Description Eric is a hot, young skimpy stud—what nowadays we'd call a twunk. Then he starts hearing a voice in his head. Eat big, lift big, get big! He follows the voice's advice—with results more spectacular than he could have imagined!
|Updated||18 Apr 2020|
The newly-minted MBA looked at himself in the mirror.
“Damn fine looking if I do say so myself,” Eric Keith told his reflection.
He was right, too.
The 23-year-old had wavy sandy brown / blond hair, kept short and trim but nonetheless stylish. Smooth forehead, high cheekbones, a sexy short neatly trimmed golden brown beard, pouty red lips, large green eyes, long dark lashes, eyebrows that were thick and manly but not bushy.
“Very manly,” he added.
Especially the reddish brown curls poking out of the top of his tasteful Calvin Klein dress shirt. But…
At 5’9” tall, Eric weighed all of 140 pounds. He never did cardio and he’d been lifting since he was a junior in high school. He was well-proportioned and sleek, hard and toned, with a great six-pack. But size eluded him.
“Too busy to eat, I guess.”
Now that he was on his own, living in the big city and crunching numbers for a high-flying tech company, Eric was determined to make a change. He was going to live in the gym but more than that he was going to eat and eat and eat.
Come to me.
That’s what the voice said.
Get plenty of rest.
Eric planned to take him—the voice, whatever it was, was unmistakably male—up on it.
The months went by.
At the end of one particularly long day at work, Eric leaned back in his desk chair and s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d.
The shoulder seams on the cute shirt he’d bought on sale at Banana Republic completely gave way!
“Damn,” Eric said, stunned.
He’d been eating for months it seemed, at least three in fact, and it never seemed to make any difference.
“I wondered when that was going to happen.”
Eric looked at Clarissa van Dorn, his cubicle-mate.
“What do you mean??”
Clarissa, who had figured out in the first five minutes of their working together that Eric was gay, just rolled her eyes.
“I wondered when one of those ridiculously tight shirts you like to buy was going to explode, that’s what!”
Eric just spluttered.
“The workout are paying off, hon,” Clarissa continued. “And those ridiculous protein shakes, too. Maybe you should, you know, go up a size? And while you’re at it, get on the scale! You’re always complaining about not growing but it’s clear that you are!”
Per Clarissa’s instructions, Eric stood very straight and let his hands hang down by his sides when he was exiting the office. So long as he moved carefully, you could barely see the splits. And once he was in the lobby he ducked into the men’s room, removed the shirt leaving just the white v-neck he preferred as an undergarment, and quickly sneaked out the side entrance.
Walking down the street in the financial district, surrounded by peers in business attire, Eric was more than a little self-conscious. The white v-neck was snug! When did that happen? Turning his head slightly, Eric caught his reflection in a window—and stopped stock still!
“Damn,” he said.
The guy in the window in the white shirt wasn’t huge, not by any means, but he obviously worked out and he had some small bulges in all the right places. They weren’t big but it was clear that there were delts and traps and pecs under the white cotton and the sleeves were snug around firm, well-proportioned biceps.
Come to me.
The voice echoed in his head.
At home, Eric stepped on the scale for the first time since he’d started his new diet and exercise program.
“Hmmf,” Eric said aloud. “I guess it’s working.”
Just not as fast as he’d been hoping, of course. Not 5 pounds a week, much less 5 pounds a day. Eric had been reading muscle fiction since he’d learned what his willy was for and he was still waiting for that magical transformation to occur.
“I can live with 5 pounds a month, I guess.”
That weekend he hit the outlet mall and bought half dozen new shirts—all mediums! And so it went. Every month, another five pounds. A little bit bigger, a little bit thicker, a little bit harder, and a little bit stronger. At six months, Clarissa pulled him aside.
“You’re going to need some new shirts soon,” she said. “These are getting filled up. I don’t want any more wardrobe malfunctions, okay?”
Eric stood up a little straighter, squared his shoulders, flexed his chest.
“Yeah, yeah,” Clarissa said. “I know. You have some muscles now.”
Considering Clarissa was dating a rookie NFL lineman, Eric figured she ought to know what she was talking about. Of course, Sam was 6’4” and 275 pounds so, on reflection, it was completely bogus flattery—but he’d take what he could get!
“But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,” she continued. “It’s your pants.”
Eric blinked. Come to think of it they were feeling a bit tight in the crotch these days but he was pretty sure his waistline wasn’t expanding. If anything, his abs were sharper than ever.
“They’re creeping up your leg, you know.”
Eric’s mouth fell open.
“You’re taller than you were six months ago,” Clarissa pointed out. “Not a lot but we were pretty much eye-to-eye…and now we’re not.”
That evening, Eric stared at himself in front of the full-length mirror next to his bed. He didn’t remember when he’d bought it but he knew it hadn’t always been there. Probably after that shirt explosion. That was about when he decided the bathroom mirror wasn’t sufficient. Since then he’d spent 10-15 minutes in front of it every evening.
All those fantasies meant that Eric had acquired a tape measure from his mom’s sewing basket before his 13th birthday. He would hold the tape so that he could see what 20 inch arms looked like, or a 50-inch chest, or 30-inch quads, the sorts of measurements he dreamed about after good j/o session.
But he never actually measured himself. Tonight he did.
Weight: 170 pounds
Chest: 44 inches
Waist: 28 inches—same as when he’d started lifting six months and 30 lbs. ago
Biceps: 15½ inches—really?
Quads: 24 inches
Calves: 16 inches
Neck: 15½ inches
For good measure, he measured his dick, too—5 inches soft! Since when?
Last, he stood straight against the bathroom doorframe, placed a ruler on his head, and awkwardly penciled a mark where the ruler touched the frame. Then he pulled out the metal tape measure from Home Depot and rolled it down to the floor.
5 feet 9½ inches!
He checked three times and it was the same each time.
Half an inch in six months? When he hadn’t grown taller since he was 15? What was that about?
Come to me.
Eric hit the outlet mall again that weekend, this time looking for slacks as well as shirts (this time size Large!) Eric looked at himself in the mirror. It was a year since he had joined the firm and started eating big and this afternoon he was going to engagement party for Clarissa and Sam at the botanical garden.
Studly, the voice said.
Eric had to agree. At 5’10” and 200 pounds, Eric was an inch taller and 60 lbs. heavier than he had been 12 months earlier, and it was all in the right places. For that matter, it was apparent that as lean as he had been then he was even leaner now. His trainer friends at the gym all agreed that his body-fat ratio was clearly less than 10 percent.
He had gotten into the habit of measuring once a month and he was pleased with the latest numbers:
Chest: 48 inches
Shoulders: 54 inches
Waist: 29 inches
Biceps: 19 inches
Quads: 28 inches
Calves: 19½ inches
Neck: 18½ inches
It didn’t hurt that his strength was likewise off the charts. The previous weekend, with half the gym watching and two of the big powerlifters spotting him, he had benched 600 lbs. for a single rep, three times his bodyweight. His “Fuck Yeah!” roar at the end distracted most (but not all) from the nine-inch tent in his shorts, something he took care of in the shower not long thereafter.
