The Arab Prince

“So, anything else that needs discussing before the next news meeting?” My editor asks.

“Umm, well, is there anything I can be focussing on?” My voice slightly cracks, I’ve only been at the BBC offices for a few weeks but I’m trying to make myself come off as keen, but not too keen that everyone around me hates me and thinks I’m going to gun for their job.

The World Service has been through some really, really tough months, job cuts, redundancies, people moving abroad to other networks, the BBC was not the place everyone wanted to work anymore, and certainly a young 25 year old upstart like me joining the most respected name in news worldwide might rub some up the wrong way. My game plan was simple, move in the right direction but slowly, and never appear too fast or eager. I genuinely wasn’t there to steal anyone’s job, certainly not deliberately.

“Actually, there’s something we want you to do, wait behind.”

The room vacated, everyone doing awkward British nods and smiles at each other as they left to complete their tasks.

“We’re impressed, you’re progressing well,” she says, “so we’ve got a small interview we’d like you to do, but it is an important one, and it’s a foreign assignment so it’s a good first job.”

“Oh wow, okay,” I pause, “go on.”

“Prince Abdul Al-Aziz Al-Hamza is shortly to take over the small island nation of Thazzan,” she starts.

“Isn’t that the country which has insanely high oil revenues but doesn’t really look after its people?”

“Oh yes,” she says, “we’d like you to go there and interview him. His father’s in his dying days and he’s willing to give one radio interview, specifically radio, we don’t know why, to discuss what’s next for his country.”

This was a perfect scoop, I mean, it was going to be boring as hell, but good. By boring as hell, I mean there would be no chance for real questions. Interviews with dictators and their sons always followed the same format and went on the same lines, how thrilled the people are to have them and how many changes they have planned for the country. No-one actually ever takes these kinds of things seriously.

“I’m a bit concerned about LGBT rights,” I say, after a few moments of pondering.

“They’re inviting you, it’s not going to be a problem, in fact I’ve already checked that,” she replies.

“Wait you what?” I ask, rather startled.

“You’re our only free reporter, so I was upfront about it,” she replies, calmly, I forget my editor has been doing this for years, “we used to check this kind of thing with reporters in other slightly homophobic countries nearby, it’s standard practice.”

“How is that, remotely standard practice?” I ask, blood pressure raised.

“Because then there’s a record that we checked that it was fine for you to go as a gay man, actually it protects you from being arrested for debauchery if they were to find out you were while you’re there.”

“The last thing I’m going to do is hook up with some guy from a country where it’s so repressed and I can get thrown in jail for it,” I say, almost losing my temper, but, then remembering this is the person in charge of assignments, “but thank you for your concern,” I add, through slightly gritted teeth.

“Can you leave this evening? It’s either this evening or an early morning flight I’m afraid. You can leave the office now. We’ve planned around 4 days for you there, there’s a visit to some oil refineries, some oil treatment works, some oil fields, and then the final day is the interview itself,” she says, “did you know the country’s economy is almost entirely dependent on oil?” She asks, with a wry smile.

“I could have guessed.” I say.

********************************************

24 hours later and I wake up my first day in Thazzan. The air conditioning perfect, the hotel nice, the BBC could never afford a really, really nice hotel, especially for an inexperienced reporter like me, but it was comfortable. Certainly more comfortable than most hotels around the M25, although that’s not saying much.

My first visit to an oil field was boring, as I guessed all the visits would be. I ended up having a chat with the manager as we were wrapping up. Oil was booming, he was telling me, no he wasn’t concerned about the sudden drop in oil in the coming decades as the country was investing now, yes he was very confident in the new Prince.

“He telephones in to our board meetings across the company,” he said, excitedly.

“Oh so he is more hands on than most bosses?” I ask.

“Oh, absolutely,” he says, “much better than in neighbouring countries. He always dials in and he’s very good at giving direction, after all, the country shares the oil wealth so we have to do it for the benefit of all.” He replies.

It’s worth pointing out at this point that corruption indexes but Thazzan at one of the worst in the world for corruption, and the UN has repeatedly said that even though they have all this oil wealth, it is not trickling down to the people. Pleas have been made repeatedly to have the wealth shared more effectively, it’s all gone unheeded.

