Stepdad Growth. Finale added 7-13

[bbmikenj]

51 minutes ago, Broody said:

quoting bbmikenj:

The next day, I was out by the pool, working my arms and shoulders. I’d carried the pec deck and the bench press out from the gym, for an outdoor workout. I didn’t fit into the pec deck anymore, so I was using it for overhead presses, lifting the whole machine for sets of 40 reps. It gave my delt caps a nice pump, swelling them up to the size of distorted basketballs. I was wearing UA shorts and no shirt. I liked seeing my reflection in the glass of the gym windows. My big hulking frame. I’d flex and admire myself. Even my veins had veins.

As I was loading up the bench press bar with three 100lbs plates on each side, Max came out. He was home early from work. He looked stressed out.

“Rough day?” I asked him.

“You could say that.” Then he said, “You really using 600lbs as your bench press warmup?”

“645, actually, when you add in the bar. But I’m not benching it.”

“Deadlifting?”

“Nope.” I straddled the bench and walked up to the bar, grabbed it, then started doing curls. 

“Fuck,” said Max, as I repped out slow, controlled curls with 645lbs. Then, for good measure, I leaned over and did 20 reps of reverse bent over rows, before slamming the bar back on the rack. 

“Not bad for an old man, hey Maxie?” I said, as I turned and flexed my engorged arms and delts at him. 

“Holy shit,” he said, sitting himself down on a pool chair. He was already hard. I sat down on the bench.

“Something happen at work today?” I asked him.

“Yeh. It wasn’t good. You know, when I first started this gig, I figured the kids for a bunch of losers, but I got tot asking with some of them, and heard what kinda fucked up shit that happened to them, I could get why they were pissed at the world.”

Hmm. Max, being empathetic, towards other people. That fucking estrogen.

“But then today, one of them threw a candy bar at me, hit me right in the head. It didn’t even hurt that much, but I got choked up.”

“Oh, no. Did you cry?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Right in front of them?”

“Yeh. And they started laughing at me, calling me faggot, and throwing more stuff. The guards had to break it up. I can’t go back there…I can’t…” Tears were forming in his eyes. I was beginning to miss the old Max.

“It’s okay, Bucko,” I said. I reached out to him and put my hand on the side of his face. Not long ago, he would have jerked his head away from my touch, but now, he leaned into my hand like a puppy. I realized that my hand had gotten so big that, if I wanted, I could palm his head and crack his skull with my grip. Instead, I caressed a tear away from the bottom of his eye with my meaty thumb. “I’ll make this better,” I said. “Go upstairs and take a shower. I’ll be up in a minute.” I think Max thought I was planning on coming up to fuck his brains out, and he did perk up, but I had other thoughts in mind, for the moment anyway. After he went inside, I got my phone and called the modeling agency, and politely requested that they find other work for Max. The woman on the phone was thrilled. “You know, we all felt that Max’s exceptional looks were being wasted there. We have so many better positions for him.” Yeah, I thought lustfully, so do I.

As Max showered, I got a bag and went around the house, putting some things together. I went up to his room just as he was coming out of the shower. He was naked, toweling off his thick hair. The agency lady had been right about his exceptional looks. If anything, the estrogen had made him look even more radiant. I reached into my bag and pulled out a syringe. “I’ve got something that’s going to help,” I said.

“Is it what you’re on?” he asked.

“Yes.” I didn’t tell him that it wasn’t all I was on. The last thing I needed is for a genetically gifted athlete in his prime to get on the full stack I’d been using. It made me shiver at the thought of what he might become.

Max turned around, grabbed the door jam, and bent over. His perfect ass made my dick jump. I walked over to him. “You ready?” I asked.

“Pin me, Daddy,” he answered. I took the cap off the syringe and jabbed the needle into his flawless skin. I emptied the oil into him. I pulled out the needle, then grabbed a big handful of his wrestler’s butt cheek and massaged the test into it with my powerful fingers. 

When I stopped, I put away the syringe and pulled out a tube of K-Y. “You ready for another kind of injection?” I asked him. He turned around and dropped his towel. I took that as a yes. “Oh, and by the way, stop taking those pills you’re stealing from the cabinet downstairs.”

