The Nubian prince

By Richard Jasper 
5 parts
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Part 1

“I want a personal trainer,” Rob told the manager of Solstice, the shiniest gym in Port Arthur.

“Whatever for?” James asked. “You’re built like a brick shit house.”

Rob ignored James’ query. “He needs to be older, handsome, and, oh, yeah, gay friendly,” Rob said.

James laughed. “Babe, you know this is a gay gym,” James pointed out. “Everyone is gay friendly, or gay!”

Rob rapped his knuckles on the granite counter top. “Can you fix me up?” he asked, impatiently.

James rolled his eyes.

“I sure can,” James said. “We’ve got a new guy starting tomorrow who is right up your alley.”

Rob frowned at that. “Are you implying…?”

James chuckled. “Hunny, settle down, okay? I’m not implying anything,” James said, then continued. “Seriously, though, why do you want a trainer? You’re already in excellent shape.”

That was putting it mildly. At 25, Rob was exactly 5’10” tall and 160 pounds with less than 5% body fat. He had that muscularity that seems to come naturally to a lot of young African-American men: broad shoulders, full pecs, big arms, tiny, tiny sculpted waist, and nice legs (although his calves were perhaps a bit on the skinny side.)

“To tell you the truth,” Rob confided, releasing his pent up tension with a gust of air. “I’m bored. Yeah, I know my way around the gym but I don’t have a training partner. I need someone to keep me interested.”

James smiled at that. “Okey-dokey, that’s what I needed to know,” he said. “I think Roger will be just right for you.”

Rob rolled his eyes. “Roger? What kind of dork ass name is that?” James just grinned.

“You’ll find out tomorrow at 10 a.m. Deal?”


Roger checked himself out in the mirror before pulling on the Triple XL Solstice polo shirt.

At 40 years old, he was 5’11” tall and 250 pounds of solid, fur-covered muscle, with brown eyes, close-cropped slightly graying brown hair, and a fiercely trimmed goatee that still had as many red highlights as it did silver ones.

“You sure your peeps are gonna be okay with an old fart like me?” Roger asked James. “Maybe I should have stayed at O’Hara’s. People who wear Prada to work out in kinda freak me out!” James snorted. “They do not wear Prada,” James said. “That’s just a joke. And you’re gonna knock their socks off. We have more attitude queens than O’Hara’s does but…”

It was Roger’s turn to laugh.

“Yeah, yeah,” I know, he replied. “The eye candy here is much better.”

They reviewed Roger’s client list. “You’ll want to keep your eye on Rob,” James said. “Cute as a button, built like a brick shit house, really does not know what he wants to accomplish in the gym, other than continuing to be the hottest man in Port Arthur.”

Roger raised an eyebrow. He’d seen plenty of hot men during his two years in Port Arthur. The hottest must be hot indeed!

“They don’t call him the Nubian Prince for nothing,” James said.

Gack, Roger thought. “He’s that stuck up?” Roger asked.

James shook his head, ruefully. “He’s really not stuck up at all, once you get to know him,” James said. “In fact, he’s kinda shy—that’s why he comes across as stuck up!”

Roger nodded. He’d been accused of that a time or two.

“Plus there’s the way he carries himself,” James said.

Roger quirked an eyebrow.

“You’ll have to see for yourself,” James pointed out.


Like a Masai warrior, Roger thought as Rob strode over to where Roger and James were standing. He moves like a fucking cheetah.

“So where’s this Roger guy,” Rob said bluntly.

James grinned. “This is Roger,” James said, watching Rob’s eyes grow wide, a faint flush deepening the dark hue of his thickly muscled neck. I knew it, James thought to himself. Rob has Daddy’s boy written all over him!

“Very pleased to meet you, Rob,” Roger said, taking the young man’s hand in his big paw.

“Uh, very nice, uh, to meet you to too, Roger,” Rob managed to get out.

Wotta frickin’ hottie, Roger thought to himself. He really is the hottest man in Port Arthur! Rob had it all. Classically sculpted features, short cropped curly black hair, impressive proportions, totally ripped, and…Dayum, Roger thought. This kid must be packing 27 centimeters at least!

For his part, Rob was trying hard not to succumb to the wave of lust flooding his body. If he could have conjured a fucking ideal man from a drawing board, Mr. Ideal couldn’t have looked any better than Roger. Big, built, furry, and so masculine Rob felt weak in the knees.

