growth The Heart is a Muscle (Brock and Ben)

[Mikeytron]

Part Two: Out of His Shell (Three Years Later)

Thank you for the kind response to the first part of the story. . . . as will become increasingly clear, I'm a big softie, so it really means a lot. 

“Real strength never impairs beauty or harmony, but it often bestows it, and in everything imposingly beautiful, strength has much to do with the magic.”  - Herman Melville, Moby Dick

Ben lay back with a groan, his eyes shut, soft spring light through the second story window. Shadows cast across his massive build, cast by the hills and valleys of pecs, abs, delts. His body a geography of desire. He felt so good, taking up space, possessing such mass, every flex and twitch a reminder of his size, of what he had become, what he had grown into, what he had made himself. But all of these feelings were secondary to the iron spike of brain-melting bliss that protruded from his groin, freshly buried to the hilt in the tight, warm embrace of his boyfriend Karim’s ass.

“How do you do it?” Ben managed to pant, his eyes flying open, losing his gaze in Karim’s big, liquid, near-black eyes, framed so perfectly by thick, dark eyebrows, shaped so that his face always had a friendly, open aspect. Karim straddled Ben’s lap, sat upright, knees meeting Ben’s flared lats, hands cupping Ben’s various bulges as if constantly confirming and reconfirming their reality. The look of awe in Karim’s eyes was too much for Ben – his slim little lover never failed to be overwhelmed by Ben’s sheer mass, and Karim’s reaction always overwhelmed Ben in turn – so Ben shut his eyes once more, pushed his back into the mattress, thrust his hips hard, easily countering all of Karim’s weight, bucking him in the air. Ben stopped there. This felt way too good to blow his load in the first minute.

“How do I do what?” Karim asked, bobbing gently on Ben’s granite-hard dick in the aftermath of Ben’s single huge thrust. Karim’s childhood tutors had been very good, leaving only the slightest trace of accent – but it drove Ben wild, the slight unpredictable glide of certain vowels as they left Karim’s mouth. The rapid twitches and spasms of Karim’s butt belied his gentle, measured tone. Karim was on the verge of losing his mind to a delirium of lust; Ben could tell.  

Ben groaned, bucked wildly twice more, and then forced himself again to slow down, hold back. He couldn’t spurt yet, this had to last. Every nerve was engulfed in flame. “Eighteen months and every time we do this it feels better than before.” Karim chuckled and hummed knowingly, a warm baritone hum. The muscular contractions and soundwaves sent a flood of new sensation down Ben’s tightly-enveloped cock. “Oh, shit, careful, careful,” Ben moaned. Karim smirked at him, cocked a knowing eyebrow, and ground his ass against Ben’s tight balls. The big muscle man was losing his composure. “You’re, uh, you’re gonna make me, uh … lose my mind!” Karim knew exactly how to bring him to the edge of orgasm and leave him there for seeming eternity.

“What, little old me, make a big 270 lbs hunk of beef like you go crazy?” Karim hefted his thick spear of a cock, more than eleven inches of veiny fuckmeat that had bobbed with the rhythm of Ben’s spasmodic thrusts. Karim bent it down, rubbed it against Ben’s big cobble-stone abdominals, bowing out and snapping tight, emerging and disappearing and emerging with each of Ben’s volcanic breaths, quickening as eruption drew nearer. Ben whimpered, feeling Karim’s outrageous fat organ roll against the ridges and valleys of his abs. He was, indeed, a 270 lbs slab of muscle reduced to a whimpering panting mess of brain-breaking pleasure – brought to the brink of erotic madness by a man only slightly more than half his size. Karim was intelligent, kind, cultured, remarkably handsome in a fine, small-boned way, his body a perfectly proportioned 5’8”, his ass two warm light brown globes guarding a narrow portal to a realm of pure pleasure – Ben would‘ve loved him regardless of what his dick looked like. But the fact that his devoted boyfriend had the largest cock Ben had ever seen – and, after he’d started lifting and had come out of his shell, he’d seen a good number, especially in that first year – well … it was almost too much to consider. Karim’s thick, veiny 11.5” looked even larger considering his slim build and short stature – it verged on the ridiculous, the cartoonish, the freakish, which is exactly what turned Ben on more than anything else. Freaks of masculine excess pushed Ben beyond the brink of reason and into a delirium of pleasure.

 

Karim was still grinding his fat log of a dick into Ben’s heaving abs, smearing precum around like some sort of holy balm. He knew exactly what he was doing. “Oh, fuck, K, oh fuck, I’m not gonna be able to hold off much longer,” Ben said, words tumbling out of his mouth, urgent.

 

Karim smiled, flashing his perfect white teeth. “Then don’t hold back, beast. Fuckin’ wreck me.” That incongruous profanity, and, again, that slight accent – just perceptible, partly upper class pan-European, partly-Maghrebi Arabic – Karim’s father was Algerian, his mother a dainty from Tunis – partly American slang picked up from action movies, partly something else that was indefinable, pure and unique to Karim. These were the flourishes, the extra details, that brought these experiences beyond sex and into some other realm.

 

‘Fuckin’ wreck me’ was all the invitation Ben needed. With a deep growl that seemed to come from the center of his overgrown body, Ben grabbed Karim, holding him in place, speared on his cock. Ben rose to his knees and flipped Karim’s legs over the two meaty boulders he called his shoulders. He started slamming into him with abandon, pounding Karim’s beautiful velvet ass into oblivion with steady, quick rhythm.

 

“Fuck! Ugh! Unh!” Ben held nothing back; the same strength that allowed him to deadlift almost seven hundred pounds was now ramming Karim with a vengeance – and Karim egged him on, yelling encouragements between groans and moans.

