Playing with FanTCMan’s toys

by Absman420   

The Budd Brothers and their muscle adventures.

For those of you who haven’t experienced FanTCdude’s (aka FanTCMan’s) stories, go look them up right now—I’ll wait. No one does muscle-growth/corruption stories better—including me. Anyway, I got to know FanTCdude online and asked him if I could use his conceits (not characters—though I did get a cameo in) from his story “12 Steps Back” and… play a little. He was totally for it… and the next 12 chapters are the result.

It led me to write an entire series of “Playing with ______’s Toys.” I did a “Playing with Max Mann’s Toys”, “Playing with Callmecrazy’s Toys” and a personal favorite “Playing with Absman420’s Toys.” I tried to ape their writing styles as much as I could. As a writing exercise, it was a lot of fun. Anyway, on with the show…

The guys down at Benny’s Hackin’ Shack had laughed at him when he told them he and his brother were going to a seminar in San Francisco. Not so much the seminar, which they weren’t all that interested in, but that the Budd Brothers would be going to “that there city with all them fuckin’ fags.”

“Don’t bend over to pick nothin’ up!” they warned, then laughed.

“Don’t order room service—it ain’t what you think! Hee-hee. Get it? Room service?”

He was good-natured with their teasing, and even stayed long enough to have another beer before leaving. He didn’t want them to think they’d gotten to him—he was a man, after all. At the door, someone called, “Have fun in San Francisco, Big Budd! If you come back queer, don’t come back here!”

That got the biggest laugh of all.

The next morning, as dawn just barely crept into the sky, in his immaculate Dodge Ram, a plug of chaw in his mouth, spitting in the Styrofoam cup that had held his first coffee, Big Budd drove over to his brother’s trailer, the guy’s comments from the night before echoing in his mind. Was he sure about what he was getting into? What would they think when there was no more hiding it?

He found his brother passed out on the living room sofa in just his Fruit-of-the-Looms and his navy blue work-shirt from the construction company. Only twenty-three years old, and already Little Budd seemed to have lost the battle with life. Discarded beer bottles, an empty fifth of vodka, and his brother’s bong littered the table.

Maybe this was why he was doing it, getting involved with them Littleman people, to save his brother.

Though he’d normally be wearing his well-worn Timberlands when he kicked the boy awake, today he had his cowboy boots on—gussied up for the trip. “Hey, Little Budd,” he said loudly, kicking the sofa right beneath his brother’s head. “Time to get up! We got us our trip today!”

Little Budd stirred, moaning and rolling over. “What the fuck time is it?” he asked, wiping his face with the palm of his hands. “Ain’t you early?”

“I ain’t paid money for this trip to have you fuck it up bein’ hung-over,” Big Budd said. “Remember, this was your idea. Now, c’mon, we got to get us to Wichita to catch the plane. You can sleep in the truck.”

After the first half hour—and the first big cup of truck-stop coffee—Little Budd was in a better mood. “San Francisco here we come!” he yelled out the Ram’s window, even though they were travelling east at the time, toward Wichita. “Can you believe we’re goin’ to San Francisco? Hell, I ain’t hardly been out of Kansas before, much less to someplace like that! Brother, we’re gonna get pussy, and pussy, and more pussy. That’s what Mitch and Jackson was sayin’.”

“How ya figure?”

“Think about it—we’re gonna be in San Francisco!”

Big Budd’s confused look kept his brother talking.

“San Francisco?” Little Bud explained, “City o’ fags! Women are gonna be achin’ to find a couple o’ normal guys like us! Brother, with all them fags around, we’re gonna be swimmin’ in pussy!”

Big Budd actually hoped that was true. Since his wife had left him two years ago, he’d hadn’t even had a date, and he wouldn’t mind finding something in the big city. If any woman would even have him. Hell, maybe he’d even spend some of his savings on a San Francisco prostitute. That’d give him a story to tell the boys back at Benny’s.

Physically, he’d let himself go even before his wife had left him. (Maybe that was why, Budd.) While not the wiry little weed his brother was, they’d certainly inherited the same genes—Big Budd was wider through the shoulders, but thanks to many, many beers and many, many salty snacks, he was a lot flabbier through the middle. Because he carried the weight right up front, the guys down at Benny’s often joked that Big Budd was pregnant. Maybe that was why he was goin’ to San Francisco—to have an abortion!

Yeah, those guys were a lot of laughs.

Nobody would really consider the Budd Brothers handsome—hell, even their mother would have a difficult time with that—but they were on this side of ugly. Plain. Forgettable. Filler-faces in crowd scenes. Nothing special in any way.

A three-hour drive to Wichita, then a commuter plane to the hub in Kansas City, Little Budd was too excited to sleep on the plane either, his childish energy unfocused and uncontrolled. Though he tried to keep calm, even Big Budd had difficulty containing himself. He’d flown once before, but it was still thrilling—and Little Budd had only flown a crop-duster, so he was beside himself.

And what they were going to San Francisco for raised their level of excitement!

How Little Budd had gotten the catalogue in the first place was a bit of a mystery, but when he finally showed it to his older brother, Little Budd had already had a plan. “This is what I want to spend the inheritance money on,” he’d said, handing the magazine to Big Budd.

On the cover, an extreme close-up of an outrageously muscled torso, bigger than some of them wrestlers Big Budd had seen on TV, or even them bodybuilders he’d sometimes see pictures of on the magazines at the grocery store, an almost impossibly muscled torso—it had to be a camera trick or something. It couldn’t be real. Across the brick-sized abdominals was the word, “Littleman’s” and “Joining the Team” in much smaller type beneath that. The whole logo fit perfectly within the curve of the model’s posing trunks where only the waistband was visible, but pulled down so severely in the front as to give the impression that the model had some heavy equipment just out of camera range.

“What’s this?” Big Budd had asked his brother.

His brother had been giddy, just like now on the plane. “This is the future of the Budd Brothers!” he’d said, holding his arms up like he was cheering at the rodeo.

He never knew his brother had been so into muscles. After a two-hour layover in Kansas City where he and Little Bud circled the airport time and again, wearing their cowboy hats and checking out the women in the biggest city either of them had ever seen, they’d boarded the 737 to San Francisco, giving Big Budd plenty of time to reflect.

It made sense, he supposed. They’d both been skinny little runts growing up, not the beefy, corn-fed athletic types that got all the gals in high school and all the good jobs down t’ the factory. His brother had been into comic books and professional wrestling, but Big Budd saved his envy for athletes and these big, muscular lawmen he’d always fantasized about being. He wasn’t queer, but he thought about being a big muscular lawman when he masturbated sometimes. What guy didn’t?

But according to this catalogue, this “Littleman’s Project” was capable of transforming ordinary men into these superhuman fantasies, these outrageous bodybuilders with their huge muscles and abundant body hair. Look at these pictures! Look what they’re wearing! And Little Bud wanted to take their inheritance money and buy into this company, this “Littleman’s Project,” and become local distributors of their products. “We’d have to pay for the training,” Little Budd had explained, “and fly to San Francisco for some kind of workshop or something, but the benefits…? Oh my freakin’ God, the benefits!”

It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Big Budd to go along—maybe it was his mid-life crisis a decade early, or maybe he was unhappy enough with his present circumstances to grab at any straw. He didn’t want to be a freak or anything—he’d already mentally decided not to do the whole thing—but he certainly wouldn’t mind bein’ a little bigger. A bigger Big Budd. Little Budd, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to go all the way. “We’ll be freakin’ huge, man!” he said. “Think of the pussy we’ll get!”

During the few hours they were on the plane to San Francisco, Big Budd tried to imagine what it would be like to be one of those freaks while living in rural Kansas, with those huge muscles and what Little Budd had hinted would happen… down there—how embarrassing! What would they say at Benny’s? No, a half-dose was the way to go. Let Little Budd get the whole thing—it was his idea, anyway.

Big Budd could run a distribution center without being a freak.

And then they were there! Sure, anticipation slowed the clock, and it felt like they circled the airport for three hours waiting to land, but they finally touched down, got their baggage and caught a cab to the hotel. Dressed in his cowboy boots, pegged jeans, and the belt buckles they’d won on the rodeo circuit, the Budd Brothers felt foolishly out of place on Market Street. Big Budd obstinately wore his cowboy hat, defying some San Fran fag to say something to him, but Little Budd pulled his off almost immediately, replacing it with the Cat Diesel trucker’s cap he almost constantly wore.

They stared at everything, their awe exposing them as the tourists they were. Look at that building! Look at that homeless guy! Check out the traffic! Big Budd couldn’t wait to get to the hotel, maybe have a beer and relax a little before coming outside again. Damn, he hated the city.

The gal who checked them in was so sweet that Little Budd propositioned her before they’d even gotten their keys. She smiled indulgently at him, which made him comment to Big Budd in the elevator, “See? The gals around these parts look like they ain’t never seen a real man, before. This is gonna be easy pickin’s.”

“She didn’t agree to go out with ya.”

Little Budd shrugged it off. “Pro’lly cause I’m with you,” he said. “She pro’lly thinks we’s a couple o’ fags.”

Their suspicions were confirmed when they opened the door—the plastic, magnetic striped key confused them for a second—and they saw the room, a King Upgrade. More importantly, they saw that there was only one bed.

She had assumed they were… “together.”

Big Budd was embarrassed, and more than a little angry, but Little Budd just laughed. “Relax,” he said. “It’s San Francisco. I told ya, they ain’t used to real men. We’ll get it fixed right up.”

But when they called down to the front desk to resolve the problem, they were informed that the hotel was overbooked. Simply put, there were no other rooms.

At least for tonight, the Budd Brothers would share a bed, or go to another hotel.

“Well… shit,” said Big Budd.

“It’s just for one day, bro. It ain’t no big deal—we shared a bed when we was kids. ‘Sides, when I go out and pick up some pussy tonight, I’ll just go stay at her place. No ‘thing.’ Don’t worry about it.”

But it burned. He’d paid a lot of money for this trip—he wanted everything to be perfect. Ah, the lonely cry of inexperienced travelers! God damn, he needed a beer.

They found the group’s itinerary on the mini-bar. “Look,” said Little Budd, reading over the papers in the folder, “we got us a welcoming meeting around supper time. Six to nine tonight.” He read haltingly, as if not his best skill. “Meet and greet the staff and other seminar participants. Dinner and nutritional supplements provided.” (Except he pronounced seminar “SEE-men-ar” and supplements “SUP-pull-ments”)

Didn’t matter. The very prospect of a free-anything at this point brought Big Budd’s spirits up—the inheritance money was all but gone, now. Besides, maybe he could complain to these “Littleman” people about the bed situation and they’d have some leverage with the hotel. It couldn’t hurt.

The Littleman Meet & Greet was in one of the conference rooms on the hotel’s second floor—that’s what they learned at the front desk. Climbing the grand staircase in the lobby, they approached the right room, only to find a registration table set-up directly outside the door. The man seated at the table was easily the most muscular man either of them had ever seen—though again, that experience was limited to professional wrestling and rodeo—they’d never met a real bodybuilder before—still, the guy was huge!

“Hello,” he said with a warm smile. “Are you with the Littleman Group?”

They nodded, he stood, and they got their first full-view of him. The same height as Big Budd, he dwarfed them in every other way. His muscles were so large, they didn’t seem real—it couldn’t be possible that someone was that muscular, Big Budd thought. Not without them steroids, or whatever them things was.

He was dressed in a pair of stretchy spandex shorts and a muscle shirt, cut to reveal the depths of his pecs, barely, barely covering his meaty nipples. And the hair! His torso was thick with it, patterned almost perfectly. Almost like a dance. None on his shoulders or back, though, just his chest, his forearms, and his massive, massive legs.

His one leg was bigger than Little Budd’s torso. How could he walk?

And…

…and the package! Good Lord, the package! His dick! It couldn’t be… It couldn’t…

Big Budd couldn’t look at it, but he couldn’t look away, either.

The man’s cock was obscene! Bigger than an ear of corn! Thicker than a can of beer! The shorts held it up front and out, as if he were proud of something that freaky. And his balls were just as bad. Bloated, almost the size of oranges…

What the fuck had the Budd Brothers gotten into?

“My name is Dane,” the beast said, offering his hand. Big Budd shook it almost reflexively. Strong grip. Manly. “Welcome to the Littleman Group. Let me get you registered.”

“We’re the Budd Brothers,” said Big Budd, not able to look this man in the eye, but horrified to discover himself looking at the man’s cock by looking down. “From southwest Kansas.”

“I guessed from the belt buckles,” Dane said, chuckling slightly. Almost unconsciously, he adjusted his freaky dick while he spoke under his breath. “Always thought cowboys were hot…”

“Excuse me?” asked Big Budd.

But Dane just smiled with those perfect teeth and that scruffy jaw and said, “Nothing.”

They each got a name tag, a binder full of papers and colorful tabs, a plastic shopping bag of clothes, and a lunch-box sized, cardboard container with a plastic seal. “Don’t open these until instructed,” said Dane, handing them the boxes as if they deserved special treatment. “Now head inside and find a seat. Help yourself to hors d’oeuvres and drinks. We’ll get started as soon as everyone’s here.”

Little Budd spoke up finally. “How many people are doin’ this? Becoming… like…?”

“Just a dozen this time,” Dane said, leaning back in his chair and casually putting his hands behind his head, showing both his outrageous biceps and his furry pits. “But it’s cool. Smaller groups always end up being more… intimate. I think it’s better.”

Big Budd couldn’t get over the size of the guy’s arms—like bowling balls—or the way he casually spread his legs and proudly displayed his prodigious package—what would it be like to be that uninhibited? (Or that hung?) What would the guys down at Benny’s think of Dane?

They sure weren’t in Kansas anymore.

Once inside the conference room, Big Budd immediately scanned around to see if there were any other guys like Dane floating around. He was surprised to discover himself let-down that there weren’t. “Can you believe that guy?” Little Budd asked under his breath as the walked toward the chairs, set in a half-moon around a projector screen and small speaker’s podium. At the back of the room were two large tables of food—and several of the other men attending the seminar.

Like the Budd Brothers, they all looked fairly normal.

“Yeah,” said Big Budd. “He was purty big.”

Then Little Budd said it, so there was no ducking the issue. “And did you see the size of his dick?” he asked. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that.”

Big Budd laughed nervously. “Yeah, it was somethin’…” Then he changed his tone and added, rather defiantly, “I reckon I don’t think I want mine to get like that. I don’t want to be a freak.”

Little Budd smiled widely. “I do!” he said. “Could you imagine packin’ somethin’ like that? Matter o’ fact, I hope mine gets bigger!”

Big Budd just rolled his eyes—damn kids didn’t know nothin’ of the world. Little Budd had no idea how difficult it would be to live life at Dane’s size. There’d be no hidin’ what you were, then. What people would think…!

They chose two chairs and put their stuff beneath the seats as they saw the other guys had done, then tentatively made their way to the food table. Big Budd was starving—they hadn’t eaten supper yet—and filled his plate like it was a church social at the grange hall. Little Budd started conversations with the other guys while he filled his plate, some of whom seemed just as uncomfortable as Big Budd—some seemed as relaxed and excited as Little Budd himself.

All of them had been blown away by Dane. The pictures in the literature were one thing, but to see one of the Littleman Guys up close and in person, well that was something else all together. Was it possible? Would they all turn into something like that?

They didn’t really have time to contemplate—and none of them had time to chicken-out and leave—because the doors opened and Dane stepped into the room, his stride purposeful and manly, shifting his big balls back and forth from the sheer size of his quads. “Gentlemen,” he called, clapping his hands together (he had difficulty reaching around his own torso), “if you would find your seats, we’ll get started.”

They shuffled their way back to the semi-circle of chairs, carrying half-eaten plates of food with them. Big Budd was a little depressed to find only bottled water available—he could really go for a beer.

“There’s only gonna be the ten of you tonight,” Dane said, standing next to the lectern, so they could get a good look at him. He seemed excited by the idea of they were studying him. Again, Big Budd was a little envious of the guy’s lack of modesty. “A father and son team just backed out in the lobby. I guess that got one look at me and ran screaming!”

They all laughed—even Big Budd, nervously.

“But I’m nothin’ to be scared of,” the massive bodybuilder continued. “My name’s Dane,” he said, indicating himself with a flat palm on his big pecs. “But you know that. Let’s go around the circle and meet each other. Introduce yourself where you’re from, what you do, that sort of thing.”

There was no common thread, at least, none that Big Budd could see. They were from all over the country—one guy from Alaska!—an out-of-work oil-rigger who was fulfilling a life’s fantasy. They had no common career—a law-clerk, a cop, a high-school football coach, or like him, a second-shift man at the local factory, or a part-time construction worker who did time on the rodeo circuit like his brother, there was nothing to link them all together.

Except that they were men—and men who were clearly interested in the Littleman’s Project.

“Excellent,” said Dane, running his hand over his torso, unconsciously squeezing his big pecs and pinching his over-sized nipples. “Great to meet you all. We’ll get to know each other better over the next couple of days. You guys have picked an exciting new career—you’re about to be part of something that’s gonna change the world! But first, why don’t we watch the promotions video? That might answer some of your questions about who we are, and what’s gonna happen to you over the course of your training.”

Dane hit a series of keys on the laptop that was sitting on the lectern and the projection screen came to life. The opening credits/ titles reminded Big Budd of a porn movie, same kind of music and subtlety of shots—the camera swept across insanely muscular bodies, never revealing the models’ identity, showing glimpses of tight clothes and sexual possibilities. The “Littleman” logo faded in, accompanied by triumphant music, then the whole screen went white.

Medium shot of a skinny, awkward young man, probably not quite twenty, standing before the camera in just his jockey shorts. He looked extremely nervous. The words “WEEK ONE” and the guy’s weight, “165 lbs” faded in on the bottom corner of the screen.

“Check this guy out,” said Dane, indicating the frozen pic. “Skinny and useless. Hardly even a man at all. Now, watch this!”

He hit another key—”WEEK TWO—175 lbs.”—and the guy on the screen seemed different, a little thicker almost. Or maybe just that he seemed to have a new look of confidence… NO! Lust…

“WEEK THREE—190 lbs.” In this pic, the guy wore a pair of spandex shorts, not unlike the ones Dane had on. He now looked pretty fit—like a lifeguard or a football player.

The pics continued. “WEEK FOUR—224 lbs.” Now the guy was looking like a bodybuilder—not like those big guys who made a living from it, but still pretty damn amazing. And—did Big Budd’s eyes deceive him?—did it seem like the guy’s package was bigger?

Oh my God, it was! And it was even more dramatic in the next frame.

“WEEK FIVE—255 lbs.”

And the guy was getting hairier, too. His chest hair had filled in, gotten denser, almost mirroring his muscles. As a matter of fact, his whole body seemed denser—even his face, his jaw seemed thicker, too. Something familiar…

“WEEK SIX—286 lbs”

Oh my God, thought Big Budd. That’s not just any guy—that’s Dane! The guy on the screen was Dane!

“By now, you guys must see the resemblance,” chuckled the live-Dane at the podium. He raised his arms and flexed for the men at the seminar. “As you’ve probably put together, I’m a product of the Littleman’s Project, too—although now I’m closer to 320 than when those pics were shot ‘bout a half-year ago, and my cock is over eighteen inches now. And I gotta tell ya, confidentially… it’s fuckin’ awesome!”

“That’s what’s gonna happen to us?” shouted Little Budd, an anticipatory smile on his face, not unlike a kid at Christmas.

Dane smiled and adjusted his massive package, shifting that big log over an inch or so. “If you decide to go with the program,” he said, “yeah.”

When Little Budd said, “Yee-haw!” the other guys laughed nervously, excitedly.

Some, like Big Budd, thought, “Oh my God…”

“Do we have to go that far?” asked Big Budd. “I mean, I reckon I don’t want to be that big. Do you have to do the whole thing, or can you stop after, say, the second dose?”

That smile! That perfect smile of his! “No one’s gonna force you,” Dane said, leaning one arm on the lectern. “When you get to the size you wanna be, if you want to stop—stop. No one’s putting a gun to your head—or a syringe to your ass, as the case may be.”

A few more laughs. Like Big Budd, that was clearly a worry for some of the other guys as well. Dane’s casualness about the answers inspired confidence among the men.

“But watch the rest of the video,” Dane said, “then we’ll talk.”

He hit a key on the laptop and the screen changed to the title, “The Next Step in Masculine Evolution.” For the next twenty minutes or so, the video spewed its exposition.

Accidentally discovered in a search for a sports supplement and athletic performance enhancement tool, the hyper-masculine look of the Littleman’s Man was fast becoming a trend on the coasts—the Littleman Group capitalized not just on the formula, but its own line of clothing and athletic wear as well—add to that the health benefits they purported and it seemed the drug had nothing but positive effects on the men who used it.

So, in an aggressive bid to dominate the market place, the company was seeking representatives across the country to oversee distribution points for the formula and general recruitment. (There were always opportunities to model for the catalogue too, but Big Budd barely paid attention to that. Why would he? He was hardly the model type.)

Finally, the video ended with a montage of men going through the transformation, stills, like with Dane’s, only sped up, with musical accompaniment, so that it was possible to see the changes take place. Ordinary men, skinny, fat, pot-bellied, bird-legged, cave-chested, worn-out, old, young, black, white, muscles grew, clothing stretched, dicks lengthened—the same thing over and over—ordinary men turned into muscle-freaks. But every single one of them looked like they’d liked it. Every single one had lust in his eye when it was over.

And then it ended, and the lights came back up in the room. Dane still leaned against the lectern, trying unsuccessfully to hide his erection. “Sorry, guys,” he said, showing it off more by trying to conceal it—or maybe he wasn’t trying all that hard. “Can’t help it. That part of the vid always gets to me. I remember how it feels.”

His cock pushed against the waistband of his spandex shorts—over his left hip! God damn, thought Big Budd, his cock is eighteen inches! What do you do with a dick that big?

All of them were stunned.

“Okay,” Dane said, trying to change the subject, “let’s move on to the next part of the evening—the taste. For that, let me introduce one of our very fine company medicos, and a helluva guy in his own right, Dr. Troy! Doc?” He motioned his hand to the back of the room where a new man sat—obviously, thought Big Budd, he’d slipped in during the video.

This man was also a bodybuilder, though not quite as big as Dane—he’d obviously taken the Littleman stuff, which was apparent when he walked—he had that “look.” Dressed in hospital scrubs, his big dick flopped back and forth beneath the material, unrestrained and free. Jesus, thought Big Budd, the dicks these guys have! How…?

Doctor Troy was a handsome blond, the same scruffy five-o’clock shadow that Dane had. He wore only a lab coat on top, open to reveal his own incredible, rock-hard torso, coated with beautiful blond swirls. Big Budd always thought them bodybuilders shaved. Personally, Big Budd was glad HE didn’t have all that much body hair—he’d feel like a damn animal.

“Gentlemen, welcome to the Littleman’s Project. My name is Dr. Troy Adams, but everybody calls me Doc, or Dr. Troy. You’re very lucky to be accepted into this company, especially as it stands on the crossroads of world-market domination. You’re about to be a part of history, how does it feel?”

“That’s what we’re hoping to find out!” shouted one of the men—the football coach seated on the other side of Little Budd. All of them laughed. Big Budd, too.

Dr. Troy chuckled lightly. “Well, then, let’s get to it. I don’t want to keep a man from his destiny. Get that cardboard box out that Dane gave to you on the way in.”

Big Budd had to put his plate down, still largely uneaten—he’d stared slack-jawed at the video rather than snack—and pulled up the lunchbox-sized cardboard container. Dr. Troy told them to break the seal, which he did.

Inside were five vials of golden-liquid in a little sponge holder so they wouldn’t break, and a little… well, it looked like a gun, or a child’s toy. It was plastic.

Dr. Troy continued. “Inside you’ll find your complete cycle of the formula as well as our new delivery system. We’re experimenting with this pneumatic injection equipment on a larger scale after showing success in the lab with it—it actually delivers the formula quicker to the bloodstream than the traditional syringe poke-and-bleed.”

The guys chuckled again. This energy was all nervous though. Nothing funny was happening.

“I did it the old way,” said Dane, from the side of the circle where he supervised the men. “Trust me, this is a hell of a lot better!” He was cupping his balls as he spoke, gently cradling them.

Dr. Troy held up one of the “guns” in one hand, and a vial of the formula in the other. “Okay, slip this little bottle into the hole here in the back of the handle,” he said, looking around as he spoke to watch the guys. “Good, good. Press it in until you feel the seal break—there’ll be a little ‘pop’—there you go! Now you’re ready.”

“Where does it go?” asked Little Budd. “In your shoulder, your butt?”

Dr. Troy smiled again. “Actually, it goes in your balls,” he said. It was Big Budd’s reaction that made him continue—kind of a freaked-out sharp intake of breath. “I know that reaction,” Dr. Troy said. “But don’t worry, the first time’s the hardest—then you’ll realize it doesn’t hurt the way you imagine. You might even find yourself looking forward to the next one.”