“Hi, I’m Sam,” the big man said, sticking his giant paw out at Eric. “You must be…?”
Eric had met Sam not long after he’d begun working with Clarissa but not since then. He’d beat off many times remembering his brief encounter with the 6’4, 275-pound NFL stud and now he was blushing and trying not to stammer.
“I’m Eric,” he replied, taking Sam’s proffered hand and giving it a good squeeze. A year ago he’d nursed his hand for days afterwards but this time Eric returned the favor, testing his grip against Sam’s as the hunk’s eyes widened slightly. Even though it was an extra-large, the sleeve of his Kenneth Cole polo shirt bunched up around Eric’s thick, veiny bicep.
I guess I was too much of a dweeb for him to remember, Eric thought to himself, then said aloud.
“You know, Clarissa and I share a cubicle at Farnsworth Hanks.”
This time Sam’s eyes widened a lot.
“Eric? The OBF?” Sam exclaimed.
“‘Office Best Friend,’” Clarissa supplied, reading Eric’s mind (something she was scarily good at doing!)
Sam casually draped his 22-inch arm around Clarissa’s shapely swimmer’s shoulders, a little more possessively than usual.
“Damn, hon,” he said. “You forgot to mention that the OBF was, like, y’know, all studly and stuff.”
Sproing. Eric’s thick dick lurched in his pants.
Not now, not now, not now!
“Whatever happened to that little guy you worked with? Keith something?”
Clarissa rolled her eyes.
“Earth to Sam!” she exclaimed, elbowing the big man in the ribs. “It’s Eric Keith! He was a lot smaller when you first met him last year!”
Sam’s mouth sagged.
“Really? Damn, son, you’ve been doing some work, haven’t you?”
Eric took a sip from his long neck and folded his arms.
“You could say that, yeah.”
And I wonder what else you’ve been doing? Sam thought. The NFL player was no stranger to the various forms of chemical assistance one could employ.
“He’s been eating like a horse,” Clarissa pointed out, disentangling herself from Sam’s clutches. “And you have more to worry about from Eric than I do.”
Eric raised his beer in a silent toast.
“Yep, it’s true. What Clarissa in her oh-so-subtle way is trying to say is that I’m the GBF, not the OBF!”
Sam’s eyes widened.
“Oh, really? The gay best friend? Hey, no offense, but I’d’ve never guessed!”
Eric laughed and fist-bumped the big man.
“None taken, Big Man,” he said. “Just don’t get all weirded out on me if you catch me looking your way!”
It was Clarissa’s turn to laugh.
“Not to worry, Stud,” she said. “Sam is one of those rare straight men who actually enjoys being hit on by gay men.”
Amazingly, Sam blushed.
“Well, it’s true,” he said. “All the satisfaction, none of the commitment.”
Eric looked down to find Clarissa’s finger in the cleft between his thick round pecs.
“The one you need to worry about is me,” she said. “Lookee is fine, touchee—I cut you!”
You’re on the way, the voice said.
Come to me.
Eric’s phone rang.
Laughter on the other end.
“Eric, man, is that you? Sam here,” the deep masculine voice said.
It had been a month since Eric felt the big man’s thick arm draped across his shoulder at Sam’s and Clarissa’s engagement party. The big meat stirred in Eric’s pants.
“Hey, bud, yeah, it’s me,” Eric replied.
Much as he was happy to hear from Clarissa’s hunky NFL fiancée, Eric had no idea why he’d be calling. And Sam’s idle chit-chat wasn’t advancing his understanding one bit.
Cut to the chase, the voice said.
“Cutting to the chase,” Sam echoed. “I wondered if you wanted to catch a workout with me this weekend. I want to try a new gym and Clarissa says it’s in your neighborhood.”
Suddenly, Eric’s thick rod was rock hard.
“Sure, man,” Eric said. “That would be great. I’ve been wanting to check it out, too, it’s supposed to be pretty fucking hardcore.”
Sam laughed again.
“Man, you are such a meathead,” Sam said. “I guess Planet Fitness doesn’t cut it for you?”
“Fuck no,” he answered.
And at this point, he thought to himself, even Gold’s doesn’t cut it. Which was why he was thinking of scouting out The Iron Pit. Word on the street said it was the perfect set up for powerlifters and hardcore muscleheads.
Like you, the voice said.
“Yeah,” he told Sam. “I may not look like a powerlifter…”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard,” he continued. “But you lift like one!”
They set a time. Eric was in the locker-room changing when Sam walked in.
“Shit man, look at you!”
In the month since he’d last seen Sam he’d added another 10 pounds of muscle, twice his usual rate. The extra-large tank tops he’d bought a TJ Maxx a couple of months earlier now fit him like a glove.
“Check it out, man,” Eric said, lifting his arms into a quick double biceps shot. “These puppies are up to 19½” now. Not bad for a little geek, huh?”
Sam’s big hand squeezed Eric’s right arm.
“Son, these ain’t puppies,” Sam said. “They’s hogs!”
Down boy, Eric thought. Down, down, down!
Any more Eric’s dick was a good 7 inches soft and fully hard it was approaching 10 inches. The compression shorts he wore under his baggy sweats helped keep it under control…but just barely! With Sam around…?
Icebergs, glaciers, arctic chill, Eric thought to himself.
As luck would have it, Eric needn’t have worried. He was too busy keeping up with Sam, who despite weighing in at more than 275 pounds, was as highly conditioned as any track-and-field athlete. One set after another, cranked out with perfect form, minimal rest in between, plus dynamic stretching, calisthenics, chin ups, push-ups, the whole nine yards. Sam never stopped moving – and neither did Eric.
But that wasn’t the best part. The best part was that Eric kept up with Sam the whole 2-hour workout, set for set, rep for rep, pound for pound. Even when they were doing incline bench with 585 pounds, six 45 pound plates on each end of the bar. Sam was agog and, by the time they finished, slightly out of breath.
“You’re a fucking monster, you know that?”
Eric allowed himself a slight nod. He couldn’t tell if the big man was turned on, freaked out, or pissed off.
A little bit of all three, Sam told himself.
“Let’s see if we can get those guns over 20 inches,” Sam said, at last. “How’s that sound?”
“That sounds fucking great!”
Sam looked around, then nodded at the onlookers.
“This is called curling in the squat rack,” he said, basically daring anyone to call him on his gross violation of gym etiquette. He slapped a couple of 45 pound plates on each end of the 45 pound bar, then started cranking out reps. After 12, the onlookers started counting with Eric.
“13, 14, 15, 16…”
Sam slammed the bar back on the rack.
Then he flexed his big arms. After that workout, they had to be pushing 23 inches!
“Wanna try it?”
Eric grasped the bar.
“Hey, kid,” one of the powerlifters said. “Don’t strain yourself! That’s more than you weigh!”
Eric’s eyes gleamed.
“I’m stronger than I look,” he said.
He grasped the bar and slowly, cautiously raised the weight. The whole room sucked in a deep breath – would he make it? Then, to their collective amazement, he slowly, cautiously lowered it – at exactly the same pace.
