The boy god moves in

by Richard Jasper

This one is a continuation of LuvMusl’s classic story, Boy God. He kindly agreed to let me play with his characters. And, me being me, this one is very much in my style, not his.

Added: 8 Aug 2020 3,727 words 2,001 views No votes yet

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This one is a continuation of LuvMusl’s classic story, Boy God. He kindly agreed to let me play with his characters. And, me being me, this one is very much in my style, not his. The original story can be found here.
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One night there was a THUMP-THUMP-THUMP on my front door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I shouted, wondering who—or what—could be pounding on my door at 2 a.m. It sounded like a wrecking ball.

I opened the door and…It was Pete! Only a much bigger Pete than I had seen just two months previously when we celebrated his 17th birthday.

“Yo, Pop,” he said. “Stand aside.”

And with that he tossed in a duffel bag that must have weighed 200 pounds, as much I weighed. He’d been carrying it one-handed, of course.

“Pete!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

He looked at me like I was an imbecile. “What does it look like I’m doing, dummy? I’m moving in.” My jaw hit the floor. “But but but…!” He put his big paw over my mouth to stop my spluttering. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “Ten months from now I’m entering the Arnold Amateur in Columbus, Ohio, and I intend to win. I intend, in fact, to wipe the floor, cause a sensation, blow their frigging minds. Between now and then I need no distractions. All I am going to do is lift, eat and sleep. And I’m going to do it here.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said. “But I have a few questions.” I asked him as I followed him upstairs.

“What about school?”

“I tested out of my senior year.”

“What about your parents?”

“They’re happy to see the back of me for three reasons: (1) They think I’m a pervert; (2) I scare the shit out of them; and (3) I’m eating them out of house and home.”

By that time we had reached the Master Bedroom—my bedroom—where he dropped the duffel, then ripped off his shirt. Holy Mother of God! It looked like he had gained another 25 pounds since I had last seen. And when had he gotten so fucking furry? He turned in the doorway, reached up and rested his hands against the doorsill, then flexed arms that were bigger than my thighs.

“298 pounds this morning,” he said, giving me a wink. “Probably 303, maybe 305 now.” I reached out and put my hand on one of his massive pecs. He flexed that, too, and mid-flex I was rock hard. “I’m bunking here from now on,” he said. “But don’t get any ideas. You’ll be over there.”

He nodded at the guest bedroom. I figured I would regain the power of speech at some point. In the meantime, Pete outlined his plan. In 10 months, he would gain 100 pounds of muscle. That would require constant lifting, constant feeding, and plenty of rest.

“I’ll be working out at Meatheads,” he said, referring to the downtown gym frequented by the local big boys. “You won’t be much help when it comes to spotting me but I’ll need you there to change plates, mix my workout drinks, and crap like that,” he said. “And if you’re a really good boy, I’ll let you give me massage.” He continued. “Likewise, I’m going to need to eat—a lot! You’re in charge of grocery shopping, meal prep, and clean up.”

Before he could go on, I interjected.

“But what about my job?!”

He chuckled.

“You can take a year off,” he said, much to my amazement. “I checked you out. You’re loaded. You know you can.” While I was processing that, he added: “Besides, I’m going to be spending all of my nights here,” he said. “I figure I’ll be crashed 10-12 hours a day, which isn’t going to leave a lot of time for sex. I’ve already told the big guys—Roy and George and Tomas—that I’ll see ‘em next year. As you can imagine, they’re heartbroken.” I could imagine indeed. A year without Pete? I might hang myself. “But my guess is that on occasion this bad boy,” he said, reaching down to shake the anaconda inside his sweat pants. “…is gonna need some attention from time to time. And you’ve got the hottest mouth and tightest ass I know.”

My mind reeled. Literally. I was dizzy. I felt myself falling towards Pete. He caught me, turned me around, and pushed me towards the guest bedroom.

“Now get your rest,” he said. “You’re going to need it.”


I quit work the next day—via e-mail! It really was a pretty crappy job and I was contributing way more than I was getting in return, even though the salary was decent enough. But Pete was right: I had a very hefty bank balance and investments that would let me retire at 40, if I wanted. So maybe I would need to retire at 45 instead?

I found Pete in the kitchen, essentially eating me out of house and home. “Make a list,” I told him. “I’ll go grocery shopping.” He belched. “After we go to the gym,” he said. I see-sawed my hand. “Whatever you say, Big Man.”

