APOLLYON—pt09 “And now, Woody”
By absman420@aol.com
In all the stories, the “hero” awakes from the drugged takeover of some mysterious doctor to find himself changed in odd, inexplicable ways. Weaker writers will have him completely enslaved upon regaining consciousness—stronger storytellers will let him discover it bit by bit, until he’s helpless in defeat. It makes the moment of his submission the climax of the piece, a wonderful literary paradox—even if those of us whackin’ our puds don’t notice it right away.
To some degree or another, I think everyone fantasizes about being transformed into someone else. It’s the whole psychological basis for “The Incredible Hulk,” “the Shazam family,” “The Mighty Thor,” and on and on and on. How many of us weren’t inundated by the idea of a magic word, or gamma-radiation exposure, or an Atlas body in seven days? We’ve all been there. It all feeds the same fantasy.
And to those of us who’ve taken steps to actualize it, who’ve joined a club-chain and made working-out a routine, gaining a healthy respect for the amount of time it takes to create actual physical changes, that fantasy is never far away, flitting just around the corner of inner-vision, gently blowing on the tender flame of motivation. Even the biggest men hope that there might still be magic, or scientific accidents, or secret gyms hidden in the middle of the city...
Orgasm.
Wet dream, deep from the bowels of fantasy, blowing me back to reality, shooting me through consciousness into the world of the living. I surface easily—so relaxed. Refreshed.
Still lying on the chaise in Dr. V’s office, I awoke looking down at myself, at my cock uncontrollably cumming all over my stomach, and I smiled, because it was no big deal. It was just another part of my fantasy, after all, and there was nothing wrong with enjoying it. It was about fucking time I got over myself. My fantasy was coming true—and I needed to allow myself to accept it.
Waking up to an orgasm in a state of mental peace and place of physical safety was by far the best reward for acquiescence. I felt great. And somehow, deep inside, I knew I owed this feeling to Dr. V—indeed, whatever he’d done while I was out, he could do it again—however much he wanted if THIS was how I was gonna feel. God damn.
It was then that I noticed an IV inserted into my arm, a near-empty bag hanging there next to the chaise, dripping a whitish liquid into my vein. I was contemplating whether I should be afraid or not—as stoned as I was, I found it difficult to think—when Dr. V was suddenly beside me, reaching down with a tongue-depressor and scooping some of the cum off my belly. He plopped it into a petri-dish. “This is why I wish you hadn’t put the t-shirt back on,” he said in that deep, round baritone that I found so easy to listen to. “I needed a good sample of your ejaculate, too. It’s a little more challenging to get than urine, though. How do you feel?”
I smiled—nothing to fear, he just wanted my cum, no big deal. “I feel great,” I said in a relaxed, loving tone. “What’s the IV for?”
He smirked, checking its drip. “I’d hoped you’d be out until it was over,” he said, tapping the line. “I imagine now that you’re awake you’re starting to get hungry for a workout.” He crossed back to his desk, set the petri-dish down and came back carrying a wad of paper towels.
“I am,” I said, realizing it right then, as he said it, while I laid there calmly and let him wipe my belly dry, dabbing the couple of globs that had gotten on the hem of my t-shirt. I WAS becoming anxious to work out. “Today’s shoulder and traps—it’s my favorite.”
He tossed the paper towels into the waste basket and sat on the edge of the chaise. “Oh, I think EVERY workout’s going to be your favorite from now on. You’re gonna get huge, Strong. I did some of the lab-work while you were out, and your potential is very promising.”
“Really?” I asked. I mean, my whole life I’d waited for someone to say to me, “your potential is very promising” in terms of bodybuilding, and all I could manage to eek out was “Really?” like some crackly-voiced teenager lying there in a stupor.
He nodded. “I think you can attain three-hundred pounds. Hell, the computer projection has you coming in at three-seventeen, but I think that’s a little optimistic. It’s hard to get guys up to that level. The computer seems to think that you can manifest the necessary muscle obsession, but I’m not so sure. It’s gonna take some work.”
“Three-hundred pounds?”
“At the least.”
He gave me a moment to let that sink in, or perhaps to give me something to do while the IV finished its drip. Three-hundred pounds! I’d seen pictures of bodybuilders in magazines and on the web who claimed that weight, many of them at the peak of their “bulk” cycle, all swollen and bloated—they always reminded me of muscular ticks that were ready to explode with nothing more than a pinch and a thumbnail. It was a size that was becoming more and more common in the sport as training methods and steroid derivatives modernized, but it was still well-above average, especially as a competition weight. And I had little doubt that he meant it as anything other than competition weight.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said. “I’ve always dreamed...”
He laughed. “Oh, I know. I know all about your dreams. I’d be willing to wager that I know more about you than you know about yourself.” He glanced at the IV bag. “Ah, done,” he said, reaching over and slipping the needle out of my arm, putting a wad of cotton on the wound and having me bend my arm to hold it in place.
“What WAS that?” I asked, still curious, not concerned.
