Big is better

by XH4M

Pete and Sam experience epic growth, unexpected adventures, and sweet romance.

32 parts Added Oct 2003 75k views (#51) 4.2 stars (15 votes) 111k words (#19)

Part 1: Forward Pete and Sam experience epic growth, unexpected adventures, and sweet romance. (added: 1 Oct 2003)
Part 2: Family ’Trees’
Part 3: Cumming of Age
Part 4: The Meat of the Matter
Part 5: Of Mice and Men
Part 6: First Contact
Part 7: The Power of the Pen-dulum
Part 8: Barnyard Animals
Part 9: Baby, Baby Do Me One More Time
Part 10: Toto, We’re Not in Lancaster County Any More
Part 11: Cruisin’
Part 12: The Bone Collector
Part 13: Cheers
Part 14: The Score
Part 15: Epiphanies
Part 16: Through the Looking Glass
Part 17: Remember the Titans
Part 18: Dancin’ to the Jail House Rock
Part 19: Into Thin Air
Part 20: Weighing the Evidence
Part 21: Happy Meals
Part 22: Suspicious Minds
Part 23: Paternal Instincts
Part 24: Party Favors
Part 25: There Ain’t No Mountain High Enough
Part 26: Nectar of the Gods
Part 27: Stairway to Heaven
Part 28: The Whole Nine Yards
Part 29: Deep Impact
Part 30: The Turning of the Screw
Part 31: Bushwhacked
Part 32: A Clear and Present Danger
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Part 1: Forward

How two guys eventually find each other in this big, wide world is still as much a beguiling miracle as it is a bewildering mystery to me. To say the laws of probability were completely suspended for both me and my awfully big 'other half' seems a gross understatement. But somehow—call it fate or whatever—our paths nevertheless crossed in this life. We have an altogether unusual relationship by any common measure imaginable. You may well think our relationship is even abnormal or frankly bizarre. Nevertheless we're inseparably locked together now by the spell of some unseen sorcerer. Together, we’re something far beyond what you might call merely psychic soul-mates. And I, for one, do believe there is a God in this universe who watches out for us all.

I'm Pete, by the way. Peter—that's my given Christian name. Without any doubt, my name was clearly meant as a biblical reference by my parents. But I’ve wondered though from time to time—and even as I pen this now—if perhaps they may have had some other possible reference in mind when they’d chosen that particular name for me, but… I'll never really know.

I first met Samson when I was 19 years old. The exact date is easy to remember. It was my birthday. Sam would have been about 29 back then. We are the proverbial 'Mutt and Jeff' couple, too—total and complete opposites—the oddest pair you may ever run across. But like that old saying goes, in our case opposites do seem to attract. Its been over 9 years now since we first met and the bond between us is still so powerful it can scare me at times. He's so much more than just my better 'other half.’ In the physical sense, Sam is two-thirds of this relationship anyway, easily tipping the scales at twice my body weight and probably considerably more. I still get a raging hard-on sometimes just casually observing Sam standing over the kitchen sink and doing nothing particularly sexier than slugging his way through a mound of dirty dishes. To me he is the living definition of everything that is sensual and masculine. His body commands my immediate and total attention; it oozes raw sexual power in even the subtlest of physical movements. Among the very small numbers of unchallenged living male deities in the world, Sam stands supremely as Zeus in my mind anyway.

As to which one of us is actually 'the god' and which is 'the monster'—well you'll doubtlessly form your own opinion. I think I'm a monster and Sam is clearly a god, but it’s still a safe bet Sam would see this exactly the opposite.

I've been toying with the idea of writing our story for awhile now. When I asked Sam if he'd mind at all, he just sort of chuckled a bit and shook his head—that’s his way of saying, “Not a problem.” Literally nothing ever bothers or worries him while everything seems to bother me. Knowing him as well as I do, I don't even expect him to ever read this. Sam is not illiterate mind you, but he's also never been much of a reader. He visibly struggles with it. Whenever he can get away with it, he'll willingly defer that chore to me. His early childhood educational experience was frankly just awful, and his basic skills sadly suffered as a direct result. He was among the unfortunates who somehow completely slipped through the cracks in our public educational system. Sam didn't ask me to use pennames to protect our privacy. The very concept is most likely completely foreign to him. I felt I should do that anyway so I'm taking the liberty to change our names in this—our story.

I want to begin this by taking you, the reader, back to a time long before Sam and I ever set eyes on each other. This is about my own roots and…


Part 2: Family ’Trees’

I was born in late November, not in the maternity ward of a hospital but rather in my parent’s bed at home. Home was a large rural farmhouse located within the town limits of place called Intercourse. Our town, in turn, sat inside the borders of the County of Lancaster, roughly in the geographic center of the great State of Pennsylvania.

I never stepped foot outside of Lancaster County for the first 18 years of my life. Moreover, I seldom stepped beyond the borders of my family's large farm except to attend Amish school, or church, or to take occasional trips into the town center which happened as a rule only on Saturday mornings.

The whole of Lancaster County was then, and still is dominated by several distinct groups of Amish people—and yes, I'm Amish-born, too. My family belonged to a particular Amish group known as the ‘Old Order.’ It's a tight-knit, pious and very closed clan governed by a group of men known as the Elders. You would find the social order extraordinarily conservative to a degree likely incomprehensible to you.

And rules—there were rules in abundance—rules governing just about every aspect of Amish life. If I could somehow condense all of the Amish philosophy concerning life into one short phrase, it would be, “Keep It Simple.” And in the tradition of keeping it simple, as a young boy I only knew of two groups of people in this world—the Amish and the ‘Outlanders.’ Outlanders were anyone living outside of an Amish community. It’s also a given that most Outlanders, or “The English” as they are referred to by our Indiana Amish brethren, would understandably view our rigid Amish social conventions as being very repressive and even backwards. Nevertheless, these were 'our ways.’ My parents were raised with 'these ways,’ and so for that matter was I. But above all else, it is also a community and social structure which strongly supports and cares for its own.

My education was received in a private Amish one-room schoolhouse for the first 8 grades, then I subsequently transferred to the regional public high school. The magnitude of the culture-shock I experienced during that first year in public high school was simply just stunning; moreover my freshman year of public high school was also the very first time I would come to know any of these Outlanders more personally.

My family life was extraordinarily simple. We had neither electricity nor a telephone nor plumbing in our farmhouse. The only running water came from a one hand pump mounted on a corner counter in our large kitchen. There were two vehicles always parked in the barn ready for my family’s use. One was a pretty snazzy black convertible, actually. We used it most often during the fairer and warmer months. The other was a hardtop utilized mostly during the cold Pennsylvania winters. One of my first routine chores as a very young boy was to take care of the large work horses we used to pull our vehicles, too.

Both of my parents were also born and raised in Lancaster County. Mine is a long lineage of hard-working and God-fearing farming folk who had always meticulously kept to the proscribed old ways. My parents were trilingual and so am I. A dialect of German called Pennsylvania Dutch was spoken at home. We used High German during our church services and I learned English in our private Amish community school.

Farming “Amish style” was then, and for that matter still is to this today, a particularly hard and physically demanding life. The work is performed without the benefit of any mechanized vehicles or machinery whatsoever. The work rituals and daily chores were endless; our days routinely began well before sunrise each and every morning and didn't end until sundown. This went on 7 days a week and 52 weeks a year. Vacations were a concept completely unfamiliar to the Amish. I didn't have many friends growing up, but that wasn't particularly unusual for most Amish farm children either. My social life revolved mostly around my own family, and whatever childhood play I engaged in was done primarily with my brothers, and to a much lesser degree with my closest neighbors who happened to also be my 1st cousins—and to put ‘closeness’ in a better perspective, that would have been roughly a mile away. But there was little time for playing, at least as you'd probably conceive it. The farm work just never ceased.

My parents themselves were just plain 'good folk'—very honest people—honest in a way too unknown in this modern, fast-paced world of ours. My parents were loving and very giving. The degree of their generosity again wouldn’t likely be easily comprehended by anyone not raised within an Amish community. My mother was an incredible woman. To say she was just hard-working would grossly minimize what that woman accomplished on a daily basis. She was petite, but don’t let that description fool you. Physically, she was one very strong woman. If someone ever videotaped my mother’s daily routine, it would have easily been the killer workout tape of all time. She had beautiful alabaster skin and dark-rosy cheeks that absolutely radiated from underneath the bonnet she often wore—a rather striking physical feature of hers which you doubtlessly would have instantly noticed. Mom also had a perpetually big smile for everyone and very infectious laugh. And her heart, well… it was as big and wide open as the rolling hills of Lancaster County.

My father was only of average height but possessed a lean-and-mean build, with unusually broad shoulders and a narrow waist which made him appear to be taller than he was. He was on the quiet side and usually said very little. Somewhat characteristic of the Germans, he was also stern but never mean. And completely characteristic of the Amish, my father was the undisputed and never-questioned supreme head of our family as well as its spiritual leader and guide.

Both of my parents practiced the creed, “Do Unto Others” every single day of their lives. Neither was physically demonstrative about expressing love and affection though. There was little to no touching or kissing, as I recall, once any of my siblings were out of the cradle—but there was never a doubt that we were all loved regardless. That was clearly expressed by them both in countless other ways and actions. But as for physical touch—kissing and hugging—that never was 'their way,’ nor likely the way they had been raised by their parents before them.

A part of me wants to tell you that it was a very good life—and today, I can more deeply appreciate certain aspects of having grown up in such an uncomplicated world, more now than I did perhaps back then. But this strict social system of the Old Order also commanded obedience and 'doing one's duty' without question. Above all else, the lifestyle demanded total and unequivocal conformity.

I don't return often to Lancaster County these days. As a well-educated and more 'worldly-wise' adult now, it's simply a world I don't fit into at all; moreover, as a gay man I never really did. If the Amish even have a concept or word for ‘gay’ at all, well I’ve never heard of it. That tells you something about the prevailing social morays.

Let me emphasize that Amish beliefs and social conventions uniformly produced extremely naive kids, especially when it came to anything at all having to do with the human anatomy, let alone the “birds and the bees.” While I remained totally clueless about such things as a boy growing up within the Amish community, again I remind you this was quite typical for my peer group.

The discussion of anything remotely sexual was strictly verboten (forbidden). Nudity was absolutely unheard of and frowned upon to the extreme. I've thought at times that my parents somehow managed to produce four offspring while essentially remaining fully-clothed. ‘Lust’ to the Amish is the preeminent carnal sin and to be guarded against at all costs. So in terms of my personal knowledge of anatomy, physiology and especially human sexuality, I was sadly essentially a total moron—and I’d remained in that sexual naivete until I eventually went away to college.

To put this into another perspective, I didn't even have German or English words or even a rudimentary vocabulary to describe genitalia or anything remotely sexual in nature. I knew no 'names' for anything and often resorted to making up my own terminology in my head. This total lack of useful information on the subject would also make my life as a gay boy in Lancaster County even more confusing than it might have been otherwise if I’d been reared in the more progressive Outlander's world.

I never saw my mother, sister or my younger brother naked—not even once in my life. And I’d only seen my father and my older brother Zechariah naked just a very few times—and mind you, those times were also completely accidental.

But I vividly remember my brother Zec's male appendage. Just one little peek and its dimension was permanently etched in my memory. He was maybe 15 years old at the time when I first saw ‘it.’ I was perhaps age 8 or so. It was seeing my father's particular male endowment however that frankly stunned me. I only glimpsed my father's ‘thing’ for a few seconds on a couple of occasions—and the man was simply an elephant with this 'trunk' attached to him. Among the elite group of male airships that ever existed in this world, my father's was undeniably ‘der riesig schwengel’—the greatest—absolutely the undisputed Hindenburg.

After I'd seen the sizes of these two other males in my family, I do remember bemoaning privately how unbelievably tiny my own ‘little thing’ was, comparatively. Unfortunately my father's and brother's behemoths were also the only points-of-reference available to me as a curious boy. I’d formulated all my concepts of what I’d assumed was the ‘male average’ accordingly. Since I was always shorter than other boys my age—another fact I loathed about myself—I also automatically assumed I was a runt in that department as well, which was more-or-less proven to me as being the gospel truth by my having spotted these other two males in my family. I distinctly remember not feeling at all good either about how very little my very little thing was.

My self-concept was to eventually become… well… revised….


Part 3: Cumming of Age

I was equally as naive about puberty. I had no name for what was happening to me, let alone if or when it happened to other boys. Looking back, I realize I started to sexually mature—and very much to my dismay, please understand—earlier than most other boys. By 8 years of age, the little lump that would become my scrotum was already noticeable to me. This was all-too-quickly followed by the appearance of two distinguishable little bumps inside the thing as well. I was extremely concerned with my new discovery, but too afraid to mention this to either of my parents. And before I’d even reached my 9th birthday, they had already fallen out of me, like two… well… ‘nuts’ I guess. In fact my very unwanted 9th birthday present was the discovery of pubic hair, already becoming visible even then. And if I really didn't like at all how I looked (very ugly I thought), then I absolutely detested the gooey little spots of something on my nightshirt every morning. It was like I was peeing in my sleep, only I knew it sure wasn't pee.

These sticky spots too-quickly evolved into a nightly puddle of semen constantly soaking the crotch area of my nightshirt which, for all practical purposes, resembled a thin long cotton tank top. My nuts were now more clearly of the variety 'walnuts,’ too. These physical changes were rapidly becoming my own very private nightmare. I began to routinely visually check the every-changing status of these rapid physical developments happening to my body. I usually performed my inspection while I was seated in the outhouse. Both fascinated and yet scared, I observed my 'walnuts' gradually changing into—err… well.. things that more resembled two pullet eggs. Their surrounding bag of skin was definitely getting bigger, too, but seemed to be lagging behind what was actually needed. My two ‘eggs’ continually stretched the skin surrounding them to accommodate their ever-increasing size. Understand that I was clearly not at all OK with what was happening—not one bit. Once, I even held the two eggs in the palm of my hand, and lifted them heavenward to offer God a trade-of-sorts:

“If you'd make me taller, you could always make these smaller—PLEASE?”

He of course did not on either count. I wondered if perhaps God was punishing me for my sin of gluttony—or was it omission? Too many sins and I never did understand what most of them were anyway. But I knew I’d been rushing through my early morning chores to get to the breakfast table faster, and part of my strategy was to deliberately 'not see' a good number of the eggs in the hen house. I mean, there were so many chickens! I wondered if He'd grown these 'eggs' inside of me so I’d be forever reminded of that.

And I began to secretly change my own sheets. Thankfully there were always huge piles of laundry to be done, especially on a farm, and I naively hoped maybe my mother wouldn't notice. Certainly by the age of 10, I was awaking daily in a virtual lake of sticky stuff—so much that it soaked through into the straw mattress. Just changing my sheets wasn't very effectively concealing my problem anymore and I was one very worried boy. Moreover, there was this odd ammonia-like odor emanating from the chronically-dampened mattress.

But God bless my mother. One morning she came into my bedroom to get me up, just as she'd always done. But on this particular morning she paused—and then sat down on my bed.

“Peter—deyr ist ein smell in here. Vaar ist dis coming from?”

The ruse was up. My eyes started to tear as I tossed back the bedcovers to show her all of my secrets—my punishments from God. I was frightened, frustrated and totally ready to fez up and finally be out with the truth.

“I'm sorry… I'm SO sorry…” I whimpered.

She unhurriedly took in the entire scene with her eyes—both the obviously fresh mess I'd created during the previous night as well as my prominent 'new' male anatomy which she could easily see through the drenched crotch of my thin nightshirt.

“Ooohhh… my…” she said. “I zee vat ist der problem….”

But to my utter surprise, she only smiled kindly and began to stroke my head in a soothing manner, and continued:

“Dis ist O.K. mein Peter. Dis ist OK… You ist yust ein big boy now!”

Reflecting back on that moment in my history, I realize she had a thorough knowledge of—well—the special nature of the men in her immediate family, I think—and their 'nocturnal specimens' included, though she never spoke it aloud. She simply accepted the facts of the matter just as they were. And since she was not a worldly or educated woman herself, she may well have not even known this was anything unusual or way outside of ‘the prevailing norms'—which it definitely was.

I do distinctly remember her words that followed, though….

“You're YUST like your vater AND your bruder, Zechariah! Always know daat Gott—He lovz you now—just the vay daat you ist. For His own reazons, He made all die menschen in mein family to be… ah, vell… very potent—zee? I vill yust change your bed every morgen, yust like I do Zacariah’s….”

“And Peter—you must never, never touch your… your “Little Johann.” To make yourself do dis ting wit your hands, do you hear me? It ist against Gott's law. Dat you do dis in your sleep, vell, dat ist ein normal ting for a boy—dat you cannot help yourself. O.K.? Do you tink you oonderstande?”

“Ya, Mama….”

And so ended what was the very first—and very last—of any sex education I’d ever receive from either of my parents.

“Den Gut, Peter. I vill make you anoder mattress to give dem a chanze to dry outzide. Zo you get up now und do your chorz, O.K.?”

“JUST like your father and brother?”

“Very potent…?”


Just what was she telling me? I mulled over those enticing little cryptic tidbits as I quickly got dressed. Well at least now I knew my ‘thing’ apparently DID have a name—a ‘Little Johann’ she’d called it. Mama made me another mattress and began to change my bedding more regularly thereafter, just as she'd said she would. That practice continued right up until I left home. Unknown to me, she was already well-accustomed to the copious amounts of nocturnal emissions which flowed in that house on a regular nightly basis. Apparently she’d been doing the same special daily ‘chorz’ for my older brother, for probably years …


Part 4: The Meat of the Matter

And as for my ‘touching’ Little Johann, well—I never had to anyway. Little Johann seemed to just do it all by himself—and far too often frankly—though I was privately enjoying the delirious sensations.

By the age of 12 when other boys are usually beginning puberty, I was already sprouting a faint strip of center-line body hair extending up from my groin and my pubic hair was dark and bushy. My balls—I still just absolutely hated the big, aching things—of course had only grown larger. I’d become convinced this was no longer God’s, but surely Satan’s handiwork. And it was really no consolation that the satchel of skin seemed to have at least grown to a size appropriate for holding the cursed things. I was now the wholly-ashamed owner of two regulation-sized golf balls in their matching custom-made golf bag. But there was to be NO discussion of the devil’s work in our house.

And my testicles seemed to constantly ache, and being squished in my pants only exacerbated the problem. I remember a related incident which happened once when I was working in the east field with my older brother. I was wearing a pair of Zechariah’s hand-me-down boys black pants. (Black is the only color in the ever-stylish Amish man’s slack wardrobe.) But even those pants were getting tight through the groin and didn’t accommodate my privates well at all. And on that morning, my balls throbbed so painfully I was clearly in distress. I tried to inconspicuously rub the soreness away, but eventually Zec noticed anyway.

“Peter, are you very sore… you know… down there?” he asked calmly and matter-of-factly, gesturing with his nodding head towards my privates.

“Yeah. I am,” I admitted cautiously.

He paused and nodded understandingly as he walked towards me. He seems to know what I was feeling. I somehow felt safe enough with Zec to pursue this risqué topic some more.

“Zec, they just hurt more all the time,” I remember saying, and started to rub them overtly to ease the discomfort I was feeling, since Zec seemed to be sympathetic.

“I know Peter. You see my own, well… they ached like that when I was your age, too. But that aching will stop eventually,” Zec said, patting my head understandingly. His words were comforting and, as it turned out, also true. They did stop aching a few years later, but the passage of time seemed like an eternity back then.

Many minutes passed while Zec and I continued to work in silence. Zec paused again, then straightened up and looked right at me. Surprisingly, he picked up on the same topic as if we’d never had a long break in our conversation.

“Peter, you might want to wear men’s overalls from now on—like mine here—rather than those pants. They’re just more comfortable to work in. They’ll fit you better.. aah, you know… down there…” he said, gesturing again towards my crotch.

I assumed Zec must have mentioned my ‘special situation’ to my mother, because she set to work making me a few pairs of my own men’s overalls—the kind with shoulder straps which button to a bib in the front to hold them up. And oddly—she made them really roomy in the crotch, as if she knew I’d grow into them fast enough. When she’d finished sewing the first pair and presented them to me, I bounded up to my bedroom to, absolutely delighted to be slipping into my first pair of MAN’S overalls.

Ahhhhh, the truly simple pleasures of life… If my privates could have talked, they would have been joyfully screaming, “Free at last. Free at last! Oh Lord, we’re free AT LAST!” There was suddenly SO much room! Nothing was squashing me. I remember how incredibly good it felt to be able to have them hang there in free space not touching anything while still being clothed. The sensation of cool air circulating all around my privates actually started to arouse me. Wearing men’s overalls was WUNDERBAR!

Finally there was ample room for ‘The Twins’ and ‘Little Johann’, too. Lest you think otherwise, my curse hadn’t been solely directed on just ‘The Twins’—no, not at all. Johann had always kept pace—or maybe it was actually the other way around. But unlike my balls, I was quite pleased with Little Johann’s progress. No doubt I was comparing myself with those mental photographs I’d taken of my father and brother long ago when that brief opportunity had presented itself. Granted, it still had a long way to go—or grow—but still….

“Just maybe I won’t be a runt, or at least SUCH a runt,” I remember thinking to myself. There was an indisputable ‘growing’ sign I had reason for hope, anyway. But what I perpetually longed for was to just be taller. At the rate I was growing, I would never be even average height, let alone a ‘big man.’

Certainly by this time in my life, I’d also become socially accustomed to the idea I was supposed to eventually exhibit some serious interest in girls. Men got married to woman. Somehow they had families, too, although the exact mechanism of how babies came into this world was completely unknown to me. The choosing of a suitable mate of the opposite sex is hands-down the most important decision in an Amish man’s life. Boys and girls begin their search for a spouse in earnest when they turn 16 years old, after enjoying a brief period of ‘Rumspringa’—a recognition of their having achieved adulthood within the Amish society during which all formerly repressive taboos are lifted. Certainly by the age of 20 or so it was expected you would be married. And although Amish brides often wear a blue wedding dress, rest assured that, as a group of young fraulein, they are entirely more deserving of ‘virginal white’ than their Outlander counterparts.

But what seemed to be increasingly holding my attention however were men—physically mature men. I had no name for this desire I felt inside but it seemed more than merely a special curiosity. Somehow I also sensed there was something very different about this. But where or how I’d picked up that vague notion about my emerging orientation remains a mystery to me. Regardless, I’d somehow ‘divined from the universe’ this special interest of mine was also not acceptable—perhaps even dangerous to divulge—something else to be kept completely secret. In a similar vane, I knew it wasn’t O.K. to display any special interest in men in public. Instinctively I knew at least I should never obviously stare, lest someone follow my eyes and somehow figure out my secret thoughts and feelings—these strange desires which held increasing power over me.

But it was thoughts of men that always filled my head privately every night. I imagined things. I had incredibly vivid dreams of men who, in various ways, had certain physical attributes in common. They were always big and strong. Sometime, I’d think of a particular man I might have seen on some recent excursion into town and then use those sharp photographic memories to construct my vivid nocturnal ‘imaginings.’

I used to sit on the curbside alongside our parked buggy while my father or one of my brothers was off doing ‘grown-ups’ business. I’d be watching all of the people go by, but always paying particular attention to the grown men. On some rare occasions when an especially bigger-looking man came into view, my eyes locked onto him like a dog on a bone. Little Johann often would automatically begin getting bigger, too. I didn’t feel safe anywhere in public letting Johann get too hard, but I always secretly wanted to.

On one particular Saturday during that hot summer prior to my entering the regional public high school, I’d gone into town with Zec to help out with the usual loading and unloading of our wagon with goods and supplies. Zec was doing some business inside one of the stores. I waited patiently outside, sitting in my usual position on the curbside with my feet in the street, knees pulled up, and people-watching. I was wearing my new “mans” overalls. Out of nowhere, the figure of a male came into my field of vision—and he was absolutely a giant. I was so surprised I think my heart skipped a beat or two. From the way that man was dressed, he was obviously an Outlander.

There were large wooden barrels sitting along side a truck parked directly next to our wagon. This Outlander started lifting them into the back of the truck. I knew those barrels were very heavy, too; I’d hoisted enough of them before myself, and it usually took the 3 of us brothers working together to lift just one of them. Amazingly though, this man was hoisting one after another by himself into his truck effortlessly.

Being the hot season, he was wearing what they called a tee-shirt—and it looked as if it was painted on to him, so tightly did it fit his body. I certainly was aware I was staring, but I couldn’t seem to move my eyes anywhere else. I lowered my head a bit to not be as obvious, but I continued to peer at him intensely from beneath the brim of my straw hat.

There were these—these breathtaking formations—these large, big ‘shapes’ everywhere underneath his tee-shirt. From his head to his waist, nothing was flat at all! As he moved around doing his work, new and powerful contours continuously revealed themselves to me. There were very big ones as well as very small ones—hundreds of them it seemed. Suddenly more individual muscles were visible to me than I even knew existed in a man’s body. I’d never seen such incredible musculature before, nor had I thought such a man even existed!

I felt my heart beating stronger as I sat there watching him lift the barrels into his truck. I was especially enthralled by how very… well big, actually… his arms were. I was also alarmed that Little Johann was growing uncontrollably big as well, steadily creeping its way further down the underside of my pant leg beneath my thigh. My new overalls were loose enough to give Little Johann some maneuvering room without being visible to anyone—only if I remained in my seated position. But this time, I didn’t go out of my way to inhibit Little Johann’s swelling. The feeling seemed too pleasurable to resist—the sensation, far more intense than ever. I was being careless by allowing myself to stare, but gawking at this impressive man was somehow connected directly with the incredibly pleasurable feeling coursing through Little Johann. And every part of me wanted to just… F-E-E-L that man’s incredible arms.

The man had glanced over at me a few times, and finally took notice I always seemed to be looking directly at him. He paused for a moment and waved to me, saying, “Hello.” I immediately waved back.

I was quiet and reserved usually, so I startled myself by suddenly blurting impulsively, “You are VERY strong, Mister!”

The most astonishing thing suddenly happened. The man straightened up, lowered his arms down to his sides and clearly smiled right at me. Then he squared his big shoulders which somehow MADE the two very large muscles on his chest stick out right in front of my eyes. They kinda just sorta well… seemed to puffed up, amazingly—and in immediate approval, Little Johann began puffing up rather amazingly, too.

The man was still looking directly at me as he reached down with one arm, firmly grabbing just one handle on the side of a barrel. I thought to myself,” Mein Gott! He’s going to actually lift it with just his ONE arm!” It seemed as if he wanted to make sure I was still paying very close attention to him.

He took a deep breath and then—one-armed—he slowly lifted that huge barrel off of the ground. My mouth opened-wide as I watched in total wonder. He was just so… so unbelievably strong. He grinned right at me as he pulled that heavy barrel amazingly all the way up to his chest. I’d never seen anything like the muscle in the front of his upper arm before. It was just immense—equally the size of a very large grapefruit—and looked equally as edible to me, too. My head spun dizzily as I watched his deliberate display of strength obviously directed at me. Johann was getting dangerously big now. I could its weight pulling down the back of my pant leg.

Never taking his eyes off me, the man lowered and then raised the barrel to his chest again—and then he did it AGAIN! Sometimes he’d look intently at his own fantastically large muscle which astoundingly seemed to me to be getting even larger. Then he’d glance back at me again, as if to make sure I was still watching. By that point nothing on Earth could have distracted me. He had my totally devoted, undivided attention.

Finally he set the barrel down. Then, grinning directly at me, he began cocking his arm so I could see the big muscle in front forming up repeatedly into a gigantic grapefruit.

He asked me in a loud whisper, “Do ya think it’s big, boy?”

Did I think it’s ‘big’? I couldn’t have even dreamed an arm muscle could ever be so huge!

I was overcome with an urge to lower my leg, forcefully pinning Little Johann between the back of my thigh and the curbside—and I did just that, even as I simultaneously blurted out involuntarily my one-word reply.

“W-O-W !!!”

I slammed my leg down as hard as I could. These incredible sensations flooded through me instantly. And Johann suddenly began to convulse, pulsing powerfully over and over again. I was bathing in unbelievable waves of pleasure. When it finally was over, I’d completely filled the inside of my pant leg with cum; and somehow I just knew the man with the big muscles understood exactly what I’d done.

But quickly feelings of shame as well as genuine fear swarmed over me. I involuntarily leaped up probably intending to run away as fast as I could. My copious juice immediately streamed down my leg and ran all over my boot. I froze, looking down in dismay at the mess at my feet. Only moments later, Zec came bounding out of the door of the store, saying, “Let’s get going Peter!”

When I glanced up, the man with the big muscles and his truck both had vanished. But there I was, caught red-handed regardless. Trapped. All of the evidence of at least some perceived sin was too clearly visible down below me and utterly impossible to hide. I was so scared and it must have shown all over my face. It was then the 2nd miracle of that day occurred.

As Zec walked towards me standing beside our wagon, he spotted the situation in the back of my pant leg—only a blind man could have missed it anyway. I saw his eyes follow my leg down to the goopy mess all over my boot which trickled onto the curbside. Zec just started to shake his head, but it was more like an expression of only very mild disapproval, as if he was thinking, “Little brothers can be a real pain in the neck sometimes….”

He put his hand on my shoulder blade and gently pushed me towards the wagon.

“Quick now… get in the wagon, Peter….”

I’d complied and leaped into the back of the wagon, then presto—we were off again heading towards home.

Many long minutes later, I heard Zec’s voice coming from the front of the wagon.

“That’s happened to me. I used to have those kind of accidents, too. It’s OK. Don’t worry, Peter. It’ll just be our secret. I’m not going to tell Mother or Father….”

I listened to the horse’s hooves slow, rhythmic clomping on the pavement for awhile.

Then as if to encourage some special brotherly male bonding—and please note such an overt expression of sexuality was completely uncharacteristic of the Amish, too—Zec suddenly added, “So Peter… It feels pretty good, doesn’t it?”

Well yes, it had felt unbelievably good actually to me for a moment. And I now had some other new pieces of information. This ‘flooding your pants’ thing also had apparently happened to my brother Zec; moreover, I gleaned indirectly it also felt very good to him, too. But I passed up the opportunity to fraternally bond over this completely male experience and chose to remain silent, for I knew while the same thing may have happened to Zec, it most definitely was not for the same reasons.

Zec was going to be married very soon. He was even growing his beard (Amish-style without a mustache); this being the Amish male billboard which officially announces, “I’m taken and off the market.” For as long as I could remember anyway, Zec also always had the same obvious ‘interest’ for women I seemed to have for men. I did not want to risk further discussion- or worse suffer any additional questions from him—about the specific details of ‘my accident.’ One sin was quite enough for that day and I didn’t want to add lying to the list either. But Zec’s reassurances nevertheless had felt good to me and certainly had calmed and soothed me greatly; and he very wisely never pressed for any further conversation. It was thankfully never even mentioned again.

And so I was about to enter public high school that very Fall. I was a really very quiet, even shy and always obedient boy—raised completely with the simple Amish value system of austerity and hard work. I had an implicit understanding of the need to conform to the austere Amish social conventions; those having been instilled in me from the earliest age. I was about to find out just how difficult it would actually be to continue to conform though. I was different and I knew it.


Part 5: Of Mice and Men

My real awakening only began when I transferred to the public regional high school, probably not unlike the experiences of other Amish boys who go beyond the 8th grade to get their high school diplomas, I suspect. But thanks to the Outlanders, I heard the word 'sex' for the first time. I also started hearing other closely related topics in conversations as well, though most were only the typical teenage exaggerations, rumors and innuendoes. Still I managed to get some rudimentary base-line concepts down concerning sexuality in short order. I also heard the word 'homo' for the first time and immediately understood this was not a particularly desirable thing to be either, which more-or-less confirmed my own unexplainable intuition concerning my own feelings.

There were a few other things about myself I would come to abruptly understand, thanks to having a bunch of other similar-aged boys to frequently hang around with for the first time in my life. For one—I was still shorter than most boys in my grade. I was still growing but not fast enough to keep pace, let alone catch up. Standing on my toes, I'd have been hard-pressed to squeak out 5' 7” in my freshman year. I also quickly figured out I was smarter than average and had a good head on my shoulders. I had a knack for picking up new things easily, especially when it came to math and sciences.

And thanks specifically to gym locker rooms, I also acquired two additional facts about my ‘physical self,’ which happened on my very first day of gym class. One fact, I liked. The other would torment me beyond words.

Let’s start with the good new first. My pleasant surprise was I had a better overall shape to my otherwise short body than most of the other boys in my grade. I was already filling out, developing the 'wide shoulders and narrow hips' appearance characteristic of the other males in my family, even exaggerated more because I was short. I also was a strong kid—a beefy little bulldog type—from working the farm all my life. There was considerable meat on my otherwise short bones. Most other freshman boys were uniformly thin and lanky, built like pencils. Mine was wider at the top and narrower at the bottom, more like the older seniors I saw. And I felt good about that aspect of my appearance. It pleased me for some unknown reason.

But that first fateful day in the boy’s locker room was also the first I'd seen a bunch of other guys all completely naked and I took the opportunity to do the other kind of ‘comparing’ that boys inevitably do. I’d assumed I'd probably come up very short-handed in that area, a belief I’d long held after seeing my Dad and older brother’s appendages.

I sneaked discreet glances here and there around the lockers while we were all getting changed. It only took one period of gym to establish once and forever how I really measured up—the naked truth which can only be revealed in a male locker room.

Seeing is believing. What I saw flattened me like a steamroller.

In the body hair department, the other boys had relatively little pubic hair, some a bit more than others. Most of the freshman however frankly seemed to me to be pretty much a bunch of hairless Chihuahuas. But when I looked down at myself, in stark contrast, a hideous dense dark forest of hair surrounded Little Johann and Company with a narrower trail climbing up along the centerline over my stomach. I was so instantly mortified I practically leaped into my waiting brand-new athletic supporter, yanking it up decisively to cover myself as quickly as possible.

“Whew! There,” I muttered to myself, thinking everything would be O.K. now. Then I began to notice how the other freshman looked wearing their own spanking-new jocks.

Well frankly, none of them seemed to have much of anything to… well… support. Their jocks covered their nakedness more than adequately. When they walked around in them, nothing shifted inside their flattened broad pouches so much as a millimeter.

So when I’d established what the norms were for filling a freshman jock, I checked myself out to see comparatively how I looked wearing my own. It felt kinda weird. My waistband seemed to fit fine but it dived in the front, as if being weighed down. And the rest didn't look at ALL right to me—nothing like the other guys’. My white elastic pouch seemed kinda small, struggling to contain and support its contents. And far from being flat, my pouch was prominent. Frankly, it bulged alarmingly. Moreover, my pubic forest was still visible around the perimeter. My big, white glaring bulge was perfectly framed by the dark contrast all around it. So rather than concealing anything, wearing a jock actually quantified in no uncertain terms just how much of me there was. The effect was like turning a spotlight directly on my crotch. When I tried to walk slowly across the floor inconspicuously, I was further appalled when my full pouch sagged and rebounded with every step. Most of the other guys were glancing at me, too—down there. (Elastic and I were to become mortal enemies in the future. Unknowingly, this was my very first hint of that coming 'relationship.’)

When we all headed butt-naked for the showers together, I noticed their Little Johanns’ looked like bald-headed mice poking right out of their round, little mouse holes. But when I walked to the showers, my Johann hung from me like the serpent in the Bible, swinging around and playing an aggressive game of stickball with its big twin neighbors. I was undeniably a Triton among the minnows—and absolutely the last thing I wanted was to be so conspicuously different than the other guys.

And regardless of how carefully I tried to be nonchalant and inconspicuous in the gang showers, I eventually drew all their eyes downward—freshman and seniors alike. They were always carefully expressionless, but wherever I looked I caught someone usually staring. That really unglued me. The words, “You're really a freak, Peter,” echoed in my brain. I was hyper-aware of the many pairs of eyes continually inspecting me.

I wanted to be like every other freshman in high school; to fit it easily. But I was too obviously NOT like every other freshman—or any seniors I could see, for that matter. They all knew it and so did I. A big part of me just cringed inside and not one single ounce of male pride did I feel. To me, I was clearly cursed. What I didn't have was the balls to cut off my balls, although that thought honestly raced around in my head occasionally—having none at all seemed the better of the two big evils. I was so ashamed I wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere and die.

Well die I did not. I adjusted. I adapted. I even came up with a survival strategy—a game plan—to 'appear' as small as I could, or at least draw as little attention as possible. And I executed my plan well, praying the other guys would just eventually forget. I dressed and undressed quickly, always facing my locker, and also never engaging in any idle chit-chat until that was accomplished first. In no time at all I had it down to a science of speed and precision. Oh—and by the way, I also stopped taking gang showers altogether at school.


Part 6: First Contact

My first experience hardly qualified as ‘having sex.’ It was more youthful touchie-feelie experimentation. But regardless, it was the sexual benchmark event in my life; powerful and sensual—and honestly scary because that encounter also gave me a brief peek—a little hint—at my deeper still-repressed sexual psyche. So my ‘1st time’ both thrilled and terrified. It was my first tenuous little step along my long journey of self-discovery.

And the guy who made this all possible was Gabe, who I’d met in my freshman year. Gabe’s gym class and mine were scheduled during the same period, so we were always using the locker room at the same time. It was a small high school and we all knew each other’s names. Gabe and I had exchanged a few cordial ‘hellos’ occasionally, but nothing more conversational than that.

Gabe was a large, swarthy guy—so much taller and heavier than I was—definitely ‘all man,’—and exactly the type of man physically I would never be. Gabe was also confident and outgoing, traits which weren’t particularly my strongest suits back then. I was one shy, quiet kid. Because he was older and also an Outlander, I automatically assumed he was sexually-experienced. He was, after all, the big senior to my lowly freshman—and a big varsity linebacker on the high school football team to boot. I was always on the lookout for the really ‘big bruisers’ and Gabe more than fit that label. He was also one of the guys who never seemed to miss any opportunity to check me out, I’d noticed. Whenever our paths crossed in the locker room, his eyes would predictably roam downward briefly to my crotch. He took more than just ‘a peek’ whenever the opportunity presented itself. Such attention also was a constant reminder I needed to restrict my public exposure as much as possible.

It happened during that spring semester. By then I’d already gained a whole new sexual vocabulary thanks to hanging around the Outlanders. But unlike any of the other guys, by then I’d been forced to buy another new jockstrap. The elastic in mine had completely failed after just a one semester of gym class. While some boys are tough on shoes or pants, I seemed to just destroy jockstraps.

It was very late one afternoon, well after school was out. I was making up sessions for several PE classes I’d missed. By chance I meandered into the locker room just as Gabe was coming out of the showers with a towel wrapped around his waist. I didn’t know it, but he’d just finished a heavy workout and every inch of him was boldly proclaiming the more-than-impressive rewards of weight-training.

He turned his head as he walked by me, saying, “Hi,” very friendly-like, and then giving me an unexpected ‘good guy’ slap on the back for good measure with a hand the size of a grizzly’s paw. No wonder he’d been picked for the State’s High School All-Star Team. Once he got a grip on a football, no guy was ever going to dislodge it!

But there was something very unusual about the way our eyes locked. It was only for an extra second or two, but still… that lingering gaze shot though me like a bolt of lightening. It was absolutely electrifying. (I didn’t understand it at the time, but my gay-dar had just switched on for the very first time.)

My vocal chords suddenly failed me and I couldn’t return Gabe’s upbeat greeting though I certainly wanted to. All I managed was an awkward wave in acknowledgement, but my eyes continued to track him like a laser-guided missile as he walked crossed the room. It even seemed as though he was moving in slow motion. My skin felt very warm and my heartbeat quickened. I could not for the life-of-me take my eyes off him. He was more than just tall, dark and handsome. He looked H-A-R-D—and much more muscular than I remembered. The veins in his arms stood out prominently. His muscles were thick and stunningly bold.

“He’s got really big muscles,” was the silent chant repeating in my mind as I continued to watch him. But I snapped out of my trace when I suddenly realized I was springing a quick boner uncontrollably. There was no way to hide it and I freaked. Immediately spinning around on my heels, I practically ran back out to the gymnasium and spent untold minutes subsequently running laps to thoroughly extinguish all traces of my undesired swelling.

Eventually I walked back into the locker room. It was empty and unusually quiet, with none of the noise and constant commotion commonplace during normal school hours. Well, wouldn’t you know it—guess who happened to be using the locker immediately next to mine? Yep, there he was—and he was just finishing getting dressed now. His pullover and pair of jeans were different from the all-occasion uniform worn by every Amish male which hung in my own locker—a white starched shirt, black pants and suspenders.

Gabe was sitting on the bench and lacing up his boots. I walked up to my locker and quickly opened the door, all the while looking straight ahead. I never said a word—more accurately, I still couldn’t. I popped off my sneakers, peeled off my shirt and dropped my gym shorts, then automatically positioned myself as close as I could to the locker opening, fully aware I was only wearing my jock and socks. (Truthfully, I’d have stood inside my locker to get dressed, but had to settle on a more reasonable-appearing defense such as using my locker door as a protective shield against possible roving eyes.)

As I rummaged around inside my locker, I hadn’t heard Gabe get up and leave. As far as I could tell, he was still sitting there quietly on the bench. I moved my head back slightly to discretely verify he was still there through the corner of my eye. Yep, he was still there and I thought his head might even be turned towards me. A few more covert glances convinced me he was staring right at—well you can guess. But oddly—this time I didn’t mind being inspected, at least by this hunk. Gabe was sitting close enough to feel his radiant body heat—or so I imagined anyway. I was thinking how… big… he’d looked when I’d approached my locker—the impressive width of his thick upper back as he’d leaned over to tie his shoes—how he more than filled out that large pullover, too. Gabe was exactly the type of guy I’d often picture in my nocturnal dreams and made my heart start thumping uncontrollably. He was big and strong—and that always excited me—which also scared the hell out of me at the moment.

“Hey, Peter—what ‘cha hiding there?”

I froze like a deer caught in car headlights. Gabe’s voice sounded deep and masculine. Seconds seeming like minutes passed in silence.

I awkwardly cleared my throat a few times, then finding my voice I answered stiltedly, “I’m… errrr… I’m not hiding anything,” talking directly into my locker.

“Yep, I think you are,” he quickly replied in a friendly-sounding challenge of sorts. But rather than sounding confrontational, Gabe seemed to be saying, “Hey, I’m a friend. Just don’t bullshit me.”

There was a palpable tension throughout my body. My head felt a little light.

“Let me tell you something, Peter. Every guy wishes he had a big basket….”

Basket? Well, I knew what that referred to, unfortunately. O.K.—so I knew I was kinda big down there, but after that first day in the locker room, I’d spent many long months hiding myself and being as ‘small’ and unobtrusively ‘normal’ as I could be. I’d thought everyone had forgotten that fact about me. I’d hadn’t so much as even looked at another guy’s crotch again myself since that fateful first day in gym class.

Truthfully, it wasn’t a guy’s crotch that pushed my ‘on’ switch anyway. It was their bodies—the way the ‘total package’ looked to me—and always it seemed bigger looked better. I’d kept my eyes to home for months and slowly minimized, at least to myself, the ‘size differential’ between me and the other guys. Perhaps it was a necessary self-deception, but over time I’d gradually shrunk my self-concept down a bit—something akin to, “I’m not really that big….” But Gabe’s unexpected comment put the lingering question right in front of my face again, and I immediately asked myself, “Am I really that big?” I had the urge to look at Gabe’s crotch just to get a reality-check and compare again, but remembered he was already dressed.

Evidently not getting the response he’d hoped for from me, Gabe took another approach.

“My friend says he’s seen you stuffing something in there. I mean—maybe it’s just because you’re on the short side—to sorta compensate, huh? Hey, I can understand that. I won’t tell anyone your little secret… Honest, I won’t.”

I understood the reference clearly enough. It was about the size of my equipment—and it was also a bold-faced lie which instantly infuriated me.

I was already turning red even as Gabe’s hand appeared, reaching for my locker door I’d positioned to intentionally obstruct his view. My shield disappeared as he pulled the creaking door all the way back.

I blurted impulsively, “See? Can you see now? S E E M E?” Then I stupidly hopped up and down in place like a kangaroo. I only meant to squelch this malicious rumor by showing Gabe it was unequivocally ‘all me.’ And the truth was immediately obvious. My whole jock sagged and recoiled. The telltale weighty motion said more than effectively, “These are the REAL McCoy’s!” But as soon as I finished my impromptu angry demonstration, old familiar feelings of embarrassment immediately returned.

Gabe gulped with sincere astonishment, “Man—you are so hung!”

I misinterpreted his complimentary comment completely, and said emphatically, “I hate it. There’s too much! I wanted to be taller, but look what I got instead—all this! I’m never going to be a big guy.”

Gabe intensely studied my whole dilemma. Seconds passed in complete silence. Then I heard one more word, spoken breathlessly….



Part 7: The Power of the Pen-dulum

Somehow I got my rigid neck to awkwardly rotate and looked directly at him for the first time. Gabe's lenses were still taking their first close-up mental photographs of my crotch. I'd always been a moving and uncooperative target before, but this time I stood my ground—motionless. There was ample time for this particular 'photo shoot.’ I could almost hear Gabe’s shutter clicking as he changed lenses from a wide-angle to zoom and back again. I was profoundly aware of my heartbeat and the unbelievable tension in my body.

As Gabe’s visual cortex received and processed more images, his eyes open wider and glazed over. He was staring at my jock with the intensity of an x-ray machine. A tidal wave was also building behind his gaze. (In the far-away future I’d eventually come to know this particular stare very well.) But in the present—and for the very first time in my life—I didn’t feel like running away and hiding. Gabe was telling me in his own unique way I was A-OK with him.

“W-O-W… Are you EVER a big guy,” he said rather softly.

He looked awed, amazed and appreciative all at the same time. His fascination was palpable; his comments seemed oddly even too complementary. My skin suddenly boiled. The surrounding air froze. I broke out in goosebumps all over.

“A guy with some HUGE tools….”

A short whistle followed that comment. There was no questioning its meaning. It said to me, “I like what I’m seeing… You look HOT.”

His dilating pupils were also sending me a subliminal message that my big sack was undeniably interesting. All of these unconscious signals were trying to strongly arouse me, but I was too scared to allow my dick to get the least bit hard. My senses could be lying and I might be misreading everything horribly.

But there was electricity in the air. All my detectors were screaming that he 'wanted’ me. Potent, intoxicating pheromones poured from his every pore and found their way directly to my brain. As Gabe's eyes roamed all over my body, a new wonderful feeling erupted inside. I felt oddly—strangely—‘sexy.’

And Big Gabe's intense interest was powerfully stimulating my own. He was so different than most other guys his age—square-jawed, darkly handsome features and possessing the big, beefy-hard body of a REAL man. Everything about his physique said he was powerful. His neck was amazingly thick. I admired the bulging ropes of muscle across the tops of his shoulders framing his neck, and how they flowed into round hemispheres capping each shoulder like invincible armor-plating. His pullover seemed to no longer hide anything from my eyes. As if I’d suddenly developed x-ray vision myself, I could make out all of his big, manly muscles underneath. I imagined how thrilling it would be to reach out and touch them—to actually feel those massive, rock-hard muscles. I wondered if Gabe wanted to touch me just as much.

All of these crazy new sensations were my sexual powers as a man—though still a pretty short one—stirring and churning around inside me for the first time. Mixed together, the effects were like a potent drug. A battle was raging. I wanted to indulge every powerful urge. But as tantalizing as they were, they also felt ominous. I was teetering on the brink—so excited and yet so terrified. What if I was wrong?

I sure wanted to excite Gabe even more, though—to be ‘sexy’ just for him. Our mutual ‘interest’ seemed real enough—maybe—if I could only trust my instincts and surrender. My fruits were perfectly ripened and matured, and wanted desperately to be picked.

The words, “Do it Peter. Do it Peter. Just.. DO IT PETER,” raced through my head over-and-over again.

Then the ruling body inside my psyche suddenly and unexpectedly issued an edict.

It said, “Peter, permission is hereby granted….”

My surging hormones did the rest. I’d been considering what might entice Gabe enough to take the perilous plunge himself. Moreover, I wanted to turn him on totally. My mouth went dry.

Until this moment, I’d been desperately trying NOT to become physically aroused in front of him. All I needed to do was just let myself begin to 'bone up.’ Just allowing Little Johann to swell right in front of this guy’s eyes was an exciting new feeling in itself. And I was ready—really ready now—to let it get big.

Gabe was still sitting on the bench and leaning forward slightly, equally as frozen and motionless. His face was only a few feet away from my crotch.

I just stood there absolutely and purposefully still for the longest time. I began breathing in-and-out more deeply, letting my ribcage rhythmically move my strap every-so-slightly up and down.

I let his eyes feast. I allowed him to gorge on my heavy sack. And Gabe was devouring me like a starving man, drinking in the impressive fullness and circumference of my bulging cup, already stretching as I allowed my cock to swell. Gabe was completely transfixed.

I turned to face him more directly, pulling my stomach in to make my small waist even narrower. This not only made the large contours of my prominent low-hanging 'big boys’, well… more impressive… but also directly showed him the complete outline of my thickening member as it nuzzled its way down between my balls, slowly pushing them apart. Watching Gabe watching me get hard was stunningly hot! I wanted to show him the real magic in this wand of mine—to let him watch my cock slowly transforming into a real major league slugger. It was time to give Gabe the full Monty—the “big bat” treatment.

I began shifting my weight subtly back and forth from one leg to the other. This set my heavy equipment in motion; stretching and rebounding a bit in my swaying pouch. I could tell Gabe was getting a whole new concept of what 'hung big' was, all close-up and personal-like, because his mouth was starting to open—more an expression of disbelief perhaps. But the unmistakable swelling in his jeans encouraged me trust my intuitions.

“Wow… Oh, God.. That’s some HOG you’re getting,” he said, sounding more like a prayer.

Gabe reached up slowly towards my swaying bag of meat. His hand got close enough to feel the heat on my balls. But suddenly it stopped advancing and remained motionless just short of the intended target.

He was very turned on. I knew he 'wanted' very badly. He wanted to touch me down there. He needed to feel it—to feel 'hung big' with his own hand, just a much as I wanted to feel his BIG shoulders, chest and arms. I wished he’d just do it.

He looked up at me as if asking, “Is this O.K? Can I really touch it?”

Stepping in front of him, I reached underneath his opened hand—nearly twice the size of my own—and slowly brought it up the rest of the way to my Big Kahunas and held it there firmly. Wow—it was everything I’d craved. I burned like a fire inside from the first touch of another guy—and a very strong one, too. Gabe’s huge hand seemed custom-made for my balls. They felt incredibly good nestled in that big sweet-spot in his glove. Then his hand started moving, tenuously squeezing and kneading my rising bread-dough. Taking my pleasured moan as a sign of approval, he roamed over my jock and pubes a bit more enthusiastically and audibly moaned as he began indulging in a more deliberate exploration of my ample tool box.

I needed very much to indulge my desires as well—to feel his beefy-big body just as forcefully. My hands cautiously found their way on to his big muscular shoulders. But rather than reacting negatively, Gabe seemed to enjoy being touched, too.

I let my hands wander all over his body as far as they could reach, exploring every separation, reveling in the unbelievable hardness and then onward to every other big, rock-hard muscle I could find. Touching his still blown-up, hard torso was unbelievably exciting. He still had his pullover on but it didn't matter. In fact, I was hardly aware. Touching him while he was touching me created wave after wave of intense pleasure.

I could tell Gabe was enjoying mentally sizing me up—specifically my balls at that very moment. It was the way he checked their weight by hefting them repeatedly with his hand, then tracing their circumference with his big fingers—doing the geometry in his head—and getting more turned on. The erect cock tenting his own pants told me he liked doing math. The sensations of finally being man-handled by a muscular, big guy overloaded my pleasure centers.

Meanwhile, my own hands and brain were also doing some measuring of their own. I was evaluating the hardness and dimensions of Gabe’s heavy chest muscles. They were solid—and big—and touching such male symbols of great strength and power urged my big dick ever fatter and longer. It was rapidly becoming the dominant feature in my jock, pushing hard against the elastic and lifting powerfully with its broad back. As my jock ballooned out like a big tent, the waistband pulled away from contact with my lower abdomen. I knew my meat still had much bigger magic left, though Gabe had no way to know that. But if he kept on warming me up in the bullpen so expertly, the Big Slugger would inevitably burst onto the field.

But Gabe's fingers unfortunately turned their attention fully to my cock, which was achieving an overall dimension exceeding anything Gabe was mentally prepared for. He started doing mental 'measurements' again using his fingers. He measured my cock’s width, then surrounded it to check the circumference and finally, tried to take note of its length with his index finger and thumb. I think he lost it completely, right then and there.

“It’s so damn BIG!” he started groaning loudly.

His breathing turned more into panting, and then… a large wet spot formed in the crotch of his jeans.

I didn’t tell him I wasn't nearly fully erect yet, but hearing Gabe’s pleasured groans and spotting the wet evidence of his ultimate manly excitement catapulted me into another unknown—and profoundly disturbing—dimension entirely. The last thing I remembered clearly was blood pounding viscously in my temples. I thought my head would explode. I was turned on to a new extreme, far surpassing anything I’d known before. My cock suffered an extraordinary growth spurt in the seconds that followed.

And then I felt its ‘presence’—a presence I can only describe as being a possessive, powerful demon. It was foreign—terrifying—but utterly thrilling. It was a carnal Beast: a demonic power assuming control over me. The Beast manipulated body and voice, demanding absolute compliance with its every whim.

“Play with me. Play with me HARD….”

Something or someone slammed Gabe's hand forcefully into my big bulge again, squeezing it tightly to emphatically demonstrate how hard 'it' wanted to be handled. The clear signal was for Gabe to put all the might he could muster into it.

And amazingly—Gabe did just that, seeming equally powerless to resist the Demon Voice. He immediately started working me over much more roughly than before. The dramatically increased pressure drove me wild… soooooo amazingly arousing! More miraculously, Gabe’s continued panting indicated he was still very aroused. He was really into it and still turned on totally. His unabated interest absolutely astounded me!

Like a tape loop repeating over and over again, Gabe moaned, “Geez, it’s STILL getting bigger… What a MAGNIFICENT cock!”

I had to concur with his assessment. My meat was finally getting nice ‘n’ hard. As to it’s magnificence though—well that’s in the eyes of the beholder. Time seemed suspended again. I was immersed in desire and stimulation, fast heading towards some uncharted precipice. I surrendered totally to The Beast, drowning in the abyss of some potent fantasy. But it was a fantasy I'd unconsciously been prayed for—and exactly the kind of guy I'd prayed for as well.

Then the demon spoke again.

“Gabe,” it half-gasped and half-panted, “…show me how STRONG you really are—NOW!”

“But I'll… I'll hurt you…” he replied hesitantly, trying to resist and reassert some self-control again.

“Bring me to my knees, big guy. S Q U A S H 'EM… C R U S H IT… DO IT—H A R D !”

The Beast seized my hand and slammed it forcibly against the back of Gabe's—the very hand commanding my complete manhood.

Gabe again obeyed the commands of The Beast, unable to resist. The Beast had Gabe exactly where he wanted him.

“Feel this now. Feel… my… STRENGTH,” Gabe suddenly growled.

“Oh, yes… That's… that's it… Y -E-S!” the Beast exclaimed.

Gabe's grip on me became an iron vice. Never once did the thought occur Gabe might actually hurt me. My man-tools were industrial-sized and industrial-strength. I was built tough. And I wanted to feel it all—every millidyne of masculine power this hunk of man could muster.

Gabe’s face grimaced as he brought even more of his brute strength fully to bare on my big equipment. He was holding nothing back anymore—applying all his accumulated power from lifting big iron directly to my balls and giant schlong. This unbelievable pressure catapulted me to new heights of aroused ecstasy.

“MAKE ME CUMMMM!!!” the Beast commanded. “H A R D E R !”

I recorded every minute detail in my memory for posterity. The veins in Gabe’s arm distended forming a den of snakes, and his muscles seemed get even larger right before my eyes—fuller—rounder—individually distinct and amazingly hard. I didn't know their anatomical names back then. They were all just 'big muscles' to me—but THAT also was exactly what the Beast wanted to see. To hell with the names. It was everything I'd ever dreamed of in my deepest, darkest soul—their beauty, unimaginable.

I chanted, “Look at those HUGE muscles,” repeatedly in my mind as I melded sight, sound and sensation together. Gabe seized my engorged phallus and assaulted it exclusively, alternately stroking and squeezing it ferociously.

I couldn’t stand one second more of such ecstasy. I exploded—involuntarily. I started blowing out my ballast tanks utterly -and with unbelievable force. Cum began pouring out of my jock, quickly covering Gabe’s hand and running down his forearm, eventually dripping onto the floor. Gabe’s relentless stroking commanded me to keep draining my large storage tanks to their bottoms. I sprayed like a fire hose, seemingly forever, as Gabe's magnificent hand maintained its erotic iron grip. It was an incredible orgasm, Gabe witnessing its full intensity in his own bare hand. I was still shooting hard when I heard Gabe gasp—and then gasp again a few times more, the old wet spot in Gabe's jeans suddenly doubling in size. He was cumming again spontaneously. I think he really like seeing me ejaculate. A lake of my expelled man-juice was spreading out across the floor below. That much I do remember seeing.

And then I heard the Beast saying, “W O W….”

I slowly regained my senses. I was also totally spent and my knees could have easily buckled. I was stunned—and utterly amazed—by everything which had happened. A part of me was absolutely euphoric certainly, but I was also feeling troubled. I'd said things and done things—things I'd never even conceived of in my dreams. It seemed I’d been a puppet with somebody else pulling all of my strings. I felt almost violated in a way as if I’d momentarily been possessed by a real demon—a savage, frightening Beast. What had happened to me? What was that? Was it gone now? I couldn’t feel it—that strange presence—anymore. But would The Beast suddenly return again?

But thankfully Gabe interrupted these deep thoughts, saying, “Hey, are you OK big guy? You look kinda funny….”

By the time I’d extracted myself from my thoughts, Gabe was already standing up and using a towel to clean up the cum bath I'd discharged—much of which seemed to have gotten all over his jeans and boots.

“Your cup REALLY runneth over, Pete…” he said with a satisfied smile, not seeming to mind swabbing my spooge off his boots at all.

Still I walked over to grab a stack of towels and then quickly started helping Gabe mop up the remaining evidence of our… what was that anyway? I had no idea what to even call it except ‘great!’ Whatever—when we’d cleaned it up the best we could, I started to get dressed. I didn't know if Gabe was going to say another word. He just stood there silently, patiently waiting for me to finish dressing, as if in no rush at all.

“Say Peter, I… I could maybe drive out to your place on Saturday… and .. and I could give you a hand… errr… with your chores, or something …you know if… if you'd like me to….”

A flush of rapturous joy swept over me.

“Yeah, Gabe. That'd be SUPER!” I replied, breaking into a wildly approving grin.

Yes, I know this was incredibly tame stuff, looking back. Just touchie-feelie games. Hell—I'd never even taken off my jock and Gabe had remained fully-clothed. There was no sucking, fucking or real ‘man-imal’ sex. But it was my first time regardless—and incredibly hot, in its own unique way. There was also an element of simplicity and innocence about what happened between Gabe and me, and to this day I appreciate it just for what it was. Certainly the vivid memory has remained with me this far, and maybe will for the rest of my life.


Part 8: Barnyard Animals

And sure enough, Gabe kept his word. The next Saturday he came wheeling up to the house in his pickup. I remember my father’s distinctly disapproving head-shake when he spotted the gasoline-powered vehicle sitting parked behind our house. And so our brief friendship started that Spring. But it was a special friendship I’d never known before—and I think frankly it was for Gabe, too.

He became a fixture around our farm every Saturday while we were still in school. After he’d graduated that June, he was around more often than not. Whenever he wasn’t ‘hitting the weights,’ he seemed to hang his hat at our house. At first my parents were a bit slow to warm up to my new, strange friend. He had “the ways of the Outlanders”—and initially viewed with some suspicion.

Gabe was a big bruiser, even for a ‘grown up’ high school graduate. Only 3 years older than I, he still positively dwarfed me, nevertheless. He referred to himself as an ‘Italian meatball’ occasionally. I guessed it was a reference to his ethnic family origins—or maybe his ultra-beefy body. And his real name was Dominico Gabrielo Frottagiavelli but he just liked to be called Gabe. He said it sounded cooler and more All-American than his given first name.

Gabe really did pitch in to helped me with my never-ending chores. And also let me tell you that when you don’t have the benefit of mechanized machines of any sort around a farm, having someone around with Gabe’s strength comes in mighty handy. More importantly, Gabe seemed to enjoy the hard farm work. Maybe it was his own version of ‘culture-shock’ in reverse, but I think he was genuinely curious about ‘our ways’ and Amish lifestyle. Something also clearly appealed to him about manual work. He loved doing physical labor and the harder, the better. We had that in abundance. He was, I swear, as strong as an ox. He’d impressively demonstrated that fact to me on several occasions—and every time he had, I’d sprung a ‘big one’ instantly. Every inch of that ‘meatball’ was 100% muscle!

I don’t understand why really, but at some point he started showing up in traditional Amish work attire, too. Maybe he wanted to feel like he fit in, or perhaps it was to placate my parents a bit to feel more accepted by them. But anyway, I had to stifle a laugh on the day he first showed up wearing a solid colored shirt, broadfall black trousers with suspenders, black socks and boots. The ensemble was topped off with a straw broad-rimmed hat, no less. I remember Zec just rolling his eyes and howling uncontrollably the first time he spotted Gabe’s ‘Amish drag.’ But in my eyes Gabe looked absolutely incredible in anything he wore. An Amish work shirt looked uncharacteristically very good indeed, at least when Gabe was wearing one. I never saw one look hotter on any man, in fact.

Well Gabe was accepted as ‘a regular’ by my family in short order, and after awhile my mother took to automatically setting him his own plate at our dinner table. But much more symbolic of his genuine acceptance—she spoke English whenever he was present which was an extraordinary sign of respect. My father never did, but… I was still batting 500. They’d smile and nod at each other politely though. And Gabe, not the least bit bashful, fumbled openly to speak the little German he’d picked up as time progressed, but complained privately that many words were so long they were difficult to remember. I couldn’t find fault with Gabe’s observation. Compared with English, German words are so long they have artistic perspective.

Gabe thought my mother’s cooking was simply the very best he’d ever tasted in his life. It very well may have been. Amish women, despite not having any of the modern conveniences commonly found in an Outlander’s kitchen, nevertheless can cook incredibly well. And that meatball could pack away more food than anyone I’d ever seen. Mein Gott did he ever love to eat—at least my mother’s home-cooking anyway! But Gabe worked as hard as the rest of us—and probably even harder—for his supper.

Nothing seemed to please him more than when we’d find ourselves alone together somewhere at the end of a good day’s work, when he’d often work up an even bigger appetite after enthusiastically working on me. We did what other boys did—we just ‘fooled around’—out in the loft of the big barn. That special kind of fooling around still had no name though, but we still managed to do ‘whatever-it-was’ with amazing regularly, indeed!

In the summer, most of the real work was out in the fields. When it got to be near sundown, we’d wrap up work for the day and head back to the house. When my father or siblings weren’t in eyesight, Gabe often encouraged me to jump on his back and he’d carry me at least part-way back through the fields and over the rolling hills—he said to give himself ‘a good workout.’ He was as big as a horse to me anyway—certainly as strong as one. Oddly, he seemed to enjoy carrying me around on his back whenever we found ourselves alone.

I’d leap onto his mile-wide back, then he’d grab my legs and off we’d go. I’d grab hold around his large shoulders and then I’d pull my body flat against his back, resting my chin on the side of his neck. Inhaling his musky scent at close range exhilarated me like an instant aphrodisiac. It didn’t take long before his manly pheromones, feeling his powerful shoulders in my arms, and having my crotch firmly up against his broad back predictably aroused me. Sometimes the feelings were so intense I’d close my eyes and nibble at his neck and ears, kissing him wherever I could. He really liked that a lot, I could tell. Gabe could easily detect my growing arousal pressing along his spine just below his shoulder blades. Sometimes he’d bend over and sorta rub my whole body all around his back just so he could feel my ‘Big Fatty.’ Little Johann had also recently acquired a new nickname.

“Just hold that thought, Peter,” he’d say encouragingly. “We’ll be there in a flash.”

