Part 1

“Look at him go!”

The two personal trainers, both highly-ranked amateur bodybuilders, watched Roger Fentress attack the lat pull-down machine. Rep after rep, set after set, the sweat pouring from his pale but rock-solid body, Roger worked like a man possessed. Low reps, heavy weights, perfect form.

“He’s unstoppable,” said Roger’s trainer, Randy Washington. At 5'8” tall and 245 lbs., Washington had been lifting since he was 14. The twenty years of dedication and training were evident in his huge mass, carved into the deep separations of his highly conditioned body.

“What have you got him on?” Carlos Trujillo was five years younger than Washington but the darkly tanned Latino bodybuilder was no less impressive. At 5’9” tall and 240 lbs. he continually wowed judges and audiences with his flawless physique, including a minuscule 28 inch waist and imposing 29 inch quads.

“That’s the thing,” Washington said. “I don’t have him on anything, not even protein powder. It’s scary.”

* * *

Roger had showed up at Body Zone four months earlier. At 38 years old, he was a handsome guy, the all American guy next door with light brown hair, blue eyes, and a dusting of fur in the right places. He had never been much of a jock, except for a regular but not very impressive tennis game, and his physique was nondescript at best. At 5’11” tall he only weighed 160 lbs. but it was soft, not hard. He was naturally well-proportioned, with wide shoulders and narrow hips, but he’d recently moved up to size 34 pants and his most notable feature was the lack of anything notable!

“What are your goals? Lose, gain, tone up?” Randy asked when they met that day. Roger was his luck of the draw and Randy was working hard to have anything more than a ho hum attitude.

“Harder, for sure, but also bigger and stronger. I’m tired of putting ‘average’ in my online profile, ya know? I want something more. I don’t know how far I can go but I want to go there, even so,” Roger said, adding “And I’m certainly willing to pay for your assistance. You’d be amazed at how much money you can save when you don’t have someone to share your life with.”

“Oh ho!” Randy thought. “Now he’s got my attention!”

“Good attitude, man,” Randy said aloud. You can go just about anywhere, provided you’re consistent about it…”

“Even as big as you?” Roger asked with a wry chuckle.

Randy gave him a look.

“Even as big as me – but keep in mind it took me 20 years of busting my ass to get here, ya know?”

“What else do I have to look forward to?” Roger replied.

* * *

Randy had been amazed at the ease with which Roger took to the training program. He only had to show Roger how to do any exercise once and Roger got it immediately. Most of Randy’s clients had problems with form, or problems with breathing, or problems with concentration. Not Roger! He nailed each rep and each set of each exercise on the first try.

“Are you sure you haven’t done this before?” Randy asked.

Roger looked askance at him.

“What do you mean? It’s like I said, I’ve never done weights. It’s always been tennis or swimming or something like that. I never even did this in high school gym class. I had mono the one time we had a weights class and I never touched them until now.”

Randy shook his head.

“Cool beans, dude. I guess you’re just naturally talented!”

It wasn’t long before his sessions with Roger were the highlight of Randy’s day. The man was always on time, always focused, always hard working. And he didn’t flinch at Randy’s rates, either, $400 per week for six one-hour sessions (slightly discounted from Randy’s usual rate of $75 per hour.)

* * *

Roger’s progress in the first four months was remarkable:

At his very first workout with Randy, Roger could barely bench 80 lbs., just half his bodyweight. Looking around the room, Roger saw any number of skinny teenagers and early 20 guys doing half again that much or more.

“Don’t get discouraged,” Randy said. “You’ve never touched a weight before, right? You just have to get the feel of it.”

“How much can YOU bench, Randy?” Roger asked.

“Well, uh…”

Just then, Carlos Trujillo, the gym’s other star trainer / bodybuilder, piped up.

“He didn’t tell you, man? Ran here isn’t just the best built guy in the gym, he’s also the strongest: his single rep max is 505 lbs., right?”

Roger’s eyes bugged out.

“Randy, that means you’re more than six times stronger than I am!”

Randy shook his head.

“Like I said, dude…”

Roger’s next set was more intense than his first one.

* * *

A month later Roger had put on 10 lbs. of solid muscle and was benching his bodyweight, 170 lbs.

“What did I tell you?” Randy asked. “Beginners always make great gains!”

“Yeah, right,” Roger said. “Now you’re only three times stronger than I am!”

Randy threw up his hands in a “what am I gonna do with this guy?” expression.

“Just don’t get discouraged if you slow down, OK?”

* * *

But Roger didn’t slow down.

A month later, Roger had gained another 10 lbs. At 5’11 and 180 lbs., his waist was down 3 inches, his chest was up 4.5 inches, and biceps were up 2 inches. His last session that month, Roger benched 240 lbs. – and all his other lifts were up accordingly.

“You noticed anything?” Randy asked.

“Noticed what?”

“You noticed who else is benching 240?”

“Plenty of people,” Roger said. “See: Joe and Frank and Kevin and…”

“How many of ‘em are smaller than you are?”

Roger looked around again.

“Well, that’s hard to say. Kevin, for sure, but he’s amazing and…”

Randy interrupted.

“You’re right in there with guys who’ve been lifting for years, Rog. Keep it up, OK?”

Roger laughed.

“Don’t worry about me, Randy. I’m unstoppable!”

* * *

A month later, Randy was beginning to think Roger was onto something. With 10 lbs. more muscle, Roger was 190 lbs. – and beginning to turn heads. He’d added another inch to his arms, another 2 inches to his chest, and taken another inch off his waist.

“Yer looking big, man,” Randy told him. Roger turned bright red.

“Oh, c’mon, Randy, look who’s talking.”

“Hey, dude, I don’t know too many people who would be complaining about a 46 inch chest, 30 inch waist, and 17 inch arms. That’s not shabby!”

Roger lay back on the bench. 295 lbs. was on the bar, 5 lbs. more than he’d done the week before.

“Closing in there, big man,” Randy said.

Roger sat up and grabbed a couple of 10-lb. weights to add to the bar. Then he looked around and spied a couple of tiny 2 ½ lb. weights.

“For good measure,” he said, slapping them on the bar.

“Are you sure about this man?” Randy asked.

“I’m unstoppable, right?”

That day Roger benched 320 lbs. – four times the amount he’d benched three months earlier.

“Yep,” Randy said, re-racking the weight. “Unstoppable.”

* * *

Roger stretched out on the bench.

Just as pale as he had been the day he walked into Body Zone for the first time, Roger now carried 200 lbs. of solid, sculpted muscle on his 5-11 frame, an increase of 40 lbs. in four months. In the past month his waist hadn’t gotten any smaller but his arms, chest, and legs had all increased in size, a little bit faster, in fact, than they’d done in previous months. With a 48-inch chest, 30-inch waist, 26-inch quads, and 18.5 inch biceps, Roger was no longer average.

“And strong as an ox,” Randy told Carlos later that evening.

Not that Carlos needed any telling. As they’d watched Roger attack the lat pull-down machine, the cable holding the entire weight stack – about 300 lbs. – snapped as Roger was completing his 15th rep, sending the bar crashing down on Roger’s broad, muscular back. It had taken Randy and Carlos a good 10 minutes to quiet down Lou Mategna, Body Zone’s grizzled, sixty-something owner and manager, who was ready to throw Roger out for abusing the equipment.

“How strong we talking?” Carlos asked, taking a swig from his long-necked Dos Equis.

