"Fucking CUNT!" he screamed, punching the wall, easily breaking through it. In the heat of his anger, he didn't even feel the pain in his hand -- he'd taken a lot worse as a lineman in college -- but then his rage wanted fresh motivation, so he began looking for things to piss him off: stolen money, broken property -- "Just let that bitch have taken anything of MINE," he thought ominously, "And she'll see some fuckin' anger."

She hadn't touched any of his weightlifting equipment -- lucky for her -- or his heavybag, which he beat on for a bit, the heavy thuds of his punches echoing off the wall where her gym mats and Step-stuff had been stored. She'd also left the big, ugly mirror -- as she had called it -- hating it from the moment he'd bought it. "It makes me look FAT," she'd always complained, even though that was precisely why he'd bought it, because it made HIM look even wider than he was. Made him look thick. Made her look fat. "Not the mirror," he said under his breath now, remembering.

She'd left the desk, but taken the computer. The entertainment center was hers, but the components had been his, and his equipment had been stacked carefully in the empty space and dusty corner. Taken the lamps, but left the candles -- that only pissed him off a little. But she'd emptied out the bathroom, and that infuriated him.

His one concession had always been his hair. The one thing he took pride in. The one --perhaps feminine -- pleasure in which he indulged. Raised in the images of Fabio, Lorenzo Lamas -- hell, even Tarzan -- Mark grew his hair to shoulder length. Thick and wavy, it could rightly be called a mane -- and the chicks loved it! Flirting with him always started with the girl playing with his hair, and ended with it smothering her face while he fucked her. Not that was he a kind, or tender lay; sex was about dominance with him, proving to her that HE was in control. And his hair was his bait. He kept it in a ponytail at work -- in the corporate ad world, though his boss was too afraid of him to ever say it might be inappropriate -- and also when he played ball. Though again, his size kept any comments at bay.

And now, that bitch he'd been dating -- even stupidly allowed to move in ("That's what I get for thinkin' with my dick," he thought.) -- had taken all of the hair care products. All the shampoos, the conditioners, the hot oil treatments. All that money down the drain; he couldn't admit to the guys how much money he spent on hair products, of all things! He could never let them see that weakness. If he hadn't been angry already, that alone would've started his rage. As it was, it just stoked the fire. Fucking cunt.

But she'd left him a note. He found it when he inspected the desk. In place of the missing computer was a short note in her hand. "Mark," it read. "I've taken my things and gone. I'm sorry I have to do it like this…" (something was written here then scribbled out) "…please do not try to contact me. It's over. Please." Then she'd signed it. Then a PS -- "A PS of all things," he thought. "In a breakup letter. What a stupid bitch." "This package came special delivery as I was moving out. I signed for it. Goodbye."

Off the side of the desk he found the package, plain brown wrapper type. Closer inspection found it from the 64th Street Gym. Mark grunted. "What does THAT fuckin' faggot want?" he asked himself, thinking of that new manager, that bleach blonde muscle-bound fag who was turning HIS gym -- MARK'S gym! -- into some queer boy spandex club. Man, it had been GREAT standing outside that guy's office as Edward tore him a new hole! Mark hoped that his old frat president would join him in a little fag-bashing when he got back from his trip. First that blonde muscle-queen, then that little skinny priss from the locker room. That red-haired freak in the spandex. Spandex. Gym wear for faggots. "I shoulda just beaten the shit out of him then," he thought. "Spared him the wait."

This was good. Finding a focal point for his anger was good. He couldn't do anything about Rachel, but he COULD kick the shit out of that little queen from the gym. Mark was smiling as he ripped the package top off. A note, in square, block letters by someone who pressed hard as he wrote: "Mark -- I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot, and I hope you'll accept this package along with my apologies. Of course, I'll be all too happy to hear your opinions of the changes over the next few days, and happy to accept your input. Enjoy! --Gino."

