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Roommate, The (by Xyggurat)
|"You both look so small," Trevor rumbled. I almost turned to jelly at the sound of his voice. It seemed to resonate at the precise frequency of my erogenous zones. He towered head and shoulders over me, a behemoth of ripped muscle. Thankfully, fresh anxiety kept me almost soft.
Looking at Phil was another story. I kept my head down to avoid sight of his too-tight shirt and the gargantuan package that strained the front of his grey sweats. One sight of those features, so rugged yet carved as if with a monofilament tool, and I knew I would be at full mast. Worse yet, I think I liked it. I tested out the thought: I loved liking men, with their unique hardnesses, their topography so different than a woman's soft curves and lush valleys. Even though I logically knew that Phil had transformed the very fabric of my mind, every sense I had told me that this was how I was supposed to be.
"That's something that can change very quickly," Phil was saying. "Remember, Trevor, I'm in control here. Dane's mine."
"Why aren't you gigantic yet?" My eyes strayed up. Trevor's brow quirked. His arms were folded across the massive breadth of his chest, bulging and jumping with every breath or minute movement. The thick slabs of muscle running down his forearms pushed against his rounded bowling ball pectorals. Even relaxed, it looked as if the muscles were warring with each other, leviathan strength against leviathan strength. Trevor was heedless of the fact that the boxers he wore were strained and tearing from the magnitude of his quads. The boxers were lucky that they had a hole in the front. His huge member hung out of the opening, almost too wide for comfort even though it was soft.
"Because I can get big any time I want, Trevor. There's more to this game than size, for me." His cryptic smile solicited no direct response from Trevor.
"Can I get bigger?" Of course that would be the first question out of the former twig's mouth.
Phil shrugged his shoulders, stretching the verdant fabric of his—my—shirt. "Sure. But not now. I think it's about time for some alone moments with my roommate. We have so much to do."
"Well? Aren't you going to get your clothes?"
"But they won't fit," Trevor protested.
Phil shook his head and sighed. "Do you really think anyone's going to stop a 6'3 Hercules with a porn star's schlong on the way back to his room? You'll probably have people spontaneously cumming on the way there."
Meek as milk in spite of his size, Trevor bent to pick up his clothes, giving us a superb sight of the flexing muscles of his ass. The boxers only accentuated his cheeks' dimpled musculature. Behind Trevor's back, Phil hefted his crotch once. He threw a wicked grin in my direction. It must have given him a rush to know that he could undo Trevor's dream body and more with a few sprays from that overlarge package.
When Trevor had finally sauntered out the door, Phil turned toward me. His face was split by a broad grin that seemed to display every single one of his flawless white teeth. I lost myself for a moment in his dimples, the perfect slope and squaring of his stubbled jaw.
Possession rife in his voice, Phil whispered, "Don't be afraid, Dane. I still need you for now. You're so far along that it wouldn't make sense to choose others yet. Your balls have got to be exhausted, don't they?"
I acceded to Phil's command not to be afraid. Soothing relaxation entered through my muscles, but I remained huddled against the side of my bed. I had looked taller to Phil before this change, I recalled. Sudden sympathy for his past situation warred with the loathing I had for all the choices he had made since gaining his range of powers. I hated being small, just as he must have.
"Yeah, I guess they are, Phil." I could not muster the effort to play his game, even with my newfound appreciation for his situation. My eyes drifted back down to the floor between my feet. I had pulled on my boxers, too. Plaid. They were a little tight, having once been Phil's. After all, I was pretty muscular for 5'8.
My roommate crouched down in front of me, using a finger to raise my chin almost lovingly. All I could see was how, as he pushed my chin up, his biceps tightened and shortened, separated from his triceps. I marveled that, as large as he had gotten, Phil somehow managed to look lithe and graceful rather than bulky. Only about an inch taller than me, and I still felt dwarfed by his sheer presence.
He looked at me, glacial eyes meeting mine, and his lips parted. I thought he was about to kiss me. Instead, he whispered, "stand up."
I did as I was bid, and he led me over to the table in the center of our dorm. He stripped off his shirt and pants, revealing his squared pectorals and the steely muscles of has abdomen. A ruddy golden patch of curls gleamed at the center of his chest. His quarter-sized nips pointed downward, forced that way by his burgeoning pecs. They were hard.
Everything about Phil bespoke layers upon layers of solid muscle. He was large, yes, but his weight probably far outstripped his size. His skin was vacuum-sealed over the dense cobbles of his abs and obliques. The breadth of his expansive shoulders and tapering of his lats formed a 'V' down to a waist that had to be no more than twenty-six inches. And there, in the trough of the 'V,' rested his package. It looked uncontrollable, struggling to escape the fabric of my old boxers. Most men with Phil's build would have had weaker legs, but not my roommate. From glutes to quads to calves, his legs were works of sculpted perfection.
