by Richard Jasper

Roger Harris has an unusual condition—every year, year in and year out, he is a little bit taller, a little bit more muscular, and quite a bit stronger. What’s not to love? But try it for 20+ years! It makes for a lonely existence until he meets a young man, David, with the same condition!

Added: 19 Sep 2020 2,854 words 2,292 views 4.0 stars (1 vote)

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Looking back I always wonder why it took me so long to understand that something unusual was going on. Wishful thinking, perhaps? The changes were, after all, ones that I really wanted to occur. It was only later…

And, yes, I’ll tell you right up front, that I’ve always wanted to be huge, from the very beginning. One of my earliest memories was watching Jack LaLanne in his jumpsuit in black and white television showing the ladies how to improve their busts. I thought I would die of embarrassment when my little brother said “Ooh, look, Mommy, Roger is exercising!” but Mom winked at me and said, “Good going, Roger, keep it up.” And I did.

Nothing much seemed to happen, though. I was just a normal kid, certainly no athlete, certainly no wunderkind. As an adolescent my growth spurt came early. At 15 I was 5’10” tall and 150 pounds but plenty of guys were already bigger than I was and plenty more passed me in the next year or two. That was when I started lifting. Before then I just did the Jack LaLanne stuff, the push-ups, the chin ups, the sit ups, the isometric exercises. I was lean and toned and well-proportioned, with wide shoulders and a tight waist, well above average, in that respect, but still obviously a teenager. I was hoping that the weights would turn me into another Arnold lickety-split but that didn’t happen.

Still, by the time I was 20 I was an inch taller and 200 pounds, just as solid and as ripped as I had been at 15. I was also pretty strong, benching 300 for reps and squatting 500 for a single rep. About that time one of my gym buddies at the local university offered me ‘roids and I had just enough cash squirreled away to take him up on it. They made me sick as a dog, like I had the world’s worst flu, coming and going at both ends.

“Jesus,” I said to him when I was better, “what the fuck was in that stuff?” He swore up and down that it was the same stuff he was using and in the week I’d been sick he’d put on 10 pounds of solid muscle. He offered to give me another round but I put up my hand. “Thanks but no thanks,” I told him.

But I still stuck it out in the gym, all natural, and every year I was a bit bigger. I was 220 when I graduated from college, 250 when I graduated from law school, which turned out to be a bit of a problem—at that size no one really wanted to hire me.

“Roger, the problem is,” my advisor said when I went for some much needed hand holding, “you look like a thug. Well, no, not really, you’re plenty good looking enough but, ya know, in a suit you look like some Mafia bodyguard.” So what was I supposed to do, I asked. “Trim down some…”

Fuck that shit. I started working as a personal trainer instead. Within six months I’d been promoted to director of physical training and a year later I was managing the biggest gym in the metro area. I was 260 pounds.

Once I was spending all my time at the gym the meatheads started after me to compete. I entered my first contest weighing 270 pounds, turned pro a year later, and won my first Mr. Olympia contest a year after that. I was 29 years old and hit the stage weighing 290 pounds and just a fraction under 6 feet tall. I outweighed my nearest competition, Lee Haney, by a good 30-40 pounds. A year later I won a second time, this time weighing 300 pounds, and then retired. I signed a jillion endorsement contracts and I was always in the mags, even after I retired. “How big can he get?” was the usual refrain.

It was only then that I realized something very unusual was happening. In 10 years I’d gone from 5’11” to 6 ft. even, which struck me as a little bit odd since most guys have finished growing up by the time they’re 20. Likewise, I’d added 100 pounds of solid muscle to my frame. Again, not outside the realm of possibility but how many people did it with no chemical assistance whatsoever.

And then there was my dick. At 20 it had been a very healthy 8 inches long and 6 inches around. At 30 it was 10 inches long and 7 inches around. My boyfriend at the time thought I was making it up.

“That’s ridiculous,” he pointed out. “Nobody’s dick grows two inches between the ages of 20 and 30.” I snorted. “I think I would have noticed if it had been 10 inches then,” I replied. “I remember seeing guys with 10 inches and thinking, ‘oh, man, that’s huge…’” Well…I shrugged my (mountainous) shoulders, then fucked his lights out. Who was I to complain?

And that pretty much defined my 30s. Every year I was 10 pounds heavier, every year I was a fraction of an inch taller, every year my dick seemed a little bit thicker and longer than the year before. On my 40th birthday, that long ago boyfriend showed up for my party (it was a surprise); I’d moved around a fair bit over the years so he was one of the few people present who’d known me then—and who hadn’t seen me in a while.

