The Weatherman. Part 16. The Plowing

[Broody]

On 2/19/2024 at 2:37 PM, bbmikenj said:

When he imagined himself snapping arms like twigs, he spewed all over the mirror.

As did I!

[Kymuscleboy]

I absolutely loved the last chapter, and the thought of Hank growing even bigger and stronger is super hot. I just hope Kurt and Sam know what they're doing. Giving someone as entitled and arrogant as Hank the herbal milk could go badly. Plus, he's still taking his roids. Sounds like a dangerous, potent combo. 

I'm just throwing a little intrigue  and thoughts to ponder out there while waiting for the next exciting installment. I absolutely love the story! 

[Antrite]

Loving the story! It sounds like Hank taking the herbal milk and roads will accidentally turn himself into an immobile muscle hunk that will be to only lift and get fucked. Sam and Kurt might have to build him a sturdy sling that Hank can lay in and Hank will beg them to fuck him turning his ass into a sloppy pussy only they can fist and fuck

[bbmikenj]

Sam was going to be doing the weekend weather at the station, so he wasn’t able to go with Kurt and Hank to the arm wrestling competition that Hank entered. Sam was disappointed, but it did allow him to continue his prep for his upcoming bodybuilding contest. He and Omar were working on his posing routine, although Omar kept telling Sam that he had nothing to worry about.

 

“Dude, you’re coming in at 290 pounds, and you have an 8 pack and a 32 inch waist. You’re built like a pro super heavyweight, and you’re competing in a local amateur contest. Basically, all you’re going to have to do is walk out on stage and let them hand you the trophy,” Omar assured him. “We do have another issue, though,” he added, as he watched Sam going thru his routine in his new poser.

 

“You mean my prodigious member?” asked Sam, laughing, as he checked himself out in the mirror. He turned from side to side and realized that his skimpy poser was no match for his thick meat, which was struggling to flop out. 

 

“Um, yeah,” said Omar. “I’ll get my wife to sew you some kind of sling for that third forearm of yours.”

 

“That would be appreciated,” Sam replied, as he futilely tried to position his package inside his poser.

 

After practicing his posing routine for forty minutes, Sam was ridiculously pumped. He thanked Omar for his help, pulled on a pair of cargo shorts, and waddled his way to his car. Despite his muscles being totally flushed with blood, he wanted more, so he headed out to the barn to lift. He knew he was obsessed, but he couldn’t help it. “Just a few sets of 100 reps, and I’ll stop,” he told himself. Omar had explained to him that for burning fat. Higher reps with lower weight was a good way to go. Omar also explained to him that since he was already down to 3% body fat, it might be dangerous to go any lower. But Sam couldn’t help it. “Once I get to 2%, I’ll stop,” Sam told himself.

 

Meanwhile, two hours away, Kurt and Hank arrived at the gymnasium where the arm wrestling was taking place. As they walked in, a sea of big, macho men parted for the two bigger, more macho men. Karl signed in for the exhibition matches he was doing for charity, and Hank signed for the open competition. The people manning the tables stared at them in silent awe. Kurt had on his signature black polo, now a size 6XL, and hugged his massive frame like a surfer’s wetsuit. 

 

Hank had on a checkered flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off, his log-sized arms on full display, and black denim jeans that looked farm worn, and fit tight across his blocky power ass and thighs. His thick belt had a brass buckle that was shaped like a big hog. Hank’s swagger and cockiness were on full throttle. For his first pull, he was paired up against a local deputy sheriff, a burly guy in his late thirties, with a good-sized beer gut. Hank made short work of him, smirking the whole time, easily winning three in a row of their best of five.

 

“Go have another donut, fat ass,” Hank mocked. The deputy’s face grew red with ire. He clenched his fists at his side. “Bring it on, deputy dawg,” Hank said. Then he flexed his right arm, and it rose up to 23”, with a deep split running across the top. His deltoid cap arched into three thick ropes. The deputy’s face drained and he took a step back. His hand and arm throbbed from his match with the arrogant punk, and the cop had never felt such a powerful grip. The kid would snap him in two if he got into a tussle with him. As he started to walk away, the referee gave Hank a foul for unsportsmanlike conduct. Hank turned to him with such an angry glare that the pudgy ref almost peed himself. Hank leaned towards him a flex into a most-muscular pose. His flannel shirt split down the back.

 

“Foul number two,” squeaked the shaken ref. 

