It all started with an arm-wrestling contest. Blond surfer god Mike Schnelling, 5’10”, 175 lbs., wanted to take me on. Which was fine but I had 50 lbs. on him, all muscle. We never could have imagined how it would all turn out!
And ate together. And hung out together. And had sex together.
Mike had a delicious dick, 8 inches long and 5 inches around, hard and silky smooth, exactly the same color as the rest of him. (Seriously, how did he tan his dick?) Plus his ass was perfect. Full and round and firm and, like the rest of him, smooth as silk. His eyes bugged out the first time he saw my 10-inch tool.
“It’s thicker than my wrist,” he said, grasping its eight-inch circumference. “I don’t know, I’ve never…” I put a finger on his luscious lips. “We’ll take it slow.”
Tears leaked from his eyes and he bit his lip. The first time. By the end of the summer he was bouncing his ass off my rod like it was a mechanical bull at some roadside country bar. He gained 20 pounds of muscle. I gained 35. It was a good summer. And our return to school was a sensation. We had both grown half an inch taller, which put us at 5’11½”. But Mike was a rock solid 190 pounds, all muscle. He looked like a college freshman.
I was 260.
And benching 855 pounds.
“C’mon,” Donte said. “You know you want to do it.”
His big, thick arm and meaty arm was cocked on the desk. It was Ms. Wilson’s snooze-inducing civics class. We were all supposed to be “working independently” while she ignored the buzz of conversation and flipped through her Glamour magazine.
“Okay,” Mike said. “If that’s what you want…”
Donte was 5’9 and 180 pounds of powerhouse wrestler, plus smart as a whip and classically handsome. Wide-spaced eyes, long curly lashes, broad handsome nose, full pink lips, and a strong jaw with a dimple in his chin. SWOON, in other words. He and Mike went at it a good two minutes, their 17-inch arms bulging and straining.
“Look at the veins!” Kathy Edgerton, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed teenager squealed. They went back and forth and if I hadn’t intervened Donte might have won. “I’ve got a present for the winner,” I murmured, just loud enough for both of them to hear it.
Mike slammed Donte’s arm down.
“Damn man,” Donte said. “Where did that come from?”
Mike, shaking out his arm, just shrugged his broad shoulders.
“He knows something you don’t know?”
Donte looked at me.
“You want to give me a try?” I put my arm on the desk and flexed. Twenty-three inches of rock hard, veiny bicep bulged and squirmed. “S’okay, man,” Donte said. “I’m not stupid, you know.” I put my arm down. “Not remotely,” I agreed. “But I think maybe you ought to come over Saturday and get some training tips from Mike here. Whaddya think, Mikey?” Mike cleared his throat. “I think I told you not to call me ‘Mikey,’” he replied. “Otherwise, excellent idea.”
Donte sauntered into the garage Saturday morning wearing baggy shorts that did nothing to hide his thick quads and a scooped tank-top that gave enticing glimpses of his completely ripped torso. Swell of pecs here, serratus and obliques there, a hint of shredded abs.
“Holy shit,” he said.
I was hanging from the chin-up bar, all 260 pounds of me. And Mikey, all 190 pounds of him, was hanging from my waist. And a 45-pound plate and a nice thick chain was hanging from his waist. “Oh, cool, you’re here,” I said. And then proceeded to crank out 50 perfect chin ups. The last 10 I did on a slow count.
“Done,” I exhaled. Mikey let go. I dropped from the bar and faced Donte. I scrunched my carved-from-granite 30-inch waist, grasped my left wrist, and twisted in a side chest pose. “Check it out, Donte,” I said. “Fifty-six inches cold, more like 58 inches now.”
Mikey had his big thick arm draped over Donte’s wide, meaty shoulders. “You ever see a 58-inch chest up close and personal?” he asked. Donte shook his head. The nine-inch steel hard rod tenting straight out from his loose, silky gym shorts was all the answer I needed.
“Let’s take Donte upstairs,” I said. “And talk about where this is going.”
