APOLLYON—pt24 “The Fate of Woody”
By absman420@aol.com
Woody stood open-mouthed in the doorway for almost a minute before he said, “Well, look at you.” As if he wasn’t breath-taking himself, a massive bodybuilder standing there in only wrestling trunks and Otomix workout shoes. Gigantic, pumped, a light sweat just beginning to break out on his smooth, tan skin, Woody’s nipples were already erect—as soon as he saw me, his cock started to get hard, too.
The last time Woody and I had been together—last night—I’d been nearly a hundred pounds lighter. Now, he faced his physical equal. As I looked at Woody, I examined his build with the eye of a rival bodybuilder, not a hero-worshipping sidekick. For the first time, I saw his flaws as well as his strengths. His chest was magnificent, no doubt about that—his pecs were so rounded and full, especially the lower pec, that his generous nipples pointed toward the ground—Woody must’ve spent hours doing decline bench—and his legs were simply unbelievable, but...
...his torso was too wide. There it is—that was his flaw. Seriously. His natural, structural width made his waist look terribly thick. Because his chest was so over-developed, his shoulders seemed small—and his arms, too. He was... what’s the word?...asymmetrical? Out of proportion? I don’t know—it doesn’t matter.
Me, on the other hand—aside from thinking it cool that I was able to look at Woody without bias—I wasn’t able to look at MYSELF the same way. If I had flaws, I hadn’t found them yet. And I’d certainly spent some good amount of time lookin’. Another fifty pounds on my frame, and I’d be a freakin’ GOD!
With this incredible body, I stood there in my ill-fitting Jets jersey, these lace-front heavy spandex football shorts, and my Aesics wrestling shoes, and said, “Your fantasy’s here, Woody. You ready?”
But I knew he was ready—his cock kept no secrets.
He opened the door wide for me to get through, and as I passed him, he couldn’t help but reach out and touch me, to make sure I was real. I knew the feeling. Just inside the door, I turned to face him, pulling up the front of my jersey with one hand, exposing my rock-solid abs, my NARROW waist—something Woody would never have. I flexed the magnificent rack that I owed solely to Prince and asked, “So, you like?”
He took a step toward me, letting the door close behind him. At first, he ran his open hand along the ridges of my abs, then he quickly closed it into a fist and gave me a short little jab right under the navel. I took his punch with ease—smirked when he made eye-contact.
“I didn’t like what happened last night with Palumbo,” he said, walking past me into the apartment-proper. “I don’t like bein’ treated like that.”
I followed him into the living room, trying to pull the jersey over my head at the same time. You’d think I’d have learned that lesson this morning, but still I struggled. Pulling by the collar, I’d gotten it over my head, but couldn’t get my shoulders to slide out of the sleeves. When Woody turned to face me, I heard him bark a quick laugh.
THAT motivated me. With little more than a flex and a growl, I tore my way out of the jersey—an easy task, sure, but impressive-looking. Some guys get all into the tearing-out-of-clothes bit, goes back to leftover lust for the Incredible Hulk. Of course, I was tearing OUT of a green jersey...
I threw the shredded remnants to the floor, allowing Woody to see me—what had happened to me. I stood in the contest “relaxed” pose, arms to my side, chest out, torso wide, legs about shoulder width—not that I could get them much closer together, not without looking stupid.
I wanted him to get a good look at the new, three-hundred pound me.
The three-hundred pound me that was gonna fuck him back to the Stone Age.
“Holy fuck,” he mumbled, absently adjusting his cock.
The rush of the amp I’d shot back in my own apartment was just starting to hit, a pleasant, horny warmth that promised more to come—it softened inhibition. It put me on the offensive. For Woody, I flexed.
I went through the standard compulsory poses—the ones Woody himself had taught me—holding each pose just long enough for him to get a good look, then moving on. Woody sat on the arm of the sofa, legs spread wide over the padding and played with himself, watching me, a look of lusty satisfaction on his face.
