Description After an infection damages his memory Cody starts getting bigger at the gym, pushing himself to get as big as he seems to remember he used to be. Only his memory is playing tricks on him, and Cody’s admiring muscle hunk roommate Mike, too.
|Updated||03 Oct 2014|
Cody was in rough shape when I picked him up from the hospital. For ten weeks he had been flat on his back, battling a nasty infection. Between the ravages of being sick, and his utter lack of appetite, he had lost at least 60 pounds off his once athletic, solid frame. In short, he was a wreck. He could move only very slowly, one labored step at a time, as I helped him to my car. During the 50 yard journey he needed to stop twice and take a minute or two to rest.
But at least now the infection had been knocked back and he had been cleared to come home. I was every bit as happy as my roommate that now he could start moving a little more, rehabbing, and getting back to his old, healthy self. I won’t lie, I love the kid, and we’ve been friends for six years and roommates for two. It killed me to see him like that, and it was a huge relief that he was finally out of the woods.
There was still one hurdle to jump, however. The infection had apparently crossed the blood-brain barrier, and his mind and memory were pretty dicey. The doctor was optimistic, but couldn’t guarantee that Cody would get his full mental agility back. For now, he was pretty good at recognizing and understanding whatever was right in front of him. He remembered my car, and knew the route home, and was instantly familiar with our apartment. But almost everything that happened before he got sick was kind of a blurry haze. He’d get a vague memory of something, and he’d say “Did we go to Clairmont together?” Or, “Do I know someone named Christine?” It was unsettling, to say the least.
We got home, and as I was helping him to his bedroom Cody put a bony hand around my arm and squeezed my bicep. “Look at you,” he laughed. “Mr. Buff.” Then, sadly, “And then there’s me.”
“A month or two and that won’t be a problem,” I told him. ”Some healthy eating, maybe a slow reintroduction to the gym, and you’ll be a stud again. Dude, you’ve always been considerably bigger and harder than me.”
“Was I?” He clearly had no memory of it, and seemed pretty skeptical.
“It’s true. You’ve always been jacked, and you’re crazy good looking. No homo, but in shape you’re a muscular love god. Girls walk into traffic staring at you.”
He laughed, still not quite buying it. ”Okay, Mike, I’ll take your word for it. But you’ll be my motivation. Cause compared to me you look like fucking Hercules. No homo.”
First day back at the gym was a little unnerving. It was like he’d never been there before, and had to be led to the locker room and then pointed to each training room or piece of equipment where we both had clocked hundreds of hours. The great thing, though, was that a dozen of our gym buddies stopped by at one point or another, to high-five Cody, tell him they’d missed him, and offer sincere encouragement. He clearly remembered and recognized a few of them. But with most of them he just played along, accepting their delighted back slaps and fist bumps, while shooting me a look of complete cluelessness.
“I sure have some big-ass friends,” he whispered.
“You do,” I told him. “But, trust me. In no time flat you’ll fit right in again. It’s called muscle memory.” To be honest, I thought maybe my words were a little too optimistic.
On doctor’s orders, Cody took it slow and easy that first day. Light weights, not too many sets or reps. But he was definitely enjoying himself. He was like a caged up animal that is suddenly released back into its natural habitat. And at the end of the workout, damned if he didn’t have a nice little pump going.
Miraculously, in three weeks Cody’s body was pretty close to what it had been before he got sick. He obviously had amazing powers of recovery. All of our friends were blown away, and people—inside the gym and everywhere else—couldn’t stop complimenting him on his remarkable comeback. In the locker room, as we showered and dressed, he couldn’t help hitting a proud double biceps pose in front of the mirror. ”Is this pretty much how you remember me looking?” he asked.
“Dude, you’re a tick away from your all-time best shape. Maybe even more shredded, since you dropped all that bodyfat while you were sick.”
“You know, you were right. I am bigger and harder than you. Feel that.” He moved his perfectly shaped, baseball bicep in front of my face.
“You’re kidding, right? I didn’t think we were those guys. Those ‘bro, feel my bicep’ guys.”
He laughed. But he didn’t move his arm away. Instead he flexed it a few times to pump some more blood into the two bulging heads, and, with a smile in his voice, challenged me again. ”Bro. Just fuckin’ feel it.”
I did what he said. It was hard. A little disturbingly, so was I.
I was switched to the night shift for the next couple of weeks, so I didn’t see much of Cody for the rest of the month. We texted back and forth, like always, and occasionally left smartass notes for each other on the fridge. ”Hey, loverboy, pick up some laundry detergent,” stuff like that.
Finally it worked out that we could spend part of a day together, so we made a date for the gym. On my drive there I realized that except for a glimpse or two of him bundled up among the twisted sheets and pillows on his bed I hadn’t laid eyes on my roommate for at least three weeks.