 

Ben finished more quickly than he wanted to, but the erotic momentum was impossible to resist. With a wordless roar, his mind empty of everything but sensation, he slammed himself into place and began to pump his load deep into Karim. Five, six, seven, eight spurts – and more, smaller after-shocks, quivering spasms, a good dozen. Ben placed a thick arm on either side of Karim’s slender torso, veins bulging and spiraling down the thick twin pillars, transferred his weight to his palms, panting, totally spent.

 

“Stay in me,” Karim instructed. Ben nodded, too breathless to speak, his monstrous muscular form heaving with each breath. Karim was masturbating himself now, using both hands. “Spit on my dick, muscle freak.” Ben did as instructed.  “Now flex for me.”

 

Ben nodded, giving a double bicep pose. Karim watched, full of awe. His jaw-dropper of a dick spasmed visibly in his hands even as his rhythm faltered along with his grip on reality. “Fuck, you’re huge,” he muttered.

 

Ben grunted, dropped his arms to his waist, popped his pecs, flared his lats. His arms and back had lately grown so large that sometimes, when pumped, he had trouble getting his hands to his waist to complete the pose. “Gonna get bigger, too,” he said. “Remember when we met? I was just hitting 210. Hadn't even been lifting a year. Yeah, I could feel your eyes on me from across the classroom even then. Soaking up your helpless gaze. Now look at me. Fuck, just look at me. Just think – I did all this growing in less than two years. Of course I’m gonna get bigger. A lot bigger. Fuck.”

 

Karim bit his lower lip and stifled a moan. The pace of his strokes increased. “Yeah?”

 

Ben nodded, then crouched into a most muscular pose, flexing everything as hard as he could, his still stiff dick nestled cozily in Karim’s cum-filled hole. “Yeah, you know I’m gonna get so huge. I know you want me to – fuckin’ musclebeast, swelling bigger by the day.” Veins popped to the surface of Ben’s pale paper-thin skin; he seemed to visibly swell, filling Karim’s field of vision, this massive heap of meat, growing larger and larger, his skin straining to hold it all in, the individual fibres of each muscle clearly visible as Ben forced more and more blood into them, flexing with every ounce of strength he commanded.

 

“Ooh, fuck,” Karim said, feeling himself losing control. “You look like … you’re gonna burst.”

 

Ben cocked an eyebrow, smirked, and somehow doubled down, flexing harder still, new fibres and veins popping, skin stretching to the limit. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, you sick fuck? Maybe I will. I’m growing so fast, I don’t know if my skin can keep up.” Ben gave a quick, unexpected thrust of his hips, nailing Karim’s prostate without warning. Karim’s breath caught in his throat, and his massive cock erupted, shooting ropes of semen onto Ben’s straining musculature. He gasped and grunted, like the force being shunted through his gargantuan cock was too much for his small frame to handle. Spurt after spurt after spurt, baptizing Ben’s mind-bending musculature with load after load. Finally his whole body went limp, his cock still drooling. Ben gathered him in his cum-drenched arms, nestled him in their shared bed, feathered his face and torso with light kisses.

 

It was the afterglow. Karim came to his senses wrapped in Ben’s enormous arms. They’d taped them at 22” last week, larger than Karim’s slender thigh. Only half-awake himself, Ben gently nibbled the nape of Karim’s neck, breathing in his essence, his lover’s scent reminiscent of toasted spices, sandalwood, sea salt. They lay locked in this post-coital embrace for a timeless moment. Karim remembered when he’d first seen Ben. Indeed, it had been more than sixty pounds ago – or about twenty months, as mortals measured time.

 

Karim was a young man of leisure from a wealthy family, attending American university more or less as a way to spend a few years in America, taking whatever classes suited his fancy, perhaps working his way towards a BA, perhaps not, enjoying the insulated bubble of a northeastern liberal arts college. He was sitting in his desk, first day of the Introduction to American Literature class, leafing through Moby Dick, when Ben walked into the room – but of course, Karim did not even know his name, yet. It was the fall of Ben’s second year; he’d been lifting seriously for only nine months, but he’d spent the summer doing little else, engaged in a four month grow-a-thon with his housemate and best friend, Brock. Ben had spent the whole summer gorging himself on protein-rich food, working the front desk of the campus gym – soaking in gym culture, thinking of little else beyond muscle, in a constant state of anabolism. He’d transformed from the gawky skinny-fat theatre nerd who’d come to college just to escape overprotective parents and a conservative small town. He now resembled a solidly built quarterback, if perhaps one with a poetic or artistic side. He was 5’11”, 210 lbs, with intense blue eyes, a proud Roman nose, thick black hair, lips at once luscious and firm. Karim’s mouth was dry and his dick was hard, which could pose a real problem when one was endowed as he was. Karim remembered nothing of the dusty old professor’s first lecture; he could not take his eyes off the beautiful, solid specimen of masculinity sitting two rows over, three desks ahead. Karim did remember one thing – the professor going around the room, getting people to say their name and a little bit about themselves, why they were taking this class.

 

“I’m Karim. I’ve lived the last eight years in the Netherlands but my family is Algerian. I want to know more about America.” The words sounded so vapid in his own ears, his strange accent so clunky. He desperately wanted to say something that would catch the man’s attention, but what?

 

Then it was the beautiful built man’s turn to speak. His voice matched his body, a strong, warm, deep voice, full of easy confidence. “I’m Ben. I’m taking this because it’s a prerequisite for some upper year lit seminars I want to take. But I’ve also really enjoyed reading Faulkner, Hemingway, Dickinson, Whitman – I want to learn more about them, to read others from the same tradition.” Ben. Karim wrote it on the first page of Moby Dick so he wouldn’t forget. It was clear he was no lunkhead. Ben shifted, as if embarrassed for revealing his bookwormish side. Just in that simple, casual rearranging of his body, his tricep flexed against the thin cotton of his t-shirt sleeve and his quad strained at the seam of his jeans. He hadn’t replaced much of his wardrobe, and clothes that were loose a year ago were tight and revealing now. Karim inhaled deeply, imagining a few particles of Ben were suspended in the air, and were now inside him. He breathed deeply, again, as if by that action he could draw this dream of a man nearer.        

