Robert is a geeky college freshman, totally smitten with his “senior buddy,” a big, built, blond, hunky California surfer dude named Chris, who dubs him “Li’l Dude.” Ridiculous muscle growth ensues (as usual!).
Another great morning at the gym!
“Yo, Li’l Dude,” Chris said when we got to the weight room. “You ought to be feeling pretty sore today, right?” I looked at him. “Sore?”
He frowned. “Y’know,” he said, “like your muscles hurt?” I shook my head.
“I don’t feel sore,” I told him. “I feel grrrreeeeat!”
He scratched his head. “Well, let’s give it a try and see what happens.” Again we started with bench press and 95 pounds. “How many, uh, ‘reps’ you called them? How many should I do?” I asked. “Just see how many you can pump out,” Chris replied. He stopped me at 30.
“Maybe we should do the weight I ended with?” He took off the 25-pound weights and put two 45-pound weights on each end. I knocked out 12, then paused. “One more?” he asked. The weight came down—and there it stopped. I couldn’t budge it.
“Whoosh!” Chris set the bar back on the rack. “I was beginning to think you were Superman, Li’l Dude!” Which made me turn beet red, of course. “Let’s try something else.” He added a 10-pound weight to each end of the bar. “Give this a try.” Same story as the 13th rep. The weight came down, it wouldn’t go back up.
“I dunno, Li’l Dude.”
“Don’t know what, Chris?”
He just shook his head.
“Later, Li’l Dude. Let’s finish up.” Again I was too shy to join him in the locker room. Am I an idiot or what? I just know I wouldn’t be able to control my weenie and that would be too embarrassing. Before I left Chris told me to eat a lot.
“Remember what I said, Li’l Dude? Lift big, eat big!”
Man, did I eat big today! Thank goodness for those cafeteria coupons. I ate a full breakfast at 10, a big lunch at 12, another big lunch at 2:30, dinner at 6, and a big ol’ snack at 8:30. And I’ll be damned if I’m not hungry again. I wonder what I can get at Cox at 11 p.m.?
I just don’t know what to think about all of this. This morning I met Chris at the gym at 7 a.m., just like always, but instead of heading to the weight area he pointed me to the locker room.
“Uh…” I started.
“Jeez, Li’l Dude, I’m not gonna rape you in the shower! We just need to get your stats, man. Y’know, height, weight, and that stuff…” He grinned. “Besides, I haven’t gotten a good look at you since you started wearing those baggy sweats all the time.”
I blushed. I started wearing the sweats on my third day at the gym—that damned weight room is cold! And I was forgetting just how comfortable they are, even when the weather is a little bit warm. Why would I want to wear anything else?
“Let’s start with the scale first. You’re 5’11 right?” Chris asked, pulling out the measuring stick.
I rolled my eyes. “Practicing to be a PE teacher?” I asked, more than a little sarcastically—the s.o.b. whacked me on the butt!
“Now let’s get your weight,” he said, once he was satisfied that I really was 5’11. He tapped the weights into place, then kept tappping. I looked at the ceiling. “151 pounds,” he announced. “Li’l Dude, you’ve been holdin’ out on me. I thought you told me you weighed 140!”
“It must be off,” I said finally. “I’ve never weighed more than 140 pounds in my life!”
“Strip,” he ordered. “It’s time for your measurements. And close your mouth, Li’l Dude. You look like a goldfish when you do that.” Reluctantly, I pulled off my shirt and pants. Chris let out a whistle.
“Good job, Li’l Dude!”
I looked over my body—muscles! Not very big ones, no, but they were there! A little bulge to my arms, a little bit of curve to my pecs, a little extra width in my shoulders. And my waist was tighter and leaner looking. I looked up at Chris who was giving me a big ol’ grin!
“Woo hoo!” I exclaimed.
Chris carefully recorded my measurements: 14¾ inch biceps, 40 inch chest, 28 inch waist, 23 inch quads, 15 inch calves, 15½ inch neck. All of which gave me a stiffy, of course. “And, no,” he continued, “we’re not measuring that!” I thought I was going to sink through the floor. “Y’know, Li’l Dude, mebbe…”
“Mebbe what, Chris?”
He chuckled. “Mebbe never mind. Let’s go lift!” And that was the other interesting thing. All this past week I did exactly the same weight, every day, always crapping out after the 10th or 12th rep, always blowing it when I tried to go up in weight.
Today, though…Maybe I was inspired by having Chris take my measurements. We started with bench, like we always do. When I got to the 12th rep, I realized I could keep going. Chris wasn’t really paying attention—at first! Then he noticed.
“Woah, Li’l Dude,” he said when I racked the bar—something he’d always helped me do before. “How many was that…?”
I grinned. “I counted 20,” I told him. He whistled.
“Let’s see if we can go up some.” He added a 5-pound weight to each end. I did 12 reps, no sweat. He added a 10-pound weight to each end. Ditto. Next he reached for the 5s again. I shook my head. “Let’s try two 10s on each side,” I suggested.
