Tall Saul

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.

She stared at what had been, until that moment, his most private of parts, standing fully erect in response to her inspection and fascinated gaze.

"That's incredible," she breathed, moving to the side for a fuller appraisal, "I thought it'd be normal, not like the rest of you. It's fucking huge."

Saul had always assumed that his penis was average. He had watched porn, and it seemed no different to all the other men on those sites. What he had failed to allow for was two things. Firstly, many men on porn sites had large dicks - it was their job, after all. Secondly, these men were of average height and body proportions. The fact that their dicks were also in proportion, as his was for his body, meant that he was much, much larger.

"It must be twelve inches," his sister whispered, "at least." She looked up decisively. "Stay here. I'm gonna get a ruler. Don't move."

His conditioning meant he had to obey, so he stood, until she appeared and placed plastic ruler alongside his penis, brushing it with her hand several times in the process. So intense was the feeling, that he almost ejaculated there and then. How awful would that be? All over his sister's face, hair and shoulders. She would never forgive him.

With a huge effort of will, he held back, and finally she stood up. "Fucking hell. Over twelve inches. Wait till I tell Sophie."

She cocked her head to one side. "Is it as impressive in action? All those muscles, I bet you shoot a load about twenty feet. Show me."

At first he did not realise what she meant, but slowly, realisation seeped into his mind. He was dumbstruck. Surely she couldn't mean ... but she was standing there, looking at him, waiting.

"Go on. Show me. Do I have to spell it out? Stroke the fucking thing till you cum. Come on! Now!"

Her last word was so commanding that he reached down with his huge hands and encircled his erect member.

"Fucking hell," she muttered, "your finger's as big as most guys' cocks. You could satisfy a girl with that." She smiled. "Now do it. Before they get home."

And he did. He was so turned on that it took barely five strokes before he ejaculated, strings of semen exploding several feet in front of him, hitting the vest which his sister wore and splashing in gloopy blobs on the carpet.

"Now look what you did. Cum on my top. Now I gotta change. Clean up your mess while I sort myself out."

She turned, pulling off the vest as she went, allowing him to see her bare breasts (albeit just a side view) for the first time, as she flounced into her room.

He wiped his semen off the carpet with his towel, before deciding he needed to avoid leaving smears on the shag pile. He found a cloth and wiped up as best he could, drying off with a towel and hoping no-one would ask difficult questions.

He went to his room, his cock, which had dwindled as he cleaned the carpet, began to stiffen again as he thought back to the incident. His sister had seen him. He had become hard and wanked for her. He had loved it. He loved her watching him. Her eyes on him, gazing in awe at his member. She had enjoyed it. Was she, right now, masturbating in her room? Was she using the vibrator she kept in the drawer by her bed?

As he thought, Saul had become rock hard again, and as he pictured her face, staring, her tongue moistening her lips, he came again. Not as much as last time, but still adequate.

That night, he woke several times, erect and full of lust. Each time he masturbated, producing ever-reducing amounts of cum, and leaving his foreskin sore and red. Each time he considered going to his sister's room, waking her and asking her to watch, and the thought alone made him want to wank again.

He also wondered if it was just his sister that had this effect, or would any female be good enough - a group of them, even. It was too much. He pumped his cock once more, massive hand encircling the huge girth and exceptional length, and, despite the soreness, producing yet another dribble of semen, and the mind-melting high of orgasm.

The following day, when he went downstairs for breakfast, he expected things to be different at the dining table. Would his sister give him secret looks? Would she smile at him? Would she accept him now, draw him into her clique of popular friends? He was disappointed.

It was as if last night never happened. She was her usual snide, sarcastic self. She didn't even look at him. Only the tenderness in his underpants, and the damp patch he had trodden in on the landing, made the incident seem real, and by the time she left for work, he was utterly deflated.

The status quo returned, and his day-to-day life resumed its typical patterns - get up, be tormented, exercise, more torment, exercise, bed.

The only change was that now, rather than watching porn involving people fucking, he started to focus more on the jerk off instruction, loving the way the women seemed to focus on him, to watch him as he stroked. He found videos with two women talking to him, and one with a group of several teenagers (over eighteen, of course - although some of them looked closer to thirty) encouraging him to shoot his load as they praised his impressive endowment.

He watched that one many times, now jerking off twice a day at least, often transposing his sister's face over that of the performers on screen. Slowly, he realised that this was his thing. He loved being watched.

The problem was, who would watch him? He could hardly advertise his willingness to perform - he certainly could not be a stripper - his dancing was abysmal. He considered going out and exposing himself to random people in the park, but that was illegal, and someone of his size could hardly get away unrecognised.

Every woman he met, young or old, attractive or unattractive, familiar or stranger, he considered a potential viewer, and tried to gauge their potential reaction.

It was when he went downstairs and found his mum chatting with Joyce, her friend from work, that an opportunity presented itself.

He walked in and looked at Joyce. Joyce was an unattractive woman, who dressed as if she were twenty years older than mid-forties age. She was large - well - probably obese in medical terms - and her tits and stomach seemed to blend into one large roll of fat. Her face was round and chubby, permanently flushed, and her eyes blinked constantly behind thick glasses. He suspected she wore surgical tights under her tweed skirt.

