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Beyond Sexy


zangetsu

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I've recently edited the story, and  was suprised to learn that on microsoft word, using times new roman size 12, the entire story is 63 pages long.

 

 

Part 1


Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

The shape irritating sounds of an alarm clock, jerk me awoke. I lift up my left arm to press the reset button, but just before hitting it, I stop and tense my arm. It hangs in midair for a moment afraid of destroying yet another alarm clock. Relaxing my arm, a thick finger gingerly presses the reset button. For several seconds I continue to lie on my firm mattress.

Swinging my legs so that my feet touch the floor, I lift my torso so that I am sitting on the bed. Releasing a yawn, instinctively my arms raise themselves up and stretch behind my back. My white shirt stretches over my expansive chest. Relaxing my arms, I push against the floor with my legs to stand up. Slowly I walk over to the door, duck and turn sideways. I nearly bump my shoulder into the wall, straightening my body on the other side. I catch myself before it is too late, and continue walk through the hall, it seems small. The hall is narrow; no that's not exactly right. For anybody else, the hall would provide adequate space. However, my shoulders are very wide; they occupy most of the length of the hall. Walking past the living room, I head into the kitchen.

Off the wall mounted pot and pan rack, I grab a pan and set it on the stove. I turn on the stove and place the pan on the front burner to heat up. From the refrigerator, I take out four eggs
, and some butter, then set the items on the table. I open a cabinet and take out a bowl and plate. Cracking the eggs
into the bowl, I discard the shells into the trash. From a drawer, I get a fork and start whisking together the eggs. It is a simple action, beating eggs, but my muscles respond to the simplest stimulus. Flicking my right wrist triggers a wave of moment that causes the muscles in my arm and chest to respond. My body fat is so low that the movements of my muscle issue are readily visible. I watch as my muscles tighten and relax, compress and stretch. Sometimes even I get memorized by their size and definition. Tearing my eyes away from admiring my arm, I throw some butter on the pan now that it is hot. Swirling the butter around, I add the egg mixture. I grab a plastic spatula off the rack and begin to stir the mixture. My stirring is more vigorous this time around, so I grab the hand of the pot with my free hand. As I shape my omelet, again I take notice the muscles in my arms and chest. The left side of my torso is lightly flexed form grabbing the handle; the right side is much more alive. The muscles seem to dance on their own accord. They bulge and contract, bulge and contract. My body is covered striations and prominent veins. Everything seems to jump out at the simplest task. The display isn't long; after all, I'm just making one omelet. I dump the omelet onto the plate, and season it with salt and pepper. From another cabinet I take out a tall glass, and I fill it with milk from a carton.
That's my breakfast, it's surprisingly little for someone my size, but it usually carries me several hours. Using another fork I eat my omelet ignoring the movement of my muscles as my bicep contracts as my arm brings the food and milk glass to my mouth. When I'm done I place all the dirty dishes in the sink and wash them; leaving them upside down to dry. Before leaving the kitchen, I open the sink cabinet and take out some dog bowls, and fill two with tap water and another two with dog food. I'm an early riser, earlier than my dogs; most days I don't see them in the morning.

I move towards my bedroom, but decide to stop in the living room, and watch TV instead. I tap the power button my TV and walk backwards to my couch. When my calves touch the base the couch I gently lower myself to the cushion. The couch groans as it bears my immense weight. I stretch my arms along the very top of the couch. They are long enough that my palms are able to touch the left and right sides of the couch. My back is perpendicular to the cushion, and by butt compresses the cushion to its absolute smallest. My knees are uncomfortably high, so I extend and stretch them wide. The TV finally cuts on to the weather man finishing the weekly forecast. He makes a quip about the week ahead and passes the camera to a news anchor. The anchor a tall blonde man, rather handsome, thanks the weatherman and begins reading from the prompter. I listen to few stories; I don't really like the news, but it's good to stay informed. After about fifteen minutes, I've watched enough. Getting up, my couch makes a noise, almost as if it’s relieved to be free of my weight. I power off my TV and make my way to my room. In my bedroom, I straighten the sheets, smooth the cover, and fluff the pillows. Then I walk over to my dresser and pick up my clothes for the day, I always pick out the next days' clothes before bed. A door way separates my bedroom from my bathroom; I really hate doing so much ducking and turning as I move from one room to the other.

The bathroom actually by regular definitions, moderately large, but to me it’s almost as bad as the hall. The shower used to have glass doors, but I couldn't properly clean myself so I removed the doors and now just mop up any resulting mess. I place my clothes in the bathroom closet. Grabbing the hem of my shirt, I begin lifting it up, and catch my reflection, the baggy shirt is partially lifted, revealing my lower abdomen. I'm kind of like a partially clothed bodybuilder or mannequin, or statue.

Picture a bodybuilder or mannequin, built with large muscles, wearing a really loose shirt. It’s apparent that it is big. The thickness of the shoulders is always a dead giveaway. So is the way the shirt is draped over the pectoral muscles and falls straight down, leaving plenty of empty space between the shirt and the abdomen. Imagine what they look, and one can, on a mannequin at least, even go over and lift up the shirt. One can compare his/her imagination to the real thing. When a bodybuilder, fitness model, or mannequin wears a skin tight shirt, almost nothing is left up to the imagination. Though just enough imagination is left to leave an observer wanting or in some cases salivating. By removing the clothing, one can see finer details, more veins, and more striations.

There is couple of problems with me wearing "skin tight" clothes. For one thing, I don't see how it’s possible for me to get off the rack shirts large enough to pass over my massive shoulders and still somehow hug my lower body. Plus if my clothes really were "skin tight" inhaling, lifting my arms, probably just twitching my muscles would cause any article of clothing to explode off my body, and if by some chance my clothing didn't tear, while I went about my daily routine, how would I take anything off? I'd have to rip everything off, and constantly buy new clothes. Then there is the real problem.

Every time I do wear something that baggy, everyone stares, and I mean everyone. The gap between fantasy and reality works in my favor. In my baggy clothes it's obvious I'm muscular, but no matter how much one imagines my naked torso one can't get close to what it really looks like. But when I wear something tight it becomes more like a sexual frenzy. People see the unbelievable, and lose whatever shred of self-control they have. They are filled with an overpowering sexual energy, in an instant, and that energy can't be contained by their mortal bodies. They orgasm, and experience unrivaled joy. My naked body is even worse. They experience the same overpowering sexual energy, but on a higher scale. Instead of having one orgasm, they have multiple. My body, flexed muscles, my smile, and even the intensity of my eyes surpass reality. These revelations cause anyone who witnesses them to lose control of their bodies. I need to dress in order to prevent such occurrences from happening. It is better to have everyone stare, than to orgasm uncontrollably.

My shirts are custom made so that they will pass over my shoulders without leaving my bottom torso looking like I'm wearing a skirt. They are stretchy, loose, and comfortable, at least for the time being. So, anyways as I lift my arms above my head, I notice how my arms bulge out. I can't see my full reflection in the mirror, but I can see my biceps and triceps, so round, so full, so sensual. The urge to kiss my biceps digs into my brain.

When I was really into myself, I remember kissing them constantly, hell people paid to kiss and/or touch them. Hundreds, thousands, I could have gotten millions from the people that could afford it and from the people that couldn't. At a time when I was high in demand, people were getting loans to pay to worship me. Some declared bankruptcy. One guy spent his trust fund; another guy stole money from his company, but the most extreme was this billionaire couple, Mary and Troy. They offered millions, but by the time they reached me I had discovered that money was something I didn't need. No, apparently just being me is more than enough to get by. Walking, talking, flexing, or even just staring gets me anything I wanted.

They persisted, begged, cried, and eventually won, not really. Instead of taking their money, directly at least, I went to live with them. They took care of me so to speak. The three of us lived in massive mansions, in the woods, on the beach and in the mountains. They clothed me in the finest garments, bought and cooked the finest foods; I indulged in all my desires. Anyone else in a similar situation would have been terrified to lose such a position, but not me. I made the couple dismiss their house staff, that’s why we were alone. When I wanted something, the man or woman personally took care of it. Sometimes when I ejaculated, I told them not to wash it off and to go to work drenched in my semen. I basically enslaved two of the richest and most powerful people in the planet. To me they were my slaves. They worshiped me, gave me everything I demanded, and in exchange I nearly ruined them. They are one of the reasons I decided to turn my life around.

I stare at my shirtless body. I can understand why Mary, Troy, and damn near every other person in the world wants me. My biceps demand to be adored and glorified. They want attention, to be showered in kisses and praise as they flex and pose. They want the world to stare at their perfection, at their size and marvel that they can still improve and grow. Maybe, deep down I miss all that, the attention. The power of knowing that I if walk in a room, every single person will want me and that I can literally do anything I want.

I force myself to ignore such thoughts and continue undressing. I should step away from the mirror, but today I don't seem have the self-control to stop looking. As I remove my sweatpants, I can see how my pectoral muscles react when my hands lower my sweats and briefs. My penis and testicles are in proportion to my body, and as my body grows so do they. I throw off my socks, and wad up my night clothes into a ball and toss it into the laundry hamper.

Before stepping in the shower, I turn on the water so that it will be warm. Once the water is ready I step into the rub. I duck so that my hair can get wet, and begin shampooing. The warm water is running down the front of my body. As I shampoo I enjoy the feel of the water as it hits my tight upper abdomen and flows down my body. Once satisfied with shampooing, I bend over to wash off the shampoo from my head. As I rinse my hair, I need to turn my body sideways, otherwise my shoulder touches the wall and I have to lean at an angel to rinse my hair.

I use body wash instead of soap, because soap bars are too small for me, and I very quickly run through them. Squirting some body wash on my hands, I proceed to lather my body. Again I bend my knees and rotate my body so that water washes over me. It is very uncomfortable and time consuming. As I run my hands along my body, I feel everything. Every bump, every ridge, every crevice. Everything. The hardness of my body, combined with my body heat, and the warm water, make me feel like a made of living metal. My muscles are so fluid, so graceful, but at the same time they are hard and unyielding. I'm not fully immune to my own body. I should be, but I'm not. Every once in a while I worship myself. Today is one of those days.

I flex my arms, no matter how I describe them, there is nothing like seeing them in person. I don't know too much anatomy, yet, but I can see the distinct muscle groups. I can see the short and long heads of my biceps forming two separate mountains. They rise higher and higher, the world largest biceps become increasingly larger. My deltoids bulge, my triceps expand to what should be inhumanly possible to obtain. My pectorals are covered with striations, and absolutely massive. They are like two bronze pillows, except they harder than titanium. I run my hands along my abdomen; each ab is so unbelievably thick and pronounced. Sometimes I can't believe my size, I'm so massive, I'm the biggest most muscular human to ever exist, and yet I know that I'm not done growing.

I record my height, weight, and the circumference of various body parts, and every week the numbers increase. I have been recording these values for years, and not once have any of the measurements decreased in the slightest. I'm big and getting bigger. Period. This fact, this absolute indisputable fact, gets me hard. In an instant my penis fill with blood and it reaches its fully erect size. It hits my torso with a thud, shaking the windows. Just like the rest of my body, it is a sight to behold. It puts horses to shame, the girth is unearthly, the sheer magnitude is beyond words, like the rest of my body.

It always takes me at least thirty minutes to have an orgasm. I work quickly; firmly grabbing my penis I massage the head. I can give myself a blow job, but I don't want to risk slipping, so I settle for masturbating to myself. An immense pressure builds up inside my body. My gargantuan body, my titanic penis, everything about me is just so incredible. I give myself more pleasure than any single person or group of people has ever given me. I applying pressure to my penis in a way that only I am able to. Only I'm strong enough to really satisfy it. My pleasure builds until, I let out a roar that shakes the entire foundation, as my penis explodes. I try to aim toward the drain, but I still hit the wall in front of me and the ceiling. I unleash several shot of cum, so many that it seems like an eternity has passed before I finally stop.

As I recover, I shut off the hot water, and turn on the cold water full blast. Standing partially in the cold freezing water, I fully recover my senses. I look at the state of my bath. Even though most of my cum went down the drain, there is lots some dripping down from the ceiling and quite a bit splattered on the wall. Composing myself, I step out of the shower to get my shirt out of the laundry hamper. After adding some shampoo and running it under water, I begin using the shirt to clean my mess.

I barely have to stretch to reach the ceiling. When the cum is off the wall and ceiling, I wash the cum covered shirt with some more shampoo, and ring it dry before tossing it in the sink. I get back to the shower and finish cleaning myself. I'm hesitant to clean my penis; I don't have another 30 minutes to kill. I start to think about the most unappealing things and get to work.

The water is colder in my house than in most other houses, I had the water deportment make it so that I receive extra cold water. I tremble as I continue to shower, but I don't want to be a slave to my own body so I endure and continue. When I am satisfied with my cleanliness, I shut off the freezing water and reach for my towel. It is far enough to not get wet, but still easily with in my reach. I very quickly dry myself off, and then I walk to get my clothes out of the bathroom closet. My solid red long sleeved-shirt is rather expensive, nothing fancy just oversized. I have to be careful, because if my pull down my shirt too hard it may tear. I put in one arm at a time and pull the hem down, no problem. My jeans are blue and very basic. I can't seem to get jeans that are able to go over my massive legs and conceal my endowment, without being loose on my waist but it's okay because I can always wear a belt. My waist is the only about me that is small. It is smaller than the average waist for males. I need some really big socks to go over my humongous feet. I slip them into shoes that are comically large. After clothing myself, I find that I am comfortable, but avoid looking at my reflection. I don't need any more excitement today.

I pull out a mop from the closet and clean up the mess on the floor from the water hitting and bouncing off my body, then ring the mop in the tub. From the sink, I pick up the shirt and I throw it in the hamper. I take the mop outside and leave it again the house. I walk back to my bathroom to brush my teeth, all the while smelling trace amounts of cum. The room smells like sex. I don't want to deal with it now, so I leave.

Briskly I walk through my room, through the hallway and into the living room. On a table near the front door I left a stack of notebooks, and a pencil box. Next to those items is a bowl with my wallet and keys. I grab my stuff and step out. I lock the door behind me. The sun is just barely coming out. It's a new day and I try to be optimistic about what is in store for me.

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Part 2: The Drive

 

I walk along the path to the drive way, to meet my beast of a truck. Tinted windows, a dark green body, like the forest. The seats are made of super fine leather; extra leather was used to make a jumbo sized driver's seat. I don't really know much about the engine. The purpose of the truck isn't to show off by revving the engine or even to tow heavy things. No, its purpose is to give me comfort. I spend so much time ducking and turning to fit into my own house and pretty much every building, I eventually broke down and started got myself a monster of a truck. The inside is big enough that I can sit up straight and even stretch my arms out wide. Entering and exiting isn't a problem. My weight doesn’t cause the vehicle to drag along the ground or place too much extra pressure on the tires.

Unlocking my door, I place my notebooks and pencil box on the passenger seat, and my wallet in one of the cup holders. Entering the truck, my body weighs the truck down, but not much. My weight would cause most cars, some vans, and even some trucks to be lowered down so much that they are constant danger of hitting the pavement when going over a bump or dip. However, right now that isn't the case. I'm proud to own a vehicle that can sustain the weight of my body without buckling or breaking down. Unfortunately this comes with a steep price, literally. I'm low on fuel.

"Fuck," escapes my lips.

As much as I love my truck, those damn gas prices are killing me. I don't use my raw sexuality to get free gas; I need to pay for it. I can get any job, but the problem is keep said job. Most jobs for people my age are out of the question. Fast food and retail are out. Drumming up business isn't a problem for someone like me, keeping it going is. Most people can't really talk to me, without getting caught in my eyes or my muscles. I can't really interact with people. They always seem to get into some state of sexual arousal, and that's the ones that are easy to deal with. Others just flat out start masturbating and some even have orgasms without touching themselves, despite me wearing loose clothing. Most manual labor is also out; laboring can be dangerous under regular circumstances, but absolutely hazardous at a work site where everyone has an erection. A bunch of horny construction workers, and an unbelievably huge and handsome mountain of muscle don't mix well. I decided to work odd jobs for money. People call me, I go out, they stare, but a few minutes later I'm working. Working for my keep is satisfying, even if the client is secretly, or sometimes not so secretly, getting off to me. I don't have too many options that don't end with somebody releasing bodily fluids.

Turning on the engine, I pull out of the driveway. Once out I switch into drive and begin turning the wheel, and head to the nearest gas station. Luckily that gas station also happens to be the cheapest. The streets are empty; I lower my windows and enjoy the fresh air. I love fresh air.

I'm coming up to the gas station, it's empty. That's good. I pull up to the sixth slot since it is the easiest to enter. There isn’t anyone at the cash register. I come here regularly, so the employees know how to deal with me, somewhat. Rolling up the windows, I exit my truck. Still no one has appeared at the register. I grab the handles of doors and pull, then duck to enter the store. I walk up to the register, pull out my wallet and take out a hundred and fifty dollars. A few feet behind the register, there is a doorway, and from that doorway walks out a man, texting on his phone. He is about six feet tall, well built, light hair, green eyes, he is actually rather handsome. The guy is probably somewhere around 22. I've never seen this guy; this is going to be trouble.

Casually he says, "Good morning."

He hasn't looked at me yet. With his looks and body, I can tell that he thinks very highly of himself and that he gets a lot of action. He is an attractive man to women and other men. If he is gay then he is a total top. If he exclusively fucks women, he probably has enjoyed a generous amount of pussy; maybe he is into both.

I try to raise my voice an octave. "Good morning," I say, "I'd like 150 dollars on number six."

I've been told that my voice is so low and intense that is vibrates in the chest of any one who hears it. It resonates with the air and is carried far and wide. The effect is godly, like I'm somehow talking from everywhere at once. Even at the higher octave, the man begins to shake slightly. He takes a direct look at me, and drops his very expensive phone on the ground.

He stands there slack jawed by the sight of my massive body, and handsome face. Never before, and most likely never again will he see anybody similar to me. I wait a few seconds hoping that he will snap out of his trance, but he doesn't. He stands there with his eyes bulging, his breathing increasing, I can tell that he is aroused. Honestly, if I can't fight the effects of my body, how can I expect someone else to? However, we both need to move past this stage.

I repeat, "I'd like 150 dollars on number six."

Nothing. So again I repeat myself louder.

"I'd like 150 dollars on number six."

This guy is deep in trance. I'm starting to get irritated.

"I said, I'd like 150 dollars on number six." This time I say it louder still, and at my normal octave.

He breaks out of his trance. I raise my hand to give my man the money; he watches intently. He gazes at my massive bicep covered by my sleeve, yet with striations visible. My elbow is bent, so my bicep contracts. It bulges slightly. On most people this action isn't observable, but on mountainous arms the movement is awe inspiring. He probably thinks I'm flexing to show off. My giant vein covered watermelon is so large he knows it can't possibly get any bigger. He is sure I'm flaunting my muscles in a display of dominance or arrogance, or both; everyone thinks this at first. His breathing increases still further, I can see his chest rise and fall. He starts to sweat.

