Last Metamorphosis, The

By AbsMan420


It's a sacred duty, serving one of the Brotherhood. No greater honor exists. My life has never been as full as it is now -- of course, I don't remember very much before becoming my MASTER'S slave -- images, mostly -- but I know it's better. My own MASTER Himself has deigned me to keep this journal. He smiles as if He's got a secret reason, and He likes to stretch out on the divan and watch me type. A gorgeous example of Man, my MASTER has been through the Morphing Process. I have no idea what He looked like before, and He's never spoken of it, but He's perfection now.

He's six-five, three-hundred eighty pounds of ripped muscle. Though bigger than the biggest bodybuilder, He has little interest in competing. He loves the gym, working out and pumping up. He enjoys posing, and wearing many different types of underwear and thongs, but He has clients to worship Him -- or me whenever He requires it -- so what need does He have of titles or trophies? He is the Ultimate Man. The proof is there before me.

I've spent hours suckling His thick, generous nipples. I've been entire days kneeling between His legs, servicing His mighty, morphed godcock. I have licked every bulge, followed every curve, concentrated on every striation. I know His body perhaps better than He does, Himself. I know the size and proportion of each muscle group, from His hyper-large arms, the principle giveaway of the Morphing Process, to the heavy, diamond hardness of His calves.

It's not just His impossible waist -- most steroid users, unlike guys Morphed like my MASTER, have bloated, roid-guts -- not just His shredded ten-pack, it's in the comparison of that waist to the width of His back, the flair of His quads, that really boggles the mind. My MASTER is beyond competition with ordinary professional bodybuilders. He's larger, better built, sexier, and far more generously hung.

Steroid abuse tends to atrophy the balls, and shrink the penis, but my MASTER has been Morphed, so His tools are enhanced. His cock is not to be believed until seen, and even then it's hard to take it in -- pardon the pun. The fact is, it's very easy for me to take my MASTER'S cock inside me. Nothing feels better. Nothing fulfills me more. I am a tool of His pleasure, after all, and His cock is His focal point.

I remember the first time I saw it, my MASTER'S cock. It's one of my few memories from before I became His slave. I remember being at the gym, waiting for my lifting partner, who was late for some reason -- even though I can't remember him, I remember that he was late, not that any of this really matters -- when I heard a deep, masculine voice say behind me say, "You. You're the one I want."

I remember turning around and seeing Him for the first time, standing there in a tight black muscle shirt and bright yellow spandex shorts, looking at me, pointing at me, singling me out. What on earth did he want from me? I remember being overwhelmed by His sheer size -- Massive! Ridiculous! -- buldging out of every possible opening. So tall, so thickly muscled -- He couldn't be real. I remember seeing his heavy cock straining the fabric of his shorts. I remember thinking that no one could possibly be hung like that. I wasn't gay -- I still don't think I am, though I will do whatever my MASTER deems necessary -- but I remember seeing that cock for the first time and thinking that it was utterly perfect.

Images, I swear. That's all I remember. I don't remember a continuous series of events. I remember struggling against Him, trying to hold Him off for some reason. I remember His chest in my face, His mass surrounding me, difficult to breath, heat, His low voice chanting, "Relax. Just relax and take it." But I didn't listen. I didn't know. I remember seeing that impossibly-huge cock erect for the first time, reaching up to the top of His abs, and being horrified by it, and I remember realizing what He was going to do.

He forced it into me. It's strange, but I'm sure of that. I distinctly remember not wanting His cock inside me. A crazy thought. And useless struggling -- and pain: sharp and blunt at once. Invading, dominating pain.

And I wish I could say exactly when, but there was a moment when that pain changed, when it became ecstasy, when I forgot everything else except Him, the importance of Him, when I submitted completely to the man who would be my MASTER. There was no pain in that, no pain in serving, only fulfillment. Satisfaction. Truthfully, I wanted His cock inside me, buried there forever. I needed it. I knew who I was. Whatever my life had been before was irrelevent, wasted knowledge that I quickly discarded. All that mattered now was Him, His needs, His desires.

Each thrust brought another wave of pleasure, of knowledge. I opened myself further, and the feeling only increased the need. I screamed, swearing myself to Him, submitting to His ownership, to His worship, over and over again. Great God and MASTER, I needed Him to cum. I needed His pleasure. His seed. And when He finally shot, when He finally let loose His torrent, I greedily absorbed every drop. Nothing escaped me. I needed every bit inside. Bearing His seed caused me to cum myself. Truly hoping He impregnated me, I lost conciousness. From then on, I've been His.

