Eleven-and-a-half: A Fantasy Of Great Length by Ray Wilder

Chapter 53: Arnold

This is a work of fiction. All the characters, events and locations
portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons,
events or locations is purely coincidental.

Copyright 1996. All rights, implicit or implied, except for distribution by
this archive and personal use by the individual downloading the file, are
reserved. Inquiries regarding publishing rights for this book should be
directed to: raywild@aol.com
========================================

	It had been a long time since he had been this frustrated. Not
since the snubbing the judges had given him because of the bulge in his
posing trunks had he felt this abused.
	It had not started well. Both the photographer and the assistant,
each women, had made it very clear that he was a piece of meat which they
used every opportunity to touch and fondle. They had him in posing trunks
even though it was obvious the shot would include nothing more than a
portion of his torso and one of his arms. They insisted that he be oiled,
to give the proper sheen in the lights, and then made a fuss about applying
the oil themselves so they could get "just the right sheen." They also
insisted on adjusting his pose themselves instead of simply telling him
what they wanted. Their hands were everywhere, turning him, moving him,
brushing across parts of his body that had nothing to do with the shot.
	At one point the assistant very blatantly let her hand slip down
his torso and come to rest on his cock. She stared at him, as if defying
him to say something. To her surprise, he did.
	"Please don't touch me there again unless I ask you to."
	She pulled her hand off of him as though she had been burnt.
	"Thank you."
	Finally, after one extended encounter between the assistants hand
and the huge bulge of his pectoral which, no matter how hard she tried,
refused to conform to the shape she pretended to mold it to, Arnold had
enough. He probably would not have minded all the physical attention, but
he was very much in the mood for getting the job done and getting out of
there. His mind was focused on his plans for the evening and he had no
intention of wasting an ounce of sexual energy before his encounter with
Patty's powerful, sexually charged body.
	The next annoyance was when he found out all the posing and
fondling and comments and stares and not-so-casual brushings up against his
body were only preparations. The client hadn't arrived yet and he, of
course, had to be present for the shoot, to approve the work. Arnold asked
when the man might be there and they answered "soon and we should take a
few more test shots just to be sure."
	"I'll be in the dressing room. Let me know when the man gets here."
	As he sat on the sofa in his room, a thigh-length dressing gown
barely covering his massive physique, he reflected on his reactions to
their treatment. The attentions of the women at Norma's the day before also
came to mind. He compared them to they way he had felt when he had first
encountered Patty on the elevator. It wasn't just that Patty was a body
builder. There was something else. Patty had made it very clear that she
was willing to accept Arnold at whatever level he was comfortable with. She
had made her intentions known and then stood back and let Arnold respond as
he wished.
	These women, and the one's at Norma's, on the other hand, had left
him no choice. They had been explicit in their demands for his response and
had not left him any options. Though the word was time-worn and
old-fashioned, it was the key to what he felt from Patty and what was
missing from the others: Respect.
	He was not mad at them. He had come to terms with the way people
treated him a long time ago. From the very beginning, the development of
his body had been the key to making people pay attention to him, admire
him, love him. As he grew he realized the reactions of others were not
something he could control. He had learned to live with the demands others
would put on him. He understood their reactions. Everytime he looked in the
mirror at his naked form, or caught a glimpse of his huge pecs bulging
under the fabric of his shirt as he passed a store window, he would feel
his own sexual stirrings. Even now, just thinking about how turned-on he
made people, he could feel his own mammoth cock begin to tingle and buzz as
it laid nestled in the tight, form-fitting cup of his posing trunks. He was
constantly reminded of the huge size of his body and cock. Every move he
made brought some enormous muscle into play, pressing it against the fabric
of his clothing or another part of his body. And there was no ignoring the
sheer weight of the magnificent cock that hung so heavily from his pelvis,
nor the size of the two testicles that swung ponderously behind it. If he
turned himself on so much, how could he fault anyone else for desiring to
touch him, feel him, caress him, fuck him.
	The fault did not lay in their desire. It lay in the way those
desires were manifested. His size, his beauty, his being did not give
others license to violate the personal barriers which were his to build up
or tear down. One knocked on the door. If entry was granted, fine, but the
decision was his. Somehow, people equated his physical appearance with a
lack of barriers. If he didn't want to be molested, he shouldn't make
himself so desirable.
	This was not the first time these thoughts had crossed his
mind. Nor, he knew, would it be the last. If it weren't for the prodigious
benefits, both to himself and each person he encountered, he probably would
not have been able to carry on this long. Why else would he put his body
through the torture he faced each time he approached a workout session? At
first it had been a generic longing to be noticed, to be "loved." It wasn't
until he had met Sam that he found the true reason for his drive. Sam had
brought it all out in the open. It was more than just sex. He had found, in
her, the answer to so many deep longings and yearnings. Sex was the way to
become close; so close that separation became a non-existent concept. And
building his body, and his will, was the way to achieve the closeness of
sex, giving him the opportunity to meld with others. Once he had done it
with Sam, there was no turning back. He could no sooner cut himself off
from that union with others than he could separate himself from himself.
