Description Newly retired Roger and his new friend Jim find that their passion in the bedroom is having prodigious results in the gym!
|Updated||02 May 2020|
“I like your shirt,” he said.
I was finishing a set of two-handed overhead triceps extensions with a 100-pound dumbbell. I looked up and saw him grinning at my raggedy-ass Johnny Bravo tee-shirt.
“Thanks,” I said, setting down the dumbbell and turning towards him. “My late husband bought it for me 18 years ago at CNN Center in Atlanta. I like yours, too! Where did you get it?”
He had on a tie-dyed tank top in rainbow colors.
“Sorry for your loss,” he said. “This one? They had them the Artisans’ Distillery for Pride.”
I smiled. Well, I thought, we’ve established that much, haven’t we?
“I never do Pride anymore,” I said, ruefully. “I’m not much one for crowds, especially not on my own.”
“I’m in the same boat,” he said. “I just happened to visit A.D. a month or so ago and it struck my fancy. Well, I’ll let you get back to your workout!”
And off he went. I watched his pert bubble-butt as he ambled off to the locker room. He was probably 3-4 inches shorter than my 5’10 and with his not-quite-buzzed silver hair and salt-n-pepper goatee / stache he could be my age. Nice shoulders and pecs, a bit chunky around the middle, but who isn’t at 60? I went back to my arm workout.
Jeff had passed away three years previously, one month shy of his planned retirement at age 67. I had followed friends’ advice and made no changes for a year, then I retired at age 58. Between my savings and Jeff’s sizable insurance policy, I had enough to keep me comfortable if I lived to be a hundred. And I wasn’t going to put off retiring, as Jeff had done, just to have the fickle finger of fate catch up with me at the last minute. On the first anniversary of his passing, I joined a suburban gym and hired a personal trainer. In two years I had added 30 pounds of solid muscle and I was back to 230 pounds, with a 315 bench (well, for one rep) and 18-inch arms. I was as big and as strong as I had been at age 40, my previous peak.
And I kept thinking of those nice shoulders, that sexy butt, and that handsome face. Three years is a long time to go without!
“Well, well, well,” I heard. “Look who it is. The Big Man himself!”
I was at Kiss My Grits, the local breakfast joint in the strip mall across the street from the gym, waiting for the hostess to finish clearing tables and find me a seat.
“Hey, hey, hey,” I replied. It was Mr. Bubble Butt! “I haven’t seen you here before.”
Then I stuck out my hand.
“Roger Jeffries,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
He had a firm grip.
“Jim Robitaille,” he replied. “And, no, this is my first visit. I just moved to the area.”
The hostess, Shirley, showed up about then. She arched an eyebrow as I held up a finger.
“Are you waiting for someone else or are you here on your own?” I asked Jim. “As usual, I’m solo and I’d be happy to have you join me.”
He agreed and Shirley seated the two of us. Normally I never spend more than half an hour for breakfast but with Jim there it turned into an hour and a half. We talked about everything. He was recently single, his husband of 20 years having traded him in for a newer model.
“Ouch,” I said.
He waved it away.
“I guess I was a sap,” he said. “It had occurred to me to wonder why we hadn’t had sex in 10 years. I thought it was just low libido on his part.”
My eyes widened.
“You, too?” I asked. “Although I think in Jeff’s case it was low libido. Or high blood pressure. Or something. I’ll never know now.”
Jim just shook his head.
“I can’t imagine not having my hands all over you 24/7,” he blurted, then blushed, then looked around.
“One of the nice things about Kiss My Grits,” I pointed out. “Plenty of ambient noise on the one hand, plenty of half-deaf elderly customers on the other!”
“And it’s mutual, you know,” I pointed out. “You’re a hot guy!”
He rolled his eyes.
“A bit on the short side,” he said. “Tom [his ex-husband] would go and pick someone who’s not only half my age but eight inches taller than I am!”
Taking a risk, I pointed out it was bleedingly obvious that Tom was a complete jerk and he was clearly better off without him.
