Summer vacation

by Richard Jasper

Recent high school graduate Roger is looking forward to spending the summer—alone—at his grandparents’ lake house. He plans to eat, lift, and grow! Little did he anticipate the effect his grandfather’s special formula Vegemite would have on the process!

Added: 3 Oct 2020 8,655 words 3,243 views 4.3 stars (3 votes)

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June 1

I can’t believe I persuaded Mom and Dad to let me spend the summer here at the lake house! It’s my favorite place on Earth but Dad and Pops get along like oil and water so we never stay more than a week, which well and truly sucks. And, no, I’ve never figured out what that’s all about, although I’m sure some of it is that Dad secretly feels he doesn’t measure up. Not that Pops has or ever would make an issue of it or even think it.

Dad is a healthy, handsome, athletic, 6’2, 200-pound middle aged man but Pops is, well, let’s be clear about it—Pops is a giant! Yes, he’s 70 but he’s 6’6” tall and I’m sure he weighs more than 300 pounds, maybe a lot more than 300 pounds, and he’s solid as a rock. He’s also the sweetest, nicest, most unintimidating man I’ve ever met, which I largely attribute to Gram. She’s also 70 but I’m guessing a sexier septuagenarian has never lived and it’s clear she keeps Pops on an even keel.

The house is so cool, a large living area, big kitchen, a library, four bedrooms, and a full basement with a full gym, sauna, steam-room etc. Maybe I’ll put on some muscle this summer! God knows I’m tired of feeling like a shrimp. At 5’11 and 160 pounds. I guess I’m decent enough for a just-turned-18 newly-minted high school graduate but compared to Dad, much less Pops, I’ve always felt like I was an insignificant bug!


Made it to the house in record time, even with a stop at McKinnon’s to pick up some vittles and sundries. The kitchen is fully stocked, of course, but with Pops and Gram in Japan this summer they made a point of telling me it would all be packaged or frozen. So I picked up a steak, a baking potato, and a pre-made salad and… OMG! Old Man McKinnon’s new store manager is such a total hunk! Steve, as I found out was his name by reading his name tag, is about the same height as Dad, around 6’2, but he’s easily 250 pounds and all of it is solid muscle. Probably 5-6 years older than I am, blond, blue eyed, tanned, smooth, totally ripped.

Whoosh! I can see I’ll need to be making regular visits even if the kitchen is fully stocked! Speaking of the kitchen, Pops left a big jar of his own homemade vegemite right in the middle of the kitchen counter with a note on it:

Here’s hoping you’ll have a great summer, Roger! Spend some time in the gym and, remember, Vegemite tastes good on anything—or nothing at all! Love ya, Pops

I had to laugh. Vegemite was one of those things that Dad and Pops always fought over, Pops insisting it was good for what ails you, Dad maintaining it was mined from the bottom of a toxic waste dump. He refused to let me have even a single bite of it growing up, which, naturally, just increased my fascination but somehow I never managed, despite my sneaky kid ways, to get into it and, Pops, despite all my pleading, insisted in adhering to Dad’s wishes. As for Mom and Gram, they always said, “Vegemite is for boys,” which I took for granted although looking back on it that strikes me as an odd thing for two hyper-feminists to say!

Needless to say, I got out the whole wheat bread, opened the jar, and slathered some on. Jesus! It was like ambrosia! Like peanut-butter and jelly combined with the best steak you ever had and a bowl of chicken noodle soup! How could that be possible—and what was Dad thinking? I ate three and now I’m about to pass out!

More tomorrow!

June 4

Hard to believe I could be so busy all by myself! But here it is three days later and I haven’t touched the keyboard ‘til now! Man, I’m totally loving it here. My routine thus far:

I get up. I eat breakfast (a LOT of breakfast—Vegemite on scrambled eggs, mmm!) I go downstairs and lift. I have a mid-morning snack (Vegemite on English muffin, mmmm!) I take a nap. I get up. I eat lunch (Vegemite on pancakes, delish!) I lift. I eat. I go swimming. I eat. I lift again. I eat supper (Vegemite casserole!) I crash.

Today I went to McKinnon’s to pick up some more supplies (and to check out Steve again!)

“Hey, Steve,” I said, trying not to drool. He looked me up and down, sort of puzzled like. “Hey, uh… Roger, isn’t it?” I nodded and smiled. “I almost didn’t recognize you,” he said. “You must have been more dressed up the first time I saw you, I thought you were smaller.” I shook my head. “Same old me!” Well, at least he noticed!

Back at the house I pulled out the bathroom scale. I mean, after all, I’ve been eating like there was no tomorrow. And Steve was mistaken. What I wore to McKinnon’s today is exactly what I wore on the first visit. So how could I have looked smaller? The scale said:

172 pounds!!!

I re-checked it three times, then and found the scale in Gram’s bathroom, which said the same thing. Twelve pounds in three days?

Well, that’s interesting!

June 11

It’s been a helluva week!