“Jesus Christ, Roger!”

I gave him a gentle hug in my mammoth arms—and realized we were looking eye to eye.

“Uh, Chris,” I murmured to his neck, “tell me again how tall you are?”

He looked me up and down.

“Six-one,” he said, “Same as you obviously. But, jeeze, man, how much do you weigh now?”

“Four-oh-one,” I told him. “Double what I was when I was 20.”

He nodded, then grabbed my crotch. His eyes widened. “It’s 12 now, wanna take a look?” He did more than take a look. Afterwards, he got out the measuring tape and checked everything, then wrote down the resulting numbers:

Weight: 401 pounds
Height: 6 feet 1 inch
Chest: 80 inches
Neck: 30 inches
Biceps: 32 inches
Waist: 40 inches
Quads: 42 inches
Calves: 30 inches

“You look insanely strong,” he told me, which made me chuckle. “I am insanely strong,” I replied. Then I showed him how strong I really was. “That’s insane,” he said, when I finished. What? That I’m able to bench 1800 pounds?” He nodded. “Yeah, that’s insane. So is the 2200-pound dead lift and the 3000-pound squat. And most of all, that gigantic dick.” He licked his lips, then asked the question that had been going through my mind for quite some time at that point:

“What if…?”

What if it doesn’t stop?

I let out a sigh.

“Well, what if it doesn’t?”

Chris shook his head.

“Can you handle it…?”

A good question.
I think you can probably guess how things have gone since then:

• I’ve continued to grow about 1/10th of an inch taller, each year.

• I’ve continued to gain another 10 pounds of muscle, each year.

• My dick grows about 1/5th of an inch each year.

Not long after my 40th birthday I realized that I was going to need to lead a fairly secluded life. At 6’1 and more than 400 pounds of solid muscle, I was too big for most people to comprehend, much less be around. Fortunately, I’d invested those early Olympia winnings, magazine contracts, and endorsement earnings in such a way that I had enough money to retire from public view. Well, let’s be honest, I was rolling in it, enough so that I could afford my own compound on the California coast. An awesome 10,000 square foot house (most of which was made up of the gym, indoor pool, and adjacent wet areas), spectacular views, and my own “can’t be seen from the road” canyon where I could run around naked all day without being seen by anyone other than the occasional spy satellite.

Not a bad life, albeit a bit lonely at times.

I was, of course, as connected as anyone else. My profile name, BIGMUSCLE58, tended to attract a lot of attention but the lack of photos and my unwillingness to talk about stats tended to deflect it. From time to time I’d run across someone who seemed (a) really smart, (b) really nice, and (c) really hot. If they were local and unattached, I’d have them out, although not usually until after I’d had them vetted. (Well, yes, I do have a PI agency on retainer—why wouldn’t I?)

I was too freaky for most guys and the guys for whom I wasn’t too freaky, well, I’m afraid they tended to be too freaky for me. That changed, finally, a year ago.

You’re Roger Harris, aren’t you? the guy typed.

That took me aback a bit. Not that many people are keen on bodybuilding, not that many recall my brief (albeit spectacular) career, and no one had ever really made the connection.

And if I am? I typed back.

Then ultra fucking cool, came the quick reply. I’m your number 1 fan!

And, then, unexpectedly.

I think I know why you’re in hiding—and I think it’s something we have in common!

Now that got my attention.

David, it turned out, was 22 years old and 6 ft. tall and 300 pounds.

People think I’m a genetic freak, he pointed out, then told me why:

• Every year since he was 14, he’d grown half an inch taller (from 5’8 to 6 feet)

• Every year since he was 14, he’d gained 20 pounds of muscle (from 140 to 300 pounds)

• Every year since he was 14, he’d added a quarter inch to his dick (from 9 inches to 11 inches.)

Give me a call on Wednesday, I typed to him. I think we may need to meet.

His story, at least in the broad outlines, checked out with the PI agency. When David called Wednesday, I asked if he could visit that weekend.

“Holy Fucking Mother of God,” he said when I answered the door, wearing my usual azure blue sarong.

And why not?

At 6’2” tall, I was 500 pounds of solid muscle. My 40 inch biceps were bigger than his 32 inch quads. My 100 inch chest was broader than his massive bull-size shoulders. All of which had an effect on me. And, no, a sarong isn’t a very effective tool for hiding a rock hard, 14 inch dick.

