Boy God

A knock at the front door interrupted my training, and I suddenly remembered that my friend Mike had asked me if he could leave his teenage nephew Pete with me for the afternoon. When I opened the door I was shocked to see a thick-necked, athletic kid who looked about 19 slouching there in an oversized sweatshirt and baggy drawstring pants. From everything Mike had said, I'd expected a younger (and certainly smaller) boy.

"Come on downstairs, " I said, "and you can watch me finish my workout." The kid gave me what seemed like a patronizing smile, and then pushed past me and bounded down to the basement gym.

I was doing bench presses and had 195 loaded on the bar -- the weight I normally work up to for my heaviest set. When Pete saw me approach the bench, he nudged me aside and added an additional 10-lb. plate to each end of the bar. "Go a little heavier, and I'll spot you," he said. "It's the only way you're gonna grow."

With some hesitation, I got on the bench and pressed the bar off the rack. My pecs and shoulders felt like they might rip apart as I struggled through six reps, with the kid lightly assisting. "Don't stop!" he barked at me, and I shakily lowered the bar to my nipples for a seventh repetition. Half way up, my pain-wracked, exhausted chest muscles failed, and the heavy barbell started to fall back toward my body. Just before it hit, the kid caught the bar with two fingers and guided it back up to the halfway point where it'd gotten stuck before.

"Don't be such a pussy," he said. "Put your balls into it."

With every ounce of strength in my arms, chest and shoulders, I struggled against the 215 pound barbell. But it wouldn't budge, and my whole torso shook violently as my aching muscles rebelled and the bar began to descend again. This time the kid lifted it easily back onto the rack. "My turn," he said.

As I jumped up off the bench and walked away stretching pecs and arms that continued to throb with pain, I saw Pete strip the bar and then reload it with two 45's on each side: 225 pounds, counting the bar.

"Are you sure you want to try that much weight?" I asked him, and he stared back at me as if I were the stupidest, most pathetic creature who'd ever lived. He answered me by falling back onto the bench and wrapping his surprisingly big and meaty hands around the bar.

As he did this, the bottom of his oversized sweatshirt rode up over his ribcage. I found myself staring not at the smooth, lightly padded stomach of a normal teenager....but rather at a tight, rock-hard midsection where every muscle group seemed sculpted in granite, and two rows of thick, solid abs stood in high relief, separated by grooves an inch deep. As the kid lifted the bar to begin his set, this miraculous sculpture flexed even tighter. I could feel a jolt of electricity shoot through my balls.

I watched, amazed, as Pete began pumping out fast, perfect reps with the 225 pound barbell. Around the tenth repetition, the loose sleeves of his big sweatshirt fell down around his elbows. A pair of thick, corded forearms as big around as coffee cans were revealed, and below the crook of each elbow you could just glimpse the sweeping curve of impossibly full, rounded biceps. I felt myself getting lightheaded.

The kid tore through twenty reps without slowing his pace or breaking a sweat, and then betrayed only the slightest hint of effort as he performed another five and set the barbell back on its rack. He winked at me as he sat up and pumped blood into his pecs by flexing them as he moved his arms in a hugging motion. Under the fabric of his shirt, thick slabs of muscle expanded and swelled with each hug, pulling the baggy shirt skintight and revealing the outline of the kid's massive chest, huge shoulders, and thick, flaring lats.

It was anything but easy to act nonchalant as I approached the bench and prepared to lower the weight again for my next set. But Pete stopped me by grabbing my arm in one of his huge hands: "Not so fast, Pop," he said. "That was just my warmup."

Picking up 45-pound plates one-handed, as if they were cardboard, he slapped another two onto each end of the bar. He must've noticed my jaw hanging open, because he looked at me sweetly and shrugged, as if to say "No biggie" about the prospect of doing his next set with eight plates, for a total of 405 pounds.

"I may need a lift-off, but after that I should be fine," he said. Pausing a moment, he stripped off his sweatshirt and tossed it into a corner, throwing me a coy smile as he revealed his ripped and sculpted upper body. My knees literally buckled, and an audible whimper escaped my throat as Pete slid the most solid, shapely, densely muscled torso I'd ever seen under the heavily loaded bar. As it turned out, he barely needed my help to get the weight moving. And once he did he hardly seemed to strain, issuing only a quiet, half-voiced grunt on each upstroke as he cranked out ten perfect, smooth repetitions with the power and efficiency of a hydraulic lift. I watched in complete and utter astonishment as the kid's huge muscles contracted and flexed, veins popping and skin pulling tight around striated beef as he powered through the Herculean set . It was unbelievable. This teenager, this kid with peachfuzz on his cheeks, was the strongest man I had ever met.

He stayed on his back a second, then sat up, a little winded. "First time I've done ten with that weight," he said. "Next week I'll have to max out at 470."

