By FanTCMan

Whilst the men at Apollyon are pumping iron, gearing up, and Strong is figuring out just what kind of place he's got himself into, driving all of us musclelovers into repeated erotic frenzies, these two guys are driving along a rain-slicked road in another part of the country, about to discover another dimension of reality . . .

(Dedicated to Tony, Tom, and Matt)

Hard to say how long the coma lasted. One minute we were driving along the coast in a torrential storm, the next I'm hearing voices, disembodied, as if through the gauze of a dream.

. . . Finally coming around . . . keep sedated . . . can't be moved yet . . .

In the edges of my consciousness, some kind of panic was trying to break through. Where was I? What had happened? We were on our way to what was to be a great weekend away from the city, visit some friends, lie by the pool, swim in the ocean. Started raining before we left, poured all the way. We were almost there, ten more miles of cliff-side curves, should make it by 10:00. Then the headlights, swerving, rolling, bumping, and black.

Bits came back, memories brief as a strobe flash. Screams. Mine or Brett's? Sirens. Chopper blades whooshing. Lights sensed through closed eyelids. Dull pain. Confusion of words.

Crushed. Almost no head trauma. Perfect candidates. Successful. Can't allow movement. Healing well.

I drifted in and out, dreaming, never quite able to wake, almost surfacing, then being pulled back into the deep dark, restless but immobile, paralyzed but flying through haze and fog, nearer the light, but not.

Slowly my submerged consciousness began to surface. Drugs were holding me still, keeping me from total awareness, holding back the panic hovering at the edges. I'd been in an accident. It must have been a serious one, but I could not remember anything clearly. I'd try to say something to the voices around me, but when I tried, I'd be driven back into the darkness of my dreams, forced back to sleep, back to the confusion of images and pieces of disconnected memory.

Dreams often mirror reality, making what we wish were real, or what we fear, feel like waking reality, and their confusion is the disparity between what is real and what feels real. I'm riding with Brett, the rain is pouring, and I'm obsessing over the two of us having to strip to bathing suits, feeling every day of our forty-plus years, every ounce of our many overindulgences hanging over the waistband in a horror of embarrassment. Brett still looks fairly good, for a guy past his prime, but, in the heightened sensibility of the dream state, I hear people, our friends, their friends, mocking us, and me wanting to stay underwater where I'm invisible. But the water surges, I'm caught in a tumbling torrent, the air and life crushed out of me, even my humiliation, terror, and panic ebbing as I sink. I sleep, I rise, I fall, I tumble. Drugged euphoria ensues, and I imagine myself basking in the sun, no longer embarrassed. I'm wearing Speedos. Briefer than Speedos. A bikini. I'm not at all embarrassed. I'm comfortable, confident. I walk around, and I'm young, late teens, muscular, and I'm filling my bikini so full, I'm strutting my heavy meat, proud as a young peacock. The dream feels good. It feels real. I feel the tautness of myself, my cocky youth, as I walk, smile. I feel sexy. A sexual urgency stirs in my groin, and I welcome it, and sleep again.

Slowly, I found myself coming more and more into what felt like a waking state. I couldn't move, couldn't see, but was able to piece together enough floating dialogue, as nurses and doctors, I guessed, attended me, to realize I was being held in an immobile state until I healed enough to move. But, though I was bound by drugs and bandages, the sensory awareness continued as if still in a dream state. I knew full well who I was, Mike O'Connor, sculptor of little repute and rich, middle-aged dilettante, traveling with my friend, agent, and equally independent escapee from the social set. Yet I felt like my memory was sharing space with that young guy I imagined myself to be in that floating state of euphoric sexuality. I found myself wanting to sleep, to dream, to feel myself again young, cocky, coltish, muscular, virile in the extreme. And so I would drift . . . to sleep, perchance, to dream.

Again and again, I drifted back into that place of youthful vigor, the sexual urgency stronger each time. Never quite able to actually see myself, or touch myself, my muscularity, my virility, but knowing, sensing, that if I could, what I would feel would bring me heights of physical ecstasy. I sensed my own mass as something deliriously exciting. An erotic knowledge of myself infused me, a physical knowingness. I couldn't, in my dreams, touch my own body, but I could feel the mass of chest, heavy on my ribcage, colliding with the solid girth of my arms, which in turn lay heavily on the thickness of my spreading back. I knew without being able to see that my manhood moved with heavy authority atop my strong and massive thighs, that it hung preposterously large and brought a thrill of masculine power to my consciousness.

As my focus grew sharper, nearer true wakefulness, I found myself at war with my own thoughts. I knew who I was, and while the dream of youthful sexuality expressed through an exaggerated muscularity, virility, and sexuality was a delightful place to wallow, I had to shake myself free of its addictive attraction, loose myself from those exciting, erotic feelings and re-embrace my reality, which no doubt involved some trauma from which I was hiding in these fantasies of youth and sexual potency. I would try, in my darkness behind my bandaged head, to get clear my picture of myself as I was, or might be now. I would concentrate on remembering, in the sense of physical reality, so that I could completely resurface from the comatose dream state, and yet, even as my wakefulness came increasingly close to the surface, I could not shake the feelings, so real, as though it were not imagination or dreaming, but real knowledge, memory, and the erotic surges that swept over me as my mind wandered in the overdeveloped stud that had become its playground, I imagined myself overtaken by orgasm, finally releasing myself to fully inhabit this strange new land. I soared toward the light, my body jettisoned by the surging thrusts of my own tidal surge of release and completion, imagination overtaking reality again as I felt the heavy, huge log of my manhood, lying on my stomach, pumping more semen on chest than I had been able to generate since I'd passed my own youth.

