The worst part? Probably all the moving. Never being able to get settled. Not finding a circle of friends, someone to fully trust, someone who…understood. I get lonely, as you might expect, and I get tired of the questions.
They’re always the same questions, too, which gets boring. Always, “You’re that guy, aren’t you?” or “What’s it like to be you?” or “Can I touch it?”
‘It’ being any number of pieces of my anatomy. Because I am that guy. And I’m going to tell you what it’s like to be me, so maybe people will finally stop asking.
First of all, I did this to myself. I meant to do it. This is what I wanted. I guess I didn’t stop to think it through, fully, and what it would really mean in a larger sense. To my life, and to those around me. And to be honest, I didn’t intend to take it this far. But it became like a drug, to me. An addiction. And once I had a taste of it—once I understood what it meant, and what the benefits were, and how I would be treated and…worshipped—it was hard not to want more.
So, yeah, I’m that guy. I’m the Apollo Man. Also known as Mr. Perfect and Muscle God. I’ve got other nicknames, too, and most of them aren’t quite as complimentary for one reason or another. But you can call me Raymond, or just Ray, because that’s my name. My real name. The name I had before…everything else.
So if you know about me, then you also know what I’m talking about when I talk about what I did to myself. If you don’t know me, for whatever reason (and it’s not egotism that drives me to expect everyone to already know about me) let me explain in as few words and as simply as possible.
I am the most powerful man on Earth.
That is no idle boast. I am quite simply the largest, the strongest, and the most muscular human being walking this planet, bar none. No one else even compares. No one comes close. I have surpassed them all and done so several times over.
Some stats might help, though if you’re like most people encountering me for the first time, you won’t believe them anyway.
But here goes.
I’m seven feet, eight inches tall. For those of you in the metric system, that’s around two-and-a-third meters. I weigh, as I write this, 764 pounds. Again, for my European friends, that’s just over 346 kilos. I added ‘as I write this’ because shortly, I will weigh even more. I am still growing. I’m growing bigger and stronger and taller with every heartbeat—with every breath—with every blink of my blue eyes.
So, what does the most powerful man in the world look like? You can look me up online, of course. There are plenty of images of me, some I provided, some that were taken when I was in various states of undress, some that show me in the altogether and leave nothing at all to the imagination. You should remember, though, that any old pictures of me can’t reflect what I look like right now.
Because I’ve gotten bigger.
Everything has gotten bigger. If you get my drift.
Anyway, I’m a large guy, as I mentioned. Not just tall, but thick and wide as well. My skin looks a bit ‘suctioned on’ to me, stretched as it is so thinly across these muscles that keep growing. I’ve been called a walking anatomy chart by some. Others with an appreciation for the male form refer to me as the most perfectly developed man who ever lived. I suppose both descriptions are true.
You can see every muscle with absurd clarity. You can see the fibers. You can see the cables. Sometimes, I think you can see them growing, if I stand still long enough and you manage to stay focused on just one part of me.
But that’s hard to do, I’m told, because there’s so much of me to admire.
How do 24-inch upper arms grab you? Sound good? Then try 30-inch. What about 40-inch thighs? How about an 88-inch chest? Do these measurements help you, or just increase your disbelief?
It really doesn’t matter to me. These measurements. They’ll change tomorrow. They’ll change next week and next month and next year. Who knows how big I’ll be by then? I certainly don’t.
Those of you with more prurient interests are no doubt wondering about what I happen to be packing in my shorts—that is, when I’m wearing shorts. I’m not often doing that anymore. It’s impractical. Because I own a 14-inch penis that’s 9 inches around. That’s flaccid, by the way. That’s when I’m not excited.
And an unavoidable side-effect of my state is that I get rather easily excited. So it’s not 14 inches all that often. More often—it’s bigger.
A lot bigger.
Again, check Google and you can see for yourself. If you’re into that sort of thing.
But how did I get this way? What happened to make me the giant man that I am today? And why do I continue to grow?
You might already know the answer to that one, too, from when this started and I appeared on Ellen and The Today Show and TMZ and just about anywhere else that wanted to parade a freak around. Until they discovered I wasn’t a freak, and that’s when the shit truly hit the proverbial fan.
So let’s go back, you and I, shall we? Take my hand. I promise not to crush the bones in yours. I can be gentle when I need to be.
And vice versa.
Let’s go back to when I was just Raymond. Before I was the Apollo Man. Back when I was another biologist in the anatomical sciences department, working my (much smaller) ass off at Merck, trying to find another drug to help guys get their dicks hard.
