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Inside the Muscle - Part 4
"OK, sure!" he said.
"Just give me a second," I added, turning and heading back into the relative darkness of the bedroom. I returned to the deck a moment later with a couple of hand towels and a bottle of posing oil. "I'd like you to oil me up for the finals this evening," I said. "I'll show you how now and we can practice once."
Kirby's face, still looking elated from my offer to help him out in getting into bodybuilding, went through four shades of pale, flushed again, and finally settled on an expression that seemed to say `I'd like to do that but I'm nervous and I'm not sure why.'
"O-OK. If you want me to. I don't want to mess it up for you," he replied.
"You won't. It's not very hard. The trick is to work through several thinner layers, and to focus on even coverage. I don't want to look shiny like a mirror, just to have a light sheen. Here, I'll show you how to start."
I put the towels on the small table between the chaises, popped open the cap on the posing oil and squeezed some out on the top surface of my left pec. The oil started dribbling slowly over the shelf of muscle and running down the front of my chest.
"First, you spread on a thin layer." Using my right hand, I spread the oil over and around my chest, focusing mainly on the left side and working around the full perimeter of the pec muscle. I worked the oil into the skin from the pec's striated and grainy origin line deep in the cleavage at the center of my chest across the shelf at its top, around the rounded overhang at its bottom where the nipple lay, virtually hidden and pointing down at the floor, and into its insertion deep in the cave of my armpit under the travertine mounds of my shoulder. My movements were methodical—not too quick. I savored the feeling of my hand moving across my smooth, bare skin, feeling the spongy firmness of the relaxed muscular abundance, my finger tips teasing my nipple ever so slightly as they passed.
"Then, you pat the area lightly to help make sure the coverage is even." Still using my right hand, I began rapidly patting my left pec all over, raising my left arm up a bit for better access to the edge. The muscle bounced and sprang around as I went. As I finished, bringing my arm back down, I flexed the one pec very tightly and, looking Kirby right in the eye, said "looks pretty good, no?"
Kirby's eyes widened visibly, locked on the muscle I held flexed in front of him. He gasped lightly and said, "Sure does." His voice sounded almost hungry. I decided to see what might happen if things went a bit further.
"Let me show you one more time and then you can try," I suggested, switching my attention to my right pec and repeating the performance I had just given. This time, I crunched into a vein-popping crab "most muscular" pose and turned slightly back and forth from left to right. "See how the oil catches the light a bit and adds dimension to the muscle? It really makes a difference when you see it from where the judges sit in front of the stage."
Kirby was visibly at a loss for words. He just stared, seemingly unsure of what he should do next. I continued with my stated purpose, asking him to take the bottle of oil and to practice on my legs. He swallowed, nodded his assent, and squatted down in front of me to better access the pillars of my thighs.
I slowly positioned one foot slightly in front, the muscular bulk of my 30-plus-inch thigh shifting slowly as it fought to make its way around my other leg. Kirby raised the bottle to squeeze a bit out onto the center of my skin-wrapped, hairless quad.
"Wait, we should do this without my shorts so the oil doesn't get all over them. Don't worry, though, I have a poser on underneath. My hands are oily, though. Can you just pull my shorts down so I can step out of them?" I asked
Kirby put the bottle of oil down, and reached up, hooking his thumbs into the waistband at each side of my shorts. In his slightly nervous state, he did this quickly and sort of shoved his thumbs over the waistband, actually catching the elastic of my poser as well, though he didn't realize it. Somewhat suddenly, he tugged down, pulling both my shorts and poser down around my ankles in one quick move. My cock popped free from its tiny spandex prison and, caressed by the warm afternoon breeze, began to grow a little, swaying heavily out in front of me.
Kirby's attention was on my shorts, bunched around my ankles and he hadn't yet realized what he'd done. I didn't say anything, curious to see how he'd react. Still crouched at my feet, as he tried arranging my shorts so I could step out of one side and then the other, he discovered my poser all caught up in the fabric of the shorts. Slowly, he tilted his head upwards, straightening himself up slightly in the process. In doing so, he caught the underside of my cock with the top of his head, and before he realized exactly what was now resting on his hair, he found himself with an up-close-and-personal view of my hairless balls, with the tip of his nose poking gently between them.
The gentle brush of his soft hair on the underside of my swaying cock was electric, causing it to twitch involuntarily, tapping him on the top of the head. With that move, he jumped back, standing up and looking sheet-white in the face. His eyes met mine, his face contorted into an expression of fear, anxiety and deep discomfort. "I-I-I have to go..." he stammered as he turned and ran, still shirtless, back inside, making for the front door."
"Wait! Kirby!" I started. My reflex was to try to run after him, but with my shorts still bunched up around my ankles, I tried to take one step and fell face-first onto the lounge chair in front of me. By the time I extricated my feet from the wad of shorts and poser, I had heard the front door slam and Kirby was probably several flights down already. I didn't pursue him, hoping that he would recover from our unexpectedly intimate interaction and that he would still come to the contest finals that evening.