"Uh…oh yeah. Right.” he says.

Hesitantly, he takes the money from my hand. His hand lingers around mine. I can't help but notice the stark contrast between our hands. His hand is peach colored, kind of hairy, and there are few veins that stick out. It looks like he works out or at least engages in intense activity, there are callouses on his palm. His hand is impressive, like the rest of his physique. My hand is bronze, hairless, and covered with veins and striations. It is much larger, so large that I could easily cover the guy’s entire head if I wanted to.

He takes the money. I retract my hand, he watches and instinctively realizes in shock that I wasn't flexing. My arm is at my side, relaxed and covered by a large red sleeve. He can tell that earlier when my arm was extended toward him, by bicep wasn't flexed it was just contracted slightly. His world is shattered; he wants to see the real thing. What he saw was a lie, he wants to see my bicep expand into my mountain it truly is. I can see it in his eyes; lust.

"Is there a problem?" I ask knowing full well issue.

The man continues to stare at the flesh covered watermelon that I call a bicep, and bites his lower lip. I'm getting frustrated.

"Can we please continue?" I say, much harsher tone than I intended to.

Suddenly he looks unsure, he doesn't know whether to be further aroused or afraid of my sudden change in tone. Eventually he hits some buttons and places the three 50 dollar bills I have him in the register. He didn't even check to see if they were counterfeits.

"A...anything else I c...can do for you?" he asks. His face is deep red, and his breathing is short and cut. He is sweating through his clothes.

"No, thank you," I reply.

"Have a good day," he says.

"Likewise," I say.

He desperately wants me to stay, but I turn and leave. I can feel the man staring at body, especially at my butt. He is imagining what I look like undressed. With ridiculously tight clothes, it would appear to leave very little to the imagination. Every single muscle in my body would be visible to an observer. But with my loose clothes I wear, they can't see everything. Their imagination can take them to the edge of no return, but more often than not it just leaves them really horny. They have just enough self-control to not masturbate in public. My nude bulging arm can put a stop to that. One flex is enough to send everyone within view into a state of euphoria, and when it passes, leave them with spent bodies and bodily fluids running down their legs and fingers. That's why I leave it up to the imagination, to get through my days. That is also why I don't smile or look people in the eyes.

At the pump, I can still feel that the employee staring at me. I'm a little angry that the manager didn't warn him about my visits. I've been coming to this station for months, and it took a long time to get the manager and the other employees with this particular shift to get somewhat used to me. If they don't recognize my tinted dark green ruck, they do recognize my heavy footsteps as I approach the store. That’s what I like about this place, the people glance at my lower body so they aren't too distracted. The exchange of money for gas is quick and easy, and if they want to stare, they do so as I leave.

The guy is still staring right at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him watching my bicep tighten and bulge as my arm removes the nozzle from the pump. He stares as the massive tricep expands during the sequence. He starts fumbling with is pants, and whips out a rather large and impressive penis, I'd guess the thing is about 8 or 9 inches. He is a lucky man, to be in such good shape and to be well endowed. He begins furiously masturbating; I wish he had the self-control not to do such a thing, and then it happens. From a distance of at least thirty feet, we make eye contact.

For some reason, I look right into his eyes. His body becomes rigid and then he shoots his massive load into the air and it lands on the counter. When he finishes he falls forward and lands in a pool of his own cum. I don't know why I looked. It was an accident; I tell myself it was an accident. I want to help the guy, but there isn’t a single thing within my abilities to help the guy.

As I stand there not knowing what to do, my truck finishes refueling. I place the nozzle back in the gas pump, and I get in my truck, and drive away. The rear view mirror shows the guy up and once again furiously beating off. Another truck enters the gas station. That this going to be really awkward, for the gas station guy and for the customer.

I continue to drive for a few miles, until reaching my university. I'm a freshman, just a few months out of high school.

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Part 3: A Day in Class


The university is very large and located on a forested hilly area. The buildings are all well-kept and modernized. I continue to drive until I reach the social sciences parking lot, which is on a hill Only professors are allowed to park there, but I convinced campus security that it was in everyone's best if I could make my way to class without too many people seeing me. There aren't too many cars in the lot; I choose a space and turn off my engine. Grabbing my stuff in one hand, I exit my truck. It looks almost comically big, because there aren't many large vehicles in the parking lot. The next largest vehicle is a Subaru forester.

From the parking lot I make my way to the rear door, take out my key card and swipe it through the card lock. With my usual process of bending and turning, I enter the building. The first room has a staircase that leads up to the third floor, a staircase that leads down to the first floor and a door to the rest of the second floor. I take the stairs down to the first floor, and using my key card I open the first door on the left. The classroom is big, along the far side of the class there is a row of large windows overlooking some trees; I walk over and open half of them. The classroom has six rows of tables, with five tables in each row, and under each table are two seats. At the very back of the classroom, there is one table about a foot higher than the rest, with a seat that is constructed out of a tough metal alloy, so it doesn't bend or break. I take my seat. My special seating arrangement allows my quadriceps plenty of room.

This is my only physical class, the others are online. I chose this university because it has a great online programs as well as several award winning research departments. High school taught me a lot of things, including that I can't be cooped up for long periods of time with hormonal teenagers, that is why I am enrolled in four online classes. However, I really wanted to take this human behavior class, and it is only offered in person. Luckily only four other people decided to enroll in a class that starts at 8 in the morning on a Monday; I had to convince the department head, the dean, and a few other people not to cancel the class.

About fifteen minutes after I arrived, one of the other students shows up, a male. I can feel guy take a pause as he enters the room. He stares at me, some guy about the size of a car sitting at the very back of the class. I keep my head down, so all he sees is my wavy hair, and my shoulders that are wider than some people are tall. Actually he sees quite a bit more. Humongous sleeves hiding massive arms, pectorals that sit high above the table top, enormous legs that can't fit under regular tables, and huge feet. He is aroused, but he isn't going to masturbate, because he doesn't understand the magnitude of what is hidden under my clothes.

In order to prevent myself from really distracting the other students I have to sit as far back as possible and they sit at the very front. Over the next ten minutes the other three students and the professor show up. Lecture begins and I lift up my head. I always catch the others stealing looks at me; I'm careful never to look back. The professor, Dr. Roberts, is a woman, about forty, and she also is a licensed therapist. She adds general examples from her career in the field, I'd like to ask questions over the topics but I'm afraid of the repercussions. About an hour into class, I notice that there is a lot of stirring in the front row, I also noticed that instead of standing the professor has decided to sit down. She usually always stands.

This is why I came to this particular university. Dr. Roberts is the only one a view of my body, but I have avoided eye contact and keep silent. Yes, I'm attractive, but why is she reacting now? Why not earlier? The other students have been stealing glances at me, but why are they getting turned on, about an hour into the lecture?

The gas station guy became aroused because he saw me up close at first, and later ejaculated when we made eye contact. These guys all saw me from across the room and I haven't even looked at them. Yet I can see that that two of the three guys in the class are rubbing their crotches, and it looks like girl is doing the same with her vagina. I write down these observations in one of my notebooks.

I think I may have an answer to my question. Besides being the titanic incarnation of sexuality, I must release some kind of pheromone that causes everyone to become sexually aroused. On the first day of class the windows were closed, and we basically followed this exact procedure of sitting down and listening to the lecture. The other students and Dr. Roberts took more frequent glances, but for the most part everything was the same. About twenty or twenty five minutes later, they were rubbing themselves. After another five minutes, most of them had climaxed. I apologized for my body and their ruined clothes, then I suggested they bring extra clothes and some wet wipes for the future. After listening to my voice most of them climaxed a second time. My pheromones or whatever I am producing must have filled the room and started affecting their behavior. They climaxed because of some chemical my body produces the first time, but the second time it was because of my voice. My incredibly sexual, near omnipotent voice.

By opening the windows, the pheromones can escape. That way it takes longer to fill up the classroom, and if the wind is blowing, the pheromones are carried away and it takes even longer for the room to fill. Today he wind is calm, my pheromones are still escaping outside, but I am producing them faster than they can leave the room. The other students and Roberts are very turned on; I need to further test my hypothesis. I get up walk up to the windows, careful to do so in a way that doesn't allow anyone to see my face. I open the other half of the windows and I stand by the last one, with my back to the class. If I'm right everyone should regain control of their senses. My pheromones should leave faster now that there are more windows open.
While waiting, I can hear soft moans, and then suddenly I hear the unmistakable sound of two guys ejaculating.

Five minutes later I take a look at the results. Two of the guys have big wet spots on the front of their shorts, but the third guy doesn't. He is the last one to have entered the room; he's had the least exposure to me. The girl and Roberts came in together shortly before him. All three look aroused but they have stopped rubbing themselves. It may be just a theory, but it looks like I have solid evidence. Now I need to conduct research. I'll have no shortage of volunteers, but I'll need advisers. To get these advisers means talking to professors in the chemistry and biology departments, I'll need their knowledge to unlock the secrets of my body. Why am I so big? Why don't I emit body odor, but I instead an aphrodisiac? Or is that my body odor?

I have so many questions. Maybe I can come up with something to neutralize this chemical. Yeah, I'll still be a giant muscleman with a face and eyes that make people climax on sight, but still. Now I have a reason for why orgies seem to occur if I'm in a room for too long, or why people love the smell of my clothes, even though they don't actually smell.

When the lecture is over, the professor excuses the class. The two guys look too embarrassed to move. I'm sure they have spare clothes and will put them on when we leave the room. As I exit the room, a hallway of people stares at my immense body, but only for a second because I rush to the stairs and exit the building. Once back in my truck, I pull out of the drive way and head toward the library.

At the rear library parking lot, I repeat my process of entering the building. This time I can't avoid the other students. They always stop and stare at me. I look at the floor as I make my way to my personal study room and swipe my key card to open the lock. The room is actually a conference room, but it has been set aside for me. There is a giant table along the wall, a specially designed chair, and a massive keyboard hooked up to a computer tower and a ceiling mounted projector. Next to the table is a bookshelf with various textbooks. There are no windows so I have privacy, but the room is not sound proof. In addition to my insane body, my eye sight and hearing are unusually sharp. Now that everyone has gotten over their initial shock, I can hear all kinds of comments.

"That's the guy from all the porn videos."

"Holy fucking shit!!! He's real."

"Did you see how big he is."

"...a million bodybuilders rolled up into one."

"Too handsome to be human"

"I need to fu..."

"Oh god, oh..."

"Dude we should watch the video where he fucks all those porn stars."

"Which one, there's like a million of those?"

"No, let’s watch the one where he bench presses a truck."

"My favorite is the one with Mary and Troy Holdings."

"I'm so jealous that got they tongue lick his giant balls and horse cock."

"I'd let him do anything to me."

The videos are from when I was a wild child. I've tried taking legal action to remove the videos, but someone always reposts them. They always become the highest viewed and the highest rated. Some of the videos have views going into the billions. Unfortunately I'm very well recognized, but thankfully no one has the guts to disturb my study. I always worry about what I will see when I'm finished studying. I'm assuming that some people are watching my videos because I can hear zippers falling and moaning. I sit at my table and try to ignore their voices and other various sounds. I use the extra-large key board to sign into my student account; the screen is projected on the wall by the projector. I only come to the library because I don't have an appropriate computer at home.

I grab a chemistry textbook off the shelf and follow the lecture videos that my chemistry professor has posted. My brain isn't quite as impressive as my body, but it does allow me to understand the material the first time around. After listening to the lecture videos I do the homework assignments. I usually get hundreds on my assignments and on my tests. After finishing the chemistry assignments, I do the same for biology, then for calculus, and I decide to hold off from doing any freshman composition today. It’s been several hours and I'm starting to get hungry.

I log off my account. I tear out a page from my one of my notebooks, and write down that I want an IT person to bring over the equipment in the room to my house and to set it up, and I also include directions to my house. Leaving the note on the table, I exit the room and walk as quickly as possible to the rear door. During my walk, I smell semen. I get into my truck and drive off campus back to my house.

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Part 4: Working Man

 

Up opening the door, I am immediately greeted by my two dogs. Ryder, a Great Dane, and Admiral, a Doberman. I love animals because they don't react to me in the same way people do. Most of them treat me like a normal person, except some of the more territorial or larger ones. They sometimes get threatened by my presence.

One day when I was walking through some woods around my house, I found Ryder and Admiral. Ryder had a nasty gash on one of his legs. When I first tried to approach, Admiral tried to bite me. I had to hold down is jaws, because I didn't want him hurting his teeth against my muscles. When I finally let him go, he treated with Ryder into the woods. I spent days trying to get their trust, and when they finally gave it to me, I felt all warm and fuzzy. I gave them names, and eventually took them home. A few days later, I took them to the vet for a checkup and to get Ryder's leg treated. Figuring they were abandoned, I never posted any pictures or notices about lost dogs; never saw anything about a lost Great Dane or a Doberman either.

I pet their heads as they attempt to jump up and lick my face. Finally, I take a knee and allow them to give me a proper hello. When they finish, I send them outside to play so I can make myself lunch. I set down my stuff on the table next to the door, and walk to the kitchen to clean my face in the sink.

I place a cast iron skillet with some oil on the stove. I turn on a burner, and take out two chicken breasts as the skillet heats up. I wash and season the chicken; when the skillet is nice and hot I set the chicken breasts on the iron. As the chicken cooks, I chop up some lettuce and other vegetables to make a salad. I always use generous amounts of my favorite dressing. From one of the drawers I pull out a list of odd jobs for the day. As I eat my lunch, I go through the list.

First up, cleaning Mrs. Thompson's garage, she is a new client. Then I need to chop up some wood for Miss Robinson and her family. Afterwards I need to mow Miss Laurence's lawn, dispose of a refrigerator for Mr. Williams, and a dozen or so other things, all simple things. I finish eating, and wash the dishes, then head to the garage and load a lawn mower, some axes, some bungee cords, and a couple other things into the back of my truck and drive a couple miles to Mrs. Thompson's house.

She owns a beautiful two story Midwestern style house. Good strong wood, a large green lawn and backyard. I pull into the drive way, exit the truck and walk to the door. Before I can knock on the door, Mrs. Thompson opens it. She must have been waiting for me to arrive.

"H...h...hello."

She is talking to my abdomen and rubbing her legs together. The doorway cuts off my most of my body. I try to raise my voice by and octave or so.

"Hello, Mrs. Thompson. I'd like to get started if that's alright."

She continues to stand at the door way. As we stand there, a strong wind blows past us. She breaks out of her spell and stands aside.

"Great."

I turn and bend to enter her house. Everything is nice and neat. The furniture looks like it was taken right out some expensive showroom. There are some pictures on the wall; several with her husband, I assume. The man is handsome, about a head taller than his wife. In the pictures, they look like fitness models, mid-twenties maybe. Scrupled abs and toned arms, most people would die for. He actually looks a little heavy on the muscle side, like he can switch up his routine and compete as a bodybuilder. I'm actually jealous of the guy. From the pictures I can tell that he exudes confidence and is very comfortable with himself.

Now that I have a clear view of her, I can see that the pictures due her body justice. She is wearing small workout shorts, and a sports bra that is struggling to contain her double Ds. Her outfit exposes world class abs, and nipples that have hardened and are now poking through the bra. The confident and sexy face from the pictures is nowhere to be seen. Instead, she is flushed and shaking. She is still attractive, very attractive.

"Could you show me to the garage?" I ask.

Mrs. Thompson walks ahead of me. I follow and note the way her firm round butt is moving up and down awkwardly. She is trying to be sexy, but is failing kind of hard. The garage is a stark contrast to the living room. There are bins and boxes practically piled up to the ceiling, all kinds of tools are lying on the floor, clothes thrown about, and all sorts of other things litter the walls. I think cleaning the garage may just be an excuse to have me over. Most of the boxes are unopened, all the tools and clothes look new, there isn't a scratch or dent on anything in view, but the biggest clue is the shiny BMW in the middle. Despite the apparent messiness of the garage, there is nothing cluttering the area around the BMW.

Without looking at her I ask, "Can I move the car? I'll need a bit more room to be able to properly clean this room."

"T..the b...battery for the garage door is d…dead."

As she talks her voice dies down to a whisper. If my hearing wasn't so good, I won't be able to hear her.

I try to speak at an even higher octave, "Oh. I'll just do it manually then."

I walk over to the garage door and grab the handle. Gently I pull up, and the door is raised along the track until there is a click. Then I get into my truck and drive back to the edge of the driveway.

"Mrs. Thompson, I'm going to need to move your car now."

I walk over to the front of her car, and push it outside. She doesn't say anything in protest, she just watches intently. I would have asked her to move the car, but she is already so close to the edge that the vibrations of the car may take her to the point of no return. After the car is outside, I begin sorting through the "mess." As I do so, I can feel the Mrs. Thompson staring at my immense body, hunched over sorting all kinds of tools and clothes into bins. The boxes have a lot of kitchen appliances, workout gear, supplement, and other things. As I work I can hear her intense breathing, and some soft moaning. During the whole time, she stands there, watching me. I half expect her to jump me. When I finish I look at Mrs. Thompson's legs, as I try to avoid eye contact.

There is some liquid running down her legs and pooling on the floor. Her face is bright red, and her nipples are protruding obscenely from her breasts. There is a layer of sweat on her body, all her muscles are highlighted. Normally, any man would be lucky to be the recipient of her affections. They'd go to hell and back just to be with her. However, I am not one of those men. A few months ago I would have fucked her and her husband; I'd probably have placed them on a strict diet of my protein shake, but not these days.

As I ignored her, she became increasingly aroused, and without touching herself she achieved several orgasms. She's been having silent orgasms this whole time. I never noticed, I thought she was simply enjoying the show, if you can call it that.

"Mrs. Thompson, I'm done with the cleaning."

Gingerly, she reaches in her breasts and pulls out a wad of hundreds. I'd be dumfounded, if this hadn't happened dozens of times before. It's too much money for just cleaning a garage; some of the bills are moist with perspiration. I take a hundred dollars and try to return the rest to her. She stands there, continuing to have orgasm after orgasm. So I pull on her bra and drop the money inside. Unfortunately she faints from the close proximity. I catch her limp body, before she hits the ground and take her to the bathroom, and leave her in the tub. Then I go outside, push her car back into the garage and lower the garage door. I get into my truck and drive off, making a note not to go back. It’s fairly obvious that Mrs. Thompson, had either watched too many of my videos or heard too many stories and decided she wanted to seduce me. I lose a lot of potential clients that way.

