Power couple

by Richard Jasper

Roger and Bruce have been best friends since age 13. They go off to different high schools and Roger gets into lifting, thereby sealing their destinies.

Added: 5 Sep 2020 6,205 words 2,218 views 5.0 stars (2 votes)

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Right down to “What are you doing?” this one is EXTREMELY autobiographical (except for the height and weight stats!)—rpj
Bruce and Roger met in the 8th grade. They were both 13 at the time, tall for their age, and way too smart for their own good, even in a class of smart kids. Big vocabularies and coke bottle thick glasses and just a little too swishy and too interested in art and music and books for the other guys to take them seriously (the girls, of course, loved both of them.)

They instantly latched on to each other, recognizing a kindred spirit, although probably not (at least in Roger’s case) recognizing just what that spirit was. At their middle school all members of a given home room stayed together throughout the day so they hung out together at lunch, on the playing fields, and wherever else, except for Civics. Turns out Bruce had pissed off the elderly lush who taught that class so he was consigned to Mrs. Robertson’s class instead, much to Roger’s dismay. Their teachers, the ones who actually paid attention to their students, clucked their tongues and shook their heads or rolled their eyes. It was the early 70s, so it was just as well that the oblivious ones were usually the religious nut jobs; the ones who paid attention tended to be of the “live and let live” variety.

They spent long hours talking on the telephone, discussing everything under the sun. Bruce was inclined to want to relay all the details of the latest book he was reading, whether it was “Lord of the Flies” or, better yet, “The Chosen,” about those two cute Jewish boys in Brooklyn right after World War II. They talked about the changes they were growing through, the hair that was popping up in different places, whether they were still getting taller, even the size of their genitals. “Mine are large,” Bruce said, while Roger allowed he had “no basis of comparison” (and, yes, even at 14 that was a typical sentence for boys who had been reading on the college level since they were 6th graders.) One time they talked so long that the telephone operator interrupted the call. Roger’s parents were out visiting friends and Roger’s dad went ballistic when he couldn’t through to check on his eldest son and his younger brothers.


And then, horror of horrors, it was time to go off to high school where you didn’t hang out with the same kids all day where they actually had a gym, not just playing fields, and…they were going to different high schools!

Actually, neither of them really gave it that much thought, assuming they’d talk on the telephone ad infinitum. But in fact Bruce went off to Woodlawn and Roger went off to Wentworth and nightly telephone calls turned into weekly calls and weekly calls turned into monthly calls. But they kept enough to know that Bruce was getting into his school’s choral group and that Roger was psyched that his gym had decent weight-lifting equipment and that both of them had signed up for Latin. They went to see a couple of movies together at Christmas (Bruce’s mom would take them, Roger’s mom would pick them up, or vice versa) but that was it until April.

“Are you going to Tampa?” Bruce asked before Roger could finish saying hello. “You mean for the State Latin Forum?” Roger replied. “Yep, I’d like to do so. I think Mom and Dad will spring for it.” Bruce squealed with delight (yes, there were reasons the other guys tended to be standoffish around the two of them, if not actively hostile…) “We’ll room together, in that case,” he said.

Aside from the movies at Christmas the two hadn’t hung out together on a regular basis since the summer previously. They were both taller naturally. When they first met, Bruce had been 5’10 to Roger’s 5’9 and now, nearly two years later, they were 6’1 and 6 ft. respectively. On the other hand…

“Oof, Roger,” Bruce said, pushing on his friend’s denim jacket, “when did you get so padded?”

They were both about 150 pounds when they first met but thanks to pretty much non-stop weight-training at Wentworth, Roger was up to a very solid 200 pounds. He probably outweighed Bruce by 30 pounds even though the latter was an inch taller. For someone who never worked out, other than swimming, Bruce was broad-shouldered and had a narrow waist but next to Roger he was feeling a might skimpy.

“I keep telling you to hit the weights,” Roger replied. Bruce pouted. “But…” Roger rolled his eyes. “I’ll show you when we get back,” he grinned.

The Latin Forum was a blast. Kids from all over the state of Florida, some of them in costume, geeking out. Bruce took first place in Freshman Derivatives, Roger bested a junior from Sarasota in Declamations. For a couple of kids from the Panhandle, they held their own. Afterwards there was a dance and Roger stood on the sidelines and watched while Bruce, a head taller than most of their classmates, danced with all the girls.

