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About Luvsmusl

  • Rank
    100+ Posts


  • Location
    Los Angeles
  • This profile is a...
    real profile.
  • Gender
  • Orientation
  • What are your interests?
    Nutrition, chemistry, hypnosis, real-life muscle growth, muscle worship
  • What are your stats?
    fat and fatter But profile pic is me in 2002
  • What are you seeking?
    Young serious bodybuilders who want mentoring or sponsorship.
  • What are your dream stats?
    275 lbs, 30-inch waist, 5% bodyfat
  • Favorite Stories
    The ones I wrote: Boy God, The Process, Neighbor Kid, Flex Complex, Sleeping Giant, Simon's Affirmation

    Also: Danny series by Chip Masterson, Kid Muscle, Muscle Boy Island
  • Favorite Bodybuilders
    Dallas McCarver, Shane Giese, Paul Harvey, Eduardo Correa, Jeff Seid, Flex Wheeler, Lee Priest
  • Got Any Fetishes?
    Biceps, calves, abs, muscular teens, cocky showoffs, younger or smaller guys getting huge and dominating me, hypnosis

Contact Methods

  • Skype

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7,604 profile views
  1. Magnificently good, and HOT. Bravo!
  2. Also interested in sponsorship 

  3. lol I'm so anxious for chapter 3

  4. Hey there, say, do youa ccept commissions by any chance?

    1. Luvsmusl


      Not usually but what do you have in mind?

  5. What a beautiful body!  Would love to know more about you.  Where do you live?

  6. My book "Mind, Muscle, Erection" is attached, which includes "SIMON'S AFFIRMATION." Would love to hear comments.
  7. "How I Got Huge" and "Simon's Affirmation" are both in the archive of the old MG site. (Accessible from this site.) The stories are also both in my e-book "Nasty Teen Muscle Gods" on Amazon/Kindle.
  8. Hey Guys. Here is a new story I have been working on. It's a little different, so I welcome reactions and feedback. Also your thoughts about where you would like to see it go.... Enjoy! DIARY OF THE GERMAN MUSCLE BABY Part 1 I'm stronger than you. Why don’t we start there? Without knowing anything about you, your age, your size, your weight, the sports you may excel at, I can unconditionally say that my muscle strength is greater than yours. Not just pound for pound, but absolutely. At the age of seven, while tussling with my father over not wanting to take a bath, I inadvertently broke both his arms. (Needless to say this shamed and horrified me, and taught me early on to respect and restrain my dangerous strength.) I call myself Torsten for this book, but that is just a convenience. My real name has never been publicized, and only a few, fairly anonymous photos from my early childhood have ever been seen. My parents were scrupulous about that, for which I thank them. If you have heard of me at all it is as “the German muscle baby,” a title I was knighted with by various TV outlets and websites when I was four years old. Like most labels it has a grain of truth but also conceals dozens of misapprehensions and half-truths. Frankly, most of the real facts about me have never been revealed until now. To be honest, quite early in my life I became bored with the astonishment my unusual strength and precocious muscular development produced in people. After all, this is the only body I have ever had, and the appearance and capabilities of my muscles have never seemed anything but natural to me. And yet, on the other hand, it is certainly not wrong to call me a superman. Numerous scientific tests have established that my muscular power (measured in a variety of ways), my endurance, my stamina, and the physio-chemical properties of my muscle tissue are prodigiously beyond the curve of normal human rankings. And this is why, even though I am only nineteen, I have chosen now to tell my story. The fact is there may never be another human creature quite like me. So I consider it my responsibility, even my duty, to put a clear and precise telling of the facts on record. I have two other reasons for stepping forward at this moment. For most of my life I have been a glorified lab rat. I served this purpose for drug companies, for the military, for medical researchers, strength coaches, professional sports teams and Olympic associations from at least a dozen countries. A year ago I turned my back on all of that. I wanted the freedom to travel the world and to study the peculiarities of my phenomenal body (I mean that literally) on my own. As a result I am something of a hunted man. More on that score later. My other reason for writing this book is a bit more personal. Most of my life I have been the object of constant, intense, and frequently obsessive sexual and romantic pursuit by men and women of every kind and variety. I don’t ask for your sympathy. But, not to be coy, I harbor the hope of one day being loved and desired for something more than my disarming appearance, my flawless, tempered-steel physique and my superhuman strength. So this tale, in a way, is my message in a bottle. I hope it will let the world know who I am in my heart and my soul. And perhaps, who knows, it may reach someone out there for whom it will make a difference. Someone else like me, perhaps. * * * * * Having said all that, there is no way to begin this story without talking about my looks. As I said, I am 19. I stand exactly 183 centimeters, or a tad over 6 feet tall. My hair is thick and blond, with natural brown and reddish highlights. My eyes are a pale bluish-green, a color that subtly shifts, depending on the quality of the light. My complexion is golden brown. My skin smooth, moist and clear. If all of this sounds like I have spent a lot of time looking in the mirror, I have. If it sounds like I am in love with my own splendid physicality, I am. I say this without embarrassment. It couldn’t be otherwise, and if you saw me for even a moment you would understand. Regarding my physique… I am certain that “muscles” is the first word I understood, and possibly the first I ever spoke. From earliest infancy the air around me was filled with the sound of “his muscles,” “the child’s muscles,” “such remarkable muscles,” “astonishing muscularity,” “the strength of his muscles,” “amazingly muscular,” “huge, solid muscles.” Only now, in retrospect, do I understand how strange it was for a child of two, three or four to be constantly encouraged to flex and show off his body. But those were my beginnings. More than anything, my muscles have shaped my life and my destiny. They are, by many objective measures, the most extraordinary human muscles that have ever existed, and as you read on you will understand why. At the moment I carry 135 kg (297 lbs.) on my perfectly proportioned frame. Based on those numbers you would quite naturally assume that I am an Olympia-sized leviathan like Roelly Winklaar or Mamdouh Elssbiay. But in fact, because my muscle fibers are roughly twice as dense and hard as those of other elite strength athletes, my measurements at the moment are only slightly larger than those of a top physique competitor like Jeff Seid. My biceps are an inch or so bigger than his, and certainly my quads and calves are larger. But standing elbow to elbow the beautiful Mr. Seid and I occupy almost the exact same volume. The difference is that he fills it with 205 lbs. of brutally trained beef, and I fill the same sized vessel with nearly 300 lbs. of ever-mutating, titanium-like strands of wiry, responsive myocytes. In other words, Jeff and I are shaped somewhat the same (at the moment, and I’ll explain that as we go.) But if he is like hard rubber, I am more like solid steel. In