“Nothing major,” he said, disconnecting the empty bag from the drip-tube and throwing it in the medical waste bin. “Just a little something to help your muscles synthesize protein a little more efficiently—you know, open your cellular receptors. Over the course of the next three or four weeks, you’re going to put on a LOT of weight very quickly, upwards near forty pounds.”
“What? Really?!?” THAT made me sit up—it also brought my erection back.
“After that, it gets a little more difficult.” He sat down on the chair at the head of the chaise—it was THAT element that made it feel like a psychologist’s office, NOT a sports doctor. “Your body... ADAPTS to the compound, as with any drug, and you develop a tolerance for it. That’s the moment when we discover whether you’ve got the heart or not, whether you’ve got the hunger it takes to beat that plateau, whether or not you’re gonna become one of the big boys.”
“It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
He smirked. “Oh, I know,” he said, tapping my chart with his finger. “I know.”
“So-o-o...” I said with a tone of mock-casualness, eyeing the folder in his hands, making kind of a weak gesture to it as I spoke, “what can you tell me about myself? What um... what deep, dark secrets did I share?”
He looked at me calmly, that half-smile on his face—that same smirk as Prince, and Brad when he was cocky—those penetrating eyes, so deep, almost impossible to look away from...
“All right. One thing: you told me about a time when you were fourteen and your mother intercepted a piece of out-going mail. Do you remember that?”
“No. What are you talking about?”
“You’d filled out an application from the back of one of your comic books, for the Charles Atlas bodybuilding course. You even masturbated to the cartoon of the newly-muscled guy admiring himself in the mirror after using the Atlas ‘dynamic-tension’ method. It was one of your first moments of self-gratification. You certainly remember THAT.”
And then, almost as he said it, I DID remember it. I remembered the whole scene—vividly. I remembered checking the boxes in the little ad next to “bigger chest,” “stronger legs,” “massive arms”—the whole time lost in the beginnings of fantasy, imagining that by reading a book filled with “muscle secrets,” I’d grow into the kind of guy who admired himself in the mirror (while wearing tiger-striped posing trunks). I remembered the erection I had, how it throbbed, how it felt to touch it as I looked at the cartoon, how badly I needed an Atlas body in seven days—what happened when I fantasized about transformation. Orgasm.
And I remembered my mother finding the letter before I could mail it. How humiliated I was as she read it, tore it up and said, “No. You’re not going to be one of THOSE freaks. Ridiculous. Forget it.”
How I resented that. How could I have forgotten it?
“I DO remember it,” I whispered. “Oh my God, like it was yesterday!”
He smiled and nodded. “There’s a lot of that kind of stuff, repressed but present. I think you’re an excellent psychological candidate for this, Strong. There’s gonna be some work of course, but I think you can get there.”
It was all so over-whelming. All my life, I’ve had this dream.
“The first thing we have to do is work on your inhibitions. You’re AMAZINGLY inhibited. I’ve managed to release a couple, but you’ve balled it all up nice and tight in there. We’ll get past it eventually, but you’re clearly not gonna make it easy for me.” He stood then, and made his way back to his desk, dropping my folder on top. “All right,” he continued, his professional air re-emerging, “I have another patient coming in, so we need to finish up. I have your cell-number, so I’ll call you when I’m done with the lab work and we’ll set up our next appointment. It’s nice to meet you, Strong. I’m glad you joined.” He offered me his hand, and I stood and shook it.
“Release,” he murmured when we touched, and as soon as he said it, the fog that had settled over me evaporated—I was completely rejuvenated and refreshed. Completely aware, everything in sharp focus—there was no more confusion.
Everything was the way it was supposed to be.
I felt this wave of gratification toward this wonderful man. “Thanks, Dr. V,” I said, and perhaps my tone betrayed my feelings, but I didn’t care. “I appreciate your taking me on.”
That smile—those eyes. “My pleasure, Strong.” Then he released his grip.
He gave me a card for the elevator—it looked like an ATM card, or a hotel room key with a magnetic stripe—so I could have access to the locker room level, otherwise the elevator wouldn’t go beyond the lobby. I smiled and took it—loving how under the “Apollyon” logo, my name was embossed with the word “member.”
Then, as I was leaving, as I was walking out the door, he added, “And Strong, during your workout today, don’t wear a shirt. I’d like you to gain some comfort exposing yourself a little. You’ll be surprised how liberating it’ll feel.”
I nodded, and tried to make eye-contact, though it was difficult. “Okay, Dr. V,” I said. “No shirt.”
He smiled and sat down at his desk. “Close the door behind you, will you? That’s a good boy.” And I took that as a dismissal.
In the waiting room, a giant of a man sat on the love seat, easily one of the three-hundred pounders Dr. V had been talking about. He glanced up when I entered, and though there was no malice in the look, he clearly assessed me as a competitor, decided I was no threat, and lowered his guard. “New guy?” he asked, standing. The same height as me, but at least a hundred muscular pounds heavier, he was the Hulk to my wimpy Banner—he completely dominated the space.
Dressed in a sleeveless white Under-Armor t-shirt and baggy gym shorts, he looked like he’d just stepped off the athletic field. The spandex/ lycra blend clung to every ridge and cut, creating shadows and tonal contrasts that wouldn’t have been as evident if he HAD been shirtless—the clothes actually enhanced the muscle beneath.
