Cum dosing

by BRK   

Mark’s hunky roommate, Aaron, is dead set on getting bigger, and Mark has a vested interest in making it happen.

“Bro, check it out! My cousin Paulie’s selling off his free weights! Dirt cheap, too!”

I glanced up at roommate, Aaron, who’d just bounded into view with a big, goofy grin on his smooth, square-jawed, fratboy-handsome face. My gaze quickly slid off his face and onto his chest—he was all buff and shirtless as he tended to be when he wasn’t actually working. No matter how straight he claims to be I can’t help looking, even after three years bunking together.

Sternly giving myself a mental poke in the ribs, I forced my eyes off his bod and concentrated on what he had come into the room for. Free weights. Paulie. Right. He was even holding up his phone at me, helpfully wiggling it back and forth, as if to exhibit extra proof such a turn of events had indeed taken place, spurring him to pop out of his bedroom and share the news.

No, not “his” bedroom, I corrected myself—“our” bedroom. After rooming together in harmony for all this time, him graduating last year and landing a steady income (a year ahead of the still-matriculated yours truly) had motivated my already naturally buff and lightly gym-improved buddy Aaron had decided to get serious about crafting himself the hottest, tightest, beefiest physique a boy could manage, with me along for the ride and hopefully putting on a few pounds of my own.

Even now, Aaron wasn’t small by any means. At 5-foot-10, my clean-cut brunet, blue-eyed buddy had already reached 210 pounds of the kind of firm, well-distributed bulk that made my insides quiver like loose-set Jell-O. This had been achieved, fairly casually, through good genetics, a scrupulously healthy high-protein diet, and years of steady, systematic training in school gyms and friends’ garages. Now he was set on the real thing, and insisted we would train and grow together.

I’d been focused more on this Aaron-getting-bigger part of this equation and sort of scoffing at any kind of similar outcome for myself. Aaron was the muscle guy. He was practically born with square shoulders and a four-pack, and Aaron today was enough to make any guy thank the gods of iron and serendipitous DNA for their respective gifts to humankind.

Me, I was 6 foot nothing, with a lean swimmer’s build and a fast metabolism that burned away every speck of body fat. I looked like a paper towel tube next to this guy. Aaron was built, and he hadn’t had to work for it. It was this very accomplishment, though—the ability to add on pound after pound through a bit of lifting and persistent dedication—that had him bent on seeing how far he could grow and how much his body would give him if he really made a serious effort. He was so selfless, though, that he insisted it couldn’t be just about him. He wanted us both to grow, with him training me in the best routines and habits and both of us egging the other on.

I had to admit to myself I was of two minds about Aaron’s new fixation on building himself an even hotter, bigger, and harder bod than he already had. I already fantasized about him way too much for it to be healthy. My dreams and jerk-off sessions were filled with Aaron. He was already effortlessly sexy and a constant distraction—how bad would it be if he was even thicker and hunkier? All my blood would be in my dick, all the time. I wouldn’t be able to think for the unremitting lust-marinade my brain would be soaking in.

And then there was the prospect of Aaron pushing me into some kind of small-scale buffness upgrade of my own. If anyone could make it happen, it would be Aaron, but that path had its own problems. I mean, how disappointed would I be if I somehow increased my male pulchritude, only to have my longtime crush still only see me as a bud? For him to look at me, an improved and sexy me, still without the slightest spark of lust in those beautiful blue-green eyes?

My misgivings were moot, though. This was happening. Aaron was on a mission, and he was a tough guy to say “no” to. For me, anyway.

We had a plan.

The first step was a dedicated space. As it happened, our serendipitously acquired, decent-sized off-campus apartment was big enough to make this happen without going any further afield: we had the whole first floor of a converted three-story colonial townhouse—pretty sweet, and not a backbreaker rent-wise, either. After a bit of back and forth, we’d decided to convert the smaller of the two big bedrooms into a workout space, packing it with whatever gym equipment we could scrounge.

The idea, so Aaron said, was that weights staring you in the face at home were so much more likely to get regular use than a gym you had to make a trip to get to. I could have argued (exhibit A: the Bowflex my dad used to hang his dress shirts on), but Aaron’s good-natured and uncomplicated demeanor was such that you believed in him no matter what. It helped that his new job, a plum slot at one of the big IT firms in town, was entirely online. After five months he’d already started thinking of being home as his default condition.

With matters thus decided, we’d moved my full-size mattress and box spring into the larger bedroom, the space offering just enough room for my bed, Aaron’s bed, the computer desk at which Aaron did his server coding or whatever, and the massive clawfoot dresser we now shared. That left us ready to move onto step two, which was, well, getting some actual equipment to occupy our suddenly very empty-looking second bedroom.

Our in-home gym idea was great; it was just lacking the “gym” part at the moment. Unfortunately, our budget for weights and machines didn’t quite stretch to the heights the local smug-bastard retail college-town gym suppliers seemed prepared to charge, and 40-kg plates weren’t the kind of thing you tended to find stacked next to the Curious George books at garage sales or hand-knitted from Chilean-sourced steel-fiber alpaca yarn on Etsy. Right now our inventory stretched to two sets of dumbbells, a purple kettlebell his sister had gotten as a baby shower gift (?), and a fold-up rowing machine—not exactly the stuff of jacked gorilla dreams.

Surreptitiously, I closed the PicThread feed on my tablet—suspiciously full of bluff, easy-grin, sweaty, smooth-defined, dark-haired medium-height gym bros like my roomie, but never mind—and cocked an eyebrow at him. “Dude, wha? Who would ever want to get rid of a weight set?” I asked in exaggerated disbelief. “Might as well sell your balls.”

Aaron grinned. “I know, right?” He came over and dropped down next to me on the sofa, close enough I was immediately aware of his scent, and showed me his screen. “What do you think, Marky-Mark?”

I think I should turn my sense of smell in for treason, I thought with a frustrated rush of lust, ignoring the play on my name and the hint of a scrumptiously muscled underwear-model version of tall, skinny-fit me. Aaron’s scent had all my attention. The thing was, I hadn’t ever really noticed how guys smelled. Girls back home always seemed to have a smell—either overly fruity (what are you, an orchard?) or cloying and perfumey (reminding me of my gran’s house)—but to teen me, guys were just guys. Then I went to college and got housed with Aaron, we hit it off (bffs, dude), and over time I’d started to become aware that a distinctive smell had entered my life. It wasn’t after-shave, it wasn’t Old Spice, there were no chemicals, roll-ons, or atomizers involved: just regular male subcutaneous glands producing, in Aaron’s case, a dark, musky, slightly sweaty odor that made my above-average cock thicken and swell even more reliably than the ten-second loops of hairless thirst-trap fitness models in my feed casually taking off their shirts in Ikea or wherever as if that were a thing people did. Only the faintest tinge of the unscented soap we used, and the pea-sized bit of simple hair gel he rubbed in if he were going out somewhere, added any notes to the pleasant, basic, everyday Aaron-scent I kept wishing I didn’t savor as much as I did.

