I rolled my eyes – ANOTHER role-play game – whatever. Some guys never give up. These claimed to be research scientists who’d perfected a formula that transformed women into virtual sex-slaves, creating physically perfect bimbos. (Seemed to me that someone was writing a soft-core version of “The Stepford Wives” and needed some creative inspiration – ah, straight boys.) Anyway, these “scientists” had done a market test – under the comical company name “Bimbo Tech” – and to their surprise, demand for the product quickly out-sold supply. I suppose that comes as a shock to no one reading this.

Naturally, being “scientists,” they couldn’t help but start meddling with the formula – and being business men, they couldn’t help but exploit new markets – so they’d created a version that would work on men, they claimed, transforming MEN into virtual sex-slaves, physically perfect MALE bimbos – “Mimbos,” I thought, remembering my “Seinfeld.” Chuckling.

All they required was someone willing to field-test it. And again, they turned to me because they’d seen my stories on a couple of web sites and thought I’d be the right man. Would I be interested in a sample of their product with the promise that I’d write a promotional review in exchange?

Truth is, I rarely respond to the whole role-play scene. Not that I have any issue with it, exactly, but I don’t seem to think that fast. I really take my time when I’m writing a story, you know, making sure the sentences read with the rhythm I intend, being certain the details that emerge continue to paint an accurate portrait of the scene, build the eroticism, all that stuff. I can’t do it in an IM, pressured to fire off another response to “Aw, man… you’re gettin’ so BIG!” every five seconds. How many times can you compare biceps to bowling balls before you’re really done with that image?

But then, I thought that, maybe because this RP arrived in the form of a letter, I could play along and have some fun. Take my time in response. Who knew, maybe it was a good exercise for generating a story? Lord knows, I don’t want to get caught up in another “Pollination” episode right now…

Sure, I wrote back to them, bring it on! Happy to help you out and test-market a sample of your new product. I’ve ALWAYS wanted to turn my close personal friends into unthinking sex-machines. Here’s my POBox…

Was I surprised that I didn’t get another email from them? Not really. I mean, come on, how long before using the words “the internet” and a roll of the eyes explains almost EVERY problem?

I didn’t sweat it. Besides, I wanted to start work on that Cop Story I’d been thinking about – or even get around to my other goal for the summer, writing Part Two of “The Bodybuilding Bug.” (And yes, I HAVE been considering a sequel to the new “Pollination” story – relax out there. You know who you are…)

About two weeks later – with the Cop Story creeping along as slowly as a stake-out – there was a package-slip in my post office box. Something had arrived from “B-Tech Inc.”

“B-Tech?” I thought. What the hell was that? What new supplement had I ordered off – (You guessed it!) – the INTERNET this time?

“B-Tech” turned out to be “Bimbo Tech” I’m embarrassed to say, right there on the label, making it clear and evident that the guy behind the counter handing me the package KNEW it was porn. (At least, I thought as a consolation, he’d think it was STRAIGHT porn – and I don’t know why I found comfort in that.)

I was… SHOCKED that those guys actually sent me something. Certainly glad I hadn’t given them my street address! All the way back to the car, I was kind of nervous about it – I confess. Bimbo Tech…

But I sat there in the front seat and opened it anyway, anthrax, letter bomb or not. It was the envelope-size that one would ship DVD’s in, so it wasn’t like it was a big deal or anything. Inside, a letter from my scientist pals and a small squeeze bottle, about the size of a Visine tube, or contact-lens re-wetting solution, nearly full of a clear liquid.

“Hello, Absman!” – the letter read – “Thrilled that you’re taking part in our study…” “Enclosed please find sample solution…” -- blah, blah, blah – “Drops can be applied orally or topically…” “Complete transformation in three doses…” “Questions or comments...” etc, etc, etc. “Signed…”

Well, I thought, THAT wasn’t much of an RP letter. You’d think they were almost serious. I held the… Bimbo Drops – correction, MIMBO Drops – in my hand, turning the little bottle around to examine it. With a dismissive chuckle, I slipped it into my cargo-shorts pocket and stepped up the pace to get to my buddy Sam’s house on time. This side-trip cost me almost fifteen minutes waiting in line.

