THE BULGING MUSCLE PSYCHOANALYSIS OF A BRUTAL HARDCORE BODYBUILDER SHOW

[forcepump]

THE BULGING MUSCLE PSYCHOANALYSIS OF A BRUTAL HARDCORE BODYBUILDER SHOW

 This is Partly based on my own MuscleUp private gym -by invitation only, experiences. Also my own early muscle life as a hardcore teen bodybuilder But also, some serious future muscleology thoughts, with much help and creative ideas from a selection of the balls-out bodybuilder Muscle-up training to kill muscle fanatic trainees, who are only there to grow and show BIG.

 

“The total ideological manifestation of the strutting hardcore, bulging bodybuilder is to emerge as a muscle machine sex engine, fuelled by testosterone ’oiled and shinin like a pumped-thorough bread about to explode.’ This is encapsulated through his brutal pain-aching, torturous workout training mentality. The passionate hunger to be eternally visualized as a sexual entity of steel-hard, pumped-up skin-splitting, shredded monster-muscle explosions. Glistening oil-sweat translucency of vascular blood-charged, sculpted prime bursting beef, accentuating the personification of throbbing cockmeat packaged masculinity, with a perpetual power-driving rock hard-on, so hot enough to breed.”

 

My Contest Winner: His Care and Oiling

[If you are under 18 years old or don't like to read about men with
men, then please go read something else.]

I knew, being invited to join this amazing by invitation only, hardcore gym would be both a joy and torture. It was!  The joy is being surrounded by some of the most muscular and hottest bodybuilders in the city.  Some pump, flex, and bulge all over wearing next to nothing.  Or, some cover themselves in sweats that can't possibly hide all their stunning bulk and musculature.  The mandatory torture is pure suffering for me. But  I have a barely controllable passion for studs into their muscles -- pumping, flexing, posing, and testosterone-driven strutting -- for a worshipping audience with their own straining and, hopefully, at least partially  hidden hard-ons  like mine.

I especially lose it – in more ways than one – when they wear nothing more than little tight, high cut shorts that barely cover their glutes or, even better, a posing strap and a full pouch showing off their aching cock and balls. This tease, this evasiveness, this coyness of having their massive and cut bodies just barely covered, makes me cum, often without even touching myself.  God, they are so into their muscle masculinity. They love it.  They love to see others lust and get hard over their massive, perfected and very sexual bodies.  I often wonder how many of them have a big orgasm into their jocks, or their little pieces of worn cloth, or whatever, while they workout, pump and flex to the edge. Sadly, I rarely see the top muscle gods workout closely as our time windows miss.

Of course, I see more of this in Internet pictures, groups, DVDs, videos, and some movies.  Once and a while, here at the gym, the top muscle gods practice their poses in front of others of us with adoring, lusting eyes.  They are so proud and sexually hot as they unleash their muscular marvels. 

I've only been to a couple of local bodybuilding shows. And then,only been in the general audience…looking and lusting from afar at these huge built hard and deep cut-up paragons of muscle torture. I know these guys on stage get off on all their incredible bodies, their flexing, and the whole testosterone pumping show.

I can also tell there are a hell of a lot of guys here at the gym who are muscle sights themselves, but still get off on the other muscle monsters.  This "checking each other out" and " screaming encouragement by the spotter/buddy, and most of all our Coach" is one hell of excuse to feast your eyes on growing, hard, fried  hot muscle.  All this can also be accompanied, inside and outside the gym, by some awesome eye candy of tightly stuffed cock and ball arrangements. The bulging pouch, stretched workout gear, or some other absolutely killer, masculine, and sexually arousing piece of loose cloth or real display skin-tight outfit to deliberately expose everything.  It makes no difference to me.  It's all about the hidden sexual mystery of the beautiful physique of massively sculpted muscle created out of mere flesh thrusting.

God knows I try very hard to hide my glances, especially at their big crotches and serious meat hanging down the inside of a leg, and a bubblebutt that is so globular and tight its a mystery in itself, that they just fail to escape escape their respective skimpy confines .  Other guys don't seem to care if they are seen staring. Or, they aren't very good at hiding it. It's all such a tortuous tease. And these prime meat posers know it, love it, and get off turning each other on with their muscles and performing sexual hypnosis on the rest of us. All of this, and the message is also "keep your distance". That unspoken rule just feeds my longing and passion for them.  In this amazing open-minded, just do your own stuff gym at MuscleUp, anyways, the testosterone level is always so fu**ing  high and nobody gives a shit about it as long as you don't do anything to embarrass the other guy or, far worse, seriously interrupt his balls-out workout.