And that’s how Donte became the Second Acolyte.
Somewhat more surprising was that the kid was a total bottom. At least for me, that is. For Mike he was a total top. Which is why on occasion Donte would be fucking the crap out of Mike and I would just wrap the two of them up in my arms and start fucking the crap out of Donte! It was good thing my loft bedroom over the garage was (more or less) sound-proofed!
And that pretty much defined our sophomore year. We ate together. We lifted together. We fucked together. We grew together. And nearly every day at lunch Mike and Donte arm-wrestled. It was just this thing they did. Donte was pretty consistently about 10 pounds lighter than Mike and their strength gains tended to mirror each other. But sometimes Donte was on fire, sometimes Mikey was having an off week. In general, he won about 2 times out of 3. But Donte was always jonesing for a rematch.
It was May, a week before school was out, and Mike and Donte were at it again.
“C’mon, Donte,” I urged. “You’ve got him this time.” Mike glared at me but I just shrugged my shoulders. “You know you’re both gonna get what you want regardless of who wins, right?”
Mike doubled down. But so did Donte.
In eight months all three of us had grown an inch taller. Mike and I were both 6 feet even, Donte was up to 5’10. And 230 pounds. Fifty pounds since the start of school. Ditto, Mike. 240 pounds. At 16 years old. You can say it:
They were freaks!
As for me: 330 pounds. All muscle. 66-inch chest. 33-inch waist. 28-inch arms. That’s right. My waist was only five inches bigger than my arms. Which were the same size as Mike’s and Donte’s quads.
“Are they at it again?”
I looked up.
It was Steve Hinkle. Formerly “Stevie,” the little dweeb who egged me and Mike on a year ago. In a year he had shot up from his 5’6” and 125 pounds to 6’2” and 185 pounds, with nice wide shoulders and a tiny, tight waist. Stevie was no longer a dweeb. Still, compared to Mike and Donte, who outweighed him by 45-55 pounds despite being 2-4 inches shorter, he was rail thin. And next to me…?
“You know these guys,” I said, scratching my recently hairy chest. It had been smooth a year earlier but now it was covered with a nice blanket of manly brown curls. I had taken to wearing plaid shirts with no sleeves and unbuttoned to my sternum. Douchey? Maybe. But like the saying goes, if you’ve got it! “They can’t keep their hands off each other.”
Steve arched an eyebrow.
“That’s pretty bold.”
I arched an eyebrow back.
“You think anyone’s gonna give them any grief about it?”
He had the decency to blush.
“Fuck no,” he said, then he leaned in and lowered his voice. “You guys are juicing, aren’t you?”
Donte pinned Mike’s arm to the lunch table.
“I heard that,” he said, flexing his 20-incher. “We’re not juicing. All natty here! Kale shakes all the way!” Mike snickered. “Well, I dunno,” he added. “We get plenty of juice from the Big Man!” Steve’s eyes went wide. I put a hand the size of a hubcap on Steve’s shoulder and squeezed—gently. He winced anyway.
“What I think,” I said. “Is that you ought to come over Saturday and check out our routine.”
He licked his lips.
“God, I want to grow,” he said, barely a whisper.
I wrapped my hand around his neck and pulled his head towards mine.
“You have plenty of potential, Mr. Grew Eight Inches and Gained 60 pounds in a year,” I told him. “You just need a crew that can motivate you to maximize it.”
He was there Saturday morning. Mike and Donte were having a posedown when he arrived. They could have entered any regional NPC contest and taken first and second place in the open class against guys 10-20 years older. Piece of cake. Then, for Steve’s benefit, I pulled off my sleeveless hoodie and slipped off my track pants. By that point my chest was broader than Mike’s and Donte’s oversized shoulders. My waist was a rippling work of art. My shoulders were literally 40 inches across. My rippling, shredded 36-inch quads made Big Ramy’s look like stuffed sausages. Steve was trying to cover up his boner. I pulled him to me, brushed his hand away, and felt him up.
