Cratus' Coots 3: Daman

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He was just squatting down wrapping his wrist strap around the bar when he noticed the boy behind him in the mirror, standing by the top of the stairs. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” the boy asked when he realized he’d been seen – his tone was nervous.

Daman snorted like a bull. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he said, releasing his wrap and standing up. He wore a squat suit – a thick, heavy spandex singlet – with the straps down, worn and stained with chalk. Even with its similarity to compression shorts, it still couldn’t contain his over-sized package. And the flip-flops, always the damn flip-flops. “You got somethin’ for me?” he asked the boy, a college-aged intern for the great Doctor Cratus. He was nothing like the college-aged boys Daman was used to working with – the defensive linemen of his Big Ten team.

“Oh, yeah… sorry.” The kid couldn’t help but stare. At three-hundred ten pounds with five percent bodyfat, Daman was quickly becoming something… beyond human. Dense, thick muscle packed on dense, thick bone, Daman, at six-two, towered over the chubby intern – he could crush this kid like an annoying bug…

The kid revealed a pre-loaded syringe and an alcohol swab, which he uncapped and wiped down, then he reached over and wiped a small section of Daman’s exposed abs, having some small difficulty pinching enough to give the amp – even Daman’s big roidgut stored no fat. Not a lot of three-hundred pound men with abs. The intern stuck the tiny insulin needle into Daman’s skin, injecting the twenty units of hormone sauce quickly and efficiently. (Twenty units! Daman thought. That’s ten times what we were getting before we came here, and look what that did to us! We’re gonna be freaks!)

As usual, the minute the needle pricked the skin, Daman’s crazy cock came to life, too, swelling beneath the compressed spandex. That cat Rick had unfairly compared it to a log, but to Daman it was more of a snake – a python, a gigantic, jungle killer. He’d been blessed with this freaky thing his whole life, but since he’d started Cratus’ formula, like the rest of him, his cock responded abnormally well, growing to a size that would almost be embarrassing if it wasn’t so damned hot.

And by the time the kid had finished injecting the amp, Daman’s cock was fighting to escape in earnest. Nearly as big as the kid’s forearm, the intern couldn’t help but stare. Daman smirked. “I like gettin’ them shots,” he said.

The kid didn’t laugh.

“Are you done?” Daman prompted, having no time for humorless boys. “Or you just wanna stare at it awhile longer?”

The intern pulled the syringe from Daman’s abs, wiped the point of entry with the alcohol pad, then recapped the needle all without taking his eyes off Daman’s erection. “I’m done,” the kid said, still staring.

“Well, I got shit to do.”

Clearly, the kid thought Daman meant something other than his deadlifts from the way he tripped over himself leaving. Although Daman was amused over the kid’s exit, by the time he turned back to the mirror, he was deadly serious again. His erection still throbbed – but he ignored it, difficult as that was with a cock that size.

He looked at himself in the mirror – the light spilled down from directly above, putting a spotlight on the deadlifting platform, casting heavy shadows that made him look even bigger. Massive – he was absolutely massive – the three-hundred ten pound man in the mirror looked like Mr. Olympia (Big Ronnie! – Daman’s hero) not some sixty-two year old football coach. The man in the mirror wasn’t past his prime.

And this massive mirror man had a cock that would cause any porn star to put his tail between his legs and run. Daman now had the kind of cock that gay boys made rubber castings of and challenged themselves to try to take while they smoked their crystal meth. A log? Okay – a fuckin’ beautiful log!

No, don’t waste it, he thought, abruptly squatting down and wrapping his straps around the bar. Nine-hundred pounds – only a hundred away from the world record – he’d been aiming for this the whole workout, waiting for today’s shot to be in his system before attempting it. He was supremely confident, especially now with Cratus’ hormone cocktail coursing through him.

He tested the straps for tightness, first the left then the right, then heavy breaths while visualizing success, then he sunk his weight into his heels and finally, the explosion up – the drive, the thrust.

Nine-hundred pounds was no little weight, but he moved it with an unexpected ease. The trick was to press the weight into your heels as you drove up, letting the hamstrings do the brunt of the work. Daman stood, core strong, legs flexed, hips thrust, shoulders back, traps tight – he’d beaten the weight.

