Grow for me

by Richard Jasper

In this shorty (1000 words), the middle-aged musclebear protagonist takes in a lanky 18-year-old who’s been kicked out of house and home by his homophobic asshole dad. The musclebear’s only request? GROW! And boy does he!

Added: May 2020 1,135 words 3,373 views 5.0 stars (3 votes)

“You’ve done so much for me,” he said, his voice quiet and husky, strained with emotion. “How can I ever repay you?”

I found him living on the streets, another 18-year-old gay boy kicked out of the family home by an abusive, alcoholic, homophobic asshole who had the temerity to call himself “father” to this beautiful young man.

“Go to school, get an education,” I said, “that’s what you can do for me.”

There was a twinkle in his eye. A lascivious twinkle, if you can imagine it.

“But what else?”

“You wanna get big, right?

He nodded.

“Then grow for me,” I told him. “I’ll feed you, you’ll eat, you’ll work out, you’ll grow. That’s all I want. I just want to watch you grow. You can do that for me.”

I had no doubts that he would, if he set his mind to it. At 5’11 (just my height), he was already a rock solid 160 pounds, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow, six-pack waist. The boy was a natural athlete.

“How big can I get?”

I tilted my head, looked him up and down.

“How big do you want to get?”

He didn’t miss a beat.

“As big as you.”

I snorted.

“You can get lots bigger than I am.”

Not that I was shabby. At 40 I’d been lifting longer than he’d been alive. At 5’11 I was a good 65-70 pounds heavier than he was, most of it hard-earned muscle in all the right places. Not cut or defined but beefy and hard and strong and all natural.


“No doubt about it.”

That was the beginning.

Every day I put the grub on the table and he ate it. God, how he ate it. He kept the rest of the bargain, too. When he wasn’t in class, he was in the gym. I swear he was a little bigger every day he came home. Was it an optical illusion or was it reality? Soon enough I knew. It was motivation for me as well as him. In a year I put on 10 pounds of solid muscle. At 240 I was starting to see definition I’d never dreamed of having. Suddenly I was vascular and cut, something I didn’t think an old power-lifter was ever likely to achieve.

But it was nothing next to what he was doing. In a year, he caught up to me. There he was, 19 years old, 5’11” tall, and 240 pounds of solid muscle, not an ounce of fat. A 54 inch chest, 32 inch waist, 29 inch quads, 20 inch biceps. When he walked into a room, all heads instinctively turned his way. The intake of breath was audible. Plus he was strong as an ox. In a year he tripled his bench press. I was in the gym the day he benched 500 pounds for the first time. It was fucking awesome.

“Well,” he said when we got home that night.

“Deep subject.”

“C’mon, Daddy-o…”

There was impatience in his voice.

“C’mon what?”

“Am I big enough?”

“You’re kidding, right? You know goddamned well you’re a fucking brick shithouse.”

“Yeah, but…”

“But what?”

“Am I big enough?”

“For what, dammit?”

He put that huge fucking arm around my neck and squeezed.

“For you, man,” he said, then he put his big, beefy callused man’s hand on the bulge in my crotch.



“I’ve wanting a piece of that big thing for a year now.”

I licked my lips.

“Look, kid, you know that’s not part of the deal.”

He rubbed it some more—and stuck his tongue in my ear.

“Who’s a kid?” he asked, flexing the granite tree trunk he had wrapped around my neck.

I turned to face him.

“Yeah, I know that was a dumb thing to say. You’re a man now, with a big man’s body, you’re not a kid.”

He didn’t take his hand off my crotch. Instead he started pawing my left nipple with the other one.

“Shit,” I gasped, then I regained my composure.

“It’s like this, son, I don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated.”

His eyes got big.


He took his hand off my nipple, then put my hand on his crotch.

“You feel that, Daddy-o? This ain’t about obligation, man. This is about fucking lust. You’re a hot mo-fo, Pops, and from the moment I laid eyes on you I’ve wanted you.”

My jaw hung open until he put his finger under my chin and pushed it back in place.

“Don’t do that again or I might have to put something in there,” he said, wagging his finger.

“It’s time for you to grow for me, Daddy.”

And then he kissed me.

That was three years ago. Three years and 30 pounds more muscle for me. At 5’11 and 270 pounds of solid muscle, I look like I could walk through a brick wall. The guys at the gym keep tellin’ me to compete, pointing out that I’m about the same size—and just as well put together—as that Masters Mr. Olympia guy whose name I never quite remember.

As for the kid, well, he slowed down, if you can call 30 pounds of pure muscle a year slow. At 330 pounds, he’s a fucking mountain of muscle, with a 68 inch chest, 34 inch waist, fucking unreal 35 inch quads, and the most phenomenal 27 inch biceps on the planet. He’s 22, just half my age, and he hasn’t competed yet. Just how big will he be when he’s full grown? In my estimation the world has yet to see something that grand.

Every night when we get home, I give him the one thing that he won’t do without. I shuck my gym-shorts and I let him start to work on the one big muscle I never had to work for.

“Grow for me, Daddy.”

I grow for him, all right. I keep tellin’ him that there’s plenty out even more impressive than my 10x7 hunk of kielbasa, but he just keeps on, uh, slurpin’.

Life is good.

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