Fight Night: New Chapter posted 12/JUN - Operation: Cumdump

[Broody]

[Hey folks, first time posting a story here. Some of you may know me from my tumblr Broodingmuscle. This story will feature MMA fighting, dominance, forced exercise and feeding, and fast but realistic muscle growth. Eventually there will be some little bro revenge because that’s my jam. Let me know what you think, sorry no growth in the first chapter. - Broody]

 

Fight Night: Part 1 Stick vs Meatball

by Broody

“Welcome back to the Underground Fighting Championship, I’m head commentator Fred Williams. Our next fight in the Flyweight division is going to be something I’ve never seen before. Curtis “Stick” Quick, the division’s tallest fighter will face his polar opposite, Tony “Meatball” Pizetti who replaces an injured competitor. I’ll ask my fellow commentator Al Sharp, what do you make of this crazy match-up?”

 

“More like mis-matchup my friend, wow! As the fighters take their places in the ring you can see that the 6-foot-1 Quick just towers over Pizetti who stands a mere 4-foot-1.”

 

“And yet, Al, and yet… look at these other stats, Pizetti is the heavier fighter, coming in at the regulation upper limit of 126 pounds, while Quick is a mere 123 lbs. What happened there did Quick over-correct trying to make weight?”

 

“I asked his trainer this very question and the answer may surprise you. Curtis Quick has always been a super-lean guy, in fact he got into fighting as a kid because of how much he got picked on for being skinny. He’s never cutting weight for a fight, always trying to maintain or gain weight to stay competitive in the Flyweight rankings.”

 

“And so he doesn’t blow away in a stiff breeze. Good Lord someone get that kid a sandwich!”

 

“Well speaking of a meal, look at Tony Pizetti! “Meatball” is an apt nickname for the stud just look at all the muscle piled into this short stack. I just did a quick calculation and proportionally if Pizetti was as tall as his opponent, he’d be a whopping 280 lbs! Just look at those massive arms, they’ve twice as thick as Quick’s! Pizetti may not have the ultra long 80” striking reach of his opponent, but you better believe a body like that is going to do some damage if this goes to the ground.”

 

“Pizetti’s wingspan is certainly respectable at 60” for a man his height. He’ll have to get inside to do any punching, but this is mixed martial arts! Expect some dominant wrestling from this pint-sized Hercules.”

 

“And now the announcer is being ignored by both fighters during the introductions. What intensity as they yell smack-talk across the ring at each other. Quick says something about Pizetti shopping for his tights in the boy’s section. Pizetti-- oh my god!-- reaches into those same tights and pulls out his XXL cup! He holds it up to the audience and his tights snap back to form an outright elephantine bulge! 

 

Now he’s calling out Quick’s own fashion sense, with his loose shorts hanging down to his knees to hide his skinny legs, and what other inadequacies? As the referee scolds Pizetti, the short fighter grins and makes show of the compressing effort required to stuff those enormous genitals back into the protective device.”

 

“Well Al, I don’t know about you, but the fight hasn’t even started and my blood is already flowing. I think the ring girl just fainted! And Quick looks a little pale, I don’t think he expected to be shown up this badly by a fellow just about four feet tall!”

 

“Well as the bell sounds to start the round, we’ll see if Quick has a comeback to all that!”

 

“And he does, a lighting fast left jab hits Pizetti full in the face! But he’s fast enough to raise his guard and block the follow up right which thuds impotently against the Meatball's thick forearm. Pizetti advances to try to get inside, but gets caught in the gut with a front kick from Quick that pushes him back into a more comfortable range for the taller fighter. This time Quick’s one-two combo hits the mark both times but Pizetti shrugs off the punches! He taunts Quick by sticking out his chin, his face plastered with a mocking grin and The Stick takes the bait, launching a straight right down the center which Pizetti ducks easily. The Meatball powers an uppercut drawn from somewhere in this arena’s basement and smashes into Stick’s jaw!”

 

“Oh he’s hurt! Goddamn it if I didn’t feel the force of that punch from the ringside. How he’s even still standing after that hit I do not know but he manages to back away and bat aside Pizetti’s follow-up shots drunkenly.  He was definitely rocked by that blow!”

 

“The Meatball bulls his way inside and goes for a double leg takedown, no wait a double leg lift! He picks Quick’s slender body up like it’s a pencil and slams his foe brutally to the canvas! Oh my god, that has gotta hurt! Pizetti falls on him like a log dropped onto kindling and Quick tries to scramble out the side. No dice. Pizetti hauls him back, gets into full mount and rears up for some devastating ground and pound. A few hits from those sledgehammer fists and Quick’s face is bloodied up like raw hamburger. Quick's coach, his big brother Butch Quick, is yelling obscenities that would make a sailor blush from the corner.”

 

“The ref calls out for Quick to fight back or he’ll end it and the fighter finally responds, flipping his legs up to catch Pizetti’s head between them. Quick wrenches down and the power of long limb leverage launches The Meatball halfway across the ring to land on his head! Pizetti pushes himself up to one knee but looks wobbly. Quick is dripping blood from his face but makes it to his feet. He lunges and strikes like a kicker after a field goal, his foot hits Pizetti’s gut with a dull thud. Quick winds up for another shot but The Meatball turns aside at the last moment, lashing out with a left hook to the body that nearly snaps The Stick in half.”

 

“Holy shit, I think Quick’s liver just got made into paté. Spread him on a cracker, he looks done.”

 

“Oh what a mess, his face ruined, fallen to his knees gasping, the wind knocked out of him. Now Pizetti approaches and reaches out to hold his head almost tenderly. He whispers something in his ear and the pulls him close, burying his face in his meaty pecs. He locks his muscular arms around Quicks head and cranks it. Forget breathing, Quick taps out in an instant so that his skull doesn’t pop like a zit!”

 

“Oh my, over already just as I was getting excited.”

 

“Looks like you’re not the only one! Pizetti pull out his cup yet again as Quick collapses to the canvas, chest heaving. He may be David but I’d call that cock Goliath: wide, rock hard and bursting up right out of his tights well past his navel!”

 

“He gets grief from the ref and from Quick's corner, but the fans seem to love it! He drops the cup onto Quick’s face and then grinds his foot on it, forcing the defeated fighter to breath in his sweaty ball stank. Pizetti does a victory double bicep flex that gives the ring medic pause as he rushes in to check on the flattened loser.”

 

“Pizetti grinds out a most muscular pose and blows Curtis Quick a kiss as security enters the ring to keep the two separate. As the referee raises his arm in victory, he points at Quick and mouths ‘I’ll be seeing you soon’ with a leer and a wink.”

 

“Well Al, I’d sure like to be in the room for that meeting. Maybe even film it! Well, this has been quite the fight. On behalf of my colleague Al Sharp, this has been Fred Williams for the Underground Fighting Championship. Thanks for joining us and see you next time!”

 

***

 

Fight Night part 2: Don’t Call Him Little

 

The next day, Curtis Quick woke from his doctor-mandated bedrest to a pounding coming from the door of his room. He lived in a run down two story motel that rented rooms monthly for cheap. He dragged his poor battered body to the door shouting.

 

“All right already, I’m coming, hold your horses. Jesus!” The noise was making his headache worse, but that was nothing compared to the shock he got when he opened the door and looked down to see Tony Pizetti outside his room on the balcony.

 

His stomach churned but he put on a brave face, swollen as it was. “What are you doing here, huh, didn’t get enough of humiliatin’ me yesterday?” Tony wore a low cut white tank top that showed off his massive hairy pecs. He held a 15-lb bag of potatoes over each shoulder.

 

“I’m here ‘cuz I’m your new coach, Stick.” Tony took a step back and then hoisted the potato bags, swinging them around like nunchucks. Curtis watched dully, still blinking the sleep from his eyes. With a last swing, Tony threw both bags at his chest and he flew back into the room, knocked flat on his back.

 

“How did you know?” Curtis groaned weakly from the floor. His coach Butch, his older brother, had quit in disgust yesterday after the fight. 