And so he orgasmed, dropping the weight to the floor, where it landed with a heavy metallic thud that shook the whole building. He stood there, still completely flexed, head rolled back while he shot his load, wave after wave of power and pleasure coursing through him. It went on for a good long while – longer and longer the longer he stayed on Cratus’ formula – soaking the front of his deadlifting suit with its prodigious amount.

When it was over, he released himself, squatting down next to the bar again, catching his breath – God damn, he felt good!

NOW he could get some sleep.

With a grunt, he stood and walked downstairs to his room, wiping the sweat from his face and torso with his towel, but making no effort to hide his orgasm-drenched spandex – why bother? It’s not like any of the rest of them had any propriety. Crossing the common area to the apartments, he came across Jasper, already up and moving around the kitchen at 4:30 in the morning. “Mornin’, Jasper,” Daman said quietly. “You up early.”

Jasper laughed. “I’m an old man. Old men are always up early.”

He may’ve called himself an old man – and from the way he talked, Daman suspected Jasper of being nearly twenty years older! None of them knew for sure really, and Jasper was being tight-lipped – but he didn’t look like an old man. Not the ones you see hanging like gargoyles in the locker rooms of fitness clubs, weathered, beaten, sagging and tragic, anyway.

Jasper was thin but muscular – wiry was maybe a better word. He had big arms and shoulders – what struck Daman as maybe a gymnast’s kind of build. Maybe a buck-seventy on his little frame. He’d definitely gotten more fit and toned over the three months they’d been here, but hadn’t put on size the way Daman and Cameron had, or the drive to bust himself into the kind of shape that Rick or Gregg had – Jasper was a mystery to them, and seemed to prefer it that way.

The little guy wore only a pair of pajama bottoms, his beat-up nipples and faded Navy tattoos exposed. The few gray hairs on his head were buzzed down to nothing, like Daman, he had no hair on his body. “You want some coffee, or some breakfast?” he asked the big black man.

“I might cook me up a dozen or so eggs after I get cleaned up.”

Jasper saw the condition of the man’s lifting suit. “Morning shot makes me horny as hell, too,” he said. “If you want, I’ll clean you up myself.” He made “smacking” sounds with his mouth, licking his lips playfully.

Daman was in too good a mood to play rough with him. “Tell you what, Jazz. You get me up some breakfast and you welcome to suck on this here as long as you like.”

There was a stunned silence. Daman thought, if I’d known it would take that little to shut him up, I woulda offered him my cock a long time ago. Maybe it’s like givin’ a small dog a gigantic bone. Jasper snorted. “You’re shittin’ me,” he said.

“Serious, baby,” Daman said. “I’m just a man who out-maxed his own deadlift. If that don’t earn me some dick-suckin’, nothin’ does. I’m gonna go shower real quick – you make me up some scrambled eggs and this big dick and whatever comes out of it is all yours.”

“Deal!” said Jasper so quickly that Daman almost laughed. He left the old man scrambling to find a mixing bowl and a pan.

His suite had the easiest access to the kitchen and he took full advantage of it. A man didn’t weigh over three hundred pounds without eating once in a while – and Daman often woke with a craving, a scratch in his belly that needed itching. The nutritionist they had working here sent over some amazing meals for him, but Daman was almost always hungry for more.

In his bedroom, Daman stripped the deadlift suit, wiped off his cock with the sweaty material and tossed it in the hamper, for some poor college intern to wash. He gave himself the once-over before he stepped into the shower. Three-hundred and ten pounds, he thought, amazed – and Cratus said he should expect up to forty more before the end of it. It shouldn’t be possible – and yet it was. Bones thickened, tendons strengthened, organs grew – somehow, his body was adapting.

He was a cliché and he knew it – massive black man, the workhorse, oversized cock – the only check he didn’t get was in the oversexed column. Well… compared to his life before this – he and Cameron had become lifting partners and jacked off together after every workout, usually turned on by pumping and posing; he’d fucked that Gregg a handful of times, usually in a threesome with Cam, the only ass Daman had gotten at all; Ravishing Rick didn’t seem all that into black guys; and nobody took Jasper seriously – he was just the old man in the locker room.