The drive to my second client for the day isn't too far off, just a few miles away. Miss Robinson lives a large wooden house, with large windows. It reminds me of my own house, except my windows are tinted. I met the Robinson family when I first moved into the area. I captivated the entire family: husband, wife, son and two daughters. Typically I’d stay away from this kind of situation, but the family always stares from a distance, they don't openly linger or stare too much, so I decided to keep them as clients. There is a truck and an SUV in driveway, so Miss Robinson and her son are in their house; he is probably skipping school. The dad is working, and the girls went away to other states once classes started. I park near the house, from the bed of my truck, I take out three axes; each nice and sharp.

I make my way to Robinson's backyard, where I am greeted by a mountain of logs, different sizes and of different trees that need to be split. I lay down two of my axes, and start splitting the logs on the earth. I can't use tree stumps because I always end up destroying them, so I use the earth and take out massive chunks of dirt every time my axes hits the ground. As I work, I can feel two sets of eyes on my back.

I feel like somebody is watching me. The sensation is like when I’m at a red light and the driver next to me stares at my truck. They can’t see through the tinted windows, but for some reason they stare anyways.  I almost always have that feeling, especially here. Every time I look back at the house, I don't see any sign of movement or hear a sound, but I know that I am being watched. About halfway through, my axe hits a log and causes it to explode. Looking at the metal head of the axe, I can see that it has deformed.

Unfortunately, I don't always know my own strength. When splitting wood, I tend to go through axes pretty quickly. I grab another axe and continue working. After I finish, I take all the split logs and stack them along the Robinson's house, then using my feet, I fill in all the holes I made with dirt. I walk to the front door to find two fifty dollar bills, well over my charge of twenty per hour. Still, I take the money and leave.

Mr. Williams' house is on route to Miss Laurence's. Drake Williams used to be one of my teachers in high school; he taught calculus and coached baseball. I mercilessly teased him during my senior year, when I actually bothered to show up for class. His partner, Craig, is a former marine. I constantly asked Mr. Williams if he preferred my body. I would always casually flex my arms with the intention of getting Williams hot and bothered in front of his students. It worked, but nobody ever paid any attention to him, with a titanic muscle god flexing in the middle of the classroom.

One day, I dominated Craig while Williams watched. It wasn't anything that was supposed to be sexual, it was more of a "you're max is my warm up" kind of thing taken to the extreme. I had Craig load up his max deadlift, and then I very causally started curling the bar in one hand. I tossed it in the air and caught it with my other hand and continued to do so for several minutes. Then I ordered them to wrap their bodies around the weights; even with the increased weight I continued doing one armed curls and throwing the bar around. They left humiliated, or so I thought. The two are still together; apparently I made them grow closer together and even encouraged Craig to work out more. By "pure coincidence" they ended up living a few miles from me. Still, I feel guilty about all I put them through, so I occasionally do odd jobs for free.

I get out of the truck and knock on the door to their house. A 6'3'' former marine, current bodybuilder opens the door. I can tell that this is a guy who was bullied a lot as a kid, so he went to the military to toughen up, despite the whole don't ask don't tell thing. The guy is an absolute tank. The sleeves of his shirt rest right above his twenty something inch arms, a gigantic bull neck, a chest wide enough to intimidate pro wrestlers, and quads so big he can't put his feet together. This guy is a total alpha. He is close, if not, 300lbs of solid muscle, he has very little fat. I'd guess his body fat percentage is in the high single digits or low double digits. The beast stares at my lower chest; the bulge in his pants becomes a mound. He tries to say something, but only a high pitched sound can escape his manly chest. He lowers his head and moves aside. I step past him and wander into the kitchen. I can't help, but wonder what effect I have on this guy in particular.

With his super tight shirt and musclebound body he can stop traffic. He is ruggedly good looking; I remember women and gay men fawning over him. He has won several bodybuilding competitions, and he received several awards for his military accomplishments. I don't know the exact details, other than that he was deployed several times to combat areas. He must have endured all kinds of crazy mental and physical training in the marines, but for some reason he is standing behind me, head down, unable to talk. He was like this way when I first met him. I wish that someone possessing his level of discipline and a body worthy to play Hercules, could talk to me, but that isn't the case.

There is a large stainless steel refrigerator unplugged in the middle of the kitchen. I open the sliding widow glass doors and push the refrigerator outside, to a patio area. Once outside, I grab an edge of the refrigerator with one hand and hoist it onto my shoulder. As walk away, I hear a loud thud, and the entire house shakes. I drop the refrigerator and turn around to see that Craig had collapsed on the kitchen floor. The tiles around his head are broken, but I don't see any blood. His jeans are a complete mess. The button on his jeans snapped and a mighty foot long erection tore through some wet briefs. He starts to stir and sits up. We make eye contact, and again he shoots a load again. His entire body is twitching like crazy, all his muscles bulge and flex. He hits the ceiling several of times, before the size of his shots start to diminish. There is a trail of semen from his penis to the glass doors.

For some reason, men are able to constantly achieve erections as long as I am near, and they can also shoot bigger loads, but this guy is something else. Most men tend to ejaculate, go flaccid, and then become erect again. However this guy didn't go flaccid; he is going on a third ejaculation off one erection. Not wanting to witness another round, I use both hands to grab the refrigerator and carry it out to my truck.

I don't bother opening the gate to the bed of the truck. Instead I throw the refrigerator over the gate, and catch it before it can land. Using bungee cords, I tie the thing down, get back in my truck and drive off. I can do every day stuff fine, but then come those days that require actual labor. Part of the reason I made the log explode earlier is because I didn't know how much strength to put in each swing. I more or less guessed how much energy was needed for the first log. After it split, and I based every other swing on that first swing. Some of the swings had far more energy than splitting a log requires, but I just kept swing away, oblivious to the deformations of the axe. I didn't know how much effort to put into lifting the refrigerator, with someone watching. I could have lifted the thing in the palm of my hand and balanced it, but was obviously overkill, so I went with a more appropriate method. Unfortunately that was still overkill. Hopefully the next job will go smoother.

Without even bothering to let Miss Laurence know I arrived, I start mowing the lawn. I make quick work of the lawn, and put way the mower. Then I go to collect my pay. Unfortunately, I knock far too hard and nearly tore the door off its hinges. An elderly woman opens the door to find a massive red shirt covering her field of vision.

In the highest voice I can muster I say, "Miss Laurence, I already mowed your lawn."

She stares for several seconds. Her eyes bulge out of her head. She's trembling with excitement.

"Miss Laurence."

"Oh right, thank you," she stammers.

She leaves the doorway. I can't see her house on the account of my height, but I can hear something vibrating. She reappears a few minutes later with some money in hand. Much more money that I should get for mowing an averaged sized lawn. I don't want to stay around, so I just take the money. I leave and continue my work.

I mow a few more lawns and pick up some old appliances. I drive to a recycling center. After the day I've had I decide to just toss everything over the fence instead of going through the proper line. A refrigerator, a stove, a drier, and a washing machine all go over the fence and crash with a loud bang. I drive off before any of the employees decide to check out the source of the sounds.

I have one last job. Some guy and his wife want me to break up their concrete. They live in a cul-de-sac. I spot a house with any empty driveway, there are two cars parked by the sidewalk. I park on the opposite side of the street. After getting out of my truck, I grab a sledgehammer from the bed of my truck and walk to the front door. I knock and a short middle aged woman opens the door.

"I'm here to breakup your driveway."

Without waiting for a reply; I turn and walk away. I raise the sledgehammer above my head, and using the full force of my musclebound body I swing the 30lb hammer down to release all my pent up frustration. The sound is deafening, the concrete completely shatters. Bits and pieces go off flying into the air. Some of the driveway is actually powderized. I hit the concrete again, and again. Each time, I send massive chunks everywhere and the air fills with powdered concrete. I continue to pound away at the driveway until the head of my hammer shatters.

When the powdery dust clears, I'm standing there with a broken sledgehammer in hand. The entire driveway is covered in craters, there chunks of concrete on the homeowner's lawn and on the neighbor's lawn. The garage door has several holes in it, they are pretty large. I don't see any fragments from my hammer; they may have gone through the garage door. I'm not exhausted, but my massive chest is rising and falling. My muscles are pumped; my upper torso fills my shirt. I finally feel relaxed after my shitty day. I start walking over to my truck to get a tarp for cleaning up the driveway, when I notice that there are several adults surrounding the area. A good two thirds of them are unconscious in the street or on the lawns. The ones that aren't unconscious are on their knees and quickly falling over. I take a pause, and notice how my chest is expanding.

My shirt is supposed to be about two sizes too large, but my pump has changed that. As I inhale, my pumped up chest actually stretches the material exposing two pectorals the size of a table. The veins and striations are visible to any one still conscious. The sleeves are now snug against my upper arms. My deltoids seem to want to match my head in terms of height. I can feel all the extra blood flooding through my torso and arms. I feel hot. My penis starts to react; I feel a pulse. It travels throughout my body and makes my muscles twitch. Every single muscle fiber in my body is now twitching in anticipation of an orgasm.

The last thing I need is to make everything worse by standing there for half an hour and unleash a load in plain view. I close my eyes and inhale. My chest expands father still. I hear a faint tearing sound before exhaling. I continue inhaling and exhaling for a good five minutes. My muscles stop twitching, the pulsing in my penis stops. I open my eyes, and see that not a single person is standing. There is still a job to finish, but first I pick up every person on the street and place them on a lawn. Some are grinding their hips and moaning, while others are fondling themselves. Since the entire cul-de-sac appears to be knocked out, I take a tarp from my truck and begin collecting concrete pieces. The process isn't very long, but as I work the tear in my shirt becomes larger. When I finish, I decide to leave a note.


I'm sorry about the scene earlier. Please send me the bill for the garage door and any other damage I caused.


I sign the note and include my address, then drop it through their mail slot. As I walk back to my truck, carrying a tarp with several hundred pounds on concrete in one hand and a broken sledgehammer in the other, I can't help but wonder, ‘What if I got the wrong house?’ I don't think I could comeback. The embarrassment, the uneasy silence, the sexual tension, and the whole demolishing the wrong driveway thing; I'd actually die. I really hope that isn't the case.

I drive to the town dump, to get rid of several hundred pounds of concrete, a broken sledge hammer, and a deformed axe. Since the dump is closed, I tie up the corners of the tarp and throw it over the wooden fence, and then I throw over the hammer and the axe. Not the safest thing in the world, but nobody is in the dump. I think.

I can't see too much past the top of my pecs, so I bend my upper body slightly to examine the damage to my shirt. There is a large tear exposing my bottom pecs. I grab the hem and take off the shirt. My chest is exposed to the cool air. I can see all kinds of crazy veins and striations running along my pecs. They are so big right now, that if I lay down it’s actually possible to use my pecs as a table. With my right hand I try to dent my right pec. The muscle is so thick; I can only slightly dent it. I try harder, but the action causes my pec to flex and become even difficult to dent. I got to say, that after wearing such conservative clothing all day it is nice to feel fresh air against my skin. I smile, throw the shirt in my truck hoping I can get it fixed and drive off.

The rest of the day is uneventful; I make dinner, watch TV, shower, lay out tomorrow’s clothes, and go to bed.

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Part Five: Another Day

My alarm goes off at 4:00 in the morning. Carefully I hit the reset bottom, and follow my usual morning procedure, minus the breakfast. Today, I'm wearing a massive green long sleeved t-shirt and humongous black slacks held up a regular belt. Without the belt the pants won't fall or anything. They can't get past my large bubble butt, or my inhumanly massive quads. I catch my reflection on the way out; my green eyes seem to glow in contrast against my radiant bronze skin.

It's 4:45 by the time I'm driving to the grocery store. After all my interactions from yesterday, one can imagine why I don't shop during more conventional hours. I arrive at one of those large national chain super stories. Nice wide isles, open 24/7, and most importantly, self-checkouts. Including mine, there are twenty vehicles in the parking lot; most are parked near the produce entrance. I exit my truck and grab a cart from the return cart rack and enter the store. The inside is very bright and very spacious. There isn't a single soul near the entrance or in the produce section.

Maneuvering the cart up and down the produce section, I grab several vegetables and fruits: onions, carrots, corn, potatoes, lettuce, tomatoes, avocados, apples, oranges, and a watermelon. As I hold the watermelon, I can't help but smile and compare it to my biceps. On my left palm sits a large ripe watermelon. It is so big and around, and of course smooth. Despite, my better judgment, I flex my right arm, and marvel at my right bicep. It too is big and round, however it is not smooth. My green sleeve reveals massive veins and deep striations snaking their way around my muscle.

If one hits a watermelon with a sledgehammer, the melon will shatter. However, if one hits my bicep with the same hammer, he/she won't the same reaction. It is too hard to be hurt, instead he/she will end up on the floor in agony. Not by me, directly at least, but by the backslash of hitting an immovable object. There are some videos of me testing out the inertia of my biceps, against hammers, metal bars, and even bullets.

Luckily, the produce section is still seemingly empty and I don't hear anything other than the air conditioning. It's a good sign, I guess. I continue my trip through the store, passing through the isles for bread, chips, cookies, juices, sodas, and a couple other unhealthy foods. I can eat chocolate cake and drink beer, but never gain any fat. Gaining fat can be a little problematic, but the real problem is that I seem to have a limit on how many calories I can consume in one day.

A few years ago, I was trying to gain a little weight. My coaches kept saying that because I was so vascular my chances of breaking a bone were rather high, unlikely but high if the proper amount of force was applied. They didn't want to take any chances, so they ordered me to fatten up a bit. I was always one of the tallest kids, and I was definitely the most vascular, but was I never the biggest eater. One day after eating a particularly large meal in perpetration for football season, I threw up. After getting full I just couldn't push myself to eat any more. I wasn't small by any means, I had the opposite problem. As a big kid, I had a target on my back. Opposing teams needed two or more players to really get me down. The bigger guys especially seemed to have it in for me. They wanted to show that they weren't intimidated by my size or strength. So they grouped up and really tried to give me hell.

I suffered what should have been pretty nasty injuries, but I never broke anything. I sprained my ankle once, but that was because I turned too quickly, not because someone hit me. I stopped playing most sports about midway through my sophomore year, because a lot of opposing players and parents complained that I was way too big. There were also complaints by fellow teammates during practice. Some of the other players suffered broken bones, at my hands. I was always careful, but sometimes it just wasn't enough and other times I got really mad.

I didn't think it was my fault. There would have been fewer injuries if the other coaches didn't encourage two, three, or sometimes four of their biggest players to go after me, I won't have gotten angry and hit back so hard. For the seniors on any team, it is important to be in shape and healthy. Most of them wanted to play college ball, and then go on to the NFL. Some of them were good, good enough to make it. Others didn't plan on going to the NFL, they just wanted college scholarships. Unfortunately because I broke a lot of bones, some really good players missed the chance to play for a recruiter. They didn't get the scholarships they worked so hard for, and as a result didn't go to college. At the time I didn't care about them, I was just angry about being forced to stop playing. Every few people took my side, they ogled and praised my body at every turn, but they had enough sense to draw a line somewhere. Deep down I knew they were right, but it didn't stop me from reminding the football team and the wrestling team how much smaller their biggest players were compared to me.

Since mellowing out and questioning my body a bit, I've found that my limit on calories is about 3300. I never eat that much so it isn't a problem, but still it makes me wonder.

I continue going through the seemingly empty store to the meat section, where I choose out some beef, pork, and chicken. Afterwards I make my way to the dairy section for milk, butter, eggs, cheese, and yogurt. As I walk to the self-check out isles, a group of college students walks in the opposite direction. Most of them stare, except this one obnoxious looking guy. He is texting on his phone and crashes into two of his friends, causing a domino effect. He gets up, swearing. Then he angrily notices that his friends aren't paying any attention to him, and he looks at the direction of their stare.

He finally sees me. As I walk past them, I look straight ahead. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a small tent appear very quickly, followed by some sticky looking fluid, then the tent disappears, just as I pass by. I can tell that this guy is the confrontational type, but he just stands there amid his friends.

I can hear footsteps, and a muffled voice ask, "Are you kids alright?"

That's Andy, the store manager. The employees and some of the customers like to hide and watch me as I shop from afar. At first I was a little uncomfortable with the experience, but I soon grew to accept it. It’s actually a pretty good move on their part. They get to watch me, and I get to shop in peace, of course there are occasional disruptions. College kids, parents with sick children, or just random people that decide to shop at five in the morning. Still the system works for now, and I continue to return to this store.

I never have any problems with the self-check out, just scan, bag, and pay. I take my brown paper bags and exit the store, all in all, it was a good trip. Not any interactions and only one incident. I load all my bags into the back of my truck and return the cart back to metal rack. Then I drive off.

At my house I unload the first round of groceries onto the front steps. As I walk back to the truck, I see what appears to be a 300lb bodybuilder and his roughly 180lb husband walking past my house. The size difference is kind of funny; awkwardly I wave. They see me. Williams starts running and Craig does what is akin to running for a man his size. I'm glad Craig is alright. I take the groceries inside and put them in their designated places. Quickly, I whip up a simple breakfast, and wash the dishes. Then I put out some food for my dogs.

Afterwards, I go over to my answering machine, notepad and pen in hand, and start listening to the voice messages. I have a hundred and fifty six messages, all from yesterday. I half expect the Watts to call, and say I demolished the wrong driveway. I go through most of them pretty quickly. Anyone that just pants repeatedly is deleted; I'm not into muscle worship sessions or prostituting myself. The fetish stuff is also out, so is stripping, sperm donation, massages, photo sessions, guest appearances, drug trials, and couple of other things. In the end, I call back twenty people with actual work available.

My phone is custom made, the numbers on the dial pad are giant, so my massive fingers don't hit two keys at once. An old friend modified the phone, so my voice sounds higher. Of course it is still very low and seductive to the human ear, but I can talk to clients without turning them on, too much. I spend about forty minutes arranging dates, times, and to an extent wages. I almost always get more money than is agreed to, which can be a perk. With the latest batch of clients, I am booked solid through the month. I won't take on any more jobs until I get through the ones on the list. The Watts didn't call, that doesn't put me completely out of the woods.

I put my arms behind my head; my biceps swell. I close my eyes for a few minutes. As I sit on the couch relaxing, I can't help but feel my body. I can tell that I'm bigger than yesterday; the difference is subtle, just barely noticeable to me. My biceps and triceps bulge out a little more, my traps are closer to my head, and my abdomen is tighter. The muscles on my legs push out farther in all directions, and the weight of my genitals is greater than it was yesterday. Sometimes I think I can actually feel my body grow, I can feel all kinds of shift occurring in my muscle tissues as my cells continue to grow. Suddenly I hear barking. I rush outside to find Ryder and Admiral barking at a guy in a large white van with the university logo on the side. The driver is a young, just a few years older than I am.

Firmly I say, "Rider. Admiral, stop. Come here."

