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zangetsu

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It happened at the West Oceanville Library. I was sitting at the front desk with a large stack of books besides me, just waiting to be cataloged into the library database. Behind me sat Doreen, an older woman with auburn hair and blues eyes. She was a quiet woman, did her job, participated in small talk, and went home promptly at 9:00 p.m. Mondays through Fridays. To my left sat Bill, he was about my age, blonde with steel colored eyes, and incredibly slim. The man could eat a whole chicken wrapped in bacon every day for lunch and never gain a single pound, much to the dismay of his calorie counting wife. Half a dozen others worked in and about the library, always working or giving off the illusion of working.

 

After several months, I had finally broken my habit of watching the main doors. No longer did I glance up every time the doors slid open. Like my coworkers I fell into the habit of greeting library goers two or three feet from the front desk.

 

It was mid-morning; the library was dreadfully empty. Just row upon row of books, magazines, encyclopedias, and dictionaries neatly scattered through the right wing of the building. To the left were dozens of computers lined up in long rows and several private rooms with electronic devices and furniture. It was very quiet and so empty; looking up even to see a coworker walking about just reminded me how empty the building truly was. Maybe that's why I fell again into my habit of watching the doors.

 

When I first saw him, he appeared to be at the edge of the parking lot. At first there was nothing particularly eye catching about his appearance. No absurd hairstyle or piercings or tattoos, nothing that made him stick out form so far way. I simply acknowledged him and returned to my work. The moment my hand reached out top book on my large stack of books, the front doors slid up. He stepped onto the carpet; it was a heavy step that sounded throughout the library. I could feel my coworkers look in the direction of the sound, but I didn't look. I already know the source of the sound, a man in heavy footwear.

 

As the man approached the front desk, I continued the process of cataloging. Something was immediately wrong. The man was supposed to be near the edge of the parking lot, and yet he was now inside and  I could feel the man approaching. His heavy steps, the resulting vibrations, the disruptions in the air, everything about him seemed wrong. Before I could take another look at him, a shadow fell upon me. A shiver went through my spine. I raised my head and straightened my spine to find myself staring at a large grey canvas. Usually I met the eyes of normal sized men and women, but on that day I met the largest chest I have ever seen.

 

He seemed to be seven or eight feet tall, maybe taller. The man wasn't just tall; he was a towering mass of muscle. If a woman had a son and raised him on a diet consisting purely of proteins, growth hormones, and steroids, that man would be the result. Unlike so many muscular men loitering about the towns of California, this man didn't wear an obscenely tight t-shirt. His t-shirt was loose, though it did nothing to hide his expansive chest, high traps, or ape sized shoulders. Those shoulders were simply too massive to belong to a human, an ordinary man could comfortably sit upon either shoulder.  For what seemed like an eternity, I continued to stare at the man.

 

The more I stared the more I became convinced he wasn't real. One second his chest was expansive, the next it was astronomical. Even through the t-shirt, it was apparent that the crevice between the man's pectorals was wide enough to completely engulf either of my forearms. The slabs of meat on either side were just that, slabs of meat. Granted they were slabs large enough to make any butcher groan at the task of cutting such meat. Together they didn't even form a chest; they couldn't possibly form anything that could even remotely be considered the chest of a man. Each pectoral had more flesh and muscle than an ordinary man has in his whole body. Due to their sheer size they bulged out together a seemingly impossible distance from the man's body, but that wasn't the most astonishing thing about the heaving densely packed hemispheres of muscle. Unlike most bodybuilders and gym-rats, this man's lower pectorals weren't the thickest part of the meat; his pectorals appeared to be uniformly thick. It was a strange sight, an abnormal sight, but his was fascinating, captivating, I could not look away. I continued to take in the man's dimensions for what seemed like an eternity, before he spoke up.

 

"Excuse me, I'd like to get a library card," his voice sounded off through the entire building in a rich melodic brass tone.

 

Several seconds passed before I could regain my thoughts. I tore my head away and started searching for the proper form, like my life depended on it. After nearly tearing through every drawer in my area, I remembered there was a stack of papers right next the stack of books. I grabbed a single sheet of paper and handed it to the man.

 

"Fill this out. You also need to present a valid form of ID and a recent bill with you current address," I said, while not really hearing myself, just going off an old habit.

 

How could I possibly pay full attention to myself when a Herculean giant was standing mere  two feet away? Craning my neck almost toward the ceiling, I still could not clearly see the man's face. His chest was simply too big, from my angle it actually blocked out a large portion of his face. His clear ocean blue eyes were plainly visible under matching dark eyebrows. His dark black hair was short and unstyled, the urge to style my hair after his embedded itself into my mind. Looking at his nose and ears, they looked unnatural. They were straight and full, and somehow they looked just as thick and muscular as the rest of his body. If he wrinkled his nose and wiggled his ears, it would be more akin to flexing his nose and ears full of muscle instead of cartilage. Continuing to stare, I felt something was off. I was staring too much, and not doing my job enough.