I didn’t spot him on the gym floor. Glad that I wasn’t too horribly late I hustled to the locker room. No sign of him in there, either. Just some massive guy with his huge back to me, changing into his gym clothes. When he bent over to stuff his bag into a bottom locker his thick, perfect lats flared into a giant V the width of a Buick. And that beefy, solid, sculpted bodybuilder ass… Jesus! Let’s just say for a few seconds I not only forgot all about Cody, I forgot what year it was, I forgot my own name.
The guy obviously felt me staring, and turned toward me as he scrunched up his tee shirt, getting ready to pull it over the mountains of beef that were pretending to be his shoulders. ”Mike! You’re late.”
—I think it’s called a fugue state. That thing where your mind and senses just go completely blank because they can’t process reality. I don’t know if I stood there gaping for twenty seconds or twenty minutes. But my next memory was Cody’s handsome face, blue eyes twinkling like in the best of times, breaking into a playful, welcoming smile. Instead of pulling the tee shirt on he straightened his back and tensed his—his muscles. I mean his MUSCLES. Brick wall, razor cut, vascular as hell, stacked and jacked, boner-inducing M… There was sweat running down the crack of my ass.
“Dude, tell me the truth,” he said. “We haven’t really seen each other for a couple weeks. Can you tell I got bigger?
“Cody, are you kidding me? You’re fucking massive! How did you do this? You’re a monster! You look like you’ve put on thirty pounds, and you’re still ripped to the bone!”
“I’m up fifty,” he said. “It’s funny. But I think my memory’s coming back. I started remembering what I looked like, and it’s like my body just began falling in line with it. Like you said, muscle memory.” He turned toward the mirror, grabbed one hand with the other, and flexed into a side chest shot. His pecs seemed to triple in size as they ballooned into granite-hard wedges of sheer muscle mass, giant domes of hard beef criss-crossed with rows of deep striations. He flexed a little harder and his upper chest got even bigger, swelling up to a few inches below his chin. It was mind blowing.
“So is this how big you remember me?” he asked.
“Dude. Stop playing with my head. You’ve never been this huge. I’m not sure anyone has, at least no one around here. You’re, like, fifty pounds more muscular than sophomore year, remember? When we both did that juice cycle and ate like 9,000 calories a day.”
“Aw, Mike. That’s why you’re my friend. You always have something nice to say.” He held the pose a little longer, appraising himself in the mirror. ”Actually, I’m remembering that I was a little bigger than this. Maybe even a lot bigger.” He slapped his chiseled midsection and pulled on the shirt. “Let’s hit the weights.”
I’ve never trained harder in my life. Cody kept slapping plates onto the bar till we hit our normal max for each exercise, and then he’d drive me through a couple more sets, spotting me as lightly as he could as I grunted and strained to move more weight than I ever had. He was moving like a demon, no rest between sets, yelling out “Come on! This isn’t nap time!” if I tried to pause a moment. By the end of each movement my muscles were burning and quivering, and more than a few times I felt like I might heave. Thankfully, I got a break at the end of each exercise as Cody did an additional two brutal sets without me, usually maxing out at twice the highest weight we’d lifted together.
At the end of our workout I could barely stand up. We grabbed our stuff and this time Cody had to help me to the car, more or less carrying me on the couple of occasions I started to lag. ”Great workout,” he said as he poured me into the passenger seat. ”Feels good, doesn’t it?”
As he drove us home I very quickly began to nod out, as the blood drained from my head and rushed into my traumatized muscle fibers. And other places. The last thing I remember was glancing over at Cody as he drove, and wondering if I was hallucinating or if that ungodly huge thing hanging from the steering wheel, that veiny globe of meat that looked like a python digesting a hippo, really was his right arm.
I came to on our battered sofa in the living room. Cody, in his briefs, handed me a shake. “Drink,” he said. ”Carbs and protein, good stuff.” As I sipped my shake he chugged his. ”Bro, that was kickass. Insane pump, right?”
He flipped on a light and strode to the middle of the room. Glancing in the little mirror over our dinette table, he started moving fluidly through a series of bodybuilding poses, watching his chest, his arms, his back, his shoulders as he kept flexing, ridges and striations looking sharper and sharper as he forced even more blood into his engorged muscles. ”Mike, check it out,” he said. “Like Arnold in ‘Pumping Iron.’”
He caught my eye as I stared in amazement. ”It can’t be possible. But I swear you look twenty pounds bigger than when we left the gym,” I said.
“Y’know, I think I do. I keep remembering, more and more, how I used to look, and I think my body is gradually getting there.”
“Getting there? You’re there, bud, you’re miles past there. I think that virus did something crazy to your self-perception.”
He looked at me in a strange way. As if taking me in for the first time. ”Look at you,” he grinned, “sitting there all stiff and formal. The workout’s over, we’re home, get comfortable, kick back.” Before I could stop him he was playfully pulling my shoes and socks off, and then my gym shorts and my shirt. I tried to resist, giggling nervously like a teenaged girl, but he was just too strong. Pushing back against his powerful arms I felt like a little boy trying to fend off a grown man. When at last he’d stripped me to my bikini briefs I quickly grabbed a pillow to hide what was happening in my lap.
