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UNO Conocí a Tomás durante las vacaciones de verano. Yo acababa de recibirme de profesor de Matemática y como el resto de mis amigos había tenido que ingeniármelas dando clases particulares. Por suerte para mi frágil economía el asunto resultó bastante bien y en poco tiempo, gracias a la ayuda del boca en boca y la suerte de encontrar al "Peor Curso de la Historia de la Humanidad", en poco tiempo me encontré dando clases particulares todos los días. Así que cada día visitaba una casa diferente donde encontraba los mismos chicos y chicas que no entendían nada de nada, que si les hablaba de ecuaciones podían llegar a decir que ellos no querían estudiar química y que si por casualidad se me ocurría preguntar que era lo que no entendían largaban respuestas del estilo: —De mitad de año en adelante nada. Así fue como una tarde particularmente calurosa conocí a Tomás. Su mamá me había contactado por recomendación de la mamá de un amigo de él. Tomás tenía diecisiete años y al parecer las matemáticas no eran su fuerte. Lo que primero me llamó la atención fue el tamaño de la casa. Mi padres no eran pobres, ni mucho menos. Tenían su departamento y su casa de fin de semana en el country, pero yo nunca había visto una casa de semejante tamaño en medio de la ciudad. ¡Ocupaba media cuadra! La madre le pidió a una de las mucamas (tenían mas de una) que me llevara al estudio del fondo y se fue ella misma a buscar a su hijo al segundo piso. Atravesamos la casa y salimos al jardín más grande que vi en mi vida. Tenían una pileta olímpica y una cancha de tenis que solo ocupaba menos de la tercera parte e todo. En pocas palabras: una mansión. La mucama me abrió la puerta del estudio y me pidió si me podía traer algo para tomar. Le pedí una limonada. Lo que sucedió después me resulta medio confuso ya que no estaba preparado. Había dado clases a chicos de esa edad y más grandes también. A mis treinta y cinco ahora me daba cuenta de los chico que había sido a mis veinticinco aunque yo en esa época no me daba cuenta. Quizás por eso no asocié lo que estaba viendo con nada más. Un hombre salió de la cancha de tenis después de hacer frontón durante un rato. Llevaba puesto solo un pantalón debajo del cual asomaban unas piernas enormes, largas y musculosas que se tensaban con cada paso que daba. Se podían ver la forma de los músculos con cada movimiento, así como la casi inexistencia de grasa. Eran unas piernas propias de un hombre... y que hombre. Por sobre el pantalón comenzaban los abdominales más grandes y perfecto que hubiera podido imaginar sobre los que sobresalía un pecho enorme y poderoso que brillaba con cada rayo de luz. Todo ese cuerpo de hombre era coronado por unos hombros del tamaño de melones de los que salían dos brazos más poderosos que había visto. Era un cuerpo que emanaba una fuerza impresionante. Una musculatura que parecía estar empujando por crecer todavía más. Se tiró al agua antes de que pudiera ver su cara. Nadó hasta el extremo cerca de donde yo estaba y solo con la fuerza de sus poderosos hombros se elevó hasta salir. Fue la muestra de lo que un hombre era capaz si se proponía crecer, volverse fuerte y solo eso: seguir creciendo. Se elevó en toda su increíble altura y pude ver el rostro de niño de diecisiete años. Agarró una toalla y se acarició apenas cada parte de su enorme y poderoso cuerpo. Todos sus músculos exhalaban juventud, fuerza y una potencia sexual de la que yo ni siquiera había tenido una pizca. Me tendió la mano. —Vos debés ser Diego. Su mano era enorme y fuerte. Sus dedos eran los dedos de un hombre desarrollado y poderoso. Tomó mi mano entre las suyas y al saludarnos pude ver el imposible bicep de su brazo marcándose con el menor movimiento. Yo estaba tan anonadado que un hombre pudiera ser tan joven y tan musculoso que no pude decir nada más que: —Si. Tomás me sacaba más de una cabeza de altura. Era un hombre joven y poderoso. Lo más parecido a un semental salvaje y brillante. La cercanía con sus músculos enormes brillando cerca de mí me hizo perder el hilo de la historia que me había estado contando. Se puso la toalla sobre el hombro y se fue a buscar una remera. Yo quise ser esa toalla.
