The Good Samaritan

This one is for Mr. B - rpj

Part 1

Tony slowed his Ford Ranger when he saw the flashing lights up ahead. At this time of the morning there was precious little traffic on I-94. He'd been dropping off a friend at Detroit Metro and now he was headed back to the city - another late shift in front of him and he hadn't gotten much sleep as it was. Not that he hadn't had a helluva lotta of fun with Patrick. The memory of that shambling musclebear and what he could do with his tongue still made his dick hard!

Tony noticed a woman behind the parked car waving her arms frantically. He didn't think of himself as a Good Samaritan but he knew how to change a tire and he had jumper cables in the back and if nothing else he had his cell phone and the number of a 24 hour towing service.

"Oh, thank God," the woman blurted when he stepped out of the truck. "Thank God you stopped. It's my husband! He slipped down the bank when he was trying to change the tire. I think he's in the river!"

Oh shit! Without thinking, Tony quickly plunged down the bank, heading for the soft splashing noises he could hear over the occasional whine of the freeway. The water was icy cold on this November night and Tony knew he'd have scant minutes before hypothermia set in if he got wet. Fortunately the guy was RIGHT there - turned around in the dark without his glasses, which went flying when he slipped down the embankment. Tony reached the guy quickly, then put his strong arm around the little guy's shoulder and HEAVED. No more than 5'10 and 195 lbs. himself, Tony was nonetheless strong as an ox. He routinely did shoulder shrugs with 140 lb. dumbbells (that's right, one in each hand) and this guy weighed less than that.

Still, the dumbass decided to trip on a root and then they were both underwater. Tony came up for air, spluttering, and half pushed, half dragged Mr. Klutz up the slope and into the car. He tossed his cell phone to Wifey, snarling "Call 911!" before retching on the ghastly river water. He quickly began to strip the woman's husband, then himself. "He'll freeze to death if we don't get him out of these clothes."

And then Tony's teeth started chattering so violently he couldn't talk anymore. Just before passing out, he glanced up to see the green and white sign in front of the bridge:


"Oh, shit," he thought. "Now I'm really fucked."

* * *

Tony woke with a splitting headache - and something attached to his arm.

It took a minute or two for him to put the pieces together. Gauze curtain, fluorescent lighting, a tube hanging from his furry, well-muscled arm.

"Shit," he said to himself. "I'm in the hospital. I musta swallowed more water than I thought."

The curtain ripped back and Tony found himself staring up at one of the hottest men he'd ever seen, tall, blond, bearded, and built like a Mack truck.

"You're awake now? Excellent. I'm Dr. Gustafson," said the doc, sticking out a hand the size of a meat hook. "How are you feeling?"

Tony just stared, then shook his head.

"My head is splitting, otherwise I feel fine," Tony replied. Better than fine, looking at this guy!

The doctor grinned.

"Helps that you're in such great shape," Dr. Gustafson pointed out - and Tony realized this guy had probably seen him in the buff. The doc squeezed Tony's meaty bicep, an action that automatically resulted in its flexing. It felt damned good, to tell the truth!

Then Tony remembered.

"Oh, yeah, what about the guy?"

Gustafson frowned.

"Well, that hasn't gone as well as we'd hoped.. Mr. Portcullis - the gentleman you pulled out of the river - is having a hard time of it. Which is why we're keeping you here another 24 hours for observation"

Tony began to feel vaguely worried.

"What's the matter with him?"

Gustafson shook his head.

"We don't really know, although he seems to be having respiratory distress. And rapid weight loss."

Tony snorted.

"Well, that's not good. He was a skinny little fu.uh, just a skinny dude."

Gustafson gave Tony an odd look.

"He was bigger before he fell in the river, ya know. Just about as big as you are, in fact."

Tony gasped.

"No way, Doc! The guy couldn't have weighed more than 140 sopping wet - and he WAS sopping wet."

Gustafson shrugged his massive shoulders - damn he looked fine!

