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Joining the B-Builder Boyz Club
|There's a trainer at my gym, name of Jean-Claude, but everyone calls him J-Claude or JC. He'd stand out in Southern California, where bodybuilders are a dime a dozen, but J-Claude, hopelessly French-Canadian, has chosen to settle here in Upstate Nowhere, where the population of muscleheads are few and far-between, all because -- get this -- he likes winter -- that's right, he LIKES winter -- like I said, hopelessly Canadian.
JC's a personal trainer at my gym, and he's forever leading women around the leg area, repleat in his cliche spandex, basket displayed without shame. He trains clients here at my gym, but personally, he trains somewhere else. "It's just not advanced enough for me," he's said -- without arrogance -- on any number of occasions, his accent showing.
He's huge enough for me to believe that. A massive two-hundred seventy-five pounds -- with 6% bodyfat! -- he hulks his weight around the training area, always ready and eager to flex and show off. He's shaved smooth from head to toe -- at least, I think he's shaved. His skin is never stubbled, even his face, which has always made me think he's kind of obsessive -- he must spend all of his time shaving to keep himself that clean. He doesn't have a tan -- another way he betrays his French-Canadian genetics -- but he has a ruddiness about his pale skin that's almost pink. Simply put, he glows with health.
J-Claude and I have been gym-buddies for about a year now. Familiar faces in the gym always end up speaking, and J-Claude has always had good advice for me. I don't know if he was trying to recruit clientele or just being nice, but a guy that much bigger than me deserved my respect. Besides, everything he's ever said to me has worked.
He approached me this morning, while I was benching, because I was bitching about my shoulder again. It's my rotator cuff, and I know it, but I don't want to hear a doctor say so. I don't want to go through that shit again. I try to go easy on it when I train, but sometimes it gives me grief anyway. "Shoulder again?" J-Claude asks, standing at the head of the bench, ready to spot.
"Yeah," I say, rubbing it. "I keep hoping it'll go away."
J-Claude laughs, showing two rows of perfect teeth, almost glowing white. "I don't know if 'hoping it'll go away' is the best therapy."
"Ibuprofen and Icy Hot are the only therapies I can afford." I laugh. "At this rate, I'll never get as huge as you."
He squats down next to me and speaks in a low voice, almost whispering. "What if I said I had something that could cure what ails you -- and get you as huge as me?"
I smile because I'm sure he's joking, although I wish he wasn't. I've wanted to broach the subject of steroids with J-Claude for a while now, but I haven't -- pardon the pun -- had the balls. I'm sure he's using -- he'd HAVE to be, to be as big as he is -- but we've never spoken about it. "I'd say, 'Why have you taken this long to make the offer?'"
But he's not joking. He's quite serious. "I just wanted to be sure you're ready," he says.
"I'm still not sure you are," he continues. "Not completely. But, hey, when opportunity presents itself..." He pats me on the back. "C'mon. let's go test your limits."
Naturally, like any man in the same set of circumstances, I follow him.
I've been to his apartment before -- we're both Jets fans, so we've often caught games together -- but this time, I'm nervous. He sits on the sofa next to me in just his gym shorts fiddling with a loaded syringe -- itself vacuum-sealed in plastic. The syringe is full of an amber liquid, the "shit" as J-Claude calls it.
He wants to talk first.
"There are things you should know," he says, looking from the seal to me, bouncing the mounds of his massive chest. "Things you should know goin' into it. I believe that everybody has the right to choose this voluntarily."
"Did you choose it voluntarily?" I ask.
He looks up at me, a little startled. "Oh," he says, adjusting his package, "Yeah, I did. Definitely. Some guys have been forced -- I hear the stories -- but I chose it. And I never had second thoughts, or regretted it."
"Really?" I ask.
He smiles and pats my knee. "You'll see," he says, cryptically. "Lemme tell you what this is."
"It's some kind of steroid," I say, matter-of-factly.
He shakes his bald head. "No," he says. "Something else. Something different. This actually works on the genetic level, fixing what's not good, improving what's weak. Physically, it evolves you into the maximum possibility of you. Like it did with me." He flexes a quick Most-Muscular for me, and continues. "But it's not without side-effects."
