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Old April 3rd, 2014, 12:44 PM
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Beyond Sexy - Allure

I found myself with some free time and just started writing like crazy, but didn't get as far as intended. Also, I decided to start another thread in an attempt to get some feedback. Please share your opinions in the comments.

Part 7: Allure

Ryder and Admiral greet me at the door, once again licking my face, before running off to play in the backyard. On a table, I lay down my school materials, keys, and wallet. I walk to the computer room. It's bare except for a large wooden desk, a chair, and some equipment. The wood is magnificently crafted and stained a deep passionate red. Tucked under desk is a sturdy looking computer chair, expensive too. The metal is painted dark brown, and the leather is pitch black. The arms are spread far apart from each other, showcasing an almost comically wide seat. I pull out the seat, and sit; the chair groans slightly. There is plenty of room for my quads, enough room to spread out my legs The desk top is located high above my quads, yet at the perfect height for my forearms. It?s perfect, almost as if the desk was specifically made for me. Given my condition, it is possible that the university custom ordered this desk and chair and had them constructed over night. In any case, I'm grateful.

My massive arm reaches under the table to turn on the computer tower, and then it moves up toward the projector. The clothed musclebound arm is eye level, as it presses the power button. Staring at my bicep a single word pops into my head, nudity. The urge to undress seeps deep into my mind. The blinds are closed, nobody else is in the house, Ryder and Admiral won't have a problem. Still at eye level, my bicep twitches, almost begging to be freed from its confines. However, if I walk around shirtless or nude, other urges may quickly overtake my desire to study. I bring my arms together in a circle, noting how my pecs push out several inches. My clothes are comfortable, but my birthday suite is much more comfortable. A pulse develops in my penis and travels through my body. Causing hundreds of pounds of dense hot muscle to cascade into an involuntary full body flex. The empty space in the room shrinks as my muscle tissues expand, and threaten to rip the white undershirt.

The autofellatio session earlier didn't actually drain my body; like Craig, I can experience multiple orgasms from one erection. Once my penis becomes erect, I must cum, and then consciously will the ridiculously large organ to soften, otherwise it can remain hard almost indefinitely. The current record is twenty-one orgasms off a single erection. The record would be longer, except dozens of toys greedily kept eating my cum, leaving their owner without a appropriate food supply. Their bodily fluids just didn't quite do the job; eventually I sent some toys fetch a hearty meal. After devouring some steak, potatoes, and green beans, along with a gallon of alcohol, my penis once again regained its unearthly strength. Off the second erection, I managed seventeen orgasms. Boredom, rather than hunger or exhaustion finally caused my penis to stop.

Once in blue moon, I spend the entire day masturbating and blowing myself off. Days without school or clients tend to morph into a one person orgy, lasting anywhere from one hour to the entire day. Other days, I practice self-control, by walking around shirtless or nude. Some days are more successful than others. Since moving into this house I've actually ruined the wall paint and carpeting. The paint has been scraped off and reapplied to nearly every wall, five times over the course of a few months. Every inch of carpet has also been replaced, five times now. Recarpeting and repainting this entire house is a tiring, time consuming, and expensive job; I tend to keep in the bathroom during blue moons.

Just as before a low sensual moan can escape my thick juicy lips, I think, 'This room needs a bookshelf.' Closing my eyes, the sexual energy stirring in my genitals is forced to recede. After several seconds, my muscular legs push against the floor prompting my body to stand. My frame begins moving toward the door. Instinctively, two large feet begin rotating 90 degrees, forcing the attached mass to match the new direction. An unimaginable number of tissues work together, allowing my knees to bend. With the loss of height and width, I am able to move through the door frame. Maybe it's because my pecs obscure the view, but today the door frame seems especially close to my chest. Erecting myself on the other side, I feel up my chest. Each hand caresses a pectoral. As I fondle my chest, I note the subtle differences from Monday. Each pec is a little thicker and rounder. Squeezing firmly, the hard muscles hardly give.

Stepping back into the doorway, I press my back against the wood. My hand measures the distance between the thickest part of my chest to the wooden frame. There is a good amount of space between my hard body and the softer wood. It appears that I haven't grown too big for this house, yet. However, one day it will happen; even turning sideways won't allow my body to enter a doorway. The day when my head touches the ceiling will eventually also arrive.. I'll need another house soon. Exiting the doorway, my body crosses the hall into my bedroom.

Opposite from the doorway is a large five-tiered dark cherry wood bookshelf stocked with dozens of large books. Grabbing the sides of the bookshelf, I tilt it back so nothing falls, and carry it to the door. Carefully, I lower the wood to the floor and with one arm push it into hall. For several seconds, my body twists and bends through two doorways and the hall. Once the bookshelf is the computer room, I push it against the wall. Now the room is more complete, less bare. Sitting back in the large comfy chair, I log onto my private account and proceed to search up my name.

Probably around a hundred people took my picture or video on campus. The search results show that twenty different accounts have posted electronic media with my image. Some of the pictures are trending, which is strange because I didn't do anything noticeable. Apparently sitting and walking is ridiculously captivating. In just over one hour, the top video has almost a million views. The top picture has been shared over half a million times. I begin reading some of the comments.

"He keeps getting more handsome."

"Can't wait to cop me some of that shit"

"Mirin brah? fuuuuuuuuuuark"


"Fuckin beast"

There are comments in Spanish, German, French, Hindi, Arabic, Chinese, and a slew of other languages. In addition to English, I am fluent in Spanish, German, French, Arabic, Japanese, Latin, Russian, and sign language. Taking advantage of my archive of information, I begin searching myself in other countries. It's the same in every country, just like the states. Everyone appears to love my image. It's plastered all over the internet, with several websites including startling information. My birthplace, some growth records, full name, past addresses, schools, current university, among other things appear listed clear as day. In addition to personal information, there are several lists detailing all the shirts, pants, shoes, and undergarments I've ever worn. Certain preferences are also available like food, music, television shows, video games, and even sexual partners. Feeling defeated, though somewhat amazed at the details, I begin looking up my writing assignment for Monday and today.

