The Inheritance

[Long-form commission from the "Golias-Sized Goliath" tier]

Cameron had promised a webcam show at 6 PM, but at 4 the idea of flexing for thirsty gay men started to make his stomach turn. With a sigh, he swabbed his glute with an alcohol pad before jamming himself with a needle loaded with Masteron and Tren. He sighed as he plunged the syringe, imagining his already thick muscular form bulging out like the Hulk as the chemicals spread through his bloodstream, hit his heart, and then spread throughout his lean, ripped body. “Never big enough,” he said, bouncing his pecs–so large now that he could balance a water bottle on top of them–and slid into a size XXL shirt. He remembered the day XL had become too small. He made a lot of money squeezing into those old clothes and flexing out of them.

As he disposed of the used needle, he looked at the glass ampoules of steroid compounds. There was only about half a shot left of the Masteron. The Tren bottle was bone dry. He didn’t need to check his bank account to know that he didn’t have enough for more gear; he already knew he didn’t have enough for his credit card bill, or his gym membership, car payment and insurance bills.

“Thank god the rent is paid for,” he said aloud, grateful the trust fund his parents set up for him covered his condo. He sauntered to his computer and started typing out a message.

“Sorry, punks, you’re going to have to wait to see this prime physique. Webcam show is canceled. Drain those fucking bank accounts and maybe I’ll reconsider.”

That took care of that. The last thing he wanted to do was perform for an hour for a bunch of horny shut-ins. The thing with these pervs was: you give them an inch, they take a mile. Half his “fans” believed they were in some sort of relationship with him. It was twisted; how lonely do you have to be to think the muscleguy bouncing his stuffed jockstrap on camera actually has an emotional connection to you?

He hopped up, rubbed his nipples so they poked through his t-shirt, then snapped a quick selfie, sticking out his plump lips in a sexy pout. He sent the image along with the message, “Horny 4 you babe!” to his latest conquest, Lance. That’s what he needed, he decided; the night off from “webcamming” and a serious deep-dicking from the well-hung guy he’d been fucking around with lately. With any luck, he could drop hints to Lance that he needed some ‘roid money. Lance was an underwear model, broad-shouldered and ripped. While he was nowhere near as large as Cameron, he was no stranger to steroids, and perhaps some XXL booty bouncing on his lap could inspire some generosity.

Bored, Cameron scrolled through pornhub, casually jerking his big cock as he waited for Lance to respond. His phone vibrated, but it was a private message via his webcam channel. “SO SAD I CAN’T SEE YOU TONIGHT!”

It was Whistler7216, a man who Cameron had milked thousands of dollars from over the past year. In truth he was just some lonely old shut-in whose desperation had him wiring cash to a complete stranger. Whistler’s wasn’t the only message expressing disappointment at the canceled camshow, but it was the only one that had a tip attached. Cameron deleted the other messages without reading them, then smirked as his account went up $50. “Money for nothing,” he said. “It pays to be this fucking huge.”

He considered his next move; offer Whistler a private show and milk him for an easy grand? Send him a message and bully him into departing with a few hundred dollars? Before he could decide, another message came through with another $50 attached:

“Just got my inheritance. It’s more money than I know what to do with.”

Cameron’s eyes lit up. His phone vibrated with a message from Lance but he swatted it away.

“You think you deserve that money more than a real fucking ALPHA, you scrawny fuck?” Cameron typed back.

“I want to give you most of it,” Whistler responded. “So you can grow even BIGGER and more amazing!”

“I do what I want with my fucking money,” Cameron typed back. He had no idea what kind of damage guys like this had, but Whistler’s wiring was scrambled so that he needed the object of his affection to abuse him. The old geezer would lose interest if Cameron was kind; he could only get off if it was degrading. “But I’ll gladly take it off your hands.”

“I want to give it to you in person!” Whistler messaged. This was a dangerous scenario, Cameron knew; the key to this “job” was to keep his fans at a distance. That’s why they didn’t know where he lived, where he worked out, or even what his real name was; his fans all knew him as “SteakheadSteve.”

Another tip came through for $1000. Cameron licked his lips. This was TOO easy!

“This is only the beginning. I want to give the rest to you in person.”

Lance’s name blinked on Cameron’s phone again; his pretty fuckpiece could wait, though. He had an inheritance to score!

“You don’t give me orders, creep. I give YOU orders. And I order you to wire me that fucking money.”

“In person. A hundred grand. All yours, if you meet up with me.”

