Neighbor kids

by Richard Jasper

The continuing adventures of Jamie and Stevie, now living on their own. Jamie’s spectacular growth never slows down!

Added: 19 Sep 2020 3,191 words 2,437 views No votes yet

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This one is a continuation of Neighbor Kid by LuvsMusl, one of my favorite authors. I wrote it in March 2007, when LuvsMusl had been absent from the Muscle Growth Forum so long that many of us assumed he had passed from the mortal coil. He resurfaced sometime later so my homage was both unauthorized and thankfully premature, and gave it his retroactive blessing! It also constitutes a significant departure in tone and style from the original work, reflecting as it does my personal preferences and inclinations. The original story is available in the pre-2007 archive of
I was re-reading Steven’s journal the other night, when I happened upon this:

I ended up not seeing much of my family for the next year or so. But, as it turned out, my father decided to take Jamie’s advice and gave us the money to cover the first six months’ rent on the ramshackle apartment we found downtown. It was funny, but I soon realized that just about everyone ultimately decided that what Jamie wanted was exactly what they should do.

Jeez! Sometimes I forget what an ass I was back then!

I’m surprised Bob, Stevie’s old man, didn’t call the cops—getting shaken down by a 15-year-old hood (and I’m sure that’s what he thought I was and he was right!)—can’t have been his cup of tea.

For that matter, I’m surprised Stevie didn’t run screaming in the opposite direction. Well, of course, he did run screaming, I just followed and busted down his door. I guess it wasn’t the first time lust trumped common sense. (And, boy, was it lust! That bit—earlier in his journal—about thinking of me as “master” is just plain embarrassing!)

It took him forever to figure out that the lust was mutual. From the moment I laid eyes on him. He was tall (or so it seemed to me then), broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, nice proportions. And drop dead gorgeous! Talk about your All-American good looks! Peaches and cream complexion, sandy blond hair, blue eyes, chin dimple, and—even then—furry as fuck. Jeez! Think Jude Law only without the receding hairline and with muscles instead of those narrow shoulders and skinny arms—that was Stevie at 17!

Ah, like I said—I was an ass! I never let him know how much I was getting from him. I didn’t realize it myself. All I knew was that he was hot and I wanted to be hot like him. And when I first picked up those weights, fuck! I knew. I knew from that first moment that I was going to be fucking huge. That I lusted for muscle and strength and that I was going to have it. And I knew Stevie wanted it, too, for me—and for himself.

So it happened.

There I was, 5’9” tall and 225 pounds of total fucking muscle, popping my 20-inch gun (cold!) in the face of Stevie’s old man, telling him I was all that and a bag of chips and that he needed to pave the way for us. I was the fucking man and I walked out of Bob’s living room with a boner so big and hard it’s a wonder it didn’t knock down the front door.

That’s how it started.

The first year in that ramshackle apartment downtown was fucking fantastic! It was around the corner from the best hardcore gym in all of Springfield, on the bus line to the community college, and a five minute walk from the city’s biggest nutrition / supplement store. That’s where Stevie landed his first job. All he did was walk in the door—with me. One look at my bulging bare arms (I was wearing track pants and a baggy muscle shirt) was all the sales job Stevie needed to do on the store manager. From the day we moved in, I made it clear what was going to happen:

(1) I was going to gain 6 pounds of quality muscle per month for the next year.

(2) To do that, I was going to spend every waking hour in the gym or eating or both.

(3) Which meant that Stevie was in charge of everything else: keeping me feed, clothed, housed, cleaned, etc.

My job was to grow—his job was to make it possible for me to grow.

“Oh, yeah, and—you’re going to go to Springfield C.C.”

“What?!” he yelped. “How are we going to afford all this? I can’t work full-time, go to school, and do all that stuff for you, all at the same time!”

I gave him “that look,” as he still calls it.

“Look, Stevie, I’m not the brightest bulb in the candelabra but I can do simple arithmetic. Full-time tuition at S.C.C. is $3000 per year. That fancy school you were planning to attend—the one your old man didn’t bat an eye over sending you to—costs what? About $3000 per month?”

He blinked a couple of times.

“Closer to $3500, when you add it all up,” he admitted—and I waited for the penny to drop. “Uh, you think he might give us the difference to live on?”

I rolled my eyes.

“We won’t know that until you ask, right?”

As it turned out, Bob was more than happy to help out. He even kicked in a new computer so that I could do my home schooling online without having to share Stevie’s h.s. graduation present, a slick new laptop. For that matter, before it was all over Bob even paid for us to go to a few regional and national bodybuilding shows, so we could “scout out the competition.” Fact was, we were both surprised to learn that Bob was something of a bodybuilding fan—not in a faggy way, but more like appreciating all the hard work and discipline that goes into it. It was news to me that Stevie’s old man had been—and still was—a major jock, having done wrestling, swimming, and track and field, among others, in high school and college.

“‘Well, duh,” Stevie said. “You don’t get to be a high-priced corporate lawyer without a really strong competitive drive. Why do you think I took up the weights? It was the one thing he didn’t do—golf and tennis and skiing and curling, for godsakes, were already taken.”


