Hunky, straight Marine Kyle is gobsmacked to find out that his bigger, hotter baby brother has an even bigger, hotter boyfriend!
“Why the heck?” I asked when he told me about it. “You know the ‘rents woulda sprung for a plan ticket. You’re their darling baby boy, you know!”
“I want to spend the time with Sam,” he said, matter-of-factly. There was a gleam in his eyes that I really didn’t understand at the time. “And Sam doesn’t fly. He’s too big!”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. But it made sense. The guy’s shoulders were clearly over three feet wide – he woulda needed two seats!
On the trip out – it took about 36 hours – Caleb texted several times a day. You have to understand me and him texting each other really wasn’t something we were used to doing. It was inconvenient when I was in the Corps. Plus, you know, he’s four years younger than I am. Now that I look back I see a lot of the time I treated him like an annoying little brother.
The night they arrived in East Buddha (or wherever the camp was) they spent the night motel – check-in at the camp was the next day. He sent me a text:
Caleb: We won’t be able to text after tonight.
Moi: Oh? Why’s that?
Caleb: They confiscate our phones at the camp. Don’t want us distracted.
Moi: Dude! That’s harsh!
Caleb: Tru dat. But I just want to grow so I don’t care.
Moi: Whatever works for you.
Caleb: Want to know a secret?
Moi: Will you have to kill me if I tell someone?
Caleb: Naw! No one would believe you if you did.
Caleb: Sam can bench 1400 pounds
Moi: !!! Get out !! That’s freaking impossible!
Caleb: Naw. I saw him do it.
Moi: But that’s, like, 300 pounds more than the world record!!
Caleb: 350 pounds more. Four times what he weighs.
Moi: Jesus! What did his parents feed him when he was a baby?! Tren?!
Caleb: Ha ha! I’ll tell you when I see you Labor Day weekend.
I won’t lie to you. I turned off my phone, pulled out Big Kyle, and whacked off, thinking about what it would be like to bench 1400 pounds I wasn’t thinking about Sam, I swear. And I certainly wasn’t thinking about Caleb! But I will admit I was thinking about my head on Sam’s body.
So much muscle!
So much strength!
So much power!
The next 10 weeks I threw myself into lifting. When I wasn’t at the gym, I was eating. When I was at the gym, I was training clients – and eating. Or I wasn’t training clients but I was lifting.
She worked the front desk.
Tall, model skinny, dark hair down to her fine ass. It took us about five minutes to hook up. At 5’10, she was a sucker for tall guys, especially tall guys with muscles. Especially a tall guy with muscles and a big dick.
The first time I fucked her, I kept thinking:
I just hope she never meets Caleb! Or Sam!
Little did I know how weird it was going to get.
In 10 weeks I put on 25 pounds of muscle, all in the right places. I was as big (well, nearly) as Caleb had been when he left for Colorado and my strength was through the roof! I had finally managed to bench 500 for one solid rep (and kept telling myself never mind whenever I remembered Caleb had been doing that much for reps at the beginning of the summer.)
I was looking forward to seeing Caleb (and, presumably, Sam) for Labor Day weekend when Bethany told me we were going to her grandparents’ beach house in Florida.
“But, but,” I said. “I have to work and…”
She shook her head.
“I fixed it with Jake,” she said. Jake was our director of personal training. “And I’ve already bought the plane ticket. You need to meet them.”
Them being her very well-off grandparents, of course, the ones who gave her the kind of monthly allowance that paid for last minute plane tickets.
Caleb was still incommunicado so I told the ‘rents, who were not pleased.
“But he’s going off to college the day before you’ll be getting back,” Ma complained.
Dad just crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.
“It’s not like he’s going to the Moon,” I replied. “I’ll see him at Christmas.”
Florida was clusterfuck, pure and simple.
I mean, yeah, the beach was fun. Mr. and Mrs. Vandermeer, Bethany’s grandparents, had 500 feet of beachfront property and a 10,000 square foot “beach” house. So the booze never stopped, the food (all catered) never stopped, and pretty much the sex never stopped. For the beach the Vandermeers’ observed what they called “siesta,” namely two hours of private time every afternoon. There were three separate wings for the grandparents, the parents, and the grandkids and since Bethany was the only grandkid present for that weekend we didn’t have to worry (much) about being quiet.
