When I was still human

by Richard Jasper

As a teen Roger was 6 feet tall and 300 pounds of solid muscle. Nearly 30 years later he’s in his early 40s—and he’s never stopped growing, in any dimension: height, weight, strength, dick. Is he still human?

“I want to fuck you while I’m still human,” I told him.

Coach Randy Hinton was up against the cement block wall of the chem lab supply closet, his feet dangling a foot off the floor, pinned there by my right hand.

“Are you crazy?” he said. “You’re 17 years old!”

Hinton was hot as fuck. About 5’10, 200 pounds of solid muscle, dark hair, sideburns, stubble, hairy chest, he was 23 years old, taking a year off from farm team baseball before he figured out what he wanted to do with his life.

“You know you want it,” I replied. He licked his lips. I could tell from the bulge in his pasted-on jeans that I was right. “Face it,” I said. “You’ve never met a man as big or as built as I am. Arnold, Mentzer, Lee Haney, they’ve got nothing on me and you know it.”

It was true. I was a freak. Six feet tall, 300 pounds of solid muscle. Think Nick Trigili, only with lower body-fat. “Check it out, Coach,” I said and I flexed my left arm. “Twenty-four inches cold, 19 inch forearms.” Plus a 60-inch chest, 30-inch waist, and 32-inch quads—Yes, I was freak and he knew it.

“Roger…” he moaned. I let him down. “Take a look at this,” I said, “and tell me you don’t want it.” I yanked down my sweats and unleashed the python, 13 inches of pulsating, rock hard man meat, nine inches in circumference.

“Jesus God,” he sobbed.

I took him then and there.

He’s now a right-wing Congressman from south Alabama, married with four kids.

It had been a wild ride and it was only getting freakier.

A year earlier I’d started 8th grade at 5’8” tall and 150 pounds, kinda big for a 13-year-old but nothing out of the ordinary. By the end of the school year I was two inches taller and 50 pounds heavier. That got me noticed by the PE staff, especially considering my body fat was in the single digits, which is how I managed to sport a 46 inch chest, 28 inch waist, and 18 inch biceps. And I was benching 400 pounds for reps. Like I said, I was a freak.

That summer, though, I grew another two inches taller and gained 100 pounds of solid muscle, which is how I wound up in the Chem Lab store room, fucking the daylights out of Coach Hinton. I’d known I was going to do it from the time I laid eyes on him at football tryouts. The other kids and the coaches were screaming their heads off when I benched 1050 pounds, 3½ times my body weight and half again as much as the official world’s record. Hinton’s eyes were bugging out, his mouth hanging open, literally gasping for air, his clipboard not quite hiding the big salami in his football shorts.

That fall, yet again, I grew another two inches and gained another 100 pounds of muscle. By the time Christmas rolled around, I was 6’2 and weighed 400 pounds. Next to me, Poundstone and Kennelly (if they’d been around then) would have looked small.

Just before school was out for the holidays I approached the bench again. This time it was just over 2000 pounds. That’s right, an even ton. There were four guys on each end of the bar and two in the middle but I lifted off, brought it down for one perfect rep, and re-racked it, all with no assistance. In August they’d cheered wildly. This time the room was dead silent. They knew they were in the presence of greatness, that they’d witnessed something they might never see again in their lifetimes (unless they saw me doing it.)

Mike Johnson, the 18 year old senior quarterback, was sobbing. “You,” I said, pointing at him. “With me. The rest of you—out!” There was no question, they left. Mike was gorgeous, 6’1” tall, blond hair, green eyes, cute little caterpillar mustache, 215 pounds of perfectly proportioned muscle. He was the homecoming king, steady boyfriend of the hot buxom blond cheerleader captain, straight as an arrow.

But it didn’t matter. What I wanted I got and no one thought anything of it. Having sex with me didn’t make a guy gay, they all agreed, unless he really was. It was more like an honor. I was nearly twice Mike’s size. My 32-inch biceps were as big as his waist, my 26-inch forearms were the same size as his quads, each of my 44-inch quads as big as his chest. And my dick was keeping up with my added height. At 15 inches long and 10 inches around, it made a crowbar look dainty.

“Why me?” he asked quietly.

“Because you know,” I answered. “But you don’t really know.”

He knew what it was like to be the Alpha Stud of the Universe, the guy who won all the trophies, the guy who got all the girls, the guy all the guys wanted to be like. But I was so much more. So much bigger, so much stronger, so incredibly porn-star hung. “Because you will be so much more than you are now,” I told him. “Know me and know the future.”

And he fell to his knees and nursed my cock like a suckling calf, then I fingered his hole until his eyes rolled back in his head and he shot his jizz all over those perfect abs, and rubbed those abs up and down my dick as if he were some sex toy, and when I shot my cum snapped his head back so hard I was afraid he’d been concussed.