terms of appearance what this means is that there is a shimmering hardness to my muscularity, striations in places, and on muscles, where they are rarely seen. And also, because of the difference in the number and quality of muscle strands, my body parts expand much more dramatically than those of other bodybuilders when I flex. I said “other bodybuilders,” but it is somewhat inaccurate for me to refer to myself as such. My muscular physique occurred quite naturally and easily, as a result of a child’s normal eating habits and physical activity. While I was incessantly tested and put through my paces by various scientists from early childhood, I never set foot in an actual bodybuilding gym or paid much attention to what I ate until the age of 14. It was at that point that I discovered the astounding degree of control I have over the size, shape and condition of my body. For many sad and complex reasons I have had few true friends in my life, but certainly Helmut is one of them. As a rising youth football star back then (he is in university now) he paid careful attention to nutrition, and devoted hours to intense training in our town’s most hardcore gym. I resisted many invitations to join him there. After all, the constant testing and assessment of my strength and muscularity was like work to me, in a way it was my job, and the thought of doing it for recreation held little appeal. But, after a while, for the sake of Helmut’s bracing humor and companionship, I accompanied him to the gym. Not surprisingly, in my first training session I was able to pump some of the gym’s heaviest iron with jaw-dropping intensity and stamina. At least a few of the regular crowd were competitive bodybuilders or powerlifters. It is a gross understatement to say they were shocked by the sight of a smooth-cheeked 14 year-old matching them on most movements, and even outlifting them on a few. The astonished attention of these powerful athletes was certainly an ego boost. But as I know you have already gathered, my ego is quite large and healthy and it doesn’t particularly need massaging. What kept me returning to the gym with Helmut, however, was the exhilarating sensation of accessing my deepest muscle fibers with those heavy weights. It isn’t an exaggeration to describe the feeling as sexual, and the “pump” in that first workout included my delighted cock in addition to my muscles. And what a pump it was! Having never been challenged in quite this way my muscle fibers swelled and inflated gloriously as blood flooded in to replenish them. I know for a fact that my biceps increased at least 2-3 cm (an inch, roughly) over their cold measurement. When I took off my shirt and flexed in the locker room mirror, Helmut and I both broke into uncontrollable laughter at the sight of a very young body that had seemingly grown about 20 kg in a single workout. This was an illusion, of course, the effect of my incredible pump. But Helmut was tickled and impressed enough to grab my right biceps in both of his hands and dangle his entire 65 kg body weight on my flexed arm for half a minute as we continued staring delightedly at the mirror. These outrageous pumps were a function of my unusual physiology, and they continued, workout after workout, as I trained with Helmut for the next many weeks. Naturally, my appetite increased prodigiously. I had no interest in following my friend’s strict diet regime. So I simply stuffed my face with whatever I wanted to eat, and as much of it as possible. Pizza, pastries, wursten, potatoes, dozens of eggs, litres of whole milk, chocolate bars. Amazingly, the huge caloric intake (I’m guessing at least 10,000 kcal/day) had no apparent effect on my bodyfat. Even as my size and weight increased dramatically (to say the least!) my skin remained paper thin, and I stayed shredded and vascular. (Yes, at fourteen, even earlier, I was already veiny.) Meanwhile, in seven weeks I almost doubled my bodyweight, from 75 kg (165 lbs) to 142 kg (312 lbs.) As I have explained, my muscles are unnaturally dense, so my body tends to look about one third lighter than it actually is. But to get an idea of how I looked after my first two months in the gym, picture a rock-solid, striated, 100 kg fourteen year-old and you have some idea. These first few months of bodybuilding taught me something new about my muscles, a thing the researchers had failed thus far to discover. Unlike a normal man or woman (unlike you, for example) I possess a genetic makeup that places no limitation on the growth of muscle mass. In those first seven weeks I quickly reached a point where I was lifting our town gym’s heaviest weights. But if there had been a way to continue increasing the resistance I was working against, and if I had been able to eat more and more calories, there is almost no limit to the amount of muscle I could have gained. Had I kept building at the same rate (and there is little indication that I wouldn’t have) I might have weighed twice as much, and looked considerably bigger, than Markus Ruhl or any of the other most massive Mr. Olympia contenders, before my fifteenth birthday. This is a good time to speak, in a little more detail, about some of the science behind my uniquely superior body. If you read any of the early reports about me you were told that I possess a rare genetic mutation that inhibits the expression of myostatin, a protein the body produces in order to limit the growth and proliferation of muscle mass. You were told that certain people are born with one allele, or half, of the myostatin inhibiting gene. But that I, along with a tiny number of other people, was born with both alleles; in other words, the entire anti-myostatin factor. To illustrate what this condition meant the reports included pictures of genetically altered mice, nicknamed “Schwarzenegger mice,” with muscular little mouse limbs. Or shots of double-muscled Belgian Blue cattle, giant steers whose bodies were covered with abnormal bulges of hypertrophic beef. But the truth is, the anti-myostatin gene is only one of at least six genetic mutations I possess that have an effect on my muscles and their capabilities. There are half a dozen other humans in the world who have been identified as sharing my anti-myostatin mutation. But so far no one has been discovered to carry any of the other genetic irregularities that account for the astonishing properties and capabilities of my muscles. The first sign of this revealed itself when a national science magazine brought me, at age 11, to pose with one of the double-muscled Belgian cattle on a farm. My co-star for the shot was a beautifully marked, proud looking 1200kg adult bull. The shot called for me to pull as hard as I could on the rope tethered to the bull’s harness, so that my shockingly developed, eleven year-old muscles (I was shirtless of course) would flex impressively as I strained against the bull’s unyielding mass. But to everyone’s surprise, not least of all mine, my physical strength proved powerful enough to pull the animal toward me, against his will, and force him down onto his knees. At this point the photo shoot was suspended and the magazine article postponed, since no one at that point had any words to explain how I had overpowered and shamed the giant beast. If there are photos from the shoot they are hidden away in secret drawers at the magazine or in the photographer’s vault. I’m sure you would love to see them, as would I. The point of this story is that for the next seven or eight years I continued to stumble on new abilities my muscles