Manzeum

by Richard Jasper

Roger Funderburk is really pretty damned hunky for a man in his late 50s. But he’s also dealing with the health issues that tend to crop up in late middle age. Then his endocrinologist puts him on a new medication for his type 2 diabetes, one with some unusual side-effects. Or, in Roger’s case, spectacular ones!

“Mr. Funderburk, I would like to try you on a new medication.”

Elizabeth Peterson, M.D., was Roger Funderburk’s latest endocrinologist. A pretty young thing (well, early 30s but compared to Roger’s late 50s that was a “young’un” in his estimation) in a geeky sort of way. The wavy brown hair, the porcelain complexion, and light blue eyes more than compensated for the lab coat and the thick glasses. Not that Roger was one to judge—he was gay as a goose! But Dr. Peterson reminded him of his beloved nieces, Amy and Erin, and that was enough to seal the deal.

“This particular medication is very new but it has shown very good results in lowering overall blood sugar, especially with respect to post-meal peaks,” Peterson continued. “It’s a bit different in that it’s a testosterone derivative, so it’s really only applicable to male patients.”

Roger was intrigued. At 58, he was more than a decade past his diagnosis of Type 2 Diabetes Mellitus and still struggling to find a diet / exercise combo that would get his glucose levels into a decent range. Thus far, everything he’d tried had had completely random results. It didn’t help that, as was the case with most men over 40, Roger’s testosterone was on the low end of normal. His difficulty in getting to the gym was exacerbated by a feeling of diminishing returns. Strength levels, muscle mass, all of it on a downhill slope.

And at this point I’m closer to 75 than I am 40, Roger thought to himself.

“Sounds intriguing,” Roger blurted, coming out of his reverie with a start. “What about side effects?”

Peterson pursed her lips. “Well, believe it or not, patients tend not to lose any weight,” she replied. “On the other hand, they do show a decrease in adipose fat and an increase in lean muscle mass.” Roger grinned. “That’s the only downside?”

At 5’10 and 220 pounds Roger had broad shoulders, a thick chest, beefy arms, and impressive legs for someone his age. He’d spent enough years in the weight room to build an okay bod, sort of an offseason pocket linebacker look, but any more in addition to everything sagging, there was a nicely rounded tummy to go along with it, a side-effect of age and the multiple medications he took to control T2DM.

“Uh, well, to tell you the truth, there have been some cases of actual weight gain, in the neighborhood of 5-10 pounds. We can’t really explain it but if anything the glucose and serum cholesterol numbers for these individuals look even better than the typical results,” Peterson, shrugging her shoulders. Clearing her throat, she continued. “And, uh, well, in these individuals there have also been increases in libido and, uh, even hirsuteness.”

Roger gaped.

“I think I can live with those side-effects, if they should appear,” he reassured Dr. Peterson. “How do we proceed?”

Peterson smiled.

“I’m so glad to hear that you’re willing to give this a try, Mr. Funderburk. You’ll be my first patient to do so,” she said. “The protocol involves a once-a-week injection for six weeks. After the six-week period is completed, we will assess the results and determine whether to continue with bi-weekly or in some cases monthly injections.”

Roger pondered.

“Once a week for six weeks I can manage,” he pointed out. “But every other week seems like a big commitment. I do travel a lot, you know.” Three years previously, at age 55, Roger had taken a very generous “retirement” buyout from an internationally known financial services company that was undergoing a restructuring. He had enough to live comfortably and travel frequently for the next 40 years, although thanks to the T2DM he seriously doubted he’d be around anywhere near that long.

“Oh, I was forgetting,” Dr. Peterson explained. “The bi-weekly or monthly injections are self-administered. It comes with a pen like you use with Lantus or Humalog.”

Roger gave Dr. Peterson a wry smile.

“In that case, count me in! My next trip isn’t until the end of October so plenty of time to get started with this and establish a routine!”

Peterson gave him two thumbs up.

“I think you’re going to be pleased,” she said, glad to have an opportunity to try out this new product. Some of the whispers had seemed far-fetched. Now she would have a chance to observe the results first-hand. “I’ll have Melanie come in to administer the injection.”

Peterson exited and five minutes later the RN, Melanie, arrived with a tray and an innocuous looking hypodermic. “In the buttock?” he asked and Melanie nodded. So he turned, dropped his Brooks Brothers khaki shorts, and slid his Calvin Klein boxer briefs down a few inches.

“A little pinch,” Melanie said.

It took a bit longer than Roger expected but the pinch was nearly non-existent and as the medicine entered his system he felt a warm glow expanding outwards from the injection site.

“You may feel slightly flushed but nothing to worry about,” Melanie explained. “If you still feel flushed tomorrow morning, give us a call.”

And that was that. Heading away from the clinic in his Audi convertible, Roger impulsively made a right instead of a left. He always kept a gym bag in his car, even though most of the time he didn’t use it. Today, though, the warm glow of the injection seemed to be telling him, “Let’s see how long you can keep this going!” Roger flipped on the radio.

I had a dream so big and loud,
I jumped so high I touched the clouds,
Woah-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh

He smiled and started singing along.

“This is gonna be the best day of my life…”

“Hey, Roger! Good to see you here!” Kevin, the hunky gym manager, always went out of his way to greet Roger. “You’re looking enthusiastic,” he added. Roger nodded his head vigorously. “Time to get back into it,” he said, well, enthusiastically! Two hours later Roger racked the last weight and headed to the locker room. He’d done more work in an afternoon than he had done in the previous six months.