“The what…?” He look stunned.

“The pills. From the cabinet. They’re not what you think they are.”

“They’re not?” He said, without even trying to deny that he was taking them.

“No. They’re not Dianabol. It’s estrogen.”

This took awhile to sink in. “The fuck…” he said. “How?”

“I switched them out. Just in case you decided to steal from me. Which you did.”

His face flushed red, either from anger or shame. Maybe both. He clenched his fists. “You psycho,” he said, and came at me. He pounded on my chest with his fists. He may as well have been pounding on a rhino hide. My 79” chest soaked in his blows easily. I heaved it out at him, which made him even madder. “That all you got, girlie boy?”

“I hate you,” he said.

“You stole from me,” I said, looking down at him over my big chest shelf.

“You tricked me!” He pounded and pounded.

“Little thief,” I said. I walked into him, moving him back.

“I hate you,” he repeated, like pre-teen brat who’d just had his phone taken away.

“I hate you more,” I said, mocking him. I grabbed him and lifted him, my hands on his upper torso. His feet dangled. “I should crush your thieving ribcage like an eggshell,” I said.

“Do it, fuckface,” he dared me. 

I lifted him higher and squeezed, not hard enough to break him, but enough to hear the air whoosh out of his lungs. He kicked at my thickly muscled abs, but it was like kicking tractor tire treads. He was just hurting his feet. “Tiny little weakling,” I snarled, shaking him.

“Juicehead freak,” he wheezed. I squeezed harder. His dick swelled. I lifted him higher and held him overhead like a ballerina. I tilted my head back on my thick neck and lowered his cock in my mouth. He let out a loud groan of pleasure. “Use me,” he gurgled. I squeezed him harder and felt his ribs compress. It was like I was squeezing a tube of toothpaste; his precum was already oozing out of him. I pumped him up and down with my big arms. This wasn’t going to take long. Who knew anger sex could be so stimulating. I was raging hard myself, and I was going to drain every drop of jock cum outta the little fucker.

Despite the estrogen, he came long and hard. I finished him off, and tossed him onto his bed. His face was a little blue, so I let him catch his wind as I lubed myself up good. Then I mounted him, and for the next hour, I used his tight squeezebox as my own personal depository. Over and over, without pulling out, stretching his hole with my giant dick, making him beg for more. My very own size queen stepson, pleading for me to breed him. Sometimes, I imagined him being his dad. That’s when my eyes would glaze over in revenge rage. New daddy fucking old daddy. Oh, how I would fuck that guy up if I met him. That’s when I had to remember to hold back my thrusts, so as not to damage Max’s insides. Although he seemed to love it. He took every load.

I wondered if all my gear-laced batter would effect his rebound from the estrogen.  It couldn’t though, could it? Not too much anyway, I figured. 

/:::/

 

Amazing!  I couldn’t read the black on black text so reposting this hot shit in plain text!

 

[bbmikenj]

Thanks broody

[arpeejay]

58 minutes ago, Broody said:

 

Amazing!  I couldn’t read the black on black text so reposting this hot shit in plain text!

At the very top of your screen on the right you should see a lightbulb icon. Click it and the presentation turns to black on white (and the icon turns into a crescent moon.)

[Broody]

I'm definitely a Dark Mode fella . But I get the same issue pasting my stories from Google Docs.  Usually at the bottom after you paste there will be a pop up button that will give you the option to paste without formatting, and then it works for folks using Dark Mode and Light Mode.

But enough word processor flirty talk. Let's get down to business:

Who can possibly give big bad Step Dad a challenge? Is the Evil Ex-husband lurking in the wings? I sure hope so!

[Ro20316]

Fuck i cant wait to read what Max will become. I expect the stepdad to be able to fully fuck without holding back

[CurlyJinrlyJin]

I'm crossing my fingers that they both get resilient enough to have to go to abandoned buildings for sex; sex that causes earthquakes

[StochasticQuetzal]

I hope Max ends up growing a lot too

[Kymuscleboy]

Looks like it's already been discussed a lot, but it seems like there was a lot of foreshadowing in that awesome last part about Max getting bigger and possibly huge.  In addition to the last line, there was this:

On 6/20/2022 at 7:31 PM, bbmikenj said:

“Yes.” I didn’t tell him that it wasn’t all I was on. The last thing I needed is for a genetically gifted athlete in his prime to get on the full stack I’d been using. It made me shiver at the thought of what he might become.

