By Max Mann

Tracy walked over to the only slot machine inside this small bar and wondered why it was there. It didn't seem realistic, as it had no slots to put any money in or to exit from, and didn't list any payouts above the three windows. Also, in place of a steel rod for an arm was a replica of a real one, albeit one belonging on a bodybuilder.

The arm drew him over. Burdened with his asexual moniker, he'd grown up proving over and over he was masculine, even after he'd come out. He didn't truly enjoy the sports he played, talented to make the football and baseball teams in high school but not good enough for college scholarships in either. Tracy felt most comfortable in the weight room, watching his body develop, feeling the pump in every muscle as he lifted more and more and grew stronger. But although he enjoyed muscle, seeing bodybuilders in magazines or on television troubled him. On one hand, no one could deny big muscles as a sign of manliness, but on the other he felt there was a campiness about huge men in teeny posers strutting and flexing to music in front of thousands of adoring, screaming, mostly male fans.

He missed the gym. No matter that he enjoyed his job, he worked many long hours and could barely make time for some cardio work on his home treadmill. He kept a healthy diet, so his body stayed trim, but his muscles started softening over the past year. They were never big to begin with, but now they jiggled a bit when he exercised...that is, when he could exercise.

He also missed the men. The regulars that he'd see day to day, and the ones who'd show up from time to time, so many different kinds, from lean fitness-model types to beefy powerlifters, but all with the same devotion to muscle as he once had. Maybe he could find it again by taking this new position in Nevada.

His cross-country drive had almost reached his destination, with about three hours driving left, but he needed to refill his gas tank one last time just past the Utah border. As he filled the tank he basked in the early afternoon sun, feeling the desert's heat seep into his skin. He also felt strong hunger pangs, and learned from the attendant the bar across the street served decent food. He'd just finished a cheeseburger with fries and some cold Mexican beer with an extra slice of lime when he noticed the bandit's one arm.

Although he enjoyed gambling on his occasional jaunts to Atlantic City, he stuck to table games. Better to use his mind than sit idly watching wheels spin. Yet that arm...why here? Was this just for fun? He turned to the bartender and asked, "Anyone win on this thing?"

"Dunno," he said with an Appalachian twang. "Never seen anyone win while I'm around. Owner put it in one day a while back, just wastin' space far as I'm concerned. No one even tries it, doesn't give any prize out."

"Yeah," Tracy grunted. But still...he grabbed the arm by the wrist and felt a small, but noticeable, surge go through him. Not electric; psychic? He yanked it down, and when it popped back up...he shook his head. Did it just...flex? Naw, couldn't...damn, this long-distance drive had him imagining things.

But there was no imagining a barbell appearing in the first window, then the second, and finally the third. Bells rung for ten seconds, then a disembodied voice, deep and resonant, said from a speaker, "Congratulations. You've hit the jackpot. You'll receive your prize within the next twenty-four hours."

Tracy muttered, "What the? Twenty-four hours? I only stopped here for gas and food."

The bartender said, "Damn, that sucks. Don't even know what you could be getting. Could be millions of bucks, or some fancy sportscar."

"Yeah, but it could be a cheap souvenir. Tell you what. Why don't I let you have what I win as a tip?"

"Aw, come on, what if it is a big money prize? Much as I'd like to keep it, you shouldn't walk away empty-handed."

"Then how about half? If it's a car or something, we'll sell it and split the proceeds. Deal?" Tracy stuck out his hand.

"Deal." As they shook, the bartender felt the same surge go up his arm and through his body. Tracy gave him his cell phone number to contact him.

"By the way, what's your name?"

"Um...Tracy," he said with his head slightly down.

The bartender laughed. "Well, I'll be...haven't met too many men with names like ours. Mine's Leslie, but everyone calls me Les."

During the drive to Reyes, Tracy didn't see many cars coming or going, and at times he felt tempted to pull off to the side of the road, take off all his clothes, and enjoy the solitude of the desert. He'd never been a nudist, and didn't know why he'd had this sudden urge. And each time the thought would go away, it would come back, more insistent, more enjoyable. His cock would grow harder, threatening to tear through his jeans. His heart raced, sweat beading down his face. Finally, unable to resist, just an hour away from his destination, he found a rock formation and parked his car next to it. He walked between the car and rocks and knelt so he couldn't be seen from the road, threw down his jeans, and stroked his hard meat in the open air. Within seconds, he gasped as his cock shot stream after stream of thick semen from his aching loins, sizzling as it hit the hot sandstone.

When he got back in his car, he saw a message on his cell phone. He didn't recognize the phone number at first, until he remember the bar and the prize. He dialed the number and asked for Les.