Sam was my biking buddy. We’d known each other easily six or seven years through the gym, acquaintances in the chit-chat way that develops between guys who work out at the same time everyday. We got talking about mountain-biking one day – my hobby – and he confessed that he was looking for an alternative to running, his knees and hips were starting to feel the stress of turning thirty-five.

So we went riding together one day, and once you mountain-bike, you’re hooked – it’s unbelievably fun, and challenging, and an amazing workout – besides, getting muddy and doing jumps and tinkering with your bike on the side of the trail brings out the ten-year-old boy in all of us. No, nobody has to sell me on mountain-biking.

Three years later, Sam and I were still riding together three or four times a week. I happened to live at the back door to one of the biggest national park systems in the country, certainly the east coast, and the abundance of bike trails kept me sated and interested, certainly in shape.

I was a little bigger than Sam, probably ten pounds or so, but build-wise, we were both ectomorphs, nearly the same, both just under two-hundred pounds, long and lean. My legs were a little bigger, but Sam had the pecs of death. So big, they teetered on the brink of proportion, especially when he was wearing bike shorts. My joke: when you saw Sam enter the gym, you’d say, “Hmm… must be chest day.”

He had a nice body – it was a shame he was straight, which I said to him all the time. “Can’t help it bud,” he’d respond. “I was born that way.”

He was on the phone arguing with his soon-to-be ex-wife when I got to his apartment. I tried not to listen as they hashed it out – thank God they didn’t have any children, I thought. Listen to them argue about equity! He wore only his bike shorts, displaying those aforementioned pecs and his flat, but unremarkable stomach. Too hairy for my taste, I’d tried to get him to shave any number of times, or at least MAN-scape, playing on his vanity. “Those pecs would look so much bigger if they were smooth,” I’d say, stuff like that. But he never fell for it.

Damn straight boys.

While they yelled at each other, I racked his bike on top of my car, next to mine. When I got back in the apartment, he handed me his empty Camelbak and made a “talking, jabber, jabber” motion with his free hand, rolling his eyes. After a “No, Sandra… Of course I did, Sandra…” he silently mouthed, “Fill it?” to me, pointing to the Camelbak. “Use plenty of ice-cubes,” he mouthed next, then said, “I didn’t say anything” into the phone. “No, no one’s here… There is NOT a woman in my apartment… Sandra, I’m not…” Then he went out on the balcony and shut the glass door, cutting off the sound.

I should back up. For those not hip to the X-treme sports lingo – and as a forty-year-old man, I have to cop to having been a little dense about it myself when I started – Camelbak is a brand name, so I probably shouldn’t use it, but… there it is. A water-delivery system – (I love saying that!) – that the rider wears as a back-pack. A bladder, for lack of a better word, with a long blue tube that attaches to the front shoulder strap. While you ride, you just grab the little tube and get a drink. Mountain-biking is rough – you often lose your water-bottle.

So, Camelbaks were the “thing” – any self-respecting mountain-biker had one. Besides the ability to carry nearly a gallon of water on your back, the backpack itself was handy for tools and snacks and rubber tubes and cell-phones. To sum up in X-treme lingo: awesome!

While Sam argued on the balcony, I filled his Camelbak with ice-cubes and cold water. Then, for no good reason other than devilish curiosity, I took out the little bottle and squeezed one healthy Mimbo Drop into the bladder, too. Just one, I thought. Just to see if it would do anything – and it probably wouldn’t. I mean, it was probably water, or at worst, really Visine. In that case, one drop would be so diluted as to have no effect at all. Whatever, it was still a fun fantasy.

After he finally got off the phone – and thanked me for filling his Camelbak! – we loaded the rest of his crap into my car and took off. Though happy to get out of the house, he was anxious to get his truck back from the shop, he complained – he’d been vehicle-less for nearly a week, and it was driving him crazy. “If I don’t get out and find me some pussy soon, I’m gonna explode.”

