***
Sarkopheros Says:
This is the first new Brod story where he's grown some from his previous size. He's going to get slightly bigger though—the next story will take place some time after this one, and in that one, he'll be at his final size. You guys voted on it, I said I'd do it, and I did it.
If you're not familiar with my Brod series, expect ludicrous, unrealistic proportions. He has a titanic cock better suited for use as a battering ram and nuts bigger than his head. There will be cum inflation, absurd sex, and a host of other things. This story also features some light incest between two sisters and a little lactation thrown in for good measure. I almost always focus on asses, so I thought I'd focus more on tits in this one.
Anyway, enough from me. Enjoy the story. And please let me know if it was a fun read.
Also, I'm always open to constructive criticism, please let me know if you have any.
***
You may have noticed in my stories that I'm often vague when I talk about how big I am right now, and that I leave most of my accounts in a nebulous time frame. This is why. While I have not lied, I
have
omitted facts. And the fact I omitted was that I grew more. By a lot. And quite frankly, I wasn't sure how believable it would be.
See, most of the stories you've read up until now occurred years ago. And it's true, I was 19.5 inches during those stories. But that changed. And it took me far too long to notice how much bigger I'd gotten.
You might be saying, "How can you not notice your cock growing by several inches, Brod?" Well, the answer is two things. First, it happened over a long period of time—years. My cock stopped growing at the age of 26. When I measured it the next year, and the year after that, nothing had changed. So naturally I assumed I was done growing. But I was wrong.
Second, a few inches is not immediately noticeable at my size. Sure, if you have an average cock, two or three inches is a huge change. But when your cock is longer than your thigh and you can weigh it in kilograms, things are different. I started to notice during the rare occasions when I opted for a real pair of pants instead of basketball shorts. My slacks were starting to feel tighter, and even my custom-cut jeans were becoming a task to put on. I never liked wearing pants, but it was getting ridiculous.
At first, I thought I was gaining weight. And according to Yara, I
was.
Which just made things stranger. My body fat percentage stayed the same, so we assumed I was putting on muscle and fat equally.
A few girls had commented that I seemed larger, but I didn't believe them. I assumed it was just the fact that they had to sate themselves with normal-sized cocks between our encounters. But I got proven very wrong when I went to the bank one day.
I had woken up at the crack of noon after spending the previous day and night entertaining the members of a local women's club. I slept extremely well when I got back. It's so nice going to bed feeling spent and not horny.
It's an interesting thing. The point of this particular club is the same as a men's club—to avoid the opposite sex. Or at least, that's what I assume people do at those clubs. I've never had any desire to find out. The women generally want to avoid judgment and men acting like idiots. It's a space where they get to do whatever they want. When I entertain, they're still very much in charge. While you may be saying, "But Brod, aren't you still the main attraction?" Yes and no. My purpose there is to get them off, and while it's mutually beneficial, I'm there to cater to their needs.
I may write a story about this later, but basically, the club's owner knows me through Yara. And she knows that I don't tend to do or say judgmental or sexist things, and that I can be trusted.
They put me in the middle of a big ballroom with a bed and some furniture. I'm blindfolded, and only talk when they address me, mostly just to get a feel for what they want. Some of the women are embarrassed even in a place like that, so Yara is there to play middlewoman and relay commands for any women who don't want to tell me what they want directly.
Then I start fucking. Or licking. I'm a glorified sybian. I'm not sure how many women were there. I was fucking off and on for well over 24 hours as women came and went. I stopped only to eat, rehydrate, stretch, and generally keep myself in fighting form.
So it was interesting that when I walked into my bank I encountered one of the women who I had fucked without knowing it.
Schloof.
The door slid closed behind me. I was there to deposit the check from that night.
Even though the folks at the bank were used to seeing me bulging, I figured I'd dress up in more than basketball shirts and an old t-shirt with a nerdy reference on it. I was once again dressed in my not-looking-like-a-bum clothes, meaning that I was dressed like Raymond Reddington, minus the glasses and overcoat.
