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Twelve Steps Back
Meanwhile, Back at the Office
|Ian made sure that Matthew didn't work much longer in the mailroom. After
his second fast-track treatment, when he suddenly, within two weeks' time, had
grown to the proportions of the LGs finishing their first six-month cycle,
heavy and solid with thick bulging muscle and meat, he became the obvious
for the top model position. The new catalog was shot featuring Ian in
everything from the most minimal swimwear, barely more that a soft, silky,
sling to hold his prodigious maleness up front of his massive thighs, exposing
the rich wealth of soft, blondish hair that seemed to explode from his crotch
to spread decoratively over his legs and up his torso, to what had become the
new business wear, as various lengths of low-cut tights, from mid-thigh to full
length for dressier wear, made their way onto the pages and into the
boardrooms. Loose shirts and traditional slacks were rapidly going the way of
dinosaur. Only the hopelessly conservative, older male clung to that outmoded,
traditional dress, and more and more of them were discovering the fountain of
masculine youth that the Littleman's formula promised. The Look became so
pervasive that Littleman's became more of a brand name than the definition of
look, as company after company dashed off lines to compete and grab some
market share. The popular mall shops carried their own brands of stretchable
shorts, tights, T shirts, tanks, and swimwear suddenly consisted of a variety
bikini cut trunks, the only style options being color, print, or degree of
minimalism. But the most conservative now showed pubic hair, being so low cut
having to carry such heavy packages of male meat churning ever stronger surges
of growth-producing hormones.
Matthew sat outside Ian's office, which had been moved to a corner office twice the size of his former one, and he was responsible for most of Ian's personal public relations, answering mail, setting appointments, appearances, and interviews. Everyone wanted a piece of the god, and Matthew was in the lucky position of having some input as to who got through and who didn't.
Ian's rise was meteoric enough that people in the office chalked up his seemingly complete distraction to having so much attention thrown at him, and, to a degree, that was true. How could he not be distracted when every day he showed up with a bigger bulge in his work tights or shorts, the material stretching thinner and thinner as his balls grew heavier, pulling down, filling it up with their size and weight, and his cock thicker and longer, lying curled like a serpent wearing a helmet, displayed as proudly as the Elizabethans displayed their stuffed and embellished codpieces in a show of blatant masculinity intended to draw the gaping admiration of any and all onlookers. Every day his muscles, which felt to him like extensions of his penis, so sexual did they feel in their swollen, dense, striated, veined, and cut massiveness, every day, were a bit thicker, denser, bigger. How could he not be distracted, when he was constantly looked at like a god, recognized on the street from the catalog, asked to flex on national television, and expected to exude, display, and evoke a total sexuality of unleashed, uninhibited, nearly uncontrollable erotic masculinity?
The fact was, his sexuality was becoming uncontrollable. He knew he was once again addicted, and this time, it was to, not the formula, although that was the source, but that sexuality. He was a slave, and he recognized it, to his cock, his magnificent, huge balls, and his unbelievable muscle. As he felt himself growing day after day, he felt a growing intensity of love for masculine sexuality in all its physical expression. He would cum flexing his twenty-two inch guns. He would feel his cock stiffen as he walked through the office, feeling the girth of his massive thighs forced to roll around each other and his arms swinging in wide, heavy arcs, propped out by the thickness of himself, the hardness. He would stiffen up and thrill himself that this was expected of him, that they, everyone, loved seeing his thick, heavy cock stretch the material as he walked and show, for all of them to watch, how he felt about looking like this, being this way, what he was becoming. If he could, he would fuck himself in front of them all. As it was, he'd just, finally, reached the point where he could suck himself off, though not dry, never dry. There was so much cum in him he could never go dry. Sometimes he would get hormone rushes, maybe three or four times a day. They would hit him like a big lungful of poppers, making him throw his head back and grip his chair, or just stop still and tense, and he'd be flooded with an orgasmic tide of overpowering maleness, a mental and physical sensation of intense waves of a masculine sexuality that would grip him from head to toe, like a two or three minute climax, deeply internal and sublimely erotic. He would lean back in his chair, look at his huge, bulging meat boning up, throw a big stretch that became a double biceps flex, and wish so much that he could have another shot, amp up the feelings even more, and then fuck himself, hard, right in his office.