Dane chimed in. “Think what it was like back when it was needles,” he said. “We used to call it ‘The Cost’ or ‘The Sacrifice.’ ‘The Pain Before the Glory!’”

“Honestly,” said Dr. Troy, “with this new system, you’ll hardly feel it. It’ll be like a ‘whoosh’ of air or like somebody slapped your gonad.” He looked at Dane and smiled. “Hardly like it was back when it was needles.”

Big Budd didn’t like people slapping his ‘nads, either. Still, the alternative…

(Besides, he thought to himself, he was only gonna do it once or twice—not the full cycle. He could put up with anything once.)

“All right, gentlemen,” said Dr. Troy. “Drop your drawers!”

Again, that hesitation through the crowd. Was he serious? Were they gonna do it right here in front of each other? They weren’t gonna go behind the screen one by one with the Doc?

“Let’s go, gentlemen,” said Dane, clapping his hands. “Let’s do what the doctor asked.”

Some, like Little Budd, moved with great confidence, standing and dropping in one swift move. Others, like Big Budd, moved a little more slowly, suspiciously—uncertain.

Ultimately, all of them did it—none of them chickened out like that wimpy father/son team from before.

They all stood there in their underwear together, then they lowered those, too.

Dane as well, which was the first time they’d seen his magnificent equipment free of spandex—freaky. Dr. Troy made him demonstrate how to hold the ‘nads around the base—and because Dane’s were so big, he handled them differently than Big Budd, who was always a little embarrassed by the size of his balls, or rather, the lack of size.

Apparently, that was about to change, one aspect Big Budd secretly welcomed.

Separate one, press the “gun” up against it—then fire!

Big Budd quietly watched his brother take the shot before he did himself—he wanted to see if it would really hurt or not. (Or maybe he was just a little chicken.) Little Budd took a sharp intake of breath and the pulled the gun away, leaning back in his chair for a second before he pulled up his pants, like he was winded. “Go on,” he said when he saw Big Budd hesitate. “It don’t hurt. Honest.”

Big Budd put the gun up to himself, the barrel almost as big as his ‘nad, and before he could think better of it, he pulled the trigger.

And just like that, it was over. The Budd Brothers’ journey had begun.

He tried not to think about it, but Big Budd couldn’t ignore the way it felt. His balls were heavy, like they were laden with juice—like water-balloons, he thought with a chuckle. Don’t laugh, that’s how it felt!

The monstrously huge Dane was giving them the overview for the weekend, but it seemed to Big Budd that everybody was struggling the same way he was, all ten of the guys who’d just injected themselves with the Littleman Formula. Plenty of uncomfortable weight-shifts as they sat in their chairs—plenty of hands “casually” placed in laps so they could discreetly touch themselves while this massive, over-endowed bodybuilder stood before them in skimpy spandex shorts and spoke.

“Tomorrow, we’ll work out together in the morning,” he said, his eyes scanning across the room. He had to see it, their discomfort. “So I want you to wear the Littleman’s Gear you’ll find in your bag, especially the square-cut, low-rise shorts like I’m wearing.” He stepped from behind the lectern and modeled for them, his package hanging well-below the elastic leg-band. It seemed to Big Budd that Dane liked to show his big dick—of course, if Big Budd’s were that big, he’d show it off, too.

That thought started to give him an erection. (Which felt kinda good.)

“We’ll work out,” Dane said, absently stroking the unbelievable muscle of his torso, “get rid of some of that morning… energy, then we’ll come back here and go over some of your company responsibilities. Tomorrow evening, we’ve arranged a little… surprise for you.”

And with that, Dane did get an erection. He adjusted it, but it was clear and evident what was happening to him. Big Budd just stared at it, feeling his own dick get hard. The… fullness… he felt in his balls took in his dick, too. It was the kind of erection you got when you had to piss so bad you couldn’t stand it. Demanding.

Big Budd just stared at Dane’s cock. All of them did.

But it was Little Budd who broke the silence. “How do you have sex with that thing?” he asked, and all the guys laughed—Big Budd, too.

Dane smiled. “Lots of practice,” he said, squeezing it with his hand. Another laugh. “Seriously, I’ve learned some new techniques, but even if I’m gonna beat off, it takes both hands.”

“What techniques?” asked the guy on the other side of Little Budd, the high school football coach with the barrel-chest—what was his name? Lidster? He was leaning back in his chair, legs spread, looking relaxed, his hand in his lap, unapologetically playing with himself.

They all were. None of them were even making the effort to be subtle—even Big Budd found himself touching his own hardening cock. God damn, he was horny! It had to be that stuff they’d given him. He’d never felt like this before, not even on his honeymoon.

And when Dane pulled the shorts down over his Herculean thighs and showed them his dick, Big Budd was relieved to find himself fascinated by it, but not attracted to it. He wasn’t queer, just remarkably curious. And the thing was huge. Even in Big Budd’s most masculine fantasies, he’d never imagined anyone that big.

“Look guys,” Dane said, naked before them, amazingly muscular and erect, his cock rising until it nearly touched the top of his abwall, “you’re obviously starting to feel the effects of the treatment—see how it significantly increases your sex drive?—who’s not feeling that right now?—so why don’t we put aside our inhibitions and I’ll show you some… self-gratification techniques for yourselves. Besides, if you go through the entire program, you’ll have one of these of your own, so you should learn how to use it.”

They laughed, and the more confident among them used the moment to pull their own pants down. Little Budd was one of them.

“C’mon, big brother,” he said, standing enough to let his jeans drop to the floor, his own erection uncontrolled in his boxer shorts. “Lighten up. You’re a thousand miles from home. No one’s ever gonna know.”

And for a man seeking an excuse, that was good enough for Big Budd. How would the yokels down at Benny’s Hackin’ Shack ever know he learned jerk-off techniques from a massive bodybuilder at a California job seminar? It certainly wasn’t like he was ever gonna show them! No, he thought, I reckon a guy goes on vacation to do all the things he don’t do t’ home. (Of course, it’s easy to rationalize when your erection is throbbing away in your pants.)

He undid his jeans and dropped them to his feet, glancing at Dane only to see the man mirror his brother’s approving look.

Dane had them sit on the edge of their seats with their legs spread—he pulled over a stool and sat that way himself, a little above them—so there was no hiding themselves from the others. It was purposeful and deliberate.

Big Budd, who had always been a little ashamed of the size of his package, his little nut-sized nuts and—at his most erect—a dick that wasn’t even as big as a bun-length frank, felt proud of himself instead. He was simply glad he had a cock—that he was a man. He sat with these other men with his one hand wrapped around his ball-sac, tickling that delicate spot between package and asshole, like Dane had shown them, and the other fiddling around at the base of his cock.

It felt so good—it had never felt this good.

He was so glad he was a man!

Some of the guys orgasmed immediately—Lidster, the football coach, among them—but it hardly took more than a minute or two before the majority followed. Little Budd himself screamed and arched his back, shooting a load that to Big Budd never seemed like it would end.

“Yeeeeeeee-HAW!” yelled Little Budd, standing and flexing like a man who’d just successfully rode the worst bull on the circuit, his energy uncontainable.

The guys laughed and cheered. Dane yelled, “Bring it on, cowboy!” and shot a load himself from that giant dick of his, soaking the hair on his chest and coating his hand.

Big Budd was last. He was still sitting there pounding away on his cock, the other men, like his brother, standing with their new-found energy. “C’mon, brother,” said Little Budd, turning to face him. Little Budd still sported his erection—it hadn’t gone down at all. All of the men, as a matter of fact…

“C’mon, brother. It feels even better after you shoot!”

While Big Budd beat, the guys started chanting—”Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.”—cheering him on, Little Budd right next to him in his ear, pumping his fists like he was at the rodeo.

No embarrassment. No inhibition. Just a man being a man with other men.

Big Budd rolled his head back and let go, shooting an orgasm like nothing before in his life. A Male-Pride Orgasm. A Fraternal Orgasm. He screamed while he shot.

The guys cheered, high-fiving each other and punching fists.

“Beautiful,” said Dane, standing there as hard as before, wiping the cum off his chest with a small towel. “Now you’re feeling it.”

A typical orgasm would exhaust Big Budd, let alone the size and severity of the climax that rocked his body now. But instead, when he finally finished shooting, instead of the wave of exhaustion that usually afflicted him, he felt a rise in energy—in his sense of well-being—a spike in his self-confidence and sexuality.

He stood, unable to contain himself, and flexed like he was the “Incredible Hulk” from that there TV show, roaring while he did so, lost in masculinity.

He did feel better!

“See what you have to look forward to?” asked Dane, passing out hand towels to them all from a stack next to the projection screen. (They had the hotel’s logo on them.)

The men wiped themselves off, their hands, their stomachs, the few blotches on the floor. While cleaning up, Big Budd made eye-contact with his brother. Little Budd winked and said, “Good for you” before they both pulled up their pants and sat down.

Strangest of all, Big Budd was proud of himself. Look at me, he thought. Look what I was man enough to do. His cock was still hard in his jeans—it made him feel confident.

“I suggest you don’t go out tonight,” said Dane, pulling his stretchy shorts back into place, adjusting his package so it was held up front. “I mean, I know you’re probably thinking, ‘my first night in the big city,’ but you’re gonna find this stuff gives you these… unpredictable moments, like we just experienced. You don’t need that happening to you in a restaurant or some taxi cab. Not yet.”

The guys laughed, though it was clear none of them seemed like they would really mind.

“Anyway, hang in your room, enjoy these moments when they occur—and they will occur often—as your body goes through some initial changes—and try to get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need your energy for tomorrow, trust me.” He smiled. “Last thing, right before you go to bed, give yourself another dose of the formula. Only one, though,” he said, looking right at Little Budd. The other guys laughed. Little Budd laughed himself, saying, “Aw, shucks!” and dramatically snapping his fingers.

Big Budd chuckled at that. His brother was blooming right before him, finding his own in these strange new circumstances, a regular celebrity. Big Budd was proud of him, too.

Yeah, Big Budd would give himself the second dose, but he’d stick to his original plan and stop after that. He didn’t want to be a freak—though he had to admit that he liked the way he felt.

And if he liked how if felt at his size, how must it feel to be Dane?

But it was easy to be a freak in California, he reminded himself—things were quite different in South-Western Kansas.

Still, he reckoned, when in California…

“You all have a good night,” Dane said. “Try to get some sleep.”

And they all collected their things and went to their respective rooms—Big Budd had the foresight to take his mostly non-eaten plate of food. Everybody seemed in good spirits as they shouted room numbers to each other—they were all on the same floor with the exception of Dane and Dr. Troy, if he was staying at all. He’d slipped out right after they’d given themselves the shots.

“Well, how ‘bout that?” asked Little Budd when they’d gotten back to their room. He started sorting through the company stuff they’d been given, the clothing bag and the notebooks. “What did you think of that?”

Big Budd couldn’t help but smile, even as tight-lipped as he usually was. “Unbelievable!” he said. “I ain’t never done nothin’ like that in my whole life! Never!”

“Did I tell ya it was the right way to spend the inheritance money? Didn’t I?”

But all Big Budd could say was, “Whoa…”

Long about nine-thirty, they felt the onset of another wave. “Here it comes again,” said Little Budd, playing with the Littleman Briefs, stretching them over his fist. This had been the fifth time since they’d gotten back from the meeting that Little Budd had excused himself to the bathroom, that distracted look in his eye, picking at the crotch of his boxers. Within moments, Big Budd heard him jacking away even through the closed door.

But oddly, instead of embarrassment, the sounds of his brother masturbating caused an erection for Big Budd. The way Little Budd was opening himself to this experience was almost erotic for him, seeing his brother have what he himself so badly wanted, but seemed unable…

Look how obvious Big Budd’s erection was inside his jeans. Before today, he’d always thought his dick had been small, but now he couldn’t help but feel good about it—he was just so grateful to have it.

And this stuff would make it grow—and feel even better!

In the bathroom, Little Budd tried to stifle a yell as he orgasmed, but failed miserably. A few seconds later, he opened the door and stepped out, a dizzy smile on his face. He’d been shirtless since they’d gotten back to the room, and though he knew it was too soon, Big Budd could swear his brother looked a little bigger, a little more muscular.

“You know,” Big Budd said, smirking, “I could hear every sound you made in there.”

Little Budd snorted, a smile breaking out on his face. “Oh, yeah?” he said. “And what’d you think?”

Big Budd showed him the erection inside his jeans, holding his hands out to his sides, not even aware of his own inhibitions.

They laughed together.

Big Budd pushed him out of the way. “Listen,” he said, shutting the bathroom door. “See for yourself.”

He didn’t go out of his way to be noisy, but the idea of his brother listening turned him on to such a degree that he was almost savage with himself. His dick was so hard, it felt like it was getting bigger from the intensity, from the inside out.

That was what made him cum!

It felt so good—as he looked at his reflection, speckled with the volume of his cum, all he could think about was how good he felt. How much he liked this. How manly he was.

And every time he came, it got better. Maybe that explained the same dizzy smile on Big Budd’s face that he’d seen on his brother. He tucked himself back in—though he was beginning to wish he could be free enough to just hang out in his underwear, like Little Budd was—and when he went back into the main room, Little Budd was sitting on the edge of the bed, already hard again. “You was right,” he said, smiling. “I could hear every freakin’ stroke.”

They tried to watch TV—they tried to think of other things, but it was impossible. There was a World’s Strongest Man marathon on ESPN2 (like any typical weekend), but they weren’t able to focus on it for long. Every time they looked at it, they’d think about being that big themselves, which turned them on, and they’d end up excusing themselves to the bathroom, to masturbate while the other brother listened.

At one point in time, just to get out of the room for a few minutes—to get away from the scent of old cum that filled the place and the thoughts that this might be a little more queer than he was ready to deal with—Big Budd went to get some ice, leaving Little Budd watching TV, erect in his underwear and preparing to jerk off again.

As he shoveled the cubes from the machine, dressed only his jeans and socks, the door across the hall opened. Normally, Big Budd would’ve been a little embarrassed to be caught in public without a shirt, but when he saw it was Officer Jacobs, the cop from the Littleman Group—the guy who’d sat on the other side of the football coach—Big Budd actually felt relieved.

Officer Jacobs wore less than him, only a pair of boxer briefs, his powerful arms covered in tattoos. The cop had been in good shape to begin with, and Big Budd couldn’t help but notice his ample dick, half hard in his underwear.

Officer Jacobs had the same contented smile that Big Budd had seen on both his brother and himself. With his close-cropped hair and his trim moustache, Officer Jacobs was the kind of lawman that Big Budd sometimes fantasized himself being.

He was hot, Big Budd thought. For a man.

“Hey, what’s goin’ on, Budd?” he asked as they shook. “Gettin’ some ice?”

Big Budd found himself adjusting his package while he spoke—his cock was getting hard again. “I reckon I just needed to get out of the room for a second. It’s pretty intense.”

Officer Jacobs nodded and flexed quickly. “Yeah, but it’s fuckin’ awesome!” he said. “Don’t you love it?” Then he pointed to Big Budd’s obvious erection. “I see that you do. Why don’t you come in… take care of that.” He pushed the door open so Big Budd could see beyond and enter. After a second of hesitation, Officer Jacobs added, “Don’t worry, Budd. You got nothin’ to worry about. We ain’t fags.”

So Big Budd went in.

The room was exactly the same as Big Budd’s except the King-size bed had been torn apart, as if from use—the same smell of old cum permeated the air. Sitting on the sofa on the far side of the bed was the football coach, Lidster, wearing only the scanty little posing trunks that had been included in their company stuff. Of all the men, Lidster was in the best shape overall, though Officer Jacobs gave him a run for his money. Barrel-chested and strong, the coach sat with his legs spread and his erection barely concealed by the stretchy material. It pulled the waistband low enough that Big Budd was aware of Lidster’s pubes. Big Budd found himself jealous of the Coach’s lack of inhibition.

“Hey!” Lidster said in way of greeting. “I was wondering who you were talking to out there.”

“I reckon they’re makin’ you share a bed, too,” said Big Budd, motioning to it.

Coach Lidster stood up, adjusting himself in the trunks—his casualness was sexy. “Ah, it’s no big deal,” he said. “I’m just worried that it won’t be big enough for the both of us by the end of the weekend.” Both he and Officer Jacobs laughed, so Big Budd joined in to be polite.

“No shit!” said Officer Jacobs, flexing for himself in the mirror over the desk. “I swear you guys, I’m already bigger!”

“Is this shit the most amazing thing you’ve ever felt in your life?” asked Lidster. “I swear, I don’t think I’ll ever need Viagra again.”

“Take your pants off,” said Officer Jacobs to Big Budd. “Stay a while.”

“No shit,” said Lidster. “No reason to keep yourself all hidden. You’re among friends. Might as well be comfortable. We’re all goin’ through the same thing.”

“Hey,” said Officer Jacobs, turning from the mirror to face them, his own erection evident, “speaking of goin’ through the same thing, you done your second amp yet?”

Big Budd undid his big, silver rodeo belt buckle and opened his pants, thrilled by the feeling of sudden liberation, and slid them down his legs, surprised by how tight they felt going over his thighs, leaving himself there in just his tightie-whities. Boy, he’d never stood around with muscular men in their underwear at home in Kansas—or had been able to admit how much he liked it. “No, we ain’t done it,” he said. “We was waitin’ on bedtime, like they done told us.”

“It’s almost eleven o’clock, Budd,” said the cop. “That sounds like bedtime to me.”

Coach Lidster put his hand on Big Budd’s shoulder—there was an odd tingle Big Budd felt when they made contact, like electricity, almost. “Why don’t you call your brother up and have him come over here?” he asked. “We’ll all do it together.”

“Yeah!” said Jacobs. “Great idea!” He picked at his uncomfortable erection with his tattooed arm. Yeah, Big Budd had always been attracted to manly lawmen.

Little Budd was so enthusiastic about the idea that he showed up at the Coach’s room before Big Budd had even hung up the phone. He, too, had put on some of the Littleman’s Gear, the spandex hot-shorts, and he wore them with the giddiness of a prancing pony. He also wore his CAT-diesel trucker’s cap.

“Now this is what I call a party!” he said, his smile growing wider as he walked into the room. His cock started growing, too.

The four of them sat around the room—Coach Lidster on the sofa, Little Budd next to him on the sofa’s arm, Big Budd on the edge of the bed and Officer Jacobs leaning against the bureau—and loaded the transdermal guns, pressing the vials into the back until they felt the seals break. They were all of them erect in anticipation.

“We should hit the other nut this time,” said the Coach, pushing his cock out of the way to separate his balls. “Treat everybody equally.”

“Yeah,” laughed Jacobs, the cop. “Give ’em their Muscle-Mirandas! ‘You have the right to take a hit of this shit and grow to inhuman proportions!’”

They laughed.

Big Budd’s balls felt heavier in his hands, or maybe it was his imagination. Maybe he just wanted them to get bigger so badly that he was making stuff up—but it really, truly did feel like it. For sure, his dick looked bigger—but as turned on as he was, that wasn’t a surprise, either. He discovered himself wanting this stuff to work—how different he felt from this afternoon, when there seemed to be reason for caution.

So he put it in his left ball. This time, since they knew it wouldn’t hurt, none of them displayed any hesitancy. Crooked their little fingers, pulled the little triggers, and in it went—Big Budd could literally feel the introduction of the formula into his ballsac.

There were moans and grunts and a little “Yeah!” from Jacobs that Big Budd imagined was the sound the officer made when he took down a perp. It felt so good, even at this stage, this buzz in his balls, that if Big Budd hadn’t been hard, he would be now.

He leaned back on the bed as the rush of the formula flowed over him like a wave—it was so quick this time, not like before. “I reckon I feel it already,” he half-whispered, his cock growing to it’s most vertical. “Oh, my God!”

All of them seemed to be in the same condition. “Me, too,” said the Coach. “Must be because it’s already in our system. Like pot.”

“Who cares why?” said the Officer, turning back to the mirror. “It’s fuckin’ great!” He flexed for himself again, admiring his body and his rock-hard erection. “I’ve never felt like such a man! I love my fuckin’ cock!”

“Mine’s gettin’ bigger,” said Little Budd, displaying his cock for all of them to see. They studied it while he spoke. “I swear to you boys, it’s bigger! Look at it!”

Lidster stood up. “Oh, yeah?” he asked, holding his own. “Is it as big as mine?”

Little Budd half-smiled and stood next to him. “I dunno,” he said. “I reckon we should compare. Hey boys, who’s got the bigger dick here?” He pressed his hip into the Coach’s, so their erect dicks were closer to the other.

Officer Jacobs cast a cursory glance. “Coach’s,” he said to Little Budd, “but you’re gaining on him.”

That didn’t satisfy Little Budd. “What do you think, bro?” he asked, pulling his dick in an effort to stretch it, perhaps. He had a pleading look in his eye, but that didn’t change the truth.

“Uh… I don’t know, bro,” Big Budd said, clearly uncomfortable—he could barely keep himself from playing with his own. “They both look good to me.” (What did he just say?)

The buzz. The buzz!

Coach Lidster smiled. “Let’s put ’em right up next to each other, so he can see better.”

Coach Lidster and Little Budd faced each other, pressing their cocks together—yeah, thought Big Budd, unable to stop looking, Coach’s was bigger. But not by much. How do you tell that to your little brother?

“See?” said Lidster. “No contest.”

“Not yet,” said Little Budd, smiling devilishly.

But Officer Jacobs distracted Big Budd, who turned his focus to the tattooed lawman rather than his brother’s cock. “What about me?” said Jacobs, sweaty and erect. Pumped. “Somethin’ wrong with my cock?”

Big Budd glanced down at it, throbbing in the Officer’s boxer briefs, between those muscular thighs. Big Budd smiled. “Nothin’ that I can see,” he said, a little dizzy from the buzz.

The corner of the Officer’s mouth curled up. “Seein’ might not be enough,” he said. “Maybe you should feel it. Really check it out.” He pulled his boxer briefs down, exposing himself.

And before Big Budd realized what he was doing, he reached out and touched the lawman’s dick. Jacobs’ breath hitched at the contact, giving Budd a feeling of confidence and power—look at the effect he could have on another man. And his fantasy man at that.

Big Budd wrapped his hand around the solid shaft.

Officer Jacobs stepped closer to him, reaching out and taking Big Budd’s cock in his hand—through the material of Big Budd’s underwear. Jacobs smiled hungrily. “Feels like this is gettin’ bigger, too” he said—just what Budd needed to hear. “Hot…” 
Big Budd was aware of the bodies of his brother and the Coach falling to the bed, embraced and active, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the gaze of Officer Jacobs as they pressed themselves together.

Big Budd had never kissed a man before, but when he felt Officer Jacobs’ scruffy facial hair, when he accepted Officer Jacobs’ tongue in his mouth, when their muscles and their cocks came together, Big Budd knew he’d never want anything else ever again. He surrendered to urges he only vaguely knew he’d had.

He allowed himself to grow and change.

All of them did.

It was a dream that rocked him awake—a dream of strutting into Benny’s Hackin’ Shack wearing only those miniscule posing trunks like all the Littleman’s guys wore—a dream of their reactions when they saw his insanely large cock, barely held by the scant material, half-hard from pride. The gasps of awe and envy as he slowly strutted to his normal stool, as his package swayed back and forth before him. There was Ed Jiggers and old Travis Murphy, slack-jawed and abnormally tongue-tied at his lack of inhibition, at his confident new attitude. There was Sheriff Coltraine, still in his uniform from the day-shift, Johnny Silvio, his fucked-up supervisor on the factory line—hell, all his high school rivals, all the guys who’d ever laughed at him.

“Evenin’, everybody,” he said, confident and masculine as he sat on his stool, picked up his beer, and spread his legs wide for them to see. “I can’t help but notice ya’ll are starin’ at my cock. I reckon you boys ain’t never seen one this big before.” He reached down and touched it. “And this ain’t even hard.” He smiled. “You should see it hard.”

And with that, he allowed his erection to happen. It’s what his cock wanted, after all—it’s what his cock always wanted. Like the others, he just watched it as it fought the lining of his briefs, pushing it’s way past the band near his hip bone. He watched with a growing love as it freed itself from the confines of the material, extending up over his abs, thickening as it rose. Even the most endowed man would feel intimidated by it—it dwarfed the competition.

Hearing their “Holy shits!” and “God damns!” reinforced his confidence—his love of his new-found freakiness. At full-mast, the fist-sized head pressing into the bottom of his muscular pecs, he grabbed the base of it with both hands, waggled the massive thing back and forth and said, his voice surprisingly sexy, “Now, who’s first?”

When they started fighting for the honor of servicing him, that pushed him over the edge.

That caused the orgasm that rocked him awake, pulling him out of his dream world—pulling him away from a scene that he never thought he’d like to make real. Funny how dreams speak to truth.

Big Budd woke in the hotel bed he shared with his brother, breathing heavily, cumming in the tightie-whities he’d fallen asleep in. He laid there for a minute, listening carefully to make sure he hadn’t woken his brother with his wet dream—which, ironically, reminded him of being a teenager, when he and his brother shared a room and such a dilemma was common—then quietly got out of bed to clean up.

