From: silicondog This is a continuation of another story on this site: Cop Encounter WARNING: If you are under eighteen or find explicit sexual references offensive and male to male sexuality, read no further. By silicondog@earthlink.net at: http://home.earthlink.net/~silicondog/gallery.html and http://www.geocities.com/WestHollywood/Village/2013/2013.html Once, when he was in a talking kind of mood, he told me about when he was growing up, he changed fast. Like, when he was thirteen, he could wear an adult medium jockstrap, and started to grow the mustache. When he was fifteen, he could wrestle and pin any high school senior of whatever weight, and at sixteen, could fuck them unconscious as well. By seventeen, he could do that to three men in a row. By nineteen he was the youngest Mr. California ever, and nobody knew why he had "retired" after winning three straight titles. After his third title, he noticed something really strange about his body: he was getting stronger and heavier, but his measurements didn't change all that much. He stayed roughly the same height (six foot two) but instead of being the 240-lb. guy he looked like, he was actually well over three hundred pounds, and his strength still hadn't peaked out. Where most bodybuilders were muscle over bone, he became tanned oak over iron. He outgrew the weights in the "normal" gym, and had to stop competing, since he wouldn't have made it past the weigh- in. He told me once that he stopped measuring himself anyway, and just kept pumping his strength as hard as he could. He could never find anybody else with the stamina that he had, anyway. In the pictures he has in the gym, you can see him in the Mr. California contest, polished curly black hair and 'stach over tanned carved muscle, but you can't tell about his power or strength just by looking at the posters or the regular gym. You have to keep looking. He lives just over the gym, but I've never been up there. In his room, I mean. I'm there when he works out (you think I mean spot him, but there aren't many guys who can spot Rory, if you know what I mean). He doesn't like an audience when he works out, and it didn't take me long to figure out why. His gym is out towards the airport, with only a deserted auto repair shop and a railroad crossing yard for neighbors. He starts his workouts every night at midnight, always. The special gym room he set up has dumbbells he made for himself, using the welding equipment he got working over at the body shop, because he doesn't have much use for the lighter stuff (150 lb.) that's in the gym. The dumbbells he made special are the 150 pounders, with lots of ten pound plates welded flat on the side. The regular gym has dumbbells that go up by five pounds; he starts with the light ones (100 lb.) for shoulder raises, goes to 150 for shoulder flies, 200 for dumbbell curls, all the way up to the 350-lb. things he pumps his chest with on dumbbell flies. The bench has this reinforcement on the joints, since between Rory and the dumbbells, there could be half a ton to support. There's no windows and no mirror; just Rory and the weights. There's a shoulder press with an old Olympic bar sagging under the many hundred pound plates Rory stacked on either side; he uses it to burn his delts. The night I was late, I should've been there when Rory was doing his biceps, since he starts out with the 200 lb. concentration curls. The only thing he wears is the old red Speedo suit he wore to the Mr. California contest. He cut out the basket of an extra-large Speedo of the same style and stitched it onto his medium suit; it's the only way he could fit into it, he told me once. The room was empty, with the monster dumbbells scattered around over the dented rubber floor (another thing Rory had to do was to build this special; the floor is thick rubber mats over concrete with reinforced steel rods; it takes him dropping 1400-pound barbells on it to keep it strong). I knew that for whatever reason (usually it's because he's horny) he went on to pump in the auto shop next door. Since this neighborhood is deserted even in daytime, it doesn't matter that he still just wears his Speedo. Even in a California winter, the only other thing he wears is an old tank top tied together in the middle. There were just a few lights on next door, but I could see that he must have been worked up about something. There are always these steel drums lying around, from whatever the junkyard had been doing when it was in business. Rory likes to pump his legs by squeezing the oil drum with his thighs, folding it into itself. When I came in, I could see that he also had worked his shoulders and arms, when I could see a few of those drums, crumpled down into basketball- sized lumps. Then I heard the rhythmic creaking of something heavy and made of iron, and knew I hadn't missed Rory. There was a stripped lowrider in the back, where Rory had stacked some car engines in the front and back seats. In the single overhead light, I saw him, using the car for calf raises, the car bumper in his thick hands. His feet balanced on a steel beam, he was lifting the great mass of metal up and down, his chiseled face one of concentration on the burn of his calves and feet. The old Chevy creaked and groaned as Rory's calves tilted the huge mass of iron back and forth for forty reps, until he gently put the tire-less mass on the concrete floor of the shop. With