APOLLYON—Pt 8 “The Notorious Dr. V”
By absman420@aol.com
When the alarm rang on Monday morning, the whole thing—the whole impossible weekend of muscle and sex and fantasy gyms seemed like a dream. I woke and thought, “Whoa! Back to reality. Crap...”
But I didn’t shuffle from bed the way I normally do. I SPRANG from bed with an energy I hadn’t known since childhood. I felt freakin’ GREAT! Top-of-the-world great—winning-the-jackpot great—conquering-the-evil-empire great—like I’d gotten enough sleep to completely recharge my batteries, and an extra hour to fill the reserves. I felt completely healed, and completely renewed—like I’d been hit by a spark of the Divine.
I didn’t even have to LOOK in the mirror to know I’d grown. I could feel it in my legs and my back—I could feel the new muscle, its existence. That meant the weekend... it HAD all been real. So the first thing I did was weigh myself, as I think would be the first reaction of ANY skinny guy who puts on enough new muscle in a day to affect the way he feels when he moves. It’s all about the numbers.
209.
Did you see that? Two-hundred and nine! Up eight pounds from yesterday at this time—from yesterday! I’d put on eight pounds in a day. That truth hit me like a freight train.
And THEN the mirror. I was in a t-shirt and loose, cotton boxers, but lost the tee as I turned to face myself, in one quick motion. And when I saw my upper body, my chest, the new width in my back—that my lats had actually improved, wedged in there beneath my arms, giving me an actual “v”—the unexpected appearance of my abs, suddenly visible and striking, I almost ripped the boxers off.
You know, I took it all in so fast, that describing these realizations with words slows the moment down too much. When I saw myself in the mirror naked, I saw everything at once, even though I can’t describe it that way. It started with my legs.
The same as had happened with my chest—and now my back—that same phenomenon now manifested in my legs. I had GROWN into the pump I’d gotten during my workout. I was the same size now cold as I’d been pumped at the gym last night.
My legs... had grown. Find the joy in that statement, especially as I repeat it, maybe with an exclamation point—my legs had grown! I could flex them and see the sweep in my thigh. More than what it was though, I could see what that line was GOING to be. For the first time in my life, I saw potential in my legs. I actually LIKED them. I could see the beginnings of mass, the formation of cuts that would soon evolve into canyons.
I could see power.
At the same time, I saw my lower abs for the first time in ten years. I mean the abs, the muscle itself, not that little roll that had so inconveniently and uncontrollably formed there over the last decade. Actual flat, sinuous, lower abs...
Which meant, I’d lost fat. Which meant, I’d gained more weight than eight pounds overnight. I’d gained in muscle whatever I’d lost in bodyfat, too. So maybe thirteen pounds or more.
I had all three of those moments sort-of simultaneously—legs, abs, mathematics—so I can’t say which actually CAUSED my erection, but standing there, looking at myself in the mirror, I was turned on.
I looked fucking great! I looked great, and I felt great.
I stood there posing with this big erection and realized how masculine I felt—how relaxed, how natural—and NEW feelings: power and possibility. Nothing could stop me.
I came within seconds of touching myself, shooting all over the sink and mirror. Another of those intense orgasms I keep talking about, each a little better than the one before. It proved it was ALL real, everything—weekend, body, muscular brotherhood—and that was the thought that had driven me over the edge.
The smirk on my face as the last bit dribbled out reminded me of Prince, that same cocky look he always sported—and the thought of turning into a man like Prince didn’t bother me one bit.
As a matter of fact, it got me going again.
I denied it almost the whole way through the shower, my ever-demanding erection. But just as I finished shaving my face, soap in one hand, razor in the other, I made eye-contact with it, pointing straight up at me over my beautiful new lower abs.
And on a whim—to BE more like Prince and Palumbo, hell, even Rook and Robinson to a degree—I took the soap and razor to it, and I shaved my cock and balls. It was an incredible feeling, the blade on my cock, and I almost came twice while doing it. I left the same little swatch of hair that all the guys had, the little that would be hidden by posing trunks, but cleaned up my inner thighs and the rest.
It made my package look bigger.
Or maybe it WAS bigger. Maybe this shit I was taking was affecting my package, too...