 

Then, almost two years later, a vibration through the structure of the house interrupted Karim’s reminiscing. Heavy footfalls, a key in a door, a familiar rough but friendly baritone voice. “Anybody home?”

 

Karim turned in Ben’s arms, seeing his enormous lover was half-asleep. Once Ben had been a 210 lbs college stud; now he was now a 270 lbs bodybuilder – but he still had that regal face, and he still loved Faulkner. Karim breathed deep, again, just as he had done in that classroom on the day they – well, not ‘met.’ On the day he had first encountered this living paragon of masculinity, even now drenched in Karim’s seed.

 

“Ben. Hey, Ben. Wake up. Brock’s home.”

 

Ben’s eyes opened and he smiled immediately. “Great,” he murmured happily. “Let’s see if he wants to eat.”

 

It had taken Karim some time to tame his jealously where Brock was concerned. Ben was devoted to Brock in an incredibly deep way, devoted in a fashion rarely seen, especially between two men. But Karim had come to see that it was an intense form of brotherly devotion. As far as Ben was concerned, Brock had saved him from a pale, unsatisfying life, had taught him how to be a man, led him down the path to self-fulfillment. Brock was the big brother Ben had never had but so desperately needed. Ben would follow Brock through anything, would even bleed for him, if need be. During one of their early fights, before Karim understood the nature of this bond, Ben had turned, frustrated at Karim’s jealously. “You like this, don’t you?” he said, flexing his bicep into a gnarly orb of mutant flesh. “This exists because of Brock. If I never met Brock, or if he’d been your garden variety douchebag, I’d still be a skinny self-loathing coward of a boy. You love me? You love what I am, the man I am? That means you love Brock too.”

 

And now Karim did – love Brock too, that is. Really, Brock made it easy.

 

“Hey, big man!” Ben called, leaping from the bed, not bothering to clothe himself, or wipe up the dried cum that crusted his monumental muscles. He trotted down the hall, his chubbed-up cock wagging in time with his steps like a happy puppy’s tail, the juicy orbs of his pale ass bouncing in time with his steps, his broad shoulders threatening to scrape the walls of the narrow hallway. Karim watched him go with a smile before climbing out of bed. More modest, he hauled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt before following Ben down to the ground floor.

 

“You massive dirt bag,” Brock said, not seriously, dodging the cum-caked Ben, who kept trying to catch the well-dressed big man in a hug. “You creature of filth. Do you always answer the door like this? What if I had Matt with me?” Karim was newly taken aback at the sight of Brock. People always were, when they first saw him, and he’d been away for four days, on a campus visit to a PhD program that was courting him. But four days was long enough for Karim’s brain to start to forget how abnormally huge he was, to diminish him in memory simply to make his unbelievable size less of a challenge, psychologically.

 

If Ben, 5’11” and 270, was the size of a superheavyweight bodybuilder, perhaps even an Olympia contender, Brock was several orders of magnitude larger again. 6’3”, short blond hair, ice-blue eyes, sturdy strong facial features, he tipped the scale at 335 lbs, all of it muscle, perhaps a little smoother than Ben’s freaky vascularity – but only a little. He was the same height as Craig Golias, but he had 15-20 lbs on that famous freak, all of it lean tissue, and he was more aesthetically pleasing to boot. He was almost too large for built environments – he had to squeeze through many doorframes, he was too big for average plane seats, he regularly broke furniture, he had to have most of his clothes tailor-made. He was one of the few people who could make Ben appear normal-sized – next to him, Karim looked positively miniscule, 8 inches shorter, almost 200 lbs lighter. Karim boggled at the sight of him – he was just beyond description, beyond belief, his beachball pecs, his arms the size of a cyclist’s thighs, his ass like two overgrown prize-winning pumpkins stuffed into tailor-made dress-pants until the fabric was so stretched out it was almost shiny.

 

“So what if Matt was with you? What’s so special about Matt? Aww, your favourite fuck-buddy. He’s lifted with us plenty of times, so he’s seen me naked lots, in the locker room, in the shower. And a big slut like you can’t be afraid of a little wholesome semen – keeps your skin smooth and youthful, you know. C’mere and give me a bro-grab, you wuss,” Ben laughed, darting at Brock. Brock grew a little serious, and Ben immediately stopped his joking and drew back. “Woah, hold on. You’re serious. What’s up?”

 

Brock shifted uncomfortably, shrugging his wider-than-a-yard shoulders, which was like watching an avalanche of boulders covered in acres of soft cotton, if such an avalanche could become uncertain and indecisive. “You know,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

 

“Oh my god,” Karim said. Ben looked at him; Brock kept his eyes down. “Ben. Brock’s in love.”

 

“Whaaaaat,” Ben said.

 

“No, it’s true, look at him.”

 

Ben did, carefully. “Holy shit, Karim. You’re right.”

 

Brock laughed but it sounded forced. “What? A guy’s allowed.”

 

“Of course you’re allowed, doofus. It’s just . . . it’s kind of new for you, isn’t it? You've always been Mr No Strings Attached.”

