Assessing Standards
I never anticipated Nate, the "Natural Phenomenon," "Modern Steve Reeves" - whatever you call him, would respond to our email. He's the most impressive natural bodybuilder of the past ten years. A symbol of athletic self-discipline and clean living. No drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, tattoos, or piercings. Clean-shaven, well-groomed. Immaculate. And definitely no steroids, just a combination of exceptional genetics and relentless determination. To look at him is astonishing. He competes in the most stringent natural competitions, where the rules are as strict as his posing trunks. In most of them, he dominates.
So, why did he answer our email?
I've been in sales for a pharmaceutical company for the past five years, most of that time selling medication to family doctors and clinics. But for ages, we've been hearing whispers about reaching the big leagues, a game-changer that will make us one of the best companies in the world.
Colossinth. "The next evolution in muscle training." A development as revolutionary as anabolic steroids. Just as potent, but infinitely safer, with zero adverse side-effects and - if everything goes well - legal. This substance is going to transform the athletic world. It'll be a significant shift like the one that occurred in the '60s and '70s, but even more pervasive because it won't be reliant on smuggling and shady backroom deals. This stuff is legit.
But still, it's a yet-to-be-approved drug, only a few years into testing. Why would a guy like Nate agree to test it out? He just happened to be on a list of athletes we sent the most recent data to. But apparently, he sent a reply a few weeks later, asked to give it a go. And here I am, reading an update he sent after supposedly incorporating it into his routine for a month. It sounds like a dream. Like a fairy tale:
I didn't believe I'd have any updates so soon, but here they are. It's been a month since I competed on August 4. My stats then were: height 6'0", weight 209 pounds. Arms: 17.75 inches. Chest: 48 inches. Waist: 29 inches. Hips: 36.5 inches. Thighs: 25 inches.
My coach measured me this morning (September 2): weight 225 pounds. Arms: 18.75 inches. Chest: 49.25 inches. Waist: 29 inches. Hips: 37 inches. Thighs: 25.75 inches.
This shouldn't be possible. I've started to bulk, so naturally, I've gained weight, but I'm still lean. The additional weight is entirely muscle. Sixteen pounds of pure muscle in a month! Over an inch on my chest, an inch of growth on my arms - again, purely muscle, not fat. I can see it every time I flex. Someone who's never lifted weights before might gain an inch on their arms quite easily - and when I say easily, I mean it might take six months. This is absurd. What the heck is this stuff?
Send me more.
I've read this email over fifty times, torn between confusion, disbelief, and exhilaration. But when I show my boss and tell her about it, she isn't as impressed.
"Something isn't quite right here," she says to me in her office. "He's made a name out of being 'natural,' right? Why'd he give that up now? And he's bragging about putting an inch on his arms in just a month?"
"He sent me the numbers," I say weakly, becoming increasingly invested in the idea.
"And you believe him?"
I know what she's thinking. Trusting a bodybuilder to tell you the size of his arms is as reliable as trusting a porn star to tell you the size of his penis.
"No, no," she says. "Something's off. He might..." claim spurious results, then say he was never using Colossinth in the first place, that it's all a scam. Despite the evidence, we know it works - although we never thought it could work that well. It can't work that well. He's correct: it's not humanly possible.
"But..." it increases the body's natural growth and testosterone, doesn't it? Maybe with someone like him, there's more to capitalize on, so the effect is exponential. No professional athlete would take part in a trial for some questionable new muscle-builder when there's the potential for being accused of doping in their next event. Only a person in a sport without testing would believe in it, and even the best natural bodybuilder wouldn't ditch their established "juice" blend for a marketing email from an obscure pharmaceutical company.
"We'll have to look into it, that's for sure. But only if we have solid proof that something is happening. I want you to talk to him, find out what makes him tick, see what his real intentions are. I need a complete report with accurate information," she says, dismissing my theories. She leans back in her chair. "Your travel expenses will be covered. Make the arrangements right away."
There's something I haven't mentioned to her. I've always had a thing for muscles. Since I was a kid, I've been fascinated with guys who challenge their bodies to become larger, stronger, more vascular. The bigger, the better. While others have cringed at photos of bodybuilders and wondered why anyone would do that to themselves, I've been hiding the flutter in my stomach, the rapid heartbeat, the uncontrollable fantasies in my mind about touching those muscles, smelling them, licking them, rubbing my hands, my face, my penis against them. All it takes for me to get off is a perfectly sculpted bicep or the vision of a toned chest and a six-pack glistening with sweat.
I've never been able to make my fantasies come true. I've actually asked the few men I've been with to flex for me, but none of them could be more than "average" in shape. They scoffed at me, made fun of me, and just wanted to get down to business. Even that was enough for me to get off. When it comes to muscles, I can make a small thing into a big deal.
Now she's sending me to meet with this guy, "Natty" Nate, who might turn out to be a crucial client for us if he's truly telling the truth... But it could be awkward for everyone involved. If he notices something off about me and complains, I'll have no chance of keeping my job.
So with great trepidation and a little excitement, I book my flight, and two days later, I'm at Nate's gym, all dressed up in my only suit, trying to be professional. However, I'm already sweating like crazy. Just stay calm, I tell myself. He's just a client, and you're just an annoyance to him. Get in, get out. This doesn't mean anything to me. Don't get aroused. You can do this.
The door is locked, so I knock. It's nighttime, and the gym is closed, but that's not a problem for us. Nate is the owner, they tell me, and he often works out after everyone else has left. The receptionist lets me in as she's leaving with her bag and locks the door behind me, then points into the fitness area.
It's not hard to find Nate. The gym is one big room, separated into cardio machines and weight training. It's bright, modern, and spotless. Nate is checking on the various machines by the mirror, but he quickly spots me, strides over with his hand extended and a smile on his face.
I'm in heaven. This man is gorgeous, with short dark hair, tanned skin, and a strong jawline, but with enough unique personality and charm that he's not just some pretty face model. There's a time in his past when he was a geeky teenager before he became a living sex symbol; the friendliness, the openness shines in his eyes. He's the most amazing display of male strength and good looks I've ever seen. But I can't think of him in those terms. He's just a client. Just a man. A muscular, bulging, pumped-up stud of a man.
"Hey, I'm Nate. Thanks for coming," he says, as if it was his idea. And I shake his hand, feeling the strength in his arm as he pumps it, the veins on his forearm like lightning. I manage to exchange pleasantries. I'm doing okay, looking into his eyes, not at his muscles... But there's no escape from him. A smile from him alone can make me orgasm.
"So, you own this gym?" I inquire.
"Yep, the owner and operator. And I live here too. Ever since my divorce from Lauren - my ex-wife."
"I'm sorry," I say. [
He's not and he doesn't think she was either, to be honest. The relationship was doomed from the beginning. They weren't truthful with each other or themselves. She also didn't understand his lifestyle and used to complain that he spent most of his time at the gym. He laughs and feels vindicated now that he's happier than ever.
I try to stay professional, but my corporate nature makes it difficult. "We're glad you're having a positive response to our product."
"Understatement."
"What did you expect? We were surprised when you accepted our offer."
He takes a moment and organizes his thoughts. "It's like putting your all into something and still seeing your results slipping away. You're doing everything you can to hold on, but your results are slipping through your fingers. You're working so hard, but you can't make any progress."
He then starts to talk about his bodybuilding experience. "You know, it's the worst part when you hit a plateau. I've worked so hard, but my body isn't getting any stronger or bigger. It's frustrating because I know my limits and it's not a matter of wanting to give more, I physically can't anymore. It's like trying to hold on to something, but you can feel your fingers slipping. It's painful."
His voice changes in pitch and I notice he's speaking more passionately. "I'm 35 now. This is my last chance to achieve what I want. It's my last chance to be my best and reach my full potential. I'm not going to let this opportunity go and I'm not going to stop until I reach my goal."
He takes a breath, appearing calm and collected again. "I'm not an idiot either. I know the risks of steroids. I don't want to turn into one of those guys on stage with all the acne, no balls, and an enlarged stomach as a result of the HGH. But I am willing to take this risk for my last chance at feeling good about myself. If this works, I'll be tremendously happy."