“He benched 400 lbs. yesterday, twice his bodyweight,” Randy replied.

Carlos choked on his beer.

“400 lbs.?! Fuck man, yer shittin’ me, right? That’s nearly as much as I can do!”

Randy shook his head.

“No lie, son. Perfect form, no assist on the lift off. At the rate he’s going…”

“We got us a monster on our hands, bro?”

Randy clinked his bottle against Carlos’.



Part 2

Carlos Trujillo was dancing his ass off at Zen, the biggest gay dance club in town. He had on his usual club attire – skin tight go-go shorts, thick white socks, black high tops, a heavy gold chain around his neck, and nothing else. Not a look that worked for everyone but Carlos was 5-9 and 240 lbs. of rippling Latino muscle, darkly tanned, naturally smooth, and model handsome.

Needless to say, Carlos was popular on the dance floor. He never lacked for a crowd of admirers. Unlike many body boys, however, Carlos was not part of a pack. For one thing, aside from ‘roids and other bodybuilding “enhancements,” Carlos didn’t do drugs and didn’t have much time for people who did. But mostly Carlos liked being the lone wolf -- he wanted all of the attention, he didn’t need it from a group of wannabes.

Carlos took it for granted that all eyes were on him – he was, after all, one of the best bods in town – but tonight he felt something different. He kept seeing someone or something out of the corner of his eye, someone more intent than usual, something unexpected.


Against the wall, half in the shadows, baggy jeans, loose flannel shirt, dorky glasses, somehow vaguely familiar, and devouring Carlos with his eyes.

Slowly but confidently and surely Carlos danced his way out of the pack and off the floor. Unlike so many wannabes, Carlos was secure enough in himself that he wasn’t hung up on looks – well, other people’s looks, that is. The big question was whether they were any good at getting into HIM, in the way that he liked. Didn’t hurt, for that matter, if the guy was Anglo and pale and furry, and he was guessing this guy was.

“Dude, what’s up?”

“Don’t you recognize me, Carlos?”

Holy Shit!

“Roger, what the fuck are you doin’ here, man?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Carlos snorted.

“Well, this must be your first time because I’m here every Saturday night, amigo.”

Roger turned bright red, then stuttered out a question:

“Uh, then, uh, does that mean, uh, that you’re…?”


Roger was too tongue-tied to reply.

“Let’s put it this way, dude. Just don’t call me a ‘practicing’ homosexual. I’m a certified, Grade A, primo, fudgepacking, cocksucking faggot, ya know?”

A wave of relief washed over Roger’s handsome, boy next door face. Carlos still found it hard to believe this guapo hottie was 10 years older than he was.

“Well, uh, ya know…”

“S’okay, man,” Carlos said. “I kinda figured it out a long time ago. You’re so focused in the gym it was hard to tell at first. But you ain’t never had your tongue falling out over Angelina or Gloria or them other big-boobed broads and you sure don’t seem to mind looking at Randy and Frank and Michael.”

Damn, there was that blush again. This boy was getting Carlos’ motor running.

“Uh, well, yeah,” Roger said. “But I’m new at this. I always knew I was, I’ve just never had time to do anything about it.”

Carlos looked at him askance.

“Well ain’t it about time…?”

Roger’s eyes got wide.

“Is that…?”

“A come on? Hell, yeah, man. I don’t know why you’re dressed like you’re going to a Kurt Cobain festival but I know what you got under there and it ain’t half bad. ‘Sides, I like a man who likes muscle – and I know you do!”

Roger was speechless.

“So what’s it gonna be? Your place or mine?”

* * *

Carlos was impressed.

They’d taken Roger’s car, a shiny black Mercedes convertible out to Piney Point, a ritzy new development with big new houses on big waterfront lots. Roger’s was modern – stucco, native stone, teak, lots of glass – and about five times the size of Carlos’ apartment.

“Jeez, man,” Carlos said, “you must have some rich ass parents.”

Roger shook his head.

“They died in a car crash the year I graduated from high school. My dad was an electrician, my mom was a kindergarten teacher. The insurance money put me through college but that was it.”

Carlos looked at Roger with new respect.

“You did all this on your own?”

A nod.

“Computers,” Roger said. “And sense enough to get out of the market before the crash. Want something to drink?”

“Nah, man, I’ve had enough but is that a hot tub I see on the deck?”

“And a pool and a sauna and a steam room. All the comforts of home,” Roger said. “Wanna try ‘em out?”

He didn’t need to ask a second time. Carlos got the spa going, then climbed in, while Roger putzed around his shiny, high tech kitchen, brewing up some ‘ritas.

“C’mon, cutie,” Carlos said when Roger finally arrived, a tray with an icy pitcher and two frosted glasses. “Get out of ‘dem clothes, boy.”

Roger stripped – and it was Carlos’ turn to stare.

5-11 and 200 lbs., totally solid, in all the right places. Pale skin, a dusting of freckles across the shoulders and arms, silver-dollar sized pink nipples, and a delicious coating of thick, luxurious, soft brown fur in all the right places.

And a great big weenie!

“Jeez, man, you’ve got a big one for a white boy! That’s bigger than mine!”

Instantly hard, Roger stepped into the tub, taking the seat directly opposite Carlos – as far away as possible, in other words! He slouched in the water, his shoulders tucked in, hands in his lap. Carlos rose and stepped across the tub, looming over Roger, his massive, hard body glistening, his dark, uncut cock, rock solid and jutting towards Roger’s sweet, sensitive mouth.

“Have you ever done this before, son?” Carlos asked, getting right to the point.

“Once,” Roger croaked, “A long time ago. But it wasn’t nearly as big.”

“Take it then,” Carlos said. “You know you want it.”

Roger’s soft, sweet mouth enveloped Carlos’ cockhead, pushing back his ample foreskin, lingering here and there – all the right places.

“Just once, huh? You’re doin’ great for a beginner.”

Roger took more of Carlos’ thick, 9-inch dong into his mouth.

“Fuck,” Carlos thought. “That’s fucking smooth as silk.”

Roger did things with his tongue. Carlos flexed and ground his hips. He didn’t think he could get harder.

He was wrong.

Roger swallowed Carlos to the hilt.

“Jeezus,” Carlos moaned. “That’s a fucking hot mouth you’ve got there, papi.”

Roger kept going. And going. And going. In no time Carlos was on the verge and that never happened. Carlos came when Carlos wanted to cum and that usually wasn’t until he’d had a good hour of muscleworship-cum-foreplay. But Rorger’s mouth was so fucking hot!

Roger relented, slightly, and Carlos breathed a bit easier. And then Roger started in again. Back and forth, up to the peak, then back down the hill a bit. No one had ever kept Carlos on the cusp for so long. On and on. Carlos’ feet were clenched, he’s quads and calves were beginning to spasm from having kept the same position for so long, but he didn’t want to move.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” Carlos exclaimed. “Man, you gotta let me cum!”

Roger did something, Carlos couldn’t say what, and the resulting explosion toppled him onto Roger. Quick as lightning Roger grabbed the 240 lb. hunk and held him in position as load after load of Carlos’ spunk went down Roger’s throat.

Spent at last, Carlos’ knees buckled and he found himself sitting on Roger’s lap, his arms around Roger’s neck, Roger’s arms around Carlos’ thick pecs.

“Fuck, man,” Carlos said, utterly spent. “How did you do that?”

