deadlifts-and-derrida:
This is really long and in multiple parts - I apologize for stretching out your dash. It’s the culmination of the ‘Brock and Ben’ erotic muscle fiction series. You can read it on its own, but I suggest reading the other parts first: (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4). This last installment brings many things back and, I hope, ties it all together into a neat and satisfying package. At least, I was satisfied.
This is dedicated to someone who knows who he is. - D&D
It was
summer when Ben and Karim left The Facility behind. Not forever, of course –
just for a little while. They had a cozy seaside cottage rented for a three-day
weekend. It was on a private beach not too far away, and they had it to
themselves for the duration. It was only fitting – this was the first
anniversary of their wedding.
Drunk on dry
prosecco and each other, they spent the first day in ecstatic play – rarely
speaking, their pleasure and joy in each other beyond words, until they fell
into a late-afternoon doze, the only sound the ostinato polyrhythm of three
slow breaths – Karim, Ben, and the ceaseless Pacific.
Ben awoke
some time after sunset, his massive musculature demanding calories. Hunger had
almost become a foreign sensation to him – at The Facility, he was on a strict
feeding schedule. The computer knew when he needed calories well before he felt
hunger, and instructed him to eat accordingly. But this was the seaside, where
all things were shifting and imprecise. He slipped out to the kitchen, careful
not to wake Karim. He grabbed a special shake from a cooler that contained
dozens of them, all pre-mixed for him back at the facility, and began gulping.
He didn’t know how many calories were in it, what its protein content was, what
else might be in it – the computer calculated all these things. He caught sight
of himself in the hall mirror, dimly lit by moonlight. He never thought he
could grow so huge – one last big swallow – or that he could possibly grow more
massive still.
‘Could grow.’ More like ‘will grow.’ ‘Am
growing.’ His
dangling cock began to stiffen.
There were
a lot of things about the last seven years he couldn’t have imagined, as the
frightened skinny eighteen-year-old he was when this all began. Now he was 25,
almost 26. He was close to finishing his PhD. He lived on the west coast. He
was married. He was – how big? Really
fucking big, Ben thought, smirking arrogantly at his reflection, popping a
single-arm bicep, admiring the orb of flesh that, a decade ago, would only have
been possible with the help of photoshop. But here it was, in the flesh. His flesh.
His cock
was throbbing now, beating vainly in time with his pulse.
Ben crept
as quietly as a man of his bulk could creep. He dutifully brushed his teeth,
raging erection bobbing in time – no protein-breath for his husband, not on
their anniversary. He raised arms larger than a speed-skater’s thighs,
revealing the deep dark caverns that were now his armpits. He sniffed. Not too
bad. Nothing requiring immediate attention – besides, Karim liked a slight hint
of musk.
He forced
himself to be slow, gentle, when really all he wanted to do was pounce. But
pouncing is out of the question when you outweigh your husband by three hundred
pounds. Ben leaned in, his heart in his throat. Karim was always more beautiful
than he could remember, and never moreso than when lit by moonlight – those
fine North African features, relaxed in sleep, warm and open and unguarded. Light
brown complexion perfectly smooth, perfectly even in the silver light. Soft
lips pulled into the slightest smile – whatever he was dreaming about, he was happy.
Ben could feel Karim breathe, rhythmic and slow. It was almost too much – Ben
felt frozen in the moment, unable to move forward or to retreat. He felt like
he could burst at a single touch. Finally, though, he leaned in and gently
kissed Karim on his elegant neck, nuzzled his face into the space beneath
Karim’s defined jaw, breathed deep his lover’s special scent: masculine and clean,
sandalwood and sea-salt.
Karim
murmured and instinctively reached out to Ben, still sleeping. Ben guided his husband’s
arms, his legs, lifted Karim out of the bed they shared. Karim began to wake.
He sighed contentedly, shifted, leaned against the unthinkable wall of muscle
he’d helped to create, let Ben take all of his weight, never any doubt that Ben
could handle it easily. Karim’s monumental cock began to stiffen as he felt the
smooth, warm boulders of Ben’s body curving beneath him. “Hi,” he murmured -
that adorable polyglot mutt of an accent tracing the finest, most subtle
filigrees into even so simple a word.
“Hi,” Ben
rumbled back. ”Happy anniversary.”
Now, Ben
carried Karim out, through the rented house, down the steps into the fine sand
under the dark sky. The sand still retained the heat of the day, radiating into
Ben’s bare feet. Karim’s legs were wrapped around Ben’s thick, densely-muscled
waist; Karim’s pillar of a cock was now totally erect, its domed head bobbing,
smacking first one generous pectoral swell, then the other, in time with Ben’s
footsteps and Karim’s heartbeat. The smallest pearl of precum began to gather
at the tip, glittering in the moonlight, before smearing into one of Ben’s
monster-sized pectorals, clearing the way for another pearl-like drop to form,
then another, then another.
Ben waded
into the water, the waves gentle, barely there, the smell of salt and iodine
bathing the lovers. Karim’s grip around Ben’s waist and neck tightened as Ben,
with a practiced hand, reached round Karim and prised apart his proud round ass,
lightly teasing Karim’s most sensitive, private place first with a finger, then
a pair of fingers – not inserting, just touching gently, feeling his lover
pulse in anticipation. Ben withdraw his hand, briefly stuck his fingers in his
mouth – making eye contact with Karim as he did – then returned his wet hand to
where it had been. He began to gently loosen his lover; Karim closed his eyes,
his breath becoming uneven, quickening, even now.
And then
Ben entered him, his uncut cock slick with precum. Karim let his body lower
until he felt Ben’s pubic hair against him. He sighed contentedly and held on
to Ben with all of his might. For a time, there was no thrusting – they stood
almost motionless, locked together in the moonlight, knee-deep in the gentle ocean,
the moon suffusing the scene with its silver light, casting odd shadows over
Ben’s improbable anatomy.
And then,
the world shrank until it was only them, their conjoined bodies, one body lithe
and graceful with a hard protrusion like tempered steel, the other body
monstrous, burgeoning, bulging, huger than huge, orbs of meat and thick
hose-like veins barely contained by pale skin stretched nearly to the breaking
point.
The
tiniest, most microscopic motion felt epochal to both lovers. Each heartbeat
was a burst of almost overwhelming pleasure for both, and their hearts were
hammering with all the love and excitement their frames could bear. Neither
could tell how long they stayed joined like this. They panted, their eyes
locked, unable to speak – but then, what good would speech serve? Eventually a
wave, slightly larger than the others, splashed up Ben’s thighs, prompting him
to slightly shift his weight, and this was enough. Squirming, trying in vain to
hold back, Karim began to erupt, which prompted Ben to respond in kind. They
held each other tight, like survivors of a shipwreck, groaning and gasping as
orgasm wracked their bodies.
