Measuring Up

A gay story: Measuring Up 1.

I never expected him to return our email. “Natty” Nate, the “Natural Phenomenon,” “the Modern Steve Reeves”–call him what you will, but he has to be the most impressive natural bodybuilder in the past decade. He’s a beacon of athletic discipline and clean living. No drugs, no alcohol, no smoking. No tattoos, no piercings. Clean-shaven, clean-cut. Clean. And certainly no steroids–just some combination of insane genetics and inhuman dedication. Looking at him, it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. He competes in only the strictest natural competitions, with rules tighter than his posing trunks. In most of them, he blows the competition away.

So why’d he return our e-mail?

I’ve been a salesman for a pharmaceuticals company for the past five years, mostly selling medicine to family doctors and clinics. But for years now, I’ve been hearing rumblings about our big break, a miracle that’s going to make us one of the top companies in the world.

Colossinth. “The next step in muscle training.” An advancement as revolutionary as anabolic steroids. Just as potent, but infinitely safer, with no adverse side-effects and–soon, if all goes well–legal. This stuff is going to transform the athletic world. It’ll be a seismic shift like what happened in the ’60s and ’70s, but even more prevalent because it won’t rely on smuggling and shady backroom deals. This stuff is legit.

But still, it’s a new substance not quite ready for government approval, with just a few years of trials. Why would a guy like Nate accept our offer of a test dosage? His name just wound up on a list of athletes we sent the latest data to. But apparently he sent a response a few weeks later, said “sign me up.” And now here I am looking at an update he’s sent after supposedly incorporating the stuff into his routine for a month. It reads like a joke. Like a fantasy:

I didn’t think I’d have any updates for you this early, but here we are. It’s been a month since I competed on August 4 th. My stats then were: 6’0″. 209 pounds. Arms: 17.75″. Chest: 48″. Waist: 29″. Hips: 36.5″. Thighs: 25″.

Coach took my measurements this morning (September 2 nd ): 225 pounds. Arms: 18.75″. Chest: 49.25″. Waist: 29″. Hips: 37″. Thighs: 25.75″.

This shouldn’t be possible. I’ve started to bulk, so of course I’ve put on weight, but I’m still lean. The increase is all muscle. Sixteen pounds of pure muscle in a month! Over an inch on my chest, an inch of growth on my arms–again, pure muscle, not fat. I can see it every time I flex. Someone who’s never lifted weights before might put an inch on their arms pretty easily–and by “easily,” I mean in six months. This is ridiculous. What the hell is this stuff?

Send me more.

I’m sure I read that e-mail over fifty times, a mixture of confusion, doubt, and excitement flooding me in turns. But when I meet my boss and tell her about it, she’s not so convinced we’ve found our golden client. And with good reason.

“Something’s not right here,” she says to me in her office. “This guy’s made a reputation out of being ‘natural,’ right? Why’s he going to throw all that away now? And he’s claiming he put an inch of muscle on his arms in just a month?”

“He sent me the measurements,” I say lamely, realizing how much I’ve started to want it to be true.

“And you took his word for it?”

I know what she’s thinking. Trusting a bodybuilder to tell you the size of his arms is like trusting a porn star to tell you the size of his dick.

“No, no,” she says. “Something’s not right here. He’s making a fool of us.”

“What? But how?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’ll… claim false results, then say he was never taking Colossinth after all, that it’s just a scam. Even though we know it works–though we never thought it could work that well. It can’t work that well. He’s right: it’s not humanly possible.”

“But… it enhances the body’s natural growth and testosterone, doesn’t it?” I say. “Maybe with a guy like that, there’s more to build off of, so the effect is exponential. There was no one like him in our trials.”

It’s true, we’re in unexplored territory here. No pro athlete was going to participate in a trial for some sketchy new muscle-builder when there’s a possibility they’ll be called out for doping in their next competition. Only someone in a sport without testing could ever consider it, and no world-class bodybuilder was going to alter their tried-and-true “juice” cocktail after one email from a relatively unknown pharmaceuticals company, no matter how promising the data.

But she waves away my theorizing. “We’ll need to look into it, obviously. But only if we’ve got proof this is happening. I need you to meet with him, find out what makes him tick, see what he’s really up to. I want a full report, with reliable information.” She leans back in her chair. “Your trip will be comped. Make the arrangements immediately.”

There’s something I didn’t tell her, though. I’ve kind of got a… thing for muscles. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with musclemen who push their bodies to bigger, stronger, veinier heights. The bigger, the better. When others have shaken their heads at pictures of bodybuilders and wondered with disgust why anyone would do that to themselves, I’ve been concealing the fluttering in my gut, the pounding of my heart, the rampant uncontrollable fantasies in my mind of getting to touch those muscles, smell them, lick them, rub my hands, my face, my cock against them. While other guys jerk off to women’s nudes, all it takes for me to get off is a perfectly flexed bicep, or the sight of a pumped-up chest and chiseled six-pack dripping with sweat.

I’ve never even come close to making my fantasies come true. I’m so desperate I’ve actually asked the few guys I’ve been with to flex for me, though none of them could be described as above “average” build. They laughed at me, made a joke of it, and just wanted to get down to business, but even that was enough to get me off. When it comes to muscles, I can make a mountain out of a mole-hill.

Yeah, I’ve got it bad. And now she’s sending me to meet with this guy, this “Natty” Nate who could be an important client for us if I don’t blow it, if he’s really telling the truth…. But I know this could be embarrassing for all of us. If he notices something off about me and complains, there’s no way I’ll keep my job.

So it’s with a lot of trepidation and more than a little excitement that I book my flight, and two days later I’m at Nate’s gym, dressed in my best–well, only–suit and trying to be professional, though I’m already soaked with sweat. Just stay calm, I tell myself. He’s only a client, and you’re just some annoying inconvenience in his day. Get in, get out. This means nothing. Don’t get all worked up. You can do this.

The door’s locked, so I knock. It’s nighttime and the gym is closed, but that’s no problem for us: Nate’s the owner, I’ve heard, and he often works out after everyone else has gone for the day. The receptionist lets me in as she’s leaving with her bag, locks the door behind me, and points into the fitness centre.

It’s not hard to spot Nate. The gym’s all one room, though it’s divided into aerobics machines and weight training. Everything’s bright, modern, and perfectly spotless. Nate’s checking over the various machines by the room-length mirror, but he soon catches sight of me, strides over with his hand extended and a smile on his face.

I’m fucking dead. This man is gorgeous, with short dark hair, bronze skin, and a masculine jaw, but with enough unique personality and charisma that he’s not just some plastic model: I can imagine a time when he was a geeky teenager, before he became a walking sex-god; that friendliness, that openness shines through his eyes. All over, he’s the most spectacular specimen of male strength and beauty I’ve ever seen. But I can’t think about him that way. He’s just another client. Don’t stare at the powerful span of his chest, don’t try to pick out the nuances of his abs under his tight blue T-shirt. Ignore the fact that his black fabric gym shorts are about two sizes too tight for modesty’s sake, exposing the heavy bulge of his package and his spectacularly rounded ass-cheeks. Don’t look at any of that. He’s just a client. Just a man. A fucking musclebound, bulging, pumped-up stud of a man.

“Hey, I’m Nate. Thanks for coming,” he says, as if it was his idea. And I take his hand, feel the strength through his arm as he pumps it, the blood vessels scrawled up his forearm like lightning. I manage to get out the usual pleasantries. I’m doing okay, looking into his eyes, not at his muscles–but there’s no safe place with this man. A grin from him alone could make me orgasm.

“So, you own this gym?” I ask.

“Yep, owner and operator. And permanent resident: I’ve been living here since my split with Lauren–my wife. Ex-wife, I should say.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. I don’t think she is either, to be honest. It was doomed from the start. Not really being truthful with each other. With ourselves. And you know what? She never really got my lifestyle, used to complain that I ‘practically lived at the gym.'” He laughs. “Guess she ended up being right about that one, and I’m happier than ever.”

Normally I’d be skeptical about a statement like that, but he really seems relaxed, almost exuberant. He’s in his element. “We’re glad to hear you’re having such a positive response to our product,” I say, hating myself for sounding so corporate.

“Positive’s an understatement. I never expected anything like this.”

“What did you expect? To be honest, we were surprised you took us up on the offer.”

“Yeah, I get that. I was too, actually. I went back and forth a thousand times before I took that first pill.” He pauses, takes time to organize his thoughts. “Do you know what it’s like to put your all into something–all your spare time, all your spirit and sweat–and still feel your results slipping away? You’ve got everything you wanted in your grasp, but you can’t hold on. You feel your fingers trembling. You’re gonna drop it.

“The worst part of bodybuilding’s when you hit a plateau. No matter how hard you work, you can’t get any stronger, any bigger. Your body’s telling you your limits. Everything inside you is saying you’ve got more to give, you can get bigger, but the plateau doesn’t care. And suddenly, instead of making progress, you’re working all day just to maintain what you’ve got. Soon, you might not even be able to do that.

“You know, I’ve never forgotten that rush when I first started, looking in the mirror and actually seeing the changes every week, lifting more and more, stacking on the weights, piling on the muscle. Look, I’m 35 now.” (Exactly ten years older than me, I note.) “I want that again, before it’s too late. Call it an early mid-life crisis, if you want; I couldn’t care less. But this is my last chance. I’m not letting go. Not if I can help it. And if it means trusting in this miracle you’re selling, fine. Most guys don’t resist temptation. They never even try–not after the burn sets in, the hunger. Well, I’ve resisted for my entire life. But now I’m tired of living clean.”