On the giant keyboard, large sausage sized fingers begin typing. From the university website, I log into my student account to view the online courses. Clicking on Freshman Composition, then on the assignments link, two days worth of work pops up.

Read pages 357-383, in your textbook. Answer the questions on pages 184-186, then choose two stories or two poems and write a response to each. Complete the quiz found here.

Read pages 390-420, in you textbook. Answer the questions on pages 222-226. Analyze the story, then write a response. As always support you response with textual evidence and commentary.

Most of the authors covered in this section write about love, sexuality, or comfort with one's self; subjects somewhat enigmatic to me. Freshman Composition 1301 is actually my most difficult class. Freshman biology is mostly memorization, though the professor tries to break students out of the habit by including application questions on the tests and homework. Calculus and chemistry require a bit more thought. Those two courses require memorization and understanding of basic principles and then applying the knowledge to solve problems. Memorization and application just seem to click for me, so the classes are a breeze. However, freshman comp is different. There is a lot of reading poems and stories, then interpreting them on paper.

My experiences are different from the pretty much everyone else's. The only people I've every loved were my parents, I still do, however they can't be around me. Physically, I feel attraction to males and females, but I've never emotionally connected with anyone. They were too busy worshiping me, and I too busy stretching various holes to really get to know anybody more than just as a sex toy. Everyone is attracted to me, without a known exception. There is no heterosexuality, homosexuality, or even asexuality in my presence. There is only inescapable, all engulfing raw sex. Straight men, such as John and Charles, and gay women, still prefer women, but around me they desire me. Not men, me. The discomfort with myself, isn't from lacking some physical or abstract trait, it's from being too much. Too tall, handsome, and muscular, while at the same time being hypnotic and somehow charismatic. My being doesn't fit well the thoughts and ideas of any writer, or great thinker. It's difficult to right down such thoughts on paper and even harder to support them, without appearing to have a god complex.

From the bookshelf, I retrieve the class textbook. My memory is accurate and long lasting, skimming each page is enough to convert the text to memory. Allowing the text to sit and marinate in my mind, sometimes yields much more insightful responses than immediately putting pen to paper or in this case, finger to keyboard. Going through the book only takes about twenty or so minutes, leaving time for my other subjects. Biology starts covering the cell cycle, chemistry lecture is over gases and the gas laws, and finally calculus deals with optimization. Watching the lecture videos, reading the notes, and glancing over the class' respective textbook takes longer than anticipated; looking at the clock on the bottom of the screen, it's already 12:16. I'm supposed to be at the first job by 2:00. There isn't a biology assignment today, but chemistry and calculus decided to hit hard, two homework assignments and quiz in each class. Despite having all the mass, temperature, and pressure conversion memorized and an iron clad memory, I like to work out every step. It aides the learning process, instead of just memorizing blindly and hoping similar questions appear on the test. Taking another look at the clock, it's 1:37, I managed to finish the chemistry quiz and the first assignment. There is still all of calculus, the writing for freshman comp, and some reading for human behavior. Today's client list isn't very long; there should be time to finish all the homework.

Leaving the room, I head towards the kitchen. My stomach is still content from today's sweet protein shake, however I like to avoid getting hungry during work. On the kitchen table sits a large glass bowl with clean apples, oranges, grapes, and bananas. My left arm extends to the bowl for a Granny Smith apple. The around fruit is completely encased within five iron bars. I place the whole apple in my mouth. Strong white molars begin crushing the fruit to tiny pieces. Chewing doesn't hurt my jaw or teeth. As I swallow the remains of the apple, I grab another. This time noting the size, the circumference. It's much smaller than the circumference of my hard penis. Holding the apple to my lips, I slowly insert the sour green orb into my warm mouth, relishing the sensation. My lips stretch and my jaw lowers, but taking the apple is so easy. Hardly any effort at all. With the apple firmly held in my mouth, I begin chewing once again. Smashing the sour fruit and releasing juice in my mouth. After swallowing the second apple, my arm reaches for a large yellow banana. Peeling the skin, exposes some large white meat. The entirety of the meat effortlessly goes into my mouth. Instead of chewing, the muscles inside my mouth and throat work in unison to swallow the soft white flesh. The two apples and the banana are enough to hold my stomach until dinner time, but my left arm once again reaches for the fruit bowl.

A California navel orange sits firmly in my palm; the citrus giant completely dwarfs the green apples. Finger nails on my opposite hand gently dig into the orange skin, and begin tearing away the bitter outer covering. A wet fleshy orange sits in the palm of my hand; juice begins trickle down my wrist. Again I insert the fruit into my mouth. This time, my tongue presses the squishy ball of deliciousness against the roof of my mouth. A sharp tang floods my taste buds. My board muscular tongue continues to drain the orange of its fluids, before I spit out the skin. It's white, filled with transparent chunks of pulp. almost completely dry and now devoid of any nutrients. In the sink I wash my large muscular hands and dry them with some paper towels, before heading off to work.

The first job is picking up some furniture from a warehouse, located near a some train tracks. The warehouse is a large rectangular shaped building, with long rows of windows along the sides. Before pulling up to the entrance, I see a two people. A middle aged woman with blond hair and blue eyes and adjacent to her, a healthy looking forty year old man, smiling as he talks. I've witnessed the smile enough times to know it's fake.

The man, Bill, doesn't like me "stealing" away his business. His concerns are understandable. Bill probably doesn't have any problems, with his customers hauling away their new furniture themselves, but calling in help is different. He loses a profit, a very substantial profit, to some third party. I've never actually heard anyone complain about the service or the furniture, it's always about the price. He charges an arm for delivering furniture across town and two arms to deliver to another town. People without access to a truck look for other options, like my services. I show up, load some stuff onto my truck and drive to his customer's house. Most actually end up paying me significantly more for the delivery, than he would have charged. If Bill ever finds out, he'll go raving mad.