He didn’t turn the lamp on, but could see from the ambient light of the city outside, this hazy monochromatic feeling that made objects visible, but not color. In this dimness, as he stood up off the mattress, Big Budd saw himself in the mirror above the dresser.

There wasn’t light enough to clearly see, but it looked like the man in the reflection wasn’t him—the man who looked back at him from across the room was more muscular than he was, easily twenty-five pounds heavier. The man in the mirror didn’t look like he’d swallowed a basketball—he had a flat, strong stomach—he lacked love-handles—he had a “V”-shape.

And the reflection’s dick, still half-hard in his underwear, was clearly bigger than Big Budd’s—the reflection’s dick reached all the way over to his hipbone.

No! thought Big Budd. It’s gotta be a dream still!

Watching himself in the mirror, he pulled down his underwear, suddenly unconcerned about his snoozing sibling, his hopes confirmed—yes, his cock was bigger! No longer the hot dog-sized erection he was used to, he was now bigger than bun-length—for the first time in his life, he could wrap his whole hand around it.

There, in the dim moonlight filtering into their hotel room, Big Budd started masturbating to this hazy reflection. He didn’t turn on the lights for fear seeing the truth—that he was still the same fat, embarrassingly hung loser he always was. No, he liked the guy in the mirror a lot more. As a matter of fact, so caught up in his fantasy, he didn’t stop to realize he had just cum—it had woken him up—no, he was too horny to care.

Perhaps he moaned too loudly, or maybe just the sound of his hand slapping his pud woke Little Budd. Whatever. Just as Big Budd was about to shoot a crippling load at the fuzzy muscleman in the mirror, the light from his brother’s side of the bed came on, and he could see his reflection clearly.

He could see that it had all been true—he was more muscular. His gut was gone. He was well-hung.

And when he saw the improvements in himself in the clear, white light, Big Budd couldn’t help but orgasm, shooting thick streams of cum across the room, screaming from the intensity.

It just kept getting better and better.

As he caught his breath, he heard that same rhythmic, slapping sound coming from his brother’s side of the bed. But instead of being embarrassed, he just smiled and turned to face the boy.

Little Budd was jerking off, no doubt turned-on by Big Budd’s performance, which Big Budd found oddly flattering. His brother had tossed back the sheets, exposing his nudity—and the fact that he’d been sleeping without underwear—pounding on his own erection as he watched Big Budd flex.

“Well, look at you,” Little Budd said, panting, pounding away.

Instead of shame, Big Budd felt pride. He said, “No shit. Look at my stomach!” and flexed it for his brother, the muscular cuts evident for the first time in his life.

As he posed, he realized that Little Budd had gone through the same changes he had. His younger brother was significantly more muscular, even bigger than Big Budd, and his erect cock reached above his navel.

And when Little Budd shot, the force of his cum splattered the headboard next to his ear. He moaned and arched his back, lifting his hips up off the mattress, flexing his newly-found muscle.

As soon as they wiped up—using the last of the clean towels in the bathroom—they spent time flexing for each other, examining themselves in the mirrors. Big Budd wasn’t surprised at his brother’s comfort level, but was impressed with his own lack of inhibition. He was pleased with his nudity—with a body like he now had, why wouldn’t he be?

They were nowhere near the size of Dane, but they looked like they were addicted to the gym the same way—they were in better shape than anybody either of them had ever met in Kansas, that’s for sure. There were some strong men at the factory where Big Budd worked, but none of them were built like this! None of them looked like those fitness magazine models like his brother now did.

None of them were as hot as the Budd Brothers!

Oddly, he didn’t find anything queer about two brothers flexing for each other, comparing their new bodies, measuring the growth in their dicks, or masturbating together. As a matter of fact, he found it undeniably masculine. He thought of when Officer Jacobs knelt before him and took his cock in his mouth—and conversely, when he knelt before the Officer and did the same thing—as a natural extension of their undeniable masculine need, not some perverted act or aberration. (If Big Budd even knew that word.) 
No, what he was feeling was so… so manly, that he knew the only people who could understand its intensity were the other guys going through it. Now, masturbating with his brother, fighting for mirror space, Big Budd found himself open to that feeling, and loving it!

His brother was laughing at him. “You’re so clumsy with that thing,” he said. “I reckon you ain’t used to something that big.”

Boldly, Big Budd said, “I reckon I ain’t never had to use my whole hand before!”

They laughed.

“Here,” Little Budd said. “Let me show you.”

He reached over and took Big Budd’s cock in his confident grip, running his hand up and down the shaft a few times. Big Budd’s breath hitched. “See?” said Little Budd. “All in the grip.”

Little Budd changed his position, getting behind his big brother so he was reaching around, a more comfortable angle for himself. He pumped Big Budd’s big new dick. “See how I’m holding it?” he asked. “How’s that feel?”

“Oh my Lord!” moaned Big Budd, leaning his head back onto his brother’s shoulder. “That’s amazing!”

And Little Budd reached around with his other hand, laying it on Big Budd’s flat, firm stomach, feeling the new grooves etched into the muscle—naturally, Big Budd flexed. And then his brother seemed to pull him in, like they were wrestling, or hugging from behind, and their bodies came into contact—specifically, Little Budd’s hard-on pressed into the groove of Big Budd’s ass. But instead of being freaked, Big Budd kind of liked it. Why should he be the only one enjoying himself when his brother was doing all the work?

Big Budd found himself opening up, spreading his ass to accommodate his little brother’s growing erection. “Yeah,” whispered Little Budd. “How’s that feel?”

When they orgasmed this time—at almost the exact same moment—when Big Budd felt his brother’s cum hit his ass crack and lower back, he almost wished his brother was inside him. He thought it would feel better if his brother was inside him—so much more masculine.

Except he didn’t think he could get Little Budd’s big cock up there.

He was surprised to discover himself wishing he could.

That led to his orgasm. With his brother’s deft handling, Big Budd shot an almost crippling load while flexing a double bis in the mirror. Look at what a fucking man he was becoming!

“I reckon I’m getting hairier,” Little Budd said as he wiped his cum off his brother’s lower back. “I reckon you are, too. I could feel it on your stomach.”

It was true. While neither of the Budd Brothers had much bodyhair to begin with, as Big Budd examined his torso, he could see the sprouts of tiny dark hairs dotting the skin, not the blunt tips like growth after shaving, but the thin points of new life.

So masculine! Everything was turning him on.

It was difficult to get anymore sleep that night, though they tried. They wrestled each other like they had when they were boys—before they learned such behavior was “wrong”—innocent as pups. They fell into bed wrapped in each other’s arms. And when Little Budd rested his head on Big Budd’s pec, using it as a pillow, Big Budd felt such an overwhelming love for his brother that he pulled his body even closer, tying their arms and legs into a knot of flesh that even a champion wrestler would have difficulty undoing.

He’d never cuddled with his wife this way.

But he’d never felt that same sense of intimacy with her—not like this. This was incredible!

As he was falling asleep, he decided he’d definitely do the third shot—but he’d stop after that. He didn’t want to be too much of a freak.

The next morning, the entire Littleman’s group met in the same conference room as they had the night before—except the casual observer wouldn’t realize it was the same group of men. It even took Big Budd a few minutes to recognize everyone, or maybe he just enjoyed looking—either way, they were all as different now as he was, himself.

The muscular improvements that he and his brother had experienced were reflected across the board. All of the men had put on quality amounts—Lidster, the football coach, was freakin’ huge!—but to varying degrees. Though none of them would be mistaken for anything less than what they were now, gym-rats, muscle-heads.

As instructed, all of them wore their Littleman’s sheer, spandex hot-shorts—again, none of them displayed the inhibition that had plagued them last night, Big Budd included. Quite the opposite, they all seemed eager to show the improvements in their packages, the growth of their cocks, the swelling of their balls. They adjusted themselves in the Littleman’s shorts the way Dane had shown them, everything up front, and paraded their stuff for the others to see.

Dane started the meeting officially with them standing up one at a time to show off their growth, both muscularly and sexually. Most of the guys, Big Budd included, got an erection while flexing for the others, but nobody complained—mostly, they cheered.

The Coach had put on the most size, though Officer Jacobs gave him a run for his money. Jacobs was a better poser, and enjoyed waving his ass around for them to see. His cocky attitude was his best feature. Little Budd did a dance when it was his turn, looking for the world like one of those strippers at a bachelorette party. Unquestionably, his brother had gained the most self-confidence.

But Big Budd had made gains, too. His was voted “Most Improved Cock” by the other guys. He laughed, but it was false-modesty—it was just the last vestiges of his embarrassment. As they studied his cock, as it got hard, Big Budd felt more and more at ease—more and more masculine as they cheered. As he stretched the thin material to the point of becoming see-thru, Big Budd followed an impulse for the first time in his life, pulling his cock out of his shorts and masturbating for them, showing them his new size.

They cheered him on, Little Budd leading the cause. Many of the guys started masturbating themselves, Little Budd included. The Old Man—Big Budd had forgotten his name, lost in the moment—the gray-haired retiree whose body had been so frail last night that none of them had understood why a man with a walker had been accepted into the group—now a strapping, mature bodybuilder with heavy pecs and no discernable limp—when the Old Man stepped up and said, “That’s a nice cock, boy,” Big Budd waggled it at him and said, “I reckon you’re not doin’ too bad yourself.”

And when the Old Man knelt down before him and took Big Budd’s big new cock in his mouth, Big Budd didn’t even try to stop him. As a matter of fact, he said, “Oh yeah, Old Man. Suck that cock.” And his brutish language kind of turned him on.

“It always turns into an orgy,” Dane said, shaking his head, striking the podium with his open hand to get their attention. “Guys! Guys!”

They looked at him, mid-stroke or mid-poke, this incredibly beautiful, masculine, hairy bodybuilder who was himself erect and ready, a small bit of pre-cum dotting the material of his shorts, and he said, “We got a lot to do today, and I don’t want this turning into some all-day event, so… separate.” He made a motion with his hands, pulling them apart. “Let’s all just shoot a load and get it over with, then we can eat and get our asses to the gym.” Then, in a quieter tone, he added, “And the quicker we get it done, the quicker we can have our next dose.”

THAT motivated them—Big Budd included. He reluctantly pulled the Old Man off his cock and said, “I reckon we’ll make time for this later.”

The Old Man looked up at him, smiled and said, “My teeth are growing back in, boy. Won’t quite so smooth later.”

So they sat there on the edge of their seats as Dane showed them more new techniques—not that it took any amount of time for them to cum. It hardly ever did, now. That orgasmic bliss would finally wash over them, only to make them ready for more—want more. Even Big Budd was having difficulty remembering the inhibitions of Kansas.

The was a small buffet set up in the back of the conference room, just like the day before, and they wolfed down breakfast, joking and teasing each other as they filled their plates. There were protein shakes in a cooler at the end of the table, also bearing the Littleman’s brand—Dane explained that they were testing these drinks in a few select markets. Apparently, they contained less than one-percent of the formula, but the unusually high protein content was engineered to be absorbed by starving muscles better.

They tasted great.

Dane trooped them through the hotel lobby to a mini-bus waiting outside. Big Budd liked walking in public wearing the skimpy Littleman’s gear, the way people stared at them, gawked at them. It was almost like his dream. (Yeah, reckon it’s easy to enjoy yourself in San Francisco, he thought. What about when you get home to Kansas?)

The guy driving the bus was clearly going through the program himself. Though not quite as big as Dane, there was no mistaking that attitude—that abnormal cock. He wore dark blue spandex shorts and a matching sleeveless cotton/spandex shirt, exposing his freakish arms to the world, the heavy tats on his forearms, a driver’s cap cocked on the back of his head. His scruffy goatee was longer than the hair on his head—his jaw was absurdly wide.

He grunted at the guys he thought were hot as they passed, and Big Budd was pleased to get the biggest response from the man—it was almost a bark. When they made eye-contact, the driver showed his teeth like a dog.

Boldly, Big Budd winked then took a seat next to his little brother, who wasn’t all that little anymore—frankly, he was almost bigger than Big Budd. Certainly hairier. But Big Budd was determined to have the bigger cock, ultimately.

Even if it meant doing more than the third dose.

The gym was in Sausalito—a place called American Dream Muscle—so they had to cross the bridge. Big Budd was actually glad to be outside the hotel—here they were in San Francisco for the first time in their lives, and the Budd Brothers wanted to see the sights. And in San Francisco that meant two things: the Golden Gate and the queers. (Well, three things if you count the trolley, but Big Budd just wanted to see that, not ride it—same as with the queers.)

The gym sat in the middle of a corporate park, one indistinguishable brick building after another to Big Budd. As the driver parked the bus in the back corner of the lot, Dane got on the overhead mic and instructed them to take the next dose of the Littleman’s formula before they went in, the third vial of their five. “There’s nothin’ like the feeling of the Littleman’s buzz while you’re working out,” he said—and the bus driver emphatically added, “No shit!” behind him, nodding and chortling.

They all had their transdermal guns in their gym bags except one guy, Big Budd couldn’t remember his name but knew he was a bartender at some sports bar back in Maryland—he was one of those jock/ fratboy-types that Big Budd had always harbored resentment toward. He’d clearly been in amazing shape not long ago, a “player,” juggling girlfriends as easily as lining-up shooters. But the effects of his lifestyle were taking their toll, leaving him soft and mildly pudgy—well, not as much now. Overnight, like all of them, he’d gained some of it back.

And as the pretty-boy bartender sat there whining about not remembering to bring his dose or his gun, Big Budd felt kind of sorry for him. Imagine not being able to do another hit of this stuff! (To think, there was a time when Big Budd had himself considered stopping!) So when Big Budd magnanimously offered the bartender one of his amps—”Fer the time bein’,” Big Budd said. “I reckon you can give me one o’ yourn when we get on back to the hotel.”—the guys cheered him.

Even Dane said, “Now, that’s a lot nicer than I would’ve been. I would’ve made you go without and do a double dose later. But this…” He gestured to Big Budd. “…this is way beyond nice. I’ll leave it up to you: his dose now, or a double dose later.”

The bartender thought about it, then smiled and patted Big Budd on the shoulder. “You’re a pal,” he said, “but I’ll think I’ll do the double dose later. Look, I’m already gettin’ hard thinkin’ about it.” The bartender had the biggest cock of them all to begin with—he kept it shaved, which Big Budd thought odd, but maybe the women liked it that way—and half-hard in his spandex, only Dane rivaled him for supremacy. Maybe the bus driver, too.

Dane pointed at Big Budd. “That was real nice,” he said. “Don’t think it went unnoticed.” He spoke to the group. “These mid-west boys are always so polite, aren’t they?” The guys chuckled. Even Little Budd flushed. “All right you guys,” Dane said, “let’s get this done.”

And so, they loaded their guns, popping the vials into place in the back of the handle, and pulled down their spandex. His balls were getting meatier—as Big Budd fondled himself while separating, he weighed his balls in his hand, easily the size of goose-eggs, and lined up the shot.

“Pull!” Little Budd hollered, like they were shooting skeet, and the guys all laughed.

Like it was a cue, they all shot simultaneously, pulling the triggers in a near unison “snap!” Big Budd could feel it empty into his balls, swelling them with even more fluid.

He couldn’t wait to feel the buzz. To grow. To be a freak.

They trooped off the bus, walking in pairs across the parking lot, muscular hulks adjusting themselves, wearing only their spandex shorts and foot gear, a few with gym bags—most with erections. On the door of the gym, there was a hand-written sign that said, “Closed for private party. Open to public at 12:30pm. Thanks! Ivan.”

Dane rang the security buzzer and announced, “Littleman’s” into the intercom. A deep voice responded, “Be right there” and the thing went dead.

Dane said to the group, “You got ‘til noon here. That’s almost three hours, so you should have plenty of time for a workout and… whatever.” Almost as quickly, he added, “They have a nice sauna here, a steam room and a pool, too. Take advantage of everything.”

“Not just every-one,” added Little Budd, getting his customary laugh. Even Dane barked a laugh, mock-punching Little Budd in the shoulder.

The man who opened the door from inside was bigger than anyone Big Budd had ever seen in his life, including Dane, the bus driver, or even the guys on the Littleman’s video. Dressed only in the company posing trunks which didn’t even cover his entire package—the root of his freakish cock remained exposed for them to see—Big Budd noticed this giant of a bodybuilder was completely smooth from head to toe.

He didn’t realize how odd he found that to be until he saw one of the Littleman guys without body hair. Big Budd had only seen shaved bodybuilders in the magazines and the media, but since becoming involved in the Project, he’d come more and more to see that huge muscle was only accented by body hair—and way more masculine! Seeing this giant beast of a man with smooth skin, pale from lack of sun, was almost disconcerting.

The hairless guy opened the door from the inside and welcomed them, saying—in a heavy accent that Big Budd recognized as Russian—”Welcome, my friends! Welcome to my American Dream!” He held his massive arms open, showing his incredible torso. “My name is called Ivan Pretulski and I come to here from former Soviet Union to be part of this Group Littleman’s.” He placed his big hand on his big pec, indicating himself with his sausage finger. “I am from—how you say?—early version of formula. As you see, robbing me it has of the chest fur and good hair down on man parts.” He grabbed his own thick package to emphasize, and then shrugged. “But I am still—how you say here?—all man!”

“You look great,” said Dane, clapping the big Russian on the shoulder. It was clear that Dane was telling the truth—his cock was already hardening in his spandex shorts.

It looked like a look passed between them—or at least, it did to Big Budd. But his buzz was already hitting him so hard that he might’ve been reading all kinds of intentions into it. As they filed past Ivan on the way into the gym, the hyper-muscled Russian greeted each of them individually, shaking their hand or slapping their shoulder. Big Budd was touched by the man’s sincerity, his masculine confidence, even if he did lack body hair.

The gym wasn’t just gigantic, it was so well-equipped that it might be called ultra-modern to someone with as little experience as Big Budd. But he wasn’t the only one who was impressed. “This is fuckin’ amazing!” yelled Officer Jacobs, listening to his own voice echo through the open space.

“Very few gyms you will find that are this ultra-modern, yes?” Ivan came to the front of the group—the gym was clearly his pride and joy—his whole attitude reflected it. “And for three hours next, it is yours! Enjoy my hospitality!”

And as his buzz really hit him hard, Big Budd, the other seven “newbies,” Dane, the bus driver, and Ivan himself descended on the weights.

It wasn’t long before they were descending on each other.

“Oh, fuck yeah!” he screamed as he stood out of the squat, flexing his growing quads and his thickening lower back, thrusting his hips forward like he was fucking someone and was about to plant his seed—a motion of masculine power. Officer Jacobs slammed the weight back into the rack and stepped away from it, slapping the bar with his open palms. “Fuck yeah! This is so… fucking… intense!”

Jacobs began flexing in the wall mirror, pulling the sides of his shorts up to expose the sweep of his entire quad—his cock so erect that the head poked out above the waistband. Big Budd couldn’t help but be impressed—it didn’t hurt that he’d always harbored a bit of a cop fantasy—still, Officer Jacobs was becoming a fine specimen.

Both of them were. Hooking up with Jacobs for this workout was the smartest thing Big Budd had ever done—short of listening to his brother about spending their inheritance money on this Littleman’s stuff. Jacobs was the most experienced lifter, with the possible exception of the football coach, who seemed more interested in the younger guys anyway—his brother and the Maryland Bartender, who probably played high school football and fell-in naturally with a leader like the Coach. They were busy bench-pressing on the other side of the free-weight area.

Jacobs had gone straight to legs.

Big Budd stepped up to the squat rack, taking a second to admire himself in the mirror. He didn’t know what he weighed, but he could see that there was no mistaking him for anything other than a bodybuilder now—he knew there was no hiding anymore.

But Big Budd had stopped wanting to hide.

He was so into it, so amazed at how masculine he felt, so turned on, that Big Budd wanted every man to experience it. Yeah, every man should do the Littleman’s program.

He hefted the weight up onto his shoulders, smirking at how good it felt, distracted by his erection, and a cock that was just as big as Officer Jacobs, poking obscenely above the waistband of his shorts.

It kept getting bigger—and Big Budd loved it!

With five-forty on the bar—six plates a side!—Big Budd stepped back to squat. Officer Jacobs was behind him, spotting, hands on Big Budd’s thickening ribcage, quads firmly pressed into Big Budd’s hamstrings—the lump of his cock pressed against Big Budd’s ass, the head of it tickling his lower back.

Doing the reps was just like having sex—better, in fact. More manly, especially with Officer Jacobs’ cock forcing its way into his ass crack. When Big Budd stood with the weight, he couldn’t resist it anymore—he exploded from his desire.

“Aw… fuck!” he screamed, flexing and thrusting.

As Jacobs helped him rack the weight, the officer said, “So fuckin’ hot. Look at your fuckin’ muscles! Look at your cock!” right into his ear, pressing himself into Big Budd’s back, reaching around and feeling Big Budd’s swelling torso. “C’mon, buddy. I gotta fuck!”

“Yeah… YEAH!” moaned Big Budd, who only realized what was happening when Officer Jacobs pulled his spandex shorts down to expose his newly pumped ass. He was so hot, so driven right now, he didn’t even think of the ramifications of the act—Big Budd just needed to fuck, too.

And then Officer Jacobs was pressing his big cock against Big Budd’s asshole. Big Budd felt it, like an oversized cucumber at the door, wanting in. Instinctively, he pressed against it.

And miraculously, in it went, and somehow, he stretched to take even more, until Officer Jacobs was buried up to his pubic hair, until Big Budd felt it tickle the skin of his ass. It didn’t hurt—quite the opposite, it brought ecstasy, pleasure beyond description.

Nothing in his life had ever felt so masculine!

He flexed—Jacobs flexed his hips. They fucked, long and hard, sweaty and savagely. Big Budd could see around the gym—watching the other guys go through the same thing, the same initiation. There was Little Budd, straddling the football coach on the flat bench, riding the man’s big cock while the Coach did reps with 315 on the bar. The Bartender, while spotting, squatted down low enough to sink the head of his cock into the Coach’s mouth.

The Bus Driver was doing pull-ups as the Old Man hung with his arms wrapped around the Bus Driver’s waist, sucking the Bus Driver’s enormous cock as he did his reps. The Old Man was starting to look more like the Coach, mature and barrel-chested, except his hair was looking less and less gray—it would now be called salt and pepper. The Old Man sure could suck a cock.

The other two guys in the group, the Oil-Rigger from Alaska and the Law Clerk from Boston were posing into a mirror by the military press where the light shone directly down, highlighting their growing musculatures and their powerful, uncontrollable erections, which jut out from their hips and cast heavy shadows on their legs. One would pose and the other would feel the hard muscle, erotically stroking it, then they’d reverse—they worshipped together, these two who would never have spoken to each other before joining the Littleman’s group.

When Officer Jacobs came, deep inside Big Budd, he roared and flexed a double-bis, showing himself and the world the improvements in his body, the continued growth, the sexy, sexy chest-hair that swirled in chestnut. When he pulled his big new cock out of Big Budd’s hole, neither of them could believe its size.

“Bet that felt fuckin’ good,” said Jacobs, not even softening, admiring the size he’d gained.

“I can’t believe I done took that whole thing,” Big Budd said, in awe of himself, proud, not shocked. He indicated his own cock, so hard that it seemed to stretch itself bigger. “You reckon you can take all o’ this?”

Jacobs smirked and spun around, bracing himself against the squat rack.

“There’s only one way to find out,” he said.

So Big Budd fucked him—and his cock fit just fine. It even grew while out of sight—it got bigger inside Officer Jacobs, who fucked himself so hard on it that he came again.

Again, a bit sweaty and out of breath, that wave of masculine euphoria swept over them, rejuvenating them, intensifying—all Big Budd could think about was muscle and cock.

Fortunately, there was plenty of both.

They came together as a group in the center of the gym, standing in a loose circle and admiring each other’s changes. Using the Bartender as a standard—he hadn’t taken the third dose, remember—they could easily see how much they’d gained, both in muscle and cock. The Bartender had been one of the best hung—now he was the smallest. Even Big Budd’s cock—if it would ever get soft again—dwarfed the Bartender’s. As it was, it reached up past his navel, almost to the base of his rib cage, and so thick.

“Look at you guys,” said the Bartender. “Look what this shit’s turning you into!”

The Coach put a heavily-muscled arm around the Bartender’s beefy shoulders. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” he said, tilting his head so he and the Bartender could kiss. Without hesitation, they did.

“I reckon this shit’s turnin’ us queer,” said Little Budd to the group. Then he smiled and waggled his over-sized dick. “But I reckon I don’t care! I feel so fuckin’ great! And look at this fuckin’ body!” He flexed for them, putting his arms behind his head and squeezing his abs—Little Budd had become a little musclegod.

“You guys ain’t even begun to feel it, yet,” said the Bus Driver, who wasn’t so much bigger than them anymore. The Coach had almost caught up to him—so had Officer Jacobs. “Pretty soon,” he said, flexing that incredible body, “you won’t be able to think about anything else.” His cock reminded Big Budd of a baseball bat—Big Budd wondered how it would feel to be fucked by that cock.