	But to achieve that union required great strength and a physical
presence which allowed his partners the freedom to abandon their ties to
themselves. He knew when people approached him, they were already lowering
their defenses, surrendering their barriers. They had accepted the fact
they were in for something, at the very least, unusual. Once they had given
themselves over to that, the rest was easy. It wasn't until they had been
completely filled by Arnold's huge physical and spiritual strength that
they would realize, too late, they had entered and been entered by a whole
new level of existence. Just as he had been with Sam.
	But he had known, from the moment he and Sam had parted on that
day, ten years ago, he had a different road. . .no, a further road, to
travel. He felt the teacher in Sam, but not the sharer. That was okay. It
was just as it had needed to happen. But it wasn't until he had finished
his journey, come to this point, this moment of reflection, that he would
be able to face his teacher once again, this time, ready to take the
teacher further down the road.
	As he thought about Sam, about how he remembered her, how he saw
her now in his mind, a cool wash of calmness, combined with a delicious
sense of tension, washed over him. His nipples hardened and pressed against
the dressing gown. He sent his thoughts elsewhere to keep him from becoming
physically aroused. As amazing, as fantastic, as mind-blowing as he knew
his evening with Patty was going to be, Arnold knew his next encounter with
Sam, only hours away, was going to make it all worthwhile. But first they
would have to get passed Sam's anger.
	But first he would have to get passed this stupid photo
session. What the hell was taking them so long?
	He stood, stretched his huge body in several directions to increase
the blood flow, found the dressing gown too restrictive and removed it,
hanging it on a convenient hook. Again he stretched, each sinew and muscle
flashing into rigid relief beneath his darkly-tanned but translucent
skin. Veins popped out all over his body and pressed against the inside of
his glowing armor. He felt the pressure of his muscles as they cried to
burst free of his unblemished, smooth and silken sheath. How could he help
but look in the full-length mirror and appreciate the sight before
him. With his back arched, the huge bulge in the front of his posing trunks
pressed dangerously against the fabric. The edge along the sides of the cup
were pulled away from his legs and he could clearly see the wrinkled skin
of his scrotum and the full, round shape of its contents. He hooked his
index finger under the cup, pulled it away from his leg, allowing his right
testicle to fall into view.
	He knew he shouldn't. He would have a hell of a time controlling
his huge cock. But he couldn't help it. He cupped his hand and lifted the
huge object, as large as the largest chicken's egg, in the palm of his
hand. How many men and women had taken this huge object into their mouths?
Sucked on it? Licked it? Kissed it? He had many times wished he was
flexible enough to be able to do that himself. It wasn't enough that he
could take the head of his own cock and suck himself off. What man didn't
look with envy at the dog licking his own balls.
	But here it was, this magnificent, swollen, tingling shape, filled
with the fuel of many orgasms, ready to propel him through an astounding
evening with one of the hottest bodies he'd had a chance to be with
since. . .since he left Ed. And Sam. And David and Mary. He had stayed
clear of relationships with other bodybuilders for a long time after that,
as though making love with another well-developed body would somehow be an
act of infidelity. Slowly he had worked his way back into the sport,
meeting more people, becoming more involved with them on a physical
basis. And each time he stepped up to the plate he learned it didn't matter
what the outside wrapping was. He was able to hit each ball out of the
park. So now he was ready to confront his past. And his future. Sam and
Patty.
	And Ed.
	And Peter.
	And Chris.
	And Chuck.
	And everyone else that his new and old friends would bring to the
bed with them.
	And here he was, his right testicle resting comfortably in the palm
of his hand. He wanted very much to give it a squeeze. To let it roll
around in his hand, across his fingers. The loose, hot skin of his scrotum
yearned to be stretched and fondled. His cock stirred at the thought and he
quickly stuffed his testicle back into his suit and went to the sink to
splash his face with cold water. A little shock to the system, just to help
him check back into reality.
	After he dried himself off he stuck his head out into the
hallway. Voices were heard coming from the direction of the studio. There
seemed to be some disagreement between the photographer and a male
voice. Could this be the client? Why hadn't he been told he was here so
they could get on with the shoot? He walked towards the studio, stopping
before the end of the hallway. The voices had become much clearer.
	"Mr. Potts. We've gone over this many times. You, yourself, came up
with this concept of strength and beauty."
	"Yes, I know," said the male voice. "But I just don't think this
model is the appropriate person to represent our product."
	"How much more strong and beautiful do you want? You approved his
headshot last week."
	"That was before I saw this. This just is not an appropriate
image."
