Joining the B-Builder Boyz Club


By AbsMan420


I weigh myself before I even take my morning piss. This morning, I'm 241. When I went to bed last night, I was 228. Sometime during the night I passed through the 230's, so the transformation I see in myself when I finally look in the mirror takes my breath away.

When I was thin, I used to imagine myself bigger, but I always had to imagine myself to an aesthetic level, not a weight. I only knew what 190 looked like. I mean, I'd put my head on one of those fitness model's bodies -- one of those over-muscled, underwear catalogue physiques. Even in the most lucid of imaginative play, I never got to the size I am now.

I'm easily as big as one of those underwear models -- hell, bigger than even the biggest of them. Hell, bodybuilders compete at 240, ripped up and stuffed into their tiny posing trunks. They'd have a hard time finding a pouch to fit my new package, my hefty balls, my meaty cock.

As I face myself in the mirror, I see perfection. As I flex, I fall in love. During the night, my abs have found their way, rock-solid chunks that lead the eye right where I want it to go, right to my cock. My legs easily carry half my overall weight -- they are as out-of-proportion now in abundance as they used to lack before. Maybe I have to take a wider stance to be comfortable, so my legs don't press together, but I'm so overwhelmingly masculine. I reek of power.

I'm trying to get a good view of my back, distracted by the amazing muscularity of my ass, when I notice the bald spot on the back of my head. Quick study shows that my hair has been falling out rapidly, although along a natural pattern for me -- as if my hair had advanced twenty years in my gain of twenty pounds. Running my hand through it, I see how thin it really is -- I can see my scalp through the top part -- some even comes off on my hand.

Fuck it. I pull out my buzz-trimmers and shave it down to the skin -- a #1 without a fade. I don't wanna look like I'm vain about HAIR -- like I'm trying to hide my baldness with some comb-over or something.

And with my head all buzzed, I look tough, even more masculine than before -- more like J-Claude. I notice that my neck is thicker too, as is the jaw it supports. My cheekbones, my forehead, all more pronounced. My features are becoming blunt, but my lips are becoming full. My confident smirk is sexy.

There's a quick little itch in my armpit, and without thinking, I scratch it a couple times, holding the meat of my outer pec in my hand. My fingertips are covered with hair. Lifting my arm, I study the pit in the mirror -- there's a little gap missing. Mere rubbing pulls the rest of it out -- it actually feels good once it's gone -- like my skin isn't constricted. I immediately do the same thing to the other side.

My smooth armpits allow me to see the inside bicep and deep pec connectors. Obviously a turn-on, cause here comes my cock. I greet my growing erection with a "what took you so long?" smile, but when I look down on it, big as it is, all I see is the hair.

It's really the first time that I've given attention to my balls, and I must say, I don't know why I never have before. When a guy's on steroids -- because he's getting his testosterone from an outside source -- his balls shrink -- they have nothing to do. A guy my size would have to be juicing heavy -- guys don't normally get my size WITHOUT juicing heavy -- so his balls would betray it. Me, on the other hand, I'm not juicing. My balls are doing plenty of work -- hell, they're working overtime -- and, like my muscles, they've gotten stronger the more I've used them.

Lifting them, hefting their new weight as I rub the hair off the underside of them, I get to know and love them as I do old friends, thankless linemen on the football team, charged with the most important job of all. They love the attention -- they breathe with the new freedom. I vow to thank them for each pound I gain, to reward their effort. "Grow," I mumble, cupping them. "Grow."

My jealous dick demands attention. And if the balls are the lineman, the dick is the star quarterback. I keep having to push it aside as I rub the hair of its base, and each touch is erotic, electric. Sitting on the edge of the sink, I remove each stray, each follicle upping my pleasure -- dare I say it? -- just a hair -- ignoring the screams of my cock for attention -- the wait is killing it, each plucked hair sends it a little farther over the edge. The whole scene turns me on so much -- my cock turns me on so much, I have such a teen-aged energy, puppy-love crush on it, I could kiss it. I could almost, if I lean down deep enough...

My lips barely brush the tip. When I pucker, I can just barely surround the slit. When I stick out my tongue, and lick a bit of the hood, a wave of pleasure goes through me such like nothing I've ever felt before. I love the growth I have -- and I know I'm being greedy -- but I can't help but hope to grow a little bit more, just a little more length, just enough to get it comfortably in my mouth. Oh my God, I hope.

