Freshman year

by Richard Jasper

Roger and his three suite-mates are freshmen at Russell College. At Roger’s prompting, Bobby, the high school wrestler jock of the foursome, teaches his buddies how to lift. They start growing—phenomenally—in more ways than one!

Added: 2 May 2020 4,758 words 3,208 views No votes yet

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So there I was, a freshman at Russell College, sharing a suite with three other guys, who, just like me, were 18. My roomies included:

* Bobby Marshall, an Air Force brat from Tennessee. Blond, blue eyes, 5’8, and a solid 180 pounds (turns out he wrestled in high school.)

* Mohinder Satish, a first generation Indian-American from South Carolina. Black hair, lively dark eyes, medium brown complexion, he was short (5’6) but well-proportioned (140 pounds), with a swimmer’s broad shoulders and thick triceps.

* Tim Nagamatsu, a 5th-generation Japanese-American guy from San Diego, and the skimpiest of all. At 5’8, he was as tall as Bobby but he weighed no more than 125 pounds, sopping wet. Not surprisingly, he ran track in high school.

I was the tallest of us, at 5’10½, and at 160 pounds quite a bit bigger than Mohinder or Tim but not nearly as well-muscled as Bobby. I was the only one who hadn’t done any sports to speak of in high school—and I was pretty sure I was the only one who was gay, something I planned to keep to myself. Of course, by the end of the year, they all knew and…

Well, I’m getting ahead of myself.

It was a helluva year, even so.


First thing I did was get them to take me to the gym.

“You’re the muscle man, Bobby, you gotta show me how.”

Turned out Mohinder and Tim were likewise interested in beefing up, although Bobby wasn’t exactly encouraging.

“Now, don’t get all excited,” he said. “I’ve been working out since I was 14 and when I started I was nearly as big as Mohinder is now.”

But he showed us even so and the three of us were more than happy to watch him bench 250 pounds, which was twice what Mohinder (damn, that kid was strong) and I could do, and three times as much as what Tim could manage.

Second thing I did was take them to the grocery store. Russell let freshmen have cars on campus but I was the only one of the four of us who had one, being from relatively close by.

“One thing I know,” I said, “is that if we’re gonna grow we gotta eat, right?”

So we stocked up and we stocked up with the good stuff. My old man said, “I don’t care what you use this credit card for so as it’s food, okay?” and I took him at his word. We bought steaks, pork chops, chicken breasts, and cans of tuna for days. (The old man did have a shit fit the first time the bill came due but I told him that Tim and Mohinder and Bobby were buying me meals on campus and that I’d returned my meal plan voucher, so he was cool.)

A routine quickly developed:

* Big breakfast in the suite

* Morning classes

* Meet for lunch (always gigantic)

* More classes

* Campus gym to lift

* Back to the suite for dinner

* Study, study, study

* Late night snack

* Rinse, repeat, start over

The only variation was on weekends, when we’d throw in some other activities, whether they were pick-up basketball games, biking around Russellton, hiking and rock climbing in the adjacent state park, going to some meet and greet, or whatever. By the end of the first month, it looked like the diet / weights thing was really working: Bobby and Mohinder had both gained 5 pounds each and Tim had put on 10 pounds, a huge amount for such a skinny guy.

“But, fuck, Roger,” Bobby said when we’d finished weighing in. “You’ve nearly caught up to me!”

In fact, at 180 pounds I’d caught up to where he was when we’d started that first week of school.

“Oh!”

He looked at me.

“You were what, 165?”

I stammered my reply: 160. He let out a whistle.

“20 pounds in one fucking month? That’s crazy.”

We looked at each other, then laughed, and high-fived all around.

“Must be something in the water,” Mohinder said.

It would take us a while to figure out what it was and I’m still not entirely sure but… Oh, yeah, getting ahead again!


Collectively, the four of us had gained 40 pounds of solid muscle—in one month! And I’d gained half of that.

“Damn,” Bobby said, “I gotta work harder.”

We all did, in fact, busting our asses in the gym, shoveling in the food at mealtime. A month later…

Well, in some ways that was the sweetest. It was the month I passed Bobby and Tim caught up to Mohinder. Another 5 pounds each for Bobby and Mohinder, another 20 pounds for me, and a whopping 15 pounds for Tim.

