Summer 4

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Paul led me into his office, and he shut and locked the door. I was shirtless and raging with pump. Raging. My arms stuck out to my sides, and I waddled as I walked, swinging one huge quad around the other. I couldn't believe how jacked up I felt. I was rolling my wrists, watching my forearms bloat and ripple, looking like two boa constictors that had both swallowed footballs. I was completely captivated by how the muscle twisted at my command, bunching up and heaving under the skin and road map veins.

"Get on the scale," ordered Paul, interrupting my self-awe. I stepped onto the scale, and he slid the balance weights up. I watched as he slid the weights all the way to the 300 mark, and it still didn't level off. "Goddam, boy, you gotta be packing a good 310," he said. I looked at the scale and saw that he was right. I had busted the 300 mark, easy. One wall of his office was all mirrors, and I looked up into it and rolled my pecs back and forth. Thick, superheavyweight pecs.

"Get off the scale, and show me that backspread," Paul said. I stepped down and faced the mirror. I pressed my thumbs into my lower back and brought my elbows out, forcing my thick lats to open wide. I bore down hard, forehead and neck veins bulging, and felt my back spreading out wide as Asia. My delts stood out like distorted pumpkins. I twisted a little from side to side to see the thickness of the lats. Had to be eight inches. Paul saw me checking it out, and reached out and grabbed the edges of my lats in his hands. "Yeah, boy, you got some real power in these suckers," he said, trying to press into the muscle with his fingers.

"Power?" I said, "I'll show you power." I reached around and grabbed him. I lifted him up overhead, and began pressing him for reps. Up and down, over and over, he felt so light, like a sack of potatoes. I switched from doing military presses to behind-the-neck presses, all the while my strength just increasing, my muscle growing. I adjusted my grip on him and started doing triceps extentions with the big ol' marine, locking out at the top, watching in the mirror as my horseshoe tris ballooned out, so thick and full. I set him down. I felt my strength surging. I had to use it. I went over and picked up the scale. I began crushing it with my bare hands, twisting it and snapping it into pieces.

"Hey," yelled Paul, "cut it the fuck out!"

I turned to him, crushed the scale into a ball of busted up metal, and tossed it aside. "Make me," I said, and started to swagger toward him. He backed up until he backed into his desk. Then his eyes hardened. I saw his right hand form into a fist. I got into his face. He reared back and slammed his fist square into my jaw. My head barely turned. I felt something, but it wasn't pain. It was more like something warm going through me, like I was absorbing his blow.

"What was that?" I asked him, "a love tap?" From the look on his face, I figured that most guy's he'd hit like that had gone down hard. "Do it again," I said, and stepped back so he'd have a better shot at me. This seemed to build his confidence, and he sneered as he drew back and slammed me straight in the kisser. His powerful blow turned my head slightly. I turned back to him and grinned.

"Nice," I said, acknowledging the power of his hit, but letting him know it barely phased me. "Now try my gut," I said, raising my arms up over my head. Paul reared back his right arm and planted his fist dead center into my abs. I heard the loud slap of fist on flesh, but I felt nothing. My thick wall of ab muscle wasn't even phased, like a concrete wall of a fortress. Paul looked up at me, then hit me again. And again. Then he brought his big veiny forearm down across my chest. He hit me with direct solid contact, but his arm bounced off me like a twig. The big marine weightlifter had nothing on me. And now we both knew it.

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