Finesse. Expertise. Mastery. Refinement. The techniques one uses to accomplish a thing are often so much more important than the thing itself.
Anyone can make an omelet. Eggs whipped into an amalgam of white and yoke. Some milk or cream. Maybe ham and cheese folded in. Simple.
But it takes a chef with talent to create an omelet you will never forget, a perfect omelet, the one omelet you had that somehow combined all the elements into something new, something amazing, something almost magical. Make that challenge to someone with passion for what they’re doing, with the drive towards perfection and the overwhelming desire to see it done the right way, and you will end up with something that extends beyond anything you thought possible.
Perhaps an awkward and stupid metaphor, but I hope you understand what I’m speaking of. Artists exist in every form of endeavor, from sculpting steel into beauty to cooking meat over a grill.
I was both, wasn’t I? Meat and steel, the perfect combination of strength and power. My body was hungry for growth, and I had been feeding it meager scraps.
I learned this almost immediately as I met with my muscle mentor and he started me from scratch. I had so much to learn, and I had stumbled upon a master sculptor.
Do you know how muscle is built? You need to tear it down to build it up. The reason you’re torturing yourself to force your muscles to grow is because you want to repeatedly tear it so it can repair itself.
Tear it to repair it.
And every time it repairs itself, it’s forming new fibers. You do that over and over as layer upon layer of power swells outward under your skin.
I knew this in principle, but my body was doing something else, or something more. It was already growing muscle on its own. I would naturally grow heavier as the mass increased, but exercising and working out was accelerating that process and increasing its results. Sleep allowed my body to rest and grow as I spent my day punishing my muscles and breaking them down.
Bull watched my workout that first day with a judicious eye and made little comment, offering little guidance. Only when it appeared that I might hurt myself would he intervene. Otherwise he accompanied me as I made my usual rounds to observe.
I could see doubt and disapproval often reflected in his dark features. When I reached for dumbbells I heard his groan. When I loaded plates on the bar, his eyes narrowed. When I sat in the chest machine or stood between the cables and began my admittedly amateur pushing and pulling, he watched my body and in particular the parts of it that these different workouts were designed for.
We spent an hour together (I had not told him that my usual workout routine was two hours at this gym, followed by a meal, then two more hours at my next gym, another meal, and a third two-hour workout at gym number three, all the while sucking down protein supplements and water as my muscles cried out for food to help them grow) and then he told me to cool down with twenty minutes on the treadmill—I never did any cardio work before—and hit the showers for the “end” of that day’s work.
Then we sat down, my muscle mentor and I, to go over his observations.
“It’s obvious you’re very strong,” he said. “You’re loading heavy plates for every workout and managing them without too much strain. That’s impressive. Is a typical workout for you?”
“Typical?” I’d done a full circuit, working everything a little as was my custom. Legs, chest, arms, shoulders, back, abs, glutes. I’d moved from free weights to machines without stopping, feeling myself growing and only wanting more. “I guess so,” I answered, sucking down some more protein.
“And you looked at me oddly when I suggested the treadmill,” he said.
I shrugged. “I don’t bother with that. How is jogging in place endlessly going to make me bigger?”
“It isn’t just about bigger,” he answered. “It’s also about stronger, and healthier, and more beautiful.” He smiled. “Yes, beauty. The beauty of a man. The beauty of muscle. That is something to strive for.” The he tilted his head slightly and jutted his chin at me, “Make a muscle for me,” he instructed, indicating my biceps.
I grinned proudly and lifted my right arm, bending it at the elbow and tightening my fist, tensing the muscle into power. He reached forward and grabbed me, hard, and squeezed. “Strength,” he said. “I can feel the strength.” Then he peeled back his sleeve and lifted his own arm, similarly tensing the biceps to swollen glory. “Can you see the difference, Ray?”
I could. Distinctly. My upper arm looked…soft. Smooth. The muscle was clearly there beneath the skin, but it was all a swollen mass. Bull’s arm was defined, majestic, beautiful by comparison. Looking at him squeezing the ball of power, I could see fibers and cables of muscle. I could see the essence of strength made incarnate in the beauty of his arm.
My cock pulsed and pushed forward looking at his arm. It spoke power to me, and strength, and beauty. “I understand,” I said.