More of exactly the same, of course, namely eat lift eat nap eat swim eat lift eat crash! Amazingly enough, I seem to eat more every day. Breakfast has gone from 2-3 eggs and toast and Vegemite to 8 eggs and 6 pancakes and a pound of bacon and Vegemite. But I don’t seem to be getting fatter. In fact, my abs—my body’s one good point—are looking sharper all the time. Not sure how that could be but, hey, why would I complain, right?

I guess it’s all going into my lifts. I know you’re not supposed to do a full body workout every day but that’s what I wind up doing, split into three sessions. Man, I really love working chest! It’s great that Pops has a Smith machine because I’d feel uncomfortable benching without a spotter. As it is, I have a feeling of total self-confidence!

And my lifts get better every day! The first day I could barely bench my own weight (160 pounds) for one rep and three days later I was benching 200 pounds for 10 reps, which was something like an extra 15 pounds every day. And then this past week I really took off! Today I managed one rep with four 45-pound plates on each side! You heard it, that’s 360 pounds plus the 45-pound bar so that’s officially 405 pounds! I mean, I know, it’s a machine, right, so it’s not really like I’m benching 400 pounds but it still sounds cool!

I paid another visit to McKinnon’s this afternoon and, well, that was kind of odd. Steve acted like he didn’t recognize me at all! I said “Hey, Steve” and he replied with “Hiya” and kinda looked at me like “Who the hell are you?” I asked him how his week had been and before I could say more he snapped his fingers and said:

“Oh, I got it, you must be that Roger kid’s big brother, right?”

I laughed out loud! “Steve,” I said, “what’s the deal? I’m Roger—I don’t have a big brother. Or a little brother. Or a sister. I’m a singleton!” His mouth fell open. “What are they feeding you out there?” he blurted. I rolled my eyes. “It’s just me,” I said. “I’m feeding myself. Gram and Pops are in Japan and my parents are in Germany. I’ve got the summer to myself!” He shook himself and then rang up the bill. “Well, man,” he said. “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up! It’s working!” I laughed and said I’d see him in a week. As soon as I got home and put the groceries away, I pulled out the scale again.

200 pounds!!!

Good God Almighty!

How is that possible?
June 15

It seems like I am going through a growth spurt—not just out but also up! I had sort of figured that at 18 I had topped out but since coming up here I’ve kept bumping into things. Plus my hands and feet seem so swollen. Finally I lined myself up against the height gauge Pops has down in the basement, the one Dad has always detested (because Pops is a good 4 inches taller than he is!) I put a book on my head, kept it as straight as I could, reached back to draw a pencil mark under it, and turned around…

6 feet even!!!

I’m an inch taller than I came here two weeks ago. Or maybe I’m an inch taller than I thought I was. Who knows? But I’m thinking it’s the former, especially since today I pulled out my sneakers (I’ve been wearing flip flops the whole time) and could barely stuff my feet into them! Seriously, I’m going to have to get some new ones!

And, uh, well, I checked something else, too. I’ve always been kinda pleased with my 9-incher, figuring I got that from Pops (because I’ve seen Dad’s in the shower and once when he was napping and it’s no more than 8-inches.) Only now it’s a 10-incher! Am I going through second puberty or what?

Oh, well, time for some more Vegemite!

June 18

“Jesus,” Steve said, when I stopped by McKinnon’s for my weekly shopping trip. “You’re getting fucking huge!”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, c’mon, Big Man,” I said. “You don’t have to humor the kid!” Steve shook his head. “Seriously, Roger, you’ve gotta tell me what you’re on. I’ve seen some fast gains in my time but this is ridiculous.”

I felt my log—that’s what it felt like these days—stirring in my gym shorts. “Get real, dude,” I said. “I’m not on anything. Well, other than eat big, lift big, sleep big!” Steve reached out and put his big paw on my upper arm—bazinga! Damn that felt good. “Roger, nobody grows an arm this big this fast without some assistance,” he said.

I blushed.

“You really think it’s gotten big?”

Steve took off his apron and motioned me over to the reflective mirror hiding Mr. McKinnon’s office. He pulled up his sleeve and flexed his right arm. Holy fucking moly! What a beautiful sight!

“Twenty-one inches cold,” Steve said. “Now let’s see yours.”

I shook my head but then complied.

“Fuck,” I said.

It was almost as big as Steve’s!

“I’d say that’s about 20 inches cold,” Steve said, authoritatively. “Not bad for a kid who weighed about a buck sixty a month ago.” I muttered. “What was that?” he asked. I cleared my throat. “Three weeks ago,” I said. “I came up—almost—three weeks ago.”

He whistled. “We’re gonna have to train together at some point,” he said. “Maybe I can pick up some pointers!” I blushed again. “That would be great!” I enthused. “I’d love to have someone to train with. And I’ll think you’ll be impressed with Pops’ set up!”

So now we have a date to work out—Steve’s coming over Saturday morning (four days from now!) I’ve been avoiding the scale but I checked again just now.

228 pounds. That’s 68 pounds in three weeks! I don’t get it but I’ll take it, I’ll take it!

June 22

I thought Steve’s eyes were going to pop out of his head when he saw Pop’s gym.

“Damn,” he said. “This place is fucking huge!”

