Kept boy

by Richard Jasper

Philanthropist Jason is wealthy, handsome, and built like a brick outhouse. Eddy is a handsome lad newly arrived from East Buddha. They meet at the Y and the rest is muscle growth history!

Added: 30 May 2020 6,266 words 1,005 views No votes yet

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Based on the House of Pies reference, I must have written or at least started this one when I lived in Houston (1999-2003)! – rpj
J
Jason’s Story (1.1)

I’m a wealthy man. I don’t say that to put on airs, nor do I take a great deal of pride in it. I was born wealthy, so if anything I’m lucky, and how much pride can you have in luck? It’s also the case that—unlike my father and grandfather before me—I have no talent for making money. I do, on the other hand, have a basic frugality to my nature, one that has allowed me to keep and nurture what was handed down to me.

As you see, I’m also a handsome man. Again, mostly that is luck. The bone structure, the coloring, the masculine features, the thick hair. No doubt the looks were a factor in my forebears’ success—they were handsome men, too, and they married attractive women.

My body, on the other hand, is my own accomplishment. Yes, the good genes helped—the wide shoulders and narrow hips, the small joints and full muscle bellies. But I could have ignored or neglected all of that. Instead, thanks to decades of hard work and consistency of effort, I have as good a body—muscular, powerful, yet gracefully athletic—a middle-aged man is ever likely to have (without significant chemical assistance, that is, and I’ve refrained from that.)

And, yes, as you might have guessed, I’m gay. I figured it out early on. My mother claims she knew from nearly the moment I was born. She told me many years later that her first thought was, “Well, we’ll have something in common.” Her next was: “And I’ll never tell his father.” My father wasn’t a bad man, mind you, or even particularly homophobic, just hyper-competitive. He simply would not have known how to compete with a gay son. As it turned out, he never had to deal with it—he died unexpectedly when I was 16, just as I was beginning to figure it out.

My teens and early 20’s afforded plenty of opportunity for exploration, although for all the wealth and social position I inherited I was a bit of a nerd. I had plenty of offers of sex from girls and boys alike, and while I dabbled with both (well, a couple of girls, a couple dozen guys) I actually preferred school. Like my mother, I enjoyed history and art and ideas, I thrived in school and figured I would linger there as long as it held my interest. An academic career seemed a distinct possibility.

By the time I was 30 I had a Ph.D. in art history and no desire whatsoever to place myself on the academic treadmill. I could afford a life in academe, without question, but I valued my freedom and independence. I went home and established a foundation and cultural center and poured my efforts into nurturing both.

In my 30s I also looked for and worked on establishing a meaningful relationship with another man but nothing seemed to pan out. There were the users (I’m wealthy), the dullards (I’m smart), the lazy (I keep my own schedule but I’m hardly indolent), and the taken. At 40 I realized that—for whatever reason—it hadn’t happened and wasn’t likely to happen. And yet I longed for a level of human interaction that I wasn’t finding in my work, in the easily available casual sex, even in those deep friendships I developed with a dozen or so attractive gay couples at home and across the globe.

And then I met Eddie.


Eddie’s story (1.2)

I was 19 when I met Mr. Jones (“Jason,” that is; I only started calling him by his first name about a year ago!) It was at the Downtown Y. I know you’re thinking, “Ain’t that a big surprise!” but really I wasn’t looking, much less hooking. When I told my Aunt Jo that I was moving to the city, she told me, “Stay at the Y and I’ll pay for it.” She didn’t want me on the streets, she said, or “depending on the kindness of strangers” (whatever that meant!)

It was cool to stay at the Y, especially since I got to use the pool and the weight room and the showers and the sauna. Man, there were so many hot men there! More in that one gym that in the whole town back home. I had to wear extra tight shorts the whole time and keep myself covered up extra good, I was popping wood so often!

