I was flying to New York from Los Angeles on the eight o'clock.

I fantasize that the airline will seat me next to some incredible hunk, every time I have a long plane trip, but it never happens. Except the one time that it did.

I was still situating my things when I heard a voice over my shoulder, deep and calm. "Excuse me. I have the window seat."

I glanced over my shoulder and there he was, the stunningly handsome man who would be my seat partner for the next six hours. He was wearing a loose fitting polo shirt, but it couldn't begin to hide his build. His biceps, like tightly stretched water balloons squirming under his skin, bunched up when he raised his hands and forced his short sleeves up to his shoulders. Mounds of chest muscle thrust out at me, and his tiny nips poked out to the sides through the fabric.

Which is not to take away from his face, because it was gorgeous.

He had a hard-edged look that still seemed refined and delicate. His eyes were turquoise blue; his hair was several shades of blond, mostly straw color. His jaw was densely coated with beard fuzz.

He'd obviously skipped shaving that morning. My mouth went dry and tingly.

I edged out of his way. He put his carryon in the overhead compartment and sat down. His shoulders filled more than his share of seat and protruded into my space. But I didn't mind. I was happy to rub against them as I sat down, and happier still to let my bare arm brush against his thick, sculpted, hair dusted forearm on the arm rest between us. He was no Mr. Olympia, but I had rarely been this close to a man half as good-looking and well built as this, and certainly not with the built in opportunity to chat him up for hours.

The stewardess offered us both drinks. I took a glass of champagne.

He ordered a scotch. Her eyes lingered on him as she left us. Was it the shape of him or his order for hard liquor so early in the morning? Ordinarily I never talk to my seatmates on flights. Too much risk I'll end up in a six-hour conversation with someone about their children, or the intricacies of marketing industrial valves and pipe fittings. But I made an exception with him.

"You live in New York?" I asked as I paged through the in-flight magazine.

"Nowhere really," he said. "I travel a lot."

"Sales?"

"Not exactly."

It was all he said. No more explanation. It was plain I needn't worry he would talk too much. I began to worry he would clam up and that I would begin to feel ugly and undesirable, which was not a space I wanted to travel in clear across country.

He raised an arm to brush the hair from his forehead. The sight of the bunched muscles on his arms tensing and protruding made me draw deep breath.

"You live in LA?" he finally asked.

"Yeah."

The stewardess brought his scotch. He downed the drink in one long gulp.

"Nervous about flying?" I asked as the stewardess took away the empty bottle and glass.

"No. I just like the way it makes me feel,' he said.

"I'm an addictive personality. I can't get enough of things I enjoy."

The crew was running through the preflight safety dialogue. The captain was taxiing to the runway. I was fighting to keep my hands from my dick, which was fat and flat against my thigh, pulsing like a cartoon heart.

Before we began take-off, he buried his nose in a book. I stopped talking to him because I couldn't bear the possibility that he would ignore me. But I didn't stop looking at him whenever I could. He must have noticed, although our eyes never met.

As we approached Kennedy airport, he began to talk again.

"Where do you workout?" he asked me.

"I surprised you would even notice," I responded.

"Compared to you I'm a pencil necked geek."

"Don't put yourself down. You look great. You've got great arms and you're really lean."

His complements gave me courage to really look at him, in the eyes.

He was sincere. I could tell. I could also feel blood rushing to my dick again as I stared into his bright green eyes and smoothly shaved jaw. He had one of those WASP noses, small and sloped like a ski jump.

"Where do you workout?" I asked.

"I don't. I'm just naturally muscular," he said, sheepishly, like he knew from experience that no one would believe it. But I did, because most guys like him were so proud of what they had accomplished with their body that they could talk your ears off about how they got it.

"I'm sorry, I never told you my name," I said.

"I'm Gray."

"Adam," he said, and shook my hand. Then he asked where I was staying in New York and he suggested we hook up for a drink that evening. He gave me the name of his hotel and told me to drop by around seven.

It sounded like a proposition, but guys like him were always looking for tops even bigger than themselves. When they were sweet, it was because they liked the company of other guys they thought were like themselves. In other words, it was a kind of "sisterhood" thing.

I could fantasize all I wanted about fucking him in his hotel room, but it was just a fantasy. Reality was that the minute I laid a hand on him he'd start telling me he didn't think about me "that way".

He was staying at W. I called him from the lobby. He gave me his room number and told me to come on up.

When he opened the door, he was dressed in white drawstring pants and no shirt. The sight was even better than expected. He was so lean; his skin was like paint spread over a muscle anatomy doll. I gasped at the sight. He ignored my obvious attraction and asked if I was all right. My eyes were locked on his abs, stacked like bricks two across and four high, with the barest of indentations between the first and second row for a dime sized belly button. He clasped my shoulder and asked me to come in.