"Even so. That's why we want to keep you under observation. I'll get you something for that headache. Now get some sleep."

Tony yawned as Gustafson left his bedside. Getting some sleep seemed like an excellent idea, although this raging hard-on wasn't helping any. It's a wonder Gustafson didn't comment on the way the sheet had been wiggling. Tony put his strong, smooth hand on his thick, powerful tool just in time to feel it spasm uncontrollably. It seemed to go on and on, a veritable river of cum. And as soon as it was done, Tony was fast asleep once again.


Part 2

Tony awoke the next morning with no headache. In fact, no headache, no tiredness, no aches and pains, not even sticky eyes or morning breath. In a word, he felt like a million bucks. Before he really knew what he'd done he jumped out of the bed and cranked out a hundred perfect push ups - before he realized that the IV was still in place.

Dr. Gustafson walked in just as Tony was standing and stretching. It was only when Dr. Gustafson cleared his throat that Tony recalled he'd pitched the flimsy hospital gown when he'd started the push ups and was consequently standing there buck naked and about half hard.


"That's OK, Tony," Gustafson said. "You're exactly where I need you, anyway. I want to do a few neurological tests so I would have had you standing anyway. I'm glad to see you're feeling, uh, rested."

Gustafson did his battery of simple tests, then did them a second time, then took Tony's vitals.

"I don't see any reason we can't let you go home."

Tony brightened visibly.


Tony blanched.

"Except what, Doc?"

Dr. Gustafson crossed his arms, pulled on his beard, then looked Tony in the eye.

"Except that I'm sorry to tell you that your Good Samaritan deed has gone for naught," he said in a husky whisper, placing his meaty hand on Tony's broad shoulder. "Mr. Portcullis didn't make it."

Tony's jaw dropped.


Gustafson shook his head.

"We don't know what the deal is, Tony. So I'm not sure what to do. There's no medical reason to keep you here - and yet I have this hunch that whatever affected Mr. Portcullis so strongly will affect you as well. The same way? I certainly hope not - and you certainly show no symptoms. And yet there it is."

He paced the room a minute, then spoke again:

"I'm going to send you home - but I want you to STAY there, OK? I'll work it out with your employers. Complete bed rest for a week, OK? And, yes, I realize you don't really need it - anyone who can crank out that many push ups that fast ought to be doing heavy manual labor. Like putting in my new patio! Still, I want you to stay home and just take it easy. We don't know if whatever Mr. Portcullis had is going to develop - and we don't know if it's contagious."

Gustafson gave Tony his cell phone number and his pager so that he could call immediately if there were any symptoms. Otherwise, Gustafson said, Tony should plan to come back in a week for more tests.

* * *

"Jeez," Tony said to himself when he returned to his small ranch style house in one of Detroit's down river suburbs. "What the hell am I gonna do at home for a week?"

Tony wasn't used to spending much time at home alone. His job was physical and demanding and had him all over the Metro area on a regular basis. Home was for eating, sleeping - and working out. He rarely turned on the television, listened to music only when he was working out, etc. The idea of keeping himself entertained and cooped up for a week didn't have much appeal.

So he decided it was time to hit the weights. Tony had set up a nice little gym in his finished basement, featuring a squat rack, a Smith machine, an assortment of benches, an excellent selection of dumbbells, even a leg press machine. Enough variety to hit all the body parts - and no spotter required. Plus a rowing machine and a lifecycle - everything you could possibly want, and Tony wanted it. He'd been lifting since he was a teenager and it showed. His muscles were dense and thick, muscles built for strength, not just for show. He'd never gotten to be a REALLY big guy but that was mostly a matter of not having time for it - all that eating, all that extra working out.

"We'll see what happens," Tony said with a laugh. "By the time a week is over, I oughta look like Der Arnold - or Fat Albert!"

That morning Tony spent three hours in the basement. By the time he went back upstairs to fix himself a sandwich, he had gone through every exercise in the book - twice! He could barely make it up the stairs, he'd blasted his legs that hard. Still, it was time for a sandwich.

