Continued from Summer

Time sure is flying around here this year. I got back to college early for football practice, and they started in right away with two-a-days, and in between practice I'd lift for a couple of hours, then spend the rest of the time eating and sleeping. I loved it. The coaches loved my new size and strength too. The whole team could pile on the 5-man sled, and I'd plow them all the way down the field like a wild rhino. By the fourth time up and back, it got my monster glutes and quads a damn good pump, way better than squatting. I actually ripped the seams of my XXL football shorts from the bloat one day, so I tore them off and was strutting around the field in my jock. Some of the guys freaked out at the size of my legs, how purple they'd gotten, all the veins snaking up and down them, feeding this mass. The coaches were so psyched up, having me on the team, until I started hurting the other guys. Who knew they were so fragile? How was I supposed to know that one tackle from me would crush the quarterback's pelvis? The guy was a senior, and had played all four years. Should be tough enough to let a big sophomore like me take him down. So much for being an interior lineman. I talked the coaches into letting me take his place, until I knocked a couple of the receivers out throwing the ball so hard at them. One dude turned to catch the ball, and it looked like a cannonball hit him...knocked him right into the air, flying backwards, doubled-over. I thought he only had the wind knocked outta him, but I guess he broke some ribs too, catching that ball. So much for QB.

The other guys were getting afraid of playing with me, and who could blame them? The biggest guys on the team were around 300, and they packed alot of fat. I was holding at 390, but was more solid than ever. Even my gut had hardened up like a slab of marble. Guys would fly into me full force, and bounce off like they'd just hit a brick wall. It just made me feel stronger and more aggressive. Sometimes I wanted to start tossing guys around the field like little pillows, but I held back. I was beginning to miss home, lifting with my freak training partner Paul, and wasn't even sure about playing ball anymore. I talked to an assistant coach about it, the one who seemed to get me the most, and he suggested I take a week off practice and get my head together. Besides, he said, it would give some of the other players time to heal. He said just to make sure I showed up for the first game, and maybe that way I could do some damage to another team instead of our own. He was a bright guy for a coach.

I decided to take the week off classes too, and drove down home. I wanted to see my friend Serge. We'd been buddies since about third grade, and played football and baseball together all through high school. Serge was born in Russia, but his family moved here when he was like two, so he didn't have the accent, but he sure was bullheaded as a Ruskie. Plus, he had the hardest head I'd ever seen on anyone. In eighth grade, he'd have me hold a board up, and he'd slam his forehead into it. It didn't always break the first time either, but he would just keep slamming his head into it until it did. Then he look at me, his eyes all glazed, and I'd ask him if he was alright. Then he'd break into a grin and say "Get another board!"

In high school, he got in trouble a couple of times for smashing his locker open with his head butts. He kept forgetting the combination on his lock....go figure....and would just bang on it till it bent open. Kid was a complete wonder I liked him. After high school, he went back to Russia for a year to spend some time with that part of his family. We'd kept in touch by email, but I hadn't seen him since graduation. Now he was back, living at home, working for a local tree service. He'd set up some weights in the garage, and I called him from my car on the way home to see if he wanted to lift together. I hadn't told him how much size I'd packed on, thought it'd be cool to spring it on him.

I pulled into his driveway and parked. The double-car garage door was open, and I could see a nice set-up of weights, benches and machines inside. I got out of my car and went in. No sign of Serge out here, but one of the benches had a bar loaded with 315lbs. Serge must have packed on some strength, in high school his best lift was 295. I went over to the bar and lifted off the rack. Three fifteen felt so light to me now. I leaned over and started doing bent-over rows. Not a bad weight for a warm-up. I kept pumping out reps, feeling the blood flow increase in my back. Felt good too, and I liked the sound of the weights clanging in my ear as I tapped the bar against my chest. Sometimes I would hold the bar there, and crunch my back muscles together, feeling the thickness is them. I'd heard of guys doing 100-rep sets, but had never done it, but I'd already passed fifty reps, so I decided to go for it. I kept clanging that 315 up and down, getting into a steady rythym, focussing on my widening lats. At 80 reps, I spread my hands out on the bar, until they were hitting the collars. Then I started to raise and lower the bar slower and slower, working my huge back, feeling it flare like never before. Goddam batwings felt like they were gonna catch on fire, the burn tapping in so deep. I reached 100 reps and kept on going, it felt so goddam good. By now, my delts and arms were pumped up like balloons too. Big, full, bloated balloons. I was breathing heavier and sweat was dripping off my nose and chin onto the bench by the time I hit 120, but I'd set my mind on hitting 150, so I kept going, banging out the reps, chugging along like a locomotive. 140, and the burn was so severe, I thought I might black out, but at the same time, I was numb to the pain, like I was disassociating from the screaming muscle. 145, and I was so bloated with pump that it seemed impossible to move or bend my arms, yet I kept moving that goddam bar. 146...147.....148...grinding my jaw so hard that I felt a back tooth crack......149.....fuckkkk........150!

I racked the bar and rested my arms on my thighs for a second. Then I stood up. There was a mirror on the side wall where I could see myself. It took a while to focus. The XXL tank top I had on looked like it had shrunk two sizes, it was so freaking tight and stretched out, and completely drenched in sweat. My arms jutted out from my sides at 45 degree angles, resting as they did on my super-pumped lats. Veins were snaking everywhere, including my forehead, temples, and neck. I tried to reach up to pull my tank off, but couldn't get my arms to go there, so I squeezed out a most-muscular pose, grabbed the bottom of the tank, and ripped it off. The two straps broke like wet tissue paper. I wrung the shirt in my hands, and the sweat dripped out of it. I looked into the mirror, and jutted my arms out farther, holding them in a "relaxed" pose. I was looking monstrously huge.

