Andy 8: Andy vs. Joe

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The day after Thanksgiving I woke up feeling pumped up all over. My muscles were so swollen and tight, it felt like I'd just had a two hour hardcore workout. I sat up in bed and felt my arms. Big as hams, and twice as hard. So fucking strong. I outstretched them, then flexed, and watched as the veins came out and fed my huge biceps for even more strength. I stretched my arms out straight again, and tightened my massive triceps. Fucking horseshoes, and at least as big as my bi's... maybe bigger, like blocks of cement underneath my enormous guns. I got up and walked into the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. It was like all the food I stuffed into myself yesterday had turned to muscle. I looked like a hulking jacked-up freak. I bounced my pecs at myself. So fucking thick. My delts big as two over-inflated basketballs. I clenched my gut and watched as my 8pac popped out, thick and bulging, all rounded and hard. Punchproof. Best of all were my goddam legs. Fucking ponderous. No matter how big I got, they kept their fuckin cuts, so deep I could stick a quarter into them and bend it. Big sweeping quad mass. I turned one leg sideways and flexed the calf muscle. Look at that shit, I said to myself, as the thick muscle rounded up and outward, jutting out against the skin. Huge. Like a fucking eggplant...if the eggplant was 26 inches around with an inch-thick vein running down it.

I flexed and flexed in the mirror, till I was pumped beyond belief. Flexed till sweat flowed from every pore on me. Down my pits and lats. Down the fur on my chest. Dripping off my nips. Down my forehead, and dripping off my nose and eyelashes. I hit a most-muscular pose and watched as the veins stood out on my temples, the cords on my neck tightened and stood out like cables, my skin glistening in the bright bathroom light, showing every muscle responding to my commands.

"Goddam, I need a workout," I huffed. And Joe was going to be the workout.

I got dressed without showering. I figured I was going to be working up another sweat shortly anyway, so why bother. Felt kind of good, be all hot like that. I drove up to Joe's house without calling him. I would have had to look up his number. Too much bother. And everyone knew where he lived anyway. It was the big house up on the hill that overlooked the lake. His dad owned a big dental lab, and apparently did exceedingly well. I drove down the long wooded driveway that curved toward the house, and over the wooden bridge that crossed the brook that ran through the property and into the lake.

I went up to the big double doors at the front of the house and rang the doorbell. No one answered, so I rang again, only this time I pressed too hard with my index finger, and accidentally pushed the whole doorbell unit into the wall. I wasn't entirely used to my newfound strength yet.

When the door finally opened, there stood Joe. He'd obviously just woken up. His thick black hair stood up in all directions, yet still looked good. He was wearing only his white boxer briefs, and was scratching himself absentmindedly as he looked up at me. Joe was about 6'1, 240lbs of perfected jock muscle. He had maybe an ounce of fat on him. His skin was satin-smooth, completely unblemished, and the color of cinnamon. He looked like Mario Lopez, only tougher. And bigger. No wonder the girls fell for him.

"Hey, man," he said, "I remember you...Andy, right? What are you doing here?"

"If you're still up for that workout, I'm here to give you one."

"Hell yeah, that'd be awesome. Come on in. I was wondering what I was going to do today." He opened the door wider, and I stepped in, ducking to miss the top of the door jam. I followed Joe through the foyer and down a long hall way. He continued to scratch himself as he went, as if his own hands couldn't get enough of him. He walked with such total casual confidence, his perfectly shaped bubble butt rolling up and down proudly with each step. It looked like his boxers were made to fit an ass like his, the way the fabric clung to him so smoothly, like a thin cotton skin.

"You hungry, bro?" he asked me as we entered the big kitchen.

"I'm always hungry."

He opened up the refrigerator. "My mom buys these Egg Beater egg whites by the quart at Sam's Club. I could whip up a couple omelettes."

"No need for any cooking," I said. I looked in the refrigerator and saw six quart-sized containers of egg whites. I reached in and pulled on out. I opened up the flap, brought it to my mouth, tipped it back and downed the whole thing in a couple of swallows. Joe looked at me in awe as I wiped some albumen off my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Dude, you're an animal. Is that how you got so fuckin' big?"

"It doesn't hurt," I said, reaching in for another quart. Being the competitor that he was, Joe reached in for a quart of his own. He opened it, and looked at it, uncertain. "If you're gonna do it," I said to him, "you just gotta do it. Don't think about it, and don't stop halfway thru. Once you swallow this stuff down, you'll be able to swallow anything."

