Working at Helmut's butcher shop was a real bonus. We were both getting into the arm wrestling thing, and would go at it whenever the store was slow. We got to doing right arms first, then left arms, and back and forth. By the time we were done, both our arms would be heavy and bloated with pump. We could hardly bend them, they'd be so full. Helmut was worried that his arms were getting too big, and he would raise them up and flex them to see. I was amazed at how mounded up his beefy German arms would get. The dude was an ox, and the more we arm wrestled, the more his guns swelled. Helmut loved seeing how into it I was getting, though, and would send me home with as much beef and pork as I could handle so that I would grow bigger and stronger. And I was handling a lot. I had replaced Devil Dogs with red meat, and it was showing. (Ok, sometimes I'd hit the Devil Dogs pretty heavy too. A guy's got to have some fun.) Meanwhile, my weight had jacked up to 310lbs. And I was now 6'4". My strength was going through the roof. Sometimes, I would let Helmut win at arm wrestling, even though I knew I could beat him every time now. I think he knew too, but he still liked it.
Helmut gave me a couple 20 minute breaks during the day, and I would go into the coolers, and use the 400lb sides of beef to work out. I had gotten so into working my legs, and they were getting huge. My shoulders had gotten so wide, that I had no problem hoisting the hanging beef off the meat hooks and tossing them up over my back. At first, they were a little hard to hold onto, the beef fat making them all greasy and slippery, but after a while, I got the hang of it. I'd spend the whole 20 minutes just squatting. Hundreds of reps with 400lbs of beef on my back. Talk about a pump. My legs would be on fire. Bloated so tight and hard I could hardly walk. Helmut would come back to check on me, and just smile and shake his head as I stood there panting in the cooler. He'd say, "Show me da legs," and I'd unbuckle my belt and pull down my work pants. My quads would be deep purple, with steam coming off them in the cold damp air of the meat cooler. My thighs had swollen so much, that they hung out over my knees caps by about 2 inches. My calves looked like someone had implanted footballs in them. I'd pull the legs of my briefs up, showing off the entire thigh. Helmut would say "Ja, das ist gut," and head back out front.
After work, I would go home and eat. I'd be starving after work, so I'd put on some steaks, then stand with the refrigerator door open, just pulling stuff out. Sometimes I'd down a whole gallon of milk before the steaks were done. Or take the super-sized jar of Sam's Club peanut butter, scoop my hand in, and stuff it in my face. Sometimes I'd crack a dozen eggs into the four steaks I was cooking, then eat it right out of the pan like that, like a big freakzone omelet. I'd stuff myself till I could hardly think. I'd be sweating and breathing heavy. Then I'd go upstairs and crash on my bed for awhile, letting it settle. When I'd get up to get ready to go lift, I'd strip down naked and check myself out in the mirror. All that food would make me look so morphed huge. I was getting massive. Everywhere. My cock hung down like the big sausages in Helmut's shop window. It had gotten so thick, and felt heavy in my hand when I hoisted it, and the balls hanging down so low behind it, both of them big as the extra large eggs I was scarfing down by the dozens. Once I cradled my big club in my hand, I had to jack off to myself. Had to. So much jiz built up from working all day. Had to have relief.
Afterward, I'd pump up in my room for about 20 minutes. Still naked, I'd do a couple hundred push-ups and curls. Amazing how swollen my muscles would get just from that. Arms big as two hams. Chest like two water balloons, hard as sacks of cement. I could run my fingers up the deep crevice of my pecs and wipe up the sweat. It smelled healthy. Healthy dude sweat. Jock sweat. Then I'd get ready for the gym. Tank and sweats, work boots. I saw how guys looked at me when I walked in now. My shoulders were wider than anyone there by a good foot. My chest hair was growing in thick and curling up above my collar bone. My arms so big, looked like I could flip a car. Andy wasn't so invisible anymore. Andy was who they wanted to look like.
T-Bone was talking with the gym owner when I got there.
"Ready to hit chest, big guy," T said to me.
"You are really looking good, Andy," the gym owner said.
"Thanks," I said...for stating the obvious, I thought to myself.
T and I went to the flat bench. He loaded on 135.
"Let's go right to 315, today, T," I said to him.
"You should really warm-up first," he answered.
"I warmed up some at home."