What did I smell like? Dunno, never asked. Hopefully like a warm rainshower on a summer’s afternoon.

Shifting my tablet slightly to the left to hide my chub, I refocused as best I could on the email. It seemed legit, an open offer of an extensive set of weights and equipment, just as Aaron had said.

I glanced up to find my roomie staring intently at me. Fuck, if he only knew what he did to me, I thought wistfully. I kept having to consciously pull back from getting lost in those deep, magnetic eyes. It was almost as though they were designed to entrap you, to pull you into him. Even the color was fascinating. The irises were this beautiful dark blue but with flecks of a spring-bright, lawn-grass green, making his eyes look almost teal in the right lighting against the pure white of his sclera.

As we sat there side by side on the couch his bare, subtly veined bicep happened to brush against mine, just below the loose sleeve-hem of my baggy black Lynch Mob tee. I genuinely shivered inside at the touch, unable to look away for the life of me.

“You excited, bro?” he asked, beaming at me, like he was the most innocent guy in the world. He had a tenor voice with a hint of vocal fry, adding a suede edge to his smooth-as-leather tone. I had the deeper voice of the two of us, which always surprised people when we met them for the first time, but I’d listen to him reading the U.S. census from Aalison Aardvark to Zyppy Zymurra.

He’d asked me a question. Right. Self-consciously, I cleared my throat slightly. With any luck he’d read my current “excitement” as being all about the project we were undertaking together—the project to make me, and the manly guy I was secretly into, bigger and manlier.

“I—absolutely, dude,” I stammered. “Let’s go for it.”

Aaron grinned, bopping his thick, square bare-ass shoulder playfully against mine. “Yeah, let’s do it! Let’s get us both jacked!” he enthused. Fuck, I wanted more shoulder contact, but he was already back on his phone, thumbing out an enthusiastic reply to his cousin. “I literally can’t wait,” he muttered, half to himself.

My mouth was dry, but I didn’t dare clear my throat again. Instead, as Aaron typed I marshaled some saliva as best I could and swallowed. “You, uh, still want me to—?” I asked uncertainly.

He glanced up at me, eyebrows high. “Totally, bro! I work so much harder when it’s with someone else,” he said. He flashed that special heart-fluttering grin he always pulled out when I was least prepared for it and bumped my whole arm with his own, causing another inward glissando deep in my thorax.

Giving my own less remarkable, skinny-defined bod a quick once over, he added, “Besides, I need you to build and get pumped with me. You’re going to look great all swole, dude!”

I felt my cheeks heat slightly at this. I didn’t think I had the metabolism to put on muscle. Certainly, I hadn’t had much luck in the past, and we both knew it. I’d been doing push-ups and sit-ups off and on since middle school and hadn’t made it past 160 pounds soaking wet, though at least I had the tight abs to show for it.

Something about the way we were sharing that hot and sexy moment, though, made me believe. “Yeah?” I said, letting my voice get a little breathy. I tried to make it into a joke. “You’re going make me all big and hunky, Coach?”

Aaron’s eyes glinted—actually glinted. My roomie’s emotions were as transparent as ever, and clearly he liked being in charge of my muscles as well as his own. Fuck, me too. I was right there with him. I resolved to train my ass off and fully commit to getting big just so I could call him “Coach” the whole time and see that little spark in his eyes and that quirk in his lips.

His phone pinged and he checked the new reply that had just come in. Nodding, he looked up quickly to meet my gaze, the picture of happy anticipation. “All set for Saturday,” he sang.

“Then let the trials begin… Coach,” I said, putting out my hand.

He took it and shook, and I reveled in his easy strength. It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to let go, I wanted to push that hand up his forearm and onto his chest and keep going straight over the cliff like Thelma and Louise. If he gets any more built, I thought, I am going to have serious difficulties keeping my mitts off him.

“Let the trials begin!” he repeated, letting the handshake extend a few seconds longer than I expected. I stared hard at him, my cock twitching hopefully under its concealing tech equipment as an entirely new thought struck me. Maybe… is there a chance…?

Resolution hardened in me (along with my carefully tablet-hidden wang). I was going to do it. “All the way no matter what” was my new motto. I was going help my roommate the biggest, hottest, builtest gym bro he could be, knowing full well I was playing fuck-around-and-find-out with the big, dumb, insatiable dick in my pants that couldn’t get enough of him as it was. If I got a few pounds packed onto my stubborn, hotness-resistant bod, so much the better.

And, if I was really lucky, maybe it would turn out that my own thick, perky tool wouldn’t be the only one to love the muscle growth we were about to make happen.

Saturday came and went in a tsunami of swole. I’d worried about the drudgery of hauling all those weights up the sidewalk and porch stairs and into our apartment (thank Herc we weren’t upstairs on one of the higher floors), but I needn’t have bothered. Cousin Paulie brought his whole crew with him, the lot of them looking like the cast of an MTV muscle beach reality show, and for an hour our place was more packed with cannonball delts and red sweatpants hanging off glutes the size of Crenshaw melons than the locker room at a Cornhuskers game.

Fortunately for me and my libido, these dudes might have looked like some of my baser fantasies, but they sure didn’t smell like ‘em. Unlike my boy Aaron, these brutes stank. It was like, they didn’t just get sweaty, they saved up their old manky sweat in Bell jars and splashed in on like some kind of hellish cologne whenever they left the house. And that was just their upper bodies. I was sitting down on the couch with my tablet checking my school emails when one of them walked past with a milk crate full of plates, and had to physically recoil away from him. I swear, that dude’s crotch smelled like a steak someone had left out on the counter for a day or three. How they got any tail, I had no idea. The only thing I could think was that they fucked each other and used smell as a weapon to ward off any interlopers, like an isolationist breed of jungle animals.

When they were gone I ended up hugging Aaron from behind as we looked over our new gym room, just to reset my nostrils to something pleasant. As I held onto him I was quietly but passionately ranting about the redolence of cousin Paulie and his boys and (letting myself be honest for once) how he smelled so much better. Aaron was so happy with his new spoils he didn’t care, even when I let my hands rest on his pecs and abs respectively through the worn gray tee he’d elected to wear that day. Maybe he didn’t mind me being a little handsy. Good to know.

The deal was, Paulie’s well-heeled dad had gifted him with a whole new basement gym for his 25th birthday, leaving us with a complete set of cast-offs, all of it now arrayed before us in all its used but unworn and perfectly acceptable splendor. Racks of weights; two racks of dumbbells; an adjustable bench press; a leg press; a lat pulldown; even the rubber floor pads and a box of odds and ends like workout gloves and wrist-straps. It was a compelling sight, and we were so into it we just got started right away, stretching ourselves and then spending the whole afternoon testing out every exercise and routine we could think of. We pushed hard—up to a point, bearing in mind that we were had plenty of time to ramp up and conditioning ourselves to a new regime.

