This story contains male/male Sexual content if it is illegal for you to, or you find this sort of work offensive, don't download or read it. This story is protected by copyright. It may not be downloaded or copied other than for your private enjoyment and may not be changed in any way without the express, written consent of the author. This story may not be posted on any pay-to-view website.
A Saturday Afternoon
I had always wanted to go to one of the big fitness and bodybuilding shows, so when it was announced last year that one of the biggest ones would be coming to town, I made sure I was free that weekend and able to go. I've been a bodybuilding fan from the moment I learned the concept existed, when I was about 11 years old. At first, my interest was reflexive--visceral; I was just drawn to the idea of these huge musclemen. Over the years, I discovered that what I felt was a combination of lust and desire, and also of genuine interest and drive to adopt a bodybuilding lifestyle myself. So it was with both of those motivations that I now found myself walking around the floor of a sprawling convention hall, immersed in all that is the bodybuilding and fitness subculture.
I don't often encounter bodybuilders in the flesh in my daily life, so when I do, I am always newly re-impressed at their size. It is a rare image or video clip that fully conveys how big these men are and seeing them in the flesh, even just standing there casually, makes my stomach jump and my heart beat a little faster. But after spending a couple of hours, going from booth to booth, seeing all the stars working for their sponsors, not to mention being surrounded by the crowds of gym rats and muscleheads in attendance, it all became a bit more familiar and the bottom stopped falling out of my stomach every time I saw a massive arm testing the seams of a t-shirt sleeve.
I wandered into one of the largest displays at the expo, a pavilion with lots of space in front and a two-level structure behind, housing what appeared to be meeting rooms and other spaces. The area belonged to one of the signature sponsors of the event and it was staffed with a cadre of the athletes they sponsor, including a recent Mr. Olympia competitor. This company produced a newer line of supplements and I wasn't as familiar with them, so I spent a while walking around looking at the various products they had on display around their area.
While I was reading about a mass-gainer shake mix, I happened to look up and I noticed a group of three or four visitors standing around one of the company's spokespeople, who was showing them something about one of the products on display, facing away from me. Just as I looked up, the spokesperson turned around and started walking in my general direction, with his customers in step. As his face came into view, he and I happened to make eye contact and I melted inside. He had the face of an angel: young and painfully cute, with bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Our eyes probably only met for half a second, but it may have been a lifetime for me. His eyes gave a twinkle and I'm sure he could tell from mine that I was interested.
The little group of customers walking along with the owner of the angelic face prevented me from seeing any more of him as they all passed me. I heard him say something about them going over to another part of the display area to pay for something they were buying. There were a few responses of "Thank you" from the customers and then, suddenly, they were gone. I assume they walked over to wherever he had directed them, but from my standpoint, they just evaporated and all that was left was him, staring me in the eye and walking straight towards me.
For a moment, I was afraid I was about to have a heart attack. As I got my first look at what connected that angelic face with the floor, my insides turned over ten times, my adrenaline levels went through the roof and (I know it's cliché) I'd swear you could see my heart beating in my chest. He was probably about 5'6" tall, a few inches shorter than I am. And whereas I walk around with about 180 pounds on my 5'9" frame, this guy probably weighed about 280 pounds! He was so bulky that he made the other muscle monsters I'd been seeing all day look like regular guys.
His company-issue polo short was stretched so tightly across his chest that the weave on the white parts of the shirt was tinted by the color of his skin behind it. The fabric strained to contain the mountains of trap muscle rising up from his back and virtually replacing his neck. The seams where the sleeves attached seemed likely to burst at any point as they held onto what looked like bowling balls capping his shoulders. The pattern in the side panels was pulled and stretched out of proportion as the slabs of his lats fought against their cotton prison. The sleeves were so tightly stretched around his upper arms that his biceps actually bulged again below where the elastic constricted them. He wore the shirt un-tucked, and, as with all men with impossibly big chests, the fabric hung down, cascading over the shelf of his pecs, and hanging down freely, a few inches out in front of his waist. A standard-issue exhibitor name tag hung around his neck, falling over the ledge of his pecs and dangling down somewhere in front of what promised to be an outstanding set of abdominals. "Jeff," it read.