My gigantic forest green truck, enters the property, and reverse parks in front of a side door. Bill and the woman walk over to the truck. She looks excited, giddy like a little girl. Now that the woman isn't paying attention, Bill, drops the act. His brow is furrowed, a sour expression blankets his face. He may hate me right now, but in a few seconds those feelings will be gone.

My massive fingers wrap themselves around the inner handle of the door. opening the door. The woman is beside herself with anticipation. I step outside. The warm sunlight baths my immense body in a luminous glow. The green color of my truck is reflected in my eyes, turning them dark green, further complementing my dark hair. The woman lets out a whimper, Bill relaxes his face. The agitation and fury in his gray eyes become bliss and lust. Bill has ogled me body enough times, to note the change in height and width. As I walk over to the duo, Bill's eyes bulge out of his head; I'm bigger than last time. He isn't eye level with my topmost pair of abs, anymore. My shoulders and legs are wider, occupying more space. The only thing not noticeably bigger is my waist, still just as small and tight as ever.

"Hello, Bill." Then looking at the woman, "Mrs. Johnson"

He nods slightly, she is practically drooling.

"Bill is the door unlocked?"

"Y...yes, sir," he says.

Most people tend to add sir when addressing me; I detest the word. It doesn't represent respect, or formality. Since the first time a grown man referred to me as "sir" it has been a sign of submission. Men and women much older and wiser than I, gaze upon my physique and submit their wills. Many lose their freedom of choice and some level of sanity, immediately acknowledging me as something more, something unearthly. They become timid, almost afraid to move or breath, and then there is the small fraction of unique individuals. The ones who seek to be dominated and abused by a powerful master. Mrs. Johnson's eye reflect the nature of such a person, she eagerly awaits my response. She'd love nothing more than for me to call Bill a little bitch or something. Maybe hit his face with my palm. She is going to be disappointed.

Mary and Troy Holding had the same eyes. They were ten years older than I, but constantly referred to me as "sir" or "master." After a few days of staying at their mansion, I started getting bored, so I turned to some rather kinky stuff. Nothing like wipes or leather, instead we enjoyed more simplistic things. Sometimes I'd make them attend meetings drenched in my cum or refer to themselves as various derogatory names in official emails and documents. Their butts were constantly red and swollen due to my spankings and ass fuckings. They submitted, and experienced all sorts of humiliating situations, or so I thought. The Holdings actually enjoyed by abuse, they grew to love the apparent rush and excitement, but most of all they loved the attention. Two billionaires constantly drenched in extremely potent male juices, and with ass holes stretched beyond the imagination, there was only one explanation. Everyone within eye view instantly put two and two together. The Holdings were harboring the famous titanic muscle stud.

I walk over to the metal door and grab the handle. Very gently, I apply enough force to move the metal segmented door up along its tracts, until a click is audible. The warehouse is large, obviously. There are rows and columns of shelves stocked with fully constructed sofas, chairs, tables, and all sorts of other home necessities. The ceiling is high above all the shelves, there is an extensive air condition system exposed to the air. The lights are a yellowish white color, and hang from enormous bar lamps attracted to the ceiling and shelves. Looking back to the duo, Bill continues to stare with bulging eyes, Mrs John matches his expression, but behind her over sized eyeballs is a hint of disappointment.

"Can you lead to to Mrs. Johnson's furniture?"

"Yes sir. Right this way sir," he says in a low tone.

Tearing away his eyes from by body, he leads the way to the center of the warehouse. There is a living room set, a sofa, a loveseat, a recliner, and some tables, right in the middle of a long empty row. Its the most inconvenient spot, because it is a great distance away from every exit in the building. Bill must really have it in against me; every time he pulls some shit.

Last time, he didn't lower the furniture from the topmost shelf, because I was "too early" and hadn't "given enough notice." The warehouse was, like today, devoid of any workers. I was peeved, to the point of ordering him to get on a fork lift and lower down the sofa for our customer. However, I stopped mid order because I didn't want to risk him ejaculating while operating machinery. Instead, my powerful legs propelled my muscle dense body into air. I grabbed the sofa in one arm and pulled out. When my mass plus the sofa once collided with the floor, the resulting shock wave knocked Bill the customer over, and even threatened to knock down a few rows of furniture.

This time he is playing smarter; he doesn't want to ruin another pair of jeans. Not expecting any help, I wrap my arms around the loveseat and with a false grunt lift it into the air. The weight is practically nothing, but I pretend to struggle, by readjusting my grip a couple times. Carrying the Italian leather to my truck, two sets of eyes bear into my muscles. Bill and Mrs. Johnson are enjoying the show, very much. Neither has climaxed, which is good. In less than ten minutes the entire living room set is loaded and strapped into my truck.

"Mrs. Johnson, can you once again give me directions to your house?"

"Yes master," she proceeds to give very detailed directions and a description of her house.

The master title is a bit uncalled for, but maybe necessary.

"You are not to follow my truck. You are to wait here, until you hormones return to normal. Only then are you to enter your car and drive. Do you understand me?"

"Yes master."

"Good, now give me the key to your house," I pause, "the same applies to you, Bill."

She fumbles through her large black purse, pulling out a large number of keys. With her fake finger nails, she removes the house key and hands it to me.

"Sir." Bill holds out a golden key.

"Bill, I meant the driving part, not the key part."

"Oh, uh sorry, sir." His face reddens.

Getting in my truck, I drive off to Mrs. Johnson's house. In my rear view mirror, the two are getting closer and closer together, until they lock lips. It can't be help. Two extremely horny humans, alone in an empty warehouse, there is only one logical conclusion. Wait a minute. Mrs. Johnson. If she is married, did I just encourage her to commit adultery? I told the pair to only leave once their hormones returned to normal, which may imply sex as a means. My body has already ruined too many relationships. Turning the steering wheel to the left, then switching to reverse, and again turning, my truck speeds back to the warehouse. Bill is carrying Mrs. Johnson into the warehouse. He is shirtless, she appears to be completely naked.

