growth The Heart is a Muscle (Brock and Ben)

[Mikeytron]

Part One: Brock and Ben

 

(a five part story of sex, romance, and outrageously muscular male bodies. This first part is something of a bildungsroman for the gay muscle set - a lot of growth, but only some of it physical. Originally written and posted on my tumblr. Part two to follow tomorrow..... I hope you enjoy)

 

Ben waved from the sidewalk as his parents’ car pulled out of the parking lot, turned right on the avenue, and disappeared behind the gleaming anonymity of the newly-built student center, handily adjacent to the handsome Edwardian dormitory that would be his home for the next eight months. They had safely ensconced their son in his dorm room, had taken him out to supper at a chain restaurant, and were now making the five hour drive back to their tiny hometown. It was early evening, pleasantly cool,that period of September when the days still feel like summer but the nights carry the hint of autumn. The distant sound of frosh parties called to him, but Ben stood still on the mercifully empty sidewalk, took long slow breaths of the cool fresh air. He wanted a minute to collect himself, to think.  

 

Ben had never been away from home for more than a week. His parents were so protective of their eldest son, so talented, so intelligent, so polite, so perfect – it was exhausting. Stifling. Ben had purposefully selected a University some distance from his home town so that he could grow, explore, be dumb, be rude, be flawed.

 

Really, though, Ben’s big plan was to gay it up big time. His little hometown, surrounded for dozens of miles by sparsely populated wilderness, had few if any possibilities for a horny closeted teen with low self-esteem and overprotective parents. But he was at University now, in a city now – his heart galloped when he considered the possibilities, equal forces of hope and fear warring across the vast battleground of thwarted adolescent desire.

 

He timidly came out to his parents in the weeks before the move. His mother reacted as if some precious object had been dropped to the floor, cracked in some irreparable way – not angry, but so, so unhappy, which was worse. Ben could have dealt with anger – could have responded to it with anger of his own, could have cloaked himself in righteousness. This terrible grief? It opened an unspeakable gulf, a great chasm. It couldn’t be answered. After that conversation the topic never came up again, but the tension in the house was palpable.

 

But now Ben was free. Free to do … what, though? For years now he’d been waiting for this moment. Here he stood, alone in the city, free to be himself, to recreate his identity, to follow his pleasure – but in those daydreams of this moment, he’d never actually imagined whatspecifically he would do. It was just abstract – “I want to be free!” And so now he was free. So now what.  

 

Back home, he’d stand before the full-length mirror late at night, after everyone had gone to bed, stand shirtless, or naked even, and assess himself. A furnace-like teenaged metabolism kept him slim, about 145 lbs at 5’11”, but a life of limited physical activity kept him mostly toneless – his body was a long, thin column of pale flesh, his limbs graceful but exceedingly slender, his tummy soft. He had striking features, though – not cute, but powerful, a sharp roman nose, piercing blue eyes, thick black hair, firm full lips that added an attractive quality to smiles and sneers alike. His female friends, most of whom knew he was gay, always told him he was handsome – regal, noble, prince-like, languid, words of that nature. But Ben had trouble believing it. In those midnight self-assessments, he felt great anxiety – would this be enough for anyone? Would anyone ever desire this portion of flesh that he called his own?

 

He was struck by a dilemma unique to homosexuality. Unlike their straight counterparts, gay people can (and frequently will) look at their own image and ask themselves that dreadful question: “would I fuck me?” And Ben, in his heart of hearts, knew the painful answer was “no.” Ben liked big men. Ben liked really, really big men – muscular men. Ben’s dirty secret was that he jacked off to bodybuilders, browsing incognito on his laptop after everyone else had gone to bed. And what muscle man would want an inexperienced skinny-fat twink full of neuroses?

 

Enough. It was time to head inside. He had a new life to build – and potentially a room-mate to meet. He was assigned a double room, two twin beds on opposite sides of a cinderblock shoebox, but when he and his parents had moved his belongings in, earlier in the day, the other side of the room appeared vacant, unclaimed.

 

*

 

Ben turned the key, opened the door, and stopped in his tracks as he laid eyes on his roommate for the first time.

