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|Terry and Monica met at in high school. Even as a freshman, Terry was
a star football player, and Monica was a gymnist. It was love at first
sight. Terry was on the football field, tossing around the ball with
some of his teammates. Sweating in the hot sun, he removed his shirt.
Terry was obviously big, with broad shoulders, firm pecs and huge
arms. What surprised Monica, though, was how ripped Terry was. His
abs created a cobblestone road into his tight-fitting football shorts.
Terry's legs were huge, with massive quads and diamond-shaped calves.
Terry noticed Monica staring at him. She wore a tube top that showed off her own set of ripped abs. Her body was tone and lithe, and her feminine muscle rippled as she walked.
It was obvious that these athletes were meant for each other.
They began to hang out, then date. Monica convinced Terry to start competing in bodybuilding and powerlifting tournaments. By the time he was a junior, he had become Mr. Teen Florida and the southern states teen power-lifting champion. Likewise, Monica had begun to compete in fitness challenges, and won state and regional award.
In college, the lovers began to compete as a pair in competitions, winning national titles. Terry majored in sports nutrition, while Monica majored in business. They married right out of college and opened a gym.
Monica became pregnant with their first son within a year. They named him Tom, after Monica's father. Tom was a big baby, and seemed healthy but the doctors wanted to run tests. When the doctore asked to meet with the parents, all sorts of disasterous scenerios went through their heads. Monica was clutching Terry's 21inch gun as they entered the doctor's office. She was visibly shaken and thankful Terry was there to comfort her.
"I'm sorry. No, there is no problem. Just a little genetic abnormality. It seems your boy lacks a gene that inhibits muscle growth. I suspect you both have the same condition." The doctor explained that they had found several other children with this "condition", and were monitoring them to see if there were any ill-effects. The doctor hypothesized that Tom would excel at sports and feats of strength, but it was too early to tell.
Tom was a happy baby. Monica would take him to the gym, where he would watch his father train clients. By the time he was two, Tom was toddling around the weights, trying to imitate his father. When he was almost three, he began to beg his father to show him how to lift, throwing temper tantrums when he was told he was too young. Finally, the parents relented, and set up a special 'kids weights area' for Tom to play in. They gave him empty 5-lb dumbell bars, made a small bench and power rack, and padded the area so he wouldn't get hurt.
Tom played at working out, doing curls, squats and presses for hours while his parents worked. He only stopped every 90 minutes or so, screaming he was hungry, and Monica would have to feed him.
Terry and Monica didn't notice the changes in Tom, but one of Terry's clients did. After about two months, he commented, "You're kid's got some pretty good muscle going there, Terry! Wish I had his genetics."
Terry looked at his son. He was lean, and his muscles did stand out. There were small bulges on his arms, and his legs weren't pudgy kid legs but looked tight, like runner's legs.
"Daddy!" Tom complained. "This is too light. Can I please please please have more weight!" Terry had heard his son say this before, but he always laughed it off. This time, it was different.
"Sure, Tom," and Terry got some 2.5lb weights and added them to the dumbells.
Tom jumped up and down with excitement and started lifting. Terry showed Tom the correct form, though the three year old didn't pay much attention.
Terry had to correct Tom's form fairly often, but it didn't seem to matter. By the time Tom turned four, he was stronger than most ten year olds. His arms measured 13 inches, and his chest was in the high thirties. His legs were 18 inches around, and he looked like a miniature body builder, which he was.
When Tom entered kindergarten, a week hadn't passed before Terry and Monica were called to a teacher's conference. "Tom is a good boy," tha matronly teacher started, "but he doesn't seem to know his own strength. During dodgeball, he throws the ball so hard that he knocks the other children down. He seems a lot faster than the other kids too. I'm afraid he's going to hurt them." Terry smiled. He knew Tom was already benching over 100 pounds, more than twice his body weight. His arms measured twelve inches around, at least 4 or 5 inches bigger than the average kindergarten student.
Tom didn't like school, and by the time he was to enroll in first grade, Terry and Monica decided to home school him. Tom was happier at the gym, and Monica and Terry worked reading, spelling, math and history into Tom's workout schedule.
Tom was becoming a machine in the gym. School was a distraction his parents forced on him. He preferred to run, jump and more importantly, lift.
