’Twas the night before Christmas…
Well, actually, it was 2 a.m. Christmas Day but what else was new? As usual, I needed to get up to go pee and after I finished my business I headed to the kitchen to let Dog, my eight-year-old Irish Setter, out of his crate for his middle of the night pee break (any more, he’s diabetic, too, poor baby!)
Before I could get there, however, he started barking up a storm, which pissed me off no end since…
“You just went out at 11, you silly…”
Then words failed me.
There was a naked back—a really big, wide, muscular back, with a nice trimming of fur in all the right places—peering into my refrigerator. And this back was attached to a pair of red velvet pants, trimmed with white fur, that did nothing to hide the kind of huge, powerful ass that comes from years and years of heavy squats, plus bulging hams, and football-sized calves sticking out of a pair of oversized, loosely-laced black boots.
Ditto, at the other end was attached to a beer-keg thick neck with a shock of soft, wavy, brown hair disappearing into a matching red cap! The only dissonant element—the thing that made me wonder whether I was actually awake, instead of obviously dreaming—was that instead of a coat the huge back sported a pair of rainbow-patterned suspenders.
Finally my tongue decided to take action.
“Holy moly—Santa, is that you?!” I squeaked.
The big man turned. The face under the hat was handsome as hell, strong-featured and blue-eyed, and with a wonderful, well-trimmed brown beard, definitely not Santa!
“Uh, well…” the Big Man said.
And big he was. Clearly four or more inches taller than my 5’10 and clearly packing 250 lbs. of more of muscle on his deliciously hirsute frame!
Then I looked again.
I’d seen that face!
And that body!
And many other places!
He broke into a big grin!
“Always nice to know I have another fan,” he replied, sticking out his big paw. “But you can just call me Santa’s Little Helper!”
Thom Austin, fur-covered big and built Thom Austin was standing there half-naked in my kitchen.
I took his hand and shook it.
“This is an extraordinarily vivid dream,” I told him.
He pinched my cheek!
“It’s no dream, sonny. You felt that didn’t you? Now feel this!”
He flexed his big right arm and 22 inches of biceps, triceps and just general brawn swelled in front of me.
I felt it.
It felt fucking amazing.
“That feels fucking amazing!”
“I figured you’d like that, Roggy-Rog,” he said.
“No one has called me that since I was 12 years old,” I pointed out.
“Well, you know what they say,” he said. “Santa knows your name—and so does Santa’s little helper!”
I shook my head.
“Okay, I believe you’re real, and—believe me—I am not objecting but…what the hell are you doing in my kitchen?”
He narrowed his eyes.
“About that,” he said. “You didn’t leave a snack for Santa!”
“It’s a lot of work, you know,” Thom said. “Visiting all the places that need the extra special attention Santa can’t give them and still meet his delivery schedule.”
It took me a moment to process all that.
Clearly the Big Man was in the grip of some really wild delusion. I couldn’t imagine why Thom Austin was in suburban Indy in the first place, much less my kitchen, but if he wanted to maintain the Santa charade I figured I could play along.
“Guilty as charged,” I replied. “I gave that up about the same time my mom stopped calling me Roggy-Rog.”
Thom nodded wisely.
“Yeah, I remember that,” he said. “Rough adolescence, wasn’t it?”
Not like I needed any reminders on that score.
I shot up fast between ages 12-14 so I was relatively tall among my classmates (until I maxed out at 5’10, then they all passed me) but I was stick thin until college. I graduated from high school weighing 140 lbs. and hairless as a Chihuahua. Not a happy time for a closeted gay teen who was obsessed with muscle bears, the bigger and hairier the better.
Over the succeeding 30 years I had managed to pack on 60 lbs., mostly in the right places, and I was suitably hairy in the usual places but it was never quite what I wanted it to be. Yes, my arms and legs had a nice coating and there was a handsome pelt across my torso and lower pecs. But if I had a shirt on, even a V-neck, people could be forgiven for thinking I was hairless or shaved (not likely!) Same with my face: I could manage a decent goatee but the sides never filled in so a full-beard was out of the question.