And if hoping to grow is the cue, The Hunger suddenly hits. Even my cock understands -- even my cock knows that to grow, I gotta feed -- so it melts calmly away, back to its impressive half-hard stature. Eat, it seems to say. I'll still be here when you're done.

And there'll probably be MORE of me.

Spandex shorts, underwear, thongs, unitards, singlets, I spend almost five-hundred dollars this afternoon, but I look so fucking good in all this shit -- I can't say no. The little sales-geek that's helping me -- a hundred-twenty pounds if he's wet -- is clearly getting off on me as much as I am. He brings me piece after piece. "Try THIS on," he says. "You think that unitard looked great on you..."

When he finally cashes me out, he slips me a catalogue and a wink. His number is scrolled across the top. He's given me a nice discount -- and several pieces for free -- so I allow him his flirtation -- at one point he even touches my bicep, so I flex it for him. Watching him try to control himself is worth every penny. "Please call me," he says as I leave. "I just want to worship you."

In the cab on the way home -- it's amazing how fast they stop for me now -- how I just gotta raise my massive paw and they pull over -- I glance through the catalouge that guy -- "Michael" it says in pen. How come fags are always named "Michael?" -- that sales assoc Michael gave me. It's a "specialty clothing" catalouge, full of leathers -- chaps and harnesses and peekaboo thongs with studs and gimmicks. Again, I'm bigger than the guys modeling the shit -- and they're supposed to be ideals -- so I know how good I'll look in it. I'm goin' to their web page as soon as I'm home.

"You a big guy," the cabbie says as I dog-ear a page with a low-cut muscle shirt I like. "You do the steroids?"

I smile my winning smile, showing my gleeming new white teeth. "No need, buddy," I say, flexing my bicep so he can see it in the rear-view mirror. "I'm all natural."

"You be a man who is very big," he repeats, trying to keep his eye on the road, trying not to look at my little show in the backseat, as I flex my chest and arms in a t-shirt that may have fit at some point. I'm such a fuckin' tease. "Are you this very big everywhere?"

Without thinking, I automatically cup my package -- I can feel my cock enjoying the game -- and I answer him, smiling. "Yeah."

He's shy. "If to show me," he says, "I will charge not for ride."

It's gonna be this easy from now on, I think. Guys my size always get a break, I'm finding. I pay for the cab, but not to be ungrateful, I give the guy a tip -- not that one -- and let him feel my flexed arm.

"Please to worship," he mutters. "I give you anthing to worship."

I wink, pulling my arm back. "Thanks for the ride, bro." And I'm in my apartment.

I must change outfits ten times before I can figure out what to wear to the gym. I'm in the canary yellow singlet now -- a white RIPS thong underneath -- and I think this is the one -- my ass is spectacular! -- the way the straps BARELY cover my nipples as the neckline plunges toward my navel, showing the deep crevice between my pecs, the balloon like mass of my man-breasts. When I throw on a half-tee, the effect is spectacular. The t-shirt gets caught up on the shelf of my chest, cascading down toward the waist, but the material ends before it comes into contact with my body again. Only my tiny waist emerges, flaring out at the quad, stuffed full in the groin, round in the ass.

I have a protein shake, two chicken breasts, and some rice before I leave for the gym. I'm not hungry -- I certainly don't have The Hunger -- but I don't want it to come upon me while I'm working out. I fucking hate that -- even though The Hunger is an antecedent to Growth. As usual, I pack protein bars and an extra shake just in case.

I weigh myself at the gym -- I'm feeling heavier, even from that wimpy lunch. Two-fifty in spandex. Lemme say it again -- two-FIFTY in spandex! I'm so jazzed when that number comes up on the screen, I shout, "Yeah!" and hold my hands above my head like I'm scoring the winning touchdown. I fuckin' rock! People look at me, at my display. Let 'em look. I'm two-hundred fifty pounds and I'm fuckin' perfect.

I gotta beat off. Right now. Not because I need to -- my body doesn't betray me like that anymore -- but because I fucking WANT to.