Tom did know when school ended because he had befriended some junior high boys. They had started working out at the gym when Tom turned six. They noticed Tom right away.
"Hey," said Chuck, one of the boys, "look at that kid. Shit, the pipsqueak is curling 95lbs. Heck, he's stronger than you are Josh."
Josh was one of the smaller boys who hoped working out would make him cool. "No way," said Josh. "He can't be more than nine years old!"
"I'm six," said Tom, dropping the weights. "And I'm strong!" He made a muscle, and a softball-sized dome appeared on his upper arm.
Chuck put his hand on Tom's arm and squeezed. "Holy crap!" he said. "It's hard as a rock."
"So," said Josh, making a bicep. His twelve inch bulge looked soft and small compared to Tom's. "Come on, pipsqueak, I challenge you." Josh put his arm on Tom's bench and wiggled his fingers.
"Oh boy ya!" said Tom, looking forward to the game. Kids in his kindergarten had been really weak, and he was hoping this bigger boy might be more of a challenge.
Tom knelt down and put his arm next to Johs's. Josh's arm was longer, but looked like a piece of string next to Tom's. Tom's forearms had a distinct curve to them, and his bicep pushed up from his upper arm.
Josh laughed. "Puny kid hand," he said, repositioning his arm lower to take Tom's hard.
"I'm not puny! I'm strong!" said Tom.
"Prove it," said Josh. "On the count of three. One, two, three." Right before Josh said three, he started pressing against Tom's hand, sending it toward the table.
"No fair!" shouted Tom, who stopped his hand half-way down. "You started before you said three!" Tom pressed his hand into Josh's. Although Josh resisted, Tom easily got their hands to the neutral position. "Now play fair!"
Josh gulped. He had resisted Tom's arm, but it looked like the kid hadn't even tried to push him. "Sorry," he said softly, unsure of himself. "Ready?" Tom nodded. "One. Two. Three." On three, Josh started pushing.
Tom frowned. "I thought you were going to push."
Josh's arm started shaking and his face turned red. He was pushing as hard as he could, but Tom's hand didn't move.
"You said i was a pipsqueak, but you're the pipsqueak." Tom pushed, and Josh's arm flew to the table. Tom smiled, then squeezed his hand. Tom's forearm rippled as he contracted the muscle.
Josh screamed. "Ow! Stop that! I'm sorry."
"I'm strong, right?" asked Tom.
"Ya! You're strong. You're Hercules! Please, just let my hand go!"
Chuck and the other kids laughed, and Josh slunk down.
"How'd you get so strong, uh, what's your name?" Chuck asked.
"I'm Tommy and I like to lift weights. See?" Tom walked over and added anothter ten pounds to the bar. He lifted it. Locking his elbows at his side, he raised the bar slowly, counting to five raising the bar, then five lowering it. Tom's bicep swelled, growing from a baseball to a good sized softball. He did ten reps before putting the bar down.
"Wow! And you're only six!"
"Ya, my dad owns the gym and he lets me lift weights."
"Would you show us?" asked another of the kids.
"Sure," said Tom, lifting his shirt to wipe his forehead.
"Look at those abs!" said check, pointing toward Tom's stomach.
Tom smiled. "Wanna see?" he said. Tom lifted his shirt.
"Holy crap!" said Josh. "The kid looks like Superman."
"Superboy," corrected Tom, who hit a crab pose, causing his kid-pecs to bulge thick and ripple with power. "I told you I had muscle," said Tom, liking the way the boy's admited him.
Everyday, after school, the gang would show up to work out with Tom. Or try to. Few of the boys had the drive that Tom had, and over the next couple of years, only Chuck and Josh remained. The three became fast friends.
Everyday for two years, the three worked out. Josh's string arms changed to hard peaks, and he became known as one of the school studs. Chuck excelled at sports and developed a ripped, tight physique. But even after two years, Tom still ruled the weights. At age eight, Tom weighed close to 90 pounds, most of it muscle. At only four-foot three, he had 17.5 inch arms, a 48 inch chest, 25 inch quads and a 24 inch waist. Tom could bench press 250lbs and curl 125.
As the boys grew, both Chuck and Josh got an itch to compete. Terry offered to teach them how to pose and flex. The boys bought posers, and Terry bought Tom a speedo. Chuck and Josh liked to compare their progress, but shuddered when Tom got involved. No matter how big they got, Tom was always the bigger muscle kid.