Matthew's desk phone rang with the intercom light. He picked it up.
"Are you a fuckin' LG muscle fag, or what, man?"
Matthew wheeled around in his chair to see Ian standing behind his desk, grinning, leering at him, his cock lying almost sideways across his leg, but so heavy and big that it was pointing down his thigh at a forty-five degree angle, the huge head sticking out to the side right about where the flair of his massive outer quad began to recurve in toward his knee. He licked his lip, felt up his heavy, overhanging pec through the thin, ribbed material of his T. Everyone nearby could see him through the windows of his office, and everyone knew that Matthew had been moved to his new position to service the god who also happened to be his buddy. The fact that everyone knew made Matthew's cock instantly swell with hot throbbing desire. There was something so deliciously hot about how out in the open it all was now. Matthew himself could have anyone he wanted, and he knew it. He'd started the fast track, too, and was only somewhat less a paragon of masculine sexuality and muscle than Ian himself. But being treated as Ian's toy in front of everyone carried an excitement with it that made the others jealous and gave Matthew a thrill that got him hard every time in an instant.
"Fuck, yeah, man. I'm a total LG muscle fag. Why, you want my hot, young ass, you fucking muscle queer? You queer for my hot muscle?"
"Yeah, fucker, I'm queer for any muscle, but yours'll do for now, slutboy. Get in here."
Matthew hung up the phone. Everyone was watching. He stood up, his dick stretching the material of his shorts out past his hip. He looked around quickly and smiled a nasty little eat-your-hearts-out smile, and turned to go into Ian's office. His shorts rode tight up his ass crack, tight on his high, perfect glutes, low on his hips. Past junior bodybuilder in stature, not quite heavyweight yet, a week behind Ian on the fast track, his retreating body looked, from behind, like a perfection to be envied, if so many others weren't right along with him, setting a new standard, not just of male beauty--that would be Ian's role--but of just how guys looked now, in this new, rapidly evolving world.
Ian shut the door, closed the blinds, and turned to Matthew.
"Fuck, man. You looked so hot sitting out there, man. All I could think about was feeling your body, bro, touching your muscle, fucking your ass." He jerked Matthew's shirt over his head. "You fuckin love this, too, don't you. I can't fuckin' think about anything else, man. It's like being totally addicted again, but I don't want to quit. I want more." As he talked, he continued to strip Matthew, pulling down his shorts, going to his knees to pull off his shoes, pull them over his feet, and then back up to grab Matthew's ass and pull his groin toward him, burying his face in Matthew's thick bush, smelling his maleness, running the length of his throbbing, hard rod with both his teeth and his tongue until he heard Matthew sucking in air is spasmodic gulps. "Yeah," he said, pulling off Matthew's cockhead with a loud sucking pop, "I know you fucking love this, too."
"Yeah," Matthew said. "Fuck yeah I love it. I know what you mean. Come 'ere." He pulled Ian to his feet by grabbing his T and lifting him with it as he pulled it off over his head, forcing his arms up, too, which he greedily licked from the thickly hairy pits out to the swells of biceps muscle.
"Fuckin' muscle pig, man. Total queer boy," Ian said when Matthew pulled off his tights, letting his rod free to spring totally hard and rise past parallel to the floor, despite its amazing weight.
"Yeah I am, man." Matthew darted toward Ian's face, bit his lip as he grabbed a kiss. "Total." He squeezed the swollen head of Ian's cock. Smiled.
"Takes one to know one."
"Fuck yeah." Ian grabbed the short hair on the back of Matthew's head and pulled it back, hard, sucked at his neck like a vampire.
Matthew pushed Ian backward until he hit the leather sofa, then he pushed him back, the toy playing with the man, until Ian was prone on his back. Then Matthew held Ian's cock, spread the copious precum and his own saliva over it, and backed himself onto it until it pushed at the tight but amazingly expandable fuckhole between his grabbing muscle cheeks.
"This what you want, Sir?"
"Yeah, fag, you know I do."
"You like my muscle, Mr. God, Sir?"
"Fuck yeah, boy."
"Are you the hottest most handsome muscle god on the planet, Sir?"
"What do you think, slutboy?"
