APOLLYON—pt2 “One Rep!”
By Absman420@aol.com
I was assigned a locker—and they weren’t really lockers so much as changing areas—sort of like the professional athletes get. The locker room was very open and public. From where I was, I could easily see almost everywhere—and well-placed mirrors showed me everything else. Industrial gray carpeting and long wooden benches through the changing area, two posing rooms, a spacious, meticulously clean shower—again, like gym class, spigots lining the long walls—and a lounge area with three sofas and a plasma-screen television centered around a coffee table covered in a million magazines.
“We spend a lot of time in here,” Brad said casually, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, his biceps appearing even bigger with his fists behind them. “It’s a hot social spot.” He rolled his eyes, trying to pass it off as humor.
I changed while he watched me, slipping off my street clothes and trying to quickly throw on my gym stuff, so maybe he wouldn’t see me so clearly. Not that I had anything to be terribly ashamed of, mind, but even at two-hundred pounds, I was significantly smaller than Brad. “I’m gonna be the smallest guy in this gym,” I said as I pulled my sneakers back on.
He shrugged. “You ain’t so bad. No smaller than any of the other guys when they joined.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Dude, I wrestled one seventy-five in high school and college. That was about five years and nearly a hundred pounds ago.” He flexed his biceps for me to see—the right one had an insane peak. “And I’m no where near the biggest guy in here.”
“You put on a hundred pounds in five years?” I asked. “That’s impossible!”
He snorted, chuckling under his breath. “More so that I did it in less than a year.” When he heard my stunned silence, he added, “This is the best gym you’ll ever belong to, bro. All your dreams are gonna come true. C’mere...”
He led me to a door on the far side of the commons area, and indicated a small sign embedded above the knob, like in airplanes—it read “unoccupied.” “Listen, dude, if this is set to ‘private’ then you gotta wait your turn—that’s why that sofa-area is there. It almost never happens—no one around here is all that worried about their privacy—but you gotta respect it if it is.” He shrugged. “It’s just one of those things.”
“What’s in here?”
Brad opened the door and led us inside. Fairly spacious, it looked like an examination room, like a doctor’s office. “This is where you’ll get geared up,” Brad said, opening a drawer next to the stainless-steel sink—he pulled a sealed, pre-loaded syringe.
I pricked up—the hackles rose on the back of my neck. “What the hell is that?” I asked.
“This,” he said, peeling the plastic-wrap away, “is the shit that’s gonna make it possible for you to become one of us.”
“Steroids?”
He laughed. “Well, what the fuck did you think it was gonna be—magic? Some potion or elixir? The pollen of some alien flower? Get serious, dude. You wanna get big, you gotta gear up.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know if I want to do steroids, though.”
He snorted again. “Okay, well first of all, this isn’t a steroid, per se. Like HGN, it’s more of a hormonal replacement, a genetic modifier, so there isn’t the same health risk. Secondly, we’re staffed with so many medical personnel here you’ll be sick to death of all the poking and prodding they do. They’ll know you’re gonna fart two hours before you do. You got absolutely nothing to worry about. All of us are on it. I’ve been on it for five years straight, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with me—is there?”
He answered his own question, flexing his big arms in front of himself, popping the halves of his chest while he did, looking me straight in the eye and smirking. “No,” he said, winking. “There isn’t anything wrong with me.” Then he smiled, and added, “And soon, there won’t be anything wrong with you, either. Now drop those pants and I’ll show you how to do this.”
“I don’t know, Brad,” I said, but I was still untying my shorts.
“Yeah, you do,” he said, indicating my activity. “You’re just afraid—everyone is at first—it’s natural. But don’t worry. It’s not gonna hurt ya. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to do it again—this stuff,” he said, holding up the syringe and wiggling it, “isn’t physically addictive.”
I pulled my shorts down as he ordered, leaving them around my lower thighs, exposing my ass in its underwear. “What is it, exactly?”
“Oh, dude,” he said, rolling his eyes, “the docs are gonna explain it to you later in EXCRUCIATING detail, so why don’t you just trust me and go for the ride?”
Even as he said it, I knew that this was more of an exercise in trust—that fraternal initiation kind of thing—than it was about me taking some kind of weird steroid. Besides, isn’t this how the fantasy goes? After he joins the secret gym hidden in plain view beneath the streets of the city, doesn’t the main character always takes some super-shot of some sort—or if the writer is a steroid-pussy, he drinks some drink or becomes the focus of some enchantment—and immediately transforms into an over-muscled sex-machine?