You, Mr. Muscle God.  It doesn't matter that you're groaning,  pumping, almost scream with deliberately induced pain, and flexing while you work your massive body into one apparition which is really  one  big hard cock itself.  It doesn't matter that it sounds like bulls rutting.  It doesn't matter that you ask for a spot and then linger after the workout to ask some guy's opinion or offer your own – and keep that up, while staring at your results or his.  It doesn't matter that you choose the smallest wife-beater shirt you can squeeze into so your vacuum pumped tits and nips hang out.  Or, choose workout skimpy tight white short-shorts that squeeze your balls and cock into a bulge, struggling almost in vein, not to get squashed between your mammoth cut thighs. 

It doesn't matter that you strip down to next to nothing – in a tiny posing strap and straining pouch -- late at night.  This is to make sure you know how to totally turn on audiences watching while you turn yourself into erotic poses of undulating, massive and cut meat, awesome masculine power, and male sex on two enormous legs.  It's about a total body hard-on for the slow and exquisite torture of other muscle worshippers. You also do it for yourself, your own overwhelming lust for muscle.  You know it matters to guys like me – big time.  It's why I'm here.  And, it's why you are here too – but you just won't say it.

That's just the start of my amazing story – a fantasy fulfilled that I thought was just silly and stupid to think would ever happen in real life. But life is strange and you never really know do you?

Jim, the manager of the gym, for whatever reason, decided to train me a little bit and encourage me from time to time (but not as totally balls out that is demanded by the scientist,  muscled owner Coach though). Jim is a very big and still well built guy, even though he's probably 55 or so – c learly a former bodybuilder himself.  I'm certainly not anything special –pretty much an average mid-twenties aged guy, not bad looking, and with reasonably good genetics I suppose.  My build is solid, but I;m hardly hugely built. I do have  an easy way with people however.  I also train hard and always do my static tension butt squeezing for 10 mins every day without fail, so it shows real tight and hard and I like to know this feeling,  and  so I guess, that's what Jim  likes too. 

I know he appreciates that I apply every lifting and training technique he suggests.  I've been here now for six months and I see some real growth in my muscles, and my muscle body weight  with relatively low bodyfat, is well above where it should be. While Jim may be someone easy to connect with, most of the guys in the gym keep to themselves – unless they are with a training buddy or a long-time friend (or of course they are taken over by the Coach/owner, who is known as the evil killer when he trains them balls-out ).  Of course, the really sensual and sexy competitive bodybuilders – the guys I lust over – stick to their own kind, period. But I suppose that's only to be expected.

One day Jim came up to me and told me to come back to his office for a moment. I got to watch his big ass and back as I followed him in. Unfortunately, he's always in loose sweats.  He went right to the point and asked me if I would be interested in being a volunteer at the upcoming NPC nationals here in a month.  I tried not to look too excited but I didn't succeed.  He grinned, gave me the pass, and said, "I guess that's a yes".  I had the presence of mind to ask him a few questions.  I found out that volunteers from gyms could do a number of things, including work in the pump room.  My mind went on overdrive as I imagined what it might be like with all these near naked guys on heat with gorgeous muscles and a cock and ball display – barely hidden or in "transition" from their street clothes, although often these are figure-tight and semi-revealing, to ridiculously overt posing pouches.

I stammered a sincere "thank-you" and he said, "I thought you might like this".  I think I saw a glimmer of understanding in his blue eyes. Shit, I didn't care at that point.  He gave me the instructions on how to register as a volunteer.  I didn't waste any time.

God, if my fantasies had been overwhelming before – they were insignificant to what I started to obsess about for four weeks. Just more torture.  I wondered who in our gym was going to compete and whether I could keep my cool around their muscles, pumping, thongs, and posing in the pump room.   I worried about being too friendly and coming on even a little bit, and getting my ass kicked out.  I wondered if I was going to be asked to do the holy of holies, and oil up the rigid muscles of one of these muscle-gods. Could I control myself if one of them let me do the inside of his thigh?  Oil his armpit – or would he do that himself?  Oil up his bare glutes being very slow and careful not to get the oil on the cloth strip struggling to bridge his butt crack?  Or, touch the bit of cloth straining down around the graceful muscled curve of his lowwaist, avoiding a very sexy package?