A hundred grand for one meeting. That was twice what he made in cam shows for the entire previous year. He could just take Whistler’s thousand dollars and move on, of course, but guys like Cameron were never satisfied. The fact that Whistler wasn’t either was exactly how these “relationships” continued for so long.

*

Cameron paused before dipping the scoop into the motel’s ice machine. The cubes were speckled with something black; mold, probably, or maybe dirt. Either way, Cameron wasn’t going to be putting it in his body. “Filthy,” he said, slamming the lid shut. “Just like the rest of this place.”

Room 31 at the EconoStop wasn’t Cameron’s first choice by a longshot, but it was what Lance had decided upon. Of course he could have rented his own motel room and done this on his own, but there was something extremely satisfying about collecting Whistler’s money without spending a dime of his own.

“You have to spend money to make money,” Cameron’s asshole dad had said. Cameron had always thought that was bullshit.

“Babe, let’s do something nasty,” Cameron had pitched. “Let’s get some scumbag motel room and you can fuck me like I’m a stranger.”

Lance had licked his lips and run his fingers over Cameron’s shaved-bald head. “Fuck, that sounds hot as shit!” he purred as Cameron nibbled on his lover’s blonde curly locks. “Maybe I blindfold you. Handcuff you to the bed.”

“We fuck so loud the neighbors complain,” Cameron continued. “Hotel management shows up. Then we fuck HIM together.”

Lance, still sweaty from their recent lovemaking, snarled lustily at the idea. “FUCK! God, you fucking beast. You drive me wild.”

Cameron headed back to their hotel room without ice. As he threw open the door, he shrugged his big shoulders. “Looks like we’re going to be drinking our whiskey warm,” he said.

“Already started,” Lance said, his head already starting to wobble from the booze in his bloodstream. He handed over the half-finished bottle of Crown Royal. Cameron smirked at his tipsy companion. “I popped a couple pills, too,” Lance said, gesturing toward an orange pill bottle on the table. “Try ‘em. They get you super wasted.” He clumsily pulled Cameron’s t-shirt off and started licking the big man’s pecs, suckling on the nipples. Cameron groaned at the sensation and glanced at the clock: 6:47.

For his plan to work, he’d planned on having to goad Lance into drinking too much, but clearly the ripped model was already more than halfway there. “Suck my cock,” Lance said, yanking off his sweatpants.

“You suck mine,” Cameron said. Lance dropped to his knees immediately (a clear sign that he was drunk; he claimed to never give head when he was sober). Cameron grabbed the bottle of liquor and positioned it between his pecs. Lance looked up between slurps on Cameron’s dick to see the warm liquor mixing with Cameron’s sweat on its way down to it. His eyes lit up as he sucked at the whiskey stream. Cameron groaned at the sensation… the area above the root of his cock was particularly sensitive and the stimulation of those nerves was starting to cause him to lose control.

Later, when Cameron was face down on the bed with his back arched, he flexed his glutes invitingly. Lance stumbled forward and grabbed the big man’s backside; the pretty blonde man let out a loud belch before plunging in. As the two grunted and growled like two rutting animals, Cameron gave another glance at the clock–7:08. He was cutting things incredibly close. As Lance pounded away, Cameron grabbed the Crown Royal bottle from the floor, where Lance had discarded it, and handed it back to his lover.

“Fuck, you bitch. You’re fucking me like a little pussy. This is prime alpha ass! Own it like one!” Cameron shouted. In response to the bullying, Lance finished off the bottle as he upped the intensity of his thrusting.

Lance stumbled off Cameron’s big back when he was finished. He took a few zig-zagged steps before slumping to the ground. A loud snore came up from his pretty face, his eyes twitching beneath their lids.

“Fucking finally,” Cameron said with a glance at the clock: 7:24. He had six minutes to get ready. With ease, Cameron hoisted Lance over his shoulder and carried him into the bathroom, setting him gently in the tub. “Sleep well, sexy,” Cameron said. “I’m gonna make a ton of money!”

As he stared down at Lance’s beautiful sleeping face, then down at his hands folded above his ripped abdomen, a thought struck Cameron. He suddenly remembered the joy he’d felt when he’d first hooked up with Lance. They’d met at the gym, Lance making eyes at him in the mirror as Cameron strutted around, sweaty and bulging, hoping the smoking hot blonde would come his way. That first time had been magical; when Lance finished fucking him that night, Cameron couldn’t wait to go again. He’d yearned for Lance to return as he watched him walk out the door that next morning.

