When His Muscles Grow

I'm sorry to say that when my friend tells me he's going to start working out, I laugh at him. "You? Lifting weights with a bunch of meatheads? Don't tell me you're going to start posting shirtless selfies on Instagram and all that."

A husky, awkward guy with a big Greek nose and patchy facial hair, my friend rubs the back of his head with a cringe. He has to be remembering an incident a few years ago, when we'd realized we were both into guys and immediately started comparing who we thought was hot, showing pictures to each other online—famous actors, nothing unusual. Then suddenly he randomly showed me a picture of some bodybuilder in blue posing trunks, all oiled up and striking an abs-and-thighs pose on a beach.

Unlike the more classically attractive guys we'd been looking at, this was like a sudden visual assault, something so extreme and explosively masculine that it punched me in the gut. It had to be some kind of joke. "That's sick!" I remember saying. "It's like he's got worms crawling all over him. Who would do that to their body? What a waste of time." I remember getting this deeply unsettled feeling, staring at that sweaty hulk grinning like he was so proud of his body. My friend laughed and lamely agreed with how gross it all was and quickly closed the image.

There was no "X" to click to remove it from my mind, though. And I certainly never admitted this to my friend, but a few months later I found myself idly searching for it online, Googling descriptions that might possibly work, with no idea what the guy's name was. The day when I finally found it is seared in my memory.

But that was years before my friend finally admits that he himself wants to get into lifting weights. Turns out that incident with the picture hadn't been so random for him. Instead, it was part of an obsession he was too embarrassed to confess for too long. The fact that I laugh at him when he actually does confess it fractures our friendship in ways I can't see.

This is shortly after our high school graduation, and there are plenty of other reasons why I don't see him very often in the following months—different colleges, different jobs. But when I do meet up with him one day, a few months after I said those things to him, there's a moment when he leans back and puts his arms behind his head. The sleeves of his T-shirt ride low next to his pits, and the newfound definition in his triceps is undeniably visible.

Muscles deep in my abdomen tense. He notices me looking and there's an awkward pause. I force myself to quickly laugh it off and say something like, "Guess you really have been hitting the gym, hey?" An embarrassed compliment, partly an apology and partly an attempt to hide the fact that my heart has to be audible even to him, even from something so slight—just a little extra toning, the shadow of newly-developed brawn.

And it works. He focuses on his own progress becoming noticeable rather than the fact that I was staring. He even grins, flexes to make his arms jump and tense even more, totally unaware of the effect he's having on me, the way the blood pounds through my body and my legs start to shake. "Okay, okay. I didn't ask for the full gun show." Making him embarrassed to cover up my own embarrassment. I'm ashamed of it just moments later. But he quickly stops and I'm able to recover my composure.

And it only gets worse as the weights stack up on the barbells and the muscles stack up on his arms, his chest, his legs. At first it isn't such a big problem, but the years pass and he moves from "fit guy" to a full-on massive musclegod. The kind of jacked guy that draws everyone's eyes when he walks down the street. A stud who can't hide his massive physique no matter what he wears.

Try to imagine what it's like for me. Every time I see him after a gap of a few months, my eyes are invariably drawn to the new details, the new definition, the new size, thinking, "Are his arms bigger ALREADY?" and "Those shorts used to be baggy, but now they're definitely hugging his thighs," and seeing how his favorite grey T-shirt is getting tighter and tighter every week, going from loose across his arms and chest to stretched, the sleeves riding up higher over the bulging peaks of his biceps, the clear cleft forming between his pecs as they swell and firm up, and, "Holy fuck, I can actually see his abs through his T-shirt now—"

And then one day I never see that shirt again. He trades it in for sleeveless tank-tops that show off his arms to spectacular effect and allow me to see the curves of his chest. But still I can't help wondering about that old grey shirt. He must've realized it couldn't fit over his new muscled frame. Maybe it even tore right in half after flexing at home when he's pumped up from the gym, splitting up his broad back. He laughs and tears it the rest of the way off, stands there bare-chested with the torn shirt in his hand, looking at how massive he's gotten, feeling the weight of his gains with his hands until, before he knows it, his dick's gotten hard and he's had to whip it out, wrap his fist around its veiny, rigid length, and he starts jerking himself off rapidly till he blows a thick load into that shirt, his semen leaving wet sprays all over the grey material. It's no wonder he had to throw it away.