He is behind me now, reading over me as I type this, hands heavy on my shoulders. He's pressing His package into the back of my head. I fight the urge to turn and take Him in my mouth, silk shorts and all, but He has bade me write, and until He says otherwise, I shall write. However, I'm rock-hard at His touch.

"You are very wise, boy," He says in his rich basso. "I AM having you keep this journal for a reason." He cups my chin in His hand, tilting my head back so I look directly up at Him, upside-down over the ridges of His stomach and the mountains of His chest. "Shall I tell you what it is? Will you remember after I fuck you?" He chuckles deeply, releasing my chin and rubbing my head like a dog.

I tilt my head at this sign of affection and press his silk-covered cock into my cheek. I can feel the length of it against the entire side of my face. "There's only one way to find out, MASTER," I say, shyly smiling. And when I feel His cock start to harden, I'm fulfilled, glad I turn Him on, ready to please Him. There is no greater purpose for me.


He's right, my MASTER, as usual. I don't remember. He told me His whole plan, I'm sure of that. Something about the Brotherhood's decision regarding selections for the Morphing Process, something my MASTER is in on, but the details now escape me. I think He even mentioned my old training partner, whose name and face I remembered the moment my MASTER mentioned them, but by then, my MASTER was fully erect -- the plan seemed to turn Him on, almost -- and I wanted nothing more than to have Him inside me, even at the cost of memory.

The bliss I experience when He fucks me is so overwhelming that I'm unable to even describe it. His cock fills me so completely that I feel I'm an extension of Him, the sheer force of His will pushing out any vestiges of an independent me. I exist only only as a tool for His pleasure. How important is memory compared to that?

We spend the afternoon at the gym. He doesn't need to work out, of course, but He claims the pump is incredible -- and when my MASTER is pumped, He fucks like an animal! I work hard at being a good partner for MASTER, although I'm so much lighter -- unfortunately, I NEED to work out -- I weigh only 210, at 5'9", six inches shorter and a hundred-seventy pounds lighter than He is. I could never lift as heavy as Him, but He maxes out so rarely that it almost doesn't matter. He prefers lifting lighter weights with higher reps, pumping up along the way. Of course, His light weights are almost my maxes.

Today, we're working chest -- His favorite workout -- Sometimes, when He's had a particularly good pump, He'll have me suckle Him until He's almost raw. Naturally, I want His chest workout to go well, the rewards are well-worth it. I change His weights, spot His final reps, and appreciate His posing -- same as usual -- but today, something is off. MASTER has something on His mind.

"Is there something I can do to please you, MASTER?" I ask, as I finish my third set of incline dumbbell-flyes. Even at my size, I'm impressive -- nothing like the MASTER, mind you, but still hot. "I notice you're distracted."

"You're a very good boy," He says, lying back on the bench to begin His set. "There is something we need to talk about, but it can wait. Forget about it." And while He reps, focusing perfectly on His inner-upper-chest -- the muscle responding accordingly -- I do.

I stand at the end of the bench, not as if He'd need my spot, though there's something comforting about being in close proximity to my MASTER while He lifts. He seems completely focused on His workout -- why would I think otherwise?

In the locker room, while we flex in the gigantic mirrors over the sinks, He asks, "What do you think of your body, boy?"

I hit a front double-bicep while I respond. "If it pleases you, MASTER, that's all that matters."

"That's what I thought you'd say," He says, almost chuckling. He turns around and sits against the counter-top. "You're pretty big, boy. Five-nine, two-ten, that's pretty big. You must notice that."

As I look at myself in the mirror, I realize how big I am as if for the first time. I really notice my muscle, not just as a decoration to please the MASTER, but as powerful, strong, masculine size in its own right. I'm bigger than I ever dreamed of being. I could compete and win almost any competition I entered. Look at my muscle! I flex. I pose. I'm fuckin' huge! "Look at me, MASTER! I'm fuckin' massive!"

He smiles. "That's true, boy. You've gotten pretty big, training with me." True again. I can suddenly remember how big I was when I became His slave. As a matter of fact, I'd weighed myself right before I'd met Him. One eighty-five. I've gained almost twenty pounds since training with my MASTER -- though before that, who? -- and He's made me the muscle boy I am today. Why haven't I seen that before?