 

He was sleeping. He was face down on the tiny twin bed and he was sleeping. He filled the bed. He overfilled the bed. He was wearing a jock and nothing else. Ben’s eyes darted all over the gigantic sleeping form but continually came to rest on the ass, like a compass needle finding north. That ass! Twin marble peaks, a work of art, jutting high and proud into the air, spherical, taut, framed perfectly by the bands of the jockstrap. The rest of him, though! He was too tall for the bed, too wide for the bed. Not just his big bare feet, but his calves – the size of those calves! Like cantaloupes but covered in hair and veins, even at rest! – his calves in the air past the foot of the bed, his elbows in the air off the side – his forearms angled back towards his body, his hands buried under the pillow beneath his head. Ben could see him taking slow, even breaths, could watch his massive back, overfilled with gnarled knots of muscle, rise and fall. His back was so thick and overmuscled that there was cleavage over parts of his spine. He was definitely asleep. Ben’s mouth was dry. He still hadn’t moved from the doorway, his hand still on the knob. Ben was painfully, throbbingly, aching erect. The air smelled of  … it was like a spice, like an unusual wood, a little musky but not unpleasant. Ben realized that he was smelling him. This was what pure potent masculinity must smell like.

 

It was only about 8:30 at night. There was a big frosh party, involving the whole house, in the common room on the ground floor. Should he wake this guy? No, not until he took care of this boner. A guy this big – probably a football jock. Probably straight. Possibly cool with gay guys, but possibly not – but in either case, probably not cool with being perved over. In any case, perving out on this guy would be a … . suboptimal first impression. Ben very, very silently shut the door behind him, slowly and silently crept across the floor to the closet-like ensuite bathroom, quietly shut and locked the door, turned on the fan to create some background noise, dropped his pants, and began furiously masturbating his average-sized but nicely-shaped uncut cock.

 

It barely took him twenty seconds to cum. He had to stifle his moans. But still his mind was flooded with images of his unconscious roommate. Fuck, you pervert, you don’t even know his name, what the fuck is wrong with you? But he couldn’t stop thinking about that alabaster mountain of ass. It was so big, so round. It looked so firm, yet so inviting … . Ben couldn’t believe it – his cock was still a mess of semen from the first orgasm, but he hadn’t softened one bit – if anything, he was harder than ever, his mind flooded with images of the musclebeast asleep on the other side of the door. Oh fuck. It had been, what, two or three minutes? But he had to go again. He began beating his meat once more, churning his still-fresh cum into a froth, using it as lube. This time he managed to last for maybe ninety seconds, but the orgasm was, if anything, more intense than the last. He tried his best to stay silent, but he couldn’t help it – a single groan escaped his lips as he shuddered, his dick spasming in an orgasmic variant of dry heaves, contracting with all its might to force more cum out when his balls were already drained dry. Ben was panting, trembling, couldn’t catch his breath. “Oh shit,” he muttered to himself. “Shit.”

 

And then there was a tap on the door. A deep, friendly baritone voice rumbled through. “You OK in there, buddy?”

 

“Yeah! I’m good!” Ben said, immediately cursing how high and strangled his voice sounded in comparison. “Uh, sorry to wake you.” He surreptitiously flicked his hand into the sink, shaking gobs of cum free. This was a surreal introduction, through a locked door. Not ideal. But maybe for the best – face to face, Ben could never have kept his composure.  

 

“No biggie, man, I fell asleep by accident anyway. Name’s Brock. I take it you’re the roomie? All that theatre stuff belongs to you?”

 

“Uh, y-yeah,” Ben said, trying to quietly rip off some toilet paper to wipe away the rest of the evidence of his double orgasm. “Kinda a theatre dork. I’m not studying it though. I guess you’re a sports guy.”

 

Ben heard Brock chuckle through the door. “What makes you say that?”

 

“Dude, I saw you.”

 

“Oh yes? Well, why don’t you finish up in there and me and you can get a late dinner, get to know each other a bit better.”

 

Ben had, of course, already eaten, but he wasn’t about to say no to a guy like Brock. “Absolutely. Just, uh, give me a couple of minutes to finish cleaning myself up.”

 

“Take your time, dude.”

 

Ben leaned over the sink and slowly exhaled. He looked in the mirror, stared in his own piercing blue eyes. “Hoo boy,” he muttered to himself, breaking his gaze to turn on the water, wash away the cum, splash some cold water on his face. “Woah.”