Roger chuckled.

“It’s like Randy says.”

“You’re…?” “I’m…”



Part 3

Carlos floated on the designer sheets of the California king bed in Roger’s apartment-sized bedroom. Roger was straddling Carlos’ bubble butt, giving Carlos a much needed back massage.

“Jesus, man, where’d you learn how to do this…?” Carlos asked, groaning and purring simultaneously.

“Uh, well, in fact…”

“Let me guess,” Carlos interrupted. “You’ve never done it before…?”

Roger shifted from the small of Carlos’ back to his incredibly overdeveloped trapezius muscles.

“I guess I’m better at this body stuff than I thought I was…”

Carlos flipped over, tumbling Roger into the velvety softness of the subtly woven duvet.

“You got that right,” Carlos said, stretching out on his side.

“So, Mister Mister,” Carlos said, looking into Roger’s deep blue eyes. “What does it for you?”

Roger blushed.

“Are you kidding? This does it! YOU do it!”

“And that’ud be what, man? Big dicks? Brown skin? Big muscles?”

Roger sighed.

“All of the above…”

Carlos knelt.

“And this?” he asked, flexing his 21 inch bicep.

Roger groaned.

“Or this?” Carlos flared his meaty, sculpted lats.

Roger’s erection slapped Carlos’ thigh.

“Yeah, man,” Carlos said, crunching his tiny 28 inch waist into a spectacular display of cobbled, striated abs. “This is what you really want, isn’t it?”

“Fuck,” Roger said. “Pose for me, Carlos. Please?”

“You don’t have to ask twice, buddy.”

Carlos pulled Roger from the bed, stood facing him toe to toe, his big, fat uncut cock playing swords with Roger’s even bigger, even fatter white boy dick. He took Roger through the posing routine that won him last year’s Tri State competition, the one that qualified him for the Junior Nationals. He called out each pose from memory, hearing the music in his head, his fluid movements controlled but graceful, elegant but oh so masculine.

Roger moved with him, around him, behind him, oohing, ahhing, moaning, gasping. Licking an arm, then the small of Carlos’ back, caressing his shoulders, the back of his neck, tweaking one nipple, then the other. With every pose, Carlos was a bit more pumped. With every pose, Roger’s dick was that much harder, his breathing that much deeper.

“Fuck me,” Roger said, hoarsely. “Fuck the shit out of me, Carlos.”

Carlos grabbed Roger by the shoulders and threw him onto the bed.

“You sure you’re ready for this, boy?”

Roger flexed his creamy, white boy ass, his new back muscles rippling all the way up to his neck.

Carlos thumbed the Magnum condom down his fat cock, spat twice (once on his dick, once on Roger’s cherry), and plunged in.

“Fuck!” Carlos cried. “Where’d you learn how to do that?!”

Roger’s ass swallowed the head of Carlos’ cock like a python going for an ostrich egg. He took it all, massaging every one of Carlos’ 9 inches, until his butt cheeks rested on Carlos’ pubic bone.

“Christ, yer good at this.”

Roger mumbled into the pillow.

“What was that?”

“Fmy furs ime…”

“Your first time fucking?!”

Carlos shook his head.

“Shit, dude, urgh, I, argh, ain’t never, ugh, met nobody, shit, who was such, oh, Christ, a fast fuck fuck fucking learner!”

The fuck went on for a long time. Every time Carlos came close, Roger instinctively loosened his sphincter. Every time Carlos’ attention began to flag, Roger did something that brought Carlos’ cock roaring back to life.

Eventually, dripping with sweat, Carlos could take it no more.

“Eww, dude, dude, I’m gonna jizz!”

Carlos’ cum exploded into Roger’s ass, his hot tub orgasm having paled in comparison. Carlos fell on top of Roger, his 240 lb. bulk completely covering the smaller man, but Roger never let go, his ass never unclenched, taking in every drop of Carlos’ hot man juice.

With the last spasm of Carlos’ big dick, Roger let go, then quickly turned himself and Carlos topsy-turvy, the hunky bodybuilder’s sizzling torso spread before him. Roger straddled Carlos’ hips, his left hand pinching his left nipple, his right hand vigorously pumping his massively engorged member. After two hours of foreplay, it took no more than three or four strokes for Roger to come to climax, at the last moment clamping down on his huge cock.

The eruption went on and on, the creamy jizz marbling the caramel perfection of Carlos’ killer bod.

“Shit, man, don’t tell me you ain’t ever done THAT before, OK?”

Roger smiled.

“This? I do this every day, sexy – doesn’t everyone?”

Carlos shook his head.

“Man, I just don’t get it. You really are…”



Part 4

Roger and Carlos stood side by side at Zen, watching the wannabes on the dance floor.

Like any other Saturday night, Carlos was wearing his trademark go-go shorts, gold chain, white socks, black high tops. Roger, on the other hand, had gotten rid – at Carlos’ suggestion – of the baggy jeans, the flannel shirt, and the dorky glasses (which he really only needed for driving at night.) Instead he wore loose-fitting track pants that nonetheless showed off his bulging quads and his big package, plus a form-fitting “wife beater” (“what an awful name!” Roger told Carlos) that highlighted his broad, muscular shoulders, thick arms, and beefy pecs. It didn’t hide the thick, dark rug on Roger’s chest, either, a sight that always got Carlos revved up.

It obviously had the wannabes revved up, too. They kept looking at the hot, muscular couple, one a little taller than the other, the other quite a bit bigger and beefier. The taller one looked like a model from the cover of “Men’s Fitness,” the other something out of the pages of “Flex.”

“Is it my imagination,” Roger asked his bud, “or are they talking about us?”

Carlos snorted.

“Oh, yeah, baby, they’re talking about us all right. They wanna know why we’re not down there on the dance floor with them. Or in the john snorting something. Or trying to join their clique. It’s typical.”

Roger shook his head.

“I could skip any of that but…”

“Maybe it’s time to dance…?”

Carlos was a master. He danced as well as he posed – gracefully, elegantly, exuding a confident masculinity – and he always found the limelight. Roger matched him move for move.

“You’re not going to tell me…”

“That I’ve never danced before?” Roger asked. “Hell, no, I’ve been dancing since I was a kid, Arthur Murray and everything, including jazz and modern in high school and college.”

Carlos’ mouth gaped.

“Hey, it’s just the weights I hadn’t done, remember? I’ve done all the other stuff – tennis, racquetball, volleyball, kayaking, canoeing, dancing, you name it. Just not weights…”

Carlos closed his mouth.

“Well, dude, you’ve definitely caught up in THAT department!”

They danced for an hour solid, never pausing. From time to time the wannabes would move closer in and Carlos or Roger would artfully lead the duo to a new spot where they couldn’t be followed without unfortunate collisions.

Eventually, though, one guy – pretty big and buff for someone who was obviously a tweaker – inserted himself between the two of them. Carlos’ body language was unmistakable, Roger just look puzzled. The tweaker got closer and closer to Carlos, finally reaching out to cop a feel of Carlos’ amazing bubble butt, the kind that’s built by many years of ass-to-the-floor 600 lb. squats.

“Whoaaaa…!” Carlos exclaimed. “Did I…?”

Before he could finish, Roger had the guy – a good 6 ft and 220 lbs. – by the underarms carrying him off the dance floor. Tweaker boy’s feet didn’t touch the floor the whole way. Once there, Roger whispered something into the guy’s ear and made an emphatic gesture. No way Carlos could hear what Roger said, of course, but the expression on the guy’s face needed no explanation.