“Uh, James, uh, asked me what I wanted,” Rob pointed out. “I, hmm, uh, just want to stay in peak condition.”

Roger didn’t bat an eye. “We can do that,” he said, taking the opportunity to lift up his right arm—it measured 22 inches cold—to scratch under his eyelid. Rob’s biggest muscle was between his legs and seeing Roger casually flex his monster arm was causing The Beast, as he referred to his manhood, to stir in his shorts. Fuck, Roger said, Look at that!

“Uh, cool,” Rob managed to get out. “The main thing, uh, is I just don’t, uh, want to get, uh, any bigger.”

Roger chuckled and clapped Rob on the shoulder. “You’re plenty big enough,” Roger said. “We’ll concentrate on making your fine muscles even sharper than they are.”

Roger’s touch was electric.

“Okay, then,” Rob said, “I’ll be right out and then we can get to work.”

Rob scurried back to the locker room—“Isn’t he already dressed out?” Roger asked James—and put on his emergency back-up second jockstrap.

Nothing else was going to keep the Beast at bay!

Part 2

“Let’s take your measurements first,” Roger said. Rob rolled his eyes but complied. Roger called them off:

“Biceps: 16 inches.”

“Chest: 44 inches.”

“Waist: 28 inches.”

“Quads: 26 inches.”

“Calves: 14½ inches.”

Roger whistled. “Damn, Rob, you weigh what, 180?”

Rob glared at the bigger man. “160, thank you very much.” Oh boy, Roger thought. I’ve met some attitude queens in my day but this fella takes the cake. Aloud, he said:

“It’s a good thing. You have incredible potential.” As much as Ronnie Coleman back in the day, Roger added to himself. “Let’s hit the weights, okay?”

Rob was no slouch in that department either. He benched 225 pounds for 20 reps, did another 10 at 275, and topped out at 315 pounds, just 5 pounds less than twice his body weight. The results were the same squats and dead lifts.

“You are one strong man,” Roger pointed out. “Incredible potential.”

Rob scowled. “What’s the matter?” Roger asked.

Rob crossed his arms. “I know I’m nothing compared to you,” Rob said. “But do you have to rub it in with all this false praise?”

Roger’s jaw dropped. He took Rob’s shoulders in his big beefy paws and looked him in the eyes. “False praise? Are you kidding? There’s nothing false about it! There are very few men on Earth your size who are as strong and muscular as you are, Rob, that’s all there is to it!”

Rob shook his head. “But compared to you…”

It was Roger’s turn to shake his head. “Don’t go there,” he said. “It’s a false comparison. Sure, I outweigh you by 90 pounds but my arms are not 9 inches bigger around and my chest isn’t 62 inches.”

A hint of a smile played with Rob’s lips. “Pretty close, though,” he pointed out.

Roger blushed. “Well, I have been lifting 15 years longer than you have,” he observed. “Gotta have some perks for being old.”

Rob made a raspberry noise. “You’re what, 33?” he asked.

Roger chuckled. “Now, now, if I don’t know better I’d say you were flirting,” Roger said teasingly. “If you’re not careful I’ll wind up kissing you and then I’ll get fired and you’ll be down one trainer before you’ve even gotten through the first session.”

Rob looked down at the floor and pulled back and forth on the nicely worked gold chain around his neck. When he looked up, there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Would that be so bad?”

Gulp, Roger thought. “Uh, well, now that you mention it,” Roger said. “Maybe we ought to discuss it over dinner?”

Rob grinned. “What time do you get, uh, I mean, what time are you done with work today?” Roger smiled. “I’ll be finished at 6 p.m. Meet somewhere at 7?” Rob nodded.

“I know just the place.”

Part 3

After dinner, they went to Rob’s apartment where Roger proceeded to plow Rob’s ass.

“Jesus, kid,” Roger said. “What have you got in there? A shop-vac?!”

Rob continued to squirm. His 11 inch dick rode up and down Roger’s fur-covered abs while the big man rammed his more than respectable 9 x 7 inch cock in and out, in and out. “Give it to me, Daddy,” Rob said. “I need it. I want it. Give it to me.”

