arpeejay Posted January 8 Share Posted January 8 Hmm. Roy's dick has been growing at the rate of half an inch per day; meanwhile, he has been adding 10-12 lbs. of muscle per day At the current rate of cock growth (CRCG) it will take another 11 days for Roy to reach 24 inches. If his MGR (Muscle Growth Rate) continues at 12 lbs. per day Roy will be 581 lbs. when he reaches 2 feet! Probably NOT what Roy was intending...but perhaps Mason would be delighted to once again be the little guy? I will be delighted with whatever outcome presents itself but as a confirmed stataholic I couldn't resist speculating!! 6 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
jwood Posted January 8 Share Posted January 8 18 hours ago, arpeejay said: Hmm. Roy's dick has been growing at the rate of half an inch per day; meanwhile, he has been adding 10-12 lbs. of muscle per day At the current rate of cock growth (CRCG) it will take another 11 days for Roy to reach 24 inches. If his MGR (Muscle Growth Rate) continues at 12 lbs. per day Roy will be 581 lbs. when he reaches 2 feet! Probably NOT what Roy was intending...but perhaps Mason would be delighted to once again be the little guy? I will be delighted with whatever outcome presents itself but as a confirmed stataholic I couldn't resist speculating!! If Roy got to that size, he and Mason would no longer be able to fit in the shower, and they would have to resort to giving each other sponge baths. That would be odd... but delectable! 2 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
ploder4 Posted January 9 Share Posted January 9 2 hours ago, jwood said: If Roy got to that size, he and Mason would no longer be able to fit in the shower, and they would have to resort to giving each other sponge baths. That would be odd... but delectable! Or just bathing outside.... in a pool maybe? Will they have to move to another location because of how small their current place is, home and work? I mean, it's bad enough Mason can barely work at the first location without knocking things over. You can't have the head baker in the same predicament. 6 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
jwood Posted January 9 Share Posted January 9 1 hour ago, ploder4 said: Or just bathing outside.... in a pool maybe? Will they have to move to another location because of how small their current place is, home and work? I mean, it's bad enough Mason can barely work at the first location without knocking things over. You can't have the head baker in the same predicament. At a certain size, he might become a "master baker." 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TQuintA Posted January 11 Author Share Posted January 11 Chapter 39 While Mason and I were having breakfast the next morning, there was a loud knock at the door. Confused at who it could be, Mason got up to answer it—I was too busy cooking to get it. “Morning, Mister,” I heard Carey say from the front door. “Nice place you got here. I’d say something suggestive and inappropriate about your physique, but I don’t want your fiancé to turn me into a toad. Where is Cake?” Soon enough, Carey was in the kitchen. He looked buff, big, and cut. His shirt rode up because his shoulders and chest were too big for it, and his bottom two abs peeked through. He had been 220 when I left the gym last night. I suspected he was up to 222. 22 pounds in two weeks, plus all the burned fat. The extra muscle and definition suited him. In addition to his too-small clothes, he was holding a small leather business folder. “Smells good. What is it?” “Breakfast,” I said simply. “What can I do for you, Carey?” “Yesterday, we got so caught up in the chaos of your new nickname and Instagram fame that we never set up my weekly Jell-O appointment. And I know a man has to wake up pretty early to catch you before you start your day.” I looked at the clock on the wall; it displayed 5:30. “The earliest I could have it ready is 10 AM. Why don’t you come back at lunch time, 12:30? I’ll have it for you then, and you can give me the money when you come back.” “We don’t live in a cash economy anymore, Cake.” He turned around and addressed Mason. “You’re the money man, right? How quickly can you have an escrow account set up?” “If I asked a favor of Julie,” he ran through the timetable in his head. “Oddly enough, 10 AM." "Funny that," I said. "Hysterical," Carey said, unlaughing. “Do that, and I’ll make regular, weekly deposits into the account. That’s also how I’ll give you the money to pay off your loans.” “I assume you’ll pay for your diner’s dessert orders to the bakery direct?” Mason asked. “Of course,” he said. Then, he pulled a contract out of his folder and showed it to me. “I brought this over too. Exclusivity contract between my diners and your bakery. And, hey, if your desserts sell well, I’ve got other restaurants.” “I’ll read this over,” Mason said, taking the contract. “If I approve of it, Roy and I will sign it when you come back at lunch.” “Cake won’t read it?” Carey