At 200 pounds I was feeling totally studly, 10 pounds heavier than Bobby and as strong as he was, too, although pound for pound he was still a bit stronger. Mohinder, who had outweighed Tim by 15 pounds, was now dead even with him. He took revenge, though, by growing a short beard (in the space of about five days), something the totally smooth Mr. Nagamatsu was never going to do (or Bobby either, for that matter; he was as smooth as he was blond and he was very blond indeed.)

But that was just the beginning…In November we were playing pick-up basketball at Memorial Gymnasium and the other guys were adamant that they were going to be “shirts” which meant we were “skins.” I’d never been terribly taking off my shirt in public but I did anyway and was surprised when…Gasp! There was an audible intake of breath on the part of my team-mates and the other guys.

“Holy Fuck, Roger,” Bobby said, “yer a fuckin’ freak.”

He was right. I was noticeably larger than Bobby at that point and the guys on the other team, who were all typical 18 y.o.’s, in the 140-160 range, looked like sticks next to me. Then I looked at my team-mates.

“Well, shit guys, I’m not the only one.”

The game was pretty short. We creamed them and they were, like, “no, that’s okay, no need for a rematch, we know when we’re outclassed.” When we got back to the suite, I said:

“Ya know, I think it’s time we got out the tape measure and get serious about what’s going on here…”

First we started with the scales:

* Mohinder, 160—up 10 pounds from the previous month.

* Tim, 165—up 15 pounds from the previous month.

Mohinder snorted at that, then pulled off his shirt to show off his awesomely furry chest but then Tim whipped off his and flexed so hard you could see striations in his pec.

* Bobby, 200—up 10 pounds. He stepped off the scale and gave Mohinder and Tim a quick double bi, which shut both of them up right fast.

And then me: 220 pounds!

I stepped off the scale and turned to Bobby. He looked at me and licked his lips before I said:

“Let’s measure that fucking huge arm of yours, Bobby.”

We did. It was 18 inches…1¾ inches smaller than mine. Tim and Mohinder were standing there with their mouths hanging open.

“It’s not like your pikers or anything,” I told ‘em.

True enough. In three months the four of us had put on 140 pounds of solid muscle—as much as Mohinder had weighed when we first started.

“This is crazy,” I said. “I know we’ve been busting our asses…”

Bobby nodded.

“But people don’t grow this fast, not without steroids…”

We all looked at each other, then shook our heads—there was no way we could hide something like that from each other.

“There’s something else…” Mohinder began and for such a dark skinned guy he was blushing like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.

“I’ve noticed that, ah, something else has been growing.”

Bobby, Tim, and I shifted, uncomfortably I thought.

“Well,” I started, “you know, we must all be having some kinda late growth spurt…”

Bobby was the first to own up to it.

“Man, I gotta tell, my dick was full-sized when I was 15. I was always bigger than everyone else my age. But, well, I mean, it’s grown two fucking inches since school started. How can that be?”

Mohinder cleared his throat.

“Two and a half for me…”

Tim was beat red.

“Three for me,” he managed to choke out.

I stared at Tim. We slept in the same bedroom—how could I have not noticed?

“What about you, Roger?”

I looked at them, then started to unbuckled my pants.

“I’m with Tim on this one, too, it seems”

It was time to do some more measuring.


I couldn’t believe it. There I was in our suite with my three ostensibly straight roomies, all of us with our pants around our ankles, all of us totally hard and dripping. And, yes, it was my idea but they didn’t really need any prompting. They wanted to know as much as I did and given that all of us were 18 years old it was instant boner city! I did the honors—and discovered that I was the smallest, which I suppose was only fair. But I made up for it in girth, which I insisted we measure. The final results were:

Roger: 8 x 7 (+3 inches in length)

Tim: 9 x 5 (+3 inches in length)

Bobby: 9 x 6 (+2 inches in length)

Mohinder: 10½ x 6 (+2½ inches in length)

“Fuck, Mohinder,” Bobby exclaimed (and I thought it was probably a good idea, but I refrained from pointing it out), “that’s one fucking huge piece of meat!”

And then…Suddenly we all realized what we were doing, the pants came up right away, Bobby and Tim found a football game on the big screen TV, I made popcorn, and Mohinder suddenly realized he had some laundry to do.


Later that night I heard:

“Roger…?”

It was Tim. We shared one of the suite’s two bedrooms, Mohinder and Bobby had the other. Normally by that time he would have been snoring gently but not tonight; the walls between the bedrooms were thin enough that when we did talk after lights out it was always in a whisper.