Then he’d often picked up the pace, usually making a beeline for the barn with me on his back at a full gallop.

Once safety inside of the barn, our games were private from the rest of the world—out in those big piles of curing hay where maybe God wouldn’t notice the sins I knew were about to take place—or so I told myself. Somehow anticipating the feeling of Gabe ‘doing me’ as he referred to it, seemed to routinely overshadow my concern about Eternal Damnation.

And ‘doing me’ was highly ritualized for Gabe. Variety and trying new things was apparently not his forte nor interest. Foreplay—such as it was—was entirely predictable, though I wasn’t complaining in the slightest. And he ‘did me’ usually first by laying me down into the soft hay, with Gabe gazing at me and I me at him; both of us enjoying the lusty anticipation of what we both knew was coming next. Every time I saw his naked body, it was like the very first time all over again—and to me it was a blissful miracle. He’d often begin our ritual by slowly unhooking his white work shirt. That’s right—hooks. No buttons. I’d get hotter at the sight of each well-defined muscle being revealed. Gabe knew exactly how to go about getting my cock right up to his desired specifications. He was really built from hitting the big-iron regularly—and when he’d finally figured out his body held a ‘special fascination’ for me, he started hitting the gym even more frequently. His efforts were being well-rewarded. He said he’d gained nearly 20 pounds of muscle over the past 4 months. One looked at him and I was a believer, too.

From the first time Gabe ritually did his slow strip in front of me, I’d knew instantly—in every fiber of my being—that muscle was definitely my primal ‘on switch.’ Gazing up at Gabe’s beautiful, beefy muscles got my love muscle inflating fast—well ‘fast’ for me, anyway—the equivalent I suppose of pumping up a big inner tube. But Gabe marked the very beginning of a special life-long relationship I would develop with muscle.

So I’d lie there, totally focused on him as he’d peel off his shirt. And when his hard upper body was finally fully-naked, I’d stare at it in complete and lustful wonder. What I privately longed for most was for Gabe to spontaneously—you know … ‘make a muscle’ just for me, but I never could have just asked. There was some weird unspoken ‘rule’ we each implicitly understood. We could ‘fool around’ until the cows came home all we wanted, but never talk about what we were actually doing. In retrospect, that might have made it just too real—too undeniable ‘queer’—for either of us to handle.

But when Gabe was finally naked towering over me, I’d usually spread my legs a bit and start bucking my hips. It was automatic—instinctual—as if it was what I was supposed to be doing. That was Gabe’s cue to kneel down and beginning rubbing my thighs with his hands, slowly getting teasingly ever closer to the crotch of my overalls. Eventually he’d ‘accidentally’ brush by my crotch lightly a few times before more overtly rubbing it. He’d squeeze me gently at first, then skillfully coax my swelling meat to poke out over the side buttons of my overalls. Gabe would then unbutton them himself—he insisted on that. After pulling them down to my knees, he’d grab my beefy mantube with both hands and stroke it up and down until I’d erupt like a volcano. Bringing me to orgasm took him hardly any time at all. My jiism exploded in powerful jets, heading straight up towards the rafters. Gabe would quickly ‘capped my gusher’ (as he referred to it) opening his mouth and sealing it around the head of my cock, then gulp and swallow voraciously. He loved eating my cum. He couldn’t seem to get enough, even though I produced vast amounts of the stuff. Often my boy-juice would start leaking out of his mouth. I emptied my reservoirs faster than he could gobble me down. Sometimes my cum would even drip out of his nostrils. I never touched Gabe’s own cock though—not ever. In fact it wasn’t even necessary for him, I guess. Gabe was completely contented just playing with my cock, jerking me off and ‘capping my gusher’ as best he could, forcing every last drop he could manage down his throat while he beat himself off with his spare hand.

Understand clearly that Gabe’s own erection—and his orgasms—were the first I’d ever seen. I did make a few mental notes concerning other males sexual anatomy and function. I noticed just how—small—Gabe’s boner was compared to my own. And when Gabe would cum, he’d shoot only a few little globs here and there on the hay—maybe a couple of teaspoons at best. My own orgasms were more like intermittently pissing ropes of cum, truthfully. On a good day, I could even leave a few hanging like stalactites from the barn roof if Gabe didn’t move swiftly enough to cap my geyser. But the size of Gabe’s cock truthfully didn’t matter to me one bit. It was his big, well-developed muscles that provided all the gasoline to power my comparative whopper of a sex machine.

We performed that basic ritual many times throughout that wonderful and seemingly never-ending summer. But inevitably, our games ‘with no name’ had to end. That Fall, Gabe enlisted in the Marines. Our activities in the barn were never spoken of—ever. It was just something we did together. Regardless, when Gabe came say his final good-byes, I saw his big square linebacker’s chin quivering more than just a little.

But every night, regardless of how many times Gabe might have played with me that day, I’d inevitably spray more boy batter liberally around my bed as I slept, and still awoke floating in a bucket of cum in the morning. And my mother silently and dutifully continued to change my bedding, just as she had been doing for the past several years.

I manufactured enormous amounts of the stuff, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. My scrotal factories churned out boy-juice non-stop. I’d adjusted to this nightly scenario and didn’t actually give it much thought anymore—let alone question if the size of my loads might be more typical of an average black angus bull than an average teenager. There were some unexpected pluses to the ‘plus-sided’ overalls that my mother had made me, and those other aspects I quickly came to understand. When I’d spontaneously ejaculate while I was working, I discovered I could position myself so the large legs of the overalls let my cum run down my leg and out the bottom. No fuss—no muss, and with some luck, even no wetness showing if I positioned ‘Big Fatty’ pointing down the leg of my pants just right.

Oh, I did have one more encounter after Gabe left for the Marines I should probably tell you about. There was that ‘first time’ with a girl, too—well sort of, anyway. I call it my fledgling attempt at ‘straight-dom.’ It happened at a neighbor’s barn-raising. So yes—I did it with the proverbial farmer’s daughter—and yes again, it happened in the loft of a barn.


Part 9: Baby, Baby Do Me One More Time

It was customary for every family in our community to participate in these occasional building projects. This was especially common when there were newlyweds involved. It's an Amish cultural norm, and one of the few sanctioned community social events beyond attending church.

Rachael was by every outward appearance a reserved, pious and chased young Amish woman. She wore the traditional black woman's prayer-cap on her head indicating she was single. But not so obviously, she also had a very lustful ‘eye for the boys,’ and never passed an opportunity to raise her long skirts up with abandon whenever she could find a hard male Outlander’s pole to mount. Apparently Rachael had an unusually libertine view of Rumspringa’s understood ‘permissions.’

I'd been working steadily all afternoon framing the new barn with the other men and I'd worked up a real sweat with a thirst to match. Usually the boys did the high-up pegging work in the rafters while the men assembled sections on the ground. I assume Rachael had targeted me as suitable ‘stud material’ sometime earlier in the day. Why she’d selected me and not one of the older boys, well I'm not really sure. Maybe she'd taken notice of the enticing contour in the crotch of my pants whenever I was squatting down knees-to-chest on a high beam, pegging the new joists together. In some positions I was still easy to spot even in baggy pants. But no matter.

I clambered down to fetch a drink for myself. Rachael approached me as I walked towards a large table loaded with refreshments set out on the grassy lawn. She extended a glass of cold lemonade to me and was smiling… I'd say kinda invitingly. She feigned some concocted excuse she needed some help from “a big, strong man” with something, just to get me out in the old smaller barn with her alone. I dutifully—if somewhat naively—went off to help the fair young maiden and exert whatever force my virile teenage body could muster for her cause. It wasn't my strength she apparently was seeking though, I would quickly discover. As we turned the corner out of site from the rest, she moved in very close to my side. The full-court press was on.

Taking hold of my hand and with her eyelashes batting away, she coyly asked me, “Do you think I'm pretty?”

“Why yes—Of course!” I answered completely automatically, ever the kind and polite boy.

As our arms swung hand-in-hand as we walked along, the back of Rachael’s hand began to make regular contact with my crotch. The fact is I started to spring one completely involuntarily. In truth, the subtlest manual stimulation of my male equipment immediately produced that reaction. It strangely never mattered particularly to my cock exactly who or even what was doing the stimulating either. It was as if it always had a mind of its own. Sometimes just going about my usual daily chores, I noticed my baggy overalls would still rub me in just that 'right way' and I'd get hard, sometimes cumming right in my pants without touching myself. So with just the littlest amount of physical stimulation, I start getting an erection.

We’d only taken a few steps inside the barn when Rachael almost dislocated my shoulder, dragging me to the ladder leading up to the loft like a horse heading back to the corral—and when she got me into the hay, she transformed suddenly from the chased Amish girl virgin into the chasing, wanton women she really was—and what she was wantin’ was my pecker stuffed into her pussy—and real fast. A virgin she definitely was not. So down into the hay we went, with Rachael's hand working non-stop on my boner like she was manning the bilge pump handle of a sinking ship. And I knew now about ‘the birds and the bees’, having pieced together how things were suppose to work from seeing a copy of Screw Magazine someone had forgotten on a locker room bench once. Those pictures had left absolutely no questions unanswered. I was one sexually-sophisticated dude!

“Yeah, just like I thought.. A really big one,” I heard her mutter as she continued raising my mast.

In the blink of an eye, she unbuttoned my pants with speed of a consummate professional, and yanked them down to my knees. Then to my complete disbelief, she produced a box of condoms from one of her dress pockets. I didn't think condoms were even sold anywhere in Lancaster County, so I wondered just where a sweet Amish girl would acquire such possessions.

She opened the box, ripped one open and then handed it to me.

“Here. Do you know what this is?”

“Sure I do,” I said, all-so-confidently.

Well I had a fairly good idea of what it was anyway—I'd heard about them from the Outlanders in school. I'd just never really seen one before—let alone used one.

“Good then,” she replied coyly. “Put it on that fat dick of yours, then show me what a real man you are.”

Her words just didn’t seem to go at all with this perfectly-dressed vision of Amish chastity in front of my eyes.

I struggled and struggled—and then struggled some more—trying to get the damn thing to just unroll over my cock the entire time Rachael was dropping her many skirts and undressing. The thing just didn’t feel like I’d expected though. It was tight as a vice around my dick.

Meanwhile, the now buck-naked Rachael rolled onto her back with leg spread wide apart, her pussy all wet and wildly waiting for me to just stuff her… and oh, did I ever. OK, I admit it. I tried for an extraordinarily long time, in fact—I really did.

“Come on—FUCK me with that huge thing, stud,” she demanded, and in English no less. She also repeated it again and again, as if she was possessed and needed to be exorcised of her own demon—or maybe at least beat it to death- using me as her holy weapon of choice. And she was intent—absolutely relentless! I lunged and I pushed. I thrust and parried. I drilled like a North Sea oil rig. It seemed to me though that her eyes were definitely bigger than her hole. Every push seemed to meet an insurmountable resistance. Rachael had worked up an incredible sweat too, and began to assume a more aggressive role.

“Wait a minute… try now….”

Then she rolled onto her side.

“Wait a minute… maybe this is better….”

Then she rolled onto her front.

“Wait a minute… now push harder….”

Finally she just climbed right on top of me and tried impaling herself on my fence post from above. Since my cock always acted completely on its own behalf anyway, I was free to remain somewhat detached from what was actually going on, and totally astonished by the degree of her determination and lust. Rachael was a cowgirl just beggin’ to ride. But try as she did, she could not seem to get the cork back into the bottleneck. Unfortunately, this wasn't our only problem either. To make matters worse, the damn rubber would be there covering my dick one second, and then suddenly be gone the next, as if by magic—or maybe some real voodoo.

She panted in frustration, “Where'd your rubber go? You’ve got to wear a rubber….”

“I don't know!” I grunted, and then I'd reach for the box of condoms and struggle to put on yet another one. Those things were ridiculous! We tied changing positions but the same damn thing would happen every time. It would suddenly just disappear again in the blink of an eye.

“Where'd your rubber go now?” she said with an even more puzzled expression, finally realizing something very odd was going on indeed.

“I DON'T K-N-O-W ,” I said in total exasperation. “It was just there a second ago. Honest!”

Rachael was growing progressively more impatient every time I'd have to break off the assault and struggle to cover my totem pole with another rubber. In all, I must have had a half dozen rubbers perform this strange Houdini disappearing act, literally there one second and gone the next. This was to be my very first hint at just how fundamentally incompatible latex and I really were.

Eventually we were exhausted and just had to give up, both of us probably equally sore as well. I felt like I’d been trying to ram a river rat through a mouse hole.

This fiasco of repeatedly failed attempts to copulate was an unmitigated disaster. I felt humiliated that I couldn't seem to do what I’d seen in those pictures. I knew it was also all my fault—I was the failure. And as I had time to think about it more afterwards, deep inside I was haunted again by old, nagging thoughts that I was some sort of circus freak.

I was so traumatized in fact that I never had sex again while I lived in Lancaster County. Even though I had the sex drive of all the Dallas Cowboys combined—and the gonads of a prize stud bull—my experience with Gabe was never be repeated for nearly 5 long and lonely years.

I graduated high school essentially as I had entered it—a shy, self-conscious, still naive young man—though perhaps not quite as much as I once was. I knew I was probably 'a homo.’ My experience with Gabe had left an indelible legacy—intense feelings I could never put out of my mind. I even had fantasies for the first time that someday I might find a REAL stud of a man who’d maybe take a special shinin’ to me, too. And I also knew that would never happen if I remained in Lancaster County—but I had a plan.

I did not waste the rest of my high school years. I was smart and got good grades easily. Yep—straight “A's, or just about. My brains were going to be my ticket out of the Dark Ages and propel me into the REAL world. And thankfully I finally had a real good growth spurt in high school and ended up at 5' 10”. Certainly that wasn’t all I'd hoped for. I was never going to be a tall guy but I wasn't complaining anymore either. My boy's body had turned into a man's body by the end of high school, and one with at least some attractive attributes—those being my widening shoulders and narrow hips. I was a chip off the 'ol block in every way.

I worked my butt off academically to make damn sure I would get accepted at a good college. And in my senior year, all that hard work paid off beyond my wildest hopes. Not only did I have my pick among several prestigious colleges but the acceptances all came with offers of full academic scholarships.


Part 10: Toto, We’re Not in Lancaster County Any More

Goodbye to overalls. Goodbye to horse-drawn buggies. Goodbye to reading by candlelight. Goodbye to heavily-starched plain white shirts, black pants, black coats and straw hats. Goodbye to getting up every morning at 4:30 AM to tend to the cows.

That Fall, I left on a bus destined for college somewhere in an unknown land far to the northeast of Lancaster County, carrying all my worldly possessions, amounting to only a few clothes, in a makeshift ‘suitcase’ my mother had carefully crafted over many days from burlap potato sacks. It was a labor of love and it showed, meticulously embroidered in the finest Amish tradition—with even my name and address beautifully hand-stitched so I’d never forget where home was. It’s a work of pure art I’ve kept safely tucked away to this very day.

I was off to seek my fame and fortune among the Outlanders at last. Hello movies! Hello cars! Hello electricity, flush toilets, showers, cell phones, magazines, movies, stereos, television, DVD’s and rock-n-roll. But most of all, I was thinking—HELLO MEN!

But in truth—my first semester was plainly awful. I was a fish totally out of water—the quintessential hayseed—and at times so homesick I thought I'd physically throw up. It was culture-shock on a scale I never was prepared for, regardless of what direction I turned. But I survived. I adapted—and earned quickly, too. I wanted to BE an Outlander. Failure was not an option.

It was also my incredibly good fortune to get John for my roommate during that freshman year. John was the proverbial heterosexual stud in my eyes, anyway. WHAT A MAN. Tall, dark, and good-looking (and fucking every coed in sight, I quickly gathered.) He was gregarious with a great sense of humor. For whatever reason, the two of us hit it off in short order. Maybe he found something involving about my so-very-backward countrified notions and ways. He’d even told me at one point early on he found me, “charming and quaint.” Those were his words. My words would have been something more like “socially-retarded,” especially during that 1st crucial semester. But plainly, John just liked me—or perhaps John liked ‘plain’ me.

I spent most of my time carefully observing everything and everyone, trying to figure out how life worked in this strange, new world. And every minute of my day offered something brand new to be assimilated. To mask my abundant ignorance, I developed the habit of smiling all-knowingly when confronted with references to things I knew nothing about, listening carefully and talking little—except with John, that is. I talked with him endlessly and asked him questions non-stop. I suppose it goes without saying I was still locked ever-so-firmly in 'the closet.’ But I made mental note of advertisements I saw for a campus gay organization and even a gay establishment in town—a bar.

Oh, yeah—I had to give up wearing my trusty overalls mighty fast. Talk about sticking out in a crowd. But the current teen fashion trend luckily proved to be my invaluable ally. Baggy jeans and extra-large pullovers were perfect deterrents against unwanted attention.

Now please understand that my roomie John was as straight as an arrow. I always showered and did my bathroom routine when the dorm was the least occupied and John wasn't in our room either. One such afternoon, I was getting dressed and had just slipped into my Fruit of the Looms when John unexpectedly walked in. This was also the most exposed I’d ever been in front of him, more a testimony to just how careful I always was. John quickly scanned me from head to toe, but on the return trip his eyes suddenly stopped dead at my waist-level. Clearly staring at the profile of my crotch, he said wryly, “I'd ask you if you stuffed a sock in there, Pete—but in your case, I think you misplaced your bath towel.”

“No… ahhh… well—that's just me,” I said, automatically turning away from him while quickly grabbing for my sweatshirt from the back of a chair.

I heard him whistle and then came his skeptical comment, “Yeah, sure it is, Pete. So who's the chick you're trying to over-impress?”

Although his words weren't exactly the same, my mind flashed back to my first encounter with Gabe in the high school locker room. Well, I was quite happy to leave it all just at that. I immediately changed the conversation—and quite obviously, too—as I tugged my pullover down to my thighs defensively to further reinforce the door had definitely closed on that topic.

John was a sophomore, worldly and wise—all-knowing in my eyes. I think I was completely in awe of him and I hung on his every word of advice. He was a handsome guy actually, but he wasn’t the kind of man who also put an instant bulge in my pants. I was actually very thankful about that, too. I wouldn't have known how to begin to deal with it, back then.

During that first critical semester, John helped me fill in all ‘my gaps.’ Literally everything was new and overwhelmingly. Beyond the whole mass media bombardment—television, radio and the like—there were the thornier issues of booze and drugs—and SEX of course—all of which were alien to me. I was extraordinary vulnerable and could have quickly gotten hopelessly lost down so many wrong paths. But miraculously, I did not—and I have mostly John to thank for guiding me through those potentially mine-filled waters of my first real taste of Rumspringa.

John became a true friend and he seemed to genuinely care about my welfare. I think my backward ways shocked him initially though. But always the willing and available resource, he helped me adapt to my new life beyond the borders of Lancaster County. This was no small challenge for him either, but John was there for me every step of the way. I think he might have relished his self-appointed role, too—that of being my guide and mentor into the modern world—but most especially, into the world of sex. To him, I think I was 'a project' of sorts—a very rough, uncut gem to be formed and polished in his own image. Through our many long conversations, John eventually got the idea I was still more-or-less a virgin and I think he felt sorry for me in a way. He must have thought I was totally deprived of all normal masculine outlets, when what I was really deprived of was men. And John made it his personal crusade to have my membership in the '17 year-old Virgins Club' revoked as quickly as possible.

I was stunned when John announced to me out-of-the-blue I was to be de-flowered at a whorehouse the very next weekend and that he intended to drive me there and personally pick up the tab. What a friend. I was trapped between a rock and a hard place, thinking I could neither decline his offer nor come up with some plausible excuse. Clearly I also didn’t want to tell him my cock got rock-hard for big men either. But contrary to what you might be thinking—my being gay and all—this unexpected situation didn’t create any performance anxiety for me. Getting it up for a whore wasn't anything which would have worried me particularly. You see, I'd been getting it up several times a day often involuntarily since I was a 10 year-old man-boy. Getting it up was never a struggle—getting it to go down to avoid totally embarrassing myself was far more often my particular dilemma.

For now, I'll just tell you I was perpetually horny. Eventually I’d discover however that there was much more going on with me than just normal teenage male horniness. Having spontaneous hands-off organisms was perfectly normal to me, and it had always been that way. Moreover, with all the joking around I constantly heard from the other guys about 'spanking the monkey,’ I’d assumed all males involuntarily deposited their seed around the countryside as often as I did.

The truth is—I got a hard-on just hearing the word 'sex'. And hearing the word 'fuck,’ well that was practically orgasmic. Get it? While I certainly had a crystal-clear gender preference myself, my dick's on-switch was essentially gender-less. Anyone's touch at all and my boner was fully-automatic and fully-guaranteed.

So the following Saturday night, John successfully orchestrated the loss of my virginity, exactly as promised. He made sure I was well loosened up for starters with a six-pack of Heinekins. I was already three-sheets-to-the-wind when we headed off in John's VW to that ‘little house of illicit love’ located in a neighboring city. I was too inebriated to be even nervous about it. The thought of finally getting laid was all my single-tracked mind could think of. John wasn't planning to get laid himself, but once we were there he quickly reconsidered.

So cutting now to the chase—I stood there grinning like an imbecile trying not to teeter around too obviously while John did the requisite price negotiations. I heard him say to the House Madam, “he’ll just need the basic,” referring to the nature of the professional services I’d require; John, ever the last of the big-time spenders. We then both selected our individual ‘dates' from the smorgasbord of available Ladies of the Night on duty. What was my selection criteria? Well I chose the babe with projecting tits so huge they must have resided in another state. In short order,John and I parted ways, following our respective ‘dates’ to their private chambers. I was FINALLY—unbelievably—going to get laid.

My chosen perfume-drenched, grease-painted wench slipped off her slinky one-piece dress exposing her ‘largest assets’—a set of quadruple “E” cup breasts which must have caused a spike in the market price of silicon the day she got her surgery.

“Here baby—you wanna feel my big boobies?” she asked coyly.

I have to admit her implants were so cartoonishly oversized I had an unexplainable desire to fondle them. Only years later would I understand that was just an odd manifestation of my special relationship with ‘size’ expressing itself, rather than any real latent heterosexual proclivity. I was so sex-deprived that their outrageous size further ‘stimulated’ me at the time—and play with them, I definitely did. I grabbed onto them like a drunk on a lamp post to steady myself and started squeezing the living daylights out of them. She quickly seduced me into getting right down to the real business, thus skillfully avoiding the embarrassment of suffering simultaneous twin silicon-bladder ruptures.

“So, you wanna fuck me, stud?” she asked seductively.

Frankly, I was more expecting the, “Do you think I'm pretty,” opener which Rebecca had used. The word ‘fuck’ though literally ignited my torch.

“Fuck… Yeah, lets fuck….”

The word swirled in my already swirling head. My dick started stiffening up for the challenge. As I stripped off my clothes as fast as I could, she laid back on the bed and spread her legs apart, using her fingers to point the way—or maybe they were just opening the barn doors… but anyway, I got a clear idea of the intended target zone even through my alcohol-fogged vision.

“Fuck my hot pussy….”

FUCK. The word was like a lightening bolt. It had magical properties. I swooned as my cock hardened like quickset concrete, barely making it over to the bed.

Like that Amish wench before, she actually had to rotate through several positions. I will say Madame X was a consummate professional though. Eventually she managed to get me inside, but she worked very hard for her money and must have gone through a whole tube of that 'lube stuff’ in the process.

Man, what an incredibly tight fit! What followed wasn’t exactly a marathon sex session—quite the opposite. I was so hot from the rapturous sensations my pump began firing short seconds after I finally succeeded in penetrating her. But surprisingly, she seemed to really enjoy having intercourse with me. Being a pro who'd had untold numbers of anonymous John’s previously, I hadn’t expected that. As I continued fucking and cumming strongly, she took noticeably increasing interest. Her eyes opened wider.

Then she started practically screaming, “God .. Oh yes… Oh Ooohhhh… YES… Shit—I'm cumming! Oh, God… YEESSSSS… Oh fuck, you’re big! Oooohhh, keep FUCKING!”

And always aiming to please, I did.

“I'm cuuummmiinnnnggg AGAIN!”

I guessed I must have been fucking her well. This professional female pleasure-giver had 3 orgasms to my one by the time I’d finally emptied my barrels.

And so that’s how my 'real' virginity became a page in history. Unfortunately however, it wasn't lost with the man of my dreams but rather with a hooker—and one with an unusually big smile on her face by the time I was satiated. Eventually I withdrew, and she propped herself up with her elbows on her pillow. Her slightly distended belly began to flatten out as all of my man-cream drained out of her cunt, forming a large pool between her legs. That seminal lake was no stranger to me, anyway. I'd seen it every morning for many years. She quizzically looked back at the condition of her working bed several times as she slipped back into her dress again.

Then she reached into a dresser and pulled out a Polaroid camera, asking if she could take a picture of me for the house 'memorables' collection, whatever that was.

“Just that great dick. No face shot,” she promised.

“Sure, go ahead,” I said, far too drunk to really protest.

She snapped the photo, and then added, “Your Daddy must have been a bull elephant. I must have seen a thousand men, and I ain't never seen the likes of you. And I definitely ain't never seen the likes of that,” gesturing toward the semen-soaked bed. “You're a total freak!!!”

The fact she'd clearly intended this as a complement completely missed me. The alcoholic fog in my head caused a few second delay before the bomb detonated in my brain. But when it finally exploded, all I heard was the word “FREAK” again, as if being screamed over a PA system. The word slashed me like a knife. I suddenly felt very ill and bolted out of the whorehouse.

When I got outside in the crisp night air, I felt suddenly quite sober—and very somber. John was already waiting in the car.

Sporting a broad grin, he asked excitedly, “So how WAS it, man? Was she hot?”

I said she—and ‘it’—were both great, feigning far more enthusiasm than I actually felt. ‘Freak’ was still screaming in my head, as if what I'd always half-thought was now a proven fact. John read me like a book.

“Is something wrong, Pete? You’re acting funny….”

“I got'ta see a doctor,” was all I replied, somewhat coldly.

Naturally John asked why.

“God, Pete—this sounds serious, like it's a big deal or something!”

“Yes, it's a very big deal, John—and it's kinda personal, O.K.?”

John didn’t press the issue further.

I think it was the very next week I pulled myself up by my bootstraps, swallowed hard, and marched myself into the college infirmary. Scared almost witless, I stepped up to the receptionist and asked if I could see a real doctor rather than a nurse-practitioner. The receptionist indicated that would depend on what was wrong with me, and then proceeded to ask about the specific nature of my problem.

“It's personal. It's very important—but it's definitely personal….”

“Oh, I see,” she said.

My immediate thought was, “Oh God, she sees? How could she see it? I'm standing up against a high counter!” But then it occurred to me she probably thought I had a venereal disease.

“Oh, it's not what you're thinking—It's NOTHING like THAT,” I quickly blurted out. “I'm not sick or nothing. I've just got a—a thing—a kind of a big skin thing—I want to talk about with a real doctor.”

“Like a growth?” she asked.

“Well yes, kinda—that too, I guess…” I squirmed, anxiously waiting for these questions to end.

She asked if I could show this to her, to which I responded instantly, “No. Definitely—NO!”

I eventually got in to see a male doctor. He was a fairly young guy dressed in jeans and a white coat, which made me feel slightly more at ease—well, just slightly…

When he asked me to show him my problem, I hesitated and then undid my buckle and tugged my jeans down to my knees. The doctor just looked at Little Johann and his Two Playmates. He was completely deadpan and expressionless for the longest time.

To break the uncomfortable silence, I said, “It’s all… well it seems to me like it's all just… just too much!”

The doctor sort of choked a bit and then, clearing his throat a few times, proceeded to confirm my “male genitalia did indeed appear on gross inspection to be unusual, but not deformed….”

I took that to mean I was oversized, but my stick and balls went proportionally well together.

“So, was your daddy a bull elephant?” he asked with a wry grin, intending to make light of it and just break the ice a bit.

He proceeded to take an extensive medical history and then gave me a complete physical exam—the very first I'd had in my life, in fact. I slowly became somewhat more at ease, eventually telling him more of the sordid details—my age when this had all had started to happen to me, my nightly dreams and the ocean of cum I'd wake up swimming in routinely every morning. Then I even got up the nerve to mention my spontaneous erections occurred with alarming frequency and the uncontrollable cumming in my pants which too-often followed. In the end I’d told him everything remotely relevant I could think of. I never mentioned to the doctor I got hot over men, however. That simply didn’t seem related to the problem or any of his business particularly.

He sat down on a stool to do a thorough examination of my cock and balls while I stood in front of him feeling like a fool. It also goes without saying as soon as he touched me, I began springing a boner. Although the doctor said, “Don’t worry—that’s a completely normal male reaction,” my cock had a much bigger reaction than I think he was ever expecting. Feeling totally embarrassed now, I started apologizing, saying I couldn't seem to control it at all.

“That's just like what always happens to me,” I complained.

“Yes, I see what you mean….”

As he continued to examine and manipulate my genitals, my cock engorged dramatically—right up to the point where I think it would have eventually smacked him under his chin if he’d continued much longer. I really believe he was a heterosexual. I certainly got no ‘gay vibe’ from him whatsoever, and he sported a wedding ring as well. But after awhile, even this doctor got a noticeable tent in his pants, as if in synchrony (if not even in sympathy) with my own massively-aroused piece of manhood.

Suddenly he abruptly said, “I've seen enough now. You can get dressed again.” Then he excused himself for a moment to supposedly get a drink of water. I thought he probably needed water alright—but more like a hose-down.

I was fully dressed again by the time he returned. He proceeded to tell me that he found no evidence of tumors and couldn’t feel anything which seemed suspicious or out of the ordinary to him—well, other than the unusually large size of my gonads in general. But at least he’d finally confirmed aloud I was, indeed, an unusually big boy ‘medically-speaking.’ But otherwise, I appeared to him to be in excellent health. Then he added a more extensive evaluation was definitely warranted and he ordered a bunch of blood tests and a CAT scan of my brain as well. I was told to make another appointment with him in a week when he'd have all the test results back, which I did.

One week later I returned and got both good news and bad news. The good news was I had some clearer answers which finally explained my particular male genitalia. The bad news was there wasn’t an immediate cure available either. There were no medications I could take—certainly nothing which could be done for me surgically, like a 'dick & ball' reduction. Although the doctor could really only speculate, he assumed my size was most likely caused by some unusual genetics—genes which I'd inherited from my father which were probably 'the norm' for the males in my particular family. He also discovered I had some circulating hormones which were 'off the charts' for normal males—3 to 4 times the average amounts in some cases. Sometimes unusually high hormone levels are caused by brain tumors, but none were evident in my CAT scan, gratefully. The doctor’s opinion was God just made me this way, but he added, “And after He made you, Pete, I think he broke the mold….” Those were his exact words. He further speculated that because I'd been under the daily influence of extraordinarily levels of these hormones since the onset of puberty, I’d developed exactly the heavy-duty male equipment these hormones were commanding my body to grow throughout my puberty.

“You should be smiling, Peter. You're practically a Superman!” the doctor said, trying again to make light of it all as well as to perhaps raise my spirits.

“So—I'm a freak then. That's what you're telling me,” I responded.

He thought for awhile before he spoke again.

“Think of yourself in more positive ways, Peter. You're a bright, young—and really—you're a good-looking guy. As an added bonus, you just happen to be the most well-endowed male I’ve ever seen. You are THE measure for manhood, I'd say,” he chuckled. “And for Pete's sake- and I mean that very literally—stop beating yourself up and just enjoy the gift you've been given. Hell I would be, if I were you!” he said, grinning from ear-to-ear.

The more I mulled over what that doctor said during the immediate days that followed, the more it sounded like increasingly good advice. I decided I'd been isolated and alone long enough. It was time to start living my life as the person I was born to be—and that included a man who was attracted to other men, as well. It had been almost five years since I'd felt that special magic. It was definitely more than time.


Part 11: Cruisin’

I hit the one and only local gay bar in town like a starving man would attack a banquet table—ravenously hungry. I was still under the legal drinking age of 21 in that state, but managed to circumvent that little problem by procuring a well-made false ID from a guy who specialized in such things around campus. And he did really good work apparently because it was never questioned, even with my obviously under-aged face.

I was every bit young, dumb, and full of cum. What I lacked in ‘people smarts’ and perhaps common sense I initially more than made up for with enthusiastic horniness—and not unlike most other young fellows discovering the enticements of a gay bar for their very first time, I suspect. Being a small town club, the clientele was demographically limited and mostly locals. I’d never seen the place even crowded. Of course I didn’t know at that time what ‘fresh meat’ meant, but looking back I was unquestionably the living definition. Before long I found myself getting picked up with ever-increasing frequency. I admit this thrilled me, too, at the very beginning. Unfortunately, not long afterwards I realized I'd also apparently developed a reputation among the small crowd of regulars. This gossip spread like a wild fire; moreover, my sudden popularity was based completely on innuendo—and everyone wanted to buy ‘the rumor’ a beer.

And of course every guy I went home with was older than me. I was, after all, still underage. They were also much more experienced with sex, and at least I started acquiring a few techniques and other useful ‘items of indoctrination.’

But a few other things became all-too-quickly apparent. While some of these men were certainly good-looking, they all had one trait in common. They were on the thin side. Some were on the skinnier side of thin. A few looked like their freezers were stocked with Lean Buleme dinners that also contained the secret ingredient Syrup of Epicac. “Tastes as good coming up as it does going down.” And I’d concluded the kind of men that instantly set my heart aflutter never patronized gay bars. It seemed like some inexplicably cruel conspiracy. It was also becoming painfully clear that the guys who picked me up had eyes bigger than their… well… abilities.

So more often than not, frankly the sex was unfulfilling. Sometimes it was pitiful and humiliating. I had guys go down on me like I was being attacked by some crazed animal. Others seemed maniacally determined to get thoroughly plowed before I would be released from my sexual obligations. Still others would snort a whole bottle of ‘video head cleaner’ trying to somehow cram me into their eager asses—and boy, try they definitely did. But in spite of their unbridled enthusiasm bolstered by those little brown bottles, their attempts to accommodate me were predictably futile. I began to notice they often wouldn’t even look at my face, let alone into my eyes. Eventually some would give up and just hold me like a club in their hands, looking sheepish and certainly disappointed. Others, failing to get me even through their gauntlet of teeth successfully, would end up licking me like some kind of lollypop while they jerked off. Still others got unexplainably outright indignant and pissed off.

I would hear comments like, “Hey, I like big poles, but that's a damn sequoia you've got there,” and, “Just what the hell do you expect me to DO with that thing anyway!” Worst of all, on one occasion I even heard, “God, your daddy must've been an elephant….”

That phrase had a way of coming back to haunt me as if I had it tattooed on my forehead. I developed a bad habit of drifting off into my own thoughts as I lay like a lump of coal watching my host for the night obsessively trying to miraculously perform the impossible. I’d picture my cock and balls sitting in a large jar of formaldehyde somewhere in the Smithsonian Institute, prominently labeled, “Son of The Elephant Man's Gonads.”

I was close to my final straw however when one particular guy started to laugh hysterically after he got a good look at my woody, and then he said, “You've got to be kidding me, right? Just… just leave, please….” That was it. I was summarily dismissed.

By the end of most encounters, I was sorry and my host was just sore. So that's the way it typically went for me. Within all-to-short a period of time, my experiences with man-to-man sex were rapidly becoming an endless string of disappointments reminding me yet again I was very much a freak. The faces changed but the story inevitably remained the same. If there's one thing I hated more than a tiny dick it was a size queen. I was convinced I was destined to be forever alone—and that revelation increasingly brought a profound sense of dejection. But I was about to be proven wrong in the very biggest of ways.


Part 12: The Bone Collector

Recall at the very beginning of this story I’d said that Sam and I were as different as night and day in about every way you could imagine. To begin, Sam was raised in an environment nearly opposite from the one in which I was raised. In my world, everything was about learning to conform to strict rules and understanding all the things I could not or should not do. Sam was raised without rigid social conventions or really any limitations whatsoever, as far as I can tell. In fact, he seemed to thrive on being different. His family was quite non-conventional, to say the least. Where I was instantly chastised for going against any proscribed social conventions, Sam was actually very supported and even encouraged to be exactly who he was in the world.

We did have one thing—and only one thing—in common during our childhood—and oddly, that centered around ‘size.’ Samson was always much taller and heavier than other boys his age, exactly the opposite of my situation when I was growing up. I’ve wondered if Sam’s parents had the same perverted sense of humor—or crystal ball perhaps—when they’d chosen his first name I’d imagined from time-to-time my own parents did. His Dad was a well-known heavy-weight professional wrestler, and I suspect Sam got at least some of his fundamental genetics for physical size right from his old man. Being a very big boy, Sam commonly was mistaken to be at a more advanced grade level than he actually was. No doubt this assumption contributed to his academic problems. Sam was, understandably, perceived by teachers to always be older than he was. There was another obvious contrast between us, too, when we were kids. For the most part I was uncomfortable in my own skin, whereas Sam had always been more than O.K. with exactly who he was.

But he told me once that other kids teased him unmercifully and I could partially relate to that, anyway. From what I’ve pieced together, his dad was instrumental in helping Sam make the necessary and healthy adjustments. He also understood from a young age that nothing could ever make him an average-sized kid,—and getting angry wasn't going to change anything. So Sam learned well the concept of acceptance and tolerance early in his life—a lesson many of us could still stand to learn. Moreover he accepted both his physical gifts as well as his definite limitations with an ease and nonchalance—even with a certain grace—which even today is still a marvel to behold.

Sam was exposed to 'the iron game'- and seriously I’ve gathered—by the time he was 8 years old. His Dad worked out both vigorously and regularly—an occupational necessity in his particular line of work. Moreover, Sam’s interest in heaving ‘heavy metal’ was enthusiastically encouraged and supported. He told me that they often lifted together—father and son. Sam's physical strength even as a boy was nothing short of astounding and his Dad was unquestioningly proud of him. By the time Sam was 12 years old, his physical development was already unusual by any stretch. Where I had always struggled accepting my own particular brand of freakiness, Sam absolutely thrived on being a really big guy.

“I couldn't get smaller so I decided to get bigger!”

Nature positioned him to make the absolute most out of his great physical assets—more than you could even imagine. You see, Sam genuinely believes he had something incredibly special given to him by God. According to him, the real miracle started to happen when he hit puberty. His bones grew at an extraordinary pace, constructing a large skeletal framework perfectly suited to support huge masses of muscle. You see, size has always mattered very much to Sam. Lifting was what he naturally excelled at and was absolutely compelled to do by his spirit, too. And to his credit, Sam has never wasted the incredible physical gifts he’d received. If you met him today and asked him what he does, I fairly certain he would never answer that he worked as a personal trainer or coached at a college, which he did. He'd probably just answer simply, “I lift weights….”

You'd also immediately notice if you got to know Sam personally that his most significant limitation is his ‘brains’—or I should more honestly say lack thereof. He wasn't blessed at all in that department to begin with, and his family's situation as he grew up probably only served to compound his problems. Sam's not retarded, but he is nevertheless somewhat slow. I've since gotten used to describing him as “just a simple guy”—a VERY simple, basic guy—perhaps even the simplest of guys. His family was always moving around due to the demands of having a dad who was in the wrestling game and Sam’s schooling suffered accordingly. He never graduated from high school. To this day, he’s never even thought about getting his G.E.D. More frankly, he may not know what G.E.D. stands for.

The truth is Sam does only three basic things in life. First, he eats. Actually he eats enormous quantities of food, easily enough for four grown men. Second, he also moves extraordinarily large masses of iron around so effortlessly it takes my breath away literally. The third thing is sex—and he does that whenever he's not doing either of the other two.

O.K. So Sam will never win the Nobel Prize, I know. But I also know I'll never meet a more honest and straightforward guy in this lifetime. What you see is definitely what you get. He clearly knows who he is and, more importantly, who he is not. He's got a real humility which is incredibly rare to find in most anyone these days. And it's worth noting as well I've never seen Sam flaunt his unbelievable body either. He never wears muscle shirts, preferring his old beat up flannels or just an XXXXL sweatshirt—a size he can only get through mail-order. He simply doesn't have to. Whatever he happens to wear cannot hide or camouflage what's underneath. The particularly bold shapes and sweeping contours of his body are unlike any normal man's.

Sam's also frankly incapable of lying. He isn't that complicated a person, or at all devious. I would come to eventually even admire his child-like straightforwardness. Lying and deceit take a certain mental capacity and a desire to manipulate others. They also required the ability to look into the future to plot 'alternatives' and 'scenarios.’ Sam lives only for the moment he is in, and he can actually be no other way. He's simply not that deep. To be so would just give him a headache.

He holds no grudges and bears no one any ill will. I've only seen him get genuinely mad a few times in fact, and when he's vented it out, he's right back to his old self again—and by the next day, he’s forgotten the circumstances entirely. Lucky for those poor souls who might otherwise have gotten on his bad side. He's very physically formidable—an absolutely gigantic mountain of a man who could certainly be completely intimidating. That’s not his nature, however. I came to understand many people avoided him simply because of his freaky size and physique. He unintentionally scared most people away. Despite his having a really pleasant personality, he had few real friends except a few close 'lifting buds' at his gym and the college. He never complained about it though, and seemed to take life exactly on its own terms. If he was lifting, he was happy—therefore Sam was always happy.

I remember him once saying to me, “I really know I'm just dumb, Pete—but I can lift really big weights….”

And so he is—and so he does- and does he EVER. Sam was just born to hoist unimaginable masses of iron skyward. (He does a few other things very well too, by the way, which I'll get to later.)

Even more amazingly, he has absolutely no qualms about his sexuality and I doubt he ever did for that matter. It's as totally natural a thing to him as is his own amazing physique. There has never been anything to even question in Sam’s mind. He does as he pleases and knows exactly what he likes. Sam would never think of apologizing for his individual sexual proclivities and interests. If it feels good, that's all that matters to him, and he's always been right up front about what turns him on—and that is 'size.’ Size really matters to Sam. There's not a concept for 'too big' in his rulebook. With Sam, bigger is simply and definitely better. So you see, in at least one specific area we are, I guess, in perpetual agreement. We're both powerfully attracted to big guys, actually. We only differ in our personal tastes about where size matters. Even among gays and doctors, very few know “The Secret Method of Computing a Man's Dick Size Mathematically” given only his zip code and social security number, but he’d developed it into a science. Sam is a real aficionado of big meat. He is Ahab, obsessed by his pursuit of Moby Dick. But just between you and me, this Great White Whale never intended to be the one that got away….


Part 13: Cheers

The day we first locked eyes was in the dead of winter on a Sunday afternoon, I'm guessing around 2 P.M.--and just as frigid as a witch's titty outside. I'd spent the previous several weeks in heads-down research work my every waking moment. I was horny as hell and in desperate need of a diversion and some man-company—desperate enough to even risk experiencing yet another failed attempt to connect meaningfully with another guy. So I found myself back in that local bar nursing a brewskie all by myself, trying to 'celebrate' my 19th birthday. It’s funny how a guy can feel suddenly so lonely when he's in a bar of all places, but I surely did. And the pickings were sadly even slimmer than usual. I was even one of the biggest guys in the bar that afternoon. Talk about cruel jokes. The clientele could have generally passed for a concentration camp survivors convention. So much for that birthday wish.

My thoughts inevitably began drifting and suddenly Gabe came into my mind. I wondered where he was and what he was doing now. But on that particular afternoon, I was uncharacteristically sitting right at the bar rather than propping myself upright in my usual corner, my more typical modus operandi. Lost in my private thoughts, I vaguely heard a voice coming from over my right shoulder….

“Hi there. I'm Samson. But please, my friends just call me Sam….”

From the voice’s close proximity, this overture was obviously being directed to me. I continued nursing my beer. A part of me wanted to say, ‘Please just leave me alone,’ without even turning around. That part wasn't in the mood for another ultimately disappointing, and too-often embarrassing one-night stand—or in this case, a one-afternoon stand. Of course another part of me wanted something else entirely, and was still clinging to hope. My optimist and pessimist were engaged in mortal combat.

But this voice did have an unusually nice quality to it, I noted. It was deep and seductively masculine. But before I could crank my head around to check out its source, I felt a hand on my right shoulder—and this hand was squeezing it in a friendly sort of way. The gesture did not sit well with me. I mean, unless I’d been looking at the guy for at least ten seconds, I thought it rude and horrible of him to touch me. Involuntarily, I looked directly at the hand and instantly surmised the owner of this hand wasn’t likely a pianist. It was a stunningly large paw with prominent veins. Frankly, it's fortunate I was sitting down for I would have surely fallen down in the following seconds. I naturally looked up over my shoulder to see who this hand belonged to. My vision was completely obstructed by an in-the-flesh absolute giant of a man whose body filled my entire peripheral field of vision. His size was so unexpectedly shocking—and unequivocally frightening—I recoiled back and reflexively started to bolt up from my barstool.

“Whoa there!”

That steam shovel-sized hand immediately blocked my skyward launch-in-progress and pushed me back down on the barstool. For that moment, I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Hell, I knows I'm probably a bit scary. Maybe even more than just a bit,” the giant started to chuckle. “Seems I always have that affect on guys. They run away from me. But please—don't run away. Please? I'm just a regular guy, really. Honest. Just talk with me awhile?”

I'm not sure I necessarily had any choice about it. His massive hand was still strategically placed and firmly holding me down. All I could see were these two slowly-moving cotton-covered white mountains less than three feet from my face. They were utterly immense and wildly three-dimensional. These ghostly apparitions were so alien it took seconds for my brain to accurately identify exactly what they were. But when it finally registered, I was instantly—totally—dumbstruck. These stupendous, undulating snow-capped mountains were the guy’s chest muscles covered by a white tee-shirt. But as the two behemoths continued to slowly writhe in front of my frozen gaze, they seemed to have a calming effect. Their subtle movements were hypnotizing. I couldn’t command my eyes move anywhere else and it seemed time itself was suddenly slowing. He was also wearing an unbuttoned, wide-open dark flannel shirt over that tee-shirt but it took me forever to notice. It’s because his massive chest plates jutted out so far beyond his underlying ribcage that the front panels of his flannel shirt had been pushed well out of their way to the sides. I could set my beer bottle on top of either of his massive ‘shelves' and it would most certainly stood there! I'm sure my mouth was falling open—a side effect of the hypnosis, no doubt. It's a good thing I’d pulled the stool up to the bar very closely or I'd have been immediately embarrassed by my hearty arousal, too—an undeniable sign of how powerlessly and instantly spellbound I really was.

“Say, the truth is I came down here hopin’ to find ya, Pete. My buddy tells me your name's Pete. Right? I'd never even be in this bar otherwise. I just scares too many guys, I guess. I don’t hardly bother comin’ here no more. Just ain't worth it. You maybe know what I mean? But I've been standing in that back corner over there, just watching ya for awhile, I has. My buddy said ya speak kinda softly, but ‘cha carry a real big stick, boy. Is it true?”

“Say what?” I almost blurted out. Under any other circumstance, I would have certainly ignored or deflected that comment, or else possibly even denied it totally. I might have even bolted and ran out of the bar. But the truth is I was being intensely turned on by these two jumbo-sized masses of mind-blowing muscle as they continued to slowly undulate. My overabundant supply of hormones immediately controlled the moment. I couldn't think straight with all that blood pounding away inside my head. I couldn't even get a word to come out of my mouth. My mouth was as parched as the Gobi Desert. I choked trying to speak in fact, and took a swig of beer to stop the throat spasm.

Finally, I managed to stammer out, “Yes, Peter… I'm Pete. And, ahhh… I guess so… But you are definitely NO regular guy!”

“No—guess I knows what 'cha means, well enough,” Sam chuckled. “I know this all scares guys away—well, most guys anyway,” he said, quickly scanning his body from side-to-side with his eyes. “Does I scare ya, Pete?”

“Well honestly? Yeah, you scared the shit out of me,” I replied perhaps a bit too honestly. Noting the giant’s disappointed—or worse, possibly pissed off look—I quickly added, “I was really just startled—that's all. Maybe you should warn a guy before you just walk up behind him—especially when he doesn't see you coming!”

I remembered to smile, letting him know I was at least semi-sincere. Sam’s mouth opened into a big, wide smile, showing a blazingly white and absolutely model-perfect set of choppers in his mouth.

“That'd be so great if you'd just sit and talk to me a spell. Maybe you can try to just forget the size of me, least for a little while?”

I knew that would be virtually impossible but nevertheless told Sam I would try my very best to “picture him as a Munchkin.” Meanwhile, my eyes were slowly beginning to take in other aspects of this truly gigantic man. I consciously noticed the real dimension of what was inside the arm of the long-sleeved shirt attached to this hand still covering my shoulder and part of my upper back, too. His large upper sleeve was filled to capacity with a humbling mass which reminded me more of an athlete's upper leg actually than a man's arm, from its size. Without a doubt it was the biggest arm I'd ever seen—more than I'd ever imagined even in my nocturnal fantasies. I was also now very aware my dick was still swelling up in my pant leg, hidden underneath the bar. I felt its weightiness. I was also more than a bit light-headed from the speed at which I was growing this torpedo. Lightening-fast, intense arousal too often had that affect on me.

After very slowly passing over a mile-wide pair of shoulders whose thickness from front to back also defied description, and traversing a neck that seemed as large as my waist, my eyes finally managed to make it all the way up to top of this man-mountain standing at my side. It wasn't really a cute or 'pretty boy' gorgeous face. No, not at all. If was a completely handsome face, and in the most utterly masculine of ways. In fact he possessed every feature I found irresistible. Sam had a large square jaw. Heavy brow. Clear sparkling eyes—the type I could get lost in. Though Sam was clean-shaven, I could see he possessed a dense beard—the kind which reeked of raw, potent masculinity to me. And this incredible face crowned a body which stood way over 6 feet—how much over I had no way to estimate. The fact was Sam's whole upper body was just so huge I couldn't begin to tell how tall he was, let alone what he might tip the scales at.

Meanwhile, he’d evidently been observing me mapping out every last inch of his gargantuan physique.

“So, there… now that you've taken a real good look,” Sam observed aloud.

I immediately felt like I’d done something wrong—kinda guilty of some unknown crime. He returned again to promoting his most immediate agenda.

“Say, do you suppose maybe I could touch it—please?”

I thought his please may have been an afterthought, but I knew without a doubt what “it” referred to. I don't think a guy had ever been so bold with me this soon in the game and that sent a cold shiver up my spine. Seemed this guy Sam didn't care much for idle chatter, although there was also something undeniably very friendly about him. I tried to say something, but my mouth failed me again. After a long pause, Sam repeated his request again.

“I really just love—you know—big guys. I do! Really!”

There was something odd about the way he spoke. His manner of speech had an almost childlike quality, but there was something also exceedingly honest and straightforward about him. Certainly lustful, yet unusually sincere. I sensed immediately a genuineness without any of the usual bullshit coming from this total specimen of manhood dominating my whole horizon. It seemed everyone else in the bar was disappearing. There was only Sam and me left in the moment.

“And if I was to say no, Sam, then what? You could ambush me outside later and easily do me severe bodily injury if you wanted to. So do I really have any choice here?”

“Course you can say no—if ya want. Absolutely! I'd never hurt you. I ain't that way. I never EVER hurt no one. A guy my size? Why that wouldn't even be fair.”

From his expression, he seemed surprisingly hurt. Callously, it never occurred to me this King Kong might have real feelings. I felt ashamed for having hinted this was even a possible outcome.

“Hey that was a stupid thing for me to say, Sam. I'm sorry. Really, I am.”

I reached up and patted him to reinforce I’d meant no harm. My awkward good-will gesture landed smack on his mega-chest—the most accessible target I could reach from where I sat. It was like patting the rump of a thoroughbred. The mass and density stunned me.

“That's O.K, Pete. I didn't wanna really do nothing else but look at it—maybe feel it a little. I didn't mean no harm. I thought ya might be the kinda guy who'd… you know… might sorta like a guy like me… even special-like. I must've figured you wrong though. I ain't the smartest guy in the world. Suppose you can already tell that, huh? But I was thinkin’ the way you was lookin’ at these… that maybe….”

Sam put his hands on his hips and slowly inhaled, spreading his elbows out. Like two Phoenix's rising, hard hemispheres of muscle rose up, forcing the front panels of his flannel shirt aside and sending them retreating into the deep recesses of his arm pits. His white tee-shirt underneath stretched tighter, perfectly hugging two swelling mountains of muscle. Huge nipples became clearly visible as the cotton threads pulled uniformly apart from each other, making his tee-shirt more transparent to me especially at this very close range. They were larger than silver dollars and pointed down at the floor—each suspended under a shelf of ballooning muscle. It was like watching two Zeppelins inflate. The two titans just continued to rise both upward and outward, finally reaching within only inches of my chin. Then the two tectonic plates of muscle began very sensually move completely independently and in opposition to each other. Amazingly, Sam commanded each one alternately to reach out even more and brush against each of my cheeks. The affect on me was instantly stunning; a fact which must have surely been written across my entire face, too. But for some absolutely idiotic reason, I thought I needed to “be cool” and not appear to Sam to be at least outwardly as totally swept-away as I actually felt inside.

By now Sam must have had some hint from my difficult-to-conceal reaction he may have actually pegged me quite accurately. I was totally spellbound and seduced, and my mouth may have even betrayed me by opening widely at moments. I don't know which excited me more—his massy mammoth chest muscles or the unbelievable command and control he exercised of each one of them. Regardless, I couldn’t begin to control the seismic tremors of lust coursing through my entire body.

As the massive beasts continued their slow dance, Sam picked up the conversation exactly where he'd left off.

“It was just the way you were lookin’ before—at these. I was hopin’ for just a second that maybe you liked 'em—you know—big on a man?”

It was difficult to keep any outwards semblance of being nonchalant in the face for such powerfully erotic visions, especially when I was thinking to myself, “Big? Those aren’t big—they’re fuckin’ gigantic!”

I finally got my mouth to move but only with a concerted effort. I’d give him some positive feedback, but with intentionally subdued enthusiasm.

“I… I guess I do kind of like them. They look…ahh… good… actually….”

I wasn’t sure Sam necessarily bought it though. With his question answered, Sam ended his hypnotizing display and relaxed, backing away from me slightly.

Still feeling dazzled by Sam's unusual seductive skills, I stupidly asked, “How… ahh… big are they really?” Then I caught myself being a bit too ‘interested’ for my own comfort and quickly tried to disguise my meaning. “Err, I mean… You… Tall. How tall are you? How much do you weigh?”

Very matter-of-factly, he replied, “Does it really matter? You can see I’m a big dude well enough, can’t ya?”

In fact his exact stats probably didn’t matter. He was monstrous. Here I was, being picked up by fucking King Kong! And he looked as if he could easily do that, too—and probably with just one hand. So why did I care about his stats? I also had the disturbing thought again that this monster could squash me like a fly if he wanted to. But Sam pressed his original agenda.

“So Pete. Will ya let me touch it?”

I whispered, “Do you mean touch it right here? Now? In public?”

Obviously trying to encourage my cooperation as well as to reassure me, he said, “Ain’t no one paying no attention. No one's goin’ to even notice….”

Strangely, in the next moment my head involuntarily gestured down towards my crotch.

“Sure. You can touch it, if you want to. Go ahead, but be discrete, O.K.?”

Sam's hand left my shoulder and came down on my thigh, still hidden under the overhang of the bar anyway. His hand found my bloated pant python, which was no particular challenge to locate in its current condition. As he sampled my wares privately, his eyes got glassy then his pupils suddenly dilated.

“God, it really IS…” He stopped mid-sentence, completely dumbfounded and unable to speak. Now he seemed as personally awestruck as I felt myself.

The look on his face reflected his initial disbelief, then genuine astonishment as he figured out the fantastic rumor he'd heard from his buddy about me wasn’t a rumor at all. As he continued checking me out, I was also actively checking out the many large shapes underneath his clothing again. I was becoming even more conscious of just how much this guy totally dwarfed me. He was no man at all, by any previous measure I had anyway. He was a real King Kong—a powerful, huge and stunningly handsome man-beast who had amazingly large, erotic shapes everywhere I looked. Those special shapes which screamed 'superior strength' to every fiber of my being.

Sam's brought his mouth very close to my ear.

“Pete, it's… it's just way bigger than I’d… Now I've just GOT to really see it. Please, please, pleeeaassseee? I want us to go somewhere so’s I can REALLY play with it. Just how big IS that thing? Wow, is that ever….”

This conversation was getting absurd… but strangely also as erotic as hell. Sam reminded me more of a boy talking even as my eyes told me every inch of this guy was definitely ‘all man.’ These two perceptions didn't quite fit together neatly in my mind. But what I found even more ridiculous was being in such close proximity to such a gigantic and powerfully-built man was turning me on so much I didn't actually care. So I end up finishing his thought for him.

“Yeah, I know it kinda freaky. I'm… I'm not normal. I mean my dick, Sam—it's a genetic trait I inherited. A doctor told me that. I’ve got some weird hormones. I don't even get hard-ons the same way other guys do.”

What I was thinking during this self-confessional moment was that it actually takes me relatively much longer to get fully erect than other normal-sized guys. With me it’s a process, not the quick event it seems to be with other guys.

“Wow. Hey, that's perfect! Say, we maybe even got something in common. I ain't exactly a normal guy either, case you ain't noticed. I figure there's always been somethin’ different ‘bout me, too. Maybe it’s somethin’ to do with them whore-mones you mentioned. Just I don't know anything ‘bout that, really. All I knows is I'm big and all I want is to get even bigger! But better yet, Pete, the truth is I'm just made for guys with big tools, too. Honest!” he said with a mysterious sparkle in his eyes.

Sure. That's what they all said. I'd heard such bravado many times before and learned skepticism was a healthy thing when it came to these macho claims. Every guy I’d met had fallen far short of his stated capacity in the real moment of truth. But I was also undeniably enthralled by him. I stared into his pleading puppy-dog eyes as I weighed the pros and cons concerning Sam’s proposition. Should I really go home with this guy? What's the worst that could happen? He was dangerously big but seemed decent enough, otherwise. It wasn’t likely I’d meet another guy built like him again in a whole millennium. So maybe I should take a chance. After all, it was my damn birthday… and this dude was hotter than Hades.

I decided to cast caution to the wind and go through with it. My brain wasn’t the organ making the decision however. My dick was in total control and I was over-the-top in lust. I’d have dropped my pants in the middle of Main Street at the height of Xmas shopping season for Sam, if he wanted me to.

I leaned into his ear, quietly saying, “Your big hand feels perfect… right there,” pushing down on it to emphasize where 'there' was. “That feels real good. And I'll show it to you… if we can go somewhere private. Maybe back to your place, Sam? You see, I've got this roommate situation….”

“Yeehaa! We’s outta here, right NOW!” Sam bellowed so loudly it’s certain everyone in the bar heard we had a confirmed ‘date,’ too.

I suddenly had a wild impulse to ask Sam for something. It may have only been Sam’s startling directness rubbing off on me a little, but at that moment I’d thought if he could be so open and direct about things then why couldn’t I? But my face flushed embarrassing as I considered how advisable it was to make my special request known to him. I was concerned I might totally blow a good thing and Sam would end up walking away in disgust.

“So, ah… Sam… I have a question first before we leave. I was wondering if… if maybe… you'd be willing to….” Then I hesitated, suddenly unsure if I should continue.

Sam looked outright puzzled. “What do ya have on your mind, Pete?”

I could feel my face turning crimson.

Sam grinned. “Say, look at you. You're blushing! What ‘cha want?”

Just Sam’s noticing I was getting red-in-the-face made me even more embarrassed.

I chastised myself for a moment, then gave myself a silent pep-talk. “Damn Peter,” I thought, “come on—just SAY it. Ask him! What's the worst that can happen? You'll go home alone. Ugh. That's all.”

I decided to take a safer, more indirect approach, not quite trusting yet he'd be O.K. with this secret wish of mine. Even thinking about it greatly embarrassed me.

(I’d eventually come to understand that taking such a circuitous route was unnecessary with Sam. In fact, more often than not, he would completely miss my obtuse or vaguely-disguised requests. Moreover, he’d teach me to say exactly what was on my mind.)

“Sam, you said big ones turn you on?” I asked, already knowing his answer.

“They sure does! That is THE truth,” he replied without hesitating. “A great cock just makes me crazy!”

I found myself hoping Sam meant that metaphorically and not literally. I continued to lead him cautiously.

“O.K, ahhh… Then you'd want to see my cock get as big as possible, right?”

“You bet ‘cha! I can't hardly even wait to see that big mother!”

“O.K. Sam. Then it’d help get me really excited if maybe you’d… you’d maybe….” I started to stumble badly, again feeling too embarrassed to candidly express my thoughts.

“If I would what?” Sam asked, seeming more perturbed with my hesitation to clearly state what was on my mind.

“If you’d… maybe take off your shirt, so I could just see… I mean, you just look so… ”

Sam finished my sentence for me.

“Big, maybe? I look so BIG? It’s just all muscles. But I's a real strong guy, Pete. Really!”

I was relieved Sam more-or-less had correctly guessed where I was generally headed. He’d spared me having to come right out with it myself. Being so helplessly hooked on his muscles embarrassed me as much as the size of my dick. I just couldn't own that part of me, so I couldn't put that out to Sam either. But Sam also hadn't reacted negatively to my strange request. He hadn’t seemed particularly bothered by it at all. I felt kind of good about that, if only for a fleeting moment. But even his mere spoken words, “It’s just all muscles’ as well as the reference to his admitted strength had the power to kick my desires into overdrive, all by themselves.

“Sam, it's my birthday today. Honest. And it always excites me more when a guy has his shirt off when… when… he’s playing with it. That's all I meant by that….”

Right—but only a half-truth at best. A guy with great big MUSCLES is what jet-propels my erections best, but I couldn't seem to just say it aloud.

Sam just smiled. “Pete, well I got no problem t’all takin’ my shirt off in front of anyone. I want ‘cha to just think of me as a big birthday present. So tell me now, just how big does that 'ol dick of yours get anyway?”

“Oh—probably too big to be of much use…” I said, telling him now a whole truth with a forced half-smile. The blood was already starting to pound in my head at the mere thought of Sam peeling off his shirt. I still didn’t know how stupefying Sam's physique actually was, but I would shortly get a whole new concept about what 'big' really meant—and so would Sam, for that matter.

Sam was beaming from ear-to-ear. “O.K. Pete, we got us a deal! Boy, I think I'm a lucky man!” Then he got quiet as if thinking about something else.

“You seem like a nice guy, Pete. I mean a real nice guy. Just the kinda guy I'd like to be friends with. I mean… maybe even real special friends. Say Pete, do ya like feelin’ this?”

He took my hand and placed it on his the upper part of his other arm hanging relaxed by his side. He obviously wanted me to check it out so I cautiously ran my hand around the back of it slowly and then along the side. My hand couldn’t begin to even cover one-fifth of its mass. His arm was just that huge and felt just as rock-hard as granite. When my palm finally paused momentarily on the especially huge muscle in front, Sam slowly began raising his hand up toward his head and what I felt happening underneath his shirt-sleeve got my dick hard as granite, too. It was the most magnificent thing I'd ever felt. I may have even started to moan involuntarily, if only for moment before I caught myself and tried to stifle it.

“You really ARE Samson! That’s HUGE! It’s so HARD….”

Sam seemed relieved at my unmistakably positive response, but still replied modestly, “Oh, that's really nothing. My arms are puny right now. You should see 'em AFTER I've been liftin.’ I like 'em when they get huge! You can come over to my gym sometime so’s you can see ’em when they’s REALLY big. But this here ain’t what I’d call big right now….”

He was sincere—oddly apologetic—and also clearly dillusional if he really thought those arms of his were at all puny. There was something very unusual about even the way he perceived himself. I mean this dude was already super-sized, and I practically creamed at the thought of possibly watching Sam actually lifting. An ocean of pre-cum was steadily leaking from my inflated hog. With Sam's hand right back there ‘on the jobsite’ too, he took notice of that area of dampness in my jeans.

“Oh jeez, no! Did ya really cum already?” he asked, clearly concerned and obviously disappointed.

“Ahh… no, not yet… I didn’t cum,” I muttered. It was difficult to speak with my surging excitement. “That's just pre-cum….”

“That's PRE-cum? WOW!!” he exclaimed, appearing somewhat stunned by this disclosure. Granted, the size of the area of wetness in my pants was probably larger than most guys would be if they'd shot their full load. In fact I was just beginning to get warmed up nicely although he had no way of judging that. His was an understandable misperception of the situation.