"Oh, my God," I say. "I'm huge."

He nods His head and says, "But would you wanna be bigger?"

The truth. I must tell Him the truth. There's no deception from MASTER. "Although it's hard for me to admit this for some reason, if I could be as big as you, that would satisfy every juvenile fantasy I've ever had. I used to dream of being a monster, let alone what I am now." I flex my impressive chest -- transition to a "Most Muscular" -- Huge. "Besides, it would make me a better training partner for you." I stop posing then, and look right at Him, bowing my head. "But it isn't up to me, MASTER. It's your decision."

"Actually, I was making it both of our decisions, boy. C'mon." He squeezes my package, like He would tug a puppy's leash, and we leave together, me a pace behind His left shoulder, gently holding the rear waistband of His shorts -- when He's in pants, I hold a belt loop. I'm a clip-on attachment, like a cell-phone or a pocket knife -- His property.

As we exit the gym door, He removes His shirt, allowing the sun access to His entire upper body. He stands for a moment, eyes closed, head thrown back, chest expanded, deeply breathing in the rays, then we head for His car -- that big Ford truck over there. I knew someone else with a big, black truck once. I wish I could remember who. That's perhaps the most frustrating part of being a slave -- not that it's not worth it -- but moments like this happen more often than I'd like.

In the cab, I lay across the seat and put my head in His lap. I'm about to begin sucking His god-cock, as I almost always do when He drives, when His stong hand pushes my head away. "No, boy," He says. "I can't risk you losing your memory right now. Every time I fuckin' cum in you, you lose your memory. Sit up, so we can talk."

I obey immediately, unquestioningly -- even though I really LOVE sucking the MASTER's cock while He goes about the motions of driving. No one said a slave doesn't enjoy some pleasures of his own. "I've noticed that, MASTER," I say, on the passenger side. To anyone lucky enough to see us in His elevated cab, we are two big shirtless bodybuilders -- two big MEN -- driving in the west coast sunshine. "I was just thinking about the memory-loss, actually. It can be kind of frustrating." Afraid I've overstepped myself, I quickly add, "Not that I mind the sacrifice. It's worth it to serve you."

He smiles to Himself. "That's not what you'll say in a couple minutes." When He sees my confused look, He continues. "We've had this scene before, boy. I allow you your memory. You get pissed off. We fight, physically. I over-power you. You helplessly struggle against me -- which happens to really turn me on -- and I fuck you. My cum makes you forget it all and you become my worshipful slave again. It's a hot scene, boy. We do it a couple times a week."

I try to take that in. I adore Him. What could He possibly tell me that would cause that kind of hostility? I love Him. I could never...

"You know how I've gone through the Morphing Process, right, boy?"

I answer before I can form questions of my own. I'm so confused. "Yes, MASTER."

"Good," He says, as we get on the freeway. "That's a good place to start, the Process. The Morphing Process. The people who sponsored it are a research-based sports medicine firm."

"No 'Brotherhood?'" I ask, weakly -- a wave of confusion building inside me.

He smiles again, almost laughing. "No, boy. That's all part of my fun with you." He looks at me then, and I'd swear He looks guilty of something, as if my MASTER could have a flaw. "Anyway, this firm studies the effects of the Morphing Process on the men who go through it, and part of that is the effect on the slave the guy takes. I think the whole slave-thing was an unanticipated side-effect, and they want to understand it. Somehow, the very first person you fuck after you go through the Process -- male or female -- although why anybody would want a female after they go through this is beyond me." He involuntarily flexes his arm. God, His bicep is gigantic. "So, he -- or she, I guess -- becomes your wanting slave. And only that first person. Maybe the cum is specially energized that first time. I don't knkow. Believe me, I've fucked a lot of guys in the last six months, and you're the only one I've had this effect on."

"Um... thanks," I say, unsure.

"But you like it, right?"

Of that there is no question. "Oh, yes, Great MASTER!" I'm erect swearing my loyalty, my submission.

"Good for now," he says, smirking again. "Because they want to study the effects of the Morphing Process on an existing slave, and I volunteered you."

