Trophy Wife Pt. 01

"Might pop in from time to time to show you my progress. Might even need a spotter too."

Trent smirked, intrigued by Susan's insinuation. Did she mean to take him on as her spotter or just anyone who was willing? "Please do. You're more than welcome to drop by anytime, even if just for a chat."

"Lovely. Guess I'll get cracking on then." Susan moved in to kiss Trent on the cheek. Though, she of course couldn't stop herself from copping a feel of his massive balls, running her palm under his shaft. Trent winced. "See you next week, darling!"

As she walked off, Trent massaged his aching balls as he watched Susan's bubble butt roll, bounce and stretch the confines of her knee-length skirt. He hadn't ever viewed the woman the way he was now, sizing her up from head to toe, from mouth to ass. Oh, she was a minx when she wanted to be.

***

Life for Trent outside the gym was not much different than in. He trained in his bedroom, just as vigorously as he did in the gym bequeathed to him by his father, ate just as much if not far more food, and spent what little spare time he had left in the day to read bodybuilding books — autobiographies, diet and workout guides, even some fiction pieces on the side. Bodybuilding was Trent's life. He lived and breathed it day after day, night after night, workout after workout. In spite of all that, though, he was far from a meathead, actually an intelligent specimen of a hulking male.

But his life was far from perfect.

His bedroom doubled as a small gym and shrine to bodybuilding. To the left of his bed was a workout bench with a bar totaling three hundred pounds racked in place, a series of Mister Olympia posters above it. The bench itself had the obvious sheen of sweat streaking across its base, a protein shake and warm towel positioned on the windowsill next to it. There was, of course, the ever expected bottle of oil there as well. Trent typically went through two bottles of oil a week, ever fascinated by the appearance of his musculature after being oiled.

He observed the series of trophies he won over the years, each one larger than the last. The most recent victory he secured was the twenty-nineteen Mister Beefy, a relatively new contest that started only a few years prior. With each passing year, Trent vowed to himself that he would continue to win these trophies, continue to wow the crowds — particularly the female half — and continue to grow. Most people viewed his growth journey to be an obsession, but Trent saw it as a need, a promise to his father to do him proud. Wyatt probably would be.

Angela didn't share the same muscle-building genes or interest in bodybuilding as neither her husband nor son, but she was keen on helping Trent fulfill his dream of becoming the most muscular male in the world, the extent of the promise made to his father. Angela did everything she could to help Trent achieve his dream — cook his meals whilst he worked out, washed his clothes, help pay for things he couldn't if he was a little strapped for cash — everything that was to be expected of from a caring mother.

Trent's bedroom door groaned open slowly, revealing Angela holding a mountain of food stacked on a tray. Steaks, pasta, rice, an assortment of fruit and vegetables — all the things a bodybuilder could ever get their hands on to stuff their mouth with. There was so much food on the tray that Angela's arms shook under the weight of it all, chuckling nervously, only just managing to hand it over to Trent before she'd otherwise lose her grip.

Trent went for the steak first, cutting into it with the cutlery like a savage, as though he'd been starved for weeks. Angela watched him with a smile, positioning herself at the edge of the bed. Trent was bulking for his next competition, so needed all the food he could get his hands on. Luckily, he wasn't eating his mother out of house and home. Most of the stuff he ate came from sponsorships and deals made with sports competitions, but the money won was always just enough to get them by.

"So...the Jacked-athon this year, huh? You know, your father won that twice in a row." Angela handed Trent his glass of water. He guzzled its contents in one swift gulp before going back to the steak, already halfway through it. He was a machine when it came to eating. "You're as big as he was when he won it the second time. Just let that sink in."

Angela softly chuckled at the remarkable rate her son was ingesting the food on offer. "Take your time, there's more than enough there to feed a family of four for a week." She wondered how he was able to consume so much in such a short time without taking a breather or choking. Sure, his throat and neck muscles had both grown to the size of her arm, but still — how?

Then Angela noticed the syringe and vial positioned on Trent's bookshelf, the vial half full with a clear liquid. The same stuff Trent himself gave to Susan a couple of hours earlier.

"Ah. So you've been using the Trazo. That explains your appetite. How does it feel?"

"My appetite?"

Angela chuckled. "No, silly. The Trazo. I sunk a chunk of our life's savings into getting that for you."

