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GH: A True Story
|Okay, this isn't some bullshit story about some skinny fuck who
magically grows into some big muscle stud. They got web sites for
that kind of fantasy shit. This is one of those things where I tell
it like it fucking happens. And you can believe it or not -- I don't
give a shit. It's true. I'm just telling it 'cuz...
I'm just telling it 'cuz I like to brag. I kinda get off on it. Always have.
I'm a bodybuilder now -- about five years as a serious trainer -- I got turned-on to bodybuilding in college. Before that I was a wrestler, which is where I learned the discipline of good abs, and the diet you need to keep them. And my nickname -- The AbsMan. I was kind of a chubby kid, so I had the inner-anger I needed to fuel the drive to become a competitor, but it wasn't until I found wrestling that I really excelled, and my body changed shape enough to give me some confidence. And lemme tell ya, being young and having a good set of abs gives you plenty of confidence.
I started lifting to get stronger for wrestling and just took to it. It was fucking awesome! I blew up that summer, and broke two-hundred pounds -- I remember because it was the day after my eighteenth birthday when I weighed myself, and I felt like I had arrived -- I was a fucking man, in age AND weight.
And I was getting laid all the time. That was when it really started for me. I spent that whole summer just lifting, eating mom's good cooking, tanning at the pool, and scoring chicks. And the bigger I got, the easier it became. Sure, there were guys who were jealous and shit -- few brave enough to actually confront me, but you know, you get those looks and shit, those under-the-breath comments -- but I pretty much blew them off. Anybody can go to the gym and change their body. Okay, maybe I have a genetic advantage, but you can still improve. I mean, it's just, if they don't want to put in the time, then they can't blame me. They're really just pissed off at themselves, 'cuz they're too fucking lazy to do the work. And I was doing the work. And I was getting the benefits. And one of the biggest benefits was pussy.
That's not to say I never got into fights, but I tried to avoid it. Guys with beer muscles were always looking for excuses, and I didn't have the time or interest. Sometimes I had to prove myself, but with my background in wrestling, I'd put a guy down quick. That usually got them to shut their holes. Double the feeling if I could pick up the guy's woman, too.
In college, I found other guys like me. Big guys, into being bigger. Guys who shared my passion and my dedication. That was when I realized I wasn't a freak, some fucking oddity. I wasn't alone in wanting to be a bodybuilder. I learned a lot in that time -- when they saw how easily I grew, how focused I was, how driven, they accepted me like a brother. They showed me that bodybuilding was a sport. And for them, the sport lay in competition. "Doing a show gives you a goal," they explained to me. "A reason to put yourself through all this."
I trusted them, so I entered a few shows, teenage events in those days, and won by sheer size and lack of competition. The guys taught me how to pose -- and how to shave, and tan -- all that vain shit. And hey, if you threw a boner while working on your posing, it was understandable. No big deal. Happened to everybody. There was nothing sexual in it. Getting off on your own body was normal, they said. It shows you're making improvements.
And I was getting off on it. The bigger I got, the more I did. So when the guys suggested I start the juice, I knew that blast of power was going to be better than anything I'd ever felt. I willingly agreed.
But I couldn't even begin to imagine. I took to Sustenon250 and Deca like a babe to milk. In the first two weeks, I blew up fifteen pounds. Eat, lift, and sleep. It's all I did that winter -- I went to the occasional class, too, but c'mon, I was a phys ed major -- all I did was lift and grow. I also said goodbye to my abs -- that hurt. "They'll come back," the guys said, who were all in the same condition themselves, all bloated and fat with juice. "You gotta put on the mass in the winter to get lean in the summer. They'll come back." I trusted them.
And I'm glad I did. It felt so good, getting stronger, becoming aware of my self-power. And by self-power I mean, all I wanted to do was fuck! I wanted to fuck everything! I was jacking off like five, six times a day. It wasn't even sex that I wanted -- I just needed to get off. It wasn't worth the hassle of women -- picking some chick up, flattering her, dealing with her needs, and Jesus -- afterward! Who needs that shit? It was easier to just beat off. Besides, a lot of times I was jacking when I was supposed to be posing, looking at myself in the mirror -- twenty years old, my young face bloated out until I was a chipmunk, weighing in at two-hundred forty-five pounds, when just ten weeks ago, I was two-oh-five, my rounded abs pushing down on my waistband. I looked at myself, and instead of horror at the fat-ass I was becoming, I saw power. And I felt power. And I'd flex. I'd marvel at my new size. I'd get hard, and I'd jack while I looked at myself.
There'd be times when I did it with one or two of my buddies, too. Hey, we were lifting together, giving each other shots, our bodies are fuckin' pumped and masculine and hot, we're like the ultimate example of what a guy should be -- all the other guys were lookin' at us and jealous and shit -- how could we NOT get turned on by that? It wasn't like we were homos -- we didn't kiss and shit -- it was about power. And dominance. And need. It was a game -- we made it into a game -- in order to justify it and be able to talk about it, it had to resemble sports -- first guy to cum was the loser -- so it became about doin' whatever we had to do to win. Anything to make the other guy cum first. That's where I learned how cool it was to have some guy get off on me -- that feeling of dominance.
We discovered together how many guys there were in the world willing to PAY for that priviledge, too. Hey, juice is expensive, you know? And there's nothing wrong with having a sponsor. Some old guys wants to beat off watching me pose and he's willing to buy my supps for the chance? Fine by me. What color trunks should I wear?
That's how I got through college. No shame in that, dude.