"Yeah, kind of thought you looked jacked already," he said. "OK, if that's what you want, I'll be there to spot you." He loaded the bar to 315. I pumped out twelve reps, without even slowing down. I sat up. I could feel power surging through me, like I'd tapped into a portal.
"What's your max bench, T?" I asked him.
"I hit 350 once, but I don't go that heavy anymore, it hurts my joints."
"I want to try it."
"You shouldn't try and jump up that much weight, Andy. It's not always how heavy you can go."
"It isn't?" I asked him. "What's it about then? How much bigger I can get?"
"No, not that either, exactly."
I stood up off the bench. I realized for the first time how much bigger I was than T. And a much different bigger than when I'd first started training with him. I had him by 4 inches and about 100lbs of solid beef. I felt a shift in the air.
I put a 25 pound plate on each end of the bar, then laid back down on the bench.
"Andy, that's 365, man, you can't...."
I lifted the bar up and did ten reps.
I stood up and looked in the mirror. My chest looked enormous. The straps of my tank stretched out tight over the huge mounds before running down over my nipples. My arms jutted out to my sides.
"Fuck," said T.
I turned and looked at him. "I wanna arm wrestle," I said to him.
"Remember you said I could eat as much as I want when I beat you at arm wrestling? I'm ready."
"Man, from the looks of you, I think you've been eating as much as you want already."
"I still wanna wrestle."
"You haven't finished your workout."
"I'll finish it later." I said. I knew T-Bone's macho jock side wouldn't let him back down from this, especially since some other guys were overhearing it.
"Let's do it then," he said. T got the owner to let us into the back office. He didn't want an audience, and I didn't care where we did it, I was just throbbing to get at it. There was an old computer desk in the back that the owner pulled out for us to use. He was going to be the ref. I took off my tank and tossed it into the corner. "jeesus," said the owner as he soaked in my size up close. I put my arm up on the table and flexed my fingers. T put his arm up on the other side. His biceps balled up and out of his tee. He was ripped to shreds, and had a deep split in his rock solid bi. He looked strong, but my arm looked huge next to his. We locked up hands. T had nice healthy jock hands. Attractive and perfect. Even the half moons at the base of his fingernails arched up full and flawless. But when locked up with my hand, his fingers looked almost feminine. Dainty. My palm was so much beefier, my fingers the size of hot dogs. I'd been using those #4 hand grippers at home, swallowing them up in my hands, and tapping the ends together like castanets. I had developed calluses, big as nickels, at the base of each finger. I was pretty sure that if I squeezed hard, I could crush every bone in T's little hand.
John, the gym owner, made sure we had a good grip, then started us out. I saw T's arm muscles tense and pop out like ropes. I was barely pushing back yet, and I was holding him easy.
"Dig a little deeper there, T," I said to him. I saw the split in his biceps deepen as he strained even harder. I pushed back enough to lower his hand by just an inch. I felt so fucking strong, and it was giving me a raging hardon. "Put your heart into it, T-Bone," I said to him, like he used to say to me when he first started training me. I saw the veins popping out on his forehead, and I took him down another inch. My arm was jacked with superhuman power. T could have used both his hands, and he wouldn't have taken me down. I took his hand down another inch, practically twisting his whole body sideways. His whole arm was shaking badly, as he strained against my vastly superior strength. The swollen python in my sweats was pushing to get out. I powered T's hand down all the way to the desk top and tapped him out. I held his hand against the desk longer than I had to, crushing down on it. I felt T release his grip, but I didn't release mine. I felt a brutish dark force rising up inside me, telling me to crush his hand, break his arm, snap it like a twig.
"That enough, Andy," said John, laying his hand on my shoulder.
"Whoa," I said, shaking my head, and, feeling the dark impulses vanish, releasing T's hand. "I just won, didn't I?"
"Uh, yeah, I'd say so," said T, rubbing out his arm.
I stood up from the desk, and felt my hardon swinging front and center. I didn't have a pup tent in my pants, it was more like a circus tent. My sweats stuck out about a foot. A big circle of precum darkened the part of the sweats that my pole pressed against. It was all I could do to keep from exploding right there.
John laughed and shook his head. "For crying out loud, kid, go take a cold shower before you hurt someone with that thing."
I waddled my way out to the locker room. I noticed for the first time that I had to duck and turn sideways to fit thru the doorway. Had that ever happened before? Damn, I was so stoked up, that even in ice cold water, I was going to have a hard time not knocking out a load in the shower.