Daman didn’t prefer masturbation, but he sure was used to it. Even before his cock had gone from freaky to fantasy, he was still bigger than most guys were willing to take. It was easier to handle it alone.

He liked the showers here – big, tiled stalls that could fit two men the size of him. The hot water sprayed from two heads and soaked his massive body. Before he’d come here to Cratus’ clinic, his sex life was almost entirely masturbation. Daman had come from a generation of professional athletes who didn’t dare come out of the closet. Now, he was no sports celebrity, but he’d had a moderately successful career as a defensive lineman – ten years in the pros before he blew his knee out. He was rarely recognized, however, so he could go out to men’s clubs discreetly. Usually, he would fly off for a weekend in another city, Atlanta or NYC, to have some sexual freedom.

After the accident, and the year of rehab and two seasons of hanging-on (never starting) before they finally let him go, he picked up a coaching job quickly. Now, after almost twenty-five years in the trenches, after he’d worked his way up the ladder to a good position at a Big Ten school, here he was ready to retire – a now sixty-two year old, three-hundred ten pound man with five percent bodyfat. (And a ridiculous cock!)

He began to soap up, running his hands over the hard mass of his body – as a lineman, he was used to bulky muscle, muscle layered in fat, able to absorb hit after hit in play after play. But his body now was firm and solid, when he flexed, it was rock-hard. He had all the size he’d had in bulk but now in a thick muscle-fibre that could deflect any force – nobody was likely to put Daman on his ass ever again.

He’d been a large boy anyway thanks to an overactive pituitary gland (the same pituitary gland that crapped out on him twenty years later and caused him to seek out Cratus in the first place). Twice the size of his peers, he was awkward and clumsy, so he shied away from physical activities, becoming a reader, instead. Like most boys of his generation, he found comic books, the burgeoning Marvel Universe. Sure, none of the characters had his color skin, but he knew what an outsider felt like, so he empathized with the X-Men. And there was something about Juggernaut…

Someone at the church recruited him to play Pop Warner football, explaining to his parents that a boy his size could be a star! His parents, anxious for him to be comfortable with his over-sized body, signed him up without a second thought, announcing it to him over dinner the night before the first practice. There was a little anxiety on his part, until he found out he was playing in the “Junior Midget” division – he was only ten, so he didn’t qualify for full “Midget” standing – but even then, at a hundred and thirty pounds, he was heavier than most of the other boys. (Heavier than some who were three and four years older.)

Pop Warner football was like a gift from God. All he had to do was push boys out of the way so his team could run by with the ball – sometimes push to the left, sometimes the right, it didn’t matter – at his size, it was ridiculously easy. And unlike any other aspect of his life, he was praised and praised heavily for that little bit of easy nothing. His teammates liked him – his coaches LOVED him – and he became a fast-rising star in his community. “The Little Lineman” they called him at church, clapping him on the back and laughing.

He kept growing and growing and eating and eating – by the time he was a freshman in high school, he weighed over two-hundred pounds. He was the first freshman in the history of the school to play varsity ball. By the time he was a senior, at two-hundred forty pounds, they called him “The Juggarnaut,” the unstoppable force. With his penchant for comic books, he loved the title. He just wished he could be BUILT like the Juggarnaut – huge and muscular – rather than the flabby bulk he carried now. Even with all his size, his body image was poor. He saw all the other guys with their muscles and their abs and he knew he didn’t look like that. More, he was finding himself attracted to them and he had no idea what THAT was all about!

The college recruiters fought over him, tripping all over themselves to get him to sign with them. Free ride in hand, he proved to be an anomaly anyway – he was actually smart! All the years of reading and comics had expanded his mind and his imagination. He carried a 3.9 and would ultimately graduate cum laude. (Perhaps the only lineman to save the football team’s GPA.)

He started doing steroids in college, too. His fraternity brothers – both larger than him and stronger – got him into it, showed him the ropes. Admittedly, he found it almost as erotic as beneficial. Shooting up with his frat brothers, working out, their testosterone in overdrive, they would get each other so turned on during their workouts, parading like peacocks, flexing and preening, they’d end up jacking off with each other, sworn to fraternal secrecy. That was where he discovered his cock was larger than normal, too.