Looking back I can’t believe what a skinny geek I was. At 6 ft. tall I was all of 150 pounds soaking wet. Not an ounce of fat on me and my waist was really small (just 27 inches) so it almost sorta kinda looked like I had shoulders. But just plain skinny, especially compared to all the monsters hanging out there. I had a couple of things going for me that the other guys didn’t. One was that I had “perfect skin,” or so Mr. Jones—uh, Jason, I mean—told me later. A very light olive complexion that tanned perfectly and evenly in no time. And not a single blemish. Not a mole, not a freckle, anywhere on my body. Hell, I’d never even had a pimple. And that was a little weird because I was also furry as fuck. Thick, swirling brown hair in all the right places—chest, abs, arms and legs, even my ass. Everywhere except my back. Oh, yeah, and my beard was pretty advanced for someone only 19. It didn’t matter how often I shaved (and I started at 14) I always had a 5 o’clock shadow. And then there was my…

Well, no. I’ll let Jason tell you about it. I think it’s his favorite part of the story!

As for Jason, I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on him. In the weight room at the Y, benching God knows how much weight, his massive pecs expanding and contracting, squeezing out the maximum effort for each rep. Plus model handsome, moderately furry, a sexy goatee. I’d never seen that much muscle and that much raw masculinity in one person. When he got up to go to the locker room, man, I just had to follow. And when I saw him there showering, lathering up that hot muscle bod, I just had to do the same. I shucked my clothes, dropped my towel, and—for the first time ever—strode in there with nothing on, and nothing to hide.


Jason’s Story (1.3)

He thinks he saw me first but that’s not actually the case. I spotted the skinny, oh so young, oh so handsome kid the minute he walked in the weight room at the Y. I say “skinny” and he was that but in the way that means “trim” or “athletic,” not malnourished or ectomorphic. Slender shoulders, yes, but with that tiny waist he had the beginnings of a nice V-taper. Flawless skin, gorgeous, thick, wavy hair, fur in all the right places, and…

Oh my god! That was some basket!

I could tell he was into me and I gave him my patented, gently friendly smile. The “be a good boy and I might give you a treat but don’t get all hyper on me, okay?” smile. It bounced right off of him, he was too keyed up to pay attention, too shy to make eye contact.

I finished my work-out and hit the showers. Sure enough, I heard him come in just a minute behind me. I kept my back to him as he disrobed, found the faucet, turned on the tap. He was taking his time about it and, much to my surprise, I was getting a stiffy. “He’s just a kid,” I thought to myself. “What’s the big deal?” And then I turned to face him. Jesus. The kid had a fucking enormous cock!

“Dayum!” I blurted. Far and away the biggest I’d ever seen, and I’d seen plenty of big ones in my day. Before I knew what was happening, I was standing next to him, looking down at it, my right hand clutching my own thick eight incher, itself rock hard. “Jeez, kid, that’s a monster! Can I touch it?”

He sucked breath. “Uh, uh, yessir, that’ud be swell, but, uh, could I touch your muscles first?”

I flashed him my best and brightest smile, the one that had been known to melt ice off the frosty hearts of ancient, perpetually disapproving trust fund aunties. I flexed my 20-inch bicep. “Go ahead, boy, feel it all you like.” He was all over me in a flash. “Greedy little muscle-pig, aren’t you?”

He gurgled in reply and I pulled him up.

“My turn now.” Fuck, I couldn’t get my hand—and I don’t have small hands—all the way around the shaft, which was nearly as long as my forearm. I could feel the heat coming off of it before I got my hand within six inches of it. “Christ, boy, that’s some monster meat! Have you ever measured it?”

He giggled, a grown man’s boyish giggle, not a girly giggle. “Oh, yes sir! It’s the biggest muscle I’ve got, so of course I’ve measured it!” I laughed. “It’s an organ, not a muscle, or we’d all have one that big,” I told him. “So how big is it?” He cleared his throat.

“Sir, this tool is 13½ inches long and 11 inches around at the thickest point, although you can see it’s just about the same thickness from top to bottom.” And unlike some huge dicks, his was completely hard, completely straight, and jutting out instead of down.

“Kid,” I said, “You got any dinner plans for this evening?” He shook his head. “You do now. We need to discuss your future.”
Jason’s Story (2.1)

I took him to House of Pies and watched while he consumed an enormous amount of food.

“Jesus, kid,” I said to him. “Where does it all go? Your dick?”