asked, surprised. “Not unless Mason tells me to,” I said, dishing out breakfast. “Pleasure doing business with you,” I added, sitting down to eat. “Right then,” Carey said, awkwardly shifting his weight. Then, with a perfunctory wave, he showed himself out. “He looks really big,” Mason said. “You should tell him that. Coming from a mass mountain like you, he’d be flattered.” “You know he wanted to be invited to breakfast, right?” Mason asked. I looked up at Mason, confused. “The uncomfortable goodbye, asking about your cooking, the playful joke about your witchcraft, the pro forma compliment to our apartment.” I raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. Mason continued. “The fact that he dropped by at all instead of just calling? All of this could have been a call—or even a text exchange.” “Okay,” I said. “Now I’m convinced.” “If he’s still this desperate to be friends when he comes back for lunch, ask him to stay.” I shook my head like there was a foul taste in my mouth. “I don’t want to be friends with Carey Sullivan.” “I don’t either, really,” Mason said. “But he’s an excellent business contact, and, hey, now that he sees you as an equal, he might actually turn out to be good company.” “I doubt it,” I said, shoveling a spoonful of eggs into my mouth. “He owns a lot of businesses, and he’s constantly opening new ones,” Mason said, joining me at the table. “And?” I asked. “And your best friend is in real estate.” “Hm,” I said. I pulled out my phone and texted Zack. Considering the ungodly hour, I expected him to still be asleep, but two seconds later, he texted back. “Zack and Sammy are coming over for lunch today. They’re bringing the pills they bought from Frank, and he guarantees me that it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m dining with Carey Sullivan.” I showed Mason the text. “He actually wrote that last bit.” “It was kind of him to lie,” Mason said. And with that, I was back to my vacation. The morning was full of intense, mind-altering workouts, strangers at the gym cheering me on, all of them chanting “Cake!” I blew their minds when I did a third intense workout in a row. The more daring ones openly ogled my giant bulge. I even heard one timid voice telling his friend, “His husband Mister is even bigger—everywhere,” a comment which elicited a “Fucking liar,” until a few regulars confirmed the story. The lunch was good for everyone except me. Zack and Carey started a mutually profitable business relationship, Sammy and Mason got to hang out, Sammy and Zack got to get some penis growth pills enchanted, and Carey and Mason got their Jell-O. I mostly sat quietly, listening to the boisterous conversation around me, answering questions about my bakery or spells as they arose. Sammy and I set up a schedule for his pills (which would be ready to be blessed the next day), and that was the most I contributed to the conversation. As I was cleaning up the lunch dishes, Mason said, “I know that wasn’t your favorite thing ever, but there’s another way to look at it.” “Illuminate me,” I said drily. “You had lunch with four people who know you are a he-witch and who talked openly about your witchcraft.” He had a point. I may not have a coven, but I had a circle. Back to the gym, and there seemed to be even more people there cheering me on, the tales of my morning exploits having drawn a crowd, and 10,000 more Instagram followers. If the workouts weren’t so intense and meditative, I probably would’ve been a little embarrassed about all the attention coming my way. Flattered, but embarrassed. I was seriously considering giving up the gym after my vacation. I said as much to Mason at our weigh-in. “327.3,” Mason said. “Well, you know, there’s a solution for that.” “Jell-O. I know,” I said, stepping off the scale. “But I like going to the gym. I’ve been going since I was 16, taking it seriously since I was 18. It’s part of my routine, part of who I am.” “Yoga could become part of your routine,” Mason hinted, tickling my cock. “A good workout, four times a week, camaraderie… it’s good for what ails ya.” “You just want me stretchy enough so you can fuck me again.” The thought of Mason railing me with his 20 inch dick got me rock hard. “Yes. That is the truth,” he agreed, measuring my resultant erection, a thick and weighty log jutting from my crotch. “13.5. Right on schedule.” “I’ll think about it,” I said. “But a 4-hour a week casual appointment isn’t enough to replace a more than 10-hour a week, five days a week way of life. I organized my life around the gym.” “I’m sure you can find something else to fill those hours. And you can organize your life around yoga now.” “I guess, but…” I stopped decisively. Mason stood up, knowing what that trailed off sentence meant. “No holding back, Roy. Spill.” “I want to keep going to the gym because these are my muscles,” I said. “There’s a pride in that.” “These are my muscles too,” Mason said, flexing. “I wasn’t going to tell you this,” I admitted, “but your muscles and my muscles are very