That last phrase is going to haunt me, I can tell.

“I’m not stupid, though,” he goes on in a more measured tone. “Not stupid enough to take the messed-up cocktails those guys on the Olympia stage are taking. Human Growth Hormone and all that shit, even besides the ‘roids. I don’t want to get a back full of acne, no balls, and a gut so bloated I can’t do a proper vacuum, all before dying of a heart attack at 45. So I’m trusting you when you say there are no serious side-effects.”

“We’ve done extensive testing already,” I say, my silly little corporate self again, “and nothing’s shown up. Besides, our product augments testosterone production instead of replacing it like anabolic steroids. In other words, the testicles don’t atrophy; they work overtime instead.”

“Well, good.” He grins. “My balls are counting on you.”

Giving my rehearsed spiel was one thing, but I must admit, hearing him say that gets to me and I can’t help blushing. It’s a relief when he smoothly moves on: “Do you know this for sure? You haven’t tried any of this stuff yourself, have you?”

I’m flattered he’s even asking. I’m a jogger, not a weight-lifter, and I suspect I’ll never be–though I’ve always wondered what it would be like, dreamed about it. Those are just fantasies, though. I don’t have it in me. Few people do. That’s what makes guys like him so special, while I’m just… not. But now he’s eyeing me up, checking to see what a few years of training could do, and it makes me wonder what it’d be like if I could also look at myself without reservations, without constant doubt.

“You’ve got good width on your shoulders,” he says finally. “And let me see your wrists?” He takes my hand and my stomach flips. He wraps his strong fingers around my wrist, nods appreciatively. “Your wrist size is directly related to your maximum biceps size. You’d grow nicely.”

It’s true, part of me is about to start growing if this keeps up, but it’s not my arms. So it’s a good thing he lets me go and I stumble on to business before I really embarrass myself: “I hate to do this to you, but my boss sent me here for a reason. She insists I measure you in person, considering how unusual your results have been. I’m really sorry about this.”

“Naww, I get it.” His smile doesn’t falter, teeth perfect and white. I bet he never gets cavities. “I don’t trust most of the numbers that guys throw out either.” He tugs at the neck of his T-shirt. “You want me to take this off?”

It’s the way he says it that really gets to me, as if it’s nothing, as if he isn’t offering me a glimpse of paradise. He must have no idea how I feel. Thank fuck.

“I guess for accuracy….”

“Sure. One sec.” And with one smooth move he strips the shirt from his torso.

People argue about whether bodybuilding is a sport, and as far as I’m concerned, this man right here is proof that it isn’t.

No, it’s an art.

Over the years, he’s used training and nutrition to sculpt the ideal physique, bringing each muscle to bulging, striated perfection: a truly “classic” build that would make the sculptors of Ancient Greece weep. Even people who claim to find bodybuilders ugly would have to admit the beauty of this man. His chest, his abs, his shoulders, his back–I can’t take it all in; I’m overwhelmed as he balls up the shirt, making his pecs bounce and his arms flex, and tosses it in a corner, and he stands there waiting for me, each breath deepening the grooves of his eight-pack. I know he’s entering his off-season, but there doesn’t seem to be an inch of fat on him, just like he said in his e-mail, and he’s still perfectly-shaved all over–this man doesn’t want anything blocking even the barest nuance of his supreme definition.

He hands me the measuring tape and directs me, telling me where to measure and how to ensure the results are precise. It’s like being given a guided tour of his body. I’m respectful, modest, making the least possible contact with his skin–but still, I can’t help getting subtle hints at the heat and the tension as I barely graze his swells of brawn. He just takes my shakiness as inexperience, gives advice. “Basically, you measure where it sticks out the most,” he says, unembarrassed, though I’ve got a real problem when it comes to measuring his “hips”: I swear, it’s a close race between his ass and his bulge, but I guess I’m not supposed to take that into consideration.

Everything is as he said–even a few tenths of an inch bigger in spots already. But now comes the measurement everyone always seems to fixate on the most: upper arm size.

“Honestly, if you want proof that it’s working, this is all you need,” he says, limbering up his arms. “People go on about bodybuilders with 20″ arms, but it’s impossible without steroids–twenty inches of muscle, I mean, not fat. You’d need wrists like a gorilla for that. Show me a guy who claims to have lean, natural 20″ arms and I’ll either show you a juiced liar, arms with far too much fat on them, or a 7-foot-tall giant. Even this–” he raises his right arm, “–wasn’t humanly possible for me a month ago.”

He flexes. HARD. The muscles explode into a perfect upward stack of bulges, his braided triceps with the round bulging peak of his bicep above it, rocking and rippling with the strength of his flex. People sometimes jokingly say things like, “He’s so buff that his muscles have muscles,” and that’s exactly what his bicep is like: the two “heads” of the muscle are so well-developed that there’s a clear split down the middle, with a second bulging ridge on top–a prominent “peak” rippling out and building up slowly till it reaches its maximum, trembling pinnacle.

“Holy fuck!” I can’t keep it in, but he just laughs with a sexy awareness of his body’s impact. My hands are clumsy as I wrap the tape around that amazing arm, ensuring the overlap is exact and keeping the tape perfectly vertical (“Guys love measuring on an angle for a few extra tenths,” he says).

“Nineteen,” I announce.

He drops his arm out of that mind-blowing pose. “Biggest I’ve ever been,” he says with a grin that almost stops my heart. “And the other, too?”

The results are exactly the same for his left: perfectly proportional.

He massages his arms. “You know, with a pump, I bet I could get it.”

“What?”

“The twenty. I never thought I’d get there. Never be that big. But now….”

I can’t believe it. “Another inch with a pump? Right here? Right now? Is that possible?”

“Might be. It depends on a lot of things. But I’d like to try. You, uh… you mind sticking around for an hour or so? You can’t measure your own arms accurately, and I don’t want to just trick myself into thinking I hit it. Is there anywhere else you gotta be?”

“No!” I say, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. “I’m just here for you. For this meeting, I mean.”

“Great! Then let’s get started.”

I get to watch a master at work, loving every second of it. He does various exercises, hitting all the muscles of the arm from different angles, using a high number of reps to produce the biggest pump. I’m astonished at the transformation that comes over him, not just as the sweat soaks his body and his muscles grow veiny and sinewy, but also the transformation in his character as testosterone floods his system, as he feels the virile satisfaction of plying his manly strength, pushing his body past its limits.

“Give me a check,” he says as he racks the weights, and I measure him, right arm cocked, shivering with the force of his flex, his desire to be as big as possible.

“19.4,” I say.

“That’s nothing. Come on!”

He goads himself on, gritting his teeth, performing the sets with unbelievable stamina–preacher curls, hammer curls, bench presses, pull-downs–and the sound of his guttural grunts, the acrid tang of his sweat, the sight of his glossy, bare-chested figure bulging more and more, the veins thick as pencils, the striations like cords, is more than I can take. Soon, my dick’s so hard it’s painful, and I have to turn away, trap it against my stomach with my belt so he won’t see. I realize too late that this is, in fact, a gym with an entire wall covered by a mirror, so turning away isn’t going to conceal much, but I think he’s too busy to notice.

He slams the weights down and flexes, feels the added size. “Yeah.” His voice is an appreciative groan. “Fuck yeah. I’m getting pumped. Feels good.”

I can’t help thinking of Arnold’s infamous words from Pumping Iron. “Does it really feel like…?”

“Like cumming?” He looks up at me, unflinching. “Everyone’s heard that. And the man knew what he was talking about. The bigger the muscle, the better it feels. It’s addictive: feeling yourself swell past your limit, getting harder and bigger and hotter and the skin tight to bursting. How big am I now? How much have I grown?”

He offers up his right arm, flexes hard enough that it vibrates. I eagerly wrap the tape round his flex, compress that extra-fat vein running down the top of his arm. “19.7.”

“Getting there. Still got a long way to go. Let’s do this!”

But this time as he’s squeezing out his reps, I notice that his arms aren’t the only thing that’s growing. The heavy bulge at his crotch is shifting, expanding. I can clearly see the thick snake of his cock pressing against the fabric, twitching up stronger and higher as his pulse races and his heart thunders, but he doesn’t seem to notice–he’s grunting and straining, willing the blood into his muscles, not realizing where else it’s going–and I can’t believe how thick that cock’s getting, how strong it must be as it’s pushing out the front of his shorts, pulling the waistband away from his stomach so there’s a dark gap there, new inches of his lower abs exposed, the first hints of pubic hair.

He roars and the weights clang down. He offers up his arm for me, but I’m slow on the uptake; he notices me staring down at his crotch.

“Aw shit.” He looks down too and sees the problem. “Sorry, man. It happens sometimes. Something to do with blood flow….” He laughs, but I can tell he’s embarrassed.

“I-it’s okay,” I rush to tell him. “I get it. It doesn’t bother me.”

“Yeah?” He rubs the back of his neck uneasily. “Well, it bothers me. And if I keep this up, it’s not going away. I guess it just isn’t going to work out….”

“No!” I didn’t mean to yell. Damn, I sound cracked. “I–I mean, there’s no reason to let it stop you. You can do this. I know you can. Look, you’re three quarters of the way there. You can do this.”

