The trainer

By Also Known As 
7 parts
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Part 1

It was time to find a new personal trainer. My old one was moving away, having grown tired, he said, of the expense of city living and now wanting only to live somewhere with trees and his two dogs, where they could all be happy.

I would miss him, not only for his very worthwhile tips and knowledge about building a better looking (and, of course, healthier) body, but as a friend. He was much older than I was, and had become, I confess, something of a father figure for me—an uncloseted young fag only coming into his own and recognizing that the world would be a better place for me with a little muscle packed onto my bones.

Three years later, and I had to admit, looking into the full-length mirrors at my gym, that the man had done a very good job. Sure, I had done all the work, but it had been his tutelage, patience and determination that had built me into the rugged young man standing proudly in the sleeveless black T-shirt and loose, knee-length workout shorts, his arms well defined and his chest blossoming into two firm plates of brawn.

Finding a replacement would be hard. Did I want another man like him, someone older and wiser in the ways of muscle and men who could guide me and give me pointers not just about proper equipment use and stance, but also about dating, and relationships, and sex? Yes, he was even helpful in that awkward arena, though the two of us had never hooked up. It just didn’t feel right, getting naked with him other than in the locker room and showers.

I mean, sure I scoped him out. The man was fine! And that ass! I mean, it was tempting, for sure, and I think he enjoyed being looked at as much as I enjoyed looking at him. But then he’d laugh, and I’d laugh, and we both knew nothing would ever happen between us.

He enjoyed an open relationship with his boyfriend, another older dude with another amazing body who worked in an office and was as desperate to escape his cubicle lifestyle as his significant other. I had grown not just to like the couple, but to love them as family, and it was going to be hard saying goodbye to them.

Of course, the first thing I did was ask for a recommendation. “Not that I can ever replace you,” I complimented, “but I don’t think I’m quite ready to show up on my own.”

“Still need someone to push you?”

I nodded. “Hopefully someone as hot as you are,” I said. “You know, someone who inspires as well as teaches.”

He smiled. “Thanks,” he said. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “I have a question: How big do you want to get?” I started to answer, and he added, “Be honest. We both you know you like muscular guys.”

“Like you.”

He laughed slightly and looked down at himself. “This is nothing. You should have seen me—”

“Back in the day,” we both said. It was what he always said. How hot he ‘used to be’ and how big. Even competing seriously in pro events. I looked him up online, so I actually knew what he looked like back in the day, and the dude was a monster. Huge quads, huge pecs, and I knew exactly where those glutes came from. “You’re not exactly a slouch now,” I remarked, and it was no false compliment.

“I’m serious, though,” he said. “How big?”

I shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind getting bigger.”

“How much bigger, though? Just so I know who to recommend to you.”

“I dunno, just… bigger.”

His eyes narrowed. “Some guys get a hunger for it,” he said. “Some guys start getting ‘just bigger,’ but then it’s never ‘just bigger’ enough.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

He stepped back and scanned my bod. I posed a little for him, thinking I was goofing off and he said. “No, really show me. Show me what you’ve got.” I bent my arms into a double-bi and pushed the muscle hard. “Take off your shirt.”

I did. I wasn’t ashamed of my body now, and what we had built together. Only a couple of years ago, I would never take my shirt off in public, and certainly not inside this building filled with muscleheads and gym bunnies easily twice my size. But I had muscle now, I had arms and a chest and was even starting to get a six-pack, if I could just lay off the potato chips. I showed off the body he helped me build, and he folded his arms over his own bulging chest and watched me with pride and, I think, a little bit of wood in his shorts.

So maybe he was watching me as much as I was watching him.

I had to admit that I was enjoying myself, too. Maybe not to the extent that I was gonna pop a boner as I flexed my muscles into relief, but I enjoyed the admiration and the thought that the man who’d given me all this was pleased and obviously aroused by his own handiwork. I blushed, and given that I was naked from the waist up, that was quite a blush. He laughed and adjusted himself, saying, “You definitely have the potential to take things to the next level—if you want to go there.”

I lowered my arms and relaxed, but things were feeling hard and pumped from my flexing. “What’s the next level, and how far do I have to reach to get there?”

“So you are interested?”

I looked down at his hard-on and said, “If I can keep getting reactions like that, I’m definitely interested.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that part. I don’t think I’m the only one suddenly paying more attention around here.”

I looked around and realized he was right. My little demo had caused a few of the other gentlemen at my gym to pause in their own on-going pursuit of muscle to ogle mine, and this only served to make me more determined. “I think I’m ready,” I said.

“It won’t be easy,” he warned.

“Nothing worthwhile ever is,” I answered.

He nodded an agreement and said, seemingly satisfied, “Okay, I’ll give my man a call. I should warn you that some people find him a bit….”

“Hot?”

“Intimidating.” Then he paused and added, “And hot. He comes on strong, but he’s a pussycat inside. Well, more like a wildcat. Well, more like a tiger. Well, more like the king of the lion pride with a chip on his shoulder.”

“Jeez.”

“I’m being a bitch. I shouldn’t color your impressions before you have them. But… okay, he’s kinda… big.”

“Big? As in—?”

“As in huge. Everywhere. Like I said, if you want to take this,” he said, gesturing at my half-naked body, “to the next level, he’s the man to do that. And he leads by example. The man is… the man is big.”

“I can handle big.”

“Oh, can you now?” His eyebrow arched, and then he set his rough, callused hands on my shoulders and looked at me with honest care and maybe even love. “I’m very, very proud of you, you know. Of the man you are. The man you’ve become. When we met, you were this small, scared, closeted little dude who didn’t think anyone would ever want to look twice at you, and that you’d be alone forever. But now look at you! Half the guys in here would give their left nut for a chance with you, and your confidence has grown by leaps and bounds!”

I felt a wash of pride and love in return, for everything he’d done for me and everything he meant to me. There was a lot I wanted to tell him, to say how much this all meant, how deeply I felt it, and my eyes were burning with tears I didn’t want to shed. The side of his mouth twisted up and he tilted his head slightly and nodded. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

“You… you’ll keep in touch, right?”

He lifted his hands off my shoulders. “Of course! It’s not like I’m moving to Paris.” That was his dream, the city he loved more than any other. “I’ll email, you’ll call me, we’ll keep in touch. You can parade your army of lovers in my face, and you’ll keep me up to date with your progress.”

“I will,” I said, knowing the first was a jest and the second an order. I had no army of lovers. I may have looked the part, but changing a lifetime of feeling bad about myself and looking the other way when anyone showed interest was a much harder habit to break than snacking on potato chips and drinking an endless flow of Diet Coke. My body had surely changed, but my brain… not so much. I blushed again, because he, alone, knew every truth about me. Every fumbled attempt at love, every pass that I missed, and of course, my on-going fantasy about That Guy in the Lockers, the gorgeous, beautiful, unattainable man who appeared now and again at my gym, my perfect man—and the man I could never even talk to.

Thinking of him now made me want to look for him, to see if he could see me now, shirtless and sweaty, my muscles pumped, my trainer complimenting my progress. Then, in the same instant, I considered how lame that was, and that he didn’t really matter to me, and that I didn’t really care whether or not he ever looked my way.

Lies, again. Oh, well. Progress comes slowly. He’d taught me that lesson, too.

He lifted his hands from my shoulders. “Where did you just go?”

“What? Oh, nowher—”

“Thinking about Mr. Perfect, again?”

“You know me too well. Maybe it’s better that you’re leaving me forever.”

“Drama Queen.” He sighed as he looked at me. “Okay, put your shirt back on and hit the treadmill for half an hour. That’s done for today.”

“I… I really appreciate everything… I mean, everything you’ve done for me… and… everything.”

“Always the master of conversation.” He stepped close and looked me in the eyes. “I want you to do something for me. Will you promise that you will?”

“I guess so.”

“I mean it.”

I shrugged. He was being so serious! “Okay.”

“Go talk to Mr. Perfect. Get a phone number. Have a coffee. I mean it. I think you’ll be surprised.”

“Okay,” I agreed too quickly.

“I mean it,” he said again.

I swallowed hard, Even the thought of doing that made me feel hot and embarrassed and tied up my tongue. But he smiled, seeing my awkwardness, and shook his head. “Some lessons are harder than others,” he said. “And some are far easier than you ever expect.” He slapped my butt and said, “The treadmill, then the showers. You stink like a used jockstrap.”


I was jogging on the treadmill when he walked in. Of course, he would. Timing was his thing—at least, in my mind it was. He would time it so he could torture me like this. Time his entrances and exits. Time his locker nudity, his showering and toweling off. Not that I was obsessed with him, of course! Lord, no! But, Jeez, the man was perfect.

I knew his name, because my old trainer had found out about him. I mean, if one of your students or clients was going on and on and on about someone—to the point that it was interfering with lessons—anyway, he’d found out about the guy, and I knew his name, but in my head I always called him Mr. Perfect.

He wasn’t huge, but he was… perfect. And I knew because I’d seen it all. Scoping out his workouts. Watching him change from the corner of my eye. Sneaking peeks in the showers. C’mon! I’m a gay man with a beating heart and an active libido! And a guy needs some whack-off material, do he not?

If I described him to you, you probably wouldn’t agree with me. Everyone has their own idea of perfection, right? And my perfection may not be your perfection, so rather than bore you with the details of his beauty and magnetism, I’ll let you slide your own Mr. Perfect into his Nikes and you can imagine yourself watching him, the way he moves, his smile, his eyes, his ass. Mr. Perfect has an aMAZing ass.

Did I mention I’m an ass man? Maybe you got that impression already. Sure, I can admire a nice chest, nice arms, well-worked abs. But there is something about the ass, isn’t there? Like there’s power there. And getting that nice ass, that takes work! God, how I knew that. How many squats was I doing every week? And those backwards leg things with the cables. I didn’t even know what that torture was called. Plus, the hardest part is you can’t even see your own ass! You’re working your… ass off to get a nice ass and you can’t enjoy it!

Not like arms. Every guy does his arms. But my old trainer, he taught me well. “It’s the legs,” he explained. “Guys ignore them, concentrating on their arms and chest and all this,” he said, indicating his upper body. “But it’s the legs. Trust me. Work the legs.”

He was right, of course. And he was his own best advertisement. I did mention his ass, too, did I not? I think that was one of the main reasons I hired him. I wanted that ass.

I mean… sure, I wanted it. He is fine! But I wanted it myself. I wanted that beautiful, powerful, muscular set of bowls mounted on my backside. I wanted that proud strut, that two-mounded high-puckered stride where the two brawny bubbles rise and fall, kissing their round contours together like an invitation. I wanted that ass.

Mr. Perfect, now that was an ass! Yes, yes, his face was gorgeous, and perfect hair, and always smiling and exuding whatever it is that men like him exude. Perfect men and their perfection.

I’m obsessing again.

He walks in, ignoring me completely. Everyone knows him, and he knows everyone. He smiles, he waves, he greets his friends and associates and ignores me, and why not? Have I ever had the courage to just go talk to him? To just, like, introduce myself, tell him my name, have a fucking conversation with him?

Of course not. Because when I see him, I get tongue-tied. When I am near him, I shake and sweat. When he looks at me, I look away because I am not worthy of him. The man. That perfect man.

Luckily, I knew that I didn’t exist for him so I had no fear of anything happ—

Then he turned around.

He looked at me.

He looked directly at me.

And he started to walk over. He was digging in the pocket of his track pants, smiling up at me, and then he pulled out his iPhone and was thumbing around the screen. “Hey,” he said. Then he held up the phone screen toward me. “This you?”

It was me. Me from earlier, without my shirt on, flexing for my trainer. My mouth fell open and I swallowed hard, as all the words I had ever learned or spoken in my entire life vacated my brain. I looked from the screen to him, to his face, to his eyes, to his smile. He took the phone back and looked at the picture of me that someone in the gym had taken and sent him. One of his many friends and acquaintances. And then he looked at me again, and his gaze moved up and down my sweaty body as I continued to jog as if my brain had left control of my body to my legs. He said, “Looking good.” He wiggled his eyebrows and his smile quirked into something else, something suggestive and filthy. “Looking very good.” He paused, then he added, “My name’s John.”