I couldn’t help notice that he didn’t seem to be able to take his eyes off me while he said it, either, which resulted in my casually turning around to adjust my shorts—that extra half inch was causing things to pinch and bind in ways they hadn’t done previously.

At my suggestion we started with chest but we used the regular bench instead of the Smith machine. “Not sure how well I’m gonna do on this,” I pointed out. “I’m used to having the machine.” I loaded plates on my side and after I had three one side and he had one on the other I stopped. “You’re going to warm up with 315?” he said, a look of mild incredulity on his handsome face.

I frowned. “Is that what you want?” I asked. “I usually start with 405 but that’s okay I can just up the reps.” He stared at me, his mouth open. “What?” He shook his head. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t I do mine first and then we’ll do yours?” I shrugged.

“Fine by me.”

So he did a warm-up set with 315 and then upped the weight in more or less 50-pound increments until he finished with one perfect rep at 495 pounds. I looked at him.

“Uh, Steve,” I said. “Seriously. Five more pounds, okay?”

He blushed.

“I’m almost ready for that,” he said. “It’s, I dunno, some psychological barrier.”

I added two 5-pound plates to the bar and pointed to the bench.

“Do it,” I said. And, yeah, I sorta growled.

His eyes widened but he got down on the bench.

“Nothing to worry about, Big Man,” I told him. “I’ve got you covered.”

He looked at my big thick hands—damn they were getting hairy—and my ham-sized forearms, took a deep breath, and…Two perfect reps!

“Goddamn,” he said, jumping off of the bench and pumping his fist. “I’ve been waiting a year to do that!” I grinned and slapped him on the back, which seemed to make him lose his balance a little bit. And then I laid down on the bench.

“Uh, Roger,” he said. “You’re going to start with 505?”

I just looked at him.

“You’ve got it, right? I’m used to Mr. Smith spotting for me.” He assumed the position. I cranked out 20 reps, then sat up and shrugged my shoulders. Steve’s eyes looked like they were ready to pop out of his head, but I changed topics.

“Ya know,” I said. “I think I want to weigh myself.” And so I stepped over to the scale. “Actually, no,” I said. “I’m not being polite. You go first?” Steve grinned. “Sure, Monster, I’ll go first,” he said, laughing. “Better do it now while I still outweigh you!”

248½ pounds. Pure, ripped muscle. “You’re a freak,” I said. And then I stepped on the scale:

244 pounds. “And you’re two inches shorter than I am,” he said, quietly. I shrugged. “Actually, more like an inch and a half. I’ve grown another half inch since last week.” And then we went back to the bench.

565 pounds for 15 reps.

615 pounds for 10 reps.

And one perfect rep at 675 pounds.

“Damn, boy,” Steve whispered.

June 23

And then I fucked his ass.

All afternoon, all evening, well into the morning. He finally left, kinda limping, a couple of hour ago. So now I’m not a virgin. In fact, I kinda think at this point I’m something totally unvirginal. Like a bull, maybe. Steve kept calling me that, and, well, I liked it.

I really liked it. Makes me feel strong. Kinda like I felt when I was holding Steve up against the wall, all 248½ pounds of him sliding up and down on my 10½ inch steel-hard tool, shrieking like a school girl. I need to jack off. Sixteen orgasms with Steve apparently weren’t enough. And then I need to eat.

And then I need to lift.

June 30

When I opened the door, I thought Steve was going to faint.

“Jesus,” he said. “You’re a fucking tank.”

Well, yeah. I was a tank when I fucked his ass 16 ways from last Sunday—and that was a week ago. “According to the scale, 276 this morning,” I said. “Come downstairs. I want you to measure me.” I saw the big salami stiffen in his cargo shorts. I knew he liked the idea. “I tried doing this myself,” I said, as I sidled up against Pop’s height chart. “But I can’t reach back there.” I straightened up and Steve looked behind me.

“Six feet and one inch,” he noted. “I thought you were taller.”

I nodded.

“I thought so, too,” I said, grabbing my crotch. “It’s bigger down here, too.”

Then he measured the rest:

Chest: 57 inches
Biceps: 22½ inches—cold
Waist: 31 inches
Quads: 32 inches
Calves: 21 inches.

“Shit, man,” Steve said. “You ought to compete.”

I winked at him.

“Yeah,” I said. “But what sport?” With that I stretched out on the pre-loaded bench and cranked out 20 reps—with 800 pounds! “Mmm rrrg mmmf,” Steve gasped, panted, and jerked. I looked at him. He was blushing.

“Dude,” I said. “Did you really…?”

He sank to his knees, pulled down my jock, and started nursing on my 11-inches of ultra-thick man meat. I looked over my sculpted pecs and down at the top of his handsome blond head. Then I lifted my arm and flexed.

Yeah, I thought. That’s right. It is the same size as his head!

I had to pull him off me to put him through his workout, then I fucked him three (or maybe four) times. He likes it best when I hold him in the air in front of me, resting his weight on my arms with my hands behind his head, no part of his body touching the ground, just his ass against my big tool.