Aaron played the role of personal trainer seriously, watching me carefully and encouraging those last few crucial reps out of him in each set, and I was cheerfully grateful, offering him a butt-pat and a grinning “Thanks, Coach!” as we finished each exercise and moved on to something else. And how did I react to all of that attention and the sight of Aaron’s pecs and biceps and lats bunching and swelling and straining in close quarters, his scent constantly in my greedy nostrils? Let’s just say I was glad I’d bought the strong, stretchy jockstrap that was barely holding me back from a full-on boner for an entire afternoon.

As the day ebbed and the sun was setting, tinging our west-facing living room with red, we finally ended our labors and collapsed onto the sofa with room-temperature bottled waters to cool down. Weirdly, neither of us was in a hurry to hit the shower and wash off our heated, flushed, sweat-damp state of post-workout endorphin afterglow, so we wallowed in the couch with our wet shoulders overlapping, panting contentedly from our exertions. To distract us, I pulled up some YouTube workout videos I’d been studying for training tips, and we watched those for a while in silence.

Unfortunately, I’d also been using some of the same videos to jerk off to—one of the trainers had almost the exact same physique and coloring as a slightly larger Aaron—and without thinking I straightened my half-hard tool with the heel of my palm through the shorts and jock I was wearing, letting it expand to full hardness along my hip. I was sore, but the good kind of sore, and far from being tired I was energized and full of beans.

“Aw man, don’t bone up,” Aaron complained companionably. “It’s all contagious and shit. Bad bro code.”

I looked over at him, embarrassed and amused at the same time. “Contagious?” I repeated, wanting to laugh. “Like, what, yawning? Someone bones up, you bone up?”

Aaron tried to sound genuinely aggrieved. “Dude, boners are catching, how do you not know that?” he said. I looked down, and, sure enough, he was straightening out his own dick as it rapidly struggled to reach its full length and heft. Meanwhile, he was checking out my boner, which was now fully hard and throbbing under the light glossy fabric of my shorts, no obscuring iPad in sight.

“You’re bigger than me,” he said, sounding fascinated.

In three years of living together and six months of sharing a bedroom we’d seen each other’s bulges—in underwear or under a towel—only a few times and never “in the flesh,” as it were. Mostly this was out of my very carefully trying to hide my interest and any scenarios that might give it away. A moment like this, aroused and exerted, had never happened.

He glanced up, those blue-green eyes full of curiosity as much as anything. “Can I see?”

“Uh, sure.” I smiled lopsidedly at him. “I’ll show you mine…” I added, trying to come off as playful.

“Playful” was Aaron’s default mode, and, characteristically, he grinned wide and immediately inserted his thumbs under the waistband of his cotton workout shorts, preparing to shove them down right there on the spot. He paused and looked at me, and my heart pounded as I realized he was indicating we should do so together.

Quickly, I complied, getting my thumbs in a matching at-the-ready position. “On three,” he said. We counted it out, and on cue we pushed down our shorts and jocks and exposed our raging, sweaty erections.

“Nice,” Aaron said approvingly, eyeing my hard, pulsing prick.

I had to admit, mine was nice. It was stretching long and decently thick as it hovered an inch or so over my left hip, a small spot of precum welling in its purple slit. According to my very first teen ruler session (and, yeah, okay, subsequent check-ins over the years), my equipment consistently topped out at a very respectable 9.5 circumcised inches when I was really, truly riled up, like now. Otherwise it was pretty ordinary, I thought. It wasn’t birthmarked or prominently veined, and its chief idiosyncrasy was a very, very slight curve to the left, deviating in full no more than five degrees from true.

I’d always wondered if you could tell it was there if you were fucked with it, but I’d never had the chance to find out.

In that moment, though, all of my attention was Aaron’s strong, thick, brutal column of pure, delicious-looking man-meat. Shorter than mine, maybe 7.5 inches (so still above average), the veiny slab before me was thick, solid, and very uncut, standing proudly at a rigid angle over his lower groin muscles. It was a real mouthful of a cock, I could tell, and it took me a second to realize I was actually drooling as I stared at the thing in deep, reverent appreciation.

As if cognizant of my interest, it twitched under my gaze, its head pointing straight at Aaron’s sweet, handsome face.

Fuck, pointing at his face. Knowing Aaron was not only strong but incredibly limber had my brain overheating. Man, if he can train himself right, he might be able to actually suck that thing. He was kind of oral anyway. He had a nice long tongue, too, maybe a little longer than you’d expect. He’d shown it off at the pub enough times in typical bro fashion, betting his buds a beer he could lick his own chin and then pulling it off, just enough to win the bet.

And now here he was showing me his dick, and I was showing him mine. Maybe there were bets we could make about our steel-hard pricks at some point. And other stuff, too.

Aaron kicked his shorts free like we did this every night, and then rested his hand on my bare leg, palm up. The back of his hand felt scalding hot on my cool thigh. “What do you say, bro? A little mutual?” he offered gamely, sounding for all the world like he was proposing a casual round of Mario Kart, or a binge of the first three Die Hard movies, before they got shitty.

“Uhh,” I said, staring at his face. I breathed in a pure whiff of Aaron’s scent, which seemed noticeably sharper compared to before. He licked his lips unconsciously as I watched, waiting patiently for my answer. Fuck, that tongue…

I glanced at his bare hand on my thigh and spoke on autopilot. “You know, me being cut and all, I kind of need lube. I bet sixty-nine would be better anyway,” I added, my mouth racing far ahead of my brain.

Aaron must have been in as much of a state of brainless heat as I was, because all he seemed to hear was a quick and happy way to get off. He grinned softly in approval. “Efficient! I like it!” he said, his cheeks flushed with what could only be an urgent need to cream.

He quickly considered the couch, then the thick-pile rug we had wall-to-wall in the living room. “On the floor?” he suggested.

Before I had a chance to waffle and maybe pull my neck in after sticking it out like that, he grabbed me in a wrestling hold and pulled me onto the carpet, deftly maneuvering me around to face his crotch in a way that suggested he was no stranger to wrestling, if not wrestling fellatio. His scent hit me, stronger and more intense than ever, and I was gone. Find me a Raquel Welch poster, ‘cause I was so hard I could have fucked my way through a cement wall, Shawshank style. Before I could stop myself—and really, there was no chance of that—my mouth was jam-packed with bff-roommate-best-bud-juicy-hard slab-cock.