“Besides,” I added. “Tallness is highly overrated. Width is what it’s all about and with those shoulders you’ve certainly got the width!”
His grin was lascivious, to say the least.
“Look who’s talking,” he replied. “It’s like you have built-in shoulder pads. Did you play football when you were in college?”
“Pfft! Wotta concept! I was the geekiest adolescent that ever lived,” I pointed out. “I didn’t start growing until I started lifting and I didn’t start lifting until after I graduated from college. I was as surprised as anyone that the way I grew was wide.”
“And thick, too,” he pointed out. “Your chest is what, 50 inches?”
“Uh, well, yeah, actually, it is,” I replied. “On a good day, if I hold the tape loosely!”
“Somehow I think you’re being modest,” he countered, then added: “You’ll have to let me measure sometime!”
Zing! Little Roger’s response to that suggestion let me know I’d be taking Jim up on his offer at some point! Then it was time to argue over who was going to pay the bill (I won, claiming the host role since he was a Kiss My Grits virgin!), traded phone numbers and e-mail addresses, and went our separate ways. He was off to see his hunky bodybuilder massage therapist (“I’m working up the nerve to ask him to pose for me!”) while I had a date with my dental hygienist.
For the rest of the week we texted every day:
ROGER: Want to work out together sometime?
JIM: I couldn’t keep up with you! Maybe I could change your plates?
ROGER: Pfft! Believe me, I’m not remotely that strong.
JIM: How much do you bench with that big chest?
ROGER: Ouch! I’ve always had a lousy bench! Most I’ve ever managed is 315 for 1 rep.
JIM: I’d like to see that! It’s about three times what I’m benching these days!
ROGER: Yeah, but you’re just starting over after how many years away from the gym?
JIM: At least five, maybe more like six if you go back to when I was really being consistent.
ROGER: I wasn’t doing much more than you when I started back two years ago.
JIM: I have to go out of town for a few days but I’ll be back Sunday afternoon. How about Monday morning?
ROGER: It’s a date!
Which didn’t stop us from talking about other stuff, of course, including the usual. Things like: The last time each of us had had sex (nine years ago for me, 10 years ago for him.) The first time we’d had sex (17 for him, 30 for me.)
ROGER: What can I say? I was a late bloomer!
When we came out (24 for him, 30 for me.) How many guys we’d slept with. (Around 300 for me.)
JIM: You counted?
ROGER: It was new. I gave up keeping track after the first hundred because that’s when Jeff came along but our first five-six years together we were very active together!
Positional preference. (Versatile / top for him, undecided for me.)
ROGER: I’m just very, very oral. Anal never did anything for me. I guess I never found my top.
JIM: Or your bottom?
ROGER: You’ll have to wait and see!
JIM: I never seem to have any problems finding a guy’s prostate. More than one has screamed my name.
Me oh my, I thought. So, yes, it was pretty much a foregone conclusion that this flirtation was going end up in the bedroom as well as the gym.
Our first workout was much more satisfying than either of us expected. First we weighed and measured. Jim was 5’6 and 180 pounds on the nose. Yes, the waist was 34 but the chest was 44 and the arms were a decent 15. At 5’10, I had exactly 50 pounds on him. He did more than usual, I did more than usual. We seemed to have a remarkable synergy.
“You know your stuff,” I said, about halfway through.
“So do you!”
“You realize, of course, that between the two of us we have about 80 years of lifting under our belts!”
“And clearly we learned a few things along the way!”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Too bad we didn’t meet way back when!”
He clapped me on the shoulder, then let his hand linger.
“Imagine what we’d look like now if we’d been egging each other on for the past 40 years!”
The man knew how to get Little Roger’s attention – and he wasn’t even trying. After we had finished…
“Your place or mine?” he asked.
I pointed towards the front doors.
“I’m two miles that way,” I said.
“And I’m one mile in the opposite direction,” he countered.
“It’s settled, in that case – your place!”
We went at it like teenagers. His kitties, Radley and Boo, were more than a little appalled. It didn’t hurt that we were both sweaty and slightly stinky and both thoroughly pumped.
