Playing with Absman420's Toys

A “Pollination” Tale

By AbsMan420

Gingerly, Puck slid the small plant out of the pot, holding it firmly but carefully – the way one holds an infant during a diaper change – then he shook loose the sandy soil. “There you go,” he murmured tenderly, while he tapped the bottom of the lump of dirt, sifting the loose chunks away from the root ball – most of which fell to the spread newspaper he’d laid on the counter. A few pieces clung tenaciously to the roots.

Again, Puck marveled at the amount of growth the plant displayed since he’d last trimmed the root structure. The instructions had predicted every fourteen to sixteen days, but Puck found he had to cut every ten – even then, the plant was aggressive, but Puck was determined to control it.

The “Bodybuilder Bonsai” – the name still tickled him, so he said it often. It’s why he’d clicked on the ad in the first place. “An aggressive, muscular plant, once mature (approx one year) plant blooms with unusual flower. As bonsai principles are followed, blossom can reach impressive sizes. Disciplined growers have produced flowers over a foot in length.”

But it was the pictures that really grabbed him! The plant itself looked exactly like male genitalia! Seriously – male genitalia! It cracked him up. The base of it, because it was a succulent, had two round mounds that resembled a scrotum, and the blossom that sprouted from that base looked just like a dick – tube-shaped with a little flap that folded over on top. It was a freakin’ dick – hysterical!

He clicked on the images of the older plants – some ten years or more, young for Bonsai, although this was apparently a new breed – and the blossoms were HUGE! Comically huge! These plants had these gigantic cocks – it was too much to bear. Hysterical! He had to buy one. If only for the novelty of it at cocktail parties.

He clicked on the image of “Oldest Known Bodybuilder Bonsai” and got quite a page-full – a massive, mature muscle-man holding a truly magnificent potted plant. Puck didn’t know what to look at first, the flower or the guy – each an incredible specimen. Looking at this meaty bodybuilder, labeled as the “Creator of the Bodybuilder Bonsai,” it wasn’t hard to imagine why the plant got the nickname it had, rather than the more accurate “Scrotal Bonsai” or “Banzai Balls” or “Freaky Cock Plant.”

This was a fourteen-year-old plant with a two-foot dick. “Requiring daily care, this magnificent Bonsai has won nearly as many contests as its owner has bodybuilding titles!” claimed the ad-copy. “And both just seem to keep getting better and better!”

Puck wasted little time copying the image to the folder marked “Hot BB Pics” on his hard-drive, massaged his hard-on, then clicked on the purchase link for the Bonsai Kit.

Okay – the price was a little steep, even for a novelty, but it would be worth the price when he revealed it one day at brunch, hearing the squeals from the “girls” when they saw his big cock… plant. Fortunately, Puck had always had a green thumb, and the need to be center of attention.

He was on the short side himself, so he had an affinity for Bonsai. At only five-four, he’d grown into his nickname. An imp, a trouble-maker, a giggler during sex, Puck had been a perfect little bottom – with a perfect little bottom – until he became too old to be a boy. And gay culture was cruelest to pretty-boys beyond their prime, leaving Puck with only two choices: bitter alcoholism or horticulture.

The kit came in the mail approximately seven-to-ten days later. He spread the contents on the table to see what was included: an instruction booklet, easily as thick as the one that came with his computer; a “Welcome” brochure, full of testimonials, pictures and promotional copy; a shallow, rectangular pot; a packet of dirt; a packet of sand; a packet of something smelly, marked “fertilizer;” a CD-ROM, which he thought was kind of cool – the computer-age has invaded the horticulture market, even – more, knowing their demographics, it was formatted for Macintosh; and lastly, a small plastic packet containing a single, tiny seed.

The brochure was slick, but the pics caught him by surprise. It reminded him of those testimonial ads run by fitness-product contests, page after page of very muscular men – varying in size from underwear model to super-heavyweight – holding their Bonsai plants in one hand, while flexing their other arm for the camera, showing off their impressive biceps, or, in the more popular pose, holding the plant in front of their own packages – making it look like the Bonsais were their own genitalia – as they did front lat-spreads or most-musculars. Each one had a text-quote with it, formatted to look like a hand-written letter to the company.

“My Bonsai keeps getting better and better, and so do I!”

“Love my Bodybuilder Bonsai! You guys have a winner! Just like me in my last two contests!”

“Still disciplined with my plant after eight years! Sure, it takes a lot of time, but I’m the biggest guy at the gym. See you at next year’s expo!”

And then on the last page, a double-page spread, the same pic from the web-site of the creator of the Bodybuilder Bonsai, the gigantic older man holding the plant with the two-foot blossom. However, this pic wasn’t cropped at the waist like on the web-site – this was a full-body shot.