I noticed his t-shirt lying on the chaise where he had tossed it earlier, still partly warm from his the heat of his body. I bunched the soft material up in one hand and pressed it gently against into my face. It held his scent. Slowly, delicately, I traced the cotton down over my body, running it gently back and forth across my chest and abs, lightly caressing my nipples and pecs. The feeling was electrifying. I envisioned the softness and warmth of his skin leaning against my bare chest, perhaps on a sunlit morning after a night of fun.
I dropped Kirby's shirt back onto the nearby lounge and looked up at the sun as it had just stated to set out over the water. There was a light breeze in the warm, late-afternoon sun and the air flowed around my naked body, caressing my every skin cell, wrapping itself around every bulge and crevasse of my muscles. My body felt alive, though my spirits were somewhat dampened at this sudden turn of events. My cock twitched again, still hanging heavily as it slowly engorged. I lumbered into the bedroom, my cock swinging slowly back and forth, bouncing off my thighs as I went.
Every once in a while, I have the fortune to re-experience the feelings I had when I encountered serious muscle for the first time. Spending as much time as I have in hardcore gyms, attending, and now participating in bodybuilding contests and at other places where muscle abounds, I have become somewhat used to the sight of overgrown, muscle-bound men, admiring the various details of their physiques almost clinically, rather than reacting from the gut based on pure size they carry. As I stood there, naked, examining my own physique in the mirror, I suddenly experienced one of those moments. It was as if I had not spent the past several years slowly building my body to the gigantic proportions it now filled, but rather as if I had just closed my eyes as a 130-lb teenager and opened them having suddenly literally doubled my bodyweight.
I stared at myself, looking at the gluttonous mounds of ultra-hard, striated muscle piled onto my frame, overflowing one another, fighting each other for space and position. The bottom dropped out of my stomach as I experienced an enormous surge of adrenaline, my heart raced and my cock sprang to full mast so quickly it hurt a little. Who was this monster in the mirror? Had anyone ever been so big and so completely developed? I looked like an exaggeration of one of the exaggerated cartoons in the muscle magazines –in my mind's eye, not unlike the Gold's Gym muscleman. My muscles had muscles of their own.
As I stared hungrily at the reflection in the mirror, my focus began to move inward and I started to experience my vast bulk from the inside. I was suddenly aware of the volume of space my body occupied. I thought of all the air I displaced, standing there. I envisioned millions of air molecules floating along in the breeze and then slamming into the impossibly wide and harder-than-hard wall of my back, then turning and flowing in and out over the mountain ranges of muscle and beef that comprised that wall. For an instant, I could feel each of those molecules ticking along across the plains of my back, touching every nerve ending in my taught, paper-thin skin as they went.
As if I had never seen a bodybuilder at all, I was awestruck by the mass of my own physique. Hanging thickly out from my sides, my arms were bigger around than my head. My shoulders, easily more than twice as wide as my waist, looked like inflated basketballs, but they were rock hard and fiery hot to the touch. My traps were so thick and stood up so tall that they had started to wrap around the sides of my telephone-pole-thick neck which had all but disappeared between them.
I brought my hands to my waist and inhaled deeply, puffing my chest up and out and squeezing my chest into a front lat spread pose. My pecs tightened and bulged outward, reaching forward as if I had two additional appendages there. I could feel the great wings of my back flare out to the sides and, reflected in the mirror, they completely filled in the triangles between my body and my massive arms. It felt like I could actually move the air by flapping my lats back and forth.
I began to go through the standard bodybuilding poses, focusing on each one, and pausing to examine myself in detail. As I struck each pose, I projected my mind into each muscle group, making sure each element of the pose was flexed and positioned correctly. I held each position, letting my eyes roam over my body, taking in the size, the bulges, and the partly transparent skin, showing the deep cuts between the muscles and allowing the veins to spring to life all over my surface. Once deep into a pose, I'd move the flexed muscles ever so subtly, causing the striations to dance and jump under the skin as individual muscle fibers came into view.
All the while, my cock roared at full mast, straining in its flesh, as if it too wanted to pump itself just a bit fuller and bigger. (I wonder what it would be like if there were muscles actually inside the penis itself. How would bodybuilders exercise them and how would they be displayed in competition?)
Wanting to run through my posing routine for the evening, I exhaled and let my arms fall, hanging out from my sides. I puffed myself up into the "relaxed" position and swaggered back and forth a bit, turning my ox yoke of shoulder girdle muscle gently from side to side, my arms flared outward. It was then that I noticed a young face perched atop a bared shoulder, peering around the door jam behind me.
In a split second, my mind went to war with itself, trying to decide whether to pretend I hadn't seen him and to let him enjoy the show a bit more, or to stop and give him my attention. In the end, the forces of restraint prevailed and I stopped, turning around and facing him directly. "Hi." My voice was soft but strong.