 

Tony stood over Curtis’ flattened form, folding his thick arms over his chest.. “Everybody knows, Stick. He talked to the media this morning. I believe his exact words were. ‘I ain’t training a loser who lost to a midget.’ What an asshole.”

 

Curtis got to his knees, still sore, but anger over Butch was riling him up. “He is a fucking asshole! That’s not the word you’re supposed to use. It’s like… little person, right?”

 

“Look at this shit. You see anything little?” Tony flexed a bodybuilder-style double-bicep pose. His lats flared out into meaty buttresses holding up arms that were so thick with huge hard muscle that his biceps, triceps and forearms had to fight for space. “From now on you call me Coach or Sir, got it?”

 

Curtis mouth hung open as he watched Pizetti show off. He remembered the power in those arms and thanked God Pizetti hadn’t broken any of his bones. “Got it, Coach! Damn are you bigger than yesterday?” 

 

“Fuck yeah, I hate cutting weight for a fight, after I was done with you, I went out with my buddies for a huge steak dinner and then went to the all night gym and blasted these muscles hard. Speaking of which….” Tony chuckled and reached over to tousle Curtis’ hair. With Stick on his knees they were the same height. “I like you kid. You got potential and I need a project. All I get for fights are gimmicks and last-minute replacements.So I’m switching to coaching. I’ve booked you a light-heavyweight fight 4 months from now.”

 

Curtis shook his head. “It’ll take me that long to recover from that beating you gave me. How could I recover and train AND gain thirty pounds to fight as a lightweight in just 4 months?”

 

“Clean out your ears, bumpkin, I said light-heavyweight, that’s 205 lbs. You’re gonna gain eighty pounds of pure muscle. And you're gonna learn to punch and wrestle like a man, not those girly blows you sent my way. And as to how. You leave that to me. Now get up and take this.” Tony pulled Curtis to his feet and shoved the motel ice bucket in his hands. “Go get ice. Lots of it.” 

 

While Curtis went back and forth to the ice machine to fill the bathtub, Tony stomped up and down the balcony stairs to his car, unloading the potato bags, 20 in total, till they filled one corner of the kitchen. When he was done, he checked the ice level in the tub. “Alright that’s enough. Come with me. It’s time for your first training session.”

 

Tony popped the trunk of his classic 1983 Buick Grand National and Curtis flinched.

 

“Is that a body?”

 

Tony scowled. “What, you think I’m a gangster or something? Just ‘cause I’m Italian? That’s racist.”

 

“I don’t think it’s r—”

 

“Take another look, bright boy.”

 

Curtis gingerly pulled at the bloody cloth wrapping. “Jesus, it’s a whole side of beef.”

 

“Lift it out, kid. You’re taking it upstairs.”

 

“What? How? It’s gotta weigh 300 lbs.”

 

“Probably 325. Think of it as CrossFit.”

 

“Shit.” Curtis said. He shucked his shirt and tucked it in the back of his shorts. Compared to the boulders of muscle fighting for space on Pizetti’s short body, Curtis’ thin muscles looked like strings stretched along a giant banjo. He strained hard to lift one side of the bloody mass over the lip of the trunk. The effort left him heaving breaths in and out his bony chest. He looked from the truck to the stairs going up to his second floor balcony and then back in despair.

 

“Damn, son, you look like the carcass left over from last night’s roast chicken.” Tony jibed.

 

Curtis hauled more on the mass of meat until he had two thirds of it over the lip. “I got…” he grunted, “a fast… metabolism… fuuuuuck!”

 

Curtis tried to figure it out. He thought he could manage it if he got the side over both his shoulders. But the trunk was below his waist level and there was no way his skinny legs could rise up from a deep squat with that much weight. He looked over at Tony. “Y-you got a jack or somethin’?” 

 

Pizetti rolled his eyes. “Alright, soft boy, I’ll help ya, but it’ll cost ya later.” Pizetti scooted his legs under the bumper of the car. He spread his arms out straight and pressed them flat against the asphalt, then tucked up his thighs to his chest and pressed his feet to the undercarriage. Curtis heard first the groan of shocks and then silence as Tony leg pressed the back end of a loaded Buick. The trunk rose up level to Curtis’ chest and he ducked under the mass of meat to brace his shoulders. “Oof. Almost there, a little higher.”

 

“Get ready, punk,” Tony growled. The trunk lowered down again as Tony’s legs pressed to his chest and then shot up fast and hard. Curtis pulled the weight freely onto his shoulders. He teetered over to one side but solidified his core and managed to keep from tumbling over.

 

“I got it, I got it, Coach! Look, I’m doin’ it.” Curtis slowly turned around carefully keeping the huge load balanced on his shoulders. 

 

Tony was still under the car, grunting out leg press reps. Goddamn. Curtis made a mental note to google its curb weight.

 

“That’s great kid, let’s see if you can get up the stairs in the time it takes me to do 3 sets.”

 

Curtis let out a grunt of his own. “You’re on coach!” Curtis adjusted the ponderous weight and then stomped step by step toward the stairs. He got to the bottom and looked up. It looked impossible. He flexed his abs and thought of his older brother, mocking him yesterday for  weakness. He raised his right foot and set it on the first stair. He pressed hard, feeling his quads solidify and contract. He stepped up and then planted his left. “Fuck yeah, I can do this!” He repeated the process and got to the third step.  His heart was pounding. He heard Pizetti counting out reps: “Fifteen! Where you at, boy?”

 

“Halfway up!” he lied. “You better go faster if you want to beat this chicken carcass.”

 

He heard Pizetti breathing heavily. “Oh I’m gonna enjoy this.” Curtis heard the bouncing of shocks as Pizetti started pumping out his next set twice as fast. Curtis visualized the bloated strength of Pizetti’s tree trunk quads and willed it to transfer to his own slim legs. With the next step he forced his left leg to skip a stair. Then his right leg did the same. He was no longer inching up the staircase like an old lady, but taking it normally, like he didn’t have half a cow on his shoulders.

 

The tension in his limbs was intense but he took a deep breath and stomped up the rest of the stairs, reaching the top just as Pizetti yelled out his final rep. “I did it coach!” He huffed, a huge shit-eating grin on his face..

 

Pizetti set the Buick down and stood up. His thighs were so swollen with pump they rounded outward like beachballs. “Nice job kid!” He stamped his right foot down and his quads exploded, rending the overstretched lycra of his gym shorts right up to his crotch, with a loud RIIIIPPPP!.  “Fuck yeah!” he growled. Reaching into the trunk he pulled out a huge meat cleaver. “Now get that meat on ice. It’s time to grow!”!”

Cont.

 

[Broody]

Fight Night, part 3: A Case of the Skinnies

 

The mouth watering aroma and sizzling sound of searing steak filled the kitchen as Tony Pizetti yelled at Curtis Quick from the living-dining room of the run down motel suite.

 

“How many pounds of taters you got, kid?”

 

Curtis looked from the pile of peelings in front of him to the two empty bags on the floor. “‘Bout thirty I guess, Coach.”

 

“That’ll do for lunch, c’mon over here we need to take some measurements.”

 

Curtis set the potato pot on a hotplate to boil and flipped the two 120 oz rib eyes in the massive cast iron skillet that sat on all four burners of the range. He wiped his hands on a bloodstained apron.

 

“Lunch? I thought we were meal-prepping for the whole week?” Curtis stood before Pizetti who had pulled the non descript motel art off the wall and had a black marker and a tape measure in hand.

 

Pizetti shoved Curtis against the wall. “You got a serious case of the skinnies, kid, so think of this as your medicine.”

 

“I’m not skinny,” Curtis insisted. “I’m slim.”

 

“Same difference. Stand up straight.” Pizetti hopped up on a stool as Curtis corrected his usual slouch. He lined the marker with the top of his head.

 

“I’m twenty, coach, it’s not like I’m gonna grow any taller.”

 

“Adolescent boys can keep growing taller til they’re twenty one.”

 

“What happened to you, then?”

 

“Wiseass. I was in a rush I guess. They call it precocious puberty. The growth plates in my long bones decided I was man enough at age nine. With stilts and a trenchcoat I could get into a bar when I was ten. Don’t think about it too hard.”