“If I could just get rid of this damned gut,” he sighed, poking his pillow-like tummy.
I rubbed my hand over it.
“It’s no bigger than mine,” I pointed out.
He ran his fingers over my furry torso.
“Yeah,” he replied. “But you’ve got 50 pounds on me.”
I shook my head.
“Today is the hardest workout I’ve had in I don’t know how long,” I said. “And it’s all thanks to you, Mr. Intensity! Keep it up and that long-lost eight-pack of yours will be back in no time!”
That afternoon I finally found my top, screaming Jim’s name into a pillow while he plowed my ass with his long, slender 8x5 inch dick. And then I turned around and found my bottom, too! Turned out Jim was totally in love with the fact that Little Roger was just as big around (7 inches) as he was long! Eventually, though, it was time to go home.
“Darwin needs me,” I said, referring to my 8-year-old Welsh Terrier.
A younger man might have pouted or insisted that I stay over. Jim was too busy enjoying his freedom after 20 years of a frustrating and frustrated marriage.
“See you again tomorrow?”
I wrapped my arms around him and gave him a thorough smooching.
“Same Bat Time,” I replied.
“Same Bat Channel!” he agreed.
Jim grabbed the measuring tape. I was instantly hard, no prompting necessary.
“Ayup,” he said. “Just as I thought. You told me you were 7 x 7, right?”
“Since I was 13 years old,” I replied.
“Not any more you’re not,” he pointed out. “Now you’re 7½ x 7¼.”
I wrapped my hand around Little Roger – something I hadn’t needed to do much with Jim around.
“Damn,” I said. “You’re right.”
You wouldn’t think that an extra half inch one way and an extra quarter inch the other would be noticeable. But when you’ve given your best friend daily exercise since age 12…? I could tell.
“Give me that,” I said. Jim handed the tape to me.
The tape didn’t lie.
Jim shrugged his big thick shoulders.
“How did you manage to gain 22½ pounds of solid muscle in one week?”
Curiouser and curiouser!
The following week was a repeat of the first one only this time we were a bit more inclined to watch ourselves in the mirror, stopping between sets to check each other out and occasionally flex. We received lots of compliments from our fellow gym-goers and from the trainers, all of whom praised our progress.
As the week wore on, however, the praise tended to drop off and instead we were on the receiving end of looks that were equal parts awe, suspicion, jealousy, and (occasionally) lust. On Sunday afternoon, for lack of anything better to do and because we were feeling it, we had a “chest only” session.
Jim benched 405. For 10 reps. He looked like the cat who ate the canary when he finished but all said, gruffly, was:
“Your turn big man.”
The week before I had warmed up with 315 for 20 reps and ended with a double at 505. This time I warmed up with 545 for 20 reps and ended up with a single at 765. In addition to Jim, we called over a couple of the big boys who hung out on Sunday afternoon to help spot.
“Damn, Big Man,” said Donte, the self-proclaimed Chocolate Gorilla and a recent IFBB Pro. “That’s more than I can do.”
He bumped fists with me and as he did I realized my arms were just as big as his 23-inchers. So when Jim stepped on the scale and it read 210 pounds he had the same smirk a little boy has when he does something really naughty and he’s glad you found out about it. Then it was my turn.
“275,” he said.
I just shook my head. I wasn’t surprised. But still. 275? I was the same size as Donte Griffin?
“That’s just nuts,” I said.
Then we went and did arms. For three hours. By the time were done I had to help Jim take his shirt off.
“I bet they’re 18 now,” he said, flexing them. “Just from all the blood flow!”
I bent over and whispered in his ear.
“I bet they’re 18½.”
His dick was instantly hard as a rock.
“I’m afraid we’re gonna have to save that for later,” I said. “I need to go eat.”
I had the same problem with my shirt. Jim tried to help but in addition to being four inches taller than he was I was now 65 pounds heavier.
“I can’t reach around,” he complained.
I stood up, threw out my chest (that evening we determined it was now 58 inches), grabbed the front with my big meaty paws, and…rrrrrriiiiip!
