The grower

by BRK   

Derek has a secret, mostly having to do with how the bulge in his trousers doesn’t even begin to hint at his true size. Unfortunately, at the moment he’s surrounded by guys hot enough to expose what he’s hiding, in a very literal fashion.

“So you’re the mysterious college bestie we’ve all heard about!” the blond stranger in the big-collared, hundred-dollar salmon button-down said. He grabbed Derek’s arm, speaking in a loud voice as though to attract the rest of his crew wherever they were in the throng of pre-wedding celebrants. “Derek, right? Where’ve you been for five years, hon? And what are you wearing?”

Derek gave his interlocutor a cold look as four more six-foot-plus gym-going hotties, all with expensive clothes and even more expensive complexions, materialized out of the crowd and gathered around him. They moved around Derek like pigeons, muttering arch comments like “Who’s this?” and “Nice stubble” and “What’s with the big black hoodie?” At first glance the five of them all looked and sounded pretty much alike, varying mainly in hair color, skin tone, and choice of affectation—chunky silver earring, black-framed designer glasses, a smart watch that looked like it might double as a five-pound wrist weight, that kind of thing. Derek found himself reminded of the kind of market-hyped, identically designed dolls that were differentiated entirely by color and wardrobe and sold in pricey sets in the toy aisle, usually with their own little-watched thirteen-episode team-up cartoon on Nickelodeon.

Unfortunately, lanky and immaculately groomed extra-tall gymnast types with smooth skin and long legs were absolutely Derek’s sex-kryptonite. Worse, his cursed, never-quiescent libido was once again proving itself more than capable of ignoring questionable personalities and going all out for long torsos, thin waists, endless thighs, and a look up to a pretty face that included a quick trek across firm, stylish pecs, solid shoulders, and a masculine but classy neck and an immaculate, razor-sharp jaw. Having five such specimens milling around him in close proximity was heating his blood in a way that left him edgy, flushed, and alarmed. He knew what was likely to happen next, and it was a bad scene all around.

Sure enough, it wasn’t long before he felt his equipment start to shift in his confining, not-so-stretchy undergarments. Not now! he growled crotchwards in his head, as fiercely as he could. Not that his junk ever listened to him. Usually he was the one forced into obedience. Or, at least, complicity.

His overheated balls might have craved being crowded by towering, effete godlings, but the rest of him didn’t. He wasn’t especially remarkable to look at himself, and most of the time that was a plus, but being of middling height (5-foot-7 if he straightened his back and squared his shoulders), slim and defined like a runner, and prodigiously hairy from adam’s apple to ankle was making him feel singled out in the middle of this particular clump of preening high-maintenance moes.

He should be civil. He was here for Nathan. He’d agreed to fly out to Virginia Beach and stand with his college buddy the next weekend at his wedding to a very nice man. That, in turn, meant putting up with everything that went with said commitment, including humoring Nathan’s hot-’n’-smarmy Virginia friends at tonight’s oceanside guest-welcoming shindig.

He could do that. Pasting on a smile, he looked up at Salmon Shirt Guy and aimed for “confident and unthreatening,” like his dad had always told him to do in potentially volatile situations. “Ah, yeah, it has been a while since I was around a lot,” he said. “After we graduated I was snapped up by this big tech firm, see, and pretty much right off the bat got transferred to a team in Edinburgh, so...”

The clones exchanged looks of glee, and too late Derek realized he’d been on site in Scotland so long he’d accidentally spoken it like the locals—lilting accent, tapped “r,” and all.

“‘Edinb’rra,’ eh?” Salmon Shirt Guy repeated with a grin. He looked vastly amused, Derek thought, though there didn’t seem to be any malice, which was a relief. At that moment the sound level in the big room seemed to rise as the music thumped and the party went on around them, and the gang of five collectively gathered closer around him. Oddly, the way they tightened their little group and the intensity of their fixation on him gave Derek the faint impression of being adopted, like a pet or a mascot. His cheeks reddened at the proximity and increased illusion of intimacy, and his cock surged dangerously against its restrictive bounds, the best in his shorts evidently entertaining exciting tall-Adonis-harem fantasies that far outstripped any rational perceptions of reality.