The artificial dick-hardening market is vast and prodigiously profitable. Drug companies are always looking for better, faster, more efficient and less dangerous ways to make men get hard and keep them that way. They spend a lot of money on research and development, and it was my job to take that money and figure out what makes a man a man, what makes him strong, and sexual, and randy as fuck. What, in short, gets him hard?
You know a lot of that is in your brain. Most of it, in fact. But some of it is tactile, too. Erogenous zones and shit like that. Nipples and lips and ears and feet. You never know what someone’s going to like having stimulated which results in their little guy getting stiff and happy. So I just needed to bypass all the build-up and get to the nitty gritty.
Swallow something. Bang! Erection.
In retrospect, using myself as a guinea pig wasn’t my brightest idea. Totally against protocol, too, of course. How can you tell if something works when you’re taking it yourself? No lab tests and no comparisons and no placebos. Totally not what the market will support or the government will sanction.
But we all do stupid things under pressure, don’t we? And I may be the strongest man on the planet, but that doesn’t excuse me from being the dumbest one every now and again.
I knew I was close. I knew I was on to something. Anatomy isn’t very complicated when it comes down to it. Amino acids and cell structure and DNA, all the building blocks are known and we learn more about them every day. And maybe I had a flash of intuition, or maybe it was just a fluke, but one day I hit on an idea and thought, hell, that should work, shouldn’t it?
Want a faster, harder hard-on? Just accelerate and amplify the natural processes already in place! Don’t force something to happen; allow something to happen.
If you unlock this, and shift that, and add in a little something extra over here…it all seemed so simple to me! Why wouldn’t it work?
So I cooked up a batch, and I measured out a dose, and I placed inside a capsule.
And I swallowed it.
I was a guy, right? That made me the perfect target. And if I was right, it would change everything.
The first week, the changes were so subtle that I thought I had failed. My appetite increased. I was experiencing longer and deeper sleep patterns. I felt more energetic and generally better, but in the hard-on department, not much happening.
Up the dosage, right? Why not? What harm could that do?
Week two, I started noticing…little things. I seemed to be growing whiskers a bit faster than usual. I was sweating a bit more. My mouth was dry, so I was drinking lots of water. And my appetite increased again. I added an entire additional meal to my day.
But my penis was still acting like my penis. No sudden sproinging. No gentle tingling sensation. Nothing out of the ordinary at all.
Let’s try harder, shall we?
The third week. The third week will certainly go down in someone’s history somewhere. Not sure what history. The history of man? The history of muscle? The history of me, for sure.
I doubled the dose. I did that on Monday. When I woke up Tuesday morning, I had what could be referred to as a “raging hard-on” and my penis—my dick—hurt. Like hell!
Something was happening, for sure.
I discovered pretty quickly that the reason my dick hurt was that I was experiencing the king of all hard-ons. My cock was beyond hard, and looked reddish purple. I probably could’ve hammered nails with the thing, except at the time I was too freaked out and scared to try it. It was also, weirdly, very hot to touch.
Also? Touching it? Made it go off like a cannon. Which also, luckily, made some of the hurt go away, but very little of the hardness. I called in sick that day since I would’ve been sporting a tentpole in my pants that would be pretty hard to miss, and I spent most of that day jerking off and scared because my cock was going off like a rocket, splattering big sticky loads of cum all over the place and not getting one iota softer.
That lasted three days. You’ve heard the jokes about erections lasting hours, I suppose, but let me tell you it is no fun at all, particularly when you start to worry that you’re never going to get soft.
Luckily, on the third day, something else happened to distract me from my permanent erection. Keeping in mind that I hadn’t been wearing anything more than a bathrobe, so the fact that something was…growing was not immediately something I noticed. But when I tried putting on my slippers, they seemed tighter than usual.
My dick was still hard, but much less painful, and now my feet were bigger. Well, you know what they say about foot size and dick size, right? It’s mostly nonsense, but given the point of my new drug my curiosity was piqued.
I started measuring everything, and everything was bigger. And I do mean everything.
I was taller by one-half inch. In three days! Do I need to tell you that growth like that is impossible—particular for someone so far beyond puberty? My feet had grown slightly longer and wider. And I weighed eighteen pounds more than the last time I weighed myself.
This was medically impossible and physically inconceivable. Such rapid growth should have been fairly painful and I should have been eating piles of food to account for the added mass, but neither was true. Somehow, the drug had altered my metabolic rate to a rather accelerated pace, and my body needed exactly the same amount of food to grow at a rate that was unheard of.
I was excited! It was working! But what was it doing to me, and how fast was it actually occurring?