It didn’t seem weird to Mitch that all his friends had to suck his dad off when they came to visit, though he never had to do it when he went round their houses. It was just how his dad was, plus it was his house, you had to go by his rules. But then other people's fathers didn’t have constantly boned 13 inch wrist thick monster cocks with orange sized balls that were forever streaming thick gooey cum. His father had one rule, if you were a guy over 16 and under 30 you had to milk a load out of his cock before you came into his house. It was a fun rule, all Mitch’s friends thought so, even when his father hosted his work barbeque every year and the hot interns and his colleagues sons sucked his bull nuts dry no complained, even though a lot of food went uneaten. Though Mitch his hate having to make conversation with his fathers work friends while their sons were busy milking his dad. It left poor Mitch with no one his age to chat with for a while. At this very moment Mitch was watching TV while his buddy Vince sucked out his ‘welcome’ load from Mitch’s dad’s cock, Vince was a regular visitor, everyday since school ended, even though he lived across town. Vince was getting pretty good at milking that horse cock, he almost had it down to a science. A couple flicks of his tongue and it would only be another 20 minutes till his guts were sloshing with Mitch's father's thick cum. For most people it took an hour to get a load out of the monster. A clicking started, Mitch saw his dad smirking while he quickly typed something onto his phone. Which was pretty rude, Vince was trying really hard to be a good guest and his dad wasn't even giving his friend the attention he deserved. Mitch blinked, Vince’s loud moans blocked out the TV’s sound. Why did his father have to be such a good fucker, poor Vince’s eyes were rolling into the back of his head while Mitch’s dad impaled him again and again on his 15 inch baguette of a cock, his swollen grapefruit sized nuts slapped Vince’s peachy ass. Mitch watched Vince's feet flex from their perch over Mitch's father's boulder like shoulders. Vince was probably delirious from another orgasm. It was easy inviting friends over, they always came, then his dad made them cum. His one rule of fucking every 16 to 30 year old boy was ironclad, even Mitch’s young English teacher didn’t escape when he came around to talk about Mitch’s progress in class. Or the neighbour boys when they 'accidentally' tossed a football over the fence, they seemed to do that once or twice a week. Mitch watched his father’s wide back flare as his hairy arms pumped Vince down onto the his massive member. His dad’s muscle ass clenched and he roared. Mitch knew that his father had welcomed Vince properly with a thick gooey load shot deep into his guts. Now they could hang out, that was if Vince wasn’t exhausted after an hour long fuck. Why did his dad have to be such a welcoming stud.
So, I was talking with my friend the other day. She is a very direct girl, who doesn’t hold any secrets - perfectly blunt, in every way - and she is like that when she approaches men. She can afford to be because she is 26 years old, average height for a girl, intelligent, funny and hot - the full package. I will not name her here. One day, at a gym that she frequents with her boyfriend, with whom she is in an open relationship, she decides to approach this incredibly handsome guy, who also is a devoted gym-goer. He too seemed oh-so-very much like a good deal. Young, witty, but also very tall (198 cm, or 6'6 in retard units) and, clearly, quite strong. Through her telling, my friend recalled the ease with which he did pull-ups. This is his Instagram pic, I was told. At some point my friend started up conversations with the guy, whose name is Philip, she tells me, and through the weeks of getting together at the gym and through Facebook comments, she saw that she has a lot in common with Philip, especially when it comes to their preferences for genres in movies and books. She also noticed that he is into her. One day, they decide to get together after the gym. With my friend there is no beating around the bush. They went straight to his place - no dates, no romantic walks. She had already learned his humor, likes and dislikes. She wanted to know his primal side now. What is he like when passion takes hold of him? She got more than she bargained for. “Can you imagine what he must’ve looked like after the gym that evening? All that testosterone brimming inside him…” my friend recalled. She remembered him being larger than ever before due to the pump he was having. Veins were jumping out of him. Probably looked like this other pic from his Insta account. When they got into his bedroom, my friend couldn’t help but marvel at how the entire place was well organised and tidy. The bedroom was spacious, so he had set up a pull-up bar and a heavy-looking punching bag. There were also quite a number of large mirrors, which made the room appear bigger than it actually is. Another set of mirrors was near the bed - one on the wall on the side of it, and the other stuck to the sealing above the bed. By the time they got to the bed, their clothes were shed. This is, by the way, where she finally got a good look at his beautifully shaped ass. At first, he was being very gentle with her as they were starting foreplay and kissing. However, at some point, my friend said that she started to goad him, so that he would become more rough with her. I think she likes it that way. After a slap here, a wicked laugh there, he grew increasingly - and visibly - annoyed… He wasn’t amused at all. He grabbed her by her arms and forcefully picked her up with great ease, as if to correct her behaviour. Then, he laid her back onto the bed with some frustration. She described his face as barely containing anger and remembers his loud breathing. He got up, nude, with every muscle and every vein visible on his large tight body, and he walked furiously across the room in circles. The muscle mass on him, combined with his imposing height, makes him weigh at around 115 kilos - nearly twice her weight. His steps were booming. He then took a sturdy metal chair from a corner of the room and placed it in front of the bed. Still annoyed, he said to her “come here.” She could tell from his tone that he was in no mood for hesitation, so she got up from the bed and walked up to the chair. He impatiently turned her away from himself and picked her up off the floor onto the seat, so that her behind would face him. It looked to her that this was his version of foreplay, so she was still looking forward to what may come out of this all. He entered her