 

*

 

Brock turned out to be a great room-mate. He was very friendly, very relaxed. He was indeed a “sports guy,” a football player and a powerlifter, but he was academically gifted, wasn’t interested in coasting on his abilities on the football field. “Besides, this school’s football team isn’t great,” Brock said, giving his yard-wide shoulders a little shrug. “I just like playing. It’s not a career. I’m thinking PhD – maybe history? Or maybe something with a bit more real world application, but still in the liberal arts. Oh, don’t look so surprised, Ben. You know they assign roommates by SAT scores?”

 

“I did not know that,” Ben said. “But it makes sense. Sorry. I’m just … I come from a pretty remote area, pretty small town. I’m the first person in my family to go to college, I don’t know how any of this works. And all the football players at my high school were goons. No offense.”

 

“Hey, I used to be pretty goonish, too. Came to my senses probably about halfway through high school. Glad I did.”

 

The student center food court was nearly empty, maybe ten or fifteen people scattered through an area that could seat three hundred. Ben kept darting his eyes out the window, or to the dark Dairy Queen counter, closed for the day, or to the janitor slowly approaching with his floor-buffing machine. He was hyper aware of looking at Brock the correct amount but not more than the correct amount.

 

“Jeez dude, you’re jumpy,” Brock said with a kind smile, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. Ben allowed himself to look briefly at his roommate. The thin cotton t-shirt he had on stretched to its limit to contain his bowling-ball biceps, the thick corded ropes that were his triceps, the twin mounds of pecs, their uppermost cleft visible above the poor tortured collar, a collar that had already given way in places to Brock’s thick traps and wider-than-it-was-tall neck. This shirt lifted up as Brock stretched, revealing his stomach, thick bloated abs bowing out in a luxurious curve, a cute little innie belly-button almost lost in the crevice between his abs, a faint trail of blonde hair leading down into his shorts. Brock laughed and the abs snapped to attention, his midsection suddenly a tight six-pack. “Eyes up here, dude,” he said.

 

“Oh god, sorry, sorry, sorry,” Ben stammered, gaze shooting back to the distant janitor.

 

“Dude, relax. I’m playing with you. I don’t mind. Hey. Hey. Look at me. In the face, heh. Serious though, look at me.” Ben did as he was asked, making eye contact with his new room-mate for the first time. His eyes were ice blue, paler than Ben’s, but just as intense. Almost a wolf’s eyes. He had close-cropped fair hair, thick features, a heavy brow, but his mouth was curved into a friendly smile. “I know I’m big. It didn’t happen by accident, trust me. I like being big. I like it a lot. And I like being looked at. You’re not going to offend me, OK? So, you know, relax. We’re going to be sharing pretty close quarters for a long while,” he said, throwing up a double bicep. The thick glob of muscle jumped into a hard ball; his skin was noticeably paler around the peak, where it stretched to its maximum to contain the burgeoning muscle. “You’ll get sick of seeing me do this pretty soon, I’m sure,”  

 

“Never,” Ben said before he could stop himself. He felt his face flush crimson, but Brock only laughed.

 

“OK, then, you can help me track my progress. Hey, speaking of – you gonna eat that?” Brock’s hamburger had long ago disappeared, while more than two-thirds of Ben’s remained on his tray.

 

“I actually had supper with my parents earlier,” Ben said.

 

“Hey, so did I,” Brock said, grinning. “So, uh, you don’t mind …?” Ben shook his head ‘no,’ and Brock’s grin broke into a full smile as he slid Ben’s tray over to his side of the table. “Great. Gotta keep my calories up if I wanna grow.”

 

Ben felt his mouth go dry again. He had the urge to start looking all over the vast empty food court, but he forced himself to keep his eyes on Brock, as instructed. “You, uh, you want to get bigger?”

 

“Mmf,” Brock said, his mouth full of burger. He swallowed. “Fuck yes. But in all honesty, this size is basically ideal for football. So I shouldn’t get more than five or ten pounds heavier than I am right now. 285, if you’re curious. But yeah, dude, when I quit ball, I wanna grow. No such thing as too big,” he said, tearing into the burger again.

 

“Woah,” Ben said, overwhelmed again. “You’re, ah, you’re almost double my weight.”

 

“What’s double your weight?”

 

“290.”

 

“Gimme a couple of weeks.” The hamburger finished, Brock wiped his mouth with a paper napkin then grinned at his roommate.  “I think we’re gonna get along real well, roomie.”    