“Yeah. Fuck. I’m close, right? So close.” I can see how much he wants this. And not just because his cock is so stiff now I can clearly make out the shape of his glans. A real mushroom cockhead, from what I can tell. “Yeah, I can get it. Twenty inches. But this is fucking annoying.” He tugs at the waistband of his shorts, above that obscene bulge. “Hey man, you mind if I–”

Shit. Is he going to do what I think he is?

“G-go ahead,” I say. “Whatever you need. Don’t mind me.”

And before I’m ready for it, he tugs the front of his shorts down, and there’s this moment when the waistband is slipping down the girthy roll of his squeezed-down cock before it suddenly springs free with such force it slaps against his ripped lower abs, then points straight out in front of him; but that’s not enough for him–no, he keeps tugging the waistband down till he lays out a massive pair of hairy globes as well. I’ve never seen such a manly sight as that giant package propped up on his training shorts, nestled in trim dark hair, gestured to by the sharp grooves of his V-lines and the veiny shelf of his sweaty lower abs.

How did that monster ever fit in his shorts? And it’s still thickening, now that it’s standing free and proud, the foreskin drawing back with tantalizing slowness, almost completely clear of the glans now, clinging to the ridge at the base. I wonder how long he is. Eight inches at least, and counting. I wish I could lay the tape down the length of that veiny, muscular shaft, spool out inch after inch till I finally reach the beautifully bulbous head.

And if anyone ever needed proof that he’s really been all natural, all he’d have to do is take out those balls of his. I bet he’s been tempted to before. “You think I didn’t get this big without any juice? Well, check out the all-natural juice filling these nuts. You wish yours were as big as mine, don’t you?” The way they’re buoyed up by his waistband makes their size even more obvious. One of them alone would fill my palm. I swear, I can smell the musk from his junk already, almost taste it on my tongue.

He sighs. “That’s a relief. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Really!” I gulp, feeling my armpits drip with sweat, my own dick painfully erect and spreading a damp patch I’ll have to clean up later. Has he really not noticed it? He’s got an excuse for his condition; I don’t. “It’s–it’s not a big deal.”

“What’s that?” He grins. “Not big, huh?”

A gallon of blood rushes to my face, so I guess it’s not all in my cock. He’s joking with me, trying to alleviate the awkwardness. I force myself to sound the same way: “O-okay. It’s a pretty big deal. I guess. But–but still not as big as your biceps are going to be. So come on, let’s do this.”

“Yeah! Let’s hit it!” And he shakes out his arms, reaches down, hefts the dumbbells once again, and starts cranking out reps, grunting and gritting his teeth while his gigantic cock bobs with each motion of his body, flushed and veiny and curving upward more and more with the strength of his erection, as if he’s pumping his cock along with his arms till the foreskin finally slips completely off his glans, the purple flesh so glossy and tight, swollen from within till the busting point. I notice that even though he’s so fucking erect, his cumslit’s just barely wet with precum, unlike my own leaky dick–probably for the best if this happens regularly when he’s pumping iron.

“How big am I? Tell me! How close is it?”

“N-nineteen point 8–no, maybe 9.”

“Not good enough! One more set. Thirty reps. Come on! Let’s fucking go! Get fucking pumped!”

It’s not possible! How does he have that many more reps in him? I swear, he’s cranked out hundreds already. But he gets on an incline bench, lies back, and starts squeezing them out, curling the dumbbells one after another, his face red, teeth bared, the sweat pouring off him onto the bench, onto the floor. “10, 11, 12,” and his whole body’s into it, pushed past its limits, red and hot, his muscles bloated and pumping up bigger and bigger, the veins like they’re about to burst, his arms trembling with the strain. “20, 21, 22.”

And that fucking cock, that juicy swollen fuckpole–it’s now so hard it’s pointing straight at his face. I’d give anything to wrap my hands around it and jack it off, feel my hands slamming up and down, slippery with dick-sweat, the muscular shaft hard and rumbling in my fists, getting wound tighter, tighter, the balls aching to blast his manly seed through the fucking air. He’s so hard I bet it would take just three strokes, maybe one–or the barest flutter of my tongue against the underside of his dickhead to let that agonizing pressure finally loose.

But I can’t do that. So the pressure keeps building and building as he moans and roars, “25… 26… 27…” It’s so intense, everything wound fucking tight into a headlong rush that feel inevitable, cataclysmic. He can’t take it, I can’t take it. “28… 29!” Come on, you fucking stud. You absolute beast!

He puts all of his strength into that final rep, gets the weights halfway there but can’t seem to finish it, his teeth bared, eyes squeezed shut, biceps corded, sweat cascading off him, cock quivering, whole body tensed, fighting to bring the weights home, trapped in a taut piercing moment of pain and pleasure and pumped-up power–

And “Hraaaaaaaaaagh!” he lets out a piercing roar and the weights finally come up, his arms clench and hold there, locked at their maximum bursting fullness, and he’s groaning and straining, his whole body clenched to the breaking point; the moment lasts and lasts–till his body jerks, the weights drop from his hands, and his fucking massive cock bucks up violently and starts spraying blasts of thick manly sperm all over his body, liquid audible jets that smack into his face and ricochet off, hit him under the chin, glob him in the neck, land on his sweaty heaving chest, torrents of wet white sperm flying with each wrench of that meaty bucking cum-cannon–

And he closes his eyes and takes it, lets his balls drain themselves freely all over him, not caring if it gets on his lips, makes a mess all over the floor. I’ve never seen a man cum so much, keep spraying and spraying like this, and I just stand there in disbelief and fucking awe till a last river of cum finally oozes from his cockhead, trailing down his still-twitching shaft to his spent gonads. The air’s thick enough with his manly musk to taste it, and I’ll never forget the sight of him lying there on the incline bench, his eyes closed, chest heaving, gooey splats of cum in his hair, dripping down his jaw, his chest, his ripped abs–a fucking stallion enjoying the feel of his own man-juice covering his pumped-up muscle-bod, knowing what he’s done with his strength, his virility, proving it to himself and to me.

I never want that moment to end. But then he lifts his right arm, flexes it mightily, the whole veiny, engorged, shredded-as-fuck mass of it, and his eyes open, he meets my gaze with a fierce glint of pride in them. “Go on,” he says. “Tell me how big I am.”

And I do, wrapping the tape round his trembling arm, smelling his sweaty manly body and the thick funk of his load, and there’s no denying it: I measured carefully, everything straight and true. “Twenty inches,” I say. “No, 20.1–you did it, and then some.”

He closes his eyes again, nods.

“Best pump of my life.”

***

A change comes over him moments later. It’s like he’s a different person now that the frenzy has died down; regret and shame are seeping in. I’m awkward, too–stunned by what just occurred, barely believing something like this could happen to me. I should go, he tells me; he’ll clean up his own mess. He’ll send me updates on his progress in the future.

“Sorry you had to see me like that,” are his final words, and it makes my heart ache. I can’t tell him I loved it, that it was the most erotic moment of my life. I can’t confess my desire. He wasn’t showing off for me. It was for himself, to test his limits, break through the plateaus that used to hold him back.

But when I return to my hotel, I can’t stop thinking about the feel of his bicep bulging under my fingertips, the warm skin so tight, the veins engorged, his thick arm powerful and rippling with tension, straining against the measuring tape that fails to convey how truly huge he is; and he’s standing so close to me, with the shelf of his powerful pecs drenched with sweat, breathing heavily, that impressive phallus protruding obscenely from his shorts, getting bigger, getting fuller, aching to cum; and his voice is deep as he growls, “How big am I? Tell me. Has it grown?”

I can’t handle it. No matter how many times I jerk off, the thought makes my dick painfully erect again, drooling precum on my stomach and the hotel sheets. I have to milk out shot after shot of spunk, filling my palm with pearly liquid seed–only to find myself hard again five minutes later, trying to wring the tension out of my penis, the quiver out of my gut, till I’ve drained all the sperm from my balls but I’m still jerking out loads clear and oily with just the fluid from my prostate. It’s madness and it’s ecstasy. It takes me hours to finally fall asleep from pure exhaustion.

And he’s only started to grow.

2.

I start getting regular updates from him–sent to me personally every month at first, then every week, sometimes after just a couple of days. Just text, no pictures, but they fill my head with images nonetheless. Some of them in particular stand out to me:

October 1 st : I promised I’d keep you updated on my progress. Right now, I’m 238 pounds, and Coach measured me this morning: Arms 20″, Chest 51.25″, Waist 30.5″, Thighs 26″.

I feel pretty stupid about that whole thing with pumping up my arms, making you stand there and measure me over and over. Got caught up in the moment. And now I don’t even need a pump to get there. It’s always at least 20 cold. More with a pump. But I can get bigger. I know it.

With these numbers, you might think my growth is stable: an inch a month. But that’s not it. Adding another inch now isn’t the same as before. It’s more. The bigger your arms get, the harder it is to grow them because it takes more muscle. Think about it. The outer rings on a tree are larger than the inner ones. So getting from 17 to 18 is twice as hard as 16 to 17 was, and so on.

My growth isn’t stable. It’s explosive.

December 5 th : 257 pounds. Arms 20.8″, Chest 52.5″, Waist 30.75″, Thighs 27.5″.