While I drove, one hand on the wheel, one arm crooked in the window, I said, “It’s not like I haven’t offered, Sam...” and smiled, looking at the road.

He laughed, and punched me in the shoulder. “Yeah, right,” he said, chuckling, rolling his eyes the same way I did when I said the word “internet.”

“You might be surprised, is all I’m sayin’. I got a talented mouth, Sam.”

He laughed. “I’m not gay, is all I’M sayin,” he said. “Though I’m sure you’re talented.”

“You don’t gotta be gay, Sam. You just gotta like a mouth on your dick. Shut your eyes and imagine anything you want.”

“Can we talk about something else,” he asked. “I told you I was horny, not desperate.”

He waited until I said “Fuck you” before he laughed.

So we were riding – and it was hot, the humidity high. I was sweating like a freakin’ pig. Sam was being unusually aggressive on the hills, hitting them hard on the bottom. It was a beautiful day, but hardly anybody was out this early in the morning. It surprised me – on a weekend day with weather like this, you’d think everybody would be riding, the trails would be packed. But that wasn’t the case. Though we’d seen a couple of people near the entrance, we hadn’t seen another soul up here on the advanced trails, and we were nearly two-thirds of the way done with our ride.

About two hours into it, Sam started to ride a bit erratically. Tentative on rough terrain, I could hear him swearing as we went across rocky sections, like his ass hurt when he bounced. Hemorrhoid Boy, I laughed to myself.

Finally, after a series of roots, he abruptly stopped. His left pedal-clip stuck a little and by the time he got his foot free, his frustration was obvious. He threw his bike down and said over his shoulder, “I gotta take a leak.”

Whatever, I thought. I took the opportunity to remove my helmet, wipe the sweat from my brow, suck down a little water.

I didn’t hear the sounds of pissing coming from behind the tree, though. Instead, I heard Sam mumble, “Mother FUCK” and then come back to where I stood by the bikes. “Dude, somethin’s goin’ on,” he said.

“What’s the matter?”

“Look at me! I’m fuckin’ hard as a rock!”

I turned around to face him and sure enough, standing there sweaty and dirty in his bike shorts, he had the mother of all hard-ons. The outline of it was obvious beneath the cotton-spandex, one of the biggest dicks I’d ever seen – I didn’t know Sam was hung that well. Hell, I would’ve been more serious about coming on to him if I’d known he was that big.

“I feel like I’m fuckin’ O.D.-ing on Cialis or something! This thing’s fuckin’ KILLING me! Ever since I got into the forest, man, it’s been getting worse and worse. I can’t stand it anymore,” he said, unable to help but touch the base of it with his hand. “Tom, I gotta get off. Seriously, I gotta shoot a fuckin’ load. I can’t stand it.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” I said, starting to get turned on myself.

“C’mon,” he said, “do it with me. Jerk off with me. You know you wanna. Look at your dick – you wanna. C’mon…” He began to aggressively finger his package, stuttering his breath.

“Isn’t this a little gay?” I teased, aware of my own hard-on growing beneath my bike shorts.

“We’re just jerkin’ off together,” he said. “We ain’t touchin’. That’s what you always say. C’mon…”

He peeled down the front of his bike shorts, exposing the solid definition of his lower abs beneath the hem of his t-shirt. I didn’t remember them being so cut. Whatever, by then he had his dick out, and it took both hands to hold it, it was so big. “I have the biggest fuckin’ cock,” he mumbled proudly, admiring it as he set to work masturbating it.

“It’s huge,” I said, playing with my own respectable member.

“Naw, it’s gigantic! I fuckin’ love it! Some women can’t handle it, but hey, they don’t like big cocks, that’s their fuckin’ problem, right?”

I remained silent, pulling at my own dick, enjoying the scene. A fantasy come true.

“YOU like it, though, don’t you?,” he said low in his voice, while pounding, “Yeah, you’d love to get your mouth on it, wouldn’t you? You gay guys like these big cocks, don’t you? It’s cool – I know you’re hot for me, buddy. I know you’re hot for my big cock. It’s cool – I like it. I’m gettin’ off on it.”