He laughed. “Must be, Mister Jones,” he told me. “I eat a lot but thus far it’s the only muscle that I’ve grown big!”

God, I thought, he’s such a cutie.

“So tell me about yourself, Eddie,” I said when the pretty, slightly chubby Latina girl cleared our plates and brought coffee. That’s all it took. I heard all about life in East Buddha, with an alcoholic mom, a string of abusive stepfathers, and a saintly great aunt, Jo, who was paying for him to stay at Y.

“She’s a spinster, y’know,” Eddie said, pensively. “Although I couldn’t tell you why, she’s pretty as can be for a lady of a certain age, and she makes a good living as a supervisor down at the DMV.”

Oh ho, I said to myself. Sounds like a pretty, non-smoking version of Selma Bouvier!

“And what about school?” I asked.

He hemmed and hawed.

“I was never that good at it, I guess,” Eddie told me. “My teachers always said I was too much of a day dreamer. Plus, there was never much reason to hang around the house. I was always outside, doing something.”

Mental note, I told myself. Check for learning disabilities.

“What about sports?”

He grinned. “Oh, I played all of ‘em,” Eddie began enthusiastically. “But I was never better than fair to middlin’ at any of them.” He sighed. “The main problem being that I could never really keep at any of ‘em,” he continued, with frustration in his voice. “Something would come up at home and I wouldn’t be able to make the games. The coaches didn’t like that.”

I leaned forward and put my hand on his. “Eddie, what do you really want?”

He looked at me with a pained expression. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Jones, I don’t really know,” he said. “Except for one thing: I want to be wanted!”

His words broke my heart but I smiled and squeezed his hand.

“I don’t think you’re going to need to worry about that,” I told him. “Ever again.”


Eddie’s Story (2.2)

I didn’t know what to say. Did he really mean it? What could a man like him see in a kid like me, other than a great big weenie?

“Gee, Mister Jones,” I began. “That’s awfully sweet of you and all…”

He squeezed my hand again. “Eddie, listen to me,” he said. “You are a beautiful young man and you are a sweetheart, too.” I could feel myself blushing.

“I’d like for you to come live with me,” he continued. “You’ll have your own room and I’ll pay your way until you can take care of yourself.”

My jaw nearly hit the table. “Gee, Mr. Jones, that’s just, just, I don’t know what to say!”

He chuckled. “You’re supposed to say, ‘What’s the catch?!’”

I just stared at him. “Uh, well, yeah, I guess so,” I said finally. “What’s the catch?”

He smiled this time. “No catches,” he said. “But some conditions…” Namely, he wanted me to figure out what it was I wanted to do with my life, and do it. I could work, I could go to school, I could take up a sport, he didn’t care what. “Just so long as you’re not sitting around the house getting fat and lazy,” he added. “I already have two cats, Perkins and Porter, and they’re fat and lazy enough for both of us.”

I laughed. “I think I can manage that,” I answered.

He nodded his head, then looked at me closely. “There’s one other question you’re forgetting to ask,” he said, his blue eyes turning steely. I thought about that a moment. What was I forgetting? “Oh, yeah,” I said. “Do I get to have sex with you?”

He laughed. “Well, yes,” he said. “My guess is that you can have sex with me just about any time you want, so long as it is convenient for both of us.” Then he turned somber again. “But you don’t ever have to have sex with me if you don’t want to. And if, at some point, you decide you want to have sex with other people, that’s fine, too. Just don’t bring them home, okay?”

Wow, I thought.


Jason’s Story (2.3)

He sat there looking stunned for a moment, then spat in his palm and stuck his hand out. “Is it a deal?” he asked. I spat in my hand (gross!) and put it in his. “Deal,” I answered. Then I took him home.

Eddie’s Story (3.1)

Mr. Jones’ house was amazing. At first, I didn’t even think it was a house.

“Why are we stopping here?” I asked. I thought we were at some fancy museum of modern art or something. The building was all white and glass, mostly squares but some parts were set at odd angles. Plus cool lighting and plantings (I’d done some landscaping jobs so I knew big bucks were involved) and sculptures. “This is where I live,” Mr. Jones said. “And where you will live, too, if that’s what you want. Think it will be okay?”

