Rumspringa
by BBMSN
My car broke down on a country road outside of Lancaster. The gently rolling fields of crops stretched out as far as I could see, broken only by the farmhouses and barns in the distance. Picturesque, most would say. Freekin' boring, if you asked me. Why did I have to try and find a shortcut to the turnpike? Now here I was, on the side of the road in Amish country, so far out in the middle of nowhere that my damned cellphone wasn't even picking up a signal. I got out of my car and looked back the way I'd come. It had been at least five miles since I'd left the main road, with no signs of modern life along the way. There weren't even any telephone lines out here. Creepy. The road ahead of me stretched as far as I could see before curving off and disappearing.
Someone was walking along the road, headed my way. Thank God. But wait, he's had on one of those Amish hats, so even if he's from one of the closer farms, he won't have a phone. Shit. Although he should know the closest place I could walk to get help. Look at him, walking along the road, too holy to have a car. Never had to sit in rush hour. Never had to freak out about being late for a meeting. Never had to spend six hours in front of a computer coming up with a presentation that's due first thing Monday morning. Prick.
Hmm, looks kind of like a young prick. Looks kind of big. A big, young, farmboy prick. He's wearing jeans, too, I didn't think they were allowed to wear jeans. He appears to fill them out generously. Big, thick legs. Bet he has a big prick too, the big prick.
"Car trouble?" he says, as he stops at the front of my car.
A genius too, I think to myself. Then I catch a look at him as he stares me straight in the eye. With his crystal blue, blue eyes. His Germanic feature are strong: high cheekbones; rugged squared-off jawline; pure, flawless skin tone; thick-necked, with pronounced Adam's apple; barrel-chest tapering to a solid, tight waist. I'd guess him to be about twenty-four.
"Would you like a push?" he asks me.
"A push?"
"Yes. You get in and steer, and I'll push you back to our farm. It's just down the road."
"Sure," I answer, "that'd be great." I got in the car and shut the door. How far did this hayseed think he was going to be able to push me and my car? The road ahead was a long slow incline that looked considerably steeper up ahead. He pushed me out into the road easily enough, though, him leaning his big shoulder into the back of my car. Pretty soon, we were moving at a good clip. Next thing I know, he's actually running, pushing the car at over 10mph, uphill.
We'd gone over six miles, when he signalled me to turn into a long driveway leading to a farmhouse and barn. He pushed me up the gravel drive and into the open barn. I got out and went back to thank him. His cheeks were flushed, but he wasn't even breathing heavy.
"Thanks for the ride... my name's Tony," I said, putting out my hand.
"Nils," he said, taking my hand and shaking. He had the powerful, vice-like grip of a farmhand. I tried to match him, strength for strength, but he smiled a bit, as if to say "fat chance of that."
"Do you have a phone I can use, Nils?"
"No, no phone here, but I'll fix your car," he said.
"You know about cars?" I asked, confused.
"Yes. Since I was sixteen, I've wanted to be a mechanic, and am very good at fixing things."
"But aren't you Amish?"
"Yes, my family is Amish, but when you turn 16, you get to take time to live like the outsiders, to sow your oats, do whatever you want, until you decide to join the church. It's called Rumspringa."
"And have you decided to join the church?" I asked.
"Oh, no, I won't be doing that. I'm leaving to become a mechanic. And also, to become a pro bodybuilder, and then the world's strongest man."
"To do what?" I wasn't sure I had heard him correctly.
"To be a pro bodybuilder, and the world's strongest man. I started lifting as soon as I turned sixteen. I've been growing and growing, and I just keep getting stronger and stronger. Let me show you." He went over to the wall, and took down a leather harness. One with thick, heavy straps, like you would use on a horse, not the kind you'd see guys wearing at a leather bar. He slipped it on over his head, and tightened it.
"Come with me," he said. I followed him out of the barn and into the field, where he attached the harness to a plow. "Get on," he said, nodding at the plow. I climbed onto the back of the plow, and he said, "Now, hold on."
He leaned forward and pushed off with his legs, and the plow jerked forward. I almost fell off backwards, but managed to tighten my grip just in time. In no time, Nils was trotting along at a good pace, the plowshares cutting through the black, heavy earth as if it were made of cake.
We plowed through several acres of farmland. Nils began to huff and puff, but never slowed. Soon, sweat stains began to show through his jeans and shirt. Finally, we ended up back at the barn. He unhooked himself from the plow, and we went back into the barn. He took off the harness and hung it back on the wall. Then he said, "Now, I'll show you." He stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt and tossed it aside.
My jaw dropped in awe as I saw the most intensely muscled-up upper body I'd ever seen. He rippled with layer after layer of hard, strong muscle. His milky farmboy skin allowed every blue vein to show through, coursing across his broad chest and shoulders, then snaking down his big arms and branching out at his over-developed forearms. He raised his arms slowly, squeezing his forearms upward, crunching out a double-bi pose that made me dizzy. His biceps were deeply, deeply split, and peaked so high, it looked like he had an extra muscle sitting on top of each one.
"You like my muscles, Outsider?" he asked me. I didn't respond, as it was obvious from the bulge in my pants that I did, plus I was incapable of speech. He stepped closer to me, and said, "Touch them."
Fuck. I reached up and laid my hands on the rocks that were his arms. His skin was so thin, I could slide it back and forth over the muscle fiber. Sweat ran from his musclepits down his jutting sides. He smelled like freshly cut hay and spring water.
"I was sixteen when I started lifting, and weighed 140. Now I'm eighteen, and weigh 250," he said as I felt him up.
Eighteen! I would have sworn the kid was twenty-five or six from the density of his muscle.
"Two years from now, I'll weigh 360," he stated with confidence. "Imagine my muscle then, Outsider."
I shuddered at the thought of him with another hundred and ten pounds of muscle. He had a vicious V-taper, and I ran my hands down it, over his cobblestoned eight-pac musclestomach. The waistband of his jeans hung slack off his tight as a drum waistline, but his big glutes and quads were straining the seams.
He undid the jeans and said, "Pull them down." I
grabbed his waistband and struggled to get it over his beachball glutes. I tugged them down over his thick quads, the muscle inching out little by little, like a snake molting. Each inch exposed more fresh mass, and his sartorious muscle actually looked like a snake, sweeping across the huge expanse of thigh from the top to his knee. I bunched his jeans down around his ankles. He turned one leg sideways and flexed his calf. It bulged from behind his shin, big as a football, with a split as deep as his biceps had, and a nice thick vein showing through his tight skin.
"These are the legs you get from plowing fields," he said, flexing and unflexing his thick young quads... quads with the strength of a plowhorse. "I also use that tractor for squatting," he said, nodding toward the old tractor at the back of the barn.
"I'm fixing it for another farmer, so meanwhile I use it to build more strength."
"You squat the tractor?" I asked in amazement.
"Look at these legs... you think I can't?" He flexed his mighty loins.
"Just watch."