Of Scott - Of Growing Huge

By QuoteTheRaven

My muscles hulk my body; they mound my arms, my shoulders, and my chest. With gentle flinches I tighten each, groaning with power. I’m mammoth and think of Scott.

Scott’s transformation to blisteringly handsome happened in High School like a duckling to a level none of us realized someone could look. Normal in 9th grade, by 12th nature had made him different than others. In assemblies, across the rows, I drank his gold skin and eyes that nestled in his cheekbones cut with Finlandian protection. I swooned at the vision of his holy face and how it angled beneath the wheat-y cut of his dark blond hair. I stomach-clenched the idea of being with him, being his friend, or growing handsome like he did.

When assembly ended, I row-loitered until his corduroyed legs swicked by. My hand dreamed of his hip pocket; if only my palm could have a home in the tightness the material gave his bubbled and consolidated rear. Scott would look at me and chuck his chin before returning to his conversation with Glenn or James and I could only stare.

How we were all attracted. But a normal guy would coldly dodge an orientation like mine. So, I faked my way through – and Scott, a closest friend in 9th, in 12th was not.

It’s today, I flip pages of his pictures, and the binder sticks to my rippled, hulkingly muscular thighs.

At graduation, there’s a picture of Scott with his gowned arm on my shoulder – he’s the class marshal buoyed by a trove of classmates’ votes. 6’1” and 170 lbs, his angled jaw flashes his siren glance into the lens. Beside him, my 135 pounds gangle and I look puppyish, with eyes to the side on his chin. My nose dwarfs my features and my smile chubs my cheeks. Scott’s touching me, but it’s my role as Salutatorian, not as a friend, that’s allowed this moment to come.

I look at his picture and recall the feelings. My rebuilt teeth move against one another in my face that’s now structured so full.

I didn’t think I’d see Scott after that, but his godparent’s daughter, Andrea, turned into my closest friend at school. She was like a sister to Scott; he alpha-dog protected her, tenacious like the most dedicated of big brothers would be.

His first appearance on campus surprised me – his presence, but also that he would have started working out. “I lift now,” he said, “I could get big or could get bodybuilder big.” And that was all he allowed, although he allowed so little ever. Then just before he walked off he added, “How does that make you feel?” I didn’t know but I felt something stirring in my crotch that I never had before to such a thought.

For Andrea, he came every weekend, and then he started dating her roommate, Lorelei, a truly unobtainable girl. That was how desirable Scott was that he could have her.

I fooled myself then, hanging out with them – always looking for signs between Scott and me. Scott would greet me with ambiguous coolness then slide away – he was a celebrity dropping an extra who pathetically deluded a bond.

Perhaps I should have tried to move on, but post-high school was an intensified gift to him – his calf-ish looks turning so full. What had been the tuck of his high school polos and their dressing of thin arms changed to tight-ish shirts holding a natural stud’s weight-responsive limbs. In high school, he’d worn a belt accentuating 26 inches of waist that overlined buttery buttocks that had eaten so many hours of my imagination. Now in college, he was rangy about his waist – 31” and hard; his buttocks moved toughly on his 6’2” frame.

I snort and raise myself so that I stand. Who would have expected my growth to 6’5” freshman year. I was so tall and lanky then, but oh how I need it now. I snort again and transport my scrotum-clad, ass-groped mass to the pictures on the mirrored wall.

Coming one weekend during the Girl’s service day, we met at the soda shop for lunch – Scott driving in, me late from x-country, and the girls muddied from working too hard. He’d kissed Lorelei in a way that was long. I averted my eyes and when I turned back their lips still locked and I got up to get napkins. That had had to have been for show, I thought with the temperatures hot on my face. Lorelei was saving herself for marriage, that’s what Andrea had spread. I returned to the table and the conversation was regarding the number of weeks Scott had visited, me catching the end as he said, “…this one makes the magic third.” I didn’t recognize what meaning might be behind that.

“Only 2 hours and you all know what a sexy private time I give out to a special friend,” he lowed. That would be 4 o’clock, I thought. He laughed and I puzzled whether his eyes had glanced across mine, the impression of his certain browns forcing the idea of some privately visited forest into my mind. I was far from sure, but he definitely looked at Lorelei, making her squeak. She swatted him “Don’t you tell your lies, Scott.” I watched but only half heard – It was beyond me, and suddenly I wondered, was Scott’s knee touching mine? I struggled with the inputs and what signals were these. What was he saying – what sense was it making? Factors were working unrealistically in me and I was blind to what made sense or to whom.