"This is he. Is this Tracy?"

"Yeah...you sound different." He heard a ruckus in the background.

Les yelled in the background, "Hey, guys, the pool table can't hold that much weight! Two or three at a time! Oh, yeah...did you get your prize yet?"

"No. You mean it's there?"

Les chuckled. "I'm gonna hafta thank you for sharing it with me."

"What is it?"

"You mean you haven't gotten it?" He chuckled again. "Oh, don't worry, it's on its way. And you'll love it."

"But what is it?"

Now Les moaned. "Aw, yeah...mmm, so good..." And the phone disconnected.

Tracy grew restless as he drove away. He wondered what was that conversation about, and what happened to Les. Those last few seconds...sure sounded sexual. Was that the prize? Some escort, whether female or male? How would you split that?

An hour later, he drove into the parking lot of the Parthenon hotel and casino, where he would be staying while he found a new home. Not very big, but it had extended-stay rooms. He walked up to the front desk with bags in tow, and noticed just one male clerk whose name tag said "Andrea"; it also gave his hometown of Florence, Italy. What an odd day, Tracy thought...the slot machine, meeting other men with feminine names, the desert orgasm. He eyed the clerk as he typed. Five o'clock shadow framing a chiseled face, sleepy brown eyes, hair longer than he normally liked.

"Do you have your credit card?" Andrea asked with carefully worded English.

Tracy reached down for his wallet and tried to remember which card he used to book the reservation. When he took the Discover card out, he looked up to see the top button of Andrea's shirt unbuttoned and his neck...

Wait a minute, Tracy thought. His neck wasn't that big a minute ago. He blinked and shook his head.

"Is everything all right, sir?"

"Yeah...just a long couple of days driving. I'll be fine once I'm settled in."

Andrea presented the keycard and called for a bellman. As he waved, Tracy watched the bulge of a muscular arm barely held in by the sleeve peak and threaten to burst through the upper sleeve. He turned to the bellman, a college student whose nametag read "Dustin", and said, "Show our guest to the Zeus suite."

Tracy did a double-take when he heard the name. Well, he thought, maybe their extended-stay rooms are named for Greek gods. This is the Parthenon, after all. As they rode up the elevator, Tracy asked the sandy-haired hunk, "Did your mom name you after Dustin Hoffman?"

"Yeah, but everyone wants to call me Dusty, like that singer Dusty Springfield. Remember her?" Tracy nodded; another asexual name. "Do you think I look anything like a woman?"

The question took Tracy aback, but before he could answer Dustin moved in front of him and said, "Don't I look like a real man to you? Sometimes I just want to tear off this uniform, walk around naked, flexing all my muscles, jacking off my big cock..."

Tracy gulped as he realized the young man who'd entered the elevator with him wasn't the same man now. The uniform Dustin mentioned barely held in a body of obscene proportions, and a cock stretched to near his knee throbbed painfully under the cloth.

The elevator stopped on the top floor, and as the doors opened Tracy hustled down the hall, panicking as Dustin rolled the cart along. He dropped the room key on the ground, and as he bent over he felt the bellman's hand caress his ass. "Don't worry, I'm at your service," Dustin said as he licked his lips. He bent over as he picked up the key, ripping the pants seam between his buttocks, opened the door, and led the way in. Tracy saw the stud had no underwear on as his glutes bounced, and when he averted his eyes he gasped.

This couldn't be his room. There had to be a mistake. He couldn't afford to live in this space. The lavish furnishings, the floor-to-ceiling windows with the mountain view, the white grand piano. He opened the doors to his bedroom, featuring a mahogany four-poster bed with red velvet curtains fit for royalty. The bath was solid marble, and a heated, indoor swimming pool sat in a room nearby. His heart beat faster with each surprise.

Dustin asked, "What else can I do for you?"

"Uh...nothing, thanks." Tracy dug in his wallet for a couple of bucks to hand him, but instead of dollar bills he found crisp new fifties and hundreds. He took one out slowly, fearing it to be counterfeit, and when he looked back up...where were the pants? Dustin now stood naked from the waist down, with a massive half-hard cock leading him like a divining rod between two thighs the size of telephone poles, his shirt open with cobbled abs rippling under two loaves of pecs. He moved forward, taking the money and tucking it into a coat pocket, then leaned in and kissed Tracy's astonished mouth. He took Tracy's hand and placed it on his expanding truncheon.

But Tracy backed away, afraid and upset. "Get away from me, you freak! What's going on here, what are you doing? Get out...OUT!" Dustin left the room, his bubble butt jiggling, but said before closing the door, "Remember, sir, we're all at your service."

