place to place, and they asked for nothing in return.
Jake left a wake of frustrated girls and a few disappointed guys behind him, but he barely noticed. He was aware that he attracted quite a few hotties. They saw his six-two, lean and carved body wearing clothes like a model, his handsome, chiseled, sandy good looks, angular bones, full mouth, and eyes as dark as bittersweet chocolate, and they swooned inside for an intimate moment with him. A few aggressive girls did get a brief but breathtaking answer to that prayer. His lovemaking was practiced and skillful, owing more to reading about how to pleasure one's partner than to any special endowment. In that department he was adequate, but nothing beyond average—a fate which he accepted but which he could never overlook. He told himself over and over, “it's not the meat, it's the motion.” So he made himself an expert. He was, however, an eternally disappointed expert. Not that he felt cheated. He was perfectly, acceptably, averagely endowed. He just looked in the mirror and wished that the good looks he enjoyed extended down into his briefs. That one shortcoming, in his mind, leveled everything else to the rank of average Joe. Good looking, hopelessly average Joe.
In the locker room the first day at the high school, he encountered a kid who brought up all those feelings, and he found himself pissed at the guy but drawn to him by some strange familiarity. It was after regular hours, and a group had been working out in the weight room where Jake was supposed to be in charge. It was an extracurricular activity that always fell to the new guy, coaching the would-be weightlifters and football jocks. Jake was cleaning up in the locker room, ready for his own shower after the allotted hour in the weight room. The kids were showering and dressing, but the one kid in particular had caught his attention. A great looking kid, he'd seemed shy and insecure, which struck a too-familiar resonance in Jake. This kid stripped to his briefs, moving quickly in the way guys do when they are trying not to be “seen” and not to appear as though they are shy at the same time. It was a flash of whities Jake saw as the kid hung up his shorts in the locker, then a brief peek at an extraordinarily hairy and well-endowed groin, and then the white terry towel was wrapped tightly and the kid headed for the showers. But as he walked, the towel couldn't hide the thick curve below the spot where the kid's dark treasure trail disappeared into the folds. Jake hustled to follow him to the shower, also mindful of not being obvious.
Even as he did, he wondered why. Was he trying to torture himself? To make sure he felt even more average? Or was it just healthy male curiosity that leads guys to compare? At any rate, he took the shower next to the kid. This kid was not going to give him much chance to see his goods, although he could in no way successfully hide it all, either. He soaped up facing the wall. Jake knew the kid knew he was looking. He saw him glance over a couple times, very quickly, hoping not to get caught. And Jake watched, trying not to openly stare, as the kid soaped himself up. He was a teacher, here, after all. But this kid was fucking built. He had to be a senior, although he had a boyish look to him. Yet the boyishness was only in the features of his face. He was probably the hairiest kid Jake had ever seen, and probably the most muscular. This guy had arms and a chest like a junior bodybuilder, and his chest was covered with hair. His legs were dark with hair, as were his forearms. The treasure trail ran unbroken from chest to groin, flaring at the bottom where it plunged into one of the biggest, densest bushes Jake had ever seen. The kid's leg hair grew all the way up to his pubes and his butt. The only part of him that wasn't hairy was his back, the tops of his shoulders, and his upper arms. It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and the kid had stubble that covered the whole lower half of his face, almost joining up with the chest hair that grew up onto the base of his throat. He wore sideburns, an inch wide, down nearly to his jaw line. His thick, black hair was cropped short, not quite military, and Jake caught a brief glimpse of Bora Bora blue eyes under thick, black eyebrows.
He couldn't explain it, but he wanted to know this kid. He saw the painful shyness that kept him turned away, and he knew in his gut the feelings of inadequacy this kid shared with him, despite obvious physical qualities that set him miles above other guys. If possible, this guy was more aware of his imagined inadequacies than Jake was, and it somehow put those feelings into perspective. He could help him.
Shit, the kid was a fucking heart-breaker and didn't know it. He had the kind of body Jake only fantasized about having now and then when he was especially horny and wandered onto one of those muscle-guy web sites. His arms looked to be at least nineteen inches. His pecs were like thick, round-edged paving stones. His abs, a cobbled path to the biggest meat Jake had ever seen in real life. His legs crowded each other apart with their hard mass, so defined that the hair didn't hide the cuts. His waist was so tight and small, and his hips so narrow, that the hard, high-seated butt muscles achieved some kind of natural perfection, and the flare of his torso seemed unnaturally perfect, the pecs set off by thickly flaring lats under the heavily muscular arms, capped by a pair of delts and traps that were stunning in their thickly molded perfection. And Jake knew that, for some reason, this kid didn't see any of that. He was embarrassed about being so hung, a problem Jake would have gladly taken on, and probably didn't even realize what an incredible build he had, how much he embodied some kind of masculine ideal. Jake knew, at least, that he was good looking in that model way, even if he couldn't get past his own average-ness. But this kid, he could tell, didn't have a clue. Jake was sucked in by some strong force, a recognition, and he knew he had to befriend this guy.
He waited until they were dressed and heading out of the gym. He managed to walk out next to the kid, bumping into him at the doorway.
“Oh, sorry,” he said.
“That's okay,” the kid answered, glancing over, smiling shyly, and glancing away again.
“Shouldn't've tried to get through the door same time as a guy big as you,” Jake persisted.
The kid visibly blushed. “Ha,” he half-laughed, embarrassed, and quickly glanced at Jake again.
Jake held out his hand. “Mr. Jacobs,” he said. “Jake, out of class. Feels funny to be Mr. Somebody, like my dad.”
“Yeah,” the kid answered, “the new student coach. I'm Rocky,” he said, and grasped Jake's outstretched hand. “Nice to meet ya.”
Rocky couldn't believe the new coach, Jake, had been so friendly to him. All the girls could talk about was what a hottie this guy was, and everybody had already pegged him as pretty into himself and aloof. Well, not exactly unfriendly. He smiled and nodded if you said hi, but he kept to himself and didn't open up much to anyone. But most teachers didn't. It was just that this guy seemed young enough to be one of them, even if he was a coach. Rocky had noticed him, of course, and had felt all his old insecurities rush up when he found himself in the same locker room and showers with the guy. Here he was all hairy and goofy, like some animal, and trying so hard to build a decent body, and this guy just naturally had the looks of an Abercrombie model, all sandy-haired and all-American, slender, totally athletic looking body, smooth and tan.
When he found himself in the locker room with the new coach right there, he tried as hard as he could to act casual, wishing he could blend into the tile walls and disappear, but the guy kept looking at him, probably thinking what a dork he was, some kind of ape boy or something. And even though he knew he should be proud to have such a big dick, it still embarrassed him when it got stares, and he naturally tried not to let it show itself any more than he could help.
But there was something about the new coach, from the few fast glances he could get, something that seemed almost friendly. Understanding. Like he could read into his head about how he felt, and it was okay. It was hard to nail the feeling, but he could tell the guy was hanging back when he dressed, almost like he wanted to be friendly. If only Rocky weren't so shy, he'd have smiled and acted friendly to him. But then, he was a teacher, even if he seemed so young. Everyone said he was so stand-offish, but he didn't seem so bad. Or maybe he was one of those guys who so much knows how hot he is that he just naturally, without meaning to, puts down other guys because he is, himself, a top dog. And Rocky almost never said hi first. That would be taking the chance of looking like a jerk. Especially to a coach. So he dressed and left the locker room without saying anything. Until the guy almost ran him over in the doorway.
After that afternoon, it seemed the coach was taking a special interest in him. He saw him every day after school in the weight room, and, even though the coach helped all the guys—spotting them sometimes, pushing them to lift more and heavier—he seemed to be spending more time with Rocky, encouraging him, pushing him. He was tough and pushed hard, yelling at them sometimes, calling them wimps and stuff. But Rocky seemed to get more of that than the others. He didn't know if the coach was being extra tough on him because he thought he was such a nerd, but he knew he'd benefit from the pushing, so he went along, and he took the lessons home to his own weight room.