Her parents were dorks. Mrs. Vandermeer chattered endlessly about social functions and other well-to-do couples, so much so that I gained quite a reputation for being a “waterbaby” since whenever I couldn’t take it I would stand up and announce that I really-really-really needed a dip in the pool. Mr. Vandermeer Junior could only talk about politics and how that guy was “Making America Great Again” – as if I didn’t get plenty enough of that from my parents!
“Grandmother” Vandermeer was the only one with a brain and a heart, as far as I could tell. Mostly she kept her mouth shut and designer smile firmly in place. But every once in a while she would come out with a very sly one liner that made you realize just how little she thought of her son’s politics and her daughter-in-law’s obsessing over social status.
“Grandfather” Vandermeer was, well, I don’t know. He had the brain, clearly, but I am pretty sure there was a cold, dead turnip where his heart should have been. A character out of a movie? “The Godfather” with a rich Southern accent and a million-dollar vocabulary. His first question to me was “Where did you go to school?” and he just raised one bushy eyebrow when I pointed out that I had spent four years in the Corps and was just about to start classes at the community college.
That was really all I needed to know. I avoided him as much as possible after that.
It didn’t help that Bethany was a completely different person with her parents and grandparents. At home she was a cool chick. Here she was a “Princess,” doing and saying all the stupid little airheaded things that made them smile and coo and promise to think seriously about that new convertible she was eyeing.
By the time the last night rolled around, I was really looking forward to getting the hell out of there. Then Old Man Vandermeer found me. He ordered me into his “study” for a “man to man” talk. I gotta wonder: Who keeps a dark, oak-lined study in a beach house?
Still, I wasn’t knocking it when he offered me brandy from a heavy crystal decanter, plus an eight-inch cigar that would have made Castro happy. I’m not by any means a cigar man (or any other smokes, for that matter, I can live without it) but I was a Jarhead, after all, and I knew how to take it.
As soon as we were cozy he started with the inevitable 20 questions. Why did I join the Corps? Why didn’t I go to school? What were my plans? Who were my family? On and on. Then…
“Don’t you feel emasculated having a girlfriend who graduated top of her class from Princeton?”
I took a deep gulp from the brandy snifter, took a long drag on the cigar, then set both down, and stood up. At 6’4”, I was a good eight inches taller than Mr. Vandermeer Senior and probably outweighed him by a hundred pounds. (“You can’t be too rich, too tan, or too thin” seemed to be the Vandermeer family motto.)
I unzipped my trousers and pulled Big Kyle out. Even soft he’s a good eight inches long and six inches around. I took it in my big hand and shook it.
“Does this look emasculated to you?”
I swear he licked his lips. I suddenly had a feeling he knew his way around big dicks.
“Some of us don’t need eight-inch cigars,” I told him. “Not when we’ve got 10 inches under the hood.”
I went back to our bedroom, grabbed my bag (it was already packed), and called Uber.
The door flew open and Bethany stormed in.
“You flashed my grandfather.”
I held up a finger while I confirmed the ride.
“He was being a dick,” I said. “I showed him what a real one looked like.”
We didn’t sit next to each other on the plane.
“You need to come home with me and talk to your mom,” Pa said when he picked me up at the airport.
Originally I was going to be riding home with Bethany but Florida fucked that up forever.
“Oh, why’s that?”
“We’ll talk about it when we get home,” he replied.
Longest half-hour ride of my life!
They sat me down in the living room. That never happens! And Ma was clutching a tissue. ALSO something that never happens. The woman is always in control.
“The first thing,” Pa began. “Caleb’s not going OCC. The strength camp in Colorado has started a special ‘gap year’ program for elite high school athletes. He and Sam are both going to be participating.”
“That’s pretty unusual,” I said. “What has OCC said?”
“They canceled his scholarship.”
“But I don’t think he’s going to need it,” he said. “He was a standout before. Now, well…”
“So the strength camp paid off?”
“You could say that,” he said. “Caleb put on at least 50 pounds.”
My eyes widened.
“Surely some of that’s…”
“Fat? No, it’s all muscle. He’s benching over a thousand pounds. For reps.”
“As for Sam…”
That’s when Ma interrupted Pa, something she never did.
“They’re freaks,” she yelled. “Just freaks! It’s unnatural. And and and…”
She burst into tears and ran from the room, slamming her bedroom door.
I was stunned. That was not the way my momma behaves!
“Holy moly!” I breathed. “What the heck’s going on?”
Pa rolled his eyes, then continued where he left off.
“Sam grew even more than Caleb did…” he started.