Aaron, eager team player that he was, quickly followed suit, and I moaned loudly around his hot cock. He laughed around mine, mouthing the base tightly with his lips. I make lots of pre when I’m superhorny and sure enough I was leaking straight into his gullet, and then I felt his tongue lapping around my hard shaft and in a flash I was riding the edge. I grunted, signaling my urgency as I started pistoning on his immutable, steel-hard prick, and Aaron responded by tonguing around my long, fat tool even more lavishly, barely moving his lips around the lower shaft and letting his daft punk tongue and a bit of gentle suction do all the work.

It was genius. As far as I knew this man had never gone down on a cock, his own or anyone else’s, but right then I was ready to crown him king of the cocksuckers. He could do this all day, except I was very soon about to cut matters short by spraying a week’s worth of jizz all over his tonsils and straight down his esophagus.

I held out as long as I could, doing my best to bring him as close as I was, and then all of a sudden he was cumming, and my dam fucking burst. I gushered in his mouth as he came in mine. The amount I was blasting and the number of spurts I kept producing made me try pulling out—I didn’t to drown the poor guy—but Aaron grabbed my bare ass and held me down, mercilessly milking every last drop from me until I was whimpering from overstimulation.

Eventually, he loosened his grip (did he leave grip marks on my white ass?) and I tumbled off him, rolling to lie next to him on the surprisingly soft carpet. Unlike him I still had my shorts and sweaty jock around my ankles, making it look like Aaron was the uninhibited one when it came to man-sex, despite my extensive research on the subject, supplemented by very occasional field work.

After panting contentedly for a few moments I propped myself up on my elbows to check on Aaron. My brawny roomie had his hands laced behind his head and was contemplating his post-suck semi with a big smile on his face. He looked like he belonged on a hammock somewhere with palm trees, white sandy beaches, and, off in the middle distance, a bunch of hunks playing naked volleyball.

He was sweaty again, just a light misting on his heated skin, like he was fresh from a workout, and the way his pose called attention to the bent of his arms got me admiring his biceps. They looked pumped, like our christening of the home gym had had a real effect on him. His chest looked heavy, too, and I wondered if he was feeling it now like I was.

Actually he kinda looked pumped all over, even in places we didn’t work out. Were full-body pumps a thing? Something to do with blood flow? Search me. Maybe there was something special about Aaron—something worth exploring further.

Aaron flicked his gaze from his dick to me and I blushed, not wanting to have been caught staring, but his mind was still heavy with orgasm-goodness.

“You were right,” he said, grinning wider. “That was better than a hand.”

I stared at him, my heart suddenly triphamming at double speed. I played it cool, though. “Sounds like we have a new addition to our regimen, Coach,” I said, only half-joking.

“Whatever you say, Marky-Mark,” he teased, and suddenly my cock was telling me it would be ready to go again very soon.

I huffed. “Shower?”

“Shower.” We helped each other up and headed to the hall bathroom, knowing we’d be taking turns. Unlike the rest of the apartment, the bathroom was pretty cramped, and the shower stall was probably too small for more than one dude. Even if Aaron were ready to shift from casual bjs to shower intimacy, and I still didn’t know quite where he was workout-buddies-with-benefits-wise, it wasn’t happening just yet.

That was okay. We had a program and a plan, and considering how that plan seemingly now involved not only making my roomie (and me) bigger but feeding him my hot cum afterwards, for actual real and not just in my fantasies, I was set.

Bring on the muscle, bring on the cum. I was there for it.

I couldn’t wait to work out again. Hard to believe, and my gym-allergic teenage self would have demanded a DNA test to prove I was him if we’d somehow met through the contrived emergence of a timebending man-sized glory hole. My actual body here in the present wasn’t fully on board either as I was climbing into bed that night, mere feet from my already snoring roomie one mattress over. Every part of me ached as I dropped back on top of the sheets in my boxer-briefs. Something in my delts was grumbling about how I’d come thisclose to overextension and maybe not to be so stupidly eager to impress the big guy I was crushing on.

But he made it look so easy, I told my shoulders in an internal pretend whine, rubbing them in turn with the opposite hand as I lay there. I was sore but wired. Because it is—for him, my shoulders retorted archly, in a tone usually reserved for the lead dunderhead’s smarter best friend in a gooey, opposites-attract romcom.

I let the snark from Insolent Teenage Me and Messrs. Resentful Deltoids slip down the aft chute and out the back of my brain. There were more important things to wallow in.

For one, as I lay there even the dull pain of hard-worked muscles complaining about being worked hard was gradually being edged out by the low-level glow of warm potential I was feeling in every muscle group I’d worked. We’d done a little of everything, testing out both the equipment and the unfamiliar dynamic of two people pumping iron in tandem, and I was feeling the good burn you’re supposed to feel everywhere—bis, tris, pecs, lats, abs, glutes, quads, even my complaining delts and traps.

After today we’d start doing it properly and set up the standard rotation thing: leg day, arm day, nipple day (—I mean, chest day), etc. Protein shakes, nutritional supplements, the whole schematic process to systematically build muscle on both our bods. That night, though, I was basking in the blurry, all-over delicious/achy feeling that, thanks to hard work and amorous zeal, I’d been gifted +1 strength in every muscle zone bodybuilders and gay men (of my stripe, anyway) loved and worshipped.

And then there was the, well, whatever broish euphemism you wanted to call the “buddy moment” that had ensued post-workout. Two-man afterparty? Reciprocal cooldown? Friendship perks? Succumbing to crazy-hot lust and mutually deep-throating your sweaty, musky, gym-pumped, endorphin-riddled horndog roomie?

Yeah, that.

Fuck, I could still feel his hard, girthy cock pushing past my lips and riding my tongue, edging rapidly to a climactic burst that sprayed my tonsils with gooey spunk so attuned to my tastes and fantasies I was already addicted. And he had sucked me—not in a perfunctory, “I’m totally straight and this is a performance” way, but with genuine enthusiasm and investment in pleasuring my big, infinitessimally bent cock. He hadn’t just acknowledged that my dick was a couple inches bigger than his (if not quite as thick)—he’d admired my long, slightly arched tool with almost the same ardor with which I adored his 7-and-a-half-inch uncut slab-o-fun, and had shown that admiration with his mouth as eagerly as he had with his eyes. He was a natural cocksucker, achieving results not from technique or experience but because he honestly respected the cock he was pleasuring and wanted the best possible orgasm from it.

Was there a chance—? I asked myself again. On the strength of that evening’s events I had to suspect big, brawny Aaron of being at least bi-curious—but then why hadn’t he acted on it in all those years of hanging around butt-naked guys in gyms and locker rooms and group showers where everyone had their balls hanging out? Surely he must have had a wink or a sly smile shot his way on countless occasions, and yet… nothin’. He’d not been tempted by any of the countless big-dicked hunks he’d known, only to suddenly succumb to the homo side when faced to face with the hard cock of his lean, lightly muscled, sweat-tanged, 6-foot-nothing, irredeemably sarcastic housemate.