And this old guy’s cock was EASILY as big as the blossom in the pot he held. Even in the cotton-spandex shorts he wore, it was impossible to hide his impressive member. It stretched halfway down his thigh, mirroring perfectly the curve of the Bonsai. So thickly muscled, he looked like one of those morphs Puck would find on the web, like those “N”-guys or those Brute Morphs. He was a fantasy made flesh.

“A mature plant may require hours of daily care,” the copy read, “but the benefits of the Bonsai make the sacrifices worth it. Learn the secrets for yourself. Download the software on the CD-ROM to get started. Enjoy the mystery of the Bonsai, and the muscular new you!”

Now, Puck wasn’t only confused, he was turned-on. What the fuck had he stumbled on to? Did they really expect him to believe that a plant could turn him into a bodybuilder, some muscle-freak like this guy? He re-examined the pictures. Sure enough, the smaller guys owned the younger plants – the older the plant, the bigger the grower.

ALL of them were built better than Puck, who’d left his pretty-boy, gym-bunny days nearly a decade behind him, giving him no room to criticize. Still, it seemed impossible, if not fantastical.

That didn’t stop him from up-loading the CD, of course.

Impatiently, he waited for the software to load, then chided himself for it – if Bonsai teaches nothing else, he thought, it teaches patience. Still, the thought of raising a plant that could turn him into a bodybuilder excited him. It beat going to a gym and doing it himself. He’d rather sit here in his greenhouse and tend to his plants any day than embarrass himself at a gym.

Finally, it was done – it even created a little icon on his computer desktop for him. When he double-clicked, a registration form appeared, but it didn’t give him the option of doing it later. “All fields required,” it read. “In order to personalize this software, the Grower must include all information to initialize. Using this software accurately will ensure the Grower a successful experience with the Bodybuilder Bonsai.”

In other words, he thought, do it our way. The first step to embracing a new philosophy, it seemed, was to humble yourself before it. Besides, if it was going to get him a body like he’d seen in the brochures, Puck would do whatever they told him.

He thought it was funny that they kept referring to him as “Grower” – the double entendre wasn’t lost on Puck. Usually, when something was that obvious, it was unintentional, but the guy who created the Bodybuilder Bonsai seemed like a very intelligent man – clearly years of experience, perhaps fair to say decades. Maybe Puck was just hoping the guy was gay.

His name, his address, his email, his birth date, his stats – which he didn’t know; he ended up doing the “clothing sizes” option for that group – then they asked for the size and dimension of his dick, which, because Puck was a good queer, he DID know, even if he thought it was a strange inquiry – still, the software wouldn’t let him continue until he filled in the field. After that, it was about numbers: the number off the back of the instruction booklet, the number stuck to the seed packet, the number on the CD sleeve, that sort of thing. Finally, he created a password to interact with the online site and to secure the software on his hard drive.

When he pressed “Register Now” the software brought up his online carrier and connected him with the Bodybuilder Bonsai site. “Welcome New Grower!” the banner exclaimed. “Please be patient as we process your registration.”

A few more minutes until the screen re-directed him. “Your registration has been ACCEPTED. An email has been sent to you with the password necessary to access your new BONSAI SOFTWARE. Further interaction with this site limited until Grower displays mature plant. Best of luck. Remember, discipline practiced now becomes practiced habit later.”

Puck rolled his eyes at the inane philosophical tidbit but quickly checked his email – as he suspected, the password was the same as the one he’d established on the website. Without further delay, he opened the software.

As it loaded, it asked for all that information – once accepted, a QuickTime Movie played off to the side of his screen, a small window, about 4”x4”. A shot of the hyper-muscular mature bodybuilder from the brochure, the founder and creator of the Bodybuilder Bonsai.

As a photograph, it was possible to rationally accept this man. Perhaps Puck’s mind had been tempered and dulled by morphs on the web, by the veritable glut of pictures and websites of distorted freaks. But to see a movie of an actual human being with a body like the ones from the pictures – with muscle-size and density that no real-world bodybuilder had ever achieved – to hear him SPEAK – THAT was a little surreal. Puck had a hard time taking it in.

“Hello, New Grower,” the huge man said, in a rich baritone – his voice was rough and kind of sexy. “Welcome. My name is Dr. Jason Woodrue, creator of the Bodybuilder Bonsai. Let me tell you a little about myself: I hold a PhD in Botany from Cornell; I’m a trained Bonsai Master; and I’ve won both the Super-Heavyweight and the Overall Master’s Class at the recent NPC Southwestern States. Aside from the muscular benefits of the Bodybuilder Bonsai, I can personally attest to its rejuvenatory and life-extending side-effects. A small example of that might be that I personally started cultivating my Bonsai fifteen years ago, when I was SEVENTY-TWO.”