"Good lord, boy. You sure do spew like a volcano."

A human voice. Human touch. But it had to still be a dream. "Boy?" I felt cloth on my skin, mopping dampness, fluid, off my stomach and chest.

"Boy, you gettin' harder and harder to clean up, all this hair you gettin', all this muscle they puttin' on you."

My brain was suddenly scrambling for a hold, a window to reality. As the voice spoke, though my mind reeled with the complete impossibility that it was referring to me, another wordless voice in me, a feeling, a sensing awareness, knew exactly what the speaker was talking about, remembered the truth of his words. Boy . . . yes . . . about eighteen . . . hair . . . muscle they puttin' on. It was all familiar, somehow. I had to speak, to ask, to see.

"Now, you just relax," another voice said. I knew this one . . . from the dreams. "Can't have you moving around quite yet. Almost. You'll be back on your feet, a whole new person . . ." I heard all that, clearly as being awake, and then, "now there you go . . ." and an instant later, the spreading warmth, submerging me, slipping down, falling away where the dreams were.

The dreams grew more vivid, their feeling of reality more intense. I felt the elation of pride in being so young, so incredibly built, so virile, masculine. My own physical being gave me a giddy, erotic joy, a joy than needed expression, and I was displaying my physical beauty to some vague viewers, expressing my elation as naturally, as easily as smiling at my own deep pleasure, and my pleasure grew more ecstatic, more erotic, more satisfying, until I felt it build again to a soaring and intensely satisfying climax.

As my warm fluids hit my chest and stomach, I felt them pooling, and each glorious sperm-releasing spasm brought me more and more awake until I realized I had stopped ejaculating in my dream, and in my almost waking state, I was soaked with my dream cum. It wasn't all a dream. It had been a wonderful fantasy and my fantasy had brought me to orgasm. And then, that voice pulled me even farther out of my sleep.

"Boy, if you gonna cum like this every time they make you bigger, you gonna be eruptin' all the time. Lord, what a mess. Just stickin' in all this hair. Lord, lord."

Who could he be talking about? I felt him mopping me up, and I still couldn't move, couldn't make my will to move do anything to actually connect with my body and make it happen. I could even feel the pulling on the skin of my chest and stomach, pulling like the drag of wet hair. But I didn't have any hair except my spotty whiskers, and the basic requisite pubic and armpit hair. Not even much of that. And yet, that other memory, the memory that was imposing itself on me, could see a pattern of chest and stomach hair in swirling patterns. I felt awake, now, but my mind, my memory, my thoughts, even my feelings seemed to exist in a kind of double exposure. I seemed to have come out of the dark pool of my coma with that fantasy that seemed so real still clinging to me as though it were not just the memory of a dream, but the real memory of having lived in that body.

Then that other voice. "Well, Derrick. Today's the day, finally."

Derrick? My mind raced. I'm not Derrick. I'm Mike. But I still couldn't make words come together.

"Don't try to move too fast. I know you've got a million questions. I'll try to answer some while you're recovering from the anesthesia. Sorry about having to keep you comatose, but when you and Jason burned out from that trial dose, we were afraid we'd lost you. Luckily, the only thing we lost was the brain matter. Don't worry. The drug and dosage has been fixed. Anyway, we had to keep our creations alive until we could get new CPUs for you both. As luck would have it, two donors came along just at the right time. Terrible accident. They went over the side, car was demolished, and, remarkably, when we found them, both were still alive. Oh, their bodies were crushed beyond saving, but they both survived with almost no head trauma at all. The car burned just after we pulled them out, rolled into the rocks and surf, and there wasn't even enough left for any real investigation. Anyway, we saved their brains, which are now successfully operating. Your new CPU was named Mike O'Connor. You'll probably find his memories alive and well. You might even be thinking right now that you are Mike O'Connor. Don't worry. That'll fade in time. So, Derrick. Are you ready to get rid of those bandages? Of course, you'll have a bit of a scar, but your hair is already growing back in, and it will hardly show, for having taken off the whole top of your skull. Oh, and while you boys were comatose, we did give you a bit more of your serum, in case you were wondering why you've been ejaculating in your sleep. You might be a bit surprised. Ready?"

I was sure I was still dreaming, or worse, had gone completely mad from the trauma. What kind of insanity was this man describing? My brain, a CPU? Mike O'Connor, dead? Derrick? Jason? What the fuck was going on? I wanted to scream out for someone to help me, save me, bring me out of this madness.

I felt my bed being raised until I was in a sitting position. My arms and legs felt made of lead. I could no more have run, or even walked away. My panic grew stronger, my heart thumping in my chest, as deft hands cut and gently pulled away the wrappings from my head.