They were all close, inches away. Arms brushed his, and the odd gust of warm breath caught his exposed neck. A hand found his back, seemingly accidentally, then another, the actions becoming more deliberate as they remained in place, keeping him close. The unlooked-for pressure of palms and fingers seeped through the too-big hoodie and tee shirt underneath into his needy skin, stirring another rush of sharp arousal. He had to close his eyes for a moment.

“So how do you like ‘Edinb’rra,’ Derek?” asked one of the others conversationally. When Derek looked up at him, he saw that this guy was wearing a taupe and brown striped V-neck that contrasted nicely with smooth, hairless acorn-brown skin, the low-diving collar exposing a separation between his carefully honed pecs that Derek thought was the most elegant male cleavage he had ever seen. V-Neck Guy’s voice was a tone or three deeper than Salmon Shirt Guy’s, and the low, layered resonance of it went straight to Derek’s balls.

“It’s… great,” he answered haltingly. He was nervous and excited just to be in this conversation, and hated himself for both reactions. Belatedly he remembered to look around and include the others. “So picturesque,” he continued. “The, uh, people there are very friendly.”

The five lanky studs shared a conspiratorial smile and moved in even closer. “We can be friendly,” teased Smart-Watch Guy. He was the ginger of the set, and the only one of them who looked like he might have even a modicum of body hair; though, judging by his smooth chin and sleek forearms, he still had nothing on the trim, none-too-tall otter that was the object of the group’s interest. For once Derek was feeling increasingly hot and self-conscious about everything he had going on under his clothes, not just his straining gonads.

“You look like the kind of guy I like to be friendly with,” added another. He was dark-haired and slightly taller than the others, resembling the extra-tall k-pop stars he tried not to keep adding to his PicThread feed. This one was wearing a crisp-looking, well-tailored deep-purple Oxford broadcloth, buttoned to the top and, uniquely out of the five, cinched with a narrow, midnight blue silk tie that dangled alll the way down his long torso to his thin leather belt. The tie’s design and quality, like the rest of him, suggested swank gala more than executive suite, though Derek figured Tie Guy was certainly capable of commanding a boardroom’s attention, if he wanted.

Tie Guy held his gaze as he lifted his hand toward him. Derek braced himself. He thought he might be going for his stubble—tall, smooth guys seemed to like running the backs of their fingers over it, sometimes their knuckles, especially when they found out it made Derek all fluttery. Instead, Tie Guy surprised him by hooking the collars of his black hoodie and the tee shirt under it just under the throat and tugging down an inch or two, revealing a thick swath of curly chest hair.

Derek swallowed hard, looking down at the hand and then back up, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. Oh no oh no… he thought, a flicker of panic rising through him as he felt the pressure against his undergarments dramatically increase.

“Very friendly,” Tie Guy confirmed, his smile sliding into a lewd smirk. He let the back of his finger slide across the hairy bare skin he’d exposed, causing Derek to shiver inwardly. Fuck, that was so much more intimate than the stubble-caress, he thought.

“I agree,” purred the remaining cliquer from behind him. A third hand found his backside, further down than the others, and Derek’s eyes popped wide as the situation in his pants instantly went from “that’s alarming” to “everyone get back, the life raft’s gonna inflate!”

He happened to be looking at Salmon Shirt Guy, who was giving him a heated leer. “Perhaps,” he said to the group while holding Derek’s terrified stare, “Derek would be interested in finding a more intimate nearby space to explore our new fr—”

“Gotta go!” Derek said suddenly, cutting him off and pushing roughly past Salmon Shirt Guy. Fortunately, the sudden movement released him from Tie Guy’s slight finger-hold on his hoodie and tee, or he might have been momentarily strangled. As it was, he was free to abandon the cluster of lanky temptation and bolt away through the crowd, looking for any kind of refuge.

“I think that was a ‘yes, please,’” he heard an amused Salmon Shirt guy remark behind him, to a muttered chorus of “Definitely” and “Look at that ass” and “C’mon, we’re gonna lose him.” To his horror, Derek realized they were following him across the venue, laughing as they took up the chase, clearly hoping to escalate their play. He wanted to shout “It wasn’t a ‘yes, please’!” over his shoulder, but, really, he was already making enough of a scene, dashing through the assembled guests like a rabbit with five foxes on his tail.

