Sometimes the lottery scratch-off isn’t about money at all.
Gary sighed slightly as he bent down to yank the pull cord on his gasoline powered lawn mower, his immense size dwarfing the contraption. It started with a hesitant sputter then broke into a satisfied thrumm. Gary straightened up and pushed the mower off his driveway onto the grass of his sprawling back yard.
He was, as usual, nearly naked: just a brief pair of tight shorts, which would have been loose, kneelength bermudas on him just a couple months ago. It was nearly impossible to find shirts that would fit his massive, but perfectly proportioned torso, and in the back of his mind he was wondering about where he’d have to go to get shirts custom-made before winter set in. He wore no underwear, for none would fit over his two unwieldy cocks, which occupied a space the size of a football even when not towering majestically at their fully erect, sixteen-inch, palm-wide maximum turgidity. He wore no shoes or sandals; he had yet to find anything that really comfortably fit his long, strong size 16 feet.
After he’d been mowing for the fifteen minutes or so he noticed that the neighbors’ back deck, some distance away across two affluent-suburban-neighborhood yards, was not longer unoccupied. He glanced up and waved at Rob and Larry, flashing them a brilliant smile. Rob and Larry, the high-school-senior twins who’d watched him more and more avidly every week since Gary’d bought the pace with the cash side of his scratch-n-win bonanza jackpot, lowered their binoculars and sheepishly waved back.
Gary knew that he was quite a sight—seven feet tall, long-limbed and built like a sculptor’s wet dream, noontime sweat glistening on his perfect pectorals, long fingers wrapped around the handle of his mower, an impossible package challenging the fabric of his shorts. He didn’t feel at all vain about his appearance: it was as if he’s been given a really great shirt that everyone liked on him, but it wasn’t really his. It was a gift. And one he was starting to think it was only right he should share with others.
He smiled, checking on the twins as he shifted into the side yard. They had brazenly resumed their surveillance. Even at this distance—and he had noticed that his visual acuity had improved dramatically (almost disturbingly) when he’d won his body makeover—he could see they had their binoculars in one hand and their hands in their laps, periodically adjusting their no-doubt-bone-hard equipment. Gary wondered if they could tell that if they were ever to meet properly and after a suitable period spend some intimate time together, that he had the means of keeping them both occupied.
He heard a car on the little-used neighborhood street and looked ahead toward the front yard in time to see a pickup truck pull up and park against the curb in front of his house. Gary stopped and watched as the driver emerged, unfolding himself from the cab of the truck. He was tall and lean, extremely tall in fact, dressed on scuffed old jeans and a worn tee-shirt that nevertheless seemed to fit him. the stranger extracted an old cowboy hat from the truck and put it on, tossing Gary a friendly smile as he did so. Gary cut off the lawnmower and walked toward the stranger with immense curiosity and a slight plumping of his oversized basket.
The stranger met him half-way in the midst of Gary’s front yard and extended a hand. They shook, and did not let go, basking in each other’s smiles.
“Gary, I’m so glad to finally meet you. I’m Phil.”
“Hi,” said Gary, still not letting go. He looked Phil over. He was indeed very tall—a good six inches taller than Gary; but his frame was well-proportioned rather than bulging with muscle like Gary, though Gary was sure he’d look pretty hot naked. Man, what was he thinking? He just met this guy.
“I’m the head of the National Scratch-N-Win Improved Players Club,” Phil went on, “and guess what! You’re our newest member!”
Gary pondered this. “You mean, there’s a whole group of people that won…” and he gestured with his free hand toward their bodies.
“You better believe it,” Phil said with gusto. “Speaking of which, shall we get those puppies inside before you bust those shorts?”
Gary grinned sheepishly and propelled his visitor toward the front door. He had, in fact, started getting aroused, just be the proximity of this sexy and obviously augmented man. Once inside, he sat them both down in the breezy sunroom, adjusting his now nearly hard cocks so that they were standing straight up as he sat, pressed against his stone-hewn abs. He gestured toward them and apologized.
Phil laughed. “Don’t apologize to me! They’re gorgeous. Fortunately I know some mental exercises to control erections, or I’d be in real trouble looking at those beauts.” By way of explanation he pulled back the cuff of his loose, worn jeans, exposing, to Gary’s amazement, a cockhead the size of an orange. Gary’s cocks were suddenly fully hard and then too hard, quivering painfully against each other.
Phil continued, keeping pretty good eye contact for the most part, though his appreciative gaze kept straying over Gary’s rangy frame. “The reason I’m here is that two weeks from tomorrow the Club is having a jubilee and you, gorgeous, are the guest of honor. It’s been two years since the last jackpot winner, you know, and we want to celebrate.”
“What is it, some kind of orgy?” Gary asked, fighting to keep his paws away from his own throbbing, monster cocks.
“No, nothing like that! It’s at the Plaza, for Pete’s sake. Black tie. I’ll give you the number of our tailor. He’s a miracle worker,” he added, taking stock of Gary’s awesome frame again.
“How many people will be there?”
“Most everyone, I guess. There’s about a hundred active members. Tall guys like me, cock-growers and double-cock guys, muscle studs, a few clone couples. You can meet the other jackpot winners, too. I dunno if you realize this, but it appears from Club research that part of the jackpot is that you dial your age back to 23 and you just stay that way, physically. Our founding jackpot winner won 25 years ago and I swear he looks younger than you.”
Gary was quivering—his cocks needed release badly. He was totally gripped by the idea of a roomful of hot, augmented guys, including a handful of Adonises that had received the same gift he had. “Sounds like fun!”
“Good. Be there at eight. Here’s my card,” he said, standing up and handing Gary a business card from his shirt pocket. Gary was surprised to see that it said Phil was a stockbroker at a top Wall Street firm.
Gary started to rise, but Phil pushed him back down, his strong hand lingering on Gary’s bulging, bare, sweaty shoulder. “I’ll find the way out. See you in two weeks!”
“See you there!” Gary said. He listened until he heard Phil’s truck start up, then he reached for his two monsters. He came almost before he knew it, a vast quantity of hot cum coating his sweating pecs; he let the saturating wave of pleasure wash over him, then he cracked his knuckles and started again.
Eventually the show was over, and as Gary got up to wash up and return to his mowing, Rob and Larry crept away from the sunroom’s open window. In a twinkling they were back in their bedroom, their clothes already shucked. They piled into Rob’s bed and lay there as they always did, their inner hands intertwined, their outer hands mercilessly flogging their constantly hard 10-inch boners.
“We gotta get into that party,” Larry said.
“How?” Rob grunted, already panting hard.
“Simple,” Larry said. “We’ll tell ‘em we’re clones.”
“Awesome!” The idea of a room full of Garys and Phils affected them much the way it had their irresistible new neighbor, and within moments they came, shooting three simultaneous spurts of jizz on their soccer-boy bodies. Following Gary’s example, they grinned at each other and started up again.