Lowering the window, I yell out, "Wait, wait, wait. Don't turn around. Are either of you married?"

"Yes master, I'm am married."

"I'm a widower."

"Mrs. Johnson I told you to cool down, not jump into the man's arms and have sex. What about your husband? What about your marriage?. "

I have strong feelings toward this subject, as I've seen many marriages crumble. Back in high school, when my size became impossible to hide, my mom finally gave up trying conceal my body. I would sunbath in tight little boxer briefs in the backyard, giving all the neighbors a magnificent view of my hard muscular body. Housewives helped themselves to the view, then helped each other get off or chipped in for a group of high class male gigolos to visit the neighbor hood. Word quickly spread through the town, of my little shows. The five houses surrounding mine, become hotspots for infidelity with dozens of women at a time gazing at my muscles then using other men or dildos as substitutes. Their husbands were understandably pissed. However, about two-thirds took to watching me as well. Then either having sex with their wives or with prostitutes. The rest either filed for divorce or just walked out on their families, sometimes taking the children.

Still not looking in my direction, Mrs. Johnson says, "My husband and I have an open marriage. He'll be excited to know I met you."


"We have an open marriage. He even has a girlfriend." She bites her lip and says, "Will you join us?"

That was unexpected. Without giving an answer, I raise the window and drive off. Why get married if one seeks intimacy with other people? If her marriage works, I shouldn't interfere. Still something about a non-monogamous marriage seems strange to me, paradoxical.

Several minutes later I arrive at the Johnson house. No animals respond as my truck parks in the empty driveway. The neighborhood is quite, though a bit unusual. The houses are large, but are spread out much closer together in this area than in any other part of town. Looking around, several curtains are partially drawn, several blinds reveal peeking eyes. Great just what I need. Exiting the truck, I walk over to the door and unlock it. The living room has a large wall mounted plasma screen tv and Qom rug in the center. Returning to the truck, I begin unfastening the furniture, before taking notice of the houses once more. Cameras and cellphones are clearly visible through the windows. Four women have actually stepped outside for a better view. Ignoring them, I begin the task of hauling in the furniture indoors. The sofa goes again the longest wall, the loveseat adjacent to the sofa, and the recliner opposite the loveseat. One table is placed on top of the rug, the other by the door. I don't know when Mrs. Johnson will return and can't wait around forever. The entire neighborhood knows the house is empty, so just leaving is out of the question. I walk over the house on the right, and knock. A brunette woman answers the door, slack jawed with a cellphone in hand.

"This key belongs to Mrs. Johnson. Make sure nobody enters her house."

She nods. Guilt begins to wash over me. This woman maybe busy with something, yet I just ordered her to stand guard for who knows how long. One lapse in judgement follows another.

"Hand over your cell phone."

She hands over the phone; camera app already opened.

"Turn around."

Without question or hesitation she turns. On the phone, my picky hits the front facing camera button. The view changes, from the ground to my pecs. Lifting up the hems of my shirts and exposing my abs, the phone begins snapping photos. Lowering the hems, I view the pictures, which is difficult due to the size of my fingers compared to the small screen. Each picture shows eight bronze plates fighting for space, pressing against the skin. Yet somehow, not appearing bloated or grotesque, but instead magnificent and godly. The last photo shows my abs fully flexed, a sight easily worth magnitudes of zeros following a one. None of the pictures or videos posted over the past several months show any skin other than my face, neck, hands, and rarely forearms. Upon returning the phone, this woman will have the potential to make a fortunate off a single photo.

"Turn around." I hand her the cellphone. "I added a few pictures. Don't view them until after Mrs. Johnson returns. Don't upload them online, don't share them, don't let anybody else even see them. However, if um, if you need money for an emergency you can sell the pictures. You'll get plenty of money, as much as you want really. I'm sorry for putting you through this, I really am. So um, anyways have a good day ma'am."

With that, I return to my truck and drive off, not having a chance to collect the payment from Mrs. Johnson. There are plenty of other days for that. The next several jobs are rather simple and less arousing. Yard work for an elderly man with back problems, scrubbing an empty pool, pruning shrubs and trees, and cleaning some houses. The only problem with cleaning other poeple's house is, half the time the clients are home. They aren't working or busy with some personal matter, they just stare as my body awkwardly maneuvers around tight spaces and narrow door frames.

Anna McKenzie is long time client, with a unique U-shaped house. I've been here before, opposite the front door is a pair glass sliding doors, showcasing an outdoor patio and large rectangular pool. To the right is the kitchen, connected to the dining room. Separating the dining room from a two car garage is the laundry room. Three bedrooms and two baths are located on the left side of the U.

Right as I'm about to knock on the large wooden door, a thin woman of Eastern European descent opens it. She has blond hair with dark roots and complementing gray eyes. Her stare is intense, intimidating to some people because of her natural beauty and tall stature. Though right now, it doesn't quite have the same effect. Her eyes are intense, but there is also a bright scarlet blush overshadowing her pale face. She steps aside.

The living room full of beautiful white couches with red cushions and metallic shelves. There are several photos of the family, Mrs. McKenzie, her husband, and two teenagers, Karolina and Adam. Mr. McKenzie is an attractive man with blonde hair and brown eyes. Each photo reveals wide shoulders tapering down to a relatively large waist. Not due to fat, but bone structure. His children each inherited the man's brown eyes, but look distinctly like the mother. Karolina is about sixteen in the latest photos, she is an identical copy of her mother, besides of course the eye color, same bone structure and intense beauty. Adam is my age, maybe even a little older. In addition to his father's eye color, he also inherited the man's broad shoulders and arms, along with his mother's waist line and facial features. Such a combination gives him with an incredible face and the V shaped torso so desirable in Western culture.

Returning my attention to Mrs. McKenzie, "Where do you want me to start?"

"My plumping is very leaky," she responds after, literally twenty seconds. During which she pants and moans softly; a thin delicate hand slowly travels below her tiny waist. Two fingers begin tracing her vagina, as two knees begin to buckle.