Granted, I'd rocked the waistcoat and dress shirt since before Blacklist came out. But after seeing the show I added a custom-matched fedora to the mix—not one of those twelve-dollar trilbies from Target that nice guys wear. I also wished I could have gotten arrested by agent Malik or Navabi, but that's completely unrelated. These hats were bespoke.
I walked down the monolithic hall, stone rising on either side of me. I couldn't help but imagine that this hallway was specifically put here to serve as a choke point for any would-be thieves. My oxfords stepped audibly on marble, but curiously, there was a sound missing. Usually, the
klok-klok-klok
of my shoes was mixed with the meaty
slap-slap-slap
of my nuts bouncing against my thighs.
I knew something was wrong, as well, because my legs weren't moving as easily as they should have been, like the cloth was pulling at them. I was very much aware of the sensation of cloth slipping and sliding tightly against the flesh of my nuts and cock.
As I entered the main room of the bank, tellers waiting behind their reinforced windows, I thought back to waking up.
After showering and scraping the gunk left by a platoon of pussies out of the folds of my sack, I came back out to assemble an outfit.
I couldn't help but interrupt my maid as she changed my slimy sheets. We both figured that we should get things out of the way before she put a fresh set on. As I've said before, I have a very hard time resisting a pussy. And I could see Meg's puffy mound pushing up against her shorts. She could smell the funk from last night. One thing lead to another.
After another shower, I smiled at her as she laid, twitching and groaning in the pile of discarded sheets, her cunt gushing into a pool on the floor, her yard-wide belly jiggling and pinning her down.
I finally started to get dressed, pulling my custom-cut slacks on. Most men put their pants on one leg at a time, and I'm no exception—except I also put my pants on one nut at a time. My pants are designed with a large pouch expansion in front to hold my package. The fly is situated along the middle of this. It's strange-looking, but necessary; there's no way to fit my bulge into normal slacks.
I grabbed one half of my open pants, stepped away from the spreading, musky puddle, and hefted one of my gigantic nuts in. Okay, that was kind of snug. I adjusted the cloth, to no avail. Weird. I also noticed it seemed to be engulfing more of my hand than usual—I figured that was just my imagination. I eased the other ball into the pouch. That was awfully tight, too. Then, I slipped my cock back into my boxers and tried to zip up.
I grunted and struggled. The zipper didn't want to hold! It was cinching the cloth tight around my enormous package. It just would not! Pull! Up! I grabbed a handful of cock and adjusted it. Tried again. Adjusted my sack. Tried again. I yelled at the ceiling. Yara was in the next room and came in, her bare feet stepping through squishy sperm. She shoved my cock and nuts down. Finally, with her help, I managed to zip up my slacks and do the button. But my nuts were struggling with the cloth the whole time, wool stretching and digging in. I should have known right then.
But I got into the car and went on my way.
And now I was walking into the bank. I was taking weird little short steps as I strode. I felt like a penguin. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice. I'd seen most of these faces before, so my bulge was not new to them. I only got six or seven weird glances.
The main chamber was paneled with dark wood and had a coffered ceiling. A hushed murmur was audible from the people milling about. Many were getting some free coffee and cookies, and/or bullshitting.
A pale, middle-aged brunette with high cheekbones passed by, having concluded her business. Her tits bounced under a calf-length dress that showed off her hips. She pressed one hand to her belly and groaned as she walked by, her legs bowed outward. Taking a moment to compose herself, she cleared her throat and straightened up before smiling at me.
But my package pulled her eyes downward, she gasped, and her eyes grew large. "
Guh.
H-hi. It's. Wow," she said.
"Hey there," I said, taking a familiar tone. I had no idea who she was, but ... well, it would hardly be the first time I met a random person I'd fucked without knowing who they were.
"
Mph,
" she bit her lower lip, staring at my bulge for a long moment. "I was there last night," she finally said.