He winked at me, as if to say, Damn right, and good thing you know it, Bitch!

And then he grabbed the keys to the Tesla, my baby. I prayed. What else was I gonna do? But he was a careful driver, attentive, not distracted, used his turn signals, didn’t tailgate, tended to stay about five miles per hour over the speed limit, but so did I. Will wonders never cease, I mused to myself. He’s a 17-year-old muscle-head AND a good driver! “I’ve always wanted to try one of these babies,” he said, resting his big hand on my thigh. “It’s always been clear you have great taste!” Blink Blink Blink! Did he just pay me a compliment? Or was he complimenting himself? Frankly, it didn’t matter!

Meatheads, as I said, is the hardcore downtown gym where the big boys go. Pete walked in and they parted like the fucking Red Sea. I wondered about that. At 5’10 and 300 pounds, Pete was fucking huge but there were guys there his size or even bigger. After he finished his workout, I understood it. I already knew he was insanely powerful. You don’t watch a guy bench 545 pounds for reps or power through a set of single arm curls with a 170-pound dumbbell and not appreciate that the person doing that kind of work occupies a different plane of existence than that of mere mortals. But that was what he had been doing two months previously.

“Max rep day,” he said, approaching the bench, and five of the big guys, all of them over 250 pounds, a couple of them Pete’s size or bigger, gathered round to attend him, like they were fucking Vestal Virgins! His warm-up set, 20 reps, was:

675 pounds. Followed by: 15 reps @ 765 pounds / 10 reps @ 855 pounds / 5 reps @ 945 pounds / 3 reps @ 1035 pounds / 1 rep @ 1125 pounds.

“Uh…” I said, after he finished that.

He stretched his swollen 26-inch biceps across his blood-engorged 60-inch chest. “Is that a world record? Is that what you’re asking?” Pete nodded at Nasser, Meathead’s 330-pound powerlifter.

“Yes,” Nasser said, looking vaguely green. “By about 75 pounds.” Pete arched an eyebrow. “Of course,” Nasser continued. “The world record is with a lifting shirt. And Pete just did it, uh, you know raw.”

Fred Frelinghuysen stepped up to the plate. “And the raw record is 925 pounds,” he pointed out. “Which we all know since Nasser here is the one who set it three months ago at the Arnold in Columbus.” Mmmmm’kay. No wonder Nasser looked a little green around the gills!

I was wondering what the Boy God would do for his next trick when Hank Hollister, the gym owner / manager, showed up to say that the “special order” had arrived. Pete’s eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store!

“Really?!” he exclaimed. “That’s so great.” Turns out the “special order” was new set of dumbbells, a pair of 225s and a pair of 250s. “I wasn’t going to work arms today,” Pete said. “But I gotta try these out.”

He grabbed the 250s and started curling. Strictly. Not hammering them, curling them. Full extension, full contraction. For 15 reps. I gotta tell ya, I wasn’t the only one standing there with my mouth hanging open. In fact, I couldn’t tell you who didn’t have his mouth hanging open. He set ‘em down and I swear his arms were an inch bigger than they had been 10 minutes previously.

“Fucking-A,” he said. “That’s the way to pump these fuckers.”

Then he flexed.

Hollister collapsed on the bench. Fred let out a moan. I’m pretty sure he was drooling. Nasser? Well, Nasser, just spurted, then ran off to the locker room. For some reason, I took it all in, cool as a cucumber. Partly that was because I was going home with him, partly that was because I was thinking of the grocery list and how I was going to fit everything into the Tesla. The S is pretty capacious but there are limits!

“Isn’t that about enough for today?” I asked. He pondered that. “Any more and I’ll have to get a pair of scissors to cut the shirt off of you,” I pointed out.

He grinned that little boy grin of his.

“Yeah, no reason not to start off easy,” he agreed. “Plenty of time to grow!”


On the way home—the grocery store would need to wait until after I tucked Pete in bed for his three-hour afternoon nap—I finally got around to doing some calculating.

“You’re planning to gain a hundred pounds…” I said. He nodded. “And you weigh about 300 now…” He waggled his hand up and down. “After this morning’s breakfast, I’m about 305,” he said. “I’ll check again at bedtime.” I blinked. “So you’re planning to bulk up to 400 pounds?!” I think I squeaked.

He just laughed.