“Are you sure?”
I shrugged my shoulders—man, they felt nice! He loaded the bar as I suggested. I couldn’t see him, of course, because I was looking at the bar, but I heard him suck in his breath when I did the first eight reps without pause. By the 10th rep I was puffing.
“C’mon, Li’l Dude, you can do it, babe.”
He called me “babe”? I cranked out 2 more reps before I let the bar crash back down on the rack. “Jeez, Li’l Dude.” I nodded. I can do the math.
“Not bad for a ‘Li’l Dude,’ huh?”
“Not bad at all, Li’l Dude!”
I wonder what I’ll be doing next week?
When I’m lifting, I think of eating. When I’m eating, I think of lifting. When I’m in class, I think of lifting and eating. When I’m sleeping, I dream of Chris. Why would anyone want to do anything else?
Woo hoo! I benched 305 pounds today!
“Dayum, Li’l Dude!” Chris exclaimed when I racked the weight. “Maybe you are Superman!”
“So when do I get to work out with you?” I asked. Chris chuckled.
“You’re not there yet, Li’l Dude. When you are, I’ll let you know…” Then he picked up the barbell that I’d just benched and pumped out a couple of bicep curls. Shit! That mo-fo is strong!
He’s right, of course. I hadn’t noticed. We were in the gym. I’m proud to report that I upped my bench by another 40 pounds this week. “Li’l Dude, do you ever pay attention to these other guys?” I looked around the weight area. Come to think of it, there were at least half a dozen totally studly fellas in the weight area, a couple of ‘em nearly as big as Chris, as well as a handful of hot babes.
“Do you see anyone else here doing bench press with three 45-pound plates on each end?”
I looked around the gym again. Well, fancy that! For that matter, I noticed that almost all those hot guys, as well as a couple of girls, seemed to be giving Chris the eye. They were certainly looking in our direction, anyway. I hadn’t realized that I was part of the floorshow!
“Unh uh,” Chris said, reading my mind. “They’re not looking at me—they’ve seen me plenty of times! They’re looking at you!”
You know the rest. I blushed. Now I gotta do laundry. Man, I hate that! I keep buying more sweats—I’m up to 10 pair at this point—but I still run out. I thought I’d skip it and just wear some jeans and a button up shirt—wrong! I couldn’t get those straight leg jeans over my calves, much less my quads. Ditto, I could barely get my arms into the shirt sleeves and the buttons were just plain impossible—they didn’t reach!
I guess I’ve gained more weight than I thought!
Uh, yeah. I’ve gained more weight that I thought. Chris kinda rubbed that in my face today. “Yo, Li’l Dude,” he said when I got to the gym. “Time to take measurements again.” I spluttered. “But you said once a month, right? It’s only been three weeks!” He grinned.
“Yeppers. But you’d been lifting for a week when we did those numbers. You started lifting 4 weeks ago today!” In the locker room I shucked my clothes this time without his prompting me—and then we had to stop to help this guy who fell over one of the changing benches right next to us. And I thought I was bad when it came to blushing! On him it looked real cute!
“We can skip height, right? I haven’t grown any taller since I was 16—I don’t think I’ve grown any taller in the last 3 weeks!” Chris nodded, then pointed to the scale. Once again I looked at the ceiling while he tapped the weight into place. He let out a whistle, then announced:
“182 pounds, Li’l Dude!” I stared down at the scale in shock. “What?!” Chris let out an exasperated sounding snort. “Li’l Dude, don’t you ever look in the mirror?” I shook my head. “Just when I’m shaving, and that’s just neck up,” I muttered.
Chris pulled me over to the shower area. So there we were standing in front of the full length mirrors, Chris in his workout togs, me in my boxer briefs. Unbelievable. Who was that hunk standing next to Chris? Not nearly as big as Chris, of course, but still!
“Li’l Dude, that’s you, babe. You told me you wanted me to teach you how to grow, right?” I gulped. We went back to the changing area and he took my measurements. Waist: 28 inches. Quads: 26 inches. Calves: 18 inches. Chest: 46 inches. Biceps: 17.5 inches.
“Li’l Dude, nobody grows like you do. It’s a fucking honor to help you work out.” I blushed, I stammered—I didn’t know what to say. “How about returning the favor—measure me, Li’l Dude?”
In a heartbeat! “But lemme put on my sweats first…” Chris shook his head. “Enough of this modesty kick, Li’l Dude. You can wear sweats outside the gym if you want, but not in here. You’re driving these boys crazy staying covered up all the time.” I took a steadying breath.
“All right,” I said, “let’s get started.”
I adjusted the height stick.
“Six Feet Two Inches.” I tapped the weights into place.
“Hey,” I said, “didn’t you say…?”
“You’re not the only one who knows how to grow, Li’l Dude,” Chris said, putting the scale in balance. I looked at the number.
“255 pounds! Shit, Chris, you’re a fucking NFL lineman!”
“No way, Li’l Dude. But still…”
“That’s 15 pounds more than you were a month ago, right?”