vagina with his decent-sized dick and thrusted strong enough that her knees were no longer touching the chair, which was there to support them in the first place. It felt good, albeit a little violent. While she was moaning, she looked up into the mirror by the bed and saw that Philip was focused solely onto himself in the reflection. She said that she thought at the time “Fuck, I’d be looking at myself if I were as gorgeous as him”. He was staring into his own eyes and into the glistening muscles of his own large and powerful body while practically holding her 60 kilos constantly in the air. He was going like that for several minutes. When he finally turned his focus to the girl he was thrusting, she felt that he was getting a bit flaccid. Not too much, for he was still a clear presence inside of her. Philip leaned over her back and stretched his arm down, next to her head. He was again gazing at their reflection in the mirror, but now he had a renewed hardness to his dick. My friend said that she was enjoying the feel of his strength imposed on her, and said that it was even more than she had hoped for. He certainly knew how to move down there, not just simple thrusts. She was genuinely enjoying it, but she was still able to see that Philip was actually focusing now on the monstrous size of his own arm when put next to her significantly smaller body. He flexed it so that the peak of his bicep would be right next to her head. She remembered how she rubbed her head against his bicep and feeling that rock-like hardness. Then, she told me, something unexpected happened. He got out of her, then proceeded to put her back on the bed. He placed the chair on the bed too, so that it was above her head. Now he was above her, and she was facing him, and their sex organs reunited. He was straddling her like a mighty lion, and he appeared inhumanly large above her. All she could see were his stone-hard abs and huge pecs as they were thrusting up and down, along with her entire body. Here comes the weird part. He looks down into her eyes. She was feeling a mixture of ecstasy and fear in that moment. He was insanely hot, even in this moment of bestial mindlessness, yet everything that was going on escaped even her wildest fantasies, and I can tell you, my friend has some wild imagination. It was in that moment when he grabbed ahold of the chair and, while looking into my friend’s eyes, proceeded to crush it! It was here that fear completely took over in my friend’s mind. Crushing that chair is no small feat. According to my friend, it had a steel frame with elements of hard wood and was quite heavy and solid. Philip squeezed it with his powerful hands while relentlessly looking into my friend’s eyes. Soon, the chair’s frame gave way to his pressure and started to grind and crack loudly. By this point my friend was petrified with terror at what she was seeing. Philip was practically turning from a prince into a savage monster before her very eyes. He groaned with his deep and booming voice as he was distorting and destroying the chair. He was looking with his cold unyielding eyes deep into her while he was doing it. He pinned the frame of the chair next to the girl’s petrified naked body and ripped the bars towards himself. She could do nothing but watch silently this monstrous display of power because she was helpless. The strength that was needed to pull and rip the steel outward was bordering inhuman. Looking at those dark, cruel eyes of his, she was actually afraid… that he was going to switch the chair with her at some point. Philip got off of her and violently launched the remains of what used to be a chair onto the wall, shattering it into bits that scattered on the floor. His wrath wasn’t subsiding, though. He then furiously launched hits at his punching bag. The whole building was shaking at the shockwaves that his punching produced. His precise movement and enormous strength with which he was hitting made it evident that had the bag been human, there would be no more life left in it. During this unbelievably intense moment, my friend’s wits came back to her, and she thought of a way to prevent things from escalating. She got off the bed to her feet and silently said his name in a calm manner. “Philip?”, in response to which he stopped his punching and looked at her. His chest was heaving from deep breaths, and his pumped up muscles were covered with sweat. She approached him carefully, barely containing her shivering, knowing full well that he might lunge at her. This time, however, she had gotten to know him a bit. She took his large hand and brought him to one of the mirrors. The blood was coming back to his cock at the sight of his own reflection. In that moment, he was a personification of power - a god of strength and beauty. Every muscle fiber was bursting on him. He was enormous, bigger than life. He wanted to turn around towards her, but she stopped him from doing that, lest he get some new ideas. She stood behind him so that his frame would completely eclipse her from the mirror. Only her hands were visible because she was caressing his muscles gently. He realised that it felt good that his god-like body is finally receiving some worshiping. His dick was insanely hard now. He looked at himself as the petit female hands were passing over the massive landscape of his sculpted V-shaped torso. He flexed his arms and allowed my friend to feel the enormity of power emanating from his hard lats, triceps, and biceps. He knew that nothing could stop him in this moment if he went on a rampage, but getting some love and appreciation for the body he had painstakingly built over the years felt much more rewarding. He could no longer contain himself. His breathing and his twitching stiff cock became a signal of the fact that he could no longer fight his sexual urges. My friend realised that, so she jerked him off. When he laid down on the bed, she gladly sucked him because she was relieved. He came in a torrent of sperm. My friend told me about this with clear fear and disbelief at the events she was describing, but I, for whatever reason, felt like it was the sexiest thing I had ever heard. She says that they are still friends, and I still see his comments on her posts, but she said that that day’s experience is something she is not eager to repeat… I barely contained my breathing as she was describing all of this to me. What did you feel? This is based on true events that happened more than half a year ago. Here is another picture of “Philip”. I hear that he finally understood what a beauty he is, so now he took to modelling.
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.