 

Brock finally looked up, and his face was pink – he was blushing! The mountain of a man was blushing! “I've just been realizing, trying to decide where I end up in the fall. Matt’s really special to me. I mean, we’ve been fucking around for a while, fuck, you’ve made us both breakfast a dozen times I’m sure, but it kind of hit me in the last week or two. Especially on this campus visit. When we’re together, it just feels … right, in a way that it never has with anyone before. I don’t ever want to be away from him. I think  . . . I think I want him with me. WIth me.”

 

Ben was silent for a second, processing. Then his full, firm lips cracked into a huge smile and he laughed wordlessly, joyously. “Shit, dude, that’s awesome!” Ben laughed. “My best bro’s in love! Fuck, I gotta go shower this shit off me, put some clothes on and give you a real hug without ruining your fancy outfit. I’m so happy for you. This is great. So great.”

 

Brock grimaced. “Don’t be premature. Maybe Matt just thinks I’m another fuck. Maybe he doesn’t want a boyfriend.”

 

“No way,” Karim interjected. “I’ve seen the way Matt looks at you, Brock. He’s hopelessly devoted if you say the word. Ten thousand percent. Trust me on that.”

 

Brock smiled gratefully at him then, and Karim couldn’t believe there was a time when he’d been jealous of the big man, a time when he wished Brock would go away and never return.

 

“OK, dudes, I’m cleaning myself up,” Ben said. “K, why don’t you get some food going for us all, steaks or something.” He leaned in to give Karim a passionate kiss and a slap on the ass before trotting off to the bathroom. Karim watched him go, and sensed the massive form of Brock next to him, also watching Ben’s receding form.

 

“He’s looking real thick. You guys going ahead with your summer plan?” Brock asked.

 

“Yeah,” Karim said. “It’s all set up. We’ve got just an insane amount of roids and HGH and ancillaries on ice, the on-site doctor to administer and monitor it all, we’ve got the special-order training facility, all the food on order, a massage therapist to come in regularly to do deep tissue - everything. He’ll be sleeping in a high oxygen environment, even. Bless the Gulf States, is all I can say.”

 

Brock shook his head. “Four months in a high-tech growth-lab set up by his wealthy muscle-obsessed boyfriend and a cabal of similarly-minded trust fund sluts. That Ben. He was always the freakiest of the freaks deep down in his heart. Soon he’s gonna have the body to match.”

 

“Your invitation still stands, you know.” Karim said. “You can join us. Those growth-obsessed trust fund sluts, as you say, would love to get their paws on you.”

 

“Nah. I’m still growing naturally. I don’t wanna upset whatever anabolic state my body seems to default to. If I ever plateau, I’ll get in touch. Plus, you know, I want to stay close to Matt. I can’t ask him to be my boyfriend and then disappear into the desert for four months.”

 

“Sure, sure,” Karim said, turning to walk into the kitchen. "That makes sense."

 

Brock shadowed him. He was still uncharacteristically serious. “Listen, Karim. Ben means … Ben means a lot to me. Best friend doesn’t even cover it. I feel like, if anything bad happens to him because of this, it’s me that set him down this path. Like if his liver says “fuck this!” or his heart explodes or something awful like that. Make sure that doesn’t happen. I want him huge and happy, but I want him healthy too. I want him here thirty years from now.”

 

Karim met Brock’s ice-blue gaze with his own deep, dark, kind look. “I promise. I love Ben, Brock. I love him more than I thought it was possible to love another person. If something bad happened to him, it would end my world. I am going to take every precaution and then some.”

 

Brock nodded. “Good, good.” Then, as if he couldn’t resist, he continued. “So, ah, how big do the doctors and trainers think he’ll …”

 

“If it all goes to plan, he’ll roll into the first day of his PhD at UCLA a lean 315. Maybe more, depending on how he responds to the drugs.”

 

Brock whistled. “Shiiiit. I gotta up my game.”

 

There was a sound like a refrigerator falling down a mountain. It was Ben, running downstairs to rejoin the two most important people in his world. He launched all 270 lbs of himself at Brock. Any lesser man would be knocked to the ground by his tackle, probably with some broken bones or bruised internal organs. Brock, though, absorbed the incredible force like it was a friendly pat on the shoulder. Ben squeezed with all his might, knots and cords popping up on his gargantuan arms. He tackled low and grabbed Brock around the waist simply because no one’s arms were long enough to encircle his mighty chest. “Loverboy,” Ben said, face muffled by Brock’s thick lats, “you don’t know how happy I am for you. You and Matt, huh? Call him, get him to come over, Karim will cook us all dinner. And then K and I will get out of your hair and you can get all lovey-dovey. This is our last week together, you know? All of us, I mean. We should have a party. We’re off to the desert next week. Heh, they’ll probably have to fly me back in a cargo crate, I’ll be too big for anything else. And then it’s California. And you’ll be in soggy ol’ New England. At least you’ll have that tattooed freak to keep you warm. You know when I say ‘freak’ it’s a compliment, right?”

 

“OK, OK, you dork!” Brock cried, cutting off the rapid flow of words, enormous arms in the air, looking down at Ben, who was still latched on to him in the fiercest hug. “I get it, I get it. I hope you don’t treat your boyfriend this way, he’d snap in half.”

 

“Oh, I’m very gentle,” Ben said, tightening his grip. “Gentle as a lamb,” he growled. “Get in here, Karim, show Brock how much we’ll miss him.”

 

Karim set down his knife, wiped his hands on the dishtowel, and took in the tableau before him. What a sight they were, Brock and Ben, two handsome writhing heaps of muscle – he doubted there had ever been a pair of friends quite like them before. Brock met his gaze, grinned, cocked his head to second Ben's invitation. With a smile he couldn't contain even if he wanted to, Karim clambered onto the mountain of flesh that was his kneeling boyfriend's meaty back and joined the embrace. He never knew such happiness could be possible.

 

(Part Three tomorrow!)