“You’re gonna feel it tomorrow,” Kevin said.

Roger shook his head.

“At my age, I’m going to feel it the day after tomorrow,” he pointed out. “But right now I feel like a tiger. And I’m starving.” In the locker room Roger stopped dead in his tracks when a beautiful salt-n-pepper muscle bear, one he’d never seen before, stepped out of the shower.

Jeez Louise, Roger thought. What a stud!

“You must be a newbie, huh?” Roger said to the hunk once the latter had dried off. “Haven’t seen you around here before. Not that I’ve been around much the past few months!”

The hunky guy, who was just about Roger’s height—5’10—but a good 30 pounds heavier, all of it muscle, stuck out a muscular paw. “Scott Allen, is the name,” he said. “And, actually, I’ve been a member here for years. You’re Roger Funderburk, right?” Roger blinked. He prided himself on being good with names and faces but while Scott’s name rang a bell, his face didn’t—nor did that hot body!

“I guess our schedules don’t usually overlap,” Roger said. Scott laughed. “Well, I have been making a lot of progress in the gym lately,” he pointed out. “You just don’t recognize me!” Roger chuckled. “Oh, believe me, I wouldn’t forget a stud like you,” he said. “Of course, at my age making any kind of progress is something to appreciate. Scott grinned. “Tell me about it,” he exclaimed. “I just turned 63 two weeks ago!”

Roger’s jaw hit the floor. The man in front of him didn’t look a day over 50—at least from the neck up! And from the neck, he looked more like he was in his late 30s or possibly early 40s. “No way, José,” Roger sputtered.

“Yes way,” Scott replied. “I started taking this new diabetes medication a couple of months ago and it has had remarkable side effects.”

Roger’s eyebrows shot to the sky. “Manzeum?” he asked, wonderingly. Scott tilted his head. “Heard of it, have you? On it yet?” Roger nodded his head. “Just had my first shot before I came to the gym,” he noted. Scott tapped Roger’s shoulder. “Good job! Someday we’ll have to compare notes,” he added, then finished dressing and walked out.

After the gym Roger ate an enormous meal. For the rest of the week he spent at least two, sometimes three or four, hours in the gym. The expected soreness not only didn’t arrive the second day, it didn’t arrive the third day or the fourth. If anything, Roger felt more energized with every passing day. Certainly his strength was going up! Back in the day Roger had had a pretty decent squat and deadlift but bench was always his downfall. On a good day he managed 225 pounds for 4-5 reps. But a week later he was doing multiple 10-rep sets at 315 pounds.

By the time he went back to see Dr. Peterson his shirts were tighter and his pants were looser, except in the crotch and in the legs. Roger put it down to water weight but he was still surprised when Dr. Peterson put him on the scale and the number flashed:

230 pounds!!

That was as much as Roger had weighed back in his heyday when he was 20 years younger and lifting 5-6 times a week.

The second shot of Manzeum had an embarrassing side-effect. Roger started to get hard. Fortunately, he had on a loose hospital gown so it didn’t show—Dr. Peterson never noticed. But it didn’t want to go down and the closer he got to the gym the harder it got. Kevin actually leered at him when he walked in! “Looking GOOD, Roger,” he called.

It was just fuel on the fire. Roger was so horny he could barely make it to a bathroom stall where he whipped out his dick and beat off in less than a minute, something he hadn’t managed in a good 10 years. The cum that splatted against the stall door would have filled a Dixie cup with ease. As it was, it took Roger the better part of five minutes to clean it up. Stepping out of the stall, Roger immediately bumped into a dark haired hunk who, if Roger was any judge, was 265 pounds of prime beef.

“Whoa, Roger, you better slow down, buddy!”

Roger’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets! “Scott!” he exclaimed. “Is that you?” The hairy hunk in front of him had wavy, jet black hair and a luxurious pelt on his chest, arms, and abs—without a speck of gray anywhere. From the neck up, he looked 45, tops!

“Yeah,” he said. “You like?” Scott looked down at Roger’s tool, which had risen to the occasion and was making a major tent in Roger’s gym shorts. “Looks like it,” Scott laughed. “See what you have to look forward to?” He slapped Roger’s butt and walked out of the locker room.

What’s going on? Roger wondered. What have I gotten myself into?!

Roger was headed out of the gym when Kevin stopped him and asked him to come into his office. “You’ve been making great progress, Roger,” Kevin said, eyeing him up and down. Roger felt like there was a but in there somewhere.

“You know,” he said. “I’ve been taking this new diabetes medication and for whatever reason it has really tweaked my metabolism.” Kevin nodded. “Same one Scott’s on?” Roger’s eyes widened. “Yeah, I know,” Kevin said. “He’s made remarkable progress. He’s put on 50 pounds, all of it muscle, in the past two months.”

Roger gulped. “My doctor said there were some occasional side effects,” he pointed out. “But nothing like that.” Kevin shrugged. “I couldn’t say but whatever it is it makes me wish I had diabetes!” Roger laughed. “Believe me, no, you don’t.”

Kevin changed the subject. “But that’s not why I called you in here,” he said. “If you’re going to be growing as much as Scott has, I want to get your baseline measurements. I’ve wanted to do the same with him—but he’s resisted, for some reason.”

