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Old March 6th, 2010, 05:17 PM
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"BUILT THAT WAY" is back

Hey guys,

Worked to make a few improvements to the series. Every previously published chapter is below. And new ones are in the works. Enjoy! And let me know what you think.



I think my body was just built to be this way.

My brother was my idol. He was eight years older than me. Graduated from high school when I was just seven years old and immediately enlisted in the Marines to get the hell out of our house. Good for him.

He’d come back and visit every couple of years. When I was 12 or 13 he came back for Christmas. He noogied my head, but when we had quiet times together fishing at the river or skipping rocks on the pond, he told me what Vietnam was like. I felt like the one guy he took seriously in the whole wide world. Except I wasn’t much of a man.

He stood about 5’9”. He had thick black stubble where you just knew a beard could grow in a matter of days. His camo uniform set off his well-tanned skin like a movie star. Stripping off his shirt to catch some sun, he revealed a solid chest, slim waist, and arms with rippling veins that snaked down his biceps and into his forearms.

I, on the other hand, was a pasty, skinny white kid. 5’5” and 96 pounds soaking wet. God what I would have given to look like him.

I think that’s why I started lifting. And reading everything I could about bodybuilding. To look like him. Who’d have guessed I’d blow him out of the water?

I lifted hard. And I mean friggin’ hard. Three days on, one day off. I started in March. My hunger was insatiable. Soon, mom was making two roasted chickens for dinner: one for me, and one for everyone else. My old man told me I had to get a job if I was gonna keep growing like this. Hell yeah, I’m gonna keep growing like this, I thought. Between March and May I grew an inch in height and my bodyweight shot up from 96 pounds to 116. Yeah, 20 pounds of solid muscle. I know that 116 doesn’t sound like much, but on my previously skinny arms and hollow chest—what a difference. Every bit of me was solid.

I started eating two chickens at dinner. Busted the weights every afternoon in our shithole of a garage. It was so hot—I remember the sweat dripping off my arms as I loaded the rusting metal plates onto the bar, heaving them up with a grunt and an intake of air. It gave me a hard-on as I watched the swelling muscles ripple under the paper-thin skin of my forearms, the veins pulsing through the flesh in a network of ridges. And this is what I mean by my body was built for this. Because I had started lifting in March at a wispy 96 pounds, and by July I stood 5’6” at 152 pounds. You’re reading that right. And in August—by the time school started again, the beginning of my sophomore year—I was 5’7” and a solidly ripped 175.

I know 5’7” doesn’t sound too tall. But if you’re looking to be a champion bodybuilder, that’s about at the top of your height range. And I knew, after 6 months of heavy lifting and solid growth—not only did I WANT to be a champion—but I knew could be. And soon, if only I could get big enough.

When I showed up for the first day of school… well… people didn’t recognize me. As I stood in line to get my classroom assignments, a hand touched my back, feathery through my white cotton T-shirt. Gentle. Soft. I don’t think I was supposed to feel it at first. Then it tentatively poked into my rock-hard muscle.

“Shit,” said a deep voice.

I grinned to myself. It was Jim. My friend, in a way. See, he hung out with me, not really because he liked me, but because I envied him, and he got off on it.

I tensed every muscle in my body, swelling them to capacity. God, Jim must’ve been intimated. He’d last seen me at my old skinny 5’5”. Little did he know the muscle beast standing in front of him was me. I was built with a friggin' thick, ripped-to-the-bone 46” chest, 17” neck, 18” biceps, and 28” washboard waist. My traps swelled through the upper seams of my shirt, adhering it to my flesh like a second skin. My biceps—already pushing the seams of the fabric—tensed and bulged enough to make rip sleeves along the top of each hard baseball peak. My thighs contracted into teardrop shapes, my hamstrings visibly shredding as the thick muscles contracted, my 18” calves screaming above their sports sock and sneakers, a single vein pulsing down each diamond bulge. And my lats—my entire friggin' thick back—flexed and swelled, widening into a monstrously intimidating V-taper that still tingled from Jim’s touch.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, pivoting around to face him head on. I was still an inch shorter than him, but man, I was jacked. A solid 30 pounds heaver, and a shitload of that was solid muscle, compared to Jim’s flabby frame.

