Twelve Steps Back



By FanTCMan

Troy couldn't complain about having a boring job or a bad life. The Littleman's project had propelled him into a life beyond his wildest fantasies. He'd become the kind of muscleman that he used to see on the internet in those fantasy morphed pictures of young guys with muscles to shame a pro heavyweight bodybuilder, perfect masculine pattern body hair, and a cock and pair of balls that still seemed like fantasy to him. After that taste of what he'd be dishing out, he'd become his own fantasy, and getting used to feeling like that, living inside that body, while he grew accustomed to living with it, was something that could never become just routine. Every moment of every day, walking, sitting, interviewing a new patient to start the treatment, seeing their eyes when they saw him, the mass of his body, the pure masculine sexuality of his bulk, the size of his organs displayed in material designed to display, he teetered on the edge of orgasm.

He gave Ian the shot he'd begged for, and, when Ian was flying out of his brain with the erotic rush that followed, he'd driven him out to the campus and set him up in one of the dorms with some of the LGs who spent most of their time there. Six guys to a dorm, and even though Ian was the size of a pro bodybuilder, he was far from the biggest guy there. Even Troy, after that night and the unexpectedly big dose he'd been given, had quickly grown more massive than Ian. But some of these guys were ten years younger than Ian and bigger than Troy, as big as Jarrod, easily seventy-five pounds heavier than Ian.

But Troy left Ian to learn the ropes of being one of the "inside" LGs. He'd done the catalog, become a star, but he still had to learn to hit the road, as they said, represent the company to groups of men interested in the treatment, wanting to see and learn more about it firsthand. A request would come in saying so-and-so was interested in participating in the treatment, possibly requiring it of their employees, partners, whatever, and they'd heard that for a (large) fee, one of the LGs would be sent to show them firsthand, up close and personal, the effects of the formula, even giving out a small trial to sample how it felt. Troy loved doing this, and it excited him to know Ian would be out there, dishing out the formula in the "small taste" version, easily transported in a dropper vial, a couple drops per man to send them into sexual hyperdrive. The "seminar" would turn quickly into something more like a satyrs' orgy than a business meeting. Inhibitions, fears, reservations would immediately dissolve as they would understand completely the nature of the LGs' intense eroticism, no need to question further the attraction of massive maleness, and an evening of intimate contact would inevitably inspire them to go for the full treatment.

Troy really loved this newer dilute version of the formula. Not that the full treatment on a guy wasn't the most godlike thing he did. Meeting each new guy was a thrill, picturing how the guy would change. But a couple drops from a small vial he could carry anywhere--tasteless, odorless, and easily slipped into a glass of water, a beer, a coke, or just dropped on a willing tongue--well, it was a new kind of thrill. Instant seduction, as if he or any of the guys needed it. But it did have its uses, and sometimes, slipping it to a guy, overcoming a bit of reticence, or just for the fun of it, to party, to amp his own drive a bit while he turned some unsuspecting dude into a feverishly turned on, instantly homosexual, muscle starved sexpig was just so hot.

Walking down the street during a huge Fourth of July celebration, seeing a young, maybe twenty-year-old security guy all pumped up, obviously juiced up, eying him, and stopping, saying, "Hey, Roidboy. How big are those, guns, dude?

Lookin' pretty buff," the guy saying proudly, "Almost nineteen, man, but nothing like you got," and saying to the kid, "Give me your water a sec. See if you like what this feels like, and if you do, come by after. I'll be there with some buds," putting a couple drops in the water, handing him a card, and walking on . . . knowing the kid would come by later, horned to the max and in extreme need for muscle, big muscle, and big, LG cock.