[NerdJock]

This has to be one of the best written stories I've read in a while!  I'm eagerly looking forward to the next part. 

[crushme99]

I haven't read anything this good in a long, long time.  Mikeytron, you have hidden your light under a basket for far too long.  Thank you for letting that light shine now.  This is such great work.  

[Hanugumo]

I so hope that all the happiness in this story won't go away. It would be so great if a story without any hardships and only happiness woukd be written. ='3 <3

[Mikeytron]

 Growing Legend (Part Three)

 

 

Continuing.... throwing you a bit in medias res here, framing and focalising through characters you won't first recognize, but it'll all come clear. Ahem..

 

 

 

There was a man leaning on the gym’s front desk when Tommy came back from the washroom. He’d never seen the guy before – if he had, he’d sure as hell remember it. The guy was built – that was the only word for it. About six feet, probably closing in on 300 lbs, full of stylized tattoos – just a broad chunk of inked muscle, oozing power, rippling and warping the fabric of reality around him, the way truly huge bodybuilders do, to those who can perceive such things. This guy clearly didn’t lift here, but he clearly lifted – frequently –somewhere. Yeah, the guy was memorable, so Tommy was pretty sure he’d never seen him before – but what clinched it was his ass.

 

 

 

To be blunt: it was the most disproportionate, most protruberant pair of muscular glutes Tommy had ever seen on a man, and he spent a good part of each day around bodybuilders and powerlifters, gymrats, meatheads, roidfreaks, disciples of iron. Big, meaty buttocks came with the territory, and few complained, except when trying to find pants that fit. A big round squatter’s butt was a badge of honour to be earned, and besides, people of all genders usually liked ‘em, how they looked, how they felt.

 

 

 

But this guy, he must have been genetically predisposed to a big firm bubble butt before he ever laid hands on a dumbbell. He must have clued in to the fact that his glutes over-responded to training, blowing up, growing out, rising like bread dough in warm sunlight – and he must have dialed his lower body routine up to eleven in response to that discovery. Fuck balance, fuck proportion – here was an outlandish, delirious, monumental, monstrous musclebutt.

 

 

 

He wore a pair of emerald rugby shorts, so loose around the waist that even from here Tommy could see the slack in the waistband – but so, so, so tight on his gigantic bodybuilder butt, bunching up on his enormous and super-defined thighs, striations twitching with each miniscule shift of his weight. The fabric in those poor shorts was under serious strain, threatening to split in a dozen places. Then Tommy noticed his calves, bigger than softballs, twin orbs covered in veins as if clutched in place by roots, or by the gnarled fingers of a fairytale witch. Tommy thought of himself as mostly straight, but he could appreciate certain male bodies. Right now, those freaky calves, those long thick too-big-for-his-shorts thighs, and above all those outrageous globes of ass like twin planets, planets that seemed to expand to fill Tommy’s vision – it was all too much. His mouth was dry, his breath quick, his dick rocketing from wet noodle to titanium rod in record time. He did an about-turn and marched right back to the bathroom, striding purposefully into the stall, whipping out his nothing-special-nothing-shameful dick, bending it down, giving it exactly three light, almost feathery strokes, shooting a mega load directly into the toilet bowl. He just came and came and came, like he hadn’t come in weeks – big, ropey spurt after big ropey spurt, forcefully hitting the water. His limbs quaked, but he clenched his mouth shut, kept his breath caught in his throat, didn’t allow even a single whimper to escape – he was practiced at the art of silent orgasm.

 

 

 

Tommy hadn’t even seen this guy’s face. But, frankly, he could look like a troll from the waist up, and Tommy wouldn’t care. All he wanted to do was bury his face between those insane globes of meat and never remove it. He could suffocate there, for all he cared. That ass was sublime, in the truest sense – it was provoking crazy, dangerous, destructive thoughts.

 

 

Tommy dribbled his last into the toilet bowl. His balls ached from wanting to force out even more, his dick giving little twitching dry heave aftershocks.

 

 

 

“OK,” Tommy said to himself, watching clouds of semen slowly pinwheel in the toilet bowl. “OK.” He dabbed himself with some toilet paper, flushed the lot, exited the stall, ran the tap until the water was ice cold, dunked his head under the flow. Stifling a gasp, he held himself in place for a good five or six seconds.

 

 

 

 

“OK,” he said again, staring at himself in the mirror, soaking wet short brown hair, receding around the temples. A year ago, he considered himself in the second rank, here at the gym. Tommy was an all-American meathead, Long Island subtype, half-Italian half-Polish, all man. A solid 220 on a 5’9” frame, he was no dilettante. His lifts were respectable, and his torso filled his L and XL shirts with firm round shapes in the right places. He fucked girls but rarely kept a girlfriend. He’d dabbled with steroids and he’d toyed with but rejected the idea of competing in local shows – he figured the diet would be too much of a bitch. But that all changed a year ago. Everyone had to readjust their perceptions, had to step up their game in response – the entire pecking order of the gym had to be renegotiated. Tommy was 240 now, the L shirts had been retired and the XLs were snugger than ever – but he felt smaller, in a way he hadn’t felt for years.

 

 

 

And now this unknown freak out front!

 

 

 

Tommy’s XL gym t-shirt, which he had to wear while on shift, was wet from the sink, clinging to his nicely mounded traps, but he didn’t care. “Get a grip,” he told his reflection. Maybe a quick turn around the gym floor would help.