Then Roger was back at Carlos’ side, the whole episode having lasted significantly less than a minute.

“Uh…” Carlos began.

“Sorry about that,” Roger said. “I don’t know what got into me.”

Carlos looked him up and down.

“I think it was that 400 lb. bench press, dude. And, uh, ya know ya don’t have to take care of ME but thanks anyway, OK?”

Roger had the decency to blush.

* * *

A week later, Roger was doing lat pull downs again, but his focus was a little off, something Randy picked up on immediately.

“Big plans for the weekend, big man?”

Roger grinned.

“A friend and I are going dancing tonight,” Roger said, shyly.

“So I take it you and Papichulo have got something going?”

Roger began to stutter a response.

“Hey, babe, no biggie deal,” Randy broke in. “He’s a good boy, even if he does have a wild streak. He’ll make someone a good husband someday.”

“Uh, so, uh, you…?”

Randy was stretching, bent at the waist, hands touching the floor, his face nearly there as well.

“Fucking awesome,” Roger thought. “He’s like a 250 lb. cobra!”

Randy bounced back up and gave Roger a smile so wide and bright it could light up the bottom of a well.

“Baby, who do you think taught that chico everything he knows? And I’m NOT just talking about bodybuilding.”

Once again – “will I ever stop?!” – Roger blushed.


Randy whacked him on the ass.

“Seated rows, next, big boy. Your favorite!”

* * *

And so it went for the next few months.

Roger would bust his ass in the gym with Randy every day. Every Saturday night it was out to Oz (or one of the other clubs, just for variety’s sake), then back to Roger’s place (sometimes to Carlos’ pad if they were too horny to wait out the drive to Piney Point) for hot hot man sex.

A month after he met Carlos at Zen, Roger beat Carlos’ one rep max by benching 480 lbs. – 25 lbs. more than Carlos had ever done. Carlos was more than a little flustered, especially since he still had 30 lbs. on Roger’s 210 lbs. of diamond hard muscle.

“Yeah, that’s damned impressive, bro,” Carlos muttered.

“Are you kidding?” Randy cut in. “That’s fucking phenomenal. Significantly more than twice your bodyweight, Roger. Yer awesome, baby.”

After that session Carlos had to adjust his schedule to train a new client at a different gym. He still saw plenty of Randy and Roger, just not on the days Roger was doing chest, which had always been Carlos’ best, strongest body part.

He wasn’t there the day Roger beat Randy’s one rep max. At 220 lbs., Roger was competition solid. His waist was still no more than 30 inches but his quads had caught up to his waist size, his chest was up to 54 inches, and his biceps stretched the tape to 20 inches on the nose.

“I’m feeling great, Randy, I think I can do this.”

“Go for it, kiddo. You know you’re unstoppable."

560 lbs., clean as a whistle.

“Fuck yeah!” Roger exclaimed.

He leaped from the bench, paced the floor like a caged tiger, flexing his engorged pecs and rippling biceps.

His pecs weren’t the only thing engorged.

“Uh, Roger, maybe you need to take a little break?”

Roger excused himself and headed to the locker room. Ten minutes later he was back, a lot calmer and not nearly as, well, obvious.

“Unstoppable in more ways than one,” Randy thought to himself.

* * *

That night Randy sat on his leather sofa, his 11-inch python out of his loose sweatpants and hard as a steel rod.

He was drinking single malt Scotch watching porn on his big screen, flat panel monitor – muscle porn, that is. Pump room action – courtesy of Repetrope – from last year’s Tri State competition, the one that earned Carlos his invitation to the Junior Nationals. He watched the clips of Carlos pumping up, endless reps of biceps curls with 60 lb. dumbbells, stopping now and then to flex, making love to his fucking huge arm.

Randy was drifting off, his eyes blinking slowly. Even with his eyes closed, he saw Carlos’ beautiful body.

He’d open his eyes and watch that pose again.

His eyes would close and he’d see Carlos’ famous vacuum abs pose.

There he was doing a side chest shot.

There was Roger making love to his huge fucking arm…

Randy eyes flew open.

“Uh oh…”


Part 5

"Dammit all."

Carlos Trujillo turned to look at his Saturday night dancing / fuck partner, Roger Fentress. The big man was fiddling with the snaps on silver and black track pants, as he'd been doing since they'd arrived at Zen an hour earlier.

"Que pasa, hombre?"

"They fucking won't stay snapped," Roger replied.

Exasperated beyond measure, Carlos swooped in and jerked the offending garment to Roger's ankles.

"Ya don't need `em, dewd. You fill out them shorts just fine."

It was true.

At 5'11 and 230 lbs. of solid muscle, Roger had added 4 inches to his quads and 3 inches to his calves in the three months he and Carlos had been dancing together. At 31 inches, his quads were now an inch bigger than his waist, just like Carlos' were.

Roger and Carlos, in fact, were near twins, albeit the one was a pale, furry Anglo boy, the other a deeply tanned, smooth as silk Latino. Carlos was 2 inches shorter than Roger but 10 lbs. heavier. By this time, Roger's legs were actually bigger than Carlos', their arms were about the same, Carlos was a bit thicker through the chest and back.

"Here ya go, babe, I got a present for you."

Where Carlos could hide a gift piqued Roger's curiosity. Carlos had on his usual Saturday night garb – black go-go shorts, thick white socks, black high-tops, and a heavy gold chain. In other words, damned skimpy!

"Awwwww, Carlos, thank you, man!"

It was a gold chain, a twin of the one Carlos always wore. He gave his bodybuilder buddy a crushing bear hug, lifting the shorter man up off the ground – not something he'd have been able to do when he joined Body Zone, Carlos' gym, a mere seven months ago.

"Excuse me, gentleman, hate to interrupt the love scene, but I just gotta get a pic of the two of you." It was Louie Feldman, the short, dumpy balding photographer who covered the bar scene for "Velvet," the local gay rag.

"Sure thing, Louie!"

Carlos held the record for appearances in "Velvet," 78 in the previous two years, and this one would be the 50th in a row.

"C'mon boys," Louie said, "give me a biceps shot."

Carlos and Roger were happy to comply, standing side by side, elbow to elbow, popping their massive guns.

Louie grunted as he took the shot; he was in this business for a reason, as the very few who had ever seen his muscle-plastered studio walls could tell you.

"When you boys competing next?" Louie asked. "Yer both pro's now right?"

Roger blushed and began to stutter a response but Carlos interrupted.

"Hell, no, Louie, Roger here ain't never competed. He only started training a few months ago."

Louie's caterpillar eyebrows shot up?

"Really? Jesus, man, you've made some great progress. You guys look like twins. So, fella – what's your name? What are your stats."

Roger regained the power of speech.

"5-11 and 230 lbs."

"Just about the same as you, right, Carlos? And what are your measurements?"

"54 chest, 30 inch waist, 31 quads."

Carlos' jaw dropped. He looked at Roger and realized he'd been seeing the guy who first showed up at Zen three months ago, not the one in front of him today.

"And your arms?"

Roger blushed yet again.

"Well, you know, it's been at least a while since I measured so I don't really know. Last time it was 20 inches, right on the nose, but that was after a hard work out."

Carlos' jaw had yet to return to its usual position.