Was that flattering? Did it mean I was his “type”? Pfft, next I’d be inventing words like “Markosexual.” Or was it just that he was momentarily driven to nut in any way possible, and easygoing enough to go with a quick sixty-nine if that was the way to get ‘er done? He had expressed a willingness to add this particular “exercise” to our workout routine; but was it cumming he wanted, a cap to the endorphin rush, or was there something more—something that involved me?

Hmm. Case not proven. More information was required.

Grumbling inwardly, I finally slipped under the light poplin sheet and turned on my side to consider the bulky silhouette of my friend through the gloom. His back was to me, the sheet slid down around his waist, and I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of hot arousal as I took in the elegant rounded trapezoid of his back and the captivating breadth of his bumpy shoulders.

I turned to the third thing preying on my imagination, beyond the unwonted bite from the iron bug and the yearning for more cock-tasting exchanges with Aaron. Something had happened after our sixty-nine, I was almost sure of it. I had been admiring Aaron’s pump in assiduous detail all afternoon and for a good half-hour as we chilled in the living room, and I was convinced that after that sixty-nine session, his pump had swelled. And it couldn’t all be from the workout, because that second boost had included muscles he hadn’t worked out, like his bis. His last workout had been an arm day, and he’d kept his focus off them today, doing crunches while I pounded out bicep curls and so on. After that very hot mutual fellatio, though, his bis had looked like he’d drilled them the whole day without let or hindrance. His neck looked good, too, and his calves. Hell, even his feet looked strong and limber after we’d done it. The extra pump was lingering, too, because as I lay there the back and shoulders that had been slowly turning my dick into an adamantine touch-craving tool over several minutes of shameless perusal still looked just that little bit more swollen than they had been earlier, after the workout and before the cocksucking.

And, okay, it was possible I was fantasizing the whole thing. I had lust-colored glasses on when it came to Aaron. Everything about his body turned me on, and I had a strong enough imagination it would not be hard for me to fool myself into thinking that next-level intimacy between us might mean a next-level Aaron. For me to be that deluded, though, my dream-desire-vision would have had to have actually replaced my real vision (which might turn out bad for me if my ability to see was affected in non-Aaron situations, like while I was driving). Because, I saw those pumped-up muscles, and they were real. Big, sweaty, redolent, and—here was the rub, so to speak—manually verified when we hugged in the shower after sex.

And if it were real? Really real? I had a fairly logical brain, and there was only one connection I could make. Before today, Subject A had never swallowed a man’s cum, his own included. Today, Subject A had swallowed a big load o’ cum. After doing so, Subject A exhibited an additional pump beyond what he had shown before I’d jetted copiously down his throat.

It was difficult to avoid the conclusion that cum, somehow, some way, made my beautiful Aaron grow.

Like the bisexual and/or bi-curious thing, though, I had to rank this hypothesis as interesting but unproven. What I needed was more evidence on both counts. So. How could I possibly gather more evidence not only of Aaron’s potential affections toward me but also the effect of manly jizz on my hot buddy’s magnificent constitution?

Hmm, that was a thinker.

As I imagined all the many scenarios in which I might gather the necessary data, my steel-hard dick kept begging relentlessly for my attention until eventually it could not be gainsayed. Sighing, I silently pulled out my night table drawer, slicked my fingers from the jar of Vaseline secreted within, and rolled to my back, pulling down the sheet and getting to work slaking both my insatiable dick and my Aaron-obsessed libido as quietly as possible. It wasn’t the first time I’d silent-soloed since my bed moved into Aaron’s room to make way for our little home gym, and it would not be the last.

Eventually I drifted off to sleep, low-key fretting Aaron might renege on his previously stated “sure, let’s make each other nut” policy enough that the dreams I drifted through that night were unsettled and in places disquieting. I can’t remember all of them, though I know one little stretch involved Aaron and me blasting out a serious run along a big urban river (I think it was the Danube? for some reason?), both of us shirtless with identical bright crimson nylon shorts and blinding canary-yellow tennies, and then we got to this little copse and dropped to the ground next to each other to rest, sweaty and happy, and I had a stiffie already so I said “Time for blow jobs!” and he laughed and pulled down his shorts and his jock and instead of his junk there was a baby armadillo? So we played with the armadillo for a bit until it dug itself into the ground to hide and then we laughed again and picked up our run, continuing on down the banks of the Danube, and I never did get to blow my load, or Aaron’s. I woke up from that one confused and bemused.

It was Sunday morning, so we did our weekly grocery expedition together to the Smack-Me (as I insisted on calling the local Acme supermarket, four short blocks away from our humble adobe). As this was an outside-the-house outing Aaron was untopless for once, something he didn’t do normally unless he had an on-camera meeting for his IT job. Instead of the knock-about tee-shirt you’d expect, though, he’d donned one of his loose, colorful Hawaiian shirts, the one with the neon-fuchsia flamingos and neon-green foliage against a midnight blue background. It was eye-crossing, but funny. The flams looked stoned and a little lost, peering around everywhere like they’d wandered onto the wrong shirt.

What distracted me that morning and had me glancing over at him as we moved through the aisles, though, was the way said top was no longer the full-fit, no-pull garment it had been all the times I had seen it before. Instead of its usual loose, uninterrupted hang, there was the little pucker between the two shirt buttons positioned over his hefty amateur bodybuilder chest, positioned as if to provide the nearest flamingo, which was turned in just that direction, with access to Aaron’s sternum and the complete lack of chest hair to be found along that particular defile (what did flamingos feed on, anyway?). I kind of thought it had not been like that before, but I wasn’t sure I could swear to it.

We brought our haul home without incident, Aaron carrying five of our laden cloth bags to my paltry two, as usual. After everything was stowed, I turned and found Aaron suddenly standing very close to me in the kitchen—near enough I got a strong whiff of clean Aaron musk tinged with the soap from our shower the night before. He had his brilliant “no worries” grin on and, not gonna lie, it made my breath catch and my dick perk up like a thirsty contestant on an all-horny-dudes version of The Bachelor.

Those blue-green eyes of his were full of light and energy—he looked tireless and unstoppable. “I was thinking,” he suggested, “since we pushed so hard yesterday, maybe a run instead of the gym workout?”

I gaped at him, my eyes widening. “A run?” I repeated comically.

“Sure,” he said. “Gotta build up your stamina, M-M,” he added with a wink.

Don’t check his groin for armadillos. Don’t check his groin for armadillos. Desperately, I kept my eyes locked on his and said, “Um, ‘M-M’?”

“Short for Marky-Mark?” he said. “I figured it’s more personalized, but still a reference. Win win!”

