Measuring Up

He offers up his right arm, flexes hard enough that it vibrates. I eagerly wrap the tape round his flex, compress that extra-fat vein running down the top of his arm. "19.7."

"Getting there. Still got a long way to go. Let's do this!"

But this time as he's squeezing out his reps, I notice that his arms aren't the only thing that's growing. The heavy bulge at his crotch is shifting, expanding. I can clearly see the thick snake of his cock pressing against the fabric, twitching up stronger and higher as his pulse races and his heart thunders, but he doesn't seem to notice--he's grunting and straining, willing the blood into his muscles, not realizing where else it's going--and I can't believe how thick that cock's getting, how strong it must be as it's pushing out the front of his shorts, pulling the waistband away from his stomach so there's a dark gap there, new inches of his lower abs exposed, the first hints of pubic hair.

He roars and the weights clang down. He offers up his arm for me, but I'm slow on the uptake; he notices me staring down at his crotch.

"Aw shit." He looks down too and sees the problem. "Sorry, man. It happens sometimes. Something to do with blood flow...." He laughs, but I can tell he's embarrassed.

"I-it's okay," I rush to tell him. "I get it. It doesn't bother me."

"Yeah?" He rubs the back of his neck uneasily. "Well, it bothers me. And if I keep this up, it's not going away. I guess it just isn't going to work out...."

"No!" I didn't mean to yell. Damn, I sound cracked. "I--I mean, there's no reason to let it stop you. You can do this. I know you can. Look, you're three quarters of the way there. You can do this."

"Yeah. Fuck. I'm close, right? So close." I can see how much he wants this. And not just because his cock is so stiff now I can clearly make out the shape of his glans. A real mushroom cockhead, from what I can tell. "Yeah, I can get it. Twenty inches. But this is fucking annoying." He tugs at the waistband of his shorts, above that obscene bulge. "Hey man, you mind if I--"

Shit. Is he going to do what I think he is?

"G-go ahead," I say. "Whatever you need. Don't mind me."

And before I'm ready for it, he tugs the front of his shorts down, and there's this moment when the waistband is slipping down the girthy roll of his squeezed-down cock before it suddenly springs free with such force it slaps against his ripped lower abs, then points straight out in front of him; but that's not enough for him--no, he keeps tugging the waistband down till he lays out a massive pair of hairy globes as well. I've never seen such a manly sight as that giant package propped up on his training shorts, nestled in trim dark hair, gestured to by the sharp grooves of his V-lines and the veiny shelf of his sweaty lower abs.

How did that monster ever fit in his shorts? And it's still thickening, now that it's standing free and proud, the foreskin drawing back with tantalizing slowness, almost completely clear of the glans now, clinging to the ridge at the base. I wonder how long he is. Eight inches at least, and counting. I wish I could lay the tape down the length of that veiny, muscular shaft, spool out inch after inch till I finally reach the beautifully bulbous head.

And if anyone ever needed proof that he's really been all natural, all he'd have to do is take out those balls of his. I bet he's been tempted to before. "You think I didn't get this big without any juice? Well, check out the all-natural juice filling these nuts. You wish yours were as big as mine, don't you?" The way they're buoyed up by his waistband makes their size even more obvious. One of them alone would fill my palm. I swear, I can smell the musk from his junk already, almost taste it on my tongue.

He sighs. "That's a relief. You sure you don't mind?"

"Really!" I gulp, feeling my armpits drip with sweat, my own dick painfully erect and spreading a damp patch I'll have to clean up later. Has he really not noticed it? He's got an excuse for his condition; I don't. "It's--it's not a big deal."

"What's that?" He grins. "Not big, huh?"

A gallon of blood rushes to my face, so I guess it's not all in my cock. He's joking with me, trying to alleviate the awkwardness. I force myself to sound the same way: "O-okay. It's a pretty big deal. I guess. But--but still not as big as your biceps are going to be. So come on, let's do this."

"Yeah! Let's hit it!" And he shakes out his arms, reaches down, hefts the dumbbells once again, and starts cranking out reps, grunting and gritting his teeth while his gigantic cock bobs with each motion of his body, flushed and veiny and curving upward more and more with the strength of his erection, as if he's pumping his cock along with his arms till the foreskin finally slips completely off his glans, the purple flesh so glossy and tight, swollen from within till the busting point. I notice that even though he's so fucking erect, his cumslit's just barely wet with precum, unlike my own leaky dick--probably for the best if this happens regularly when he's pumping iron.

