Pastor Muscle 5

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The pastor parked his car at the bottom of the driveway that led up to his house. The driveway was about 100 yards long, and curved back and forth up a steep incline. He liked to walk up it after a leg workout, to get that final burn going deep inside his quad and calf muscles. He started up slowly, but after the hardcore squats that he had done, it wasn't long before his legs were on fire with pain. He pushed off with each step as if he were trying to break thru the blacktop with his foot. About halfway up, his legs nearly numb with a searing pain, he leaned against a tree at the edge of the driveway. Then he did 120 calf raises, stopping at the top of each rep and squeezing his calf muscles as hard as he could. He almost puked from the pain. He continued up the hill, sweat dripping off his brow and into his eyes. His legs felt so thick and musclebound, it became harder and harder to make them move. They were like two pillars of iron. He forced himself to continue until he reached the door of his workshop. He went inside and grabbed a couple of paper towels, and wiped the sweat off his face and bullneck. He pulled on an old sweatshirt. Then he dry-heaved a couple of times. He wiped the spittle from his mouth and said, "Holy shit," allowing himself a rare expletive. He went back outside and sat down on the stoop in front of the workshop. He reminded himself to measure out his thighs later. They looked bigger than ever. He rubbed his hands up and down them, kneading into the muscle. "Bet they're at 34" right now," he thought to himself. He'd never seen so many veins showing, especially on his big calves.

He looked up as he heard a bus coming to a stop at the end of the driveway. A strapping young man in a black pea coat and jeans got off the bus carrying a duffel bag. He had jet black hair, just like the pastor's son, but this guy was big. "No way," thought the pastor, as the young man started up the driveway. As he got closer, the pastor recognized the face as his son's, but he appeared to have the physique of an advanced bodybuilder. The young man noticed his father, and he headed over toward him. When he was about ten feet away, he dropped his duffel bag, and took off his coat and let it fall to the driveway. He was wearing a black string tank that showed off every inch of his broad shoulders. The pastor was stunned by the amount of size that his son had packed on. His six foot frame looked like it held a solid 250. His milky white skin looked like it had never seen the sun. Kid looked like the WWE wrestler Shamus, except with jet black hair.

The big teen put his hands on his waist and stuck out his chest. His pecs rolled out like two basketballs, so striated that the muscle fibers popped out under the skin like 100 guitar strings up and down his chest. He lifted the bottom of his tank and showed his abs. Without even flexing them, his washboard was etched deep. He strummed them with his free hand.

"Not bad, eh, Pops?" The kid had gained about 100lbs of muscle since his last time home.

"Not bad, boy. But how's your arm wrestling skills?"

The kid smirked, then pulled his string tank off over his head. He was so jacked and shredded, he could have walked out onto any bodybuilding stage and swept the categories.

"Better than yours," said the teen.

The pastor chuckled. "Let's test out that theory. Come into the workshop, boy." He led the way and his big son followed him. Both of them had to turn a little sideways to fit thru the door. The pastor cleared off a workbench and put his arm up on it. "Bring it on, kid," he said. When his son put his arm up on the other side, the pastor caught a whiff of his body odor. The kid smelled like a high school gym right after wrestling practice. "You stink to high heaven, boy, don't they have any showers at that college of yours?"

"Yeah, they got showers. I just ooze a lot of testosterone these days. You don't smell so good yourself, old man."

The pastor raised his arm and smelled his big pit. The kid was right, he was pretty ripe. He shrugged and said, "Let's get to this." They locked up hands and tightened their grips. "You say Go."

"Go," said the kid. His dad's arm started going down right away. The kid smirked as he pushed his father's hand down with ease. "Oh yeh, old man, you're going down!" Feeling cocky, he leaned into with all his might, ready to finish his dad off, but the older man's hand stopped about two inches from the table. The pastor swept his free hand underneath the space.

"What's the matter, boy?"

The kid pushed on his dad's arm harder. It didn't budge. He pushed and pushed, as the older man got a grin on his face. He pushed his son's arm up an inch.

"Not so cocky now, huh, boy?" He pushed his son's arm up another inch. The boy pushed as hard as he could, his arm starting to shake, and a vein popping out of his right temple. "I'll say one thing for ya, son, you sure are shredded. I can see every muscle on you struggling to take me down." He pushed his son's arm back to the starting position. "I'd say you got the strength of 2 grown men." He pushed his son's arm down a couple inches. "Too bad I got the strength of ten." And with that, the big man slammed his son's arm down hard, pinning it to the table top.