They shared their hotel room with three other guys, two from Woodlawn and one from Worthington (who was pretty much the geekiest of all and who insisted on sleeping on the floor…) Bruce and Roger took the bed closest to the door. In the dark, with the a/c blasting, Bruce and Roger spooned, with Roger’s broad back to Bruce’s lean torso. In no time the other guys were snoring…and Roger began moving his thick squat butt up and down on Bruce’s cock.

“What are you doing?” Bruce whispered in his best friend’s ear.

“You said it was big,” Roger replied. “Just how big is it?”

In about 15 seconds Bruce was totally hard. “It’s that big, okay?” Bruce could have sworn Roger was purring. “How big is yours?” Bruce asked.

Roger pulled Bruce’s arm around his waist.

“Why don’t you find out?”

And that was the beginning.
“Did we really do that?” Bruce asked on the bus trip home.

“We really did,” Roger pointed out.

“But what does it mean?”

Roger smiled.

“Only time will tell…”

And, in fact, not much changed. They still went to different high schools, they were far enough apart that bike rides and nearly non-existent public transportation meant they were still dependent on their parents for getting together, and that didn’t seem like such a good idea!

They did plenty of exploring on their own, however, at their respective high schools. Despite their geekish ways they were both tall and well-built and athletic (Bruce took up tennis and turned out to be very good at it!) For all practical purposes they were studs, although they would both have laughed their heads off if anyone had bothered to mention it to them.

In the space of a year Bruce went through two girlfriends and managed to seduce the captains of the tennis, baseball, and football teams. For his part, Roger decided early on that he was a “guys only” kind of guy…and was pleased to find that there were more “guys’ guys” among Wentworth’s jocks than among the nerds. There was the guy on the swim team, the guy on the wrestling, two guys from the football team, one of the surfer dudes, one of the tennis jocks, and, last but not least, his biology teacher.

“You’re kidding,” Bruce said when Roger told him of his latest encounter. “A teacher?”

Roger moaned slightly. “You don’t understand,” he said. “Mr. Treadwell is 6’2” and 250 pounds, all muscle. And, God, he has such a fucking hairy chest!”

Bruce chortled. “But he’s bald! I know, I looked at Samantha’s Wentworth yearbook!”

Roger snorted. “Okay, fine, he’s bald,” Roger agreed. “But I’ll take bald and built over a long-haired skinny pot head any day.” That last was a dig at Bruce’s latest infatuation.

It went on like that for year. And then Bruce had his driver’s license and a few weeks after that so did Roger. The first Monday in May was senior skip day and—even though neither of them were seniors—the two of them decided it was time for them to take Roger’s hand-me-down 68 Ford Mustang to the beach.

“Damn,” Bruce said as Roger climbed out of the car.

At 16 they were both an inch taller than they had been the year before—6’1 for Roger, 6’2 for Bruce—but whereas Bruce was a lithe, well-proportioned 185 pounds of tennis muscle, thanks to his weight-training efforts Roger had exploded. At 250 pounds of chiseled beef, Roger has arms that were 20 inches cold (and another inch or so bigger when fully-pumped), a 52-inch chest, ripped 32-inch waist, and powerful 28-inch quads.

“Look at you,” Roger replied. He may have grown some major muscles but Bruce had grown fur, thick, rich, luxuriant black curls from his collar bones all the way down to his crotch. He’d had more than one female tennis partner, including his Latin teacher, stop a tennis match in the middle to tell him to put his shirt back on, his hairy pecs were just too distracting.

“I think we need to get out of here now,” Bruce said, nodding at the growing bulge in Roger’s shorts. “My mom doesn’t need to see that.”

They went to the Sugar Bowl, the secluded area of pine-covered dunes almost certain to be deserted on a Monday morning in May. “Race you!” Bruce cried out after they parked the car, leaving Roger to grab the stuff and struggle after him. For such a big guy Roger was f-a-s-t but there was no way he was keeping up with a top-seeded high school tennis player. “Whoosh,” he said, putting down their gear.

“What took you so long, slow poke?” Bruce laughed. Roger grabbed Bruce under the pits and lifted him into the air, shaking him slightly. “You wanna try a weightlifting competition next?” Roger asked.

Bruce laughed and put his hands on Roger’s thick traps, squeezing for all his worth. “Fuck, they’re like marble,” Bruce said, then twisted his leg around Roger’s ankle and pushed him back in the sand, landing on top of the bigger teen. “So you wanna try wrestling instead?” Roger asked, face to face with his best friend. “And have you twist me into a pretzel? No thanks!”

