APOLLYON - pt 5: "The Gym Bunnies"
Strong discovers a hot gym sub-strata – if only there were a handsome Prince to rescue him!
I can’t tell you how absolutely terrible the rest of that Sunday was for me. By the time we’d showered and changed and got out of the gym, it was barely 8am—the sun had just begun reaching the street. I was finished—and the day hadn’t even started yet!
It was grueling. All I could think about was working out, Apollyon, the incredible pump in my back, muscle growth, giant bodybuilders in revealing workout clothes, gearing up, mind-control fantasies—one erection after the next, one orgasm following another. I was getting raw from hand-jobs, I swear. But when I’d rub lotion on my poor dick to save the skin, I’d get hard again.
I paced around my apartment with frenetic energy. My God, they had me in their power that easily. How quickly I’d given over to them. Wasn’t I already showing the classic signs of addiction? Was I already a muscle-slave?
The pump in my back, the growth of my chest, the burgeoning erection of my cock answered those questions for me.
It wasn’t just that I was, it’s that I WANTED to be. I wanted to be one of them.
Why had I resisted that for so many years, that simple truth? It was healthy to admit it, to deal with it. My greatest fantasies were coming true—and the first step was accepting them. Nobody had hypnotized me into THAT—all my life, I’d wanted it to be true. Since I’d been a boy and read my first super-hero comic, I wanted to be a huge muscle freak. I remembered that—it wasn’t something someone implanted in me. That was impossible, wasn’t it? All my life, I wanted to be big—all my life! It was the truest thing I knew, the very core of my being. And now, I had the chance.
But they weren’t gonna make it easy.
I thought about it all afternoon, over and over, erection after erection, planning my strategy. I was gonna have to work hard, MAKE them respect me—not just be some submissive little rookie hanging around waiting for their abuse. If it was a competition, then I was gonna have to be a little more aggressive.
That started with getting in there more often. I remembered at some point that Brad said I had to wait at least twelve hours between treatments. That meant I COULD lift twice today. I could go over tonight after “The Simpsons” and do it all again. The more often I worked out, I reasoned, the quicker I’d grow—the quicker I’d attain my fantasy—the quicker I’d make it real.
It didn’t hurt that it felt so good.
The very idea of going over again today caused another hard-on, and I smiled as I looked at it.
They had me, all right.
“The Simpsons” was a repeat, and though repeated viewing often makes that show all the better, I wasn’t in the mood. By the time of the first commercial break, I was out the door and on my way to the gym, twenty-five minutes early.
I got there about fifteen minutes later and beeped myself through the first door. But when I got to the retinal scanner, instead of asking me to look into the device, after I typed my number in the keypad, the voice said, “Access to Apollyon denied. Access available in …SEVEN… minutes for member… STRONG.”
Seven minutes? That thing was keeping track of my exit down to the exact minute! Wow, how anal-retentive can you get?
So I stood there in the hallway like an idiot for seven minutes, waiting for some computerized clock to tell me I could work out again. Man, they WERE gonna do everything they could to try to beat me—but I wasn’t gonna let them.
With three minutes to go—I passed the time by playing Bubble-Up on my cell-phone—the front door opened to allow someone in. Another big bodybuilder, though not nearly in the class of Palumbo, or even Robinson—he’d be competition for Brad, no doubt, which put him around 250, 260. And for a guy just under six-foot, that was nothing to sneeze at.
He wore cargo shorts, exposing his massive calves, sandals and a short-sleeve shirt, but nothing could hide his overall body thickness. Well, he obviously wasn’t trying to hide it, but he wasn’t showing it off, either. Handsome in a jock-y kind of way, strong lines, bright, alert eyes, the scruff on his chin matching the scruff on his head, emphasizing his receding hairline. A cocky jaunt, he hauled a hockey-sized gym bag over his shoulder.
“What’s up?” he asked when he saw me, his voice low and dangerous, like a linebacker.
I shrugged and mocked looking at my watch. “I got three minutes.”