But Big Budd didn’t feel queer—just unbelievably manly.

And then a voice from behind them, at the door to the locker room. Dane, naked and ready, that look of euphoric satisfaction on his face, called to them, waving them in with one massive arm. “Hey, boys,” he called, “before you get too carried away, how ‘bout you bring some of that action to the hot tub? That way, no one peakin’ through the gym windows will get a free show.”

Laughing, the guys moved en masse toward him, arms around each other shoulders, hands finding their way to thick, muscular asses. The Bus Driver found his way to Big Budd. “Don’t get too far away,” he whispered in Big Budd’s ear, wrapping an arm around Big Budd’s torso possessively. “I’m achin’ to fuck you. You and your little redneck brother turn me on something fierce.”

“I reckon I can’t speak for my brother,” said Big Budd, grabbing the Bus Driver’s huge cock like a stick shift, “but I’d love to get you inside me.” He was tickled by his own brazenness, by becoming the man of his secret dreams.

The Bus Driver hugged him close and they kissed—the other guys laughed and patted them as they passed. Big Budd loved kissing another man, the rough coarseness of beard against his face, the hidden power. Yeah, it’d be easy to become a muscle-slut—to be like the rest of these guys. He couldn’t believe how badly he wanted it.

In a large, open space connected to the locker room, in a sunken hot tub, sat the gigantic gym-owner Ivan, his hairless torso exposed from the rib cage up, his arms stretched across the back of the rim. The bubbling water did little to hide the head of his erect cock, which broke the surface like a floating grapefruit. He smiled when he saw them, and said, “Excellent! And who is joining me to make hotter this tub?”

Little Budd almost cannon-balled into it, standing on the molded plastic seat, a foot on either side of the wide Ivan. “How ‘bout me?” he asked, his cock already in Ivan’s face. “You ever sucked on a guy from Kansas? I reckon a corn-fed diet makes the cum sweeter!”

Ivan sat up, wrapping his arms around Little Budd’s legs, easily slipping Little Budd’s cock in his mouth. There was no speaking, just ecstasy.

The tub was big enough for eight normal men, but only a few Littleman’s guys. In the tub, on the floor around it, it didn’t take long for the orgy to begin. Couplings varied, though there were a few consistencies—as the Coach wrestled the slippery-wet Dane into submission—a prospect that would’ve seemed impossible a few hours ago—then began fucking him, the Bartender was right there, kneeling in front of them and feeding his not insubstantial cock into Dane’s hungry mouth.

Next to them, almost on top of them, the effeminate Law Clerk from Boston—who’d come to their first meeting in his Gucci loafers, impeccably-pressed shirt, and wearing the latest style in eye-glasses—none of which impressed Big Budd, so Big Budd largely ignored him, until, like the rest of the guys, he’d become too large to ignore—now knelt before butch Officer Jacobs, licking along the ridges of Officer Jacobs’ deep, vascular cuts as Officer Jacobs posed for him—for ALL of them—and gladly accepted the worship.

In the tub, on the opposite side of Ivan, sat the Oil-Rigger from Alaska, hands behind his head, inadvertently flexing his growing biceps, switching his view between the vignettes around him, a contented smirk on his face, while the Old Man, submerged in the center of the hot tub to his shoulders, knelt between the Oil-Rigger and Ivan, one hand on one’s cock, the other on the other, and jerked them both off.

Big Budd and the Bus Driver were the only kissers—they sat on the edge of the hot tub, feet in the water, making out like two teenagers after the prom. Queer or not, Big Budd liked kissing men—he made that decision then and there—he liked the strong lips and the tickle of stubble, even if he was hungry for something else. When the Bus Driver started pushing Big Budd’s head down, Big Budd realized what it was.

To make himself more comfortable, Big Budd slid into the tub, knelt on the seat between the Bus Driver’s legs, and kissed the head of the Bus Driver’s huge cock. The Bus Driver mumbled, “Yeah,” and leaned back on his hands, letting his head fall. Though he badly wanted to, Big Budd wasn’t sure if he could take something this large in his mouth. He knew his ass could—though he didn’t understand exactly how—but his throat?

All it took was effort. He was reminded of a video he saw once of a snake eating a rat that was bigger than its own head. Somehow, the snake opened its mouth wide enough to swallow the rat in one piece—Big Budd didn’t know the word “dislocated”—he’d likely say, “pulled it out of whack” if he threw his shoulder out.

Still, he was able to get his mouth around the Bus Driver’s dick, even if he DIDN’T understand how, and then, just as easily, down his throat. With one hand, he fondled the Bus Driver’s citrus-sized balls, with the other, he played with himself. He wanted to give the Bus Driver the best head of his life.

Ironically, it was Ivan who shot first. Amidst the moans and the groans and the “Oh, yeah, fuck me”-s that provided an almost musical accompaniment, percussive slaps and sucks as rhythmic drive, the big, hairless Russian exploded like a fountain in the middle of the pool, a near-geyser of cum erupting thanks to the Old Man’s talented hand.

It started a chain reaction. All of them, caught in the camaraderie of manliness, orgasmed like it was a cold germ passing between them. Around the room, the muscular men began to shoot. In each other’s asses and mouths and beneath the surface of the hot tub, they came until the water turned white.

Dane knew the stories—presumably, so did the big Russian if he’d completed his cycle—it was the folklore of the project—of the adman and the Littleman’s founder discovered in a backyard pool full of their own cum, helplessly growing and fucking, their impossible genitalia spewing out more and more—of the office-mate who’d discovered them, of the firemen who tried to rescue them, of the accidental contact and submersion, as man after man fell to the same fate, growing to huge sexual beasts within moments.

There’d been modifications to the formula since then, or course, and, as a transforming agent, cum wasn’t as potent anymore—though it still had an effect, usually making the man who came in contact with it (or even who smelled it) uncontrollably horny, even physically improved, though certainly not as drastic a transformation as what happened to Tucker Forrest or Larry Littleman in that pool that day—and that’s only if the folklore were actually true, and not just a morality play.

And now, in a hot tub bubbling like a soupy broth, like fondue, the cum of eleven men mingled with unknown properties. It meant nothing to Big Budd, who, while sucking on the Bus Driver’s thick dick, found himself pulled out of the tub, kissing the Bus Driver again, and sliding himself onto the Bus Driver’s cock, so they were able to make out while the Bus Driver fucked him.

“Shoot into the hot tub,” said Dane, pulling himself away from the Coach, easily pushing the Bartender back. “Everybody shoot into the hot tub.”

And so they did, they encircled it, they allowed themselves their orgasms, and they filled it to the rim with their thick, salty cum. There it was, soupy, like fondue, when the Old Man literally jumped into it. The guys laughed and cheered—Dane seemed fascinated, like it was a science experiment. “Look!” said the Old Man. “I’m John the Baptist!” (Was the Old Man a Preacher or something? Big Budd wondered. He didn’t know what the Old Man did for a living—he’d nearly forgotten the Old Man had shown up to the conference with a walker.)

The Old Man submerged, surfacing briefly to catch his breath. The white goo of cum soaked his hair, covered his skin. “C’mon in,” he said. “Water’s fine!” Then he went under again—and this time, he didn’t come back up.

It was difficult to think with a clear head so soon after orgasm. Big Budd was still reeling with ecstasy, with the power of his growing muscles, with the needs of his over-sized dick. By the time he realized that the Old Man might be in trouble, that he might actually be drowning in the mixture of their cum, the others had already sounded the alarm.

It was Ivan who stepped into the hot tub to actually rescue him. Maybe the owner of the gym’s concerns about someone dying in his facility motivated him to act, but as soon as the big Russian stepped down onto one of the tub’s seats, the Old Man stood, roaring, throwing his arms out to his sides, inadvertently splashing the guys around the edge.

The Old Man was huge, and growing before their eyes, muscle swelling with the power of their combined cum, flexing and growling and lost in an overwhelming wave of pleasure. As large as Ivan now, maybe even bigger, the Old Man suddenly grabbed the hairless Russian around the neck and pulled him down off the seat, submerging them together.

“Get them out!” Dane yelled, remembering the stories, the morality plays. “We gotta get them the hell out of there!”

Officer Jacobs to the rescue! Kneeling by the edge of the hot tub, he reached one muscular, tattooed arm into the thick cum and felt around. “Got one!” he called. “Help me pull him out!” The Bus Driver stepped up, holding Jacobs around the waist and helping him pull.

The bloated, massive form of Ivan surfaced, and they pulled him up onto the stone floor, the cum dripping off him into a puddle—Ivan lay there with shallow, hitched breaths, eyes rolled back in his head, helplessly orgasming on himself.

And growing—if that were even possible to imagine.

Big Budd watched with an almost lustful fascination as Ivan’s already unbelievable muscle thickened, taking him far beyond even the size of professional bodybuilders, who themselves seemed inhuman to Big Budd. Ivan grew into something only imagined in comic book super-villains, who were often so massive that one speculated on how they actually moved.

And his cock nestled in the crook of chest, and his balls were the size of grapefruits.

Big Budd was caught between thinking him a freak and wondering what it would be like to be fucked by a cock that big.

What was he becoming?

“The Old Man!” shouted Dane, standing next to Ivan, watching the veins grow and begin to stand out beneath the Russian’s thin, hairless skin—Ivan’s ecstasy continued unabated. “Get the Old Man!”

Officer Jacobs still knelt by the edge of the hot tub, sinking his arm into the sloppy white goo and feeling around. Even Officer Jacobs was being affected by the cauldron of cum—his arms thickened, the veins railroaded their way up his already meaty forearms, and his cock was too hard to ignore. Clearly some sort of mental battle was happening to him where he almost seemed to debate jumping in himself.

Finally, he yelled, “I got him! I got his leg!” But what he pulled to the surface was no leg, though it was easily as big as one—no, it was the Old Man’s arm! It was a basketball-sized biceps. It was thick, sausage fingers, and a forearm that reminded Big Budd of the way his quads used to look—bigger than Popeye!

The beast that they pulled from the hot tub was not the man they knew. There was something brutish about his features, something that reminded Big Budd of a caveman, with the heavy forehead and the distended jaw. But all traces of gray were gone from his hair, leaving it as black as night, wavy and full, matching the heavy stubble that now dominated his face.

And his body! As they pulled the Old Man from the hot tub, as the cum drained off him into a puddle on the floor—or didn’t drain off him… Big Budd thought that the Old Man’s body was absorbing the excess liquid that surrounded him, feeding him further, continuing the growth process. A quick glance to Ivan confirmed that suspicion—Ivan now lay on the dry floor, even his body was no longer wet.

But the Old Man was now bigger than Ivan, making him the largest of the eleven men in the room. He was bigger than the Hulk, bigger than cartoon porn, bigger than fantasy sketches by homosexual muscle-worshippers. He was so far beyond modern man that he seemed to be a step back in evolutionary terms.

He’d become a young, vital God of muscle—a paragon of virility.

A masculine side-show freak—his cock was nearly another leg, his balls hung almost half-way down his thighs. He lay there, lost in his own heightened orgasm, pumping out cum like a fire hose. Without effort, he took his cock in his mouth and swallowed his own seemingly endless discharge.

“Holy shit,” mumbled Little Budd, who, like the rest of them, found himself attracted to this hulking beast of a man, hyper-muscular and hirsute—found himself getting an erection merely by being in its presence.

But by then, Ivan was recovering from his orgasmic stupor, drawing deep breaths to focus himself, lifting up onto his elbow, his half-erect cock flopping down onto the floor. He mumbled something in Russian—Big Budd assumed it was “Holy shit!”—and began rubbing his free hand across his massive torso, unable to hide his growing sense of joy and wonder over his transformation. The other guys were focused on the Old Man, so Big Budd knelt to help Ivan.

“Are you all right?” Big Budd asked him, because the look on the Russian’s face was anything but all right—it seemed more like lustful. Uncontrollably lustful.

“What think you of me, Kansas man?” Ivan growled. “What think you of my new muscle size?” He flexed his unbelievable arm, then he leaned in close. “What think you of my impressive man-cock?”

Big Budd stammered, “I reckon it’s the biggest dang cock I ever seen.”

With his free arm, Ivan reached up and grabbed Big Budd around the neck, bringing him in for a kiss. Though he lacked the stubble that Big Budd liked so much, the Russian was a helluva kisser. Big Budd could taste the cum on Ivan’s breath.

“I need to fuck, Kansas man,” he said. “I am now the kind of man that needs to fuck.”

But Big Budd was hesitant—as much as he wanted to get fucked by this man, he didn’t know if it were physically possible. Officer Jacobs had a big cock, yeah, but it was a billy-club compared to the baseball bat Ivan sported between his legs. “I ain’t sure I can take all that,” Big Budd said, though he wasn’t sure he could resist, either.

Ivan smiled, and lifted his cock up in his free hand—the big head bubbled up with pre-cum, almost like Ivan had willed it that way. “This will make it so you can,” he said. “Drink, my Kansas man, and then fuck we can like men.”

But someone grabbed Big Budd’s head, keeping him from that sweet nectar. “No!” yelled Dane, pulling him back. “Don’t drink it! I can’t lose another one!”

“But, friend Dane,” said the big Russian, standing to show his superior size, now magnified by his bath in the hot tub, “I must fuck. Do not you make the mistake of stopping me to try. Perhaps your mind might be changing after dip in hot tub you take.”

“No!” Dane said without conviction, taking a couple of steps back. “Someone, help me!”

Naturally, it was Officer Jacobs who took action. Stepping up behind Ivan’s wide back, Jacobs put an assertive hand on the Russian’s shoulder. “C’mon, buddy,” he said. “Let’s back off, okay?”

But Ivan did nothing more than cast a glance to Jacobs, snort, and push the Officer away as easily as he might swat a fly, causing Jacobs to stumble backwards across the floor, still uncertain of his balance since gaining so much weight. Tripping over his own feet, Officer Jacobs fell flat-backed into the hot tub, like the old seventies iced-tea commercials, the thick white cum swallowing him.

Ivan continued to advance on Dane—and if Officer Jacobs hadn’t been able to stop him, how would any of the others? Only the Coach was bigger than Jacobs, and he and the Bartender were already moving to help the cop in the hot tub.

But it was another voice that stopped Ivan, an unexpected interruption from a voice so deep and so powerful that none of them seemed able to resist it, a voice full of lust and the promise of sex, of masculine possibility. It was the Old Man, who couldn’t be called an Old Man any longer—who was instead a Man in his Prime, an irresistible, hyper-muscled superman, whose every gesture was a pose, whose very presence promised ecstasy.

He was completely dry, his dark bodyhair swirling about in perfect pattern, not a strand of gray to be seen—he had absorbed all the cum that had puddled around him, as well as swallowing most of his own orgasm. His gigantic cock hung below his knee, almost unable to support itself as it filled with blood.

The Man in his Prime smiled, showing his perfect, white teeth. Even Ivan was stopped by this visage. The Man in his Prime spoke again, his deep voice musical and hypnotic. “If anyone’s gonna fuck Dane,” he said, “it’s gonna be me.”

He flexed his arm, and even Dane couldn’t resist—their erstwhile leader shuffled toward the magnificent beast, hypnotized, his erection growing without control, and laid his hands on the big man’s biceps.

Then he fell to his knees.

Big Budd was a bit confused. Not that that was anything unusual in and of itself—Big Budd was almost always a beat behind the action—but events were unfolding so quickly that he could barely keep up.

He didn’t understand why Dane would instruct them to all beat off into the hot tub—he had to have known what would happen—he’d acted like he had—and then all of a sudden fear the results and order them all away from it.

To Big Budd, the whole thing made little sense. Why didn’t the idea of a cum-filled pool repulse him? Why was he finding the smell so very intoxicating? Why did he feel like he just wanted to dive into the gooey mess himself and swallow like a hungry man at a pie-eating contest? It was crazy. The only good news was that he didn’t seem alone. All of the other guys seemed caught in the very same battle.

What were they turning into? And why did he have to like it so much?

When Ivan had emerged from his forced submersion, even the Russian bodybuilder—who’d been the largest man Big Budd had ever seen—had put on size, had become some sort of super-man, with his massive new musculature and his freaky new genitalia.

But Ivan’s transformation had been nothing compared to the Old Man.

The Old Man, who’d come to the Littleman’s seminar with a walker, with loose skin and age spots, with dentures and little hair on his head—but like old men, hair nearly everywhere else—now the Old Man was so far beyond Ivan physically as to make Ivan look… puny. The Old Man was at a muscular level that Big Budd would have deemed impossible until he saw it standing before him.

The mass, the thickness, the power—Big Budd lacked the vocabulary necessary to describe the man—the hulking beast—before him. Not just the outrageous size of the Old Man’s muscle, but the vascularity, the near-lack of bodyfat, the youthful rejuvenation, the full head of rich, black hair, the thick scruff on the chin, the hirsute body that seemed to emphasize the impossible size. And not just the muscle, all the masculine attributes. The Old Man’s dick hung to his knees, as thick as Big Budd’s arm used to be, and his balls swung nearly a third of the way down his thighs, easily the size of grapefruit, or softballs. Impossible.

And almost impossibly sexy.

Big Budd wasn’t sure if he was more horrified or attracted. This beast, this freak, this mutated thing before him was so much man he was nearly irresistible. Big Budd was so turned on just by looking at him, just by smelling him, just by being in his aura, that Big Budd nearly lost control of himself then and there. His dick was rock hard—again! Big Budd began to wonder if his dick would ever go limp. It seemed like every time he finished having sex, he was ready for the next. And each time it got a little better.

When the Old Man emerged from the hot tub, they’d all stood there stupefied, the only movement in the room being their growing erections. And then, for some reason, he’d advanced on Dane, the Littleman’s group leader—the guy responsible for inducting and training all of them in the company philosophy. Maybe the Old Man felt that if he fucked their leader, he’d be leader himself—Big Budd didn’t know. He was never good at figuring out people’s motivation—which was probably why his ex-wife blind-sided him the way she had. Maybe the Old Man felt he had to prove his dominance, his new physical superiority.

It wasn’t like any of them could resist him—they were fairly hypnotized by him, so caught up in his masculine presence that none of them moved to try to stop him. They just reached down and began playing with themselves. Even Dane, for some reason panicky, muttering for someone to help him, fell to his knees before the Old Man, readying himself for that impossible cock.

And then, as usual, the only person to act heroically was the man Big Budd already had a little crush on, Officer Jacobs. He’d tried to stop the Old Man when the Old Man had first set his eyes on Dane, but the transformed Old Man had swatted Jacobs aside easily, accidentally pushing the cop into the soupy cum of the hot tub, which by now was only about half full.

A new, giant-version of Officer Jacobs stepped out of it, leaving the tub nearly drained of cum, maybe only knee-deep at the bottom—the three men who’d been transformed by it had nearly absorbed it all. Still not the size of the Old Man, Jacobs was easily Ivan’s equal, and with each step he took, the cum left on him seemed to just disappear as his body absorbed it—as he finished his growth.

The hot cop with the high-and-tight, with his tattooed forearms and his Herculean body, with his gigantic dick and endless erections, grabbed the unsuspecting Old Man around the neck, putting him in a choke hold and driving him bodily down to the floor. The cop was used to taking down perps who were bigger than him—he’d never admitted it to his fellow officers, but it turned him on—and easily took control of the Old Man.

His knee on the Old Man’s neck, Officer Jacobs looked at the others and said, “Don’t all help me at once.”

The Football Coach and the Bus Driver immediately came to his aid, helping to hold the Old Man down, like the pile-on after a successful tackle.

“Get off me!” yelled the Old Man, his deep, youthful voice still retaining its irresistible sexiness. “I wasn’t gonna hurt him! I was only gonna fuck him! C’mon you guys… I gotta fuck something!”

“Now what do we do?” asked the Bus Driver, pinning one of the Old Man’s arms behind his back.

They, all of them, looked at Dane, who knelt weakly, panting, the Old Man’s pre-cum wetting his lips. Dane seemed to be fighting his own inner battle, but with the deflation of his erection, they knew he’d won. His breath evening out, he turned to Ivan and said, “Get the emergency kit.”

It only took moments for the big Russian—who seemed to have regained his senses after his immersion—his big cock flopping back and forth, to return from his office with a small, white plastic box. Dane took it from him and pulled out a pre-packaged syringe, handing the box back to Ivan. Advancing on the Old Man, Dane exposed the needle and tapped out the air bubbles, and then, casually, injected it into the Old Man’s big muscle-ass. “Fuck! FUCK!” screamed the Old Man, still struggling.

And then, just as mysteriously, the Old Man calmed down. To Big Budd, it seemed like the Old Man’s focus suddenly turned inward, like he lost awareness of the world around him—he became this big, bodybuilder zombie.

The guys on the pile-on tentatively got up—except Officer Jacobs, who stayed on the Old Man’s neck, still suspicious. “Don’t worry,” said Dane. “He’s under control now. You can let him go.”

Officer Jacobs made no move to move. He looked at Dane—now his physical equal—and asked, “What did you give him?”

“Something to make him a little more pliant,” said Dane, handing the empty syringe back to Ivan. “Sometimes when a guy goes through the transformation too quickly, or simply overdoses on the formula, there’s a period of… well, I guess you could say ‘madness’—a need—that will affect him. You must’ve felt it a little bit when you first came out of the hot tub. Ivan certainly did—but he’s under control now. Right, Ivan?”

But Ivan hadn’t taken his eyes off Officer Jacobs—and when the cop looked at the Big Russian, it seemed like something passed between them. Something unspoken.

“Ivan?”

They were the same size now, Ivan and Officer Jacobs—and there was an undeniable energy passing between them—Big Budd would never be able to describe that!—and from the reactions of their dicks, it was clear that energy was attraction.

Dane smirked. “Or maybe I don’t have to tell you about it after all.”

But Ivan and Officer Jacobs were off in their own little world, suddenly oblivious to the men around them.

Their mutual attraction drew them together, their transformations made them perfect sexual machines, and their cocks were so big, they were actually able to fuck each other at the same time, feeling the other’s massive body and deeply kissing while they did so.

“I reckon I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that,” said Little Budd, himself getting hard watching.

“And that’s what we’re gonna become?” asked the Bartender, himself so painfully behind the other’s transformations that he looked almost normal compared to them. Even his dick, though rock hard, wasn’t half as big as the Law Clerk’s, who had the smallest. 
Dane indicated the Old Man’s body on the floor. “Eventually,” Dane said, “you’ll all be his size. It just won’t be as mentally overwhelming.”

“Well… what’s wrong with him?” asked Big Budd. “Will he be all right?”

Dane shrugged, rolling the huge Old Man onto his back. The Old Man was conscious, but seemingly unaware of them, lost in an inward-focused lust—the Old Man’s cock maintained it’s half-hard state, and the Old Man mindlessly played with it. “I don’t know,” said Dane. “Honestly, I don’t know. We knew we were putting you guys through the transformation quickly—usually a guy will only take one shot a week, never the rate you guys are doin’ it. I’ve never seen this happen before. I mean, I’ve heard stories about it—rumors mostly, folk-tales kind of—but I’ve never actually seen it.”

He spoke to the Bus Driver, who’d been watching Ivan and Jacobs, rapidly getting turned on himself. “I think I’m gonna have you take him down to the Malibu facility after you drop us off at the hotel,” Dane said to him. “They’ll be better prepared to deal with this there.” “No prob,” said the Bus Driver, not looking away from the two fucking bodybuilders.

Dane turned his attention to the group, who were all having trouble focusing between the Old Man on the floor, Ivan and Jacobs fucking like greedy pigs, and their own transformations. It’d been a hell of a day, and it wasn’t even noon. “Okay, you guys,” said Dane, clapping his hands. “It’s after eleven, so why don’t we get cleaned up and get out of here. Believe it or not, we still have a lot to do today.”

Reluctantly, practically herded by Dane, the men made their way to the showers, although all of them heard the orgasms explode from Ivan and Jacobs, the grunting and yowling as they blissfully shot into each other. Even from the locker room, they knew when the moment came—a few of them came themselves. A couple of minutes later, as Big Budd adjusted the hot water in the ten-spigot, tiled shower room, Officer Jacobs entered, stepping up to share with him.

Officer Jacobs was significantly bigger than when he and Big Budd had fucked out at the squat rack, and Big Budd found himself even more attracted to the muscular cop. They kissed, arms wrapped around each other as the water sprayed down over them, then they washed each other, stroking and soaping the beautiful body before them.

“Are you okay?” asked Big Budd, stroking his hand along Officer Jacobs heavy pec, under the ledge to pinch the cop’s nipple.

Jacobs smiled. “Never better,” he said, grabbing Big Budd’s dick. “Unlike the old guy, I didn’t go crazy—and I’m more the man for it.”

Another orgy—in the shower, this time. Was this what life was going to be now? wondered Big Budd, easily taking Officer Jacob’s huge, gorgeous cock up his ass as he sucked off the Oil-Rigger at the next spigot. Not that Big Budd had any problem with it—quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. He almost never wanted to stop flexing and fucking. It was too good.