My eyes bulged.
“That would put him over 400 pounds, wouldn’t it?!”
“Well over 400 pounds,” he replied, then paused. He took off his glasses and wiped his brow.
“I don’t know how to tell you this so I’ll just do it,” he said. “While they were here, Caleb and Sam ‘came out’ [he used the finger quotes] to us. They’re boyfriends.”
“No fucking way!”
Pa glowered, then totally surprised me with his response:
“Yes fucking way! They showed up hand in hand and they couldn’t keep their hands off each other for five minutes! I thought your mother was going to have a stroke! She told them they needed to repent but they just laughed at her. And that’s when I told them they could take that degenerate behavior out of our house! They spent the rest of the weekend with Sam’s folks.”
It was my turn to roll my eyes.
He and I had a long discussion about just how idiotic some Christians are when it comes to homosexuality. I might have been one of them except for the fact that Ben, my best friend from first grade, came out to me when we were both 14. He gave me a book – What the Bible REALLY Says About Homosexuality by Father Daniel Helminiak – and that was all I needed.
At the end, I laid down the law.
“This is what you and Ma need to keep in mind,” I said. “If you disown Caleb, you disown me. The fact that he’s figured out that he’s gay and found someone to love is something the two of you should be celebrating. It’s your choice. I hope you make the right one.”
I cursed the whole way back to my apartment, not because of Ma and Pa, not because of Caleb and Sam, but because I hadn’t been there to stand up for them and get the ‘rents to calm the fuck down.
This “gap year” strength camp was a whole semester long, with the same rules. No outside communication for the duration.
I wouldn’t see Caleb and Sam again until December.
With that – and Bethany – out of the way I settled down and focused on what was important: eating, lifting, and getting laid.
Fortunately, none of those was a problem, especially the last one. Bethany decided that she wasn’t cut out for personal training and quit, so I didn’t have to worry about drama in the workplace. (Last I heard she was selling beads, or maybe it was crystals. Holistic teas?)
My boss said I had “great rapport” with my clients, whatever that meant, and I was killing the weights whenever I lifted, which I did at least twice a day. Every time I thought about Caleb benching a thousand pounds for reps. And if his bench had doubled in 10 weeks, what about Sam’s? Was he benching more than a ton? Was that humanly possible? I attacked the weights like a demon.
None of which hurt in the bedroom. Every week I was just a little bit bigger, just a little bit harder than the week before. I suppose I should be ashamed to say it was a different chick every weekend but what of it? Adrienne, Allison, Amy, Bettina, Brandi, Caylee, they didn’t seem to have a problem with it. (And, yeah, I was thinking about Caleb benching a thousand pounds then, too. More than one complained I was a little too enthusiastic!)
The only downside was my parents, who couldn’t stop obsessing about “how did this happen to our precious son?!” If I had to hear “we’re praying for him morning, noon and night” one more time!
It didn’t help with my own nagging sense of failure and neglect. I wasn’t there for him when I needed to be (thanks Bethany!) and with the strength camp’s idiot rules I couldn’t check in on him the way my heart was telling me I needed to.
Week after week, the muscle slabbed on and my lifts got bigger and bigger. The first of October I was 265. By Halloween I was 280, totally ripped. I went to the biggest party in town (well, the biggest party for the fitness jocks and babes) wearing a shoulder-length wig, a fake fur loin cloth, and Timbas I had covered in matching fake fur. My shoulders were a fucking yard wide, my solid steel abs crunched down to a miniscule 32 inches, and my arms were 22 inches cold. I fucked 11 chicks at that party, two, three and four at a time.
The first week of December – 12 weeks after what I now thought of as “the Labor Day Disaster” – I hit 300 pounds. All muscle. I looked at the scale. I looked at my cobblestone abs. I lifted my right arm and flexed – 26 inches of massive beef sprang to attention, not even pumped. The day before I had achieved a personal best, benching 945 pounds – more than three times my weight – for a single, solid, no shirt raw rep. I was in spitting distance of Caleb – or at least where Caleb had been three months earlier.
“Fuck me,” I told the scale. The digital display quivered. It was like it wanted me to grow! 299, 298, 301, 302. I stood stock still. It stayed at 302.
My phone rang. It was Caleb.
“Dude,” he said, not bothering with hello. His voice was at least an octave deeper than it was when I heard it last. Did he have a cold or something?
“You need to get out here,” he continued. “You need to see these results.”