I was floored! He gave me a tour of the house first, including the living areas, the entertainment area (wow!), the kitchen (double wow!), the pool and patio, the gym (including sauna, steam room, showers, and another hot tub), the guest suites (four of them), and his bedroom, which had a giant bed, plus a sitting area, and its own fireplace! “Jeez,” I told him. “It’s bigger than Aunt Jo’s house!”

He smiled. “I’m glad you approve,” he said, then motioned me over to comfortable, modern sofa. I sat on the sofa like it was a wooden pew in a Baptist church. “What do you want to do?” he asked.

I want you to fuck me! I thought but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. He rubbed my shoulder.

“You’re not a virgin, are you?”

That was all it took. I let out a big laugh, then relaxed, slinking back into the comfy fabric. “No,” I told him. “Not hardly. In fact, I guess you could say I’ve done it just about every way you could think of!”


Jason’s Story (3.2)

I arched an eyebrow. “Every way?” I queried.

He laughed again. “Well, maybe not every way,” he admitted. “But I’ve done it with guys and girls and I’ve fucked and I’ve sucked and I’ve been fucked and I’ve been sucked. Doesn’t that cover most of it?”

I chuckled. “There are endless variations,” I pointed out. “But they’re just that, variations on a theme.” Then I asked the $64,000 question: “What did you like best?”

He blushed. I was beginning to feel intrigued. What was up? In my experience, most horny 19-year-olds didn’t require so much prompting.

“Uh, well, guys obviously,” he answered.

Well, duh!

“And I’ve tried fucking a lot of guys but it never quite works,” he added.

No surprise there.

“I mean, there are some really gross guys who get into some really weird stuff but…”

I put up my hands. “Spare me the details,” I told him. “I have plenty of imagination.”

He squirmed. “The thing is,” he said. “I’ve never really been with a guy that I was all that into…”

I considered that. “And if you were…?” I swear he gulped. “Fuck me,” he whispered. “Please, Mister, uh, I mean Jason, fuck me. You’re so fucking hot, you’re so fucking built. I’ve never been this close to a man who was so fucking awesome.”

That was all it took. It went on for a long time. He wasn’t a virgin but he wasn’t terribly experienced either. He wasn’t remotely into my ass, other than from a muscle point of view, which was just as well since I wasn’t interested in being ripped in half. He really liked fucking my pecs and I really liked having that fucking huge pieced of meat lodged in my furry muscle cleavage. Finally, though, he couldn’t take it any longer.

“Fuck me, Mister,” he said, “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

I’m not Eddie but I’ve got a respectable piece, 9 x 6½, too much for a lot of guys, more than enough for most. Eddie swallowed it like it was a piece of Turkish Delight. “Whooaaaa,” I groaned. “Who’s been porking you, John Holmes?” He panted in response. “I don’t know who that Mr. Holmes is,” he said while riding up and down my rod like it was a pogo stick. “But yours is the biggest I’ve ever had by a long shot.”

I grunted back at him between thrusts. “In that case, boy, you are a natural born bottom!” He held out a long time. In fact, he told me later, with anyone else, he could hold out forever. Or cum on command, whichever was desired. But with me…”Mister,” he said. “I can’t take it no more. You gotta let me shoot, Big Man.” I slowed my thrusts.

“We’ll do it together, then,” I told him. “On a count of three…”

“One…

“Two…

“Three…”

His explosion drenched my face and my chest and I could have sworn that the force of my eruption nearly lifted him off of my dick. Then he collapsed on me and was hugging and licking and kissing and generally acting like the puppy with the world’s biggest bone. I fucking loved it. After five or 10 minutes, he rolled off of me and I sat up to take a drink of water. When I turned back his way…

Oh

My

God

The boy had just dumped a gallon of cum all over me and now he was at full mast again!

“Ready for another round…?”

Jason’s Story (4.1)

As it turned out, what Eddie really wanted was MUSCLE. He was a total muscle pig, totally in love with my muscle, and completely in lust with the idea of being big and muscular himself. “How big do you want to get?” I asked him. Mentally I was already making plans to scale back my foundation work.