But how could he continue this when he was back home in Kansas? Nobody was like this back there.

Unless he and his brother could make them that way.

Ivan, apparently, had his own private shower—he and Dane appeared in the locker room as their proteges dressed, fresh and clean—and like the rest of them, satisfied.

They squeezed their larger, muscular bodies into the spandex, Littleman’s shorts—a couple of the guys chose to wear the posing trunks, proud of their new packages—and a parade of physically different men made their way out to the bus, much more muscular, hairy, and obscenely well-hung than they’d been on the way in. Ivan shook each man’s hand at the door, saying goodbye and good luck. He patted Big Budd’s ass as he passed and said, “I am sorry I did not have time enough with you to fuck. But you take care of this hot cop, yes?” He smacked Officer Jacobs in the arm as the cop left with Big Budd, that same arm wrapped possessively around Big Budd’s shoulders. The cop winked at Ivan and smiled.

“I reckon I will,” said Big Budd, unable to resist touching the Russian’s big pecs—hairless. Big Budd ran his hand down the smooth torso, over the rugged abs, thinking how much hotter Ivan would be if he’d had body hair. What a waste, to be so big… and smooth. Holding each other’s cock, they kissed until Officer Jacobs pulled them apart, holding Big Budd while kissing the Russian himself. Although the Russian kissed well, Big Budd missed the scruffy feeling of beard growth against his lips. Poor Ivan, to be hairless—no wonder the Littleman’s people considered him a failure. An aberration.

As they paraded out the door, one of Ivan’s regular gym-members arrived, a not-so-big guy—even by Big Budd’s old standards—kind of handsome, but forgettable. Getting out of his car, he stared open-mouthed, incredulously as they walked by him to their bus. Officer Jacobs still had his arm around Big Budd’s shoulders—and though there was a time when Big Budd would’ve been unable to show masculine affection in public, now he reached around and put his hand on Officer Jacob’s round, muscular ass. He looked at this wimpy new arrival and smirked as they passed, proud of himself, hoping the guy was getting a good look at his hardening cock. And then Dane leading the Old Man—what would this guy think of them?—this giant, freak of nature with a mindless, child-like expression on his face as he shuffled along with a hand holding a package that almost couldn’t be contained by a pair of skimpy, spandex shorts. Giggly almost, as he followed the smaller bodybuilder—who was himself twice the size of this gym member—followed him like a puppy on his way to get a treat.

Big Budd heard Ivan say, “Mr. Goldstein! My favorite lawyer member, yes? Just in time! Coming with me you must be for helping me to clean it, the hot tub.” Chuckling, briefly imagining the scene of Ivan pushing this lawyer-guy into the remnants of the hot tub, of this guy’s initial reaction to finding himself covered in magic cum, of his sudden growth and overwhelming new desires, of the incredible sex he’d have with Ivan—perhaps right there in the empty hot tub, absorbing every last drop of the stuff.

Big Budd didn’t even try to hide his erection.

Upon boarding the bus, however, he knew that no such thing was going to happen—see, the hot tub was already empty. He knew it the second he saw the Bus Driver.

The Bus Driver had gone through a transformation himself, having gained maybe twenty-five, thirty pounds of lean mass, mostly in the chest and shoulders. He was hairier, scruffier, dark and dangerous—the heavy veins that trailed up and down his arms and legs were beautiful, but a dead giveaway. “While you guys was in the shower,” he said to Dane in way of explanation, “I just washed up right there in the hot tub.” A smile broke over his heavy jaw. “No fair that youse guys get all the size.”

Even though he closed his eyes and shook his head, Dane still laughed. “The sex was supposed to be your tip,” Dane said to him, smirking.

And with that, they left “The American Dream” in Sausalito.

The Football Coach sat on the wide back seat, the Bartender on one side, Little Budd on the other, each cuddled up next to him, stroking his hairy torso, his massive thighs, working with team-like precision in their pleasuring of him. He would kiss one while the other licked his shoulder or his armpit, or his neck, or his half-dollar nipples, then he would change sides to the other, giving each his turn. Those boys loved their Coach.

Big Budd was glad his brother had someone looking out for him. It allowed Big Budd to concentrate on Officer Jacobs, who was Big Budd’s hidden fantasy come true. How funny that he’d never realized he’d had it before.

The Oil-Rigger and the Law Clerk weren’t together exactly, but they sat across the aisle from each other, flexing for one another, feeling their big muscles, teasing each other while masturbating themselves. Big Budd shrugged—whatever turned them on. He was happy to sit next to Officer Jacobs, with the cop’s meaty arm around his shoulders, his hand on Jacob’s gargantuan quads, stroking the mind-numbing mass, each of them enjoying the torture of their denial, their spandex-clad, half-hard dicks laying over their thighs, pointing at each other, Officer Jacob’s nearly a third-again the size of Big Budd’s, both in length and thickness.

Dane sat in the front seat on one side, across from the Bus Driver, with the Old Man behind him. The Old Man’s dick was so big, he barely had to bend his head forward to get it in his own mouth. He mindlessly entertained himself with his own blow job. Big Budd wondered what trucks pulling up next to them would think when they saw it.

He didn’t care—he leaned over and kissed Officer Jacobs, deep and hard and long until the cop broke it and said, “When we get back to the hotel, we’re gonna fuck like dogs—I’m gonna tear you apart.”

“I reckon you’re welcome to try,” said Big Budd, popping his chest. “I kin take it now.”

Jacobs growled and jerked his arm, pulling Big Budd in close, kissing him, forcing himself on the now-willing. Jacobs was rough—and Big Budd liked it.

It hardly took them any time to get back to the hotel—Big Budd couldn’t decide if he was disappointed or not. He really did want to do some sightseeing—though right now he was more interested in seeing his own reflection in those sights—so he hoped that at some point they’d get out of the hotel, except he wanted some private time with Officer Jacobs first.

Their mini-bus pulled into the hotel’s roundabout and parked before the main door, but the Bus Driver didn’t turn the engine off—he clearly had no intention of staying. Besides, he had to get the Old Man down to this mysterious “Malibu Facility” that Big Budd had overheard Dane mention. Dane actually stood then and addressed them. “All right, you guys, put your shorts back on,” he hollered past Big Budd and Officer Jacobs, to the guys in the back. Laughter erupted from the back seat—Big Budd immediately identified his brother’s voice.

“Don’t you guys get nothin’ on my seats!” shouted the Bus Driver, looking in his rearview mirror instead of turning his massive bulk around.

They got up, adjusted themselves in their shorts—Jacobs showed Big Budd how to lift his cock forward and down over the front of his balls, which was the Littleman’s style—holding everything up front, on display. Big Budd liked it. As one big bodybuilder after the next got off the bus, dressed only in spandex shorts or impossibly skimpy posing trunks, showing off their hulking, hairy muscle, their rough good looks, and their fantastic packages, people walking down the street would turn and gawk, open-mouthed, as shocked as that guy who’d driven up to Ivan’s gym.

Big Budd loved the reaction of the men—he hardly noticed the women—especially the gay men. Big Budd seemed to have no difficulty figuring out who was queer—all the guys stared, but the gay ones had this… lust in their eyes.

Big Budd made sure they got a good look—he 1)showing it off!

All of the Littleman’s guys did. Exiting the bus became an erotic parade. So absorbed in it, as a matter of fact, that none of them noticed the bus pull away, the Old Man still sitting in the front seat, helplessly orgasming into his own mouth, beginning his unexpected journey to Malibu.

Dane allowed them to stop a minute on the sidewalk, so the public could get a gander more. “It’s the Littleman’s look,” announced Dane to the crowd, like a barker at a sideshow. All the guys began to flex and pose—Big Budd included—goofing around at first, but then they found themselves getting turned-on by the public display. “It’s the latest thing in athletic men’s fashion,” Dane continued, indicating the guys. “This is our model convention! Yeah, that’s the ticket! All these guys are company models. What do you think of them? Aren’t they hot?”

The crowd applauded! A couple of the braver fags howled liked dogs, barking at them to show their approval. Big Budd made eye-contact with a couple guys in the crowd, who stared at him as if transfixed, hypnotized—he loved that they lusted for him. He flexed just for them, teasing them with his muscle, his growing cock.

He felt like seduction would no longer be a challenge for him. With this body, he could have whoever he wanted.

And he wanted them all!

Dane mentioned the web site for product availability, model profiles, and information on how you could join the Littleman’s team! Big Budd was impressed at what a natural salesman Dane was. On the other hand, he obviously believed in the product… So did Big Budd—and they still had two amps to go!

He remembered, just yesterday, when he said he’d only do one. He didn’t want to be a freak, he’d said—he just wanted to improve himself a little bit, maybe put on some more muscle size, a bit of length to the cock.

He chuckled. How fuckin’ stupid…

But he forgave himself pretty easily. How could he have known?

Big Budd and the others flexed until Dane said it was time to get back to the schedule. They left a disappointed crowd outside—and were mildly disappointed themselves when Dane wouldn’t allow them to go back to their rooms. Instead, he led them to the meeting room on the second floor (at least they took the grand staircase, thought Big Budd, so everybody in the lobby could get a chance to see them)—where he sat them back down in their same chairs, and launched into a lecture that explained company policies, expectations, strategies, benefits, sales-techniques, all the business crap that would never have interested Big Budd before today.

For some reason, today Big Budd was soaking it up like it was the most interesting, important information he’d ever heard. All of them were. It was in this short period that they really became Littleman’s men—when they learned the company secrets. Still, the clincher was a movie that Dane showed them. Again, it was digitally recorded on his laptop, and projected on a screen via this fascinating little device that connected to Dane’s computer. Big Budd didn’t understand computers—hardly anyone in his hometown had one—so he fairly marveled at the technology.

Anyway, this movie that Dane showed. Unlike the clip he’d screened yesterday, which was basically normal men going through the transformation, today it was fully-developed Littleman’s men doing what they do best—flexing and fucking. Big, hairy, lumbering, over-muscled super-studs playing with their fire-hose dicks, fucking with uncontrolled lust, worshipping each other and themselves, Big Budd lost himself in the erotic imagery, actually learning a thing or two about successful techniques for men of that size. His size soon enough.

No surprise that he, and all the other men in the conference room—Dane included—started jerking off as they watched. How could they not? How could they possibly resist the siren song of muscular possibility? Why would they want to?

Who wouldn’t want to be a Littleman’s Man?

There was a moment when Big Budd considered the possibility that they were being hypnotized by the video—they were all stroking in the same rhythm, after all—but it didn’t concern him. As a matter of fact, he found himself open to it. If it was going to make him a better Littleman’s Man, which in turn would make him bigger, hairier and more masculine, he’d do anything.

On screen, a gigantic beast of a man appeared—the biggest they’d seen yet, including what the Old Man had become—with the innocent face of a teenage boy. The camera panned up his freakish muscle, past the football-sized calves and the torso-sized thighs, past the tight, ridged abs and the bloated shelf of a chest, past the erection that stood so tall as to block a good portion of the cleavage, past the bull-like neck and the yoke-like traps, to settle on his handsome, beautiful young face with its square jaw and heavy five-o’clock shadow.

The man-boy smiled. His name and age appeared on the bottom of the screen. “Jarrod Hamilton,” it read. “Eighteen years old.”

Stepping into the frame came a man that could have been Jarrod’s twin, same monstrous arms, same structure and size, same bodyhair patterns, but though they had the same facial features, there was something about him, something more mature, something around the eyes. But for that, they were identical. He smiled and wrapped his arm’s around Jarrod’s muscular shoulders, hugging them close.

“Colin Hamilton,” the screen read. “Jarrod’s father. Forty-seven years old.” The father’s erection grew into frame as he kissed his son.

Handsome, manly Jarrod smiled in a tight close-up, his look seductive, his manner self-assured. Looking directly in the camera, in a deep, rumbling voice, as his father kissed his scruffy neck, he said, “Cum.”

And they did. The men onscreen and the men in the hotel meeting room. They all shot at once, the best example of teamwork that Big Budd had ever experienced. They all orgasmed together, they all bonded together, and they all accepted their destinies together.

They were Littleman’s Men now—they understood everything.

So after Dane explained their evening assignment, after they’d taken their fourth amp—the Bartender had a double, remember, and one of their little group got a special surprise—after all that, they finally had some time to go out into the city.

For Big Budd—for all of them—it would be one of the most incredible nights of his life.

He couldn’t help but flex—the muscle felt so good.

Fuck yeah, he was growing again.

Fuck, fuck. Muscle. Good. Fuck, yeah!

Orgasm. Again. Endless—better. Always better.

Fuck—he was ready again!

He grew.

Dane explained their evening assignment—each of them would be required to seduce and recruit a new guy. The only stipulation was that the guy had to ask for the amp. They couldn’t just slip it into his drink or shoot him up without his knowledge—though Dane assured them that that was well within bounds any other time. For tonight’s exercise, it had to be voluntary on the part of their target—Dane said he wanted to show them how easy it would be. Even the most resistant ultimately gave in and joined them. Hell, all of them were on board, and remember, they weren’t all sure that first night of the seminar.

Big Budd reckoned that was true. He was one of the most resistant—at first. Now he couldn’t wait for his fourth amp tonight, and the last tomorrow before the end of the seminar, before they went home.

Went home.

There was a concept that hadn’t completely registered, yet. And some point in time, he and his brother would have to go back home. Back to Kansas.

And there’d be no hiding what he’d become back in Kansas.

Not that he really wanted to…

Enough. Big Budd couldn’t think about that now. That was tomorrow—and there was too much to do before tonight to spare that any thought.

“But we still have a few more bits of business before we break for the afternoon,” said Dane, stepping up to sit on his stool, adjusting his package inside his posers for maximum effect. “First, our friend, the Bartender.” He motioned to the young man, so far behind the others developmentally. Far from embarrassed, however. Even at his smaller size, the Bartender carried himself like the hottest piece of shit there—and in any normal circumstance, with his over-pumped fitness-model body, he probably would be, but compared to Littleman’s Men…

Dressed only in a Littleman’s-brand jockstrap, his package testing even the weave of the expanded cotton pouch, the Bartender stood, flexing his tiny waist, his mind-blowing abs for them to see. Smiling, he enjoyed their cheers, hit several poses.

“You’re still an amp behind us,” Dane said, putting his hand on the Bartender’s shoulder. “Here are your options, same as before—you could do the hit now, or wait and do a double after your successful completion of the evening’s assignment. What do you think?”

To Big Budd, it was sort of like a game show—the guys started calling out from their seats. “Do it!” they’d say, or “Do the double later! Later!” The Bartender spoke like a contestant. “As much as I’d like to do the hit right now,” he said, “I kind of want to go out at this size tonight—make it more of a challenge. Besides, I bet a double’s gonna be fuckin’ sweet!”

Dane smiled like he knew. Nodded.

“Okay,” Dane said. “You can wait ‘til tonight, same as the others. Sit on back down.”

Before he did, the Bartender took a moment to pose for the Coach individually. The Football Coach smiled, smacked the Bartender open-handed on the ass, and said, “More importantly, I like him at this size. His ass is tighter.”

The guys laughed—the Bartender smiled seductively. Instead of taking his seat, he knelt between the Football Coach’s massive legs, like a submissive dog. To further the image, the Football Coach absently stroked the Bartender’s head while Dane spoke.

“But a normal guy won’t be able to take you—your cocks are too big, now—so make sure he does his amp before you try.”

“What about our cum?” asked the Law Clerk, popping his left biceps, making it dance to entertain himself. “Wouldn’t our cum transform them, the way it did at the hot tub this morning? Wouldn’t it give them bodies like this?” He flexed his abs for them all, showing a much thicker—bricker—rack than the Bartender’s. His was a cobble-stone street. (The Bartender was hotter though, thought Big Budd, though he couldn’t figure out why he felt that way. After all, the Law Clerk was bigger…)

Dane shrugged. “I’m not sure, exactly,” he said. “It’s true that right after taking an amp, your cum gets sort of… energized, I guess is the right word. But it seems to create more of a finishing quality than a transformational one. Although this morning we saw an example of what happens when someone takes in enough of that stuff. Believe me, that was the exception, not the norm.”

“Just don’t fuck ’em without givin’ ’em the amp,” the Oil-Rigger said, summarizing for the Law Clerk like they were a married couple. “That’s all. Why do you gotta complicate everything?”

The Law Clerk—like a married man—took the bait. “At least I’ll ask them first,” he said. “At least they won’t wake up in the middle of the night to find their roommate fucking them.”

The Oil-Rigger immediately stood. “Again with that? I told you, I thought you was awake!” he said defensively. “Jesus! How many times we gotta go over this?”

“Guys, guys!” called Dane, raising his hands before him in a “stop” motion. “Can we argue about this later? We got business to take care of.”

“I reckon I wouldn’t mind gettin’ woke up that way,” called Little Budd, standing slightly to show his round, muscular bubble butt. “Anybody want to fuck me awake in the mornin’, the door’ll be open.”

Laughter.

Before he knew he’d done it, Big Budd joined in the reverie. “Course, you’re gonna have to get past me,” he said, smiling, reaching over and patting his brother’s thick ass. They made eye-contact as Big Budd said, “Lessen’ there’s room in there for more than one.”

During the laughter, Little Budd winked at him. Dane continued, motioning to Big Budd.

“Actually, Budd, why don’t you come up here for a minute?”

To think, there was a time—barely even yesterday—when Big Budd would’ve been shy about standing in front of a group of guys—any group of guys, much less hyper-muscled, over-hung super-studs—wearing just a pair of spandex hot shorts. Yet here he was now, posing for them, teasing them—in control, not being controlled. God, how he loved it! It was like a dream come true.

To the group, while Big Budd posed, Dane said, “The older of the Budd brothers here, wrote on his Littleman’s application that he only wanted to do a small amount of the formula, to ‘get back in shape,’ and perhaps improve the size of his dick.” He put his arm around Big Budd’s shoulders, like a game-show host. Big Budd still flexed. “Well, you’ve had three amps now, Budd—more than halfway. What do you think?”

“I reckon I ain’t never felt this good in my life,” Big Budd said, grabbing his crotch and holding the base of his beloved cock while he spoke. “I can’t believe it gets better than this.”

Dane smiled. “For you it’s about to get a lot better.”

Confused, but doing nothing to hide his burgeoning erection, Big Budd watched Dane go to his equipment case and return with a pre-loaded syringe. He displayed it to the group, but didn’t remove it from its package.

“I was very impressed with you this morning, when you offered one of your amps to the Bartender, remember?”

Big Budd shrugged his massive traps. “‘T’weren’t nothin’,” he said.

“No, it was kind of you—and it deserves a reward.” He held up the syringe and said, “This is a little… bonus I’m charged with giving to one person in every group I train.” He pointed to Big Budd with the syringe. “And when someone does something… nice—selfless—in my book, that wins. You’re Mr. Congeniality, you could say.”

There was a chuckle that went through the group, but Big Budd didn’t get the joke.

“What is it?” he asked, indicating the syringe.

Dane smiled and said, in a low, almost sultry voice. “Just what you asked for in your application—it’s gonna improve the size of your dick a little.” He flicked his eyebrows. “What do ya say?”

All his life, Big Budd had been ashamed of the size of his cock. He’d felt diminished, less masculine—neither a show-er, nor a grower. But now…

Even though he still wasn’t as big as Officer Jacobs, or even his little brother, Big Budd was thrilled with his new cock, already over ten inches long, nearly as thick as a man’s wrist. No… more than “thrilled,” he loved it!

So it should be no surprise with the speed in which he responded, “Sure! I reckon I wouldn’t mind a little more ‘improvement.’ Bring it on!”

He heard his brother cheer first, a quick “Yes!” before the others joined in.

When Dane told him to pull down his shorts, Big Budd hooked his thumbs inside the front and slowly slid the material down until his big cock flopped out, already half-hard. He waggled his hips to slip the shorts over his ass.

“You sexy bitch,” Dane said. “You’re gonna seduce the whole freakin’ state of Kansas.”

“You get my cock big enough, I’ll even fuck the Oklahoma trash.”

Another laugh. With Big Budd sitting on the edge of the stool, Dane tore the syringe from the package, wiping it down with an alcohol pad. “They haven’t gotten this up-graded for the transdermal guns—you have to do it the old-fashioned way.” With one hand, he pushed Big Budd’s balls aside, exposing that tender patch of skin between ball-sac and butt-hole. With the other, he wiped that soft skin with another alcohol pad. “From a little pain,” he said, “will come unbelievable pleasure.”

With that, he jabbed the needle into Big Budd—a very light gauge, Big Budd hardly felt it go in. Still, far from comfortable.

While Dane emptied it, he said, “Not that bad, is it? The guns are experimental, you know—this is how most guys get amped.”

“Really?” asked Officer Jacobs, in a tone that said he’d rather give himself the needle.

“It ain’t so bad,” said Big Budd, who was getting an erection—not just from them watching, either. The whole scene was more erotic than anything Big Budd had ever imagined. No, it was more like the content of the ampule was filling his dick, like his dick was a sponge—it got heavier as it absorbed. “Matter o’ fact, I reckon it’s kinda nice.”

A little chuckle from the group, and Dane said, “There we go. All done. Slip those shorts back on.”

A moan from the group, and Big Budd surprised himself by saying, “Aw, do I gotta?” Teasing Dane by standing inches away from him, flexing the pecs, reaching up and running a finger down his hairy cleavage. Big Budd was being so forward, so seductive—he liked it—like he’d given himself permission to be a sexual being.

Dane laughed, too, deep in his throat. Without breaking eye-contact, he reached over and took Big Budd’s growing dick in his hand, saying, “This’ll be big enough for me soon enough.” He pursed his lips and gently nudged Big Budd away, continuing to hold his cock.

Instead of pulling it away, Big Budd followed a new instinct, and thrust in Dane’s hand, forcing Dane to masturbate him.

Dane smiled and let go. “Soon enough,” he said. But Big Budd noticed Dane’s burgeoning hard-on—hard to miss it in spandex.

Big Budd smirked and pulled his shorts back up over his mighty quads, gently tucking his plump, half-hard dick for the best display—he was falling in love with it. Right here in front of everybody, falling in love with his own dick. And it felt so good. So masculine.

So right.

“All right,” Dane said to the group, as Big Budd took a seat, spreading his legs as far as possible. “I’m gonna give you a few hours off, do whatever you want, or…” he looked right at Big Budd, “whoever you want.” A chuckle from the group. “But we need to meet back here, ready to hit the bars at nine o’clock.” To the Bartender, he said, “Bring your fourth amp with you.” A laugh, and he continued, “Wear your recruitment gear—remember, you’re representing Littleman’s now. Act accordingly.” Then, in a less-professional tone, he added, “That means, enjoy yourselves.”

The meeting broke then, and they all stood, stretching—helplessly flexing—aware of how different their bodies felt when they were upright, so much added mass. Several of the guys spoke to Big Budd as they made their plans. With the Old Man gone, the Bartender had his own room, but it was the Football Coach who approached Big Budd. “He wants you to fuck him,” said the Football Coach, indicating the Bartender, who stood quietly behind him with his head down. “He likes gettin’ fucked, don’t you, boy?”

The Bartender was quick to respond. “Yes, sir. I do.”

The Football Coach chuckled, adjusting his own big cock as it started to harden. He turned back to Big Budd and said, “You want a taste of that fine, tight ass of his, you come on down to his room and we’ll get you hooked up. It’s worth it. See ya.” And he lightly punched Big Budd in the stomach, like they were buddies, then he and the Bartender departed, the Bartender always a respectful pace behind him. They stopped to talk to his brother—well, the Football Coach did all the talking—Little Budd listened and nodded, looking straight at Big Budd while he did.

Officer Jacobs approached Big Budd then and said, “You want to go find another gym? I kind of want to hit it again, get some upper-body done. Get pumped. Fuck. You know the drill.”

But all Big Budd wanted to do was go play with his new cock. Hard right now—and getting harder—he knew he’d have no control over it in public, and there was so much to be done. “Hit me up when you’re back,” he said to Jacobs, waggling himself. “I reckon I’ll be ready for ya by then.”

Jacobs smirked and ran his hand along Big Budd’s rod. “That’s startin’ to rival mine,” he said, his own dick taking the hint.

“Let’s see what you think after your workout,” teased Big Budd, mimicking Jacobs’ movement on his dick.

A moment between them, then Jacobs smiled, looking Big Budd in the eye, and turned away, saying, “Anybody else want to hit a gym with me?”

“Yo!” called the Oil-Rigger, stepping up. He was a short little fire-plug, thought Big Budd, but damn, he had fine arms and shoulders. “I’m in.”

He and Jacobs high-fived—they were so natural with each other, they probably would have been buddies even before they’d become Littleman’s Men, with their working class mannerisms.