"I should go."

"No, please. Please stay. There is a broken desk in Adam's room, Karolina room is a mess, the bathrooms need cleaning, every bed is unmade, the carpet needs to be vacuumed, and the windows need washing.

"Alright then. I'll start in Adam's room. Which is his room again?"

"The last one on the left."

"Okay, I'll get started right away."

The hallway in this strange house is significantly more narrow than the hall in mine; last time I was here, my shoulders actually touched both walls. To even enter today, my body must now rotate sideways. A tree truck of a leg covers several feet in one step, the lagging truck follows. The process repeats, until I'm a few feet from an open room. Entering is problematic, to say the least. Bending at the knees, the arduous process begins. With my body at a slight diagonal, I stick out my right leg, planting it firmly inside Adam's room. My massive right shoulder stoops down over a foot just to enter the door frame. With effort, my head, left shoulder and left leg also pass through.

Some clothes and weights litter the floor; an unmade twin bed with black sheets sit sin the middle of the room. Opposite the bed, is a sliding closet stand and a television sitting on top built in drawers. Along the far side is large wall shelve, filled with trophies, books, decorations, and pictures. Half the pictures show Adam, shirtless besides a swimming pool or lake. His upper body is incredibly defined, but his lower body is less impressive. There is mass and definition, but his legs just don't compare to his chiseled chest and thick arms. Still, he is handsome, a handful of pictures show him surrounded by scantly clad young women. In the left corner nearest the door, stands a medium size metallic desk, with a rather expensive laptop. On the right corner is a heap of broken wood and metal.

Suddenly a door slams shut; thinking something could be wrong, I listen intently. There is a ruffling sound coming from one of the other bedrooms. Something starts vibrating, a few seconds later another vibrating object joins the first. Loud moans overpower, what I'm assuming are vibrators. Ignoring the sounds, my mind focuses on cleaning the somewhat messy bedroom. As I make the bed something feels off, like a hungry pair of eyes is staring at me. The house is quite, except for Mrs. McKenzie's moans and vibrators. Someone is definitely watching me, but nobody else is in the room. Thick white blinds completely block the outside world, and there aren't any visible cameras. Pushing the thoughts aside, I return to cleaning. Of all the shirts, pants, and square cut boxers on the floor, none are dirty or stained. There isn't a trace of teenage boy. On the freshly made bed, I fold the pants and boxers, then place them in some drawers. Repeating the process for the shirts, I move towards the sliding clothes to hang them. As I pull open the door, two items fall. I bend over to pick them up. One is a lubricated large size condom, the other is a MONSTER. The latter is a novelty condom, originally designed, by a small plastic polymer manufacturing company to fit my penis. I'm staring to really dislike this house; this is probably another client lost. Just the weights, desk, and vacuuming remain for this room, then there is the rest of the house. It's probably best to leave, but I feel compelled to finish the job.

The weights on the floor range from twenty to fifty pounds. In each hand I hold a 20, 30, 40, and 50lb dumbbell, and place them in the bottom drawers. Mrs. McKenzie's moaning stops momentarily, then returns with a passion. Hopefully this house is sound proof otherwise the neighbors may the police. Police don't pose a threat, but I tend to avoid them if possible. Turning to the broken desk in the right corner, I bend over to pick up the broken wood and twisted metal. Again the moaning stops and starts again louder. It can't be a coincidence, not twice.

Dropping the wood and metal, I say, "Mrs. McKenzie we need to talk, now."

I exit Adam's room and walk back to the living room, and wait. As time drags on, a realization hits. It's been along time since I've stayed in someone's house for such a long period of time. Mrs. McKenzie hasn't left her room, despite my order to meet. Could it be that her sex drive actually overpowered my command? This maybe another opportunity to test the pheromones hypothesis. I open all the doors and windows in the house, but leave the blinds over the windows, and turn on the air conditioner. Fifteen minutes later she comes out of her bedroom. She is a mess, unkempt hair, clothes drenched in bodily fluids, slightly dehydrated, yet somehow she retains the intensity in her eyes.

"Mrs. McKenzie, have you ever recorded me?"

A chalky white color replaces the crimson on her face. The intensity of her eyes suddenly dies off.

Slowly, "Well?"

"Y...yes. Several times."

"Are you recording me now?"

"Yes sir."

That word again, the sign of submission. Her entire body is trembling now almost afraid I'll hit her or worse, leave.

"Show me how."

Gingerly she walks past my immense body, to a shelf containing several picture frames. From silver colored frame, holding a portrait of the McKenzie family, she pulls off a little silver box shaped object. She walks over and hands me the little device. It's a hidden camera.

"How many are there?"


Damn, that is an unexpectedly large number. The McKenzies are fairly wealthy, which can explain the high number of cameras and the frequent calls. Then again, some people have placed themselves into debt to be around me, so money isn't really a determining factor.

"Have you ever uploaded any of the content?"

"No, sir."

"Has any member of your family uploaded any content?"

"Not that I know of. Sir."

My anger subsides a little. Why am I so angry?

"Mrs. McKenzie, I want you to erase any footage captured today. I'm not uncomfortable working here anymore, maybe in the future, but not to..."

Some sort of vehicle pulls up in front of the house. A car door slams, and loud shouts begin, "Is that his truck? Is he still here? Do y... oh my god. Oh my god. OH MY GOD."

Adam Kennie appears at the door; a dark red knob pokes out of his khaki shorts, throbbing violently and leaking precum on the waist band. He runs toward me, hands frantically tearing at his shorts. Just three feet away he jumps into the air, almost expecting me to catch him or something. I side step. He lands face first on the white carpet, with a loud thud. Tight narrow hips thrust into the carpet, as he begins moan loudly. As the moaning intensifies, his hips begin slamming the floor with an angry fury. Thud, thud, THUD. Suddenly his upper body presses against his tight white t-shirt, muscles and veins poke out, as he roars. For thirty seconds or so, he writhes in ecstasy releasing a milky white fluid on himself and on the carpet. After finishing, he rolls over on his back; chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat rolling off his handsome, yet twisted face. A furious cum covered penis recovers and once again rapidly throbs.