I almost don’t know who I am anymore, but I’ve been accepting things about myself lately, understanding what’s been bothering me, why I’ve never been satisfied. It’s not just the divorce, but my career as well. I always told myself I didn’t care about being one of the big guys on the Olympia stage, that it wasn’t worth the health risks, but why did I have to keep telling myself that over and over? Why was I never satisfied when I looked in the mirror? I’m getting there now, though. Finally. When I look in the mirror, I see myself grow.

February 10 th : 274 pounds. Arms 21.6″, Chest 54″, Waist 32″, Thighs 28.3″.

I saw Lauren today. She didn’t even try to hide the look of disgust on her face. “I thought you were better than this,” she said. “The way you always went on about how other guys ruined themselves, that you’d never be that way. What the fuck is happening with you, Nate? You’ve changed.” I didn’t try to explain. She wouldn’t believe me even if I did–that sometimes the “change” was who you were before, when you were trying to be someone else. But I don’t need her approval. I’ve never felt better. I look the way I want to look. None of it’s for her. Not now.

April 2 nd : 298 pounds. Arms 22.25″, Chest 55.75″, Waist 32.9″, Thighs 29″.

Maybe I’m hitting my chest too hard. Coach says my proportions are getting off. But have you seen Hwang Chul-Soon? That’s my idol right there. Those freaky pecs, big enough to cast shadows. I don’t care if it’s not proportional–give me that. I’m past caring about what other people think looks good, restricting myself to their rules. I want to GROW. And in the Summer, I’ll cut and make it all aesthetic, but I’m still going to be huge. I’ll enjoy the pump.

June 15 th : 322 pounds. Arms 22.8″, Chest 56.5″, Waist 33.6″, Thighs 29.5″.

My clothes don’t fit anymore–they can’t keep up. I haven’t experienced that since I started. They don’t make pants that fit you when you’re like this. I’ve really learned that since my quads exploded. When you get pants that fit over them, the waist’s too big. Even sweatpants: they’re stretched so tight over my thighs but the waistband’s baggy. My ass holds up the back, but it sags in the front so you can practically see my pubes sometimes. Gotta be careful. It’s a good thing I work out when I have the place to myself. I have to watch myself around Coach, though.

I can’t wait to measure myself each week. I know it’s stupid. The numbers lie. They change day by day. I know that. I’m used to it. But what I’m not used to is the way they keep going up. I have to force myself to wait or that’s all I’d be doing, getting impatient after the pump goes away, wanting it back. It’s like constant blue balls till I can measure my arms, my chest, my quads, see those numbers get bigger.

Look, man, I shouldn’t be saying this, but you saw what happened at the gym and I’ve gotta be honest. Tell you how this stuff is affecting me. It could be something to do with the Colossinth, with all that extra testosterone it’s giving me. Because that wasn’t a one-time thing. It’s every time I work out. It builds and builds till it feels like I haven’t gotten off for a week each time, feeling the gains, my size, my strength, and my cock’s rock-hard before I know it. I can’t help pounding out my jizz right there in the gym. I’ve gotta use a towel, there’s so much, and I just cum and cum into that thing till it’s ruined. Fuck.

I don’t even have time to find someone to fuck, not that I really want to. I haven’t felt like getting that close to anyone since the divorce. Call me self-possessed, but my body’s the best relationship I’ve ever had, and I know I’ve still got work to do. I want to enjoy what’s happening. And I never want it to stop. Never.

I can’t believe he sent me this. I read it over and over, my ears buzzing, armpits soaked with sweat. What should I say? How can I possibly respond? But then, about ten minutes later, before I can make up my mind, another text:

Sorry. That was too much. I got carried away. I’ll just send you the stats from now on. Okay?

And I think about him, working himself into a frenzy while writing to me, then getting out that towel and plastering it with rockets of spunk, while he feels the manly strength of his muscled-up body, the testosterone pounding through him, filling his balls with sperm and his head with dreams of getting bigger and fucking bigger, while confiding in me, thinking about me–if only a little–

But then feeling that moment of regret after he’s shot his wad, thinking, “What did I let myself do? That was fucking stupid!” and I wish I could tell him no, you’re perfect, you’re amazing, you’re an absolute stud, and I want more, I want everything–tell me all of it, help me imagine what it’s like to be you; put my hands on your body, let me taste the sweat and the cum and smell your manly musk, my nose in your nutsack, in your armpits, your nipples between my teeth, let me savour every inch of you, all that you are.

Obviously I can’t say that. But what I tell him is the truth nonetheless. I tell him I understand: It’s probably something to do with the testosterone. That’s all it is. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. And I don’t think he’s self-possessed. There’s nothing wrong with self-care, especially after something like a divorce. Even for me, living alone in my apartment for years now, I understand the desire to focus on yourself till you’re ready for something more. And please, keep being honest. If you’ve got no one to tell these things to, tell them to me. (Though of course I’ll clean up my report.) And don’t worry about offending me, no matter what. I admire and respect you–your dedication, your strength, your honesty. I’m cheering you on, and I’m invested in your progress.

“Thanks,” he says; that’s it. And his silence afterward worries me. I don’t get another update till over a month later, but I’m relieved he’s back to his old self:

July 30 th. 308 pounds. Arms 23″, Chest 57″, Waist 31.5″, Thighs 30″.

The summer cut’s well underway. It’s too late to qualify for any competitions, but I want to keep up the routine, keep myself aesthetic. And I’m curious what my new body looks like lean. It shouldn’t take long. No matter how many thousands of calories I’ve consumed, I haven’t put on much fat. Practically all muscle. Still, I’d like to tighten up my abs even more, get my waist down to a 30. That trim waist bursting out into wide lats and shoulders–that’s what I want. The perfect combination of strength and discipline. And it forces you to have that swagger, with your arms out and your legs flexed, and you stretch your back and feel the skin rub tight against your abs. Give me that.

I’m starting to wonder if he knows what effect he’s having on me, if he’s getting off on this too. But I’m probably just a proxy, someone he can boast to without shame. It’s the act of writing he enjoys, knowing someone’s listening. It could be anyone on the other end. That’s probably all it is.

But either way, I’m not complaining.

My boss is flabbergasted by the results. “This is unbelievable,” she says, looking over the numbers when I hand her the latest report. “It’s not humanly possible. He’s got to be exaggerating. Has he sent you any pictures?”

“No, but I believe him,” I say. “It’s real.”

“Oh? If it is, we need to see him. Take photos. He could be the poster-boy for our ad campaign when we finally go to market. Think of the publicity! Can you get him to come here? As soon as possible?”

I love my boss.

“He’s in the middle of a cut,” I tell her. “But I’ll ask.”

“Do it. He can be very important to us.” She shakes her head. “I still can’t believe it. Incredible!”

So I write to him at once, my fingers trembling on the keys. I tell him the situation, describe the remuneration, that his flight and hotel will be covered. His response?

Sure, I’m in. Send me the info when you’ve got it.

See you soon.

***

On the day of the photoshoot, I head straight to the local gym we’ve booked. It’s late in the afternoon, and Nate’s supposedly taken an Uber over directly from the airport. I’m in my best suit again, promising myself I’m going to keep cool, that I’m going to be professional, better behaved than last time. But everything flies out of my head when I enter the gym and see Nate already inside, dressed in a tank top with the logo of his gym on it and a pair of skin-hugging shorts like last time. He’s talking with the photographer and doesn’t see me come in.

It takes me a moment to understand it’s him, although who else could it be? There are only about twenty people in the world with a build like this. And once I get past the fact that it’s “Nate”–the same guy I saw a year ago–my mind still struggles to process the surreal sight of him.

The numbers couldn’t prepare me for this, they were too impersonal: math, not flesh. Now here he is in front of me, and while he was already huge before, now he’s an absolute hulk. His arms look twice the size they were, and thicker than his head; his pectorals and delts are cannonballs under his tank top, and–just like he said he wanted–the added inches to his lats and traps give him a truly freaky V-shape, funneling down to a slender waist, paved with the blocky cobblestones of his abs, clearly distinct under his stretched shirt. Turned away from me as he is, I can see that his shorts barely manage to stretch over the round globes of his glutes, and they rest high above the corded miles of his quads, each now as thick as my waist, while his calves look toned, round and flexed even when he’s standing still.

This man could cause a traffic accident by walking down the street shirtless. It’s like seeing a god among us, and I can barely believe it’s him, but though his neck’s thicker, his face is the same–still gorgeous, still with that bright grin, which he flashes at me as he notices I’m standing there like an idiot in my out-of-place suit, and he strides over on surprisingly light feet.

“Hey,” he says. “Good to see you.” And he pumps my hand, his grasp so warm and strong, his smile so welcoming. I smell the odour of his presence: a healthy sweat, robust and masculine. Summer beaches. Tanning lotion.

“I… you’re incredible,” I stammer. I can’t hide my reaction; there’s no point trying, and he doesn’t want me to. “I can’t believe that’s your body, not some suit you can unzip or something.”

He chuckles. “I feel that way myself too, sometimes. But it’s still me. Remember this?”

And he cocks his right arm and fires off his guns–an explosion of muscle: the clear separation between the two footballs of his tris and bis, that tall peak created as the second head of the bicep mounds on top, his forearm thicker too and riddled with veins. I can’t resist. I have to feel his hot hard brawn under my fingers again, but this time so much bigger than I could have imagined. So I step in close, into the heat of his body, the scent rising off his exposed flesh, and I press my trembling palm against the centre of his arm, try to wrap my fingers over the top of his flexed bicep, but I swear it’s too tall; my fingers don’t reach.