I'm two hundred-fifty pounds and I got the biggest fuckin' cock in the gym.

I pause just long enough to glance at myself in the mirrors as I walk through the locker room. I'm so fucking big, and my cock is just LAYING there under the spandex singlet, long and thick and potent. I am man. A two-hundred fifty pound man.

Quickly through the showers, and around the corner to J-Claude's shaving nook, where -- caught completely by surprise -- for someone as heavy as I am now, I'm hardly soft on my feet -- he must be really into it -- is J-Claude himself, beating off into the mirror, understandably absorbed in his reflection, his spandex around his quads, his strong hand hefting his heavy cock. Then he speaks, and I know he was aware all along. "Well, look at you," he says, turning to face me, not losing a beat with his hand. "You look fucking awesome."

I flex for him -- I try, but I can't take my eyes from his cock. I can't. I don't even want to, really. He IS bigger than me -- god dammit! -- but his cock may be just as beautiful as my own. More. It's hard for me to understand my desire, even with perfection before me, but yielding brings a wave of such liberating relief that when I kneel before him, I don't rationalize it by thinking I just want a better view. When I place my hands on his hips, I don't think about boundries or definitions or lifestyles. When I lean forward and take his massive prick into my mouth, I do it for sheer pleasure. And pleasure alone. Mine, and his.

And when I do, something else happens -- as the blunt end of his heavy dick passes my lips, The Hunger hits. As his cock slides into my willing mouth, pleasure suddenly becomes Need. Each thrust makes me all the more anxious, each breath all the more ready. I Hunger for him. I ache.

We find a comfortable rhythm, between the bucking of my head and the slow grind of his hips. I explore his legs with my roaming hands -- feeling his overdeveloped hamstrings and his bulbous ass -- finally settling on his balls -- his big, big balls. The source of HIS testosterone. The essence of him. Cupping the sac, I tickle the patch of skin at the back, right in front of his asshole. I know what I want now. I know what I Hunger for.

J-Claude shoots his load into my eager mouth, because he knows, too. As I taste him, a craving I never knew I had is answered. A wish is fulfilled. A puzzle becomes a picture. I swallow each drop, succumbing to destiny, surrendering to growth.

And what growth. I can feel the energy -- the power -- J-Claude racing through me. I feel the warmth -- like in the stories -- spreading down my limbs, filling my center, up my spine, into my brain. A whirlwind of mass. I thicken. I become.

The man who stands up is a very different man from the one who'd been kneeling. Heavier, for one thing. Finished. Complete. I can barely get the t-shirt off over my head without tearing it -- my fuckin' delts are too wide -- but when I get a look in the mirror at the finished product, at my prime god-like body, I don't give a shit about petty annoyances like clothes. Hell, I may never wear clothes, again.

I pull the straps of the singlet down, which don't stand a chance of covering my nipples anymore, and let them dangle at the waist. As I flex the halves of my mammoth chest back and forth, I watch my cock -- my glorious, huge cock -- expand -- bloom -- mind-boggling to me that I now own it. That it owns me. Thick beneath the singlet I barely wear, it waits patiently as I flex for myself. It offers its full beauty, accentuating my poses.

When I hit a double-bicep, I hear a gasp from the almost-forgotten J-Claude, source of all this sudden size. For all his beauty, even he can't resist me, falling to his knees and kissing the outline of my dick, sliding his tongue up and down the spandex-covered shaft, soaking the material in his spit. Watching the reflection of his heavily muscled back, his head moving back and forth as he licks the spandex, my Olympia-plus body towering over him. I have to flex. I mean, can you blame me? I AM that perfect body in the mirror.

J-Claude concentrates on the heavy, blunt head, pressing against my hip bone, rubbing his hands over my generous ass. Moaning, I resist the mirror long enough to press his bald head hard into me, as I flex my hips.

He pulls the singlet down over my freakish quads, exposing my new cock for the first time. It swings into place with the steadiness of a pendulum. Gorgeous. Perfect. God, if he doesn't hurry and suck it, I will.

But he does. Of course he does. How could he resist it? How could anyone? I feel the full power now, when I'm in his mouth. The full truth. My ego grows as large as my cock. J-Claude slobbers on me in his eagerness. A stray, sudden thought begins to drive me -- I could own him, too. Dominating J-Claude might not only be possible, it might also be fun. Showing him what kind of man he's created -- no, making him FEEL what kind of man he's created...