In a flash, he is up. The khakis and underwear fall to his ankles; not missing a beat he attempts to run, but trips. Using his strong muscular arms to break the fall, then jumps from all fours. The sexual high leads to vertical distance more than enough to make an Olympic athlete jealous. Again I side step. He lands on his feet, spins around an jumps again. Frantically he reaches for my body. jumping and clawing, but never successful.

Adam is on the higher end of the scale, where people completely lose all sense intelligence and cognition. The sight is actually pretty sad. Here's this handsome and physically fit guy, desperately lusting for my body. If the pictures in his room are anything to go off, he is straight, and maybe even a player. However, right now I've reduced him to little more than a wild animal. Though animal maybe too generous, after all reproduction isn't on his mind. Even women don't really desire reproduction, at least the first. Everyone seeks sexual gratification and pleasure, not genetic survival. A relatively few amount of people join Adam in the small range of behavior after being exposed to my body, but someday everyone will have the same reaction. Uncontrollable lust for the perfect body. Without warning Mrs. McKenzie joins in.

At this point the only way to calm down Adam and Mrs.McKenzie is to knock them unconscious. As Adam jumps again, I scoop up his entire body in one arm and deliver a kiss. His pink tongue tries to enter my mouth, but mine overpowers him. The pink muscular invader rushes into his warm mouth and proceeds to dominate the little space. I've got him completely pinned down, his mouth struggles to contain the intruding monster. As he continues to squirm, somehow my hand touches his butt. Almost instinctively, my hand firmly squeezes his buttocks. They definitely feel nice, but still have plenty of room for development. Squeezing his buttocks again, I can't help imagining myself penetrating Adam. He tries to release a moan, but nothing comes out. Without warning, he shoots a load on my chest. Thick murky squirts of cum splatter against my button down. While Adam is locked in the state of euphoria, Mrs. McKenzie tries to join in. I grab her, pull out of Adam's mouth and proceed to take hers. My tongue is so long, it actually travels part way down her eager throat. She grinds her hips against my abdomen and loses all control of her vagina. I stand in the living room waiting out an eternity for mother and son to finishing staining my shirt. Something develops in my crotch, an primal heat. My penis isn't getting erect, but something is definitely happening.

After their bodies go limp, once again begins the arduous process of walking in the tiny hallway. Passing the master bedroom, I stick my right arm inside. Mrs. McKenzie is balanced on my palm, with a flick of the wrist she goes flying into the air. Her limp body travels in an arch, hits the bed, and then bounces off. Once at the entrance to Adam's room, I balance his limp body on the palm of my hand. Taking a good look, I'd guess he is about 6'1 and some where between 180 and 190lbs. This chest and crotch are most covered with man cream; his penis looks raw and puffy, like something inside blew up. I flick my wrist just a little harder, to get Adam on the bed. Unfortunately the additional force was too much. His body flying high up, actually hitting the ceiling. Large cracks appear, just before gravity pulls Adam down to his bed. Large ceiling chunks rain down upon his hard sticky body. His body is strong enough to take the force without getting too injured. Plus he'll probably continue to feel the effects of the sexual high, so it's likely he won't experience any pain upon waking up.

With that in mind, I lock the doorknob from the inside and close the door to Adam's room. On the other side, I rip off the handle. That way if he wakes up horny, he won't go after his mother. I know of a few instances where family members were so enamored, that they forgot about the parent child relationship and proceeded to have sex. They weren't physically or mentally attracted to each other, after being around me they needed some release. Mrs. McKenzie doesn't seem the type, but Adam is a different story. He is too wild, too hungry; hopefully the door will be enough to contain his primal desires.

I walk into the kitchen and remove my button down; right in the center is a large dark wet spot. Thankfully the material is really thick, but not every absorbent, so the bodily fluids weren't able to reach my white under shirt. Grabbing some detergent out of the laundry room, I start trying to wash out the mess. Cleaning the shirt in the sink is akin to cleaning a large quilt. The material is roaming about, the counter soon fills with water and soap. For several minutes, I clean and scrub tackling a seemingly endless length of cloth. After three cups of detergent and several gallons of hot water, the shirt is finally clean. I walk over to the dryer, select the highest setting, and throw the shirt in. Waiting for the dryer to finish, I walk around the house closing most of the windows and doors.

Why did I get so angry with Mrs. McKenzie about the cameras? I didn't confront any of the earlier clients with such questions or accusations. Hell, I gave pictures of my abs to some random woman. Though to be fair the other clients didn't make it obvious. Clients have always enjoyed watching me, and deep down I suspected some were also recording. Why enjoy for half an hour, when one can take pleasure for an eternity? Action is now required on my part, even if it means no more clients. Something needs to be done. As I ponder my thoughts, the dryer finishes.

The warmth of the fabric seeps through my undershirt and clings to my body. The shirt is fairly wrinkled, but as I walk to my truck, all the wrinkles seem to fall off. The sight is very strange. All the wrinkles and creases radiate outward and sort of fall off the shirt, leaving behind a freshly pressed shirt. The warm travels down to my crotch, igniting something wild. I need to blow a lead, but not by myself. This feeling, my penis wants to feel a foreign warmth. It wants a throat, or vagina, or ass, it doesn't really care about which hole, so long as it isn't mine. What am I saying? My penis doesn't want these things, I do. No matter how much I try to blame my penis or muscles, the inescapable through is that I want sex.

Despite the limitations of intercourse with other individuals, I can't help my desires. Heat starts radiating from my genitals, then from my entire body. The inside of the truck becomes hot and stuffy. I crack the windows open slightly and turn on the air conditioner. The truck cools down, but my body is still releasing tons of heat. Pulling off road, I slam the breaks and proceed to suck myself off. After an hour or so, my penis finally releases torrent of hot sticky liquid. For several minutes I hunch over, swallowing the thick juices. The heat resides, but only slightly.