 

“I got into a bar once!”

 

“Yeah, what’d you do, suck the bouncer’s dick?”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“You wish. Hold still.” Pizetti drew the marker horizontal over the top of his head, then made a vertical line at each shoulder. He hopped off the stool. “Arms up!” he commanded. He leaned in and drew lines at the line of Quick’s hips and mid-thigh. “Alright, kid, take a look.”

 

Curtis stepped forward and looked at the marks on the wall. The horizontal lines basically all lined up.

 

“Curtis Quick, the human coat hanger,” Pizetti shook his head. He unspooled the tape measure. Curtis held one end at the height mark and Pizetti read the number at the floor: “73.5 inches. Six-one and a half. Well you’re a tall coat hanger I’ll give you that. Like I said you got potential. Now body measurements, let’s start with that pencil-neck.”

 

“Coach, what the fuck, this is all bodybuilding shit. I’m an MMA fighter.”

 

“So am I fuckhead. And who kicked whose ass yesterday? This ain’t all gonna be about size, I got strength and conditioning covered too. But none of that is gonna happen if you keep up your skinny ass routine. Neck. Now!”

 

Curtis grumbled but bent down so Pizetti could wrap the tape measure around his neck.

 

“Eleven inches. Holy hell. If I didn’t just see it I wouldn’t believe it.”

 

“Shit.” Curtis reddened with shame. He’d never measured any part of his body before but even he knew that was bad. Shirt sizes didn’t even go below 14 inches.

 

“Ok, chest.” Pizetti barked. He tightened the tape around Curtis until it cut into his thin pecs like a noose. 

 

“That’s too tight,” he wheezed.

 

“Twenty eight inches. Jesus. We better hurry or I’m gonna throw up. Flex your arm.”

 

Curtis flexed his right biceps hard. He was a fighter! His arms were his weapons! “Nine inches.” Damn. “Forearms, also nine inches. Like I said: coathanger.”

 

Pizetti rhymed off the rest. Waist - 25 inches, thighs - 16 inches, calves - 10 inches.

 

Pizetti shrugged. “Whelp, look on the bright side kid. Nowhere to go but up. Now where’s your scale?”  Curtis dragged it out from under the coffee table.  He hated the thing, but fighting was all about weight classes.

 

“One twenty? You LOST weight?” Pizetti blurted in disbelief.

 

“You think I could keep anything down after that liver shot you gave me? I only stopped being nauseous an hour ago.”

 

“Good thing, that, kid ‘cause you got your work cut out for you.” Pizetti pulled the chair out from the dining room table. “Sit.” Curtis did what he was told and he watched glumly as Pizetti marched into the kitchen. He came back holding a fork in one hand and the giant cast iron pan in the other. Curtis couldn’t even lift that thing with two hands. Tony plopped one huge steak on Curtis plate and his stomach growled like mad, the smell was so delicious. He lifted his knife and fork to dig into it when Pizetti dropped the second steak on top of it.”

 

“But that’s your steak, Coach!”

 

“I can wait. This--” he poked at Curtis’ chicken chest with a thick stubby finger. “-- is an emergency.”

 

“But this is 15 pounds of meat!”

 

Pizetti flexed his huge right arm in his face. His biceps was as big as a bowling ball.“You got 10 minutes. I see anything left but the rib bones when I’m back with the potatoes, this 15 pounds of meat is shoving the leftovers up your ass.”

 

Curtis gulped. “Yes coach!”

 

Pizetti muttered obscenities as he stomped back to the kitchen. Curtis cut his first piece of steak and chewed. 

 

“Oh my god that’s good.” He swallowed and immediately cut off a larger piece. He chewed it fast then gulped it down. “Holy shit.” Curtis had never tasted food this delicious ever in his life. He cut off another piece. Gulp. “Fuuuck me.” He moaned. The utensils clattered to the table as Curtis picked the steak up in his hand and tore a bloody ragged strip off with his teeth. This time he barely chewed, wiping his lips quickly after a massive swallow. Curtis slurped, gobbled and burped as he devoured the rest of the first steak in thirty seconds flat. He paused, flushed and breathing hard. He felt his stomach gurgle loudly and for a second it flipped in knots like he might spew. “No goddamn it.” He struck his sternum with his fist and let out a thunderous belch.

 

“GOD FUCKING DAMN!” he shouted. “MORE!”

 

“That’s the spirit, kid!” Pizetti yelled from the kitchen.

 

Grinning like a maniac. Curtis stood up from the table and started wolfing down the second steak as he walked to the bathroom where the side of beef was kept on ice in the tub. He looked in the bathroom mirror at his thin frame and then cast his eyes over all that meat, with an even gap in the middle where Pizetti had expertly butchered the two steaks.

 

“Fuck yeah.” Curtis moaned between chomping bites. With half the steak hanging from his mouth he started shadow-boxing with his reflection, spots of brown-red juice flying off his hands to splatter on the mirror. His lips, jaw and tongue worked to continually work the meat into his mouth while he exercised. Finally there was little left but the rib bone, which he ripped from the last bit of flesh and held in front of the mirror. He held the rib bone out and licked the edge with his tongue, like a serial killer in a horror movie would lick his bloody knife. “I’m killing you you skinny bitch!” he yelled at the reflection. “That’s not me. Not any more.”

 

Gritting the bone between his teeth. He grabbed Tony’s meat cleaver and started hacking away at the next ribs on the side of beef. Blood splattered on his clothes, the walls, even the ceiling as he finally wrenched a ragged steak two ribs thick from the carcass. He realized he’d cracked the rib between his teeth with the effort, and he eagerly sucked out the bone marrow. “Unf, so good. Meat jelly.” 

 

He marched back to the kitchen where Tony Pizetti was mashing the potatoes. He swaggered over to the range with his fifteen pound slab of meat and dropped it onto the still hot pan. He turned back to Pizetti, who chucked his jaw in the direction of his crotch.

 

“Looks like that put some lead in your pencil, kid.”

 

Curtis Quick looked down and grinned like an idiot. He hadn’t even noticed he’d become hard as rock, his grey cotton gym shorts stretched out into a big tentpole. He smacked it with his hand and it wobbled heavily.

 

“Goddamn, coach, what do they feed those steers, Viagra?”

 

“I gotta say, kid, I did not expect you to have all that going on down there.”

 

“Not skinny everywhere, coach. And soon, nowhere! Fucking soon, I can feel it coach!” He flexed his lean arms and kissed each barely-there bicep. He looked back at Pizetti as his muscular arm worked to pulverize thirty pounds of taters into mash. He watched the big thick muscles of his new coach’s back heave and flex like tectonic plates in a California earthquake. “Wow, coach, you are so jacked. We gotta measure you too!”

 

Pizetti turned around. “Alright kid, but be quick about it we got more eatin’ to do.”

 

Quick grabbed the tape measure and took his measurements in turn; he had to get down on his knees to do so.

 

“Whoa, coach your neck is 19 inches! That’s insane.”

 

“I got wrestler’s neck, watch this.” Pizetti extended his head back like he was doing a bridge on the mats, and his neck size swelled up to 20 inches.

 

“Damn coach.” Quick quickly moved to his chest, trying not to think about the fact a man 2 feet shorter than him had a neck nearly twice as big. “Chest - 54 inches” again nearly twice as big. “Fuck coach look at all that muscle.”

 

“My bench PB would blow your mind kid, and you don’t even want to think about what weights I can row with this big back. Pizetti did a hard lat spread that expanded his width so much it snapped the tape measure right out of Curtis’ hands.

 

“Now those arms coach, I already know they’re huge!”

 

“BOOM!” Pizetti flexed up his craggy mounds of perfect bicep man-flesh.

 

“20 inches, coach!” His hands began to tremble. “M-more than twice the size of mine, oh damn.”

 

Pizetti chuckled. “Okay, Mr Excitable, let me just finish the story for you so we’re not eating cold mash potatoes.  THAT,” he pointed at abs that he flexed into a pallet of stacked bricks: “Is a 34 inch waist. THESE,” he wobbled his quad muscles before solidifying them into a monstrous gnarly tree trunk: “are 28 inch thighs and 19 inch calves.”