The sigh was audible. There were maybe two other guys in the room who could curl that much weight, all of them bigger by far than Eric: Who calmly proceed to crank out another 11 reps, at exactly the same pace Sam had done. At the 12th rep, Eric paused.
“You guys gonna count for me, too?”
A nervous titter ran through the crowd.
“13, 14, 15,” each rep the chant was louder, “16! 17!! 18!!! 19!!! 20!!!!”
For the last rep, Eric lowered the bar to the rack just as slowly as he had done the first rep.
Sam looked like he had been pole-axed. And there was a tent in his pants that would have given Eric’s a run for its money. No wonder Clarissa looks so smug, Eric thought.
“How about it, Sam? Shall we add a couple of quarters and try it again?”
Then he hit that double bi again. They were an inch bigger than when they’d stepped into the gym. Sam visibly sagged.
“Big Man,” he said. “That’s enough for today. I’m whupped!”
He extended his big hand to Eric, who took it and pulled the linebacker in for a hug.
“Thanks for the workout,” Eric said loudly. “I think I know what gym I’m joining!”
Sam laughed at that.
“You do that, Buddy,” he said, draping his big arm around Eric’s totally pumped shoulders as they headed to the locker-room.
“I’ll just make do with NFL training camp, if it’s alright by you!”
On their way, Eric squeezed Sam’s totally pumped triceps.
“I gotta get me some of these!”
“Babe,” he said. “At the rate you’re going…”
Come to me, the voice said. You will make him look like a little girl.
“Yo,” Eric said, pressing the intercom button. “Come on up!”
He opened his apartment door and went back to scrambling his eggs.
“Hey, Eric, buddy, you in there? I thought maybe we could hit the gym again!”
It was Sam Fortunato, Clarissa’s fiancÉe! What was he doing at Eric’s apartment at 9 a.m. on a Wednesday in October?
“In the kitchen, Big Man,” Eric called out.
Sam laughed as he headed that way.
“Don’t you worry about muggers or axe murderers or…”
His patter came to an abrupt end when he entered the kitchen and saw Eric working in front of the stove, wearing nothing more than a pair of extremely well-stuffed boxer briefs.
“Jesus God,” Sam exclaimed. “Look at you!”
Eric’s grin was as big as all out doors.
“Been doing some work,” Eric said, as he dumped a dozen eggs onto a plate that already contained half a pound of bacon. “Does it show?”
Sam just stood there looking Eric up and down.
Three months previously Eric was exceptionally well-built and obviously destined for the bodybuilding stage at some point. Today…
Huge, thick, dense, ripped, Eric looked ready to take on any nationally-ranked amateur in the country. And he’d probably get a pro card out of it if he did, Sam thought.
“Clarissa told me you’d gotten huge,” Sam said, using air quotes around huge. “But I didn’t really believe her. What does she know about huge, you know?”
Was he taller, too? His voice was definitely deeper.
“Whaddya mean she doesn’t know huge?” Eric laughed. “She knows you, doesn’t she?!”
Sam shook his head.
“Seriously, man, what are you on?”
Eric cocked an eyebrow.
“I’m just high on life, dude, that’s all! I know, I know, it’s fucking freaky but I’m not arguing with the results.”
Show him, the voice said.
“Check it out!”
Eric cocked his right arm and flexed. A massive veiny forearm connected with hawser-like tendons to an upper with football-sized triceps and a biceps peak that went up and up and UP!
“Twenty-two and a half inches,” Eric pointed out. “Not bad for 250 pounds, huh?”
Sam licked his lips.
“Uh, that’s half an inch more than mine,” he pointed out. “And I outweigh you by 25 pounds.”
“Yeah, but you’re what, four-five inches taller than I am, right? I’m 5’11” these days.”
5’11: and 250 pounds? Christ almighty!
“Five inches, I guess,” Sam replied. “I’m 6’4”.”
Eric shrugged his hulking traps.
“So, yeah, you’re more spread out than I am,” he said, as if he were jealous. “I’m more compact so no surprise that my arm is bigger.”
Sam just stared.
“You mean you’ve gained 40 pounds since I worked out with you?”
“And all of it is clearly muscle,” Sam added, as if to himself.
Eric nodded again.
“And how much are you curling now?”
Eric blushed but looked Sam dead in the eye, anyway.
“315,” he said. “For reps.”
“So you could, uh, curl me?!”
Eric nodded yet again.
Sam suddenly felt a little flushed and a little dizzy. It was like…It was like, he realized, when he looked through the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. Or when Clarissa modeled her latest Victoria’s Secret purchase. He was, in other words, hard as a rock!
“Uh, you doing okay, Big Man?” Eric asked. “You need a glass of water or something?”
Sam turned bright red.
“I think, uh, well, that is…”
Show him, the voice said.
“You want see it for yourself, don’t you?” he asked. “Let’s do a little experiment.”
He moved next to the linebacker, grasped him by the elbows, and lifted. Sam’s feet dangled six inches off the floor.
“Mmm, yeah, that’s what I needed to know,” Sam said. “How long…?”
Eric started moving the 275-pound footballer up and down.
“How about all day…?”
Sam shook his head.
“I think maybe you need to put me down.”
Eric let go and Sam sank nearly to his knees before Eric caught him and lifted him up. Into a power bearhug. They were chest to chest, crotch to crotch. Sam could feel Eric’s 11 inch steel crow bar throbbing against his abs.
Show him, the voice said.
“I don’t know…” Sam said.
That’s okay, Eric thought.
Eric showed Sam the door.
“Uh, but, don’t you want…?”
Eric shook his head.
“Sam, I’m flattered,” he said. “You have no idea how flattered, in fact! But Clarissa is my friend and my co-worker! I can’t come between the two of you!”
“I know, I know,” he cried.
Really, Eric thought, he’s on the verge of crying!
“What does it all mean?”
He needs you to fuck him, the voice said.
“I don’t know,” Eric said. “Maybe you’re bi?”
Sam shook his head.
“I’ve never looked at another man,” he pointed out. “But you…”
Eric wanted this conversation to be over now.
“Sam, I’ve been working out, I’m standing here in my underwear, and it’s not cray-cray for someone to get a little worked up! Believe me, if saw Clarissa cooking breakfast in her panties I’d get worked up, too.”
Well, no, he thought. Probably not. But let’s run with it!
“So let’s focus, okay? Clarissa! At home! Waiting for you!”
Her big, built, hung NFL stud fiancÉe, Eric mentally added.
Sam turned and ran down the steps. Eric didn’t shut his front door until he heard the outer door slam.
“What the fuck was that all about?”
You know what to do, the voice said.
“Like hell,” Eric thought.
Later that evening, the phone rang.
“Clarissa,” Eric said, answering it.
“What did you do to him?”
It’s what I didn’t do to him, Eric answered – on the inside!
“He’s pretty upset, huh?”
“You could say! What happened?”
“I wasn’t expecting company, y’know.”
“He showed up when I was cooking breakfast.”
“And, yeah, I think it’s safe to say I was scantily clad.”
“And then he was all into how much I was lifting and stuff.”
“And, well, I showed him.”
“I showed him how strong I am.”
“I picked him up.”
“Yes, with his permission, of course!”