But there, in that scummy motel room, he’d felt nothing; not even the pleasure and relief of cumming. He’d been focused only on the money he was going to make.

As Cameron slid on the leather jockstrap he’d packed and pulled on some leather boots, he imagined that soon he’d be lording over pathetic Whistler, demanding worship and submission while Whistler begged for abuse. Was that what he loved–being worshipped? He didn’t need Whistler to make him feel superior. He felt that every time he realized he was the biggest man in the room, every time he walked through a room of thirsty gay man and ignored their desperate stares.

No, for Cameron, money was the only thing that made him feel anything. Even that realization made no dent in his perception.

The clock read 7:29 as Cameron finished hiding everything he and Lance had brought. He pulled out a cigar and lit the end, wiping a light sheen of sweat from his head with his thick forearm. “Jesus, anyone who says I don’t do any work can get fucked,” he mused. “All this was a TON of work.”

He heard the knock at the door and decided to make the little worm wait. After a second series of knocks and a weak, “Hello?” Cameron still didn’t move. He wanted Whistler to feel a little disappointed at first; he wanted the old geezer’s heart to sink, thinking he’d come all this way to meet his hero but would go home with nothing. As he heard the footsteps leaving, he hopped to his feet, strutted to the door, and opened it a crack.

“Hey, pissant,” he barked. “Get the fuck in here.” He let the door slam shut and took his seat in the rickety hotel room chair. He let out a puff of cigar smoke as the door opened.

“Whistler” was as scrawny and pathetic as Cameron had imagined. He had to be at least 50 years old, although the weathered quality of his skin suggested he may have been even older. The skinny old man had a sad, droopy face and only a few wisps of hair on his head. His beard was shaggy, white tinged with grey, and his gaunt frame was swimming in his clothes. Fucking poor people clothes, Cameron noted, wondering if the skinny fuck picked up those jeans at Costco or got them at a secondhand store.

Whistler’s eyes lit up at the sight of Cameron, massive and muscular, reclined in the chair, chomping on a cigar as he casually scratched a pec. “Oh, good god, it’s you–”

“Shut the fuck up,” Cameron ordered. “On your knees you little bitch.” Whistler did exactly that, crawling on the floor, his eyes wet with joyful tears. “Get over here. I need a fucking ashtray.” Whistler did as he was told, crawling to Cameron’s side and looking up with his mouth wide open. Just before Cameron tapped the cigar’s ash into the open, waiting mouth, he held out his other hand. “Wait, bitch. Let’s see that money first. You don’t get one second of my time for free.”

Whistler fumbled in his pockets before producing a check. “H-here, sir…” he said, his hand shaking as he handed over the folded piece of paper. Cameron reached for it, ready to check its veracity before accepting the payment. He felt something strange, like static electricity, as his hand touched the check.

His heart skipped a beat. He suddenly felt cold. Cameron heard what sounded like shredding fabric next to him as something knocked his chair aside. How the fuck could a man his size be tossed around so easily? He wondered this as his boots came flying off and he rolled across the floor.

“Holy… holy shit…”

The voice didn’t sound like Whistler! It was deeper, huskier. Cameron was fumbling around on his hands and knees, suddenly shaking. What had happened? What had knocked him aside? He looked down at arms that looked unfamiliar. His hands were small, his arms skinny. “What… what the…”

Cameron struggled to stand. He felt so… TIRED! When he was on his feet, he gasped as his jockstrap fell straight to the floor. This wasn’t possible; he looked as small and scrawny as Whistler had just moments ago. He turned to the mirror above the hotel room’s bureau and gasped when his head was barely visible–he was almost too short to see his own reflection!

“You dropped your cigar,” said the deep voice. Cameron whirled around to see someone entirely unfamiliar, a MASSIVE man with a thick grey beard, rising to his feet.

“No… who the fuck…” Cameron began, yanking up the jockstrap to cover a tiny package.

It wasn’t possible, but standing in the shredded remains of Whistler’s clothes was a hulking man, massive in every way (not the least of which was a big cock swinging between his legs). He puffed on Cameron’s cigar and pounded his chest as he exhaled. “Fuck… I feel… amazing!” the big man said.

“Get… get the fuck out of here!” Cameron whined, backing away.

“Holy shit, is that you? It looks like… looks like you inherited more than just my money!” the big man said. He crossed the room in two easy strides, looming over the shaking little man.

“You did this?” Cameron whined.

“No, not on… purpose,” Whistler said. He flexed his thick fingers, his big cock wagging as he did. He bounced his pecs. “All this muscle feels so… GOOD! Heavy, but… good…”

Cameron was edging toward the door as the big freak started to explore himself. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he barked without turning from the mirror.