I rub their heads, they are very protective of me; I appreciate that. They keep our home free of pesky intruders, but today they scared the crap out of the IT guy.

"Go play in the backyard."

They look back at the van, but they run off. I walk over to the van and look inside. The guy looks pretty scared. I lean away so that I am out of view.

In my highest voice I ask, "Are you alright?"

The IT guy replies, "Yes I'm fine, thank you. I'm really sorry for disturbing you."

My dogs nearly attack the guy and he apologizes to me; he hasn't even seen me yet.

"I'm the one that should be apologizing."

Still thinking he is at fault, "No really it's my fault. I should have called ahead. The university even told me so, but I forgot. I'm here to install the projector."

I can hear him shifting through some stuff in the passenger seat. I had completely forgotten that I wanted the equipment installed in my house.

"Oh, right. Come inside, they won't bother you anymore."

I turn and walk into the house. I can hear gasp, as he gazes at me for the first time, and a whimper when I bend and turn to enter the house. He shows up at my doorway, with his head down and a pair of massive ear muffs. I'm surprised, but I know that he didn't prepare well enough. It is not enough to advert one’s eyes and dampen my voice to be in my presence. There is so much more work that needs to be done.

Looking at his feet he starts talking, "The university told me to prepare for your appointment. In which room do you want the projector?"

"Any one of the empty bedrooms is fine."

The guy is of average height and build, with blonde hair and hazel eyes. He continues to look at his feet, but a tent begins to form in his khakis. He looks up, and sees my gigantic body. The tent in his pants reaches full size and begins to leak precum. I can tell that he is confused.

"There is a bathroom down the hall."

Taking another look at me, he rushes to the bathroom. I should have known. Since this is my house, it must be filled with my pheromones. It is still just a theory, but he may have just made it more credible. I open all the doors and windows in the house, and then I turn on the air conditioner. I flap my massive arms in the air, generating air currents to push the pheromones outside. Besides the possible pheromones, there is another more obvious problem, my very presence.

The human brain in really impressive, it continuously makes observations using the five senses and stores that information away. My presence causes the brain to overload, so to speak. I've already described the effects to some extent. As people stare at my immense body, handsome face, and unearthly eyes they enter a trance. Their sense of sight literary causes their brain to shut off temporarily. Hearing my low and sexy voices causes the same response. The IT guy tried to avoid looking at my body once he entered by house, and used ear muffs to dampen my voice, but his other senses more than compensated.

It is hard to explain, but one of the purposes of the skin is to act like a sensor. The nerves can detect changes in air pressure, temperature, and all kinds of other things which are sent to the brain. When the IT entered the room, he knew there was something big inside. Something massive, occupying a large amount of space. Most people are naturally curious, the IT guy wanted to see the source of the distortion in the air. I don't know whether he looked up because of my presence or because of my pheromones, but I know that he didn't stand a chance against me. Someone with fully functional eyes can't help but look at me, and people without functional eyes have it worse.

I've tried talking to blind people, the result was cruel. One of the first was Tim, a friend of an old friend. From the moment I met him, Tim knew I was big. At first everything was fine, I wasn't so ridiculously massive or handsome. We could talk and stuff without him getting horny, but then something changed, as I continued to grow. Tim could feel a giant disrupting the air currents more and more, he could feel my body heat changing the temperature of the air around me, in a sense his skin allowed his brain to paint the picture of a titan. My causal breathing allowed him to piece together that I wasn't a blob of fat occupying a massive amount of space. I was something else, something dense and hot. He started getting fidgety and impatient. Then he started trying to rub up against me and feel my body. He started ranting about my size, how I was fucking with him, how he needed to feel if I was real. He wanted to feel my body, to feel the truth because he couldn't see it. I felt bad, so I allowed him to touch me. That was a mistake.

His brain deduced that I was big, but it couldn't gauge at the magnitude. He gasped and moaned as his hands explored my large bulging muscles, he shot several loads in his pants. When he discovered I wasn't flexing, he passed out. After regaining consciousness, he started crying because he couldn't see my body. Feeling me wasn't enough; he wanted to see me in my full glory. I avoided him until I left town, it was just so awkward. Since then, I've met other blind people and they have the same reaction. It doesn't matter if we met in a large open room and they wear ear muffs to dampen my voice, because their brains alert them to my presence. My meetings with the blind always leave them raving mad to touch my body and cursing their blindness.

Two hours later he comes out of the bathroom still looking down and wearing the ear muffs, I can see from his name tag that his name is John. I step outside.

He says, "I'm sorry. I... I... I'm n...not gay. I have a girlfriend."

I call out, "It's fine. It happens all the time. Your probably dehydrated, get yourself something to drink out of the kitchen."

I hear him enter the kitchen, the ear muffs dampen my low and sexy voice, but as long as he has eyes, he will be tempted to look at me; I shouldn't be in the same room as him.

Walking back into the living room he asks, "S...sir where are you?"

I answer, "I think it is best if you avoid seeing me."

John relies, "Um...okay. I just need permission to drill a few holes in your ceiling."

"You have my permission to modify the house in any way you see fit. Also if you don't mind closing your eyes, I need to go inside to collect some things before heading out for work."

He replies, nervously, "Sir, I have my eyes closed."

As I walk past him, I can see that he desperately wants to open them. I head to the garage, to grab my tools for the day; I return back outside and see that John is standing in the same place with his eyes closed. I load up my truck, with today's tools

Once I'm inside the truck, I lower the window, slightly, and say, "It's okay to open your eyes now."

Then I add, "How long will this take?"

"It shouldn't take long, the university told me to do whatever it takes to complete this task," he replies eagerly.

"Alright then,...if you need to relieve yourself the bathroom is open, all I ask is that you take care of any mess that occurs."

With that I exit the driveway to start another day's work. The first job is digging a hole for Mr. Davis, a guy building his own house. When I arrive to the location, Mr. Davis is standing outside. I can see that the Victorian house is almost complete. It is beautiful, I'm amazed one guy can actually build such a thing. Mr. Davis is a stocky man in his forties; he appears to be in rather good shape. Over the phone he said that he is building the house with his inheritance and hopes that he can pass it on to his children.

As I step out of the truck, his eyes bulge out, he starts trembling, the usual stuff. I grab a couple custom made shovels from the back of the truck and approach Mr. Davis. He runs into the house. I stop, he must be scared. That usually doesn't happen. He comes back out with some papers, a textbook, and a pen in hand.

"Can I get your autograph?" he practically screams like a girl, "I'm a big fan. So is my wife, my parents loved you too. I'll pay anything you want."

I stare at his forehead, "I thought you called me to dig out a space for a septic tank, not sign autographs."

Now hell looks scared, like I'm going to leave. Frantically he cries out, "Yes, yes. I need the space dug, but once I saw you I just got carried away."

I sigh, and extend my hand. I've had worse encounters with clients and I need to pick my battles wisely. He eagerly gives me the materials in his hands. The papers are actually photos from when I was younger. The first shows me back when I sixteen or so. I'm standing next to a group of professional bodybuilders, heavy weights.

They look small and rather strange next to me. Bulging stomachs, disproportionate muscles, their skins are too stretched over their muscles, and overly tan faces. I completely dwarf the bodybuilders in terms of height and muscular development. Wide shoulders and a narrow waist, with all my muscles in perfect proportion to each other. My green eyes contrast with my naturally bronze skin, my face is radiant almost glowing, and my shirtless upper body glistening with a layer of sea water. Unlike the bodybuilders, my skin isn't stretched out oddly, it is tight over my muscles, but I have the appearance of someone who naturally grew to inhuman size, but instead of someone who modified their body with chemicals.

The second picture is me lifting a truck loaded with loaded with large house appliances. My arms are clearly visible; huge and coursing with power. Around me there is a crowd. They are all gasping at the size of my immense body and taking pictures.

A third picture shows me in a light blue shirt, with blue eyes. My eyes tend to change color depending on the lighting in the room. In the picture I am surrounded by super models, male and female. My muscles poke out through the shirt; the top buttons are unfastened exposing my pecs, two large bronze colored stones, with a deep valley between. Several models are literally climbing on top of my body, clawing at my muscles.

The fourth and final picture shows me alone on the beach during sunset. The sky is red, orange, and beyond some clouds, purple. Waves crash down around me, as I stand in a wet shirt. The shirt is completely see through, I might as well not be wearing anything. My pecs are completely flexed, in their glory they show dozens of veins and striations. So round, so big. My biceps are double their usual size and also covered with veins and striations, my abs are so tight and defined, like meaty bricks. The shirt has slipped into the crevices between each abs; those sections are hopelessly lost in the picture. Despite the glorious body, the real piece of art is the eyes. My eyes in the picture are gold, like a perfect sun. Everything, my muscles, my jaw, my skin, my hair, everything draws the attention to my eyes. Eyes that are hypnotic in nature, so powerful that one can't help but stare and fade into nothingness in those eyes.

I sign the pictures and give them to Mr. Davis. He takes me outback and gives the details for his plan of the septic tank. Basically I dig a really big rectangular hole and a couple of channels for the guy, while he watches from inside his house.

"I can't believe you’re done so quickly." He walks out of the house wearing different pants. He takes a good look at me and says, "You've grown so much since these pictures were taken."

He continues to stares at my body, but chooses focus on my pecs. I interrupt his thoughts, "Mr. Davis about my pay."

"Ah, right you are. We never settled on those autographs, how is 1000 per photo sound? I heard that your prices were rather high, but if money isn't what you want, certainly we can work out a deal."

"Mr. Davis, I don't know who told you this, but I'm not charging for the autographs. I'm talking about digging out space for your septic tank; remember we agreed on 500 dollars for the work."

"R...really," he stutters, "of course."

From his back pocket, he pulls out a massive wad of hundreds. From the wad, he quickly takes out seven bills and gives them to me. A 200 dollar tip isn't out of the ordinary for me. I shouldn't take so much extra money, but since this guy was clearly prepared to give, I decide to just take it.

I need to clear up something, "Mr. Davis, I thank you for your business, but in the future please know that I will not sign any autographs for any price. Have a good day."

He looks crushed, almost as if he has an entire collection of photos he wants signed. I throw the shovels in the truck, and drive off. In the rear view mirror, I can see Mr. Davis pull down his pants and start fondling himself. It is a good thing that he doesn't have any neighbors.

The second and third jobs for the day are cutting down trees. The clients are neighbors and want ash trees cut down, turned into small logs, and split. The task takes longer than usual, because I use a chainsaw, provided by the clients, to cut down the trees instead of chopping them with an axe. As I work the clients watch me, for several minutes before retreating inside. While I split the logs, I run through an axe, and by the time I finish I nearly ruin a second. Besides excessive staring, I don't have any problems, with the clients. When I go to collect my pay, they give very generous tips, like Mr. Davis.

The fourth job in more of a display of strength than a job really. The client, Mr. Daily, wants me to demolish his old brick grill. I thought about canceling this job, because of my incident yesterday, but he has been waiting for a long time. I arrive at his house; it sticks out from the rest of the houses. It is large, and composed primarily of large white cubes and windows. Ordinary, on a house like this, the windows would be clear, but these are tinted. It's not ugly, but it looks alien among all the more traditional houses. From my truck, I can see that there are also several cameras on the front of the house. I think that is fairly unusual.

Mr. Daily walks through the front door. He is a daddy or something like that; suddenly the cameras make a little more sense. He looks to be in his sixties, silver haired, toned, and from the looks of it rich. As I step out of the truck, his eyes bulge and then narrow. A grin forms on his face, a face full of superiority and arrogance. I can see that he wants my body, and I see that he knows he will have it. A man like him doesn't think, he knows.

Composing himself he says, "Well look at you," as he starts walking around in a circle with me in the center. "They must really grow em big where you’re from, eh big boy?"

His voice and attitude are a dead giveaway; this guy likes to have fun with college boys. He likes toys with young men. I know that I'm not his first, but I will be the last.

"I'd like to get to work." I say, trying to suppress my discomfort and distaste.

"I'll put you to work alright," he says, "follow me round back."

As he talks he licks his lips, and stares at my crotch. Then he turns around and begins walking to the backyard, going off about himself. His money and position of power, as state politician or something like that. I can feel that I am being watched by several lustful eyes. In my peripheral vision, I see shadows moving in the tinted windows. I get an ominous feeling, in the pit of my stomach; at this point I solidify my resolve.

The backyard is large, and green. There is a big swimming pool, shaped like a bean. Next to the house, is a patio section, and at the edge of the patio is a large red brick grill. It's going to be a shame to destroy such a lovely grill. Next to the grill, is a hammer, like from the comic book, Thor. I also notice a yellow stack of what appear to be clothes. He grabs the yellow stack and thrusts it into my hands.

"Alright boy, put them on."

I give the man a little smile to entice him, and unfold what turns out to be a construction uniform. So he likes his pups to undress and play games uh. I undo my belt, and pull the black slack past my quads. The slacks fall to the ground, exposing underwear concealing my tube steak and two cantaloupes. The old man whimpers and climaxes, I hear similar sounds from indoors. I kick off my shoes and slacks, actions that cause my overdeveloped leg muscles to flex and bulge, nearly causing a heart attack. I try getting the yellow pants on my legs, but they tear after I get them past my knees. I toss out them away.

I continue to stand in the patio and casually flexing my lower body. Flexing isn’t the right word, all I’m doing is shifting my weight around. As my body weight is redistributed among my legs, all the muscles seem to respond my jutting out ward. I make it an art form to stand and very subtly move the muscle tissues in my legs. I tense my right quad, just slightly, but a ripple of movement travels through my right leg. Every muscle is connected together, everything bulges and grows; my muscles fight for limited space and surge outward to accommodate themselves. They move farther and farther way from my body, closer to the old man who has long since passed out.

I step back into my black slacks and redress myself. I walk over to the silver haired daddy, and gently slap him until he wakes. The poor bastard is flustered and red faced. He looks down at his ruined expensive pants, and then at me. I look away, so he doesn't climax again.

He tries to regain control of the situation, "B...boy, w...w....why aren't you d...ressed?"

I show him the remains of the uniform.

"You...you j...j...just goin' to have to w....work in your b...birthday uniform."

I grab the hem of my green shirt, and lift it a few inches, not enough to reveal anything. Then I stop and lower it. I inhale and exhale. My gigantic chest rises and falls. He stares intently at my pecs, and starts walking over to me, with another erection. He stands on his toes in an attempt to suck my nipples through the green shirt. I catch his head in my palm, and keep him away.

He sobs, "Please, please let me suck them. I'll do anything. I'll pay anything."

It looks like my job is almost complete.

In my normal voice, I start talking, "Mr. Davis, just from looking at you I can tell you find enjoyment in walking through the gyms and hunting prey. You find young muscular men and bring them here to humiliate and dominate them. I can tell that you especially like playing with straight guys, and convincing them they are gay. You like outing closeted college students for fun. You make all sorts of promises, and treat them with false affection. Then with your friends, you take turns fucking them, and when you are done, you toss aside your prey like trash. I'm here to stop you. If you have any current toys, they're free of you as of this moment. You've played your last game. If you want a relationship, do it like a normal person, enough sex games."

I'm nearly shouting by the end of my little rant. The muscles on my neck are sticking out, not in another tease show, but from anger. He can see my handsome face fill with rage. The hard muscles under my loose clothing become harder than diamonds. That this point he is equally scared and turned on. The new liquid ruining his pants isn't doesn't have any protein. I may have been too forceful, but just knowing about his games really pisses me off.

I used to do a similar thing, of finding and fucking anyone I liked, but I stopped once I realized the long term effects of my games. The man in front of me is fully aware of his position and the vulnerability of the human male, and he exploits those vulnerabilities for his sex games. He knows the end results, but he doesn't care, so I have decided to stop him from ruining any more lives than he already has.

I walk over to the hammer, and pick it up in one hand. It's heavy, like 200 pounds heavy. I don't know they were able to get such a thing, but for me the weight is practically nothing. I place my other hand on the handle, and prepare to swing at the grill. I take a stance; legs spread wide apart, all my weight on my right leg. I move my right arm behind my right leg and keep my left forearm parallel to the ground. Then I swing.

If the first strike in the driveway was deafening, then this hit is ear shattering. The hammer connects against the grill with the force of a semi-truck collision. The entire grill breaks apart. Pieces go flying in the direction of the applied force, through the fence that marks the end of Mr. Davis' property, and into some trees. A couple of trees actually break at the trunk and collapse. It looks like I left trail, at least a two hundred feet long, of broken bricks, cement, metal, and trees.

I look at the hammer; the sold metal head has deformed and even became hot. I applied enough force to actually generate a large amount of heat; I wonder exactly how I affected the air molecules. I turn to the house, the windows are shaking violently. Cracks start to appear, from the resulting vibrations in the windows and in the air. Suddenly the windows completely shatter, revealing a large group of older men. Their pants are down, and covered in bodily fluids. Most of the window fragments travel past the men and hit a wall. Only a few fragments from the bottom of the windows hit the old guys, but nothing too bad just a few cuts. After everything has died down, I look at Mr. Davis. He looks like he just shit is pants.

"Tell your friends that I said their fun is done. Also, if you have hidden cameras here, don't even try to upload the video, delete it."

I doubt he can hear me, but he got the message. I toss the hammer aside and leave, knowing he won't be causing any more problems. I highly doubt that he or his friends will continue with his games. Even if I hadn't demolished the grill, he'd obey my orders; it's impossible to defy me. Everyone seems to want to please me, buy listening to my orders. I feel more comfortable, knowing that group of old men won't be harassing any more muscular town residents.

I arrive at my house to find the John's van is still there. I'm just about to enter my house when John sees me through the door. He runs to get out of my field of vision.

He quickly, almost apologetically say, "I'm sorry I took so long sir."

I reply, "It's fine."

"Please let me show you the projector."

He walks into one of the rooms. A room, which was formerly empty now has a ceiling mounted projector, a specially constructed desk and chair, a jumbo keyboard, a regular computer tower, and a projection screen. On one of the corners, there is a strange black box connected to the projector.

"Wow you really out did yourself. That stuff must have been heavy; I could have helped you with it."

Again he quickly replies, "NO, no, no. My boss was very clear with the instructions. I was to install the projector and set up the computer with your own private account. They loaded the desk and chair into the van, and told me to assemble for them for you. I noticed you didn't have internet, so I set up a network that will allow you to use the university's Wi-Fi, but the university will be unable to access any data, so privacy will not be an issue."

He continues for several minutes, before running to the bathroom to relieve himself yet again.

"I'm not sure I should be using school Wi-Fi as my internet source, wouldn't it be better if I had residential service?"

On one breath, "My boss was very clear on the instructions, he says that the university has decided to accommodate you as much as possible."

"Well alright then. So John how much do I owe you?"

