The Trainer 3
by AKA
After one week, I was making progress I never thought possible. In all the months I had spent with my old trainer, I had never managed the gains that I was seeing in only a week with Jove.
On the one hand, this wasn’t wholly unexpected. The man drove me harder than I had ever been driven. We went for two hours each day. He would concentrate on one set of muscles, pushing me and my body beyond what I ever thought I could do, and then further even than that. How could my body not start to grow from such a shock?
On the other hand, the growth I was seeing and the power I was feeling was...impossible. Was this how every man’s body reacted when it was forced to? It seemed to me that I had strived for weeks to simply go from lifting with two plates to adding two more. Now, my lifts were increasing on a daily basis. What I found challenging on Tuesday I was easily surpassing on Thursday. When I tested my strength, I was always underestimating my capabilities.
And the muscle was quite noticeably growing. I didn’t have to put on my clothes to realize that the sleeves were going to be a bit tighter than they were, or that there would be less room for my shoulders, or that my chest was going to try to open the front of my business shirt on its own.
Looking in the mirror, I could see these changes manifest. Bending my arm, I watched the muscles swell upwards and keep going. I watched them tighten into a ball that arched toward my fist. I could feel individual lobes of brawn begin to manifest as the muscle grew and separated into its assembled parts.
I asked Jove about this, whether this was considered normal, and he smiled. “It is normal for me,” he said, and then he added, placing that bear’s paw on my shoulder, “for us.” I felt that same surge of pride and lust from his words and his touch. Lust not for the man, but for the growth. For the muscle. For the path he was guiding me along.
My growth only spurred that lust - that desire for more. As I lifted heavier weights and saw my chest begin to swell into globes of power, I wanted to push myself to go farther. When I was tucking my cock into my shorts, feeling its weight sagging the basket as if it, too, was growing larger and stronger, I wanted to hold steel in my grip and push it until my arms were stinging with power.
On the last day of the week - the sixth day of training before my day of rest - Jove brought me the daily nectar and said, “Tomorrow, you should show your dominance.” I wrinkled my brow as I swallowed the warm, thick fluid to show my curiosity. He said, “Tomorrow, you should find another - another man - and display to him your new self.”
I lowered the bottle and wiped my lips. “Display my new self?”
He grabbed my upper arm, surrounding it in his huge grip. “This,” he said. Then he moved that grip onto my cock, drooling its usual stream of pre-cum, and repeated, “this.”
I went up on my toes when he grabbed me there. Was he advising me…? Was he telling me to go forth and fuck? “My dominance,” I said, looking into his dark, sparkling eyes.
He nodded once and released me from his grip. “It will help you,” he said. “It will make you grow stronger.”
Nothing wrong with that, I thought, and damned if I wasn’t the horniest dude you ever met, anyway. My workout sessions had drained me of energy, but by the fall of night I always found myself stroking out a massive delivery of spunk, usually while I was looking at my growing body in the mirror. Why not use what I was gaining and have a little extracurricular activity?
“I will,” I told my trainer.
“That is good,” he answered.
Between going to Atlas and going to work, I had not been back to the other gym at all, and I thought about John. The bastard never did call me, even after he asked for my number. I decided that day to re-visit my old stomping grounds to show off a bit, and particularly for his eyes alone.
I felt proud and unashamed and a bit domineering as I walked back into the gym. The gazes I was getting from the other occupants seemed to validate my pride and desire to show off.
Jove never pointed out how much I was lifting, he simply piled on the weight and pushed out another rep from my screaming muscles and then moved on. There was no plan that I could see to his training method, other than to achieve growth at all costs.
Then there was that nectar. God, how I needed it! It was a sweet addiction, something to look forward to after every 2-hour torture. Every morning, my cock grew harder - and I swear it was growing in proportion to the rest of me, though that was likely only my imagination in play.
I walked into the old gym in my skintight workout clothes sporting the usual thick wood at my loins, swollen and hungry but not at full mast, lying thickly inside my jock with the head and long shaft stretching the elastic with its heavy abundance. This time I was not embarrassed in the least. In fact, I wanted to strut around the floor and show off for the audience. Look at me! Look at these muscles! Look at this cock!
I looked for John - Mr. Perfect - but he was not there as I began my faux workout. I had already had my session with Jove that morning, and driven directly to the other gym still soaked with sweat, my muscles burning with power and my libido driven to overdrive.