When it was
over, they stood still, panting, grasping, and Karim began to laugh, and Ben
joined, because it was all so improbable, so insane, that they should be here,
that things should be the way they are. But they were, and they were. It was
delirious, thankful laughter, and Ben was still chuckling as he carried Karim out
of the water, up the beach, and lowered him gently to the still-warm sand,
quickly arranging himself next to his husband, raining small kisses all over
his lithe body.
They had no
idea what time it was. Time passed. For ages they kept silent, other than to
murmur sweet inanities or to chuckle at nothings. Eventually, though, the spell
was broken. Karim sighed, turned on his side, stared out over the water like
black glass. The moon had disappeared.
“You seem
distracted,” Ben said.
Karim sighed
again. “I’m thinking.”
“Not
discontent, I hope…?”
“God, no!”
Karim said quickly. “My god, Ben, you are … if you couldn’t tell from what
just happened, I mean… how can I even say?”
Ben
chuckled. “OK, then. Not discontent with me. But with something.” Ben snuggled
closer, draped one heavy arm over his lover’s shoulders, pulled him close. “Citizenship
application? Gay-married Arab guy, you’re everything old white Republicans are
afraid of, but maybe the two halves will cancel each other out.”
“No. Money
lubricates the way, as you well know by now. And I have studied very
diligently. Ask me anything. I’m going to destroy that test.”
“OK, not
that. Family.”
Karim
snorted. “They love you, all of them do. And my father wishes he was me – you know, when he’s visiting,
and he gets drunk and the two of us are the only ones left awake – he tells me
all about it. ‘The world was different thirty years ago, Karim!’ he says to me.”
Karim began to impersonate his father. “‘Europe: different! America: different!
Sure, in 1975 I could fly in a Yankee with nice pecs to sit around my poolside
for the week-end, but a specimen like Ben? Karim, he is two Schwarzeneggars.
Three! He is three Dorian Yates! And to marry, legally? My lucky boy, you live
a dream. I could not even have imagined. I would not have dared to wish – it
would have been too much to ask. And you have it. It is your life. I am so
happy for you. I am so proud of you.’”
“So what’s
up?”
Karim
sighed, snuggled into Ben’s massive embrace, felt the twin orbs of pec meat
threaten to overwhelm his narrow back. “I’m worried about The Facility.”
“It’s
basically self-running. We’ve had it going for more than a year now. I think
all the kinks have been discovered and worked out.”
“That’s not
what worries me.” The two lovers lay silent for a time. “That reporter is
coming by next week to do the feature interview with me. ‘Karim Malik: This Man
Makes Monsters.’ I know, I know. We’ve got our understanding with law
enforcement. We’ve got our bribes, our permits. We’re a ‘medical research
facility.’ I’m just worried we’re drawing too much attention to ourselves. I
don’t like the thought of a reporter sniffing around the place.”
Ben nodded.
The fears were valid and he had no easy answer for them. “You’re worried about
Sam?”
“I’m
worried about Sam, among other things. We’ve been so selective about who we
invite to the facility – intense screening, nondisclosure agreements,
everything. Remember Johnny and Dana?”
Ben nodded.
“Our first guests.”
“Yes, and
they were perfect. In four months with us, they smashed through 280, then 300,
then 320 – and they’ve been discretion itself ever since. Same with everyone
else we’ve taken in. But Sam is …”
“Brock and
Matt will be here soon. They’ll know what to do.”
Karim
laughed. “Yes, thank god for Brock Healey. A mega-heavyweight I can’t lay claim
to – just by existing, he makes us look a little less suspicious.”
“So what
worries you about Sam?”
Karim
sighed and took some time in answering, as if searching for words. “He just
worries me. You know I like to feel like I’m in control of things. And Sam is
something I don’t feel in control of. When he looks at me, you know, I feel
like he’s looking through me.”
Ben was
silent for a while, his eyes fixed out over the dark ocean. “He’s sad, K. He
doesn’t have much in this world. We’re helping him the only way we know how.”
“I know.”
Karim tried to think of something else to say, but he couldn’t. The case was
simple, yet impossible. “I know.”
They lay
together in silence for a while, each deeply thankful to have the other near.
*
Two weeks later.
Ben’s phone beeped. He flipped
it open, surprised at the flutter in his stomach. Was he … nervous?
It was the text he’d been
waiting for. “Hey dude, just got our bags. You here?”
Ben hurried to respond. “I’m pulled
over by Pillar 32 at Arrivals, come on out.” He considered adding if you can fit through the door ;) but
decided against it. He hit ‘send’, took the key out of the ignition, and got
out of the vehicle to stand. He wanted to see them coming.
It had been too long – more than
a year. And the last time they’d met, they agreed to surprise each other the next
time. A year with no updates about gym progress. No selfies, no stats. They
texted back and forth about grad school, married life, video games, books and
movies, travel – but not the one thing that was their deepest bond. Maybe
that’s why Ben found himself with butterflies beating against his abdominal
wall – this was a true reunion of sorts, a reunion of swolemates,
brothers-in-iron. But he’s got me at a
disadvantage, Ben thought. Ben didn’t hide himself. He’d been on a few
magazine covers. He had a few thousand followers on Instagram. Within the
bodybuilding world, he’d become a minor celebrity, despite only doing a handful
of shows in a dilettantish fashion. There was awe and disbelief around Ben’s
ever-swelling musculature, but he didn’t try to hide himself from public view.
It would be easy to keep tabs on Ben’s progress despite the communications
blackout on the subject. And none of that was true for the camera-shy…
Brock!
Ben waved at what was surely the
largest human to ever dent the earth’s tectonic plates, accompanied by a ‘mere’
super-heavyweight bodybuilder, like an Olympia mass monster who’d gone a little
overboard in the offseason. Brock had grown.
His huge 6’4 frame looked overwhelmed with meat. He didn’t walk: he
waddled. Wherever Ben’s eye rested momentarily, his mind balked, unable to
process his friend’s sheer massive size. He wore a tent of a tanktop – who knew
how many X’s were stacked in front of that L? A year ago he’d been stretching
out custom-made 8XLs, and he was bigger now than he was then. Much bigger. His
beachball pecs cantilevered out from his chest, swelled up from his clavicle,
presented a canyon you could easily lose a hand in – or a dick in – and they
bounced with each step. The tanktop’s
straps were pulled horizontal, taut and thin, stretched a mile from the peak of
his skull-swallowing traps to the distant far swell of his unearthly pecs.