“Well,” he said. “That takes care of that!”
Twenty minutes later we were at Kiss My Grits, the first time in nearly a week. Shirley’s eyes bulged, Devin’s mouth gaped.
“Tell you what,” she told him. “You take care of these two and I’ll cover the rest of your tables.”
Devin’s hard-on was clearly visible – to us, at least – the whole time he waited on us.
“You know, Devin,” I said to him. “I’m not complaining but I’m really kind of wondering why a young, well-built, handsome as hell stud like you is waiting tables at Kiss My Grits?”
Was I bold? Borderline rude? Perhaps so. Did Devin lap it up? You bet.
“It’s no mystery, Mr. Jeffries,” he replied. “I’m a student at Mud Creek College of Chiropractic. Classes are all afternoons and evenings and Grits closes at 2 p.m. That way I can pick up some extra dough and without any scheduling conflicts.”
Jim slapped the table.
“Ah ha!” he said. “That explains it.”
“A lot of my fellow students are personal trainers, you know,” he continued. “But they’re always doing a juggling act between classes and clients. This way I never have to juggle, I never have to stress and – bonus! – free food!”
I looked him up and down.
“So you into bodybuilding at all?”
He had the decency to blush.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I even did a show in college, just as a novice in the classic physique category, but I’ve never really had time for it. Not like you guys! You’re huge!”
Jim and I chuckled.
“We’ve both been lifting for a lot longer than you’ve been alive,” I pointed out. “But it turns out we’ve finally got the time for it.”
He licked his lips, then said.
“You know, I said we have afternoon classes. But that’s not quite right. We don’t have classes on Monday afternoon.”
I looked at Jim, Jim looked at me. He nodded.
“Funny you should mention that,” I said. “I’ve been trying to persuade Jim here that he needs to enter a contest but the fact is neither one of us has ever been anything other than a fan. We really don’t know the first thing about posing.”
Devin’s pretty blue eyes widened.
“Maybe I could come over sometime and show you some stuff?”
I casually ran my hand up and down his nice, thick, Chino-encased leg.
“Maybe after you get off work today?”
Which is how Jim and I acquired, much to our surprise, our first worshipper. He was at my place 15 minutes after Grits closed. We met him at the door wearing speedos (hey, he was going to show us posing, right?) and nothing else and he was stripping 10 seconds later.
God, what a hot fucker that kid was! An inch or so taller than I was and 190 pounds (we later learned), all of it solid as a rock. Along with the blue eyes and the killer body, he had sandy blond hair and some facial scruff but otherwise he was smooth as a baby’s behind. The kid could have landed a Sean Cody gig in a heartbeat. He was 5 inches taller than Jim but Jim outweighed him by 20 pounds, all of it in the right places.
“Fuck,” Devin said. “If you were as tall as I am, you’d be nearly as big as Mr. Jeffries.”
“So you know Roger’s Rule of 10, do you?”
That earned him a blank look.
“If you want to compare guys who are different heights, add or subtract 10 pounds for each inch of height,” I contributed.
Devin’s eyes lit up.
“Exactly!” he said. “If Mr. Robitaille were 5 inches taller, he would weigh about 260!”
Jim rolled his eyes.
“And if Mr. Jeffries were an inch taller, he would weigh about 285. Which would make him, what, exactly half again as big as you are?”
I didn’t think Devin’s big thick dick – it was nine-incher, we were pleased to learn – could get any harder. I was wrong.
“Can we can the Mister stuff? I’m Roger, he’s Jim, and you’re Devin. Got it?”
They both nodded. Then I tossed Devin over shoulder like he was a bag of feathers and we headed for the bedroom where he proceed to pose for us and then put us through our paces, and then got down on his hands and knees and licked, grabbed, stroked, and otherwise made love to every inch of our bodies, before finally begging to fuck my cleavage.
“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Jim said, who picked Devin up and air-fucked him the same way I had done Jim the week before, which was a bit of a trick considering the height difference. He’d been at it a minute or two when he looked over my shoulder, as if to say:
Aren’t you going to join in?