Roger pouted.

“Well, now you’ve got me down here, what are you going to do with me?”

Bruce kissed Roger, a probing, deep-throating sort of kiss, by way of an answer.

“Good start,” Roger gasped, when the lip-lock ended. “Now what?”

Bruce attacked Roger’s nips, then his pits.

“And now…” Bruce said.

Roger cleared his throat.

“I think you’ll find…” he started.

“That it’s a bit bigger?” Bruce asked.

“See for yourself,” Roger replied.


They’d both grown and Roger had long-since determined that, yes, he was well above average.

“I see the taller
thicker paradigm still prevails!” Bruce pointed out.

“You mean, I’m thicker, you’re longer?” Roger asked.

Bruce’s reply was unintelligible what with Roger’s 10 x 8 dick crammed into his mouth. Not that Roger noticed, mesmerized as he was by Bruce’s 11 x 7 python.

“I love you,” Roger said, a long while later.

“I know,” Bruce replied. “I love you, too.”

Roger turned on his side and looked down at Bruce, who was on his back with his eyes closed and a blissful smile on his face. “No,” Roger said. “I really mean it. I ‘love you’ love you. Like, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Bruce’s eyes remained closed but the smile became a little larger. “I know what you meant,” he replied. “I meant it the same way.”

Roger felt a chill go down his spine. This is a moment I will never forget, he thought. He took Bruce’s hand.

“But what does it mean?”

Bruce stretched like a kitten, then turned on his side, spooned up against Roger, and took the bigger teen’s hand in his own. “Well, it’s not like we can run off to a little chapel and get married, is it? We haven’t finished high school yet. There’s still college and careers and…”

Roger sighed. “But…?”

“But you’re mine and I’m yours,” Bruce continued. “I think between the two of us we’re horny enough that there we will have plenty of playmates along the way, separately or—here’s an idea—together! But at the end of the day…”

“I’m yours…”

“And you’re mine.”

Roger leaned back and closed his eyes. Bruce snuggled up next to him. He wondered what the coming years would bring.

That summer, Roger moved in with Bruce and Bruce’s dad. Roger had told his parents that he was gay and in love with Bruce…and they flipped out. “Who knew?” Roger said, when he showed up on Bruce’s doorstep.

“If it had been my mom,” Bruce said. “I wouldn’t have been surprised.”

Bruce’s dad was, well, amazing about all of it. “Look, you’re just kids but I love my son and if my son loves you that’s all I need to know.”

Raymond “Bud” Carter may have been a shift foreman with a high school education but he was more evolved than most men of his “silent” generation. May have had something to do with the fact when he finally figured out he couldn’t take any more from Bruce’s she-devil of a mom he’d found out that there were plenty of women (married and unmarried) who were willing to hook up with a big, horse-hung ox of a former high school football star in his mid-30s. “Just keep the place neat and put some clothes on from time to time” were his only requirements.

Roger and Bruce spent the rest of the summer lifting. By the time school rolled around at the end of August, Bruce was up to 215 pounds of muscle with single-digit bodyfat. As for Roger…

“Jesus, kid,” Bud said one morning as Bruce and Roger were cleaning up the kitchen. “You’re bigger than I am!”

Roger shrugged his massive shoulders.

“I been lifting, Dad, you know that.”

Bud just shook his head. “Still…”

Roger wasn’t quite as lean as Bruce but at 300 pounds of solid muscle he was simply huge. He was a good 30 pounds heavier than Bud and whole lot stronger.

“So, you two gonna go out for football or what?”

Roger and Bruce laughed…then looked at each other. “You really think…?”

Bud snorted. “Are you kidding? I’ve seen the two of you working out. How many Woodlawn juniors bench 450, like Bruce does? For that matter, how many college juniors do?”

Bruce blushed…and looked at Roger. “Well, if you think that’s a lot…”

Bud chuckled. “Oh, I know,” he said. “It isn’t a case of Roger being ready for Woodlawn. It’s a case of Woodlawn being ready for Roger! Roger is ready for the NFL!”