Once through with the Big Seven, I started into a posing routine of my own, making sure to emphasize my waist/ shoulder differential. Woody grabbed the remote—instead of himself—and turned the stereo on, the apartment filling with the sounds of hard rock.
“What do I look like, some little dance fag?” I asked, smirking, walking over to him as he sat there, forcing him to have to look up at me. “What do you want, Woody, some little lap dance?” I started moving my hips to the music, gyrating and mock-thrusting (my new favorite move) right above Woody’s knee. “This what you like?”
As I continued posing, dancing—buzzing—Woody reached up and flat-handed my pecs, shuddering at their enormity. I flexed them as he ran his palms down the round, hard slope and then grabbed my nipples, squeezing them between his thumb and forefinger.
I gasped, which kind of pissed me off—it showed weakness. To counter, my tone cocky, I immediately said, “If you’re lookin’ to have me fuck you, you’re doin’ everything just right, but I thought your fantasy was for us to fight for that spot.”
He pursed his lips slightly and nodded. Without warning, he pulled one arm back and punched me in the gut. Unlike when he pinched my nipple, I didn’t let him see that the blow had hurt. I smiled.
“Let’s get it on, then.”
I didn’t back up enough to give him space to comfortably stand. We were literally pec to pec when he rose, our faces inches apart. Staring each other in the eye, he slowly pushed his way past me and walked to his play room—well, what would be the second bedroom, or the “back room.” Woody had emptied it but for wrestling mats and a small weight set. Like Brad’s office-annex, one wall was mirrored.
He had the door closed, which I didn’t understand until we went in. Woody had set up space-heaters in two opposite corners, creating the sauna-like effect of wrestling rooms across the nation. “This’ll help us build up a sweat,” he said, like we were gonna need it. Using a dimmer switch on the wall, he adjusted the lights until the room was nearly dark but for a single spotlight shining down on the center of the mats, illuminating the white ring.
Woody stepped into that light, then turned to face me. Lit from above like that, the shadows emphasizing his mind-blowing physique, Woody began to pose—the same routine he’d used in his last competition. Impressive, no doubt, but not intimidating—not anymore. I was three-hundred pounds of muscle, too.
I walked into the light opposite him and mirrored his poses, showing myself his equal—in some ways, his superior. Okay, he had me in chest, no question, but compare our shoulders and traps. His legs were nearly flawless, gigantic, but I had an ass that could make men cry. And our abs weren’t even in the same category.
Almost nose to nose, we flexed our pecs. We had this interesting moment, an awkward pause. We met each other’s eye, and were almost instinctively drawn to a kiss—but we resisted. Instead, Woody pushed me in the pecs with his flat hand, like a lineman making his block, and the slapped his left biceps, looking at it as he flexed it.
Standing next to him, I raised my right biceps, holding it next to his arm—elbow to shoulder, shoulder to elbow—and flexed my own big gun, the mounds of muscle right next to each other, each peak fighting for sky, a mountain range of rock-solid biceps.
The peak of my biceps was just a hair higher—Brad may’ve had bigger arms than me, but Woody sure didn’t. Though I doubt I’d beaten Woody by more than a centimeter, I still won.
He grunted when he saw the difference, a scowl clearly evident on his face, and turned to face the mirror. Naturally, I did the same.
It was like comparisons at the Olympia—there’s no other way to describe it. We two massive beasts, lit from above, pumped and primed, flexing our way through the compulsories. The only difference between us and the Olympia was the way we were dressed. Instead of skimpy posers, Woody wore wrestling trunks and I wore lace-front football shorts.
And BOTH of us sported erections.
“There we go,” Woody said as we did another “Most Muscular” toward the mirror. “Check that shit out.”
“Yeah, yeah. You got big pecs,” I mumbled. I put my hands behind my head and flexed my abs. From above, with the light the way it was, they looked like a cobblestone alley, like bricks. “What do you got to compare to that?”