Brock’s shorts sagged in great folds of excess fabric around his waist, but
were prevented from falling by ghastly thighs that exploded out to either side,
twice as big as that German cyclist’s famous hamhocks, writhing with veins as
thick as garden hoses. He rolled each monster-leg around the other in an odd,
circular gait, such that, even from the front, Ben could see the hint of
absolutely outrageous asscheeks like two big medicine balls glued to the back
of his body. Despite his super-wide-set swagger, his inner thighs pushed
against each other almost down to his knees, forcing his substantial package up
and forward, exaggerating it. By his side, his husband Matt, a darkly handsome behemoth
in his own right, tan skin covered in sinuous tattoos, shrink-wrapped over firm
bulbuous muscles, looked normal – small, even.
Ben realized he had frozen in mid-wave, and
that his mouth was hanging open. He’d grown so used to being the biggest man
around, the biggest man imaginable – and, yeah, some part of him had dared to
dream he might have caught up to Brock, maybe even began to surpass his mentor
and oldest friend.
But nope. Brock was unparalleled. Brock was
unprecedented. Brock was some kind of fucking mutant.
And that’s when Ben made eye contact with Brock
– two pairs of intense blue eyes, one pair light, one dark, one pair steel, one
ice. And that’s when Brock’s brutal face cracked into a huge grin, the
beginnings of laugh lines crinkling around his eyes. It was like all the years
and the maturity both men had grown into fell away – somewhere in the space
where those gazes met, suspended in the shimmering air over the hot asphalt,
they were 19 again, a 295 lbs ex-football player and a 195 lbs fitness model
type, watching bodybuilding videos on youtube, shirtless in the living room of
the shitty house they shared, the AC busted, plates piled high with chicken,
rice, and broccoli steaming on their laps. Ben felt himself smiling in response;
his heart swelled and his cock stirred like a happy puppy’s tail.
“You sidewalk crackin’
mutherfucker,” Ben cackled, striding toward the two massive men. “What did you
do, eat the flight crew?” He threw his arms around his old friend – or rather, he
tried to. Even if his arms were normally proportioned, Ben doubted they’d be
long enough to encircle the freak’s beach-ball pecs and barn-door lats – but
with the added volume of Ben’s own more-than-substantial arm muscles, it really
was nothing like a hug. Muscles shaking hands, maybe – huge round masses of
hard flesh shifting and arranging themselves against each other in a kind of
dialogue, a kind of friendship. It was an intimate gesture that few other men
could ever share. Their faces were so far apart, yet acres of their flesh
pressed against each other, shifted or held firm, hot and smooth and hard.
“Real good to see you too,
buddy. I can tell you ain’t missin’ no meals,” Brock said with a smirk. They
broke their embrace and stepped back to properly size up each other.
No questions were needed. Both
Brock and Ben knew what the other most wanted to know.
Ben spoke first. “435.”
Brock smiled. “472.”
“You freaky fuck!” Ben smacked
the veiny globe that was Brock’s left delt. “You just don’t stop, do you? Can
you believe this guy?” Ben asked, turning to Matt.
Matt smiled his Cheshire grin.
“Nope,” he said. “In fact, I can’t believe either of you. Hi Ben.”
Ben returned the smile, then
suddenly dove at the smaller man. “C’mere you,” he said, “don’t think you’re
getting away without a nice-to-see-you squeeze.” The two embraced.
“You’re looking real good yourself, Matt,” Ben
said, tightening his hold on Matt. “What you up to these days?”
“Oh, about 335, 340,” Matt
answered, responding in kind.
Ben continued the hug then broke
away. He glanced at Brock, then returned his gaze to Matt, who was, as usual,
just a little inscrutable in his expression. “You thinking of hooking up to the
system while you’re here?” Ben began walking back to the huge SUV – not his
style at all, but a necessary compromise – not many vehicles are built for
almost 1250+ lbs of dense male flesh. “It’s only two weeks, but I think we
could add eight quality pounds, at least.”
“Yeah, I think so,” Matt
answered. “I like Brock being bigger than me, but too much of a difference and
it gets kinda … well …”
“Scary,” Brock finished Matt’s
sentence with a wolfish grin.
“Yes, a little scary,” Matt
confirmed.
“I don’t know how you don’t
break a twig like Karim in half, big man,” Brock said to Ben.
“I’m very very gentle,” Ben
laughed, opening the trunk. “Besides, it’s kinda fun, having a husband whose
waist is smaller than my arm. OK. Matt, you sit up front with me. Brock, try
and squeeze that massive carcass into the back. Let’s test this thing’s
suspension.”
“Speaking of Karim,” Matt said,
“where is he?”
“Oh, well,” Ben said, turning
the key in the ignition, “there’s a reporter doing a feature on him for a
muscle mag, kind of like a ‘who the fuck is the trainer behind these mass
monsters taking over bodybuilding’ kinda thing, and he’s at The Facility doing
an interview. So I thought we’d kill a bit of time. I suspect you’d rather our
paths didn’t cross with Mr. Reporter.”
Brock grunted his assent from
the backseat, which was almost overfull with his unbelievable brawn.
“So what’s the plan?” Matt
asked.
“I thought we’d hit the local hardcore gym, and
then a diner I know. Karim’s gonna text me the all-clear when buddy leaves.”
“Alright, that sounds great,” Brock said.
“Let’s give the locals a show they won’t soon forget.”
*
Karim Malik: This Man Makes Monsters
Anyone even a little familiar with bodybuilding doesn’t need to be told
that we’re in the early years of a new era. Sometime two or three years ago,
men started showing up for contests well over 300 lbs – and then, well over
350. This new era of mass can all be credited to – or blamed on – one man:
Karim Malik, trainer, entrepreneur, eccentric millionaire, center of
controversy. Every muscle freak bending stage floorboards nowadays has either
passed through Malik’s “Facility,” or have been inspired by what little is
known of his methods to try and keep up with those who have. Muscle Rag has managed to score an interview with the
usually-reclusive Malik, which occurred within the walls of his “Facility,” walls
seldom breeched by mere mortals. Here’s part of our conversation – you can read
the whole thing at musclerag.com
MR: Thank you so much for
agreeing to speak with us, Mr. Malik.
KM: It’s my pleasure. Please,
call me Karim.
MR: So, this is your ‘facility’
– could you tell us some basic facts about it?