I left lunch and my heart was in my veins, ticking my neck and along each urkel-sad arm. I pulled Andrea aside, “What time are you finished?” I asked. “Six o’clock, Ryan,” She said, “You guys know that.”

I near the mirror. The blues of my irises drill out of my orbs. My whole body grows enlargeningly close to the glass. I growl and my lips pull back from my sharpened whites. Everything on me condense-flexes. Ah fuck, I controllingly groan.

I returned to my room and undressed – my shorts from that morning’s run drooped still on my bones. I checked myself out. Do I look sexy, I faultfully mused. How blind we can be – narcissism fanning my ardor had confused what left the mirror and came into my eyes. I was pathetic to not know, to be ignorant to this that I’ve become.

Objective eyes would have deigned the nose that robbed me of appeal; the smile too loose to give shape; the rib-cage; the organed midsection that coddled into hips too boned. The nylon shorts slitted on the thigh, and the flaps did not spread suggestively as I know now they’re grossly meant to do. My legs and all of me were good for nothing but to run.

But, there was no third party and I saw only with my eyes. A pilot light flickered in them – one that looked at my reflection and deliriumed some unfounded appeal.

I crouched and contemplated myself – and then looked down to where I eased the head of my prick from the liner’s hole. I brushed my cock-lip and my sexual self-involvement waxed strong.

What did he mean – what did it mean? I asked myself, more admittedly. I stood and paced so that my critter went back home.

Scott had stared at me – bore his eyes into mine – had locked my gaze, I misfevered. 4 o’clock, he said and I knew the girls weren’t back until 6. She doesn’t sleep with him, anyway, I blustered – all wordlessly to myself.

I suck in a volume to my lungs and I shift the attention of my laser-sharp scopes to each picture of him. I crunch my back and it feels phenomenal. My hand goes to my barely lycra’d ‘there’ and I take a man’s hold.

I showered and borrowed Dan’s powder – he was a roommate who wouldn’t care. With liberalness, I dusted its safeness over my arms and in my flat butt’s crease, nervous to vanquish the sweat that would dreadfully appear. I laid out pairs of jeans and examined them as I walked the room… wristwatch; my hair; briefs – no boxers – no nothing; a ring I’d gotten with Andrea at the student union fair – no this other finger; my leather neck cords – no a chain – no leather neck cords again. And then I was back to the jeans. The right pair was wrong, it broke past the shoe. The left was the one– the strategic holes just worn through. I exhaled and my mind wondered what the hell I was doing. I was a mess; desperate and doing something I never should do. I looked at the clock; it was 3 minutes past four.

I posture and the effect eroticates me. My eyes move from Scott, his arm around Lorelei, to what tox-pummelation has done. I massage my groin’s admirability and moan. There is so much in my veins and the dense-heaviness lords my torso and loads my columned trunks so gloriously that I praise god this dais-weighty build and eyefully stalk my pouched-up bulge.

But back then, I climbed the stairs in the Jillian Agnes Dorm, surprised at the steepness I felt. Possibly it was fatigue from the earlier 9-mile run, but more I acknowledged it was anticipation – the sense of how his lips would touch me, how his Scandinavian mouth would envelope my uncompared member. I smiled to myself and bounded up the last 6 steps, and then I u-turned on the landing and hesitated. I dropped my hands to my knees and shushed until I relaxed. Through the door were the hall and then a left and the rainbow of hearts that drifted across 404. Daisy-patterned letters would spell out their names – Andrea and Lorelei. I stood and rolled my head. I wriggled my shoulders and dropped them and breathed again.

I god-shove the mirror. I range and I know so few are possibly like this. My flesh drinks the temperature from the contact and I smile and my jaw squares and my nose chisels in profile. There is pulsing and it’s in the lines that swell and cut all over me.

I took the 12 paces lightly, my sneakered feet heel-toeing, my arms at my side. Go back. It was against all promises to myself – to never live it, to find a way other than to go gay – a masquerade, something passable. My pace slowed, but my feet carried on.

The closed door was a barrier. To knock was beyond me – a rap would thud condemnation of what whispered inside. I drew my ear close. There was nothing – it was empty... Or the touch of restful slumber was upon his shaped body – him refilling the aura sipped low from his drive. Then, I heard breathing. Yes, yes he must be there. I stepped from the door and reached just to put my hand on the knob. It wouldn’t be yet, but let me test its yield to get the sense of what would come. It held firm and my stomach fell. It was too much – to knock, to not knock – to make the appeal. I pulled my wallet from my jeans. My hands shook, but I needed the key. The third fold held Andrea’s spare – a swap we’d made as an agreement between friends. Nerves everywhere in my body triggered and fell lame. Nervousness accelerated and then held me – so sure in its grip that my body actually stilled and my limbs pulled into strange control. My heart expanded and clanged somewhere inside my hollow ribcage far away. Adrenaline raised my key-holding hand. I knew his dream-angled hips and perfectly-drawn thighs must wait for me there.