"Let's armwrestle," he suggested, drawing my attention back to his face.
I flinched. So, it was time for that.
Resigned to my fate, I pulled out a seat. I held my tongue and put my arm out on the table. Flexing momentarily, I was disheartened by the feeble biceps that peaked out of my arm. It looked smaller compared to Phil's—and more so against the eighteen or nineteen inches that Trevor's arms had swollen to with the most recent dose of my cream—but I tried not to dismiss myself as a lost cause. I had an ace in the hole that Phil would not and could not learn about: Professor McTague.
Aside from the differences in scale, our armwrestling match began exactly as had the one only a short span of days ago. I was shocked by the strength of Phil's grip, but if it had been steel back then, he had since upgraded to titanium. His arms were 15 inches to my flexed 14, but the difference was more marked than simple measurements could suggest. Mine looked flimsy despite their definition, and Phil's were superdense while managing to retain their shocking striations and vascularity. And then he tightened his grip, sending his muscles exploding outward past 16 inches. The nest of dark veins threatened to burst out of his skin, forced up by the softball of solid meat below.
Phil pulled. I held fast for several moments, but his strength was inexorable; mine, fleeting. Moment by moment, centimeter by centimeter, I felt him drive my arm toward the table. I took a breath and let out a furious grunt. Adrenaline pumped through me, setting my heart to pounding. I growled. Phil smirked. But somehow, I managed to push his much larger arm back into an upright position. I felt a tremor arc through my muscles, a twinge of pain at so much effort placed in one action against a vastly more impressive force. The look of surprise on his face was worth the expenditure of my endurance.
He leaned into the push a bit more, sending me into a swift retreat. Weeks of pent-up rage were all that kept me from an immediate collapse. Greater experience with armwrestling lent me knowledge of leverage. I held myself there, a hand's span away from the surface of the table, from loss. I knew I would lose, but I would not let this be an easy fight.
Phil's features twisted with his effort, a mirror of my own mask of fury. I was gaining in millimeters now, and swiftly depleting my muscles' strength. My entire body felt as if it were on fire. Sweat beaded on the surface of his chest, which was swollen with a rapidly-progressing pump. Something fleshy pounded against the underside of the table. Phil had gotten an erection.
I watched the veins leap out of my own arm in protest of easy defeat. Nonetheless, Phil stopped retreating, held me fast. Realization defeated me: there was really nothing I could do, and no point to continue this farce any longer. He was simply superior. With that thought, my hand slammed against the table with such force that I was surprised the wood did not shatter.
And Phil smiled, pushing himself out of his seat in triumph. He raised his swollen biceps into a victory flex, inviting me brusquely to come and feel the muscles that had been my defeat. The vein-crossed muscles rose out of his arms, lemon-shaped pumped peaks dwarfing baseballs.
Mindless and thirsting for a touch of his perfection, the size so at odds with his definition, I stumbled over to him. Our cocks were both sticking out of our boxers. My hands lingered on his arms, trying to compress the biceps. I could not even get my hand to span from the peak to the belly of his triceps. And I would have had greater ease crushing solid stone. Phil had ascended to a different level of power. Desperate and unthinking, helpless to my urges, I leaned into the stone mass of his chest and craggy eight-pack. The caress became a shared embrace.
I felt Phil's fluid warmth spatter against my leg even as my balls emptied the droplets remaining to them. I wanted this. I wanted him to be my master. I would have given up right then, if it had not been for Professor McTague's encounters with me.
My roommate was swelling, his impossibly dense musculature bulging larger and thicker. I did not bother to watch any more. He stank of sweat and musk and man. I felt his mass increase as I diminished. It was almost as if he were draining me of my masculinity, becoming a radiant god of a man as I shrank into this subservient creature. I drew my hands up onto his shoulders. His delts rapidly expanded beyond the point where I could clutch at them easily, so I attempted to readjust my grip. Even then, he was getting taller and I, shorter. I let my hands slip away from his delts to caress the craggy horseshoes of his triceps: he was abruptly too tall for me to reach his shoulders easily. His cock was a fist pushing insistently into my abdomen, an inch or two above my diminishing tool.
As Phil drew me tighter into his ballooning arms, his cock was forced up against my stomach. It was so long now that it stretched up to my chest. His balls felt immense on my lower abs. I was forced against the unyielding muscles of his abdomen and pectorals. I didn't bother to try and pull away. He was so strong now that I would escape only when he wanted me to. I was not just Phil's roommate any more. I was completely in his power.
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