For Puck, that took a moment to sink in. Not only did he have to adjust to the idea that the virile powerhouse in the mpeg could be over seventy, but that if he’d been caring for a Bonsai for fifteen years, that would make him…

No way!

Dr. Woodrue flexed, smiling in admiration of his own body. He nodded toward his bowling-ball bicep. “You don’t see a lot of eighty-six year-olds with arms like this, do you?”

No – it was impossible! This guy was, at most, a prematurely gray forty year-old, not some withered old coot pushing ninety. Look at his flawless skin – look at his jaw-line, the lack of jowls or bags under his eyes – look at his freakin’ package! The guy just reeked of virility… and youth. As a matter of fact, MORE youthful than many of the middle-aged men he resembled. Almost ageless.

“The bodybuilding is still relatively new to me,” continued Dr. Woodrue, flexing while he spoke, fluidly going from one pose to the next, like a practiced routine that he enjoyed following. “Believe me, it’s only in the last ten years of my life that I’d even TOUCHED a weight, much less thought of competing, but as you can see, cultivating the plant has brought me to a level of body-awareness that I’d never experienced before, and I’m all the better for it.”

“In point of fact, I’m better than I’ve been in my entire life, health-wise – the high blood pressure is gone, the prostate has completely regenerated, my lungs show no evidence that I’d been smoking cigarettes for nearly fifty years – inside and out, everything is working at one-hundred percent efficiency.” Then, he leaned in close to the camera, until the window filled with just his head in an awkward close-up. He spoke confidentially. “And because I’m sure you’re dying to know, my libido is that of a twenty year-old boy.” He smiled proudly, displaying his perfect teeth, and continued. “Hell, in the last year alone I’ve had more sex than I’d had in my entire life before the Bonsai.” He snorted, then added, under his breath. “Hell, in the last month…”

He backed up to his mark, so Puck could see his entire massive upper-body filling the window – he regained his original composure, speaking professionally again. “Now, Grower, you stand ready to enter the world of the Bodybuilder Bonsai, the chlorophyll fountain of youth. Will you keep the secrets and follow the practices of the Bonsai Masters? Will you become one of us – join the tribe of muscular immortals? You are about to make an important decision and start down a new life path. Are you truly ready? If so, continue with the software. If not, return it to us now for a full refund – double your money back if the seed packet is undisturbed – it’s better for us, and for you, not to start at all than to start and fail for lack of conviction. Make no mistake: this is a commitment that will last for the rest of your long, long life. Possibly forever. Will you join us?”

Puck wondered if anyone ever sent it back.

He was amazed by the amount of required reading – not only the text that came with the kit, but also recommended web pages – more than he’d had for his major in college, so long ago. This is what happens when an Academic is behind a business, Puck thought. Extra reading! Worse, about once a month or so, little quizzes would pop up in his software, to make sure he was following instructions exactly. He worked hard to retain it all – sometimes discovering himself taking notes, or highlighting the text for later reference – mostly out of fear that he’d have to give up the plant if the Bonsai Masters were dissatisfied.

To get through all the information required nearly the year it took his plant to reach maturity. Or maybe that was the whole point – damn Academics!

He followed the rules implicitly. He figured, if the whole thing was a scam, he really had nothing to lose – though he’d be hacked off about doing all that reading – but if it was as real as he suspected, as he secretly hoped, then he had everything to gain by following the rules to the letter.

Some of the directions were kind of weird – and embarrassing – gestating the seed, for example, in a paper towel damp with water… and the Grower’s ejaculate! Seriously, in a paper towel soaked in Puck’s cum. Not just that he found it gross, but at that point, it had required a blind obedience to the Bonsai rules – the seed had to be gestated the way they required before the software would let him find out why.

Tests, tests, tests, thought Puck. Fine, gross or not, we’ll do it your way…

So he masturbated – to the image of Dr. Woodrue, mind – and shot his entire load in a pre-moistened paper towel. And before he’d even caught his breath afterwards, he tore the seed packet open, dropped the little sesame-sized thing into the puddle of cum, wrapped it up carefully, and slipped it into a plastic sandwich bag – he stored the whole shebang in a dark desk drawer next to his computer, hiding his mild shame while the mysteries of life did their thing.