a curt nod of his head (when he gets really worked up, he doesn't like to talk much, if at all) I knew what he was working next. Over by the hydraulic lift he had once rigged some poles and beams to do dips, lat raises and pull- ups. But what gave him the workout was what was balanced on the lift: the engine of an old Cadillac, with a loop of thick boat chain hooked to it. Wrapping the thick chain around his narrow hips, he balanced onto the beams, and nodded. I dropped the lift, and the bulky engine floated in mid-air, hanging by Rory's hips. With a sharp hiss, he started to do dips, controlled, his triceps burning against the sharkskin-hard tanned skin. His cock started to pulse slowly as well, arcing across the Speedo towards his left hip. The mass of metal only swaying slightly over the controlled reps, I counted out thirty before I raised the engine. With the chain slack, Rory reached overhead to a parallel beam, and I dropped the lift. His arms stretched as wide as possible, he started lat raises, pulling himself and the engine up until his quarter-sized nipples on the great plates of pecs were brushing against the beam. In the light, it looked as if his back muscles were trying to snap each other through the skin. After another thirty, I gave Rory and the engine some slack. Changing the grip to do pull-ups, his biceps splitting into three separate heads of granite, he pulled himself up again and again, until his pecs brushed against his own fingers on the bar. The steel bar was bending lightly and groaning under the weight, and I could almost hear Rory's thick pumped tendons grinding against each other and the thick dense bone. On the thirtieth rep, I pulled the lever to raise the engine, and Rory clambered down to the concrete floor, only a bit of stiffness betraying the strain of the weights he had pumped. Up close and personal he gives off his own gravity. That's the only way I can explain it. Even if you hadn't just watched him pump tons of metal, you still could sense his density. When he caught a towel I tossed him to wipe his hands (he had just broken a sweat on the pull-ups) you could watch the carved great planes of muscle over his chest and shoulders swell against each other into the tanned column of his broad neck. His belly looked as dense, intricate and unyielding as an iron sculpture, intercostals and abs glistening lightly in the garage's light. I always got off on checking out his forearms. It's a body part that tends to remain the same, bodybuilders or no: but Rory's were different. There's no taper as they leave the elbow, just a thick column of veined tendons under a light dusting of hair that connected straight down to his broad hands and thick fingers, hands that could either massage your shoulder blades or clamp around a 350-lb. dumbbell. "We gotta find something heavier for the dips" he blandly said, looking at the great hunk of iron he had just lifted with his triceps, back and biceps. Even his voice was different, a heavier timber as it echoed through the dense chest and lungs. I just nodded; Rory's big challenge was pumping his legs. Even if he wasn't a bodybuilder, Rory's frame would be long and strong; his pillars of legs could only really get worked out in the railroad yard next door, where on occasion the conductors would come to work in the morning to find the railroad cars shoved back and forth on the rails. Rory told me he wondered if he could get away with sneaking into the train yard to work out with the engine, wrapping the thick chain around the engine car and pulling them down the track, to be pushed back at the end of the rep. So that night, when we both returned to the gym in the moonlight, we were more than surprised to find a police car (at least it wasn't flashing its pinball machine) parked outside. And when a big, muscular guy whose body was stretching under a police uniform clambered out from behind the wheel (I was close enough to read S-T-E-E-L-E on his nametag) I should have known we were all in for a night. He had come to warn us of a bodybuilder thief in the neighborhood, but before the night was out, he was going to capture the burglar himself, even if it was at the cost of getting captured himself! (The following segment is a continuation of "Cop Encounter") Steele will walk in, sweating. It's a hot night, and his shirt is soaked through with sweat, clinging around his pecs swooping into his belly. Rory doesn't use the aircon when he pumps; when you're pressing 1400 pounds behind your neck for reps, the last thing you need is 70 degree air. And Rory doesn't take Steele as seriously as the cop would want; when you've got a body like Steele's, the last thing you go begging for is respect. Which he doesn't get as much from Rory as he would like. Rory's still wearing just the Speedo, and Steele can tell that Rory's cut. "What's in there?" Steele asks, pointing to Rory's workout room with the mutant dumbbells. "That's where I pump" Rory says. Steele invites himself into Rory's gym and walks into his private workout area, littered with the giant weights. Steele points to the 350-lb. ones. "What do you pump with those?" the cop asks. "Chest. For flies" Rory adds. With that, Steele sits down on the bench, and balances his thick cop boots before him, grabbing the 350-pound weight with one hand. He swings the thick weight up in a dumbbell curl, and on the second, the sweat-soaked fabric