Twelve Steps Back
|He filled the syringe, tapped out the air bubbles, just as he'd been
instructed by the doctor, and set it down on the table. He felt like demons
were fighting in him, but he had to laugh at them. He could handle it. He
wanted to handle it. But he had to set the shit down for a second, take a
deep breath, and think about it.
Ian's road to recovery had taken a few detours. Partying seemed to be an occupational hazard in the advertising business. One day you were prince charming, the next, if you didn't play your cards right, a toad that couldn't get a returned phone call. Like most jobs, it was all about who you knew, who you hung with, and, of course, though few would say so, how you looked. As for all that, he held a straight flush in spades, but Ian had played his cards right into rehab. He had to think twice about doing that again. But they loved him, he had the look, and he needed this.
Ian's looks were his gift. He'd been dealt four aces in that department. As a kid, he was SO cute, an adorable towheaded angel. Through high school and college, he grew into a handsome guy. He hung with the jocks and maintained a cut and sculpted body with the slightest effort--a little time in the weight room and his daily crunches. And a little time was all he could give. There was just too much fun to be had, too many parties.
The partying didn't seem to take any toll on his exceptional physical appearance. He had the swagger of a jock who knew his popularity was assured. He was smart, socially adept, and naturally built--great butt, broad shoulders, tight waist, slender torso, broad chest with wide, square pecs. His friends joked that he must have a debauched-looking portrait stashed away.
As he moved from fratboy to professional, the parties did, however, begin to interfere with getting to work on time, staying focused when he was there, and incited mood swings that sent him first to anger management therapy, and then to rehab after they dragged him out of a meeting, babbling wildly, randomly, insisting he was fine, with vodka on his breath at ten in the morning and his nose powdered with cocaine he didn't even realize he'd left there. He raged that they were jealous, had no patience, were a bunch of fucking assholes, and more he didn't want to remember.
He'd been sober, now, for over a year, which, for a twenty-five year old guy, seemed like a huge stretch of his life. He was glad to be working again, that he hadn't lost too much momentum, professionally, and he'd even managed to make the bad-boy-reformed thing work for him, once he convinced people he could be trusted to get the job done. But he did miss the partying.
Substitution was the best remedy for that, and he filled the void with working out. At first a sorry substitute, eventually he began to enjoy the feeling of gaining muscularity. Stoking his ego by improving his looks was the only high left to him. He read all the fitness magazines and catalogs that specialized in men's wear geared to the body-conscious male. More and more, he found himself immersed in the fantasy of really getting into the whole body-culture thing. He hesitated to push himself too much, though, afraid that the people he worked with would think he'd become one of those gay muscle guys, and though he personally didn't care if some of those guys were into each other's bodies, he didn't want people to think of him that way.
Then, at the gym, of course, Ian heard a story. One of the magazines, Littleman's Body-Conscious Man, had become a sort of physique-oriented A&F catalog, doing for bodybuilding among young guys what A&F had done for the slender, cut-up look. Loose and baggy was losing ground to tight and muscle-revealing.
This company, though, had suffered a bit of a setback when a highly touted experimental formula had been tested by the advertising agency, T. Forrest Inc., that had ultimately merged with them as its sole client. The setback was a result of the new product being too successful. So successful, in fact, that the story of the adman, Tucker Forrest, and his AE, Larry Littleman, had become legend. In fact the name, Littleman, as the company's public name, was their own ironic inside joke. The two men and, inadvertently, an assistant named Sean, who, in the story, never had a last name, had been the victims of an overzealous test. They'd been retired from public view, but the stories about them had survived among the men who were the targets for the product: bodybuilders, models and other men who were drawn to the legend of three guys growing so massive with muscle and so over-endowed that they could no longer function in the world. Rumor had it that they had been taken away too huge to walk or wear clothes, and in a constant, irreversible, debilitating state of total sexual arousal and perpetual orgasm. Although, according to what many now considered merely urban legend, their faces supposedly bore witness that their feelings were not those of being debilitated. They appeared to have reached a kind of physical-psycho-sexual nirvana. Whether or not all that was true, the drug had, after that initial trial, been put under the strictest restrictions. But, if you had the connections to the right doctors . . .
