Something really awesome happened the other day. Alex was getting ready for class in the morning, and as I stole glances at his thick legs in slightly-tighter boxers, he pulled his jeans up. But he ran into a problem. When he went to button his fly, he was caught. Carefully, I swiveled around in my chair, pretending to look for something on my dresser so I could get a better view.
It was fantastic. His glutes and thighs are seriously getting ripped from all that running, and his ass had grown enough that he was having trouble with his pants. While they didn’t cause problems, his thighs were very visible in their denim casings, bulging out and forward. And of course, his abs stuck out just a little farther from the gains, which didn’t help.
I felt myself getting stiff and quickly swiveled back to my desk.
“Damn pants barely fit,” I heard him grunt as he managed to button his jeans.
While he was away at his first class, I began poking around internet forums for the quickest way to gain muscle. I came across a Chinese supplement that had some guys swearing by it—those who managed to get some of it, at least—as well as various hormones and anabolics. The only thing slowing me down is that shady websites don’t take PayPal.
Alex informed me last time we worked out that he was over 225 pounds now. I relish my modest success in engineering actual change in someone. He also admitted that he’s trying a weight loss supplement in lieu of cutting too many calories and loosing muscle. His pants getting tighter was his main motivator.
This supplement is, to my joy, a powder. After he used it the first day, I clandestinely replaced most of the contents with the semi-legal supplement I received in the mail. I’m also looking into ways to sneak some steroids into his food. What can I say? Success is addictive.
Yesterday, the second day he used the supplement, he commented that it tasted different. But I think he’ll overlook it since every dose but the first tastes that way—hopefully write it off as being dependent on whatever he mixed it in.
Holy shit. My wildest dreams have come true. In the span of ten days Alex has, despite working his ass off, gained 5 pounds! My heart is racing just thinking about it. And oh my, does it show on him!
Now, his t-shirts’ sleeves ride up his arms from the size of his biceps and triceps. They cover barely anything past his swollen shoulders. And his stomach—something about it getting a little bigger really turned me on the past week. In a particularly tight white shirt he wears to workout, it shows, causing tiny stretches in the fabric along his waist, while his chest now really pops in it, nipples visibly pressing up against the material. The other day at the gym, soaked in sweat so that it was translucent, it almost looked like it would rip at the seams! I can only dream—for now.
Alex has given up on most of his jeans—not only are his ass and waist too big, but his quads make the denim look painted on and even his calves press out against the pant legs.
Oh God. This is heaven.
Monday morning. Alex struggles to slide the long sleeves of his sweater over his blown-up biceps. Have they gained an inch or two? He’s got to be at least 235, maybe close to 240 by now. He slides the shirt down his buff torso. It stops an inch from his sweat pants, giving a fleeting glimpse of the hair at the bottom what is left of his abs.
“I’m really having a tough time losing weight,” he confesses, brow furrowed. “That fat-burner does not seem to be doing anything.”
“Maybe it takes some time?” I ask innocently.
“But I’m actually gaining weight, Steve. Emily told me the other night when I stayed over that I was getting ‘too big’.”
“That’s a shame,” I muse, “That she can’t appreciate the mass you have.”
“What are you talking about, man?” Alex stares me down with his brown eyes. I guess what I said was sort of weird, now that I think about it.
“It’s just that you’re still a pretty fit guy. Ripped, even.”
“Not for long at the rate I’m going.”
“Well,” I slowed my words so as not to seem eager, “have you considered that some of the weight could be muscle?”
“I guess. I don’t know… Listen, I might have to skip our workout tonight. I’m taking Emily out to eat to make up for her being a bit turned off. There’s this great all-you-can-eat buffet uptown that…” He trailed off, visibly hungry as he rubbed his stomach. One of the things I had been feeding him increased appetite. It was working. And Alex, much as I like him, is not the brightest bulb—a buffet is the last place he should go. But the best place he can go.
He came home late last night after the dinner with his girlfriend. I was reading in bed, but nearly dropped my book when I saw him.
