Change his Mind - part 3
"Give me another rep, faggot," Brutus growls in my ears. His hands wrap around the bar, but he refuses to pull, forcing me to shake and quiver as I try and push the weights up so that I can rack them. I'm not going to make it and I know I won't, Brutus just likes to see me struggle. What an ass. The bar, and the total thirty pounds attached to it, stay suspended above my prone body, my elbows trembling with the strain of keeping all that mass held. I just wish he would help me, isn't that what the point of a spot is? "Come on, I haven't got all day. Hurry up or I'm moving on." I want to yell, but I hate when the guys in the gym do that. With my eyes screwed up, sweat dripping down my cheeks, I manage to bring the bar up, finally finishing the rep. The bar locks back into its rest, and I just lie there, panting, my chest burning with the exertion. "Good enough, I guess." The panther walks off to do his own thing, giving me a small rest.
It's like this every time I get a session with Brutus. He won't help me anymore unless the weights are actively crushing me. I'm sure he just wants me to leave, and be able to tell Ziude that it's my own weakness that keeps me from getting huge. I won't let that bastard have the satisfaction of breaking me. I won't give up. I even started taking some steps of my own to help, so I can progress much quicker, like eating more and having extra meals during the day. I'm up to 6 feedings. The problem is keeping Brutus from knowing what I'm up to. Somehow I think he guesses, because the last two weeks he's been driving me harder than ever.
"Get up already, you're not even close to done." I groan. He's right of course. It's a Monday, which means that I've got chest and back to focus on. Ten sets of ten repetitions, alternating between bench press and pull ups: an exhausting procedure. I've been doing the same routine for four weeks, and I really just want to move on to another phase. All this endurance training gets really boring really fast. My shirt peels itself off of the seat, sweat leaking through the fabric to the point where it coats the leather bench beneath. Maybe it's my imagination, but the shirt does seem tighter around my torso, though that's probably the fluids causing it to stick to me. It sure looks loose around my stomach.
Pull ups aren't nearly as bad. Brutus says I can't possibly do it without assistance, so he has me use the machines. I'm just fine with that, it means I'm not relying on the brute to save me if he feels like it or not. My hands grip the holds, arms reaching as far as they can above my head and slightly to the side. It feels like I'm about to try and flap my arms so I can fly, which I guess explains why people refer to the lats as wings. I'm sure mine aren't nearly that big yet, but it would be awesome if they could be. Having people just stare at me as I effortlessly lift my body into the air, the rise and fall of a muscular male showing off his strength.
"Pay attention, fag. Breaks over." So much for my reverie. With a sigh I get to it, struggling to lift my body even with the 70 pounds of weight assisting me. That just seems so sad, I can barely do pull ups with more than half my own body weight taken away. Everybody has to start from somewhere, I just wish I wasn't starting at negative. The eighth rep passes with slight grunts, the ninth in agony. I don't want to do the tenth. I hang, knees resting on the seat that helps push my weight upwards. He can't make me do a tenth if I don't feel like it. Maybe I can fake doing a tenth.
But I know he knows. He always does. He counts, he watches, and he takes delight in my suffering. The only way I can win is by showing him that I am capable, that I have the will and desire to outlast his slavedriving. I can't do the full rep, my body just won't let me. It allows me to lift to the point where my elbows bend slightly, where my shoulder blades are bunching against one another. But I can't rise higher. My head will not be able to clear my fists, knuckles white as they grip the bar. It simply won't happen. The sound of Brutus chuckling, a deep mocking tone, fills me with shame. I have to concede defeat this time. But only this time. Never again.
It is never the case, though. Each session ends with me being unable to complete the routine. When it's chest and back, I fail on the pull ups. For legs I can't do the last set of squats. My stomach just won't let me do anymore crunches once I've hit 90. Each week I can squeeze out one more rep, or lower myself a little slower to get a better strain, but I can't reach the goal, that 100 reps reached over ten sets. I have to hit it, not just to avoid Brutus' cruel laughter, not just so I can feel proud of myself. I have to do it for Ziude.
The wolf encourages me, whether he does it intentionally or not. He always has a nice word to say, or a friendly pat on the back accompanied with a smile. Does he want me as much as I want him? I don't think about that too much. It would be way too depressing to come to the realization that I'm just a friend to him, and not a potential romantic interest. For now I'll just take the praise he gives me when I manage to survive another workout, that adulation spurring me to strive my hardest the next day.