KM: Well, it’s very simple. We
take a scientific approach to muscle-building, and then we control for as many
variables as we possibly can. Training, food, sleep, supplementation – all of
it is tightly monitored and controlled to maximize results. There’s nothing
magical going on here – we just use the best technology in combination with the
latest science, and we use them strictly and totally. Anyone active at The
Facility lives here for the duration of their training – at least one month,
although best results come from three or four. I was inspired by a similar,
though somewhat shadier and less precise, set-up I once saw in another country
– I won’t specify where – and I thought ‘I’ve got the resources, I can do
better than this.’
MR: So you ‘control for as many
variables as you can’ – what does that mean?
KM: Oh, that’s very simple.
Everyone at the Facility wears a small bio-monitor – that’s our big innovation,
and licensing the patent has proven incredibly lucrative – it’s the only reason
our fees are accessible to your average middle-class bodybuilder – provided he
can take at least a month off work to live here, and he passes our
physiological and psychological screening, I mean.
MR: Bio-monitors?
KM: Yes, wireless devices that
monitor hormone levels, blood sugar, that kind of thing – with data being
transmitted to the central computer. It ensures everyone who is active on the
system is constantly in an anabolic state – it’ll deliver instructions like
“Ben: report to station 1,” where a protein shake or a zinc pill or something
else will be there – whatever the system decides Ben – or whoever – needs to
maintain his body in an anabolic state.
MR: A testosterone injection. .
.?
KM: [smiles but does not speak]
MR: Surely, though, if you’re
monitoring hormone levels, you must also be manipulating them …?
KM: Well, that much is true, and
I will say that everything we do is legal. But just the same I’d prefer not to
discuss the finer points of hormone manipulation.
MR: OK then. So what inspired
you to do this? No offense, but you don’t look like a bodybuilder yourself…
.
KM: None taken – I’m not. But
I’m married to one. I’ve always been fascinated by muscular development, and
when I got into a relationship with Ben [Greenfield, Malik’s husband, who
likely needs no introduction to our readers] I really took to the idea of using
my resources to help him maximize his growth.
MR: Well, you’ve done that, for
sure! I think most of us would agree that Ben Greenfield is probably the most
developed man to ever walk the face of the earth, in terms of sheer muscular
size [see last month’s cover for a shredded Greenfield – who stands just shy of
6’ – at a mindblowing 420 lbs -ed].
KM: Well, thank you. But I’m
afraid that’s not quite correct.
MR: Ah, yes, you must mean the
mysterious Brock Healey. Ben’s ….?
KM: Best friend really is the
word for it. Ben was a skinny soft-body when Brock first met him – and he
probably would have stayed that way without Brock’s intervention. I just added
some jet fuel to the process.
MR: So just how big is this
Brock …?
KM: [smirks] If I told you, you
wouldn’t believe me.
MR: I take it he’s also a
graduate of your Facility?
KM: Oh, no, not at all. It’s all
him. OK. Here’s how I think of it. Ben is a science project – maybe that sounds
creepy to you, but it doesn’t mean I love him any less. We’re very careful
about his health. But his body is science. Science fiction. Brock’s is fantasy.
It’s magic. His training and diet is all intuitive, and – I swear to you – he’s
never touched the juice. I don’t have any explanation for it. It’s like he’s
got a gland that naturally secretes massive doses of trenbolone. I’ve begged
him to have an induction here at the Facility – not even to grow him, although
god, imagine … no, I want to induct
him just to get the raw data, to see what makes his body tick. We could even
possibly use that knowledge to adapt our techniques here. He’s turned me down
at every stage – he’s very private. But – I realize this makes me sound naïve –
but I really do believe that he’s natural. If any of your readers have seen one
of the few photos that are out there, they’ll disbelieve me, but I know him
well, and I really think it’s true.
MR: So have you reached the
limit of human muscular development here at your Facility?
KM: Oh, no. Not at all. Not at
all. Not even close. [he smiles enigmatically but refuses to say anything more]
*
“TWO MORE,” Ben bellowed, holding
on to the sled for dear life. He and Matt were perched atop the leg press,
which was laden down with every 45 lbs
plate they could scavenge. Brock was at the bottom of his penultimate rep. He threw
his head back and gave a beserker snarl, spittle flecking from his toothy
mouth, the tendons and veins in his waist-thick neck bulging and distorting,
his pecs smashed up towards his face by his monstrous thighs. The sled rose;
Brock gulped air, his musclegut with its cobbled abs heaving in and out, tanktop
long ago discarded. He paused at the top of the rep.
“LAST ONE. MAKE IT COUNT,
FUCKHEAD,” Ben yelled, grinning at Matt, who was crowded in next to him –
really, the leg press was not made for two men of their size. It was lucky they
liked each other; they were practically cuddling.
Matt grinned back at Ben in turn,
then slapped his hand against the metal of the machine. “C’mon, beast, show the
iron who’s boss,” he exhorted. The sled descended; Brock moaned; the crowd of
onlookers – at least a dozen – craned to see if this was it, if the giant of a
man in their midst was finally beaten. But no – with a sudden vicious
vengeance, Brock slammed the sled back up like he had another dozen reps in him,
jammed the safeties into place, then rolled out of the machine onto the floor,
onto his hands and knees, heaving rapid breaths, rivers of sweat cutting paths
over the vast terrain of his unthinkable bulk.
Ben hopped down to the left,
Matt to the right. Matt knelt down and slowly rubbed Brock’s back. Ben hobbled
out to address the crowd – all three men had just slaughtered their legs.
“Show’s over for today, folks,” he said, striking a pose, flexing his arms so
that the bicep leapt up toward his fist, then flaring his lats as wide as he
possibly could – if only because he wasn’t sure his super-pumped exhausted legs
had strength enough left to support a pose without cramping up or faltering.
“You nutcase,” Brock rasped,
still on his hands and knees, but breath slowing down to something close to
normal. “You total nutcase.”
“Don’t puke, buddy. Remember, if
anyone pukes, they buy the others lunch. Speaking of, let’s get going.” The
three men – huge, huger, and hugest – slowly limped their way into the locker
room like three elderly men, pulsing with blood and new growth. The crowd had
dispersed, but all eyes were on them as they made their way to the change-room.
“Fuck, it’s good to lift with
you again,” Ben said, whipping off his shorts without a second thought,
semi-hard uncut dick dangling. “No one gets ‘intensity’ quite like you do, big
man.” He tossed Brock and Matt a towel each before striding off towards the
showers, his own towel jauntily over his right shoulder, swaying in time with
his rolling gait.
As they undressed, Matt leaned
in to Brock and whispered “you’re such a beast,” then nuzzled his neck.