“Remember what I told you about motivation?”
I looked into eyes—something I usually avoid doing. Suddenly I knew what a hamburger felt like—was he gonna eat me up? He broke contact, looking me up and down. “Still, it ain’t nothing compared to…” My brain finally kicked in. “42 pounds!” I exclaimed. “In one month,” he added.
I think reality is finally setting in. Up ‘til now it’s escaped my notice. It just didn’t occur to me what it all meant.
“You’re fucking amazing.”
That’s what they told me today. The guys in the gym, that is. Right after I got through benching 405 pounds. 405 pounds. That’s four 45-pound weights on each end of a 45-pound bar. I weigh 185 pounds. That’s more than twice my bodyweight.
“You’re fucking amazing.” No. I am fucking amazing! This afternoon I got a lift over to Tarzhay and bought a full length mirror to go on my closet door. “What do you need one of those for?” my ride asked. “You never wear anything but sweats!”
I bought a tape measure, too. Now I’m looking at myself in the mirror. My shoulders are so broad I can’t see all of myself at the same time unless I stand waaaay back from it. I just measured my arms. I’ve added another½ inch to my biceps since Chris measured me on Friday. 18 inch guns. On me! A month ago I was a skinny geek, 5’11 and 140 pounds. Now I’m a 185-pound muscle-stud. Somehow even my face is fuller and more masculine looking. And all that fur? Now I know what it’s for—on top of muscle it’s totally fucking hot!
Do other people like it?
Do guys like it?
Does Chris like it?
God knows I like it. I never thought I’d get a raging hard on looking at myself. I was wrong.
The phone rang at 6:30 this morning.
“Yo, Li’l Dude!” It was Chris’s deep sexy voice on the other end. “Chris…? What the fuh…?”
“Amigo! No gym this morning, okay?” That made me sit bolt upright. “What?! What’s the matter?” I nearly screeched.
“Nada, Li’l Dude,” Chris answered, chuckling. “Remember when you asked when you’d get to see me work out..?” I gulped. “Yeah,” I answered, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s time,” he said. “Meet me at the gym at 6 p.m.”
I barely made it through my classes. All I could think of was lifting. The fucking gigantic pecs, the fucking awesome arms, all that fucking muscle in motion. I had to go back to my room after lunch. That helped a little bit, but not for long!
At 6 p.m. I met him at the gym. I was hoping that he wouldn’t notice the chubby in my sweat pants. Instead of leading me to the weight area as usual he pointed me to the locker room. “Damn,” I thought. “He’s gonna get an eyeful!” Instead he pulled out an ID card and swiped it through the reader attached to that door marked PRIVATE, the one I’d somehow never noticed before.
I heard a dozen or more deep, masculine voices calling out to him. It was another weight room, as big or bigger than the one upstairs, with just as much or more equipment, with much heavier weights. (I soaked all this up in a single glance…) And there were at least a dozen guys present, all of them every bit as big and built as Chris. Some were taller, some were shorter. Some beefier, some leaner. Some furry, some smooth. All appeared to be his age or older.
“Yo, fellas,” Chris hollered back at them. “I want you to meet Li’l Dude, the one I’ve been telling you about.”
They gathered around. All of them were bigger than I am. The smallest was at least 220 pounds, the biggest must have been closer to 300 pounds. Gulp.
“Uh, Chris,” said one of the bigger ones. “He’s not big enough.” Another added: “And you know he’s not old enough…” I frowned. “For what?” I asked.
“To join The Club,” Chris said. Somehow I heard the capital T and C. “The Muscle Club,” said another. “Li’l Dude, here’s the deal,” the first one said. “To join the Muscle Club you’ve gotta be at least 220 pounds and you gotta be at least 21. You’re what, 18? And definitely under 200 pounds, right?”
I nodded. Chris cleared his throat. “But there have been exceptions,” he pointed out. “Yeah,” the second one replied, “there was one. But that guy was a freak.” Chris chuckled.
“I wanna show you guys something.” He guided me over to the nearest flat bench. He loaded on the weights. “You ready, Li’l Dude?”
I grinned back at him.
“Ready, Big Dude!”
405 pounds. 12 reps.
The first guy let out a whistle. “That’s fucking amazing!” The second guy—turns out his name is Reggie—offered me his hand. “You’re a fucking freak, Li’l Dude.”
Chris winked at me. “Like I said, Li’l Dude.”
I nodded. “It’s time.”
Woo hoo! 200 pounds! Of muscle. That’s me!
I wondered if things would change when I started working out with Chris and the other guys in the Club. The answer: Not a bit. Not faster. Not slower. Just 10 pounds of solid muscle, same as usual. Every week. And I still have a 28-inch waist. It’s just that now I have 27 inch quads, a 50 inch chest, and 19 inch biceps to go along with it. The guys on my hall have started asking me to joining them for dinner, for lunch, for pick-up round-ball games at the gym. The conversation is always the same.
“How’d you get to be so big?”
“What’s it like to be so fucking built?”