Ziude has his own ideas, however, and some of them just make me feel uncomfortable. He's decided to force me to change my wardrobe, to buy an entirely new set of clothes. "The loose stuff just doesn't work for you, hun," the wolf says as he starts looking through racks of t-shirts and jeans. I'm not listening, my eyes and mind are focused on the bouncing ass. It jiggles with a perkiness that suits the wolf perfectly, both that rump and body so full of energy and excitement that it makes children seem sedate.
He pulls out a pair of tight blue jeans, with a faint red tinge to the zipper and the waist band. There are shapes and patterns sewn into the back pockets that I can't discern. It all looks like a garbled mess of trendy colour that I just don't want to go anywhere near. Do it for Ziude, I tell myself. The jeans find their way into my arms, followed by two more pairs. I check the waist size on them - 28. I normally wear a 32, and those fall right off of me These are going to be tight as hell if I can even squeeze into them. "You sure these aren't going to be too small, Ziude?" I ask, my voice wavering. He probably knows better than I do, but this seems ridiculous.
"You'll look perfect for November, just in time for the winter fashion trends." A fourth pair lands in the growing pile. "Things that hug your butt and make it show off, that's what the current fashion says." He smacks his own rear, causing it to bounce in that delightful way it does when he runs. I lose the will to argue. "You're going to look super sexy when I'm done with you, they'll be all over your body." He giggles, his tail swishing as he sorts through the shelves and racks of clothing. I don't want to look at the price. It's going to be painful, I know it.
Then he gets to the shirts, and these I want to protest. Size small, he insists. I wear a large, and I'm happy with swimming in my shirts. He won't allow it, it's small or he's going to cry, he says. Not wanting to cause a scene, I relent. He goes right back to that giddy school girl attitude of his, picking off shirts and assessing them. Those he likes he hands to me for later, and those which don't make the grade get hidden amongst the racks. "Don't want other people wearing such horrible clothing," he states. He's the expert on the subject around here, so all I can do is nod in agreement.
I've no time to actually study the shirts he wants me to try on. Ziude shoves me into the changing room, shutting the door behind me. I can see his tail sashaying as he waits for me to try on all the clothing, some ten jeans and twenty shirts. This is going to be a nightmare. "And make sure you try on each shirt with each pair of pants, I need to see what goes with what to decide." What an absurd request, I think. But it will make him happy if I do it, so I might as well acquiesce. It is going to be a very long afternoon.
The reddish jeans slip on first. They hug my thighs and quads in a way that's foreign and unsettling. When I manage to slip them up to my waist, it feels like my butt is sticking out, held up by the denim. For somebody used to baggy, it's an alien feeling that makes me uncomfortable. But they fit, I can't deny that. They fit stunningly, just tight enough to be revealing, but not so tight as to be painful and digging into my hips. Ziude knows what he's doing, I remind myself. And the wolf's a great judge of other people's size, it appears.
Now that I've got the chance to flip through the shirts, I stumble across one that catches my interest. The white of the fabric looks so thin that I can see my hand through it. Transcperant doesn't cut it, this shirt might as well be made of mesh. If feels like silk, smooth and soft. I want to try it on for that reason alone, to have something so luxurious rubbing against my fur. Gold embroidery adorns the left half of the shirt, looping around to the back of the article. I can't figure out the pattern until I hold the shirt up in the mirror - the gold forms the shape of a roaring tiger. It makes me grin: I always did like big cats. The shirt slips on, as tight and clingy as the jeans. When I look in the mirror, I get the full picture.
There's a fox standing there, his brown eyes dazzling in the fluorescent light, matching his messy mop of hair. He should probably get a haircut, it's been nearly three months now, but he likes how it grows in, wild and untamed. The black stripe that covers his muzzle and extends between his eyes fades smoothly between the whites and oranges of his face. His shirt is tight, showing off the faintest definition of a chest beneath it, the slight outline of musculature in pecs and abs. The sleeves don't even cover his biceps, which allows for the muscle there to move freely, a slight bunching of sinew when he reaches behind his ears to scratch. When he shifts to the side, the jeans that hug his legs move like liquid, not a crease to be found in the material. It shows off the heft of his butt, minuscule compared to the wolf he desires. I know his weight, it's 125, his height 5'5. And I've never looked so good in my entire life.