“Did this grow eight inches, too?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“It was always big,” he said. “I thought I was a freak.”
“Check this one out,” I said, slipping my monster free of my jockstrap. I’d grown an inch taller in the previous year. It had, too, 11 x 9, an inch longer, an inch thicker. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Steve said. I flexed my arm and his face dove into my armpit like Greg Louganis off the high dive. I looked around at Donte and Mike, who were both rubbing their crotches. They were at full mast. “About time to take this upstairs,” I said. “How about you fellas do the honors?”
They looked at me and I nodded. Donte took one side of Steve, Mike the other, and they were off.
And that’s how Steve became the Third Acolyte.
The four of us—me, Mike, Donte, and Steve—walked into the weight room. Everything came to a complete halt. You could have heard a pin drop. Mike and Donte, who seemed to be working on a perpetual Ebony & Ivory twins routine, had both gained 35 pounds of muscle over the summer. That’s right. 275 pounds each. 8% bodyfat. 23-inch arms. Meanwhile, Stevie—uh, “Steve,” I mean—had exploded. In 10 weeks he added 65 pounds of granite-hard, exquisitely sculpted muscle. At 6’2” and 250 pounds, he was a walking wet dream. And me? 400 pounds. I was quite possibly the most muscular man of my size to ever walk the Earth. And I was 16 years old.
“Holy Fucking Shit!”
That was Jesse Rodriguez, captain of the football team, all 6’4 and 250 pounds of him. Jesse, with his black hair, thick brows, startling green eyes, full red lips, and sexy stubble, was considered to have “movie star good looks.” And he was built like an ox. Mile wide shoulders, traps up to his ears, thick, beefy pecs, arms, quads, calves, the whole deal. On the other hand, his was a football build, meaty but not lean. His body fat percentages were in the 15-20 rang, not sub-10 like the four of us.
I walked up to him and tilted my head back so I could look him in the eyes. He was a tall fucker, that was for sure. “Mind helping me and my buddies out, Jesse?” I asked. “We have a little experiment we want to try.” He arched an eyebrow. “Mmmm’kay,” he drawled. “What did you have in mind?” I nodded to Mike and Donte who were busy grabbing 45-pound plates and adding them to the Olympic bar at the bench press station. His eyes widened when he saw how many plates they were adding, stopping only when they had 12 on each side.
“You’re gonna bench that?!”
I shook my head.
“Naw, see this is how it’s gonna work,” I told him, and the rest of the weight room.
“I’m going to get under the bar, then Mike here is going to straddle one end of it and Donte the other…
“And then I want you and Steve here to each hold onto one of them, you know, like you would on a bike…
“And then I’m gonna bench it.”
I could see he was trying to do the math in his head but he stopped when I lifted my right arm and flexed.
“Look at it, Jesse. Thirty-four inches, cold. You think I’m gonna have a problem benching all that…?” He shook his head. “Then let’s get to it, okay?” I headed to the bench, then stopped and turned. “Oh, yeah, I forgot,” I said to Jesse. “I’ll let you pick who you want to partner with, Donte or Mike.”
I got on the bench and under the bar. Mike and Donte straddled either end. Jesse looked back and forth, then picked Mike. Good contrast, I thought, comparing Jesse’s dark Latino handsomeness with Mike’s blond Surfer God beauty. Then Steve climbed onto Donte (as he had done the night before; Donte’s ass really was insatiable!)
“Are we ready, gentleman?”
“Ready, Boss,” called my crew.
“Uh, ready, I guess,” Jesse added.
And then I took them for a ride.
10 reps @ 2,175 pounds.
When I re-racked the bar, Mike and Donte dismounted and then Steve and Jesse dropped from their backs. Jesse was looking a little green around the gills, so much so that…
His eyes rolled up in his head and he started tilting forward. I was on him like a shot, grabbing him before he could fall. Doing so shocked him awake, which is how he found himself my arms, me cradling all 250 pounds of him as if he were a kitten.