Ah, yes, I exhale. I look and my eyes’ radiate cornflower and my teeth glisten fangs, my skin is so tight across my adonisized face. I press my gut against the surface and I tense-throb my arcing ass out – my hole quivers whorishly wanting bone-ramming in its home. I pull my arms against my sides and know that what sits on my back bunches. What you didn’t have then – I say to him – fucking take now, Scotty boy. I bull-hammer my spandexed can into his snapshotted face taped to the glass.

My tool overwhelms the picture and suffocates his f-studding mouth.

The twist of the knob was soft and the door drifted a foot in. I let it swing and stood. I looked down and what I saw embarrassed me – my scrawniness and worse how my stiffening dingledong was setting an indicting tableau so plain. I swore and knew that my state must testify to my ways.

I gripped through the jeans and pushed down and it wasn’t available to me to know how differently manned this was. I positioned my size but it was not possible something like that would be disguised. I had only hoped I’d endure with where I’d tubed it against my leg. I brought my hands to above my hips and braced my hollows trying to avoid collapse.

I step from the mirror. The stretching brown of my enveloping poser magnificates my huged Hercules muscle load and my Gallic expanse of perfected skin. The straps of the skimpy spand-nothing porn appreciatively around my narrow hips and I ache at how I recreate Robert Nailon from vintage comic book ads. I like how I angle his come-hithered narrowness, but crotching two times more fully below, more dome-assed than he ever was, and three or four times his muscular, vascular, chiseled size above.

Should I go in – what should I do? I wondered if his voice would call. Would it name me – encouraging his devotee who’d watched year after year. I made myself silent and it was foolish that I’d come this far and stood dumb. I hid behind a door that was open and I wouldn’t go through. My body shivered and I maintained my silence, but I heard a gentle sound of presence, something focused maybe, perhaps his breath coming too heavy too.

My stomach clenched so that I felt it crawl into my locked throat. I swallowed and my innards threatened dumping out. I reached no mental resolution – pathways in my brain fired and it was about Scott, the moments stored – and about lunch, the ridiculous signals – and about the moment I stood in then, the carpet killing the floor with brown, the cinder block walls glossing beige, Lorelei and Andrea’s snapshotted images smiling arm-in-arm.

In the cloud, an action emerged on its own and amidst my distraction my foot slid to the door, my hand touched onto the open frame.

The tightness of my suit loads empiringly as it stretches over even my softened cargo and I see it bunch a voluminous, sexual mound. I look at my redwoods blast from the leg holes. My waist sculpts my adductors and my sweeps are perfect in their whittled terraining across my god-altared domain.

I flash a grin and my face radiates unassailable, 25-year-old command.

There seemed utter silence when I wondered if I heard Scott’s voice. A heart at full-pace can’t accelerate but mine did. His voice was not definite… but I couldn’t help believing it must be him… must have been… must have been him speaking for me.

I wanted to fall from my clothes, drop from my jeans. I wanted to run in and be naked against him… against his center, against his gloriously manufactured limbs. I wanted to have his hands holding me, owning me. I wanted his plum-colored lips on mine, suck-drinking until I was fully consumed. Take me, take me, I said inside.

My cock rumbles in its confines and I know I’m approaching partial expand. I lift my hands and tuck my sheening blond behind my ears. I look at the imposing truth of these arms. The motion upward has brought them to their twenty-five inch measure and with my latissimus they create a wall of shielded meat. My lats bat out behind my machined chest. I bring my hand across my mouth and dry the drool from its corner and from my tongue. I wipe it down my front and appreciate the highlights I spread in a trail across my skin toward my spandex-swaddled hang-dong. I put my arms by my side – who am I, what have I become? I am not merely built. My build is monstrous – my limbs gargantuan. The effect is more overwhelming than one could guess – I put the suggestion of Paul Dillett’s name in the air – but something much larger is actually true.