"How big am I? Tell me! How close is it?"

"N-nineteen point 8--no, maybe 9."

"Not good enough! One more set. Thirty reps. Come on! Let's fucking go! Get fucking pumped!"

It's not possible! How does he have that many more reps in him? I swear, he's cranked out hundreds already. But he gets on an incline bench, lies back, and starts squeezing them out, curling the dumbbells one after another, his face red, teeth bared, the sweat pouring off him onto the bench, onto the floor. "10, 11, 12," and his whole body's into it, pushed past its limits, red and hot, his muscles bloated and pumping up bigger and bigger, the veins like they're about to burst, his arms trembling with the strain. "20, 21, 22."

And that fucking cock, that juicy swollen fuckpole--it's now so hard it's pointing straight at his face. I'd give anything to wrap my hands around it and jack it off, feel my hands slamming up and down, slippery with dick-sweat, the muscular shaft hard and rumbling in my fists, getting wound tighter, tighter, the balls aching to blast his manly seed through the fucking air. He's so hard I bet it would take just three strokes, maybe one--or the barest flutter of my tongue against the underside of his dickhead to let that agonizing pressure finally loose.

But I can't do that. So the pressure keeps building and building as he moans and roars, "25... 26... 27..." It's so intense, everything wound fucking tight into a headlong rush that feel inevitable, cataclysmic. He can't take it, I can't take it. "28... 29!" Come on, you fucking stud. You absolute beast!

He puts all of his strength into that final rep, gets the weights halfway there but can't seem to finish it, his teeth bared, eyes squeezed shut, biceps corded, sweat cascading off him, cock quivering, whole body tensed, fighting to bring the weights home, trapped in a taut piercing moment of pain and pleasure and pumped-up power--

And "Hraaaaaaaaaagh!" he lets out a piercing roar and the weights finally come up, his arms clench and hold there, locked at their maximum bursting fullness, and he's groaning and straining, his whole body clenched to the breaking point; the moment lasts and lasts--till his body jerks, the weights drop from his hands, and his fucking massive cock bucks up violently and starts spraying blasts of thick manly sperm all over his body, liquid audible jets that smack into his face and ricochet off, hit him under the chin, glob him in the neck, land on his sweaty heaving chest, torrents of wet white sperm flying with each wrench of that meaty bucking cum-cannon--

And he closes his eyes and takes it, lets his balls drain themselves freely all over him, not caring if it gets on his lips, makes a mess all over the floor. I've never seen a man cum so much, keep spraying and spraying like this, and I just stand there in disbelief and fucking awe till a last river of cum finally oozes from his cockhead, trailing down his still-twitching shaft to his spent gonads. The air's thick enough with his manly musk to taste it, and I'll never forget the sight of him lying there on the incline bench, his eyes closed, chest heaving, gooey splats of cum in his hair, dripping down his jaw, his chest, his ripped abs--a fucking stallion enjoying the feel of his own man-juice covering his pumped-up muscle-bod, knowing what he's done with his strength, his virility, proving it to himself and to me.

I never want that moment to end. But then he lifts his right arm, flexes it mightily, the whole veiny, engorged, shredded-as-fuck mass of it, and his eyes open, he meets my gaze with a fierce glint of pride in them. "Go on," he says. "Tell me how big I am."

And I do, wrapping the tape round his trembling arm, smelling his sweaty manly body and the thick funk of his load, and there's no denying it: I measured carefully, everything straight and true. "Twenty inches," I say. "No, 20.1--you did it, and then some."

He closes his eyes again, nods.

"Best pump of my life."

***

A change comes over him moments later. It's like he's a different person now that the frenzy has died down; regret and shame are seeping in. I'm awkward, too--stunned by what just occurred, barely believing something like this could happen to me. I should go, he tells me; he'll clean up his own mess. He'll send me updates on his progress in the future.

"Sorry you had to see me like that," are his final words, and it makes my heart ache. I can't tell him I loved it, that it was the most erotic moment of my life. I can't confess my desire. He wasn't showing off for me. It was for himself, to test his limits, break through the plateaus that used to hold him back.