“Uh, well, I…” There was that blushing reticence again.

“Fitness model big? Amateur bodybuilder big…?” Oh ho, I thought, still blushing! “Pro bodybuilder big…?”

Finally, he stammered it out:

“I, uh, well, really what I want is,” he began. “I want muscles to match my dick!”

Whoosh! The vision that popped up gave me one helluva head rush.

“Damn, boy,” I said. “I don’t know that anyone has ever had muscles that big!”

His shoulders slumped. “You don’t think I can do it, do you?”

I wrapped him in my big arms and gave him a hug, which was all the prompting he needed to bury his face (once again) in my thick, hairy pecs. “If you really want it,” I told him. “I see no reason you can’t be the biggest bodybuilder that’s ever walked the planet.”

His giant cock throbbed in response to that, as if to say: Yes! I have the Power!

I left Eddie with Perkins and Porter, my fat and sassy gray tabbies, and went to make a few phone calls.


Eddie’s Story (4.2)

Jason had us set up in no time with a trainer / nutritionist (Paul) and a chef (Andre), plus an on call massage therapist and chiropractor. It was all really nice but I was afraid he was going overboard. “I can cook just fine, ya know,” I told him. “And I was hoping I could work out with you. I mean, you can teach me everything I need to know, right?”

He smiled and gave me a hug. Damn! Every time he did that I got a boner that just wouldn’t quit!

“I know you can cook, babe, and I will be happy for you to hang out with Andre when Paul isn’t working your butt into the ground. But you need to learn how to eat and rest as well as train; having to figure out the food prep, too, is a lot to, uh, bite off.” That perked me up a bit but I was still kinda miffed about not getting to train with him and said so. Without so much as a howdy doo, Jason grabbed me by the shirt and the waist and hoisted me overhead, pressing me up and down 10 times before setting me back down.

“When you can do that to me, then we’ll train together,” he said. “In the meantime, you’ll train with Paul and I’ll watch, okay?”

Boy! As if I wasn’t hard enough already!

Then he went off to one of his foundation meetings and I got down to business.


Jason’s Story (4.3)

God did he grow!

It was unfrickin’ believable. Paul reproached me more than once, accusing me of putting steroids in his lube or something but Andre backed me up. “Non,” he said. “I account for all that enters the young man’s mouth. Food, cher Paul, excellent food, washed down with a good red wine, and more food.”

Well, not “everything” that goes into his mouth, I thought to myself.

The first month Eddie gained 10 pounds of muscle, which was more than decent for a beginner; the second month he gained 15 pounds. In just two months Eddie went from a well-proportioned but skinny 150 pounds to 175 pounds of sexy muscle. His face was fuller, too, making him look like a man more so than a teenage boy, and the muscle was in all the right places. He grew everywhere except his waist, which was still a minuscule 28 inches. Eddie gave me a quick biceps flex, showing off his 16.5 inch biceps that were a good three inches bigger than they had been when he moved in with me.

“Good enough to eat,” I said.

He blushed, then grinned. “I’m still nothing next to you, Mister,” he replied with a cocky swagger that wasn’t there two months previously. “Just look at your fucking muscles!”

Eddie’s efforts had been a good excuse to double down in the gym and I’d added another 10 pounds of quality mass. Standing side by side it was clear that we were exactly the same height (6 ft.) and, well… “I’ve added 25 pounds of muscle,” Eddie observed. “And you still outweigh me by 65 fucking pounds. I look like a kid next to you.”

I pointed to his massive cock.

“When it’s soft that thing is still half an inch longer than mine is when it’s hard,” I replied. “Who’s the one who looks like a kid?”

His gaze had me instantly hard, of course. There was an appraising quality to it that I hadn’t seen before.

“If had your muscles, or if you had my dick…”

I looked at myself. I looked at his dick.

“Kid, I’m not gonna lie,” I told him. “I’ve got a kickass body. But if I had your dick, nobody would notice the rest of me.”

He nodded.

“That’s what I was thinking, too,” he said, adding, when he saw the expression on my face, “No offense!”