And when I read those stories, don’t I always think, “Shit man, if that was me, I’d be on that stuff in a second! Why do these guys always resist?”
It wasn’t addictive—Brad said so himself—and it’s not like I’ve never tried drugs. I’ve smoked my share of the wacky tobbaccy—I’ve done a line or two of the white stuff—‘shrooms, “E,” the usual college-aged experimentation, years ago, when I learned that nothing could hurt me in moderation.
And what if, in a universe of limitless possibilities, there actually WAS a magic steroid that turned guys into muscle-freaks? Wouldn’t I kick my own ass if I passed up the chance to take it? Boy, there’s a regret I wouldn’t want to have as an old man. An old, FRAIL man. How many times in life is the brass ring within reach?
“Okay,” I said to Brad. “Show me how.”
He smiled. “Good man, Strong. Good man.”
After he exposed and cleaned the needle with an alcohol pad, while he tapped the up-turned syringe (called a “dart” in gym-parlance, he corrected me) in case of air-bubbles, he said, “Now I suggest you do this in your ass. It’s a deep muscle and good tissue, not to mention traditional. I’ve always been an ass-man, personally.” He smiled at his unintended joke. “But some guys put it in their quad. I’ve seen guys put it in their pecs, too, even biceps, but... uh... they were pretty big biceps, so I wouldn’t recommend that for you. Yet.”
He rubbed an alcohol pad on my right butt-cheek, low on the curve. “Relax,” he said, smacking it. “Relax. If the muscle’s tense, it’s gonna hurt.”
I relaxed until it jiggled to the touch. Brad said, “Like this,” and poked the dart into my flesh. It didn’t hurt—it was a pretty small bore—but it still stung a little. Not enough to make me flinch. He pushed it through the epidermal layer and deep into the muscle beneath before emptying the chamber. When he pulled it out, he pressed the alcohol pad to the wound, and indicated that I take it and hold it in place. “There,” he said. “Simple as that. Nothing to be afraid of anymore.”
“I guess not,” I said, noticing a small drop of blood on the alcohol pad as I threw it away and pulled up my shorts. “When does it take effect? When...”
“When will you turn into me?” he asked, flexing a little for his ego. He smiled. “Unfortunately, not as fast as you read in the stories—that’d be sweet, wouldn’t it? You see, that’s the thing.” Tossing the re-capped syringe (dart) in a covered trash can labeled “medical waste,” he led us back out to the sitting area in the locker room. “People have these fucked-up perceptions about steroids. They think that if you take steroids, you’re automatically gonna get big. Like, you can sit home on your ass and your muscles will just get huge. It’s fuckin’ ridiculous.”
I sat on the sofa—he sat on the arm and kept talking. “I mean, you gotta work. And you gotta work harder than you did before. Steroids help your muscles recover faster, so you’re ABLE to work more, but that’s all. If you don’t work, all the steroids in the world aren’t gonna make you a muscle-freak. People look at big bodybuilders and they think, ‘Oh, he takes steroids.’ Well, no shit. But they completely ignore the amount of work it took to put on that size even WITH the gear. It just pisses me off.”
I smiled, and said—in a tone of confession, “I admit I’m one of those people.”
He snorted. “Yeah, well, you’re about to learn different. That shit you just took isn’t like any kind of steroid out there. You’re gonna LOVE what it does to you. But there are a couple things you need to know. Rules, as it were.”
“Rules,” I said, wincing. “Fantasy dampers.”
He chuckled a little, shaking his massive shoulders. “It’s not as bad as you think—and even the best realities have parameters. Look, in a couple of minutes, you’re gonna be hit with a HUGE buzz. Have you ever done, like, coke, or crack, or ‘E’? It’s in that neighborhood. It’s like a rush—you’ll ACHE to lift. More, you’ll ache to FUCK. It’s like, lifting becomes this incredible sexual experience where testosterone is flooding your system, the jungle drums are pounding in your head, and you’re cranking out reps—it’s better than sex. It’s fuckin’ awesome!”
Unable to say anything else, I mumbled, “Wow...”
He smiled and nodded. “Yeah, and I’m not even describing it well.”
“When will that hit? How long will it last?”
“It’ll hit you in about ten, fifteen minutes. We put it pretty deep in your muscle. It’s gonna take a while for it to get in your blood. A lot of guys take the hit and then hop on the bike for a couple minutes, to get the blood flowing faster. You’ll know when it hits you. And it lasts...” He frowned and made an empty motion with his hands. “Well, it lasts until you cum.”