Just for the hell of it, I went to Repetrope and used my membership to get the pix of last year's placers in most all the categories.  I get especially turned on with the super heavyweights, heavyweights, and light heavyweights. But love the teens and juniors too.  Sometimes, the lighter guys can have amazing Vees with the most amazing posing outfits that accentuate their full-size cock and balls – bulging out from their relatively smaller yet beautifully sculpted and muscled bodies.  God, if just 50% of these gods were back again and in even better shape, I'd be nuts with lust for their muscle, pouch, and basket show. 

I worked out like a fiend, fried my muscle until it cried and dieted for these four weeks, too.  I wanted to look as good as I possibly could.  I wanted to make sure I looked as appealing as possible in case I made some connection with a competitor.  Unlikely, yet I decided to hold out hope, and not be disappointed if everyone just kept a normal distance.  Besides, I knew most of these guys would have their army of support – be it from girls, buddies or families, or more likely, close trainer  muscle mates or their boyfriends .  Strangers like me would probably not be welcomed other than in the most unappealing tasks.  Shit, I didn't even know how I would get assigned to the pump room.  I sure as hell didn't want to be playing guard or something like that. Just looking at these gorgeous masculine guys with all their clothes on.  Bulges everywhere and spectacular muscles, mostly but not always hidden for a few more moments of modest eye-candy, just wouldn't do.

I was asked to be at the civic center auditorium on a Friday morning for assignments.  Some big guys were around, but it was too early for any competitors.  I was early, of course.  And after standing in line for an hour, a woman read me the list of assignments still open.  I couldn't believe it when she said the pump room.  I kept my calm and told her the pump room "would be fine".  She said someone else would explain the rules a little later.  I left with my pump room pass, flying on cloud nine.

Wow, they installed some hot gym with all kinds of weight equipment for these guys.  The shower was just down the hall.  Even at noon the security was high.  I had to show my pass a hundred times before I walked in the door of the pump room.  No competitors that I could see, yet.  Just a big burly guy that didn't look very friendly.  He was in charge and asked me a bunch of questions and looked at my pass.  I think he was trying to decide if I bordered on the weird side or not.  If I ever needed to make myself look normal, I certainly did then.  I made sure he understood I was in for the duration of the contest and "representing" my gym.  He seemed to like that.

There were all sorts of blunt instructions about what to do from him, what not to do, and things that would get me thrown out.  I couldn't believe how direct he was.  I was shown all the supplies and locations of the changing rooms and showers.  My fantasies were in overdrive once again – in the pump room, in the showers, in the secured hallway, in the locker room.  It was a dream come true. Now, all I had to do was just control myself.  No easy task, especially with a hard-on that wouldn't stop -- even now, and no musclemen were even around.  I started though, to worryingly ache down there already.

I was in the pump room just trying to keep myself occupied when the first competitor and his girl friend, a really good looker showed up.  They dropped off his gear and he went to the locker room and changed into his workout gear.  He looked like a lightweight – but wide as hell – and so fucking narrow at the waist.  A few others started to come in to get ready for the pre-judging that afternoon and evening.  Most had their male entourage.  A few guys seemed alone.  I wasn't asked to do much, except hand them a towel or something.  I got concerned about how I was going to stay focused on my job, not on them.  Thank god I wore tight underwear with a second under-layer pouch, and well, at least not too tight pants. 

One guy, a bigger guy than the others, came in already wearing a very brief light blue bikini-type posing brief.  On top was the classic tee-shirt with sleeves cut out and a scissor cut down the center of his huge chest from the neckline.  God, he looked fabulous.  I couldn't believe how he just reeked of sexual power. His neck looked like a thick cabled throbbing column.  His biceps were already huge and cut without even being pumped.  He reminded me of pics I'd seen of Matarazzo, sweaty and pumped almost out of his clothes.  His legs were immense and, literally, were pushing his package way out – enough so that I could see that he was cut and big, even while soft. Shit. I had to look away when he went to the bench press and straddled the bench with his bulging basket staring me in the face 10 feet away.  My hard-on just got harder and I thought about going to the john.  I decided I'd rather stay.

