arbotimus Posted February 17, 2016 Share Posted February 17, 2016 This is a one-shot, written in a slightly different style than I am used to. Theoretically you should be able to skip around if you are not one for much exposition. Comments and suggestions are always appreciated. The inside of my cubicle is cluttered as usual, full of unfinished work that is all marked “urgent”. It is always urgent. The fluorescent lights above worsen my headache. I pull out another paper from the pile. It is endless. Day in, day out, computer, paper, and me, sitting alone in this tiny island. I can feel the folds of my belly run over my belt, resting in my lap. My sleeves and the legs of my khakis are loose, my thin arms and legs barely filling up the hollow spaces. My back hunches over my desk, my thinning hair wafted by the fan I keep on my desk. It is difficult to think that I am already forty, that so much time has passed by in this small, cluttered space with so little to show. Finally the clock strikes six, and I am free to leave. My desk is no less cluttered than it was earlier today. Papers come in as fast as they go out. But at least I am busy. There is something to do, which is better than nothing. Bubble gum for the mind, and a paycheck to follow. -- It is winter, and by the time I get home it is already dark. My apartment is dimly lit, as usual. That is the way Pavel likes it, and I don’t mind either way. He is already home. His drive shorter than mine, but he is irate nonetheless. He is usually that way, “stereotypically Russian” I used to joke with him. We have known each other for five years, and about a year ago we moved into an apartment together. I walk into the common room to find him watching TV and eating leftovers from yesterday. His double chin mirrors mine, and he has a stain from the food he is eating on his wife beater. He grunts at me. It is his usual way of acknowledging that I have arrived. His body slouches down in the arm rest. His body is just like mine, if not a little bit thicker. But his hair is still all there, his one proud feature. His meal rests on the TV tray, crumbs spilling as he lazily shuttles food into his mouth. He is not beautiful, but he is mine. -- I watch Pavel work his way to the bathroom from the bed we have just shared, the light harsh on his unflattering body. Sex with him is good, familiar. We do not have to try very hard. If neither one of us finishes, that is not abnormal. It is just good to be with someone. Finally he turns off the lights and his body is thrown into darkness. I like it better that way, imagining he is someone else. As I lay in bed, I think about my life and how I have gotten here. There is no one pivotal moment to look for, just a lifetime of settling for less and expecting nothing more. And now I am here. I vow that tomorrow will be the day that everything will change. And unlike every other time, it will be. -- John is a bit arrogant and not very good at paying attention. Well, I guess he can afford it. He looks like he has always been buff, blond, beautiful. Captain of the football team, homecoming king, something like that. Hard to relate to, in my current position. He wears a tank top, those kind that open to show his obliques and lats. Even just his arm resting on the machine is something to behold. Perhaps my perception of him is too harsh, colored by the intense pain that is coursing through my shoulders. He is looking at a woman running on the treadmill across the room. To be fair, she is beautiful. I would stare too, I think, if I were so inclined. “Come on Greg, one more! You’ve got this!” It did not feel that way. Even if he is not very good at paying attention, he at least goes through the motions. This is the first time I have been in a gym in twenty years, and John took his role as my new personal trainer very enthusiastically. Right into the deep end, no grace period. I struggle between breaths as I push out the last rep. I can feel the hollow space in my sleeves call attention to how small and weak my arms are, and the weight of my stomach reminds me of my age and how far I have to go. Sweat beads on my forehead and runs down my chin. My clothes are soaked, but we have barely even started. -- The first thing I notice is that it is not as difficult to get up and going in the morning. Despite how dreary I anticipate my days to be, my body no longer feels like a heavy stone that I have to drag around. Things are easier, lighter. My pants fit better, looser in the waist. Pavel does not appreciate my new candor, in or out of bed. My new energy is in stark contrast to his morose personality. It will grow on him, I hope. -- 180. That’s what the scale says. Only 10 pounds lost over the course of 3 months. But I know that I have lost more than that, and it has been exchanged for something better. I flexed my arm in the mirror. The slightest curvature of the bicep, a little furrow beneath to announce that it is separate from the rest of my arm. Progress. -- Protein shakes