And what muscle it was! I’d never seen pecs like his before—I mean, you see guys who are out-of-proportion, but it’s usually in the arms. This guy looked like he spent a majority of every workout doing decline presses. His lower pecs were so rounded, so heavy, one would almost be tempted to describe them as muscular breasts. Add to that the size of his nipples, standing tall and proud with circumferences of silver dollars right there on each rounded corner, and you could start to visualize the man before me.
That chest, his remarkable, over-developed lats, his heavy legs—simply gigantic in every way.
Like Prince, his face was angular, athletic, off-the-football-field-in-the-middle-of-the-game, lantern-jawed, thin-lipped, squinty-eyed, heavily browed. Cro-Magnon Man. It didn’t help that his hair was cut in a high-and-tight so short that it was impossible NOT to notice how quickly he was balding. Still, I’d put him in his late twenties, early thirties. It was hard to tell—people who were in-shape always appeared sort of ageless to me.
His muscles were round—that’s the only way to describe them, like half-inflated balloons. Even his ab-wall swelled outward, making him look like he had a roidgut—giving him an “outie”—or maybe it was just that he was completely relaxed, even if he looked completely alert, so he wasn’t flexing anything. It’s rare that one sees a bodybuilder completely un-flexed.
I didn’t know what to do, really, so I held my hand out to him, offering to shake. “Yeah, I’m the new guy,” I said, trying to feign confidence. “Strong. Jeff Strong.”
He smirked, and like everyone else so far, he said, “Good name.” When we shook, just like Prince, he took me through the same series of complicated hand-moves, culminating with us making a “snap!” with our fingers as we pulled our hands apart. “I’m Atwood. My buds call me ‘Woody.’” He reached down and casually adjusted his package, his burgeoning erection. “Guess why...?”
We both chuckled—he must use that joke all the time, I thought. I gotta come up with a better line for MY name. “Don’t need to guess,” I said, indicating his dick. “Obvious.”—which made him laugh out loud.
“Well, if it was as big as the rest of me...”
I finished the joke for him. “There wouldn’t be enough room in here for the three of us.”
That got another good laugh, hale and hearty. I liked that this big beast had a sense of humor—or at least that he laughed at my jokes. “You’re a good guy, Strong,” he said, batting me in the pectoral with the back of his hand. “And you got lucky, getting Dr. V. A lot of guys are gonna be pissed off that he took a new-bie instead of one of them.”
“Really?”
He snorted. “Dr. V’s got twice as many three-hundred pounders as all the other docs put together. He must be doin’ something right.” Then he looked me straight in the eye and added, “You got lucky. Dr. V’s the best. If you wanna get as big as the rest of us, you’ll fuckin’ do what he says. Giving him control over your training will be the smartest move you ever made.”
While he spoke, he unconsciously reached down and adjusted his cock, which had begun growing again. Funny thing though, thinking of Dr. V had started ME getting hard, too.
Woody noticed. “Yeah, good,” he said, indicating my dick. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Excellent. Welcome to the club, man. He’s gonna get you huge.” Again, he punctuated his statement with a physical hit, smacking my chest with his forearms, like we were on the football field getting psyched up before the game—the way jocks showed affection.
And then, as if he knew we were talking about him, Dr. V opened the inner-office door saying, “All right, Woody. I’m ready for...” until he saw I was still in the room, then he smiled. “Oh, good. You two have met. That reminds me. Woody, do you have time for a workout?”
Woody broke out in a big grin. “Doc, what are you, kidding me? I ALWAYS got time for a workout!”
Dr. V nodded, as if he were expecting that answer. “Good,” he said, “good,” and turned to me. “Listen Strong, I’m gonna be about fifteen, twenty minutes with Woody, but I’d like him to put you through a workout after that. Do you mind waiting?”
Are you kidding? I thought. A chance to work out with THIS monster?!? (And then, hopefully, jerk-off with him afterward, as was becoming the pattern?) I’d be an IDIOT to turn that down! I mean, this dude was TWICE as big as Prince.
But all I said was, “No, not at all,” in a very calm, controlled voice, even though I think it was possible to HEAR the change in my heart rate.
Dr. V smiled—again, it struck me more as “sly” than “genuine”—and said, “Excellent. Well then, why don’t you go downstairs and have Brad whip you up a protein shake? I’ll send Woody down as soon a I’m done with him.” With that, he pulled the office door open all the way and ushered Woody through, who had to turn slightly to allow the width of his shoulders.
Woody said, “See you in a bit, bro,” and disappeared into the inner-office.
Dr. V turned to follow, but when he saw me not moving, he stopped and addressed me. “Are you confused about what you need to do?” he asked.
“No,” I said. It was just all moving so fast. “Um... no.”
“Well then, you’ve been given your orders. Go.”
I was out the door and down the hall before I even realized how quickly I’d obeyed him.
When I did, my erection came back.
I rang the button for the elevator, suddenly craving a protein shake.
Maybe strawberry.