Mark smirked and dug through the package. On top was a gym brochure, which he largely ignored -- only glancing briefly at the cover, an architect's rendition of the new gym front -- and underneath that he found the box divided in half. On one side a toiletries bag, and loose items on the other. "What the fuck?" he said, as he pulled out the bag. A protein bar fell into the empty box space, catching Mark's attention. "Okay, cool," he said, opening it and casually eating it as he examined the toiletry bag. Fag or not, free food was free food.

Unzipping it, Mark found the bag contained several bottles: shampoo, conditioner, hot oil treatments, everything he'd been missing a moment ago, and not just drug-store items, top of the line brands. "All right," he said. "Score two for Gino." Without realizing it, he released a little of his anger. It was gonna be hard to hate this guy if he kept doing the right things. Well, he reasoned, chuckling, he could still hate the little red-haired queer.

The protein bar was gone like that, and Mark reached for another. This one was a different flavor, but he hardly noticed. He was looking around the room as he ate, at all the missing furniture and empty space. He couldn't look anymore. He was suddenly restless. Finishing the second bar, he took a third and wandered to the back bedroom, the weightroom. He felt like he did when he'd had too much caffeine.

No, not caffeine. He was horny. That was it. He was feeling horny. Mixed there with his aggression, his dick started to rise, and he unconciously held it with his free hand, feeling it grow beneath his trousers. He may not have had the biggest dick in the world, but he dared anybody to say that to him. A big fucker like him. He watched himself finish the protein bar and gently fiddle with his cock in the big, ugly mirror. The one that always made him look a little wider.

He was okay with the way he looked, big and bulky. Pushing thirty or not, he was still a contender. Maybe he wasn't as big as he'd been in his prime -- his senior season of ball, THEN he'd been big, tipping the scale at a bulky 260, as opposed to the 230 he was now. And maybe his belly swelled a little more, but he challenged anybody to take him on. Suddenly, Mark flexed into the big, ugly mirror, a crab shot, showing his traps and his shoulders. He could clearly see his cock pushing against his dress pants, casting a shadow down his thigh. It called to him. Swallowing the last of the protein bar, he ripped his pants open and grabbed his aching dick, yanking at it with a demanding hunger. He was barely able to glance at himself in the mirror before he shot.

His orgasm was monstrous. Unstoppable. Flagrant. He came like he never had before, with a force and erotic power that was almost blinding in its intensity. If not for the sheer power of his legs, he would've fallen to his knees. "Fuck," he heaved, still pumping a bit more jizz out. He saw himself in the mirror and almost felt embarrassed. Fortunately, there was no girlfriend to catch him, no one to know but his reflection, so Mark avoided guilt, wiped his hands on a sweat towel, and tucked his sensitive cock back into his pants, catching a look and flexing a little before leaving the room, strangely energized.

Walking back to the living room, he realized he wasn't angry anymore -- "Trust a good jerk to relieve stress," he thought. "SHE never gave me a climax that good." -- and he FELT good. Really good. Big. Pumped. He laughed. He felt pumped. Instead of exhausting him, like cumming usually did, he felt primed. He found himself back at the desk, looking again in the package from the gym.

He pulled out a magazine: Monsters of Muscle, a morphed-out picture of Nasser el Sonbaty on the cover, his arms impossibly large. Mark's cock twitched, but instead of putting the magazine down, he fanned through the first couple of pages. These guys were massive, pic after pic of 250 plus-pound, bloated muscle. Mark leaned back in his desk chair, and studied. He felt himself getting harder, but ignored it, instead of rationalizing it.

He read the article -- which is to say, he looked at the pictoral -- of the recent Olympia contest, those massive men in skimpy posing trunks. Even at his size, Mark secretly envied them their builds. His muscle was bulky, undefined. A lineman's. Their bodies were big -- bigger than him -- and still ripped to shreds. His body was built for power, for hitting, theirs to pose, to perfect. He could never stand in front of an audience and pose, much less in the barely concealing trunks these paragons wore.

