Date: Mon, 18 Feb 2002 15:46:30 -0500 From: XH4M Subject: BIG IS BETTER 08 BIG IS BETTER By XH4M This story is a fantasy. All characters in this story are fictional with no resemblance to any real persons implied. Any reader with objections to graphic descriptions of sexual encounters between males, who may not have reached the legal age of consent, or whose local, regional, state or national jurisprudence prohibits such descriptions, should NOT read further. Copyright (c) 2000 XH4M. All rights, implicit or implied, except for distribution by this archive and personal use by the individual downloading the file, are reserved. Inquiries regarding publishing rights for this story should be directed to: xhuge4muscl@hotmail.com PART 08 - BARNYARD ANIMALS And sure enough, Gabe kept his word. The very next Saturday came wheeling up to the house in his truck. I remember my father's distinctly disapproving head-shake when he spotted the gas-powered vehicle sitting parked behind his house. And so our relatively short friendship started that Spring. But it was a special kind of friendship I'd never known, and I think frankly it might have been the same for Gabe, as well. He started regularly coming out to the farm every Saturday while we were still in school - and then the following summer after he'd graduated, he seemed to be around more often than not. Whenever he wasn't 'hitting the weights,' he'd be out at our place. At first, my parents were a bit slow to warm up to my new strange friend. He had "the ways of the Outlanders" which was initially viewed with some suspicion. Gabe was a big bruiser, even for a 'grown up' high school graduate. In actuality only 3 years older than me, he still dwarfed me nevertheless. He referred to himself as 'Italian meatball' occasionally. I guessed it was some reference to his ethnic family origins as well as his beefy body. And his real name was Dominico Gabrielo Frottagiavelli. He just liked to be called Gabe because it sounded more All-American than his given first name. Gabe really did pitch in to help me with my never-ending chores. Let me tell you though, when you don't have the benefit of machines of any sort, having Gabe's strength comes in mighty handy around a farm. Moreover, Gabe seemed to genuinely enjoy the farm work. Perhaps it was his own version of 'culture-shock' in reverse - but I think he was genuinely curious about 'our ways' and lifestyle. I know there was something which strongly appealed to him about manual work. He loved doing hard physical labor - and that we had in abundance. He was, I swear, just as strong as an ox. He'd impressively demonstrated that fact to me on several occasions - and every time he had, I'd sprung a 'big one' instantly. If Gabe was a 'meatball,' then the meat was all 100% muscle. I don't know why really, but he started showing up in traditional Amish work attire, too. Maybe he wanted to feel like he fit in, or perhaps it was to placate my parents a bit to feel more accepted by them. But anyway, I had to stifle a laugh on the day he first showed up wearing a solid colored shirt, broadfall black trousers with suspenders, black socks and boots - and a straw broad-rimmed hat no less. I remember Zec just rolling his eyes and howling uncontrollably the first time he spotted Gabe's 'Amish drag.' But I thought Gabe looked absolutely incredible in anything he wore. An Amish work shirt looked uncharacteristically very good indeed, at least when Gabe was wearing one. I never saw one look hotter on any man, in fact. Well Gabe was accepted as 'a regular' by my family in short order, and after awhile my mother took to automatically setting him his own plate at the dinner table. But much more symbolic of his genuine acceptance - she spoke English whenever he was present which was an extraordinary sign of respect. My father never did, but... I was still batting 500. They'd smile and nod at each other politely though. And Gabe, not the least bit bashful, fumbled openly to speak the little German he picked up as time progressed, but complained privately that many words were so long they were difficult to remember. I couldn't find fault with Gabe's observation. Compared with English, German words are so long they have perspective. Gabe thought my mother's cooking was simply the very best he'd ever tasted in his life - and it well may have been. Amish women, despite having any of the conveniences commonly found in a Outlander's kitchen, nevertheless can cook incredibly well. And that meatball could pack away more food than anyone I'd ever seen. Mein Gott did he ever love to eat - at least my mother's home-cooking anyway! But Gabe worked as hard as the rest of us - and probably even harder - for his supper. Nothing seemed to please him more than when we ended up alone together somewhere at the end of a good day's work, when he'd often work up an even bigger appetite after enthusiastically working on me. We did what other boys did - we just 'fooled around' - out in the loft of the big barn. That special kind of fooling around still had no name, but we still managed to do 'whatever-it-was' with amazing regularly, indeed! In the summer, most of the work was usually out in the fields. When it got to be near sundown, we'd wrap up work for the day and head back to the house. When my father or siblings weren't around, Gabe often encouraged me to jump on his back and he'd carry me at least part-way back through the fields and over the rolling hills - he said to give himself 'a good workout.' He was as big as a horse to me anyway - certainly as strong as one. Oddly, he seemed to enjoy carrying me around on his back, at least whenever we were by ourselves. I'd leap onto his mile-wide back, then he'd grab my legs and off we'd go. I'd usually grabbed hold around his large shoulders and then I'd pull my body flat against his back, resting my chin on the side of his neck. Inhaling his musky scent at close range exhilarated me like an instant aphrodisiac. It didn't take long before his manly pheromones, feeling his powerful shoulders in my arms, and having my crotch firmly up against his big back predictably aroused me. Sometimes the feelings were so intense I'd close my eyes and nibble at his neck and ears, kissing him wherever I could. He really liked that a lot, I could tell. Gabe could easily detect my growing arousal pressing along his spine below his shoulder blades. Sometimes he'd bend over and sorta rub my whole body all around his back just so he could feel 'Big Fatty.' Little Johann had also recently acquired a new nickname. "Just hold that