I look up from his desk, sure enough, there was a smiling Prince Al-Hamza, probably embezzling huge amounts of this money for himself, not that the people would ever know. I hated myself for thinking this, in a country of such poor gay rights, but he was hot. The guy was hot. His Excellency, or whatever his formal title was, was hot. He had the kind of manicured facial hair and beautiful dark brown eyes that really turned me on to Arab men. Not one guy so far had really piqued my interest, but the Prince did.

“Ah yes, it is his official portrait, we are all very pleased with him,” the manager grinned.

I notice the date mark in the plaque next to his smiling image.

“2008?” I ask.

“Yes, why?” he asks.

“That’s ten years ago.”

“It is the most recent official portrait, he is twenty there, if something more recent comes, then we all have to change. We used to change them once every six months.”

“Oh right, so does he look like that now? I mean, during your teleconferences?”

“Oh no, you misunderstand, we never see him, he calls in on the phone.”

This struck me as odd. I sat back in my chair and looked at the image of the attractive Prince in full Thazzan flowing white robes of national dress. It also made me wonder why the man had specifically asked for a radio interview with the World Service, any Prince on a good PR job would be after BBC World News on TV, not radio. TV had a better reach and could be used on YouTube, radio, not so much.

“Have you ever seen him? Met him? He’s nice?” I ask, digging.

“Nope, but he is a very kind man, he cares deeply about the people,” says the manager, “sometimes when oil revenues fall, he will call me personally and discuss.”

“So he’s never visited your oil field?”

“A Prince is far too busy for something like that, he has many diplomatic things to attend and people to look after, I would not expect him to come visit.”

“But it’s your country’s main source of revenue?” I ask.

“Of course!” He replies, he’s not going to comment further.

I let his last two words hang in the air briefly, most interviewees will almost always talk more when you leave the room quiet, this man, not so. Perfectly trained in PR. The two officials standing near the exit to the office probably didn’t help either, while they were there ostensibly to help me around, they were almost certainly there to make sure all my visits were perfect.

With that, I left the facility.

**************************************

My final day had arrived, this afternoon I was told I had an hour with the Prince, to ask him what I wanted. He wouldn’t answer any question we hadn’t planned from the news team, but we could at least try. He would give highly scripted answers to complex questions and that would be done. I didn’t know why the BBC was going through with this total farce of an interview, but there we are.

I was taken to the royal palace at 1pm. The huge, vast building opened up like an oasis in the desert as we drove nearer. An enormous monolith dedicated to housing the ruling family, it had hundreds of acres of perfectly manicured grounds and guards every few metres.

I was shown into a big room, then another big room, and finally another big room. I was sat down at a table with a phone on it.

“The Prince will talk shortly.” I was assured by a small man in perfectly fitted attire.

I got ready to read through my notes for the upcoming questions, I got out my radio microphone, I worked out the best lines of attack. I thought I’d start out slow and ask about oil revenues, then start asking why the country was still not dealing with its poverty effectively.

The phone rang. I looked around, but I was in this empty space alone. I gingerly picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” I asked, my voice cracked slightly, I needed to drink more, the country was too hot.

“Hello, I believe you have some questions for me,” came a slightly deep, immaculately accented English from the other end of the phone.

My mouth went immediately dry.

“Your Excellency! I didn’t realise we weren’t doing this in person?”

“I am a very busy man. You must understand.”

“I do, I do,” I say, biting my tongue, before realising I needed to state the obvious, “how am I supposed to do a radio interview over the phone?”

“My people will record it,” he says, assuredly, here’s a man no-one has ever said no to.

“I can’t do that,” I say, holding back a frog in my throat, “BBC guidelines, I have to record it myself.”

“Why?”

“You could tamper with the recording, it has happened.”

A deep laugh came from the other end of the receiver.

“Surely not?” he asks.

“Yes.” I reply.

“But you would know if it had been edited, you’ll have done the interview.”

“Yes but that isn’t the point.”

“Okay so what is your first question?” He asks, pointedly.

“No, no, I’m really sorry, I have to insist, I have to interview you in person. There’s no point in me being sent all the way here in order to get audio from a telephone recording, I could do that in London.”

“London is a beautiful city,” he said, randomly.

“Yes,” I say, slightly caught off guard, “it is.”

“I have many houses there, would you like to know how many?”

“Yes, actually,” I say.

“A few, Knightsbridge and Belgravia, all of my neighbouring royal families have houses in the same areas, you know, it’s a second home for us, so many of us in the Middle East are educated in London or around London, we like the UK.”

