Process, The


By LuvsMusl

When I answered the ad and signed up to be a test subject at the Corelli Institute last spring, I hadn't worked in almost two years. Frankly, the idea of being fed, housed and employed by some big company was pretty appealing at that point. I wasn't eating too well, and I was moving from one friend's couch to another, with a lot of damaged relationships along the way. The next step was going to be living in my car and bathing in gas station rest rooms. So the idea of a roof over my head, nutritious meals, and something to do every day was like paradise. To be honest, men and sex were the furthest things from my mind. My self-esteem was at an all-time low. My gym membership had lapsed months before, and my body -- once a point of pride -- was soft and saggy (believe it or not!). The thought of taking my clothes off was laughable, and my sex drive was nil.

So it was a real surprise on my first official day at the Institute when I found myself practically pulsating with lust, and struggling to keep my raging boner (my first in weeks) hidden under my little desktop in the Institute lecture hall. I'd seen a video of old Dr. Corelli (a well-toned, severe looking 70) during orientation the week before. But I was utterly unprepared for the sight of his 28 year-old son, Max, the gorgeous scientist who would be putting my test group (a dozen young guys) through various experiments. Max had thick black hair, a movie star's deep tan, and a body that made me sweat the moment I clapped eyes on it.

Max burst into the lecture hall in a button-down, short sleeved shirt and tight blue jeans. He stood probably 5'11, and had a rock-solid 220 pounds of beef packed on a perfectly shaped frame that tapered to a hard, 28" waist. When he gestured toward the blackboard or his wall charts, huge pecs and delts ballooned and jumped under his shirt. You could actually see the deep separations in his shoulder muscles through the thin cotton.

And when he extended his hand to point, the gesture exposed an arm that was a good 19" and looked as hard and sculpted as marble. Most amazing, though, was his skin. It was silky smooth and flawless, and seemed to glow with a kind of vibrant energy.

I'd vaguely known that the Institute was involved in some kind of cutting-edge nutrition and sports medicine. Well, now I believed it. I was in lust, if not in love, and I kept my eyes riveted on Max for a solid hour, until he turned and strode out of the room, giving the twelve of us an unobstructed view of the world's most perfect, muscular butt.

That night in my little dorm room, I huddled under the covers and jerked off three times, trying desperately to conceal my actions from my roommate, Brad. From the silly half-grin he gave me the next morning, I'm not so sure I succeeded.

My second day at the Institute was pure humiliation. When my turn came I was led to a small examining room, stripped to my shorts, and subjected to a battery of tests by Max and his female assistant. I've never been so aware of my bodyfat, my sagging belly, my stringy muscles. For three hours I kept my face turned, avoiding eye contact with hunky, bulging Max as he prodded and pinched and tested me. Only at the end, when my clothes were back on, did I have the courage to look at him and say sheepishly, "I've kinda gotten out of shape. I used to have a decent body."

"Don't worry," Max said to me, flashing a row of perfect, pearly teeth.

"We've got a nice surprise for you." As he winked and left the room, I could only wonder what he meant.

That night I didn't sleep in my room but was brought instead to a high-tech lab and installed in a comfy reclining chair. At least a dozen i.v. tubes, electrodes and sensors were attached to my body. When I was completely rigged, Max came in and briefly explained what was to happen. He said I would quickly get drowsy and would sleep peacefully for at least 36 hours.

While I slept, he said, various restorative nutrients would be coursing through my system. He guaranteed me I'd feel great when I woke up. After Max left, the nurse flipped a few buttons and in seconds I was unconscious.

The next thing I remember was waking up on a soft bed in a snow white recovery room. I remember looking at a clear blue sky and the red tiles of the Institute roof through my window. I had this vision not once but half a dozen times, as I drifted between sleep and waking over the course of a few hours. Mixed in with my recollection is a vague memory of Max, smiling at me, shirtless and glorious, from the foot of my bed. But I think that part was just a dream.

By twilight I was wide awake. The nurse came in and hung fresh clothes on the back of the closet door. She said I could take my time, but that I was free to dress and return to my own room whenever I liked. Feeling completely refreshed and energized, I leapt out of bed and began changing.

I had stripped to my underwear by the time I glanced in the mirror, and when I did I nearly fell back on my ass. I couldn't believe what I saw.