thought, Peter," he'd say encouragingly. "We'll be at there in a flash." Then he'd often picked up the pace, usually making a beeline for the barn with me on his back at a full gallop. Once safety inside of the barn, our games were private from the rest of the world - out in those big piles of curing hay, where maybe God wouldn't notice the sins I knew were about to take place - or so I told myself. Somehow anticipating the feeling of Gabe 'doing me' as he referred to it, seemed to routinely overshadow my concern about Eternal Damnation. And 'doing me' was highly ritualized for Gabe. Variety and trying new things was apparently not his forte nor interest. Foreplay - such as it was - was entirely predictable, though I wasn't complaining in the slightest. And he 'did me' usually first by laying me down into the soft hay, with Gabe gazing at me and I me at him; both of us enjoying the lusty anticipation of what was coming next. Every time I saw his body, it was like the very first time all over again - and to me it was blissful miracle. He'd often begin our ritual by slowly unhooking his white work shirt. I'd get hotter at the sight of each new well-defined muscle being revealed. Gabe knew exactly how to go about getting my cock right up to his desired specifications. He was really built from hitting the big-iron regularly - and when he'd finally figured out his body held a 'special fascination' for me, he started hitting the gym even more frequently. >From the very first time Gabe ritually did his slow strip in front of me, I'd knew instantly - in every fiber of my being -- that muscle was definitely my primal 'on switch.' Gazing up at Gabe's beautiful, beefy muscles got my love muscle inflating FAST - well 'fast' for me, anyway. But Gabe marked the very beginning of a special life-long relationship I would develop with muscle. So I'd lie there, totally focused on him as he'd peel off his shirt. And when his hard upper body was finally fully-naked, I'd stare at it in complete wonder. What I privately longed for most was for him to spontaneously - you know - 'make a muscle' just for me, but I never could have asked. There was a weird unspoken 'rule' we each implicitly understood. We could 'fool around' until the cows came home all we wanted, but never talk about what we were doing. In retrospect, that might have made it just too real - too undeniable 'queer' - for either of us to handle. But when Gabe was finally naked towering over me, I'd spread my legs a bit and start bucking my hips. It was automatic - instinctual - as if it was what I was supposed to be doing. That was Gabe's cue to kneel down and beginning rubbing his hand all over my thighs, slowly getting teasingly ever closer to the crotch of my overalls. Eventually he'd rub his hand directly over my crotch, squeezing me gently at first then skillfully coaxing my swelling meat to poke out over the side buttons of my overalls. Then Gabe would unbutton them, pull them down to my knees and grab my beefy mantube with his two hands, stroking it up and down until I'd erupt like a volcano. Bringing me to orgasm took him hardly any time at all. My jiism would explode in powerful jets, heading straight up towards the barn's rafters. Gabe would quickly 'capped my gusher,' as he referred to it, opening his mouth and sealing it around the head of my cock, then gulp and swallow voraciously. He loved eating my cum. He couldn't seem to get enough of it, even though I produced vast amounts of the stuff. Often my manjuice would start leaking out of his mouth. I emptied my reservoirs faster than he could gobble me down, and at times I noticed my cum dripping out of his nostrils, too. I never touched Gabe's own cock though - not ever. In fact it wasn't even necessary for him, I guess. Gabe was completely contented to just play with my cock, jerk me off and 'cap my gusher' as best he could, forcing every last drop he could manage down his throat while he beat off with his other hand. Gabe's own erection and his orgasms were the first I'd ever seen, so I did make a few mental notes concerning other males. I noticed just how - small - Gabe's boner was compared to mine. And when Gabe would cum, he'd shoot only a few little globs here and there on the hay - maybe a couple of teaspoons at best. My own orgasms were more like intermittently pissing ropes of cum, truthfully. On a good day, I could even leave a few hanging like stalactites from the barn roof if Gabe didn't move swiftly enough to cap my well. But the size of Gabe's cock truthfully didn't matter at all to me. It was his big, developed muscles that provided all the gasoline to power my comparative whopper of a sex machine. We performed this basic ritual many times that long , wonderful summer. But inevitably, our games 'with no name' had to end. That Fall, Gabe enlisted in the Marines. Our activities in the barn were never spoken of - ever. It was just something we did together. Regardless, when Gabe came say his final good-byes, I saw his big square linebacker's chin quivering more than just a little. But every night, regardless of how many times Gabe might have played with me that day, I'd inevitably spray more batter liberally around my bed while I slept and still awaken floating bucket of cum again in the morning. And my mother silently and dutifully continued to change my bedding, just as she had been doing for several years already. I manufactured enormous amounts of the stuff, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. My scrotal factories churned out manjuice non-stop. I'd adjusted to this nightly scenario by this time and didn't really give it much thought anymore - let alone question if the size of my loads might be more typical of an average black angus bull than an average teenager. There were some unexpected pluses to the 'plus-sided' overalls that my mother had made me. Those other aspects I quickly came to understand. When I'd spontaneously ejaculate when I was working, I discovered I could position myself so the large legs of the overalls let my cum run down my leg and out the bottom. No fuss - no muss, and with some luck, even no wetness showing if I positioned 'Big Fatty' pointing down the leg of my pants just right. Oh, I did have one more encounter after Gabe left for the Marines I should probably tell you about. There was that 'first time' with a girl, too - well sort of, anyway. I call it my fledgling attempt at 'straight-dom.' It happened at a neighbor's barn-raising. So yes - I did it with the proverbial farmer's daughter - and yes again, it happened in the loft of a barn.