"I forgot my shirt," he said. His tone was that of a boy who is experiencing emotions he doesn't know fully how to control.
"It's still outside," I said. "You can get it if you want."
Kirby moved quickly across the bedroom and through the open door to the terrace. I pulled on a pair of shorts, arranged my now soft cock in as unobtrusive a way as I could inside the tight fabric, and followed him outside. I found him standing over the lounge chair, back to me, holding his t-shirt in his hands, head hanging down.
"Kirby," I said. "Why did you leave like that?"
No response. I gave him a moment. His shoulders rose and fell slightly as he breathed, the sight of which drew my thoughts briefly to the bulk of my own mass rising and falling slowly with my breath, moving gently about my skeleton.
Kirby straightened a bit, pulled his t-shirt on over his head and turned around to face me. "I don't know," he sort of stammered. His face looking down towards my feet. "I was, just... it's just that I didn't want... I thought..." His voice trailed off. I tried my very best to look encouraging and supportive and, for the briefest of instants wished I wasn't 280 pounds of solid, rippling, mostly naked muscle so that he wouldn't feel so shy talking to me.
I felt a burning desire to set this boy at ease. I suddenly had a deep need for him to feel comfortable with me and a compulsion to help him understand that inside the very dominant physicality of my presence, I was still a regular guy with emotions and the capacity for caring and understanding. And most importantly, that I knew and understood exactly what he was feeling just then.
"Kirby," I began, "look at me." Slowly, he looked up. "I can tell you're upset about before and were worried that I would be too." He started sort of swaying from foot to foot, visibly a bit agitated, looking back down at his feet.
"Kirby... listen to me for a minute! I know exactly what you're feeling. I've been there! There was a time when I didn't know how to sort out what was going through my head either. I've spent a lot of time and energy building my body and I'm very proud of it—all of it. I like showing myself to people and experiencing their reactions. I like to play with my body and to enjoy what I've accomplished. From what little I know of you, I think you have an interest in muscle and bodybuilding as well and that we share a very deep bond in that way. You've said you're interested in bodybuilding and want to learn more. I'd like to help you, as a friend, to learn and to grow in this way. I can give you access to all the resources and information you'll need and we can train and grow together."
Kirby's face turned back up toward mine and his countenance had brightened considerably. I could tell I was right and he was very happy to hear what I was saying, though seemingly somewhat in spite of himself. He was still clearly not completely comfortable verbalizing all of these feelings.
"Kirby, I told you before about the first time I learned of bodybuilding as a sport. Not too long after that time, I saw my first real, live bodybuilder at the pool. He was just lying there, sleeping in the sun, but I was awestruck. It was so much more real, so much more alive than what I'd seen on the TV. It was right then that I knew I had to look like that--to be like that--and that I'd do whatever it took to get that way. I also wanted desperately to talk to him, to ask questions, to learn, as if somehow being near his body and just interacting with him, something would rub off and I'd start to be that way. But I was too shy. I thought he would make fun of me for being a small kid and that he'd be mean.
"I didn't have anyone to work with over the years, so I had to learn on my own, from books, magazines, and from watching people at the gym. I tried a lot of things that didn't work and, over time, learned what worked well for my body. Let me share what I know with you and help you grow. I promise the feelings of success are well worth it!"
Kirby straightened a bit more and looked into my eyes. His expression said he wanted to speak, but he was hesitant. "I... I was afraid you'd..."
"I know" I interrupted, my voice as soft as I could make it. "You were afraid I'd be angry because you accidentally touched my dick. I wasn't angry at all. Kirby, you don't ever have to be afraid of me." I motioned to the expanse of my body, moving my hands around in front of myself. "You don't ever have to be afraid of any of this. I like you and I wouldn't ever do anything to upset or hurt you in any way."
"OK," was all his voice said. His eyes, however, looking into mine, said so much more.
My thoughts went to the time and that I needed to get back to the auditorium to get ready for the contest finals. "I have to go get ready for the finals tonight. I'd still like your help if you are willing."
"And after tonight, I'd like us to start spending time together. I'll show you how to train and how to eat and you can start growing and getting bigger. We can hang out here as well and have fun together. But, Kirby, you need to know that I spend a lot of time without much clothing on. I do that because I like to and because it makes me feel good. You're going to see a lot of my body on a regular basis and I'll use my body to help teach you how to build yours."
I fixed him with a penetrating look directly into his eyes. "And I want you to know that it's OK for you to touch any part of my body any time you want... ANY part." He blushed a little at my last comment and sort of chuckled awkwardly, but I could tell the idea held some appeal. "Yeah," I said softly, "I thought you might like that idea, too."
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 love to hear any ideas or requests you have as well as your own experiences and fantasy involving bodybuilders and men with huge muscles. Alex (firstname.lastname@example.org)