“How much can you bench?”
“What’s your BF ratio?” That last one threw me until I realized it meant bodyfat, not boyfriend
My bench press passed 450 pounds this week. My BF seems to be heading toward zero, albeit rather more slowly. As far as I can tell, though, it’s been no more than 5 percent from about the second week on. Oh, yeah, there’s that other thing.
At Chris’s insistence I finally started showering at the gym. It took some work but I finally managed to make myself look at the other guys—if I sprung a woody, well, what were they gonna do about it?
That’s when I noticed. They were all looking at me. My muscles. My fur. My dick.
What the hey, I thought. They’re all looking at me.
Why not look back? And that’s when I figured it out. I always thought I was, well, y’know…Less than average! But theirs were all smaller. All of ‘em! That night, after we worked out, I showered with Chris and the other guys in the Muscle Club. As usual. Only this time I looked. Hmm. “Something catch your eye, Li’l Dude?” Chris asked as he was toweling off. My eyes snapped away from that lovely sight south of his navel…
“So, uh, Chris,” I started. “Y’know, I really haven’t spent much time in the gym. Or even around other guys…” Chris chuckled. “Li’l Dude, the average is about six inches. Anything over eight inches—like this one,” he said, give his thick snake a playful shake, “is considered big.” My eyes widened. “So…?
“Li’l Dude, that’s one place you’ve never been little, babe. How big is it when it gets really hard?”
I blushed bright red. “I, uh, never measured,” I confessed.
He shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, Li’l Dude. I think you’ll like what you’ll find out. Just don’t forget to measure around as well as lengthwise!” Which I just did.
9½ x 7?!
Did I mention that I’m huge? No, not down there.
“Hey, it’s Bee Ay Oh,” one of my hall-mates said when I showed up for round-ball this evening.
“Bee Ay Oh?” He chortled and gave me a nudge. “Big All Over, doofus!”
I just stood there with my jaw open. And then it hit me. I was playing round-ball with seven other guys from my hall. Some shorter, some taller, most about my height. And I was bigger than ALL of them!
“So, like how much do you weigh now?” asked Philip, the blond one. My brow furrowed. “And you want to know because…?” He colored quickly—I thought I was bad about blushing! “Just curious,” he answered. “I mean, you’re really huge, but you’re really lean, too. It’s hard to tell.”
He gulped. “Shit, man, you’re 50 pounds heavier than me!” I looked at him. “And?” Was that a trace of fear that ran across his face? “Well, nothin’, man. It’s just, like, y’know, I was bigger than you when we got here!”
I grinned. “Well, you still would be,” I said, wrapping a brawny bicep around his neck. “If you had put on about 70 pounds of muscle…”
His jaw dropped. “Is that how much you’ve put on? Shit, that’s what, 50% more than you weighed when classes started?” I squeezed my arm a little tighter and his eyes bulged slightly. Then I ran my hand down his back and whacked his ass. “You know it, babe…”
Shee-it. I’ve been forgetting to write about my workouts with Chris. Mostly because he leaves me speechless. He’s so fucking strong! Tonight he benched 705 pounds—for reps! That’s seven 45-pound plates on each end of the bar! That’s crazy! Even if he does weigh 265 pounds! He’s far and away the strongest guy in the The Club.
“And you’re catching up fast, Li’l Dude,” Chris said. Does the boy really know how to read my mind? “Li’l Dude, think about it, babe. How much did you just bench?” I thought about it… “Uh, 525 pounds.”
He nodded. “And who else can do that much?” I frowned. “Besides you? Well, there’s Reggie and Frank and….” I paused. “And…?” I blinked. “Well, no one, come to think of it.” He rested his massive arms on my shoulders. He looked into my eyes.
“Exactly,” he said. The most intimate word I’ve ever heard! “You’re one of the four strongest men in the Muscle Club. And you’re only 18 years old…”
Which made me wonder…
Chris decided it was time to take measurements again. We started with the scales. Guess what? I gained another 10 pounds in the past week! Are we surprised? Didn’t think so! Still.
220 pounds? Holy Shit! Then he checked my waist. It’s all the way up to 29 inches. Should I go on a diet? Is an eight-pack good enough?
Then my chest.
“Uh…” I said.
“Yeah,” Chris said, reading my mind again. “You can forget about off the rack formal wear. Most stores don’t carry a 52 regular, much less a 52 regular with a 22 inch drop!”
Quads? 30 inches. Shall I repeat that? 30 inches! That’s a fucking inch bigger than my waist!
“You can forget about jeans, too,” Chris added.
Then my arms. Holy cow! 20 inches. Cold. “Welcome to my world,” Chris said, chuckling. I raised my eyebrows. “You know how many men in the world can legitimately claim a 20 inch arm?” I shook my head. “Maybe one in 10,000,” he replied. “And that’s in this country. In the rest of the world, it’s probably more like one in a million!”
I stood there staring at them. “They look good enough to eat,” said Chris, abruptly ending my reverie. “Don’t they?” Then he flexed his own killer guns for my benefit. I licked my lips.