From here on, the show just got better and better and I had more energy throbbing through me than I had ever imagined.  It took everything I had to stay cool and just do what I was told to do. Before long the place was taken over by incredibly built musclemen, each with their own posing suit – most very brief – some really did
look more like strings and pouches.  I was stunned at how some of these guys looked like they were already rock stiff or at least partially stiff and yet kept right on pumping and flexing while their cocks jumped with the motion.  There wasn't a lot of conversation, just a lot of pumping, flexing, and very close self-examination and feeling their muscles.  Then the oiling started big time.  Some wanted to use hands, others a spray.

I was asked to help a couple of guys that seemed to be on their own.  For each one, even thru the rubber gloves, I carefully walked the line of applying the dark oil in a smooth and even touch – not too fast and not too slow – and carefully feeling the prodigiously slave-worked muscle tissue underneath.  It was a mind-blower to feel their solid muscles – all over their bodies – even when they weren't yet fully pumped.  There was one guy whose cock and balls were so big compared to his pouch ,that it was almost spilling over and I could barely concentrate.  He looked uncut, however.  I think he might have known his effect on me.  How could he not?  He was clearly displaying all his muscle and sexuality to get himself (and probably others) seriously psyched up.  He's no dummy.  He even asked me what I thought and I was very effusive without being gushing.  Told him he looked as big as Buenda, only with more cuts.  He gave me a big grin and said thanks for the help, as he strutted off with his big thick bubblebutt glutes almost with a life of their own barely contained, to the temporary chin-up bar.

I was in seventh heaven all afternoon as the preliminaries for all classes were held.  I was proving to myself and to these gods of muscle and masculinity that I learned quickly and did a good job oiling, especially when the oil was light colored, as opposed to real dark oil, which was a bitch.

It was a little later in the afternoon when I was stealing a glance to the door and this very handsome bulging muscle sculptured monster walked in – evidently all by himself.   Shit, I had no idea these guys were really that big in person! I watched him pause at the door to emphasize his dominating presence, and the already sizzling masculine energy in the room jumped up big time along with their dicks.  So did my dick.  Some heads turned quickly, others more slowly.  It looked like a few guys tried to pretend he didn't even come in.  I recognized his very dark and masculine features from last year's Repetrope shots, but couldn't remember his name.

As he slowly and very purposely started taking a few steps, most everyone went back to whatever they were doing.  I was one of them that didn't.  I felt frozen to the floor.  He was 30 feet from me but it felt like we were breathing on each other's neck. My heart was beating so fast it felt like I had drums in my head.  I was very afraid that I had given myself away at the wrong time to the wrong guy.  Oh, shit. 

He was about 6'2" – as tall as Gunter. He had been (my idol and main man). I knew he was a super-heavyweight in an instant but couldn't guess his weight.  He had a very confident smirky smile on his face.  And god, what a handsome face.  Dark hair, medium length on top, short on the sides.  His jacket was already off.  Like so many others, he wore a skimpy well  worn wife-beater tee shirt.   But he sure as hell didn't look like many others.  His sweats were tighter than I've seen on most guys.  His legs seemed to stretch the fabric with each step.  It was evident that he had a very good tan.

He seemed to be keeping his arms in that relaxed pose guys are supposed to keep on the stage.  His right arm, however, was bulging noticeably from carrying his gear bag.  I get very hot over big forearms and he had them corded and cut without even flexing them. I couldn't believe the width in his shoulders.  Jeez, delts as big and as cut as his arms?  The little straps bridged the chasm between his traps and jutting pecs. His aureoles were unusually big and round. The thin shoulder straps were pushed in towards his deep cleavage.  I saw James, in one of his signature most muscular poses, the famous way his  arms circled in front with his knuckles touching, wearing that red poser of his.  All this was happening in seconds.

After setting his gear bag down on a chair, he started pulling off his shoes while standing up.  His body was truly spectacular muscle in motion.  Like I've heard said, it looked like he had thick eels squirming all over his shoulders and back desperately attempting to escape.  His biceps were just barely flexed but already peeked so I could tell he had more hard muscle than most guys.  As he slipped on some floppies, his gorgeous butt looked like it was going to explode thru the back of his sweats.