After taking a leak but before rationalizing, he opened the software again. When he clicked “GESTATION” off the check-list, that little window opened with the image of Dr. Woodrue, reminding Puck of that annoying Paper-Clip in Word that would offer unsolicited advice. “Excellent,” schooled Dr. Woodrue. “A blind test was required to measure your willingness to follow our ways. Now let me explain why you did what you did: allowing the seed to gestate in your ejaculate creates an initial bond between Grower and plant. It is this bond that will allow you (and only you) to experience the benefits of the mature plant.

“More, since no one else can experience the benefits of your plant, it follows that no one else can care for your plant, either. For your plant to survive, you must be its Grower. And by following the ancient techniques of Bonsai, which keep a plant alive well beyond its normal lifespan, that… symbiosis extends the life of the Grower, as well.

“Congratulations. You’ve successfully bonded with a Bodybuilder Bonsai.”

Five days later, just as they said, he discovered the seed had split open and a tiny sprout was squirming its way out. He was thrilled.

As instructed, he mixed the soil and the sand in the proper ratios, planted the tiny sprout directly in the center of the rectangular pot, watered it, wrapped it in plastic once again and put it in a dark cupboard – one he’d emptied earlier, so he wouldn’t open the door unless he had to, to water, to fertilize, etc. Apparently, keeping the seedling out of the light weakened it enough to make it submit to the Bonsai techniques.

For the next year, he kept the plant hidden. He didn’t even water it during the day, for fear of any exposure. When it required water, which it rarely did, he took care of it right before bed.

He prepared for its maturity, reading and studying about the breed, its history, and Dr. Woodrue’s research. For Puck, this was the hardest pill to swallow – the supposed “origin” of the plant – but he accepted it in the same spirit with which he understood any mythology or legend.

In short – a term the five-foot four Puck never liked – Dr. Woodrue and his team were supposedly hired some years ago to help combat some sort of alien invasion perpetrated by plant-based creatures. Seriously… alien invasion. These… plants from outer space were somehow able to merge with and ultimately dominate their human hosts, transforming them into these super-muscular, hybrid life-forms that intended to wage war on humanity and take the sunny planet Earth for their own.

“Just like weeds,” Dr. Woodrue surmised. “They arrive uninvited and choke out the indigenous life. Just like… weeds…”

And a simple solution put them all out of work almost immediately: Weed-B-Gone.

True, a weed killer already mass-marketed at Home Depot stopped the aliens dead in their tracks. They’d been forming a base in the mid-west – Kansas, Woodrue suspected, where growing conditions were excellent – when the Army sent out a couple of crop-dusters loaded down with common Weed-B-Gone, wiping out the entire invasion-force with surprising ease.

It was the most anti-climactic alien invasion… ever!

As a matter of fact, the only good that came out of the whole episode was that they were able to spirit away so many botanical specimens. Perhaps because the threat level was so low, the government didn’t keep track of its own inventory – Woodrue and his team obtained dozens of plants. The research and experimental potential alone was enormous.

However, it wasn’t until Dr. Woodrue began applying Bonsai techniques to the plants that he began to gain mastery over them. “The creature develops in the base of the plant – common vernacular: ‘the balls’,” Dr. Woodrue’s mpeg explained. “but Bonsai retards its development, allowing the Grower to take advantage of the positive side-effects of the plant without further threat to his humanity. After nearly twenty years of mastery over the plants, we decided it was time to open up the opportunity to a small circle of Growers.”

The movie showed a shot of the interior of a vast greenhouse, where eight or nine men, easily as well-muscled as Dr. Woodrue – and dressed as scantily – tended racks of Bodybuilder Bonsais. “This is my new home-base and research center in Arizona, where myself and a growing number of men have formed a… commune, a monastery of sorts, a place where a fraternal group of men can grow old together… and fuck like bunnies.”

Dr. Woodrue chuckled, and the camera came back to him. “It will be open to you, too, Grower, if you ever feel you want to join us.”

Mythology, Puck thought sarcastically. Always the questionable creation story and the supposed existence of paradise off in the desert somewhere.

He sighed. The year could not go quickly enough.

But finally the day came – Puck found himself as giddy as a kid on Christmas morning. In his excitement, he woke before sunrise, made himself a pot of coffee, and decided to check the software before touching the plant.

“CONGRATULATIONS!” Dr. Woodrue greeted him, after he’d logged in. “All right, Grower. According to the program, you geminated a year ago today – time to force your plant to maturity. Ready? Simply remove it from its dark container, un-wrap it, water it, and set it on a sunny windowsill. The rest will take care of itself.”

Puck did exactly that. The plant’s base – the “balls” – had grown to… well, pretty much the size of his own, though these were pale and a little shriveled (well, pretty much like his own). He placed the pot on the windowsill next to his computer – the sunniest spot in the house.