“Measure ‘em? Sure!” He tossed me the tape. Shee-it! 24 inches. So fucking huge!
“You’re catching up, Li’l Dude…”
Halloween! What a hoot! I went as the Incredible Hulk. I bought a dark green wig and green body-paint. Chris brought his clippers and trimmed my fur right down to stubble, then helped me put on the body-paint. Oy! I had to concentrate really hard not to spring a boner. Come to think of it, if the outline I saw in his shorts was any indication I don’t think he was concentrating very hard.
Earlier in the day we’d gone to the Army surplus store and bought me a pair of combat boots. I know, I know, the Hulk was always barefoot but I wasn’t gonna risk walking on any broken beer bottles. A pair of cut off burgundy sweat pants—they’d gotten waaaaaay too tight for workout purposes—completed the ensemble.
“Shit,” Chris said.
He pointed at my crotch.
“Oh,” I replied. “You think…?”
“I think you’re gonna be very popular!”
He was right.
I made a bit of a stir at the party, and as far as I can tell it wasn’t just the tightness of my sweatpants, although that probably helped. All these girls kept squealing and coming up to me to feel my pecs and my arms and my delts. They kept pinching my nipples! If they’d kept it much longer, I would have been the one squealing, too! Finally, I escaped and headed over to the punch bowl where I was joined by Philip. You know, my hall-mate; the blond one.
“Jeez,” he said. “You’re even bigger now, aren’t you?”
I laughed, then stretched and scratched my abs. For a minute there I could have sworn Philip turned the exact same shade of green. “Yep,” I replied. “Weighed in at 230 pounds this morning.” I squared my shoulders and flexed my lats.
“Fuck, man,” Philip said. “Don’t do that!
“Do what?” I asked.
“Flex your back like that,” he answered. “You make me feel like an insect.”
I snorted. “What are you talking about, dude? You’ve got a great body!” I told him. “Classic swimmer’s build, man.”
Philip sighed. “I just wish I were bigger, that’s all.”
I looked him up and down. “You’re what? 160 pounds?” He nodded.
“And not an ounce of fat, dude,” I pointed out. “Plus great lines and great proportions. You can get bigger easily. You just need to spend more time at the weights and less time in the pool.” He looked shyly down at the floor. God, what a cutie!
“I’m always a bit intimidated in there,” he said. “I’m never sure I’m doing the right thing.” I put my arm around his shoulder, then I caught sight of the two of us in the mirror. Jeez, I really do make him look like a wee thing!
“We can take care of that!” I said heartily. “Meet me in the locker-room tomorrow morning at 7. I’ll give you some pointers!” Across the room I saw Chris grinning at me. He gave me the thumbs up sign—I wonder what that was for?
Well, gosh. I’m not sure what to think. I really didn’t expect that to happen!
Philip showed up in the locker room at exactly 7 a.m. First thing we did was take his measurements: 6 feet tall (about an inch taller than I am), 160 pounds. And like I said, perfect proportions—42 inch chest, 29 inch wasit, 23 inch quads, 15 inch biceps, 15 inch calves, 16 inch neck. And a nice package in his shorts, but, no, I didn’t measure that!
It was great to be back in the open weight-room. All those guys who seemed so big and intimidating back in August kept coming up to say “hi” and “how you doing?” and “can I get a spot?” Philip seemed a little miffed, at least until we got started. Then the rest of the gym disappeared, as it has a way of doing when I find my focus. I took him through all the moves, emphasizing form. He’s a total natural, of course, and stronger than he looks—he benched 205 pounds for 10 reps, no sweat.
We spent about an hour in the weight-room, going through all the exercises, all the machines. I kept a pair of 150-pound dumbbells with me the whole time—I figured I might as well get a workout, too! By the end of the hour I’d done about 30-40 sets and my arms were really pumped.
After the workout we headed back to the dorm to shower and get ready for class. In the changing room I realized I’d overdone it a little bit. My arms were so pumped I couldn’t get them over my head! I kept tugging at my white tee but it was plastered to my body like a second skin.
“Uh, Philip…” I began. I looked up to find him staring at me in open amazement. “Could you…?”
He came forward slowly, so that we were standing hip to hip, face to face, our noses only inches apart. Slowly he reached down and pulled my shirt up. I leaned over from the waist, extending my arms in front of me, as he pulled the soaking wet tee from my body.
“You don’t ever really look at your back, do you?” he whispered. I straightened up and looked at him quizzically.
“Hmm, now that you mention it…”
“Come over here,” he said, taking my hand. The changing room had a dressing mirror, like in a clothing shop, the kind that allows you to look at your back and sides as well as your front. He stood me in front of it, then I turned so that I could see. Fuck. I don’t have a back any more. I have a mountain range! Peaks and valleys. Crevasses. Canyons. Mesas. Rolling plains. So fucking broad! So fucking thick! The erector spinae twin ranges converging on Olympian traps.