 

If Hank got one more foul, he would be disqualified and lose the match. But that didn’t stop him from slowly pointing into the ref’s face and saying, “I will fucking…”. But before he able to add ‘end you’, Kurt came up behind him, grabbed his shirt collar and tugged him back.

 

“Take it down a notch, cowboy,” Kurt said. He put his big hand on the back of Hank’s overly muscled neck, and led him away. He could feel Hank’s rage ebbing as they made they’re way to a quiet corner of the gymnasium. “What the hell, man? You’re gonna get yourself tossed out of here.”

 

“I can’t explain it. When I take someone down, I get this rush that’s just about better than cumming, and I feel the need to crush something.” 

 

“Well, don’t get too cocky. I’ve seen some guys in here that look about as jacked up as you.”

 

Hank picked up a metal folding chair that was on a stack next to them. He held the chair out in front of him, and bent it in half. Then he bent it in half again, twisting the metal like it was taffy. “I’m not worried,” he said to Kurt, as he absentmindedly continued to crumple the chair with his bare hands. “It’s just that I fucking love winning. It’s like a drug that feels better than cumming.” He twisted the legs of the chair like licorice. “And then I wanna rage on something, or someone. I wanna rage till they’re pulverized.” He crumpled the chair into a ball, then dropped it to the floor.

 

Kurt eyed the acne on Hank’s big delts. “You might be overdoing the gear and shakes, Bucko.”

 

“Maybe,” said Hank, sheepishly. He stepped on the crumpled chair with his steel-toed work boot and crushed it flat as a pancake.

 

“How many shakes a day, Hank?”

 

“I dunno. Three. Maybe four.”

 

“Dude. Geezus. No wonder you’re so wound up.” Just then, someone call Kurt over for his exhibition matches. “Try not to snuff anyone while I’m gone,” he said to Hank, who went on to win his next three matches without incident, if you don’t count the broken hand bones of one of his opponents. Kurt showed up before his fourth match.

 

“How’d your charity rounds go?” Hank asked him.

 

“Not great. None of the other sportscasters would go up against me. And two of them were ex-pro football players. I can’t exactly blame them though, they’d pretty much let themselves go to seed. One of them weighed about as much as me, but he was mostly flab. We looked like a before and after advertisement for tren.”

 

“Not much of a challenge, huh?”

 

“Nope, not for this 380,” said Kurt, heaving out his 79” chest and setting the can of Red Bull he was drinking on top of his left pec. “There was a pro soccer player who was game for it, although he only weighed about 160. I let him use both his arms and his full bodyweight. He ended up hanging off my arm like a monkey, so it was good for some laughs.”

 

Hank’s last pull turned out to be against a big tattooed biker, who kept purposefully letting his hand slip loose as Hank was about to pin him. The ref didn’t call the guy out on it, but instead, strapped their hands together. Hank began to seethe, because he hated being strapped to this greasy ball cheater who stank of cheap cigars and whiskey. He let the guy think he was winning, allowing him to push his hand to within an inch of the table. Then Hank swung their arms in a 180 degree arc, and wrenched the biker’s hand so hard that his ulna bone snapped. As Hank slammed his arm down, the guy howled in pain. Hank yanked their strapped hands towards him, pulling the big biker halfway across the table. Then Hank lifted his arm upward, and the guy’s feet left the ground.  The biker bellowed as his shoulder dislocated.

 

Hank put his free hand around the guy’s neck and crushed down with his powerful grip, then pulled him in close. “That’s right, you weak fucking cunt. I fucking own you, you faggot son of a whore.” Hank’s spittle sprayed the biker’s swelling face. 

 

Kurt came up behind Hank, and wrapped his massive arms around Hank’s torso, and lifted him. As he pulled him back, the referee quickly unwrapped the strap, freeing the arm wrestlers’ hands. The biker fell backwards and rolled to the floor, gurgling and holding his shoulder.

 

That’s how Hank ended up being disqualified from the competition.

 

Kurt carried the bucking Hank out to the parking lot. He put him down next to his truck. “You need to chill!” Kurt yelled.

 

Hank’s nostrils were flaring and his breathing was ragged. He shoved into Kurt’s huge barrel chest with both his hands. Kurt didn’t budge. Kurt grabbed him and pulled him into a bearhug. Hank struggled, and said, “You better hope I don’t break out of this, cause I’ll kick your ass.”