 

Curtis gazed in awe as Pizetti flexed the huge thick muscles which looked outrageous on his short body; he really was a “Meatball”. Yum, meat. Curtis remembered the huge 240 oz steak and went to flip it over. He let it sear on that side for 30 seconds before picking it up right off of the pan and starting to devour the deliciously rare rib eye, with hardly a thought to his reddening fingers. 

 

“Ow. Hot. Fuck.” Chew, slurp, swallow, burp. “Unf, soooo good mmmm” Chomp, tear, rip, chew, swallow. Grease and scarlet bloody beef juice dripped down Curtis’s chin and onto his thin chest. “Awww, fuck me that’s good.” Curtis snuffled and snorted like a pig, as he continued to stuff his face with the half-raw meat. “Fuck yeah.” Gulp, munch, slurp, chomp. “Damn, coach,” he guffawed between mouthfuls as he patted his expanding belly. “We’re making…” Chew, swallow, gulp, burp. “... a baby…” Slurp, chomp, munch. “... a meat baby!” 

 

Pizetti added a pound of butter and a quart of heavy cream to the mashed potato pot and chuckled as  “Kid, you’re gonna look 40 weeks pregnant from this meal. Good thing I brought The Tit.”

 

Curtis shoved the last few scraps into his mouth and suddenly his limbs felt heavy. The two rib bones clattered to the kitchen floor and he fell to his knees then to the floor, rolling over on his back with a groan. “Soooo tired, uggh…”

 

“That’ll be the protein coma. No stopping us now though, kid.” Pizetti pulled an industrial sized piping bag out of his knapsack and used a spatula to fold the mashed potatoes into it. He hopped down from his stepstool and grabbed a lethargic Curtis by the scruff of his neck. He dragged him back to the living area and propped him up against the sofa. 

 

Pizetti straddled his chest—each thigh as big around as Curtis Quick’s torso—and rested his big round glutes on Quick’s engorged belly. Curtis looked up sleepily into Pizetti’s face, his mouth drooped open, his eyes glazed. Tony lowered the huge piping bag until the nozzle slipped inside Curtis’ slack lips. By ancient reflex, he began suckling on the stainless steel tip as Pizetti squeezed the smooth, buttery potato mash directly into his mouth. Curtis’ Adam’s apple bobbed as he started to swallow. As he tasted the deliciously creamy paste, he started to gulp and suck and this invited Pizetti to apply more pressure and stream the warm mash faster and faster into his gullet. Curtis made loud glugging sounds, breathing heavily through his nostrils.

 

Pizetti paused to give him a breather. A large white dollop landed on Curtis’ lips and he greedily slurped it up. “MORE,” he huffed, and his hands reached up and squeezed Pizetti’s boulder pecs. 

 

“Okay okay kid, you really want The Tit.” Pizetti chuckled. Between his hands gripping the bag and his pecs squeezing it from the sides, the bag emptied the last of the potatoes down his throat in another three minutes.

 

Pizetti stood up. His own thick cock stood at attention poking out of his jock from Quick’s pec massage. Quick swiped at it, sleepily thinking it was The Tit taken away before he was done. He grabbed it hard and Pizetti’s knees buckled. Quick put the head in his mouth and sucked hard. Pizetti gasped and moaned “Fuck yeah, kid!” Curtis pulled his mouth off and gave a quizzical, dozy look at the bulbous head.

 

“Ah yeah, more meat.”

 

Pizetti mercifully caught the white flash of incisors in time to slap his new trainee upside the head.

 

That woke Quick up fast.  “Ow, what was that for?”

 

“Do I really need to explain to you, no teeth when you suck my dick, kid?”

 

Quick scoffed, “what you talking about, suck your dick. I’m straight, dude.”

 

“Oh yeah? You got a massive hard-on and there ain’t no chick in the room.”

 

“Massive huh? Oh man, speaking of massive.” Curtis seemed to be seeing for the first time, his extended, bloated belly. “Fuuuuck…” He rubbed it lovingly like a genie’s lantern that would make all his wishes come true. Then… “Urk, oh man. Oh shit. Coach, I'm scared, what's happening?” He opened his mouth as if to scream.

 

BRRRRRRRRRRR---

 

AAAAAAAAAAAAA---

 

AAAAAAAAAAAAA---

 

AAAAACCCCCCK!!!!!

 

Curtis’ epic belch crashed through the room like a sonic boom. The windows rattled. Cutlery fell off the table. Glass tinkled as he blew out the candelabra bulbs of the dining room fixture like it was a birthday cake.

 

“Damn, coach.” Curtis looked down at his belly and it was flat as a board again. Curtis whooped and flashed gang signs at Pizetti. “I got my abs back, bro! Fuck yeah. Meals done, it’s time for dessert! And by dessert I mean pussy!” His face beamed, all traces of the bruises from yesterday’s beating gone.

 

“What?” Pizetti yelled, deafened by the noise.

 

Curtis pointed at his tent-poled shorts as he started backing away. “Gonna take care of the biz-ness, bro. Don’t wait up!”

 

“Where the hell you goin’? We got a workout to do!”

 

Curtis blew sarcastic air kisses as he escaped out the door. “Fuck-ing Is My Cardiooooo” he howled as he took off into the afternoon sun.

 

Pizetti shook his head and poked at his deaf ears. “Well, Meatball, looks like you’ve created a monster.”

 

cont.

 

[spacevlad]

Loving where this is going. Pizetti is such a great feeder/coach and looks like Curtis’s body is ready to absorb all that food and pack on mass! Love the descriptions on the feeding scenes, the piping bag full of mashed potatoes was especially hot, might have to borrow that idea myself!

[debate1]

Can't wait for more!

[Broody]

4 hours ago, spacevlad said:

Loving where this is going. Pizetti is such a great feeder/coach and looks like Curtis’s body is ready to absorb all that food and pack on mass! Love the descriptions on the feeding scenes, the piping bag full of mashed potatoes was especially hot, might have to borrow that idea myself!

Thanks, man! Glad it got you going! I think you’re gonna like the workout scene!

[Broody]

3 hours ago, debate1 said:

Can't wait for more!

More cumming soon!

[Muscleloverx]

Ow yes i pove to see more

[Broody]

Part 4: The Workout

For the second morning in a row, Curtis “Stick” Quick woke to Tony “Meatball” Pizetti pounding on the door. Except this time it wasn’t his door. Through his dozy haze he heard the crack of boot smashing through a lock. 

“Wake up, Stick! No more hiding from me, time to train!”

“What? How’d you find me, Coach?”

“‘Find my Iphone’, dumbass. You left your laptop on.”

“Did you break April’s door down? Not cool. Good thing her sister is a carpenter.”

“I wouldn’t have had to if you’d answer your goddamn phone.”

Curtis reached a lazy arm over to pick up his phone and look at his screen: Five missed calls.

“Dude, learn to text, nobody talks on the phone anymore.”

April groaned as she pushed hair out her eyes. “Slim, what’s with all the yelling.”

“It’s my new coach, babe. He’s got a touch of ‘short man syndrome’”

“Forgive my ungentlemanly intrusion, April,” Pizetti smiled and walked over and took her hand, guiding her out of the bed and toward the bathroom. “I must talk with ol’ Slim.”

April giggled. “Aren’t you just the cutest little thing.”

Pizetti dropped the hand and the smile and slammed the bathroom door on her. He turned back to the bed. Curtis propped up on his elbows but hadn’t made any other motion to get up. 

“Well I hope you got some sleep, ‘Slim’ because I am gonna take this insubordination out on your ass today at the gym.”

“Can’t wait, Coach. Hm-hmm. Yeah.” Curtis nodded repeatedly as Pizetti counted out loud on his fingers the exercises and sets for a day of heavy strength training. “Oh yeah. Fuck yeah. Take it. Yes!”

That stopped Pizetti short. He threw the covers off the bed to find a second girl sucking Curtis’s dick.

“Let me guess, you’re her sister?”

She swallowed Curtis’ load and smiled sweetly. “I’m February.”