 

 

 

Tommy found the weight room exactly as he expected. It was a Monday night, so the Legend was lifting, and everyone else was pretending to lift while actually watching that living mountain of freak flesh throw around unheard-of poundage. The stranger out front with the gnarly calves, the superthick thighs, the almost supernatural pair of glutes, all waiting at the front desk – he flew from Tommy’s mind, just as he hoped. Tommy was just in time to see the Legend deadlift the equivalent of a small car. The big man approached the bar, breathing heavy already, his shoulders and chest heaving, shirt off – no one cared – flesh ruby-red and stretched onion-skin thin over muscles pumped beyond the maximum and then pumped larger still. Seeing the Legend in full pump was almost scary. Veins popped and writhed in every direction as if frantically scrambling to find some space to exist between the muscle and the overextended skin. The skin itself looked on the verge of rupture at a dozen different points. Angry purple-red stretch marks like tiger stripes etched themselves in the Legend’s pecs, deltoids, thighs – undeniable proof that the freak was still growing. Runnels of sweat carved geography into the vast plains of his body, dripped from his broad nose, hung like stalactites off the curves and overhangs of his various muscles. His was the face of a blond Viking god; hearty, strong, full of lust for life and masculine good humor when at rest – but barely holding back a berserker’s fury when approaching the bar, where the dam would burst with a roar and his full devastating power would be unleashed on the hapless bits of mere metal unfortunate enough to lie in his path.

 

 

 

And Tommy was just in time to watch.

 

 

 

How big was the man they called the Legend? It was hard to say. People who claimed to have insider info would quote numbers, but the numbers changed. Or rather, the numbers kept going up. He started lifting here in September, and in those first weeks people were quoting “335 lbs” and “340 lbs”, “25 inch arms,” “26 inch arms,”  that kind of thing – Legend was 6’3”, so this was within the realm of the human, but only barely.

 

 

But the Legend kept growing. And growing. And growing. In January and February those same people were saying 360. 365. 370. Now, in April, the gossip was 380, 385. Just yesterday someone said they’d seen the Legend weigh in, last workout, at 392 lbs. The scale only went to 400. The guy swore he’d seen it with his own eyes, said that he’d asked the mountain of a man about it. The Legend laughed and said he was aiming to bust through 400 before May. “Maybe I’ll stop there for a little while, get my bearings,” the guy had reported him as saying. “Maybe.” And then he winked.

 

 

 

“I asked him how he was even gonna weigh himself after he broke 400,” the guy said. “Get this – he said ‘oh, maybe I’ll head out to the weighscales at the truck stop.’”

 

 

 

 

“Did he laugh?”

 

 

 

“Yeah, he laughed.”

 

 

 

“Then it was a joke.”

 

 

 

“Yeah, but … how is he gonna weigh himself when he goes over 400?”

 

 

 

Tommy, who’d been silent, listening, said, without thinking, “two scales, one under each foot. Add the numbers together.”

 

 

 

The guys were silent for a second. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”

 

 

 

Tommy’s brain scrambled. “Nah, nah, it’s just a pretty obvious solution, bro. If I were him, that’s what I’d do.” Tommy’s dick gave a jump in his sweats at that – if I were him.

 

 

 

In fact, Tommy’s dick usually chubbed up around Legend, but it was different from the immediate, mind-erasing ejaculate now erection he’d just experienced because of the mystery man out front. This was moreso to do with the Legend’s unquestionable masculine dominance. Though normally focused on lifting when at the gym, the Legend was friendly, easygoing, wasn’t into being violent or intimidating – but he was just so naturally the superior male specimen – the most superior male specimen – probably on the whole planet – that Tommy’s semi was more about sociality than sex, a smaller piece of maleness aligning itself to the magnetic field of masculinity that was the Legend, like a compass needle finding north.

 

 

 

It wasn’t sexual. Or so Tommy told himself.

 

 

 

Tommy counted the 100 lbs plates crowding either side of the special-order heavy-duty barbell, itself an even 100. 1300 lbs. Tommy knew that was a world record, by an almost shameful margin. But the Legend regularly set and broke those. 

 

 

 

Loosening up, the Legend shook himself, his muscles flopping and hanging under their own immense weight before snapping back into place the moment he tensed them even slightly. He let out a growly breath - Tommy swore the windows shook – stepped to the bar, snapped himself into place with surprising quickness and lack of ceremony, then proceeded to rip the bar off the floor like it was a broomstick. He held it in place for several seconds, shoulders set, thick traps mounded up to his ears – and then the slow, controlled eccentric. Tommy almost burst into applause, but then he realized – the Legend was re-setting. He was doing this weight for reps. Two, three, each as easy as the first. Only on the fourth did he struggle – the upward trajectory of the lift slowing, the bar shaking just a little, the endless row of plates on either side clanking as if nervous. The Legend gave a bestial roar – not as part of a show, merely as a side-effect of the need to access his full strength. The bar went up. As if to show there was never any doubt, he held it in place for even longer than before, and then he set it back down almost gently, always in command of the weight.

 

 

 

Tommy shook his head. If he didn’t regularly see the Legend, he wouldn’t believe such a man could even exist. But here he was.

 

 

 

It was time to get back to the front desk. He was on the clock, after all.

 

 

 

The man with the amazing ass was still there, but now Tommy could approach him from the front, so only his upper half was visible over the desk. He was handsome, young, his face finely formed and masculine. Below the neck, much of the skin Tommy could see was covered in extensive, artfully designed tattoos – to Tommy’s eye they looked Middle Eastern, although the man did not. Light skin with an even tan, light brown hair, clear hazel eyes holding a direct gaze – not challenging, just confident. He had a reserved air, but there was a half-masked twinkle in his eyes, a little quirk at the corners of his mouth that suggested he was accustomed to smiling, even if he looked all business. He wore a tanktop, displaying extensively developed upper body musculature, but nothing as over-the-top as the lower body Tommy knew to be hidden on the other side of the counter. Then Tommy gave himself a shake. This place was warping his perception – in any other context, this guy’s heavy, hanging pecs, his bulbous shoulders, his tree-trunk arms would be considered freakish, outrageous, at the limit of male physical development – but Tommy, and everyone else at this gym, knew better.