The mother of Nathan’s groom loomed up suddenly in front of him near the back hallway. Dodging around her with millimeters to spare, he darted down the narrow, shadowy corridor and through an open doorway, closing it shut behind him.

Barely taking the time to clock that he was in a storeroom of some kind—shelves, supplies, bare bulb, the lot—Derek forgot everything else and got down to business. Hurriedly, he whipped off the low-hanging, purposefully oversized hoodie and tossed it on a nearby stack of boxes, then backed against the rear set of shelves and started fumbling at his trousers, working at undoing the waistband and fly with shaking fingers as the swelling bulge beneath it got more and more painful. He had just gotten the zipper down and was lowering the waistband his compression briefs with his thumbs to free his swelling, aching junk when his pursuers burst into the room, flushed and grinning.

“Now that’s what I call—” Tie Guy started to quip, just as Derek’s massive, half-hard dick freed itself from his briefs and everything seemed to stop.

A soft gasp or two went up from the huddle of rangy prettyboys across the room from him. “—Hard to get,” Tie Guy finished distractedly. The door closed behind them, sealing them into an isolated space alone in the universe, a space that was all about six panting, extremely aroused men and the revealed secret of Derek’s massive tool.

All eyes were on Derek’s cock as it moved, Derek’s included. Almost automatically he hitched the waistband under his huge, billiard-sized balls, drawing the boys’ attention to them as well and eliciting another gasp.

Derek wet his dry-seeming mouth, his heart hammering in his chest. Even now, only half-hard and drooping in a kind of arc toward the far corner, his tool was an impressive sight. Already it was past a foot long and as thick as a soda can, its flushed, pink surface traced with veins and arteries that he knew looked exaggerated to guys with normal cocks. His pulse pounded through it, causing waves of pleasure to push through him just from its mere existence. And with this kind of audience, that was only going to get more intense as his cock thickened and grew. And grew.

The thing was, Derek was a grower. His tool was abnormally big even completely soft, and Derek could only shudder as he considered just how big it was going to get.

“Will you look at that?” Salmon Shirt Guy said softly. Slowly they closed the distance, their movements seeming almost reverent as they gathered not around him but his swelling dick, the five men kneeling almost instinctively side by side on the concrete floor, instinctively arranging themselves in a narrow U around their newly discovered idol.

No one touched it, not yet. The spectacle of growth was too compelling to be disturbed by anything so crass as touch.

Derek’s extreme grower condition meant that his gradually stiffening dick seemed almost to be unspooling from his groin, as inch after inch was added onto his length, the process proceeding so steadily it looked like it might never stop expanding. It was like a sea-captain’s telescope opening up, except it kept going, making the telescope longer and longer, ridiculously long, the biggest telescope any salt on the sea had ever had.

“How big does it get?” whispered someone—the ginger one, Smart Watch Guy, maybe. Derek didn’t answer, and for a long moment there was no sound but their very audible breathing as Derek’s tool stretched and grew, adding girth as well as inches. At the same time it jerked itself higher and straighter, as if it possessed a determination and will so steely mere gravity could not daunt it. It was the most thrilling sight Derek had ever seen, driving him to extreme arousal every single time.

Derek panted, his balls surging. Every pulse down that massive, wide, straightening tool was a taste of pleasure that added to his need.

Finally it was fully stiff, as hard and straight as a steel girder and as thick as an ogre’s wrist. It extended straight ahead, majestically, without dip or deviation, like it could push through the glory holes of half a dozen cubicles one after another.

A bead of precum welled up and dropped from the uncut glans, smacking onto the floor in front of Salmon Shirt Guy.

Derek panted loudly, waiting, feeling the pull on his groin as his dick held itself up through sheer iron power.

“How—” V-Neck Guy began, looking up at Derek for the first time since they’d come in. “How big is it?”

The effect of his deep voice red-zoned Derek’s arousal beyond the capacity to think.

He did know a number. It didn’t matter. All he knew was that his fully grown, fully erect megadong was too much cock for one man.

He heard himself blurt out, “Measure it with your mouth and find out.”

Like the snapping of an industrial switch, everything changed. In the space of a few seconds, the entire surface of his enormous cock went from untouched and radiating heat into the stale, charged air of the storeroom to being engulfed by warm hands and hot mouths along its entire stupendous length.

