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Inside the Muscle - Part 3
The plastic seat of the chair was cool against the exposed skin of my ass. My posing suit was cut extra-narrow in the back so the elastic pressed lightly against my glutes in an unusual place, emphasizing the feeling of bareness I felt. As I sat there, reliving the glorious feeling of standing up on the stage, my body bare and exposed for all to see as I flexed and posed, showing muscle upon muscle, I noticed a youngish guy, probably about 22, coming into the mostly deserted visitor gallery along the side of the pump-up area. He was at the other end of the room, probably 40 feet from where I was sitting right next to the waist-high railing that set off the visitors' area from the bodybuilders' area.
Before the contest and just prior to the heaviest weight class rounds, the visitors' area had been packed with people of all sorts coming to watch, to stare and to photograph the heavy- and super-heavyweight bodybuilders as we stripped down, applied our color and posing oil and focused on pumping our muscles. At first I had found it somewhat distracting to be going through my pre-contest preparations with an audience but then I figured that the thing about a bodybuilding show is that you're there to show your mostly naked self to a theatre full of fans, so it didn't seem to make much difference if some of them saw you mostly naked doing some presses and curls and spreading oil all over yourself. As I went through this ritual, I would occasionally look over the crowd to see who I could catch staring just a bit too much. I found that I got off on it just a little.
Since I had been the last of the super-heavyweights in the prejudging round, most of the other bodybuilders had already left the pump-up area to return to their hotel rooms to wait for the final rounds that evening. There were three other really big guys down at the other end of the room laughing and talking together. One was still in his posers, one had pulled on a pair of ultra-tight stretch shorts (visibly with nothing on underneath) and the third was wearing training pants. All three were still shirtless. From what I could overhear from their conversation they were typical muscleheads: All beef and not much else. The young guy I saw wander in stopped by the railing across from where they were standing and seemed to be trying to get their attention. The shortest of the three (the one wearing the skimpy shorts) noticed him and got his buddies to turn around. The three of them went into an impromptu posing display, showcasing some serious muscle with deep cuts and crazy v a! scularity everywhere. The littlest guy, probably five or six inches shorter than his compatriots—he couldn't have been more than 5' 4"—looked like he outweighed the other two by 20 or more pounds. If I had to guess, I'd say he was about 250 pounds of very thick, shredded muscle. Despite all my own mass and conditioning, I still found myself taking in the vision these three presented.
As the three musclemen flexed and posed, the young guy was at first enthralled and then looked disappointed as he seemed to be trying to ask them something but they were too caught up in their show and in trying to out-muscle each other to notice. The visitor turned and started to walk away from them, head down, and moving in my direction. He looked up as he neared where I was sitting, noticed that I was there, and his expression changed to something more hopeful.
"Hi," he said as he approached where I was. His eyes met mine briefly but seemed to be focused more on wandering over various parts of my body than on holding my gaze.
"Hi," I responded.
"I, uh, well... wow... um, you looked-really-great-on-stage-just-now, um, I mean, you look really great still... I mean...um...," he stammered a bit and then his voice trailed off. His eyes darted back and forth between looking at mine as he spoke and taking in my shoulders, my biceps and triceps, my quads. I may even have noted a quick examination of the little, shiny blue package of tiny posing suit that contained my cock.
"Thanks." I hadn't spoken to any of the fans before the show as some of the other guys had done, and since this was my first show I didn't really know how these kinds of chats usually went.
I asked if he had been to many bodybuilding shows and he said "first time." We bantered a bit back and forth about the sport in general, talking about some of the big name pros in the magazines and also about some of the other guys in the competition that day. He told me he was sure I'd place very highly, and might be able to win my class and possibly the overall. I jerked my thumb over my sizable shoulder, indicating the ultra-thick little guy down at the other end of the room and said I thought he had a better package.
As we talked, I was impressed at the kid's ability to carry on a conversation. His demeanor was reserved and he was fairly soft-spoken: not the usual young jock/frat-boy type you usually hanging around at the gym working their arms and chest only. We talked for about 20 minutes, me standing there in my poser, not much more fabric covering my body than would cover a grapefruit. I asked his name. "Kirby." He asked me the usual questions about my training history, my offseason routine, etc. While I was answering these, his eyes would inevitably drift to one set of my muscles or another, focusing on that body part intensely. I kept my eyes on his and tried to read what was going on behind them. The look he had, though he probably wasn't aware of it and equally likely wasn't able to control it, suggested envy (I was used to getting that one) and also a deeply-seated longing, though not necessarily a sexual one. It reminded me a bit of how I used to feel, six years earlier, befo r! e I had ever picked up a weight seriously, when I would suddenly find myself in viewing range of serious muscle.