“I’m awake, bud,” I replied. “What’s up?”

He was silent a moment longer.

“That was pretty faggy what we were doing tonight, wasn’t it?”

Inwardly, I groaned. Now it’s all gonna come out, I thought.

“Oh, I dunno,” I answered. “It seems like we’re all going through some pretty weird stuff. I don’t think it’s out of the ordinary to be curious about it all.”

No answer for a bit, then:

“I guess you’re right…” he said, then he was quiet again. Thinking that was the end of it, I turned over and faced the wall—and tried not to thinking about my throbbing dick. I’d almost dozed off when he said:

“Roger, are you gay?”

Holy crap, I thought. I rolled back over.

“Would it matter if I were…?”

“Noooo,” he said slowly, “I don’t think so. I just need to know…”

I screwed up my courage and then, as slowly and as evenly as I could, I said:

“I think so, Tim. I mean, I don’t really know for sure, I’ve never had sex with anyone but the whole time I’ve been having sexual thoughts I’ve always thought about men.”

I heard his breath catch.

“Do you think about me?”

Grrk.

“I have from time to time, yes. You and Mohinder and Bobby. You’re all handsome, sexy guys. But you’re my buds, too, almost my brothers. I wouldn’t…”

And then he was in bed with me!

“Wouldn’t what?” he asked.

He was buck naked, his hot tight ass rubbing on my big boner, his hands holding my thick, muscular shoulders.

“I wouldn’t want to do anything you wouldn’t want to do!”

He slipped his tongue between my lips. So sweet, so sexy, so hot. Finally, I came up for air.

“But, but, Tim, I thought…”

He found just the right spot on my thick, powerful neck and I let out a whimper.

“Quiet,” he hissed. “I thought so, too, but it looks like I’ve changed my mind.”

It was a very long night that passed all too quickly. When I staggered out the kitchen the next morning, Mohinder and Bobby were already sitting there having coffee—and looking guilty.

Oh, fuck, I thought to myself. They heard it all.

“Uh, Roger,” Bobby said, coloring brightly. “You need to wake Tim up.”

I looked at the two of them, the faint smiles they both had.

“There’s something we need to tell you guys,” Mohinder said.

Hmmm…


“Uh, I really don’t know how to say this,” Bobby said, saying it anyway, once we’d rousted Tim from bed and handed him a cup of coffee, too.

“The thing is…” Mohinder added.

I looked at the two of them, then I looked at Tim.

“Oh my God,” I said, finally.

They all three blushed, they all three started talking at the same time.

“It’s not like you know really I didn’t mean never thought wasn’t sure can’t imagine…”

“Quiet!” I barked. “One a time.”

They sat there looking stunned.

“Okay,” I continued. “I’ll go first.”

I looked each of them in the eye, then continued, somewhat grimly:

“I’m gay. I’ve always been gay, even though I never—before last night—had sex with anyone. But I’ve always been into guys. And, last night, well, Tim and I did it.”

Three sets of jaws dropped simultaneously. Mohinder cleared his throat, then spoke:

“Bobby and I did it, too.”

It was my turn to pick my teeth up off the floor.

“So,” I said, “the thing I need to know is. Have the three of you been gay all along because, boy, you sure could have fooled me!”

In one voice: “No!”

I scratched my chin. “But you are now?”

Again with the talking at the same time.

“I’ve always thought about women…

“I’ve never thought about guys…

“I always thought it seemed pretty gross…

“I really like pussy…”

The last, of course, was Bobby, the stud. We all looked at him.

“Well, I told you I got big early. I’ve been having sex since I was 15.”

Which put him light years ahead of the rest of us because it turned out Tim and Mohinder were virgins, too.

“Now, though, I’m not so sure,” he continued. “Having Mohinder’s dick up my ass…”

I was seriously afraid my eyes were going to bulge right out of my head!

“Was about a thousand times better than any pussy I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a fair amount.”

We spent the rest of the morning talking about it. Why was this happening? Did it really matter? What were we going to tell our folks, our other friends? Finally we agreed to some ground rules:

(1) Whatever this was, it was happening to the four of us, not to the rest of the world, as far as we could tell.

(2) As a result, there was really no point in talking about this to family, friends, or whatever; maybe we were all gay, maybe just I was gay, maybe this was just situational in some fashion.

(3) Ditto, we were in no rush to become gay activists, even assuming we were gay. But inasmuch as we were at least situationally gay, we agreed that we wouldn’t put up with fag-bashing of any sort, verbal, emotional, physical, or whatever.