Derek grabbed onto the shelves to either side of him, knowing he would be inundated with more pleasure than he could handle. Five mouths, five lips and tongues, five sets of hands. Actually he had wondered in the past how many guys it would take to really service him, not that he’d had too many occasions to try. A lot of guys were stunned by his dick. Some backed away when they saw its full size, like he would try to fuck them with it, pushing relentlessly until he was all the way through. As the brain-melting rapture flooded through him, he managed to note somewhere in his head that five seemed like a good number.

Mouths moved asynchronously along the thick shaft, causing the pleasure to layer and double back on itself, forcing wanton moans from his throat he barely had the wit to hope would not be overheard. He saw the redhead, positioned closest on his right, was watching his heavy, oversized balls shake and shiver as they ravished him, and when he shifted a hand to cup Derek’s balls while he mouthed and licked Derek’s crazy-sensitive shaft, he couldn’t help but shout out an ardent “Fuck yeah.” He wasn’t just a giant three-foot prick!

In a fevered state, his orgasm approaching like a bullet-train sighted just down the track, his gaze drifted up the team of devoted cock-pleasurers to the one on the end, Salmon Shirt Guy. He’d been licking around the head, slipping under the wide foreskin and tickling underneath with the flat of his tongue, watching him the whole time. The moment their eyes met, he moved to the tip and started sliding the head into his mouth, progressing relentlessly until he felt his glans pressing against the soft flesh of his throat. Then he began fellating with every part of his oral apparatus, and Derek’s head flung backwards, strange sounds releasing him as he experienced five kinds of pleasure at a level so intense it was battering him like a cucksucking nor’easter, utterly immersing him in heady, spine-shaking, muscle-saturating ecstasy.

“Cum with me!” he begged, tightening his grip on the shelves as orgasm barreled toward him. Some had gotten out their stiff pricks already, stroking rapidly as they gave Derek all the joy they could, and the others now followed. He watched them all, the mere sight of what they were doing dogpiling onto all the levels of physical stimulation he was getting to his cock and balls. His eyes met the ones directly across from him, lips and mouth and tongue and throat shifting and twisting as his fellator expertly drove him close to the edge, and he knew his time was out. “Guys, I’m—I’m—!!”

Suddenly there was an all-encompassing explosion as a mega-orgasm tore through him. It started in his balls and at the base of his cock, making everything seem even bigger and more sensitive. The cum started gushing down the length of his cock, giving him hot, impossible pleasure all along the inside like one long internal stroke before erupting into Salmon Shirt Guy’s eager, talented mouth—it was like three kinds of orgasm, one after another, and then it repeated, over and over again. The guys were cumming, too, moans and grunts reverberating over the surface of his dick as he gushed and gushed. Salmon Shirt Guy couldn’t keep up with the deluge and pulled back, letting the geysers of hot cum smash across his face as he jerked his own thick ten-inch cock to complete satiation.

Finally, the release ebbed, and Derek was completely spent in every way. When the last of his semen squeezed free of his dick, he slid to the floor, his back against the rear set of shelves, awash in simple, soaring euphoria. His partially softened dick draped itself across his thigh as he settled back, the mighty organ seemingly less spent than the rest of him.

Soon the others were snuggled in around him, languid and panting. V-Neck Guy was resting his head on Derek’s left shoulder. “Are you still in Edinburgh?” he asked after a while. “Because I think you need to transfer here.”

“Immediately,” someone else seconded in a bleary mumble, and there were other hums of torpid agreement.

Salmon Shirt Guy, leaning back against him with the back of his skull against Derek’s sweaty, hair-matted chest, nodded. “I think,” he said, slurring very slightly from his state of utter relaxation, “I think between the five of us, we can find you exactly the right… position.”

Derek chuckled tiredly, his hand idly stroking Salmon Shirt Guy’s chest as other hands languidly caressed his arms and slippery mouths nuzzled his hands and neck. “You know, you may be right,” he said. He drifted slowly into a soft, contented haze that lasted pretty much all the way back to the hotel—the same hotel his five newest friends were staying at. They were all there already, waiting for him.

Derek grinned and elaborately adjusted himself as he exited his rental and headed for the hotel entrance, the oversized black hoodie in the back seat forgotten and, for once, unneeded.

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