 

The man grabbed the paper, and did something unexpected. He stepped aside and pulled out a pen from his right pocket, He then placed a forearm larger than most men's quads on the counter and began filling out the library card request form. Nobody filled out the form in person, they always took it home. However than man was prepared, he planned ahead. Even without seeing his bill or ID, I knew that he had them, but at the time such trivial thoughts were blocked almost entirely out by another set of thoughts.

 

Once again I found myself captivated by the man's muscle mass.  His right bicep not only filled the sleeve, it stretched it. There must have been one or two inches of empty space when his arm was completely relaxed, but pressed against the counter, the sleeve was being stretched by an arm that would make a gorilla green with envy. His right bicep, it seemed to swell upwards toward the sky; a large beige hemisphere, sitting atop untold number of other hemispheres forming deep crevices and mountains. The muscle was stunning, but it was the veins that really stole the attention. Running down the center of the bicep was a thick tree root of a vein, except it was dark and blue. From that vein spread out an extensive network of smaller veins running throughout his bicep, up his shoulders, and along his forearm.

 

That right forearm causally resting on the counter was larger than either of my quads. With every flick of the wrist, hundreds, thousands, of muscle fibers bounced around like an earthquake. His forearm actually bunched up together and grew. With every twitch, it seemed to grow bigger and bigger. The round hard muscles jumped around violently, the veins joined in and began twitching. It was terrifying and amazing at the same time. I could not look away; I was enamored at the sight. He kept writing and I kept watching.

 

I knew he could feel my looking, but he didn't say anything. Not once did my eyes ever left his body, never did his eyes leave the paper. We maintained our positions for one maybe two minutes, but it seemed like forever. I had enough time to take in every single detail of his spectacular body, of every muscle, of every vein, of every hair on his forearm. He was not every hairy, in fact I assumed he shaved his arms. There were short dark hairs mixed with shorter blonde hairs. I began wondering how it was possible to shave his arms, which such bumpy muscles and thick flaring veins, when he looked at me.

 

His ocean blue eyes locked onto my sandy brown eyes. He didn't smile or anything, he just looked and straightened his body; I was eye level with his crotch. It looked like a circus tent, like there were either three socks stuffed inside or mountains of air tucked safely away. Instinctively I knew neither was the case, the man was simply endowed like a porn star, like a beast with large genitalia. I could not see anything, not clearly anyways, but I knew his testicles were larger than eggs, his penis larger than a toilet paper roll. Suddenly I felt inadequate. Never in any locker room, restroom, or bedroom had I felt inadequate. None of my partners had ever complained, statistically I was not any longer than most men, but I was slightly thicker; thick enough to give some pain and discomfort to my fiancé, if we did not engage in sufficient foreplay.

 

He saw me stare, he could not have missed it; I made it so painfully obvious. He really must have been used to the attention, because he did not seem angry or irritated, his facial expression did not change in the slightest. The man simply held the request form out for me to receive. With trembling hands, I took the form and glanced over it. Everything seemed to be in order; I just needed an ID and a bill.

 

"Do you have a current ID and bill?"

 

"Yes, sir."

 

At some point he had taken out a driver's license and electric bill; he handed them to me. I grabbed the license and bill, glanced them over. Still sitting on my rolling chair, I pushed off against the ground toward the copier. Waiting for the machine to warm up, I noticed my coworkers were stealing glances at the man. Their faces showed a wide array of emotion, fascination, disbelief, lust, envy, among several others. None even attempted to be discrete, they just stole a glance whenever the urge hit.

 

From his request form, ID, and bill, I saw his name was Serge Laurent. He was only 6'4 and just two months older than me. He lived on beach front property, isolated beach front property. The amount due on the bill was rather substantial, even for the large houses that comprised his neighborhood. A million and one thoughts raced through my mind, as the copier finished. I tried to piece together Laurent's life going off his body, and bill. He undoubtedly had money, which allowed him to spend all day working out and, most likely, feasting on protein rich food and various muscle growth compounds. Physically he was attractive, his face at least; his body was something else.

 

He was obviously not a bodybuilder. Laurent's body was far beyond the reach of any old school or current bodybuilder. Of course his body was large and musclebound, but it was also perfectly symmetrical, it was aesthetically pleasing even to people who were disgusted by bodybuilders. Running through memories at the beach, I could not help, but compare Laurent to the occasional bodybuilder or meathead. He was so much taller, so much wider, he possessed unparalleled symmetry, he had them completely and utterly beat in every sense of the word. With his muscles and height and looks, he could undoubtedly do anything. He could destroy every bodybuilding competition, dominate every strong man contest, own every high fashion runway, manhandle every professional footballer or wrestler, he could literally do anything. However, I had the distinct idea that he didn’t.

 

I returned to the man and handed him his belongings. Then I grabbed a temporary card and gave it to him, and explained that he would receive the actual card in the male. We exchanged a, 'thank you.' He went on his way toward the computer area and sat on the far side.