I swallowed hard, and hoped my voice didn’t crack like a schoolboy facing his first crush. “Thomas,” I said, then, “Tom.”

“Which is it, really?”

“Thomas,” I said, finally.

“You’re finishing up just as I’m getting started,” he said. “My timing is all wrong today.”

I smiled, a little out of breath from my running as well as the excitement of Mr. Perfect speaking to me out of the blue like this. “Yeah,” I agreed, because my brain decided to stop working or something.

He stepped closer, putting his hand on my treadmill. “It’s funny. I see you every morning. But I never really…saw you before.” He narrowed his gaze and his eyes scanned my whole body again. Then he met my eyes again and said, “What’s your number, Thomas?”

“My number?”

He smiled and I melted—all except my dick, which somehow managed to surge from steel to diamond hardness. “Your phone number.” I blinked in uncertainty, had I heard that correctly? He wanted my number? But I gave him my digits and he nodded, seeming to memorize them instantly. After another direct scan of my body, he said, “It was nice chatting with you, Thomas. I hope I’ll see more of you.”

“Yeah,” I said again. “Me, too.”

He smiled. At me. Mr. Perf… John. Then he turned and walked his perfect ass toward the locker room, nodding a few greetings to some other guys before disappearing.

Fuck, I was horny. I tried to think if I’d been this aroused when John was looking at me, and wondered at the same time if I cared. The timer on the treadmill was counting down and my cool down was nearly complete. I realized that I would be walking the length of the gym with a boner sticking straight out of my crotch unless I could also cool down my libido. Maybe all I needed was a smoothie, a short sit in the common area with a tall protein shake.

Just as the treadmill slowed to a stop, my own phone started vibrating in my shorts. I nearly jumped out of my skin, but the sensation of shock managed to deflate my prick enough that when I walked toward the smoothie bar, phone in hand, I didn’t quite look like a dowsing rod in search of a warm, tight hole. The number on the screen was unfamiliar, and didn’t link to any of my contacts. “Hello, this is Thomas.”

“Hello, Thomas.” The voice at the other end sounded absurd. It was as if I was speaking to a boulder. It was the voice that a mountain range would own.

“Hello?”

“This is your new trainer. My name is Jove.” I felt slightly dizzy, suddenly. Perhaps I had worked out too hard.

“Joe?” I repeated it, wondering if I had mis-heard the name.

“Jove,” he said again, and spelled it for me. As each letter entered my ear, my heart pumped blood into my muscles. And my cock.

“As in ‘by jove?’” I asked.

“That’s correct. I understand you want to move to The Next Level.” His voice pushed inside my head and seemed to expand, like light entering a darkened room. I heard those capital letters distinctly. The Next Level.

“I… guess so.” This was a weird conversation, and my head was already spinning due to the loss of blood I had experienced when John made my cock inflate to such grandiose proportions.

“There’s no guessing involved, Thomas. Either you do or you don’t.” His words were strong and powerful. He was commanding me.

“I do,” I confirmed. Images of men with hard muscles started flipping through my imagination, like a catalogue of masculine perfection. Biceps and pecs and abs. Thick and hard. Pushing against the skin with their might.

And the asses. All the fine, powerful, muscular asses.

“What are you willing to do to get there?” I felt the muscles along my arms sing with strength. I felt the weight and mass of my pectorals. My ass was tight and high and round with power.

“Willing to do?”

“Yes,” he answered, simply. My nipples tingled. My cock pulsed. Hard.

“Anything,” I volunteered. Then I thought about John. I thought about the reaction I garnered by taking off my shirt and flexing. I thought about the other men I saw around me, with their bulging beauty and sense of overwhelming power and masculinity. “Everything.”

“Excellent,” he said. “We start tomorrow. Meet me at the Atlas Gym at 5 AM.” I was being inflated with power and strength. I was growing bigger just standing there.

“Atlas Gym?” That was a place for the hardcore bodybuilders. That was a no-nonsense iron and steel church, where the worshipers and deities of muscle met. “5 AM?”

“I’ll see you there. Do not be late.” He hung up.

I realized I was standing in the aisle staring at my phone. The sweat was cooling on my skin and my clothes were clinging to my body. I looked up and some guy was smiling at me as he approached. He was looking at my body—at my cock. I was hard again. Raging hard. He winked and grinned and nodded, approving of my inadvertent and overt acknowledgment of my own male prowess and sexual excitement. “Looking good,” he said. He brushed his hand against my prick. A tingling heat filled my body. I had never felt so alive and powerful. I didn’t know who the man was, but I knew very strongly and without a doubt that I could’ve taken him then and there, ripping him free of his clothing and fucking his ass with my powerful, godlike cock and he would’ve thanked me and begged for more.

I looked at my phone again. The number was still there. I added it it to my contact list under the name Jove.

I was never so fucking horny in my entire life.

Part 2

I woke up an hour early in anticipation of meeting Jove. It was dark in my room. It was dark everywhere. My dreams were filled with erotic images of naked men, glistening with sweat, pumping their huge muscles to bulging perfection.

I threw on my workout gear, stuffed my business clothes into my bag and was out the door in a flash. Atlas was several miles out of the way, but I didn’t care. Not at all.

All I could think of was that man’s voice in my head, and the way my cock responded to the thought of meeting him. My usual morning wood just would not abate, even after a good whacking off as I gazed at my naked reflection in the bathroom mirror. I came hard, shoving ropes of cream against the glass and all over the counter and sink. I nearly shouted with ecstasy.

But my boner would not be denied. And for some reason, I didn’t really care. I was rubbing it as I drove, even contemplating pulling my stiffy out and jerking off another round, when the dark behemoth of Atlas loomed up in my windshield, and I was pulling into the parking lot.

Atlas was an odd place. Literally in the middle of nowhere, it was an abandoned warehouse of some sort that had been made into a no-nonsense gym. Not the usual place for someone like me—the casual but dedicated gym-goer more used to soft towels and large lockers, with the mandatory smoothie bar and boutique selling expensive workout togs.

Atlas was 100% gym. I wondered if the place even had showers. Maybe they just turned a hose on you when you were done.

There were no other cars in the lot when I got there, and I checked my phone to see that I was 15 minutes early. Maybe the place wasn’t even open yet—but then I heard the sound of a door opening, and light spilled onto the wet, black asphalt.

I looked toward the sound and did not, for a moment, believe my eyes. Because the figure standing in the doorway was too large—and too wide—to be believed.

“Thomas,” the figure said. The voice resonated across the empty space. It impacted my chest like a blow and inflated my cock like a warm, wet mouth. “Come in, please.”

I grabbed my bag and walked toward the open door and the silhouette standing there. With every step, my body grew warmer. I didn’t know if it was embarrassment, because he was so big and I was so not, or excitement, because he was so fucking big.

He was backlit, so it wasn’t until I was nearly on top of him—or, rather, beneath his gaze—that I could see his face. His body was huge. Well beyond huge, in fact. And it was not until I was close enough to make out the details of the man that I realized that he was absolutely naked.

I was shocked, but that quickly passed into aroused. The man was…was…there were no words in my vocabulary to do his physique and beauty justice. Why was he naked? He seemed to be unashamed and, in a way, I felt as if he had done this for me, to illustrate his dominance and utter command. This was not a man to be fucked with. This was a man who would do the fucking.

Then there was his face. A thick, heavy beard covered his chin and cheeks, accompanied by an equally thick mustache winding across his upper lip. This leant him an extremely masculine cast, almost absurdly so. His face was lined, making his age to be in his 40’s or even his 50’s, but his eyes were clear and he did not appear in any other way to be much older than me.

He was, as my former trainer had said, huge—and huge everywhere. The man had to live at the gym. It was a wonder he wasn’t lifting weights as he waited in the doorway. His arms, his chest, his legs—everything was bulging to bursting with brawn. I had never set eyes on anyone that big, nor had I dreamt it even possible.

I tried to avoid looking at his crotch, but there was no avoiding it. He was gifted with quite possibly the largest cock I had ever witnessed, accompanied by a set of low-hanging balls big enough to hold a gallon of cream.

And he was furry everywhere. Wide, dark swaths of curls wound across his chest and arms and legs, swimming into the deep crevasses between his bulging muscles like tributaries in the mountains.

He stepped aside to allow me to pass. The heat of his bulk was palpable. Perhaps he had just been working out. Warmth poured from his muscled bulk like the sun, and he smelled slightly rank, but in a fully masculine way. I wanted to push my nostrils into his stink and suck it inside me.

Atlas was… well, it was as huge as he was. Weights, weight benches and everything to do with punishing your muscles to growth were everywhere, but the place was silent as a tomb. It was just him and me in there, and I turned around to ask something when he said, with his rumbling voice, “Take off your clothes.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No need to beg,” he said. “Just take them off.”

“I don’t under….”

“Strip,” he said, simply.

I started to object, thinking I had gotten into something over my head, when he reached forward and quite deliberately ripped my shirt from my body as if it were tissue paper. “We are not ashamed of the body here. We are not about hiding what we have and who we are. We are about the pride, and the honor, and the beauty of the male body. We take joy and satisfaction from our achievements, the attainment of perfection and strength and power, and we never hide.”

“I’m not sure I want to—”

“You do,” he said. “You want to.”

I swallowed drily, wondering what I had gotten myself into and if this was a huge mistake. I was also a bit embarrassed because my hard-on had not abated in the slightest and I was unsure how this mountain was going to react seeing my reaction to his majesty. But something—something that had been buried deep inside me and was now crawling up into the sunlight of realization—made me obey his command and in moments, I stood before Jove in naked vulnerability, by cock pulsing with dull constant throbs and refusing to deflate.

Once naked, I realized that I did want this. I wanted to be stripped bare. I wanted everything to show, and to show everything off. I wanted size and strength and power, and I wanted it manifested in every inch of my body.

My shame quickly disappeared, even when faced with a man who outweighed me by dozens of pounds of muscle and was probably twice my size. The way he observed me, the way he…admired me. A sense of esteem and pride of my body and my manhood, swelling ever more pronounced as I simply stood there, overcame everything else I felt.

My cock swelled, as if in direct proportion to that sense of pride. It was a very obvious physical manifestation of my sudden confidence and desire to become all that this man wanted me to be. I could feel it, and my cock grew enormous with it.

He looked at me with an intensity that was both flattering and frightening. I had the impression that he was looking not so much at me as through me, as if he was seeing my soul bared as much as my flesh. “Good,” he said at last. “Very good.” Then he reached forward and grabbed my hard dick in his hand and squeezed me hard. “I see that you are unashamed of your love for muscle.”

“I—”

“Isn’t that why this is here?” He squeezed again. It felt uncommonly good.

“Yes,” I admitted. “I want more.” I wanted it all.

“I will give you more,” he said, releasing me from his rough grip. “I will give you all of it, and then I will give you even more than that.” He placed his hand on my shoulder—in the same manner that my former trainer had done—and he said, “When we are done, you and I, there will be no one bigger. No one stronger. No one more powerful or more beautiful.”

I believed him. “Yes,” I said. “That is what I want.”

He smiled. “Then let us begin.”

That first day was punishing, but thoroughly satisfying. Jove took me on the hardest circuit of weight training I had ever endured. It lasted two hours, and both of us were naked for the duration of the session. My cock stayed rock hard throughout, and at one or two points along the way—perhaps when I was straining a bit harder or sweating a bit fuller—I could not help but notice some growth and movement in the big man’s unit as well. I wondered how big that thing got when he was fully aroused.

And I wondered how long it would be before I had the same effect on his cock that he had on mine.

My muscles burned. Everything ached. But by the end, when I looked down at my glistening naked form, it looked… bigger. A rush of pride and a touch of arrogance filled me, and I wished that there was a mirror somewhere that could show me to myself.