"Welcome back, Derrick," the voice said. I turned in its direction and opened my eyes. Through the blare of light, the man speaking came into fuzzy focus as my eyes adjusted. He was a young man, probably in his mid-thirties, dressed in scrubs. He was putting his stethoscope into his ears.

As he leaned toward me, bringing the other end toward my chest, my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of myself. My heart beat faster. My eyes moved with his hand, and as he touched my chest, I found myself looking at where he was touching. I could feel his touch, the cold metal on my skin, but what I was looking at was not me, not Mike. I thought my heart was going to explode in my chest, but, at the same time, I felt a completely foreign and, at the same time, totally familiar thrill. I was looking down at a broad, thick expanse of muscle where the instrument touched my chest. It was completely covered with flat, thick hair, almost black. I looked beyond his hand. I couldn't see my nipples from where I looked down. The thickness of the muscle on my chest rolled so deeply and heavily that they were hidden below the mass that also obscured my ability to see even the top of my rib cage. There was no sheet covering me.

"Well, I expected you to be a little surprised. Maybe we should wait till the shock wears off," he said, smiling, taking away the stethoscope. "Do you think you can walk? You'll probably be a little wobbly, but we'll have you back in the gym in a day or two. Let's get you on the scale. It looks like those doses we gave you may have put about twenty pounds or so on you. Jason reacted just as well to it. I think you'll be surprised when you see him, too. Here, let's just take is slow, right over here."

My body responded to his voice while my mind continued to somersault. The doctor was joined by a young, very muscular orderly, which, I assumed, was the other voice that had cleaned me up. They got me to me feet. Another twenty-five pounds? I felt as least fifty pounds heavier than I remembered. And yet, at the same time, there was familiarity with this body that stood by the bed. The thickness of my legs prevented my knees from touching, but I knew that thickness. There was a mass beneath my arms that prevented them from hanging at my sides, and yet, it felt familiar, and I realized that I knew this body, and that I could feel that I knew how my muscle, swollen thick, had long since held my arms akimbo, although now they hung even heavier, even farther away. How did I know that? It didn't matter. I did know it. It felt good, like something I'd been desiring, wanting, something I'd been developing toward. My legs were bigger, I knew that, too. This was Derrick. I was looking at Derrick. I was walking toward the mirror, and Derrick was looking back at me. He moved as I moved. I was moving Derrick's body. No. I was Derrick's body.

"Right here," the doctor was saying. "Just step up here."

I stepped on the scale, looking down, seeing from above the physical embodiment of the virility I'd felt in my dreams. I was huge. My dick was soft, and it hung thick, arching out from the black tangle of pubes that surrounded it. My legs were so thick that even my balls hung in front of them, propped out on the veiny muscle where I could see them, the resting perch for this hose I suddenly had. They were the size of eggs. Big ones. I looked up, fast, in the mirror, sure that the mirage would disappear, but the reality confirmed itself. It appeared even longer, seeing it in the mirror. No one had a cock like that. It was enormous.

"Yeah," the doctor said, seeing that I'd just really taken in that piece of information, "the serum does seem to have added a bit to your basic masculinity factor. But that was expected. Two-forty-five. Just about twenty-five pounds. Up from two-twenty-one just before your burnout. Well, at least we know the danger of the drug, but we also know that it can reverse the atrophy of lying in coma. No wasting of muscle here," he said as he grabbed hold of my upper arm.

Instinctively, I flexed for him. I'd never done that in my life. The minute he touched me, touched my muscular arm because of the muscle, I responded as though it was what I'd been made to do, born to do. I flexed and let him feel my muscle, and instantly, I felt the rush of blood into my cock.

The doctor grinned at the orderly. "Take a good look at yourself," he said to me.

I looked in the mirror at Derrick, black-haired and handsome, dark eyes, full, sensual lips, the face of an eighteen-year-old teen on the body of a professional bodybuilder. I'd scoffed at men who found pleasure in making their bodies grotesque, and now, I saw myself, young, handsome, and something in me almost swooned with the wave of attraction I felt for the young guy in the mirror. And these guys loved his muscle, had given him some kind of serum to make him like this, and it felt so powerfully, erotically masculine, I had no choice but to merge with my panic, like riding the world's scariest coaster, exhilaration and fear and breathtaking thrill. My world had turned surreal. Mike was dead. Dead. No one would be looking for me. But here I was. I flexed. They both felt my muscles. Their touch was this body's reason for being. They had created it for this. I knew that. Derrick knew that.

My cock rose, stiffer and stiffer, until it lifted its head toward my stomach, my carved, rippling, hairy, vein-covered mountain range of abdominal muscle. I was living inside this cocky young musclebound stud. Obviously engineered somehow to possess such beyond-normal attributes. As Mike, I was Derrick's CPU, but as Derrick, I lifted his arms, flexed his might to let himself, myself, be admired as I was meant to be.

And where, I wondered, was Brett?

