Thunder Gym, Part I

[tygrefyre]

This is the first story I've posted here. No muscle growth in Part I, I'm afraid.




They were known as the Giants of Church Street. Two tremendous, lumbering brothers; their frames overpacked with muscle, bodies surging with testosterone.

Hank Weimen was the older brother. He stood at six foot four like a mountain of a man: each thick limb of his 309 lb body strained a tank top ordered a few sizes too small and his tattered, faded gym shorts that accentuated his impressive groin, bulging with as much intensity as his marvelous biceps or stunning pecs. Mass, to Hank, outweighed any of the aesthetics that definition or symmetry could offer. He rarely did crunches or sit-ups and sex was the only cardio he did on a regular basis. His gut was swollen with no traces of abs or obliques; it hung heavily over his belt and nearly surpassed his chest, but it was as hard as any other part of his physique. The ghoulish figure of a Harley-riding skeleton was tattooed into his vast back. Dark brown hair covered his legs, the back of his arms, and his giant chest, particularly around the plump, red nipples. Perhaps this was to compensate for his bald scalp. Hank didn?t care: he had read that men endowed with a high amount of testosterone went bald earlier and he didn?t care much for looks.

All that mattered was size and attitude. Attitude was clearly edged into his face. A few piercings adorned his ears and eyebrow while stubble sprouted along his chin and jawline. His nose was wide, his jaw square, his eyebrows seemingly carved into a constant glare except when he twisted his mouth into a badass smile. He was often called ?Hank the Hulk? not only for his exceptional size but for his short fuse. There were times when he had taken out plywood walls and oak tables in bars if someone wasn?t picking up their portion of the tab. Often, he could be heard before being seen with his weighty steps and heavy breathing.

The younger brother, Brett, was often called the prettier of the two. His blond crew cut gave a boyish appearance to his chiseled, tanned face and he shaved every morning, carefully cropping his sideburns. His wardrobe was stocked with the latest American Eagle shirts and he wore his jeans with holes strategically placed to show portions of his quads and his butt. Hank had six years and thirty pounds on his brother, but to say that Brett was the smaller of the brothers was like saying that a sperm whale was smaller than a great blue whale. For the most part, he had the same massive proportions as his brother, but while Hank loaded all the plates he could at the gym, Brett took the time to make his body as lean and striated as possible. All eight of his abs and ever oblique rippled on his belly as if they had been carved out of stone, the sartorial jetted out of his quads, and the brachial veins on his arms stood out like ropes even when relaxed.

His shirt was always off, showing the fine layer of blond hair on his split pecs and the tattoo of a roaring lion?s head, whose mane took up all of his left deltoid. Brett was proud of his body, but his older and stronger brother took every opportunity to show that he was the alpha male. He belittled him when Hank could complete his set in the gym and called him a ?fag? when splashed cologne on before heading to the bar, but Hank loved his little brother deep inside, always the first to defend him and to take his side in a fight, even if he teased him for it afterwards, asking ?Where would your ass be without me??

The brothers owned a small gym on Church Street. It had once been a factory of some sorts, producing car parts and machinery, and before that a stable. The Weimens bought it several years ago after quitting their jobs at a moving company and selling the house their parents had left them. All their money went into gutting the place, pouring cement, painting it, installing mirrors, redoing the electricity, and converting the two offices into bedrooms. They stocked it with punching bags, wrestling mats, and every imaginable weight set, much of it taken from the basement of their old home. Brett pinned posters of all his bodybuilding heros to the wall, smiling as he imagined the thousands of pounds of beef that would soon be contorting, flexing, and growling in their gym. He could already taste the sweat in the air.

Thunder Gym opened a year and a half after the Weimens had taken it over. There were already several gyms in town and the swarms of musclemen Brett had anticipated were instead only a trickle of curious joggers. Things went like this for the first month or so, until Hank had the idea to make their gym exclusive: it would only be open to serious bodybuilders, powerlifters, and athletes. All those looking for a light workout or to meet a date would be turned away. Brett worried limiting the number of customers would spell disaster for the place but Hank was confident. He took an ad in the county?s paper; it came with the caveat that only those who could bench their own weight at least once would be offered membership. Within a week, bikers, ex-football players, boxers, wrestlers, police and firemen, and every musclehead in the county began lining up at 10 A.M. waiting to pass the entrance test.

The brothers dragged their best bench into the parking lot along with 400 lbs of free weights. Firemen ribbed one another as a few bodybuilders felt each others biceps. Brett spotted a football player or two with a hand in his pocket, groping his crotch as he surveyed the musclebound crowd. Only two or three could not pass the test: one of them a man in his 60?s who seemed crushed when his arms admitted defeat and another a man?s son who had recently made his high school?s wrestling team. But everyone else passed the test with a chorus of manly cheers drowning out the clank of metal. Of course, most of them were not satisfied with a single rep: they churned out every rep they could. Hank crossed his arms and grinned devilishly as he watched teeth grind and hormones flow. He wrote down the names and shook the hands now weak with exhaustion.

Membership to the Thunder Gym was more than other places, but it was worth it. No plate or barbell could be found under 50 pounds; all the best supplements and whey powders money could buy were behind the counter; and the competition between the men drove them to lift even harder. They sometimes sparred in the boxing ring or wrestled naked on the mats, but the weights were the real draw. Brett would sit at the counter and survey the dreamscape of throbbing, rippling backs, quads and hamstrings; jetting veins, rivulets of sweat pouring into the pits of arms and the chasms between chests; the grinding of teeth and the glistening of wet bodies. He?d listen to the grunts and war cries of giants mingling with the clatter of barbells, all the while kneading the head of his dick and basting himself in air rich with sweat and pheromones.