“Steve?” he gasped, taking a good step back.

“Yeah,” I said, stepping forward confrontationally. Nose to nose. Heady with my new power.

“Have a good summer?” he stuttered.

“Yeah,” I said, cracking my neck and flexing my thick, heavy pecs through the straining white fabric of my tee. “Been working out some.”

“No shit,” Jim said. “You look good.” His jeans formed a slight tent in the crotch.

“Damn straight,” I said.


So this is what it feels like to be a friggin’ wet dream.


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.


It’s weird. I look in the mirror and see a body thick with deeply corded muscle—and yet I don’t feel like my insides match. When I’m not in front of the mirror, I still feel like the skinny little kid I always was. And then something happens that makes me remember just how strong I’ve gotten—and how much stronger I’m getting.

I’d taken to wearing long-sleeve flannel shirts, buttoned down over a T-shirt, usually black or gray to set off my eyes and wavy dark hair. The reason for the overshirts was simple: Sporting this much muscle had people staring at me in a way that was really uncomfortable. Rooms would quiet when I entered them. Breathing would become more shallow, the energy in the room more tense. Dozens of sets of eyes would follow my tight bubble but, my ever widening back, and my swelling thighs that pushed my jeans to their limit I made my way through each classroom to my desk.

In the quad, girls would “accidentally” bump into me and place their lingering alabaster hands on my chest, feeling the thick slabs of meat through the thin fabric of my tee, playing with one of my nipples or sliding a hand down my cobblestone abs toward the fly of my jeans… licking their lips… and all of this right in public. I mean, shit, it was amazing. I was tented up super hard all the time. But what am I supposed to do about it in the middle of the school day? Jerk off during science?

Some of the guys were even worse than the girls. No one dared approach me to my face—but they stared. Eyes wide. Mouths open. Glancing away quickly whenever I looked back at them. No eye contact. Never any eye contact.

So I took to wearing the long sleeve flannel to cover up my thick chest, barn-door lats, beefy arms, swollen bis, rock-hard forearms, thick quads, swollen hamstrings—shit, every walking-wet-dream inch of me—from view. A little bit of protection from the ogling hordes.

So one day I was walking through the corridor between classes… guys shuffling quickly out of the way… girls letting their hands drop and graze my skin tight jeans, pulled taught by swelling thighs, ripped hamstrings, and tight bubble butt. I could feel them staring lustfully at my ever widening back as I sauntered my way past.

And then through the parting crowd I saw it: Jim, my sometimes friend, pinned against a locker by a tall, burly guy in a letterman jacket. Just under six feet tall, maybe 170 or 180 lbs. A new wannabe jock at this school, obviously—I’d never seen him before, and I’d lived in this town my whole life.

The guy had his palm pressed firmly into Jim’s right shoulder and upper chest, flattening him against the metal. Jim’s sinewy muscle lacked anywhere near enough strength to break free from the guy’s bulk. Jim made eye contact with me—for the first meaningful time since the start of the year—in a plea for help. Fuck. This was my chance, I thought, clenching my fists, tensing every fiber in my thickly muscled 197-pound body, swelling the seams of my plaid cover-up nearly to their breaking point. I walked straight up behind the guy, overhearing his mouthy words:

“You just think you’re the shit don’t you—you and your gay ass friends. You’re lucky I don’t pound you right here.”

My heavy right arm shot out, my right hand grabbing the scruff of his neck right under his close-cropped hairline, the swelling of my shoulders making the cuts between my deltoids obvious even through the flannel, the blood rushing through my muscles filling the sleeves completely, my broad and swelling chest popping the first few buttons from my overshirt. It wasn’t hiding my muscle anymore.