In early spring, after one of the boy's workouts, Tom seemed agitated and upset. He went to his room, and his parents heard him doing push-ups, situps and lifting the dumbells he had at home. They knew this as a sure sign that their son was bothered by something, and trying to work off the extra energy he had. Monica sent Terry to talk to him.
Terry knocked on the door. "Tommy, it's dad. Can I come in?"
"Ya," came a sad voice from the other side of the door.
Terry heard two dumbells hit the floor. When he opened the door, Tom was sitting on the bed, his head down looking at the floor. He was wearing a pair of green shorts that stretched around his thick, ripped thighs. It occurred to Terry that he'd have to buy his son larger shorts soon, or his phenomenal legs would rip through the pant legs again. They didn't make pants for boys as big as Tom. He couldn't wear long pants any more unless they were specially tailored for his small waist, and thick quads, hams and calves.
Tom's tshirt was soaked with sweat. It was a man's large, ripped at the waist for the smaller boy's size, but still, Tom's chest, delts and arms strained at the fabric. The wet shirt clung over Tom's pecs, and the sleeves looked ready to burst from the boys obviously pumped arms.
"We heard you downstairs," Terry said. "What's bothering you son."
Tom looked up, and a tear ran down his face. "It's not fair Daddy," he cried. "Chuck and Josh said they were going to compete in a bodybuilding contest next weekend. I WANNA COMPETE TOO," he sobbed.
Terry sat down and wrapped his huge arm around his son's broad shoulders. "You will be able to compete too, Tommy. Soon."
"Josh said I was too young!" Tommy cried, pushing his face into his father's muscular chest to wipe away the tears. "He said you had to be at least thirteen and that I hadn't even started poopartee."
Terry smiled. "Josh is right. There are rules. And did he tell you about puberty?"
Tom looked up. "He said it means you get bigger down there and get hair and turn into a man." Tom frowned. "I don't care nothing about that, and I don't care nothing about no dumb rules. I got bigger muscles than they do, and I flex better than they do, and I don't care that I haven't gotten bigger down there yet. I'm bigger everywhere else." Tom pulled back. He put his hands at the top of his shirt. "See!" Tom pulled, and the fabric of the shirt ripped as easily as paper. His muscles rippled with youthful vigor as they were freed from the fabric. Sweat glistened from Tom's thick pecs. Streaks of the boy's perspiration ran over his ten pack. Tom ripped the shirts over cannonball delts. He threw the fabric on the floor, stomped off the bed and stood before his father, frowning.
Terry chuckled. "Where did you learn to do that?"
"I saw it on TV. Some big green muscle man did it. But I'm bigger than him." Tom raised his arms, and his pumped bis exploded while his lats spread like eagle's wings from his back. He crunched his abs, making his tiny waist even thinner. "I'm bigger than all of them! I wanna show them. Please Daddy! Look!" He lowered his arms, turned to the sides and flexed his thick tricep. His pecs divided into distincted upper and lower shelves, then ripped more, showing cross-striations. Thick veins pressed under paper-thin boy-skin.
"That's very good Tommy," Terry said reassuringly. "Yes, you are very big."
Tom smiled. "Big like my daddy," he said smiling.
Terry smiled too. "I can't promise anything, but I'll call some of my friends. Maybe I can arrange something."
Tommy jumped up and down, and ran to hug Terry. "Thank you Daddy! I love you Daddy."
Terry lived up to his word. He made some calls, and while the organizers were reluctant at first, when they saw pictures of Tom, they relented. With a unanimous vote of the competition officials, they waived the age requirement.
Because of his size, Tom competed against high school students. Chuck and Jason competed against a group of younger kids. Though they teased Tom, secretly they were releaved that they didn't have to compare their smaller bodies against his kid power.
The high school kids snickered and laughed when they heard an eight year old was going to compete against them. They stopped laughing when Tom took off his shirt. He was easily bigger than most of the competitors.
When Tom took the stage, there were gasps from the audience. During the manditory poses, Tom proved his kid muscle was easily thicker, harder and more defined than all but one of the other competitors. Tom's posing routine was fluid and highlighted his powerful kid physique. Watching Tom pose, it was easy to forget that he was only eight.