“It’s still me,” he whispers again, and flexes even harder, making his muscles jump. “All me,” and he twists his wrist, making the bicep lengthen and shorten so it bulges up, up, up, taking my fingers with it. “In the flesh.” And it’s so intimate, so sensual, my head’s swimming and I don’t know if I’m going to pass out or shoot my nut all down the leg of my nice suit pants.

But then the photographer clears his throat behind us, and I draw back guiltily.

“It’s okay. We’ll catch up later.” Nate grins, and he swaggers away, the wide muscled mass of him, lats projecting out the sides of his tank top, perfect ass-swells caressing each other in his shorts as he walks. Fuck, I need to sit down.

He goes through a series of exercises, doing just a few reps each time: this is a showcase, not a serious workout. The photographer snaps away as Nate pumps his arms, his chest, his legs, hangs from a bar and does chin-ups, lifts his knees to hit his lower abs. Needless to say, I remain seated. I could watch him all day, but before I know it they’re done, finishing up with one last shot of Nate taking a Colossinth pill.

The photographer packs up and leaves, but I linger behind, finally composed enough to approach him. “Can I drive you to your hotel?” I ask.

He’s packing his things in a duffel bag, but he looks up at me with surprise. “What hotel?”

“Didn’t you get the info about your reservation?”

“No. Was I supposed to?”

“Shit.” Someone screwed up, and it wasn’t me. I don’t make those arrangements. “You’re not flying out till tomorrow, right? Uh… give me a sec, I’ll see if I can find something. We’ll pay, of course.”

“It’s no big deal. Really, man, don’t worry about it. I just need a place to crash for the night.” He zips up his bag. “You got a couch? That’s good enough for me.”

“What?” My mind goes blank at the thought of him in my apartment, on my tiny-ass couch. He’d probably break it. “Uh… yeah, but–”

“Great. Is that good with you? It’s not a problem?”

“No, it’s fine. All good.” But I can’t fathom how this will work. I’ll have to be the one to take the couch, obviously. He can have the bed. But thinking about him lying in there, just a room away… and then tomorrow night, after he leaves, climbing into that very same spot, smelling him, imagining his bare skin against the sheets, the heat from his body–how will I ever get to sleep again?

No, stop thinking that way. I can do this. It’s no big deal.

And as I think that, I remember his voice, that teasing rumble: “Not big, huh?”

Fuck, don’t think about that now!

I fire off a complaint to my coworker about the mix-up, then we get in my car and drive off. There’s nothing for him to eat back at my place, so we stop by a restaurant, and he’s not as picky as I expected. “It’s not like I’m really competing this year. I can cheat a little,” he says, but I bet he never took cheat days before. After all, this is a guy who’d rather die than skip leg day.

It’s absorbing to chat with him and to feel his attention on me when I nervously ramble about myself. I’d much rather hear his stories about his competition experiences. It’s fascinating: such a different world from mine. A better one. I wonder what it’s like, standing on a stage and knowing everyone’s astonished at your body, gasping in awe as you squeeze those shined-up muscles–muscles so big that flexing them is itself a workout, forcing out the sweat on your brow and making your blood thrum. And getting into a pose-down with the other guys, competing to be the biggest, the best, flexing together and grunting as you push yourself to your brawny limits, craving the feel of eyes on your bare skin. Exposed. Vulnerable, yet so infinitely strong. Nothing can hurt you there.

He’s still telling me about his past triumphs when we drive into the garage at my apartment complex. I’m a little embarrassed to take him up to my tiny apartment: just one bedroom, one bathroom, and a living room/kitchen. But at least it’s clean and modern.

“I’ll take the couch,” I tell him when he gets the full reveal. “I’d… fit better.”

“Huh?”

“You can have the bed tonight. I’ll, uh, change the sheets. I didn’t know you’d be coming….”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. It’s fine,” he says, but I can hear the disappointment in his voice as he looks around. What a shabby little life I’ve got; that must be what he’s thinking.

“It’s not much…” I say.

“What? Hey, don’t worry about it.” He claps a hand on my shoulder and I stumble. The energy’s back in his voice. “You’re talking to a guy who lives out of his gym, remember?” It’s not a fair comparison: he’s a business owner, and that gym looked like it cost more than most houses. But he manages to make me smile. I always want to smile around him.

After he drops off his bag in the bedroom and washes up a little, I ask him again about his “natty” days. “Your last competition, the one before all this started–you won that one too, right? What was it, the Mr. Natural Olympia?”

“Yeah. You want to watch it? It’s all on YouTube.”

I’ve seen it before; I’ve watched everything about him I could find over the past year. But why spoil the mood? Hell yes, I want to see it! So he puts on the video and sits next to me on the couch, both of us watching the Nate of a year ago in his last routine as a natural bodybuilder, and I can’t help comparing them, seeing how much bigger he’s gotten.

“It’s like a different person,” I say in awe.

“I know, right? Check this out.” And before I realize what’s happening, he stands up, slides off his tank top so he’s just standing there in his shorts, and strikes a side tricep pose just like the one onscreen–that same white grin, that same handsome face, but his shoulders and chest doubling his frame, his arm like one of those braided steel cables they use to haul ships.

He cranks out pose after pose to match his smaller self, even copies the way he clapped his hands, bounced on his surprisingly light feet, lifted his arms and encouraged the audience to cheer. He’s dominating my tiny living room like he dominated that auditorium, and even without the oil, without the bronzer, without an hour in the pump-room beforehand, his veins bulge and roll, his shredded-as-fuck waist scrunches up with abdominals carved like train tracks, and when he bears down in a monstrous “most muscular,” his entire body is one striated, bulging mass of brawn–and I realize I’ve got the biggest hard-on of my life, my cockhead dripping like a bad faucet.

Thankfully, the tent in my pants is concealed by my untucked shirt, but when the movie ends and the screen goes black, I see myself reflected in it, a look of begging reverence on my face, and I’m suddenly filled with disgust at myself. I might as well be drooling, eyeing up a hunk of meat.

I really need to take a hard look at myself, at what I’ve become. This is his profession, not some striptease for my benefit. To him, there’s nothing erotic about a posing routine like this, no matter how guys like me eroticize them. The tan and the oil and the posing trunks are just equipment like cleats or a helmet to other athletes. And yet here I am, getting off on it while he unknowingly looks for nothing more than approval. If he knew what I was thinking, he’d feel like he’s gotten trapped in some perv’s apartment. This guy was married, for fuck’s sake–to a woman. Get a grip, Jackson. Put a stop to this now.

I feel sick, my hard-on wilting. But I know this is the right thing to do. “Look,” I say, boldly feigning a yawn. “Thanks for the show and all, but I’ve got work in the morning, so….”

“What?” The hurt in his face is obvious, and it crushes my soul. “Oh. Right. I get it.”

“I’ll be heading out around eight. Your flight’s at noon, right? Can you take an Uber to the airport?”

“Yeah. Sure. It’s no problem.” He looks down at himself, shrugs as if he wonders why he’s dressed that way, why he’s been parading himself in front of me. “I guess I’ll go change… get ready for bed. See you in the morning?”

“Sure. Good night.”

And he leaves. I know what he’s thinking. He thought he’d found a friend, someone who appreciated him and was interested in everything about him–his loves, his passions, even this seemingly out-of-character desire for change. Someone who didn’t think of him as a middle-aged bum desperate to reclaim glory after losing his wife and getting stuck living out of a gym. And I do appreciate him, I am interested. I admire him more than I could ever say. I can’t say it because it’s way beyond what he truly wants from me. I can’t just be his friend; it hurts too much. I haven’t been able to think about any other guys since I met him. This has to stop. So it’s better to end it this way now.

I thought I’d never get to sleep, knowing he’s just a room away, in my bed. But when I climb onto the couch in my boxers and turn out the light, my lust for his body isn’t what’s on my mind. It’s the expression on his face when I shut him out.

3.

I’m in the bathroom, looking at my own disappointingly average body in the mirror, the unforgiving light on my skin. I’m naked and my penis–the only part of me I’m actually happy with, though it’s not like I had to work for it–hangs flaccid. I look pathetic. Ordinary. Why couldn’t I be someone like Nate? A Hercules. An Adonis. A real man. He gets to look like that every moment of his life, everywhere he goes. While I just look like this.

My face in a snarl, I put up a sorry excuse of a double biceps pose, squeeze with all my might, but my biceps lie there like bean bags on my arms. Not good enough. Not good enough! I flex harder, bear down with all my regret and frustration, the intense desire bubbling in me, fighting to push it all into the muscles, fill them, blow them up–

And my biceps balloon out. A full inch. As if someone’s done one press of a bicycle pump. It’s true! I see it. It’s still there–the growth. More. More! I squeeze even harder, suddenly full of confidence that I can do this, I can grow, I can make those arms fucking explode. And they do: the biceps and triceps swell out three, no, four times the size, the veins bulky and dark over them; my forearms thicken so my wrists look tiny now as I twist them, watch my new arms jump and roll. It feels good. It feels so fucking good!

I swing my brawny arms down and do my own “most muscular,” give a roar and put all my force into the body-wringing flex. My chest inflates like rubber balls, my shoulders become rippling spheres; the skin over my stomach is sucked deep into new ravines of muscle. When I lift my arms, I see my obliques emerge like rocks at low tide, and the wide lats expand from my sides, giving me that insane, inhuman taper.