I look at my ‘nads now and my cock is grow-groaning just beginning to show what it will achieve once it is its full conquering pole. My package unfurls more navelly, and I love the stretch it protrudes on my bikini’d tug. My unmatchable proportions lift the hug from my loins and opens free access to both scrotal creases past the hem. Christ, I couldn’t be hungrier, more primally greedy, more conflagrated to be aroused.

The collar of my shirt seemed wet and I worried it, hitching my arm. I knew rivulets were beading beneath the rose-colored rider on my rib-lined, clammy skin. I stepped forward. Scott, I thought to say, but I knew it wouldn’t leave my throat. My own ears wouldn’t even pick up the sound. I inched forward and approached the two sides of the jamb.

I slide my hand into my poser and take a certain, bronco’d hold. Twelve-inched… I have been so large, so endowed, so Cock-big. Never to have known living my hidden way, afraid to show my gayboy desires. But, now I know the weapon I bear. It’s large and broad – quadruple lesser men’s penile dicks – and it fits what I’ve done. The protonic stuff coursing through my blood has made me Tuetonic and I’ve stepped from Olympus to join this small world. God, how I praise the feel of my might and dong – my schlong’s ropey veins ridge in my palm – and its sausaged hardness resists my barely circling fist the way the fishmonger’s eels are too larger than the clamp of the tosswrench’s jaws. I ball brush my hangers and can’t help but lipcrack masterly at my hairy, orange-fruited size. The arousal in me is incarcerable and a voltage of industrial dimension quivers and grows so that my powerstaff pipeline erects ever harder and I mightily continue to sexually grow.


I look at my face – more handsome than Brad Pitt’s, Paul Walker’s, or Chris Klein’s. My eyes smolder and I cool the air before them. My cheek bones rise on my face and create architecture that holds its beauty even as I feed insanely increasing size to the hulking-fetish muscles that have masculinated my growth. The blond of my hair is carefully achieved and I look perfection with it. It falls glossily to my shoulders, its length eroticizing a softened contrast to my steel-hard expanses.

I turn my head and I look at the counter and its rows – the bottles tap one another; the syringes stack tray after tray. I know every concoction. Every molecule is familiar to me – each atom, each way it porks the body, every effect it has. I snort, air blasting like a Spanish bull through my nose. These pills are magic - the injections muscle-massifying stings. There are pills I pick and blast myself incomprehensibly more pound-staggering; others batter groans so pained that I think I might die in achieving the gut slamming carves that cut rumbling monstrosity into obliterated, striated mounds; A cocktail of three others and I throne uncontrollably, fuck-curling mind-slamming immensity in 540 pound bicep reps with the fusioning vises of my god-endowed arms.

I laugh at the thought of all this and I thunder-roll my fist once more on my phallic, lordplowed cock.

The light from the window fell on the linoleum floor. I saw the shadow of Scott – his standing, guyish shoulders, and a head that dropped back. It was tantalizing and more, but it was also accompanied by an outlined shape that ended in his waist. It was a shape I couldn’t make clear. I puzzled, what’s at his groin, and heard soft sounds. I did not know what it was, telling myself maybe it’s a chair, maybe ‘tis the lick of his tongue upon his idealized frown.

I walk the wall and consider each picture of Scott and the massive beasts I once collected to adore. I flex and I love what I incomprehensibly feel. You’re nothing fuckmonster boys, I tell them.

I turn to the mirror and ram my swollen, continental breast against the glass. My domes are monstrous with titted nipples and aureoles suckably huge. Fuck you, Monster, I say and bazooka these tank-armatured, groan-shields into their reflected selves – I love this indescribable dominating torso muscle and I soar with extraordinary power. I’m a churning hydraulic press capable of exerting 100,000 PSI if I desire. God, how I orgasm my Kryptonian delts, my bull-mounting back, and the Christ-fucking chasm cleaved through the gorge of a plunging valley deep in the heights of my million-fibered mountains. Oh, how I wetcum at the right-angling monstrousness that turns a tunneled recess beneath my shelved-straining multitudes. I mentally orgasm at the roadway laying cords that extend to the far reaches of my Solomon-slaying arms. Yes, I moan.

I drop to the ground and punch out 400 pushups, a 600 pound weight on my back. I stand and my chest is more massively large – my cock bigger too. My legs column-thunder phenomenally monumental and huge. You fucking gorgeous, Cunt, I tell myself. You grow so fucking monster-SOLARED and PROUD.