Cody darted to his gym bag and fished around inside it for something. “I brought us a little present,” he said, and pulled a thick, expertly rolled joint from the bag.
“Weed? Where did you get that?”
“Oh, some girl at the gym gave it to me. And also her phone number.”
“Kathy?… Cassie?… I don’t remember. Apparently I fucked her once.”
“Apparently she liked it.”
“Hey,” he said. ”Here’s something else I remembered. That I could do this.” He came closer to me, jiggled his relaxed quad, then clenched it into a hard flex. Sweeping canyons and ridges of human rock exploded into enormous, sculpted columns.
I gasped a little, then quickly looked up to see if he had clocked my reaction. His face was covered with a shit eating grin. I’m pretty sure he was teasing me.
“For a while I forgot I had these ridonkulous wheels. And calves.” He turned, lowered his marble ass toward the floor, and flexed his calf. Two torpedos of fierce-looking muscle bulged side by side beneath the crook of his knee. ”Wanna feel ‘em?”
“I’m okay,” I mumbled, clutching the pillow tighter to my lap. ”Why don’t we fire that thing up?”
“Great idea.” He took a wooden match from a cup on the table, struck it with his thumb nail and lit the joint. He sucked in a prodigious toke, chest swelling as he filled his lungs. Then he sat beside me on the couch and handed me the blunt.
As I took a hit I saw him staring down at his midsection. It was insanely beautiful. Perfect rows of hard symmetrical abs framed by the thick fingers of his upper obliques and the powerful V of his transversus abdominis, its two muscular branches converging on either side of his elegant, tawny pleasure trail. All of it pointing downward, down below the waistband of his briefs, down toward the inviting bulge straining against the cotton.
Cody and I, both thoroughly baked, sat in silence a moment, staring at the pretty pattern made by those perfect muscles of his lower torso. After a moment Cody spoke. ”Do me a favor, Mike. Run your fingers along the ridges between my abs. You know, like you used to do. Checking out how deep they are.”
I didn’t honestly remember ever doing that. But I was really high, so I didn’t question it. I gently led my index finger up and down the valleys between his cobblestone abs, enjoying the feel, and the sight, of my digit disappearing to the second knuckle between those hillocks of muscle.
After a minute Cody put his thick hand over mine, stopping me. But still clutching my fingers against his hard gut. ”Do you know what else I remember?” he asked, pausing for effect. ”I remember how sometimes we’d get a good buzz on after our workout and then you’d go crazy sucking my cock.”
I started pulling my hand away. Pretty sure this was something I did not remember. ”Okay, Cody, stop fucking around,” I said. “That, just now, was definitely not cool.”
He continued to hold my hand in his powerful grip. There was nothing I could do about it. ”No, really, Mike, this is something I completely remember. And I’m pretty sure you do, too.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” I said. At which point he let go of my hand, reached over and pulled the pillow away from my lap, letting my hard, and by now throbbing cock surge upright, breaching the top of my bikini briefs like a big, happy whale rising through the surface of the Pacific.
“See, you do remember,” he said. And then Cody kicked off his briefs, and gently but powerfully guided my head to his beautiful cock. I took it in my mouth and something inexplicable happened. Even though I had never done this before, or anything close to it, I actually did seem to remember. Or maybe it was the dope. In any case, it was clear that whatever I was “remembering” was working really well for Cody. And his deep grunts and groans of pleasure helped me remember better and better.
A few seconds before he was about to cum Cody pulled his muscle cock out of my mouth and we both sat back and stroked off together, finishing, perfectly in unison, with an eruption of glistening joy juice that rivaled the dancing waters in Las Vegas.
After a moment of blissful, breathless stillness, we toweled off and Cody helped me off the couch and guided me toward the bathroom. Standing behind him in the cramped shower stall under a stream of soothing water, I massaged soap onto his wide, muscled back. Euphorically exploring the thick hardness of his traps, his rear delts, the dense, rigid columns of his erector spinalis.
My hands now had a mind of their own, and quickly skated down his smooth skin to the solid, triumphant curves of his magnificent ass. It was the Chartres Cathedral of asses, the Parthenon, the Taj Mahal of perfect, sculpted bubble butts. As my fingers slipped through the entrance, soaping him up between his glorious buttocks, my cock suddenly was rock hard again. Poking, without my help, into the soapy pathway I had just created.
“You know what?” I said. “I just remembered something else. Do you remember how, sometimes after our workouts, we would shower together and I would fuck you senseless with my big, thick, pile-driver cock?”
There was a moment of silence as he considered this. ”I’m not sure I do remember,” he said. ”Remind me.”