But when I return to my hotel, I can't stop thinking about the feel of his bicep bulging under my fingertips, the warm skin so tight, the veins engorged, his thick arm powerful and rippling with tension, straining against the measuring tape that fails to convey how truly huge he is; and he's standing so close to me, with the shelf of his powerful pecs drenched with sweat, breathing heavily, that impressive phallus protruding obscenely from his shorts, getting bigger, getting fuller, aching to cum; and his voice is deep as he growls, "How big am I? Tell me. Has it grown?"

I can't handle it. No matter how many times I jerk off, the thought makes my dick painfully erect again, drooling precum on my stomach and the hotel sheets. I have to milk out shot after shot of spunk, filling my palm with pearly liquid seed--only to find myself hard again five minutes later, trying to wring the tension out of my penis, the quiver out of my gut, till I've drained all the sperm from my balls but I'm still jerking out loads clear and oily with just the fluid from my prostate. It's madness and it's ecstasy. It takes me hours to finally fall asleep from pure exhaustion.

And he's only started to grow.

2.

I start getting regular updates from him--sent to me personally every month at first, then every week, sometimes after just a couple of days. Just text, no pictures, but they fill my head with images nonetheless. Some of them in particular stand out to me:

October 1 ^st : I promised I'd keep you updated on my progress. Right now, I'm 238 pounds, and Coach measured me this morning: Arms 20", Chest 51.25", Waist 30.5", Thighs 26".

I feel pretty stupid about that whole thing with pumping up my arms, making you stand there and measure me over and over. Got caught up in the moment. And now I don't even need a pump to get there. It's always at least 20 cold. More with a pump. But I can get bigger. I know it.

With these numbers, you might think my growth is stable: an inch a month. But that's not it. Adding another inch now isn't the same as before. It's more. The bigger your arms get, the harder it is to grow them because it takes more muscle. Think about it. The outer rings on a tree are larger than the inner ones. So getting from 17 to 18 is twice as hard as 16 to 17 was, and so on.

My growth isn't stable. It's explosive.

December 5 ^th : 257 pounds. Arms 20.8", Chest 52.5", Waist 30.75", Thighs 27.5".

I almost don't know who I am anymore, but I've been accepting things about myself lately, understanding what's been bothering me, why I've never been satisfied. It's not just the divorce, but my career as well. I always told myself I didn't care about being one of the big guys on the Olympia stage, that it wasn't worth the health risks, but why did I have to keep telling myself that over and over? Why was I never satisfied when I looked in the mirror? I'm getting there now, though. Finally. When I look in the mirror, I see myself grow.

February 10 ^th : 274 pounds. Arms 21.6", Chest 54", Waist 32", Thighs 28.3".

I saw Lauren today. She didn't even try to hide the look of disgust on her face. "I thought you were better than this," she said. "The way you always went on about how other guys ruined themselves, that you'd never be that way. What the fuck is happening with you, Nate? You've changed." I didn't try to explain. She wouldn't believe me even if I did--that sometimes the "change" was who you were before, when you were trying to be someone else. But I don't need her approval. I've never felt better. I look the way I want to look. None of it's for her. Not now.

April 2 ^nd : 298 pounds. Arms 22.25", Chest 55.75", Waist 32.9", Thighs 29".

Maybe I'm hitting my chest too hard. Coach says my proportions are getting off. But have you seen Hwang Chul-Soon? That's my idol right there. Those freaky pecs, big enough to cast shadows. I don't care if it's not proportional--give me that. I'm past caring about what other people think looks good, restricting myself to their rules. I want to GROW. And in the Summer, I'll cut and make it all aesthetic, but I'm still going to be huge. I'll enjoy the pump.

June 15 ^th : 322 pounds. Arms 22.8", Chest 56.5", Waist 33.6", Thighs 29.5".

My clothes don't fit anymore--they can't keep up. I haven't experienced that since I started. They don't make pants that fit you when you're like this. I've really learned that since my quads exploded. When you get pants that fit over them, the waist's too big. Even sweatpants: they're stretched so tight over my thighs but the waistband's baggy. My ass holds up the back, but it sags in the front so you can practically see my pubes sometimes. Gotta be careful. It's a good thing I work out when I have the place to myself. I have to watch myself around Coach, though.