“Now it is time for sustenance,” Jove said. “You must drink the nectar of pure power. It will feed your muscles and allow you to grow.”

His words sounded archaic and a bit religious. ‘The nectar of pure power?’ Hell of a name for a protein shake. But who was I to argue? He was in charge, that had been made very clear, and I would do whatever he told me to do.

He disappeared towards the back of the gym, which allowed me a few moments of self admiration. Fuck, I was horny. Still! Normally after punishing myself this much at the gym, I was so worn out that it would be hard to even think of getting hard. But I looked down at my throbbing manhood and wrapped my hand around its girth and felt a thick, hard rush of sexuality ricochet through my tired body. I squeezed myself and was rewarded with a fat dollop of pre-cum swelling at the eye of my serpent.

Doing so made my whole body feel stronger. I wanted to start stroking, I wanted to feel the orgasmic release as I pushed fat cords of white-hot cream up its inches and watched them splatter all over, spreading my powerful seed in celebration of myself.

Fuck, I felt good.

Jove reappeared holding an opaque glass in his large paw. It was filled with something that looked like a vanilla shake, thick with the nectar he spoke of. He held it toward me and commanded, “Drink.”

Bringing it toward my lips, a sharp tang struck my nostrils. Acrid and powerful, and somewhat alien in nature. It didn’t smell like anything I was used to pouring down my throat after a workout. “What is it?” I deigned to ask.

“As I said, it will make you strong. It will make you powerful. I will make you beautiful.”

I shrugged. “Works for me!” And then I downed it.

It tasted sweet and sour in equal measure. It was warm, and thick, and coated my tongue and teeth with its odd taste. But as I drank it down, I only wanted more of it. The taste changed from one alien into one that I relished. I could feel it branching through my body like quicksilver, leaching into my arms and legs and filling my belly with its warmth.

My cock was still hard, and now was jerking with spasms of pure joy. I was nearing orgasm, without even touching my dick. I could feel it pulsing with hard tremors of sexual release. I couldn’t account for it, but it felt good and natural and true. I licked my lips and smiled as I handed the empty container back to Jove, who took it and then folded his arms across that mammoth, furry chest of his. “You are good,” he said. “This will be fast.”

I felt re-energized. In some sense, I contemplated starting another workout immediately, filled with power and strength and determination. My cock was in overdrive. I felt like I was going to start fountaining thick sprays of cum just standing there. I could see myself grabbing onto the fat shank of cock jutting forward from between my powerful legs and shooting ropes of thick cream all over Jove’s massive body, rewarding and displaying my pride in what he had done in the most direct and masculine form.

“You must go to your occupation,” he said, as if hearing my thoughts and my desire to hit the weight stack all over again. “We shall meet again tomorrow morning.”

“How often are we going to meet?”

“Daily,” he said. “Every morning. Here.”

“Even weekends?”

“Every morning. Until you are perfect.”

This did not sound like a bad plan to me. “When… how do I pay you?”

“When we are finished, then you’ll pay me.”

I didn’t ask how much. I didn’t care. This is all I ever wanted to do. Be here, and be with him, naked and powerful, pushing steel with my raw muscle, feeling myself growing stronger and bigger and more beautiful every day.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jove.”

“Enjoy your day, Thomas.”

Part 3

After one week, I was making progress I never thought possible. In all the months I had spent with my old trainer, I had never managed the gains that I was seeing in only a week with Jove.

On the one hand, this wasn’t wholly unexpected. The man drove me harder than I had ever been driven. We went for two hours each day. He would concentrate on one set of muscles, pushing me and my body beyond what I ever thought I could do, and then further even than that. How could my body not start to grow from such a shock?

On the other hand, the growth I was seeing and the power I was feeling was…impossible. Was this how every man’s body reacted when it was forced to? It seemed to me that I had strived for weeks to simply go from lifting with two plates to adding two more. Now, my lifts were increasing on a daily basis. What I found challenging on Tuesday I was easily surpassing on Thursday. When I tested my strength, I was always underestimating my capabilities.

And the muscle was quite noticeably growing. I didn’t have to put on my clothes to realize that the sleeves were going to be a bit tighter than they were, or that there would be less room for my shoulders, or that my chest was going to try to open the front of my business shirt on its own.

Looking in the mirror, I could see these changes manifest. Bending my arm, I watched the muscles swell upwards and keep going. I watched them tighten into a ball that arched toward my fist. I could feel individual lobes of brawn begin to manifest as the muscle grew and separated into its assembled parts.

I asked Jove about this, whether this was considered normal, and he smiled. “It is normal for me,” he said, and then he added, placing that bear’s paw on my shoulder, “for us.” I felt that same surge of pride and lust from his words and his touch. Lust not for the man, but for the growth. For the muscle. For the path he was guiding me along.

My growth only spurred that lust—that desire for more. As I lifted heavier weights and saw my chest begin to swell into globes of power, I wanted to push myself to go farther. When I was tucking my cock into my shorts, feeling its weight sagging the basket as if it, too, was growing larger and stronger, I wanted to hold steel in my grip and push it until my arms were stinging with power.

On the last day of the week—the sixth day of training before my day of rest—Jove brought me the daily nectar and said, “Tomorrow, you should show your dominance.” I wrinkled my brow as I swallowed the warm, thick fluid to show my curiosity. He said, “Tomorrow, you should find another—another man—and display to him your new self.”

I lowered the bottle and wiped my lips. “Display my new self?”

He grabbed my upper arm, surrounding it in his huge grip. “This,” he said. Then he moved that grip onto my cock, drooling its usual stream of pre-cum, and repeated, “this.”

I went up on my toes when he grabbed me there. Was he advising me—? Was he telling me to go forth and fuck? “My dominance,” I said, looking into his dark, sparkling eyes.

He nodded once and released me from his grip. “It will help you,” he said. “It will make you grow stronger.”

Nothing wrong with that, I thought, and damned if I wasn’t the horniest dude you ever met, anyway. My workout sessions had drained me of energy, but by the fall of night I always found myself stroking out a massive delivery of spunk, usually while I was looking at my growing body in the mirror. Why not use what I was gaining and have a little extracurricular activity?

“I will,” I told my trainer.

“That is good,” he answered.


Between going to Atlas and going to work, I had not been back to the other gym at all, and I thought about John. The bastard never did call me, even after he asked for my number. I decided that day to re-visit my old stomping grounds to show off a bit, and particularly for his eyes alone.

I felt proud and unashamed and a bit domineering as I walked back into the gym. The gazes I was getting from the other occupants seemed to validate my pride and desire to show off.

Jove never pointed out how much I was lifting, he simply piled on the weight and pushed out another rep from my screaming muscles and then moved on. There was no plan that I could see to his training method, other than to achieve growth at all costs.

Then there was that nectar. God, how I needed it! It was a sweet addiction, something to look forward to after every 2-hour torture. Every morning, my cock grew harder—and I swear it was growing in proportion to the rest of me, though that was likely only my imagination in play.

I walked into the old gym in my skintight workout clothes sporting the usual thick wood at my loins, swollen and hungry but not at full mast, lying thickly inside my jock with the head and long shaft stretching the elastic with its heavy abundance. This time I was not embarrassed in the least. In fact, I wanted to strut around the floor and show off for the audience. Look at me! Look at these muscles! Look at this cock!

I looked for John—Mr. Perfect—but he was not there as I began my faux workout. I had already had my session with Jove that morning, and driven directly to the other gym still soaked with sweat, my muscles burning with power and my libido driven to overdrive.

Everyone stared. How could they not? Did I look so different to them? Had I changed so much? Only one week had passed. Perhaps that massive shank of meat in my pants is what made them all look at me. I wanted to fuck every one of them, dominate them, force them to know my power and growing perfection.

Nectar was in my veins. In my blood. Singing its sweet song in my ears. My muscles bulged. My cock throbbed.

I saw him, at last. John. Mr. Perfect. And he was headed my way. “My, my, my,” he said, “what have you been up to?”

I smiled and paused in my exercises. My cock throbbed hotly. “Hi, John. What’s up?”

He gazed down at my obvious erection and asked, “Besides you?” I matched his gaze and did nothing to hide myself. “You’re looking massive,” he observed. “What’s your secret?”

I bent my arm and swelled my biceps to power. Fibers of raw strength jumped up against my skin. The muscle grew into a tight ball on my upper arm, splitting along its head with perfect muscular development. If my Under Armor shirt had not been made of stretchy material, I know I would have split the seams. “New trainer,” I said. “He’s very—determined.”

“Obviously.” I was sitting on a bench, with a pair of 40s on the floor, resting between sets. 40s were now ludicrously light. I was used to working with double the weight. I watched his eyes flicker towards my well-stuffed crotch. I was packing massive heat, and he was nearly salivating. Then his eyes were back on mine, and I watched him swallow. “Is everything bigger?” he asked.

I cupped my meat and smiled. “Seems that way.” I was feeling confidence and dominance swelling as large as my dick. I was slowly rubbing my crotch, feeling intense pulses of sexual prowess and bliss, as I said, “You didn’t call me.”

“I can see now that I should have,” he admitted. He looked at my crotch again. “You nearly finished with your workout?”

“Nearly.”

“Ready to hit the showers?”

“What I really want to do is fuck you.” Where the hell had that come from? I had never been so bold before.

But he liked it. “Before or after the showers?”

“During.”

His eyes narrowed and his handsome mouth quirked into a grin. “That might be possible.” I stood up slowly, allowing him to watch me expand to my new size. He seemed small to me, now. My cock was already stretching. I could feel the head pushing against the rough material of my jock. My balls tingled. My muscles were hard and throbbing. “But not today, my friend. Though I would love to feel this,” he said, putting his hand very directly on my growing erection and squeezing me without apparent embarrassment or awkwardness, “pushing deep inside, time isn’t on our side.”

“I don’t need much time,” I admitted, “I’m almost there already.”

He squeezed again, testing my hardness. “So it seems. But I don’t want to rush this, do you?”

It was my turn to smile. “No,” I agreed.

He released me from his firm grip. “Patience, Thomas. When you and I get together, I’ve a feeling that we’re going to generate much more than sparks. I’ve a feeling we’ll set the fucking bed on fire.”

“You look like you could do that all by yourself,” I growled.

“Now it’s my cock that’s starting to stretch.” I looked down and it was undoubtedly true. The man was gifted. “I’ll call you.”

“You’d better.”

He smiled again. I nearly came.


My day of rest. And my day, as Jove called it, of showing my dominance.

I was not what one might call a player. I did not have a little black book. I did not frequent the local watering holes and meat markets, prowling for a night’s recreation. I didn’t even have a fuck buddy to fall back on, and God knew I wasn’t about to call an ex-lover to have him come over and start crying because he wanted to get back together with me, now that I was hot.

Because I was hot. No one could deny that. If I had drawn attention in my old gym by stripping off my shirt, after only a week I was convinced that my new, bigger body would cause a stampede.

I went online. Isn’t that what one does, now? I started at the usual dating spots, but then I remembered Jove’s instructions; Show your dominance, display your new self, show him… this.

‘This’ was my cock. I looked down at my crotch and my dick swelled and pulsed as if in recognition of its role. It wanted out of my jeans, my tight jeans, gripping my growing legs like a second skin. It pushed arrogantly against the denim like an animal wanting released from its cage. My cock was anxious and hungry. My cock wanted to show its dominance.

I went to another site, one whose goal was not just to date, or to have sex, but to match up muscular men with other muscular men with one goal only—to get them together and dominate each other.

At least, that was what was in my head as I typed in my zip code and started my search for my day of domination. Pages of men in stages of undress unfolded on my screen. Huge, muscular men, some brutal and others beautiful. Some were showing off the bodies they had built, flexing muscles and posing in the way that best showed off their bodies. Some kept their shorts on, or wore jockstraps or wrestling togs, objects of fantasy for my pleasure. Others stripped themselves naked and displayed hard cocks, ready to be sucked and fucked.