“Dude, I’m stuffed,” he said. “I know I’m trying to lose weight but the food was so good. Chicken and beef and macaroni and cheese… good stuff.”
He was visibly bloated. Every bend of his arms made the fabric of the nice button down shirt he had on bunch up as it stretched around his arms. His stomach pushed out the bottom of his shirt above dress pants—perhaps the last pair of non-sweat pants that fit him that morning—with the belt and button undone. And something was off about the way he was walking. There was a slight waddle in his step. But his chest—oh his chest! His pectorals stretched the buttons out—the fabric bowed away from each button, straining as it curved back. His lats pushed out behind him, pulling the shirt tighter with each breath. The shirt had vertical stripes that bent outward form his bulging form.
And then it happened. Pop! One button, in the middle of his chest snapped off. Pop! Pop! Two more followed. His chest noticeably pressed out, free from the confines of the material, and I could see the school logo on his shirt underneath distorted by both solid masses of muscle.
It took every ounce of self-control not to come on the spot.
“Oh, man. What the hell?” he asked, in a bit of a stupor from his binge eating.
“I’m sure it was…” I couldn’t think of what to say. I was filled with lust and satisfaction but I had to keep my cool. I sat back down in bed, hiding my throbbing erection as best as I could. “It was a small shirt, that’s all…”
“Dude?” he moaned, rubbing his distended belly, “What’s going on with me?”
Last night I was consumed by thoughts of Alex and his beefy body. I ran to the bathroom after Alex went to bed and furiously masturbated. I kept going over his stomach and his arms and his legs bulging and his chest—oh that chest!—that so awesomely popped buttons. Again and again I replayed the incident in my mind’s eye. Let’s just say I didn’t sleep much.
In the morning, Alex seemed to have recovered from his food coma. I was getting ready for my math class while he woke up, his body still stretching the school logo. Normally contained in a circle, it warped into an oblong oval that curved down as he used his meaty chest to push himself up. He lumbered over to the closet to get dressed.
Swiftly, I pulled my book bag in front of my crotch. The sight of him walking, legs rolling past one another, boxer shorts stretched like boxer briefs (especially in the ass)—it was too much. I decided to search for an extra pencil to take to class so that I could spend more time savoring Alex’s presence—he was taking off his shirt!
Or rather, he was trying. The shirt was giving him some difficulty. The sheer width of his back caught the shirt, and only after grunting softly could he peel it the rest of the way off, pulling it over his head. He turned around to grab deodorant off of his dresser and my boner painfully pressed against my book bag. His chest! It was big, of course, but now I could see the striations running horizontally, the bundles of fiber that contracted with every movement. And another thing, he was kind of hairy. Alex had always had this sexy, sparse covering on the bottom of his chest, but now there was definitely more hair on his pecs.
He caught me staring.
“Aren’t you going to be late for class?”
I pretended I had been in deep thought and made some comment about “staring into space.” I left, lust stirring in me.
Friday night. Alex had a heated phone call a few minutes ago in the hallway. He came back into the room looking downtrodden. But even his bad mood couldn’t take away my enjoyment of his form. He was, as of our last work out (where he added 20 pounds more than usual to his bench press) almost 245. That’s a few pounds this week! My plan was certainly working. He sat down on his bed, gym shorts sliding up his legs slightly, tight t-shirt leaving a gap at his waist.
“Everything alright, man?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Just stuff with Emily.”
“If you wanted to talk about it, I’d listen.”
“I don’t know…” he sighed. “Can I be honest with you? It’s a little gross.”
“Last time we—you know—did it—she got really uncomfortable. She said she was afraid I was going to crush her or something.”
“That’s a really stupid thing to say,” I said, trying to remain calm.
I couldn’t help but picture it: Alex on top, thrusting his massive haunches, supporting his body with his strong arms—no way he would crush her. His back rippling with the rhythmic motions. His hefty pecs and his abdomen hanging from him. Maybe that could make her a little scared, I guess. All that mass. All that strength. All that power.
