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Old September 14th, 2009, 03:36 PM
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Built That Way 2


The reactions from my classmates—hell, the whole school—were about the same as Jim’s. Stuttering. Staring. Casual “feel-me-ups” that I wasn’t supposed to notice but that sent my body into spasms of unexpected delight each time they happened, the grin on my stubbled face spreading when I realized they were intentional, my muscles involuntary twitching, pulsing, threatening to shred the seams of my cheap white T-shirts and my faded jeans.

I could barely pull my jeans on over my thighs and calves these days, even though the fabric still hung loose around my waist. I still stood 5’7” but I had bulked up to a tight 193. My chest had grown to a thick 49”, my biceps a screaming 18 ?”, my neck 18 ?”, my thighs a solid, shredded 32”, and my waist still a slender 28”. I had cobblestone abs with ripped obliques and intercostals. My lats swelled with a taper that made every friggin’ thing I wore intimidating—in truth, a fact that I found slightly embarrassing. Yeah, it was one thing to be the secret sexual desire of everyone I walked by. But it was another thing to look every one of those lustful people in the eye. And I’m talking girls and guys.

It was near the end of my sophomore year. The coach had been after me to try out for football, but I was no athlete. I vividly remembered my older Marine jock brother tearing through defensive tackle during Friday night football games and knew I could be nothing like him. I remembered the cheering crowds, the swooning girls who fought to smell the sweat-soaked jersey he stripped from his thick torso, his sweaty pecs and abs heaving with the effort of the game, glistening in the glow from the floodlights above. I knew that I was jacked, but damn. Could I ever be like that?

The coach had been insistent. I had to try out, he said. So it was an apprehensive Tuesday afternoon when I entered the locker room and asked for a uniform. The coach handed it to me with glee. I was unsure what was happening as I walked away from his office and toward a corner of the locker room to change, and I realized he’d followed me outside the doorway of his office and stood there watching me.

There was certainly plenty to watch. Twelve or thirteen beefy guys stripping out of their school uniforms and pulling on the gray pants and red jerseys that made up their uniforms. I wasn’t particularly interested. Instead, I faced the tiled corner of the room and pulled my shirt off over my head in an “x” form, my left hand pulling from my right hip and my right hand pulling from my left, first revealing my tight, sexy low back, and then my wide, thick lats that had pulled down 320 pounds for reps just that morning. As the white cotton form pulled past my ears, I heard the movement in the room come to a standstill. I was being watched. I tensed, my back tightening and every muscle within my body forming bulges and ridges that pushed against my paper-thin skin. There was an audible gasp in response.

I had an appreciating audience.

My thick chest and ripped forearms chest rippled and flexed as I wadded the white T-shirt into a ball and turned to face the crowd—or tried to. Instead, my nose bumped into the solid if fleshy chest of Jack Straightborne, senior year quarterback. “What’s up, runt?” he asked, pushing his chest against mine.

I didn’t expect the push. And to Jack’s surprise, I didn’t budge. But the two thick, solid plates that were my chest easily deflected the pressure he exerted. His fleshly man-boobs squished against my solid pectoral plates. My permanently semi-flexed quads and hams kept me firmly rooted in place. I grinned.

“Don’t call me runt,” I said. Wow. I always thought I was a friggin’ twig. But now, suddenly, clearly, I knew I could take this guy.

Jack grunted, snarled—almost yelled, actually, stepping backwards and getting ready for what I was knew would be a full-body charge toward me. As his right leg came forward and his arms reached out into a push that would have crushed any other sophomore… I quickly reached under his grasping arms, got a firm hold on his corduroy belt loops, and lifted him easily and firmly overhead. My cannonball delts swelled. My full triceps shredded into ever more visible horseshoes. My abs contracted into a solid, impenetrable washboard. My chest, two thick plates of meat, swelled and tensed for my next action. I held 235-pound jerk-face Jack aloft straight overhead with no effort at all. Shit, I normally did overhead presses with 280. This guy was easy.

Huh! And if I had my way (WHEN I had my way), with no one else around, he’d be easy again.

Jack huffed and puffed with fear and surprise as I raised my eyes and looked up into his startled and terrified eyes. The room was eerily quiet. My lip twitched with anticipation. One wrong move and I’d pound his jock ass into oblivion. “Don’t fuck with me,” I said.

He started to struggle. I tensed my shoulders to hold him in place overhead. “Do you get it yet?” I yelled.

He continued to struggle. “You fuck!” I heaved a deep breath, snarled—almost a yell, almost a grunt—and threw Jack forward with all the power my muscle fibers could muster. He landed with a thud and a groan on top of the next row of green metal lockers.

“Hey!” The office door slammed. The coach was immediately in my face. I turned to face him. My thick, solid muscles heaving and twitching. Ready for anything. All the other jocks backed up cautiously. Even the coach realized I was in charge.

“Yeah?” I asked, breathing right into his face, bumping my solid pecs into him, knocking him backward. What a shit he was. I flexed a most-muscular, my thick traps ripping my white T-shirt’s neck seam, challenging him to take me on, my shredded, boulder-like shoulders and ripped, swelling arms threatening him, prepared anything he could bring.

There was a quite moment. Coach seemed to shrink in within himself.

“I’m not sure you’re ready for the team,” he said.

I held his gaze level. My abs were tight, ready, contracting maybe down to 27” while my heaving chest probably swelled up to 50” or 51” with each breath. This mother could bench 385 for reps. Fuck him. I wadded up my T-shirt and turned my back.

“Fuck the team,” I said, walking out of the room.

Last edited by lkjhgfdsa; April 30th, 2010 at 08:19 AM. Reason: reposting of original story
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Old September 14th, 2009, 03:42 PM
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