On the fourth day, my cock finally gave it a rest, but on observation and then by measurement, it had also gained a great deal of mass both in length and circumference, and though it was no longer a steel peg it certainly persisted in its desire to remain firm and fat. My semen production remained in overdrive, and I was leaking a near continuous stream of ejaculate—so much so that wearing undergarments became impractical and, well, I suppose there is no other way to put it other than to make the confession that after attempting to simply wipe the thick honey away from the end of my penis, I began to swallow it.
I did not, at the time, note anything unusual occurring in regards to this admittedly odd practice. On the other hand, was there anyone else experiencing such an event and what would they have done differently? I suppose I could have spent those days sitting on a toilet draining the slowly drooling stream into the bowl, or used up boxes of tissue attempting to soak it all up, but frankly after I started doing it—that is, after I began to gather the excess liquid on my fingers and licking it clean from my hands—it became a sort of habit, at least in those early days and weeks.
Did I, as some have asked me, note that there was a correlation between the two simultaneous events? Did it not occur to me that perhaps my ingestion of the essence of propagation, the literal seed of my changing body, would have some effect on its sudden evolution?
I can answer honestly that I did not. Why would I have? At that point, sperm’s role in reproduction was pretty clear and clean-cut. How would I have known that I was altering its nature in so primal a manner? Or that what I had created in a laboratory and so casually ingested was changing me in so radical a manner?
Of course, I did not return to work, either. My eternal erection may have abated to some extent, but my leaky dick was just as bothersome in respect to “going public,” and it was at about the time that I had so cavalierly decided to start swallowing my own emissions that the true and most radical alterations to my body’s chemistry and physical aspects began to manifest.
Initially my growth seemed to be all in height. After the first week, I was an entire inch taller. At week two, that had already doubled. I was growing heavier as well, and my balls were not slowing in their production, either. Looking in a mirror and taking measurements, it was obvious that I was growing, but physically I looked more like an amplified version of myself rather than a bigger version.
What I mean is that I was taller, and I was heavier, but to my eyes I looked exactly as I had before the changes started. It was as if I was simply a larger, though not more muscular nor more masculine (in other words, my dick wasn’t huge) than before.
So I decided after three weeks of non-stop growth to add a new wrinkle to the mix. What if I started to work out this body? I certainly felt energized, but was I stronger? Were my muscles changing? That was a definite goal of my project, but so far I hadn’t seen that progress.
I started out slowly doing simple exercises at home, trying at first to continue my experiment in private and under controlled circumstances. Push-ups, sit-ups, using simple things as dumbbells starting with a red brick and moving up in weight from there, things began to accelerate. But it was not enough. I needed more.
I joined a gym some distance from my home. I had thought that this would still provide a degree df anonymity and—to be honest—I had never set foot inside in a gym in my life, or not since high school, and was a bit embarrassed by my lack of knowledge and an odd fear of not fitting in.
In retrospect, I should have suspected what would happen to me. I knew how muscle growth and development occurred naturally. I knew my body was in a state of acceleration of masculine properties. If I had known the results of my next actions, would I have still done it?
All I can say to that is, fuck yes I would have done it! I’m still doing it! That should give you some satisfaction about my state of mind.
To say that my body reacted positively to sustained muscle stimulation would be like saying that the sun is hot. Or that sex feels good. Or that too much drink will make you feel inebriated.
Feeling inebriated is a good metaphor for the reaction I felt to working out. It felt…beyond good. I became drunken on the steel and the pulleys and the heavy bars I was pushing above me. I hungered for it, once I had tasted it.
Or should I say that my body—my new body—hungered for it. It was an insatiable eater of metal. I started off slowly but within a few days I had progressed to lifting weights three times heavier than I started with. Curling 85 lbs. in one hand. Bench presses of 300 lbs. Dead lifts that would have staggered me only days earlier.
How were my muscles reacting? Let’s just say that I was literally busting out of my clothes on a daily basis. The muscle bulged fat and hard and huge, pushing higher and thicker and pressing against my skin as if it was being inflated.
I had truly changed my metabolism, and now that I was feeding my muscles with iron, I found that I was insatiably hungry as well. Building muscle takes protein and energy, and I was suddenly eating enough for an entire platoon, gorging on meat and milk and vegetables and beans and everything I could stuff in my mouth when I wasn’t back on the gym floor pushing my muscles to ever larger dimensions.
I joined a second gym, and then a third. I spent hours at each one, driving from one to the next, in an unending orgy of muscular development.
I piled on the inches in those first few weeks, and by the end of one month—only thirty days—of doing nothing but eating, sleeping and pumping iron, I looked like some steroid-popping, testosterone-leaking muscle head who could enter the Mr. Whatever contest and, by my own uneducated estimation, stand side-by-side with other bodybuilders.