My cock was hard as steel in my shorts, and I had to sit down on a weight bench to avoid revealing that fact to the godlike teen who sat before me, once again flexing his pillow-sized pecs. "You don't have air conditioning, do you?" he said. I shook my head and he got up and pulled off his pants, which left him standing in front of me naked except for a generously filled jockstrap. The kid's thighs flared out like two blimps, and deep separations danced between the beefy, perfectly defined heads of his quadriceps as he shifted his weight from leg to leg. The whole amazing structure was covered with skin as soft and hairless as a baby's.

He turned toward the dumbbell rack, revealing a butt that looked like two huge melons in a bag, only as hard and smooth as marble. "Are these the heaviest you've got?" he asked, picking up a pair of 100 pound dumbbells and then staring with undisguised pleasure in the mirror as he pumped blood into his massive arms with a set of twenty curls.

Now I couldn't help myself from standing up to get a closer view as Pete's amazingly peaked biceps swelled and inflated to the size of cantaloupes. Pleased with the pump, he set the weights down and turned toward me, lifting his huge guns in a mind-blowing front double biceps pose. I stared at him in total wonder. "You're fucking huge," I said. "How much do you weigh?"

"About two forty, " he answered. "I want to be two sixty by the time I'm seventeen."

"What?? How old are you now?"

The kid broke into a big, proud grin. "I'll be sixteen in March. Everybody says I'm some kind of a freak. Too much testosterone or something. ...Hey, what's that?"

He was nodding toward my crotch, where, without even thinking, I was stroking my hard dick through my shorts.

"Nothing," I said, flushing bright red. "Why don't we take a break?"

"So, are you a big homo like my Uncle Mike?" Pete grinned and looked me up and down appraisingly. I could swear he tilted his head to steal a look at my butt.

"If you're asking am I gay, the answer is yes, I am. Why don't you go shower and I'll make us some lemonade."

"So you're a fag, huh? Well, check this out. I'm pretty much way over-developed everywhere," he said, tearing off his jockstrap and proudly exposing a set of nuts the size of baseballs and a thick, nine-inch cock that was rapidly getting hard.

"Pete, get dressed. Right now!" I said as firmly as I could manage, but my voice cracked and the kid laughed and grabbed his swelling cock without a trace of self-consciousness. "Very forceful," he said mockingly. "I'm really scared."

I picked up my shirt and started to walk past him out of the room but the kid blocked my way, popping a "lat-spread" that flared his torso into a wide "V" and expanded his huge chest in my face. It was clear he was getting a big kick out of terrorizing a grownup.

"Come on, Pete," I said. "You know this isn't right."

"You don't like it?" he said, reaching down and grabbing my crotch. "It feels like maybe you do."

"Pete, please." I was basically begging now. "This is really freaking me out."

"Listen," he said. "There are a couple of fags at my gym who worship my ass, and basically take care of me after every workout. And these are big boys, too. Twice your size. I've kinda gotten used to it, and I want it now. So just get down on it, okay? You know you want to."

"You're fifteen years old. Forget it!"

His left hand shot between my legs and he lifted me under my ass and groin with one arm and threw me back against the wall, leaving my feet dangling about six inches off the floor with my balls riding on his powerful wrist.

"I didn't hear you. What did you say?" His voice was completely steady and calm, despite the fact that he was balancing my 185 pounds on one arm. "What?"

"Nothing," I whimpered. "I didn't say anything."

"Oh. My mistake." He lowered me to the floor and I stood in front of him, completely intimidated. For a moment his little boy smile came back: "I like this. You make it more fun when you fight me." He flexed his right bicep and it swelled hugely in front of my face, a rising mountain of rock-hard virility. "Lick my arm, faggot."

It was like something broke loose inside of me. I threw myself on his huge arm and struggled to get my mouth around the steely peak of his biceps as both my hands hungrily explored the rocky crags of his huge triceps and delts. His muscles were the hardest I'd ever felt, and my dick seemed ready to explode at any moment.

After I'd bathed every inch of Pete's powerful arm with my tongue, he grabbed the back of my hair in his left hand and pulled my face to his crotch with utter ease. "You've got a hot mouth," he said. "Don't stop."

I put my lips around Pete's massive tool and sucked hungrily, my lust increasing wildly when I glanced up and noticed the kid admiring his own godlike physique in the mirror. As he growled like a baby tiger and fucked my face even harder, I wrapped my arms around Pete's bulging thighs. It was like trying to grip two huge, stone columns, and it felt like my arms went barely halfway around each powerful leg.

The kid's cock got even thicker and harder as I sucked it, and as his dick filled my throat I gagged with pleasure and felt my own plentiful pre-cum moistening my gym shorts. I gripped Pete's muscular legs even tighter in my arms and doubled my tempo, taking the teenager's huge muscle cock all the way to my tonsils again and again. I wanted to be here on my knees in front of him like this forever, worshipping his power, his godlike virility. And at the same time I desperately, hopelessly thirsted for his juicy load, feeling I might die if I couldn't slurp and swallow his hot explosion of muscleman cum.