“Rocky,” Jake said one day after the training class, “could I see you in my office after you clean up?”
Rocky showered and wondered. Was he about to get kicked out of the weight training group? He knew those football guys probably were what the coach really wanted to be teaching, the way they grunted and groaned and acted like animals pushing the weights. Rocky was embarrassed by all that, and just lifted quietly, pushing as much as he could possibly lift, but gritting his teeth so as not to call attention to himself. Probably Jake felt like, with all the pushing, Rocky wasn't getting anywhere. Rocky felt that way himself. Wouldn't be a surprise to be told he wasn't making the grade.
Jake had to watch himself, to make sure it didn't appear he was giving preferential treatment to the kid, Rocky. But there was something about his quiet, serious determination that made Jake want to develop him. He wanted the kid to see himself for what he was, or what Jake saw in him. And there was something else. Jake saw a potential in the kid that he was sure the kid had no idea he possessed. Being a naturally slender guy, no matter how hard he tried to bulk up his muscles, he only succeeded in getting more cut up. Not that that was bad. He had an excellent body, if slender and cut had been his ideal. It wasn't. He would give anything to be muscled up like a bodybuilder. His dad had told him to be patient, that one day the research he was doing might help him break through that barrier, but it was too long coming, and so Jake had let his thoughts about that kind of muscularity rest on other guys. Sometimes, he'd look up bodybuilding sites on the web. He read about methods, techniques, supplements, everything he could find about what it took to create huge muscles. Sadly for him, that included genetics. Maybe some military research might someday be able to push a guy past that hurdle, but for now, he was stuck with what he'd been given. Average. Maybe the best of average, but average. And this kid, Rocky, was everything he was not.
He had the frame. He had the natural thickness of muscle structure and body shape. He had the longest, fullest muscle bellies he'd seen outside the pros. And, he didn't know why it struck him so deeply, except that it made his own feelings of inadequacy so much stronger by comparison, and, for that exact reason, he felt a kind of resonance with this guy. He wanted to help him see himself the way Jake could see him, to help him develop the way he sensed, from how hard he worked, the kid wanted to develop. If he, Jake, couldn't be a bodybuilder, he could help this guy be one. He could see how the kid could be. He could probably get to Olympia size while still in his teens.
The thought held an excitement for Jake, which he thought of as helping the kid the same way he wished he could get past his own stupid hang-ups. At least he knew them for what they were. He wasn't sure this kid even knew that. He decided to bring it out, get the kid to open up by asking about his goals, and then, maybe, he could talk to him.
“So, Rocky,” Jake leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head, “I see you working very hard in the weight room, and I see you getting more results than the other guys. But you're so quiet. Almost withdrawn. I get the feeling you feel intimidated by those noisy football jocks.”
Rocky caught a glimpse of the flat, rock hard, carved abs that showed between the waistband of Jake's shorts and the bottom of the tee shirt that lifted when he'd raised his arms behind his head. He quickly looked away, looked down. The guy had him pegged. He was such a loser. Even the coach could see it.
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Rocky, they are popular, true, and they are big guys, but in a couple years, they're gonna be big-bellied has-beens, most of them. Do you have any idea how much more potential you have than they do? Tell me, Rocky—what are your real goals? What do you want to achieve with all the hard work you're doing?”
Now Rocky was really embarrassed. How could he tell this guy he wanted to be like one of those big bodybuilders?
“I don't know. I just want to get big, I guess.”
Jake put his arms down on the desk and leaned forward. He looked at Rocky until Rocky looked up to meet his gaze. Then he spoke very quietly and very directly.
“Rocky, you are big. You could compete if you wanted to.”
“No way,” Rocky said, trying to shrink in his chair.
“I'm serious. Look at you. How old are you? Eighteen?”
“Seventeen. Be eighteen in May.”
“Amazing. So, just tell me, Rocky. Don't be shy or embarrassed. I'll tell you I always wished I could get big … big like a pro bodybuilder. I can't bulk up like that. But you can. You're a natural. Just between you and me, if I were like you, I'd be trying to get as big as I could.” He smiled gently, sincerely, earnestly as he paused, looking directly into Rocky's eyes while what he was telling him sank in. “I would,” he added, to drive it home, “I'd get huge.” Then he said, “So tell me, Rocky. How big do you want to be?”
Rocky swallowed hard. He couldn't believe this conversation was happening. Jake was even more of a cool guy than Rocky had thought. Wow. He'd get as big as he could. Huge. Rocky had never heard anyone come right out and say something like that. The other kids, even the football jocks, acted like building big muscles just to be really muscular was some kind of faggy thing to do. The football players just had to be big for the sport. But Jake understood. And he was confiding in him. And this cool young coach who would get huge himself thought he, Rocky, was big now, muscular. His head was spinning. Jake thought he had potential to be one of those really huge guys. The whole conversation seemed surreal. He realized he was sweating.
“Gosh, coach. I don't know. I just always wanted to be big, to get built, so I wouldn't be such a wimp. But it seems like I never can really get big, or big enough, anyway.” Rocky stammered, heard himself blathering but not answering the question. How big did he want to be? He was so embarrassed to say it. But the coach already had said it. Why was he such a wimp? As if having big muscles would fix that.
Jake persisted, his voice quiet, steady, even, his gaze direct. “How big, Rocky?”
“Uh …” Rocky felt his heart speed up. He had to say it. He had to tell this guy. “… uh, like you said, I guess.”
Now Jake leaned back again, smiling. “What I said was that if I had your gifts, I'd want to get as big as I could. I want to get huge.”
“Yeah,” Rocky answered.
“Great,” Jake smacked the desk and made Rocky jump. “Excellent.” He leaned close again. “Can I tell you something else, just between you and me?”
“Sure,” Rocky said.
“I'd like to make that happen for you. And for me. Make you like my own personal project, if you'd be into something like that.”
“You mean be my trainer?”
“Yeah. Your trainer, your mentor, your big brother. Make you grow. Get you huge. You can say it, you know. It's just us, and I get it, Rocky. It would be exciting for me, too, to help you maximize your potential, to get you there.” He leaned closer, spoke even more directly. “You want to be huge, don't you? ”
Now Rocky leaned forward, too. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I really do.”
“I know,” Jake said quietly. “It's a hunger. A drive. A need. I understand. I know it very well. When you're alone, looking at pictures and stuff, you think there's no way you could get too big. Even then you'd want more. I saw it in you, in the weight room.”
“Yeah,” Rocky agreed. He couldn't think of anything else to say. He felt almost giddy that his dream was out and in what seemed like the safe hands of someone who understood.
“Great. Good. Okay.” Jake stood up, suddenly making this office visit seem more official. “We'll have to talk more, about supplements and stuff. As long as we're in school, I can't look like I'm giving you preferential treatment, so you'll have to take my signals in the weight room. But you can bet I'm going to push you hard. Are you ready for that?”
“Yes, sir.” Rocky felt such gratitude.
“Once you graduate next month, we can get into more of a personal training thing. I'll set up a training center at my place, or we can use a gym, although a gym can be too distracting. I'm more for the one-on-one kind of training.”
“Yeah, okay,” Rocky said, feeling his excitement color his face. “That would be great.”
“A couple more things, then, before you take off.” Jake came around the desk with a cloth tape measure in his hand. “Let's get a few measurements on you, so we can chart your progress. Why don't you slip that shirt off for a minute?”
Rocky felt the flushing in his face get hotter. He lifted up and wriggled out of the polo shirt. It had been getting more difficult lately to get the tight armbands of the sleeves off his arms. He dropped the shirt on the chair where he'd been sitting. He felt both embarrassed and proud, because of what Jake had told him, standing there exposed down to the lo-rise waistband of his briefs which sat only half an inch higher than the sagging waistband of his short, extremely aware of the dark fringe of hair sticking out for about six inches across his lower belly. He could pull his pants up all day, but they fell right back down like all the other guys. Only his pubes grew so wide and high and thick that they always seemed to show some, no matter how he tried to keep them covered. He felt almost naked in front of the coach, and, somehow, even that was okay now.