Last time this happened I walked into a sorority house and proceeded fuck every single woman into coma of sexual bliss. An entire weekend was spent stretching various holes and filling each woman with my delicious cream. The time before that, a bodybuilding competition was conventionally being held in town. I can use a bit more strength with super heavy weights, but I don't really get off with freaky bodybuilders. I enjoy an expertly crafted body with well defined muscles and exquisite proportions; today's bodybuilders are all about size. Their stomachs are all bloated and their limbs are either too big or too small compared to their torsos. Still they make for excellent releases. After leaving a dozen heavy weights plastered together, I went for two dozen male and female fitness models. Their beautiful bodies and incredibly well defined muscles were able to subdue the beast after several hours of hot animistic sex. Before the bodybuilders, there was the Olympic athlete training facility. The swimmers and runners held up nicely, but the gymnasts actually scared the crap out of me. Such ridiculously tiny bodies shouldn't have been able to even take the head of my monster, but each and every gymnast amazed somehow twisted and wormed themselves deep into my penis.

Maybe I should go back to the training facility, but the frats probably miss me. The country club is supposed to be nice this time of year, so are all the university athletes. The football players should be out practicing, in their hot sweaty gear. Hundreds of young fit bodies are probably playing intramural sports or lifting in the gym or out running. Despite this being college town, with very well respected athletic departments, the prime beef is the town residents.

Passing by a fire station, I can see a couple men washing a fire truck. Wet shirts cling to their strong upper bodies. These guys are all ridiculous attractive, like calendar hunk sexy. Right next to the fire station, is the police station. The police aren't quite as impressive. About two thirds, maybe three fourths, are young and fit. Most have arms that every nicely fill out the sleeves of the uniforms, good shoulders, and tight buns. Unfortunately, the old out of shape guys seem to be everywhere; always pulling over my truck, hoping to cup a feel or something. All my interactions with police over the past few months have ended with, men over forty-five lying on the ground gasping for air and rubbing erections through their uniforms. The town has plenty of construction sites. Right now, they are mostly empty, but during the day every site is full of muscular men. A few beer bellies here and there, but everyone seems to have nice strong bodies all around. In the last rays of sunlight, a group of cyclists is visible. Most cyclists have pretty wiry upper bodies, and massive quads and calves. One guy has on a pair of red compression shorts so tight there are actual tears along the seems. Several miles behind the cyclists is a large group of runners. High school students, a few university students, and a coach, by the looks of it. All shirtless, all drenched in sweat. The high school kids are scrawny looking, sort of. They are all mostly bone and really lean muscle, but something just looks off. The university students look much healthier; years of intense training has left them with lean muscles, and some respectable mass. Board pecs hit the air, veins and muscle tissues bunch together to bulge out and contract. Then there is the coach, probably around forty years old, and is running at the back of the pack. Not because of his age, but because he wants to keep an eye on his team. I can hear shouts of encouragement and motivation, when someone begins falling behind he forces the runner to keep up. The coach as a build somewhat rare for a runner. His muscles are lean and big, but much bigger than the university students and completely dwarfing the high school students. His pecs large enough to bounce up and down with each step, baggy shorts fail to contain two think legs, and in the rear view mirror I see a very nice ass.

The drive eventually leads to the outskirts of town. A woody area with few houses located far from each other. Each house is well kept, the grass green, and threes trimmed. However, a certain house catches my eyes. The paint looks to be around one or two years old, lush dark green grass, and no trees in the front yard. In the driveway is a man unloading large bags from his super duty truck. Slowing down, I take a good look at the guy; tall, board shoulders, no gut. Tucked under each arm is a large white bag. The bags look heavy, but he isn't struggling; his walk is casual. Leaving the bags in the garage, he turns around. It's Charles Baker; my penis releases a pulse. Charles walks back to the truck, takes another two bags, and carries them to the garage. I make a loop around the area. Charles is just about finished unloading, when I park outside his property.

Recognizing my truck he stares, while holding two hands under his arms. I exit the truck and wave.

"Hey there Charles."

"Hello," he says while nodding.

"Do you need any help?"

"No, sir. I've just about finished here."

When Charles says sir, it isn't a sign of submission. It's a sign of respect, and not because of my immense body, but because he is respectful toward everyone. I've always liked and been a bit envious of Charles. Prominent cheek bones and a straight nose seem to draw attention to his eyes. Even in the setting sun, his sapphire eyes cut through the impending darkness and contrast against his dirty blonde hair and thick dark eyebrows. Not a trace of exhaustion or stain can be seen on his handsome face. His angular jawline is covered with a day's worth of stubble. His skin is flawless and radiant. I'd guess he is about 6'2 or 6'3, board shoulders, narrow waist, bulging arms, and every bit as strong as hit looks. The two bags under his arms are 100lb cements bags; I've always had a thing for strength.

Practical strength is a huge turn on fore me. I've been with dozens of gym rats, but they don't compare to working men. In the gym, curling 200lbs takes all kinds of technique and proper equipment. Everything is about proper form and focusing on a specific muscle group. Guys build there bodies up in the gym and then go work in the real world only to discover their strength doesn't transfer. Carrying loads in a construction site is different from curling weights. Such guys are outdone by men twice their age or half their size. A lot of men and women seeking a beach body sometimes sacrifice practical strength for gym strength and aesthetics. However, Charles has 100lbs tucked under each arm and a hard body hidden under a baseball shirt. His biceps are pushing out against the sleeves, revealing large mounds of muscle with thick veins running along his arms. Living on a ranch, he is probably accustomed to all sorts of grueling labor and must have developed an insanely strong body.

"So, uh Charles do you have a girlfriend?"

I may want sex, but I still have enough reason to exert a level of restraint.

"No, sir. Not any more."

"Alright then. I've been on edge for a little bit and need some help relieving the pressure, so do you want to have sex?"