I stammered my reply.
“B-b-but my job, my clients…”
He cut me off.
“You need to see this,” he said. “You want to see this.”
I flew out the next morning.
At DIA I rented an SUV (when you’re 6’4 and 300 pounds of muscle, even a midsize doesn’t cut it) for the 2-hour drive up into the foothills above Boulder. I was looking for Camp Kluhtuo (Clue Two Oh?) where Caleb and Sam and who knew how many other guys were stashed.
When I rolled up to the gate, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Caleb had told me it was a military facility but it had all the totems of a Boy Scout campground, including split-rail fences, a big mound of boulders with a flagpole, and a guard shack with a weighted log barrier across both the entrance and exit drives.
It also had one fucking huge guard!
It was December, recall, in Colorado, so he had on Navy blue wool pants, a Navy blue parka with a “Camp Kluhtuo” logo, a fur hat, and black combat boots. With the hat and the boots he stood well over 6’6 (if the door to the guard shack was any indication) and with the parka he was about four feet wide – and three feet thick. And if the outlines of his skin-tight pants were any indication, 40-inch quads and calves to match.
“May I help you, sir?” he asked in a ridiculously deep voice. Did I mention he had a lumberjack quality beard?
“Uh, uh, yes,” I stuttered, gobsmacked to find yet another man who made me feel tiny. “I’m Kyle McNulty, here to see my brother Caleb.”
The Big Man stuck out his hand.
“Ross Parker,” he said. “Pleased to meet Caleb’s brother, at last! Caleb and Sam are in Cabin 12. Head up this road a bit and then take the left fork. It’s at the end of the row.”
He was still holding my hand. His mitts were the size of hubcaps. It occurred to me that he wasn’t going to let go until I took it back. I also noticed that he had brilliant blue eyes, blindingly-white teeth, and cheekbones that would cut glass. Minus the beard and more than 350 pounds of stacked muscle, he looked like a male model.
I took my hand back.
“Thanks, uh, Officer…?”
He chuckled, a sound not dissimilar to that of a concrete mixer in action.
“Just call me Ross,” he said. “No ranks here! And Kyle – very nice to meet you! We’ve heard a lot about you!”
I put the car in gear and headed up the drive, wondering just what in the hell Caleb – or maybe it was Sam or maybe it was both of them – had been telling these guys.
The “cabins” were not remotely what I expected. Constructed of logs and native stone, they were certainly rustic but they were each clearly the size of a standard home in a well-to-do suburb, with deep front porches that spanned the entire front of the house and double-doors in the center.
I followed the drive to the end where Cabin 12 awaited me.
There was a dusting of snow and I noticed that there were boot prints on the steps leading up to the porch. Really big boot prints! I wear a size 14 wide, same as Caleb, and these were clearly several sizes larger!
I rapped on the door.
“Hey, Caleb! You in there? It’s me, Kyle!”
I heard a heavy thump-thump-thump of someone coming from the back of the house, and then the doors opened.
Standing in front of me was the biggest human being I’d ever seen, someone who made “No Officer” Ross Parker look dainty.
He was a couple of inches taller than I am, with long, wavy hair, a full-beard. His flannel shirt had to have been custom made because his shoulders were – I kid you not – six feet across, the width of the two doors open.
Before I knew what was going on the giant man wrapped me up in huge arms that were size of tree trunks and lifted all 300 pounds of me off the ground, like I was a little kid.
“Bro,” the man said, in a mellow deep voice. “It’s so good to see you!”
And then he kissed me.
Full on the mouth.
My dick was hard as a rock.
He laughed, a sound like an avalanche.
“Well, duh, Dummy? Who’d you think?!”
He gave me another kiss, this one on the cheek, and set me down.
“The program, of course,” he replied. “It accelerates muscle growth, for one thing, and it has some other, well, unexpected effects. Like unfusing those joints, bones, tendons, whatever they are, that solidify in adolescence.”
It all went in one ear and out the other, until he added.
“So, yeah, last we checked I’m 6’6”, which is two inches taller than six months ago,” he said. “Which is about twice as fast as anyone else has grown. Except for Sam, of course.”
“Sam’s as tall?”
Caleb rolled his eyes.
“Taller, naturally,” he said. “And bigger, of course.”
My mouth fell open.
“600 pounds, yes,” he said. “Probably the biggest, most muscular man who’s ever lived.”
I waited for it. He sighed.