Jake motioned for him to flex an arm, which he did. Jake wrapped the tape around it.
“You don't think you're big?” Jake said, holding the tape in place and looking up at Rocky. “Do you know how big this arm is? Cold?”
“Not really,” Jake answered shyly. “Over eighteen, I think.”
“And you don't think that's big? Think again, muscle boy. That arm measures nineteen and a quarter! Lift your arms.”
Rocky lifted his arms, exposing thick, dark patches of hair that filled his deep armpit hollows. Jake stood in front of him and reached the tape around his chest, bringing it together firmly against Rocky's left pec. He had to use a finger to lift hair out of the way so he could read the number. He looked up at Rocky's face again.
“You sure are one hairy kid, for seventeen. And one built one, too. Forty-nine and three quarters, my young friend.”
Rocky didn't say anything. The numbers did sound impressive when he heard them said like that. But he didn't know what to say about the comment about his being so hairy. Maybe he should have shaved, or maybe Jake would tell him he should.
In an almost clinical way, Jake put his hands, fingers outstretched, one on each pectoral muscle, sizing up the muscle, feeling its density and hardness.
“Very solid. Good shape. Even with all that hair, you have incredible definition.”
He kept talking about his hair. Rocky knew he was blushing like mad, but he wasn't going to give in to that embarrassment. It was too late, now, anyway, and he liked what he was hearing.
“Thanks,” he said. “Do you think I should shave down?”
“Oh, hell no. Not if you're not competing. It's actually pretty decorative on you. It looks fine.”
While he talked, Jake measured around Rocky's waist. He let the tape drop, but held the end against Rocky's thick trail, adjusting it a couple of times up and down, so that Rocky almost felt like he was feeling the hair on his belly. Finally pinning the end, Jake said, “Thirty and a quarter. Nice and tight. Gives you a great V. Okay, drop the shorts for a sec so we can check the legs.”
Suddenly Rocky was afraid that the excitement of the moment might have stirred him up in a way that could be monumentally embarrassing. But he chose to ignore the possibility, hoping his nervousness would have just the opposite effect. He undid his shorts and let them fall to his ankles. Looking down, he was more aware than ever of the ridiculous size of the bulge in his tight, low cut briefs. He carried so much in his briefs that the weight and size of his package pulled down the waistband to expose those pubes that were always showing. Why did his pubes grow so high? Why was he so ridiculously big? Jake didn't even look, that Rocky could tell. He just slipped a hand between Rocky's legs to pull one thigh far enough out to get the tape around it, deftly avoiding touching anything he shouldn't.
“Twenty seven. Not bad. Need to work those a little harder.” He measured his calf. “Eighteen. Well, you're not quadzilla. Not yet, anyway. But with your genetics, the right supplements and hard work … In fact, my dad might be coming up with something that could be an answer to both of our dreams. Get dressed.”
“What's that?” Rocky answered, quickly pulling up his shorts and struggling back into his shirt.
“Oh, some special military project. Some kind of muscle building supplement that's supposed to be the next step beyond steroids. And legal. And without those bad side effects. Speaking of which,” he fastened his eyes on Rocky's with a smile and a wink, “it looks like we might have to get special posing trunks made for you.”
Rocky looked down, yanking up his shorts again, which fell right back down, and he could feel his face blushing so much it almost burned.
“Sorry. Didn't mean to embarrass you. But, honestly, most guys would kill for what you have. I mean the whole package. Go home and feel good about yourself. We'll get you huge, Rocky. Dream big. We're going to make some big dreams come true.”
“Thanks,” was all Rocky could think to say. He opened the door to leave. “Oh. One more thing,” Jake said.
Rocky paused at the door.
“When do you turn eighteen?”
“Two weeks,” Rocky answered.
“So, in less than a month, you'll be a graduate and a legal adult. That's good.” Jake said. “That's good.”
Jake couldn't believe he'd had the nerve to confront the kid, Rocky, the way he had. If he'd been wrong about the kid's fears, hopes, and dreams, it could have been horribly embarrassing. But he'd made it through the semester well-liked by both staff and students, so he felt fairly secure in his position, and he'd felt pretty strongly about his intuition regarding the young muscle stud. And he'd been right: the kid had no idea what he had going for him. Now he could drive the kid toward his dreams, and bring some of his own muscle fantasies to life.
For the next few weeks, Jake pushed Rocky in the weight room. He pushed the other guys, too, so it wouldn't seem like he was doting on Rocky, but he made the kid go up with the weight he was lifting, and was merciless, with an occasional wink, about getting the extra killer reps out of him. Rocky quietly did everything he was told, giving all to his efforts. And Jake created the workout space in his own house, turning over a spare bedroom to the task of creating serious muscle. He bought free weights, benches, and several machines with elaborate cables and pulleys. He installed mirrors on every wall. Mats covered the floor. And he began testing the equipment, pushing himself to ready himself for his new role as mentor and trainer. He could hardly wait to begin.
The month left in the spring semester seemed endless, after that first meeting. They had met again, when Jake gave Rocky a list of supplements to take, when to take them, and how much. All to be approved by his parents, of course. But the weeks did pass, Rocky had his eighteenth birthday, he graduated, and, Jake learned one day after weight training, he'd told his parents about what Jake had told him, about his potential, about training to get the kind of bodybuilder's body he really had come to want.
Jake almost got a hard-on when Rocky told him how his parents had said that the coach was right—that he already did have a bodybuilder body. What got to Jake was the wide-eyed, boyish way Rocky said he told them no he didn't, not really, not like he wanted. He'd told his parents what Jake had gotten him to admit—that he really wanted to get huge—really, really, seriously massive, like the freaky big guys—as big as he could—as big as possible. As Rocky gave voice to his dream, Jake felt like he'd unleashed Rocky's primal desires, and he saw that Rocky was finding a primal strength in them. It seemed like the saying out loud of it had released something in Rocky that was already helping him grow. That and the supplements. In the few weeks before the end of school, Jake could see Rocky begin to mass up, bulk up, and carry his body with less shyness. Nothing dramatic, but Jake could tell a difference, and he could tell Rocky was doing it, not just for himself, but for him, his coach, his mentor.
Finally the day came for Rocky to start his training with Jake. Jake showered early, dressed in silky workout shorts and a loose tank, and waited for nine o'clock, when Rocky was to show up, before he had his morning protein drink. They would both have one, he'd talk some about what they were going to do, and the process of transforming the kid into a muscle god would begin. Jake was more excited than he expected. He'd wanted to Jack off when he showered, but he made the hard decision that he wouldn't. He'd hold back that energy for the workout. He was ready to push this kid right into his own fantasy-become-real. He knew there was masculine power and strength in unreleased sexual energy. He would use that to jump-start this relationship. He was going to create a muscle god.
Rocky had been flying on a cloud ever since his meeting with the coach. He couldn't believe that someone as cool as Jake was taking such an interest in him. He couldn't believe that Jake, and even his parents, were telling him that he looked like a bodybuilder. But, since they'd said it, he had to admit, looking in the mirror, that he might not be a huge bodybuilder, but he was getting that look. He could begin to see the thickness, the flare, the cut mass that gave him the look. He began to feel it when he walked—the way his legs pressed apart, the way his arms hung heavily over his lats, how he could feel the thickness of his back pushing his arms out. It had all been happening so slowly that he didn't even see it, or feel it, but now he could. Oh, he had a long way to go, but he was on his way.
