Jack and the Beanstalk

The Second Bean


By Chip Masterson

Jack awoke in the dimly-lit semi-private room of a sex club he'd always passed but never before dared enter. Passed out or sleeping around him were seven hot studs, none as big as he but all ripped and of heart-stopping beauty. Dried come plastered their bodies, the walls, and hung like icicles from the ceiling. The floor was littered with crusty condoms. And for the first time in his life, Jack awoke refreshed and ready for bear.

He rubbed his hardened abs and reveled in the way his hand bumped over them. They growled with hunger. He found some clothes he dimly remembered were his; he must have run down to the laundry room at his building and taken some bodybuilder's oversized clothes out of the dryer. Funny how everything after he left his apartment was a bit of a blur. Must just be a side effect.

The overscale workout clothes barely fit him, hugging his curved pecs and hanging off them like curtains. The sweats clung to his hard ass and stretched around his quads and thighs. There was no way to conceal his cock without strapping it down, so he blushed and left. The staff of the 665 Club applauded him; he turned red as a stoplight.

He had no money to buy food with but his hunger growled and gnawed at him so he ate the second bean, which he'd managed to keep hidden in the room. Immediately he felt a surge of strength and aggression--and a bright idea.

Down the alley he saw an armored car start up, having taken its delivery. He blocked the alley and waited. The car idled up and the driver put his hand on his gun and ordered him to step aside. Jack did; and it started to pass. Half-way past Jack rammed his hands hard into the side of the car: and smiled as it skidded sideways into the opposing wall. He felt his back swell, individual muscles coming into their own, and the cut-back sleeves of the heavy sweatshirt rode up over his delts, which throbbed and competed with his biceps for size and fullness. He like this. A lot.

The driver revved the motor and the truck jerked forward so Jack pressed harder: and stopped it. The torqued wheels grabbed at the rough asphalt, clutched and then were forced to spin, grinding into the surface. Because Jack kept holding it in place. He leaned into it and heard the walls of the truck groan. His quads began to rip through the already tense fabric and his pecs danced as he increased his pressure.

The truck shook violently as the driver kept trying to dislodge it. Jack secured it with one hand and with his other cocked fist rammed the side: and it caved in slightly. The shotgun passenger got out and stared in confusion, gun trembling, and yelled at the driver, "It's that guy! Just the fuckin' guy, by himself!" And the guy had a hardon.

Jack leaned with his one hand into the truck as white, and darker, smoke billowed around him, and the truck shivered. He took his hitting arm and flexed his biceps at the guard. The huge muscle didn't just tighten up into an iron-hard double-peaked ball of might, it actually grew from the flex, the long-head peak thickening and growing taller, while the short-head peak bulged with fullness, forcing a thick vein to the surface. His triceps hung off him like a small animal. A widening patch of moisture bloomed at the guard's crotch, and he dropped his gun and ran. The driver began pumping the accelerator madly, screaming "What is it? What's happening to me?"

Jack laughed and went back to hammering the steel of the truck: with each blow from his fist the shallow depression grew a little deeper and above the roar of the engine and squeal of the shredding tires it rang like a big bell. The wheels shot their wad of hot streaming rubber down the alley and as the rims bit into the hardtop the engine sputtered and stalled. Jack hit it again, and again. And again.

An overstressed rivet popped and a small portion of the side panel pulled outward along the roofline. Jack reached his fingers in pulled at the narrow lip. He slammed his fist into the truck to make it stick out farther, and when he had enough to grab he started tugging. The plate groaned and made a popping sound: the sound of fissures opening up inside the stainless steel. The wall bent downward, and Jack worked it along to the the corner, where more rivets shot out like gunfire into the brick wall opposite. Using both he folded the inch-thick steel downward, then curled it again into itself, rolling the flat plate up like a sardine tin. His forearms exploded with veins and welling muscle. And the metal couldn't stop his fingers as they forced it to buckle.

The driver held a trembling gun out the door fired. The bullet careened wide and richoted down the alley. Jack reached over and grabbed the gun in his mitt, and squeezed. More veins grew over his thin skin, muscles writhed like snakes and the gun-metal cracked under the pressure, and cracked again. He dropped it in pieces on the ground, reached in for a bag of money and looked for an escape. Sirens approached. Squatting down, he jumped up: and his quads carried him almost to the top of the two-story building. The money in one hand, he grabbed the end of the building with the other and pulled himself up. And took off over the roofs.