Of course, neither of them invited the Law Clerk along, which obviously stung the guy’s feelings—Big Budd could read him like a book. For a moment, Big Budd considered giving the guy a mercy fuck, then thought better of it. The Law Clerk wasn’t the kind of guy Big Budd liked, kind of prissy ‘n fussy—not a man’s man like Officer Jacobs or the Oil-Rigger—no matter what he was starting to look like. Although, even in becoming a massive bodybuilder like the rest of them, the Law Clerk kept his prim, manicured neatness—Big Budd figured that he had to be shaving his face four or five times a day to keep it that smooth.

And if the Law Clerk was even interested, he didn’t show it. As the Oil-Rigger and Officer Jacobs displayed some of their manly ease with each other, as they got ready to go, the Law Clerk cast an almost sorrowful glance at them and then left without saying a word.

Big Budd overheard the Oil-Rigger say to Jacobs, “Don’t worry about him—pretty boy’s just gonna spend some more time with his mirror.” They laughed together, deep and masculine, pulling on wife-beaters that were so small on them, they barely covered their lower pecs and upper abs.

Big Budd probably would have laughed himself, except… well, he wanted to go spend some time with his mirror. Where was the joke in that?

Little Budd had their room key, and wanted to throw on one of the Littleman jockstraps before heading down to be with the Football Coach again—Big Budd wondered why is brother got off on that. “I reckon I don’t know exactly,” said Little Budd while he changed back in their room. “I mean, I like him. He makes it like back when I was in high school and havin’ fantasies about the coaches, and stuff. The other guy, the Bartender and me, well, we work together—you know, like a team—to please him. We don’t even need to talk to each other to know what to do. I don’t know. It’s just cool.”

He came out of the bathroom wearing only the jock—his equipment filling the specially-made pouch. Big Budd hadn’t really had the chance to look at his brother until then—hadn’t really seen what an incredible piece of meat his brother was becoming.

Holy shit—his brother was hot!

Big Budd’s dick twitched, flopping between his heavy quads—Little Budd couldn’t miss it. “You’re getting’ pretty big there, too” Little Budd said, not even realizing his pun, picking at his own piece beneath the cotton. “I bet we’re right on near ‘bout the same size.”

Big Budd smiled, wondering. “Only one way to find out,” he said, wrapping his hand around his shaft, almost unable to resist masturbating himself.

Little Budd stepped up next to him, lowering the waist band of his jock and letting his own dick roll out, hanging well-below the base of his balls. Facing each other, they held their cocks side by side, comparing thickness—nearly the same, Little Budd was a hair thicker, about the width of a beer can.

But then they were hard. Comparing cocks with his brother turned Big Budd on immensely. Big Budd was thrilled when the head of his dick rose above his navel—hell, his erections had never reached the band of his shorts before, and now it was above his navel!

They pressed their cocks together—Big Budd had to stoop just a little so they could match height, press the base of them together. Little Budd held him by the lats, steadying himself as they compared.

Big Budd had him in length. For a second, it seemed like they were the same. Then Big Budd flexed his ass, thrusting, and even more blood just seemed to fill his dick. It felt like the rubber of an over-filled water-balloon, stretching—tight. And then his cock just… grew—stretched beyond the confines of its former self.

And with it, an overwhelming wave of desire and lust—as his cock grew bigger, so did his need. Big Budd welcomed it like the possession of a spirit. He laughed—he nearly cried—with joy. He rolled his head back and flexed a double-bis. His brother kept them pressed together, thrusting against each other.

“I love my cock!” yelled Big Budd, which allowed it to grow even more. “I… fuckin’… love… my… cock!”

“I reckon you’re bigger than the fuckin’ Coach, bro!” said Little Budd, who hadn’t taken his eyes off it, running his tongue over his lips. “Fuckin’ hot…”

Then, without warning, Little Budd knelt down before his big brother, grabbed that big new dick at the base—leaving plenty of it exposed (Big Budd used to be able to cover his erections completely in his hand)—and easily slipped the head into his mouth. It didn’t choke him, disappointing Big Budd a hair, until Big Budd remembered the snake-like jaw the Littleman’s formula gave them.

The formula that made it so they could take each other’s super-manly cocks down the throat or up the…

Yeah… that’s what he wanted to do—what he needed to do—he knew it as soon as he thought of it.

He wanted to fuck.

With this new, ever-improving cock, he wanted to fuck.

And fucking his little brother would be the next best thing to fucking himself. “C’mere,” he said, pulling Little Budd’s head off his head, leading him by the scruff of the neck toward the bathroom—where the biggest mirrors were. He liked how big his quads were getting, how he had to change his stride to accommodate them, and how that change made his dick sway back and forth like a tree limb.

In the bathroom, the entire wall over the sink was mirrored, so he and his brother could stand next to each other in the mostly unflattering light of fluorescence and still have room to see themselves. Nearly shoulder to shoulder, almost wedged together, they both stood nearly shocked to see their reflections. Not just the amount of muscle and hair and genital growth—which was unbelievable in-and-of itself—but that were nearly identical.

Other than Little Budd being a couple of inches shorter, they could be mistaken for twins. With the changes the formula had made in their appearance, the stronger jaw lines and prominent foreheads, they looked more alike than they’d ever had as youths. They both resembled their father—though he’d been a ratty-looking, forgettable thing—but now, thanks to the Littleman’s formula, they not only looked more masculine, they were infinitely more handsome.

“Well, dog my shit, look at us!” Little Budd said, standing in a “relaxed” bodybuilding stance, his arms by his sides—or as close as he could get, the size of his lats kept them out at an angle.

But Big Budd wasn’t interested in a side-by-side. Moving behind his brother, he made Little Budd lean forward onto the counter, then he kicked Little Budd’s legs apart like Officer Jacobs before a frisk, holding his brother at the waist.

Big Budd still couldn’t believe the size of his own cock, as he pressed it against his brother’s hole—huge. “You reckon you can take this?” he asked, his voice so lost in lust that the answer wasn’t even really important, not that he was sorry when he heard an affirmation. “It’s purty big.”

His little brother was aware of the stalling, the hesitation, the last vestiges of fear. “Will you just fuck me?” Little Budd asked, an edge of anger in his voice. “Will you just fuckin’ put that big fuckin’ cock inside me?” Instead of waiting for the thrust, Little Budd pushed his sphincter back onto his brother’s dick and greedily swallowed it.

He could take it, all right. There was some little bit of stretching as he opened himself to being impaled—he’d obviously never had anything quite so big enter him—but he was right, he could take it. Whatever this formula had done to them, it made them able to suck and fuck each other with dicks that wouldn’t even begin to get in a woman’s vagina anymore. Somehow, it took away the interest for that, anyway.

No, his huge dick inside Little Budd, the tight fit of this muscular, perfect ass, the rough, masculine overtones of the thrust, the scent, the hair, the muscle beneath the hands, their reflections, Big Budd’s desires turned to a new configuration. Man, muscle, cock—all he wanted.

Fucking his brother was like fucking himself. They made eye-contact in the mirror, these twin men, and Little Budd, dripping sweat and grunting in effort, smirked and said, “C’mon. Harder.”

Big Budd took it as a challenge. He fucked like he never had before, with a reckless abandon that he’d never felt with his wife, with a power that would break a normal man, with a cock that continued to grow while out of sight. Big Budd’s big new tool was a sensitive log, each thrust another step closer to ecstasy.

And then, the orgasm.

Little Budd first, beneath him, then, feeling his brother’s climax from inside, Big Budd shot, too, blowing an incredible load deep in his brother’s loins. It went on and on, this indescribable bliss. As the cum leaked down the inside of his brother’s thighs, Big Budd wondered if it would end—if it had to—but the orgasm went on and on, until he was almost exhausted from it.

But even as it ended, even at the onset of sweaty, heavy breathing and relaxed contentedness, something happened—another wave, another surge. Almost as quickly as he came, Big Budd was ready to go again. The hunger started, the craving, the need came back.

He wasn’t just ready to fuck again, he needed to.

He pulled his cock out of his brother’s hot, muscular ass—rather, he pulled a much bigger cock out of his brother’s hot, muscular ass. Big Budd’s dick hung more than halfway down his thigh, hell, just inches above his knees.

It was gorgeous. And it was all his.

“Holy shit,” he said, as they stared at it, twitching back to life.

Little Budd smirked. “And you didn’t want to spend the inheritance money this way,” he said, laughing, reaching out and running his hand over Big Budd’s rock-hard abs.

“I was wrong, okay?” When Little Budd reached up and pinched his nipples, Big Budd added, “You keep that up, I reckon I’m gonna have to fuck you again.”

So, of course he kept it up.

As a matter of fact, they’d fucked three times and blown each other off (just to see if they could choke, they’d joked) twice before Officer Jacobs and the Oil-Rigger, still pumped from their workout, knocked at the door and joined them.

At first, there was some confusion over which brother was which, but Jacobs knew the difference, saying, “I’ll take the bigger one,” motioning to Big Budd, after the Oil-Rigger had said, “Take yer pick.”

Big Budd’s cock was the same size as Jacobs’ now, though Jacobs was more muscular, which gave Big Budd hope that he could ultimately triumph—he resolved to be the biggest Big Budd he could be. At one point, while Big Budd fucked the Oil-Rigger’s tiny, tight butt, Jacobs came up behind him and entered Big Budd as quickly as hugging him, Jacobs’ big cock a welcome visitor in Big Budd’s butthole. While Jacobs fucked Big Budd who fucked the Oil-Rigger, Little Budd squatted down and fitted himself on the Oil-Rigger’s respectable tool, then took his own cock in his mouth and sucked himself off while the three of them chain-fucked.

And the orgasms, one after the next, and the never-ending hunger, and the instant recuperation, and the continued growth, and the intensifying masculinity.

They welcomed it—they reveled in it. They fucked and fucked until someone saw a clock and was coherent enough to make sense out of it.

It was almost eight-thirty. They only had a half an hour before they had to be downstairs to meet before going out and earning their fourth amp.

At this point, all of them wanted that fourth amp! No hesitation anymore. Just need. They’d do whatever they had to to get it.

Though disappointed, they broke to prepare.

In truth, he felt more like he was wearing a costume than clothing, but with a body like he had now, Big Budd doubted that he’d ever have a need to completely dress ever again. He felt like one of them Chippendale dancers, except for being so much bigger. If he’d ever spent time imagining what male strippers would wear, he’d have definitely visualized this.

He chose the Littleman’s spandex hot shorts, a neutral, fleshy kind of color that spectacularly showed-off his new, super-sized cock. His brother insisted on squeezing into his cut-off jeans, referring to them as his “Daisy Dukes,” which Big Budd thought was funny—but it took both of them to slide the shorts over his muscular quads and zip them up over his abundant package. If he got hard, they’d burst. About half his ass hung out the back, the shorts so tight as to give him a wedgie.

Big Budd wore his cowboy hat, but Little Budd wore his CAT-diesel trucker’s cap, greasy and dirty and well-worn. Little Budd had shaved, but Big Budd left the scruff on his chin and lip, giving himself a sloppy, half-grown goatee—in his cowboy hat, with all the new hair, he felt more masculine than the Marlboro Man.

Little Budd wore his workboots and a too-small wife-beater to complete the image. Big Budd remained bare-chested, but wore his cowboy boots. After a moment of inspecting himself in the mirror, the mass, the muscle, the swirl of body hair, in a moment of inspiration, he buckled his brown leather belt loosely around his waist, so it hung on his hip, the big, silver buckle—that he’d won in his only rodeo appearance—balancing on his club-shaped cock. He was never a fashion-conscious kind of guy, but adding the belt was like putting a period at the end of a sentence. It was right.

He was a cowboy fantasy—Little Budd like a porn-movie actor at a construction site. Try as they might, they looked like twins trying not to look like twins (even if Big Budd had a bigger cock). However, both of them were anxious to complete their assignment so they could have their fourth treatment of the Littleman’s formula and get even bigger, even more masculine and muscular and cock-hungry.

They’d do anything for that.

The others were dressed similarly. As a matter of fact, the first few minutes of the group being together was spent seeing how their choice of outfits affected each other’s sex drives. Big Budd’s cowboy outfit was a huge success—so was his cock, grown now to the biggest of the group. Dane was particularly attracted to Big Budd—”Always had a thing for cowboys,” he mumbled as he stroked Big Budd’s hairy pecs.

Big Budd touched his cock. “Well, I reckon I got a hell of a ‘thing,’ now,” he said, smiling as seductively as he knew.

Dane winked. “Never you worry. Our time is coming, but tonight you got some company business, eh?”

“Yup. I’m lookin’ forward to it.”

The Football Coach was dressed in the same polyester coach’s shorts/ t-shirt combination he always wore, though he filled it out quite differently today than he had yesterday. His thick, heavy cock and ripe, swollen balls stretched the material to the point of capacity. His legs were his best bodypart, though he had a very thick neck/ trap development, but he was still built like a fire-hydrant, not a bodybuilder—his abs were rounded and thick, like a roidgut almost, if such a thing were possible among Littleman’s Men. He’d been the biggest of them when they’d arrived, now he was just one of the pack—as if Littleman’s Men could be described as ordinary—and only his macho attitude made him unique. He’d taken to smoking cigars—something he had in common with the Oil-Rigger—and he puffed on a big one even now.

Also unlike yesterday, if he and Big Budd hooked up now, there’d be a fight for top—and Big Budd would probably win. The idea of fucking the Football Coach in front of his brother and that pretty-boy Bartender flashed briefly through BigBudd’s mind. Now, why on Earth was that turning him on?

He laughed to himself—as if it mattered, everything was turning him on!

The Bartender had on the same kind of hot shorts that Big Budd wore—except the Bartender’s were white—he also had a puka-shell necklace, but he’d shaved himself clean. Big Budd didn’t realize how natural he’d found the body hair on muscle until he’d seen a man without it. He knew all them professional bodybuilders shaved and such—and who could forget Ivan from this morning?—but it just looked odd to him now. A man without hair.

Not that the Bartender was unattractive. Quite the opposite. Yeah, he was smaller than the rest of them, but he was still as big as any serious muscle-head out there in the “real” world. He had a fantastic body—for a heavyweight porn star!—and breathtaking facial features. Now he stood there with a can of spray-glitter and coated his smooth muscles until he sparkled. “I’ll fuckin’ rock the dance floor,” he said.

Officer Jacobs stood there with Big Budd for a few seconds as the group gathered, as they all checked each other out. How he’d done it, Big Budd didn’t know, but Officer Jacobs had somehow managed to squeeze himself into a pair of motorcycle cop pants, the heavy muscle of his legs threatening every seam—his remarkable equipment fighting the zipper—and calf-high black boots. A single leather strap over one shoulder, across the hugely muscled, hairy body, and what Big Budd assumed was Officer Jacobs’ actual uniform hat, cocked back on his head as he looked at his fellows. Jacobs was painfully sexy, freakishly big from his sudden dip in the hot tub this morning, though still not as muscular as the Old Man had become. Certainly more massive than any of the other guys at the seminar.

He was Dane’s equal, maybe even his superior, not that Dane seemed all that concerned, moving around like a designer at a fashion show, adjusting this on one guy or adding that to another, a busy bee from flower to flower. For example, when he got to Jacobs, he offered the Officer a pair of leather gloves—which Jacobs gladly put on—and a night stick. The night stick was about the length and thickness of his cock, so when Jacobs absently hit his open palm with it over and over, Big Budd imagined he masturbated the same way.

Dane wanted to tie a handkerchief around Big Budd’s thick neck, which Big Budd initially resisted. Real cowboys didn’t wear them things—it was gay. “Real cowboys don’t have cocks as big as their horse’s, either,” Dane joked. “It’s part of the fantasy. Just wear it.” Dane also reminded Big Budd how to tuck his cock in the Littleman’s style—up front and down, presenting it like royalty.

The Oil-Rigger came in his blue-jeans and a leather harness, criss-crossing his out-of-proportion pecs and his tight, tiny waist. He looked poured into the jeans, they were so tight, and Big Budd could easily see the outline of his substantial dick against his leg. The Oil-Rigger wore a biceps band on each arm, though Big Budd knew he preferred to top.

The Oil-Rigger’s roommate, the Law Clerk, wore the Littleman’s posing trunks, workboots, and a button-front short sleeve shirt, though this one fit him quite well—as opposed to all the other guys who looked almost squeezed into clothes—showing off his deep cleavage, his near-perfect set of abs. He was such a freakin’ tease, thought Big Budd. The Law Clerk wasn’t anything but a poser.

With all of them there, Dane once again explained their task for the evening. To earn their fourth amp, they had to recruit a new man into the fold. Straight or gay, didn’t matter—on the other hand, this was San Francisco—didn’t have to be at a bar, either, though that’s where Dane was taking them tonight, to the San Fran club scene. The only requirement was that the new guy join them voluntarily, not be forced into it or tricked.

“If you get off on that,” said Dane, by way of reassuring them, “then you can take guys without their permission when you get home. The goal here is seduction—I want you to see how easy it is—how natural it is—to spread the good word.”

Big Budd thought the same thing they all did—”With bodies like these, who could resist?”

Who’d want to?

He gave them each a tiny hip-bag—Big Budd had never heard of “fanny packs”—just big enough for the transdermal gun, the two amps, and their personal items, room keys, cash, etc, the Littleman’s logo stitched into the front. “The dose you’ll give your target is quite a bit more powerful than your first dose was,” Dane said as he handed them the small, glass vials, “so you should expect to see a dramatic change in them. Of course, wait’ll you see what your fourth amp does for you!”

And so they went. A new shuttle-bus awaited them, a new driver—though even this guy looked liked he’d sampled the formula. For anyone watching, they looked like a bunch of over-sized COLT models on their way to a gig.

And it WAS easy. Stupid easy. Not that Big Budd was nervous about it—hell, he was too cocky to be nervous—but it would be a while before he developed a routine. Starting conversations with strangers had never been his strong suit. Fortunately, his body did most of the talking for him.

As our little cowboy went strutting into the country-western bar, all heads turned to stare at the incredibly massive Big Budd—background noise fairly well stopped. He couldn’t keep the corner of his mouth from curling into a cocky little smile—nor could he resist reaching down and adjusting his already-responding package. He was a new Big Budd—a Big Budd who wanted men to stare at him while wearing next to nothing.

He ordered a draft beer and drank it quickly when it came—God damn, a beer hit the spot!—one foot up on the brass rail that ran along the base of the bar, Big Budd scoped the room. It wasn’t real country—not like back in Kansas—it was more like idealized country. Hell, probably none of these guys had ever ridden a horse, he figured.

Almost in response to that, he saw that the bar had a mechanical bull. Off of the main floor, in an area of its own—decorated to look like a stall—an old-fashioned, mechanical bull. Big Budd smiled—how he’d like to hoist his muscular ass up onto that.

Then he thought about how his dick was almost the size of a bull’s, and when he thought about how riding him was gonna be like riding that beast, Big Budd had to fight getting hard. Worse when he saw himself in the mirror behind the bar. He had to resist the urge to flex.

He loved how he felt, being out in public, looking like this, being all man. Why had he resisted this so much? What had he been afraid of? Thank God for his brother and his brother’s foresight. Big Budd thought about his brother trooping off with the group that was going to the leather bar. In a way, he’d wished he’d gone with them—he’d feel a little more secure in a group—on the other hand, if he were there, he’d be playing with them instead of scoping out a target the way they’d been instructed. There, he’d be just another in the group of incredibly muscular guys—here, he was a solo-act.

He could feel the eyes on him, so he flexed as subtly as possible, letting them have a little bit of a free show. Should he wait for one of them to approach him? Should he be passive or aggressive? Well, being aggressive would mean getting his fourth amp all that much quicker.

He looked around.

Hot guys all over the place, and who’d have thought Big Budd would ever think that? So many choices—but then, almost immediately, Big Budd saw the right guy. He could just tell—there was… something about him. Big Budd didn’t understand “auras” or “vibes”—he was a bumpkin from Kansas, after all—but almost instinctively, he knew the right type. The Littleman’s type.

Young guy—early twenties—appearing kind of lost, easily overlooked by the crowd, attractive but not pretty, a good body, thin legs—a fantastic ass!—dressed like a country-western singer in pegged-jeans and a sleeveless plaid shirt. Leaning against the far wall with one foot up so he’d appear casual, he was anything but. He looked like Big Budd would if Big Budd had come into this bar without the benefit of the Littleman’s transformation: nervousness tinged with lust, anticipation, and desperate hope.

A thin blonde, Big Budd doubted the guy could grow a beard, much less that he’d have the hair on his head much longer. A shame, he’d look good with a thick moustache—maybe something on his chest.

Without realizing it, Big Budd began stroking the hair on his own chest, lightly, subtly, though the detail wasn’t lost on any of the men who watched Big Budd watch this guy.

Eye-contact!

The corners of Big Budd’s mouth curled up as the guy’s jaw dropped, but Big Budd didn’t know if the guy was shocked by Big Budd’s body, or just that Big Budd was looking at him. Big Budd winked, leaning back a bit on the bar, allowing himself to flex a little more easily. Tease the guy, he thought, remembering what Dane had said. Let the guy come to you.

Leaning back also showed his package better, his heavy, lengthy horse-dick. How could this guy resist that? How could anybody? The other guys watching certainly couldn’t—Big Budd could feel the room get an erection. It took everything he had not to get one himself. He chuckled—maybe it would help. Big Budd liked being the kind of guy who was uninhibited enough to be attracted to himself in public.

He reached down and adjusted that big new cock in the spandex—thick and beautiful, and all his. He really loved his cock, unlike the way he used to be, almost ashamed of it—now, he just wanted to pull it out and show everybody. No, no. Better in the spandex, the mystery will pull them in.

The blonde guy tried to look away, but just stared helplessly like the rest of the bar. Big Budd gave him a bit of a break and spun around to order another beer. While his attention was focused on tipping the server, the blonde guy had moved over to the bar and was politely waiting his turn.

Big Budd gave him a nod, said, “Howdy,” and took a swig of his beer.

“Hi,” the guy said—he was so nervous. Big Budd thought that was cute. “I’m Mac.”

Big Budd nodded again. “Mac,” he said in greeting. “I’m Budd. My friends call me Big Budd.” He reached up and put his hands behind his neck, flexing his abs, the dim overhead light showing off the log he now called his cock. “Guess why?”

Mac resisted the urge to reach out and touch Big Budd. Instead, he quietly said, “You’re so huge.”

Big Budd brought his arms down and flexed his mammoth chest, popping the halves back and forth before he reached for his beer. “I reckon,” he said. “Still, always shootin’ for bigger.”

“You want to get bigger?” the guy asked, the question out of his mouth before he knew he’d said it. “Why?”

Big Budd smirked, amazed at the honesty of his own response. “Because it feels so good,” he said, then switched easily into seduction mode. “Want to feel it?”

The guy laughed. “Don’t tease me,” he said, looking around at all the guys looking at them.

“I ain’t teasin’ ya,” Big Budd said. “I want ya to. Go ahead, feel my big, hairy chest. Run your fingers along my rock-hard abs, put your hand against this melon that I call a biceps. You know you want to—I know you want to—and we all know that all these guys watchin’ us want you to. So touch me, and then tell me it’d bother you if I was bigger.”

Tentatively at first, the blonde guy reached out and stroked Big Budd’s hairy pec, feeling the pillowy curve of the muscle, the big, sensitive aeriola that hung on the edge like a desperate rock-climber, the gully of cleavage. The guy couldn’t resist getting hard—who could anymore? thought Big Budd.

“Purty sweet, ain’t it?” rumbled Big Budd, enjoying the electric feel of a man’s hand against his skin. “You know, when I first started, I didn’t reckon I wanted to get this big, but it’s so fuckin’ incredible, so… masculine, that now I wanna turn myself into the biggest freak out there.”

Mac smiled as he nervously ran his hand along Big Budd’s deltoid then down the vein running over Big Budd’s biceps. Even though it was the arm he was using to hold his beer, Big Budd flexed for the guy. Rock hard. “You talk like you’re not all-natural,” the guy said, his tone a little bit teasing. “But I guess guys who are your size are always taking the steroids, aren’t they?”

“You ever seen a guy on steroids with a cock like mine? With nuts that aren’t all shriveled up?”

Mac was defensive, pulling back. “I’ve never seen a guy like you in real life, only in the magazines. Only in my fantasies. I don’t care what you’re on.”

Big Budd smiled, leaning forward to speak to Mac confidentially. “I’m not on steroids,” he said. “I reckon I’m doin’ something a whole lot better. You seen that new Littleman’s catalogue?”

A gasp—recognition! Mac had definitely seen it, Big Budd surmised. By the reaction, Big Budd guessed he’d “seen” it—masturbated to it—more than once.

“Yes!” the blonde guy said, breathless. “Oh, my God! Those guys… you!.. are so… the mag doesn’t show much, it just hints… crops the pics just as the bulge…”

Mac glanced down at Big Budd’s spandex shorts and instantly recognized the logo. Big Budd thought the guy was looking at his package, but then he pointed at the logo on the leg. “That’s the…” he looked up, making eye contact again. “You are one of them. They’re real.”

It took everything Big Budd had to control his cock—he was so… flattered that this guy had included him with such prestigious company, and Big Budd wasn’t even finished with his transformation, yet.