"How about best 2 out of 3?" said the pastor. He pulled his son's hand upright, then slammed it back down. "I win. Maybe you weren't ready. How about best 3 out of 5?" He lifted their arms back up. His muscular son pushed hard against his arm, but the big old man pushed it slowly and surely back down to the table. "I win again." He broke the grip with his son, and held his forearm out to admire it. Swollen to 17 inches of purple bloated muscle, veins branched out all over the belly of his forearm, pulsing with power. He flexed his huge arm. "You're gonna have to work out a lot more to beat this beast."

The son shook out his arm, his face red with rage. "Asshole," he said.

The pastor looked up from his arm. "What'd you just say?"

"You heard me. I come back from college, all jacked up, just to please you, and you make it all about yourself. You always make it all about you. You're an asshole."

"Big mistake," said the massive bulldad. He reached across the table with both arms, grabbing his son under his arm pits and lifting him upward, dragging him over to his side of the table. He held him airborne as he headed toward the door of the workshop. Using his son's back as a battering ram, he slammed into the door, knocking it off its hinges and falling out onto the stoop. The pastor stumbled on the fallen door, and the two men fell to the blacktop, the bigger man landing hard on top of his son, who felt the wind knocked out of him as his 350lbs father crushed down onto him.

"Having trouble breathing with me on top of you, boy" said the dad, grinding down on the struggling musclekid underneath him.

"I think you broke my rib," said the boy.

" want me to call your mommie? You want her to bring your blankie? Buck up, pussy, before I bust another rib." The pastor dug his fingers underneath the ribcage of the pinned muscle teen. "Fight your way out of this, or I'll break it like taffy," he said, grabbing onto a lower rib.

To the pastor's surprise, his jacked up kid got his arms underneath him and pushed him up, benching his superheavyweight bulked powerlifter muscle right into the air. Even the kid was surprised, and he began to press his dad up and down, repping out his 350lbs six times before dropping him on the ground behind his head with such a thud the earth shook.

"Take that old man." But as the kid rolled over, the pastor spun around, faster than a man his size should be able to move, and interlocked his big leg with his son's, and lifted them into the air.

"Time to Indian wrestle, boy" The pastor's thigh was bigger than his son's waist. "Feel the power," said the pastor as he slammed the boy's leg downward. "I win again." ....The son stood up, and crouched into a wrestling position. The pastor stood up and grinned. Then he peeled off his sweatshirt. He saw the stunned look on his kid's face as he saw the jacked up bulk of his father's thick beefy torso.

"That martial arts shit won't help you against this, boy." Then he crouched down himself, and motioned with his fingers for the kid to come at him. The younger man charged, racing behind his dad, wrapping his arms around the big pastor's gut, and locking his hands onto his opposite wrists. Then he tried to bring his dad down. The pastor put one big hand on each of his son's forearms, then pried the boy's grip apart like child's play, breaking the hold like it was nothing. The big man spread his son's arms open and stepped forward. He turned to face his son. "That it, little man?" The son swung out with his leg, hitting his dad in the side of the knee with a powerful roundhouse kick. Most men would have crumpled down in agony from such a kick. The pastor just looked at his son and grinned. His thickly muscled leg barely felt the kick. He used his hand to act like he was brushing away dirt from his knee. Then he tackled his son, rolling him around in the yard for awhile, tearing up the sod. The kid had grass stains all over his jeans and upper body. After ten minutes of it, the pastor stopped. "Your turn," he huffed out. He let his son put him in hold after hold, only to muscled out of each one. Both of them were shiny with sweat, making it harder and harder for the younger man to hold onto the big powerhouse. The big teen began to feel winded from trying to move his massive father around to no avail. Sensing his fatigue, the pastor flipped the boy onto his stomach and got on top of him, then slid his big arm around his son's neck, and grabbing his forearm with the other hand.

"How about a little rear naked choke, little man?" asked the big man, tightening his hold. His son struggled and strained against his insane power. "What's the matter, boy, you want your rattle?" He jerked the kid back and forth in the hold. Suddenly, the son slipped his sweat soaked head out of his father's powerful grip. He twisted his 250lbs body around, grabbing his dad's big arm as he went. He wrapped his legs around the massive arm, and yanked it into an arm bar. The big man fell onto his back with a thud as he tried to spin out of the hold. His son yanked back harder on his thick arm. The pastor growled in pain. His son pulled back harder, arching his back into the hold. Most men would have to tap out of the hold at this point, the pain is so intense. But the pastor grimaced and flared his nostrils. He lifted up with his arm, and felt his son's body lift upward. The pastor snorted, and sat up, bringing the weight of his son's body up with him even as it bore down on his bent arm. He lifted his son's 250lbs into the air using only the strength of his left arm. The pastor stood up, his son attached to his arm. The pastor slowly curled his arm upward, lifting the boy. Then the older man did a shoulder dive into the ground, taking them both down, and breaking the arm bar. He pinned his son's shoulders to the ground as he climbed on top of him, straddling him in his sweat-drenched lifting shorts. Sweat pored off him as if he'd just gotten out of a shower.