I smiled automatically. This guy. “Win win,” I repeated.

“So… run?” he asked, circling back to his original point.

Inwardly I laughed at myself for being a loon. “Sure, Coach,” I said easily, and when he turned around I slapped his meaty ass out of pure impulse. The grin he tossed me over his brawny shoulder as we trotted back to the bedroom to change seemed like a good omen.

I made sure to pick my dark green shorts, and felt stupidly relieved when Aaron pulled out his favorite slate-gray cotton running shorts instead of anything crimson or vermilion.

The pace he set was grueling but not impossible, and Aaron never showed off or tried to outdo me. He could have done a much more rigorous run, probably, but he set us at a level that pushed me and gave us a workout to share, just like we’d done on the weights the day before. There was a park not far from us and we ran the circuit of that before passing into the quiet, close-packed neighborhood beyond, touring that Stepfordesque urban enclave at an easier pace before rounding back to the park for a final, hard three-circuit push. By the time we stumbled up to our house I was damp with sweat, noodle-legged, and exhilarated. I wanted to collapse on the wide wooden porch steps, but he cajoled me the few feet further to get inside and fall apart in our own space.

We grabbed some unrefrigerated waters from the kitchen, pulled off our shoes, and then, with the last of our energy (or mine, anyway), we dropped onto the couch side by side, no space between us, and slumped there like our bones were taking a few moments of paid personal leave from their usual body-supporting duties.

“That was intense,” I rasped, swigging deep from my bottle.

“Yeah,” Aaron agreed happily, following suit and downing most of his agua. There was a bit of pride in his voice, I noticed, like someone who had always known the truth and was gratified to see a novice experiencing the same dawning of enlightenment.

His smell was turning me on, along with everything else about him. As we relaxed into each other, thigh to thigh and butt to butt, our sweaty arms shifting full-contact along the complete length from shoulder to elbow and with a bit of sinewy forearm action as well, I couldn’t help being reminded of the previous afternoon. My dick responded accordingly, wanting the repeat our full-body contact seemed to be promising. It stiffened steadily, pushing the green shorts I was wearing up along its length as it went like a sandworm just under the surface, and Aaron noticed, watching it with silent interest.

Our legs were kind of our in front of us, resting on our heels, and it was at this point that I realized that his shin had snuck under mine and was pressing up gently along my calf. Not only that, his sock-clad foot was snuggling mine from the inside, his big toe rubbing along my instep. My cock lurched, skipping the slow-creeping-boner and hardening the rest of the way in a heartbeat.

Aaron was staring at it, and there could be no doubt what was on his mind. “Aar—” I started to say, cautious and not wanting to make him feel—I dunno, like he had to or anything.

“Dude,” he broke in, “I keep thinking of yesterday and how that was the best nut ever and—” he lifted those heartstopping blue-green eyes to mine. “—I kinda want to do it again?”

Fuck, I want to kiss him. Will he let me kiss him? Then I was looking at those cocksucking lips and I was like, No, kiss later, beejay now.

I glanced down. He was rock hard. No armadillos in sight. “Uh, sure,” I said. “Do you want—?”

He spoke over me again. “I was thinking,” he said hurriedly, his foot now actively nuzzling mine, “I really enjoyed what we did, but I kind want to do the blowjobs separately? Taking turns, I mean?” He looked at me a little nervously, like I could possibly reject the idea of getting off with him under any circumstances. If he wanted to do it on the back of a pony in the middle of a Cirque to Soleil performance, I was game. “I was just thinking, it would be good to experience—”

“Your crotch or mine?” I interrupted him in my most sultry voice, smiling like the horny rake I was. Before he could do more than grin, I dove down like lightning and started mouthing his fat, uncut cock through the wet gray shorts and ribbed jock, tasting his sweat and feeling his sweet hardness. Aaron moaned loudly and pulled down the intervening garments, letting his hot, thick cock spring more or less directly into my waiting mouth.

The beejay passed like a blur. Aaron bucked occasionally but didn’t force me down or try to face-fuck me, instead letting me set the pace. We were both so turned on that even though I know I was at it for a while, it felt like I’d barely gotten started before he was grunting, “Dude, dude, I’m gonna, I’m gonna—!”

Then he was filling my mouth with spunk and I was swallowing like mad, trying to keep up. He kept cumming, and I gulped it down, feeling a warm almost-burn like it was going to fill my belly and get me cum-drunk. I felt my own orgasm buck and surge, wanting to break free, and I had to push it back hard. That nut belonged to Aaron.

I came up for air and smiled at him, my mouth messy and louche from blowing him, and he did kiss me then, awed and spangly-eyed from an awesome release. Then he surprised me by pushing me back and then turning to drop to the floor in front of me, kneeling between my legs. In a single, fluid move, he yanked down my shorts and jock and then swallowed my tool to the root like the utter, godsent natural he was.

My head dropped back, swimming with raw pleasure, eyes rolling all the way into my skull. I moaned, long and low, and Aaron started twisting his mouth, lips and tongue around my dick, making them move almost independently like a dicksucking kaleidoscope. My hand slipped into the loose waves of his dark hair of its own accord, sifting through his locks as Aaron gave me the single best blowjob since Mr. Blow (first name: Joe) invented the damn things back in the lost mists of time.

I couldn’t not watch. I found the strength and lifted my head, taking in Aaron’s sweet, beautiful face as he gave me grade-A head. Then he looked up at me, and I was done. That big O that I’d managed to hold back ripped up through the cracks of doom and exploded through me, tearing torrents of jizz out of me to shoot down his gullet, my face the only warning. He swallowed eagerly, milking my long dick of every drop I could give him, until finally I had to ease him off, my post-climax oversensitivity threatening to send my brain into lockdown.

We stared at each other, sweaty and hot for each other, and then he was pulling me to my feet and wrapping his big, strong arms around me. I hugged him back hard, transported by full-body, quivering euphoria—as close to literally being in heaven as you could be without literally being in heaven. Then, as I held him and he held me, I felt it.

The pump.

His pecs were pressing against mine, warm and responsive. His lats pushed into my arms. His biceps felt swole against my skin. Even his smooth, soccer-pro thighs felt firm and just that little bit more against mine. That part almost made sense, but… a post-workout pump in muscles that hadn’t been worked out? How did that work?

As I held him, our mouths moving into a tentative kiss, I knew. It was the cum. It had to be. Ingesting cum affected Aaron’s muscles, immediately and palpably, and with, so far permanent effect.

In my post-orgasm state, my mind swamped with beautiful, soaring afterglow, all I could think was that I had to prove it. Dramatically and incontrovertibly. There was no other option, no turning back, because I had to know beyond any doubt. I had to grow Aaron, and I’d be using cum to do it.

So… where do you get cum? Like, in quantity?

