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Max Harding was a freshman in college. He was short, about 5'5", and weighed only 140 lbs. Everyone else picked on him and abused him. Only his best friend, Jerry Rudd, stood by his side.

"Don't worry, man, you'll survive," said Jerry playfully after a particularly painful experience. Max had just been forced to strip down and run naked through the girls' dormitories. He had received a fine for indecent exposure. The jocks were hysterical.

"Easy for you to say," said Max, bitter about his fate. "You're the sexiest guy in school, the wet dream of every girl and gay guy in this school."

And Jerry was. At 6'2" and 200 lbs. of muscle, Jerry was incredibly sexy. He had long, wavy brown hair, just enough hair on his chest, and a neat little treasure trail leading to his ample cock. His chests were like slabs of choice cut steaks, large and juicy. His biceps were a nice 17 inches, his forearms thick as cans of spaghetti, and the arms were crisscrossed with sexy veins that bulged every time he flexed. His neck was thick, and his face was flawless. A brilliant, flashing smile that made all the girls swoon, a permanent five o' clock shadow leading up to smooth sideburns, with green emerald eyes that sparkled in the light. His six pack was defined and toned, looked like a stack of brown bricks. His calves and thighs were striated and covered in fine, silky hair. But most impressive was his cock, which, when erect, would extend a full foot from his groin, with his balls just slightly larger than large tangerines. He was perfection at its finest, and all of his muscles (including his round and protruding bubble butt) were contained in a well-stretched, tanned skin. He was straight, and he didn't care if Max was gay, because Max was one of the coolest guys he knew.

"Yeah, I guess," said Jerry. "But looks don't matter, at least not to me. Size and definition, that's just bullshit. It won't help me succeed in Corporate America, or win me the Nobel Peace Prize in Physics. Just remember that you're better than them, that they'll all be fat and stuck with bitchy wives in ten years. Like Al Bundy on 'Married… With Children'.

"Ahh, such kind words cannot ease my suffering," said Max, still dejected over his small size. "Maybe I'll feel better after hitting the club."

"It's cool, dude, but I gotta go to work. Those J.C. Penney's clothes don't sell themselves, you know!" He left.

Max sat around for an hour, wondering if he should go to the club or sit on his computer watching porn. In the end, he decided to go to the club, and see if he could hook up with sexy guys there.

As he left his room, he thought to himself, "Just once, I wish I could have a taste of pure power, sex, and muscle, and not be a weakling. Just one taste is all I ask."

Little did he know that hitting the club would provide him with that taste of pure male sexual energy.

More to come…

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