I feel conflicted. On the one hand, I'm impressed by his determination. On the other hand, my corporate side won't let me forget that he's trusting us, a company, with his health. I try to assure him. "We've done extensive testing and there are no serious side effects. Besides, our product increases testosterone production instead of replacing it like anabolic steroids. Your testicles won't atrophy, they'll work harder instead."
He smiles and there's a hint of confidence in his eyes. "That's good to hear. My boys are counting on you."
He suddenly turns serious and gazes at me. "Can I ask a question? Have you tried this product yourself?"
I blush at the question. He's implying something about me that's not true and it fires up my imagination. "No, I haven't but my boss sent me here to measure you."
He then turns his attention back to his wrist and my heart starts racing. "You have good width on your shoulders. Let me see your wrists." He takes my hand in his strong grip and I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. "The size of your wrist is related to your maximum biceps size. You would grow nicely."
He's assessing my potential body growth and I'm starting to realize a whole new world of possibilities. I feel anxious because these 'possibilities' don't only involve my arm size. He lets go of my hand and I'm relieved that I was able to maintain my professional demeanor. "I'm sorry, I have to measure you now."
He's unfazed by my sudden change in attitude.
"No, not really." I attempt to keep my voice even. "I'll stay."
His answer is a laidback, "Awesome." He moves closer, his muscular frame filling my field of vision. In an instant, I'm completely focused on him. "You're going to get a real treat then."
He picks up the measuring tape and begins showing me where to measure. It feels unreal being so close to him. Every touch, even the slightest brush against his skin, makes my heart race. He simply talks through it, unaware of the effect he's having on me.
After a few moments, we reach his arms. "This is what everyone wants to see, I suppose." His tone is humorous but sexually charged. "Try to be as accurate as possible - my ego depends on it!"
As I reach out to measure, his arm flexes under my hand. It's a startling display of strength and definition. "Wow," I exclaim, amazed.
Despite my disbelief, he casually assures me, "This isn't even big for me right now. The training I've been doing...it's actually enhanced my arm size significantly."
My eyes widen, "In one month?"
"Yep. It's all a matter of dedication and a lot of time in the gym." I barely prevent myself from gasping.
"Let's...let's see..." I measure his left arm first, finding it also measures at a remarkable size. "How about this?"
"My right one is actually a bit bigger...by about 1/2 inch."
I reluctantly switch to his right arm, still trying to process the size difference between his first and second measurement. "Twenty inch arms? Is that possible?"
"It's not impossible. It just takes a lot of dedication and the right kind of training." His gaze is focused on my eyes, a velvet promise. "Would you..ughm...like to see me try to reach that size?"
Before I can answer, he's already started flexing, creating an incredible swell of muscle. It pushes against the measuring tape with incredible strength. "Holy crap!" I gasp.
He smiles at my reaction and lowers the arm, "It made a huge difference from last month." I can't help but echo his words, "You're just gorgeous, dude."
"Well, that was close," he modestly states, admitting how close he's come to the coveted 20 inch mark. "I can always try harder, if you're interested?" His voice, laced with sex and confidence, is a controlled temptation.
"I am." I admit. Being this close to him is becoming a larger risk for me...yet I can't resist.
"Perfect. You can stay here while I add some extra volume to those arms." With a casually confident smile, he proceeds with pumping up his arms to achieve that additional half-inch that would push him over the edge.
I feel my blood pressure spike as I watch his arms ruthlessly flex, getting a clear showing of his incredible control. He gives himself an intense pump, holding it for a few seconds.
"Good luck, I guess." I say tentatively. "Do you want me to read the results out to you?"
"I don't know...I'm not sure I want to be fully conscious for what's about to happen." He laughs at his own words.
"It's a lot, it's not just for me." He acknowledges our mutual attraction. "But I've never done it in front of anyone before."
I touch his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath. "I see that." I rest my hand on the impressive arm.
"Should I do it again?"
"Yeah." I say, never breaking eye contact. "We both know we'll have the most accurate result that way."
"One more."
He brings his arms up, stretching out the definition. "Okay." I confirm. "I'll try to be as accurate as possible. Don't strain yourself..."
His unexpected chuckle has me momentarily lost in his amber eyes. "Do you have a timer?"
"No, I'll look at my phone."
"We'll need a countdown...10....9....8"
I immediately start reciting the countdown, each number luring me further into his thrall.
"5....4....3....2...1!"
He lets go of the flex and steps away. He reluctantly looks at his arms as I create a disgusted expression on my face, hesitating. "...19 3/4..." I announce slowly.
He shoots me an incredulous stare. "Fantastic! I knew it!" I laugh weakly. "Someone's bitter about not being able to touch me..."
"Yeah, that's me."
"Not this time!" I exclaim, my heart thumping in my ears. "I'm just here for the workout, the meeting, you know?"
"Excellent! Let's begin."
I watch a pro in action, thoroughly enjoying myself. He performs various exercises, hitting all the arm muscles from different perspectives, focusing on high reps to achieve the biggest pump. I marvel at the metamorphosis occurring right before my eyes, not only as his sweat drenches his body and his veins become more populated, but also the transformation taking place in his demeanor as testosterone courses through his system, as he unleashes his masculine might, pushing his body beyond its limits.
"I'll take your payment now," he says after racking the weights, and I measure him, his right arm extended, quivering with the intensity of his flex, his insatiable urge to become as large as possible.
"19.4," I answer.
"Pshh, that's nothing. Come on!"
He pushes himself, playing the role of his own coach, gritting his teeth, effortlessly completing the sets with unbelievable energy--preacher curls, hammer curls, bench presses, pull-downs--and the audible guttural grunts, the pungent odor of his sweat, the sight of his muscular, bare-chested figure bulging more and more, the veins resembling pencils, the striations like ropes, overwhelms me. Soon, my erection is so pronounced it's painful, and I have to clamp it against my abdomen with my belt so he won't spot it. I realize too late that this is a gym with an entire wall decorated by a mirror, so my attempt to hide is futile, but I presume he's too engrossed in his workout to observe.
He deposits the weights and flexes, feels the additional girth. "Yeah," he exclaims, his voice laced with a pleased moan. "Fck yeah, I'm pumped. Feels amazing."
I can't help but envision Arnold's famous words from Pumping Iron. "Does it truly feel like...?"
"Like orgasm?" He gazes up at me, unfazed. "It's been said before. And the man knew what he was talking about. The greater the muscle, the better it feels. It's addictive: feeling yourself expand beyond your capacity, growing harder and larger, hotter, the skin taut like it's going to burst. How big am I now? How much have I expanded?"
He extends his right arm to me, flexes robustly, ensuring the additional fat vein on the top of his arm stands out. "19.7."
"Almost there," I state. "You're almost there. Let's get back to it!"
Yet as he's producing his reps, I notice his torso is undergoing a similarly sizeable transformation. The rigid bulge at his crotch is increasing, expanding. I see his erection clearly, pressing against the cloth, wiggling upward as his heart rate accelerates and his heart beats frantically. I can't believe how thick his cock is becoming, how powerful it must be since it's shoving its way out of his shorts, tugging the waistband away from his stomach so there's a noticeable gap, first signs of pubic hair visible.
He yells and the weights collide. He offers his arm to me, but I'm slow on the uptake; he notices me scanning his crotch.
"Oops." He looks down as well and notices the situation.
"It's fine." I attempt to reassure him. "It doesn't bother me."
"Really?" He ruffles the back of his neck uncomfortably. "It bothers me. And if I keep this up, it won't subside. I suppose it won't work out."
"No!" I shout unintentionally, my voice cracking. "Don't give up. You can achieve this. I know you can. Just think, you're three-fourths of the way there. You can make it."
"Yeah," he exhales quietly. "I'm close, really close. It's frustrating, though." He tugs on his shorts' waistband, cursing the colossal buldge. "Hey buddy, could you—?"
Dammit. Does he intend to do what I think he's about to do?
"Sure," I respond. "Whatever you need. Don't concern yourself with me."
Here's a revised version of the story:
Without warning, he grabs the front of his shorts and pulls them down, revealing a spectacular sight. The waistband slides down his muscular thighs, revealing a large, erect cock that springs free with forceful thrusts. It rapes the man's lower abs before pointing right in front of him. Not satisfied, he keeps tugging the waistband until he lays bare his balls as well. For the first time, I see a man so full of masculinity, his package propped up on his training shorts, nestled in dark hair and highlighted by his chiseled V-lines and sweaty, veiny lower abs.