displayed, new modes of adaptation, new powers and potentials they had that no one, until now, had even thought were the domain of muscle mass or muscle fibers. The scientific studies being conducted began to bear titles like “The Results of Elevated CPK Levels on Multi-efficient Myocytes,” or “Bio-Chemical Properties of Newly Discovered ‘Super Muscle’.” As we proceed I will explain the various ways that my muscles are so uniquely superior, and when I can, I’ll offer the scientific explanations for this. But I think it is clearest to handle that as we go along. For now let me take you back again to the summer, five years ago, that I began training with Helmut, the chaotic reaction my results produced, and the dramatic way it changed my life. * * * * * * * As I said, in the summer of my 14th year my appearance, to the naked eye, changed from that of a muscled and athletic looking 65kg young teen, to that of a brilliantly conditioned, 100kg, jacked and stacked bodybuilder. (Bear in mind that my actual weight was 142kg!) If you looked closely you could still see I had the baby face of a 14 year-old. But no one could look at the amount of aesthetically arranged, granite-hard muscle I was carrying and believe that I could possibly be any younger than my mid-20’s. This new ‘Super Torsten’ became an exciting new toy, not just for myself, but for my great friend Helmut as well. Every day after training we would go to the busy promenade and the beach alongside the river to see what kind of noisy disruption my remarkable physique would stir up. Even in those spring and summer months when there was still a moist chill in the air, any glimmer of sunshine would be enough to bring out hordes of townspeople and visitors intent on enjoying the great outdoors. The stony beach would be populated by little groups of hopeful sun worshippers, the bravest of them stripped down to their thongs, the more modest at least rolling up their trouser cuffs and doffing their shirts to take advantage of the few weak rays that poked through the clouds. At least one brave soul would inevitably risk a dip in the freezing river, which as late as May sometimes still had clumps of ice floating on its surface. Helmut and I had of course romped and played on the promenade as small children (not that I was ever exactly small!) But around the age of ten or so we stopped spending time there. When he began to be recognized as a local athletic phenomenon we couldn’t walk fifty meters without being stopped by some adult who wanted to chat, or to take his picture. I, on the other hand, would draw disbelieving stares, none of them approving, due to my overly-muscled child’s body. Things became even worse after a meddlesome local physician visited my parents to scold them for giving me steroids. They naturally told him the real reason for my muscular maturity. As a result word spread through our town that I was some sort of genetic freak. Added to Helmut’s growing fame, this made a carefree or enjoyable afternoon on the promenade a virtual impossibility. By fourteen, however, we were both at an age when girls and sex were very much at the top of our thoughts. (It would be some time before I discovered that my own sexual tastes were much wider and that I actually preferred men over women, given the choice.) Helmut discovered that he could tolerate humoring the town’s hardcore football fans if it meant he could also ply his fame to good advantage with attractive young girls. And as for me, my recent “growth spurt” had been so dramatic and transformative that everyone just assumed I was newly arrived in the town. No one connected the baby-faced muscle god with the Torsten they had known for 14 years. The promenade was a fifteen minute walk from the gym, but Helmut and I would race there, in order to arrive and pull off our shirts (our excuse for this was any weather warmer than 10 degrees C.) while we still retained most of our pump. Natural jock that he was, Helmut had a body that turned heads. Only, now he was seriously outshined by the sculpted monster that strode beside him. This did not bother him at all. Good friend that he is, he was tickled by the attention that was drawn to me, maybe even relieved that he now had a fellow “celebrity” with whom to split the burden of local fame. And I, for maybe the first time in my life, began to enjoy being a magnet for the attention of others. Instead of just being gawked at and poked over by thick-spectacled physicians and science journalists, I was drawing smoky glances from the best looking girls (and mature women!), not to mention some of the hottest, sexiest men. We would play a little game, Helmut and I, on our daily, post-training treks along the promenade. We would bet each other how long it would be before someone stopped us and asked me to flex. And we would bet on whether it would be a boy, a girl, a grown woman, or a grown man – and if so whether he would be gay or straight, as far as we could tell. The shortest time it ever took was fifteen seconds, which threw us both a little off our game. This was a young man, very fit, who was training for a bodybuilding competition later in the summer in Frankfurt, and wondered if I might be competing as well. Had I thought a little longer I might have paused and been more compassionate. But instead I laughed and blurted that I was only 14 and had only been training for two months. The young man was noticeably devastated, and mumbled as close to a compliment as his utterly deflated ego could manage, before traipsing away with a troubled expression on his face. Something tells me he never made it onto that stage in Frankfurt, which would be a shame because he appeared to have some potential and might possibly have placed decently among a group of amateur, regional bodybuilders without my particular gifts and talents. (That day I was forced to buy Helmut a huge lunch at the next Bistro und Kneipe along the way, because his guess of ten minutes was so much closer to the actual time than mine.) In this carefree manner we made our way down the riverside each afternoon, laughing and marveling at the variety of reactions my powerful, hyper-masculine physique would provoke. These ranged from the red faces and downturned eyes of passing schoolgirls who flushed at the sight of me… to a middle-aged gent who, on seeing me, grew wide-eyed and then casually ducked behind an abandoned kiosk to masturbate. Helmut, for his part, was snorting with a mix of amusement and disgust. But I felt a secret pride, a secret delight at this affirmation of my sexual power and magnetism. A few weeks later, after the incident at the building site, of which I am about to tell you, these feelings would lead me to the series of experiments I started to conduct, alone, in a few of the neighboring cities. But we’ll wait just a moment for that. A couple of weeks into our daily adventures beside the river Helmut and I became bored and decided to wander further, past where the promenade ends and the streets and buildings of our little town come to a stop. We leapt off the edge of the concrete walkway and continued along the river, passing a few bleak-looking industrial sites (the town’s sewage plant being one) that rise out of the brush and scrubble that line this little-used stretch of the river. Three or four kilometers along we were surprised to find a kind of clearing, a place where backhoes had scraped away a big swath of earth and vegetation in preparation for a building project of some kind. Stacks of cinderblocks, piles of heavy wood beams... (TO BE CONTINUED)