“It’s like flying,” he screams, over and over again. Thank God the nearest neighbor is a mile away! Then I sent him home. It was time for me to eat. It was time for me to lift.

And as fun as it is to have him watch, he can’t keep up with me.

July 4

Steve picked me up in his Jeep and took me to the beach for the 4th of July cookout.

I was wondering what the hell I was gonna wear but I rummaged around in Pops’ closet and found a pair of faded Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, neither of which quite swallowed me like a tent (the shorts more so than the shirt but even then I realized I’d underestimated Pops’ weight by at least 50 pounds!) Ditto, I was wondering how I was gonna enjoy the water—our place has a private cove so I just go au naturel—but Steve saved the day by bringing a bright white speedo with a generous pouch!

“Try it on for me now, okay?” he said, eager as a puppy. I shucked the shorts and the shirt and stepped into it. Steve’s eyes were the size of saucers. “Holy fucking moly,” he said, reverently.

I laughed.

“That good, huh?”

He shook his head.

“Waaaay more than that good. You have no idea!”

If I didn’t then, I did when we got there. I must have met a hundred people, men and women, boys and girls, from little kids up to senior citizens, none of whom could take their eyes of me, all of whom were gob-smacked to find out I was Jake’s and Helen’s (Pops and Gram’s) “little Roger!” It was also clear that I may not have been the tallest guy there but I was the biggest and best built.

“Wow, Roger, I remember you from last summer,” said one cute little beach bunny named Olivia. “You’re twice the size you were then!”

I thought I could hear steam coming out of Steve’s ears.

“Well, not quite,” I told her, slightly expanding my now 60-inch chest. “Just 292 this morning. I was 150 this time last year.”

She gawped.

“You’re only 8 pounds away from being twice as big as you were last year?”

I nodded. I could smell the sex coming off of her. Steve had told me to watch out for her. If ever there was an entry for “muscle slut” in the dictionary, Livy’s picture would have been next to it. Suddenly Steve had something he really needed me to do behind the cabana.

“I can’t believe you’re letting that cunt talk to you that way,” he said.

I rolled my eyes.

“Uh, Steveo, when did you turn into a drama queen?”

That, well, that I’m afraid pissed him off. He bunched up his fists but quick as a shot my big meathook went out and lifted him—all 250 pounds of him—right off the ground. That’s right. One handed. His toes were dangling a couple of inches off the ground. Naturally, he was instantly hard. I put him down and wrapped him up in a big bear hug.

“You know you’re the one for me, right?” I whispered in his ear. He sighed a little sigh. “Now get some control of that thing and let’s take a swim before we eat, okay? I’m starved!” He laughed then. “Roger,” he said. “You’re always starved!” He got that right.

And it’s not getting any better.

July 6

I wish Steve were here but he had to go to Binghamton for some family function. I’ve been here exactly 5 weeks and as of today…

300 pounds.

Hard to imagine!

When I showed up I was 5’11 and 160 pounds, soaking wet. Now I’m closing in on Dad in terms of height and he’s sure gonna be surprised when he sees me because next to me he’ll look like a stick!

Did I mention I’ve been getting hairier every day? I didn’t really notice it at first. I mean I always envied Dad and Pops their splendidly hairy chests and lush beards (Dad confines his to a goatee but that’s just a personal preference on his part) but I figured I’d catch up eventually. It didn’t occur to me that I’d catch up in five weeks!

You know that Pete Kuzak guy? Really hunky Colt model from a decade ago, awesome muscles, great hairy chest, thick stache, sexy stubble? Next to me he looks like Little Bo Peep. I’m 20 pounds heavier in all the right places and my fur is twice as thick (also in all the right places.) And my guess is I’ll abandon the stache for a full beard sooner rather than later. Like tomorrow or the next day.

It’s a pain to have to shave twice a day.

It gets in the way of lifting!

July 15

I didn’t see Steve this weekend, which was disappointing, but he showed up tonight, first time I’ve seen him since he left for Binghamton.

“Oh My God,” he said, reverently, when I opened the door.

I was looking him right in the eye. “I was gonna ask you to measure me again but I guess we don’t have to do that now, do we?” He gulped. “Uh, Roger,” he said, his eyes scanning my yard-wide shoulders, my massive pecs, my bowling ball biceps.

“How much do I weigh now?” I asked his question for him. He nodded. “As of this morning, 336 pounds,” I told him. “But you know how it is. That was 12 hours ago, so probably another couple of pounds since then.”

He jerked, once, twice, three times. I rolled my eyes. “C’mon in, Cupcake,” I told him. “And we’ll get you cleaned up.” You’d think a guy with such a great tan wouldn’t be able to blush quite that shade of crimson but he did even so.

“Uh, Roger…” I arched an eyebrow. “Could I measure you anyway?” I chuckled. “Well, hell, son, I was counting on it,” I answered. “It’s clear I’m up to 6’2 but I don’t know the other measurements.”