As he untied the drawstring, I saw him do a quick glance back in my direction.  I wasn't sure.  My cock jolted anyway.  The sweatpants didn't have enough freedom to drop by themselves.  He had to pull them down over his so beautiful ass and then bend over to push them down over his huge cut thighs.  I really thought this was a dream.   Even though he was concentrating on getting the sweats off, I had this strong sense that he had me in his mind's eye – and, probably, anybody else that wanted to feast their eyes on a hyper-masculine sex idol alpha male.  Fuck, Superman was in front of me.

In seconds, it was clear he was in a very small posing suit.  Yet for for a moment, it looked like he had nothing on until he turned a bit towards me.  I saw the most sensuous bulging package of balls and cock I had ever seen.  The strap and pouch were a bright green and I was dying a slow and wonderful death.  It was like there was a wrestling match between his equipment and the restraining fabric. The fabric was losing big-time. And was  pure   muscle in the flesh. No morph here. 

This man was a beautiful specimen of manhood, a very powerful beauteous monster who is going to win the overall this weekend.  He knew it.  And he knew a lot of us knew it, too.  The competition was well underway and I was right in the middle ready to serve and worship if there was any possibility of either or both.  Is this what he is going to actually wear on stage?  Well, if anyone has the total package for those rights - and extra package points to be awarded; known to be included from some of the judges, he certainly does.

He reached down to the bottom of his so-called tee shirt and began pulling himself up and out of these strips of cloth, one huge arm at a time.  It was like he was posing.  He was slow, graceful, and very intentional.  Guys were watching, again.  It really was like he was doing a muscleman strip tease without anybody, himself included, calling it that.  He knew exactly what he was accomplishing.  Very intimidating.  It is truly a feat of years of workout discipline and commitment to carry the massive hard muscle bulk he had – and to be so cut as well.  Very dominating.  Incredibly sexual.

My mind flashed on what he must look like in workouts to get to this peak of muscular glory and perfection.  Muscles engorged to the max.  Sweat dripping from his head and all over his vast body. training  through the zones in semi translucent, sweat drenched shorts and  tiny tops barely coveingr his gleaming skin. His hair wet and in his face, Intense concentration and inhuman power as he lifts the ez-curl bar.  A chest with two bowls of deep striated muscle and a tit on each side pushing the ripped shirt straps forward even more.  His workout shorts, already two sizes too small, bunched at the top of his thick and cabled thighs.  His jock pouch creating a large bulge right between those two monsters.  And the oval-like bulge is relentlessly pushing out the seam of his protesting shorts, not willing to be held back in the moist darkness.  Heavy-duty workout pictures of the current muscle Gods we all know;, and Gustavo and Gunter of old, flash through my mind, the camera pointing right into their tight crotches as it captures the seated curl.

I "came back" just in time to hear him hollar, "Hey, you!"  I turned my head toward him and he was looking right at me.  I don't usually feel faint over anything.  But this was different.  A passionate muscle-worshipper like me is like a deer in the headlights at these moments.  Stunned.  Confused.  Scared.  I was all of that with bolts of orgasmic lightening going through my body.  Reason is gone.  It's only my turned-on body and cock responding. 

I heard my body said "Sir?". "Come over here and help me out. I need a spotter to get pumped up good with some warm-ups.  Do you know how to oil?"  He definitely deserved my "Sir." "Yes, sir.  I've been helping oil all afternoon." "Good.  Now spot me at the bench press."  I knew he really didn't need a spotter, especially one like me.  I did have the common sense to know, however, that he wanted to be worshipped and turn someone on.   That I could definitely help him with.

This nearly naked mountain of muscle – carrying a bumpy and bulging pouch – walked past me slowly.  I found out later that he was "testing his intuition" about me.  I quickly figured out why he didn't pump-up in his workout gear.  He didn't need to.  He wanted to win the contest right now.  Accordingly, he was extremely proud to flaunt his god-like looks and his man equipment.  No shyness or even hidden agendas with my new muscleman.

He put out his big hand and said "I'm Paul.  Who are you?" "My name is Scott.  Glad to help you out".  I barely said that with a straight face.  I was not going to take any chances. "What do you lift?"  I was embarrassed to tell him the puny weights I use, and could hardly get even that out of my mouth.  I was also
very distracted by his spectacular pouch in between those unbelievable thighs.  He caught my involuntary very fast eye-checks down there. 