"Catchin' some flies there, Carlos?" Louie asked. "That's almost the same size as yours, isn't it?"

Carlos nodded.

"Tell ya what, fellas, let's go out on the patio and take your measurements, how about? You do the measuring, I'll take the pix – it'll make for a hot spread!"

So they did. Roger did Carlos' first, starting with calves (20 inches), then quads (29 inches), waist (28 inches), chest (55 inches), and biceps (21 inches for his right, 21 ¼ inches for the left.)

"Fuck man," Roger said when they were done; Louie let out a little moan. For a short, fat fuck he had one helluva bulge in his baggy sweat pants.

"Those are some fucking wicked numbers."

"Let's get yours," Carlos said. His eyes got bigger with each set of numbers: calves (21 inches), quads (31 inches), waist (30 inches), and chest (54 ½ inches.)

"That's just half an inch less than yours, Carlos," Louie pointed out. "Tape his arms now."

Roger trembled slightly as Carlos brought forth the tape, then steeled himself – and his arms. Louie noted to himself that if anything they were more vascular than Carlos' were.

"Right biceps, 21 ¼ inches," Carlos called off hoarsely. "Left biceps, 21 inches."

Their arms were mirror images of each other.

The photo spread of Carlos and Roger in "Velvet" was extremely popular, so much so that the editor gave Louie a raise and suggested they think about hiring the two bodybuilders to be spokesmodels for the magazine.

That night Carlos did not go home with Roger to Piney Point. After Louie departed, Carlos decided the dance floor was too crowded and that they should stay out on the darkened patio. He ordered round after round of shots, downing one after the other while Roger lined his up on the wrought iron table under the big banana plant. When there were 10 of them on the table, Roger stood up and stretched.

"Big man," he told Carlos, "it's time to go home."

"Naw," Carlos said, "the night's still young."

Roger frowned.

"Well, then, let's go dance," pulling Carlos up off the bench by his wrist, only to have Carlos stumble against him.

"Uh, babe…"

Carlos shook himself.

"Man, I think I'm gonna be sick."

Afterwards, Roger took Carlos back to his bachelor pad.

"Just don't throw up in my car, OK?"

Carlos glared at him.

"Your fuckin' expensive car too good for me, is that it?"

It was Roger's turn to gape.

"I was joking, hon. I just don't want you to throw up, period, that's all."

Carlos said not a word for the rest of the 10 minute drive to his apartment in Miraflores.

Roger walked him to the door and helped Carlos with the key.

"You gonna be, OK? Is there anything else you need?"

Carlos had stopped glaring, now he was drooping.

"It's OK, man, I'll be fine. I just need to get some rest. G'night…"

Roger found himself looking at Carlos' front door.


Part 6

“What am I going to do, Randy?”

Three weeks in a row Roger’s Saturday night foray to Zen with Carlos Trujillo, his dance partner and fuck buddy, had turned into disaster.

The weekend after the shots, Carlos had already been tanking up by the time Roger picked him up. They weren’t at Zen for half an hour before Carlos pointedly announced that he was going home – by himself – in a cab.

Last night they never made it in the door; this time Carlos hadn’t been drinking but he was totally fucking pissed off about God knew what, so much so they he got into a shouting match with the bouncer who barred Carlos from the club for the evening. Roger tried persuading him to go get a cocktail at a mellow lounge he knew but Carlos was having none of it. After dropping Carlos at his pad in Miraflores, Roger headed back to Zen and danced his ass off.

Three weeks in a row Roger was on the cover of “Velvet,” the local gay rag.

“I dunno,” said Randy Washington, the personal trainer who had presided over Roger’s phenomenal growth from out of shape skinny geek to competition-ready bodybuilder during the previous eight months.

“Maybe he’s feeling insecure…”

Roger spluttered.

“Insecure?! Fuck, Randy, the man’s a fucking god among men. What’s he got to feel insecure about?!”

Randy chuckled.

“God among men?!” he thought. “This boy has got it BAD and that ain’t good.”

“Well, ya know, son, you’ve been getting an awful lot of attention lately. Carlos isn’t used to sharing the limelight, hon.”

Roger shook his head.

“Well, if he were fucking THERE he’d have all the limelight he wanted.”

He sighed, then twisted his rock solid 20 inch neck, shrugged his impossibly broad shoulders.


“Hey,” Randy said. “At least it hasn’t affected your workouts.”

Indeed, that was the case. If anything, Roger dealt with the tension by hitting the gym even harder than ever, something Randy hadn’t really thought possible.

“Well, ya know, I’m not gone let this hold me back,” Roger pointed out, as he readied himself on the flat bench. “It’s like I’ve said before. I’m…”


* * *

A week later:

“Fuck man,” Randy growled. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

From the look on his face, it seemed Roger couldn’t really believe it either.

But the fact was he HAD done it and everyone in the gym was cheering and hooting and hollering as a result.

“720 lbs.,” Roger bellowed. “You fucking benched 720 lbs., you big dope!”

Roger beamed.

“That’s fucking THREE times your bodyweight. Why the fuck aren’t you competing, man?”

Roger scanned the crowd. He had hoped…

“No, babe, Carlos isn’t here this afternoon.”

“But I am.”

It was Louie Feldman, the short, balding photographer from “Velvet.”

“Congrats on your big lift, big man,” Louie said. “That’s totally fucking awesome.”

Roger squeezed Louie up in a big bear hug and twirled him around, light as a feather. Not an unimpressive feat itself: At 5-11 Roger was 5 inches taller than Louie but Louie – who never got over growing up on his Italian mama’s pasta sauce – outweighed him a good 40 lbs.

“Oh, Christ, man, now look what you’ve done,” Louie said when his feet were once again firmly planted on the ground. The bulge in Louie’s baggy sweat pants was plain to see.

“Don’t sweat it, Lou,” Randy said, “happens all the time around here, especially when this big fuck is working out!”

Roger – what else? – blushed, once again betrayed by his melanin-deficient Anglo / Scots Irish ancestors.

“So, amigos,” Louie continued, “how about getting’ out the old measuring tape, eh? That spread of you and Carlos going at it was a hit and my editor – his divaness! – is bugging me for more!”

Roger glanced shyly at Randy.

“Would you mind?”

Randy chuckled.

“My pleasure, big man, but only if you do me, too!”

And so they did, Randy starting with Roger.

At 5’11 and 240 lbs., Roger now boasted a 57 inch chest, 33 inch quads, and (even though it had grown a bit to support all his new bulk) an improbably tiny 31 inch waist. Plus 22 inch biceps.

“Fuck man,” Randy said, “You’ve almost caught up to me!”

Roger snorted.

“I think not, crazy man! You’re a fucking god and you know it.”

In the previous eight months Roger had gained an incredible amount of mass, 80 lbs. of totally solid muscle, his weight increasing a staggering 50% in that short amount of time. Originally Randy had put it down to the fact that Roger was a beginner and beginners, especially naturally athletic ones like Roger, often put on muscle fast. But never fucking 80 lbs.!

Randy had been growing, too, although not at Roger's insane pace. He now carried 260 lbs. of totally ripped beef on his 5-8 frame, an increase of 15 lbs. in the eight months he’d been training Roger.

Roger called out Randy’s measurements, starting from the bottom:

“Calves: 20 inches.”

“Quads: 31 inches.”

“Waist: 31 inches.

“Chest: fucking 59 inches!”

“Biceps: 22 ¾ inches.”