“And on top of it all,” he paused, trying to think of tactful way to explain what he said next. After a moment, he just went with: “I’m horny all the time, man. It’s like I’ve constantly got blue balls or something. They’re even swollen.”
He looked down and played with his fingers, awkwardly covering his waist.
“It’s okay, Alex. That stuff—” how could I sound not excited by this news? “—that stuff is normal. It happens to everyone from time to time at our age.”
“Anything else bothering you?”
“No,” he said, “that’s pretty much it.” He laughed at himself, defusing the awkwardness.
I got up and went to the bathroom. I practically jogged down the hall with a full hard-on. I had succeeded in transforming my roommate physically, but now there were unexpected benefits. Side effects from the cocktail of hormones, no doubt. That probably explained his hair growth, too. And did it ever get me going. There is an acute sense of control that drives me wild in addition to the strong physical attraction to his bulk. His actions are being directed by me. I have made him hotter and hornier. And he doesn’t even know it.
Wow. When I look back, my little experiment was ambitious to say the least. But my plans have succeeded! In a little over two months, Alex has gained 30 lb. His progress has only accelerated since the introduction of the Chinese supplement. The cycles of hormones and anabolics he’s unwittingly been on have probably helped, too. He’s been improved by me so much, even his stance has changed. His arms hang farther out from his sides, the result of a widening back, and his gait has adjusted as his upper legs thicken. And I am overjoyed at the change in his behavior!
The other night I woke up to muffled grunts. Alex was jacking off, trying to be as quiet as possible, but apparently the intensity was too much. My eyes adjusted to dark and I made sure to be as still as possible. He was on his back, hips bucking. I couldn’t make out any details, but I could easily detect his bulk moving back and forth as arms pumped his cock. The bed squeaked with each thrust. He finished with another suppressed moan. I have to praise my self-control again; I wanted very much to relieve the aching pressure in my own body. But not as much as I wanted to run my hands over his muscles as they quivered with exhaustion and pleasure.
Today, something happened that surpasses that nocturnal experience. It happened in the campus fitness center. It was glorious.
When we met at the room after classes to go to the gym, I knew I was in for a treat: Alex was wearing the extra-tight white t-shirt. His bulk filled it out quite nicely and the seams were straining.
Now, I know it might seem weird that Alex was still wearing the same clothes, but I don’t think he wants to buy larger clothes. He foolishly holds onto the hope that he will lose weight! To buy new clothes would be to admit defeat.
Anyway, we went to the fitness center. We did cardio for five, maybe ten minutes to warm up. This is one area in which I am more athletic than Alex; my lean body handles running on a treadmill just fine, but Alex, ever since his weight gain, jogs so slowly he might as well be walking. He gets out of breath much faster than me. I think another reason his gains increased recently was his inability to keep up a fast pace for very long—it’s a vicious cycle of his size impeding him. A lovely, vicious cycle that ensures he will continue to grow!
Today was a chest day. Truly a treat today! We both warmed up our triceps first, allowing me to gleefully peek at his muscular arms. By the time we finished, his tris were pumped and his sleeves had rolled up to his shoulders. It was pretty hot.
We moved on to bench press. I went first—I needed to divert some of my blood flow before my shorts tented too much. I was only mildly successful but Alex is such a cool guy that he didn’t say anything. After all, he had confessed his increasingly constant horniness to me. After my modest weight lifting, it was time for me to spot Alex.
He started pumping out reps at his weight from our last time and asked me to add more. I grabbed two tens and loaded them on the bar. Alex was slowed only slightly, but he seemed satisfied with that—he wasn’t intentionally trying to pack on that delicious mass. About twenty reps in, his shirt was soaked with sweat. It was transparent and the dark hair on his chest and stomach highlighted the shape of his muscles. Beads of sweat had long since formed on his brow but he kept going, puffing his cheeks now with each extension but still keeping a surprisingly rapid rate. He moaned softly with each exhale, and I knew it would be hard to hide my erection soon. Thankfully he was focused solely on moving the bar up and down. One of the things I admire about him is his concentration, especially in the weight room. He was squinting his eyes more now as the fatigue started.