  9. My story "How I Got Huge" has that theme. And, in a lighter tone, "Simon's Affirmation."
  10. Yes, I liked Scoundrel's "part 2" also.
  11. Completed version of it, along with three other good stories, is here: http://www.amazon.com/Mind-Muscle-Erection-Growth-Control-ebook/dp/B00PFVYKWS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1422133833&sr=8-1&keywords=mind+muscle+erection
  12. “THE ANATOMY LESSON” by LuvsMusl “Brian?” He was surprised to hear Coach Porter calling him from the other end of the locker room. Brian had taken to putting in extra sessions in the weight room after practice. The school’s compact but well equipped gym was usually packed with other kids, football players and wrestlers, mostly, until six o’clock or so. He would take a half hour break after football practice, gulp a mix of high energy carbs and BCAA’s, and then grab an hour or so in the gym by himself, lifting intensely without any distractions. Lifting was his passion, his obsession. He had no particular plans to seriously pursue bodybuilding or any other sport. He just loved the feel of the iron, and seeing himself get stronger week by week, and watching his muscles grow steadily bigger and harder. He looked up and smiled as Porter strolled toward him. “You’re here pretty late, Coach. Prepping for Friday night?” A jayvee game was being played the following evening. “No, just catching up on lesson plans and stuff. That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.” Brian shrugged slightly, pantomiming ‘what do you mean?’ “I’m about to do Anatomy with my senior Men’s Health class. Our class, I should say, since you’re in it.” “Okay…” “I was watching you in the weight room earlier…” Brian reddened a little, somewhat disconcerted at the thought that Coach had been secretly spying on him while he trained. “…And I was thinking. What if instead of just using those dumb charts, like every year, I get an actual guy, one of my athletes, to stand in front of the class and model the different joints and muscle groups as I point them out?” “Y’ mean –“ Porter chuckled at the anxious look on Brian’s face. “Yeah, dummy, I mean you. Just look at how well-defined your muscles are. It’ll be much clearer to people what I’m talking about than if I just point at flat diagrams on a chart. Am I right?” Brian went into his own head for a moment. He wasn’t much of an exhibitionist. Of course, it always made him feel good when girls, or other guys, made comments about how great his body looked. But now he pictured himself standing naked, or almost naked, in front of a room full of his classmates and teammates, being made to pose and flex. He couldn’t quite decide whether he hated the idea… or if… Porter decided for him. “Let’s just spend half an hour and see if we can plan it out. Grab a quick shower and then come on back to my office. Just your briefs. We can do a Speedo or something on Monday.” Without giving Brian a chance to answer, the coach turned and strode back toward his office. In the shower Brian thought more about the idea as he soaped himself up and started rinsing off. He was suddenly more focused than normal on his hard-earned eight pack, his thick pecs, his muscled arms and legs… all the while imagining the other guys in class staring at him in astonishment. In envy. Fuck, he suddenly thought. Why am I hard? A little disturbed that the image of himself preening and flexing in front of the twenty other men in his health class turned him on so much, he got to work furiously stroking his meaty cock (“My best body part,” he would joke whenever a girlfriend saw his thick 9.5 inches for the first time.) The giant boner was refusing to cooperate. He had to turn off the shower head and keep grabbing more palmfuls of pink liquid soap. Coach is waiting, he thought. How long have I been in here? Finally, to get the job done, Brian turned his mind back to the image of him flexing his massive physique in front of a roomful of admiring, lesser men. This got him a little closer. To cross the finish line he had to flex his pumped-up left bicep, and stare hard at the thick vein that crossed the deep, perfect separation between the muscle’s two heads. At the same time cranking his swollen tool with the other hand until finally, thankfully, he came, in a series of five emphatic spurts. Red-faced and breathless, he turned on the cold water to rinse his river of cum off the shower tiles, and off where it had splattered back onto his thighs. Porter sat at his desk, nervously laying out his anatomy notes. What’s taking him? “Coach?” He looked up and saw Brian, a little shy in skimpy red briefs, filling his office doorway. Filling was the right word. Dirty blond hair still wet from the shower, the kid, without gym shorts or a tank top interrupting the flow of his physique, looked like a young god. Porter felt something stirring downtown, and reflexively averted his eyes, glancing, for a moment, at the framed photo of his wife and two kids on the desk. “I’m, uh… ready when you are,” Brian mumbled, the hesitation in his voice suggesting otherwise. “Good. Good. We’ll get started in a sec.” Porter stood up, not sure how to begin. He found it literally impossible to avoid staring at the kid’s beautifully symmetrical, exquisitely sculpted body. He’d seen Brian in clothes, or in his football uniform, a thousand times. But seeing him now, like this, he realized that the boy’s perfect proportions disguised the reality of how big and full his muscles actually were. “My God, Brian, you really do have an amazing physique. What are you weighing right now?” “One ninety-seven, Coach,” Brian offered proudly. “My goal is to hit two ten by the end of the school year. Without sacrificing this…” He ran his palm over his flat, shredded midsection. Coach smiled. “A hard two ten, huh? And you’re what? Five eleven?” “Five nine.” Porter let out an impressed whistle. “That’ll be quite an accomplishment. Especially for a 17 year-old.” “I’m 18, actually. I missed a lot of school the year my family moved here, so I repeated fourth grade.” Porter felt himself blushing bright red and it terrified him, sickened him even, that his heart had leapt when he heard that Brian was over 18. What was he thinking? Brian noticed it, too. Was Coach turned on by him? Could Jack Porter, the school’s famously tough, macho, hard ass football coach possibly be aroused by the sight of his shirtless body? Were his muscles that impressive? He had no conscious intention to test this. But, apparently, there was an unconscious urge, because without any thought