“And, well, uh…”
“Yes, he seemed to find that, uh, provocative or something.”
“Yes, I gave him a hug!”
“Yes, I had a hard-on! Jeez, have you looked at him? He doesn’t wind up on the cover of People because he looks like Barney Fife, y’know! He’s a fucking stud!”
“I’ll be right over…”
You know what to do, the voice said.
Give me a rest, Eric thought.
Clarissa opened the door. She was wearing…
“Oh My God!”
Clarissa was wearing a silk see-through teddy, a satin push-up bra, lace panties, and stiletto heels, nothing else!
“Is that a good OMG or a bad OMG,” she asked.
“That’s a totally surprised OMG,” he replied.
Clarissa shook her head.
“You’re not the only one who is surprised,” she said. “I’ve dated straight men, gay men, bi men, and I would have sworn Sam was straight as the day is long.”
She ran her red-lacquered thumbnail across the skin-tight UnderArmour polo straining against Eric’s perfectly shaped, perfectly defined 54-inch chest.
“But I can’t fault him on his taste,” she added. “If you weren’t gay, I would have been on you in a New York minute, even when you were skinny. Much less at the freaking Hulk!”
Eric felt his thick meat stirring. He wasn’t, wasn’t, wasn’t straight. He wasn’t, wasn’t, wasn’t bi. So why was Clarissa suddenly making him feel out of breath?
Because you want the same thing, the voice said.
“But this isn’t about me,” Eric said. “It’s about Sam. Isn’t it?”
Clarissa looked him up and down.
“Is it?” she asked.
Eric felt trapped, as though any answer would be the wrong answer.
You know what he needs, the voice said.
“I know what he needs,” Eric said.
Where had that confidence – that certainty – come from?
Clarissa’s eyes widened.
“I think you need it, too,” she said.
“I want to watch,” Clarissa said.
Eric smiled. His 11-inch tool smiled, too.
“And then I want you to fuck me,” she added.
Eric’s heart raced.
“And then I want you to fuck him while he’s fucking me!”
When you’re done, the voice said. Come to me.
Fucking Sam was like…
John Henry pile-driving his way through a mountain…
A nuclear sub powering its way under the Arctic ice cap…
A Saturn V rocket lifting a million tons of steel into orbit…
In a dim, quiet corner of his consciousness, Eric was amazed that his 11-inch poker impaled itself so smoothly into Sam’s massive hairy NFL squat butt. It was like Sam, the straightest of straight arrows, the butchest of his breed, was born to be fucked.
And fuck him he did, every way he could imagine.
Sam’s legs over his head, Sam on his knees as Eric gave him doggy style, spooning side by side, Eric leaning back against the headboard of the California king with Sam sitting on his giant cock. And, eventually:
Eric slipping his massive corded fur-covered forearms under and beyond Sam’s armpits, reaching up to lock hands behind Sam’s bull-neck, and lifting the big man into the air as if he were a ragdoll, fucking the linebacker in mid-air, Sam’s dripping 9-inch cock waving about like a flag in the wind, the two of them finally spasming, Eric’s load so forceful it pushed Sam off while Sam’s cum hit splat-splat-splat on the bedroom’s full length mirror.
Eric dropped the big man on the bed, then turned and faced the mirror, hitting a mind-blowing most muscular.
He went through all the poses a pro bodybuilder hits on the competition stage, then stood relaxed and panting…
Finally, he noticed Clarissa, her eyes wide with…
She was trembling slightly.
“You need to go,” she said. “I think Sam is okay.”
He looked at the bed. Sam was snoring, his breathing somewhat ragged. He was soaked in sweat, covered in cum, and the bruises were beginning to show.
“But I thought…”
Clarissa shook her head.
“You would break me in half,” she said. “And not notice.”
Confused and hurt, Eric fled. On the way back to his apartment, it was all he could do not to break his steering wheel in half. He had an almighty huge pump. His arms looked an inch bigger than they had when Sam had stopped by that morning. At home, he stepped on the scale.
Up 10 pounds. in one day?
Come to me, the voice said. It’s time.
Next day the Internet was abuzz.
Sam Fortunato was out for the season, the result of “undisclosed” injuries.
The commentators wanted to know…
He hadn’t been to a hospital, no accident report had been filed. Before the day was over rumors circulated that he’d had a nervous breakdown, followed by a rumor that the engagement with Clarissa was off, a rumor that Sam’s agent confirmed the next day.
Eric e-mailed his resignation. He was angry and hurt and upset and more alive than he’d ever felt in his life. He had fucked the daylights out of the biggest, studliest, handsomest, straightest man he’d ever met, and…
This is our due, the voice said. Come to me.
Eric was getting fed up with that fucking voice.
“I’ll come when I’m ready to come,” he said aloud in between deadlift sets. The half dozen guys who gathered every time Eric worked out just looked at each other but said nothing. The man was clearly in the zone, the words clearly not intended for them (they might have been invisible for all the attention Eric paid them.)
And so it went.
Eat, lift, sleep.
Eric’s life was his apartment and the gym. He had food – beef, chicken, potatoes, rice, veggies – delivered nearly daily. On occasion he wondered how he was going to afford all of it but when he checked his bank account it stayed level, even as his expenses mounted.
Two weeks after he fucked Sam, Eric was 6 feet tall and 300 pounds, an inch taller and 40 pounds. His arms taped 26 inches cold, his chest was 62. It had gotten to the point that whenever Eric worked out all other activity in the gym stopped. Per the request of the gym owner, he started training after hours. The owner offered to recruit a couple of guys to be spotters but Eric just shrugged his ox-like shoulders.
“I don’t think I’ll need them,” he said.
Come to me, the voice would say.
“I’m not ready,” Eric would reply.
Eric automatically hit button to open the building entrance, then left the front door ajar. Eight weeks after he had started working out after hours, food deliveries were a daily occurrence.
“Just leave it all on the counter,” he rumbled as the door pushed open.
He whipped around. Standing in the doorway, his face a mask of confusion and uncertainty, stood Sam Fortunato, late of the NFL.
“Sam,” Eric said. “What are you doing here?”
Sam had lost weight and his handsome face was haggard. It was clear he hadn’t been sleeping much.
“I had come to see you,” Sam said, his eyes downcast. “I had to make sure what happened was real. I had to…”
Sam’s eyes came up…and up…and up! Then his jaw dropped!
“Jesus Fucking Christ!” he exclaimed. “Rollo [the gym owner] told me you’d gotten huge but this…!”
Eric looked Sam in the eye – directly in the eye. He was now 6’4” tall, exactly as tall as Sam and five inches taller than when they’d last met 10 weeks earlier. And…
“Like it, Sam?” Eric asked, them calmly lifted his right arm and f-l-e-x-ed. It was 44 inches cold!
In the previous eight weeks, Eric had gained 200 pounds of solid muscle!
“You want to know what it’s like to be crushed by 500 pounds of man mountain, Sam?”
Sam licked his lips. His nine-inch rod was rock hard. Then he looked down and let out a shriek.
“Fuck!” he exclaimed. “How big is that thing?”