School became a sort of white noise to him. He loaded up on the supplements the coach had recommended, ingested gigantic amounts of protein, whizzed through the rest of his classes and finals, every minute thinking about getting to the weight room where Jake would drive him hard, push him to grow. None of the other guys had a clue that he had a secret pact with Jake, so careful were they not to let on. But Rocky felt the specialness of it, and it gave him such a feeling of buoyancy that he went home from the weight room and pushed even more weight until he was shaking from the effort—and then he'd push some more. He was excited. Thrilled. Ecstatic. The depth of his excitement showed itself in the erections he was getting now all the time. The harder he pushed the weights, the more it turned him on. Flexing in front of the mirror turned him on. Catching a glimpse of himself in the hallway, reflected in the glass of the trophy case, turned him on. When the kids teased him about being a muscle boy, a bodybuilder, that turned him on, now, too. In fact, he'd almost boned up in the showers when he heard some of those comments, and when they said, hey, donkey dick ape boy, you're starting to look like one of those freaks, he almost turned around and let them see his big dick get hard. But he didn't. He turned the water cold, rinsed, and went home and worked out again, this time with a steel hard erection the whole time. He'd show them freak!
The day he was supposed to start working out at Jake's place was the hottest day of the year so far, and he woke at dawn with the birds. He showered, and as he lathered up his hairy chest and abs, legs and arms, pits and groin, he thought about how Jake had commented on how hairy he was and that it looked good. That guy just had a way of making him feel good about himself, making him see himself differently. As he soaped up his cock, letting how big he really was sink in, he got hard thinking about Jake's comment about needing a specially made poser. Just the thought of wearing a poser, of putting this package he was always trying to hide right out there for everyone to see made him so hard. Even just wearing one in front of Jake … But he wouldn't let himself Jack off. He knew he always worked harder when he was horny. The energy was so strong. He flexed and felt his muscles to reinforce the feeling. He made himself so hard it was almost impossible to keep from Jacking off, but he resisted. His will was strong. It had to be to make him strong.
He dressed quickly—jockstrap, loose tee, long loose shorts, trainers—and then looked in the mirror. He didn't watch himself dress, because he was afraid he'd bone up again, seeing himself the way Jake was getting him to look at himself. He just covered up in loose workout gear, then checked to see how he looked for his first day as a real student and protégé of the coach. Even if he was a hairy guy with a slightly too-big nose and caterpillar eyebrows, he really was looking not too bad lately. Maybe he did have more potential than he'd allowed himself to see before. Even in the loose, baggy gear, he still filled the sleeves and chest of the tee, and the shorts showed definite swells and curves, beside the one he was always trying to hide. His butt was like two separate globes sitting high under the waistband, allowing the material to fall between them, defining them. And the legs hung, not exactly tight, but nearly filled by the flaring curve of his quads. He was even seeing more veins sitting on the surface under his tight skin as though forced there, pushed out by the solidifying of his muscles, the hardening and thickening that squeezed the veins out to pump more blood to make him grow. Damn. He could feel himself starting to get hard again thinking about that. The bulge at his groin showed it. He turned away, grabbed his car keys, and headed out the door without even having any breakfast. Jake had said he'd tank him up with all the fuel he would need and anything else. No need for a gym bag. Just jump into the car and go.
Jake made himself stay away from the window when he realized he was standing there, obviously looking for Rocky to arrive. Consequently, he was in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. With casual nonchalance, he opened the door wide and invited the kid in.
Seeing Rocky on his own turf had a completely different feeling than had seeing him in the weight room or even the locker room at school. There, he'd been a teacher. Here, he was his trainer, and Rocky was now longer a high school student with whom he had to take extreme professional care. Now it was all about turning the teen hunk into a serious muscle guy, and the cards were on the table. And already, in his loose, camouflaging clothes, Rocky's body was declaring itself, despite his best efforts to keep it under wraps. Well, that would change—and soon.
“So, muscle boy,” Jake said, leading the kid to the kitchen, and thinking, why not put it right out there from the beginning, “you ready to get serious?”
Rocky laughed, a self-conscious sort of chuckle. “Yeah. Yes sir.”
“Good. All right, then. Let's mix up some body-building nutrition for you, for us both, and then, while it settles for a few minutes, we'll talk.” Jake poured non-fat milk into a blender, added spoonfuls of yoghurt, protein powder, amino acids in liquid form, and several other concoctions that flew by too fast to read the labels. He noticed Rocky watching with intense interest. Throwing in some frozen blueberries, he set the blender whirring.
“You gotta feed that muscle to make it grow. But you already know that, don't you? We're just going to kick up the effects a notch or two with some extra-high-powered things to get those hormones running in overdrive.”
Rocky took the glass offered him. “I think they already are,” he said.
“Not nearly enough,” Jake answered, as he drank his shake. He motioned for Rocky to drink up, and when Rocky's glass was nearly empty, he filled it again with the remainder of the blender's purple contents. “Drink up,” he said.
“That should help get you jump-started. Now, if only my dad would come through with his mysterious stuff. He's been promising for at least a year, keeps teasing me, telling me maybe I can finally bulk up some. I told him about you, about our project here, and he seemed really interested. I sure hope I can get that interest translated into action.”
“You mean that stuff you mentioned before? What is it, anyway?” Rocky finished his shake.
“Some military secret. I don't really know. Supposed to make guys, soldiers, super-strong, but they need to get it fine-tuned. I guess it's like super-roids, but they've worked so hard to avoid the bad side-effects that they keep running into others. Instead of just giving hormone replacement, which means the body doesn't have to make its own, they are trying to make the body create more of the stuff that makes a guy grow muscle and all on its own. That way it can self-regulate. Doesn't take over the function of your nuts, so they don't shrink up and all. Or create acne. Not like amplified puberty, more like some leap beyond puberty, if it just kept going, making a guy more of a guy or something. Anyway, until they get it right, he won't get me any to try on us. But he swears he will, eventually. So, let's show you the workout room, get you suited up.”
Jake led the way back through a hallway into the large back bedroom that he'd converted. With a sweep of a sinewy arm, he indicated the gleaming steel machines, bars, black iron plates, mats, and walls of mirrors that would be the laboratory where they would effect the transformation.
“What do you think?”
“Wow,” Rocky stared at the equipment. “Impressive.” Then he looked at Jake. “What do you mean, suit up? I already am.”
“For a high school gym, maybe. Not for the private domain of a real, hardcore bodybuilder. Isn't that who you are going to be, now, Rocky? Isn't that who you are now?”
“Well,” Rocky visibly pulled into his shy mode. “Yeah, I guess. It sounds so funny to say that.”
“Oh, man,” Jake faked major disappointment, “you gotta know it, man. You can't wimp out on me now. Do you want to get huge, muscle boy? You want the kind of body you were talking about? I know you do. It's just us, man. You gotta say. Say it out loud. Own it. Be it.”
He waited for a response from Rocky. Rocky grinned at him and rolled his eyes as if to say, “aww, gee, do I have to?”
“Well?” Jake insisted.
“Okay. Yeah That's what I want.”
“What are you, Rocky?”
“I'm a bodybuilder.”
“Yeah. That's it. And what is a bodybuilder's task?”
“To build up his muscles.”
“To get big. Yes. How big, Rocky?”
“Aww, come on. Tell me how big you want to get, Rocky. Say it.”
“Okay, Jake. I want to get huge.”
“Yeah. There you go. Are you a muscle boy?”
“And what's a muscle guy's task?”
“To build up his muscles.”
“Right. So why would he want to hide his work behind all that loose material, have it all get in the way? Now, here,” he handed Rocky a small handful of black material. “Strip and put this on.”
Rocky took it, blushing, and went to a bench where he could lay his clothes, half turning away from Jake as he undressed.
“No way, Rocky. No shyness allowed. Nothing there I haven't seen anyway. Everybody knows you're 'Donkey Dick' and 'Bull Balls' and 'Ape Boy' and all the other things they call you because they're all jealous you're twice the man they'll ever be. Own it, Rocky. Proud. No fear.”
Rocky turned toward Jake, still looking shy, but making an effort to stand tall, act proud. He stepped into the tiny briefs and pulled them up. He had to grab his genitals and lift them forward to rest in the pouch of material that barely held them. He adjusted the leg holes, the waist, trying to make it sit comfortably and still hold all it had to hold. No matter how he adjusted it, his package pulled the front down low enough to expose more than a bit of his pubic hair.