It wasn't exactly a miracle. (That would come later!) But I found myself staring at an image of my body as it looked four or five years earlier, at a period when I was pumping iron six times a week and was utterly in my prime. The pot belly was gone, in its place a flat, hard stomach. The excess fat and sagging skin had completely disappeared. And while my muscles weren't huge, they were healthy and full, bulging roundly in places where two days earlier there were only straight lines.

The sight of my magically restored physique, coupled with a general surge of new energy, had me instantly aroused. I dropped my briefs and began cranking my hard cock as I stared at myself in the mirror. And then Max walked in.

I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights as I grabbed for a pillow to cover my rock-hard prick, which stubbornly refused to go down. I wanted to crawl under the bed, or jump out the window. But Max laughed warmly, and said "Don't worry. This happens all the time."

"I feel like an idiot," I said, feeling my face turn beet red.

"The body's a beautiful, amazing thing," Max said. "Never be ashamed."

And then, as I scrambled back into my underwear, he added, "Let me show you something. Three years ago I was borderline malnourished. I smoked, I drank, and I weighed a hundred and fifty pounds."

Miraculously, incredibly, he was stripping off his shirt. The boner swelled inside my white Calvins as Max put his hands on his narrow hips and flexed his torso in a mind-blowing lat spread: massive pecs rising toward his throat as thick, widely-flaring lats bulged sideways into an amazing V-shaped "wingspread."

Before I could catch my breath Max had kicked off his drawstring pants and was flexing his powerful, striated quads. The man was a sculpture, breathtaking. He stood in front of me and flexed a cantaloupe-sized bicep.

"Feel that."

In a millisecond my tongue was on it, licking, sucking, trying to fit the granite-hard peak into my gaping mouth. When I looked down I could see that Max was stroking his thick nine-incher. I pulled my undershorts to my knees and pumped my tool like a demon, while my lips and tongue explored Max's ripe armpit and made their way to his slab-like pecs. Eventually we both came, my own cum flooding out of me like a geyser. Afterwards, Max pulled me to the bed and held me tenderly, a powerful lion cradling his cub.

Later on he said, "I want to propose something. We have a special project, very cutting-edge and experimental. There's a certain amount of risk involved, but I think it's worth it. And I think you're an ideal candidate."

Of course I said yes. There was nothing I wouldn't have done for him.

From then on, I saw little of the other test subjects at the Institute. I was moved to a private room -- a fully equipped laboratory, actually -- and was almost never free of wires, probes, i.v. tubes or monitors. I saw as much of old Dr. Corelli now as I saw of Max. The old man was intense, serious, and even a little scary. He and Max would buzz around me, taking measurements, testing skin and saliva samples, and speaking in hushed tones about "the Process."

Three weeks into my new regime, I began to get a sense of what the Process entailed. I was put on a round-the-clock course of i.v. medication, and my heart rate, blood pressure, insulin level, and a dozen other parameters were constantly monitored. A day after the new medicine was started, I woke up screaming. I was ravenously, achingly hungry. I felt as if my guts would devour themselves if I didn't get red meat immediately. Max had the nurse bring me a blood-rare steak from the commissary, which I wolfed down in a dozen bites as if it were a tidbit -- and then demanded another.

I drank pitcher after pitcher of a thick, foul-tasting protein mix -- and as bad as it tasted, I couldn't seem to get enough. Max told me that additional protein was being fed to me intravenously. But almost nothing would quell the hunger in my guts, and I ate everything put in front of me as if it were my last meal.

After four days of this, my dosage was cut in half. I only received the medication at night, while I slept. During the day, I received hourly injections of growth hormone and various steroids and other nutrients. My heart rate clocked a steady 120 b.p.m., and sweat seemed to pour from me ceaselessly. I needed to eat a meal every 30 minutes or so, and my typical ration was a full pound of lean meat and three thick protein shakes.

Astonishingly, my body seemed to burn the food almost as soon as it touched my lips.

Another side effect of the mysterious Process was a little more challenging to deal with. My libido raged twenty four hours a day, and I was never without a throbbing hard-on. It reached the point that I didn't even wait for Dr. Corelli or the various nurses and technicians to leave the room before I'd begin whacking myself to climax -- only to be diamond-hard again in twenty minutes. Max would always get a shit-eating grin on his face when he came into the room and caught me stroking off.

On one incredible occasion, when Max discovered me fondling my hard prong he immediately dismissed the rest of the staff and locked the door.