So, what if Max gets enough of a boost just from what's in Charlie's "deposits" plus the (I assume) test he gave him? We could be seeing quite the change in Max!

And while it wasn't in the actual story, I loved the comment someone made about the ex-husband being the one who could possibly challenge Charlie. Sure, he's supposed to be in prison, but we don't know how much of his sentence he's served, or if he's capable of breaking out. Has he been doing nothing but lifting weights and taking steroids for years? I'm sure @bbmikenj has more awesomeness in store, but that suggestion really got my mental wheels turning. 

[bbmikenj]

Things went along smoothly for awhile. I was still gaining, and depending on what time of day I weighed myself, I was coming in at 395 to 405. Getting on the scale after a big meal and a gallon of mass gainer shake laced with creatine made a big difference. 

Max was coming back to his old self, with his “aren’t I hot as shit” attitude, especially as his body got more and more muscular, and his modeling jobs got more lucrative and classier. He had gotten more respectful to me and the household staff, though, which was a pleasant leftover from the estrogen. And he and I were wrestling in the backyard whenever we got a chance. I didn’t use my 200lb weight advantage to kick the shit out of him like I had the first time. Instead, I used it to give him the workouts of his life. Tossing him about. Letting him struggle as hard as he could to budge my steely mass. He would pump up like crazy, and so did I. Afterwards, I’d drag his ass into the pool cabana and give him another kind of workout. 

I got him a membership to the UFC gym I went to, and, of course, after only a week, the owner told me that Max was one of the most gifted athletes he’d ever worked with. He said that he could look into getting a contract with the UFC for him. Max had told me recently that he had been made captain of every sports team he’d ever been on, starting in third grade. Some things never change. No wonder he had a big ego. And I still didn’t know how far I could trust him. Who knew what kind of revenge he might be plotting in that handsome head of his. He probably felt the same way about me. 

Then one day, I got a call from my wife. We’d been keeping in touch fairly regularly until recently anyway. She’d mentioned to me that she applied for a work/study program at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, and she was calling to tell me that she’d been accepted. I was taken aback when she told me it was a six month program. I told her I could fly over a couple of times then, and pictured myself standing naked next to Michelangelo’s David, so people could see what Goliath would have looked like, massively out-sizing the young king in every way. But she balked at the idea of me coming over.

“Um, there’s something else I need to tell you,” she said. “I’ve met someone.”

“Oh, yeh?” I said. “Who?”

“He’s an Italian count.”

“A what? That’s still a thing?” I asked.

“Yes, apparently. His title is Count of Turin. He has a palazzo in the hills above Florence, and a villa on Lake Como. His homes are full of artwork and history. And he’s asked me to move in with him.”

“Is that right?” I said, growing angry. Does he still have all his teeth, I wanted to ask her. Because I’ll come over there and punch them all out, then mop the terrazzo floors of his palazzo with his face. I bet Count Homewrecker couldn’t deadlift 1200lbs for so many reps that his myostatin-free lats were about to rip thru the skin. 

But did I really have any room to judge? “So, are you going to do it?” I asked.

“Oh, Charlie, I think I am. Don’t be upset.”

I’m not upset, I thought to myself. Besides, I’ve met someone too. Someone you know. Really well. Take a guess. Starts with an ‘M’ and ends with ‘ax’.  But I didn’t say that. I mean, after all, who sends their wife to Italy for a couple of months, and then is surprised when they hook up with a count. So I told her to figure out what she wanted, then contact my lawyer. We ended the conversation at that. 