 

*

 

It was Halloween. Ben was drunk. The dormitory party was winding down. He’d come as Dream, from Neil Gaiman’s Sandman series, but it really wasn’t much of a costume for him – the diaphanous black clothes came from his own wardrobe, the spiky black hair was his own, the white facepaint was from the campus drugstore – the only elaborate flourish was the black contact lenses, from a costume store downtown. But people kept thinking he was dressed as “that guy from Limp Bizkit,” and Ben had stopped explaining after the first few times.

 

Ben had made some other friends, but his roommate Brock was the only one he felt any sense of closeness to. Brock had, naturally, come as the Incredible Hulk, but Ben had lost track of him midway through the party, and he hadn’t seen him for a few hours now.

 

The party was dying. It was late and Ben was drunk. Time to leave. The stupid black contact lenses were bugging his eyes, anyway. He tossed his plastic cup into the overflowing garbage bin and called out goodbyes to the remaining people he knew, exiting the dormitory’s ground floor common room.

 

Brock and Ben lived on the top floor – Ben now knew that not only were roommates assigned by SAT scores, but that the floors were divided that way, too, with the smartest kids on the top floor. Ben waited by the elevator for several minutes, eventually losing patience and deciding that seven flights of stairs wasn’t all that bad. Probably someone was passed out in the elevator doorway on some floor between the bottom and the top, Ben figured.

 

He was winded by the time he reached the top of the staircase. “Fuck,” he thought, “am I that out of shape?” The truth was that the freshman fifteen was slowly creeping up on sedentary Ben, whose metabolism was slowing, as it inevitably would. In clothes he still appeared lean and lithe, but shirtless, in the mirror, he was soft, pasty – still thin, at about 155 lbs, but with no muscle to speak of. It disheartened him more than he let on, especially when Brock paraded around shirtless (he was almost always in some state of undress), his skin stretched taut over the massive boulders he called his pecs, his delts, his biceps.

 

Ben finally reached the door to their room, unlocked it, opened it, and saw Brock’s naked back, the green body paint half worn away, his enormous round glutes in the air, looking even paler because they were untouched by green – but this time Brock wasn’t sleeping, and the glutes weren’t still, weren’t reminiscent of a marble statue, some Grecian hero in repose. This time, Brock was straddling a second figure, and those massive marble glutes shifted and flexed as he thrusted. Ben let out a strangled squawk, yelled “sorry!” and turned to hastily exit. Then his drunken brain finally processed some other key piece of visual information.

 

Brock was not fucking a woman. Brock was slamming his thick veiny cock into Wolverine’s hairy, meaty butt – or rather, James from Third Floor who’d shown up to the Halloween party as Wolverine, with big veiny biceps and thick hairy forearms that looked the part, to his credit.

 

“Sorry!” Ben squawked again, regaining his composure, beating a quick retreat. His heart was thumping faster than when he’d finished climbing the stairs. Brock was gay?!

 

Brock’s voice from inside the room, calling to him. “Dude, you OK? I forgot to put a sock on the handle, I’m an idiot.”

 

“Yeah!” Ben answered. “Just, uh, take your time finishing, I’ll go for a walk, be back in a half hour or something, yeah. Um. OK! Bye! Have fun!” What. ‘Have fun?’ Why say that? Ben rushed to the elevator. Idiot idiot idiot idiot idiot. Then he remembered that the elevator was apparently broken. He turned on his heel and rushed in the opposite direction, to the stairs.Fuck. Idiot idiot idiot idiot idiot idiot IDIOT.

 

Ben walked out of the dorm. It was a little chilly outside, but not too bad. It was a black night, no moon, no stars. He walked down to the little duck pond halfway across campus. Drunken Halloween revelers passed occasionally, hooting and hollering. Ben smiled and did his best to respond in kind, but his heart wasn’t in it.

 

When he arrived at the pond, he sat down on a bench. He could see some people toking up in the gazebo on the other side of the pond, but mercifully he seemed to be alone. He stretched out on the bench and looked at the sky, giving a long, slow exhale.

 

OK. So your friendly musclebound roommate is also gay. It’s like a big gay fantasy, just like the kind you’d have daydreaming in Grade Twelve math class. Except it’s real.