Louie caught it all, the boner in his sweats never subsiding. “I don’t need to bother with Zen tonight,” he thought to himself. “These guys have got it going on.”

* * *

That night Roger was relieved to find Carlos sober and reasonably personable when he picked him up for their weekly visit to Zen. He even made nice with Phil, the bouncer he’d pissed off the previous weekend. A quick drink for each of them and they were on the dance floor in the limelight, watching the wannabes, just like old times.

The trouble started when Jason showed up. A sexy little thing, about Carlos’ height (5-9) but seemingly little more than half the size of Carlos’ massive pumped bod. Like half a dozen other guys the previous weekend (when Carlos was barred from Zen), Jason had shared a dance and a drink with Roger, who figured it was time to loosen up a bit and spend some time with the wannabes. Most of them, sad to say, were total fucking airheads but Jason was as smart and talented and charming as he was cute.

Roger introduced Jason to Carlos (“I’ve been an admirer of yours for a LONG time!” Jaosn gushed) and said, “Sure, that’ud be great” when Jason asked if he could dance with the two big men. Carlos seemed to be getting into it, wrapping his python arms around Jason’s tiny waist, grinding his bulging crotch against Jason’s jeans-clad creamy white ass. Roger backed up to Jason, his fucking humongous back looming over Jason like a mountain range. Jason reached out to wrap his hands around Roger’s insanely small waist and…

“Get yer fucking hands OFF of him!”

Roger and Jason both whipped around.

Carlos was standing stock still, his hands clenched, breathing like a bull about to charge.

“Uh, sorry, dude, uh,” Jason stuttered, “I didn’t, uh, know…”

Roger put a big paw on Jason’s shoulder.

“Carlos, what the fuck?”

“I said ‘get yer fucking hands OFF him,’” Carlos bellowed again, inserting his big body between Roger and Jason.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Roger exclaimed.

He grabbed Carlos beneath the arms and literally ran him off the dance floor to the patio. Carlos’ feet never touched the ground.

“You dumb fuck!” Carlos said when he was on the ground again. “Are you fucking trying to humiliate me?!”

He swung a big fist at Roger, a fist that Roger caught with his own huge hand, completely immobilizing Carlos’. Carlos tried swinging from the other side, with the same result.

There they stood, toe to toe, eye to eye.

“Are you gonna stop this nonsense?” Roger asked.

Carlos glared back at him, struggling against Roger’s (suddently apparent) superior strength.

“Not on your fucking life.”

“I’m not letting go until you relax,” Roger said.

“Relax THIS, motherfucker,” Carlos said, struggling more.

Roger tensed, flexed, SQUEEZED. Carlos sagged a bit but still he struggled.

Roger SQUEEZED more. Carlos went down on one knee, then the other.

“You weren’t at the gym yesterday,” Roger told Carlos. “You didn’t see how much I benched.”

Carlos sneered.

“You finally passed Randy, that big fag?” Carlos growled. “Big whup.”

“I passed Randy two months ago, boy. Yesterday I benched 720 lbs.”

Carlos stopped struggling.

“That’s half again what you bench, isn’t it?”

Carlos’ head drooped. Roger let go of his fists.

“When you’re ready to get over this crap, give me a call.”

He turned an headed for the door, the crowd that had gathered around (unnoticed by either of the two big men) parting like the Red Sea for Moses.


Roger kept going.

He was unstoppable.


Part 7

“Have you seen Carlos?”

Randy Washington could hear the pain in Roger’s voice.

“No, man, I haven’t seen him all week,” the hunky personal trainer replied. “Not like him to miss a couple of days, much less a whole week.”

Roger nodded.

“I know,” he said. “I’ve been calling him all week, too, no answer. If you hear from him, ask him to call me, OK?”

* * *

That evening Roger stopped by Carlos’ apartment at the Miraflores. He was surprised to find the door standing wide open and rushed in to find out what was going on.

“Hey,” his deep voice boomed, “what’s the deal here?”

A skinny Hispanic kid was running a vacuum cleaner over the carpet of an apartment totally devoid of Carlos’ furniture or any other belongings. His back to Roger, the kid glanced over his shoulder, only to see Roger’s hulking form and the darkly angry expression on Roger’s brutally handsome face. The kid visibly quailed at the sight, stepped backwards, tripped on the vacuum cleaner, and fell flat on his ass.

“Ai yi yi, Mister!” the kid exclaimed as Roger helped him to his feet. “No need to scare a man to death, you know?”

At 5’7, the kid maybe weighed all of 120 lbs., less than half Roger’s size. Roger’s lips twitched as he noticed the tent growing in the kid’s khaki pants. “Not all of him’s skimpy,” he thought.

“So what’s the deal, kid?” Roger asked. “Where’s Carlos?”

The kid shook his head.

“Mister Carlos has left, man,” the kid answered. “He told me he was getting out of town but he didn’t say where. You could ask Yolanda in the front office, she would know.”

Roger sighed.

“Did he say ‘why’ he was leaving?”

The kid blushed.

“Mister Carlos, he said it was ‘boyfriend’ trouble. I didn’t even know he was gay, ya know?”

Roger’s blush was back but it wasn’t his usual happy, embarrassed blush.

“He said ‘boyfriend,’ huh? I wish…”

The kid’s eyes got wide.

“Hey, man, you are Mister Carlos’ boyfriend? Jeez, I shoulda known – you’re even bigger than he is.”

It took Roger a minute to answer.

“Yeah, I guess that’s me,” Roger agreed, his voice hoarse. “Or ‘was,’ I guess. And I didn’t even know it.”

The kid put his hand on Roger’s massive arm.

“Don’t you worry, Mister,” the kid said. “Boyfriends come, they go. Me, I’ve had a hundred, and I’m only 22. You are a big, beautiful man. It will all work out.”

Roger cleared his throat – and smiled.

“You got a good attitude, kid,” he said, the smile finally reaching his eyes. “What’s your name?”

The kid grinned shyly, then straightened his shoulders and stuck out his hand.

“I’m Ricky, Mister, nice to meet you.”

Roger took Ricky’s slender hand in his callused paw.

“Ricky, it’s a pleasure to meet you, too. And it’s Roger, not ‘Mister,’ OK?”

Ricky gave himself a little shake, as if he was coming out of a trance, then looked around the room at the unfinished business. Roger realized it was time to go..

“Well, I better let you get back to work. Look, if you happen to see Carlos again, would please let me know?”

Roger handed the kid a card with his phone number and e-mail address.

“Sure thing, Mi, uh, Roger,” Ricky said. “Oh, and, Mi, uh, Roger, one more thing, OK? Do you work out at Mister Carlos’ gym?”

Roger nodded.

“Hey, man, that’s cool. I was thinking about joining one and Mister Carlos’ was going to show me around. Maybe you could do it instead?”

Roger grinned.

“Sure, kid,” Roger said. “Just let me know when you want to do it. You’ve got my number.”

Ricky smiled.

“In more ways than one,” he thought.


Part 8

“Mister Roger?”

Roger instantly recognized the voice on the other end of his cell phone.

“Hey, Ricky,” Roger said, “How ya doin’, big man?”

Ricky tittered.

“Yep, Mister Roger, that’s me, the big man! I wasn’t sure if you would know it was me after all this time.”

It was Roger’s turn to chuckle.

“It’s only been a month, Ricky. It takes me longer than that to forget a cute guy.”