He wasn’t sure what to expect, but over the next few hours, as the morning sun poured through the window, bathing the plant in its first natural light ever, Puck would swear that the balls seemed to swell, to plump, to ripen almost – certainly the color darkened to a healthier green as the day progressed. It had tasted the sun, and found it good.

Right before he went to bed that night, he saw a small shoot beginning to form at the base, between the balls – he was amazed that the plant was growing so quickly. Aggressive little fucker, he thought. But it still excited him, even if he didn’t know why.

The next morning, he was shocked again.

The plant had flowered – overnight! He was perfectly amazed. As the sun rose, and the bud opened, it formed the tube-shape with the familiar flap on the end – the cock, he’d joked about earlier. Although only about five inches long, it was perfectly shaped and colored – a perfect miniature. Just like Puck. Frankly, the bud was just about the size of Puck’s hard-on.

“Well, how ‘bout that…?” Puck mumbled as he leaned in to get a closer look – maybe even to sniff it.

And then, like it sensed him, like it knew who he was, the bud expelled a small burst of pollen – Poof! Just like that – coating his nose and mouth – he breathed most of it in before he could stop himself. He hadn’t been expecting it.

Immediately, with a twinge of panic, he up-loaded the Bonsai software.

The mpeg that came up showed the hyper-muscular Dr. Woodrue putting his face next to his own gigantic flower, almost two feet in length – that huge, huge cock. Without warning, the plant expelled nearly a cup of pollen on Dr. Woodrue’s face – like a Vaudeville comedian who just screamed, “MAKE-UP!” He inhaled sharply, as if taking a hit on a floral bong, and then turned to the camera.

He smiled, a lusty, euphoric look on his face. “If you’re watching this vid,” he said, “then I bet you’re sitting there with a bunch of pollen on your face, too.” Dr. Woodrue began wiping with his hands and then licking his fingers. “I suggest you ingest as much of it as you possibly can – it’s the pollen that will transform you into one of us. Taste it, it’s delicious!”

For Puck, the scent of wildflowers melted on his tongue like golden honey. It was the most potent, densely-flavored, sweet honeysuckle with a side order of sparkling magic that he’d ever tasted. He could eat this never-ending sugar pile and never lose his appetite for it. It was the nectar of the gods – the iced-tea of the immortals. Powder tingled on his skin and in his nostrils. It rode into his blood like cocaine.

Delicious didn’t begin to describe it – it was a taste made exclusively for him. No one could love the taste of their plant as much as he loved the taste of his!

He watched Woodrue on the screen as the man got the very last granules of powder off his chin. He leaned back in his chair, and when he did, Puck got a view of the big Doctor’s hard-on, as it rose up and touched the Doctor’s upper abs, at the base of his chest.

Puck’s own cock was just as hard. Good God, this buzz was amazing!

He was so horny… and powerful… and alive! Puck had never felt this kind of rush in his life. Incredible!

And there was Dr. Woodrue, leaning contentedly back, his hands on the arm rests, looking down his magnificent torso at his generous cock. He was lost in a buzz that out-classed Puck by almost fifteen years. “You must be feeling it by now,” the Doctor said. He nodded toward his dick. “Probably got one of these, too. If you wait long enough, you won’t even have to touch it for it to go off… but how I do love to touch it!”

And then, before another beat went by, he and Puck were masturbating together, Puck following the good Doctor stroke for stroke, even if the Doctor had to use both hands – he even picked up a few pointers on his technique. Puck was so turned on, he was becoming almost a helpless victim to his own lust.

“When you cum,” Woodrue instructed, between deep breaths, “catch as much as you can in your hand. You don’t want to spill a drop. Take it and put it in a monkey dish or a finger bowl, something like that. Don’t waste it!.”

And Puck was so close to cumming, he’d do anything this guy said. Sure, sure, save the cum.

“Here we go,” said the Doctor, in his deep, reassuring baritone. “One… two… three!”

To say that this was the best orgasm of his life would be a gross understatement – this was on a completely different level. He moaned and cried out because there was no holding it in – there was no containing the excitement and euphoric power the plant pollen had over him, like holding back a tidal wave with a trash-can lid.

The Doctor came, too, roaring in his orgasm. Puck wasn’t watching him, but Puck knew that he and the Doctor were of one mind in that moment, on a higher plane of masculine perfection, experiencing a level of satisfaction known to few. Now shared with Puck. Their orgasms lasted nearly a minute.

He poured the exceptional amount of cum from his palm into a monkey dish – he even milked his dick a few strokes to get the remaining jizz from there. When he got back to the computer, there was an Action Box that read, “Click to continue.”