I wonder how this giant package can even fit into his shorts. And get this - it's still growing! It's now the size of a football, its veiny, muscular shaft irresistibly hypnotizing, tempting my curiosity as its veins throb. The man must be at least a foot long. I want to measure it, from the base to the beautifully bulbous head.
I had heard legends of him being entirely natural, and the proof is right in front of me now. His scrotum contains a massive pair of hairy balls that are so big, he must've been tempted to show them off. "I didn't get this big with the help of steroids," he might say to anyone who doubts his credibility. And since his waistband is pulling against them, their size is even more evident. One of his balls can fill my palm. The aroma of his balls fills the air, tantalizing my senses.
"Feels good, huh?" he asks rhetorically, trying to lighten the mood.
"Well, yeah," I stutter, drenched in sweat and wishing I could clean it up later. My cock, stiff as a rock, spreads a damp patch below the waistband of my own shorts, pressing painfully against my zipper. He had not noticed the fact that I too sport an erection. "I mean, it's a big deal. But definitely not as big as your biceps are going to be."
He grins. "Right on! Let's pump some iron."
He starts shouting "'Till the pain hits your chest, go!" and cranks out rep after rep, his body straining and his face flush with effort. His bulging cock bobs with each movement, angled upward in a show of lust. The foreskin almost fully retracts, exposing his swollen, tender glans to the air, which only seems to fuel his arousal further. Yet, not a bead of precum leaks out - it's as if his cock is made of steel, designed to last.
"I'm at twenty-one! How close am I?"
"You're close," I gasp. "Maybe twenty-one point five."
"22, 23, 24, 25."
His biceps are enormous, teasing the possibility of him being even bigger than I had first thought. I imagine his balls exploding in an unprecedented ejaculation, spilling his seed all over the floor. If this display of power is what everyday life is like for him, I can only marvel.
He exhales, his body covered in sweat, and says to me, "15 more reps."
I'm amazed at how much strength he has left, considering how many reps he's already completed. He lies down on the incline bench, then punches out each rep, grunting and contorting in his determination. Sweat pours down his body as his immense muscles bulge even more, veins near the point of bursting, his body straining under the effort.
The sight of his erection is overwhelming. I can't help but wish to wrap my hands around it and jerk him off, my hands plunging into his sweaty, glossy shaft, coated in male essence. I imagine him firing his seed high into the air as the immense pressure loosens. It would take at most three jerking motions to finish him off. All it would take is a gentle lick on the underside of his cockhead to send him through the gates of orgasmic release.
His cock is a magnificent work of virility. It's as if it's speaking to me, calling out with its veins, silently urging me to rock back and forth to bring him to orgasm. I want to be the one to finish him off. "I'm at 28!" he exclaims.
But I cannot achieve that. The pressure continues to mount as he moans nonstop, "25... 26... 27..." The experience is so intense, everything is wound taut with anticipation and about to explode. He is at his breaking point, and so am I. "28... 29!" Come on, you animal! You monster!
He exerts every ounce of his strength in that final attempt, gets the weights halfway there but fails to finish, teeth gritted, eyes closed, flexed muscles, perspiration pouring off him, organ quivering, body tensed, and thrusting to bring the weights to their destination, confined in that excruciating moment of pain and pleasure and explosive strength--
And he lets out a deafening bellow as the weights move, his arms lock in this position, the weights remain at their maximum, and he's groaning in agony and clutching, his body under tension; the moment goes on--until he shudders, the weights slip from his hands, and his raging hard-on jerks upright and sprays spurts of sweet masculine semen across his body, like a machine gun, splattering my face, hitting me under the chin, smearing his sweaty, heaving chest, torrents of thick white semen whizzing through the air with every piston of that shooting semen-cannister--
His eyes are shut, and he experiences it, allowing his balls to completely drain onto his body, not minding if it touches his lips or makes a mess all over the gym floor. I've never witnessed a man ejaculate this much, kept spewing like this. I just stand there confounded and thrilled until the last river of cum drips from his cockhead, sliding down his still-twitching shaft to his exhausted testes. The air is saturated with his masculine scent, and I'll never forget the image of him lying on the exercise bench, eyes closed, chest heaving, gooey splashes of semen in his hair, dripping down his jaw, his chest, his defined abs--a stallion enjoying the feeling of his own semen covering his huge muscular body, aware of the burst he's experienced, affirming it to himself and to me.
I wish the moment would never end. But then he lifts his right arm, flexes it impressively, the whole veiny, engorged, ripped-to-shreds mass of it, and his eyes open, confronting mine with a strong sense of pride in them. "Proceed," he commands me. "Describe how large I am."
And I do, wrapping the measuring tape around his trembling arm, smelling his sweaty masculine body and the pungent aroma of his ejaculate, and there is no denying it: I measured accurately, everything perfectly positioned. "20 inches," I say. "Twenty-one... you did it, and then some."
He closes his eyes, nods.
"It was the best workout of my life."
A change sweeps over him shortly thereafter. It's as if he's an entirely different individual after the frenzy has subsided; regret and embarrassment are leaking into his soul. I, too, am uncomfortable--out of my depth, unable to believe that something like this happened to me. He instructs me to go away; he'll clean up his own mess, and he'll send updates on his progress in the future.
"I apologize for making you witness this," he says, and my heart aches. I want to tell him that it was the most erotic encounter of my life, that I'm fascinated by the feel of his bicep bulging under my fingers, the warm skin taut, the veins swollen, his powerful arm rippling with exertion, straining against the measuring tape. He was preoccupied, not trying to display himself for me. It was about proving his limits, surpassing the barricades that held him down earlier.
Yet I opt not to. My thoughts are filled with the thought of his bulging bicep below my digits, the warm skin tight, the veins engorged, his engorged arm strong and undulating, bursting against the measuring tape, which could not completely convey the extent of his supermassive stature; and he's so close, puffs of sweat clinging to his powerful pectorals, breathing heavily, his enormous manhood jutting out of his shorts, getting bigger, getting fuller, on the verge of eruption; and the low hum of his grunt, "How large do I seem? Inform me. Is it growing?"
The memory overwhelms me. I can't get over it. Touching his enlarged forearm, I am consumed by his sweaty masculine aroma, immersed in his musk. My mind is fixated on the rippling network of veins visible, the corded bulk of his arm, his hands clenched together, his shirt soaked with sweat, the extremely arousing image of his mighty pulsating penis. It's insanity and bliss. Hours later, I am weary from the experience. The feeling stays with me until I can no longer maintain an erection. As his reach continues to eclipse past this mark, it appears that he will not stop.
I received frequent updates from him, starting with monthly messages, then weekly, and sometimes after just a few days. They were purely text messages without any photos, but they filled my mind with vivid images. Some of these messages stood out to me:
-"I told you I would keep you informed about my progress. At present, I weigh 238 pounds. My coach measured me this morning: Arms: 20 inches, Chest: 51.25 inches, Waist: 30.5 inches, Thighs: 26 inches."
-"I feel really foolish about the whole pumping up my arms thing, making you measure me time and again. I lost myself in the moment. And now, I don't even need a pump to achieve the desired size. It's always cold, with at least 20 degrees Celsius. However, I can grow even bigger."
-"With these measurements, you might think my growth is consistent, increasing by an inch every month. However, that's not the case. As your arms grow larger, it becomes more difficult to increase their size. It's similar to how the outer rings on a tree are larger than the inner rings. So, growing from 17 to 18 inches requires more effort than 16 to 17. My growth is unstable and rapid."
-"December 5 : 257 pounds. Arms: 20.8 inches, Chest: 52.5 inches, Waist: 30.75 inches, Thighs: 27.5 inches."
-"I'm not entirely sure who I am anymore, but I've been accepting myself for who I am, understanding the source of my dissatisfaction. It's not just the divorce, but also my career. I used to tell myself that I didn't care about being a prominent figure on the Olympia stage, fearing the health risks. But why did I keep telling myself this? Why was I never satisfied when looking in the mirror? I'm starting to accept myself now, finally. When I look in the mirror, I see myself develop."
-"February 10 : 274 pounds. Arms: 21.6 inches, Chest: 54 inches, Waist: 32 inches, Thighs: 28.3 inches."
