Saul was tall. There was no doubt about it. He stood a little over seven feet in his bare feet. He should have been popular. His height always drew attention, everything was in proportion, his face had a pleasing symmetry, and at first sight, one would assume that men would respect his athleticism, and women would appreciate his good looks. Sadly, things didn't work like that.
Saul had been tall since his first growth spurt, which made him stand out from others. At that point, he was a beanpole - skinny, his arms seeming to hang like vines off an old building, legs like sticks which might snap if he twisted. Had he not been so tall, one might have thought he was starved or grossly under-nourished, but he was neither. He was just tall. Freakishly tall.
It wasn't as if his parents were tall. Neither stood over six foot, and despite going to their doctor to check for any health conditions, nothing was ever found. His father wondered (privately) if he should ask for a DNA test - had Saul's mother had an affair with a giant? He never dared voice his fears, however, and he should have had no fears. He was Saul's father - and Saul was just the product of two recessive genes crashing with incredible consequences.
And, as anyone knows, anybody who is different becomes a target. He was bullied by those who thought it was wonderful that someone so much bigger than them could be so easily upset - traumatised even. Often, teachers would find him curled up, like some giant emaciated stick insect, tears flowing over his cheeks. His parents told him to 'stand up for himself', but he couldn't. It just wasn't in his nature.
He moved to his next school, and the bullies followed, being joined by others from other schools, revelling in the fact that their actions were justified, because no-one could say 'pick on someone your own size'.
Sport might have been a useful outlet. Saul tried football - he found playing outfield difficult, but maybe he would make a goalkeeper. Sadly not. His co-ordination was poor, and his catching skills were abysmal. He tried rugby, but he was not fast enough to run with the ball, nor powerful enough to push in the scrum. There was even a basketball team (before that, there had only been netball, and the idea of playing alongside girls terrified him), but he couldn't catch, couldn't dribble, and his aim had his parents rushing him to the optician in case his eyesight was really as bad as his shooting and passing suggested.
Age fifteen, his uncle bought him some dumbbells for Christmas, and that was a turning point. He loved exercise, he found. Not where anyone could watch, of course, but in private. His parents helped out. Seeing how he was enjoying himself, they made the garage into a 'home gym' and bought second-hand exercise equipment.
Saul loved it. He would come home, go into his gym, exercise until the family sat down to eat, allow an hour for his food to settle, then return to his gym.
Steadily, the skin which hugged bone began to stretch as muscle appeared. He focused on a healthy diet, and after a year, he had a physique which would have satisfied most people.
Still he was bullied. Whereas before it was only boys who bullied him, they now had groupies - girls who would enjoy shouting names, tripping him or bumping him in corridors and watching him stumble as his unco-ordinated frame failed to cope with the minor imbalance. He was shunned and alienated. An intelligent freak, abhorring violence, unwilling to threaten or abuse others, and deciding he was destined to a life of loneliness.
Only his strict regime of physical self-improvement kept him going. This alone kept him from sliding into depression, as endorphins flooded his brain each evening. He never even looked in the mirror, so certain was he that he remained a lanky streak of piss, as they called him. Even his family shunned him, except for his mother. His father's uncertainty about Saul's parentage caused a barrier, which was never overcome, and his older sister was in with the 'cool' crowd. She held their contempt for her brother.
By the time he turned eighteen, Saul was muscular. His biceps bulged, his six-pack rippled and his thighs were steel blocks. Had he been a foot shorter, he would have been a god, rather than a freak. It was not to be. Still the local kids taunted him, still friendships eluded him. Rumours abounded that he was some sick pervert, to be avoided by all. That, he believed, was the way of the world, until one night, when his parents were out.
After his exercise session, he had showered in the specially adapted shower cubicle. He wrapped a towel round his waist, and stepped out of the bathroom, straight into his sister.
Her boyfriend had been round when he went to shower - they had been fucking in her bedroom, if the evidence of his ears was anything to go by. He had spent so many years making certain that she never saw him in less than his custom jogging trousers and hoodie, that he was confident that she would still be occupied when he dashed to his bedroom. This time, he was wrong.
She had no such inhibitions. She happily wandered around in nothing but a towel, or in her flimsy underwear, but for him, this was mortifying. He froze, as she looked at him, seeing the well-muscled frame for the first time around the average sized bath towel, which finished well-above his knees.
She stared, looking him up and down, then said the last thing he expected: "Nice bod, bro. You look incredible." Adding, for good measure, "for a freak."
He breathed for the first time since seeing her and prepared to fly through the nearest door, but she spoke again. "Stay there." He found it easier to either do as he was told, or run - and there was nowhere to run to. And she was his twenty-one year old sister. Mum had said she was in charge and he should do what she said - this had been indelibly programmed into his brain over the years.
He stood, looking at her as her eyes tracked over his body, finally resting on the towel. Perhaps the worst part of this, for Saul, was that while his stomach churned, his brain panicked and his muscles twitched and trembled, one part of his body defied control in a quite different way. One part of him liked her looking at him, and it was this that she had noticed.
The tightly wrapped towel bulged as the tube of flesh between his legs, previously unseen since he was toilet-training by anyone but himself, started to stiffen.
Of course, he knew all about these things, and had often brought himself pleasure by stroking his member, but that was very private. No-one but him had ever been privy to this - unless you included those from the 'jerk-off-instruction' videos which he enjoyed on porn sites.
She licked her lips, sensually, hungrily, and took a step towards him, clearly planning her next move.
She stopped, maybe six feet away from him.
"Drop your towel," she instructed.
The panic in his mind almost exploded into one of the anxiety attacks he had suffered before he was shown techniques to avoid them. He slowed his breathing, closed his eyes and grounded himself. Had she really said that? Why would his sister want to see him naked? Why was she interested? She had just fucked her boyfriend. What did she want? He opened his eyes. She was still there.
"Go on. Drop the towel. You know you have to do as I say when mum and dad are out."
She was right. He had no choice. He untucked the towel and let go. Absurdly, his penis sprung forward, catching the towel like a pink, fleshy coat hook and holding it there. She giggled, "Fucking hell. You can't even drop a towel properly."
He stopped, as slowly and steadily the towel slid round, the soft fabric rubbing gently over his most sensitive parts, before, with a sudden 'whoosh', it fell to the ground.