	"But we're not using that. You don't see his full body in the
ad. Just chest, arm and head."
	"I know that. But what happens when it gets out what he looks
like. I don't want this to turn into a tabloid shoot. You remember what
happened with that damned Lovelace woman. Ninety-nine and forty-four
one-hundredths percent porn. All we need is for word to get out about how
this guy is equipped. He looks like some freak, for God's sake. Look at
him. Although I can see by these photos you've been doing plenty of that
already,"
	Arnold had heard enough. He returned to the dressing room, quickly
changed into his street clothes and packed his gear into his gym
bag. Something tugged at his heart, a small jolt of rejection. How could
someone not like him? Not love him? Look at him.
	He turned to the mirror and saw his huge, strangely proportioned
frame. The outline of his enormous cock pressed against the leg of his
pants. He could hear Ed's words echo across ten years of separation and
silence: "Fuck you. And your big dick. Fuckin' freak. Your fuckin' donkey
dick and your fuckin' muscles and your fuckin' gorgeous face and your
fuckin' weird head."
	Those words had hurt him more deeply than anything his parents had
ever or never said to him. And every once in a while something happened,
some word was said, some glance was given, some stare was made and he saw
himself as others did. A freak. And he felt sad. Sad for himself, of
course. But sad for the other person as well. All they had to do was want
him, love him, appreciate him, and he would be able to show them such
wonders. He would take them away from the ugly, futile world and show them
a new way, a new plain of existence. But, instead, he was a freak.
	He didn't need that. Especially not today. He was going to have to
be strong to match Patty's energy, Patty's needs, Patty's drive. He knew
she had probably spent the last twenty-four hours thinking of nothing much
besides his huge eleven-and-a-half inch cock laying in the palm of her
hand. She was like him. He knew. It was all for the sex. All the pain, all
the misery, all the long, aching workouts when it didn't seem possible to
lift another ounce. But when the bodies met. Fire! Thunder! Earthquakes!
Novas! Galactic cataclysms! Orgasms that made the formation of the universe
pale in comparison. But nothing like what she was going to experience
tonight.
	So to hell with Mr. Soap Bubbles. He would find many other eager
young and virile men to entice the women of the world into using his
product. Arnold had universes to shake.
	He grabbed his bag and went to the studio. Mr. Potts was sitting in
a chair with several photographs of Arnold spread out before him on the
floor. Though an older man, possibly in his late fifties, he was handsome
and well-groomed in the way that people with money and time to spend it
were. He stared down at the photos, not really focusing on any one of them,
but sweeping his gaze back and forth. The photographer and her assistant
were flipping through a notebook of photos of other well-developed men,
looking for someone who did not possess as huge a penis as Arnold. As he
entered, the look on all three of their faces fell. They had not realized
he had heard their discussion. Arnold went to the photographer.
	"I'd like to get the rolls of film you took earlier. As your client
has expressed a desire to find someone other than me to represent his
product, you will have no need for them. I posed for those shots under the
impression that we were working. It seems clear to me now that my talents
and time were being exploited for your own use. The contents of the film
are mine."
	The woman stared at him for a few seconds, not quite believing what
she was hearing. It finally sunk in and she shook her head.
	"I'm sorry, son. You were on the clock. We had an agreement."
	"Our agreement was to create an ad to promote this gentleman's
product. This gentleman does not want me to do this. In addition, not one
frame of that film contains any reference to his product. You and your
assistance got your thrills. Now I want the photos." They locked
stares. "Or I pass the word to my agency just what kind of an operation
you're running here. You won't see another person from my agency or any
other once the word gets out. I want the film."
	"Now just a minute here, young man."
	Arnold turned to see Mr. Potts stand and walk towards him. It was
quite obvious the photos of Arnold were having an affect on the man that
would not have done his product's image any good.
	"You have no right placing any demands on this woman. The decision
to use you in this ad is not hers. She hired you in good faith. It is no
fault of hers that you are not the appropriate person for the job."
	"That's right. You don't hire freaks."
	"I'm sorry. I did not know you could hear me."
	Arnold turned back to the two women. "The familiar and intrusive
way you've been treating me since I arrived here had nothing to do with
promoting this man's product. I hope you got your jollies. I want the
prints and negatives. All of them."
	Arnold stared at the photographer with an expression which was as
non-threatening as he could make it, but still carried the feeling of
revulsion he was feeling at the way he had been treated. He was not going
to move until the film was in his possession.
	After several tense moments, the photographer nodded to the
assistant who gathered up the prints and then went to the dark room to
return with a folder. She pulled out a handful of negatives in sleeving and
gave them to Arnold who made a quick inventory.
	"There only are enough negatives here for one roll. You took two."
	The assistant shot the photographer a look of resignation and
handed Arnold the rest of the contents the folder, including an additional
stack of eight by ten prints. Arnold looked at the prints on the floor
which Mr. Potts had been contemplating. The older man bent over and
retrieved them, handing them over to Arnold as well.
