Monster Flex- Part 3

After a bulking cycle goes into overdrive, Asgore feels he needs professional help- but even they seem awestruck by the monster king's beastly brawn. Enjoy!

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Brock Henson, four time Mr. Universe champion, didn't have the usual set-up for a personal trainer. His office was next to a TV studio, and while he spent a lot of time in a gym, his clients were all hopefuls for bodybuilding titles, and he knew better than most about how important visuals and aesthetics were— he took meatheads and slabs of raw beef and molded them into champions and heroes. He drummed his fingers against his desk, checking his schedule. He was starting to think that this was a joke— he just wish he knew what the name "Asgore" was a reference to. Something to do with ass, maybe? 

"Stupid name…" he muttered. He reached for his intercom. "Hey, Marsha? Cancel my twelve thirty— they're twenty minutes late, and I'm pretty sure this was a crank call anyways."

"Uh… Brock? Your twelve thirty is here," his receptionist responded. "He, uh. Had a little trouble getting through the door."

Brock furrowed his brow. "Getting through the door? I'll be right there." He rolled his eyes, pulling himself out of his seat and moving out from his office. "Probably some roided up freak of— oh my God."

Brock's jaw fell open as he spotted the massive, hulking figure now filling his waiting room. He had heard about the monsters that had moved into the next town over, but he didn't know they came this big. The goat-faced beast, with his shaggy white fur and mane of blond hair, was a gargantuan mass of muscle. His enormous mountain range of shoulder muscles sprawled out and had swallowed up his neck, merely the highest peaks of an enormous collection of muscle that outweighed Brock's next three biggest clients combined. That jutting mass of pectoral muscle was like the grill of a monster truck, with enormous boulder biceps and triceps thick as anvils, abs so bloated with brawn they had begun to curve out against one another, and tire-thick thighs to match the grill of a chest.

"Hah— Hi there. You, uhm. You're Mr. Asgore?"

"Oh, hah, Asgore is my first name— my last name is Dreemurr." Brock nearly flinched as he felt the floor shake under the goat's heavy footfalls as he stuck out a meaty mitt. "And you're the one they call the Kingmaker, right?"

"Ah— yes, yes, that's me," Brock cleared his throat as he saw his hand swallowed up half way down his forearm. "And you want my help? What, uh, what seems to be the problem?"

"Well… I-I've actually been watching your videos online, but I can't quite get the angle you recommend for some poses." Asgore shimmied off his shirt and gym shorts, revealing the purple posers that girded his thick hips. "So… the side chest pose, you recommended in your video that the angle of the arm be at a ninety degrees and low enough to show the top-most abs… but, ah…"

Asgore slowly shifted his enormous weight, straining to grip the opposite arm across the vast canyon of his chest, his peaked buoy of a bicep pressed deep into his pectoral muscle, his chest rising up like flood waters until it eclipsed his chin. "So, uh—" Asgore couldn't help but grin even if it was out of bashfulness. "A-as you can see, I can't get the angle just right with… everything in the way." He looked from Brock and his receptionist's shocked looks, and he grinned a bit broader. "Do you… think you can work with me?"

Brock recovered himself, turning to the equally stunned receptionist. "Marsha? Cancel all my appointments. I'm going to need all of my time to work on someone with… this much potential."

Asgore scoffed gently, waving off Brock's compliment. "Golly— you'll make me blush!"