-"I saw Lauren recently. Her face was full of disgust. \"I thought you were better than this,\" she said. \"The way you always talked about how other guys ruined themselves, saying you'd never be that way. What the heck is happening to you, Nate? You've changed.\" I didn't try to explain my perspective. She wouldn't believe me, even if I did. Sometimes, the change is ourselves when we try to be someone else. But I don't need her approval anymore. I've never felt better. I look the way I want to look. This isn't for her. Not now."
-"April 2 : 298 pounds. Arms: 22.25 inches, Chest: 55.75 inches, Waist: 32.9 inches, Thighs: 29 inches."
-"Perhaps I'm working on my chest too enthusiastically. According to my coach, my proportions are getting off balance. But have you seen Hwang Chul-Soon? He's my role model. His chest is enormous, with pecs that cast shadows. I don't care if it's not balanced - give me that. I've stopped caring what other people think looks good. I've tired of following their guidelines. I want to GROW. And during the summer, I'll cut my body fat and make it look great, but I'll still be large. I enjoy the pump."
-"June 15 : 322 pounds. Arms: 22.8 inches, Chest: 56.5 inches, Waist: 33.6 inches, Thighs: 29.5 inches."
-"My clothing no longer fits me - it can't keep up. I've experienced this since the first time I began working out. They don't make pants that fit when one has such large thighs. I've learned this especially after my quads expanded. When you find pants that fit over them, the waist is too loose. Even sweatpants are tight over my thighs, but the waistband is baggy. I have to be careful. I have to workout when others are absent. Coach warnings me about it."
-"I can't wait to measure myself each week. It's irrational. The numbers aren't accurate. They change frequently. I know this. I'm used to this. But what I'm not accustomed to is the continued growth. I must practice patience, for the pump dissipates quickly, and I crave that feeling again."
-"It's like living with constant blue balls until I can measure my arms, chest, and legs, see those numbers increase."
Dude, don't say anything, but you witnessed what happened at the gym, and I need to be open about the effects of it on me. It might be related to the Colossinth with all that extra testosterone. Each training session, the sensation builds and builds, feeling like I haven't released for over a week, noticing the growth, my size, my strength, and my cock getting rock-hard instantly. I'm continually ejaculating in the gym, needing a towel to clean up due to the sheer amount. Fuck, man!
I haven't got the urge to seek out someone to have sex with. Ever since the divorce, I've been hesitant to get close to anyone. I consider my body as the best relationship I've ever been in, and I know I'm not done yet. I relish what's happening and never want it to cease.
A few minutes after sending the text, I received the following:
I'm sorry. I carried away. From now on, I'll only send you the stats.
I ponder his actions, writer himself into a frenzy while texting me, drenching a towel with sperm, feeling the testosterone coursing through his veins, imagining bigger and bigger gains, then feeling a wave of regret after ejaculating, thinking "What did I do? That was silly!" If I could, I'd reply with kind words and encouragement: "You're fantastic. You've got nothing to be ashamed of. There's nothing weird with self-care, especially after a divorce. Keep being honest about it." Alas, I can't voice my emotions.
So, what I replied was the truth: It's possibly the testosterone. No need to be embarrassed. No reason to hide. I understand his desire to focus on himself. We're all trying to improve ourselves. With no one to discuss with, tell me all your experiences, thoughts, anything. (Regarding the text - I'll edit it.) And don't worry about being upfront with me, not by any means. I'll always admire, respect, and cheer you on.
He replied with gratitude, and I found myself concerned about his lack of communication in the following month. Nevertheless, his August report shows he's back to his previous self:
August 30. 308 pounds. Arms 23", Chest 57", Waist 31.5", Thighs 30"
The summer cut's already half done. Competing no longer matters. However, I'd like to continue the regimen, maintain my physique. I also wonder how different my body will appear at a leaner state. Wrapping my abs in a towel, his skin snugly covering his muscular abs is something I look forward to. If only to have a slimmer waist, expanding into wider lats and shoulders, it's a desire I have. Radiating confidence and stiffened legs is the goal.
Could he be conscious of how he influences me? It could be me he's trying to impress. Maybe he enjoys the act of writing, sharing progress with another person. It could be anybody on the other side listening.
That said, I'm far from complaining.
My boss sits in awe of the unbelievable results, checking the numbers when I present her with the most recent report. "This is outlandish," she exclaims, staring at the figures, "he has to be fibbing. Has he shared any photographs?"
"No," I respond, "but I trust him," I said assuringly. "He's not lying."
"Woah, we need to see him right away!Maybe he's the perfect fit for our campaign once we launch. The publicity it'll bring would be amazing. Can you reach out to him for a meeting as soon as possible?"
"Of course. He's quite important for us." She shakes her head in disbelief. "I'm amazed."
So I write him a message right away, my hands shaking on the keys. I explain the situation, mention the compensation, say his flight and hotel expenses will be covered. His response?
"Sounds good. Send me the details when you have them."
"Looking forward to seeing you."
The day of the photo shoot, I head straight to the local gym we've reserved. It's early in the evening, and Nate's supposed to have arrived directly from the airport. I'm in my best suit ready to maintain a cool, professional demeanor, but all that goes out the window when I walk in and see Nate already there, wearing a tank top with his gym's logo and skintight shorts like last time. He's talking to the photographer and doesn't see me come in.
It takes me a few seconds to realize it's him, though who else could it be with a build like this? There are only about twenty people in the world with physiques like his. And when I finally accept that it's "Nate," the same guy I saw a year ago, my mind still can't process the shocking scene before me.
The numbers couldn't prepare me for this, they were too impersonal: math, not flesh. Now here he is in front of me, and while he was already large before, he's an absolute beast now. His arms look twice the size they were, and thicker than his head; his pecs and delts are cannonballs under his tank top, and the extra inches on his lats and traps give him a scary V-shape, flowing down to a narrow waist encircled by the blocky slabs of his abs, clearly defined under his stretched shirt. Turned away from me, I can see that his shorts barely contain the round globes of his glutes, and they rest high on his massive quads, each as thick as my waist, while his calves look toned, round, and flexed even when he's standing still.
This man could cause traffic accidents by simply walking shirtless down the street. He's like a god among us, and I can barely believe it's him, but while his neck's wider, his face is still the same – beautiful, still with that radiant smile, which he flashes at me as he notices me standing there like an idiot in my suit.
"Hey," he says. "Good to see you." He shakes my hand, his grip strong and warm, his grin welcoming. I notice the scent of his presence: a healthy sweat, manly and attractive. Beaches in the summer. Tanning lotion.
"You're unbelievable," I stutter. I can't hide my reaction. There's no point trying, and he doesn't seem to mind. "I can't believe this is your body, not some suit you can unzip or something."
He laughs. "I feel the same. Still me." He shoots his guns—an eruption of muscle: the well-defined cleft between his two biceps, the tall summit of his second head forming on top, and his forearm larger and full of veins. I can't help myself. I need to feel his hot, hard brawn under my fingers again, but this time so much bigger than I expected. So I step closer, into the heat of his body, the scent rising from his exposed skin, and I press my palm against the center of his arm, trying to wrap my fingers over the top of his flexed bicep, but it's too high; my fingers don't reach.
"It's still me," he whispers again, and flexes even harder, causing his muscles to swell. "All me." He twists his wrist, changing the length of his bicep, making it bulge even more, pulling my hand along with it. "In the flesh." And it's intimate, sensual, my head spinning and I'm unsure if I'll faint or explode all over my fancy trousers.
But then the photographer clears his throat behind us, and I step back, embarrassed.
It's alright, we'll catch up later. Nate smirks and struts away, his big, buff physique glistening in the tank top, his strong buttocks rubbing together in the shorts as he walks. Holy crap, I need to sit down.
He goes through a series of exercises, performing just a few reps each time: this is a demonstration, not a proper workout. The photographer snaps away as Nate pumps his arms, his chest, his legs, hangs from a bar and does chin-ups, lifts his knees to hit his lower abs. Obviously, I remain seated. I could watch him all day, however before I know it, they're done, finishing up with one last shot of Nate taking a Colossinth pill.
The photographer packs up and leaves, but I linger behind, finally calm enough to approach him. "Can I drive you to your hotel?" I inquire.
He's packing his things in a duffel bag, but he looks up at me with surprise. "What hotel?"
"Hadn't you received information about your booking?"