Fifty pounds in two months? Roger thought. That’s insane. “Sure,” he said. “Won’t hurt. I’m sure this past week has just been a fluke but it’s certainly motivated me to get back into the groove. Let’s do it.” So they did, with Kevin carefully recording the numbers:

Weight: 232 pounds.
Chest: 48 inches
Waist: 34 inches
Biceps: 18 inches
Quads: 26 inches
Calves: 17½ inches

Roger gaped. Those measurements were as good as any he’d had in his prime.

“Let me guess,” Kevin said. “Waist down two inches, chest and arms up two inches?” Roger licked his lips. “To tell you the truth, I really don’t know,” he allowed. “But I’m guessing at least that much.” Kevin winked at him. “Keep it up, stud, and we’ll have you on the stage before you know it,” he said. “Master’s competition coming up at the end of the year.”

Roger laughed out loud. Even in his prime he’d never been remotely close to competition shape. It had never even occurred to him. “But I’d have to get rid of my hair,” he complained. Kevin grinned. “And that would be a damned shame,” he agreed. “But it grows back, y’know?”

That evening after an enormous supper Roger was still totally horned up, thanks in part to Kevin’s attentions. He drove downtown to the Phoenix Club, the local gay bath-house, and cruised aimlessly for an hour before hooking up with a cute 20-something Latino boy, about 5’8” and 140 pounds, smooth as a whistle, who clearly had a daddy complex.

“Fuck me, papi,” Luis said, while sucking on Roger’s cock.

Roger did not need to be asked twice. He let Luis slide a condom over this thick tool, then put his hands under Luis’ pits, lifted the kid in the air, pinned him against the shower wall, and impaled him. Luis wrapped his arms around Roger’s thick neck while Roger fucked the daylights out of him. They did it three more times—once on the pool table, once on a weight bench, once in a cubicle—before Luis passed out. Luis left his card by the kid’s wallet, stopped at the front desk to pay the kid’s tab for another 12 hours, then headed home.

He was hard again by the time he got to the car.

The second week Roger was even more of a demon in the gym than he had been the first week. His energy level was off the hook and so was his appetite. His stamina was boundless. He would stop himself after two hours in the gym, not because he was tired but because he was horny. He would eat an enormous meal, then spend a couple of hours at the Phoenix Club, then head back to the gym. He didn’t see Luis again until the day before his third appointment with Dr. Peterson. The kid’s eyes nearly bugged completely out of his head.

“Ai, Papi,” Luis said. “I think you’re too big for me!”

Roger chuckled.

“Oh, c’mon,” he said. “I know I’ve gained a few more pounds but…”

Luis interrupted.

“No,” he said. “I’m not talking about your muscles, which are truly excellent. I’m talking about down there…” Roger gaped. “Look,” Luis said, wrapping his slender hand around Roger’s instantly hard shaft. “Last week we were exactly the same length, only yours was thicker, of course.” And now Roger was easily an inch longer, as well as thicker. It was a good 8 inches and probably 7 inches around—definitely bigger!

“Well I’ll be damned,” Roger muttered.

Luis didn’t let go.

“I can probably take this,” he said. “But only if you are gentle. Not like last time, okay?”

That evening Roger hit the gym again, the third time in one day. He slid onto the bench, wrapped his thick, meaty hands around the iron, and did one perfect rep—at 495 pounds. “I’d ask you if you needed a spot,” a deep voice said from behind him. “But clearly you don’t.” It was Scott Allen, looking as big as a house. And looking maybe 40 years old, tops.

“Jeezus,” Roger exclaimed. “You’re fucking huge! How much do you weigh now?”

Scott grinned. “295 pounds, as of this afternoon,” he replied. “I think I’m going to have to change gyms. Kevin’s running out of weights!” With that he lifted his right arm and flexed what had to be 25 inches of rock solid muscle.

“Fuck me,” Roger said. Scott arched an eyebrow. “Right here?” Roger spluttered. “Uh, maybe we need to do dinner and drinks first?” he queried. Scott chuckled. “That could be arranged,” he replied. “But don’t dilly-dally. I’m not sure how much longer I’m sticking around. It may be time for a move.”

The next morning Roger showed up at Dr. Peterson’s office for his check up and his third shot. The young endocrinologist’s eyes widened when Funderburk entered the office. “Umm, let’s get your weight first,” she stuttered. “Then your vitals. I must say, Mr. Funderburk, the gym is doing you good. You look, uh, vigorous!” Roger stepped on the scale.

245 pounds.

“I’m gonna level with you, Doc,” Roger said. “I don’t get it. I’ve gained 25 pounds in two weeks and I’m lifting heavier—way heavier—than I ever did in my prime. What’s going on?”

Peterson cleared her throat nervously.

“Well, Mr. Funderburk, uh, the medication does tweak the metabolism,” she said. “You have more energy. All of our patients, in fact, have more energy. What they put it into, however, varies a great deal.” She continued. “Some are passionate about gardening, others about music, and I have at least one fellow who is insane for stamp collecting. You wouldn’t believe the albums he’s put together.”

Roger nodded his head. “And I’m into bodybuilding,” he said. Dr. Peterson blinked. “Yes, apparently so,” she agreed. “I must say I know of only one other case where physical progress has been this extreme.” Roger chuckled. “Scott Allen.”

Peterson blushed furiously. “Mr. Funderburk! As I’m sure you know, I couldn’t possibly discuss another client—it would be a violation not just of medical ethics, but also the law…!”