	"I will report my treatment and your initial refusal to turn over
these items to my agency. By the time word gets around town, you won't be
able to get Pee Wee Herman in here to push your client's product. Have a
good day."
	On his way down the elevator he had the deep, sickening, sinking
feeling of anger and futility. He had stooped to their level, had argued
with them where no argument was necessary. Just as he had been sucked into
taking a swing at Ed ten years before. He didn't want to be a freak. He
didn't want to be different. Not that way. He just wanted to be loved. To
love. But how could he love those people up there who had treated him like
so much beef on the hoof?
	And was he ever going to be mad if this screwed up his evening with
Patty.
	Mr. Soap Bubbles didn't really count. He was the paying customer
with his own agenda, his own needs. If Arnold didn't fit them, then so be
it. But the two women. . .they were another story. If they had decided they
would try something with him when they picked him out of the agency's
headshot book, they were now long past seeing their dream become reality.
	The elevator jerked to a stop at the lobby. The doors opened as the
thought crossed Arnold's mind: "Now what?" It was still several hours until
his dinner date with Patty. He didn't want to go back to the gym; didn't
want to run into Patty yet. He thought of going to the beach, but was
suddenly filled with a feeling of anxiousness. What if he ran into Sam? Not
today. Not now. One thing at a time. His head buzzed with the residues of
the adrenaline his anger at the women upstairs had generated. He needed
some way to work it out of his system. He might as well go back to his own
place and work out on the home gym. Peter's parting words about Patty's
fascination with odor made him want to go somewhere and sweat. A lot. At
least this way he wouldn't have to worry about traveling to Patty's
unshowered. In fact. . .
	Half way home he began to feel the stirrings that always announced
the arrival of an erection. When he could, he allowed his mind to wander to
an image of Patty in her halter top the previous morning. His desire to
feel the power of her body moving under, over, against, around, and through
him increased the urgent feeling in his genitals. He delighted in denying
himself any relief; was, in fact, quite happy to let the delicious pain
distract him from thoughts of the uncomfortable situation at the
photographer's studio. He'd never be invited back there again. Or at least
not until they realized what idiots they'd been by letting him get away
from them. He made a mental note to call the agency tomorrow morning and
tell them to keep an eye out for unauthorized shots of him. He suspected
the photographer had other plans for those photos.
	The pain in his crotch was becoming demanding. Now the game
began. How long could he go without touching himself, squeezing himself,
rubbing himself, pressing the palm of his hand hard against the head of his
enflamed, blood engorged penis in an attempt to relieve the screaming
ecstasy/agony, the need to press, to drive, to fuck. He had to chuckle a
bit. If it took this much will-power to keep from touching himself, how
could he expect it to be any easier for someone else? He wanted to grab his
cock right here in the middle of seventeen lanes of traffic and bang it
against the steering wheel, whacking it into orgasmic frenzy. The more it
hurt the better it was. The better it was, the more it hurt.
	He almost cheered when the signs for his exit began to tick off the
miles until his escape from the tedium of the freeway. As he neared the
exit ramp, traffic began an inexplicable slow down. His cock ached, his
head was swimming with visions of Patty's magnificent body. He glanced over
at the car next to his and was met with a look from the female occupant
that left no doubt in Arnold's mind as to what she would want to do if the
traffic came to a complete standstill. There it was, the first intense
feelings. The first drip. His balls churned in response to the unspoken
invitation. The essence of the word "fuck" stood hard and firm between him
and the woman next to him. He wished he could see what she looked like
below where the car door blocked his view. He imagined and his cock ached
and leapt. He wished she could see him below where her view was
obstructed. Her nipples would ache. Her skin would tingle. Her cunt would
flow. She would ram her car into the side of his and force him onto the
shoulder. She would fly across the car seat, throw open the passenger door
and dive across into Arnold's front seat. With one swift, heated motion she
would throw herself upon his aching crotch and, through the material of
their clothing, swiftly ride herself to an orgasm that would throw her over
the windshield of his car and land her on the hood. Still wanting more, she
would rip her panties off, or better yet, she would have no panties on. Her
finger would dive deep inside her cunt and she would beg, plead, entreat
him to climb out of the front seat of his car, bare his mammoth cock and
slam her on the hood of his sportster until the shocks gave out and the car
collapsed to the roadbed.
	The traffic had begun to move and his new-found sex partner was
several car lengths ahead of him. She pulled into the space in front of his
car as vehicles behind him honked in impatience. He accelerated and pulled
off at his exit. As he dropped down the ramp the woman quickly swerved in
front of him and took the ramp as well. The light at the bottom was
red. They locked eyes in her rear view mirror. Her body began to make
little vibrating motions, her shoulder hunched forward and her head dropped
back against the headrest. As the light turned green she raised her head,
gave him a final look in the mirror that spoke both of fulfillment and
further need and then turned right, obviously hoping he would follow.