“Muscle is only the beginning. Growing muscle, there really is no challenge to that if you’re simply willing to show up.” He lowered his arm and gestured at the gym floor. “You treat every machine, every weight, every exercise exactly the same. You’re using this,” he said, again tapping my hard upper arm, “but you’re not using this.” Then he tapped my temple, indicating my brain. “We need to marry them and make you understand how to use the tools right, to go from that,” he nodded at my arm, “to this.”
He then lifted both of his arms and they swelled upward. His shoulders joined the muscle party, lifting and widening. His chest bulged forward and separated into distinct plates I could see even under his shirt.
He displayed himself for me, showing me the years of constant effort he had put into perfecting every muscle of his body. Not just growth, but finesse. Expertise. Mastery. Refinement.
“It will take time,” he said. “But your rewards will be…great.” Then he smiled and squeezed my shoulder.
My cock jumped at his touch. His dark glance darted downward at the movement. My dick nudged the heavy cotton of my sweatpants with obvious glee, and he seemed to take notice.
He leaned back in his chair, then, and folded his meaty arms over his chest. He was eyeing me carefully, thinking of something, and then he asked, “What are you eating?”
“Everything,” I confessed.
“It shows,” said. “Starting now you’re on the Bulldog Diet. You get me?” I nodded. “And how much are you working out?”
“How many days a week?” he asked, tilting his head. I watched the tendons and muscles along his thick neck flex. “How long are your workouts?”
“Every day,” I answered truthfully, and then I lied, “for a couple of hours.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re doing a complete circuit every time?”
His eyes moved across my frame again as he drank me in. I had the distinct impression that he was taking inventory. “You’re working a little of everything every day? All the parts of your body?” I nodded. “That stops now, you get me?”
“But I thought….”
He shook his head. “Diet is as important—maybe more important—than working out. The fuel you feed your muscles needs to be the best quality. If you want to build quality muscle. You get me?” He leaned in a bit, and his brow darkened.
I was bigger than him. I was taller and thicker, but I got the distinct impression that he could pound my ass into the cement and leave me a bloody pulp as he looked at me. It made my heart beat faster and my cock to throb, again, though I had no idea why I was having these reactions. “Yes, sir,” I answered.
He nodded. “Your muscles need time to rebuild. They need time to rest. You’re not giving them any. You’re breaking them down without allowing them to build back up. I’m going to give you a schedule, and you’re going to follow it.” He smiled, but I had the impression that I had just been given an order.
“Yes, sir,” I answered again.
He stood up. “Take your shake and follow me. You need to keep up with the protein injections.” I did as he instructed and we walked across the gym floor, me behind him. I found myself looking at his muscular butt. He was wearing cotton shorts over Body Armor compression pants (at the time I thought they were tights or something, and had no idea that they helped him lift heavier) but I could see the proud muscular strut as he walked. The man simply couldn’t help it.
We walked towards one of the gym’s session rooms where training classes took place. It was closed off with glass along one side and mirrors covered the other three walls. He held the door open for me and closed it after I entered.
“Do you know what this is?”
“No, Ray. This is church. This is where you will come to worship.” His voice was soft in the empty room, as if it were the place he was describing. “Are you a religious man, Raymond?”
“Sort of,” I answered. I believed in God, or a god, but I wasn’t very devout and hadn’t been to any services in years.
“You will learn worship. To worship is to express reverence and adoration. To worship is to devote yourself to that one thing, that one idea, that one expression of perfection. You get me?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Good. Because I don’t want any misunderstandings between us.” He walked toward the center of the room and I followed him. “Worship requires ceremony. Worship requires respect. Worship requires devotion and honor.”
“I understand,” I answered.
“Take off your shirt,” he instructed. “Take off your sweats.” I looked at him curiously, and then he smiled. “You’re wearing something underneath, I trust.”
“Take off your clothes.” I pulled off my T-shirt and shoved my sweatpants off my legs. I tossed them into a pile and then I was standing there in my underwear. My dick was still plump from watching Bull’s ass and the sound of his soft, deep voice had only served to deepen my reaction to him.