I guess it’s true that we want what we can’t have, hence my lust for men like the one who was standing in front of me!
When the intrusive memories departed, I realized that Thom was standing just inches away from me, his big thick hands massaging my shoulders while I peered at the beautiful hollow at the base of this bull neck.
“Every year Santa decides to give a special present to deserving souls—ones who have put up with a ridiculous amount of crap in their lives but who, even so, appreciate their blessings,” he said, gently. “No two presents are the same but almost always the gift is something that is accompanied by a lifetime of desire.”
I shook my head.
“You brought me a Red Ryder BB Gun with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time?!”
“You’re name is Roggy-Rog,” he said. “Not Ralphie! Now go back to bed and you’ll find your present in the morning!”
“Under my vintage 1964 tinsel tree with the drag queen earring ornaments?” I asked, then turned to look through to the living room where the tree shone in all its glory.
“You’ll see,” I heard.
I turned again.
No one was there.
Dog wagged his tail.
“Did you see that?” I asked.
He wagged his tail some more.
“Do you need to go outside?”
He trotted to the door.
I let him out and he zoomed around the back yard, barking up at the sky and wagging his tail furiously.
“Dog!” I called. “Stop that! You’ll wake the neighbors! Get in here!”
He trotted in, looking exceptionally pleased with himself, so he got a late night snack as well as his cup of water. I crated him, treated myself to a cup of Chobani, and headed back to bed.
(And, yes, it’s true: I post my imaginary conversations with Dog on Facebook.)
I dreamed—vividly! That I had kicked off the covers, that I was burning hot but not feverish, more like being on a sandy beach in summer, or in a hot tub on a moonlit night in Palm Springs. That I was growing. I could feel my legs and feet getting longer and wider. They made a crackling sound, like a thousand joints popping, but it didn’t hurt. I felt my shoulders widening, my neck lengthening, my arms creeping down the bed.
“This is so fucking weird,” I thought in my dream.
But it felt so fucking good. In fact, I was hard as a rock—and I don’t just mean my dick. It felt like my entire body was engorged and buzzing with a pent up orgasm. I ran my hands over my chest, willing my pecs to expand and spread. And they did! I did the same thing with my neck and traps and delts. And then down my arms, my biceps and triceps and forearms swelling and thickening, achieving ridiculous dimensions, my wrists and hands and tendons growing to accommodate their new mass.
I tensed my mid-section and the abs I’d always known were there but never seen popped into high relief, eight cobblestones, the surplus adipose melting away. My dick throbbed and I put my newly Cyplenkov-sized hands on it to find that one hand no longer covered, that neither of them covered it. My head and my pelvis lifted from the bed as my back and ass swelled with muscle and power, and then it was time for my suddenly very long legs to follow suit.
And just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, just when I thought my whole body would orgasm, then came the hair. It was a subtle itching but I could feel it sprouting. On my chest, all the way up to the base of my neck. Across my collar bones. On my arms and legs the follicle count doubled, then tripled. I could even feel it on my back, exactly in the places I had always admired it.
And then my face. I brought my big hands up. My jaw was heavier, the chin more sharply defined, the jowls that were my real family legacy having melted away. My nose was stronger, my brows more prominent.
It occurred to me I was drowning in testosterone.
“Then let me drown,” I growled, and in my dream my voice was two octaves lower than it had been the night before.
By then my now huge cock needed release. My big hands jerked it up and down once, twice, three times. My whole body shook. I was afraid I was having a seizure. The volleys went on and on. And then I sank back into the bed, the best, most vivid dream of my life replaced by oblivion.
When I woke the sun was streaming through the bedroom window and Dog was yelping in the kitchen. I stood and tromped from the bedroom into the kitchen. For some reason, it seemed like I had to bend over a lot farther than usual to open Dog’s crate and my fingers were clumsy with the clasp. Dog shot out of the crate, ran around me three times, woofing like mad, and then made a beeline for the back fence when I opened the door.