I let my eyes sweep down his body and back up again as he approached. When my glance landed on his forearms, the only part of his body that was exposed, I felt my knees go a little weak and I had to fight to regain control. His forearms were bigger than any man's forearms I've ever seen – and I've stared at a lot of bodybuilders over the years. Indeed, they were bigger than the biceps of many of the pumped up studs walking around the expo this morning. The must have been 19 or more inches around at their maximum! The muscles erupted from the base of his biceps, swelling up and out to unreal proportions, eventually tapering off into his normal-sized wrists. Even his hands screamed "muscle," with extra meaty bulges between the thumb and forefinger and along the outside below the pinky. His great meat-club forearms were hairless and, for once, not all stubbly and razor-nicked; they looked to be as smooth as a baby's butt. This guy, this creature with the angelic face and twinkling blue eyes of a boy, had a body that would make regular men feel like boys themselves.
I already had enough hormones raging around in my blood and enough images snapped in my memory to need to run off someplace private for a very urgent, very powerful jerk, but here was this boy/super-man coming very definitely to talk to me.
"Hi," he said, his voice projecting a man's baritone.
I almost swooned again. The dichotomy between boy and man this guy presented was intoxicating. His young face, with its very light indication of a stubble line, seemed all the more boyish and innocent when offset against the overwhelming masculinity and maturity of his body. His muscles were so big and his body so bulky that he appeared to actually be encumbered by them as he moved. Seeing him standing there, the mass of his chest gently rising and falling with his breath, I experienced an emotion blending fascination, the basest level of desire, awe, respect, admiration and even a little pity. His body was so big and so over-developed, yet he appeared to be so young, it was almost as if someone had "done this" to him and he now had to suffer from it. The fact that he had obviously chosen to turn himself into this freakish display of muscle, more so than any other bodybuilder I had ever seen, seemed at once sad and exhilarating. All of these thoughts and emotions ran through my head in an instant, as the bottom of my stomach dropped out with every new realization about some aspect of what now stood before me.
"Hey," I replied, trying hard to sound normal and not to give an indication of the emotion stirring within me.
"That's a great product. I gained 20 pounds using it," he offered. My mind briefly went off on a tear thinking that his upper arm probably weighs 20 pounds by itself.
His comment brought me back squarely to where we were and I remembered I had previously been reading about their weight-gainer shakes. There was something about this guy that made me comfortable, despite his almost ludicrous size--something that let caused me to lower my guard and to respond fairly directly. "Yeah? But are you honestly telling me that you got as big as you are only using weight gainers?"
Now let me say, at this point, that I have no problem with steroid use in bodybuilding, though I've never been brave enough to try them myself. The drugs make the work yield greater results, but they don't mean you have to work any the less. So, while it was obvious to me that Jeff had achieved his rather phenomenal results with the assistance of various drugs, that fact didn't bother me at all and I certainly wasn't judging him for it. (Well, maybe I was judging him a little, but only in the most positive of lights.)
He looked at me for a moment, searching my eyes for some sign of my thoughts on this most taboo of topics for conversation, and finally leaned in (deliciously closely) and said "I was off-cycle at the time." His eyes gave an extra twinkle and he grinned a bit, showing the indications of dimples.
"Oh, well, still, you're so much bigger than I am to begin with. Though I don't doubt these would be good shakes to use."
"I'm Jeff, by the way," he said, extending his paw in my direction.
"Chad." I shook his hand, savoring the contact and wishing that by some unknown cosmic force the essence of his bigness could transfer to me through that means.
"Chad," he began, pausing, "could you maybe help me out with something?" He had a curious look in his eye, almost a mischievous one, as he cocked his head to the left, casting a glance towards a curtain in the wall of the display. "I have to come out and pose in a little while."
I didn't know exactly what he needed help with, but if it had to do with posing and he was clearly asking me to go to a non-public area of the pavilion, I dared to hope he needed help oiling up and I eagerly agreed. My cock twitched a little at the prospect of getting my hands on the magnificent boy/man specimen that Jeff was.
"Sure." I tried to sound nonchalant, belying the adrenaline-driven heart pounding taking place in my chest.
He stepped over and moved the curtain aside, motioning me through. I found myself in a narrow hallway with a couple of doors on each side. "Second one on the right," he said. I turned part way around, intending to let him lead the way, but as he stepped through the curtain, it became clear that wouldn't be possible. What I thought of as a narrow hallway was, for him, too small a space to permit the girth of his shoulders, thus forcing him to walk mostly sideways. There was no way he could fit past me in this space. I took a couple of steps down and opened the door he had indicated. Inside, I found a small room with the trappings of a lounge/dressing room.
"This is where I get to hang out when I need a break," Jeff said, motioning to the room in general. I stepped all the way into the room, and he followed, closing the door behind and turning the lock. "Privacy," he added, with a brief grin.
I turned slowly all the way around, taking a look at the room we were standing in. It had a bed in one corner and a full length mirror on one wall with a counter and some shelves on either side. There were a table and two chairs and another bit of counter with a microwave oven and a mini fridge. There were various articles of clothing strewn here and there, a few dumbbells and a short barbell or two, and several cases of bottled water.