I tousled his hair.

“None taken, Big Man! Now let’s grow some more!”


Eddie’s Story (4.4)

The next month I busted my balls like I had never done before and, as you’ve seen, I have damned big balls. At the monthly weigh in, Paul and Andre sort of hung back, like they were afraid that whatever I had might be catching, as if muscles and a great big dick weren’t something you’d want to come down with!

200 pounds.

In one month I’d gained as much as I’d put on the previous two months. My waist had inched up to 29 but my chest was 48 and my arms were 19 inches cold. Mister J’s boner said it all.

“You’ve done good, kid,” he told me and then squeezed me to his chest.

Fuck! I thought. He’s still the hottest fucking man on the planet.

And bigger, too. I guess having someone to—what’s the word he uses? oh yeah—mentor was a good motivator for him, too. He had gained another 10 pounds, the most he’d ever put on in one month, he said, and at 250 pounds he was totally fucktastic! “And you are so much stronger than you were before,” he said. “Paul and Andre have only good things to say.”

I blushed, then chimed in. “Tell me how many guys your age put on 20 pounds of muscle in three months?” I said. “And how many of ‘em bench more than 500 pounds for reps.” He lifted his right arm and gave it a big flex—the peak rose before my eyes like Mount Rushmore, a solid mass of granite.

“You think I’ve still got it in me?” he asked.

I grinned.

“I think it’s time we found out!”

Whee!

He whipped me off my feet and cranked out 20 reps this time, 200 pounds of me going up and down like a rag doll.

“Very impressive, Big Man,” I said. “Now it’s your turn.” I gave the signal to Paul and Andre and they grabbed Jason, turning him on his side.

“Oh, no,” Jason said, “You don’t think…” In one smooth motion I stood under him, placed my hands where Paul had told me I would find the best grip, and pressed him into the air, held him there for 10 seconds, then slowly let him back down.

Whoosh!

His smile was a mile wide. “That,” he told me, “was fucking awesome. It’s time to start working out together!” We started working out right there, causing Paul and Andre to go scurrying. When we slowed down for a minute, I whispered in his ear.

“I love you, Mr. Jones,” I said simply.

He held me at arm’s length, looked deeply into my eyes. “If that’s the case, you’re going to have to learn to call me Jason,” he said. “Not Mr. Jones.” I laughed. “I can do that,” I told him.

He hugged me yet again.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I love you, too.”

Jason’s Story (C.1)

What happened next was, well, what’s a good word…

Staggering. Training with Eddie brought intensity and focus like I had never experienced previously. Every day, every lift, every rep, every set seemed like, oh, I don’t know. An affirmation? Euphoria? Joy?

My gains were ridiculous. In three months, I put on 50 pounds of solid muscle. At 300 pounds, I was a total fucking hulk, with a 62 inch chest, 34 inch quads, and 24 inch biceps. I could curl 315 pounds (15 pounds more than I weighed, for Christ’s sake) for reps. I could bench 750 pounds—2½ times my weight—for reps, plus my single rep max was closing in on 1,000 pounds.

As for Eddie, Holy Mother of God. He put on another 25 pounds the first month. At 225 he weighed exactly half again as much as he did when he started four months previously. He’d been a cute geek, now he was the equivalent of a highly ranked amateur. But that wasn’t enough. A month later he was 255, an increase of 30 pounds. And the day I hit 300 pounds, he stepped on the scale, too: 290 pounds. Up 35 pounds in one month. More than a pound a day.

He was fucking unbelievable.


Eddie’s Story (C.2)

I reached 290 pounds the same day Jason reached 300 pounds. It was also the day I passed him in the strength department. I had caught up a week or so previously, keeping pace with him rep after rep, adding plate after plate. Paul had long since left us to our own devices, hiring a couple of college-aged power lifters to change plates for us and serve as auxiliary spotters.

“You’re too big for me,” he said. “I can’t keep up with you.”

For a week Jason’s 1RM bench had been stuck at 950 pounds. We’d work up to it but he couldn’t get beyond it. Finally, I’d had enough.