"No. Was I intended to?"
"Damn, somebody messed up, it wasn't me. I don't arrange those arrangements." "You're not flying out till tomorrow, right? What are you saying, I need a minute, I'll check if I can find something. We'll cover the costs, obviously."
"It's not a huge deal. Honestly, don't stress about it. I just need a place to rest for the night." He zips up his bag. "Do you have a couch? That would work for me."
"What?" I'm suddenly perplexed at the thought of him on my couch, in my house. He'd probably break it. "Well, yeah, but..."
"Terrific. Is that suitable with you? It should be fine?"
"No, it's fine. Everything's good." But I'm struggling to imagine how this will work. I'll have to be the one to occupy the couch, understandably. He can have the bed. However, contemplating him sleeping right next door, in the very same bed... and then tomorrow night, after he departs, crawling back into that place, sensing him, imagining his naked skin up against the sheets, the warmth from his body--how will I ever be able to sleep again?
No, stop envisioning that scenario. I can do this. It's no big deal.
And as I think that, I remember his voice, that playful, rumbling tone: "Not big, huh?"
For heaven's sake, don't fantasize about that now!
I send an email to my colleague about the error, then we leave the car and enter a restaurant, and he's not as fussy as I anticipated. "It's not as though I'm truly competing this year. I can bend the rules a little," he claims, but I bet he had never bothered with cheat days prior. After all, this is someone who'd rather expire than skip leg day.
It's intriguing talking with him and to have his attention centered on me when I nervously blabber about myself. I'd rather listen to his stories about his competition experiences. It's thrilling: a completely different world from mine. A more glamorous one. I wonder what it would be like, standing on stage and knowing everyone is completely astounded by your body, gasping in disbelief as you clench those glistening muscles--muscles so large that flexing them is in itself a workout, pressing out the sweat from your brow and increasing your pulse. And engaging someone in a pose-down with the other contestants, competing to be the largest, the best, flexing together and grunting as you push yourself to your muscle-bound limits, craving the feeling of eyes on your bare skin. Exposed. Frail, yet deeply strong. Nothing could harm you there.
He's still narrating his past victories when we pull into the garage at my apartment complex. I'm somewhat embarrassed to lead him up to my small apartment: one bedroom, one bathroom, and a lounge/kitchen. Nevertheless, it's clean and modern.
"I'll have the couch," I disclose when he catches a glimpse of the place. "I'd... feel more at home."
"Huh?"
"You'll have the bed tonight. I'll, um, clean the sheets. I didn't realize you'd be coming..."
"Nah, don't bother. It's fine," he claims, but I can hear the dissatisfaction in his voice as he looks around. How dismal my existence must seem to him; that's what he's most likely thinking.
"It's not much..." I say.
"What? Hey, don't feel bad about it." He grasps my shoulder and I sway. The energy surges back into his voice. "You're chatting with a guy who lives out of his gym, you know?" Nevertheless, he succeeds in making me smile. I am constantly flashing him a smile.
After he puts his bag away in the bedroom and cleans up a little, I inquire about his "natty" days once more. "Your last contest, the one right before everything started - you won that one too, correct? What was it called, the Mr. Natural Olympia?"
"Yep. You'd like to watch it? It's all on YouTube."
I had already seen the video; I had watched everything related to him throughout the past year. But why ruin the ambiance? Absolutely, I wanted to see it! So he cued up the video and sat next to me on the couch, both of us observing the pre-juiced Nate's last performance as a natural bodybuilder. And I couldn't help but compare them, noting how much bigger he has become.
"He appears to be a completely different person," I commented, astounded.
"I know, right? Watch this." And before I was even conscious of it, he stripped off his tank top, revealing his shorts and assuming a side tricep pose just as it was shown on the screen-same cheeky expression, same handsome features, but now with a substantial increase in bulk. His shoulders and chest doubled his frame, his arm creasing like braided steel cables employed for transporting ships.
He strikes pose after pose to mimic his smaller self, even imitates the way he congratulated the audience with claps, bouncing on surprisingly light feet, raising his arms and pumping up his audience. He took over my modestly-sized lounge, dominating it just like he dominated that auditorium, and even without the tan, without the bronzer, without an hour in the sauna previously, his veins bulged and pulsated, his six-pack abs carved like railroad tracks, and when he perform the most muscular posture, his whole body became one striated, bulging muscle mass-and I realized I had the largest hard-on of my life, my erection leaking copiously.
Fortunately, the bulge in my pants was hidden by my untucked shirt, but when the movie ceased and the screen went dark, I saw myself reflected in it, a longing glazed expression on my face, and I felt disgusted with myself. I could've been drooling, fantasizing about a slab of penis.
I need to thoroughly examine myself, my actions. This is his livelihood, a display that is not sexual for him at all, but some exhibition for my perversion. He was wed, for God's sake-to a woman. Snap out of it, Jackson. This must come to an end immediately.
I felt uncomfortable, yet my erection subsided. And I understood that this was what needed to be done. "Here," I declared, forcing a yawn. "Thanks for the show and so on, but I've got to get some sleep prior to work tomorrow, so..."
"What?" His facial expression showed his anguish, and it crushed my heart. "You mean... I get it."
"Yeah. Um, you're supposed to head to the airport in the morning, right? Could you take an Uber?"
"Yeah. Well, no problem." He regarded his attire, unsure of its purpose or his onstage actions. "I guess I'll change... head to bed. See you in the morning?"
"Yep. Good night."
I suspected that he believed he'd found a friend, someone who admired and valued him and his interests much like bodybuilding. Someone who didn't view him as a middle-aged fellow striving to reclaim glory after losing his spouse and subsisting day after day at a gym. And I do appreciate him, I am interested. I've been fixated on him since we first met. However, I can't simply be his friend; it is agonizing. I haven't been able to think about anybody else since meeting him. I had to end this, so the time to do so was now.
I thought I'd stay wide awake, knowing he was just in the other room, sharing my bed. But when I took my seat on the couch in my boxers and switched off the lamp, my longing for his body wasn't what occupied my thoughts. It was the heartbreak on his face.
In front of the mirror, I scrutinize my ordinary self. The bright light exposes my mediocrity. Stark nude, my only source of satisfaction, my cock, dangles lifelessly. I'm less than impressive. Why can't I be like Nate? The Adonis, the Hercules, the epitome of manhood.
In a frenzy of resentment, I stretch my limp arms into a halfhearted bicep pose, but my biceps remain deflated. Unsatisfied, I push harder, yearning to magically transform my arms into believable aspirations. Suddenly, I'm astounded by the fruits of my labor. Miraculously, one inch of growth. It's there. I keep pushing, my zeal growing alongside my arms. My biceps swell until they resemble a balloon pumped full of air. It's happening.
I swing my newly formed arms in jubilation, rising as I complete my best "most muscular" pose. My stern glare morphs into a snarl as I watch the vivacious transformation unfold. My chest blows up, appearing as if it's made of inflated rubber. A warrior godlike character, I behold my shoulders turn into rippling, spherical mounds. I marvel at the visible veins, dark and bulky, bubbling with swelling pressure. I flex my arm muscles and watch my forearms thicken, now in stark contrast against my terribly tiny wrists.
My back in the mirror reveals a transformation of its own: bumpy humps mimic a reverse water slide down my spine. I tighten my glutes, making them appear like perky orbs enveloped by soft, springy flesh, and my traps become towering slopes.
I beam impressed. I turn around smugly and feel a change behind me, I see more hulking mass than I had before. I can't believe my eyes! I feel my quads expand, seamlessly morphing into a broad, thrilling landscape. In ecstasy, I roar, allowing my enormous corona to veer up, exemplifying my manliness. My testicles also boast fleshy texture, their exact resemblance to tennis balls, distended like juicy grapefruits.
My heart beats frantically, my veiny biceps bursting. I'm going to burst. My arms flex and unflex, bulging and pulsating with intensity as I wonder how they might look when fully bloated. Seeing my paradigm shift under my rampant flexing, my words transform into a fierce howl as I'm mesmerized by my newest, craziest, most jaw-dropped reflection. My thighs enveloped by new muscle, quads so tightly tethered, I hear them rip and expand into masses of man-meat quivering at my legs' sides. My cock strikes up with power, throbbing past its usual 7 inches. My face contorts in agony and lust: my balls need relief.