 

 

 

“Hey bro!” Tommy said, affecting a casual demeanor. “What can I do for you? You looking to join?”

 

 

 

“Nah,” the guy said, shifting his weight. He leaned in on his elbows and forearms, shoulders rounded forward so they almost resembled beachballs, traps mounded higher than his head – all covered in stylized ink. In this pose, his head almost looked like a turtle’s, emerging from an enormous carapace of pecs, delts, and traps. “This place seems alright, but I’m pretty happy with where I lift right now. It’s near my work.”

 

 

 

“You look like you’d fit in here,” Tommy said. “Lots of big boys throwing iron around inside.”

 

 

 

“Yeah?” The guy’s reserve cracked, as predicted. “You think I might fit in with the big boys?” He popped his pecs twice in quick succession, glanced over at his right delt, mounded up and bigger than his head, then he smirked at Tommy, as if to say come on, I’m the biggest guy there is – I’m king of any mountain you care to name.

 

 

 

“Yeah, you’re a big dude, real big, but this gym’s home to the biggest dude of all, a real freak’s freak. I guarantee you’ve never seen anyone like him before. I wouldn’t believe such a man could exist, if I didn’t see him with my own eyes.”

 

 

There was something in the guy’s expression that Tommy couldn’t read. “Yeah? Tell me about this freak of nature.”

 

 

 

 

“Well, he weighed in at 392 a couple of days ago, for starters.”

 

 

 

“So he’s a fat powerlifter, big deal.”

 

 

 

“No, this guy’s lean. In fact, when he’s got his pump on, he’s kinda scary-vascular.”

 

 

 

“So he’s like seven feet tall, then.”

 

 

 

“Nope – try 6’3”.”

 

 

“Jeezus, how many grams is he pinning week to week?”

 

 

 

“That’s the thing – as far as anyone can tell, he’s natural. I mean, it’s beyond belief. He has to be on stuff. But the dudes who should know say - nope. It’s almost scary to think what might happen if he did get on the juice.”

 

 

 

 

“He’s still growing?”

 

 

 

“Dude, I don’t know if he can be stopped. Every week he’s bigger than the week before. He barely fits through our hallway. You can feel his footsteps shake the floor. You seen Jurassic Park? One of the guys set a glass of water on the desk here and it’s just like T-Rex approaching, you can see the shockwaves. Dude’s barely human. Stick around, see for yourself. He’s inside right now, but he should be done soon.”

 

 

 

“Wow,” the guy said, and Tommy couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or what. There was still something inscrutable in his expression that was throwing Tommy for a loop. He was a heavy-duty bodybuilder with a Cheshire grin. He didn’t say anything else and an awkward silence began to form. Tommy remembered his job.

 

 

 

“Fuck’s sake, I left you waiting for god knows how long, and now here I am gossiping about our gym's Legend. That’s what we call him – the Legend, ‘cause, well, he is. Anyway. What can I do for you, guy? Name’s Tommy, by the way.”

 

 

 

“Hey Tommy. I’m Matt. Actually, I just wanted to surprise my boyfriend. He should be finishing up just about now, but I wanted to make sure he didn’t clue up early or anything. I’d text him but, you know, kinda ruins the whole ‘surprise’ thing.”

 

 

 

“Sure, people boop their cards going and coming, I can look him up in the system, see if he’s still here. What’s his name?”

 

 

 

“Brock,” Matt said.

 

 

 

“Brock… .” Out of habit Tommy started to ask for a surname, but there was only one Brock in the system, and everyone knew who he was – although almost no one here ever called him by that name. “You mean … you’re … . he’s …” Tommy’s brain and mouth weren’t working well together.

 

 

 

Matt gave a short, sharp, not unkind laugh; seismic ripples ran through his mounded musculature. “Yup, sounds like you got it. So is your ‘Legend’ still lifting?”

 

 

Before Tommy could collect his wits and answer, a steady rhythmic tremor became noticeable in the floorboards, growing with each repetition. The door to the gym floor opened and a mountain of male flesh turned itself sideways and carefully scraped through.

 

 

 

 

Brock, still shirtless, drenched in his own sweat, extricated himself from the doorway. The day would come soon, he knew, when they’d have to widen it – he was turning fully sideways now, and the doorframe was basically exfoliating his big ponderous pecs. He turned to face the desk. “Babe!” he exclaimed at the sight of Matt. “Tommy, you sneak, is that why you came in to spy on my last set?” Brock waddled over fast as his fat, exhausted hamstrings would allow. He scooped the 300 lbs tattooed bodybuilder up like he weighed nothing at all. Matt gave an involuntary cry of pleasure which Brock silenced with a passionate liplock. Tommy watched, his jaw on the floor.

 

 

 

After a long, intense kiss, they finally broke to gasp for air – as if the necessity of oxygen was the only thing that could tear their lips apart. “I finished at work early. Thought I’d come surprise you,” Matt said, his full 300 lbs resting easily in Brock’s massive, thick-as-a-waist arms.