Whilst this is interesting, I get what he’s trying to do. Distraction techniques don’t work with me.

“I can’t do the interview like this. It has to be in person.”

There’s a loud sigh let out on the other end. Then, some barking of Arabic at an assistant.

“Wait,” he says.

More Arabic is exchanged. A second voice enters his room and more Arabic is discussed. They have a slightly politer form of Arabic in Thazzan, clearly, more like Lebanese, softer, not the harsh guttural tones of Saudi Arabia.

A new voice joins the line.

“Hello, I am chief lawyer and legal officer here at the palace.”

“Oh hello,” I say, just a trifle taken aback from this new development in proceedings.

“It is highly against protocol to let people meet the Prince himself.”

“I know, but it is also highly against protocol to even invite foreign journalists to talk to your officials, so this is a rather new day for you, isn’t it?” I say, smirking slightly at the way I am holding myself, surprising myself, really.

A long sigh is let out.

“We can let you see him,” he continues, “but you don’t have a camera, do you?”

“Well I’ve got my phone.”

“Surrender the phone, you need to hand us everything bar the microphone and any notes you may need.”

“Okay.”

“There’s also a contract you need to sign, what you in the west call a non-disclosure agreement, you do not discuss the Prince’s appearance with anyone, not even your colleagues or direct bosses.”

“What?”

“It is radio isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then this is not a problem, the contract should be there now, it’s standard royal protocol to not discuss the Prince’s appearance.”

“Why?” I struggled to hold back laughter, this was bizarre protocol.

“I cannot comment, sign the form, you will see him.”

“Thank you.” I say, to his rather curt previous remark.

The perfectly dressed assistant who showed me to the table comes back in, this time a gold tray with a piece of paper is handed over, as well as a fountain pen.

“Please sign,” he says, bowing.

I read through it, it is literally nothing else other than that I must not discuss his appearance with anyone, no hidden clauses, nothing confusing, just that one stipulation.

I shrug and sign, if this is going to give me the high quality audio interview we need, that’ll be it.

“Please,” he gestures frantically, “leave this room, turn right, walk to the end of the corridor, it is the last door on the right.”

I really didn’t need those instructions as a man had now come to stand next to me, and started walking very closely beside me. He was hot, too. I needed to focus.

********************************************************

The doors clicked open upon my approach, but no-one else was going into the room with me. They swung open and I walked in. The room was markedly cooler than the rest of the palace. To the left, at least twenty floor to ceiling windows looked over a perfectly manicured garden being tended to by a multitude of staff. I walked in, distracted by the windows and what they had to show.

There didn’t appear to be anyone in the room, I meandered slowly towards the vast view of the courtyard, and the gardens beyond.

“Hello?” I ask. My voice dying in the room as it bounced off the walls and marble floors.

Nothing.

“Hello?” I say, voice slightly raised. I hear footsteps and two men are now leaving the room behind me, the doors click shut. I frown.

I hear heavy footsteps, ones more sounding like a rhino crossing the perfectly varnished, clean, white floor.

I see a broad man approaching in a beautiful crisp, white national dress. I say broad, he’s across the room and I can see that he is built like a tank.

He continues to walk heavily toward me, each step making a noticeable sound on the floor. This is a man who works out. I see it is the Prince, he has barely changed facially, but there are some noticeable changes. He extends an arm to shake my hand and smiles broadly, at which point I notice his neck is almost thicker than his head.

Even under the free-flowing gowns of the Arabian Peninsula, it is obvious that this man works out, all the time. He places his large hand into mine and says the Arabic for welcome, I extend the same courtesy back. As he walks towards me, one leg is being placed purposefully in front of the other, clearly due to huge legs. The arms are stretching at his national dress, and it is by no means small.

“It is nicer to see you in person,” he says, “my people were very talkative with your editor, I have heard much about you, you have been in the BBC long?”

That perfectly accented English makes me weak at the knees, he has a perfectly manicured beard and immaculate teeth, the deep brown eyes make me melt and that thick neck makes me swoon, I wonder what he’s packing underneath the robes.

“A couple of years,” I say, looking solidly at his neck.

“You will see I am different to portraits, I am more of a man now,” he smiles.

“I can see there have been some changes,” I reply.

*****************************************

He turned his back to me, his huge, broad back stretching at the seams of the otherwise flowing robe. He walks off to a couple of extremely comfortable looking chairs at the other side of the room, still near the windows. I’m focusing on how heavy his footfall is with each step, his purposeful gait gives the air of someone who is used to dominating a room.