He snorted again, spun around and bent over, straight-legged, placing his palms flat on the floor. Showing off the depth of his hamstrings, he looked at himself in the mirror through his own legs.
I reached over and stroked his glutes, running my hand over the connection between ass and hamstrings, grabbed his balls. I gave his ass an open-hand smack and said, “This is the shit I want.”
He laughed. “Come get it, bitch.”
So I knelt down right there behind his legs, his ass right in my line of vision. Wrapping my arms around his quads, I pushed my face right into his ball-sac, kissing then chewing that glorious spot right between his balls and his asshole.
Woody moaned.
“Wrestle or fuck?” I asked quietly, nibbling through the spandex trunks.
“Both,” he mumbled, standing up straight, the round shelf of his ass almost covering my head, smothered by spandex. I kept my mouth right on his balls, but raised my arms until they wrapped around his waist, then pulled him back over my head, slamming him into the mat.
I reversed myself quickly while he was winded, trying to get control of his legs, locking one up with both of mine. My time training with Brad gave me more of an advantage than I’d thought. More, I don’t think Woody expected me to be this aggressive. I’d clearly taken him by surprise.
But after a couple of moves from him, I realized it was something else—Woody wasn’t a wrestler. Sure, he was strong as hell, but he was awkward. He relied on the size and strength of his physique, not skill. It surprised me how easy he was to control.
Or maybe, I thought while I anchored my legs, maybe I’d become just a lot more powerful than I gave myself credit for. That thought brought a wave of the buzz along with it, so I took it as truth. With that acceptance, the gear practically took over—my aggression sky-rocketed, and I just began man-handling the bum. Fuck him, if he doesn’t know how to wrestle. Fuck him—he’ll just lose that much quicker. Then, I’ll fuck him. Wasn’t his fantasy that I come back and dominate him? Hell, wasn’t that MINE?
He wasn’t a wrestler, but he WAS a brawler. Woody had spent time on the line in the trenches of college football, so it wasn’t that he was helpless. He just lacked finesse. He managed to roll out of my hold and get his arms around my waist, lifting me up off the floor. “Where’d you learn to wrestle?” he grunted as he threw me to the ground. I was on my feet immediately, facing off with him, the buzz ringing in my ears.
“Why?” I asked. “You afraid?”
His laugh was forced. “Yeah, right.”
We attacked again, seeking the takedown. Elbow to shoulder, shoulder to elbow. Hard to get a grip on him, sweaty as he was—as I was becoming. I ducked low to take out his legs, but he just grabbed me around the torso from behind, again lifting me easily up off the floor, now upside-down, my ass practically in his face.
Naturally, I did the unexpected—I wrapped my legs around his bull-like neck and, using those powerful abs Prince had given me, I sat up. I was literally sitting on Woody’s shoulders with my crotch in his face, the ceiling barely an inch above me. Grabbing his head, I pulled it in, so he good get a good whiff of the scent that was beating him. Woody dropped to his knees, then fell forward so my back slammed into the mat. His face slammed into my balls.
It wasn’t “Smackdown” or “Raw!” but it was hardly collegiate-style, either. It was a brawl, plain and simple. It became less about rolling around than it did about hits and punches and shows of strength. The further I got along in my buzz, the more masculine I felt, the more aggressive I became. I didn’t just want to beat him, I fuckin’ wanted to TAKE him. I wanted to put the humiliation I’d suffered because of him into muscular revenge.
For his part, at least he was smart enough to know that he wasn’t gonna beat me by wrestling me. If he was gonna win, it’d have to be a fight. I was respecting that evolution in our match when he elbowed me in the face. After that, there was no thinking. There was merely blind rage.
It’s like I became someone else.
The anger mixed with the buzz of the gear in a way I’d only experienced once before, when facing Romagna in the locker room. Masculinity to the max—the ultimate feeling of power—I reveled in it! He wanted to fight? Fine. We’ll fuckin’ fight!