“Pop, you need to reset your mindset,” he said, jovially. “You’re not dealing with some pussy like Phil Heath. I’m going to hit 400 in the off-season.” He grabbed the hand-hold and flexed. I saw it out of the corner of my eye and by some miracle of divine intervention I managed to keep my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road. “That way I’ll be able to hit the stage at, oh, about 375 pounds in ripped, shredded contest shape,” he added.

I gulped. You know, the fact is that despite my less than stellar development I have been following bodybuilding since I was a kid. I know the names of every Mr. Olympia; in any given year I know the names of the people who are going to be competing; if there were a Fantasy Bodybuilding League, I would crush the competition, I’m that good at sussing out how people are performing. And stats, dammit, I know the goddamned stats.

“Big Ramy was 315 at the last Olympia,” I said in a tone of quiet awe. “The biggest man to ever set foot on the Olympia stage…”

Pete reached over and ruffled my hair, like I was the little boy.

“Yep, Pop, and I’m going to be 60 pounds heavier than that,” he said. “They’re not going to know what hit ‘em!”


The rest of the week continued like that.

Wake him up, feed him. Take him to the gym, feed him. Bring him home, feed him. Wake him up, feed him again, take him to the gym again, rinse, repeat, collapse. In between, I somehow found time to do the grocery shopping, the meal prep, the clean-up, and, Holy Moly, the laundry.

Being around 300 pounds of, let’s face it, already Olympia quality beef was pretty much driving me crazy but the Boy God had no interest in being serviced. One morning before he woke, I took his most recently used jockstrap (he had about a dozen) and retreated to the guest bedroom. I never really figured out whether Pete was on something or it was just the case that his 17-year-old testosterone was the most potent substance in human history. Either way, the thing reeked. I put it over my face, grabbed my left nipple in one hand, my thick eight-incher in my right, and proceeded to wank. That morning, a week after his arrival, Pete had stood on the special scale in the kitchen and announced.

“310 pounds. Good.”

Just hearing “310” had caused my knees to shake. He’d been in my house for a week and gained 12 pounds of muscle, none of it to his midsection, which was, insanely, actually tighter than it had been when he showed up. My dick was hard as a rock but I was holding off and holding off and holding off, thinking of him gaining 12 pounds in a week. And then I paused: 12 pounds a week? If he kept up that pace in 10 months he’d have gained…

No, that couldn’t be right. There had to be some natural limit to his growth. Surely?

“Well, well, well, lookee what we have here,” Pete said, walking in on me. Like me, he was naked as a jaybird. He crashed down on the bed, his giant hands resting on either side of my head, his huge quads on either side of my hips, his fucking adorable face barely visible over the mountains of his pecs. “So the Little Bitch decided he needed some spank time, did he?” he growled. “With my fucking favorite jockstrap?”

I couldn’t help it. I started shaking. This, clearly, was the end. He hopped off the bed, dragging me with him. I stood before him like a wayward child, outweighed (by more than a hundred pounds), outclassed, outmanned, in every possible way. He clenched his fists, pumping his forearms and biceps larger and larger. He flared his humongous lats, thrust out his Ferrignoesque chest, and hit the mother of all double-bi shots.

“Check it out, Pop,” he said, turning to kiss the peaks, first the left one, then the right. “26¾ inches each. And today was leg day.” I felt feverish. I burned to touch his arms, his chest, his traps, his abs, his quads.

“Lick my arm, faggot,” he said, repeating the words from the first day we met, the first day he fucked my lights out. I didn’t hold back, my mouth all over the mountainous assemblage of vein and sinew that constituted Pete’s upper arm. When he tired of it, he pushed my head towards his forearm.

“21 inches cold,” he said. “Have you ever seen anything like it?” No, I hadn’t, of course I hadn’t. No one had ever seen anything like it. Some men have tree trunks for quads, Pete’s forearms alone were tree trunks. “Whaddya think, Pop? That old fuck Frank McGrath got anything on these puppies?”

My eyes closed, I shook my head. It was as if I had reverted to infancy. I was exploring the world with my mouth and my mouth alone.

I was getting dizzy, I sank to my knees, I reached for Pete’s cock. He was two inches taller than when I had first met him two years earlier (at that time, 5’8 and 240 pounds of rock solid muscle, for fuck’s sake) and his tool was two inches longer. At 11 x 8 inches it was now porn star quality and more than one big guy had passed out while being on the receiving end of Pete’s attention. I took it in my mouth and suckled like a newborn lamb, relishing the feel of Pete’s huge mitts on the back of my head. Then I was being lifted up. Pete pinned me against the wall with one hand, my feet dangling inches off the floor, and he sucked me. It was a first!