"Side-effects...." I mumble.
"Well, I mean the good things are you gain a shitload of muscle, any physical ailment is permanently healed, your sex-drive goes through the roof...."
"Get to the side-effects," I laugh.
J-Claude smiles. "Your sex-drive goes through the roof," he says, illustrating with a gesture. "That IS a side-effect, believe me. It's not always easy to deal with." Again, he's serious. "You also lose all your body hair. Every bit of it, head to toe. If you can't handle bein' bald and your body bein' smooth, dont' do this."
"Is that all?" I ask, like it's no big deal. Frankly, it's not. Who gives a shit about chest hair?
"Some guys just can't deal with havin' no hair, bud," he says, shifting his weight so we look eye to eye. "But listen, there's something else. One more strange little side-effect. It, uh, it causes you to lose your sexual inhibitions."
"What does that mean?" I ask, curiously. "I suddenly put on panties and try to fuck my dog?"
He laughs. "Not like that," he says. "But it opens you up. It relaxes those warning lights in your head. You may be willing to do things that wouldn't have excited you that much before. Remember, you're super-horny... all the fuckin' time..."
"'Do things,'" I say. "Such as....?"
"Such as..." He shrugs, and proceeds. "Before my transformation, I was uncompromisingly straight," he says, unconciously touching his balls. "Now..."
"You're GAY?!?" I almost shout, surprised. "It turns you gay?"
"I'm not gay. It doesn't turn you gay. I still fuck women," he says, not quite angry. "I just... fuck men, too. In a way, I kind of prefer it. No label needed, bro. I just am. And I fuck who I want."
"You gonna try to fuck me?" I ask, defensively..
He shrugs. "If you want me to," he says. "And I admit, I hope at some point you do. It's not the reason I'm giving this to you, though."
I shake my head. "I don't know, man," I say.
He puts his hand around my shoulder -- is he coming on to me? -- and says, "Everybody feels that way at first. I did, too. Look, think about it like this -- you're gonna be huge. You're gonna be hot. You're gonna be horny as fuck. Do you honestly think that, without this drug, you have any kind of realistic chance of developing a body like mine, and with your physical problems? With that rotator cuff? Dude, you were okay with this when you thought it was just a steroid, and steroids have WAY worse side-effects than this. Are you really gonna turn it all down because you might end up enjoying sex with another guy? Widen your horizens, bro. You gotta make some kind of sacrifice. Trust me, it's worth it."
That quickly, that little said, I make the sacrifice, and he's swabbing my ass with an alcohol pad and jabbing the sryinge into me. It's a big bore gauge, and it hurts going into the muscle of my butt.
"Relax," he says, his free hand openly slapping the other side, the other cheek. And I'd swear he's copping a feel, except he's focused on the injection, and my paranoia is running rampant. How soon do I turn gay?
In the stories, the effect is immediate. Usually the guy -- the skinny guy, the fat guy, the weak gay guy, the nasty straight guy -- gets uncomfortably hot, he can feel the drug coursing through him. He blows up bodypart by bodypart, depending on the fetish of the author -- one time I read one where the guy's chest got so big, he actually started lactating, and other guys would grow from his milk -- he's powerful and strong immediately. He seeks his revenge right away, caught up in the suddenness of masculine energy. His dick swells, his balls break free of his tearing underwear, his new-found sexual energy -- and usually orientation -- completely dominating his every thought.
Well, it's nothing like that, I'm sorry to say. It's completely anti-climactic. J-Claude pulls the syringe out of my ass, and it hurts. I have to hold cotton guaze to the poke mark because it's bleeding a little. No warm feeling, no rush. The obvious blob of foreign something in my glute, waiting patiently for the blood to take it away, but that's all.