So that was that. Thanks to Roger and Bruce, Woodlawn powered its way to consecutive state championships, the only time in their history (before or after) the Wildcats ever came close. By the time the Roger and Bruce graduated from high school they were 6’4” and 6’5” respectively. At 450 pounds Roger was the biggest thing anyone had ever seen, which made Bruce, all 335 pounds of him, the second biggest thing anyone had ever seen! Naturally, they had their pick of powerhouse football schools to attend. They wound up choosing UCLA and, after they graduated, the 49ers. And, yes, they did for UCLA and the 49ers what they had done for Woodlawn, routinely breaking and setting and breaking again NFL records.

After 20 years, they retired, taking part of their extremely well-invested incomes to purchase a compound in Maui while retaining a spacious penthouse condo in San Francisco. During all that time they had routinely been asked about the nature of their relationship and their sexual orientation and they had refused, as a matter of principle, to say other than that they were “best friends for life,” which was accurate, if disingenuous. Upon retirement, they held a press conference in which they said:

Yes, we are, in fact, a couple, we are, in fact, gay, and we’re very sorry for whatever hurt we may have caused by not having acknowledged that fact so publicly before now. No one asks our straight teammates about their sexual orientation and we felt like we should be treated the same way. We realize now that it is important to recognize that actually saying it does make a difference. We have never been ashamed of who we are and we encourage all gay people to live their lives openly and honestly.

Interestingly enough, it was only after they retired from football that Roger and Bruce took up bodybuilding. During 20 years with the 49ers, they had steadily maintained their college playing weight, never gaining or losing.

“Could we get bigger? Sure,” Roger said, early on in their career. “Would it make us better players? No. In the meantime, we’ll wait for the other guys to catch up.”

No one could have guessed just how much bigger the two men could get. In the 14 years since they retired, Bruce Carter has gained more than 200 pounds of solid muscle. At 6’5 and 550 pounds, he dwarfs superheavyweight competitors like Derek Poundstone, Ryan Kennelly, and Martin Kjellstrom. “And the sad thing is,” Carter said recently. “Roger makes ME look like a shy delicate flower!” Indeed. Roger Fenton is still no more than 6’4” tall but these days he weighs in at about 750 pounds, 200 pounds more than his partner of the past 40 years. With shoulders that measure six feet across and a neck that measures five feet in circumference, he is the largest, most muscular man the world has ever known.

Fenton and Carter, now in their mid-50s, hold a twice-yearly strongman
bodybuilding contest at their Kula compound, the so-called “Triathlon of Strength,” with athletes competing against each other in all three categories. As a concession to the strength competitors, the bodybuilding portion of the contest encourages athletes to retain their body hair. Needless to say, “T.O.S.” is extremely popular among gay men the world over and among the Bear community in particular.

“There’s nothing sexier than fur on muscle,” Roger Fenton allowed at one recent gathering. “Especially if you have as much fur as Bruce does!” Bruce Carter, his gigantic 44-inch arm wrapped around his husband’s barrel-sized neck, agreed. “Of course, it helps to have a lot of muscle!”

The Power Couple laughed.

Burke Dorsett was a big man, that’s all there was to it.

At 6 feet tall and 350 pounds of solid muscle, he was a highly successful, highly competitive powerlifter but he was built like a bodybuilder—his tremendously broad shoulders, hulking traps, massive chest, and giant arms were connected to powerhouse, tree trunk legs by a relatively narrow albeit incredibly strong midsection. He went head to head with the likes of Ryan Kennelly, Derek Poundstone, and Kevin Nee on a regular basis, winning more often than he lost, and enjoying the camaraderie of a whole crew of meatheads back in Atlanta. With medium-brown skin, short-cropped wavy black hair (the legacy of a Cherokee great-grandmother), and jet black eyes, he was one studly man, with the courtly diction of a man whose father was a university professor and his mother a federal judge.

So why am I sitting in a dark corner of the seediest gay bar in Columbus, Ohio? He wondered for the thousandth time. To which he added:

“Well, duh…”

He was a massively built 30-year-old African American man. A gay, African American man.

People took one look at him and thought, “Thug!” Until he opened his mouth, then they thought, “Colin Powell!”

As for his parents, the “Talented Tenth” had never gone away, as far as they were concerned, and the fact that he had no more than a bachelor’s degree—from a state school, no less—was just not cutting it. Coming out to them just wasn’t going to happen. Wasn’t like they were bigots—they were members of a well-to-do, racially integrated social justice Presbyterian congregation—but from birth they’d been taught “you have to be better than the rest” and they’d automatically passed that lesson along to Burke, along with the unconscious message that “gay” was NOT better.