"You ready to fuck me, yet?" J-Claude mumbles, spit-soaking my monster cock.

I nod, and say in my new, deeper voice, "Oh, yeah." It's rough, and sexy. I like it. So I add, "If you could keep your mouth off my cock long enough."

He doesn't miss a beat. "Either end, as long as you're inside me." He stands up, and leans over the counter.

I regret that I haven't spent more time earlier describing J-Claude's ass, dwelling on it -- because I don't want to waste any time on it now. I can barely think right now. I just gotta fuck. His ass is muscular -- thickly muscular -- big, round, football ass -- smooth and tan and soft to the touch, but firm and strong -- how easily it yields to me, as I spread the heavy cheeks -- how easily it accepts me, as I press my gigantic cockhead against his hole.

How can he possibly take something this large? How can I slide this easily inside him? Then I think, of course, his ass IS a muscle, and like all his muscles, it's just as developed, under his complete control. Like mine is.

Nothing has ever felt like this, nothing so tight, but so pliable, nothing so firm, but so tender. It's better than any pussy I've ever had -- I don't ever want pussy again.

We fuck in long, slow thrusts. My cock owns me as completely as it does this hole -- we fuck together, my cock and I -- all the muscle in the world, any amount I pack on my body, is only bait to get to this, to get to the fuck. I understand that now. I will do whatever I must for my cock to continue to feel like this. I push deeply into J-Claude -- until he moans for being full of me -- then slowly draw myself out. I wrap my arms around his torso and hold his chest in my hands, tickling his nipples with my thumbs.

J-Claude inhales sharply, and says, "Okay, let's do it. Fuck me hard." He braces his hands on the mirror, steadying himself.

I deliver -- WE deliver, me and my partner, my cock -- we fuck him with grace and strength. We plow into his ass. We drive and drive, pressing harder and harder, again and again -- reveling in our new-found masculine strength -- until his face and chest are pressed hard against the mirror -- until he and his reflection butt heads like wrestlers -- until I lose control, and my cock takes over.

I can't describe the next few seconds -- I don't exist -- all that matters -- all that is -- is The Cock. The Cock that owns me -- that makes me a Man. I'm aware only of fleshy pleasure and masculine images as it re-writes my thoughts, as The Cock finally -- once and for all -- shows the brain who's boss. As it fucks J-Claude's ass, as it owns J-Claude's power, as it dominates J-Claude's soul, The Cock is happy.

When it's ready, The Cock shoots deep inside of him. It forces my hips to buck wildly and buries itself so deep up J-Claude that it seeks to impregnate him. It shoots a stunning load -- never-ending -- wave after wave of pleasure knocking me over, showing me the rewards of allowing The Cock its domination. J-Claude moans as I pant. As I fill him.

And while I cum, I regain control. The body is mine again -- The Cock is sated. I slide out of J-Claude's ass, taking a step back, catching my breath. When J-Claude spins around and our eyes meet, I know I own him. I can see the adoration, the satisfaction. He belongs to my Cock. As so many others soon will.

J-Claude falls to his knees before me and licks The Cock clean. We debate getting hard again, but The Cock knows I want to lift, so it stays at a teasing half-mast. "That was excellent," J-Claude says, as he finishes the job, and stands himself. He and I both take a moment and put ourselves back into clothes, cocks into pouches, thongs into cracks, spandex back in place. I can't pull the shoulder straps back up -- the singlet is too small -- and it looks so hot with the straps dangling that I don't even care, especially when I force my t-shirt back on -- it's so tight, tighter than the spandex almost, straining to cover my magnificent torso, highlighting every nook and cranny, painted on my round, globular pecs.

"Yeah," I say, smiling. "It was fuckin' awesome. Now I wanna lift."

J-Claude traces his finger between the halves of my chest, pressing the material deep into the crevice. "I think you're ready to come lift at my gym," he says.

I cup his spandex-covered package, hefting his balls in my hand, and say, "I think I'm ready for a lot of things."