I got some pictures took, and that's when it really hit home how hot I was. How much I love to pose and show off. And those little fuckin' swimsuits and thongs were so fuckin' hot on me. I was the body they were designed for, after all, and the more I flaunted it, the more I received -- money, offers, all of it. It would've overwhelmed me, but for the extra energy I got from the juice. The ability to recuperate quickly.
I could've stayed at that level and ridden that wave for a long time -- hell, I'm barely twenty-five -- wait'll my muscle matures -- shit, I have another fifteen years before I peak -- but the bigger I got, the bigger I wanted to be. I mean, I liked it. It looked great. It felt great. I realized then that I wanted to be a monster, one of those fuckin' freaks on the Olympia stage -- bigger than that. I never wanted to be a pretty boy -- although I sure did use it -- I wanted to be the biggest man alive. That may not have been what I dreamed of when I was a kid, but that's what I could achieve as a man.
So I started doin' Growth, which is different than the other stuff I was on -- the sust and the deca and the tons of winstrol-V -- 'cuz it's an actual hormone, normally secreted by the pituitary gland -- causes muscle growth, raises the metabolism to burn bodyfat, increases bone density -- and unlike steroids, the effects of GH are permanent, actual gain is actual gain. It's serious -- and expensive.
I happen to work with a sports medicine Doc -- a trainer for a team I shouldn't mention -- because GH isn't something you fuck around with. He'd offered his services to me last year, and he's the only guy -- other than my old college buddies -- who's allowed to touch me while he gets off. Hey, the guy's taken me successfully through three good test cycles, thirty pounds of muscle, and he knows his shit about Growth -- I think he looks at me like a project, some little forbidden fantasy, some Dr. Frankenstein fetish -- whatever. If the cost of my growth is some dude feelin' up my legs, kneeling before me and worshipping me like a muscle god, suckin' on my cock without any expectation from me, so be it. Shit, I'm not a fuckin' idiot.
Lift, and eat, and rest -- like I've never done that before. Six meals a day -- at least one red meat -- shitloads of chicken and tuna -- my weight in grams of protein daily -- time to eat. Time to lift. Cock reminds me that it's time to jack.
About two weeks into the cycle, I notice the first real changes. I notice a gain in size, a fullness I didn't have before, a round-ness to my muscle. I cover myself in baggy sweatshirts and the loosest and largest of t-shirts, baggy gym pants -- trying to cover like I'm a work of art, a sculpture not ready to unveil, yet. I don't need to advertize what I'm doing. Better if everybody thinks I'm just fat with winter. My bulk cycle. Like all the big boys. Besides, baggy clothes make me look bigger. Spandex is for summer. So the only time I ever really look at myself naked is right before or after a shower.
The heaviest I ever was, right after college, was two forty-seven. I wanted to break two-fifty on that cycle -- just to say I did it -- but it was a barrier I just couldn't break. Sucked. Pissed me off. Well, this morning I weigh in cold at two fifty-two -- three weeks into the cycle -- I'm due for my fourth hit today -- and I look at myself naked in the bathroom mirror, bulked out, bigger than I've ever been in my life, and I notice that my jaw is changing shape. Just a little bit. It's heavier. Swear to God. It's heavier.
It's that change, not the size of my muscle, or the swell of my stomach, or the weight of my legs, it's my fuckin' JAW that gets me hard. It makes me look -- I don't know -- more masculine -- more powerful. They say Growth fucks with your chin, and gives you that caveman brow -- is my forehead becoming bigger? I can't tell. Maybe heavier down toward the eyes. I don't know. But I look different. The same. But different. I'm still me, but I'm bigger. I wish I could describe what that feels like.
I beat off right there in the bathroom mirror, clenching my jaw, trying to make it wider, flexing it. I'm swelling like a tick with blood. My traps bunch on either side of my neck, my thick neck, and I cum when I throw my head back and roar, spattering the mirror with my juice. Flat-handing it off the surface, I impulsively wipe my cum across the mass of my chest, smearing it all over my torso -- massaging the mass of MY muscle -- until I'm shiny from it, and I begin to pose in earnest.
I am huge. And I am hot.
When I finally hook up with the doc, I've jacked three times, and it's fuckin' nine o'clock in the morning -- and I'm ready to go again. I'm wearing a thong under my baggies because it'll give the doc a clear shot at my glutes without me having to be naked -- and okay, because it looks so fuckin' GOOD on me, and maybe even because I like the way I feel when I wear it, whatever. It'll drive the doc crazy, and that alone is worth it.
Imagine the size of my legs, my big horse-muscled ass, my heavy hamstrings. Imagine my impressive package barely held in this red-silk thong, my cock chubby from being a tease, plumped out there in front. Try to see my distended abs and the very bottom of my massive pecs, when I hold my shirt up high enough to just barely expose the nipples, while the doc pulls down my baggies and gasps at the real sight. "Holy shit," he says, in his most professional medical analysis. "You're getting huge!"
I nod. "Six weeks to go," I say.
He wipes my ass with the alcohol swab, cool as it evaporates, and I feel the needle plunge into me. My growing erection seems to time perfectly with the depression of the hypodermic, like the Growth was filling my cock, inflating me. "Very impressive growth," he says, watching.
"Come get your reward, doc," I say, not resisting the urge to flex.
He removes the now-empty syringe, and kneels before me, leaning forward to gently kiss the silk. "Perfection," he whispers, pulling my thong down enough to expose my cock, which rolls forward to greet him.
"Six weeks to perfection, doc," I say, grabbing his head, pushing him into my dick, which he happily takes in his mouth. "You're gonna get me even bigger."
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