Just then, the door to the house opened and Serge stepped out. He did a triple take before he said, "Mick?" He'd called me that since being kids, when his mom always called me Mikail.

"Yeah, man, how the hell you doing?" I said.

He said nothing, just stared at me, eyeing me up and down. He looked skinnier than I remembered. He weighed 200 at the end of high school; must be about 190 now. That looked so frail and weak to me now, seeing that I weighed more than double that. I stepped over to him and took his hand to shake. He shook back, still amazed.

"Look at you, you superfreak," he said, shaking his head. "You're huge, bro."

"Yeah? You think?" I said, raising my arms up into a double bi. My arms were still so jacked up with pump that they shook as I squeezed them hard.

"Fuck," said Serge, watching as my peaks swelled.

"Dude, you wanna wrestle this shit?" I asked him. Serge and I had wrestled each other all the time in high school, testing each other's strength and stamina. Serge hated to lose, and fought like an animal...he'd even broken my nose a couple times by headbutting me with that steelplated forehead of his when I had him in a tough hold.

"Hah," he said. "I've beaten bigger than you."

"You crazy russian fuck, both of us know that's not true," I said to him as I crouched down to fight.

Serge pulled off his shirt, and now it was my turn to stare. He had definitely lost weight, but none of it was muscle weight. His body fat had to be around 1 percent. His shoulders were wide, and his torso tapered in a shocking V...his waist must have been about a 28, and he was sporting an insanely ripped-up 8pac that looked clenched hard, even though I knew he wasn't even flexing it. There was something electrical about watching him move, because you could see every muscle fiber firing as he began to circle around me like a hungry wildcat.

"Lots of karate, and tree climbing," he said. Suddenly, he sprung from standing position into mid-air. He swung his leg around high and hard, and hit me square in the jaw with a roundhouse kick that would have flattened a smaller man, especially since he still had on his tree-climbing, shitkicker boots. I felt the tooth I had cracked earlier come completely dislodged, and I spit the two halves down at his feet.

"You are so fucking dead," I said to him.

"Shit," he said, shocked that I was still standing, "what are they feeding you up at that college?"

"Russians," I said, and I grabbed him, hooking him under one arm and spinning him around like a doll. I hooked the other arm under his pit and locked him into a full-nelson, lifting him clear off the ground. My huge arms held him with such ease as he struggled like a trapped bobcat. "Yeah, Sergie, remember this hold. My best one. And now I'm ten times stronger." And with that, I whipped him back and forth, just to show him. Jerking him around was so easy, he felt so light in my hold. I felt him try to snap his head back to headbutt me, but my thick fingers had such a powerful hold on his neck, he couldn't do it. "Not this time, little buddy," I scolded him, and applied more pressure to his neck. He grunted and snarled, struggling maniacally. "That's it, man, I'm gonna drain all the fight outta you today," I growled in his ear.

Unfortunately, I didn't notice how close I had him to the garage wall. He lifted his legs and kicked off against it. I took a step back to balance out, but fell over the bench that was right behind me. I landed on my back, hard, and my grip loosened just enough for Serge to slip out, the slippery little freak. He flipped off of me, and, as I rolled to get up, he jumped on my back. He put his arm around my neck and got me into a head lock. He got his forearm across my throat and was pulling it hard with his other hand over his wrist, trying to choke me out. Lucky for me, my 24" neck was too thick for a choke hold to work. I grabbed his arms and pried them apart, pulled him around to the front of me, and put him into a bearhug.

"Just let me know when you've had enough," I said, and began to crush into him. I had his arms wrapped up in my big hug. I felt him struggling, but it was like nothing to me. He was practically swallowed up by my much bigger muscle. From behind me, no one would even be able to see him, my huge back completely blocking out the view.

"Fuck," he said, as I began to apply more pressure. I could feel his struggling weaken, while I just kept feeling stronger and stronger, as if I was sapping his strength right from him. Something about completely dominating him was charging me up big time. His body was so tight, it was like crushing down on marble....marble that I was grinding into my big marble hard gut. I squeezed a little tighter, and he groaned.

"Give it up, bro," I said to him, and squeezed again. I knew I was getting close to popping out his ribs, and I wasn't gonna go that far. I was relieved when he said, "alright, alright, I give, you freak." I let him drop. He stumbled back to a bench, and sat down.

"Jessus, man," he said, shaking out his arms and back. "That's some sick strength."

I smiled and sat down next to him, nudging him over with my bulk.

"Hey," he said, shaking off his loss just like we did in high school, "you know who's been asking about you?"

"Val," he said. "We took out a dead tree at her old man's place last week. She said she didn't get to see you before you took off for school. She sure looked like she missed you. Were you tapping that ass before I came back from Russia?"

"Shut the fuck up before I turn you into my bitch," I said, shoving him off the bench and onto the floor. "She's my sister's friend."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, Hercules." Our eyes met for a second, and suddenly I wasn't sure he didn't want me to turn him into my bitch. We both turned aside quick, and Serge jumped up, nervously adjusting himself. "Damn, look at the time, man, I have to shower up and head out. You around for awhile?"

"Yeah, I'll be home all week."

"Excellent. Call me tomorrow."

"I'll do that," I said. Serge headed inside, and I went out to my car. Maybe I'd buzz by Val's. After all, I still needed to pick up that shirt I left there the last time.

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