I'm doing it again! Treating him like he's nothing but a temptation, a constant invitation to sex. He's not trying to get me hard. He doesn't want me fantasizing about him, imagining what it'd be like to feel him, taste him, smell him. He has no idea he's having this effect on me—certainly not after the way I insulted him at the start.

And the thing is, I don't want to feel this way about him. I KNOW him; I'm friends with him because I LIKE him, not because I want to ogle his muscles. But I can't help noticing every time they jump and flex—and, understandably, he's started to want to show them off. I stopped making fun of him long ago, and he's gradually gotten more and more willing to show off for me. "You sure you don't want to feel this? I swear I've gained another inch this month," as he grins with pride and newfound confidence and my hands sweat and tremble as I force myself not to give in.

How can I possibly explain it to him? I can't tell him that even just the thought of wrapping my fingers around his massively-flexed arm means I instantly have to worry about hiding my growing hard-on. I don't want to be placed in this position, unbearably turned on by him, unable to take my mind off him or stop noticing his body. I'm trying to reconcile this new intensely physical image of him with the friend I've always known and want to keep knowing, and I'm failing miserably.

It gets worse when I discover he does indeed have an Instagram account that he's posting photos on. No doubt he was too embarrassed after what I said to tell me about it. Looking at him posing shirtless, I get such a hard, insistent erection that it's impossible to keep my hands off it—and then suddenly I come across a picture that, whether by chance or not, perfectly mirrors the one he showed me so many years ago, from the pose right down to the colour of his posing trunks, and my cock explodes so suddenly that there's no time to even clamp a hand over it, the hot sperm shooting out onto my laptop's screen, then filling my fumbling palm. Looking at the mess I've made all over his grinning face, I'm filled with a sense of shame strong enough to keep me from visiting his account again, even though I know it'd wring one mind-blowing orgasm after another out of me.

The breaking point comes one summer, during a "cutting" phase when he's dieted to get lean and shredded. Just making casual chitchat, I ask if he's finished cutting for the year. "Yeah," he responds, "I've been really working on my abs." And he casually lifts up his shirt and exposes the kind of abs that make your dick rock hard in three seconds flat, begging to spray torrents of spunk all over them so you can watch it rebound off that drum-tight skin. The cliché washboard abs that would massage your dick as you thrust across them. And he's just casually showing them off, totally unaware of how I'm feeling. I'm still overcome with envy at knowing that every day he can go home and see that ripped eight-pack in the mirror, rub his hands over those hard swells of muscle.

But he's just looking for shared admiration and pride in his accomplishments, not trying to turn me on. I'm changing his hard work that deserves praise into a source of my own lurid enjoyment.

So I start avoiding him on days when he goes to the gym. I can't meet up with him in his post-workout pumped-up state, when he's more likely to want to show off. I start saying I have other plans, feigning disinterest when he talks about his training, how he's actually getting ready to try competing. As his friend, I should encourage him when he gets accepted into a pretty big bodybuilding competition, but I can't do it. I can tell he's disappointed; he doesn't get what's wrong, and there's no way I could explain it. Either way, I'm going to lose a friend.

As the competition gets closer, though, I realize this is totally unfair to him. He's worked hard for this and I need to support him as much as I can. So when he asks if I want to go with him (a miracle, after the way I've acted), I agree and the relieved smile he gives me makes my stomach clench. I sit next to him on the plane and that massive right arm hangs over the armrest, pressing into my side. It's delirious agony and a constant distraction from his excited chatter.

Now I find myself sitting in the audience, finally watching him on stage, a heart-stopping grin on his face that tells me he's exactly where he's always wanted to be. Since he's new to the sport, he's entered the Men's Physique category. The guys wear board shorts instead of tiny posing trunks, and it's all about the overall look, not size. Guys are supposed to be defined and balanced, not massively huge. He must have picked it because he's new at the sport, but the way his muscles have blown up, I think it's a mistake. He can compete with the big boys, alright. Maybe if I'd been there for him, I could have made the case and gotten him to switch. If I wasn't too busy jerking off and obsessing over him.