“Hot…” I mumbled, almost ready to cum already.

He interrupted. “Shit, dude, I’m gonna blow! Holy fuck…! Holy…!”

And then, as he screamed, he shot. And I gotta say, I’d seen guys who’d gone for quite some time between orgasms, and I thought they’d shot a lot, but THIS…

He… EXPLODED with cum! I mean, it was an orgasm unlike anything I’d ever seen before. He blew into the woods, these huge ropes of jizz, spraying up into the lower branches of the great trees. A mind-blowing force, a sexual explosion, a complete release.

He fell back against a tree and caught his breath, unable to stop the motions of masturbation. “Holy fuck,” he mumbled, milking the last bits from himself. “Holy fuck. That was fuckin’ awesome!”

“You do that every time?” I asked.

He snorted. “I wish,” he said. “That was amazing! Did you cum?”

I looked down at my hand and realized, yes I had cum – I didn’t even realize it with what had happened to him! “Watchin’ that? How could I not?”

Sam smiled, tucking his big monster back into his bike shorts. “Yeah, that was fuckin’ hot! And dude,” he said, adjusting himself again as he snapped the waist band back into place, “I’m tellin’ you true: that barely took the edge off.”

“You’re kidding…?”

We picked our bikes up off the ground and re-mounted. Sam sucked a drink from his Camelbak. “No,” he said, clipping in and starting down the trail. “Seriously, I’m still horny as a motherfuck. Hot and hard, dude. Hot and hard!”

Now, if I thought he’d been aggressive on the trail before, it was nothing compared to the way he was hitting it now. He powered up the hills, took some crazy-shit jumps on the way down until we ended up back at the car just before noon – three and a half hours of riding. It had been all I could do to keep up with him.

At the car, I was exhausted, but he had a fire lit under him.

“I feel fuckin’ GREAT!” he said, stripping his shirt off and tossing it in the back seat. “Dude, if I hadn’t run out of water, we’d still be out there.” He held up his empty Camelbak as proof, then tossed that in the car as well. “Look at me,” he said. “I’m pumped as fuck!”

True, his legs looked bigger, pumped like after a workout – only bigger than that. And his abs, what was up with his abs?

“What’s up with your abs?” I asked from the other side of the car, stripping my own shirt over my head.

He flexed them, showing off his ripped eight-pack. “You mean, other than the fact that I suddenly GOT ‘em?” he asked, flexing hard and running his hand over them. “I don’t know, but it’s fuckin’ hot.”

In the car, as I backed out of our parking space, he said, “It’s happening again,” indicating the growing erection in his sweaty bike shorts.

“Holy shit, Sam…”

“Fuckin’ hot,” he mumbled again. “Sammy’s got a hot cock.”

At the red light, while I was looking out the window, he took my hand off the gear shift and unexpectedly put it on the head of his dick. He leaned back in the seat and said, “Yeah, work Sammy’s shaft. It’s so big. You guys like that, right?”

I squeezed him a couple times until the light turned green. “Isn’t this kind of gay?” I asked, stroking the thing from stem to stern – it WAS big, and I’d held some good-sized dicks in my hand.

His hands were up behind the head rest, exposing his entire torso to me, his sudden abs. “I don’t know,” he said. “Who’s grabbin’ whose dick?” He laughed. “Tell you what, you lay off the gay jokes, and maybe I’ll let you suck it when we get back to your place. Or is that too gay for you?”

In response, I shifted him into first and low-geared our asses home.

Clearly, the Mimbo Drops worked – there was no other possible explanation for Sam’s behavior here or in the woods. And that was only one dose! What would happen to him once he’d had two? Or even the max dose of three? I couldn’t even imagine.

He handed the chance to me. As I parked outside my townhouse, he said, “I’ll get the bikes – you get the shots.”