He is flustered now, "How did you know my name?"

"It's on you name tag."

He is embarrassed and turns back into the bathroom. As I wait, I take out the day's money. When he reenters the room, I place the cash in his front pocket.

"You deserve something for your troubles, I won't take no for an answer. Take your girlfriend some place nice."

He thanks me and rushes back into the bathroom.

After John leaves, I can't help, but look up some of my old videos. The projector projects the screen, as I type in: muscle god lifts lifted truck. There are several results. I click the first link. The video has over five billion views. I start typing in other words: muscle, hunk, stud, bodybuilder, penis, cock, handsome, male, giant, and perfect. I'm the top result. All of the videos have massive numbers of views, even the old ones that have been recently re-uploaded. It bothers me that the first thing I do, is look up myself. Well at least with a computer; I'll only have to go to the university for an hour and a half, twice a week.

I leave the room to eat lunch, a hastily made sandwich and a fruit salad. Then I look at my list of jobs. For the afternoon I have a dozen lined up, all with regular clients. That is a relief; at least I won't have to deal with anything too stressful for the rest of the day.

After eating, I head out to my afternoon clients. The first job is horse grooming, for an old southern family, the Bakers. Their family ranch is several hundred or thousand acres large; I love the open area and all the animals. Unfortunately, some of them don't return my love. When I arrive, there is a tall young lady waiting on the porch to a giant southern house. Emily Baker, a sweet if naive girl. She always stands outside waiting for me, but runs indoors the second I step out of my truck.

Today is no different. I take some brushes from the truck and head over to the stables. Emily and her family run a horse riding business on the side, sometimes when I show up the horse start freaking out, because they think I'm going to ride them. I walk over to them, and start calming the animals down. I reach out and stroke their snouts, gently I pat their heads. Once they calm down, I get to work grooming them. I don't do much other than brushing their hair. When I finish with all the females, I move on to the geldings, and then the stallions.

The stallions are tall and muscular. Really gorgeous, definitely high class breeding material. I don't know much about horse breeding, but I'm guessing that Mr. Baker makes a small fortune off his stallions. They always seem to squirm around me. Maybe my size intimates them or at least makes them uncomfortable. The first few times, a couple of the horses tried attacking me. I had to duck and dodge, and then hold them down, so they wouldn't hurt themselves. The Bakers were angry at first, but after gazing at my face, they quickly forgave me. I ran into Mrs. Baker at the store once, she started talking about my horse taming skills and kept asking for me to return. I eventually gave in, and now I come every once and a while to groom the horses.

After finishing the grooming, I start walking to the front door. As I walk, I start to think about some stuff. I heard that horses make man more attractive and more impressive. A tall man on a tall horse that is one of the reasons George Washington was so well liked. On romance novels, I see ruggedly handsome, shirtless men on horseback, ruggedly handsome men standing next to horses, all kinds of thing. I wonder what I look like. An unrealistically handsome man, far too large to ride a horse, standing next to a majestic beast. If it somehow increases even my sex appeal, I'm surprised Emily can even leave her house.

I knock on the front door, "Miss Emily, I'm done grooming your horses."

I wait a few minutes, tapping my foot to a song. She opens the door, with her older brother Charles. He is tall, about a head taller than his sister. He has wide shoulders and powerful arms under a button down work shirt. I can tell that farm life has been kind to his body; he looks like he'd fit on the cover of a romance novel or fitness magazine. Looking at my pecs, Charles hands me a white envelope. Emily whimpers as my arm moves to accept the envelop. My bicep contracts and bulges; rotating my hand causes all the muscles on the underside of my forearm to tense and ripple, the ripple travels all the way to my shoulder and into my right pec. The sleeve of my shirt hides the more minor details, but reveals enough to make Emily go red and Charles to drop his jaw.

"Alright, you have a good day now. Charles, Emily."

I get in my truck and drive off to do some less notable afternoon jobs: raking leaves, washing windows, laundry for an elderly couple, cleaning the gutters. I can only clean the gutters of one story houses. I don't feel comfortable standing on a ladder, so I use a reinforced crate I keep in the truck, and doubles as storage. I do a few deliveries for small business owners. I try to limit the number of deliveries I make to a most of six a day. The business owners always get super excited for two reasons. The first is because of my appearance, obviously, the second is the increased business.

A few weeks after starting my odd jobs business, almost all the jobs were delivery related. A lot of the business in town found out that I was the perfect delivery service/advisement. When I arrive in a building nobody pays attention to the delivery, instead they stare that me, and when I leave suddenly there is a package. Then everyone thinks 'Where did this come from.' They look at the logo, and continued ordering from the company to get a chance to see the super tall, titanic wall of muscle they briefly saw. Eventually I decided it was too much attention, so I cut back deliveries to one day a week, and only one per business. The business owners were rather upset, but they literally can't get angry with me.

My second to last job is delivering a cake downtown, to an office party. I arrive at Samantha's Eats and Sweets, to find a large crowd of people waiting for me. As I pull the door handle, they stare. As I turn and bend my body to enter the bakery, they gasp and praise my dimensions. They continue to stare, wide eyed at me until Samantha gives me a sheet of paper and a large box with her logo on the side. I tuck the box under my massive arm and exit the store.

Down town is always crowded at this hour, I rush to my truck so nobody gets a good view of me. Since everyone has a tendency to stare, I need to be move quickly to reduce the likelihood of someone getting in a wreck. Once in my truck I drive a couple miles to some building on the edge of town, there are no cars around. I get out and enter the building. The hallway is narrow, not narrow by my standards, but aurally narrow. My shoulders touch both sides of the hall. I continue walking down the hall until I reach door labeled, Employee Lounge.

I enter the lounge; inside there are at least twenty people. My presences dominates the room, immediately, I become the center. A couple of people drop their drinks; others stare with expressions of disbelief. It doesn't look like they are celebrating a birthday; it must be a company thing. There is table with lots of food: chips, dips, drinks, sandwiches, chicken-wings, and boxes of other things. I set the cake box down on the table, and pull out the sheet of paper.

"Can I get somebody to sign for this?"

Several people run over and offer. Once the paper is signed, I take it and fold it into my pants. One guy asks me to stay, but I decline. They insists I take some food, again I decline, but they are persistent. After I accept their offer, they give me a box with chip bags, sodas, sandwiches, and all sorts of sweets. I thank the group, and leave. In the hallway I decide to walk sideways, so that I have more room. I drive back to Samantha's to give her the signed paper. The crowd in her restaurant is bigger this time. I get the same reaction as the first. My deliveries have become extremely popular.

My last job is changing the tire on a car. This client is Mr. Kingston, an elderly man. He lives alone, despite his daughter Eve, constantly telling him to move in with her. I arrive on the property at sunset, and knock on the door. I nearly give the man a heart attack, when he opens the door. After several minutes he gives me the keys to his car. From the trunk of the car, I take out a spare tire and a lug wrench.

I don't need it, but I use a lug wrench to loosen the lug nuts on the car's tires, paying careful attention to the amount of torch applied to each one. Then I take the old tire out and replace it with a new one. Using the lug wrench again, I fasten the lug nuts back into place, using an equal amount of torque. I need to be especially careful when tightening the lug nuts, because if I use too much force I can grind away the edges. I inspect my work, and report to Mr. Kingston that everything is fine. I place the old tire in the trunk along with the wrench and give the man back his keys. Instead of paying ten dollars like we agreed, he pays a hundred dollars.

As I drive away, I can't help but wonder why everyone over pays. Sometimes, I feel bad about taking so much money for such mundane chores. Since I can't really talk to anyone, I just take the money most of the time. I do have bills, and tuition to pay, but still other people's money just seems to fall in my lap. I can walk into a bank, ask for money, and actually get it. I've done it before, several times. Forget the bank, I can go door to door collecting money, or jewels, or precious metals, or even property rights. It's hard not to take, when everything is so readily available.

I drive back home to make and eat dinner. Afterwards, I play with the dogs a bit, before watching some television. Nothing good is every on. I lay out my clothes for tomorrow and take a shower. I lay down on my soft, yet firm bed, ready for sleep. Just as my eye lids start to get heavy, a thought invades my head. Suddenly, I'm wide awake. I need to check the internet.

I walk into the room with the projector and keyboard. I log into my account and immediately open the browser to a video sharing website. Ten videos of me are trending. In the search bar I type in: sexy muscle wood chop. Without filtering the results, there it is, a video uploaded yesterday of me chopping wood. It already has over a 50000000 views. I continue searching; there are videos of me mowing lawns, cleaning pools, demolishing walls, delivering packages, grocery shopping, and so many more. Not all of them are from clients, some are from random people. They must have taken videos when they saw me, and later decided to post them. I go to other video sharing sides; it’s the same on all of them. It's the same on all the image sharing sites; all the social media sites, in all countries. I haven't used the internet for recreational purposes in forever, so it’s no wonder I didn't know that the entire world is watching me.

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Part Six: Observations

 

The alarm goes off.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Instead of shutting it off, I tap the little machine with my fingers; it goes off flying into the wall. Plastic and electronics bounce off the drywall, and fall in a series of drops. Thankfully, the alarm didn't have enough force to puncture the drywall. I lie in bed, for several minutes. The only sound is the hum of the refrigerator motor, and a lone heartbeat. Every five or six seconds the heartbeat overpowers the motor. In the calm silence, my body begins to invade my mind. Inhaling, the light tan shirt covering my pecs rises up like bread, completely blocking out the rest of my body from view. Exhaling, the bulge in my pajama bottoms becomes visible. Once again, I can feel the subtle, but definite growth.

Movement occurs deep in my body. Already large dense muscles are getting more extreme. The tissues expand and further mature; layer builds upon layer. It's not just the muscle tissues; it's all the tissues in my body. Supporting, so much extra mass, should be taxing for any organs, but I've never had any problems. In fact, actions like running or swimming for several hours aren't a problem. It's possible for my lungs to intake absurd quantities of air. Oxygen is then delivered my scarlet blood, pumped by my heart. Every test ever taken, shows normal liver and kidney function; I've never had any kind of internal pain or discomfort. My organs have adapted, or maybe were designed from the start, to support a gargantuan muscle dense frame.

Bones are useful structures for the ordinary human; they provide protection for internal organs and allow for muscle movement. However, mine are so much more. My bones are capable of supporting hundreds and hundreds of pounds of hard lean muscle. Some of the women I've slept with said, their large breasts cause discomfort and even pain if they sleep on their backs. I always sleep on my back, but have never felt any discomfort or pain, despite my chest being significantly larger and heavier than any women's breasts, real or fake. My ribs must be especially tough. The rest of my bones must be crazy strong too, like diamond or titanium. Super strong bones combined with muscles that dwarf comic book heroes, maybe I should up on tights and fight crime.

As I lie in bed thinking about my muscles, my penis starts to respond. The large flaccid organ releases a pulse. A wave of sexual incitement ripples through my body. One more pulse, one second later, my penis hardens so fast it tears through my pajama bottoms and hits my abdomen with a force strong enough to shake some windows. The exposed head is large and bulbous. Precum starts leaking out, enough to act as a lubricant and then some. I shift my body, so my butt rests on the edge of the bed. My pecs make it hard to see the whole head. What is visible makes a mockery of gravity. A penis so large and thick shouldn't be able to become so erect, yet it points straight up at the ceiling, throbbing and spewing out precum. It shouldn't stand up so proudly, so arrogantly defying a fundamental force of nature.

I bend my core and plant a kiss on the large head. The precum is delicious, like honey. Using my tongue, I gently trace the perimeter of the slit for several seconds. Breathing in through my nostrils, I begin my descent into unrivaled bliss. My mouth envelops the giant dome shaped head of my throbbing penis. My lips stretch to accommodate the impossibly large invader. With my long muscular tongue, I begin playing with the sides of the invader. The nerves react; my brain begins releasing all kinds of pleasure chemicals. I work my way down to the frenulum, and begin moving the tip of my tongue in small tight circles. A sniffled moan fills the room.

One muscular hand begins massaging two large melon sized testicles. Testicles so big and full, they actually stretch the scrotum. The skin enveloping the testicles is rather smooth compared to other men's more wrinkled ball bags. Despite seeming to be disadvantageous, the quality and quantity of my sperm is not reduced in any manner. In fact, I believe my scrotum is more ascetically pleasing than the average male's. Long thick fingers make their way along the smooth skin, fondling the large melons gently, but firmly. The other muscular hand is expertly moving up and down the now lubricated shaft, a shaft harder than any steel pipe. The circumference is so large; most people need more than two hands to fully encompass the girth.

I continue playing with the nerves the under the shaft for several minutes, really getting a rhythm going. Pleasure continues to build, exponentially. I grip the shaft tighter, applying more strength. After several minutes I decide apply real pressure. With a hand capable of tearing metal sheets like tissue paper, I apply a vice grab to my shaft. Five dents appear on the shaft. It responses by throbbing violently, as blood rushes to the organ. The mouth invader pushes my fingers back as it grows in size and rigidity. My lips are pushed farther away from each other; my tongue suddenly has less play room. I take a moment to appreciate the appendage between my legs. The moment of appreciation is interrupted, by a hungry stomach. The sensation is so sudden, almost like my stomach wants cum. Using both hands, I squeeze harder a couple of times, until my arms and chest explode outwards with muscle. The feeling having an unbelievably large penis, and then making it grow larger through muscle strength adds to the pleasure accumulating in my body. Just before climaxing, with both hands, I tug on my balls firmly. The sudden tug ushers in the pinnacle of pleasure.

A thick, heavy cream forces its way through my urethra and into my warm waiting mouth. Hot liquid pummels the back of my throat. Most of the thick liquid falls down my esophagus; however a fraction of the thick liquid goo tries to overfill my mouth. It only takes seconds for the available space to fill with delicious cum. My cream is very sweet, almost like candy, and just a little bit salty. I love it, everyone that has ever had any, loves the taste. I can spend hours, or even days sucking myself off, and swallowing the tasty man cream. In the past, not only have I, but several individuals have dedicated entire days to milking my giant coconuts dry. It's an impossible task, as my testes are able to continuously reproduce sperm, and my seminal vesicles can continuously deliver the fructose necessary for the candy like flavor. We tried hard, to milk me, but never had any success. The attempts always ended with everyone, but me, gaining several pounds and bloated stomachs. Still after sending everyone away, I would continue with my fun. Sitting in the room and drinking my ejaculate for all eternity is definitely an attractive thought. For several minutes, as I gulp down my nectar, I actually ponder the possibility.

Long thick streams continue to bombard my throat. My stomach fills with tasty white gold, worth far more than regular gold. After an eternity the bombardment begins to slow, the fire hose like pressure becomes akin to a regular hose, and finally a water pistol. Swallowing the entire load, without spilling any, I promptly decide against the idea. As tasty as my man cream is, I'd rather eat real food and see the sunlight. Today with all the cum I swallowed, breakfast is out of the question, lunch too, maybe. Standing up my pajama bottoms fall off. I rip off my shirt and wad it together with the ruined bottoms, and throw them away.

I take my clothes from the dresser, and with my usual bending and turning enter the bathroom. Bending my knees to look at mirror, I see a few days worth of stubble. My hair is a little long, a haircut is soon due. I turn the hot and cold water knobs, to run some warm water. Stripping off my clothes I can't help but admire my body; posing just for a bit. Before the mouth invader can rise to attention again, I jump in the shower. Lathering body wash over my table sized pecs; I can't help but feel their increased size. Again the difference isn't much from yesterday, it's not even visible, but it's definitely there. The more I explore my hard soapy body, the more the changes are apparent. My traps are closer to my head, my calves are more diamond shaped, my torso is sharper, and the autofellatio proved my penis is larger, even though it's not a muscle.

Once finished with my shower, I reach over for my massive blue beach towel, taking notice of all the water on the floor. Thoroughly, I dry my muscles, taking time to focus on each group. Then I wrap the very wet large towel on my hips. Both quads bulge under the massive towel. I walk towards mirror, and witness one of the most obscene and erotic sights in the world. My quads push out my testicles, causing the two inhumanly large balls to jiggle. The jiggling motion bumps up my penis and causes it to bounce and swing. There is so much jiggling and swinging; the sight of my junk is almost pornographic. I tear away my eyes from the sight, and only to stare at my abs. Eight meaty bricks, rubbing up against each other, fighting for space. I lightly flex them; they no longer have enough space. The bricks somehow jump out, almost as if trying to escape my body. I run my large fingers along the edges of each individual ab. A soft moan escapes my throat. A familiar organ release a pulse, I snap out of my spell. My eyes now stare at the stubble on my jaw and upper lip.

I grab a bottle of shaving cream and spray some of the blue gel on my left hand. With the large muscular palm I proceed to rub the gel on all over the lower half of my moist face. A white foamy beard appears on my jaw, upper lip, and neck. I grab my razor from the behind the medicine cabinet, and start shaving. Long firm strokes, running the razor under water in between. Raising the razor to my face requires bending my elbow, which in turn contracts my bicep and expands my tricep. They take turns growing and demanding attention. My sexy collar bones pop out against my chest; my pecs flex lightly and bounce from the repeated motion. I have the strongest urge to kiss my bicep. It's so big and close to my face. Just a few inches away. So big, so fucking big. I bit my lip and continue shaving. I've never once cut myself, despite getting so easily distracted. When I'm done, I wash my face under warm water, and dry it with toilet paper. Then I clean the razor, and return it to the medicine cabinet.

From the cabinet, I pull out some toothpaste and mouthwash. I grab my toothbrush from its cup and squeeze out a large glob of toothpaste. My cum is very strong; good dental hygiene habits are needed to remove the smell. For several minutes I scrutinize my teeth and ravish my rogue with bristles and toothpaste. From the half full mouthwash bottle, I swallow a large amount of green minty liquid. Most days, dental hygiene really isn't that important. The bacteria responsible for bad breath don't seem to grow in my mouth. It's almost as if something is actively combating the unwanted bacteria. In fact, I could simply just wait for the combatant remove the sperm smell from my mouth, but I don't want to wait too long. I spit out the mouthwash, and look at my teeth. Strong white teeth shine brightly in the mirror, like white pearls.