Smiling devilishly, he slowly took off his clothes and climbed into my bed, where he began chowing hungrily on my engorged dick -- an intense pleasure that lasted at least half an hour. And then he let me finish the job as he perched above me on the mattress, posing and flexing his mountainous muscles as I watched and masturbated.

"You see this, Nate?" he said, pumping blood into his huge biceps and delts. "You can be twice this size! Five times this size!"

Feeling the explosive energy grinding inside me like a diesel engine, I somehow knew he was right.

A week into the Process I was weighed, and discovered that I'd gained 23 pounds. It was all lean mass, and it sat on me thickly, solidly. There were no mirrors in my room, but I felt like a balloon version of myself.

(It would be another week before I actually saw the changes that were happening to my body.)

At the end of week one, Max brought me for the first time to the "strength lab." It was none too soon for me. For most of the week I'd been a bundle of nervous energy -- pacing back and forth in my room like a caged cat, or suddenly dropping to the floor to do push-ups to the point of exhaustion.

To call the strength lab a gym would be a huge understatement. There was certainly equipment there that resembled the normal weights and machines in a typical bodybuilding gym. But most of the machines had some kind of hydraulic or electrical component, and all of them were fitted with sophisticated monitoring devices. "When did you work out last?" Max asked me.

I had to think about that. "About three years ago, " I told him.

He started by testing my strength on a military press where the resistance was provided by a big, hydraulic piston. Max told me to start lifting, and said he'd gradually increase the resistance as I went along. The weight felt minimal as I started my set, and even as Max slowly turned up the dial I could feel my body easily handling the load. It wasn't until the tenth rep or so that I began to fatigue. "Keep going," Max said, and from his eyes I could tell I was doing well.

On the twelfth rep I strained to get the weight locked out, but I managed to squeeze out three more before my delts completely surrendered and I had to drop the handles to their starting position. "What'd I get to?" I asked.

"370!" Max said, a look of amazement on his face. "This is way better than I expected." I'll say, I thought. I'd never broken 200 on the military press in my life.

A strange thing was happening. Blood was rushing into my shoulders as if forced in through a fire hose. I was feeling a "pump" the likes of which I'd never even imagined, and I nearly passed out from the exhilirating rush. I couldn't help but stretch and flex my shoulders as they seemed to fill up with boiling liquid.

"Damn, Nate, you've gotta see this!"

Max led me out of the strength lab and down the hall to a small bathroom.

When he flipped on the light and I looked in the mirror, my eyes nearly fell out of my head. My traps and shoulders were easily twice as big and thick as they'd been just before my single set of overhead presses. My muscles were pumped insanely. They bulged like overfilled balloons, and showed cuts and striations and criss-crossed veins as big around as my index finger.

As I stared at the mirror in total amazement, I suddenly felt Max's big tool pressing against my butt. He was completely turned on by what he was seeing, and frankly, so was I. I pulled the bathroom door shut and in no time we had each other's clothes off and were taking turns going down on each other's bulging cocks. Ever since I'd started the Process, I was shooting enormous loads five and six times a day. Now, as I stared at the mirror, I was incredibly stimulated by the sight of my own swollen, cannonball shoulders. My balls felt like swelling boulders as I watched my thick, vascular deltoids flex and enjoyed the sensation of Max's warm, greedy mouth around my tool. Before I could control myself I exploded, and fired about a pint of milky cum into Max's throat with the force of a howitzer. After choking for a minute he fell back laughing, and looked up at me in ecstasy as his own cock shot a massive load at the bathroom ceiling. That night we slept together in Max's bed, and in the middle of the night I woke him up and fucked him powerfully for over an hour as he held onto my shoulders.

For the rest of the week, Max put me through long sessions in the strength lab, testing each muscle group and then submitting it to a tough pump/growth session. On Friday I playfully ignored Max's instruction to sit at an elaborate chest machine, and instead headed for the standard flat bench press in the corner of the room. Chest had always been my weak point, and I was curious to see what I could do. I loaded two 45-lb. plates onto each side of the bar (my max lift in the old days) and quickly pumped out an effortless set of 20 reps. For the second set I put four big plates on each side, for a total of 405 pounds. The first ten reps were child's play, but after that I quickly tired, finishing three more difficult repetitions on my own, and one more gut-busting rep with a big assist from Max. At the end of the set my pecs were swollen and bulging like pillows, and when I flexed there was a deep gully between the slabs of pectoral muscle that completely swallowed Max's hand when he laid it against my sternum. Clearly "weak points" were a thing of the past.