I had pretty much suspected I’d hit 6’2. I’d taped ‘Lil Roger’ at exactly 12 inches that morning—yessir, I’m the proud owner of a foot-long! Measuring the rest took longer than I would have expected, mostly because Steve’s hands kept shaking. Eventually, the results were in:

Chest: 68 inches
Waist: 34 inches
Biceps: 27 inches
Quads: 38 inches
Calves: 26 inches

“Your biceps are just an inch smaller than my quads,” Roger pointed out. I stepped on the scale and it was as I expected: 338 pounds. Steve and I were now the same height…but I had 90 pounds of muscle on him!

“Wanna see something cool?” I asked him. He looked at me like I was an idiot. He looked at my crotch. “No, not that,” I said, although a glance that steamy got the inevitable reaction.

I nodded towards the bench.

“Jesus,” Steve said.

There were twelve 45-pound plates on each end of it and it was an extra-long, extra-thick bar (I’d had to order it—damned shipping was expensive!), weighing 75 pounds. I saw him moving his lips, trying to add it all up.

“Eleven fifty-five,” I told him. “The bar is heavier than normal.”

I lay down on the bench and Steve let out a gasp.

“Roger,” he said. “Ain’t no way I’ll be able…”

To spot me, I thought. Yeah, I know.

I cranked out 20 reps, without breaking a sweat. Steve jerked again. I sat up, squeezed my pecs together, and shook my head.

“Think you might want to save some of that for me?”

Steve tried sucking on my foot-long but he could barely get the head in his mouth, much less shaft. I let him chew on my nips for a while and then I flipped him over and stretched out on top of him. The foot-long reached halfway up his spine and given it’s girth (9 inches) it looked like a log going up the middle of his fine “Christmas tree” lower back.

I was suddenly intensely aware that my chest was as wide as his big bodybuilder’s back. I sat back, lifted Steve up with one hand, and gave it to him the way he craved it, bouncing him up and down on my cock, one huge hand on his head, using him as my own personal fleshlight. We spurted at the same time…And he passed out! He’d never done that before, no matter how many times we’d done it. It occurred to me that we might have reached Steve’s natural carrying capacity!

We’ll see!

July 20

Steve broke up with me today. Perhaps just as well since I figured I would have to break it off with him eventually.

“Roger, you’re the most amazing man I’ve ever come across,” Steve said.

Heh. And you’ve cum across me quite a lot, I thought.

“But I can’t take it,” he continued. “And I just don’t mean your dick.” Which was another half inch bigger than the last time he’d visited…and passed out. “I’m used to being the big guy,” pointed out. “And now I feel like a fucking midget, which I know I’m not. Next to you, though…”

I was standing there in doorway to the lake house, naked as a jaybird. One arm, now bigger than Steve’s leg, resting on the doorsill above my head. “Steve, that’s just the way it’s gonna be,” I said. “I outweigh you by more than a hundred pounds now and I don’t think I’m slowing down.” I gave my 72-inch pecs a quick flex, which was an effect akin to that of an avalanche.

Steve turned and walked away.

Will I see him again? My first and only. Sigh. Is it callous of me that I’m thinking he won’t be my last?


I don’t know why I haven’t done this earlier but tonight I sat down with my calendar and a calculator. It’s been exactly 7 weeks since I showed up at the lake house and in that time:

I’ve grown nearly 3½ inches taller. Likewise, I’ve added nearly 3½ inches to my dick. And I’ve more than doubled my weight, going from 160 to 356 pounds!


That’s 196 pounds total!

Jeezus, I’ve gained almost 200 pounds in 49 days and I’m sure I’ll gain another 4 pounds tomorrow! In fact (this is where the calculator came in handy), I’ve been gaining 4 pounds a day. Every day. For weeks on end. How is that possible?

All I can think of is the Vegemite, which I’ve gone through by the case (and there’s still plenty left.) But what the hell is in the stuff? It’s Pops’ “secret recipe,” of course, so who knows? And presumably all this, this growth is why Dad didn’t want to have anything to do with the stuff, or me to have anything to do with it. To which I have only one thought:

Why the fuck NOT?!!

In less than 2 months I’ve gained nearly 200 pounds of solid muscle, adding 30 inches to my chest, 16 inches to my arms (which are sitting right at 30 inches cold, thank you very much), grown quads the size of Buicks, and seen my strength go through the stratosphere. How many 18-year-olds (or anyone else, for that matter, of any age) do you know who can bench 4½ times their bodyweight?

Pops and I need to have a long talk when he and Gram get home!

July 31

Well, that was interesting!

The doorbell rang right at noon, which surprised the heck out of me—no one ever comes out here but Steve, who I haven’t seen since he dumped me, and he never rings, just opens the door (why lock it?) and pokes his head in. I opened the door and…

“Holy Shit!”

He said it but I thought it!

Standing in front of me was undoubtedly one of the world’s handsomest men. Vaguely Latin with curly jet black hair, strong features, full, sensuous lips, and a gorgeous olive complexion, he was about 5’10 and maybe 200 pounds, but he was completely fucking ripped, as in bf less than 5%.

“It’s really true,” he said, looking me up and down. “You really are the biggest motherfucker on Earth.”