“Welcome back,” said Dr. Woodrue, with a contended smile on his face. “Now, no matter how good you feel – and I know you feel good – your first responsibility is to your Bonsai. Let’s prepare to cut the root.

“After a pollination, the plant is at its weakest and ready to be cut. If a cut isn’t made immediately after a pollination, the plant will become that much stronger, and ultimately, you’ll lose your battle with the creature that develops inside it. But if you retard the growth immediately, you’ll always remain in control.”

So Puck followed the rules of the Bonsai Masters. Spreading a sheet of newspaper on the desk next to the computer, he gently removed the plant from the pot, shaking the excess dirt from the developing root structure.

The Doctor’s plant was considerably bigger than Puck’s, but the structure was nearly identical – there was one main branch amidst a nest of tiny roots. The one on the Doctor’s plant was nearly as big as a man’s finger while the one on Puck’s was about the size of an inchworm. It felt funny to hold the plant in his hand – the “balls” were about the size of his own. The FELT like his own, other than being green and smooth. Well, in a way, they were kind of his spare set.

“Clip off the main root near the base of the root-ball. Always try to make it one single stroke if you can instead of hacking at the plant repeatedly. The root is strong, but it shouldn’t give you any trouble at your plant’s age.”

Puck easily clipped the root stem off with a pair of gardening shears then pressed “continue” on the screen.

“Now, while you change the dirt in the Bonsai’s pot – fresh dirt is required at each re-potting, by the way. The Bodybuilder Bonsai sucks the nutrients out of dirt in no time, so change it frequently. And while you change the dirt, soak the clipped root-ball in that dish full of your ejaculate. I know, it sounds unseemly, but it strengthens both your bond with the plant, and the damage that you’ve just inflicted on its root structure. Now follow the instructions of your Bonsai Master without question – let our knowledge benefit you. We will not lead you astray.”

So Puck did. He carefully set his plant in the monkey dish, bathing its remaining root-nest in his plentiful cum. Being a plant, it didn’t give him an indication one way or the other about whether it approved, but a minute later, when he went to re-pot it in the fresh dirt, the bowl was empty of the fluid – the plant had absorbed it all.

“Once in the new pot, wait for the blossom to wilt before you water it again. Remove the wilted blossom – just pluck it and toss it out – then give the plant a good, long drink – it’ll need it. You can expect a new blossom within fourteen to twenty-one days. As the plant gets older, it’ll flower more frequently. Mine blooms daily. And if I’m quick to take care of it at sunrise, I can sometimes coax another blossom by dusk. Pretty incredible, isn’t it?”

And Puck, who was still caught in his post-orgasmic euphoria, nodded at the screen and said, “Yeah…”

“Remember, after each pollination, trim the root back. Every time. Your first responsibility is to your plant.” Then Dr. Woodrue again leaned back in the chair next to his newly repotted plant, that same lusty smile on his face – he began stroking his own massive chest, and once again fiddling with his ever-growing cock. “Once that’s done,” he said, chuckling lightly, “you’re free to do whatever you want, or whoever you want, whenever you want, wherever you want, however often you want. It’s all good, Grower. Now, sign off and enjoy your buzz so I can sign off and enjoy mine.”

His first pollination – his first dose of the pollen that would transform him into a hyper-muscular immortal -- never let up. Puck must’ve masturbated ten times that day, each climax as incredible as the one he’d shared with Dr. Woodrue – and the feeling didn’t abate. As a matter of fact, it merely leveled off.

Bursting with energy, caffeine without the shakes, cocaine without the racing heart, Puck seized the day. He got stuff done around the house that he’d procrastinated about for weeks – and then some! He felt GREAT! And then, when he thought about how good he felt, he thought about the plant – which he continually checked on as the blossom wilted in the afternoon sun – and once he thought about the plant, he’d get hard again and the whole cycle would repeat itself.

When he woke the next morning, he still felt the buzz just as potently. He loved it – he didn’t even have his usual strong coffee. He hadn’t needed it. “Someone’s in a good mood today,” his coworkers teased. “Must’ve gotten laid this weekend.” All Puck could do was smile.

It was all good.

Ten days later, still on cloud nine, Puck woke to discover his Bonsai had blossomed again. “You’re early,” he said to the little plant on the windowsill, secretly delighted, leaning in close. Hoping… Hoping…

Immediately, the plant launched another ball of pollen in his face. This time, Puck was hard before it even hit him – he was turned on in anticipation.

The orgasm was better this time, too.