I retrieve my clothes for the day, from the bathroom closet. A light blue button down shirt, a white undershirt, light brown slacks, boxer briefs, a belt, socks, and some brown slip-on-shoes. The briefs are strange, the front is disproportionally large compared to the sides and back. First I place my right leg in the right hole, then the left. Carefully I tug on the material, soft blue cotton travels up my expansive legs. I'm always amazed how so little material can stretch around my monstrous quads without tearing. As the boxers pass each barrel sized quad, I adjust my penis so it falls down the right side and cup my testicles together before gently setting them in the pouch. The waist band shrinks several times to hug my tight waist. The mirror reflects a pair of boxers briefs hugging my ass cheeks and sides, with a loose fluffy bulge around my junk. the pouch is enlarged to give my monster penis and melons breathing room. I repeat the process for my slacks, and run a belt through all the loops. The belt must be fastened several notches in, otherwise my slacks will hang off my bubble butt. The pants do an adequate job minimizing the bulge, still it's unreasonably big. A white shirt makes its way over my head, and onto my torso. It hugs my upper body, revealing high mountains and deep crevices. It would be a little looser, if I hadn't gotten pumped from vice gripping myself. It's not super small or tight enough to tear, so long as my muscles aren't further engorged. The button down is different; I put my gargantuan arms into the sleeves, and start buttoning from the bottom. The shirt is loose, hiding the mountains and crevices underneath. The front hangs from my pecs leaving several inches of space between the shirts. I can't fasten the top button; my neck is too bull like. Honestly at this point, bulls have necks similar to mine. Anyways, the very top of my bronze pecs and valley are kind of exposed. Most men's hands can easily fit into the massive valley and get lost. With my giant hand, I kind of push the ends of the collars together to conceal the exposed skin. I slip into my socks and shoes.

I take out a mop from the closet, and dry up the water on the floor. My hands then proceed to wring the mop dry. Applying more and more pressure, water is secreted from the fibers. The right hand twists forward and the left backward, until there is a tearing sound. In an instant, all the fibers are in two. I sigh, and take the now ruined mop to the trash can. The ruined fibers immediately go in the can, but the wooden pole needs to be broken. Effortlessly, I snap the wood into small pieces and throw them in the trash. Clothed and well fed, the only thing remaining is to leave food for Ryder and Admiral.

I leave out some food and water for them in the kitchen. Perhaps I should take them out during my afternoon jobs. They don't like people following or staring at me too much. Maybe the two can discourage certain people from attempting to video tape me. I walk over to the front door, and collect school supplies, keys, and wallet. Once in the truck, I see it needs some more gas, not today, but tomorrow maybe. As I drive on the empty road, my mind begins to focus on the issue at hand.

I always knew there were videos of me online. In middle school and high school, students took videos and pictures of me flexing, and posted them all over the internet. Back then it wasn't too much of an issue, most people thought the pictures were morphs, and the videos somehow fake. Any content related to me, always trended and gained thousands of views. The more material posted, the less and less trolls commented. A few websites dedicated to me popped up, but I never felt like my privacy was violated. Or maybe it was, but I didn't care. I was too in the moment to care; in fact I enjoyed the attention. However, it's different now. Attention isn't my priority. I want to be left alone, to have privacy, but the world can't handle that.

Mrs. Robinson and her son each posted a video of me chopping wood, Miss Laurence posted several pictures of me mowing her lawn, and two or three other clients did the same thing. I can tell these clients to stop filming me, but that doesn't solve my problems. Most clients aren't filming, or if they are, they aren't posting. However, hundreds of videos and pictures were posted over the past few days of me preforming various tasks, from all sorts of angles and locations. I'm assuming that neighbors or random people are responsible for the high volume of traffic. A majority of the videos and pictures were taken either, from far away or from what appears to be a height equivalent to most two story houses.

In this old college town, nearly all the regular residents own large pieces of property, with houses spaced out generously. It probably isn't difficult for someone in a second story house to observe my body from one or two backyards away. Still, for these people to record me somebody, a client most likely, must have tipped them off. It's also possible that the aspiring "photographers" and "cameramen" are following me and then tipping off the neighbors or just helping themselves to a view. There are three videos of me entering Mrs. Thompson's house, each taken from several hundred feet away with very powerful cameras. A dozen videos showing me lifting the refrigerator at Craig and Mr. Williams' house; seven from far way at ground level, and five from second story houses; a couple even catch Craig shooting his load. Dozens more show me grooming horses, raking leaves, washing windows, cleaning gutters, delivering packages, and changing the wheel of Mr. Kingston's car.

Still, despite the violation of privacy, what strikes me the most is the clarity of the videos and photos. I've never taken a bad picture or even looked awkward; anything with my image is perfect, for lack of a better word. However, regular cameras shouldn't take such high resolution pictures. Everything looks rather professional. It's hard to tell whether regular people have professional grade equipment or if actual professionals are prodding around stealing my image. In either case I can find these people and tell them to stop. A direct order of mine can't be violated, it can't be twisted or distorted; it is more than any law. Yet I know that there are too many people, and too much footage on the internet.

Going through the websites I saw that the world has become addicted to me. I can tell every person in this town to stop stealing my image, but what about the next town or the next year's batch of students. It's not possible to personally tell everyone to stop recording or taking pictures. My body and face are the most desired objects in the world; no question about it. I can slow down new posts, but only until another eager "photographer" or "cameraman" begins uploading content. Or until the desire for my body overwrites my direct order to refrain from taking videos and pictures without my expressed permission. I can't stop new content, and I can't stop old content.

Years ago, my parents tried removing some footage of me that appeared on a various adult websites. It wasn't anything inappropriate, just lifting and some dancing. At first they were successful, but a couple days later the videos were re-posted. People were sued and taken to court, but the footage continued to make its way back onto the internet. Eventually my parents gave up, and instead told me to be more conservative about my body. I didn't listen.

There isn't even a point to prove by removing any of the content about me. There are files with billions of download; everyone already has the content. It can be re-uploaded at any time by any one. I can hire a lawyer or a team or lawyers, and shut down every single website, but new websites will pop up. It's impossible, I already know. The only way to end everything is to become a shut in or to live alone in the wild, but if I try, I know that I will be found eventually. I shudder at the thought. Dozens of thoughts flow in and out of my brain over the course of the drive, but nothing useful comes to mind.

I arrive at the social sciences building five minutes before class; Dr. Roberts is still not in the classroom. Walking past the other students, I open all the windows, before taking a seat. Roberts shows up a couple minutes later. The lecture goes by quickly, without any incident. The class is dismissed a few minutes late. The other students steal a couple last glances in my direction before running off. Remaining in my seat, I turn my head to face the windows. A few seconds later, the next class begins sluggishly filling the room. The first group of students enters the classroom and is immediately captivated by my presence. A second group snaps the first to attention, and then they fall under my spell. The process continues until an entire classroom of young adults, of every size, color, gender, and maybe sexual orientation, stares at me.


Sixty sets of eyes lock onto an impossibly large and handsome man, bathed in the morning sun, with brilliant blue eyes. All experience, stunned silence and disbelief. Time seems to slow down, as their brain's overload. The only sounds are heartbeats, and analog watches ticking away. Dozens of heartbeats and tics later, the environment of the room changes. Stunned silence becomes awe, and disbelief becomes reality. Sixty young adults recognize the face and body of man, whose entire being conflicts against reality. A man too prefect to exist. Such a man should be recorded in photos and videos.

Sixty adults pull out sixty smartphones; and began taking pictures. Clicks and snaps replace heartbeats and tics. A barrage of light and sound bombards the perfect face and body. Each flash, each click leads to a picture too perfect to be real. More flashes and more clicks continue to reveal perfection incarnate. After ten minutes, perfection incarnate stands; the flashes and clicks stop. Slowly, the giant walks to the exit. The class once again enters a frenzy to record such fluid motion; some switch to video. They are rewarded with the absurd footage of a man bending his knees and rotating his torso to exit the doorway.

On the other side of the door, the sixty-first pair of eyes lock onto the back of the impossibly large man. He steps out of the doorway, and straightens his tall body. A body so tall, it nearly reaches the ceiling. The sixty-first pair of eyes continue to stare as the man walks away. His impossibly large shoulder blades poke through an expansive blue shirt, further captivating the lone pair of eyes. The man leaves sixty-one eyes wide with shock, forty-three vaginas moist, and eighteen penises hard, but most importantly he leaves twenty crotches wet.


I leave the building feeling flustered and a bit guilty. I had only anticipated a handful of climaxing students, however at least a fourth of the class, had a physical reaction to seeing me. A one to four ratio is far too high, that many people shouldn't have climaxed. Maybe it's due to being in the room for so long, or the lighting, or because they are college students and naturally horny. I don't know. From now on, I need to pay more attention to my surroundings, and to the reactions of the people around me. Despite my physical appearance, I can't really imagine why people are so obsessed with taking pictures and video. There are literally billions of pictures and videos on the internet. That should be enough, but apparently it's not. I need to try to gauge just how many people are watching me.

I take the stairs down to the first floor, and walk through the halls of the building. The students still left in the halls, immediately fall into a trance. Instinctively, they move aside as my massive shoulders and arms make their way through the hall. The length of the building seems impossibly long; it takes an eternity to reach the front doors. I stand next to the sliding doors, then turn around to observe. Out of the twenty students in the hall, seven are taking pictures. The other thirteen continue to stare. I again turn around and exit the building.

A bright yellow sun smiles at me. The weather is warm; a slight breeze blows against my skin. At the base of some steps are several fast food wrappers and an empty paper coffee cup. Before my foot even touches the first step, the wind picks up. The coffee cup and crumpled wrappers bounce against the floor, as the sudden gust caries them farther and farther away. I descend the steps, and step on the now clean path. Not sure where to go, my feet begin moving independent of my brain.

The front of the social sciences building faces the backs of three other buildings, each of a different size. Tables, benches, and/or vending machines are located by the front and rear of most academic buildings on campus. Nearly all the tables next to all four building are occupied, not full, some tables only have one person. I'm not sure if they started staring the moment I exited the building or when the wind blew away the trash, but right now at least 50 people are looking with glossy eyes in my direction. Three people have, what I hope is cold coffee, dripping on their legs from a sideways cup. A couple of cell phones lie either on the floor or on table tops.

As I move towards the smaller of the three buildings, most people continue to stare, others become for active. A dozen or so, begin taking pictures. I'm walking pretty slowly, but my long legs still allow me to cover large distances relatively quick. Right as I enter the area of tables near the small building, something rare happens. One guy, built like a swimmer, strips off his clothes to reveal a hard lean body, and a normal sized penis, throbbing so hard it actually looks painful. On the same table, a rather well-endowed girl also strips to reveal hard full nipples. They jump across the table to each other. He somehow penetrates her, while in midair. A tangled heap of limbs falls on the table, with a loud crash. Immediately the guy starts thrusting his tight hips into her, and she gyrates into him. I'm so taken back from the display; I actually stare for a few seconds. The guy is really driving it into the girl, pounding her body onto the table; she is definitely going to bruise. Anyone taking pictures of me also catches two college students practically eating each other's faces, and making a very unsanitary mess on the table. The guy and girl fucking on the table must really care about each other. These two went straight for it, a rare sight, usually when couples climax around me they don't start fucking each other until after the first or second climax. I look away from the sight, and pull the handle on the rear door.

Naturally, I duck and turn sideways to enter the building. I need to be extra careful not to knock down the metal pole that divides the two doorways. The hallway is a tan color and about a foot maybe two wider than the hall in my house. There is nobody inside. Actually the building is probably full; it's just that there is nobody in the building outside of a classroom. I walk through the empty hall, dragging my feet to reduce the amount of noise, On the other end of the building, is a student lounge, complete with dozens of couches and armchairs, and a half dozen students. I move to sit on an armchair. Staring down at the average cushion, I can see that my quads are too big. Fitting in between the arms is impossible with such large quads. If I sit with one leg over the other, my testicles will get squished against my hard legs, definitely not a worth a seat. Moving toward a large three cushion couch, the other students really take notice of my extreme size.

At my size the world can be an irritatingly small space. I bend and turn just to enter a doorway, brushing my teeth takes way too long because the toothbrush is small, and everyday objects like: pots, pans, spoons, and knives, feel like toys. Axes, shovels, and lug wrenches aren't much better. My bed, truck, and toilet are some of the few things built to specifically support my body. The bed and truck are gifts from a Mary and Troy Holdings. They had the objects specially made with crazy strong materials to handle my size and occasional accidental displays of strength. The toilet was something I had to use my charm to get. I can't use a public restroom. The urinals are too small; the force of my pee causes all kinds of splattering. There is absolutely no way in hell, for me to use a standard toilet. My penis is too long, my testicles too big, and my buttocks too big to fit. People like Craig must run into the same problems, though on a much lower magnitude. Honestly, I don't see why somebody would even want to be close to my size.

In the lobby, I refocus on the current issue. Taking out a pen, I start writing in a notebook. With gusto, everything from my interaction with the earlier class to now is recorded. I extensively detail the incidents, the number students, the varying reactions, damaged electronics, split coffee, and especially the public sex. Looking up at a clock on the wall, I see that fifteen minutes have passed since entering the building. Taking notice of the other students, I see three muscular guys masturbating together in a half circle. All have three have blonde hair and blue eyes, but the one in the middle dwarfs the other two. His large mushroom head is leaking precum on his seemingly clumsy and inexperienced hands. The two guys on either side of him are different. Their hands are expertly maneuvering around their shafts and testicles. I get the feeling the middle guy is a real top and his two bottoms are responsible for getting him off, but not right now. On the far side of the lounge, another guy is rubbing penis through his pants. No wet spots have appeared, I'll try to leave before it's too late for him. A fifth guy is just staring slack jawed, from the opposite end of the lounge. In the corner is a small thin woman, about twenty. She keeps taking glances at me, and then drawing what looks like picture of my face. I write down all the observations and look at the wall clock again. It's 10:43, classes will start letting out soon. I close my notebook and leave.

Outside, the fucking couple is no longer present, but they did leave a mess to clean up. As I walk to the parking lot, again everyone stares. This time more people take pictures. I must be an idiot for not noticing sooner, but I do tend to rush when around other people. My long legs walk move fast now, faster than some people run. A handful of minutes later, I'm sitting in my truck, driving home. I haven't even looked over the writing assignment from Monday; it's a good think I have my own computer now. However, fist I want to look up the number of uploads so far.

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Part 7: Allure

 

Ryder and Admiral greet me at the door, once again licking my face, before running off to play in the backyard. On a table, I lay down my school materials, keys, and wallet. I walk to the computer room. It's bare except for a large wooden desk, a chair, and some equipment. The wood is magnificently crafted and stained a deep passionate red. Tucked under desk is a sturdy looking computer chair, expensive too. The metal is painted dark brown, and the leather is pitch-black. The arms are spread far apart from each other, showcasing an almost comically wide seat. I pull out the seat and sit, the chair groans slightly. There is plenty of room for my quads, enough room to spread out my legs. The desk top is high above my legs, yet at the perfect height for my forearms. It’s too perfect, almost as if the desk was specifically made for me. Given my condition, it is possible that the university custom ordered this desk and chair and had them constructed overnight. In any case, I'm grateful.

My arm reaches under the table to turn on the computer tower, and then it moves up toward the projector. The clothed musclebound arm is eye level, as it presses the power button. Staring at my bicep a single word pops into my head, nudity. The urge to undress seeps deep into my mind. The blinds are closed, nobody else is in the house, Ryder and Admiral won't have a problem. Still at eye level, my bicep twitches, almost begging to be freed from its confines. I bring my arms together in a circle, noting how my pecs push out several inches. My clothes are comfortable, but my birthday suite is much more comfortable. A pulse develops in my penis and travels through my body. Causing hundreds of pounds of dense hot muscle to cascade into an involuntary full body flex. The empty space in the room shrinks as my muscle tissues expand, and threaten to rip the white undershirt.

The autofellatio session earlier didn't actually drain my body; like Craig, I can experience multiple orgasms from one erection. Once my penis becomes erect, I must cum, and then consciously will the ridiculously large organ to soften; otherwise it can remain hard almost indefinitely. The current record is twenty-one orgasms off a single erection. The record would be longer, except dozens of toys kept greedily eating my cum, leaving their owner without an appropriate food supply; their bodily fluids just didn't quite do the job. Eventually I sent some toys fetch a hearty meal. After devouring some steak, potatoes, and green beans, along with a gallon of alcohol, my penis once again regained its unearthly strength. Off the second erection, I managed seventeen orgasms. Boredom, rather than hunger or exhaustion finally caused my penis to stop.

Once in blue moon, I spend the entire day masturbating and blowing myself off. Days without school or clients tend to morph into a one person orgy, lasting anywhere from one hour to the entire day. Other days, I practice self-control, by walking around shirtless or nude. Some days are more successful than others. Since moving into this house I've actually ruined the wall paint and carpeting. The paint has been scraped off and reapplied to nearly every wall, five times over the course of a few months. Every inch of carpet has also been replaced, five times now. Recarpeting and repainting this entire house is a tiring, time consuming, and expensive job; I tend to keep in the bathroom during blue moons.

Just as before a low sensual moan can escape my thick juicy lips, I think, 'This room needs a bookshelf.' Closing my eyes, the sexual energy stirring in my genitals is forced to recede. After several seconds, my muscular legs push against the floor prompting my body to stand. My frame begins moving toward the door. Instinctively, two large feet begin rotating 90 degrees, forcing the attached mass to match the new direction. An unimaginable number of tissues work together, allowing my knees to bend. With the loss of height and width, I am able to move through the door frame. Maybe it's because my pecs obscure the view, but today the door frame seems especially close to my chest. Erecting myself on the other side, I feel up my chest. Each hand caresses a pectoral. As I fondle my chest, I note the subtle differences from Monday. Each pec is a little thicker and rounder. Squeezing firmly, the hard muscles hardly give.

Stepping back into the doorway, I press my back against the wood. My hand measures the distance between the thickest parts of my chest to the wooden frame. There is a good amount of space between my hard body and the softer wood. It appears that I haven't grown too big for this house, yet. However, one day it will happen; even turning sideways won't allow my body to enter a doorway. The day when my head touches the ceiling will eventually also arrive.. I'll need another house soon. Exiting the doorway, my body crosses the hall into my bedroom.

Opposite from the doorway is a large five-tiered dark cherry wood bookshelf stocked with dozens of large books. Grabbing the sides of the bookshelf, I tilt it back so nothing falls, and carry it to the door. Carefully, I lower the wood to the floor and with one arm push it into hall. For several seconds, my body twists and bends through two doorways and the hall. Once the bookshelf is the computer room, I push it against the wall. Now the room is more complete, less bare. Sitting back in the large comfy chair, I log onto my private account and proceed to search up my name.

Probably around a hundred people took my picture or video on campus. The search results show that twenty different accounts have posted electronic media with my image. Some of the pictures are trending, which is strange because I didn't do anything noticeable. Apparently sitting and walking is ridiculously captivating. In just over one hour, the top video has almost a million views. The top picture has been shared over half a million times. I begin reading some of the comments.

"He keeps getting more handsome."