I’ll never understand straight jocks.

Whatever, it worked. Stevie went to classes at S.C.C. and worked part-time at the nutrition store. Which reminds me: Employee discount on supplements, woo hoo! Really BIG discounts when we figured out that Stevie’s boss was also a big ol ‘mo and that all I had to do was invite him to critique my posing routine—he supplied the posing trunks and I gave ‘em back to him (nasty!)—for another month’s supply of everything!

Stevie also:

(1) Did all the shopping and meal prep.

(2) Performed all the cooking and clearning and regular chores around the apartment. (Except for taking out the trash. That was my job. One time I was really into my one indulgence, Final Fantasy, while it was spilling over. For once in his life he got shirty with me. “Listen to me, Mister! If you wanna be the man around here, you take out the garbage. The MAN takes out the garbage, that’s all there is to it. It’s the law—ask anybody!”)

(3) Paid all the bills, and I’m not just talking about ponying up the bucks to keep us going. I’m talking about the whole schmear. Maybe it’s genetic because there’s never been a Bodanos man yet who couldn’t spend $2 for every $1 he earned, and paid $10 for something when everyone else paid $5. We were like shark bait. “You do it,” I said. So much for being the man.

(4) Coordinated all of my home schooling, with the zeal of some anal retentive high school principal. He found out the requirements, got the books, organized the assignments, reviewed my homework, tutored me on subjects I found hard (most of ‘em, except for history and art, oddly enough.) Not that he did my work for me. “If you want to be an illiterate hick, that’s your choice. You’re my Muscle God, either way, but I’m not going to do your work for you HERE any more than I would in the gym.” The point was well-taken.

Like I said, it worked. Jesus, did it work! My goal was 6 pounds of quality muscle per month, a goal I met or exceeded every month. The guys at the gym were fucking amazed. When I joined in June—same day Stevie and I moved into that crappy apartment—I tipped the scales at exactly 230 pounds. And no more than 5% bodyfat. I’d put another half inch on my arms (20½ inches cold!) and my chest was well into the low 50s. I was feeling jacked! Not the biggest guy there, not by a long shot, although they were all agreed I was the most amazing 15 year old they’d ever seen. It’s not mentioned all that often in the bodybuilding rags but Springfield has always been the mecca for bodybuilding in the Midwest. There were at least a dozen guys—ranging from their early 20s up into late 50s—who had competed nationally or were preparing to do so. Half of them weighed 250 pounds or more in the offseason, a couple of the taller ones were pushing 300 pounds. Standing next to “Big Mo” Carter, a former Mr. USA, 6’1 and 295 pounds, with 24 inch biceps, a 59 inch chest, and a 32 inch waist, I felt like a little boy. When Big Mo introduced me to his son, Raymond, I realized that from Mo’s point of view I was a little boy—Ray and I were within one week of being exactly the same age. (And, Christ, that was one fucking hot kid. His schlong was even bigger than his daddy’s and Mo had been “Big Mo” even when he was a skinny teenager in Philadelphia.)

In just three months, though, I was part of the Big Boys Club in stats as well as by invitation (they’d included me in their number from the beginning, knowing that they had a—whaddya call it?—wunderkind on their hands.) The day Stevie started his freshman year at S.C.C. was the day I tipped the scales at 250 pounds for the first time. It fuckin’ rocked and I let out a rebel yell that brought Mo and the other big boys waddling over.

“C’mon, boy,” Mo said. “Show us the goods.”

For 10 whole minutes we did a ball-bustin’, sweat-soakin’, side-by-side posedown (I knew Big Mo’s Mr. USA routine by heart) that had the guys freakin’, laughin’, and high-fivin’ us. And I know for a fact that about half of ‘em were popping some major wood when Mo taped my completely engorged bicep at 22½ inches—and then pointed out that my 19½ inch forearms were half an inch bigger than his, and his had been the biggest in the gym since opening day 15 years earlier!

It only got better. Stevie ended the fall semester with straight A’s (no surprise there) and a promotion at the supplement store. He surprised both of us (and his old man) by finding out that his favorite classs were business and nutrition, not poetry and film studies. Likewise, I ended my first semester of “home schooling” with a solid B—best I’d ever done in my life.

“I’m proud of you, Jamie,” he told me solemnly, then broke into a grin. “Does that make me your mom?”

I scowled at him.

“You’re not a crazy alcoholic slut so, no, you must not be my mother.” Enough about that!

By that time, I was 268 pounds—totally fucking huge, in other words, especially since I still had no more than 5-6% bodyfat. My biceps were pushing 24 inches and I could tell Mo was already reconciled to the fact that my name was going to be ahead of his in that column on the stats board, too! Well, maybe not THAT reconciled. He asked me and Steven over to his place for Christmas dinner—Steven’s parents were in Paris on a second, “empty nester” honeymoon and Ray was down in Atlanta with his mom, Big Betty, Mo’s ex-wife. We had a great meal, turkey and all the trimmings. And then he fucked the living daylights out of us! First time I’d ever been topped, of course. For that matter, first time I’d ever had sex with anyone other than Steven, and the first time Stevie’d had sex with anyone besides me.