Josh won his division, barely beating Chuck. But when it came to the top five, only Tom was on the stage. He had easily made the top five, which shocked and embarrassed some of the small teenagers. They knew that they would never hear the end of being beat by a kid. It didn't matter that the kid looked like a minature Mr. Olympia. To their peers, he was still only 8.
Although there were five boys on stage, everyone knew the contest was really down to two. Tom, and a big kid named Chris. Chris was 19, and freely admitted to doing steroids. He was 220lbs of muscle, and standing over six feet tall, towered over Tom.
That advantage didn't matter when Tom started to pose. Tom was clearly more ripped than Chris, and his tiny kid waist made his massive chest, back and shoulders look even bigger. Chris posed hard, but Tom overwhelmed him when they compared legs. Chris's were thicker, but only slightly and lacked the high ridges and deep value's of Tom's legs. Chris looked fat and bloated compared to Tom. But what sank Chris was Tom's most muscular. Chris couldn't compete to the rippling, ripped power Tom displayed as he flexed into a crab. Tom moved in front of Chris and his wide lats eclipsed the taller, older teen.
As the losers were placed, they left the stage. Some stared at Tom with awe, wondering how a boy of eight could develop such an incredible physique. Chris, on the other hand, scowled. When his name was called in second place, he grabbed his trophy and stormed off. The crowd erupted in applause and cheers for Tom, who flexed appreciatively for the crowd.
As he stepped off the stage, reporters from some of the major bodybuilding publications crowded him. They wanted to know his secrets, and get pictures of the boy champ.
"No secret," Tom told them. "Just a lot of hard work."
"Fucking freak, more like it," a voice said from the side. It was Chris.
Terry had been standing back, but now came forward. Grabbing Chris, he spun him around, "Watch your mouth, boy."
"Dad," said Tom, coming up to them, "it's OK. Let me handle this. He's just a bully and a sore loser."
Terry looked at him, nodded and let Chris go. Turning to one of the reporters, he said, "I always taught him to handle his own problems."
"That trophy should be mine," Chris said, pushing Tom in the shoulder.
"This trophy is for muscle, and nobody can beat my kid muscle," said Tom, stepping into Chris. "You're too weak to get this trophy."
Chris moved to grab Tom, but Tom was too fast and grabbed Chris's hand. Chris felt his arms stop, as if they hit a wall, then move down. Chris flexed, his shoulder rippling into three distinctly striated heads as he forced his hands up. They stopped, then he started squeezing, his forearms rippling with power.
Tom flinched with pain, the responded with his own vice-like grip. His arms swelled and pumped as he fought the older teen. Photos snapped as Tom's forearms swelled larger than Chris's, and his kid bis and tris burst to life.
Chris's face turned red as he tried to contain the boy's power. His eyes started to water and Tom's smaller hands began to crush his own. The pain was causing him to lose his concentration. He heard Tom grunt, then slowly, felt his arms being lowered by the boy's stronger arms. "NO!" Chris cried, trying to stop his defeat, but he couldn't.
Tom was sweating as he held Chris's arms down. "Say it. Say I'm stronger." Tom growled.
Chris remained silent, and Tom squeezed harder. Chris heard a snap as his knuckles cracked under Tom's pressure.
"Don't make me squeeze harder," Tom threatened. "I don't like bullies. You started this, but I'll finish it."
"Argh..." Chris cried. "OK. You're stronger. Stop."
Terry walked up behind his son. "That's enough Tom."
Tom let go.
"I'm proud of you boy." Terry picked Tom up and hugged him.
The magazines were full of pictures of Kid Muscle, as they now called him. There were pictures of him posing, overpowering Chris and Terry hugging him (with the caption, "Like son, like father."). In a special workout section, they showed Tom bench pressing 250 for 6 reps and curling 125 for 5.
In his father's Kansas gym, Walter O'Toole read the stories about Tom. He was a week shy of his own eighth birthday, and looked at a kid his own age becoming famous for his muscle size and strength. Wally put the magazine down, then lay on the bench. He grabbed the 315 pound bar and did a set of eight reps. He'd add more weight next time. He looked at the 140lb barbell he had just curled and grinned.
Wally took the picture of Tom from the magazine and taped it to a mirror. He lifted his shirt off, then made the same pose Tom made. He nodded. No one was bigger than Wally O'Toole. Next year, that trophy would be his.
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