We tipped the containers back and started drinking. I finished mine off in four good gulps. Joe got off to a slower start, then started to grimace. When he started to lower the container, I grabbed it and pushed it back up. I took his jaw in my other hand and forced it open. I pinned him up against the kitchen counter. "Do it, fucker," I ordered him. And he did it. What choice did he have, really. I crushed the container in my hand, forcing every last drop into his mouth. When I let him go, his eyes were all watery, and his face was covered with slimy egg white. And still he looked good.

"You're fucking crazy," he said to me as he grabbed a kitchen towel and wiped off his face.

"Yeah, but how do you feel, pussy? You ready for the workout of a lifetime or what?" I stripped off my shirt and tossed it aside. I squared back my shoulders and cracked my 25" neck from side to side. Joe took a step back as he sized me up.

"Holy shit man. Let's go for it. If it gets me half as jacked up as you, I'll be happy."

We headed down another hallway and into the gym, which was as big and had as much equipment as a commercial gym. One wall was all windows, looking out at the infinity pool, the cabana, complete with brick pizza ovens, a guest house, tennis courts and then the lake beyond. No wonder dental work costs so much money.

Joe wanted to start with bench presses, which was fine with me since it was one of my strongest lifts. Joe did some warm ups, then loaded the bar with 225. He did 12 of them pretty easy. He got off the bench and looked at me.

"Dude," I said, "I can do 250 reps with that weight."

"Let's see you do it then," he answered.

So I laid down on the bench, and did it. Two hundred and fifty reps. One after another. My chest pumping like crazy. I could have done more, but I was getting bored. I stood up. Joe stared at me in awe. I looked down at my chest. My pecs were practically purple with pump. "You know what happens when you do 250 reps with a 68" chest?" I said. Joe shook his head no. "It swells to 74"," I told him. I looked at myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the wall. "Fuck yeah, look at these suckers." I turned back to Joe. "Now let's put some real weight on the bar." We loaded the bar up to 405. Joe managed 6 reps. I did 50. Then I got up and started curling the bar. Curling 405, slow and steady. Stretching out the muscle at the bottom, and crunching it up at the top. I stopped at 20. I saw myself in the mirror, looking like a true freak, veins snaking, muscle bulging.

"Ahh, yeah," I said. "So huge. Come over here and hit me," I said to Joe.


"Come over here and punch my chest, hard as you can. I wanna feel what you got."

Joe came over and looked up at me. He wanted to see what he could do to me just as much as I did, I could tell. He reared his fist back and hit me square in the chest. I didn't budge. I didn't even blink.

"Goddam, Andy, did you even feel that?"

"I felt it," I said. "It felt good. Do it again. You got to have more than that. Slam this fucking gorilla chest."

Joe reared back again, and hit me, harder. It felt warm, as my pec slabs absorbed the blow. "Use you forearm and really smash it," I told him. Joe hit me three times with forearms smashes. I felt those. It was turning me on. Making me feel stronger. So strong. I went over to the pull-up bar, grabbed it with one hand, and pulled myself up. Ten one-arm pull ups with one arm, then ten with the other.

"Come over here, see if you can hold me down, " I said. Joe came over and wrapped his arms around my waist. I pulled up as he pulled down. I wasn't going to let his mere 240lbs keep me from chinning. Joe wrapped his legs around me and I lifted him off the ground. I pulled up till my chin tapped the bar. I did three reps, then switched hands, did three more. Then I grabbed the bar with both hands and started pumping out reps. I could feel my thick back muscles working it. I saw the bar bending, but I couldn't stop, I had to do more reps. Ten more reps, and suddenly the bar broke off at both ends. My feet hit the ground hard, but I stayed upright. Joe let go and landed on the floor behind me, looking up at me.

"Jesus, man, have you ever seen how big your back is?"

"No, not really," I said, "but I know how strong it is." I took the broken chin-up bar, one end in each hand, and bent it in two, till the ends tapped together. Tap tap tap. "They just don't make these like they used to." Then I saw myself in the mirror. My lats were jutting out on the sides farther than ever, pushing my arms out. I tossed the bar aside, and flared my back even more.

"Come over here," said Joe, and he led me to a spot where there was a high tilted mirror on the wall, which reflected on the big mirror, so that you could see your back as you posed.

"Sweeet," I said, as I figured out where to stand so I could see my backside. "Stand beside me so we can compare."

Joe got beside me, and we both spread out our backs. The jock's back spread looked puny next to mine. My back was nearly twice his size. And I was so thickly mounded with muscle. Like a goddam mountain range. I'd had no idea I looked so massive from behind. "Stand in front of me, Joe." When he did, you couldn't even see him in the mirror anymore. I completely obliterated him from sight. Like I was the planet Jupiter, eclipsing him. And he was Pluto. I was getting turned on by it.

"Man, you are so fucking huge. No wonder that chick Cynthia is into you," Joe said.

"What?" I said.