I fish the running tank top I’d put out – What kind of costumes I’ll have fun with today, I think. Harton, it says innocently across its front. I had run a personal record in this shirt and now I just fucking look at it and know what’ll become of it. I put one beastly arm through and laugh. Ah ‘how about that’, I won’t even get to start, I think. I put the other arm through and before I get it up against my chest with the goal of pulling it over my head, I hear the wrenching rip of the sweat-wicking cloth. I straighten and I flex into a most muscular and see so much beef that I grow intoxicated with heaving desire. Oh you magnificent fuck, I say, still shlong-elasticated in the brown wrap around my fucking-sexed groin. I straighten and one arm hole stays true and stretches the puny fuck across my imposing back. Ha, I say, HA you massive BULL-HOMO’D BUffALO. I duck my head through the head hole and the garment is digging desperately into my flesh. I range across the mirror until I see the pic of me finishing that 1st year race – oh Christ, the tank top was sweaty then, drooping on my exhausted, puny frame. OH GOD, YOU fucking TWINK, I laugh and I lift my arm to an unflexed half-bicep. YES, YOU FUCKING HEAVE. I unleash my muscles in my arm and chest, and they exert themselves into full bulge and my body expands like I’m growing into a merciless, all-reigning LORD. My cock throbs a pre-cum leak and the tank top rips across my heaving monumentality – the edges tatter like something a stage orphan would wear. I laugh and see my gut suck-clench into its knotted gloriousness. I shred the rest of the shirt from me and step from the skanky brown pose-strap until I’m hanging buff and hulking, fully un-gowned.

I held the door against my front. I felt weak and almost fell against it - my heart and mind nowhere near calm. Scott, I whispered in my head. I was dizzy everywhere - in my head, my legs, my soul. I felt something and something was threatening to make me undone.

I snare the wrestling singlet from the floor. How sexy these fuck-gay garments have been amped to be, I think. It’s a maroon so deep it’s almost black – white half-moons cut in on each flank dragging the eye from a wider point mid chest in along the front toward the navel and back out again to land on the upper thigh. The same effect works along the back above the bubbling seat. What a fucking, homo-eroting trick – making these so that they give maturing boys’ bodies such cockishness, such gratuitous accentuation of their young bats and balls. It’s ludicrous but delicious what barely disguised porn I’ll soon where. I look at my consummate mass – at all its swollenness, its thundering thighs’ might, its pendulously crotch-splendored wong and I thunder, How Fucking, Incredibly Fucking Ordained.

I step my foot into the XX-Large and, at my knee, the spandexed fabric already objects. My locomotive-thewing thigh is forty-two inches around and the dicked-up gay-suit was not meant to address such inhumanity. I command the stretch to fulfill me and it elasticizes out and over the ripples that rope the 2 feet from my knee to my loin. I lay the fabric down on my muscle and I see every HGH-forged cut between my mesa-rooted highs. I flex my thigh and a horde of corded rods lifts the deep purpled paint to a roiling sea. I stop and let the singlet go. I look at my monstrous body and the singlet hangs thrust-wrappering below my gorging man balls and weightily, erectioned mast like some kind of eccentric designer “thigh cuff.” I laugh and want to fuck 800 fucks so bad and the thought of what I’ll soon look like stretched to god-cussing paradise in this panty-waisting teen-fucked muscle suit makes me begin to further grow..

Ah SATURN, I say, FUckIng RULE the woRLd. I take four tablets from the counter and I wolf them down.

The atmosphere in the hall was deadly quiet and my head dropped and I felt a monumental question of what will I do – will I step in? What path do I take? Can I ever turn back? I wanted Scott so bad. It felt like something not quite sane. Oh, god, could his love really be expected to change my world.

I pummel the other leg into the fabric. Oh fucking cock, its slinky skankiness bulls to seven feet, strangle-groping the landsfal of my mutan-hugened thews. I ease my giant dong into the stretch and it is fucking gratifying beyond words to see the purple eggplant it makes at my v. I struggle to mount the wrestle-hip grip over my mountained rear and then admire as the white of the side circles slobber-mouths my tawny hips – me delirious with how nail-slamming narrow my buttocking groin remains. Fuck it Big Boy, I think, Fucking fuck to Heaven. The fabric bunch-wraps my ass-charged heaps – and I massage my hand under the silken lay just so that I can scratch the desirous peaks of these coleman-known Himalayas. I turn and admire the outlined elevations of these gruesome cunt-pounders. You are a Fucking Mass Boy, Beautiful, I tell myself. I push the purple and white down – and gluted hulks that other freaked bodybuilders would lust to ass-hold are exposed. Dress yourself up Monster Man, I hum and the humming is a reverberating growl in my deep, expansive body. My upper body flexes on its own and I hold it until every rutted carve raises in unimaginable massiveness. YEs, FuckGOD, oh YEs.