He chuckled, a little smile breaking on his good-looking face. “We’ve all been there, bro,” he said, typing his number into the keypad. The voice intoned, “Please look in the retinal scanner.”
He held a finger up to me in a “hold on a sec” motion, then turned and pressed his face to the machine. A second later, the voice said, “Positive match. Welcome …PRINCE. Have a good … LEG… workout.”
Turning back to me, he offered his hand. “I’m Prince,” he said, and we shook.
“Strong,” I said.
He smiled again. “Really? That’s a great name.”
“Prince isn’t so bad.”
Sarcastically, he said, “Yeah, they treat me like royalty, all right.” We broke contact and he added, “See you down there.”
“Good to meet you.”
As he held the door open, he said, “Hey, man, you keep that hunger. That hunger that gets you here early? You keep it—and you’ll get huge.” He winked, and he disappeared down the stairs.
Finally, I thought, a big guy who was kind of cool.
The next three minutes crawled by.
As soon as the clock clicked over to the appointed time, on the exact second that it changed, I typed my number into the keypad. A moment to accept it, then the voice said, “Please look in the retinal scanner.”
Yes, I thought, inwardly celebrating. Finally! I get back in!
“Positive match,” the voice said, after the flash of red. “Welcome… STRONG. Have a good… LEG… workout.” The door buzzed and I pulled it open, fairly leaping down the stairs.
That alone should be some testament to how I was feeling—I was actually looking forward to a leg workout! I was dying to see what this shit was gonna do for my squat. I certainly wouldn’t mind having legs like all these guys I’ve been seeing. Mine had always been my weak point.
Another first—the gym was hopping!
About ten or fifteen guys on the floor, engaged in their workouts—some together, some solo. VERY little talking among them—mostly “spotter talk”—great focus. They varied in size from the jumbo Palumbo-like to guys who weren’t much bigger than Rook (or me!). No matter their weight though, they were ALL in incredible shape—no bodyfat to be seen, just sculpted, beautiful bodies. Each of them looked just off the contest stage, or the dance floor, or the location shoot.
And how they were dressed!
I say that over and over, which I guess belies how much of a prude I REALLY am, even now, even after two treatments. But some of these guys were barely dressed. None of them were naked, but a few of them might as well have been. Most guys wore spandex shorts, or wrestling singlets, but some wore posing trunks alone, thongs on one or two. Few wore shirts, and those that did wore them to emphasize something else, always showing off. The air reeked of testosterone, like sweaty lions pacing their cage- the smell of power.
I stood there at the front of the landing and watched them, longed to be one of them. To be uninhibited enough to wear so little while I worked out, to be so confident in my body, my masculinity…
I snorted a laugh. I wasn’t gonna get anywhere standing here fantasizing about it, so I went to the locker room.
It wasn’t as busy as the gym floor, but there were several people milling around, shaving, showering, chit-chatting—a completely different atmosphere than out there. Much more socially driven. Most of the guys looked at me as I walked by, several nodded. I tried my best to appear confident, or deserving, and began changing my clothes when I got to my locker.
I wore my black compression shorts under a pair of black, polyester Coach’s shorts with the wide, elastic waistband and the same baggy Under Armor long-sleeve t-shirt that I’d worn that morning. My legs may have been my weak point, but they wouldn’t be for long. I was going to turn a weakness into a strength, and the first step to growth is exposure. (Well, that’s in the field of knowledge, anyway—though I suppose it works in bodybuilding, too.) My legs were the only part of me bare.
As I passed through the lounge area to get to the Meds room, there were three guys hanging out watching TV—(“Queer Eye…” can you believe it?) As I walked past, they looked at me with nearly identical expressions. I thought they were cruising me, you know? Like a slab of meat at a bar.
They were none of them very big in gym-terms (especially THIS gym’s terms)—the biggest of the three having maybe ten pounds on Rook—but they were all of them in phenomenal shape. They looked like they’d just stepped out of a fitness exposition, or an underwear catalogue. The latest haircuts, the best skin, the perfect tans, the hours and hours of indulgent vanity that clearly ruled their lives, these guys put the “pretty” in “boy.”
