When I Was Still Human 2

Read previous part

Taylor was perfect in every way. The hair, the eyes, the tan, the proportions and definition of his body, his voice, even his teeth.

His dick was so sweet, totally straight, 9 x 6, smooth as silk, not a blemish on it.

And, unlike the others, he worshiped me.

For the first time in my life I laid back and let someone else do the work. He licked, he sucked, he caressed, he exclaimed, he explored, he teased, he tickled.

How he learned it all I never knew; he swore up and down that he’d never had sex with a guy before, and – despite his looks and his reputation – only a couple of girls, but he knew everything there was to know.

By the time he had completed his ministrations, I was a raging bull, literally the size of a gorilla and beating my chest like one.

“You’ve…got…to…let…me…cum!!” I bellowed.

And then he took me over the mountain top and the explosion was a supernova, two of them, in fact, his and mine, my jizz and his jizz coating every single inch of our bodies.

When it was all done, he was snuggled on top of my mountainous pecs, dwarfed by their massiveness.

“Roger,” he began, then stopped.

“Yes, sexy?” I asked.


I put a finger on his lips.

I knew what he was going to say.

The only thing he could say, the thing I wanted to say.

“I know,” I answered.

“But don’t say it?”

I shook my head.

“Unless I’m very much mistaken,” I continued. “I’m going away soon.”

He raised his head and looked at me.


I closed my eyes and worked on engraving that golden evening into the deepest, most impregnable recesses of my memory.

And then the black helicopter landed on the front yard.


I never saw Taylor again, or Mike or Randy or any of the others, although it’s been easy enough to keep track of them. Taylor, blessed boy he, has lived a grand life, a start athlete in college, a founder of Google, a billionaire, and a staunch advocate for gay rights. He and his partner live in the Bay Area with their two adopted children, Liza and Roger.

Col. Axelrod was afraid that he would have to take extreme measures but I went aboard the helicopter willingly enough. By that time I was benching 3000 lbs. for reps and I think if I’d wanted to do so I could have ripped the rotors off.

But what was the point?

It’s not like I could hide a body like mine.

And, truth to tell, I was afraid for the future. I was already at the outer limit of human development and there were no indications that the growth was slowing down.

The suite they gave me at the federal compound in the Oregon high desert was a masterpiece of mid-century modern design (not that I knew it at the time), bigger than my parents’ home, with every conceivable amenity – and 10 foot ceilings.

The gym was, well, a hangar full of tanks and armored personnel carriers and helicopters and obsolete military aircraft.

And there was “Andy…” – but more about that in a bit.

As every science fiction / horror show ever written would have you believe, they tested me every which way from Sunday. Blood samples and tissue samples and reflexes and abilities – all of it off the charts, of course. They never could figure out what made me tick, what accounted for the extreme growth, the insane musculature, the mind-boggling strength.

And still I grew.

At 16 I was 6’7 and 700 lbs.

A year later I hit 6’10 feet and 850 lbs.

Come 18, I crossed a threshold, 7 feet tall, 1000 lbs. of solid, gargantuan muscle.

And it was inhumanly strong muscle. My bench doubled in the first year (3000 to 6000 lbs.), doubled again the second year (6000 to 12,000 lbs.) and hit 20,000 lbs. – 20 times my body weight – the third year.

And you know what?

My dick kept growing, too.

At 17 inches long, Taylor made a game of “surfing” on it, that one and only night we had together. By the time I was 18 I was 8 inches taller than I had been – and my cock was 8 inches longer.

Which is where “Andy” came in.

Andy was – still is – a super-flexible, super-lubricated pneumatic tube attached to what is now for all practical purposes an Artificial Intelligence.

They wanted my seed, you know, and it wasn’t like there was anyone on Earth who could take it. But Andy could and just as well because every year I was hornier than the year before.

And still, I think, I was human.


But that was a long time ago, 24 years to be exact.

