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...And Sometimes, I Find Out My Dad’s a Growing Freak... by vertical -Well, I didn't manage to get him into the basement just yet... there were too many hot things to do with his dad... <<PART 1: Sometimes, I Drink My Dad's Cum... PART 3: ...And Sometimes, I Watch My Dad Go to Work...>> --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I don’t know what was in my dad’s semen that made it so addictive, all I knew was that the more I had the more I craved. That night, Dad had come back with tray after tray after tray of barely passable ‘food.’ If I thought my father would be concerned that his son wasn’t chowing down on chow mien, I’d have been wrong. The great beast ate, practically hoovered, the food in with abandon. Me, I barely ate a plateful, I was too busy silently stroking at myself underneath the table, watching those mountainous arms work, his pecs heave… I had a sneaking suspicion that he was all too happy to be eating the lion’s share. A suspicion I confirmed as I pretended to drop my chopsticks on the ground. “Hehe, leave it, Corey. Just go get a fork,” my dad had said with a gulp. As I bent over I pretended to be just interested in the wooden stick lying on the ground, but I tilted my head just enough to see that my father’s dark slab of meat was out of his shorts, a slow dribble of pre-seed leaking onto the floor. He’d shown it to me, a little too nonchalantly, before he went out, but gods, when it was starting to get hard, it was massive. I had to estimate it to be at least 18”, more than double my erect length, and it wasn’t even fully hard! I quickly shot up with my chopsticks in hand, and sat up straight as an arrow, my eyes staring intently on a piece of beef in front of me. I stole a glance at my dad and his cheeks were rosy, the hulk of a man staring off to the side. I think we both knew what I saw. I suppose I got my politeness from his side of the family – neither of us brought up the incident the rest of the night. I excused myself and decided to take a shower. As I climbed the stairs, I let out a sigh of relief, my hands obscured from my father’s vision. Without prying eyes, I was free to grope at myself, and I could see Dad reaching underneath the table when he thought I couldn’t see him any more. Like father, like son, I suppose. By the time I got to the washroom, my shorts were already down to my ankles, my feel dragging along the ground. As I stepped into the shower, I notice the thick layer of congealed semen right on the shower tile. I knew my father had become so self-absorbed with his new, giant body, but I didn’t think he’d be this negligent. The sheer volume that was still in the shower, it was like he forgot that he had a closeted son. Well, it’s not like he knew what I was about to do next. Without turning the water on, I reach down and scoop up maybe half a handful of the stuff. I couldn’t believe it’s texture, slimy and wet, yet still held itself together. It’d been hours since he was in here and the cum hadn’t dissolved or become watery. I bring my hand to my shaft, my skin reeling with goosepimples as the cold gel slides along my erect 7” length. I slowly whack off, occasionally bending down to scoop up more of my dad’s spunk. I rub it into my chest, feeling up my strong toned pectorals, imagining I had a shelf just like my dad, or maybe even bigger. I rubbed it into my arms, wondering what it’d feel like to have cannons like he did. Despite having came already, I blasted huge gooey loads all over the tile wall of the shower, cum streaking down the wall. Fuck, even his hours-old cum was more substantial than mine. That fact made me bone up painfully, my sensitive cockhead begging me for reprieve. I tried my best to avoid rubbing at it as I cleaned up, kicking the blobs of cum into the drain and hoping it didn’t clog. I dried off and wrapped a towel around my waist. Steam rolled out of the washroom as I opened the door and pause. My dad was walking right past the door, his hulking frame taking up so much space that I couldn’t fully open. He looked at me and I could see him admiring my form, specifically, he looked at the corrugated washboard abs I had forged for myself to attract all the boys; I wouldn’t say I was all that muscular, but they were there. He lingered there, the seams in his shorts audibly straining as he stared. If he thought he could just ogle me without the sentiment being returned, he was wrong. His hands clenched, his knuckles almost white as he tried to control his libido. I tried not to make it too obvious I was admiring the sheer size of his forearms, the sinewy muscle laden with veins that danced as he strained to restrain himself. His pulse quickened, the veins in his biceps throbbing with each heartbeat. His triceps swell with the slightest twitch of his forearms. His broad shoulders filled my field of view. Pectorals that brushed against the bottom of his stubbly chin. “Uh, sorry,” my enormous father grunted, shaking his head, a huge blush on his cheeks. He shuffled past, slowly adjusting his crotch as he ducked into the master bedroom. His massive, bubble-butt bounces with each step, the ground rumbling underneath his bulk. His enormous thighs rub against one another, the thick slabs of muscle touching all the way down to the knees. It’s not long after he disappears inside until I hear grunts coming from inside. Damn horny bastard. I’m fully chubbed at that point, but instead of succumbing to my lust again, I fight the urge to walk in on my father masturbating and make my way back into my own room. I got dressed, a simple t-shirt and a ratty, old pair of boxer-briefs were good enough to lounge and sleep in. However, if I thought I could even think about sleeping with the amount of noise coming from across the hall… I just needed to get away, else I’d be rubbing my cock all night long, thinking about my massive dad. I slipped on a pair of old jeans. I crept my way down the stairs, trying to busy my mind, think of anything else, trying to erase the picture of my dad’s huge junk from my head. I busy myself with cleaning the mess and neglect of our downstairs living space. As I try to ignore the deep, bassy grunts coming from upstairs, I grabbed a garbage bag and tossed canister after empty canister of protein, and empty wrappers of protein bars. As disgusting as it was, I couldn’t help but feel myself tenting my shorts, imagining my father gorging himself, feeding and growing into the beast he had become today. The ceiling above me groaned and protested as my father picked up his pace, small tidbits of popcorn stucco falling to the floor. Jeez, the old man really did forget he wasn’t all alone in the house anymore. I shook my head and continued to collect discarded things. Without Mom around, my dad had let the house fall into neglect; or, a deeper part of me wondered perhaps he was just too into his own body to recognize just how messy he had let the house become. I couldn’t believe the amount of stuff he’d just tossed to the side, perhaps in his haste to stuff even more calorific shakes and protein bars into his face. Ugh, what a pig... A massive, muscular, handsome pig at that. I was pulling things from underneath the couch when... “What the fuck?” I blurted as I felt something... different from the empty packages and containers. It took me a couple tries, slowly rolling it out from underneath the furniture. When the pink tip emerged, I couldn’t help but gasp. I took the tip of it into my hand and pulled it the rest of the way out. A dildo, bright pink and easily in the foot-plus category rested in the palm of my hand. “Jesus fuck, what a pervert,” I exhaled under my breath. I had half a mind to think it may have been my mother’s, but there was no way this thing could ever fit into a woman. The plastic cockhead was larger than my fist. I traced my finger down the ridge of the head, just as I heard my massive father shudder and groan with delight. I felt the ridges of the simulated, pink foreskin pulled back, agonizingly taut. The cacophony upstairs grew to a fevered pitch. My finger glided down the length, thicker than a beer bottle, veins thicker than pencils. My gaze finally rested on the base of the pink behemoth and I shuddered. It was a model where the end flared to simulate ‘balls.’ But that end... was crushed in. I gulped and brought it closer to my face. Just by what, I didn’t know. Was that the impression of my dad’s steely, strong hand? I whimpered, thinking that maybe, just maybe, it was his enormous glutes that had rendered the dildo destroyed. I quickly drop the thing, letting my better senses take hold of me, desperately trying to get my ever-present erection to go away. I kicked the dildo back underneath the sofa, out of sight, still in mind. With the living room mostly cleaned out, I take the full trash bag out towards the garage. Unfortunately, the entrance was through the laundry and I once again found myself face to face with the hamper. Piles of socks unperturbed still laid inside, just ripe and waiting for the plucking. I had to pinch myself to walk past it. I flicked on the lights in the garage and my jaw dropped once again. Surprise after surprise, and yet my reaction didn’t change, though the rest of the house did. I dropped the bag and stumbled my way to the far end of the concrete room. My dad had set up a makeshift gym. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a bench, a barbell and dumbells – the bare minimum. The one thing he did seem to spring for was a full-length mirror running along the edge of the wall. Whether he used that to check his form or to bask in his own hugeness, I didn’t know. I didn’t understand, it was bare bones, and judging from the size of the plates, what my dad was lifting wasn't all that impressive. I took to the set of dumbbells left discarded in the middle of the room. It looked like a pair of 150 pounders that I’ve seen at the campus gym, something the most impressive beasts could lift. But those guys, they still looked human, how could my dad get so huge with just these? Sure, I wouldn’t be able to do anything with those myself, but I could at least lift it up with both hands. I grasp the grip with both my hands and pull up. I knew I could easily deadlift 150 pounds. However, the weight didn’t budge a bit. “What the fuck?” I squealed as I strained, the weight leaving the ground on one end, but I couldn’t manage to get it off the ground completely. The weight crashed to the ground, almost softly, speaking to how pathetic my attempt was. I peered down and tried to read off the weight. “370 pounds, how?” I gulped. I chubbed up at the thought of my dad doing curls with that weight. I read off the smaller print beside it, “Wolfram.” Jesus, it wasn’t iron, but tungsten. I looked at the bench incredulously. If all the weights were made of the stuff, then my dad wasn’t just at the upper echelon of strength, but in a completely different category all his own. I stared into the mirror, looking at my own distorted image. A long dried, yellowing gusher marred half the length of the room. I was a little taken aback, but if I was able to curl 370 pounds, maybe I’d get off on that too. I adjusted myself, pushing the thoughts of my father working out and getting off on himself out of my head. Or at least, I tried to. At first, he was naked in my head, his luscious body hair matted to his bulging muscles and gut. Forcing myself to imagine him with clothes on fared no better. The way the sweat soaked into his tanktop, his broad pecs pushing out so far, the nipples peeked through the sleeves, his hairy gut rippling with muscle underneath the fat pushing through the bottom. The way his giant balls filled the basket of his shorts, the seams straining to contain them all on their own. The beast massaging his... Another wet spot forms in my pants, and once again I came to the thought of my own beast of a dad. I barely had a chance to bask in the afterglow, catching a glimpse of something truly horrific in the mirror; the rack of dumbbells and the bench had obscured it. My car. Or what was left of it. I let out a curse and whine as I rushed over to see the chassis gutted. No doors were left in place, where had they gone? I looked at the ground, feeling an anger bubble in the pit of my stomach. How could he do this? He had ripped the wheels off, leaving them on the axle. Did he work out with these? Did that get him off? This was my car! I vowed. I promised to let this anger fester. I wouldn’t think of my father in dirty terms anymore, not after he did this to my car. I snorted angrily, kicking the ‘tire-barbell’ and making my way back into the house. Little did I know, my resolve would be tested instantly. A rumbling, like thunder comes from upstairs, the floor creaking as my father began to descend down the stairs. I couldn’t let him see me with a rage-boner in my pants. Quickly, before he had a chance to see me, I turned the lights to the laundry off and hid behind the small nook in the room, the musky, cum-rag-sock hamper at the entrance to the room. Enshrouded in darkness, I hoped that my dad wouldn’t see me. The booming footsteps drew near and I held my breath, hoping to go undetected. The looming shadow from the hall darkens the room even more. A large, bowed out sock was tossed into the hamper, an audible squick ringing through the air in the small room, followed by a deep exhalation. “Oh, fuck,” Dad groaned. “Gotta... stop thinking about ‘im like that, Randy,” he coached himself. “But God, those abs... urgh... no he’s... your son...” he growled. An obscured light filtered into the room, my father having flicked the switch in the adjacent powder room on. I could hear an audible groan coming from the hall. It wasn’t like that of the beast my dad had become, but the sound of clothing protesting from being overstretched. A hear a sharp exhale before the stretching sound continued, he was moving between poses. Gathering courage, I inched my way towards the entrance of the room. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw my dad’s hand shoot into view. “Fuck, not again... I’ll... urgh... make this quick,” he grunted lowly, his voice like thunder, yet silky like a fine chocolate. He fished around for a sock in the hamper, lifting one of the ones I had ‘drained,’ the whole thing having crusted over without any liquid in it. I could hear him shake off the cobwebs of dried cum and whimpering as his sensitive flesh brushed against the rough texture of spunk-encrusted cotton. “Mmmmhm,” he hummed darkly, clearly pleased with his self-ministrations. I crept closer, curiosity winning out over fear, my body now half in the light. If he decided to peek his head into the room, he would for sure see me. But, from the lack of attention he’d been taking with the rest of the house, I took my chances. I peeked around the corner, my face barely concealed. My hands instantly shot down to touch myself through the fabric of my pants, my vow of enmity be damned. I massaged the tip of my cock as he massaged his through the sock, gooey bubbles of pre-seed already soaking through the material. His body was massive, thick arms, each larger than my waist and bloated with an intense pump from working himself, piston up and down, the veins running along his bicep coursing with blood. His shoulders and lats rotate