When I leave the changing room, Ziude's reaction fills me with glee. He starts to fan himself with a hand, looking like he might faint at any moment. "Oh darling, you look smashing!" he says, in one of those false french fashion designer accents. Then he starts giggling, runs over and gives me a hug. "I told you I could do wonders for your look, and you are one sexy fox right now." he plants a kiss on my cheek that has me blushing so hard I'm worried I'll set the clothing on fire. "I think we can call this pair a success. But you're going to have to try them all on anyway." I smile. It's going to be fine with me, especially if I get a kiss each time I look good.
In the end, I only purchase four new jeans and seven shirts. The lady at the counter rings it up while trying to hide a grin. I know what she's thinking, and I wish it was true. But Ziude's not my partner, we aren't in a relationship. Right now he's just taking care of me, being the sweetest person I've met. He can claim me whenever he wants, scoop me off my feet and carry me into the night, riding atop a white horse like some cliche movie scene. Until then I have to endure the torture of being close to somebody I love, but can not approach on the matter. I should have been paying attention to the cost of the clothing. Love has no price, though.
Ziude bids me adieu when we leave the shop. He tells me that Brutus will be waiting for supper, and that the wolf will get beaten if the food isn't ready. Though Ziude says it with a smile and a laugh, I'm not entirely sure if he's joking. Brutus certainly falls into the aggressive male category, yet he treats Ziude with such care and devotion that I can't imagine Brutus inflicting physical harm on the canine. I wave my goodbye, Ziude running home, his ass bouncing like it did the first time I saw him on the treadmill. My heart flutters.
I'd told Ziude I was heading home. The lie was painful, but necessary. I can't let him know that I am planning on heading to another gym. Despite all my exhaustion from the session earlier in the day, I'm about to go push myself to do even more, to train and get a leg up on Brutus. It has to be a different gym, I'd come to realize. If I I tried to stay behind at the other gym, Brutus would catch me, and get suspicious. No doubt he would stop trying to help me if he knew I was working behind his back. He is necessary, the only thing that I had to help me with form, to teach me the proper routines. The Internet is only so good for things, but I'd learned a lot from my research. Now it's time to put it all into practice.
The college gym, open to all, welcomes me into its embrace. The receptionist, a blond haired jaguar girl, greets me with a friendly face and a series of forms to fill out. Wavers, agreements, contracts - the usual affair, she explains. Just the things that everybody has to sign in case something should happen and that keeps the gym from having any obligation to its customers aside from supplying the facilities. I sign away on the dotted line. When she gives me my membership, after taking nearly two hundred dollars from my taxed credit card, I stroll through the turnstile that keeps the non-members out. It's time to start pushing my body to the absolute limit.
Students chat amongst themselves while they change in the locker room. One group starts to laugh, the huge bear among them having dismisses the need for cardio. "When you have a gun, who needs to run?" The logic sounds horribly flawed. An iguana nearby me mutters something that sound suspiciously like "our police officers". It's times like this that I am glad I don't have to deal with these immature people on a regular basis. Trying to ignore all the noise and hubbub, I stuff the afternoon's purchases into my locker, quickly changing from street clothes to gym attire - shorts that are just a little tighter than when I started two months ago, grey tank top soaked with sweat from earlier beginning to reek of musk. I'll need to wash it again when i get home.
I know enough about exercise at this point to realize that doing chest and back again will rip the muscle to a degree where I will be in long term pain. Brutus plans to have me do hamstrings tomorrow, as well, which will put my legs out of commission. That just leaves arms. Biceps, triceps, shoulders - not one of my favourite workouts. I've come this far already, giving up and pulling back would not just be a waste of money, it would be a self-admitted defeat. I can't let myself give in. Fight, I tell myself, slipping a pair of headphones over my ears. Focus and reach the goal. The music player in my pocket hums to life, flooding my aural canals with energetic rock music. I can't hear anything else.