	He turned left. Had his intentions been that vivid? Was it possible
she could have sensed him so exactly, that his thoughts could have had such
an effect on her? She had known. No question about it. And now he was in
serious agony. He didn't know how much longer he could hold out. He wanted
to come to Patty fully primed. He wanted to unleash the full fury and power
of his drive and need within her. Then he remembered his sexual experiences
of the past twenty-four hours and knew there was little to fear. The only
reason to hold out was for the pleasure of it. The agony of it. The
divinity of it.
	As he got out of the car in the parking lot he thought for a second
about what the neighbors would think about the condition of his
pants. Aside from the humongous bulge, his cock was leaking severely. A
large wet spot was spreading out from the end of the large column of flesh
prominently displayed on the inside of his right thigh. He glanced up at
the building and fantasized Patty standing there, her naked body flexed
hard and firm, waiting for him to come and relieve his painful
situation. He was only slightly relieved to see that, not only was Patty
not there, but neither was anyone else. He took the trip up the elevator
and the quick walk to his front door unobserved.
	As he passed his bedroom door he threw his gym bag onto the bed
without really looking or caring whether it hit its target. His body was
crying, screaming for the next room. As he turned out of the hallway he was
already naked from the belt up and he was able to take both his shoes off
and search for the light switch at the same time, ducking a bit to miss the
chin-up bar that hung within the door jam. The light came on revealing his
image in the large mirror against the opposite wall. It was enough to make
him want to cum.
	In that first moment, as he glanced at himself, he saw his form
through new eyes. His cock jerked in his pant leg and the sight of it doing
so made his cock jerk in his pant leg. He wrestled with the sock on his
right foot and the muscles in his arm exploded as it pulled against it,
fighting to remove it. The sight of it made him want to grab the mound of
muscle and squeeze it in his hands, feeling the power and size of it, its
thickness, its density, its mass, its heat. Again, his cock forced itself
against the restraint of his pants and his eyes caught the motion.
	It was impossibly big. It demanded his attention, both itself and
its reflection. He removed the other sock and was then left with only his
pants and ill-fitting briefs. He watched as the man in the mirror ran his
hand up his left thigh after discarding the sock until it reached the
prominent bulge that represented his bloated, aching balls. This bulge,
alone, would have satisfied many a crotch watcher. Here it was only a
subsidiary, a side comment to the real show.
	The hand gently caressed the bulge, slowly pressed into it, making
the separate contents of the scrotum reveal themselves. Even at this
distance from his reflection, twice the width of his room, he could discern
the size and weight of the enormous testicles. Again his cock swelled and
his own hand cupped his balls harder. If only the man would remove his
pants, free his enormous genitals so he could see them. He wanted to run to
the man, rip off his clothing and smash himself against the painfully
distended equipment. The thought sent a shiver down his spine and out to
the end of his cock. The wet spot on the man's pant leg spread even
further; his balls sending more fluid as they overflowed. Arnold knew the
man would be in great pain now.
	He raised his gaze to the man's upper torso and his mouth watered
as he imagined licking and sucking the swelling pectorals with their hot,
hard nipples. Arnold's nipples ached and he knew the other man's would,
too. The man sensed his thoughts and raised his hand away from the contents
of his scrotum, across the hard, ridged surface of the abdominals, coming
to rest on the pec, his fingers lightly flitting across the pebble of flesh
which distended from the lower outer curve of the swelling pectoral. Again,
Arnold's cock jumped and he felt another dose of wetness spread across his
thigh. The man obliged him and pinched the nipple hard, his body cringing
in pleasure/pain. The harder the man pinched the steadier the flow on
Arnold's thigh became.
	He could stand it no longer. If the other man was not going to
undress, then Arnold would have to take the initiative. In a flash his belt
was unfastened, his fingers grabbed the waistband and he was stepping out
of his pants, throwing them out into the hall. Arnold returned his gaze to
the mirror and very nearly came. He was big. So big. And not just the
cock. Everything was too much. And beautiful. He knew he would never see a
more beautiful man. He longed to, ached to, was dying to get his hands on
this man. And there, protruding from the right leg hole of the man's
briefs, was a rigid, hard, throbbing, aching,
blood-engorged-until-it-was-purple penis sticking straight out before him,
reaching for him, extending across the room, begging for him to come and
touch it, rub it, press it, suck it.
	Arnold grabbed his cock with his right hand, cupped his still
imprisoned balls in his left and walked across the room. The man did the
same. They met in the center and pressed the heads of their two immense
cocks together. It wasn't enough. They pressed harder. And harder. Oh, God!
he need to push against something. Harder. His cock cried out for more. He
knew he would have a difficult time working out in this condition. He
wanted to watch the other man suck himself off. Could he do it? Could he
let the man know this was what he desired to see?