The guy immediately tensed, reacting to the vice-line grip as I took hold of his neck, but before he could do anything, I lifted him almost clear off the ground. Who gives a shit that he was four or inches taller than me? He certainly never knew that, standing on tippy-toes as my swelling shoulder muscles threatened to lift him even further. I smiled at Jim, now breathing sighs of relief as he slumped against the wall, free from the bully’s grasp. Hell, this was nothing. I did lateral raises with 90 pound dumbbells for reps. I knew I could reach out my other hand, take the guy clean in the air, and do with him as I pleased. And given the incredible pressure I was putting on the guy’s neck, and the fear that suddenly seized him, he knew I could do it too. He hadn’t even seen my hulking body yet. But he sure could feel its strength. I pulled him close to me, my bicep and forearm flexing, his feet scrambling like a ballerina. I pulled him close enough for me to whisper in his ear, my warm breath carrying a soft, growling threat made clear by my hard grip:

“Don’t fuck with him. He’s mine.”


I released the asshole and pushed him forward and slightly to the left, sending him smacking face-first into the row of green lockers, his body hitting right next to where Jim stood, paralyzed and watching intently. His clothes were still rumpled from the beating the asshole had intended to give him.

The asshole peeled his face from the metal, cracked his jaw, and quickly gathered his jock composure as he wheeled to face me. He was moving so fast, so much on instinct, I don’t think he realized who he was dealing with until it was too late.

As he spun around, it was clear that he expected a challenger standing at least equal to his own 6 feet in height. So when he looked down at my 5’7”, he grinned, snarled, hauled back, and planted a right hook into my belly with every bit of power he could muster.

Poor guy. I think it was just right before his fist made contact with my etched-brick abs that he realized his mistake. The blow glanced off my solid abdomen, and the asshole’s eyes widened as he realized that even though I was five inches shorter than him, I outweighed him by about 25 pounds, all of it muscle. I grinned.

The asshole scrambled backward in surprise, banging up against the green lockers once more. I stepped forward, grabbed the scruff of his collar with both hands, and lifted him off the ground, all the way this time, his pullover and jacket stretching and threatening to choke him. His eyes widened in ear.

“So you’d like to fuck with me instead?” I growled right in his face. “Is that what you’re saying?”

The asshole had no words. He just stared into my dark eyes, terrified, speechless. He may have whimpered a little.

“That’s a bad idea,” I said, tightening my grip some more just to hear him whimper again. Then I quickly planted one muscled leg behind me, stepped back, and threw him forward again, slamming him into the row of lockers, letting him go and drop to the floor in a defeated heap.

“Get the fuck out of here,” I said, towering over him. The asshole looked up into my dark smoldering eyes one last time—I think to make sure I was really letting him go—and then scrambled down the hall without looking back.

Now I turned my attention to Jim, still frozen up against the lockers but obviously looking relieved.

“Steve,” he breathed, “that was amazing.”

But with all this testosterone raging through my thickly muscled body, Jim wasn’t getting off that easy. I stepped forward, grabbing his hands and pinning them to the locker, one on each side of his head. I stood directly in front of Jim—all tan, leanly 165 pounds of him—my meaty paws and thick, rippling forearms pushing his own slender hands and sinewy forearms up against the cold metal, holding him captive.

“You think you get off that fucking easy?” I asked. “This is the first time you talk to me all year… and only because I saved your scrawny ass?”

A flicker of fear raced through Jim’s eyes. He strained a little against my bulk. What was he thinking? I grinned and pressed every bit of my hard 197 pound body up against his, legs to legs, chest to chest, abs to abs, grinding against him, my dark, stubbled face right in his clean-shaven one. Huh. Jim was hard. So was I.

“You think you get off this fucking easy?” I yelled again, slamming his hands against the locker repeatedly. “What’s the matter with you?!”

“How did you get so big… so strong…”? Jim gasped. I could feel his boner getting harder, warmer through his jeans.

It was no secret that Jim lifted. His lean, sinewy body was proof enough of that. But I don’t think he ever ate enough to gain much real muscle like I had. Or, he just wasn’t built that way.

“Is that the problem?” Almost unexpectedly, my anger started to dissolve as I realized what was really going on here. Jim was jealous. And lustful. I grinned, grinding against him more, pressing my heavily muscled chest into him so hard that he was having trouble breathing, alternating it with thrusts of my hips that ground his hips into the metal locker behind. “You don’t have little Stevie to feel superior to anymore?”

Jim bit his lip. I wanted to push by body against his even harder, but though better of it, in case the locker should buckle behind him.