“So fucking huge,” he mumbled. “So fucking strong!”
I nodded at Mike, who was trying to keep a smirk off his face.
“Let’s get this Big Man some water, okay?” I continued to hold onto him while he swallowed it down. If anyone thought it was odd that I was being touchy-feely with the 6’4, 250-pound captain of the football team, they didn’t bother to mention it. And Jesse didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let go. “I think you should pay us a visit on Saturday morning,” I murmured in his ear when he finally started to perk up. He nodded.
“I think I’d like that,” he said, adjusting his shorts and giving me a nice view of the huge bulge therein. “I think I’d like that a lot!”
“Welcome to the Freak House,” I said to Jesse when he showed up at the garage Saturday morning.
“Or the Church,” Donte suggested.
“More like the Temple,” Stevie corrected.
“Or the plain old motherfucking garage,” Mike drawled.
The four of us were shirtless, wearing nothing but trainers and gym shorts, our torsos already glistening in the late summer heat despite the fact it was only 9 a.m. Jesse’s eyes bulged.
“So much fucking muscle!” Jesse exclaimed. “You guys are fucking freaks.”
Together the four of us weighed 1200 pounds. I draped my arms—bigger than their waists—around Mike’s and Donte’s shoulders.
“You ready to get freaky huge, Jesse?” Donte, who was six inches shorter than Jesse but outweighed him by 25 pounds, pointed to the massive bulge in Jesse’s shorts. “I think he’s just ready to get freaky,” he pointed out. I nodded at Stevie, our tall guy. “Help Jesse pull his shirt off and let’s have a look, okay?”
Jesse blushed but complied. His eyes kept darting to each of us but they stayed on me the most. “Fuck,” Jesse said. “I feel like a little girl next to you guys.” Donte reached out and rubbed Jesse’s crotch. “You might have some catching up to do in the muscle department,” he said. “But this muscle is clearly doing fine and dandy.”
I gotta tell ya: Seeing my boys surrounding the hot hulky handsome football captain was majorly turning me on. Their peckers were all hard as rocks and Jesse was like a kid in a candy store, going from one package to another.
“Let’s take this upstairs,” I said, interrupting his explorations, “and talk about how this is going to work.”
And that’s how Jesse became the Fourth Acolyte.
It turns out that our muscles weren’t the only things that had been growing. The first time Mike and I played together, his was 8 x 5 and mine was 10 x 8. By the time Donte came along with his 9 x 8 kielbasa, I was up to 11 x 9 and Mike was up to 9 x 6. Ditto, when Stevie joined us he was already up to 10 x 7! But now… Stevie was 11 x 8, Donte was 10 x 8, Mike was 10 x 7, and I was 14 x 12. Say it: We were freaks!
“I dunno, M-m-man,” Jesse stuttered. “I’ve been blown by a lotta guys and once or twice I’ve reciprocated but they were half the size of you guys!”
I put my big meathooks on his shoulders.
“It’s okay, dude,” I said, calmly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do…”
And just then Mike dropped to his knees, tugged Jesse’s baggy shorts down to his ankles, and started in on Jesse’s yummy-looking 9 x 7 sausage. “Besides,” Donte said, pulling off Jesse’s shirt. “It’s not your mouth he wants,” Steve said before clamping onto Jesse’s right nipple. Donte fingered Jesse’s left nipple. “It’s your ass!”
By that time my rod had levitated up the crushed beer barrels that made up my titanium abs and was heading toward the ridiculous overhang of my pecs. Jesse’s eyes bugged out but before he could let out a screech, Steve—the tallest of us—let go of Jesse’s nipple and kissed him full on the mouth. Mike unloaded Jesse’s cock from his mouth, then stood up and stood behind Jesse, wrapping one ridiculous 23-inch arm around his waist while sliding his thick meaty hand inside Jesse’s crack.
“It’s the only way you’re gonna grow,” he said. “And besides,” Stevie said, releasing the liplock with an audible slurp. “We will take turns…” Donte ceased to suckle and started cranking Jesse’s meat. “Stretching you out, that is.”