Brian tensed his pecs and they jumped for a second, ever so subtly, briefly revealing the nice separation between his upper and lower chest, and the deep indentations where the side of his pectoral muscles flowed into his delts. The look that flashed momentarily in Porter’s eyes told Brian everything. Oddly, instead of feeling uncomfortable he found himself growing more relaxed. Fully on purpose this time he lifted his arms and clasped his hands casually behind his head, knowing full well that this would accentuate the V-taper of his torso, bring his obliques into high relief, and flex his biceps into perfect, solid globes beside his head. “Let’s do this,” he said, suddenly sounding like the man in charge. Porter cleared his throat, knowing that if he didn’t his voice would break. “Um… I usually start with the midsection.” Brian moved to lower his hands, but the coach stopped him. “No, keep ‘em like they were, that’s perfect.” Brian interlaced his fingers behind his head again, this time tensing his body so that everything popped. “Yes, yes, that’s good,” Porter said, his words colored with way more excitement than he’d intended to convey. “I won’t do my whole spiel. But I’ll start by talking about your... your… uh… rectus abdominus… upper obliques… serratus anterior…” As he listed the muscles Porter’s hands moved over Brian’s body, gently at first, outlining each muscle as he named it, then pointing out all the individual examples of that type. “Very impressive, Brian,” he said, unable to stop himself from commenting. “Looks like every muscle in your body is perfectly developed.” “Thanks, I work hard at it.” Throughout the process Brian had kept watching the coach’s face, his eyes, enjoying the extreme reaction his physique was causing in the older man. It wasn’t clear whether Porter noticed his own breathing getting heavier, or his fingers spending more and more time on each of the muscles he enumerated… stroking and feeling its density, its elegant shape, its meaty perfection. But Brian noticed, and it thrilled him to his core. I fucking own this guy, he thought. I bet I could get him to do anything. As if sensing Brian’s thoughts the coach’s voice got a little soft and dreamy as he continued his exploration: “External intercostals. Beautiful.” He forgot to talk for the next minute or so as his hands continued wandering, tracing the transversus abdominus -- the muscular V that framed Brian’s lower abs -- and finally rested, once again, in the middle of the boy’s phenomenal, marble sculpture of a stomach. “Punch me,” Brian said. “What?” “Hit me, Coach, with your closed fist, as hard as you can.” Porter chuckled nervously. “I boxed in college, Brian. I had twenty-two amateur fights, I won most of them. Trust me, you don’t want me to hit you.” “If you want to touch any more of my muscles you’ll do it. And not a love tap, either. I want you to pull back and slam me with 100% of your full strength.” The coach was incredibly aroused by Brian’s confidence. And he craved seeing just how strong, how rock solid the kid’s magnificent eight pack was. He set his stance for maximum leverage, pulled his big fist back, and torqued his entire, solid 230 pounds toward Brian’s midsection. The 18 year-old didn’t budge, not a centimeter, didn’t register the blow at all, as Porter’s fist connected with the cinder-block wall that was his midsection. “Fuck!” Coach shouted in pain and pulled his arm back, moving his fingers to see whether any of the bones in his hand had cracked or even broken. Brian laughed, reveling more and more in his newfound power. “Pretty fucking hard, right? Tell the truth. You’ve never anyone with a body like this, let alone a kid.” He put his hands on his 28 inch waist and flared his lats, creating a mind-blowing V in a move that also showcased his spectacular, pumped-up delts, biceps, triceps, pecs… and of course that stone wall of a stomach. The coach was momentarily speechless. “N… No, Sir.” The ‘Sir’ surprised Brian. But no less than it shocked Porter, who had no idea why it had come out of his mouth. Well, he had some idea. Emboldened, Brian bent his right arm under his chin and flexed it, causing a diamond hard, perfectly shaped bicep peak to rise like a steely half moon above his brachialis. “Hey, Coach,” he teased. “Feel that shit. You know you want to.” Coach put his still-aching hand on the boy’s bicep and squeezed it, flushing with delight at how insanely hard and ungiving it was. He might as well have been squeezing a cue ball or a trailer hitch. “Go ahead, kiss it if you want. Put it in your mouth.” Porter met the boy’s gleaming eyes, which showed just how much Brian was getting off on teasing and dominating him. He leaned forward and kissed the stunningly perfect bicep as Brian flexed it again, making it even harder. Porter put his mouth around the granite sphere and sucked it as if it were a thick, juicy cock, slurping and moaning in delight. He would have gone on forever if Brian hadn’t finally stopped him, pushing the coach’s head away, disappointment and frustration darkening the older man’s face. “You like that, don’t you,” Brian teased, now “popping” the beautiful peak, making it jump, over and over, from flaccid to granite hard, a perfectly shaped beef balloon bouncing and swelling. “Boom! Boom! Boom!” “I like it very much, Sir.” “I’m a thousand times the man you’ll ever be. You know that, don’t you? And I’m still in fucking high school.” Brian was on auto-pilot now, improvising, riding his muscle bronco for all it was worth. “Yes, Brian. I mean, yes, Sir. It’s true.” “Fucking right it’s true. You’re hardly a man at all, compared to me. More like a worm. An insect. Next to this you’re nothing.