I moved behind the bench and the bar.  I couldn't take my eyes off his body as his muscles moved him so gracefully and powerfully onto the bench.  God, what a sight!  Huge strips of leg meat composing his thighs.  A straining, crammed pouch, pushing up and out above his iron flat lower waist.  A set of four hewn blocks on either side of his navel each a little different in form.  And a chest of striated thick pec meat that truly thrust itself up demanding close and full inspection.  I also remembered seeing an incredible side chest shot of Dorian in his prime.  A real jaw-dropper.

After watching his awesome arms and chest grow with each pumping rep, I moved my eyes to his big package.  I couldn't stay there long or I'd miss helping him – not that he really needed help.  "Good enough.  I usually don't need a spotter, but I don't want to take any chances today.  I need one hell of a pump-on to do justice to this contest ready body of mine. What dya' think?" As he stood-up, standing within two feet of me – on the same side of the bench, he did a classic double-bi.  I said something like, "I don't see anybody else that can come close to you.  You are the biggest musclestud and the most cut guy I've ever seen."  I blushed and he muttered some "yeahs" and kept on examining his pulsing arms beef.  "Shit, if I did a power lifting competition, I'd blow those muscle heads out of the water too," he stated with confident conviction.

I guess everybody decided I was "his" for the next half hour.  So did I.  And so did Paul.  Nobody hollered at me to come help them. I was in muscle heaven watching Paul pump and engorge his already perfect body right in front of my eyes.  I kept taking plenty of chances watching his endangered pouch strain as it tried to contain his cock and balls.  Anybody else would have considered his show almost obscene.  It was clear from the glances over our direction, however, that a lot of guys knew he was a feast of male muscular perfection for some very hungry eyes – and hands – I am sure.

We moved to a couple of other free weights.  I couldn't see that he needed me to help but he said "Hang in there with me, sport".  I tried to find ways to encourage him and "guard his muscles" close in without touching these growing rocks.  If I had touched him most anywhere, it would have felt like touching a gigantic six-foot hard cock but that I suppose is what creating a bulging rock body is really all about -.  His whole body seemed like one big throbbing hard-on, especially when he flexed and then flexed again.  He sweated and I held the towel and he mopped all over his body, frequently.  He was not only a walking muscle machine; he was a walking, pumping sex engine, fueled by testosterone.  Gotta take that towel home with me
somehow.

One time, I damn near shit a brick when he adjusted his pouch right in front of me by grabbing it at the top in front with both hands and pulling it up and out.  He did a wiggle to fit his cock and balls more comfortably.  The word "wiggle" doesn't do justice to his effect on me – or on himself.  He murmured, "It'd be easier to work-out naked but that isn't allowed, yet".  He grinned slyly at me.  I really felt like grinning back but was still cautious.  I remained silent, yet very grateful for this visual feast of hard pumped muscle power, glowing sweat, and a straining basket that made him truly be the god that he knew he was.

I followed him over to the corner and chair where he had his workoutbag.  "Okay, Scott.  I don't have anyone to oil me up so you're it. Think you can handle this?" I had a couple of jokes I could have made about what he meant by "this".  I decided to limit myself to a confident, "Sure".

God this guy is so big next to me and I felt so small.  I could feel the warmth of his body heat from his all-over pump.  He was one hell of a bodybuilder – massive muscular perfection -- built with mass and deep
cuts that I have never even been close to.  His back really got me going.  Even without a flex, just a pump, those big muscles were carved with gorges stretching from his huge neck, across some incredibly broad shoulders, and down to the top of his crevice butt crack – where the little green strap disappeared.

"I'm already dark, so I use a light oil for sheen, not for color. That means we don't need to worry about even color coverage – unlike a lot of these guys around here.  I'll show you.  Watch so you can do this right."  I hardly needed encouragement.  And, it was beyond me why he didn't have an entourage with him.  Maybe what he really wanted was somebody, somebody just like me.

He put his unbelievably gigantic right leg up on the chair and squeezed some oil into his palm and rubbed them together lightly. That was like a slow act of sex to me.  He slowly moved his hands up down his hard, tear-dropped, and cabled thigh.  Even his very large hands looked small on top of this steer's leg.  After squeezing some more into his palm, he moved down his calf, which was easily the size of many a  muscleman's biceps.  "Got the idea?"  I nodded up and down, scared to death I was being discovered for my muscle-worship passion even more. 