I pull three syringes from the shelf. With smooth movement I unload them into my cudgeling flesh. I know what they will put on me and my horse-challenging tool post-elongates further. Aurrgh Aaah, I moan. I return the needles to their tray, force the fabric back on my ass, and leer. My fangs threaten sharpened points and I am hungry. I salivate to churn into the pounds of uncooked beef that sit in my lair, and I begin to shovel my mouth as I feed. I will grow more – I am destined to rule.

My eyes remained dropped – oh, if I were in the room, I’d not see Scott. There was something begging in it, I knew, and my dick knew it too, its size falteringly retreating. Trepidation was taking what anticipation had started to give. Why do I feel this way about him – want him so bad? What do I think about me? were the thoughts swirling in my head. My breath dried in my mouth and I felt my lips begin to crack.

I’ve pig-shoveled like a hound and now smile beastfully at 7 pounds I’ve consumed. Oh Fuck, You God, Oh for the ability to FUck YoURsELF, YOU FUCK.

My face is sculpted and it is David’s in the city of Florence. The waterfall of my blond hair frames my beauty and contrasts the unlimited fleshiness of my trap-humping shoulders. I look at my cannon-weighted delts and they are a realm of heated epidermis over earth so fertile and deep that their ability to sky-iron 640 pounds is no mystery, is no wonder of the modern world. I think of my monumenting work in the gym and the devastation I cause with my weighted bulks. My dumbbell shoulder presses each lift my gargantuan pecs and endless, bunching lats away from my stripper-fucked obliqued V and pythonic appendage until my monster torso is feet into the air with each thunderous thrust. I think of the guys all around me doing as they can to resist rodding boners and erupting pure loads. The poor fucks groan-whimper pitifully to witness me and what I’ve become. I lord over all of them my monumented, nullifying mass. OH God, You pathetic wannabes, I say. I horn to myself, Oh fucking, jUpITER Muscle God, OH Fucking once feeble puke. I laugh and my stomach hardens into loaves of caking bread and my cunt-pole telescopes deeper into its aubergine hold.

I yank at the roll of fabric around my wasping, crazed midsection. I find the shoulder straps and brutally I distend the garment over me. I look at myself and I am incomprehensible. It is clear that this lycra’d annihilation will never forgive me. My torturous demands expand it muscularly in all directions and the agony of its resistance ruptures the ribs, the cock, my crowned ass, my apollo-strengthened chest. Oh God, Ryan, Oh God, I say to myself. The white halfmoons cling – wanting more, dreaming of me. Between them, my abdomen ripples a waterfall of cobbled roadway – I am impossibly flat and hard with hump after hump of saturated pull laddering to my sexualastic arching dong.

I look at my arms and they lay entirely bare at my sides. They are 25 inches around and my hands hang at my thighs. Ungodly, I think, and see them as the power that other men can’t know. I beat my fists against my dome-erected spheres and my upper arms round into volleyballs whose girths receive my ready teeth. AH, FUCK, I joyously moan. I look at my back and the layering thew-heaves drive me 4 and a half feet wide. The unitard stretches part of that way – but it’s woefully incapable of reaching all. My male-bull super V and ape-male tit loom out of the fabric and grossly lure in their tawny, sick-thickened range.

I tug up the straps and the ‘tard chasm-scales my rear and I gasp. It plows into my balls’ cracks and the added tension is exquisite. I want to use my fingers to gather the dick seep that forces from my butternutted shlong through the sheen on my lower thighs. I want to scoop it up and feed myself its protein, to make it me again, to make me huger, to make it part of my muscled mass.

YOU’re sO CloSE To a gOD, GOdfUCK, I say.

I take a bottle from the ledge and I remove the top. I tilt back my head and open my mouth. I dump them in and every pill tumbles into my throat. I drink 2 gallons of protein-watered flow and smile to know the implications it is washing down.

The moment must was nigh, but I found my breath gone. A life is a series of moments that send one’s ship one way or another on the open seas. Scott, the beautiful Finn. Scott with his curving hams, his sip-building arms, his streak perfect hair. Scott with his features that painted manly beauty. He disliked me I believed with pitiful denial… Or, he wanted me, wanted my wanting him, I unhingedly indulged. How desperately afraid I was of him… and of me.