His pecs flexed and shook and pumped with each rep. They began to engorge and fill with blood. His shirt was already soaking and stretching in every direction, but the lines of stress on the fabric became more pronounced on his chest. Oh God. Just writing about this is getting me so hot. You could see every detail of his chest—the hair, the contracting muscle, his hard nipples poking the fabric. The shirt seemed like it was getting even tighter. His body was threatening to burst free of it.
And then it happened. Rip! His tortured shirt split open down the center, just below his collar. Glistening, bloated muscle emerged from beneath. I think my jaw literally dropped. It was amazing. The shirt had given way to those big, beautiful, overpowering pecs!
Alex struggled to get the bar up, shocked by what had happened. I almost didn’t help him out, distracted by his heaving chest. But I realized he was in trouble in time and eased the bar back onto the rack.
“Shit, man,” he gasped, a look of disappointment on his face.
I can’t remember if I said anything. I was too preoccupied, staring at his torn shirt and incredibly enticing chest. At least I had a good excuse to stare this time.
It’s been a couple of days since the incident. When I close my eyes, all I see is that chest ripping through that shirt. I’ve been jacking off like crazy, but not as much as I’ve noticed Alex disappearing to the empty bathroom or quietly grunting in the middle of the night.
Alex, when not getting off, has been moping around. He’s still coming along nicely—his shirts barely fit him now. All of them hang an inch or two above his slightly rounder waist, clinging like Under Armor to his slab-like pecs and bulbous shoulders.
The best part, ironically, about him being distraught over his gains, has been that he’s eating more. I can only hope that this will boost his bulking even more! Some extra protein powder can’t hurt, right?
Today, as he was eating his depression away with a plate of chicken I’d injected with liquid additives, he let loose.
“It’s just not fair, dude! All I want is to get cut. I know I haven’t been dieting strictly” (he certainly hadn’t) “but I have to be losing some weight. I’m exercising more often—higher reps and everything.”
“It’s okay, man. You just gained some muscle, that’s all. Going on a crash diet wouldn’t be healthy—you know that! I’m sorry you’re having a tough time with this.”
But I’m not.
Alex has just passed 260 pounds! I am beside myself. I haven’t added to this journal in while; I’ve been busy with a project for my English class the past couple of weeks. A fair amount has happened, but first, the bad news:
He caved and bought shirts and pants that fit. Well, that fit around the time of my last entry—the shirts are starting to ride up around his stomach already and his new jeans are tight in the ass. Alex was motivated to do this after an event that he found embarrassing and I found aggressively erotic.
He was changing into street clothes back at the room after a workout. He really is something with his shirt off—just enough hair to entice me and lots of bloated, swollen muscles. His stomach protrudes as far as his pecs now, leaving only two vertical distinctions where he once had a defined six pack. He began sliding his shirt up his arms, then moved to pull it down over his head. His stomach flexed as he bent and I was surprised to see his abs showing—as opposed to just being fat, Alex has definitely gained a roid gut. Well, I’m not sure if it’s actually from the steroids or the hormones, but it’s a bulge of solid muscle. He managed to squeeze his arms through the tight sleeves, but was struggling to get the shirt down his wide torso. He put a little more effort into it, stomach flexing again and pecs contracting. Eventually, he was able to slide down the t-shirt when I heard the unmistakable sound of stitches tearing.
Alex’s shirt split along the seams where his lats protruded and down the center of his chest as he lowered his arms. His face turned red and he stared at the floor. I would have pretended not to have noticed to make him feel better, but it was all I could do to stand there in awe. By the next day, he had bought a handful of new shirts, a pair of jeans, and some sweat pants.