"Can't wait to cop me some of that shit"

"Mirin brah? fuuuuuuuuuuark"

"master"

"Fuckin beast"

There are comments in Spanish, German, French, Hindi, Arabic, Chinese, and a slew of other languages. In addition to English, I am fluent in Spanish, German, French, Arabic, Japanese, Latin, Russian, and sign language. Taking advantage of my archive of information, I begin searching myself in other countries. It's the same in every country, just like the states. Everyone appears to love my image. It's plastered all over the internet, with several websites including startling information. My birthplace, some growth records, full name, past addresses, schools, current university, among other things appear listed clear as day. In addition to personal information, there are several lists detailing all the shirts, pants, shoes, and undergarments I've ever worn. Certain preferences are also available like food, music, television shows, video games, and even sexual partners. Feeling defeated, though somewhat amazed at the details, I begin looking up my writing assignment for Monday and today.

On the giant keyboard, large sausage sized fingers begin typing. From the university website, I log into my student account to view the online courses. Clicking on Freshman Composition, then on the assignments link, two days worth of work pops up.


Monday
Read pages 357-383, in your textbook. Answer the questions on pages 184-186, then choose two stories or two poems and write a response to each. Complete the quiz found here.

Wednesday
Read pages 390-420, in you textbook. Answer the questions on pages 222-226. Analyze the story, then write a response. As always support you response with textual evidence and commentary.



Most of the authors covered in this section write about love, sexuality, or comfort with one's self; subjects somewhat enigmatic to me. Freshman Composition 1301 is actually my most difficult class. Freshman biology is mostly memorization, though the professor tries to break students out of the habit by including application questions on the tests and homework. Calculus and chemistry require a bit more thought. Those two courses require memorization and understanding of basic principles and then applying the knowledge to solve problems. Memorization and application just seem to click for me, so the classes are a breeze. However, freshman comp is different. There is a lot of reading poems and stories, then interpreting them on paper.

My experiences are different from the pretty much everyone else's. The only people I've every loved were my parents, I still do, however they can't be around me. Physically, I feel attraction to males and females, but I've never emotionally connected with anyone. They were too busy worshiping me, and I too busy stretching various holes to really get to know anybody more than just as a sex toy. Everyone is attracted to me, without a known exception. There is no heterosexuality, homosexuality, or even asexuality in my presence. There is only inescapable, all engulfing raw sex. Straight men, such as John and Charles, and gay women, still prefer women, but around me they desire me. Not men, me. The discomfort with myself, isn't from lacking some physical or abstract trait, it's from being too much. Too tall, handsome, and muscular, while at the same time being hypnotic and somehow charismatic. My being doesn't fit well the thoughts and ideas of any writer, or great thinker. It's difficult to right down such thoughts on paper and even harder to support them, without appearing to have a god complex.

From the bookshelf, I retrieve the class textbook. My memory is accurate and long lasting, skimming each page is enough to convert the text to memory. Allowing the text to sit and marinate in my mind, sometimes yields much more insightful responses than immediately putting pen to paper or in this case, finger to keyboard. Going through the book only takes about twenty or so minutes, leaving time for my other subjects. Biology starts covering the cell cycle, chemistry lecture is over gases and the gas laws, and finally calculus deals with optimization. Watching the lecture videos, reading the notes, and glancing over the class' respective textbook takes longer than anticipated; looking at the clock on the bottom of the screen, it's already 12:16. I'm supposed to be at the first job by 2:00. There isn't a biology assignment today, but chemistry and calculus decided to hit hard, two homework assignments and quiz in each class. Despite having all the mass, temperature, and pressure conversion memorized and an iron clad memory, I like to work out every step. It aides the learning process, instead of just memorizing blindly and hoping similar questions appear on the test. Taking another look at the clock, it's 1:37, I managed to finish the chemistry quiz and the first assignment. There is still all of calculus, the writing for freshman comp, and some reading for human behavior. Today's client list isn't very long; there should be time to finish all the homework.

Leaving the room, I head towards the kitchen. My stomach is still content from today's sweet protein shake; however I like to avoid getting hungry during work. On the kitchen table sits a large glass bowl with clean apples, oranges, grapes, and bananas. My left arm extends to the bowl for a Granny Smith apple. The around fruit is completely encased within five iron bars. I place the whole apple in my mouth. Strong white molars begin crushing the fruit to tiny pieces. Chewing doesn't hurt my jaw or teeth. As I swallow the remains of the apple, I grab another. This time noting the size, the circumference. It's much smaller than the circumference of my hard penis. Holding the apple to my lips, I slowly insert the sour green orb into my warm mouth, relishing the sensation. My lips stretch and my jaw lowers, but taking the apple is so easy. Hardly any effort at all. With the apple firmly held in my mouth, I begin chewing once again. Smashing the sour fruit and releasing juice in my mouth. After swallowing the second apple, my arm reaches for a large yellow banana. Peeling the skin, exposes some large white meat. The entirety of the meat effortlessly goes into my mouth. Instead of chewing, the muscles inside my mouth and throat work in unison to swallow the soft white flesh. The two apples and the banana are enough to hold my stomach until dinner time, but my left arm once again reaches for the fruit bowl.

A California navel orange sits firmly in my palm; the citrus giant completely dwarfs the green apples. Finger nails on my opposite hand gently dig into the orange skin, and begin tearing away the bitter outer covering. A wet fleshy orange sits in the palm of my hand; juice begins trickle down my wrist. Again I insert the fruit into my mouth. This time, my tongue presses the squishy ball of deliciousness against the roof of my mouth. A sharp tang floods my taste buds. My board muscular tongue continues to drain the orange of its fluids, before I spit out the skin. It's white, filled with transparent chunks of pulp, completely dry and now devoid of any nutrients. In the sink I wash my large muscular hands and dry them with some paper towels, before heading off to work.

The first job is picking up some furniture from a warehouse, located near some train tracks. The warehouse is a large rectangular shaped building, with long rows of windows along the sides. Before pulling up to the entrance, I see a two people. A middle aged woman with blond hair and blue eyes and adjacent to her, a healthy looking forty year old man, smiling as he talks. I've witnessed the smile enough times to know it's fake.

The man, Bill, doesn't like me "stealing" away his business. His concerns are understandable. Bill probably doesn't have any problems, with his customers hauling away their new furniture themselves, but calling in help is different. He loses a profit, a very substantial profit, to some third party. I've never actually heard anyone complain about the service or the furniture, it's always about the price. He charges an arm for delivering furniture across town and two arms to deliver to another town. People without access to a truck look for other options, like me. I show up, load some stuff onto my truck and drive to his customer's house. Most actually end up paying me significantly more for the delivery, than he would have charged. If Bill ever finds out, he'll go raving mad.

My gigantic forest green truck, enters the property, and reverse parks in front of a side door. Bill and the woman walk over to the truck. She looks excited, giddy like a little girl. Now that the woman isn't paying attention, Bill, drops the act. His brow is furrowed; a sour expression blankets his face. He may hate me right now, but in a few seconds those feelings will be gone.

My massive fingers wrap themselves around the inner handle, opening the door. The woman is beside herself with anticipation. I step outside. The warm sunlight baths my immense body in a luminous glow. The green color of my truck is reflected in my eyes, turning them dark green, further complementing my dark hair. The woman lets out a whimper, Bill relaxes his face. The agitation and fury in his gray eyes become bliss and lust. Bill has ogled me body enough times, to note the change in height and width. As I walk over to the duo, Bill's eyes bulge out of his head; I'm bigger than last time. He isn't eye level with my topmost pair of abs, anymore. My shoulders and legs are wider, occupying more space. The only thing not noticeably bigger is my waist, still just as small and tight as ever.

"Hello, Bill." Then looking at the woman, "Mrs. Johnson"

He nods slightly, she is practically drooling.

"Bill is the door unlocked?"

"Y...yes, sir," he says.

Most people tend to add sir when addressing me; I detest the word. It doesn't represent respect, or formality. Since the first time a grown man referred to me as "sir" it has been a sign of submission. Men and women much older and wiser than I, gaze upon my physique and submit their wills. Many lose their freedom of choice and some level of sanity, immediately acknowledging me as something more, something unearthly. They become timid, almost afraid to move or breathe, and then there is the small fraction of unique individuals. Then there are the ones who seek to be dominated and abused by a powerful master; Mrs. Johnson's eye reflect the nature of such a person. She'd love nothing more than for me to call Bill a little bitch or something. Maybe hit his face with my palm. She is going to be disappointed.

Mary and Troy Holding had the same eyes. They were ten years older than I, but constantly referred to me as "sir" or "master." After a few days of staying at their mansion, I started getting bored, so I turned to some rather kinky stuff. Nothing like wipes or leather, instead we enjoyed more simplistic things. Sometimes I'd make them attend meetings drenched in my cum or refer to themselves as various derogatory names in official emails and documents. Their butts were constantly red and swollen due to my spankings and ass fuckings. They submitted, and experienced all sorts of humiliating situations, or so I thought. The Holdings actually enjoyed by abuse, they grew to love the apparent rush and excitement, but most of all they loved the attention. Two billionaires constantly drenched in extremely potent male juices, and with ass holes stretched beyond the imagination, there was only one explanation. Everyone within eye view instantly put two and two together. The Holdings were harboring the famous titanic muscle stud.

I walk over to the metal door and grab the handle. Very gently, I apply enough force to move the metal segmented door up along its tracts, until a click is audible. The warehouse is large, obviously. There are rows and columns of shelves stocked with fully constructed sofas, chairs, tables, and all sorts of other home necessities. The ceiling is high above all the shelves, there is an extensive air condition system exposed to the air. The lights are a yellowish white color, and hang from enormous bar lamps attracted to the ceiling and shelves. Looking back to the duo, Bill continues to stare with bulging eyes, Mrs John matches his expression, but behind her over sized eyeballs is a hint of disappointment.

"Can you lead to Mrs. Johnson's furniture?"

"Yes sir. Right this way sir," he says in a low tone.

Tearing away his eyes from by body, he leads the way to the center of the warehouse. There is a living room set, a sofa, a loveseat, a recliner, and some tables, right in the middle of a long empty row. It’s the most inconvenient spot, because it is a great distance away from every exit in the building. Bill must really have it in against me; every time he pulls some shit.

Last time, he didn't lower the furniture from the topmost shelf, because I was "too early" and hadn't "given enough notice." The warehouse was, like today, devoid of any workers. I was peeved, to the point of ordering him to get on a fork lift and lower down the sofa for our customer. However, I stopped mid order because I didn't want to risk him ejaculating while operating machinery. Instead, my powerful legs propelled my muscle dense body into air. I grabbed the sofa in one arm and pulled out. When my mass plus the sofa once collided with the floor, the resulting shock wave knocked Bill the customer over, and even threatened to knock down a few rows of furniture.

This time he is playing smarter; he doesn't want to ruin another pair of jeans. Not expecting any help, I wrap my arms around the loveseat and with a false grunt lift it into the air. The weight is practically nothing, but I pretend to struggle, by readjusting my grip a couple times. Carrying the Italian leather to my truck, two sets of eyes bear into my muscles. Bill and Mrs. Johnson are enjoying the show, very much. Neither has climaxed, which is good. In less than ten minutes the entire living room set is loaded and strapped into my truck.

"Mrs. Johnson, can you once again give me directions to your house?"

"Yes master," she proceeds to give very detailed directions and a description of her house.

The master title is a bit uncalled for, but maybe necessary.

"You are not to follow my truck. You are to wait here, until you hormones return to normal. Only then are you to enter your car and drive. Do you understand me?"

"Yes master."

"Good, now give me the key to your house," I pause, "the same applies to you, Bill."

She fumbles through her large black purse, pulling out a large number of keys. With her fake finger nails, she removes the house key and hands it to me.

"Sir." Bill holds out a golden key.

"Bill, I meant the driving part, not the key part."

"Oh, uh sorry, sir." His face reddens.

Getting in my truck, I drive off to Mrs. Johnson's house. In my rear view mirror, the two are getting closer and closer together, until they lock lips. It can't be help. Two extremely horny humans, alone in an empty warehouse, there is only one logical conclusion. Wait a minute. Mrs. Johnson. If she is married, did I just encourage her to commit adultery? I told the pair to only leave once their hormones returned to normal, which may imply sex as a means. My body has already ruined too many relationships. Turning the steering wheel to the left, then switching to reverse, and again turning, my truck speeds back to the warehouse. Bill is carrying Mrs. Johnson into the warehouse. He is shirtless, she appears to be completely naked.

Lowering the window, I yell out, "Wait, wait, wait. Don't turn around. Are either of you married?"

"Yes master, I’m married."

"I'm a widower."

"Mrs. Johnson I told you to cool down, not jump into the man's arms and have sex. What about your husband? What about your marriage?. "

I have strong feelings toward this subject, as I've seen many marriages crumble. Back in high school, when my size became impossible to hide, my mom finally gave up on concealing my body. I would sunbath in tight little boxer briefs in the backyard, giving all the neighbors a magnificent view of my hard muscular body. Housewives helped themselves to the view, then helped each other get off or chipped in for a group of high class male gigolos to visit the neighborhood. Word quickly spread through the town, of my little shows. The five houses surrounding mine, become hotspots for infidelity with dozens of women at a time gazing at my muscles then using other men or dildos as substitutes. Their husbands were understandably pissed. However, about two-thirds took to watching me as well, then either having sex with their wives or with prostitutes. The rest either filed for divorce or just walked out on their families, sometimes taking the children.

Still not looking in my direction, Mrs. Johnson says, "My husband and I have an open marriage. He'll be excited to know I met you."

"What."

"We have an open marriage. He even has a girlfriend." She bites her lip and says, "Will you join us?"

That was unexpected. Without giving an answer, I raise the window and drive off. Why get married if one seeks intimacy with other people? If her marriage works, I shouldn't interfere. Still something about a non-monogamous marriage seems strange to me, paradoxical.

Several minutes later I arrive at the Johnson house. No animals respond as my truck parks in the empty driveway. The neighborhood is quite, though a bit unusual. The houses are large, but are spread out much closer together in this area than in any other part of town. Looking around, several curtains are partially drawn, several blinds reveal peeking eyes. Great just what I need. Exiting the truck, I walk over to the door and unlock it. The living room has a large wall mounted plasma screen TV and Qom rug in the center. Returning to the truck, I begin unfastening the furniture, before taking notice of the houses once more. Cameras and cellphones are clearly visible through the windows. Four women have actually stepped outside for a better view. Ignoring them, I begin the task of hauling in the furniture indoors. The sofa goes again the longest wall, the loveseat adjacent to the sofa, and the recliner opposite the loveseat. One table is placed on top of the rug, the other by the door. I don't know when Mrs. Johnson will return and can't wait around forever. The entire neighborhood knows the house is empty, so just leaving is out of the question. I walk over the house on the right, and knock. A brunette woman answers the door; slack jawed with a cellphone in hand.

"This key belongs to Mrs. Johnson. Make sure nobody enters her house."

She nods. Guilt begins to wash over me. This woman maybe busy with something, yet I just ordered her to stand guard for who knows how long. One lapse in judgement follows another.

"Hand over your cell phone."

She hands over the phone; camera app already opened.

"Turn around."

Without question or hesitation she turns. On the phone, my picky hits the front facing camera button. The view changes, from the ground to my pecs. Lifting up the hems of my shirts and exposing my abs, the phone begins snapping photos. Lowering the hems, I view the pictures, which is difficult due to the size of my fingers compared to the small screen. Each picture shows eight bronze plates fighting for space, pressing against the skin. Yet somehow, not appearing bloated or grotesque, but instead magnificent and godly. The last photo shows my abs fully flexed, a sight easily worth magnitudes of zeros following a one. None of the pictures or videos posted over the past several months show any skin other than my face, neck, hands, and rarely forearms. Upon returning the phone, this woman will have the potential to make a fortunate off a single photo.

"Turn around." I hand her the cellphone. "I added a few pictures. Don't view them until after Mrs. Johnson returns. Don't upload them online, don't share them, don't let anybody else even see them. However, if um, if you need money for an emergency you can sell the pictures. You'll get plenty of money, as much as you want really. I'm sorry for putting you through this, I really am. So um, anyways have a good day ma'am."

With that, I return to my truck and drive off; not having a chance to collect the payment. There are plenty of other days for that. The next several jobs are rather simple and less arousing: yard work for an elderly man with back problems, scrubbing an empty pool, pruning shrubs and trees, and cleaning some houses. The only problem with cleaning other people’s house is, half the time the clients are home. They aren't working or busy with some personal matter, they just stare as my body awkwardly maneuvers around tight spaces and narrow door frames.

Anna McKenzie is long time client, with a unique U-shaped house. I've been here before, opposite the front door is a pair glass sliding doors, showcasing an outdoor patio and large rectangular pool. To the right is the kitchen, connected to the dining room. Separating the dining room from a two car garage is the laundry room. Three bedrooms and two baths are located on the left side of the U.

Right as I'm about to knock on the large wooden door, a thin woman of Eastern European descent opens it. She has blond hair with dark roots and complementing gray eyes. Her stare is intense, intimidating to some people because of her natural beauty and tall stature. Though right now, it doesn't quite have the same effect. Her eyes are intense, but there is also a bright scarlet blush overshadowing her pale face. She steps aside.

The living room full of beautiful white couches with red cushions and metallic shelves. There are several photos of the family, Mrs. McKenzie, her husband, and two teenagers, Karolina and Adam. Mr. McKenzie is an attractive man with blonde hair and brown eyes. Each photo reveals wide shoulders tapering down to a relatively large waist. Not due to fat, but bone structure. His children each inherited the man's brown eyes, but look distinctly like the mother. Karolina is about sixteen in the latest photos, she is an identical copy of her mother, besides of course the eye color, same bone structure and intense beauty. Adam is my age, maybe even a little older. In addition to his father's eye color; he also inherited the man's broad shoulders and arms, along with his mother's waist line and facial features. Such a combination gives him with an incredible face and the V shaped torso so desirable in Western culture.

Returning my attention to Mrs. McKenzie, "Where do you want me to start?"

"My plumping is very leaky," she responds after, literally twenty seconds. During which she pants and moans softly; a thin delicate hand slowly travels below her tiny waist. Two fingers begin tracing her vagina, as two knees begin to buckle.

"I should go."

"No, please. Please stay. There is a broken desk in Adam's room, Karolina room is a mess, the bathrooms need cleaning, every bed is unmade, the carpet needs to be vacuumed, and the windows need washing.

"Alright then, I'll start in Adam's room. Which is his room again?"

"The last one on the left."

"Okay, I'll get started right away."

The hallway in this strange house is significantly more narrow than the hall in mine; last time I was here, my shoulders actually touched both walls. To even enter today, my body must now rotate sideways. A tree truck of a leg covers several feet in one step, the lagging truck follows. The process repeats, until I'm a few feet from an open room. Entering is problematic, to say the least. Bending at the knees, the arduous process begins. With my body at a slight diagonal, I stick out my right leg, planting it firmly inside Adam's room. My massive right shoulder stoops down over a foot just to enter the door frame. With effort, my head, left shoulder and left leg also pass through.