Brock chuckled. “You know it,”
he said, grabbing Matt, hoisting him up, lifting him to kiss his stomach
rapidly, passionately, Matt’s dick flopping along the top of Brock’s vast pecs,
quickly stiffening. A pointed cough from a dozen lockers away – Brock and Matt
glanced to see a disapproving old man glaring at them. “Wanna do something
about it?” Brock challenged. The old man quickly averted his gaze, hurried in
dressing, and departed.
Matt laughed after he was gone –
he was too kind to do it before. “You are
a beast.”
“Yes, but even beasts need to
get clean,” Brock said, throwing Matt over his shoulder and moving into the
shower area.
It was a communal shower, with
multiple shower heads and no dividers or privacy screens. Ben was sprawled on
the floor, leaning against a far wall, two shower streams pointed at him. His
legs were splayed, his hips loose and open after the brutal leg workout, his
hamstrings two great gobs of muscle hanging off his thigh bone, his quads two
gigantic teardrops sweeping out from his kneecaps, his calves two basketballs,
seemingly held in place by a vast network of veins. He was languorously
stroking his cock, which was just slightly above average-sized, but very nicely
shaped, covered with generous foreskin. “What took you guys?” he said,
brightening up at Brock and Matt’s entrance.
“Freakin’ out the norms,” Brock
said, turning on multiple showers. “You always shower like that?” he asked.
“Only if I spot a couple of
hunks in the changeroom,” Ben said. “Then I bust out my … sexuality.”
He said the last word mockingly, throwing his head back dramatically.
“Subtle,” Matt said, grinning.
“Hey, I’m a creature of
appetite. And whatever they’ve got me on back at the Facility, it’s got me so
horny I could probably jack off to a picture of Janet Reno.”
“I hope we’re a little better
than that,” Brock said, smirking, turning his back on Ben and spreading his
lats wider, wider, wider.
“Uuunh,” Ben said, his grip on
his cock becoming feathery, his strokes very slow. “Woah. Fuck, I almost came,
you asshole.”
Matt’s grin grew even more
enigmatic; he leaned in to Brock and whispered something. Brock barked a laugh,
glanced back at Ben, and said “your lucky day, old pal. Matt just had an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, you’ll see. Get ready,
Matt.”
Matt braced himself against the
far wall of the shower so that hot water ran down the rivulet of his spine and
into the crack of his huge bubble ass, pumped two sizes bigger than normal by
the intense leg workout the three men had just completed. Tattoos spiraling
everywhere, his muscles slippery smooth bulges, his dark hair matted and spikey
– everything seemed to emanate from the twin orbs of male power and beauty that
were his glutes, like Matt’s ass was the omphalos, the center of all creation.
Brock moved over, spread Matt’s
asscheeks with a practiced motion. “You ready?” he asked. Matt moaned in the
affirmative. “Are you suuuure?” Brock asked, teasing now.
“God, yes, do it,” Matt managed.
“Maybe I better check,” Brock
said, still teasing. He leaned in, put his face to Matt’s ass, nose to crack.
He inhaled deeply and then dove in, working his tongue vigorously. He popped
back up after forty-five seconds or so. “Oh, yes,” he said, twisting his bulk
to look Ben’s way, glancing back over the steep hill of his left trap. “I think
he’s ready.” Ben straightened his posture, took a firmer grip on his dick.
“Please,” Matt said, arching his
back, sticking his ass out toward Brock.
“Do it,” Ben said, edging closer
to orgasm, his pecs bunching and shifting as he stroked himself. He slowed his
tempo again – he didn’t want to bust before the show even properly began.
Brock smirked at both the
smaller men, and then piloted his cudgel of a cock, thick and uncut and gnarled
with veins, towards Matt’s twitching hole, sliding in gently like coming home.
Matt moaned appreciatively as Brock, once in, quickly escalated the speed and
force of his thrusts. Soon, he was jackhammering, fast and hard.
Ben watched in something like
awe. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen Brock in action, wasn’t the first
time he’d seen Matt take it like a pro – but it had been a while, and Brock was
bigger, stronger, more powerful than either man could have imagined all those
years ago, back when they first met. A true beef-heap, arms bigger than thin
man’s chest, titanic, monumental, adjective-defying glutes, milky-white, rapidly
shifting and morphing with each brutal thrust. It was hypnotic. Matt had to be
absorbing an insane amount of force with each thrust – hundreds of pounds of
force, maybe a thousand pounds, maybe?
Ben was rapidly approaching delirium just
watching and stroking. Yes, it was a little scary just to witness – yes, a
lesser man would be torn apart, unable to withstand the onslaught of pure power
– but it was so erotic. Ben started to spurt before he even realized what was
happening. He couldn’t be silent. “Oh fuck,” he heard himself say as his spunk
sprayed up onto his cramping abs, his pecs mounding up, digging into his chin,
flexing with all their might. He came and came and came like something had
broken inside him. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” he moaned as the
spurts kept coming – some detached part of his brain knew the repetition of the
same phrase signaled a feedback loop, that his brain had stopped processing new
information and was in some kind of primal state of hypersex, pure sexual
saturation – fight or flight, except erotic. And the desire was neither to fly
nor to fight, but to melt into the floor, to go limp, to be utterly destroyed
by the display of power before him.
Brock roared, slammed himself
into Matt even more forcefully and didn’t pull out, like he was trying to spear
Matt, like he wanted his cock to ram right through. He pounded his fist against
the wall and left it there to help support himself as he unloaded in his lover,
groaning and bellowing like the animal he was. Matt moaned and his dick started
jumping as if touched by invisible electric currents; three shots of pure white
cum splattered against the shower wall, and then drops begin to fall like rain,
splattering in random directions by the violent spasms that wracked Matt’s
dick.
Ben came back to himself, water
running down his face, semi-hard dick still grasped in his fist. Even just
removing his hand sent sensation darting through him, almost unbearable. His
cum had turned sticky, the way it does in hot water. Ben groaned and rose,
surveying the scene before him. Brock was holding Matt, face buried in Matt’s
neck, licking and moaning and kissing him fervently. Matt almost looked like he
was swooning. The tiles were dented where Brock had slammed his hand against
them; one tile looked like it might fall off.
Ben shook his head, tried to
come back to himself. “Dudes,” he said. “Look at the mess. You know, if we were
anyone else, this would get us banned for sure.”
Brock smirked at Ben. “But we’re
not anyone else, are we?”
Ben shook his head ruefully.
“We’re not, but, you know, hardcore gyms like this have tiny profit margins –
they’ve gotta compete with the Planet Shitnesses of the world.”
Brock barked a laugh and gently
set a wobbly Matt on his feet. “Planet Shitness. Good one. OK, OK, you’re
right, we’ll pay for the repairs. It was worth it, anyway. You should have seen
the look on your face, li’l Benny.”