So it's no surprise that he places 8th. I could see it immediately when he stepped onstage. I swear, he was twice the size of everyone else—there on the stage in his blue board shorts, grinning out at me, that fucking cocky smirk as he grinds out pose after pose, the muscles exploding all over his frame, oiled and tanned, slick and gleaming and bigger than all the other musclehunks on that stage, feeling those muscles clench harder and harder, the eyes focused on his nude torso as the oil and the sweat drip down his shredded abs.

Because of the way I've been avoiding him, I haven't seen him in contest mode, so I was totally unprepared for the sight of the ripped, gleaming muscles flexing all over his exposed body, right in front of me. I've been shaking and sweating ever since. I was going to go "take care of things" in the privacy of my own room after the competition finished, but there's no way I can do that when a quick exchange of texts makes me realize that what I'd seen as an amazing performance on his part was seen very differently by him.

Walking down the hall to his hotel room after the event is over, it's like my feet are bouncing up and down on the carpet. There's this low quivering in my gut and in my thighs. I can hear my heartbeat and I have to keep wiping my hands on my shirt.

And when he opens the door he's standing there in a cotton robe, having finished washing the oil off his muscles. My focus isn't on his body, though; it's on his body language. He's absolutely crushed.

"I thought I was better than this. Than those scores. Fuck, it was humiliating!" he groans, collapsing onto the side of the bed, putting his head in his hands. After a moment of hesitation, I sit next to him on the bed, feeling the pull as his muscled mass drags down the mattress so I'm almost sliding towards him.

"Don't worry about the scores. You—you looked amazing. Seriously."

"Tell that to the judges."

"They noticed it too. Look, it was just 'cause you were in the wrong category. You're too big for Physique."

"Too big, right..."

"Seriously! You're not just some fitness model. You're a full-on fucking bodybuilder. Mr. Universe or whatever the titles are called. You could win them all."

"I get you're trying to cheer me up, but that's going a little far, don't you think?" I can tell he's rolling his eyes, but there's a hopeful, encouraged tone to his voice now.

"No, I mean it! You were twice as big as any of those other guys. You must've seen it too. I can barely believe what you've accomplished. You—you're fucking HUGE! I mean, have you SEEN yourself?" Then it occurs to me, "You know what, you probably haven't. You keep thinking about the damn competition and focusing on little details because you see yourself every day. You've forgotten what you've actually achieved. How you actually LOOK. Seriously, if you'd put on a pair of posing trunks, you would've fit right in with those guys."

I glance over at a full-length dressing mirror against the wall. "Come over here. Look at yourself. Really LOOK."

He rolls his eyes at me, but he takes off the robe, stands in front of the mirror in just his white cotton briefs and checks himself out with visible dissatisfaction. Standing behind him, I look into that mirror and take in the spectacular sight. Since he's just competed today, he's in absolute peak condition, every muscle swollen and bulging, his skin drawn so fucking tight that I can see the striations in the muscles rippling underneath. His broad back is at least twice as wide as mine, with massive lats flaring out to the side. Those gorgeous glutes, round and full, are inches away from me with his thin cotton undies sucked tight to their swelling curves. And I can't help but notice he must have a great pair of nuts 'cause those undies are stretched way out over his bulging package. I can even make out the line of his dick drooping down between his massive balls—the visible ridge of his glans tells me he's cut.

"How can you possibly be ashamed of looking like THAT?" I say. "I mean, fuck! You're huge!" Seeing the way he involuntarily grins at that, I continue, "Come on. How'd you get your biceps that big? No wonder you can't wear shirts with sleeves anymore. Those guns would explode right through them."

He laughs, loosening up, and there's a hint of that old proud grin, that cheeky tone when he asks, "You wanna see it?"

"Hell yes! Go on and flex those muscles for me."

I'm always caught off guard by the way his muscles transform when he flexes, from smooth, broad flatness to massive bulges thrusting against his skin, the veins thick and lumpy over them. Seeing how it's encouraging him, I don't hold back my praise. "Fuck yeah! That's what I'm talking about. Your biceps are bigger than those other guys' pecs. I bet they're as hard as concrete! I'd give anything to feel—uh, feel what that's like. To have a body like yours."

His eyes meet mine in the mirror and I'm brought up short by what seems to be a slight hint of surprise. Have I gone too far? But he's totally casual when he urges, "Come on. Tell me what it feels like. Don't hold back."