He came up to me and again scanned my now nearly naked form. His eyes danced across my skin as if he were memorizing every inch of me. The attention made me feel both self-conscious and proud. Again, his eyes rested for more than a moment on the weighty heft of cock sagging in my pouch.
He placed his hand on my shoulder. “This will be your church,” he said, “and there is your god.” He lifted his thickly muscled arm and pointed into the mirrors. When I turned towards them, he was pointing unerringly at me.
Again, his soft deep voice. It was soothing as much as it fired up my libido. The rumble of his voice fallen almost to a whisper. He spoke to my reflection as we both gazed into the wall of mirrors.
“I can see your potential, Ray. I can see your path. You have stronger natural abilities than anyone I have ever met.” I chose not to mention that my abilities were not altogether natural at this point. He squeezed my shoulder. “But the path will not be easy. The path will be hard and it will be long. The end may never come, but your rewards will be plentiful.”
He took his hand from my skin—I found I missed its warmth and its roughness almost immediately—and we stood side by side, Bull and me. He spoke to our reflections in the glass. “You are your own god from now on, Ray. You will worship yourself every day by growing stronger and prouder. You will honor yourself by staying on the path. You will devote yourself to one goal, and one goal only.”
“Bigger,” I said.
“No, Raymond.” He smiled. My cock plumped. “Biggest.”
He took off his shirt, stripping it with some difficulty from his heavily-muscled torso. He slid his shorts off his legs and removed his Body Armor compression shorts until Bull was standing next to me in a small black posing strap. It barely contained what I could see was a mammoth shank of prick and slipped up between his ass cheeks.
He began posing for me. For us. He was watching himself, and watching my reaction. I had seen pictures of bodybuilders before, but I had never seen one in person, up close. He grunted and strained as he pushed his body to showcase its beauty. He groaned like a man in the throes of passion. He smiled with pride and arrogance.
He was a master poser, knowing exactly how to flex his might into perfect presentation. From one position to the next in a seamless exhibition of muscular perfection. I watched as he controlled his muscles with effortless power, showing off the toil and strain and passion in every inch of his body.
I had never seen anything like it in my life. I was falling in love with what I was watching. This performance, this display, this demonstration of what a man could become, what he could make of himself, how he could turn himself into the object of worship.
I suddenly felt small. Insignificant. Unimportant. But my cock was throbbing hotly in my Y-fronts and my whole body was heating up as my eyes danced across the beauty—the sheer physical perfection of the man beside me.
By the end, he had pumped his muscles full of blood and they plumped under his dark, sweaty, slick skin. He was grinning with pride and he was beginning to sport an erection that pushed forward in the pouch of his posers.
When he stopped, standing in a resting position, his arms wide from his body because his lats were flared, and his legs wide to account for his massive thighs, he was breathing hard and steady, the six-pack on his muscular belly swelling in and out. I could smell him. When I looked at his face again, I noticed he was looking at my crotch.
At some point, I had become fully engorged. I was so engrossed by his display of beautiful power that my excitement had gone unnoticed. I blushed with embarrassment and made to hide it from him.
“That’s good, Ray.” He cupped his own package with a loving caress. “This is good.” He squeezed himself. I watched the head of his prick press against his posers. “You have to use this if you want to be the biggest.”
My hand dropped away, revealing my hard-on. “Use it?”
He uncupped his meat and allowed me to see him. He was now swelling towards erection. Blood pumped into his cock like it pumped into his muscles. My eyes were focused on it, watching its dull, heavy beats as it pushed farther and farther out from his body.
“You must love yourself. You must love muscle. You must desire it, lust for it, hunger for it. Sex is the strongest drive that we own, and your body is showing the truest passion of your hunger for muscle.” He grabbed himself roughly. “Allow your body to show its hunger. Don’t be ashamed of it or afraid of it.”
He rubbed his palm against his hard-on as if there was no one else around, as if no one out in the gym was watching, or if they were they should deem themselves lucky to see him in such worshipful reverence of his god.
“This is true worship, Raymond. And it’s good that you have it.” He removed his touch from his throbbing erection and his arms hung again at his side. His cock was stretching the pouch and the poser so fully now that it pulled itself from his body. He smiled as he looked upon his reflection again. Swollen with muscle. Swollen with power. Swollen with pride. “That is my god, Raymond. That is my devotion and this is my church.”