“ He hit a tight most-muscular pose and his 18 year-old body congealed into an edifice of powerful, carved-up beef, veins like quarter-inch pipes throbbing in his thick neck, his brutal shoulders, his ungodly muscular arms. As the boy held the pose, twisting slightly left and right to deliver the full measure of his intimidating virility, Porter couldn’t keep himself from reaching down and stroking the excited thing that was growing inside his gym shorts. Seeing this, Brian stopped flexing, pushed the coach’s hand aside and grabbed hold of the man’s hard cock through his pants. “Is that what my big muscles do to you?” He squeezed Porter’s dick a little harder. “Yes, Sir. I love your big muscles. I live for your muscles.” Brian grinned, still not letting go. “Does it ever get this hard for Mrs. Porter?” He tightened his grip even more, staring into the coach’s eyes, grinning with amused contempt, a bald challenge. A surge of fury formed in the older man’s gut and rose to his throat, an instinctive reaction to his pupil’s brazen disrespect. But before Coach could act on this Brian lifted his callused palm to the coach’s cheek and gave it a patronizing pat. “It’s okay, Jack. My body has reduced better men than you to complete submission. Much better men.” Porter’s anger instantly shrank to a tiny pebble, washed away in the tidal wave of the muscleboy’s cockiness, his effortless dominance. A wet spot of pre-cum had started growing on the front of the coach’s pants. “Okay, let’s finish the lesson. I’ll flex my big teenage muscles and you tell my homies what they’re looking at.” Brian turned his back on Porter and unpacked a masterful rear biceps shot, a sweeping landscape of sculpted flesh that caused the coach to grab his desk for support. The boy reached his hands up and pulled his back into a tighter version of the pose, forcing even deeper valleys in the mountain range of thick muscle: “I’m waiting.” “Sorry, Sir. I’m sorry…” He had to catch his breath before he could start. “Well, um… those are your… your...” “Yeah, yeah, my fucking traps. My fucking lats. My beautiful fucking rhomboids. You’re boring me.” “But –“ “Shut up, worm. What about my glutes? …Are we going to talk about my glutes, Coach?” Without turning back around Brian pulled his briefs down and kicked them out of the way. Porter found himself staring at the most staggeringly beautiful 18 year-old muscle ass in the history of human asses. His knees buckled and he was on the floor, reduced to servitude by the sheer force of youthful male perfection that loomed in front of him. Brian clenched his curvaceous onion and it consolidated into a rock hard matrix of gluteal magnificence – deep grooves and solid ridges striping his shapely butt like the protective armor of some prehistoric creature. Coach made a little noise, from deep in his throat, like the cry of a dying loon. And then he lunged forward, propelling his face toward the tawny curve, the shadowy crescent that promised the fulfillment of his darkest, most joyful and secret dreams. But before Porter’s tongue could find its target Brian pivoted around and whacked Coach in the jaw with his massive billy club of an erect cock. When the older man recovered Brian grinned and wagged his big piece in Coach’s face, making it bounce with pure muscle control, which left his hands free to stroke his abs seductively. “It’s quite a bit bigger than yours, Jack. I guess that’s no surprise.” “No, Sir.” “Maybe if you’re a good boy I’ll let you suck this muscle cock.” “I’ll be a good boy, Sir. I promise.” “Who owns you, little man?” “You do, Sir.” Coach jerked a little, he was starting to cum in spite of himself. “Who’s your muscle master?” “You are!” “Who?” “You, Sir! Brian! Brian Hansen!” Brian laughed and shoved his battering ram of a tool into Coach’s mouth. He grabbed the back of Porter’s head and slammed it repeatedly against his own hard abs, rhythmically fucking the older man’s face as Porter gagged and choked in delirious ecstasy… holding on for dear life to the teen muscleman’s flaring vastus lateralis. With each hard thrust Brian yelled out a command: “Take that teenage cock! Eat that nasty dick muscle! Brian Hansen is God! Brian’s muscles rule your worthless life.” Coach gargled a worshipful assent, somehow forcing it past the wide pillar of cock that filled his throat. Suddenly Brian pulled out, stepping back and stroking his swollen red erection, which was still slick with the coach’s saliva. “You want some of this hot muscleboy cum?” “Yes, Sir!” “How bad do you want it?” “More than anything! A million times more than anything I’ve ever wanted!” “Then work for it. Talk about my muscles.” Brian continued massaging his engorged cock, no longer looking at Coach but instead giving full attention to his raging boner as Porter clamored to gather his thoughts and began talking: “You’re the king of muscle. You’re a boy with the body of a god. Your biceps are giant mountains of male power. Your body is the Master of all men. Every time you flex your giant muscles it’s like you’re fucking my brain, my heart, my soul. Fuck me, Muscle God! Fuck me with your big, powerful, fucking muscles!” Brian was getting closer. “Don’t stop! Grab hold of my balls.” The coach happily did what he was told. “I want your muscles, Brian. I love your muscles. Your muscles own me. I’m a lowly slave to your giant teenage muscles.” Brian was now really close. “Whose teenage muscles?” “Your teen age muscles! Muscle God Brian’s fucking powerful, godlike teenage muscles!” About to cum, Brian shoved the coach aside and continued the chant himself, crying out triumphantly with each stroke of his truly magnificent cock: “My muscles!... My muscles!... “Brian’s!... “Fucking!...Powerful!”... “Godlike!”….”MUSCLES!” And with that he shot, his 18 year-old firehose spewing thick muscleboy cum on the coach’s face, in his cum-hungry mouth, on his shirt, across the desk, drowning the anatomy notes in a huge pool of hot, creamy spooj. For a long moment they just sat there, man and boy (though it’s not entirely clear which was which), physically and emotionally spent. After a while Porter grabbed a gym towel and wiped the cum off his face. He smiled, shyly. “Thank you, Brian. I really mean it.” Brian shrugged. “No worries.” He stood up and noticed that his dick, still semi-erect, was continuing to drip cum on the coach’s carpet. Porter saw it, also. “Don’t bother about that. I’ll have the cleaning crew come in and spruce this place up on Saturday. Or maybe I’ll have the jayvee squad do it.” He chuckled at his own joke. “I guess I better go shower.” Porter looked up at the kid, who was more pumped and shredded than ever after the intense flexing session. Mother of Christ, he thought. That boy truly is a god. “Oh, Coach, one more thing. Could you maybe write me a pass to get out of fifth period on Monday? That way I can come here and pump up before Health class.” Porter grabbed his pad and scrawled out the note. He presented it to Brian, noticing the way the kid’s triceps flared into a huge, striated horseshoe as he leaned on the desk to take it from his hand.” “Thanks.” He flashed Porter a dazzling, toothy grin. “I can’t wait for Monday.” “Neither can I.” “And don’t worry, Coach. I won’t tell anyone you’re a fag.” He winked playfully and swaggered out of the office. His dimpled glutes seemed to mock Porter as they bounced and flexed into the darknesss of the locker room.