Tracy laid on the bed, trying to make sense of what just happened. The money, the room...and Dustin. How could a young man grow spontaneously into this Hulk-like stud and not even realize it, much less care? He managed to fall asleep after a short while, but startled himself awake after dreaming of a variety of men experiencing the same growth as he walked past them...a grey-haired businessman talking on his cell phone, a mustached cop on horseback, three teen skateboarders, a goateed jogger wearing headphones, a group of construction workers...no matter what kind of man, all turned into horse-hung, hypermuscled studs in a instant.

And they all desired him.

Tracy paced around the suite, muttering to himself. "Did I step into the Twilight Zone? There's gotta be an explanation. Men don't just grow like that," he snapped his fingers, "they just don't! And my wallet...where did all that money come from?" His stomach rumbled. "Damn, I'm hungry...I wonder how the buffet is. Maybe I should order room service...I guess I can afford it...take a shower before it arrives. I can't let this get to me." He picked up the menu, then called to order a medium-rare filet mignon. After his shower, he put on the white terry-cloth robe hanging in the closet.

He heard a knock, then an accented male voice said, "Room service." He opened the door to find a waiter with a cart full of food. "Excuse me, but I didn't order all this." He looked at the name on the badge...Jean from Lyon, France. Uh oh.

"Our chef prepared this especially for you. I'm sure you will find everything quite appetizing. Please, allow me to serve you. It would be my honor." Jean's thick, moist lips curved into an inviting smile.

Tracy sat at the head of the teakwood table as he watched the waiter deftly present the meal. Lobster bisque with saffron, the filet mignon with haricots vert and garlic mashed potatoes, and creme brulee for dessert. And with each dish he presented, Jean's body changed from wiry to built to musclebound. Clothes disappeared as well, until Jean ended up with a leather harness strapped over his massive torso and a leather jock that barely encased his uncut manhood.

He managed to eat after the waiter left, his hand shaking occasionally as he raised the fork to his dry lips. He refilled his wine glass several times until he'd emptied the magnum, and by that time Tracy felt light-headed. He kept thinking about those growing men, but in his tipsy state he no longer feared it.

In fact, he welcomed it. They weren't harming or threatening him. They seemed to enjoy their bodies, or having him watch them. How many of them have grown since he's been here? Could there be a full hotel and casino of nothing but musclemen waiting for him?

He had to find out.

Tracy walked carefully down the hall to the elevator, feeling the wine's effect. He had trouble focusing his eyes as he looked in the mirror next to the doors. When the opened, he stumbled inside and pressed the casino button. It stopped on the next floor, and a pair of average young men walked in, chatting and laughing about a bachelor party. Tracy stood in the corner and watched the two.

The blond said, "Even if her tits were fake, they were awesome, man. Big, fat nipples too. You're so lucky you got to feel those up."

The doors closed as the brown-haired guy said, "Yeah, but her ass was even better. Firm, hard, tight. Would loved to have sunk my meat between those cheeks."

"You think she could've taken all of yours? You got the fuckin' biggest cock I've seen on another dude, next to mine."

"Maybe she couldn't...but I'll bet you can. I'll bet your ass could take two feet of dick, it's so fuckin' strong."

Tracy watched the two start to grow from the moment the doors opened, and as they swelled he could sense their attitudes change. So unaware, and so accepting at the same time.

"Two feet? My ass could take two yard-long cocks at the same time." The blond squatted and the seat of his jeans burst like a balloon. Twin glutes bigger than honeydew melons jutted back, a light dusting of hair enhancing their musculature.

The brunet licked his lips as his cock also burst from his jeans, not quite two feet in length but thicker than Tracy's forearm. He ripped off his tattered shirt, showing the same vascularity in his enhanced chest and arms as in his cock.

"Damn, Jamie, I gotta fuck you right here." He grabbed his cock and with a mighty thrust slammed over half inside his new fuck buddy.

Jamie panted, "Aw, yeah, Drew! Take my muscle ass."

The doors opened, and an aroused Tracy walked out, leaving the two new lovers inside the elevator, still growing as they fucked. He thought about their names as he staggered away...Jamie and Drew. Masculine, yet he'd heard of women with those names as well.

But he didn't know their names before they started growing. And when was the last time he saw a woman? He scratched his head as he walked into the casino, stopping at a row of slot machines where a trio of middle-aged men sat pressing buttons and watching the reels spin. He smiled as he stared at their growth, the three so mesmerized by the games before them that they didn't see their chests expand so large that their shirts burst open, exposing hirsute Herculean pecs with crevasses deep enough to hide a deck of playing cards.