I don't think I'm gay yet, either, which is confirmed when J-Claude stands up, his erection so obvious in his spandex shorts that I pull back in surprise, instead of forward in lust, you know? His dick is big -- I'll give him that -- and half-hard it touches his hip bone, barely held in place by the material, thick and long, but I don't want it -- although I secretly wouldn't mind being that big myself. "Sorry, man," he says, not making any move to hide it in any way. I'd swear he was showing it off. "Giving guys shots in the ass kind of turns me on. Shit, everything turns me on, but giving guys shots ALWAYS gets me goin'. It's a little fantasy of mine. And you got a nice ass."
I shake my head and back away. "I, uh, I don't think I'm gay, yet."
He laughs. "It's cool, bro. I didn't expect you were. But you should get yourself on home and get to bed, you're gonna need the rest tonight. Unless you want to stay here and watch me pound this sucker off."
"I don't think so, no..." Although I'm curious about how he'll handle a cock that big. I mean, if mine ever gets like that, you know?
"Aw, c'mon," he teases, advancing. His dick is really big. It's leading him. "You're giving me tonight's fantasy, anyway."
"Oh, why do you tell me that?"
When I back into the wall, he puts his hand on my shoulder. There's no escape. "It's just the truth," he says, smiling. "But I'm not gonna pressure you -- a lot. Get yourself home, buddy. You're gonna want the sleep. And I, uh..." he motions to his dick. "I want to get to work."
I'm in my car driving, feeling the lump of shot in my ass, thinking about J-Claude hittin' that big dick, and worrying that I'm turning gay, when the tiniest wave of dizziness hits me. At the very thought that it might be the drug kicking in, I get a surprising but welcome erection. I hurry home to beat off, hand on my rock-hard dick the whole way.
When I wake that first morning, it's because of an erection, too. This particular one demands attention loudly enough to wake me. It's still not quite light enough to see, but I purposely keep my eyes closed while I pound on my swollen dick, because I don't want to spoil the surprise of seeing myself in the mirror -- seeing all the growth that's taken place while I slept -- like in the stories.
My dick is hard to its max, full of morning piss, and I have to hold my hand a little differently to get a grip on it. I'm so caught up in the idea that my dick has grown -- that I'VE grown -- that I cum almost immediately. As soon as I do, a wave of energy rushes through my body.
I leap from the bed -- leap! -- because I feel terrific! I'm awake and energized. I'm vibrant and vitalized. I'm sixteen going on seventeen. My normal morning aches, my thirtysomething pains, are absent. My shoulder feels fucking fantastic! I reach into the air and stretch, and whether I've grown or not, I can feel a connection to my muscles that I've never felt before. It hasn't been this good in years.
I know right where to stand to get the best look at myself in the mirror -- where the light hits just right -- and with my eyes still closed, I flick the switch and turn to face myself, anxious for my new muscle, my Mr. Olympia physique, as big as J-Claude, who's himself bigger than Coleman, or Yates, or Haney, or even Schwartzenegger.
Of course, I'm not. When I open my eyes, I'm still me, and I find I'm a little drepressed about that -- an emotion that surprises me -- until I take a closer look at myself. Something IS different. I can't put my finger on it, but something...
According to the bathroom scale, I'm five pounds heavier. That's what it is. I'm the tiniest bit thicker, a change that probably nobody but me WOULD notice. As of this morning, I'm officially 195 pounds -- only eighty to go to reach J-Claude's size -- not that I've ever had a bad body -- I've always been athletic -- football mostly, hockey, all that -- I've just never been big. I have good-sized muscle, for a natural, just not a genetically-gifted bodybuilder.
I flex, trying to find the five pounds, but it's then that The Hunger hits. I'm suddenly ravenous. Even my interest in the mirror is abandoned because I can't resist the urge to feed. It's meat that I want -- protein -- and while I wait for the microwave to defrost the two steaks I have in the freezer, I make a shake for myself.
As soon as I eat, I feel the need to hit the gym. Again, I'm half-dressed before I have a moment of rational thought, an ability to resist. I'm standing there in my bedroom, dressed in my bike shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt, when I look at the clock. Nine-thirty. I'm supposed to be a work. I go to the gym AFTER work on Monday. It's nine-thirty and I'm already late. What the hell am I thinking?