Roger shook his head. “He’s gained what, 75 pounds of muscle in 10 weeks?” Peterson started to nod, then stopped herself. “I’m further along than he was at the same point, I’m guessing,” Roger continued. The young endocrinologist decided to get huffy. “Mr. Funderburk, if you’re displeased with the results, we can always stop,” she said icily. Roger held up his hands. “Not on your life,” he replied. “I want to see where this goes!” He received his third shot.

That afternoon Kevin once again ushered him into his office at the gym. Once again Roger stripped to his skivvies and Kevin took his measurements.

Weight: 246 pounds.
Chest: 52 inches
Waist: 33 inches
Arms: 20½ inches

“You’re the same size I am, give or take five pounds and a half inch here or there,” Kevin said. Kevin, who was 20 years younger and a nationally ranked competitor, now looked upon him as a peer. Roger felt a stirring in his groin. “And I hear you benched 495 pounds yesterday,” he added, licking his lips. “That’s 50 pounds more than I can do.”

Roger lifted his right arm and f-l-e-x-e-d. The tent in Kevin’s pants bulged. “This isn’t the only thing that’s grown,” he purred. Kevin’s eyes widened.

“I think it’s time I introduced you to the inner office,” he said. “Follow me.”

Roger had never noticed the door behind Kevin’s desk, or, if he had done so, he assumed it was a closet. Turns out he had a mini-suite back there, complete with sofa, king-sized bed, full-sized bathroom, and a mini-kitchenette. “Sweet,” Roger said, then threw Kevin down on the bed, pinned Kevin’s thick wrists against the silk duvet, and went to town. An hour later…

“Time to go eat,” he said. “Then time to lift.” The look on Kevin’s face was approaching awe. “You’re not slowing down, are you?” Roger laughed. “Babe, I’m not slowing down,” he replied. “I’m speeding up!”

The next week found Roger in the gym three times a day. He was at the Original Pancake House before his first session, at the all-you-can-eat sushi place between sessions, and at the steak house after the last session. Every session he lifted heavier than the last session, no slowing down, minimal recuperation time, and no soreness from one day to the next.

In three days Roger put on 11 pounds of muscle. By the end of the week he had gained another 14. He was averaging 3.5 pounds of muscle per day. The results were spectacular. Kevin basically ditched all of his other clients to focus on Roger. And after Roger’s last workout they retreated to The Inner Office for Kevin’s workout. Not that Roger was in any way satisfied. He spent two hours every evening at the Phoenix Club or out at the bars where he was suddenly the hottest property around.

On the night before his fourth session with Dr. Peterson, Roger skipped the Club and the bars—and took Kevin home with him. After raucous sex, he and Kevin were both standing in front of the expansive bathroom mirror. Roger was now noticeably larger and more muscular than his erstwhile mentor.

“Kevin, have you noticed anything odd about my appearance?” Roger asked. The snort of derision was not unexpected. “Seriously, I’m not talking about the muscles,” he added. “I’m wondering where my wattle went.”

Kevin blinked.

“Your what?”

Roger chuckled. “You know, that loose skin you get on your neck when you get to be my age,” he said. “I had one and now it’s gone.” Kevin thought about it. “Well, you’ve added, what, something like 50 pounds of muscle? Of course, your skin has tightened up.” Roger shook his head. “I don’t think it works that way,” he said. “Plus I know it shouldn’t have gotten rid of the wrinkles around my eyes. Or firmed up my jaw. And, for the love of God, I have cheekbones again.”

Kevin looked at their images in the mirror. He was used to thinking of Roger as being the same as his dad’s younger brothers, both of whom were in their late 50s. Now, though…”You could pass for my older brother,” Kevin said, awed. “My slightly older brother, come to think of it.”

Roger harrumphed.

“And you’re how old?” he asked.

Without missing a beat, Kevin replied:

“Thirty-eight.”

“Quite frankly, Mr. Funderburk, I’m astounded.”

He had just completed his check-up with Dr. Peterson. He was 270 pounds, all of it muscle, and his numbers were amazing:

BP 120/80
Resting heart rate: 50 bpm
A1c: 5.5

“So, uh, am I understanding this correctly,” Roger asked, a frown on his handsome mug. “You’re telling me that technically speaking I know longer have diabetes?”

Peterson waggled her hand. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” she said. “Your hemoglobin level is now—at least as of this visit—in the normal range. But that doesn’t mean that if you stopped taking the medication…”

Roger interrupted her. “Oh, believe me, Doc, I want to finish the course!”

Peterson slumped slightly, visibly relieved. “I’m very glad to hear that, Mr. Funderburk, especially since, uh, well, our other most successful patient seems to, uh, have dropped out of the program…” Roger’s eyes climbed his forehead. “Scott Allen dropped out…? I wouldn’t have thought that likely!” Peterson blushed.

“Of course, as we discussed previously, I can’t name any names,” she pointed out. “But it’s not so much he has dropped out as, well, that patient didn’t show up for his appointment on Monday. And we haven’t been able to reach him since then.”

Roger tugged on his chin.

“Well,” he continued, finally. “If it turns out I run into a certain patient at my gym, I will be sure to inquire as to how he is doing, without, of course, indicating that I know anything about his non-attendance.”

Peterson heaved a sigh of relief. “As you know,” she continued. “It is very important for us to have accurate and complete data. Our patients’ health is paramount, of course, but…”

Roger nodded. “You’ll have no trouble from me,” he proclaimed. “Perhaps it’s time to send in the nurse?”

