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|May 1, 2004 How can one man be so incredibly massive? I mean Chris, naturally. It still boggles my mind as I sit here watching him sleep. He's on his back, of course. Even when I first knew him he was too broad and thick to sleep on his side. Now? Well, he needs about four pillows just to keep his head level, he's that thick from front to back. That's my Chris -- 6'2" tall, 400 lbs. of solid muscle, 74 inch chest, 38 inch waist, 38 inch quads, legitimate 30 inch biceps. One of the biggest, strongest men in the world. "Mine, all mine," I think to myself. "Li'l Dude." Chris opens his eyes. "Time to wake up, sleepyhead." He shakes himself, trying to chase the sleep away. "What time is it?" "Time to get up, Li'l Dude." Then I reach down and pick him up under those massive arms, lifting him up and up until he's eye level with me. He puts his arms around the massive column of my neck -- he long ago gave up trying to circle my enormous chest -- and his thighs wrap around the marbled expanse of my impossibly muscled midsection. "Big man," he sighs. "Why are we up this early?" I chuckle, a sound that has been compared to a polite sonic boom. "Graduation day, sexy..." His eyes fly open. "Oh my god!" he exclaims. "I was completely forgetting." I drop him to the floor -- we long ago figured out that the ground floor and a concrete slab were best -- and he looks up at me, the top of his golden curls just even with my shoulder. "Have you decided...?" "What I'm gonna wear? The cap and gown, of course. It's traditional." "But..." "No buts," I replied. On the other hand, dear reader, I *do* need to catch you up, don't I? You see, I never stopped growing. Chris and I got together when I returned from Christmas vacation that January -- more than three years ago now -- and even in those three weeks I grew another inch and gained another 30 lbs. of muscle. By the time fall semester of my sophomore year rolled around I was 6'4" tall and weighed an astounding, totally built 400 lbs. -- the biggest thing anyone had ever seen. It was then that I decided I would no longer wear clothes. "Dean Gingrich, look at me," I said that sunny September day. "I'm a freak. And when I have clothes on I only look more freakish. At least unclothed I can pretend to some semblance of naturalness." It was a sensation, as you will recall, especially considering I took it all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court -- and won. Believe me, that marble floor is cold, although not nearly as cold as the glare in Chief Justice Giuliani's eye. Eventually people stopped paying attention, except for the newcomers, who came by to gawk. I was a freak, alright, but I was *their* freak. The only other people who paid attention were the guys in the gym, and I'd long since achieved folk hero status in their eyes. Their interest in how much bigger I was, how much stronger I was, how much bigger and stronger I was going to get, was endless. The rumors, by the way, are true. There was an illegal betting pool totally based on seeing how close people could get to predicting when I'd gain my next hundred pounds of muscle. The ultimate winner netted something close to $100,000, before being shipped off to serve a three-year prison sentence for illegal betting. Just for the record, it went like this: September 1, 2001, 6'4" tall, 400 lbs. May 17, 2002, 6'6" tall, 500 lbs. January 4, 2003, 6'8" tall, 600 lbs. September 9, 2003, 6'10" tall, 700 lbs. April 30, 2004, 7 ft tall, 800 lbs. So, yep, it's true: I'm the biggest, most muscular man who has ever lived. As far as I can tell, I'm also the strongest -- unless you can point to someone else who can bench press 2 tons for reps? The sight of me walking up the aisle, the black robe pointing out that my shoulders really *are* five feet across, it's not just some optical illussion, causes mouths to drop open, eyes to bulge. The crowds part before me, except for the occasional self-absorbed pretty boy who turns and nearly faints when confronted with the outline of my enormous cock tenting the fabric of my vermillion robe. It's always been the same, thick thighs and no place to dangle -- it pushes all my stuff forward, making it look even bigger than it really is. Only now the quads measure 80 inches each, the cock is 20 inches long when soft, the balls are as big as Texas grapefruit. They've seen it hard, of course, most of these pretty boys and a lot of the ones who aren't so pretty, when it's closer to its full out 30 inches in length and dozen or more inches in circumference. One or two of them have even felt it. They usually pay for that privilege, the most from one cute Arab boy who gave me a personal check for $10,000 (he raided his trust fund.) What most of them don't realize is that I'd be happy to let them touch it for free -- and many have done that, too. It's just that they usually assume and start off by asking "how much?" and I always reply, "how much is it worth to you?" The smart ones answer by making it feel really good, with their hands or their tongues, or, like that sexy bear boy from Michigan, climbing up on it and bouncing up and down on it like it was a rocking horse. Chris always enjoys these sessions and it's usally his enjoyment that gets me off. The look of gleeful satisfaction that comes into his eyes when these guys cum just by looking at me, or as they touch the magnificence of my manhood. "Mine, all mine," he whispers to me silently. "Yours, all yours," I mouth back. I'm crossing the stage, the whole convocation is on its feet cheering. Why, I wonder? Because I'm their *Freak*? Because I'm a freak and I still manged to pull down a 4.0 GPA and get accepted to Harvard Medical School? Someday I'll know why I am what I am. Maybe then I'll understand them, too. In the meantime, Chris is standing at the end of the stage, his Viking awesomeness rousing my ponderousness even before I finish shaking Chancellor Gore's hand. What comes next, I wonder. We say it together: "Li'l Dude." THE END |
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