“Hi,” one of them said as I walked past. He smiled seductively.
I nodded to them in the same way I had to all of the other guys, a short gesture of greeting, not breaking my pace. “What’s up?” I asked, standard guy-speak—STRAIGHT-guy-speak. All three made uncomfortably long eye-contact.
“Seems like Ronan is,” one of them said, indicating the guy who’d spoken to me. All three of them laughed—giggled like pre-teens might be more accurate—and since I didn’t like being the butt of so many jokes around here, I went into the Meds room without further comment. God, I thought, why are so many hot men such fags?
With the door closed, the room had an interesting silence, almost reverential, especially compared to the drastic change from the lively conversation and music in the locker room—sterile lighting, phosphorescent, no where near as theatrical as the other parts of the gym. It was like stepping into another world—or a different part of the fantasy, the clean, clinical part, where the author tries desperately to make the science sound reasonable enough to convince the reader of its authenticity, to help with the willing suspension of disbelief.
I held in my hand the dramatic device of this particular fantasy, the one that was becoming more and more real to ME every day, this pre-loaded syringe with the light-gold compound that’s only been referred to as “Gear” around me. I’d only taken it twice, but I was already erect in anticipation of my third. What was this shit? Why didn’t I care more that I didn’t know? Why didn’t I care more that I didn’t care?
Why couldn’t I wait to jab this thing into my ass?
And it was that fast—shorts down, shot in. The little needle wasn’t as easy coming out this time and I had a little bleeder. I stood there pressing the alcohol pad against it when the door opened and Prince came into the room. His mind-blowing muscle emphasized by the pair of white, lace-front football shorts and wife-beater he wore, an unbuttoned baseball shirt over that—the shirt had to be a XXXL to fit him that loosely. He flicked his eyebrows at me. “We meet again,” he said, going immediately to the drawer with the syringes instead of waiting for a response.
“I need SOMETHING to help with leg day,” I said, tossing the bloody pad in the medical waste bin and pulling my shorts back up.
He stopped cleaning his needle and glanced at me. “Leg day?” he asked. “Me, too. Might as well suffer together.”
“Really?” I asked, suspicious of another trick. Something about these big guys…
(Although, as I think about it now, I’ve only really had incidents with the super-heavies, the Palumbos and Robinsons. With Brad, and now Prince, the regular heavyweights, I’ve gotten nothing but support. I wonder what that’s all about?)
He smiled, shrugged, and started tapping the air bubbles out of the dart. “Yeah, why not? I bet I could teach you a thing or two.” He flicked his eyebrows again—these muscle-heads and their odd gestures—“About LEGS,” he said, finishing his own joke, chuckling to himself. I laughed politely. Just as he was about to unlace his shorts and inject, he looked at me and said, “Why don’t you go stretch and I’ll be out in a minute. I still gotta take a leak.”
“Okay,” I said and left the Meds room, accosted by the wall of sound I’d forgotten about in the locker room. I closed the door behind me, though I did catch a glance of Prince pulling his shorts down, exposing that massive ass, the hint of his thong peeking up between the halves of his cheeks. I closed the door as my cock jumped.
Fantasies coming true all over the place.
As I crossed back through the lounge area, the three muscle-boys were still there, though this time, one of them stood, blocking my path. He smiled, showing his bleached white perfect teeth, which sparkled as much as his eyes. God damn, he was beautiful—like a model, and he only wore the slightest pair of nylon shorts. “Hi,” he said, putting his hands on my chest to stop me. “Don’t run away so fast.”
I smiled indulgently. “Hey.”
He continued on, unabated. “We didn’t get a chance to meet before. I’m Ronan.”
“Strong,” I said, nodding.
He sighed dramatically. “Do you have a FIRST name? Everyone around here goes by last names. I hate it!”
“Jeff,” I said. “It’s Jeff.”
“Listen, Jeff,” he said, leaning into me, almost whispering in my ear, “me and the boys here are gonna go into one of the posing rooms and play around a little bit. Why don’t you come with us?”