That afternoon at the gym, with Kevin and a bunch of the big boys looking on, Roger benched 675 pounds, more than double his bodyweight, for a single perfect rep. No lifting shirt, not even a lifting belt.

“Not bad for 58, huh?”

Kevin was practically dancing.

“I need to see you in my office,” he muttered. “Now!”

When Roger closed the door to the office, he turned to face Kevin…who promptly leapt into his arms! I’m holding a 240-pound bodybuilder like he’s a little boy, Roger thought. And I like it!

After Kevin had molested Roger’s mouth and neck and ears and eyebrows, he paused long enough to take a breath. “You could hold me here all day, couldn’t you?” he asked wonderingly.

Roger put his meaty hands under Kevin’s pits and started lifting up and down, rep after rep after rep until, after about the 200th repetition, Kevin suddenly spasmed, then collapsed against Roger’s massive 57-inch chest. “Uh…” Roger began. Taking a ragged breath, Kevin spoke. “Did I just do what you thought I did? You bet!” He slid down Roger’s waist and pulled down Roger’s fleecy sweats, exposing his thick throbbing manhood and over his granite hard 30-inch quads. Before Roger could guide Kevin’s handsome head to its intended target, Kevin held up a hand.

“Hang on a minute,” he said. “There’s something I want to check.”

Roger blushed furiously. Awkward! He thought. Nothing like standing here with a raging hard-on while pretty boy goes rummaging through his desk! Kevin was back in a flash—with a tape measure!

“Uh, really?”

Kevin nodded.

“Really.”

Roger gazed at the ceiling while Kevin measured length and girth.

If I watch, I’ll spurt, Roger thought. And I don’t want to spurt until I’m in his beautiful ass!

“9x8,” Kevin announced.

Then Roger looked down, wonderingly!

“Get the fuck out!” he exclaimed. “Since when?”

Kevin shrugged his broad shoulders. “Since today, I guess,” he answered. “I thought it seemed like it was a little bit bigger every day. Now I know that it is!” Roger growled.

“That gets you revved up, does it?” Kevin laughed. “So here’s the thing, Stud Man. You need to own this: You’re a 5’10, 270-pound pro-quality bodybuilder with competitive powerlifter strength. With a 57-inch chest, 33-inch waist, 23-inch arms, and a nine-inch dick. Plus fucking delicious chestnut-brown hair—on your head, on your chest, on your concrete ripped to fuck abs, your ridonkulous wheels, your gigantic calves, and your pile-driver forearms.”

Roger felt light-headed.

Maybe all the blood has gone to my dick!

“And you don’t look a day over 40,” Kevin added. “A young 40, at that. So enough with the ‘not bad for 58’ crap, okay? It’s weirding out the customers.” Roger’s jaw dropped. “Seriously, dude,” Kevin continued. “They’re convinced you’re some super experiment or they just don’t believe you’re the same guy.”

Kevin pushed Roger’s jaw shut.

“Now are you going to fuck me or what?”

Just then Roger’s cell phone rang. In some regards, Roger was tech challenged but he had managed to find a special ringtone for Dr. Peterson.

“Dr. Peterson?” he answered. “What’s up?”

Peterson’s voice was raw.

“Mr. Funderburk, I have some very bad, really quite horrible news to report,” she said, her voice hoarse with emotion. “It’s Mr. Allen…”

Roger felt a chill go down his spine. Before he could ask…

“We learned today that Mr. Allen passed away on Sunday,” Peterson continued. She continued for a few minutes but Roger wasn’t listening. He ended the call without thinking. Concern creased Kevin’s brow.

“What is it, Big Man?”

Roger shook his head.

“Scott Allen is dead. Heart attack.”

Roger felt like he had been poleaxed. His world trembled.

“What am I going to do?!” he exclaimed. “Scott was on Manzeum, too! He was their shining success—and I’m growing even faster than he was!” Kevin put his hands on Roger’s shoulders. “Just because…” he started. Roger sank to the bed and buried his head in his hands.

“You don’t understand, Kevin. This is everything I’ve ever wanted and now this!”

Kevin crossed his big beefy arms and pursed his lips. “Uh, Roger, there’s something you need to know,” he said quietly. There was an odd, diffident quality to his voice. “I hate to speak ill of the dead,” Kevin continued. “But Scott had a major drug habit. Every PED you could think of. Plus…”

Roger looked up.

“He was a cokehead,” Kevin added. “There, I said it. Not kind but true. And over the past couple of months from what I could tell he upped his consumption. Of everything.” Roger sighed. “So you’re saying it might not have been the Manzeum?”

Kevin nodded. “Not on its own,” he agreed. “Maybe in combination with all the other stuff he was taking. But maybe not all.” Kevin cleared his throat. “And, you know, it’s really not up to you whether Peterson continues the trial,” he said. “But you also need to remember that you’ve put on at least 50 pounds of muscle in three weeks, probably more than that if you count the shift in your body composition. If the trial ends, you’re not going to lose that.”

Roger left his left arm and F-L-E-X-E-D. Twenty-three inches of grainy, veiny marble leapt up. So did Kevin’s dick.

“If I never have another dose, I’m not going to let this go,” he said.

The next day, the doctor gave him a call. Kevin tried to listen in but all he heard from Roger was “yeah,” “yeah,” and “okay,” interspersed with grunts, and, finally, “that’s good to hear.” When he ended his call, Roger looked, well, relieved. Not happy, but relieved.