 

“You and what army?” growled Kurt. But as he squeezed harder, he realized that the young juiced up redneck had grown immensely stronger since they’d first met. It was like he was bear hugging 260 pounds of solid iron. All the bloated water retention was gone, replaced by muscle. 

 

“Why didn’t you let me at him?” Hank grunted as he struggled.

 

Kurt redoubled his efforts to hold him. “You’d have murdered him, boy. You are nothing but trouble.”

 

“Aw fuck yeah I am. And you like it too, don’t ya? I can feel you gettin’ hard, old man. You feel how fuckin’ strong I am, and it’s making you bone.”

 

“I feel it, you freak. You hot fucking power freak.” Kurt slammed Hank’s back into the side of his pickup, denting the metal. He started bucking against him, and the whole truck moved sideways. 

 

“You wanna feel my power in you, don’t ya, Daddy? You wanna feel it grow and grow, till I’m bigger and stronger than ever. You aching for my seed deep inside you,” whispered Hank. 

 

Kurt released his bearhug and leaned in and kissed Hank. Kurt grabbed onto the sides of the truck bed, his fingers digging into the metal. The two powerhouses kissed hard, for five minutes straight. Finally, Kurt said, “Get in the truck.” 

 

They drove to a dark, secluded parking lot next to a woods. They got out and stripped naked. They admired each other’s bodies, their extreme muscularity and size. Kurt was still much bigger, his back span as wide as the rear of his pickup, but Hank was changing faster, becoming gargantuan at a rapid pace. His neck was wider than his head, and his back was piling up with thick mounds of muscle. He was beginning to resemble a Tolkien orc, and his muscle had the density of polished petrified wood.

 

He jumped into the back of the pickup in a single leap, and motioned for Kurt to join him. Kurt climbed into the truck bed with him, and Hank proceeded to top the huge sportscaster for the first of six times that night. People in the nearby neighborhood thought that it must be mating season for the wild boars living in the area, as they heard the deep, guttural roars and rutting sounds that lasted into the night.

 

In the morning, Kurt and Hank were asleep in the back of the truck, naked and wrapped in each other’s muscular arms. Despite the chill in the air, they were kept warm by their own mass. Kurt woke up and surveyed what was left of his pickup. The cab had been crushed in like an accordion, with all the windows shattered. The tailgate was broken off, and was on the other side of the parking lot. He remembered Hank ripping it off it’s hinges and tossing it like a discus. 

 

The sides of the truck bed were dented out. All four tires were flat. They had blown out about halfway thru the night, when Hank’s thrusting had grown more and more powerful.

 

Kurt got dressed, then slowly woke up Hank by massaging his size 16EEE feet. Hank grunted with pleasure as Kurt’s big hands dug into his muscular arches. Hank’s morning wood began to swell.

 

“Get up, stud,” Kurt said. “Time to get going.”

 

“Nah, man,” said Hank, sleepily. “I wanna fuck some more.”

 

Kurt shook his head. The musclebound buck was insatiable. “Tell you what. I’ll suck you off, but then we got to go.” Kurt grabbed Hank by his thick ankles, and slid him until his ass was at the edge of the truck bed. Then he went down on him. 

 

“Ah, shit yeah,” moaned Hank, his head lulling back. He grab the sides of the truck with his meaty hands, and the steel creaked as he bent it inward. Kurt worked on him good and hard, and it didn’t take long to drain his huge load, a surprisingly large volume considering the amount he’d pumped out during the night. “God damm, you got a hot mouth, old man. What were you, a street hooker in your last life?”

 

“Shut the fuck up and get dressed,” Kurt said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his great hairy forearm. “We have to go to the hotel and get our stuff.”

 

Hank laughed, and hopped out of the truck. He pulled on his jeans, and as he laced up his work boots, asked, “How far is it?”

 

“About ten miles.”

 

“I’ll race you,” Hank said, taking off across the parking lot shirtless, leaving his torn flannel shirt behind. He turned around, and, jogging backwards at a sprint, said, “Winner gets top.”

[boardman]

Story just gets hotter with every chapter

[arpeejay]

Always a pleasure! 

[musclefight2]

insane

[Broody]

I’m in love with Hank. Love me some angry redneck!

[Ro20316]

The three have  alot in common but Kurt and Hank have that raw and rough energy they love to be togetehr. They can be their real selves with each other.

[Jtchef2]

Another amazing chapter