Built That Way 6

[lkjhgfdsa]

CHAPTER 6

We sat at the kitchen table, my thick muscles bulging heavily through my damp white cotton T, my hard nipples visible at the bottom mass of my chest, my gray cotton gym shorts sticky and still smelling of sex. I ate a bowl of cold chicken, rice, and broccoli, just pulled from the fridge. My brother stared at my 19” biceps pushing through my clingy shirt sleeve, tensing into a tight softball and then relaxing back to a thick, vein-striped muscle as my arm raised and lowered, bring forkfuls of food to my mouth. My mom stood at the kitchen counter, prepping that night’s dinner, her back turned to us.

God, it was good to see him. And weird, all at the same time.

He hadn’t grown an inch past his tanned 5’9”. That was probably normal, since he was eight years older than me. He was 25 now. And it had been more than 2 years since the last time we saw each other.

He was a tight, hard 168… a couple of pounds heavier than I remembered him, and leaner, if that was at all possible. His athletic body was tightly clothed in an olive-green tee and faded-wash jeans that clung to every curve of his sleek, ripped muscle. Clearly he could still run circles around anyone on the football field, and probably in anything else, as well.

“How long are you back for?” I asked, chewing another mouthful of chicken.

“Just for tonight. Got a few things to do up the coast, but I’ll be back in a week.” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “You wanna go with?”

God, that would have been amazing. But… “I can’t,” I replied. I had my own strict agenda to follow. If I was going to bulk up to 235 by the end of the year, my workouts had to come first. And hopping from beach town to beach town—while it would be a blast (I could just picture the attention my shirtless bro and I would attract on the beach)—just didn’t line up with my goals.

“Well, that’s a shame,” he replied, his eyes lingering on my heavy, vein-streaked bicep. I think, actually, he was checking every single part of me that fell within his line of sight: my thick bull neck, my broad, swelling shoulders, my heavy chest. “You have something going on?” he asked casually.

“I’m trying to stay regular with my workouts,” I replied. “And my eating.”

“Trying to getting buff, huh?” he asked nonchalantly, but with a certain huskiness in his voice. “Good for you, Stevie. Maybe one day you’ll outgrow your big bro.”

“I think he’s done that already,” said my mom innocently, without turning around. My brother frowned.

Had I really grown that much? I mean, yeah, I was 203 pounds of hard, jacked muscle. He was just 168, hard but certainly not jacked by any means. Okay, wow, so I guess I was bigger. But he was so tight, so tanned, so lean. I thought about this as I took my next bite of food, watching the play of veins on my thick, ripped forearms. And then realized: I was tight and lean, too. Plus I was two inches shorter than him, which must have made the 35-plus pounds of hard-packed muscle I outweighed him by seem even bigger and more threatening.

Huh. It’s weird. I mean, I had really worked damn hard over the last 2 years. I was built, jacked, solidly ripped and fucking huge. Especially for a goddamned 17-year-old. Guys moved quickly aside when I walked by, staring with lust. Any girl I wanted, I took. But when, in my mind, I compared what I saw in the mirror with my brother’s perfect body, no matter how much progress I had made, I still felt like I fell short.

But maybe I didn’t fall short anymore. Maybe things had changed.

“Wanna arm wrestle?” he asked. I looked up, my dark eyes meeting his.

Then I looked at his lean, sinewy arm muscles, which he was casually flexing as he placed his elbows behind his head in a fake stretch. God, they were impressive. And then I looked down at my thick, powerful hands resting on the kitchen table. I traced the thick veins along the front and back of my arms, watching them sink into the skin of my bulging biceps. I could see my heavy horseshoe tris pushing the outer edges of my upper arms, each head clearly cut and visible. I started to get hard again, my dick pressing almost painfully against my thin grey cotton shorts in a way that was as equally impressive as my heavily muscled body was. And suddenly I had a better idea.

“Let’s go outside,” I said, rising and shoving the metal kitchen chair back with my powerful legs and bubble butt. The table shook and my heavy footfalls echoed against the thin linoleum and wooden flooring, beneath which sat our dark basement. My brother’s eyes followed me as I rose—challenging and yet inadvertently widening as they took in my full bulk, tracing the sinewy flexing and deep cuts of my powerful leg muscles. I walked out the back door.

I stopped on the back porch, where our washer and dryer were. From a laundry basket full of clothes, I dug out a pair of my jeans, similar in cut to my brothers. I slipped my damp grey workout shorts down to the floor, stepped out of them and into my jeans, and began pulling the denim upward. It took a while to work the fabric up over my heavy quads and ripping thighs, not to mention my butt’s perfectly hard, perfectly formed twin cheeks. I buttoned the fly, the fabric loose around my waist. The only part that wasn’t skintight.