In one swift heartbeat, I hold space tightly around the coveted submit button.
As they would, I'm incensed with urgency! I visually pull my shirt off, my reflex making a slimy trail down my glasses as I move them out of the way. Before adjusting them, I swivel my body to preserve my view of my burly new form in the mirror.
Almost blind with lust, my hands encircle my throbbing member, only to be met by an explosive reaction. All the needs designed to transform me into a powerful man find release at once, each movement of my hand anointing me with pleasure and a descent into a frenzied madness. The hefty size of my new manliness satisfies every pulsating urge and ache.
My mind's amplified senses scream in synch with the reality showdown before me.
"It's too intense," I think, "it feels like I'm going to go on forever!"
My hips buck as my swollen body quivering in ravenous embrace. "Take it all!" I command, pawing at myself, my eyes glued to my new visage. All of creation must envy me. And I luxuriate in my Godhood as I prepare for the performance: fingers tearing at the cardboard box of cock-rings, a relentless demand consuming me as I hastily fumble and rip open the packaging. And in one swift and crassly satisfying moment, my monstrous cock is nestled in a shrunken contraption, yet maintaining my newfound size. And now
I jolt awake on the couch in my small, dimly lit apartment, my penis throbbing with an intense urge to explode. I fight to resist, trying to think of anything else, but it's no use. The sensations along my shaft are overwhelming, my skin so tight it's painful. Another jerk sends me teetering even closer to the edge. I must not cum! Not like this!
I lie frozen, like I'm standing in front of a bomb that'll explode with the slightest movement. But the fabric of my boxers touches my member and makes it worse. It's so sensitive that I can barely move without triggering the explosive sensation. I carefully lift the waistband and ease them away from my hard-on. My lightly perspiring dick hovers in the darkness, throbbing and leaking fluid across my stomach. My heart races.
A few moments pass, and the pulsing slowing starts to subside. It's safe now. I can make it to the bathroom to pee without waking Nate. "I need to shower," I'll tell him if he asks. "I forgot to wash my hair." Yes, that'll fool him.
This was to be expected. The blue balls I experienced all day made it inevitable. I need to regain my composure. I'll jerk off once he's out of the apartment. I'm not going to the office, anyway. "Client relations" is the task I've been assigned for today.
I check a few missed messages on my phone to distract myself and try to settle my heartbeat, but it's still only midnight. I read a message from the coworker I grumbled at for making me book a hotel room for Nate. "Not my fault," he says. "Nate cancelled it an hour after I booked it. Got us a full refund."
My awareness is hazy and fragmented, making it difficult to process the message. But I'm sure I heard the words that summed up my day: he lied to me. He tricked me. Just to get into my home. He's probably already taken my wallet and stolen a few other items. Serves me right. I've been such an idiot throughout this ordeal.
I go to the bathroom and pee, feeling better. Once I finish, I become alert to the situation. I am disappointed in myself, but I need to face the reality: my apartment is still in order and all my belongings are in place. It doesn't seem that Nate has ransacked the place.
I notice him sleeping on his side with his back to me, listening to his chest's relaxed breathing pattern. He's wearing just a pair of black briefs and I think he never wears anything else during the night. I study his massive body and large, erect penis, covered by the thin fabric, and I consider the scenario and decide.
I tiptoe toward the bed, my heart pounding like a sledgehammer, listening to the sound of his deep, husky breathing. I place my hand on the handle of the chest of drawers a few feet away. But it's too late. As I move closer, I hear his voice, his grogginess evaporating. "Jackson, what took you so long?"
My hand clutches my crotch in panic. My arousal is gaining strength quickly. "I'm sorry, Nate. I was looking for something in my drawers, by the dresser. Want me to leave?"
I turned around when he says, "No, Jackson. Stay here."
He speaks softly, and I face him again, stunned as he sits up and gazes at me in the coziness of my humble room. I feel he's nearly close enough to touch - his hands testify, removing my hands from my arousal, dismissing their pitiful efforts to mask my growing erection, he wraps his fingers about it and pulls me toward him.
"Nate, I –" He silences me, commences tugging my semi with slow, experimental motions, warming it up with enthusiasm and charisma. My eyes roll back, my spine arches; I feel an amorphous ache building underneath my cock, traveling up to my scrotum as I sense myself jerking in response to his efforts, extending and thickening, expanding under his palm, my crown rubbing on his muscular arm. Memory resurfaces, as a blaze of euphoria emanates from my mammoth tool while I gazed into the mirror. I sense my immense proportions now in his grip, my potency.
However, "Wait," I plead. "Wait. Nate, are you certain?"
He doesn't cease his actions. "I knew I desired you a year ago," he assures. "And I intended tonight to be the night. I believed I'd been so clever, planning it. But when I got here, I couldn't make the first move – not after bulldozing my way into your dwelling. I wanted to confirm this was of my own accord, not ravaging you. Yet you remained silent. I perceived I had misunderstood."
"No. No, I'll bite," I pant. "Whatever you wish. Wherever you wish. I've wanted this for so long. Aspired… Ooh… fuck!" He chuckles while he modifies his grip, lifts my cock and employs rapid strokes, destabilizing me as I teeter on shaky legs near the bed. Endurance will progress quickly under such conditions. I have already invoked Too Soon, and my cock straining with the throes of ecstasy. I'm uncertain whether I can sustain this rate, yet surrendering is my primary desire, subsumed by the fervent ardor of his cupping my manhood.
Consequently, I place my hand over his, casually curtail his fervent motions, and I curve down and kiss his mouth, immerse his warm breath into my lungs, synchronize our beats as our tongues flicker. I push him onto the bed, linger above him and venture down his cheek, his throat, giving his muscular tissue affection, emitting willing murmurs.
I plant myself next to him upon the bed, probe his pectorals with my tongue, his nipples, following his athletic form down through his shredded midriff, his navel, tracing kisses and licks, down the corded network of his lower belly until I'm marveling at his obscene bulge in his undergarments.
"I'll eliminate your briefs," I mention, and he plants his buttocks obediently, causing me to fabricate a tense grip and knead the waist. It is a battle to wrangle the damp, clammy material over his bulge, over his quadriceps as these balloon just as his waist, but, at last, I view the liberated member spring from its confinements, impressive and erect. But I cannot properly handle it in this arrangement, the proximity of his legs.
"Spread your thighs slightly," I command, wedging myself between his taught musculature, crouching before his croch.
He carefully complies, allowing me to enclose his waist and detach his garment. It is a tough battle to sweep the thin, moist apparel over his thighs, over his cellulite as it illuminates his knees, but eventually, I espy his unsheathed erection enunciating its regal stature within his undergarment. Yet, I am unable to reach and devote my lips to that aforementioned member while preserving said distance. "Spread your legs a bit more," I pressure, and squeeze between his spread legs, kneel in front of his crotch, admiring the mighty behemoth I have longed to divine.
He bestows a nod of assent, and I apprehend his shaft with my hands, just as I devised among the daydreams I revered since his display in the gym. It fills my palms, overpowering in dimensions, marked with lustful bulging veins. I can't imagine letting go, ceasing the rapture of touching a human constituted of rubber and bone, knowing that a formidable man between my fingers can incite exhilaration and anguish from unison.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Yes, fuck. Stroke my penis, Jackson. It feels velveteen. I'm so raunchy. Don't stop."
While he remains securely stroked, I bury my face closer to his crotch, inhale the fragrance of his moist phallus, nuzzle his pouch. His sperm glands haven't lessened – if anything, it appears they've expanded, poised to fire copious amounts, and I am the recipient. I lick his sac, lodge his testicles in my mouth, compliment them with my tongue, his moan and arching back triggering my nostrils to feel his sweaty body parts, my fingers exploring his luscious shaft.
"Fuck! Yes. Oh, fuck," [he] tap dances. "Yes! Yes! Jackson – oh fuck!"```
I can see his fear readily dissipates and his eagerness predominates. How much longer till he gives into his desires and attempts to retain his poise? If he continues to partake in this activity, it's only a matter of time until he succumbs to his carnal impulses. Instead, maybe I should provide him with a new vision, help him to drift away from such confusion and disconcerting vulnerability, transforming it to a pleasant and satisfying experience.```
I move my tongue along his length, luxuriating in the feeling of his hardness between my lips. I kiss the head, savoring its tenderness as I caress him. He's so well-endowed that I can't bend his dick down far enough to fit him in my mouth, so I prop myself up by holding onto the bed, positioning myself so I can finally bend it and guide his cockhead inside. Oh, the sensation of his flesh on my tongue! I long to take all of him, but it would take hours of practice, and he doesn't fit well with the curvature of my throat. Instead, I wrap my hand around him, stroking up and down, twirling and pivoting, and I sense the growing urgency pulsating through his body.