Jake looked him over. “Turn around,” he said. “Show me what a hot looking muscle guy you are, how incredibly well built, how masculine you look with all that perfectly placed hair. Flex, don't flex. I don't care. Just show me you, the new you, and make me believe it. Make me believe you believe it.”
Rocky turned slowly. Jake saw him pause when he faced the mirror directly, saw him look at Jake looking at him, saw him look himself over, so very exposed in the tiny poser, looking every bit the unshaved, young but obviously hard-core bodybuilder. He saw Rocky stand a bit straighter, lift his chest slightly, setting his head more squarely on his thick neck. He saw him pull his shoulders down, just enough, while tightening his thick arms against the bulk of his lats, the barely noticeable move tightening his pectorals just enough to look relaxed but full, defined, thick and hard, the swirls of hair only decorating the deep, wide shape of his chest. As he completed the turn, coming back around to face Jake, the coach saw a new guy emerging in the confident, almost cocky, if somewhat still detectably forced expression in his eyes, on his face. Rocky looked at Jake directly, then slowly raised his arms into a double biceps pose. He did not look like a professional bodybuilder posing, though, but like an extremely muscular teen just flexing for a buddy, showing off. Jake was sure the poser had pulled down even lower in front, showing more pubes, because, he was sure the already overstuffed package had reacted to Rocky's changing sense of himself.
“Well done. Very nice,” Jake said. “Now let's start putting some real size into those muscles.” And he turned toward a bench.
“Wait a minute,” Rocky said.
“Shouldn't the coach be setting the example for the student?”
“What do you mean?” Jake asked.
“I mean, if I'm going to work out in these tiny little trunks, the least you could do is to set the example of body confidence, don't you think? You must have others.”
Jake swallowed. Of course Rocky had a point, although he could argue that the coach should just be teaching. But this relationship was already more than that. Suddenly the very insecurities that he was helping Rocky overcome, his own version of them, came flooding over him. He'd even thought about the two of them in his new gym, only in posers, and the thought had intimidated him, placing his smooth, slender body in proximity to the blooming magnificence of his young protégé, the four years of age difference seeming like a generation. But the challenge was put to him, and he knew he had to do it, to fake it just like Rocky must be.
“Yeah, I have others,” he said.
“Great,” Rocky grinned.
Rocky would never forget that first day, or remember it without an erection. He'd been embarrassed and yet somehow relieved, even excited, when Jake had told him to strip and put on the poser. He'd seen enough bodybuilders in them, in pictures, and wondered how he would feel wearing them. He'd been embarrassed to buy any. He'd even imagined how the coach would look in them. He didn't have the kind of bulky muscle usually associated with posers, but he did have that carved, athletic muscle that Rocky thought was the epitome of classical masculine power and grace. Next to him, he felt like a bulky bear, even if he did like the muscle he was finally getting. Actually getting into the posers Jake had handed him had felt like being thrust into a fantasy he was afraid to visit, but when he saw himself, with Jake watching him, he saw a guy he'd only imagined becoming, and suddenly he did feel good about how he looked. Even the oversized bulge that pulled the trunks down so low made him feel a little proud, even sexy, although he couldn't admit to that here, not with Jake.
He didn't even know where the voice came from that asked the coach to get into posers, too. He knew it made him sweat, when he blurted it out. He heart pounded. He felt like a complete fool, and he thought, from the way Jake just stared at him for a moment that he had, in fact, made an absolute idiot of himself, or worse, that he sounded like some kind of fruit. But then Jake had said okay, and like it was an everyday thing, had gotten a pair for himself, undressed, and put them on. He did look like one of those ancient Greek statues, skin smooth as marble, everything in proportion, sleek, handsome, the picture of all-American perfection.
There was something so different about being with him and being nearly naked together as Jake put him through his first workout. It wasn't like the locker room, with all the guys undressing, showering, showing off to one-up each other. It felt more relaxed and natural, and, at the same time, more exciting in an embarrassing way, as though he shouldn't be feeling so good. Jake talked about his muscles when he was lifting, made him push more weight than he ever had, for more reps, talking all the time about his muscles, how he needed to picture them big, thick, growing, picture the fibers deep inside being stressed and forced to grow to handle the workload. He even put his hands on his muscles when he talked about them, about the shape, the size, the length of his muscle bellies, all genetic gifts. It felt indescribably good to Rocky to let go like this, to let Jake take charge, to just allow himself to be taught, shown, told, made to work, to push, to feel, see, think muscle. After the last set, the last rep, Jake told him to stand in front of the mirror again, and he stood next to him.
“Now tell me what you see, Rocky.”
Rocky looked at himself next to Jake. He was bigger, no doubt about it. Much bigger. But as much as he could see himself as really getting the bodybuilder look he wanted, he appeared a rough, hairy, bulky boy next to the sleek model perfection of his mentor.
“I see a muscular ape-boy standing next to a guy who looks like an all-American fitness model or an ancient statue of a perfect Greek athlete.” God, he thought, what made him say that?
Jake didn't turn, but looked him in the eye in the mirror. “Didn't you learn anything today?” he asked.
“Well, yeah, sure.” Rocky felt all shaky again.
“Can I tell you something, ape-boy?” Jake continued. “I'm standing here looking at an eighteen year old kid with a body I would kill for, with muscles already bigger than I could ever get. Hairy, yeah, with smooth, dark, silky hair in all the right places. And to top it all off, you got a package there that any guy would be jealous of. I'd trade my totally average all-American looks for that body any day, and we're just getting you started. You're going to be among the most muscular guys on the planet before you hit twenty. Now, let's try it again. What do you see?”
Rocky found himself repositioning himself as Jake spoke, adjusting his stance, almost as though the words had a way of making him stand differently. He lifted his chest, tightened his muscles. They were big for a guy his age. Hell, for any guy. And he had to admit, he wasn't all that bad looking, either. It was early afternoon, and already his whiskers had become that heavy, stubbly shadow that covered his jaw and neck from sideburn to sideburn. When he looked at himself this way, he did feel fairly sexy. It was strange, allowing himself to admire things about himself that had been an embarrassment. He could see how his body hair could look good, masculine. The same with that big bulge, which he'd not been able to even try to hide all day. He knew guys were jealous he was so much bigger than they were, and now he could imagine not being embarrassed by it. He could see, through Jake's way of talking to him, that he could be proud of all that. And he was muscular. He definitely looked like a bodybuilder. Why had it been so hard to see? Or was Jake just telling him all this to boost him up?
“Well?” Jake persisted. “What do you see, Rocky?”
“I see a teen muscle guy,” Rocky blurted out, before the words could run and hide.
“Good. More. Go on.”
“Uh, a teen muscle guy with pretty cool hair.”
“Now you're getting it. Go on.”
“A teen muscle guy with cool hair and big nuts and a really big dick.”
“Yes. Good. And is he going to get bigger?”
“Oh, hell, yes. He's gonna get much, much bigger.”
“Good. Yes. How much bigger?”
“Aww, man, coach, I'm gonna get so much bigger.”
“Yes, you are. And is the teen muscle guy good looking? Sexy? Hot?”
Rocky realized he was getting hard. He'd been so caught up in the words, the feelings, he hadn't noticed. He knew Jake would see. But he glanced in the mirror to see that Jake was showing the same effect. Could this be happening? He looked in the mirror at Jake's face and answered.
“I think so, yeah. What do you think, coach? Is he?”
Jake smiled. “Yes. He definitely is.”
“And coach wants to get him huge, doesn't he?”
“Yes,” Jake answered, “coach wants to mold him into his fantasy of a masculine muscle god.”
Rocky felt his cock instantly get harder. He couldn't stop it, and he didn't want to. He'd never felt this kind of excitement before. And Jake was just standing there letting his own dick bone up. He swallowed hard.
“Whose fantasy? The muscle teen's,” Rocky asked, “or the coach's?”
The two stood facing the mirror, side by side, looking at each other. Jake said, “Are they different?”
“Damn, coach,” Rocky said, “you had to have been reading my mind.”
“Not really,” Jake said. “Just observing. Seeing what you didn't.”