“I’m sure I was a real picture,”
Ben responded, shutting off the water and grabbing his towel. “Let’s dry off
and get some food – I’m going catabolic just standing around gabbing.”
*
“Thanks for the scoop, man,” the
reporter said, shutting off his recorder. “This’ll move a lot of copies. I
don’t know if you appreciate how many people are curious about you, and about
what goes on here. You know how it is – people talk.”
“They do talk,” Karim answered.
“I agreed to this interview because I hoped it would make people settle down.
If it just fans the fires, well, I’ll be pretty disappointed. Anyway. I’ll walk
you out.”
They left Karim’s office, where
they had been chatting, and passed by the weightroom. Cody, one of the
bodybuilders currently in residence, was in mid-set, incline bench, his
ponderous pecs swelling together like two pieces of perfect masonry at the top
of each rep, hiding his handsome face from view. He’d shown up at The Facility
three months ago at an offseason 270; he was 340 now, and leaner, and he still
had a month to go. The most anyone had ever gained in four months was 78 lbs,
and Cody looked like he was on track to beat that record.
“Holy shit, is that who I think
it is?” the reporter asked as Cody lowered the weight, momentarily revealing
most of his face.
“Sure is. Kid’s a monster.”
“Another success story.”
“Yup.”
They walked on in awkward silence.
“Seriously, though, now that we’re off the record: surely you must burn through
an insane quantity of steroids.”
Karim frowned. “I can’t believe
you asked about testosterone injections with the recorder running. What the
fuck did you expect me to say? The last thing I want is the feds busting down
our door. We’ve taken every precaution we can take, we’re as legal as we can
possibly be without setting up shop in Thailand. You signed the contract on the
way in, yeah?”
“Yeah,” the reporter answered.
“OK, good. So you’ll remember
section 11.1: the interview is over, we are off the record, and if you publish
anything – anything – I say to you
right now, you will be in breach of contract with some pretty nasty penalties.
Understood?”
“Yeah, yeah. Fuck.”
“No, not fuck. I’m protecting my
life’s work from a system that doesn’t understand or appreciate what we do. You
better fucking believe I take this seriously. Now, I want it to be clear: this
stays between the two of us, as per the contract you signed. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“OK then. Of-fucking-course we go through a bull elephant’s
worth of testosterone on a daily basis. HGH, IGF-1, insulin, everything. The
computer’s a better steroid guru than any living human; the bio-monitor allows
micro-dosing, incredibly precise dosing. I said we used cutting edge science. I
meant it. Legality is … something to be navigated.”
“So how do you prevent law
enforcement from …”
“We have our ways. Leave it at
that. Like I said: this is my life’s work.”
The two men walked on in
silence. They were nearing the exit when the reporter spotted an innocuous
closed door. Something – his journalistic nose picking up a scent, maybe – made
he ask: “hey, what’s behind that door?”
Karim turned, saw the door the
reporter was indicating. His face was a smooth blank. “Oh, just storage,” he
answered. “Anyway, I hope you got enough material to write something good.
Email me if you think of any other questions, or want to clarify anything. And
come back any time if you’re interested in becoming a client – I can see you
with another 50 lbs on your bones, easy. Take care!”
The men shook hands and the
reporter, taking a final glance around, walked through the front doors. Karim
stayed put, watching, until the man got in his vehicle and drove out of the
parking lot. As he made the turn and pulled out of sight, the starch seemed to
come out Karim. He slumped against a nearby counter, let out a long shaky sigh,
and said. “Thank fuck that’s over.”
After a few slow, calming breaths, he straightened up and fished his phone out
of his pocket. Reporter gone, he
texted Ben. Bring the boys over at your
leisure. Can’t wait to see them. He hit ‘send’ and turned to walk over to
the unassuming door that the reporter had someone thought to ask about. Karim
opened it, annoyed, and announced: “he’s gone. You can come out now.”
*
“A cheese and broccoli omelet
for my friend here,” Ben said, gesturing at Brock.
“And he’ll be having the
marinara burger, double meat,” Brock said, gesturing at Ben.
“I’m good – just gonna watch
from here on,” Matt said.
The waiter, a skinny
nineteen-year-old with a visible boner stretching down the left leg of his
black pants, stammered “s-sure” and collected the fourth set of dirty plates
from the diner booth.
It was a game Brock and Ben used
to play when they lived together – after lifting, they’d go to a diner or a
fast food restaurant and they’d order for each other. And keep ordering, and
keep ordering. The first person who couldn’t finish his food was the loser.
“Double meat?” Ben said, cocking
an eyebrow at Brock. “You trying to give that poor kid a heart attack?”
“Get your mind out of the
gutter,” Brock said.
Ben put on his best angelic
look, his blue eyes losing their usual intensity, widening, becoming cherubic. “Oh
calumny!” he exclaimed, fanning himself with his hand as if in distress. “To be
falsely accuséd of possessing low moral character!”
“Clown around all you want - you
still gotta eat it.”
“Oh, that was never in doubt.
Seeing you blown up like a balloon animal has lit a fire under my ass,
Brocky-boy. I’m gonna outgrow you one of these days. I’ve got science on my
side.”
“Is that why you’re starving me
with a measly omelet?”
“Dude, trust me, that thing’s
massive, and it’s just shiny with
grease.”
“A little snack for me. I’ll
wither away if this keeps up for a whole two weeks.”
Ben smirked. “OK, then, big man,
if that’s how you feel …” he raised his hand, snapped his finger, beckoned
the waiter. The waiter, of course, was staring at the three muscle monsters
crammed into the family-size booth whenever he had a moment, and often when he
didn’t have a moment – he’d already spilled two coffees and forgotten at least
one order.
“Y-yes, sir?” the shy teen
stammered.
“Mega-shake for my friend here.
Double the serving size. Triple the whey. Use full-fat milk. Don’t be shy with
the ice cream – chocolate, why fuck around with a classic? Oh, and chuck a half
dozen spoonfuls of peanut butter in the mix, too. I wanna be able to roll this
fat fuck out the door when he’s finished.”
Brock smirked. “Same for him.”
The teen’s mouth fell open but
no sound came out. He’d already brought enough food to feed a small army to
this table, with another hearty course coming, and here they were ordering
super-sized shakes that had more than a day’s worth of calories in them. “Uh,”
he said.
Matt, who was closest to the
waiter, smiled gently at him. “Just nod if you got all that,” he said,
momentarily resting a hand on the teen’s arm. A quick shudder ran through the
young man’s skinny body.