THAT made me cum! And as much as I hate to say it, it was just as good—if not better—than the orgasm before it. I tell you, if my poor dick could’ve taken it, I could’ve stood there masturbating and posing for myself all day. As it was, I was already fifteen minutes behind schedule—I was THAT routine-oriented—and though I knew that meant “hurry up,” I just couldn’t work up the energy to be stressed-out about it, the way I normally would. I felt too good to be normal.
I had a staff meeting at the paper at nine—should be quick and painless, just the editor giving us our assignments for the week—then an appointment at the gym with the doctor Brad had set me up with. What was his name? Rinaldi, yes. Dr. Rinaldi. I had that appointment at ten-thirty, and I was way more anxious and excited about THAT than actually going to work. Unfortunately, I gotta pay my bills.
My jeans were tight in the thighs and seat, like they could be when fresh from the drier, though they weren’t. I knew what it really was—me! My new muscle, my powerful new legs, my thickening ass. These jeans, that I’d had longer than some of my closest friends, that had always fit me like they’d been made for me—roomy and full—were suddenly loose in the waist and tight everywhere else. I was growing out of my pants!
Fuckin’ hard-on again.
So I had to wear a belt and I had to cinch it tight so I wouldn’t look like one of those ridiculous kids with my jeans hanging halfway down my ass. I took it three holes tighter than normal, which just got my dick harder.
I wanted to wear a baggy t-shirt, a simple pull-over. Even with my new-found muscle, I wasn’t ready to brag, yet. I wanted people to notice, sure, but I didn’t want to MAKE them notice. Since these folks had seen me—last Monday, at the LAST editor’s meeting—I’d gained over ten pounds of muscle. That couldn’t be something only I could see.
Yet, it seemed so. At the office, people noticed a difference about me, but none of them could identify exactly what it was. I felt like a stooge in a “Viagra” commercial.
(“Something different about you... Have you lost weight? Is that a new haircut?” “No, but I AM taking Viagra!") More people commented on my attitude—how cheerful I was—than on my physique.
Apparently, I hadn’t changed enough.
Not entirely true, my editor noticed—but I always thought he was queer, anyway—not that it was the kind of “noticed” that I was hoping for. “Are you working out?” he asked, sitting down at his desk.
“Rawley, I’ve been working out for five years!”
He casually sipped his coffee. “You’ve been going to the gym for five years,” he said. “You’ve obviously just STARTED working out.”
I chuckled quietly and took the seat across from him—like most editor’s offices (if they’re lucky enough to have more than a cubicle), it was a disastrous mess, everything spread everywhere, though somehow he knew exactly where it all was. Like a hasty squirrel, nuts stuffed in every nook and cranny, he could always find food. I smiled. “Guilty as charged.”
“Well, it looks good on you,” he said, patting his own little bit of stomach. “I’ve been thinking of going back to the gym, myself. Get this belly-roll back in shape.”
I shrugged. “Just gotta find the right place,” I said. “The right gym makes all the difference.” Without realizing, I reached down and adjusted myself in my pants, which I’ve always considered a very “jock-like” gesture—suddenly very natural.
“Where do YOU lift?” he asked, an innocent enough question, but unexpected enough to throw me.
I stammered. “Oh... um... just this little place in Midtown,” I lied. “On 49th, between 7th and 8th . It’s, um... it’s nothing great. If I were you, I’d go to one of those chains down in the Village. This place just happens to be convenient.”
He laughed. “Location, location, location, right? I get it. Well, regardless, it looks good on you—keep it up.”
I smiled. “No worries there.”
With the pleasantries out of the way, scrawny little Rawley—with the little jelly belly—got down to business. “So what do you need?” he asked. “Why visit me here in this disaster of an office?”
“Oh, nothing really,” I said, shrugging again—I seemed to have picked that up from Prince. “I just wanted to tell you that I have a doctor’s appointment this morning, so I’m cutting out.”
“Oh,” he said, dismissing it that quickly, grabbing a piece of the pile for proofing. “Great. Have fun.” On my way out of the office, he added, “Don’t let them give you one of those flu shots—it’s the quickest way to catch it.”
I laughed. “No flu shots. Got it.”
And I was gone.