I noodled over my problem for the next day or so, sitting in my senior-year Monday morning classes distractedly thinking up various ludicrous cum-sourcing possibilities instead of following along like a good boy. Maybe Paulie and his crew could come over and bukkake him? They’d be game to nut all over someone under the right circumstances, I bet. Probably has to be ingested, though. An internet ad? “Will buy your cum for cash! The more the better. Serious offers only!” Probably there were lots of Craigslist and Marketplace posts like that, and odds were the posters didn’t have the legit reasons I did for gathering Bell jars full of fresh, potent manspunk.

I shifted in my chair, drawing a glance from the woman sitting one over from me. I was still feeling the soreness from yesterday’s run in my legs, butt, and lower back, plus some residual burn from Saturday’s workout abbondanza. I felt strong and manly and slightly idealized. My cursèd brain was locked solidly on sperm, though. I cast the woman a furtive look, hoping she wasn’t a latent mind-reader. My brother was convinced all women had that power, and I hadn’t seen much to convince me otherwise, not that I was an expert.

Sperm. Sperm, sperm, sperm. What really had me was the how—the process going on in Aaron’s body. If I could figure out the how, I’d have an easier time mapping out what kinds of dosages would yield visible, verifiable results. Because, bottom line, I needed to know it was real. I needed to know I had made it happen.

Of course, I told myself it was for The Science, that I had to engineer real and incontrovertible growth to know for sure it was a real thing and that I was adding to the sum total of human knowledge. I wasn’t fooling anyone, though. I was hot for Aaron’s muscles, and the idea of making more of them turned me the fuck on. Aaron had told me a hundred times he wanted to be bigger, too—a lot bigger. If he wanted it, and I wanted it, and there was a way to make it happen, then I ask you, why the hell not?

After morning classes, I spent some time on my laptop at the library searching for anything I could find on the effects of spermatozoa on muscle growth. I didn’t find much. Science journals had lots of articles on spunk—I guess some biologists got to spend their days hip-deep in sperm, figuratively speaking—and lots of muscle generation, mostly repairing the results of catastrophic damage; connecting the two, nada. Broader internet searches didn’t yield anything useful. Lots of erotica about musclebound dudes swallowing tons of jizz, willingly or otherwise, but nothing to help me figure out my guy and the internal mechanics of cum-to-muscle conversion.

It was while I was futzing about, clicking through random pages on sperm and its connections with size and muscle, that I came across (so to speak) an unexpected find. I stopped, scrolling down slowly. The site I had chanced across sold animal sperm for testing and use in husbandry and repopulation programs. Different kinds of animal sperm, exotic animals as well as domestic.

Could this possibly work? I could mix it into his protein shakes and conduct a small controlled experiment. If nothing happened after a few tries, I could just throw it out. No harm, no foul.

Throwing caution to the wind, I dug out my credit card and used my leftover holiday money to purchase a half gallon of silverback gorilla sperm for the specified subject Aaron, a resident of the privately sanctioned Wahlberg Animal Development Program. The contents being perishable and all, next day shipping was included—bueno. Before I could talk myself out of it I pressed “Buy Now” and watched as the little pacifier loop rolled once, twice, and then—Success! Your purchase is on its way.

Fuck, I was half-hard thinking about it. Feeling ridiculous and more than a bit aroused, I snapped my laptop shut, gathered my shit, and fled the library, hoping no one noticed my bulge enough to wonder what I’d been doing to get one.

Monday was a fallow day, workout-wise. Dinner was lean cuts of steak, brown rice, and a tofu-asparagus side dish, cooked up by kitchenmaster Aaron with a bit of help from the program newbie, me. As we set the dishes out on the little table we shared meals at when we were both home I made a joke about how protein-rich our meals were lately, and he grinned and winked. “I know, right?” he said as we slipped into our chairs, holding my gaze. “I’m loving it.”

Ah, be still my heart.

Still, he seemed to be maintaining, for the present at least, a firm connection between workouts and our recent post-workout activities, so there were no shenanigans that night even though we were both three quarters naked—I’d pointedly sharted emulating his eveningwear of boxer-briefs and nothing else as a show of commitment to our shared muscle growth program. So there we sat, watching something stupid on one of the streaming services, me next to him on the couch scrolling halfheartedly through one of the readings for class on my tablet as I tried to ignore my shirtless-Aaron proximity chubby.

Finally Aaron yawned and moseyed off to bed, scratching his round, hard muscle ass. I stayed in the living room, playing with myself through my briefs long enough as I stared at the TV that I finally had a full-blown hardon to deal with. Exasperated with my stupid libido, I pulled off my shorts and spat on my dick, stroking it five or six times before I felt my balls tighten and the orgasm suddenly well up. Not wanting to make a mess, I bent over almost double and, leveraging an entire teenhood’s study and practice, slipped the head into my mouth just as I started blasting my load. I gotta get him doing this, I thought. I let the pure pleasure wash over me, barely thinking about the waste of perfectly good sperm.

My special package (by which I mean the gorilla sperm) arrived by overnight courier the next morning. I took delivery, Aaron engrossed in work as usual, and brought it to the kitchen, smiling at the look of flat surprise the uniformed delivery guy had leveled at my boxer-briefs-only attire. Emptying out a paperboard half-gallon carton of pineapple-mango-orange juice—safe as a hiding place, as only I drank the stuff, Aaron having a bit of a tropical fruit aversion—I carefully undid the top of the carton, rinsed out the interior, and stowed my prize, a sealed bag of heavyweight plastic containing a large supply of white, milky goo. I closed up the container, sealed the top with a paper clip, and pushed it all the way to the back of the fridge.

Afternoon came. Aaron signed off of work and padded into the kitchen as I was studying at the breakfast table, a resplendent muscle-Adonis in charcoal Ex Officio sport-mesh boxer-briefs.

“Ready to get big, li’l M-M?” he asked, wiggling his dark eyebrows.

“Are you, Coach?” I challenged, and he grinned. “Go on and start warming up,” I offered, closing my laptop and hoping my pounding heart wasn’t loud enough for him to hear. “I’ll make us some protein shakes.”

It was back day. The workout was tough, but I barely paid attention as “Coach” put me through my paces, determined to see gains on my scrawny 6-foot, 160-pound proto-swimmer’s bod. All my attention was on Aaron, because he hadn’t realized what I had clocked from the start of our workout: he’d had a thick, heavy pump everywhere—pecs, arms, shoulders, back, ass, legs, everywhere—before he started working out. That protein shake, the one with two generous doses of premium, concentrated gorilla spunk, hard started working on him immediately. Like, I was sure I could see a difference in his pecs within moments of him finishing the drink with a half-belched “Aah!” and setting the BlenderBottle shaker cup aside, the barest residue of liquid inside. I’d quickly finished my own (non-spermed) shake with wide eyes, and we got to work, those pecs seeming to sneak into my vision everywhere I turned.