He found himself touching his cock while he flipped the pages, trying to imagine how it would feel to go head to head with those guys. To be on that level. To hear the audience scream as he flexed…

He shot his load then, in his pants, his orgasm as intense as before, causing him to flex his entire body. The magazine fell to the floor as he twitched in the chair. Flexing, flexing, the seams of his shirt suddenly straining against the bulge of his biceps, popping the top button of his shirt, then the next down, and then the next as he expanded his rib cage. The feeling of his sleeves bursting as he flexed his guns, like a fantasy come true. The sound of his pants tearing down the ass.

When the orgasm subsided, he collapsed back in the chair, panting. "What the fuck?" he said. And he knew something had happened the second he lifted his arm to touch his head. Even with his eyes closed, he knew.

His arm was heavier.

He actually gasped when his saw it. When he opened his eyes, and looked at the arm lifted before him -- HIS arm! -- and saw how the sleeve had torn at the seam, and the muscle that bulged out, he gasped. He was bigger. He could FEEL it. "What the fuck?"

He nearly lost his balance when he stood to run to the weightroom, the distribution of weight so different on his body. And when he got a good look at himself in the big, ugly mirror, he froze. It wasn't that he was that much larger, but the shape was different. Where he'd been blocky, and gorilla built, he saw now through his torn shirt that he had a "v." A fucking "V!" Never, NEVER had that before.

He loved how he felt when he tore out of the shirt, ripping it open like Superman in a phone booth, exposing his thickly muscled chest and his blocky abs. He could see the outline of his abs! His mother fucking, where have then been all his life abs! He'd been a well-gutted lineman since high school -- "Abs are for fags!" had always been his adopted motto -- but now that he was seeing them, he wished they were better. He was gonna have to work on them harder. Maybe it was time for a new motto.

He had to tear the dress pants off, too, his thighs too large to pass through. His legs had always been thickly muscled -- to hold the bulk of his upper body -- but the shape there too had changed. The big, ugly mirror didn't lie. His calves jutted out, sloping down to his thin ankle, the sweep of his quad curving back to his narrow, newly defined waist. His tight boxer shorts -- perviously baggy -- straining to hold his growing package.

Mark jumped on the scale. When it settled on "253," he said, "Holy fuck." That morning, at the gym, he'd weighed only 234. It took him a few seconds to do the math, but he ended up with a nineteen pound difference. How could he have gained nineteen pounds? They hadn't even worked out that hard today.

That stuff from the gym! Maybe there was something…. "That's ridiculous," he said, but what else could it be? And why was it suddenly so hard to think?

He went back to the box, as if the box would have the answer -- certainly his dick hoped so -- and reached in, digging around amongst the contents. His fingers felt material, and the second he touched it, his cock jumped, and that tease alone caused him to pull whatever it was out.

Posers. Skimpy blue trunks like the men in the magazine wore. Mark held them in his thick fingers, thinking, "These would barely cover me." Instinctively, he found them gay, a football player -- a man -- would never wear something this small, this revealing. But the men in the magazine, those super-juiced paragons of masculanity, THEY wore trunks like this. All the time. And none of them were gay.

But as he held the suit in his hands, he became erect. THAT was gay. Why was he so turned on by these stupid posers? He'd never been aroused by anything like this before. Of course, he'd never had a body like this before. He'd never had the shape and musculature he had now. Never had the definition.

He wanted to see his hot, new body in these trunks. He wanted to pose like the bodybuilders did. He wanted… no, he NEEDED the attention.

Mark tore off his boxer shorts, taking a second to admire his plumping cock -- Was that getting bigger, too? -- before he slid the trunks on. When the material settled on his waist, clung to his balls, gripped his growing dick, Mark sighed, finding it too hard to breathe, he was so turned on. Walking to the back bedroom, Mark imagined himself walking onstage at the Olympia, along with his massive brothers, his fellow supermen, so he held himself a little bigger, walked a little taller, swayed a little with his muscular ass. He felt incredible.

He just stared at himself in the big, ugly mirror, the cut of his abs, the sweep of his thigh, the slope of his traps. He raised his thick arms into a front double bicep. "Holy fuck," he said, as he fell in love with his body. "Holy fuck." He went from pose to pose, smoothly and fluidly, as if he'd always done so. He felt an incredible connection with his muscles, able to sense and flex each minute fiber. And his cock, sensitive but demanding, rose straight up out of the top of the trunks.