“You’re makin’ me SO hot!” With that, Sam excitedly grabbed me under my armpits and effortlessly lifted me right off of my bar stool—and let me tell you that I was not exactly a welter-weight either. In the blink of an eye, he had me literally airborne. My legs reflexively wrapped around his waist to steady my trajectory. My hands could only find his two wide shoulders to grab on to which I used to steady myself momentarily. His shoulders were just monstrous and as rock-hard as his arms. I was suddenly face-to-face with Sam.

“I gotta kiss you…” he announced, catching me completely by surprise. It wasn’t so much a request as it was a statement of his intentions. He followed through immediately with a quick bit of smooching right on my lips. And his mouth was hot… amazingly hot. His rough, sexy beard stimulated every nearby nerve-ending surrounding my own lips. I'd never been just passionately taken—actually more seized—by any man. I liked the feeling of being kissed so much I’d have shot my load on the spot if he’d kept it up another second more.

But he pulled back momentarily, and looked me in the eyes again grinning, “Boy, you are SO hot! We're gonna have us a great time! What do ya say… let’s get out of here!”

I needed no encouragement. In the blink of an eye we emerged from the dark bar, squinting in the blinding afternoon sunshine.


Part 14: The Score

I didn't own a car, typical poor college student that I was. Sam said he'd bring me back to campus anytime after we were done. If this encounter unfolded like most others, Sam would be bringing me back to my dorm sooner than he probably was planning on. But I thanked him for his well-intended offer, knowing I could always walk if he reneged like some of my previous 'hosts.'

As we walked up to his older model three-quarter ton pickup, I noted it was still in terrific shape, the paint and chrome brightly gleaming in the sunshine. Sam obviously gave his truck serious t.l.c. routinely.

“Just hop on in, Pete!” he said, unlocking the door for me first.

The first thing I realized when he climbed in himself was—did this dude ever fill up a truck cab! Man o' man! I knew he was huge when we were in the bar, but I had nothing to put his size into much perspective. Now it hit me like a rock when I saw how confined his body was inside the truck cab. Honestly, Sam was so gigantically-framed I began feeling both intimidated and totally turned on at the same time. It was the weirdest combination of feelings—the ultimate in yin and yang: Beauty and The Beast all rolled into one guy. If this ruggedly handsome monster of a man ever intended to do me bodily harm, he'd have an easy time of it.

I was quite relieved Sam talked a lot as we bounced along across town. His light-hearted, incessant banter put my mind more at ease, and I figured I'd probably live to see another sunrise anyway. He didn't seem to have a mean bone in his entire, fantastically-immense body. I discovered a few more details about Sam, buried in his chatter. He'd worked at a gym since he was a teenager and now lived in a small 2nd floor apartment directly above it. He told me a little about his family, too. I gathered his Dad had been a professional wrestler—evidently a well-known name in that business in his day. I'd never followed wrestling, so his dad's ring name didn't mean a thing to me. Sam could have just been pulling my chain. He also mentioned his family had moved all over the country while he was growing up. He'd gone to a dozen schools in about a dozen years, but never graduated.

“I never was no good with books,” was his exact quote. I thought it must have been a rough childhood but kept that opinion to myself. There was a lull in our conversation for awhile. I was aware of the radio playing at a low volume. Finally Sam broke the silence, turning his head towards me.

“So, today's really your birthday, huh?” he asked.

“Yep, today's the big day,” I repeated again.

“Wow—we's both Scorpio's, Pete! I know'd there was gonna be some special sparks gettin' together with you….”

I smiled understandingly though I certainly did not.

“So how old are you, Pete? Just I wondered, that's all….”

“I turned 19 years old early this morning—about 16 hours ago, according to my Mom.”

Sam shook his head in disbelief, then chastised himself with a good-natured chuckle.

“God, I's robbin' the cradle. You ain't even legal drinking age yet. You're name is 'Jay L. Bait' in this state. They gotta get some brighter lights in that joint…”

I didn't like his comment. Sure I was illegally underage—but pathetically horny, too. I was sure he'd pull over and ask me to get out of his truck—and this would end before it even got started. But The Fates shined on me that night.

“But ya didn't lie to me either, Pete—and that means a lot. And ya also got something there,” he said, glancing over at my crotch very approvingly, “that makes you a real man in my eyes….”

Now that felt oddly positive, even though I usually didn't like comments made about my dick. Again, it wasn't his words as much as something about the way he said them. Sam struck me as being, if not a Rhodes scholar, at least unquestioningly sincere. I found myself strangely willing to believe what he said more as time went on.

“So how about you. How old are you, Sam?” I said, hoping to quickly redirect the conversation elsewhere.

“In dog years, I’m dead,” Sam replied, cracking a droll smile. “That means I’ll be 28 real soon, Pete.”

And less than a minute later, Sam was pulling over and parked in front of two-story brick building. We got out of the truck and walked slowly up to the front of it. The weights and gym equipment were visible through the large plate-glass windows. The sign overhead read simply, “Big IS Better.” Strange name for a gym, I thought. There was nothing fancy about the place. It sure wasn’t a glitzy, expensive health club catering to the beautiful crowd and it was a safe bet I wouldn’t find a juice bar, swimming pool, sauna or discotheque inside. It was a proverbial neighborhood ‘townie’ gym.

We walked past the main entrance and proceeded to a door at the far end of the building. Sam led me up a narrow flight of stairs to a landing where he paused to unlock his apartment door. I was startled to see Sam’s body completely fill the door frame as we walked through it into his apartment, and noticed he’d also ducked his head slightly.

Yikes! That sight gave me an uneasy feeling. The recurring thought popped into my head this guy could easily rip me into tiny pieces if he wanted to. The dude was just TOO damn big. That reality both attracted and repelled me. I remembered Sam saying how other guys routinely ran away from him. I should have done precisely that while I'd had the opportunity—but it was too late. And when the lock snapped as Sam closed the door behind me, I suddenly felt extraordinarily uncomfortable.

Sam ushered me into a living room. I just stood there as he turned the light down low and put a CD on to play. It was kind of atmospheric—you know what I mean—sexy-like. Then he sat down on an unusually large easy chair—maybe even custom-made I thought—and faced me while I still stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“Pete, now I want to see that big 'ol thang in your pants. Show it to me….”

I'd never been asked to strip while some guy just sat passively staring at me. Consuming one beer over an hour ago hadn’t begun to loosen my inhibitions nearly enough for this; moreover it was inconceivable a guy could get so wildly turned on just looking at my dick. This entire scene was too weird-feeling and I started to panic. But to Sam’s credit, he noticed my awkward hesitation and uncomfortable body language.

“Say, ah… you maybe nervous, Pete? Just relax, O.K.? You've got nothing to be embarrassed about down there. This is supposed to be fun! Now show me that great cock of yours.”

Saying no didn’t seem to be an option, so I nervously undid my belt, unbuttoned my jeans and let them slip down slowly around my ankles with great trepidation. I stood there like a mannequin about 5 feet in front of him.

His initially expressionless stare only exacerbated my growing wariness until I saw a mile-wide grin spreading across his face.

“Damn, you sure do fill out a pair of skivvies! I can see everything right through 'em! That's one big sexy bulge ya got down there. Looks like mighty heavy-duty equipment to me. I loves watchin’ hogs get all growed-up. That’ll really turn me on!”

His approving smile put me slightly more at ease. My conflicting 'fuck or flee' feelings began to tip more in favor of possibly 'fuck.’ I even chuckled a bit contemplating the ridiculousness of this situation.

“Can ya get a boner right now for me? Maybe you can just think horny thoughts or somethin’… Turn that thing into a monster! Yeah, go ahead and get that big dick REAL hard!”

I considered for a moment what he'd just said to me both then, as well as previously. It was becoming apparent I wasn't going to be discussing theoretical quantum theory that afternoon with this guy—probably never, actually. I would have to keep my conversation very—well—basic. Sam obviously liked hot 'cock-talk.’ That made him all-sexy feeling, I surmised. I wouldn't need to be straining my vocabulary much to maintain his interest—maybe a dozen words at most, I figured. At least now I knew most of them, my college education having taught me something actually useful now. I had no problem with that. Dirty talk might even be kind of sexy, especially with this giant man. “I can get into this for awhile,” I thought to myself.

But Sam wasn't the only one staring either. My gaze was constantly being drawn back to his bulging muscles like iron to a magnet.

“You're already hard, Sam. God, do you EVER look hard….”

Sam looked a bit puzzled by my truthful comment, then the bulb finally flashed in his brain.

“Oh, yeah. I plum forgot I’d made a deal with you!” he said. “You'd show me and I'd show you. It was my shirt, right? Promises are promises….”

Yep, that was definitely the ticket to meeting his ‘performance expectations.’

“That's right, Sam. A deal’s a deal. That'll give me a quick boner for sure. Definitely a VERY big, hard one.” I was sticking to the conversational basics to make sure the big guy and I were 'communicating' effectively.

Sam whistled a few bars of ‘Happy Birthday’ as he removed his big flannel shirt. The mere tee-shirt remaining underneath couldn’t begin to conceal Sam's commanding physique. My dick sprang to life with gusto, quickly lifting my jockeys outward with its broad, swelling back. I got lightheaded. I thought my heart would burst trying to suddenly pump so much blood into both of my heads at once. To say this stud was “all muscle” doesn't begin to describe the real impact. I wasn't even sure what I was seeing. Sam was shockingly huge—and everywhere I looked. When he noticed my astonished jaw-drop, he tried offering sort of an explanation.

“This is all because—well—I just like liftin’ heavy things, Pete. It makes me feel good so I do it all the time! I’m real strong. I’ve got big muscles, and I'm gonna get even bigger ones, too!”

Sam had a habit for understatement. My eyes were popping out of my head trying to make some sense of the simply unbelievable. I wondered if Sam really understood just how huge he was already, relative to virtually any other human being. But his simple explanation also worked on my brain like a powerful aphrodisiac. His white tee-shirt was tautly stretched, straining to cover all of the dominate shapes of his upper body. Two iron railings of muscle sloped down on each side from his huge neck and disappeared into the broad, round melons which formed his shoulders. His upper arms were outrageously large. In fact he possessed absolutely the biggest set of arms I'd ever seen on any man—even bigger than a guy in a muscle magazine I’d once seen. Even his rope-like stomach muscles were clearly visible right through the tee-shirt. His upper body exploded out in all directions from what would be a trim waist for any man, let alone a man of such gargantuan stature. His huge arms didn't rest exactly at his sides either. They couldn’t. Suspended from massively broad shoulders, they seemed to be wedged out by two impossibly thick columns of muscle running prominently up each side of his back. And then there were those two colossal muscle-mountains on his chest, so obviously rising and falling with each breath he took. He was a magnificent muscular specimen—physically more beast actually than man.

Meanwhile, Sam was thoroughly enjoying watching the evidence of my own growing excitement.

“Pete, you’re gettin’ my blood boiling!”

He was concentrating on my dick as I concentrated on his body. If nothing else, these particular mutual interests in each other seemed perfectly harmonious at the moment. Sam was equally fascinated with me and was clearly excited by staring at my particular endowment. Yep, strangely the playing field seemed leveled and this boosted my confidence. My initial misgivings were slipping away as my burgeoning hormones assumed more direct control, urging me past some of my natural inhibitions.

“Sam, could you maybe… just take off your tee-shirt, too?” I asked tenuously.

But Sam was more on-board with the program than I realized and completely attuned to the energy already resonating between us. This whole encounter with Sam was rapidly approaching the bizarre anyway. And what happened next would plunge me into a new world beyond anything I could have imagined—a ‘pinch me, this can't be real’ experience—and a dream from which I never wanted to wake up. But this was no dream at all….

“Pete, I want your birthday to be somethin’ real special. So tonight, you own me. And this is all yours,” he said, giving his own body the quick once-over to indicate what he'd meant.

“So you want me to lose this tee-shirt, right?” he asked again.

“Yeah, that’ll be great,” I responded, wildly anticipating the event and fighting the sudden urge to stroke my cock. “Definitely lose the tee-shirt.”

Sam rose up out of the chair. “Anything you want, Pete. The shirt’s history….”

He grabbed the neck of his tee-shirt and suddenly ripped it wide open right down the middle, exposing his naked—and stunningly huge—upper torso.

“Is this enough skin for ya, Pete?”

Easily well over 350 pounds of relaxed, perfectly-carved manhood stood there in just a pair of jeans, towering in front of me. Frankly, he could have weighed 400 to 500 pounds—maybe even more. He was just so stunningly massive and yet perfectly-proportioned that his body weight and his height were impossible to guess, and his degree of vascularity also defied his extreme body weight. Sam's physique was perfectly chiseled. This was one powerfully-built colossus of a man with spectacular muscles. Each one was astoundingly distinct and cut. His body hair actually amplified the overall visual impact of his physique. He wasn’t shaved like most builders I'd seen in those magazines. Frankly, it made him look stunningly masculine and sexy. Just the right amount, in all the right places. A beautiful love trail ran up from his jeans following the centerline of his abdominals and spread out naturally across those mighty majestic mounds projecting from his chest. His immense physique, combined with such a perfectly dispersed pattern of body hair and handsome rugged good looks, created a statement that said to me, “Measure any other man by THIS package.”

Sam casually tossed the shredded remains of the tee-shirt to the side.

“So ask me for anything—anything ya want, Pete… ‘cause I'm real hot for you. Whatever makes your cock hard—and keeps it hard, too! Ain't nothing ya can't ask—nothing ya can't do to me—or with me. I want that big cock. It’s amazin’!” He paused a moment and then added, “and I’m really hopin’ I'm big enough for ya.”

Big enough? Almost choking, I tried to fathom everything I'd just heard, not quite yet believing my ears. But he clearly meant it—even his misguided question about whether he was 'big enough' was utterly honest. He meant every single word! I was starting to slowly understand that Sam thought in very simple, straightforward ways. Amazingly simple actually. There was a tangible boy-like quality to his personality. And all this boyishness lived within the body of the manliest of men imaginable. Actually—he was unimaginable.

It looked as if Sam routinely bench-pressed Abrahms tanks to have build up those rock-hard granite mountains of muscle all over his body. There was not a single inch of him that didn't… well… bulge. He bulged out everywhere. Every muscle group impressed me utterly—each one just perfect—and perfectly huge. Here in front of my eyes stood Hercules, born of Zeus, in the flesh. There was no doubt at all this was one incredibly strong guy—definitely one in a million or maybe even a billion.

I was aware of an enormous surge of growth in my cock and then my head reeled. Nearly blacking out, I swooned and stumbled forward on wobbling legs.

“Whoa there!” Sam said as he caught me, breaking my fall. “You OK? Pete, are you OK?”

I shook my head to throw off the momentary dizziness. “Yeah, I'm O.K. That happens sometimes when I get… excited… too fast.” I raised my head to look up at him. “And right now, Sam, I’m too turned-on….”

Still supporting me with one hand, Sam eased himself back down in his chair, propping me up on my feet in front of him.

“Terrific! That means you’s havin’ some FUN! So… I can take off your underwear now?”

“Uh… sure. Go… go right ahead,” I replied without paying attention to what I was saying. My head still swirled.

My jockeys were literally there one second and gone the next—like magic. With blazing speed, Sam had reached out, grabbed them by the band and effortlessly snapped them right off me as easily as he’d removed his tee-shirt—so fast my body didn't even recoil. It was just like whipping a tablecloth out from underneath a table set with china and nothing moves.

“Shit, what a sausage—and with a 100% all-natural casing, to boot! Yowza!! Look at the SIZE of it!”

“Am I big enough for you?” I asked, teasing him now with his own words, and surprisingly myself actually. “Where I grew up, guys weren’t circumcised, unfortunately. Just the Outlanders were.”

“What do ya mean ‘unfortunately,’ boy? You got yourself a genuine pig in a blanket there! Ain’t nothing sexier than a fully-wrapped giant piece of manmeat. That’s g-o-r-g-e-o-u-s !”

I moved my hips a little so he could appreciate what a heavy piece of pendulous meat it was—all caused by just looking at Sam’s massively-muscled bare torso.

Sam reached for my big schlong and squeezed it a few times and then grabbed me around my waist, pulling me forward more towards the chair. I quickly spread my legs widely apart just to be able to stand straddling his own. His hand moved to my lower-back as he slouched down a bit more in the chair. Then he leaned me down right into him until my schlong was resting in the deep chasm between his giant squares of chest muscle. But the truth is I didn't have to lean all that far because his upper body was so utterly massive. I couldn’t help myself, succumbing instantly to a powerful urge to just rub it slowly in-between them. The feeling of his chest hair and those huge, hard man-mountains was beyond just incredible. It approached something almost spiritual. Meanwhile Same just stared directly down at his chest and watched my cock.

“Wow—just look at that big thing…” Sam pronounced with admiration.

“Ah, Sam… I can get bigger—if I don't pass out first….”

The comment suddenly inspired Sam. He somehow willed his two mighty dirigibles to rise up around my cock, until it was nearly surrounded—no small feat either, considering my girth. My cock was suddenly cradled snugly in this new, wildly hot embrace. Only his huge muscles could do something which felt so amazing.

“How can you DO that?” I panted between my increasingly lusty thrusts. “I mean—how do you make 'em just bulge out like that?” Not able to even wait for some response, I leaned in more, grabbing on to his shoulders to steady myself and began screwing them more lustfully.

Sam somehow exerted even more mental control over his two amazing muscle mounds. They started moving back and forth—up and I felt his powerful behemoths caressing, pressing, squeezing and otherwise encouraging my cock to grow ever-fatter. I must have been literally drooling on him by this point. He was deliberately stroking me with those amazing chest muscles!

“Wow! Look at it SWELL!” Sam said as he worked his massive boulders even harder. The real lather he was working up just further lubricated his mighty makeshift muscle-pussy. Sam was more than turned-on by all this, too. His eyes were swinging back and forth wildly.

“This is HOT, Sam!” I exclaimed breathlessly.

Sam parroted my remarks. “Yeah, why don’t ‘cha reach back and jerk me off, Pete, while you’re fuckin’ my chest with that hot cock….”

I obediently reached back behind me, blindly fumbling around to unbutton his jeans and unzip his fly. It was surprisingly easy enough to find Sam’s own big hog. Considering the size of this man, it was a big handful of meat compared with most guys. Feeling his unexpected size surprisingly aroused me even more. I started jerking his big piece and really pounded that sucker, too. Sam’s immediate groans proclaimed his overwhelming approval of my hand-job technique.

In fact I was just getting warmed up nicely when Sam unexpectedly blurted, “Cum… I want you to cum. Shoot in my mouth! Yeah, fuck 'em, stud. Fuck these big pectorals!”

He grabbed his massy three-dimensional mastiffs and pressed them together, the huge sides of beef glistening with sweat. My big oranges slamming against those hard walls of muscle was driving me wild. My hips pounded away, driving my cock deeply between them. Sam was moaning loud as a steer, signaling his over-the-top arousal.

I had no problem cumming on request and it was obvious he really wanted me to. So within seconds, I exploded. Cum began pumping out of my balls, shooting out between his ‘pectorals’—thanks to Sam, at least I knew these big muscles had a name—right into his wide-opened, eagerly-awaiting mouth.

Sam's own meat throbbed in my hand as he began blowing his own big load: his deep guttural noises heralding his obvious man-pleasure. I grabbed a big gob of his own cum and slapped it right back on his still-jacking meat, just to lube it some more. I wanted to keep him cumming until I'd squeezed every last drop out of him—and Sam certainly didn't disappoint me in that department. His sustainable pumping power was truly remarkable. I continued emptying my oversized cum tanks in his overflowing mouth, though Sam was gobbling it down as fast as he could. The excess dribbled down his chin and ran onto his chest. After spilling our last drops, he pulled me down on top of his huge hot body, and leaning back fully, moving me around all over him like a big towel, smearing all the cum between us. My body seemed to disappear into his truly massive frame. There was just so much of him! I had to spread my arms wide just to grab hold of him around the outsides of those monstrous arms. Being pressed full-bodied against such a huge, hard and handsome man-beast felt so hot he could use my body for his personal cum rag anytime!

I lay on top of him for awhile catching my breath with my arms still fully outstretched around his. Sam pulled me up higher on his body and just held me, squeezing me gently against him occasionally with one arm while running his fingers through my hair and stroking my face with his other. I was flooded with wonderful feelings without a care in the whole world. Not only could this brute be quite gentle, but his actions seemed unexpectedly affectionate.

His big hand practically surrounded my head as Sam gently coaxed my face closer to his until we were cheek-to-cheek. Then his huge paws slowly explored all the way from the back of my neck to well below my knees. This bruiser had one hell of a reach! Eventually, Sam’s mouth found my own and .. he suddenly kissed me again. But unlike the kiss in the bar, this time Sam’s lingered unhurriedly and I was much more aware of his full and beautifully wet lips. The man’s mouth was damn hot! Being kissed by Sam would redefine ‘sucking face’ for me forever more. The prolonged kiss also allowed me to become aware of his beard—and just how sexy ‘stubble’ was. This guy must be some reincarnated sex god, I thought. Everything about him was utterly hot—in fact so hot he rekindled my fire and my cock began swelling anew.

A fact which also did not go unobserved by Sam. It's a difficult thing to miss about me anyway, but Sam possessed an unusually keen awareness of penises.

“Good God,” he said, referring to my fresh arousal, “I hope this means ya really likes me a lot… ‘cause I really likes you.”

“I ‘likes’ you too, Sam.” Bad English, but still true enough.

That seemed to be all the encouragement Sam needed. He began to reveal some of his 'deeper' thoughts.

“I knew you was special when I saw'd you this afternoon, I did. You're a good boy, and you got a b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l crotch rocket—the hottest one I've ever seen on a guy. It's a whale! See Pete, the thing is… I think I been waiting for you, maybe my whole life. So, can I watch you get excited again? Just lookin’ at it gettin’ bigger drives me half-crazy!”

Wanting to egg him on just a little more, I said, “Sure you can, but then what?” I wasn't prepared for how he’d respond.

“Well, when ya get it up again—then I want to have some REAL sex with you. I want ya to give me that huge cock—and use all of it. That's only if you'd like doin’ it with me, ‘course. I could screw with you all night long—non-stop. I think maybe even… forever….”

“What do you mean by 'real sex?” I asked a bit naively. “I mean a guy like you must have sex all the time!”

Well so much for assuming, I was about to learn. Sam hesitated, thinking about his response.

“Well… that ain't quite true, Pete. It's been a long time since I've have what I'd call—real sex—with a guy. Oh yeah, sometimes when they're really drunk I don’t scare them quite so much—and they'd let me diddle with there dicks—but that's all. Even those times are rare now ‘cause I’ve been gettin’ bigger all the time. So the truth is… I don't screw ‘round hardly at all anymore. Hell Pete, just look at me. I dwarf most guys! Normal-sized guys are just way too small for the way I'm made. They don't seem to… well… satisfy me, if you know what I mean. I just stopped bothering some time ago. I ain't been to no bar in—hell, I can't even ‘member the last time—‘til this afternoon, of course. Then a buddy ‘o mine told me ‘bout you, maybe a few weeks back. Seems you got yourself some reputation down at that place. My buddy said I'd better get my butt down there fast and try to find you. He said you was special… and ya know what? He was completely right ‘bout that, Pete. I didn't believe a guy like you even existed. But here you are—and God, you ARE hot! You’re perfect! I know you’re REALLY gonna do it for me… and TO me! ! I’ve been waitin’ for you maybe my whole life….”

I choked hard and bolted upright, pushing myself off him with my arms and standing up on my feet again. I couldn't get my breath. My mind raced trying to recap everything—each thing—Sam had uttered. His directness had caught me completely off guard again. ‘Use all of it'? 'Real sex'? 'Forever'? I was still mulling it all over even as I was about to expire from choking. Whatever he’d meant, it sounded VERY hot. And if that was only foreplay we’d just had, then I was a dead man anyway. I'd die a mighty happy one though.

“What's wrong? You O.K.?” Sam asked with real concern ask I continued to spastically choke. “I think I know how to do that Heimlich maneuver thing.” He moved in to grab me under my ribs.

Startled, I held out my arm, pushing him—well, more truthfully pushing myself—forcefully away in protest, just imagining what CPR administered by King Kong would do to me. That cure seemed potentially more lethal than the illness to me.

“No. I'll be OK, Sam,” I managed to wheeze between bouts of hacking, “I prefer that my ribs all in one piece, thanks. It was just something caught in my throat, I think. I'll be fine….”

In the seconds which followed, I considered what I wanted to say while my voice slowly returned to normal.

“Sam, I want to have sex with you, too. A lot of sex. You're a hot guy. Really, a VERY hot man. The truth is I haven't have 'real sex' with guys either. Oh, they've tried and all—persistently at times. My cock doesn’t quite fit into their plans, though… and using rubbers is always a problem, too. Guys eventually just give up trying.”

I thought he'd like to hear more ‘cock-talk,’ even though this was the sad truth concerning the state of my so-called sex life to date.

“You’d asked me to cum on your chest, so I did. I can cum on command. But my cock wasn’t even ‘big’ yet. I have to be aroused for longer than that. I’m slower on the draw than most guys. Bottom line is—what you just saw wasn’t nearly as big as it can get.”

“WOW! Even a blind man couldn’t miss it even the way it is right now, Pete,” Sam said, taking another look at it longingly. “You got the beautiful-est cock I ever seen. Next time, I’ll definitely let ‘cha get just as big you possibly can!”

I knew by doing nothing other than just looking at Sam’s physique—and if I didn’t touch myself of course—Little Johann would get bigger than even Sam’s already wild imagination. But right at that moment, I sure wanted Sam to know he wouldn’t have to wait long at all for me to fulfill his wish and I could more than deliver the goods. Still, there was an important negative caveat I needed to mention before this went any farther. I sorta held my breath, not wanting to bring this up, but also knowing I absolutely had to.

“I can get hard again right away after I cum. That's just the way I'm made I guess, like you said… and I can even keep it real big. With you around, I think I could be permanently big—like forever! But Sam, you need to understand something. When it comes to rubbers, I can't really use 'em. I mean—never. And that's a huge issue understandably for guys. So I'll understand completely if you’d rather just take me home now. It's not that I won't use 'em. I CAN’T use 'em. They bust 100% of the time.”

Looking a bit surprised by this revelation, Sam asked, “Even them jumbo-sized ones? What do they call ‘em—Magnums, I think?”

I replied sheepishly with the truth. “Magnums don’t make any difference. They might last a little longer, but that’s all. Hey, I’m REAL sorry, Sam. Honest, I am….”

I went on to tell Sam about some of my past experiences with latex. We’re talking ‘failure’ with all the known brands, too. It was never a question of if—but only when—they’d inevitably break.

When I finished, Sam sat silently for awhile, closely scrutinizing me.

“I made me a decision. It’s your eyes, Pete—they tell me I can trust you,” and then he added with a chuckle, “and what ‘cha said is makin’ me hard again, damn you! Ain't no such thing as too big for me. Big is better! So as far as I'm concerned, you can forget that 'rubber requirement' thing, O.K.? You can let it get big as a baseball bat!”

“Uh… O.K. That won’t be a problem….”

Sam’s head recoiled as he digested what I’d said. He seemed at first startled and then wildly delighted, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Damn, if this ain’t my lucky day. I’m the luckiest man alive!”

And with that thorny issue now resolved, Sam changed the subject.

“So let’s get back to your birthday now. Remember what I told ya earlier? Ya owns me –anything ya want. Ain't nothing I won't do for ya—and that goes triple if it includes that amazin’ salami of yours! So just tell me what ‘cha want. Go ahead now. Try me. This’ll be fun!”

I was feeling mighty good Sam seemed to like me so much, but I was also quite humbled by his willingness to actually trust me. I strongly sensed I could mutually trust him, too. I was near ecstatic he’d asked me to stay with him for a long night of 'real sex' as he put it—certainly ever hopeful, but never really expecting that even this guy could deliver what he thought he could either. Sam still hadn’t seen the full Mighty Python yet. I knew that all-to-well. I tried to put it out of my mind. But as usual, I was again completely missing the point about what he’d meant by this ‘you own me’ stuff.

“Go ahead. Try me,” Sam repeated again, but growing a bit impatient with my continuing muteness.

“Sam, I guess I don’t exactly know what you mean. Maybe it's because I never played much when I was growing up. There wasn't much time for that.”

“O.K. Pete,” he said, assuming a more serious posture and surprisingly adult tone now. “Here’s exactly what I mean. I want ‘cha to say what ‘cha feel, and ask for what ‘cha need. It’s simple ‘nuf. I don’t want to be guessin’ ‘bout what ‘cha might be wantin,’ that’s all. You certainly gotta know I like cock—really BIG cock. Nothing turns me on more. I ain’t been hidin’ that from ya at all. You did know that, right?”

I had to stifle a laugh, wondering how he could even think I might have missed these often-repeated disclosures.

“Yeah, Sam—I sorta got that idea….”

Sam just nodded, then continued. “O.K.. So what does that same thing for you exactly? I'm your birthday present, remember? There ain't nothing—nothing in this world—you should feel ‘shamed about, ‘specially when it comes to me and sex. There AIN’T no SHAME in being who you are, Pete. But I don't want to coax it from ya. I think I might reckon right enough what really does it for ya, but I want to hear ya say it with your own lips. For Pete's sake, just be honest about it. Be yourself! Just ask, that’s all. It ain’t so hard! It don’t seem right to go through life so all locked up inside. Live a little! Loosen up a bit! So tell me now—what REALLY turns your sexy motor over, Pete?”

It stung to hear Sam’s words. They were too uncomfortably true. I wanted to respond honestly but the mere thought of revealing my engine’s design schematics turned my face beet-red. And as for my secret birthday wish—I so deeply wanted it to come true. Yet another part of me held it in complete distain—harshly judging it to be odd, stupid, unworthy, ridiculous, juvenile and maybe even ‘deviant.’

Sam was uncannily right on-the-mark about that, too. This WAS shame at work inside of me. I could actually FEEL it manifesting itself in that awful twisting in my stomach—that weight on my chest making it difficult to breathe—that feeling of an invisible hand strangling my windpipe. This was the most toxic kind of shame—completely self-inflicted and entirely undeserved. And that held me captive, rendering me silent and unable to speak.

Oh sure—so I'd maybe hinted around vaguely about ‘my interests,’ but I still knew I hadn't divulged much to Sam in any straight-forward way. I hadn’t told him right from the horse’s mouth what it was I found specifically—so overpoweringly—compelling about him. I needed to get this out in the daylight—and as cleanly and directly as possible. I wanted to be freed from this paralyzing fear.

I started by first visualizing in my mind actually speaking the words directly aloud. Meanwhile Sam just patiently waited, not pushing me in the slightest. Finally, long moments later, I summoned enough courage to speak.

“Sam… it's… it's muscles. With me, it seems to be all about BIG muscles. I know it’s strange, but I get hard every time I even think about seeing a well-built guy! I’ve been like this since I was a kid, too. Big muscles on a man really affects me. I go completely bonkers! It’s so powerful—so automatic—it’s almost scary. It’s as if it’s hard-wired in my DNA. I guess nothing's too big for me either, when it comes to a guy’s muscles… I feel like a total weirdo telling you this, but I….”

Sam interrupted me in mid-sentence.

“There ain't nothing strange or weird 'bout it, Pete. That’s an important part of who you are, I reckon! So you listen up now. I get hard even thinkin’ ‘bout dicks. I’ve always been that way for long as I can think, just like you. I like big dicks. You dig big muscles. That’s just who we are—and it ain't no big deal! So if you're a freak Pete, then I’m just another freak, too. There’s something—what’s that damn word? Yeah, bye-o-logical that’s it. There’s something bye-o-logical makes me different from other guys. I ain’t never had no doctor ‘splain it to me like yours did, but… I knows there’s reasons why God made me like this. I’m even freakier than you know yet Pete, but I ‘spose you’d find out anyway—if we’re lucky, maybe even later tonight….”

Sam grinned then continued on, saying nothing more about whatever he meant by that.

“But see—your freakiness, Pete—that’s what turns me on so much. It’s so powerful-like it sorta scares me, too. I can't help it. I ain’t got no control over it. Right now, truth is I can’t even think ‘bout nothing else. The Lord gave you a special ‘bigness’ when he built all of that male equipment of yours. I don’t ‘spose ya maybe see it that way yet, but it’s a mighty rare gift.”

Sam paused pensively, glancing away as if collecting his thoughts.

“My Pa, he told me some things I ain’t likely to ever forget. He told me to do whatever makes me happy. He told me don’t ever let no one stomp on my dreams—and he told me to use the gifts God gave me, too. And I knows guys don't go for men my size. Hell, the truth is they don’t go for guys HALF my size. I got that notion clear ‘nuf years ago. To them, I’m repulsive—some freak o’ nature who belongs behind bars in a zoo. So what’d I do? I worked real hard to get even bigger! I knew’d I wasn’t never going to be no Einstein, but I still built me some mighty big assets, don’t you think? Seems this is what I’m born to do, and it’s somethin’ I kinda do really good, too!”

“So what’s this all about—you and me anyway?” Sam asked, cocking his head. Then he immediately answered his own question.

“Seems we got us some real important things in common, you ‘n’ me. We’re both ‘big’ freaks- and I mean freaky-big, too! We got these here real powerful cravings. It’s like… it’s like there’s this hunger in me for you, and ya got that feelin’ for me—at least I think you do, right? We’re like two starving animals. I don’t know ‘bout you, Pete, but I know I’m feeling things—and they’s mighty weird and wonderful things. I’m burnin’ up… hotter than Hell. Good things like this here, I think they’s extra-special… maybe even ‘once in a lifetime’ kinda special. Do ya know what I mean? But… but you… ”

“But I what, Sam?” I prompted, sensing some doubt unexpectedly surfacing.

“But ‘cha need to just let GO, Pete. You’re well… err… kinda inhibited-like, I reckon. You need to trust me. You hesitate though, and I don’t reckon that ‘cha really do. Know what I mean?”

I was really taken back by this outpouring of some real wisdom unexpectedly from Sam, and again there was this palpable sincerity. And Sam was—I really hated to admit it—painfully right again. I knew exactly what he meant.

“I think I do—maybe. It’s like you’re saying there’s this brass-ring, like you see on a merry-ground. And it’s right in front of me now, within my reach. And all I have to do is grab it.”

“Hey that’s cool! I like that! You’re real ‘mazing with words, Pete. Yep, that’s a part of it, surely. You got a real ‘man-imal’ somewhere inside of you. I got just a tiny, little hint of that before. It’s that part of you that can drive me wild! There’s some powerful magic there, ‘tween you ‘n’ me. I can feel it. So let it out, Pete. Just let go, that’s all ya got’ta do.”

A cold and ominous chill suddenly raced through me. What Sam just said triggered a thought of something long ago—something I’d put completely out of my mind, but now it had returned suddenly and vividly. The feeling haunted me. I needed to understand better if what I was thinking was what Sam really meant. Another metaphor, perhaps.

“So, what I think you mean Sam is that… it’s as if we’ve got a powerful genie in a bottle, you and me. But I can’t quite let it out, and you can’t let it out all by yourself. It’s not your genie or my genie. It’s OUR genie. It belongs to both of us. And we both have to pop the top off the bottle and set it free together. So you think I’m afraid of the magic?”

“Wow, Pete. Are you ever good with words. Yep, you done hit the nail right on the head.”

And that was exactly what I was afraid he would say. You see, I’d already sensed we did have this ‘genie in a bottle,’ and it was one erotically powerful genie at that. I mean, let’s face it—Sam overwhelmed me, even with that genie locked safely away. I had to admit I was afraid to re-open that bottle and set it loose again—and especially with Sam. This was the very Demon – that ‘man-imal’ as Sam had called it—I’d known only once before, so long ago, with Gabe. It had nearly devoured me once—terrifying me just as much as it had thrilled me. Dare I chance summoning up that Beast again? I remembered feeling that totally unrestrained, raw energy – more the seemingly deeper, darker side of it. It was utterly wild and savage: more threateningly, it was unpredictable. But I was now older. Maybe I could handle it better.

The most handsome and built ‘stud stallion’ I’d ever known—and truthfully was ever likely to know—had miraculously just appeared in my life. And Samson was asking me to trust him and risk it all—to plunge into a black hole with him—and have faith we’d emerge in a far better universe somewhere. But my urge to repress The Beast was very strong. I couldn’t do this all on my own. But Sam clearly wanted me to ‘let go’ and I was willing to try. More importantly, I was willing to trust. So with my mind made up, I’d make my emancipation proclamation. Normally I’d deliver such a bold statement usually looking right at the floor, but this time I raised my head and looked Sam right in his eyes.

“Sam, this is scary for me but… I want this to work. I want to believe there is something maybe even ‘extra-special’ going on here. And yes—you’re right about something else, too. I know there’s a real ‘man-imal’ in me somewhere. That’s a part of me I don’t know too well. I’ve felt it once before but that was a long time ago. I’ll try to set it free. That’s going to be hard, though. It goes against my grain. I’ll need to be reminded from time-to-time. Maybe it could be something as simple as you saying, ‘Let the genie out of the bottle.’”

Sam smiled. “That sounds like a real good idea. I’m willin’ to help ya anyway I can. We’re gonna have us some REAL fun, I knows it! And I appreciates you tryin,’ too… uhh… that means a lot to me. So let’s give this a whirl by startin’ again with your birthday present. Remember what I said to you earlier? You own me. Anything you want. Ain't nothing I won't do for you. Just tell me what you want. Let that genie out of the bottle, Pete. Go ahead… what do ya want extra-special for your birthday?”

I took one deep breath and just blurted it out.

“O.K. Maybe this is the stupidest thing you ever heard, but… I’d really like to watch you lifting weights sometime. I don’t mean in the gym when everyone else is around either. I’d like it if… well… it was only just you and me. That’d be awesome!”

Not quite yet trusting Sam’s reaction, I tried to explain my reasoning and added some further persuasive enticement.

“It’s just that if there’s other people around, I can’t let myself… you know… get too excited. But if it’s just you and me, I’ll get a boner like you’ve probably never seen before….”

I could just about guarantee the accuracy of that claim. Sam started nodding excitedly.

“Wow. Way to go, Pete! See—that didn’t hurt much did it? With your cock and my muscles, we're gonna have us a real party on your birthday. It don't get any better than this, ‘cause liftin’ is what I does best. I’d be proud as a peacock to do some special lifting—private-like… just for you. How’s ‘bout RIGHT NOW!”

“Right now, Sam? Gees, I’m getting hard just thinking about it,” I grinned.

Sam sported an instant smile, too.

“I’m gonna get you REAL excited, Pete. You have no idea just how much that’ll… motivate me. I wanna see your cock gettin’ huge while I'm gettin’ huge, too!”

“It’s a deal,” I said, nodding my head affirmatively.

“Hell, now I'm getting a boner just thinkin’ ‘bout you gettin’ a boner,” Sam added with a chuckle.

“Say, Sam—do you have some rubbers by any chance?”

Sam didn’t know it of course, but I was going with an impulse, and not just dismissing it as I might normally have done. Sam looked understandably puzzled.

“Rubbers? I thought you said you can't use 'em?”

“Yeah, rubbers. Just grab some please, if you have any….”

“Sure I do…”

Sam got up and went across the hall into his bedroom, returning in a few seconds. He tossed me a package of Trojans, still looking quizzical.

I just said, “Thanks. O.K.. I need to use the bathroom really bad first.”

“Number one or number two?” he asked.

I looked at him questioningly, clueless about what he meant.

“Well, piss or shit, boy?”

Why did he care, I thought. With Sam, whatever was on his mind seemed to always come out of his mouth too.

“Shit Sam. It’s to shit.”

Sam pointed the way to the bathroom, and grabbing his keys, said he was going to pull his truck in off the street while I was taking care of that business. As I headed for the bathroom I heard Sam holler, “Meet me in the kitchen, Pete,” as he bounded down the front stairs.

Sam was already there waiting for me when I walked into his kitchen.

“Y'all can follow me now,” he winked, gesturing with his hand towards the kitchen door.


Part 15: Epiphanies

Sam led the way out a back door into a hallway and we headed down a dimly-lit stairwell. Glancing through a window, I noticed it was already getting dark outside which surprised me. As I silently followed him step-by-step down the long flight of stairs, my mind drifted off. Have you ever noticed just how many different and yet complete thoughts can race through one’s brain in only several seconds? Well perhaps not—but that seems to be the way my brain routinely works.

In a way, I’d always taken refuge inside of my own head. It was my ‘safe place’ to go, and I retreated there unconsciously with alarming regularity. Considering what Sam and I had just talked about, I was feeling a bit uncomfortable, if not even worried. I was still shy and private by nature and … let’s face it—not at all uninhibited. I had a good sense of humor, but generally chose to show a more serious, studious side to the world-at-large. We all ‘wear our masks.’ There was also a real truth in what I’d told Sam before. I’d never learned how to just play or ‘let my hair down’ with any regularly. There was always something more important to be done—work. Sam had unwittingly just called my bluff and asked me to ‘let go.’ I knew all he was saying to me was, “I want to play. Please just come play with me. Be your whole self, not just parts of it.” Ah, from the mouth of babes, as they say—and what a total babe this man of muscle was! It wasn’t a leap to assume Sam was at least hoping this included my being sexually ‘playful’ as well. All I had to do was to be more open, spontaneous, uninhibited and even perhaps wild. Yikes! What had I agreed to? For me, this was going to be a very scary stretch.

So not surprisingly, in the next few moments I retreated into my mind—far away from all of this … and started conjuring up a multitude of disjointed, random thoughts and impressions. I was escaping more from myself than I was from Sam.

First, it occurred to me I was aroused—just the motion created by stepping-down stairs drew my attention briefly to that unmistakable ‘beefiness’ in my pant leg. Moreover, I’d been more-or-less aroused since I’d first met Sam, the man. A real man. Was that minutes, hours or even a day ago? I’d lost my sense of time and resigned myself to having a semi-perpetual hard-on whenever I was around this man—as well as beside, behind, in front of, over or under him as well. (I had no way of knowing it at this time, but in retrospect, that’s proven to have been an uncannily accurate psychic prediction.)

Sam was already becoming a growing collection of paradoxes and dichotomies to me, even in the short time since we’d met.

For example, his mere physical presence would awe or humble anyone. Even with his clothes on, Sam would probably awe regardless. A professional linebacker would be immediately demoralized by his overall body mass. The size of him just intimidates, shocks and stuns. And with his clothes off, Sam’s body would just humble any observer. The beauty in his type of physical development is classical. It intoxicates. The incredibly masculine shapes of perfectly-realized muscular giants, all built to symmetrical perfection, communicate very strong primal messages subliminally. Those messages are about his power and sexual potency. Combined with all of his other “100% all man” attributes, Sam would sit at the apex of the ‘Alpha Male’ pyramid—the ultimate manifestation of masculinity in this world. Well, in my world anyway.

Then I thought Sam doesn’t get out all that much, basing my observation on a few things he’d told me. I doubted many men had ever seen Sam’s fully-exposed physique. My impression was he kept to himself quite a bit. I suspected that, if given the opportunity to look at him buck-naked for more than a few seconds, he’d make any woman’s panties wet as well as put a big bulge in any man’s shorts. His kind of attractiveness is raw—even animalistic. Some physical beauty transcends even gender-orientation. All I knew is he just plain made me sweat. Sam’s physical looks were unquestionably 100% ‘handsome He-man’—stud material here of the very first order.

Zap … I was off into another completely unrelated thought. This one concerned, of all things, the back of Sam’s head—and specifically his dark hair, and then—oddly—his haircut as well, which wasn’t something I’d usually even notice. I found myself thinking it was a good haircut, too—overall, just a great look for Sam. His hair looked silky and had a satiny sheen. The length was medium-short; long enough to be able to run fingers through it, but short enough probably to brush, although I guessed Sam combed it. I also noticed the wisps, swirls and rings all over the back of his head suggesting his hair would be naturally quite wavy—maybe even curly if it was longer. But at its current length, it was naturally neat and only hinted at a possible wilder unruliness. Damn! Even this man’s hair looked sexy to me.

Wham—I found myself thinking next about Sam’s personality. He had some very remarkable, even somewhat unusual, qualities. These characteristics seemed to both repel and yet attract me simultaneously, not unlike the physical man himself; a paradox I’d eventually learn to just accept. If not almost ‘simple’ acting at times, Sam was certainly ‘basic’ acting all the time. What you saw was what you got … and it was, in fact, all that was probably there. Sam was open, incredibly straight-forward, honest and sincere, but to a degree which had frankly startled me several times already. All combined, he reminded me of a child … a young boy, in fact. I truly believed the man was incapable of lying or deceit of any kind. In fact, I don’t think he even knew how to. Sam also had a certain naivete which was hard to pinpoint, but it was present nevertheless. Yet I’d also heard him say things that hinted at a latent wisdom. Some of these deeper insights greatly surprised me. At this very moment though, I wasn’t particularly thrilled with some of his insights however, at least as they directly applied to me. In the short time we’d spent together, I’d already seen suggestions of his generous and giving nature. The total trust he’s exhibited—and especially with me so far—was powerfully endearing.

Bang … another odd thought suddenly popped into my head. Actually, it was more of a strong feeling. Sam seemed extremely happy to be fulfilling my ‘special birthday request’, perhaps even genuinely excited to have this opportunity to show off his big muscles. But I had a strong feeling he was not a real show-off, by nature. I wasn’t sure what signals I’d picked up from him exactly, but I’d gotten the impression his ego was quite normal-sized—even if his body was anything but. That thought—this hunch of mine … surprised me. I didn’t think this was a characteristic typical of men with such physiques. My hunch nevertheless was Sam wasn’t ‘into himself’ in that way at all. He seemed to have a kind of humility about him—maybe even a wee bit of shyness mixed in—which was masked by his affable, outgoing nature.

It logically followed Sam might be doing this solely because I’d expressed an interest in something he also enjoyed very much. I had finally managed to say it aloud to him—admittedly with a struggle—that I really liked his ‘muscles.’ It struck me now this dynamic between us was exactly like two excited boys discovering they have a common interest in baseball cards. Sam just wanted very much to show me ‘his collection.’

“You like Yoggie Barra cards? Hey, I’ve got a big set of Yoggie’s! You wan’na see ‘em? Wow! You’ve got a REAL Mickey Mantle slugger? I’ve been looking for that one forever! Say- maybe we can even trade! I’ll give you all my Yoggie’s for just your one big slugger!”

So Sam wasn’t doing this for me merely to show off his clearly far-superior physique in a flaunting way. He was doing this only to please that boy who lives inside of me while exciting and arousing the man in me, too, which could be measured easily by the deflection of the needle on the ‘ol dick-ometer. And in truth—I really was both man and boy simultaneously. For that matter, so was Sam.

As for those decidedly ‘male’ aspects of our personalities—it popped into my head that there probably was a sort of crazy but real sexual feedback loop going on between us. I already had some awareness of this special energy. Together, we created sparks. Pleasure given would beget even more pleasure received. But as for those ‘boys’ in us, Sam WAS really doing this just for me. All these behaviors now suddenly seemed to me to be about bonding—and Sam was just doing whatever he could to feed and nurture a stronger bond between us. Sam’s primary motivation was to please me in whatever way he could—so I WOULD JUST LIKE HIM.

Then I thought about what I’d felt when I was looking into Sam’s face upstairs, especially into those eyes of his. I realized what I’d been seeing all along was that ‘little boy’ inside of him—the little boy who trusted completely, celebrated every aspect of life unquestioningly, and above all else, just wanted a trustworthy friend to play with.

A really big lump formed in my throat suddenly. I felt all mushy and gushy. Something went ‘ping’ deep inside of me, as if I was just beginning to see Sam through a brand new pair of glasses.

All of these crazy, disjointed thoughts flooded me all at once. Some of them seemed like fairly profound revelations. When taken all together as a whole, it felt like an epiphany of sorts—especially considering I was just (barely) a 19 year old kid. This was a powerful, humbling, and very unsettling sudden awareness. In retrospect, I believe this experience was my heart fully-opening—if but momentarily—to another human being—probably for the very first time in my life, in fact.

Next I began to mull over all of Sam’s positive attributes—an already impressive list, at least in my mind. All summed, Sam seemed to be one very decent and kind human being. I thought, “What’s not to genuinely like here?” Damn. Nothing I could think of at all certainly. So the guy just also happened to be the most heavily-muscled stallion I’ve ever seen, which also included television, movies and magazines, too. “So what’s not to genuinely LOVE here, Pete?” Damn, nothing I could think of either. That scared me. I decided to stick with ‘I liked him.’ That I could handle.

Suddenly Sam spoke, abruptly snapping me back from of all these far-away thoughts. I didn’t quite catch what he’d said though. It might have been, “Watch your step, Pete.” That was probably the gist of it, I thought. My brain suddenly cleared and I was zapped back into the real world again. I was still following Sam down the stairs, right where I’d been before I’d taken that seemingly long mental vacation. In fact I’d probably taken only a few more steps during that whole time my mind had been wandering. Only mere seconds had elapsed.

My eyes focused on Sam’s back as he proceeded down the stairs in front of me. With his body framed by the confined space in the stairwell, his overall size was again semi-quantifiable. Although Sam wasn’t ducking, his head barely cleared the ceiling. I saw his hair brush it lightly a few times. I couldn’t see around him; in fact all I could see was a wall of dark-green material in front of me—the back of Sam’s sweats. The incredible width of his upper back was graphically demonstrated by the outsides of his shoulders and upper arms alternately brushing the walls with each step he took. If Sam was a few inches wider, he’d have plugged that stairwell like a cork in a bottle. This was the same impression I’d had when Sam climbed into his truck cab back at that bar. The man WAS a monster!

I thought more about his size, but from different perspective than before. After all, Sam’s body was so far beyond any expected ‘norm’ I suppose it would automatically attract immediate attention anywhere. I couldn’t imagine Sam going out in public without drawing an involuntary glance from literally every person he encountered—and 100% of the time, too—be that a man, woman or child. That’s probably just human nature. And not to be hypocritical, God only knows I couldn’t keep my eyes off of him either. So to say he was a ‘very big dude’—or even a ‘monster’—still doesn’t quite capture the visual, social and psychological impact Sam must constantly make on other people.

I began to contemplate what everyday life situations must be like for the big lug. I pictured him doing his grocery shopping. I could see Sam turning down an isle pushing his shopping cart, and all the shoppers suddenly snapping their carriages around in unison and fleeing in the opposite direction. Strangely, I sensed that is exactly what happens to Sam, probably more-or-less routinely. Then I remembered my own involuntary reaction when I’d turned around on that bar stool to check out who’d owned that big hand on my shoulder. I’d have hit the ceiling had Sam not suppressed my ‘launch’ in mid-flight with his hand—and also held me down for quite awhile thereafter! He’s scary big.

I wondered how many people really knew this guy at all personally, or would ever voluntarily initiate a conversation with him. Well thankfully, Sam’s a good talker and seems to be outgoing enough—but still that thought bothered me. How many people took the time to actually see anything else about him other than his massive body? And how many had ever even noticed just what a handsome face Sam really had? I mean, his was a face ‘to die for,’ at least to me—not to mention Sam’s heart-melting pair of piercing ‘baby blues.’ They’re eerily-pale, in fact. His eyes have an unusual coloration and a special softness and sparkle to them… and they’re just kind-looking, like there’s a good soul in there. My suspicions were sadly—probably not all that many.


Part 16: Through the Looking Glass

Sam paused long enough to unlock another door at the bottom of the stairway. It turned out to be a rear door to the gym. Initially I had trouble seeing much of anything in the dark room. As I stood there letting my eyes adjust, objects slowly became more visible. I realized the large room was lit somewhat by low-wattage security lights mounted around the perimeter. Meanwhile, Sam walked to the front of the gym and closed the big blinds covering the large plate glass windows. I guessed this was to insure some privacy. He grabbed a chair on his way back and set it down near one edge of a raised platform. As my eyes acclimated more, I saw the platform was uneven lengths of what looked like steel I-beams all pushed together forming roughly a 12’ x 12’ raised flat surface. Adjacent to this platform was a rack holding some regular-sized bars and assorted weights like you’d see in any gym. But there was another rack with unusually long and much thicker bars … and those were certainly nothing like I’d ever seen before. They were formidable, heavy-looking things even without any added weights. Scattered around the floor in various places were some absolutely gigantic iron plates stacked in piles of two’s. They were all so massive they looked the same to me, but I surmised each paired set was probably of differing weight. This was big iron in every sense of the word, and it was obvious they were made to be used specifically with those unusually big bars.

“You can have a seat here, Pete,” Sam said with a wink and patted the back of the chair, “and rest up! You’re gonna need it, I think. I need to change into somethin’ else. I’ll only be a minute.”

I sat down, not at all sure of what was going to happen next. Sam disappeared through a darkened doorway. I heard a locker door being opened, followed some moments later by the sound of it closing again.

Sam emerged from the doorway wearing a form-fitting Olympic-style weightlifter’s one-piece singlet, held up by straps crossing over his shoulders from his immense chest to the back. It was one unusually hot-looking ‘outfit,’ too, especially with Sam wearing it. The dark-colored singlet stretched so tightly over his hulking physique it looked as if it was spray-painted onto his body. It would have revealed even the most minor physical defect in any normal man’s body. But I saw none whatsoever, all the more astonishing for a dude as huge and heavy as Sam was. For all of his extreme mass, his physique was artistic sculpture—a fact his singlet now completely validated.

Sam was also wearing a thick leather belt cinched around his waist over the singlet accentuated the large, beautiful bulge in his crotch, making it stand out in rather bold relief. I’d already surmised Sam was very well hung—though more from what I’d felt in my hand before than actually seen since it was behind me. But the singlet now left no doubt he had one very hot package. As I gazed at him, the shape of Sam’s body silhouetted in the dim lights looked outrageously sexy to me.

I started ogling Sam’s bared legs. This was the first time I’d seen them really exposed. The lighting seemed to make them particularly stand out, and out-standing they were; real big attention-grabbers of the highest magnitude. His thighs were stunningly immense, each one without any doubt thicker than my torso. Prominent columns of muscle flared upward from each knee. As Sam slowly walked forward, I took a dry gulp as I marveled at the huge, swollen twisting striations in his thighs appearing and disappearing with each step. I noticed he also had a peculiar gait as he swung one massive thigh around the other. I’d never seen anything even remotely resembling Sam’s leg muscles before, and being so turned-on by these two oak trees was an unexpected, thrilling surprise. As he stepped by me onto the platform, I wafted his sensual manly musk like a bloodhound. I swear I felt the floor trembling too as he passed by.

He stopped about 8 feet in front of me and turned around.

“There, Pete—this is more like it. It’s comfortable—see, this here material stretches. Gives me some freedom to move when I’m liftin.’”

Sam said nothing more, and just stood there absolutely motionless, as if intentionally providing me this first chance to do nothing more than to leisurely look him over very thoroughly. And come to think about it, this was the first time I’d had the opportunity to stare and gawk openly at Sam’s physique from head-to-toe. Until this moment I’d been very close—and often directly inside—his ‘personal space’ most of the time. Sam was just way too much man to fully take in from such a close distance. It was impossible to really get the ‘big picture.’ Previously, we’d been involved more-or-less in conversation, too. There were no other distractions now … no talking … no moving around or ‘doings’ of any kind … and I was at the perfect viewing distance to finally get the full, genuine visual impact of this man.

A big part of me screamed to do just that—to just stare. But I had this long-standing ‘rule’ in my head about never looking at a guy for too long or letting them know I was staring. So I looked discretely, always keeping my eyes moving and never letting them linger. Partly, this was because it wasn’t polite I’d been told—and partly because it didn’t always feel particularly safe either. More recently, my newest life-lesson concerning ‘staring’ was that when I caught a guy’s eye for too long, they’d seem to assume that also indicated I was automatically interested in them. But usually that wasn’t the case—except for Sam, of course … because, God knows, I could have just stared at him for hours, if not days.

But I started staring automatically anyway … really hard. I certainly wanted to. But after only a few seconds, I felt funny and I’d divert my eyes to something else. Then I’d let them wander back to Sam for a few seconds more. And then I’d find myself doing exactly the same thing again. I’d find myself looking at something across the room. This battle went on—back-and-forth—back-and-forth—for quite awhile. These bouncing eyeballs of mine had also not escaped Sam’s attention.

Spreading his arms out wide with his palms facing me, Sam looked right at me and said, “Are you nervous about somethin’? Ain’t nothing to be afraid of, really. Go ahead Pete. You can look at me. I think this is somethin’ you need to kinda get out of your system anyway. It’s really OK!”

“But I am looking at you, Sam,” I said defensively, knowing it was technically correct but none-the-less only another half-truth at best. Of course even as I was saying this, I also automatically turned my eyes away from him again.

And when I looked back, Sam was looking down at the floor, seeming momentarily quite exasperated. Then he looked up at me.

“Peter, I LIKE you for Christ sake! And I thought you said ya liked me, too. There’s something mighty strange goin’ on here, I’m startin’ to think. Pete, people stare at me all the time ‘cause I’m different. They don’t even know me, let alone like me. But believe me, they definitely ain’t got NO problem lookin’ at me—not at all. They outright gawk! And the funny thing is—it seems you like me, but you AIN’T lookin’! Not really, anyway. And I knows I like lookin’ at you … a lot! Fact is, I can’t barely take my eyes off of you, the truth be known. And you said ya liked muscles, right? Well, I got big muscles… and I’m real strong too, Pete. Really, I am! I knows I ain’t bright, but I just don’t get it. Not at all. Seems if ya really liked me, Pete, then you’d be tellin’ me so with your eyes, that’s all…”

Boom! There was an atomic explosion inside of me. Sam’s words descended on me like a building collapsing on my head. I felt like a complete and total jerk—and a bit of a bastard, too. I needed to say something—and fast. I sensed if I did not, it would suddenly all be over … irreparably over. But I seemed to only be able to get words out of my mouth by talking to my feet again. God, I hated myself when I was like this! Moreover, it was also taking one giant step backwards for me. Nevertheless, I found myself doing it all over again … repeating the same behaviors whenever I’d felt this way before … talking to inanimate objects whenever I had ‘big feelings’ going on inside of me. But saying something was better than saying nothing at all. So addressing my left sneaker, I spoke honestly nevertheless, although my words came out painfully slowly.

“Sam, I like you … a lot. That’s really the truth. And I want to look at you, too. Really, I do! You’re whole body is amazing… and God, those muscles of yours are just… just… so unbelievably big. Honest, Sam… you’re just… just the most handsome… the hottest… guy I’ve ever seen… and God can strike me dead if I’m lying….”

Strangely, my left sneaker remained mute, but after some long moments of silence, I heard Sam’s voice.

“O.K. Then all ya have to do, Pete, is let the genie out of the bottle. I’ve got big muscles, and it all right if you wan’na look at ‘em, too. It’s OK that ya like ’em the way you do. Go ahead, Pete—look just as long as ya want to. Let go… let that ‘ol genie out. I want ‘cha to for me. So, you look up at me now, O.K.?”

I took a very deep breath, and then I pictured in my mind opening a bottle and seeing strange-colored vapors rushing up out of it, and then I repeated this several times more in my mind. Something seemed to fundamentally shift inside of me, and I thought I could trust my eyes to now more faithfully tell Sam everything I felt about him inside.

So I slowly looked up … and what I finally was able to truly ‘see’ was one hell of an eyeful, let me tell you. For me, it was the difference between watching Star Wars on TV versus seeing it at a movie theater. The full sensory impact of Sam’s physique could only be experienced on my ‘big screen.’ I allowed myself to gawk openly. I gave myself permission to stare blatantly. And somewhere in the middle of ogling every part of him, I passed some point of no return. In fact, I wondered if I could ever stop staring! Sam must have certainly felt the heat from my lasers searing his skin as they scanned over every inch of him slowly, again and again. It didn’t take a great deal of time before my continuous uninterrupted staring was making me feel flushed.

There were just muscles everywhere I looked—massive and huge, rippling, powerful-looking things; some appearing and disappearing behind others it seemed. Sam hadn’t lifted so much as a pencil yet, and I was turned-on powerfully, but I know Sam fundamentally understood that already. He knew what made my motor run, and he possessed it all—absolutely everything last attribute I was attracted to in a man. On a scale of 1 to 10, I rated Sam about 1,000. I like my men T-D-H. And no—I don’t mean ‘tall, dark and handsome,’ although he certainly was all of those. I mean ‘Totally-Developed Hunk.’ And what I saw fit all the criteria multiple times over. Sam was more like a ‘Titanically-Developed Hunk,’ in truth.

My eyes didn’t waiver, and I let Sam see right into me. And as I continued to stare at this outrageously muscled, brutally-handsome monster standing motionless before me, the image of Sam transformed clearly in my mind into the ‘Samson’ of the Bible, whose phenomenal strength was of divine origin, and who slew the entire Philistine Army single-handedly. And if not exactly like Delilah, I nevertheless craved to get into any of his gorgeous hair, too. Wherever it happened to be on his magnificent body, it was perfection too, and it greatly contributed to the overall stunning impact of this He-man. Every aspect of this man was hotter than Hell to me, and after visually gorging on him for only several minutes, I just ‘wanted’ him—plain and simple.

And Sam had been observing my reactions—watching me watching him. We hadn’t spoken a word in minutes, but our communication was nevertheless honest, total and complete. With a whimsical grin, Sam finally broke the long silence.

“Hey- you ain’t gettin’ horny by any chance, are ya, Pete?”

Without waiting for an answer, he looked down and inspected his singlet with his hands, saying something about it needing a slight adjustment. He reached up with each hand and simultaneously pulled up on the shoulder straps, which effectively lifted the material at the sides of his crotch higher. This not only exposed more of his high upper thighs and the sides of his groin partially, but dramatically accentuated the plunge of his bulging basket and clearly revealed two substantial balls and his sexy thick wand through the now more tightly-stretched material. I knew the He-man was toying with me, but I didn’t mind his intentionally erotic playfulness at all!

Looking right at me, he said, “There. That looks even better, don’t you think? Hey, are ya getting horny yet, Pete? I sure hope ya are!”

Horny? You bet. But I was also feeling unusually sexy myself. I had this new ‘attitude’ going inside of my head as I reminded myself to just enjoy this and ‘let go.’ I felt a kind of sensual power again—something I hadn’t experienced in several years—and it felt really good.

And to capitalize on my unusual feelings, I gave myself permission to be a little playful, too. Besides, the entire scene—Sam’s big muscles all poured into that sexy-beyond-belief bulging singlet—was arousing me uncontrollably anyway. Why waste this, I thought. I sure knew what pushed Sam’s ‘on’ switch. Hell, I even had the right toy already—but there was no way he’d ever know that wearing my usual baggy jeans. So just how to ‘communicate’ this to him? Hmmmmm….

I reached for my crotch and slowly began squeezing and suggestively rubbing it with my hand, looking up at Sam and then back down to my crotch—saying with my eyes, “Right here Sam. Look right here.” Then I slowly swung my leg out—the one containing my dick—exposing the inside for Sam’s viewing pleasure. Then using my thumb and index finger of both hands, I pressed down on my jeans to clearly frame the perimeters of my cock in the leg, effectively demonstrating to Sam not only where it started and currently ended, but also its circumference: my gesture saying unequivocally, “Here’s the whole enchilada.” Looking up again, I saw Sam was riveted on my crotch—getting kinda glassy-eyed too—looking like he’d start drooling if I continued this much longer. B-I-N-G-O !

“Yeah, I’m real horny Sam. Can you tell?”

I kneaded my fat thing slowly with my fingers, just to make sure Sam was paying close attention.

“It feels to me like it’s getting pretty big. Oh yes—definitely feels big! Hey, are you getting horny yet, Sam?”

I thought we were now even, judging from the expanding bulge in the front of his singlet.

“So Samson, I thought if I got big, you were going to get big, too.”

Not that he had to grow one single centimeter anywhere to be the hottest man I’d ever seen, but you know—promises were promises, regardless.

“Woof! Woof!” Sam barked out like a dog repeatedly. “Pete, y’all are just totally inspiring! Makes me wan’na really enormou-size myself first, and then do somethin’ real special, just for your birthday. Ya ready?”

Boy, was I ever. For the moment anyway, the genie was out of the bottle. I was determined to keep my eyes on him like a snowy owl would a lemming.