Which is when I picked up Jim, still fucking Devin, and sat him on my (slightly) bigger and (slightly) fatter dick. It was a great way to start the week!
“What I don’t understand,” Devin said over breakfast the next morning. “How do you guys have so much time for working out and eating out and all that stuff? When do you go to work?”
Jim and I looked at each other.
“We’re retired, of course,” I answered.
Devin’s eyes widened.
“Must be nice to retire in your 40s!” he exclaimed. “How did you manage that?”
Jim snorted. I guffawed.
“I’m 60, that’s how,” I replied.
“I’m 62,” he said. “Did you really think we were in our 40s?”
Devin’s mouth hung open.
“You’re kidding, right?”
We both shook our heads. For good measure, we fucked him again by way of thanking him and before he headed off to get ready for his afternoon classes.
Eight days later I tipped the scales at 300 pounds for the first time. That was also the first time I benched more than 1000 pounds – 1050, to be precise, exactly 3.5 times my weight. My chest was up to 62 and my arms were up to 25. Jim, for his part, now had 225 pounds packed onto his 5’6 frame. He looked like a silver-haired version of Flex Lewis, with his 50-inch chest and 19 inch arms. His bench was up to 500 pounds.
“What the fuck are you guys on?”
That was the club manager, Spencer Flynn.
“We’re not on anything,” I said.
“Just high on life,” Jim added.
Spencer was clearly not satisfied with our answers.
“You’re gonna have to tell me,” he said. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to have to kick you out for steroid abuse.”
I leaned in a bit. Spencer was an inch taller than I was and a classic physique competitor. He was a good-looking guy, although most of the trainers thought he was douche. I outweighed him by 75 pounds.
“You kick us out and we’re going to court,” I pointed out. “Don’t think we won’t. We’re retired, we have plenty of dough, and we know plenty of lawyers.”
He backed down, sort of.
“Please tell me,” he said, in a low, pleading voice. “I gotta know.”
I looked at Jim, Jim looked at me.
“You really want to know?”
He shakily nodded his head. The boy was desperate, no doubt about it.
“He fucks me,” I said. “He fucks me real good. And then I fuck him real good. That’s it.”
Spencer thought it over. As far as we could tell, he was straight as an arrow.
“So if you fucked me…”
I started flexing my 20-inch forearms. They were at least an inch bigger than his biceps.
“Happy to oblige,” I said. “But no guarantees. We don’t know why it works.”
That night we fucked him real good. He claimed he’d never been with a man before, not so much as a blow job or a circle jerk. But when I put my big hands under his pits, lifted him up and held him against the bedroom wall like he was a 125-pound twink, he came in about 10 seconds. And then he did it again when Jim’s 9-incher found his prostate, spewing all over Jim’s deeply etched 8-pack. He slept like a baby, curled up between me and Jim, his mouth sucking by big, thick, thumb-length nip most of the night.
Spencer quit the next day – by text, or so we heard. We never saw him again. Last report was that he had joined a commune in Oregon. I guess some guys don’t know what’s good for ‘em!
A week later we went to Devin’s Halloween party. You wouldn’t think a couple of sixty-somethings would be a good fit with a bunch of Millennials but we went as The Barbarian Brothers, in fake-fur loincloths, sandals, and fright wigs and they ate it up.
Of course, what wasn’t to like? At 240 pounds, Jim had officially graduated to “Human Tank” status, except that most human tanks don’t have a 29-inch waist and abs so chiseled you could lose quarters in the cracks. And then there was me: 320 pounds, 67 inch chest, 28 inch arms.
“You should have come as the Hulk,” Donte said.
Donte was in full Wakanda mode, only he made Chadwick Boseman and Michael B. Jordan look like adolescent girls with eating disorders.
“Hey, hey, it’s the Beast Master himself,” I said. “I didn’t know you knew Devin!”
“Everyone knows, Devin,” he said, then he took a deep breath and leaned towards my ear. “Damn, Big Man, you make me look like a fucking little girl.”
“And you look good enough to eat,” I countered. “Plus I don’t know any little girls with 11-inch dicks.”