As I said, the shirts now show a gap around his waist. The sleeves are also starting to roll up when they have taken too much torture from Alex’s ballooning biceps. The jeans are threatening to pop the fly button every time he sits down. And the sweat pants, well, they may be loose, but they don’t leave much to the imagination. His legs reveal themselves with every step and it is extremely easy to notice when he has an erection. Which is often.
His horniness has only increased. Things must not be going any better with his girlfriend, because he’s begun bringing home girls every few nights. Last night was a well-endowed brunette. I was doing my homework in the common area but even from there I could hear Alex grunting. The RA talked to him recently about keeping the noise down when people are trying to sleep.
Just about every night this week I’ve woken up to Alex pleasuring himself. Our blinds were open one night, and I could actually see him in the light of a street lamp. His sweaty shirt stretched tight across his broad chest, flexing as he pumped his cock. He was sitting up slightly; his belly was flexed, firm and protruding. His dick slapped against the bottom when he let go of it momentarily. As usual, he failed silence his low moans as he edged closer and closer to climax.
That night I came in my bed without much effort on my part. Thankfully, I was able to keep quiet. I can’t imagine how things might have gone if Alex had caught me watching him.
Friday the 13th. Alex bought a gray muscle shirt to workout in. He bought a size too small by accident. He stood at the mirror between our closets, trying to make the best of the situation. His pecs spilled out of the top and sides of the shirt, his thick arms hanging at his sides. With each breath the shoulder straps threatened to snap. Because of his gut, the shirt only made it to his bellybutton.
He was facing away from me, so I got a great view of his glutes in some stretchy gym shorts that were once loose. In the mirror, I saw him sigh, the initial inhale causing the shirt to rise up with his bulging traps. His powerful shoulders separated into three bundles of muscle as he raised his arms and grabbed the collar. With a small grunt, Alex tore the shirt straight down the center, exposing his chest and muscle gut. The shirt now hung like a vest which he shrugged off, muttering to himself, “fucking shirt.”
He sat on his bed while I did my classwork. He was slumped over so his bloated pecs were thrust out farther on top of his stomach, which pushed past the waistband of his shorts. In its shadow, I saw he was getting hard again. I noticed his nipples were getting hard, too, but I had to turn away quickly as he lifted his head up.
It was a close call—I’ve been increasingly risky when stealing glances of his body.
Something’s up with Alex. I mean, I guess it’s to be expected that he’s not very happy with his (frankly amazing) weight gain or his out of control libido, but yesterday he seemed particularly distant. Today he asked if he could talk to me about something tonight.
This is bad. This is really bad.
Alex knows. He knows everything—he found my journal lying open on my desk. (How could I have been such an idiot?!)
To say that he’s pissed is an understatement.
He confronted me last night after dinner.
“I know about the journal, Steve.”
“Journal?” I asked, my voice cracking.
He bowed his head, kneading his forehead in frustration. “I know about it all. About all the stuff you’ve been feeding me.”
“But I…” I couldn’t string together a complete sentence.
He lifted his head and stared me down, narrowing his eyes. He stood up and walked over to me. Alex is, to put it mildly, physically imposing since his transformation. He wore one of his newer t-shirts, but it was still snug around his shoulders, chest, and gut. I was sitting on my bed and now I was pretty much eye level with his bloated torso. He seemed to tower over me in this state. He stopped in front of me and clenched his fists, causing the cords in his forearms to twist and contract and his arms to fill his sleeves.
“Why, Steve?,” his teeth were grinding with each word, “Why did you do that—do this,” his chest stood out as his muscles tightened when his voice rose, “Why would you…?”
I was simultaneously frightened of what Alex could do to me, and turned on by this display of power. I was paralyzed with fear and lust. Alex noticed I was getting an erection, let loose an angry snarl, and left the room, slamming the door so hard that the clock above it fell. Moments later, he stormed back in and again towered over me, eyeing me furiously.
He shook—or shivered?—with anger for a few seconds before he managed to expel, “I need you to get out of the room.”