“Oh course you are. Sorry about the door.”

“No problem, cutie, I got my tools,” she leaned with her hand and made a motion to “boop” Pizetti’s nose. He slapped it away. She sighed. “Curtis we need to find you some new friends.”

***

“You didn’t have to be so rude to them, y’know,” Curtis said as he ran alongside Pizetti’s Buick on the way to the gym. 

“I’m rude to everyone, get used to it. And if you can talk you can run faster.” He sped the car up, but Curtis easily kept pace. He sped up another 5 mph. Curtis sprinted past the car and threw his sweaty t-shirt through the window at Pizetti’s face. “Catch me if you can, slowpoke!” Startled by his suddenly blocked view, Pizetti braked hard. By the time he’d pulled off the sweaty shirt, Curtis was far ahead, waving as he hurdled over the gate into the gym parking lot.

"Ok, the kid is fast."

Pizetti found the kid shadowboxing like a maniac at his reflection in the plate glass window of the gym. His fists were a blur and his lanky body shone with sweat in the bright sunlight. Yeah, Pizetti thought, lanky, not emaciated. This I can work with.

“Wow, coach I got so much energy.”

“No kidding, kid. That’s what fucking eating something will do for ya.”

Inside, Curtis hopped on the scale. “Holeee shit, coach, 137 pounds!”

“Not bad kid, you’re up two weight divisions in just a day. Now time to add some power to those pounds.” Pizetti led the younger man out onto the gym floor “What are we starting with, kid, how much ya bench?”

Curtis shrugged “I don’t know, Coach, you tell me. Never did this shit before.”

Pizetti blew out some air. “Alright. Explains a lot. Let’s start with the empty bar.”

Pizetti showed Curtis proper form as he pumped the bar up and down. Pizetti started to put a 10 lb plate on each side, but Curtis stopped him. He looked around the gym. “Wait a sec coach, even that high schooler over there is doing a 45 lb plate on each side.”

“That high schooler is warming up with a 45 lb plate on each side, Stick. That’s 135 lbs. That’s what you weigh, as of just today. You are a beginner at this, a total fucking noob. Don’t compare yourself to that kid, he’s probably been lifting a couple of years. He’s got more muscle in those pecs that you got anywhere.”

“Do it.” Curtis insisted.

Pizetti shrugged and grabbed the 45’s. He prepared to spot the weight but Curtis did 10 clean reps. “Well I’ll be damned. Okay now three more sets.”

Curtis sat up after he was done. “Good, huh, coach?”

“Mediocre. How did it feel?”

“Boring. I can’t believe people do this for hours.” Curtis laughed. “When do we get to the fun stuff, Coach?”

“Oh we’ll get to the fun stuff. At least fun for me.” Pizetti slapped another 45 plate on each side. “Let’s see who's laughing now.”

Curtis unracked the weight and brought it down to his chest. He pushed up but it didn’t move. “Oh shit. Coach, I think maybe I need a spot.”

Pizetti crossed his thick arms on his barrel chest. “Nah.”

“Ughhh” Curtis strained and turned red as he tried to keep the weight off his sternum.

“So I was thinking,” Pizetti said conversationally, “Your brother, Butch, I’ve seen him around. He’s a pretty jacked dude, what’s he fight at? Middleweight? He must pump iron.”

“He’s… like my Dad… Ugh… he got the muscles… in the family.” Curtis took some gulping breaths and raised the bar an inch but that was all. “Shit.”

“And you?”

“I’m… like my Mom… I’m slim… but feisty.”

Pizetti frowned. “Look, kid, your brother was keeping you from your best training because he didn’t want you challenging his place, and for no other reason. And you know what I say to that? Fuck him. ” 

Pizetti stuck out his two middle fingers and just touched the bottom of the bar. He applied barely any pressure, but it was enough for Curtis to stop panicking about being crushed. “Find that feisty, kid!” 

Very, very slowly the weight inched up until with Pizetti’s help he was able to rack the bar.

“Fuck coach, my chest, it’s burning!”

“You just chewed those muscle fibers up like yesterday’s steak.”

“Fuck yeah, that’s good right?”

“Only way to grow kid. Okay my turn.” Curtis stood up from the bench and Pizetti jumped up and turned to face the bar. “Bit light for me, but might as well get a bit of a pump.” He unracked the weight and started repping out bicep curls. Curtis watched in awe as his new Coach’s arms swelled and flexed into huge hairy mounds of muscle. Pretty soon he noticed the gym got very quiet as people stopped to stare.

“Dude. That’s crazy.” The bench-pressing high school kid came over and gawped in disbelief at Pizetti’s cannonball biceps.

“Hey bro, I’m Curtis.”

“Jono.” The two young men fist bumped and smiled. “Man, your friend here is a beast. Look at those guns, bro, Fuark!” Pizetti finished a set of his curls, scowling and grunting at Jono. He switched to curling in an overhand grip and a branchoradialis muscle thicker than Curtis’s wrist projected out of his forearm.

“He’s my Coach, bro. Still working on the friend part, he’s not exactly friendly.”

“Coach? What sport?” He looked Curtis up and down. “Jeez bro, I assumed you must be an ultramarathon runner. He sure don’t coach that!”

The weight crashed back on the rack. Pizetti hopped off the bench and poked a finger at Jono: “You. Mind your own fucking business. You. Come with me.” He dragged Curtis over to the squat rack.

Curtis gave the thumbs up to Jono as he was pulled away. “Looking good bro.” “Y’know he didn’t mean you were short, he meant you were jacked,” Curtis said as they got to the squat rack and started unloading a bunch of plates off the bar.

“Focus on your own complex, Dr. Freud. Leave two plates per side. Let’s see what yesterday’s meat delivery did for Stick’s sticks.”

Curtis did three sets of ten no problem, but Pizetti pushed him to do two more sets which took a lot out of him. Then he slapped another big plate on each side. “Man, coach, I don’t know.” Curtis said, breathing heavily.

“You can do it bro!” Jono shouted from across the floor. “Light weight!”

Pizetti threw a scowl in his direction but Curtis was encouraged and lifted off the heavy weight. He went down but stopped halfway. “UGH! So heavy.”

“No half-reps with me, punk!” Pizetti growled. “Deeeeeep Squats, boy! Push that bony ass out!”

Curtis bottomed out and huffed and puffed, solidifying his core and willing his long legs to push. His face turned red as a beet as he strained mightily but hit a wall. “C-coach.  I can’t!  Too… heavy…”

“Aw is it too heavy for those little baby legs? Maybe your new friend can help. Nosy kid! Over here.” He waved Jono over. “How old are you kid?”

“Eighteen just this week, dude,” Jono grinned. “You want me to spot him?”

“He don’t need it. Tell, me, ‘dude’, could you squat this weight?”

“Fuck yeah, dude, easy.”

“Really? Maybe I don’t believe you. Look how much Curtis is struggling, and he’s two years older than you.”

Jono scoffed. “Dude, trust me, I blew past this weight a year and a half ago.”

“No way!”

“Way, dude, this weight? Fucking 315? Pussy weight. No offense, dude.”

“Oh, no need to be hold back, son,” Pizetti turned pointedly to a nearly depleted Curtis. “I understand he’s not easily offended. But tell me more, you strong for your age, then?”

“I mean sure,” Jono shrugged, “But really all the guys on my rugby team would do this weight for a warm up. We go hard, dude. No plates left in the gym when me and my bros go on leg day.”

“Ah you’re an athlete as well; you and Curtis have that in common.”

“Well see, every sport has its own needs, right dude? He probably doesn’t need much leg strength for, uh… badminton?”

Curtis eyes were now pleading. “Help… I need help,” he finally croaked.

“Jeez bro, you shoulda said something.” Jono ducked behind him and squatted down in the spot position, his legs on the outside of Curtis’ “I gotchu, bro, I gotchu.”

Pizetti pulled up the inseam of Jono’s shorts and rubbed the separation of his quads. “Damn son, looks like you weren’t kidding, those are some wheels! See that, Stick?” Curtis looked down and grimaced. Jono’s big muscular rugby thighs were twice as big as his. He looked like a kid sitting in his dad’s lap.