and curl, tittering forward and back as he smoothly works at himself, their mass pulling at his tanktop, exposing the bottom of his gut as they tensed. His gargantuan pectorals aid them, the individual fan-like striations writhing underneath his skin. He pushes his arms down, his hands squeezing at the base of his monumental cock, his pecs pushing up, the hairy shelf level with his chin. The muscle-greedy bastard flitted his tongue, getting himself a mouthful of hairy pecs, but he could only moan in approval. It was when my eyes were diverted to his massive ass and thighs when the real show began. I was busy ogling his glutes, hams and quads shifting in tandem as he pistonned his hips forward, thrusting more and more of his epic length into his hands, the basket in his strained briefs bouncing and slapping against his inner thighs and his hands. His unyielding strength seemed to waver, his knees bowing slightly. “Ungh, no!” he hissed. “Not... now... ungh!” His voice grew deeper, bassy like a subwoofer. “Fuuuuuuuck,” he moaned as the veins across his body spasmed in stark relief of his reddening skin. I watched with bated breath as sweat drenched his heavy, masculine brow. He snarled, his canines sharp, almost feral and oozing with primal saliva. A beast in every regard. The freak that was my father exhaled sharply, his body practically steaming as his muscles slowly inched larger. I wouldn’t have believed it if I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes. I didn’t care, I needed to relieve the pressure in my crotch. I undid the fly of my jeans and let my cock slip out of the band of my underwear, uncaring of the cold teeth of the zipper biting into the sides of my 7 inches of pride. He bared his fang-like canines, his neck blowing out with size, restricting the motion of his head. His traps spasm, his arms temporarily pulled back as the fill with muscle, his ears almost coming into contact with the skin of his back. His shoulders writhed, his deltoids pushing further out, how wide he was becoming I couldn’t tell. The growing beast raised his arms, his giant, sleeved cock bobbing precariously as he worshipped the growing peaks of his biceps. He moaned, wanting desperately to lick those peaks, instead getting a mouthful of deltoids. As for me, well, I got a look at his massive, hairy pits, his lats flaring out at the interface between his back and obliques. “Ungh, fuck, I don’t care if Corey finds out,” my dad growled to himself, his eyes alight with pure, unadulterated muscle-lust. “MORE!” he belted as he brought his now gargantuan arms down, sweat dripping off his titanic triceps and forearms. His lats and pecs push out, forcing his arms slightly outwards even as he squeezed them to his side as best he could. His pectoral shelf spasms, the growing pecmeat forcing his chin upwards. “Yeah, this is... the biggest spurt yet!” he snarled, delight in his tone. “Heya, buddy,” he cooed. Oh shit, had he found me out? His hands roamed down to his abs and a huge, devilish smile crossed his lips. Unlike the rest of him, his gut had stayed relatively the same size, the layer of fat thinning as more and more muscle pushed through. Billowly, blocky abs were now clearly visible, a tortoiseshell to end all others and covered in a dense forest of dark hair. It could maybe be described as a 4-pack if I was being generous; the abs were there but there was still lots of fat. “Unf, haven’t seen you in 20 years,” he chuckled, the muscle and fat on his belly jiggling as he rubbed his fatty abs. The beast gave himself a quick flex in the mirror once more before going at his length again. “You grow too, bud,” he cooed, coaxing at his length. He tilted his head back as his massive mitts encircled around his cock. “YES!” he bellowed. His hands moved methodically up and down, his muscle swelling with blood as he held his cock in a deathgrip. But his shaft won out, pushing his fingers further and further apart. The sock rides up his cock, looking more and more pathetic on his length, now covering less than half of its length. His dick was so thick now, I could make out the pomegranate sized head in sharp relief inside the sock. The girth was so extreme, the elastic was fraying at the neck of the sock, the fabric stretched so thin, I could make out the red, angry skin of his shaft between the woven fibres. His balls audibly gurgled, the insane size of them stretching the band of his shorts to the limit, the snapping of the internal elastics pinging in my ears. They pull up and inject his god-spunk into his system and the musclegod roared in desperate pleasure. The sock bows out, semen leaking out of the toe of the garment like a running faucet. My dad pulled at his length with abandon, slamming the tip of his cock in between the bottom shelf of his heavy pecs, cum gushing out all over his pecs in lazy streams, pooling on the underside before dripping onto his blocky abs. As he continued to cum, he threw his arms down, the hair on the back of his triceps thickening, new patches forming on his shoulders and back. His stubble on his chin grew out into a modestly trimmed beard. Hair spread like wildfire in the canyon of his pectorals and abgut, a treasure trail leading right to his most prized possession. I pressed my back against the wall, out of sight of my behemoth of a father, his hairline, slightly growing back in, now level with the top of the door to the powder room. I looked down at myself, having blown twice in the time my dad had jerked off and orgasmed, my own rod sore and raw from all the abuse I was giving it. “Shit,” my father boomed. “Feels... so good to grow...” he moaned. He sighed and tossed the thoroughly ruined sock into the hamper, stretched out of shape beyond hope. “Ungh, gotta stop thinkin’ of Corey like that,” he mumbled. “Gotta get myself a girlfriend or somethin’, yeah,” he huffed. “Ungh, stupid walls. Why they gotta build these halls so tight?” he snorted. The ground shook as he began to leave. I peeked my head out once again to see my father’s triceps touching each end of the hallways walls, his gloriously enormous ass rolling as he waddled out and back up the stairs. In the dim light I could barely make out his junk as he climbed the stairs, the base clearly visible as the rest of his shaft warped his shorts. I couldn’t even tell if my heart was still beating, but when the coast was clear, I stood over the hamper and looked at the two socks my dad had just deposited. One, filled to the brim with his seed, the other hopelessly destroyed by his new size. My stomach rumbled, having skipped most of dinner. But, I had a nutritious meal right in front of me, piping hot too... As I raised the overwhelmingly filled sock to my lips, I knew what I had to do next. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- <<PART 1: Sometimes, I Drink My Dad's Cum... PART 3: ...And Sometimes, I Watch My Dad Go to Work...>> Maybe, I dunno, maybe this time he'll find out what's in the basement.

Jeff stared nervously down at the watch on his bulging forearm- he could feel the band becoming increasingly tight on his wrist. They had warned him that the timing of his next dose was critical, too early and the formula would back-fire, causing a complete reversion to his previously skinny-weak self, while taking it even a fraction of a second too late and he could possibly go into what they had called "over-growth"- a completely uncontrollable state in which the formula, now unregulated, would run wild through his system causing massive and unpredictable increases. Of everything. Feeling his already constricted shorts begin to strain even more, he smiled to himself as he watched the seconds tick by...