 

But you are not in love with this guy. You are not allowed to be. If he was interested in you, he’d have made a move already. He’s confident. He knows you’re turned on by his body. If he wanted you he’d have taken you by now. So you need to put that thought out of your mind right now. Immediately. Crush that thought under your heel. Do it for your own good.

 

OK.

 

Ben’s stomach was doing flip-flops. How would this change the comfortable room-mate dynamic that he and Brock had established over the previous eight weeks? Ben didn’t want that dynamic to change. He liked it. It was nice. The little shoebox of a room he shared with Brock – it was maybe the first place in the world where he felt more or less comfortable, more or less at ease. And now he probably wouldn’t feel comfortable there, would he? Ben let out another long sigh as he lay on his back by the pond. The sky was absolutely featureless and awful-looking.

 

“So, who are you supposed to be, that guy from Limp Bizkit?” asked a voice.

 

Ben sighed. “No. Not to be rude, but please leave me alone.”

 

“Doofus, it’s me. I’m not going to leave you alone.” Ben sat up. Brock stood nearby, arms crossed. He was wearing his 4XL peacoat but appeared to have only underwear on underneath it. His face was still smeared with Hulk green. “Look, dude, you’re upset, and I wanna talk it out with you so it doesn’t ruin our friendship. Or our living situation.”

 

Ben blinked. He had come to think of Brock as a friend, but this was the first time either of them had used the word. “But what about James?”

 

Brock snorted. “He’s a dumb fuck,” he said, “but boy does he have a hot ass. Sorry. Don’t repeat that. All I mean is, he’s not a boyfriend or a friend or anything. We were just, yanno,fucking. Something I notice you don’t do, by the way.”

 

“I didn’t know you were gay,” Ben said.

 

“Um, I don’t think I could have been more blatant on the day we met,” Brock said.

 

“I didn’t get that. You have to remember, I was basically raised by wolves.”

 

“Funny, I’ve seen your mother on Skype, she doesn’t look like a wolf.”

 

“Haha. You know what I mean. I, uh, I don’t know these rules that everyone else seems to know. I don’t get what people mean half the time. I swear I’m not an idiot. This is just all new to me. Anyway. No. I did not know you were gay. I thought you were just a friendly non-homophobe straight dude. This is legitimately new information for me.”

 

“Dude, I invited you to leer at me all you wanted and told you I like it – OK, but whatever, I believe you. Miscommunication happened. We’re getting sidetracked.” Brock sighed. “OK, so what has you upset then? I think I know but if I guess wrong I’ll sound like an arrogant prick.”

 

Ben looked away, at the guys smoking pot in the distant gazebo. The faintest acrid whiff of weed reached his nose. If mother dearest could see me now. He screwed up his courage. “You’re absolutely everything I ever wanted in a man, Brock.”

 

“I know. That’s why I’ve never done anything with you.”

 

“What?!” Ben’s heart jumped. “Isn’t that cruel?”

 

“No, it’s kind,” Brock said. “Look, OK, this is real talk. I say this as a friend – and we are friends – and I care for my friends. You have a lot of work to do. You need to become more self-confident, to become the man you want to be, rather than the frightened boy your parents and your hometown created. And this isn’t an insult or a criticism! You’re doing that work, and that’s one of the reasons I really admire you. But if we got together, it’d be a disaster. Either you’d hate me by Christmas, or you’d become absolutely devoted to me, suffocatingly devoted, which isn’t something I want in a partner. I mean, I’m not even looking for a partner of any description right now. But if I fucked around with you, like I fuck around with guys like James, well, it’d break your heart, I think. And I’m not going to do that.”

 

There was silence as Ben processed what Brock had said. “I get it,” Ben said. “But it still hurts a little to hear.”

 

“Growing always hurts,” Brock said, not unkindly.

 

“Is it going to be weird between us now?” Ben asked.

 

“Yeah, for a little while,” Brock said. “But we’ll get over it. We’ll be better friends because we had this conversation. Underneath all that anxiety you’re scrappy. You’re gonna grow from this.”

 

Ben sighed again, looking out over the black lake. ‘Scrappy.’ It wasn’t a word he’d ever applied to himself. He tried it on for size, found he kind of liked how it felt. Scrappy. “You’re right,” he said. “About everything. I guess you really are smart. OK. Let’s go home. I need to take these fucking black contact lenses out before they blind me.”