For the next hour, I experience nothing but music and lifting, the sensation of audio pleasure mixed with physical application. The zone, they call it. That's where I am, so engrossed in my activities that I lose count of how many reps I've done in my sets. Was that ten, or did I do eleven? Maybe I should do one more just to make sure. This is what I'm missing in my workouts with Brutus - music. I can't listen to anything when I have to hear the brute shouting at me. Here, I am free to enjoy the sounds of guitars and drums working together in harmony. The session becomes akin to writing an essay when I was in high school: something I do with the music. Another curl with each beat, tricep extensions in time with the rhythm. The pieces fit together.
I stop for only one thing. In the middle of doing shoulder presses, I feel my bowels squirm. It's the sort of sensation I associate with indigestion. I know what's about to happen, and I try and keep myself from giving in without having to cease my exercise. It isn't mean to be. The wind passes from between my cheeks, the smell of it drifting up to my nose and making me cough. It's not as foul as I would have expected, but unwelcome all the same. When I set the weights back down, I hastily look around to see if anybody noticed my little faux pas. Nobody appears the wiser. I dismiss the event as being the result of working out, and will just have to try harder to prevent a similar thing from occurring in the future.
An hour passes, and I can't remember how much I've done. I feel fantastic, though. My arms, engorged with blood and water, peak to the point where I can make out the definition between bicep and shoulder. I poke at my triceps beneath, my finger meeting with the firm resistance of muscle. I'm smiling, I must look look like an idiot. A small, pint sized fox standing in the middle of a gym full of musclebound college men. Does it matter what people think about me right now? I just completed my second series of weight lifting for the day. I am in a state of euphoria akin to sexual release. The music fades out, the battery drained, leaving me with my self-prescribed praise.
In the change room, I try and stay in the corner, keeping to myself. Mirrors hang on the ceiling, on diagonals above the lockers. My eyes glancing up, I can see my shirtless self in the reflection. I look pretty sexy, I think. Not nearly as athletic as Ziude, but not the sort of skeleton I used to be. Now I'm trim, and even, dare I say, starting to show signs of being buff. I lift my arms and flex, a double bicep pose similar to the ones I've seen on the videos online. So distracted by my own antics, I fail to realize that somebody is watching me until he coughs.
I turn around to find a German Shepard giving me the once over. He clearly approves of what he sees, as I notice the slight rise in his shorts. My cheeks go red at the two fold realization: somebody caught me, and somebody finds me attractive. "You wanna head back to my place?" the Shepard asks, giving me this cocky grin. At a cursory glance, he fits my criteria for attractive. He's buff, even if not bodybuilder big, and he's got some great definition. His nipples are hard, pointing towards me, along with that pillar in his shorts.
I want to tell him no, but I'm afraid, so afraid. Somebody actually likes me, is even propositioning me, and I can't act. I can't get myself to respond and let myself say yes, like my beating heart and aching cock want. He must sense my hesitation. He puts a paw on my shoulder and smiles. "I'm hear pretty regularly. If you ever want to have some fun, let me know. I've got a pad all to myself." He smacks my butt, milking a soft yelp out of me. Then he laughs. "Don't be too loud, now." The German Shepard walks off, letting me get a view of his tight bubble butt. It's not Ziude's, but it's still nice to look at.
Flustered, I pack up my stuff and rush out of the gym. I've got a long walk ahead of me, and I want to get home as quick as possible. Plus there's a certain rigid body part demanding my attention. I keep thinking about that Shepard, and the offer. Anytime I want, he said. I'll have to take him up on that sometime, maybe when I'm a little bit bigger. Or maybe once I've already gotten a chance to go at it with Ziude. About a block from my house, daydreaming about getting it on with Ziude, I fail to notice the gruff cough of the man behind me. Not until the big paw lands on my shoulder do I realize there's another person nearby. Brutus spins me around, the hulk of panther looming over me. His pecs are right in front of my muzzle. Please don't make me look up, I think.
"Stop talking to Ziude," the panther says. "Stay the fuck away from him. No more talking, no more lunch, no more spending time with him. You do that, and you can keep training with me. Otherwise you're on your own, faggot." He leaves me no chance to respond, just stands up, pushes me to the ground, turns around and walks away. How long has he been waiting here, I wonder, trying to keep myself from thinking about the ramifications of what he's said. My body trembles with fear. He could destroy me, and probably rough up the police if I pressed charges for it. Give up training, or give up Ziude. I don't like those options.