The cut-open neck of his sweatshirt was seriously stretched out of shape, exposing mounding traps and the thick shelf at the top of his pecs, along with a dozen muscles along the top of his back. It stretched to bursting around his pecs and lats, but touched nothing below them. His waist seemed to have sucked in even further, as if hardening obliques and intercostals compressed it like pythons. He dropped down into another alley and approached a diner's back door. A waiter on break dropped his cigarette when he saw Jack approach and unconsciously grabbed his cock and nipple. Jack let the man blow him, but his driving hunger took the pleasure out of the act so withheld his come, and paid for three dozen eggs, four top sirloin steaks (rare), a large pot of oatmeal and a pound of bacon. He consumed the meal as it came out of the kitchen, in the alley. Which was lucky: for he instantly started to grow as the food hit his system.

His shoulders broadened, and above that his delts swelled into spherical hugness, tearing the cotton jersey in half. His pecs rolled and twitched, deepening by three full hard inches. His arms shimmered with pain and the muscles swelled under the skin like trapped beasts, inches of muscle growing denser even as it bulked outward. His glutes grew rounder, harder, splitting the ass-seam of his tortured sweats even as the holes already opened by his rippling thighs shredded wider. His hands and feet grew longer, his calves rose outward in thick lobes. Everything moved into a greater symmetry, balance, and size. Except his cock: that shredded through his pants and rose up like a 120mm cannon on the deck of the Indiana, preparing for war. Something that looked like a sack of lemons hung off it. Not only was it now over a foot long, it was nearly that around, and rose rigid straight up into the air.

His face hurt: looking in the grease-smeared window he could see his eyes had moved slightly farther apart, he had cheek, and his jaw was squarer. It was hard to tell, but it looked like his teeth were even whiter; and his extra chin had disappeared. Was his neck actually longer? Certainly his hair was thicker: it was hard to move, like wire. He got harder looking at his reflection, forgetting that it was his.

His belly didn't swell an inch with all the food, and he realized it would only last him a couple of hours. Still, he was horny as a herd of goats. He'd read about a leather club nearby. They're probably in the middle of a weekend debauche, he thought. Maybe I better make a little visit.

Ducking down alleys to avoid frightening passers-by (until he could get used to it, at least), Jack found the back door to the Dungeon. No handle? No problem. He pressed one hand into the hollow metal door and felt it collapse under his gentle pressure, ripping off its hinges and twisted deadbolt and sliding like a strange toboggan down a steep flight of unlit stairs. Leather men scrambled to the stairwell angrily, then stopped cold: everything stopped except their cocks, which sprang to attention at the signt of this perfect man.

No one had ever been so monstrously disparate in size (his chest was nearly four times his waist, his quads half as big as his chest) yet also strangely, compellingly symmetrical. As if each muscle were expertly cast in bronze as what the ultimate muscle could possibly be. And he hadn't even eaten his third bean yet.

He walked down the stairs, having to duck and squeeze himself through, and entered the play area. Every master turned with contempt, saw him, and fell on his knees in worship of this effortlessly superior man. Nearly two dozen men struggled past each other to serve him: and he swelled now with pride at all these hot musclemen wanting him, craving him, drooling and butt-watering for him. Two slaves couldn't help themselves and shot loads right where they were tied up.

Nobody could fit Jack's beanstalk into his mouth but the fisting bottoms were a nice snug fit. Men passed out, twitching, as he rammed his meat into man after man, trailing dickspit that pumped out again and again in waves of orgasmic frenzy. Four men rubbed their bodies, their cocks and their hands over his body at once, coming all over his hard muscles as they ground themselves against it. Only the biggest could fuck him: it took at least ten inches just to get past his glutes. These he all wore out long before he got tired, working their heavy meat with his clenching ass, writhing and rippling his abs as he squeezed the come out, forcing them to ejaculate again and again, rubbing themselves raw when the Crisco ran out and frothing in addictive madness for his sex.

As they law exhausted, yet still hungering for him, he began posing to finish them off. He hit a double biceps and their eyes rolled into their heads at the marble-hardness striations of his separating muscle. He spread his lats from the front and others succumbed to the darkness at his pecs splitting and bunching, at the angle his lats left his carved abdomen. He simple held his arm at his side and flexed it up and down, his triceps sticking out and stretching the skin only to thicken and spread as he straightened his arm. The peak of his biceps almost shadowed by a delt that made Ronnie Coleman look anemic finished off the last one. Some of them came in their sleep.

Jack was hungry again. He could make some pants out these slings.... •

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