He loved how he looked, loved how the suit matched the color of his eyes. He was beautiful. He raised his hand to the elastic of his ponytail and released his hair, shaking his head to make it spill out around his shoulders. He was so taken with himself, he lowered his head and gave his reflection "the eye," flirting with it, tracing his big hand down the mound of his furry pec, fingering his nipple, over the definition in his belly, following the line of his happy trail, and finally settling on his package, feeling his balls through the material.

If it were possible, his orgasms were getting better. He screamed as he came this time, losing his balance and collapsing. On his hands and knees, his head bowed, his hair hanging in his face, his dick still pulsing, Mark struggled to catch his breath. This time, when he stood, he knew what had happened to him before he even looked. He could feel the tightness in the posing trunks, too, like they'd suddenly become too small for him.

He knew. Before he'd looked, he knew. He'd become big. No, not just big. He'd become massive. When he saw his size, his mind-blowing size, he couldn't help but flex, but stare at the monster he'd become.

He loved it. He loved how the muscle looked too large for his frame, how the slabs of his chest forced his nipples to point straight down, how his arms looked bigger than most men's legs. He loved that his traps rose from his shoulders to the bottom of his ears, how his delts rounded like bowling balls, the jut of his back, taking his "v" to a "u." His glorious, chiseled abs, leading the eye to his tiny waist -- his TINY waist! So tight, so defined, he recognized how sexy he was. He LIKED how sexy he was.

When he turned to do a side-chest pose, to show his triceps, he was instead distracted by his ass. Round and hugely muscled, he saw himself as a horse, a beast of burden, strong. His legs, his hamstrings flared out below that perfect ass, each leg easily as thick as his waist. If not thicker.

The tiny posing trunks barely held him. Plumped in the swollen pouch, his cock -- yeah, his cock WAS bigger; his balls hung lower, too -- begged for attention. He cupped his package with his big hand. "I'll get back to you," he said to it, and went back to posing in the big, beautiful mirror. He ran to the living room and retrieved the magazine -- Monsters of Muscle, like HE was now -- and imitated the poses he saw within its pages, practicing each and perfecting them.

He could easily compete with these guys. He was just as big. Bigger. And a trip to the bathroom confirmed his weight: 286. Six-three and two eighty-six. He was fucking awesome! He should compete, he thought, as he looked at himself in the big, beautiful mirror, but for two things: he was still hairy -- he'd always been hairy, though not as much a gorilla as his friend Jarod. What the fuck was that word? Hirsute? Or something like that. He was HAIRY. And Mark was, too. His blonde chest hair, his pubes, the hair on his arms and legs -- and his shoulders! -- it was too much. He'd never shaved before, always thought it was kind of faggy -- Men have hair! -- yet these big monsters shaved, or waxed, or something. And they weren't gay. Or maybe they were. Who the fuck cares? They're big.

And he didn't know the first thing about getting cut, or ripped, or whatever. He'd always been bulky, never worried about what he ate, didn't know for diet. How was he supposed to learn about nutrition and supplements and shit? He could barely pronounce the NAMES of supplements, much less know what they did.

But as he flexed for himself, he knew he wanted to compete, wanted people -- guys -- to see his big body, hear their admiration, accept their worship…

That thought actually started to get him hard again, and he loved the way his big cock filled his posing trunks. He could easily win a competition, if he had someone tell him how.

He needed a trainer. That was it. The ease with which he accepted that thought surprised him, like he was pleased he was able to think of the right answer; Mark was never much on thinking. But a trainer would think about that stuff for him. Like a reward for a correct answer, his cock sprang to life. Smiling, Mark grabbed his package appreciatively.

His dick led him back to the box from the gym, and Mark started to put it together, although his cock had obviously figured it out already. Mark rooted through it with one hand, jolts of electricity passing right through him to his dick, and he deliberately started to stroke. Sitting in the chair, beating now with enthusiasm, the gym brochure caught his eye, cast aside on the desktop. Mark thumbed through it, pausing on the page with the staff pictures.