(4) We agreed to go have physicals when we were home over Christmas break, just to make sure something adverse wasn’t going on—hyperpituitary? Some weird form of acromegaly? We did not want to go to the campus health center—that seemed like an invitation to more attention than really wanted.

“Do you want to be cured?” I asked them.

They looked at me like I was a total fucking idiot. Bobby flexed his awesome right arm, Mohinder whipped out his python dick, Tim pulled up his t-shirt and flexed his diamond-shredded 8-pack.

“Get real, dude,” Mohinder said. “I’m not giving this up, if I gotta be gay to keep it, so be it. Right now I’m having a hard time featuring the idea that there’s pussy out there hotter than Bobby’s tight ass.”

I snorted coffee through my nose and they all laughed.

“Well, then…”


Life went on, although not exactly as before. We still ate together, lifted together, studied together, hung out together on the weekends, and… every night we had sex together. Usually we traded off: me and Mohinder, me and Bobby, me and Tim, and likewise back and forth. On the weekends, we moved the sofas out of the middle of the living room and brought in the sleeping bags and pillows and fucked, sucked and otherwise ingratiated ourselves to each other, usually until dawn.

When we went out, there was nothing particularly noticeable about us that set us apart from our fellow dorky freshmen, aside from the fact that every week we were bigger and stronger and (for those who cared to look, and some did) the bulges in our pants were bigger, too. We weren’t obviously couples, much less a sexual quartet; people took us for granted, although it got harder and harder to find people who were willing to play pick-up basketball with. Eventually, it was just the four of us, shirtless, often with a crowd of 10-20 other guys watching (which did nothing to tamp down our libidos, just the reverse in fact.)

We made it through the semester, we made it through finals, and then it was time to go home, California, Tennesee, South Carolina, Florida. We spent the night on the floor together; the sex was intense, brutal even, and that morning Bobby, Mohinder, and Tim each looked like they’d lost their favorite puppy.

“C’mon, guys,” I said, surprised to find I was the least emotional and most upbeat. “It’s only a month.”

I managed to get them to their flights, then it was time for me to head home. What have I done? I asked myself. What indeed.


When we got back from Christmas break, well, wow!

Bobby: 220 pounds, up 10 pounds.

Mohinder: 195 pounds, up 15 pounds.

Tim: 200 pounds, up 20 pounds.

Roger: 260 pounds, up 20 pounds.

They stared at me, slack-jawed. My biceps were 22 inches cold! We all pretty much had the same experience over the holidays: Our parents were variously aghast, bemused, outraged, or pleased. Our doctors were dismissive, thoughtful, or overly interested. Our siblings and friends were agog, delighted, or pissed off.

I turned to Mohinder and ripped off his sweatpants with my big shovel of a hand.

“Jeez,” Bobby said. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

At 13 inches, Mohinder’s was still the biggest, although just barely, inasmuch as mine had zoomed to 12 inches, which gave me an inch on Bobby and Tim. We never got around to unpacking, we just fucked and ate and fucked some more. When the dawn did come, we unpacked, showered, and headed to the gym where our lifting was off the chart. We had to go back and fuck again before heading to class, it was that arousing.

That semester, people did notice. They started calling us the Muscleheads to our faces (I hate to think what they said behind our backs) and why not? In one semester the four of us had gained a grand total of 275 pounds of solid muscle, an average gain of nearly 70 pounds. The football and wrestling coaches were clamoring for us to join their teams and it was very tempting but we could never agree on one sport that we were all interested in and we weren’t willing to break up the group. As for breaking up the group…

Well, again I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll have to save that for now.


The rest of the semester was wild.

We kept getting bigger, everywhere, although our dicks not as quickly as previously. On the other hand, Tim, Mohinder, and Bobby actually started packing on muscle more quickly than they had previously.

It was pretty mind-blowing. The four of us walking across the quad was quite a sight; the four of us in the gym, playing basketball shirtless, was, well, “scary,” according to more than one guy we overhead talking about our games. (Interestingly enough, our female classmates seemed completely uninterested in us, to the point of obliviousness, and our guy classmates never seemed to notice, which was even more interesting. Wasn’t really a problem for me or, for that matter, Mohinder or Tim, but Bobby was kind of irked about it, having, as he said, “a residual interest” in pussy. Which usually lasted until the next time Mohinder fucked his lights out.)