"I love when you call me slutboy. Total fuckin' muscle whore for you, dude. Yeah, I think you are. You're fuckin' gorgeous."
"Yeah, I know. But I'm gonna be more gorgeous when I'm big as Jarrod. You like that, slutboy?"
"Fuck yeah, Sir. I wish I could give you the shots myself. But I'm only a week behind you, Sir. Gonna be a huge muscleslut, then, man. You like that?"
"You want my ass, Sir? Right here, right now?"
Fuck yeah, slutboy, right here in my office, like the total whore you are. Show me that muscle."
"Fuck yeah, Sir."
Matthew flexed up both arms, pulled the muscle tight, and, with arms and chest quivering from the effort, feeling the power of his own mass, the raw sexuality of his formula-inflated size, he sank onto Ian's cock, slowly, feeling each inch enter him until he could feel Ian inside his chest, behind his thick, hard pecs. He had to nearly stand to lift himself up enough to let Ian's cockhead rim pop out past his grasping sphincter again, then sink to the squat, and up and down in faster and faster squats until they were both in a muscular, rhythmic, gymnastic sex-dance that would have worn down lesser men, until Ian finally exploded inside Matthew's belly and Matthew spontaneous ejaculated onto Ian's thickly muscled, hairy torso and face.
"Ah. Ah. Ah," they shouted as the climax came and was spent, no thought given to the listening ears outside the office.
Outside, work stopped, and cocks went hard, cunts moist at the sounds of Ian, the god, and his muscle hunk toy getting off as they did often, every day. There was not a person in the office who would not have changed places with either of them. Soon after, while Ian and Matthew were cleaning up with one of the towels Ian kept in a cabinet, several guys disappeared into the bathroom stalls, some alone, some in pairs, to relieve their own needs, stimulated by the top stimulator in the company.
Ian felt, as he sent Matthew back to his desk and surveyed the roomful of eyes staring with envy and lust at his face, his body, his crotch, that he had truly become the master of his domain. He knew he could get away with fucking anything because he was the man, the cover model, the top dawg, the alpha among alpha males. He was all about his sexuality and everyone knew it and loved him for it, wished they could be him. He knew they all knew he'd just fucked the shit out of Matthew, and it was somehow totally cool. More than cool. He could have anyone here. He could pull off his shorts and jack off and they'd love the show. They'd cum watching him. They stare at his crotch anyway, look to see how big his cock is, watch to see him bone up when he turns himself on by walking or realizing that someone is looking. Turning them on turned him on. They'd probably love to have watched him fuck Matthew. They'd probably love to watch him fuck anyone.
Just then, the new mailroom boy appeared at the back of the large room full of desks carrying a load of interoffice envelopes and memos. He was young, very much younger than Matthew had been, probably only about sixteen or seventeen. He'd started a week before, when Matthew had been brought up to his new position, and it was obvious that he was also a new guy in the program. He wore the LG look as a proud young newbie, tight, buff, hung, and showing it all off for the first time. He wasn't long in the program, but already Ian saw that his musculature had thickened noticeably, his beard shadow had grown much heavier and fuller since he'd started, his maleness quotient, his raw masculinity, had begun to increase, and he was starting to walk the walk. He glanced at Ian staring at him, and the attention caught him off-guard. He looked back at Ian for a moment, and when he went back to dropping envelops on various desks, glancing at Ian from time to time to see if he was still watching him, Ian's attention to him caused the inevitable stiffening of his dick. He'd had enough of the formula that he was not shy or embarrassed by his growing erection, and he let Ian see that.
Matthew, sitting at his desk by Ian's door where Ian was standing, saw what was happening, the look in Ian's eye, and smiled.
"He's a pretty one, isn't he?" he whispered up to Ian.
The boy moved closer to Ian's office in his deliveries until he was standing in front of Ian. He'd boned up completely, and, seeing the effect he had on the kid, Ian had boned up as well, standing at his door, feeling his cock once again stretching the material of his tights, pushing out to the side of his leg below his hip, everyone looking, everyone feeling the sex in the air. Ian, most of all, felt it. He was driven by it. Obsessed. His addiction had him by the throat, like a savage lover that he desired with all his being. He wanted this kid, not just because he was hot and fresh and new and pretty, but because Ian could have anyone, anywhere, and they would all love to see him do it. He was pure sex.