There was Gino, the manager, with his bleach-blonde hair and his massive -- smooth! -- body packed into a black muscle shirt, bearing the corporate logo. His smile was open, sincere, and Mark thought that maybe he'd misjudged Gino. After all, Gino had just been doing his job -- he didn't OWN the place, after all -- and Edward had come down on him pretty hard. Sometimes Edward could be pretty mean, Mark thought. Besides, Gino had sent this apology package. And Mark liked the package so far. More importantly, his cock liked the package so far. Mark smiled. No, Gino wasn't so bad.

And Gino had a GREAT body! Not as big as Mark -- shit, almost nobody was as big as Mark -- but cut. And smooth. If nothing else, maybe Gino would tell him the best way to shave. (And this was the moment when Mark realized he was about to talk to another guy about shaving his body! Wasn't that for girls? Wasn't that gay? But for some reason, he couldn't keep the thought going long enough to give it weight. Besides, his cock wanted him to turn the page.)

So, he turned the page. Still stroking, he felt like he did when he was looking at porn, or Playboy, or Maxim, pictures of hot naked chicks, all that nasty stuff. Now here he was, looking at pics of Gino, thinking about shaving, and almost ready to cum again. He shrugged it off. Right now, horny as he was, he could be looking at pictures of dead animals and he'd still get off. Besides, he wasn't beating off TO the pics of Gino, he was just looking at them WHILE he was beating off. A big difference.

And when he turned the page, when he saw the image of the personal trainer, of the red-headed fag he'd almost beaten up in the locker room. That guy -- Kenny! -- staring at him from the photo and smiling, flexing his outrageously cut abs for the camera, Mark came with a scream. He actually heard his jizz splat against the brochure cover, the intensity of his orgasms continuing to improve.

And he couldn't take his eye from the page. Even while the last bits of jism dripped from his softening dick, he absently wiped his hand on his gargantuan thigh and traced the words in Kenny's bio with his fingers as he read them, leaving a little trail of moisture behind. Kenny was a personal trainer, degreed in nutrition and bio-chemistry. "Looking for a man who's ready to go ALL THE WAY," his ad copy read. "(…to the Olympia, I mean!)"

Mark couldn't help but smile at the bad joke. So, the little queer was a nutritionist and personal trainer! And by the looks of his abs, he followed his own advice. And by the look of his pits, he knew a little something about shaving, too. Mark had never been much of a thinker, even less so now, but it made sense to him that if he was gonna get advice about posing and shaving, he should get it from a fag. Who else would know better? Although Mark found it funny that he would be more comfortable talking to a gay guy about that stuff than his straight friends, he dismissed it easily enough. Those guys would just laugh at him if he even brought the subject up. At least the little fag would take him seriously.

He dialed Kenny's service number before he realized what he was doing. While the line was connecting, he studied his finger, still damp from his cum. Absently, Mark stuck it in his mouth and sucked it, interested in the taste of himself -- salty, but not bad. Thank god the guys couldn't see THIS! He chuckled to himself, then one-by-one licked the rest of his fingers. Protein. The phone rang. Mark waited for the machine to pick up.

"Hellooo?" sing-songed the voice that answered. Mark hadn't expected to get a person. What time was it? Only a couple of hours ago, he'd gotten home from work, and something had happened… someone… left. "I said, Helooo!?"

"I'm sorry," Mark said, his voice deep and soft, different somehow. (But of course different -- his jaw had completely changed shape.) "I was expecting a machine."

He heard laughter as the voice said, "Believe me, buddy. I'm a machine!"

Mark laughed politely. His corporate, shmooz-the-client chuckle. "Say," he said, "how much would it cost for a consultation?"

"What are you looking for?"

"Well," Mark began, surprised at how easily this was coming out, "I'm thinkin' about competing, but I got some questions and stuff."

"That's cool," Kenny said. "That's what I do. Tell me your stats, buddy."

Mark didn't know his stats; he knew he was big as fuck, tho. "Just a minute ago, I weighed 286," he said.