are the bane of my existence. John has changed my diet, little by little, and now I am a poster child for healthy eating. This is to Pavel’s protest. All protein, barely any fat or carbs, none of the fast food that we used to eat together. We start eating separate meals. It is hard, every day. I want to break very badly, especially with the temptation sitting right in front of me. I can feel the space filling in around my sleeves, in the legs of my pants. They are not hollow anymore. Suddenly the shake is not so bad. I swallow it, eagerly. -- I challenge someone to an arm wrestle at work, during our lunch hour. I don’t know what I am thinking, but he agrees. A small congregation gathers around us in the office. This is the most exciting thing that has happened here since the Jefferson account. Will is confident he can beat me, he is certainly much younger. I win. It is hardly even a contest. Just nine months ago I would have lost, and pathetically. My cock swells slightly from the rush. -- A woman a little younger than me turns her head at me as I walk to lunch. It feels pretty good. -- Sixteen and thirty-four. Arms and waist, respectively. My abs are palpable beneath my trimming stomach, my arms something to be proud of. I flex my calves and see the separate heads in the mirror. My shirts fit me well, and without even trying I am showing off. Even John is impressed at my progress over the last year. I go to the gym eagerly now, even when I don’t have a scheduled training session. It starts to feel good, almost, the burning in my body as I become something greater. I drop John soon after. He is not necessary anymore. -- I apply for a promotion at my job. With all of the supplements and supplies that I need, a pay raise is necessary. I get it. My boss notes my confidence when he is debriefing me after my interview. I think he notices my arms too, but he is too shy to say anything about it. -- It is around seventeen inches that I leave Pavel. I know because I am measuring my guns (I have taken to calling them that because, well, they are deserving of the title) when I see the both of us in the mirror. The juxtaposition seems wrong. We have been growing apart for a long time now. He is always at home, sedentary, static. I am not capable of that life anymore. I need to get out, to live, to lift. He is not surprised. It is relatively amicable. I start looking for a new apartment the next day. -- My old clothes just do not fit anymore, after two and a half years. I love the way they feel around my solid arms, hanging over my heavy chest as they fall into my thick muscle belly. My abs, strong, erect from the curvature of my stomach now form little creases in my clothes. My sleeves stretch every time I go to flex my guns and the body of my shirt stretches almost uncomfortably against my lats. My button-ups stopped being functional a long time ago. Now even my loosest exercise shirts have to go. I’m keeping my exercise shorts. They have fared a little better, although they have started to look like short shorts as my burgeoning quads and hamstrings have begun to push them up. That is okay with me. I don’t mind showing off their strength, or the thick heads of my calf muscles for anyone who wants to look. And most of them do. My dick throbs a little as I throw the last shirt in the trash. Out with the old and in with the new. -- Melinda flirts with me shamelessly now. She barely even took notice of me before. It is hard to blame her, though. Compared to the other guys at the office I stand out. I do not hide it, either. Even with my new outfits my body is visible through the fabric. I do not even have to try. I would never have known she was so lascivious. I barely even look at her. I think it turns her on more. -- It is hard to believe that I wore sleeves once. It feels so good, to walk down the street and have everyone stare your size. Nineteen and growing. My guns are my proudest feature. And the guys take note. I have been drowning in stares and offers for sex ever since I left Pavel and moved to the gay district. It has taken me a while to get used to it, but now it comes easy. I have not felt this level of arousal or pleasure since puberty, and it is compounded by my growing body. I can make them do whatever I want, too. They just want to be with me, even if I am a little on in years and they have to submit to my demands. They are not ever disappointed. -- I love to make my pecs bounce up and down. I love it even more when other guys watch. I find myself doing it in public when people stare at me for just a little too long. They turn their heads, but I know that my heaving pectorals have just caused a long-distance erection. -- I live for the burn anymore. That feeling that you get in your muscles when they are just about to give, but you don’t let them. You make them go until they stop, because you are the one with all the power. Strength incarnate. -- I see the young gays, out on the streets. Buff, tan, not a care in the world except