“My heart may not be able to stand it—but definitely go ahead anyway, Sam. I’ll die at least with a smile… and this massive hard-on. Come to think of it, that might give the undertaker a real thrill with the rigor mortis and all.”

Sam guffawed with seeming disgust at my awful sense of humor, and then got down to the serious business. I sat up and leaned forward enthusiastically. There was no saliva in my mouth. It had disappeared completely untold minutes ago. I sort of braced myself to see something I knew I’d probably never see again in my life. I was ready … focused … and going to savor every second of what was coming.

“Go ahead Sam. Enormou-size!”


Part 17: Remember the Titans

He waved in acknowledgement, and then bent down over a fearsomely heavy-looking barbell lying near him, lifting it off the floor as if it weighed nothing at all. That alone was instantaneously impressive. Then he turned to face me again.

Sam began to literally toss that barbell around, doing a nonstop, back-to-back series of different kinds of lifts, repeating each lift many times before he moved on to the next one. For his first lift, Sam started with the bar in from of his thighs, and pulled the loaded barbell up to his chest using his arms and lowered it down again. Then Sam switched his grip and, bending over horizontally, began pulling the bar up into his chest and then releasing it slowly back down again. Next he sat down on a nearby bench and, leaning back, began pushing the bar up off his chest until his arms were nearly straight and lowered it slowly back down to his chest. Next he stood up and, dropping the bar behind his head, raised the bar straight over his head and lowered it back behind his neck. Then resting the bar behind his neck across his shoulders, he changed his grip and squatted down to the floor and stood back up again. For his final lift, he stood tall and began pushing the bar straight-up over his head and then letting it back down to his shoulders. Each lift was breathtakingly awe-inspiring. That barbell was a very heavily-loaded mother, too—I’d seen the heavy bar sagging from the weights the very first time Sam lifted it. I could read the poundage printed on the side of the outside plate. After counting the number of plates on each side, I quickly calculated how much weight Samson had been lifting non-stop with such eye-popping ease for, I guessing, perhaps 15 minutes. I wasn’t about to miss one moment by checking the clock on the gym wall. I was more than just impressed. I was astounded—and stiffer, certainly. Sam had been effortlessly lifting this weight for more than a quarter hour. I would not have been able to lift it cleanly even one time, and even then, only at the extreme risk of seriously injuring myself!

Sam finally set that particular barbell down, and he did so just as effortlessly as when he’d picked it up originally.

There was no sign of any sweat anywhere on him, and his breathing wasn’t labored either, even after such a very long time of non-stop lifting. Overall, it appeared Sam had just expended the total energy needed to twist the top off a Bud. This guy really was in incredible shape. In a way I knew he just had to be, of course, but I guess seeing really is believing—suddenly Sam had become much more real, and therefore unreal to me both at the same time. And his strength—those big muscles of his! I was at the point of starting to get rock hard myself. ‘Little Johann’ had transformed into ‘Johann, The Magnificent.’

I started clapping my hands and whooping and hollering and stamping my feet, all to show Sam just how much I’d enjoyed his lifting.

“Sam, that was u-n-b-e-l-i-e-v-a-b-l-e! I’ve never even seen anything like that… and you repeated them over-and-over again, just so many times! God, how’d you….”

“That’s a rep, Pete. It’s called a repetition,” Sam interrupted, for my educational enlightenment.

“I mean WOW—you ARE strong! What a terrific birthday present! Really, that was the best EVER! Thanks!”

Sam looked genuinely very puzzled and confused for a few moments. Suddenly, he just buckled over with laughter.

“Oh, no. No… no… Pete…” Sam was gasping for air in between belly-laughs. “No, Pete. You mean that? What I was just doin’? That wasn’t no LIFTIN,’ Pete. That weren’t LIFTIN’ at all! I was just loosenin’ up!!!”

Then Sam started roaring again, slapping those oak trees of his repeatedly. The guy was busting up! I’d just witnessed the hottest thing I’d ever seen. Damn—it sure LOOKED like deadly-serious lifting to me. Little Johann sure thought so. Well Sam sure thought this was extremely funny, but I was feeling foolish about feeling foolish, if you know what I mean. I didn’t like being ‘in the dark’ about this still private joke.

After too long a time of genuinely enjoying himself seemingly at my expense, Sam finally slowly collected himself together… Well, sort of anyway….

“Now….” Sam started chuckling again but then quickly tried to check it, probably seeing from my expression I wasn’t all-that-amused.

He composed himself for a few seconds, and then conquering his bad case of the giggles, was able to finish his thought.

“Now Pete—this HERE’S where you might want to sit up and pay attention.”

Did Sam really think I’d been napping? I’d been watching him so intently I hadn’t even blinked once for fear of missing even a millisecond. Moreover, my heart was already pounding to the point where I could hear it in my ears.

“This here part—what I’m gonna do now—this’ll be your 1st birthday wish.”

“My 1st wish, Sam?” I thought maybe there was a nuance here I’d missed before.

“Yeah, your 1st wish. I’m hopin’ you’re gonna make more of ’em tonight, ‘cause I really want to… well… just remember- whatever ya want, Pete. All ya got’ta do is remember that genie,” he winked.

Sam walked over to another rack which held very different bars than the kind he’d just used. These were very long and some seriously THICK pieces of solid steel—at least the size of those used for Olympic lifts, though for some reason I thought these bars were specially-made—and even larger. After looking over several possibilities, Sam finally selected one.

“These here,” Sam said, eyeing and rubbing the bar almost fondly, “cost me lots of money. Must’a saved up for near’ a whole year ‘fore I could ‘ford to buy these here babies. They’s made ‘o real TY-TANE-YUME, they is!”

He walked over and placed it across a low support stand which sat near the middle of the platform in front of me. He proceeded to load several pairs of those gigantic weights on both ends of that bar, collaring them all in place. This was genuine ‘big iron’ … the real McCoys—a size you wouldn’t find even in a large commercial gym. It was the kind of massive weight which made me go weak in the knees just watching him mounting them.

He bent over the bar and lifted it slightly several times, gripping it in various locations as if carefully determining exactly where he wanted to place his hands. When he was satisfied, Sam moved his legs into a slightly wider stance and squatted over the barbell, gripping the bar with his palms facing forward. Slowly Samson started to straighten his knees. The huge barbell creaked and groaned eerily and as it slowly cleared its moorings. As he continued to lift it, the ends drooped dramatically as gravity tried desperately to pull the piles of massive weights back down to Earth. Almost straight-armed, Sam stood up completely, raising the huge barbell to his thighs.

I’m not sure why … maybe it was how holding such massive weight physically affects a heavily-muscled man’s body—but seeing Samson just standing there, side-profile to me, made me feel a deep desire to cum. My sudden urge to touch myself was compelling. Sam was standing at nearly a 90 degree angle to me, absolutely straight and tall, with his shoulders thrown back to counter the great weight. His side-profile was wholly magnificent and fantastically hot. Sam’s neck looked so thick, at least equally as wide as his head, and maybe more. Muscles swelled along the sides with a large vein tracing each edge. The tops of the muscles in his upper back anatomically originated near the base of his skull, well up the back of his neck. I don’t think I’d ever consciously realized that before, probably because it isn’t obvious on a normal man’s body. Seeing Sam was like getting an instant anatomy lesson. Sam’s upper back muscles were pronounced they flared out like the wings of the Concorde behind his neck; each wingtip being capped by a basketball-sized globe of muscle that formed his outer shoulder. But the single, most dominating feature from this particular angle anyway was definitively—Sam’s chest. In fact, it was THE feature at the moment, for me. Mighty pectorals, looking every bit as thick as battleship armor, thrust out so remarkably they formed near hemispheres of muscle. Seen from the side, these projections of such great mass high on his body, combined with the bold contour around his entire thickly-muscled upper back, reminded me of a satellite photo of the South American continent. Sam’s waist seemed to vanish beneath it all. If I thought my mouth had been dry before, it felt now more like the Sahara Desert at noon.

“Now this HERE is gonna be some liftin,’ Pete!” Sam said emphatically, making sure I understood he hadn’t really been lifting yet—at least by his definition anyway. “Hey, Pete—you just watch my bi’s while I curl this ‘ol thing. I’m gonna get me some BIG muscles now. It’s party time, Pete! I’m real sorry I don’t have no hats or noise-makers, but… I’m really hopin’ ya like big presents….”

With that, Sam slowly pivoted with the huge barbell so he was facing me more directly. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back slightly, and then just stood silently for the longest time, still gripping the monstrous sagging barbell in his hands.

As more time passed, I thought to myself, “Gee, this sure is different.” I even cleared my throat a couple of times while I patiently waited for something to happen- but nothing did, with the exception Sam’s face seemed to be changing somehow. His countenance looked calmer and more relaxed—almost serene.

With his eyes still closed, Sam quietly spoke just a few more words. “This is for you, Pete….”

Then more time passed in total silence. Sam’s eyes remained closed throughout. I even wondered briefly if he could possibly have fallen asleep. Whatever was going on here, I was completely clueless. So I just sat there waiting. After all, Sam knew what he was doing even if I did not, I figured. I’d have sat there for a week, in fact, waiting for Sam’s lifting.

When Sam finally did open his eyes again, he did so very slowly. His eyes seemed different, but I was hard-pressed to say exactly how. His stare seemed to pass through me, as if I wasn’t there at all—or he just wasn’t really seeing me. His face had also become completely expressionless; his previously ‘calm and serene’ look has been replaced with something appearing to be just empty and vacant. Sam’s breaths were slow and rather deep.

I was about to say something when I saw the large muscles in his big arms visibly tense as Samson made a deep ‘Oooof’ing sound. The huge barbell moved slowly upwards. I knew he was doing yet another set of standing ‘biceps curls’ as he’d referred to this particular lift anyway—but now he was using this unimaginable-times heavier weight. Astonishingly, Sam nevertheless steadily pulled up the massive bar until it just brushed his protruding pectoral mounds. He held it there momentarily before slowly lowering it back down to near his thighs. Then with another ‘Oooof’ he started another repetition. By the third or fourth repetition, vascularity was becoming apparent everywhere in his torso, and to a lesser extent even his legs. I could clearly see veins even in those areas covered by his singlet. His breathing was deep and very steady. In fact everything about each repetition, so far anyway, was a perfect clone of the previous one. His fifth repetition with this staggering weight looked to me exactly like his first. Outside of the obvious veins and muscles which were erupting all over Sam’s body, there was no other indication he was really straining … certainly not by his facial expression.

I was being instantly re-educated about just how unbelievably powerful Sam really was. I mean—the steel bar itself was just massively thick, and yet it still drooped so violently under the weight I thought it could possibly snap. This was a serious—absolutely stunning amount of weight, actually. I didn’t know how many men in the entire world could even do what Sam was doing. At most, maybe a handful—maybe even less, I thought. It was just devastating to watch him. I was completely humbled and in totally awed—and Samson was pegging my gas peddle to the floorboard. The world could have ended and I wouldn’t have noticed. This was one genuine, boner-fied HE MAN! Now THIS was SERIOUS STRENGTH!!

I remained hypnotically fixed as Sam astoundingly performed even more repetitions. The unmistakable loud clangs of the shifting massive ‘big iron’ plates quantified in my mind the brute strength commanding them to ignore gravity—and was doing so over and over again. Sam’s form was perfect and remained absolutely unwavering. His facial expression remained unchanged as well—in short, he didn’t have one. This may have been just an unimaginably intense focusing and concentration on Sam’s part. “Yeah, that’s got to be it… maybe,” I thought. But even though Sam’s face wasn’t changing, absolutely unbelievable things were happening to his body.

Defying the possible, his already huge neck, shoulders and chest muscles were clearly becoming even more pronounced. I saw the impossible nevertheless happening to those very big arms of his with my own eyes. With every repetition, they were growing bigger. The mere sight of them was absolutely paralyzing. Sam’s biceps were approaching such stunning dimensions in proportion to his other muscles they were the true champions ruling the moment; two perfect, spellbinding planets.

And Sam just continued to lift. ‘Oooof.’ More repetitions followed, each cycle being performed with such perfect rhythm you could have calibrated a metronome to it. I don’t know if it’s possible for a muscle to literally explode, but both of Samson’s biceps were just phenomenally engorged monsters—which might have been Sam’s own description of my cock at that moment, too, if he could have seen it. He didn’t look like he was seeing anything, however. The skin over his biceps was stretching so thin it had a bluish transparency to it. I also noticed very small bright red-colored capillaries were beginning to appear as well, and I knew enough about medical biology to understand these were micro-hemorrhages—and their sudden appearance implied the capillaries were beginning to rupture from the internal pressure.

Sam’s astounding physical capabilities seemed to be surpassing some threshold of what might be humanly possible, even for the huge and muscular man he was. His strength seemed—well—Samsonian. Certainly it was way beyond what I thought he might possess even considering his size. THIS power was truly fearsome.

I’d lost count of the number of repetitions, yet his lifts and his form both remained mechanically perfect. The man was a muscle-machine, and one with the horsepower of a six-story Earthmover. Sam was showing no discernible signs of fatigue nor any indication he was ever going to stop for that matter. Every centimeter of his bodying visually screamed out to me the near-tortuous force being applied both to and through it, yet Sam’s face remained essentially expressionless, belying any indication of that whatsoever.

I mean—I already knew Sam was a real rare mountain-of-a-man, so it didn’t surprise me particularly I hadn’t ever seen anything like what Sam could apparently physically do before—but an unsettling feeling came over me as I wondered if anyone else had ever seen such a thing before either. My eyes were telling me conflicting things I couldn’t quite make sense of. I could no longer reconcile everything I was seeing—and I was feeling a bit like Alice, after she’s fallen through the looking glass.

But just as these vague concerns were starting to garner my increasing attention, Sam suddenly just stopped—stopped cold—with the bar lowered in the starting thigh-position. He stood there, silent and motionless, still holding on to the massive barbell—his face still expressionless—still that vacant stare. Then I saw him snap his head from side-to-side, just once.

“Sam?” I said, hoping to get some response from him. None was forthcoming. I waited in the silence for something to eventually happen, and finally it did. Sam blinked. And then I saw him blink again. Then again. He slowly tilted his head upward and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, holding them there for awhile. Then Sam returned his gaze on to me, but he seemed disoriented as if he was trying to get his bearings. Finally he tilted his head down and appeared to be looking over the massive, sagging barbell he still held with his powerful forearms—now thick with tentacles—in a vice-like grip. Suddenly, Sam just released his grip, sending the massive weight crashing thunderously to the floor and scaring me half out of my wits. I felt the reverberations as the massive iron recoiled and bounced ominously a few times. Then silence.

“Sam?” I thought he might have nodded his head slightly to acknowledge me, but I wasn’t sure. He still said nothing. His facial expression still looked peculiarly blank. He seemed as if he was way off somewhere else. He slowly raised his extended arms in front of him slightly and looked at them both, as if he really wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing. Given their current dimensions, it wasn’t hard for me to understand why he might not recognize them immediately as necessarily human arms either. Sam slowly cocked his head to the right slightly and looked at his left arm for awhile. He rotated his arm slowly, looking at the all sides of his upper arm. Then he very slowly cocked his head in the other direction, repeating the same basic inspection of his other arm. He paused suddenly and then snapped his head hard again.

“Sam?” I repeated. The way he was acting was starting to weird me out. He casually glanced up at me momentarily, but then returned his gaze back to his arms, still not speaking. Well at least I knew Sam had heard me. He’d clearly responded to his name. I’m not sure he knew it was necessarily me. The look in his eyes was still funny, but at least his face had regained a little more expression. Sam was moving his brow, jaw and mouth a little, and I noticed other subtle, more natural movements occasionally in the rest of his body.

He appeared to still be extraordinarily interested in those incredible arms of his though, exploring every inch of them again with his eyes. He held them up in front of him and locked them out, fully-extended. The sight of them being so dramatically ‘presented’ made me immediately woozy. In this position, his biceps looked like they were actually set on top of his arms, as opposed to being a part of them. Two fire extinguishers of rock-hard muscle reached from his shoulders down to his elbows. Sam started to very slowly bend his forearms until his upper and lower arms formed roughly a 90 degree angle, partially flexing the stunning twin giants in his arms. Even only half-flexed, his biceps were absolute Titans, and still mushroomed up into beautiful quasi-domes. Sam was clearly checking out their fantastic size and shape, but the manner in which he looked at them was oddly casual, to the point of seeming detached. Again I noticed Sam pause, and then shake his head from side-to-side. Then he went right back to looking at his arms.

It seemed to me to be more like he was simply ‘inspecting’ them, as opposed to feeling any admiration or pride in their utter magnificence. In fact, Sam wasn’t demonstrating any reactions at all to seeing his own erotic monsters. It appeared he wasn’t having a conscious thought about much of anything. He’d just look at one arm and then the other, slowly flexing them repeatedly in front of himself. All the while this was going on, more discernible “body language” and overall movement was gradually returning again.

“Some pump,” I thought I heard him mutter under his breath, but to me this was meaningless babble. Don’t get me wrong—I was absolutely enthralled watching Sam more actively examine his muscles … something about this was oddly very hot. But increasingly, what I really wanted to see was some evidence of a little more significant brain activity. So I thought I’d try one more time to make contact with this very big alien being.

“Sam? Take me to your leader, Sam….”

Sam paused and shook his head hard from side-to-side several times again. And a few moments later, I did heard an “ahuh” come out of him, even as he resumed inspecting his two Goliath’s again. But he was moving around more and generally acting livelier again.

“That’s some pump… ” Well, I heard those words clearly enough this time.

“SAM,” I said loudly, resolutely determined to get some acknowledgement from him other than a grunt, even though a grunt from this He-Man was pretty hot stuff in itself.

“Hey there, big guy. Are you in there somewhere? Anybody home? Come out, come out wherever you are!” There was still no particular reaction from him at all. “I don’t think you even know who I am, Sam!”

The big lug just said, “Sure I do…” still looking dispassionately at his big battleships.

I had a strong urge to get right up off of that chair and punch him actually—I was suddenly feeling just that mad. I guess I just needed some recognition but wasn’t getting much at all—and I was getting pissed now. But luckily for Sam, he saved himself from a ferocious attack from this Lilliputian Army recruit. Given the mass of muscle standing there in front of me, it would have been about as attention-getting as a volley of arrows released against a tank, anyway.

Sam—and no doubt sensing his extreme mortal danger I’m sure—raised his head and looked directly at me.

“Sure I do. You’re Pete….”

Sam still seemed overly subdued to me—well, for Sam, that is. He sounded almost tranquilized, and I thought a hint of a far-away look still lingered in his eyes. He seemed… extra mellow… but at least he’d clearly acknowledged me and was beginning to interact.

Sam shook his head back-and-forth again, this time making a big ‘raspberry sound’ with his lips. Then he opened his eyes wide a few times, just like I do myself when I’m trying to be alert. Then Sam loosened up his hulking body by stretching a little—alternately bending his legs a few times, rolling his head slowly in a big circle, and finally shaking his arms out forcefully.

“And YOU, Pete—are the birthday boy,” he said, suddenly looking directly at me with an imbecilic partial smile. His eyes were clearer and more focused. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Sam was definitely sounding and behaving more like his good ‘ol self.

“So—Did I light your birthday candle, Pete?”

“Like a bonfire!” I replied, breaking into a broad grin. “You are AWESOME!”

A wide smile spread across his Sam’s face, too. His whole face expressed genuine happiness. Then he tucked his chin towards his chest seductively and, keeping his eyes riveted right on me, began walking towards me. He took one very deliberate step at a time, closing the distance between us ever-so-dramatically slowly.

“I’m real strong, Pete. I got me some real big muscles now, I reckon….”

That was true enough, I thought, but Sam’s tendency for understatement had also never been more extreme than it was at that very moment. As this gargantuan God slowly moved towards me, my heart started to race.

“Say Pete, I bet you’re big as me now too, huh?” Samson said, taking another step closer. He glanced down at my crotch momentarily, and judging by how wide his eyes got, apparently answered his own question. I was grateful for that too, because certainly no words were going to be coming out of my mouth anytime in the foreseeable future. Lockjaw had set in permanently.

“Ya sure are,” he continued, answering his own question. “That thing’s a MONSTER! Ya make me so hot.”

Sam took another very deliberate step.

What he’d said was true enough on both counts, too. After being wildly aroused for what felt like forever, the broad back of my fully-realized pant python was straining so hard to rise up through the top of my baggy pant leg, the material was floating in air clean off my knee. This was the kind of hard-on which usually embarrassed the hell out of me, but my engine Rpm’s were red-lined. Sam also had bulging ‘big meat’ now of his own, prominently pushing at the bottom of his leather belt.

Sam took another step closer. I had to tilt my head upward slightly in order to see his face. Massy pectoral mountains, like twin bows of mighty ice breakers, projected proudly out in front of him. It seemed to me they would reach me steps ahead of the rest of his body.

“Pete, you can lose those jeans anytime now. I’d wanna see your huge meat. Show me I’m big enough for you….”

Without moving my eyes off Sam, I unzipped and, bridging off the chair seat on my neck, quickly pulled my jeans down below my butt to free my hopelessly confined prisoner. The whole expression on Sam’s face changed into one of wonder as he watched spellbound my cock’s steady rise to its full glory as it lifted dramatically skyward—standing high and mighty at last. I was allowing myself to be the proud poster boy for the “Be All That You Can Be” slogan, in terms of erections. It felt so very heavy, slowly weaving and bobbing there high between my thighs, looking like one-half of the St. Louis Arch, I thought it might just snap off of me. But I just sat there patiently and let myself be huge for Sam anyway. I was surely all he wanted me to be—and probably considerably more.

I understood in my own way what Sam needed now, and I would let him savor me unhurried for as long as he wanted, allowing him complete control over this duration. And he made me feel good actually—like I was sexy and hot. I don’t know what Sam was actually feeling inside, but I know that, for him, it was powerful—and good—and likely even very necessary. His expression told me unquestionably that it was, for him, an extraordinarily gratifying experience. Sam just stood there looming over me and slowly played with himself with one of his big paws. As he worshipped my cock for a very, very long time. When he was finally satisfied for the moment, he glanced up at me and simply said, “I must’a died, ‘cause I’m in Heaven now.”

Then he took another step forward again and knelt down in front of me.

“That there’s really… well… the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen in ‘ma whole life. Thanks, Pete.”

He paused for a few seconds, and then spoke again. “Now I wanna do something special, just for you. I’m mighty big, too… See?”

Matter-of-factly, Sam reached up and grabbed the shoulder straps of his singlet. He pulled them out in unison across the wide expanse of shoulder and around their outsides marked by a boulder at each end. In one fluid motion, he’d peeled the singlet down to his leather belt, leaving the straps dangling by the outsides of his tree-sized thighs.

Sam understood implicitly what I needed, too. What immediately followed was far more than merely ‘eine Augenweide’—a feast for the eyes. For me anyway, seas parted and worlds collided. What I saw and also felt inside were so powerful it’s indelibly burned into my mind until my last breath on Earth.

He raised his utterly-pumped massive arms slowly from his sides, fully-extended, until they were slightly above the level of his massive eagle wings, and then he just held them there for awhile … these two inhumanly engorged, perfect huge cylinders of granite which lay atop each arm—for me to just look at them, absorbing their full erotic impact. He let me bask in my own wild erotic energies. To feel the nuances of desire and the craving and wanting and lust. He held them there just as long as I needed. And somehow he was so in tune with my soul … he was reading me so well … he just knew when it was time.

In a dramatically slow movement, Sam brought his fists up towards his head, and purposefully created—just for me—one of the most erotically intense, spiritual moments of my life. His deeply-veined mighty and powerful Titans rose steadily upward, slowly transforming from huge horizontal cylinders into wrenching fully-flexed absolutely global Gods standing high in the heavens … two perfectly split biceps, each larger than a ten pin bowling ball, just kissed his thickly-roped forearms. My arousal was so profound—so total … that I reached for the very first time that mystical point where agony and ecstasy become as one—indistinguishable—and I know I ached deep inside. I ached like never in my life—and it was, at the same time, also wondrous. And I just sat there and looked—then looked more—looked at, what for me was, penultimate masculine Beauty. And I ate of his magnificence … I ingested him—I consumed him totally—in a Holy Communion.

If I had even thought about touching my cock, I would have exploded on the spot. But the power of this arousal—the intensity of this erotic energy—was so great I was somewhere beyond being capable of independent thought. Like Sam before me, I too had found Heaven.

Then I heard a deep, masculine voice speaking from somewhere off in the distance.

“I want ‘cha to feel ‘em, Pete… feel ’em all over. They’s REAL big. Go ahead now… It’s O.K.”

I sat there absolutely motionless, well beyond the capacity to exercise any conscious control over my body.

Sam lowered one arm and moved forward, walking on his knees, and pushed my own aside as he positioned his body between them. Taking me gently by my wrist in his hand, he lifted my arm upward. Then placing my hand on the very summit of his flexed Titan, he released it as he resumed a full flex with his other arm, and returned his total attention to my swaying cobra.

Like a tree gently bowing in the breeze, I could feel my cockhead occasionally touching Sam’s abdomen now, sometimes just brushing the hairs of the sensual love trail running up the centerline of his stomach, and at other times patting his deeply corrugated washboards.

My other hand seemed to automatically find its way to the summit of Sam’s other biceps, and I started to actually feel what, up to this point, I had only been seeing. My hands slowly orbited like moons all around the twin Jupiter’s high up before me. Had I been more mature, I might have actually wept with joy actually—without any shame at all.

I heard his distant-sounding low voice again.

“Happy Birthday, Pete. Time to make a wish, and blow out your huge candle. It’s O.K… Go ahead now….”

Well, my wish had already come true, a thousand times over in fact. The very second Sam’s words penetrated, my eyes slammed shut. My balls yanked up so violently into me I bellowed, then involuntarily pulled down, lifting myself right off of the chair using Sam’s massive Titans for handholds. I blew my candle out alright—hard—like a wide-opened unmanned high-pressure fire hose. The first and second volleys passed far above his head and over one of his shoulders. Sam moaned with that kind approval only a real man can have. The third caught him squarely in his face. Uncounted others randomly coated the shelves of his massive pec mountains, drizzling over them like frosting on a Bunt cake. And minutes later when I’d finally emptied my tanks to the very bottom, big gobs of cum randomly clung to the deep ridges and hairs all over his stomach.

Dazed, I opened my eyes and began surveying the damage before realizing my hands were still firmly mounted on Sam’s mighty Titans, and Sam was, in fact, still moaning even louder. Glancing up, I saw Sam’s eyes were closed and his head was tilted far back. Then I looked down at the crotch of his singlet, and immediately saw the large dark area of wetness in Sam’s ample basket, and also noticed his love batter beginning to leak out past the elastic around his balls. As his hot moans continued, streams of cum started flowing, following the contours of the large muscles on the insides of his huge thighs. “Man, can this big bruiser really CUM!” I thought to myself. “What a total stud!!” Then completely to my surprise, my still rock-hard rocket fired off not just one, but two encore salutes, seconding that emotion.

Eventually Sam too opened his eyes, and like I had done myself, he looked around somewhat dazed for awhile just eyeing the carnage around us. After completing his survey, he returned his attention to me and broke into the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on a man in my life, silently mouthing the word, ”W-O-W!!” to me.

“You’re INCREDIBLE, Pete! Look at all this great protein! Boy, I think I needs me a shower. I means—another shower! So, what’d ya think? Am I big enough for you?”

“No way.” I came back with, just being a wisecrack. “I was a little disappointed, actually.”

Sam looked a bit maybe—confused—momentarily, then he just stood up to his full height suddenly. The look which came over Sam’s face gave me a bone-cold chill. His expression went from to confused—to serious—to angry—to just something suddenly really ugly and very mean. It was more than scary. When someone the size of this monster looks mean, it’s instantly damn terrifying—and Sam suddenly looked seriously threatening and dangerous. This had all happened so fast I was dumbfounded. My mind raced. No one knew where I was, and there was absolutely no one around to even hear me if I decided to holler my brains out.

I was about to tell him I’d just been kidding with him—but before I could even get the words out of my mouth, Sam suddenly reached out and grabbed my head between his giant-sized hand—and I mean hard, too! Believe me when I say he had my immediate 100% attention. This guy’s hands had every inch of my entire skull covered totally in a vice grip. The picture of Sam pulverizing my skull like a squash with my brains literally all over his hands flashed instantly through my mind—and this brute had more than enough strength to do that easily. My life was going to be over in the next few seconds. Completely stunned, I froze like an animal.

“Well, I guess I’m gonna have to just…” he started to say, with a meanness in his voice that would strike fear into anyone—and I braced myself for what was coming next. “…just kiss ya anyway, Pete.”

When I popped open my eyes, Sam was wearing an ear-to-ear shit-eating grin. Then tilting my head up with his hands to meet his face, Sam bent over and planted a kiss on me that belonged in the Guinness World of Records—and left me quivering like a bowl of jell-o.

Eventually, Sam slowly backed away and crouched down on his haunches. He cocked his head, then smirked, “And you’s—a big liar, too, Pete,” which he followed up with a knowing wink.

This time I grinned broadly in acknowledgement—just in case….

“So Pete- does ya think I’s real strong? Does I qualify?”

Strong? I immediately thought about Samson and that monstrous barbell, and I wanted to ask him just how much it really weighed. I knew just by its size alone it was extraordinarily heavy. But the concussion when it crashed and bounced on the floor was deafening. The terrific shock wave passing through the building’s structure rattled the fillings in my teeth. The thing was just fearsomely massive! So did he qualify as a strongman? Beyond any doubt. But the truth was I didn’t even know how to describe THAT kind of physical strength in words. The dude is a monster certainly, but still… I thought momentarily if I should ask him to explain ‘a few things’ to me. Granted, I didn’t know jack-squat about weightlifting, but what I’d witnessed left me disconcertingly now with only questions without any plausible answers.

But as I pondered these things, my eyes were also basking in the vision of a Hercules in-the-flesh stripped to the waist still crouched down before me. Suddenly my questions didn’t seem all that important anymore. This man was hotter than the surface of the sun! Uncharacteristically, I impulsively revealed to Sam exactly what I was feeling inside of me at that moment by both my words and actions.

“You’re the strongest man I’ve ever known,” I simply said, and left it at that.

Moving off the chair, I closed the distance between us and—kissed him! For me to take the initiating role was something totally new. And in the process of enthusiastically ‘planting a big one’ on Sam, I pretty much wiped my cum clean off his upper body with my sweatshirt. God, what a huge set of projecting boat bumpers that man possessed!

Sam kept looking into my eyes long after that kiss finally ended, tilting his head occasionally from side-to-side and stroking my hair and head gently again with his big paws. Tingles were running all through me. The way he touched me felt wonderful and the way he looked at me felt even more special. Sam seemed to really enjoy me. That was coming through to me loud-and-clear. As for me, well—I knew I could never tire of looking at Samson, this brutally handsome man with absolutely the biggest qualifications I’d ever seen anywhere—or would ever see.

Then Sam straightened up and said, “Well, I don’t know ‘bout you, Pete, but I know’s I’m mighty hungry. I ain’t eaten in ‘near 4 whole hours, I reckon. I’m near starvation! I need me some FUEL!! What do ya say I fixes us some grub?”

“That’d be great, Sam. I’m hungry—I could definitely stand something to eat, too,” I said, rubbing my stomach. “Can I help you?”

Shaking his head emphatically, Sam replied, “No. Absolutely not. There’s no way I could tolerate that. There’s here’s your birthday, Pete.” Then he added, with a devilish grin, “Then after we’s done eatin,’ maybe you’d be wantin’ to open another present? I sure hopes so, ‘cause I been savin’ the best. Somethin’ extra-special! I’m real strong, Pete. I’ve got big muscles….”

I nodded my head in total agreement, and then I decided to correct Sam on just one not-so-little point.

“But you’re wrong about just one thing, Sam. You don’t have big muscles… you’ve got the bigg-EST muscles!”

Sam turned his head away slightly, smiling bashfully. Moments later, I saw his whole face slowly breaking out in a prominent red blush.

“Ah… I think I needs to grab me a quick shower first….”


Part 18: Dancin’ to the Jail House Rock

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore -
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping—rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door -
Only this and nothing more….”

And it seemed every bit like the most foreboding, pitch-black midnight hour as I sat staring out the living room bay window down at the street below—but it was broad daylight—and an otherwise picture-perfect New England Autumn day outside. Big amber, red and bright-orange leaves occasionally coaxed from their branches by a breeze caught my fleeting attention as they gently floated down past the window on their annual journey back to Mother Earth. But at best I was only transiently aware of the beautiful Fall weather, as if only passing through the deceptively calm eye of a killer hurricane. Inside I felt no tranquility—no peace whatsoever. I was caught up in a hellish maelstrom—adrift on chaotic seas—without a concept of what time or even what day it was.

The opened college textbooks and the papers strewn about my desk next caught my eye only for a moment. They were exactly as I’d left them the day before. I remembered I’d been cramming for a mid-semester exam—American poets, to fill a Freshman course requirement in Humanities—when I’d first heard that frantic knocking on the door.

Reaching up, I removed the pencil I’d been holding tightly clenched in my teeth. I stared blankly at the end of it a moment before it dawned on me I’d cleanly bitten off the eraser, then summarily chewed and swallowed it as well. I absent-mindedly flipped it on top of the mounting pile of other pencils I’d similarly destroyed in the past several minutes, then promptly yanked the last virgin-pencil out of the box, stuck the new one in my mouth and started chomping on it like a beaver.

As I tossed the empty box into the wastebasket, I spotted a dumbbell lying beside it on the floor and immediately thought of Sam again. It occurred to me that Sam fiddled with dumbbells in exactly the same way that I often twiddled with paperclips or pencils. Normally it wasn’t my habit however to be annihilating whole boxes of pencils, as I was doing uncontrollably at the moment. Sam ‘twiddled’ weights all the time. He was constantly lifting something, even while he was watching TV or cooking over the stove; sometimes, even while brushing his teeth.

The big guy always seemed to have a dumbbell in his hands. Sam was born to lift weights. It was what he lived for—well, eating and sex were close runner-ups. However, I’d gradually noticed over time another side to Sam’s avid enthusiasm for ‘lifting things’. It was more as if he actually HAD to lift. I wasn’t so sure anymore that he was even fully conscious of it. He seemed involuntarily compelled by something inside of him at times—something more like a physical ‘demand,’ not unlike the need to eat and sleep. Certainly I enjoyed eating and sleeping—and the latter a lot—but I also had to sleep. At some point, I simply had no choice in the matter. That same thing seemed oddly like it might also apply to Sam’s constant lifting, as well. For him it wasn’t an option.

There were dumbbells of all sizes scattered around every room of the apartment like dust bunnies. As I panned across the living room floor, it occurred to me that a better description would be dust buffaloes. I critically surveyed with some disdain the present state of dishevel, making a mental note to clean up the place. Well, sometime soon—maybe.

I jumped up from the desk and began nervously pacing through the rest of the apartment, eventually finding myself back in the kitchen. There sat the usual mountain of unwashed dishes covering every available inch of counter space, looking more like a restaurant’s kitchen after a busy night than a private residence; big pots and pans, mounds of dirty utensils, and stacks of glasses and large oval platters piled everywhere. Sam didn’t even own a normal-sized dinner plate!

I anxiously scanned over every inch of the table, counters and other flat surfaces in the kitchen thoroughly one more time.

“Jesus Christ! Of all the DAMN times to lose my keys!” I shouted aloud, severely chastising myself again. “Where the fuck ARE they, Pete?”

I’d never felt more scared-out-of-my-wits than I did at that very moment, aimlessly roaming around Sam’s apartment. Well, I guess technically-speaking it really was our apartment. I’d been calling this place my home for quite some time now.

I yanked a chair out from under the kitchen table and collapsed on it hard. I had no choice. My legs were shaking uncontrollably and barely able to hold me upright. I held my hands out in front of me and tried to mentally ‘command’ them to cease their violent trembling—and a hopeless waste of time, I quickly discovered.

I was becoming more unglued with each passing minute and rapidly approaching the brink of genuine hysteria. And worse, my brain was only firing on one cylinder. At the moment I had no idea of what I could do, or even should be doing for that matter. I desperately needed to talk with someone but had no idea of who to call. That sudden realization just panicked me more. Then I had a sudden powerful urge to talk with my mother. I needed some fixing fast, and I definitely wanted my Mommy—and NOW! But my folks didn’t have a telephone, of course, nor would they likely ever have one. There was no way to get in touch with them quickly. Next I thought of Zec…. but ditto—Zec and his new wife had no phone either. But that gave me another idea—and temporarily, some hope as well.

Jumping up, I grabbed for the telephone to call my old roommate John, almost ripping it off the wall in the process. I let the phone ring for minutes but there was no answer. Only then I remembered John told me he was taking off for the weekend somewhere with his girlfriend.

My hopes sank as fast as a torpedoed ship—and I physically sank back down on the kitchen chair once more. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so completely alone—cut off and totally isolated.

It was almost a year ago that I’d first met Sam, and already it was Autumn again. It felt like I’d abandoned living in the college dormitory long ago. John had replaced me with Cindy, a beautiful and very buxom young coed, almost before my old dorm bed was even cold. That wasn’t at all unexpected for John either, being the hetero-stud that he was. They were even ‘an item’ now. John seemed seriously smitten by the love-bug, considering the ‘always play the field, Pete’ advice he used to give me constantly. Frankly, I don’t think Cindy’s mega-boobs were any particular deterrent to their relationship either.

But John and I had remained close friends after I’d moved out. I’d also come out to him later in the Spring. Not too surprisingly, John had been admittedly a bit confused at first. He had his memories of me and that night at the whore house to reconcile initially, at least until I explained a few things about myself to him, though nothing more than he absolutely needed to know. Afterwards, he was completely nonplussed about having this new personal information concerning my sexual orientation. John was always too comfortable with who he was to have been at all uncomfortable with who I was. That seems to be more and more the way it works with most people, I thought. Those at peace with themselves generally are at peace with others. In fact, John was genuinely happy for me that I’d met Sam. In retrospect, our meeting had worked out very well for John, too. There were obvious side-benefits. First and foremost, he got to shag Cindy nightly. Although Sam had been initially a little suspicious of John, he’d nevertheless warmed up to him quickly. John had one of those magnetic, dynamic personalities that even Sam couldn’t resist for too long. Eventually, Sam even extended John the offer to come over and use the gym whenever he liked. John, being a perpetually poor college student, immediately accepted Sam’s offer and used the gym regularly to keep his hetero sex-appeal intact. Ironically, Sam probably saw John more frequently now than I did, due to my new course schedule.

I stared at the phone for awhile, desperate for it to magically ring, and yet terrified that it might. All the while I was turning over the horrors of past 24 hours in my mind, taking them for yet one more spin around the ‘ol block.

It all started to head south when I heard a loud, anxious knock on the door yesterday evening around suppertime. When I’d opened the door, I found Gary, one of Sam’s football players from the college, standing there—and looking alarmingly upset. Sam still worked part-time at the college, more so in the Fall during the football season. Gary knew I was a close friend of Sam’s, as well as his ‘roommate,’ so he’d come over to personally tell me that Sam had just been taken into custody by the police with no explanations given.

“Pete, they just put him in handcuffs and hauled him away!”

Gary was probably reacting sympathetically to the shocked look on my face, but he offered to give me a ride over to the local police station right there on the spot—and I accepted instantly, not even pausing to grab my jacket or cap, otherwise normally a constant fixture on top of my head.

The police station was a modest-sized building standing adjacent to an equally modest Town Hall opposite the town common—or ‘the green,’ as that characteristic feature of small New England towns might be known elsewhere.

As soon as Gary dropped me off, I bolted into the station and right up to the front desk—and then waited an eternity for the on-duty desk officer to leisurely finish his two doughnuts, cup of coffee and some paperwork before he finally looked up to acknowledge me. I quickly explained to him that I was Sam’s friend and that he’d apparently just been arrested.

“What’s the guy’s name again?” he asked.

When I told him, he referred to a list on the desk.

“Yep, we have him in custody….”

I immediately asked why Sam had been arrested and what the charges were.

“That’s police business,” was his swift and final reply.

When I asked if I could see Sam myself, the cop was initially very reluctant. He finally relented as I continued to press the issue, insisting repeatedly that I was Sam’s closest ‘bud.’

“You need to pick your friends better then, kid,” he replied sternly, but added, “O.K. I’ll let you talk to the guy, but only for a couple of minutes.”

As he lead me out to the small cellblock behind the station, he offered yet another unsolicited piece of advice. “You stand away from the bars when you talk with this guy, O.K.? This guy seems really agitated—and he’s a real monster.”

Trying to reassure the cop, I replied, “I know what he looks like. I’m his friend, remember? Sam’s not a mean person at all.”

The cop seemed at best very skeptical. “You stand away from those bars anyway. You hear me, kid?”

The desk officer was in no particular rush either. As he lead me back to the cellblock, his pace was so excruciatingly slow that I nearly tripped over him several times.

And the jail was full. I hadn’t expected that in this laid-back, peaceful little town. There were two or three men in every adjacent cell. “Gee, maybe there’s a full moon or something,” I remember thinking to myself. Most of the detainees seemed to be passed out. Some were sprawled on their beds and others directly on the floor and I assumed they were mostly drunks. But there was no doubt that this was a jail. The cellblock looked dreary; all the walls were painted in that ugly, drab institutional green.

Then I spotted Sam. Let’s face it—he’s not really easy to miss. He was more than just passively occupying his cell, however. Sam was moving around inside the cell like a newly-caged tiger, his massy pectorals conspicuously heaving under his sweatshirt at regular intervals, like the flaring nostrils of an enraged bull. The desk cop was still sauntering along in front of me, walking with his head down. As Sam spotted the cop, I saw him release something inconspicuously from his hand which silently fell on top of the bed.

And Sam also had a cellmate—kind of a nasty-looking dude, and not by any means a particularly small guy either. He didn’t appear to be all that comfortable sharing that cell with Sam though. He was sitting on the floor, knees pulled up, with his body wedged tightly between the free-standing toilet and the corner. It looked obviously to me that he was attempting to maintain as low and unobtrusive a profile as possible.

“Hey you. You got a visitor,” the cop announced without so much as looking at Sam, and then turning to me, he said, “And you—you make it quick now!” Turning around, he slowly meandered back out to the front desk.

As soon as the officer was out of sight, I saw Sam bending down to pick up the object he’d clandestinely dropped on the mattress moments before. To see Sam with something in his hands, in itself, certainly wasn’t unusual to me. But somehow inside a jail cell, this wasn’t something I expected to see. But then again, why would I naively think Sam would behave any differently even if he was in jail. And what Sam was holding was a piece of slightly-bowed heavy metal channel about 3 feet long. It didn’t take me long to spot where he’d acquired it either. The end of one of the cast iron bed frames was missing … and snapped off pretty neatly.

Sam shot me only the briefest of glances, but the look on his face instantly told me that, if Sam was maybe a little scared, he was a LOT angry—almost in a wild rage. Now this was definitely something completely out of the norm. I’d never seen Sam looking so riled! Come to think of it, I’d never even seem him get worked up over anything at all.

Sam had always been easy-going and absolutely unflappable. Nothing ever bothered him. Things that upset a terrier commonly pass virtually unnoticed by a Great Dane. And on occasion, I’d gotten pissed off at him before for exactly that reason—simply because he would NOT getting upset about something when I thought he should! But merely saying that he looked ‘pissed off’ didn’t begin to capture his crazed demeanor. Honestly, what I saw made every hair on my body suddenly stand up straight. This man sure looked like Sam, but that was where any recognizable similarity ended. This ‘Sam’ appeared to be right on the edge of going completely berserk.

“Sam, are you O.K.?” I blurted out, despite seeing that he clearly was not. “Just what the HELL is this all about anyway?”

Sam didn’t answer and just continued circling like a wild man. I waited a long time before I asked him again. Eventually he started to rant, but what came out of his mouth was neither useful nor enlightening. At best it was just fragmented thoughts muttered in cryptic phrases delivered with an angry snarl.

“They says everything’d be OK…. Weren’t even nothin’ to worry about…. This here ain’t right,” Sam growled as he circled the cell. “Nobody’d ever know, they says… the PO-lice got it all wrong, they does. I just wanted ’em to leave us alone… this is all wrong… all wrong….”

“Got what wrong? Did what? Who are ‘they,’ Sam?” I hollered back, trying to get him to stand still and talk to me. Sam continued storming around wildly, slashing at the air occasionally with that nasty piece of iron casting. He began pounding the cement wall in the rear of the cell with his caveman’s club of a forearm every time he circled past it, and the chunks of concrete that kept falling to the floor demonstrated unequivocally his emotional state—not to mention the amount of force he was putting behind those blows.

Then suddenly Sam just halted—and began g-l-a-r-i-n-g down at his cellmate with a look that not only could kill, but WOULD kill, too.

Sam roared out, “And YOU—Don’t ya stare at me NO MORE!”

The way Sam waved that nasty piece of iron at the guy indicated decapitation would be the swift penalty for disobeying. At least now I could understand why the desk cop thought that I needed to be warned to stand well back from the cell.

Sam’s cellmate was so stunned that he unfortunately didn’t immediately avert his eyes from Sam. That was a definite mistake. A moment later, Sam was standing on top of the man leering down at him. With a hand on each end of the cast iron rail, he leaned over and held it out level only inches in front of the guy’s face.

In a menacingly slow and deliberate monotone voice, Sam repeated through clenched teeth, “I—SAID—DON’T—STARE….”

I saw the sleeping soldiers awaken in Sam’s sleeves, briefly jumping to full attention. In one stunningly quick motion, Sam folded the iron rail like a piece of licorice between his hands. The scream of the metal was mercifully short-lived, quickly snapping cleanly into two pieces with a loud crack. The degree of fear in his cellmate’s face said to me that cardiac arrest was a distinct possibility, but that didn’t seem to even register with Sam.

Tossing the two broken pieces aside, Sam thrust his arm downward and seized the fellow by his chest in a vice grip, sweeping up half of his jacket with a single grab of his huge paw. Then an awful noise started emanating from Sam; a sustained, very low-pitched, deep throaty rumble that reminded me more of the stalking Tyrannosaurus in Jurassic Park than a human being. As Sam began straightening up, his oversized sweatshirt snapped taunt across his entire upper torso. If the sleeping soldiers had only stirred briefly before, this time the whole battalion was scrambling for duty dressed in full battle gear, all gun magazines fully-loaded and ready for action. In one continuous motion, Sam raised his human prey straight off the floor to the height of his own chest and then effortlessly suspended him there. Bulging muscles appeared everywhere like lava domes underneath Sam’s sweatshirt, his sleeve was so taxed it was a shade lighter than the rest of his sweatshirt and the shape of it suggesting a regulation-sized football had mysteriously become wedged inside.

The man’s mouth hung wide open as he stared at Sam in horror—but he wasn’t uttering a sound. But I was certain that at any second, I was going to witness a pair of human eyeballs literally popping right out of their sockets. Then as if simply opening a chest drawer, Sam slowly drew the man into his own body until they were almost nose-to-nose and then held him there face-to-face with his one arm for the longest time, all-the-while growling at him like a predacious carnivore. It was a terrifying, utterly animal sound. Apparently now satisfied with his threat display, Sam began lifting the man even higher. The broad heads of his deltoid expanded like an over-inflating dome to accommodate his will—and as a direct result, his shoulder seams opened up in three directions, giving way all at once. Sam looked briefly at the shoulder of his sweatshirt, probably distracted by to the sound of tearing material, and then he immediately returned his focus back to the man. Sam continued lifting the man skyward as easily as if he were raising his hand to answer a teacher’s question until he’d firmly planted the back of his cellmate’s shoulders squarely against the ceiling. Terrified, I held my breath waiting to see what would happened next.

But Sam applied no additional pressure. Instead, he simply held the man pinned to the ceiling, leering at him disdainfully. But slowly, Sam’s guttural growls subsided and his expression change from enraged to something that appeared more inquisitive, as if observing an animal trapped in a cage. It was that unmistakably boyish expression I’d seen on him before on some occasions, as if Sam was now thinking, “Say, how’d you get up there in this predicament anyway?” Ultimately, Sam either decided that this wasn’t worth his effort or perhaps he’d just finished venting his pent-up anger—or maybe he even felt suddenly sorry for the guy. I really have no idea of what Sam was feeling. But whatever his reasons, eventually Sam just smoothly lowered the terrified guy down again, tucking him back in his corner between the toilet and the cell bars like he was putting a rag doll back to bed. Then Sam awkwardly patted him on the head, as if saying, “It’s O.K. now. It was just a bad dream, that’s all.”

As soon as the guy was released from Sam’s grasp however, he cowered down further and pressed his body into the corner like a contortionist, as if trying to completely disappear into the floor and walls. I knew somehow that this incident was done and over with for now, and that Sam wasn’t likely to even notice this guy again, whether or not he stared. At least Sam had gotten that—if nothing else—out of his system.

I bent over and, with my hands on my knees, forced myself to take several deep breaths—not only sighs of relief, but even more to recover at least partially the wits I’d been frightened out of. For a moment I had feared for his cellmate’s life. Sam had come too close to totally losing control. He seemed every bit capable of seriously maiming—or possibly even murder. This unnerved me to the bone. This was NOT the Sam I knew. But it was even more bizarre when I became suddenly aware of something else: not only had this enraged monster just scared the living daylights out of me, but he’d also oddly given me an enraged boner in the process.

But Samson immediately resumed his distressed pacing, and soon started mumbling again only minor variations of the same themes as before. I wasn’t going to get anything more useful out of him in his currently agitated state. He was still one very riled-up dude.

I decided my priority at the moment had to be focused only on getting Sam calmed down—if I could somehow manage that. I wasn’t sure. This savage man-mountain needed some extra TLC and soothing but fast. I also was paying closer attention now to the growing damage that Sam was unconsciously causing to that cement wall, too—and this sent up some big red flags. His wall-pounding had to be stopped immediately before the damage became more noticeable than it already was. So I began talking non-stop with as soothing a tone of voice as I could muster, hoping to successfully penetrate that sometimes very thick skull of his.

I babbled that Gary had come over and told me he was in jail; that Gary had also given me a ride down to the station; that Gary had offered to stay and close up the gym if I wasn’t back in time; that I was going to get hold of lawyer right away—immediately—as soon as I left. I told Sam that I’d go through the student-advocate program at the college; that they’d provide legal assistance free-of-charge to registered undergraduates or faculty. I said that I’d be back in the morning with a lawyer. I told him that I’d do whatever was necessary—absolutely whatever—to get him out of jail. And repeatedly, I kept telling him to JUST CALM DOWN … to take deep breaths. “Just breathe, Sam. Big, deep breaths.” I told him not to worry about anything at all, and that I’d take care of everything.

Sam continued circling the perimeter of the cell as I rambled on and on. Gradually, his pacing became less frantic—and certainly less destructive—than before. At least now he only slammed the wall on every third or fourth pass. But for my own peace of mind, I needed to also be absolutely sure I was ‘in contact’ with the big bruiser. To test the real quality of this ‘communication’ I made a clear demand to see how he’d respond. Actually, I hollered so loudly that I startled even myself.

“Sam, I WILL be back … honest! Everything’s gonna be OK! DO YOU UNDERSTAND? STOP AND LOOK AT ME!”

How I could have been making such unsubstantiated promises though—well, I simply didn’t know. I didn’t know a single useful detail about even the circumstances concerning his arrest, as yet. Nevertheless, I promised anyway. My immediate goal was only to get Sam settled-down right now, calming him with repeated reassurances that everything was going to be O.K.

Sam’s pacing slowed until he eventually stopped and stood still. Looking at me with a sincerely worried expression now, he spoke more deliberately.

“Yeah, O.K. Thanks. Thanks, Pete. Appreciate all that, I does. A lot….”

Suddenly having gained his undivided attention, I quickly stepped up to the cell and grabbed the bars. Sticking my head between them, I whispered loudly, “Pssssssstt,” clearly indicating that I wanted to speak very privately with him now. Sam walked up to the front of the cell and stood there looking down at me, covering my hands with his own on the bars.

Mimicking me exactly, he whispered back, “Yep. What’s up, Pete?”

In a loud whisper, I replied, “Sam—You gotta STOP hitting that wall—or anything else for that matter! CALM DOWN! You STOP it right now! Do you hear me? Stop it. NO MORE!! Promise me?”

“I hears ya. O.K., Pete. I won’t hit nothin’ no more. I promise,” he whispered back, grinning as if this was all some kind of game. When he brought one arm down and clandestinely reached through the bars and started unzipping my fly, I knew what game he had in mind, too.

God, the big lug could absolutely annoy the hell out of me to no end sometimes!

Backing away, I said, “Sam, you just be cool and sit tight now. I’ll get you out of here—and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Then, glancing back at the crumbling rear wall, I quickly added, “Aahh… or couldn’t do myself, buddy. O.K.?”

Reassuring Sam one final time that I’d be back in the morning, I departed. I spent the rest of the evening getting the Student Advocate at the College, professionally a lawyer, involved to help Sam out. Thank God the guy seemed both very concerned and extremely competent. It was well past midnight however by the time that he had the bail part even arranged. The lawyer told me that it couldn’t be posted until the morning, and that I should go home and get some rest.

I was absolutely exhausted and it was already well after midnight. I took his advice and headed back home to try to get some sleep. I was just beginning to feel a bit better, too—if ever so slightly—when I eventually turned into bed. I didn’t sleep much though. It was pretty weird being alone in that apartment for the very first time since I’d moved in. I suddenly missed Sam something awful. I was also absolutely wildly horny, which I thought very odd, especially under the circumstances. I must have spanked the monkey four times in quick succession. Even once would have been a rare event ever since I’d met Sam. The big guy emptied my tanks routinely often several times a day! Lucky, lucky me.

Well that was what had happened the day before, but it all seemed like ancient history to me now, as I sat there in the kitchen staring alternately at the dirty dishes and the telephone.

My thoughts now turned to everything that had happened since then. Yesterday’s events paled against the surreal nightmare that today grew worse with every passing hour. Someone was walking over my grave.

I glanced at my shaking hands again. “Yep. Parkinson’s,” I thought to myself. Then to hold back the tears that suddenly welled up in my eyes, I started to yelling, “Where the fuck are those God-damn truck keys, Peter? Just what the FUCK is HAPPENING, PETER?”

And that was it—the crux of my whole dilemma. You see, I didn’t really have a clue.


Part 19: Into Thin Air

The kitchen door suddenly creaked, nudged by a sudden gusty breeze that came through an open kitchen window. It was a crystal-clear Fall day with the concomitant northwesterly wind. That loud sound momentarily distracted me. Glancing over at the wide-opened door, I recalled that the State Police had failed to shut it behind them when they’d left abruptly. Then I remembered that whole surreal scene, too, had only happened a few minutes ago.

They’d unexpectedly arrived at my door only moments after I’d returned to the apartment myself. I’d walked down to the town police station earlier in the morning to meet the lawyer and get Sam bailed out of jail. I was so out of breath from having finished my first ever cross-town marathon that I could barely utter a word when the police walked in and began firing questions at me. I’d run at least 7 miles, I reckoned. I reckoned? Reckoning was one of Sam’s expressions I’d assimilated.

The State Police were deadly serious and intimidating. They expected both fast and detailed answers from me, and I could offer them neither. I was still gasping for air, and I knew nothing anyway. Well… practically nothing. At least I’d had the common sense not to divulge a couple of items of information. These were just little things that I’d randomly stumbled across—things that were, to me, only Sam’s personal business anyway. By themselves, they’d never made much sense to me. They seemed insignificant and unrelated at the time I’d first become aware of them. These were little things that, taken individually, would not have caused me to ask Sam more about them. But given everything that had happened in the past 24 hours, some of these now seemed possibly of importance. I wondered if they might be somehow all tied together, however unfathomably.

The ‘Staties’ were irate when I wasn’t able to give them any useful information. As they departed, they left me a verbal list of “do’s & don’t’s” that I was sternly warned to follow to the letter. I’d instinctively kept my mouth shut. There was no sense throwing more potential fuel on the already blazing 5-alarm inferno that suddenly erupted very early that morning when I’d gone to the police station to bail Sam out.

I’d decided to walk down to the station. After such a restless night, I needed a long walk just to clear my head. It was one of those last gorgeous, lingering warm ‘Indian Summer’ mornings before the weather would turn sharply colder and the snow would inevitably begin to fall.

As soon as I entered the station’s small lobby, I looked for my lawyer. He wasn’t there yet, so I took a seat near the duty desk to wait for him to arrive. It was shift change time, and a few officers were hanging around in the vicinity of the front desk. It was a moment later that I heard someone yelling. The sound was coming from the cellblock. Suddenly a very excited cop raced out of the block hollering, “We’ve got a big problem! Come here quick! You are NOT going to believe this,” as he urged the other cops with frantic waves of his arms to follow him back into the cell block.

The commotion reminded me of a Three Stooges movie at first, and I watched the antics with mild amusement. Seconds later, however, a cold chill suddenly shot through my entire body. I had this really awful feeling. Impulsively, I jumped up and quickly followed behind the last cop heading back towards the jail.

There was complete pandemonium inside—hollering and yelling everywhere. My immediate impression was that a bomb had been detonated. I looked instantly for Sam. I didn’t see him in his cell. In fact—I didn’t even see his cell anymore. It was only an opened area now between the two other cells on either side of where it had once been. A large pile of twisted steel now laid precariously against the opposite wall, so mangled that it wasn’t immediately recognizable as the entire intact front of the jail cell—bars, door and all—still encased in a horrifically-distorted thick steel frame that originally had held everything in place. As I looked at it more closely, I saw that the solid welds all around the fractured frame had been literally ripped apart.

I heard another voice, distinct from the rest, calling out, “Get me down! Jesus, my balls!”

Turning my head, I saw Sam’s stout cellmate hanging suspended by the belt on his pants high up the side of one of the remaining cells, hung like a coat on a hook with his feet well off the floor. He was semi-lethargic, as if he might have been hit and knocked out, and was only now beginning to move his arms and legs about. There was blood on his face coming from a real ugly-looking gash on his head that was still bleeding a little. That ‘hook’ on which he was hung appeared to have been custom-manufactured right on the spot. A steel bar had been snapped cleanly immediately above a cross-brace, and then bent down to form a crude—but effective—hanger. Another cop was unsuccessfully trying at the moment to lift the heavy guy up enough to get him down from his crotch gallows.

I looked back at the mangled frame of steel bars again, studying it more carefully this time. I could see where two bars on opposite sides of the door had been either pushed out or pulled in, not being sure which side of the frame I was actually looking at. It was obvious though that the thick bars had also been pulled violently in towards each other as well, snapping some of the horizontal cross braces in the process. These two bars were more twisted than the others, and to my eyes anyway, were apparently the handholds used. When I bent over for a closer look, I could even make out precisely were a hand had obviously gripped each one. There were ridges in the compressed steel showing where each finger had been distinctly placed as if squeezing a cylinder of clay. But beyond that, the entire wall of steel bars had been deliberately crushed even further, giving the whole outer encasement it’s now wracked three dimensional hourglass appearance. I backed away as some officers began struggling to lift the twisted steel wreckage in an attempt to unblock the corridor.

Amidst the ongoing confusion, I continued to just look around. The other prisoners were still inside their crumpled, but still relatively intact adjacent cells. They just stood there rather quietly, looking a bit dazed and bewildered. The one closest to me caught my eye. He was pointing his finger towards a gaping breach at the far end of the cellblock that I hadn’t even noticed yet.

Speaking quietly just to me, he said, “Your friend went that ‘o way….”

Only twisted pieces of the steel hinges remained where I remembered seeing a solid steel rear door the night before. Then I spotted the actual door itself through the hole in the wall. It laid outside on the ground in the rear parking lot, many feet from the back of the building. Even at this distance I could see that the door was incredibly bowed out. It looked as if it had been hit roughly in the middle by an artillery shell that had not only blown it right off it’s hinges, but also taken out a goodly portion of the cement wall around it as well.

My attention moved back inside when I caught one of the cops saying over and over again excitedly, “You should have seen this guy. Man, was he BIG!” The implication was immediately, of course, that at least this cop thought Sam was responsible for this bomb-like devastation. “You should have SEEN him, Sarge! The guy was a MOUNTAIN!”

The sergeant in-charge, having heard quite enough of this nonsense, decided to squash this preposterous notion entirely before it got any more attention.

“Well, I don’t give a damn HOW big he was. This guy had help. It’s obvious that there were other accomplices. Call the state police and put out an A.P.B. We’ve got a manhunt on our hands.” He barked out the names of a few of the cops and, pointing outside, ordered, “Get going. Fan out and nail the bastard….”

In all of this non-stop pandemonium, it didn’t seem that any of the cops had really noticed me yet, or at least they weren’t paying any attention up to that point. But the word ‘manhunt’ was all that I needed to hear. Pivoting on my heels in a full-blown panic, I ran out the front door of the station at flank-speed. With my adrenaline now in full control, I continued at a full gallop all the way across town until I finally reached my apartment again. That was only moments before the State Police had arrived.

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“So where the HELL ARE YOU now, Sam,” I hollered out one more time in frustration, as if I’d hear his voice suddenly answering me now from the bathroom. “And Why the HELL did you DO THIS?” Still no answer. “And where HELL are those GOD DAMNED keys! This place is a fuckin’ pig sty!”

Lashing out in anger, I nearly put my foot through the door as I kicked it shut. I apparently couldn’t even do that right, the door hitting the jam so hard that the latch didn’t have time to catch before the recoil swung it wide open again. I could never find anything in the apartment; the irony was that Sam could always put his finger on anything, and at any time.

I knew that the police, and even the Staties, probably wouldn’t catch Sam—well, at least not right away—especially if he’d thought to head off the beaten path somewhere. But I was worried that he wouldn’t necessarily have thought to do that. Sam wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed—only the biggest. The events of this morning had only reconfirmed that for me once again. However, I knew the big lug could really move with some serious speed when he wanted to—exactly like a freight train building up momentum. The police would no doubt underestimate his top running speed—and rather dramatically so. When Sam got that gargantuan physique of his rolling, he was astonishingly fast for his immense size—for ANY size, actually.

And over time, I’d learned some other things about Sam that the police didn’t know yet either. Granted, I didn’t understand them all—but regardless, they were undeniable, at least to me. For awhile, I’d even believed that possibly no one else knew but me. But now, I couldn’t be so sure about that anymore.

One of them concerned Sam’s stamina and endurance. It was beyond anything the police could—or more importantly at the moment—WOULD ever imagine. Sam could move like a locomotive. He also had a few other characteristics in common with a locomotive, too—and those, at least I hoped, the police were still not fully aware of. But for the time being, I didn’t think the police would honestly buy that Sam, even being a very big guy, could even remotely possess the strength needed to make case-hardened thick steel yield to his will. We’re not talkin’ about bending some little ‘ol piece of steel rebar, here—and even then, I’d only seen one of the big regulars at the ‘Big IS Better’ who could even do that!

But it remained however that the police might consider this a wild possibility at some point, and that worried me right out of my mind. I wondered if anyone had actually seen anything. Maybe the drunks in the other cells were still passed out when it’d happened. I remembered that Sam’s cellmate certainly looked as if his lights had been turned out intentionally. Although the thought that Sam might have assaulted anyone also upset me greatly, for the moment I chose to overlook it. So maybe… there might be no actual witnesses. I simply didn’t know. Beyond the fact that Sam had clearly busted out of jail and was currently a fugitive from the law, I didn’t understand why he had fled, what the circumstances were around his arrest, or whether—heaven forbid—he was even dead or alive.

So there I sat, helplessly glued to the kitchen chair by incapacitating fear—feeling like a mushroom in the dark, firmly rooted deep in shit. I had no viable ideas of who I could possibly turn to, or what to even do next.

My thoughts began to quickly wander off. That old fail-safe mechanism in my brain was once again activated, turning on like a safety-valve to automatically prevent me from reaching critical mass. My mind drifted farther away from this current nightmare, slowly but surely transporting me to a place that felt far more safe and secure. I began to retreat into my memories where time itself became benevolently suspended—and I began to remember and then relive in vivid detail every single event over the entire past year. At least for me, such intense ‘daydreaming’ had always been my time-tested ultimate escape.