I laughed. “Oh, c’mon,” I said. “I doubt that. Surely someone…” He shook his head. “Nope, there might be guys who are taller, there might be guys who weigh more, but no one has muscle like you do,” he said, then stuck out a strong, muscular hand. “Name’s Ramon but you can call me Ray.”

I took his hand in my giant mitt and gave it a gentle squeeze.


“Roger,” he said for me. “Steve’s told me all about you.”

Oh ho, I thought, THAT Ramon!

The one that Steve said was the world’s most ardent Muscle Queen, the one who’d left him standing in the Columbus Convention Center during the Arnold Sports Festival, his jaw gaping as Ray had gone off with an arm around Brad Hollibaugh on one side and Kai Greene on the other. “Hell,” Steve had told me. “I’m a big guy but there’s no way I could compete with the likes of those guys. And I’m sure if someone bigger than Brad and Kai came along, he’d be off with him, too!” Well, well, well—and now here he was on MY doorstep.

“See something you like, handsome?” Gawd. Did I really say that? Ray’s eyes were darting all over my body. If he’d been a piranha I’d’ve been mincemeat. “What’s not to like?” he asked. “You’re fucking huge! Why don’t you invite me in so I can, uh, get a closer look?”

I was feeling my oats, so I gave him the full Roger. The stats (6’3, 400 pounds, 80 inch chest, 33-inch biceps, you know the deal), the lifting (very close to benching 2000 pounds for 1 rep), the posing. And the 13 x 10 monster dick. It was quite a show and by the time I was done with it I was sweating, real summer having finally arrived at the lake. I sat down on the reinforced bench next to the basement wall and he came and crawled into my lap.

“Jeez,” I said. “You’re like a little kid next to me, aren’t you?” He smiled, a smile that was either a Gift from the Gods or the result of a small fortune in orthodonture. “Si, Papi,” I said. “I’m a big boy but next to you I’m a flea. And you know what fleas do, don’t you? They bite!”

Oh My God!

Steve was enthusiastic about sex but he sort of followed my lead. I think if I’d let him, Ray would have actually devoured me. There wasn’t a square inch of me that he didn’t lick, suck, nibble, gnaw, rub, stroke, flex, and generally drive me wild. It was entirely unclear to me whether I’d have to beg for mercy, since it was clear that eventually my eyes would roll up in my head and I’d pass out.

And then he sat his caramel-colored, silk-smooth bubble butt on my anaconda-dick and started using his own chute to jerk me off! I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear, I could just feel (and, oddly, enough, I could smell, Doc Bronner’s patchouli castile soap mingled with Skin So Soft bug spray…) Every time I got close he’d slow down and just before I was ready to shake him like a rag doll he’d start up again. Wash, rinse, repeat. For three hours. The explosion was cummeriffic!

When we finished, I was famished and I couldn’t get bread and Vegemite out on the counter fast enough. Ray stuck his nose in a jar and heeled back with a sour expression on his face.

“So this is the stuff, right?” I stopped stock still, my Vegemite-laden spoon hovering in midair above the slice of bread. “It’s okay,” he continued. “Steve told me all about it. It’s what makes you grow, right?”

I gulped. “Well, I dunno,” I said. “It might have something to do with it.” Ray snorted. “Oh, c’mon, Roger, why are you kidding yourself? Steve looked in your journal, ya know. No one increases their muscle mass 2½ times in eight weeks!” I was blushing furiously. “Why didn’t you ever offer it to him?”

Well, come to think of it—why hadn’t I offered it to him? Because I knew it was making me big and I wanted to be the big guy? Because I didn’t want to share my toys? (I’d had that only child canard thrown at me too many times!)

“I really don’t know,” I told him, truthfully. “He never asked and, besides, well, it’s sort of a family thing.” Ray arched an elegant, micro-refined eyebrow (what did he use to get them so perfect, a laser?) “But, hey, if you want some, go right ahead,” I said.

He looked at me curiously, as if he didn’t really believe I meant it. I finished the sandwich I was preparing and pushed the plate towards him. He took a bite…and gagged!

“Holy Mother of God,” he said. “That tastes awful!”

I shrugged my mountainous shoulders.

“I think it tastes great but I guess I’m wired differently, huh?”

He nodded, then took another bite, and another. It took him 15 minutes to eat that sandwich, giving a little shudder after every bite. And, damn, if he didn’t look just totally fucking gorgeous the whole time! “This has been fun,” he said, finally. “But I think it’s time for me to go.” He got up and headed toward the door, then turned. “Okay if I come back again?”

Cue violins, rainbows, doves fluttering out of magnolia trees.

“I’d be delighted!”

He nodded, then left. Will I see him again?

God I hope so!

August 1

No Ray today.


August 2

Still no Ray.

Have I been played?

August 3

Oh. Well, who knew? This morning the front door opened and Steve stuck his head in.

“Roger, what the hell did you do to Ray?!” he bellowed. I stood up and hurried over to him and…I thought his eyes would bug out of his head! “Jesus, Roger,” he exclaimed. “Will it ever stop?!” The last time Steve had seen me I was 356 pounds. This morning the scale—the one out in the barn that they used for livestock back in the day—registered 412 pounds.