	They both moved to the bench press. Arnold swung his bench around
to face the other man who had done the same. Their muscles swelled with the
effort and Arnold's cock ached in reaction to the sight. With great
difficulty the two men bent their cocks down against their leg and were
able to slide their completely useless briefs down to the floor and then
kick them off into a corner. Arnold and the man took up position and
together they drew their bodies into a curl until the tips of their cocks
were mere centimeters from their lips. They wet them. They extended their
tongues and flicked the engorged heads of their cocks. The thick columns of
flesh responded by crying out for more. Neither of the men could deny
themselves any more. Each of them dove down onto the enflamed head of their
penis, took it in their mouth, and, together, began sucking, drawing the
blood up into their enflamed shafts, heightening the sense of urgency that
burned and roiled in the base of their shafts. In just a very few seconds,
Arnold knew, there would be no return; no stopping it. With supreme effort
he pulled his mouth off the aching, rigid shaft and released it from his
grip. No one was more disappointed than the tortured man in the mirror. He
hoped Patty would appreciate what he was doing for her.
	He still didn't know what he was going to do about getting his cock
prepared for a workout. There was no way he would be able to do much with
this monstrous cock swinging back and forth. And he needed to get a jock
on.
	He stood to go back to his bedroom to get something on but made it
only as far as the door to the hall. Turning to look in the mirror again,
the head of the gargantuan phallus knocked against the door jam sending a
huge jolt of sensation through his body. All thoughts of getting dressed
for a workout session left his mind as his cock cried out again for
relief. Arnold began to get concerned.
	He knew if he were to touch the shaft it would be all over. He
wanted, needed to cum. What was he to do? His hands grabbed hold of the
chin-up bar and he gradually put more weight on it until his arms were
bulging painfully and his feet began to float off the floor. He pulled
himself up and the muscles along the sides of his chest flared out. He
suddenly remembered the man at the pool, so many years ago, with the two
women running their hands over his body as he lifted himself the same
way. And just a few minutes before that he had made himself cum for the
first time. And the second.
	He flexed his arms and his biceps and lats swelled, raising him
towards the bar. He bent his legs, spread them, and brought them up against
his chest, the massive thighs each pressing against a hard, firm
pectoral. He curled his abdominals and the hot, aching steel-hard rod of
manflesh pressed itself against the hard surface of his sternum. And then
he brought his legs together, closing around his cock.
	Slowly he lowered his legs, clasping hot cock between them. His
body shivered with the exquisite feeling of sex and effort. He could feel
the heavy sac of his scrotum swing beneath him, tightening as his legs
reached the bottom of his shaft. Spreading his thighs and raising them
again, he brought them back up to capture the swollen head of his cock once
again. It had been years since he had done this: climbing his cock. He had
grown so much, gotten so big. And he was as insatiable now as he had been
back when his balls had first started pumping the hot, sticky liquid that
filled his mouth, filled others mouths, others cunts and asses and anything
else he could stick his wanton, aching shaft into.
	He increased the pressure, increased the speed, pulled harder on
the chin-up bar, increasing the ache in his arms and lats. His cock began
to buzz, his balls began to churn. He could feel a steady stream of hot
liquid flowing from the slit of his enormous glans and down the cleavage of
his pectorals. He remembered that first time and tried to make it happen
again. Just like the first time. So magic. So scary. So fulfilling. So
new. So. . . so. . . so. . .
	"Oh, shit. Oh, yeah. Gotta cum. Gotta cum. Hunh. Hunh. Hunh. Hunh."
	Arnold's legs scissored and raised, clamped and dropped repeatedly
until the wonderful, familiar feeling wound through his body, lighting off
the amazing chain reaction culminating in orgasm. His head became light,
the pressure built in his balls, and a sudden sense of urgency took over, a
rush of adrenaline and a call, from deep inside, that could not be
denied. An incredible feeling of warmth and something close to anguish
spread from his middle, took over control of his body and mind and drove
him, legs flaying and climbing around the hot, rigid shaft, to the top of
his orgasm. His eyes were clenched closed, but in his mind he could picture
what he would look like, were he standing off to one side. He knew his
muscles would be tensed and massive, his skin covered with the traces of
thousand of veins and arteries mapping over his body. He flipped himself
over so his legs were now above him, felt the hot flesh of his cock
pressing against his pecs. Again he thought of Patty, of how he wanted to
be ready for her, able to match her every orgasm. The compelling sensation
in his cock was just below the threshold, once again. And, once again, he
released his cock just seconds before orgasm. He dropped his feet to the
floor. His huge chest heaving with each breath, his arms and pecs pumped
and swollen, he knew there would be little hope of calming things
down. There was only one recourse.