I found myself genuinely marveling at how very much my life had changed, almost from the moment that Sam and I had met. A short-lived smile spread across my face as I acknowledged again to myself how unbelievably wonderful it had really been—how having Sam in my life had become a joy I could never have even imagined. My eyes even got a little misty momentarily as I recalled that it also had been much the same for Sam—how much he loved me, too. For me, these special feelings were something of a miracle, for Sam dwelled in my heart now. Perhaps it was merely chance, though Sam always maintained that it was our destiny all along. Given who we both were, perhaps it simply could have been no other way. But whatever the reasons, the bond between us was almost immediate—and magical.

Through Sam, it seemed that I’d found and then slowly reclaimed a large piece of my soul. Although it had taken time, eventually I’d learned to ‘let the genie out of the bottle.’ However, for me it was not a single or one-time event, as perhaps I’d rather naively thought at that time. It was not something that, done once, was completed forever. For me, learning to ‘let go’ had been a process—and a slow and difficult one. It was something that I had to willfully choose to do, over-and-over again, quite consciously. For me, it had not come easily. I thought of how Sam had been infinitely patient and understanding, as if he somehow implicitly understood in his own way my struggle was about ‘self and soul’—and eventually, I learned.

And that journey began on the very first night we’d met—my birthday too, I remembered. I’d thought about it many times in these months that followed. Every moment of that first night with Sam I could still recall in vivid detail. It will always be, for me—unforgettable. I thought about Samson and how genuinely pleased he was to be able to ‘do some liftin’ for me just to fulfill a birthday wish; moreover, I remembered how I’d struggled to even ask him directly—the pain of embarrassingly expressing that to him aloud. I thought about that giant barbell that he’d curled, and how he’d done that just for me. I recalled how the ground literally shook when it hit the floor. I remembered how thrilled Sam was when I told him that, yes—his biceps were ‘big enough’ for me. I pictured those utterly-engorged, rock-hard, planet-sized Titan’s once again, and what it felt like to touch them for the first time, recalling anew their salty taste, and the erotic cataclysm that followed.

My whole Earth had moved forever, and I’d thought that experience was the real birthday cake … the delicious dessert—and that nothing could ever be hotter. But in retrospect, that was only the appetizer for what followed. The party had only just begun.


Part 20: Weighing the Evidence

“You don’t have big muscles. Sam, you’ve got the big-EST muscles!” I remembered how Sam’s face had blushed big-time when I’d said that to him before he rebuffed it by saying, “Ah… I think I needs to grab me just a quick shower first….”

Well, that was my truth then, and it has remained my truth ever since. Having lived with Sam and also around Sam’s world for many months—and specifically having lived ironically over a gym—I mean, of all the possible places I could have ended up—I’d seen a few other fairly big and well-developed men from time to time downstairs using the facilities. I had something much more concrete now that supported that original assumption of mine even more.

Sam actually did take that shower and it was a very long one at that. And when he finally reappeared, I was still sitting there with my butt parked on that same chair. I remember that as Sam walked over to me, he was still rubbing his head with a towel. He’d also doffed his singlet in favor of a pair of sweats again, his much preferred hanging-around-the-house gear—really it was ‘everywhere’ gear I’d learn quickly enough. It never mattered to me what he wore. The magnificent stud just looked hot in everything—and hotter in nothing at all.

“You can get up off that chair and look around all ya want,” he said, gesturing with his arm around the gym, “and try the equipment, too! I’m gonna run upstairs and get some food cookin’. I’ll holler when it’s ready—or you can come on up anytime when you’re done down here, O.K.?”

I offered to help him again but he refused, saying, “Hey, I’m really starvin’, Pete! I needs me some food—and NOW! But I appreciates your offer, I does.” Then with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, he added, “See, the truth is… you’d just be distractin’ me somethin’ powerful. We wouldn’t be eatin’ ‘till New Years if I let you in my kitchen right now….”

He put one of his big paws on top of my head and roughed up my hair a bit, then surprised me by suddenly bending over and kissing me again—and leaving half my face red from beard-burn in the process. I wasn’t complaining in the slightest though. I’d really never kissed a man, before Sam. This kind of kissing was a whole new experience for me—and I liked it. I liked it a lot. I liked the way Sam’s beard felt on my skin—the sensations it created all around my lips, chin and cheeks. I liked the feel of his hungry wet lips and mouth. Each was, in itself, powerfully stimulating and turning me on. I’d kissed girls before—rarely, even my Mom—but it wasn’t at all like kissing a real man. These kisses felt wildly different. Sam’s made me feel instantly alive, as if I’d never really kissed at all before. They seemed forceful, solid, and passionately hot. For the first time in my life, kissing was now suddenly erotic and sexual; moreover, Sam’s way of ‘sucking face’ made my blood boil.

As he finally broke away and turned to go upstairs, he pointed to the locker room door and told me to feel free to take a shower, too, if I wanted. He’d left the lights on, and set a stack of clean towels and even a pair of clean sweats on a counter in there for me, if I wanted to change. Well, I lived in jeans like Sam lived in sweats. I appreciated his offer anyway. They just weren’t my thing.

I did spend a good deal of time slowing poking around the gym after Sam disappeared upstairs. It was a good-sized facility and seemed to have every piece of equipment imaginable, including a few that I’d never seen before. I didn’t use the free weights, but did spend some time on the machines. I seemed to have a lot of excess energy and hit them with some real determination, actually working up a considerable lather after awhile.

I heard the faint sound of music; possibly a radio. Yes, it was a Pepsi jingle. Sam must have flipped it on in the kitchen upstairs. The sound was travelling down the long narrow back stairwell and through the wide-opened rear door of the gym, then bouncing around the big quiet room like a faint echo.

There was a partial wall located towards the rear of the gym. We’d walked by it before when we first entered, but I hadn’t noticed. I walked over to see what was behind it and found that the partition was actually an open, doorless office. The wall sectioned off that small area from the rest of the main room. There were filing cabinets, a small TV, counters, a desk, and papers plastered all over the walls along with a large bulletin board, too. I flipped a light switch and more overhead lights came on. There were a few group photos of some hunky muscular guys taken in the gym. There were also a couple of larger single photographs of a few bigger guys with impressive muscles in rather skimpy bathing suits, or so they seemed to me. Certainly not the type of suit that I’d ever be caught dead strutting the beach wearing anyway, even if I had those muscles. I’d surely have been arrested for indecent exposure if I tried to cram myself into one of those. One of the really muscular dudes sort of reminded me of Gabe; enough that I stepped up to take a closer look at it for awhile. This dude in the picture wasn’t Gabe certainly, but I could see why some of his features had brought Gabe to mind. This dude was seriously big though—the biggest dude in any of the photos by far—with short hair and a hot-looking beard, too. Woof! Sometimes a beard looks sexy on certain guys. Everything about this major hottie deserved a ‘two dicks up’ rating in my book, even if my biased approval of the stud in the photo was only because he’d transiently reminded me of some very pleasant high school memories.

I began to look over some of the other stuff hanging on the walls. There were various charts, magazine and newspaper clippings, flyers and brochures, and a few large posters of specific exercise equipment—manufacturers’ advertisements. I was surprised that there wasn’t a photo of Sam anywhere. For some reason, I’d really expected to see one. There probably isn’t a wall big enough I thought, grinning to myself, then continued to looked over the photos. For as muscular as those big guys in the photos obviously were, not one of them even began to approach Sam’s astounding physical development; moreover, I doubted any of them ever could.

The desk seemed to have Sam’s name written all over it, too. There was an eclectic mix of items and papers either piled high or randomly strewn about. Neat and tidy it definitely was not. I noted that Sam apparently used small hand dumbbells for paperweights. A few special piles and some individual papers had the dumbbells seemingly placed intentionally on top of them. “Well, it’s different anyway,” I thought to myself. Most of the desk drawers were in various states of openness, too. My own desk on its worst days couldn’t begin to compare with this trash heap. How he could begin to find anything on it was a total mystery to me.

The very bottom drawer was almost wide open. I closed the partially-opened drawer immediate above it to have a better look inside. It contained only two items. I picked up an unlabelled can and popped off the lid. The contents reminded me of white lithium grease with no particular odor that I identify. Putting it back in the drawer, I picked up the other item. It was a solid, shiny black rubber cylinder that vaguely reminded me of a police Billie club. It had a definite handle on one end alright, and the opposite end was slightly tapered and rounded. I picked it up and was immediately amazed at it’s weight. This thing was massive—much thicker and heavier than any police club—one very serious weapon. In fact, it was probably the largest piece of solid molded rubber I’d ever seen, easily weighing 10 pounds or more—heavy enough to knock someone unconscious and break a bone or two in the process. It was almost rigid, only bending and bouncing ever-so-slightly as I waved it with my wrist. It also felt kind of greasy, too. Well, Sam was certainly big enough to wield it very effectively. He must have kept it there for an emergency.

I began to look more closely as some of the papers on top of the desk—and a big pile of bills was evident among them. There were also a few letters too, and I paused to read a couple of them.

TO: Samson ______,

I was disappointed to hear that you’ve once again refused to accept my very sincere offer. A man with your very exceptional qualities would be highly valued within our organization. My offer is an extremely generous one, considering the need for your specific services is relatively infrequent and your time investment would be, at the most, very minimal.

Declining this offer is simply not in your best long-term interests. Certainly there must be something else I can do to convince you of that. I now believe that you may not appreciate all of the possible ramifications of your decision.

My representative will again be calling on you in the near future to insure that you do fully comprehend what is potentially at stake, as well as to review the details of my proposal once again with you. Your continuing refusal unfortunately does place me in an awkward position.

I strongly encourage you to please once again very seriously reconsider.

Yours Truly,

D. F.

Mathew K. Marantz, M.D., Ph.D.
Department of Applied Sports Medicine Research
School of Medicine
State College

Dear Sam,

I am very embarrassed to have to inform you that not only have my records on your case been misplaced, but also your blood and tissue samples as well. I’d hoped they were only mislabeled accidentally, but unfortunately to date we haven’t been able to locate them. Frankly, I’m baffled as to how this could have happened.

I was honored that you so willingly volunteered to undergo that extensive medical evaluation when I’d initially approached you about this in the field house. I know that undergoing medical tests isn’t always a pleasant experience either. All the more reason why I want you to know how very much I’ve appreciated your spirit of volunteerism and cooperation with this research project. Moreover, I’ve enjoyed getting to know you more personally over these past few months very much.

As you already know, the preliminary results of our initial work up on you were in many ways extraordinary and unexpected. You are one VERY interesting man, Sam!

I dislike having to ask you to possibly go through this all over again, but I’m hoping that you will agree to reschedule another series of appointments through my office at your convenience so that we can repeat the full work up again. I remain hopeful that both your file and samples will turn up shortly and this can all be avoided.

Sam, please accept my sincerest apologies for these unexplainable problems. As I’ve said, this is all personally very embarrassing. I hope you will be the good sport about this, just one more time for me.

Sincerely your friend,


Well, I certainly agreed with this Matt guy that Sam is ‘one VERY interesting man,’ but I doubted that he found him interesting in quite the same ways that I did.

I glanced more closely at some of the clippings, too. One of them was clearly a list of current international world records for weightlifting events taken out of some publication or magazine. There was a column of men’s names, and many of them were foreign. Next to each name was an international city where I assumed the competitions took place, the date when the new world record was set, the type of event (bench press, clean and jerk, dead lift, squat, curl, shoulder press), and the new record weight lifted, in kilograms. There was a hand-written note tacked to the board immediately to the right of the clipping. Written on that note were the same weightlifting events, the current world record weight copied from the clipping, and another hand-written date different than the date in the clipping, and a big red check mark beside each. I noticed that many of the hand-written dates were earlier dates than those in the clipping.

I still had no real idea how much total weight Sam had curled. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to tell that it was an extraordinarily heavy mass. But just how much? Seeing these clippings, I also found myself wondering how Sam’s curls compared relative to the current world record. Well my curiosity was peaked and I could figure this all out easily enough.

I walked back out into the main gym and over to the massive barbell—the one that Sam had curled so many times that I’d simply lost count. It still lay exactly where he’d dropped it on the floor. As I strolled up to it, I gave the stack of weights on one end of it a hard shove with the bottom of my foot to ‘size it up’ roughly—to roll it, if even only a little. It didn’t even rock, let alone roll. It remained absolutely motionless, and no doubt was laughing at my foolish insolence too. Now that I was standing directly over it, the monstrosity was even larger than I’d thought. The individual plates were enormous things. I bent over and, leaning on top of one of the stacks, looked at the side of the outer plate—then similarly, the innermost one. They were both the same weight.

A number was stamped into the casting and clearly marked in pounds. I remembered that all those world records I’d seen in that clipping were in kilograms. Well thanks to my higher education, I’d learned a few things in addition to a great number of new cuss words, or that there were actually many names, in fact, for a penis; I’d also learned that 1 pound equaled roughly 1/2 kilogram. Counting the plates, I did the rough math in my head. Hmmm…. I must have mixed up curls with some other world record I thought, so I walked backed into the office and noted the world curling record again from the clipping. I had remembered it correctly.

I walked back out and stood puzzled over the massive barbell again, trying to figure out what I was doing wrong with the conversion from pounds to kilograms. Maybe I’d flipped them. No, one pound does equal roughly 1/2 kilogram—that was accurate enough and correct. I recounted the plates on one end and multiplied by two to get the total weight in pounds. I also realized that I also wasn’t even including the significant weight of the thick bar itself. I ran the math again in my head and compared my result with the published world record from the clipping. Then I did it all over too, rechecking everything again. Finally, I was forced to accept there was absolutely nothing wrong with my math at all!

I paused to very carefully ponder the deeper meaning of this discovery. Some moments later, an alarming spontaneous warm wetness in my underwear announced that I had, indeed, reached the only correct conclusion possible—and this revelation had so unnerved me that I’d pissed right in my pants. Correction—WAS still pissing in my pants. I seemed to have no control over my bladder. Someone stole the faucet. Absolutely bewildered, I looked down at my jeans to confirm to myself that I’d indeed gotten that right, too. Yep, I sure did. No doubt about it. I’d let it all go—every last drop—like a baby in a diaper.

So Sam’s suggestion of a shower now didn’t sound really like a bad idea after all. Still somewhat dazed and confused, I stumbled off towards the locker room, rerunning the math again in my head and still getting the same old answer each time.

I took a very long—and very hard—and very hot—shower, letting the water endlessly beat down across the back of my neck and shoulders as thick clouds of steam filled the shower room, turning the air opaque. I stood there mulling over many things in my mind—all of them concerning Sam in one way or another, not probably surprisingly. ‘Big muscles’ were a recurring theme. I had to rethink everything I’d seen up to the moment. Now, with my acquisition of this new discovery, my whole concept of Sam had to change, too. I needed to put things in a new perspective. God, his strength alone was unfathomable! I turned it all over and over again in my mind as the scalding water tried to strip the very skin from my body. I really wasn’t noticing. The reality of Samson was a lot for me to absorb—maybe just too much, and too fast. The guy was one incredible specimen of manhood to ‘get’ in a mere few hours. I also felt like a kid suddenly turned loose in a candy store, and a part of me did not like that feeling and was resisting it. My natural temperament was to keep that genie tightly corked. I needed to slow it down—to be a bit ‘more cool’ about everything. Yeah, way more cool, in fact. But now, even the mere thought of Sam blew the cork off instantly—and blew my cock up apparently too, as I glanced down and realized that the whole time I’d been lost in my thoughts, I’d also been unconsciously holding big meat again in my hand and kneading it like a half-inflated balloon. How I could ever be ‘more cool’ when I never been this uncontrollably hot in my whole life?

“HEY PETE? COME AND GET IT!” I heard Sam yell loudly.

It sounded like Sam was probably standing at rear door of the gym. “Come and get it,” were not the words I particularly needed to be hearing at that exact moment though, as I felt my cock’s sudden ‘expansive mood’ in my hand.


I needed more than a minute to at least let some air out of THIS spare. Being ‘more cool’ in my book meant not arriving at the kitchen table with ‘Little Johann’ rudely pointing the way to the food like a divining rod.

There was so much steam in the shower room that I couldn’t immediately see the door. I turned off the shower and fumbled my way back into the locker room and began to towel off. I glanced in a mirror as I reached for my jeans and noted the par-boiled lobster looking back at me. Then I remembered that I’d spontaneously christened my own jeans, and then a quick spot-inspection told me that they’d be out-of-service for quite awhile longer. I grabbed for the sweats that Sam had also left out for me, thinking, “Well, when in Rome, do as the Romans,” and proceeded to slip comfortably into—well—something resembling a circus tent, I guess. There was no doubt that these sweats belonged to Sam, personally. I’d always preferred baggy clothing, but this was comically oversized even on me. I grabbed the label in the back of the top and easily pulling it around in front of my eyes, I read, “Burnam’s Big & Tall Men’s Shoppe … SIZE XXXL”. I thought the label was missing a few other roman numerals, too—like maybe a few C’s, or even M’s! You could hold a damn wedding under this thing! Well thankfully, the drawstrings and elastics were in good shape, so I drew the chords tight around my waste and tied it off, leaving enough excess to make a clothes line. Next, I pulled the wrist and ankle elastics up over my biceps and thighs respectively, turning half of the sleeves and legs inside out, folded over on themselves. Even then, they still came down to my wrists and ankles. The neck hole in the sweatshirt was so large that my shoulders almost slipped through it like an Italian boat-neck, and my shoulders weren’t particularly narrow for my height.

Having everything finally tucked in, pulled up and otherwise tied down, I remembered to transfer a few items from a pocket in my jeans to a pocket in these sweatpants. Then I turned to quickly inspect my whole ensemble in the mirror.

And there stood Aladdin—right out of the Arabian Nights—looking back at me in the mirror. Actually I looked SO totally ridiculous that I roared with laughter at myself. Well at least this was definitely the right outfit to be wearing to release a genie from a lamp, I thought—and if nothing else, it was also an instant reality check as to exactly ‘how much man’ it took to fill these clothes—which he did rather snugly, at that. “God, what a man,” I thought to myself. The spare was gaining air again suddenly.

I heard Sam’s yelling again. “PETE—YA COMING?”

“CAN’T WAIT!” Aladdin hollered back, still grinning in the mirror.


Part 21: Happy Meals

Sam already had the food dished out and waiting on the table by the time I appeared in my Aladdin Halloween get-up. Gratefully, he made no comment about how comical I looked dressed in his loaned sweats, but only gestured to the empty chair and said, “Sit down! I’s starvin’! Let’s EAT!”

And eat we definitely did. It’s hard to think of where to begin describing the sight in front of me, or the state of the kitchen in general. There were dishes and big pots and pans all over the place. The amount of food on the table was staggering, with bowls covering almost every available inch of the table. I looked over my shoulder for the rest of the missing platoon, certain that they would all be arriving any second for dinner.

First of all, there were no dinner plates. There were these huge, oval platters where the plates were supposed to be. And on the platter set before me, the first thing I noticed was not a scoop—not a pile—not even a mound—but a VOLCANO of egg noodles. I’d seen noodles every day of my life. If there had also been some Bauernschmaus, Ochsenschwanzsuppe or Eisbein (sauerkraut with smoked sausage, ox tail soup or pig knuckles) on the table, I’d have felt right at home. One glance at these egg noodles though told me they weren’t home-made. My mom’s always were. Egg noodles are the Amish equivalent of the potato, but functionally, they’re more like what bread is to the Italians. It was always on the table at every meal, only not quite in the quantity waiting for me on my platter. And adjacent to the volcano of noodles sat a whole chicken. No, not a quail—not a game hen—not even a split-broiler—it was one fully-grown god-damn chicken. Flanking the middle of the platter were, I’d say, 1/2 bushel each of carrots and peas. Calling this ‘a heap of food’ was a gross understatement. I looked at the fork in my hand and found it laughably undersized for the challenge at hand, and wondered if Sam might have a garden trowel available. That would have been the utensil of choice for THIS meal. I will say however in Sam’s defense, that at least the proportions of starches, protein and vegetables on the plate were approximately correct. It was the overall quantity that made me instantly nauseous.

I was so stunned that I couldn’t decide where to even begin. I just looked at my platter, then looked across at Sam, and then back and forth again. Sam was already attacking his own platter without any similar difficulties. He looked up and caught me looking at him with the fork still poised in my hand. I wasn’t intending to say anything. I wanted to be polite. But my eyes must have been screaming, “You’ve GOT to be kidding me!”

Looking somewhat embarrassed as if he’d done something wrong, Sam said sheepishly, “Oops. Guess I over did it a bit, huh, Pete?”

“It’s just… it’s just a LOT of food, Sam. It’s way more than I know I can eat, that’s all,” I replied, quite truthfully—then adding ‘in a month’ quietly under my breath.

“I just forgets folks don’t eat like me. I knows I eat like a sow at the trough. That’s exactly what my Mama always told me. But I’s hungry all the time! I reckon I spends most of my money on food. Y’all just eat what you wants to though—and don’t worry ‘bout it one bit, Pete. Ain’t none of it goin’ to waste, believe you me. I just LOVE leftovers!”

Seeing how Sam was attacking his food, I didn’t think leftovers were a problem Sam had to contend with often. So knowing that I wasn’t going to offend him by leaving 90% of this food uneaten, I raised my fork in the manner of a toast, and saying, “Zum wohl,” started picking away at the animal carcass before me.

I watched Sam consume food like a stevedore stoking a ship’s boiler. This man could S-H-O-V-E-L it in! I wonder now why I was surprised that this beast-sized man also ate like a beast, too—but I was. I really tried not to stare too much at him, but it was almost wondrous to watch. There was a bowl of big nuts set on the table—mostly walnuts and brazil nuts. Occasionally, Sam would reach into the bowl and, grabbing a few at a time, in rapid-fire succession simply crack them open with his bare hand. Actually, he did it right between his fingers, as if he was only pinching marshmallows. My eyes popped a little too as I noted for the first time that even his meaty fingers had pronounced veins running down the back of them. The dude must have had one H-E-L-L of a handshake! I’d need a hammer to do what Sam could do with just his fingers alone. At one point he noticed me staring at him just as he was about to crack another handful.

“Oh,” he said apologetically, “that’s kinda rude of me.” Then crack-crunch-crack-crunch. He reached out and handed me the pile of freshly-opened nuts saying, “I’s sorry—I don’t have a nutcracker. Just weren’t nothin’ I ever thought to buy.”

Yes, I could see easily enough why that item wasn’t a high priority.

In the course of one sitting, Sam put away more than I ate in 3 days. And he could really talk, too. In fact, he did both amazingly well at the same time, though my mother certainly would not have approved. I found out quickly that Sam was an easy guy to have a conversation with, and I really started to enjoy the back-and-forth banter as we ate.

“What does that mean—that there ‘zum wohl’ thing?” Sam asked me at one point.

I explained that it was an expression that, loosely translated, meant ‘to your health’.

“So—you speaks a foreign language, Pete?”

Well that opened up another topic of conversation, so as Sam continued to inhale everything edible in sight, I gave him the Cliff Notes version of my life.

“So that explains it!” he interrupted at one point, seeming pleased with some yet undisclosed observation that he’d made about me. “I thought there was something funny about the way ya talked. Ain’t so much like ya got an accent, really. It’s more like ya says some words funny every now and then. Now I remember who you reminds me of—that there fella’, Gunter Schlierkamp!”

I thought his pointing out my ‘funny talk’ was a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, but I let his observation pass without any retort from the Peanut Gallery.

Sam reciprocated by telling me more about his own roots and family background, sharing some surprisingly personal things with remarkable openness and candor. And Sam certainly minced no words.

I learned that his Dad was a professional wrestler long before wrestling became the major ‘big bucks’ entertainment industry it is today. His Dad never made a lot of money. It sounded like a very tough and demanding life. Sam was also just barely making ends meet himself, I gathered. He told me that he’d been lifting almost as long as he could remember—that weights were a part of him.

“That’s just what I do,” he’d said at one point. “It’s in my blood, I guess.”

He mentioned he’d always been big for his age. Then some other things he said made me think perhaps extremely big. Although his size had certainly caused him some problems as a kid, he’d nevertheless accepted it early-on and made the best out of it that he could. Although the details of our life histories seemed as different as night-and-day on the surface, I was nevertheless struck by a couple of things we apparently had in common. Neither of us had a lot of friends when we were kids. Me, because I grew up on a rural working farm, and Sam, because his family was eternally on the move. I learned that he’d sexually come-of-age early too, and had always preferred the “company of men” as he’d phrased it—and too openly so when he was younger, he also admitted. He figured that his size had probably protected him from the usual negative repercussions.

“It’s kinda easy to be just who you is if ya happen to look like me. Nobody bothers you.”

And it was evident that Sam found zippers—more what was behind them—particularly irresistible.

“It’s cock, Pete—when it comes to guys, it’s the ONLY muscle that matters!”

We’d both also worked hard when we growing up. He told me he’d gone to work in his very early teens—illegally underage—to help his family out with the cost of keeping him fed. Because he was already bigger than most adults by then, his falsified age was never questioned. I learned he’d never even come close to finishing high school. The jobs had varied from place to place as they’d moved around the U.S.A., but always boiled down to very physical labor of some kind.

“I weren’t smart, but I was real strong, Pete. It weren’t so hard for me….”

I told Sam that I didn’t know a damn thing about weightlifting—that I was, in fact, a complete ignoramus on the subject. Then I asked if he’d explain some things about it to me, and especially some of the peculiar jargon I’d heard.

Well Sam lit up like a Christmas tree! That was all the encouragement he needed. He launched into the topic with such an infectious enthusiasm that I was captivated. In no time at all, I was hanging on his every word, trying to absorb as much of it as I possibly could.

He talked about the ‘Big IS Better’ gym downstairs and told me that he’d been working there steadily since he was in his late teens. For some reason the owners had recently made him the manager, although he quickly pointed out that he didn’t particularly “know nothin’ ‘bout managin’ nothin’” as he put it. He mentioned the owners’ names to me, but they went in one ear and out the other. He did say that he got along “real fine” with them, and they seemed to like him a lot. I found out that he was also a part-time strength training coach for the athletic teams—mostly football—over at the college. He’d been doing that for quite a few years now.

“I ain’t no coach though, Pete. I’m ain’t that smart. That’s somethin’ the boys just took to callin’ me.”

Then he began to talk specifically about weight-training, powerlifting and bodybuilding—but it was all just liftin’ to Sam. And the more Sam talked, the more engrossed I became. I was taken back by how much Sam knew—and in expert detail. He left me with no doubt whatsoever that he was an excellent strength-training coach. Even just hearing him talk about ‘liftin’ oddly excited me. And Sam explained it all to me, too—in detail—the basic progressive resistance exercise principals, the names of common exercises performed for particular muscles or groups of muscles, the training regimens and schedules, the impact of diet, many terms dealing with a workout or the equipment itself, and the names of all the specific muscles as well as some of the common ‘slang’ used by lifters. I learned about sets and supersets, negatives and positives, burns, and even what ‘flexing’ was. He was filling my head with so much information that it started to hurt. It was positively overwhelming! I couldn’t possibly have retained even a fraction the information that Sam was sharing on the subject.

As he named specific muscles, he pointed them out to me, alternately using his knife or fork, on his own massive body so I’d know exactly which ones they were. The way that his sweat suit fit him, all of his muscles were obvious underneath it anyway. Those big slabs of bulging muscle running from behind his neck at a 45 degree angle down behind his shoulders were the very tops of his trapezius … his ‘traps.’ The large hemispheric basketballs of muscle capping each of his shoulders were his deltoids, or ‘delts.’

At some point in the conversation, Sam started talking about ‘getting a pump.’ I didn’t understand it, so I asked him to explain it more.

Sam looked down at his arms and said, “Well, these here are still pumped full a blood from curlin’ before. I knows I get kind of a… well… ‘unusual’ pump. I stays pumped for a long time, like you can see here. The guys—they all say that they ain’t never seen no one get pumped like me neither. See?”

Using my newly-acquired terminology, Sam raised his big guns in a double front biceps pose across the table from me, fork still in one hand and knife in the other. They looked somehow even impossibly bigger, contained as they were within the confines of the suddenly-ready-to-explode sleeves of his sweatshirt. I could hear the fabric stretching across those expanses of swelling rock. God, what huge perfect planetary bodies they were—magnificent Titans, in every sense of the word! I was taken back by how seeing Sam’s flexed biceps, even while he wore a sweatshirt, so profoundly affected me. When he flexed them, his thick sweatshirt suddenly fit him like a second skin. His immense overall size also made it appear as if Sam was sitting at a card table, rather than a kitchen table. Somehow the skin-tight sweatshirt quantified the extraordinary width and taper of his back, the utter massiveness of his pecs and delts, and of course, the heart-stopping size of those big guns of his.

“So this here’s a pretty good pump, Pete,” Sam said very matter-of-factly, looking quickly at his left and right biceps. Then he relaxed and continued the conversation where he’d left off. His demonstration didn’t leave me quite in the same ‘relaxed’ state however, and feeling momentarily embarrassed yet again, I was happy that aspect of me was still hidden from his sight under the table.

He continued with the names of some of the other muscles, pointing out his abdominals and intercostals next. He lifted his sweatshirt to show me the ‘washboard’ as well as ‘the bed of stones’ that framed them on each side. I was glad to be sitting down because I got seriously woozy again. The sight of this man’s rock-hard, contoured abdomen and his utterly perfect, masculine love-trail made me want to jump across that table and start tracing the center gutter in his washboards with my tongue. Stuffed as I was, if this was dessert, I suddenly had the room!

Next up was the latisimus dorsii—the ‘lats’, or ‘wings.’ Sam put his hands on his hips and brought his elbows forward. Walls of muscle started to unfold like a giant Japanese fan behind him. And this ‘fan’ of thickening muscles kept getting astoundingly wider until they’d literally flanked the sides of the table. Luckily my mouth was empty at the moment or the food would have fallen right out of it. The breadth of Sam’s back was so wide that I imagined him being able to jump off the top of a skyscraper and then, just spreading his lats, soar through the air like the Concorde.

“Yeah, I don’t dare do this outside if there’s a stiff breeze blowin’,” he chuckled. Apparently this Andean condor with the huge wings was also psychic, too.

Sam stood up to point out his quadriceps, abductors and adductors and calves to me. Then he spun around and, looking over his shoulder, slapped his ass saying, ”And these are the gluteus maximus muscles—my ‘glutes.’”

I watched his butt thrust impossibly outward, transforming into two grooved beachballs of solid muscle as Sam ran his big hands slowly over their entire circumference.

“They’s kinda big ‘cause I’m a heavy lifter,” Sam commented.

Yes, big—but absolutely BEAUTIFUL, too, I thought to myself. This was a real man’s butt, and it was strangely, suddenly, powerfully compelling to me.

Apparently Sam noticed my special interest, so he added a final thought as he stroked them with his palms.

“I calls these my Big Pearly Gates. You believe in Heaven, don’t ‘cha, Pete?”

By the end of this anatomy lesson, I was so incredibly impressed—particularly with his ass—that I was tongue-tied. It felt like someone turned up the thermostat in the kitchen to 120 degrees.

“Oh God, yes…. I mean yes, God… errr… in God, yes—yes, I do….”

Sam sat back down and talked a bit more as he ate, then noticed I wasn’t eating. He asked me if I was done.

I’d really only been trying to regain my composure, but I smiled, “I can’t eat too much more. That was all great-tasting though. Thanks! You’re a GREAT cook!”

Sam beamed momentarily, then promptly reached across the table for my platter. After transferring a good portion of my uneaten food onto his own, he set my ‘reduced’ portions back down again in front of me again and then continued chowing-down voraciously for awhile.

Then he looked up again and said, “Oh, I almost forgot some big ones!”

He reached over and retrieved a mammoth one-piece forged metal meat cleaver hanging from the side of a cabinet. This baby was industrial-sized, the two-handed variety used in a slaughter-house, not a butcher’s shop. Sam noticed my puzzled looked.

“I have to buy meat wholesale and cut it all up myself. Couldn’t afford it otherwise.”

The handle was thick as a sledge hammer’s, but made of gleaming solid steel. He held it vertically by the huge blade with the sharp edge facing me and then positioned the handle right in the center of his massive chest.

“And if you remember, Pete—these here are my pectoralis majors!”

The two squared massy mountains under his sweatshirt suddenly rose up and seemed to ‘reach’ outward, grasping the cleaver handle firmly within the deepening crevasse as the cliff faces of muscle closed in from either side. Then Sam let go of the heavy cleaver. Astoundingly, it remained there, firmly wedged between his two walloping pectoral masses.

I gasped so forcefully that I choked, unintentionally inhaling a whole noodle right down my throat. With my eyes tearing and coughing wretchedly, I reached for my glass of water. When I finally regained my composure, Sam was still holding the gravity-defying cleaver firmly in the muscular jaws of his pectoral vice. When he had my attention again, he reached for the chicken and proceeded to run it up an down over the stationary blade, carving slice after slice which fell back onto his platter below.

“But you can call ’em my pecs, Pete—or my man-tits—or even my muscle-boobs, if ya like,” he said with a wink, and broke into a mischievous grin as he continued slicing off additional pieces of meat.

Occasionally Sam paused to lick his fingers. The cleaver wasn’t budging so much as a centimeter the whole time Sam was carving. It looked to be as permanently fixed there as a tent pole anchored in cement.

“They’s kinda big. Hell, they’s probably way bigger than Dolly Parton’s hooters, I reckon. But you can definitely tell these belongs on a man, though. I don’t mind what ‘cha call ‘em….”

Well the only thing I was personally going to be calling them at the moment was FUCKING HOT! Despite Sam’s good humor, nothing about their appearance suggested to me even the slightest feminine quality. Gigantic they were, but ‘udders’ they were not—in fact, I couldn’t imagine anything more ‘udderly’ masculine. I instantly replayed in my mind how he’d controlled them so expertly—so unbelievably—almost like giant hands—jerking me off before in the living room.

And speaking of tent poles, it’s a good thing I was still sitting down, because the ‘big top’ was going up rapidly under the table, the ‘canvas’ being hoisted embarrassingly high by the large center pole. I was completely turned-on again, and I wasn’t even done with my dinner. So much for ‘being cool.’ I felt that telltale pulsing in my temples again. My eyes were immovably locked on the giant cleaver suspended between his major ‘majors.’

“You need Salt Peter,” I heard Sam say.

Damn! How could Sam possibly know that? Did this guy have x-ray vision, too? Flushed with sudden embarrassment, I replied rather honestly, “Castration, Sam. I think that’s the only cure.”

“Huh? Say what?” I heard Sam respond questioningly. Only then could I look away from his chest enough to realize that he’d been holding out the salt and pepper shakers in his hand—and looking a bit confused now.

“The salt. You want the salt, Peter? The veggies—they needs some more, I think….”

I said humbly, “Oh, ahhh… no thanks,” and began playing with my food a bit nervously.

“So, Pete—do ya like ’em big on a man?” Sam asked, apparently fishing for a straight-forward answer from me this time. I seemed to like everything big on a man, so I told him exactly what I thought of his pecs.

“They’re ‘majors’ all right. God they’re huge, Sam… but they really look GREAT!”

The wide smile spreading across Sam’s face indicated his obvious pleasure. He glanced off into space momentarily as if he was thinking something over.

Snapping his head back in my direction again, he blurted, “They’s bigger than boobies, I reckon—but there’s two differences. For one, these here ain’t made of no silly-cone. Two—they’s real hard… all 100% muscle. I’s real strong, Pete! Do ya wanna see what else I can do with this big ‘uns?”

Both his animated mannerisms and tone of voice reminded me again of that hard-to-define boyish quality I’d occasionally detected. Sam wanted me to answer with a very enthusiastic ‘yes.’

“Sure I would!” I replied, still trying to keep my tongue from falling out of my mouth as I spoke.

Sam clearly hesitated again, as if thinking that he’d maybe spoken too impulsively or was otherwise having second thoughts. Then he nodded decisively as if he’d made up his mind to give himself the green light.

“Well O.K. then. Hey, what the hell, right? It ain’t no big deal. You probably’ll like this too, I reckon. Just watch now….”

With that, Sam winked and then closed his eyes. It only took me a few seconds to recognize this seemed oddly familiar. It reminded me of what happened downstairs in the gym when Sam was doing those standing biceps curls. I just stared at the giant cleaver still clutched between his massive pecs, patiently waiting for Sam to eventually open his eyes again. I didn’t have to wait nearly as long as I’d expected. When he did, his eyes looked a bit vacant, and his lack of expression made him appear oddly distant. He was looking right at me, but more right through me.

His massive pecs began to congeal even more, forming up into impossibly bolder mountains projecting enough to cast a shadow over the edge of tabletop below—and all the while, swallowing up even more of the large handle between them. Then his insanely-swollen pecs started massaging, kneeding and otherwise maneuvering the metal shaft around between them. Responding to the enormously-concentrated pressure all along its thick shank, the whole cleaver began quivering. I was about to witness the devastating impact of a force-9 Chestquake in progress, as measured on the Samson scale!

Trapped deep within this great muscular fault, the quaking metal was heating from the friction caused by Sam’s mammoth pectorals colliding, clashing and grinding by each other like giant slipping tectonic plates. And for the absolute ultimate in surrealistic ‘finishing touches,’ I thought I saw some faint wisps of smoke occasionally rising from the vicinity of this disaster unfolding within in the fold of Sam’s sweatshirt.

Sam sniffed a few times as if he’d detected the traces of the smoke too, coming from literally beneath his own nose. That ‘far-away’ look in his eyes was immediately replaced with one that seemed more alert. He blinked several times then reached up, grabbed the blade with his fingers and began to relax the massive twin jaws of his muscular vice. The deep rift between his crushing pec mounds opened, releasing it’s former death-grip on the handle. A chrome-flecked, discolored area on his sweatshirt where the handle had been engulfed became more evident as his mountainous pecs retreated back into broader muscular mesas again.

Sam simply held the freed cleaver out towards me. I assumed he wanted me to take a closer look. The polished chrome surface was dull and discolored. Several long cracks were evident in the steel shank itself and there were elongated concave depressions in the solid handle where it had been flattened more in the middle.

I gaped open-mouthed at the tortured implement. Knowing the cleaver was solid steel, I tried to convince myself it was a parlor trick of some sort. But the imbedded flakes of chrome on Sam’s sweatshirt, still sparkling like glitter in the light, demanded that I once again suspend my belief about what was possible when it applied to this particular man, anyway. Sam was also gaping, too—but not at the cleaver. He was gawking down at the newly-charred area on his sweatshirt and looking a bit bewildered. He blinked his eyes a few times—then looked again—and began chastising himself aloud in the 3rd person.

“That was just plain dumb, Sam. You can’t afford to be ruinin’ no clothes….”

He looked at me almost apologetically and then pulled the cleaver back to take a closer look at it—and he didn’t look pleased with what he saw.

“And that’s even dumber, Sam,” he muttered, reaching for his glass for a sip. “Now ya gotta buy another cleaver, too. Sometimes you’re just so damn stupid!”

Ill-advised it may well have been, I suppose—but damn was it HOT, too! My big raised tent under the table, which was still out of Sam’s direct view at that moment, certainly stood firmly on that point. I didn’t want Sam to feel badly about what he’d done, but it was obvious that he did. I needed to significantly distract him and get his mind on something else immediately. At the same time I also wanted him to know how much his steel-crushing display of strength had very ‘measurably’ impressed me. Luckily, I thought of ‘the genie in the bottle’.

I gathered up the ample circus tent around my supporting pole with both hands, pushed my chair back away from the table with my legs and stood up. Stepping up right into the table, I spun my empty platter, pointing it at Sam, and then let go of the Big Top right over it, lengthwise. Even cushioned by the sweatpants, it still made a impressive thud slamming down across the platter—and big impression apparently on Sam, too. His eyes popped wide open. Now it was his turn to choke, which he promptly did—blowing a mouthful of water half way across the kitchen.

My distraction having apparently succeeded, I continued by faking I was a little pissed off.

“Sam, I can’t BELIEVE that you ACTUALLY let me PUT this thing IN THERE—in-between those LETHAL WEAPONS! Why, you could’ve KILLED me before!”

That seemed to do the trick. Sam just doubled over laughing.

“Seems like that’s the pot callin’ the kettle black to me,” he finally retorted, sporting a grin. “That there’s the REAL lethal weapon. Damn Pete, look what ‘cha done to my sweatpants! I ain’t never gonna be able to wear those again with that crotch so stretched out… or worse, I’ll get me a hard-on every time I think ‘bout how they got that way in the first place!”

Then as Sam gazed longer at the ample serving of beef lying across my platter, he stopped chuckling and became more serious.

“That’s a huge portion of meat. I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that. I’m gettin’ hard just thinkin’ ‘bout what’s wrapped up inside that there blanket….”

I noticed him move one hand down under the table. The subtle motion of his arm suggested that he might be playing with his crotch as his eyes lingered on my platter. This felt like the right time to give Sam some well-deserved mutual admiration in return.

“Well we’re even then, Sam. I’ve never seen a man do anything like that before, either,” I said, pointing at the molecularly-rearranged cleaver. Then patting the top of my tabled meatloaf I added, “This is all because of you, Sam. The thing’s been swollen since I met you. You give me perpetually big meat. I never imagined a man could do that to… steel….”

“Oh, I’s REAL strong, Pete. I got big muscles!” Sam responded, beaming from ear-to-ear, his persona taking on that distinctive, impish quality again.

That was the undeniable truth certainly, but there was something much more to Sam, too—that whole weird episode with those barbell curls. As breathtakingly hot as that had been to watch, it was also unnerving; and now, there was this mutilated cleaver on the table as well. My eyes were seeing what my mind was trying hard to reject. That wasn’t so easy anymore. I had more than just a few unanswered questions. I sat back down on the chair again.

“But just how strong ARE you, anyway?” Then I pointed to the cleaver again. “Sam, is this some trick you’ve playing? It doesn’t seem possible that a man could… I mean, that IS solid steel, right? Did you REALLY do that?”

“Yeah, I did, Pete,” Sam sighed, seeming suddenly remorseful all over again. “And I should know better than to go doin’ stuff like that. I’s dumber than a jackass somtimes!

Sam was still mad at himself; in fact, it sounded a little self-loathing to me. I jumped right in, intent on nipping this whole thing right in the bud.

“Whoa there. Whoa right there, Sam. Let’s back up. I’m the one who asked you to do that… well sorta. You didn’t do anything wrong. Cross my heart and hope to die… you’re AWESOME!”

“That makes me happy, Pete, to hear ya say that,” Sam said feigning a half smile, “‘cause I think by now ya know I think you’s awesome too. But I told ya that I’m a freak. You don’t even know the half of it yet, Pete. Hell, I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout how or why I’m the way I am. That’s just the way the Good Lord made me. He made me real strong, sure enough—but He made me different in some other ways, too. I can do things that other guys can’t….”

I interrupted him. “Do things, Sam? What things? How can you do them? I don’t understand.”

Sam continued talking but didn’t respond directly to my questions either. For a guy who had often startled me with his blunt directness, this was the first time Sam was acting the least bit cautious or guarded.

“…but I ain’t got no idea why or how. There’s a professor guy over at the college. He’s also a real medical doctor—one of them extra-smart dudes with lots of initials after his name. This here doc took a shinin’ to me a while back. The guy happened to be in the weight room one day when I was foolin’ around with some weights after the other guys left. Nothing serious—I usually fool around awhile when I’m done coachin’ the guys. Then he showed up a couple of more times when I was there by myself doin’ some heavier liftin’. He sat down and just watched me, which ain’t really so unusual. I’s gotten used to that—people starin’ at me. That’s why I only does serious liftin’ when nobody’s around. Anyways, this guy comes over and starts talkin’ with me. Seems he’s a regular lifter himself. He told me he’d been liftin’ since he was an undergraduate. He said that he’d been watchin’ me enough to know I’s real strong. He turned out to be a real friendly guy, too. Matt’s his name. He’s doin’ research for the Sports Medicine Department. He wanted a shot at trying to figure out what makes me the way I is, and he wondered if maybe I’d like knowin’ that, too. He thinks I’m kinda special, I guess. So the short of it is, Pete—I said yes, I’d let him. Boy, you wouldn’t believe all the tests and other things they done to me! Maybe someday he’ll figure somethin’ out, and I’ll know why I’m a freak. Maybe he won’t. Real regular guy though, that doc. I liked him right from the first day we talked.”

I took several slow breaths, thinking carefully about what I should say next.

“Sam, I want you to just remember that I’m more than a bit of a freak myself. Remember when you asked me to trust you?”

“Yeah, I do, Pete,” Sam nodded.

“Right now, Sam, I guess that I need you to trust me. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think that you do—at least not at this moment. It’s exactly like you’ve been telling me all along. So let your own genie out of the bottle! I’d really like to get to know you better—and that means everything about you, too. I’d sure like to know how strong you really are, too, if you’re willing to trust me….”

And just in case Sam was still waffling a bit, I thought it might not hurt the cause to toss an enticement into the ring.

“Sam, were your serious before about wanting to have ‘real sex’? Maybe it won’t be exactly like you’re expecting, but… but I’d sure like to give it a whirl—especially when it’d be with you….”

I was gradually figuring out that placing an insurance bet—at least when it came to Sam—was definitely the way to play the game. I fact, mention sex to Sam and it wasn’t even a game of chance anymore. I could beat the house anytime.

Sam’s face lit up like a kid with a new bicycle. “I DO trust ya, and I did right from the get-go, Pete. I’s feelin’ mighty good now that I got food in me. I’m all fueled up and rarin’ to go! I think I’m maybe feelin’ even e-x-t-r-a strong, Pete,” he said with an extra-sexy devilish flash in his eyes. Then he qualified his statement a bit. “I wanna show ya, but this’ll be somethin’ real special for your birthday… somethin’ private-like between you and me, O.K.?”

Now I was the one nodding his head affirmatively—practically shaking it off of my neck, actually.

Sam broke out in a mile-wide grin. “Yeah, we’ll just BE freaks—nothin’ held back at all. Birthdays are supposed to be really BIG deals! So what do ya say we get HUGE together! Then we’ll be pumped up for some real… gees, I can’t hardly wait! But first things first. Let’s go, Pete—we can just leave these dishes….”

A quick look at the piles of old dirty ones all over the kitchen suggested that was standard operating procedure for Sam. He made a cursory pass at clearing the table, tossing our dinner dishes on top of the stacks of others lining the counters.

“Go where, Sam?”

“Backstage, boy—to my REAL Pump Room….”


Part 22: Suspicious Minds

“Just follow me, Pete. The real party’s this way,” Sam said with a flash in his eyes, motioning to the door.

Once again we headed down the long flight of back hallway stairs leading to the gym below. It was like déjà vu staring at the solid, moving wall of muscle in front of me completely obscuring my ability to see anything beyond it.

I paused just inside the door of the gym’s rear entrance to give my eyes time to adjust again to the low lighting while Sam disappeared somewhere ahead of me in the dimness.

“Hey Pete, I’m over here,” Sam called several times, realizing that I still wasn’t behind him. His voice was coming from the 2 o’clock direction. I took a few steps and promptly stumbled over something, falling headlong flat on my face. Only moments later, I was seized by my armpits, found myself flying briefly through the air like a flailing rag doll, and then I was firmly set down again squarely on my feet.

“Careful, big guy. I sure wouldn’t want to lose you now!”

I could make out Sam’s hulking physique towering in front of me. I thought he might be shaking his head; no doubt a silent commentary on my agility and coordination. We were standing beside a small door somewhere roughly between the rear entrance and Sam’s side office. I’d overlooked this door on my previous self-tour of the gym. Sam turned his back to me and fiddled with a key in the padlock. I head a click and then the sound of the padlock being removed from its shackle.

I followed behind him as we traversed a short hallway and emerged into another large space. Sam reached around a corner and raised the brightness of the overhead lights with a dimmer switch.

“This here’s my Fortress of Sol-ee-tude, Pete.”

A quick look around told me that this space was a converted garage. I figured that we must be standing in the rear quarter of the building, the L-shaped ‘Big IS Better’ making up the other three-quarters of the ground floor.

“This here used to be an auto mechanic’s shop, awhile back,” Sam offered. “I asked the owners to snatch it when it became vacant, so’s we could have space to expand the gym sometime. Guess the price must’a been right too, so they did it.”

One of the outside garage doors had been removed and that opening permanently bricked in. The two auto lift frames still remained on the floor in their respective bays. I wondered if they still were operational. The glass panes in the few windows had all been rendered opaque with paint making it impossible to see out or in for that matter. Then I spotted Sam’s truck. He’d pulled it in off the street and parked it right on the lift in the farthest bay.

There were some pretty bizarre objects laying about the room, too. I recognized immediately several huge train axle-wheel assemblies because I’d seen similar ones abandoned on occasion along the train tracks back home. There were also of good number of interlocking poured concrete road dividers commonly seen along Interstates. Most had been neatly stacked.

Taken as a whole, the room had a odd sort of warm ambiance, a bizarre coziness. Maybe it was the effect of the relatively dark walls combined with the newer-styled overhead track lighting that suggested a cozy personal space designed by Rube Goldberg. There was a small TV and a stereo sitting on a long, narrow bench. A small refrigerator was tucked into a corner next to an old, well-worn couch. There were a few small tag-sale variety lamps and some magazines scattered about on makeshift cinderblock coffee table, and even a small eclectic collection of art objects I guess you’d call them hanging on some of the walls. All together, these things created an oddly homey feel.

My eyes came to rest on a prominently-hung, framed portrait of an odd-looking couple. An inspection revealed that it had no doubt been painted by the same gifted artist who had blessed the world with all those Elvis on velvet. The man in the painting appeared to be as disproportionately huge as the woman was incredibly petite, almost suggesting the Byzantine perspective that I’d learned about in a mandatory freshman art appreciation course.

I gestured at the portrait. “Are they your folks, Sam?”

He affirmed that with a silent nod. There were other objects d’arte gracing the walls. For example, there was a large framed rectangular sign resembling a huge stamped-metal license plate. It read, “Be All That You Can Be.” A photo of Sam’s face had been roughly cut out and substituted for Uncle Sam’s. Much of the other interior wall space was mirrored, which not only reflected the overhead lighting but also made the space appear more expansive than it was.

“I fixed this place up to be my own private gym. Hardly a soul actually knows it’s even here,” Sam said, as he continued to fiddle with the light dimmer switch. “This here’s where I come to, well, do what I does without nobody gawkin’. You did say that ya wanted to know everything, right?”

“That’s right Sam. Everything…” I replied, although not very convincingly perhaps. I was still surveying the array of bizarre objects around me and was only partially listening. Even with a severe stretch of my imagination, the appearance of this renovated garage might only vaguely have suggested that it was a gym of sorts. From all of the mongrel large objects scattered randomly around the room, I’d have first guessed that it was actually a bulldozer obstacle course.

Sam’s continuing banter eventually drew my attention back to him. “O.K. Thought so, but I just wanted to be sure. See Pete, I’m a—different—kinda guy.”

“You can say that again. Boy, are you ever!” I exclaimed, breaking into a smile as I turned to look at him directly.

Sam was just shaking his head. “No, Pete. I know that I’m a real big guy, but that ain’t exactly what I mean. Maybe you ain’t gonna be able to understand some things, I reckon. Hell, why should ya even? I don’t rightly understand some things myself. But this here’s the place to be so’s I can give ya the birthday present ya wants, anyway.” Apparently as an afterthought, he then added with a wink, “I wanna save the best one for last though….”

Sam put his big arm around my shoulders and looked me right in my eyes. When this huge hunk of man so much as even brushed me, I got a case of the tingles. With his monstrous arm surrounding me, I melted as quickly as an ice cube in the Sahara.

Sam looked as if he had something else on his mind though—and it seemed important. He even opened his mouth a few times to speak, but then hesitated as if he might be re-thinking what he wanted to say—or how to say it—or perhaps reconsidering if he even should say it at all. I gazed up into his iridescent baby-blues and strikingly masculine facial features. The dude was just plain unequivocally DEADLY handsome. This created a momentary conflict for me. On one hand, I wanted Sam to know that I cared by giving him my full attention, but I also had a strong and arguably selfish urge to just lean up and initiate some serious spontaneous face-sucking with him, too. Here was a face that could launch a thousand erections. But my dilemma was quickly resolved when Sam began talking again.

“I’ve got a few important things that I wanna tell you. Well the truth is, I guess I do—and I don’t—wanna tell ya. But I’m gonna anyways, so you listen up now, real careful. You probably should hear this right now I reckon—before things go any further.”

“OK Sam. I’m listening to you,” I replied, encouragingly him onward.

“See Pete—when I wanna do real serious liftin’, I usually starts thinkin’ ‘bout it first. I sorta get myself prepared as I’m doin’ my warmups. Well most lifters psyche themselves up too, so that ain’t nothing special, but… what I means is… there’s somethin’ different about the way I does it. It ain’t nearly the same thing. I start thinkin’ about these here big muscles of mine. Sometimes I closes my eyes and sometimes I don’t. Truth is, I don’t have to close ’em to do this either, but it just works a lot faster for me if I do. I can just do this thing….”

I had a hunch where he might be generally going with this. I’d already seen ‘things’—things that defied logic and reason; things that frightened me—that astounded me—that thrilled me. And I really wanted to understand him. I suppose that I also wanted him to validate what I thought my eyes had clearly seen. I hoped that maybe he was about to disprove once-and-for-all that it was all something I’d over-imagined.

“Sam,—what thing? What do you mean by ‘do this thing,’” I asked sincerely.

Sam tapped hard on his skull a few times with his index finger. “It’s like I can just flip on a switch up here and… what I’m thinkin’… what I’m visualizin’… it all just happens. I see pictures in my head that keep gettin’ sharper—clearer-like. I sees this guy—and this dude’s H-U-G-E, Pete. He’s got muscles piled on top of muscles! I ain’t never seen muscles this big—and I pictures him liftin’ and makin’ his muscles grow even bigger! I don’t care what nobody thinks. I wanna be that dude. I want muscles just as big as his, and I knows that some day I’m gonna, too! Anyway, as I’m seein’ all this in my head, I starts to feel different—I mean my body. This’ll sound weird to you, but I can feel myself gettin’ stronger—more powerful—like their ain’t nothin’ that I can’t lift—and it feels amazin’!”

My brain was already working overtime just trying to follow Sam’s meaning but I let him continue.

“Then it’s sorta like I’m watchin’ a movie. I sees this huge dude liftin’ things that nobody else can, and doin’ other amazin’ things, too. He don’t seem to act like me either. His personality is different. This movie in my head keeps gettin’ more intense—more alive. I sees myself becomin’ this dude. I merge right into his body, sorta like that other Sam does in that there movie ‘Ghost.’ We becomes one guy. And then it don’t seem like I’m seein’ a movie no more. It’s real. It’s really happened. I AM this other guy—and I’m HUGE! I can do all sorts of unbelievable stuff, too—the same things I saw this guy doing in the ‘movie.’ It gets way too confusin’ for me to tell who’s who. I don’t know if I should be sayin’ ‘me’ or ‘him’ or maybe ‘we.’ Seems any of those… what do ya call them things? Pro-Nuns?”

“Pronouns, Sam,” I responded immediately so he wouldn’t lose his train of thought. I was as fascinated as I was confused.

“Yeah, O.K. Pro-Nuns—like them teachers dressed like penguins the size of NFL linebackers I remember from one school. Man, was they ever a mean-lookin’ bunch! But anyway—it’s hard to tell which Pro-Nuns I should be usin’. I’d probably change ’em dependin’ on the situation I’m describin’. But I’ll just say ‘I’ for now. That way, I can maybe finish this and not confuse ya. Just so you understands though, it don’t feel like it’s ‘me’ sometimes.”

I was a few bounces even further behind the ball, and my head was starting to hurt. But I didn’t want to interrupt him. Sam was on a roll.

“But Pete—whoever I am, I sure ain’t my normal self no more. I knows that much anyway. I can’t even think of the right words to tell ya how it really feels, but I’m HUGE… and maybe even stronger than a whole team of oxen! Even seein’ my own body just blows me away! It’s all very confusin’ to explain. Ya must be thinkin’ by now that I’m a real wacko fit for the Funny Farm….”

Sam was waving his arms more animatedly and getting agitated.

“Jeez, this is so damn frustratin’! It all sounds so nuts. I really don’t know what happens to me, let alone how I even can do this weird ‘thing’—but I can—and I don’t think I’m crazy.”

Sam suddenly looked almost remorseful, as if wishing he hadn’t begun telling me any of this, so I offered him the little support that I could.

“I know you’re not crazy, Sam. Would it help if I told you that I’ve already noticed this ‘thing’ that you do? I think that I saw it happening to you while you were curling that barbell before. I thought I noticed a hint of it again when you were ‘rearranging’ the shape of that big cleaver, too. It sure seems real to me. It’s not just your imagination—or mine either. I want you to know that I believe you, Sam—completely.”

Sam looked at least somewhat consoled. “You know something else, Pete—I’ve been able to do this for about as long I can remember, too. Well, my Ma always told me that I had a good imagination, but there’s no way it could be just that—no way at all. I never told her or my Pa ‘bout all the things I could really do. Seems maybe I wasn’t around when the Good Lord was passin’ out the smarts… but he must’ve filled up that empty space inside my brain with somethin’ else….”

I had a thousand questions I immediately wanted to ask.

“Sam, do you remember anything after you’ve ‘throw the switch’ up here, as you’d put it?” I asked, tapping my own head.

“Pete, the truth is… well… maybe. Sorta. It’s just fuzzy and confusin’. Like I told ya, it sorta seems like it’s ‘me,’ but then at other times, it really don’t. It’s like I’m… what’s that word? Skits-o-frenik… like I’m two different guys sometimes.

I persisted with more questions. “After you’ve done this ‘thing,’ Sam, do you know where you are? Do you know what you’re saying or doing?”

Sam thought for some moments before he answered. “I sure remember seein’ and hearin’ things. But like I’d said, it’s all kinda off in the distance somewhere—real fuzzy-like. I must know where I am though, ‘cause I can definitely do a lot of things—things I want to do, like get my whole workout done….”

Then Sam started to chuckle a bit. “And Pete, I never see no piss on the floor, so I must find the bathroom and know what to do there. I sure seems to know where my refrigerator is, too, when I’m thirsty. And I knows I can talk—and I do, sometimes. I wouldn’t wanna have to swear an oath ‘bout what I maybe’d said though. It’s too foggy. Jesus, this is so tough to explain to ya, Pete, ‘cause it’s always so damn fuzzy!”

I wanted to keep him engaged. “So, Sam—after you’ve done this ‘thing’ to yourself, what happens next?”

“Well usually, I just start doin’ my workout. And I really works out extra-hard, too—maybe harder than anyone. I don’t even stop for a breather. I can keep goin’ and goin’ and goin’—just like that there Energizer Bunny! I see guys workin’ out all the time, ya know—‘cause it’s my job, Pete. So I knows how long even the real serious guys can last when they’s trainin’ hard. It ain’t all that long, really. But I nearly falls over when I sees how much time goes by while I’m liftin’! I got some serious stamina! I was made for liftin’ weights.”

“How long is that, Sam? How many minutes can you last?” I asked him.

Sam replied matter-of-factly, “Not minutes, really… more like hours….”

I’d have laughed hard if I’d heard such transparent macho bravado coming from anyone else. But Sam wasn’t prone to exaggeration. In fact, more often than not, he had a penchant for understatement. His endurance seemed impossible and yet believable, based on what I’d already observed. When Sam had been curling that world record-breaking weight previously, I saw him do countless repetitions. Moreover, when he’d finally stopped for whatever reason, he wasn’t showing visible signs of being fatigued.

“So this ‘thing,’ Sam. Can you do it anywhere? Anytime?”

“Yeah, mostly, Pete. It easier if I has me some peace and quiet to put my mind to it. I starts to concentratin’ and… it just sorta happens. It feels so great to me that I kinda like doin’ it a lot! I usually only do it when I wanna workout though. I keep makin’ great progress with my liftin’. You’ve probably noticed that, huh? It breaks all the rules, but I just keep gettin’ bigger. It’s as easy as pie for me. So Pete—you actually noticed somethin’ was different ‘bout me when I was liftin’ before, huh?”

“It would have been impossible to miss, Sam,” I replied honestly. “You closed your eyes. After awhile, you sure started looking and acting kinda different, too. At first it struck me as being just a little weird, but then—it got kinda scary. Whenever I could see your eyes, they looked blank. There was nobody home, Sam. You looked like you were off somewhere on another planet—and you acted almost robotic. You lifted like a machine.”

I knew nothing about psychology, but as I stripped away the confusing details in Sam’s description of this ‘thing’ he could do, I was able to think about it in a ‘bigger picture’ sort of way. I wondered if maybe this bizarre phenomenon might be related to some type of self-induced hypnotic state—that is assuming there even was such a thing. I tended to be a bit skeptical by nature. And even if it was related to clinical hypnosis somehow—and I made a quick mental note to get a book on the subject from the library anyhow—I didn’t think that would offer any scientifically credible explanation for Sam’s extraordinary physical attributes.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that same thing before, too. I’m scary…” Sam sighed, looking more forlorned.

It didn’t seem to me like this was destined to become much of a real party now at all. Sam’s former unbridled zeal for us to ‘get big’ wasn’t evident anymore. He seemed increasingly more down-in-the-dumps.

“They got scared of me too, Pete. They said I was too weird. But I can’t really tell what happens to me, let alone what I looks like to someone else when it does. So I only does it now when I’m completely alone.” Sam then added, “Well… usually. It ain’t worth it nearly scarin’ someone half to death. Hell, look at me. I knows I’m scary enough just the way I is!”

At least Sam cracked a faint smile momentarily, but his behavior indicated that this was deeply serious stuff for him.

“So Pete—I was thinkin’ that maybe this ‘thing’ I do when I’m liftin’ is just too freaky for you. I knows we came down here ‘cause you wanna watch me do real serious liftin’, but I really don’t want ‘cha to be scared of me. I can’t hardly believe how lucky I was to meet ya today. Goin’ down to that there bar this afternoon just to see if you might be there was a total shot-in-the dark. I thought it’d be a disappointin’ waste of my time. But I knows now that it was maybe the best decision I ever made. You’re REAL special, Pete. Honest. But I thought you should know some things about me beforehand—so’s you can make up your own mind.”

“My mind’s already made up, Sam. What you’ve told me doesn’t change anything,” I replied, sounding much more self-assured than I felt at that moment. “I sure don’t understand it, though. I mean, how could I? It’s nothing that’s ever happened to me. Say, maybe you could even teach me some time how to do it! But just don’t keep fretting about it now. I’m really a pretty cool guy, you know!”

I waited for my nose to suddenly grow like Pinocchio’s. A ‘cool guy’ I was not. I was private by nature and worried too much for my own good. After hearing Sam explain this phenomenon in great detail, it seemed somehow even more bizarre to me than when I didn’t know what I was seeing. Now it sounded even impossibly weirder—like some kind of Voodoo. Sam’s newest disclosures made me more apprehensive than ever.

I found myself wishing that Sam would get back into a more obvious partying mood again. Hell, I even wanted to feel that enthusiasm again myself. The mere anticipation of partying had wildly turned both of us on when we’d been eating supper. My current trepidation aside, at least my hormones sure wanted to start shouting ‘let’s party!’ And now I wanted to just leave this too-serious subject quickly behind. Somehow I had to restore Sam’s former bright-eyed and intoxicatingly-sexy enthusiasm to ‘get freaky’. Hmmmmmm….


Part 23: Paternal Instincts

I looked up again into his piercing iridescent eyes and smiled. When I got his attention, I looked down at my crotch deliberately.

“Besides Sam, you’re not the only one here who God seems to have made a bit different, remember?”

Sam’s eyes followed mine down. I rubbed my palm suggestively around the crotch of my sweatpants, emphasizing my point.

“Believe me—this scared guys plenty, too. Like you, there are some things that I can just do. So you see, we each break the normal rules, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes glazed over again as he watched my roving hand. “So—how big are you really, Pete?”

Sensing this sudden promising change, I went along with this new topic without directly addressing his question. Instead, I gave him a very abridged discourse on the subject of ‘The Origin of The Genitals’; specifically, my own of course.

“Sam, I think a part of me never wanted to know that. I’ve never measured myself. Someone told me once that’s just a form of self-denial. Maybe by keeping myself in the dark about that real number, I can always tell myself I’m not ‘all THAT big’… that I’m not THAT much of a sideshow freak. Honestly—I really don’t know.”

Sam caught me unexpectedly with one of his blunt and often topic-twisting questions.