“Steve,” I said. “I really don’t know. Sometimes I worry that it won’t. And then what?”

His brow furrowed for a moment, giving the question due consideration. Then he broke into his best Surfer Steve smile. “Then you’ll be the biggest thing in history!” I had to grin. Then he was serious again. “But you made Ray sick as a dog,” he said. “I had to take him to the ER. Nausea and vomiting and diarrhea. They gave him IV fluids and kept him overnight but, uh, he said to tell you…”

I looked up expectantly.

“Well, I guess I shouldn’t actually say that,” Steve said. “But I think it comes down to you’ve destroyed Ray’s appreciation for never too big.”

Big sigh.

“I was afraid of that,” I said.

He moved in and put his big thick arms around me (well, his biceps are quite a bit smaller than my forearms now, but still…)

“It was the Vegemite, wasn’t it?”

I shrugged.

“I have to assume so,” I told him. “Ya know, I really do not know what’s in it, other than that Pops swears by it. And I’ve seen him pick up the back end of a Buick—at age 69—so it’s kinda hard to argue with, ya know?”

He nodded.

“I never wanted to touch the stuff,” he said. “I’d kill to be as big as you are but my nose knows and it said ‘No way, Jose.’ It must be coded to your DNA or something.” It occurred to me that Steve was, in fact, working on a Ph.D. in molecular biophysics at SU. So perhaps he was onto something. And then I realized his hands were on my giant pecs and his big strong fingers were doing a number of my rock hard hairy nips.

“Uh, I thought…”

He rubbed his chin through my chest hair. “I’ve done some thinking, too,” he said. And…? “I don’t have to be bigger than you are—I just need to be bigger than most people!”

I chuckled. “Babe, you are already and unlike me you don’t have to rely on Vegemite to get much bigger, do you?”

He smirked.

“No, come to think of it, probably not!”

Tonight I let him drive.

I liked it!

August 8

I don’t know what it was—maybe it was Steve fucking me—but something kicked my metabolism into overdrive.

As in:

Over the summer I’ve been growing taller at a rate of an inch every two weeks. Regular as clockwork. Today we measured again. 6’4. Eight days ago I was 6’3. That’s nearly twice as fast as before. If this pace keeps up I could be 6’6 by the time Pops and Gram get home from Japan.

Oh, and: 460 pounds. That’s 48 pounds in five days. All muscle. My chest is now 92 inches, biceps are up to 38 inches. That’s bigger than Steve’s waist. A lot bigger than Steve’s waist. And, yeah, my dick’s an inch bigger, too. Just what in the hell am I supposed to do with a dick that’s 14 x 11?

Actually, I think Steve has an idea about that!

August 10

It’s been ten weeks since I came up to the house and started on the Vegemite. For most of the past week, I have been gaining 10 pounds a day. Yes. That’s what I said. Ten pounds of solid muscle every day! Today I weighed in at 480 pounds. That’s 68 pounds in the last week!

When I showed up 10 weeks ago I was 160 pounds. Since then I have tripled my bodyweight. I outweigh Steve by more than 200 pounds. (By the way, something—definitely not Vegemite—has upped his metabolism, too! He’s gained 10 pounds in the past week!)

We’re not really sure how much stronger I am than he is. But just to see, I slid under Pops’ baby, his powder blue 1974 Buick LeSabre convertible and pushed up. A little awkward to balance but I held it in the air.

For a minute.

Advertised curb weight:

4372 pounds.

That got my attention! It got Steve’s, too! He wanted to fuck me but I demurred.

“I want to try something first.”

I picked him up with one hand and held him in the air. All 260 pounds of him. Then I started sucking his cock, good and slow. Before long he was bellowing like a bull and bucking like a bronco but it made difference—he wasn’t going anywhere. About 10 minutes into it he came and I put him down.

“You could have held me like that all day, couldn’t you?”

I nodded my head.

“Piece of cake.”

I put my hands on his broad, bodybuilder’s shoulders. They were narrower than my mammoth chest. “You realize, right, that a couple of days from now I’m going to hit 500 pounds.” His eyes widened.

“What do you think we should do to celebrate?”

August 12

500 pounds.

We celebrated! I will leave the rest to your imagination!

August 16

I’m up to 6’5 now, which makes me noticeably taller than Steve. Considering before this summer I was always average at best, suddenly being tall is, well, it makes me horny as fuck. I keep walking up to him and just leaning in a little bit! Finally, after I’d done that about the 10th time, he barked.

“Stopped looming, would ja? Yes, I know, you’re 6’5! Great! You’re also 542 pounds. Get used to it!”

About the same weight as your average silverback gorilla, in case you’re wondering, although I’m quite TALL for a gorilla, you know. They’re rarely more than 5’10” tall. Did I say tall?

Speaking of gorillas, Steve is now up to 270 pounds, all of it in the right places. That’s 20 pounds in roughly two weeks and I swear his body fat percentage is dropping about as fast as the muscle is growing. At the rate he’s going he could step on the Mr. Olympia posing dais and clobber the competition. I mentioned that and he looked at me like I was crazy.