I opened my mouth to say something—anything.
“NOW!” he roared, veins standing out on his thick neck.
“Can we maybe—?” I began, but Alex interrupted.
“NO! I need you to leave now. I have to take care of this—this thing that you did!”
And then I realized that he was hard. His sweatpants made that much clear. He seemed to shiver again and I saw his cock throb beneath the thin layers of fabric.
“GET THE FUCK OUT NOW!”
I stumbled out of the room just in time for him to slam the door even harder than before. I could’ve sworn I heard the wood frame crack! Outside, it took little effort to hear Alex moaning. It was different than usual: deeper and longer, more strenuous. He was hate-fucking himself, basically. Occasionally I’d hear something slam and break—he was throwing and smashing my things.
I tried to get to sleep on one of the common area couches with little success.
I went to the computer lab. I need to clear my head, so I started writing this with a borrowed pen on some printer paper.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
It’s been 24 hours since Alex flipped out on me. He kept unnervingly quiet the entire day. Just a few minutes ago, he approached me and finally broke his silence.
“You’ve really fucked me over, Steve,” he said, more in control than last night.
“Alex, I’m sorry. I’m so—“
“I don’t want to hear it. I’ve read your diary. I know how you feel. You’re not sorry at all, you little fucker. You wanted me to get big, huh? You wanted that? Well guess what? We’re going to see how big I’ve gotten.”
He gripped my arms with his callused hands and squeezed. It felt like someone was stabbing me in my biceps as I reflexively struggled.
“You like that, don’t you, you sick fuck?”
I didn’t. I actually would have been beside myself if I wasn’t so scared, but this was not pleasurable at all. He squeezed harder, flexing his biceps and I begged for him to stop.
“You’re the one who wanted me big, Steve. I’ll show you big!” He walked over to mini-fridge and the shelf we kept our food on. “Where is it?”
“WHERE IS IT!?”
“I-i-in the closet. In a cardboard box under my duffel bag.”
He grabbed the box of secret additives and asked me to leave the room like the night before.
“Don’t wait up,” he said, “I’ll be a while.”
He slammed the door in my face and I heard him grunt first with rage, then with relief.
Two weeks since Alex learned what I was doing to him. I’ve been much more careful about this journal—writing only when I’m out of the room.
Alex, meanwhile, has gone into overdrive. He seems to spend all of his free time at the gym (without me, of course) and he’s been gorging himself at every opportunity. It’s as though he’s channeled his rage into something constructive.
I wish I could say the same. My grades have taken a dip lately. I have trouble sleeping. And not just because Alex kicks me out to masturbate every night. Even the nights when he already has had a girl over. And sometimes when I get back from classes the door is locked and I can hear him going at it inside.
But holy shit, has it paid off for Alex. Once again, his shirts and pants fit him like special athletic gear, molding to every contour and bulged of his swelling body. He’s up 295 to according to one of his buddies from the gym! Almost 300 pounds of mass! It’s unbelievable. That’s something like two pounds a day, for crying out loud. He’s as big as a bodybuilder. Maybe bigger. He’s surpassed any progress I could have had him make without his knowledge.
He’s got to be a genetic freak. That or those supplements work even better than I suspected. However it’s happening, he’s making phenomenal gains now that he’s aware. He’s eating every time I see him in the room and I silently avoid eye contact. Word is starting to spread around the school of how hard he is hitting weights. They call him The Beast now, and his workouts are full of loud grunts and the thunderous noise of weights falling to the ground. I haven’t been to gym in a while, but I picture him straining himself, pushing himself to the limit—and then some—every night that I hear him groan and moan.
I think he’s trying to intimidate me, trying to scare me for doing all of this to him. And it’s working. But I don’t think he anticipated that my attraction to his bulk is almost as strong.
Alex is truly a mammoth mountain of muscles now. From his firm gut to his bloated pecs, from his killer calves to his massive quads and hamstrings, from his bulging biceps to his thick triceps, and from his bowling ball-like shoulders to his spreading back.