“Can I put a tape measure on it sometime? I sure wanna know, even if you don’t! That’d be so hot! I promise I won’t never tell ya either, if you really don’t wanna know. It’ll be a secret.”

Just the thought of my being ‘taped’ instantly brought up old feelings of humiliation, which I tried to counter by remembering that Sam also saw ‘size’ as a gift, not the curse I typically did. But I still flushed with embarrassment nevertheless and continued as if I’d never heard his question.

“… and my dick doesn’t seem to even work the way that other guys’ do. I remember telling you some of this before, Sam. Getting a big boner seems to take me longer. If I get too excited too fast, I get really dizzy.”

“I went to see a doctor once just to ask him why ‘all of this,’” I said, squeezing ‘the bounty’ in my hand. “But what I didn’t tell you was that I hated the size of all this stuff. I was hoping that medical science could… well… do something to make me more like other guys. That doctor did a lot of tests on me. He told me that I had an excess of certain hormones. He explained that some of these hormones control how hung a guy gets when he hits puberty. It’s all something I genetically inherited, I guess. Sam, I started growing these balls when I was just 9 years old for Pete’s sake!”

Sam interrupted me. “Maybe you grew ’em for Sam’s sake, Pete. I’d like to think that maybe that was the Good Lord’s plan all along. You’ve got some terrific genes in them jeans! If I was the judge, I’d certainly be givin’ those big melons of yours ALL the blue ribbons! That means they’s the biggest and best! So did that doc tell ya ‘bout why you get such a whopper when you’re turned-on?”

“Yeah, he did, actually, if you want to know. He said that the size of a man’s erection depends on the amount of something he called ‘spongy tissue.’ The amount that develops during puberty is controlled by some hormone. I’ve forgotten the name of it, but anyway… my cock’s got more of that spongy stuff than most guys—a real lot more too, I guess. There were other unusual things about me that he’d mentioned that I don’t remember now. But the bottom line was—there’s no safe medical procedure that could make any of me smaller. He even laughed when I’d asked him if there was such a thing as a ‘dick-reduction’ or a ‘ball-tuck’ for men. In fact, his words were something like, ‘You’re Superman, Pete. Enjoy it!’ Well I’ve tried to, but that was easier said than done, Sam.”

Sam was acting lustfully intrigued with this new topic of conversation. I suppose that he was just trying to make me feel good in his own way, but his results would be somewhat mixed.

“Gives me the shivers Pete just thinkin’ that you woulda even considered doin’ that to yourself! I sure treasures every bit of what The Lord done gave me—and what He gave you, too! I bet it feels mighty great fuckin’ with such a big pole, right?”

Sam’s last comment knocked me slightly off-base again.

“It’s… it’s something I sure dream about all the time, anyway. So yes. I think so,” I responded hesitantly.

Sam picked up on my uncertainty. “Don’t ya know? You must’ve fucked before, ain’t that right, Pete?”

Gees, hit a man when he’s down, why don’t ‘cha? That was a sore spot with me. Perhaps it was only because I was under his handsome spell at that moment—the influence of still being firmly surrounded by that big arm of his, too—that I told him the real story.

“Technically? Well sorta… maybe. Don’t laugh, but I think I did it once—with a woman. It was kinda quick though. The first time was last year. My roomy John decided I needed to officially get laid. He got me drunk and brought me to a whorehouse. I was shit-faced—but horny to the point of desperation. That lady had a set of GIGANTIC tits though, Sam. They were so oversized that I think I even got turned-on feeling them. That whore really had to work hard though, even with that professionally-sized pussy of hers. I was so horny that I was shooting my load off in 3 seconds. But she had some intense orgasms herself while I was cumming. She even said that I was some kind of first for her. She took a couple snapshots. But she really liked me a lot—told me to come back anytime I wanted. She’d take care of all my ‘manly needs’ free-of-charge.”

Sam began alternately running his fingers playfully through my hair and stroking my head again with his massive paw. I was beginning to really like that particular habit of his, too. It sure made me feel amazingly warm inside. And judging from that sexy bulge in his own sweatpants, my appeals to Sam’s more primitive hormonal instincts were also beginning to work.

“I can surely understand why she did,” Samson said, gazing down at my groin with a renewed twinkle in his eyes. “So—did you ever fuck a guy, Pete?”

I suddenly regretted having started this conversational ball rolling. I might have even welled up just contemplating the sorry truth, but I was too prideful to ever let Sam see me cry. I swallowed those feelings hard and responded in the most matter-of-fact, ‘coolest’ way that I could.

“Guys have certainly tried, but technically—the answer is probably no, not really….”

“Ain’t no such thing as too big. The bigger, the better. Your big equipment is sexy, Pete. It’s the sexiest I ever seen on any man—anywhere—anytime—ever! Those big ‘ol balls—they make me go all weak in the knees. Seein’ your cock just blowin’ up like one of them clown balloons—nothin’s ever turned me on that much. You’d make any of them male porno stars green with envy. You’s one in a million, Pete. I’ve never felt my blood boil like it does when I’m even near ya. Hey, I kinda like that Superman handle your doc gave you, too. It’s sounds positive—a lot better than freak. It fits you! Would ya mind if I called ya SUPERMAN?”

I should have been flattered, but the idea also seemed so immediately ridiculous that I fought not to laugh. I usually avoided looking at myself in my bathroom mirror any longer than was absolutely necessary. Even when I used the mirror for grooming purposes such as shaving, I’d focus only on the task at hand without looking at myself at all; in fact, I’d raised that to an art form.

And now I couldn’t help but look over at the reflection of Sam and me standing literally side-by-side in that mirrored wall. It’s said that mirrors don’t lie. Our reflections spoke a stark truth which I already knew intellectually. I just never wanted to see the actual photographic proof. Well seeing is believing, and what I was seeing stunned me. The mirror reflected without bias the true magnitude of our physical differences—and the extremes were actually comical. I’d always been a runt, but at least I’d come to regard my body as still better than average. I had a beefy build, with wide shoulders and a trim waist. My lack of height may have even exaggerated these characteristics to my benefit.

But gazing at myself beside Sam in that mirror—it was impossible not to make the inevitable comparisons. The critic in my head started to have a field day, wreaking havoc with my tenuous self-esteem. The mirror showed me a Side Show couple. The giant and the dwarf. Compared with Sam’s, my masculine physique was essentially amorphous. The delineation between man and boy was shockingly evident. I glanced over at the velvet masterpiece of Sam’s parents hanging on the wall, the one I’d assumed was a portrait of a father with his daughter before I’d noticed the similar ages of their faces. At least proportionately, a portrait of Sam and I would have looked virtually identical and equally bizarre. And standing right beside him, I could easily be mistaken for his offspring, too.

“Just take a look at me standing next to you over there, Sam,” I said, gesturing towards the mirror. “Hell, I’m not even 6’ tall on my tip toes! Look at the size of me compared with you, too. See your arm right there next to mine? It’s bigger than my whole leg! You’re could fit 4 of me inside of you! I don’t think Superman fits me. Other guys would look puny next to you—but I look like a kid, and a little boy at that. You are the MAN, Sam….”

Sam’s face beamed a little, and he was getting friskier again.

“Yeah, maybe I sees your point, least when you’re wearin’ clothes anyhow. But I think you’s really a genuine wonder, boy. Say, how’s ‘bout Superboy, maybe? Is that O.K.?”

I knew we were just kidding around with words, but I suddenly felt something more was going on. Call it a different kind of energy. And I was starting to enjoy this boy-man dialogue—almost getting off on it a little.

“You can call me that… or just boy, if you want, Sam….”

Sam raised one eyebrow. “You sayin’ that you’d wanna be my boy, Pete? Like we’s sorta related by flesh ‘n’ blood?”

“I mean we can’t really be—but yeah—sure. You can pretend if you want, right? Besides, who wouldn’t want to be YOUR boy? I sure would anyway….”

I was being—quite literally—patronizing. But Sam seemed remarkably receptive to this craziness.

“Ain’t no one ever said nothin’ like that ‘bout me. That there’s real special, Pete, what you said. Wow. That’s sorta givin’ me the shivers. It’s a strange feelin’, but it’s kinda nice! Wow… ‘My boy.’ That’s got a powerful ring to it! Makes me feel… woof… real protective, and all….”

The big arm draped across my back suddenly swept me around to the front of his massive body. Sam pulled me in tightly, nuzzling my body firmly up against one very manly boner indeed. Apparently the shivers weren’t the only thing this unexpectedly sexy name game was giving Sam. I figured it was a safe bet that he didn’t understand the almost incestuous implications. He might not even know the meaning of the word—and I definitely was not about to be educating him either. Sam was uncomplicated, and I liked that quality about him. Eventually I’d grow to even love that part of him very much.

“So if you’re MY boy, then who am I?” Sam asked, squeezing me affectionately a few times, hoping to entice me to respond in the spirit of this new game. Sam’s little expression of affection felt more like being under a car when the jack slipped though, forcing the air right out of my lungs.

I hoarsely squeeked, “Well, I guess that makes you sorta MY Dad, huh?”

“Yep, I guess it does at that,” Sam grinned. “I’d be a mighty proud Dad havin’ a Superboy like you. I’d want everybody to know how super my boy really is, if he’d just let me measure!”

I had to give Sam major points for relentless perseverance anyway, but I shot him a look communicating in no uncertain terms my lack of amusement.

“Oooo, sorry,” he replied with a meek grin. “You can’t blame me for tryin’, Pete, can ya? So where was I? Oh yeah—I could be your Dad… or even your big Muscle Dad if you want.”

Yep—that’ll definitely work, I thought to myself. This word game was getting as strangely hot as it was increasingly juvenile.

I pulled back from Sam so he could see all of me. Then I put my hands around my crotch, pulling the baggy material taut by pressing it back against my thighs, revealing the full contour of my well-camouflaged basket.

“Do you mean that you’d want your kid to walk around in public looking like this?” I grinned, just fooling of course.

Sam didn’t seem as amused as he did more spellbound.

“That’s one big, beautiful, sexy bulge. W-O-W! You must be murder on a jock!”

Ouch! An old memory stung me again momentarily. But since we had some positive momentum going—weird as that was—I thought it best not to get into my high school jockstrap stories.

“So how big did you say your cock really gets again… boy?”

When Sam latched onto something, he was like a bulldog on a bone—and in this case, mine.

“I didn’t say… Dad.”

Just referring to Sam as ‘Dad’ aloud sounded surprisingly playful and sexy to me.

“But like I told you before, the longer I can hold off cumming, the bigger it gets. Other guys are at full mast in less than a minute. I don’t know how long it honestly takes me to set all my sails fully. I never waited around to find out—and besides, no guy ever wanted me bigger than I was already.”

The new tenting in Sam’s own sweatpants told me this was working. I was slowly learning that any discussion concerning my cock, no matter how seemingly dry or academic, just arouses him instantly and automatically. Reciprocally, Sam’s physique had the same power over me, though I wasn’t sure that he yet understood how uncontrollably.

“Pete, I ain’t never been no Dad before to anyone… but I sure wants to be the very best Muscle Daddy you ever had! If you could choose a Dad—I mean, like he’d be everythin’ you ever wanted—what would he be like? That’d help me know how I’m supposed to be around… my boy.”

This seemed more like the child educating the parent, but I realized it was also an unexpected opportunity to deliver the ‘coeur de grace’ to get my party on track again. Of course I’d have to somehow manage to keep a straight face while embarrassing myself at the same time. My plan called for making a powerful appeal to my particular Muscle Daddy’s best—and unusual—fatherly instincts.

“O.K, Sam. Well, I guess this would describe my ideal ‘Dad.’ My ideal Dad is a real Muscle Daddy. No other guys have muscles as big as my Dad’s—and he’s amazingly strong, too. That makes him really special. And nothing excites me more than just watching my Dad lifting weights. When I see my Dad’s muscles getting hard and enormously pumped up, I almost go crazy with excitement. I get an enormous boner. That makes my Dad feel really good too, knowing that his boy gets a big cock just from lookin’ at him liftin’. My Dad makes me just HUGE. My Dad’s goal is always for both of us to get even bigger. He’s always lifting more and more weight—breaking new records—so naturally I’m setting new records of my own. And when my Dad’s done with his workout, he gets off on showing me his big, hard muscles. He just enjoys flexing for me, I guess. Being a Muscle Dad just comes naturally to him. I like to squeeze my Muscle Dad’s enormous pumped bi’s. They take my breath away, and that always makes my cock pump up even more. I like that part especially—while I’m feeling his enormous arms, my Muscle Daddy feels my big muscle and plays with my big balls. That always gets him real excited too, so we both get big hard-ons! Then my Muscle Dad spends a lot more time with me, making sure I’m getting a good, proper sex education, too. I’ve got incredible stamina just like my Dad, so he can really teach me a lot of different things at once. Then we practice them over and over again … all night long….”

I had enormous difficulty at times maintaining a straight face while I was delivering that juvenile monologue. But far from laughing himself—Sam was just staring at me in total silence and looking surprisingly smitten with it all. The prominent hard-on visible through his sweatpants also gave supporting testimony to his enchanted state of mind. And Sam’s erection was astonishingly perfectly proportioned relative to his immense body. That had never been the case with other of the bigger guys I’d seen in the gym locker room on occasion. Sam’s endowment would more than impress any man. In absolute terms, it was a very big cock. That slab of beef I saw now in his pants was as Grade-A Prime as the man who owned it. I took that as a very good sign that the my party was getting back on course again.

“Maybe this parentin’ stuff ain’t so hard after all! Bein’ your Dad sure ain’t gonna be nearly as tough as I reckoned, Pete… err… I means ‘boy.’ I’m a qualified great Muscle Daddy! And right now—this Dad wants to get huge for his boy. I mean that. Huge-er than your wildest dreams. But I want ya to remember a few things I’m gonna tell you before I start, O.K. boy?”

I affirmed that with another nod of my head.

“These are sorta ‘the rules,’ Pete. You can talk to me, but don’t do a lot of yellin’, OK? Try to keep the volume down. Yellin’ distracts me too much. If you grabs onto me real hard—or shakes me—anything real physical—that distracts me, too. So ya probably’ll wanna think about how much you go touchin’ me.”

“I got it, Sam. I understand.” I reciprocated by reaching up to mess up his own hair now. “That’ll be torture, but I’ll hold off… well, as long as I can stand it, anyway.”

Sam smiled broadly. “Well, it’s just so’s I can be real presentable when ya finally grabs me, boy. I wanna get ‘specially enormous-sized for your birthday!” His eyes were twinkling steadily again like stars in the night sky.

I smiled as I offered Sam a similar word of caution. “Well Sam, don’t touch me until I’m presentable too, O.K? I’m going to try to get as big as I can. It’s not something I’ve ever set as some goal before, but this time I will—for you.”

“I just know that I’m gonna remember this night for the rest of my life, boy,” Sam replied with a smug confidence. “You can follow me around here,” he said gesturing around his private gym space, “and watch all ya want. As a matter of fact, I’d like ya to stay close by me, so’s I can see you!”

Then Sam suddenly hit me with one of his trademark specialties from right out of the blue.

“So you can get naked now, boy….”

“What? You mean right now?” I felt that nauseating wave of self-consciousness again, exactly the same as when Sam asked me to just ‘drop trow’ up in his living room some hours ago.

He grinned. “Yep—now would be just fine. I’m gonna be doin’ serious heavy-duty liftin’, so I’ll really be appreciatin’ you motivatin’ me to the max.”

Reflexively, I attempted to dissuade Sam’s interest. “I thought you didn’t pay much attention when this ‘thing’ is happening to you.”

“Oh, I can see everything. I might not look like I’m payin’ attention sometimes. But trust me, boy. That hot body of yours W-O-W-S me!”

Yeah sure. Right. That did it. I burst out laughing, leaving Sam looking a bit bewildered.

“What? Ya don’t believe me, Pete? You just don’t get it yet, do you. You’re HOT. See, you’re the guy that I been seein’ in my dreams. Everythin’ ‘bout you—your body, that bulldog build, your face, your huge totem pole—Pete, you light up my furnace! But I can’t see nothin’ through them damn sweats of mine that you’re wearin’. Believe me—I wanna be t-o-t-a-l-l-y inspired.”

Then a light bulb went off in Sam’s head as he thought up the final, convincing logical argument. Well it was ‘Sam style’ logic, anyway.

“Besides, it’s your birthday, boy. You should be wearin’ your birthday suit to the party!” With puppy dog eyes that were saying, ‘please, please, please,’ Sam gently tugged on my sweatpants a few times just to make sure I understood his wishes.

Well my reticence faded fast. Sam was mighty persuasive in his own unique way. He could also sure stroke my wavering ego at just the right moments. I kicked off my sneakers, pulled off my socks, and then awkwardly fumbled to undo the knotted clothesline still tied around my waist. The bigtop plummeted to my ankles as soon the knot was released. Sam did the rest. He reached for the arms of my sweatshirt, then started to pull them up. I yielded, lifting my arms high over my head so he could complete the chore. And there I stood, dressed in what Sam considered the perfect Birthday Party attire—nothing at all.

Sam surveyed my buck-nakedness with unmistakable relish. My cock was at least in a perpetually semi-aroused state whenever Sam was in my sights anyway, so it already hung robustly between my legs. In short, I had ‘das Schwein.’ That’s what I called a hog or a ‘semi’ back then, anyway. Conveniently for Sam and embarrassingly for me, my groin was also spot-lit by an unfortunately-positioned overhead light. Sam knelt down to get a closer look at Porky and the Twins which brought us still not quite eye-to-eye. Sam stared at my illuminated privates with his mouth partially opened for awhile, occasionally running his tongue around his lips.

I was becoming more aware that Sam had an unusual but very consistent way of making me feel good about my size, once I got over my old built-in reticence about exposing myself. Maybe it was partly in the way his big eyes opened wide. Maybe it was they way they always got glassy. Maybe it was the way he quietly gurgled and cooed with such obvious pleasure and approval. Maybe it was the way he commented bluntly on the size of my equipment with such undeniably lusty admiration. But whatever the reasons, all I know is that I sort of enjoyed showing him my equipment like this, because it clearly excited him just as much as his incredible physique excited me.

“Wow. That’s already what I calls serious motivation,” he said approvingly. “Now I’m gonna make sure you knows without a doubt who’s your real Muscle Daddy!”


Part 24: Party Favors

Sam immediately peeled off his sweats and tossed them aside, revealing a wife-beater and pair of cotton gym shorts that he wore underneath.

“I gotta wear somethin’ to soak up the sweat a little, Pete,” he commented apologetically for his remaining clothing.

That didn’t matter to me in the slightest however. Sam was such a magnificent specimen of manhood that he’d look sinfully hot even if he was dressed in a priest’s robe. But seeing Sam suddenly standing there in just a tank top caused me to reel momentarily. Every time that I saw him even partially exposed, I seemed to experience this same shock all over again. The impact of seeing such ‘bigness’ literally everywhere overwhelmed me. This time I immediately seemed to particularly notice his shoulders, the way the light happened to hit them perhaps. Something about how they appeared in a tank emphasized their stunning width and thickness. Proportionally, his shoulders were mile-wide monsters with perfect half-basketballs of muscle capping their ends. The overall impression was that Sam had football shoulder pads sewn under his skin—and I could already feel my dick swelling.

That suddenly reminded me of something. I’d had an idea some hours ago while we’d been up in Sam’s apartment. I knew that if I was going to act, I needed to do it right now before my dick would no longer cooperate. I bent down and quickly retrieved one of the condoms that Sam gave me from a pocket in my sweatpants. I ripped the package open with my teeth then, with some effort, managed to unroll the rubber onto my fattening shaft. I glanced at Sam. Rest assured, old eagle eyes hadn’t missed any of this operation.

“I thought I’d seen some great cocks before, but nothin’ even close to your meat, boy. I mean, it’s got it all—length, girth and it’s even great lookin’, too! And I know’s I ain’t even seein’ the half of it yet, but that there rubber don’t even cover it all now!”

I would have added, “It tastes good, too,” but I didn’t want to distract him any more.

“It’s party time, boy. Time to get big, just like you wanted, O.K?” Sam winked, turned and walked away without waiting for any acknowledgement.

He picked up two immense dumbbells from a rack and began using them to… well… get warmed up, I guessed. That alone would have constituted an intense workout for me. He swung his arms around in circles, alternately pressed them over his shoulders. Then did some quick inclined chest flies and biceps curls. In between he did a series of stretches against the wall, then some squats followed with more stretching again. I walked over to where he was standing to remain relatively close to him as he’d asked. Apparently done with his warm ups, he returned the dumbbells to their rack.

Sam turned to look at himself in one of the large mirrors. He began flexing his arms and studying his reflection, meticulously inspecting his biceps, triceps and forearms.

“Yep, they’s still pumped, ain’t they, Pete? You ain’t even seen big yet, though. You won’t believe….”

I already didn’t believe, so more of the same seemed oddly quite believable. I watched as Sam began flexing one leg, moving his thigh back and forth slowly as he intently watched the great mass shifting with every movement. Suddenly he tensed it, his quads instantly leaping into rock-solid ravines of muscle.

“I’m real strong. Yep, those are big legs alright….” It was as if Sam was trying to convince himself of a truth which would have been undeniable to anyone else. Sam continued to stare at his physique intently and also talked aloud, though increasingly less frequently. As I circled around watching him tense his giants I noticed my salami occasionally smacking against my thighs.

“Look at that thickness…” I heard him clearly mutter, but this time I didn’t think he was directing that at me, even though I still heard him mention my name every now and then. He was staring intensely over his shoulder at his own back at that moment.

“Yeah, those are big muscles… what a roadmap. You must be one powerful dude, too….”

It was confusing because I couldn’t tell who he was talking to. Was Sam talking to himself or to this ‘other guy’ in the mirror? He hadn’t closed his eyes yet, but I also remembered that he said he didn’t necessarily have to either. Regardless, his dialogue was becoming sparser and gradually more monotone. It was already giving me a bit of the willies. And as his intense self-inspection continued, he didn’t seem to always be addressing his comments to either himself or me anymore. At times, I felt like there was someone else present in the room with us who I just couldn’t see.

Sam glanced over at me occasionally though—and when he did, I picked up that vacant look in his eyes again. His face was slowly losing more of it’s former expressiveness. I’d seen this all before. Sam looked back in the mirror again. He placed his hands on his hips and lowered his giant flaps. His stunning lat spread could only be described in terms of ‘having a wingspan.’ I noticed how that particular pose also thrust the mountains on his chest spectacularly upward, too. As if reading my mind, Sam pushed his hands harder into his hips, sending waves of striated muscle rolling vertically up and down across the faces of his massy pectorals.

“Yeah, big guy—those aren’t just eagles, they’re CONDORS…” Sam said, but with the tone of a dispassionate, emotionally-uninvolved news reporter.

O.K. I admit it. I was beginning to get more than a little weirded-out again. This ‘thing’ that was happening to Sam, or that he was somehow doing to himself, was disturbing to watch.

Needing some reassurance, I remembered that he’d told me I could talk to him and impulsively called his name.


I was relieved when he responded with a simple, “Yeah?”

He didn’t bother to look at me though. His voice had that eerily detached quality again, but at least he’d answered me. That was enough to keep me at least ‘relatively cool’ with all of this for a little while longer.

While I took several deep breaths to help steady my fraying nerves, Sam delivered several more slow, deliberate poses. Although he was clearly focused on his own reflected image, I also had the feeling this wasn’t Narcissus at the pool either. It was clearer to me that Sam regarded the muscle-bound giant in the mirror as another man. Every now and then, he’d still verbalize something aloud, but there were longer periods of silence in-between.

“Your muscles are BIG, man… Really big….”

“I bet you’re REALLY strong….”

“You probably wanna show him too, don’t ya big guy.”

“Yeah, I bet you do.”

“Well—go ahead then.”

“It’s OK. The kid can handle you.”

“Show him the real muscle now….”

He suddenly turned and walked across the floor to one of the massive train axle & wheel assemblies. The axle was already horizontally suspended about 5 feet above the floor between two supporting stands. These stands were constructed from pieces of girders that were cut and welded together into custom-made tripods. The axle itself was a huge hunk of cast metal, maybe a foot in diameter. It also looked to be about 6 to 7 feet in length—obviously a slightly wider gauge than a standard railroad track. I wondered where he’d gotten them and what they’d been originally used for. The train wheels were thick, solid castings, perhaps 3 feet in diameter. Sitting across the makeshift stands like a giant barbell, the whole assembly stood roughly at my own shoulder height, but in relation to Sam’s body it rested quite a bit lower. He was pacing slowly back and forth along the axle, running his hand across it’s length as if pondering something.

“Yeah, takes a mighty strong man…” Sam muttered again under his breath.

In the meantime, I found myself pondering something, too—the weight of that axle assembly. I thought it had to weigh in the half-ton range. Construction cranes were the only things that routinely moved these babies around, that was for sure. Sam continued his slow inspection, apparently in no rush at all, still muttering unintelligible things under his breath occasionally.

Impulsively, I turned around and put my shoulder underneath one end of the axle where it stuck out beyond the wheel slightly. I arrogantly thought I might get a better sense of its weight by moving it, even if just a tiny bit. I’d have been satisfied to have lifted it just an inch.

I began pushing up hard with my shoulder, probably turning beet red from the straining. It didn’t so much as even wiggle in place. Then I gave it one more shot—this time putting my back into it with everything I had. As I poured on my very last ounce of strength, amazingly—I felt it suddenly move. I was absolutely exuberant! Bolstered by my surprising success, I tenaciously strained with all my might, somehow managing to keep it’s upward inertia going until I stunningly was standing fully upright. I was about to call out to Sam ecstatically, “Come quick! Look at me,” before the vertebrae in my spine started to shatter, when suddenly—the terrific load on my back mysteriously vanished.

I pivoted in place to find Sam bent over, semi-squatted underneath the axle’s center and supporting its entire weight across the back of his expansive shoulders. He had, of course, been doing all of the lifting while I was so smugly giving myself a double hernia. His big arms wrapped over the top of the axle, holding it firmly in position. I quickly walked over and stood directly in front of him. Seeing him able to even momentarily support such a gigantic thing was as instantly humbling as it was eye-opening. Even taking into consideration the huge size of the man himself, the sheer mass of that huge object on his back made him look proportionally small, like Atlas supporting the World.

Sam looked at me vacantly while I plainly just gawked at him. Suddenly, the giant pontoons in Sam’s thighs mushroomed and he rose up with the entire massive axle to his full height. It was magnificent to watch. Furthermore, Sam looked as if supporting this iron monolith was nothing particularly taxing. He glanced rather nonchalantly from his left to his right then back again without any sound or facial expression that remotely suggested defying the force of gravity was even a challenge.

“Yeah, put ’em to work… turn ’em loose now,” I heard him half-mutter.

I rather stupidly stammered out the obvious. “You’re—you’re holding that up….” I was still basically disbelieving my own eyes.

Sam droned, “Yeah, I am. I’m a strong man….”

He was obviously still able to hear me and respond, though he was less talkative than usual, his sentences confined to quick, short statements. I decided to see how he’d respond to a question.

“Sam… how… how much does that weigh?”

“It don’t matter…” Sam finally replied, but only after some seconds had passed. As he glanced my way momentarily, the look in his eyes gave me instant shivers. They were weird—totally blank. Then Sam moved his palms underneath the axle’s broadly-curved underbelly.

“Here’s what matters….”

Now he closed his eyes. The veins in his neck, arms, chest and shoulders became pronounced as his muscles bulged magnificently. Then he made the unbelievable happen. Slowly, the massive axle rose straight up over his head. He locked his arms out briefly and then lowered it slowly back on to his carrier-sized back. Seeing such outrageous physical strength unleashed before my eyes was beyond merely awe-inspiring. It made me wildly excited.

“I’m real strong—see?” he repeated, and then just to drive home the point, thrust the monstrous wheels up again—and then again … and incredibly yet again! I got that telltale lightheaded dizzy feeling as Johann performed like an applause-meter, registering my overwhelming admiration for his supreme strength as well as the powerful beauty I perceived in his engorging horse-shoes and shoulders.

Sam glanced my way again. I though his eyes may have dropped to my crotch briefly.

“Yeah, gettin’ bigger…” Sam pronounced in a robotic voice. He could have been referring to my bloating dong or his triceps and delts, or both.

As he thrust the giant mass overhead again several more times, I suddenly had to crouch down. This spectacle was making my head reel.

“Sam, that’s unbelievable….”

With the axle resting again across the back of his shoulders, he reached back over the top of the axle with his huge hands, and this time obviously bore down on it intermittently a few times as if getting the feel of it.

“Oh, yeah—this is gonna feel so good. I’ll show ya somethin’ unbelievable….”

With that, Sam tossed his head back and stared at the ceiling momentarily, then began groaning softly. His lats suddenly flared like an angry cobra spreading its hood and his Titans rose into prominent peaks. Sam’s own moans sounded more like orgasmic pleasure and stood out in sharp contrast to the unmistakable tortured sound of fatiguing metal that also pierced the silence. The two ends of the axle began to bend slightly downward. Some beads of sweat started forming on his furled brow as he continued to apply downward force to the iron like a relentless pile-driver. I think this was the first time I’d seen Sam perspire even slightly.

I was slowly losing my grip on reality as my newly-adopted Muscle Daddy proved that he clearly deserved that most-honored title. Sam’s amusements were driving me slowly closer to the edge of some unknown sensual precipice.

“Your muscles are FUCKING HUGE! Sam, you’re actually doing it. It’s starting to bend! Look at your arms! Look at the size of those arms!”

And surprisingly, he did just that. First he surveyed his mighty right arm followed by his left, but with a look of complete ambivalence at best. It seemed more as if he’d merely responded to my ‘suggestion’ rather than doing this because he might be personally interested. All the while, the metal screamed and continued to yield further under his savage assault. An expanding network of sewer pipes began crisscrossing his neck, shoulders, thick forearms, chest, as well as his now clearly-split Titans, too.

Sam surprised me by momentarily suspending his attack. He dropped his hands down and left the bending axle draped over his broad shoulders, perfectly balanced like a Dutch milking yoke. He seemed to be checking the current reading on my applause meter, possibly to garner some additional motivation. His words, if not his expression at the moment, told me that he was still able to see well.

“Look at that. Gettin’ big as his Dad…” Sam said in his low monotone voice. I was stunned that he could even speak, given his unfathomable exertion and the terrific amount of energy he was expending. Nevertheless he spoke a few more words.

“Get bigger….”

I couldn’t be sure if that statement was meant as a directive for me or just himself. Well if Sam had meant that for me, getting bigger was not my problem; in fact trying not to get too big for the rubber was more my immediate challenge. With continuing displays of such Samsonian strength, no rubber was going to contain me for long.

Again Sam closed his eyes briefly—paused awhile—then resumed bearing down again on the axle assembly, and with astoundingly even more power. The veins in his neck looked like braided steel cables now. His body glistened slightly in the overhead lights as more beads of sweat revealed themselves on his exposed skin. Entire networks of beautiful veins were rising all over the surface of his drumstick-shaped forearms. Every breathtaking muscle in his huge physique was visibly engaged, becoming more deeply marbled by the second. His brow was furled slightly, but beyond that, he remained essentially expressionless. His sweat, deep breaths and furled brow were the only visible signs in fact that Sam was even exerting any effort at all.

But the twisting mass of metal, screaming ever louder, told another story entirely. Sam was commanding it to utterly submit to his will, and the axle’s distortion grew evermore obvious. Every muscle in his gargantuan upper body was clearly visible through his sweat-dampened tank top. His breathing grew deeper and so did the distortion of the axle, the massive iron yielding at more than an inch every second.

Sam suddenly turned his head and looked directly at me as if he wanted to see my reaction. His sustained groan loudly announced a dramatic increase in the force he was now applying for the climatic finale. Only seconds later, several loud metallic bangs followed like rapid gun shots. As these reports reverberated around the garage, I saw the cracks forming along the outer edge of the grotesquely mutilated axle over his shoulders. Sam crushed down on it without mercy. The jagged openings steadily separated further apart like fissures slowly gaping wider in an earthquake. With a final deafening crack, the formerly solid axle split into two halves. Sam let them slip from his shoulders and crash to the floor on either side of him.

Sam straightened up fully and pulled back his broad, thick shoulders like a victorious gladiator ready to accept the crowd’s thunderous adulation—or—at least at he seemed satisfied. But I’m even guessing about that, too, because there was no way to decipher Sam’s true thoughts by merely looking at his expressionless face. Sam turned and walked back in front of the mirror again and I followed. I took a relaxed position next to him roughly shoulder to shoulder, folding my arms across my chest and setting my legs in a wide comfortable stance. We gazed in unison at his reflection in the mirror, but I’m sure our thoughts were quite different.

Sam would pluck and pull at his dampened, clinging tank-top occasionally, studying the now even bolder relief map of muscular terrain underneath it where even the minutest muscular detail was no longer camouflaged. He studied his body without expression.

“You got some big muscles, dude…” was all Sam muttered.

“Big Muscles? They’re not just big—they’re fucking HUGE! Look at ’em all, Sam! Why, you’re bulging everywhere!” I exclaimed, as if I felt I needed to express the enthusiastic, joyful emotions that Sam couldn’t perhaps feel himself at that moment.

I happened to glance at myself in the mirror. Frankly I was startled to see my butt-nakedness reflected back at me from head-to-toe. But uncharacteristically, I did a little lingering self-studying of my own. The part of my body that my eyes seemed drawn too was… was quite the rocket already. This was also the first time that I’d ever seen my own erection-in-progress without bias in a mirror—and I was instantly reminded of a guy who once asked me, “Do you own a license to carry that thing?” I could see it at least from that guy’s perspective now. It was already a formidable-looking weapon. I had to give all the credit to Sam though. He was the only reason I had this big muscle in the first place. Somehow, just remembering that Sam’s sole objective at the moment was to turn me into a world heavyweight champ tonight was just making it even easier to become ‘all that I could be’ for him, as well.

I shifted my weight from one leg to the other a few times, setting the meat and potatoes in motion. That was still a relatively uncommon sensation for me, letting it all hang out free in the air in an almost exhibitionistic way. I watched the thick meat swaying in the mirror, alternately thwacking the insides of my thighs like the big clapper ringing the Liberty Bell. Samson was ringing my bell alright. My latex-encased salami was starting to already bob a little rhythmically with every beat of my pounding heart. I knew that ‘lift off’ would begin soon—my dong would inevitably slowly rise in spite of its own weight.

Sam turned around suddenly, bringing my uncharacteristic narcissism to an abrupt end. He strolled back to where the bent and broken train axle lay in two pieces on the floor, seized each by their respective wheels and carried them over behind his truck like he was carrying two satchels. He tucked a train wheel snugly behind each rear truck wheel like makeshift giant chocks.

Then he continued around towards the front of the truck, stopping momentarily by the hydraulic lift control to raise the truck a few feet off the floor, and sauntered to the front of the truck, turning to face the bumper. The bumper was positioned at his waist level.

Sam put his big hands on top of the bumper and pushed down on it a few times, compressing the heavy front springs as if they were just springs in a mattress. He moved his hands and gripped the bumper from below and seemed to test the front end by lifting up on the bumper a little, a few times in a row. His huge biceps were doing the bulk of the labor. Then Sam buried his thick forearms far underneath the front end, grabbed the frame’s cross-brace and began lifting and releasing the front-end more enthusiastically. From my vantage point off to the side, I could see the big coil springs in the front wheel wells expanding more. With the more exaggerated vertical motion, the shiny steel piston struts also became clearly visible inside the steel springs. The truck started to gyrate wildly as Sam heaved the front end ever higher. The coil springs were stretching to their maximum expanded length. Sam’s looked like he was merely bouncing a toy, but the noisier creaks and groans emanating from the suspension revealed that this was no game … the entire suspension was struggling to absorb some serious punishment. I could hear the front pistons whooshing and hissing as the wheels fell further out of the wheel wells with each bounce. And the appearance of Sam’s arms were changing. The veins running down the length of his biceps began to more resemble the Alaska pipeline. The man owned one magnificent pair of arms. Sam may still have been just ‘foolin’ around,’ but the front axle was now cutting a 4 foot arc through the air, nevertheless. The front tires barely remained in contact with the lift ramp and visibly towed inward as the front end rose ever higher above the ramp. The truck chassis moaned loudly. It was the sound of heavy metal under severe torsional stresses.

Then a gap suddenly appeared between the tire treads and the lift frame. I expected to see the gap close and the tires touch down on the lift frame again—but it never happened. In fact the front-end of the truck suddenly just froze, absolutely motionless, with nothing but clear air underneath the front tires now. I groaned involuntarily and then looked immediately at Sam’s face. When my eyes met his, he was already staring directly at me, too—and he was standing there holding his truck suspended in mid-air simply to see my reaction.

The enormous circumference of Sam’s engorged Titans made my heart pump even faster. His great guns had reached dimensions I hadn’t seen before—titanium-hard, incredibly beautiful, spellbindingly erotic, bulging planets of muscle.

“You’re gonna like this a lot,” Sam said in an emotionless monotone. Still staring right at me, he further contracted his astonishing biceps, lifting the truck all the way up to his chest. He held it there for a second or two, then lowered the truck back to its starting position but without allowing the tires to touch the lift frame again. Then he pumped out a full set of stupefying ‘truck’ curls, in rapid succession. The effect on his great biceps was mind-blowing; the two Giants pumped up so drastically they seemed out of proportion to the rest of his big-muscled physique. At the top of one final curl, Sam suddenly released the truck, letting it careen back down onto the ramp and making a ear-splitting racket. The truck recoiled violently several times on the springs before finally coming to rest—but Sam hadn’t noticed. He was already on his way over to the mirror again.

“Oooh yeah. You’re lookin’ better now.” He muttered, surveying his now cartoonishly-engorged biceps.

Sam meandered over to the lever controlling the hydraulic lift and proceeded to raise the lift until the truck’s cab almost touched the ceiling. Then he positioned himself standing fully upright underneath the truck. With his back in front of the large centered lift piston, he reached up with both hands, grabbing a thick bar that spanned across the twin ramps from beneath. I assumed it had been welded there intentionally for this purpose.

“Lower the lift…” Sam said, glancing at me briefly. He wanted me to do what? I felt extraordinarily reluctant to do this and didn’t immediately comply with his request.

“It’s O.K.—lower the lift…” Sam repeated again. Hesitantly, I walked over to the lever and moved it to the down position. I heard the whoosh of the hydraulics and watched the truck slowly descend on top of him, until the thick bar was in contact with the back of his massive shoulders. Sam’s knees began bending as he resisted the increasing weight of the truck crushing down on him. I held my breath. My hand moved back on the lever, ready to switch it immediately to the up position. Sam must have noticed me.

“No need to do that… See?”

No sooner had he spoken than the lift suddenly stopped descending further. Mystified, I watched the needle on the pressure gauge continue to fall until it reached zero and there was no hydraulic pressure in the system. Sam was holding the full weight of the truck on his back as well as the weight of the steel lift itself. My knees started wobbling uncontrollably underneath me and I squatted down on the floor again to compensate. Sam unexpectedly followed my lead and squatted too, except in Sam’s case, he had a 3 ton truck on his back. The strength this monster possessed just rocked my soul to its very core.

Whish. Whoosh. I watched the large hydraulic piston rising and falling like a horse on a merry-go-round as Sam proceeded to rip off a few quick squats. That wasn’t the only thing that ripping off either. Sam’s massive thighs were responding to this stunning challenge by engorging into huge beefy masses of deeply-striated granite, hardly resembling human legs anymore, and causing the outer seams of his cotton shorts to separate at the bottom of each leg. With each successive squat the seams split further up, eventually almost all the way up to the elastic waistband. Sam’s thighs were bigger in circumference than even the massive piston itself! Sam’s position directly in front of the piston made it an easy comparison. Sam was right. Size matters a great deal when a guy likes squatting with a Dodge Ram on his shoulders.

Yep, Sam was definitely on a real roll alright, and he wasn’t about to stop with just doing some squats either. Moreover, it seemed that he was gaining even more strength and energy. I was well beyond questioning what was possible anymore, when it came to Sam. None of the Natural Laws of Physics seemed to apply. I’d never questioned that the magnificent brute was incredibly strong, but neither had I allowed for lifting tonnage as opposed to pounds—even in my wildest estimations of anyone’s possible limits. And now I was seriously questioning if Sam actually had any at all.

A series of heart-stopping shoulder presses followed as Sam heaved the truck up to the ceiling and back as the big piston both guided and steadied the massive load. Whish. Whoosh. I listened as the sound of the piston counted out the repetitions. The effect that pressing a truck has on the size of a man’s shoulders and triceps is—well—let’s say that Sam’s personal training regimen achieves stupefying results.

I also was getting the odd feeling that I might be one of the rare people—perhaps even the only person—to whom Sam had ever revealed his true strength. It was as seriously terrifying as it was incredibly inspirational—even life-changing. It’s difficult not to question your own sanity when fantasy suddenly turns into reality. It shakes the foundation of your very soul. It compels you to question all previous beliefs—all former truths—about what is real. Oh yes—and it also gives you one fantastic boner, too.

“Lock the lift, Pete.”

I sprung from the floor, grabbed the hydraulic control and did exactly as he’d asked. Then I noticed how dizzy I was again—the always predictable result whenever I found myself swinging a real St. Louie slugger the size of what I was at that moment. As I squatted down momentarily to let the blood get back to my brain again, Sam meandered over to the mirror and began to critically scrutinize individual body parts as well as his overall physique, running his fingers over the swells and probing the chasms with detached technical proficiency, exhibiting all the passion of a USDA meat inspector at a slaughter house. I heard him muttering things quietly from time to time.

“You needs some titanic pecs though to balance it all off…”

“Yeah, some real jumbo-sized, super-pumped man-jugs would look REALLY good….”

Just overhearing his words made me suddenly more woozy. In my book, there’s no such thing as “too big up top” muscle-wise on a man, or too big anywhere for that matter.

“Some King Kong-sized muscle-knockers will put the frostin’ on this birthday cake….”


Part 25: There Ain’t No Mountain High Enough

Sam turned around and moved over between two massive stacked piles of concrete road dividers. Each pile contained four tiers of neatly arranged dividers, forming a giant cube about 10 feet high. Each tier was made up of five dividers set tightly side-by-side. The tiers were stacked at 90 degree angles on top of each other like giant Lincoln Logs, interlocking and stabilizing the entire cube-shaped pile. The two huge cubes sat on individual skids constructed of steel I-beams welded together. An industrial-sized chain was hooked to each corner of the skid. The four corner chains formed the outline of a pyramid as they came together high above each cube, all connecting to a single massive chain at the pyramid’s visual apex. My eyes followed these two even larger chains up to the ceiling. They each passed over a sturdy wheel rim apparently manufactured for some large vehicle. The rims were mounted on axles, allowing them to freely rotate. The axles were, in turn, welded to roof girders overhead. It was all a pulley system, but on a gigantic scale. I followed the two larger chains as they ran along the parallel girders. They passed over another rim and then descended down to the floor on either side of a ‘table’ of sorts; a large, flat-surfaced platform the size of a big door. This table was inclined about 45 degrees and supported from beneath by another custom-made triangular frame of welded I-beams resting on the floor.

Sam looped each chain under another pivoting rim on either side of this ‘table’. Their axles had been set directly into the poured concrete floor, making them look a bit like big lollipops sticking up. The end link of each chain was perfectly circular and larger than the others, measuring perhaps 10 inches or more in diameter.

Sam stepped up to the table and turned facing away from it. He leaned back spread-eagled on the slanted surface until his shoulders were firmly supported in that semi-reclined position, then he reached down, alternately taking a chain in each hand. With his arms wide open, Sam closed his eyes. The chains rattled as Sam bent his elbows, taking up the little slack until both chains snapped taut.

Only moments after that, the giant skids piled high with concrete blocks were lifting clear of the floor and their speed of accent was accelerating, too. Blastoff!

Sam started pounding out flies with mechanical precision, as if just warming up with the pec-deck at the local Y.M.C.A. His form was textbook perfection: his rhythm unwavering, even though he was lifting enough concrete to make a large bunker. I listened to sound of the chains’ loud clattering as they rolled back and forth over their respective ‘pulleys’ and watched the two huge piers of concrete rise and fall hypnotically. Again, Sam’s occasional low gutteral groans were more reminiscent of pleasurable sex than any particular discomfort or pain.

In no time at all his pecs were beginning to pump up stupendously—and it was stupendously arousing to witness his man-melons mushrooming right before my eyes. I began rooting him on louder than maybe I should have. The fact is that Sam was pushing my over the edge… taking me past some point of no return… and I was losing the little control I’d had.

“Go, Sam. You’re showing that concrete who’s The Boss. Wow! Your chest is MONTROUS!”

And as he continued pumping out repetition after repetition, they became monsters indeed—total freaks of nature … and this was all about to get only freakier in ways I could never have anticipated.

With each rep, the muscular armor plates on Sam’s chest grew only thicker like twin warrior’s shields, eventually pumping to such mythological proportions that the straps of his tank top were rising clear off the fronts of his massive shoulders. When his gargantuan pec mountains peaked at the top of each contraction, I could have passed my hand through the gaps beneath them. And the striations in his pectorals were so numerous and deep that the separated bundles of muscle fibers could even be counted. His tank top was progressively stretching thinner across his upper body, too—though not quite as thin as my rubber now was. That was approaching its elastic limits and getting uncomfortable. Who’d ever invented these things sure never consulted me. But Sam’s display of such absolute and total inhuman strength so enthralled me that it was possible to ignore the increasing discomfort of this penile strangulation a little while longer.

Sam glanced at my groin and, seeming to gain inspiration, actually increased the speed of his repetitions. I also spotted his heightened state of arousal, something I would have never expected under these extraordinary circumstances. It’s possible that I hadn’t noticed before, having so many other big muscles vying for my attentions. Now another one needed to be added to my list of incredible distractions. Maybe it was just more obvious to me now because he was semi-reclined on that benching table. I rationalized that Sam, always true to his word, was attending to every physical detail and making sure that he was getting his entire body pumped to perfection, including a whopping phallus.

What Sam was doing to his physique though—and especially to his chest muscles at the moment—was forever redefining for me what it means to ‘get a pump.’ It was almost as if they were being filled with compressed air and might suddenly even burst like balloons. His tank top was in about the same sorry condition now as my rubber. The cotton material was losing it’s opaqueness and his magnificent dark areolas were visible through it. As his tanktop stretched evermore thinly, the straps became the only remaining parts of his shirt with any more elasticity left to give. But their former width was disappearing as they pulled ever tighter. The skin over his outrageous twin domes took on a bluish and semi-translucent quality. The extraordinary muscular force Sam must be exerting to lift two building foundations simultaneously—and the internal pressures that must generate within his mighty pectorals—were both beyond comprehension. And those small, telltale red lines began appearing under his skin again. Micro-capillary blood vessels were exploding; a testimony that at least some of the Laws of Physics still applied, though Sam seemed to be able to miraculously bend other rules more or less to his will.

Truthfully, his pectorals had now achieved such outrageously inhuman proportions that they no doubt would have been completely grotesque to some guys. In my own eyes however, they became evermore erotic with each additional millimeter they gained in size—twin muscular impossibilities that both chilled and thrilled me to the bone. And whether Sam ever intended this to happen I didn’t know, but because of him, I nevertheless found myself on an incredible voyage of self-discovery. The depths of my nature as a man were being revealed to me. I was discovering within myself the incredible sensual power of ‘freaky’ and reveling in the potent erotic beauty I found in the ‘extreme.’ Big IS better! Unknown to me however, the evening held in store other insights into my nature and even wilder erotic spectacles that would surpass the surreal.

I noticed small, darker spots slowly forming in the material around each of Sam’s large areolas. At first I thought that it might be just sweat collecting, though admittedly in a rather peculiar way. But as his repetitions continued, the spots grew a bit larger and darker as the material absorbed more. But more of what? At some point it dawned on me that this stuff was leaking from Sam’s nipples—and with that realization, my cock suddenly stiffened more. It actually bothered me momentarily that I found myself further aroused by such a bizarre thing, but it turned me on nevertheless. But my damn rubber wouldn’t tolerate any additional excitement. It was already tighter than hell and less easy to ignore. Still, I’d postpone the inevitable for as long as I could… for Sam’s benefit.

And the size of the dark areas was slowly increasing as the cotton absorbed more liquid. I stood up wobbling a little on my legs, and moved closer to watch his rising volcanoes with this strange lava now oozing from their cones. Sam looked down at his own pectoral behemoths and observed them while he continued doing chest flies like some unstoppable machine. I was sure their immense pump would have prevented Sam from being able to see any part of his body below them.

Still showing no signs that he was the least bit fatigued, Sam nevertheless let the giant piles of concrete suddenly come to rest back on the floor and released the chains.

But he just remained there motionless and utterly silent, reclined on the table-sized bench and staring down at his own chest. Sam seemed as contented as I was for the moment to simply watch his two mountains simply rise and fall slowly with each subsequent breath he took.

Sam forcibly expelled all the air from his lungs and then began to slowly inhale—and I mean DEEPLY—so amazingly deeply, in fact, that it seemed he would eventually draw all the air in the room into his lungs. This muscleman had an astonishing lung capacity! I wondered how long Sam could actually hold his breath underwater and then speculated that it would be as long as the current world free-diving champion. But then again, this was Sam I thought, so perhaps even longer.

As he slowly sucked more-and-more air into his giant bellows, his chest kept expanding outward until the straps of his tank top, pulled thin like guitar strings, simply couldn’t take it anymore. With sudden twangs like the sound of bowstrings snapping, both of his straps simply vanished. The front of Sam’s tank top forcibly blew right off his chest and fell down over his thighs, fully exposing his two magnificent heaving, undulating muscular monsters. I assumed this was all intentional because Sam then lifted his head off the table slightly to get a better look at his own absolutely freaked-out pecs.

After some considerable time passed, Sam slowly turned his eyes upon me as if perhaps thinking, “So what ‘cha think of these, huh?” If Sam could have read my mind at the moment, he wouldn’t have understood my thoughts. “Gut gebaut” were the only words running through MY mind. Roughly that meant, “built like a brick shithouse in the chest”—which in Sam’s case was still an extreme understatement.

Sam remained relatively motionless otherwise with his arms resting by his side, except for his occasional head movements. He still seemed quite immersed in his strange altered-state. He bore no discernible facial expression and his eyes were eerily vacuous. But even in his strange condition, Sam was still sporting a truly spectacular boner, though I doubted that he was even aware of it—or much of anything else for that matter.

I followed his eyes as he returned his blank gaze back to his immense muscle-domes. Sam couldn’t possibly see directly his own areolas or the liquid steadily oozing from his own nipples, slowly forming into droplets. As each drop became large enough, it ran down and collected underneath his lower pectoral shelves like bats hanging from a cave ceiling. There, they combined with other drops and then randomly fell off, dripping on to his rippled abdomen below. From Sam’s viewpoint, his deep cleavage must have appeared totally stunning, like looking down through a steep gorge between two Himalayan-sized mountains of muscle.

I found myself ogling his two heaving beasts just as Sam was doing himself. The areolas around each nipple had grown even larger as his pecs had increased in size. They were dark in color and big—the size of silver dollars—and like big painted bulls-eyes, they drew my eyes automatically to the nipples in their centers.

As if being directed by an invisible hand, I found my head circling ever closer to Sam’s pecs. As I hovered some inches above one areola almost salivating over that mammoth pectoral god, I turned to glance at Sam’s face. I was surprised to see that he was watching me even though his expression was ambivalently detached.

Keeping his eyes right on me, he took another slow deep inhalation, as if intentionally thrusting his huge, juicy pec closer to my mouth. Involuntarily, my mouth just sprung open. Sam’s greatly-augmented lung capacity did the rest as he pushed the massive giant up until my mouth was directly over his big, glistening-wet areola. I extended my tongue and began to gently lick the drop of mysterious fluid that hung suspended from it, slowly playing with its taste on my tongue—a taste unexpectedly pleasing and strangely reminiscent of something, too—but I couldn’t remember what.

It was some moments later that I first noticed some odd feelings. I felt almost a desire accompanied by a gnawing sensation in my stomach. Not thinking much of it, I sampled a little more with my tongue and played with it in my mouth. Not 20 seconds later, the sensations became noticeably more pronounced. This desire became almost euphoric while at the same time the gnawing emptiness in my stomach turned decidedly uncomfortable. I felt a strong urge to sample larger amounts of Sam’s mysterious juice, no longer feeling satisfied with just little dabs of it on my tongue. His areola seemed suddenly hypnotically inviting and irresistible and I moved in to completely encircle it with my opened mouth. His fleshy pec felt wonderfully warm and yet hard as rock on my lips. I began lapping his areola voraciously, making sure I gathered ever morsel of juice available. Then I covered every square inch of the surrounding area seeking more. It was as if I was suddenly on a determined quest for the Holy Grail. I licked along the underbelly of his massive pec looking for any previous runoff that might still be clinging to that great muscular cliff face.

Then my mouth returned to the source—the spring from where all of this goodness had flowed… and I starting to suck on it hard. Very hard. I was rewarded for my efforts quickly with a little renewed, fresh flow. But I’d only managed to collect a teasingly minute sample in my mouth before a noticeable tremor suddenly moved through Sam’s entire body. I turned to glance at Sam’s face even as I swallowed that little bit of his delicious pec-beverage.

He was already shaking his head around as if to clear out the cobwebs, and his arms and legs were becoming reanimated as well. Sam was reverting back to his old self again, but this time more quickly than before.

It wasn’t too long before I heard Sam say in a surprisingly normal-sounding voice again, “Hey there, big boy. What ‘cha doin’ there? Now that was some REAL liftin’, wasn’t it?”

Apparently, I’d distracted Sam enough when I’d started mouthing his pec like a Hoover vacuum to draw him out of his self-induced ‘altered state.’ That was sufficiently prolonged contact to do the trick. And I also felt rather stupid now because somehow I’d completely forgotten this.

Oddly though, Sam’s unexpected ‘return from the other side’ wasn’t making much of an impression on me at that moment. My eyes were being drawn back again and again to his incredibly hot pecs; those big nipples enticing me with their strange wonderful man-brew. I felt a fiery tingle all over my skin and the visceral, painful emptiness right in the pit of my stomach was impossible to ignore. I felt increasingly strange—and this craving to attack Sam’s megalithic pectorals with my mouth was powerful. My urges came in waves, building, ebbing and then intensifying again.

At the crest of each wave, this strange desire was almost irresistible. It was all I could even think of doing; the only thing that mattered to me. I’d only briefly tasted small samples of Sam’s strange pectoral fluid, but I sure wanted more of it … a great deal more. In fact, I could easily picture myself sucking and swallowing huge mouthfuls of his masculine elixir, if only I could. It was as if I sensed that only this manly cocktail would satisfy the awful emptiness in my stomach. My eyes feasted ravenously on one of his luscious monsters as I considered the best way to go about getting that enormous pec all in my mouth at once.

“So, am I big enough now, Pete?” Sam asked, seeing if he could draw my attention.

I did glance at Sam’s face. His eyes were clearing and brighter again. There was even a detectable slightly impish grin.

“Those are the most magnificent pecs in the whole world, Sam. They look freaky! Your chest is hot. Hot, hot, HOT!”

Sam looked back down at his own chest. Then with some surprise in his voice, he said, “Damn! Those IS really freaky big now, ain’t they!”

Sam then noticed the shredded tank top hanging over his thighs, still tucked into the waistband of his shorts. Grabbing the ragged remains, he snapped it off and tossed it aside in one quick motion. Then he started to look himself over very thoroughly again.

“Boy, I think I’m mighty big and presentable now all over, don’t ya think?”

He ran his hands over his biceps admiringly, then extended his arms to check the state of the horseshoes, and finally explored his own outrageously pumped pecs.

“I love it when I get a great pump like this!”

I couldn’t respond. I could even take my eyes off his chest now. I was spellbound by their size. I might have even been in love. If I was a Mormon, I’d have had to marry them both.

After gawking for a few moments more, I impulsively blurted, “And that stuff coming out of your nipples—Wow! That stuff is GREAT!”

My last comment caught Sam’s immediate attention. He studied my face for awhile as if he was looking for something.

Then he said with some concern, “Say, Pete… your eyes look kinda funny to me. Ya didn’t get any of my pec-juice in your mouth, did ya?”

“Yep, you bet I sure did,” I said, making a big ‘yummy’ with my tongue and lips. “I thought maybe that’s what you wanted me to do, but it was kinda hard for me to know for sure. Don’t you remember? It was an offer I just couldn’t refuse!”

But Sam did not look at all pleased with my revelation.

“Oh shit, Pete. I don’t remember doin’ that. I wanted to tell you more ‘bout me…. Other things—like that pec stuff, too—before you ever…. Shit! It’s just that I woulda wanted you to know other things ahead of time, so’s you would’ve had the choice. Shit. Shit, shit, shit! I’m so stupid. I didn’t want it to happen this way. Now it might be to late already,” he sighed, “but I needs to find out for sure….”

Sam wiped his index finger under each nipple, picking up the glistening dewdrops still clinging there. Then he put his finger directly in front of my mouth and just held it there—and watched me closely. My eyes became immediately glued to his finger. The sensation was as if I’d been in a desert for a week without water, and Sam’s finger was an oasis. Licking my dry mouth, I anticipated the taste of those watery droplets passing my lips. The look on my face alone must have told Sam whatever it was that he wanted to know.

“Yep. That’s exactly what I was afraid of,” he said, nodding his head as if acknowledging to himself that his suspicions were true. “Well, it looks like the genie’s already out of THAT bottle now. It’s already too late. I suppose, Pete, that you really wanna have some more of this again, don’t ‘cha….”

He held his finger closer, bringing it directly in front of my lips. “Here ya go, Pete….”

Involuntarily, I closed my eyes and engulfed his big finger with my mouth. I thoroughly sucked and licked every square millimeter of his finger, intent on removing every last trace of those precious dewdrops from every pore and microscopic crevice. Sam continued talking, leaving his finger there in my mouth.

“Pete, this is my fault. This here don’t happen to me often at all. The conditions gotta be just so, and they’s pretty rare,” he said. I assumed he was referring to this strange pec juice. “First, my pecs gotta be worked real hard—right to the max—just like they is now. And second, I gotta be turned-on at the same time. I means really fired up! It’s that there second condition that’s almost always missin’.”

Sam chuckled, seeming a little amused at what he was going to say next. “Seems the Lord made these giant muscular hooters of mine so that they can sorta cum too, sometimes—just like my cock!” Then he added a more serious-sounding postscript.

“But Pete, this muscle-milk o’ mine… it just affects a man….”

Cum? I realized only then what had been so oddly familiar about the taste all along; a taste I only experienced a few times in my distant youth. It was the taste of a young stud—the taste of Gabe’s very fresh spunk! But Sam’s pec ejaculate was scrumptious—and strangely, also deeply satisfying; more like a premium Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.

Sam finally extracted his finger slowly from my mouth, realizing that I would just keep sucking until there was only a stump left. I opened my eyes again, tilting my head back and forth like a contented puppy and grinning idiotically. Sam continued scrutinizing my every reaction.

“Your eyes are gettin’ even glassier now. Your pupils are startin’ to dilate, too,” Doctor Sam informed me, updating my current medical prognosis. “I ain’t seen that look in a guy’s eyes for… jeez, I can’t even remember when. Boy, I’d forgotten how even just a little bit this stuff affects a guy so powerful-like.”

He continued probing his hypothesis. “Even though I got all of these big muscles pumped up special for your birthday, I’m thinkin’ that right now anyway—ya just really fancies my big muscleman-hooters, don’t ‘cha, Pete. Ain’t that right?”

In fact, it seemed impossible to make my eyes look at anything else. I could have gawked at them open-mouthed for the rest of my life and have been totally contented. No one would have to bring me food either. They would even feed me.

I responded to Sam’s question almost worshipfully, “They’re so… I mean their size is… God, they’re huge. They’re real… sexy… you know, when they’re all big .. and juicy…. like that….”

Sam’s eyes twinkled a bit. “Yep, I was thinkin’ you might be feelin’ that way ‘bout ‘em. They’s just extra good-lookin’ to you right now, huh? I bet you even got a powerful thirst—maybe kinda tingly feelin’ all over, too? Ain’t that right, Pete?”

I proceeded to answer his questions, but I also wasn’t grasping the possible implications at that very moment either.

“Yes, I’m real thirsty—and I don’t really feel normal either. My stomach’s feeling awfully empty, and I’ve got these pins and needles all over my skin. But how did you know that, Sam?”

“It’s like I told ya, Pete… this stuff affects a man. And that little bit ya tasted is already affectin’ you.”

Sam then reviewed aloud this unexpected whole turn of events, but perhaps talking more to himself actually than to me.

“Oh Pete … what am I gonna do now? What AM I gonna do? I never shoulda asked ya take off your clothes. I know’d that’d turn me on. I just shoulda know’d better. I shoulda know’d that I’d start gettin’ other urges comin’ over me. I never meant to encourage you though—honest, I didn’t. But it’s a little late now to be cryin’ over spilt milk, I guess.” He glanced down at his own chest again, chuckling at his own unintended humor. “Well, seems there ain’t nothin’ I can do now but just go with the flow…”

He chuckled again even louder, then turned his attention squarely back to me.

“Pete—well you’s still gonna have a great birthday party! I maybe needs to change the order of my birthday presents a bit, that’s all. I know’s which one you’d be appreciatin’ the most right now. And the truth is… so will I….”


Part 26: Nectar of the Gods

Sam’s eight-pac leaped momentarily to attention as he raised his back off of the inclined table to sit up. With his torso now completely upright, the man was every bit a totally hulked-out ravenously handsome beast. His muscles were so engorged from playing around before with his pickup truck and piles of poured-concrete tinker toys that he’d have made Hercules hide in shame. I swear… EVERY muscle—and there must be many hundreds of them in a human body—was clearly visible.

But at that moment, I could see or think of nothing else but Sam’s pectorals. I was drawn to them helplessly, like a moth to a flame. They flexed like hulking juggernauts of muscle when he’d sat up, hanging heavier now like two great sides of living beef on his chest. Their enormous muscular bulk was hypnotically irresistible. Sam put his hands on his waist and spread out his lats spectacularly. Then he began to make his big chest pillows literally ‘jump.’ Although Sam couldn’t see it himself, new droplets of his pec juice were still steadily oozing from his big nipples. As each new drop became large enough, his jumping pec motions would fling it off into the air.

“Does ya like it when I bounces my huge man mountains, Pete?” he asked me, as he kept his dripping pecs dancing erotically up and down non-stop right in front of me. “It’s like havin’ my Granny’s two big ‘ol cast-iron fryin’ pans right here on my chest, boy. They sure feel mighty big ‘n’ heavy, even to me!”

Sam stopped flexing his pecs. I was so dumbstruck that it took a great effort just to move my mouth. But finally, I managed to utter in a raspy whisper, “That was SO HOT, Sam. How can you do that? How can you make them just bounce like that? Please, can you do that some more?”

“It’s easy. I can do this for hours. I’m just flexin’ ‘em, Pete—like this….”

Sam’s humongous pectorals resumed heaving up and down, sometimes moving together in unison, and at other times, moving in opposition. Watching his huge masses of muscle leap and dance before my eyes seemed to put me even deeper under some occult spell I was powerless to resist.

“You like me flexin’ my thick pecs for ya, Pete? That heavy feelin’ when I bounce ’em feels great!”

I could only keep repeating myself like a broken record. “Oh, WOW—is that EVER hot! Yeah, flex them, Sam… keep flexing them hard! They look so… sexy… moving like that….”

Sam seemed more than happy to oblige my request, and he kept his spectacular pecs relentlessly flexing even as he continued to talk to me more.

“Glad you like ’em this big and muscular on a man. When they’re pumped this huge, they’s real sensitive. Ya know, these pecs of mine could really use a man’s special touch right now, Pete. You wanna play with ’em for awhile? You can really play with ’em REAL hard, too—pound on ’em all you want. You won’t hurt me. Actually, it’ll feel GREAT! So really stimulate me now… go ahead…. get me REAL turned-on, O.K.?”

Sam kept his huge muscle mountains undulating vigorously as he waited patiently for some kind of reaction. The notion of actually ‘playing with ‘em’, as Sam put it, wildly excited me. Yet I hesitated, not knowing how to start or what to do.