Our habit – our REWARD – after a long ride was to have a shot together, a punch of alcohol to celebrate our success on the trail. At Sam’s, we usually had vodka – at my place, Herr Jagermeister, the thick, German deer-blood. Mm, mm good! I took the bottle and two shot glasses out of the freezer. After pouring a couple healthy ones, I actually hesitated before I put another drop of the formula into his.

“I can’t believe how fuckin’ horny I am,” Sam said, coming into the kitchen after hanging up the bikes in the garage. I quickly slipped the Mimbo Drops back into my pocket of my cargo shorts. He didn’t see it, too focused on the shots. “Aw, shit… Jager…”

“No one’s twisting your arm,” I said, handing the spiked shot to him.

“I’ll give you something to twist,” he chuckled, taking it from me, winking.

“Tease.”

He smiled and raised his glass into the air. “To jerking off in the woods,” he toasted.

“I’ll drink to that,” I said, clinked glasses with him, and tossed the Jagermeister down.

He gasped after he drank it, mocking the taste. “Nasty,” he said. “I hate that shit.”

“Pussy.”

He loudly smacked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Worse than usual. You clean those shot glasses lately?”

I smiled and took the glass from him. “No,” I said. “Truth is: I spiked yours with a formula that’s gonna turn you into a gay muscle-whore – you know, a male version of a bimbo. A mimbo!”

He barked a laugh, flexing in the living room mirror. “A mimbo… I guess that would explain the abs, then,” he said, admiring them. “And what happened in the woods.”

“And the hard-on you got right now,” I said, putting the bottle back in the freezer, the glasses in the sink.

“I got a big dick, man. And I’m horny. What can I say?”

“Whatever,” I said, making my way past him. “I’m gonna grab a quick shower before I take you home. That cool?”

He continued posing, admiring the additional muscle he’d acquired while we’d been riding – the incredible pump he displayed. “I thought you were gonna suck my cock,” he said casually, then slowly looked at me – seductively, I would say. He stroked a teasing hand along the outline of his rod, adjusted his package.

I smiled back – a fantasy come true! “We can do both at the same time,” I said, adjusting my own growing erection. “Two birds with one stone…”

He nodded knowingly. “Fuckin’ HOT,” he said, a smile breaking out on his face. “And your muscle-mimbo Sammy is fuckin’ horny!”

As I stepped into the tub and got the water running, Sam stripped off his shorts and began flexing naked in the mirror over the sink. “I AM fuckin’ bigger, dude,” he said. “Serious. And not just my muscles, either. I think my cock is actually gettin’ bigger, too. Check this shit out, man.”

He stepped into the shower, his big dick leading the way, almost a foot long, jutting at a right angle to his narrow hips. Then the usual shared-shower fun, the slippery soap, the lathering of firmly muscled bodies, the tactile stimulation of liquid and lust. As I knelt before him and took his dick in my mouth, building a bubbly lather on his balls, he moaned in ecstasy.

“Fuck, yeah,” he said. “Suck that big cock.”

Huge – I could barely deep-throat it without gagging. Taking the cue, Sam started thrusting his hips, face-fucking me. “Oh, yeah,” he growled. “Turnin’ into a muscle-whore – fuckin’ mimbo faggot. See me? Fuckin’ hot…”

When my soapy fingers started toying with his asshole, he shot immediately, filling my mouth with his generous load. I swallowed to keep from choking on him. There was so much, it just dribbled down my chin – Sam just kept shooting and groaning, his head thrown back, eyes closed. He flexed his entire body as he orgasmed.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, leaning against the tile wall and panting, his muscular chest rising and falling. “Fuckin’ hot mouth, buddy.”

I stood then, revealing my own obvious erection. “Now I gotta get off,” I said. “Why don’t you flex for me a little bit and I’ll yank?”

The corner of his mouth curled up in a slight smile – he looked me up and down, checking me out. “Why don’t you fuck me with that hot cock of yours instead?” he asked quietly. “Why don’t you treat me like your pussy muscle-whore? Fuck me like a mimbo faggot?”

“Sam, I…”

He spun around, showing me his backside. “You don’t like my ass? You don’t think I got a nice ass?”