“Except for Sam,” he agreed. “But I think I’ve done okay, don’t you?”
He lifted his right arm and flexed.
Sweet Mother of God.
“Fifty inches cold,” he pointed out.
I didn’t think I could get any harder. I was wrong.
“You’re gonna need to take care of that soon,” he said. “Or you’re gonna go off like a rocket. Want some help?”
He reached out with his giant mitt and pushed my jaw back into place.
“But but but…” I said. “I’m, I’m…”
He chuckled (think elephants, herds of elephants.)
“Straight, yeah, sure,” he said. “I know. Tits and pussy are always going to do it for you. But one thing you’re going to learn if you stick around here is that this much muscle [I swear the walls vibrated in response to his tone] has a power of its own.”
He reached down and rubbed his crotch. That’s when I noticed. Caleb might have been two inches taller from head to toe but he was clearly more than that down below.
“Check it out,” he said, whipping it out. “Fifteen fucking inches. Wanna taste it?”
Before I could think of a reply – any reply (seriously, my brain was frying!)—that’s when the real mountain walked in.
“Kyle,” Sam said, softly. Softly like thunder is soft. I could feel it in my balls.
About four inches taller than Caleb, so six inches taller than me, and half again as big. Half again as big as Caleb, that is. I suddenly understood why each of the double-front doors was six feet wide.
And then I fainted.
Something wet was on my face. I blinked and opened my eyes. The face before me was, well, impossible, really. I’m a guy, I’m straight, I don’t know a thing about male beauty. But it was clear I was looking at someone who might have inspired Leonardo da Vinci or Michelangelo (hey, I like to draw – boobs, mostly – and I took Survey of Art History, I’m not a total meathead.)
It was the same Sam as before. How did I describe him before? Wavy dark hair, brown eyes, thick eye brows, square jaw with a cleft chin, thick sideburns, stubble for days. But more so. The hair was darker and glossier, the waves that much more perfect, the jaw, the chin, the cheekbones, all that much more sculpted and defined. The stubble and the sideburns had been replaced by a full beared, medium-length, perfectly trimmed, and yet it positively reeked of masculinity. It was the sort of beard Hercules aspired to grow, one that would have rendered Zeus green with envy.
I was rock hard again. Had it even gone down when I was out like a light?! I was beginning to think not.
“You okay, Little Buddy?” he asked, the concern in his eyes causing me to melt.
“Up and at ‘em, Kyle,” he barked. “Are you a Marine – or a drama queen?”
I was stretched out on a very long sofa. I pushed myself up.
“…long were you out?” Caleb answered for me. “Just a minute or two.”
I shook my head.
“No, that’s n-n-not what I was asking,” I stuttered. “H-how…”
Sam smiled. It was like watching the sun come up over the savannah.
“How big?” he asked, grinning.
“Six-ten,” he replied. “So six inches taller than when you saw me last.”
“900 pounds, all muscle,” he replied, then he flexed his right arm. “72 inches cold. An even six feet around.”
I couldn’t help myself. I gasped. I jerked. I unloaded.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I shouted.
Caleb tittered. That is, if a 6’6”, 600-pound mountain of muscle can be said to titter. Sam glared at him.
“C’mon, bro,” Sam said. “Don’t be a douche.”
Caleb straightened his shoulders and clenched his fists. I was beginning to realize that there was a certain tension between the two of them.
“Well, this reunion has been, uh, ‘sweet,’ but I think I need to go check on Ross,” he said. “I’ll be back, uh, well, when I’m back.”
And then he stomped out the front door. Believe me, when a 600-lb. behemoth stomps, you notice!
“Uh, Sam…” I began.
He put a finger the thickness of a sapling against my lips.
“Kyle, there’s stuff you need to know,” he said. “First and foremost, the process – unexpectedly – generates pheromones. Sex pheromones. You know what those are, right?”
“Well, sure! The scent critters put out when they’re in heat or whatever,” I said.
“For whatever reason, the process totally ramps up not just male musculature, but also secondary male sex characteristics,” he continued. Including, apparently, things like hair – hence the beards and the fact that all the participants, even the ones who had been smooth, were now furry as fuck – and the size of their endowments.
“Pheromones,” he said. “When any guy gets around us for more than five minutes, he turns queer as a three dollar bill. No matter how straight he is normally. And the bigger and the more muscular the guy, the bigger the impact.”
He reached down with a hand the size of an industrial oven and rubbed what I thought were fucking huge pecs (60 inch chest!).