“Add a quarter on each side,” I told Jeff and Rob, our hunky spotters. Their eyes grew big but Jason just nodded. I lay on the bench beneath the bar, feeling the thrummm of the big thick bar as it bowed under the weight hanging off either end. I nodded to Jeff and Rob, who hoisted either end, and then…I did it.

1,000 pounds of iron, down to my chest, bounce, all the way up again, re-rack.

ROAR.

Jason attacked me where I lay, pulling me off the bench and squeezing me up into a big bear hug that would have crushed a lesser man. With one meaty hand he ripped my shirt in half and with the other he tore down my pants. Then he put those big mits in my armpits and slammed me up against the brick wall, masonry dust filling the air as he fucked my ass good and hard. Rob and Jeff watched in slack-jawed awe, their shorts around their knees, jacking their big jock cocks, arms wrapped around each other for support. When he was done I grabbed him around his incredibly thick, tight, furry waist, twirled him around, and bent him over the dumbbell rack.

“Ya ready for this, Big Man?” I asked as I hawked a big gob of spit into my monstrously muscled hands.

“Oh, fuck,” Jason said. “Fuck yeah, Eddie. Fuck me good.”

And I did.

13½ inches of monster muscle meat up his ass, pushing aside his meaty muscle cheeks the way a snow plow churns through fresh powder. A lesser man would have passed out in shock but Jason’s groan was that of a bull in heat. He took it all, the first time anyone had ever done that, not even that fat, greasy fister fuck back home, and then he squeezed down on it and I knew what it was like to be Jason fucking my sweet ass.


Jason’s Story (C.3)

After that, it occurred to me, especially after seeing the effect the two of us had on Jeff and Rob, that Eddie and I had something special, something that needed to be shared with the rest of the world. So I called some friends, one at Logo, plus one Miss ChiChi LaRue, and a whole slew of audio / video engineers. Which is how “The Eddie Show” came into being, the world’s first gay muscle sex reality show. Eddie eating, Eddie sleeping, Eddie lifting, Eddie growing, Eddie fucking and getting fucked.

The last, of course, we saved for ChiChi’s porn channel and direct to video sales. We made her (and ourselves) a fortune, quickly racking up the highest numbers in the history of Internet porn, a million men at a time watching two of the world’s most muscular men (not to mention one of the world’s biggest cocks) plowing each other’s asses.

Eddie’s growth exploded. In June he was 290 but he just kept getting bigger and he kept getting bigger faster:

July: 325 pounds.

August: 360 pounds.

September: 400 pounds.

October: 440 pounds.

November: 500 pounds.

I was awestruck.


Eddie’s Story (C.4)

I knew at some point that I’d pass Jason and that he would never actually be able to keep up. I was awed by his gains even so: In five months he gained an average of 20 pounds of muscle per month, ending up at a mind-boggling 400 pounds of solid muscle. I couldn’t look at him without boning up. I couldn’t think about him without boning up.

Of course, by that time I was 500 pounds and benching 2000 for reps. The episode where I first did that was the highest rated internet porn clip ever but it was quickly displaced by the one that followed, the one in which I picked Jason up with my right hand and held him there like a rag doll, completely effortlessly. And then I sat him down on my giant cock, all the way to the hilt, his butt cheeks bouncing off my pubes, and—one-handed—I used him as my own personal 400-pound fuck toy. After we splattered the cameras, we stood and posed in front of the mirror, two giant hunks of muscle, two giant dicks already rock hard again.

“Which do you notice first?” I asked our viewing audience. “This…?” I raised my right arm and brought it slowly, erotically to its full 40 inches, then kissed the peak.

“Or this?” Jason asked, his big meaty paws encircling only the lower two-thirds of my giant rod.

And then he kissed me. The cameras blinked off.

“What about you?” I asked him. “Which do you notice first?”


Jason’s Story (C.5)

“This is what I noticed first,” I told my giant monster-cocked Hulk-sized, fur-covered lover, and laid my hand over his heart.

“Liar,” he said. “And I love you for saying it.”

I grinned. I made it possible for him to make himself what he wanted to be. Is there a better way to keep a boy happy?

If so, let me know.

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