“You got a fantastic ass…”

“Fuck it, then,” he said, leaning against the shower wall. “Fuck Sammy’s hungry muscle-ass. Treat me like your fuckin’ mimbo!”

And so, using the shampoo as lube, I did. I worked my way into Sam’s hot, tight virgin hole and fucked him. He took to it the same way he took to mountain-biking, quickly and aggressively, a little pain at first, but then mastery. Hell, he’d only been doing it ten minutes and he’d already developed technique!

“Fuck, yeah,” he moaned in his delirium. “Just a big hot muscle-whore.”

“Gonna cum,” I gasped, unable to control my thrusts.

“Harder!” he yelled. “Fuck me harder!”

I unloaded in him, driving it deep into his loins. Sam hollered again, and I could feel him orgasm while I was still inside him. “So fuckin’ hot,” he murmured as he spun to face me, wrapping his muscular arms around me. We kissed then in the shower, while the warm water rinsed us clean.

And it went on like that for hours. Out of the shower, drying off with soft towels, he was hard almost immediately. “Lemme fuck you, now,” he said. “Lemme fuck that gorgeous ass of yours!” He stood close before me and flexed his pecs, still out of proportion with his growing build. He reached around and squeezed my butt-cheeks in his hands, pressing our hips together. “Don’t make me force you.”

So he fucked me. Bent over the bed so he could see himself in the mirror while he did it, he worked that big cock of his into me. First some tongue and fingers to relax me, to get me ready, then his slippery, lube-covered cock – felt like the blunt end of a cucumber pressed up against my hole. I’d never taken anything THAT big inside myself.

But Sam didn’t give up – he forced his way in. “That’s tighter than any pussy I’ve ever fucked,” he said, finding his rhythm. “Sweet muscle-whore.”

I don’t know how long he was in me that first time, but it felt like forever on the edge of ecstasy. He didn’t just ring my bell, he smashed it into little erotic pieces.

After filling me with his cum that first time, after his orgasm – his third since arriving at my house – he turned me over the on the edge of the bed, knelt between my legs and sucked me off. I propped up on my elbows and watched him for a while, making eye-contact with me as he bobbed up and down on my rod, but then I just laid back and enjoyed him. He didn’t just coax an orgasm out of me, he DREW it out, sucking me like the last drops in a slurpee cup. Aggressive.

“That was amazing,” I mumbled, exhausted. “You’re incredible.”

“Shots!” he yelled. “I think it’s time for some more Jager! Get this nasty taste out of my mouth!”

“Fuck you!” I said, laughing, smacking him with a pillow.

He nodded. “Oh, yeah. Definitely. You’re DEFINITELY gonna fuck me again!”

We kissed, and I could taste myself on him, in him – time for shots.

As I stood in the kitchen, wiping his excess cum off my ass with a paper towel, then getting new shot glasses, he called, “Make sure to put another dose of that muscle-whore stuff in mine!”

I smiled and called back, “If you say so!”

He stepped into the kitchen right after I did put it in his glass, though he wasn’t paying any attention to what I was doing. Joyfully, he said, “Tom, I just fuckin’ weighed myself! Is your scale right?”

I shrugged, filling the shot glasses with the cold Jagermeister. “Unfortunately, yeah. Why?”

“It’s got me at two thirty-five!” he yelled. “Two-hundred, thirty-five fuckin’ pounds! Dude, this morning I weighed one ninety-three. That’s…” He thought for a second or two, looking up at his brain as he tried to calculate. “…a big gain!”

“You look fuckin’ fantastic,” I said, admiring him, handing him a shot glass. He had the body of a professional wrestler, an exotic dancer, a physique model, a junior bodybuilder – he was an almost perfect COLT man, and his dick would soon reach Tom of Finland proportion. “That’s forty-two pounds, by the way.”

He smirked, “Yeah, well, the only math I need to know is how many times twelve inches will go inside someone.” Looking down at his cock, he added, “Though I think this is bigger than twelve inches now.” Laughing at his own joke, he raised his glass. “To becoming a big, dumb muscle-whore!”