different. Your muscles are the product of a curse. If anyone was to undo the curse that was put on Dalton, all the effects of that curse would evaporate. Poof go your muscles.” “Really?” Mason said. “Who would want to undo Dalton’s curse?” “No one really. Not even Dalton. Maybe this one guy. Dalton accidentally turned a straight fashion model into a gay man-slut. But he sounds happy in his cock-hungry life, so I honestly doubt that too. Still, the possibility exists, and since I got my mother’s book, I’ve learned how to undo a curse. I’d obviously never do that to you, but I’m uncomfortable that I have the knowledge.” “I’m not,” Mason said. “I’m glad that’s the case. You make me my weekly Jell-O, you don’t undo Dalton’s curse. It’s almost like you gave me these muscles after all.” “I’m glad you see it that way. Because if that were the case with my muscles, I’d be petty and possessive and jealous.” “That can’t happen to your muscles?” Mason asked, a little confused. “I grew my muscles. Granted, I used a cheat code, but my body made these muscles. Yours came from the outside in; mine came from the inside out. Someone would have to curse me to take my muscles away. Not an easy curse to do, but it is doable. And if someone did, then, hey, I could undo that curse. Poof, all my muscles come back.” “That is very different,” Mason agreed. “Since I grew my muscles, since they are literally something my body made, I want to keep using them.” “You know,” Mason said, “we could always get you a membership at an exclusive, fancy gym. How much could that cost?” “I think I read online that the most expensive gym membership costs $30,000 a year.” Mason poked my chest playfully. “Which is, in fact, less than $4,000 a month—the amount Carey is paying for his Jell-O.” He was right. I could afford it and still have $18,000 dollars a year left to save or invest in the bakery. “And, hey,” Mason added. “If the fancy gym turns out to be owned by Carey, he promised you a free gym membership at any of his gyms.” “You’re brilliant,” I said. “Which is why you’re marrying me,” Mason said. 19 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Popular Post TQuintA Posted January 11 Author Popular Post Share Posted January 11 Chapter 40 When I woke up on Friday, I had massive morning wood. 13.5 inches of iron-hard cock were sticking straight up from my body, and I had to look over my mountainous pecs to get a good look at it. I was a huge bloated mass of man, and I still had today and Sunday to grow more muscular, and I still had 11 more days of cock growth in which I would grow and grow and grow and grow until my cock eclipsed Mason’s impossibly elephantine cock by four whole inches. I was masturbating before I knew it, jackhammering my hands—it now took both of them to encircle my girth—up and down. Between my motion (in our new steel-frame bed) and my grunting, Mason woke up. I had been reduced by my body to an animalistic rut, and the sheer lust for my own size was pushing me rapidly to the edge of climax. Slyly smiling, Mason sat up and unbuttoned his pajama shirt. Once his chest was free, he teased the head of my cock with his hairy, heavy, huge pecs. I was shooting in seconds. “Good morning, Roy,” he said, running his index finger through the cum all over his chest and then licking it off his finger. “If you’re Cake, is this your frosting?” “Very droll,” I said. I washed myself off in the bathroom sink, applied my enchanted vitamin E cream, and was about to brush my teeth when I saw myself in the mirror. “Mason, sweetness, can you teach me how to trim a beard like you do?” I asked. “I was wondering if you’d notice,” he said, sneaking up behind me in the bathroom. “In the past two days, you went from sexy stubble to Grizzly Adams.” “My beard’s not that big,” I said, brushing my teeth defiantly. “I meant it as a compliment. It’s thick and lush and luxurious. And damn sexy.” I spat out the toothpaste. “And you’ll show me how to trim it, right?” “Of course,” he said kissing my forehead and stroking my chest. My cock, still half hard from my morning wood, was back to full mast, slamming into the underside of the bathroom sink in a loud thud. “What was that?” Mason asked. “My libido,” I said. I pinned Mason to the bathroom wall (well, he let me pin him to the wall, but I did it forcefully) and roughly pulled down his pajama bottoms, and, slick with water from the sink, I was inside him in seconds. As I fucked him, I kissed him all around his neck, scratching him with my coarse beard, reaching around him to fondle his pecs and stroke his own surging cock. “Twice in one morning?” Mason panted, loving the primal way I was satisfying my needs. “I could do this all day,” I said. My words came out as grunts between thrusts. “I was a horny bastard with a porn star cock before I started growing. Now, I’m a sex machine with a giant fuck-cannon.” Mason moaned in delight, climaxing from the clumsy stroking I gave his cock and the pounding I gave his prostrate. As he came, his