For a man who carried as much muscle as he did, Roger had the aerobic capacity of a college distance runner. But Rob was wearing him out. “Fuck, kid,” Roger said. “Your picture must be in the dictionary next to power bottom!” With that Rob, still attached to Roger’s throbbing cock, pushed the big man back into a squatting position and started furiously sliding his hot ass up and down. Roger’s dick felt like it was caught in the world’s hottest, softest, sexiest agitating washer!

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Roger bellowed, then jizzed like he’d never jizzed before, his eyes rolling back in his head. He toppled forward and was snoring before he hit the pillow.

Half an hour later Roger woke, face down, and felt Rob’s lean, lithe 160-pound frame on his back. It was like the younger man was taking his measurements, running his hands across Roger’s vast shoulders, down his mega-thick lats, back up the overdeveloped erector spinae and hulking traps, and over his thick, concrete-hard, hair-covered glutes.

“The Beast is stirring,” Roger said.

“It’s what, 29 centimeters?” Rob chuckled.

“Just 28 centimeters, Big Daddy,” Rob replied.

Roger flipped over and pulled Rob down to his massive fur-covered pecs. “You’re the Big Daddy in that department,” he pointed out.

Rob scoffed. “I am not the Daddy of anything,” he argued. Roger looked at him, a certain hunger in his eyes. “And, no, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” Rob said. “I will not fuck you.”

Roger rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, and Billie Jean was not your lover, I know,” he teased. Rob did this, and that, and some other, and before Roger knew what was happening he was pumping Rob’s ass again. “I like this a lot,” Roger said between grunts and groans. “But…

“I will not…”

“Let you…”

“Waste…”

“Your potential!”

Rob clamped down with his butt of death and Roger blissed out (again).


“Well,” Roger said the next morning at the gym. “How do we want to handle this?”

Rob looked at him. “What do you mean?” Roger sighed. “Darlin’, I will not sleep with my clients, that’s all there is to it,” he pointed out.

Rob arched an eyebrow. “You’d be the first,” he noted.

Roger grimaced. “Well, I’m sure I won’t be the last,” he replied. “You have to choose. Do you want to pay me to train you. Or do you want to have sex with me?”

Rob thought about that. “Or….”

They worked it out with James. Rob would continue to pay for training and twice a week he would work out with James. The rest of the time he would work out with Roger, during Roger’s free time.


During his first week working out with Roger, Rob put on 5 pounds of solid muscle.

“Ya know,” Rob said, a bit prissily. “I told you I didn’t want to get bigger.”

Roger flourished his measuring tape and wrapped it around Rob’s muscular waist. “28 inches,” he observed. “No bigger than it was before, right?” Rob nodded, albeit somewhat grudgingly.

A week later, Rob had put on another 10 pounds of muscle. “I said…” he began.

Roger handed Rob the tape. “And, as I’ve said on more than one occasion,” he replied. “I will.not.let.you waste.your.potential! What’s it say?”

Rob showed him the tape: 28 inches.

By the end of the third week, Rob had gained another 15 pounds. “This is getting ridiculous,” Rob said. Roger stepped in close and wrapped the tape around Rob’s waist. “Are you afraid you’re gonna get too big for me to fuck?” he whispered. The Beast sprang to life. “28 inches,” Roger said.

Exactly a month after Rob started the training program, James came to Roger. “What the hell are you doing to him?” James asked. “He’s getting fucking huge!” In fact, when Rob stepped on the scale that morning, the digital read out flashed: 210 pounds. “That’s 10 pounds more than I weigh,” James exclaimed.

Roger nodded. “And 20 pounds more than last week,” he pointed out.

Just then Rob showed up. “And 50 pounds more than when I started,” he noted. “And don’t give me any of that crap about…”

Roger just looked at him. “Hush,” he said. “Let me do my job.” He called off the numbers.

“Biceps: 20½ inches.”

“Neck: 20 inches.”

“Chest: 52 inches.”

“Quads: 30 inches.”

“Calves: 19 inches.”

James’s eyes bulged. “Plus he’s benching 425 pounds for reps!”

Roger pulled Rob close and wrapped the tape around his waist. “28 inches,” Roger observed. “So just what are you complaining about?” He turned Rob towards the mirror and stood alongside him.

“Now flex, dammit.”

Rob matched him pose for pose. “Damn,” Rob said. “You make me look like a little boy.”