I heard Philip sweating. That’s right. Heard him. It dripped off his brow and landed on the tile floor with an audible smack. That’s when I noticed. My sweats were totally tenting, and when that thing gets going, well, Philip wasn’t lying when he called me “Big All Over.” He was whispering something but the blood was still ringing in my ears.
He gulped, then spoke up. “Can I see it…?” I looked down at him, the blond curls on his head repeated by the fine blond swirls of fuzz on his strong, supple neck.
We said it as one. I gently lowered my sweats. Oh, God. I didn’t know anything could feel that good. Like fire and ice together. So sweet, so soft, yet so firm and insistent. I don’t know how long it went on. Without thinking, I found myself pinching my nipples. So that’s what they’re for! And then it was over and he was standing with his arms around me, beautiful face leaning against my massive chest, licking his lips. I didn’t know men could purr.
“Philip…” I began.
He put his finger to my lips. “More later…” he said. And then he was gone. I never made it to class. I never made it to the gym—the first day I’ve missed since I started in August!
Chris came by at dinner time.
“You all right, Li’l Dude?”
I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t.
OMG! Patrick called. Yes, that Patrick! He’s coming to see me! Tomorrow!
Turns out Rice is having its fall break this weekend. Seems kinda late to me, but, heck, we don’t even get a fall break! So why the hell did he want to go to school in Houston, of all places? He could have gone here just as easily. Of course, if he had…Well, I wonder what it would have been like? Would Chris have paid ANY attention to me with a demigod like Patrick running around the gym? I wonder if he’s gotten any bigger? God knows he couldn’t get any better!
Which reminds me: I was 240 pounds at my weigh in this morning.
“Shit, Li’l Dude,” Chris said, chuckling. I looked up from the read out—they replaced the old scale with a digital one last week. “What’s so funny?” I demanded. He shook his head. “Do you remember when we started this 10 weeks ago?”
I frowned. “Of course. What about it?” He looked at me. “And you weighed how much?” It was my turn to laugh. “I was all of 140 pounds, soaking wet, you know that.” He nodded. “And how much did I weigh?”
Really, I am not normally this slow.
“Oh,” I said. He chuckled again.
“That’s right, Li’l Dude. I was 240 pounds.”
I looked at him.
I drew a breath.
“I’m as big now as you were then!” I exclaimed. He punched my shoulder. “Bigger, Li’l Dude. I’m three inches taller than you are, remember?” I look at him, all 275 pounds of him. And then he did the most amazing thing. He pinched my nipple!
And Patrick’s arriving this afternoon.
Patrick’s come and gone. I heard the knock Friday afternoon—the day Chris pinched my nipple!—after my last class. “Yo, it’s open,” I hollered. A head poked inside the door. “Excuse me, I’m looking for…” And then I was right next to him—I practically levitated across the room! “It’s so good to see you!” I exclaimed. He had the funniest look on his face.
“I’m looking for…”
I put my hands on his shoulders—we’re the same height, y’know, even though he’s always been so much bigger than he always seemed taller, too! “Yo, Patrick, it’s me!” His jaw fell open, his eyes wandered all over my body.
He blinked. He shook his head. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. I thought people only did that in Three Stooges movies! “God, Patrick, it’s so fucking great to see you! And, damn, I don’t know what they’re feeding you down at Rice but it sure agrees with you…” I dragged him into the room, pushed him into the armchair, lightly tossed his duffel bag on my bed, and proceeded to spend the next 10 minutes talking nonstop about life at school and in the big city…Finally, he stood up and put his hand out, palm first.
I looked at him.
“Jeezus, Robert, stop blabbing and tell me what the fuck happened to you.” And then it hit me. I’d been sitting there in my gym shorts and nothing else. I grinned.
“Well, I have been spending some time in the gym…”
“Some time in the gym?” He practically squealed. “You’re a total fucking monster, Robert!”
I laughed. “Well, look who’s talking, Mr. High School Varsity Everything. You’ve put on some muscle, too, right? How much?” He glared at me. “Well, yeah, about 20 pounds.” he agreed. “But, shit, Robert, how big are you now?” Another one of those “oh, yeah…” moment came over me.
“Well, um, now that you mention it—240 pounds.”
Patrick’s whole body seemed to twitch for a moment, then he took my hand and pulled me in front of the mirror, so we could both see the same thing. “Robert, three months ago I was 190 pounds and outweighed you by 50 fucking pounds. Now I’m up to 210 and you outweigh me by 30 pounds. That’s 100 pounds in 3 months! How is that possible?!”
I turned and smiled at him.
“210, huh? Show me?” I reached over and pulled his shirt off in one quick swipe.
I mean, keep in mind that Patrick is far and away the studliest man to ever graduate from our high school. Another 20 pounds of muscle was perfection on top of perfection! Half Irish, half Italian, jet black curly hair, piercing blue eyes, perfectly even, perfectly smooth olive complexion, and the perkiest, most permanently erect pair of nipples on the planet.