An hour later, Tony looked at the wreck that had been his kitchen. He'd eaten a whole loaf of bread, three big cans of tuna, a jar of peanutbutter, two packages of lunch meet, a dozen eggs, and a gallon of milk.

"Whoa!" Tony thought to himself. "I oughta take a day off more often."

When he stood up, Tony felt lightheaded.

"Gosh," he thought. "Maybe I need to take a nap."

He made it to the bedroom - just barely - before passing out.

Two hours later he was awake again and just as buzzed when he woke up at the hospital that morning.

"I feeeeeeel Grreeeeat!"

He headed back to the basement.

Tony's schedule for the next week didn't vary. When he wasn't working out, he was eating. When he wasn't eating, he was taking a nap. Well, take that back - it was remarkably routine, and as a routine it was remarkable, but it did vary a minor amount - namely when Tony would go to the grocery store to get more food (lots more food.) And when he went to the fitness supply company to buy more weights (lots more weights.)

The weightlifting didn't vary much either, except that Tony kept using heavier and heavier weights, for more and more sets, more and more reps. He wasn't really paying attention to how much he was lifting, or in what order. He just did what his muscles told him to do - and they seemed to have LOTS to say.

Finally it was time to go see Dr. Gustafson again.

Tony got into the shower - for the first time in a week, he suddenly realized - and started lathering himself up.

That's when he noticed. He was washing his chest and suddenly it occurred to him that something was different. Which led him to check his biceps, his forearms, his quads, his calves, his delts, his neck. Yes, even down there.

"Oh, my," he thought to himself. "I think this is going to be interesting."


Part 3

The first question was what to wear.

Tony grabbed a pair of jeans from the dresser drawer – and stopped when he realized his right CALF wasn’t going to fit, much less his quads. He settled on his baggiest pair of sweatpants instead – they fit like gloves. Latex gloves.

Next – what to do about a shirt? Tony tried a short sleeve polo, knowing that the material was very stretchy. It stretched alright. The cuffs were up around his delts but worse than that the bottom hem was a good six inches above the waistband of his sweatpants.

Then he remembered that sweater Aunt Sophia had knitted him, the one he’d considered donating to the NFL it was so fucking oversized.


It fit.

Like a glove.

“OK, I guess, that oughta do it,” Tony said aloud, then paused.

“I wonder what it looks like on?”

Now you have to realize that for all his muscle and good lucks Tony was anything but vain. Except for the bathroom mirror he stood in front of every morning so that he could shave (“speaking of which”) his handsome mug, Tony didn’t OWN a mirror. He had an unerring sense of what looked good on him but he was NOT a flasher dresser and he never actually bothered to look.

“Except there IS that full length mirror in the closet of the guest bedroom,” Tony remembered, the one Aunt Ileana insisted he really needed if he “was ever gonna find a nice Greek girl and settle down, you big oaf.”

Tony went to check it out.

“Oh My Fucking God.”

The sweatpants and the oversized sweater fit alright – they fit like they were painted on. They left absolutely NOTHING to the imagination, and even though Tony had plenty of imagination when it came to muscle, even HIS jaw dropped. And then he looked below his waist.

“Ermmmm, that’s NOT going to work. I’ll get arrested!”

Tony went rummaging in the coat closet. He had a vague memory that his friend Steve, the 6 foot 5 inch drag queen, had gone off without his trench coat when he’d been over recently to catch the Michigan/OSU game on Tony’s big screen TV (the one he never watched unless friends were over!)

“Yeah,” Tony said. “That’ll work.”

The showstopper was his shoes.

“Oh, shit, what am I gonna do?”

Tony’s feet were NOT going to fit into those size 10E sneakers, not matter what he did. Then he remembered Uncle Nico’s work boots. Uncle Nico was Aunt Sophia’s husband, a great big hulk of a man who helped Tony build his deck last summer – and who had left his muddy Size 13 boots in Tony’s laundry room with a promise to come pick ‘em up the next day. Tony spent 10 minutes cleaning ‘em up, then slipped ‘em on – a perfect fit!