Kirby was full of questions: questions about training, about diet and nutrition, supplementation, general lifestyle. The list was endless. I didn't mind answering them, in fact I had never really had a chance to talk about bodybuilding in this way before -- from the standpoint of a successful practitioner -- and I was kind of enjoying it. But I was fairly tired from posing and needed to eat and relax a bit before gearing up for the finals that evening.
"Hey, I live a few blocks away and need to go relax a while before tonight's show. Do you want to come with me and we can continue talking?"
Kirby's emerald eyes lit up and he beamed at me, grinning from ear to ear. It was the first time I really noticed his face. The kid was hot! He had the perfect combination of boyish looks and character, wrapped with the trappings of a grown man's face -- bright, sparkling eyes and angelic dimples when he smiled, with a defined, squarish jaw and a perfectly even five o'clock shadow of dirty blond fuzz. His relatively shy manner suggested he had no idea of the power of his looks, which only amplified them tenfold. "That -- that would be great, but I don't want to bother you."
"It's no bother -- I'm enjoying our conversation." The truth was having this beautiful young guy with his sparkling green eyes demonstrate such an interest in bodybuilding -- no, in me as a bodybuilder -- was something of a turn-on. I had a suspicion that his interest and was more than casual. He seemed to have been bitten by the bug -- the demon of all things muscle was in his head and he was only just beginning to let it loose.
I pulled on a pair of small, stretch shorts and one of those tank tops that has so little material in it you may as well be shirtless, packed the rest of my stuff into my bag and slid my feet into my flip-flops.
One of the reasons I had chosen this contest as my first is that it took place in the town where I lived, near the beach, in one of bodybuilding's most popular locations. I had moved to this area several years before when I decided to focus most of my life on bodybuilding, giving voice to the inner drive I'd felt for years before that. I found a great loft apartment on the top floor of a building a couple of stories taller than those that surrounded it. It had a good-sized rooftop deck adjoining a couple of the rooms. I had installed a hot tub and set up a nice sitting area with a nice privacy fence just off the bedroom so I could be outside in any state I wanted without fear of onlookers.
On the way, I noticed several passersby stop and stare at me, pointing and talking to one another. A couple of tourist-types snapped a few photos. I was still on such an emotional high after posing for the crowd at the contest and this extra attention only boosted my spirits and stroked my ego all the more. It was new feeling for me, as, while I had always been very focused on my body and the appearance of my muscles as a bodybuilder, I hadn't ever really shown off before. My choice of extra-revealing clothing was on purpose—something of an experiment—and it paid off in spades. What a rush to know that the sight of my physique all pumped up and oiled down could command such attention!
We got to my loft and I set my bag down inside the door. "Why don't we go sit outside?" I suggested.
Kirby nodded and I motioned him to cross through the living area and out the open sliding door to the roof deck. As I followed him across the room, I tried to get a sense for what his body looked like but it was hard to tell. He was about 5' 8" tall and fairly lean. His loose-fitting t-shirt belied any serious development he might have had underneath, but it was clear that he was in decent shape and had probably at least experimented with working out a little. He had naturally good-sized and shapely calves which showed below the legs of his shorts, covered with a perfect, even coating of dirty blond fur -- not too thick -- which reached down just to his ankles.
I steered Kirby through the gate into the more private area off the bedroom and waved him into a chaise lounge. "I need to go rinse off. I'll be back in 5 minutes?" I said/asked him. He nodded, beamed that smile of his and leaned back against the lounge, losing himself in his thoughts. I slide open one of the bedroom glass doors and went into the darkened room. I knew from experience that the outside of the doors was practically a mirror on days like these and that Kirby wouldn't be able to see me at all once I was inside.
I stripped off my tank, shorts and poser and stood for a moment, staring out through the window at the guy sitting on my deck. I dared, for a moment, to indulge the hopes I had been brewing since he came up to me in the pump room not 30 minutes earlier and allowed my mind to entertain the idea that he was as into muscle as I had been at his age, about eight years before. "What a difference eight years can make!" I thought to myself. If I was right, Kirby was the same age I was when I finally let loose the bodybuilding demon that had bitten me so hard so many years earlier--when I at last recognized my lust and passion for all things muscle. My own body had looked not dissimilar to what I could see of Kirby's. And now, eight years, thousands of tons of iron, probably about 3 tons of meat, and several good cycles of anabolics later, I presented a very different figure in the mirror: one that I had an idea Kirby would enjoy getting closer to.
These thoughts were going straight to my cock, which, now freed from it's tiny blue spandex prison, began to reach out, stretching up and enjoying the air moving through the room. I walked into the bathroom and stepped under the shower, feeling the mass of my thighs moving against and around one another as I went. It took a few minutes and several rounds of scrubbing to get most of the oil and surface color off my skin, leaving me clean, fresh and showing my natural tan. I toweled off, did a quick body stubble inspection in the mirror (this had become habit as I insisted on remaining completely hairless below the neck) and stepped back into the bedroom.