 

 

 

“Nice,” Brock said. “Very, very sweet of you.” Without any further conversation, he flipped Matt over his shoulder so that Matt’s unforgettable ass stuck high in the air, directly facing Tommy. “My dick could drill a hole in a concrete wall right now. I hope you came prepared, little man,” Brock rumbled. Sure enough, Brock’s veiny uncut cudgel that Tommy had occasionally seen in the locker room, swinging soft or bobbing semi-erect, was obviously now at full mast, tenting Brock’s black shorts, sticking out – god, nine or ten inches. Brock reached up and ripped away Matt’s emerald rugby shorts like they were made of wet tissue paper. The twin alabaster mountains of Matt’s ass were framed by a simple jockstrap; they parted just enough to show Tommy a butt plug jammed up Matt’s hole. Brock had no way to see this – he was at the wrong angle, those gigantic marble mounds of gluteal muscle, combined with Brock’s own musclebound physique, made it impossible. So instead he casually pried around Matt’s crack with a few thick fingers. Feeling the plug in place, Brock grunted his satisfaction. “Good. Let’s get you home before I throw you down and rut you right here.”

 

 

 

Tommy’s brain finally sputtered to life, but the sound it sent to his mouth didn’t resemble any word. Instead, it was an infantile babble of syllables, an expression of inchoate awe and want. Brock shrugged at him. “Sorry, man – one track mind at the moment.” He nodded towards Matt’s ass, as if that explained it all – and it kind of did. “Heavy deads spike my test like you wouldn’t believe. We’ll get out of your hair.”

 

 

 

With Matt still slung over one shoulder, Brock turned and began walking down the hallway, a hallway only a little wider than he was, extra careful with the added width of Matt. If Brock’s normal footsteps sent subtle vibrations through the structure of the building, the combined weight of both men – almost 700 lbs – made each footfall a true seismic event, rattling windows, setting pictures askew – pictures of proud men, some only half Brock’s size, posing next to bodybuilding trophies. Matt, his upper body draped over the vast throbbing hills and furrows of Brock’s super-pumped back, radiating heat like a stove, raised his head to look back at Tommy. They caught each other’s eye. Matt winked and grinned like a conspiratorial schoolboy, then nodded toward the desk meaningfully. Tommy groaned, gripped the edge of the counter, and shot in his pants. Despite having come not even fifteen minutes earlier, this was easily the most overwhelming orgasm of his life – and he’d never even touched himself. He was still shooting when Brock and Matt turned the corner, his sweatpants soaking and ruined, his iron grip on the counter the only thing keeping him from collapsing in a heap.

 

 

 

The two men – the two gods – were out of sight, but Tommy could still feel the rumble of Brock’s doubly-heavy footsteps, could still see the twin globes of Matt’s perfect ass . Tommy knew he was helpless, a fly in amber - for the rest of his life he’d be in thrall to this moment, to its memory, to the erotic afterimages that were now burned into his psyche.

 

 

 

There was one other thing Tommy knew: he wanted more. Gasping like a just-caught fish, he slumped against the counter. That mischievous, meaningful look in Matt’s eye as the monster of muscle carried him away to fuck him senseless – what did it signify?

 

 

 

Then Tommy saw a carefully folded piece of paper half tucked under the card reader.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

“Fuck, man, you broke it,” Matt gasped, returning to his senses, lying at a strange angle on the tilted remains of their living-room sofa. A crackling fire in the fireplace took the edge off the spring chill. Brock stood between Matt and the fire, a gigantic dark shape, like Jupiter transiting the sun, taking the last swigs of a gallon of whole milk made sludgy-thick with protein powder. He was surveying the destruction he’d wrought, the splintered furniture, Even though he’d come twice already, the evidence of his uncontainable power, how he’d reduced Matt to a fucked-to-oblivion puddle of whimpering flesh, how he’d reduced the sofa to a collection of splintered wood and askew cushions – it sent blood rushing anew to his veiny 9.5”, the foreskin slowly retracting once more, the skin popping over the coronal ridge with an excruciating flash of pleasure.

 

 

 

Then the phone rang. Brock grunted with irritation, but his third erotic crescendo was only just beginning – he could handle a small interruption right now. He answered. “Yeah,” he said, voice gravelly, rumbling.

 

 

 

There was silence on the other end, and then a stammered attempt at words. Brock smirked at Matt, who gave a catlike grin.

 

 

 

“Tommy. I see you got Matt’s little note. Cheeky bastard, ain’t he? No, no, don’t try to talk. We both know what you want, and guess what – it’s your lucky day. Get your tight little Long Island ass over here and we’ll let you watch. Fuck, maybe Matt’ll tag you in once I start to wear him out – we’re about to start round three over here, and I think it’s gonna be a long night. You got the address? Good. Don’t make us wait, little man.”  

 

 

 

Part Four tomorrow.

 

[Mikeytron]

Thanks again, everyone, for being so kind with your feedback. Looking at the calendar, it's kind of ironic that today's installment is more of an erotic romp than a romantic vignette, but there's lots of lovey-dovey content ahead.

 

Ben and Karim are off stage for a bit - you can imagine what they're getting up to, but they will be back, so you'll find out (of course they'll be back, Ben is a total Mary Sue author insert, if it wasn't obvious - me, if I could have authored my own life starting at age 18, basically). 

 

Oh, yeah, and part three, above, is a little less than a year after part two.

[Ro20316]

Ohhh i went and read it all on Tumblr and man please tell me you gonna do something for Sam.

Maybe He and Tommy can meet each tehr and work intoa  beautiful relationship like the one your main chatacters have.

[Mikeytron]

MILD SPOILERS. Highlight to read, I guess? Please let me know if there's a better way to do this:

 

You know, I thought this series was absolutely 100% put to bed. My intent at the end was to imply Sam was going to be emotionally mentored by Brock the same way Ben was in the first installment. But just now I've been reflecting on how much FUN I have writing the Ben character once he's come out of his shell. That + you wanting me to give Sam some resolution makes me wonder if I shouldn't author a sixth part..... hmm......

[perados]

I would love to read what happen in the gulf states

[Mikeytron]

I would love to read what happen in the gulf states

 

Oh, you'll see. But not today - not yet.