I flex all 650 muscles a man has and am more magnificent than Arnold or any who has come before. In the gym, I lift iron for 11 hours. I work out reps and sets and watch what it does to my body. Love what it does. My humongity sucks up the abuse, the transformation. It responds. I am so fucking strong and smashing invincible.

My earliest days were limited to light weights and such limits to what I could do. As I went from 145 to 155 lbs, a small blooming feeling so softly started to grow teasing me with a light hunger it awakened. I stopped running and quit the team. I became a foolish acolyte rarely understanding what needed to be done. And I failed, looking lame. Where I tried, no change came. And I dreamed, but knew not what of. And I followed the need that had arisen that had come into germination that day. I went and I was restrained.

I look at my greater than doubled size and a lowing joyful command comes out of me. Oh Fuck, how that’s CHANGED.

As I went to 175, something heated up and I boned. I loved what I couldn’t understand. I started to curl light arms and didn’t care if they stared. I sucked etches I found and jacked in the bed clenching my stomach again and again. A muscled bulge would emerge and like some secret treasure I checked all through the day – my hand on the lift of an imperceptible quad, plumping the cushion at the top of my chest, callipering my arm under the grip of my cuff.

As I went from 175 to a 195, I had learned what so many hope they’ll get to know. I didn’t care where I’d gone to start changing my ways. It was there and would work and would make me a god. And the change came so fast, felt so good, made me strong. I buffed so studly like a too-built-up brat who just died to show… what I wore, what I bedded like a man in from the desert, what I let people know was my goal all spoke of the cockiness and muscle that was dressing me and making me strong. To just look at my arrogant lows was to see the loading manhyperness I testosteroned into my whole.

At an amped 210, I started to smolder and people fawningly told me so. Unknowns asked questions for schoolwork or strangers asked me the time – I’d hold their eyes on me as I gave my response – all the while arc’ing my ass and squeezing my chest through fuck tightened clothes, ensuring the curves of my growing build wouldn’t go unseen. In the dorm building, I went unshirted – my body cumming at its hot praise, designer briefs gathering my hot balls – to have the physique I now beheld, to be a fucking young god -- the entirety of me embraced it and I muscle-walked the hall like some porn magazine gay gone crazily horned while neighing the college swarm.

I stood lost and afraid. For so long I’d known him – his charisma, his detachment, his charm. I’d known his distant independence and his uninterpretable gestures that my be consideration. All of it had left me so confused for so long. I stood a soul eclipsed, a soul succored into selling his core. I wanted Scott. I wanted what he would give, what he would fill, what he would forgive of my mortal holes. Scott, want me, I begged in my head, won’t you want me.

I finished junior year, grown so dominant to 224. It was so strong and I had given myself a magnificent body that spoke to what I had done – its starting-to-branch shape and hardened ripples sexualized and mesmerize. It was phenomenal beyond what I could have believed. I gloried walking off campus – leering that a polo and chinos’ conservative cuts couldn’t help but still erotically show my hump-building ass, my tree-growing thighs, and my pumped-up above. I had so little aspirations, jacked on what I’d achieved – but it was nothing - the summer break would end up so glorious that three months should have been 10 years. I lifeguarded, and I knew why, to show that body that I had endowed; to sit hours in the guard’s chair, the spandexed red holding my unavoidable dong – and my muscles twitching and flexing and saying come fuck my hole. I wanted the sun to caress my porn-readied build, I wanted to plunge that inferno’ing sexiness into the cool blue; I wanted to emerge dripping, the sheeting droplets flowing over each endowed curve. God, I was going to have a summer of fun. But, it was more. More than I had expected. My lifts grew heavier and I smiled to realize why. The unexpected iron massed me like I could never have asked for more. The junk loads grew insane and what I blew was a festival – a circus that had come and every animaled beast had made me it’s home. I consumed like a pig – like an ape out of control. And I changed. I dressed solely in that masturbatorial red bikini, and hulked my mass up until 40 more pounds launched godfully out of the chair that last day – my greater mass shrinking that ballsack so tightly that it looked like I’d at last come from the stage – a bodybuilder and god given my rights, privileges, and endowments granted thereon. It was so entrancing that I fucked the 24-year-old head guard, long blond hair in my lips as her pussy hair clung to my footlong plowing dick.

I felt exhausted… who was I? I felt the drain of his magnetism. I felt the question of what I should possibly be. Nothing could happen that could change my life, could it? I puzzled. Even in my state, I told myself this was true. Would any possibility really change a thing?