Saturday July 15th Dear Muscle Diary, Well, diary, it's been three days since I found the shiny, bright blue posing trunks of a genuine bodybuilder hidden amongst my washing in my local launderette. And I've barely been able to think about anything since! I've now creamed off with the posers placed over my face three times (blush!) and I officially feel like a right kinky little bugger. None were quite as amazing as the first time though and I've been thinking more and more that it might be time to take things to the next level, i.e. trying the posing trunks on! It didn't feel right at first, but the more days that pass the more that feeling is fading, and the more they're starting to feel like they're my trunks (even though they're really not)! Now it's just a case of choosing the right moment. I want to save it for a time when I'm really fucking horny. I’ve always fantasised about owning a pair of posing trunks, and trying them on for the first time and I basically just want it to be the best experience that it can possibly be. Yours, Oscar Grimes (potential soon-to-be wearer of tiny, shiny posing trunks!) Sunday July 16th Dear Muscle Diary, Oh God. Oh fuck. Oh shit. I did it, diary! I tried on the trunks. FUUUUUCKKK!! But that's not all, diary. There's more to tell you! So much fucking more. And it involves the original owner of said trunks! So I went out last night for a few drinks with my mate, Ste. It was one of those nights where I didn't really wanna go but I just sort of forced myself because I felt like I needed a night out. Well, as soon as I was in the pub, I knew I shouldn't have bothered. The atmosphere was dead and the alcohol didn't seem to be helping much. We went to another place which was a little bit better, but as the night went on, I just kept thinking about how much I wanted to be at home with my posing trunks, watching and wanking off to some obscenely shredded muscle bull on YouTube! Anyway, things finally picked up after a few shots and the place livened up. Ste was drooling over guys that would never be interested in him (sorry Ste!) while I suddenly found myself snogging this young cutie patootie with a hipster beard and leather cap. Whenever I go out with Ste, he hardly ever pulls and I always do, which always surprises me because Ste is so outgoing and confident, and will literally chat to anyone, and despite being a wee bit chunky he's really handsome. Maybe it's because I still have a bit of a baby face and, despite the fact that I’m thirty-two, still occasionally get asked for ID when I try to buy vodka from my local Tesco Express. Or maybe it's the modestly sized arms I've built up since my mid-twenties. Don't get me wrong, diary, I'm not going to be entering any bodybuilding competitions any time soon, but my arms do look quite good in a t-shirt. Ste's grabbed and copped a feel of them on a couple of nights out, which I always secretly get a kick out of. My workmates even christened me with a blush worthy and rather ego boosting nickname a few years ago; Mr Biceps! So the leather capped cutie patootie (he didn't tell me his name) asked me if I wanted to go back to his place. I thought about it for a moment. He was a sexy little bugger and the kissing was pretty horny, but then I thought about the morning after. Waking up in a stranger’s bed feeling and looking like a bag of warmed up shit and just wanting to close my eyes and melt into the mattress and disappear, before magically landing in my own bed. Alone, and safe from any potential awkwardness and the possibility of morning sex which they always want to have. And then I thought, again, about watching some obscenely huge muscle monster flexing and squeezing in a pair of brightly coloured posing trunks on my PC screen. And then I thought about the posing trunks sitting in my drawer back home. The insanely hot, indescribably horny posing trunks of a real life, genuine bodybuilder, both of which I hadn't been able to stop thinking about since my adventure at the launderette on Wednesday night. So I said my goodbyes to Mr Cutie Leather Cap, grabbed Ste and headed for home. Ste was feeling a bit down on himself on the walk. Apparently, not only has he not had sex for the last six months, but he hasn't had a snog either. I don't really know how that's possible, but apparently not only does he never pull when he goes out, but hardly anyone messages him on Grindr either. The last guy he met from there opened the door, looked him up and down, screwed his face up and told him he wasn't his type. We were almost at the Pavillion when Ste asked me a question. “Oscar, if you didn't know me and you saw me in a club, would you pull me?” The honest answer is, diary, I would have pulled Ste seven years ago when we first met. He's never been my type, but he's handsome, and funny, and it's so fucking endearing how excited he gets about things like Doctor Who and Batman. But now, I can't even contemplate kissing Ste. It's Ste, for fucks sake! But I sensed that he needed some type of validation and because he was feeling so down on himself, I gave it to him. “Yes Ste! If I didn't know you, I would pull you!” He grinned like mad and I felt a slight warmth. “You still could you know,” Ste said with one eyebrow cheekily raised. “Pull me!” Taken aback, I laughed and playfully told Ste to fuck off. It was when we were approaching Ste’s turning and we were stood still facing each other that he offered up his next proposition. “OK, if you won't snog me, at least let me feel one of your biceps!” I laughed again and Ste just cheekily grinned. I decided to play along, so I took his left hand and firmly placed it on my right, unflexed bicep. Ste made a jokey, “Mmmm,” sound and I rolled my eyes and giggled. And then? Well, I’m not really sure what made me do it, diary, but without even thinking, I bought my forearm up so it was sat horizontal against my stomach and clenched my right fist so that my bicep flexed and bulged underneath Ste's fingers. He suddenly stopped grinning, his eyes bulged, and his face transformed into a shocked expression. “FUCK!” he cried out. Something happened to me in that moment. Seeing Ste's shocked and amazed reaction to my muscle, having someone feeling my flexed bicep, I suddenly felt incredibly horny, and starting to swell in my boxers. It was nothing to do with Ste himself. I think it was just seeing someone’s amazed reaction to what my flexed muscle felt like. Ste's not even into muscle. Well, not the kind of grotesque, shredded freaks I cream off to on a regular bases. So, diary, imagine his reaction if he were into muscle? And imagine if, instead of my modestly sized bicep, I had a twenty inch, paper thin skin covered, bronzed painted, freakishly huge ball of bicep muscle bulging off my upper arm? “That feels HUGE!” Ste said, still squeezing my flexed gun, and doing nothing to diffuse neither my ego or power trip. I sheepishly grinned at him. “Hardly!” came my honest reply. When he finally released his grip, we laughed, hugged and said goodbye. “See you later … Mr Biceps!” Ste playfully called out as he walked down his street, giggling in his typically extroverted manner. That unexpected but brilliant little moment with Ste got me even more in the mood to get home and watch some seriously freaky muscle. I wondered, in that moment, what Ste would think of the huge, roided muscle bulls I regularly blasted loads to. I did once tell him that I liked really huge guys, but I still think he'd be surprised if he saw just the kind of superhuman sized monsters that made my boxers sticky. And I have absolutely NO idea what Ste would think if he knew that for my last three wanks I’d had a pair of posing trunks sitting on my face! In fairness, he'd probably just laugh and call me a kinky little fucker. When I arrived at home, I poured myself another cheeky drink, and fired up