I flexed as the doctor, assisted by the orderly, admired my body, caressing it, feeling the contours of my muscle, so thick and heavy I was having a hard time grasping than I was actually feeling their hands on ME, on MY muscles, and that touching them felt to me, to the teenaged Derrick, the same as stroking my cock or playing with my balls. I was so charged with sexuality that everything about me was erotic. I watched in the mirror as I flexed for them, as they touched, felt, measured the muscle I was wearing, and I could not believe it was me, even though I was moving my arms, flexing my muscles, feeling them flex, pop, harden in response to my will.

My arms measured twenty-two inches. I knew enough to know that seasoned, mature bodybuilders, the heavyweights, worked years to achieve the size, the mass that I had just awakened to find on me like a new set of clothes. Clothes with feeling. Amazing, deeply, intensely erotic feeling. I couldn't wrap my mind around how looking like this, feeling like this was exciting me almost beyond my ability to control it. My thighs measured thirty-two inches and so did my waist. I hadn't had a thirty-two inch waist for fifteen years. My thighs felt like cords of steel when they wrapped the tape around them, brushing my balls because they hung so low. My cock was leaking precum, but it stood proudly out of their way, arching up toward my abs, its weight pulling on my lower abdominal muscle while the muscle held its engorged length solidly up. They laughed about how hard it was, pushed it down, and it snapped back up against my belly hair. My belly hair. My pubic hair was a luxuriant bush of black tangles that thinned slightly as it climbed up my abs, a thick trail rising from the source, springing from the seat of my manhood like the snake that signified maleness, losing itself once again in the silky black fur that coated the armor that hung on my chest, the pectoral muscles that weighed so heavily on my ribs, rolling, folding over upon themselves. Sixty-four. As they wrapped the tape around my pecs, my lats, I watched with awe. They circumscribed the vast mass of my upper torso with their tape, their fingers, their hands, marveling at my body, telling me what I could easily seeā€”that I was magnificent. For the first time in my life, I could understand how a man could be attracted by another male as I looked at the kid in the mirror.

The last measurement they took was my cock's. They both held it as they stretched the tape along its length. I knew it had to be at least a foot. It was actually fourteen inches. And it was over eight inches around. It was huge. I knew it would frighten any woman I'd ever known. I knew, and somehow it didn't matter. Its size made my own sense of my maleness rocket, deepen, intensify. I alternately looked down at myself and then into the mirror, where it was like looking at someone else, a fantasy, and my fear, I realized, was dissolving, and I was falling in love, or lust at least, with the guy I was looking at. My mind struggled to understand what my body already knew. They touched, I responded. They told me how my huge muscles were getting so massive and hot, but I knew it, I could feel it, I knew how hot my size was, and that I was GETTING huge, not that I WAS huge, which meant that how I looked was part of a process, not the end result. As it sank in, as Mike understood Derrick, I grew increasingly turned on, hot, excited. My cock was dripping and it made me feel sexy that they were looking at it, at me, at my muscle, measuring me, feeling me, and, somehow, making me, Derrick, change, grow, become something they were creating.

When I finally felt the depth of my erotic excitement pushed to the edge by these realizations, making my whole body tense, reflex, gather for the spring, the leap, the seizure of orgasm, they merely continued to stroke me, tell me how incredible I was, as I spurted my thick cream freely, feeling total hedonistic abandon, shooting wherever it wanted to fly, grabbing my huge cock to feel is masculine power, its hardness, its size. Fuck. I was sailing on some fantastic rush. I was in love with the guy I was living inside, the guy I was becoming, as his cells and my thoughts became one.

Just as my orgasm slowed to a few trickling spasms, running down my cock onto my thighs, into my hair, my new, hot, dark hair, a door behind me opened and another orderly, like the one with me, massive and hot as hell, stepped in. It did not escape my notice that I was suddenly finding these muscular men hot. I'd never thought that before. And that made me think of Brett, who had always made fun of bodybuilders, calling them freaks and fags. Had he been killed? I seemed to remember the voices saying that both of us had suffered the same fate. Could that mean . . . ?

The orderly told the doctor that the other one was ready and asked if he should bring him in. The doctor said, yes, bring him in. They may as well get reacquainted. So he had survived. And even though I had just experienced my own shocking revival, somehow I imagined Brett walking into the room and being disgusted when he realized that this gorgeous musclebound teen was his old buddy Mike. I should have known better.

The orderly returned, leading by the arm a dazed looking kid, about the same age as I appeared to be. He was blindingly handsome. His hair was blond as pale gold straw, his face strong, angular, masculine in the extreme, with full, pouting lips, cleft chin, heavy straw-blond stubble covering his squared jaw and thickly corded neck, his yellow eyebrows thick, shading deep set ice blue eyes. He walked awkwardly, as though the bulk of his body was new to him, the mass of the legs that had to swing around each other, the thickness of arms, pecs, and lats colliding, fighting for space, crowding each other so that his torso was a massive mountain range of sharp curves and valleys, hummocks forcing each other to bunch, crowd, mound, and still the arms could not fall to his sides, but rested out on the outcroppings of his own mass, just as . . . just as I had seen my own do. As soon as I saw him, my heart raced, pounded.

I knew it was Jason, and that Jason was Brett.