Mike slid into Jesse, who would have screamed, except that Steve was massaging his tonsils with his tongue. Once Mike and Jesse developed a rhythm, Donte slid into Mike. Then Steve slid into Donte. Finally, I slid into Steve. And then I picked them up, all four of them, all 1050 pounds of them, and started air-fucking them like I was Austin Wolf with Armond Rizzo.
A while later…
“You know,” I said. “At the rate we’re growing…”
Steve snorted. “At the rate you are growing, Boss, you’re going to be 750 pounds by the time we graduate from high school!”
“And you’re growing just about as fast as I am and Donte and Mike are only a bit slower,” I pointed out. I looked at the three of them. “You guys are going to be at least 500 pounds a piece by then,” I said. Donte waffled his hand to indicate he disagreed. “Mike and I will be,” he said. “But Stevie here is gonna pass us before the year is over. I bet he’s closer to 600 by the time commencement rolls around.” I looked down at Jesse, who was completely passed out, cradled in my arms like a puppy, sucking on my big thick nip.
“As for this one…”
“God only knows!”
Talking about our unnatural growth apparently activated it, whatever IT was, kicked it into overdrive. By Christmas, Mike and Donte had both packed on another 75 pounds of muscle apiece. Meanwhile, Steve and Jesse each gained 100 pounds. All muscle. And all four of them had grown an inch taller (plus added another inch to their dicks, except, that is, Jesse had added two inches to his!) So there they were, all 350 pounds of solid muscle, 50 pounds bigger than anyone on the football team. All of them benching over a thousand pounds—for reps.
And then there was me. At 6’4, I was two inches taller than I had been when school started. As if that weren’t enough, I had added 4 inches to my dick. It was now 18 x 14. And another 200 pounds of muscle. That’s right. I was 6’4 and 600 pounds, single digit body fat. My shoulders were 6 feet across. My chest circumference was something like, I dunno, 10 feet. My upper arms when flexed? 66 inches. That’s 5½ feet (or 167 cm if you live in the metric world.)
But there it was. And somehow it was all perfectly symmetrical, looked just right, and had zero impact on my mobility. I could do back flips, for God’s sake. I could do handstands. I could walk up a set of stairs on my hands, for that matter.
Not too surprising, really. By that point I could, with a bit of assistance, slide myself under a Ford F350 pick-up truck and bench press it for a single rep. Like I said, some assistance was necessary. By that time I was, front to back, four feet thick, and those bruisers are at least 12 feet long so finding the balance point and…
Empty: 7,159 pounds.
I could curl a Fiat. I could curl my boys, all four of them, collectively weighing in at 1400 pounds, with one hand. And here’s the thing…
No one seemed to notice. Not our parents, not our teachers and coaches, not our fellow classmates. No one called the cops on us (although people did stare when we walked down the street) or the media. It wasn’t like they didn’t know what was going on. My parents certainly were aware that we had taken over the three-car garage and the loft above, installing a/c in the garage and getting rid of the weights and putting up sheetrock and painting and installing three king size beds to go along with the two in the loft. And that Mike, Donte, Steve, and Jesse now lived with me.
The football team grumbled, not that we weren’t on it, but that we had stolen Jesse away from them. They were worried that others might defect. We didn’t really think about. We DID think a lot about the fact that we were becoming unemployable and that it took a lot of cash to feed us. Plus we had outgrown any gym or weight room.
So what to do?
We turned to porn, of course. That’s how BigBoysGarage.Com was born.
Turns out Mike was a fairly talented videographer, Donte equally talented with sound and lighting. Stevie, naturally, had the tech skills down. And Jesse, interestingly enough, turned out to be a great director. So when we weren’t eating or lifting or aceing our classes (none of us were dummies and the more time we spent together the easier academic work seemed to get and we spent all of our time together) we were having sex together or doing solo jackoff scenes and recording all of it.