Jeez, I thought, waiting for him to come back. I feel so fucking weird!
Dog raced back inside, wagging his tail like crazy. I gave him his food and water and his favor Christmas treat—a bacon-flavored rawhide bone! Then, per our usual arrangement, I went to make the coffee. I stopped in front of the refrigerator, sensing that something wasn’t quite right. The refrigerator. A big guy. Suspenders. My cock stirred in my jammy bottoms.
“That was one helluva dream,” I said.
My voice rumbled like gravel in a cement mixer. And that’s when it hit me. I was looking at the top of my double-wide, six-foot tall stainless steel refrigerator. Mark that number:
I was 5’10. I didn’t see the top of that refrigerator unless I was on a step-ladder. And now I was looking down at it. And when did my beautiful jumbo refrigerator (I bought the house because of the refrigerator) get to be so dinky.
I looked down and to my right. A huge, thick, massively muscled trap ended a long way to a set of delts that could have doubled as a beach ball. I looked down and to my left. Same deal.
Then I looked down. I couldn’t see my nips. There was this wall of muscle. Two gigantic plates of pecs, with—when I moved—a great horizontal split between upper and lower. Covered in beautiful black and brown fur. I reached a hand up and felt for my right nipple, after my dick my best friend in all the world.
It was there all right. Only about three times the size it had been earlier, the tip projecting—downwards!—a good inch or so.
I took my hand from my nipple and lifted it.
Up and up and up!
It was like an ocean liner coming into view.
Huge, high, magnificent. Fur-covered (and vein-covered forearms) that could have double for NFL lineman quads and an upper arm I was finding frankly unbelievable.
“What the fucking hell?” I grumbled, and I swore the coffee cups danced in the cupboard.
Dog ran around me three more times, and I followed him, trying to get a view of my legs (tremendous), my ass (spectacular), and my back (too big to see!) I tromped back into the bedroom and then into the master bath with the three-cornered, mirrored wall, the kind you would have in a tailor’s shop (hey, it came that way, not my idea.)
Before me stood a massive beast of a man.
Thick, wavy black / brown hair, perfect beard and mustache, brilliant green eyes and chiseled features (think Steve Reeves at age 30 only handsomer and more masculine), over a neck as thick a beer barrel, shoulders that would give an ox to shame, and a fur-covered mountain of muscle that would make any Olympia contender look dainty by comparison.
“Holy fucking shit,” I said.
Without thinking, my hand dropped to my cock.
“Holy fucking shit!”
It was bigger than anything I had ever seen in person. Hell, it was bigger than anything I had ever seen in a magazine or online or in a porno. Ridiculously long, ridiculously thick, covered in thick veins, throbbing and leaking pre like a fire hydrant.
The doorbell rang.
“Oh, crappy doodle,” I said. “Just what I need. Mrs. Kravitz bringing me Christmas latkes!”
I grabbed a bath towel and wrapped it around my waist. Fortunately, I don’t stint on bath towels, so this one managed—just to cover everything up—although it looked more like an oversized diaper than a sarong, which was the usually the case. Just before I followed Dog back to the kitchen I grabbed another to wrap around my neck and drape down my chest. I really did not want to be giving Mrs. Kravitz mouth-t0-mouth and I was afraid my headlamps—more like searchlights—might do her in.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I called, ushering Dog back into his crate, then heading for the door. Tchotchkes bounced on end-tables, the TV remote did a jitterbug on the coffee table, and a row of books slumped on the book case.
I swung open the door, put on a big smile, and…
“Holy Fucking Shit!”
It was not Mrs. Kravitz. In fact, it was this amazingly handsome man, tall and broad and hairy, in a plaid flannel shirt, oversized leather jacket with a shearling collar, painted-on jeans, and big Timbas. Holding a tray of Christmas cookies.
“Is that any way to talk on Christmas morning?” the handsome man asked, then let himself into my foyer.
“I, uh, uh, what, who…” I replied.
The big man, put the cookie tray on the sideboard, looked me up and down, side to side, and let out a whistle.