“Y-yes, sirs, right away,” the
waiter managed to say, face flushing blood-red as he turned to flee.
“Matt!” Brock hissed, leaning in
to his husband. “You just made that poor kid jizz in his pants!”
“Clean-up on aisle your crotch,”
Ben said softly, in sing-song.
“I was trying to calm him down,”
Matt said unhappily.
“Eh, don’t feel bad, maybe he will be a little calmer, now that he’s
busted his nut,” Ben opined.
“How did you grow so wise, Ben?” Brock said, sarcastic.
Ben’s phone buzzed. He fished it
out of his pocket. “It’s Karim,” he said. “The coast is clear at The Facility
and he’s eager to see you guys. Poor K. I bet he feels like he’s been through
the wringer – he really had some serious reservations about agreeing to this
interview. Want to get this last round to go and call it a tie?”
“No,” Brock said. “I want to
race you.”
Ben smirked. “OK, you’re on –
you might be bigger than me, Healey, but I’ve always been faster than you.”
“We’ll see about that,
Greenfield. Matt, you’re the judge.”
“Hey, no fair, don’t you think
he’s kind of biased? He’s only, um, married
to one of the contestants.”
“I’m fair!” Matt protested.
“Get the waiter over here, you
can both be judges. You watch Brock, the kid will watch me. Say ‘done’ when the
person you’re watching is finished. That’s fair,” Ben said.
“Sounds good to me,” Brock said.
“We’ve got to wait for the poor guy to come back from the washroom, though.”
It took a few minutes for the
waiter to re-emerge; his face was still crimson when Brock beckoned him over to
the table and explained the rules of the little challenge. The food and shakes
came shortly after, the shakes in ridiculous over-sized Styrofoam cups. Brock
and Ben readied themselves, game faces on, steely eyes meeting icy ones.
“Ready?” Matt asked, glancing at
both men. They nodded, all business. “GO.”
Ben rammed the burger into his
mouth, swallowing rapidly, chewing the minimum amount required. Brock’s knife
and fork flew, severing huge chunks of cheesy eggs and jamming them into his
maw. At the back of his mind, Ben was worried – this was the fifth course, and
each of the four preceding had been epic in their own right, a full gut-busting
meal for a normal man. Ben’s normally flat, cobbled gut already bowed out
painfully, still lean and muscular but rounded now, like a gigantic hand
grenade, etched with abdominals and veins like cracks in a bursting facade. But
there was no way he was going to let Brock win this – even if an omelet was
easier than a double burger. Just two
more big bites. C’mon, Ben, you can—
“Done!” Matt exclaimed as Brock
flopped back in the booth, breath heaving, sweat trickling down his heavy brow.
Ben groaned in defeat. Then, a
realization: “your shake,” he said around a mouthful of beef. He gulped it
down. “You ain’t done,” he said, speaking more clearly, before squashing the
remainder of the burger into his mouth.
A light glinted in Brock’s eyes
as he leaned forward, distended muscle-gut competing for space with his frankly
ridiculous pecs. He grabbed the huge cup of thick fatty proteinous ice-creamy
goop and started gulping. Ben was only seconds behind him. Ben closed his eyes
and focused his whole mind on gulping as fast as he could. He treated it like a
final set at the gym: push your body beyond what you think its limit is. Your
body can handle it. It’s all a question of willpower.
The solution was just so thick,
Ben had to take a few breaks to breathe from time to time. He was thankful to
see Brock was in a similar situation. At one point, they were both pausing,
gasping for air. Ben let out an involuntary belch, thankful not to puke. Brock
leaned heavily on his elbows and gave Ben a long-suffering look. “You’re
disgusting,” he said.
“You know it, baby,” Ben said,
still panting. “I’m filth. Bottoms up.” He grabbed the cup like it was a
dumbbell and this was his final set. His gut fucking ached – if he never felt
hunger at The Facility, he never felt stuffed like this, either. He was kept in
constant calorie surplus, but never this kind of ludicrous glorious excess – he
was out of practice.
Finally, the last sludgy dregs
of calorie-rich shake slid down Ben’s throat; he gulped hard and then slammed
the empty cup down just in time to see Brock do the same. “DONE,” both men
exclaimed in unison.
Matt and the skinny waiter
glanced at each other. “I think it’s a tie,” Matt said. The waiter nodded
anxiously, as if afraid of the possible consequences of there being no clear
winner.
Ben and Brock both leaned back
and groaned. Their titanic muscles were flooded with glycogen and nutrients;
both looked the hugest they’d ever been. They were sweating from the pure
physical effort of stuffing themselves. Their guts were both distended well
beyond their normal sizes, but there wasn’t much space on either man’s frame to
accommodate it – their swollen thighs pressed up from one direction, their
enormous pecs pressed down from the other.
“Fuuuck,” Ben managed. “I don’t
care. It’s a tie.” He groaned. “Good job, Brock.”
Brock groaned, nodded to
acknowledge Ben’s compliment and to say ‘likewise.’ He wasn’t ready to speak
yet. He attempted to shuck his tanktop, but it got stuck halfway up and Matt
had to peel it the rest of the way. He lifted his hands over his head as Matt
pulled off the tank, pecs shifting and morphing. Once the tank was clear, Brock
fell back in his seat, tits mounding up towards his face, freaky-big and round,
little pink nipples like pencil erasers pointing downwards at the bottom of
their vast swell. Titanic arms resting uneasily on top of his super-thick lats.
He had that exaggerated arms-wide strut so many bodybuilders pridefully adopt,
except, in his case, it was a matter of necessity. His muscles had grown so
large, his body was running out of space to put it all; he was bloated with
muscle.
“Good idea,” Ben said slowly, leaning
forward painfully and following suit. His muscles were so full and pumped, he
found it difficult to get a good hold on his shirt. “Fuck,” he muttered.
“Getting musclebound.” Matt, sensing his help was needed, leaned across the
booth and gave Ben a start, pulling his shirt to the point where Ben could
finish the job. Shirt off, Ben fell back in his seat and closed his eyes,
enjoyed the feeling of cool air on the sweaty acres of his tortured flesh.
“Uh, uh, sirs,” the waiter
stammered faintly. “Uh, sirs, we have a no shirt no shoes no … . no service
policy.”
Ben waved him away like a pesky
fly. “We’re not getting any more service. We’re leaving. As soon as we can
walk. Bring the bill.”
The waiter made some sounds that
were almost words and then fled once more. Ben groaned, slitting his eyes open.
He felt like a turtle trapped on its back, his gut like a segmented carapace –
if the carapace was somehow over-stuffed and about to blow wide open. “We
probably traumatized that poor kid,” he said, voice still thick from
shotgunning the shake.