 

“Alright, let’s get out of here, Wes Borland.”

 

“Oh, fuck you!” Ben joked, punching Brock’s massive shoulder, then pretending he’d hurt his knuckles on those massive meaty deltoids.

 

“Mosquitos out tonight,” Brock remarked neutrally, looking in the opposite direction, pretending not to notice, scratching his shoulder where he’d been punched. He looked back toward Ben. “Oh, did you hurt your hand somehow?”

 

And so the roommates walked home.

 

*

 

It was January now. Ben stood shirtless in the tiny ensuite bathroom in the dorm room he shared with his massive football-playing roommate Brock. He stared at his pasty, unimpressive body in the mirror. A term of cafeteria food, frosh boozing, and little physical activity had left him deeply unhappy with his body. Usually, Ben never allowed anyone to see him shirtless, but this time he’d left the bathroom door open.

 

Brock sat at the desk, reading a book about the Russian revolution for his history class. The difficult aftermath of Halloween had passed. Ben was fairly confident that he now felt a brotherly affection toward Brock, that their social dynamic was much healthier, something approaching an easy equality.

 

He had a question to ask Brock. It was an important one. He had wanted to ask for some time now. But in previous months he’d been too nervous, too worried. Now, he was trying to be ‘scrappy,’ was trying to be the kind of man he wanted to be. So he screwed up his courage, walked out of the bathroom, still shirtless, and stood facing Brock expectantly.

 

Sensing his presence, Brock looked up. “Woah, dude, the glare. Warn me before you do that so I can put on my sunglasses.”

 

“Brock, I want…  I would like you to show me how to work out. I don’t like my body and I want to do something about it.”

 

Brock grinned. “Good for you, guy. I was wondering when you’d ask me that. I’d be more than happy to help. Oh, what’s that look for?”

 

Ben scowled. “You knew I wanted you to show me how to lift?”

 

“I can read you like a book. Actually, I can read you easier than a book,” Brock said, casting an evil glance at the thick, jargon-heavy academic tome on his desk. “Seriously though, it’s obvious you love muscle on other guys. Why shouldn’t you want some for yourself?”

 

“Well, yeah, exactly. But if you knew, why didn’t you invite me without me asking?”    

 

“Uh, because I want you to grow as a person, maybe? You can’t be timid when you enter the iron game. You gotta have some grit, some spine.”

 

“OK, OK, I get it. So I’ve grown as a person. I screwed up the courage to ask. So are you gonna do it?”

 

“Already said yes, didn’t I? You’re rolling out with me at 630 tomorrow morning. No complaints about the time. I want you to be wearing your game face. You’re gonna feel weak and small but if you give it your all and push yourself people will respect you. You got decent shoes, gym clothes? Good. OK. You’ve got your marching orders. Now let me get back to the fucking Romanovs.” Brock picked up the book, his tricep forming a giant sleeve-straining horseshoe as he hefted the tome. He opened the book, appeared to begin reading – god, the way his chest mounded up towards his face when he held the book in that position, chin down, like he could scratch an itch on his pecs with his stubble – but then he paused, looked up, made eye contact. Fierce blue eye met fierce blue eye. “I’m proud of you, bro. I want you to know that. Today’s the first step on a long journey for you.”

 

*

 

Ben took to the gym like he was born for it. All the anxiety and neuroses melted away when he was under the bar. He’d clamp his fingers around the iron like he intended to break the bar in two. Those intense blue eyes, that strong roman nose, those proud full lips, would all curl into a snarl. He had a scholar’s approach, too – sometimes overthinking things, but always, always doing his homework, always striving to improve his form. He was brutally meticulous with his diet.

 

“Newbie gains” was a phrase that entered his lexicon. Firm lumps sprouted on his arms; his thighs and butt started to fill his jeans in new, surprising ways. Just a few weeks in, he was brushing his teeth and was startled to see his tricep and forearm twitch in time to his brushstrokes.

 

“You’re doing real well,” Brock said. He’d coached him for the first few weeks, but then allowed him to go his own way, more for scheduling reasons than anything else – between maintaining a 4.0 GPA, football practice, and his own lifting sessions, Brock didn’t really have time to babysit Ben in the weight room.