"Dude," the kid says when he shows up a few hours later as Troy knew he would, standing at the door in his security T-shirt pulled tight across his roided pecs, shoulders, arms, his shorts, made loose, but hugging tight on his roided butt and thighs and tented by his persistent, insistent hard-on, "what the fuck was that you gave me, man? It was some of that formula, wasn't it? Fuck, man," he babbled on, not stopping for answers, staring at Troy and the three other massed up buddies sitting around the living room naked, sporting boned cocks anywhere from fifteen to eighteen veiny, thick inches, all watching, smiling, "I'm no homo, but I got so horned I couldn't stop myself from boning up, man, all night after you left. I thought I was gonna cum in my pants, man, and I just kept thinking about muscles. My muscles, dude. I fuckin' love my muscles, man. I want to get big like you, man. Bigger. I want the treatment.

I want to do it."

He did. A couple more drops on his eager tongue, and there was no turning back.

And so did so many others. In a way, Troy thanked Ian's addictive personality for forcing the company's hand on fine-tuning both the fast-track treatment, which had almost totally replaced the old method of the two six-month cycles, and the dilute tasting version. As the treatment evolved, so did its uses. The tasting version, developed as a sales tool to get new guys into the treatment program, became a party drug as the program and the Littleman's look became more and more the accepted, desired look and way to be. The age range widened and it skipped across countries and classes. Soon, the company, realizing how pervasive their success was becoming, unleashed the ultimate winning card. Their PR machine, headed, of course, by Mister Magnificent, Ian Larkin himself, began to spread the word that this treatment, and its corresponding treatment of women--creating beautiful creatures of extreme femininity who became obsessively interested in pleasing the needs of each other to the exclusion of the muscled men who only satisfied each other as well--this whole process was, in fact, the answer to the unanswerable question of how to stop the overpopulation of the planet and, thus, conserve its resources and allow the human race to exist into the future. It would be a different future. Men would no longer be able to have intercourse with women, whose vaginal openings would have tightened correspondingly as the men's genitals grew, making copulation impossible. Artificial insemination, carefully controlled, would be the only means of reproduction.

But none of that mattered to the guys who were going to offer themselves up for morphing into the totally, outrageously hot dudes that were showing up everywhere. All that mattered was getting the look, growing massive bodies, huge, thick muscle jock bodies, with cocks and balls of mammoth size on full display, free to bone up at the mere sight of each other, unable not to, so strong was the erotic charge they gave off. Young guys, older guys, they all swaggered with the walk of the massive muscledude, all dominated by the pull of the heavy packages of their bulging baskets, all raw male sexuality proudly, unashamedly looking for mutual satisfaction.

"So your dad and mom sent you in?" Troy asked the very young guy slouched in the chair before his desk.

"Yeah," the kid said. "They're both doing it, and they said now that I was fourteen and starting to show the signs of puberty, it was time I had to do it. Me and my little brother, too. He's a year and a half younger, but he got some pubes already, so they think he should, too."

"You don't sound like you're very excited about it, uh," Troy looked down at the official permission paper the kid had handed him, "Charles. They call you Charles?"


"Okay, Scooter. Well, I know it's a big step but . . ."

The boy shifted in his seat, letting his unbuttoned shirt fall open, showing a few fine hairs below his navel. "Dude," he interrupted. "I totally want to do it. I talked my dad into it. I even showed him my pubes so he'd let me. I said, 'you don't want me screwin' some girl, gettin' her pregnant do you? I'm gettin' pretty horny all the time.' So he decided it was time, and then I said the same thing about Davy, told him he was gettin' some pubes already. I can't wait to hulk out with Davy, Doctor Troy."

"Well, then," Troy said, standing up and motioning toward the paper-covered leather exam table, "why don't we just get you started."

His cock projected sideways pushing the material of his shorts out its full sixteen inches. Scooter looked at as he stood up.

"Wow," he said, "is my dick gonna get like that?"

"Bigger," Troy said. "Now why don't you just take off those shorts?"

The boy stripped the lower half of his body and jumped up onto the table, his small, immature dick already hard and pointing straight up.

"This is gonna hurt, isn't it?"

"You'll get through it. Deep breath." As he injected the boy's balls, the boy squirmed and yelped and groaned, but he watched the process with relish. When he'd finished, Troy added, "Next time you'll be looking forward to that feeling."