Finishing his beer, Burke stood from his stool, turned on his heel to head for the gents…and ran slap into a brick wall!

“Where the hell did that come from?” he muttered, stars in his eyes and swaying slightly. He must have had one or two more beers than he remembered!

“Whoa, buddy,” the wall said, grabbing Burke by the elbows and setting him back down on his stool. And how the fuck did that happen? Burke wondered. It was like he had floated back to his stool, which could only happen if…”You okay, fella?” the wall asked.

Burke’s vision cleared and he looked up…and up…and up! The wall was a man! A really fucking ginormously huge man! “Uh….”

The huge man motioned the bartender over and asked for a bottle of water. He handed to Burke, who noticed that the 16-ounce bottle was completely swallowed up by the giant’s hand!

“Sorry to run into you like that,” the huge man said. “Although, when you get down to it…”

Having chugged the water, Burke felt himself returning to some semblance of sanity. “Hey, I’m the one who ran into you,” Burke said. “My apologies, kind sir. I was just completely taken aback to find a new wall had grown out of the floor while I was sitting here!”

The giant paw engulfed Burke’s own monster mitt.

“No harm done,” the man said. “Roger Fenton’s the name!”

Burke’s eyes flew wide. He finally began to take in what he was seeing. The man was a good 5-6 inches taller than Burke with a face that was middle-aged but handsome, with a thick shock salt-n-pepper hair, matching goatee, piercing dark blue eyes, and dimples. And the biggest body Burke had ever seen in person. Seriously.

At 6 feet and 350 pounds, Burke was inordinately proud of his 70 inch chest and shoulders than measured 3½ feet from one end to the other. But Fenton’s enormous chest was wider than Burke’s shoulders and his shoulders had to be as wide as Burke was tall. And that chest.

Oh My God.

Like two enormous wheelbarrows attached to a torso, each of them 30 inches across and mounding a dozen inches over a narrow midsection that looked as though it were assembled from compacted bull-dozers. All of it cover in dense black hair, the kind you could lose your hands in, shot through with silver, the hair pattern on each pec swirling in such a way that the eyes were inevitably drawn, as if magnetized, to a pair of thumb-sized nips that looked like they enjoyed being nibbled by sharks. The Himalayan traps of the insane shoulders tapered to mind-blowing deltoids that looked like they were the size of three basketballs squashed together, then down to arms that…

“Nnnnggghhhh,” Burke grunted.

The big man sighed, although it was a self-satisfied sort of sigh. “I’m afraid I have that effect on some people,” he said.

Burke blushed furiously, then stammered.

“Ya, you, you’re that guy!” The Roger Fenton, in other words, the World’s Biggest Man, the former NFL star who with his fellow retired NFL star gay hubby Bruce Carter ran the “Triathlon of Strength” contest on Maui.

“Well, yes, like I said, I’m Roger Fenton,” he said, chuckling. “But I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure…?”

Burke regained control of his breathing, then stuck his hand out a second time. “Burke Dorsett,” he said. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Fenton!”

Fenton cocked his head to the side, then looked Burke up and down. “Well, of course you are!” he said, not hiding the delight in his voice. “I would have recognized you immediately if they didn’t have this place lighted like a cave. So glad to finally meet you!”

Burke’s jaw dropped open. “You know me?!”

Fenton tsk-tsk’d. “Duh! You’re one of the leaders in our sport, young man! I’m just disappointed you’ve never made it to Kula!”

Burke blushed again. Most people had gotten the fact that the world’s premier strongman-bodybuilding-powerlifting contest was held at a gay resort on Maui but most people did not have parents named Avery Burke Dorsett III and Alma Priscilla Hedges Dorsett. No way HE was ever going to show up on cable TV in Kula!

“At any rate, I seem to have upset your evening, Burke, and I do apologize for that. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you by treating you to a very late supper? If you’re anything like my Bruce, you’re probably ready to eat a horse!”

Which is how Burke found himself in the back of Fenton’s stretch Hummer, headed back to Burke’s hotel so he could, uh, “clean up a bit” before going out.

“Having a driver is a pain in the ass,” Fenton said. “But I outgrew the driver’s seat a long time ago.” The chauffeur snorted. “That’s enough out of you, Felipe!” Fenton barked, which just got a guffaw. Burke raised an eyebrow. “Felipe works for me, as does his husband, George, our pilot. They’re both gorilla wannabes but fortunately they still fit behind the wheel or, in George’s case, the stick.”