“Seeing me as a huge muscle dude?”
“Oh, yeah. I saw that from the first day.”
“Why did you ask about when I'd be eighteen, a legal adult?”
“Ah,” Jake smiled, “well, because it might have seemed out of line for a student teacher to be personally coaching an under-aged student in private in his own home like this.”
“Why?” Rocky flexed his right pectoral and felt the muscle with his left hand, looking down at it as he asked, then looking up at Jake without lifting his head, up from under his heavy, dark eyebrows.
“Why? Well you know the kinds of things people think.”
Rocky saw Jake looking at him touching his muscle, feeling it. He sensed the power of something between them. He wanted Jake to touch him.
“But I thought you wanted me not to worry about that stuff, what people think.”
“It's something we all have to work at, I think. You like how that feels?”
“That pec you keep feeling. Does it feel big to you? Hard? You like the idea of getting it huge, don't you?”
“Yeah. It does feel good. Big. Hard. You felt it.”
“Not like that.”
“You want to?”
“You want me to?”
“Don't you need to see how well I did today?”
Rocky lowered his hands and turned toward Jake. Jake stepped forward and gently put his hand over Rocky's pec. Rocky flexed it under Jake's hand. Jake put the other hand over Rocky's other pec, exerting a little more pressure, and Rocky responded by flexing both pecs as he looked right into Jake's eyes, waiting for Jake to look up from his pecs. When Jake finally did look up, Rocky found himself almost dizzy with the closeness. His breath was shallow, his heart racing. He opened his mouth a little to catch a better breath, and when he did, Jake leaned forward, slowly, stopping just far enough from Rocky's mouth to give him a chance to pull his head away. He didn't.
Two weeks after that first workout at Jake's house, Rocky moved in to live with Jake. He would be a freshman, Jake would be a coach at the high school, and their mutual goal would become their obsession. Jake never did become a coach, however, because word of the young bodybuilder living with him traveled quickly, and the administration made him chose between his “alternative lifestyle” and his job teaching impressionable children. In truth, they didn't offer much of a choice, and, for Jake, there wasn't much of a choice to be made. A local gym needed a certified instructor, and Jake gave up coaching high school to coaching would-be bodybuilders. And one teen demi-god in particular.
Rocky's parents went through a brief bout of anguish over their son's coming out, not just as a muscle freak but as a gay one. But they quickly got over it as they saw him come into his own, blossom and grow, both in body and in spirit. His confidence was soaring. People who had never noticed him saw a stunning looking guy with a body that drew stares everywhere he went, and Rocky was learning how to project the confidence, the sexual awareness that grew along with his muscles.
Jake worked hard, too, but, as he'd always said, he just got more and more carved. His muscles grew some, but he just couldn't bulk up, while Rocky seemed to add mass just by looking at the weights. But they each saw so much masculine beauty in the other that none of that mattered. They were gods among men, at least when they were together, and more and more, they projected that feeling to any who saw them.
By the end of summer, the work and the supplements had begun the real act of transformation. Rocky hardened and thickened and grew more comfortable in his body every day. The real transformation came with Jake's constant encouragement and pushing, always pushing Rocky not just to grow, but to see himself as the bodybuilder he was, uncommonly massive and beautifully shaped, especially for an eighteen year old kid. Rocky began to appreciate the unique combination of his hirsute muscularity and his youth, the heavy stubble on the boyish face, the teen with the rolling gait of the real bodybuilder and the overstuffed basket of goods. And whenever the old doubts, the fear of just becoming more of a weird freak, began to surface, Jake was there to help him see his new truth.
“Got you some new gear I want you to wear when we go to the store.”
“What?” Rocky shouted back from the decline bench.
“Just some shorts, a new tank. Summer's over after this weekend. Time for showing off is about to take a hiatus. Finish up there, give those pecs ten more pounds for ten, then we'll go get the stuff for the barbecue.”
Rocky came into the bedroom when he finished the set. Jake was at the dresser in a pair of low cut tighty-whities, looking every inch the Abercrombie model with a few more years of training under his belt. But as delicious as Jake looked to Rocky, Rocky knew that Jake would want him to be the muscle boy, to be the creation, to let Jake get off on his body rather than the other way around. So he came up behind him and stood next to him so Jake could see him in the mirror. It seemed mirrors held a certain magic for them, the reflection of their increasing physical masculinity on display for each other, doubled. Jake looked. Rocky flexed. Double-bis first, then a relaxed stance, once again feeling one pec, as he had that first day.
“Nice,” Jake said. “My kid's really getting some muscle now. Going to look amazing in these.”
He held up a pair of soft cotton and Lycra shorts, pale gray with white stripes down the sides. They looked about half the size to fit over Rocky's thick globes and mounds, but the material would stretch to hug it all, mold itself to the teen's body. The tank was ribbed cotton and Lycra, white, like a wifebeater, but of a tighter, thinner, more stretchable material. It would obviously cling like skin, the bottom not coming within three inches of his navel, once it stretched to cover the massive chest, and the armholes and neck were cut so deep probably only his nipples would be covered. It was more a costume than clothes, something from a bodybuilder's catalogue. Jake was working Rocky little by little into showing his body more all the time. Every time was a challenge for Rocky to keep those old insecurities quiet, to relax and enjoy the admiration he drew and ignore the shock or disgust of the prudes and assholes. It had almost become an exciting game, something he looked forward to. He'd gotten used to posers around the house, but these would be the most blatant things he'd worn in public.
“Yeah,” Jake went on, “muscle boy on display. Gonna look real hot.”
“Think so?” he said to Jake with a wink. “Don't think I'll get arrested?”
“Only if the cop wants to cop a feel of all that.”
“All this? You mean this muscle? Am I getting what you want to see, Jake?” Rocky flexed an arm again, and Jake turned and wrapped his hands around it.
“Oh, yeah. Look at you, man. Already up to nineteen and three-quarters. In one summer. Better living through modern chemistry. You define muscle boy.” He caressed the thick biceps and triceps, feeling the shape, the size, the hardness, the veins. “Or at least you're starting to. I'm gonna get you so much bigger.” He moved his hands to Rocky's chest, feeling the hairy contours of the thick, carved pectorals. “Is that okay, muscle boy? Can I get you bigger? Muscle boy to teen muscle man?”
“Yeah, coach. If that's what you want. You want to get me bigger?” He spoke seductively.
“Oh yeah, muscle boy. I want to get you bigger. Much, much bigger. Is that okay?”
“You like me getting you bigger, don't you, muscle boy? You like being a real muscle boy, don't you? Almost a teen muscle man.”
“Yeah, Jake. I love what you're doing for me.”
“Yeah. Just let me grow you. Feels so hot, doesn't it?” He slid a hand down Rocky's ripped, hairy abs, into his poser, wrapping it around the hardening shaft.
“Fuck yeah, coach. Grow me all you want. Am I your muscleboy?”
“Fuck yeah, kid. You're getting there. Just keep it up, muscle boy. Never stop. You'll never be too big.”
“As big as you want, coach. Anything you want.”
Rocky accepted Jake's kiss with an open mouth, flexing whatever muscles he felt Jake's hands touch. He felt Jake work the muscles down his back, slide between his legs, under his heavy balls, a flicking, probing finger finding the tender hole hidden deep between the hard globes of his furry butt.
“That's what I want right now, muscle boy. I want to fuck some teen boy muscle.”
“Yeah?” Rocky teased and he backed toward the bed, pulling Jake with him.
“You want to fuck this muscle boy's hairy ass? Get you hot, seeing me getting huge, you getting me huge? Totally your muscle boy, man. Do what you want.”
He lay back on the bed, his legs up, apart, pulling Jake on top of him, flexing his mounds of pec meat against Jake's chest as he kissed him, rubbing his thick stubble hard against Jake's face, feeling Jake enter him, making him even more his muscle boy.
The Last week of October, Jake took Rocky to Los Angeles, where his father lived, to introduce them to each other. He also knew that the Halloween celebration in West Hollywood, which he'd last attended as a straight college guy, was something that would test how far Rocky had come.