The other boys made a big deal out of it – “Jugg’s got an unstoppable cock!” – and Daman started taking pride in it, maybe that was even the beginning of self-worth (other than pushing men across a line). Certainly his body image improved as he gained more and more muscle, which made him want more, which made him take more.

His pituitary gland, already over-worked, kicked into over-drive, producing a prodigious amount of growth hormone. That, coupled with the excessive testosterone he was injecting, blew him up to the point where he could see himself as a real juggernaut – he felt unstoppable, anyway.

He liked power-lifting more than football – fortunately, power-lifting only improved his football performance, so there was no conflict of interest. Perhaps the reason he was never a football superstar was because he never loved it the way the other players did. Not that football had been anything but good to him and not that he didn’t give it his best, but it wasn’t his passion – not the way power-lifting turned him on.

During his decade as a pro – before he blew his knee out – he started competing in strongman competitions, which he loved more than any football game he’d ever played. As a pro athlete, he was a novelty that brought some small attention to the sport, so they welcomed him – he did well for a rookie and he liked all the guys. If only this payed as well as football, he thought. (Not that he hadn’t socked away plenty in savings.)

And then the accident. One small little mistake in the way he planted his foot and the pain – the only thing that could knock down this juggernaut. What’s the worst thing you could lose when you’re a lineman or a power-lifter? Your base – your stance.

The operation – the pain of rehab – the crippling, emasculating weakness. The loss of passion – he never got it back. (Perhaps because he never really had it in the first place.) Not for football, anyway. Sure, he worked hard enough to come back and fulfill his contract, but he never started again. And after two seasons of non-productivity, they let him go.

He wasn’t sure what to do with his life after that. He didn’t NEED to work, but he didn’t want to be the kind of guy that wasted his life away doing nothing, either. But he’d never done anything other than football and powerlifting – maybe open a gym?

He got an offer to coach the defensive line at a local college and he took it because there didn’t seem to be anything better to do. At least this way he’d be AROUND athletes, if he wasn’t gonna be one himself. Thirty years later, he’d worked his way up the ladder to a fairly prestigious position at a Big Ten University.

His waist had also worked its way up quite substantially – any and/or all of the muscle he’d so diligently worked to gain during his first thirty years quickly shrunk away to be replaced by dense fat. Blood pressure up, cholesterol up, his doctor started to worry about diabetes. For Daman, that just continued the downward spiral his life had become since the accident.

One of the team trainers suggested Daman check out growth hormone therapy, which seemed to be the latest “fountain of youth” theory on the market. But the more he read about gh’s promotion of bodyfat loss and cholestertol reduction, the more he let his cynicism go. When he came across Cratus’ website, which seemed to target athletes past their prime (disuised as “mature” athletes), he picked up the phone and called.

When Daman introduced himself, Cratus said, “That name’s familiar. Do I know you?”

“No,” Daman said. “Well, maybe you know OF me. I used to play some pro ball back in the seventies. And if you remember that, then you got a better memory for an old man than I do.”

Cratus laughed. “I’m a user of my own therapy, my friend. I have those faculties back. But I remember you because I’ve been a Saints fan since we were wearin’ bags on our heads.”

Daman laughed, too. “I may have been one of the reasons for that.”

“No… you got hurt, didn’t you? You wrecked up your knee or something.”

“You got that right.”

“Well, Daman, you called the right man. There’s nothing I like more than bringing ex-athletes back to better than their prime.”

“Really? You think you can help me?”

“I know I can.”

And Cratus was right. In the first three months, Daman lost almost forty pounds – his gut was shrinking to the point where he could see his own healthy cock again. (There’s little more motivating than that.) And as the weight slid off, his energy improved, causing him to be more active, burning more calories, resulting in more weight loss – it was an excellent cycle.

He woke around four in the morning daily with these crazy rods. His dick was so hard that Daman swore the excess blood was stretching it out. Maybe it was just because he hadn’t used it so much in so long, but his cock sure did seem to like Cratus’ therapy.