"Here, you work on this leg and do it just like I did here," he said with an invitation in his voice.  He switched legs and I was shaking. "You okay?  Hey, look, I know all my muscle is pretty intimidating. It's supposed to be. That's the way I win contests.  Fuck their very senses   unti they don't know where they are, but somewhere in muscleworld. So, don't worry about it. "I was so grateful he said that to me.  I relaxed a little and got focused on his other thigh as he shook it and flexed it.  I stopped in my tracks as the whole leg swayed and then froze in a sculpture of muscular detail.  It defied anything I'd ever seen, or touched. 

I shit another brick when he moved his glistening big bag aside to make sure I got up all the way into his inner thigh.  I didn't want to meet his eyes.  Yet, I glanced around and the other musclestuds were doing something like this – with other muscles – some with help – some alone.  So, I stopped feeling so self-conscious.  Paul just seemed very matter of fact, very focused, and full of swagger.  I desperately wanted him to be very happy with me, and how I was helping him officially win the title.

"Alright, we're doing this a little in reverse here, but you're doing great.  Let's get to work on my back."  Circling him was a visual feast.   Then I was stunned at the granite hardness my hands were feeling at the top of his back and traps near his neck – the softness at the same time rock hard.  I tried to move my hands over his explosion of  bulging back muscles at a speed that would not disclose how deeply affected I was by touching him.  I had to do this and still apply the oil right.  Not an easy task for a novice in-person hands-on muscle-worshipper. Fuck, I also wondered why I was so damn worried.  He had my number and seemed to like it.
 
He lifted his huge arms each time I came around to do the back and side of his turkey-sized lat wings and get into his shaved pits.  He had almost no stubble, just smooth, cut and hard muscle.  The tendons were as tight as steel wire.  I was now so hard. I ached, bad. He gave me a back lat spread as I moved down the center of his back to check my work.  It looked like he was unfolding a muscle card table just for me.  He kept expanding them with each intake.  And with each intake he thrust his elbows out and forward even more.

"Now make sure and get the back of these legs, hams to you,".   Well, I had to do his thrusting glutes first, and that terrified me and excited me at the same time.  He didn't flex.  They were already so hard with deep poppin stris and his skin seemed to soak up the oil.  I had to move my hands back over them to make sure they had a clear sheen.  I couldn't believe I was touching any musclegod's butt, let alone Paul's.  I kept concentrating and going down, stroking his glorious butt, and then onto the back of each leg bicep.  At one point, he took a step back and started to flex and pump the back of his whole right leg.  The ham muscles and cables just jumped out in an instant and grew in front of my own bulging eyes.  I got bold and decided to rub some more oil onto these hard muscles and tight cables as he kept his leg flexed.  He didn't seem to object.

When I stooped to get lower, I felt a rush of embarrassment and a deep thrill, too.  I knew then what it was like to really worship serious muscle.  I was sure he knew.  And, even more, I was sure he liked what I was doing.  That sent a tingle all over my body. 

As I stood up again, he turned around and said, very matter of factly, "Now the front".  At first, it didn't make much sense to me why he told me to work his huge chest, abs of rock,  and his veined arms.  But then I understood, once again, that he liked what I was doing and didn't give a damn about anybody else.  He sure as hell had figured out that I really liked what I was doing for him and to him.

"Start with my neck and work down my shoulder and arm first."  I glanced again at everyone else and saw the same thing going on in different ways on different gods.  I told myself everything was fine. 

Thank god he turned his head to the side when I started on his neck.  I couldn't look at his handsome face without saying or doing something very wrong.  It's like my hands were separate from my body.  It's like I was two people.  One guy doing the oiling and touching – the other watching and going absolutely crazy with lust.  His traps were like small mountains protecting a thick columnar neck of veins, tendons, and muscles.  They were escarpments that nearly blotted out the rest of his neck, just like the fabulous Jeff King.

I was really awestruck at how hard and big his delts were. And, yet, his skin was so soft. I stiffened again as my hands ran over veins coming from his bicep, as they randomly crossed his striations. My disembodied hands moved in parallel down the left ham-like, veined side of high peeked beef, that he called his bicep and upper arm.  I kept right on massaging in the oil while he did a little flexing.  The muscles of his horseshoe tricep and bulging bicep jumped in my hands. The crease between the two was awesome.  I couldn't believe the number of big veins and how they covered the extreme rock-hard muscles.  I couldn't slow down or I'd be in trouble.  Yet, I was really getting into this erotic worship of glorious man meat by my very sensitive hands.