Everyone stared. How could they not? Did I look so different to them? Had I changed so much? Only one week had passed. Perhaps that massive shank of meat in my pants is what made them all look at me. I wanted to fuck every one of them, dominate them, force them to know my power and growing perfection.
Nectar was in my veins. In my blood. Singing its sweet song in my ears. My muscles bulged. My cock throbbed.
I saw him, at last. John. Mr. Perfect. And he was headed my way. “My, my, my,” he said, “what have you been up to?”
I smiled and paused in my exercises. My cock throbbed hotly. “Hi, John. What’s up?”
He gazed down at my obvious erection and asked, “Besides you?” I matched his gaze and did nothing to hide myself. “You’re looking massive,” he observed. “What’s your secret?”
I bent my arm and swelled my biceps to power. Fibers of raw strength jumped up against my skin. The muscle grew into a tight ball on my upper arm, splitting along its head with perfect muscular development. If my Under Armor shirt had not been made of stretchy material, I know I would have split the seams. “New trainer,” I said. “He’s very…determined.”
“Obviously.” I was sitting on a bench, with a pair of 40s on the floor, resting between sets. 40s were now ludicrously light. I was used to working with double the weight. I watched his eyes flicker towards my well-stuffed crotch. I was packing massive heat, and he was nearly salivating. Then his eyes were back on mine, and I watched him swallow. “Is everything bigger?” he asked.
I cupped my meat and smiled. “Seems that way.” I was feeling confidence and dominance swelling as large as my dick. I was slowly rubbing my crotch, feeling intense pulses of sexual prowess and bliss, as I said, “You didn’t call me.”
“I can see now that I should have,” he admitted. He looked at my crotch again. “You nearly finished with your workout?”
“Nearly.”
“Ready to hit the showers?”
“What I really want to do is fuck you.” Where the hell had that come from? I had never been so bold before.
But he liked it. “Before or after the showers?”
“During.”
His eyes narrowed and his handsome mouth quirked into a grin. “That might be possible.” I stood up slowly, allowing him to watch me expand to my new size. He seemed small to me, now. My cock was already stretching. I could feel the head pushing against the rough material of my jock. My balls tingled. My muscles were hard and throbbing. “But not today, my friend. Though I would love to feel this,” he said, putting his hand very directly on my growing erection and squeezing me without apparent embarrassment or awkwardness, “pushing deep inside, time isn’t on our side.”
“I don’t need much time,” I admitted, “I’m almost there already.”
He squeezed again, testing my hardness. “So it seems. But I don’t want to rush this, do you?”
It was my turn to smile. “No,” I agreed.
He released me from his firm grip. “Patience, Thomas. When you and I get together, I’ve a feeling that we’re going to generate much more than sparks. I’ve a feeling we’ll set the fucking bed on fire.”
“You look like you could do that all by yourself,” I growled.
“Now it’s my cock that’s starting to stretch.” I looked down and it was undoubtedly true. The man was gifted. “I’ll call you.”
“You’d better.”
He smiled again. I nearly came.
My day of rest. And my day, as Jove called it, of showing my dominance.
I was not what one might call a player. I did not have a little black book. I did not frequent the local watering holes and meat markets, prowling for a night’s recreation. I didn’t even have a fuck buddy to fall back on, and God knew I wasn’t about to call an ex-lover to have him come over and start crying because he wanted to get back together with me, now that I was hot.
Because I was hot. No one could deny that. If I had drawn attention in my old gym by stripping off my shirt, after only a week I was convinced that my new, bigger body would cause a stampede.
I went online. Isn’t that what one does, now? I started at the usual dating spots, but then I remembered Jove’s instructions; Show your dominance, display your new self, show him… this.
‘This’ was my cock. I looked down at my crotch and my dick swelled and pulsed as if in recognition of its role. It wanted out of my jeans, my tight jeans, gripping my growing legs like a second skin. It pushed arrogantly against the denim like an animal wanting released from its cage. My cock was anxious and hungry. My cock wanted to show its dominance.
I went to another site, one whose goal was not just to date, or to have sex, but to match up muscular men with other muscular men with one goal only - to get them together and dominate each other.
At least, that was what was in my head as I typed in my zip code and started my search for my day of domination. Pages of men in stages of undress unfolded on my screen. Huge, muscular men, some brutal and others beautiful. Some were showing off the bodies they had built, flexing muscles and posing in the way that best showed off their bodies. Some kept their shorts on, or wore jockstraps or wrestling togs, objects of fantasy for my pleasure. Others stripped themselves naked and displayed hard cocks, ready to be sucked and fucked.