asshole tightened around my cock, and I was ejaculating again. We’d been up for less than 15 minutes, and we’d had three orgasms between us. I held Mason in my arms, spooning him against the wall, for a few minutes, then removed myself from him and began cleaning myself off in the sink again. “That was intense,” Mason said. “It’s likely to get more intense the bigger my cock gets.” “Promise?” Mason asked, stepping out of his pajama bottoms, which had been rumpled around his ankles. “I can guarantee it,” I said, taking in the hulking, massive muscles and tree-like cock that were my fiancé. “I could fuck you again right now.” “That horny?” he asked. “Horny’s just background radiation at this point,” I said. I pointed to my massive nuts, still heavy with potential ejaculations. “These things produce more sperm than a man can reasonably handle.” “While you were fucking me, you said you thought you could do it all day.” “I did at that,” I said, rolling on my deodorant. “Was that an honest assessment or sexual braggadocio?” “Both,” I said, marveling in the mirror at just how huge my chest was and how deep my armpit had become. “Deal,” Mason said. “Pardon?” I asked. “Tomorrow’s your second day off workouts during this growing vacation.” He turned me to the side and began trimming my beard. “I’ll play hooky from the bakery,” he began trimming just a little faster, “and we’ll see just how many times you can fuck me in one day.” He quickly finished trimming and showed me the results in the mirror. I looked good. Severe, but good. I was surprised by the red and brown highlights in my otherwise black beard—and it looked gorgeous. Savage, somehow. God, I wanted to fuck again. “You’re on,” I said, slapping his ass as I walked out of the bathroom. Mason’s plans for Saturday motivated me throughout my workouts, not that I needed extra motivation these days. All morning, people commented on my appearance. “Looking good, Cake” or, “Extra studly today,” or even just a simple, “Sexy!” In the midst of this parade of compliments, Carey came up to me and said, “Someone got lucky last night.” “This morning,” I said. “Twice.” “I meant me,” he said coyly. “He was 19—a third of my age, thank you very much. He was nicely muscled for a young lad, but Daddy outweighed him by 50 pounds. He couldn’t get enough of me.” Then, he struck my back warmly and said, “But I’m glad Mister’s keeping you satisfied. I can see it written all over your face” I gave a pleased half-smile. “Oh, and Cake?” he added. “Your beard…” and he woofed again. I blushed. “If you and Mister ever add a third, even for just one night, call me.” I powered through all six of my workouts, eager and excited for a day of sexual athleticism and endurance like none I had ever had before. I felt heavy and proud and masculine all day, especially my bulbous, heavy cock and balls, and by the end of the day, I felt even more so in every category. At my weigh-in that night, I was 340.4 and 14 inches. “Get a good night’s sleep,” I commanded Mason. “I’m going to fuck you senseless tomorrow.” He fell asleep with a giant smile on his face and held me all night long. The next morning, I again woke up with preposterous morning wood. I’d slept in until 5, but it was still dark outside, and without turning on the bedside lamp, I grabbed a bottle of lube, doused my cock with it, and was inside him. I’d never even lifted the covers. Mason awoke all at once, his eyes large at the surprise of a 14-inch ramrod shoved up his ass. “Morning,” I growled sweetly. “Morning,” he said, his breath erratic as his own titanic morning wood throbbed in appreciation of his wake-up call. We fucked every conceivable way I could imagine that day. I was always the penetrator, as the challenge was for me to fuck him. Still, I did worship his glorious cock with my hands, lips, tongue, muscles—everything. I worshipped every part of his body that day: pecs, chin, ass, balls, thighs, arms, pits, nips, abs, feet, lips, neck. I was weighty and heavy with muscle, and he was even more so. Our hard, dense mass crashed into each other, fighting for space, vying for dominance. We had sex every which way. In the bed, on the floor, up against the wall. Upside down. Him on top. I fucked his ass, mouth, hands, feet, pecs—everywhere. In every room of the house. We even managed to cram both our impossibly huge bodies in the shower. We cracked the tile but managed not to demolish the shower. Sometimes, it was soft and sensual, sultry and slow. Longing looks into each other’s eyes, delicate kisses, gentle caresses, whispered affirmations of joy and pleasure. We were compelled by a romantic wish to bring our love into higher and higher planes of sensual ecstasy, sustaining it as long as we could. These dances culminated in a physical expression of our deep, almost spiritual, love for each other. Sometimes, it was fast and rugged, almost violent or brutal. Powerful gropes, mechanical thrusting, wordless grunts and panting interposed with shouts of foul, nasty