As I nursed on Pete's big dick like a suckling pig he suddenly pulled away and stood stroking it teasingly a few feet in front of me. I crawled toward him hungrily, but the fifteen year-old lifted a muscular leg and kicked me backward with his foot, sending me sprawling on my ass. He laughed and continued to crank his dick as I looked up at him with desperation in my eyes. "Please let me swallow your load, " I said, almost crying. "I'll do anything you say, give you anything. I'll be your faggot slave forever if you'll just leave your cock in my mouth till you shoot."

"Shut the fuck up, faggot," he said. "Take off your shorts and lean over onto that bench."

I tore off my cum-stained shorts and grabbed the edge of the weight bench. Before he even touched me a strange tingling warmth spread through my body, a feeling of infinite ecstasy, like hot honey coursing through my veins. My asshole twitched and quivered as if it had a life of its own, a gaping mouth hungering for his perfect, granite-hard flesh. The moment his dickhead began toying with my butt my vision went black and I entered a realm of pure pleasure, a paradise of joyful submission to the ultimate Maleness, ultimate Man-Muscle-Cockpower of the Universe. I screamed as he suddenly plunged his massive penis deep into my ass and began pounding my ungreased hole without a thought for anything but his own pleasure. And yet, there was nothing that could have made me happier. The Boy God was fucking me, and I was his.

That was two years ago, the day Pete first showed up at my house for an afternoon workout. This week he'll celebrate his seventeenth birthday. He weighs 275 now, with barely an ounce of bodyfat. Tonight seven or eight of us will gather after closing time at Mid-City, a serious iron gym downtown, to worship Pete as we do every two weeks or so. At seventeen, without ever having entered a show, he is already the greatest bodybuilder who's ever lived. And he continues to grow, phenomenally, at a rate of fifteen to twenty rock-hard pounds a year. In his present condition he could probably blow Kevin Levrone or Dorian Yates off the stage at the Olympia. By the time he's twenty he'll weigh maybe 310, 315 in razor-cut shape and he'll be the most massively built, aesthetically muscular man who's ever mounted a posing platform.

Tonight, as he does each time, Pete will start by pumping his enormous physique with staggeringly heavy weights. I've seen him drive 545 pounds for reps on the bench press, and then power through a set of single-arm bicep curls with 170 pound dumbbells.

After his pump, Pete will tease us by flexing his blood-engorged muscles as we sit waiting for the signal to serve and submit to him. And then, at his subtle command, the eight of us will begin competing for Pete's favor -- taking turns sucking his cock, eating his asshole, or performing other erotic tricks we've practiced (or at least dreamed of performing) since our last "meeting." Often we'll team up in groups to please our Master, like the time Roy and I each luxuriantly sucked one of Pete's huge balls while Roy's lover Charley bobbed up and down on his cock, gagging on the monster teen's big dickhead as it slammed deep into his throat.

Sometimes, in the course of a worship session, Pete picks a favorite, his "bitch" for the night, and then powerfully, brutally plows the chosen one as the rest of us watch and cheer him on. George Hagen is 35, a gorgeous 230 pound specimen who draws looks of lust at any gay bar he enters, and whose razor-carved physique has won national titles. It was George who caught Pete's eye at our last gathering, and for over an hour the godlike teenager pounded George's muscle ass in a dozen different positions, randomly varying the speed of his throbbing cock from a gently rolling tease to the staccato blast of a jackhammer. George moaned and screamed through the entire, sweet punishment, until finally his color drained and the eyes rolled back in his head as he lost consciousness. Without skipping a beat, Pete slid George off his still-rockhard dick and reached for the head of Tomas Gomez, a tightly muscled middleweight boxer who's earned the title of "hottest mouth" in our little congregation. Tomas immediately began to gobble and suck Pete's monster cock, the granite muscles of his neck and shoulders bunching and flexing as he expertly worked the giant teenager's tree-trunk dick with his vaccuum-pump mouth.

Eventually Pete growled in pleasure as his pelvis arched upward, and Tomas issued a low moan of delirious ecstacy as he sucked a quart of the Boy God's precious cum down his throat. Pete's cannonball biceps flanked his head as he lay back and rested it contentedly on his hands... with Tomas still licking his softening cock, like a happy baby sucking on a pacifier.

Around the room the rest of us moaned quietly, running our hands through the cum we'd shot over each other's muscled bodies. George was the only one of us who spoke, pulling himself up to a kneeling position as he regained consciousness, and mumbling in a kind of delirious reverie: "I'm Pete's bitch..." and then repeating it at least twice more: "I'm Pete's bitch!"

It's almost time to head downtown, and I want to get in a quick pump before I go. I've been blasting my upper body, hoping to improve my chest and shoulders to an extent Pete will notice. I haven't been singled out in a long while, but who knows? Tonight could be the night.

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written by luvsmusla