"Dude," I said, "look at you, man." The sound of my own voice shocked me again. It was the voice of a teen, but a teen overly saturated with testosterone, raging with masculinity. And even as I spoke, I wasn't sure if it was me, Mike, talking to Brett. That's what I thought when I opened my mouth to talk, to say, "Wow, Brett, look at you." Or if it was Derrick talking to Jason, a guy he'd obviously known before they had suffered whatever kind of burnout or meltdown the doctor had explained. The words weren't mine. The voice wasn't mine. And yet, I knew the voice, spoke the words, and I did know, had known the guy walking into the room. He looked at me and I thought I saw anger, or fear, mixed with horror and disgust on his face for a split second.

They brought him in front of the mirror where I'd been standing, and the doctor told me to take a seat. I sat and watched while they put him through the same thing they'd done with me, and he flexed, just the way I had, as soon as they touched him, started talking about his body, his muscle, how he'd grown, measuring him. He was magnificent, and I sat there mesmerized by his male beauty, my erection throbbing again with the delirious excitement of watching my friend Brett quickly inhabiting the teenaged musclebound body that stood there, unashamedly hard, letting them get off on him as they had on me. It turned me on so much that I found myself casually, as though I'd always done it, stroking my huge cock right there in front of them, feeling my own muscles as they felt his. When he finally came, so did I.

After that, the doctor told us that we could go back to our room and take it easy, that we should probably just get to know each other again, since we'd both had quite a bit of possibly traumatic change happen to us. He called us Derrick and Jason. I found I had no trouble thinking of myself as Derrick, and my blond buddy, Jason, felt strangely and comfortably familiar. For a while, he didn't say much. He continued to feel his muscles, to look at himself in the mirror. He told me he couldn't believe they had done this to him. I said I felt the same way, but wasn't it a whole lot better than being dead? He said but we were dead, that these guys weren't us. I told him that we were these guys now. No one would ever believe the truth if we told them, if we went somewhere else. But he kept looking at himself in the mirror, saying he couldn't believe he was one of those guys. I did get him to admit that it felt pretty good to be so young again, to have so much strength and vitality and the raging sexuality. What I really meant was that I was feeling so turned on by myself and by him that I wanted to kiss him, touch him, make love to him, only it wasn't love I was feeling. It was pure animal desire, maybe with a certain intense tenderness, but with an equal need for hard, rough, male contact. What I discovered, when I touched his upper arm and told him that he looked pretty fucking amazing, was that he responded as instinctively as I had, as I did. He flexed for me. He let me feel him. He wanted me to. He couldn't help it. And his cock boned as hard and as fast as mine did. Our bodies remembered each other. Our muscle had been made even bigger, and whatever our heads told us, our bodies, our sexuality, loved it, loved how they felt, how we felt. Later we would talk about trying to get away before they made us grow even more monstrously huge, but for that time, since there was nothing we could do to escape our own bodies, we fell into each other's grasp, lips hungrily exploring scruffy jaws, and rode the waves of muscle lust together.

As the hours sped by, we found ourselves becoming more and more schizoid. We would try to talk to each other as Mike and Brett, artist and manager, straight buddies caught in some kind of nightmare. We knew they had reanimated these bodies, which they had apparently overloaded to the point of brain burnout. It was obvious that the bodies had been created for some kind of experiment, although we could only guess at how. Were we clones? Were we genetically engineered test-tube creations? And what was their ultimate plan, since they talked about how we were "getting" bigger, which had to mean that they were going to continue to make these bodies evolve, change, grow larger muscles and possibly larger genitals. It was outlandish. Brain transplants. Was this a Lex Luthor plot? It sure was a sci-fi fantasy thing, except that we were so solidly physical.

It would seem that those talks would have had us freaking, and they pretty much did, and also have kept us in touch with our reality as Mike and Brett. But the reality was that we could not deny or shove aside how it felt to be two eighteen year old studs, so physically young and mature at the same time. As much as we had the memories and minds of our old selves, we were sharing space with the powerful memories that had accumulated in these bodies, or had been programmed into them, into their cells. We could only deny the rush of being eighteen and so incredibly handsome, built like professional bodybuilders, as massive as any roidheads, but cut and defined, vascular, shredded beef. It was impossible to deny the excitement of looking at each other, or in the mirror, and seeing the reality of that. And then, added to the stunning looks and muscles, we had the most perfect, masculine body hair, the kind any guy would order up for himself, if he liked being a hairy guy. We liked it. It felt, to both of us, like we'd been programmed to like it, to be turned on by it, so strong was the feeling, the attraction, the sexuality. It just went hand in hand with having cocks and balls that looked like the perfect morphed exaggeration of maleness. As freaky as it was, it was even more hot.

So we would talk about what was going to happen, what they were going to do to us. That would lead to talking about what they'd already done, which would lead to talking about our bodies, how it felt to be eighteen and a horse-hung muscle god. Then we would be totally turned on again, our cocks rigid poles of sexual energy, begging for contact. We couldn't help but flex for each other, feel each other's muscles, becoming so turned on that all we could do was enjoy each other, and love how we felt, how amazing, how much we loved being so massive, having huge, hard muscles crowding every inch of our hairy, beautiful bodies.