Once inside my room, the safety of my own home, I reach a conclusion: I don't need Brutus. I can keep going to the gym, it's a free space. Ziude doesn't belong to anybody, he's free game. If the panther won't train me, I'll find somebody else who will. I'll scour the Internet for affordable trainers in the area. Maybe Ziude will get so pissed off at Brutus that the two will break up, that would be wonderful. Then Ziude will come looking for me, and we'll be able to live together. We'll spend entire weeks just having sex, his cock inside of me, pistoning in and out of my ass.
I can't quite pinpoint the moment my hand begins to stroke my member, nor ascertain when exactly I take off all my clothing. My thoughts circle around Ziude, of me being the perfect male for the wolf. In my fantasy I'm as big as Brutus, as huge and powerful, and there's Ziude fawning over me, climbing up my mountainous pectorals and kissing me. Then I'm smaller, the wolf nearly a full foot taller, his malehood shoved so deep into my rump it makes me howl with pleasure, a pleasure I've never felt but have read about so many times.
My unused hand roams my body, needing something to do as its partner strokes my aching dick. I find firmness under my touch, budding mounds of muscle wherever my hand explores. I can almost cup my chest, push it up and get it to flex large enough to be gropable. My abs have some solidity to them, enough that I can trace the outlines of a six pack, faint as it may still be. I don't want to sit up and check on my legs, that would ruin my comfort, the pleasantness of jacking off while lying on my bed. I reach behind to check on my rear, to see if I will be blessed with a bulbous butt like Ziude or the firm bubble like that German Shepard.
Something prods at my hole, seeking entrance. I've done this once or twice before, back when I was experimenting. Fingering myself. There's some pleasure to be had in it, but I hate the idea of what I am shoving up there, and then having to try and wash the smell off of my hand. I want it now, though. Want to feel something deep inside of me, to simulate what it will be like when Ziude would be pounding my ass. My finger wwill have to do. As it worms its way inside, I gasp. It feels so much better than I remembered, the digit probing my innards. Why didn't I do this every time.
Before the second knuckle can reach inside, I'm climaxing, firing a load that reaches up to my neck. I can't remember the last time I've orgasmed that hard, to the point where I'm left panting, drained, in a state of afterglow that lasts for minutes. I need to eat still, I should probably wash up and clean off. It can all wait. Right now the only thing that matters is this sensation of bliss, the knowledge that thinking about being dominated by Ziude got me riled up and excited. My cock jerks, the last drop or cum slipping out and matting into my groin. Maybe I'll skip the shower tonight. My growling stomach won't let me ignore a meal, however. Peeling myself off the bed takes more effort than normal, the sheets beneath stained with sweat and some cum that missed my body. Just another thing that needs a wash in this house. It can wait.
Walking up in the morning, I'm assaulted by the smell of sex. My own musk infiltrates my nostrils, causing my cock to stir, the first symptoms of morning wood kicking in. I'll take care of it in the shower, when I'm cleaning out the dried semen from the previous night out of my fur. The stench doesn't bother me, or at least that's what my leaking shaft tells me. I'll need to deal with that as well. It wouldn't be right to walk around smelling this terrible, though the idea of trying to get away with it makes me giddy. What's the worst that can happen if I do it once, I tell myself. I'll just shrug it off and say that I didn't have time to properly wash up this morning.
In the end I go for the shower, though skip on deodorant to compromise. I toss the towel in the corner of my room, next to the laundry hamper, my spent dick having been cleaned and satiated under the water. I fish through the new articles of clothing, settling on a jean with a button fly combined with monochromatic red t-shirt. When I slip on the pants, they won't fit properly, not like they did yesterday. They get on my legs, even reach my hips, but I can't do up the top button, and the material rides up into my ass crack. I slip on a belt to keep the fly closed, thinking that I just bought these, so I'm going to wear them no matter how much it hurts.
The shirt offers difficulties of its own, the sleeves getting caught on my biceps, the bottom of the shirt unable to cover a tiny strip of fur just above my pelvis. It was fine the day before, I'm sure of that. It definitely hung over my jeans when I was trying it on. Clothing doesn't shrink without going through the wash, does it? Maybe it's colder than I think it is in the house, and the material constricted on itself slightly. I should bump up the thermostat just in case. But I can't help wondering, thinking that all this is the result of my workouts paying off. The results shouldn't be this quick, that would be impossible. I'll need to check the mirror when I get home later after my workout tonight.