The tissues of my body plumped with the overproduction of fluids, sugars and blood. Veins pulsed thickly across my bulk, veins that were barely visible came into strong relief, pencil thick, bloating the skin with nutrients. My flesh took on a waterlogged appearance, thickening with each heartbeat and pancreatic movement.

Then, every muscle contracted, pulling, tugging, fighting against itself. Were it possible then, my body would have torn the muscles and ligaments off their joints. But it was not possible then. The pain was excruciating; the tension did not abate until it floated away in the most sublime and dissociative manner. I became a consciousness watching a body; a sub-leasing tenant.

The bloating muscle was consuming the necessary nutrients faster than they could be produced, so size came in waves that followed the paths of the lymphatic system. From head to toe, muscle bloated, recessed, then settled into a size slightly larger than it was before. Seconds passed to minutes and I must have been fifty pounds heavier. But with no way of measuring, I was just guessing. I knew I was no taller, save for the inches of muscle added to the bottom of my feet, but I was considerably thicker.

After about three minutes of bulging and bloating, my calves were cylinders of muscle with nary a taper to the kneecap, which bulged, and plumped with strengthened ligament. The jean shorts were taut with my newly resized thighs: each muscle pushed against the skin, pushed against the jeans until each muscle was just as visible, outlined through the thick jean material. It would be a long time before muscle of any size would rend those shorts asunder.

However, as their girth increased, the length of the shorts was shortened, pulled up to allow sufficient space for my growing butt and hip muscles. My thighs dropped sharply over my protruding kneecaps, bulged like sagging flesh, but solid and firm, the natural shape now deformed, pulled by gravity. The muscle on both sides of my legs grew in the same way. In five more minutes the sheer size of the muscle would prohibit its movement. Minute gaps began to pull at the seams until the thin, yellow thread frayed and split at the largest part of my thigh, gradually widening, gradually exposing more and more flesh covered muscle. Soon, my jeans were little more than a lose towel covering.

Both the front and back panels remained more or less in tact, saved by the relatively weak stitching on the sides. Thick, links of muscle chorded across my legs. The profile of a square, solid butt cheek was visible, jutting out inches from the thighs as threads of my boxers frayed and thinned. Power to leap over tall buildings rested in tension within this mortal coil.

Even the tight belt on the jeans tightened as the lower lats and obliques spread outward, the large, loaf-sized abdominals bulged forward, and the thick, back muscles pushed backward. Wider and wider I grew, maybe forty or forty-five inches around in the waist, still cut, still clearly defined, and probably even moreso. Thick veins crossed the inch-deep valleys, over the prodigiously bowing gut of ab-muscle, growing, ever growing outward, bulging over my belt buckle until it too snapped. Only the thick, jutting butt muscles and broadening hips kept the shorts from sliding down to collect at the outward sweep of my thighs.

As stacked and pressed for space as my abs were, my pecs used all that extra gut-shelf to its advantage. Were it not for that added support, the heavy muscle, too, would sag awkwardly. The solid, square plates of pectoral muscle covered my ribcage, bloated beyond belief. I cold see my pecs press against the lats on one side, crash together in a chasm of cleavage on the other, and lift my chin on top, pinning my mouth closed. It was safe to say that my pecs alone would have pushed my arms backward were it not for the opposing strength of my back muscles on the opposite side.

My lats and shoulders struggled against each other, one pushing my arms up, the other pressing it down. The thick, round-capped shoulders met the thick, chorded traps that helped my pecs keep my head locked solidly in place. While my chest pressed into my chin, my traps rose up to the base of my ears rending my neck a solid column of muscle and flesh from my clavicle to my Adams apple nearly engulfing the base of my head.

The biceps, like my legs, grew to obscene proportions. Rivaling the actual size of my thighs, they became barrels of muscle, further threatening any mobility. A deep, dark ridge became the apparent delineator between the rugby-sized bicep and the cloven hoof shaped droopy tricep. The size of the tricep, alone, would keep the arm from straightening, while the size of the bicep prohibited even a bend of the arm to ninety degrees. Add that to the two-liter bottle sized forearms and you could easily discount all forms of movement, from the elbows or wrists.

Each joint was literally covered with muscle. Each muscle was covered with more muscle, and by the time I stopped growing and feeling came back to consciousness, I must have been a couple hundred, if not a thousand pounds of flesh and muscle.

I don't know if it was because my nerves grew as well as my muscles or if the number of nerve endings multiplied with the number of cells, but every moment, every movement of the air around me was electric. There was no way I could move-not even my head-but everything around me spun with euphoric awareness. My skin tingled with the sensations of muscle rubbing against muscle, of flesh and air, and of the overall sense of superior power and strength. I felt virile, I felt strong, although I couldn't move. There was no way for me to experience my own body except through my two, recessed eyes. From my vantage, all I could see was pec before me for what seemed like a yard in all directions, trapezes muscles limiting my peripheral vision, and shoulders that blocked off my immediate left and right. But I didn't need to see what I knew I saw in Shane's mind. I was astounding, I was gigantic, I was incredible.

Sensation flooded my mind through my own nerves and through Shane's communication. Before I knew it, not that I could have stopped it had I wanted to, my dick sprang to life, lifting its way into view from under the loin-cloth, jean-short wrappings. With every, fast and heavy heart beat my cock bounced higher and higher until it came into view, a sunrise above the horizon of my chest.

The cold air caressed all twenty-four inches of throbbing penis. It burned a bright red, insanely veined like the rest of me must have been. It pulsed and vibrated against my red-hot flesh, sending shivers up and down my spine that culminated in little more than a moan that escaped my forced-shut mouth. This was all I could do, let the air stimulate my dick to rub against my chest, and let my monstrous testicles pull heavily at my groin, resting softly on top of the ridges of the column of muscles that used to be my legs.

I was trapped in immense pleasure, on the verge of cumming. I could see the precipice but was unable to climb it. I tried to move my arms but, as one muscle would swing into motion it would be stopped, not by the restrictive counter-movements of another, but by its sheer unflexed mass and density. My heart started to beat faster and my breathing became staggered through my nostrils, but I was no where closer to coming.

Shane walked into view, moving my eclipsing cock out of the way. I shuddered, without movement. He smiled and with a wink, my muscles began to subside as I began to ejaculate. The shaft throbbed in systematic sequences, visibly pushing forward the orgasm. With each shudder the cock head exhaled masculinity in the form of a dry ejaculate. I convulsed, my cock throbbed, but I produced no semen. I could feel my cum reach no farther up than five inches up my shaft, just sitting there, unwilling to be pumped any higher. Yet I felt my body shrink down to its normal size with every pulse.

Soon, faster than it took to become the behemoth, I was a pubescent teen, squirting his pubescent sized load from his five-inch dick.

I was shocked and out of breath. I struggled to regain oxygen even before considering regaining my senses. I was still in my clothes that, oddly enough, had remained in tact-or had repaired themselves, I wasn't too sure which. However, my dick had found its way out of my fly and little globs of cum had soaked into the coarse material.

"Okay, okay. I see your point," I finally admitted, returning to my scrawny 115 pounds. I had to admit, despite the pointed lesson, being so big did feel really good. The world seemed a little too big for me now. But I mused on.

"It wasn't too bad being so big." Shane laughed, flexed his large bicep. "Mine was bigger," I chided. He feigned a punch and we had another good laugh. "I suppose its easier being someone else for three minuets during the day: you get to take on the best of him without having to deal with his problems..."

Shane cocked an eyebrow, hinting at a wicked smile.

"But I think I'm content with being who I am," I concluded in complete solemnity. "As long as I get to play at being someone else every once and a while." •