He played five years for the NFL, then retired when he was diagnosed with AIDS. He died two years later.

I was still growing. Four months after I expanded Mike’s horizons Taylor Harris came and stood by my locker. At 6 feet and 200 pounds of ripped muscle, he was the perfect surfer jock, honey blond hair down to his shoulders, smoke gray eyes, a tan that George Hamilton would weep over, and, like me, just turned 15 years old.

“I gotta have it,” Taylor said, completely straightforward, no nonsense about it. I arched an eyebrow. “You think so? I thought you were all about pussy.” He gulped. “I am,” he agreed. “But I can’t take it anymore. I’ve got to know what it’s like. And my family is moving. If not now…”

I chuckled. “Then when?” He nodded. “I gotcha,” I said, closing the locker. “But which is it? This…” I flexed my 40 inch biceps. At 6’4” tall, I was up to 500 pounds of solid muscle, more than likely the biggest muscular man who ever lived. “Or this?” I wrapped my giant hand around a dozen inches of soft meat. It was rapidly hardening and by then it was maxing out at 17 inches.

“Both,” he whispered. I walked him to class, my giant arm completely engulfing his broad, muscular shoulders, his beautiful head resting against my boulder-sized deltoids. “My house,” I told him, “this evening.” And there in front of God and Mrs. Sarbanes’ 9th grade composition class, I kissed him thoroughly, so thoroughly that he jizzed in his pants, as did the rest of his classmates, male and female alike, and Mrs. Sarbanes, too.

That was 28 years ago this month.

A lot has happened since then.

Taylor was perfect in every way. The hair, the eyes, the tan, the proportions and definition of his body, his voice, even his teeth. His dick was so sweet, totally straight, 9 x 6, smooth as silk, not a blemish on it. And, unlike the others, he worshipped me. For the first time in my life I laid back and let someone else do the work. He licked, he sucked, he caressed, he exclaimed, he explored, he teased, he tickled.

How he learned it all I never knew; he swore up and down that he’d never had sex with a guy before, and—despite his looks and his reputation—only a couple of girls, but he knew everything there was to know. By the time he had completed his ministrations, I was a raging bull, literally the size of a gorilla and beating my chest like one.

“You’ve…got…to…let…me…cum!!” I bellowed.

And then he took me over the mountaintop and the explosion was a supernova, two of them, in fact, his and mine, my jizz and his jizz coating every single inch of our bodies. When it was all done, he was snuggled on top of my mountainous pecs, dwarfed by their massiveness.

“Roger,” he began, then stopped. “Yes, sexy?” I asked. “I…” I put a finger on his lips. I knew what he was going to say. The only thing he could say, the thing I wanted to say. “I know,” I answered. “But don’t say it?” I shook my head. “Unless I’m very much mistaken,” I continued. “I’m going away soon.” He raised his head and looked at me. “Where?”

I closed my eyes and worked on engraving that golden evening into the deepest, most impregnable recesses of my memory.

And then the black helicopter landed on the front yard.

I never saw Taylor again, or Mike or Randy or any of the others, although it’s been easy enough to keep track of them. Taylor, blessed boy he, has lived a grand life, a star athlete in college, a founder of Google, a billionaire, and a staunch advocate for gay rights. He and his partner live in the Bay Area with their two adopted children, Liza and Roger.

Col. Axelrod was afraid that he would have to take extreme measures but I went aboard the helicopter willingly enough. By that time I was benching 3000 pounds for reps and I think if I’d wanted to do so I could have ripped the rotors off. But what was the point? It’s not like I could hide a body like mine. And, truth to tell, I was afraid for the future. I was already at the outer limit of human development and there were no indications that the growth was slowing down.

The suite they gave me at the federal compound in the Oregon high desert was a masterpiece of mid-century modern design (not that I knew it at the time), bigger than my parents’ home, with every conceivable amenity—and 10 foot ceilings. The gym was, well, a hangar full of tanks and armored personnel carriers and helicopters and obsolete military aircraft. And there was “Andy…”—but more about that in a bit.

As every science fiction / horror show ever written would have you believe, they tested me every which way from Sunday. Blood samples and tissue samples and reflexes and abilities—all of it off the charts, of course. They never could figure out what made me tick, what accounted for the extreme growth, the insane musculature, the mind-boggling strength.

And still I grew. At 16 I was 6’7 and 700 pounds. A year later I hit 6’10 feet and 850 pounds. Come 18, I crossed a threshold, 7 feet tall, 1000 pounds of solid, gargantuan muscle. And it was inhumanly strong muscle. My bench doubled in the first year (3000 to 6000 pounds), doubled again the second year (6000 to 12,000 pounds) and hit 20,000 pounds—20 times my body weight—the third year.