Cameron’s little dick suddenly shot to attention. His heart pounded. His mouth was dry. He had to leave but… he also wanted to do what this stranger was telling him.

“I think I’m the one who needs the ashtray now,” this enlarged version of Whistler said. He shoved Cameron back on the bed and pulled off the jockstrap with ease, slipping into it. It was a tight fit, his big body and huge cock only barely squeezing in. “I want the boots, too,” he said, plopping down into the chair, “but you put them on.”

Cameron looked down at himself. He was drowning in shame, but some part of him… wanted this. “You… you did this to me…” he whispered as he fell to his hands and knees and started sliding Whistler’s big brawny feet into the boots.

“Wait. Before you put the boots on, give my feet a tongue bath,” Whistler said with a snap of his fingers. Cameron gently set the boot down and went to work on the thick toes, running his tongue between them, savoring the musty tang as he suckled at each thick digit before moving on to the next one.

Before he was done with the first foot, he felt his whole body tense up… and a tiny droplet of cum leaked from his dick as he shivered with satisfaction.

“You took my muscles…” Cameron whimpered. “And you gave me all your weird kinks!” Cameron said as Whistler chuckled.

The bigger man (still bald, still bearded, but not built like a professional bodybuilder with all the wrinkles of his body suddenly smoothed out) took a puff on his cigar before considering what was being said. “Hmm… I don’t think so. I still REALLY want somebody to treat me like an ashtray, but it’s not going to be you! It’s gotta be someone deserving of my worship.” He flexed a bicep that looked to be about 24 inches. “But who the hell is that going to be now? Who’s deserving of being worshiped by ME?”

It couldn’t be true, Cameron thought as he continued to lovingly lap at Whistler’s feet, but a sudden realization dawned on him: maybe these feelings had always been there, but his brawny body and his alpha attitude had just gotten in the way.

Suddenly the bathroom door swung open. Cameron felt like he was drowning in shame as he saw a groggy Lance stumble out. His lover seemed to have doubled in size, but really it was Cameron who had changed.

“What the fuck…” Lance slurred. “Who the fuck are you people?”

Whistler’s eyes lit up as the sexy blonde man stumbled toward him. “Oh, is this your friend?” he asked, giving Cameron a playfully shove with his heel, knocking the little man over. “Maybe you’d better explain to both of us what’s going on, LITTLE man…”

“I… I… I’m not going to…”

“Do what I FUCKING said, worm,” Whistler ordered, and the idea of doing exactly what this superior man was saying made Cameron’s dick dribble cum.

Cameron had to tell the story a couple of times, with Whistler spitting at him each time he got “hysterical” and drunken Lance failing to put two and two together. Still not seeming to comprehend the situation (but too drunk to care), Lance looked over at Whistler, only now seeming to take in the fact that this stranger was actually an enormous hunk of muscle (and absolutely Lance’s type).

“You like to give orders, sexy?” Whistler said.

“To a guy like you? Absolutely!” Lance said.

When they both ordered Cameron to leave, he did as he was told, scampering toward the door. It slammed shut and he shivered, the reality of being nude in public suddenly dawning on him. He turned around to knock on the door but it opened again. He was roughly shoved a single t-shirt, his phone and a check, before Whistler put the “Do Not Disturb” sign back on the door.

The shirt had been snug earlier, but it hung down like a night shirt on him now. Cameron pouted as his phone failed to recognize his face. He still had the check, he realized, but how was he going to get home?

Thirty minutes later, Cameron walked barefoot across the filthy parking lot to a Lyft car waiting to bring him back to his condo. As he climbed into the back seat, he lamented how easily he fit; he was used to struggling to fit into anything less than a truck or a van, but in this four-door sedan, his feet didn’t even touch the floor.

“Wow, you look like you’re having a rough night,” the man said, glancing into the mirror. He was a heavyset man, looking to have been an ex-athlete who had packed on pounds later in life.

Cameron couldn’t deny how attractive he found the man. Without his muscles and his alpha status, his perspective had changed and he was seeing the world, everyone in it, and his own position in a brand new light.

“You mind if I smoke?” the driver asked. Cameron shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he watched the big man–easily twice his size–light up a cigarette.

His face burned red with shame, but Cameron couldn’t deny the feelings rising within him–feelings that had always been there, only now he couldn’t deny them with the false idea that he was an “alpha.”

“Do you… do you need an ashtray?