ANYTHING to satisfy this buzz!
I don’t remember a lot of this next part. I could describe the intensity of the gear, the wave after wave of pummeling masculinity that coursed through my system, the sheer brutality of one giant bodybuilder beating on another. But actual moves or the choreography of the fight? Hazy.
I remember being evenly matched, which pissed me off. After all the growth I’d gone through, after that whole painful transformation, to merely be an equal to someone was infuriating. I was huge! How could I not be superior to everyone?
And then...
Then the arrival of the second stage, the buzz blossoming in my loins and spreading through my hazy anger, coating my rage with familiar, syrupy lust. The flush and excitement of poppers mixed with the heady power of cocaine. The masculine drive of the gods. I roared. I threw my head back and roared.
I picked Woody up off the floor and threw him across the room—effortlessly. The three-hundred-plus bodybuilder slammed into the drywall, sliding to the floor to reveal the massive dent.
When I turned to the mirror and beheld myself in the spot shining down from the ceiling, pumped, ridiculously gigantic, shining from sweat, the heavy shadows accentuating my unbelievable physique, my cock hard and potent beneath my football shorts, the raging buzz pounding my head, I saw what I truly was.
I accepted it.
I was a freak. A muscle-freak.
And I liked it.
Then I looked in my eyes. I looked into the depths of my own eyes and I fell in love with the man looking back. Contact.
“Control,” I said confidently. “Muscle before cock.”
Though I heard Woody say, “What?” from behind me, I became involved in the transformation and didn’t respond.
“Are you fuckin’ on the gear?” he asked, standing, even though it was clearly difficult. “Are you buzzing?”
But my pump was swelling. I was growing beyond my pump.
It was funny in a way, because I could never have imagined myself the size of Woody—I never would’ve thought that was even possible, let alone what I’d want for myself. Now, as he stood next to me in the light, It was easy to see that I was bigger. And it was good. And it was what I wanted.
We both stood there and watched me grow, watched me thicken, marveled at my density. Woody was furious—he kept snarling the word, “Cheater. Fucking cheater”—but that didn’t hide his erection.
I didn’t flex—I didn’t have to. The games were over. I was huge, and huge men had to be satisfied. I turned on him and he knew my intention. I was gonna fuck him.
He kept saying “cheater” until I slapped him across the mouth and said, “Shut up.” Then I grabbed his trunks and effortlessly tore them off him. He stood there naked and erect, wearing only his lifting shoes, this tiny three-hundred pound man.
I grabbed his wrist and spun him around, putting him in a quick submission hold, my arm around his neck. “Isn’t this your fantasy?” I asked in his ear—he couldn’t respond for my choke-hold on his windpipe—“Don’t you want to be raped by the monster you created?”
He couldn’t break my choke—not that he was trying all that hard—even while I unlaced my shorts and pulled out my beautiful man-cock, he barely struggled. When I said, “Kneel,” he simply obeyed. Frankly, I was kind of hoping for more of a struggle.
“You DO like this,” I said. “You fuckin’ pussy-bottom.”
Because of the size of our legs, the only way I could fuck him was doggie-style, though I pushed his chest down until he went to his elbows, clutching his fists closed like he was still in the wrestling match.
It was almost too easy. And I realized there were probably going to be few challenges ahead for me. Who would fight me? Who could?
I would’ve like to have met Ronnie once, supposedly the MOST massive of all the Apollyon men. The IDEAL muscle-freak. I bet I could’ve given him a run for his money.
When I fucked Woody, he screamed like a girl. Moaned like a bitch. When I fucked Woody, I knew how Romagna felt, fucking while buzzing instead of GETTING fucked—THAT’S where the power was. That’s where the masculinity came in.
Woody was mine, now. Mine! Every thrust brought him further under my power. Sweaty muscle on muscle, slamming into the brutish bulk of his ass, those heavy, heavy hamstrings.