of his arms split open and the three-lobed, veined, sweating mass of his bicep bursts through. Fifteen more times he swings the immense iron club of dumbbell up, strictly curling the mass to his chin. He doesn't bother to roll up his other sleeve, and when he switches arms, the sleeve on his other arm breaks under the swelling muscle. Finishing his reps, he stands up not a foot away from Rory's near naked, sweating body. Even though the cuffs of his short-sleeves held, the biceps are pumped through the burst sleeves. His hair matted with sweat, Steele twitches his great biceps. "Cheap material" Steele offers. Rory coolly reaches forward and in one sharp grab, as easily as one could snap a paper towel, he grabs Steele's shirt and tears it off of his torso. The cop's great hair-matted plates of chest sweat in the gym's light, and Steele gives Rory the look a guy gives someone who is gonna be bouncing off his cock by the end of the night. Rory reaches to Steele's belt -- but only to take Steele's night stick out of its scabbard. Calmly holding it with two hands, Rory looks Steele in the eye -- and snaps it in two as easily as a pencil. The tanned heavy hands doubling the broken halves of the oak nightstick, he breaks it into quarters. Except for the splintering of wood and the hissing of breath, the gym is deadly quiet. The corners of his mouth turning up in a small smile under his curly moustache, Rory reaches to Steele's belt with one hand. Rory takes the pieces of Steele's mangled nightstick and tucks the pieces into Steele's basket, which is swelling fast against the crotch. "Cheap equipment, too" Rory offers. "I've got bigger equipment to keep control" Steele answers. Rory's resisting arrest . . . and Officer Steele isn't gonna like it. They're wrestling on the floor, when Rory jumps onto Steele's back and the huge cop feels those great redwood tree trunks of Rory's thighs wrap around his belly. Rory's broad tanned feet hook themselves over the cop's six-pack -- and then Rory squeezes for all he's worth. Steele suddenly feels as if a car has dropped off its jack with him under it as the brown, hairless thighs grind into his pumped torso. Riding the cop's back, Rory's great cock begins to swing up over Steele's writhing sweaty lats. Pumping his thighs into the cop again, Rory can feel the dense armor of Steele's chest and torso begin to lose against his legs. Always when he has worked his legs this hard, it has always been against hundreds of pounds of cold iron or metal -- but the writhing muscles and heavy sweat of the cop is fueling the pumping beginning in his orange-sized balls which are rolling against the small of Steele's back. For the third time he pumps his huge thighs to break the cop -- but this time the blood roaring through his legs is now begining to squeeze through his balls to the cock stiffening as it points up Steele's V-shaped back. For the first time in his life, Rory comes by accident. The first shot flies down Steele's back to the workout mat past his head, trailing up his lats and his hair. The cock flying like a firehose, the next shot trails down from Rory's face and moustache onto his pecs and between his abs. As his cock pumps again and again, Rory's strength pumps away with it, his balls squeezing the muscles in his legs to fuel the cock shooting again and again onto Steele's back. Rory can no longer even squeeze as his strength and brains feel as if they too have shot onto the cop, and he finally is just sitting on the barrel torso as his balls empty at last. Strips of thick come trail down Rory's heaving chest; they trail past the cop onto the black rubber of the floor. Steele's heaving back is almost a solid sheet of white. Exhausted, Rory pries his legs away from the caked cop and kneels over his back. One hand rubs along the come-soaked lats of the cop while the other gently turns the 400-pound body over. Exhausted, Steele can only watch while Rory smiles and gently sits on his six-pack. Rory's asscheeks on Steele's cobblestone belly, he takes one of his coated fingers and puts it into Steele's mouth. Steele tastes it -- and then his eyes narrow and his mouth tingles. He starts to suck Rory's finger -- and gets two more for his trouble. Still heated from its cooking in Rory's iron balls, the white come feels like hot oil across Steele's back and in his mouth. Rory's boner, still hard, lies across the plates of the cop's chest. Veins that could pump along Flex Wheeler's arm snake down from his bush to the head, its ridge purple from the blood returning to the tip. Having sucked the fingers clean, Steele begins to lap back and forth across Rory's broad hand and palm, sucking and nibbling. He slowly gets to his feet, his legs rubbery from exhaustion. Reaching to the tatters of the police uniform, Rory slowly unreels the leather belt from the pants and stands astride the exhausted cop. "You gonna read me my rights?" Steele said, smiling. Rory only takes the belt and threads it around Steele's iron-knit belly, cinching it tight. With one hand clamped on the belt, he lifts Steele up like a puppy until the cop is at eye level. Steele leans over to nibble and suck at the come which is drying on Rory's moustache. Rory then begins to carry Steele towards the door, the great body gently bobbing in his hand, their lips and tongues dueling over the drying loads on their face. HASSLE SILICONDOG: FINISH THIS STORY!