We made a million bucks the first month. And it just went up after there.
For lifting, we took over a private junkyard, I kid you not. Turns out it was owned by Jesse’s uncle, Mr. Castro, who never seemed to have any help, mostly because he was a stingy old bastard and paid crap wages for dirty, messy jobs. The day the five of us walked into the junkyard, he took one look at us and ran back into the shack that doubled as his office and came right back out with a double-barreled shotgun and started screaming at the top of his lungs.
Jesse held up his big hands, imploring…
“Tio Manny, por favo, para!”
Then they got into it, rapid fire Spanish that was way beyond my limited ability to comprehend. While I did so, I plucked the shotgun out of Tio Manny’s hand. Well, more precisely, he held on while I lifted it into the air and about five feet off the ground he let go of it. He was all of 5’4 and weighed about a buck fifty. Then I bent it into a pretzel.
“Dang, boy,” Tio Manny finally said. “That’s fucking impressive!”
I flexed my biceps. They were bigger around than he was tall.
“We’re looking for a job,” I said.
He scratched his grizzled chin.
“Doing what?” he asked, finally.
“Crushing cars,” I said. His eyes widened. “And we’ll work for free,” I pointed out. “You supply the cars, we’ll crush them.” And lift them and toss them around and a few other things, I added to myself.
Tio Manny knew a good deal when it hit him over the head. We were hired on the spot. Which solved the “where are we going to work out” question. Interestingly enough, the fact that we were working out in often sub-freezing weather (it was January, by that point), with the occasional snow and sleet and hail, seemed to make no difference whatsoever.
We were generally in shorts and tank tops, although in my case it was getting harder and harder to find clothes to fit. Any clothes. Luckily, my mom had a sewing machine. I would bring her fabric and dimensions and she’d put it together. Of course, that usually meant I was going around in a loin cloth and nothing else but what of it?!
A week before school let out for the summer, we had a visitor at M. Castro & Sons’ Scrap Works.
His ancestry was East Asian, clearly, with dark shiny hair, smooth bronzed skin, classically handsome Chinese features (think early Winston Ho!), thick eyebrows, and perfectly shaped oval eyes. He was also about 5’10 and 200 pounds of ripped to shreds gymnast muscle, with a tiny, maybe 28-inch waist, fucking broad shoulders, great pecs, and veiny 18-inch biceps.
“So it’s true,” he said.
We stopped what we were doing. I was overseeing the boys as they were in the process of pulling apart a tractor-trailer with their bare hands. They had started out with the idea of pulling it apart with chains wrapped around each of the wheels but the wheels ripped right off and they all landed on their butts. By that time Jesse, Steve, Donte and Mike were all over 400 pounds (450 each, in the case of Steve and Jesse, 425 each for Mike and Donte.) And they ranged in height from 6’2 (Donte) to 6’6 (Jesse.) So they were all a good four to eight inches taller than this kid and weighed more than twice as much as he did.
“So what’s true?” Donte rumbled. If Barry White had a much deeper voice and an accent like Barack Obama’s, he would sound a lot like Donte.
The cute kid shrugged his delicious-looking shoulders.
“That this is the Freak Yard,” he replied.
The fellas weren’t quite sure whether to laugh—it was true—or feel dissed. You know how it is. You can call yourselves Freaks (or Fags or Whatever); having someone else do it rankles.
I intervened, stepping between them and the new kid. I was up to 6’6, meaning I had caught up to Jesse, our tall dude. And I had put on another 200 pounds. Yep, that’s right. 6’6 and 800 pounds of muscle. Eight inches taller and four times heavier than our visitor. Wearing my standard loin-cloth and a pair of handmade leather flip-flops and naught else.
“Yep, it’s the Freak Yard,” I told him. “And I guess that makes me the biggest freak of all. What about it, My Dude?”
He looked up. And up. And up. And his eyes took in shoulders that were at that point 8-feet wide. (And, yeah, I know—how did I stay upright when I was a foot and a half wider at the shoulders than I was tall? The answer is: I don’t know.)