Then I proceeded out into the grassy yard, where under the hot summer sun, I stripped off my thin white cotton shirt, pulling it over my head in a classic muscle move that swelled my arms and shoulders and vacuumed my tight 28-inch waist, each of my eight abs clearly etched and deeply defined, the waistline of my jeans dangerously, temptingly south. I twisted side to side as I worked the damp, clingy fabric upward, tensing my obliques and serattus, making my abs dance, my lower back form Christmas-tree striations, every thick, hard muscle in my torso rippling in time as the shirt slowly worked its way up, up, up… my wide, wing-like lats swelling out as the shirt squeezed by them… my heavily muscled chest and twin rosy nipples revealed as the shirt pulled clean over my head. I dropped the shirt to the ground, tousled my dark black hair, and ran my right hand over the rough black whiskers growing on my jowls and chin. Then I looked up and smiled, catching my brother’s ever-widening eyes as he stopped in his tracks, the screen door slamming shut behind him.

He gulped, and then, with visible effort, he gathered himself together.

“Yeah, you’ve definitely been working hard, man,” he said with mock confidence. “Almost as hard as I work out. You should keep it up. Maybe one day you can train with me sometime.” Then, seeing me smile as I tensed my heavy, broad chest, widened my thick lats, and sucked my impossibly small waist even smaller, he thought better of it. “But not today. I’ve gotta get going soon.”

“This’ll just take a minute,” I said. “I wanna show you exactly what I’ve been working on.” I paused, watching him fidget. This was too awesome. Then, “Take off your shirt,” I commanded.

“What?” He stood tensely erect.

“Take it off,” I grinned. “We’re going to have a pose down.”

“The fuck we are,” he scoffed. “You think I’m interested in seeing you flex your new muscles? I’ve got enough muscles of my own.” He patted his tight, defined abs.

“Oh, I think you’re interested, all right,” I said, placing my right hand behind my head in a mock stretch, just like he’d done in the kitchen, my bicep bulging and my lat flaring. Then I extended my heavy left arm to the side, my fist clenched to make the fluid veins pop and race along the length of my arm. Just mock stretch. And a fucking intimidating one.

Hell yeah. Was I imagining things, or was his breathing getting labored? Was there a little bulge in the crotch of his faded jeans? Shit. I didn’t want to know that about my brother. My own hard-on was pleasurably painful enough. I quickly looked away, concentrating on rolling and bouncing the thick slabs of my pecs… wondering if I could make him harder. Or at least more envious.

“Come on, little man,” I taunted, knowing it would be too fucking much for him. And I was right. Suddenly he was peeling his army green shirt off over his head in the same way I had done, wadding it up and tossing it to the ground, and stepping quickly towards me.

I’ve gotta say, even though I was obviously way bigger and stronger than he was—my brother was fucking jacked. As I watched him drop his shirt and move toward me, I instantly remembered why I’d started lifting in the first place. The man was an absolute marble statue, etched hard in all the right places. His tanned skin made the striations of his rippling muscles pop. His muscle was thick everywhere it should be. Not bulging and hard and powerful like mine—but decent enough. I remembered he’d never had trouble getting laid. But shit—now, neither did I. In fact, it was getting to where I didn’t even ask. I just decided who, when, and where. And I had already decided it was going to happen more often.

“Come on,” I motioned to him with classic come-and-get-me hand movements. We assumed side-by-side positions. My brother kept eyeing me, my body thick from front to back. He was sizing me up, and when he could no longer bear the comparisons between our arms and torsos—shit, was there even a fucking comparison?—his eyes meandered down to take in the differences between his semi-relaxed jeans and the way my jeans stuck tightly to my legs and butt like a second skin, pushed to their very breaking point by my thick quads and hams, my diamond hard calves, and my tight, round bubble but. And also how they were clearly loose around the waist, my cobblestone abs and pleasure trail disappearing beneath the waistband and behind the button fly.

Clearly he was having second thoughts about posing against me. Shit, we might not even have to pose. This, right here, simply standing next to him, my heavily muscled and impossibly ripped bulk overshadowing every aspect of him, was certainly doing it for me. I was growing harder and harder, thicker and longer, hotter and hotter, realizing how much I had bested my older bro. But before he could make any excuses or back away:

“My two boys together!” My mom was smiling, dashing out of the house and running towards us, camera in hand. “Stand right next to each other,” she said, raising the camera and clicking.

Amazing fucking shit. My previously athletic-looking brother looked totally goddamned pathetic standing next to my 203 fucking hard pounds of ripped to shit muscle. His pecs were practically concave compared to my 49 ?” thick, hard chest. His sexy 15” arms were suddenly small next to my bulging 19+ inchers. His jock waist actually seemed a little flabby next to my shredded 28”. And let’s not even talk about our legs. I mean, you can’t really talk about his because you couldn’t see them through his jeans. Just like a normal person, I guess. But mine fucking built legs were almost as visible as if I was wearing nothing at all: Thick, sweeping quads, with heavy diamond bulges at the knees, bulging hamstrings behind, and calves that pushed out heavily to each side of my shins.

Holy fuck yeah!

“Boys! Show me your muscles!” my mom said, camera at the ready. Could my brother even take any more of this? I grinned broadly. We were about to find out. I raised my arms into a classic double biceps pose, my lats widening and visually shrinking my waist even more, my biceps rising larger and harder than softballs, veins popping out all over as my hard, flexing muscles stretched my skin impossibly tighter, and my pumped dick pressed dangerously against my button fly. I looked sideways to my brother and grinned.