They took a room in a rather lavish hotel near the Sunset Strip, overlooking “Boys' Town.” Rocky's head seemed to be swiveling like one of those toys that bob in the back window of some cars, wide-eyed at the number of attractive and obviously gay men in residence at the hotel—obvious not by their looks, but by how openly they held hands, draped arms across shoulders, and stared at each other with looks of lust. Rocky got more that a fair share of those stares.
Jake watched him to see how he reacted. He'd told Rocky to wear the clothes he'd bought him for Labor Day, and back then, Rocky had worn them with a combination of extreme self-consciousness and pride, allowing himself to show off his body, and turned on by it, while working to push down and ignore the embarrassment of being so blatantly on display. And that had been in the privacy of their own backyard. Here, in the hotel, when Jake had suggested the same body-hugging gear to go meet his dad at a private function for a few close friends, near the beach up the coast in Malibu, Rocky had pulled on the Lycra with a look of readiness. He'd adjusted his package front and center, his large, heavy organ pointing down over his big balls as much as he could. A few steps of his massive thighs pushing the meat back and forth, and it soon worked its way to the right side, lying in the bend of his leg. The tank didn't cover much more than the bottom of his rib cage, and Jake smiled to watch Rocky lift his arms after pulling it on to drag it up a bit more on his brick-like abs, exposing a belly so carved that the heavy trail and outflow of hair hid nothing of the exceptional muscle, bared for several inches both above and below his navel. Jake grinned, and boned helplessly, to watch Rocky's studied self-approval. He saw Rocky watching him in the mirror, and he winked his approval. His muscle boy appeared to be finally accepting himself as the stunner he was.
As they walked through the hotel lobby, both saw guys nudging each other, nodding in their direction, and, though Jake knew that he'd always attracted men in West Hollywood, even back when he'd thought he didn't want to, he knew that now it wasn't him drawing the stares. Rocky was magnificent. He was the boy-man paradigm. His youth carried the plumage of manhood, and he bore his gifts as naturally as a born athlete or artist. His arms, now nineteen and seven-eights, swung jaunty and wide at his sides, the wings of his lats emerging from the deep armholes of the tight tank to push the arms out, the thick mass of his pecs flexing with his slightest move, his thighs, which had benefited most from the program of advanced nutrition and training, rolled around each other in a thunderous but graceful gait. This was no junior bodybuilder. This was a teen, obviously, who could challenge the best of them down at Muscle Beach.
As the pulled away from the valet station in the rented convertible, catcalls and whistles came from the guys outside waiting for their cars.
Rocky took in the sights, driving down Sunset and up Pacific Coast Highway, while passing cars took in the sight of him. And Jake basked in the reflected light of his creation, knowing that any who saw them together must think he had something pretty special going, just being with this young god. Maybe they weren't wrong.
Pulling up to the house, Jake realized knew that much would be clearer, now, to his young friend. His father lived in a neo-Mediterranean villa on a hillside above a narrow, private strip of beach, well above the tourist-traveled parts of Malibu. The cars parked in front were Mercedes, BMWs, and a Bentley. The front door was answered by a man in his mid-to-late forties, a weathered but handsome sandy-haired man wearing a very minimal Speedo. His face identified him undeniably as Jake's father. His body, however, was the type that Jake constantly lamented not to be able to attain. The man was enormously muscular. He was built like a professional bodybuilder, or, more to the fact, like most professional bodybuilders would give anything to attain. He welcomed them inside, told them trunks were in the changing room, and said to join him and the others by the pool when they'd changed.
“The white ones are for your friend,” he said over his shoulder as he returned to the pool.
Jake led Rocky to the changing room, off the pool. Through the glass doors, several men, all of them monumentally built, like Jake's father, sunned or cavorted in the water. Bikini trunks appeared to be the order of the day. Jake went to the bench where several little clumps of material lay, picked up the only white one, and tossed it to Rocky.
“This one must be yours.”
For himself, he chose a black one. He pulled it on. No larger than posing trunks. Then he watched Jake get into his. He grinned. His dad was a real jokester. The “trunks” he'd set out for Rocky appeared to be the most minimal underwear briefs, the white material thin and infinitely stretchy. It covered little more than the crack of Rocky's butt, and the small V of material that comprised the pouch did stretch to hold Rocky's package, but just. This was the skimpiest of posers in the thinnest, most revealing fabric imaginable. Jake watched Rocky for his reaction, saw the briefest moment of reticence, shock at seeing himself so purposely exposed, and then he saw him smile at him, sharing the joke, adjust his equipment, and adjust his posture to that of the cocky muscle boy that Jake wanted to introduce to his dad and his dad's friends.
Rocky surprised Jake when they joined the others at the pool. After a round of hearty, friendly handshakes, Rocky, not flinching an inch at the fact that all these men did little to hide their head-to-toe inspection of him, asked if they minded and dived into to pool, emerging with the white material pulled down even farther, necessitating his re-adjusting himself and making a pointless show at attempting to pull the trunks up a bit, the material now virtually transparent, as he rejoined the group and let them stare some more. Jake's father congratulated them both on the good work they'd done. He made a passing comment about hoping to reward their efforts soon. And then Jake said he and Rocky had to get back to town because it would be a zoo once the street party got started.
Again, back in the changing room, as Jake was putting back on his shorts and tank, Rocky surprised him by saying, “You think it'd be cool if I just wore this?”
“You mean wear it back, in the car, to the hotel, or tonight, for your costume?”
“Yeah,” Rocky grinned. He'd found his inner muscle boy. “All that.”
“Well, I hope we don't get stopped on the way. Sure. Why the fuck not? It's Halloween in West Hollywood. You can get away with anything.”
“Anything?” Rocky did the thing of flexing and feeling one pectoral, and his cock began to harden, which the thin material did little to confine or hide.
Jake stared at his creation, cocky, standing in his father's changing room, boning up, not caring, teasing even, and he nodded his head.
“Pretty much, muscle boy. I think you could get away with pretty much anything you wanted.”
“Yeah?” Rocky said. “Then I want you to suck my big cock, right here, right in front of your dad.”
“In front of my dad?”
“Is there an echo in here? Dude, your dad and his friends are so gay, and they so know you and I are, so, yeah. Right here, in front of your dad. Let them see how hot your muscle boy is.”
That was only the first of several blow jobs and hand jobs Rocky enjoyed that Halloween, as he discovered the power of muscle, parading Santa Monica Boulevard as a muscle boy. Too young to go into the bars, he found guys deserting the bars to follow him through the crowds, asking his to flex, touching him, feeling his muscle, and proposing all sorts of other entertainment. If Halloween can present a life-altering experience, this one did for both Jake and his creation.
Finally, after just six months, right before Thanksgiving, which they were spending with Rocky's parents, Rocky broke the twenty inch mark on his arms. Jake had promised a special treat when that milestone occurred.
“Any eighteen year old guy with twenty inch guns deserves something very, very special,” Jake said, the night before Thanksgiving, as they stood, naked, in the kitchen, mixing an evening protein shake after a grueling workout.
“And here it is, my fine hairy stud boy.”
He held up a small brown bottle with an eyedropper cap.
“Is that? … Did your dad finally? …”
“Yes, indeed. He did. You, my friend, are being given the chance to be a prototype for a covert military development. He was very impressed. And I, I get to finally add some muscle mass to this pathetically skinny body.”
“Oh, man!” Rocky eyes glinted like aquamarines. “Are you kidding?”
“Would I kid about that?”
He poured their shakes, and then measured six drops of clear liquid into each. He swirled the glasses with a spoon and handed one to Rocky.
“To muscle and masculinity,” he said, raising his glass to toast. Rocky clinked his glass with Jake's and they both emptied their glasses.
“Now what?” Rocky asked, expecting to feel something.
“I don't know. Honestly. He just said it would take a while to kick in and the effects would begin to show pretty quickly, but he didn't say what or how quickly. But remember what I told you about side effects. He said we'd feel it first as a sexual thing, that it's about amping up the maleness factor that makes the body stronger.”