“I want to join,” he answered, cool as a cucumber.
“Well, you know, there’s a special requirement for membership,” I said, waving to my loin cloth.
I can control it. Really I can. In fact, all the time I’m controlling it, keeping it down, I just don’t think about it. But when I relax it takes to the sky. Which it proceeded to do. At 21 inches long and 16 inches in circumference, it no longer stood up, it just poked out. A long, long way out. Higher and higher it climbed.
The kid’s eyes got bigger and bigger. But he didn’t run screaming. When it reached full mast, he walked over and calmly pulled the loin cloth back. Then he climbed on.
“Clearly,” he said, resting his powerful-looking, callused hands on my abs. “I can’t do much with that at this point.”
Then he started squeezing with his quads.
“Fuck Boy!” I breathed.
He slid back and forth a bit and I let out a moan.
“I know I’m tiny compared to all of you bastards,” he said. “But I can squat 600 pounds. How many 200-pound high school juniors you know who can do that?” By that time my men had formed a circle around us. Donte, always the instigator, reached over and pulled off the kid’s shirt. “What’s your name, son?” he growled. Without taking his eyes off the jutting overhang of my mammoth pecs, the kid replied. “Kwan,” he said. “Kwan Hong.” I put my hubcap-size hands on Kwan’s shoulders. “Nice to meetcha, Kwan,” I said. “Always nice to find another guy with, uh, talent!”
He hopped off my dick.
“So am I in?” he asked.
Bold boy! I tousled his hair.
“What do you think guys?” I asked.
They were all smiles.
“Let’s take this back to the Garage,” Jesse said. “And see what happens.”
And that’s how Kwan became the Fifth Acolyte.
That summer Mike, Donte, Steve, and Jess all grew two inches taller. They all added two inches to their dicks, too, except for Jesse who added three inches! And they piled on the muscle. Donte and Mike each gained 175 pounds. They arrived at school the first day of our senior year weighing 600 pounds apiece. Meanwhile, Steve and Jesse had each slabbed on 200 pounds. At 650 pounds they were twice the size of the average NFL offensive lineman.
As for Kwan: By then we were used to some pretty spectacular shit but the kid succeeded in blowing all of us away. In a three month period he grew four inches taller and gained 300 pounds of solid muscle. That’s right. 300 pounds. More. Keep in mind that he was 5’10 and 200 pounds at the end of our junior year. At summer’s end, he was 6’2” and 500 pounds, 2½ times the size he had been just 12 weeks previously, a gain of 25 pounds per week. While he was piling on the muscle, his dick decided to keep pace. It went from a highly respectable 8x6 to (what most would consider) a monstrous 12x10. Considering the other four’s dicks were all in the 14-15-inch range, that made him the Shorty of the group, a situation I figured wasn’t going to last long.
And then there was me. Again, I couldn’t tell you what was happening…but I wasn’t arguing with the results. Four inches taller, 400 pounds heavier. At 6’10” tall, I weighed in at 1200 pounds (we had to go looking for an ag scale.) And all of it was muscle, of course. There was really no way to measure but our best guess was that my body fat ratio was no more than 2%. When I walked, everything rippled.
My dick was, well, obscene.
Fully hard, and it was usually fully hard, it was up to 28 inches long (a gain of 7 inches) and 22 inches around. The fellas started calling it RAM, as in Battering Ram! And they were happy to suck down the batter it produced several times a day.
The school administrators, even though they and almost everyone else were afflicted with some sort of muscle blindness that made it impossible to acknowledge our true size, even so recognized that we were somehow off the charts and that regular classrooms and regular instruction were no longer an option. So they handed over the gymnasium to us, the whole thing, put up a permanent “closed for repairs” sign, and gave us into the tender care of Coach Harbison, last seen in the role of my 9th grade science teacher. In the three years since I had taken his class, Coach had switched from baseball to bodybuilding—apparently influenced by me—and had added 50 pounds of muscle to his 5’10 frame. At 225 pounds of fur-covered muscle, he was quite the little stud muffin. Even so, he was less than half the size of Kwan (“our little boy,” as we referred to him behind his back), only little more than a third the size of Mike, Donte, Steve, and Jesse. Whereas I was a foot taller than he was and outweighed him by slightly less than a thousand pounds.