I turn around, check myself out over my shoulder, and I look even wider from the back, my traps piled up in slopes against my neck. I see the humps and dents of my back muscles, the line of my spine, and when I tighten my glutes, they swell and firm up: perky spheres with hollows on the sides that deepen when I flex them, the springy flesh round and full and rocking as I shift my weight–ballast for the heavy load I’m now carrying.

Yes! Fuck yes! I face the mirror again, put one leg forward, bend my arms behind my head, and bear down in a wrenching abs-and-thighs pose, letting out a roar of triumph: my quads explode into broad swaths of corded man-meat, and my cock hanging between them rises with hydraulic force beyond its usual seven inches until it’s as big as Nate’s, then even bigger, the cockhead a ripe plum, my nuts filling out so they’re like flesh-coloured tennis balls. I feel the skin stretched to bursting all down my dick’s colossal length, and I watch as it curves up so fucking hard, drooling a thick strand of nectar already down to my knees, wobbling with each throb of my engorged member.

It aches so much, congested with pent-up demand. I can’t bear it. I wrap a hand around it and that tension explodes for a second of pure mind-altering relief before transforming into an even more unbearable need that pulsates as my hand moves, sliding up and down, up and down, swiping up the precum and lubricating the shaft, circling the cumslit with the pad of my thumb so it spits out more–

My entire cock is a meaty rod of vibrating tension, getting deeper and more intense as I witness my new body in the mirror, feel huge and powerful and perfect. And my heart’s pounding under my beefed-up pecs, my arm muscles are bulging with my exertions, all of me getting pumped beyond belief, getting bigger and bigger and hotter and harder, and fuck it’s like molten fire, like electricity running through me, my hand’s a blur on my cock, my ball-sack tightening like purse strings; my cock’s going to erupt, going to fucking hose down that mirror–no, not the mirror, my face! Mouth open, tongue out, give it to me, give it to me! Give me that fucking load!

I wake up on the couch in my dark little apartment and my dick’s on fire, the skin so tight and giving a first tentative jerk–Shit! No, don’t cum. Not now! Not like this!–and another jerk, another. No, don’t do it, don’t cum! Think about something else! I lie there completely still, like I’m eyeing down a bomb, like any move will set it off. But it’s so sensitive even the thin fabric of my boxers is making it worse, drawing me closer to the edge. I move slowly, lift the waistband of my boxers, peel the precum-soaked fabric away from my glans. My dick hovers there, throbbing in the dark, oozing onto my stomach, my heart hammering–

And gradually the tide starts to go out. I’m safe. It’s okay. I won’t need to find some excuse for waking up Nate by taking a shower in the middle of the night. “Uh, I forgot to wash my hair.” Yeah, right.

I should have known this would happen. It’s no surprise after the blue balls I’ve had all day. I need to calm down, get through this. I can whack off once he’s gone. I don’t actually need to go to the office anyways. “Client relations”–that’s what I’m supposed to be working on today.

To calm myself down, I take out my phone, scroll through the messages I missed. It’s still only midnight, and there’s one from the coworker I complained to about screwing up Nate’s hotel room. “Not my fault,” it says. “Looks like he cancelled it himself an hour after I booked it. Got us a full refund.”

I turn my phone off, not able to process what I read. I’m still half-asleep and my brain’s muddled with blurry impressions of my dream–something about Nate, I think. Something better than what I woke up to. But at least one thing’s clear: I have to piss now that my erection’s finally died down.

So I pad softly to the bathroom, stripping off my precum-slicked boxers and throwing them in the laundry hamper on the way. It’s only when I’m emptying my bladder that I realize what I’d read and dread sinks through me.

He planned this. He lied to me. Tricked me. To get into my home. He’s probably already run off along with my wallet and a few other choice items. Serves me right. I’ve been such a moron from beginning to end.

I stumble out of the bathroom, not caring that I’m fully naked–after all, there’s no one to see it; I’m now convinced he’s gone. And the open bedroom door confirms it. I stagger through, ready to see my room ransacked, the drawers emptied onto the floor, the mattress against the wall.

But everything’s undisturbed. The deep rustling rhythm of his breath fills the hot air, his bulk spread out on the bed, no blankets over him in the summer night. The window’s open and the moon fills the room with a subtle blue light that allows me to see how peacefully he’s sleeping. He wore only a black pair of briefs to bed, and I think he must normally sleep in the nude, but he thought I wouldn’t want him putting his bare ass all over my sheets. It’s sweet, and my heart aches.

I feel terrible for doubting him. And very aware that I’ve snuck naked into his room in the middle of the night.

Shit! Don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up. If I can just get to the chest of drawers a few feet away, I can get a new pair of boxers, get out of here before he realizes….

I creep softly, barely daring to breathe, my heart like thunder, listening to his broad chest breathing in and out so close to me: the prominent mounds of his pecs rising and falling above his ribcage–that beautifully-curved ridge before his stomach descends to his tight waist. And he’s got his hulking legs spread out so that bulge between them is impossible to miss: a massive mound, slightly pointed–he must have a semi in his sleep. Maybe he’s dreaming, too. Maybe if I keep watching, that cock will rear up, stretching out his undies, finally springing free in the dark.

I’ve just put my hand on the drawer’s handle when I become aware his breath has stopped, and there’s a voice from the bed, groggy and rough:

“Took you long enough.”

Instantly I clap my hands over my crotch, but I can tell it’s not going to hide my cock for long; it’s already at half-mast, and inflating by the second. “Fuck, sorry Nate. I–I just had to get something out of my drawers, is all–from the dresser, I mean. Clothes from the dresser. I’ll go. I’m so sorry.”

But I’ve barely turned to leave when I hear his voice behind me. “No,” he says. “Jackson. Don’t go.”

His voice is gentle, and I turn back to him, amazed as he sits up and looks at me, so close in my small bedroom. I think he’s just an arm length away–and he proves it: he reaches out, brushes my hands away from my manhood, ignoring their pathetic attempt to hide my hardening cock, and he wraps his fingers around me there and pulls me toward him.

“Nate, I–” He shushes me, starts tugging my semi with lingering movements, filling it with heat and passion. My eyes roll back, my back arches; a subterranean anguish builds below my cock, tingling its way over my scrotum as I feel myself twitch upwards with each beat of my heart, lengthening and thickening, growing against his palm, my cockhead rubbing against his lumpy forearm. And suddenly my dream comes back to me, how a molten buzz of pleasure radiated up and down my enormous phallus as I looked at myself in the mirror. I feel that big now in his hand, that powerful.

But, “Wait,” I say. “Wait. Nate, are you sure?”

He doesn’t stop stroking. “I knew I wanted you a year ago,” he says. “And I wanted tonight to be the night. I thought I was so clever, setting it up. But then I got here and I couldn’t make the first move–not after barging my way into your place. I know I scare people. I can be intimidating. I wanted to know it was coming from you, that I wasn’t forcing myself on you. But you weren’t biting. I thought I’d gotten the wrong idea.”

“No. No, I’ll bite,” I gasp. “Whatever you want. Wherever you want. I’ve wanted this for so long. Been dreaming about it. Wishing… Oh, fuck! Ahh….” He laughs as he changes his grip, lifts my cock and starts stroking with swift vertical strokes, making me unsteady as I’m standing on trembling feet by the bed. I’m not going to last long at this rate. I’ve come too close to blowing my load already tonight, and his hand feels so good, strong and assured, and he’s looking into my eyes, watching my reactions, enjoying it. I want to make him feel good first, show him what a fucking bull he is, how he makes me boil with passion and rage with lust. He deserves it. I want to give it to him.

So I put my hand on his, gently stop the stroking, and I bend down and press my lips to his mouth, feel his hot breath flow into me, feel our pulses race together as our tongues meet and grapple. I push him back on the bed, lean over him and work my way down his jaw, his throat, kissing his sinewy flesh, hearing him murmur in response.

I climb onto the bed beside him, lick and suck his pecs, his nipples, follow that dive off his ribcage into his ripped abs, his navel, kissing and licking and all the time working my way further south, down the vein-scrawled hard lower abs till I’m right above the straining bulge in his shorts.

“I’m going to pull off your briefs,” I tell him, and he lifts his ass obediently, I grip the waist and pull them down. It’s a struggle to slide the thin, sweat-soaked fabric over his bulge, over his quads as they widen out so much thicker than his waist, but finally I see his freed cock spring up nine inches long and throbbingly erect. But I can’t get to it like this, not well enough. “Spread your legs a little,” I tell him, and climb into the space between him, kneel in front of his crotch, looking up the whole mountainous length of him to his face.

He gives a nod of approval, and I finally take his cock in my hands, as I’ve dreamed about doing ever since he set it loose in the gym. It fills my hands, a girthy fucking snake, already slick with sweat from being stuffed against his balls in those tight briefs, just as muscular as the rest of his body, ridged with puffy veins. I never want to let go, never want to stop feeling the gut-deep pleasure of having a man between my fingers, knowing I can make him gasp and groan and fidget with maddening lust.

“Fuck,” he sighs. “Yeah, fuck. Stroke my cock, Jackson. It feels good. I’m so hard. Don’t stop.”