He heard Kenny gasp. "286? That's pretty big. You a powerlifter? What's your bodyfat?"

"I don't know," Mark said, feeling the ridges of his abs. "Maybe ten percent."

"Ten percent?" came Kenny's disbelieving voice. "At two-eighty six? That's impossible!"

Mark felt like he should get angry at this, but he found it difficult to do anything but plead. "No, " he said. "It's true. It might even be less. I don't know. You can clearly see my abs."

"At two-eighty six? At ten-percent bodyfat?" Kenny said, "I definitely WANT to see your abs! When can we get together?"

It had been that simple. A few directions, some polite chit-chat, and that had been that. Mark was surprised at how easy it all had been. What did he have against this guy? It was so hard to remember. As he studied Kenny's picture, as he looked at Kenny's abs, he flashed on something that had happened that morning in the locker room. He had threatened Kenny. Why? 'Cuz the dude was ripped? 'Cuz the guy'd been wearing spandex? And looked GOOD in it? "Had I gotten angry because I could never wear spandex?" he thought. "Was I jealous?"

(Another moment: had he just thought another guy looked good in spandex? No, he rationalized. No, it wasn't like that. What's wrong with appreciating a great body? Wasn't he in the body business? Did he lift for health or vanity? Does ANYONE lift for health? Nothing wrong then with looking at another guy and adjudicating him. Not looking at his body sexually, but like a competitor. Right? And this guy Kenny had a great body, and showed it off great in spandex. What was wrong with that?)

Mark wished HE had some spandex; he bet he'd look better than Kenny -- he was easily a hundred pounds heavier, after all. Of course, he'd never been open to spandex before, when he'd been a flabby lineman who just liked being bulky. But on the body he had now…

At that thought, his cock twitched again, and Mark realized he was still on the phone. He heard Kenny's voice. "I said, when can we get together?" The voice had a patronizing edge to it, like it was speaking to a child. Mark thought of being angry about that, but he realized that he was being slow on the answers. Maybe he deserved it.

"Uh, anytime," Mark said. "I got no obligations." It felt good to say that, like he was already over -- what was her name? -- that stupid bitch. No, Mark was free. He could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted to. No ball and chain demanding his time.

"Excellent," Kenny said -- and Mark almost heard the unspoken "Good boy!" that followed. "My shift here is just finishing up. I can be there in a half-an-hour. Is that cool?"

"Um, yeah," Mark said, not quite up to speed with the conversation. Kenny was making decisions so quickly, Mark couldn't keep up. But he gave directions easily enough, and found himself brushing his hair and sprucing up while he waited, unmindful of wearing just the posing trunks. He was anxious to see what Kenny thought; he'd forgotten all about their first meeting that morning.

Twenty minutes later, Kenny knocked on the door. Mark had been waiting on the small stool in the alcove next to the door, patiently sitting and thinking of nothing but the anticipation of Kenny's arrival. He was anxious to show off, to get Kenny's approval. And when Kenny knocked on the door, Mark leapt to answer it, fairly ripping the door from its hinges to get it open.

And there was Kenny, handsome, red-headed Kenny. He wore a v-neck athletic shirt which showed the cuts of his upper chest, the veins in his arms, and a pair of khaki shorts. He gasped when he saw Mark, not just from the 285 pounds of hairy muscle barely wearing a pair of blue posing trunks, but connecting the blond mass before him with the guy that nearly beat the crap out of him that morning. "You're that guy," he said, backing up a step.

"No, no," Mark said, reaching out. "That wasn't me. I reacted bad. Please, I'm different now. Grown a little."

Kenny smirked, but still kept his distance. "You've grown a lot," he said.

"Please help me," Mark said suddenly, almost pleading. "I don't know what to do. I need to shave, and I don't know. I never. And I gotta tan, I mean, if I wanna compete. And can I compete? Do I got the stuff? So I called you and I figured… you know… that you'd know. Your thing said you were a trainer, and a nutrition guy."