“And we don’t get many non-program guys as big and built as you are.”
I had just had the biggest orgasm of my life three minutes earlier and I was once again hard as a rock.
He rubbed his thumb across my lip. It was all I could do not to start sucking on it.
“As soon as you get out of here, the effects will start to dissipate.”
He loomed over me.
“Assuming you want to get out of here.”
I looked up at the biggest mountain of muscle the world had ever seen, then grabbed his collar and pulled his face to mine.
“Show me everything,” I breathed.
Then I kissed him.
Totally unlike kissing a woman. Powerful, for one thing. Aggressive, for another. And completely masculine. I’ve been with plenty of wildcat women, the ones who want to suck your tonsils out, but it was always clear they were women.
This was different. It was a man’s kiss. An extremely big, extremely powerful man. And as fucking huge and as fucking strong as I was…
“You could break me in half without thinking about it, couldn’t you?” I asked, breaking the kiss.
He shrugged shoulders the size of a mountain range.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he pointed out.
I didn’t doubt it but it was time.
“Show me,” I commanded.
He laughed. It was clear he felt like he was being bossed around by a little kid instead of a 300-pound hunk of man. He stood up – and up and up. And then, slowly, with more than a little difficulty, he struggled out of the tent he was wearing as a shirt.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I exclaimed. I’d shot my load, once again.
He smiled his brilliant smile.
“You’re not going to faint on me again, are you?”
And then he went through the King of All Posing Routines. Arms and pecs and shoulders and traps and abs and obliques and legs. He called out the numbers along the way: Chest 180 inches; Shoulder Circumference 216 inches; Shoulder width 108 inches (9 feet!!); biceps 72 inches; forearms 60 inches (the same size as my chest!!); waist 90 inches; quads 100 inches; calves 70 inches; neck 70 inches.
The numbers, of course, are insane. They couldn’t be real. How, for example, could he be half again as wide as he was tall? Wouldn’t he fall over? But when I looked at him, it was all perfectly proportioned – just insanely huge. You didn’t really notice that he was shorter than he was wide, by quite a margin, because everything else was totally in proportion!
Then there was the tent in his shorts.
“Do you really want to see everything?” he asked. I would have said seductively but he was really matter of fact about it.
I nodded. I had to see it.
“It’s just another muscle, right?”
He pulled down his shorts. What popped out would have put a cobra or a python to shame.
“Twenty inches long hard,” Sam observed matter-of-factly. “And about 12-13 inches around, although close to the head it’s more like 14 inches.”
“That’s not a dick,” I breathed. “It’s a fucking cobra.”
“That’s what your brother said.”
I reached out and put my big paw around it. Or tried to do so. Even my big mitt couldn’t reach around it. Then I paused.
“Is this okay? Are you and Caleb…?”
Sam shrugged his woolly mammoth shoulders. It was like watching an earthquake.
“Caleb and…” he began. “Well, let’s put it like this: he’s tired being of the little guy in a relationship. He and Ross…”
I squeezed his monster cock.
“I don’t need to know about that.”
His giant hand stroked my face.
“What do you need to know?”
I looked him in the eye.
“What to do with this….”
So you understand why I was freaking out, right? I was 6’4”, 300-pound, 6% bodyfat, He Man Marine Stud, asking a man literally three times my size how to give pleasure to his ginormous 20-inch fuckpole.
But he told me and I was totally into it. I got him off and I got him off good. I got him off like a platoon of Marines raising the flag at Iwo Jima, Oo Fucking Ra, and I did it over and over again. And, finally, when I couldn’t get enough of his muscles, I rolled over, stuck my big squat butt in his face, and begged him to fuck me.
Which he did.
For the first time in my life, despite having porked nearly every good-looking woman to ever cross my path, I knew bliss.
The meltdown came the next day.
Sam gave me space, the sweet bastard, but eventually Caleb got tired of what he called my “dramatics” and called me outside.
“I want to show you something, you big dummy,” he said. “You need to understand why guys like Ross – who is just as straight as you are – stick around here.”
We walked over to the sort of platform you might see in a garage, with hydraulic lifts and ramps up and down either side. Atop the platform was a fully loaded Ford F150. And beneath it was a padded bench. Well, a padded bench about five feet across, that is, so not quite as wide as Caleb’s shoulders.
“Watch this, Squirt,” Caleb said.
He lay down on the bench, reached his sequoia-sized arms up to a bar that ran the length of the truck, and…
Up, down, up, down.