We could no more stop ourselves from riding the lust than we could stop from flexing, feeling our mass, and getting so hard we'd be dripping. And we could no more deny the feelings of needing each other's contact, kissing, sucking, willing each other's gigantic cocks up our big, hard muscle asses. It was shocking to discover that suddenly, and we could not control it, we had become totally and completely queer for muscle, body hair, and huge, huge cock. I remember knowing that my body had known Jason's big cock before, many times, but now it was so much bigger and I wanted it that much more. I wanted to feel its size in me, feel him open me, be inside me, planting his seed in my gut. Somehow, I felt, his sperm would make me grow even more, and, though I couldn't imagine having this feeling, I wanted it. I wanted Jason to make me grow. I wanted to see Jason grow.

But in one brief period, just after we'd both exploded our loads once again into each other in turn, we found Mike and Brett freaking over what was happening. They were getting lost in these bodies. If we could get away, get somewhere where we could get help . . .

In the room where they put us, the only clothes we could find were some shorts made of some kind of stretch material. These boys weren't meant to wear clothes, it appeared. But we knew we'd have to make a run for it in something. When we squeezed into the shorts, we might as well have been wearing nothing for the way they clung to our outrageous bulges. We laughed, but we were freaked, too. Any time now, they would come back and do whatever they were going to do and make us grow even more freaky. How would we be able to walk, to move? We had to escape the nightmare and the feelings that made us want to stay.

We pushed each other to climb out the window, and soon we were running along a mountain road. It was dark and rainy, and we got drenched, our shorts clinging more, showing every detail of our huge cocks and balls, but we had to keep going. Running was hard, with the mass of our bodies making us awkward, thunderous, having to throw one leg around the other, swaying from side to side with each stride as we ran, but our energy, the youth of our bodies kept us going. We tried to wave down a car that passed us, knowing that whoever was inside must think we were some kind of aliens or something, and they must have, because the car slowed, and we thought it was going to stop, but before we could reach it, it sped away.

We kept running, where, we didn't know. We figured we'd have to run into some civilization somewhere.

Then another car came from the other direction. We waved it down, and when it got close enough to see, we realized it was a police car. Too late, we realized the other car must have called the police.

The cop didn't seem too fazed by us, though. He got out, looked at us, and shook his head. He said we looked like we needed a ride somewhere, that he could take us to the diner up ahead, but he didn't know about us going in like we were. Maybe they'd have some blankets or something. We got into the back seat, the two of us crowded together by our hulking size.

We tried to tell him what had happened, but as the story came out of our mouths, we could hear how fantastic it had to sound. He listened, shaking his head every now and then, saying nothing but things like really? And, well that's pretty amazing.

When we got to the diner, a sort of log cabin place, we waited in the car while he went inside. He came back, said there was no one there but Mack, the owner, and he wouldn't care how we were dressed.

So we went in. The cop told a brief version of our story to Mack, a middle-aged lumberjack type, rugged but strongly built, who shook his head, just like the cop had done, and smiled some kind of weird smile. Really? He said a few times. Well, it sounds like you boys were lucky to get away. Imagine, Roy, he said to the cop, if they made them even more massive. Yeah, Roy said, imagine. Shit, they'd be like a couple of fuckin' teenaged muscle freaks. How big are those guns, anyways, Mack asked.

Suddenly, I had to flex for him. As soon as he said that, I had to show him how big my arms were, how huge and solid and hot my muscles were.

Shee-it, man, Roy, the cop, said, look at that muscle. Dayam, man, that could make a straight guy queer, you know that, boy?

Then Mack was looking us over, and Brett, Jason flexed for him, and our huge cocks began to bone, pushing on that wet, stretch material.

Hell, man. Looks like they like this shit, man. Hey, muscleboy. You ever get fucked by a real man?

I could see that Brett couldn't fight the feelings any more than I could. It was so hot, standing there in front of those two straight men, just flexing, two teen muscle giants with giant boners, turning them on. Turning them on felt so hot. I could see they were getting hard, feeling our muscles, seeing us bone so huge. They pulled off our shorts, whipped out their cocks, and we just bent over and let them fuck us. At least we'd gotten away, and who cared, anyway. I fought to remember I was Mike O'Connor, to find my fear, my disgust, but it was like I was lying to myself, telling myself some fable. I felt like Derrick, teen muscle hunk, and sex was my gig. I tried not to like it, to want to fight it, but I was too horny and I liked it too much. We had the power over these guys, the power to make them want us, want our hot muscle bods.

My eyes were closed, I guess Jason's were, too, just feeling hands on my muscles and cock in my ass, ramming me, using me the way I knew I was meant to be used. My eyes were closed so I didn't see the headlights pull up.

Thanks, Roy, I heard the voice of the doctor say. I opened my eyes in sudden terror. He was saying, I bet you they gave you that cockamamie story about the brain transplants. These treatments are really doing a number on their heads. Must've seen some sci-fi show on the tube or something. Anyway, thanks for picking 'em up and keeping 'em for us. Come on, boys. Let's go on back now.