Kenny realized it then. The big lug in front of him WAS different than he had been that morning. He'd become stupid. How he'd lucked out on that body was anybody's guess -- obviously, the big guy wasn't gonna be able to tell him -- (Maybe whatever made him this freaky big also robbed him of his brain.) -- whatever. For whatever reason, he'd turned to Kenny. And Kenny -- who'd had this fantasy before -- had always known what he'd do if presented with this situation. Kenny'd give the orders.

"Well," said Kenny, "let's get you shaved first, see what we have to work with."

Mark was sad, like a puppy. "That's why I called. I don't know how, man. I never…."

"That's cool," said Kenny, leading Mark inside by the arm. "I'll show you. I'll show you all kinds of things."

Mark was so grateful, he insisted on being helpful. "I got some new shaving gel and razors in the living room," Mark said. "Lemme go get 'em." He ran to the box while Kenny started to run the water in the bathtub. He was so excited about shaving that he barely gave it any thought. But when Kenny took the shaving supplies from him and said, "Strip," Mark had a moment. He didn't know if he could be naked in front of a gay guy. Kenny read his hesitation.

"If I'm gonna shave you, I'm gonna see you naked," Kenny said. "Now, strip."

He may have been uncomfortable, but he did. He was actually surprised by how easy it was to obey. Easier than thinking for himself, anyway. Besides, if he was gonna show off for the little queer, he might as well show him everything, and his cock was lookin' good…

That thought shocked him. He'd never given his cock much thought before -- or any cock, for that matter. But as it dangled there before his big balls, he realized that he'd never even measured it, and it had obviously seen the benefits of his growth. Hell, it had been the cause of his growth, hadn't it? It felt so good. He really needed to treat his cock better. And he'd start by showing it off.

Being naked in front of this gay guy was kind of fun. Mark knew he was being a tease, but none of the other guys would appreciate his new body in quite the same way. And it felt good to be appreciated, no matter who was doing it. (God knows Edward and his old frat buddies didn't appreciate him this way. Edward could never appreciate another man.) Mark looked to Kenny for signs of approval. Who would know if his body was decent better than a gay guy?

And Kenny obviously approved. He let out a little gasp of air. "Nice," he said. "Um… don't take that the wrong way. I mean, I know you're straight."

"I don't mind," said Mark, flexing his abs, secretly happy to please.

Kenny ran the bathwater, warm and comfortable, and Mark happily lay back in the tub, where he barely fit, and let Kenny go to work. The lather on his chest, the sharp-edged zip of the razor, Kenny's strong hands as he massaged Mark's skin, or maybe just the shaving supplies from the mystery box caused his erection. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but how good it felt. "Oh my," said Kenny, as Mark's cock continued to grow.

Mark lazilly opened his eyes and looked at Kenny looking at his dick. "Can't help it," Mark said. "This feels really good. Hope you don't mind."

Kenny smiled. "I don't mind," he said. "And as far as feeling good is concerned, lemme show you what feels good."

Mark half-expected Kenny to blow him then, to take his bigger-than-before cock and start sucking. Instead, Kenny smeared his dick in lather and ran the razor over it, shaving it clean to the root. The lather was warm on his cock and balls, tingling, pleasurable, then the stroke of the razor removing his hair -- and the chemicals in the lather making sure that it would never grow back -- and Kenny's firm, but gentle massage on the clean skin. Mark was in ecstasy, inches from cumming.

He looked down his smooth, glistening torso, over his massive, balloon-like pecs, over the ridges of his eight-pack, down the hip-line to his beautifully clean cock, bits of lather here and there, painfully erect in Kenny's hand. He met Kenny's gaze, and the two of them had understanding; Mark was almost in tears.

When Kenny finally took Mark's cock in his mouth, Mark gave up any pretention he ever had of his old life. Nothing -- nothing! -- was better than what he was feeling right now. Any girl he'd ever been with, any sex he'd ever thought about, any fantasy he'd ever dreamed, none of that compared to the swollen pleasure he now experienced with Kenny.

Mark rolled his eyes back in his head and shot. And shot. And shot.

And changed. •