It's just after I have that realization that my dick gets hard. I mean, for no good reason, an almost instantaneous erection. When I look down on myself, hard inside my spandex shorts, I immediately think of J-Claude, and I swear my dick is almost as big as his. It looks it, from this angle. When I check myself out in the mirror, I'm turned on by how big I look. Without much thought, I pull it out and start pounding. I have a desperate need to cum.
As soon as I shoot -- which isn't long -- I tuck myself back in and head for the gym. Fuck work.
It's the best workout of my life. There's no other way to describe it. My shoulder feels so good, I immediately bench -- 225 goes up easy. 275 is a breeze. Even at my best, I've never gone heavier than 275, but today I load 315 on the bar.
I get eight reps out so easily that the guy I've recruited to spot me even comments on it. "Shit man," he says. "You made that look a little too easy."
I shrug. "Feelin' good today."
The pump is spectacular. I've never had this kind of a connection with my body -- the bigger the pump, the better the buzz. Not exhaustion, like usual, more like a boost. Even if I never get any bigger, I'd still take J-Claude's shot just to feel like this -- this instant recovery, this incredible power.
I could workout all day, that's my energy level, but I can feel The Hunger coming on again, and deep down I know that I'll have to feed soon, so I end the workout and head for the grocery store, while I can still think.
The Hunger actually hits me while I'm shopping, and the next thing I know, I'm buying almost a hundred dollars-worth of meat. They sell protein bars at the checkout line -- thank God -- and I eat three while I'm waiting for the gal to cash me out. She looks at me disdainfully as she scans the empty wrappers. Fuck her. She's lucky I didn't tear into one of these steaks while I stand here and wait for her. I gotta eat.
I weigh myself again late that afternoon. I'm 202, no doubt the seven extra pounds from the meat alone. I have a moment of rational thought, and I call work and excuse myself. Food poisoning, I lie, enjoying the irony while trying to sound sick -- right now I feel like I could never be sick. They're grumpy, but okay with it. I promise to be in tomorrow.
I'm restless that evening, so I head back to the gym, and this time I work legs. The evening crowd is different than the morning group, so no one knows this is my second trip to the gym today. It feels like my first.
Squatting is better than sex. More powerful. I swear to God, I can feel my legs growing, I can see them swelling with the pump. It's everything I can do to control my hardening dick, especially when I see how good it looks in my reflection, all plumped in my shorts. I should've worn something tighter, I think. Something that would show it off a little better, but I only have that one pair of bike shorts.
I finish with a set, and not a minute later, I'm fully recovered and ready for another, fresh as at the beginning of the workout. When The Hunger strikes -- and it does -- I'm ready for it. I've brought several protein bars in my gym bag -- and bottled shakes ready to go.
Almost three hours later, they have to throw me out because the gym is closing. Totally sucks, I'm just starting my last exercise for calves, but it's home, more red meat, another shake, and I crash on the sofa, asleep almost immediately.
Like yesterday, my erection wakes me, insistant, demanding. How can I deny it? Why would I? It gives me such pleasure. Such power. My grip is again different, and this time I know it's because my dick has grown. I cum at the very idea.
I don't need the scale to tell me I'm bigger -- I can actually see it, today -- but I like the verification. 216. I'm two-hundred sixteen pounds. When I look at myself in the mirror, I'm so blown away -- and turned on -- that I can't help but stare and study.
Of course, the most growth is centered in my chest and legs -- the two bodyparts I worked yesterday -- but I'm clearly thicker through and through. J-Claude said I wouldn't have to work out at all, if I chose not to, but that I'd like it so much. He was definitely right about that. I'm ready to go to the gym now, but today I've got to go to work first. I groan at the idea, but I need the income if I'm gonna buy all this red meat. Maybe I should just get a job at the gym -- it's where I want to be, anyway.
In the shower, I really get a chance to touch my new body, to get to know it. To feel size where there'd been no size, the mass where there'd been no mass, that's a complete ego-ride, let me tell you. I can stand here soaping my chest all day and never get tired of it, touching the two big mounds of new muscle, and my surprisingly sensitive nipples -- why hadn't I ever touched my nipples before? It's so arousing.
