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His shorts keep rolling up over his wide thighs. He grits his teeth and contorts his virile face as he blasts out his reps, broad neck thickly corded.
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His head's shaved and his jawline's dark with stubble. He's in his mid-thirties and those extra years of training have swelled his muscles insanely, a tight torso flaring out to broad pecs and lats so thick they prop up his tanned massive arms packed with muscles that flex at the slightest movement.
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There's one guy I can't help staring at every time I see him, though. I've exchanged a few words with some of my fellow bodybuilders, but that strange gut-twisting dread starts to build deep inside me so I do my best to avoid them. I keep to myself, though, headphones in my ears, avoiding conversations. I'm twenty-one now and I'm one of those guys lifting his shirt to check out his ripped six-pack in the mirror, flexing my arms to see how the veins bulge after an intense workout, feeling the swollen burn as my muscles get pumped practically to bursting. I wanted to become them, and over the years gradually I did. And when my dick got hard during a workout it was from the blood pounding through my body, not the thought that my muscles were expanding and tightening like the musclestuds flexing their massive arms and feeling the ridges of their abs around me as their workout burned into them, standing in front of the mirrors, lifting their shirts to check out each others' six-packs, brushing a hand down each others' stomachs to feel their firmness. You could do the same thing even without the picture, of course, with just one hand wrapped around your cock and your mind blank.īut looking at those guys' muscles, thinking about them, wrenched me deep inside, filled me with a strange dread that I thought I couldn't understand, that I could only relieve by pumping iron. Sure, you looked at a picture of a woman and stroked your cock until it exploded. I knew what it was like to look at a woman and masturbate. A weird sensation unlike anything else I knew. "These other guys must get it too"-those other guys in the gym who I found myself glancing sidelong at during my sets, the ones with muscles I dreamed of having, thinking about what it'd be like to feel those muscles flex all over your body when you walk, pump iron-jerk off.īut I didn't let myself look at them for long because there was something strangely invasive about it not invasive in the sense of invading their privacy-they were just working out normally in a public gym, grunting and roaring as if they WANTED to be looked at anyways-no, invasive in the sense that they somehow got under MY skin, made me feel sick and strange. It's the feeling of power building up in my body, the increased circulation, "getting pumped," I explained to myself. It made me shut down my computer and vow not to look at them, but I always returned.Īnd when I started working out after graduating from high school I always used to find my cock rock-hard by the end of each set. I remember looking at pictures of bodybuilders as a teen and feeling a dangerous nervous chill that made my hair stand on end and settled deep in my gut in mysterious ways. Working out's always had a strange fascination for me.