It took about twenty minutes to walk from the newspaper offices to the gym, some thirty blocks or so. I debated taking the train, but I felt so good, enjoyed the sun on my face so much, and figured I could be seen by more people if I just used my legs. That I felt like walking at ALL after that workout last night was a miracle—why deny that by taking the subway?
This way, I got to look at myself in the window of every bodega and restaurant that lined Seventh Avenue—I didn’t get three blocks before I took my shirt off and tucked it into my back-pack, which served today as my gym-bag. THIS was a fantasy-come-true for me—I’ve always wanted to be one of those guys who walked around the city wearing a back-pack and no shirt, exposing their ripped, muscular torsos to whoever glanced their way. I found it the most passive/ aggressive method of showing off there could be.
And now I was one of them—and I loved it! I loved people looking at my rock-solid abs, the way the straps of my back-pack helped pull my shoulders back, making sure my chest was raised and spread. At one of the many sidewalk stands, I bought a pair of mirrored sunglasses so I could look at people looking at me, but not let them know I was watching, too. I wanted them to fantasize about me, but I didn’t want them to know I wanted it.
How different I was just since Friday, since I joined Apollyon. If it kept up at this rate, I wondered how different I’d be when I got to be Prince’s size. Thinking about it brought my all-too-familiar erection back, not rock-hard, but full and thick—it just became something else to show off as I walked along.
Yeah, look at me, you bunch of out-of-shape losers! Check this shit out!
I was almost sorry that I got to the gym as quickly as I did.
Anyway, buzzed in, down the big staircase to the main-landing, I ran into Brad, dressed in a pair of cut-off jean-shorts (we used to call them “Daisy Dukes”), a red tank top and a backwards baseball cap. He looked like he hadn’t seen a razor in days, his beard rough and stubbled, though his body was as smooth as perfection. He was just breaking out in a sweat, and his massive muscle appeared to shine.
“Someone’s been working out,” he said when he saw me, shaking my hand. “How you doin’, Strong? Here for you doctor’s appointment?”
“Yeah, at ten-thirty. Where’s the office?”
He motioned toward the locker room with a nod of his head. “There’s an elevator around the corner from the meds room. It’s labeled—you’ll see. Listen, I gotta get to my workout,” he said, taking a few steps away from me. “I been ridin’ the bike and my buzz is just startin’ to hit me—but I want to talk to you before you leave. I wanna know who’s cum you swallowed.”
“What?” I asked, genuinely surprised, suddenly snapping to attention.
He smiled, a snake-y, smarmy, I-know-your-dirty-secret smile—his dick throbbed to life suddenly in his shorts. “You don’t get abs like that overnight, buddy-boy. You only make THAT kind of improvement if you drink the cum of a guy who’s geared up. Later you’re gonna tell me who.” He reached down and adjusted his cock in his shorts, mumbled “Work out now,” and turned away to the gym, striding to the free-weight area.
Naturally, though confused, I flashed on an image of Prince, lost in the throes of the second-stage of the buzz, cumming all over my face, wiping his heavy cock across my lips, tasting his orgasm as it dribbled into my mouth. THAT’S what gave me these abs?
Maybe this gym was turning me gay, because the thought of that didn’t really bother me that much. As a matter of fact, I found it a small price to pay. However, acknowledging that there WAS a price indicated that I wasn’t completely gay, yet. I mean, if I were gay, wouldn’t I look forward to drinking a guy’s cum? As it was, I only looked forward to the improvements if I did—THAT wasn’t gay.
With a snort and a shrug, I walked into the locker room, dropped my gym bag at my locker and put my shirt back on, even though I knew I’d probably just have to take it off again in the doctor’s office, covering up the abs I apparently owed to Prince’s cum.
Whatever.
I gotta confess, I’d never walked PAST the meds room before. Who knew there was something beyond it? But there on the left was a little hallway that led simply to two elevator doors, call button between them. “Up” was the only option, so I pressed it. The elevator on the left must’ve been here already, because it opened immediately. THAT’S service, I thought, stepping inside.
Each button had a little ID-plaque next to it—“Locker Room” was the lowest, then “Street Level,” etc. There were five buttons for doctors—five FLOORS, four doctors per. Brad hadn’t been kidding when he said they’d had a full-staff of medicos. There was a floor that said “Pool”—actually, “Pool” took up three floors, because the next button was three spaces up. After that, instead of being labeled, each button had a key-slot next to it—an engraved plaque at the top read, “Apt levels 11—20 require key-access.”