After those first years, my growth slowed down. Instead of 3-4 inches a year and hundreds of pounds of muscle per year, I settled into slow growth – an inch of extra height and no more than 100 lbs. of extra muscle.

Every year.

Do the arithmetic.

In 24 years I’ve grown two feet taller and I’ve gained a ton of muscle.

Literally a ton – an extra 2000 lbs.

Today I’m 9 feet tall and I weigh 3000 lbs. I’m more than 2 ½ feet taller than I was that last night with Taylor and I weigh six times as much.

I’m not quite as tall as the average female elephant, much less the males, who often reach 13 feet at the shoulder, and I’m not nearly as heavy. Male savanna elephants often weigh 8,000 lbs. and others have weighed twice that much.On the other hand, I think it’s fairly certain that I’m the only human who has ever wrestled a bull elephant to the ground, hog-tied his feet, and then lifted him over his head with one hand.

“Piece o’ cake,” as Andy said.

When I was 18 and a third the size I am now I could “bench” 20,000 lbs. and my strength has increased exponentially since then. It’s not totally clear what I can really do but recently during yet another test the guys at the facility rigged a contraption that allowed me to perform the equivalent of a standing push press with a Boeing 777.

Just FYI:

An empty Boeing 777 weighs 297,000 lbs., almost 100 times my weight.


Yes, my dick kept growing, although not quite as quickly as before. At this point, when hard (and it’s almost always hard), it’s 3 ½ by 2 ½. Uh, sorry, I should say 42 inches by 30 inches. Once it got past 2 ½ feet in length I stopped counting inches, as such.

So, yeah, the boys in the lab, thanks to Andy, have been milking me for nearly 30 years. They have literally hundreds of gallons of my sperm frozen and ready to deploy, in case the President or Congress ever decide we need to have an Army of superhuman warriors.

Good luck with that.

They’ve been trying the whole time and thus far it really hasn’t worked out. At this point my male offspring is roughly 200 or so. They oldest ones are now in their mid-20s and they’re all strapping lads, averaging about 6’6” in height and 300 lbs. in weight with single digit body fat and above average dicks, too, although the biggest is only about 11-12 inches. Maybe their younger brothers will cross the threshold but I’m not holding my breath.

(And, no, I have no known daughters. Apparently the little swimmers are all blue...)

As for me…

Well, who knows?

By all rights someone my size shouldn’t exist.

No one close to my size has ever been this healthy.

As far as we can tell there isn’t another creature on Earth that is as strong as I am. (Well, maybe a whale, but why would a whale bench press a 777?)

They have no idea what my life expectancy is, whether at some point this impossible construction that is my body will simply fall apart, or keep going and going, a gigantic, hypermuscular Energizer bunny.

It gets lonely.

Aside from Andy, there’s only Axelrod and he’s an old stick-in-the-mud. And a bit of a homophobe, I’m afraid. The guys on the base are nameless and faceless, mostly for their protection. Early on there was a time or two when I got too close to my handlers. They both recovered, and they both agreed that they were willing accomplices, but aside from Catherine the Great, who has sex with the human equivalent of a Clydesdale? (And look what happened to her!)

Oh, don't get me wrong.

I always manage to deal with it, working the bod, setting new records, the never-ending tests, the always orgasmic sessions with Andy (for a pneumatic tube, he’s quite inventive), watching the world go by through the computer screen.

Plus over the years I’ve earned the equivalent of four Ph.D.s and I “converse” with Andy in five languages (one of which we invented) other than English.

Occasionally, though, I find myself checking in on Taylor and Francis (his husband) and Liza, who’s now eight, and their Roger, the six-year-old. Actually, I’m beginning to suspect that he’s my six-year-old, too (one of a couple of dozen); Andy knows how much the memory of Taylor means to me and I wouldn’t put it past Axelrod to cook something up.

We’ll see.

It would be nice if there were another me someday.

Maybe then I’ll be human again.