Curtis’s face was now every shade of red. But Jono’s voice in his ear was encouraging. “C’mon bro, you can do it. Just push.” Jono provided the slightest relief of the poundage and Curtis took a last, deep breath and then went for it. They rose halfway and then stopped.

“Damn, son, those glutes! That’s what I call an ass made for action,” Pizetti slapped it playfully and Curtis felt Jono throw a sizable boner behind him.

“Aw thanks, dude. What can I say.” Then in Curtis’ ear. “C’mon bro, quit pussying around. Push!” Curtis legs were on fire but he slowly moved up, inch by inch until Curtis was nearly there.

Pizetti stood in front of them and whipped off his tank top. “It’s gettin’ hot in here. No wonder you’re sweating so much, Stick.” Pizetti’s bounced his big hairy pecs a few times and winked.

Jono swallowed hard. “Dude, your chest.”

With a gurgle of final effort, Curtis straightened his legs and moved back to rack the bar, but Jono’s big broad pecs didn’t budge. Jono spoke again into his ear: “Naw, dog, we gotta do another set. Your primo muscle daddy coach got me throwing major wood back here. You can’t move.”

“Bro, I can’t. I’m done.”

Jono clamped his quads tighter and forced them down again. “I’ll take the weight bro, just pretend.”

And so the pair did another set, while Pizetti went through a stupefying posing routine that brought Jono’s cock to full mast and kept it there. An explosive side chest. A mind boggling back double biceps. A brain melting most muscular with a full on growl. Jono's mouth went slack and drool ran down Curtis' neck. He couldn’t even stand on his own at this point, he just hung from the bar. With Jono taking the full weight, his teen muscles swelled into living rock, and at the bottom of each squat, Curtis got folded into his strong body like a slice of cheese in a muscle sandwich. He couldn’t even feel his legs now and hoped his pelvis didn't get cracked like a nut between Jono's abs and quads. 

As Jono came up out of the tenth rep. Curtis completely collapsed and slid off his thighs onto the rubber mat. Jono racked the weight and Curtis looked up at the pair. Their jacked, looming, backlit physiques looked like Greek gods come down from Mount Olympus. Pizetti reached over and palmed Jono’s cock. He peered down at Curtis over his boulder pecs.

“Look at me Stick, I’m making friends.” He laughed and discreetly walked in front of Jono’s tentpole as he led the kid to the showers. “You got ID, kid, I’m not into jailbait.”

“In my locker, dude.” Jono croaked, his voice hoarse with lust.

Curtis got to his hands and knees and crawled painfully to the mats. “You guys… have fun.. I’m… just gonna… take a breather.”

Cont.

Part 5 -Operation Cumdump, coming soon!
 

[Broody]

Fight Night Part 5: Operation Cumdump

[Note all characters in the chapter are 18+]

It had been two weeks of training and Curtis was up to a lightweight division worthy 155 lbs of lean muscle at a height of 6’2”.

“Kid I’m telling, ya," Coach Pizetti said as he spotted him on the bench. "You’re plateauing already, we gotta take some extreme measures.”

“Coach, no. I am not sucking your dick.”

“Best natural testosterone booster, kid.  Don’t let the internet sell you their schemes. Go right to the source!” Pizetti grabbed the loose front of his gym shorts and hefted his huge cock and balls.

Curtis racked the 315 lb bar and stood up .

“I just benched over twice my weight, coach? By whose standards is that a fucking plateau?” he fumed, sweat dripping from his bare chest. The gruelling weight training regimen and meat and potatoes diet had shown its best results on Curtis’s chest. His previously scrawny pecs now looked like armor plates bolted to his torso. When he flexed in the mirror now, they had depth, he could put a pencil between them and hold it there.

“My coaching, my standards, punk,” Pizetti growled. “And quit changing the subject. Don’t act like you’re a fucking Kinsey Zero, cause I seen you chub up when you’re staring at your new muscles.”

Curtis blushed. He definitely got hard now when he checked himself out. Having had a taste of being jacked, he knew he wanted more.

“I’m a hot 6’2” twenty year old athlete with muscles, dude,” he bragged. “The world chubs up when it sees me.”

“Keep the cockiness, lose the defiance of your betters, that is, me.” Pizetti shucked his shirt and hopped up on the bench. He flaunted his hairy chest in Curtis’ face. If Curtis’ new pecs were armor plating, Pizetti was the whole Sherman tank. Though Curtis’ shoulders were getting broader, Pizetti was still nearly twice as broad as him, he’d gained even more muscle on the meat and potatoes diet, and he was up to an even 180 lbs which was monstrous on his 4’1” frame. Pizetti’s pecs alone were wider than Curtis’s whole torso. When he flexed they inflated to the size of Atlas stones.

“Dude, stop it,” Curtis looked away, “Even if I was into guys…”  Am I? I’m just into being jacked, right? “... you’re way too old for me, what are you thirty?”

“Old enough for you to call Daddy.”

“Gross. Keep that stuff between you and Jono.”

“Well I’m sick of your ugly mug too, Stick. I’m gonna take the day off tomorrow. But no days off for you. Why don’t I call up young Jono and see if I can’t inflict you and your bad attitude on him and his teammates for the day?”

“What am I gonna learn at a rugby practice?”

“Just keep an open mind and maybe you’ll learn a lot”

Pizetti walked off as he dialed Jono’s phone.

“Alright, son, Operation Cumdump is a go. Seniors only like we discussed. You pull this off, I’ll owe ya. Bigtime.”

///

Saturday morning, Curtis drove out to the address in Pizetti’s Buick Grand National which turned out to be a woodlot next to an open field. As he approached Jono he saw he was with seven other shirtless players, all muscular 18 year olds from the rugby team’s senior class. They ranged in height from 5’8” at the shortest to a couple of inches taller than Curtis. Every single one of these teenagers out-classed him in the physique department and Curtis had to admit it wasn’t even close.

The two young friends bumped fists. “Dude! My bros are so pumped for you to work out with us today. When I told them you were a real MMA fighter, they were all ‘fuck yeah!’ This is gonna be epic!”

“Fucking A, bro! But why’re we out at a woodlot for rugby practice?”

“This’ll be mostly hard training, rather than a game practice, and since it’s just the big boys today, we need big fucking weight. It’s just easier to use logs from my uncle’s lumber operation than messing around with plates. But don’t worry bro, we gonna give you a… taste of what rugby is like once we’re done getting a massive pump.”

Jono slapped his thighs which stretched the seams of his rugby shorts already. He flexed his quads and Curtis whistled as the muscles writhed like two pythons mating at the zoo.

“Damn, bro. That shit ain’t pumped?”

“Just you wait, bro,” Jono smirked. “Let me introduce you.”

Jono yelled out to his teammates. Four of them were friendly and whooped a big welcome to Curtis. He tried to catch all the names, but they each had nicknames too and it was a lot to keep track of. Fist-bumps turned to bro-hugs and soon they all had their arms around each other. The other three looked at him like they were disappointed, expecting more, two of them nodded cooly but one of them, a huge Viking of a blond dude looked downright pissed. Jono came up behind Curtis and snagged the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over. “No shirts when playing with the boys, bro!”

Curtis tried not to be self conscious in front of these young gods.  The nice ones shouted out compliments and cat calls: “Damn bro, you are ripped!” “Looking strong, bro!” “You a fighter or a fitness model, bro, damn!” The other three smirked and shook their heads. “Fucking small.” He heard one of them mutter.

“Alright brahs, let's show my man Curtis what rugby players are made of. Curtis my man, you and I are on log duty”

Jono pointed to a rack of 10 foot long beech tree logs. They stood on opposite sides of the stack, and with a coordinated “1-2-3”, they raised the first log to shoulder height. 

Curtis thought his arms would pull off his torso. “Fuck man, that’s heavy. You guys squat these?”

Abdullah, whose nickname was Abs, rolled his eyes as he took the weight. “Squats? Gimme a break, skinny. Alright brahs,” he called out. “Lunges across the field.”