my muscle ridden PC. I was in the mood for something new, so I went to straight to my subscriptions in YouTube. There had been a huge amateur bodybuilding show somewhere in Europe last weekend. One of my favourite channels had been slowly uploading videos from the competition all week and there'd been a ton posted in the last few hours. You wouldn't find any of the big named pro bodybuilders, or any American muscle monsters competing in this sort of show. It was mostly shredded to death East Europeans, with a couple of good old fashioned British muscle bulls thrown in for good measure. After watching videos of an arrogant as fuck, Austrian bull wearing outrageous golden posers and some nasty, gritty, British muscle daddy who really should no better than to be stomping around bodybuilding stages at his age, I came to a video of a twenty something British lad called Andy. Sporting a physique packed with some seriously gorgeous beef, carved and shredded in the most shocking condition, Andy hit his poses with more energy than the bodybuilders in the first two videos put together. When Andy spun around to hit a rear pose, revealing the most obscenely sized arse spilling either side of his tiny purple posers, I suddenly had a flashback to the enormous sized and perfectly round arse belonging to the sexy as hell muscle bull from the laundrette last Wednesday. The owner of the shiny blue posing trunks I had now paused the video to fetch from my drawer. For some reason, the trunks looked even hornier and shinier than ever. As I held them in my hands, I knew the time I had been waiting for had come. This was it. Horny as fuck from watching a bunch of jacked up muscle freaks flexing and ripping up a bodybuilding stage, and slightly less inhibited with the alcohol running through my system from my night out with Ste, I knew this was the perfect time to try on the posers of the gorgeous, local bodybuilder I'd found sitting amongst my washing four nights before. My heart was thumping as I took my jeans and boxers off. Even just feeling the poser material brushing against my legs as I put them on felt insanely horny. And then I nestled my hard throbbing dick in the shiny blue pouch. With the lining of the trunks against the head of my cock, I put my right hand to my trunk covered hard on and squeezed. Fuuuuuuuckkk! It was some kind of miracle, diary, that it didn't explode with a huge load of spunk right there and then. I had always feared that if I ever did purchase, or manage to try on some posing trunks, I would look a little silly in them. But as I admired my reflection in the mirror and saw myself wearing the insanely hot posers of an actual bodybuilder, I realised I didn’t look silly in the slightest. It didn't matter that I didn't have huge slabs of shredded beef hanging off my bones. Or that my skin wasn’t painted with bronzed competition tan. The posing trunks just looked hot as fucking fuck, even against my pale, none freakishly muscular legs. With my hard on stretching out the pouch of the shiny posers, and the back of the trunks hugging my regular sized arse, I went back to my laptop to continue watching the video I’d found of Andy, the gorgeous, shredded British muscle pup, flexing on stage. Within seconds of pressing play, Andy has spun around, shuffled to the front of the stage and was cranking out most muscular after most muscular, each one accompanied with his mouth wide open in the most brilliantly arrogant fashion. As I stroked my hard cock through the soft posing trunk material, rock hard, horny as fuck and fearful that I was about to cum at any given moment, I looked at Andy and realised that it wasn't just his oversized bottom that reminded me of the bodybuilder from the launderette. It was also his face. He had the same masculine but boyish quality. A little rough around the edges. Very laddish. Undeniably British. And oh-so-bloody-gorgeous! And then I had a thought. What if, somewhere on the Internet, there was a video of the bodybuilder from the launderette, flexing on stage in the very trunks I was wearing? I doubted he'd be at the level of the bodybuilders from the show I was watching videos from, but there could easily be a video of a Mr South East contest somewhere. He had posing trunks that he felt were in need of a wash, so he most likely would have competed recently, or was due to compete soon. Unless there was something else he did in his posing trunks which required them to be asked afterwards? A thought which made my dick furiously jolt under the shiny poser material. I tried my luck and did a quick search but no such videos materialised. At least not ones from the last five years. In sheer desperation, I put “Brighton bodybuilder” into Google and one of the top five results bought up the website for the infamous Deano’s Gym. From there, I reached the gym’s Facebook page, and that's where I struck gold! I was immediately drawn to the very latest post at the top of the page which read; “Good luck to Liam Watson, who is competing at the Tiger Bodybuilding Classic in London next weekend.” And then I looked at the picture of the huge, shredded muscle bull in the picture, hitting a front lat spread in a pair of very familiar looking shiny blue posing trunks and my heart lurched into my throat. Looking at the gorgeous face of the flexing muscle beast, lips pursed in arrogant fashion, I was suddenly transporting back to Wednesday night, watching that very face walking through the laundrette with a holdall full of washing in his hand, not knowing that he'd accidentally left a certain garment of clothing in the machine. The very garment of clothing he was wearing in the picture I was looking at, and the very garment I was wearing at that precise moment! And then I read the rest of the text which accompanied the picture. “Check out more of Liam on his Instagram page here” which was followed by a link, which I excitedly clicked and HOLY SHIT, I was now on the Instagram page of the bodybuilder whose trunks I'd been wanking off with the past three days! A mini digital glimpse into the world of Liam Watson, the huge, gorgeous Brightonian bodybuilder who was competing in a show next weekend. My eyes went straight to the very first post. A close up picture of an outrageously huge, flexed bicep, with a freaky, thick vein running right down the middle. FUCK! And that's when I noticed something in the bio of the profile. Liam had written his name, but there was something sandwiched in between his first name and surname. Liam had a nickname. A nickname which became even more appropriate as I scoured the many pictures on his page and landed on one of him blowing up his seriously enormous biceps while flexing a front double. I wasn't just wearing Liam Watson's shiny blue posers. I was wearing Liam “The Guns” Watson's shiny blue posers! As I scanned the pictures on Liam's profile, I was reminded of my “five things about muscle which drive me completely and utterly bonkers” list from earlier in the week. Beyond human biceps? Check! Mammoth sized tits? Check! Outrageously cocky posing? Fucking check! An enormous sized bottom? Big fat CHECK! Brightly coloured, shiny as shit posing trunks? To which I took my eyes off the screen and looked in my lap. THE BIGGEST FUCKING CHECK! In addition to the close up bicep shot, I quickly adopted a number of favourite pictures from Liam’s Instagram. Amongst them, a rear shot of Liam completely naked with his gigantic sized ass on full display (FUCK!) with the cheeky caption, “Sorry if my naked bum offends anyone. I just really wanted an excuse to use the peach emoji!” and a contest photo of him from a few years earlier, tanned to shit, with a little less size but shredded to buggery, cranking out a crab most muscular with his eyes closed, face scrunched and teeth gritted in the cheekiest (and horniest) fashion (fuck yeah