He looked at me. He put his hand—the warm hand with which he had been caressing his own meat—on my naked shoulder again. “Your body is your Bible, and we will write its words together. Steel is the pen. Sweat is the ink. Every minute, every second, your…every heartbeat from now on will be in devotion to your god.”
We both looked into the mirror.
We were both as hard as a rock.
I left Bull there in the mirrored…church and went to my car, meaning to drive back home to feed my muscles before going to my second gym, but my cock was still throbbing and I found myself, instead, seated behind the wheel of my pickup, digging inside my sweats and extracting my meat.
I thought about his body, his muscle. The swell of his ass. The bands of power stretching across his chest. The veins like rivers feeding his brawn and pumping it all to fullness. The look on his face as he gazed upon himself.
His cock. Stretching and swelling with pride.
That was what I wanted, now more than anything. I wanted to look like that, swollen massive with brawn, so strong and so big that I would obliterate anyone else that the world had ever seen.
I could see Bulldog’s biceps bulging for my benefit as he showed himself to me. I could imagine leaning forward to lick his arm, tasting his sweat and feeling the hard strength against my tongue.
I raised my own swollen arm and licked it. I could smell my sweat, a rich stink of manly musk that lingered, brought back to full power as I gazed upon his beautiful, muscular body. He had done that to me, making me hot with his display of authority and prowess.
My dick sprang to life as I released it, almost slapping me in the face with its eagerness. It swelled with sudden and almost magical ease, and I grabbed it without thought and began to stroke.
It felt good. It felt right. Immediate rewards of tingling bliss shook my body from its source of sexual pleasure and I could feel a load building toward release only moments after starting to worship my manhood.
I closed my eyes and saw Bull’s body, rippling with power that built larger as he showed himself to me. I could hear his soft, warm, deep voice whispering in my ear. ‘…love yourself. …love muscle. …desire it, lust for it, hunger for it. Allow your body to show its hunger. Don’t be ashamed of it or afraid of it…’
I could feel my dick swell in my grip and my balls seized up. I was breathing harshly, sucking the warm heat from the cab of my truck inside my body. I leaned my mouth over the gaping fount of my perfect power and shot its rich deliveries of cream inside. Warm. Wet. Thick with masculine energy. The source of all muscle. It splattered against my lips and teeth and tongue and an overwhelming orgasmic ecstasy shook me deeply with every push, every gush.
I swallowed my warm, salty seed, squeezing my asshole tightly to force it from my balls into my mouth. I felt the warm guzzle of cream coating my hand and lifted my fingers to my mouth to suck them clean. My cock stayed upright, pulsing with dull, hard throbs. I even scooped up what had splashed hotly on my shirt and skin, gulping that down as well.
My dick was coated in a glaze of sticky cum as I started the truck and drove from the parking lot, my cock slowly and unhappily sinking to its less excited state.
When I got back home, there was an email from Bull with several attachments. There was a schedule for my workouts, including explicit instructions to include stretching and cardio and cool-downs. How much and how long. He would show me how to perform them correctly, he wrote. He told me when I would work my back, my shoulders, my legs, my chest, my arms, and so on. There was the Bulldog Diet, rich in protein and carefully meted carbs and fat.
“This’ll get you started,” he wrote. “You’re going to fucking hate me, and then you’re going to fucking love me. You’ll hate me for the torture I’m going to inflict. You’ll hate me for never giving in when you’re pushed too hard, or you’re tired or worn out, or you just don’t feel like it. You’ll hate me when I keep asking you what you ate last night, and you’ll hate me when I’m pushing your knee into your chest to stretch out that twitchy hamstring giving you trouble.
“And then you’re going to look into the mirror one day, and see your god. It will happen, Raymond. All you need to do is trust in me, and believe in yourself.”
My dick was throbbing again.
My god in the mirror.
I never made it to the second gym that day. I spent it jerking off and shooting my cream into my mouth.
Finesse. Expertise. Mastery. Refinement. The techniques one uses to accomplish a thing are often so much more important than the thing itself.
To worship is to express reverence and adoration. To worship is to devote yourself to that one thing, that one idea, that one expression of perfection.
My god in the mirror?
I had already seen him.