Trent sighed. He didn't need the reminder his mother spent money on an illegal substance used to help build his mass faster than anyone thought possible. Sure, she wanted to help him achieve his goal, make good on his promise, but still — it was their life savings. They couldn't exactly use the money the companies sent because the purchases made from it, if they got caught with the Trazo, would come back to them. But all the same, Trent just couldn't deny the feeling he got from his pump, the burning sensation, was nothing he ever felt before.

"It's great," he admitted. "It's the strongest I've felt yet. It's like cumming. I'm not ashamed to admit it."

"That's great! Your father would be so proud of how far you've come in the past year." Angela was elated to know Trent felt the way he did. It's true that Wyatt would be proud of how far his son had come. But he had boundaries, knowledge of how far was too far, how much was too much. Angela, of course, didn't. She took the syringe and vial from the bookshelf and presented them to Trent. "There's still so much in this though. Would hate for this stuff to go to waste."

Trent's hesitance was apparent. He'd already told Susan — whom Angela didn't know also possessed the Trazo because Trent had sold it to her when it was really all supposed to be for him — that five milliliters would likely be enough to do the job, at least for a boost. But Angela was presenting the notion of injecting the remaining ten milliliters.

"I dunno."

"If you wanna win the Jacked-athon, you gotta take your doses more seriously, sweetie," Angela cooed sternly.

Trent's muscles itched. The prospect of his muscles growing larger was, of course, something he sought more than anything, arguably more than sex, but boundaries and limits were things his father had taught him over the years — to lift, eat and inject only as much as one could manage. Not to mention he already knew five milliliters was more than enough. Yet it was clear Angela was an enabler of the highest caliber. She swapped out the syringe's needle with one found next to Trent's bedside drawer, pulled out one of his stretchy socks to tie it around his arm and act as a tourniquet, then injected the remaining Trazo.

The syringe was removed and hastily discarded. "You gotta do right by your father. By me. Paying the bills relies entirely on you achieving your goal. Now pick up a dumbbell and get back at it!"

A renewed sense of energy swarmed Trent, compelling him to lift the two dumbbells by his door and start curling them.

Angela smiled shrewdly. "Good. Now, don't come back down until you've done at least three thousand reps. When you're done come downstairs. I want to show you something."

Trent wanted to protest his mother's decision but decided against it. He was still hungry even after consuming that mini banquet she hauled up for him to gorge on. The new dose of Trazo definitely didn't help — it would just double his appetite.

All the same—

"Yes, mother."

***

Angela had the next few years of Trent's life entirely mapped out, from his next chain of contests — The Iron Man, Muscle King and Mister Swole competitions — which partnerships organized by companies and brands to maintain, even whom he socialized with to ensure his focus was almost always on the next trophy or next big win. The relationships and deals made with the companies were carefully chosen by Angela to ensure the individual yields from each was maximized. Put simply, each deal was chosen purely based on how much profit Trent would make from it, regardless if the product or whatnot he represented was actually certifiable.

In regards to Trent's social circle, Angela personally vetted every individual he called a friend, gauging just how serious they all were about bodybuilding, As an extension of that, Angela also screened all the women Trent mingled with, determining their viability as a mate for him. So far, only two women caught Angela's eye: Mia and Taylor, both of whom, bodybuilders like Trent, sat on the couch together opposite Angela.

Mia. She was the youngest of both possibles, twenty-four to match Trent's age, but also the least muscular compared to the larger Taylor, herself aged twenty-six. Perhaps it would be beneficial for Trent to have a somewhat older, more mature woman at his side? The steroids she so obviously ladled into herself to become so big — easily on par with Trent — may have given her that outrageously striated jaw and more pronounced cheekbones, not to mention the deep, masculine voice, but these were traits Angela could easily overlook or become accustomed to. Yet there was something about Mia's characteristically flowery tone that made Angela smile, the younger girl's brunette curls a sharp contrast to Taylor's long blond mane covering her mountainous back.

"The purpose of this process is to pick out a suitable mate for my son. I want both his and your own muscle-building genes to pass on into his children and their children too." Angela observed Taylor and Mia's individual responding expressions, calm nods interspersed with slight smiles. They knew exactly what they were signing up for — the in-depth fliers set up across town, describing Trent as 'a bullish and hung Greek god in the flesh, seeking a mate.' Straight to the point. "He's the priority. It's worth remembering, girls: I don't care how much either of you can lift or eat. What matters to me is how long you can last in bed, how long you can fuck. To take his seed."