Liam)! But my absolute favourite picture was the second most recent one posted on his profile. A shot taken that very morning, of Liam standing in a room with a huge black and white poster of the classic documentary film “Pumping Iron” hanging behind him on the wall. Wearing nothing but a pair of beautiful, bright red posers, just as shiny as the ones I was wearing, packed and filled out by his indecently big bulge, Liam was hitting a front double bicep pose. His insane biceps peaking to an obscene degree. Huge, round, and perfect. The right one with that freakish, thick vein running right down the middle. God I love that vein. His face contorted into the most outrageous expression. Manic, crazy, and cocky as fuck. His mouth wide open in an almost animalistic fashion. A huge, freaky, gorgeous muscle bull flexing his enormous, nickname earning guns, displaying extreme masculinity, unapologetic attitude and pure power in the horniest way conceivable. That was it. I couldn't hold it in any longer. I furiously tugged on my throbbing hard on through the fabric of Liam's posers and, staring at his gigantic biceps and sexy, ‘tude packed face, the head of my dick exploded and a huge load of cum blew into the lining of the posing trunks. I looked down and saw the spunk seeping through the shiny material. What an image. What a feeling! The orgasm was even more intense than the one I had Wednesday night with the trunks placed over my face. Intense, immeasurable pleasure consuming my whole body. I felt like I'd been transported to the ceiling and someone needed to come and scrape me off. And God did I scream. Uninhibited shouts of orgasmic pleasure. God knows what the neighbours thought. Fuck ‘em! If they'd been shooting loads into their undies over monstrous bodybuilders in tiny sized posing trunks since their teenage years and had amazingly managed to be in possession of a pair of such very trunks and were blasting a massive load into them for the first very time, they'd be screaming the place down too. Basking in a post orgasmic high, I looked at Liam flexing on my laptop and I suddenly felt a twinge of something. Not so much guilt, more a slight feeling of wrongness. What would this man think if he knew I'd just shot a load in one of his pairs of posing trunks? I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. There was no point dwelling on it. After all, Liam will never ever know. His posing trunks are long gone. Never to be seen again. And now they're mine. To wear and cream in. Over and over again. Yours, Oscar Grimes (wearer and new, proud owner of tiny, shiny posing trunks!)

This is a new story I've been working on which I'll be posting here and on my Muscle Addicts Inc blog. It's written in diary format and sees a muscle addict called Oscar encounter a local bodybuilder. As you can probably guess from the title, there's a pretty heavy focus on posing trunks! HAVE YOU SEEN THESE POSING TRUNKS? Monday July 10th Dear Muscle Diary, Here are five things about muscle that drive me completely and utterly bonkers. #1. Biceps Big, granite hard, croquet ball shaped guns. Huge, freaky, vein encrusted peaks. Insanely pumped, thinly skinned, beyond human biceps. Guns that erupt to heart stopping proportions when blown up in an incredible front double bicep pose. Cannons that explode either side of (and look just as fucking big as!) the head of the muscle beast who owns them when rocking out a cheeky abs and thighs. Biceps that tense into a ball of rock hard, marble-like muscle mass and explode off the upper arm of a bodybuilder when he’s blasting out a massive side chest. FUCK YES! #2. Pecs Mammoth sized, patio slab tits. Absurdly developed, vein plastered chest pillows. Deliciously thick mounds of incredibly dense chest muscle. Pecs that hang off the torso of a jacked up muscle bull, begging to be squeezed, tensed and flexed. Chests that jump up like a cobra trying to attack the owner’s chin when he hits a front lat spread. Tits that bounce up and down like two puppies in a sack when the two hundred plus pounds muscle God they’re attached to decides to treat his adoring audience to a spot of pec bouncing. BOING! #3. Attitude/Cocky Posing For me, diary, the way a bodybuilder poses, and the attitude he adopts when he’s flexing, both on and off stage, has a huge part to play in how hot I find him. Nothing gets me going more than seeing a competition conditioned muscle freak stomping and strutting around a stage while displaying the most outrageously cocky, testosterone fuelled, power packed ‘tude! Ripped up muscle lads who really give it hell on stage, pulling all manner of shamelessly cocky facial expressions. Juiced up muscle pups who scrunch up their faces to absolute buggery and cheekily stick their tongues out as they squeeze their tan drenched mass. Roided up beef monsters who grunt, groan and yell as they crank out their poses with only mission on their minds; to make every audience member cream in their pants. FUCK YEAH LADS! #4. Glutes Obscenely developed, indecently muscular rumps. Enormous sized, gravity defying bottoms. Freakishly striated, line plastered glutes. Alien-like, shredded to buggery booties that explode with lines, details and striations when tensed and flexed on stage. Wafer thin skin encased arses so insanely conditioned you could grab a block of cheddar and use them as a fucking cheese grater. Gigantic orbs of ass meat that greedily gobble up the back of the tiny, shiny posing trunks of the owner. YOINK! #5. POSING TRUNKS! It’s not just the image of competition conditioned bodybuilders that drives me nuts. It’s also the outrageous clothing garments known as posing trunks they’re required on wear on stage. Yes diary ... I FUCKING LOVE POSING TRUNKS!! Brightly coloured, teenie weenie trunks so unbelievably shiny you need sunglasses to look directly at them. Micro sized posers whose stupidly thin straps get pulled up and yanked during a cheeky lat spread (YOINK)! Shiny as shit trunks which get plastered in greasy, golden tan and fucking drenched with the sweat of the muscle bull wearing them during competitions (SLURP)! Bright pink, glute hugging trunks. Glittery gold, bulge stretching trunks. TRUNKS, TRUNKS, TRUNKS! Yours, Oscar Grimes (self confessed, horn crazed muscle addict) Wednesday July 12th Dear Muscle Diary, Oh. My. Fucking. GOD!! You will not believe what has happened. Or what I'm now in possession of, and staring at, right at this very moment. FUCK!! OK, let me start at the beginning. So, tonight was washing night at my local launderette (whoop whoop). Wednesday's are not usually very busy but, for some reason, tonight all of the machines were being used. I was about to leave when I noticed that one had finished its cycle but, annoyingly, no one seemed to be taking their newly washed clothes out of the machine. I sat on the bench and started to read a book, in hope that the washing would be collected, or that another machine would be freed up shortly. Ten or so minutes into waiting (double fucking bugger) and I was seriously considering giving up and trying again for tomorrow night when, who should walk into the laundrette, but the man who owned the finished washing sitting in the machine. But not just any man. Oh no, diary. A fucking BODYBUILDER!! My jaw almost dropped to the floor when he walked in. Because of where I was sitting, I could only see him from the back initially. He was about six foot tall and built like a brick fucking shit house. A huge barn door back stretched out a black hoodie with the words "DEANO'S GYM" written on the back. Deano’s is a local hardcore bodybuilding gym. If a bodybuilder were to hail from Brighton, he'd almost be guaranteed to have trained there. Two gigantic orbs of ass meat were stretching his black shorts, making up one of the biggest and most perfectly round arses I have ever seen on a man. And