Eric’s hand was big enough to palm a basketball but it barely circled his mammoth cock.
“Sixteen by ten,” Eric pointed out. “You ready to take another ride?”
Sam turned on his heel and fled. Eric never saw him again.
(A year later he read that Sam had started a new and moderately successful life as an organic blueberry farmer in Tennessee, trading in football for long-distance running.)
Come to me, the voice said.
“I’m ready,” Eric said and made ready to leave his empty apartment one last time.
Jesse Acevedo heard the big bike pull up at the pumps but he didn’t look up from the game of Angry Birds he was playing on his iPhone. Nor did he look up when he heard the clunk-clunk of the pumps and the ting-ting of the meter.
It was the end of June between his junior and senior years and the strapping 6’2, 250 pound defensive end for New Mexico State was once again minding the counter at his Abuelita’s Kwikee Mart. The station overlooked I-40 but at this time of night no one was stopping by and Jesse was bored out of his mind. The door chimed as it was pushed open and a shadow fell across Jesse, something BIG enough to block the sodium glare of the parking lot lights. Jesse looked up…
“Fuck me,” he exclaimed.
The giant man standing in front of him had to be 6½ feet tall and he was nearly as wide as he was tall, a mountain of muscle contained in a herd’s worth of black leather. His chuckle upon hearing Jesse’s exclamation sounded like boulders crashing through the arroyo during a flash flood.
“Maybe later,” the Giant promised, a twinkle in his beautiful green eyes.
He stuck out a hand the size of hubcap.
“Eric Keith’s the name,” he said, enfolding Jesse’s big hand – he wore size 16 shoes and could palm a basketball – as if it were attached to a six-year-old girl. “I’m hoping you can help me out.”
Jesse gulped. The thick-bearded man in front of him was the biggest, thickest, builtest, manliest specimen Jesse had ever seen, and the closeted gay college football player had seen many of them.
“Sure,” he gasped. “What’s up?”
The Big Man – Eric, he said his name was – pulled out a map and pointed to it.
“I’m trying to find this place,” he said. “Tzuxaloat. It’s supposed to be around here, right?”
Jesse glanced at the map. The Big Man had said “Zoo Sha Low At,” which was a new one for Jesse. Then he saw where the re-bar thick finger was pointing.
“Oh,” he said. “You mean ‘Sucksalot!’”
Eric raised both eyebrows.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Jesse shook his head and grinned.
“No, see, it’s right over here by ‘Suckstobeyou!’”
Eric frowned; Jesse thought he might lose control of his bowels.
“No, Big Man, I’m kidding about ‘Suckstobeyou.’ It really is how folks around here say it. Probably a hundred years ago people said it the way you do but that was before the Interstate and all that.”
Eric tapped his finger on the counter.
“It’s about 30 miles south of here,” Jesse continued. “Waaaay out in the hills. You’ll have a hard time finding it in the daylight and you’ll never find it in the dark.”
The Big Man sighed, which might have been mistaken for a gale with anyone else.
“Dammit all,” he said. “I don’t suppose there’s motel around here?”
“Well, yeah, if you’re willing to drive. About 30 miles ahead of you is Santa Rosa, OR you can get back on I-40 the way you came and head to Tucumcari, which is 30 miles behind you.”
Eric rolled his eyes.
“Or, if you’re likely to pass out, I’ve got a trailer out back…”
The Big Man arched his right eyebrow independently of the left.
“Aren’t you afraid I’m an axe murderer or something?”
“Man, you are so fucking huge you wouldn’t need an axe, would you?”
Eric shook his head.
“Come to think of it, you’re right.”
Jesse handed him the key.
“There are two bedrooms, both with big beds,” he said. “You’ll want to take the one on the right.”
The Big Man looked at the key, then looked at Jesse.
Jesse nodded again.
“It’s pretty clear you don’t have anything to worry about from me, right? My cousin Manny will be along in an hour for shift change. I’ll see you then, if you’re still awake.”
The Big Man reached across the counter, took Jesse’s strong, handsome jaw in his big hand, and gave him a kiss full on the mouth.
“Thanks, pardner,” he said. “I’ll see you in a few.”
I can’t believe I’m being such an idiot, Eric thought as he trudged to the trailer. It was at least a double-wide, not one of those crapped out aluminum cans he’d seen littered along I-40 as he headed out of OKC. I’ll probably wake up in a bathtub full of ice with my kidneys missing!
The inside of the trailer was tidy and well-kept. The furniture was basic and inexpensive but it was functional and immaculately clean. Someone other than this kid with model-looks and built-in shoulder pads was taking care of the place, clearly.
Eric peeled out of his leathers and took a peek at the bathroom.
Jesus God, he thought. Would you look at that! A Jacuzzi tub!
Since heading for New Mexico a week earlier Eric’s biggest challenge had been finding places to get clean. He had chosen the big Harley because he no longer fit in most cars but he ended each day gritty and wanting a long, hot bath. He had a hard time fitting in most hotel bathrooms, much less their dinky showers. The double-wide was turning out to be a luxury accommodation by comparison! Eric spent the better part of 45 minutes luxuriating in the Jacuzzi, then climbed out and dried off. He was sitting at the trailer’s spotless kitchen table, a jumbo-sized fluffy towel draped across his lap, when Jesse bounded in the door.
“Cripes, kid,” Eric said, jumping up from the table and clutching the towel in front of his junk. “You could give a guy some warning.”
Jesse had just enough time to take in all of Eric’s magnificence – 6’6” tall, easily twice Jesse’s 250 pounds, all of it fur-covered muscle – before his mouth fell open and his eyes rolled back in his head.
“Oh, great,” Eric thought. “Another fainter.”
Jesse woke to find himself floating down the hall, snuggled in warm arms.
“Ai, Papi,” he said. “Is it time for bed already?”
The low chuckle caused Jesse’s eyes to fly open.
I am not five years old, he thought. And I am NOT being carried to bed by my father!
“You know, I’m only 25,” said the Big Man. “I’m not sure I’m old enough to be anyone’s Papi.”
Eric gently lowered Jesse to the California King occupying the large bedroom at the far end of the double-wide, then stood. He had lost the towel when Jesse fainted and…
“Holy Mother of God,” Jesse said, looking at Eric’s soft dick. It had to be over a foot long and nearly as big around.
“Now, now,” Eric cautioned. “You don’t want to get him all excited.”
Jesse sat up on the bed.
“Are you sure about that?” he asked.
Eric just laughed.
“How did such a fucking stud wind up out here in the middle of nowhere?” he asked.
Jesse shrugged his impressive shoulders.
“What else is there to do but lift weights?” he replied. “Turns out it’s easier in New Mexico to get a football scholarship than an academic one.”
Which he could have wangled, of course, but he didn’t – for whatever reason – want to leave New Mexico.
Not yet, anyway.
“Okay, now that you’re awake,” Eric said. “Stand up here and introduce yourself properly.”
Jesse did so. His movements were pure athletic grace. He stood in front of Eric casually, automatically assuming a classic contrapposto stance, one foot slightly forward with most of his weight there so that his shoulders and arms were slightly off-axis from his hips and legs. (Eric might have an MBA but his undergrad original major – before he realized he would spend the rest of his life starving to death as adjunct faculty—was art history!)