“To Mimbo Drops,” I countered, clinking and drinking.

After the shot, he looked at himself again. “Yeah, I think it IS bigger. You got a… what do you call it…? a measuring tape?”

From base to tip it was over thirteen inches. I was flabbergasted – Sam was ecstatic! He danced around. “Fuck, yeah! Fuck, yeah! Big dumb muscle-whore!”

He tried on all of my thongs, my leather stuff, my rubber wear, my posers, my singlets, my harnesses, my silky lingerie – he liked modeling. It was part of the tease. “Gonna make you WANT to fuck me again,” he said posing in my black jock strap and fishnet t-shirt. “Gonna be the best muscle-whore ever – the biggest.”

He let me shave his cock and balls – and his butt-crack for good measure. He let me man-scape his out-of-control body hair, until his chest and stomach were neat and well-groomed. NOW he looked like a COLT model! I sucked him off while I shaved him – to keep his cock hard, my rationalization – and his orgasms never diminished in intensity or output.

But I just couldn’t keep up. The bigger he got, the hotter he got, the hornier he got – a vicious cycle. One I wouldn’t have been able to keep up with had I been a healthy, over-sexed nineteen year-old shooting testosterone, much less the forty-year old man I was now. Maybe if I’d OD’d on Viagra or Cialis, or taken the Mimbo Drops myself, otherwise, I just couldn’t do it.

At nearly 11:30 pm, almost twelve hours since we’d gotten back from the ride, I woke from a recuperative doze when I felt Sam’s cock up my ass. He was fucking me while I was asleep!

“C’mon, buddy,” Sam whined. “Keep up with me. That last one barely took the edge off! I gotta fuck, Tom. Muscle-whore’s gotta fuck.”

“You’re wearing me out, Sam,” I said, sleepily. “You’re killing me.”

“But I need a cock up my ass, Tommy,” he said. “I’m achin’ for some cock.”

I’d created a monster, I thought – the Mimbo Drops had worked a little too well. Sam was gigantic – awash with muscle mass, perfect body hair, a strong jaw. His cock had broken fourteen inches about two hours ago and it was as thick as a roll-bar.

He was, quite simply, a perfect specimen.

And he couldn’t stop fucking.

“Do me a favor,” he said, pumping into me. “Drive me out to a bar or something. C’mon, my truck’s still in the shop – I don’t know where any of the fag bars are, anyway. Take me out – I gotta get some cock, dude. Drop me off someplace where I can get some cock. C’mon, be a pal.”

I smiled. “You’re asking me this WHILE you’re fucking me?”

He giggled – giggled! “Sammy-whore wants cock. If not yours, someone’s.”

That was how I ended up driving him into the city, to the gay district – not that far, right inside the beltway, about fifteen, twenty minutes away – just so I could get rid of him and get some rest. He wore me out – I never felt so old in my life.

“How will you get home?” I asked while we drove, while he sat in the passenger’s seat and played with his erection. He was able to put his cock-head in his mouth now.

“I’ll get a ride,” he said, then laughed. “I’m sure I’ll get a ride! Look at my cock, man. It’s absolutely HUGE!”

I dropped him off on Charles Street, right in the heart of the gay district, right in front of the Rhino, the big gay dance bar. Truthfully, all the bars were within a two-block radius, but the Rhino was the perfect place for Sam.

Well, for Mimbo Sam.

He tucked himself back in and stepped out of the car. Leaning in the passenger’s door, he kissed me deeply. “Get your rest,” he said. “I’ll come over and we’ll fuck tomorrow. Besides, you got my bike.”

I smiled. “And you’re wearing my thong.”

He laughed. “Right, right,” he said, and trotted off. I watched him, this hugely muscular stud dressed in a pair of Daisy Dukes, open at the waist, making the white silk thong he wore beneath painfully obvious. Boots but no shirt, he looked spectacular. The guys waiting in line outside the bar certainly voiced their admiration. Sam paused and posed for them, flexing his two-hundred fifty pounds of muscle before approaching the doorman. They cheered.