“It’s just 10½,” he countered. “But it gets the job done.”
I put my big paw on his bulging delts – the fuckers felt like they were made out of concrete. Chocolate concrete.
“You like chocolate, Big Man?”
Donte’s deep voice, pitched so that just I would hear it, positively purred.
“And vanilla and strawberry and mango and every other flavor,” I pointed out. “But my favorite flavor is m-u-s-c-l-e.”
I looked him up and down.
“But I always thought you were a ladies’ man,” I said. “What gives?”
Donte’s smile could have lit up the East Coast.
“Oh, I like my ladies, that’s a fact,” he said. “But like you my favorite flavor is muscle. BIG muscle. You know how hard it is to find a guy my size or bigger?”
I shook my head.
“Less than a double handful,” he said. “And I’ve never been this close to a fucker as big as you are. You’re what, 310 now?”
I tried not to smirk, honest!
“320,” I replied. “That’s what? About 40 pounds more than you…?”
He sucked in a breath, his killer 8-pack turning into big black rocks, hard as diamonds.
“Just started my contest prep and down to 270 this morning,” he allowed. “You outweigh me by 50 fucking pounds. You know how many guys in your shape I’ve been with who outweigh me by 50 fucking pounds?”
I shrugged my 40-inch-wide shoulders. Jim always said when I did that it was liking watching a tsunami.
“Nix,” Donte continued, not waiting for my reply. “Nada, zilch. I’ve never had that pleasure.”
I squeezed those delts just a little bit harder. His eyes widened.
“I benched 1300 pounds this morning,” I said, just to see what his reaction would be.
His erection was instantaneous. Just then Jim showed up, his 20-inch arm wrapped around Devin’s waist.
“You gonna take him home and show him that new MCM clock you bought, aren’t you?”
Donte just grinned.
“We were just talking about that,” he said, not missing a beat. “I’ve always been a big design fan!”
Devin’s eyes were as wide as saucers.
“I’m going to stay and help Devin clean up when the party is over,” Jim continued. Leaning in towards me, he added. “The kid’s scared shitless of the two of you. He’s afraid you’d crush him.”
I detached Devin from Jim’s arm and wrapped him up in a big bear hug.
“Your arms are almost as big as my waist,” he gasped, his steel-hard dick poking me in the crotch.
I kissed him full on the mouth, for a good minute or two, which elicited a fair number of whistles, catcalls, and the like.
“Check back with me in a week,” I said. “They’ll be over 30 by then.”
Which was the first time since Jim and I had been together that we flew solo. Donte flew, of course, since Devin had told him all about it. He wasn’t sure whether I could manage it but then I picked him up like a rag doll and his doubts went away.
“No one has ever handled me the way you do,” he gasped, as I bounced him up and down on my 9-incher like he was a sex toy. “Don’t ever stop!”
A month later Jim and I were having dinner at Harvest Home, Mud Creek’s best farm-to-table restaurant, with my sister Ronnie and my brother-in-law Steve. They were visiting from Los Angeles, the two nieces and the nieces’ husband and significant other having opted for a Caribbean cruise.
“What the fuck happened to you?” Ronnie blurted, once the drink orders were placed.
Steve blanched. My sister, the elder of the two of us, is one of those people who values “honesty over tact,” as she was once told by a supervisor. She blames it on the fact that she seriously dislikes her name – “what, I’m Reagan?” – and only goes by it because she absolutely despises her given name, “Rhonda.”
“Uh, what Ronnie means is…” Steve began.
She cut him off. How the man has put up with her, or her him, for 35 years continues to baffle me. The nieces and I attribute it to lack of imagination on their part.
“You’re ridiculously huge,” she said, bitingly. “Seriously, you’re twice as big as you were when I saw you six months ago.”
I colored slightly.
“Not exactly…” I began.
Then Jim laughed.
“As for you,” Ronnie said, looking at Jim as if he were some unexplained natural phenomenon and she wasn’t sure whether she approved.