 

But the regulars soon accepted Ben as one of their own. His dedication and focus could not go unnoticed. As January turned to February turned to March turned to April, it became clear that Ben wasn’t going anywhere – he became a regular in his own right, trading nods with other regulars who lifted when he lifted, sometimes even having brief chats about nutrition and form in the longer rests between heavy sets. The first time someone asked him to spot them on a bench press, Ben played it cool, but he could barely contain his pride – it was like a sign that he belonged there, now.

 

It was nearly the end of term. Ben’s pudgy middle had melted away, and he had added a solid 30 lbs of lean mass to his once-slender frame. He was still far from a mass monster – far even from a bodybuilder – but, even clothed, anyone with a trained eye could see that he lifted pretty seriously.

 

Brock was in the bathroom, shirt off, designer briefs straining to contain the double boulders of his ass, his thick cock and generous balls stretching the pouch. His stance was wide to accommodate his freaky-big quads, which, nevertheless, pressed together midway down to his knees. He was throwing poses into the mirror, crunching his abs, flexing his arms. “Dude,” he said, sticking his head into the room he shared with Ben, “whatcha weighing these days?”

 

“Uh, I dunno, like 175, 178. Why?”

 

“Get in here.”

 

Ben set aside his book, stood up, and walked over. “What?”

 

“Shirt off,” Brock said, gesturing at Ben’s chest.

 

Ben shrugged. Four months of changing in the locker room had erased most of his former modesty. He shucked his shirt, which offered surprising resistance as he tugged it off – he realized, with a surprise, that maybe he was getting too big for it.

 

“Look at us, bro,” Brock said, shuffling so he stood behind Ben. Wider and taller by a fair margin, Brock filled the mirror’s frame without even trying. But, Ben was shocked to see that he held his own. Brock’s pecs were enormous, bulbous really, like two halves of a beachball pushing out from his ribcage, his big nipples pointing toward the ground. But Ben’s pecs were square, high and tight, with a little cleavage between them – and they were particularly full towards his collarbone. Brock grunted his approval. “You’ve been hitting that incline press, haven’t you? Your pecs are really coming in, nice and full. Throw me a bi.” Ben grinned and flexed his right arm. Brock reached over, adjusted the angle.

 

“What, are you teaching me to pose?” Ben asked, joking.

 

“Yes,” Brock said, quite seriously.

 

“Oh! Uh, this OK?”

 

Brock nodded. “Throw up the other arm, now.” Ben did, and Brock similarly adjusted it. “Try and remember this angle. Makes the arms look bigger from the front.”

 

“Dude, I thought you weren’t a bodybuilder.” Brock often corrected people who mistook him as a bodybuilder – he was a powerlifter.

 

“No, I’m not a bodybuilder. But you are.”

 

“What.”

 

“Don’t believe me? Just look in the mirror, bro.”

 

Ben cast a critical eye in the mirror. He let the double bi fall and experimentally flexed a few other areas. Wherever he flexed, a muscle jumped in obedient response. But he was hardlybig. “I guess,” he said, skeptically. “But I’m still really small.”

 

Brock smirked. “And the fact that you said that is what tells me that you’re gonna get huge,my friend. Look at you. You look like an underwear model. You’ve got that small-boned frame, those striking facial features, a perfect 5’11” height, and now you’ve got nice, toned, ‘not too big’ muscles – in most people’s eyes, you’re almost an ideal male specimen.”

 

Ben caught Brock’s gaze in the mirror, held it for a moment. “But we’re not ‘most people,’ are we?”

 

“No sir, we are not,” Brock said. “Like I said. You’re a bodybuilder. Lat spread.”

 

Ben did his best attempt. Brock’s serious demeanor broke a little. “Hoo boy,” he said, “we’re gonna have to work on this one. Flare the lats. Bring the shoulder-blades down. Better. Not there yet but better.”

 

Ben grinned. “Well, why don’t you show me how it’s done, big guy?”

 

Wordlessly, Brock turned. There was barely enough room in the small bathroom for both of them; his huge glutes and his ultra-thick back thrust into Ben’s face, pushed him back against the sink. Brock’s back was jam-packed with more meat than his frame could handle. He brought his arms and shoulders up, and then back and down, flaring his lats out out out out out, wider and wider and wider. “Fuck!” Ben heard himself say. “Dude, I haven’t noticed, but can you even fit through our door?”