"Mr. Larkin," the boy interrupted his reverie, handing him an envelope.
Ian took it and set it down on Matthew's desk without looking at it.
"Thanks. What's your name?"
"Well, Jeffrey, I see you're in the program. You must be enjoying it. It looks like you are," he said with a nod toward the boy's boner.
"Yes, sir. I am."
"You must have had to get your parents' permission. How old are you?"
"Sixteen, sir. Yes, I did, but my dad's doing it too, and so's my little brother."
"Really?" Ian said. "You'll have to tell me about them sometime. So, Jeffrey, are you looking forward to becoming a big muscle guy, getting hairy, seeing that stuff down there grow?"
Ian spoke as casually as if they were alone, but Jeffrey looked around, noticing that everyone was listening. But he couldn't turn away from someone like Ian.
"Well, yes sir, I am."
"Looks like you're getting a good start. You're a very good looking young man. You're wearing that new muscle very well." The boy grinned and flushed, and Ian went on. "Heavy beard for a sixteen-year-old. Oh, some hairs starting to climb out the neck of that T shirt. Now that's very hot on a young guy like you, don't you think? And such a nice, thick trail your growing down there." Ian pointed at the inches of dark hair converging in an unbroken line from the bottom of the boy's tight T, a couple inches above his navel, down into the waistband of his gray, skintight shorts, worn so fashionably low that a few dark pubic hairs climbed out and spilled over. "Oh, no. Look. You're getting a spot there on your shorts. Maybe I can help you with that. I have a special place in my, uh, heart for mailroom guys."
He winked at Matthew, who was watching the show with a grin.
"Well, I, uh. . ."
"You're not still shy, are you? Usually one taste of the magic, and that all goes away."
"Well, not really, but . . ." He looked around at everyone watching, listening, and his dick got harder.
"Good, then, here," Ian reached right into the guy's shorts, "let's just get that out where it won't stain your shorts. Matthew, would you go get us a clean towel?"
The boy gulped but no attempt to move away. Matthew's smile changed to a look of surprise, but he did as he was asked. The others around the room watched wide eyed. Ian was aware of the looks, the stares, the common held breath. How far would he take this? He wanted to push it. He needed to. He was getting a rush that made him almost high. He pulled the kid's cock out of his shorts, pushing the already low waistband down. Then he did the same to himself. He let his own foot-long cock bounce for all of them to see. They always wanted to see it. Well, here it was. He took the towel from Matthew and held it under both their hard cocks, but didn't hold onto the boy's, or even his own. He just stood there, enjoying everyone watching, enjoying his overpowering sexuality, while the kid stood not knowing what to do, his hard-on out there for all to see, bouncing, jerking with the inevitable arousal the attention was causing, and his proximity, in such a way, with the handsome musclegod, Ian Larkin. Ian relished the moment.
"Don't worry kid. I'm not going to molest you. Just letting you be free. Go ahead. I know you need to shoot. I'll shoot with you. Aww, yeah, don't you feel it? Here is comes."
Just as Ian began to spurt into the towel, the kid, with an expression that mixed shock and relief, let his own climax come and, as he came into the towel along with Ian, smiled the smile of one very proud young guy.
When they finished, and both used the towel to wipe up, and pulled their clothes back up, Ian grinned and slapped Jeffrey on the shoulder. Loud enough for the room to hear, he said, "I bet you thought . . . Well, never mind. Welcome aboard, Jeffrey."
Later that week, though he'd only skirted dangerously near taking public advantage of an underage guy, the higher ups in the company thought it might be best if Ian spent some time away, amongst the others like himself, undergoing the radical fast-track transformation, at least until he adjusted to himself and found a way to channel his excessive erotic energy.
"They want you to go to the campus and finish out your treatment. It's probably a good idea. We're finding out some stuff with you we didn't totally expect. Like just how powerful the changes are, how they can overwhelm you, push you toward some behavior . . . well, let's just say that an adjustment period might be a good thing. And we can all mutually benefit. The program is ready for some outreach, some sales, and you can help us with that."
"Just give me the fuckin' shot, Troy. I'll do whatever you guys want."
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