My body was growing hot as my eyes perused this gallery of male beauty and power. I had unzipped my jeans and shoved them off my hips, pulling forth my own hard cock and was slowly pleasuring myself, surrendering to this unending visual display of muscle and might. I had just about decided on sending an invitation to one of these men—a hairy, brutish fellow whose profile went into great detail about the things he proposed to do to me—when my cell phone began ringing and I picked it up.

The number on the display was unfamiliar, but since I rarely received calls on this phone from someone who didn’t already have the number, I elected to answer it.

“This is Thomas,” I said.

“Hello, Thomas,” the voice answered. I did not recognize it. It was a dark masculine voice. Even the way he said ‘hello’ made my cock throb in my grip.

“Hello,” I answered. “Who is this?”

“This is John.”

Mr. Perfect. I had all but forgotten that I had even given him my number. “Oh,” I said. My pulse quickened and my cock swelled. “Hi, John.”

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” he asked.

I looked down at my erection, rubbing my thumb across the lips of my serpent’s mouth, and answered. “No, I was just online.”

“Hunting for some ass?” he asked.

My heart leapt. He said it as if he had been watching over my shoulder. “Yes,” I answered. I don’t know why I said that.

He laughed softly. “Which site are you on?” I told him, and he said, “What a coincidence.” Then he gave me a profile number and told me to search for it.

It was him, of course. I was met with a close-up of his gorgeous face. He was smiling in the portrait, though somehow he had managed to make even that simple expression drip with erotic intent. “Are you looking at me?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Bring up the gallery, Thomas. Top left picture. I think you’ll want to see that one, too.”

I clicked the link and saw a dozen more images of Mr. Perfect. The thumbnails promised untold beauty and raw sexuality. Images of him in square-cut shorts outlining the swollen majesty of his cock. Images of his ass, pushed towards me like an invitation. Images of his chest, his abs, his prone body lying in crisp white sheets as if greeting my morning hard-on with an insatiable appetite.

I looked at the upper-left picture and was unsure of its subject matter, a collection of dark folds and shiny bits, something dark and dangerous looking. I clicked it to enlarge it and push it forward.

It was his cock and balls. Of course he was huge. A fat, smooth shank hanging several thick inches forward, possibly eight inches, and almost pushing its way through the screen towards my lips. His balls, shaven and ready to be suckled, hung like eggs in a skin sack. A tight cowl of foreskin gripped the perfectly formed helmet, and the lips of his cock’s mouth were slightly open, as if he was about to release a sample of his undoubtedly rich and delicious cream. A nest of dark curls crowned the perfection of his equipment, and I could almost smell his masculine tang, the sweaty sweet musk of ass and balls.

The image was absurdly beautiful. It was the epitome—the absolute incarnation of what a man should possess. Everything about that photo made me want him, and my own cock throbbed hot in my grip.

“So,” he asked, “what do you think?”

“I hope that’s been Photoshopped,” I answered.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if that thing’s real, it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker.”

He laughed again. “Why don’t you find out in person, Thomas?”

“All right,” I answered. “Why don’t you come over and show me?”

I could almost hear him smiling at the other end of the line. “Oh, I’ll do much more than that,” he answered, and he asked for my address.

My place was a wreck. I had been working out so hard that I had taken no time to tidy anything up, so I suggested that we meet at his place. But he insisted. “I doubt either of us will be taking much notice of our surroundings, Thomas, and it sounds like you’re more than ready to receive guests.” He paused. “Is your cock in your hand?”

“Yes.”

“Are you hard?”

“Yes.”

“How hard are you, Thomas?”

“I could fuck a hole through a concrete wall.”

“Hold that thought, and I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”


The wait was interminable. I did pushups on the floor. I used gallon jugs of water as dumbbells and pumped out rep after rep, making my arms burn and swell. I did not touch my prick, though it remained rock-hard and ready until there was a ring at the lobby door and I pushed the buzzer to allow my guest entrance.

He knocked on my door with gentle raps, almost politely. I looked out my peep hole and saw that face, again'the same one that had greeted me on his online profile, but now it was alive and animated and standing outside my apartment door.

I opened it, and he stood there for a moment, scanning my shirtless, glistening body. “My,” he said, “someone has been busy.” He stepped forward and placed his hand against my sweaty chest. I was breathing deeply, both from the exertion of my exercises and the excitement of the man’s presence.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to mine. Then he was pushing his tongue inside my mouth. His hand slipped along my slick skin and he found a nipple, squeezing the tender tip in his fingers and sending rockets of sexual excitement through my body. His other hand was suddenly on my crotch, and he easily found the source of my manhood and rubbed his palm along the length of my erection.

He pulled his mouth away and said, “Hello, Thomas.”

“Hello,” I replied.

“Are you ready?”

“For what?”

“To see if my Photoshopping skills are up to snuff.”

I smiled and closed the door behind him.


Needless to say, the photos did not do the man justice. Indeed, he was everything those images had promised, though in the flesh he was so much more than that.

The man was all-business that afternoon. He lead me to my own bedroom as if he already knew the way—indeed, as if he owned the place. I followed him like a puppy and he had my bone, watching the movement of his ass in the cream-colored pants he wore. When we reached the bed, he turned around and set his hands to the button-fly of my jeans and practically ripped them wide. My cock popped out like a prize, and he grabbed it and stroked me with expert finesse.

I swooned and bit my lip and closed my eyes. Suddenly, his mouth surrounded my cock head and he was sucking and licking me with insatiable hunger. Then his hand squeezed me hard and I opened my eyes and looked down at him. “You were going to come,” he said. I shook my head and started to protest, but he said, “I felt you swelling in my mouth. You were going to come.” I was going to apologize—apologize!—and he smiled. “We can’t have you popping off so soon, Thomas. Hell, you haven’t even seen me naked, yet.”

I was going to admit that I had, at the gym. That I had even hung back for more than twenty minutes one time just to see him emerge from the shower, and watched him strip off his towel and reward me with a glimpse of his round, firm, muscular ass. But he rose up next to me—his grip still squeezing my hard cock—and he said, “Some things are worth the wait, Thomas.”

Jove’s words—his instructions—all but left me. My dominance? Show this man my dominance? It was already very clear to me who was going to dominate whom in this battle. And I had already surrendered.

John threw me into bed. That is no exaggeration. He turned me around and tossed me onto my unmade mattress as if I were a rag doll. I landed on my back, my cock bobbing and slapping my belly, and John grabbed the cuffs of my jeans and stripped me bare.

Then he stood at the foot of my bed looking at me. Just…looking at me. At my body. My muscle. My cock. I could almost feel his eyes scan my flesh like a heat that traveled up and down, lingering here and there as he drank me in. I watched his face as he looked at me, and I saw desire and lust and hunger play out on his features. I saw his eyes light up, like a boy seeing the gift he wanted most beneath the Christmas Tree.

And I was that gift.

And I was all his.

He started to unbutton his shirt. He did so slowly, button by button, as his eyes continued to swallow me up. Then he shrugged his shoulders and peeled the sleeves from his arms.

The definition of his body—the sheer perfection of form in each of his muscles—was staggering. My cock was throbbing a steady rhythm, like tribal drums calling the war council. He pulled the shirt from his pants and dropped it to the floor, and began to unbuckle his belt. There was silence in the room, other than my own heavy breathing and the metallic tinkle of the buckle as he pulled the belt from the loops and dropped it, too.

He was shirtless and he paused. He raised his fingers to one of his fat, overlarge nipples and twisted it. I could see the reaction of his cock to that, it swelled forward eagerly. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and his compliment elicited something of the same reaction that Jove’s simpler praise could produce in me. I felt a surge of pride and lust, and I watched a smile spread across his lips when he saw what his words—and only his words—could do to me.

His skin looked like silk. He was smooth and hairless, and his nipples were fat and supple. On someone else, they might have seemed oversized, but on him they were perfect. I wanted to draw them inside my mouth and chew on them. I wanted to suck the source of his beauty from them, and make his cock swell.

He moved his hands to his pants and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the crotch open and I saw that he was not wearing anything beneath. The dark forest of his thick pubic crown spilled out, and the root of his cock was exposed—the rest of its majesty and perfection still pushed down and swelling along his thigh.

How big was he, really? It seemed like my eight-inch calculation had been woefully meager. Or perhaps my hunger for him amplified its extents. Watching him growing hard inside his trousers, it became glaringly obvious that the man had been gifted by whatever gods gave out cocks with the sovereign of them all.

Then he was looking at my face—at my eyes. And he pushed his pants off his hips and they dropped to the carpet.

Did I gasp? I may even have blacked out. For the man surpassed even my own dreams and fantasies for what Mr. Perfect would look like stripped bare before me in my own bedroom.

“Hello,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Fuck,” I replied.

“Yes,” he said, “let’s.”

Part 4

“I am disappointed,” Jove said to me, and my heart fell. “You did not show your dominance.”

“Look, if you could’ve seen what he….”

“That does not matter,” he told me. “He does not matter. Only you,” he said, and he jabbed my pec with his meaty finger for emphasis, “matter. Only this,” he added, cupping my swelling chest, and perhaps playing his thumb across my sensitive nipple, “and this,” as his other hand grabbed my constant hard-on and squeezed painfully. “Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I said.

“Do you understand?” He squeezed harder, forcing me to my toes.

“I understand,” I echoed. I was going to protest to this huge man that he didn’t understand. Had he ever had his own fantasy lover appear in the flesh in his bedroom? Had he ever been faced with the most beautiful, most perfect, most…everything dude and then had that dude seduce him and do literally anything and everything he wanted to do? Fulfill every desire? Realize every wish? Satisfy every hunger?

Jove looked sternly at me, as a father might to his son, disappointed in his school athletics. He sent me onto the field thinking that I was quarterback, but I came back having had the opposing team fuck my ass three ways to sunset.

And I had loved every second of it.

He released my cock and hung his head. I felt shamed to be standing before him for the first time. Then he raised his majestic face and his eyes focused on mine. “To grow, you must be the master, yes?”

“Yes,” I say.

“We will work harder,” he said. “You will work harder.”

“Yes, sir.”


After that second week, with Jove driving me beyond what I thought my limits had been, my muscle gains were off the chart. When I looked into the mirror on a daily basis, I seemed to be growing larger just standing there. When I stroked my cock, it was bigger and longer in my hard grip. My chest was deepening, my arms were swollen with hard balls of brawn, my legs were turning into tree trunks, my ass was a round, full, meaty set of muscular globes.

He doubled my intake of nectar, as well. I gulped it down greedily, as if my body needed it. I felt its warm power leaching into my muscles, and they swelled in response.

I was nearly constantly hard, as well. My cock, when it wasn’t erect, was on its way there. I felt like I was back in high school again, with a prick that couldn’t be tamed, swelling with ever-present conspicuousness at my groin, pushing against the crotch of whatever pants I could still fit my thick thighs into. It tingled and throbbed and wanted attention constantly. Even after stroking off and releasing a copious flood of cream in fat jets that splattered everywhere, it only wanted more.


My work days were…becoming a distraction. The tightness of my clothes were a constant reminder of my growth and power. My nipples rubbed against the material of my shirt. My cock, seemingly insatiable, pulsed and throbbed, feeling as though the god damned thing weighed twenty pounds. Tremors of tingling orgasmic surges kept erupting along it meat, reminding me both of its length and girth. I felt hot and, at one point, the upper right sleeve of my shirt split as my biceps swelled because I was looking at my forearm, and all the beautiful veins feeding my muscles’ size and strength.

All I wanted was to be back at Atlas. I wanted to be pushing iron. I wanted to be naked, glorious, perfect. I wanted to display myself and my body and my cock.

The days crawled by.

I came a heavy load in the men’s room at noon, pulling out my massive shank of sex and slowly stroking myself to a blinding orgasmic explosion, feeling even as I came that I could come again and again.

I exited the restroom, still zipping myself tightly inside my pants, trying to squeeze the majestic size of my hungry cock into its cage, as another man was entering. I looked at him and something passed between us. He seemed to physically shrink before me. He opened his mouth to speak and then stopped, locking his eyes to mine.