I'm full of questions, and I begin rattling them off -- Who? What? How? Why? -- when the MASTER says, "No. No questions. I'm not ready for this argument now. Quietly sit there and beat off thinking about how anxious you are to be as big as your MASTER. Don't cum -- I don't want you messing up the interior of my truck -- but don't stop until we've reached our destination."

I want to talk about His decision. I want to understand the details, but I'm so turned on by the very idea of being as massive as Him, I can't find the words. In a very little while, I'll look like my MASTER. I'll be a gigantic, pumped, muscular giant. I'll have arms as big as the cannons He has, biceps that are larger than softballs, triceps that wrap-around in a horse-shoe so heavy it would cripple a Kleidsdale. I grab my erection through my spandex shorts as I imagine a chest like my MASTER's, muscular globes with heavy, laden nipples. Imagine suckling on them.

I jerk-off right there in the cab of His truck. I can't help myself, full of this vision of perfection. Knowing that such a future is mine. I masturbate to the very idea of being His size. I lose track of time during my reverie. It's only when the MASTER says, "We're here," that I even come back to reality, finding myself with my back against the truck door, facing Him, holding my softening erection. How long have I been this way? How far have we come?

"Here" is an isolated building on the edge of a corporate park. We're inside to a small examining room before I can really get my bearings. I'm so excited about going through the Process that I'm almost giddy. I'm certainly unable to pay strict attention to all that's being said. The MASTER speaks to several people, scientist-types, but I just stand behind Him, holding his shorts, head bowed, and let Him handle the business. The next thing I know, I'm being escorted down an elevator, and into another, larger room.

The Doctor -- or at least, I think it's a Doctor. He's in the white coat -- bids me to strip and lie down in something that resembles a large tanning bed. I don't move until my MASTER approves, and then I obey quickly, as He has trained me. The Doctor begins speaking, but all I hear is the MASTER's voice as He says, "You don't need to hear him, boy. He's just explaining details, which obsess scientists. Hear only my voice."

"Yes, MASTER," I say, smiling, focusing completely on His Perfection. The Doctor may be commenting here, but I miss what he's said. Only when the MASTER responds, "I know. It's remarkable, isn't it?" that I understand how complete the MASTER's control is over me. I love him so much.

My MASTER faces me. "Boy, he's about to give you an injection in the balls. But to show you my benevolence, I'm not gonna allow you to feel the pain the needle will cause."

"Thank you, MASTER," I say, just as I feel the Doctor heft my balls into his hand. There's a tickling feeling, a soft pressure, and then he's done.

"Believe me, boy, I wish someone would've done that for me. I can still remember how much that hurt." He unconciously rubs His heavy balls -- I want to rub them, too. The MASTER squats down next to this tanning-bed contraption and looks me deeply in the eye as I lie here. He's so beautiful -- my MASTER. I could look at that handsome face for hours. He speaks. "A couple of last things, boy. In a minute, you'll be getting an intense dose of solar radiation -- our power comes from sunshine -- like Superman. Isn't that cool? That's why we spend so much time on the beach -- That's what's actually gonna make you grow, the solar radiation. Make you change. But before they give it to you, I wanna tell you the truth. And I want you to remember it as you go through the Process. I think it's important that you do."

He suddenly turns and listens. The Doctor must be speaking. The MASTER responds, "No, I disagree. Your people want to study the effect of this on one of the slaves. Well, he'll still be my slave. He'll always be my slave, truth or not. Won't you, boy?"

I smile, even as I feel my balls swell. "I'm yours forever, MASTER," I say, starting to feel a pretty nice buzz. What did that guy give me? So hard to think...

The MASTER strokes my hair, gently smiling. "Then you're ready for the truth, as you have been dozens of times before this. Look at me boy, and tell me what the name Josh McKenna means to you."

Josh McKenna? My old lifting partner? Yeah, that's his name. I can suddenly, easily picture his short blonde fade and his bright blue eyes. His scrappy, sideways grin hanging above that cleft in his chin. He's smaller than me, a slight one seventy-seven, athletic, but weaker. Definitely the Follower in our lifting partnership. Always took the Ugly Friend when we double-dated co-eds. Josh McKenna. How would my MASTER know Josh McKenna?

Then I notice my MASTER's short blonde fade and His bright blue eyes. His scrappy sideways grin above the cleft in his lantern jaw. His mass, His size -- three hundred-eighty pounds -- I see through it all. I finally see -- again! -- the truth: Josh McKenna is my MASTER. My old lifting partner went through this Morphing Process and then fucked me until he turned me into His slave. That low-life bastard!