 

Laurent was a towering mass of muscle, but he was not, at least from our short encounter, cocky or domineering. He was polite and, from his choice of clothing, modest. Immediately I pulled out my smartphone and started searching his name. Tens of millions of hits popped up. His website was the first; it was littered with dozens of images. In most of them he was wearing shorts and posing, either by himself, or with at least one woman. Each picture showed his unbelievable size and definition, each one seemed Photo shopped, but after staring at the man first hand I knew the pictures did not due him justice. If anything the pictures made him look 'small.' Or maybe it was the clothing that made him somehow look bigger. Either way, the man was a beast.

 

Navigating his website wasn't difficult; I made my way to biography page. The man was the biggest thing in the world of fitness, literally. His father was a bodybuilder, his mother a dancer. They trained him to build up his body; he took to it and grew. Through his entire life he grew and grew, until he was a quarter of a century old. By the time he entered the fitness world, he was the tallest and heaviest male model. In three short years he mangled to grace the cover of over a three hundred magazines, romance novels, and newspapers, while appearing on various television shows. Continuing my search, I found that several movie studios were eager to have him take up a lead role in a summer blockbuster; dozens of companies sought to endorse him.

 

I glanced over at the man, and gasped. With just a side view at his jawline, I could tell it was incredible; large, defined, angular. He was clean shaven, his skin smooth and clear, yet at the same time it looked rough, like sandpaper; a man's skin, a working man's skin. However that was not why I gasped. The tent in his shorts was higher than the table. Much higher than the table, it towered over the table, and it was not empty. He was not aroused, he was simply that large.

 

Stealing glances at the man, I could not help but wonder how the man was even able to sit. He completely dwarfed the chair. His legs were far too massive to fit under the desk, his knees were uncomfortably high, his fingers had to be too big for the keyboard, but somehow he managed to type away. He must have been typing away at 80 words per minute; the rapid movement caused the muscles and veins in the arms to twitch dangerously. The towering mass was terrifying, and yet I somehow knew it was just an unintentional show. The man would never intentionally hurt anybody, it must have been apparent.

 

After Laurent walked in, dozens of people slowly started trickling into the building. Most of them stopped near the front desk, not because were in need of assistance, but simply because they caught a view of him. Many stared, and even more chose seats that would allow them view the giant. Nearly forty library goers and staff repeatedly stole glances at the man as he continued to type away. There was not a single doubt in my mind that I was stealing the most.

 

I became confused, as I continued to watch the man. Never in my life had I reacted to another man in such a way. The fascination was too great; he made me feel small and inadequate. It was not intentional, he did not mean to cause such feeling to bubble up, but it happened. The feeling was plainly visible on the faces of many men, who also felt small around him. A couple looked like they wanted to approach the man, but he was unapproachable with those massive twitching muscles.

 

The more I watched the more I become enamored; I simply could not look away from his muscles. My face became red, my stomach sank. Excusing myself, I went into a restroom stall; inside I unbuttoned my pants and allowed my penis breathing room. With my right hand I fondled my penis and started picturing Laurent with all his oversized bulging muscles, those veins, his face with those clear blue eyes, and even his penis. Nothing, no growth on my part. No elongation, not a single extra drop of blood rushed to the external organ. Confusion further set in.

 

I could not keep myself from staring at the man, or rather his muscles, but I was not psychically attracted to him. Somehow, in my mind fascination become intertwined with attraction which led to confusion. I was not sexually attracted to the man or his muscles, but I was mentally attracted to the muscles. I wanted the size the strength that he had.

 

Returning to my station, I blatantly began searching his name again. A 28 year time line appeared with many pictures for every year. Unless he really was raised on purely protein, steroids, and growth hormones, the man was a complete natural. Each picture showed Serge Laurent a little taller and more muscular than the last. The time line was perfect, a perfect record of his growth, of his life. There was not a single picture where he was unbelievable bigger, no sudden extreme growth. The growth was gradual, a result of 28 years of working hard and eating right.

 

At 28 myself, I could not possibly reach that man's level, nobody could. However, that did not mean I could not return to the gym, or take up running again. I wanted to improve my own physical shape; I wanted mass, size, muscle. That's what I wanted, muscle.

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So I'm assuming the later parts are gong to involve the muscle growth? Curious to see if Bill is going to get involved in the growing. 

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Well, he didn't get hard at this huge, muscular God of a guy, Serge Laurent, so it's probably obvious that even if most people would, and he didn't, that he must be 100% straight as an arrow. Wonder how the librarian would react to Master sir from Beyond Sexy?

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I've had the idea of an extremely muscular guy showing off at the library for a long time now, though I never got around to writing it because I'm currently working on the Dylan series. This isn't exactly what I had in mind, but I really like what you've written so far, zangetsu, and I can't wait for the next installment!

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This story wasn't meant to be a multiparter like Beyond Sexy or Tristan. it was more or less a fantasy muscle sighting; maybe  I should have added in a note at the beginning of the story.

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This story wasn't meant to be a multiparter like Beyond Sexy or Tristan. it was more or less a fantasy muscle sighting; maybe  I should have added in a note at the beginning of the story.

 

It's great, as is, although if you want to add more, that'll be great, too! And my "hetero, huh?" comment was teasing, of course! Over the past 30 years I've met MANY straight male librarians!

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