Jamal Hughes was spotting Hank that day. Hank?s nostrils flared as he hoisted 375 lbs of iron over his head in an incline press. His form was perfect and it was rare that he needed assistance from a spotter, but as much as he concentrated, he couldn?t drown out Jamal?s talking.

?Man, that title is mine this year!? he beamed, ?Rest of y?all might as well pack up and go home because this is my year. I can feel it in these guns.?

?No talking while I?m lifting!?

?20 solid inches of muthafuckin? fury! I?ve packed on 15 pounds since this time last year and had to buy all new shirts. So god damned massive. You bitches should clear out and save yourself the trouble, ?cuz I already gots a place cleared out on a shelf at home.?

?I?ve never seen a more worthless spotter,? Hank snarled as he finished his set. ?If you lifted half as much as you talked, the trophy would be yours...hands down.?

?Don?t give me that shit. I?ve been hitting this gym harder than my woman this year. She?s thinkin? I?m gonna start livin? here like you.?

Hank left Jamal to put away the plates and headed over toward his brother sitting on a bench and staring blankly into space. Though he was the younger and livelier of the two, Brett hadn?t been his usual self in the months since his boyfriend had left. The man was the biggest Asian Hank had ever seen, nearly as large as his brother with a black serpent tattoo coiled around his impressive left arm. A backwards White Sox cap and a smile were always present. Hank couldn?t recall his name, but he was called ?Chink? by everyone, despite being Korean. Out at the bars or in the gym, Brett and Chink acted as if they had been raised together - except of course, when Hank would catch them fucking in the shower with such ferocity they never noticed him. Chink?s hat would be the doorknob two or three times a day with their moans and cries escaping beneath the door.

He wasn?t sure of all the detailed - and Brett would never tell him anyway - but Chink had been in and out of prison for selling narcotics and for a few scuffles with gangs. Hank remembered he would stay in the locker rooms or in Brett?s bedroom while police were pumping iron. If he every had to pass one of the them, he?d avert his gaze and use a jacket or towel to shield his tattoo. Every siren would stiffen his shoulders and send his eyes about the room. One night, he had heard Brett sobbing after sex. Chink had explained he was a wanted man: wanted by both the police and the gangs. He had to leave the state or else he?d be a dead man. He didn?t know if he?d be coming back. Brett naturally wanted to come with him, but Chink didn?t want his lover?s life to be jeopardized. Brett was devastated. He didn?t show his face in the gym all the weekend. Occasionally, his cheerfulness would shine through, but for the most part, his mood was somber and quiet.

?What?cha up to, lil? man?? Hank bellowed.

Brett forced a smile and gave a little wave, but said nothing.

?If you don?t lift, your muscles are gonna waste away.?

?I was thinking we ought to have something up there...like a mural or something.? Brett pointed at a huge cinderblock wall; only a few posters of bodybuilding champions covered the white space.

?A mural??

?Yeah, like of a bunch of bodybuilders flexing or something.?

?Why can?t we just put up more of your posters??

?I don?t have that many posters.?

?We can buy some more,? then in a whisper, ?Get some that don?t have your jizz all over them.?

?There?s enough posters in the gym. A mural would look really good there. I?ve looked around at the other gyms in town and none of them have one.?

?A mural?s gonna cost money,? Hank sighed, irritably.

?It shouldn?t be more than a couple hundred dollars.?

?It?ll be more than that...and I can tell you right now it?s not coming out of my pocket. You?re doin? this yourself.?

That night, Brett posted an ad for a painter on Craigslist asking for pictures of past projects. Only a few responded. Two or three had done a lot of work in the city, but it was too abstract or cartoonish for Brett?s liking. One misread the ad and offered to paint the gym like a house. Another was an oil painter who did portraits of men and shown in several galleries, but Brett worried he might be too expensive. At last, he found one: an had sent pictures of a youth center interior. One of the rooms was a painted jungle complete with tigers and monkeys and another was like an aquarium with smiling fish and coral in a rainbow of colors, but what caught Brett?s eye was room with superheroes leaping about a dark, angular metropolis.

These were not the sterilized heroes of children?s cartoons! Their physiques surged with masculine power, muscles threatening to burst through the spandex with an animated ?ker-POW!!? Veins bulged and tendons rippled with the glow of fireballs and streetlights carefully painted in on the tremendous, flexing bodies. It was as if the artist had been referencing the latest FLEX Magazine after every brushstroke. Even the genitals were larger! Not too large - since this was, after all, a youth center - but thicker and heavier just the same.

Brett knew he had his man. He e-mailed him back the dimensions of the wall and his vision of an entire stage of bodybuilders. He asked the artist if he could come in that Thursday with a sketch, and the man had agreed. Brett smiled, imagining the final result and what the artist would look like. He rewarded himself with a dollop of Vaseline and an hour or two of streaming muscle videos.

[Mad Dog]

Awesome start, I love the type of guys you're starting with and all the descriptions you gave us! Here's hoping part 2 isn't too far away. :3

[NYCBlackMuscle]

Very nice, I like it a lot. Keep it up man.