As I make this realization, he lowers the lid of the bed, shutting it with a snap. I can move -- barely -- but I can't open it. I try to push the lid open with my hands, when I hear the clacks of latches closing. Locks. "Open this thing up, Josh! C'mon, you bastard!" I yell. What the hell is going on? It all comes back to me -- who I am -- That I'm straight! -- that Josh has been using me as a sex toy for the last six months, raping me over and over again, making me enjoy it, that now he's turning me into something just as perverted and sick -- when the bulbs start to flicker on in the tanning bed.

"So, you remember?" I hear him say from outside. "Good. This won't be like the other times. Maybe you'll feel differently when it's all over."

I scream in rage. "I'll tell you how I'll feel, motherfucker! I'll feel like fuckin' killing you!" I punch the glass seperating me from the bulbs. Too thick.

"I know, Tom. We've gone through this before." That's the first time I've heard my name in six months. I'd forgotten it -- that motherfucker! "But you always come back to me."

The lights are now completely on, bathing me -- solar wavelengths. Fuck. I'm blinded for a second. "Let me the fuck out of here!"

"It won't be long now," I hear him say.

I'm so angry. That powerful anger, like just before a football game, when all I ever wanted to do was hit, and hit, and knock guys on their ass. Hurt them. It's like I've just had the best workout of my life, the best game, the greatest lift. That's how I'm starting to feel. Like I COULD break this glass. It's the drug! I think. Didn't that doctor-guy put something in my balls? Everything's glowing blue-white from the light. Difficult to think.

God forbid, I feel pumped. I feel primed. It's starting to work on me and I know it is and I don't want it to and it feels so good that I'm not sure I don't. I can actually feel myself absorbing the light. I can feel myself swelling, the muscle growing. With it, the power.

When I was a teenager, and I dreamed of power and masculanity, the fantasy involved a cocaine-like feeling of invincibility, an unstoppable force. The truth puts the buzz to shame. In truth, power is clear and unfettered, like the laser, or the light.

The cock. Power is the cock. A realization, as certain as my struggle. My cock likes the power. It demands more. Touching it would deny it the light, but how can I avoid it? I must touch the power growing in my cock.

The real truth dawns on me as I try to reach around myself, because I suddenly can't. I've grown so large that I barely fit in this stupid booth. My muscle has swollen to such a size that I'm almost unable to move. Jammed in here like a muscular sausage. And still the lights are on. I swear to God, I can feel the light shining directly through my skin and into my muscle. And it feels so fucking good. I hear him laughing from outside the bed. "I don't hear you struggling very much now. Must be gettin' kind of tight in there. Or maybe it just feels good."

Suddenly, in answer, the heavy head of my cock lands on the top of my abwall, almost directly underneath my pecs. That it reaches above my navel amazes me at first, then I think about how badly I wanna see it all hard and almost touching my pecs. I bet it looks as good as it feels. C'mon, big hard cock, absorb that light.

I try to look at myself, and see this muscle, but I can do little more than turn my head and glance down. I can see my round deltoids and my gigantic traps, but the mass of my chest blocks the view to the front. I can flex my big biceps -- and that feels pretty fuckin' boss! -- but I can't see them.

Good God, when the hell is this gonna be over? I need to get out of here and flex. And fuck. I realize how badly I want to fuck. I have never needed it like this. Why won't they let me out of here to fuck?

More light. I can feel the growth now. I'm so in tune with my body, so aware of every ounce of muscle, it's fantastic. I would've never thought I would've wanted this, but I'm becoming a firm believer. Hell, a lot harder than firm. I hope I grow big enough to burst from the machine, or at least pop the locks -- or better yet, the hinges -- on the lid.

I am Man. I am More-than Man. I am a God. A God of Muscle. A Dominant. An Alpha. I am All that Is. I am a MASTER.

As suddenly as realization, the lights go out. I am finished -- the MASTER is complete. I only need to be released on the world. I can hear the latches being snapped back, one, two, three down the side, then the lid is lifted. I turn my head to see the Doctor, whose expression is not quite shock, but certainly impressed, as it should be. When he looks at Me directly and speaks, and I can't hear his words, the situation is immediately clear. Josh McKenna still has some sort of control over Me. A situation I'll have to rectify.