At 6’2” and 250 pounds, Jesse was built like a Greek God. His shoulders were nearly three feet across, his chest well over 50 inches, his waist no more than 30 inches, with huge traps, arms, quads, calves. Add to that the chiseled intimidating looks of an Aztec warrior and perfectly even, perfectly smooth coppery skin….mmm! The only thing that stood between Jesse and drop dead gorgeous were the wispy mustache that covered his upper lip and those big Bambi eyes. It was clear that this big powerful dude was a sweetheart.
“Your chest is wider than my shoulders,” Jesse said, looking at the stupendous, hairy pecs that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. “Just how big are you?”
“About 6’7”, the last time I checked,” Eric replied.
Was the big man blushing?
“You don’t know?” Jesse asked.
“I’ve been having a growth spurt.”
Jesse giggled, then he got serious. Not asking, he began running his hands over Eric’s enormous body. The mountainous pecs; the vast shoulders (how did he get down the hall?); arms the size of beer kegs; eight shredded abdominal muscles, each the size of concrete pavers; quads that were larger than Jesse’s chest.
“How…” he began.
“How much do I weigh?” Eric interrupted. “I just recently passed 600 pounds.”
Jesse felt light-headed.
“But, hey, don’t faint on me again, okay?”
Jesse’s hand was on Eric’s monster cock. He didn’t remember putting it there.
Eric licked his lips.
“12 x 10 soft,” he said. “But it’s not going to stay soft if you keep that up.”
Jesse squeezed – then bit Eric’s fist-sized right nipple.
“Listen, boy,” Eric said. “You might want to be careful…”
Jesse plunged his face into the vast crevice between Eric’s enormous pecs, tonguing and nipping at the fur.
The log Jesse was holding with his right hand began to turn into a telephone pole. His big, football-palming hands could no longer contain it.
“Ai yi yi,” Jesse said, dropping to his knees. “What a fucking work of art!”
Eric was at full mast. 20 inches long, 14 inches around.
Jesse managed to get the head into his mouth and swallowed a third of its length before he could go no more.
“Damn, son,” Eric said. “That’s some Olympic level cock-sucking! Most guys can’t get past the head – and that’s the ones that don’t go screaming at the sight of Monster here.”
Jesse let go and stood again.
“I want you to taste to your taste,” he demanded, standing on tiptoes.
Eric bent slightly, grasped the back of Jesse’s head, and pulled him in for a kiss. A long, deep, passionate kiss. His long arms around Eric’s barrel neck, Jesse wrapped his legs around the Big Man’s waist. It was like making love to a concrete mixer.
“You could hold me here all night, couldn’t you?” Jesse said when they paused to take a breath.
“And all day.”
Jesse rested his head against the concrete slabs that were Eric’s pecs.
“I want to fuck these,” he said, then added wistfully. “But I don’t know how…”
Eric shushed him.
“There’s no way Monster is going up your ass, sweet heart, don’t even think about it. But there are other ways.”
Jesse moaned in anticipation, then bit his lip.
“Uh, would you…?”
Eric arched an eyebrow.
“Tell me how big you are?”
Eric – with Jesse’s arms still wrapped around his neck, with Jesse’s legs still wrapped around his waist – lifted his mountainous and arms and squeezed.
“Biceps 50 inches,” Eric said. “Forearms are 42 inches. Big enough for you?”
Jesse let go of Eric’s neck and dropped to his feet. He poked each of Eric’s gigantic pecs. Each one had to be two feet across and stood out from Eric’s clavicle at least two feet.
“Show me your back,” Jesse demanded.
Eric turned, his shoulders pushing Jesse up onto the bed.
“Holy Mother of God,” Jesse said. “Your back is the size of Mount Everest!”
Eric turned again to face Jesse, this time putting his hands on his waist and FLARING.
“Chest measurement is 120 inches,” Eric noted.
Jesse’s jaw dropped.
“That’s 10 feet!” he exclaimed. “And that must mean…”
He wrapped his arms around Eric’s waist.
“Sixty inches,” Eric pointed out. “Huge, huh?”
Jesse shook his head.
“It’s the golden mean,” he explained. “Chest to wait, 2-to-1, just like Sergio.”
“And my quads are 66 inches each.”
Jesse looked down at Eric’s calves, then up at his neck.
“Let me guess,” he offered. “Calves and neck 48 inches?”
Eric pointed a finger that looked like it belonged on a pair of Hulk gloves at Jesse.
“Bingo,” Eric said. “But enough of that.”
With one hand, Eric lifted Jesse so that his head was brushing the ceiling. With the other, he ripped off Jesse’s jeans as if they were so much tissue paper. And then he swallowed Jesse’s 9x6 tool as if it were a particularly tasty popsicle, all the way to the pubes, no effort at all, just perfect continuous wet suction.
“You could hold me up here all day, couldn’t you?” he asked, between ragged gasps.
Eric’s head continued to bob up and down on Jesse’s rod.
“But I want to see you looming over me,” Jesse said.
Eric let go, caught the linebacker as if he were a puppy, and laid him down on the bed. Jesse scooted back and Eric leaned forward, his ham-sized hands on either side of Jesse’s head. The bed groaned under their combined weight.
Jesse looked up but all he could see was muscle and fur, Eric’s head lost over the crest of his gravity-defying pecs.
“I’m feeling hungry,” Eric declared. He scooted back and pushed his head between Jesse’s thighs. Something hard, huge, wet – and flexible – found Jesse’s quivering hole.
“My God,” Jesse said. “That’s your tongue?”
Eric surfaced and grinned.
“Wait ‘til you try my fingers on for size!”
Come to me, the voice said.
“When we’re done,” Eric and Jesse replied.
“I guess you’re here to see The Old Man?” Jesse asked.
Eric paused before swallowing the next bite of the 12-egg omelet the hot jock had made for him.
“The Old Man?”
Jesse shrugged his broad shoulders.
“The one in your head,” he replied. “And mine.”
Eric clenched his monster fists.
Why is this getting me bent out of shape?
“How did you know?” he managed to ask.
Again with the shrug.
“You know, even though we’re way out here in the middle of nowhere, the gay guys who are from here still find each other,” Jesse pointed out. “He usually starts whispering to us when we’re 13 or 14 but most of us don’t pay much attention and the voice goes away.”
But…, Eric thought.
“But those of us who are into muscle, He keeps talking to us, urging us on,” Jesse added, then shyly flexed his 22-inch arms.
“It’s certainly worked for you, in that case,” Eric said appreciatively. “But who is He where is He, what…”
“Nobody knows,” he said. “But as far as I can tell He’s out there on Tzuxaloat somewhere. But I’ve never met anyone who’s ever seen Him.”
“I’ve always thought of Him as the Spirit of the Mountain,” he continued. “But I don’t really have any reason for thinking it. I can tell you, however, that no one who’s not from around here has ever come looking for Him, not that I’ve heard tell, anyway, and no one around here’s ever been half as big as you are!”