“What are you looking at?” I asked, a bit too harshly. My voice held a note of command that had never been there, and its register was growing deep and strong.

“Excuse me,” he replied meekly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean….”

I smiled, opening the door for him. The masculine musk of my heavy load hung in the air. “You want in?” I asked.

He paused, frozen in place like some small animal before a predator. “Yes,” he answered.

“Good,” I said.

In minutes I was feeding him my cock in the toilet stall, grasping his head in my paws and shoving myself down his throat as he swallowed my second load with evident hunger.

I do not know his name. His name doesn’t matter. What matters is that I realize, for the first time, what Jove means by his instructions.

Something in me grows suddenly strong. Not my muscles, which will grow because I punish them daily, and not my strength, which excels the growth of my muscles, but something else. Something deeper.

I look down at this man. He is handsome, I think. His lips are wrapped around my hard cock and tears are in his eyes as he attempts to swallow all that I am. I gag him with my size. I pump gallons of cream down his throat which he swallows eagerly. I put my hand behind his neck, gently, and urge him on.

He wants this. He wants me.

I raise my arm and bend it, sending my biceps into spasms of growth. The muscle bunches into a solid ball and pushes upwards, stretching the cloth of my sleeve until the fabric stretches to its breaking point. I smile and split the cotton fabric with the size and power of my arm, forcing my biceps through the material like paper. He moans in ecstasy as I display my dominance.


That night I slept deeply, and dreamed.

I am naked, but not ashamed. I am exposed, but not vulnerable. I am beautiful, and powerful, and strong.

A desert. A barren land. Stark, white, unyielding. Mountains, then, pushing up as if forced by some unseen and all-powerful hand. The movement of earth. The low rumble, the boom of rock against rock.

I am moving, now. Toward the new range of peaks. The air is warm, scented with power. Some spice. Or animal. Something carnal and raw and bestial. It warms me, enters my skin, pushed itself inside, becoming part of me.

Now my cock. I feel it. A heaviness. A rapturous burden. My cock is the center of all things. My cock is hot and hard and thick. My cock pulses with a heavy current of masculine sexuality. My cock arches its neck upwards and grows longer, harder, thicker. My cock rises like the sun, hot and majestic and powerful.

A throne, there among the mountains. A man, seated upon it. I move towards him, floating or flying, effortless and with providence. This is destiny. This is fate. Nothing can stop this.

His body is naked, like mine. His body is powerful, like mine. He is perfect.

Like me.

I wake up.


The seventh day is mine. “Display your dominance.” Have I not done so at the office? There are men there, now, who will never want to be with another, neither man nor woman—or, doing so, will always compare them to me and weep that I am not there, feeding the thick inches of my cock into their mouths and asses.

My cock stands before me, throbbing with hot need.

I visit the page belonging to Mr. Perfect. I wish to test my resolve, and my dominance over him. I am now even larger than him. I could easily dominate, just with my strength and my size, and make him do whatever I wish. Doing nothing but existing—being within the same room as him, and showing him all that I am, and all the power and strength I now possess, would surely command his submission.

I stare at the image of his face. And I—and my cock—remember.

I look into those eyes, and know that if I see him again—I will be his. I cannot deny him. As much as I want to be with him again, to relive that day of ultimate bliss, I hear Jove’s words in my head and feel his disappointment in me.

I look at John’s picture again. I open the gallery and click the upper left image, inflating the thumbnail of his masculine perfection on my screen until it fills every inch, gazing on his cock and balls and aching to taste him again.

And my phone rings.

I recognize the number, and pause before answering. After doing so, I hear his voice immediately, and before I can say anything in greeting, he asks, “Are you looking at me?”

“Yes.”

“I have a surprise for you.” His voice licks my libido. My prick pulses in response, like Pavlov’s dog, drooling at the sound.

“Do you?”

“You’re not scared, are you?” The question shocks me, because I feel something like fear inside. Before I can deny it, John says, “There’s nothing to be scared of. It’s a gift. Just for you.”

“What is it?”

“I need your email address. I want to send you something.”

“What is it?” I repeat.

“That would ruin the surprise.”

I give him my address. My heart is beating hard. My body is hot, as if he is already here, and we are together, and his tongue is lapping at my butthole. I watch the icon for my mail app, waiting in anticipation of it hopping up and down with excitement. “Do you have it, yet?”

“Not yet,” I report.

“It’s big,” he says.

“I know,” I respond, having seen—and felt—it.

He chuckles. “Should be coming any time, now.”

The icon starts to hop. His message in my inbox, a little paper clip showing an attachment. “This isn’t going to hurt my computer, is it?”

“It may burn your eyes from their sockets, but your computer will be fine.” I swallow into a suddenly dry throat. “Open it, Thomas.”

I double click the message. No text, just the attachment. An image, naturally. I click on it, to open it, and suddenly my screen is overwhelmed with it.

It is us. He and I. In my bedroom. “When did you—?”

“I like to record my conquests,” he says. “I think it’s a good angle, don’t you?”

He is holding the camera—his phone—in one hand, held up behind him. It offers a view of his perfect ass, the high arching mounds of it are clenched and muscular. Because he is shoving his massive meat inside me. I am stretched out before him, on my back, one leg pressed against him, my foot above his shoulder, and the other sprawled across the bed. There is a look of evident ecstasy on my face, though my eyes are pinched shut as if I am in pain, because he has captured the moment when he came into me, and I exploded all over myself.

I can see my hard cock, red and shiny, spitting a fat rope of cream nearly to my face. A lacquer of cum shines on my egg carton belly and the squared globes of my chest, pearlescent white puddles against the sheen of sweat that coats my skin. My hands grip the sheets in fists, sending the muscles of my arms into thick spasms of flexed power. He is smiling into the camera, capturing the exact moment of my willing and eager subjugation. At that moment, he is shoving a thick load of his warm cream up the several thick inches of his prick. His massive cock, monumental and magnificent, is buried inside me, and its mouth is blasting a fat fountain of cum.

I am insanely turned on by this image, even given the fact that during the height of my own surrender he had the presence of mind to take it. Knowing that I was so lost that I never noticed what he was doing. And marveling that he had managed, almost as if by magic, to capture it with such artistry and perfection.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes,” I answer, because I do. I relive that moment over and over, and ache for its return.

“I’m glad,” he says.

“Come over,” I tell him.

“Are you sure?” he asks. The possibility that he won’t makes me want him even more.

“Now,” I say.

The line goes dead.


I greet him naked, as Jove greets me each morning. I open the door and I am already hard as stone. His hands grab my body and he pulls me to him and kisses me soundly. Then his grip finds my cock and he wraps it in his fingers and he smiles against my lips.

“Bigger,” he states.

“Yes,” I answer

“Good.”

I watch him undress again as I lie on my own bed. I have not washed the sheets and I can still smell him on them, and my own sweat. I am surrounded by the scent of men fucking. He pulls off his pants and his prick is arching upwards, pulsing quite strongly as blood pumps into it. He stands there, at the foot of my bed, and I watch him growing harder and bigger and thicker as he looks down at me. “Did you enjoy my gift?”

“Yes,” I state.

He smiles. “I’m glad.” He looks bigger to me, too, but only down there. I can almost feel him inside me already. He crawls onto my bed, and on top of me. I can feel the hard heat of his mammoth cock pressing against my skin. He kisses my mouth. He rubs against me. I hardly feel the weight of him on my powerful frame.

He runs his hands over my body, feeling the hard mounds of brawn. I am hard everywhere, but especially my cock. “How do you keep growing?”

“I’m not done yet,” I tell him.

He moans. “How big?”

I flex my muscles to bulging glory. He can feel every inch of my body swell beneath him as my brawn grows firm. He literally raises off of me, pushed upwards by the size and strength of every muscle on my body. “Bigger than anyone.”

He grabs my cock, throbbing between us. “This, too?”

I kiss his mouth. “Yes.”

“Stronger?”

“Stronger than anyone.” It is not a boast. It is a promise.

He sits up, straddling my body, looking down at the mountain ranges that rise everywhere on my growing body. He moves his hands across my belly, and the rippling bulges of muscle pressing against my skin. I feel his touch intently, understanding the reverence of it. He is worshiping me, with his hands and eyes. My cock throbs and a thick gob of warm honey swells at the tip. He grabs me and wipes the pre onto his thumb and sucks me off his thick digit, his cheeks sinking into the shallows of his face. His eyes are on mine as his face lowers and takes me into his mouth, licking and sucking and slicking up my fat prick with his talented tongue.

My eyes roll into my head. I am grasping the sheets with my balled-up fists. My ass clenches tight enough to crush a stone between my cheeks.

He is very, very good.

He looks up towards me, pulling his lips off my cock and he says, “You’re going to fuck me.” He strokes me in his spit-clicked grip. I feel it intently, down to my toes.

“Yes,” I agree. Growling the word.

“Hard.”

“Yes.” I whisper it.

“And then—” He moves his mouth onto my rod. I hear his hungry slurping and feel his mouth everywhere, like magic. “I’m going to fuck you even harder.”

I smile. “Yes.”

Part 5

The third week with Jove is harder than the previous, which was harder than the first—but so am I.

Harder. Bigger. Stronger.

My old clothes don’t fit. I am rarely in them, anyway. Two hours every day here at Atlas. Working from home, now, because work has become a struggle. Not for me. I own that place. But for those I have been with, and those who want to be with me.

I am approached by my addicts, junkies of the drug of me—the men I encounter whose dreams I fulfill—looking for more. I get little done, and though I am not embarrassed, others seem to have trouble dealing with my size and power.

I overwhelm them, clearly. I can sit in a meeting and all discussion will cease. I will walk down a hallway and jaws drop open and cocks grow hard. I am a distraction, I am told, and free to telecommute. I agree immediately, looking forward to the ability to exist in the nude in worship of my growing strength and size.

My cock is insatiable. I literally cannot satisfy it. Its hunger rules me, like some master demanding my enslavement to its whims and desires. But the only true nourishment that feeds its hunger is this—the iron and steel. The strain and sweat. The growth and size and strength of my muscles. When I grow, it is happy. When I lift, it rewards me.

Jove is as Jove ever is. Watching. Pushing. Praising in meager proportion to my gains, but his words are a balm to my pain. What magic does he know that keeps me growing? Inches of raw brawn swell on my arms. My chest bulges forward, deepening the valley between my pecs. I can see the muscle develop on a daily basis. I see new muscle swelling up under my skin—fibers and cables and wedges of muscle, blooming outward.

“Good,” he says. A single word, but it fills me with light. “Now, legs.”

I do not moan. I do not complain. I replace the dumbbells in the rack, my arms pulse with power, my biceps flexed to their limit, and walk naked toward the next rack, lead by my 10-inch boner wagging like a metronome. We load a bar with weight until it bends. The rack itself begins to complain, echoing metallic whispers under the load.

I position myself under the bar, feeling its cold metal pressing against the hard meat mounted across my mammoth shoulders. I bend my knees. My hands grip the bar and I lift it from its moorings, until its full weight—900 pounds—rests on me.

I lower the weight. My legs scream. My face grimaces. I grind my teeth together. Everything hurts.

And I press.

Up.

It feels like my muscles are going to burst through my skin. It feels like the weight will force me through the floor, through the earth, straight into the heat of hell itself. The scream my throat cannot form is manifest in every fiber of muscle.

One.

“Again.”

Days like this. The iron and the strain. Meager praise and reminders that I must dominate. Dominate those around me. Dominate my muscles. Dominate my pain and my pride and my growing power.

We complete the circuit. My muscles are pumped—quite literally pumped up—and I feel the heat of growth and the strain of power that sings in every fiber of my sinew and brawn. Veins, some as thick as fingers, swell along my muscle. Sweat drips down the crevices between the bulging heads of my muscle. I feel it trickle over my sensitive skin.

My cock is steel. As hard as everything else. Pumped up, somehow, and bloated with need. The head is a red, glassy cap. The eye is dilated, weeping honey.