I think I’m in love. Or I would be if I wasn’t on the verge of pissing my pants every time he looks at me with those dark brown eyes.
Alex is gone. All 300 pounds of power gone from my life. For good, it would seem. He transferred rooms and had his stuff out of here before I got back from my last class.
Maybe I should explain why.
But maybe I shouldn’t. I’m afraid he’ll kill me if he finds out I’ve continued writing about him.
No, I need to get this down on paper.
The night of the 1st, Alex was particularly ornery. He came back from the gym, soaked in sweat, and literally tore off his skin-tight black t-shirt in front of me, as though daring me to look. I secreted a glimpse of his hairy, powerful chest flexing and expanding as he stretched his enormous arms. His muscle gut bounced as he turned and walked over to his bed.
“Leave,” he commanded, but I didn’t. Fearful as I am of him, I was drawn like a moth to a flame, unable to avoid what would surely end badly for me.
“LEAVE!” he yelled. He sighed and laid down on his bed. “FINE! Just stay out of the way!”
To my surprise, he began shimmying his gym shorts down his thick legs. He wasn’t wearing any underwear, having long since outgrown his old pairs, and his dick sprung up, bobbing with his heartbeat.
“Ah, FUCK!” he said to himself as he grabbed his cock with his right hand. His left reached down to his balls which were hefty and swollen, just as he’d told me before. “Fuck, fuck, yeah,” he moaned.
I began to get very nervous. I broke out into a cold sweat. Was this the greatest moment of my life, or would I regret this?
Alex moaned with his mouth shut, face scrunching up as he began to stroke himself. He let out a breath with a guttural sound and began pumping his cock up and down. Every muscle in his body tensed and flexed as he proceeded. I somehow had not come in my pants yet; I thought I had reached my limit of my self-control when he started grunting in time with his thrusts.
“Fuck. Oh so fucking good. Fuck. Fuck anything—fuck everything. So fucking big…”
I got up, the mere act of standing nearly sending me over the edge, and slowly made my way over to him. I wanted to see this up close, and his eyes were closed. What harm could come from getting a little closer?
“Fuck,” he opened his eyes and looked at me, but kept going, “fuck anything. Fuck me!”
In the right light, it could be argued that this was an invitation. He nodded to me—or was he just rocking his head as his hips bucked? I got closer, sitting down at the end of the bed and his eyes rolled back in ecstasy, a steady stream of curse words flying.
“So damn big—fuck me…”
Carefully, I reached over his hair-coated thighs that flexed and contracted with every stroke. I put my hand on his.
“FUCK,” he gasped, and he closed his eyes tight. I didn’t hear him say no. All I saw was a muscle stud, a behemoth of my own creation, begging for relief from overpowering horniness. His pecs flexed up against his stomach as he focused more and more energy on getting off. His body was coated in sweat and veins were surfacing here and there.
I wrapped my hand around the base of his hot cock and took over for him. He cried out again and moaned like an animal. Faster and faster I pumped his cock, until I felt tremors and spasms start to rack his body. I eased up, but his large balls—nearly the size of golf balls—were already pulling up—he was ready to come.
He came, and came, and came. Cum drenched my arms and shirt. He had a lot of it. He must have been pumping it out for at least a minute of what had to be indescribable bliss. I came in my pants, and had to catch my breath.
A few minutes after this I was laying back on my bed, breathing deeply, covered in spunk. If Alex had any particular reaction to me assisting him, he didn’t show it. He was so quiet he might have fallen asleep, actually. I drifted off myself.
When I woke up, Alex was gone. He came back the next morning, very drunk, and unwilling to speak a word to me. He gave me no notice when he transferred rooms.
I don’t know what to make of my experience with Alex. Would I do it all over again? I don’t know. But my new roommate has become my new workout buddy. It wouldn’t do any harm if I helped him along a little, would it? And I’ve picked up a few methods for building muscle that I can use on myself, too…