Brock barked a laugh. “Trauma?
More like, gave him jack off material for the rest of his fucking life.”
“Still, though,” Ben said. He
leaned forward painfully, reached for his wallet, drew out a couple of hundred
dollar bills. “This should cover the bill and a nice tip to boot. Ugh, my gut
fucking aches.”
Brock moaned. “Mine too, bud.
What a fucking spectacle.”
“Let’s get back to The Facility.
The moment I slip on my monitor the computer’s gonna freak out at me, I know
it. I am so ‘beyond normal parameters’ right now. Ugh. Karim keeps these digestive
enzymes on stock – it’ll help the bloat go down. We’ll take some, and in a
couple of hours we’ll be all back to normal – all this food will be converted
to pure muscle,” Ben said, lightly tapping his tortured stomach. “Phew. OK. C’mon,
let’s go.”
*
“Hey, Matt, this is my younger brother,
Farid,” Karim said, holding the door to his office open.
“Hey, man, nice to meet you.
I’ve heard so much about you,” Farid said. He was shorter, chubbier than his
older brother, not ugly but not really handsome, either – cute, maybe, if you liked
the nerdy type. But the feature most people noticed first were his gnarly arms,
huge and knotted and veiny, splitting the sleeves of a vintage NES t-shirt.
They looked like they belonged on another man. They were so disproportionate,
one might naturally suspect something like synthol, but there wasn’t an ounce of
fat anywhere on Farid’s arms – the merest twitch of his finger sent massive
cables of muscle shifting and rearranging themselves. His arms were clearly
pure brawn, at least 20”, despite the seeming lack of muscle anywhere else on
his body.
“Nice to meet you, Farid,” Matt
said, shaking his hand.
“Farid’s the tech head – he’s my
secret weapon. He’s the one who took the bio-monitor from concept to actual
usable device,” Karim explained.
“Ha, check it out – he can’t get
over the cannons,” Farid laughed dorkily, flexing his ridiculous biceps. There
was a faint tearing sound. “Shit. I liked this shirt.”
“He’s also a nerd with the
social graces of a fucking camel,”
Karim sighed. “See, this is why I hid
you from the reporter, Farid – he wanted a scoop, and hoo boy would you have
given him one. You can’t keep a secret, you love to talk, and those arms are just so . . so …”
“Those guns are … pretty
noticeable,” Matt said.
“Yeah, well, I developed the tech,
I help Karim run the place – that’s why he’s so sweet to me,” Farid said with over-the-top sarcasm. “And I look after all the computer stuff,
so I get to do what I want. And what I want to do is have BIG. FUCKING. ARMS.
Don’t really care about the rest of it.”
“Cool man,” Matt said. “I
respect anyone who follows their bliss. Not everyone understands why I’ve got
all these tattoos, like, they want some deep reason and symbolism behind them,
they think there must be something wrong with me to have inked up so
extensively. But it’s just … I like ‘em, and isn’t that a good enough
reason? Let your freak flag fly.”
“EXACTLY, buddy. Hey, Karim, I
like this guy.”
“Yeah,” Karim said, “he’s got a
fuckin’ heart of gold. I think it’s impossible to dislike him.”
“So where’s Ben and his old
boyfriend?” Farid asked.
“I’ve told you a million times:
Brock and Ben never dated.”
“Pfft, whatever. Where are
they?”
“Ben’s showing Brock around The
Facility.”
“Oh, heh, reuniting with our
permanent resident?”
“Farid, I swear, one of these
days…” Karim raised his eyes skyward as if for guidance.
“Who’s your ‘permanent resident’?
– isn’t that you guys?’” Matt asked.
“Actually, Matt, this concerns
you. You remember Sam …?”
“Yeah, Sameer, did he ever show
up here?”
Farid snorted.
“Yeah, he did. He kind of lives
here now.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Dude, he’s a fuckin’ beef-ball
now,” Farid said.
“Oh, well, that’s … good?”
Matt looked at Karim’s serious face in confusion. “Not good?”
Karim sighed. “I don’t think
he’d pass our psychological screening, if we had administered it – he’s
obsessed with growing. But then, I guess that’s also true of Brock and Ben. You
too, maybe. But he doesn’t have a life outside these walls, Matt. Anyway. After
you emailed me about him, I kinda considered it a charity to take him in, a
duty even. When he showed up here without a job or a friend on this side of the
continent, well, we took him in.”
Matt furrowed his brow. “Well, I
guess Brock and I kind of … broke his brain, a little. Not that he didn’t
like it. I remember it really well, actually. I had a day pass at a gym
downtown – a gym I don’t often go to – I forget why I was there, I had business
downtown or something and it was the only way I could fit in my workout. And,
well, there was poor Sam, this little guy, tiny really, lifting his heart out,
but going about it all wrong. He’d been at it for almost a year – ever since
Brock took him home and we, well, kinda muscle-fucked his brains out. So I took
him aside, asked him what his goals were, tried to teach him form on the most
basic lifts, you know, like you do.”
“And he said …?”
“He said he wanted to get huge
like us, and I said, well, I know this place, and …”
“And now he’s our permanent
guest!” Farid exclaimed, laughing. “The troll in our dungeon!”
Matt frowned, ignoring Farid’s
obnoxious outburst. “Karim, I had no idea. I’m worried. I never told Brock
about any of this. This might not end well for either of them.”
Farid looked confused. “Why the
hell not? It’s gonna be great. You jerks all like muscle, and Sam’s about to
see the guy who made him realize that. You guys freed him from his old
existence as a miserable skinny musicologist, doomed to exist as an unappreciated
and underpaid adjunct at some shithole college in Kansas or wherever. If I was
Sam, I’d fall down and lick Brock’s feet at the sight of him, like he was the
fucking Muscle Messiah.”
Karim sighed. “Farid, you’re a
genius, but you can be so dumb sometimes. Ever think what it might actually
feel like to have someone fall down and start licking your feet?”
Farid snorted again. “Yeah,
brother, I think about it all the time. It’d be awesome.”
Karim looked at his younger
brother. “You’re a super-villain, you know that,” he said flatly.
Farid flexed his ridiculous,
ten-sizes-too-large arms and smirked dorkily. “Yup.”
Matt was still frowning. “Maybe
I should go down there. I’m the one to blame for this.”
Karim glanced at the closed
circuit monitor. “Too late – they’re going into the gym, and Sam’s finishing up
his workout.” He sighed. “Look, this had to come – it’ll be fine. Maybe Farid’s
right. Maybe this will be a happy thing.”
Matt settl