"Shit! Oh, fuck," he moans in a low, intense voice. "Fuck, Jackson, you're going to make me cum! Make me fucking cum. You suck so good! Don't stop. Suck my dick. Make me cum."
He begins to move rhythmically, flexing his hips and showing off his taut abs. He grabs the back of my head and guides me. I moan around his shaft and suck it harder and faster. I long for him to ejaculate, to let him experience the satisfaction of being a powerful, muscular stud. I prepare him for climax, feeling his quaking body, his beads of sweat glistening in the light streaming in from our window. I detect the rising pressure traveling through his entire body like a preparatory quake leading to a geyser explosion.
"You're going to make me cum, Jackson, make me fucking cum. Fuck! Do you want to swallow my load?"
I'm eager for this. Not only that, but I'm also somewhat apprehensive. I've seen what this weapon can fire. But while he's increasing his tempo, I reply, "Mmhmm," and think to myself, "Choke me with your hot semen, you muscled bodybuilder. Drown me in it." And so he moans, squirms, and contracts his body. His hand clasps my hair tightly, his balls pressing against the base of his shaft, and he's exclaiming, "Yeah, here it comes, I'm going to cum, oh fuck, oh shit, get ready--!"
Then he convulses once, twice, and thankfully, I've raised the tip of his cock towards the roof of my mouth to prevent it from going straight down my throat. His first spurt sprays directly onto my palate, causing my eyes to water instantly from his salty flavor.
"Yeah, here it comes, I'm going to cum. Fuck! You want my load? You want this fucking load?"
I do, desperately. I'm also careful not to choke myself. But I make the affirmative sound "mm" around this behemoth in my mouth, thinking, "Let me be engulfed by your cum." And that's what he does. He booms loudly, spasming on the bed, releasing more spurts into my mouth. I strive to swallow despite the excess seeping out of my mouth, down his veiny shaft, leaving stains on the bed. He flinches over and over more intensely, sending multiple bursts into my throat. I have no choice but to spit out the glans to avoid choking on this sticky substance.
"Fuck! Oh fuck, yes!" he shouts, thrusting harder against me and quivering on the bed. I suck his cock back in and imbibe the final pellets, feeling the tremors running through his fuckpole, and I don't want to stop. My tongue runs along his cum channel, the smooth head, the hard ridge, the soft spot where his foreskin meets his ass-like cheeks. I adore every part of him.
At last, he softens and his grip on my hair becomes light again. "Damn," he murmurs, exhausted but satisfied. "Most people panic when I cum like that, but you took it like a champ. You're a real eager cocksucker, aren't you?" he says with a lazy drawl. "Fuck, Jackson, you look so hot with my jizz on your face. Come here." He invites me with a low moan. "Give me a taste."
I hop onto his enormous frame lying on my bed, mounting his torso, with my knees resting on either side of his sculpted abs, and I lean over his visage, lose myself in the depths of his intense dark eyes, palm his cheek, explore his rugged stubble, and we engage in a passionate kiss.
"On a side note," I can't resist asking when we part lips, "How reckless were you driving me when I visited your gym?"
"You imply when I was flaunting my prick for all to see?" He chuckles and I feel curious. "Yes, indeed. Was I attempting to impress you? You seemed so eager for it. I rarely ejaculate at the gym, you know; it'd create a lot of problems. That one time though," he adds, "I showed off, flexed my cock until it exploded during one lift. I was anticipating you to drop to your knees, as you appeared insatiable. But then again, you were a respectable gentleman. Neat. Like I used to be. However, I've deduced you're fed up with clean living, just like me."
Unquestionably, I yearn for him. We inhale each other, taste his semen in our mouths. I then journey south on his neck, bury my face in his chest, stain his muscular upper torso with his cum and my spit. I sense his pulsating heartbeat and bathe in his heat emanating from his oversized muscles, accumulated over the past year. Electric tremors rush between his impressive corporeal structures as he flexes, resulting in the augmentation of his sculpted muscles and cords of muscle fibers rippling. "Fucking hell, you're mind-blowingly hot," I vocalize, my voice muffled by excessive musculature.
"You think I've sculpted these massive pecs, don't you?" he teases. "The added mass of that extra flesh, fulfilling my lifelong dream. Let's witness how your equipment compares against it," he taunts.
"You desire..."
"Come here."
And he yanks me close, so I'm resting between his pecs, my phallus teetering between them, like bronze cushions on both sides. My rigidity refuses to bend away from that breathtaking expanse, but luckily, my cock is at the right angle to let me rest my hands on either side of his head and enjoy the sensation as it slides against the roughness of his muscle crevasse. He then becomes intentional, massaging my lower back with gentleness that sends shivers down my spine; I in turn pull back, thrust forward again. The struggle to keep myself stable is immense, but the ecstasy from my mutated flesh rubbing against his rock-hard body is too delicious to ignore.
"Stay steadfast," he persuades, "Let me get a better view."
He removes his hand from my back, peers under my butt, seeks for my anus, and then inserts two slobbery fingers; my sphincter buckles and then loosens as he home in on my prostate, which sits behind my cock. As he hits this specific point, the pleasure is sharp initially and I exhale, but he chuckles in acknowledgment, and continues to gently massage me, sliding between the glans of my penis while simultaneously running circles around my prostate. Instruction: My thoughts linger on the pressing coitus from his fingers, which triggers a bass-like pleasure that proliferates throughout my genital region, resonating with his finger movements, luring my cock into a state of delirious contentment. [To be continued..]
When he flexes his pectoral muscles, his chest expands, revealing the tense lines of my cock pressing against his flexed muscles. The delicate skin on the tip of my shaft tingles as it rubs against his muscle cords, causing more nectar to ooze out. My dick begins to squirm and slide under his touch as he says, "I'll make you cum with my pecs. Feel that sensation? You're full of it."
"You're a god! A muscle god." I moaned. "Just mentioning how you work out your chest in the gym today made me horny. The way your pecs moved when you squeezed them together attracted my attention."
"So you want to see me do it again? With my hands?"
"Yes, do it! I need it! Oh fuck, Nate!"
"Like this?" He took out his fingers from my asshole. Using his strength, he brought his arms closer together and then pulled them apart, letting his pecs expand. While he squeezed them, I could feel my cock sliding against his muscles. "This is what a man's chest is designed for," he said. "Feel how these huge, warm, and hard muscles wrap around my fat cock."
With the squeezing motion, he continued to talk dirty: "In case you haven't met someone with such amazing pecs, just fuck me with everything you've got."
My excitement increased, damaging my willpower. I could no longer hold back my pleasure. "Fuck, Nate! I'm about to cum!"
As his pecs continued to influence my pleasure, I moaned, ejaculated, and sprayed my seed against his chest, feeling the warm salty liquid splashing against his skin, witnessing the toys drift apart, and my cum dripping down my cock. His laughter resounded through the room, and he persisted.
"Please, Nate!" I begged.
He laughed, "Let's see what we have here. Would you like to see my chest squeeze your dick harder?"
Without hesitation, I said, "Yes! I love how they appear like tits. How else could an average muscular body look without a man's chest?"
His amusement turned into ecstasy, and he put his arms back together, his big tits bounced as his pectorals tensed. "This is all for a man's cock," he declared. "Let's make you feel more pleasure." I positioned myself atop his chest, arching my back as he moved my cock between his muscles, filling my pelvis with his strong pecs, and I pumped myself against his chest.
It was too much for my body to handle, too many stimulants, and I could practically hear my balls initiating a rhythmic pulse. All of this caused me to lose myself to an inescapable pleasure. "Jesus Christ, Nate! I'm cumming!"
With high rhythmic motions, my cock erupted, spurting more fluid against his chest. In response to this, I felt him embrace me with his arms, but his grip on my torso tightened as he demanded more. After some time, he released me, and I joined him on my back, my thighs quivering under my weight.