We tried to fight, or argue at least. We said we didn't want to go back, but even as we argued, we could barely convince ourselves of what we were saying. I felt fear, but it was mixed with an excitement I tried not to feel. I pulled away from my orderly. Jason did the same. But the doctor nodded at Mack and the cop, and they helped the orderlies hold onto us while the doctor produced two filled syringes from a hard plastic case in his pocket.

There, now, he said, as he plunged one into Jason, you'll both feel much different in a couple of minutes. He plunged the other into me. We don't want you fighting. Those brains did have minds of their own, didn't they? Well, this should help take care of that, help you remember who you are. We've spent too much on you not to finish the experiment, now, haven't we?

I remember feeling dizzy as he was talking. Not off balance, or stoned, just dizzy. I looked at Jason. He did look good, bigger like he was and all. I shook my head to clear it, but I just felt a little foggy. At least, as Mike, I did. I tried to focus, but I remember feeling like I was trying to remember a dream that was slipping away. Something about some old dude named Mike something. Couldn't quite put my finger on it. Anyway, whatever, it didn't matter much. I remembered the feeling of my shots, how I would feel dizzy and then pretty soon, I'd start to feel the tingling all over my body, and the rushes. I knew I'd be screaming by the time we were in the van, going back, but that excited me. I knew I'd be growing bigger, thicker, becoming the teen muscle god, watching Jason bulge with muscle and sex, too. Shit, I hope they make us grow, and grow, and grow. Oh fuck, I thought as we got into the van, here it comes. All I remember of the ride back is feeling my pecs swell, roll heavier, thicker, boning so huge and hard, and cumming all over myself.

It's weird, now, how I sometimes remember Mike, and I wonder if he was real or a story they made up. I try to think about it, and I get pictures, feelings, that seem like real memories, but then my brain gets tired and I'll just be too horny to think much, anyway. Then I just want to feed my muscle, feed my cock. Then I'm Derrick, the muscle god, the teen muscle hunk, so handsome, huge, hung, and born, no, created for this. And still being created.

But I do still remember. There are times, like now, when it comes back, when I am Mike O'Connor, but living in a different body. It comes almost like a sudden vision I'm having, like suddenly I'm looking at myself from some strange place. The memories are all mixed up, and I get this feeling that I'm living in some very strange, very real dream. My mind remembers I'm Mike, middle aged, successful, and yet I have all these feelings that seem to be part of this body I'm in, really strong feelings of a teen guy with a way overamped libido, a sex drive so strong that it drives me completely.

When it happens, I try to hold on to who I was, to remember, not to let Mike just slip away, but Derrick doesn't care, and Derrick is growing more dominant. I can tell. I can feel it. That's why I'm trying to get all this recorded. When the flashes come, they don't last as long as I remember they used to. Usually, it's in the middle of the night, and I go back to sleep, and it's just like I had a dream. Sometimes, I'll get one, like now, after I've cum a bunch of times and, for a few minutes, I get all tired before my energy springs back. But even then, lately, I have to admit that I'm not minding much what happened. I'm kind of liking it.

Jason and I have had a couple more treatments, now. When they do that, it's always a while before I remember being Mike. And even then, I always have vivid memories of what the treatments put me, Derrick, actually, what they put me through. It seems that they kick my hormone production into overdrive, and my whole sex drive, my feelings of sexuality get so strong that everything else is driven away. Derrick is a totally sexual animal. He screams with pleasure at the pain he goes through. I remember it too, but more like a dream. Then, suddenly, I'll find myself here, in this body, and the whole thing floods in on me.

Even sitting here is hard. My energy makes me want to get up, do something, something sexual. I just jacked off with Jason, and I already feel the need to cum building in me again. And it's too hard to write, with my muscles so huge that I can only bend my arm so far before my forearm and biceps stop me. My legs splay apart, even when they are pushed together as much as I can. Just trying to write, I have to lean toward the table because my lats are so thick that I can't get my arm down, and when I push, my pec blocks it, too, and bunches up so thick it gets in the way. Still, hard as writing is, even when I try, and when I talk about it now, I find, despite myself, that the massive muscle that makes it so hard is incredibly exciting.

I have to look in the mirrors to really see myself. My chest is so big that I can't really see my cock any more, just looking down, unless it's hard. Of course it seems like it's hard most of the time. I'm so fucking horny all the time now. At first, it seemed really weird having such oversized balls and such a huge, long cock. I'd walk around feeling it all bounce back and forth in front of my thick thighs, my cock flopping, until the minute I would think about how big it was, how it made me feel so unbelievably, I don't know, hot I guess. Masculine. Hyper-masculine. And then it would just bone like this huge fucking sex log, and take over, and I'd become a big muscled up animal. A total sex pig. I'd have to cum, whether I was alone, or with Jason, or one of the other guys. It didn't matter. Being so huge was turning me on more and more. I began to understand about my body being completely sexual, that all this muscle was sexual, my huge balls and huge cock were sexual, everything about me, totally sexual. I would want guys to see me, admire me, get turned on by me, by my huge muscles and giant cock. I somehow just knew how to talk like a teenaged bad boy, nasty and hot and sexy. Get guys to feel me, feel my muscles, my body, my cock. Being Derrick would feel so cool. I'd be so horny and sexy and hot, and all I'd care about would be my body, my muscle, my killer cock.