He was close. “Gonna cum!” he cried. “Oh my fucking god!”
“Not yet,” I said, wrapping my arms around his wide waist and pulling his torso up. At the same time, I leaned back on my heels so he had to almost sit on my quads to keep me inside him. I reached around and played with the nipples hanging from the mass of his lower chest. He rolled his head back and moaned.
And he shot—he couldn’t help it. I was too much for him. And he shot.
And feeling his orgasm from inside him, I came, too, filling his ass with my energized cum, the magic seed that had given me so much. I gave him every single drop. I shoved it in deep.
When I was finished, I shoved him off me, pushing him to the floor. He lay there quietly, trying to catch his breath, shivering from the orgasm, not the temperature. I stood over him, the last few drops of cum falling off the end of my cock, and smirked. He was mine, now. This three-hundred pound pussy-boy muscle-freak was mine.
Piece of shit and what he’d done to me.
As he lay there, my cum affected him—transformed him. Woody... tightened. His bodyfat dissolved, his veins swelled, cuts etched themselves into his normally round muscle-bellies. He grew—a bit—but the most dramatic change was in his definition. He became MORE than he was—he improved—and he had my cum to thank for it.
As for me, cumming while under the influence of the buzz merely solidified everything—who I was, the power I felt. The man I was meant to be—a weird cross between Romagna and Palumbo. I became the ultimate me.
I looked down at Woody lying there and he said, “You cheated. You were on the gear.”
Nodding, smirking, I said, “THAT was Palumbo’s idea.” I flicked my eyebrows, wiping the last drops of cum off my cock and offered him my finger. Without hesitation—which I think annoyed him a little—he licked it off. “Looks like you did okay by it,” I continued. “We both wanted the same thing.”
“Yeah, well, if you can cheat, I can cheat.” He stood, hefting his beautiful bulk upright. He was still smaller than me, but he looked fantastic—as if ready for the competition stage, but vivacious instead of exhausted. Woody looked primed.
I was ready to fuck him again—this time because of his freakish beauty.
“Look at me, Strong,” he said, and arrogantly, I did. What did I have to fear from him?
We made eye-contact.
“Here’s a code-phrase you may’ve forgotten,” he said, cocky. “Listen: ‘OBEY ME. DR. V COMMANDS YOU THROUGH ME. YOU MUST OBEY.’”
I stood stock still, staring at him.
Slowly, he smiled. “NOW we’ll see who’s a better cheater,” he said. “Now we’ll see who’s in charge. Kneel down and put your hands behind your back. I command you. Do it!”
But I didn’t move. I continued to stand impassively.
“DO IT!” he screamed in my face. “Obey me!”
But instead of moving, I started laughing. Low in my throat, but developing quickly into a full chuckle. He stared at me dumb-founded, furious. “What the fuck’s going on?” he asked, creases in his forehead.
“Well,” I said, “looks like once I dominated you, I broke your little spell. How ‘bout that shit?”
“No,” he said, desperately shaking his head. “That can’t be. That’s never...”
“I forget, Woody. How many of your other boys turned out to be real, true tops? How many actually turned the tables on you, you know, like I just did?”
“No...” he kept repeating. “No...”
“Let’s try something else instead,” I said. “Look at ME, Woody.”
I think he tried to resist, maybe. There was a slight hesitation, but whether that was resistance or submission, I couldn’t say. There was a weakness in his eyes, now. A vulnerability I’d never seen before.
Contact.
“Just for fun, let’s try a quick code-phrase on you,” I said, trying NOT to smile. “Obey me, Woody. Dr. V commands you through me. YOU MUST OBEY!”
He shuddered, that’s how I knew it had hit him. He got goosebumps like the room wasn’t a sauna. He shuddered... and then he just looked at me, blankly, openly.
He became mine to command.
I snorted. “Well, Woody,” I said to the heavily-muscled mannequin before me, “looks like we got us a whole new ball game.”