“What the fuck?” Curtis whispered as Abs moved off, lunging low to the ground with each step, his big muscled glutes popping and flexing. “Lunges? Dude that log’s gotta be 500 lbs!”

“I know man, ain’t it great to be fucking strong?” Jono crowed. “Testosterone, man, we’re totally at our peak at eighteen.” He flexed a huge round bicep encrusted with gnarly veins. “Liquid fucking metal flowing through our bodies, bro. You being twenty, I guess you’re already on the downslide.”

“What?” Curtis looked blankly at Jono as he felt his own arm. “Is that true?” 

Jono twisted his forearm and a freaky second peak popped out of the muscle that Curtis could tell was bigger than his whole bicep. “No wonder you’re having a hard time putting on muscle. You’re basically testosterone deficient compared to us. But today’s your lucky day, cause we’re gonna give you our extra.”

“Huh what? Give me? How—”

“You gonna spend all day gawking at our muscles, pretty boy,” growled the mean blond guy, Denver, whose nickname was Bronco, “or you gonna lift that fucking log?”

“Sorry bro.” Curtis said, and he and Jono hefted up the next log to rest on Bronco’s shoulders. Bronco’s huge traps and delts made the big log look like flotsam on a rocky shoreline. He shot Curtis a look as he flexed his biceps into its underside, bark crumbling where the muscle dug in.

“Go easy on him Bronco,” chuckled the handsome Bradley, aka Geyser who took the next log. “At least ‘til after training.” He winked and Curtis reddened wondering how he got his nickname.

After all the other teammates had been loaded up. Curtis turned to Jono, “Bro, there’s no way I can do that much weight for lunges.”

“S’Okay, bro. I got ya covered.” Jono grabbed the end of one of the remaining logs and pulled in opposite directions. Lats the size of beer kegs flared from his sides and with a thunderous CRACK the log split lengthwise into halves.

“Fuck me!” Curtis gagged.

 Jono smirked at Curtis’ stunned expression. “Later, bro, later.”

He dropped one half in front of Curtis. “Try that, bro. If you can’t lift it, maybe you can, I dunno, punch it?”

Jono took another log and swung it up onto his shoulders all on his own. He looked down at Curtis straining to lift the half-log and laughed. “Try to keep up, bro.” He lunged away as Curtis managed to lift one end of the mass and moved to try to position the thing on his shoulders. He managed it barely, wobbling side to side to try to find the balance.

He just managed to get it right by the time Bronco returned, sweat-drenched, beating Abs by a good four strides. “Still here, pussy?” His delts bulged into bowling balls as he hocked the huge log over Curtis’ head, making him flinch. He leaned in to Curtis’ ear: “‘Looks like your weak ass needs some help.” His deep voice and the testosterone stink of him made Curtis’ stomach do flips. Bronco rested his enormous arms on the half-log and the weight of them made his knees buckle.

“H-help,” he muttered, admitting defeat, achingly hard in front of this dominant teen. Curtis felt the weight lift from his shoulders as Bronco’s huge hands snapped the half log in the middle like a twig. He rested the half-of-a-half back on Curtis’ shoulders and threw the other into the woods like a javelin. As the other team members came back they paired up and started doing log tosses, exploding out of a deep squat to throw their log toward their mate. Curtis felt a foot on his ass as Bronco propelled him forward. “Don’t pussy out, pretty boy.” 

By the time Curtis made it back from his brutal lunges across the field, the teens’ muscular thighs were so swollen with pump that the overstretched fabric of their rugby shorts was in tatters. They dumped their logs, and ripped off the threadbare cloth to show off their jacked teen bodies in just their jocks.

“Nothing like fresh air on your ass,” whooped Thaddeus, nicknamed Haunches. He slapped his massively muscled basketball-sized glutes as the others cheered. All except Bronco whose silent gaze bored a hole in the guest of honor. He hefted the front of his jock, bulging with heavy meat, and Curtis felt his pucker quiver. What is happening??

“Alright brahs, who’s ready to learn how to fight from a fucking legit MMA fighter?” Jono yelled. The team shouted rowdily as they formed a circle around Curtis.

“I’ll take him!” yelled Jayden, a shorter, friendly boy who was built like his nickname Brick House.

Back on familiar territory, it was Curtis’ chance to get cocky. “Gimme your best shot, bro.”

Jayden winged a punch so hard he fell over when Curtis easily side-stepped it.  He rolled on his back, laughing his head off as his teammates jeered him.

“Gonna smash you, skinny,” bellowed the massive Samuel, nicknamed Steamroller. He faked a left jab and tried a right hook to his face but Curtis ducked and left him with nothing but air. Then a quick judo hip toss dropped Steamroller to the ground with his jock torn right off. The team whistled as his thick uncut dick was revealed.

“Ah yeah, now the party’s starting!” Jono grinned.

“C’mon, bros this all ya got?” Curtis was starting to have fun again. “Guess I got a lot to teach you.”

“Show us, bro! Show us your punches!” yipped Mikey, nicknamed Michelangelo for his cherub like face and his godlike body.

“I didn’t bring no pads or gloves, brahs!”

“Fuck the pads, bro,” Jono said. He came up behind Michelangelo and groped his bro’s pecs and abs. “Like marble man, maybe you need gloves so you don’t hurt your hands.”

“All right,” Curtis laughed. “You asked for it.” He let fly a lightning fast right that plowed into the kid’s left pec. It was like hitting a bag of wet cement.

“Fuck yeah, that was so fast bro, I barely saw it!” Abs yelled, impressed.

“I barely felt it!” Michelangelo smirked. “That all ya got?”

“Oh a wiseass?” Curtis grinned. He let fly a four body-shot combo, making sure to land the last right in the solar plexus. That wiped the smirk off Mikey’s face and he dropped to the ground, his angelic lips gaping like a fish out of water. His big cock flopped out of his jock, as pretty as the rest of him. Damn, Curtis thought. He licked his lips. Being surrounded by these hot young studs was making him super horny. Was team sports always like this? 

The team cheered as they helped their bro up. “That was awesome, bro, do me next!” Abs stepped up and raised his arms behind his head. His biceps flexed into grapefruit-sized balls and his dark bushy armpits wafted an intoxicating scent to Curtis’ nose. He looked deep into Abdullah’s sexy brown eyes and his heart fluttered.

Abs cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “Count ‘em out, bros!” And like it was a ritual they’d practiced at every party, the team yelled out: “Two! Four! Six! Eight!” as Abs flexed his abs into superhero-worthy bricks with inch-deep cuts. His steel obliques and serratus layered muscle on top of muscle.

Curtis was now boning up something fierce. He wasn’t sure how guys flirted with each other but he gave it a try. “Dude, I ain’t even trying to punch that shit. I got a fight coming up. Can’t break my hand!”  

Abs laughed with a rumbly chuckle that Curtis found hot as hell. He reached out and pulled Curtis’ hand to his stomach. Curtis felt up Abs’ muscly ridges, then gradually he worked his groping hands up to his pecs and over his shoulders to the back of his neck. Abs leaned in and spoke in Curtis’ ear: “Try your knees then,” he said, his breath hot.

“Cocky bastard. You asked for it.” In rapid succession he pounded Abs six times with Thai kickboxing knees to the gut. He was stunned that Abs was still standing, let alone smiling. “Fuck me, you’re tough.”

“Thanks for the light massage bro, now let me return the favor.”

Abs ripped Curtis’ shorts and smiled wide as his hard 7” cock sprung up. “Fuck yeah, dude. You boning for this hot teen muscle?” He palmed Curtis’s small ass in his big hairy hands and lifted him like he weighed nothing.  He relaxed his abs, pressed Curtis’ cock into the midline, and then flexed again. Curtis gasped as his dick sank into Abdullah’s deep cuts and was encased in a powerful muscle-vise. Abs’ biceps flexed into veiny mounds as he held him airborne while frot-fucking him, his steely abs wrapped around his cock like the knuckles of a giant’s fist.