The bigger, older man leaned into his son's face. Both of them were breathing heavily. "You need more size to take this, boy."

They stared into each other's eyes. Both of them started getting feelings that they knew they shouldn't be having. The pastor was swelling up in his shorts as he pressed against his son's hard stomach, and he could feel his son doing the same in his jeans. Sweat was dripping off his brow, nose, chin and chest onto his son. He smoothed the sweat out over his son's chest, who's skin was smooth and flawless as cream. He started feeling lightheaded.

"Whoa," said the pastor, steadying himself.

"Whoa," said his son, almost at the same time.

The big pastor rolled off his boy onto the yard. "You bring any of your protein powder home with you?" he asked, staring up at the sky.

"Yeah, in my duffel."

"Bring it into the workshop."

The pastor got up and walked away from his son, adjusting himself in his lifting shorts.

His son got up and went over to his duffel bag, adjusting himself in his jeans. He pulled a big tub of protein powder out of the duffel and followed his dad to the workshop.

The pastor went over to a small refrigerator in the workshop and pulled out a gallon container of heavy cream. He sat it on a workbench, next to a blender. Beside the blender was a big tub of peanut butter, a bunch of bananas, a container of oatmeal, and various bottles of supplements like creatine, glutamine, BCAAs, desiccated liver tablets, etc.

"Bring that protein powder over here, son."

"Nice set-up," said the teen, as he put the tub on the workbench.

"I keep everything for my shakes out here, so it doesn't mess up your mother's kitchen. Speaking of which, text her for me while I mix up a shake, would you? She and your sister are out shopping. Ask her to pick up two more turkeys."

"Doesn't she always cook two?"

"Yeah. She already got those. This year, I want two more. One for me, and one for you."


"I weighed about 175 when I was your age. I'm guessing you got that beat by about 75lbs?" the pastor asked, as he added cream, peanut butter, bananas, and oatmeal to the blender.

"Just about. Weighed in at 248 this morning."

The pastor opened the protein powder. "How much you supposed to add?" he asked, looking at the container.

"It says two scoops."

"I'll add six," said the big older man. He turned on the blender, which was so full that even with the top on, thick creamy liquid oozed out of the seal.

"Here," said the pastor, handing the blender to his son. "Drink this down. We'll get you to 255 even before we leave this workshop."

The kid started chugging down the thick shake. He stopped halfway thru to take a breath. "Fuck, that's good," he said. Then he started chugging the other half.

"Watch your language, boy." He took the empty blender from his son, and made another shake. This time, he chugged down the contents. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with his big forearm and said, "Fuck, that is good." Both men laughed. "You want another?"

The pastor made another shake and handed to his boy. This time, the kid didn't even take a breath as he sucked down the thick milky mixture. His skin stretched taut over his swelling 6 pack.

"I put some extra creatine in that one for you, boy. You got the genetics to get massive. You ever think about it?"

"Only 24/7. I wanna be 300 plus, ripped by next year."

"That's my boy. I'll help you get there. I'm aiming for 400 plus bulked this winter. Think I can carry it?" The pastor flexed into a huge double bi shot. His massive peaks rose up till they almost hit his big knuckles. His son's eyes widened.

"Oh yeah, Dad! Bet you are the biggest, strongest dude on the planet. No wonder you manhandled me so easy. Look how huge you are. Bet you could hold 450 solid. You gotta do it!" The big teen adjusted himself in his jeans. The pastor could see that the kid was as jacked up as he was, talking size and power. "I better go take a shower before Mom gets home," said the son.

"You do that. Make sure you wipe down the shower stall when you're done. I'm going to have one more shake before I come in."

The pastor watched his strapping son go out the doorless doorway, then made himself another shake. After he finished, he took care of himself in private, as he imagined how pumped up he'd look at 450 pounds. Meanwhile, his son spent a half hour in the shower, and took care of himself twice, as he imagined ripped to the bone at 315 pounds.

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