“If you like pecs, you won’t come across any bigger than these, I reckon, Pete. So go ahead and have a REAL party with ‘em! Dad’s pumped ’em up HUGE just for his birthday boy!”

An over-wound spring inside of me suddenly snapped. I found myself reaching out and grabbing just as much of their hard mass in my hands as I could get. I ran my hands all over them. I groped them in my clenched fingers. Sam’s immediate guttural sounds of obvious pleasure gave me all the positive feedback necessary. Sam would relax them too, making his pecs more pliable so that I could heft them to get another view as well as feel their super-beefy mass.

“Yeah, that’s it, Pete. It feels REAL good. God, you’s makin’ me hot as a blowtorch,” he sighed, urging me to continue.

Occasionally, Sam would tense them again, turning them instantly into granite-hard hemispheres for me. When he held them fully-flexed, they felt like impenetrable mountains of iron to me … so hard that it seemed bullets might ricochet off of them.

“Go ahead and treat ’em rough now, Pete. You can’t hurt ’em at all. Work on ’em hard. I want ‘cha to really get me totally turned on!”

Then he flexed them hard again and I pounded on his muscular chest-mountains a little hesitantly.

“Oh yeah. That’s it, Pete. Feels great! Pound ’em around all you want. Really smack ’em around! See if you can break ‘em.”

I smacked them with my opened hands hard enough to hear distinct thwacks.

“Pretend they’s big punchin’ bags. Punch ‘em,” Sam commanded. I jabbed at his pecs with my closed fists a few times, but my knuckles felt like I was punching the side of a battleship.

“Really slug ‘em, Pete. Wow, that’s feels GREAT!”

Sam groaned louder and that huge piece of meat in his shorts flexed against the fabric.

“You’ve got a real masculine touch. You’re a natural masseuse, Pete!” Sam exclaimed with gleeful pleasure.

My knuckles throbbed painfully. At this rate, they’d be bleeding long before Sam’s pec mountains were even bruised—which I also judged from their stunning density wasn’t even the remotest of possibilities. Lucky for me that Sam then decided to stop MY punishment.

“Now I’m gonna relax ’em completely, so ya can really get big handfuls. Yeah, feel me up just like that whore of yours. Squeeze ‘em, Pete….”

When he relaxed them fully, they hung pendulously under their own weight.

“So who’s chest do you like more, Pete—mine or that silly-cone-ized whore?” Sam asked teasingly.

“It isn’t even a contest. Yours, Sam. These are bigger and better by a mile. They’re all solid muscle!” I wheezed out, even as I started kneading his semi-pliable giants like bread dough. At first I thought I was imagining it, but it seemed that his fleshy pecs were still growing impossibly even larger the longer I worked them over, along with Sam’s moaning.

“Harder, boy. Much harder. Really stimulate ‘em. You’re turning me on big time!”

As I started attacking them with all of my might with both hands, I saw one of Sam’s nipples suddenly release a little jet of that intoxicating pec juice. Several moments later, the other one did as well. Sam was watching me work on his amazing juggernauts and must have also seen the momentary tiny squirts from his nipples.

At the sight of those the little spritzes spontaneously erupting like pressure-relief valves, I forgot the cramping aches in my hands and forearm muscles and stood mesmerized.

The mere sight of his nipples’ jizzing overwhelmed me, making my scrotum crawl and tingle, stimulating anew that painful emptiness in the pit of my stomach urging me to drink his pec juices. Sam seemed as though he could read my very thoughts, feelings and mysterious compulsive cravings. He took my wrists in his own hands and moved my hands up again to each of his muscular man-jugs. I could see all the stars in the heavens at once dancing in his stunning blue eyes.

“Pete, that’s your special magic touch doin’ this to me. Can ya feel how they’s even more pumped up now? They’s this huge ‘cause… well… you’re gettin’ me all fired up!”

“This is really turning me on, too, Sam,” I confessed, though I doubt that was any surprise. “My head feels like it’s gonna explode I’m so horny—and all from just f-e-e-l-i-n-g them!”

“With all that great stimulatin’, they’re chucked full now with that juice you like, too,” Sam added. “That’s why they’s startin’ to squirt a little. They can’t hardly hold no more. They’s loaded with that muscle juice, like they’s gonna explode!”

The mere thought that Sam’s ‘cups runneth over’ literally with such an over-abundant supply made me involuntarily salivate.

Sam grabbed me under my chin and turned my head away from his chest, directing me to look at his face.

“I know’s ya also got powerful urges now, Pete. Urges ya can’t control ‘cause they’s too strong. So remember what I told ya upstairs. You own me tonight. Whatever you feel like doin’ to me is gonna be O.K. with me. Anything at all. I knows what ‘cha really wanna do with my huge peccies. So go ahead, Pete. Don’t be ‘fraid. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with it either. I needs ya to do it, Pete, just as much as ya wants to yourself. I got powerful urges now, I can’t hardly control. I GOT to. It’ll feel real GOOD to me. It’s like takin’ vitamins—vitamins just for men….”

“What do you mean by ‘vitamins just for men,’” I asked, even as my cravings grew evermore demanding that I wantonly indulge them.

Sam didn’t answer me directly but just gazed again at my boner.

“Not that you need ANY vitamins at all, boy, but you’ll understand soon enough, I expect. I promise you though—afterwards, your party is gonna get even better! The truth is, Pete—havin’ sex with my pecs right now will have a real powerful affect on me, too. You’ll see….”

“I’m not following, Sam.” Whether that was because Sam wasn’t explaining himself well or because my head was stuffed with cotton at the moment, I couldn’t be sure. But Sam at least tried to better explain.

“Pete, do you remember me tellin’ you before that I ain’t made like other guys? You can already see what playin’ with my huge man-hooters does to ’em when I’m all horny. They cums, just like my cock! At least there’s advantages to bein’ a freak, I guess. I can have oo-gasm’s a whole bunch of different ways! You said you wanted to know everything about me, didn’t ya? Well, juicin’ my big man-jugs also causes me to get… well… extra-acccomodatin’, too.”

He paused briefly, and looked down again at my crotch with a lusty anticipation.

“It’s like this. When a guy sucks my pec-juices, it affect him… and it affects me, too, at the same time. It changes us both, in ways that sorta … make sense, I guess….”

It didn’t seem even all that important to me at that very moment. I was feeling incredibly strange, and I seemed to have only one thing—actually two things—on my mind; the pec to the left of me, and the pec on my right. Life was so simple. I think Sam also sensed any further attempt to explain anything to me was a waste of his time. Moreover, Sam also was being driven by overpowering urges himself—urges that complemented my own—urges that he could no longer resist.

“I need ya to chow down on my two big guys, Pete. And those cravin’s of yours—they’s a part of what tastin’ my muscle-juice did to you. You DO wanna really suck ’em now, don’t ‘cha, Pete?”

“Forever Sam,” I replied truthfully, gazing longingly into his eyes. “I want to just SUCK ’em FOREVER! But honest, it even more than that. This probably sounds crazy, but it’ll be like… like… having SEX with them….”

“I’s countin’ on exactly that..,” Sam said with an all-knowing smile, “and I knows you’ll to treat ’em right. So make love to ‘em, Pete. Go ahead. They’s all yours. Make my huge pecs cum now, boy… I just gotta cum… gotta cum…. before I explode….”

Unexplainably, that very task seemed the entire reason for my existence. Drool started streaming from my mouth like a rabid dog as I contemplated his magnificently-pumped chest filled to the brim with his succulent, mysterious elixir. My cravings were ravenous.

I placed my mouth over one large areola and drew his nipple in past my lips. I was pleasantly startled when it began to immediately enlarge, engorging just like a little cock. In mere seconds it transformed into a sizeable, meaty man-teat right in my mouth—and that just excited me even more. I began giving it some heavy tongue action and was instantly rewarded as a little liquid appetizer suddenly spritzed from it. I felt Sam’s huge paw cover the back of my head, pressing my face more firmly into his chest.

Sam began moaning deeply. “Oh yeah, Pete. Nibble on my man-teat, too. Oh yeah! Put some teeth on it. Oh YEAH—that’s it! That feels GREAT! You got a magic mouth, boy. You’re makin’ me crazy! Now suck my huge pecy. Really suck it—HARD!”

I was at the chuck wagon and Sam was ringing my dinner bell. My appetite for his pec-cum was beyond insatiable now. And with Sam getting obviously hotter by the second, I really went to town like a hog at the trough. I sounded the part too—snorting and grunting and chewing and slurping away. I’m sure it wasn’t a pretty sight either, but I sure could hear Sam’s extreme excitement.

I got both of my hands into the action, raising them to his massive man-jug, kneading and squeezing the massy muscle as my mouth applied suction like an industrial vacuum cleaner. Sam’s groans became very loud, his upper torso twisting and writhing in sensual ecstasy.

“Oh yeah—you suck SO good! God, that feels soooooo hot. YEAH, that’s it! JERK OFF THAT PEC! I can feel it’s gonna cum. I’m gonna cum… oohhh…. right now….”

A moment later, his massive pec lurched—and with a sudden gush—cum, he definitely did! A huge amount of juice shot forcefully from his big teat, flooding my mouth. I gulped it down ravenously. Determined to really open his floodgates wider, I turned the power-vac up a notch, sucking so hard that my ribs ached. Sam let out a low, deep orgasmic moan. His pec contracted again in my hands as he let lose an even bigger volley from his fat nipple which I immediately swallowed. At very regular intervals, Sam would groan and I was rewarded with another mighty contraction and yet another great geyser of his wonder-cum. After swallowing several more ample mouthfuls of his super-tasty pec-cum, a pleasant warmth began coursing through my entire body. The more I swallowed, the harder my mouth became attached to Sam’s nipple. I wasn’t about to let up until I’d extracted every last drop, which at that heavenly moment seemed to be an eternity away. I had his juice smeared all over my face. It even trickled occasionally from my nostrils. I slobbered so much of it around that the entire surface of his pec glistened with a combination of my saliva and his own nipple-elixir. Sam cradled the back of my head the entire time, even stroking it occasionally.

I think uncounted minutes passed before I heard Sam whispering softly in my ear, “Hey Pete. I’ve got another fresh one just waitin’ for that hungry mouth of yours. It’s right over there on the other side. See?”

When I showed no sign of surrendering my strong allegiance to the current teat in my mouth, Sam tried some additional gentle persuasion.

“Pete, stop for just a second. O.K, now look across here at my other pec. See how B-I-G it is?”

Though never releasing my firm clamp on that nipple, I nevertheless felt obligated to open my eyes and at least take a peek across his broad expanse of chest.

Sam saw that I was looking. “It’s pumped up real nice, ain’t it. It’s really huge, Pete!” He further tried to subversively coerce my transfer of allegiance by flexing and bouncing the other untapped mastiff independently as I stared at it.

“Cum over and get yourself some fresh-squeezed muscle juice! Jerk off that other big pec right in your mouth. It’s LOADED!”

That clinched it. Sam was a born salesman. Without hesitation, I swung my head over and started affectionately nuzzling Sam’s other monstrous rocky twin.

Sam grinned and cooed in a rather soothing voice, “Yeah, that’s the way, Pete. You just have yourself a good time now.”

I covered his other big areola and sucked the nipple into my mouth. In seconds, it began stiffening, rapidly swelled into another beautifully big juicy man-teat all primed and ready to begin delivering round #2—on the house!


Part 27: Stairway to Heaven

I wasn’t aware of Sam effortlessly scooping up my naked body in his enormous arms. My eyes were closed tightly as I enthusiastically attacked his other pec fountain. I was oblivious to any other world beyond the giant-muscled arms that now held my body cradled against his massy chest. Sam stood up slowly with me in his arms, and began carrying me back into the main gym, somehow managing to stop and padlock the door to his inner sanctum on the way without even disrupting my current occupation. Sam talked more or less constantly too, but whether he was speaking to me or just talking to himself I didn’t know. I was far too absorbed in my immediate task at hand—or rather in mouth—to be much aware of anything else. Like an oil prospector, I feverishly kept priming his 2nd huge pec-pump, growing evermore confident that I would be striking Texas Tea at any moment.

“Damn, I wish you could see what I’m seein’ right now, boy.” Sam said quietly. “You’re Daddy’s extra-big boy already, and you still got that whole big pecy left to swallow. I wish I could patent these ‘vitamins’ of mine. I’d be maybe even a millyunair, I expect….”

Sam didn’t break his stride, but there was a sudden lapse in his banter. A few moments later, he moaned rather loudly as his mighty pec mound involuntarily contracted, forcing its first batch of muscle-juice into my eagerly waiting mouth. I clamped down to devote myself to the milking and only half-heard when Sam resumed his monologue. He knew I was too preoccupied to participate in any conversation but kept on talking to me anyway.

“You got a real knack for this, Pete. That’s some terrific feelin’ mouth action. Woof! I reckons I knew ya had it in ya though, the first moment I saw ya. You’re a real natural! And you’s probably gettin’ tired of hearin’ me tell ya this, but… you got a b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l cock on you… and it’s gettin’ beautifuler every minute. You got me so crazy for that huge thing already that I’m burnin up inside, Pete. And boy, I’m gettin’ readier by the second to treat it really right, too. You makin’ my big manhooters squirt—that’s changin’ me—like it’s changin’ you. Not the same way, of course. But I can feel it all happenin’ now, just like it always does. I’m gettin’ all set to treat my big boy like he ain’t never been treated before, I reckon. So that’s it, boy. You just keep on suckin’ ‘till ya drain me dry. You’s gonna be even bigger than my favorite… Oh, thanks Pete for remindin’ me of that, come to think of it!”

Sam took a brief detour into his office. I felt him easily shift my whole body and then cradle my weight completely in just one massive arm, keeping me firmly nuzzled up to his fleshy muscle. The one arm alone pretty much engulfed my head and torso. Then I felt him gently bend down and heard the sound of a metal desk drawer being opened. Then I thought I heard him speaking to someone else.

“Yep. Thought so. Can ya see the size of Pete here? He’s gonna ruin me for you. I ain’t gonna feel the same way about you never again, you ‘ol big banana. You’s ‘bout to be replaced by the real thing. Yeah, I know. We been together so long I thought that it could never happen, too. But don’t ‘cha worry—you’ll always be my second favorite, darlin’. But you’re just gonna be the appetizer from now on. This guy here, he’s the new main course—and I’m the luckiest man in the world tonight.”

I could feel Sam’s body fidgeting around a little awkwardly, followed by a brief exclamation, “Oooooh, yeah…” then the sound the drawer being kicked shut with a resounding bang.

Sam slowly strolled out of his office and headed toward the rear doorway again with my mouth still firmly clamped on his pec, giving him truly great ‘teat’, too. He hadn’t gotten too far before another sharp tremor coursed through his body, signaling I was close to scoring another goal. A series of strong pectoral contractions immediately followed, apparently so intense that they temporarily stopped him dead in his tracks. Sam just stood there holding me in his arms and bellowed like a stag in the rut. I gulped and swallowed as if my life depended on it, trying desperately to avoid drowning as Sam’s fat nipple-cock ejaculated fire-hose quantities of pec-cum. I was gagging and gobbling mouthfuls as fast as I possibly could but I was too heavily outgunned and it was a fruitless salvage operation at best. The excess streamed out of my nostrils under pressure, covering my face and hair and pouring down through the chiseled channels of Sam’s abdomen to coat my own torso.

Variations on this same theme repeated themselves several more times before we finally reached the rear stairs. In between volleys, Sam talked more or less nonstop in a quiet, soothing tone of voice. I’d managed to coax every last morsel of his scrumptious pec-cum out that mountainous man-jug before we ever reached the stairwell, successfully draining the huge guy completely dry. Sam seemed as contented as a big puppy and continued to carry me even though I’d completed my assignment.

He paused at the bottom of the stairwell and seemed quite satisfied to stand there and just look at me for awhile. And I lay there gazing up at the face of a man who was so sexy—so handsome—so utterly manly—it caused me to shiver. And that face looked so ecstatically happy it beamed.

Occasionally he’d rock and bounce me a bit in his strong arms, pressing his lips to my head. The delicacy, the extreme tenderness of these motions belied freight-train power this man-mountain had exhibited only a few minutes before. In fact I’d never felt anything remotely like it from any man. Sometimes you just don’t need words to know what someone’s feeling in his heart. And at that moment, what Sam conveyed without say a word surprised and frightened me. There was no misinterpreting it: the dude was pierced by Cupid’s arrow.

Then Sam said: “Yeah, look at that big ‘ol side of beef just waggin’ in the breeze. That dick’s bigger than I seen it before! It’s a major DONG, boy. You got a great big MONSTER DONG! You got me as hot as a firecracker on the 4th of July! We’s gonna have us one hell of party! Yeehaa!!”

Well, O.K.—so Sam was horny as a toad, too.

I wasn’t exactly in a position to be calling the kettle black. I turned my eyes front and center, seeking the cause of Sam’s euphoric state of arousal. The only thing that I seemed to be able to see was… God, it WAS a fuckin’ DONG! And it WAS hot! I mean literally—hot like a burning torch—hot as if it would glow in the dark like a hot red poker. In fact, I felt like a 5 alarm fire blazed all over my body. The big fellas were floating in a hot air furnace. Then I recalled I’d had this bizarre sensation almost since the moment I’d discovered the joys of Sam’s muscle jug juice. But having finished the bottle, this heat was more noticeable now. I felt these distinct hot flashes moving like waves through my body; but one look at Old Faithful there told me I was anything but men-opausal. These pulses of warmth seemed to all be moving towards my groin. It felt like an inferno where they converged around Mount Sinai down there; and if ever there was a burning bush, I sure had one. My entire groin felt fiery hot. This ‘fire’—this feeling of intense heat—it wasn’t unpleasant or even feverish. It didn’t hurt at all. It was as if I’d suddenly developed thousands of new nerve endings. Everything felt exquisitely super-sensitive. It was as if I could feel every molecule of air bouncing off my cock and balls; as if the air itself had suddenly become some sort of invisible, sensual and erotic glove.

I immediately began checking the status of everything that had been going on below my waist while I’d been lost in Sam’s Pectoral Mountains. Where were my balls? I couldn’t see them, but I sure could feel them. The big hot Kahunas, ever the low-riders, were hanging well down between my legs still safe in their saddle bag, and swaying in unison with Sam’s strides. I felt my heavy satchel occasionally slap against my ass cheeks reminding me they were still there.

As for my cock, well… it startled me honestly. The only real pain I felt anywhere was coming from the part of my cock still covered by that rubber. At this point, no one else might have known I was even wearing one except for the telltale latex neck ring not quite midway down my shaft, now ridiculously strangling me. The condom itself had stretched to the point of almost being imperceptible, except that my skin had a bit more shine than normal. However, the coloring was getting a purplish hue—a visible indicator of my growing discomfort. I wondered why I’d had this stupid idea in the first place. But I’d made it farther than I ever thought possible without folding yet. I could hold out just a little longer—for Sam’s sake. “In for the penny, in for the pound”… well, probably a few generous pounds from the look of things.

Frankly, I couldn’t remember ever sporting anything quite this size; even more remarkable considering neither Sam nor I had even laid a hand on it yet. I was one part amazed and two parts embarrassed. One look at it and the word ‘freak’ blazed into my head again—and then I wisely tried to banish the thought just as fast. I was not going to do that to myself again. I wasn’t sure what this ‘dong’ that Sam mentioned repeatedly was supposed to look like but I had the idea that it must be fairly useless, whatever it was. Sam apparently thought otherwise. He’d told me so many times in various ways that he thought my cock was hot. That was the only thing that needed to matter; the only thing I needed to keep in my mind.

If it turned him on that much, I’d damn well better start thinking that this dong was very hot piece of real estate, too. But it felt unbelievably heavy, like a length of lead pipe. Something that heavy should be dead weight hanging between my thighs. But it wasn’t. There it was standing up in turgid defiance looking solid and sturdy, not draped over my thigh like a dead goose. I’d been in an outright mind-blowing state of arousal almost from the moment I began working over Sam’s muscleman-mega-hooters. All my hormones had cranked into some sort of crazy overdrive and kept on revving. My body had basically done what it’d always done before. I’d just never responded quite so… well… enthusiastically. “Well Pete,” I said to myself. “It’s just those damn hormones again. So get used to it. Time to introduce Sam to the new kid on the block—Dong Boy!”

I looked back up at Sam who was still beaming like a lighthouse. He’d apparently never taken his eyes off of me.

“Did ya like my birthday present, Pete? Did I get big enough for you?”

“That was—unbelievable—EVERYTHING you did, Sam. I couldn’t ever forget this birthday. Never! You’ve got big muscles on top of bigger muscles on top of even bigger muscles! You’re a muscleman—a real muscleman. But… but it’s almost too unbelievable. I mean the WEIGHT of those things that you lifted—and the physical strength it’d take to even budge that kind of mass. I mean how strong are you really, Sam? It’s all beyond me, and it gives me the chills. I can’t even get my brain around it. And the shape of your physique—the way your muscles look all pumped up like they are—you’re way beyond huge. I don’t have words to describe what I saw—or what I’m seeing right now. You’re the most amazing, strong, most fantastic looking, sexiest man in the world. That’s the closest I can get. But Sam—it all TOO unreal. It’s like I’m dreaming. Just how strong ARE you really, Sam?”

Sam replied with a question of his own. “How big is your dick, Pete, huh?”

“I’ve never tried to measure it. I told you that. I don’t actually know, Sam.”

“Seems we ain’t so different then, I guess,” Sam countered with a little grin. “But what matters is that I did it for you, Pete, ‘cause you said you wanted me to get freaky. I wanted to make ya happy and give ya a real thrill, so’s you’d get REAL big! Looks like I succeeded more than my wildest dreams, too, by the look of things. I wanted your birthday to be somethin’ real special. I told ya I’m a freak right from the get-go, Pete. I told ya that the Good Lord made me so’s I can do things that most guys can’t. I told ya I was real strong. I even told ya ‘bout that weird thing I can do in my head that I can’t even explain. I knows I never lied to ya about anything. But you said it was OK and that ‘cha wanted to know and see everything. Least that’s what ‘cha told me, right? So I trusted ya, and I showed ya some things. They’s special things though. Things I like keepin’ to myself. They’s personal and private. But I did ’em anyway, just for you. I did ’em ‘cause I… likes ya. Ya made me feel like I was maybe sorta special. I just thinks you’re real special—a real nice guy. The truth be known—ya gives me the craziest case of the hots I ever felt.”

I could even feel the shapes of the thick muscles in Sam’s powerful forearms flexing underneath my back as Sam pressed my naked body against him and began hugging and squeezing me in his arms. His affection made flesh, pressed into mine, uniquely touched me in a place deep inside where no one ever had reached. Powerful feelings erupted from that private, deep place. Some were scary. Others—lustful. Some were crazy and wild. Some were absolutely wondrous and new to me. I wanted to freeze that moment for all eternity.

In a kidding sort of way, Sam started to give me back a dose of my own medicine.

“And that there huge wand you’re wavin’ is somethin’ pretty damn unbelievable too, Pete. Watchin’ that big dong gettin’ all growed-up is the greatest present I ever got. No ways I’m ever gonna forget it either. You’ve got one gigantic muscle on you boy, and it’s the only muscle that matters. You’s the REAL muscleman, Pete! And all of your male-parts are unbelievable to me, too. Take those huge, big gorgeous melons of yours… why other guys’ balls are just peanuts next to yours. And how big does that dong of yours really get, Pete, huh? It’s all beyond me, and it’s givin’ me the chills. It ain’t necessarily my mind though that I’d be wantin’ to get around it. Lord knows the size of it blows up my mind—and other parts of my anatomy. You got that thing pumped up way beyond huge. That dick is UNREAL. It’s more than just amazin’—it’s a miracle. I doesn’t even have words either to describe the guy I’m holding right now. You’re the most amazing, most handsomest, most sexiest guy in the world—and that’s the closest I can get to tellin’ ya what I’m feelin’! And Pete—you definitely ain’t dreamin’ ‘cause I’m right here—right now—holdin’ ya in my arms, ain’t I? And the truth is—it’s as unbelievable to me as maybe all of me seems unbelievable to you….”

Sam’s point was well taken. I needed to stop swimming upstream and fighting the current here. It was time to enjoy floating down this wild, crazy, unbelievable, maybe once-in-lifetime river wherever that would ultimately take me.

“Sam, I’m ready for the REAL sex now….”

It was at that very moment I got my first hint at how incredibly fast this huge man could actually move when he was motivated. Like a F-18 pilot pulling a 10G turn, I felt my body compressed flat up against his own from the force of Sam’s first leap. Starting from a dead stop, Sam took the entire staircase in about 3 or 4 giant steps with me still in his arms. It all happened so fast that the next thing I knew I was sailing through mid-air in pitch-blackness. He’d tossed me from the doorway of his bedroom onto the middle of his ultra-king-sized bed like I was a feather pillow. To put this into a better perspective, the distance was a good 10 feet—perhaps even more. I skidded to an abrupt stop like a plane snagging the third wire on a carrier’s deck.

But I never had time to even notice the bed-burns I’d picked up from my hard landing. Only seconds later, I felt Sam’s body totally enveloping my own on the bed in the darkness.


Part 28: The Whole Nine Yards

Sam pressed his body completely over mine. I’d never had a man so literally ‘all over me’ before. I felt like a mini-sub trying to surface beneath a battleship. I’d say that Sam crushed me under his massive frame—most certainly he could have—but the experience was anything but unpleasant. More like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s night. Every inch of my body was in contact with some part of his, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. He both cuddled and caressed all of me using his own massive physique with amazing dexterity. Two extremely contrasting sensations enveloped me: like being covered by a great slab of hard granite—yet by a soft, fleshy, and warm furry puppy. Exhilaration spurred arousal throughout my body. But never once did I feel even slightly suffocated underneath all of his extreme weight. I don’t know how Sam even did it, but he was clearly the supreme master of his own enormous body. He controlled his hulking physique with the precision of a pianist’s fingers and managed to somehow keep the vast bulk of his weight off of me. Our contact remained decidedly firm but always within the bounds of pure pleasure—and it drove me wild with desire.

Yet I was also intrigued by the odd thought that I was ‘pinned’ beneath a man who, if he’d chose to, could have relaxed his full body weight and snuffed the life from me on the spot; and I would be absolutely powerless to stop him. So it wasn’t so much the feeling of dying in the arms of your man as dying from them perhaps that was oddly erotic. Then I felt Sam’s rough beard and warm wet kisses appearing and disappearing randomly on places all over of my body, and I knew that I’d never be safer in any other man’s arms.

Sam’s mouth eventually found its way to my own in the darkness. But as my eyes adjusted, I began to slowly make out the bold contours of Sam’s physique back-lit by the blue moonlight filtering through a bedroom window. As Sam subtly shifted his body over my own, I saw the silhouettes of giant sand dunes appearing and disappearing as if they were drifting in a desert wind. But beyond that, I could still actually see very little. My relative sensory depravation though seemed to heighten my tactile awareness of his utterly sweet lips. The lips of any man on my body was wholly new territory to me, their exploration and discoveries exhilarating, commanding my undivided attention. And what that monster of a man could do with his mouth was as much a marvel as what he could do both to—and with—his body. The Big Blue Ox kissed like Romeo reincarnated—warmly, wetly, tenderly, deeply and passionately. I’d never been kissed that way before by anyone, let alone a man. In the next gratefully long minutes, Sam proceeded to reset the bar so incredibly high he methodically ruined me for any other man.

In retrospect, if there was ever a single defining moment when Sam cast his lifelong spell on me—it was right then and there. While undeniably alluring in their own right, it wasn’t his immensely-muscled physique or even his Herculean strength that worked the voodoo. Understand: it was simply the way he kissed me that night. And to take some share of the responsibility, I think it was also maybe the way that I kissed him back. But when we kissed, it was as though it was our very first. And the real magic is that every kiss ever since has felt the same way.

Sam rested his elbows on the mattress over the tops of my shoulders. He wrapped his meaty drumsticks around my head, surrounding it like a football helmet—and held it gently in his big opened paws, stroking it and occasionally running his fingers through my hair. And then he simply enchanted me, using the incredible sensuality of his entire manly face. I never had a chance—and I think he knew that, too. He didn’t play me like a fiddle; he played me like the whole orchestra. He opened with an overture of hot, wet lips slowly tracing their way around my own, alternately nibbling and kissing at mine ever-so-lightly. He’d change routes on occasion and begin to similarly kiss my forehead, eyes and cheeks sweetly. Sometimes Sam would tenderly nuzzle and rub his cheek or chin on parts of my face. The contrast between feeling the softness of his lips alternating the roughness of his masculine beard made things bounce and spin inside me and ricochet back off his immobilizing physique. And from there, his kisses grew only wetter, wilder and hotter, eventually involving all parts of his mouth and my own in the act. The man has the tongue of an anteater! It could have been a masterfully executed demonstration of every technique used in applying virtually foolproof mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Not only was he successful in reviving me many multiple times over, but by the time Sam was finished I was also fairly convinced that he could also resurrect the dead.

Not only were my overly healthy hormones surging ever higher, but there was also no limit even yet in sight. That rubber that I’d been wearing for what seemed to be an eternity hung on to me for dear life. I really couldn’t take it any longer either. Discomfort had become outright pain, impossible to ignore.

“Sam, why don’t you get off of me for a minute, O.K.? Just lie by my side here. I want you to see something. You might even like this….”

Without any hesitation, Sam shifted his massive weight and rolled his body off of me, lying on his side and snuggling up against me. He reached over to my far side and gently pulled me tightly against him, leaving his freakishly-sized arm contentedly draped across my chest. I said ‘chest’, but the thickness of his arm effectively covered a portion of my upper abdomen as well as my ribcage. Without thought, I began stroking his arm with my hands, running them lightly back and forth slowly across his forearm and over the top of his upper arm, tracing all of the stunning contours and veins with my fingertips. Meanwhile, Sam was keeping another muscle well-pumped by slowly moving his hips to hump my outer thigh, or he’d rotate them to rub his tube-steak playfully all over my leg. I could feel the individual hairs on his tree-trunk-sized thighs brushing against my own hot skin. That feeling alone screamed ‘what a hunk ‘o man’ to me. However, that was just the frosting. The cake was one scrumptious piece of meat, and exactly the way I liked it best; beefy, like the man himself. This stud could rub his man-muscle against me anytime—anywhere—that he wanted. Woof!

My eyes had continued to adjust, and I was gradually able to see better in that pale moonlight. I cranked my head around to quickly survey his bedroom and noticed that the wall behind the headboard of the bed was also mirrored. That reflected some of the light coming in through the window around the room, making it a bit brighter.

“What ‘cha want me to see, Pete?” Sam asked quizzically, still doing the doggy-thing to my leg.

I was flat on my back, eyeing the one-eyed Cyclops that arched over my stomach and stared right back at me. A cock that big and still lacking ‘the human touch’ at this point should have been grounded by its own weight, lying big, fat and happy right on my stomach. But my behemoth was airborne and flying rather well on it’s own; occasionally bobbing slowly as if hitting pockets of turbulence every now and then like a dirigible.

“So, should I be doin’ somethin’, Pete?” Sam asked excitedly, with an almost boyish innocence about it, too.

“Well from the look of things, probably not much more at all,” I said with a grin. “You got me so hot I need some more maneuvering room. See, my quarters are getting too cramped. It’s kinda dark in here. Can you see what I mean, OK?”

“Even a blind man could see what ‘cha mean,” Sam chortled back. “I got great night-vision anyway. My Ma always said I had the eyes of a jungle cat. I can just spot great cocks a mile away even with a New Moon!”

“Well… err… that’s real good, Sam. Right now you only got one cock you need to be ‘spottin’. Besides, this is all your fault anyway, so why don’t you just go ahead and finish the job. This damn rubber HURTS!”

“Ya want me to just take it off for you?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Well, figuratively speaking anyway. P-L-E-A-S-E DO! You won’t have to even use your hands either.”

Sam looked very puzzled indeed. “You mean I can’t touch it?”

I’ll tell you, at times the big lug could totally exasperate me.

“Jeez, Sam—give a guy a break sometime! What I mean is—you don’t have to even touch it to get it off.”

But still Sam looked confused. Finally, I just shot him a real deep scowl, as if to tell him, “Samson. If you REALLY don’t have a clue by now….”

Sam pondered over this dilemma a bit longer before a light bulb finally flickered somewhere inside of that vast head of his. I could almost hear the circus trumpet blare the finale notes ‘Ta DAAH!’ as his mental slot machine hit all cherries. He tucked his chin down and gave me a coy little smirk, as if he’d just successfully read my mind. It wasn’t an expression I’d never seen before, but it was so outright sexy that thrilling shivers suddenly race up and down my spine—and I lustfully anticipated the eminent, final demise of my latex nemesis.

Sam lifted his arm off my chest slightly and then extended it completely—straight-out—and rotated his wrist so that his palm of his opened hand faced the ceiling. Sam turned his head and studied his arm. I watched him curl his fingers up into a big claw, as if he was wrapping them around an invisible softball resting in his hand. Then it looked like he was squeezing the ball harder and harder. The effect on the rest of his arm was immediate and absolutely stunning. His meaty forearm instantly formed into a giant muscular drumstick covered entirely with thick veins. The giants in his upper arm rose to the occasion as well, transforming themselves instantly into granite-like sculptures. On the top, the monstrous belly of his biceps solidified into a absolutely perfect horizontal cylinder. It looked like a large fire extinguisher suddenly appearing beneath his skin; on the bottom, his triceps coalesced into a magnificently bulging crescent horse-shoe.

Sam looked back at me again to check how I was doing so far, and to watch my reaction while he slowly rotated his extended arm at the shoulder, letting me see all of it from different angles. It was a Grey’s Anatomy carved in monolithic stone. Seeing my hypnotized gaze unwaveringly riveted on his arm, Sam knew he definitely was on the right track. A quick glance at my even fatter, throbbing and bobbing salami would have also confirmed he was making a sizeable impression.

I directly encouraged him to continue. “Could you make a muscle, Sam? Yeah, make a real BIG muscle….”

“Anythin’ you want. But just remember to breathe too, Pete. I sure don’t wanna lose ya now.”

He opened his hand briefly and then folded his fingers in one-by-one into an iron fist, and then brought his huge forearm up to present me with his fully-flexed, giant boulder. And to me, his biceps was the penultimate in stupefyingly-pumped muscle. In both size and shape, inhuman in its perfection. His was a Jupiter, whether that meant the mighty Titan planet or the King of the Gods on Mt. Olympus. Both applied equally well. I’d have fallen to my knees but I was already flat on my back.

My heart-rate increased dramatically and all that blood was flowing right to my cock. I was suffering one of those awkward adolescent grow spurts, where a part of a guy’s body temporarily grows out of proportion to the rest.

“Is this big enough for you, Pete? Hey, Pete?? Breathe, Pete. Take a breath….”

I took his concerned advice and sucked in a lung-full of air. “It’s… so… mindblowing! Your bi’s bigger than a basketball. I mean it’s—literally—bigger than a fuckin’ basketball!”

Sam went directly for the slam-dunk.

“Glad you appreciate the size of a man’s muscles. Go ahead. Feel it. Feel it all you want. I’m a real strong guy. Yeah, that’s good. Try to squeeze it now. It’s real big, boy. Hard as stone, huh? I’m glad my big muscles get ya so excited. Bet ‘cha never thought you’d ever feel a muscle this huge. Yeah, that’s it—keep runnin’ those hands all over it. I like the way that feels… you runnin’ your hands all over my big arm. Is this givin’ you a huge cock, boy? Sure hope so. I want my boy extra-big for me. Here, let me pump my arm for you now, so’s you can see what that feels like, too.”

Sam began flexing his Titan repeatedly so I could feel it stretch and peak magnificently. Meanwhile, he turned his attention back to my overgrowing fleshy manhood. I had the most powerful aphrodisiac in the world right in my hands, my cock inflating more with every heartbeat. With my hands still rubbing and squeezing his gigantic granite sphere, I closed my eyes and let my nature take its inevitable course.

Only a few seconds later… Z-A-P!!! The rubber had simply vanished as if it was never there at all. The shattered latex few off somewhere into the darkness in less than the blink of an eye.

“You did it! Score!” I yelled out more-than-approvingly, grateful to feel the tremendous instant relief as well.

Sam was still staring dumbfoundedly at the results of my parlor trick. “In my life… I never seen no one who could EVER do THAT! WOW! That’s AMAZIN’! You dun got me all wet in the pants, boy! That there’s the hotrod to end all hotrods! You’s a STALLION!”

I blushed in the shadows. “I guess that I’m just hung up on you, big guy. Well, I did it—I’m certified FREAKY big now. So there—it’s all yours, Sam. I can’t see how any guy would want this jumbo-sized freak though.”

“Well, ya like me jumbo-sized, don’t ‘cha? Your jumbo-sized mantool’s sooooo SEXY! Bigger is HOTTER!”

“So you can play with it now… if you want to, Sam. That’s all it’s good for—a basic hand job. But don’t get me wrong though. Being jerked off—that’ll be the greatest!”

“Now, what kinda man would I be if I got ‘cha all this excited and just gave ya some cheap hand job. It’s your birthday party, boy! I gotta show my favorite boy all the great things he can do with his great big ‘ol wanger. I want that huge meat, boy. I ain’t never wanted nothin’ so bad. You’re gonna know you DEFINITELY ain’t no virgin no more, neither….”


Part 29: Deep Impact

Sam swung an enormous thigh over me, straddling my hips to sit up on his knees facing me. He was still wearing his gym shorts too, that pair he’d blown out the side seams by doing squats with his truck. I hadn’t noticed he hadn’t shed them long ago.

Sam just grinned at me a little, then reached around behind his ass with both hands. I heard the distinct sound of material ripping as he tore the seat of his shorts apart with his fingers.

“Well, they was ruined anyway,” he offered sheepishly. Then a moment later he magically produced something in one hand from behind him which I couldn’t distinguish—it being as inky as the darkness itself—before immediately dropping it unceremoniously beside the bed. But whatever it was, it hit the floor with a resounding, heavy thud.

“Savin’ the best parking space,” was Sam’s only cryptic comment as he reached for my dong with one hand, rose up and eased his body down, gently guiding my dickhead right between his big handsome pearly gates. I was wildly excited by this suggestive act, but past experience had also taught me to never count my chickens before they were hatched. He paused and just looked down at me a few moments, still holding my huge dickhead firmly between his cheeks. Then he suddenly eased down about 3 inches more. I was startled when my cockhead slipped right through the gates of paradise like St. Peter himself, popping suddenly right against his sphincter.

Sam stopped right there and then hesitated, rolling his eyes up at the ceiling. His pec-mountains heaved as he took a few fast breaths.

“Lordy, is that big….”

“Believe me, Sam—I know it’s awful big. And you don’t have to….”

“Lordy, lordy, lordy, it’s so BIG…” he interrupted, still gazing up at the ceiling.

“That’s O.K, Sam. You really don’t have to. I’m used to that—and I sure don’t want to hurt you. You’re the last guy on Earth I’d ever want to hurt. Hey, nobody hardly ever even gets that far! But thanks for just tryin’ to… err…. But you can play with it though, if you want. That’s what most guys do—diddle around with it. Really, I mean that. It’ll be just fine with me. Honest!”

I never realized that we were on two entirely different wavelengths at that moment.

“Oh, am I ever gonna play with it, boy…” Sam replied with a strange growl through a mile-wide grin.

“That’ll feel real good, Sam—just playing around with it. Guys usually use something to make it slip better—less friction. Do you have anything?”

“Well, aah… No, actually. Workin’ my pecs like ya did… that sets some things in motion, like one of them there chain ree-actions. Don’t really need nothin’. You could say that I’m kinda self-bastin’ in my present condition.”

He chortled a few times but I missed both the humor and the point. Sam sure didn’t seem in a hurry to move off of me though. Then it occurred to me that he might still be considering going to heroic lengths to keep a promise that he probably wished he hadn’t made now. He was already my hero.

So I repeated myself. “It isn’t worth it to me. It’s not even necessary, really. You don’t need to do this….”

Motionless, he remained in that same position with my giant dickhead firmly parked inside the main entrance of his cave.

“You’s wrong on all counts, Pete. Oh, I’m MORE than worth the price of admission, boy. And it’s soooo necessary. I absolutely gotta do it….”

“Just play with it, Sam….”

“Okey Dokey!!”

With an impish smirk, he tucked his chin again, locking his eyes on me. He grabbed his magnificent beach balls and, spreading them apart, stunned me when he began sitting down even more. In one slow continuous downward thrust, he took every last inch of my freaky dong, consuming the whole damn thing right up to the Big Twins.

I could only stare up at him speechlessly, utterly dumbstruck. Sam’s face registered no sign of pain, nor even discomfort. Even after going through a can of Crisco, no man before had ever managed to take my ass-splitter even part-way inside him, let alone swallow me like a giant black hole effortlessly gobbling up entire star systems.

As if that wasn’t shocking enough, then Sam proceeded to his grind his butt around and settled in even more comfortably, nuzzling his ass cheeks very firmly into my thighs, as if sitting on a nest to incubate my eggs like a big mother ostrich.

I was still so shocked that I could not move. I’m not sure that I even wanted to, although that was a moot point with Sam sitting on me. He still wasn’t subjecting me to his full weight, thankfully. I suspect both of my thigh bones would have snapped below my hips if he had. I was still reeling from both the fact as well as the strange sensation of being all the way inside him. He’d taken all of me like a cocktail weenie. My God, this muscle-god must have routinely practiced with fire hydrants!

Sam paused momentarily, looking as though he was savoring a juicy steak. Then almost purring, he said, “It's perfect. I never felt a piece of real manmeat near this huge! It’s amazin’… AMAZIN’! Ya fills me up real nice! It’s great to be hung huge, ain't it, boy?”

Well, at that moment I could not disagree. Wildly new sensations emanating from my cock were like nothing I’d ever felt before. It was beyond incredible. As Sam had said, it WAS just incredibly perfect—but maybe a bit too perfect. You see, I was going to cum immediately—uncontrollably. I’d just put the bullet up the barrel, and here I was, trigger-happy already. I sure wanted to stay at this party for at least a little bit longer, so I tried hard to take my focus off the sensations in my cock by counting the square tiles in his bedroom ceiling.

“You ready to do a little ridin’ now, boy?” Sam didn’t wait for a reply however, and proceeded to answer the question for me. “Sure ya is….“

Sam began to sit up on his knees, withdrawing my airship ever-so-slowly from his hanger until only the huge head of my cock still remained inside. He paused for a long moment. I expected him to then pull me out completely; the duty done; promises made now having been honored. But instead, he shot me a devilish look and just sat slowly back down on it again, taking it all in one stroke right up to my pulsing manfruits. And then he did it all over again—and then yet again—taking every inch of my entire length, from top to bottom; big head to bigger nuts. I was astonished that Sam would consider enduring this assault for even a few more times. On those rarest of occasions in my past when I actually penetrated a guy—and they’d all absolutely insisted on that, too—it was more than any of them had bargained for. The looks on their faces told me it was obviously a hellish ordeal for them. All efforts were rapidly aborted. I wondered if Sam might be acting the part of a martyr of sorts for that cause or perhaps, though I thought it far less likely, showing me he was a ‘tough guy’ and could ‘take it like a man.’ That didn’t fit his seemingly easy-going, affable nature though, and Sam hadn’t struck me as a guy who needed to prove anything to anyone.

“Oh wow… Oh wow… That’s huge…” he said, still holding his cheeks apart as he rode me up and down on his knees. His tone of voice sounded more astonished than distressed. In fact, he sounded almost… pleased.

“Is that feelin’ good? Oh, this here is fuckin’ by the way… just so’s you knows that, Pete. I was made for big pokers. So, does ya like fuckin’?”

“Oh… Yes…. Yes…. Ooooh, wow…” was all I could muster in the way of a response, as my eyeballs rolled spastically in their sockets, lost in an inferno of lust, no longer able to even focus on the ceiling tiles.

Being deep inside Sam’s ass… well… I had nothing else to compare it with. This sure didn’t feel at all like those few constricting, uncomfortable cockpits that I’d managed to get myself inside before, however briefly. That had been like trying to ram my cock into a thimble. Sam’s quiver held my arrow snugly, yet its lining was erotically soft, like firm, warm jell-o. Even fucking pumpkins in the field when I was a kid never felt THIS good. Up to this point in my life, that had been my gold standard for pleasure. But I couldn’t fathom how easily my cock was sliding in and out of his chute. It was exactly as he’d said, but I knew he hadn’t used any lubricant. Still, it sure seemed like his insides were Teflon-coated. This amazingly slippery custom-made fit brought waves of unformed, new desires in my mind. I’d finally found the absolutely perfect orifice.

I thought to myself in wonder, “So THIS is sex. This is what real sex actually feels like….”

The sensation of fucking—or was I being fucked?—I wasn’t sure since Sam was doing all the work. Whatever, I could have died right then and there thinking that I'd honestly had the best life had to offer.

Sam’s ass was making the round trip from my dickhead to my balls and back with increasingly lustful speed. He seemed to be just as carried away as I was, tossing his head back and forth, savoring it completely.

“Oh, wow… I feel it still gettin’ bigger… Praise the Lord—even bigger! Yowza!! Oh, yeah…. Oh wow. What a fuckin’ huge real MAN’S schlong! Ooooh… yeah, fuck me…. Fuck my big manhole here…. Ooooh…. Wooowwwww….

Sam began almost bouncing on it feverishly, pounding me forcefully with his big, beautiful hard glutes. Nevertheless, he astutely controlled how much of his weight I bore at any moment. And when our bodies came together, we literally sparked. It occurred to me that Sam fucked exactly like he lifted weights; like a well-oiled precision machine: unwaveringly steady, relentless.

“Peel… peel my banana… Pete,” Sam said in a breathy voice. When I failed to respond after some moments passed, he must have realized that I hadn’t understood him, and made his wishes crystal clear.

“Take out my cock… just rip off my shorts…. Ooooooh. Fuck me… yeah. Ooooohhhh….”

Sam’s ‘shorts’ were only a fabric remnant, more like a shredded two-piece loin cloth. I reached for the thin cotton waistband with both hands, hitting a piece of boilerplate as the back of my knuckles contacted his abdomen. I gave the elastic a hard tug, snapping it easily around his hard waist. I tugged the rag out from under his balls and tossed it into the darkness.

Sam’s beautifully-beefy hard-on flopped free and weightily like a conductor’s baton keeping rhythm to his pounding ass beat. This man-beast was genetically blessed in every respect; not only did he possess the frame of a skyscraper to support such a supreme muscle mass, but he also had the most perfectly-proportioned piece of manmeat imaginable to go with it.

Between the startling, long-despaired-of gratification of him fucking, even mastering my huge dong which filled me with a sense of expansive power, and the smart smacking of his fat heavy cock against my abdomen as he rode me, and the sight of the Herculean man-beast himself towering over me, my senses overloaded and burst into each other with tangled fury. Scent became sound and sight became trembling finger-brushes—and all-encompassing touch blended with salty tastes in overpowering flickers of ecstatic euphoria.

His physique drew my eyes to it like the strongest electro-magnet, yet I couldn’t look up at him without wanting to cum on the spot. Each chiseled muscle flexing in Sam’s gigantic quads as he power squatted on my fully-erect rocket ship almost undid me as much as the caressing sensation itself.

Something about gazing up at his ridged columnar abs and past the heaving slopes of his pecs which occasionally obscured his godlike face tugged orgasm closer to the end of my cock. Seeing an upside-down pyramid of immovable blocks of muscle stacked one upon another defying gravity, corroded every fiber of self-control remaining in my will.

Tormentingly, Sam began masterfully flexing his abdominals. In an astonishing display of supreme muscularity as well as control, his entire abdominal region swirled like a mesmerizing muscular kaleidoscope, an ever-changing visceral panorama as he willfully showcased each group of muscles independently. At one moment, he emphasized only the large centerline muscles, making them congeal into two vertical thick ropes. Then he sucked his entire abdomen impossibly inward, making his waist almost disappear entirely below his massive upper torso. Next he flattened and flexed the entire region, making his external obliques prominently leap out like a riverbed of large pebbles. Sam’s belly dancing seduced my astonished eyes toward his utterly manly glory trail spreading up from his groin along the centerline of his deeply cut abdominal blocks. His perfectly patterned body hair provided the delicious masculine frosting on the perfect muscular cake.

Sam dramatically pulled in his abdomen again and it vanished beneath his King Kong-sized chest, nothing more than a cave ringed in carved rock. The dim light highlighted his great pectoral gods; and that colossal overhang was the heart-stopping final straw. His mighty twin juggernauts appeared impossibly thick from below.

His heavy chest armor bouncing, its tremendous mass heaving up and down as Sam rode my war-horse into battle; the hot, engulfing suck and shove that accommodated and even taunted my man-starved meat; all of these sights, sounds and feelings collided together, pushing me uncontrollably over the edge of the erotic abyss.

“Sam… You’ve gotta stop…. Hold still, or… or I’m gonna cum. Ooooh, jeez. I gotta cum…. Oooooooh,” I moaned out breathlessly.

Sam leaned over me and, resting his hands lightly on my shoulders, gazed into my eyes, smiling. But rather than stopping however, he just began to squeeze, draw and expel my cock all-the-more deliberately.

He said almost teasingly, “Already, Pete? I’m just gettin’ all warmed up, and you’s gonna cum already? Well, ya ain’t gonna cum. Puttin’ your pig in my poke here got you too hot, huh? That means ya must really like fuckin’—a lot! Does ya like fuckin’ my hot manhole, boy?”

Far from helping matters, hearing his ‘fuck’ words just accelerated the onset of my orgasm.

“I don’t want to cum—but I’ve GOT to cum…. I love your ass… I can’t wait… Ooooh jeez, that feels so good.”

Sam grinned like he was toying with me while he continued plunging my big baloney between his cheeks.

“Don’t you fret. You ain’t gonna cum. But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, I reckon. If you gotta pop, go right ahead. Shoot your balls off right in my cave. Yeah, fuck me with that big bull cock of yours….”

His eyes flashed, as boyishly playful as they were sexy.

“Pete, I’m just gonna stretch a bit… while you’s havin’ your orgasm…” he said, almost feigning indifference except for the accompanying wicked little grin.

Sam took his hands off my shoulders and proceeded to bury every last millimeter of my big sword deep into his hot, ample sheathe. He clasped his hands behind his neck, twisted his torso about 45 degrees and then slowly raised the back of his arms up beside his head until his elbows pointed directly at the ceiling. And what he did next is indelibly etched into my visual cortex for the rest of my life.

He pulled his waist inward again and, tucking his chin slightly, arched his back. Every muscle in his body simultaneously tensed all at once. Something about seeing his physique in that specific posture was metaphysical; beyond magical. It captured and dramatically showcased the awesome degree of his muscular development like nothing else ever could. It virtually screamed Brute Power and Animalistic Magnetism.

And like thick rungs on a ladder, his anterior serratus muscles led my eyes from his central abdomen to his lats which exploded into magnificent muscular wings forming the heavy gilded frame around a perfect masterpiece of man. His biceps formed breathtaking boulders of hard muscle so huge that they literally caressed his ears. Each head of his triceps loomed like the Hydra. From his tiny waist to the tips of his elbows, the effect was one of a flawlessly-shaped, spectacularly-wide “V” of supreme muscle, male erotic beauty amplified to the extreme. To me it was like gazing upon Hercules Reborn—a God of masculine potency, virility, and physical perfection made in flesh.

I was totally overcome; or perhaps better said, could have cum over and over again. And this Muscle-God looked down upon me as if saying, “Do ya think I’m sexy?” with my schlong buried so deep in his asshole I might never get it out.

My dick replied for me instead. My welling eyes were the ultimate trigger.

“I’m gonna…. Oooooh…. cum…” I moaned out, almost hyperventilating.

My manfruits seized and pulled up hard inside of me. My shotgun was loaded and cocked. Overloaded with powder, in fact. I feared my opening salvo would blow a hole through the top of Sam’s skull, but I was powerless to stop pulling the trigger.

“Ooooh… OOOOOOHHHHHH!!!” I went off like a battery of howitzer’s opening fire all at once.

Sam had other plans however. An ace in his hole you might say. Some more tricks up his hot man-sleeve.

“You ain’t gonna cum….”

I felt my cock suddenly seized in a uniform vice-like muscular grip along it’s entire length; then my shaft was squeezed even more tightly from all directions at once, like prey caught in an anaconda’s constricting coils. Sam simply stopped my first shot dead in its tracks. I had no possible way to conceive of the pressure suddenly surrounding my entire cock. My breath hitched as my blood surged and boiled and the room spun around in dizzy loops. My load never even breached the barrel of my gun.

Seeming naively innocent about it, Sam continued to hold that pose, but his twinkling, mischievous eyes were telling a different story entirely.

As soon as my gagging breath could form words, I stammered raggedly, “What are you… how can you… Ooohh…. Ooooohhhhhhh….”

My orgasm was completely on auto-pilot: there was no stopping it. Despite this iron grip around my big schlong, that overwhelming vision of Sam posed so provocatively in front of me compelled me—demanded me—to keep cumming. My balls yanked up again even harder, actually hitting Sam’s muscle glutes as I pumped out my second powerful volley.

“Fire in the hole!” Sam exclaimed, validating that his Launch Control had also detected another missile firing.

But his freakily accommodating ass drew tighter and grounded that ICBM on the pad, containing its blast-thrust. It didn’t stop at crude power, either. In the midst of this all-encompassing crushing sensation around my cock, I began to feel distinct, localized waves of more focused pressure, as if an even tighter, more constricting ‘ring’ surrounding my thick shaft at a specific point along its length. But this ‘ring’ moved along the shaft like internal fingers jerking me off. This wave moved from the head of my cock down my shaft towards my balls, almost like the way a farmer’s fingers work a cow’s teat to get milk. It felt like having my cock ‘milked’—but completely in reverse. He was forcing my throbbing orgasmic cum back down into my quivering balls.

Sam was clearly enjoying himself.

“I loves the way your huge balls slams my big cheeks when you’s cumin’. Oooh, wow… that’s SOOOO hot….”

Sam could savor that particular sensation all he wanted because this impossible act he was performing only increased the intensity with which my big cannon fired, recoiled, reloaded and fired over and over again; every shoot just as terrifically powerful as the previous.

“Oooh, jeez… wow. Ooooh, jeez. Oooooohhhhhhhh…. ”

My perpetual hard-on had become my perpetual orgasm. As I shot ferocious volley after volley, Sam’s muscular manhole strangled my big bone in a warm, wet, undulated vice-grip. It was a valiant duel to the death. My big enraged commanders screamed orders for my cannon to ceaselessly fire until all of their massive stockpiles of ammunition were depleted, yet not a single round could squeeze out of collapsed barrel. And miraculously my big ammo stores were being re-supplied as fast as I could empty them.

“Oooh, fuck… wooowww. Ooooh, jeez, Sam… Oooooohhhhhhhh….”

The barrel of my big gun must have been glowing red-hot and on the verge of melting from my relentless barrage. I was sweating profusely in empathy and couldn’t catch my breath as each unrelieved orgasm spun my brain around on its stem. My entire existence hadn’t the resources to absorb what was happening. It felt like my entire body might explode into pinwheels of ecstasy during this, the longest sustained orgasm in my life

Sam enjoyed the hell out of this torture, too. “Oh yeh … That pulsatin’ monster feels so hot…. Oh, yeh. It’s so big … So full… Wow….”

And so it went incredibly onward; my bold Napoleon vainly trying to muscle past his out-maneuvering Wellington. I’d met my Waterloo, inevitably outflanked by a clearly superior, indefatigable force. My firing slowly subsided with exhaustion, but there the analogy stops, for I doubt Napoleon smiled at the moment of his defeat. I, on the other hand, surrendered beaming ear-to-ear, writhing in pleasure beyond my imagination.

My cock no longer took orders from my body, but only from Sam. He pulled himself with aching slowness off of my cock and moved up on the bed, then stretched out beside me, resting his head on one elbow and putting his other arm around my waist. He was beaming every bit as much as I was.

“Oh wow… Oh wow, that was AWESOME, Sam,” I panted breathlessly. “I was cumming FOREVER!”

“But ‘cha didn’t,” he said, almost laughing as he shook his head. “You had yourself one terrific orgasm—but ya never cummed. You never spilt a single drop of your jizzim. Them big balls of yours are still fully-charged. I done seen to that myself!”

My cock shivered in recognition of its master. I marveled, “How did you do that! That was the wildest … the weirdest thing ever! It felt exactly like I was cumming … well, sorta. But how did you ever DO that?”

Sam grinned, a bit sheepish yet proud of himself at the same time.

“I just has a way with those muscles, I guess. But I sorta had to do it, Pete. I wanted ya to still be just as excited… so’s… so’s ya’d stay freaky-sized,” he said, sounding almost confessional. He reached down and, wrapping his hand around my bone, began stroking and playing with it gently. “Just like ya still is, I see. Guess it worked, huh? Bet ‘cha you’s still feelin’ just as horny, right?”

“More!” I gaped. I felt as randy as a rabbit; my lust hadn’t diminished in the slightest. My bone was still a total freakazoid and hard as a rock. Not even a minute had passed, and yet I couldn’t wait to do it all over. I had a lot of lost time to make up when it came to sex, too. I felt like a kid locked overnight in a candy shop and I found myself wishing he’d just roll over so I could fuck him again and again.

“That fucking felt a gazillion times better than a pumpkin, Sam!”

He just chuckled. “Pumpkins need love too. You gotta tell me about that some time. But not now….”

“So did ya like fuckin’ my hole, Pete? I never felt no man like you before. Damn near made me cry tears ‘o joy too, it did.”

I was surprised to hear him use words that unknowingly described my own feelings, too.

“Pete, it felt like you was made to order exactly for me. That’s an amazin’ big hot dong on you, boy. You’s like some miracle just come into my life, right out of nowhere. Like we was made special, all along, just to fit together, exactly like that. So there—now you’s o-fficially fucked, boy. Did ya really like it? I mean—was there somethin’ that seemed real special ‘bout it to you?”

I wasn’t sure exactly what Sam meant. “It’s not like I’ve had a lot of experience, Sam… you know—fucking anyone. But that was the hottest sex I EVER had—way better even than a blow job… well, not that I’ve had a lot of those either… I’m more than a mouthful, I guess….”

Sam’s eyes sparkled and he nodded, pleased.

“Nothin’ ever made me as hot as your huge cock. I loves a guy playin’ around in my play pen anytime, ya know…. just havin’ fun with it… fuckin’ it, and everythin’. But my sex-u-al urges, they got even powerfuller after ya sucked on my pecs and juiced ’em so good before. I just gets wet for the man and extra-accomodatin’… and extra-horny feelin’, too… like I’m feelin’ right now….”

I wasn’t sure I followed him totally—but I sure liked the way he was handling my cock at the moment.

“What do you mean, your ‘play pen,’ Sam?”

“Why, I means my ass—and that big hole in the center of it, to be r-e-a-l specific,” he said, looking as if he couldn’t quite believe that I didn’t know. He might have been looking for some sign or some signal of sorts from me, but I wasn’t sure.

“Truth is, it seemed like guys with the bigger cocks seem to like playin’ with a man’s butt, ‘specially. I just don’t knows if ya has that special yearnin’ inside ya somewhere, too. Can’t blame me for just hopin’ that you might be that kinda guy too—seein’ you’ve got this here beautiful cock on you the size no other man I ever seen. I was hopin’ that you’d wanna get much better acquainted with my play pen tonight. I was hopin’ that gettin’ in-between my big pearly gates was sorta your thing, too.”

While I seemed to be getting his general drift, I was also missing all the nuances.

“I… I just don’t really know, Sam,” I said cautiously. “It’s like I said. I pretty new to all of this. But your butt sure felt… wow… unbelievably hot! I’m not sure how I’d even know what you really mean.”

Sam had an idea. “Well, let’s try somethin’ then for the hell of it, OK? Lemme just show ya. See if this does anythin’ for ya. Here, take a look. Is my ass sexy?”

Absolutely everything about the magnificent beast of a man was utterly sexy, so that hardly seemed an enlightening question to ask me.

Nevertheless, Sam rolled on to his back and threw his huge legs up over his head, resting his feet on the headboard of the bed. He shifted more of his weight on to his expansive upper back and shoulders and then spread his legs further apart with amazing agility. That pushed his beach balls even higher off the mattress. Apparently this was to further facilitate my hands-on inspection. One of Sam’s hands managed to locate my cock and balls again, not that they were any challenge to find, and began to fondle them.

Suddenly, just seeing those deep treads on the big wheels mounted on his chassis looming up so close to my face made me drool like an imbecile. I remembered how captivated I’d by Sam’s glutes before, up in the kitchen when Sam was giving my first lesson on human muscular anatomy, ironically using inhumanly-sized muscles as his teaching aids.

Seeing those perfect hard moons rising up over the bed screamed ‘sex’ to me. His was the most magnificent ‘arschbacken’ I’d even seen. My arms reached out as if they were being controlled by an invisible puppeteer.

“Your ass looks… absolutely hot, Sam…” I said, even as my hands already roamed the hemispheres of his magnificent, hard twin moons.

“Yeah, I sure likes feelin’ your hands rubbin’ my butt, too. Wow, that feels good…” Sam replied, almost purring. He lifted his head a little to get a better look at me.

“Yeah, you just might have it in ya, afterall. Go ahead, Pete. Play with my big butt some more. And remember, Pete—let that ‘ol genie out of the bottle. Do anythin’ ya feels like doin’ down there. Anythin’ at all. It makes me hot.”

With Sam flashing me the green light, I surrendered to my crazy, impulsive urge to just smack his ass cheeks with a hard open hand.

Sam’s moaned loadly, “Oh, WOW. Yeah, that’s it. Really get their attention….”

I began checking his tires more enthusiastically, kicking the treads with my fist, and running my hands below the rims.

“Woof! Feels like you’s got the magic touch, sure ‘nuf. You might be a natural bum chum, Pete. Maybe ya never had no way to know that before, I reckon. Just keep playin’ with my butt some more—any way you want. It feels REAL good….”

I was feeling exceptionally aroused. This activity seemed to be bringing out the Explorer Scout in me.

As if he’d just read my mind, Sam added, “Ever looked down a manhole before?”

The things that suddenly popped out of Sam’s mouth could be counted upon to disarm me.

“Ahhh, no… No, I haven’t…” I said cautiously, half-embarrassed that perhaps this was also something I should have been more familiar with already—like fucking. I was also half afraid that I might find it a bit too interesting.

“Do ya wanna see my big manhole?”

“Aah, sure, Sam. Alright. I guess so…” I replied, trying to sound deliberately ambivalent. I didn’t want to appear to Sam to be overly enthusiastic. I wasn’t sure why.

But Sam was almost cooing with joy. He grabbed his two beach balls and opened his crack for my personal inspection.

“Look-ee, Pete. This here’s my big play pen. You can call it my manhole—or my man-pussy—or my fuck hole—or even my cunt if ya want. Names—they don’t bother me none. I sure knows I’m a man. From the looks of me, I suspects everybody else sure knows that, too. I loves hot sex—and I knows exactly the way I like it best, too. So call it anything that’s sexy-soundin’ to you.”

I stared blankly at his pink, glistening fissure, at once shocked at myself for even looking and yet too enthralled for my own comfort. Sam knew me much better than I knew myself at that time.

“Woooowwww…” I groaned, totally awed by the unexpected power of his ass.

Sam made his hole slowly pulsate like a sea anemone moves water in and out of its body cavity. This big pink eye was seductively winking at me—inviting me. The only thing that I could think of to call it was…

“Schoen hoehle… errr.. that’s one hot hole, Sam….”

“So, is my big manhole sexy?”

“Is that ever… so sexy….”

Maybe it was the awe on my face, or my schlong slowly pulsating in sympathetic rhythm with his hot cavern, or the drool falling on his ass from my opened mouth that really led Sam to say,

“I thought ya had the look of a real top dog, Pete,” he said, almost delirious with approval. “I knows a genuine butt boy when I see one. Yee Hawww!”

But while I may have been a ‘born-natural,’ Sam could also sense my apprehension and reluctance. My hitherto unknown instincts would require his utmost care, devotion and encouragement—to be carefully fed and nurtured to blossom fully.

Sam astutely chose to encourage me with all the finesse of a carnival barker. He knew his customer—and most importantly, what would hook me and reel me in. So utilizing all the savvy of a seasoned Marketing strategist, Sam launched his appeal to my latent sensibilities with a full multimedia blitz.