Lab records show that in week 2 of the Process I consumed an average of 1200 grams of protein a day, along with 500 mg a day of anabolic steroids and 50 i.u. of various growth hormones. I put on 44 pounds in my second week, while lowering my bodyfat percentage from 10% to 4%. It works out to something like 79 pounds of pure, dense muscle mass that I added to my physique in just two short weeks. On Saturday of week 2 I stood next to Max in front of his mirrored bedroom wall and we both stripped naked and did a series of standard poses to compare our bodies. It boggled my mind that just two weeks earlier I had been so small and flabby that I'd been embarassed to look Max in the eye. Now I outweighed him by ten pounds, had lower bodyfat, and was bigger, fuller and denser in almost every bodypart.

Of course, Max had built his physique over three years, using a considerably less advanced system than the one I was on. There was no telling what he might look like after he put himself through the Process.

"Max, this is the most incredible experience of my life," I told him.

"Look what you've done with me in two weeks. What'll I be like in two months? In two years? The Process is fucking amazing!"

"Process?" he said, as he watched me admire my huge, sliced-up quads in the mirror. "You haven't been through it yet, Nate. This is just Phase I.

What we've done so far is nothing more than cutting-edge nutrition and metabolic manipulation. The good stuff, the sexy part of the Process hasn't even started yet. "

I looked at him dumbfounded, unable to conceive of anything more transforming and potent than the two-week course I'd just run. Max must've sensed my concern, because he put his hands on my meaty shoulders and gave me a playful smile in the mirror: "Baby," he said, "I've still got big plans for you. Massive plans."

The next week I spent back in my dorm room -- Max and his father having decided that I needed a lengthy rest before beginning the final phase of the Process. When I got to the room I was surprised to see a good looking young man with the sleek, tightly muscled build of a champion gymnast coming out of the bathroom. It took me a long moment to realize it was my roommate Brad -- who, just two weeks earlier, had been a sallow, untoned wreck with at least thirty pounds of excess fat on his body.

Brad, for his part, was completely nonplused. "May I help you?" he asked, utterly clueless until I said "Brad, it's me. Nate."

"Oh, my God!" he shrieked. "Nate, you're a monster!" And with that he ran to gather the ten other test subjects, who all quickly made their way to our room and stared at me in stupid wonder. I have to say that the changes in each and every one of the human guinea pigs were dramatic and impressive. Where there'd been pipestems, now there were muscled arms.

Where there'd been fat and wrinkles, there was tight skin and six-pack abs.

But of course no one had undergone the degree of miraculous transformation that I had.

"Check it out," I said, as I casually peeled off my shirt and began to move my 230-some pounds of carved-up beef through the graceful stages of an expert posing routine. I glanced in the mirror and saw that the room's overhead lamp was beautifully highlighting every deep groove and sculpted ridge of my powerful limbs, as eleven pairs of eyes watched in mute admiration.

Later that night, as I got ready to sleep, Brad sat on the foot of my bed and talked to me about how he'd been changed by the experience of acquiring a powerful and aesthetic new physique. "I've come to love the male body,"

he told me. "I look at myself in the mirror and appreciate my physique as sculpture. As art." I told him I thought that was great, and that I felt the same way.

"Do you think it makes me gay?" he asked suddenly. "Should I be considered gay, just because I have a strong emotional reaction to big, powerful muscles?" I said I didn't know, that he'd have to examine his own thoughts and feelings to answer that one.

For a minute or two he peppered me with questions about my experience in the last two weeks. And then, suddenly, he was running his left hand probingly over my massive arms and chest. When I didn't object he became more confident, using both hands now and sighing with pleasure as he squeezed individual bulges and sinews.

As I said, I was rabidly horny almost all the time since I'd started the Process, so Brad's physical attention was more than enough to get my cock marble-hard. As soon as he saw it poking out from under my briefs he threw himself down on it, swallowing my prick to his tonsils with passionate abandon. I knew I could stay as hard as steel all night if I wanted to, and knew that Brad would keep feeding on me hungrily as long as I'd let him. So I lay my head back on the pillow, closed my eyes, and prepared to let my young, heterosexual roommate suck me to sleep. •

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