Big Budd nodded. “Real? I reckon we are,” he said. “And soon, we’re gonna be everywhere. Matter of fact, I’m in San Francisco right now as part of a training seminar for the company.”

“Really? What are you training for? A contest? A modeling job?”

Big Budd smiled. “We’re learning how to recruit,” he said, and gave it a moment to sink in.

The guy was stock still, quiet. Aghast. “What?” he whispered. “Recruit?”

“Mm-hm,” Big Budd grunted, nodding, absently running his hand over the hair on his massive torso, which he flexed for himself. Playing with his nipple, he said, “Matter of fact, I’m out on assignment tonight. Before I’m allowed to have my next dose of the formula, I gotta find a guy willin’ to try it out, willin’ to have a taste—a newbie.”

“You’re kidding,” Mac said, but Bid Budd shook his head.

“I’m serious,” Big Budd said. “And I’m makin’ the offer to you.”

“Oh, my God. You’re kidding. Get as big as you?”

Big Budd chuckled. “You’re not gonna get as big as me off one hit. You’ll notice a difference for sure—you’ll feel it, but you don’t become a freak off one hit. Don’t worry.”

Big Budd was a good salesman—he didn’t push, he didn’t force. While Mac thought, Big Budd casually stood there and flexed, ready for the questions, should they come. Not surprisingly, Mac asked the most common question their training predicted. “What does it feel like?” he asked.

So Big Budd gave him the most effective response his training had to offer.

“Only one way to find out,” he said, gently squeezing the base of his cock.

“What if I don’t want to get any bigger?” he asked next, sticking to Big Budd’s script without even realizing it. “What if I’m happy with twenty extra pounds? Do I have to get as big as you?”

“You can stop anytime you want to,” Big Budd said as sincerely as he could.

“Tell you the truth, I never thought I’D want to get this big, but uh… I ended up liking it a lot more than I thought. Don’t count that out is all I’m sayin’. This is your chance to feel like a real man—take it.”

Mac may have been startled by the speed with which he said “Okay,” but Big Budd wasn’t. Dane had been right, this had been easy—the Littleman’s formula sold itself.

“You want to do it here, or you want to go someplace?”

“We can do it here?”

“Yeah, sure” said Big Budd, smiling. “I reckon it’s kind of fun to go through the transformation in public. You wanna…?”

Mac was almost drooling. “Yeah!” he said, nodding quickly.

So they went to the men’s room together, standing by the two urinals on the far wall—unknown to them, this was the most common spot for mutual jacking because it offered a tiny bit of privacy—and Big Budd explained how to use the transdermal gun. Mac was worried that it would hurt even as Big Budd assured him that it wouldn’t. “Even if it did,” Big Budd said, “wouldn’t the results be worth it? But it doesn’t…”

Big Budd would’ve been glad to show him by taking the amp himself, but the rules were that this guy went first. Big Budd didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize his standing with the company. After only a moment of two of hesitation, the guy held the gun up to his outstretched nuts and pulled the trigger.

A “pop!” to be sure, and the guy jumped at the noise, but no pain.

When he pulled the gun away, Big Budd asked, “Now, did that hurt?”

“No,” Mac said. “Just feels kind of weird. Like my balls are full of extra liquid.”

Big Budd chuckled. “You just wait,” he said, loading his amp into the butt of the gun. Pulling down the front of his shorts, exposing his big cock for the first time, he glanced at Mac, and saw the blonde guy riveted to it. “You want to give it to me?” he asked, holding out the gun. “You want to shoot me full of the magic?”

No hesitation this time—Mac took the loaded gun right out of his hand. “Oh, yeah,” he said firmly, reaching down and gingerly taking one of Big Budd’s goose-egg balls in his hand, hefting the weight of it, and then stretching the skin tight. “Ready?” he asked.

Big Budd sighed. “So ready,” he said.

And Mac pulled the trigger.

Big Budd could feel it go in—though it didn’t hurt. (Strange, Big Budd almost wished it had. Maybe Officer Jacobs had been right, maybe needles would be better.) But he could feel it down there, and he threw a boner in anticipation. No! He thought, willing it down—not yet.

He took the empty gun back from Mac as the blonde guy tucked Big Budd back in his shorts. “My God,” he mumbled. “It’s so big.” Fascinated by Big Budd’s cock.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” said Big Budd. “Now, let’s get back out there so you can have your transformation in public.”

He knew they had about ten minutes or so before they’d begin to feel it, so he got another beer. The guy was full of questions. “When will I feel it?” “How will I know?” “What if I don’t like it?” “Can you have a bad trip?” and on and on. Big Budd would’ve been impatient, had he not been the same way himself when he’d taken his first hit—just yesterday.

And then Mac got that look—that “looking inward” kind of look, that self-absorbed moment when he first felt the hit. “I feel weird,” he mumbled. “Like I’m stoned…”

“I reckon it’s starting,” said Big Budd. “Hang tight. It’ll really get intense.”

“Whoa! This is amazing!”

Big Budd could see Mac’s erection, pushing eagerly against the tight denim. Wow, already. Big Budd was just beginning to be aware of his own buzz and this guy was already flying. Dane hadn’t been kidding—this “test” amp he’d given Mac was far more potent that what they’d been given their first time.

“Holy shit,” Mac said, putting his hand against his stomach. “This feels incredible!”

Big Budd could see it start to happen, the veins in Mac’s shoulders and arms becoming more pronounced, his breathing becoming heavy, the rise and fall of his chest as his torso began to expand. As Big Budd suddenly became aware of the weight of his own balls, as the low rumbling of pleasure made itself known to him, Mac had already begun to grow.

“You might want to go stand in that dark corner over there,” Big Budd said, indicating an unlit spot beneath the overhead deck. “Least until the transformation’s over, then a whole new you can step out.”

“What about you?” Mac said, his tone seductive. “You gonna come back there with me?”

“Nah,” said Big Budd, shaking his head slightly. “I reckon I’m gonna go ride that mechanical bull I saw on the way in. We each got our own fantasy, Mac.” He handed the blonde guy a business card from Littleman’s—slipped it in Mac’s front pocket. “You decide you want to get even bigger, call these guys.”

“But, I…”

But Mac couldn’t fight it—the buzz was too intense. He might’ve protested, but instead allowed Big Budd to lead him to that dark spot beneath the overhead deck. Spinning the passive blonde guy around, Big Budd kissed him, and reached for his rock-hard cock. “Nice,” murmured Big Budd as he squeezed Mac’s dick through the tightening jeans.

Mac moaned during his orgasm and almost lost his balance, falling back against the dark wall. “Holy cow!” he said as he caught his breath. “That was un-fucking-believable! Damn, I love my cock! Oh my God, Budd, I’m ready to go again!”

Big Budd smiled. “You ain’t seen nothin’, yet.”

A couple of the desperate men who hung out under the deck—where, apparently, all the anonymous guys would feel each other up in the dark—had already moved in, touching Big Budd’s incredible body, but targeting the moaning Mac, who was hard and ready to go again.

Mac, so swept up in his buzz, welcomed attention from anywhere. It was easy for Big Budd to step away, leaving the blonde guy to the hands and tongues of these strangers. The next time Big Budd saw him, he would indeed be a changed man.

Big Budd, on the other hand, had his own fantasy to explore—riding the mechanical bull during his own transformation. As he strode—strutted, throwing one massive thigh around the other—to the machine, off to one side in the main room, in its own stall, he felt all eyes fall on him, all the guys he squeezed past, forcing them to touch him, to rub against him, and all the guys perched on bar stools or on the upper deck over the dance floor.

He felt the familiar warmth in his testicles. He felt them start to swell and grow. As he walked along, they bounced back and forth like tennis balls, though his shorts did stretch enough to accommodate them. He could feel the rush start to travel along his veins, like a roller-coaster. His hands were shaking as he put the coins in the machine—he watched the veins rise in his forearms. Control, he thought. Control yourself.

But swinging his gigantic leg over the body of the bull, the heft of the saddle on his balls—too much. It felt too good.

Big Budd got hard. All thirteen, fourteen inches of cock—though now it felt even bigger, and it probably was—Big Budd lost control as the ride started.

Like his hat, his inhibition was easily tossed on the first buck. His fantasy had come true—he was riding a rodeo like his brother did, he was hugely muscular, and everybody was watching him.

His first orgasm came as the ride slowed to a halt.

Fortunately, someone was quick enough to stick in a few more quarters.

That night was a dream for Big Budd—a forbidden dream, one formerly hidden in the back aisles of unconsciousness by fear and repression. The kind of dream a guy in rural Kansas didn’t always own up to having. Well, at least the kind of dream this guy from rural Kansas didn’t own up to having.

Imagine this Kansas farm-boy riding a mechanical bull at a gay country-western bar in San Francisco, wearing only spandex shorts, cowboy boots, and a scarf around his neck—(His hat got thrown off on the first buck.)—immediately after taking the fourth amp of the Littleman’s formula, the stuff that has been turning him into an over-muscled, over-sexed, over-hung freak of nature—(A feeling, by the way, that he was starting to love.)

At first, the patrons at the bar were probably surprised that someone was riding the mechanical bull at all. The thing hardly ever got used—”atmosphere” they called it—mostly, it collected dust. Every now and then a couple of drunk guys would play near it, try to have sex against it or whatever, but on the whole it sat unused—except at circuit parties or when the rodeo was in town.

They heard the whirr of the engine, the start of the machine, and when they turned their heads to identify the sound, they saw an Olympia-sized bodybuilder riding it. Maybe they thought he’d been hired by the bar—so hairy, maybe a COLT model, even though he was bigger than COLT’S usual fare. Big Budd had always had a weak chin, but the Littleman’s formula seemed to have improved that, too. Now he was square-jawed and strong, handsome and heart-breaking, with a rough goatee from the uncontrollable growth of his facial hair, a peculiar gleam in his eye, something that made him seem playful—or flirty. Definitely horny.

And while he rode the mechanical bull, one hand on the rope, the other loosely held out to the side, gripping with his muscular inner-thighs, Big Budd grew even more. The buzz of the fourth amp swelled in him, forcing his muscles to expand even further, making him grow beyond the boundaries of his imagination.

The buzz pounded in his ears, jungle drums to accompany the jerky rocking of the bull, the cheers of the gathering crowd barely distinguishable above the din of his metamorphosis. Were the guys watching able to see the change? The growth? The veins thicken and become more pronounced?

And what about his cock? What about his balls, nearly now the size of citrus fruit in need of juicing? Big Budd pressed his cock into the horn of the saddle—he could feel himself hardening and he welcomed it, bigger than a bull himself. The bucking machine fucked him like a spastic lover, reminding him of how badly he himself needed attention.

His ass swelled—the thighs gripping the machine sloping like French curves, crushing the sides of the ride like a cheap, tin can, leaving an impression that men would lay their legs in and compare themselves to for years to come, long after the mechanical bull broke and died, suffering under the new weight of Big Budd.

As the engine coughed out one more turn, it stopped with Big Budd facing the crowd, allowing him to flex for his admirers. Sitting on the stalled bull, he put his arms behind his head and flexed his abs—his gorgeous, rock-hard, impossibly thin waist, especially given the thickness of his lower back, leading the eye up to the insertion point of his u-shaped lats.

And his cock fought the confines of the Littleman’s spandex, but if there was any inhibition left in Big Budd, no one would know it. Stretching out like a billy-club over his left hip, now nearly eighteen inches long, the crowd cheered his cock. Sure, but who could take it? Where was an ass talented enough to accept his beautiful new manhood?

Then, as if in answer to his need, a man caught his eye. And not just any man.

It was Mac, the blonde guy who’d received his initial dose of the Littleman’s formula from Big Budd only minutes before—the challenge Big Budd had to perform to receive his fourth amp. Mac had definitely gone through some changes. What had been a man who’d resembled any too thin country-western star now had the body of a professional gymnast, over-sized arms, tight abs and trunk, perky round ass. He’d already grown out of his shirt—the buttons had clearly popped and the seams had obviously torn—and his jeans were about to give up the fight—though they were loose on his waist, the thighs had broken free.

He stared at Big Budd with a smirk on his face, a hungry look in his eye—Big Budd spotted him as a fellow Littleman’s Man merely by his vibe, his new aura. Mac was confident, uninhibited, and erect, his uncontrollable hard-on obvious in his tightening jeans.

Another Littleman’s guy can take me, Big Budd thought. Whatever else this shit does to us, I reckon it makes us able to suck and fuck with these monster cocks. Mac’s blonde ass could take me.

So he sauntered over to the muscular guy, his big, eighteen inch cock jutting out of his spandex shorts, almost to the bottom of his ribcage. The men watching at the bar couldn’t help but get hard themselves, riveted to Big Budd and the blonde gymnast who reached out to fondle the giant’s hairy muscles.

“This is so hot,” said Mac. “I feel fuckin’ awesome!”

“You want me to fuck you?” asked Big Budd. “You reckon you can take my big cock up your ass?”

“The way I feel right now,” Mac said, flexing his growing biceps, “I could take all the men in this room at the same time. Actually, I kind of wanna.”

Big Budd smiled. “That’s the formula working in you, changing you,” he said, pressing his massive body into the blonde, pushing him back against the wooden rail, made to look like a split-rail fence around the mechanical bull. “Making it so we can fuck each other. Making it so we can take each other’s massive cocks inside ourselves.” He slipped his hands inside the waistband of Mac’s jeans, taking advantage of the space between the loose material and the rock-hard ab-wall to feel the pubes thickening beneath his hand—then, he popped the button. “Making it so we wanna. C’mon, partner, you gotta let me fuck you. I reckon I gotta fuck.”

“You gonna fuck me right here in front of all these people?”

Big Budd kissed him. “That bother you?” he asked.

Mac might’ve struggled with it for a moment, but then there was a fluttering in his eye as the formula took an even greater hold, then he turned around, bending over slightly to put his hands atop the split-rail fence. “Not at all,” he said, offering his ass to Big Budd. “Actually, it kind of turns me on.”

“No doubt,” said Big Budd, ripping Mac’s jeans down over his hot new ass.

The crowd gasped at this move, though no one did anything to stop it. Not the bartenders, who’d stopped pouring and leaned over the bar to watch. Not the doormen, whose job it was to put a halt to these activities, in case the police raided or some-such. No, they stood like everyone else, watching this massive, hairy bodybuilder slide his impossible cock up the ass of another hot guy who seemed to be growing before their eyes.

They couldn’t help but play with themselves. Hell, the whole bar did.

And when these two guys fucked, it was rough—powerful. Masculine. Big Budd’s big cock was so sensitive, each thrust felt more alive than the one before. He was a machine. Fuckin’ this dumb… fuckin’…kid…

He lifted Mac up by the lats and spun him around until they faced each other, Mac’s legs wrapping around Big Budd’s waist. Big Budd supported the blonde guy’s weight with merely his own huge cock, buried in the guy’s ass, while he held out his arms and flexed a double bis for the crowd. The cheered.

Mac fucked himself on Big Budd’s cock—he loved what his new ass could do, what his body was now capable of. Fuck and fuck and fuck.

Big Budd couldn’t hold back anymore, suddenly blowing a huge load into Mac’s ass, filling him with so much cum that the excess dribbled down the blonde guy’s thickening legs. Mac shot, too, caught between a moan and a scream—the vocal cue that allowed the guys watching them to orgasm, all of them wishing they were on the receiving end of Big Budd.

Of course, thanks to the Littleman’s Formula, they were both of them ready to go again almost immediately—the recovery rate was almost instantaneous. When Big Budd pulled his cock out of the blonde guy, he was struck by its growth while inside. Even bigger now, Big Budd’s cock was monstrous, freaky—bigger than anything he’d seen any of the other Littleman’s guys sporting up ‘til now—he loved it!

And he still had his fifth and final amp of the formula to go—would that get his cock up to two feet?

Big Budd allowed a couple of the guys to lick his big dick clean while he flexed for the rest of the crowd. He loved being the center of attention and showing off his body—look at these big, hairy muscles!—flex!—look at what a man I am!

He posed while the guys licked him spotlessly clean—both attempting to take him down their throats, both failing—he posed while they tucked him back in his spandex shorts—he had to quickly re-tuck in the Littleman’s style—and he let them touch him as he walked to the bar and got another beer, picking his cowboy hat up off the floor and popping it back on his handsome, manly head.

Yep, he found himself saying over and over. The Littleman’s group. Yep, a formula that creates massive muscles like these—and I reckon you saw what it’s done for my cock! The sales pitch was so easy—Big Budd was a natural. Yep, I’m pretty well into it—but look at that blonde guy over there, he just got his first dose tonight. Ain’t he hot?

And there was Mac, shirtless, pointing out the hair that was growing down the center of his steel-plated abs to the guys he was talking to. Seduction was clearly on his mind—Big Budd could see the blonde guy’s hard-on beneath his jeans. Yep, Mac was at the beginning of a whole new life.

Just like I am, Big Budd reckoned, running his hand across his own muscular chest, feeling the terrific expanse of size, the thick coating of hair, the sensitive nipple. He was getting turned on again, too. If he wasn’t careful, he’d lose control and probably fuck every guy in this bar.

What a different man he was then when he’d arrived in San Francisco two days ago—how he loved it!

But he wanted the company of others like himself. He knew perfectly well that, in opposition to their hopes, none of these guys would be capable of taking him up their ass—he was simply too big. His cock was too big. He was caught between knowing how he loved that and knowing that he was now limited to guys who’d been through the transformation themselves.

On the other hand, what was wrong with the guys who’d been through the transformation? Nothing. Like him, they were just about perfect in every way. And they were so hot. And they could fuck so good.

And anybody who hadn’t been through the transformation? Well, if he really wanted someone that bad, he could put ’em through it himself. Wasn’t that what his new job was supposed to be? He was actually starting to look forward to going back to Kansas—there were several guys he wouldn’t mind forcing this on—a couple of the denizens of Benny’s Hackin’ Shack came to mind almost immediately.

And the idea of that, plus physicality of the many men fondling him in some way as he drank his beer, started to cause his cock to stir again.

No, he thought, looking around. As much as he loved being worshipped, he really wanted another Littleman’s man—specifically, he wanted to see Officer Jacobs.

Or his brother.

Then Mac was beside him again, delirious—drunk?—toting a heavy-set country-boy along for the ride. “Thank you,” the blond guy said, leaning in and kissing Big Budd, feeling the mass of Big Budd’s chest. “For everything.”

Big Budd smiled and took another gulp of beer. “You still got the card?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Mac said, patting his pocket.

Big Budd spoke low. “I hope you end up making the commitment,” he said, running a finger down Mac’s already pronounced cleavage. “I hope you end up joining us.”

The other guy spoke, the redneck attached to Mac. “Maybe you’d like to come join us?” he asked. “I got a place right around the corner.”

Big Budd smirked. “You reckon you could take this?” he asked, grabbing the base of his enormous cock.

The guy barked a laugh. “I ain’t no bottom,” he said, with the attitude of a confirmed top.

“You would be if I came along with you.” Big Budd said, wrapping his arm possessively around Mac—the little blonde curled up almost instinctively. In Mac’s ear, Budd whispered, “Fuck him good. You’re a Littleman’s Man now.”

“I will,” said Mac, squeezing him and allowing himself to be pulled away by the bulky country-boy.

Big Budd watched them go—Mac’s jeans looked like they were about to burst from the growth of his legs and ass. Yeah, there was nothing better than a muscular ass. Big Budd reckoned that was pretty much what life was going to be about from now on—and he didn’t mind it a bit.

He figured—correctly—that he’d be able to find the leather bar where both Officer Jacobs and his brother were. They were on the same block. But just as he adjusted his cowboy hat, his thick cock, and the queer bandana around his neck, just as he started to head for the door, ignoring the boos and cat-calls from the disappointed men at the bar, who should walk in but Dane—the big man himself.

Big Budd remembered when they’d met—yesterday!—when he’d thought that Dane was the biggest man he’d ever seen. Now, barely twenty-four hours later, he thought Dane was kind of small. At least, compared to some of the other Littleman’s guys—himself included. That’s not to say Dane was any kind of shirk, just to emphasize that Big Budd had gotten so huge. (And he still had one amp to go!)

And in walked Dane, with the same thick hair on his chest that Big Budd now sported, showing off the muscle in a way that Big Budd wouldn’t have thought possible, actually high-lighting the cuts in his abs, the grooves in his thighs. Dane wore the same kind of Littleman’s spandex shorts that Big Budd did, except Dane’s were blue, workboots and a wife-beater that didn’t quite make it all the way down his abs. That look was almost becoming clichŽ.

Still, he looked hot as shit. Big Budd wouldn’t kick him out of bed.

(And who’d have thought Big Budd would ever think that?)

“Damn,” Dane said when he saw Big Budd just inside the doorway. “Look at you, cowboy.”

“I done the fourth amp.”

Dane smiled. “No shit,” he said, then he smiled. “You’re as big as me, now.”

Big Budd openly fondled his own nuts. “I reckon I’m bigger,” he said modestly, flicking his eyebrows, popping the halves of his chest.

Dane started getting hard. “Maybe we should go back to the hotel? Check.”

Big Budd smiled as seductively as he knew. “We could fuck right here for all I care,” he said matter-of-factly. “These guys wouldn’t mind. Hell, they already done seen it once tonight!” He patted his crotch with pride.

“Well, we don’t need to give it all away for free, do we? We really should leave something for the paying customers.”

Big Budd chuckled. “I reckon you got a point,” he said, then he turned and addressed the bar, raising his voice. Dane didn’t think Big Budd could be so assertive—he liked seeing it. Big Budd was going to do big things for the Littleman’s company. “Gentlemen,” Big Budd said in his loud twang, holding his arms open to include them all, “Thanks for your attention this evening. I’m off to fuck another hot stud Littleman’s Man. Clap if y’all would buy the video.”

The exited to the cheers of the cowboy bar—Big Budd’s ego swelled, too. (Maybe he would appear in one or two of them videos the company made. Just for fun. Like the ones they’d seen at their first meeting—the ones that, at the time, had horrified Big Budd, but now interested him. Excited him. Naw, he wouldn’t mind bein’ one of those guys.)

They walked up the street together, these two big bodybuilders dressed in spandex shorts and little else, their muscles pumped, their cocks engorging, flopping uncomfortably back and forth between their amped thighs. They were stared at, gawked at, whistled at—they were the center of attention, and Big Budd loved it! Although he tried to maintain his “cool”—his arrogant detachment—he flexed as much as he could for the onlookers, and he knew Dane was doing the same thing.

There was no shyness, no inhibitions, no worries—he was too masculine, too muscular for that—when you were hung the way Big Budd was, you didn’t need hang-ups.

As they walked up the block, Dane called for the shuttle bus to take them back to the hotel. “I figure you can do your final amp,” Dane said to Big Budd, “while we fuck. That way, I can feel you grow while you’re inside me.”

“You gonna do one, too?” asked Big Budd. “I reckon I don’t wanna go through it alone. I want you on the ride with me.”

Dane snorted. “I’m always happy to do a hit,” he said, turning to face Big Budd, “but that big cock of yours needs to be inside of me when we do. We aren’t growing that thing to monstrous proportions so you can waste it bein’ a bottom.”

Big Budd took an assertive stance, forcing Dane to back up a hair, running him into a street sign. “Don’t worry, I like to fuck,” said Big Budd, “but I like to get fucked, too. You boys made sure of that.” Hell, even now his own aggression was turning him on—Big Budd’s big cock returned to life.

“You can always make your own playmates,” said Dane quietly, wrapping his arms around Big Budd’s thick torso. “Like I did with you. Like the way I gave you the cock I’ve always wanted to be fucked by.”

Big Budd smirked, putting his arms up over Dane’s shoulders, folding them around Dane’s head. “This cock is gonna do more than fuck you,” Big Budd said, pressing his thickening dick into Dane’s swelling package. “I reckon this cock is gonna turn you into my little muscle slave. My little muscle pussy. You like the sound of that?”

Dane moaned when they kissed. Yeah, Big Budd figured, he did.

They were barely on the shuttle before Dane had Big Budd’s cock in his mouth, pulling it free of its spandex confines—all eighteen-plus inches. Whatever else this formula did, it made them able to take each other’s enormous appendages down their throats or up their butts—it made it easy. And fun.

Big Budd leaned back in the seat as Dane knelt on the floor between his thick, muscular legs and gave Big Budd perhaps the best blow job he’d ever gotten. All Big Budd could do was roll his head back, stroke his own massive pecs with one hand, feel the manly hair and the swollen nipples, and guide Dane’s head with the other, forcing Dane to deep swallow.

It was so masculine—he was lost in his feelings of masculinity, fucking Dane’s mouth with his super-huge cock, his heavily muscled body. As they drove through the streets of San Francisco, he’d become the freak he’d always feared being. Except that now he loved it.

And he was about to get even bigger.

It shouldn’t be too surprising to learn that nearly all the guys going through the Littleman’s seminar completed their assignment within the first hour of being out in public that night. Dane figured they wouldn’t be terribly discerning about who they recruited, knowing how anxious they were to have their own amp of the formula as a reward. Not that it ultimately mattered who they got—the Littleman’s formula could transform even the ugliest man into something better, if not handsome, certainly “rugged.” Besides, with the growth of their bodies, hardly anyone looked at their faces.