I couldn’t have heard him right. “Until when?”
He shrugged. “Until you cum. Shoot your load, buzz over. That simple. I’ve seen guys go almost a whole day—you know, take it in the morning and not shoot until evening—but the average is about two, three hours. And it’s gonna take you a while to get to that level. It’s all about discipline, my friend, like everything else. The more you can get done before you cum, the more you’ll grow. But once you cum, workout over. That’s the rule. And you gotta wait twelve hours at least before you try again. ‘Once you cum, workout over.’ Got it?”
I repeated, “Once I cum, workout over. Got it.” Quick thumbs-up.
“You laugh, Strong, but in a few minutes, you’re gonna be a little more of a believer.”
And he was right. I stood—I can’t even say why, but I did—and... and this rush came over me, like the dizziness when you stand too fast. The diamond flecks of a buzz grew and flooded through me, a sudden wave of energy, the subtle undertow of power. “Something’s happening,” I mumbled, trying to catch my breath. It was better than cocaine—cleaner.
“You’re ready to start workin’ out,” Brad said, standing. He walked past me, out of the locker room. “Come on.”
I took about two steps before my cock sprang to life, hardening almost immediately in my boxer briefs, the cotton material rubbing over my suddenly sensitive member, worsening with each step. “Oh, my God...” I grabbed the base of it and squeezed, a wave of pleasure washing over me, paralyzing me. How was I gonna walk?
Brad chuckled, and said over his shoulder, “Dude, it’s just gonna get stronger. You better get out there.” When I looked at him as he walked away, at his massive legs and his spandex shorts, I knew I was feeling a taste of the same power that made him—and I liked it.
The power!
Every step I took brought me to a truer understanding of myself, my masculinity. Walking into the gym, my rock-hard cock leading the way, I never felt like more of a man—never felt more ready for a workout. The power was dizzying. I barely took in where I was, the layout of the room, the other occupants, I was so caught up in my buzz. There were three men at the military press, two of them gigantic like Brad, one about twenty pounds heavier than me. The two big guys wore baggy sweats—one was shirtless, with an unbelievable pump—and the smaller guy wore only a wrestling singlet and a pair of sneakers. They were busy pumping each other on. There was a big black guy on the bike, bent forward, a towel over his head, sweating and pedaling hard. I barely even noticed him as I walked by.
I just wanted to get to the bench. I wanted to fucking put up some weight. I hadn’t been this motivated to lift—well... ever. Every bit, every cell, ever fiber of my body wanted to pump out the reps. I couldn’t fucking WAIT to get to a set. I was a monster—a machine.
This was unbelievable!
Brad stood by one of the three flat benches, loading the plates. He put 225 on the bar. “For a warm-up,” he said—even though 225 was usually the weight I used in my third set. I usually warmed-up with 135—but I felt so fucking good in the moment that I didn’t correct him. The way I felt, I could spin 225 on my fucking finger.
Grabbing the bar was like grabbing my erect cock—my hands felt at home and sexual, confident. My dick throbbed. The power rushed through my body as I lifted it off the rack. Easy.
I lowered the bar with a confidence that I’d never had, easily touching my erect nipples in the bottom of the rep. I could feel the individual muscles stretch—I was communicating with my body in a way I didn’t know existed, so intimate, so deep. My muscle and my sexuality were one.
As I put the weight up, the ease with which it moved, the control I had over it—it WAS better than sex. I had never been more masculine—I had never been stronger. It was a thrust, like slamming a cock into a virgin hole—it was power.
And as I flexed my pecs at the top of the rep, I orgasmed.
I couldn’t stop myself. I shot an over-whelming load into my shorts—it made me scream, blinding me with pleasure, arching my back, involuntarily thrusting my hips. Brad racked the weight as my orgasm continued, on and on, until, spent and suddenly exhausted, I collapsed on the bench.
“Okay,” said Brad, slapping the bar. “Workout’s over.”
Breathless, soaked in cum, more than a little humiliated, I staggered to the locker room. There were some chuckles from the other guys—I couldn’t tell if they were good-natured or not.
One rep! One fucking rep is all I got! I beat myself up all the way back to my locker. It wasn’t until I’d stripped for a shower that I realized my chest had a better pump than I’d had if I’d done an entire workout.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.