He sits down, the chair creaks under his weight, I pretend not to notice.

“I don’t have much time, I’m sure you’ll appreciate I am a busy man,” he says, straight away, rubbing his left hand with his right.

“That’s fine, I want about half an hour with you, if that’s okay? Just to clear up all the questions the world media have.”

“I completely understand, please, I will answer the best I can.”

I look through my notes.

“May we begin?” I ask.

He nods and smiles.

“Oil revenues are increasing, aren’t they, how do you use these to pay for the infrastructure of Thazzan?”

“My kingdom is very fortunate to have been blessed with such resources to help us out. We have historically always struggled with our economy, imports and exports. It is just one huge export, but it helps out my country hugely, we are moving into the 21st century.”

“Do you think the country could be doing any better?” I ask, trying to look at his arm slyly while he rubs his mouth with his right hand in thinking.

“I think we have historically had problems with corruption, from previous administrations before my branch of the family came to power, we had big problems.”

“What do you say to people who say that the country still has too many problems, too much poverty, for one which last year was estimated to make a few billion dollars a day in selling oil?”

He shifts in his chair, it creaks again, he pushes his head back, his neck looks as though he just flexed it, is he trying to intimidate me?

“Of course there will always be these problems, but in a Muslim society, we do the best we can to help those in need, I hope that these problems will continue to be eradicated, any poverty is too much poverty.”

He shifts in his chair again, he looks uncomfortable. I think he doesn’t like asking questions from a media which actually searches. This is not the fawning state media he’ll be used to.

“What are you doing to promote tourism? I understand you are bidding for worldwide sporting events?”

He looks relieved at this question.

“We are bidding for the World Cup, and for more sports to take place here, we need to boost our economy further with tourism and to show the correct Arab culture around the world, you know, Arabs are seen as so hospitable, yet everyone just associates us with terror attacks, it is awful.”

The chair lets out a larger creak as he shifts again, he takes a deep breath.

“In terms of your tourism economy, what -“

“Stop,” he interrupts.

I momentarily pause, still looking at my notes, rather taken aback by his interjection. He reaches forward and rips the batteries out of my recorder, his huge arms at work under that national dress make me do a double take.

“I am sorry, I am not feeling well, I had a brief illness last week, and I thought I would be okay, but I just need to get some water. This is off the record, illness is something my people would not associate with me.”

I’m rather taken aback by the admission here, but pause. It’s highly unusual, but if he wasn’t feeling that well at the beginning of the interview then why did he proceed anyway? I ask him this.

“I thought I’d be okay, but…” he lets out a long sigh, I notice the chair is creaking again, surely he can afford better chairs, “pass me some water.”

He gestures at an ornate table, about five metres away, it has two huge pitchers of water on it and seven glasses. I walk over and pour some out. Hopefully we can bond over me helping him. I have my back turned to him and I hear another creak, he lets out a low groan. He isn’t going to be unwell is he? I can’t be accused of trying to poison him, can I? Is this a trap?

I suddenly realise this man knows I’m gay in a highly homophobic country, is asking me to pour him water and hand him it, he could accuse me of all kinds of things, there are literally no staff in here. I don’t carry poison, but what can they accuse me of?

I turn back around to face him, he’s sweating.

“Are you okay? Should I get staff?”

“No, honestly,” he lets out a huge burp, covering his mouth, swearing under his breath in Arabic, “I need some water.”

He shifts back in his chair, then more upright, both times the chair makes the loudest squeaks and creaks yet.

I rush back with two glasses of water. He has some beads of sweat forming on his forehead. This has to be real, he can’t be faking it at this point. He gulps down both glasses. His face is red, sweaty.

“Can you stay longer? We may have to reschedule, I think,” he says.

“Yes of course I can, what -“

I’m interrupted by the sound of ripping fabric. His eyes let out a look of panic, briefly, locking straight on to mine. I have no idea what to say, the pause hangs there immediately after the ripping. He continues to stare at me, rabbit in the headlights, as I notice the seams on his shoulders are giving way, the previous flowing robe now bursting at the seams.

We both continue to stare at each other. In the corner of my eye I can see the seams getting wider on his shoulders.

“Are you -“ I’m speechless beyond that, I don’t know what to say. I’m standing in front of him in the chair, staring.