And while I keep stroking him, I get my face in close, smell his moist manhood, nuzzle his balls. We’ve got ample proof right here the Colossinth doesn’t shrink your testicles: if anything, they look like they’ve grown to store up all that spunk I know he can shoot. I lick his sack, take his balls into my mouth one at a time, roll them over my tongue while he groans and arches his back, my nose in his sweaty man-meat, my fingers gliding up and over his swollen glans.

“Fuck! Oh fuck, yes!”

And I lick my way up, enjoy the feel of his entire hard length against my lips till I finally reach his juicy cockhead, kiss the tender underside. He’s so hard I can’t bend his dick down enough to get it in my mouth like this, so I lean over his waist, brace myself with my hand on the bed, above his hip, and now I can bend it enough to push that cockhead into my mouth, so big, the sensation of tight flesh on my tongue, the saline taste of his desire. I get it in as far as I can, feel him rub against the roof of my mouth, while I lick as much of his shaft as I can fit. I wish I could take all of him, but there’s no way–I’d need practice, hours of practice, and he doesn’t match the curve of my throat like this. So instead, I use my hand to stroke the rest of him, up and down, twisting right and left, feeling the churning need all the way through his manhood, from deep in his balls, his flooded prostate.

“Shit! Aw, fuck.” His voice is low and intense, egging me on. “Fuck, Jackson, you’re gonna make me nut if this keeps up, make me fuckin’ nut. You suck so good! Don’t stop. Suck my dick. Make me cum. Yeah, make me cum.”

He starts thrusting gently, his hips flexing, moist abs tightening, and puts his hand on the back of my head: gentle, encouraging. I moan around his organ, suck harder and faster, feel him swell and shake and thrust. I want him to cum, want him to feel like the manly musclegod I know he is, filled to bursting with protein and manjuice. I get him closer, closer to the edge, feel the tightening all through him, smell his sweat, see it shine on his rippled body in the light from the moon outside our window, everything pulsing, throbbing, humming with desire, the pressure boiling through his entire body, like a quake before the earth splits and a geyser blasts out.

“You’re gonna make me cum, Jackson, make me fucking cum. Fuck! You want the load? You want this fucking load?”

I do. So much. I’m also scared; I’ve seen how this cannon shoots. But I murmur my assent around that fat dick in my mouth, “Mm. Mmhmm,” thinking, “Choke me with your fat wad, you pumped-up muscle-jock. Make me drown in it.” And he moans, he squirms on the bed, his entire body tensing, fist suddenly clenching in the hair at the back of my head, balls tightening against the base of his shaft, and he’s saying, “Yeah, here it comes, I’m gonna cum, oh fuck, oh shit, get ready–!”

And his cock twitches once, twice, and I’ve at least got the presence of mind to point his fat dickhead towards the roof of my mouth, not the back of my throat, before he gives a mighty third wrench and a spray of hot semen straight from his balls pounds into my palate, making my eyes water and instantly flooding my mouth with his funky marine taste–

And he groans and bucks again, sprays another blast of sperm, and I’m struggling to swallow as the cum’s leaking out of my mouth down the length of his veiny shaft, staining the bed; he convulses again and again, faster now, filling my mouth, my throat till I’ve got no choice but to spit out that luscious glans so I won’t choke—but it’s still spitting, the ropes popping up to land on his chest, between his abs as I lick him, pump him with my hand, smell him all over me as his thick cream gets in my hair, on my face. “Yeah, cum for me, give me that fucking load!” and–

“Fuck! Oh fuck, yes!” he’s roaring, thrusting against me, writhing on the bed till I suck his cock back in and lap up the last few shots, feel the quivery tremors running through his fuckpole, and I don’t want to stop, never want to take him out of my mouth as my tongue probes his cumslit, runs all over his glans, the smooth bulbous top, the hard ridge, the tender place where his foreskin connects between the pillowy ass-like cheeks, loving every bit of him.

He sighs in contentment, his body relaxing, and his hand is gentle again on the back of my head, lightly stroking the fine hairs on my neck as I polish his rod, clean it off. “Damn,” he says with the lazy drawl of satisfaction. “Most people freak out when I cum like that, but you swallowed like a champ. You’re a real greedy cocksucker, aren’t you? Fuck, Jackson, you look so good with my jizz on your face. Come here. Give me a taste.”

I climb up his massive body lying on my bed, straddle his torso, my knees on either side of his slim, muscular abdomen, and I lean over his face, look deep into his eyes, the unflinching dark depths of them, press my hand to his cheek, feel the rough rasp of his stubbled jaw, and we kiss; his tongue explores for the taste of his seed in my mouth as I’m trembling with lust, thrusting my cock instinctively against the muscled slick ridges of his abs.

“Did you know?” I can’t help asking when our lips part. “How wild you were driving me that day I came to your gym?”

“You mean, when I was standing there with my dick hanging out?” He laughs, and I feel silly. “Of course. Did you think you were being subtle? Seeing that cock-hungry look on your face made me push myself even more, show off for you. I don’t regularly blow a load at the gym, you know; that’d cause all kinds of problems. No, I flexed my cock and squeezed till it burst right in the middle of my lift. I kept expecting you to drop to your knees, you looked so thirsty. But you were a good boy. Polite. Cute, standing there in your little suit, with your hair messed up and the sweat dripping into your eyes. A nice guy. Clean. Like I used to be. But I can tell you’re tired of living clean, too. So–” he kisses me again, “–let’s get juiced together.”

Fuck, I want him so much. We breathe in each other, taste his semen in our mouths. Then I draw my lips down his neck, bury my face in his chest, sticky from the shots of spunk I let escape my mouth. I feel his heart pounding and his heat surging through those titanic mounds he’s built up over the past year, all that flesh pressed against my cheeks, my lips, and an electric quiver runs through their dense heavy mass as he flexes: they jump and harden and ripple with thick cords of muscle fiber. “Fuck, oh fuck, you’re so fucking hot,” I moan, my words smothered by brawn.

“You like how big my pecs have gotten, huh?” he teases. “All those extra pounds of meat, just like I always wanted. Let’s see how your own meat looks against them.”

My heart stutters and I look up at him. “You mean–?”

“Come here.”

And he pulls me forward so now I’m sitting with my dick sticking up right between his pecs, like round bronzed pillows on either side, the nipples hard and dark. My erection’s so firm it naturally curves away from that tantalizing flesh, but thankfully not to the degree Nate’s does: I just lean forward with my hands planted on either side of his head, and my cock settles into his muscled cleft, each side rippled with sinew, the skin looking like it can barely contain the bulging manmeat. And that spot’s already wet with his cum and my spit, now getting even slipperier and shinier as the gobs of precum drip steadily from my agonized cock. I thrust my hips slowly forward and I slide smoothly, feeling his hardness massage the underside of my dick.

“That’s it, lean into me,” he coaxes, and with his left hand he cradles my lower back with a tenderness that makes me all the more aroused, if that’s possible. I pull back, thrust forward again. It’s hard to brace myself, hard to ensure my dick stays pressed flat into that muscled ravine, but it gets easier, my meat-pole glistening, squelching, my balls getting wet from all the manly lube in that crevice.

Then he turns his head and spits into his right hand. “Hold still a sec,” he says, and he reaches under my ass, probes for my hole, which clenches against him then relaxes as he shoves two spit-slicked fingers inside. I groan as he bends them and probes the inner wall, searching with expert assurance till he finds the swell of my prostate behind my cock; and when he hits it, the pleasure’s sharp at first and I gasp, but he chuckles knowingly, starts to gently massage me, rubbing up and down, round and round, and that piercing pleasure melts and starts to throb like a deep bass line in pounding music, resonating with his rubbing strong fingers, filling the base of my cock and balls.

And when he flexes, his pecs rise and harden along the whole rigid length of my shaft, the sensitive thin skin of my cockhead tingling as it pushes against his flexed muscle cords, spitting more nectar into that slicked-up cleavage, my dick squishing, twitching, sliding as he makes those pecs dance, as he fingerfucks me and says, “Yeah, feel that, I’m gonna make you cum with my pecs, wring that spunk right out of you. You’re just leaking all over the fucking place, aren’t you? And you’ve got a tight hot ass. You like how it feels when I milk your big fucking cock? You’ve never seen pecs like mine, felt something so hard and big and warm, have you?

“No, you’re a god, a fucking musclegod. Oh, fuck. When you were working on your chest today, at the gym, lifting those weights–”

“The chest fly? You liked the way I squeezed my pecs together, huh? Really got off on that. You want to see it?”

“Please, please. Oh fuck, Nate. Make me cum.”

“Yeah? Like this? You like it when I do this? Makes them look like tits, doesn’t it? Like fucking muscle-tits.” And he pulls his fingers out of my ass, extends his arms out wide on either side, then starts bringing them together till his arms are touching my shoulders, out and together, out and together, and each time his glorious pectorals balloon up and squeeze together, lifting my cock between them as I thrust, as I push myself against that split, try to get deep and wet and hot, squelching against his heaving, glistening brawn tipped with dark nipples, the skin stretched so tight. “Yeah, that’s a man’s chest for a man’s cock. Feel me squeeze that fat sausage dick of yours, wring the juice out of you. Come on, faster, harder. Let’s see you blow your load. Blow your fucking load against my pecs.”