Well, I’ll give her that one. How often do you see a 5’6 man who weighs 300 pounds, all of it muscle? Well, aside from genetic freaks like that young Arab bodybuilder, Mustafa Hassomething, or Hassan Musthavehim, or whatever.
“She’s got you there,” Jim said before Ronnie could jump in again. “You’re almost twice what you weighed when I met you. 440 pounds is only 20 pounds less than twice, you know.”
Ronnie turned red, the steam almost visible coming out of her ears. Steve turned pale. My ex-football jock brother law, 6’2 and a way past his prime 250 pounds, had always been the Big Guy in the family. It was clear he was having trouble with the idea of being a comparative pipsqueak.
I clenched my fist on the table. The steel tendons in my 30-inch forearms jumped into high relief.
“Yes, Ronnie, it’s true,” I said, grinding out the words. “I weigh 440 pounds For the record, that’s exactly 200 kilograms. My shoulders, as you will have noticed, are 4½ feet across, which means I have to turn to get through most doorways. When totally pumped, my biceps are three feet around. The rest matches. It’s also the case that my blood pressure routinely measures 120 over 80 and my last A1c was 5.5, so as far as Type 2 Diabetes is concerned I’m officially in remission or recovered or whatever you want to call it.”
Ronnie’s eyes narrowed. She was about to jump in again, when Steve covered her hand with his own.
“Dear heart,” he said. “Your little brother is a big boy. In fact, he’s the biggest motherfucker I’ve ever seen, anywhere. He seems happy with it. Jim seems happy with it. Let it go now.”
Ronnie deflated, then changed topics. After that, dinner conversation consisted of a long litany of the misdeeds of her sons-in-law (one of them still hypothetical but I had heard from Niece # 2 that they’d picked out a ring and we were waiting for the “right time” to make an official announcement, news I steadfastly kept to myself), followed by collective attempts to “out liberal” each other. Which, all things considered, was about as nice a family evening as I could expect to have. (Frankly, I don’t see how politic0-discordant families manage. I would have been throwing over tables if I had family members who spewed Faux News talking points!)
After dinner, Jim and I headed back to his place where he leapt into my arms and slammed his ass down on my 11-inch dick (now an inch bigger than his.) Once we were spent, he propped his head on a wrist attached to an arm that sported 24-inch biceps, and said:
“Steve’s right, you know,” he said. “You’re the biggest motherfucker anyone has ever seen. You’re bigger than that British powerlifting guy, whathisname, Eddie Hull or Hill or Holt, ever was and he’s 3-4 inches taller than you are.”
I scratched my left nipple and the forest of black curls surrounding it, my 88-inch chest rising and falling like 20-foot swells on the Tasman Sea.
“Bigger than Hapthor Bjornsson, too, as far as I can tell,” I added. “And he’s at least eight inches taller than I am.”
Jim decided to chew on my right nipple, which caused me to see stars.
“Pretty soon…” he said, when he came up for air.
“Yeah, I know,” I said, flipping over so he could ride my back. He liked that my lats were wider than his shoulders. A lot wider than his shoulders.
“It’s going to be a problem when I have to start buying three side-by-side airplane seats.”
He grunted. Then he plunged his 10-incher past the granite soccer balls that doubled as my glutes and I forgot about things like airplane seats for a while!
By that time we had left the suburban gym where we’d first met (all of eight weeks previously) and joined the private facility where Donte and the other freaks worked out. Except that none of those freaks had ever seen anyone as freaky as the two of us.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jim amended, when I pointed this out to him. “They’ve seen freaks as big as me. Hassan Mostafa, for example.”
That was his name.
“Just not up close and personal,” he added.
We had caused a bit of a ruckus the day before Thanksgiving.
Jim benched 1005 pounds for one perfect rep, which had the guys (and Cissy, the 200-pound woman bodybuilder who was the lone woman to hang out in the joint) whooping and hollering and generally expressing extreme approval. When he re-racked the weight, he sat up, stretched his monster arms across his 60-inch chest, and gave me a look.
“C’mon,” he said. “You know you wanna do it.”
I shrugged, then approached the bar. I wrapped my big paws around the steel, lifted it off, and then proceeded to crank out 20 perfect curls, full contraction, full extension.
“Fuck me,” said Bear Griffin, all 6’5 and 350 pounds of him, when I put the half ton of metal back on the stanchions. He had just joined the previous week. Big, strong guy – and my arms were bigger around than his legs. Donte arched an eyebrow.
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” he said. “But you’ll have to get in line.”
Jim’s lips twitched and I put on my best innocent look. At that point we’d fucked half the guys in the gym – and I really didn’t want to know what Jim and Cissy had gotten up to!
“A hole’s a hole,” he said afterwards. I didn’t know whether I should be offended on Cissy’s behalf or, or, or, um, well. Like I said, I just didn’t know, and still don’t! For whatever reason, I have never had any inclinations in that direction! Later on, after I had maxed out on bench at 2900 pounds, Bear came and begged me – as in, down on his hands and knees – to make him huge.
“But you are huge,” I said. “And you’re strong as shit. How many other guys do you know who can bench 900 pounds raw? I mean, aside from Jim that is.”
He hung his head like he was a puppy who had displeased his master.
“I’ll do anything.”
I hauled him up to his feet – even though I outweighed him by going on a hundred pounds he towered over me – and gave him a bone-cracking hug.
“I could fuck you every which way from Sunday,” I said. “And as far as I can tell it won’t do a damned thing. Since we started growing Jim and I have fucked a lot of guys – and thus far none of them have grown more than they would have done anyway.”
Bear made it clear that he wanted it anyway. That the thought of being fucked by the biggest, strongest man he’d ever seen or heard of was making him wild. So, of course, I did. And, yeah, with the air-fucking. And the whole time I was thinking, Man, when did this get to be a chore? Not that it wasn’t hot and pleasurable and you’re goddamned right I got my rocks off. But the whole time I was thinking I could be at home snuggled with Jim, having a nice pinot noir and watching the latest episode of The Expanse on Amazon.
That was a month ago.
Yesterday Jim and I got married – at Donte’s meathead gym, with Donte (online diploma-mill M.Div. newly framed on his wall) officiating. The party afterwards was, well, technically speaking it was an orgy. But a good time was had by all, although there was a little bit of competition when it came to precedence and so forth. Donte, taking his role as officiant seriously, quickly switched gears to become master of ceremonies, making sure that everyone got what they wanted. He’s a good kid. We spent the night in the mobile home we bought when we figured out that air travel was getting to be out of the question. Getting in and out is a bit of a squeeze for me but Jim manages okay. And just as well since there’s no way I’m fitting behind the steering wheel.
We sold his condo and my house and bought 50 acres of land and decent-sized house and barn in the Catskills where Jim’s parents grew up and which he visited on a regular basis as a kid. After living so long in Mud Creek where everything you might want is a 10-minute drive it’s going to be a bit of an adjustment living some place that’s 20 miles from anything – grocery store, movie theatre, health care, hair stylist – but that’s what satellite internet is for, I’m guessing. And the barn’s going to make a killer gym.
So how’d we turn out?
Still no more than 5’6, Jim’s now 360 pounds of mountainous muscle. At 72 inches, his mammoth chest is six inches bigger around than he his tall. His 28-inch biceps are bigger than most men’s quads. And he can bench 1500 pounds, a bit more than four times as much as he weighs.
Me? I outweigh Jim by 200 pounds and I am three times as strong as he is. That’s right. I weigh 560 pounds – for now – and I can bench press 2¼ tons, 4500 pounds My chest is more than nine feet around. My arms fully-pumped are four feet around. My shoulders are a little more than five and a half feet wide. And, yeah, for the curious: Our dicks have kept pace. Jim’s is now 11x8, mine is now 13x10.
So how’re we affording all of this? Well, as I said:
You’d be surprised what people will pay to look at two giant, super-hung, super-built muscle bulls go at it. Especially ones that are still growing. So is Jim going to get up to 400? Am I going to get up to 600?
What do you think?