Some clothes and weights litter the floor; an unmade twin bed with black sheets sits in the middle of the room. Opposite the bed, are sliding closet doors and a television sitting on top built in drawers. Along the far side is large wall shelve, filled with trophies, books, decorations, and pictures. Half the pictures show Adam, shirtless besides a swimming pool or lake. His upper body is incredibly defined, but his lower body is less impressive. There is mass and definition, but his legs just don't compare to his chiseled chest and thick arms. Still, he is handsome, a handful of pictures show him surrounded by scantily clad young women. In the left corner nearest the door, stands a medium size metallic desk, with a rather expensive laptop. On the right corner is a heap of broken wood and metal.

Suddenly a door slams shut; thinking something could be wrong, I listen intently. There is a ruffling sound coming from one of the other bedrooms. Something starts vibrating, a few seconds later another vibrating object joins the first. Loud moans overpower, what I'm assuming are vibrators. Ignoring the sounds, my mind focuses on cleaning the somewhat messy bedroom. As I make the bed something feels off, like a hungry pair of eyes is staring at me. The house is quite, except for Mrs. McKenzie's moans and vibrators. Someone is definitely watching me, but nobody else is in the room. Thick white blinds completely block the outside world, and there aren't any visible cameras. Pushing the thoughts aside, I return to cleaning. Of all the shirts, pants, and square cut boxers on the floor, none are dirty or stained. There isn't a trace of teenage boy. On the freshly made bed, I fold the pants and boxers, then place them in some drawers. Repeating the process for the shirts, I move towards the sliding clothes to hang them. As I pull open the door, two items fall. I bend over to pick them up. One is a lubricated large size condom, the other is a MONSTER. The latter is a novelty condom, originally designed, by a small plastic polymer manufacturing company to fit my penis. I'm starting to really dislike this house; this is probably another client lost. Just the weights, desk, and vacuuming remain for this room, then there is the rest of the house. It's probably best to leave, but I feel compelled to finish the job.

The weights on the floor range from twenty to fifty pounds. In each hand I hold a 20, 30, 40, and 50lb dumbbell, and place them in the bottom drawers. Mrs. McKenzie's moaning stops momentarily, and then returns with a passion. Hopefully this house is sound proof otherwise the neighbors may the police. Police don't pose a threat, but I tend to avoid them if possible. Turning to the broken desk in the right corner, I bend over to pick up the broken wood and twisted metal. Again the moaning stops and starts again louder. It can't be a coincidence, not twice.

Dropping the wood and metal, I say, "Mrs. McKenzie we need to talk, now."

I exit Adam's room and walk back to the living room, and wait. As time drags on, a realization hits. It's been a long time since I've stayed in someone's house for such a long period of time. Mrs. McKenzie hasn't left her room, despite my order to meet. Could it be that her sex drive actually overpowered my command? This maybe another opportunity to test the pheromones hypothesis. I open all the doors and windows in the house, but leave the blinds over the windows, and turn on the air conditioner. Fifteen minutes later she comes out of her bedroom. She is a mess, unkempt hair, clothes drenched in bodily fluids, slightly dehydrated, yet somehow she retains the intensity in her eyes.

"Mrs. McKenzie, have you ever recorded me?"

A chalky white color replaces the crimson on her face. The intensity of her eyes suddenly dies off.

Slowly, "Well?"

"Y...yes. Several times."

"Are you recording me now?"

"Yes sir."

That word again, the sign of submission. Her entire body is trembling now almost afraid I'll hit her or worse, leave.

"Show me how."

Gingerly she walks past my immense body, to a shelf containing several picture frames. From silver colored frame, holding a portrait of the McKenzie family, she pulls off a little silver box shaped object. She walks over and hands me the little device. It's a hidden camera.

"How many are there?"

"Fourteen."

Damn, that is an unexpectedly large number. The McKenzies are fairly wealthy, which can explain the high number of cameras and the frequent calls. Then again, some people have placed themselves into debt to be around me, so money isn't really a determining factor.

"Have you ever uploaded any of the content?"

"No, sir."

"Has any member of your family uploaded any content?"

"Not that I know of, sir."

My anger subsides a little. Why am I so angry?

"Mrs. McKenzie, I want you to erase any footage captured today. I'm not uncomfortable working here anymore, maybe in the future, but not to..."

Some sort of vehicle pulls up in front of the house. A car door slams, and loud shouts begin, "Is that his truck? Is he still here? Do y... oh my god. Oh my god. OH MY GOD."

Adam McKenzie appears at the door; a dark red knob pokes out of his khaki shorts, throbbing violently and leaking precum on the waist band. He runs toward me, hands frantically tearing at his shorts. Just three feet away he jumps into the air, almost expecting me to catch him or something. I side step. He lands face first on the white carpet, with a loud thud. Tight narrow hips thrust into the carpet, as he begins moan loudly. As the moaning intensifies, his hips begin slamming the floor with an angry fury. Thud, thud, THUD. Suddenly his upper body presses against his tight white t-shirt, muscles and veins poke out, as he roars. For thirty seconds or so, he writhes in ecstasy releasing a milky white fluid on himself and on the carpet. After finishing, he rolls over on his back; chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat rolling off his handsome, yet twisted face. A furious cum covered penis recovers and once again rapidly throbs.

In a flash, he is up. The khakis and underwear fall to his ankles; not missing a beat he attempts to run, but trips. Using his strong muscular arms to break the fall, then jumps from all fours. The sexual high leads to vertical distance more than enough to make an Olympic athlete jealous. Again I side step. He lands on his feet, spins around an jumps again. Frantically he reaches for my body. jumping and clawing, but never successful.

Adam is on the higher end of the scale, where people completely lose all sense intelligence and cognition. The sight is actually pretty sad. Here's this handsome and physically fit guy, desperately lusting for my body. If the pictures in his room are anything to go off, he is straight, and maybe even a player. However, right now I've reduced him to little more than a wild animal. Though animal maybe too generous, after all reproduction isn't on an animal’s mind. Even women don't really desire reproduction, at least the first. Everyone seeks sexual gratification and pleasure, not genetic survival. A relatively few amount of people join Adam in the small range of behavior after being exposed to my body, but someday everyone will have the same reaction. Uncontrollable lust for the perfect body. Without warning Mrs. McKenzie joins in.

At this point the only way to calm down Adam and Mrs. McKenzie is to knock them unconscious. As Adam jumps again, I scoop up his entire body in one arm and deliver a kiss. His pink tongue tries to enter my mouth, but mine overpowers him. The pink muscular invader rushes into his warm mouth and proceeds to dominate the little space. I've got him completely pinned down, his mouth struggles to contain the intruding monster. As he continues to squirm, somehow my hand touches his butt. Almost instinctively, my hand firmly squeezes his buttocks. They definitely feel nice, but still have plenty of room for development. Squeezing his buttocks again, I can't help imagining myself penetrating Adam. He tries to release a moan, but nothing comes out. Without warning, he shoots a load on my chest. Thick murky squirts of cum splatter against my button down. While Adam is locked in the state of euphoria, Mrs. McKenzie tries to join in. I grab her, pull out of Adam's mouth and proceed to take hers. My tongue is so long, it actually travels part way down her eager throat. She grinds her hips against my abdomen and loses all control of her vagina. I stand in the living room waiting out an eternity for mother and son to finishing staining my shirt. Something develops in my crotch, an primal heat. My penis isn't getting erect, but something is definitely happening.

After their bodies go limp, once again begins the arduous process of walking in the tiny hallway. Passing the master bedroom, I stick my right arm inside. Mrs. McKenzie is balanced on my palm, with a flick of the wrist she goes flying into the air. Her limp body travels in an arch, hits the bed, and then bounces off. Once at the entrance to Adam's room, I balance his limp body on the palm of my hand. Taking a good look, I'd guess he is about 6'1 and somewhere between 190 and 200lbs. His chest and crotch are most covered with man cream; his penis looks raw and puffy, like something inside blew up. I flick my wrist just a little harder, to get Adam on the bed. Unfortunately the additional force was too much. His body flying high up, actually hitting the ceiling. Large cracks appear, just before gravity pulls Adam down to his bed. Large ceiling chunks rain down upon his hard sticky body. His body is strong enough to take the force without getting too injured. Plus he'll probably continue to feel the effects of the sexual high, so it's likely he won't experience any pain upon waking up.

With that in mind, I lock the doorknob from the inside and close the door to Adam's room. On the other side, I rip off the handle. That way if he wakes up horny, he won't go after his mother. I know of a few instances where family members were so enamored, that they forgot about the parent child relationship and proceeded to have sex. They weren't physically or mentally attracted to each other, after being around me they needed some release. Mrs. McKenzie doesn't seem the type, but Adam is a different story. He is too wild, too hungry; hopefully the door will be enough to contain his primal desires.

I walk into the kitchen and remove my button down; right in the center is a large dark wet spot. Thankfully the material is really thick, but not every absorbent, so the bodily fluids weren't able to reach my white under shirt. Grabbing some detergent out of the laundry room, I start trying to wash out the mess. Cleaning the shirt in the sink is akin to cleaning a large quilt. The material is roaming about the sink and soon the entire counter fills with water and soap. For several minutes, I clean and scrub, tackling a seemingly endless length of cloth. After three cups of detergent and several gallons of hot water, the shirt is finally clean. I walk over to the dryer, select the highest setting, and throw the shirt in. Waiting for the dryer to finish, I walk around the house closing most of the windows and doors.

Why did I get so angry with Mrs. McKenzie about the cameras? I didn't confront any of the earlier clients with such questions or accusations. Hell, I gave pictures of my abs to some random woman. Though to be fair the other clients didn't make it obvious. Clients have always enjoyed watching me, and deep down I suspected some were also recording. Why enjoy for half an hour, when one can take pleasure for an eternity? Action is now required on my part, even if it means no more clients. Something needs to be done. As I ponder my thoughts, the dryer finishes.

The warmth of the fabric seeps through my undershirt and clings to my body. The shirt is fairly wrinkled, but as I walk to my truck, all the wrinkles seem to fall off. The sight is very strange. All the wrinkles and creases radiate outward and sort of fall off the shirt, leaving behind a freshly pressed shirt. The warm travels down to my crotch, igniting something wild. I need to blow a lead, but not by myself. This feeling, my penis wants to feel foreign warmth. It wants a throat, or vagina, or ass, it doesn't really care about which hole, so long as it isn't mine. What am I saying? My penis doesn't want these things, I do. No matter how much I try to blame my penis or muscles, the inescapable through is that I want sex.

Despite the limitations of intercourse with other individuals, I can't help my desires. Heat starts radiating from my genitals, then from my entire body. The inside of the truck becomes hot and stuffy. I crack the windows open slightly and turn on the air conditioner. The truck cools down, but my body is still releasing tons of heat. Pulling off road, I slam the breaks and proceed to suck myself off. After an hour or so, my penis finally releases torrent of hot sticky liquid. For several minutes I hunch over, swallowing the thick juices. The heat resides, but only slightly.

Last time this happened I walked into a sorority house and proceeded fuck every single woman into coma of sexual bliss. An entire weekend was spent stretching various holes and filling each woman with my delicious cream. The time before that, a bodybuilding competition was conventionally being held in town. I can use a bit more strength with super heavy weights, but I don't really get off with freaky bodybuilders. I enjoy an expertly crafted body with well-defined muscles and exquisite proportions; today's bodybuilders are all about size. Their stomachs are all bloated and their limbs are either too big or too small compared to their torsos. Still they make for excellent releases. After leaving a dozen heavy weights plastered together, I went for two dozen male and female fitness models. Their beautiful bodies and incredibly well defined muscles were able to subdue the beast after almost two days of hot animistic sex. Before the bodybuilders, there was the Olympic athlete training facility. The swimmers and runners held up nicely, but the gymnasts actually scared the crap out of me. Such ridiculously tiny bodies shouldn't have been able to even take the head of my monster, but each and every gymnast amazed somehow twisted and wormed themselves deep into my penis.

Maybe I should go back to the training facility, but the frats probably miss me. All the cocky young studs suddenly fall over themselves trying to submit to me. One frat actually built a statue of me, and the members take turns humping it, another frat comprised of extremely wealthy young men, made it a house rule to own a the make and model truck I drive. The frats are fun, but so are all the university athletes. The football players should be out practicing, in their hot sweaty gear. Hundreds of young fit bodies are probably playing intramural sports or lifting in the gym or out running. Though, despite this being college town, with very well respected athletic departments, the prime beef is the town residents.

Passing by a fire station, I can see a couple men washing a fire truck. Wet shirts cling to their strong upper bodies. These guys are all ridiculous attractive, like calendar hunk sexy. Right next to the fire station, is the police station. The police aren't quite as impressive. About two thirds, maybe three fourths, are young and fit. Most have arms that every nicely fill out the sleeves of the uniforms, good shoulders, and tight buns. Unfortunately, the old out of shape guys seem to be everywhere; always pulling over my truck, hoping to cup a feel or something. All my interactions with police over the past few months have ended with, men over forty-five lying on the ground gasping for air and rubbing erections through their uniforms. The town has plenty of construction sites. Right now, they are mostly empty, but during the day every site is full of muscular men. A few beer bellies here and there, but everyone seems to have nice strong bodies all around. In the last rays of sunlight, a group of cyclists is visible. Most cyclists have pretty wiry upper bodies, and massive quads and calves. One guy has on a pair of red compression shorts so tight there are actual tears along the seams. Several miles behind the cyclists, is a large group of runner, about a dozen and a half high school students, a few university students, and a coach. All shirtless, all drenched in sweat. The high school kids are scrawny looking, sort of. They are all mostly bone and really lean muscle, but something just looks off. The university students look much healthier; years of intense training has left them with lean muscles, and some respectable mass. Board pecs hit the air, veins and muscle tissues bunch together to bulge out and contract. Then there is the coach, probably around forty years old, and is running at the back of the pack. Not because of his age, but because he wants to keep an eye on his team. I can hear shouts of encouragement and motivation, when someone begins falling behind he forces the runner to keep up. He has a build somewhat rare for a runner. His muscles are lean, but much bigger than the university students and completely dwarf the high school students. His pecs large enough to bounce up and down with each step, baggy shorts fail to contain two think legs, and in the rear view mirror I see a very nice ass.

The drive eventually leads to the outskirts of town. A woody area with few houses located far from each other. Each house is well kept, the grass green, and threes trimmed. However, a certain house catches my eyes. The paint looks to be around one or two years old, lush dark green grass, and no trees in the front yard. In the driveway is a man unloading large bags from his super duty truck. Slowing down, I take a good look at the guy; tall, board shoulders, no gut. Tucked under each arm is a large white bag. The bags look heavy, but he isn't struggling; his walk is casual. Leaving the bags in the garage, he turns around. It's Charles Baker; my penis releases a pulse. Charles walks back to the truck, takes another two bags, and carries them to the garage. I make a loop around the area. He is just about finished unloading, when I park outside his property.

Recognizing my truck he stares, while holding two hands under his arms. I exit the truck and wave.

"Hey there Charles."

"Hello," he says while nodding.

"Do you need any help?"

"No, sir. I've just about finished here."

When Charles says sir, it isn't a sign of submission. It's a sign of respect, and not because of my immense body, but because he is respectful toward everyone. I've always liked and been a bit envious of Charles. Prominent cheek bones and a straight nose seem to draw attention to his eyes. Even in the setting sun, his sapphire eyes cut through the impending darkness and contrast against his dirty blonde hair and thick dark eyebrows. Not a trace of exhaustion or stain can be seen on his handsome face. His angular jawline is covered with a day's worth of stubble. His skin is flawless and radiant. I'd guess he is about 6'2 or 6'3, board shoulders, narrow waist, bulging arms, and every bit as strong as he looks. The two bags under his arms are 100lb cements bags; I've always had a thing for strength.

Practical strength is a huge turn on for me. I've been with dozens of gym rats, but they don't compare to working men. In the gym, curling 200lbs takes all kinds of technique and proper equipment. Everything is about proper form and focusing on a specific muscle group. Guys build their bodies up in the gym and then go work in the real world only to discover their strength doesn't transfer. Carrying loads in a construction site is different from curling weights. Such guys are outdone by men twice their age or half their size. A lot of men and women seeking a beach body sometimes sacrifice practical strength for gym strength and aesthetics. However, Charles has 100lbs tucked under each arm and a hard body hidden under a baseball shirt. His biceps are pushing out against the sleeves, revealing large mounds of muscle with thick veins running along his arms. Living on a ranch, he is probably accustomed to all sorts of grueling labor and must have developed an insanely strong body.

"So, uh Charles do you have a girlfriend?"

I may want sex, but I still have enough reason to exert a level of restraint.

"No, sir. Not anymore."

"Alright then. I've been on edge for a little bit and need some help relieving the pressure, so do you want to have sex?"

"Yes. I...I mean... "

I walk over, take the bags from him and place them in the garage. Then I walk back to him and say, "It can be confusing, but just listen to yourself."

"Yes, I do."

"Alright then. Let's get ready. Do you have a tarp or something?"

A few minutes later, I walk into Charles' living room with two tarps in hands and some tape. The room is very spacious, with large walkways. In less than two minutes I clear way all the furniture, then tape a tarp to the floor and ceiling.

"Are you ready?"

He starts tearing off his clothes. Once the baseball shirt is gone, his muscular upper body is exposed. Not only is he strong, but he looks like a fitness model. His upper body is perfectly sculpted from year of intense labor and eating well, and maybe some gym time. As he struggles to undo the belt, his upper body flexes. After a few seconds he discards the belt and tears the button off his jeans. Fitness models make it a career to stay in shape, but Charles has them beat by a mile. Most male models tend to focus on their upper bodies, because photo shoots tend to only focus on the torso and arms. During competitions they wear long short, so there isn't too much of a need to develop equally impressive quads. Charles has thick round pectorals, muscular well defined arms, abs almost cutting through his body, along with quads and calve any professional soccer player would be proud to own. His body is in almost perfection portion, expect for the bulge in his underwear.

The head of his penis tears through the briefs exposing a thick root and matching testicles. His penis is gigantic, dwarfing porn stars and rivaling Craig's. An expression like twice blessed doesn't even begin to apply to a man like Charles. A champion physique, a handsome face, and a monster cock. I've seen Charles around town a couple of times, always taking to somebody. Yet the other person doesn't appear to listen, but instead gazes longingly into his blue eyes. Women and gay men blush as they eye fuck his hard body. The only apparent drawback is the size of monster cock, least a foot inches long and thicker than a soda can. I wonder if he has an allure similar to mine.

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Thank you so much for posting this here, Zangetsu, it really has been one of my very favorite stories of the past year and I hope that you continue it as soon as possible!

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