My body was growing hot as my eyes perused this gallery of male beauty and power. I had unzipped my jeans and shoved them off my hips, pulling forth my own hard cock and was slowly pleasuring myself, surrendering to this unending visual display of muscle and might. I had just about decided on sending an invitation to one of these men - a hairy, brutish fellow whose profile went into great detail about the things he proposed to do to me - when my cell phone began ringing and I picked it up.
The number on the display was unfamiliar, but since I rarely received calls on this phone from someone who didn’t already have the number, I elected to answer it.
“This is Thomas,” I said.
“Hello, Thomas,” the voice answered. I did not recognize it. It was a dark masculine voice. Even the way he said ‘hello’ made my cock throb in my grip.
“Hello,” I answered. “Who is this?”
“This is John.”
Mr. Perfect. I had all but forgotten that I had even given him my number. “Oh,” I said. My pulse quickened and my cock swelled. “Hi, John.”
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” he asked.
I looked down at my erection, rubbing my thumb across the lips of my serpent’s mouth, and answered. “No, I was just online.”
“Hunting for some ass?” he asked.
My heart leapt. He said it as if he had been watching over my shoulder. “Yes,” I answered. I don’t know why I said that.
He laughed softly. “Which site are you on?” I told him, and he said, “What a coincidence.” Then he gave me a profile number and told me to search for it.
It was him, of course. I was met with a close-up of his gorgeous face. He was smiling in the portrait, though somehow he had managed to make even that simple expression drip with erotic intent. “Are you looking at me?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Bring up the gallery, Thomas. Top left picture. I think you’ll want to see that one, too.”
I clicked the link and saw a dozen more images of Mr. Perfect. The thumbnails promised untold beauty and raw sexuality. Images of him in square-cut shorts outlining the swollen majesty of his cock. Images of his ass, pushed towards me like an invitation. Images of his chest, his abs, his prone body lying in crisp white sheets as if greeting my morning hard-on with an insatiable appetite.
I looked at the upper-left picture and was unsure of its subject matter, a collection of dark folds and shiny bits, something dark and dangerous looking. I clicked it to enlarge it and push it forward.
It was his cock and balls. Of course he was huge. A fat, smooth shank hanging several thick inches forward, possibly eight inches, and almost pushing its way through the screen towards my lips. His balls, shaven and ready to be suckled, hung like eggs in a skin sack. A tight cowl of foreskin gripped the perfectly formed helmet, and the lips of his cock’s mouth were slightly open, as if he was about to release a sample of his undoubtedly rich and delicious cream. A nest of dark curls crowned the perfection of his equipment, and I could almost smell his masculine tang, the sweaty sweet musk of ass and balls.
The image was absurdly beautiful. It was the epitome - the absolute incarnation of what a man should possess. Everything about that photo made me want him, and my own cock throbbed hot in my grip.
“So,” he asked, “what do you think?”
“I hope that’s been Photoshopped,” I answered.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if that thing’s real, it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker.”
He laughed again. “Why don’t you find out in person, Thomas?”
“All right,” I answered. “Why don’t you come over and show me?”
I could almost hear him smiling at the other end of the line. “Oh, I’ll do much more than that,” he answered, and he asked for my address.
My place was a wreck. I had been working out so hard that I had taken no time to tidy anything up, so I suggested that we meet at his place. But he insisted. “I doubt either of us will be taking much notice of our surroundings, Thomas, and it sounds like you’re more than ready to receive guests.” He paused. “Is your cock in your hand?”
“Yes.”
“Are you hard?”
“Yes.”
“How hard are you, Thomas?”
“I could fuck a hole through a concrete wall.”
“Hold that thought, and I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
The wait was interminable. I did pushups on the floor. I used gallon jugs of water as dumbbells and pumped out rep after rep, making my arms burn and swell. I did not touch my prick, though it remained rock-hard and ready until there was a ring at the lobby door and I pushed the buzzer to allow my guest entrance.
He knocked on my door with gentle raps, almost politely. I looked out my peep hole and saw that face, again - the same one that had greeted me on his online profile, but now it was alive and animated and standing outside my apartment door.
I opened it, and he stood there for a moment, scanning my shirtless, glistening body. “My,” he said, “someone has been busy.” He stepped forward and placed his hand against my sweaty chest. I was breathing deeply, both from the exertion of my exercises and the excitement of the man’s presence.