Hmm, I thought. Apartments.
“Rinaldi” was on the fifth floor, so off I went.
The elevator opened on a little hallway leading to the four office suites on this floor. “Rinaldi” was the first one I came across, so I went inside. A tiny waiting room—coffee table, love seat, potted plant—a computer terminal instead of a receptionist, the same as every other ID-station in this gym. On the screen, the words “Please check in” blinked—I must’ve set it off when I opened the door—so I went immediately there.
After I typed in my access number, the screen read, “Welcome, JEFF STRONG. Please enter the examination room and await the Doctor. Thank you.” And the inner-office door buzzed like someone was admitting me, so I pulled it open. Another hallway, separating two rooms, both with frosted-glass doors; the one on the right read “Dr. Vincent Rinaldi, MD, Sports Medicine” and “Examination Room” on the left. Though I could see some activity through the frosted-glass door of the doctor’s office, I went where I’d been instructed.
It was a well-sized examination room, so unexpected here in the heart of the city, where one never sees open-space of any kind. (Didn’t Brad say once that they owned this building? How on earth was that possible?) In the center was this—well, to say examination table was an understatement, because it was so much more... complicated than that. It looked like a prop from the sci-fi channel, ultra-scientific and straight out of the future. What’s that word for when something was made-to-fit perfectly—ergo-dynamic? That’s how this table looked, like it might actually be comfortable for someone my size—or bigger.
Just as I reached out to touch it, to feel the padded leather and see if it was as cold and hard as every other examination table I’d ever been on, the door opened behind me, and I turned to face the Doctor.
NOT what I was expecting.
Of course, what was I expecting? That he wouldn’t be a bodybuilder? Everyone else around here was—why wouldn’t the doctors be? Rinaldi had good size—he wasn’t as big as Brad or Prince, but you’d never think of him as small, either. Even in his white lab-coat, I could see that his arms were out-of-proportion with the rest of him—hell, they were almost as big as his legs—it was hard to tell in the baggy khakis he wore. He had a silk v-neck t-shirt on top, a heavy gold chain around his neck (with one of those funny little horns all Italian men seem to wear)—as a matter of fact, he wore too much jewelry: several rings, including a big college one with a giant diamond stone (of which I had no doubt was real), a gold bracelet around one arm, a heavy gold Rolex on the other, both ears pierced with hoops. I shuddered to think of his nipples.
Why did I have that thought?
He wasn’t a handsome man, short of good-looking by a weak chin. Though his hair was closely cropped, it was clear he was losing a battle with baldness—maybe that’s why he had a goatee. If I had to guess his age, I’d put him in his early forties, and that only because of the lines around his bright green eyes. The speed of his movements made him seem quite a bit younger—no one expected athletic action from a doctor.
We made eye contact as soon as I turned around and he asked, “Jeff Strong?” at the same moment that I said, “Dr. Rinaldi?” We both chuckled.
“I’m Dr. Vince Rinaldi,” he said, extending his hand for me to shake. “Nice to meet you.” He had an intimidating baritone, his voice deep and forceful—almost musical.
“You too, Dr. Rinaldi,” I said, shaking his hand firmly. “I’m Jeff Strong.”
He chuckled. “’Dr. Rinaldi’ is very formal. We’re going to be working closely together, Mr. Strong—you can call me ‘Vince’ if you like. Some of my more adventurous patients call me ‘Dr. V.’”
“It’s ‘Jeff,’” I said, holding my hand up flat like I was swearing the truth. “I’m afraid I don’t have a nickname.”
He smiled again and looked at my chart. “With a name like ‘Strong,’ you don’t need one. Now, shirt off and up on the table. Let’s go.”
“Yes, sir!” I said, hardly needing an excuse to pull my shirt off. When I looked back at the doctor, he was nodding slightly and noting something on my chart—no doubt how great I looked, I thought, still a bit cocky.
“How many amps of the compound have you used, Strong?”
“Three.”
A nod and a note. “And have you ingested any seminal fluid from a man on the compound?”
I hesitated a moment, breaking eye-contact with Dr. V. Unconsciously, my hand touched my beautiful new abs—I could feel them flex as I breathed. I thought again of Prince.