“I kind of think I’m on a wild goose chase,” he pointed out. “Or, more precisely, I did until I met you. Now I wonder…”
“You wonder if He’s real?”
“Let’s go find out, shall we?”
As it turned out, it was Jesse’s day off so he agreed in a heartbeat to accompany Eric. They finished eating, cleaned up, and headed outside.
“Holy Shit!” Jesse exclaimed when they exited the double-wide. “Where’s your bike?!”
It was nowhere to be seen – until Eric pointed up. It was 10 feet off the ground, on the roof of the Kwikee Mart.
“How the hell…?”
Easy, Eric thought.
“You’ve never met a guy with a 10-foot vertical jump before?” Eric asked.
Jesse looked rather pale.
“But, but, but…”
Eric raised an eyebrow.
“How much does it weigh?” he asked. “About 900 pounds or thereabouts.”
He gathered the bike in his arms like it was a Little Tike’s Big Wheel and hopped down from the roof.
“I guess I ought to get in a few curls before we head out,” he said, pumping out a quick set of 20.
Jesse licked his lips.
“You could do that all day long, couldn’t you?”
Eric nodded, then switched to doing triceps extensions.
One-handed triceps extensions.
“Do you know how strong you really are?”
“Your full of questions today, aren’t you? Let’s go find out!”
The ride out to Tzuxaloat was probably no more than 30-35 miles but it took the better part of 90 minutes for Eric and Jesse to make the journey. In part that had to do with the roughness of the road, which transitioned from tarmac to gravel to dirt in the space of about three miles. In part it was because sitting behind Eric on the bike Jesse couldn’t actually see where they were headed, just where they had been – Eric’s six-foot wide shoulders made a forward view impossible! From time to time, they would have to stop so that Jesse could get his bearings!
“Well, this is it,” Jesse said finally. There was an abandoned house, barn, and windmill, plus some scraggly fencing – and a lot of tumbleweeds. “But that’s the mountain up there and from here I haven’t a clue.”
Eric stared at the mountain. The road, such as it was, became a narrow trail, unimproved but apparently passable and clearly visible.
The path is before you, the voice said. Follow it.
“Well,” Jesse said. “I guess that’s your answer.”
He climbed on behind Eric and they started up the hill.
The rest of the climb the voice was silent but Eric knew, instinctively it seemed, which way to point the bike whenever they came to a fork. Eventually they entered a shallow canyon where they found a shallow pond and a waterfall.
“It’s behind the waterfall,” Eric said.
Jesse looked at him.
“There’s something behind the waterfall?” he asked. “I’m not seeing it.”
Eric looked over his shoulder at the young stud.
“Don’t worry, it’s there,” he said. “In the meantime: You ready for a piggyback ride, little buddy?”
Jesse’s eyes widened.
“Hell yeah,” he said, jumping on. “And do I look like Gilligan, is that what you’re telling me?”
“You look like fucking He-Stud of the Universe,” he pointed out, as they slipped into the shadowed declivity that marked the entrance to the cave. “But compared to me…”
Jesse squeezed Eric’s side with quads that routinely squatted more than 600 pounds Eric didn’t seem to notice.
“Carry on, Jeeves,” he said in his best fake British accent. “Let’s go find Dr. Livingstone!”
The cave entrance was no more than eight feet wide, which meant that Eric’s shoulders were in serious danger of brushing the sides.
“Here,” Jesse said, jumping down from Eric’s back. “Let me lead the way. I don’t want you getting stuck.”
Eric didn’t object.
“Great!” he said. “I’ll just concentrate on your fine Native American ass!”
“That’s Injun to you, White Boy!”
The must have walked a mile, occasionally having to bend over through low overhangs, more often having to twist and turn through narrow bits. Given that Eric was nearly four feet thick from his nips to his lats, it might have been a bit worrisome…
“But it’s pretty clear someone’s done some blasting,” Jesse said.
It was true. The narrow areas also tended to be unnaturally smooth, as if someone had gone through with a giant piece of sandpaper.
“Except that there aren’t any blast marks that I can see,” Eric added. “Wouldn’t be less polished looking if they’d blasted?”
Jesse shrugged his yard-wide shoulders.
“Beats me boss…”
But that wasn’t the only weird thing. No matter how far into the cave they walked they never needed to use their flashlights.
“Just as well,” Jesse pointed. “I’m not sure how long the batteries would have lasted.”
“It’s a mite peculiar, I’ll have to agree.”
Eventually they felt a breeze that was just a bit cooler and damper than that they had encountered all the way from the mouth of the cave.
“I think we’re nearly there,” Jesse said over his shoulder.
Then they were there! The chamber was vast, easily a quarter mile across, with a ceiling a couple of hundred feet above a large, oval, perfectly still pool of water.
Directly across from them, there was a statue of a gigantic man, easily 10 or 12 feet tall and even wider than it was tall. The stone was a deep, rich red, like Carnelian or red Jasper, shot through with streaks of gold and silver and alabaster. Even from across the pool they could clearly see the incredible musculature that had been carved from the stone, traps and delts and pecs and serratus and abs, biceps that were themselves 10 feet in circumference, and an 8-foot tall phallus sticking straight up from a pair of legs that would have been appropriate on Atlas (if Atlas had decided to set a spell after holding up the world for 10,000 years.)
And it wasn’t just the size. As Eric and Jesse walked around the pool and up to the sculpture, they could see veins and striations and the kind of detailing that would make an Olympia contender weep in envy. Yet it was clear that the sculpture was incredibly old.
“How were they able to imagine that kind of conditioning?” Eric wondered aloud.
They stared up at the statue. Its eyes suddenly opened, revealing startling blue irises.
“There was no imagining to it.”
The voice that rumbled forth could have leveled a city block. Eric and Jesse sank to their knees.
“It’s just how I grew.”
It was him!
The voice inside their head!
“Hello boys,” the Giant said. “What took you so long?”
Jesse’s eyes rolled back in his head and his powerful body slumped into Eric’s arms, arms that until five minutes previously had been the biggest either of them had ever seen!
“Oh, dear,” the Giant said, once again reverting the voice inside their heads. “I was afraid of that.”
Eric stood in front of him, slack-jawed.
“He’ll wake up soon enough,” the Giant continued. “When he does, climb up onto my lap and bring your little friend with you, there’s a good lad.”
Jesse came around a minute later.
“Hop on,” Eric said. “We’re going up.”
The Giant’s lap was only seven or eight feet off the ground so Eric just leaped! And they were there.
“That’s better,” the Giant said. “Now let me introduce myself…”
It wasn’t words so much as pictures but gist was:
My name is Hezekiah Erastus Wallingford, but you can call me Heck. I was born in New London, Connecticut in 1792.
The wanderlust having hit me bad at an early age, and having no fondness of New England winters, I left home at age 16 and started making my way South, eventually coming to rest in Tennessee where I met one Andrew Jackson, who later defeated the British at the Battle of New Orleans during the War of 1812. I joined General Jackson’s troops as soon as the call went out and I saw plenty of action.
After the war, I realized I was tired of being hemmed in so I struck out west. I had spent some time in Spanish Florida and had picked up the lingo there, along with French in New Orleans, and as I traveled I determined that I was something of a savant, as the French would say, picking up Indian talk with little effort.