"That chick Cynthia, where I met you. She is one fine piece of ass, man, if I'd known you were tapping that I'd never gone near her."

"Her name is Cheryl," I said, suddenly feeling a dark fury rising up, reminding me of what I came here for in the first place.

"Yeah, ok, that one. She must not know what hit her after you get thru with her, man."

I turned around to face Joe. I grabbed him by his big biceps and squeezed. I lifted him off the ground like a toy.

"Ahh, dude, that're not still mad about me being there are you?"

I squeezed his arms harder. I dug my strong fingers deep into his muscle tissue. I ignored his yells as I gripped him harder, till I could almost sense the muscle fibers being damaged, broken, bruised. Bruised so deep it would take three months for my finger marks to go away. So deep that the bruises wouldn't be just black and blue, but dark purple and yellow too. I poured my anger into my grip, until I noticed his eyes rolling back into his head from the pain. Then I threw him across the room, slamming him into the far wall so hard that trophies and sports equipment were knocked off the shelving unit that was along the same wall.

I walked over and picked up a football that had been knocked from the shelf. I saw that it had an inscription on it..."To Joe...keep striving for your goals, Brett Favre." It was also imprinted with this: Super Bowl XXI.

"Hey, be careful with that," said Joe, as he rubbed his arms. "That thing is valuable."

I wrapped my fingers around the ball snuggly. Then I squeezed. I felt the thing harden and tighten against my grip, so I squeezed harder. The football popped in my hand, sending out a burst of air that blew Joe's thick hair back.

"Oops," I said, "must have had a flaw, just like you."

"Shit, man, you are still mad about that chick. Goddam bitches, always causing trouble."

I squeezed the deflated pigskin in my fist so hard that I felt it mushing up through my fingers. Crushing and crushing, my grip so strong it was pulverizing it.

I started to move in on Joe. He saw me coming, and grabbed an aluminum bat that had fallen from the shelving unit. Joe had been captain of our high school baseball team for three years running, from his sophomore year on, breaking the school home run record each consecutive year. Even with his bruised up arms, he gripped the bat high, and with authority. He shimmied himself up the wall as I came toward him. I went at him and he swung the bat, hitting my shoulder. It stung something fierce, but I shrugged it off. The bat was dented, but still an impressive weapon. He swung again, but this time at my head. I caught the bat mid-swing, and crushed it flat. Then I wrenched it out of his hand. Then I crushed the bat like an accordion in my hands, balling it up like aluminum foil. I pressed my fingers into it until it was the size of a cue ball. I held the balled up metal next to Joe's ear as I crushed it even smaller, letting him hear the power of my grip.

"Fuck, man," he said. "Hurt me."

"What'd you say, fucker?"

"Hurt me, man, I deserve it. I don't mean to hurt them, but I do, I can't help myself."

"Hey, if you fucking insist," I said. I tossed aside the balled up bat. I grabbed Joe under his armpit and lifted him up, then slammed him down onto the floor. He felt so fucking light. I got on top of him. "You ready to pay for your arrogance?"

"Yes," he begged, "hurt me."

I moved up on him, straddling him, then wedged him between my legs and held him as I rolled on my side. I got him into a leg scissor from which there was no escape. My 39" thighs could pretty much crush titanium, let alone this puny jock boy. I felt a hardon coming on as I tightened my legs together. I knew I could pop him like a grape, and it turned me on.

Problem was, I could see it was turning him on too. I squeezed so hard that I felt two of his ribs pop. Damned if a precum stain didn't show up on his shorts. The cocky fucker thought pain was sex, where as I thought of sex as muscle and power. I used my massive leg strength to lift him off the floor and pound him up and down, slamming his 240lb body over and over. The fucker got harder and harder, and so did I, as I felt the indefatigable strength of my legs growing and growing. I knew I could crush him flat as a board, crush the bullshit cockiness right out of him. So I did it. Crushed him and pounded him, over and over. Suddenly, I felt his body shudder as he came...and as he came, I came, harder than I'd ever shot, my total dominance over this supreme muscle jock creating a shudder down to my very DNA. I ruled him, and it turned us both on. Deeply. I squeezed the cum out of him with my bone-crushing leg scissors. Then I shook him dry, holding him midair, flopping him like a goddam doll.

Finished, and spent, I released him from my hold. He flopped to the floor, sweaty and dazed.

"You deserve worse than this, asshole," I said to him.

"I know I do," he groaned through busted ribs. "Name the time and place."

"Oh, I'll do that alright. Right now I'm fucking hungry. You feed me enough, and I will work you all night long." I grabbed him by his briefs, and lifted him off the ground, carrying him toward the kitchen like a satchel. This was going to work out perfectly.

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