“Jeez, Patrick, that 20 pounds went to all the right places,” I said, reaching out to pinch one of those nipples. He smiled and looked down. “It’s nothing,” he muttered. I lifted his chin so that he had to look me in the eye. “Nothing?” He shook his head.” Compared to you…” I rolled my eyes. He licked his lips.
I could believe this diffident, shy guy was my Patrick—it made me hard as a rock.
“Can I feel ‘em?”
My parents are still agog. Seriously agog. To the point of wanting to send me to a specialist agog. Not surprising really. You send a skinny, 5’11, 140-pound 18 year old off to college, he comes back a world class competitive bodybuilder. How often does that happen? Exactly.
I think they’re getting over the doctor idea, however. Last night the fridge died and they had a new one sent out by early afternoon, one of those fancy stainless steel double wide jobs. While the delivery / install guys were getting the new one set up, I carried the old one out. That’s right—carried. And then I hoisted it up on the back of the delivery truck.
“Yeah, Pop?” He scratched his ear. “You think you might want to use the ….?”
“…the lift?” I plopped the old fridge down in the back of the truck before he finished getting the words out. “Nah,” I grinned, stretching my shoulders. “I’m okay!”
Dad just shook his head, then looked me up and down. “So how much…?”
I raised an eyebrow—he gestured up and down, side to side. “Right at 300 pounds, Pop, and about 4 % bodyfat. Check it out…” I pulled back the sleeve on my baggy sweatshirt and flexed. “25 inches cold—pretty cool, huh?”
Looking pretty pink, Dad turned around to look at the truck. His hands on his hips, he muttered something that I couldn’t quite catch. “What’s that, Pop?” He laughed. “At least you’re not a girl,” he said. “I’ve always felt kinda bad for that dad whose 18 year old daughter is the world’s strongest woman. She outweighs him by a hundred pounds—just like you do me!” He grinned, then added. “I think we can forget the specialist.”
I gave him a big hug, twirled him around, his eyes wide, and then he tried hugging me in return—and failed to get his arms around my back. “Hrmmmf,” he said, clearing his throat. “I better go check on your mother.”
I think it’s going to be a long break. I said as much to Chris two nights ago as he was taking me to the airport to drop me off for my return flight home.
“Awww, Li’l Dude…” he started, then he stopped, looking over at me. “Robert,” he began again, “it will be over before you know it. Then you can get back here where you belong and keep on growing, just like you’ve been doing. I just hope I can keep up with you—for a while!”
“What do you mean….?” I stammered. He laughed.
“I mean that your growth potential is beyond belief. Have you noticed that in addition to more than doubling your weight in a single semester you’re an inch taller than you were back in August…?” I gaped. What happed to the Surfer Dude accent? “If you keep growing at this rate for the next 3½ years you’re going to need a whole section of the bleachers just for yourself at commencement in 2004.”
I started thinking about numbers. I could feel my mouth hanging open—it has an annoying tendency to do that. “Uh, maybe I’m slowing down?” I squeaked.
“Y’know, in August that would have been a squeak—now it’s kinda like the roar a bull elephant would make. I wonder if you went through puberty a second time…?” He reached over and squeezed my left bicep—unconsciously, I flexed it. “I don’t think you’re close to maxing out, Robert. Maybe at some point, but you’re not there yet.” He sighed. “Believe it or not, I think you could still carry significantly more muscle than you already do. There are pro bodybuilders as heavy as you who are three or four inches shorter than you are.”
“Still, from what I can tell you’re going to be the biggest man anyone’s ever seen.” I gulped. “If I had to guess,” Chris continued, “I’d say you’re not likely to max out before you get to 400, maybe 450 pounds. And that’s just assuming you don’t grow any taller.” I shivered slightly, thinking about it. “And if you keep growing taller…? Well, that’s hard to imagine. I just want to be around to see it.”
His hand, which had been massaging my bicep, dropped to my forearm, his powerful fingers attempting—but failing—to encircle its massive weight. We pulled into the parking lot. As he turned off the car, I turned toward him.
“Chris,” I began—and then lost myself in the deep pools of those stunning blue eyes.
“You’ve stopped calling me ‘Li’l Dude.’ Why is that?” He dropped his hand to my knee.
“You’re anything but little now, Big Man. Besides,” he added, turning toward me. “I’ve always wanted to call My Dude by his first name.”
“My Dude?” He looked down a moment, then back at me with something I’d never seen before—his face with a shy smile.
“My Dude, Robert. The one I’ve always dreamed about. Another freak like me. The one I want to share my life with.” I gasped. “If you’ll have me, that is.”
I had to take a later flight. Like I said, it’s going to be a long winter break.
How can one man be so incredibly massive? I mean Chris, naturally. It still boggles my mind as I sit here watching him sleep. He’s on his back, of course. Even when I first knew him he was too broad and thick to sleep on his side. Now? Well, he needs about four pillows just to keep his head level, he’s that thick from front to back. That’s my Chris—6’2” tall, 400 pounds of solid muscle, 74 inch chest, 38 inch waist, 38 inch quads, legitimate 30 inch biceps. One of the biggest, strongest men in the world.