“Hoo boy,” he said. “You done growed good, son!”
And then it hit me.
“Thom Austin!” I exclaimed.
He winked—I remembered that wink! Those sparkling blue eyes!
“Today, yes,” he replied.
I realized I was looking down at Thom Austin.
And that he seemed, well, kind of delicate.
“Roger Jepson,” I said, extending my hand. It swallowed his!
“Yes,” he replied. “We met last night.”
I tilted my head.
“You remember,” he said. “In front of the refrigerator.”
I shook my head.
“That wasn’t a dream?!”
Now he looked exasperated.
“Have you looked at yourself this morning, Roggy-Rog?”
I gaped. And then it all came rushing back to me. I looked at him again and there was the biggest, sweetest grin plastered across his handsome face.
“How do you like your Christmas present?”
I didn’t think, I just did it. I picked him up—all 6’2 and 250+ lbs. of him—like he was a puppy and planted a full-mouthed kiss on his handsome mug. It went on for some time. So much so that the towel around my waist started to slip.
“Mmmmm,” Thom said. “Put me down, Big Man, and let me shut the door. Else you’ll have to be giving CPR to Mrs. Kravitz.”
Was there anything this man didn’t know?
“Plenty,” he replied, as if reading my mind. “I’m only Santa’s Little Helper for 24 hours and background details—like Mrs. Kravitz—fade away as soon as that’s done.”
I rested my hubcap-sized hands on his broad shoulders, which now appeared to be narrower than my chest.
“I don’t usually come back the next day,” he continued. “But I knew this was going to be good. Rarely do I run across someone with so much desire who has such a vivid imagination. And you’re clearly tops in both categories!”
I had a thousand questions but I didn’t know where to start.
“Let’s start…”—he was doing it again—“…by measuring you.”
So we did, a process that lasted much longer than necessary because I was alternately flabbergasted, elated, amazed, disbelieving. As it turns out, I was, in fact, just as tall as the door frame, which made me 6 feet 6 inches, a good eight inches taller than I had been the day before, and four inches taller than Thom, who stood 6’2.
“And you need to be to carry all that mass,” he pointed out.
I still don’t know where the bariatric scale came from. I never bought it but it was already there in the bathroom and just as well:
“Like I said! You have an exuberant imagination! You’re exactly 300 pounds heavier than I am!”
“But that’s not really possible, is it?”
He rolled his eyes.
“Look in the mirror and tell me what you see.”
When it was just me, there was no basis for comparison. But standing next to Thom—a paragon of muscular development himself—it was clear. My shoulders were more than twice the width of his own. My chest was, indeed, broader—substantially—than his own broad shoulders. My forearms were the size of his waist. He called off the numbers:
Chest: 110 inches
Shoulder circumference: 132 inches
Shoulder width: 66 inches (5½ feet)
Biceps circumference: 48 inches (four feet!)
Forearm circumference: 40 inches
Waist: 55 inches
Quads: 60 inches
Neck: 44 inches
Calves: 48 inches
By the time Thom finished measuring, I was fully hard. It was like a python, waving back and forth just under the overhang of my monumental pecs. He grabbed it and measured.
“And this kept pace, apparently,” he said. “You’re eight inches taller here, too.”
“And a tad shy of 12 inches around,” he added.
He was right, of course. It had been a respectable 7 inches long, previously, but now my dick would make Jonah Falcon green with envy.
“Hey!” I said. “You knew how long…?”
Thom didn’t answer. Or rather he did. By latching onto my right nipple with his mouth and teeth and tongue. I hadn’t thought I could get any harder. I was wrong. Eventually, after I more or less levitated the two of us to my bed and before my eyes rolled back in my head from overstimulation, he came up for air.
“I don’t know I’m going to take that,” he allowed. “I have played with some big ones in my time but nothing like this one.”
I growled, then covered his squat-butt ass with one of my shovel-sized hands.
“I’m sure we’ll figure it out,” I replied.
And we did.
It was a Christmas Miracle!