He had mixed feelings about getting all bulked up with muscle, the way so many guys seemed to be doing. The rebellious streak in him found the look exciting. On other guys. Apparently, the drug caused muscle to mass up and thicken without the bloat that so often went with steroid use. It didn't harm the body. And it appeared, from the pictures of the models, to enhance other characteristics, also unlike steroids, which lent some credence to the adman legend, and it seemed to be drawing in the guys like bees to honey. More and more, the skinny guys in the baggy clothes were rapidly becoming yesterday's look. Now is was tight tees or tanks and body-clinging cotton/Lycra hot shorts that were becoming the casual wear of choice for young studs. He wondered how he'd feel more muscled up and wearing Lycra. If those guys could . . .
He'd stared at himself in the mirror, wondering . . . He was, in fact, stunning. His thick hair grew brown at the roots but bleached naturally to straw blond by the time it had grown an inch. He wore it short and spiky. His face--green-hazel eyes, heavy eyebrows and lashes, also brown tipped with blond, almost too-full lips, prominent cheekbones, perfect white teeth, long, deep dimples when his flashed his boyish, impish, heart-melting smile, perfect five o'clock shadow on a square jaw and dimpled chin--was saved from being too pretty by a certain ruggedness in its expression and a small scar that bisected his right eyebrow and the edge of his upper lip. An accident that almost took one eye instead gave him just the right touch of danger, the look of having lived on the edge. Except for the way his hair blonded out when it grew, he could be Colin Farrell's brother, back from one bar fight and ready for another. Bad boy gone good. He convinced himself he had the edge to pull it off.
The next day he pursued the topic with the guy at the gym who'd told him about it, a guy he was sure was gay, but what the hell. The guy seemed eager to take him, after their workouts, to meet the doctor who would show him how to administer the drug to himself by way of giving him his first dose and explaining the process--how to draw the liquid from the vial into the syringe, how to tap out the air bubbles, and the exact spot, behind his scrotum at the conjunction with the penis root, where he would need to inject himself, which he would do the next time he came in. This time, the doctor did it for him.
He had to chuckle at himself on the way home, how surprisingly embarrassed he'd been, sitting there naked with his legs spread wide, when the doctor had so nonchalantly lifted aside his balls and pointed out the spot between his legs, wetting down the hair with alcohol, and how he almost panicked at getting a shot there. But it hadn't been so bad. The needle was pretty small, and there was almost no residual pain.
Still, driving his car, he noticed a slight buzz, very physical, the way ecstasy felt when it first started coming on. In fact, that seemed to be what was making him chuckle, when he thought about it, or realized it. It felt almost as if he had snorted some coke or X or something, through his dick. And as soon as he realized he felt buzzed, and how really good it felt, he remembered hearing that one of the cautionary reasons for the tight restrictions on the drug was that it was so highly addictive. But the guys at the gym scoffed at that claim, saying it was about as dangerous as alcohol or pot, and it had measurable positive benefits. That was just the claim of the conservatives who resisted anything new and subversive to the established codes of behavior and appearance, branding it, whatever it was, immoral, indecent, against God. But as he felt a kind of euphoria gently filling his senses, sitting at a stoplight, he could easily believe it could be addictive, and that concerned him. A little.
It would be a week before he could go back and get his second shot, and show the doctor he could handle it on his own. Then they would give him a month's supply at a time, enough for one shot a week. That would be enough to put about ten pounds of muscle a month onto him, but he would have to take a month off after every two months on, and he would have to stop after his first sixty pound gain, go on a maintenance program, and wait a year before starting up again. They did not want anyone to "Tucker out," as uncontrolled growth came to be known. Rules!
Ian enjoyed the buzz that evening. He had a date with a girl who was a total babe, yet all through dinner, he kept noticing, and trying not to let her see his head swivel, a couple guys with pumped up bodies he guessed must be users. After dinner, in the movie, she had continually had her hands on his body, feeling this hard, cut torso, and it turned him on intensely, but not to want to take her home and fuck her. He found her attention to his body brought his own attention to it, and he faked feeling ill after the movie to go home and strip, and spend quality time in front of the mirror with his imagination. He was still buzzed, and horny. He got out his latest Littleman's catalog, and jacked off looking at those young bodybuilders showing their stuff.
The week went by slowly, and he threw himself into his work and his workouts, but in no time the week had passed, and Ian did see, or at least feel, the cumulative effects. The changes were subtle, but he'd gained almost three pounds, all solid muscle, and it showed in thicker definition. But more than what he could see, which looked really good, he loved what he could feel, the slow, gradual swelling of solid muscle tissue. And the feeling of a slightly fuller package in his briefs.
This time, the doctor gave him all the equipment to fix his own shot and talked him through it. The idea of taking another dose excited him, and by the time he had to drop his pants and sit on the table with his legs spread, he was plumping up despite being still a little embarrassed. But the bad boy in him was liking this, sitting in front of a young, handsome doctor (he hadn't really noticed last week how good looking the guy was, how young, and how built, even in his white coat--a user too, no doubt), pulling aside his balls, swabbing himself with alcohol, and, pause, deep breath, shoving in that needle. By the time he'd finished the shot, his heart was pounding and he was totally hard.
The doctor just slapped his thigh and said, "Don't worry about it. Happens every time. Stuff really messes with your hormones. But in a good way. Since you're at full staff, anyway, why don't we measure that thing, so we can keep a record of its relative growth."
Ian gulped. No response could be the right one, so he sat there, his dick hard as ever in his life, while the doctor pulled a cloth tape measure out of a drawer.
"Name's Troy, by the way," the doctor said, as he gingerly held Ian's prick still while he pulled the tape along its length, pushing the end into his pubes.
Ian laughed, maybe too hard.
"What?" the doctor asked. He made a note on Ian's chart.
"No way. Troy? Sounds like a gay porn name." The words escaped. Where the fuck had that come from?
"Seven and a quarter," the doctor said. "Would you like it to be?" He wrapped the tape around Ian's cock while Ian watched. "By six."
"I'm only barely seven."
"Not any more. Oh, I see you've had some interest in that. You've got good genes going into this. I think you're going to love the results."
"I already do." Holy shit. Who was talking? Ian felt sweat on his forehead.
"So do I," Troy said, bracing himself on Ian's thighs as he leaned slowly forward, his eye's locked on Ian's, his lips slightly parted. He stopped inches from Ian's mouth.
Ian's drive surfaced like magma blowing the top off a volcano, and he closed the gap between them, feeling, for the first time in his life, the rough stubble of a man's mouth on his. It was like the first real kiss of his life. He felt the handsome doctor grab hold of his cock as they kissed, cover the head with tissue, and just hold it tightly, and the soaring pleasure of the rough-tender kiss with the sensation of a man's hand holding, gripping, squeezing his cock caused him to ejaculate. The doctor just continued to make love to his lips and tongue until he'd spent what felt like a huge load. Then, slowly, the doctor pulled back, smiling, as he wiped Ian's cock clean.
"Like I said. Happens all the time. They'll take care of you at the front desk. I'll want to see you again in a month." With a wink, he was gone, closing the door behind him.
Ian went back to the office, but all afternoon, he couldn't stop thinking of the fact that packed in his briefs was a quarter-inch bigger cock, and that he had just let that doctor make him cum while he kissed him, he had loved the whole thing. He was buzzed, and he felt great. In fact, he knew he must be looking as great as he felt. No one could know, yet, that he'd started the process of becoming one of those Littleman's guys, but he saw people checking him out, the women flirting more than usual, guys glancing surreptitiously with that familiar look of envy he'd seen all his life. But someone, it was giving him more of a thrill.
In the mail room, he'd stopped to chat up the mail room guy, a just-out-of-college intern named Matthew. Ian always suspected that Matthew might be bi, the way he checked him out and couldn't do enough to be helpful, and he didn't really mind. Ian's ego allowed him to appreciate being admired by anyone, especially anyone good looking, male or female, and Matthew was a very cute kid. Today, Matthew kept looking at Ian's chest and down below his waist, and Ian stayed and chatted longer than he should have with a mail room guy just to enjoy the looks. He also felt sure that Matthew knew he was hanging around, letting him study him. Could he see a difference? Could any of them? Soon they would, and Ian wasn't sure how he'd handle that, when it became obvious that he was bulking up and going for that Littleman look. But the thought brought him back to where he was when he realized it was making him bone, and that Matthew had, no doubt, noticed, glancing down as he talked . . .
" . . . and give me some tips."
"I'm sorry?" Ian refocused. He had hardly even been aware that Matthew was talking. "Guess I zoned out for a second. Tips?"
"Workout. I said maybe we could get together after work sometime and you could give me some tips. You're obviously doing something right."
"Yeah, okay, maybe sometime." He was suddenly flustered. That was pretty bold. Or maybe he'd invited the kid to be so forward.
He went to the bathroom where he could look at himself, and the mirror showed what the kid had been staring at. He saw pecs under his oxford cloth, just enough to show their shape, especially at the sides where they pushed out toward his arms. Subtle, but definitely noticeable. Wow.
He could understand why the kid had been checking him out. He turned himself on. The rise in his gabardine slacks pushed against the zipper, and Ian locked himself in a stall and pulled out his stiffening cock. Now that he really looked, he could tell it was bigger, and the thrill of that gave him a hot chill. He quickly aimed into the toilet and, with a few strokes, came hard, the jets of cream splashing as they hit the water. He held his breath, lest anyone should hear what he had just done, and then he stuffed himself back into his pants and headed for his office, where he stayed behind his desk until quitting time.
As he was leaving, he ended up walking out at the same time as Matthew. He tried to smile as he would to any employee, but Matthew grinned.
"'Night, Mr. Larkin," he said. "Don't forget." And he flexed an arm and laughed.
Oh, God, Ian thought, who saw that? What would they think?
The rest of the week went by as the one before had--too slowly. Ian worked out, and he felt like every workout produced the results of a week's hard labor. He found himself spending longer in the gym, just to be in the company of the men there. The guy who had turned him on to the doctor, and who, Ian noticed, now that he was more aware, wore the Littleman's look very well--everything tight, abbreviated, and shamelessly body-revealing, in complete reversal of the old look--commented that he was already starting to look like a "user," and that kept Ian excited. He was really getting "the look." He was spending more time naked, scrutinizing every difference. His body was an increasing source of both sexual excitement and sexual satisfaction to him, the process becoming such a total turn-on. He was hornier all the time. The buzz never left.
About two days before it was time to give himself the first shot at home, alone, on his own, he realized he was jonesing for it. He took the vial out of the refrigerator several times, thinking, what could a day or two hurt? But he knew the signs of impending addiction. He did not want to let anything, even this, control him again. So he resisted the urges until the appointed time.
When the time came around, that workday seemed endless. Toward the end of the day, as he was cleaning up his desk to leave, Matthew came by with some intraoffice mail and memos. He put it on Ian's desk, and Ian realized he was still standing there after a few seconds, and looked up.
"I didn't mean to upset you," he said. "I was kind of kidding about the workout tips, anyway."
"That's okay, Matthew."
"But if you did want to get together, there's a bunch of us gonna meet up at the club where all the Littleman's guys like to hang."
Ian looked up. Did he know?
"Doctor Troy's gonna be there."
He did know. And he was waiting for a reaction. Ian just said, "Huh."
"Anyway," Matthew put a folded piece of paper on Ian's desk, "it's private, so if you want to come, just bring this to get in, and I'll see ya. Oh, it's Littleman's casual."
"You know, how to dress. Like in the catalog."
He winked, flexed like he had the other day, and said, "You should try to come. Meet some of the guys. It's hot."
This time, when he flexed, Ian noticed that for a slender guy, he had some kind of a solid bulge in his shirt sleeve. And now that he looked, he had some pecs going for him, too. He had to be a user, too, and, from the looks of it, about as far along as Ian.
"Thanks," he said. "Maybe."
"Cool," Matthew said, turning his tight bubble butt toward Ian as he left the office.
At home, as Ian got the alcohol swab ready, filled the syringe, got undressed, the whole time he kept thinking about Matthew's invitation. If "Doctor Troy" were going to be there, and Matthew knew to tell him, then at least some people knew. Maybe it was time to start going public. The five pounds he'd gained were showing. He felt hot. His cock measured seven and a half already. As he pulled aside his balls to swab the sweet spot where the injection would go, his cock was already hard. He was almost shaking with anticipation. He picked up the syringe, paused for only a second, and sank the needle into himself, savoring the slight sting of the drug. It was done.
He went into the bathroom. Maybe he would shower and go. He looked at his body in the mirror. He was not a bodybuilder yet, but he could see those five pounds, feel them, and they looked so hot and sexy on him. The difference was less subtle, now, and he could see the beginning of his body changing shape. He was getting the look. He liked it. He could picture himself, a few more shots, another ten, twenty pounds. Yeah, his doubts were melting away with the buzz of the drug.
He had already bought some clothes from Littleman's, but when he did, he wondered, vain as he was, if he'd be uncomfortable wearing this stuff in public, even though quite a few guys were, now. Even the models in Vanity Fair ads were getting the bulked up bodybuilder look, wearing the tight, small clothes like these. He hadn't even tried them on when they came. He'd wanted to wait until after the first shot he gave himself. Well, that would be now.
He showered. Soaping himself up, he noticed again that his pubes and pit hair seemed a little thicker, and his cock felt real good and meaty in his hand. He thought about Troy holding it while he came. He thought about how Matthew looked at him. He would love to see them in their soft, clinging cotton/Lycra shorts. He imagined Matthew in something like gray and black stripes, and Troy in red. Red would be good. Who else might be there? Some of the big young guys that modeled for the magazine? Would they like him? He wasn't huge. But neither was Matthew. And Ian knew he was breathtakingly hot looking, anyway; he had no doubts about himself there.
He jacked in the shower, couldn't help it, and he knew, from recent experience, that he'd have plenty left for later. The buzz from this stuff was like turning up the volume on the sex drive, way up. Already he felt the increase in him of whatever this stuff did. The more you did, the better it felt, the more you wanted--more buzz, more muscle, bigger dick, big full package and thick bodybuilder muscles. Yeah, he could really see how this could be addictive.
The vial still sat out where he left it. Had he forgotten to put it away, or did he leave it there on purpose? It beckoned to him like the song of the sirens. That feeling. What if he did just half a dose now, just to see how it felt? The legend of the adman popped into his head, cautionary but so exciting, so close to the edge, so dangerously hot. The buzz would feel so hot, going out, meeting those guys, maybe getting into something. He got out a syringe. No. He couldn't. He would stick to the rules. He picked up the vial to put it away, but before he knew it, he'd drawn half a dose into the syringe. He closed his eyes to imagine the feeling, the buzz. God he should put this away. He tapped out the air bubbles and drew in some more, a full dose. No, just push it back into the vial. He closed his eyes again. Instead of finding strength, he found visions of thick, bulging muscle, young dudes showing big, thick muscle, big hot cocks and balls, getting off on them together. Fuck. He sat on the closed toilet seat, pushed aside his rock hard boner and his balls, and felt the needle go in, slowly, the drug, slowly emptying into him, the sting. Ah, fuck.
He chose aqua shorts with broad, white side stripes. His package looked hot as shit, showing every detail, nice and full, fat dick up front pointing down, and the tank clung to his as and framed his pecs. He truly was starting to get big. Tonight, he would be the new guy. Yeah. He gave himself one last look, adjusted himself one more time, grabbed his ID and money, which he stuck into his shoe, his keys, the invitation, and he strutted to his car, feeling, for the first time, the total liberation, the fuck-you freedom of doing something so hot so publicly, showing his stuff, putting it all right out there, big hung muscle dude, no shame, no guilt . . . and buzzing his fucking head off.
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