“Well, get used to it,” I said. “Because you ain’t seen shit yet.”

I pressed his arms back again hard into the metal, one last time for effect, and then quickly stepped back, releasing him. Jim slumped there, weakly, breathing heavily, his denim crotch tented and hard.

I looked around hall at the other students, who were quiet, pretending to be looking anywhere else, doing anything else—but who had really watched the entire thing. The girls. The guys. Everyone.

“I’ve gotta workout to do,” I said to no one in particular, and walked away down the hall, leaving weak-kneed Jim to wonder what was to come.


The sweat trickled between my meaty pecs in a lickable river.
Ten… eleven… … twelve! I roared on the last rep and lowered the 290-pound barbell to the floor with a clang and flexed, my pumped, swollen shoulders ripped from four sets of military presses. Hold that flex, hold that flex, I growled to myself, grinding my most muscular ever tighter, my traps bulging, my chest shredding, my abs constricting my 28-inch waist smaller and smaller.

203 pounds of fucking ripped muscle. That’s what I tipped the scale at naked this morning.

And now here I was halfway through my shoulder workout in our hot, dusty garage. I’d ripped my thin white tee off after three sets of lat raises with 95s. The shirt had quickly grown clingy and sticky to my skin, and I had torn it free across my chest, shredding it right down the middle.

I picked up dumbbells again, 75s this time, ready to pound out as many lat raises as I could. Dust hung in the air, illuminated by the beam of sunlight that shot in through the open doorway, our dilapidated house visible through waves of summer heat across the grassy backyard. I turned my back to the door, facing the darkness, concentrating intensely as I began my set.

Thirteen… fourteen… fifteen…

Suddenly it was dark and my thick back muscles twitched from the tickling of fingertips grazing my beefy lats. I dropped the dumbbells with a thud, my fists clenched, wheeling around, ready for anything –

-- ready for anything but the person who was standing there.

“Maryann?” I asked.

She smiled, shy yet confident, tossing her blonde hair and tracing my thick, heaving chest with her lingering Bambi eyes, all the way down to my quivering bellybutton, my tight waist. Quietly, she stepped forward, her body moving achingly close to mine. She placed her left hand on my right pec, and used her right hand, her right index finger, to trace from the bottom center of my chest muscles up through the heavy, sinewy cleavage between my pecs… pushing deep against the hard flesh… gathering my trickling sweat… and as she reached the skin where my solid upper chest merged with my thick neck… she drew her finger toward her lips… and licked it… looking deep into my smoldering dark eyes… her tongue working every inch of her finger… savoring the saltiness of my sweat… her plump lips making a sucking sound as she finished and placed her right hand on my left pec… ending with both hands on my thick chest. My heavy muscles twitched involuntarily, striations racing across my pecs. My breathing was shallow in the heat.

“Hello, Steve.”

Quickly, smoothly, I lifted her up, hands under her firm ass cheeks, and turned, pressing her with a thudding noise against the bare wooden wall of the garage. “Mmph!” she managed through our ziplocked lips, sucking hungrily, whimpering, coming up for quick gasps of air before melding back together. Her hands were everywhere, up over my shoulders, then moving around my heavy lats, squeezing, clawing feverishly at my back. Our hips, our groins, ground together, my thick warm dick aching through my cotton underwear and gym shorts, digging for her. Her hands worked their way down along my cut abs, tickling, working their way under my elastic waistband, chasing my pleasure trail… down… until she grabbed me, her palm grasping into a fist that circled me and squeezed.

Ugh! I pushed her into the wall again, grinding and sucking more, supporting her weight with one hand while the other massaged her left breast, then moved down between her legs.