Then I moved my hands – in parallel – down to the colossal and striated column of his right forearm.  This was too much.  The veins stood out even more and I relished feeling the pulsing ridges they created.  I stopped to collect myself and get some more oil.  He was frozen like a statue, waiting, expectantly for me to continue.  All the while, he was carefully studying my work and his flexing. While I grabbed the oil bottle, I took a peek at his gorgeous projecting pouch.  It had moved and gotten bigger, if that was possible.  He was over semi-hard and his cut hammer cock-head was really showing its thick ridge now.  I was too stunned to keep going, much to my immediate embarrassment.

His ever-so-handsome face was just a few inches above mine when he softly boomed, "Hey, Scott, you still okay?  I don't want to distract you from your oiling here. You're doing a good job. I know all about how this is a turn-on.  Most every guy here, gets turned-on somewhere, somehow. On their own muscle and on the other guys. It's just natures' way and all part of getting ready to strut your stuff.  I just get turned on when someone oils my muscle the way you are.  It's a great feeling so I grow quite  hard.  No big deal.  It's really a compliment to you, my friend."  Getting hard at the thought and sight of muscle is proof that we love it, that's all.

I made some feeble comment about just wanting to get the oiling right for him. I thought I'd crawl in a hole when he said, "Yeah…right" – with a noticeable edge of sarcasm.  He had an easy smile on his oh-so-handsome face so I assumed I was okay. I made it through doing the other arm, never getting used to what it feels like to have such big, hard, beautiful muscle in my hands – wrapped in ribbons of veins.  He was so confident.  No pre-contest nerves.  Hell, he knew he had it won.

Then the moment of truth.  His huge hard twin peaks and nips.  I noticed immediately that his nips were hard, too.  They stood out like those hard eraser tips everybody talks about.  I know from reading and paying attention that touching a man's chest is a very, very personal and intimate thing for a lot of guys, especially full cocked testerone-loaded bodybuilders.  Some really welcome it and others make sure you don't try to get even close; probably due to their own danger of shooting. Its all standard stuff.

"Okay, just get it started here on my upper chest and I'll finish it."  I was very grateful.  I ran my oiled hands over his mountains of velvet smooth yey steel hard pecs. The two high crescent globe-like muscle masses felt unbelievably huge in my small hands.  I made sure to remember the feeling of his hard, almost mini-cock like nips, rub across the side of my hands but not stop moving.  I left some oil in the crevice for him to spread around. I moved down to his abdominals, as he flexed.  He even did one of those vacuum poses that blew my mind.  For a big guy like him, I knew he had really worked to get them into such deep cut block definition. There was one big vein that came down on a diagonal into his bare pubic area that I could have fingered forever. Oh the thought of where it led made me nearly faint.

I actually made another comment to him, "These are incredible, Paul, absolutely incredible.  It amazes me that anyone can get like this".  "Not anyone good buddy.  Just a few of us.  The few that don't settle for anything less than muscular perfection. I have been building,  killing  through the fire-burning pain and pumping and flexing this body for several years now since a teen competitor. Jackson has nothing on me anymore.  Tonight and tomorrow night is the payoff."

He flexed them again.  And my hands moved, actually with more noticeable passion, spreading the oil around these classic grooved cobblestones which looked as if could almost cut me if I too boldly ventured over them.  I think I saw him smiling as I oiled him there. We were a team, now.  He had me to himself and I had him to myself. We were getting him ready for night an aroused and fanatical audience would never forget.  I knew they would go wild over the sensuous and overt sexual beauty of his immense sculpted rock-hard  body.

I can't remember when, but just before I was done oiling him, he hollered again.  When I turned my head it was like I was seeing his muscled twin, only somewhat shorter, casually walking over to us. "Hey, here comes Mr. Second Place!"  He grinned and the two of them exchanged a double handclasp, holding it for more than a couple of beats grinding their baskets deliberately against each other. Two of them? The End of the Proverbial Beginning and the ruthless  competition point of showmuscle is next.

[Thanks for indulging my fantasy of how the back-stage logistics and timing might work at an NPC National. The contest is about to begin, but that's another story.