He continues to stare at me, almost completely vacantly at this point, but still panic-stricken. There’s no more words to be formed, I fantasise about this kind of thing all the time, every day, but is it actually happening? Had I finally gained the ability I had always wanted to have?

This is the kind of thing I read about on muscle fantasy forums every night, night after night, after work, one handed typing, as I read hot stories of men growing. But this guy is doing it actually in front of me. This isn’t a wet dream.

He lets out a deep breath and burps again, says something else under his breath in Arabic. I, automatically, in my British sentiment, excuse him. He thanks me under his breath.

The pregnant pause continues, it’s unbearable, I want to watch him grow but I can’t believe it’s happening. There’s no batteries in my microphone, I can’t take notes. I just continue to look at his face.

He continues to take in great gulps of air, a bead of sweat forming at the end of his nose and another trickling down the left side of his face. Finally, both stretches of fabric covering his shoulders give way and tear.

At this point I sit down, my burgeoning erection had been going since I realised that this was happening, and that he wasn’t actually unwell.

He smirks, gently.

“You like this, don’t you?” He says, absent-mindedly rubbing his exposed left shoulder with his right hand.

I can’t reply. I am staring. My boxers are wet.

“Being trapped in such a small, island nation with only a few hundred thousand people and such bad gay rights, I was thrilled to find out a gay reporter was coming.”

My mouth is dry. The chair creaks again, he didn’t shift in it this time.

“Imagine how surprised I was to find that the security detail provided to you by my security services included that you were a member of the muscle growth forum?”

Rumbled. I feel the colour drain from my face. I really want a glass of water now.

“When we got into your account, had a look through, you’ve always dreamed of being the guy who encourages, stays the same while his partner gets bigger,” he continues.

“I have to say, when I was handed the report by my special security services, and I came across that section in the online activity chapter, I knew I had found the man for me,” he groans under his breath and throws his head back, closing his eyes while something else rips elsewhere. My mouth is as dry as the desert outside. I struggle to prevent my hands shaking wildly.

“I bet you want to know why poverty is so bad in my country, why healthcare is so bad,” he says, opening his eyes, staring at me again, those deep, beautiful eyes.

I nod, mouth open, catching flies.

“I have always wanted this,” he says, grunting a bit at the ‘this’, “ever since I was a child, I wanted to be bigger and better than everyone, I went to school at a private institution in England, I could never become the rugby player I wanted to be.

“I have always felt like the only one in the world, who wanted this, like you do, but for me. But then I realised, I’m coming to power, let’s spend my family wealth on the one thing I want, I can be in charge of the government, let’s change government research and development from medical research to muscle.”

The chair underneath him lets out two staccatos of creaking. He groans a bit.

“My family makes billions per day, of course I use it for the people, and some offshore, but at least one billion of that goes into this.”

He stands up, the robe falls to the floor, I involuntarily make a sound like the slut for muscle I’ve always known I have been.

“You are literally looking at the only guy in the world who can grow, and grow on command. I have pills, I popped some before you came in, I take them when I want, they’re not perfect, I rarely go out in public, sometimes the growth takes over, so I rule from my palaces.”

I look at the striations of muscle across his body, the tensing and flexing, the beads of sweat dripping down his hairy chest and arms, the only clothing he still has on are his undergarments, sandals and his headwear.

He reaches out a hand to me, and pulls me out of the chair, I’m weak at the knees. His hands lead me to put my left hand on his chest, my right on his left arm, he tenses both areas. I feel a wet patch forming.

“No-one is allowed to touch me except family, that’s a sackable offence in royal palaces,” he continues, “but you, you have always wanted this, you don’t want to admit it but a multi-billionaire prince who can also grow must also be something you want.”

He flexes his left arm, I realise my voice box is involuntarily engaged as I let out a huge, sudden breath, I feel my body tense all over. I came. He looks at my now sticky trousers.

“Well, well, well, your profile was not fake.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, shakily, sweating, barely able to get a word out, voice cracking.

“Why are you apologising?”

I stare, dumbly, I can’t take the situation in.

“When you came in I was around 270lbs, I’m around 6’3, at this point I’m usually 100lbs more than that, there’s more to go, yet.”

This makes me acknowledge the current situation and regain some ground.

“How big do you,” I say, I pause to run my tongue round my mouth, “how big do you go?”