My reverie's broken when I feel the water level rising at the base of the shower. I look down only to see the water up above my ankles. Without much thought about it, I check to make sure the drain is open, reaching below the surface.
It's clogged, of course, and when I pull up a wad of my hair, the water immediately begins to drain. I study the hair -- I'd forgotten that part.
Harder reality hits when I'm dressing. My dress pants, always a hair tight in the waist and loose in the seat and thigh, are now the opposite -- tight in the seat and thigh and loose at the waist. I haven't really noticed my stomach until now, but it's firmer. The little roll is gone. Even the love handles are gone. I'm almost afraid to wear these pants to work, for fear they'll bust at the seam, but when I catch my reflection in the mirror, when I see how the pants highlight the growing sweep in my quad, how round my ass looks, how prominent my package appears -- how the head of my dick just barely pushes out at the base of the fly -- I decide to risk it.
I'm gonna have to buy more clothes. Bigger clothes.
My hard-on's back.
The folks at work aren't fooled. "Food poisoning?" they say suspiciously. "Don't people who get food poisoning usually LOSE a pound or two?"
I smile. "A lot happened to me this weekend," I explain cryptically.
"Let's just say I indulged."
I flirt with that chick Brandi from receiving -- who actually touches my chest at one point and giggles -- God, I've always wanted to fuck her! -- but when I ask her if she'd like to get it on, she slaps me and storms away. I visit that easy girl Lorraine in supply -- she's not that hot, but she's willing -- I need my dick sucked so bad I don't care who does it. In the stock room, Lorraine is very happy to take care of me. Kneeling there, she squeals with delight when she pulls it out. "Oh my God," she says. "It's so big!"
"Yeah, yeah," I say. "Just suck it."
But she indignantly backs away. "Fuck you! I don't need to be talked to like that!" she spits. "I'm not some whore!"
I end up beating off in the men's room. It's easier than chasing her down and apologizing, having to beg for it. I shouldn't have to beg to get a cock this nice sucked.
Aw, fuck work. I'm going to the gym.
I'm so sick of these baggy gym shorts. They totally hide my quads. I'm gonna stop by the athletic store on the way home -- fuck waiting, I'll just buy a size or two bigger -- I'll grow into them. I only get a hint of my cock flopping around in these -- it certainly deserves better treatment than that.
I came in with the idea of working back, but I'm also doing shoulders and traps because the pump looks so good. I'm probably gonna hit my arms here in a bit since I have the time. Taking a break right now, eating a protein bar, I catch myself lazilly scratching again -- almost all the time now -- sort of an undefined itch -- I can't shake it. It's annoying, but survivable, and the focus of it seems to move around my body, from quadrant to quadrant. -- one time my arm, one time my leg.
But I have a great pump, as usual. My back is flared and thick, and now with my traps all high and my rear delts so pronounced, I'm a monster. Yeah, I gotta hit my arms.
And look who walks in just as I start skull crushers -- J-Claude himself, leading a client -- some CEO somewhere -- and after he gets the guy started on the bike, J-Claude makes his way over to me, smiling broadly. "Look at you!" he says, shaking my hand. "You're coming along great!"
"I feel fucking fantastic!" I say, slapping his shoulder while I pump his hand. His delt is as round as a ball, and I can barely palm it. "Have I thanked you enough yet?"
"Dude, you've only just started..." He smiles. "To grow, I mean. What do you weigh?"
I shrug. "I was two-fifteen this morning, but, uh..." I lean into him and whisper, "I've grown since then." I pull back, releasing his hand, realizing I've held it too long. "I was gonna weigh myself after dinner."
"Weigh yourself now. I'm curious."
This gym -- which doesn't have dumbbells over 110 -- has a digital scale in the stretching area. As it takes its reading, my excitement level is Child On Christmas Morning -- which is cool -- there used to be a time I would dread weighing myself. J-Claude stands directly next to the scale, facing me, and we both wait for the number. Then it flashes on the screen: 228.
I'm six-feet, two-hundred twenty-eight pounds! The number sings through me -- two twenty-eight -- it actually turns me on. I almost wish I could control my erection.