We’ve been together since then. I had visions of him outgrowing me in a few years but something else seems to be going on. We both grew this past year, as we knew we would—and both us grew faster than we’d ever done before. An extra inch in height, an extra 50 pounds of muscle, an extra inch of dick. Where will it end? Will it end?

Only time will tell.

Not long after our first anniversary, David and I went underground—literally!

It had become increasingly clear that the military and the DHS types were unnerved by the prospect of two giant hulks living a luxurious life on the California coast. They came to visit, more than once. “What are you taking?” they asked. “We want samples,” they declared.

Fame, of course, is a double-edged sword. They couldn’t actually disappear a billionaire with many high priced Los Angeles attorneys at his beck and call. They couldn’t actually kidnap us and take us to a secret facility and open us up. But they could—and did—makes our lives uncomfortable and unpleasant. So I bought the valley in Idaho, the one with the leftover, empty missile silo, and we built underground. Think Blast from the Past meets Hercules Unchained, or something.

That was a long time ago. A really long time ago. Since then, global warming has come and gone. The first woman president has come and gone. The first Asian American Jewish transgender lesbian president has come and gone. The Nik Nik, those three-legged beasties from Rigel VII, have come and gone.

Fifty years, in fact, have come and gone.

David and I have stayed in our hole (well, in each others, too, but that’s a different story!) We’re, like, big now! (I know, I know, as if we weren’t before.) And, as expected, David is even bigger than I am, although not as much bigger as we thought he might be.

I celebrated my 100th birthday yesterday. I still look like I’m about 30, he tells me. Frankly, I think I look like a very hairy, pale version of the Incredible Hulk, or what I recall of the comic book version. I know for sure Lou Ferrigno was never my size, namely:

7 feet tall / 1,000 pounds of solid muscle / 200 inch chest / 80 inch biceps / 100 inch waist /100 inch quads. My shoulders are, literally, 10 feet across. It’s just as well we put in the extra tall ceilings and the extra wide doors. Oh, yeah, and, the muscle that’s not a muscle: 24 inches long, 16 inches around. It’s a two-hander in both directions, even with my giant hands.

As for David…

Well, I’ve always told people I was really just a shy, delicate flower. Next to him, it seems true: 7 feet 6 inches tall, 1,500 pounds Everything else is half again as big, too (except for his waist): 300 inch chest / 130 inch waist / 110 inch biceps / 150 inch quads. And shoulders that are 15 feet from side to side, which makes him exactly twice as wide as he is tall.

He IS prone to complain about his dick, which is “only” (as he says) 30 inches long, just 25% longer than mine, not 50%. I point out that at 90 inches he’s “only” 6 inches taller than I am, in other words, he should quit his bitching!

Coupling, as you might imagine… Well, no, I guess you probably really can’t imagine, can you? It’s kinda like trying to dock the QM2 with the International Space Station IV (a gift, as you will recall, from the Nik Nik), i.e., something that really isn’t supposed to happen, so consequently something that has to occur in a very deliberate, coordinated fashion, else something is likely to get crushed or mangled. At this point we’ve done it enough that we do it fast, as well as deliberately. And once we discovered the salt mine, we determined that we could play as rough as we wanted. Sure, we show up on the USGS monitors, but they know we’re there, and the few tunnel collapses that have occurred, well, those Nik Nik arbeiters we purchased a while back put things back right, lickety split.

We keep thinking we’ll see other guys like us. Even after the Great Exodus, there are still a couple of billion people on the planet, and muscle is all the fashion (which isn’t too surprising considering the human population is now about 30% gay / lesbian.) There are plenty of huge men out there but they’re only incrementally bigger than their fathers and grandfathers from the early part of the 21st century.

“Sometimes…” David said recently. “I know,” I answered. “Know what?” he countered. “You want to go outside,” I replied. He grunted. “I don’t blame you,” I continued. “That new guy, Frank McKenzie, is freakin’ hot.” David laughed. “Nobody says ‘freakin’ any more, old man!” I grinned. “But he IS, isn’t he?”

David scratched the foot deep cleavage between his mammoth pecs, something he really shouldn’t be able to do, except that over time our anatomies have shifted in ways that allow us to remain functional, despite our vast bulk.

“Yeah,” he allowed, finally. “For a little feller, he’s freekin’ hot.” McKenzie, the most recent King of Bodybuilding, is 6 feet 6 inches tall and 600 pounds, the biggest man to ever win the Coleman Crown. In other words, he’s pretty much a dwarf compared to David. “Little or no…” The look on his face tells me that David has something other than going outside on his mind. I press the stud that calls the freight elevator.

It’s time to rumble.

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