The night of the last day of classes, we measured again:

Mohinder: 5’6, 240 pounds, 15 inch dick

Tim and Bobby had turned into twins of each other: 5’8, 260 pounds, 14 inch dicks

Roger: 5’10, 320 pounds, 16 inch dick

The total amounts were staggering. In eight months:

* Bobby had gained 80 pounds and added 7 inches to the length of his dick (thereby doubling in size)

* Mohinder had gained 100 pounds of muscle and added 7 inches

* Tim had gained 135 pounds of muscle, more than doubling his weight, and 8 inches to his dick (more than double what he had had in August)

* I had gained 160 pounds of muscle, exactly doubling my weight, and added 11 inches to my dick (more than triple its August size)

Together the four of us weighed 1080 pounds, 475 pounds more than we’d weighed when we first met each other, an average of nearly 120 pounds!

At 22 inches, Mohinder had the smallest set of arms; Tim’s and Bobby’s were 24, mine were 27. On the other hand Mohinder could bench 840 pounds, 3½ times his bodyweight whereas Bobby and Tim were (again) evenly matched, benching 780 pounds. And, yes, with a 1280-pound bench, I was half again as strong as Mohinder, much less Bobby and Tim.

And then we got the call from Dean Voegeli’s office…


“Gentleman,” the dean said as we were ushered into his large, high-ceilinged office in Old Main.

Voegeli had been at Russell for 40 years, 20 years of that as Dean of Academic Life (and de facto vice president of the College), and he was an academic’s academic. Short, graying, bearded, tweeds.

He looked us up and down.

“Good grief,” he said. “They were right. You young men are giants.”

It was then we noticed the nerdy guy in the lab coat sitting by the fireplace.

“Dr. Kenmore, I think it’s about time you explained to these gentlemen what’s been going on,” the Dean said in his patrician voice.

Dr. Kenmore was 40, perhaps? Tall, skinny, stork-like, his thinning hair impossibly wind-blown, missing only the signature coke-bottle thick glasses to complete his impression of the mad scientist. He turned red, he stuttered.

“My hypothesis…”

The Dean rolled his eyes.

“Oh, bullshit, Kenmore, what you did was completely unscientific. Fellas, here’s the deal…”

Voegeli told us that Kenmore, a biophysicist studying the impact of radiation on cell death, had…Well, the rest of it was so much gobbledygook as far as I was concerned, although Mohinder (the pre-med wannabe) seemed to be following along okay. All I heard was “green radiation” and “emitters” and “hidden spycams” (!!!) and “compromised water supply…” The four of us sat there with our jaws slack.

“You mean…?”

“Yes,” the Dean said, “we know what you’ve been doing with each other. NOT something the good doctor had hypothesized, apparently.”

We all started talking at once.

“Quiet,” the Dean intoned. It occurred to me that Voegeli’s academic tweeds and plummy accent probably were just cover for an Italian street kid from the Bronx. How cool is that?

“So now what?” I said.

The door opened. A large African American man in a uniform walked in.

“Colin Powell!”

The General smiled and shook each of our hands in turn.

“Gentlemen,” the General said, “I have been called back to active service by President Obama. Once we became aware of Dr. Kenmore’s illegal experiment, we realized that we faced a crisis of the gravest proportions. You four young men are a problem but I’m here to make sure that you a part of the solution.”

We gaped.

“As of today, you are all junior lieutenants in the U.S. Army under my command…”

We jumped to our feet and started gabbling.

“Sit yer asses down, punks!” Voegeli bellowed. It’s like we were frozen; we returned meekly to the sofa and chairs.

“From here you will escorted to Ft. Bonaventure in Idaho for a complete physical, mental, and emotional assessment before your training begins.”

We stared at him.

“When…?” I managed to croak.

“Today,” the Dean answered, and waved us to silence again as we started in on “what about…” this and that.

“You are excused from finals, your grades are posted, your parents are being notified that you’ve been accepted into a special—free—summer program for especially promising students.”

The Dean’s door opened again and in marched a half dozen big beefy soldiers, few of whom were as big and built as the four of us but all of them were taller, older, and looked a helluva lot meaner.

“Gentlemen,” the General said. “What your sophomore year looks like depends entirely on your performance at Ft. Bonaventure. If you have an open mind and a good attitude, I am sure you will succeed with flying colors.”

And that was the end of our freshman year.

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