“Well I only took a couple, so, erm, 200lbs more? I’ll end up somewhere around 500, it’s not an exact science.”

My dick is hard again. Throughout all of this, I have noticed how huge his penis is, but there’s been so much else to take in.

“And you’re hard again! Oh this will be fun,” he playfully states.

He lowers his under robe, a huge, footlong, and thick as a wrist dick springs out, balls the size of small lemons.

“You may touch elsewhere, I have no intention of firing you,” he flashes a shark-like grin.

**********************************

I gingerly touch his huge, throbbing cock with my hands, left hand towards the hilt, right hand towards the head. I push the skin back towards the hilt and forth towards me, I start gently jacking him.

“I love that you’re into this,” he grunts, “I usually have to get prostitutes, no-one likes a man to be this size.”

I try and steady my breath, I want to have a calm conversation and not get too ahead of myself.

“This is something I’ve noticed, there’s some sizes that most people just think are too much -“ I start to say.

“As if there’s a too much,” he says, before groaning again under his breath.

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” I say.

I grip his huge dick slightly more with my right hand, keeping the rhythm going, while playing with his enormous balls.

“Once I finish I usually start shrinking a bit back to my normal size,” he says, “sometimes it takes a few extra hours to reduce down.”

“Your normal size is something I was impressed by,” I reply.

“Oh believe me, it can go so much more than that,” he says, smirking, “actually, I’m taking the stuff so often it seems to have a residual effect, my smaller sizes are much larger than they used to be.”

He flexes his hairy pecs, I moan and bury my face in them. He lets out a moan of approval.

As I rub the left side of my face into his pecs, he raises his left arm and shows me its progress. I groan involuntarily, lean over and start kissing the huge growing bicep and tree trunk arm. He’s even thicker and bigger than he was before.

“I like food too much to be a ripped god, but I guess from your messages on your muscle growth profile you like men beefier anyway,” he says, his voice has now definitely dropped an octave.

“Size and mass are my thing,” I say, leaning over to kiss his now much enlarged arms.

“You’re perfect,” he says. I hear a low rumble come out of his chest as his body expands further. “I must be getting close to the 400lb mark,” he adds.

I step back, my hand still working his huge, perfectly cut and girthy footlong. He has expanded. He’s now starting to seriously take up my view of the room behind him, even when I step back.

“Oh my god,” i whimper, under my breath.

“So you’re enjoying this?” He flashes me a grin with those beautiful, perfect teeth. His eyes catch the light streaming in through the windows. The dark brown gets turned to a slightly reflective brown in the sun. He’s perfect.

He lets out a low moan as I run my tongue along my lips. His huge arms envelope my back and he holds me tight to his huge chest. My face is buried in between the crevice of his impossible pecs. His slabs of abs, not super defined, but there, press into my stomach beneath my shirt.

He squeezes me harder and I let out an involuntary whine. He gets his big hands under my armpits and lifts me just above the ground so we are eye to eye.

“I told you I get bigger,” he says, his eyes looking at his enormous biceps. I can see them actually swelling, now that he’s holding me. Every pump of his heart is leading the muscles to engorge slightly more.

In this position, hovering just a foot above the ground, his huge body visibly expanding in front of me, I feel something I didn’t want to feel again this quickly. My dick starts tensing incredibly hard, and before I know it, my cream trousers are once again coated on the inside. He looks at me closely as I groan under my breath. Then he realises.

“Again?” He says, his voice even deeper than before. Those perfect teeth make another appearance in between smiling lips.

My face flushes and I nod.

He puts me down and starts unbuttoning my shirt and undoes my belt as I take off my clothes hurriedly. He gets to my boxers and runs his fingers along the huge wet patch. I’ve always been proud of how much I can cum. He rubs his fingers into it, and takes them to his mouth, and licks gingerly.

“You taste good, actually,” he says, hesitantly. I hear him groan slightly under his breath. The traps and his neck now have no definite start or end point.

He reaches out his hands and forces off my shoes, boxers and socks.

I stand naked, in front of the Prince of Thazzan, he at around 450lbs I must guess by now, just his undergarments on, torn clothes on the floor, sandals and head garment still on.

He holds me close to him again, my back clicks slightly as he squeezes me, I whine again. He kicks off his sandals and pushes me to my knees.

He bends his huge body down slightly to lower the undergarment to his ankles and slaps his heavy dick across my face. His hands connected to his huge swelling arms wrap around the back of my head and force the dick between my lips.

