You arrive at the gym for your workout at the usual time. You pause in the lockerroom to pull the baggy oversized sweatshirt over your head and stow it in the locker along with your gym bag. The guy further down the row sucks in his breath with a rush. You are wearing a skimpy ribbed cotton tank top. Its worn material hugs your body like a second skin. Your broad shoulders are revealed, each head of the deltoids distinct, even in repose. Beneath the material, the ridges of the 8-pack of your abs are clearly visible. Snaking across your arms, shoulders, thighs and calves is a network of veins, raised above the tissue thin skin.
You walk into the weight room and notice how crowded the gym has become. What you don't realize is how many guys have changed their workout time so that they can be there when you are. Word has gotten around, and now many of the serious competitors have joined the gym so that they can keep an eye on their major competition. You. Intermediates, wannabes, worshippers, all types come to the gym in the hopes of getting a glimpse of you as you exercise. Because your workouts have become legendary for their intensity, for the awesome spectacle of your thick, defined muscles straining under unbelievable weights as you strive to perfect your body.
Today you are working on your back. You sit down at the cable row and set the weight at a light 160 lbs to warm up with. As you lean forward to grab the handle, your lats flare out from the sides of your tank top. Wide as a handball court. You quickly do 20 reps with perfect form, and then increase the weight to 200 lbs. Now your workout will begin in earnest. Rep after rep, you pull on the cable, picturing your back getting wider. Your lats sticking out even more than they do now. Set after set, you are focussed on the feel of your muscles as you strain against the ever heavier weight stack.
Now you are feeling pumped. As you stand up from the pad, you glance around the gym floor. It's time to pick the guy who will be helping you today. Every time you are in the gym you select someone to help set up the weights, spot you, hand you a towel, bring you water.
Sometimes it's one of the other huge guys, and you may even let him work in with you. It's fun when the other guy goes to exhaustion on an exercise. Like the time that a guy was doing dumbbell curls with 100 in each hand. His biceps were so pumped that it almost looked like they would burst out of his skin. You had to help him do the last rep - the 6th, and you forced him to do it. Made his muscles scream. Then you calmly walked over to the rack, picked up 120 in each hand, and flung them up and down in a perfectly controlled set of 10 reps. First looking from the mountain of muscle bulging up in your arm every time you brought the weight up to your shoulder. Then looking at the guy's face. There was a mixture of fascination, lust, and dejection in his face. Not likely that he would match that any time soon.
But it's not always the biggest guys that you choose. Sometimes it's the guys who have been lifting only a few years. Once it was a 16 year old kid, just starting out, who was obviously awed by your appearance. You still give him pointers. And sometimes it's an average built guy, someone who is there to keep in good shape. Maybe already has a boner in his shorts from watching your first set. Today you picked me.
On your way to the lat pulldown you look me in the eye and say, "Can you give me a spot here for a minute, guy?" We are about the same height, 5'10" but you outweigh me by at least 100 pounds of pure muscle. I nod, and you turn to the machine. I run my eyes up and down your torso. The tee shirt barely covers your broad back and is tucked into your faded cotton shorts. I can't get over your waist! It's so tiny, it seems like it should be on a boy, not a masculine man packed full of muscles. You set the weight at 180 and reach up to grab the ends of the bar. I see your delts and triceps flexing, and then you sit down and pull the bar down behind your neck. I marvel at your traps. They swell up as you do the exercise, pitting your musclepower against the inert iron. When you near the end of the set, I push down on your shoulders to keep you in the seat. The feeling of your delts under my hands is incredible! It's like feeling rock, but rock that flows smoothly.
That's only the first set. After a brief rest, you increase the weight and start another set. I am mesmerized by the sight of your back muscles as they writhe under the shirt, most of them exposed because the small swatch of material can hardly contain your torso. After that set you say, "Thanks, bud. Think I'll get a drink now. Thanks." I quickly say, "I don't mind spotting you some more." You smile, because you know that I don't mind. You know that it's all that is ON my mind. To watch you forcing your muscles to get even huger, to make yourself more powerful. "OK sport," you say and get up to go to the fountain. Then it's back for more sets.
Later it's the T-bar row. You have the bar loaded with plates, and I am standing in front of you, watching. There is a look of sheer determination as you hoist the overloaded bar to your chest over and over again. You grit your teeth as you grind out rep after rep. You want to grow! You want to be stronger! Because being stronger means that you can get bigger. There could be an earthquake now but you wouldn't notice. There is only the weight and you. Nothing else. And you are going to beat the weight. You imagine your muscles getting stronger with each rep, not getting more tired. Each fiber getting thicker, denser. Letting you lift even more, so that the cycle of growth can continue.