 

“Gotta angle myself sideways a little bit,” Brock grunted, flexing. He shifted into a rear double bicep pose, the caps of his deltoids crowding up towards his face, the peaks of his biceps reaching up towards his fist. “Not that I’m complaining.”

 

“Holy shit,” Ben said, taking it all in. He was so close to Brock that he could see the beads of sweat forming on his lightly tanned skin, could see the angry red stretch marks where Brock’s muscles had grown faster than his skin could handle. “How big are your arms, even?”

 

Brock exhaled forcefully. “Haven’t measured for a little while. Almost 24” last time I did.”

 

Ben whistled. “Dude, I thought you couldn’t get any bigger because of ball.”

 

Brock dropped the bicep pose and turned to face Ben. “Watching you grow this term, I guess I got inspired. I made a decision. I love football. But it’s a distraction. What I really want in life is this: to be the most massive muscular motherfucker I can possibly be. So I’m quitting the team. Which brings me to something else.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“You’re not going back to that Podunk shithole for the summer, are you?”

 

“What else can I do?”

 

“Me and you. Let’s rent a little house – I got a friend who’s moving out and we can take his place. Spend the summer lifting and eating. Let’s grow, you fucker. Let’s get absolutely fucking massive. Blow some minds when we show up for the start of term in September. Whaddya say?”

 

Ben’s head was spinning. “That’d be the best thing in the world,” he said. “But I don’t know if I can afford it.”

 

“Talk to Tom at the gym. They need a student to work the front desk over the summer. It pays OK. He’s seen you working out, sees how dedicated you are, how you’re a no bullshit kind of person. You even rack weights other people leave on the floor, you fucking boyscout. He says the job’s yours if you want it. I’ve got an offer to bounce at a club. Maybe when you get a little bigger you can join me there, if you want. Money won’t be a problem. So whaddya say?”

 

Ben turned to the mirror, took a long look at Brock’s massive, pumped frame, the way his skin stretched paper thin over every unbelievably bloated muscle. Ben popped his pecs. He liked how they had a bit of swell and sweep to them, the beginnings of roundness, the littlest line of cleavage. But he had so much more to grow, so much more size to gain. He wanted to be as big as Brock. No. He wanted to be bigger than Brock. He wanted to have trouble fitting through doors, to have people stare when he walked past – he wanted to be a 320 lbs superheavyweight bodybuilder.

 

Become the man you want to be. And that’s what you want to be. So that’s what you’re gonna be.

 

“What do I say?,” Ben finally answered, a grin splitting his face. “Big brother, do you even have to ask? This summer. Me and you. Four month grow-a-thon. Fuck yes. Let’s do it. Let’s get huge.”

[spacevlad]

Wow, YES. Best story intro I've read on here in a while. Can't wait to see what happens next!

[cutlerfan]

I am really looking forword to seeing their hearts and bodies grow massive as they become more intimate. I hope you continue this..it's amazing!

[convolution]

Thanks,

I think that you must have a degree in muscle growth/wish fulfillment

[cutlerfan]

I followed the link to your blog and read all the way through the series. It was incredible!  Such love and mutual understand is rare to see in a story these days. It flowed so easily and swiftly i couldn't help but read to the end. Absolutely Fantastic!  Loved it!

[Wrestlejock646]

One of the best opening chapters I've read in a long time.  I loved it--you even nailed the dialogue between the two.  Really, a great start to what I hope is an epic story to come.

[Mikeytron]

You guys are so kind. I've lurked for such a long time, and was reluctant to step out of the shadows. This story is my first foray into creating muscle growth fiction of my own. I guess it's the result of reading and loving so many classics on this forum and its predecessor, and also my formal training in the literary arts.

Fact is, I put a lot of my heart into this work and it feels so good to have others pick up what I'm laying down.

The whole story is already written (as alluded to above) - so a new installment will go up every day over the next five days, no worries. Can't wait to hear what you all think of the rest of it. ...

[muscle16a]

Hooray.  Finally, a story to sink one's teeth into.

 

Thank you!!!!

[ThickRick]

Niiiice. This is the first growth story that reminds me of how I was inspired to begin lifting by my great, jacked bud Chris. Except my journey started in my 50s.

The next chapter will undoubtedly be inspiring while being sploogeworthy.

Mike, thanks for coming out and publicly sharing your writing with us, not to mention your own hot bod and journey to swoledom.

[Newmassaddict]

Great start!