“The toxicology report came back,” he said. “Technically, I’m not supposed to know anything but she told me anyway. You were right about the PEDs. And the cocaine. The coroner is going with ‘heart attack’ as the official cause of death but privately he told Peterson that it was a wonder Scott’s chest didn’t actually just pop out of his chest.”

Kevin whooshed.

“Very, very sad,” Roger added. “Such a beautiful man.”

And I never did fuck him, he added to himself.

“Yes, he was,” Kevin agreed. “And seriously fucked up, too.”

Over the next week Roger worked harder than he had ever done in his life. He was going to the gym five times a day—once each for chest, back, legs, shoulders, and arms—and spending two hours on each session. Kevin was agog. The big man had just as much energy at the end of each session as he did at the beginning and he was just as strong for his last session as he was for his first.

“You’re, uh, not ‘supplementing,’ are you?” Kevin asked. Roger stood and hit a mind-blowing most muscular. “Baby aspirin,” Roger replied, dead serious. “Calcium. Fish Oil. Multivitamin. That’s it.” Kevin didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

That week Roger gained a little more than 6 pounds per day, all muscle. The night before Roger’s appointment with Dr. Peterson, Kevin got out the scale and the tape measure. The results were, well, astounding. Or they would have been if Kevin hadn’t seen it happen with his own eyes.

Weight: 315 pounds.
Chest: 65 inches
Waist: 33 inches
Arms: 27 inches

“And let’s not forget this one,” Kevin said, grabbing Roger’s monster dick.

10½ x 9

“Fuck me,” Kevin said softly, after calling off the numbers.

Roger chuckled. “Whenever you’re ready…” Looking up at Roger’s face while the Big Man pounded his ass into oblivion, it occurred to Kevin that all signs of aging had vanished from Roger’s visage.

He could pass for 38, Kevin thought. Easily. More so than I can and I am 38.

And then Roger’s massive rod and powerfucking took him over the edge. He lost consciousness.

Roger’s visit with Peterson was understandably awkward.

“I am ambivalent about continuing,” the doctor said. “Losing a patient is devastating…” Roger placed his hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “On the other hand, there’s NO indication that the Manzeum had anything to do with his incident,” she continued. “In fact, weird as it sounds, there was no indication that Manzeum was anywhere in his system.”

Roger sat on the examining table, his massive veiny, corded forearms resting on thighs bigger than the average man’s waist. “I want to continue,” he said. “And am I not correct in thinking that Scott Allen was actually doing his second course of Manzeum? And that he had zero detectable side-effects during his first six weeks?”

Peterson shrugged her shoulders. “No physical side effects,” she qualified. “In retrospect it was clear that he was exhibiting signs of mania…” Roger arched an eyebrow. “Whereas I am still in my first course…” he pointed out.

Peterson flapped her hands. “And, no, you’ve exhibited no signs of mania whatsoever,” she agreed. “Happiness, yes. Dedication and perseverance, too. But you’re not too keyed up to talk about it.” Internally, Roger let himself relax. “So we’re continuing?” he asked. She nodded, then paused. “Just don’t forget that this is totally weird, okay? Nobody gains 95 pounds of muscle in a month!”

Roger smiled.

You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, he said to himself.

Peterson left the room and the nurse—a new one, a hunky bear boy named Alan, apparently—came in to deliver the shot. Roger gave him a toothy grin.

Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!

In the fourth week, Roger had gained an average of 6½ pounds of muscle per day. Three days into the fifth week, Kevin pulled him into his office. “I think you’re growing faster than ever,” he said, pointing to the bariatric scale he kept there. “Hop on.” Roger did and the numbers flashed and flickered before they finally stopped.

345.

“That can’t be right,” Roger said. “That’s as much as I gained in the first two weeks of the study!” Kevin motioned Roger to take off his shirt and join him front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror that lined one wall of his office. “You don’t believe the scale,” he said. “How about the mirror?” At 245 pounds of solid, competition quality muscle, Kevin was rightly regarded as a “big dude.” And next to Roger, the new Roger, he looked like a little girl.

“Let’s get out the tap measure,” Kevin suggested.

Chest: 69 inches
Biceps: 29 inches

“You’ve added four inches to your chest and two inches to each of your arms in three days,” Kevin pointed out. “Do you believe it now?”

Roger just shook his head.

“At the rate I’m going…” he started…

Kevin did some quick math in his head.

“Another 10 days in the study? At this rate you’ll be about 425 when it ends.” Roger was rock hard. Kevin was rock hard. “Do you want to fuck me now or after you work out?”

“Uh…”

“Actually, that’s not a question, Big Daddy,” Kevin continued. “Fuck me now!”

He ripped off his shorts and leapt onto Roger, wrapping his big arms around Roger’s 28-inch neck and his legs around Roger’s ripped-to-shreds 35-inch waist. Roger pushed his shorts down and started air-fucking Kevin then and there.

“I hope you locked the door,” he whispered.

Between gasps, Kevin replied.

“It… locks… automatically!”

Dr. Peterson was upset.

“Mr. Funderburk,” she said. “This has gone far enough.” It was time for Roger’s sixth and final shot but the endocrinologist wasn’t having it. “You’re 375 pounds,” she said. “This cannot be good for you!”

Roger worked on keeping his voice calm. It had dropped another octave over the past week and as someone who had always had a gay-accented tenor it was taking some getting used to. People reacted differently when you sounded like James Earl Jones!