"Can I put my clothes back on now?"

"Why don't you wait just a minute. There's usually a pretty quick reaction to the shots. Best if you have it here and not in the elevator."

"Oh, my God," Scooter put his head back and clenched his teeth. His whole body went into a sort of contraction. "Oh, God," he spread his legs and grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself. "I see what you mean, doc. Holy shit. I feel like I'm . . . I'm gonna . . . Oh, shit, I can't help it . . ."

"That's fine, Scooter," Troy said, "happens all the time. Just let it go. You couldn't stop it anyway. Here."

He handed the boy a towel just as he started to spurt, and the boy looked at his cock in total surprise as it shot streams of warm cream into the air, more than he'd ever shot jacking off. Scooter just watched as he came and came until his legs and groin were covered, the faint ring of fine pubic hairs that surrounded the base of his cock were plastered down, and drops slid over the edge of the table and into pools on the floor.

"Okay, Scooter. Clean up and get dressed," Troy turned back to the desk, glanced at the schedule. "I'll see you next week. Enjoy it. Why don't you send in Davy? And by the way, tell your dad hi for me."

"Okay, I will. You know my dad pretty well?"

"Oh, yeah. Pretty well."

Over the next couple of weeks, Troy imagined the two boys sharing the experience together, and, had he been able to see into their rooms at home, would have seen just how accurate his imagination was. They both, fourteen year old and twelve year old, began to mature quickly, jetting through puberty, their voices changing, their soft young faces growing more angular as facial fuzz became darker and soon had to be shaved daily as it spread into full beard shadows. They grew taller, achieving adult height in only a couple of weeks. Their body hair grew into their pubic regions, their armpits, their legs, then their arms, and soon began to sprout on their chests and stomachs, which were rapidly defining, tightening, swelling with hard, cut muscle. And, daily, they compared the sizes of their genitals, giddy with the excitement of their new sexuality, hardly able to wait for the point when they would feel they were too big to fit inside a girl. But by design of the amazing formula, they could fit inside each other, and it didn't matter that they kept getting bigger. They could always fit, which they confirmed as many times a day, in the morning before school, after they got home, after dinner, as they possibly could.

The little boy, Davy, looked like a bulked up high school guy and Scooter like an even more bulked up high school guy, almost moving toward the bodybuilder look, both unmistakably Littleman's guys. They'd just had their second treatments, and their dad, Jake, was on the table getting his fourth treatment, when he invited Troy to his country club.

"You'll be amazed," he said. "They'll love you. You gotta see how it is now. Marsha wants you to come, too. She's invited her doctor, and she couldn't believe what it's like now. You guys get all wrapped up in your offices and the program and all and hardly see the real world out there. Come on, Troy. I guarantee a good time."

He stood up, naked, pressing his fourteen inch cock into Troy's boned crotch, kissing him hard, deep, holding the back of his head until they had to break for air.

"Okay, I'll come."

"More than once, I promise. Great."

Poolside at the country club confirmed for Troy how completely he and the others were changing the world. Scooter and Davy were there, of course, cavorting with their buddies, all of them wearing the most minuscule trunks that they could get, proudly parading their bulges, showing the hair that was sprouting on their muscular bodies, their play the overtly sexual teasing of young guys not trying to pretend that they were not turning each other on, and that, when they wanted, they could, and would, disappear to satisfy their cravings. Their parents watched them just as proudly. The dads, the college age guys, even the geezers, although it was impossible to tell really who was old, all wore the ultra-brief swimwear that had replaced the long loose trunks of just a year or two before. Likewise, the women wore bikinis that barely covered their nipples and their nether regions. Family units remained family units, but the men openly eyed each other, boned over each other's muscular bodies, even as they chatted by the pool, cocktails in hand, and their wives or female friends nearby eying each other, caring not at all about the hunks flexing for each other, any more than the men cared that their women flaunted their curvaceous bodies, their voluptuous breasts.