We leave the locker room together -- he quickly darts away to say something to the client he had been training before I got there -- I use the moment to weigh myself. Walking to the scale in the stretching area, I'm aware of eyes on me. There once was a time when that would have made me uncomfortable, now I find I love the energy. I feed off it. I don't acknowledge any looks, but I do take a second or two to half-heartedly stretch my arms over my head before I step on the scale -- frankly, it feels good to stretch my lower back after that big fuck.

Does the scale take a little longer because I weigh so much more or am I just excited? I'm hoping it's both. Looking down over the shelf of my chest, past the mound of my cock, I have another stray thought -- I'm still wearing the same sneakers as before. My feet haven't grown at all. And yet, I weigh -- and the number comes up on the screen: 286. I smirk but otherwise don't betray my excitement -- no need for onlookers to think anything's out of the ordinary -- as if there's something ordinary about a two-hundred eighty-six pound man with less than six percent bodyfat -- a man who gained ninety-six pounds of muscle in four days. Hell, thirty-six in the last few minutes.

And then J-Claude is back and they watch us leave together -- I'm kind of hoping we're inspiring some great speculation, and maybe a few fantasies. I follow his truck in my sensible Neon. I'm gonna have to get a new car -- something more along the line of my new image. We leave for his gym.


Talk about the middle of fuckin' nowhere. We've only driven about twelve miles, but in this area of the state, civilization peters out fast. Zipping down double-lane country roads, close on J-Claude's rear, one hand resting on the wheel, I constantly feel my new body with the other -- almost always coming to rest on my package -- feeling the firm resistance of relaxed muscle, the firm curve of masculanity. I love what I've become. It's in moments like this, in familiar space like the car, where I really notice the change in my size. I mean, I FILL the driver's space, and I didn't used to. There's so much more of me. I keep running my hands over my slightly-bloated abs, cupping my pecs, my dangling nipples. I keep looking at my reflection in the rear-view mirror, at my big, bald head, my lantern-jaw, my low forehead.

My legs are uncomfortably gigantic, and moving the seat back won't help -- I didn't grow taller, remember, just a hundred pounds heavier -- and I can BARELY get my legs under the wheel. I want to spread them wider to accomodate them, but I'm constricted by plastic molding -- a truck seat like J-Claude's must be perfect -- even now my knees are on either side of the wheel -- but I'm forced into this space, and my hamstrings gently squeeze my balls.

J-Claude suddenly pulls off on an unpaved, private road, marked only by a mailbox. We've been in a forest for the last five miles, and I can't see any house or building. How the hell am I ever gonna find this place again? We drive on this dirt road for about a quarter mile, winding our way through the woods.

On the left, the road opens into a clearing, which turns out to be somebody's yard, a huge farmhouse with a wrap-around porch dominating the slight rise. On the right is a massive, metal barn with the doors thrown open, flourescent light spilling out into the trees. I park, and when I open my door, I hear the pounding beat of the music, hard-driving rock.

J-Claude waits for me. "Isn't this place awesome?" he asks, clapping his arm around my shoulders and leading me to the front. "Listen to that music! Not that top-40 shit they play at your gym."

"Where the fuck are we?"

He points to the hand-painted sign that hangs over the open barn doors: B-Builder Boyz Club. "Private," he says. "Exclusive. If they offer you membership, take it."

I mock flex a Most Muscular for him. "Dude," I say, smiling, "look at me. Do you think they'd turn me down?"

He stops and faces me, putting his hands on my shoulder, looking me directly in the eye. "My friend, you're big, but you're far from the biggest guy here. Now, when we go inside, be polite and be humble. You're just the New Boy to these guys, no need for them to think you're cocky." He gently squeezes my cock, saying, "Nice as it is."

When a man leads me by the dick, I follow. When I enter, I feel like I'm encountering destiny, like I'm coming home. When I meet the man who owns the place -- rather, I guess, started the place -- a man clearly older, even with his hulking physique -- a coach, a mentor, a man of the world -- who explains the club, the dedication, the sacrifice necessary to be a member, and then lets me suckle his tender nipples in the membership office, I don't hesitate to sign the papers, to commit myself to his cause, to give up my old life.

As he prepares to fuck me to seal the deal, I search for regrets. When he's finally inside me, I have none. •

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