And you know what? My dick kept growing, too. When it was 17 inches long, Taylor had made a game of “surfing” on it, that one and only night we had together. By the time I was 18 I was 8 inches taller than I had been—and my cock was 8 inches longer. Which is where “Andy” came in. Andy was—still is—a super-flexible, super-lubricated pneumatic tube attached to what is now for all practical purposes an Artificial Intelligence. They wanted my seed, you know, and it wasn’t like there was anyone on Earth who could take it. But Andy could and just as well because every year I was hornier than the year before.

And still, I think, I was human.

But that was a long time ago, 24 years to be exact.

After those first years, my growth slowed down. Instead of 3-4 inches a year and hundreds of pounds of muscle per year, I settled into slow growth—an inch of extra height and no more than 100 pounds of extra muscle. Every year. Do the arithmetic. In 24 years I’ve grown two feet taller and I’ve gained a ton of muscle. Literally a ton—an extra 2000 pounds. Today I’m 9 feet tall and I weigh 3000 pounds. I’m more than 2½ feet taller and six times heavier than I was that last night with Taylor.

I’m not quite as tall as the average female elephant, much less the males, who often reach 13 feet at the shoulder, and I’m not nearly as heavy. Male savanna elephants often weigh 8,000 pounds and others have weighed twice that much. On the other hand, I think it’s fairly certain that I’m the only human who has ever wrestled a bull elephant to the ground, hog-tied his feet, and then lifted him over his head with one hand.

“Piece o’ cake,” as Andy said.

When I was 18 and a third the size I am now I could “bench” 20,000 pounds. My strength has increased exponentially since then. It’s not totally clear what I can really do but recently during yet another test the guys at the facility rigged a contraption that allowed me to perform the equivalent of a standing push press with a Boeing 777.

Just FYI: An empty Boeing 777 weighs 297,000 pounds, almost 100 times my weight.

As I said, my dick kept growing, although not quite as quickly as before. At this point, when hard (and it’s almost always hard), it is 3½ by 2½. Uh, sorry, I should say 42 inches by 30 inches. Once it got past 2½ feet in length I stopped counting inches, as such. So, yeah, the boys in the lab, thanks to Andy, have been milking me for nearly 30 years. They have literally hundreds of gallons of my sperm frozen and ready to deploy, in case the President or Congress ever decide we need to have an Army of Superhuman Warriors.

Good luck with that.

They’ve been trying the whole time and thus far it really hasn’t worked out. At this point my male offspring number roughly 200 or so. The oldest ones are now in their mid-20s and they’re all strapping lads, averaging about 6’6” in height and 300 pounds in weight with single digit body fat and above average dicks, too, although the biggest is only about 11-12 inches. Maybe their younger brothers will cross the threshold but I’m not holding my breath. (And, no, I have no known daughters. Apparently the little swimmers are all blue…)

As for me…

Well, who knows? By all rights someone my size shouldn’t exist. No one close to my size has ever been this healthy. As far as we can tell there isn’t another creature on Earth that is as strong as I am. (Well, maybe a whale, but why would a whale bench press a 777?) They have no idea what my life expectancy is, whether at some point this impossible construction that is my body will simply fall apart, or keep going and going, a gigantic, hypermuscular Energizer bunny. But it’s also the case that I am in my early 40s and have the face (handsome, rugged, hypermasculine) of a man in his mid 20s. Again: Who knows?

It gets lonely.

Aside from Andy, there’s only Axelrod and he’s an old stick-in-the-mud. And a bit of a homophobe, I’m afraid. The guys on the base are nameless and faceless, mostly for their protection. Early on there was a time or two when I got too close to my handlers. They both recovered, and they both agreed that they were willing accomplices, but aside from Catherine the Great, who has sex with the human equivalent of a Clydesdale? (And look what happened to her!)

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I always manage to deal with it, working the bod, setting new records, the never-ending tests, the always orgasmic sessions with Andy (for a pneumatic tube, he’s quite inventive), watching the world go by through the computer screen. Plus over the years I’ve earned the equivalent of four Ph.D.s and I “converse” with Andy in five languages (one of which we invented) other than English.

Occasionally, though, I find myself checking in on Taylor and Francis (his husband) and Liza, who’s now eight, and their Roger, the six-year-old. Actually, I’m beginning to suspect that he’s my six-year-old, too (one of a couple of dozen); Andy knows how much the memory of Taylor means to me and I wouldn’t put it past him and Axelrod to cook something up.

We’ll see.

It would be nice if there were another me someday.

Maybe then I’ll be human again.

Vote on this story

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