It worked. Hadn’t it? Was I really sure? Damn, why hadn’t I made up an excuse to take measurements? Aaron had never taped himself, as he wasn’t planning to compete and had no interest in bragging to gym douches, and yet here I was conducting an experiment and I hadn’t made a plan to quantify my results? Some mad scientist I was!

Finally we finished, toweled off, and headed into the living room, flushed and floating with the pleasant burn of intense exercise and that rush of endorphins that only seemed to make us horny. By some unspoken agreement we dropped our boxer-briefs to our ankles before dropping onto the sofa, giggling as we kicked the garments into the middle of the room more or less in unison. Automatically my hand slid to his already stiff cock, and his likewise snaked under my forearm to grasp my rigid, desperate tool. It was only at this point I realized that his dick felt thick and heavy in my hand—as in, thicker than it had felt on Saturday.

No way, I thought, squeezing the hard flesh in my fist. It was hot and damp, like the rest of him, and girthy as fuck. No way, no way, no way!

“Aw, yeah, bro,” Aaron cooed, watching my hand around his dick. “That’s all yours, dude.”

“Ditto,” I said. We started stroking, him with a light touch due to my lack of foreskin (we needed to store some lube out here in the couch somewhere). His eyes drifted from his to mine and back. Me, I was looking at his chest, trying to be sure. Slumped in the couch like this, his pecs looked big and heavy, protruding sacks of muscle glistening with sweat I wanted to lick off. His nips looked oddly pronounced, too, like they were microscopically boosted in proportion to his pecs, with the tiniest bit of dampness at the tips.

So, yeah. Pecs, big. But were they really bigger? Or was it all in my head?

I needed to get more cum in him.

Aaron was eyeing his own dick as I stroked it, making use of his foreskin to really give it the solid jerking he couldn’t give me. I’d already noticed his dick pointed straight at his mouth, and his pre-workout stretches had been proving to me he was naturally limber. “Hey, you ever suck yourself?” I asked as we stroked.

He looked over at me, startled. “No!” he said. “You?”

“Sure,” I said easily. He sucked in a breath, probably trying to picture me doing it—or maybe picturing himself doing it. “I bet you could, too,” I added. “You’re pretty damn bendy.”

He blinked at me, and I watched the excitement kindle in his pretty eyes. “You think?” he asked hopefully.

“Sure,” I said again. I ran through the tips with him that I’d learned early on, through research and practice: all the stuff about how to hold your stomach and spreading the bend carefully across your spine, so on and so on. Then I said, “You want to try?”

“Show me,” he said.

“Whatever you say, Coach,” I said, slightly mockingly, as his motivations were quite transparent. As requested, I grabbed under my thighs and took my time beding over my dick, which was still firmly in Aaron’s grip. I let my lips hover within an inch of the head before looking over at him, all suggestive and provocative-like. This could be you, dude, my smile said.

Aaron was a little awed, but he mimicked the process, reluctantly retrieving his hand and gripping under his thighs, following the techniques I had outlined. As I’d guessed, he was indeed as much a raw prodigy in this as he was with dicksucking, and as I watched he let his mouth waver over his tool before suddenly plunging down, engulfing fully half of his fat, hard cock in what I knew to be a hot, talented mouth.

Almost instantly he was cumming hard, erupting huge amounts of cum down his own throat. I wasn’t far behind him, holding back through sheer force of will. He milked himself with fervor, spunk escaping out of his lips as he valiantly chased every drop as best he could, gulping his own fresh, hot jizz like a champ. And, as I stared, his triceps flexed and grew. Just a tiny bit, like a nudge from within across the mass of the triune muscle, but I was sure I had seen it—sure I was watching actual growth in real time.

“Oh, my god, bro,” I panted, feeling my own orgasm surging toward imminent release like a bull breaking out of its enclosure. “Bro—dude—!”

Instantly, Aaron pulled off his own still-seeping boner and pounced onto mine, pushing me out of the way to take my load for himself as it rocketed out of me. I stared, watching as his sweat-dappled shoulders swelled just a tiny bit more as he stooped over me, swallowing my seed. It was real. So fucking real.

Once I was spent he sat up, grinning, and fuck, he looked big. “Duude,” I moaned helplessly. Then, to keep from just sputtering broish epithets at him, I added, “You are the best workout partner ever.”

He laughed and gave me a big, cum-gooey kiss right on the lips before we hit the showers.

That night, because we had started the regimen, he asked for one more protein shake to give his body overnight fuel. Obsessed with my buddy’s growth I did as asked, except instead of adding protein to milk with a dose of gorilla spunk, I added the chocolatey protein and a bit of milk to a shaker full of thick, milky spunk. He drank it down, only frowning a bit at the taste, and handed it back to me before climbing into bed, still naked, his sheets only covering his lower half as usual. He turned on his side, his back to me, and was out like a light in seconds.

I went to bed not long after, and as the night progressed I watched in awe as his silhouette was visibly growing, undeniably affected by more sperm than even the trashiest cocksucker could expect to get in a single night. Awash in lust and desire, I jerked myself off three times in a row to the uncanny and portentous spectacle before finally and very unwillingly succumbing to a deep, muscle-filled sleep.

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The blue pumpkin by BRK Dominic is sure his blue pumpkin jack-o’-lantern will be a hit. What he doesn’t know is what will be brought forth when he lights the candle within… 6 parts 8,774 words Added Oct 2020 16k views 5.0 stars (22 votes) No comments yet •Always Hard•Cock Growth•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Hyper Cum•Multiarm•Multilimb•Multitongue•Replication•Muscle Growth•Muscle/Strength•Stretchy•Getting Taller•Mouthcock•Incest•Twins•Selfcest•Merging•Supernatural•Halloween•Complete •M/M•M/M/M•M/M/M/...

From the files of the Magic Misuse Office by BRK High-ranking magilegal investigator Liam O'Brien reports on a YouTube video in which twin college students have an illicitly magical effect on anyone watching. 6 parts 20k words Added Sep 2017 Updated 4 Sep 2021 23k views 4.9 stars (36 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Cock•Multicock•Multihead•Multiarm•Multilimb•Multitorso•Replication•Straight to Gay•Muscle Growth•Increased Libido•Transformation•Social Media•Incest•Twins•Selfcest•Merging•Witch/Warlock/Wizard •M/M•M/M/M

How would you change me? by BRK After an accident, Zack finds himself being asked the same question by all the sexy men he meets. 2,015 words Added Nov 2024 5,375 views 4.9 stars (18 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Hyper Cum•Public Orgasm•Muscle Growth•Public Nudity•Increased Libido•Getting Handsomer•Transformation •M/M