on the lower part of his legs sat two ridiculously huge and developed calves. Every single person in the laundrette looked up at the sight of this monstrous bodybuilder waddling through the shop. When he was done throwing his washing into a bag, and finally freeing up the machine, he turned to head for the door, and that's when I managed to get a view of him from the front. Ho. Lee. Fucking. Shit! Well, my eyes went straight to the top of his enormous chest. Peeking out of the top of his gym hoodie zipper, I could just see the top of two plates of thick muscle, separated by a deep groove in between. Other than his shins and his thick bull neck, it was, sadly, the only glimpse of flesh I got to see. But something else more than made up for the that. Now able to see the muscle monster’s face, I could see that he was exceptionally fucking sexy in the looks department. Undeniably British and extremely masculine, but with a hint of boyish charm, I guessed he was no older than his early thirties. His hair was styled into a trendy quiff, but shaved really short at the sides. His complexion, while not quite competition bronzed, was more tanned than the average British man. Even for July. He strolled out of the door with his focus straight ahead, completely ignoring the gawps and stares of every average sized person in the launderette. The way he walked, the way he looked, everything about him just exuded this incredible confidence, that sat just below that fine line which crossed into arrogance. The whole scene was incredibly surreal, not to mention insanely horny. This ginormous sized, juiced up, muscle bull casually strolling through the run down launderette I frequented on an almost weekly bases. FUCK!! So, you're probably now thinking that that's the end of the story? The reason for my overexcitement at the beginning of this diary entry? An awesome and horny muscle sighting involving a huge, gorgeous bodybuilder?! WRONG!! So, with the washing machine previously used by the muscle beast now freed up, I dumped my clothes in there without really paying much attention to what I was doing; my mind still pre-occupied with thoughts of the absurdly sexy, big bummed gorilla I'd just unexpectedly encountered. An hour later, and still on a high from the muscle sighting, I was throwing my now washed clothes into one of the launderette 's tumble dryers when I suddenly noticed something tangled up in my washing which made my heart jump into my fucking throat! In amongst my wet towels and work shirts, I could see something foreign, blue, bright and shiny, and I knew, in an instant, exactly what it was. You know that scene in Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory, where Charlie Bucket opens the bar of chocolate and gets a glimpse of the shiny golden ticket? Well now I know exactly how Charlie felt. I reached my hand into the dryer, and tentatively pulled on the blue, shiny fabric, just enough to confirm that, mixed up with my washing, was a pair of genuine bodybuilder’s posing trunks! FUCK!! I shut the dryer door, put the spin on and sat back down in the bench; grinning like crazy and barely able to contain my excitement. The gorgeous Deano’s Gym attending muscle bull had accidentally left a pair of his posing trunks in the machine, and I had clearly not noticed them when I'd popped my washing in after him. Of course, the right thing to do in this situation would have been to hand the stray garments in. And normally I would have. But this was no normal situation. And these were no ordinary garments. These were fucking posers! Actual posers from an actual fucking bodybuilder. The thing that turned me on, only second to the type of roided freaks and monsters who wore them on stage. My dick had started to stir and grow the second I clapped eyes on the blue material, and had grown further the moment my fingers had made contact with the fabric. Fuck! I'd actually touched a pair of shiny posers!! FUCK!! I was actually now potentially in possession of a pair for of shiny posers! Triple fucking FUCK! Unless the bodybuilder came back to retrieve them before the dryer stopped, of course. And then I had an image of the muscle bull storming back into the launderette, checking the machine, frantically looking around and approaching the old dear who worked there looking for his missing posing. But such an event did not occur and, before I knew it, my dryer had stopped and my washing was done. There was no way I was going to hand the trunks in, not least of all because I couldn't think of anything more embarrassing than handing a pair of bright blue posers to the lovely, but slightly batty, old woman working there. I could have left them in the dryer I guess. That would have been the second most moralistic thing to do. But I didn't. Because I knew that if I did, I would always regret it. So I did what any sane muscle addict with a rampant love for tiny, glute hugging posing trunks would have done. I scooped my washing from the dryer into my bag, making sure that no item had been left behind. Whilst heading to the door, a man sitting on the bench gave me a curious look, a little like I was a crazy person, because I couldn't wipe the smirk off my face or hide the elation I was feeling knowing that in my bag was a pair of the thinly stripped, super shiny posing trunks of a gorgeous, roid munching competitive bodybuilder. JESUS. FUCKING. CHRIST. The whole walk home I was absolutely buzzing. I kept thinking about what was in my bag at that precise moment, intertwined with my boxer shorts and t-shirts. I couldn't fucking wait to get home and examine the posers further. The moment that came and I was stood in my bedroom with my washing bag placed on the bed, my heart was pounding like crazy. It was madness! How could an item of clothing stir such intense feelings in me? I rummaged through the bag and, once again, my dick began to swell and my excitement grew when my fingers and eyes were met with the shiny blue posing trunk material. Retrieving the freshly washed trunks from the bag I held them up in front of me and just revelled in the horniness and amazingness of what I was holding in my hands. They looked even shinier than they had from the tumble dryer. It sounds crazy - I had seen so many pictures of videos of bodybuilders wearing posing trunks, but never, ever did I imagine that they'd be so shiny in real life. Or that the fabric would feel so good in my fingertips. I ran my hands over the thick, shiny pouch, my fingertips up and down the thin, wiry straps, flipped them around and felt the blue material which made up the back. I suddenly had an image of the muscle bull I'd so brilliantly seen earlier that day waddling towards me in the launderette, hitting a monstrous crab most muscular, tanned up to shit and wearing these very posers and my fully erect cock juddered furiously in my boxers. I don't know why I did what I did next. I bought the trunk pouch to my nose and, bringing the material to my face, I took a big sniff of the shiny fabric. Predictably, I was hit with the smell of fabric conditioner. But there was something else hidden there too - the incredibly horny scent of the material itself, which no doubt would have been stronger, sexier and more intense when the muscle bull had bought them brand new. I wanted more than anything to take my jeans and boxers off. To work the trunks up my regular sized, non muscular legs and nestle my throbbing cock into the shiny blue pouch. But something stopped me. The knowledge that they weren't really mine. Somehow, it just didn't feel right. Instead, I just I lay the trunks on my bed and marvelled at the beauty and all out fucking sexiness of them. A pair of bodybuilders posing trunks. Brighter, shinier and hornier than I could ever have imagined. Yours, Oscar Grimes (sort of proprietor of tiny, shiny posing trunks - FUCK!)