I'd flipped a major boner by now, so hard that it hurt inside my pants. He turned his back to walk to the mini bar and squatted in front of the refrigerator door. His back muscles were just as impressive, not exceptionally wide, but well rounded and beautifully formed. He was erotic poetry in motion.

"What can I make you?"

"Whatever you're having."

His shoulder and back muscles jerked and danced as he twisted the bottles open, picked ice cubes for my glass from the bucket and doused them with what looked like scotch.

He handed the glass to me and looked coyly just past his eyebrows into my eyes as he brushed the light hairs on his stomach muscles with this free hand. Then he took it from my hand and set both of the glasses down, put his face an inch from mine, looked in my eyes, then glanced at my lips before brushing them with his own. His eyes rose to mine again and I felt his firm arm pull me closer. Our lips joined and he drew my tongue inside him.

For a long time we made love only with our lips as our hands explored each other. Then he released me. "You like my body?"

he asked, our faces still a breath away from each other.

"Yes."

"You like muscle?"

I nodded.

"Do you fantasize about it?"

I nodded again.

"Good," he said. "Because I want you to think about your fantasy physique. Imagine yourself as big as you want to be ­ no limits."

The sight of him in front of me still had me mesmerized.

"Close your eyes," he said. "Think about it."

I closed my eyes, but all I could see in my mind was him. All I could think of was the phenomenal man who stood close enough for me to feel his body heat.

"Try harder!" he said, as though he knew I was struggling.

His fingers brushed through my bangs and gripped the crown of my head.

They clenched so tightly they felt like they had slipped inside.

Then suddenly the images gushed from my subconscious, visions I'd had of my fantasy lovers and myself over decades, and I felt muscle spasms roil through my body, crawling under my skin.

My eyelids burst open. Reflected in Adam's eyes, electric with excitement, a wide mouthed grin across his face, I could see my transformation was visible. Adam tore the front of my dress shirt open and caressed the expanding muscles that devoured their way through a thin layer of fat to my skin. "Yes! Yes! Yes!" he screamed as a combination of my steely swelling flesh and his clawing hands tore the rest of my clothes to rags.

His zeal might have frightened me if I hadn't been emotionally paralyzed by the deeply erotic pleasure of stretching and expanding like a giant dick into a sculptured rock of muscle larger than anyone I had ever seen pictures of. And thinking of dick, I glanced over my broad, beefy chest and saw it rise up like a swaying cobra, inflated by the excitement I felt. It was broad beyond imagining and long enough that almost a foot of it was still visible beyond the overhang of my pecs.

Adam had fallen to his knees to worship it and all the rest of me.

I could see in his eyes how erotic I had become.

"You did this?" I asked.

"I provided the fuel, but you provided the kindling. And now there's enough fire for both of us."

His hot mouth drew the bulbous head of my cock inside as his eyes rolled backwards in ecstasy. I drew his head down further on it, gently at first, then more forcefully as the erotic intensity of my cock overcame me and I fell into my role as his master.

Adam used his mouth, his tongue and his throat like they had no other purpose than pleasuring my enormous tool. Spittle foamed from his mouth as he licked, sucked and deep-throated me. His lips grew red; his eyes teared. I saw his right hand pumping his dick as he ate me, but I could not have cared less whether he enjoyed what he was doing.

He drew the cum up from my balls minute by minute with excruciating slowness until it reached the tip of my fire hose cock and my whole body convulsed and blasted it free of me. As he sucked my prong like a teat, he moaned excitedly and squirted up at my balls.

He drew back and stood and looked at our creation. His attention drew my attention and I saw myself completely for the first time. The size and the grace of my muscle defied the skills of an artist to capture it. My shoulders were preternaturally broad and round like balloons. My arms were giant slabs of sculpted beef that twisted themselves through limitless variations of stunning eroticism as I flexed and tensed them in front of my amazed eyes. My back was so broad it bent my shoulders slightly in toward my chest, yet my waist had flattened and compacted to less than thirty inches. The wide sweep of my thick thighs was like the haunches of an animal, and my calves were almost as large as my arms.

I was dizzy with the sight of myself until Adam broke the spell.

"Fuck me," he said.

I hoisted him up by his steely obliques until the tip of my enormous tool lodged between his ass cheeks. It was at least four inches wide, and the head was as bulbous as a potato. I pulled him down on it. He gasped in delight at his impalement. In the mirrors I could see for the first time just how long it was. The head was inside, but there was almost a foot and a half left.