“Here, lemme show you my hole even better….”

As he talked, he looped his massive arms around his hamstrings and pulled his knees up to his head. This new piked position spread his cheeks further apart, showcasing his sensual flowerbud. Sam’s remarkable flexibility forced sinews and cables of muscle to the surface, all the more astounding for the thickness and immensity of his stretching, hard flesh.

“Some guy told me when I was fourteen that I was a natural-born rider, Pete. ‘Course even back then I was bigger than an average grown man. A power bottom—that’s what he called me,” Sam said matter-of-factly.

I’m sure I looked real confused.

“You know—a REAL hog bottom!” Sam added, attempting to clarify it for me.

“Eine schweinvötze?” I blurted, surprised. I didn’t understand. Unfortunately, ‘pig’s cunt’ was the best I could come up with on the fly.

“Yeah, well I’m probably that, too—whatever that means,” Sam chortled. “I never know’d what he meant by that for a long time, though. Then I growed even bigger and got me these big muscles over time, so’s I scared even more guys anyway. Well, most guys, actually, by the time I was right around your age, to tell ya the God’s honest truth. But that didn’t matter much anyway. The bigger I got though, the smaller guys’ cocks seemed to get. There wasn’t enough there to even begin to fill the job requirements. I thought I’d never find the right hog for my pigpen—that was, before you came along….”

Sam released one leg and then gave my cock a couple of affectionate squeezes with his free hand to emphasize his point. Sam grabbed his leg again and wiggled his ass for my benefit. I never knew the male posterior had so many ridges and cuts, each capable of so many distinct and separate movements. He flexed his big wheels, winked his hole, twisted his lower spine slightly from side to side, and raised and lowered one leg relative to the other—all at the same time. His slow ass-rippling mambo was spectacularly alluring. But as if that wasn’t seductive enough, he wore all-the-while a sexy ‘come hither’ expression. I felt downright patriotic with my rocket’s red glare and his beautiful big bombs bursting in air, and all. My flag would still be there in the morning, too—guaranteed. My temples were throbbing again already.

Like a bee, I was drawn back over and over again to Sam’s sensual big flower. Perhaps it was because I’d never really seen one before that I was so fascinated and bewitched. But it seemed even more than that, as if something inside urged me insistently to explore the hidden depths of his rosebud.

“You wanna do somethin’ with my manhole? Why don’t ya just play with it. Go ahead. It’s hot for me, too. Whatever makes you feel horny.”

“Can I…. just stick my finger in there? Ah… would ya mind?” I said, though it was more a statement of my desire than a request. I felt idiotic, my pseudo-politeness belying I’d just finished plowing it thoroughly with my big Johann Deere. I flushed and my salivating mouth went suddenly dry.

“Sure, you can stick anythin’ ya want in there. I’m a real big guy. Hell, you can even stick your head inside if that turns you on! And talk sexy, Pete… I loves to here ya talkin’ real sexy to me….”

I timidly poked my index finger into the center of his hole up to the first finger joint.

Sam responded very encouragingly as soon as he felt my probing finger. “Oooo, yeah. Play with my hot hole some more….”

Inside, it felt wonderfully wet and warm—like firm Jell-O. My entire finger began poking in and out under its own power, like it was testing a cake—one very hot birthday cake just about ready to be done.

Sam encouraged me to be bolder.

“You done teasin’ me with that lone soldier yet? You’ve scouted the cave. It’s safe to bring up the rest of the troops now. It’s a real big cave, boy. Yeah, that’ll feel good. Ummmm….”

Again I felt the odd sensation Sam was reading my mind… or maybe leading it on somehow. I immediately recruited another digit to join the scouting party—and meeting no signs of enemy resistance, I then engaged a third. And it all seemed automatic, semi-conscious, instinctual—nothing I’d ever imagined doing, must less enjoying. Like some part of me I’d never met was taking control of me limb by limb.

“Ooooh…. Yeah. Now you’re startin’ to get me goin’. Yeah, play with my fuckhole….”

Sam seemed to be enjoying playing soldiers as much as I was, and he was right. The Three Musketeers weren’t flushing out any more resistance that the single scout had. I carefully tried the Four Horsemen, but even in calvary charge formation, the resistance I’d expected never materialized. This seemed to be way too easy.

“Yeah. That’s good. That’s real good….Ooooo….”

Sam writhed in obvious erotic delight as I slowly began twisting the Four Horseman around, withdrawing and then reinserting them cautiously from different angles. Spreading his legs wider, he engaged my hand with lusty butt thrusts in the opposite direction. I hesitated, anxious I might exceed some arbitrary ‘acceptable’ limit. Sensing my reticence, Sam just muscled himself right onto my motionless hand like an anaconda swallowing a deer. I watched my hand disappear right in front of my eyes, stopped only by my extended thumb.

“Oh, wow…. That feels GREAT! Yeehaaa! Well H-E-L-L-O there! Please to meet you too, Pete!!!”

My hand was suddenly seized in a steel glove and squeezed hard several times in rapid succession. The brief but powerful grip came out of nowhere, as if my hand was being checked out—examined—or shaken… Something about the decisiveness of this pressure hinted at Sam’s capability to exert far more force than I currently felt. I hitched a breath, realizing that had he wanted to, he could have easily crushed even bone in my hand. I jerked my arm back spasmodically but it didn’t move, as if caught in a spring trap; I relaxed just as it did.

Sam said sheepishly, “I just wanted to feel it a bit, that’s all….”

He rested his head back on the pillow and rolled his eyes back as if savoring a rare delicacy. My hand was repeatedly gripped again, firmly but more caressingly than before.

“Yeah, that’s terrific! I always says you can tell a guy by his firm handshake,” Sam chortled, raising his head up to look at me directly.

I couldn’t believe that Sam’s man-cave was remotely the same as mine, or any other man’s I’d ever encountered before. It simply wasn’t ‘behaving’ in conceivable ways. His chute seemed extraordinary pliable, almost amorphous. It easily accommodated invasion by any number of foreign troops while also adapting instantly to any field formation I presented. It could also in a flash become virginally tight. Whenever Sam chose, he could make it as formidably unyielding as a medieval fortress, or as irresistible as a rip-tide. And I noted another odd characteristic, too, as I pulled out. Anything that passed through Sam’s garage doors was treated like a car driving into a Jiffy Lube. My hand was coated with a strange, frictionless, glistening thin mucous.

But freaky or not, when compared with all others, his was also like going from a Yugo to a Jaguar complete with all the amenities; luxurious, comfortable, fast, powerful… and it made me feel sexy. I started shivering all over, sensing some Pandora’s box within me about to open, and change me forever.

“Show me that gorgeous schlong of yours, boy. Just sit right across my chest so’s I can just look at it up close.”

Sam lowered his legs and shifted his body up on the huge bed so that his head rested on the pillow.

“Park that beautiful butt right here,” he directed, patting his chest to indicate where he meant.

His upper torso was so broad that straddling his chest was more like mounting a saddled horse. I had to spread my legs so widely that I had no choice but to actually sit. I winced, my legs unaccustomed to stretching this far. His chest fully supported my butt and inner thighs, my knees barely grazing the mattress. His chest was so deep I looked down at a steep angle into his shadowed, square-jawed face.

I rode the swells of his breathing like a canoe, slowly relaxing my thighs. Like a mountain stream tracing it’s way through a pass, my big family jewels rolled down-slope more and came to a tethered rest out in front of me, nestled comfortably in the alpine valley between the majestic slopes of his mountainous pecs.

Sam eyed my boys covetously. “Damn! You got some REAL balls. They’re big as Atlas Stones—you could go bowlin’ with them things!”

I chuckled, “Looks like I’d be rolling all gutter balls.”

Gravity was not having its way with my cock, however. My fully-fueled missile defiantly arced out over his face, slowly oozing pre-cum like fuel vapors as a sign of its launch readiness.

We remained gently rocking for quite awhile. I felt a bit queasy, rising and falling like a horse on a merry-go-round, every breath he took unencumbered by my full body weight. Sam seemed completely happy though to gaze at my cock while he beat his own. I felt equally contented to just look at him looking at my cock, watch the huge muscles in his arm and shoulder rhythmically flexing as he played with himself, and feel the vast living city of muscle teeming beneath me. It was a sublime moment. Ah, yes—the simple joys in life.

As Sam meditated on my fat happy Buddha, he quietly recited a breathy ritual mantra as he played with himself.

“… big cock… so big… unbelievable… so hot… wow…. it’s so huge….” Every now and then he’d extend his tongue, lapping underneath my big dickhead to catch another long stalactite of pre-cum as it hovered above his face. Then I’d hear him moan, “Uummmmm…” softly, as if savoring Hagen-Daas’ newest flavor of the month.

The tempo and earth-moving sensations sparked ritual prayers in my mind too. I envisioned myself with a group of ancient Hawaiians. We were standing along the precipitous rim of Kilauea, tossing flowery lays into the volcano’s fiery abyss below as reverent offerings to Pele, the trembling might of the god making us sway on our mortal feet. Yup, tossing a few lays into a hot hole … those Hawaiian’s had the right idea, alright. They knew not only what to worship but how to appease their gods. I opened my eyes when I realized that I myself longed for an eruption….

Which meant this subdued prayer meeting was in sore need of some good old-fashioned Southern-style revivalism. I wanted to get this congregation really fired-up and hooting and stomping on their feet. Sam liked ‘sexy talk’ as he put it. His attention was already on the big preacher in the pulpit. I just needed to testify.

“Wow, my cock feels so damn heavy. So—is it really as big as a dong, Sam? I mean, do you think it’s really sexy?”

“Oh wow, yeah. It’s even bigger than a dong. It’s freakin’ huge!”

“It’s sooooo hard, too. It’s never been this big and hard at the same time. Did it feel sexy when we were fucking? It’s so freaky big, it’s hard to believe it felt good … you know … when it was all up in your ass….”

“Felt good? It felt unbelievable! Swear to God—it’s the sexiest piece of manmeat ever fucked me!”

Fertile ideas seemed to be taking root again, at least judging from the renewed sparkle in Sam’s eyes.

“I really like that ‘fucking’ thing—a lot! I never expected it would feel so wonderful … and I felt HUGE, too. Did it feel huge to you, too?”

“Oh yeah … huge alright … just PERFECT! Sometimes it’s hard for me to feel if a guy’s teeny weenie is even inside me yet! But your jumbo dick is just a fuckin’ miracle, Pete. It just sat up and said hello. I feel satisfied … completed … No other flesh ‘n’ blood cock ever done that for me.”

I could almost see the wheels beginning to turn in Sam’s head now. I crossed my fingers.

“My hole’s feelin’ all wet and twitchy again, Pete. Wanna fuck?”

I thought he’d never ask! Jeez yes, did I ever. Visions of sugarplums danced in my head. I wished Sam would just roll over so I could mount him like a stallion because rolling him over myself was, of course, not even an option.

My head started nodding up and down like a 2 year old being asked if he wanted an ice cream cone.

“O.K., Pete, but why don’t ‘cha say it sexy-like for me,” Sam teased.

So I considered for a second what might sound perfectly ‘romantic’—well, at least to Sam’s ears.

“I wanna stuff you like a turkey….”

“Gees, you says the sweetest things,” Sam cooed, shivering with delight, “and sausage stuffin’s my FAVORITE, too!”


Part 30: The Turning of the Screw

Sam was as wild-eyed as an enraged linebacker as he lustfully contemplated running it into the end zone again. I was to quickly discover, however, that we’d apparently crossed signals about which touchdown pattern to use, let alone who’d actually be running the ball. Thinking back, I realize my choice of words were too ambiguous concerning who’d be doing the ‘stuffin.’

He grabbed me around my waist with his huge hands like a clamshell crane, then his massive pecs heaved as he unexpectedly lifted me skyward. It was yet another stunning and sudden reminder of just how powerful this man really was. Sam hoisted my entire body weight overhead as easily as if I was his private Ken doll. Then he couldn’t seem to resist ripping off a couple dozen quick presses, using me as the resistance.

“Just keepin’ the pump,” he offered almost apologetically in my ear before thrusting me towards the ceiling again.

With his huge hands nearly surrounding my pelvic girdle, my body was oddly perfectly balanced. I rocked back and forth slightly like a seesaw while Sam held me suspended, stiff-armed, high over him, seemingly content to gaze at me forever. But finally, he pulled his knees to his chest, tucked his legs up through his stupendous outstretched arms and then fully-extended them to each side of his head, resting his feet once again on the bed’s headboard.

“I’m WET for your love missile, boy. I’m gonna fuck myself silly with that monster rocket… and then—I’m gonna make you cum, too.”

I immediately took the latter as a promise, not a threat. But before I could contemplate the nuanced meaning of the former, my body was suddenly propelled towards his stupendous ass so violently I might have gotten whiplash. Sam targeted my missile to impact directly at ground zero.

“Open wide for Chunky!” He spread his legs wide, swinging back his big silo doors and clearly exposing his strobing pink bulls-eye. Hurtling headlong towards my destiny, I saw his rosebud rushing out of the darkness. And only a moment before impact, I saw Sam’s fuckhole gape open like the iris of a camera’s lens.

My girthy warhead penetrated Sam’s bulls-eye like a knife through butter, sinking itself into the deepest bowels of his ship. My balls were lagging slightly behind from the rapid acceleration and came crashing into his moons like two rogue asteroids just a second afterwards.

“Oh fuck, you got a GREAT cock!” Sam roared with extreme delight.

Not a moment later, my chin suddenly hit my chest as Sam ‘removed’ my buried cock from his ass by simply pushing my entire body away from his butt.

“Oooooh, yeah. Now fuck me again, stud!”

My head snapped back as Sam yanked my entire body towards his eagerly-waiting butt again, plunging my fat schlong deep in his hungry hole. Sam lustfully rammed me in and out of his hole over and over again until my head spun. I ‘fucked’ him royally.

“God damn! It’s like bein’ fucked by an ELEPHANT! Yeehaa!!”

However, the truth was more accurately that Sam was delightfully fucking himself with my cock. He lustfully dildoed himself with wanton abandon using my waist as a ‘handle’, ramming my entire length into his hungry chasm right up to my balls. I got woozy from the peaking flexion of that single biceps pistoning me like a toy. Sam practically giggled with joy and it was a tossup as to who was actually getting fucked sillier. I was well on my way to getting a concussion, although my pulsing steel-hard elephant obviously thought this was the hottest show in town.

“Wow.. that’s the best fuckin’ cock I ever… Ooooh… Wow.”

As I collected my scrambled brains a little, I felt my own hips wants to thrust, as opposed to having them thrust for me by Sam—fun as that was. Sam was having such an enjoyable time I felt guilty interrupting his pleasure.

“Sam…. Sam…,” I said several times trying to get his attention. “Sam, can you put me down… so that I can… ah…ah….”

Sam paused instantly, which caught me off-guard: I thought he was really carried away. He pulled me up face-to-face and then held me there suspended over him. Then he gave my body a little shake as if he was admonishing me for something.

“Don’t you remember me tellin’ ya that you own me tonight, Pete? It’s your birthday. I’m gonna do whatever you wanna do. Anything at all. So don’t be shy. Just tell me what you want!”

“I… I’d like you to put me down, Sam—and then… maybe also turn around also—and then … could you just kinda hold still for me? I really want to….”

Sam interrupted me. “You wanna mount me like a dog, Pete? Just like I’m your bitch?”

Well that wasn’t exactly how I’d have phrased it, but yes—that captured the general spirit of it. Having grown up on a farm, I knew that would work nicely for me.

“… so that I feel like I’m the one who’s doing the real fucking, Sam…” I said, determined to finish my original thought.

Sam was smiling approvingly even as he set me down right below his butt. Far from having his ego challenged, Sam’s enthusiasm cranked into boyish over-exuberance, as if he were suddenly playing an exciting new game.

“Pete, I’ll bitch for you anytime,” Sam said looking quite sincere, if not even starry-eyed. “I just know’d it, too. With a cock like that, why it makes perfect sense that you’d wanna be the top stud bull! So what if I’m the biggest cow in the pasture? To you, I’m just another cow in your herd… and you’re smellin’ I’m in heat, right? My hole’s just beggin’ for your huge bull cock.”

Sam mooed like a cow several times. “Wow, this is gettin’ me r-e-a-l horny. You can grab my big pecs and everything! Yeah, stud—service your cow. Go ahead and show me who’s the real boss in this pasture now. Moo! Moo! Moooo!”

Before I had time to even react, Sam flipped over face down on the bed, tucked his knees under his abdomen and spread his beefy arms wide over his head. I looked up at all the muscular contours across his thick back, a hundred swollen bulges all pointing like arrows to his glistening, waiting crack. Sam watched me over his shoulder as he arched his back, lifting his magnificent butt enticingly higher. And Sam wasn’t kidding at all about this making him really horny either. The magnificent piece of heavy beefsteak hanging prominently between his thighs jerked and quivered like little people were tug-of-warring it. My head began reeling as I gazed at his erotic beach balls and his erection all in the same picture frame.

“God what a cock…” he purred as he eyed my mutant male endowment, undulating his butt slowly in front of my eyes like a lioness in heat attracting the interest of the pride’s male. He began running his beach balls across my big bat, brushing it lightly using slow back-and-forth horizontal swings.

“Oh, wow…” he moaned, “Do it. Pop my cherry good… aren’t you gonna poke me?”

His enthralled tone of voice gained a plaintive quality as he alternately caressed my cock with his undulating butt cheeks and teasingly ran my fat shaft back and forth through his desperately hot crack.

“That’s good, Sam. That’s real good…” I heard myself say, taking my sweet time about it. I got a bit of the Goosebumps at the sound of my own voice. I was so … confident. Self-assured. Almost matter-of-factly in-charge. I sounded as if I was just affirming his performance like a coach saying, “That’ll do, Pig….”

“Yeah… Ohhhhh… what a dong,” Sam groaned more urgently as he gyrated his beautiful rump roast. “Yeah—make me pregnant, stud….”

Suddenly it wasn’t just his posture and teasing that made things spin in my gut, but something about his entire demeanor now.

“Pork me… please.”

The attitude reflected in his submissive, begging voice threw gasoline on my already blazing sex-fire. It went off inside of me, reverberating like fireworks exploding in an oil drum and my body trembled uncontrollably.

Sam leaned up on his meaty forearms, and started grinding my cock through his crack more aggressively.

“Woooooow—that’s a huge ass-splitter. You wanna fuck me, right?”

As Sam’s own hanging horsemeat drooled cockspit onto the bed, he shook his head and slapped the mattress in a building frenzy of lusty impatience at his unfulfilled erotic desires. This most physically powerful of men was confronting some intangible line in the sand; an impervious boundary or barrier that, despite all his strength, he was powerless to cross beyond.

“Ooooooh… You GOTTA fuck me….”

It all snapped into place. I continued drawing out his torture by slapping my cock against his crack and escaping the amazingly dactyl clutching of his gluteal muscles. The revelation thrilled me almost as much as the impending act. Sam’s overwhelming physique and strength had blocked me somehow from seeing this more clearly earlier. Sam’s demeanor—his attitude—was ‘der Hinterlader.’ No English word or phrase quite captured the nuance of that German slang. It meant “charged from behind” but in a weak and passive way. You outlanders might call him a breech-loader or maybe an ‘Anal Amigo,’ but neither of those terms really encompass the aspect of his accompanying ‘personality’ or attitude. I was Delilah to his Samson; David to his Goliath … conquering the conquering hero. My limbs spasmed under the sexual tension torquing in my loins: I could almost feel all of his incredible strength flowing from him into me. In this ‘poker’ game, I held all the aces. I dominated the play. This revelation went to both of my heads instantly like a bolus of adrenaline.

“God, please…” he whined. “Please, fuck me now….”

But though my hips ground the base of my cock against his taint, I found the strength to turn the screw and make him sweat—if only just a little—before I finally, and most mercifully, laid down my hand to claim his big pot. I wanted to sweeten the moment with just a little swagger—a mere modicum of bravado—perhaps a dash of arrogance. Well, OK—so what if I really wanted to tromp him like a trophy prisoner down the Via Sacra under the Arch of Augustus like a conquering Roman? Boys will be boys, after all.

“Oh, make no mistake about it, Sam,” I chuckled, my voice suddenly throaty and deep. And commanding. “I most definitely AM going to fuck you… when I feel like it. You may not have known when a man was fucking you before, but believe me, I assure you, you will know it when I’M fucking you. Now, show me that fuck hole right now. Spread those beach balls more and hold your ass open for my inspection. I want to get a really good look at it. I want to make sure it’s worthy of receiving this huge dick of mine.”

Sam compliantly did exactly as I asked instantly. The most stifled of moans slid wetly out of his lips.

“Oh, yeah. You’re in season alright. I can even smell your heat,” I swaggered, even sniffing the air a few times. Then I wiped my hand very deliberately over his manhole, picking up some of the strange Jiffy Lube that generously oozed from it. Sam watched me over his shoulder as I smeared it on my cock and began slowly stroking it with both hands.

“You see my huge cock here? Yeah, take a real good look. You’ve never see any guy this size before. I don’t just have a big cock. I’ve got the biggest cock… and I’m gonna stick this huge thing right up your ass. Whether you can take it or not. So put your head down and show me your hole. Stick that ass up. Yeah, that’s it. Make it wink at me now. Oh, yeah—that’s hot. Now OPEN IT UP… show me you’re man enough to handle this huge cock.”

I had to stifle an audible gasp. The man was definitely ‘man enough,’ although I wouldn’t have let him know it at that moment. I remained silent for so long that he opened wider—and then tremblingly, wider still. His degree of muscular control was simply dumbfounding.

The heat and constant rippling of his monumentally carved body fought me for control of the situation; every glint of light off a glistening muscle peak undermined my new-limbed dominance. His weight and warehouse-filling presence combined with such voracious desire co-opted every unrealized yearning for pleasure that clamored within my skin and rang in my ears, confounding my ‘plan.’ Yet his insistent demand was his Samson’s lock, and drawing from his intensity to fire my own strength to withhold a little longer only sharpened my scissors for the eventual rape of that lock.

“Is that ‘man enough’ for you?” Sam asked with a quavering note of supplication in his voice that made my teeth grit. “I maybe… I maybe can open even wider… if you’d like.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. More. Open it wider,” I replied, trying hard not to sound impressed while keeping my jaw from dropping in amazement. Sam raised his head slightly and strained. Some moments later, I watched spellbound as his orifice yawned impossibly. Sam would have seen my mouth gaping wide as well … albeit uncontrollably … had his face not been screwed up with concentration. I was confronted with the main entrance of Carlsbad Cavern, all painted pink.

“Uh… I think that’s all I can manage. Is that wide enough?” Sam asked in a tense voice. Sweat beaded his brow and he breathed in and out hoarsely. His sincerity and effort disarmed me.

“That’ll… that’ll be… yeah, fine,” I stammered, struggling to regain some composure and edginess. “At ease, soldier.”

Sam relaxed with a sigh while I stroked on my cock to gather my forces again.

“I’ve got some cock here,” I said, getting quickly back into it again, channeling my desire to fuck him into deepening my voice. “Yeah, it’s a huge one, alright. I’m gonna stuff this in your big man-gina now … and you’re gonna know that you have—most definitely—been fucked….”

I slapped my hands on his buttocks and tried to dig my fingers into the hard muscle, only succeeding in wedging them into the valleys of knotted fibers. Slowly, I pressed my huge dickhead firmly against the mouth of his cave so he’d know it was there, and rubbed a ring of pre-cum around the rim.

“Feel my huge cock kissin’ your sweet man-pussy now?”

“Whooa… Oh, yeah… Ooooh….”

I thrust only the nuclear mushroom head of my cock rapidly in and out of his cavern mouth, to whet his appetite a little further.

“Can you feel the size of that fat dickhead?”

“Oh…. Ooooooohhh. Uuuhhhh…. Whoaaaaaaaaa….” Sam panted, grunting and moaning like an animal giving birth. Only this butt-baby was going IN. Suddenly his entire body writhed spastically.

“Are you SURE you want me to fuck you with this huge thing?”

“Oh God… yes! I want it. Give it to me. Do it! P-l-e-a-s-e fuuuuuuck me…” Sam begged loudly.

“Okey Dokey! Feel THIS!”

I grabbed his hips hard and just p-l-u-n-g-e-d my massive manhood into his hole right up to the big boys in one motion, pulling myself up so hard my knees burned.

He gasped at first, unable to catch his breath. He panted again and howled, “Jesus H. Christ—that’s such a HUGE one!”

And then the Fucker in me took over once and for all. Once I’d started, I couldn’t stop. After so many failed and near-failed attempts, I had to make up for all those lost years. And it was more than finally meeting a guy who could endure me even briefly. This incredible man of muscle was, in fact, ‘der Hinterlader’—wildly excited by the actual act and not merely the thought of it.

I pulled out and pushed it all the way back in again—then again—slowly building up more speed. Then I started to thrust my hips relentlessly, driving my huge monster faster and deeper into his wide receiver, breaking into a full sweat. The honeyed sensation of my big Kahunas slamming into his voluptuous cheeks stoked my feverish fervor to fuck him. I had a flash, feeling the hard mounded muscle between my hands, that I literally WAS fucking a volcano in its underground cavity, driving Krakatoa to erupt like the blast heard ‘round the world.

Time stood still. I drove in like an animal—wild—out of control—all my being now focused on pounding my meat into that magnificent ass. Sam carried on like a bitch in heat, pounding the bed until the frame moaned and groaning loud enough to crack the plaster, reciting his ‘fuck me’ mantra as if in a trance. Sweat glistened in the moonlight and fanned from his richly-muscled physique as he thrust his ass against my pelvis with the same wild abandon that I rotor-rooted his plumbing. I was glad that Sam lived alone in that building, because our noise would have surely brought the police if not actually awakened the dead.

I fucked him savagely. Elevating myself by pressing down on his lower back with my hands, I drove my monstrous drillbit straight down deep into his well. We were both panting in rhythm like overheated dogs.

After countless minutes of ravaging his butt, I sat back on my heels to take a needed breather, then leaned back further, propping myself up with my arms. I was a little dizzy and my chest ached. My giant sequoia pointed skyward, pulsating, like a defiant Pinocchio testing the wind. Sam straightened to look over his shoulder, eager to know why the ferocious battering ram assault had suddenly been suspended. I noted the shimmering beads of sweat dripping from his drenched hair and the deep breaths he grunted out.

As he waited patiently for me to catch my wind, his eyes moved down from my face to worship my big totem. The rustling sinews of Sam’s thick forearm suggested a slow stroking of his own cock. Our eyes locked briefly: I looked down at my cock and then back at Sam’s face again. Sam’s eye movements precisely retraced my own as if playing Simon Says, from my face to my cock—and then back again.

“You know what I want you to do,” I said matter-of-factly, as if sensing some transient telepathic link.

Sam backed up to me on his knees like a train picking up a caboose, until the warm, wet lips of his luv-tunnel pressed lightly against my freaky dickhead like interlocking couplers poised to make the final connection. Then he looked over his shoulder at me as if asking, “Did I get it right?”

The mere touch of my cockhead against his sex hole forced low throaty growls of anticipatory pleasure from my throat. Sam grinned happily at this spontaneous ‘good boy’ then waited obediently for my next wish.

“Yeah—that’s it,” I cooed, “you know where that big meat roast belongs. Stick it in your hot oven. I want to feel you swallowing every inch of it. Now sit on my cock, nice and s-l-o-w…”

Reaching back to pull his lunar globes apart, he started pressing my cock into his hot bowels with exquisitely sensual slowness.

“Whooa … such a huge fuckin’ cock….” he moaned, pausing his plunge when he felt the first tickle of my bush against his glutes.

“You really like my cock in your man-pussy. You want to take some more of it, too, don’t cha.”

That was a statement, not a question, but Sam nodded anyway like a little boy being asked if he wanted more candy.

“Well, it’s OK, Sam. I want you to really sit down on it.”

“Deeper?” Sam replied, surprised. “Oh, yeah deeper… sure thing boss… wow….”

He began grinding his ass into my groin, slowing chewing more of my length up into his hole as he cautiously transferred more of his real weight onto me. His rippling back shivered with the privilege of my permitting even deeper penetration.

“I can take some more weight, Sam. Sit, boy—sit. It’s alright.”

He looked back at me as if to say, “Are you really sure?” and I nodded my head.

I felt his continents drift apart over my upper thighs under his increasing weight as he cautiously sank another couple of inches into his ass. I allowed him to continue until I supported absolutely as much of his weight as I could take, finally patting him on the back of his thickly-muscled shoulder to let him know that was ‘far enough.’

“Oh, wow—Jesus, that’s h-u-g-e. Wow, oh wow…” he moaned, sounding a bit challenged but also very pleased and awed as he basked in the sensations.

“Yeah, you like a man’s dick in your ass. You like gettin’ fucked by a telephone pole, don’t cha.”

He nodded his head quickly a few times, like a shy little boy.

“Now bounce on my giant dong. Show me how hard you can ride it, cowboy.”

Leaning on his arms he began slowly at first, raising himself off my mighty invader and then sliding down on it again. His momentum built up steadily, making the extra-large bed rock and roll until he was riding me like a mechanical bull.

What he uttered and moaned was mostly unintelligible—I caught a gurbled ‘huge dick’ a few times—but the furious meshing of his interlocking muscles from his spine all the way down to his fingers clearly evidenced his ecstasy. Watching that rolling morass of power-laden flesh only heightened my own excitement, hardening my cock almost painfully in response to all of those rock-hard, massive muscles changing shape, appearing and disappearing, whenever he moved his torso even subtly.

His ass was every bit the match for my cock, and he wielded it unmercifully, working it with the precision of an engine piston firing in a cylinder at ever-increasing rpm. The exhaust manifolds were starting to glow red, too. Man, could this guy FUCK! His ass felt so hot that I thought it might literally begin to smoke.

Sam was rapidly working himself into a state of sexual euphoria—and taking me along for the wildest ride of my life. He pounded on me so ferociously that I felt the concussion and recoil of his glutes slamming into my groin. His frenzy was contagious.

I tried reaching around his arms to grab his pecs, remembering how powerfully arousing that was for him—not to mention me. Sam was ‘gut gepolstert’—so impressively ‘stacked’ in a Herculean way. But at best, and then only when he was briefly in the right position, I could barely reach the outer edges of his twin behemoths after making several attempts. Sam must have understood what I was trying for, however. He straightened his back, bringing his upper torso much closer to me, and lifted his arms out to improve my access.

I began running my hands under his chest, squeezing and massaging his great domes and playing with his man-teats every time he came “down.” His response was almost immediate. Amidst his even louder ecstatic groans, Sam words were quite audible.

“Oh God, yes. Play with my big nips… Oh, wow. Huge cock…. Oooooooh… Fuck me…. pound on my pecs…. Fuck me….”

I played hardball. “Now fuck my magic wand like you mean it. Show me how much you love me… errr… it….”

I worked hard on his chest giants, just the way that he liked it. Sam went absolutely cannibalistic. Huffing like a freight train, he drove my lethal weapon in and out of his fuck-chute like a sexual demon; impaling himself on it like a Spartan falling on sword over and over again.

I could see the front of his massive physique well-reflected in the mirror over the bed, and his manly Ständer—his huge boner—was standing like a mighty oak gently swaying in a breeze. I watched him in the mirror as he copulated with me like a whore on Spanish Fly.

He tossed his head back and roared out, “Gaaa… Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” vocalizing to the gods the extraordinary agony and the ecstasy of his stupendous climax. His Stallion spontaneously erupted, blasting his manseed into the air like a geyser, emptying his balls of great gravity-defying gobs of ropy spunk with such power that jets of his semen arced over the bed and splattered on the mirror over the headboard; his virility so potent it smelled like a dockyard. The mirror resembled a window pane in a thunderstorm before he had finally spent his very last.

“Oh, wow…. Oh, wow…” he kept stuttering, shuddering, wholly in the grip of his own orgasmic release as the speed of his gallop slowed gradually to a cantor again.

I expected him to pull off of me, but he did not. He continued slowly stroking my cock with his ass like it was an involuntary reflex now. Still breathing like Man ‘O War after winning the Derby, he turned his head and looked over his shoulder at me.

“Did ya cum, Pete?”

“No. No… not yet,” I answered, still in an intense erotic dream-state over what I’d just seen happening in, and all over, the mirror. “But I really wanna cum bad now.” That severely understated my desire.

Sam immediately pivoted his body around to face me, throwing his leg up over my head in an impressively agile, acrobatic maneuver and stunningly never dismounting my cock. The blissful sparkle in his eyes; the deep warmth in his smile; no one had ever looked at me like that before. My entire body tingled.

“Your wish is my command, birthday boy,” he said softly as he tenderly stroked my face, “and cum now, you definitely will….”


Part 31: Bushwhacked

Sam wrapped his big arms around me and then leaned slowly back onto the bed, raising his legs as he pulled my body up between them until I was laying on his chest with my cock still firmly implanted within him. I immediately felt the length of his own beautiful, beefy manhood pressing along my abdomen between us, still surprisingly very aroused. Sam embraced me in a kiss that conveyed the most extraordinary feelings … passion, utter tenderness, gritty lust—a kiss of such exquisite sweetness that I felt… gulp… loved. Uncontrollably, my hips began bucking again. I was in every sense ‘dicke Eier haben,’ meaning I was excessively horny, but literally ‘to have big nuts.’ I had it more than covered either way. And as for the nuts, well they were full unto runneth-ing over.

Sam whispered softly in my ear, “Just try holdin’ still and not movin’, Pete, OK? I promised I’d make ya cum, and I really wanna—all by myself….”

Sam moved his arms so the back of his head rested on his palms. Then one at a time, he reached for my hands, alternately placing one on top of each of his great biceps.

“Pete, just keep your big pals Rocky and Bullwinkle here good company for awhile,” he said affectionately, “and I’ll do the rest….”

He summoned up his fantastic Titans for me, fully-framing his head with two great flexed cannonballs of muscle like an impossibly masculine halo.

Ask Sam had asked, I tried to lay there quietly on top of him, resting my head on his chest, even as my body cooked in a veritable boiling ocean of my own testosterone. My head whirled around in some timeless sexual cosmos as my hands endlessly orbited his twin Jupiters.

I was gurgling almost incoherently, “They’re so hard… so fuckin’ big….”

Sam regarded me tenderly, savoring this ultimate ‘muscle’ sacrament and the implicit sacredness of this special moment for awhile—then laid his head down on the pillow and closed his eyes. Some seconds later, he delivered his promise—and also changed my reality forever.

One simply cannot understand, at least empathetically, what one hasn’t personally experienced. Sam has remarkable and unique abilities. Some of his gifts I still can’t explain fully to this day, though in time I eventually understood more about them. But from the moment that Sam closed his eyes to the moment I reached orgasm, probably only a matter of seconds passed. My feeble attempt to describe my climatic event will take far longer than the actual event itself.

After Sam closed his eyes, I felt my cock being snugly embraced by Sam’s hot love-hole. Then the mind-blowing pulsation’s began, slowly at first. The feeling was so incredible and immediately pleasurable that I choked with surprise—and then groaned gutturally. I knew then that pumpkin-poking would never be the same again. These muscular contractions were divinely sensual and arousing. The sensation at first was like erotic fingers deftly fondling my cock, but the pulses rapidly quickened, creating almost dual sensations at once.

A fluttering sensation enveloped my cock, as if the soft beating wings of humming birds were caressing its entire length. At the same time it also felt as if discrete warm, wet, muscular tongues were licking every inch of it. To a man’s penis, there could be nothing more arousing—no greater pleasure possible in the entire world—than what I felt at that moment. I’d reached penile Nirvana. And it was through this belief-suspending display of ultimate muscular control that Sam also finally revealed his true identity to me. Here is Eros—the Greek God of Love.

I gasped loudly several times as my body went rigid. My sexual arousal was so immediate—the stimulation so total—that my hips involuntarily bucked into him once—maybe twice at the most—before my big baby carriages yanked up inside so violently that I thought I might have herniated. A millisecond later my balls exploded, causing me to let out a wail that must have been heard in the next town over. This bulge of jism roared through my cock as I delivered my first load deeply inside Sam’s torrid fuck hole. Tears filled my eyes. It was like forcing a pint of scalding cum through my penis in just that one, prolonged shot. A slight tremor moved through Sam’s body when he detected the first recoil of my big bazooka inside of him. Wildly excited himself, Sam arched up on his neck and moaned deeply, then wrapped his calves around behind my buttocks, pulling me even deeper into his fuck chute from behind. And from that moment on, the two of us were interlocked in an orgasmic feeding frenzy—a chain reaction that, once unleashed, much run it’s course.

Our respiration rates both soared as we mutually pummeled each other. Sam continued fellatiating my cock with his magically tongued hole. Those powerful sensations in turn kept my cum-pumper fully-engaged in making forceful regular deposits deep into his love vault. The huge relentless recoiling he felt inside aroused him more, commanding his anal love-muscles to keep on working their special magic on me even as his own just-spent cock dug into my belly.

Sam’s deep moans only grew louder as my unrelenting barrage continued. He raised his head, looking at me with evermore wide-eyed incredulity. I don’t think he’d ever experienced a sustained orgasm in my league before.

As for myself—I don’t think my cum-hydrant had ever been opened wider. His large-capacity storm drain was audibly struggling to handle the sudden unexpected flood. My pounding meat was making squishing sounds like a plunger in a bowl as I unleashed a torrent approaching biblical proportions inside Sam’s ass. His eyebrows popped as he began leaking like a sieve … another first! The monumental back-flow sprayed back all over my own balls and groin, thoroughly soaking the bed, as I continued draining my sperm barrels to the very last drop.

When I was finally done, Sam quickly surveyed the disaster scene with a very satisfied—and astonished—smile.

“I can see now why rubbers is a waste of money. I’d be better off investin’ in a LIFE JACKET! You got me soooo hot, Pete, I gotta….”

Sam never finished his thought. Instead, he folded his arms over me and pulled my body tightly against his. A deep moan followed and his body tensed briefly underneath me. Moments later, I felt the unmistakable prolonged rhythmic pulsing of his sex against my stomach and the hot flood of his own cum pool between our abdomens. Sam’s long sigh signaled his deepest and profound pleasure as he began to gently rub my whole body sensually around on top of his slowly. My skin glided easily, lubricated by the lake of semen between us. Cum-surfing with a guy was a brand-new experience for me, and the sensations so arousingly sexy that my cock, still buried deep inside of him, started randomly firing again like a drunken cowboy, though by this time I was fairly certain that I was only firing blanks.

Feeling my still sporadic gunfire, Sam squeezed me affectionately and savored the feeling of sliding my body around on top of his.

“I ain’t accustomed to sleepin’ with a semen glaze, really I’m not. WOOF—this feels sexy….”

I snuggled down on top of him and patiently waited for my cannonade to finally fall silent. Well, I tried to hold him as best I could but clearly Sam, by virtue of his size, was doing most of the holding. I mostly clung on.

As we lingered there in prolonged post-coital cum-drenched slithering embrace, he slowly twisted my hair in his fingers and stroked my head; fast becoming a favored habit of his.

“Hey, Pete?” I heard him say.

“Ahuh,” I replied lazily, not lifting my head from his chest.

“I want ya to know somethin’.”

“Yeah?” I said, raising my head to look at him. “What, Sam?”

“I can feel it….”

But this time I knew he wasn’t referring to my re-inflating Hindenburg still parked deep in his hangar. Sam gazed hesitantly into my eyes, his shimmering with a profound kindness. Then I heard ‘the word.’

“I loves ya, Pete—I just does…..”

It was a clean—straightforward—forthright statement. There was no hesitation; no vaguely beating around the bush. Not ‘I think I love you.’ Not ‘I might love you.’ And I knew that Sam meant it the very first time he ever spoke the words. I’ve never been so sure of anything else in my life.

I smiled back at him warmly for what seemed an eternity. I probably provided my own light, in fact. But I never said a single word back to him in return, eventually turning and resting my head down on his big chest pillows again. And that was perfectly OK with Sam. He accepted my response, or in this case lack thereof, without protest. Looking back at that moment now, I think it was quite remarkable on his part, actually. He didn’t have a need to hear any reciprocity from me, though I’m sure that would have certainly pleased him very deeply. But he just let it go. I’ve since apologized to him for my shortcomings that night. He’d simply needed to tell me how he felt. He took the risk that countless others never dare. I now am just beginning to understand that to open one’s heart in that way is an act of the most incredible, selfless bravery imaginable.

If you might be wondering how I really felt inside at that very moment—well, a part of me felt… wonderful joy. You might say he’d swept me totally off my feet—literally, several times already that night. And I also felt a whole lot scared… terrified of my own great, confusing feelings for Sam. But did I know I loved him, right then and there? Oh, yes—more than you could ever know—and that was precisely what terrified me. Oh, in time I eventually said ‘Ich liebe Dich.’ That felt less threatening to me when I first said it to him—Sam had no idea what I was saying, of course. But when I was absolutely ready, I found the courage to say the ‘magic words’ to him in English, too. I think Sam somehow knew what I felt all along anyway. He never tried to extract it from me either—and I love him for that reason, as well.

So my birthday celebration went on all that night, and I would, indeed, learn many new things. I would learn that Sam’s appetite and stamina for sex was as insatiable as my own. I’d learn what getting a real blow job was like for the very first time, though how he ever managed it… well… I’ll leave that for another time perhaps. Let me just say for now that he hadn’t yet revealed to me all of his unusual ‘talents,’ impossible as that may sound. And although I didn’t get down there often—making that long trip nearly required packing a lunch—I’d discover that if I tickled his feet, the mighty muscle-bound ox could be rendered absolutely powerless, squealing like a little epileptic piglet—an Achille’s Foot, so to speak, I would devilishly exploit to ‘reason with him’ in the future.

But that night, we got no sleep at all. Sam was determined to teach me everything a man should know about sex as well as everything I could possibly do with my cock—and my tongue—all in a single night it seemed—things that I’d never even dreamed.

As a sex education coach and mentor, Sam was absolutely unparalleled. My education was as intensive as it was comprehensive. I doubt he’d ever had a more willing and capable protegee. He admitted later that he’d just gotten even more horny as the night progressed—that having sex with me unexplainably increased his already overly-healthy libido. I’d say we went at it almost non-stop, except for an occasional break. Me—I had to pee a lot. Sam—he always had to eat a lot, as I would learn quickly enough.

And by the time morning finally dawned, he’d even taught me all about ‘blue-balls,’ though that misfortune was unintentional. I’d never felt such excruciating pain in my life. It was worst than getting kicked in my groin by our buggy horse once. Gratefully, Sam also knew exactly how to cure a bad case of blue-balls almost instantly, but his holding those hot compresses on my big nuts with his hand, while well-intentioned, somehow only seemed to make matters initially worse. I finally suggested he go raid the refrigerator again while I held the hot towels to my own balls for awhile. I think I might have hurt his feelings a little, but I just needed him well out of my sights temporarily to cool my sexual ardor. The man was just TOO hot, and being turned-on was definitely not what I needed at that moment. My ‘alternative’ method worked nicely—and quickly too, thankfully.

That night was the beginning of something miraculous for me—something that would mark a turning point and a brand new and wonderful experience in my life. You could say that many seeds were scattered that night. A few found fertile soil and germinated, eventually becoming exquisite blooms of breathtaking beauty—and the rarest and most special one among them was Love. And the rest, we discovered could be unceremoniously expelled from Sam’s asshole by occasionally pressing down on his lower abdomen whenever it started to get a little puffy. A mattress was also added to the growing list of casualties that night.

My cum became Sam’s new and most-desired ‘high-protein shake’ that night. He swears by it to this very day, claiming if I ever marketed the stuff, I’d put every GNC supplement immediately out of business. Frankly, I think he’s just got weird taste buds—or he’s habituated. But still, whenever I happened to be in the apartment around noontime studying, he’d come upstairs from the gym and have me for lunch for a quick pick-me-up… sometimes literally. Sam liked to sneak up and grab me under my armpits from behind, then hoist me up to the ceiling in front of him, hold me there while undoing my jeans and pulling down my underwear with his mouth—and that stunt alone always conveniently primed me with a big waiting fatty. With my hands stroking his suspending arms, he’d just chow down, draining me like he was downing a bottle of Gatorade.

Ah, yes—those were the proverbial good ol’ days. But savoring them only brought into higher relief the most recent events; events that I was trying to desperately avoid. These definitely were the bad new days. My vivid memories of the rest of that night seemed to fade against the backdrop of the more pressing immediate problems. I would have given my nuts—which it might surprise you to know I’d eventually grown to actually value—to have been able at that moment to stay lost in my old memories, denying entirely the reality unfolding around me; a reality that terrified me to the very bone. My mind tried to grab onto another fond memory out of my mental photo album, but already they were breaking up. Those old memories seemed so distant—so far away—and so very long ago….


Part 32: A Clear and Present Danger

“…And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
This it is and nothing more….”

Propelled by a strong gust of wind blowing like a gale through the wide-opened kitchen windows, the back door suddenly slammed shut with a cacophonous bang. The resulting near cardiac arrest abruptly terminated my long voyage back to Never-Never-Again Land. My racing heart jolted my brain back into immediate high-alert status as adrenaline poured into my bloodstream. I catapulted to my feet.

“FUCK! Where are you, Sam!” I bellowed in total frustration at the top of my lungs. “Jesus H. Christ… son of a bitch…. What the HELL were you thinking? Fuck—fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

I’d never uttered a profanity until I’d gotten to college. A bar of lye soap used to wash out the mouth has a way of quickly deterring bad habits from taking root in little Amish boys. I’d picked up a few from Sam, but most of my choicer words were courtesy of John and his friends. But this nightmarish situation seemed to mandate the frequent practice of my newly-acquired, more colorful vocabulary.

I circled the kitchen again, scanning everything. “What the FUCK did you do with the keys to your fuckin’ truck? This fuckin’ place is a pit! Where are those GOD DAMN—”

I caught the transient flash of chrome in the corner of my eye just as I was about to bite my own tongue with fury.

“YES!!!” I hollered, triumphantly snatching up the keys from between one of our pop-art collection of chin-high dirty dishes we seemed to keep on permanent exhibition.

I grabbed my baseball cap and bolted out the kitchen door, taking the back stairs four-at-a-time until I reached the street level. Head down, I dashed blindly across the rear lot at full speed to the spot where Sam’s truck was always parked, only to look up and find that it wasn’t there.


Glancing around in a panic, I spotted the truck parked directly in front of the garage door. I’d run right past the damn thing without seeing it. Another fifty yard sprint found me frantically twisting the key in the door lock. I nearly snapped the key off, only to find that the truck was already unlocked, per usual—and I’d just locked it.


I opened the door and jumped up on the driver’s seat, jammed the key in the ignition, and was about to hit the starter—when it suddenly hit me. Where the hell was I going in such a big hurry? I had no idea what direction I was heading, even. I slumped in the seat like a sack of potatoes. Sam was a mighty big dude, but it was also a mighty big world out there too. Finding him would be like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack.

I was the person Sam was closest to. John, my former roomie, and Sam had become good buddies too, but John was out of town for the weekend. I did know a few other guys from the gym that Sam hung out with occasionally when he needed to get out and I had my nose glued to my college textbooks. Those guys were more like good acquaintances than close friends. Under these dire circumstances, I didn’t think that Sam would have sought them out. In fact, I hoped he did not, since they would be among the very first people the police would likely contact.

I remembered something. It just flashed into my mind out of nowhere. Call it a hunch. It was a place Sam had taken me only once, which was the reason I hadn’t thought of it before—and it wasn’t too far beyond the college. A part of the campus’s property line abutted a small portion of a huge State Forest. This place was sort of his ‘special spot’ I’d gathered; one of those pristine, unspoiled scenic places stretching for thousands of acres that fairly demanded one of those ‘Kodak Picture Spot’ signs, but thankfully didn’t have one as yet, or much in the way of a road to get there. It was on a bluff overlooking an immense reservoir, the water supply for one of the major east coast cities several hundred miles away. A tiny hunting cabin—almost more of a lean-to, really—crouched there, a remnant from before the State had claimed the land in the 1930’s and built the monumental Windham Dam, drowning the sleepy hamlets of Shelton, Everett and Thornton Mills underneath 450 feet of water. I remembered that was the very first time I’d ever seen a bald eagle in the wild. Sam had pointed out the majestic bird perched in a white pine not far from where we’d been standing. All of the land surrounding the immense reservoir was now restricted State Forest and Public Watershed. Sam would go there when he wanted to “do some thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’,” which was not one of his frequent past-times. But now I wondered if just maybe….

The truck tires screeched as I swerved out of the driveway and onto the street. I punched the accelerator to the floor, leaving a cloud of smoke behind me. Sam was definitely into big things—including truck engines. Sam was also eternally short on cash, and I’d ragged on him countless times about how much it cost to feed this monster. It swilled gasoline like a drunken sailor. But now I saw his point. Having almost 400 cubes under the hood suddenly came in handy. I sped past every car on the road, leaving them in a swirling torrent of autumn leaves. I watched them blow out of the rear of the truck in the side mirror: evidently Sam had been doing some raking and had completely filled the bed with the annual Fall harvest to take to the town dump. The truck’s slip-stream had re-mulched most of the roadside by the time I hit the turnoff just past the College onto Route 19, which came up so suddenly I almost missed it. Out the left window, I watched the Medical School and its adjacent hospital on the crest of a hill disappear as I raced up the long incline into the ‘boondocks.’ Man, this baby could really haul ass!

The same scenario unfolded again a few minutes later as I spotted the small sign marking the road to the Windham Dam almost as I was upon it. I swerved the wheel and took the 90 degree left-turn way too fast, skidding across that loose gravel road and nearly sliding the truck into the ditch.

I’d only driven a hundred yards more before I spotted what looked like the Jolly Green Giant lumbering along the road well up ahead of me—and walking at a surprisingly leisurely pace, as if out for a Sunday afternoon stroll.

I closed the distance at breakneck speed, locking the breaks as I careened up along side of him. Sam was bending a piece of heavy steel concrete-reinforcing rebar back and forth in his hands absentmindedly like it was a piece of licorice, no doubt a souvenir he’d snatched from the rubble the night before. The man always—eternally—had something in his hands.

I reached across the seat and popped the passenger door open hollering, “Sam! Get in! Get in!”

The big ox just waved at me like Gomer Pyle, grinning as if nothing at all was the least bit unusual or out-of-the-ordinary. Not that I wasn’t excited to see him as well, but I was already on a mighty short fuse. His happy-go-lucky demeanor was like twisting a knife in the wound.

The truck tilted to the right when Sam hoisted his great mass into the passenger seat, and I punched the gas pedal to the floor, nearly amputating his foot at the ankle as the still-opened passenger door slammed shut.

I just glared across the truck cab at him incredulously. Sam looked scruffy. He hadn’t shaved for over a day now, and the rest of his appearance really said it all. His sweats were filthy, covered with whitish-green streaks of plaster dust. The little chunks of green plaster still stuck in his hair and splotches of greenish plaster dust on his face, neck and arms—all of it the telltale evidence of his direct involvement with the now-missing rear wall of the jailhouse—made him look a bit like the Incredible Hulk.

But if looks could have killed, Sam would have blown up on the spot. I was angry and scared out of my wits—a bad combination on any day. I lost it completely. I went totally ballistic—yelling so loudly that I even hurt my own ears.

“Sam, what the hell are you doing walking along in plain sight? They’re after you, Sam—the State Police!”

“I didn’t do it, ya know. Ain’t no reason why I shoulda been in jail. They’s got it all wrong… ALL wrong….”

I thought every vein in my head was going to explode.

“What the HELL is this all about? I want to hear it straight from the Horse’s Mouth! TELL ME!”

Sam raised his finger and opened his mouth to try to explain, but I never gave him a chance to even get a word out.

“You HURT that poor guy in your cell, huh? Someone you size CAN’T just go around hitting people for Christ’s sake!”

Sam suddenly looked indignant.

“I never laid a finger on him, Pete—swear to God. I was just standin’ with my arms on the bars, lookin’ out. I mighta said somethin’ like, ‘I’m gettin’ outta here’—but meanin’ that you was gonna take care of it for me. I was upset, Pete. That guy musta thought that I meant right then and there though, ‘cause then he said, ‘Yeah, right. Like you’re man enough,’ and he started laughin’, too. I knows I was real mad and that pissed me off even worse. So’s I said to him, ‘Well, I could if I wanted to….’ Then he said right back to me, ‘Yeah, wishful thinking. No way, pal,’ like he didn’t believe me. Now that there just made me terrible, terrible angry. I guess I sorta popped my cork. I just said, ‘Oh, yeah?’ Then I showed him alright—I started squeezin’ them bars back and forth like I was playin’ an accordion. Next thing I heard this big thud—and when I turned around, there he was—in a heap on the floor. I think he maybe fainted and smacked his head on the toilet on the way down. So’s I put him out of the way where he wouldn’t get hurt again. But I just couldn’t stay in that jail no more with him… not one more second. So I used my get-outta-jail free card.” Then Sam added as an afterthought, “…and please slow down, Pete. You’re driving like we’re in the Indy 500, or somethin’….”

But I continued screaming like a banshee, driving with one hand on the steering wheel and pounding the dashboard or the roof with my other.

“You scared the FUCKIN’ SHIT out of me! Did you ever even stop to think about ME? Did ya, huh? Huh, did ya? What about ME, SAM!”

Sam was starting to slouch a bit sheepishly down into the seat, recoiling more as my non-stop verbal tirade continued.

“But why? Why the FUCK did you break out of jail, huh? Huh, Sam?? I TOLD you that I would take care of it!”

He just shrugged his big shoulders like a bewildered boy for whom all rules are inherently arbitrary and equally incomprehensible.

“I TOLD you I’d get a lawyer and get you out didn’t I, huh? Just tell me WHAT the HELL was going through that thick skull of yours! I mean… JESUS H. CHRIST what a FUCKING mess!”

I saw Sam glancing at the speedometer.

“Why don’t cha take your foot off the gas a bit, Pete. You seems in a mighty hurry to get somewhere. Where we goin’ in such a rush, anyway?”

Actually, I didn’t have a clue where this back road even lead to. I just knew we didn’t have time to waste getting to—well—wherever that was.

I was still glaring at Sam and shrieking at the top of my lungs when I saw his eyes suddenly pop wide open. Then he gasped and there was a transient look of complete astonishment and fear on his face as his arms and legs instinctively flailed out to brace his body against the passenger door.


I never heard the sharp warning-blast of the train’s whistle over Sam’s deafening outburst. I never saw the train either. Who would have expected a train track out in the middle of nowhere—let alone a diesel locomotive barreling down it at that precise moment? I don’t remember the impact to this day. There might have been sounds—loud, hideous noises. That was about it.

But for the briefest of eternities, I unexplainably found myself surveying the crash scene with crystal clarity, as if hovering high above it. I could hear low, weak moans coming from somewhere below me. I looked directly down and saw my own face, curiously cracked like a spider had webbed over it. The rest of me was invisible, buried inside a mountain of twisted rags of metal with two wheels on top and two wheels on bottom, embedded into the front end of the diesel locomotive, which listed off the side of the embankment, sputtering with flames.

The surrounding trees were afire but I felt no heat. Instead, radiating warmth came from a strange, shivering light above me. I felt gentle tugs from that direction but remained motionless, suspended, as a figure lurched onto the scene below me. It was Sam. He stumbled up to the front of the diesel and immediately spotted what I saw—my own face through starred glass. He yelled out my name in a panic, then wedged his hands in between the mangled remains of the truck and the diesel and started pounding and prying. Each shock made pain flash across my face below me, but I felt nothing … except my astral cock hardening as Sam bulldozed his way into the wreckage. I was caught between the tugging from the light above and Sam’s muscular display below; these two warring gravitational bodies transiently threatening to shred apart my very soul….

Suddenly I plummeted back to earth, rushing headlong towards my own face—and everything became meaningless, bizarre, vague images like torn-up snapshots all out of order.

Then—it was just dark. Very dark.

I heard low, weak moans coming from somewhere. Instinctively, I tried to sit up. When nothing happened, I tried again. Still nothing. I couldn’t seem to move a muscle. I realized the moans were coming from me.

A light—there was a dim light. It seemed far away at first, but as I kept looking I could begin to make out more detail. I was looking outside through a small portal above me where daylight prismed in through a fracture-frosted glass. There was another light though—a farther, different, weird light. It’s bright and … wow—is it ever warm, too. It doesn’t seem to be coming from anywhere or anything in particular. But I can sure see it … changing. It’s getting brighter, shimmering and pulsating like a brilliant white aurora. It looks so dense, like it’s made of solid matter, as if I could really touch it, if I could just move my arms. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful before! It seems like it’s trying to gently pull me. God, why does my head hurt so bad? I’m feeling so woozy—so woozzz….

What’s that? I think that’s someone calling my name. I know that voice. It’s Sam. My mouth and lips are saying, “Sam,” but I’m not hearing it. It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. I don’t remember an elephant. There—that was my name again. Now again. “Here I am, Sam.” Why is the air so far away?

Suddenly, the thunder of shrieking metal startled me so much I felt momentarily more alert.

Everything around was moving. Bumping and jerking, like wherever I was, it was snagged on something. That prying—it sounds like sheets of steel being ripped apart. Bangs and creaks and loud groans—the sounds are coming from all around me. Oh, God, that jerk! Fuck, oh, I’m gonna be sick. That squealing tearing sound, and everything’s starting to move around. Oh, God—please stop it! This pain! It’s ripping right through me! I’m screaming. I know I’m screaming. Why can I only hear these gurgling sounds? I feel so dizzy… so diz….

There—that sound… that growling…. That’s definitely Sam. He must be close. That’s the noise he makes whenever he’s doing some r-e-a-l serious lifting—the private room kind. Don’t know if I’ve ever heard him groaning this loud. What the hell’s he doing? He’s giving it a hundred and ten percent from the sound if it. Just listen to him bark and grunt. He must be trying to set another new personal record. Oh, oh, it’s all turning, I’m moving up and around, like the whole fucking world is being flipped on its side, OH! That crunch, something got crushed. I’m teetering now, and… ooooh, no—that hurts! Where are you, Sam? I sure can hear you. That banging—you punching at something? It sounds REAL dense, like I’m inside a metal drum and someone’s throwing bowling balls at it. Yikes, that tearing steel sounds close!

It’s feeling a little lighter, like something’s being forced off this metal box slowly, with horrible fist-crashes and buckling steel. I must have been face down on my front before. Yeah, I think I’m actually lying more on my back now, but… Oh, no—my head starting to spin again… I’m going to vomit. Everything’s spinning so fast….

There’s a lion roaring. But where’s the circus? No, I guess that sounds more like Sam just doing a lion. Whenever we go to the zoo, Sam always gets a kick out of seeing the lions cower meekly when he roars back at them. He’s got quite a set of lungs on him.

Okay, the spider-web sky is over there now, rosy and pink. So soft, so pink, like Sam’s tender buttshute. Ow! That screeching, his grunting almost as loud, it’s making things lighter, that shredding metal. Now I can see a little bigger piece of sky. Short grunts in rhythm to peeling, crumpling steel, like Sam’s opening a giant sardine can with his big paws. I can see more clearly now … and he’s rolling something heavy up with them, like I’d roll up a sleeping bag. The sky is opening up—there’s bright sky everywhere! It’s all I can see now! It looks too bright to be sunset, but it’s all pink—even those clouds. Look at those tree branches overhead. I think the leaves are all flaming pink, too. I can’t make them out too well, though. Everything’s all out of focus.

But there’s part of Sam now … and his upper body is definitely in focus! He’s towering over my head, looking down at me, repeating my name over and over again. He’s PUMPED HUGE!! I’m smiling at him, but he doesn’t seem to see it. He looks real scared, like I’ve never seen. My head … I’m so dizz….

Ugh, something moved, something hard’s being pried away from my body. His hands, what happened to his hands? They’re both so bloody—yuck! He’s grabbing hold of something down below my waist. He’s pulling on it—twisting and yanking away at something down there. Ouch! Yikes—STOP it! Stop it—that hurts!! He’s lifting something up now. What a big pile of twisted junk. He’s such a junk yard dog, that guy. But it’s all smashed up, even the radio hanging out of it.

Oh, no—please don’t touch me. Shit, he’s starting to move me. It’s like he’s trying to get at something else. He’s yanking it out from underneath my…. OW! Oho, oh ow! Sam, you’re starting to spin like a top… fading away…. Oooooohhhhhh….

Sam? Looks like you’ve got a whole steering column. Oh, your lats are really swelling—and it’s moving, it’s grinding over my… OW OW OW! Oh, he’s bending it up and away and he’s dragging it out, something loud is ripping and sparks are flying onto me but it’s not burning, it’s … all … sooooo ….

Oh God, that hurts. Sam, you’re pulling up on something … but all that heavy metal bending and twisting is cutting off my legs!

He’s straightening up…. His hands are down and he’s pressing again. Something’s grinding apart, he’s tearing giant steel jaws open and… the teeth! Oh Christ—those teeth, oh… It’s all shuddering, it can’t withstand him, he’s bucking it all with his arms and chest and everything’s flattening out. Now he’s got hold of something really huge in his arms. He’s wrangling with it. He’s roaring! Look at those muscles ripple! Sam’s pressed the oil-spraying monstrosity—looks like an engine block—up over his head. He’s hurling it away. It’s gone now, but not that elephant on my chest. Sam, that elephant’s back, Sam, I can’t breathe at all.

What do you mean, “You’re OK. I got ya now, Pete?” No. No, please don’t pick me up, Sam! PLEASE don’t… Oh God, that HURTS! Oooooooohhhh… That HURTS SO BAD!! I’m gonna puke….. I’m gonna….

Oh God, Sam, this is not the time to kiss. I can’t kiss back, and you’re kissing kinda weird—blowing like I’m a balloon. Oh, God, you’re trying to pop me, I gotta stop you. Get away, oh no, get away. Why is everything so pink? Sam, don’t shake me! Oh, oooohhh….

Where am I? Oh, yeah … that’s the top of his massive pec against my head. It makes a great pillow … feels nice with this horrible headache. But all this bouncing, it hurts so much, Sam… and all this wind rushing by… I’m freezing cold.

Oh, God… THE pain… that PAIN!! Sam, you’re running. Stop running! You’re hurting me. I can’t stand it! Please put me down, Sam. It hurts so much … too much … Why won’t my mouth move? Oh God, this PAIN! I’m so cold…. Brrrr, so damn cold. You’re fading again… I can’t see you so good anymore… I can’t….

What’s that? Oh—Sam’s mouth. He’s kissing me again. No Sam … please, you’re running way too fast…. God, I can’t take … this POUNDING! Sam—stop! Please!

Funny kisses … more of those funny kisses. Now Sam’s running again even faster. But that’s O.K, Sam. It doesn’t even hurt all that much now. I’m just too tired, Sam… too cold. I can’t stay any longer. There’s this gorgeous light, Sam … it’s so warm. Can’t you see it? See, it’s right over there. No more of those funny kisses now, O.K.? Don’t be so sad, Sam. I’m gonna be alright. Really. Please stop crying. I’m supposed to go now. Look, it’s so bright… so wondrous…. Heavenly…. That’s where I belong—there, in that light… I’m going home… I love you, Samson… Sam….

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Then I was suddenly floating again, hovering over Sam and me, looking down at my own expressionless ashen face with a sad kind of peace. Sam still had me clutched firmly in his arms, running with impossibly long strides down the big hill, chewing up ground like a cheetah. He’d somehow put at least 5 miles between us and the scene of the wreck. The medical school was already in sight, just up ahead. Every now and then, Sam would desperately shake my body and put his mouth over mine again without so much as breaking stride, half-talking and half-yelling to me the whole time.

“Oh please, God… please God… Hang in there, Pete. I’m takin’ ya to the hospital. We’s almost there, little buddy… Doc Marantz—he can fix you up, good as new. I knows it! He’s real smart. He’s a good doc. Just hang on a little longer—less than a mile—we’s almost there… we’s almost….”

“Pete? Pete???”

“Come on now… Damn you—breathe, Pete. BREATHE!”

“Ya gotta take one breath—just one, that’s all! We’s nearly there! Oh, Jesus, PLEASE PLEASE just breathe!!!!”

“God Almighty, please don’t take my Pete. This can’t be happenin’… not like this….”

“No… No… NOT THIS!”


“P-E-T-E-R !!”

“P … E … T … E … R !!!”

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