“Jeff?” Dr. V said, to coax an answer.
“Yeah,” I said, looking back up at him—though he could clearly see my embarrassment. “Yeah, I did. Last night.”
He nodded again. “Okay,” he said—another mark on the chart—“Great. Let’s get the preliminaries out of the way then, shall we?”
So, he took me through a physical—a normal, regular-checkup with your regular physician—whoop-de-do. He listened to my heart-beat, listened to me breathe, took my blood pressure, checked my eyes, ears, throat, my height, my weight. I gave a urine sample and he took a blood sample. The whole wordless routine took about twenty minutes. He went through the procedure as if he’d done it a million times before, displaying the confidence of a man with too-much experience. I found myself liking his quiet, commanding presence, and I normally wasn’t fond of doctors.
“Well, Strong, that’s all I need at the moment. The next part of this exam is a little more... subjective. Now that I have a physical profile of you, I need to create a psychological one. Why don’t we step over to my office—you’ll be more comfortable.” He stood and motioned to the door.
I stood, too. “Should I get my shirt?” I asked.
He shrugged, that same off-hand motion I’d seen on Brad, Prince, and even myself once or twice. “If you want to,” he said. “You don’t need it.”
Need it or not, I took it with me, sliding it on over my head as we walked across the hallway to his office. Being half-dressed was fine on the street while wearing mirrored sunglasses, but I felt funny here.
His office was modern, but comfortable, plush almost. He had exceptional taste, and the income to afford it, apparently. There was a professional area with his desk and files, and a more personal area, with a few upholstered chairs, a chaise, reading lamps, etc. This half looked more like his library or his den than his office. He motioned to the chaise. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, while he collected a folder from his desk.
“This is a beautiful office,” I said, sitting on the edge of the chaise’s velvety softness.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the chair at the head of the chaise. “I had a designer. He worked along my guidelines, but I gave him some freedom—which is not normally like me. He did a nice job. Listen, Jeff, the next part of the examination is just going to be me asking you a bunch of questions so I can get to know you, your motivations, your desires and goals. It’s going to help me tailor your program to you. But...”
I didn’t leave it hanging in the air—if it were bait, and I were a fish, I’d would’ve taken it. “But...?” I asked, in the same tone.
“But... during the first part of the exam, you displayed some inhibition while speaking to me—shall I site the examples?”
“No,” I said, flashing again on Prince. “You don’t need to.”
He smiled gently. “Jeff, I’m not trying to belittle you or emasculate you, but some of these questions are going to be a little embarrassing for you, I’m afraid. Unfortunately, we need to get through this and I need honest answers, so I have a proposition. I want to give you something that will make you... a little more willing to talk. Nothing that’s going to hurt you, just make you a little less inhibited. Do you mind? Do you trust me?”
Those eyes... they were so beautiful. His gaze burrowed into my brain—I could fall forever into it. He stood, looking down at me, and asked again, “Do you trust me?”
“Sh... sure,” I stammered, confused by the sudden rush of feeling I had for this near-stranger and his deep, hypnotic voice. “I trust you.”
He smiled. “Good. You should. It will make things so much easier.” He crossed to his desk and brought back a loaded syringe. He held his other hand out to me. “Your arm, please?” When I offered it to him, he held it steady and swabbed it with an alcohol pad. “This won’t hurt a bit, nothing like when you get the compound in your ass.”
He was right. He was so experienced, his technique was so good, I didn’t even feel the needle go into my arm. I didn’t even watch him do it, just stared stupidly at his face as he went through the procedure. You know, I was wrong before. As I studied him, I realized he WAS a handsome man—why hadn’t I noticed that before? Why was I so afraid of admitting it?
“You’re very handsome,” I said and he looked back at me, a slight smile on his face. When we made eye-contact, I felt that rush again.
“Thank you,” he said, setting the empty syringe aside. “I’m glad you feel that way. Lay back on the chaise.”
It was so comfortable, so relaxing. Even the few times I’d been stoned, I never felt like this. Never so good. I liked him so much. This whole gym...
I heard myself talking—about muscle and desire and cocks and masculinity—it all came flooding out. I sank into a sea of easy blackness—I lost consciousness.
But I’m pretty sure I told him everything.