Spring: Lester

Continued from Winter

I left the do-gooders back at the vacant lot, and headed into the darkness. When I got to the railroad tracks, I turned and walked down them. Fewer cops around to pester me. And if a train came, I'd just knock it off the rails. I was jacked up huge from tangling with that squad of cops and that old dude. He was pretty muscled up, but no match for me. No match at all. Ahh, yeah, I just gotta kiss these fucking arms. Just fucking took out the whole police department and their back-up with these monsters. Good boys, I thought, as I kissed the peaks.

Those damned do-gooders will be heading back to that kid Mikey's house. Afraid I'm gonna come after that sister of his. Take her as my own, ruin her for any other dude. Let them wait. I could stalk her down anytime. She was into rough dudes in high school, she'd orgasm just getting a look at this. Besides, she wasn't the only thing I wanted at that house. Nice big house in the nice part of town. One big happy family, living the American dream. No trailer park for them. No drunk stepfather beating the crap outta them and their mom, until I hit puberty and started to grow. By the time I was 14, my shoulders were wider than his, and my waist tighter and more muscled. I knew I could've taken him down, but I didn't. I just learned to block his blows so they didn't hurt much. Then when I was 15, I was stronger and heavier than he was, I knew I could beat him to a pulp, but I still didn't do it. When I turned 16, I stayed out of the trailer as much as I could, spent most my time on the streets, hanging out at bars, getting into fights. I learned real quick that one punch from me could take a fullgrown man to the ground. After about 20 fights like that, it got boring. That's when I got into toying with them, beating on them just enough for some deep bruising, just enough that they knew they were going to lose. Loved to see that moment when the look in their eyes changed, especially the tough guys, and especially the bouncers, when their confidence was getting whooped out of them, when they realized that this young musclepunk was playing with them, beating the fight out of them slow and steady, using them for practice, laughing at them as they went down. After about 200 street fights, all of which I'd won, most of which the other guy ended up in the hospital, I was ready for stepdad. I waited outside the trailer one night until he came home. It didn't take long before I heard him beating on my mom. I felt a different kind of rage growing in me than in the street fights. I went up to the front door and it ripped right off its hinges. I tossed it behind me and went in. Stepdad's back was to me, he had my mom pinned to the couch and was hitting on her. I went over and lifted him off of her and tossed him across the room. He flew like a pillow. I still remember the rush of knowing I could annihilate the dude. Then I went after him. Blow after blow, ten times harder than anything he'd ever been able to deal out. Then I tossed him around the room some more. Shit, he was so fucking light. I was just getting into pounding on him when my mom started screaming at me, telling me to stop. She ends up throwing me outta the house. Imagine that shit. Crazy bitch. My older brother was away in the service, so I took his pickup and got out of there. I realized as I drove off that my forearms had swollen up tight, even from that short pounding I handed out. I flexed my wrists as I drove, watching the veins pop out. Felt so damned good. Felt like I could tear the steering wheel right off.

I pretty much lived on the street after that. Sometimes, I would roll homeless dudes for gas and food money, but then word got out fast that some musclekid was beating the crap out of them, so most of them moved on. Guess the city owes me, for cleaning up the homeless problem. After that, I'd break into homes in the rich part of town, take all their food and whatever money was laying around. Everything I ate turned to muscle. I could feel it. The more I stuffed myself, the bigger I got.

I kept going to school mainly because they had heat. And I could take a hot shower after gym. Later in the day I'd get bored though, living out of a pickup truck gets old. So I applied for a job at a local gym. Greg, the owner, hired me on the spot. Then he asked me if I could train new members on how to lift. When I told him I'd never lifted before, he almost fired me for lying to him. Finally it sunk in that I was telling the truth. He looked me up and down, then said he wanted to see how strong I was. He went over to a bench, and put some weights on the bar.

"Let's see how many reps you can do with 135lbs," he said.

I went over to the bench, but instead of laying down, I grabbed the bar and started curling it. After 50 reps, he told me to stop. He looked like he was going to faint. I could feel the blood gushing into my arms, and it felt great. I wanted more. I went to lift the bar again, but he stopped me.

"Let's add some more weight," he said, and he put on two more 45lb plates. I picked up the bar and started curling the 225lbs. I could feel the power in my arms swelling as they moved the bar up and down, over and over. I looked down and watched the muscles bulge. He stopped me at 30 reps. I put the bar down and looked into the mirror.

"Shit," I said, as I got a look at the swollen meathooks that were my arms. I raised my arms and flexed them. My biceps had a wicked peak to them, and my forearms had twice as many veins as when I'd beaten up my stepdad. No wonder guys get into this, I thought, checking out my steel hard arms. Greg, the owner, sat down on the bench, his mouth open.

"Kid, you are a natural," he said.

Although, within a month, he'd have me on my first cycle. From that first day there, I pretty much didn't work there at all, but trained and trained. Greg loved teaching me the lifts, and I loved doing them. He said I pumped up tighter than anything he'd ever seen. Even before my first cycle, I was lifting heavier than anyone at the gym. And I was growing. Greg was feeding me protein drinks, and I got dizzy feeling it rush into my system, feeding my strength. Even junk food had made me grow before, so this stuff was really kicking it into gear.

I still went out to the bars at night, looking to rumble. Most guys backed off though, when they got a look at the arms. All thick and veiny. Probably didn't help much that I wore the tightest tees I could find, so that every muscle showed, including the freaky 8pac that I was developing from doing weighted leg lifts with 220lbs strapped to my ankles.

I dropped out of school at that point. Greg thought it was a bad idea, but I was turning 18 at the end of the month, so there wasnt much he could say. He let me work at the gym all day, and train at night. I knew there were a bunch of gearheads who lifted there. Some of them were cool. Some I could tell were jealous of my strength. I was jealous of them too, I was aching to get jacked up huge. Greg hinted that he'd get me something special for my birthday. I knew that if it wasn't a ten-week cycle of heavy duty gear, I was going to beat on him until he came up with it. Lucky for him, he came up with the right gift. And that's when the real fun started.

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