He, on the other hand, was looking straight ahead at my mom in a conscious effort to avoid my gaze. Then he breathed and raised his arms into a matching double bi, tightening every muscle in his body so hard they jerked with seizure, his swimmer’s-build muscles swelling slightly and raising a few veins that would have been impressive had he been standing next to anyone but me. But now it just looked pathetic.

Click click click! the camera snapped. “Do another!” my mom said happily. There was nothing my brother could do to end his humiliation. He couldn’t say no to mom, so as I hit another pose, he was forced to do the same.

Then I turned to face my brother and hit a side tri, sucking my waist in tight, puffing and expanding my thick, striated chest, my right arm grasping around my back to grab my left fist, my bulging left horseshoe of a tri visibly shredding for the camera. Then, grinning, I started to sit a little, just to visibly thicken my hamstrings and bring out their striations to complete the pose. Click click click!

My brother started to move into a side tri position facing away from me, his bronze back to me. “Look at me, you fuck,” I said.

He stiffened. I’d never called him anything before, not even when we were kids and he was beating me up like older brothers do. But I called him a fuck now, again, just because I could, because I knew—and he knew—that if anyone was going to do the beating, this time around it was going to be me.

He slowly turned, and then, committed, stepped quickly into his side tri pose, his bronzed and toned muscles rippling, his face sneering. But I was clearly the better man here, and now I was going to throw that fact into his face. I shifted position, slightly, hitting a side chest—click, click, click went the camera, catching my exploding pecs and thick, vein-traced bicep and forearm—and then I ground aggressively into a full-on most muscular, facing him full on, my traps bulging, my chest shredding as my thick pecs contracted together, every muscle in my arms covered in veins that looked about to push through the skin. The fuck! I growled and tightened the pose even more.

Yeah. My brother was definitely hard.

He stopped posing and stood up, straight, tall, relaxed. Breathing huskily. “Yeah, I’ve gotta go,” he said, and turned and walked toward the green shirt that he’d dropped on the grass.

The hell he was leaving. I lunged forward, growling, and tackled him, my 203 pounds of heavy muscle taking him straight to the ground. His military training must have tucked in because he rolled as we impacted, coming up just to the side of me and turning to fight. His right fist punched—to no avail—into my muscled washboard waist. He grimaced and recoiled, almost as if he’d hurt his hand during the blow. I grasped his right arm to prevent another swing and rolled my bulk on top of him. He was sleek and wiry and kept trying to work his way out from under me… an impossible task, as I held his right arm down with one hand and pinned his head back against the ground with the other.

His muscles were straining hard, trembling. His left hand was still free, and kept striking at me with ever more desperate blows, striking with all his might at my windpipe. Damn, my brother sure knows how to fight, I’ll give that to him. The military taught him that. But I know how to fight, too. I’ve been doing a lot of it lately. And I’ve got the body to back me up, outweighing my brother by a good 35 pounds or more of solid hard-packed muscle. And I was quickly becoming angry at the way my brother was clearly trying to hurt me. So I started using my muscles to the full as well.

I sat on his waist and dug my thick, muscled thighs into his sides. I held both arms to the ground, his sinewy muscle uselessly straining against me. Grunting, groaning. I moved his left hand into contact with his right, grasping both wrists and holding his armed trussed over his head with my powerful left hand. His sweat made him slippery but I held fast, pushing his forearms downward and nearly behind him, so hard it was clearly painful. Then I put my right forearm on his neck and pushed forward, inward, hard. “Give me some goddamned fucking respect!” I roared again and again, practically spitting in his face. My mom was screaming. My brother was gasping as my bulging thighs tightened ever more. His eyes started to roll back in his head, and instantly I realized: He was fighting for his life.

Suddenly I froze in place, sitting there for a minute, with my brother pinned to the prickly grass in our blazing hot backyard, sweat coating our bodies, my every muscle still, my mom shrieking in a muffled way in the background as the world seemed to close in on my by-the-moment thoughts: I can take him. I am the one in charge. I am the man. And anything I want can be mine.

Suddenly, I released him, and looked at my meaty hands, my thick, vein-crossed forearms pulsing with muscle… my hands that had very nearly choked the life out of him.

I stood up, over him. He looked up at me with bulging, desperate eyes. I grinned and hit a most muscular. Then I saw Maryann standing in the open garage door, her hand pressed against her groin.

I stepped back from the crumpled mess that used to be my idol, my mom cautiously moving forward to help him to his knees. I cracked my neck, flexed my pecs, and then turned and strode back to the garage to finish my workout. And to finish with Maryann.

[arpeejay]

Grrrr!

Very hot!

More, please!

xoxo

Richard

[5uiat]

fuck. yes. this story does it for me, absolutely, 100%.

[Jaypat]

Oh yeah. We must have more of this.

[Demandred]

There's something about having an older brother which makes this story all the more worth reading. You keep writing and I'll keep reading!

- Dem

[Mdlftr]

WOW!

Mdlftr

[skumbum]

Yup, hot.

[allaboutit]

Wow!!! More please!!!