He’d been scared of the gym – scared of being hurt again, scared of the pain, the humiliation – but he finally got to the point where he felt so good that he couldn’t resist it any longer. He NEEDED to lift – his body was aching for it.

He had access to the University gym and took complete advantage of it. That way, he wouldn’t have to embarrass himself in front of people while he got his sea legs back. Surprisingly, that took less time than he thought – well, for his upper body. He was avoiding his legs and he knew it – no squats, no deadlifts – afraid of his knee.

God damn it – he couldn’t live his life this way!

He was over sixty years old. He had no business squatting heavy, anyway – those days were LONG behind him. Just do it with the bar, he thought. No weight at all – just for the sheer joy of movement. He wanted to so badly – he felt so good otherwise.

So, on the Smith Machine even, he put a bar across his shoulders for the first time in over thirty years – and it felt good. More than good – natural. He didn’t go deep, not too deep, but low enough to stretch the joint. For a couple of weeks, that was all he did. And his knee felt strong – better than he expected. Sure, at night it seemed to itch on the inside – the way it had done when it was healing – but it didn’t hurt. And that was all that mattered to Daman.

Within a month, he was putting weight on the bar – just quarters, but still, it felt okay – then plates. His legs responded in the way he least expected. They grew.

Impossible as it seemed, his legs got bigger. Not much, but enough for Daman to notice a difference. And as all the fat continued to slide off his body, Daman started looking like an athlete again.

Six months into Cratus’ magic, he joined a new gym, the one where all the juiceheads trained, where the competitors came from, where the powerlifters thrived. Some of the older guys knew who he was BEFORE he’d become a coach up at the university. They welcomed him.

He loved the energy, the competitiveness. It reminded him of the camaraderie the boys on his team felt for each other – but now it included him.

And he was lookin’ good! Not just lookin’ good for a sixty year old man, but lookin’ good PERIOD. He had muscles again, not mobs – he had a big hard roidgut like he’d had in college, not some flabby waistline – veins racing across his arms and shoulders – he looked like he hadn’t stopped training a day in his life, not a man coming off a thirty year hiatus.

His PCP was suspicious – as many times as Daman denied using steroids, his doctor insisted on testing – so Daman submitted to a round of blood work. Normally when taking growth hormone, a man would take testosterone along with it. Cratus’ formula didn’t need this interaction – somehow, Cratus had figured a way to stimulate natural testosterone production. Somehow, for Cratus, a man’s balls would go back online.

His doctor was perplexed. For some unknown reason, this sixty-year-old man’s body was completely regenerating – his internal organs and muscles were becoming nothing other than young again – impossible. The doctor called for more tests. Daman ignored him.

All the while, he worried about his knee – it felt so good, something must be wrong. The specialist had made it clear that the joint would never be strong enough again to do any kind of heavy lifting. Yet there he was. And he wanted to go heavy – he wanted it so bad – he watched the muscleheads at his gym, bloated on juice, deadlifting and squatting these ridiculous weights, and he was insanely jealous.

Turned on, too. Daman would go home and masturbate over his memories, not imagining sex with these other strongmen, but lifting with them, hoisting up the same weight as them. All they had on him was youth… and good knees.

He made an appointment with the knee specialist who’d performed his surgery – just to see. At first, the doctor was very chit-chatty, commenting on Daman’s good physical shape – the same raised eyebrow and speculation on steroids, no doubt – but as the examination progressed, he grew very quiet, very focused on Daman’s knee.

“Is this some kind of joke?” he finally asked.

Daman was confused. “Joke?” he repeated. “I don’t understand.”

“I mean, are you the twin brother pulling some kind of gag on me or something?”

Daman just looked at him.

“The knee,” the specialist said. “This knee has never been operated on.”

“Sure it has,” Daman said. “By you.”

“No, sir, it hasn’t. There’s no entry or exit scar. There’s no scar tissue in the joint or the tendons. There’s no evidence at all that this knee has ever seen a procedure. So I ask again, what’s the joke?”

And the light bulb went off in Daman’s head – the growth hormone! Cratus’ crazy concoction! Somehow that shit completely regenerated his knee!

He could LIFT again!!!