The Doctor bids Me to sit up, realizing the problem, motioning to Me. Only abs as strong as Mine could hope to lift the bulk of My upper body. I can tell that My center of gravity has changed -- there's so much more of Me to balance now. The Doctor leads Me to the wall mirror, where I get My first look at Myself.

I'm perfection. That's all I can say. I don't know what I weigh, and the number probably doesn't matter, for My aesthetic can't be measured by any conventional means. I'm beyond description. Hell, words aren't enough for Me. I'm bigger than any bodybuilder the world has known, and that's including those freaks like Kovacs, and Ruhl, and Dillett. I'm a study of overabundant proportion. Relaxed, I'm enough to induce orgasm, but when I flex, I'm beyond belief. My power cannot be ignored. My cock cannot be denied.

It hangs before My superior body, the visible manifestation of my potency. Generous and thick, it's bigger even than my MAST...

...than Josh's. Of course, I become erect looking at Myself, My cock beginning to reach up over the level of My waist, and continuing its climb. It's beautiful. And understandable. With My erection comes understanding. Of course I'm hard, I'm the most muscular man the world has ever seen. I'm perfect. And since perfect, the ultimate symbol of masculanity, I need men. Men to worship. Men to be My slaves. Slaves to serve the god I am.

I could take this Doctor easily enough -- he would offer little resistance, though frankly, it's the resistance that begins to interest Me, now -- but I don't want him. I wanna overcome someone who's REALLY gonna fight me. "Where's McKenna?" I rumble in My deep, rich basso.

"If you'd look away from that mirror long enough, you'd see me yourself."

When I turn to face him, half-hidden by the shadows in the back of the room, the whole situation rises up like bile in my throat. I'm taller than he is now, looking down on him by almost half a head, as I used to. Impressive as he is, I'm still bigger. Of course, I was bigger than him before he went through the Morphing Process, before he took Me as a slave.

Now I mean to do the same thing to him.

"I take it from that big ol' hard-on that you're satisfied?" he asks Me, always with that smirk on his face.

I flex for him. A quick double-bi. "Well, I'm not gonna kill you for this," I say. My biceps -- enormous -- soccer balls -- the giveaway of the Morphing Process. I advance on him. "However, I am gonna fuck the shit out of you for the way you treated Me for the last six months."

When I get closer, he begins to back up, excusing. He sees the situation he's in -- he can feel My power, My growing anger. "C'mon, Tom," he says, "you've been bigger than me all our lives, man. I just... I just liked bein' the boss for once, you know? Just for a while. I didn't think it would go on this long. I didn't know I'd have that effect on you." He bumps into the wall behind him. Laughs uncomfortably. "C'mon, man, I told ya. I KEPT tellin' ya, but you lost your memory every single time. I kept tellin' ya, and you kept forgetting."

I stop, crowding him to the wall. I admit, I'm getting off on intimidating him. It feels good to be dominant again. "So, why'd you tell me this time, right before you turn me into this superman-thing? You knew I'd be angry. You knew I'd come out and want to fuck you up."

He suddenly meets My eyes, whatever fear he may have displayed suddenly gone, and I sense a shift in his power. "Now you're gettin' it," he says, less apologetically. "It's about the struggle. I LIKE the struggle. I enjoy it. And you fight me every single time." He's up in my face, his finger jabbing my pec. "So I take my old lifting partner and his bossy bullshit, and his my-way-or-the-highway workouts, and his I'm-bigger-so-I-say-how-it-goes attitude and I FUCK IT RIGHT OUT OF HIS MIND!"

"Not this time, pal."

"Oh, yeah? You don't get it, do you? This time you're gonna give me the fight of a lifetime. It's gonna be better than it's ever been. This time, when I defeat you, you'll be the biggest muscle-slave in the fuckin' world. I'm gonna make you beg to suck my cock."

I smirk. "Yeah, it must'a been pretty tough to beat my buck-eighty when you weigh almost three-hundred pounds. Big win, tough guy." I slap my own chest, showing him my size -- look at that fuckin' mass! "Now I'm a little more of a challenge."

"You may be bigger than me, boy, but I got an ace up my sleeve." We're circling each other, as wrestlers before a match, we haven't broken eye contact in the last minute. "So, why don't we do this? Why don't you fuckin' TRY to take me."