I pulled on a clean poser, every bit as small as the one I had worn earlier, and a pair of very tight, white stretch shorts with a lace-up front. The bright white offset nicely against the deep tan of my skin and the laces drew attention to an area I hoped would get much more attention fairly soon.
As I stepped back out onto the deck and caught Kirby's attention once again, he made a visible start when his eyes took my body in anew. "Sorry, I hope you don't mind if I don't wear a shirt," I said. "The air is so warm and fresh today, I just wanted to enjoy the breeze a bit while we chat."
"N-no problem," he said, though I could tell that the close proximity of my exposed muscles would make it somewhat difficult for him to focus on talking.
I reclined on an extra-wide lounge next to the one Kirby was sitting on and he sat up, turned sideways and crossed his legs so he was facing in my direction. He looked adorable in that position—just like a little kid.
"Ok, fire away! I'm all yours," I said, stretch my arms out on each side, and maybe, just maybe adding a tiny bit of tension in my biceps to enhance the look.
"Well," he paused, "wha-what made you go into bodybuilding?"
And with this question, and the way he seemed a bit nervous about asking it, I knew that I had been right. I decided to ease into my answer, allowing him to reconcile my response with his own inner urges and drive as I went. I told him of the first time I had learned about bodybuilding when I inadvertently came across a TV broadcast of the Mr. Olympia competition. I told him of the images I saw of those men, of the bodies that were shaped in ways I had never seen. Just from my first glimpse of those physiques, I knew, somehow, innately that they were "better," "superior," "closer to perfect." I was captivated, instantly, by what I saw and experienced an immediate need to see more, to understand more. I had a feeling in my gut that was new, that I couldn't define. It was a strange mix of curiosity, thrill, excitement and longing. And somehow, somewhere in my mind I also understood that what I felt when I saw and thought about those men and their bodies was something that I s! houldn't tell or ask my parents about and that I needed to keep to myself.
After that initial encounter, I moved my story along pretty quickly, noting that in high school and college I had been fairly bookish and wasn't good at athletics and that I was generally too shy to try out the weight rooms. I explained that I had been lucky enough to have something of a talent for the financial markets and that, by about two years after I graduated, I had built enough wealth through investing to never have to work for a living. And it was at that time that I made the decision to move to the beach, to become a full-time bodybuilder and to see just how big and developed I could get my muscles to be. In fact, while I had been at my current size for a couple of years, I had only recently decided to try competition after much persistent, if friendly prodding from some buddies at the gym.
Kirby listened to all this in rapt attention, though every now and again his eyes would wander and get stuck drinking in the dimensions of one of my sets of muscles or another. Somewhat shamelessly, I threw in a couple of "casual" single-pec twitches. His breathing seemed to quicken when I did that.
I stopped my story and asked Kirby if he'd like some water. "Yes, please."
I got up and walked into the loft to get us a couple of glasses, feeling his eyes drilling a hole into the expanse of my back as I went.
When I re-emerged on the deck with our waters, I said "Wow, it's warm out here. You should feel free to take your shirt off if you'd like."
Kirby blushed a little, looked down a bit and said, "Thanks, but I'm OK."
"Really? You're sweating quite a bit."
"Naw, I'm OK. I mean, I just... I'm not... well... like you." His voice faded away and the last bit was practically a whisper.
"Kirby. I know you're not a bodybuilder. There's no shame in the way you look. I'm not going to judge you! From what I can tell you have a great body. You're lean and in good shape."
I could see the red rising out the collar of his shirt, climbing right up his neck and overtaking his whole face. Even his forearms seemed to blush a little.
"OK, I guess." And with that he peeled off his t-shirt and I saw exactly what I expected and had been hoping for: a blank canvass, even if a slightly blushing one. He was lean and fairly thin, though not scrawny. He had the very beginnings of musculature, and you could see his abs, such as they were. He appeared to have fairly wide clavicles and a trim, narrow waist -- the perfect natural foundation upon which to pile mounds and mounds of muscle!
"You know," I started and paused, "you seem to be pretty interested in bodybuilding. I could help you if you want."
Kirby's reaction to my offer was beyond even what I had anticipated. He focused his twinkling emeralds directly at me and grinned from ear to ear. His whole face lit up and his dimples capped off the cutest, hottest look I have ever seem from another guy.
"I'd like that!" was all he said.
"But first, I need you to help me with something."
Hi guys -- I'm sorry it has been so long since I last posted. I hope you're enjoying the story. And I promise, the sex is coming, very soon.
This is the second story I've posted to Nifty. My first, "Remembering Ken," is in the Athletics section, though I have as yet to finish it. Please let me know what you think. I'd lover to hear any ideas or requests you have as well as your own experiences and fantasies involving bodybuilders and men with huge muscles. Alex (firstname.lastname@example.org)