Tracy headed to the men's room and stood at a urinal as men entered and exited, each one morphing within seconds into phenomenal bodybuilders. He saw an elderly man shuffle slowly in, and with each step his body grew stronger and studlier. He stood next to Tracy, sequoia-sized thighs forcing the legs to spread apart as he pissed from a cock reaching past his knee. He looked at the man, still showing his age in his face, even with tautened skin. The old man smirked as he shook his cock and said, "How'd you like to fuck an eighty-eight year-old muscleman?"

Before Tracy had a chance to say anything, a pair of red-headed muscle twins with boyish faces came up to the gentleman, each grabbing a buttock. The one closer to Tracy said, "How about taking both of us on, grampa?" The lusty trio soon became four, then six, then more oversexed giants joined in the enveloping orgy of muscle and cock. Tracy sidled his way past the throng without washing his hands, the sinks blocked by sucking and fucking behemoths.

Back on the casino floor, he stood at a crap table for a short time, eying all sorts of growth, from the croupiers' muscles spilling through their vests. to the shooter's arm flexing massive biceps as he rolled, to the waiter whose tattered toga couldn't cover his pendulous cock to the delight of all viewing. He looked over to the next table, where the game had stopped and a pair of croupiers fucked a pit boss from each end on the table as the players joined in a circle jerk around them. The two had trouble trying to rip the boss' cheap polyester suit off him, so he was stuck inside a jacket and pants several sizes too small for his new frame. Tracy giggled, thinking he looked like a cartoon character who got stuck inside a washing machine.

He walked over to an empty blackjack table where a middle-aged man, Pat from Brooklyn, greeted him with a wink. Tracy put down one-thousand dollars, and watched the mustached gent slowly expand as he counted the money first, then the chips. He pushed them to Tracy, who placed a one-hundred dollar bet. Pat dealt Tracy a king and jack. Tracy blinked and shook his head. Even the men on the cards had grown muscles! Pat turned up eighteen. Tracy smiled as he watched Pat's delts rip through his shirt. More hands followed, each one won by Tracy. He thought it was like watching Pat play strip blackjack as clothes disappeared until the blue-eyed, grey-haired adonis was nude behind the table.

Then Tracy received two unfamiliar cards. Also musclemen wearing crowns, but in the upper left corner was the letter P. Princes? He asked Pat, "Are there any queens in the deck?"

Pat asked, "What are queens?"

"You know, the women with crowns..."

"What are women?"

Tracy quickly sobered as he grew fearful. What was happening to him? To them? Was it everywhere? He wanted to escape, turn back time, do something...

"It's your turn."

Tracy waved his hand over the cards. Pat shook his head and again said, "It's your turn."

Then another man said it, and another, and soon the entire floor was chanting, "It's your turn." Tracy stumbled from his chair as he tried to run, but a wall of musclemen soon encircled him. His heart raced as he panicked. He tried covering his ears to no avail. Blood and adrenaline rushed through his body. His vision blurred.

Tracy gasped.

An orgasmic boom spread from Tracy's spot, as within nanoseconds every muscleman's cock stiffened and spewed thick jizz into the air and onto each other. Many fell to the floor, screaming in ecstasy, keeping their mouths open in case another man's cream shot into it. The reek of semen filled the air.

Once they were spent, the men looked in Tracy's direction. A being stood there, slowly flexing muscles larger than any of the studs there.

His legal name was still Tracy, but he really needed none. They would call him master...king...god. They would worship the biggest arms, the broadest shoulders, the widest back, the thickest thighs, the roundest ass, the longest cock of the handsomest, most desirable man in the universe.

As the men gaped in awe at their new leader, a cell phone woke Tracy from the reverie of his new body. He had been posing for the last few minutes, for his own sake more than his disciples. With each flex, he felt the amazing strength and beautiful power he now possessed. A young muscleboy found the phone and presented it to Tracy. As he answered it, he flexed his arm for his followers.

"Hello." His low voice caused erections to grow anew.

A few seconds of heavy breathing, then, "Tracy?"

He recognized Les' voice, and he knew what Les had meant earlier. And he also knew that the world outside the doors of the Parthenon was still intact. But here stood the foundation for a palace, a temple, devoted to the perfection of man as deemed by Tracy. As his followers slowly placed their fingers, hands, and lips all over his ripped, vascular, ultra-Olympian body, caressing his phallus as the prize they all sought, he laughed and said one word which made Les and every man surrounding him erupt in orgasm again.

"Jackpot." •

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