And then, suddenly, I'd remember being Mike, again, in this body, and I'd almost want to freak at first. I'd be even bigger. I'd remember the whole thing, the accident, being trapped inside this teenaged muscle boy body, remembering trying to get away, being brought back. But now I knew I couldn't get away. And, more and more, I couldn't stop the feeling that I didn't really want to as much. It's more like I remember Mike, now, being him, being real smart and all, but so old and stuff, and just having a regular body and a regular little dick, so kind of small and sort of pathetic, and even when I'm feeling like I am him, now, I'm also feeling that it's pretty fucking cool, being all hulked out, I mean way hulked out, with them giving us that stuff to make us grow.

Then I take a look at Jason, and he's so fucking hot and handsome, all blond and so built, so covered with that masculine blond hair, and so hung, and I just get this hunger, this starving kind of need, to see them make him bigger, make his cock go below his knees so I can take the whole thing in me, feel it, so fucking huge, feel his muscles, so fucking thick and massive and hot, watch him walk, the way he moves now, and I don't give a shit at all about that Brett guy that Jason thinks he was. I kind of remember him, too, but then Jason just looks at me, and I know he's feeling the same thing I'm feeling, and I know he wants to see them make me even bigger, more massive, hairier, more hung, and I get feeling so hot that everything else goes away but what fucking hot muscleboys we are now, getting hotter all the time, laboratory freaks.

How much more can I take? How huge can they make me? My cock hangs almost to my knees already, soft, and it's the size of a big hose, bigger when it's hard. I can only get one of my balls in my hand at a time, they're so big, and so heavy, but feeling the weight of my stuff hanging from my hairy groin makes me so hot I can cum just thinking about how it feels, being so huge. No clothes fit, and that's okay, because I'm getting used to being naked all the time. I love being looked at, touched, measured, stroked, all of it.

Oh, shit. I hear them coming. Time for another treatment. Probably won't be able to finish this for a little while.

Fuck. When they come to do this, when I'm about to get the shot, Mike seems to come out more. I feel kind of scared. I'm already so huge I have a hard time moving around, doing things. But I also get excited, a real sexual kind of excitement that I just can't help or stop. This is so weird, being so young, or having such a young body, so good looking, but such a sideshow freak. I'm so conflicted. Fuck. Gotta go for now.

Damn. That one was fuckin' intense. Thought I was gonna fuckin' explode. Man, I hope they never stop doin' that to me. Feelin' it comin' on, like buildin' in your balls, then shootin' all through you like fuckin' lava in your veins, man. Then it hits your muscles and your skin and dick and all and starts makin' you change and grow bigger and get hairier and it fuckin' hurts so hot, man, just to feel how you're getting bigger all over, getting thicker and heavier, cock gettin' longer and thicker, balls gettin' bigger again. Fuck, man. Feels so fuckin' hot. Jason's screamin' and I'm screamin' and I'm seein' him gettin' even bigger, and I can feel it happening to me, but seein' it happen to him, both of us screamin', feelin' like we won't be able to walk or bend our huge fuckin' guns enough to wipe our asses or brush our teeth or anything, feelin' my legs pushin' apart, my arms raisin' up even more on my monster lats, my pecs swellin' up so fuckin huge I can barely reach around 'em and they bunch up to where I can't see over 'em, and I'm screamin' and Jason's screamin' 'cause it hurts so much, but it feels so hot that we're all boned, our huge fuckin' cocks reaching so far up our huge hairy fuckin' pecs that we can pec fuck ourselves, and we don't want it to stop.

People been in takin' pictures and shit. Yeah, shootin' us all boned, jackin', fuckin' each other, just flexin' and shit, and they're all like oh, they're so unbelievable, they're so big, what are they good for, all kinds of shit like that. All I think is fuck yeah, I'm big. I'm fuckin' huge. You like this muscle, man? You like all this huge fuckin' hairy muscle? How about these monster fuckin' balls, man? Takes some big fuckin' balls to make a guy this much of a man. I may only be eighteen or whatever, but me and Jason are more man than any of the dudes that come by here. You want to feel this muscle? Yeah, come on, feel it. I know you want to. You want to see what a cock like this feels like? Want to see me fuck my buddy, or him fuck me? Bet you don't think I can take a two foot pole. Watch me, man. Dude shoves that thing up me, man, the only thing better is shovin' mine up him. You want to stroke it? Jack me? Go on, man, it's cool. Just stand back when I shoot. Get some of my jizz on you, might change your life. Mike O'Connor? Oh, yeah. That dude. Yeah, he was smart I guess, but man, he was an old dude, had a tiny dick. Fuck, man, I don't give a fuck if I can't do English and math and shit. Who cares? What does a big muscle boy like me need with that shit, anyway? Okay, man. Gotta sign off. This shit is boring the fuck outta me, and I gotta cum, man. I gotta cum real bad. Jason, too. Wavin' that monster cock in my face. Oh, fuck, man, I'm gonna cum again. Aww, yeah, man. Feel this fuckin' muscle. So big. So hot.


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