Not hardly, Roger thought. “Good point,” he said aloud. “I’ve still got a good 50 pounds on you.”

James was doing a good imitation of stunned yokeldom. “Damn,” he said. “You’re bigger, too, aren’t you?” Roger lifted his left arm and flexed. It was noticeably bigger than it has been a month ago.

Rob licked his lips. “So, uh, Dad, uh, Roger,” he began. “Can I measure you for once?”

Roger handed him the tape.

“Biceps: 24 inches.”

“Chest: 62 inches.”

“Waist: 34 inches.”

“Quads: 34 inches.”

“Calves: 23 inches.”

James whistled. “Just how much weight did you gain?”

Roger wrapped his big arm around Rob’s thick, strong neck. “20 pounds,” he replied.

James raised his eyebrows. How? he mouthed.

“Simple,” Roger replied. “Protein shakes.”

Part 4

The bigger Rob got, the less frenetic he became when getting fucked by Roger. It wasn’t like he liked it any less, far from it. But now he wanted it to go on and on and on and on, a long, slow build like a mountain of lava bubbling up from the mantle.

“You’ve gotta lemme cum,” Roger panted. He no longer felt like he was a race horse but Rob’s ass seemed to be learning new tricks every day.

“Go for it, Big Daddy,” Rob said and Roger roared with satisfaction.

For the hundredth time in the month they’d been together, Roger told his young lover: “You gotta fuck me, Fratboy,” Roger said. “I’m doing all the work. I need the Beast!”

I never should have told him about Zeta Pi, Rob thought.

“No, Big Daddy,” Rob replied for the 100th time. “Not yet,” he added.

Roger sat bolt upright and looked at Rob, who was ostentatiously counting the tiles on the ceiling. “What did you say?” Roger asked.

Rob said. “Uh, well, not yet is what I said,” Rob said.

Roger grinned. “Is that the same thing as maybe?”

Rob squirmed. “Uh, Big Daddy, if I ever get to be as big as you are, then, well, yes, I guess it would be okay for me to, ya know…”

Roger wrapped his powerful thick fur-covered hand around the Beast; it was quickly becoming fully hard again. “Fuck me?” Roger asked.

Rob nodded. Roger lay back on the bed and pulled Rob close; the hot young man buried his face in Roger’s sexy armpit.

“Sooner than you think, Fratboy,” Roger said. “Sooner than you think.”


Indeed, sooner than any of them could imagine.

At the end of the fifth week, Rob was 20 pounds heavier. He had been impressive at 210 pounds. At 230 pounds he was intimidating. James threw in the towel, saying “enough already, you should be training me.” He contented himself watching Rob and Roger train together. And so it went. At the end of the sixth week, Rob was up to 250 pounds and Roger was up to 280. Rob benched 700 pounds for 1 rep, Roger benched 750.

“You’re closing in on me,” Roger pointed out. Rob chuckled, a sound you might have heard from a lion on the Serengeti plain. Over six weeks his voice had changed from a light tenor to a deep baritone. It’s like his voice is growing with his body, Roger thought, not for the first time.

“You know it, Big Daddy,” Rob said.

James looked from one to the other.

“And what are you gonna do when he passes you, Roger?”

Roger looked at Rob, Rob looked at Roger, they both looked at James; as if on cue, they moved closer to him. With more than 500 pounds of man muscle bearing down on him, James unconsciously took a couple of steps back. The two big men laughed.

“Then we start on you, Mister!” they said together.


A week later, Rob was 270 pounds, just 15 pounds less than Roger. He’d caught up in the strength department, adding 100 pounds to his bench in one week.

“You broke your promise,” Rob told him that evening.

Roger looked askance at his hulking lover. “Whatever do you mean?” Rob held up the measuring tape. “My waist,” he said. “It’s up to 32 inches.”

Roger just laughed. “And your chest?”

Rob growled. “59 inches.”

Roger smiled. “Same as mine. I’m the one struggling to keep up now.” The Beast, Roger noted, was rock hard. “Are we ready? Relatively speaking…”

Rob held up his big paw. Funny, he thought. I remember what it was like to have slender hands.

“Not yet,” he said. “Not yet.”

Roger’s eyes pleaded.

“Fratboy,” he said, for the thousandth time. “You’re killing me.”

Part 5

Two weeks later…

“You can stop now,” Roger said.