Roger could hear Ricky blush.

“Uh, well, the thing is, Mister Roger…”

“You ‘bout ready to come check out the gym? When’s a good time for you?”

* * *

Ricky looked at Roger in awe.

“Fuck,” he thought. “He’s even bigger than he was when I met him. How can anyone be that big?”

Roger looked at himself in the mirror. At 260 lbs. he was now 10 lbs. heavier than Randy Washington, his nationally competitive personal trainer, and 20 lbs. heavier than Carlos Trujillo, his former boyfriend, had ever been. He was exactly 100 lbs. heavier than he had been when he walked into Randy’s gym 10 months previously.

“He’s at my level,” Randy thought. “In other words, massive. And he’s only been training like this for 10 months. What’s he going to be like in another year?”

That thought sent a shiver up Randy’s spine, equal parts envy and awe.

“Let’s you and me check this kid out, Roger,” Randy said, trying to keep his voice cool.

Ricky looked at the two of them quizzically.

“He means we should take your measurements,” Roger said.

Ricky blushed.

“Uh, gee, man, I dunno…”

Roger said wagged his finger in front of Ricky’s face.

“No ‘I dunnos,’ OK? We all gotta start somewhere.”

Ricky thought a minute, then grinned.

“Can we measure you after we do me?”

Randy laughed.

“Kid, you don’t have to ask HIM twice. I never saw a man so in love with a measuring tape.”

Roger had his usual reaction.

Ricky turned out to be just about the size Roger had guessed: the 22 year old was 5’7 inches tall and exactly 120 lbs., less than half the size of Randy or Roger. The two big men took turns calling off Ricky’s stats:

“Neck, 14 inches.”

“Chest, 34 inches.”

“Waist – damn, boy! – 26 inches.”

“Biceps, 12 inches.”

“Forearms, also 12 inches!”

“Thighs, 20 inches.”

“Calves, 14 inches. Hey, that’s not bad for a squirt like you, ya know?”

Ricky punched Roger’s arm when he called off that last one, then grabbed his hand and grimaced. Randy just chuckled.

“Kinda like hitting a steel girder, huh, boy?”

Ricky grimaced.

“Fuck, man, I think I broke my knuckles.”

Roger shook his head.

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “Besides, you wanna lift, right? Can’t get big like Randy here unless ya lift, ya know.”

Randy and Ricky looked at each other.

“He doesn’t get it, does he?” Ricky asked.

“No, man, he don’t,” Randy replied, then handed Ricky the tape measure.

“Go ahead, Roger, show him the goods.”

Ricky stood there open-mouthed, still as a statue, too awe-struck to move. Randy handed Ricky the clipboard and took the tape from Ricky’s hand and got to work, calling off the numbers in a brisk, efficient manner, flourishing the tape as he moved from one body part to another.

“Neck, 23 ½ inches.”

“Chest, 60 inches.”

“Biceps, 24 inches.”

“Forearms, 20 inches.”

“Waist, 31 inches.”

“Quads, 34 inches.”

“Calves, 24 inches.”

Ricky stared.

“Kid,” Randy said. “There’s way too many flies buzzing about this time o’ year. You go on and close your mouth now, OK?”

Taking the clipboard from Ricky, Randy glanced down – and it was his turn to stare.

“Shee-it, man! That’s one helluva tent you’ve got in your shorts there!”

Roger chuckled.

“Randy, I think we forgot to take his biggest measurement!”

Randy shook his head.

“No, man, we did NOT forget. That’s one measurement I do NOT take.”

Roger arched an eyebrow.

“Well, not in the GYM, dammit.”

Ricky, for all his flawless olive complexion, was bright red.

“Shi-shi-shiiit, Mister Roger,” he stammered. “Your forearm is as big as my thigh.”

Randy chuckled.

“Yep,” he agreed, “and his bicep is nearly as big as your waist.”

Roger looked at the two charts, his and Ricky’s.

“And my thigh is as big as your chest. Whodathunkit?”

.“Anybody who took one damn look at you would thunk it, moron.”

Ricky gave himself a little shake, like someone had just walked over his grave, causing Randy to look down again.

“Clean up on Aisle 7! Roger, get this boy taken care of, will you?”

Roger escorted Ricky to the locker room, the puppy dog expression on Ricky’s face the only thing taking attention away from the massive wet spot in his gym shorts.

“Yeah,” Randy thought. “Somebody’s gonna take care of somebody, that’s for damn sure.”


Part 9


Chrissy Jenkins, the 45 year old lesbian trainer, looked over Randy Washington’s shoulder at the two hulks involved in ritualistic sadomasochism at the squat rack. Their giant bodies were heaving impossible weights for multiple reps, barely alternating between sets.

“It’s crazy, isn’t it?” Randy allowed. “I thought I’d seen everything I was gonna see with Roger and then kid shows up and he’s growing even faster than Roger did. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Chrissy nodded.

“Me neither. You boys putting something in the water these days?”

Randy laughed.

“I’d be a rich man if it was that easy. These other poor suckers would be down on their knees begging for it.’

Finished – for the moment – with their leg workout, Roger and Ricky lumbered over.

“How long has it been?”

Roger looked askance at Chrissy’s question.


“Since Ricky showed up in the gym, you big lunk, what did you think I meant?”

Roger, per expectation, blushed.

“It was six months ago today,” Ricky piped up.

“Unbelievable,” Chrissy said again. “I’d offer to take your measurements just to make sure I’m not really dreaming but you’re too damned sweaty.”

Randy chuckled.

“Oh, I’m sure the boy knows…”

Ricky and Roger alternated calling ‘em off:

“Height: 5 feet 7 inches.”

“Weight: 210 lbs. – all muscle, of course!”

“Neck: 19 inches.”

“Chest: 48 inches.”

“Biceps: 19 inches.”

“Waist: 27 inches.”

“Quads: 29 inches.”

“Calves: 19 inches.”

Chrissy whistled.

“That’s, like, what…”

Roger shifted his gaze from Ricky to Chrissy.

“That’s 90 lbs. in six months,” he said, looking deep into her eyes. “About half again as fast as I grew in my first six months.”

Ricky laughed and blushed.

“And what about you, big man?” he asked in his light tenor. All his new muscle mass hadn’t changed Ricky’s charming, boyish voice.

Roger came close to shuffling his feet, then straightened up.

“330 lbs.”

That’s all he needed to say. The rest was obvious. Roger was world class in a way that no one in the gym had ever dreamed of being because no one in the world had ever been that built. He was the same height and same weight as Coleman or Atwood in the off season – but he wasn’t in off season shape. He was in near-contest shape, like he always was.

“And when are you…?”

Roger snorted.

“Oh, Chrissy, let’s not go there again. You know the whole competition thing isn’t my bag. You know me, I don’t want a stage – I want a dance floor.”

Chrissy’s eyebrow quirked.

“But what does Ricky want…?”

* * *

That night Ricky’s 11-inch pile driver was pounding Roger’s sweet spot (it was Tuesday night, so it was his turn – not that they wouldn’t change around three or four times in a single evening but they liked the routine.)

It had taken about a month to get Roger to relax enough to let Ricky fuck him. Not that Roger was a reluctant bottom. Far from it, in fact, Ricky thought. The main problem was that when




As he was doing just now, things






Ricky had Roger’s wrist manacled to the steel bed posts but, as had happened on more than one occasion, Roger’s colossal bucking had knocked over the nightstands.