I'm waiting for the right moment, when he makes a mistake, when he gives Me an opening. As he faces Me, he tears his black tank off, to show Me the body that I know so very well, leaving his over-stretched yellow spandex shorts, and the obvious black thong he wears beneath. Suddenly he speaks, though it's clear he's not speaking to me. "Fuck you. We'll damage whatever equipment we damage. You gonna stop us?"

That I still can't hear the voice of the Doctor infuriates Me. It's what finally ends our stand-off, when I charge. But, distracted for just that split second, he's not ready for my hit, and before he can react, I have the takedown. I outweigh him, of that I'm sure, and I'm also taller, but he has the advantage of knowing his body's capabilities better than I do mine. Josh wrestled in high school, while I played football and hockey. I was great at taking guys down, buy not so much on what to do with 'em once we got there.

If I plan to win, I'm gonna have to out-muscle him.

I get My arm around his outer leg and I press him into the floor with My torso, trying to get My other arm behind his neck. I brace My legs and try to hold him there. He knows moves I don't, counters I've never studied, so he has his back to Me in moments, trying to kick his legs out for escape. We wrestle, two Morphed Gods battling for dominance. Battling for top.

I'm the cat with a toy, teasing its prey with the hope of escape, and then re-capturing it. Everything he does against Me is so easily brought back to my favor. Even with his size -- the body he made me worship, so much bigger than I was then -- his heavy muscle, he's barely a match for me now. In truth, I'm enjoying his hapless struggle. I'm in control, and he's beginning to realize it. I can almost sense his growing fear.

I'm starting to get off on it.

I have him in a full-nelson, hands almost clasped behind his head -- if not for his abundant traps -- his back against My torso, My hips pushed forward to brace My legs. My erection grows against the rough spandex stretched across his ass. Involuntarily, I start to thrust, rubbing My cock against the material. He steps up his effort, thrashing in My arms.

"Yeah," I growl at him. "Struggle against me. I see what you mean. I'm gettin' hot on that. Try to fight me, fucker."

I release My right hand, pulling his head hard to the left. While he's distracted, I tear the spandex shorts from his body, exposing his massive ass and the black thong I kept seeing through the yellow. "No," he pleads, still trying to escape. "Don't do this! You don't know what you're doing!"

"Yeah, I do," I say, smirking My confident smirk, grabbing the ass strap of his thong, pulling it up and back, tightening it on his package. "I know how to tear a thong off a big muscleman. Like this." It takes some stretching, and presses quite uncomfortably against his balls, but finally the thong tears away. Ultimately, as always now, I win. "See?" I wave the ripped straps before him, then toss them. We're both completely naked, two hulking specimens, two over-developed supermen. "Wanna know what else I know, McKenna?" I growl in his ear. "I also know how to shove my big, Morphed cock up your ass."

When I look down at myself, and I see the gigantic musculature of My chest, the chisled granite of My abs, and the true love of My life, My cock, grown to the size it deserves to be, I become a creature of instinct -- I only know that I must fuck -- I must dominate.

That's where there's pleasure in his struggle, making him mine, the way it used to be -- the way it should be. Soon, My domination of him will be complete. He will submit. "Relax," I whisper. "Just relax and take it."

My half-erect, thick, strong cock finds his hole almost without My help -- it knows the pleasure it's about to receive -- it knows the damage it's about to do. "No! No!" he yells, not that he can really resist -- no one's powerful enough to resist. "No, please!" I push inside, first the invading head, then the bulk of My shaft. He screams in agony -- his virgin ass mine, now.

My first thrusts are hard, firm -- to let him know I'm in there and I mean business -- I shove in deep. I release him from the half-nelson then. It's a little too uncomfortable for us both -- he isn't going anywhere, now. I try to reach around his torso beneath his arm, to hold one of his big pecs, but we're both a little too big for that, so I settle my hand on his upper abs. I keep my other hand on his shoulder, right where it meets the trap, so he knows he can't escape. I fuck him.

His breathing changes. From the hitch of panic to the shallow gasp of ecstacy. As I thrust into him, I can feel his submission. He relaxes, letting me penetrate -- he begins involuntarilly helping with the movement, slightly shifting his hips. He finds pleasure in My domination -- and the more he accepts, the greater this feeling -- believe Me, I know -- until he is completely Mine.