"Nice," I said.
"This is actually my first time doing this, but it feels like these guys treat us pretty well. I'm here to work the floor, but I can come back here to eat my meals or to take a nap or to get ready for an appearance, like now."
"So you've never done this before?" I asked.
"No. I mean, well, I've competed and all that, but I just got sponsored a few weeks ago and this is the first expo I've been at."
"Are you nervous?"
"No," he responded too quickly--the product of the self-confidence he knew his muscles should bring.
He looked at me, then down, his face screwed up a little. "Well, yeah, actually. Yes." He looked back up at me, slowly, leading with his eyes. It was the face of a young boy searching to see if he had said something wrong. The contrast between his cherubic face and the screaming ultra-manhood of his physique stirred the lust building in me to new heights.
"Come on," I prodded. "People must ask you to flex for them all the time," I said, "and you've competed, right?" I was trying to sound sympathetic and caring.
"I don't have that many friends," he paused, taking a heavy breath. "One time..." His voice was tentative and trailed off, as if unsure whether he wanted to say more. I had the impression this was a painful memory.
I took a step to be closer to him. "What is it?" My voice was soft, my tone gentle. "You can tell me."
My mind was racing. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest it actually hurt.
`You can tell me.' Had I actually just said those words, as if to a 12-yr-old, but directed at a 280-pound mountain of muscle?!? What had happened in the last five minutes? One minute I was standing there, looking at a jar of protein powder and now here I was in a private place with the biggest, most massively muscle-bound guy I had ever encountered and he looked to be about to bare his soul to me. My cock raged in my pants, trapped by the very tight prison of my briefs, wishing he would bare his body, too. And my heart was caught up in a tornado, wracked by feelings of compassion, yet exploding with lust. Why was this kid opening up to me? What was happening??
"Oh, yeah," he paused. "Well, I, um, the thing is..." his voice trailed off and his face took on a timid look that was singularly at odds with his imposing physical presence. His expression seemed to stay in flux for a moment, moving around between the timid boy and the self-confident enormously muscular man. Finally, he seemed to settle more on the confident side and looked back at me, directly in the eye.
He reached over and pulled something out of one of the duffel bags sitting on the table. It was a small bit of fabric, twisted up. He held it swinging off the end of his finger. On second look, I saw that it was a very small pair of posing trunks--very small indeed.
"When you put one of these on at a competition and go out on stage and pose, there is concentration, there are rules, there is a routine... stuff to keep your mind on. But when I have to put this on, go out there," he pointed in the direction of the exhibit floor, "and get up on a box and pose, it's different."
"How?" I asked.
"No routine. It's just the crowd and me and whatever I feel like doing. And what happens is that the crowd starts cheering and calling out things like `arms' or `big chest' or `lats.' There can be a real energy coming from the crowd like that and it kind of gets to me."
"OK, sure. But it's not like they're putting you down. They're just expressing appreciation. I mean, look at you!"
"No, I know. I mean, I like it. I really, um, I kind of get off on it." He looked down and his angelic face actually started to blush a little.
"I see," I said. "So you want me to...," my voice trailed off. I wasn't entirely sure what he wanted, but I thought I had a pretty good idea. The boldness of what I thought he was suggesting was a striking counterpoint to the child-like vulnerability he had shown me not two minutes earlier. It must have been driven by the sense of power he derived from the presence of his physique. This kid (yeah, I had settled on "kid") was a classic teenager – sometimes a child with questions about life and how to navigate through it and sometimes a man with resolve and direction. With the amount of testosterone that must be coursing through his veins, the usual adolescent roller coaster must have been significantly magnified--and why not? Everything else about his body appeared to have been magnified.
"Ok, let's see what you got," I said, playfully.
He looked up at me briefly, I could see thoughts running quickly through his mind. A look of resolve settled into his gaze and he took a step back, moving slightly away from me and squared himself.
I will never forget what happened next. Jeff looked down at the floor and began to raise his arms out to his sides, elbows facing behind him, closing his great paws into fists as they moved. He moved slowly, deliberately. When his arms were fully extended at each side, he raised his head and fixed me with a hard, almost aggressive stare, looking me directly in the eyes. He grinned a little, his eyes sparkling devilishly, those adorable dimples lighting up his cheeks. Then, suddenly, he rotated his arms so his elbows pointed down, snapped both of his wrists inwards and tightened his bis and tris. The already inhuman bulk of his forearms grew to gargantuan proportions, and the inside surfaces of his upper arms exploded as two great walls of muscle, each clearly bigger in area than his face. The drumsticks that were his forearms bulged out prodigiously and it appeared that the only thing keeping all that very hard, dense meat on the bone was the net-like covering of veins that pulsed almost visibly beneath the shrink-wrapping of his skin.