I can't wait to measure myself each week. I know it's stupid. The numbers lie. They change day by day. I know that. I'm used to it. But what I'm not used to is the way they keep going up. I have to force myself to wait or that's all I'd be doing, getting impatient after the pump goes away, wanting it back. It's like constant blue balls till I can measure my arms, my chest, my quads, see those numbers get bigger.

Look, man, I shouldn't be saying this, but you saw what happened at the gym and I've gotta be honest. Tell you how this stuff is affecting me. It could be something to do with the Colossinth, with all that extra testosterone it's giving me. Because that wasn't a one-time thing. It's every time I work out. It builds and builds till it feels like I haven't gotten off for a week each time, feeling the gains, my size, my strength, and my cock's rock-hard before I know it. I can't help pounding out my jizz right there in the gym. I've gotta use a towel, there's so much, and I just cum and cum into that thing till it's ruined. Fuck.

I don't even have time to find someone to fuck, not that I really want to. I haven't felt like getting that close to anyone since the divorce. Call me self-possessed, but my body's the best relationship I've ever had, and I know I've still got work to do. I want to enjoy what's happening. And I never want it to stop. Never.

I can't believe he sent me this. I read it over and over, my ears buzzing, armpits soaked with sweat. What should I say? How can I possibly respond? But then, about ten minutes later, before I can make up my mind, another text:

Sorry. That was too much. I got carried away. I'll just send you the stats from now on. Okay?

And I think about him, working himself into a frenzy while writing to me, then getting out that towel and plastering it with rockets of spunk, while he feels the manly strength of his muscled-up body, the testosterone pounding through him, filling his balls with sperm and his head with dreams of getting bigger and fucking bigger, while confiding in me, thinking about me--if only a little--

But then feeling that moment of regret after he's shot his wad, thinking, "What did I let myself do? That was fucking stupid!" and I wish I could tell him no, you're perfect, you're amazing, you're an absolute stud, and I want more, I want everything--tell me all of it, help me imagine what it's like to be you; put my hands on your body, let me taste the sweat and the cum and smell your manly musk, my nose in your nutsack, in your armpits, your nipples between my teeth, let me savour every inch of you, all that you are.

Obviously I can't say that. But what I tell him is the truth nonetheless. I tell him I understand: It's probably something to do with the testosterone. That's all it is. There's nothing to be ashamed of. And I don't think he's self-possessed. There's nothing wrong with self-care, especially after something like a divorce. Even for me, living alone in my apartment for years now, I understand the desire to focus on yourself till you're ready for something more. And please, keep being honest. If you've got no one to tell these things to, tell them to me. (Though of course I'll clean up my report.) And don't worry about offending me, no matter what. I admire and respect you--your dedication, your strength, your honesty. I'm cheering you on, and I'm invested in your progress.

"Thanks," he says; that's it. And his silence afterward worries me. I don't get another update till over a month later, but I'm relieved he's back to his old self:

July 30 ^th. 308 pounds. Arms 23", Chest 57", Waist 31.5", Thighs 30".

The summer cut's well underway. It's too late to qualify for any competitions, but I want to keep up the routine, keep myself aesthetic. And I'm curious what my new body looks like lean. It shouldn't take long. No matter how many thousands of calories I've consumed, I haven't put on much fat. Practically all muscle. Still, I'd like to tighten up my abs even more, get my waist down to a 30. That trim waist bursting out into wide lats and shoulders--that's what I want. The perfect combination of strength and discipline. And it forces you to have that swagger, with your arms out and your legs flexed, and you stretch your back and feel the skin rub tight against your abs. Give me that.

I'm starting to wonder if he knows what effect he's having on me, if he's getting off on this too. But I'm probably just a proxy, someone he can boast to without shame. It's the act of writing he enjoys, knowing someone's listening. It could be anyone on the other end. That's probably all it is.

But either way, I'm not complaining.

My boss is flabbergasted by the results. "This is unbelievable," she says, looking over the numbers when I hand her the latest report. "It's not humanly possible. He's got to be exaggerating. Has he sent you any pictures?"

"No, but I believe him," I say. "It's real."

"Oh? If it is, we need to see him. Take photos. He could be the poster-boy for our ad campaign when we finally go to market. Think of the publicity! Can you get him to come here? As soon as possible?"