I knew I was still not short: 5'9 was well within the realms of average. I was aware that I was not 6'1 any more, not even 5'11 any more. It was still a strange and disquieting experience to see a man standing five inches taller than me. To the ghost of my old sense of self, Jason was a 6'6 muscle freak. I kept worrying, as he zipped up my jeans and threw on one of my sweaters, that he was going to hurt me, or take more from me and make my perceptions of him as a giant into an absolute reality.

He didn't, apparently thinking that he had gained enough muscle in one day. My clothes fit him like a glove. The sweater was unable to conceal his upper body's muscular development. The cashmere's thickness only blunted, but did not shroud, the mass and rounding of his biceps. His pecs were distinctly separated and visible, and his abs were almost deep enough to show their stark outlines pressing against the too-tight fabric.

If the sweater was revealing, the jeans looked like a second skin. They were sized to be worn long, which meant that they were a perfect length for his extended legs. The growth really manifested itself in his thighs, which strained the denim precariously. Strain was more prevalent in his crotch. Even completely soft, Jason's bulge was very pronounced. I estimated him to be about six inches soft, with balls close in size to small oranges. That was a lot of meat in the little space provided by his too-tight boxers and denim trousers. Hard, he was about nine and a half inches. The stalk of his dick pushed down away from his groin, almost as thick as my shrunken wrist and barely fettered by the cloth in which it was encased.

"How do I look?" asked Jason, smirking at Phil.

"Like a total jock," my roommate replied, leaning back in his computer chair, still unclothed except for my silk boxers. "I guess people are going to notice. Tell them that you hit a late growth spurt, you've been working out, act incredulous or something. If they still don't believe you, tell me about it and I'll take care of them."

Jason nodded his acquiescence, as if he really had a choice in the matter. "What should we do now?" he asked of Phil.

Phil shrugged his shoulders, making a series of striations leap out over his deltoids. "It was a good show, but I'm a bit bored." He waved his hand dismissively. "You're going to go away and do something. Get laid, maybe. Have some confidence in yourself and no one will resist the new you. I want some alone time with my roommate."

Jason complied, not even bothering to say goodbye. I was struck by the massiveness of his form silhouetted against the doorway. I knew it was mostly my perception, but his back looked so much like mine used to that I almost thought I was seeing my old self. The jealousy in me flared higher, but it was struck down by Phil's next spoken order: "Relax."

I heard the door shut, but it came as if at a distance. I was calm, cool, and focused only on Phil. He looked at me, pale eyes sparkling. Unless I missed my guess, he was plotting what next to do with me. We sat there, both bared to the waist, staring at each other for a long moment. Then, his lips curled into a smug, mocking sneer.

"You know, I used to think you were the hottest thing I'd ever seen," he told me. "But look at you now. Where's your will, your strength? Was it all just in your arms? You can't fight me even now, while you're stronger than me. What's going to happen a few weeks from now, when I’m as big as you?"

I didn't answer. I didn't have an answer to that. His questions sparked a hundred of my own, the most pressing being: "What am I becoming?" With this new discovery of Phil's, he could turn me into a battery for any number of his acquaintances. He didn't have many friends, that was true, but how many people would be willing to appease him in order to gain physical perfection? I would have to sit through that humiliation, time after time, and all the while Phil would keep getting bigger and taller, surpassing me in every way. There was nothing I could do. Helplessness and frustration welled up in my soul, but were banished by Phil's voice.

"I want to see you fight me," said Phil. He pointed to the table in the center of our dorm room, walked over and pulled out a chair. "We're going to armwrestle, and I'm going to see if I can beat the big, muscled jock."

Unthinkingly, I sat down in the opposite chair, and Phil took his own place. With Phil's command controlling my actions, I was almost able to detach myself from the entire situation. We placed our elbows on the hard plane of the table and locked grips. I probably shouldn't have been surprised by the steely strength of Phil's grip. His biceps exploded out of his arm, and mine followed suit a moment later. It began.

Tendons threatened to burst forth from the twinned columns of muscle. His skin was pale golden; mine, darkly tanned. The snaking veins that exploded from our struggling arms were like arcs of electricity, charging our struggle with their muted blue-grey pulses. My biceps and Phil's, mirroring each other, bulged from our arms alarmingly, sending their central veins popping out of the skin's surface. Our forearms were locked into unyielding combat, muscle leaping and flexing as strength fought against strength.

Pain was burning down the length of my entire arm, and the contest showed no signs of stopping. Phil's face was a mask of crimson pain, a vein in his forehead throbbing with the fury of a pounding drum. He let out a sudden gasp, a groan, and I felt our arms shift. Only at that moment did I look away from the roiling madness in his eyes.

I was winning. I felt him pushing against my arm with all of his strength, but the point where we were on equal footing had passed. He had burnt out his inferior endurance, and now his prodigious strength mattered little. It was inexorable. Slowly at first, but with growing speed, I forced his arm down to the table. I was mindful of the fact that this would have been no contest a few weeks ago, but it was a victory nonetheless. The sound as his flesh hit the tabletop was a silver trumpet's fanfare to me.

Then I saw the look in his eyes as he stood up, stroking himself to hardness with his other hand. Smoldering hatred, commingled with malevolent glee, and quiet motes of pleasure. His breathing was already fast-paced and short from our contest, but now he was gasping for breath to feed his lungs through the clenching and shuddering of his autoerotic ecstasy. My heart seized up, and I began to back away, knowing what was to come. I tripped and fell over one of my 30 pound weights, landing hard on my backside. I couldn't take my eyes off my roommate.

He stood there, shadowed and ominous by the waning daylight filtering in through our shuttered windows. Suddenly, Phil stopped stroking. I tensed in expectation.

A wild laugh bubbled up on my roommate's lips, and he thrust his cock back into his boxers. Shaking his head, he reaffirmed his earlier decision: "I like you at this size for now. Besides, it's just a matter of time before I make you regret what you just did." He shrugged, and a broad and benevolent smile blossomed on his face.

"Enjoy it while it lasts," he said, the glacial tone cutting at my self-confidence. I just sat there, terror slow to diminish in my chest.

With that, he turned and marched off into the bathroom, leaving me to await the inevitable. •