	He stopped in his bedroom for a moment on the way to the bathroom
to pick up a tank top, jock and a pair of gray fleece shorts. He would have
only one shot at getting his equipment packed properly for a workout and he
wanted to be ready. He threw the articles of clothing on the toilet tank
and stepped into the tub. In one swift motion, before he could think about
it, he whipped the sheet he was using as a shower curtain closed and
cranked on the cold water tap, at the same time pulling up the little stem
that stuck out of the top of the faucet.
	"AAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHH!
	His nipples tightened so hard they ached. His scrotum contracted,
yanking his balls up into his abdomen; his cock quickly tried to
disappear. Having accomplished his goal, he turned off the water, threw
open the sheet, grabbed his jock and quickly loaded his genitals into the
cup before they could realize what had happened. He then grabbed the fleece
shorts and pulled them on.
	He was still panting from the exertion of just a few moments
ago. He checked himself in the mirror, felt his cock leap again, felt his
mind fill with thoughts of sex and orgasm. He was as excited about how he
would affect Patty as he was about how she would affect him. The reflection
of his crotch showed that, for the moment at least, things were under
control. There was a definite sense of pressure there, he thought it might
even develop into that sweet sensation of uncomfortable agony as he went
through his paces on the gym, but for now the monster was leashed in. Now
he could direct this incredible power and drive towards pumping his body
and getting the sweat glands juiced up for Patty.
	Arnold grabbed the tank top, putting it on as he ran down the hall
to the workout room. He didn't have to think, didn't have to plan; this
part was automatic. He instinctively grabbed the right gear, moved it the
right way, took the right turns at the right stations and left his mind to
dwell on the hard, rigid, steamy body that waited for him on the other side
of his bedroom wall. He knew she would be walking back and forth, going
from living room to kitchen to bedroom. And each time she walked past this
part of the hall she would hear the weights, the groans, the cables, the
screams. She would know what he was doing. She would know he was making
himself big for her, hard for her, smell for her. And she would be so hot
by the time he knocked on her door at seven o'clock she would cum as she
opened the door.
	Biceps, biceps, biceps, biceps, biceps, biceps, biceps.
	Pecs, pecs, pecs, pecs, pecs, pecs, pecs, pecs, pecs.
	Deltoids, deltoids, deltoids, deltoids, deltoids.
	Triceps, triceps, triceps, triceps, triceps.
	Lats, lats, lats, lats, lats, lats, lats.
	Thighs, thighs, thighs.
	Abs, abs, abs, abs.
	Traps, traps.
	Forearms.
	Calves.
	Gluts.
	He finished the cycle and started again. He didn't stop for a
moment but dove right into the next exercise. And the next. And the
next. His body began to hum, to sing. The muscles of each group swelled and
filled with blood as his system rushed to repair and detoxify the
muscles. Each time it got a little harder to go all the way through the
reps. The muscles swelled a little more each cycle, making their movement a
little more difficult. The veins and tendons of his anatomy stood out in
sharper relief with each movement. And when he got down to the last set his
whole body felt like it was going to cum. Everything was so big, so full,
so hot, so pumped. And his head was buzzing and filled with thoughts of
what it would feel like to take this incredible physique and press it, push
it, drive it against the hard, hot physique of his neighbor.
	He stood before the mirror one last time. He flexed and posed,
checking to see if there was a group that needed just a little more
attention. The straps of the tank top clung to the inside curves of his
swollen pecs. His rock hard nipples scraped deliciously against the fabric
that passed under the hyper-developed mass. The front of his fleece shorts
was grossly distended with the bulge of his enormous cock crying for
release. It would be angry, dark and wicked looking. It demanded that he
smash himself against something to relieve it. It didn't care to wait for
just a few more blessedly agonizing minutes. It wanted to ram itself
against the upright of the universal, the door jam, the reflection of
itself in the mirror. Anything. It screamed. He screamed.
	He couldn't stand looking at himself any longer. He was too
horny. He walked out of the room and headed for the balcony. The clock on
the bookcase said six fifty-four. This would be the longest six minutes of
his life. He would enjoy the agony, swim in the restraint. He wanted to
swing his massive body over the railing and surprise Patty, his huge form
silhouetted against the luscious, deepening sunset. Better yet, he wanted
to punch his way right through the wall that separated their two living
rooms just for the sheer pleasure of releasing the energy pent-up in
him. But instead, he stepped out onto the balcony and took several deep,
calming breaths and let his mind drink in the beauty of the view. The
colors of the sky, the smell of the fresh salt air, the sound of the waves
as they rolled up the beach. The lingering smell of the spray
lubricant. The tools he had used to remove the partition between his and
Chris's balcony were still there, waiting for their next job. His heart
warmed as he recalled watching Chris, herself, spraying the loosening agent
on the hardware of Patty's partition. What a wonderful moment of
realization and acceptance that had been for both of them.