“I will take protein wherever I can find it,” he said, pulling off, and then he bent me over the bed.

It was time for the battering ram. He didn’t bother to spit on it, just rammed all 11 inches up my poop chute quick as you please. Thank God I had his jock crammed in my mouth of my blood-curdling scream might have prompted the neighbors to call the police. My head was bouncing off the bedroom wall hard enough to shake plaster loose from the ceiling. Afterwards it occurred to me I was in serious danger of a concussion but before that could occur Pete sat up with me still impaled on his monster cock. Then he stood up and started air-fucking me, moving over so that he could stand in front of the full-length mirror and watch it all happen.

“This is great,” he said, barely breathing hard. “It’s like you’re my little fuck toy. My fucking chest is broader than your fucking shoulders and my fucking arms are bigger than your fucking legs. You gotta see it!”

And then without pausing he twisted me around on his dick so that I was facing the mirror, my ass and my back sliding up and down his granite torso. It was hard to focus but I saw what he was seeing and seeing what he was seeing sent me over the edge. I shot the biggest load of my life.

Not that it slowed Pete down any. When he was in the Zone I could have completely passed out (and it was getting close and he wouldn’t have noticed.) At last, though, he unloaded in my ass, about a gallon of Boy God muscle spunk, and then threw both of us down on the bed (thank God I landed on top or I might have been crushed.)

“You know what to do, Pop, have at it.”

I licked him clean and by the time I was done he was sound asleep and purring like a kitten.

My Boy God needed his rest.


That was three months ago.

Today Pete and I are flying to Las Vegas to attend the Olympia. He’s still too young to compete but I expect him to be a sensation in the Exhibit Hall mostly because, well, he’s sensational!

Since showing up on my doorstep the first of June he has put on more than 150 pounds of solid muscle while keeping his body fat percentage well under 5% the whole time. This morning he weighed 457 pounds and even though he’s 13 pounds heavier than he was a week ago he’s somehow managed to cut his body fat from 3% to 2%. He’s not only the largest bodybuilder to ever walk the planet, he’s quite possibly the most shredded.

And he’s certainly the strongest. In 14 weeks he’s more than doubled his bench press. He’s now warming up with 2000 pounds for sets of 20. Hank Hollister had to reconfigure Meatheads to be able to accommodate the necessary weights. Likewise, he had to have new lifting stations specially fabricated just to handle Pete’s insane poundages.

Speaking of poundages, or more precisely, pounding: The Boy God has added another inch to his dick, both in length and circumference. It’s now 12 x 9. And somehow my ass keeps taking it (and just as well since the guys who were his regulars can’t and the men who might be able to are, well, kinda gross.)

He’s an inch taller, too, and I’m inclined to think by the time we go to the Arnold in six months he’ll be right at 6 ft., tall as I am and four inches taller than when I first met him three years ago. For now, though: 90-inch chest / 45-inch waist (which proportionally speaking looks tiny!) / 38-inch biceps / 30-inch forearms / 50-inch quads / 36-inch calves / 36-inch neck. And, yeah, every time I write those numbers I get hard. If I read them often enough I spurt. Without touching myself.

How much will he grow between now and the Arnold? God only knows. Even the Boy God doesn’t seem to know. I keep thinking he’ll slow down but thus far he hasn’t.

Speaking of growth, having an insanely muscular, insanely growing Boy God around the house has done wonders for my physique. I’ve put on 40 pounds of muscle and my arms now measure 20 inches cold. Pete isn’t the sort of guy to dole out compliments but he’s been known to slap me on the back (which is apt to send me hurtling across the room) after I’ve benched 500 pounds for reps. Once he even said, “Not bad, Pop, not bad at all for an old man!”

I’m sitting behind him while writing this, of course, since he’s so fucking wide (his shoulders are 54 inches across) that I wound up buying him three seats just so we wouldn’t have to worry about him squashing some fellow passenger.

This morning while he was air-fucking me, Pete confided:

“I thought it would be a lot slower than this! Guess I shoulda known better, huh?”

The Olympia crowd?

They better hold onto their hats!

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