He gets two thirds in and I gag. My jaw is fully relaxed as it’s the only way to ensure I don’t bite any part of it. He pulls my head back and then fully back into his dick. It gets around 9” in. I gag again. I look up at him, eyes watering, his eyes and eyebrows just visible beyond his pec shelf and huge stomach.

“I’m going to have to train you,” he growls.

I feel my dick start to helplessly tense again. It’s looking up at his huge body that’s doing it. I beg internally for it not to happen as his huge dick tries to explore my mouth further and work further down my throat. I try and pull my head back but it’s useless to try something like that when there’s a 480lbs muscle guy restraining you.

I close my eyes as they water, tears streaming down my face as I let out a moan on his dick and I shoot across the marble.

I open my eyes and look up at him through the tears, dick still firmly lodged down my throat, my breathing partially constricted on it.

He smirks, “you’re passing all my tests.”

He grabs me under the armpits again and lifts me up, puts me down on the ground and my feet land in my own sticky mess. Great.

He takes two steps back and I can feel every bit through the marble.

“It’s solid foundations beneath this, you know,” he boasts, “that’s how heavy I am.”

He gets on to the floor, when his hands touch the floor I feel reverberations too.

“Pass me a pillow,” he says, I dumbly oblige, standing in my own cum.

“Lie down, head on the pillow,” he growls.

I get on my front on the cool marble floor as he stands up. Bones and joints click in his body.

“On your back. I want to see you when I do this.”

I dread what’s coming. He’s a monster. I knew this was going to happen but I’m still not prepared for it in the slightest.

He lifts me legs with such effort as he gets on his knees, and the floor shakes, that I feel my ass and body being lifted up, up to my neck.

“Oops,” he grunts, “you weigh nothing now.”

He sits my feet on his shoulders and look up.

I’ve never been more turned on. If I tilt my head left or right he still dominates my view.

I feel the pain as my hole is stretched beyond belief. His now 500lb body lowering into me. Every inch feels like six with the added girth and pain. I am paralytic from pain and can’t even scream. My mouth is open but no sound comes out.

He lowers his head right up to mine, forcing my legs back into a position I didn’t think possible, but his weight made inevitable. He kisses me on the lips, before moving his mouth to my ear.

“This is my biggest, do you like?” he rumbles.

He raises himself back up as his dick starts working in and out of my hole. I just want it to be over. He can train me, but the pain is too much. It would take years to adjust to a dick like this.

I finally find my breath and let out a yelp of pain. He puts his right hand beside my head, I feel the ground shake, and his left hand covers my mouth entirely.

“Shhhh,” he says, “I thought you liked guys my size,” he smiles. He removes his left hand from my mouth and flexes his left arm in front of me. My hands reach out for his arm like a thirsty person reaching for water and I realise both of my hands have no chance of ever being able to reach around his huge tree trunk arms. One hand barely covers a quarter of the circumference.

“Do you like guys my size?” He asks, flexing his hulk-like left arm as I reach at it like a pathetic kitten.

“Yes,” I moan, in between trying to breathe when not all of the 12 inches are inside.

“This is two pills,” he gives me a wide grin, “I’ve got an unlimited supply,” he continues.

I moan in approval, my hands now roaming over his impossibly huge, hairy chest and body.

“I can grow like this any time I want,” he continues, as I continue to feel his burgeoning form, “any time,” he repeats.

His thrusts get stronger, heavier, I feel his dick tensing inside my hole.

“If it were up to me I’d be big like this all the time,” he says, I feel my dick starting to tense again involuntarily, I know what’s coming.

“I want to be bigger than this, and I can get bigger than this any time I want, I only want to be this kind of size, only you understand,” he lets out a load groan and I feel what’s coming. His dick is pulsing hard deep inside my gut.

“I have no limit!” I yell.

I feel my hole suddenly flooded with sperm, his orgasms seem to actually be getting stronger. He lets out a deep, masculine roar as he collapses onto me, my legs flexed fully back beside my head. My dick tenses again and pumps out what it can from the very active half an hour it’s had.

His orgasms seem to subside slightly before he groans into the pillow again, his full 500lbs of weight is seriously restricting my breathing and I start to panic slightly. I feel his huge strong dick continue to pump and tense inside me before he lets out a slightly higher pitched grunt and he feels less heavy on me.

We lie there, breathing heavily.