“Mine, all mine,” I think to myself.
“Li’l Dude.” Chris opens his eyes. “Time to wake up, sleepyhead.”
He shakes himself, trying to chase the sleep away.
“What time is it?” “Time to get up, Li’l Dude.”
Then I reach down and pick him up under those massive arms, lifting him up and up until he’s eye level with me. He puts his arms around the massive column of my neck—he long ago gave up trying to circle my enormous chest—and his thighs wrap around the marbled expanse of my impossibly muscled midsection.
“Big Man,” he sighs. “Why are we up this early?” I chuckle, a sound that has been compared to a polite sonic boom. “Graduation day, sexy…”
His eyes fly open. “Oh my god!” he exclaims. “I was completely forgetting.” I drop him to the floor—we long ago figured out that the ground floor and a concrete slab were best—and he looks up at me, the top of his golden curls just even with my shoulder.
“Have you decided…?”
“What I’m gonna wear? The cap and gown, of course. It’s traditional.”
“No buts,” I replied.
On the other hand, dear reader, I do need to catch you up, don’t I? You see, I never stopped growing. Chris and I got together when I returned from Christmas vacation that January—more than three years ago now—and even in those three weeks I grew another inch and gained another 30 pounds of muscle. By the time fall semester of my sophomore year rolled around I was 6’4” tall and weighed an astounding, totally built 400 pounds—the biggest thing anyone had ever seen.
It was then that I decided I would no longer wear clothes.
“Dean Gingrich, look at me,” I said that sunny September day. “I’m a freak. And when I have clothes on I only look more freakish. At least unclothed I can pretend to some semblance of naturalness.”
It was a sensation, as you will recall, especially considering I took it all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court—and won. Believe me, that marble floor is cold, although not nearly as cold as the glare in Chief Justice Giuliani’s eye. Eventually people stopped paying attention, except for the newcomers, who came by to gawk. I was a freak, all right, but I was their freak. The only other people who paid attention were the guys in the gym, and I’d long since achieved folk hero status in their eyes. Their interest in how much bigger I was, how much stronger I was, how much bigger and stronger I was going to get, was endless.
The rumors, by the way, are true. There was an illegal betting pool totally based on seeing how close people could get to predicting when I’d gain my next hundred pounds of muscle. The ultimate winner netted something close to $100,000, before being shipped off to serve a three-year prison sentence for illegal betting. Just for the record, it went like this:
September 1, 2001, 6’4” tall, 400 pounds.
May 17, 2002, 6’6” tall, 500 pounds.
January 4, 2003, 6’8” tall, 600 pounds.
September 9, 2003, 6’10” tall, 700 pounds.
April 30, 2004, 7 ft. tall, 800 pounds.
So, yep, it’s true: I’m the biggest, most muscular man who has ever lived. As far as I can tell, I’m also the strongest—unless you can point to someone else who can bench press 2 tons for reps?
The sight of me walking up the aisle, the black robe pointing out that my shoulders really are 7 ft. across, making me just as wide as I am tall, it’s not just some optical illusion, causes mouths to drop open, eyes to bulge. The crowds part before me, except for the occasional self-absorbed pretty boy who turns and nearly faints when confronted with the outline of my enormous cock tenting the fabric of my vermillion robe. It’s always been the same, thick thighs and no place to dangle—it pushes all my stuff forward, making it look even bigger than it really is. Only now the quads measure 80 inches each, the cock is 20 inches long when soft, the balls are as big as Texas grapefruit.
They’ve seen it hard, of course, most of these pretty boys and a lot of the ones who aren’t so pretty, when it’s closer to its full out 30 inches in length and 20 inches in circumference. One or two of them have even felt it. They usually pay for that privilege, the most from one cute Arab boy who gave me a personal check for $100,000 (he raided his trust fund.)
What most of them don’t realize is that I’d be happy to let them touch it for free—and many have done that, too. It’s just that they usually assume and start off by asking “how much?” and I always reply, “how much is it worth to you?” The smart ones answer by making it feel really good, with their hands or their tongues, or, like that sexy bear boy from Michigan, climbing up on it and bouncing up and down on it like it was a rocking horse.
Chris always enjoys these sessions and it’s usually his enjoyment that gets me off. The look of gleeful satisfaction that comes into his eyes when these guys cum just by looking at me, or as they touch the magnificence of my manhood.
“Mine, all mine,” he whispers to me silently.
“Yours, all yours,” I mouth back.
I’m crossing the stage, the whole convocation is on its feet cheering. Why, I wonder? Because I’m their Freak? Because I’m a freak and I still managed to pull down a 4.0 GPA and get accepted to Harvard Medical School?
Someday I’ll know why I am what I am. Maybe then I’ll understand them, too. In the meantime, Chris is standing at the end of the stage, his Viking awesomeness rousing my ponderousness even before I finish shaking Chancellor Gore’s hand. What comes next, I wonder. We say it together: