Together, through the two-way mirror, they studied the man in the examination room as he flexed directly at them, looking into what HE thought was a normal mirror. Or maybe he thought that. He must've known where he was, and that he was being studied - he must've realize then that he was being watched. Which meant that he just didn't care. Or that he LIKED being looked at.

As he flexed his massive muscles, as he completely got off on himself, the look on his face showed anyone who was watching the truth in that statement. As a matter of fact, he looked like he was HOPING he was being watched.

The General wasn't sure how to feel about it. He'd just seen this barely two-hundred pound special ops Staff-Sargent transform like some kind of comic-book superhero. He'd seen this highly-disciplined young man morph into some bodybuilding muscle slut, flexing into the two-way mirror, watching himself masturbate.

The Scientist who shared the examination room with the General spoke - his tone was clinical, even after what they'd just witnessed. "His unit came upon the plants accidentally while on maneuvers. Two of the men were transformed before they even knew what was going on. The rest of them were able to contain the situation fairly quickly - I don't want to go into the details of that at the moment, General, but they lost one more man before it was over. By the time they got to us, five out of eight had been transformed, and we've forced two through the process for study. The Staff-Sargent here was the last of them."

"There are seven more men like this?"

"Yes, Sir, but don't worry. We have them safely contained on another level."

The General studied the Staff-Sargent, who was flexing and dancing for himself like he was his own stripper. "Do they all... behave this way?"

The Scientist smirked. "This is a stage," he said, indicating the masturbating Staff-Sargent. "It's initially over-whelming for them: the heightened sense of masculinity, the eighty to one-hundred pound muscle gain, the gross increases in strength and personal power. For the first few hours, it manifests itself in uncontrollable sexual response. Given what's happened to them, I'm surprised it doesn't last longer."

The General tried NOT to look at the now gigantic Staff-Sargent as he beat himself off, that look of self-love on his face as he stared at his own now-ample cock in the mirror. What must it feel like to suddenly find you have a cock that big?

"And when this... phase... wears off? Then what happens?"

The Scientist shrugged slightly. "Aside from the obvious size difference, they return to relatively normal behavior. Their physical abilities magnify by an enormous extent. It might remind you of some juvenile comic-book plot, the way it all sounds."

"I'd had the same thought earlier," said the General, who kept sneaking glances at the Sargent. The Scientist made no secret of his interest, watching the subject openly and without apology.

"On one level, it's very much like that - they physical transformation and all - but you've never seen a comic-book character with proportionate genitalia, have you? That's where it begins to differ. Unlike comic-book characters who only have sex off-page, if you will, these men are very blatant about their sexuality - uninhibited behavior, and nearly constant activity - for all the (quote) POWERS (unquote) that they gain, they feel an equal drive to reproduce."

"So they become these super-soldiers, these incredible fighting machines..."

"... but you wouldn't want to share a fox-hole with one," the Scientist completed, throwing the General a side-long glance.

The General shivered at the thought. Suddenly, as if to complete his moment of horror, a loud moan broke from inside the observation room. Even on this side of sound-proofed glass, they could hear the Staff-Sargent's orgasm. Both the General and the Scientist looked up just in time to see the Sargent's healthy spunk spatter against the mirror.

"Oh, Jesus," mumbled the General, looking almost immediately away. He thought, how could ANY of this have military application? What use for a squad of homosexual super-soldiers? And who would lead them?

The Scientist smiled. "There we go," he said, completely detached from the scene he was observing, as if he'd been stalling until this moment was over. He turned to face the General. "We'll be able to interview him, now."

"What?"

The Scientist buzzed around the little observation room they shared, clicking switches and collecting papers, leaving the General standing uncertainly. He said, "Now that the Sargent's initial sexual release is over, he'll be lucid for a few minutes. We can talk to him face to face."

The General protested. "Wait," he said, gesturing to the cum-spattered glass, and the Sargent behind it. "Aren't we going to risk exposure, or something?"

The Scientist gripped the General's upper-arm and said, "You have nothing to fear, General. We wouldn't put you at any risk. Infection and transformation only occur plant-to-man. Believe me, my staff and I have been exposed to them for almost a week now, do I look like I've gone through some sort of transformation?"

For sure, the Scientist didn't look the slightest bit muscular, or disciplined about his body in any way - the General felt a little bit of disgust with that - but he clearly wasn't under the influence of these weird plants.

The General followed the Scientist through a series of doors, allowing them access to the examination room, and the gigantic Staff-Sargent within.

* * * * * * * * * *

It grew like a weed, like Spanish Moss dominating a summer-time tree.

As the guys went home from the Leonardi's party, after adjusting their car-seats and steering wheels to accommodate their new size, they'd sneak into their own backyard gardens - or, if they had apartments, out onto their patios - and they'd make sure to seed the ground - or some dirt-filled pots - before they went inside to rest until the sun came up.

Will Donnelly, the dentist, was one of the lucky men allowed to take a plant with him. There'd been a few extras, and the Leonardis had given them away like door prizes. Doc Donnelly's son Jon played on the football team with the Leonardi boy, who seemed particularly interested in making sure the whole team got plants. Will Donnelly thought the muscular boy's lack of subtlety was endearing, so he gladly took one.

Two days later, Coach Lidster had a pool-party at his home for the guys on the football team. Trusting fathers dropped off their sons - or some came in and hung out, too - the end result was the same. The boys who hadn't already gotten plants found there were quite a few waiting right next to the soda coolers. In a matter of hours, gigantic, muscular teens cavorted around the pool, as their equally huge fathers gathered by the grill where the Coach made burgers.

The cops came around sunset, answering a complaint from neighbors about noise and public nudity. "Sorry, Officers," Coach Lidster said when he came to the gate. "You know how boys are. Join us?"

To the cops, noise complaints meant teenaged drinking, so they were happy to have any pretext to come in and look around. They didn't come out for quite some time. When they finally got around to visiting the neighbors who'd called in the complaint, they were so freaking huge that the only thing that kept their uniforms on their bodies was the un-tear-ability of cheap polyester.

"They're gonna try to keep it down," the larger of the two said. "If you have any more problems, give us a call. We'll be happy to come on over."

The party broke up a short time later. After sunset, the level of energy had gone down a little, and then the cops had come. Besides, the boys were all sort of feeling the need to spread the seed around instead of wasting it on each other, to bring this gift to new guys, to re-populate.

Instead of calling parents, the boys took rides from the fathers who where there. They crowded into SUV's and truck beds and the back seats of cars, each of them holding at least one potted plant - a gift for their fathers at home. The guys with brothers had three or four.

When Kenny-Ray Titus got in the cab of his dad's truck carrying a plant, he answered his father's questioning gaze with, "Cousin Jacob's coming for a visit tomorrow."

As he slid over next to his father, as close as their new physiques would allow, muscle pressed to muscle, his old man said, "That's right thoughtful of you, son."

While they kissed, another boy slid into the cab with them, squeezing them even closer. The truck's back bed could only hold six members of the new varsity football team, facing each other like soldiers on their way to battle, plants nestled between their legs. Old man Titus had to reach between his own son's mighty oaks to shift, and he kept grabbing the wrong clutch.

They didn't all go home. Some boys went to the coffee house, some to the mall, public places to show off - the stares and howls and wolf whistles didn't embarrass them, but rather empowered them. Thongs and spandex and athletic gear, they spent much of their college funds and allowances - they displayed themselves beautifully. Young, muscular peacocks.

They inducted their fathers. They transformed their brothers. Strangers came across plants they'd left in the men's rooms, the mall atriums, the truck stops and diners - outside, almost anyplace with exposed dirt. Indignant gardeners or territorial grounds-keepers might've fought them at first - might've even tried to remove them - but not for long. By the end of the day, whatever land they managed would overflow with the newly-created flowers, usually after whatever HAD been planted there had been completely torn-out.

Roadside stands found their vegetables replaced by shelves of cock-shaped pitcher plants, manned by some gigantic farmer's son in daisy dukes and a straw hat. Several drivers had almost crashed from checking out the muscles instead of the road. When Irving Nebbish drove past, slowing down and looking as he'd done for the past two days - he hadn't been brave enough to stop - he saw a bodybuilder in front of the stand mounting a bike, flattening the tires from his massive weight, the big farm-boy behind him, laughing.

Irving Nebbish was so taken by the image, he almost drove off the road - a screech of tires, a quick moment of panic and recovery. He sat stalled on the shoulder, shocked. Before he could drive away, however, the bicycle-crushing bodybuilder was rapping on his window. (How had he gotten over here this fast?) "You okay, man?" he asked, his voice betraying a youth his body didn't show.

"Um... Yeah," said Irving, rolling the window down a bit further. "It's just... I... saw your bike..."

The bodybuilder laughed - Jesus, his shorts were tight. Too small for a man of his size, his bike-shirt as well. What was holding them on? Prayer? - then he spoke, "Yeah, guess we're a little too heavy for it, now." Involuntarily, it seemed, he flexed his chest, bouncing it quickly in front of Nebbish. "Wonder if you could do me a favor?"

Me, thought Irving, do a favor for you? Anything! Anything!

But what he said was, "Sure." Worse, he stuttered nervously when he did.

The big bodybuilder shrugged, hefting his hulking traps. "Well, I need a ride back to town. My bike..."

After they'd loaded it in the trunk - that's how fast Nebbish was out of his car, eager to be of service - the farmer's son in the daisy dukes offered Irving a "complimentary" plant for helping out the cyclist. Nebbish didn't know how to react, these two huge musclemen being so friendly with a loser like him. His perception of himself was about to change drastically. One might go so far as to say the symbiosis would do him a big favor. Certainly, a much more confident - and significantly sexier - version of Irving Nebbish existed AFTER he accepted a Symbiont. Fucking that farmer's son with his incredible new cock while the kid sucked off the cyclist right there by the side of the road proved that.

He became more mischievous as well. It was Nebbish, after all, who brought a plant to his brother, the one in prison, to see the effect on the power-struggle in D-block. On the flip-side, it was also Nebbish who tithed a couple of plants to the priests at the local monastery. Whatever else his contribution to the invasion - (Note: please read "re-population" for "invasion") - Nebbish would be the most creative.

If only all the Symbionts had the same flair. For Nebbish, it was a study of morality. How did the guys at the warehouse differ from the guys at the yacht club? After the symbiosis, was there still this class division? Or was there just this constant, driving lust - this NEED - like what he felt? Irving Nebbish would fuck anybody, hobo or president, to relieve it.

More than once - and to more than one of them - the thought of organization crossed their minds. If they could stop fucking each other, planting their seed, spreading their influence, and get organized, the COULD take over the world. Unfortunately, the plants had joined with men, and therefore gained man's weaknesses. Even for someone as emotionally detached as Irving Nebbish, the physical drives were impossible to resist. Thoughts of organization were fleeting. Thoughts of ANYTHING other than re-population and physical contact were fleeting.

If only they had a leader.

Well, wouldn't you know!? That night, as brothers lay with brothers, and heavily muscled men slept entwined with their new recruits, as they awaited the coming strength of the morning sun, all of them, all of the Symbionts, from Nebbish to the cyclist to the farmer's son at the stand, from Coach Lidster, Mr. Mac, Sham, Dr. Donnelly and his handsome son Jon, to daddy Leonardi and his boy Tony, to Tony's buds Chuckie, W.B. and Keith, to Danny and Donny Wall (and by this time, their father Dean, though that tale hasn't yet been told), to our old friend Snake, and the fifty or sixty motorcycle muscle-daddies he'd created, themselves in loosely-gathered packs spread across America, to a small town in West Virginia where nearly all of the male residents, and the Mayor, and the Main Street Shop-keeps, and the Sheriff who lorded over them all - ALL of them - (even a special-ops military unit somewhere in Maryland, miles underground in a cement-lined bunker that none without the security clearance knew about, where eight men, ranging from First Lieutenant to a recently-transformed Staff-Sargent) - even the men that haven't graced these pages, the accidental encounters and the throw-away fillers - ALL of them - every single affected man out there had the exact same dream.

And their dream went something like this:

* * * * * * * * * *

You become aware, the way you do in dreams - a reality where the landscape extends only as far as the dream requires, if backdrops exist at all. At the moment, you might just sense the flatness, the miles and miles of level land. You might come flying in over it, swooping and swirling in the air as the wind and clouds breeze past your incredible new body, the one the Symbiosis gave you. Your Symbiont is "asleep" - this late in the night, the Symbiont has less of a presence in your mind - it's far more powerful during the day. The night, and most of the carnal pleasures that come along with it, are all for your human half.

You fly only until you become aware of flying. Then, you sail in low and slam chest-first into the earth, your heavy pecs taking the impact.

But don't worry, you're not hurt. The ground is soft, turned and tilled. Foot-deep potting soil. It's actually comfortable and somewhat welcoming, ripe and ready for planting. You really only notice this briefly as you stand - or, if this is where you entered the dream, you just become aware and look around.

A farm. You're in the fields behind the house, the acres and acres of flat, turned earth. The bright sun burns in the cloudless sky, making your power-level soar. No matter how glad you've felt about your symbiosis, no matter how sexually fulfilled, you've never felt better than you do right now in this dream - you're at your peak.

And you're not alone.

You become aware of them the same way you did the land - your brothers, other men as heavily-muscled as you, their big balls stretching from the weight of their Symbionts, their thick, meaty cocks - like yours - twitching with anticipation. You feel a warmth from them, a connection, a greeting, though none of you speak.

In that same, vaguely telepathic way, you sense His arrival, behind and above you. As one, you and your others like you, turn to face Him. At first, he's in silhouette, making Him look as if He's just come from the mighty, life-giving sun, now a blaze of light over His left shoulder.

He's gigantic, both in height and proportion. He's half-again as tall as you - you might have to raise yourself up slightly on tip-toes to suck his pecs - and even in shadow, it's possible to get a sense of the power that comes along with a body like that. He's a muscle-tick, bloated on the blood of the gods.

Even as He lands on the ground and the light reveals Him, you can tell that He's not quite human. (Hell, neither are you though, remember? There's a living being inside your balls!) His flesh is pink, but as He moves, there's the slightest hint of green to it, like someone who's seasick, or ingested a little too much wheat grass. It's paper-thin, revealing His utter lack of bodyfat, but it looks strong, like a protective casing stretched tightly over His striated mass.

His features are hard, masculine. Fully ripe and mature, He is at His peak. And His eyes...

They burn. They sear into you when you make eye-contact - your cock is almost instantly erect. Commanding and hypnotic, they put you in His thrall - just like everyone else. Though you don't look to see, you can sense their submission - it's like He's looking at all of you at once. Maybe He is. It's a dream, isn't it?

His eyes fill your vision, but you can still see that His mouth doesn't move when He speaks. You hear His voice in your mind. "Come to us," He says, in a bass that would rattle your sub-woofer. "The fields are ready."

Then He raises His hand - even though His eyes dominate, you can still sort-of see around them to His body, His gorgeous, hyper-masculine body - maybe it's like His eyes are super-imposed over everything. (Maybe His eyes are your eyes.) Doesn't matter. Nothing matters - just His power, you can lose yourself in it. When He raises His hand, showing the underside of His arm, the thick triceps and the bowling-ball biceps, the depth of his outer-pec, the wedge of his lats, the sweet fold of his armpit, you follow it. Your cock follows it, rising in tandem. It's HIS power that forces your erection.

And then He just twists His wrist - He just clenches his fist. In your mind, you hear His voice say, "Now." And then you orgasm.

Even as your orgasms improved when you accepted your Symbiont, so too have they advanced geometrically now. It's not just your cock - it's your entire being. You shoot as your body rocks with climax. Everyone does. All of your brothers and fellow musclemen - this man, this hybrid-thing, this Great One commands you all.

As you finish, your cock dripping as you catch your breath, you look at Him through a euphoric haze, god-like and mighty. He smiles. "Step forward," He orders, again in your mind. Thinking He's speaking directly to you, you immediately obey.

Unfortunately, EVERYONE thinks He's speaking directly to them, and they've all immediately obeyed. It's like a row of your brothers advanced one step into the field. Into a new furrow.

"Stop!" He says. "Now shoot."

A motion of His hand, and you're orgasming again - all of you, brothers and fellows, you all climax together, spilling your seed into the ground. He's irresistible. It feels so good.

As it ebbs, you hear the command. "Step forward." And you start to figure out what's going on.

Not that you don't obey.

Not until all the fields are completely sown.

You must cum to Him. That much you know as the dream fades into repetition - shoot and step and shoot and step.

You must cum now.

NOW! •