Adam wasn't the least bit afraid of it. Every inch I buried loosed a yell of joy. I buried the last foot of it in one great yank, sending shivers of pleasure down my dick and up my spine and weakening my knees enough to stumble.

I regained my wits and began to slide him up and down my fuck pole, twisting him slightly from side to side. He mewled contentedly and I lost my sense of consciousness in the pleasure of screwing him. His hands roamed over my shoulders, my chest and my arms. He tweaked my nipples and suckled them. Our lips locked and suddenly I was inside of him there too.

The weight of him, a good two hundred plus pounds, should have been taxing to lift as I stood, knees slightly bent, thrusting into his bouncing butt, but he felt as light as a child to me.

Adam enjoyed getting fucked so much that his eyes glazed over.

Whenever I tugged or caressed at his dick, he brushed my hand away.

All he wanted was the fucking fullness of my gigantic dick rubbing his tightly stretched innards.

In all of my physique fantasies, this kind of absolute power to pleasure another man had not even crossed my mind, but having this powerful man completely at my mercy made my dick even stiffer. It made my heart thump faster and rushed the coming of my next orgasm.

The sight of him lost in the idyll of intercourse, his dick pulsing and throbbing, the head of it widening as he swelled toward overload, pulled me over the edge. I pounded into his ass -- hard, in phenomenally long strokes and poured cum inside him.

The tickle of it spraying against his insides combined with my deep, hard plowing forced the cum from him too. He drenched us both with milky white fluid that seem to spew longer than either of us thought it could. We took turns catching it with our open mouths and laughing at each other's cum drenched faces.

When he stopped, he leaned into me and lapped my face clean. I lay him down on the neatly made bed. I might have pulled out and given us both a rest, but my dick still throbbed uncontrollably and I knew he wouldn't be so easily satisfied.

As soon as I started fucking him again, he began to coo. If I could have brought myself to withdraw, I was certain he would have tried to stop me. His ass was in the air now, his shoulders pinned to the bed, his back, ass and legs aligned and pointed almost straight up, a leg on each of my foot hill sized traps.

He looked so beautiful he couldn't resist caressing his protruding pecs, his pointed nipples, hard ridged abdomen, and then his cock. I wrapped my fist around it gently. It was huge by anyone's standards.

More than a foot long. More than I could get my hand around. At first his arm moved to brush my hand away, then I pumped my hand in time with the thrusts of my cock and his hand dropped back down. It was too much for him to resist. He shouted ecstatically and popped off again, spraying himself like a squirt gun. I chuckled at his helplessness. I wiped some of it off him with my fingers. Then, eyes locked with his, I sucked the cum off my dropping digits.

"How many times can you cum?" I asked.

"How long can you fuck me?" he replied with a grin.

I wiped more cum from him with my fingers, sucked it into my mouth, and lowered his legs as I kissed him, sharing his musky milk with him. I plowed my dick deeper into him stretching him more than ever.

He had made me what I was. I could probably fuck him forever.

After my fifth orgasm, after my dick was so cum-soaked it barely produced friction inside of him, I rolled off him and collapsed into heaving breaths at his side.

When my breath returned I asked, "What are you? How did you do this to me?"

"I don't know what I am. The Greeks might have called me a demigod.

The Christians would call me a demon. I've always been the way I am.

I've always had this power to realize a man's fantasies for him. The only catch is, it doesn't last."

My body was still suffused with post-orgasmic delight; my limbs still pulsed with outrageous strength; I was this man's master; I could make him squirm with desire and explode with passion; but I felt a small stillness at the core of my chest ­ the realization that this would not last.

He probably sensed my small discomfort and fingered my nipple to distract me. My dick jerked to life and my sense of physical mastery returned, but I still dimly remembered the shadow of my sadness.

I can't tell you how many times or how many ways I fucked Adam's tight muscled body, or even how many days it lasted. But when it ended I fell into a deep sleep and didn't wake up until I heard the hotel manager pounding on the door.

It was daylight. The other side of the bed was empty. Adam was gone.

I scrambled to my feet. Then I remembered what Adam had told me, and I saw myself in the mirror, naked, looking like I had looked when I had first arrived. I draped myself in a towel and answered the door.

Adam had left a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, but after several days, the management began to worry, especially since it was the day his prepaid tab would be spent. I promised the manager I would leave before noon, took a shower and dressed.

I was melancholy, as much at knowing I'd probably never see Adam again as I was at my physical loss. But what can you do? Better to have experienced all the things I love most and to have lost them, than never to have felt them at all.

What is it they say? "Easy come, easy go?" •