Angela went over Taylor's submission form for what had to be the seventh time, whilst she'd only looked at Mia's thrice in the past hour. Taylor didn't have any underlying medical conditions, which was a plus, yet Mia suffered from Asthma, something Angela wasn't particularly keen on having to deal with in any potential grandchildren she may have. Then again, Taylor's flagrant steroid abuse wasn't without its problems either.

"And taking your excessive steroid use into account, Taylor," Angela commented, "you may be more sexually confident, but you're also more likely to pass on HIV."

Taylor grumbled. She didn't particularly like that piece of news, even if it was the hard-hitting truth. She glared at Mia, knowing the chances of her being picked as Trent's mate had no doubt drastically improved. How anyone thought Mia could be suitable for Trent was beyond the blond's understanding. "So you're fitting to make this skinny bitch ride your son's dick? A bit contradictory, don't you think?" Taylor argued, her tone deeper than now than it was earlier.

"You're both viable women, each for individual reasons," Angela disclosed. Taylor may have been bigger, but such strength could lead to unforeseen heavy-handedness, not to mention the roid rage. Qualities best not expressed around children. But Angela could see the potential her grandchildren might possess under Taylor's motherhood. Far more potential than under the smaller yet evidently more caring Mia. "Size and strength isn't all I'm looking for. They're just the main traits."

"Oh puh-lease! There's more mass in my left calf than Mia's entire body." Driving her point forward, Taylor extended her left leg outward and flexed her calf, watching its beach-ball sized largeness bloat outwards from what had to be the slightest dose of growth. "If mass and strength are the main things you're looking for, why don't I just go up to Trent's room and fuck his brains out right now and be done with it? It's not like either of you could stop me."

Angela smirked. Confidence. An admirable trait. But Taylor wasn't being particularly smart about the situation.

That was when Trent finally made his appearance, his torso and hair matted with sweat, a puddle of the glandular liquid moistening his padded shorts. In his hand he held the shaker bottle gifted to him by Lite Industries, one of the top sports companies in the world sponsoring him.

Taylor sized Trent up. Smaller than she suspected, admittedly. His mother had been bigging him up to this prime specimen of a man akin to a god, and yet, he looked so...ordinary by her standards. Sure, Trent equaled in size to Taylor, but she suspected to be weak at the knees from merely seeing him. At any rate, she was at least amused. She'd use him like a doll.

Trent wasn't sure what was going on. He'd never met these two strangers before, especially the blond one who looked as they she was eying him to be her next snack. Trent positively acknowledged Mia first with a brisk smile. She mirrored the gesture in return before blushing.

"Trent, this is Mia and Taylor." Angela gestured to the two girls respectively, though seemed to acknowledge Taylor the longest, as though she'd made her mind up. "These are the most viable candidates I've found to be your mate. Your wife."

Trent felt like he'd hit a wall with the news. What the fuck did his mother mean by that? She was arranging a relationship and marriage between him and one of these women behind his back? Why? He didn't have to say anything on the matter — his face spoke for him.

Angela continued, taking her son's evident shock-induced silence into account. "Now I know what you're thinking, but it's high time you started planting roots, growing the family a bit."

"So you decided to arrange a marriage behind my back?" Trent argued.

"Far from it, actually," his mother whipped back. She knew he wasn't listening, far too busy offering sporadic glances at the dainty Mia to care. "As I said, I've chosen these two as viable candidates for your spouse, but I wanted to you to have the final say."

Trent already knew the answer to that. "Then none of them. I'm not ready for any of that shit yet, to 'grow the family.'" He had his own goals — none of which actually aligned with his mother's. Trent wanted to explore, to see the world. But when his father died, he was pressured into doing good by the family's name. Trent becoming the most muscular male in the world wasn't his dream, it was his mother's. "I wanna do my own stuff. I want to—"

Angela slapped Trent clean across the face, not caring the slightest for how it was persevered by Mia or Taylor. Angela and Trent already had this conversation several times in the past. The notion of Trent traveling and wasting his potential was not something Angela was keen on encouraging. Wyatt didn't die so his son could walk off into the sunset.