His eyes still trained squarely on mine, which were busy taking in the astounding proportions of his arms, Jeff began to tighten his biceps, bending his elbows and started to flex in earnest. Slowly, his biceps contracted, shortening as they pulled his forearms upward. From the audience of a bodybuilding competition, it can be hard to appreciate both the true size and the three-dimensional nature of certain muscles. Standing as close to Jeff's body as I was, however, I did not suffer from that particular problem. His biceps didn't just grow upwards and peak, as is one's general impression when viewing from a distance, or looking at a face-on photo. Instead, the muscles expanded both up and out, looking truly as if they were being inflated. Their size was awe inspiring. The muscles bulged outward from the front of his arms as much as they did upward, truly forming balls of muscle poised under the skin, with the splits between the muscles' two heads clearly evidenced across their peaks.
Jeff's triceps hung heavily and firmly below the balls of his biceps, making a thick, almost semi-circle shape from armpit to elbow. The sleeves of his shirt, which had been more or less painted on to begin with, were stretching to the maximum, the biceps having bulged up more on the inside of the elastic opening than the outside, preventing the sleeves from riding up as his arms expanded. I may have heard a stitch or two pop as he moved.
As his elbows reached a 90-degree angle, Mark paused and took in a deep breath. He then appeared to be holding his breath, and his face started turning red. He extended his arms outward a bit and then brought them back in, working the biceps up and down in a slight pumping movement. He inhaled yet further, fixed me with an even deeper, more penetrating stare, and squeezed for all he was worth. And with that last, herculean effort, the seams running down both of his shirt sleeves burst, the meat of his biceps exploding dramatically out the top, rising to their true peak and ultimate size, which I would later learn was just over 23" around.
He let go his breath, exhaling strongly, and grinned up at me, his dimpled cheeks coming alive. He dropped his arms to his sides, letting them hang heavily against his lats, sticking out and away from his body. His chest heaved a little as he recovered his breath.
"Wow," was all I could muster. My mind went into reporter mode.
Face of a 16-yr-old... Body says more like 24. Five feet...maybe six inches tall. Arms... unbelievable...so...huge.
My cock did a little thinking of its own and became uncomfortable in its confines. I was silently grateful for the extra-tight briefs I had strategically selected for the say, though it sure would have felt nice to let it all hang out right then.
Jeff chuckled. "They asked me what shirt size to order and said they wanted a tight look. I normally wear 6XL, so I told them 5. I guess they didn't believe me because they only got 2XL."
Holy crap! 5XL!
With that, he turned around, facing the mirror and putting his back to me. He bent forward at the waist, leaning towards the mirror and went into a "crab" most-muscular pose, rounding out his back as he did. The shirt strained and fought and ultimately lost again. The seam across the upper back was decimated buy the volume of his back and traps, which burst through the newly destroyed stitches, rising like the Himalayan range across the expanse of his shoulders.
My cock twitched painfully, my jaw dropped open a little and he turned back to face me, beaming from ear to ear.
"Believe it or not, these things are so small I have to have help putting them on and this is the only way I can get them off. They had to give me a large supply." He pointed to a pile of shirts folded on the table. "Four per day for three days. Cost of doing business, I guess," he chuckled again.
At this point, Mark was standing about three feet in front of me, facing toward me, wearing what used to be a shirt. The neck was still intact, but the collar had separated from the body of the shirt, and was now sitting up on top of his exposed traps, coming out from behind his ears. The sleeve-opening elastic was also still intact, but it was tightly stretched around his elbow joints, the great bulk of his biceps having pried the sleeves open like pipes that had burst, forcing the material to recede around his overgrown triceps. He reached his hands up, gathering a fistful of material in front of each pec and hooking his fingers inside the collar. Suddenly, his arms exploded arms forward, ripping the shirt down the middle of the back and literally just pulling it off of himself to the front. It was as if he was expelling the shirt from his body. He cleared the last few shreds of the former garment from his arms and dropped the scraps of material in a heap on the floor.
"Much better," he said, dimples flashing again. "Those actually hurt a little."
Author's note: This is the third story I've posted to Nifty. My others, "Remembering Ken" and "Inside the Muscle" are in the Athletics section; both are works in progress. Please send me your reactions and feedback. It is in large part your comments that keep me interested in writing. Alex (email@example.com)