Incredible! I agree with what everyone else said. I can't wait to read more, especially about how Corey and his dad react to Corey "officially" seeing his new size, what happened to the car, and maybe Corey's dad working out with those incredibly heavy weights (awesome detail, by the way)! Oh, and that doesn't even include the basement mystery. There's so much to look forward to, and it's been fantastic so far.

This chapter almost made me late for work this morning ?

(Disclaimer: I do not own World of Warcraft; no copyright infringement intended) Ever heard that old saying, "never judge a book by its cover?" Well, that basically describes me. When I tell people I'm 35 years old, they're shocked. "You don't look a day over 25," they'd say. "What's your secret to looking so young?" is another thing I'd get. Hitting the gym two hours a day, six days a week, since I was in high school helps a great deal. Not to mention not eating so much crap. Of course, there's another benefit to pumping iron so much: I have a little fuck-toy every night, as I have since college. Men, women, doesn't matter. This 10"-by-7" hole-stretcher of mine has plowed many a mouth, ass, and pussy over the years, and it will continue to please horny men and women for as long as I can get it up. I also surprise people when I log into my World of Warcraft account. Most people assume that, behind the digital image of my level 110 draenei paladin (retribution with holy offspec) is either an obese 40-something in his mother's basement or a skinny kid in a dorm somewhere. They get the shock of a lifetime when I tell them to tune into my stream, only for them to see this huge hunk of man-muscle giving a gratuitous flex of my guns for every new follower and subscriber. Every Tuesday and Wednesday from 7pm-10pm Eastern, I'm raiding with my guild. But I'm plowing someone every single night, making them scream my name, and wanting more of this muscle-beast. Why, just last night, I ran into a guy I knew in high school who used to pick on the gay guys. He told me that he regretted his actions, but only after he begged to have a taste of my Ashbringer.

Thursday July 13th Dear Muscle Diary, What a day! I don't think I've ever survived a work day before being so pre-occupied, or feeling so damn fucking tired. And the reason for both of those things? The bright blue posing trunks I'm now so brilliantly and crazily in possession of. I literally have not stopped thinking about them, diary. It's like I've been possessed. Those teenie weenie, super shiny garments have taken over my whole mind. And it wasn't just today either. It was last night too. It sounds completely and utterly bonkers, but I didn't fall asleep until two a.m. My mind just would not shut off. Just knowing what was sitting in my drawers mere metres away from my bed. Those beautifully shiny, brilliantly coloured posers. I finally managed to get to sleep, only to wake up an hour later, hard as fuck and with the trunks still occupying my mind. There was only one thing for it. I got out of bed, opened my drawer and held the posing trunks in my hands. I took them back to bed with me. I didn't really know what my intention was, but I needed to blow badly and I wanted the trunks to be there. I thought, again, about putting them on. It felt a little less wrong than it did before. But it still didn't feel completely right. Not now. Not like this. My cock was throbbing furiously and I started to tug on it through my boxers underneath the duvet. With the posers in my free hand, once again, I bought the material to my face and placed the trunks flat over it. Shiny, shiny fabric over my mouth, nose, forehead and covering my eyes. I rubbed the posers in my face with my hand while wanking off. The smell of the trunks filling my nostrils, the shiny, slippery fabric consuming my face, as I breathed in the posing trunk material. I kept imagining where they'd been. In a pump room. On a bodybuilding stage. In the audience of a show during a crazy posedown as their beefed up, tan plastered roid monster of an owner flexed and posed in them. As I continued to wank and breathe in the posers, I thought about that very roid monster who I’d seen earlier that evening. The "DEANO’S GYM" hoodie. That ridiculous back. His enormous, perfectly round arse. Those huge calves on display. That pec cleavage. The bull neck. His gorgeous, tanned face. That super hot hairdo. And the way he strutted through that launderette. A genuine muscle bull amongst mere mortals. And then I imagined him wearing the trunks. Pulling the straps up as he hit a lat spread pose on stage to wild applause from the audience. Turning around and outrageously tucking the back of the posers into the crack separating those two gigantic orbs of ass meat. I grew closer to cumming and groaned into the poser fabric as I imagined these very trunks buried deep in his arse crack. The pouch filled out and stretched by his dick. His bronzed competition tan rubbing off on to the trunks as his bulge rubs against his inner quads. Trunks getting mucked with tan. Sweat dripping down his abs and reaching the shiny fabric. Pre-cum dripping into the crotch as he squeezes a monster most muscular on stage. And then I imagined him rushing home after the show. Still drenched in tan. Still wearing his posers. His bright, shiny, teenie tiny posers, now drenched in the tan, oil, and sweat of its muscle monster owner; full of adrenaline and testosterone and horny as hell from flexing and showing off what a fuck off huge muscle freak he is to a room full of ordinary, non bodybuilders, all of whom were dying to touch and worship his muscle, making him feel like the God that he is. And then I imagined him flexing in the mirror. Cranking out pose after pose. Grunting, groaning, huffing and puffing with every squeeze and flex. His hard throbbing cock stretching out his mucky pup posing trunks to an outrageous degree, ready to explode at any given moment. And as I imagined the muscle bull squeezing out a trap exploding crab most muscular while growling like an animal and filling up his posing trunks with spunk, I pushed those very posers into my face and unleashed a muffled groan as thick wads of cum exploded from my cock and filled up my boxer shorts in what was probably one of the most intense and pleasurable orgasms I’ve ever had. FUUUUUUCKKKK!! Yours, Oscar Grimes (self confessed, horn crazed lover of the tiny, shiny posing trunks I now sort of own!)