Graduating as a 298-lber was an overflowing wetdream of convultant prayer. I gowned the ceremony in nothing but a beige poser, nakedness and my thrumming suit of muscled mass under the Harton-issued black robe. I celebrated that night with six smaller studs all over my ensculptured beauty. I couldn’t have imagined the power and size of it… the worshipping world that had become mine. I fucked around and had more – football fucks, jug-titted girls, an 18-year-old stud teen, a leather master taking my whip – my parking lot pole ramming into the lot of them and leaving my wriggling, ambrosia’d cream in their holes.

As a graduate god, they found me, couldn’t ignore my appeal. For 40 thousand, I shot six porn magazined spreads and subscriptions hit a rate that hadn’t been seen before. I mounted the competition dais, was the one noone had heard of and I left with the other big boys up my ass, their trophies in my arms, the fans chanting my name. I beefed off the muscle mag covers knowing it was porn again, that no monstrosity had rambasted the stands so engorged. And that it was my butt-incomprehensibilty that had explained the 27 million college-muscle issues they sold.

However, the fucking thing was, that I’d just begun to grow.

Scott, I said softly and I was ignorant to what I’d find behind that door.

Today in the gym, I load 38 plates to the bar. I entrench myself under its weight. I wear a grossed ball-bikini and oversized boots. Four guys on either side lift the load clear and I’m desperate for its heave on me. It’s immensity is pure heaviness itself, and I love it as I lower, 70 inches of quaded-hammed strength stretching around my two legs and into my schlong-hanging groin -- veins earthquake across the dense, ruptured surface of my bulldozered thrones. I churn from my low point and 365 pounds of muscle throughout my body- my torso, my ass, my haunching thews – bulge into power like a developing volcano. I churn the bar back to its original height and with one lift can see all of me growing like an astronomical being again.

In the gym today, I put 11 plates on either side of the bar. I lay under the mass and gurgle with the need for more. As the weight comes down, I feel the power immense beneath myblood-shattered pecs, girding me and rooting in the foundation of my immense redwooded back. I straighten the weight and my pantheonic tits grow-crush with twitching arousal and my tricep’s horseshoe into drawbridges slamming home, inflating past my skin. My cock is so swollen that fucks a hundred feet away can see I’m aroused.

Today in the gym, I snatch and jerk 1100 lbs. The incredible iron v that forces on my physique is astonishing to behold and I repeat this feat again and again entrancing those who surround me. The madness it bestows on me… phenomenally blasting pain and thrusting gargantuanness into every growing cell – I lift and it gives me power, it gives me God, it makes me Grow. The workout ends and I know 2 or 3 inches of veiny, hideous mass are added to my size.

Scott, I said and I was afraid more than anything before in my life to find what I most truly feared would be there.

I look at my juveniled, costumed fuckingness. This is the fucking hugest anyone has become. I let my arms rage at my sides and let my muscles bull-shout their dominance. So endowed as I am, I am hulked with terrific mammoth bulges. I dwarf any of the thousand Greek-massed statues littered around the galleries of Europe. I dwarf the pose-pukes who take the Mr. O dais.

I grip my great chest through the singlet, pressing the spandex far underneath my continental shelf. Ah, RYAN, I say, What you have done. I smile and my hands go muscularly down my physique to arrive and admire my unworldly groin. I dig with the fabric into my balls and I hold each in one hand. My master schlong rocks in its hold, timping hard upward in a regular paused beat. Then while I push my balls back with one hand, I elongate down my shaft with the other until it’s set as massive as it can go and the confirmed rigidity achieved is pure steel.

I look in the mirror and I am mad with pleasure and erotic happiness. I am euphoric at what I have done. A hallelujah that only the King’s of old could command sings in my joyous, gargantuan physique. I AM ALL THIS, I rumble internally with the pleasure of ten thousand fans. I AM ALL THIS. I look and I am so big and each height and swell is beyond what it rationally can be – each muscle crucifyingly vein-mapped by a vast irrigation of gianticating chemblood. I have pulverized myself into what I never dreamed I’d become. I look at myself, and have actualized destiny, have let myself be glorifyingly, mind-bogglingly monstrously Atlasianed God.



I stepped into the room and Scott’s and my eyes met like gems exchanging light. And with that glance, I see how truly beautiful he stand and I see that he is...

I have only begun, Scott. I flex into a knotted expanding Gargantuan and the singlet explodes from my shredded mass. I rEVerBERaTE WitH SOUnD like a Tuba’d chorus BLASTING from My SOUL and I CUM LIKE A SACRED BULL AS MY NAKED MAGNIFICENCE CONTINUES TO GROW.

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