“I wonder what Doc Gustafson is gonna say about THIS,” Tony said to himself as he headed out the front door.

* * *

“Oh My Fucking God,” Gustafson said as Tony peeled off the trench coat.

“What happened to you?”

Tony scratched his head.

“Well, I grew.”

Gustafson snorted.

“Yes, son, that much is obvious. HOW did you grow?”

Tony told Gustafson about working out. And about how much he’d been eating.

“OK, enough already. I still don’t see how that could work, but let’s get some baseline information here and THEN speculate. Go ahead and strip.”

Tony turned his back on the doc and did as he was told, blushing furiously. As Doc had given the command to strip, he’d gotten COMPLETLEY hard.

He turned around.

“Sheeyit, son! Be careful with that thing. Yer gonna poke somebody’s eye out!”

Now it was Gustafson’s turn to blush.

“Uh, sorry about that. Sometimes my Georgia roots WILL show through. But that’s one mighty impressive piece of equipment you’ve got there. Am I correct in thinking it wasn’t, uh, this BIG when you were here last week?”

Tony nodded, too embarrassed to speak.

“Well, no shame in that. If we can figure it out we stand to make a fortune. But let’s just get some readings first. Step up on the scale.”

Gustafson measured Tony’s height first.

“OK, 6 ft even.”

Tony gasped.

“I’m only 5’10,” he exclaimed.

“You WERE 5’10,” Gustafson replied. “Now you’re 6 ft.”

Next was weight – 255 lbs.

“Shit, Doc, that’s 60 lbs. in one week.”

Gustafson nodded.

“Ayup, and about 15 lbs. more than I am. You done GROWED, son.”

Then Gustafson pulled out his tape measure and got down to business:

Neck – 21 inches. Chest – 59 inches. Shoulders – 65 inches. Biceps – 21 inches. Waist – 31 inches. Quads – 31 inches. Calves – 21 inches.

Gustafson scratched his head.

“Well, Tony, I don’t know how you did it but you’ve managed to turn yourself into a world class bodybuilder in just one week. Do you know how improbable that is?”

Tony nodded.

“Not that you didn’t have a damn fine physique before. I’ve been lifting myself for 20 years and I don’t know many guys who are better put together than you were. How long have you been training, 10-15 years?”

Tony nodded again.

“Uh, Doc, there’s one thing you did NOT measure.”

Gustafson blinked.

“Well, that didn’t grow, TOO, did it?”

Tony nodded a third time.

“Holy moly. OK, then, uh, well, gee, I guess it IS hard now, huh?”

Another nod.

“Errm, well, hmm! I make that out as 10 ½ long by 7 ½ around. Does that sound about right?”

This time Tony’s jaw dropped.

“It was about 7 x 5 before, Doc.”

Gustafson laughed.

“Totally proportional in that case. You gain another 50 lbs. and you can go into the porno business.”

Tony frowned.

“Uh, sorry, son, just a little joke there.”

Tony stood up again, right in front of Gustafson. At 6 ft, Tony was now nearly eye to eye with the 6-2 Gustafson.

“The other thing, Doc, is that I’m a LOT stronger,” Tony said through clenched teeth. “Let me demonstrate.”

With his right hand Tony grabbed a handful of Gustafson’s shirt – and lifted. With one arm, Tony was holding the 240 lb. Gustafson up in the air, the big doc’s feet toes dangling 2-3 inches from the floor.

“Uh, you can put me down now, Tony.”

Back on the ground, Gustafson straightened his shirt, adjusted his tie, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“I think it’s time for us to visit the sports performance lab. We’ve got some more readings to take!”


Part 4


Tony’s jaw dropped when Dr. Gustafson ushered him into the shiny new facility that was the sports performance lab. It was a wet dream of a gym, with every piece of equipment imaginable. Tony headed immediately for the dumbbells. For whatever reasons shrugs had always been one of his favorite exercises. He grabbed a pair of 140 pounders – pleased to see that the lab had them all the way up to kingsize 200 pounders – and did a few shrugs.