I traveled through the piney woods that would later become East Texas, across the rolling prairies of what is now Central Texas, and then up and over across the Great Plains themselves before coming to this corner of what would become New Mexico.
I had a comely lad from childhood, with hair like straw, eyes the color of blue berries, and a clear complexion that was pale as snow in winter and brown as tobacco leaf in summer. By the time I joined General Jackson I was an impressive physical specimen, taller than most men and built like a lumberjack or a blacksmith, with shoulders like an ox and arms and thews the likes of which my comrades had never seen. And much as I enjoyed the company of my mothers and sisters and women of all ages, it was men – especially big, strong men – who had attracted my gaze for as long as I could remember.
Leaving what was called civilization seemed like no great loss to me, since it was clear that men like me and tastes like mine would never be accepted, that I would always need to hide my true affections behind polite fictions and closed doors. Traveling among the native peoples I learned that what I had been taught was unnatural was just another way of being, one they understood and accepted. And I was more than accepted, not just for my size and strength, which continued to increase by leaps and bounds, but for my heart and soul as well.
During all my traveling, I felt that I was being called and when I reached these desert mountains, I knew I was almost home. I followed the trail the two of you followed, I found the waterfall and the entrance to the cavern, and even though I was incredibly tall and wide and strong by the standards of the day I was no more than half as big as you are, Eric.
And here, sitting where I am sitting, I found him. He was 10 feet tall and 10 feet wide, his enormous musculature appeared to be carved from granite. But then I saw his giant prong twitch, the corners of his mouth twitched, and his eyes flew open. Even in New England I had heard of the Aztecs of Ancient Mexico and I thought surely this must be an Aztec God, or the reincarnation of Cuauhtemoc, the last Aztec Emperor.
“Nay,” the Giant spoke.
He pitched his voice at a whisper but still I was driven to my knees.
“Yes, I am Aztec,” the Giant said, projecting his voice directly into my mind. “I knew Moctezuma and Cuauhtemoc but I am not they and for all that’s holy you dare not speak the Name of the Feathered One.”
Stout American and republican that I was, I knelt before him, head bowed, as one does before a Prince or a God, knowing that I would worship him until the end of my days, if allowed to do so.
“Rise, Hezekiah,” his mind voice intoned. “I am Tzuxaloat, last of the Aztecs, the Old Man of the Mountain.”
Then he stood before me and showed me what manhood could be, in ways my fevered brain had never imagined.
“But why have you brought me here?”
He sighed, a wind that gusted through the cavern as a hurricane blows through the Caribe.
“It is time for me to ascend,” he said. “And time for you to take my place.”
“Wow,” Jesse said, looking stunned.
“Wow,” Eric echoed, rubbing his hands across the eight boulders, each the size of a shipping crate, making up Heck’s abdominal wall.
Heck’s massive phallus twitched.
“Careful there, little fella,” Heck said, reverting to his usual conversational tone. “It’s been a long time.”
Jesse was the first to recover.
“So then what happened?” he asked. “What happened to Tsuxaloat?”
Heck lifted his mammoth arms and raised his hands to the ceiling.
“He started fading and then turning into what seemed like some kind of vapor,” Heck said. “Up and up he went, disappearing above. His last words, ‘You will know what to do.’”
Heck’s chuckle threatened, Eric thought, to bring down the ceiling. He grabbed Jesse’s shoulders and hung on as a tsunami of muscle raced up and down Heck’s monstrous quads.
“That was a damned lie,” Heck continued. “I didn’t have the foggiest idea of what I was supposed to do. But I sat here on the throne and then I knew.”
His job, Heck said, was to grow. To become another Tzuxaloat. And when he was done growing, to find someone to succeed him in the Mountain.
“I figure it took Tzuxaloat 300 years and a bit to become what he was when I saw him,” Heck pointed out. “My guess is that, even though he was a warrior prince, he wasn’t a huge man when he found the cave. By the time I found him, I was about twice the size of any of his Indio descendants. As far as I can tell, I am a couple of feet taller than he was and a couple of feet broader. And it’s only taken me 200 years.”
By the time Heck was finished speaking, Eric was rock hard.
Is that what lay in front of him? Was that the purpose of his life? Spending 200 years growing to monstrous size, all those years alone?
“Who said I was alone?” Heck asked, once again demonstrating his ability to receive as well as send. “Over the past 20 decades I have had a steady stream of young men who have come and bathed in the pool, drunk from my fountain, and then emerged bigger, stronger, better, than they had any reason to be.”
Eric heaved a sigh of relief, then saw Jesse looking at him.
“Viejo, Hombre,” Jesse began…
Heck looked down at the stud sitting in his lap and remembered Jesse’s ancestors and uncles and cousins, many of whom had visited him over the previous two centuries.
Jesse cleared his throat.
“How big were you when you came to the mountain?”
Heck drummed his log-sized fingers on a kneecap the size of a golf cart.
“That’s a good question and I can’t say I rightly know,” he replied. “Fine instrumentation for measuring this or that was hard to come by in those days. But I am guessing that I was a little bit shorter than Eric here, which made me exceedingly tall for the time, and about half his weight.”
Eric’s eyes widened.
“Surely no more than that,” he said. “We just didn’t have as much food around in those days as you do now. I was pretty much about the biggest a man could get back that, not without turning into a porker, that is.”
“So in 200 years…”
Heck’s massive member twitched again.
“Eric here could be twice the size I am now.”
Eric orgasmed, clutching Jesse to his mammoth chest.
“Need – to – breathe!”
Eric let go, then smiled sheepishly.
“And what about me?” Jesse asked.
“I don’t rightly know, son,” he said. “Heretofore I would say take a dip in the pool, climb my cock and have a few licks, then go out and conquer the world. You’ll be the biggest, strongest, studliest man anyone has ever seen, maybe even as big as Eric here.”
Eric could see it plain as day.
“Or maybe Eric needs some company,” he said. “Someone to keep the place tidy and to go fetch, uh, entertainment.”
Heck scratched his chin.
“Could be,” he said. “I don’t think it’s set in stone. You boys will figure it out. Now go take a dip in the pool. I think I need to stretch my legs a bit.”
Eric and Jesse climbed down, shucked their clothes, and headed to the pool.
Turning, they saw Heck standing tall, his vast arms outstretched.
“I don’t know where I’m going,” he said. “But I’ll be watching. Take good care.”
And with that he began to dissolve, his substance turning to vapor and vanishing into the ceiling.
Jesse took Eric’s hand.
“I love you, you know,” he said.
Eric squeezed the big man’s hand, gently but firmly, as if he never intended to let go.
“I know,” he said. “And I love you back. But…?”
“Will I still love you when you’re 20 feet tall and have a 10 foot dick? Are you crazy! Of course, I’ll love you!”
He attached himself to Eric’s left nipple, causing an instantaneous rock hard erection.
“And who knows,” he pondered. “Maybe we’ll need a second throne?!”
He liked that idea!
He liked that idea a lot!
“Cum for me, babe,” he whispered in Jesse’s ear. “Cum for me.”