He didn’t waste any time, either. He went to the gym on the way home from the specialist’s office. Why not? He had a new knee – it was nothing less than a gift from God!

And when he sank all the way down in reps and exploded up, hauling around some REAL weight, his cock was rock hard in his shorts. He almost came right there in the gym. Instead, he upped the weight.

And that was the beginning of the end, in terms of Daman’s old life. He had a mission again – a reason to live – and that was to get stronger. The next few months were a haze of lift, sleep, eat, lift, sleep, eat – he called it his “re-thickening period.” He massed up. The guys at the gym figured he was on something, but they didn’t care – they were all on their own cycles, too. The gym’s owner, a middle-aged guy with a bum shoulder, flat-out asked him one day.

Daman happily told him – even recommended the guy try it, which he ultimately did. (That guy was in his third month when Daman left for Central America – they’d jacked off a couple of times together – and he was well on his way back to new, too.)

Daman was in his tenth month when football camp started. The college boys at summer training fawned over him, amazed at his transformation. He told them nothing, really, but was happy to train with them – his cock was over eleven inches at that point and it took a lot of effort to restrain it. One of two of those boys was man enough to attempt giving him head, but they were usually overwhelmed by it and he would just end up jerking it off while they worshipped him. (Not that he hated that…)

And so he grew. Well, not “grew” so much as “thickened.” Cratus explained that the gh was promoting bone density to support larger, stronger muscle. Daman fantasized about turning into a real-life Juggarnaut. That was why he accepted Cratus’ invitation to Central America.

The three-hundred ten pound man with the footlong cock that stepped out of the shower was close to being exactly that. Juggarnaut.

He was so horny, he barely had himself dried when he wrapped the towel around his thick waist and strolled back out to the common area, his cock an obvious dent in the front of the material. He was a magnificent, muscular beast.

Jasper was just plating the scrambled eggs when Daman entered. The old man was obviously stunned by the appearance of the beast before him – the mass that was now Daman. The Juggarnaut. “Holy shit,” said Jasper. “You’re huge.”

“All of me,” Daman said, running his hand along the ridge his cock made in his towel. “Are those my eggs?”

“Yes, Sir! All for you, Sir! My pleasure to serve!”

Daman chuckled and took the plate. He sat back on one of the bar stools and said, “Well, why don’t you come over here and take your reward while I eat?”

“Yes, Sir!” Jasper croaked, falling to his knees and opening Daman’s towel. “Holy gods of the South Seas,” he said when he saw Daman’s erection. “That’s the most amazing cock I ever laid eyes on!”

Daman was stuffing himself with scrambled eggs, shoveling them in with the side of the fork. “Suck it,” he mumbled.

So Jasper did. And the old man had an amazing mouth after all – first, that he could take the whole of Daman’s cock and not choke at the root was amazing in itself, but also the “no-teeth” thing. His mouth was so soft, like wet velvet.

And Jasper was working it hard, bobbing up and down like he was doing reps – Daman wasn’t even sure he’d last until the end of the eggs before he came – maybe that’s what the old man wanted. He seemed hungry enough for it, desperate enough.

Just as Daman went over the edge and began to orgasm, he could feel Jasper climax while kneeling at his feet, panting his moist breath against Daman’s cock. Daman quickly filled the old man’s mouth with cum that Jasper tried desperately to swallow, even as it leaked out the corners of his mouth.

And then the unexpected.

Jasper pulled off of Daman’s cock, unable to stop panting. When their eyes met, Daman could sense the man’s fear and confusion.

“Are you okay?” Daman asked.

“I… I think… heart attack…” He clutched at his chest. “Can’t… breathe…”

Jasper collapsed back on the floor, shuddering, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Daman did what any hero would do – he easily scooped up the old man’s body and ran out of the dorm toward the central lab building, where Cratus maintained his office. Until he felt his cock slapping back and forth against his thighs did he realize he was naked, but he didn’t care. He was a Juggarnaut. Unstoppable.

But from the stillness of Jasper’s body once he arrived, he was afraid he was already too late.

And the look on Cratus’ face only confirmed it.

Things didn’t look good for old man Jasper.

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