She groaned, gasped, as I pulled her underwear down and to the side, feeling her warmth and her wetness. Her hands feverishly, frantically worked my shorts down… down… as far down as she could get them over my huge, tense, bulging thighs. Her fingertips traced back along the cuts of my quad muscles as she moved upward toward my tingling balls…

Umph! I thrust into her. Mmph! She gasped deeply. I pushed even deeper, but not too deep, playing. There was so much more to me. Could she take it? Maybe. She was clawing at my boulder round shoulders again, squeezing the hard muscle… grasping me… trying to pull me deeper inside her.... I gave her a little more and we pounded… pounded… the wall banging, reverberating… the heat stifling…

And then I pulled out. She gasped in ecstasy at the full reverse movement, almost whimpering. I carried her to my weight bench and laid her face-up on the cracked, sweat-soaked gray vinyl. With one hand I pushed the loaded 375-pound bar off its holds and over the back of the bench, where its rusty plates clanged heavily, dangerously to the floor. I kicked off my sweat-soaked gym shorts and laid down on top of her, my right hand grasping the side of the bench, supporting my 203 pound body so as not to crush her… my left hand running through, playing with her sweat-streaked blonde hair… my forearms biceps, triceps, shoulders bulging, twitching with rippling muscle that surfaced with snaking veins. I entered her again, hard, forceful, my sleek hips moving downward and forward as she twitched and moaned. My teeth clenched and I pounded harder, faster, harder, faster, our sweaty bodies twisting and writhing together as one of her hands grasped and clawed at the tight V-taper of my low back and the other twisted my left nipple --

And then, suddenly, a blood-curdling scream from inside the house. Echoing clearly against the backyard. I stopped moving. Every muscle in my body tensed, hard—including the organ that was still inside Maryann, making her moan and twitch again as it became even larger and harder inside her. Her hands slithered around my lats to and down my torso to trace tense cobblestones of my abs.

Did I hear crying? What was going on inside the house? Was dad drunk again? Was he hitting her again? I reversed position, on angry alert, pulling smoothly out of Maryann, slapping aside the hand that clawed at my hip and grasped along the muscles of my right quad, begging for more. I scanned the dark space for my gray cotton gym shorts and found them in a crumple on the floor next to the weight bench. I bent—my tight bubble-butt eliciting an appreciative gasp from Maryann—stepped into them, and pulled them up over my swollen thighs, snapping the elastic around my loose waist. I headed for the door, muscles tight, rippling, heaving, ready for confrontation, leaving Maryann in a sweaty mess on my weight bench. I threw the door open and came face to face with a tall dark silhouette on the other side, my mother close behind –

“Hey man,” the dark silhouette grinned. Then, sucking air in surprise as it eyed my thick ripped, heaving frame, it said, “Holy shit.”

My brother was home.


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 stick 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 my 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 look at my meaty hands, my thick, vein-crossed forearms thick with muscle… hands that 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 Maryann.


I had been hitting the weights hard. Super hard. Eating like a mother. It was the thick of summer, between my sophomore and junior years. I was 17, and I looked like no other fucking 17-year-old you’ve ever seen. 211 pounds of meaty, rock-hard muscle built thick and heavy on my 5’8” frame. Oh yeah, I grew an inch taller. And truthfully, I hoped that inch would be the last. Who needs to top six feet when my solid 5’8” worked beautifully to make my strikingly muscular build look even more fucking jacked than it was?

Since the end of the school year, my broad, heavy chest had grown to a solid 50”, my biceps to a thick 19 1/2”. My cut, washboard waist held fast at 28”, making the V-taper of my wide, heavy lats just sick, just fucking sick. No one messes with a guy with a nasty taper like that.

I could bench 385 for reps. Squat with 600. Deadlift 650. I was the biggest, most ripped guy I knew. And I had a problem.

I wasn’t growing anymore.

I had plateaued. And nothing, no matter what fucking thing I did, what sort of workout routine I tried, got me out of it. I was desperate. I wanted, was absolutely fucking determined, to hit my 235lbs goal by the time school started again in the fall. But nothing I did worked. Here it had been, four weeks now, and I hadn’t gained an ounce over 211. What was I gonna do?

My solution came in the form of a visit to the gym. Usually I worked out at home, in our garage, where the dark and the dust let me concentrate and push my heavy, workhorse muscles to their max. And where, sometimes, after my workout, I would strip my shirt off, feel the sweat trickling down between my pecs, trace the cobblestone ridges of my abs, slip my hand below the waistband of my shorts, and jack off hard. But my back had gotten so strong that I had outgrown my home weight set, so I had been forced to buy a gym membership and do my back work there. It had been a good thing, though, and my back had gained a lot of thickness with the new stimulation. And although I normally worked the rest of my body at home, I figured the rest of my muscles would soon outgrow those weights as well.