Jove watches me drink my third bottle of nectar. I feel the warm, thick liquid branching out to my fingertips and toes, suffusing my muscle, leaching its power into the core of my body. It fulfills and feeds my need for growth. It sustains and fortifies. It builds me from the inside.

I swallow thick gulps with a hunger that only the nectar can satisfy. It coats my tongue and teeth with its spicy, salty pungency. I only want more.

Jove is smiling as he looks at me. His work of art. His perfect prize. His perfection.


I return home, driving naked. I have trouble, now, getting into my small sedan. My cock stays hard, though I do not touch it. I steer through the morning gloom and park in the garage and walk up the stairs, naked. I enter my apartment and smell myself there. I fit through my doorway, thinking how much I have grown. My shoulders now brush the edges of the frame. My hand overwhelms the doorknob. I have taken the nectar into my body, and it sates my hunger for the day.

It must be pure, concentrated muscle, to make me grow like this. I look down at my arm, my hand on the knob, and look at the swollen cables of brawn. I twist my wrist, watching the muscle flex and swell. I lift my arm and look at it—at the beauty of muscle.

Twisting my forearm makes the biceps bulge. I watch the head of the muscle split into its components. That is me, I tell myself. That is all me.

I place my hand on the muscle and feel its strength. My god, so hard. So much power, mounted on my arm. Even more on my legs.

I walk toward the bathroom and turn on the light. I look into the mirror.

Is that me? Do I look like that?

A thick beard grows on my chin and cheeks. My blue eyes sparkle with health. My face has an overwhelming masculine mien. I arch an eyebrow and smile at the sheer beauty of the simple gesture.

Then, downward. My neck, thick and powerful, as wide—no, wider than my head. Leading to bulging traps that reach towards my ears, stretching out towards my shoulders. The lobes of my delts, filled with fibers of each muscle head, swell out too thick for my hand to easily grasp.

Raising my arm across my chest to touch my shoulder, I watch the biceps swell majestically. The muscle shoves up under my skin and pushes against my pec.

I lower my arm and reveal that chest. Two massive pectoral globes, coated in the funky forest of fur scented with my masculine essence, pushing two fat nipples toward the ground. I move my hand onto one of my twin pecs, noting that it is so much larger, now, than the size of my entire hand. I grip the muscle and squeeze, tightening it with my newfound and effortless muscular control, and push back against that grip.

No one can hurt me. Not even me.

I raise both arms into a double-bi that would make the entire audience at the Mr. Olympia competition spontaneously cum. Everything swells with power. I suction in my ab wall and watch all the muscles on my torso appear under my paper-thin flesh. The internal and external obliques. The serratus anterior and the transverse abdominals. External intercostals. The iliac furrow, otherwise known as Apollo’s Belt, leading the eye unerringly downward like an arrow, pointing to the source of all masculine power.

My cock stands upright, pulsing dully, hard and bloated with desire. All this flexing, pushing my muscles to their swollen glory, forces a stream of honey from the eye that drains down the long, thick shaft. My cock throbs as my heart beats. My balls ache.

I grab myself and squeeze. The tendons along my forearm jump out. The muscle inflates. My cock grows red and shiny.

I spit on my prick and spread the slick warmth around its hard inches, slowly stroking myself as I look at my new body in the mirror. I bend my arm up and watch the muscle build higher and higher. The manly fur in the dark pit is wet with perspiration and I can smell myself, a powerful masculine musk, that stings my nostrils. I stick my nose into the dank sweat and inhale my power. The sweet stink sends a shock of erotic bliss through my huge frame, and my cock presses outward against my grip.

“Harder,” I whisper. “Bigger. Stronger.”

I tense the muscle, tightening my fist. It grows. My cock swells in my grip.

Harder, bigger, stronger.


I awaken.

The seventh day. My day of rest. I consider going to my old gym, if I cannot go to Atlas. I want to push the steel. I want to sweat. I want to grow.

It is dark in my room, because I awaken at 4am every day. I grow larger every night in my sleep. I can feel it, now. I can feel myself growing. I can feel my strength increasing, and my power developing.

My cock is hard. Always hard. Like I am. I reach down to caress myself, grabbing the firm heat of my erection in my powerful grip. A shock of bliss erupts down the thick inches and into my muscled frame. It travels everywhere, like water on a desert, soaking into the muscles of my body.

I rise from bed and greet the day, then I am outside, in the dark, naked. I am running, fast and far. I feel the muscle shift and settle. My cock slaps my thighs. My balls are a heavy weight, filled with cream I have yet to release. No one is on the streets to see my beauty and perfection. I run until my lungs burn and my heart is ready to burst, draining myself of fatigue and honing my body to its ultimate perfection.

Every muscle is highly defined and easy to delineate. All I am is muscle, and cock. And more of each every day. I pause in the morning gloom beneath a street lamp. The pale yellow light casts shadows into the deep valleys between every muscular mound. My 8-pack abs swell and recede as I breath. My skin is coated in sweat, lending my body a metallic appearance. Perhaps if anyone sees me, they will think me a god or an illusion—certainly no mere mortal looks as I do, now.

Grinning, I take off toward home. My cock wags and bounces. My muscles pulse with power. Blood rushes through my veins, hot and thick.

Naked, I enter my apartment again, smelling rank and filthy. “A shower,” I say aloud to myself, my new voice a rich, deep baritone. A hot shower will feel good.

The sun is rising outside. Pink hues color the sky. I stand at my open window surveying the world. My cock begins to rise.

It will be a good day.

I am fixing myself breakfast—six eggs scrambled—and percolating my morning cup of Joe when I hear a knock at my door. I am slightly surprised, because no one should be able to get into the building without being buzzed in at the lobby.

I look through the peep hole and see an unfamiliar face. It is a man’s face, and it is looking back at me. “Hello?” he says.

I open the door wide, allowing him to see that I am not only naked, but unashamed. My cock is plump, but not erect, but as I gaze on him I can feel my manhood start to throb and grow hot with fresh blood.

He is also naked. He is also beautiful, though not nearly as large and muscular as I am, now. He looks…like I used to look. His body is well-trained. Defined with brawn that settles under his skin with definition. A six-pack. Two broad pecs. Smooth, bronzed skin. Two fat nipples, both pierced with silver rings that make the nubs fat and lickable.

He looks into my eyes, and then his gaze drifts south. He is drinking me in, and I watch his reaction to my perfection by the sudden and very prominent growth occurring in his long, thin cock. The whole of it is visibly throbbing as the neck arches upward and grows thick with every heartbeat. “Hello,” I answer back, folding my arms over my new, gargantuan chest and leaning my bulk against the doorframe.

“I followed you,” he states, and now I see that his breath is short, making that six-pack swell and recede, and his tanned skin is coated in sweat.

I smile. “I see.”

“Couldn’t help myself,” he said.

“And the nakedness?”

His full lips quirk into a grin. “Couldn’t help that, either.”

He’s cute, rather than handsome. Not beautiful, like Mr. Perfect, but boyish and plainly eager. His cock is growing to amazing proportions, given its starting point. Clearly a grower and not a shower. He has eyes that change from blue to green, and a turned up nose like a doll might have. His hair is cropped short, and he needs a shave. “I’m Thomas,” I say by way of introduction, and offer my hand.

“Ken,” he answers, reaching forward, ignoring my hand and grabbing my cock. “May I come in?”

I look down as he strokes me. I grow firm in record-breaking time and my dick swells and reaches toward him, wanted his attention. “Yes,” I say.

He ‘steers’ me backwards, using my dick like some kind of aircraft stick, keeping his hand on my growing erection as I swell in response. We go into my kitchen and he presses his mouth to mine and kisses me while he strokes me. I can feel the heat of his prick between us, hotter than anything on his naked body. “Fuck, I’ve wanted to do that ever since I saw you on the road.”

I kiss him back, pushing my tongue into his mouth. Then I look down at him, because I am taller and broader and bigger than him in every way, and ask, “Have you always been this shy?” I reach my hand toward one of the rings attached to his nipple, grasping it lightly and pulling.

He bites his bottom lip and his eyes roll up into his head. “Fuck,” he whispers, grabbing my erection harder and squeezing with all his might. This only makes me harder, pressing back against his grip with my cock, swelling to ultimate glory.

I tug harder, unaccustomed to these things and uncertain how hard to pull. But he seems to like it and his cock is certainly responding fully, so I bend down and suck his tit into my mouth and play with the cold silver and fleshy nub. He swoons and grabs my ass as well as my dick and is pushing his fingers toward my wet, hot hole. I feel a surge of precum sizzle up my prick and spill over his fingers.

His touch is eager and talented. He smells me, digging his face into my neck and lapping at the salty sweat leaching from my huge, muscular form. He kisses and sucks against my skin, tasting me, drinking me inside his mouth.

I catch his nipple between my tongue and teeth, feeling the metal inside the flesh. He pushed his fingers inside me.

I bite down. He squeezes against me. My cock drools a fat gurgle of precum, a flow of hot honey coating his hand as he strokes and teases and rubs me all the right ways.

His body moves down my own, rubbing skin on skin as his mouth travels toward my throbbing prick. He licks and kisses me with worshipful attention, his hand grips the meat of my ass, his fingers push inside my heat.

Then his mouth is on my cock, surrounding my hardness with the wet heat of his tongue. I feel him intently, almost too keenly, driving my passion to overwhelming magnitudes, forcing my balls into overdrive, and sending me to some blissful paradise of perfect sexual release.

He takes control of me, or I willingly surrender it. There is nothing I can do, nor want to. My cock in his mouth, his hands on my ass, I am his.

It’s going to be a good day.

Part 6

“You are making remarkable progress,” Jove told me. “Your desire is strong.”

I sat up from my labors. My body was drenched in sweat. It is one month since we met. I am twice the size I was when we started. My chest measures seventy-two inches around. I have 21-inch upper arms. My thighs are nearly as large as my waist. My body—somehow—has grown taller to carry the added size. My weight is pushing the scales to 275 pounds.

My cock is rock hard, drooling pre in a stream down its thick neck. I lick my lips, tasting the salty sweat gathered there, drinking the essence of my labors. I have just bench-pressed a new personal record, pushing over seven-hundred pounds above my prone body. The muscles in my chest and arms burn with growth and power. I look up at my trainer and smile with pride and hunger. He says, “Show me who you are.”

I stand from the bench and begin a series of muscular displays, pushing the bulging perfection of every ball and cable and mass of brawn against my paper-thin skin. The muscle jumps up at my command, and I revel in my size, my strength, my utter masculine perfection. My cock stretches, swelling with pride.

“Good,” Jove says. I hear his word of praise like a balm, it fills me with honor. I know I am bigger—much, much bigger—but it is for him that I do it all. It is only for him. “Let us continue.”

We move to the next set of punishing lifts. Legs, now, because my chest is bursting and my arms are burning. We load plate after plate on the bar, and I gather my uncompromising strength to lift it onto the mountains that my shoulders have become.

I strain and grunt to push the weight. I feel the muscles of my legs and ass and back all tighten and burn and bulge.

Bigger. I must grow. Stronger.

Ten reps. Twelve. Thirteen. Four… no, that is the limit. I pause.

“Again,” Jove demands. His voice, that familiar and comforting low rumble, sounds from behind me. I glance down. His hands hang at his sides, and I hope that he will save me if I fail in my efforts—though I suddenly find that I know I won’t fail.

I suck in air. I grit my teeth so hard my jaw hurts. I bend my knees and lower the sagging bar. Nearly 1,200 pounds of iron are fastened to it. I grunt, then groan, then shout. Pushing it back up. Inch by inch. Slowly managing over half-a-ton of steel, mastering it with my naked muscles.

It is agony. Glorious, perfect, beautiful agony. Every muscle screams as I shred it and make it grow.

Bigger. I must grow.

“Again.”

I do it. For him. He makes me want it. He drives me. I bend my knees. The muscles scream. The burn is a fire. I can feel myself growing stronger.

“Good,” he says. I glow from his praise. My cock is hard as steel, leaking sex honey. My rod and my staff. “Now it is time for a new lesson.”