As I walked through the living room, I stopped and looked at the grand piano. I didn’t play piano; I had gotten it for my wife. The exterior wall of the living room was all retractable glass, leading out to a large terrace. I opened the wall completely. Then I dragged the piano outside. It made quite a ruckus. As I peeled off my shirt, one of my housekeepers peeked out to see what was happening, but quickly retreated back inside when I rammed my bare fist thru the side of the piano. I grabbed hold of a handful of piano wires and ripped them out thru the hole. Then I punched another hole into the piano. Then another. And another. It felt so good. Then I slammed my big forearm down onto the piano lid, and it cracked in two. I crawled underneath the piano and lifted it up on my back. Then I lifted it overhead. Wires hung from the sides like a disemboweled alien. I looked up and saw Max watching me from the living room. 

He stepped outside and said, “What the fuck, Charlie?”

“I just got some bad news, and I’m blowing off some steam,” I said. I’d tell him later about his mother. “Speaking of blowing, you wanna suck me off while I press this piano overhead? I got needs.”

“Um, ok,” he said. “You sure it’s safe?” I bobbled the piano back and forth from one hand to the other, to show him how easily I could hold it up. He got on his knees and underneath the piano, and undid my shorts. He pulled out my dick and took it in his mouth. He couldn’t take the whole thing, but just having his hot jock mouth pop over the head got me going. We got into a quick rhythm, me pressing the piano up and down while he bobbed up and down on my thick log of a cock. I felt like a huge version of Superman, being serviced by a muscular Jimmy Olsen. It didn’t take me long to bust my load down his throat. Maybe, I thought, I should upload the video of this from the outdoor security system and send it to the little woman.

After he finished draining me, I put the piano down, and we crawled out from under it. As I was stuffing myself back into my shorts, Max said, “I’m afraid I have some more news that you’re not gonna like. I just heard from my dad.”

“Oh, yeh?” I said. I was only paying half attention, as I felt up the bloated pump in my arms. Even unflexed, my biceps swelled out like honeydew melons.

“Yeh. Seems that he’s out of prison.”

“What? I thought he had like 19 years left. Did he bust out?”

“No, he won his appeal.”

“Nice,” I grumbled. Our fucking legal system.

“And I kinda told him he could stop by here sometime if he wanted.”

For some reason, this made my blood started boiling. If I hadn’t been roid raging before, I was now.  I went at Max, picked him up, twisted him around, and wrapped my arm around his neck from behind. I lifted him off the ground in a choke hold, my engorged 29” biceps crushing into his esophagus. I yanked him back and forth, and he flopped around like one of those advertisement balloon men. “You invited that mutherfucker to my home without even asking me? What’s he gonna do, hang by the pool with you?” I snarled into his ear. “What do you think I’ll do to him if he shows his face here?” I noticed Max’s lips turning blue, and his eyes bulging out, and my anger ebbed quickly. I broke my hold and let him go. He stumbled back into a patio chair, holding his neck.

“I’ll tell him not to come,” he croaked out. His voice would be raspy for a week.

“No, that’s okay. He can come here. I just lost my cool for a second, the news was so sudden. Don’t sweat it.”

“Yeh, but you’re right, I should have asked you first. I can meet him somewhere else.”

“No, no, I insist, have him come here,” I said.

“You won’t hurt him?”

“Me? Hurt the ex-con, pro boxer? How could I?” I grabbed hold of the back leg of the piano, and snapped it off. The back of the piano crashed to the ground with  a resounding discordant crescendo. Then I snapped the thick wooden leg across my knee like a toothpick. “Well, I guess I could,” I said, tossing the broken pieces across the terrace, “but why would I? He’s really done nothing to me, Max. Have him come up. Just let me know when he’s coming, I’ll make myself scarce. Trust me.”

Max looked at the trashed piano. Then he looked at me. He was clearly dubious, but he said okay. 

After Max left for the day, I did end up getting some good news. Jack texted me that he was back from Iceland, and that he wanted to see me, and that he had something for me. I had something for him too, and I bet mine was bigger than his. I told him to stop by anytime. Suddenly my quiet estate was turning into Grand Central Station. 
 

[Broody]

On 6/20/2022 at 8:52 PM, Broody said:

Who can possibly give big bad Step Dad a challenge? Is the Evil Ex-husband lurking in the wings?

Called it!