	His eyes were again drawn to the view beyond the balcony rail. He
scanned the expanse of sand and his heart jumped a good distance up his
throat.
	There was no mistaking the fiery red hair, even at this
distance. Just twenty-four hours before he had seen the very same
sight. The difference, this time, was that Chris was talking to
someone. And there was no doubt in his mind who that someone was. He
stepped away from the railing in case the other man's eyes would wander up
the face of the building and see him there. Just as Arnold could readily
identify the man on the beach, he knew the man would be able to do the
same. Would Chris give him away? Would they even know the connection
between them; the common bond?
	Ed.
	Of course, it all made sense when he thought about it. If Sam was
here, then Ed should be, too. He had known they would be drawn to each
other when they met back east. Why didn't Peter mention anything about him
when they talked about Sam earlier in the day? Was he out of the picture?
Was Peter's involvement with Sam somehow different than what Arnold was led
to believe? Or was it just so natural to have Ed and Sam together and still
have Sam make room for Peter in her heart that Peter hadn't noticed or
thought that it mattered?
	Arnold doubted this. He knew Ed. In many ways he was Ed. And Ed was
Arnold. Arnold was deeply attracted to Peter. Ed would be, as well. If
Peter and Ed had met, Arnold would not have been Peter's first, that was
certain.
	But now was not the time to dive back into a ten year-old
relationship. If he would be seeing Sam soon, then he would be seeing Ed
soon, too. It just figured that, of the thousands of yards of beach with
the thousands of people laying on it, Ed would be talking to Chris at this
very moment. Half of him wanted to shout and wave and celebrate. He wanted
to tear out the door to his apartment and race down the stairs, three at a
time, and fly, soar across the stretch of sand between his apartment
building and the man who meant more to him than any other man alive.
	And then there was Patty. He had focused all his energy towards
this meeting. He was so primed for the encounter he was leaking like a
faucet. And here was Ed. And Chris. And now she was getting up and packing
her stuff. And now Ed was moving away, trotting down the beach, turning to
wave good-bye. They had made contact. Arnold knew if she hadn't had a date
with the guy upstairs tonight the two of them would be on their way to
sharing themselves and comparing notes. He chuckled. How different was he
after all these years? Would the Arnold Ed remembered be anything like the
Arnold Chris met yesterday?
	He sighed. These and all other questions would be answered for him
very soon. Of that there was no doubt. He would have to get all his lovers
together, past and present, and have them run an evaluation.
	He would also have to deal with the pain and sadness he had caused
Sam and Ed by walking. . .no. . .running out of their lives so many miles
and years ago. Arnold had hoped their lives would be so full it would have
made no difference. He hoped, but doubted.
	Chris was walking back to the building. He checked the clock on the
bookcase. Seven-oh-one. Oh, well. He didn't want to seem too eager. Not
that the huge, aching, painful bulge in his cotton fleece shorts would be
any kind of a give-away. Again it cried out to be grabbed, squeezed, hurt,
released. Soon. Patty would take care of all that. Soon.
	His body was still covered with a sheen of sweat. He took a quick
sniff of his armpits. The deep, dank, musty smell of his body rammed itself
up his nostrils. He could feel the deep wetness of his crotch and knew what
his jock strap would smell like. If Patty wanted odor, she'd get odor.
	He promised himself he would not look in the mirror as he passed
the door to the workout room. He even tried closing his eyes. He just
wasn't quick enough. A quick wink of a glimpse made him horny enough to
want to ram his crotch against the door jam. Anything. Patty had better be
very ready, he thought. He certainly was.
	He wanted to be in Patty's apartment before Chris came up from the
beach, otherwise this was going to be a very complicated evening. Patty
would be enough. Once he had them all down individually he would be able to
take them on as a group. After.
	He started to put his apartment key into the hip pocket of the
shorts then thought of how he had met Chris. And of the partition. And the
tools, ready to perform their task. He would forget his key.
	Out the door, making sure it was locked behind him.
	Turn right.
	Five giant steps down the walkway.
	Turn right.
	Knock.
	Cum. Almost.
	Patty answered the door in a pair of barely existent shorts, a
cut-up, sleeveless T-shirt and a glassy look in her eyes that told Arnold
she was as close to exploding as he was. The outer curves of her
extraordinary breasts were visible. In fact, the T-shirt was not able to
contain those magnificent structures, the long, hard nipples barely covered
by the fabric. The bottom of the shirt hung a few scant inches below her
breast's lower curves. She was breathing deeply and each time her chest
expanded the shirt would rise just enough to reveal an inch of breast. The
effect was staggering.
	As he stepped through the door he heard the elevator arrive at
their floor. Chris would be stepping out just as Patty's door closed behind
him. He silently wished her as thrilling an evening as he was about to
have, then turned his mind and energies to the orgasmic body before
him. . .
	And never looked back.