“Yes,” I say, hungry for more. More power. More strength. More size. I am on my feet, I stand straight and tall, my massive chest pushes forward several inches, my muscular ass juts out proudly, my cock pulses and drools, I am eager to please, eager to learn, eager to grow.

“Control,” he says. “You must master your muscles. You must master this,” he says, grabbing my prick in his rough grip, squeezing the hard shaft and pushing a fat gush from the mouth of my monster. “This must not control you.”

“No,” I agree.

“Do you understand?” Do I? I want his hand there. I want his power there. I feel his strength as if he is giving it to me through my cock. I feel the warmth of his skin. I feel him. “You do not understand,” he says, releasing me.

“I must control myself.” I say it as if I do understand. I say what I think he wants me to say.

He sees through my self-doubt. “Control is not words. Control is power.” But I was filled with power. I was strength incarnate. I was muscle, pure and raw and true. It bulged from every inch of my body, honed to rock hardness, swollen with potency and dominance. My cock throbbed upward with pride and happiness and a flow of pre erupted and flowed warmly down my thick inches.

Jove saw my physical reaction, my realization of power, the manifestation of my pride. His dark brow lowered and his mouth—those full lips, so passionate and beautiful to me—pursed. “You will learn control of this body. You will not become overwhelmed by it.”

“I will not be overwhelmed.”

“No. Do not repeat my words. Only listen, and understand.” He placed his index finger at my temple and tapped my skull with hammer blows. “We must train this. Do you see? You are control. You are power. Without that, all of this,” he said, moving his warm, rough palm over the bulging mass of my right pec, “and this,” he grabbed my hard cock again, and I nearly came, “are as nothing.”

I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. Control. The word meant something. Dominance? Mastery? Was I not the most beautiful? Was I not the strongest? Was I not—?

His finger at my temple again. Tapping my skull. “Do not lose this.”

“Control,” I repeated. I felt dumb. I felt confused. My body was singing with strength and force. My muscles throbbed with overwhelming power. My cock was a white hot rod of male force, tingling with hard shocks of sex. I opened my eyes and looked at Jove.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “you will learn control.”


Night. The room is dark. My skin is warm. My cock is hot. Jove’s words circle inside my head as I contemplate the meaning. Control. Tomorrow, I will learn control.

Am I not in control? Do I not dominate? Walking into any room, now, I become the focus of every pair of eyes. Eyes that hunger for me, for my beauty and power and strength. Do I not control every situation?

My phone rings on the nightstand. I reach for it—the weight of muscle on my arm, the swollen majesty of what I am, lining the limb with thick, hard bulges—and I look at the tiny screen in my large hand.

My old trainer! I had almost forgotten him! And I had never even thanked him for what he has done, for introducing me to Jove, and changing my life so utterly.

I am lying on my bed, naked. I am always naked. I am always hard and always growing.

“Hello,” I growl.

“Thomas? Do you have a cold?” His face in my head. His smiles and encouragement.

My voice. Deeper. Stronger. More masculine and powerful. Like the rest of me. “No,” I answer.

“I was just checking up on you. No one has seen you around for a while. Are you all right?”

“I’m perfect,” I explain, because I am. My cock throbs and I grab it and stroke.

“I was just wondering why you never called the new trainer.”

“I met him,” I say. “We meet every morning.”

“Well, I don’t know who you’re meeting every morning, but it’s not the guy I was setting you up with. Who are you training with?”

“Jove,” I say. My mind flashes on the godlike face and massive body of my naked training partner. My muscles pulse with familiarity of his name.

“I don’t know any Jove, Thomas. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” I answer. Cum is building inside my balls. My cock is growing thick and hard. I pinch the fat nipple on my massive pectoral globe, sending a shock of orgasmic bliss everywhere.

“You sound weird.”

“I’m good,” I say, closing my eyes, stroking my cock, picturing the face of the man at the other end of the phone line, his eyes, his mouth, his body. I rub my thumb across the lips of the mouth of my prick, feeling the slick warm wetness erupting there.

“Okay, I was just… I was worried about you.”

“I’m good,” I tell him. I’m perfect. My erection is sending shocks of bliss through my huge body. My balls swell with seed. My body heats up, as I near another massive eruption.

I close the phone and drop it to the floor.

My chest is splattered with cum.


“Control.” The next morning. Jove stands before me, my cock in his hand. I am hard. I am always hard. He squeezes me. “Who is in control?”

“I am.”

He squeezes me. “Who is in control?”

“You are.”

“Why?”

My head is empty. A question? I blink and my brow furrows. He squeezes harder and asks again. “Why?”

“Because….”

“Because this is mine,” he says, his hand on my cock. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He squeezes painfully hard. I feel that my cock will split open. The head grows shiny and red. “Do you understand?”

“No.”

He releases me. My cock slaps against the cobblestones of my muscular abdominal wall. A splatter of pre-cum warms my skin. He runs his index finger up the hard, hot inches of my erection. “This is the source. The source of all power. The source of all strength. This defines you.”

“Yes,” I agree. Because it does.

“Your muscle. I gave that to you.”

“Yes.”

“Your power. Your beauty. Your perfection. I gave that to you.”

“Yes.”

He grabs me again. “This is mine.”

“Yes.”

“No,” he responds, squeezing me painfully again. Then he releases me and steps back. “Look at me.” I do so. He is my god. The unattainable. The perfection of masculine power. “Look at me,” he repeats. I understand. I look down at his gargantuan prick, the full weight of him. The essence of him. The source of him. “Take it.”

I reach forward to touch his prick. It fills my hand. It is semi-firm, hanging fat and full between his legs. It is beautiful and flawless and supreme. My own cock surges in response, growing harder than ever. I nearly cum.

“Do you understand?” he asks.

“I—”

“That is control. That is authority. That is supremacy.” He is hot and thick. Pulses of power suffuse his cock. It beats as his heart beats, with the warm blood of his perfection. “That is mine.”

“Yes.”

He grabs me again. “This is mine.”

“Yes.”

“No,” he states. “Control it.”

Control it. Control what. Control my desire? My libido? My cock? I furrow my brow.

“Do you not see? This,” he says, gripping me painfully, “is all that you are, and you give it away. You give it to me. I have control, because you give it to me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This,” he says, increasing the pain. “This is control.”

“But—”

“No. This is your sword and your shield. This is your armor, and your steed. All that you are is this. And you give it away. You give away control.”

“I don’t—”

His cock surges. I feel him growing hard. Harder. Bigger. It swells in my hand. The veins fill with blood. The head blooms wider. It forces my fingers apart. It grows hot and hard and thick. Bigger and bigger. “My sword,” he says. “This is my sword. I am its master. You are not.” Bigger still. Harder. Hotter. Thicker. “I will show you my sword when I wish it. You will not cause me to unsheathe my sword before I am ready.” Bigger. Bigger than my hand can encompass. “And I will impale you on my sword.”

My cock is painfully hard. He squeezes again, and I explode. I shoot a high, fat rope of cream. I come harder than I have ever come. Again and again. My balls empty. His hand is coated in my cum. It splatters against my pecs, my belly, my neck.

“Control,” Jove says. “This is what you must learn.”

Part 7

I awake from dreams of power. I tame the beast at my loins, telling my cock to surrender to my desires, to heed my commands, to obey only me. Hard as steel, thick as a baseball bat, tingling and throbbing with need, I am its master, it does not master me.

I feel it throbbing with hot need. I feel it bulging with power, as if it will explode if I merely touch it. It has been asleep too long, and awakens now like some wild animal escaped its chains, hungry to feed and to show its mastery over all it encounters. It is a thing separate, but it is me. My cock, my monster, my beast.

I gaze down at myself, over my meaty pectoral globes coated in dark fur and across the cobblestones of my eight-pack abdominal wall toward the swollen majesty of my manhood, the steel-hard shank, the full, blooming helmet—its flaring ridge and bulbous head as large as a plum—and just as ripe and potent with juice. My balls bulge with the flood of my powerful cream, thick and warm, sticky sweet.

I can cum at will, if I want to. I can tighten my asshole and swell my engorged member to full, awesome glory and pump thick ropey streams of cum to splatter all over my magnificent body, and all I need do is wish it.

Control. Command. Power.

Domination.

“Control yourself,” Jove whispers to me, “before you can control others.”

I rise from my bed and stand to my full height. I can feel the weight and size of every bulging muscle. I close my eyes and revel in the perfection of my body. I stretch my muscle-swollen arms overhead and touch the ceiling of my small apartment. I feel my lats spread like wings. I feel my shoulders bunch and my delts rise to kiss the lobes of my ears. My cock calls to me, but I deny it until I am ready, though the ache for release is strong.

Still dark. I pull a cooling breath into my overheated body and open my eyes. My prick throbs hard, pendulous and heavy, demanding my attention.

Control. Command. Power.

My body is huge. Heavy. Powerful. Swollen with muscle in such overwhelming amounts that each presses against its brother, even now, before I have spent my time in the church of muscle, pushing each to larger extents, ripping them apart and building them bigger and bigger.

My prick throbs. Hard as steel. Hot as fire. I breathe slowly, in control, in command.

I walk to the bathroom and step inside the shower stall. So much bigger than I ever was, than I ever thought I could be, than I ever thought anyone could be, but a mere shadow to Jove’s majesty. I can picture him in my head, hear his voice, feel his command.

I ache to see him again. I want to please him, to show him what he has made of me, to display my strength and power and my…control.

Control.

My cock explodes. I never touch it. I never give in to it, but I cannot—still, cannot—control it. Jove controls it. The thought of him inside my head. The memory of his voice and his scent and his body. Watching him reveal himself to me.

“This is my sword.” He says.

It grows in my hand, as he speaks the words.

“I am its master.” He says.

Bigger and bigger, pressing my hard grip out to contain it.

“And I will impale you on my sword.”

My cock explodes. Again, the small mouth opens and my fat streams of white-hot cum are shoved from my overburdened balls, pushing the flood up and up the heavy inches of my perfect cock rising so beautifully from my loins and I explode again, in Jove’s name, explode with thick, full, warm ropes of cream that make my body shine and swell and I shout a feral yell from the intensity of my perfect bliss.

Dream or reality? Does it matter?


I am drying myself. My cock is still hard. Why is my cock hard? Did I not just—?

My cell rings and I reach down—my hand is bigger, the phone looks so small—and it is Mr. Perfect calling. “Hello, John.”

“Thomas?” His voice makes my hard-on pulse. I see his face in my head. I feel his ass on my cock. I smell him in the room with me.

“Mmhmm.” Control.

“You sound different.” His lips on my lips. His mouth on my cock. My hands on his head, pulling him onto me, swallowing me whole.

“Do I?”

“Bigger.” Bigger than him. Bigger than his cock. The most beautiful cock in the world.

“Come over,” I say.

“Do you have something to show me?”

I tense my hand into a fist and bend my arm and watch the fat ball of muscle mounted on my upper arm swell outward and upward, expanding by the inch and pressing against my skin until it shines. The head of muscle splits and divides to make room for its massive size and power. “Mmhmm.”

He is there in minutes, and I greet him in my naked gloriousness. He looks upon my magnificence and smiles.

“Bigger,” I say. He moves inside, his eyes never leave my body.

He casts his gaze across my muscles, my cock, my body, and nods his head. “I’d say that’s an understatement.” He reaches forward and grabs my cock in his smooth grip, squeezing and stroking me. “This, too,” he says. He cannot take me. I am in control.

“Bigger,” I say, “everywhere.”

He comes at me, trying to surround my bulk in his embrace and failing, grasping then at my muscle, trying to dig his fingers into the hard meat I have grown everywhere on my huge body. His kissing is insatiable, hungry with desire and lust, and I can feel that massive shank of sex in his loins growing hard at a record-setting pace. “I want to fuck you,” he says. “God, I’m going to fuck you so hard.”

I am a god. A god who fucks.