I realized that the central bar was attached to what as in effect an open box under the chassis of the truck, one that managed to distribute the weight evenly.
Caleb did 10 perfect reps.
Then he levered himself out from under the truck, stood up, and ripped off his sweatshirt, revealing a hair-covered set of pecs the size of boulders, with delts, traps, abs, and obliques to match.
“The curb weight…” he began.
I held up a hand.
“I may not know much,” I said. “But I know trucks. The curb weight of a fully loaded F150 is just under 6,000 pounds.”
He scratched his hairy chest and stretched. I was rock hard again.
“With the safety bar, a little more than 6,000 pounds,” he said. Then he put his giant paw on his shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “That’s what, about 10 times what you can do?”
“Eight times,” I growled. “My 1RM is 750. But, well, yeah, for reps I’m stuck at about 600.”
Caleb casually reached out and lifted me off the ground with one hand. Actually, he lifted me over his head and held me there, like Dwayne Johnson holding up Vanessa Kirby (God she’s hot!) in Hobbs & Shaw.
“From my point of view,” he said. “You weigh about as much as kitten.”
Then he put me down again.
It occurred to me that my little brother was far and away the most powerful man who ever lived.
“And you know what the real kick in the head is?” he asked. “Sam is three times as strong as I am; he can do 18,000 pounds for reps.”
You know what happened then, right?
“Jeez,” Caleb said. “I think maybe you oughta go wash those. You’re beginning to stink.”
That was six months ago.
I wasn’t really part of their target audience but I was accepted into The Program, especially after Sam and Caleb made sure the managers, as they were called, understood that I had at least as much willpower as they did. And just as much of their insane desire to grow.
And it has been insane.
In six months Caleb has caught up to Sam – or at least where Sam was when I showed up at the Camp. At 6’10 and 900 pounds, he loves tossing around his little buddy Ross, who is now 6’8 and 600 pounds – a bit taller and leaner than Caleb was at that weight. But still insanely strong. Caleb is even stronger than Sam was at that size, “benching” 20,000 pounds for reps.
As for Sam, well. Like Caleb, six inches taller, which puts him at 7’4” tall, and 600 pounds heavier. That’s right: 1500 pounds of muscle. And still three times as strong as Caleb. You know those Carvana showrooms, with the cars stacked up in a giant glass, multi-story box? Imagine one five stories tall, with 10 F150s in two side-by-side stacks. Watching them go up and down. 60,000 for 10 reps. Which means he can curl about 20% more than Caleb can bench. Curling 12 tons for reps – it’s nuts!
He’s still my Big Boo, in other words, but I’ve gone a long way towards catching up. A phenomenally long way, in fact. The managers didn’t think anyone was going to grow faster than Sam – but I did.
At 7 feet, I am eight inches taller than I was in December, a gain of more than an inch per month. That puts me two inches taller than Caleb and only four inches shorter than Sam.
But the height isn’t what got them excited. It was the muscle growth: 150 pounds per month. For six months. That’s right. Since December I have gained 900 pounds, all of it muscle. I now weigh in at 1200 pounds. Still 300 pounds less than Sam but, well, who knows? If we keep growing at the same rate, I ought to catch up to him in six months. But don’t do the math on that one, okay? It will blow your mind.
It doesn’t hurt my ego that I am now more than twice as strong as Caleb, the big bastard. Sam is benching 40 times what he weighs…and I’m benching 35 times what I weigh. 42,000 pounds for reps.
I’m sure you’re wondering about down below. The same insanity has prevailed. Sam is six inches taller… and his dick is six inches longer. Fully hard, it’s now 26 inches. He’s a little bit pissed that I’ve caught up with him in that department, having added 16 inches in six months.
But it turns out he’s the world’s biggest bottom (when he’s not being the world’s biggest top) and the fact that there’s one man in the world big enough to fuck his lights out completely turns him on. And me, too, of course! We’re both so insanely strong we could each wrestle a herd of brahma bulls to the ground so it’s nothing for one of us to pick up the other and throw him all the way down a football field – unless the other resists, that is, in which case it’s a different story.
Do I like being able to wrestle the world’s strongest man to the ground (well, one time out of three)? Hell yes!
Do I still miss tits and pussy? Hell yes!
But then I lift my right arm and look at 100 inches of superhuman power and I shrug shoulders that are 12 feet wide and think.
“I can live with it!”