I feel his erection press into the arm I have wrapped around his mid-torso. "Yeah," I mumble. "Yeah, you like this. You like having my big musclecock inside you."

"," he half-whispers. But I feel the movement of his arm as he begins to jerk himself off, timed perfectly with My thrusts.

"Tell me it feels good, boy. Tell me how good it feels."

As I push into him, he moans, throwing his head back. "...feels good," he groans. "so good..."

"Tell me who's cock is giving you this pleasure."

"Your cock. Your cock." He is close to climax. I can tell that, somehow. I increase the tempo of My buck, readying myself for the right moment. "Your cock!"

I stop My thrusts, still inside him, and hoarsely whisper in his ear. "Tell me who the MASTER is, then."

"No. Fuck me. Fuck me!"

I shake him by the shoulder. "Tell me who the MASTER is!"

He gives in, crying. "You're the MASTER! You! Now, fuck me! Fuck me, MASTER! Please!"

It takes one gigantic thrust to climax. I can feel him cumming from inside, against My own beautiful cock, before I'm all the way into him. He's mine now, so I deliver My load, My crippling load, My slave-making cum, deep, deep within him. I roar in triumph! I have taken this man and made him mine! Now the world!

As I throw My head back and roar, he reaches behind and shoves his thick fingers into My mouth. Before I can even react, I taste his cum on them -- salty, and sweet --surprisingly pleasant. As I dump the final drops of Myself inside him, as My hips slow, I find myself licking his fingers -- like a dog who's hungry -- trying to get every delicious bit off them.

I pull out of him, sure that I should say something to reinforce My new role, but when he rolls over, and I see the cum he's sprayed all over his belly, my first instinct is to clean him off. So I lean in and begin to lick. I have to straddle his head, my knees on either side, in order to get in down there the way I'd like -- the way he'll like.

Great gobs, ropes of cum, delicious as I flat-tongue the beautiful serving tray that is his abwall -- even if I am bigger, I mustn't forget what a standard he surpasses. He's three-hundred eighty pounds of muscle. Even if I weigh four hundred-fifty, five hundred pounds -- which I almost certainly do -- he's still greater than anything out there. He's still a gorgeous example of Morphed Muscle. I suddenly realize what he's doing, what his cum is doing to me. But I can't resist. I don't want to.

Because lying there in the middle of it all is his juicy cock, almost as big as mine, almost as perfect. It needs me -- I can feel it needing me -- it needs me to take it in my mouth and clean it off. So I do. As if he's had the same thought, I feel his mouth on my cock -- cleaning me off, the same way I'm cleaning him -- the beautiful cock of my MASTER.

I know exactly what to do to give him the most pleasure -- of course I know -- He's my MASTER -- I'm his slave. Conversely, he knows exactly what to do to give ME the most pleasure -- I mean, of course he knows -- he's my slave now -- I'm his MASTER.

And there we are, two massive, Morphed musclemen sixty-nine-ing like one big ball of connected flesh, no beginning nor end. I know when he's about to cum, and he can sense when I'm about to, so naturally we shoot together.

And that's the final change, the last metamorphosis, the simultaneous orgasm that makes us one. My MASTER, my slave, my Other Self.

WE emerge, individuality retired, singularity unnecessary. WE are one. I can sense my Other. I know his thoughts. I feel his emotions. I understand that this was his true plan all along, to create the ultimate training partner. I forgive him his manipulations, because I love my Other like myself. He is myself.

My Other steps into my arms and WE kiss, impossible as it is to tell where he ends and I begin. WE are equals, perfect lovers, identical souls.

WE walk past the Doctor who Morphed Us -- passed out as he is from his frequent masturbation as he watched us battle to become -- evidenced by the drying cum and spent dick -- ready to leave but for clothes.

I can sense my Other even from two rooms away. I could find him across the city without missing a beat -- blind-folded! -- that's how powerful our connection is. My Other has found clothes for us -- I know it that simply -- I can even tell what he's found -- so I go to him. I love him. And that love grows more powerful the more I'm around him.

What would have been baggy sweats on us at one time, now fit my Other and I like skin, but it affords Us enough decency to make it home -- I don't think I can go much longer without fucking him -- without him fucking me.

We squeeze into the cab of Our truck and head off into the sun. •

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