I had forgotten his beauty until now, overwhelmed perhaps by Jove’s powerful masculinity and my own muscular size. But he is beautiful, and now that I am so much bigger than he is, I want him inside me.

I rip the clothes from his body. How dare he appear like that before me? Show me yourself, I think. Display your masculine beauty for me, and I will drink it inside and swallow it, making it mine.

He is beautiful. He is perfect. He shows himself to me, with pride and arrogance, but I will overwhelm him. I will dominate him. I will make him mine.

He attacks my mouth with his, kissing me with a hunger I know too well. I surround his small, perfect body with my heavy muscular embrace. I can feel him, every inch of him, the muscles he has trained so carefully, developed so perfectly, all for me.

I reach down and grab his ass, feeling him tense as I squeeze. I push my fingers towards the core of him and rub against him, push against him, invade him with my undeniable strength. I feel his wet heat and he tries to deny me, but I will not—I cannot be denied. I am the god. The god who fucks.

I feel his magical, muscular cock swelling to its fullest between us, throbbing hotly with every beat of his heart. “Fuck me,” I growl, I cry, I beg. “God, fuck me.”

“God?” he replies. “I am no god, Thomas.” His hand on his huge and beautiful cock, stroking its massive length, and rubbing its hungry mouth until he is drooling a flow of thick precum. “This is god.”

I throw him to the floor, my door is still open, and he will fuck me and the world may watch. I want—I need—him inside me. I need his cock to fill me as no cock can. I need to feel his perfection inside me, a fire that lights me up, a power that only he can supply.

He fucks me hard with his meat, shoving his inches deep inside me until I shout with the pleasure of pain and I shoot thick ropes of hot cream into my gut, over and over.

I am blinded by lust and desire and sex. My vision goes black and all I am is the fuck. The fuck travels from his massive cock into my massive body. The fuck is like blood in my veins, pulsing through every muscle and feeding them with power. The fuck makes my brain overheat and my heart swell larger and my entire body grow more massive as he fucks me.

I look at his face and see darkness. Dark passion. Dark desire. Dark power. His cock inside me, feeding me, changing me, growing me.

No. Control. I am in control.

It feels so good. I want him inside me forever.

I am on my back—my wide, massive, muscular back—and he is above me. I look at him surrounded by a halo of darkness as he positions himself at my backdoor and pushes his thickness inside me and I feel every inch of him, every perfect inch of that hard, huge tool and he slides in and out, in and out, with a look of ecstasy and wonder on his beautiful face, fucking the god who fucks until I squeeze him hard, inside my vice, and he groans and sighs and I can feel him lose himself to me, jetting his fountain of sticky cum inside me.

I pull his mouth to mine and kiss him fiercely. Is he mine? Am I his?

Control.


“That is good,” Jove says to me, standing over me as I lay on the weight bench, my arms straining to hold the iron over my swollen, throbbing, massive pectoral globes. I can hardly see over it. Two huge, veiny, throbbing mountains of meat, constructed of bands of power shaking to support hundreds of pounds above me, held in my grip and supported by my muscle.

“Hold it,” Jove says. “Control it.”

Does he mean the weight or my cock. I can feel it, even though I cannot see it. I know I am rock hard, again. I know it is red and glossy and swollen so large that it pushes my legs apart. I know that it is huge and hard and fucking ready to explode. A fountain of cum, an explosion, a nuclear bomb of sticky cream is ready to blow.

Control, I think. Control.

I look up him as he stands there. He is naked, as I am, but there is so much of him. So much masculine power and perfection, casting his bright gaze down at me with that look of pride on his face.

And then he smiles.

And I explode.

I gasp. I swoon. Control is lost as I surrender to him. To his power and his force and his perfection. He grants me a boon, the smile of pride, and my body is suddenly lost to a feeling of overwhelming happiness and it must display this for him—to him—on him. My cock swells another size larger and my balls pulse and pump and my breath leaves my lungs and my blood boils and my mind goes blank and all I am, all that I can be, escapes from my cock in a hot torrent of the pure masculine essence of all that I am, all that I have become, all that Jove has made of me.

And I give it to him. All of it.

I can feel the wet heat of my load splatter all over my body. My dick responds to his smile of approval in an instant, and I admit to him without words that he is my master, and the master of my cock.


Night. The long night. Alone, and I need him. I need him with me. Beside me. Inside me.

I pick up my phone and I dial his number and he answers. “Hello, Thomas,” he says.

“Hello, John.” My cock springs to rock hardness. His voice, god, the beauty of it. “I want you.”

“I know,” he says. His mouth on my cock. His cock in my ass. “What will you do for me, Thomas?”

“Anything,” I promise.


Week six.

Control.

It is harder to master than muscle, harder to master than the iron. Harder to master because I must master myself.

My power grows. My muscle grows. My cock grows.

I am bigger than ever. Six weeks in, and I weigh over three-hundred pounds. Pure power. Pure muscle. Pure male.

Prone on a bench. A bar in my hands, laden with half-a-ton of weight, which I push up and down over my gargantuan chest, making my muscles grow larger with every thrust, deepening the valley between each heavy globe, ten reps, then twenty. My arms burn and bulge. My chest swells and stings and pounds with newly developed brawn, stretched across the mountains in broad cables. My six-pack is now an eight-pack. Each muscle on my huge body perfectly developed, pushed to its ultimate size and beauty. Strong enough now to bend steel with my bare hands.

My cock wants to be hard, but I do not allow it. Not until I am ready.

Control.

“Good,” Jove says. His praise still heats my dick, but I am in control—not him. He will not make me hard. “We work your ass now.”

I sit up and smile, ready to hoist the iron onto my shoulders and bend my legs and feel the muscles of my butt burn and swell. I love to work my legs most of all. I can handle much more weight, and I know that my ass is a wonder to behold. Two broad, thick, powerful globes that stick out a mile, projecting a physical manifestation of my power with every stride. My ass pushes outward like an advertisement, and I use it to its best advantage in the showers and sauna and locker room, allowing its wondrous size and shape to mesmerize everyone I honor with a view of its magnificence.

“You are finally ready,” Jove tells me.

“Ready for what?”

He smiles. I nearly cream. He has the face of god. Of my god. My personal god, who I obey and worship.

My eyes are drawn down his powerful, muscle-swollen, glorious perfection. Something stirs. Something moves. Something rises.

I see that his masterful cock is inflating to its glory, rising higher and higher, swelling with hot blood as the head blooms and takes on a vicious redness. Veins appear all along its growth, snakes that throb and swell. The whole of his magnificent cock stretches longer, swells bigger, rises higher, and he watches me watching him as the breath catches in my throat and my eyes glaze at the sheer beauty of what he allows me to witness.

“Grab your ankles.”

I look at him a moment, wondering if I have heard him correctly. But instantly, I know what he wants, what he needs, what he means to have.

I am ready. Ready for this. Ready for him. Ready for the gift that this man may bestow upon only those deserving.

The Next Level.

I lift my legs up and reach my muscle-swollen arms out and grasp my ankles.

“Open yourself to me.”

I pull my legs apart, wider and wider. My hamstrings stretch and burn. Coolness kisses the wet heat of my asshole. Wider and wider. I am flexible as well as powerful. I command my body, it does not limit me. I stretch my legs out, splitting myself open for him, feeling the gym’s sweat-soaked air lick my hot, slick, hungry hole. Sweat trickles along the lips of my asshole. My muscles stretch and sing as I open myself to his majesty.

He looks upon me and his nostrils flare. My scent rises within the heat of my labors. He pulls that scent of me, the richness of my manhood, inside himself, sucking the sweet stink into his head to know who I am, my masculine essence.

He pulls his hand to his mouth and licks his hand, moving his fingers toward my waiting hole and slicking me with his spit. His touch is rough on my tenderness. His spit is warm and wet and I nearly come as he touches me.

Finally. He touches me.

His cock reaches its glorious perfection, a huge beast with a swollen, glossy head leaking a stream of warm, thick honey. I can smell him, too. Him and I. Our mutual masculine mastery kissing in the air, embracing each other like lovers, mingling together in a thick, musky stink of ass and balls and sweat and sex.

He moves his touch against my asshole and pushes his fingers inside. I shut my eyes and bite my lip to keep from screaming in pure ecstasy. My need swells as strong as my body. I feel like I am growing bigger, still, like his fingers inside me make me grow.

I hear as well as feel him growl. My god growls in desire for my ass, for me, for himself inside me. I open my eyes and watch him grasp the overwhelming magnificence of his prick as he pushes it down to aim himself at the target of his desire.

I tense up, and he says, verifying what I already know, “This will hurt. The first time.”

I am a virgin to the god’s prick. He will pierce me with his sword and claim me fully. I will surrender myself—all that I am, all that I have, all that I am becoming—in service to his control.

His control and his cock.

Heat approaches. I feel it against the soft bud of my entrance.

Then…pain.

Searing, hard, sudden pain. The pain of being touched by god, of joining with god, of becoming one with god.

But I do not cry out. I stretch myself wider to allow him inside me, and feel him pushing in deeper than anyone has or could, filling me completely with his thick, powerful sex.

Then he fucks me. I look at him through tears and watch him looking at me as his hips thrust his overwhelming perfection into me.

God. Oh, my god.

He grunts and groans like an animal. He head bends back on his neck as his lifts his arms and bends them, displaying for me his domination, his size and power and beauty. I groan in unison, seeing his body displayed for me as he slowly fucks me.

The pain dims and something else starts to grow.

His thrusts quicken. A slick, sumptuous sound fills the gym as his fat, hard, amazing cock slides in and out, and my pain turns to pleasure. Subtle at first, as he pushes into me, prodding my guts with his sword, but that pleasure builds like ripples in a pond, emanating from the source of his perfection inside me.

He is above me, his hips thrusting the gorgeous perfection of his massive meat into my guts. Further inside me. Deeper than any man has or could. Deeper and more fully than even John’s gargantuan wonder.

John. Mr. Perfect. His face before me, suddenly. His body and his heat and his scent and his cock. His wonderful, thick, long, strong prick inside me.

My master stops, buried deep. He stops his thrusts and the glorious perfect bliss drains away. “Who?” he growls, like a command, like an accusation, like a threat.

“You,” I answer, barely able to speak.

“No,” he says, and there is darkness in his gaze and anger in his words. “Who is in control?”

I look up at my god, the god of muscle, the god of pain, the god of perfection. John’s face again, flashing like lightning against a darkened sky. “No one,” I lie. “I am in control.”

He begins to pull himself out of me. Inch by glorious inch, and it feels like he is ripping my soul from me, like he is pulling out my heart, like the sensation of perfect sex will never be mine again. “No,” he says again. “You are not.”

Slowly, as he withdraws himself from me, an aching emptiness takes his place. Nothing and no one has ever felt so good. The pain and the pleasure, the glorious, endless pulses of explosive sexual perfection he can so easily deliver are taken from my body—my huge, muscular, powerful body—and I feel small and alone. “John,” I say. “His name is John.”

“He is in control,” Jove says. His cock stands high and hard and proud, throbbing with hard, dull pulses as if he still fucks me, pushing himself into me to gift me with his endless power. “What has he given you?”

“He hasn’t….”

Jove interrupts me, grasping my raging hard-on in his rough grip and squeezing me so hard that I think it will split open. A fat gob of cream appears at the mouth of my wonderful cock, because he pulled it from my balls. “I gave you this,” he says, because he did. He moves his other hand over the mountainous mounds of my powerful abdominal wall, crawling up my huge frame, cupping one of my massive pectoral globes and rubbing the pad of his thumb across my nipple. Thunderous eruptions of pure sexual power shake me and pass directly toward where he holds me so tightly. “I gave you this,” he says. “What has he given you?”

Tears form in my eyes, from pain and need and shame and desire. I am shaken to my core, I want him inside me so badly. “His cock,” I whisper. I scream. His cock. John’s perfect and wonderful and majestic cock.

“Bring him to me,” my god instructs.

“Yes,” I manage to answer. He grips me so hard. He rubs me so well. Pain and pleasure.


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