“Dr. Peterson, I know my growth has been unusual but you keep telling me that my blood sugar, my cholesterol, my blood pressure, are all consistent with those of an athlete in his early 30s,” Roger pointed out. “How can it not be good for me?”

But Peterson was adamant. “I would like to see you again in a month,” she said. “If no untoward changes have occurred, we can talk about whether it’s appropriate to go forward.” Roger didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as he headed back to the gym.

“She cut me off,” he told Kevin when he got there.

Kevin looked the Big Man up and down. “Are you sure that’s a bad thing?” he asked. “You’re as big as a house and these days you look like my younger brother.” Roger pulled off his shirt and posed. 375 pounds of solid muscle and a rich, luxuriant coat of brown-block curls that did nothing to hide the muscularity of his torso, legs and arms. For a muscle-bear lover like Kevin, he was a walking wet dream, with a 75-inch chest and 32-inch biceps.

Plus there’s the foot-long dick, he said to himself. The ridiculously THICK foot-long dick!

“Seriously,” Kevin continued. “There’s not a bodybuilder on Earth with your proportions. There are some bigger guys out there but none as built as you are. And some that are better conditioned but nowhere within a lightyear of your size. And with a fuck pole like that you ought to be doing porn. How much more do you need?”

Roger growled. Any more that was an intimidating sound.

“But I want more,” he said. “I don’t know why I know it but I know I’m destined for more.” Just then, Kevin’s phone buzzed. It was the front desk. “Someone to see you actually,” Kevin said. “From the clinic.” Roger’s ears perked up. “Really? Well, well,” he said. “Let ’em in!”

It was Alan, the hunky young African American bear nurse from Peterson’s office. A visibly nervous, Alan, in fact, with a backpack slung over his broad beefy shoulders. His hands were trembling and his brow was sweaty. Roger’s reaction was instinctive.

“C’mere, boy,” he said, gathering the young man in his giant arms. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

Alan’s nose was buried in Roger’s massive hairy pecs. “Uh, Mr. Funderburk,” he said, speaking into Roger’s chest. “There’s something I need to tell you.” Roger let go and Alan collected himself. Before he could start, Roger put his calloused meat hooks on Alan’s shoulders.

“And let’s drop the Mr. Funderburk stuff, okay? It’s just ‘Roger.’”

Alan adjusted his pants. “I know Dr. Peterson wanted to put the study on hold,” Alan said. “But I had already prepped the dose. And I brought it with me.”

Roger’s jaw dropped. “But but but….” He began.

Kevin, who hadn’t been rendered speechless, picked up the thread: “But won’t you get into trouble? As in, serious, possibly permanent trouble?” Alan nodded. “Quite possibly, although, uh, well, I fiddled with the records,” he confessed. “As far as the system is concerned, this dose doesn’t exist.” Roger leaned over Kevin’s desk and dropped his shorts, exposing his beach-ball sized granite hairy glutes.

“Then let’s have at it!” He didn’t have to ask twice. Alan pulled out an alcohol swabbed, wiped down the target, and plunged the syringe to the hilt. “That was fucking hot,” Kevin observed, casually massaging the log in his shorts.

Roger turned and beamed at Alan. The young man—he looked like Donald Glover’s bigger, beefier, baby brother—dropped to his knees when he saw the bulge in Roger’s gym shorts.

“Please, sir, can I…?” Roger cupped the young man’s beautiful face in this hubcap-sized hands and pulled him to his feet whereupon he gave him a deep, passionate kiss on his lovely lips. “I can’t thank you enough,” Roger said. Alan just stood there, eyes-closed, sighing.

“I can think of one or two things that might suffice,” Kevin pointed out. Alan’s eyes flew open. “But maybe we should ask Alan first?”

Actually, asking Alan wasn’t required. He dropped to his knees (again!), this time in pulling down Kevin’s shorts and—ploop!—swallowing Kevin’s thick piece whole.

“Oh, Big Daddy,” Kevin moaned. “This young man knows how to suck!”

Roger stood behind Kevin and wrapped one of his gargantuan arms around his lover’s thick chest, playing with Kevin’s thick, pointy nipples, massaging Kevin’s squat butt with his other hand.

“Alan,” Roger growled. “How would you like for Kevin to fuck you?” The young black bear pulled off Kevin’s 9-inch tool. “I’d like that very much, sir!” He whipped around and presented his juicy, rock hard ass for Kevin’s inspection. Kevin wasted no time plunging his shaft into the bear boy’s meaty ass. Kevin wrapped his 21-inch biceps around Alan’s big thick chest and lifted him off the ground.

Roger, who’d been cranking the whole time, couldn’t take it anymore. He plunged his 12-inch kielbasa into Kevin’s quivering hole and lifted both of them, nearly 500 pounds of man meat, into the air. All three came at the same time.

“Whew,” Kevin said afterwards. “Good thing that door is sound proof.” Roger chuckled. “Like you think they don’t know what happens in here?” Kevin’s sheepish grin acknowledged the unlikelihood of that idea. “Uh, Alan,” Roger said. “I hope you’re not, you know, in the closet or anything. Because, if so, I think we just blew your cover. Big time!”

Alan snorted. “As if! You are taking to Mr. Leather Cub 2018, y’know!” Roger looked at Kevin, who shrugged? HE knew! “I’m old and out of touch,” Roger admitted. Alan laughed. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “You’re old, all right! 35 tops, I’d say!”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “Do you suppose…?” he asked. Roger shrugged the tectonic plates that comprised his shoulders. “I’m kinda thinking so,” he said. And so they had a little chat with Alan, who had not been altogether attentive when it came to noticing Roger’s D.O.B., despite having asked him for it when he first administered the shot.