“Dude,” Rocky said, “I'm already so horny all the time, that could be dangerous.”
Jake laughed. “No shit,” he said. “Well, bring it on, babe. I ain't scared of a little extra muscle boy sex.”
The next day they spent with Rocky's parents, knowing that something was working in them, but not really feeling much. They looked at each other over the table, sharing a secret that had them both getting partial erections again and again, but family chatter kept their minds diverted enough to get through the evening.
They infused their shakes with the liquid every day, which they were to do for six weeks, to get the full effect working, but it was near the end of the first week that they both realized that they were feeling something different, something changing. Rocky asked for heavier weights. He said he felt like he needed to work harder, to get deeper into the muscles. Jake found he was able to keep up with Rocky, and both of them discovered that pumping their muscles was feeling more sexual than it ever had.
“You're not skinny, man,” Rocky said during one workout when Jake flexed, his usual expression of frustration at not gaining mass fixed on his face. “You're fucking built, coach. Look at you. Remember how you made me look at myself. Well, your turn, dude. You're looking thick. You are starting to look like a bodybuilder.”
“Yeah?” Jake said, looking at himself again. “You think? Maybe. Yeah. You might be right. I'll tell you what, muscle boy. My beard is heavier. I'm getting some hairs on my chest. And I swear my dick's getting it too.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I think so, too.”
“You? I can already see you muscling up, I swear. And now we are going to have to get you some special posers.” He laughed.
“Or not,” Rocky also laughed, and grabbed his crotch provocatively. He felt hot, sexy, and his old inhibitions seemed a lost memory.
“Yeah,” Jake said, “show your stuff, muscle boy.”
“You made it, coach. You're making it, aren't you? Fuckin' coach is gonna be a muscle boy, too.”
“No, Rocky. You'll always be the muscle boy.”
He shoved him to the floor and slid down on Rocky's steel hard cock. “Ooh, God. Fuckin' muscle boy's cock is getting so huge. How huge, now, muscle boy? Thirteen inches yet?”
“Almost. You like that?”
“Fuck yeah. I'll like it better when it's fourteen. Get those guns to twenty four, man. You like that?”
“Fuck yeah I'd like that. How big's a prototype supposed to be?”
“How'd you like those guns to hit twenty six?”
“Aww, fuck, Jake. Really? Oh, yeah, dude. Do it slow, just like that. Yeah. I don't want to cum for a long time. Am I fuckin' beautiful, man?”
“Rocky, man, you are so fucking beautiful. Your muscle is so massive and thick. But you know that, now, don't you?”
“Only because you showed me, coach. Are you beautiful, Jake?”
“I want to be bigger.”
“You're getting bigger. You're going to be huge, and so, so hot. But are you beautiful?”
“With you, I am.”
“With me or without me, coach. You are the all-American sandy-haired stud times ten, man. You are so fucking beautiful. I love you, coach.”
“Oh, God, Rocky. I can't wait to see what this stuff is gonna do to us. You're already so hot, I can't believe my fantasy could not only come true, but be even better than I dreamed. Is this hot, man? You love this shit?”
“Yeah,” Rocky panted. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” Rocky said. “I gotta remember to tell my dad.”
He suddenly burst out laughing as he raised and lowered himself on Rocky's big cock. Rocky's abs bunched up thick as he lifted his head.
“What's so funny? That I said I love you?”
“No, God no, Rocky. Oh, fuck, man. I love you, too. No, I was just thinking. This puts a whole new spin on “support our troops,” doesn't it?
It took six months for the drug to complete its work. They took their dosages every day for the six weeks, and daily it grew stronger in them. The sense of their masculinity increased exponentially, and everything else seemed to spring from that. For six weeks they had to constantly re-adjust to the intensifying sensations that drove them to work out harder and harder, as though possessed, the desire, the hunger stronger every day. The increasing feelings of masculinity grew more and more powerful, forcing the body to change as though it had no choice but to grow ever more masculine. Sandy hair grew on Jake's body. Rocky' hirsute muscles grew more so, even as they thickened and hardened and grew. Their genitals had no choice but to respond, and Jake's “average” cock grew and thickened and his balls swelled with the new demands of their job. Rocky's already large equipment became larger. And after the six weeks of taking the drug, they were done.
But the dosages, the six weeks of alteration, had done its work, and the changing, the transformation continued at that level for six months. It was June—a year since Rocky had found his creator in Jake, and Jake his fantasy in Rocky. Rocky had completed his freshman year. Jake was the most sought-after trainer in town. Their sudden and remarkable transformation had to be explained, and so the media had been fed the story of the new and safe drug that had been used to create a few prototypes of the kind of men that could be “built” to beef up military or law enforcement operations.
By the time the story was out, the transformation of the men was complete, and the sudden fame that crashed in on them proved a wave they were ready to ride. Jake had finally achieved the body he'd always fantasized about. He might not have won a major bodybuilding contest. Genetics, after all, still exerted a certain control over ultimate attainment. But he would not have looked out of place on the stage with the best of them. But Rocky, with genetics that blessed the outcome, grew to be the most muscular teen anyone had ever seen. His arms didn't reach twenty-six, but they did grow to twenty-five and three quarters. His chest expanded to a magnificent sixty-four. His waist remained an impossibly tight and small thirty-one inches, surpassed by the mass of each of his thighs, which had finally attained their goal of being larger than his waist, each one hitting thirty-two inches of raw, male power. And it was good that he'd begun with more than ample endowment, since anything less than his huge cock, which did overreach the fourteen inch mark by another half inch, and the balls to support it, would have appeared diminutive on a man of his stature. A man. And still only nineteen.
“You're magnificent,” Jake said in a private moment. “To even imagine that the hairy teen muscle man that just flexed in a poser on the Tonight Show and the Today Show, who just let Katie Couric giggle and feel his muscles on national television, was the shy kid I met a year ago, embarrassed about being hairy, about having a big dick, even about the muscles he was trying so hard to build. Look at you now. You could make the straightest guy in the world get a boner for you.”
“Yeah? You think? You happy with your creation, coach?”
Rocky flexed an enormous arm, looking at it as he felt its hard, striated, veiny mass. He obviously loved the feel, the look of his own muscle.
“What does it look like, muscle boy? Do you think I'm happy?” Jake indicated his rising, stiffening cock, which would now reach nine-and-a-half inches by the time it started oozing pre-cum. “Are you happy? You like being the famous hairy teen muscle man?”
“Does it look like I'm happy?” Rocky's cock was rising in response. “Yeah I like it. You made my dream come true. Yours, too. Look at you, coach. You said you'd never be able to be like a bodybuilder, and now most of them would kill to be you.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” He flexed for himself. “It is great. Fuck. I love being this big. But nothing like you, muscle boy.”
“Stop. Dude, look in that mirror. What do you see?”
Jake turned and looked. He flexed. “I see a sandy-haired, all-American model type guy with the totally muscled up body of a serious, big bodybuilder.”
He smiled, remembering the day he'd made Rocky answer that question. “And I see the most amazing, hot, hairy, beautiful muscle teen standing next to him, bulging with huge, magnificent muscle. What do you see?”
Rocky came up behind Jake, reached around him, and put his hands on Jake's thick, beautiful pecs, lightly stroking his new, blond chest hair.
“I see a god. A god and his creation. God made Adam, a prototype of man. Jake made this prototype, and he's this muscle boy's god.”
“Oh, no, man. Don't go all heavy on me.”
“I'm serious.” Rocky kissed the back of Jake's neck as he slid his hands over Jake's massive arms. “Besides,” he said, brushing his cock against Jake's thick, round butt-cheek, “I thought going heavy was what it was all about for us.” He pinched Jake's left nipple. “Is your muscle boy big enough now, or you want to try to get him bigger?” he teased.
Jake turned and put both hands on Rocky's mammoth, hairy pecs, squeezing their rock-hard mass. “What do you think, muscle boy? What did we always say?”