Burke was surprised when they got to the hotel that Fenton exited the car and Felipe drove off. He was surprised again when he found himself crammed into the elevator with Fenton. Burke’s nose was just inches from the 10-inch deep crevasse between Fenton’s monstrous pecs. And then they were at Burke’s door.

“Is that a python in your pocket or would you like to invite me in for a night cap?” Fenton asked. Burke’s eyes went wide. “I already ordered room service. They’ll be up in an hour,” Fenton pointed out.

Burke shoved the door closed and then he was on Fenton like flies on honey. The big man gasped as Burke’s mouth found his meaty nipple. Slipping off his leather vest, Fenton ripped Burke’s shirt and pants with two swipes of his enormous hands. They fell like scraps of tissue paper.

Burke tugged desperately at the big man’s belt but with his own huge mitt Fenton pulled Burke’s hands away and put them on his right bicep, the one that was exploding in front of Burke’s face like a mushroom cloud over the Nevada desert.

“Lick it, son,” Fenton said. “You know you want to.”

Burke went nuts, scarcely noticing that Fenton somehow deftly managed to remove the rest of Burke’s clothes and his own, then…


With one hand, Fenton inverted Burke so that young man’s mouth was directly in front of his raging 15-inch erection.


Burke’s on 13-inch monster cock was swallowed up by Fenton’s hot mouth as if it were no more than a popsicle, one he proceeded to suck on vigorously. Burke felt his eyes beginning to roll back in his head but he took the first third of Fenton’s gigantic boner into his mouth and began sucking for all his worth. Time went away, sensation took over. Burke lost track of the number of orgasms, the number of positions, the infinite varieties of suck and fuck and lick and stroke. At one point he found himself riding Fenton’s ass, the big man’s enormous steel-hard butt cheeks having contorted in such a way that he was able to ram all 13-inches into Fenton’s love hole.

Burke awoke with a start. Fenton, naked, his shoulders as wide as the Rocky Mountains, was perched on a flimsy hotel chair, chowing down on eggs and potatoes and bacon and sausage and waffles and a couple of steaks and a salmon filet.

“You passed out,” Fenton said, “so I put you in the bed. Sorry I started without you!”

Burke stood naked next to the huge man, once again fully erect although he didn’t see how he could be…”Did all that really happen or did I dream it?” Fenton wrapped his giant paw around Burke’s quivering cock and squeezed gently. “It happened,” he said, then pointed at the other chair. “Sit, eat. And then we’ll think about Round 2.”

Burke sat and picked up a fork. Suddenly he was completely ravenous.

Eliot “One Ell, One Tee” Harris could barely hear himself think.

Columbus’ biggest gay dance bar was packed to the rafters for the Arnold Sports Festival weekend. The dance floor and surroundings were full of drop dead gorgeous guys in skin tight clothes, gym muscles bulging in every direction. All except for Eliot, or so he thought. At 5’11 and 150 pounds, Eliot was lean and hard but his efforts to “grow big muscles” had always come to naught, thanks to his slightly elevated 25-year-old’s metabolism…and the fact that he just didn’t like to each that much.

“Babe, you gotta eat if you’re gonna grow,” his best friend and occasional gym buddy Marco was always telling him. “And if you want one of those guys…”

Yeah, yeah, Eliot thought, the big guys only like other big guys.

Eliot rued the world and his place in it. But that didn’t stop Eliot from staring at the giant man between him and the dance floor. The man was huge, seriously, seriously, you gotta be kidding huge! If he had gotten closer, Eliot would have seen that his head would just barely reach past the giant’s shoulders. And those shoulders! The man had on a white tee shirt that could have been used as a tent for a Bedouin family of five! Seriously, they had to be five feet across! The man’s neck was clearly bigger than Eliot’s 40-inch chest, as were the giant triceps resting easily on the man’s hugely thick lats. Front to back the guy had to be at least three feet thick! Amazing at any age and this guy was clearly middle-aged. Totally bald on top, the thick fringe around his shiny pale crown was pure white, as was the Brillo coarse densely thick hair on his arms and poking out of the top of his tee. The man was a fucking polar bear crossed with a Grizzly!

Not that he’d ever look at ME, Eliot thought. He sighed.