Curtis confidence shattered in pieces as he was effortlessly emasculated by the Arab-American rugby stud, who had veins on his biceps bigger than his fingers, and more dark hair on one pec than three generations of Quick men had anywhere on their bodies. His self-concept as a straight dude cracked and broke as he was overcome with the masculine perfection of Abdullah’s dark handsome features and strong, stubbled jawline. Abs’ felt him melting in his hands and parted his wet lips in a sexy smile. “Oh, God!” Curtis sang as he spewed a load of frothy white jizz which plopped onto Abs’ dark chest hair. 

Bronco came up angrily, pulled Curtis back by the hair, and got in his face. “What you thinking, skinny? Dribbling your weak spunk all over my bro’s manly chest? That’s a violation.” 

Curtis babbled and dropped to his knees as Jono came over and dabbed his finger on the splattered teaspoon of Curtis’ spunk on Abs’ pec. He gave it a discerning taste like a sommelier. “Oh, yeah. Definitely inferior. Can barely taste it over the test in Abs’ sweat. Coach was right, he needs a teen testosterone infusion stat! Let’s scrum up boys!”

Curtis heaved breaths into his lungs as he recovered from the intense orgasm and the boys formed a rugby scrum over him, Haunches and Steamroller formed up on either side of Abs, and Bronco and Brick House braced their shoulders on either side of Michelangelo, who in turn locked head and shoulders with Abs. To each side of this three-on-three set-up were Jono and Geyser. 

Jono signalled for the scrum to begin. The jocks pushed hard against each other's bodies, matching hard, strong teenage muscle against muscle. Quads already pumped from the log workout ballooned until there was no daylight inside the scrum above the knee. Musky sweat dripped from the dome of muscle and armpits above him like a leaky roof. He caught some droplets on his tongue and swallowed, then gagged like a child accidentally drinking his Dad’s bourbon. 

“Fuck me, that’s strong,” he croaked, but stuck his tongue out again for more.

“Third time he’s said that,” Michaelangelo grunted above him. His perfectly formed 8” hard cock pushed aside his musky jock and hovered just above Curtis’ lips. “That’s consent, right?” 

“Bro,” Bronco growled, “Consent is for chicks. Faggots beg.”

The others swore and told him off. “Not cool, Bronco!” “Don’t call him that, bro!” “You got a problem asshole?” “How about this faggot kicks your ass?”

“Jeez, alright, alright bros. I was just getting into it. I didn’t mean gay dudes, I meant,” he shrugged. “You know, weak, inferior skinny punks like this who want my superior teen cum in their asses.” Bronco’s 10” girthy battering ram of a dick now stretched his jock so far from his lower abs that his big bull balls flopped out either side. 

“Oh, yeah, I get it bro.” “No kinkshame meant bro.” “You do you, my dude.”

Jono went around the scrum on the outside and ripped off the jocks of each teammate. Curtis goggled in disbelief at the reveal of each rock hard teen fuckshaft. Brick House with a ruddy 8” beer can, Haunches with a 9” ebony obelisk, Geyser with a shocking 11” assault rifle suspended over two lemon sized magazines. Steamroller’s 9” spear was topped by a flared glans wrapped in a ripe foreskin. Abs’ dark 8” scimitar curved up out of an outrageously dense musky forest of pubes. Jono came back to his side position and ripped off his own jock. Curtis audibly gasped as a foot-long monster cock exploded out of his light brown bush. He babbled incoherently as Jono wrapped all the jockstraps up into a ragged ball and tossed it into Curtis’ chest. The combined man-stench of eight massively hung, superbly muscled eighteen year old jockgods hit Curtis like a hand grenade. He brought the ball to his nose and snorted a tornado of testosterone that reached into his brain and lobotomized his self-restraint.

Michelangelo saw the glazed look come over Curtis’ face. He shifted his hips to wave his dick like a wand. “Accio, faggot,” he giggled. Curtis dove onto it, swallowing half of it instantly and reaching his hands around to palm the teen’s perfectly muscled ass. He pulled forward and forced the remainder of Mikey’s dick into his throat like a CIrque de Soleil sword swallower. The statuesque teen came instantly, spurting directly into the fighter’s esophagus, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Goddamn, bro.”

With Michaelangelo weakened, the other side of the scrum pushed forward, and Abs spat on Curtis’ sweaty hole before plunging his cock in until his hairy balls slapped Curtis’ peachy ass. He broke formation and fell on top of him, his muscled weight driving Curtis into the ground. The scraping of the field grass on his cock forced a second cumshot out of him and his sphincter spasmed, milking a load out of the Arab stud’s man-sword.

Curtis pivoted around as the scrum fell into chaos and Mikey and Abdullah’s dicks pulled out. He snatched at the heavy boners of Haunches and Steamroller. Alternately jacking one while licking the other, then vice versa. Within five strokes they both came, firing cross-wise arcs of cum into Curtis’ open mouth. He gulped down their steamy loads and let out a deep “Ahhh”, smacking his lips. “More. Who’s next?”

“Jesus, dude,” Geyser whispered to Jono in wonder as he jacked his long gun in his fist. “We’ve created a monster.”

Bronco tackled Curtis hard, slamming him to his back. “You think you’re in control here, faggot?” He growled in his face and shoved just the head of his giant pole inside of him. “I will fuck you long, slow and hard, making you beg for every inch—aw fuck!”

Curtis had other plans. He could feel the testosterone flooding his muscles already, feel them swelling larger and growing stronger. “More!” he bellowed at Bronco, and wrapping his legs around Bronco’s lower back, he locked his ankle under his knee and pulled Bronco into him right to the root. “Fuck yeah!” he spat as Bronco’s cockhead scraped his prostate.

Bronco wheezed as Curtis’ bodylock crushed into his waist, he furiously panted as he resisted the pressure, pulling his dick out halfway, only to be dragged back in as Curtis re-doubled the pressure of his hold. 

“That’s it. Yeah…” Curtis moaned as his flex-and-release caused Bronco’s cock to hit his button again and again.

“I WILL NOT BE… TOYED WITH,” Bronco screamed. “I dom twinks like you with my eyes closed!!”

“What about with your throat closed, tough guy?” Curtis kept squeezing with his left leg while his right came forward to wrap over Bronco left shoulder, the arch of his foot flattening itself against Bronco’s carotid arteries in a gogoplata choke.  He reached up to pull Bronco’s head down into his foot, tightening the hold until his face turned red as a beet and he came hard, his huge body shaking in an oxygen deprived orgasm that painted the walls of Curtis’ rectum with teen jock-cum.

Geyser’s perfect lips gaped in lust as he pulled on his porn star cock for all it was worth. “He just squeezed the cum out of Bronco like he was a tube of toothpaste. OH GOD!”

He came like his namesake, spewing a gallon of thick baby batter that blasted forth and covered the slack lats and traps of Bronco’s passed out bulk like snow on a mountain range. Curtis slid out from under him and lapped it up greedily, snorting and snuffling as he hoovered the cum out of the nooks and crannies of Bronco’s muscles.

He felt Brick House’s wide load knockin at his back door and he let him in, his hole dilating more than he thought possible. “That’s it stud, rip me a new one!” he encouraged. The youth fucked him like a machine, his tank-like body smashing his ass between his fire hydrant cock and Bronco’s right lat. His voice rose into a siren wail as he came and fired shot after shot into Curtis’ now thoroughly stretched hole. He collapsed on top of him and Curtis sighed, finally sated. He squeezed out from under him and stood up as Jono approached.

“Bro, that was awesome,” Jono slapped him on the back. “You’re gonna get jacked as shit with all my boys’ seed feeding those muscles. Coach Pizetti is gonna freak, this worked out even better than he thought.”

Curtis rolled his eyes and laughed: “Shoulda known he’d put you up to this.” Curtis licked his lips and playfully tugged at Jono’s stunningly huge tubesteak. “What are we gonna do about this, huh, bro?”

Jono leaned in and kissed his friend hard, then looked deep into his eyes. “We got all weekend, bro.”

 

Cont.

 

[NeedMore123]

His story is getting better and better. I'm knowing there are plenty more teams out there for him to suck dry. Or even he becomes hungry for seconds and thirds off this team, wearing them out?