“Damn,” Ricky grunted. “I spent $200 on that lamp!”

Roger flexed his arms and the bed posts swayed dangerously.

“It’s OK, babe,” he said, between ragged breaths. “I’ll buy you a new one…”

Ricky twisted Roger’s nipples, hard.

“Hey, big man,” he said, “I’ve got something to say to you while I’ve got you here locked up…”

“And with your giant cock up my ass, yeah, I know, your favorite time to have a conversation…”

Ricky giggled.

“It’s about what Chrissy said…”

Roger stopped writhing and looked him in the eye.

“You want to compete…?”

Ricky nodded.

“Hey, babe,” Roger said, “that’s fine with me. I’ll help anyway I can. Just don’t make ME do it, OK?”

Ricky drove his tongue down Roger’s throat – and felt a club head knocking on his backdoor.

“You already ready for more, big man?”

Roger just growled.


Part 10

A year or so later…

Carlos Trujillo was watching FSPN (Flex Sports Network) while his new boy, Jamie, slow-sucked his big muscle cock.

"So, Ricky," said Martin ("Blow") Dryer, "how does it feel to be the biggest, youngest Mr. Olympia ever?"

"It feels really good, Marty," Ricky said, winking at the camera and flexing his trademark 27 inch biceps for good measure.

"Ricky, let's talk stats a minute for our viewers. At 5'7" tall, you weighed 340 lbs. on the Olympia stage, which means you were 35 lbs. heavier than the biggest previous Mr. Olympia, Ronnie Coleman, who won the '08 contest weighing 305 lbs."

Jamie felt Carlos' monster cock twitch and buck with each mention of Ricky's size.

"That's right, Marty," Ricky said. "But keep in mind I was only 30 lbs. heavier than my runner up, Carlos Trujillo."

Jamie hadn't thought Carlos' dick could get any harder. He was wrong.

"But Carlos is two inches taller than you are, right? So, effectively speaking, he'd have to weigh in at about 360 to have the same degree of muscle mass…"

Ricky shrugged his impossibly broad shoulders.

"Hard to say, Marty, but, yes, the height difference does tend to give the shorter guy the advantage – provided he can compete in terms of width."

Marty chuckled.

"Ricky, width is not something you're lacking. Just how broad ARE your shoulders?"

"Well, Marty, my chest is 68 inches around, so my shoulders are about 78 inches around, and about 39 inches across."

For a moment Dryer was actually speechless.

Jamie held on as Carlos' dick started spasming. He was determined not to lose a single drop.

"But, but. You're 5'7, right? That means your chest is actually an inch bigger around than you are tall – and that your shoulders are more than half as wide as you are tall."

Ricky actually blushed.

"Well, yes, that's about the size of it. Actually my shoulders are quite a bit more than half as wide. Half would be 33 ½ inches, not 39 inches."

"Ricky, are you as big as a man can get?" Dryer asked. Anyone looking closely – and Ricky was – would have noticed that Dryer's pupils were slightly dilated, that his breathing had quickened.

Jamie licked his lips, sucking down the last little bit of foam.

"Hell, no," Ricky said. "For one thing, my partner…"

Dryer interrupted.

"Oh, that's right. The Mysterious Mr. Fentress…"

Ricky laughed. Jamie felt Carlos' dick begin to stiffen again.

"Not `Mysterious' at all, Marty," he pointed out. "He's just not interested in competing. And just as well…"


"Because we'd all lose, that's why. We'd need an entirely new contest, just for him."


This time it was Ricky's turn to interrupt.

"You don't understand, Marty. Very few people do. Roger is 4 inches taller than I am – and outweighs me by 120 lbs.'

Dryer's eyes bulged.

"I knew he was big but that's incredible. 5'11 and 460 lbs.?"

Ricky nodded.

"But surely not in the same shape you're in?"

Ricky rolled his eyes.

"Yes, the same shape I'm in. His bodyfat never goes about 5%, Marty. He's a monster."

Dryer let out a whoosh.

"And when are we going to see this Man Mountain on camera?"

Ricky chuckled.

"He's in this game for himself, Marty. Don't count on it anytime soon, if ever."

"And what about you, Ricky?"

Ricky winked at the camera again.

"I'm in it for the applause, Marty – and for `going where no man has gone before,'" he added, Star Trek voiceover style.

"You're going to get bigger?" Marty asked.

"In five years I'll be on the stage at 400 lbs.," Ricky said.

Dryer's jaw dropped.

"Count on it," Ricky said. "I'm unstoppable."

Carlos flipped his 250 lb. boytoy over and impaled the young stud on his rampant fuckpole. Jamie passed out before Carlos finished.

* * *

Roger clicked the remote control.

"Four, erm, hundred, erm, pounds, oof," he grunted between thrusts of Ricky's piledriver.

"That's pretty fucking big."

Ricky pounded harder.

"Pretty fucking huge."

Ricky pounded faster.

"Almost as big as me…"

Ricky yowled as Roger clamped down – they both spurted for a long time.

A while later, Ricky's nose was buried in the luxurious mat of fur covering Roger's monstrous pecs.

"Almost as big as you…" he snorted into Roger's chest hair.

Roger put a giant paw on Ricky's head and pulled it up.

"For all practical purposes, ACTUALLY as big as me. You know and I know that, proportionally speaking, at your height I'd be about 420 lbs. – and that's spitting distance, for sure."

Ricky levered himself off of Roger's gigantic torso, his own monstrous arms doing a fair impression industrial pistons. He straddled the bigger man's hips, flaring his lats and popping a mind- blowing double biceps.

"And you're spitting distance of 500 lbs.," he pointed out "In fact, you're closer to that that I am to 400."

Roger shrugged his shoulders – a visual that compared favorably to a mountain landslide.

"Soon enough, in either case."

Ricky ran his hands over the tectonic plates that made up Roger's chest.

"I don't think I'm gonna be able to keep you off cam for much longer, babe. Dryer nearly wet himself when I was telling him about your stats."

Roger flexed his right biceps, all 37 inches of it.

"Do you think he's ready for it?"

Ricky laughed.

"I think he would whip his dick out on cam and jerk off for the studio audience if you'd show him that. He'd go down on you on cam if you took your shirt off and showed him that 92 inch chest."

It was Roger's turn to laugh.

"What did he say, '68 inches is 1 inch more than you are tall!'" Roger said, using his best little girl voice to mimic the excitable broadcaster.

"'Gee, Mr. Fentress,'" Ricky continued in the same voice, "Your chest is TWENTY one inches bigger than you are tall! How do you keep from falling over?"

Roger flexed his 46 inch quads – Ricky liked that. "It's like riding an earthquake!" he'd squealed more than once.

"I think I'll wait," Roger continued. "After I'm 500 lbs…."

Ricky snorted.

"When you have a 100-inch chest? Roger, your shoulders are already 52 inches across. I think the man would have a heart attack."

Roger's muscle dick began to stir again. Ricky's huge muscle ass clamped on. Amazing how much control the kid has, Roger thought, for the millionth time.

"He'll just have to deal," Roger said, pulling his man-mountain lover down so that he could do some deep-sea diving in the back of the young hottie's throat.

"After all," he said, between sucks and glorps and gurgles. "We're…"

Ricky pulled free and attacked Roger's nipple.

"I know, I know," he said with Roger's man tit in his mouth.