who they are going to fuck next. I will never be like them. I am old, my prime has passed. My hair is almost gone on top, and my skin is rough despite years protected from the sun under the fluorescent bulbs. I take a breath. Air fills my lungs, chest heaving outward and filling up the tank top that barely contains them. I flex my guns, just to remind myself of how big they are. Twenty one. And growing, too. I will never be like them. I am bigger, better. -- I go to my old gym after seeing a friend for lunch nearby. John is there, giving enthusiastic words of encouragement to some out-of-shape housewife. I wait until she is gone and he begins his workout. He is working hard, methodical about every move. But I know I push harder than him, lift more. He has moved onto bench press. On his last rep I head over. He is struggling. “Need some help?” I say. He gawks at me, probably not understanding why I have interrupted him. “No thanks, I’m good.” I grab the weight with a single hand and pull it up for him. I grin, with just a hint of arrogance. He doesn’t recognize me. “Wow, you were having trouble lifting this?” I say casually. I put two more plates on each side without waiting for him to get up, and then motion for him to get out of the way. Ten reps. “Well that was easy,” I say. “Barely even a pump.” His face contorts, probably more from confusion than from shame. But I know deep down he is mulling over how I am outcompeting him so effortlessly. I relish in it. “Remember me?” I say, lifting my cannons up towards the ceiling. I flex them, unabashedly, as his face turns red. Speechless. I would be too if someone that big had challenged me. Twenty one and a half. John could never hope to be that big. -- I spend a day at the bathhouse. It is not a wholesome place, but I am a goliath now and it is a whole new world. All eyes fall on me. It is unavoidable. I walk with a bodybuilders strut, my arms hanging out past my sides because they cannot fall straight down anymore. My nipples, though, face almost directly down. They have nowhere else to look. The rest of my chest is bursting with ripped, heaving muscle. It is a struggle to see my feet anymore. Or my waist, either. Thirty two, and packed to the brim with abdominals that would not give to a bullet. I turn to walk through the door. I find myself doing that a lot now. My back is just too wide, too thick, too engorged with muscle to fit through most doorways without a little turning. The steam feels good, relaxing. I lifted heavy today. Heavy even for me. My whole body is spent, hard as a rock, still pulsing from the workout. I notice as a sit down that my quads are especially thick. They are as cut as they have ever been, but that does nothing to hide their mass. I don't hold my knees parallel to my waist anymore because my quads refuse to give in to one another. I toss my towel on my leg. My cock is free, but no one will be defiant enough to correct me. It takes me a while to notice the other man in the sauna. I tend to not take notice anymore, of the smaller ones. Even when they are enraptured. He is older, probably forty five. His graying hair tops a face lined with crows-feet and a flabby, uninteresting body. His towel covers his unsubtle erection. He reminds me of myself, from four years ago. We make eye contact. I flex my pecs first, slowly, both together. The crevice that forms between them can probably crush two or three of his little fingers. I let one down, and then proceed to bounce them, one at a time, slowly. Control is key. His gaze wanders down towards my chest, mesmerized. His expression does not change except for a vast hunger in his eyes. I lift my cannons up into the air and let them fire. It is almost against my will. My cock rises from the intensity of his stare. I know exactly what this is doing to him. How he feels. His inadequacy in my presence is only heightening his arousal. He is mine, heart and soul. I motion him to come over with my finger. He does. His hands start at my arms and then move down my abs and legs. They are soft, old. Like mine, all those years ago. Fuck, I was pathetic. He starts to move towards my dick, long and hard, throbbing. I grab his hand, careful not to grip his gentle arm too firmly. “You’re not worthy of that,” I say, letting it sink in. He cums, clumsily, and some of it gets on me. “Clean it up,” I command. And he does, obediently. -- I am enjoying my time at the nude beach. I am god, unquestionably. The sun beats down on my massive body for all the world to see. And they do, eagerly. I flex for them, a gift. Twenty two. 13 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
cutlerfan Posted February 17, 2016 Share Posted February 17, 2016 Interesting evolution of the main character! Thanks for sharing. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
arbotimus Posted February 21, 2016 Author Share Posted February 21, 2016 Thanks! Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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