Without the slightest bit of hesitation, "Yes. I...I mean "

I walk over, take the bags from him and place them in the garage. Then I walk back to him and say, "It can be confusing, but just listen to yourself."

"Yes, I do."

"Alright then. Let's get ready. Do you have a tarp or something?"

A few minutes later, I walk into Charles' living room with two tarps in hands and some tape. The room is very spacious, with large walkways. In less than two minutes I clear way all the furniture, then tape a tarp to the floor and ceiling.

"Are you ready?"

He starts tearing off his clothes. Once the baseball shirt is gone, his muscular upper body is exposed. Not only his he strong, but he looks like a fitness model. His upper body is perfectly sculpted from year of intense labor and eating well, and maybe some gym time. As he struggles to undo the belt, his upper body flexes. After a few seconds he discards the belt and tears the button off his jeans. Fitness models make it a career to stay in shape, but Charles has them beat by a mile. Most male models tend to focus on their upper bodies, because photo shoots tend to only focus on the torso and arms. During competitions they wear long short, so there isn't too much of a need to develop equally impressive quads. Charles has thick round pectorals, muscular well defined arms, abs almost cutting through his body, along with quads and calve any professional soccer player would be proud to own. His body is in almost perfection portion, expect for the bulge in his underwear.

The head of his penis tears through the briefs exposing a thick root and matching testicles. His penis is gigantic, dwarfing porn stars and rivaling Craig's. An expression like twice blessed doesn't even begin to apply to a man like Charles. A champion physique, a handsome face, and a monster cock. I've seen Charles around town a couple of times, always taking to somebody. Yet the other person doesn't appear to listen, but instead gazes longingly into his blue eyes. Women and gay men blush as they eye fuck his hard body. The only apparent draw back is the size of monster cock, least a foot inches long and thicker than a soda can. I wonder if he has an allure similar to mine.
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Old April 3rd, 2014, 01:19 PM
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Can't wait for the next one. Been rereading the older chapters and was glad to see a new one.
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Old April 3rd, 2014, 04:48 PM
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Another awesome, awesome tale of this Godly young man who is just incredible in every single way, now we know that he is fluent in at least 9 different languages, and has the sexual stamina to leave upwards of dozens and dozens of people of all athletic backgrounds laying, sexually satisfied for hours and perhaps days afterward! I'm loving the fact that he has shown so much control, and yet, he has times where he just let his animal instincts get the better of him and he has to release them, or who knows what would happen? I'm also liking that we now have a way to refer to him, sir or master is better than nothing You just continue to keep knocking these stories out of the park and I cannot wait for the next chapter!
"Loved by few, hated by many, respected by ALL" The Undertaker, Deadman Inc.

In the MGS FC's, I am Barf the Mawg from Spaceballs, loyal, powerful, quick witted, but I have a bit of a weight problem.

Only those serious about young muscle need apply. We do accept stories, but let's keep it clean. This is the only place on the web where Ragman's "My Nephew" Stories can be found.
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Old April 4th, 2014, 05:17 PM
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This story just keeps outdoing itself.

I cannot get enough of this guy! And I'm only reading about him. To actually SEE this in front of you... well, I can see why everyone has trouble with him.

It's still frustrating to not be able to address him properly though. My inner self will NOT address him as "Master", and I can't bring myself to even use "Sir". Not because I wouldn't submit to his superiority. I would have to be an idiot not to do that. It's because I know he doesn't like it. It makes him feel uncomfortable. He also knows that hormones are speaking, not a person's mind. Yeah, I know there's a form of saying "Sir" that he doesn't have a problem with, but he has to get to know you before he knows that is what's happening there. And I know if I said "Sir", he'd probably never give me the chance to have that time. So I can't say it.

It's a real dilemma. Of course, if I lived in his real world, I'd know his first and last name, so I would probably solve the problem by addressing him by his Sir name. So in a way, I still call him "Sir". But in a way we'd both like. And that would make me happy..

How he has to watch everything he says, because his slightest statement can alter people's entire lives. To be able to make or destroy them, with a few short words. I think that is the most powerful thing I've ever heard of.

And the sad realization, that some day, he's going to outgrow the house, and then the next one, until he simply doesn't fit in the human world any more. And the way people react to his mere presence. How he grimly realizes that one day, he'll have that affect on everyone he encounters..

Maybe that was that terrible price I mentioned he might have to pay earlier. You know.. about the bulb that burns twice as brightly?

He's so young, almost obscenely young, to have this degree of power. And he seems to grow so much more every day. How long does he have, before he becomes more than the world can take?

He's running out of time..

I think I finally solved his money troubles. I honestly do not understand why he doesn't simply sit down alone, in the privacy of his own home, with a camera on a tripod, and video himself for an hour, doing.. well, anything. He could simply clean the room. He could slowly undress. For holidays, as a special treat (at extra cost) He could work out in a Speedo.
He could fry eggs.

Hell, he could just stand there.

Generate one video a week. One hour's taping once a week. Doing nothing, if he wants. Then post that as a video on a pay site that he generates. And charge a hefty membership to get on it.

Yeah, I know, they'll download it, and repost it free. One, there are ways for the video to be tough to download by the average Joe. Two, the effort he has to put in is so little, all he needs to do is add a few updates to his site every week, and police illegal copies appearing on known public sites, that I'm sure with the give and take of things, he's got to come out more financially ahead than he's currently doing, hopping all over the place doing odd jobs that somehow always turn into a debacle.

Sorry. I just can't help it. I just want to help this guy..

Charles is the luckiest man in the world. That is, behind the big guy..

And speaking of the big guy's behind.. has anybody ever Topped this behemoth? Has he ever Bottomed? I can't even imagine it possible.

Oh! and I have a new question. Did this incredible.. uh.. blessing happen to him from the moment he was born? Or did he have a few years as a normal kid, and then one morning he awoke, and started noticing this happening? And if so, what age?

I guess it's pretty plain to see how this guy just fascinates me..

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