It’s too much, too fucking much–too much muscle, too much pressure and slippery movement, too much heat and motion as I ride his body, watch him bulge and ripple, see the white flash of his cocky grin in the moonlight, knowing how much I like it, how I’m mad with desire–it’s too hot, too fucking hot, I need to blow, need to fucking explode, I’ve been holding it back too long, can’t do it anymore, “Fuck, Nate, I’m gonna cum, oh fuck, Nate. Nate–!”

Spasms race through my cock and I moan as it erupts, spraying jizz against his throat, against the pillow, against the head of the bed, exploding with forceful splats, fiercer and faster than it’s ever been before, my entire body twitching and shuddering in its grip as my balls empty their load, as I keep thrusting and send more sperm-shots between his beach-ball mega-pecs, thrusting sloppily as my load runs between those muscle mounds, drenches my jerking cock, making it even wetter, slipperier, and he’s laughing, “Fuck, man! Fuck!” and “Let it go! Come on, give it to me!” everything sloppy and wet and salty and smelly and warm–

Until it finally releases me, lets my cock finally loosen, lets me catch my breath. And I’m looking at his dripping cummed-up chest, his hard nipples, my thighs quivering under me, and I slap my dick against those pecs one last time, feel their weight, before I fall back onto his stomach, his blocky midsection under my ass quivering with laughter, and the wet knob of his cockhead prods me in the small of my back, rubs against my ass, as strong as ever, as lustful. He wants it. He’s not done yet. And neither am I. Even though I’ve just shot the biggest load of my life, I’ll never stop needing this.

“You want to fuck me, don’t you?” I say, twisting one of his nipples between my fingers. “Want to shove that fucking monster up my ass.” I start rubbing my ass against it, teasing the head. “How much of it do you think I can take? You’re so fucking huge, so fucking hard. Put it in me. Let’s see. See what a stallion you are.”

He groans, eyes shut with desire, thrusting against my backside, and he whispers, “You sure, Jackson? You sure?”

“Do it! Stretch my fucking hole. I want to see how you fuck, how you stretch my insides. Make me howl, Nate. Wring me out. Fuck me however you want. On my back, with my legs wrapped around your tight ass? Or lying on my front with my ass in the air. Tell me, Nate.”

“If you want it, then let’s see you kneel,” he says in a low growl. “Get on your hands and knees.”

I give him a long, lingering kiss, pull his face towards mine, show him how much I want this. “I like the way you think,” I whisper.

I climb off him, watch him get off the bed. For a glorious moment he’s there with his rippled back to me, the light from the window settled on his curves, deepening the shadows in his back; and his rounded glutes are shiny with the sweat dripping between them, his legs flexed and taut; he turns back to me, his torso oily, jizz dripping over his pecs, over row after row of abdominal muscle, down to his crotch, where that goliath sticks out, where his balls dangle temptingly, and I know this man’s going to fuck me, going to do it hard and deep. It makes me dizzy. It makes me shake.

There’s a bottle of lube in my dresser just a few feet away, but we don’t need it: he slides a hand up his midsection, gets it all slicked up and sloppy then rubs it into his meat, along its whole length, over the tip, enjoying the glide, the twist, slicking it up real nice so it’s wet and creamy, quivering and eager, and I brace myself on the bed, on my hands and knees, ass pointed toward him.

“Put the pillow under your face,” he says. “And tell me if it’s too much. I’m serious, Jackson. I’ll try to take it slow.”

I feel his hands at first, lubing me up with our mingled man-juice, his fingers slipping in like before, giving me just a taste; then his fat cockhead’s prodding me, shoving at my hole, hard and rubbery and insistent till it pushes inside. I gasp at the feel of him, the tip alone already so much. We adjust to each other, feel each other’s warmth, the rank smell of our sex, before he inches forward, his strength pushing my face into the pillow, my body against the bed. “Oh fuck,” I murmur. “You’re so fucking big. Shit!”

“You good, Jackson?” I hear the strain in his voice. He’s forcing himself to hold back, barely restraining the clamour of his manly urges. “You good?”

“Keep going! Keep fucking going! Fill me up. Make me take it!”

He obeys, and though the pain’s intense, I force myself to hold on. I tell myself I can handle it; it’s not like he’s fisting me–though his cock feels like a fist, stretching me in ways I’m going to feel for a week. Hopefully longer, because I can tell I’m going to start savouring the impression of his giant fuckpole rammed up my ass. My heart’s bounding, legs and stomach are quivering, sweat running into my eyes, and somehow my cock’s hard again already, leaking against the bed.

“Aw, fuck. Fuck! You’re so tight. It feels so good.” He moans as I make myself push back onto him, show him how much I want him inside me, his whole hard length. He withdraws an inch, thrusts deeper, withdraws, thrusts deeper, stuffing more of himself inside me each time, till I feel his thighs against my ass, against my feet. And now he pulls back and starts exploring for that sweet spot he found earlier, rubbing his cockhead along the inner wall of my ass. It feels so close to my cock and balls, as if he’s fucking my nutsack from the inside, and when he hits my prostate, that whole region rumbles and throbs and I let out a lingering moan.

“You like that, don’t you? That’s the fucking spot. Want me to ram you? Ram that fucking ass?”

I beg for it, beg for his cock, and I feel it begin, the steady pistoning of his ass, the force of his giant beefy glutes driving him into me, our bodies slippery and sweaty, slapping together and apart; and he thrusts deep, then just to that perfect spot halfway, one for him and one for me, alternating his strokes, making us hotter and wetter and tighter, both hands gripping me by my hips, then once he’s got a firm rhythm going, reaching under me with his right hand to start stroking my dick in time.

I’m immersed in his strength: his firm grip on my cock, his huge heavy body bearing down on me, his cock fucking me not just for his own pleasure but to see how much he can maximize mine; and I know he’s grinning that cocky grin of his every time I moan and hiss; he’s getting off on handling me like the willing cock-bitch I am, seeing how much unbearable lust and ecstasy he can squeeze out of my cock, my prostate, his absolute power over me thrumming through his body, the obliterating manly excess that makes me howl and bite the pillow and yet thrust my ass up higher, pleading for more, drooling, Fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck me you musclegod, you fucking jacked hunk, pound me with that cock, cum in me, fill me with your jizz, don’t stop, you’re so fucking good, oh fuck yes!

And he’s faster and stronger, our bodies slapping, squelching, rushing together toward the abyss, the pressure building higher and higher till it sings in my ears, mashes the breath from my lungs; I’m bucking against him, against his cock, his hand, his muscles, the wave building, the air thick with sex and sperm and sweat, my mouth drenched in the taste of him, my vision blurry with tears, everything pounding and throbbing and crushing me till I hear that gruff roar from deep in his chest, “Fuck! Oh fuck, here it comes! Get fucking ready!” and I want it so bad, need it–give me that fucking load, make me drown in it!

He pulls out of me, lays that fat spunk-pistol between my ass-cheeks and explodes with a groan from deep in his stomach. Violent rockets of hot warm cum shoot all over my back like a sprinkler, plaster my hair flat, the shots from this fucking beast actually building in strength as he presses his balls against me, hitting my shoulder, staining the sheets next to my head; he gives another moan and thrusts hard against my ass and there’s an audible squirt–his fucking sperm overshoots the bed and splats into the far wall of my bedroom, oozes thickly down it–

It sends me over the edge, knowing what a fucking virile stud I’m being used by; the pleasure clamps down hard in my cock and I feel it erupt. I shoot my load deep into the mattress, and I lie there, pouring out my lust, bathed in my desires, my face in the pillow, ass against his cock as his muscled flesh pounds against me, as his fuckpole rocks and jerks, flinging gallons of fresh man-milk out on my naked body till there’s nothing but drops left–drops that he shakes out of his dick by slapping it against my willing flesh.

For a moment we just breathe, exhausted, dazed, smelling each other, our sex, tasting it. He rubs my hips gently, making slow circles, his wet genitals still pressed against me, thrusting slightly through the sweat and the dripping jizz all down my backside as he finally starts to soften. “You okay, Jackson?”

I roll over, lie flat on the bed, looking up at the distant ceiling. “That was incredible. You’re so fucking hot.” This room’s going to smell like us forever, I think. The bed’s practically been impregnated with our sperm, wet stains all over it. I drag myself over to the right side of that spunked-up bed, make room for him beside me. And he lies there, a glossy titan, so much bigger and heavier than me that I’m pulled toward him and I go willingly, fall against his chest. He places his hand on my shoulder, looks deep into my eyes, and I know we’re both thinking that there’s nothing better than looking into the face of someone who not only understands your desires, but embraces them, shares them.

Our mouths meet; we feel each other’s bodies with the tenderness that follows satisfaction. I can’t get enough of him, his beautiful slicked-up brawny body and the look of honest pleasure in his eyes. I want to know more about him, spend all my time with him. I know he’s grown a lot in the past year, and he’s done it by being a man who faces his dreams head on and forces them to come true. That’s what he’s wanted, all along: to be honest with himself, to celebrate his desires, and it’s brought him here, made him stronger in so many ways.

“You’re beautiful. Perfect,” I say.

He laughs. “Far from it. Not even close.”

And here, in this moment of honesty, I can confront my dreams too, dare them to come true.

“I want to be like you,” I say. “Look like you. Live like you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Will you help me? Help me grow?”

He studies me a moment, then nods. He rolls away and reaches for his duffel bag on the floor, grabs the bottle of Colossinth. “You sure?”

And when I say yes, he taps one out and slips it between my lips. I swallow. And beg for more.