Every ten days for that first year the plant blossomed for him, regular as rain. Puck blossomed, too. Within the first two months, he had a complete physical. His Doctor – a Doctor nowhere NEAR the quality of Woodrue – gave him the thumbs up. “Whatever you’re doing,” the Doc said, “keep it up. It’s working. Your cholesterol is down. Your blood-pressure is down. Your bodyfat percentage is WAY down. Are you exercising?”

Puck shook his head. “Nope,” he said simply. “Must be my metabolism.”

The Doctor snorted. “Most guys don’t experience a metabolic boost when they turn forty. Consider yourself lucky.”

Puck did.

The next time he saw his GP, some six months later, the first thing the Doctor said was, “Wow, look at you! You HAVE been working out!”

People had been commenting about Puck’s body now for about a month. Although he’d seen the changes himself well before anyone else had, people hadn’t started commenting on it until recently. Mostly, it was co-workers and friends who’d known him for a while, saying, “Uh oh, getting back in shape! Must be a midlife crisis! Where’s the convertible?” Stuff like that – good-natured ribbing, so far.

But because he did nothing to achieve his physical improvements, he felt a little guilty about them. As his bodyfat melted away and his energy level rose, people started being curious. What gym did he belong to? What sports did he play? Was he on Atkins? South Beach? What was he doing to achieve his results?

At first, Puck joined a gym just to ease their suspicions. Explain your sudden eight-pack without having done a single sit-up to someone. Answer a question about your chiseled definition from some dumpy twenty-year old who plays college football but who’s still fat. What about the guys who are your own age, but unable to stage as successful a come-back as you, with their paunchy bellies and their know-it-all attitudes? Ah, let THEM buy the convertibles. He had his Bonsai – sworn to secrecy and all.

True, Puck joined a gym to ease their suspicions, but he stayed with the gym because he found he really liked it! Working out was amazing! Pumping up these muscles he was getting was almost as good as sex itself – and a good pump almost always led to sex! Yeah, the gym was great!

He’d forgotten what the locker room of a gay gym was like for the well-built and handsome. For years, he’d squeaked by being young and cute, now he was discovering the joys of being mature and diesel.

And hell, he wasn’t even all that much heavier. That first year, he didn’t gain much more than ten pounds of lean muscle – the Bonsai software said he shouldn’t expect more than ten to twelve lean pounds a year – but his overall bodyfat went to single digits in the first six months – that little wedge of a spare tire completely dissolved around his middle – giving him the appearance of being bigger than he was. “Cut” guys always looked bigger.

He felt so good! That blissful, euphoric buzz never let up. He was so content and happy, a Prozac would bring him down a notch. What a cheerful, loving person he was becoming – nothing upset him. Hell, he even started to find the advantages in being five-four.

For sure, he loved getting fucked! That first year, his sex-life improved dramatically. The second, when his body became just as hot and tight as any of the guys he saw in fitness magazines, underwear catalogues and strip shows, Puck found he could seduce pretty much any man he wanted – and he wanted a lot. He was so horny! It took most of his energy just to control it.

One of the straight guys he often posed “privately” with – meaning, on the DL – suggested that Puck should enter one of the local bodybuilding contests with him. “Hell,” he said, indicating Puck’s rock-solid abs, “you could enter right now and probably win. What the fuck?”

After they jerked off together, looking at their reflections in one of the giant mirrors Puck had all over his house now, Puck agreed, and went on to win the first of many “natural” titles.

He loved bodybuilding contests! Puck had ALWAYS liked being the center of attention. He loved parading around nearly naked backstage in a posing strap and flip-flops, pumping up and fighting for mirror space with the other competitors. He enjoyed the feeling of being tanned and oiled by his gym buddy’s strong, calloused hands. He got off on the cheers from the audience when he flexed and posed. He loved the cameras and the fans and the autographs and the unsubtle sexual propositions that were solicited.

Hell, he made more money that weekend posing for desperate old men in their hotel rooms while they masturbated watching him, handing him extra bills to let them touch him, than he did working his regular job in a month.

It made him think.

The third year, his plant produced a blossom every seven days. Puck called it his “Saturday Sabbatical.” At five-four, he weighed about one ninety-five, with a bodyfat level of approximately six percent (on the high side). He was hoping he’d break two hundred before the contest season started – at least before the beach season, anyway. He had a collection of thongs he wanted to parade around in this year and the bigger his ass could be, the better.

The flower was about nine inches long now – coincidentally, so was Puck – and neither of them showed any signs of shrinking. That year, he began modeling in earnest. Unfortunately, he found five-four a little too short for the modeling world, but five-four, NINE INCHES got him all sorts of work in the erotic-entertainment industry.