You let the bar drop down to the ground. The front of your shirt is soaked through. Sweat has been dripping onto the plates. You stand and do a lat spread, and I feel like I am in the presence of a god. The width of your back, tapering down to your minuscule waist, is a freakish sight. I am staring at you, and don't notice that over half the guys in the gym are staring too. But you notice. And you smile. Without taking my eyes off you, I reach out and offer you a towel. You take it and slowly rub it across the exposed portion of your pecs. So smooth, not a trace of hair there, or anywhere else on your body. You look me in the eyes as you move the towel down along the drenched midsection of the tank top, then toss the towel back to me.
"Last exercise - pull ups," you say. I am a little sad, because I know that the workout is coming to an end. The glorious display of power, dedication, and muscle is soon to be over. I follow you to the wall where the apparatus is and you quickly jump up and do a set. Then you strap a belt around your waist and attach a 45 pound plate to it. Grabbing onto the bar, you do another set, as easily as the first.
"Damn, it's not enough weight!" you cry. "Help me out, guy. Grab onto my shoulders." I can't believe what you are asking me to do. I reach my arms under your pits, feeling the sweat-slick hard skin along my forearms. I grab hold of your basketball sized shoulders and then you begin another set. With the weight and me there is an additional 200 lbs that you are pulling up. I can't believe it. I start to count out the reps, my mouth close to your ear. "Six, seven, eight," I feel all of the muscles in your body - my chin against your traps, my chest against your back muscles, my hands on your thick shoulders, my quads brushing against the hardness of the back of your legs. And I know that my cock is stiffening against the rock hard globes of your glutes. "Eleven, twelve, Jesus!" I sense that you are stopping and I press my dick against your ass and say, "Give me one more, I want you to get HUGE!" And you hoist us up for another rep, and then one more.
You are breathing hard now, and I slip off your body. You turn to me and say, "Thanks little buddy. That was a good work out. Hope that we can train arms tomorrow. Time to hit the showers."
I trot along behind you, heading to the locker room. The view of your glutes and thighs as you stride down the hall is amazing. You peel the sweat-stained tank top up over your head. Now I get an unobstructed view of all the beef in your upper body. Your chest is two swollen humps of manly muscle. The cleft is so deep, it looks as if my hand could get lost in there. Your skin is smooth as glass, no stubble anywhere. I can see your outrageous midsection. It almost looks as if your waist is so small that I could reach around it with just my two hands! Your ab muscles looked like they were incised there by a chisel, and the serratus muscles look like they could draw blood, they are so sharp. "Oh God," is all I can say. I have never seen anyone like this in person. Even most of the pros in the magazines can't match your muscularity. Your definition is so unreal, that you almost look like an anatomy chart. You wring out the shirt a little, and a pool of sweat collects on the floor. Even that little motion of your muscles causes striations to pop up into view.
"Can I have that, do you think?" I ask. You smile and say, "A little souvenir of our first work out together? Sure, why not," and you toss it at me. I purposely let it hit my face. The dampness against my face, the musty smell, is like a hit of poppers. I slowly pull it off and see that you are grinning. I toss the shirt in my bag and remove my clothes, rushing after you to the showers.
The showers are individual stalls, though without curtains. I choose the one opposite yours and watch as you lather up. You swirl the suds around your gigantic pecs, soaping up along your abdominals. Then you turn your back to me and start to soap up your back. But you can only reach partway behind, because of the absurd width of your lats. "Help me out one more time, hey guy?" you say, still facing away from me, holding the soap out behind you and towards me.
I step out of my stall over to yours and take the soap in my hands. I run it across the smooth, wide expanse of your back. The lather makes my hand slide across the hard muscles, and you flex a little to make the ridges of your Christmas tree pop up. I soap down to the small of your back, around the little waist. I marvel at how there is absolutely no fat tissue at your sides. I continue down and soap your ass, and you flex one cheek to reveal striations.
My dick is raging, I've never been so turned on before. This is the hottest thing in my lifetime. To be so close to a stud like you, someone so muscular, so freakily defined, a body that shows up at most once in a generation. All I know is that I want to be there when you work out every day, be your servant in helping you to grow, helping you to get more muscle. Anything to help you out before a competition. To be in the pump room oiling you up, watching the crestfallen faces of the other competitors when you take off your sweats to reveal an unbeatable physique. To be in the front row while you go through your posing routine, the entire audience on its feet, everyone getting hoarse from screaming over your fantastic body.
You take the soap from my hand and swirl it around my boner. I grab your swollen bicep and shoot immediately, thick streams of cum hitting your stomach.
"Now you have to clean my front," you say with a wink. I happily comply, thrilled that today was the day that you picked me to be your helper.