Still - would she like to watch him? He didn't care about her appearance. If she would watch, then it would work for him. He pictured her staring at his naked body, admiring his length and girth, encouraging him to take himself in hand and stroke, smiling as he neared his climax ...

"That'd be OK, wouldn't it Saul? Are you listening? For goodness sake, I think you're on a different planet sometimes."

Joyce laughed.

"Er ... sorry, mum," he mumbled, "hello Joyce. How's your things? I mean ... how's things? Er ... How's your health?"

"Fine, thank you," replied Joyce in her stiff, formal manner, jowls quivering in disapproval at her colleague's freakish son.

"I said, Saul, for the third time," mum stated, irritably, "I've been asked to go on an overnight training course next week. It's a big opportunity, and quite an honour. It's the same night as your dad's going to look after grandma while grandad's having his operation. You and Sarah will be OK, won't you?"

As Saul nodded his agreement, trying not to seem too enthusiastic, he realised that a night alone with his sister held all sorts of possibilities. She might watch him again. Might she even repay his performance with one of her own. Might he actually get to see her boobs properly - he'd never seen any in real life. Might she even show him the Holy Grail - the slit between her legs?

He realised he was becoming hard, and that his trousers might even make this evident to mum and Joyce, or his burgeoning erection would get strangled in his underwear.

He turned quickly, dashing to his room, imagination running wild as he jerked off.

Over the following days, Saul walked around with an almost permanent erection. He had to choose his clothing carefully, to ensure there was no visible evidence (not easy with twelve plus inches of solid flesh to hide, like hiding a policeman's truncheon, or half a baseball bat). He masturbated daily, limiting himself, in case he wore himself out, or ran out of semen. Impossible, of course, but if his fantasy came true, he needed to be at the peak of performance.

The day arrived. "Right, Saul, Sarah, I'll be back tomorrow evening, about seven o'clock. Sarah, you're in charge. Saul, you do exactly what Sarah tells you."

If she noticed the flush that crossed Saul's cheeks, or the smirk on Sarah's lips, mum did not comment.

"If this works out," she continued, "There's going to be a few more of these, and if I get this promotion, I'll be going to conferences, more training, sales events and all sorts. Don't make it so I have to miss out."

Dad nodded. "Aye. And if you two are OK, I can spend more time at Nan and Grandad's. They're both getting old and need help. If I can give them a break every so often, it'd be a big help. Probably help when it comes to inheriting too. You're eighteen and twenty-one now. Seems stupid that we worry, but the way you two fall out all the time ..."

"Oh, dad," Sarah simpered, "don't be ridiculous. We're too old for that. We can find things to do together. Saul seems happier to hang out with me now."

Saul did not miss the 'double-entendre' of the comment, and his cock twitched violently, rubbing the sensitive head across the cotton of his boxers and making him draw a deep breath.

"Are you OK, Saul?" Mum asked, noticing how he jumped.

"Er ... yes ... just ... er ... y'know ..."

Sarah giggled, while their parents looked from one to the other, before shrugging, saying their farewells and disappearing.

Sarah turned to Saul as the door closed, a twinkle in her eye and a flirty smile on her lips. "I've got to work today, but I finish at lunch time. Don't make any plans for this afternoon." She went to walk away, then turned back. "And make sure you shower and don't wank. I want your best performance."

As she disappeared up the stairs to finish her hair and make-up before work, Saul was hard. It would be a supreme effort of will not to jerk off, now he knew Sarah had plans in place, but he would cope. Hopefully, this time, he would last longer - he was determined to impress her.

Ten minutes later, she swept past him, deliberately brushing against his groin (which was at the same height as her breasts). She grinned and raised her eyebrows, making it clear that she had felt his erection against her (rather obviously) erect nipples.

"See you later," she smirked, then nodded to his crotch, "and you." She disappeared, leaving Saul alone, breathing heavily and in a state of sexual euphoria that previously had seemed unthinkable.

He dashed upstairs and showered. He had heard a cold shower was good for calming ardour (or 'ard ons), but quickly gave up on the idea and went for a comfortable warmth, washing gently and cautiously as he resisted the urge to waste the powerful orgasm which he knew bubbled within his balls.

He dried himself carefully, not wishing to rub his more sensitive areas, contenting himself with gentle dabbing. Still, each dab made him draw a sharp breath, and he was relieved to be dressed without any explosion.

He kept occupied throughout the morning, cleaning, tidying, watching the most boring TV programmes. His erection dwindled, and he found that by avoiding any sexual thoughts, he could control himself.

He was in the living room when Sarah got home. She had said lunchtime, but it was mid-afternoon, and Saul wondered if she had worked overtime, or if she was less keen than she had seemed. Maybe she was just teasing, and was not really bothered.

His latter view was confirmed as he heard giggles in the hall. Shit! She had someone with her. One of her girlfriends, by the sound of it. Probably Elise. Elise was her best friend - her BFF, apparently, and Saul was not keen on her. For a start, he found her unattractive. She was large - 'curvy' was Sarah's word for her - and nothing like the pornstars, with their slim waists, large breasts, long, slim legs and perfect features.