What would have been the sixth week of the study, Roger gained an average of 10 pounds of muscle per day, adding two inches per day to his chest and nearly an inch a day to his arms. And whatever was in the stuff that was affecting Roger’s dick decided to play catch up, growing half an inch per day—for a week. By the time the week had ended…

450 pounds.
3% body fat
90 inch chest
45 inch waist
50 inch quads
38 inch biceps

And his dick?

15½ x 12

On the third day he’d surpassed 400 pounds and that’s when Kevin had suggested—insisted, actually—that he start training at night, when the gym was closed.

“You’re scaring the customers,” Kevin said.

The same day, Roger put his house on the market and cashed out his investments. The real estate market was hot enough that he had an offer on the house for $50K over his asking price the very next day. “You know why I’m doing this, right?” he asked.

Kevin nodded. “No one in their right mind is going to believe that you’re Roger Funderburk,” he agreed. “You’re twice the size you were six weeks ago and you look young enough to be your own son. Hell, at this point, you look young enough to be my nephew.”

Roger sighed. “I love it,” he said. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything. But…” Kevin laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s the pain the ass. Wanna trade?!”

Buying a new identity cost Roger a cool $100K. Fortunately, the alias maker was down with the idea of passing off the new Roger as his late lesbian sister’s previously unrecorded offspring. So he was still “Roger,” just “Roger Funderburk Jones,” a 28-year-old named for his late mother’s baby brother.

“I think Lisa would be cool with it,” Roger said.

Kevin clapped his hand on one of Roger’s medicine-ball delts.

“I’d say it’s a nice memorial. You done good.”

For his part, Kevin sold the gym for a bundle with only one proviso—that Alan become the gym manager. His staff members were a bit taken aback that their new boss was a somewhat chubby, 5’8, 235-pound 25-year-old with no previous gym experience.

“He knows everything he needs to know,” Kevin assured them. “Namely where to find me! In the meantime, expect big things of him!”

Roger Funderburk Jones and Kevin Doyle Leonardo settled in the back of beyond. It might have been Upstate New York or the mountains of Montana. It might have been Alaska or very rural Maine. Wherever it was, they kept to themselves. It was a biggish property, a couple of hundred acres, with a big, 10,000 square foot Timber lodge sort of house in the middle of it, 10-foot ceilings and extra-wide doors, with every amenity you could think of, including a separate 2000 square-foot facility with an indoor pool, sauna, steam room, and fully-equipped gymnasium.

They were big guys, even though neither of them topped 6 ft., one of them clearly a bodybuilder, the other an absolute mountain of a man. He was rumored to be a powerlifter or a World’s Strongest Man competitor, even though his name never showed up in the lists.

A year after they moved in, a third giant man showed up, this one African American, which would have stood out in itself in such a rural, predominantly white area. But this kid—and clearly he was in his mid-20s at most—was hyooch! No more than 5’8 or 5’9, he had to tip the scales at close to 350 pounds and all of it solid muscle. It seemed likely his chest was bigger around that he was tall and his arms were pushing 30 inches. Plenty of young guys in East Bumfuckia had waists that size or smaller—and everyone who saw those arms, no matter how straight, was sporting wood by the time he had filled up his rental car, had a piece of Miss Maxine’s delicious blueberry pie, and headed up to see “The Guys,” as they were called.

BING BONG!

The door was already opening by the time Alan pressed the bell.

“Baby Boy,” Kevin exclaimed. He stuck his enormous hands under Alan’s armpits and lifted, swinging the muscle behemoth around like he was a little kid. “Daddy Kevin!” Alan exclaimed.

A Mountain walked into the room. “Okay, okay,” he boomed. “You’ve had your fun, Kevin. Now put the boy down. Unless you want ME to do the same to you?!”

Kevin stopped spinning and hugged Alan close. At 450 pounds, Kevin had a hundred pounds on Alan, all of it muscle, and he was at least twice as strong. And two inches taller than when he and Roger had moved to the Back-of-Beyond.

“We will have plenty of time to play later,” Roger said. “Now I just want to give me little man a hug!” Alan threw himself into Roger’s arms. Like Kevin, Roger had grown a couple of inches taller. And even though it had slowed down considerably, Roger’s muscle growth had continued unabated. At 6 ft. he was now 750 pounds, all muscle, with dimensions that beggared belief. It was all Alan could do to reach his arms halfway around Roger’s 60-inch neck.

“You are looking mighty fine, Young Mr. Montgomery,” he said.

Roger held Alan at arm’s length. Alan might have been a kitten for all the effort Roger seemed to be expending on holding his 350 pounds in the air.

“Have I been a good boy, Big Daddy?” Alan asked. Roger glowed. “A very good boy indeed,” he said. Alan’s eyes took on a mischievous light. “Then don’t I deserve a prize?”

Kevin laughed. “I can think of one,” he said, whipping out his 12-inch dick. Roger growled at the sight of it. He never got tired of looking at it. “Maybe you could do something with this?” He pushed down his bespoke fleece sweatpants. Twenty inches of man meat sprang free.

“Ooh, Daddy,” Alan said. “Is it okay if I try to make it grow some more?”

Roger chuckled.

“Go right ahead, son. Give it your best shot!”

He had a dream so big and loud,
They jumped so high they touched the clouds,
Woah-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh

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