The giant man turned just as Eliot decided it was time to scoot. Startled, Eliot stood stock still, not sure where to head. Seeing Eliot’s indecision, the big man sauntered over, the long neck Dos Equis practically swallowed by the man’s giant paw.

“Son,” the man said, settling his free paw on Eliot’s hard but narrow shoulder. “I’ve heard that expression ‘froze like a deer in the headlights’ but I never saw it on someone before now!” Even though it was Barry White deep, the man’s soft, slightly Southern voice clearly penetrated the dance floor decibels.

“Sorry sir,” Eliot said. “I had about decided there was nothing here for me just before you turned around.”

The giant chuckled. “Bruce Carter’s the name,” he said, giving Eliot’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Eliot was pretty sure the man could crush coal into a diamond but if so he wasn’t flaunting it. “Mr. Carter, nice to meet you,” he replied. “I’m Eliot Harris. One Ell, One Tee.”

Carter looked at the young man and arched an eye-brow. “Oh, in ‘Eliot,’ you mean? I bet you get asked that a lot, huh?” Eliot gulped, then nodded. The biggest man he’d ever seen was having a polite conversation with him and here he was yammering on about the peculiar spelling of his name!

“But why were you thinking about leaving?” Carter asked. “Plenty of hot men here, especially for a handsome young lad like you!”

Eliot’s eyes widened. Handsome? Me?

“Oh, c’mon,” Carter continued. “Thick, sandy blond hair, big green eyes, lashes to die for, pouty lips. Yer a knockout!”

Eliot blushed furiously. “Well, sir, you know how it is,” Eliot replied. “Most of these big guys are only interested in other big guys. And, let’s face it, I’m skimpy.”

Bruce Carter grinned. Gotcha!

“Son, you’ve heard that saying ‘opposites attract,’ right?” Eliot nodded his head. “A lot of these big guys are only into big guys because they’re insecure about the fact that they used to be small,” Carter continued. “They see a naturally handsome lad like you, one who’s on the skimpy side, and they remember what it was like before they had all those muscles. And, let’s face it, not all these big guys are all that much to look at from the neck up. Before they had muscles, they’d have been dying for a look from a guy like you.”

Somehow during this conversation Mr. Carter had wrapped his fucking gigantic arm around Eliot’s slender shoulders and effortlessly pulled him in against his hip. Listening to Carter’s words, seeing what he was seeing, Eliot was really quite unaware that he had slipped his arm around the huge man’s surprisingly narrow—albeit rock hard—midsection.

“So what are you looking for?” Carter asked.

Eliot’s head was spinning. He couldn’t believe this was happening. “But, y’know, I mean, I don’t know,” he stammered.

Carter’s cell rang.

Saved by the bell, Eliot thought.

“Yeah, Bub,” Carter answered. “Is that right? I was headed there next but I think I’ve found something else to, uh, keep me entertained. See you in the morning? Yep, bye, love ya!” Carter put his massive paw of Eliot’s tight, perky ass and gave it a squeeze. “That was the hubby,” he explained. “Turns out he has another engagement this evening so I’m at loose ends. How about some dinner?”

Eliot didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The huge man had a husband! “You’ll probably see him around at some point,” Carter continued. “He’s even bigger than I am.” Eliot’s eyes bulged. “Bigger?!”

Carter chuckled. “You may have heard of him, Roger Fenton,” he continued. “You know, ‘The World’s Biggest Man?’” Eliot spluttered. “You’re that Bruce Carter? Of course, how did I miss it? My God, it’s such an honor, I mean, really, I….”

Carter put his hands under Eliot’s arms, effortlessly lifting him into the air, and gave him a deep, sweet kiss. “Young man, I asked you a question. How about dinner? Or does the prospect of dining with someone old enough to be your father not appeal?” He gently returned Eliot to the floor.

“Mr. Carter, if I may be so bold,” Eliot answered. “You’re the fucking sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on and the idea of sitting across the table from a man who outweighs me by 400 pounds has my dick so hard I think it’s probably going to explode before we get to the door.”

Carter laughed out loud. “Gorgeous and a sense of humor,” he crowed. With that, Carter slung Eliot over his shoulder and headed across the length of the bar to the door where he turned and addressed the onlookers who had gathered to see the giant man making off with the cute little twinky boy.

“So long, suckers,” he shouted. “I’ve got the prize!”

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