My gains did not go unnoticed. How could they? I was gaining several pounds of new muscle every fucking week! Now that I had discovered this ability, my body was starting to adjust in other ways to the hyper-intensive growth and superhuman changes I was subjecting it to.
Friends, to say that I experienced pain in those days as my skeletal structure somehow restructured itself would be the biggest understatement of my entire story so far.
This was unexpected. I had been growing earlier without the usual “growing pains,” but now something was different. Something had altered dramatically—or was in the process of altering. I should have known that when I unlocked the treasure of unlimited muscular development that the other parts of my body would start to change as well. I expected some muscular growth, of course, but what I was experiencing was off the charts and if I had stopped to examine what was happening, perhaps I could have spared myself the torture.
But like I said, my body took over. Its need—its insatiable hunger for growth and development drove me on, and I ignored the pain even as I was wracked with intense shocking spasms when my skeleton, my very bones, began to extend and grow harder and denser to support the additional pounds of meat that were growing everywhere on my body.
I was starting to change in dramatic ways, but all beneath the surface. It would take time, effort and the help of someone who knew much more than me about making a muscle grow to start showing the benefits in a manner that no one would ever be able to deny.
So I simply grit my teeth together as the sweat poured from my skin and my muscles grew larger and larger.
Two months in, I was over half-a-foot taller than I had started, and had packed on nearly sixty pounds—one pound for every day—of new, powerful muscle.
It was happening in the usual way, but highly accelerated. I would see my body—my muscles—pumping hard and full after each workout, and then deflate. But after rising after a long night’s rest, my muscles were larger, and so was I. My body required rest to grow and adjust, so I fed it and worked it by day so it could grow stronger and larger by night.
As I said, my gains did not go unnoticed. In particular, a gentlemen at the gym who himself was quite obviously himself a bodybuilder. If not professionally than at least he was spending an inordinate amount of time perfecting his own muscular development, though not with the efficiency and admitted chemical advantages that I was using. Maybe he didn’t even know that I was the same man who had entered the gym earlier looking rather ordinary, but he certainly noticed when I was laying on a bench and hoisting 300 lbs. of iron above my chest.
Maybe it was because I had torn open another shirt with an audible rip as my mountainous pecs expanded again and swelled ever larger with striations of pure brawn. Maybe it was that I stood a head taller than him, and that my glutes were forming a perfect bubble butt shelf behind me when I strode the floor. Maybe it was because I had the air of a man so in control and so powerful that nothing and no one could touch me.
Or maybe he was just horny.
I was putting two 100-pound dumbbells back on the far end of the rack and wincing a bit as my bones lengthened again to accommodate all that my body was doing when he came up next to me and our eyes met in the mirror. I was drenched in sweat and breathing hard. My workouts tested every cell of muscle on my body, and I was growing just standing there, looking at him. “Hey,” he said.
I nodded back, because my teeth were grinding in my new larger jaw.
He was older than me, by my judgment. A black man with a shaven head, he was a stout plug of muscle, with a rolling gait that said his legs were packed with brawn and he wore a loose, very large shirt with a stretched-out neck that showed the arch of his deltoid muscles from his thick neck. His eyes were coffee colored and quite animated as he took me in.
“Not seen you around before,” he said. His voice was smooth, almost musical. It had an odd effect on me almost at once, both soothing and…something else. “You compete?”
I shook my head and pulled in a deep breath. It made the tear down the front of my grey sweatshirt expand, showing now not only the two squared-off globes of meat pushing forward from my ribcage, but the swelling egg carton of abdominal muscles swelling along my belly. His eyes went visibly round and I think he gasped involuntarily. “I just… like it,” I managed to explain.
“Well, clearly,” he said, an eyebrow raising. “But your form is…odd.”
“You ever train with someone who knows what they’re doing?”
My eyebrow rose to match his, and I pulled up my right arm to swell the biceps and triceps into swollen glory. Veins wound all over the growing meat, feeding my muscle with hot blood and making the cables and fibers grow and multiply. “Do I look like I don’t know what I’m doing?” I was feeling a bit of the alpha dog in me barking. Testosterone was flooding my system and my hormone production level was off the charts.
He shrugged. There was clearly a lot of meat on his shoulders, too. “Maybe you’ve got good genes. Maybe you spend so much time pushing the iron around that you couldn’t help but get big…erm, huge.” He reached up and grasped my biceps, squeezing the muscle in his form grip. “But your form is kind of sloppy, and you’re not as…defined as you could be.”
“I want to get bigger,” I said.