He leaned forward and pressed his lips to mine. Then he was pushing his tongue inside my mouth. His hand slipped along my slick skin and he found a nipple, squeezing the tender tip in his fingers and sending rockets of sexual excitement through my body. His other hand was suddenly on my crotch, and he easily found the source of my manhood and rubbed his palm along the length of my erection.
He pulled his mouth away and said, “Hello, Thomas.”
“Hello,” I replied.
“Are you ready?”
“For what?”
“To see if my Photoshopping skills are up to snuff.”
I smiled and closed the door behind him.
Needless to say, the photos did not do the man justice. Indeed, he was everything those images had promised, though in the flesh he was so much more than that.
The man was all-business that afternoon. He lead me to my own bedroom as if he already knew the way - indeed, as if he owned the place. I followed him like a puppy and he had my bone, watching the movement of his ass in the cream-colored pants he wore. When we reached the bed, he turned around and set his hands to the button-fly of my jeans and practically ripped them wide. My cock popped out like a prize, and he grabbed it and stroked me with expert finesse.
I swooned and bit my lip and closed my eyes. Suddenly, his mouth surrounded my cock head and he was sucking and licking me with insatiable hunger. Then his hand squeezed me hard and I opened my eyes and looked down at him. “You were going to come,” he said. I shook my head and started to protest, but he said, “I felt you swelling in my mouth. You were going to come.” I was going to apologize - apologize! - and he smiled. “We can’t have you popping off so soon, Thomas. Hell, you haven’t even seen me naked, yet.”
I was going to admit that I had, at the gym. That I had even hung back for more than twenty minutes one time just to see him emerge from the shower, and watched him strip off his towel and reward me with a glimpse of his round, firm, muscular ass. But he rose up next to me - his grip still squeezing my hard cock - and he said, “Some things are worth the wait, Thomas.”
Jove’s words - his instructions - all but left me. My dominance? Show this man my dominance? It was already very clear to me who was going to dominate whom in this battle. And I had already surrendered.
John threw me into bed. That is no exaggeration. He turned me around and tossed me onto my unmade mattress as if I were a rag doll. I landed on my back, my cock bobbing and slapping my belly, and John grabbed the cuffs of my jeans and stripped me bare.
Then he stood at the foot of my bed looking at me. Just...looking at me. At my body. My muscle. My cock. I could almost feel his eyes scan my flesh like a heat that traveled up and down, lingering here and there as he drank me in. I watched his face as he looked at me, and I saw desire and lust and hunger play out on his features. I saw his eyes light up, like a boy seeing the gift he wanted most beneath the Christmas Tree.
And I was that gift.
And I was all his.
He started to unbutton his shirt. He did so slowly, button by button, as his eyes continued to swallow me up. Then he shrugged his shoulders and peeled the sleeves from his arms.
The definition of his body - the sheer perfection of form in each of his muscles - was staggering. My cock was throbbing a steady rhythm, like tribal drums calling the war council. He pulled the shirt from his pants and dropped it to the floor, and began to unbuckle his belt. There was silence in the room, other than my own heavy breathing and the metallic tinkle of the buckle as he pulled the belt from the loops and dropped it, too.
He was shirtless and he paused. He raised his fingers to one of his fat, overlarge nipples and twisted it. I could see the reaction of his cock to that, it swelled forward eagerly. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and his compliment elicited something of the same reaction that Jove’s simpler praise could produce in me. I felt a surge of pride and lust, and I watched a smile spread across his lips when he saw what his words - and only his words - could do to me.
His skin looked like silk. He was smooth and hairless, and his nipples were fat and supple. On someone else, they might have seemed oversized, but on him they were perfect. I wanted to draw them inside my mouth and chew on them. I wanted to suck the source of his beauty from them, and make his cock swell.
He moved his hands to his pants and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the crotch open and I saw that he was not wearing anything beneath. The dark forest of his thick pubic crown spilled out, and the root of his cock was exposed - the rest of its majesty and perfection still pushed down and swelling along his thigh.
How big was he, really? It seemed like my eight-inch calculation had been woefully meager. Or perhaps my hunger for him amplified its extents. Watching him growing hard inside his trousers, it became glaringly obvious that the man had been gifted by whatever gods gave out cocks with the sovereign of them all.
Then he was looking at my face - at my eyes. And he pushed his pants off his hips and they dropped to the carpet.
Did I gasp? I may even have blacked out. For the man surpassed even my own dreams and fantasies for what Mr. Perfect would look like stripped bare before me in my own bedroom.
“Hello,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Fuck,” I replied.
“Yes,” he said, “let’s.”