He walked directly up to the muscular bouncer and grabbed the guy’s package. The doorman smiled and wrapped his arms around Sam’s torso – Sam was more muscular – the two big men kissed, the doorman sliding a hand down into the shorts, over Sam’s hot ass, pulling on the ass-strap of the thong. The guys on line went crazy.

When the kiss broke, the guy let Sam enter the bar – no waiting for him, anymore. He was hot, and he knew it. And soon he’d fuck the world.

I drove home, unsure of how to feel. Was I more concerned about the fact that I couldn’t keep up with him or that he seemed to have become insatiable? He certainly didn’t seem to MIND what he had become. Just the opposite, he was celebrating it!

Clearly, I was paying more attention to my thoughts than my driving, because all of a sudden I was lit up from behind – the familiar red and blue lights of the police. “Oh, shit,” I mumbled, dressed only in my cargo shorts and a t-shirt – no underwear, no shoes, my hair disheveled. The whole car smelled like old sex. There was no mistaking what I had been up to.

I pulled over to the side of the road, pulling my license out of my wallet as soon as I had parked. Thinking quickly, I pulled out the Mimbo Drops, squeezing two big ones onto the end of my laminated license, on the far side from my hand.

I watched him approach in the driver’s side mirror – where objects reflected were closer than they appeared – a heavily muscled man, solid, dense, had probably been a linebacker on his college football team – no neck to speak off. Even without the Kevlar vest, he’d be thick -- roidgut.

The window framed him from just above his belt to just about mid-thigh, his thick waist, his big thighs, his confident package – he was really something.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asked, his voice rough and deep, authoritative.

“No, Officer,” I said, always respectful to the uniform.

“Ran that red light back there,” he said.

Immediately defensive. “That light was yellow!” Immediately regretful.

“You don’t enter an intersection on a yellow light, either” he said. “License and registration, please.”

He’s just out to hassle me, I thought. Driving out of the gay district this late at night, this was just a game of Hassle the Fag. Whatever.

I handed him the wet license – he grabbed it before he realized. “What the fuck..?” he asked, rubbing his fingers. He made a motion to shake it off, but it had already evaporated. Well… absorbed.

“Oh,” I lied. “I just put in contact drops. I got the freakin’ saline on everything. Sorry, Officer.”

He shook his head slightly, silently. “What are you doin’ on the road this time of night?” he asked, dismissing my excuse. He could obviously smell the old sex – and the way I was dressed.

“I, uh… just took a… friend home and I’m headed back to my house.” That was close enough. He’d think it was just two fags having domestic disputes.

“Okay,” he said, a bit of a smirk on his face. He knew what was going on – and he clearly didn’t approve. By his attitude, he’d rather have this scene over as soon as possible, too. “Hang tight. I’ll run this and get you out of here.”

“Thank you, Officer. I’m sorry I didn’t…”

“No problem. Back in a minute.”

Because of the spot light and the flashing red and blues, I couldn’t see him clearly in his car. But nearly ten minutes passed before I heard his door open again and saw him walk back toward my car. He had the most confident gate – so sexy. Maybe it was just those big thighs. (And I thought Sam was bad!)

And then, standing next to my door, framing his hips in my window, it was impossible NOT to see the erection fighting the confines of his tight uniform pants. His cock, like the rest of him, was as thick as it was big, a freakin’ beer can.

“I’ll need you to step out of the car, sir,” he said – and there was something new in his voice, something lustful.

As I got out of the car and he pressed me against the trunk, pushing his hardness into me while he frisked me, I thought, looks like I’ll have some material for my Cop Story, after all.

Of course, first I had to write my recommendation for the Mimbo Drops.

The cop’s strong hand slid between my legs, over the roundness of my ass, confidently cupping my balls. Yeah, I thought, Mimbo Drops worked pretty good. They’re gonna sell like hotcakes.

The cop dominated me completely, used me like a piece of meat, but that’s another story. Perhaps cumming soon!

Take it from me, don’t forget to place your orders now! •