Before the end of that third year, he produced two “lifestyle” videos – which he thought ironic because neither “documentary” had a single shot of his greenhouse, but plenty of footage of Puck washing his ass in the shower. He was big and getting bigger – he started having a following.

His web page – coincidentally sponsored by Dr. Woodrue’s “group” at their ranch somewhere in the Arizona desert – exploded on the scene. Thousands of hits a day, orders for his DVD’s, requests for signed photographs, bookings for private posing sessions – Puck sky-rocketed.

But the plant came first.

He spent almost an hour every morning studying it, contemplating it, meditating on it while the sun rose on both of them. He had a fondness for it that he could only compare to owning a pet, but that wasn’t quite right – it was more intense than that. They had a stronger bond.

In his fifth year of Bonsai ownership, just after he’d broken two-twenty, with a cock that was nearly a foot long, Puck discovered that he was getting taller, too. Not much, but enough that he had to go out and buy some new pants.

Healthier and happier, Puck became a hugger. He loved everyone, and everyone loved him. His joy was infectious.

Strangely though, his old friends and his former co-workers distanced themselves from him. They found themselves uncomfortable with him, maybe jealous, he thought. Here he was getting healthier, bigger and better and there they were, deteriorating with age and ill-health. In a way, he felt sorry for them – they could never be disciplined enough to follow the ways of the Bonsai.

He allowed the separation – less to explain. At first, he took all kinds of drug tests and submitted to examinations to prove to them that he wasn’t “on” anything – no steroids or growth hormone, like he was a common baseball player. After a while, he got tired of it. The only person Puck had to satisfy was himself – well, not counting the approval of the Bonsai Masters.

Eight years later, on the day he turned fifty, at five-nine, two-hundred sixty-four pounds with less than three percent bodyfat – almost every vein visible, snaking around under his skin like shallow roots – his eighteen inch cock hanging in its constant half-hard state, Puck got an email from the Bonsai Masters calling him home. It was time for him to join them on the Ranch, they’d decided – his “youthful playtime,” as they’d called it, his “oat sowing” period was over. Time for him to assume his mantel of responsibility with the immortal brotherhood.

It was a good time to go, Puck thought. After his last contest and the headline that followed it in the bodybuilder trades – “Are they ALL stuffing their posers in the Master’s Class?” – plus the scathing expose where the reporter debated whether a Master’s Class winner should have as large a pornographic empire as Puck, he decided to heed the call. The plant was his first responsibility.

He sold all of his worldly goods – nothing was needed at the Ranch but himself and his plant – so but for his clothes and his workout gear (and most of his posing straps and lingerie, who’s kidding who?), he drove to Arizona, his Bonsai carefully packed in the passenger’s seat beside him, a seatbelt around the box.

He joined them there in the desert – and he loved it! Certainly his plant loved the growing conditions – it blossomed into overdrive. The brothers cared for their plants in the morning, huddled around a massive work-table in the greenhouse, orgasming together and re-potting, then they fucked the day away around the pool, or in the cool shade of the adobe house, or in the open-air weight-room on the top floor. They fucked with a passion and intensity that only appreciative old men can muster. These prime-of-life immortals fucked with joyous abandon. It was hard to think of anything but pleasure and lust – easier not to think at all.

In the cool of dusk and early evening, they’d do their chores – a communal lifestyle, they broke bread together and shared everything. They entertained themselves in the evening without TV. Propped against each other, wrapped together in massive arms and legs, almost always nude, they talked and laughed and played games. Puck had never been happier. He felt better and better, healthier and happier, and more and more loved. For the next ten years, they called him “Pup,” because at sixty, he was the youngest – at five-eleven and three-hundred pounds, he was still one of the smallest. Sure, others joined them, one by one – guys like Puck who’d ordered the kit online and followed the ways until living in public became inconvenient or flat out impossible. He welcomed them with open arms – even if they were younger and bigger than him, he loved them. He loved everyone.

When he finally reached an age and size to be acceptable to Dr. Woodrue, when he was finally being plowed by Woodrue’s magnificent two-foot dick, he remembered the good Doctor, the handsome, overly masculine, richly endowed muscle-beast who was pounding his ass was pushing one-hundred-and-seven years old, but fucking with the passion of a teenager.

And frankly, the extra age and maturity made him fuck even better.

Though they all had separate rooms, they rarely slept alone. Sexual escapades would last until midnight or so, when most, joking about being “old men,” would go to sleep wherever they happened to be. Wherever they’d dropped their hat.

They all wanted to be up by sunrise.

Their first responsibility was to their plants, after all. And like the rest of them, Puck greeted the rising sun with an anticipatory erection.

He felt so damn good!

And in the outside world, time marched on without him, but he didn’t miss it at all. •

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