  13. I just posted it to the story archive on here. Enjoy!
  14. MUSCLE MEMORY By LuvsMusl Cody was in rough shape when I picked him up from the hospital. For ten weeks he had been flat on his back, battling a nasty infection. Between the ravages of being sick, and his utter lack of appetite, he had lost at least 60 pounds off his once athletic, solid frame. In short, he was a wreck. He could move only very slowly, one labored step at a time, as I helped him to my car. During the 50 yard journey he needed to stop twice and take a minute or two to rest. But at least now the infection had been knocked back and he had been cleared to come home. I was every bit as happy as my roommate that now he could start moving a little more, rehabbing, and getting back to his old, healthy self. I won’t lie, I love the kid, and we’ve been friends for six years and roommates for two. It killed me to see him like that, and it was a huge relief that he was finally out of the woods. There was still one hurdle to jump, however. The infection had apparently crossed the blood-brain barrier, and his mind and memory were pretty dicey. The doctor was optimistic, but couldn’t guarantee that Cody would get his full mental agility back. For now, he was pretty good at recognizing and understanding whatever was right in front of him. He remembered my car, and knew the route home, and was instantly familiar with our apartment. But almost everything that happened before he got sick was kind of a blurry haze. He’d get a vague memory of something, and he’d say “Did we go to Clairmont together?” Or, “Do I know someone named Christine?” It was unsettling, to say the least. We got home, and as I was helping him to his bedroom Cody put a bony hand around my arm and squeezed my bicep. “Look at you,” he laughed. “Mr. Buff.” Then, sadly, “And then there’s me.” “A month or two and that won’t be a problem,” I told him. “Some healthy eating, maybe a slow reintroduction to the gym, and you’ll be a stud again. Dude, you’ve always been considerably bigger and harder than me.” “Was I?” He clearly had no memory of it, and seemed pretty skeptical. “It’s true. You’ve always been jacked, and you’re crazy good looking. No homo, but in shape you’re a muscular love god. Girls walk into traffic staring at you.” He laughed, still not quite buying it. “Okay, Mike, I’ll take your word for it. But you’ll be my motivation. Cause compared to me you look like fucking Hercules. No homo.” First day back at the gym was a little unnerving. It was like he’d never been there before, and had to be led to the locker room and then pointed to each training room or piece of equipment where we both had clocked hundreds of hours. The great thing, though, was that a dozen of our gym buddies stopped by at one point or another, to high-five Cody, tell him they’d missed him, and offer sincere encouragement. He clearly remembered and recognized a few of them. But with most of them he just played along, accepting their delighted back slaps and fist bumps, while shooting me a look of complete cluelessness. “I sure have some big-ass friends,” he whispered. “You do,” I told him. “But, trust me. In no time flat you’ll fit right in again. It’s called muscle memory.” To be honest, I thought maybe my words were a little too optimistic. On doctor’s orders, Cody took it slow and easy that first day. Light weights, not too many sets or reps. But he was definitely enjoying himself. He was like a caged up animal that is suddenly released back into its natural habitat. And at the end of the workout, damned if he didn’t have a nice little pump going. Miraculously, in three weeks Cody’s body was pretty close to what it had been before he got sick. He obviously had amazing powers of recovery. All of our friends were blown away, and people – inside the gym and everywhere else – couldn’t stop complimenting him on his remarkable comeback. In the locker room, as we showered and dressed, he couldn’t help hitting a proud double biceps pose in front of the mirror. “Is this pretty much how you remember me looking?” he asked. “Dude, you’re a tick away from your all-time best shape. Maybe even more shredded, since you dropped all that bodyfat while you were sick.” “You know, you were right. I am bigger and harder than you. Feel that.” He moved his perfectly shaped, baseball bicep in front of my face. “You’re kidding, right? I didn’t think we were those guys. Those ‘bro’, feel my bicep’ guys.” He laughed. But he didn’t move his arm away. Instead he flexed it a few times to pump some more blood into the two bulging heads, and, with a smile in his voice, challenged me again. “Bro’. Just fuckin’ feel it.” I did what he said. It was hard. A little disturbingly, so was I. I was switched to the night shift for the next couple of weeks, so I didn’t see much of Cody for the rest of the month. We texted back and forth, like always, and occasionally left smartass notes for each other on the fridge. “Hey, loverboy, pick up some laundry detergent,” stuff like that. Finally it worked out that we could spend part of a day together, so we made a date for the gym. On my drive there I realized that except for a glimpse or two of him bundled up among the twisted sheets and pillows on his bed I hadn’t laid eyes on my roommate for at least three weeks. I didn’t spot him on the gym floor. Glad that I wasn’t too horribly late I hustled to the locker room. No sign of him in there, either. Just some massive guy with his huge back to me, changing into his gym clothes. When he bent over to stuff his bag into a bottom locker his thick, perfect lats flared into a giant V the width of a Buick. And that beefy, solid, sculpted bodybuilder ass… Jesus! Let’s just say for a few seconds I not only forgot all about Cody, I forgot what year it was, I forgot my own name. The guy obviously felt me staring, and turned toward me as he scrunched up his tee shirt, getting ready to pull it over the mountains of beef that were pretending to be his shoulders. “Mike! You’re late.” …I think it’s called a fugue state. That thing where your mind and senses just go completely blank because they can’t process reality. I don’t know if I stood there gaping for twenty seconds or twenty minutes. But my next memory was Cody’s handsome face, blue eyes twinkling like in the best of times, breaking into a playful, welcoming smile. Instead of pulling the tee shirt on he straightened his back and tensed his…his muscles. I mean his MUSCLES. Brick wall, razor cut, vascular as hell, stacked and jacked, boner-inducing M… There was sweat running down the crack of my ass. “Dude, tell me the truth,” he said. We haven’t really seen each other for a couple weeks. Can you tell I got bigger? “Cody, are you kidding me? You’re fucking massive! How did you do this? You’re a monster! You look like you’ve put on thirty pounds, and you’re still ripped to the bone!” “I’m up fifty,” he said. “It’s funny. But I think my memory’s coming back. I started remembering what I looked like, and it’s like my body just began falling in line with it. Like you said, muscle memory.” He turned toward the mirror, grabbed one hand with the other, and flexed into a side chest shot. His pecs seemed to triple in size as they ballooned into granite-hard wedges of sheer muscle mass, giant domes of hard beef criss-crossed with rows of deep striations. He flexed a little harder and his upper chest got even bigger, swelling up to a few inches below his chin. It was mind blowing. “So is this how big you remember me?” he asked. “Dude. Stop playing with my head. You’ve never been this huge. I’m not sure anyone has, at least no one around here. You’re, like, fifty pounds more muscular than sophomore year, remember? When we both did that juice cycle and ate like 9,000 calories a day.” “Aw, Mike. That’s why you’re my friend. You always have something nice to say.” He held the pose a little longer, appraising himself in the mirror. “Actually, I‘m remembering that I was a little bigger than this. Maybe even a lot bigger.” He slapped his chiseled midsection and pulled on the shirt. “Let’s hit the weights.” I’ve never trained harder in my life. Cody kept slapping plates onto the bar till we hit our normal max for each exercise, and then he’d drive me through a couple more sets, spotting me as lightly as he could as I grunted and strained to move more weight than I ever had. He was moving like a demon, no rest between sets, yelling out “Come on! This isn’t nap time!” if I tried to pause a moment. By the end of each movement my muscles were burning and quivering, and more than a few times I felt like I might heave. Thankfully, I got a break at the end of each exercise as Cody did an additional two brutal sets without me, usually maxing out at twice the highest weight we’d lifted together. At the end of our workout I could barely stand up. We grabbed our stuff and this time Cody had to help me to the car, more or less carrying me on the couple of occasions I started to lag. “Great workout,” he said as he poured me into the passenger seat. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” As he drove us home I very quickly began to nod out, as the blood drained from my head and rushed into my traumatized muscle fibers. And other places. The last thing I remember was glancing over at Cody as he drove, and wondering if I was hallucinating or if that ungodly huge thing hanging from the steering wheel, that veiny globe of meat that looked like a python digesting a hippo, really was his right arm. I came to on our battered sofa in the living room. Cody, in his briefs, handed me a shake. “Drink,” he said. “Carbs and protein, good stuff.” As I sipped my shake he chugged his. “Bro’, that was kickass. Insane pump, right?” He flipped on a light and strode to the middle of the room. Glancing in the little mirror over our dinette table, he started moving fluidly through a series of bodybuilding poses, watching his chest, his arms, his back, his shoulders as he kept flexing, ridges and striations looking sharper and sharper as he forced even more blood into his engorged muscles. “Mike, check it out,” he said. “Like Arnold in ‘Pumping Iron.’” He caught my eye as I stared in amazement. “It can’t be possible. But I swear you look twenty pounds bigger than when we left the gym,” I said. “Y’know, I think I do. I keep remembering, more and more, how I used to look, and I think my body is gradually getting there.” “Getting there? You’re there, bud, you’re miles past there. I think that virus did something crazy to your self-perception.” He looked at me in a strange way. As if taking me in for the first time. “Look at you,” he grinned, “sitting there all stiff and formal. The workout’s over, we’re home, get comfortable, kick back.” Before I could stop him he was playfully pulling my shoes and socks off, and then my gym shorts and my shirt. I tried to resist, giggling nervously like a teenaged girl, but he was just too strong. Pushing back against his powerful arms I felt like a little boy trying to fend off a grown man. When at last he’d stripped me to my bikini briefs I quickly grabbed a pillow to hide what was happening in my lap. Cody darted to his gym bag and fished around inside it for something. “I brought us a little present,” he said, and pulled a thick, expertly rolled joint from the bag. “Weed? Where did you get that?” “Oh, some girl at the gym gave it to me. And also her phone number.” “What girl?” “Kathy?... Cassie?... I don’t remember. Apparently I fucked her once.” “Apparently she liked it.” “Hey,” he said. “Here’s something else I remembered. That I could do this.” He came closer to me, jiggled his relaxed quad, then clenched it into a hard flex. Sweeping canyons and ridges of human rock exploded into enormous, sculpted columns. I gasped a little, then quickly looked up to see if he had clocked my reaction. His face was covered with a shit eating grin. I’m pretty sure he was teasing me. “For a while I forgot I had these ridonkulous wheels. And calves.” He turned, lowered his marble ass toward the floor, and flexed his calf. Two torpedos of fierce-looking muscle bulged side by side beneath the crook of his knee. “Wanna feel ‘em?” “I’m okay,” I mumbled, clutching the pillow tighter to my lap. “Why don’t we fire that thing up?” “Great idea.” He took a wooden match from a cup on the table, struck it with his thumb nail and lit the joint. He sucked in a prodigious toke, chest swelling as he filled his lungs. Then he sat beside me on the couch and handed me the blunt. As I took a hit I saw him staring down at his midsection. It was insanely beautiful. Perfect rows of hard symmetrical abs framed by the thick fingers of his upper obliques and the powerful V of his transversus abdominis, its two muscular branches converging on either side of his elegant, tawny pleasure trail. All of it pointing downward, down below the waistband of his briefs, down toward the inviting bulge straining against the cotton. Cody and I, both thoroughly baked, sat in silence a moment, staring at the pretty pattern made by those perfect muscles of his lower torso. After a moment Cody spoke. “Do me a favor, Mike. Run your fingers along the ridges between my abs. You know, like you used to do. Checking out how deep they are.” I didn’t honestly remember ever doing that. But I was really high, so I didn’t question it. I gently led my index finger up and down the valleys between his cobblestone abs, enjoying the feel, and the sight, of my digit disappearing to the second knuckle between those hillocks of muscle. After a minute Cody put his thick hand over mine, stopping me. But still clutching my fingers against his hard gut. “Do you know what else I remember?” he asked, pausing for effect. “I remember how sometimes we’d get a good buzz on after our workout and then you’d go crazy sucking my cock.” I started pulling my hand away. Pretty sure this was something I did not remember. “Okay, Cody, stop fucking around,” I said. “That, just now, was definitely not cool.” He continued to hold my hand in his powerful grip. There was nothing I could do about it. “No, really, Mike, this is something I completely remember. And I’m pretty sure you do, too.” “Well, you’re wrong,” I said. At which point he let go of my hand, reached over and pulled the pillow away from my lap, letting my hard, and by now throbbing cock surge upright, breaching the top of my bikini briefs like a big, happy whale rising through the surface of the Pacific. “See, you do remember,” he said. And then Cody kicked off his briefs, and gently but powerfully guided my head to his beautiful cock. I took it in my mouth and something inexplicable happened. Even though I had never done this before, or anything close to it, I actually did seem to remember. Or maybe it was the dope. In any case, it was clear that whatever I was “remembering” was working really well for Cody. And his deep grunts and groans of pleasure helped me remember better and better. A few seconds before he was about to cum Cody pulled his muscle cock out of my mouth and we both sat back and stroked off together, finishing, perfectly in unison, with an eruption of glistening joy juice that rivaled the dancing waters in Las Vegas. After a moment of blissful, breathless stillness, we toweled off and Cody helped me off the couch and guided me toward the bathroom. Standing behind him in the cramped shower stall under a stream of soothing water, I massaged soap onto his wide, muscled back. Euphorically exploring the thick hardness of his traps, his rear delts, the dense, rigid columns of his erector spinalis. My hands now had a mind of their own, and quickly skated down his smooth skin to the solid, triumphant curves of his magnificent ass. It was the Chartres Cathedral of asses, the Parthenon, the Taj Mahal of perfect, sculpted bubble butts. As my fingers slipped through the entrance, soaping him up between his glorious buttocks, my cock suddenly was rock hard again. Poking, without my help, into the soapy pathway I had just created. “You know what?” I said. “I just remembered something else. Do you remember how, sometimes after our workouts, we would shower together and I would fuck you senseless with my big, thick, pile-driver cock?” There was a moment of silence as he considered this. “I’m not sure I do remember,” he said. “Remind me.”
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