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Diary of the German Muscle Baby Part One


Luvsmusl

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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)

 

 

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  • 2 months later...

Glad to see this one BUMPED! I was in Japan when it was posted and didn't see it then or I would have commented at the time, especially given that Luvsmusl is one of my top five muscle growth authors! Outstanding start! Here's hoping for more, more, more!

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I'm so glad this got bumped, as I also missed it when it was initially posted.  What a great story.  First of all, has it really been that long since the German Super Baby was introduced to the world? I guess he would at least be a teenager by now.  I would definitely be interested to know if he embraced his genetic gifts and trains or tries to minimize the affects so that he appears more "normal."  The way you've written this seems so absolutely plausible, that I feel like I really am reading a chronicle of the real myostatin deficient kid!  And yes, it goes without saying that I'm looking forward to more!

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I'm so glad this got bumped, as I also missed it when it was initially posted.  What a great story.  First of all, has it really been that long since the German Super Baby was introduced to the world? I guess he would at least be a teenager by now.  I would definitely be interested to know if he embraced his genetic gifts and trains or tries to minimize the affects so that he appears more "normal."  The way you've written this seems so absolutely plausible, that I feel like I really am reading a chronicle of the real myostatin deficient kid!  And yes, it goes without saying that I'm looking forward to more!

Sorry to rain on your parade, but from what I know, myostatin deficiency would also affect his heart muscle, and having a big heart (in the literal sense) can be a health risk. So unless he's taking some myostatins as medication (if that would help him?), the best thing for him health-wise might be avoiding most exertion.

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First chance I got to read this as well, so I'm glad that it got bumped, I particularly loved the short parts of his childhood that was interspersed here and there, my favorite being when he was 11 and overpowered the huge Belgian Blue bull, who weighed 1200kg (2640 lbs.), I wished he would've done more, perhaps even tried (and succeeded) to lift the massive beast on his shoulders and taken a pic like that. I hope this gets continued and I would also hope that  Luvsmusl would continue to put parts of his childhood in the story, as stuff like that is really up my alley. 

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