"I told: no," Angela cautioned sternly.

Trent rubbed his jaw. The pain stung sharply. It was one of those moments from Angela where it was best just to follow through. It was best for Trent that he decide on a wife. He knew there was very little point in asking for some time alone with each girl to get to know them better, individually. But that wasn't what all of this was about.

"I choose Mia," Trent said softly.

"Hmm. I was leaning more towards Taylor myself," Angela admitted, sizing the blond up from basketball-sized calf to bullish neck. She definitely had more potential than the comparatively waif-like Mia. "Imagine the potential your children would have if you bred her. I can see your twin blond girls right now."

"Well, seeing as you've already got a fantasy about the situation, why don't you just make the decision for me?" Trent was livid. In any normal household this would all be perceived as a weird, twisted and sick joke. But this wasn't any normal household. And that's when Trent realized the truth, shaking his head at the realization. "You have, haven't you? You've made the decision behind my back and just given me the illusion of choice."

Angela didn't say anything. Her expression and evident silence coated in a sheet of disdain towards her son's contemptuousness spoke for her. He was ungrateful, just didn't have any idea what his mother was trying to do for him.

"Taylor will be your wife." Angela turned to Mia. "Sorry little one."

Mia walked off, leaving the house in tears. Angela scoffed. It was just as well Mia was let go. There was no way Angela would tolerate such unpredictable emotional upheavals as hers, especially when they could've been passed down to her children.

"Pay checks will come monthly, as per a typical job's payment. On the sixth of each month," Angela explained.

"Wait. You're paying her to be my wife?" Trent felt defeated.

Angela glared. "Go on. Show Taylor what she has to work with."

"What?" Trent blurted.

Angela groaned exasperatedly. Did she honestly have to do everything? Hands at their brim. Angela pulled down Trent's shorts with no shame and presented his cock to Taylor. It was semi-hard, a thick vein running across the shaft in a zig-zag motion. Shamelessly, she flicked Trent's cock and cupped his balls to squeeze them teasingly. He winced. She smirked.

"The new drug I've put him on increases his muscle mass. Makes his cock and balls bigger too," Angela explained, eyeballing her son's shaft for a period of time longer than a mother ought to before turning to Taylor. "I trust this is something you can work with?"

Taylor scrutinized Trent's cock for a moment, regretting her earlier thoughts towards her fiancée, now that she saw what he his behind his shorts. He may have been equally muscular as herself — something she hadn't expected, anticipating him bigger — but he definitely had the balls befitting a Greek god.

"Definitely," Taylor chuckled.

Trent gulped. He and Taylor surely matched sizes, but there was something about her on the inside that seemed, frankly, intimidating.

***

Susan's hand turned the radio's dial before Eighties synth music blared, powering through the basement gym like a drill through concrete, disrupting the house's tranquility. Her posing outfit may have been a decade or so out-of-date, but Susan didn't care about that so much as whether it still fit. Luckily, it did, though she missed the glistening, bulgy muscles that usually complimented it. Or did the outfit compliment the muscles? God, it was so long ago!

Going into an impromptu pose routine, Susan wondered if she 'still had it,' could remember all the poses and perform them on the fly without having to stop and think. What was it? Right shoulder facing the audience, start from the side quarter-turn position — Yeah, that was it. She tensed her legs, trying to push what little mass she had to the surface, turning her knee in so her hamstring pressed against the back of her thigh, she grabbed her right wrist with her left hand and drew her left arm up and underneath her ribcage. Smiling, Susan could feel it all coming back to her now, her arms tensed. But there was nothing to show for her efforts, save for beads of sweat trickling down her brow.

Susan had a full workout and diet plan organized alongside a goal of putting on forty pounds of muscle within a year in preparation for an independent contest to get back into the swing of things. After that, she'd look to bigger things — putting on even more mass at an even faster rate to win bigger competitions. Namely, the ever-coveted Miss Mass. Of course, if Susan dared to use all the Trazo at her disposal with reckless abandon, there was no telling how much mass she'd put on, but she made a promise to Billie and Clara not to overdo the drugs this time. Using the Trazo was in a sense okay, but overdoing it was an altogether different beast. Especially when Susan was yet to find out just how effective it was.