When I Was Still Human

“I want to fuck you while I’m still human,” I told him.

Coach Randy Hinton was up against the cement block wall of the chem lab supply closet, his feet dangling a foot off the floor, pinned there by my right hand.

“Are you crazy?” he said. “You’re 14 years old!”

Hinton was hot as fuck. About 5’10, 200 lbs. of solid muscle, dark hair, sideburns, stubble, hairy chest, he was 23 years old, taking a year off from farm team baseball before he figured out what he wanted to do with his life.

“You know you want it,” I replied.

He licked his lips. I could tell from the bulge in his pasted-on jeans that I was right.

“Face it,” I said. “You’ve never met a man as big or as built as I am. Arnold, Mentzer, Lee Haney, they’ve got nothing on me and you know it.”

It was true. I was a freak. Six feet tall, 300 lbs. of solid muscle. Think Nick Trigili, only with lower bodyfat.

“Check it out, Coach,” I said and I flexed my left arm. “Twenty-four inches cold, 19 inch forearms.”

Plus a 60-inch chest, 30-inch waist, and 32-inch quads – Yes, I was freak and he knew it.

“Roger…” he moaned. I let him down.

“Take a look at this,” I said, “and tell me you don’t want it.”

I yanked down my sweats and unleashed the python, 13 inches of pulsating, rock hard man meat, nine inches in circumference.

“Jesus God,” he sobbed.

I took him then and there.

He's now a right-wing Congressman from south Alabama, married with four kids.


It had been a wild ride and it was only getting freakier.

A year earlier I’d started 8th grade at 5’8” tall and 150 lbs., kinda big for a 13 y.o. but nothing out of the ordinary. By the end of the school year I was two inches taller and 50 lbs. heavier. That got me noticed by the PE staff, especially considering my body fat was in the single digits, which is how I managed to sport a 46 inch chest, 28 inch waist, and 18 inch biceps.

And I was benching 400 lbs. for reps.

Like I said, I was a freak.

That summer, though, I grew another two inches taller and gained 100 lbs. of solid muscle, which is how I wound up in the Chem Lab store room, fucking the daylights out of Coach Hinton.

I’d known I was going to do it from the time I laid eyes on him at football tryouts. The other kids and the coaches were screaming their heads off when I benched 1050 lbs., 3 ½ times my body weight and half again as much as the official world’s record. Hinton’s eyes were bugging out, his mouth hanging open, literally gasping for air, his clipboard not quite hiding the big salami in his football shorts.


That fall, yet again, I grew another two inches and gained another 100 lbs. of muscle. By the time Christmas rolled around, I was 6’2 and weighed 400 lbs. Next to me, Poundstone and Kennelly (if they'd been around then) would have looked small.

Just before school was out for the holidays I approached the bench again. This time it was just over 2000 lbs. That’s right, an even ton.

There were four guys on each end of the bar and two in the middle but I lifted off, brought it down for one perfect rep, and re-racked it, all with no assistance.

In August they’d cheered wildly. This time the room was dead silent. They knew they were in the presence of greatness, that they’d witnessed something they might never see again in their lifetimes (unless they saw me doing it.)

Mike Johnson, the 18 year old senior quarterback, was sobbing.

“You,” I said, pointing at him. “With me. The rest of you – out!”

There was no question, they left.

Mike was gorgeous, 6’1” tall, blond hair, green eyes, cute little caterpillar mustache, 215 lbs. of perfectly proportioned muscle. He was the homecoming king, steady boyfriend of the hot buxom blond cheerleader captain, straight as an arrow.

But it didn’t matter. What I wanted I got and no one thought anything of it. Having sex with me didn’t make a guy gay, they all agreed, unless he really was. It was more like an honor.

I was nearly twice Mike’s size. My 32-inch biceps were as big as his waist, my 26-inch forearms were the same size as his quads, each of my 44-inch quads as big as his chest.

And my dick was keeping up with my added height. At 15 inches long and 10 inches around, it made a crowbar look dainty.

“Why me?” he asked quietly.

“Because you know,” I answered. “But you don’t really know.”

He knew what it was like to be the Alpha Stud of the Universe, the guy who won all the trophies, the guy who got all the girls, the guy all the guys wanted to be like.

But I was so much more.

So much bigger, so much stronger, so incredibly porn-star hung.

“Because you will be so much more than you are now,” I told him. “Know me and know the future.”

And he fell to his knees and nursed my cock like a suckling calf, then I fingered his hole until his eyes rolled back in his head and he shot his jizz all over those perfect abs, and rubbed those abs up and down my dick as if he were some sex toy, and when I shot my cum snapped his head back so hard I was afraid he’d been concussed.

He played five years for the NFL, then retired when he was diagnosed with AIDS. He died two years later.


I was still growing.

Four months after I expanded Mike's horizons Taylor Harris came and stood by my locker. At 6 feet and 200 lbs. of ripped muscle, he was the perfect surfer jock, honey blond hair down to his shoulders, smoke gray eyes, a tan that George Hamilton would weep over, and, like me, just turned 15 years old.

“I gotta have it,” Taylor said quietly.

I arched an eyebrow.

“You think so? I thought you were all about pussy.”

He gulped.

“I am,” he agreed. “But I can’t take it anymore. I’ve got to know what it’s like. And my family is moving. If not now…”

I chuckled.

“Then when?”

He nodded.

“I gotcha,” I said, closing the locker. “But which is it? This…”

I flexed my 40 inch biceps. At 6’4” tall, I was up to 500 lbs. of solid muscle, more than likely the biggest muscular man who ever lived.

“Or this?”

I wrapped my giant hand around a dozen inches of soft meat. It was rapidly hardening and by then it was maxing out at 17 inches.

“Both,” he whispered.

I walked him to class, my giant arm completely engulfing his broad, muscular shoulders, his beautiful head resting against my boulder-sized deltoids.

“My house,” I told him, “this evening.”

And there in front of God and Mrs. Sarbanes’ 9th grade composition class, I kissed him thoroughly, so thoroughly that he jazzed in his pants, as did the rest of his classmates, male and female alike, and Mrs. Sarbanes, too.

That was 28 years ago this month.

A lot has happened since then.

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