“This used to be my max, Doc. Now they’re light as a feather.”

Then he had an idea.

He started CURLING the 140 lb. dumbbells, strict reps with perfect form. When he got to 20, Gustafson let out a whistle.

“OK, son, that’s enough. I think it’s pretty clear that 140 is NOT your single rep max on dumbbell curls. Let’s try bench press.”

Tony stretched – Gustafson was sure his arms had inflated another inch or two, after all they’d measured at 21 inches cold! – then headed for the Smith machine.

“How much shall we start with?” Gustafson wanted to know.

“I could do six plates for reps before,” Tony pointed out. “My single rep max was 405.”

Gustafson looked Tony up and down.

“And you were WHAT before, 195 lbs? That’s pretty danged impressive for 195 lbs, ya know.”

Tony laughed.

“Well, yeah. Anyway, let’s START with eight plates, OK? I’m feeling STRONG today.”

Gustafson helped him load on the plates, then Tony settled down on the bench.

“Uh, Doc, do you mind if I take this sweater off? It’s wool, ya know, and those Greek sheep are hot little fuckers.”

Tony removed the sweater and Gustafson immediately started getting a chubby. “Shit,” he thought, “this boy has NO bodyfat. One more thing to check!”

Back on the bench, Tony took a breath, lifted off – then cranked out 20 perfect reps.

“Uh, I think I could use some more weight, Doc.”

Gustafson’s chubby turned into a full blow hardon. This guy was fucking awesome.

They went up in 90 lb. increments, 2 plates at a time

495 lbs. – another 20 reps 585 lbs. – 15 reps 675 lbs. – 10 reps 765 lbs. – 5 reps

By the end of the fifth set Tony was sweating like a racehorse, a thought reinforced by the fact that his massive schlong was a steel girder running up along his rippled abs, barely contained by the tough elastic of his sweatpants.

“Let’s try two more plates, Doc.”

“Here goes nothing,” Gustafson thought, adding another 90 lbs. to the bar.

Tony settled back down but before he could begin his last assault Gustafson said, “Hang on a minute,” then slipped two 25 lb. weights on the bar.

Tony’s intake of breath was like an industrial strength vacuum. He nudged the bar up, let it slam down to with a quarter inch of his massive, fur-covered pecs, then slowly, evenly, without pause lifted all 915 lbs. back to the starting position. The huge assemblage of weight crashed back into the supports, and Tony sat up, looking totally wired.

“Man, what a pump!”

Gustafson’s hand trembled as he did some math on his clipboard.

“Uh, Tony, do you realize that you just bench more than 3 ½ times your own weight? I think it’s quite probable that pound for pound you’re the world’s strongest man….”

Without saying a word, Tony took Gustafson’s clipboard, set it on the bench, then before Gustafson realized what was happening, picked the big man up, laid him out flat, and started curling the big doc, rep after rep, his dark Mediterranean eyes locked with Gustafson’s pale blues the whole time.

“Uh, Tony,” Gustafson said around the 30th rep, “this is cool and all but I’m getting seasick.”

Tony switched his grip, squeezing Gustafson up in a big bear hug. Without thinking Gustafson wrapped his thick thighs around Tony’s impossibly small waist. Tony pinned the big doc against the concrete wall of the lab and started nuzzling Gustafson’s chest.

“Tony, Tony, what are you doin’, son?”

Tony looked up into Gustafson’s eyes with an intensity Gustafson had never seen before in his life.

“You know you want this.”

Gustafson stammered his reply

“Oh, G-g-god, y-yes, I really DO want this, dude. But not like THIS, OK?”

Tony put Gustafson down.

“Now about that PATIO, Doc. Still need some help with it?”

Gustafson didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“I just have some really BIG pieces left to install. I just haven’t found someone strong enough to help me put ‘em in place.”

Tony lifted an eyebrow.

“Before NOW, that is.”