“Now you know how I feel,” he chuckled on the way home. “Every night!”

“Shee-it,” I replied. “You do not have 11½ inches up your ass when I’m on top of you.”

“No,” he agreed. “Just 10 inches, that’s all. 10 x 8, to be precise. Big Mo’s longer but you’re waaaaay fucking thicker—it averages out. All things considered you’re the same size.”

That got me, uh, well, pumped!

“And you’re gonna be thicker than him in every other way, soon enough. I think maybe it’s time to ditch ‘Jamie’ and start calling you Big Jim!”


I hit my max contest weight on my 16th birthday, 11 months to the day after moving into the apartment and just six weeks away from the contest. I’d grown an inch taller—up to 5 feet 10 inches, exactly!

I weighed 310 pounds, 6% bodyfat.

You read that right—310 pounds of mind-blowing, gigantic, perfectly proportioned muscle. In 11 months I had packed on 80 pounds of solid muscle, an average of 7¼ pounds per month! I was 109 pounds heavier than I’d been on my previous birthday, nearly 2½ times heavier than I’d been on my 14th birthday (when I weighed all of 130 pounds) My biceps were 25 inches cold—an inch bigger than Big Mo’s—and my chest stretched the tape to 62 inches. I was the biggest and strongest man in the entire gym. I outweighed Mo by 15 pounds, even though he was 3 inches taller than me. When he told me he figured if I were his height I’d probably weigh about 340, I nearly came on the spot. I was a Muscle God!

And I was 16 years old.

“Let the worship begin,” I said, quietly.

I watched Stevie lick every inch of Mo’s incredible, 45-year-old body. My face was calm and expressionless. I watched the ripple and flow of Mo’s huge ebony back muscles as he fucked Steven’s creamy white ass with his 11½ inch super cock. A slight smile came to my face when I saw that no matter how flushed and excited Steven was, he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—come for Mo.

Then the two of them worshipping my bod. Mo was frantic, exploring every nook, every bulge, every sweeping plain, my vast enclosures of rippling, marble hard muscle. I made no sound. I moved only to offer another flank for exploration. Steven’s worship was more restrained, elegant, cerebral, practiced (literally!) hundreds of times, a liturgy of tongue and hands and lips. He visited every surface, every crevice, outwardly serene; his deep, heavy breathing, the thin film of perspiration covering every inch of his normally pale skin, now flushed with desire, the only tangible signs of his lust.

“Fuck Mo,” I whispered.

Steven turned to Mo, taking the big man’s cannonball delt with one hand, using the other to guide his long, slender All-American cock into the vastness of Mo’s mountainous bubble butt. Mo had never been fucked. Steven’s elegant, perfectly suckable 8½ inch saber was the only thing bigger than a tongue ever to have entered Mo’s dark crevasse. The rumble from Mo’s chest was like the sound a bull might make on an early summer morning when ready to mount—or be mounted.

My thick, callused fingers were on Steven’s shoulders, back, elbows, hips, leading him to the other side of a rhythm he knew well but hadn’t experienced before, not this way. And then I was inside of him. We had done it so many times it might as well have been “Beam me up, Scotty!” The transposition was instantaneous, wholly outside one moment, wholly inside the next. But, as always, I took care—just enough—to make it not completely easy, enough to remind his hot hole that it was being invaded, dammit, by 10½ inches of thick fuck flesh.

Steven’s breathing was becoming ragged, Mo’s was simply harsh. Mine was deep and rhythmic. I picked up the pace. I changed the direction. My rod hit Steven’s prostate and every time it did, Mo gasped, Steven’s beautiful sword going deeper and deeper into Mo’s virgin territory. Again and again and again. Mo had fucked Steven for an hour and Steven hadn’t come. Now he was being fucked by Steven, who still showed no inclination to let go. Mo began to groan. He began to curse.

“I, uh, I don’t, I mean, shit man, I can’t…” His words were garbled, hard to distinguish.

“Hold it,” I said.

“I can’t…”

“Hold it,” I repeated. It was not a request.

I fucked and fucked, the sheen of sweat shared by Steven and Mo upon me now, my olive skin suffused with the glory of a Mediterranean sunset. Steven sounded like a freight train, his control at last beginning to falter. Mo was incoherent. With a twitch of my cock, I gave the signal. The pitch, already intense, altered. The plateau I hadn’t known was there was left behind. I felt it coming from 10 miles down the track. So did Steven. So did Mo. He screamed:

“Fuck My God Fuck God Muscle My Fuck!”

Steven and I roared, mine deep and powerful, his resonant and sharp, my bull elephant to his lithe tiger. The force of Mo’s cum hit the bedroom wall like summer hail on the roof of an old barn. I collapsed on Steve, my cum overflowing his manpussy, trapping his hot bod between 600 pounds of man muscle.

“Did you come?”

Steven remained silent, a twitching of his bubble butt the only reply. From deep within the pillows, Mo’s voice.

“Oh, yeah. He came.”

Steven was 19.

I was 16.

That was our first year together.

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