“That’s obvious, son, but you’re just getting bigger. You’re not getting better.”
Son? I was in my 40s. I looked at myself in the mirror, and realized why he called me that. My skin had been stretching to accommodate my growth as well, erasing all the wrinkles I had acquired over the years. My crow’s feet were gone. My forehead was smooth. My body, in its current state, was reborn and I had the smoothness and silken look of youth again.
Then I looked at him. Within our twin cocoons of cotton workout clothes, it was hard to see a difference. “Take off your shirt,” he said. “You’re practically out of it already.”
I did, but had some trouble getting the sleeves off my swelling arms. He pulled and tugged the sweat-soaked shirt from me, and then he removed his own.
Now I saw what he meant. Yes, I was huge. The muscle was bulging from under my skin, but somehow, standing next to him, I looked smaller. Instantly, I recognized why and understood what he meant.
His body was magnificent. The man worshiped himself as the epitome of the male form to have carved such a beautiful specimen of muscular perfection. He was chiseled and carved and ripped to shreds. An anatomy chart would have a hard time comparing itself to him. I could easily see where every muscle head was mounted. He had been meticulous in his craft, and probably spent as much time looking at his progress in the mirror to judge where he needed to hone his collection of beautiful brawn as he did lifting the weights that had built such magnificence.
I could recognize every muscle group on his torso and arms with ease. All of it encased in that dark chocolate skin that seems to have a sheen like silk. Clearly, the man’s diet was as carefully monitored as his exercise routine.
He was looking at me looking at him and he seemed to plump up with pride, seeing my astonishment at his development. Oddly, and perhaps for the first time (of many), I found my dick throbbing hotly as I drank in the sight of him.
I had never been a very sexual being, but of course the main goal of the new drug was to enhance and amplify that, more chiefly than any other masculine trait. I was beginning to feel its effects, though in a manner I had not expected. I was finding this man attractive, for sure, but I was also experiencing a sexual attraction to him. It was unexpected and I didn’t know how to react to it emotionally, even if my body was having no such doubts as it continued to manifest all the male signs of arousal.
Feeling embarrassed at my body’s unexpected sexual reaction, I turned my attentions to my own naked upper body, hoping that looking at myself might mitigate the unusual effects—but to no avail. Something had changed in me, like a switch being thrown, and it was the proximity and beauty of this man’s body that had done it.
Taking a calming breath, I tried to tame the beast suddenly roaring inside me and I looked at my own body with dispassion. In comparison to him, I was certainly bigger, wider and taller, but I looked…unfinished. Muscle was growing in a sort of wild, untamed way. His body’s careful and perfect development was clearly the better of the two of us, though I had to outweigh him by a couple dozen pounds already.
He apparently saw recognition in my face and said, “I could help you.”
I shifted my glance at his face. He had a serious look, a business-like gaze as he studied me, already forming his own plan for my development. His dark, cool glance skated along my body, and I recognized a man making calculations and plans as easily as my own fellow scientists did at the lab. He was studying me, pinpointing areas of improvement and areas where I already excelled. He paused when his gaze came across my throbbing basket. I was starting to tent my workout pants, and I noted the corner of his mouth turning up just the slightest bit. “Yes,” he said softly, “you have potential.”
I looked at myself again, and then at him, and I decided I wanted what he had.
“All right,” I said. “When do we start?”
“Tomorrow,” he announced, and then he offered his hand. “I’m Ken. Kenwood McCoy, but everyone calls me Bull.”
“Short for Bulldog. When I see what I want, I am tenacious in that goal.”
“Bulldog McCoy?” He nodded, offering a smile along with his name and I grasped his hand and gave him my name. As we shook, the first of many contests of strength took place between us. Was this my first test? Was he trying to see how much I was willing to fight to get what he had? He grasped my hand hard, harder than I expected, squeezing my evolving skeleton hard in his fingers. My eyes narrowed in pain but I squeezed back, realizing what he was expecting from me, and then we shook once. “Raymond,” I responded.
“Tomorrow,” he repeated, “we will start down a long road together, you and I.” He looked me up and down again, resting his eyes once more for a heartbeat on my crotch, and then he added, “You’d better be ready for me.”
We parted then and I decided that I would waste no more time attempting to build my body without help. Certainly I was growing, and the muscle gains I was experiencing were amplified above what I had expected, but after seeing Bulldog’s magnificence compared to my own untamed and untrained development, it seemed worthless to continue even while my body was screaming for more punishment.
When I arrived home again, and took the usual measurements to gauge my growth, one measurement in particular was remarkable.
It had gained an entire inch.
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.
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 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.
“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.