There's a moment of hesitation, and then the erotic rasp of skin on skin.

"Damn. Damn. You're so fucking hard. Damn."

I'm smelling the warm hard masculinity of him as I lean closer to feel that bicep, not making contact with his ass but feeling the heat of his body on the seat of my pants. When he's flexing that bicep it's like he's also flexing my cock, each pump of that huge hard muscle making my dick swell and strain. Luckily, with him standing in front of me, I don't have to worry about him noticing how hard I'm getting as he extends and contracts that arm, making his bicep thrust against my fingers with every flex, that raw power rising under my sweaty palms. His arm gets more pumped with every flex, the veins swelling.

Somehow the roles have reversed. "What about my chest?" he says. "What do you think of my fuckin' pecs, huh?" And I rub my hands up his arms, over his shoulders and onto shelfs of muscle so broad that no matter how wide I stretch my fingers, I can't feel them all at once.

"Fuck, those things are like cannonballs! You're so fucking huge. They're like the size of my head. Heavyweight pecs if I've ever seen them. I bet you can make those muscles dance."

"Yeah? Like this?" Flexing them individually and then together, the hard corded muscle tightening beneath my fingers, getting slightly damp with the exertion, the friction against my fingers making his nipples hard. "How's that?" He's checking out my reaction in the mirror, taking in my awe and feeding off that energy. He's clearly forgotten all about the scores he got in the competition.

My eyes and hands naturally move down to his shredded torso. "I just can't get over your fucking abs, man! They feel like they're bulging right against your skin." I slide his thin skin over those hard abs and see the grooves between them, press my fingers in between where he's already damp with sweat. "Let's see you flex them. Make them bulge like you did onstage." And he readily places his hands on the back of his head and grinds down, grunting as he makes his abs bulge and tense, his ass flexing centimeters away from my erect cock, which is pressed painfully against the front of my pants.

"Yeah, that's fucking amazing! Keep going!" And he transitions from one pose to the next, my hands naturally following to the muscle groups he's proudly showing off, feeling the heat and the tension and the sheer corded brawn of this pumped-up musclestud. And he's putting all of his strength into showing off for me, making his muscles as big as possible, the exertion making the sweat stand out on his skin, getting shiny and wet, and—

At first I'm sure I'm just imagining it, but as he's grinding out pose after pose, flexing harder and harder for me, the bulge in his briefs is also getting pumped up. That thick snake's swelling against the white cotton, the purple arrowhead of his glans stretching it out grotesquely, begging to be free. A lump forms in my throat, cutting off my words, and he feels the tension in my trembling body, knows I'm unsure if I should say something. But then his low ragged voice rumbles, "Where else am I big? Anything else catch your eye?" And he flexes that thick long cock so it swells hugely in his undies, the precum making the thin material go transparent.

Our eyes meet in the mirror again—me standing behind him, looking over his shoulder, my hands pressed to his sweaty stomach. He grins when he sees the lust in my eyes. "If you want to cheer me up, don't leave anything out."

"A-are you sure?"

"Do I feel sure?" he asks, and he grabs my hand and places it right on his throbbing cock. I instinctively grab that rigid fuckpole through his thin briefs and start working it while he groans appreciatively. Seconds later I'm slipping off his last piece of clothing, exposing the most delicious curved round ass inches away from my practically bursting dick and exposing a thick cock over a heavy set of nuts. The fact that his package is framed by his massive thighs and his hard veiny lower abs makes it look even more appealing.

I eagerly stroke the entire hot length of him, the tip wet with his desire. He's about seven inches long, but he's got a girthy fucking cock—a cock that looks like it's been pumped up like the balloons used to make hats and swords at birthday parties, a real fucking handful where the shaft's actually thicker than the glans.

The satisfying thickness of his muscled shaft fills my fist. "Yeah, don't stop. You're makin' me feel so good. Keep stroking that cock." He can't help thrusting into my hand, the movement making his abs flex with each thrust. That sight—those sweaty ripped abs tensing as he fucks my hand—is driving me mad, and I can't help grinding my restrained cock against the tight ass in front of me. The smooth swells of his hard ass pressing against my dick are almost enough to make it explode.