language—even threats. We were powered by a physical need for each other’s bodies, almost an addictive craving, like we would suffocate without each other’s touch. We moved quickly, erratically in efforts to reach climax as quickly as possible, afraid we’d die if the fucking kept at this frenetic pace. These tempests would crescendo menacingly until we erupted in an explosion of wicked lust. When we got hungry, we ate off each other’s pecs, asses, and cocks. When I’d worn my cock red and sore and chafing from all the friction, I just healed it and started again. When I’d fucked him so hard his ass throbbed a deep, throbbing ache, I just healed it and started again. Whenever Mason flagged from how much I was exhausting him, I just healed him and started again. Surprisingly, I never flagged. Maybe Mason tired faster because his bulky body had 100 more pounds of mass to move around, maybe it was because the cock growth pills were cranking me up like amphetamines. But I didn’t tire the whole day. We only stopped for necessities. Otherwise, it was non-stop go go go. We even threw magic into the sex itself. We each took a spoonful of honey, and we fucked as one, our beings mystically merged, practically a romantic mutual masturbation. For one round, I cursed us on to the ceiling, and we fucked so hard the plaster showered down on our bed like a snowstorm. At one point, there was a knock at the door. Undaunted, I carried Mason to the living room, my cock still deep inside him. I answered the knock, and it turned out to be a cop. “Is everything okay up here?” he asked, shocked to see two hairy muscle monsters answer the door mid-coitus. “Everything’s fine, officer,” I said, still plowing Mason. “Why do you ask?” He looked at us, curiously, our muscles drenched in sweat, matting our hair to our bodies. The room reeked of stale spunk and musk. “The manager of the bakery downstairs called because she thought someone was being murdered.” “Just his ass,” I said as I started fucking harder. Mason panted in enthusiastic approval, his chin nuzzling my neck. “Are we disturbing the customers?” I asked, still fucking. “No. The manager says she can only hear the disturbance when she’s in the store room. It’s how she knew it was coming from the apartment.” “That’s good,” I said, fucking harder. “I’d hate to hurt our sales; we own the bakery.” Mason was practically drooling in pleasure by this point, groping my shoulders to stop himself from falling. “Sir, are you okay?” the cop asked Mason. Mason was too deep in erotic bliss to answer, so he gave a weak thumbs up, which satisfied the cop. “Is there anything else?” I asked, still fucking. “My fiancé is very heavy, and I don’t want to drop him on you.” “Sorry for disturbing you two,” he said. This whole time, he’d been unable to comprehend the two muscle gods intertwined and interlocked in a sexual haze, and my last comment made the abstract visual all too real. I could see a small tent appearing in the front of his pants. “I’ll just tell the manager you two are moving furniture.” “No need to lie,” I said. “If we’re not being murdered, she knows we’re fucking like rabbits.” I closed the door, dropped Mason to the ground, and finished him off. I hadn’t stopped fucking Mason the entire time the cop was there. We kept fucking long after he left too. I stopped counting my orgasms, but I knew Mason’s mathematical mind was keeping score for me. I don’t know how much time passed, but we eventually found ourselves back in the bedroom and saw that it was getting dark again. I looked at the clock through blurry eyes. 7 PM. I thought about going again, but even after a healing spell, my cock was vibrating. It was a pleasant thrum, but it was persistent and unignorable. “I’m tapping out,” I confessed. “How long were we at it?” he asked, coming back into his senses. “Fourteen hours of fucking,” I answered. “With fourteen inches.” I enchanted away the stickier parts of our day, and Mason cleaned up the plaster and scattered furniture, opening some windows to air the place out. When we finished tidying, I thought I’d be going right to bed, but I was wrong. “Weigh in,” Mason said. “Really?” I asked. “I’m exhausted.” Because, suddenly, I was. Suddenly, all the day’s exertions toppled down on me, sapping my energy dry. “As if I’m not?” he said. “I want to see how today affected you.” I acquiesced and marched into the living room, one eye closed. I was now 14.5 inches hard, which means I’d slowly grown half an inch as I’d fucked Mason into oblivion. “Step on to the scale,” he commanded. I robotically obliged. I was 339.2. “You lost a pound,” he said, surprised. “In fluids,” I said, pointing to my severely diminished balls. By now, each of my eyes was closing independently of each other. I was swaying in small circles as I stood there. My every cell cried out for sleep. “Can I go to bed now?” “I’m right behind you,” Mason said. “Good,” I said, and fell to the living room floor, instantly unconscious. I expected to still be there the