I was the biggest guy in the gym, and everyone normally left me alone to do my thing. So there I was one day, doing my thing, enjoying the wide eyes of the other members who covertly watched my bulging muscles work their way through a sweaty set. I caught lustful stares from the guys and girls on the treadmills as I stripped my sweat-soaked white T from my thick, rippling torso. I smiled inwardly on the tented boys pretending to work their shoulders at the dumbbell rack just so they could look at me in the mirror, thinking I wasn’t aware of their furtive glances and the hard bulges in their groins, straining against the fabric of their shorts, yearning for me. Or for a good hand.

Anyway, over at the smith machine stood two guys. One, the guy in the rack, I think he was a senior at my school, or he might’ve graduated the year before. He was lean, with a pretty solid swimmer’s build, but man, his legs were ripped. Bulkier than you would have expected from the rest of him. Looked pretty damn good, actually.

The other guy, standing behind the swimmer, was clearly his older brother. He also had a good build. Filled out his shirt nicely, and his shorts as well. His body was definitely better than his brother’s. Both guys were lean and solid, but the older guy carried more muscle on him. They both worked hard in the gym, clearly, and I found myself wondering why there was such a striking difference in their similarly sized physiques. And then I overheard the answer.

The older brother had moved to L.A., and was just back home for a visit. In L.A., he’d learned a few things from a personal trainer at his gym who was also a competitive bodybuilder. The guy had taught him some unusual exercises—stuff beyond your basic bench, squat, deadlift, lat raise, barbell curl. Real intricate stuff. And now the older bro was helping his younger sibling through some variation of a front squat, a configuration I’d never seen before.

“Aaaahhhrr!” the swimmer sibling roared as he pushed through his seventh rep and racked the bar, sweat trickling down his neck, dampening his shirt and making it cling to his tan, glistening skin. He wobbled a little as he stepped out from under the bar, his muscles toast, his legs jelly.

“Okay, bro, it’s two weeks you’ve been doing this exercise,” said the older brother. “You see a difference?”

The younger one looked down at his thighs and flexed his quads. A nice, well-formed teardrop shape came to life at the southern end of the thick muscle. A deep cut appeared around it. I felt my dick twitch in appreciation.

“Shit,” the swimmer said. “It’s awesome. What other moves can you teach me?”

“A couple of things,” the older brother said. “I learned a new exercise for chest. We’ll do it tomorrow.”

I decided to try that weird front squat out first thing when I got home. And I was just thinking about rearranging my schedule to observe tomorrow’s new chest move, when I heard the swimmer ask his brother:

“These moves aren’t gonna bulk me up too much, are they?”

The fucks!

Why the hell wouldn’t you want to bulk up as much as you possibly could? Add loads and fucking loads of mind-blowing power to your body? Shit. These fucks could keep their toned, slightly-better-than-average physiques. The fucks. That might be enough for them. But not for me. Not for me. I thought briefly about beating the shit out of them, just for the hell of it.

Okay, so they weren’t exactly going to be the type of inspiration I needed. But they sure helped me figure my next step out: I needed to spend time with some real bodybuilders. Learn some new moves. Get some fresh life in my routine. And get inspired to hit things even harder by spending time with some truly massive guys. And for that I would need to take a break from my shit hole of a town. Good thing there were still seven weeks or so before school started again.

I headed home to jerk off. And then I was leaving for L.A.

Last edited by lkjhgfdsa; March 6th, 2010 at 09:00 PM.
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  #2   Add to TKnTexas55's Reputation   Report Post  
Old March 6th, 2010, 06:18 PM
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WOW.. That was fantastic. But now this has caused a problem. I will be looking for continuations every time I sign on. Your muscle growth was described perfectly.
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Old March 6th, 2010, 08:04 PM
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Lucky MaryAnne. Love how competitive this guy is. Nothing stops him.
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Old December 11th, 2010, 06:24 AM
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I love this story!

It would great if we could have a continuation.
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Old December 13th, 2010, 06:16 PM
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great one!
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