"Look at our boy, Scooter," Troy heard Jake's wife Marsha say, "Isn't he just looking beautiful? And his brother, Davy, is only twelve. Can you believe it? Only twelve. Look at him. Look at all the hair on those pecs he's getting."

"Just like his old man," Jake joked, flexing a twenty-one inch arm.

"Oh, stop, Jake," Marsh laughed, "as if your big muscles can turn me on anymore. Or your big anything." She patted the huge sausage in his tiny trunks. "Now why don't you show your doctor friend here some Five Oaks hospitality. I know you boys can't go longer than an hour without getting those big rocks off, anyway. Why don't you show him the men's lounge?"

Jake led Troy past others talking, drinking, teasing, inside to a large comfortable room with a bar, television sets playing various videos of LGs in assorted configurations and positions of flexing and fucking, and club members, most of them familiar, former patients, in the same positions on the various sofas and easy chairs, flexing for each other, sliding their poles into each other at one end or the other, hands all over bodies, mouths engulfing mouths, muscles, and cocks. He got them each a drink at the bar. The bartender, wearing only some very small, very tight hot shorts, was enormous and gorgeous, with flashing eyes and pearly teeth, and when he poured the drinks, he raised his eyebrows to Jake in a wordless question, to which Jake answered, "Sure, why not." The bartender took a small vial from under the bar and measured two drops from it into each drink. Troy was getting a taste of his own medicine and he liked it . . . a lot.

Sipping was obviously out of the question, as Jake threw back his drink, and Troy did the same.

"I love what you're doing to my boys," Jake said.

Troy was already flying, like mainlining straight, concentrated testosterone poppers. But he waited. This wasn't his party, or his club.

"And to me," Jake said, feeling the mass of his own pecs.

"He's the man, Jake," some guy said from some sofa.

"Yeah, the studmaker. Do him, Jake."

"See, doc? I told you they'd love you."

Jake put his mouth over Troy's, and Troy submitted to being worshipped for what he'd done, what he was doing. Other mouths joined Jake's, and other hands, and in an instant he was naked, flexing, every inch of him being teased, touched, tickled, tantalized, until he felt himself being lowered onto a sofa, a huge cock, Jake's, sliding into him, as some familiar musclegod sat down on Troy's own throbbing meat, the guy's cock slapping against his face. Hands groped his pecs, his arms, mouths explored his armpits, his legs, his neck, as the rhythm of fucking slowing took over and he felt himself as part of an organic whole, a whole made of hypermasculine scent and feel, of muscle and hair and balls and cocks and rough, hard jaws with soft full lips, together, moving, faster, heaving, bucking toward orgasm.

Troy had never felt more like a god, or maybe like Doctor Frankenstein, if his experiment had been a rousing success rather that the failure that poor Mary Shelley had written about. But god or studmaker, Troy had his work to keep his feet on the ground, and each new face that came through his door was another adventure into the ultimate erotic thrill. Each one would come in a regular guy, expectant, nervous, and Troy would bone up thinking about how they would change, how they would feel.

Some were more exciting than others, when they first came in to start the treatment, anyway. Ian Larkin was one of those. Beautiful to begin, stunning as he developed. Even a homely guy, a skinny geek, a fat slob, an old saggy man, would soon tighten, grow younger, or, if a boy, older, reach their ideal physical age, drop any bodyfat, find their features changed to create a certain handsomeness that projected the intense masculinity that marked the new man. But now and then, he'd get one through his door that would make his heart speed up thinking of how he would look changed, being already so handsome that Troy would instantly bone and have to resist the desire to jump the guy before he'd even given him his first shots.

This guy walked in wearing a white wifebeater and a pair of 501 Levis, and he was a stunner, right out of an old TV commercial, masculine, handsome, confident, no qualms about doing this. He spoke all that without saying a word. Troy smiled, introduced himself, and felt his hardening cock stretching his shorts as he shook the guy's hand.

The guy glanced at Troy's bone, then looked up with a crooked, cocky, confident smile, and said, "Cory. Cory Callahan." •

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