next morning, but I woke up in our bed when my alarm went off. Mason must have carried me there as I slept. I didn’t wake Mason, who was sleeping with a placid smile smeared on his face. Instead, I went out into the kitchen and found a cryptic note Mason had written the night before. It said, “Check your Instagram.” I assumed he meant the new one, so I opened it. I was up to 100K followers, which was nifty, but I doubt that’s why Mason wanted me to see it. Instead, the most recent picture looked more like what Mason was drawing my attention to. The last picture Mason had posted was of me asleep in bed naked, one leg and my junk under the covers, the rest of my hairy, hard, muscular body fully exposed and bathed in soft orange light. There was macro text on the image that said, “29.” There was much speculation in the comments as to what that caption meant. Almost all of the guesses were wrong, but a few intrepid souls had been right. It was the number of times I’d orgasmed while fucking Mason yesterday. 26 4 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
DawnFire98 Posted January 11 Share Posted January 11 Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This chapter - oh my god. This was "sexual peak performance"! Going at it like sex-starved rabbits. Here are my favorite descriptions: 7 hours ago, TQuintA said: I was masturbating before I knew it, jackhammering my hands—it now took both of them to encircle my girth—up and down. Between my motion (in our new steel-frame bed) and my grunting, Mason woke up. I had been reduced by my body to an animalistic rut, and the sheer lust for my own size was pushing me rapidly to the edge of climax. Slyly smiling, Mason sat up and unbuttoned his pajama shirt. Once his chest was free, he teased the head of my cock with his hairy, heavy, huge pecs. I was shooting in seconds. “Good morning, Roy,” he said, running his index finger through the cum all over his chest and then licking it off his finger. 7 hours ago, TQuintA said: Sometimes, it was soft and sensual, sultry and slow. Longing looks into each other’s eyes, delicate kisses, gentle caresses, whispered affirmations of joy and pleasure. We were compelled by a romantic wish to bring our love into higher and higher planes of sensual ecstasy, sustaining it as long as we could. These dances culminated in a physical expression of our deep, almost spiritual, love for each other. Sometimes, it was fast and rugged, almost violent or brutal. Powerful gropes, mechanical thrusting, wordless grunts and panting interposed with shouts of foul, nasty language—even threats. We were powered by a physical need for each other’s bodies, almost an addictive craving, like we would suffocate without each other’s touch. We moved quickly, erratically in efforts to reach climax as quickly as possible, afraid we’d die if the fucking kept at this frenetic pace. These tempests would crescendo menacingly until we erupted in an explosion of wicked lust. 7 hours ago, TQuintA said: “What was that?” Mason asked. “My libido,” I said. I pinned Mason to the bathroom wall (well, he let me pin him to the wall, but I did it forcefully) and roughly pulled down his pajama bottoms, and, slick with water from the sink, I was inside him in seconds. As I fucked him, I kissed him all around his neck, scratching him with my coarse beard, reaching around him to fondle his pecs and stroke his own surging cock. “Twice in one morning?” Mason panted, loving the primal way I was satisfying my needs. “I could do this all day,” I said. My words came out as grunts between thrusts. “I was a horny bastard with a porn star cock before I started growing. Now, I’m a sex machine with a giant fuck-cannon.” Mason moaned in delight, climaxing from the clumsy stroking I gave his cock and the pounding I gave his prostrate. As he came, his asshole tightened around my cock, and I was ejaculating again. We’d been up for less than 15 minutes, and we’d had three orgasms between us. @TQuintA, wonderful job and your writing is really inspiring to me. 4 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
jwood Posted January 12 Share Posted January 12 Welp, now you gotta wonder if half a dozen workouts and two and a half dozen orgasms will make Roy gain an entire inch in one day... 4 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
MadDog Posted January 12 Share Posted January 12 I know you're wanting to keep a semblance of restraint in this story... but I can't help but want to see Roy get even bigger!! 3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
ploder4 Posted January 12 Share Posted January 12 With how much fun they had destroying stuff during their sexcapade I have a feeling Mason might want Roy as big as humamly possible. Maybe try to beat Greg Kovacs size? Although "poof goes the muscles" seems like a foreshadowing... if so, its not like Mason can't rebuild them. Roy can help with that. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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