“Need I point out that you weigh exactly twice what I do?” Oh. “Are you suggesting…?” He crossed his big bulging arms. Fuck, I get hard every time I look at him! “That you should consider competing? Well, YES, actually, although I’m guessing they would have to create a new class for you. Mr. Olympia Super Maximum, maybe. For guys over 500 pounds!”

Have you ever seen a 15 x 12 cock at full mast and hard as rebar? Steve has! Oh, I forgot to mention: After Steve fucked me a couple of weeks ago I started gaining 10 pounds per day but over the past 24 hours I’ve put on 12 pounds. That’s a half a pound every hour.

How is that possible?

August 21

I hit 600 pounds yesterday, sometime between 11 a.m. and noon. That was 4 pounds more than when I woke up at 6 a.m. Or about one pound every hour and a half.

Today when I got up I was 612. I ought to hit 620 by suppertime.

August 24

Pops and Gram returned home today. To say that it was a bit of a scene is an understatement.

“Well, look at you!” Pops said when I went out to greet them.

I looked him in the eye—we were both now exactly the same height, 6’6” tall—and enveloped his big strong hand in my giant paw. “Me oh my,” Pops said. “I bet you’re over 500 pounds, aren’t you? I always wanted to go there but your Gram wouldn’t let me.” Normally a grin like mine would be described as “shit eating” but in this case I think we can all agree that “vegemite eating” would be more appropriate. “660 this morning,” I told him. “But that was eight hours ago so…”

Gram looked furious. “I told you to keep that crap locked up,” she told Pops. “Now look at him. Your son is going to be furious!” Pop just rolled his eyes. “Junior has an inferiority / superiority complex,” he replied. “He didn’t want to get big because I was big. Now he’s not big and he resents it. Not my problem. And not Roger’s either.”


Well, THAT explained a few things!

Then Steve came out and I introduced him as my boyfriend and Gram instantly went into (what I learned was her) natural fag hag state and gushed all over him—all 290 pounds of him! Meanwhile Pops was stiff as could be and the more Gram gushed the more he glowered. Finally, he pulled me aside.

“Who said you could give the Vegemite to someone outside the family?” he growled at me. “That stuff’s coded to our DNA. It could be very dangerous to someone who doesn’t have our genes!”

The penny dropped.

“Oh!” I said. “Pops, not to worry! Steve is a bodybuilder. He built that body on his own, no help from Vegemite! In fact, he can’t stand the smell of the stuff. He has to leave the room when I open the jar! And the bigger he gets the less he can tolerate it!”

Pops visibly sagged with relief.

“Well, that’s alright then! C’mon over here and give Pops a hug, young man!” he said, beckoning Steve over. And, yes, I swear Steve boned up when my 6’6, 440-pound, 70-year-old granddad squeezed him up into an off the ground feet dangling bear hug. Steve told me afterwards that Pops had whispered in his ear, “Happens all the time, Big Fella, think nothing of it.”

Then we sat down and had a serious talk. Pops pointed out that Gram was the one who had formulated vegemite. She was a nutritionist and a molecular biologist and 50 years previously she had been looking for a meal replacement formula to give to working moms. It hadn’t worked for her or any of her friends, most of whom accused her of trying to poison them; however, it had worked on her boyfriend (later husband), amazing well. He went from a 5’10 beanpole (even skinnier than I had been) to an absolute hulk over a period of about 10 years.

“Why it has worked so quickly on you is a mystery but it could be that there’s a genetic multiplier effect going on,” Gram pointed out.

Pops nodded.

“And the fact is at this point you could stop consuming any Vegemite and not only would your size remain but you’d probably still keep growing for a bit, even if you do nothing but sit on your ass all day,” he agreed.

Steve asked the obvious question.

“You mean he’s going to get bigger?”

Gram nodded.

“Probably taller, too,” Pops said. “Maybe a lot taller.”

I blanched.

“But what about college?”

Steve frowned. We hadn’t talked about what was going to happen at the end of the summer. He knew and I knew I was scheduled to show up for freshman orientation the day after Labor Day but we hadn’t talked about whether that was going to happen.

“I think maybe you need to defer your matriculation,” Gram said. “And see what happens next.”

Pops nodded.

“Call it a ‘gap year,’” he agreed.

I looked at Steve. I knew what he wanted. I also knew he wasn’t going to stand in the way of whatever decision I made.

“But where will I stay?” I asked. “I don’t think Dad and Mom…”

Pops snorted.

“Your dad is going to have a fit,” he said. “But leave him to me. If I need to lay down the law, I will.”

Gram rolled her eyes.

“The boys,” she said, clearly referring to Pops and Dad, “always have to make things so complicated. The simplest thing is for you to stay right here. There’s plenty of room for you—for you and Steve, I mean—and I have a ton of projects that could use some help from a couple [she put just the slightest—and rightest—amount of emphasis on ‘couple’!] of brawny lads.”

Steven’s grin was all the confirmation I needed. That evening Steve snuggled up to me and whispered in my ear. “So how was your summer vacation?”

I laughed. “And how was yours?”

He spent the rest of the night showing me!

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