J-Claude notices it, too. "Hey," he jokes, "looks like everything's growing."
I try to cover it with my hand, but touching it, even in embarrassment, sends electric jolts right through the shaft, making it worse. "Dude," I say, I hoarsly whisper, "it's because I'm two twenty-eight. The weight... it..."
"It turns you on," he says simply. "Believe me, I understand. Nobody understands better than me. C'mon, we better go to the locker room and take care of that."
I follow him, holding my gym bag in front of myself, this new bigger dick for the first time betraying me, trying to control me, almost like it was trying to teach my brain a lesson. I'm two-hundred and twenty-eight pounds, and when my new bigger dick tells me it's time to get off, well then, drop everything, it's time to get off.
And in the locker room with J-Claude, it's definitely time. "I only got a couple minutes," he says. "I got that guy on the bike..."
He takes me to one of the shaving nooks -- private, but not completely cut off from the rest of the locker room -- though not a lot of guys are shaving this time of day, and you'd have to come through the showers to get here. There'd be plenty of warning.
"Don't worry," he says over his shoulder, feeling my fear. "I use this a lot. Nobody ever comes back here. They all use the front sinks."
When he turns back around to face me, I can see that he's getting hard himself, his cock as long and thick as I remember it, there under the spandex. He smiles and winks as he grabs it through the material. "Relax, bro," he says, leaning back against the counter. "No pressure. No unecessary touching. Enjoy yourself."
With that, he pulls down the front of his shorts and exposes his fully-transformed cock. I can't believe I'm saying this about another guy, but his dick is awesome. Really. It's exactly what you'd picture if someone said IDEAL. Not just the size of it -- which is impressive all on its own -- still bigger than mine, I enviously observe -- or is that an illusion because all his hair is gone? -- but its proportion and its shape are aesthetically pleasing, too. The shaft is long and heavy, thickly veined, tapering slightly to the pink, generous head. He strokes it confidently, an old friend. "Gonna join me?" he asks, always smiling.
I laugh nervously and say, "Oh, yeah," pulling the front of my own shorts down -- surprised to find myself wanting his approval, his acknowledgement. When his grin turns sexual, and he mumbles the word "nice," I'm able to beat off with ease.
I would love this moment to go on forever, facing this massive muscle-god, knowing that a body like that is my future, a cock like that is my reward, but I'm ready to shoot almost immediately. I can barely contain my energy. "Hold on," he says, reading me like a book. "Let's do it together. Just a little bit more."
He stands then, towering over me, dominating the space completely, his powerful arm keeping rhythm on his cock. He looks me right in the eye, deeply in the eye. It's all I can do to keep from cumming. "Face the mirror," he says, and I do. We look at our muscular reflections pounding their muscular cocks. "When I say 'three,' hit a Most Muscular," he barks. "One... Two..."
I'm looking at myself in the mirror when he says "three," and I hit the pose, flex hard, and drive myself over the edge. I shoot a massive load at the mirror. I can see him next to me doing the same thing. We pose and cum, pose to pose, shot to shot. I show off for him -- I'm connected to him.
Two seconds later, we're tucking back in, wiping the mirror up quick with a paper towel, and heading back into the gym. Just like that. Relaxed and easy. "Catch you later," J-Claude says, clapping me on the shoulder. "You're coming along good." With that, he non-chalantly walks over to the cardio area, back to his client. I watch the halves of his massive, muscular ass flex back and forth as he goes.
That doesn't make me gay, does it? On the way home, I decide to head out to one of local taverns and pick up some chick -- just to fuck her, just to show I'm still a man -- but after I eat dinner -- six chicken breasts and a shake -- I'm thinking that I could use the recuperation -- growth -- time instead, so I head to bed early. Plenty of time to prove I'm straight tomorrow.
Besides, beating off before I go to sleep, I'm not fantasizing about fucking J-Claude. I'm fantasizing about BEING J-Claude. What it must feel like to have biceps that big, a cock that big...
Sleep is full of dreams. Wonderful new dreams.
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