“Oh, I don’t think…”
“Nobody wants you to think, Jeff. Nobody at this gym does.” He circled one hand around my back to hold me in place and began massaging my pecs with the other. “We just want you to react. And indulge. You know how good it feels to work out when you’re geared up—sex is even better!”
I tried to push him away, to get him off me, but he was unrelenting. “But I want to work out,” I said. “I want to get big.”
While he spoke, he backed me up. “I haven’t worked out in almost half a year, Jeff. Is there anything wrong with me?”
We backed into another of them, the mid-sized one, the pretty blonde. “You don’t need to work out for the formula to do its job,” he said, wrapping his arms around my hips and stomach, trapping my arms behind my back, rubbing his package against my ass. “It can do so much more,” he whispered, then began kissing my neck. Ronan started to pull my nipples.
It felt so good.
But I struggled anyway, trying to break free. “No,” I said. “I want to work out!”
“You heard the man,” said a voice behind us. All four of our heads turned at once to see Prince standing in the frame of the Meds room doorway, huge and threatening. “He said he wanted to work out.”
The blonde behind me whispered “shit” and stepped back, releasing me. Ronan didn’t relax his grip at all—as a matter of fact, he continued his assault on my package. “He doesn’t tell me what to do,” Ronan said, indicating me. “I’m bigger than him.”
Prince advanced on him. “Don’t try to use size against me, fucker, or I’ll beat the living shit out of ya. I’m bigger than all three of you put together. Now, how ‘bout we try this again? I said—the biggest guy here said—let him go.”
Ronan glared at him for a moment, trying to pretend he wasn’t scared shitless, then released my balls and stepped back. He tried to hold Prince’s stare, but couldn’t for long. Finally, he snorted and walked away from the lounge area, toward the posing rooms.
Prince turned to the third guy, the one who’d stayed on the couch, the most handsome and beautiful of the three, the Italian with the bedroom eyes—also the oldest, or at least the most mature, though he spent great effort trying to deny it—and said, “Listen, Romagna, you keep your fuckin’ goons away from him.”
The man on the sofa shrugged and slowly stood up. “We’ve ALL gotta recruit, Prince,” he said, adjusting his shirt till it fit perfectly again. “Even you, right?”
“I’m not recruiting,” Prince said, never breaking his stare. “I’m just protecting.”
Romagna rolled his eyes—so dramatic!—and sarcastically said, “Oh, the great Warrior Prince rides again!” Then he looked at me and added, “That makes you the damsel in distress.”
“Fuck you,” I said.
He chuckled, and even THAT had a self-satisfied bend, and said, “Maybe. Maybe you will fuck me. Maybe sooner than you think.” Then he blew Prince a kiss and walked away from us, his blonde buddy following at his heels. They never lost their cockiness, even in retreat.
“I hate those fuckin’ gym-bunnies,” Prince said, his fists still clenched as he watched them saunter away. “More and more of them lately. Misuse the formula, waste it on their dicks instead of their muscles, spend all their time seein’ who can be the prettiest while he takes it up the ass, why the fuck would anyone want to be like that? The most important thing is muscle. It’s why we’re here.” He looked at me for the first time since the confrontation and asked, “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m here for muscle.”
He nodded slightly. “That’s right. Good. Don’t ever forget that—don’t ever lose track of your goal. You don’t need to fuck around with these guys—you’ll get plenty of sex. As a matter of fact, the bigger you get, the MORE you’ll get. There’s a time and a place.” Then, he unexpectedly smiled, put his arm around my shoulders and added, “By the way, the time is AFTER your workout, and the place is… just about anywhere.” He flicked his eyebrows. “And everywhere.”
I laughed with him, a light, relieved release. “Thank you for coming to my rescue,” I said quietly.
He waved it away with a snort. “Yeah, I’m a warrior prince. C’mon, let’s get out on the floor before the gear hits us. That wouldn’t help this moment at all.”
My buzz came over me as we stepped up to the squat rack.