Rob paused in mid-fuck. At 310 pounds and with 11 thick inches between his legs, it was kinda like trying to stop the Titanic. “Stop fucking?” Rob asked, panting.

“Awww, hell, no,” Roger said. “Keep going, Big Man.”

Rob resumed his massive pistoning. Before long, Roger’s eyes rolled back in his head, which Rob took as his signal to let loose. (He was still new at it, after all.) Their joint bellow shook loose plaster dust from the ceiling.

Afterwards…

“I meant, you can stop growing now,” Roger said.

Rob chuckled, a sound with all the subtlety of a cement mixer. “What if I don’t want to stop?” he asked, his Barry-White bass smooth as silk.

Roger grinned. He loved the fact that Rob now outweighed him by 10 pounds and showed every sign of widening the gap. “Whatever you want, Big Man,” Roger replied. “So long as I keep growing, too.”

That’s all it took. The Beast was ready to go again.


A year later…

The two freaks entered the leather bar. The white guy was a musclebear’s walking wet dream, 5’10” tall, 350 pounds of solid muscle, furry as fuck. His custom-made jeans encased quads that were bigger around than a normal man’s waist, his 29 inch biceps as big as Arnold’s quads (back in the day.) His twin armbands, 30-inch leather belts, were cinched tight in the groove between bicep and delt. And the black guy…

Holy fuck was the typical reaction.

Young, no doubt about it, no more than mid-20s, but so incredibly fucking huge he seemed older, ageless, eternal. Why was that? Oh yeah, they’d think to themselves, finally getting it. Wearing only black high-top sneakers and a pair on skin-tight black shorts, he had the presence of a mountain range. No more than 5’10” tall but 400 pounds of solid muscle. His 80-inch chest was 10 inches bigger around than he was tall. His 40-inch waist would have been obscenely huge on another man but on the Nubian Prince it was as nothing, four inches smaller than his quads, each the size of an SUV. And his arms. Jesus. His arms! Thirty-three inches of obsidian steel. Arms that could curl a 300-pound dumbbell for reps. Hands that had been known to punch holes through cinder block walls. As smooth as the white guy was furry, as dark as his lover was pale.

Only at the end did they get around to noticing the Beast. The size and heft of the big man’s package. “He could be a skinny a little thing and I’d still run screaming,” one linebacker type said to the big bear he was standing next to, big being a relative term. At 300 pounds he looked positively tiny next to the freaks. “Hell,” the bear said. “A year ago he was a skinny little thing. And you wouldn’t have gotten the time of day from him then.”

The Nubian Prince glanced in the direction of the bear and the linebacker and liked what he saw. He made his way to the linebacker, the crowd parting like the frickin’ Red Sea. Up close the linebacker realized that he was actually a couple of inches taller than the Prince—and totally shrimp-like in comparison, for all his 250 pounds of weight-roomed beef.

“I like this furry chest,” the Prince said, running his massive paw across the linebacker’s pecs. “But then I guess it’s pretty obvious that I’ve got a thing for big furballs.” He glanced towards Roger, who narrowed his eyes. “Fuck, Mister,” the linebacker said. “He’s not gonna hurt me is he?”

Rob chuckled, an event that had been known to set off seismographs. “Hell, no, man,” Rob said, wrapping his hand around the linebacker’s 20-inch neck as if it belonged to a kitten. “He’s a big ol’ pussycat.” The linebacker licked his lips. “Mister, that’s one helluva cat,” he muttered. Mesmerized, the linebacker watched as Roger sauntered over. The other huge man flicked the linebacker’s big nipple with his huge thumb.

“Fratboy,” Roger said. “You always did have a thing for linebackers, didn’t you?”

Fratboy? The linebacker thought.

“I’ve played with this one before,” Rob said. “He just doesn’t remember.”

The linebacker’s eyes widened. “Fratboy? Rob?!”

Rob purred. “I think we need to take this one for a ride, Daddy.”

The linebacker was suddenly aware that the two of them outweighed him by a good 500 pounds of solid muscle.

“Fratboy,” Roger said. “I like his ass.”

Rob smirked.

“You’re gonna like his big linebacker dick even more, Daddy.”

I did, the Prince thought. But that was then…

“And this is now,” Roger replied, reading Rob’s mind.

The linebacker gulped.


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