"Do you want more sexual activities now?" I asked.
He whispered, "Let's try positioning you with your thighs wrapped around me."
"Lie down on your stomach," I instructed him.
"On your back?" He reversed position.
"No, on your stomach," I urged him.
"Oh, right," he responded. He quickly got off me and laid down on the bed, facing downward, both of us still covered in the lubrication.
"Get my legs, and put them around your ass."
He began to move his ass backward, hovering down towards me. He adjusted his position, and my thighs were wrapped around his waist. With a shaky voice, he inquired, "Are you ready?"
Instruction:"Yes, go ahead."
As we writhed about, he asked, "Do you want to practice my stallion stance? Or try my doggy position?"
With a commanding tone, I said. "Ask me to kneel."
He reacted with a chuckle, his eyes closed in anticipation. "Kneel."
I obeyed, turning around on the bed, finally placing myself on my hands and knees.
"Pray," he joked.
His hands softly touched my body. Every touch ignited deep sensations as he slapped onto my hips and caressed my back, making me so desperate. His massive cockhead seeped moisture, exciting me. He pushed himself into my ass slowly and gently. "Do you like my new technique?"
I moaned, "Yes!" And I could feel the difference the tease had on me.
I wrap my lips around his, pressing my mouth against his hungrily, letting him know how much I crave this. "I like your mind," I murmur softly.
I slide off him, watch him rise from the bed. For a brief instant, he stands facing away from me, the beam of sunlight shining on his undulating back, highlighting the ridges and dips of his muscles. His glutes are glimmering with perspiration, his legs taut and toned. Slowly, he turns to face me, his oiled body gleaming and perspiring, his cum glistening on his chest, a trail leading down his abs to his groin where his massive shaft insists its presence. I feel a rush of excitement. I tremble.
There's a bottle of lubricant on my dresser nearby, but it's unnecessary-- he grabs it with one hand, using the other to lubricate his length, gently rubbing the lubricant between his fingers, sliding it along his cock every which way. I maneuver into position on all fours on the bed, my ass pointing at him.
"Place your head on the pillow," he instructs. "Let me know if it hurts. I promise to go slow."
I feel his fingers first, spreading my buttocks with our shared fluids, eliciting a hint of pleasure. Then his thick shaft nudges at my entrance, trying to find its way in. His hips push against mine, insistent and urgent, forcing himself inside me. I shudder at the feeling, the massiveness of his cockhead. He pauses to adjust to me, shares the warmth of his body, our bodies exude the odor of lust, the slickness of our arousal, as he gradually inches toward me, forcing his way into my ass. A few gasps escape me, my body pressed against the bed. "Oh God," I growl softly. "You're so big... so fucking big!"
I hear the strain in his voice. He wants to control it, but his cock yearns to be let loose. "Are you okay, Jackson? Are you comfortable?"
My knees weaken. "Keep going. Fuck faster! Fill me up! Make me take it!"
He acquiesces, thrusting harder, his massive body exerting its strength, shifting my face into the pillow. "Just like that," he grunts, his hips moving back and forth in a rhythm. "Just like that. You okay, Jackson?"
"Fuck! Don't stop! Keep going!"
He pushes himself into me, his hips holding back, fighting the urge to burst, determined to keep up with my request.
I submit to his mighty plaything, savoring the pain, the fullness, as it stretches parts of me I've never explored. I clench my abs to brace myself and manage to endure his mighty rod being driven into my guts, feeling my sphincter muscles strained across his length. "Oh God," I sigh. "You're so big..."
He tests the boundaries of my limits, sliding deeper with every push, working his way into more of me. "Yeah?" he sighs. "I'm going to fuck your ass! Keep taking it!"
I buck my hips back, my body gripping his, allowing him to push further into me, teasing me with every intention to thrust deeply, then slowing down to let me accommodate to differing resistance, over and over. Torn between pleasure and pain, I strain to keep myself composed. "Yes, fuck me! Fuck me hard!"
He arrives at my spot, incessantly rubbing his behemoth against my prostate, my body shortly responding with aching intensity, as if his massive palm is gripping the base of my shaft. "That's the sweet spot. I'm going to fuck you. Fuck your filthy ass!"
In no time, he springs into action, jacking his body back and forth, our skin slapping and rubbing together. "Please!" I demand. "Ram my dirty ass!"
He thrusts, propelling himself inside me, the power of his thrusts propelling my body high, low, under, and back, still extending one hand along my shaft to help me stay in rhythm. "I like that!" he moans. "Let's make you feel good..."
In the midst of his power, his strong grasp around my erection, his massive bulk pressing me down, his cock thrusting into me not just for his own satisfaction but to push me to the limits of my own pleasure, I know he's smirking that conceited grin of his every time I moan and whimper. He's reveling in dominating me like the compliant cock-slut I am, utilizing every ounce of lust and ecstasy he can elicit from my shaft, my prostate, his control surging through his body, the overpowering male excess causing me to moan and bite the pillow while I strain my hips to receive more.
Our bodies collide frantically, our flesh slapping, squelching, heading straight for the precipice; the intensity building louder in my ears, robbing me of breath. I'm fighting against him, against his cock, his hand, his muscles, the climax nearing, the air thick with sex, sperm, sweat, and saliva, my mouth soaked in the taste of him, my vision hazy from tears, every sense consumed by the increasing waves of pleasure, clamping down hard on my shaft, my face buried in the pillow, ass thrust upward, eyes closed, eagerly pleading for additional thrusts, groaning, Oh fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck me you muscular demigod, you magnificent stud, pound my asshole with that cock, flood me with your cum, cease not, you're so fucking outstanding...
In response, he devolves into a primal animal, each stroke faster, stronger, his wet body slamming against mine, creating a storm of sex, sweat, sperm. Pushes against me with the determination to ensure a glorious ending, rocking and jerking to discharge every drop he holds. I long for it and need it - give me that fucking climax.
Withdrawing from my body, he rests his magnificently greased penis between my buttocks, releasing his own load, groaning in pleasure as he showers me with jizz. It rains on my back, my hair, a sexual fountain stretching into the room, and effuses down the wall with each discharge, obliterating the space above my head. Following my own climax, I feel an orgasmic release as my cock erupts deep into the mattress and we lay still, surfeited, gasping; unblinking eyes beheld the haunting sight of our sweaty forms enveloping the mattress, his cock still pressed against my sweat-drenched ass.
He rolls onto his side, observes me with concern, "Jack? Are you alright?"
I roll to my back, look up at the ceiling, "Unreal. So fucking unreal. This room will reek of us for ages, the bed on the verge of being inseminated with our semen. I move across the bed, hoping to accommodate him. A drawn-out groan emits from him, his muscular body sliding beside me, him pressing down upon me, our palms rubbing. I bury my face into his chest, he strokes my back.
We embrace for a while until both of us gain composure. He gazes deeply into my eyes before whispering, "How badly do you want it?"
"I've never craved anything more."
"Okay then, I'll help you," he says and retrieves a bottle from his bag.
Dread seizes me as he pulls from his bag revealing a bottle of Colossinth. "Yes?"
"If you're certain."
Affirmative, which only prompts a slight chuckle from him. A pill is extricated from its packaging and held out for me, which I quickly accept and pop it into my mouth. "More?"
There is a nod.
A second pilled is deposited into my hands and I down it. "I'm not sure this is wise..."
He offers a nonchalant shrug. "It's your life, Jackson. Strap yourself in."
I rest, unsure of what's shaping in the coming hours.
"We'll talk later," he says and we both sink back into the bed, a prescience of what is to come lingering in the background.
My heart leaps as I realize my essence of desire is within me. With him by my side, I can conquer my dreams.
"You're extraordinary. Unmatched in beauty," I mutter.
An amused noise escapes him.
And now, amidst this shared moment of vulnerability, I can triumph over my aspirations, challenge them to come to fruition.
"I wish to be like you; resemble you. Live as you," I whisper.
He tests my reserve with a thoughtful expression before confirming, "I'm in."
Grabbing the bottle, he hands it to me, expecting me to obey. I do - I see no other path forward.
Read also:
- Yes, Darling
- Anna and Jason: A Tale of Love and Trouble
- Justine's Amour
- Western Tail: Rear End of the West
Source: www.nice-escort.de