“Okay, fellas,” he said on the first day of class. “This is how it’s going to be…” We looked at him expectantly. He looked at each of us. Up at us. His eyes moving side to side. His meaty shoulders were narrower than Kwon’s chest. Kwon’s shoulders were a lot narrower than my chest. “Uh…” he continued. Then he spurted. Before he could pass out, I picked him up in hands the size of lawn-mowers and attached him to my right nipple, which by then was about the length and thickness of a banana.
“How it’s going to be,” I said as he suckled. “Is that the guys and I are gonna spend a couple of hours each morning studying for, taking, and aceing each and every standardized test you can think of to give us. “Then we’re going to spend the rest of the time lifting and eating and getting each other off…And if you want to join us in any of that, feel free!”
Which, as it turns out, he did. But it didn’t make him an Acolyte, even so.
The school year passed in a blur. Thanks to our ministrations, Coach packed on 75 pounds of solid muscle. By the end of the school year he was 300 pounds of fur-covered deliciousness. We helped him trim down—and I took personal responsibility for shaving him down—for his first pro show, which he won by a mile. And how not? He ascended the posing dais weighing a huge, thick, insanely ripped 275 pounds, 25 pounds heavier and insanely more conditioned than his nearest competitor.
As for the rest of us, we were entering Black Helicopter territory. Donte and Mike were 6’8 and 6’9 respectively and 800 pounds each. Both were benching 10 times their weight. They both had 18-inch dicks. And they were still the horniest of all of us and the horniest for each other. Steve and Jesse were 6’10 and 7 ft. and 1000 pounds apiece. When they went at it they were like a pair of Brahma bulls. An image reinforced by the fact that their dicks were 19 and 20 inches.
Kwan caught up to Donte in height so he was no longer the shortest. And he doubled in weight. At 1000 pounds he was the thickest and densest of all the Acolytes. Plus his dick had caught up to Jesse’s 20 inches, so even though he was tied for Donte for shortest in the height department he was tied with Jesse in the biggest dick department. And considering Jesse was four inches taller you could plausibly argue that he was the best hung of all five of them.
Then and now I wasn’t one to play favorites but Kwan was the one of the Acolytes who had the best chance of ever catching up to me. And he was the only one who, through some anatomical magick, could accommodate my dick, no matter which end I wanted to use.
A solid ton of muscle.
We really didn’t have any way of measuring my strength but it was pretty clear I was in Hulk territory. Except instead of green skin I had a shaggy pelt that would put Thom Austin to shame. Oh, yeah, and a dick that when hard was three feet long and 2½ feet in circumference. Once on a dare…Well, let’s just say the 30-inch wide hole in the gym’s concrete block north wall wasn’t exactly an accident!
“Gentleman,” Coach said, after he had finished handing out our diplomas (we were banned from the regular ceremony, of course.) “I’m not sure what is going to happen next…”
Kwan cleared his throat.
“It’s okay, Coach,” he said. “I do.” It turned out Kwan had dual Chinese and Canadian citizenship. (“It’s Kwan McKenzie Hung,” he told us at one point.) And his family was fabulously wealthy, with a vast estate in the Canadian Rockies. “In about 10 minutes, six Sprinter vans are going to show up,” he continued. “To take each of us to my family’s compound in British Columbia. We all have signed, officially-approved research contracts with the Canadian government.”
Coach’s eyes bulged and his jaw dropped.
“The only question is whether you want to come with us,” Kwan finished. As if we needed to ask.
“Which van is for me?”
I picked him up—and up and up—and gave him a great big sloppy kiss.
“You’re with me, okay?”
As for the rest of the story?
Use your imagination!