That was why Dane was surprised when the hotel shuttlebus was flagged down by the most handsome guy from this batch of recruits—the Bartender from Maryland, an athletic, but slightly pudgy straight guy who shaved his body. When he’d shown up on the first day of the seminar, Dane couldn’t wait to transform him—teach him a thing or two. Show him who he really was deep down inside, a hairy muscle-pig just like the rest of them—and the way he’d been bottoming for the Football Coach was a good start.

And then the doofus had forgotten to bring his transdermal gun when they’d gone to Ivan’s gym, putting him an amp behind the others. Though his body had improved tremendously—even if he still shaved off his hair—he wasn’t that much bigger than when he’d arrived, except in MUCH better condition—those abs, that teeny-tiny little waist, the lack of bodyfat—now he was built like one of those well-muscled underwear models. Well, to be fair, a little bigger than that. More like a well-muscled porn-star.

Now, he was TWO amps behind—about to be three behind Big Budd—so he looked small compared to them, but damn amazing compared to the rest of the world. He’d covered himself with spray glitter before going to the dance bar, clearly intending to be the focal point for the evening’s queer lust, and from the way it was streaked across his body, rubbed off here and there, he’d obviously been the object of some kind of contact.

“Oh, hey guys,” he said casually when he saw Dane kneeling between Big Budd’s massive legs, as if what they were doing was completely natural in their surroundings. “Damn,” he said to Big Budd. “You look fuckin’ awesome. You’re way bigger than your brother.”

Big Budd wagged his twenty-inch hard-on at the guy. “Muscles or cock?” he asked.

The Bartender licked his lips and said, “Both.”

Dane kept one hand on Big Budd’s balls, gently massaging them while he spoke. “Surprised to see you,” he said. “I expected you’d be dancing the night away, teasing your target until you finally delivered.”

The Bartender looked down and shrugged slightly, touching himself through his tiny posers, his cock starting to harden. “I was actually hoping I’d find you,” he said, glancing quickly at Dane. “I kind of want to do my double. Seeing the guy I gave an amp to at the bar go through his transformation—hell, get almost as big as I am—I, uh… I realized how bad I wanted it—how much I was ready for it.”

“Excellent!” said Dane. He indicated Big Budd with a tilt of his head. “We’re just going back to the hotel now to do one ourselves. You’re welcome to join us.”

“Really?” the Bartender asked, glancing back and forth between Dane and Big Budd.

Big Budd smirked. “I reckon I could always use another mouth on me.” He opened his arm to the Bartender, inviting the guy to his heavy, half-dollar sized nipple.

The Bartender gladly took position, accidentally rubbing spray glitter on Big Budd as he took the Kansas redneck’s swollen nipple in his mouth. Big Budd put his hands behind his own neck, cradling the base of his skull.

“Drive!” Dane called to the guy behind the wheel. And as they pulled away from the curb, Dane took Big Budd’s twenty-inch cock back in his mouth.

That was a ride!

At one point, while Dane swallowed Big Budd all the way to the root, the Bartender stood on the seats, one leg on either side of Big Budd’s torso, reaching up and holding the safety rail mounted to the roof, and offered Big Budd his own healthy cock—the biggest of them all before they’d begun taking the formula. Without apprehension, Big Budd greedily leaned forward and took it in his mouth, gripping the Bartender’s ball-sac with one hand.

It was so easy.

And he orgasmed—and the Bartender orgasmed—and certainly Dane did, too. And they swallowed each other with the hunger of vampires, ready to go again almost immediately. The bus ride back to the hotel seemed to take no time at all.

At the hotel, discouraged when there weren’t more people in the lobby to see them, they went to Dane’s room, which was actually a suite on the top floor. Big Budd had never seen anything as opulent in his entire life—he’d never even imagined it.

Dane suggested they shower before amping up—they were all of them smeared with the Bartender’s sparkle now. Big Budd found the bathroom as over-blown as the rest of the place, but the shower had clearly been designed for more than one person—a spout came from either side of the enclosure. It looked like it might actually fit all three of them.

Then Big Budd caught a glimpse of himself in one of the many mirrors along the wall and did nothing but stare, slack-jawed. It was the first time he’d seen himself in truly bright light since he’d taken the fourth amp and he was blown away by himself. He was more muscular than Ivan or Officer Jacobs had gotten after their dip in the cum-filled hot tub at the gym—he was nearly the size of the Old Man before they’d carted him away, mad, drunk on his own power and masculinity, to that mysterious Malibu Facility that no one would talk about.

Now, he should be called Huge Budd or Massive Budd—or Biggest Budd. He dwarfed Dane, and he completely dominated the Bartender. He loved the muscle—he dug the bodyhair—he admired the over-sized genitalia, the balls that hung like oranges, his twenty-inch cock that nearly reached his knees, as thick as a jar of sauce.

He was beyond possible, and he still had an amp to go—and he couldn’t wait!

Big Budd was beyond fear, beyond reticence and inhibition. He was all man. All Littleman’s Man.

In the shower, they washed and fucked again, this time Dane inside Big Budd as Big Budd squeezed himself tightly into the Bartender’s tiny little ass—the only thing motivating them to move along was knowing what awaited them when they finished—more of everything. They ran their hands along soapy muscles, firm cocks, and pliant asses. Big Budd loved every minute—he was gonna renovate his shower at home first thing!

They left their towels around their waists as they went back to the main room—Big Budd sat in the middle of the sofa, the Bartender moved the coffee table to the far wall and sat on the floor, leaning on the inside of Big Budd’s left leg. Dane disappeared into the bedroom and came back with a transdermal gun and several ampules of the formula.

“Who’s first?” he asked.

Of course, the Bartender was the logical choice, being so far behind. Dane shot him full of one, then the next, and then he produced a third. “Five total,” he said. “Get you up to Budd’s size, here.”

The Bartender turned his head and smiled at Big Budd. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Bring it on.”

Dane gave Big Budd his final shot next, kneeling between Big Budd’s legs and hefting his heavy balls. “You’re gonna be magnificent,” he said, causing Big Budd’s cock to stir.

“Just so’s I can suck my own cock,” Big Budd laughed, spreading his arms across the back of the sofa. “That’s all that matters to me.”

“I don’t think you’ll ever be lacking for someone to suck you off,” Dane said, putting his own amp in the gun. “We’re counting on you and your brother to deliver the midwest to us, you know. You gotta sell everybody. Think you’re gonna be able to do that?”

Big Budd flexed his left arm, leaning in and kissing the melon-sized biceps. “I don’t reckon there’s gonna be anyone who’d be able to resist,” he said, his dick hardening.

“Nobody has yet,” Dane said, and shot himself full of juice.

There were a few beers in the small courtesy fridge by the television and Big Budd helped himself to a couple while they waited for the buzz. As anxious as he was for it to hit, Big Budd was even more excited about heading back to Kansas tomorrow, looking the way he did—feeling the way he did—he couldn’t wait to hop in his pickup truck and drive over to Benny’s.

“I’m starting to feel it,” the Bartender said, standing suddenly, like he’d just done a few lines of coke. “Whoa… whoa…” His cock got almost instantly hard—harder than hard—so hard it seemed to want to stretch beyond itself. It wanted to grow. “Fuck, yeah,” the Bartender said, flexing for himself—his veins becoming more and more pronounced on his arms, shoulders, and thighs. “Oh, fuck…”

Dane was next. “Here we go,” he said, nodding, sighing, his hands beginning to roam across his thick torso. “Yeah, now it’s starting.”

It had hit Big Budd, too, sitting there on the sofa with his legs spread, a beer in one hand, his monstrous dick in the other, getting harder and bigger even as he watched the Bartender get off on himself, watched the Maryland beer-slinger flex and squeeze his muscles until they grew. Yeah, he felt it, like being stoned and coked at the same time, power and relaxation together, wrapped in a packaging of masculine sexuality.

Big Budd grew, sure, but nothing like any of the other times. More, it was like he hardened instead. Like the bulk of his muscle got thicker, denser, like granite with pronounced veins. It was like the sculptor and the painter air-brushed out the last of the imperfections, the weaknesses, made the final adjustments.

Big Budd was now the perfect Littleman’s Man—he was completely transformed.

He was the “After” picture candidate.

Drinking the last of his beer then tossing the bottle aside, Big Budd stood, took a second to adjust to the difference in balance and mass, then advanced on the Bartender, led by a cock that was easily two feet long.

The Bartender took him with almost no effort—just driving lust.

And while Big Budd fucked the Bartender, the Bartender grew. Even Big Budd could feel the guy’s ass thickening around his cock. “Not enough,” the Bartender said. “Not enough cock—more. I want more!”

“Not enough cock?” Big Budd growled, thrusting himself in as far as he could go.

“What? Are you kidding me? I reckon I got one of the biggest fuckin’ cocks on the planet! It don’t get ‘more’ than this.”

“No,” the Bartender panted. “I want both of you to fuck me. Both in me! You and Dane both!”

Well, how the hell were they gonna do that? Big Budd wondered—Big Budd had never been good at geometry or spatial relationships—and as lost as he was in his buzz, thinking might not be his best asset, if it ever had been. But Dane already knew the answer, so Big Budd deferred to experience—Big Budd had rarely done anything more than the straight missionary position, anyway. It wouldn’t hurt him to broaden his horizons.

As if answering that, Dane had Big Budd enter the Bartender from the front—the Bartender wrapped his legs around Big Budd’s waist, supporting himself with his arms around Big Budd’s neck. Big Budd held the guy by his ass cheeks, spreading them wide to allow himself access to the Bartender’s talented hole.

Dane came up behind the Bartender and pressed his own substantial cock against the Bartender’s crack, wrapping an arm around the Bartender’s torso, to help Budd support him. “You ready?” he asked, using his free hand to rub his cock head along the groove. 
“Put it the fuck in me!” the Bartender screamed. “Please!”

So Dane put his dick next to the Bartender’s asshole—while Big Budd pulled his own monstrous schlong almost all the way out, Dane pressed his against the waiting flesh. The Bartender relaxed and pressed down, slipping over the head of Dane’s cock with some difficulty, but ultimately success.

Dane and Big Budd squeezed together in that tight tunnel, aware of each other in a completely new way, their cocks nearly crushed together. Dane followed Big Budd’s thrusting rhythm at first, but soon they had found a middle-ground between Dane’s power-thrust and Big Budd’s long-dicking. All the Bartender could do was moan and ride them—and grow some more.

At one point, when the Bartender threw his head back onto Dane’s shoulder, screaming in ecstasy, Big Budd saw little flecks of hair sprouting on the Bartender’s chest. Big Budd couldn’t resist leaning forward and licking them—the hair was so sexy. Big Budd clamped on the guy’s nipple.

The Bartender came, rubbing his cock against the fur of Big Budd’s stomach, and Big Budd could feel the cum splatter all over the two of them. Feeling the orgasm from inside another guy was something Big Budd had never experienced before, either.

He shot, too. And that set off Dane.

They filled the Bartender with their cum, so much that it leaked out onto the floor beneath them. In an orgasm that went on forever.

And as soon as it was finished, they were immediately horny again—they became insatiable. They were the ultimate men. Littleman’s Men.

They fucked for hours. Tirelessly. Each orgasm better than the last. Meanwhile, they grew. The Bartender and Dane were nearly the same size when the sun started to come up. Big Budd was still the biggest of them—neither came close to the size of his cock—though the Bartender hadn’t lost that “boyish” look—even through his five o’clock (in the morning) shadow, his face was still extremely youthful and pretty. He could seduce anyone with a look like that, from the most resistant conservative to the horniest fratboy.

Big Budd would have to rely on his gigantic cock to do his seducing.

I reckon I’d rather have a big cock than a pretty face, though, Big Budd figured. More manly.

At 6am, the phone rang. “My wakeup call,” mumbled Dane, sucking on Big Budd’s asshole. “We got a meeting at nine, remember?”

So the three of them split up to get ready—not to mention pack to go home. (Hard to believe it was Sunday already—by this evening he and his brother would be back in Kansas.) They peeled away from each other, sweaty, dried cum twisting the hair on their great muscles, relieved but not completely sated. Big Budd felt like he could just fuck forever—he WANTED to. As a matter of fact, it was hard to think of anything but hairy muscles and suckin’ cock.

Neither he nor the Bartender was thrilled about having to get dressed. Why couldn’t they just ride the elevator to their rooms naked? What the fuck difference did it make? Big Budd wanted people to look at him—to see his enormous dick. He had no more inhibition, the Littleman’s formula had seen to that, and the Bartender hadn’t had any to begin with.

But Dane insisted. “Even though this is San Francisco, the law is still the law,” he said, “until we get enough guys on our side to change it. But don’t knock clothes, either. Clothes can be pretty fuckin’ sexy—and Littleman’s stuff is made to display—and enhance!”

Begrudgingly, Big Budd wore his spandex shorts, which—unfortunately—could stretch to fit him, but were pulled so tight through the groin that he might as well have been naked—every detail was visible—and, when properly tucked in the Littleman’s style, his big package spilled halfway down his thigh. The Bartender threw on his posing strap, which was small enough on him to leave the root of his cock exposed. Okay, Dane was right—they were hot.

They strutted to the penthouse elevator, again disappointed when they found no one in the hallway, and the car arrived empty. Big Budd had changed from a guy who never wanted to be noticed to a guy who sought ways to make people look. He’d gained an overabundance of vanity.

The back wall of the elevator was mirrored, so they could be amazed by themselves, but the lighting was so bad, posing was a waste. “I’m reckon I’m gonna re-do my house in mirrors,” Big Budd said, flexing his left biceps, scowling at the poor lighting—he couldn’t see the definition. “And better lights.”

They both hoped someone would get on and be forced to squeeze between them, but no such luck. They arrived at the eleventh floor without incident or encounter, causing the Bartender to say, “For all that, we could’ve come down naked.” He adjusted his hefty dick in the tiny posers, which seemed to just cover the head.

“Wanna ride down to the lobby and then back up?” Big Budd asked. “I reckon we’ll run into someone that way.”

The Bartender snorted. “My luck, it’ll be some chick. And believe me, I’m done with chicks. They couldn’t take these big cocks of ours anyway, even if we wanted ’em to.”

That caused Big Budd a moment’s pause. He had been into women, too. Hell, Big Budd had been as straight as the next man—supported certain constitutional amendment proposals and the like. Them fags were disgusting. Real men…

That thought actually made him chuckle. Real men? He was a real man now! More real than he ever had been. Confident, strong, powerful, not to mention his new physical superiority. How ironic that he’d done exactly what the guys at Benny’s Hackin’ Shack back home had warned him about: he’d gone to San Francisco and became a queer.

Yeah, he laughed to himself. “Queer.” Queer for muscle!

Only a moment’s thought, a pause, a reflection, and then he was back in the present, back to muscle and hair and huge cocks and being horny—oh, so fuckin’ horny!

“I reckon I gotta fuck,” he mumbled, touching that big, beautiful cock of his.

“I’m gonna stop in and see the Coach,” the Bartender offered pleasantly.

“You’re welcome to join me.” He rubbed a hand across his torso. “He isn’t gonna like this hair.”

“If he don’t like your little bit o’ hair, he sure as hell ain’t gonna like mine!”

They laughed together for a second and Big Budd asked, “You ain’t gonna shave it off, are ya? I reckon it looks pretty damn good—masculine.” He ran his big paw across the smaller guys pecs—his cock hardened, ridiculously stretching the spandex. “I like it.”

“We gonna fuck right here in the elevator?”

Big Budd smiled and stepped closer, crowding the Bartender against the side wall. “I reckon I don’t care,” he said, looking the Bartender in the eye, pressing the tip of his cock against the Bartender’s hip. “Hell, maybe there’s even a security cam. Maybe someone’s watchin’.”

The elevator door opened just then, allowing the Bartender to step out. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go see the Coach.”

But Big Budd wasn’t into it. He didn’t share his brother’s taste. Now, Coach’s roommate, Officer Jacobs…

“Nah,” he said, shifting his cock once again as he launched his mass off the lift. “I’m gonna go check in on my brother instead.”

The Bartender snorted. “Your brother’s probably with the Coach.”

Big Budd was serious. “Then take his place and send him back to me. Okay?”

“‘kay.”

They kissed then, a good, deep, passionate, your-cum-is-drying-in-my-chest-hair kind of kiss. Big Budd had never been much of a kisser—too intimate, even with women—but he loved the feel of a rough, masculine face against his lips. Sure, the Bartender was a pretty good kisser, but nothing beat his brother.

Walking down the hall together, they playfully punched each other and teased themselves like horny teenaged boys. The hallway was just wide enough for the two of them to walk abreast, and they kept hoping—hoping—that they’d be seen by a “normal” guest.

No such luck—most of this floor was home to their compatriots.

They passed the Coach’s room first, and Big Budd waited while the Bartender knocked on the door—just to see if his brother was in there. A stranger opened the door—though there was nothing really strange about him. He’d clearly been the beneficiary of the Littleman’s formula, the way he was built—the way he had sex in his eye.

A young little thing, maybe twenty, possibly twenty-one, with a boyish, youthful look and the demeanor of a high-school jock. Built like a varsity letterman without a trace of bodyfat, he was as smooth as glass—like the Bartender used to be.

He was naked when he opened the door, but didn’t seem at all embarrassed by it. As a matter of fact, when he saw the Bartender and Big Budd behind him, they boy got hard immediately and made no move to hide it. “I hope I can help you,” he said. The smell of sex wafted into the hallway.

The Bartender smirked. “The Coach in?” he asked.

With the door open, Big Budd could see the mass of the Coach sitting on the bed, flipping channels on the television—the familiar theme to SportsCenter could be heard. The Football Coach was huge—he’d gotten almost as big as Big Budd.

The Coach turned his head at the sound of the Bartender’s voice. “Hey, boy, c’mon in!” he called, lifting his massive arm and waving them in.

Big Budd clapped the Bartender on the back. “Have fun,” he said. “I’m gonna go find my brother.”

A disappointed look from the hairless boy holding the door that Big Budd wasn’t joining them, but the Bartender ambled in, his huge muscle brushing past the little jock. Big Budd heard the Coach saying, “All that fuckin’ hair…” as the door closed. Smiling, Big Budd went down to the end of the hallway, to the room he shared with his brother, and went inside.

There was someone lying in the bed, but it wasn’t his kin. Sleeping—passed out?—covered in the bed sheet, an extremely well-built man snored away, looking like he’d also been sampling both the Littleman’s formula and overwhelming sexual activity. He was a hottie—his brother had good taste.

Little Budd stood at the foot of the bed, flexing for himself in the wall mirror, masturbating as he went from pose to pose. At first, Big Budd felt like he was the one looking in a mirror. He and his brother were almost identical, but that Little Budd was half a head shorter. Same build, same bodyhair patterns, same facial features, Little Budd only lacked the over-sized cock. People would think they were twins as it was.

“Well, holy shit look at you,” Big Budd said.

“Well, holy shit look at you,” said Little Budd. “Look at that fuckin’ cock! I reckon I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that!”

Big Budd smiled. “Wait’ll you feel it,” he said. “It’s so big, I bet I could fuck you from here.”

Little Budd walked—strutted—over to him, throwing his big thighs around each other. He was so hot. “I don’t care where you fuck me from, so long as you do.”

The brothers kissed, wrapping their arms around each other and pressing their bodies together. When it finally broke, Little Budd said, “Ain’t you glad we spent the inheritance money this way?”

Big Budd stroked his brother’s cock. “Let’s fuck,” he said.

And without worry of the guy already asleep in their bed, they did.

As a group, they met for the last time Sunday morning. But if they’d all had a night as… activity-filled as his, Big Budd didn’t expect them to show up to this meeting on time. On the other hand, Big Budd himself wasn’t even the slightest bit tired—and he’d been fucking all night long. Would he ever need to sleep again? Would he ever stop being horny?

Dane had a good breakfast waiting for them, and Big Budd didn’t find anything wrong with his appetite, either. He and his brother left their luggage by the door—as several of the guys had already done—and dug in. The Football Coach and the Bartender were already there—and Big Budd was pleased to see the Bartender was still hairy, not shaved all smooth as he normally was. His hair had grown in quite nicely, not as thick as the Budd Brothers’ of course, but he had a distinct treasure trail that led the eye from his chest immediately to his big cock.

The Football Coach was nearly the size of Big Budd, though his cock didn’t even come close. He still wore those ridiculous polyester coach’s shorts, straining them to their very limit—because they were so tight, Big Budd had no trouble seeing the jock he wore underneath—but at least his gut was gone. Still a bit barrel-chested, he at least showed a “V”-shape from his shoulders to his waist—actually, because of the size of his lats, more of a “U”-shape, but Big Budd didn’t quibble.

The Oil-Rigger from Alaska showed up next, still in the leather pants and harness he’d worn out the night before. His muscle stretched the leather tight enough to be a second skin. Big Budd always thought the Oil-Rigger was kind of hot, except for being so short—he was a man’s man after all, much like Officer Jacobs. Big Budd was sure he drove a truck.

He’d gained some good size, though he was smaller than Little Budd. Still, as hairy and sexy as he was—and by the size of his cock beneath the leather pants—the Oil-Rigger wouldn’t be lacking for attention. Big Budd thought it was funny to think of an Olympia-sized bodybuilder as small.

What a big cock he had, though. Maybe Big Budd would get ahold of that before the guy left.

Entering almost immediately after the Oil-Rigger came the Boston Law Clerk, smooth and tan and oh, so pretty. Big Budd didn’t like the Law Clerk, all skin and haircut—he found the Law Clerk superficial and petty. Though they all loved what their transformations had done to them, the Law Clerk was flat-out vain. He’d confessed yesterday to having a Lasig treatment, which had permanently removed his body hair, but Big Budd would be willing to believe that this guy would’ve shaved anyway, regardless of how hairy he’d have become.

He constantly checked himself out in any reflective surface, looking with admiration instead of hunting for flaws. He wore only a pair of the Littleman’s posing trunks which didn’t begin to cover his enormous genitals, but without any hair, Big Budd found nothing attractive about him—even his generous cock. And his face was so pretty that, unlike the rest of them, he didn’t look masculine at all—just like the little bottom boy they all knew he was.

And he lisped, for God’s sake! What ancient stereotype bullshit did the little fag believe?

No. Big Budd didn’t even want to be near him, much less inside him. You’d reckon, he thought, in all of Boston, that Dane could’ve found a better candidate. Although maybe Dane wanted to see if the formula really could make a man out of anyone. As far as Big Budd was concerned, as muscular as he was, the Law Clerk was a Littleman’s failure.

Or maybe that’s how they liked them in Boston. Big Budd resolved never to go there and find out. Easier to dislike from a distance. The guy wouldn’t survive five minutes in Kansas.

As they all greeted each other, the Oil-Rigger walked right up to the Budd Brothers and said, “Whoa! This is better than the Doublemint twins!” He placed a hand on each of their massive chests and added, “Let’s make us an Alaskan meat sandwich between two slices of Kansas beefcake. Woof! How ‘bout that?”

Big Budd’s cock twitched in anticipation. “I reckon I’m happy to,” he said, stepping close to the Oil-Rigger and kissing him—having to duck his head down a little further than he liked. The Oil-Rigger was so freakin’ short! Little Budd slid up behind the guy, wrapping his arms around the Oil-Rigger’s tight abs. “Me, too,” he added.

Again, it was Dane who stopped them. “Uh-uh-uh. No orgies, gentlemen,” he said, checking his watch. “Not yet. We got stuff to do and we still got to get to the airport.”

The Oil-Rigger protested. He indicated Big Budd. “Yeah, but we never got the chance to fuck,” he said. “Even at Ivan’s, he was all caught up with Jacobs.”

“Somebody talkin’ about me?” boomed a deep voice from the doorway. They all turned their heads instinctively toward the sound.

And there stood the police officer, Jacobs, resplendent in his motorcycle-cop pants and knee-high black leather boots. He was bigger than all of them—even bigger than Big Budd—clearly the dip he took in the cum-filled hot tub at Ivan’s gym had pushed him to a higher level than the rest. Would he even need his fifth—and final—amp?

There was no possible way to improve Officer Jacobs. Simply put, he was gigantic. All of them, Dane included, stood awestruck as the massive muscle-cop strode into the room. His saunter was so sexy and masculine that every single one of them, Dane included, got hard. In the center of the room, with all of them circling him, Jacobs began to pose. “I said,” he said, putting his hands behind his head and flexing his hairy, rock-solid abs, “was somebody talkin’ about me?” A double-biceps. A lat spread. A side-tris. Jacobs was the biggest man Big Budd had ever seen—even bigger than the Old Man had been after his near-drowning in Ivan’s hot tub. A transformation that had caused the Old Man to go insane.

“Go ahead, boys,” he said. “Get those big dicks out and cum lookin’ at me. Nothin’ I like better.”

Even Dane didn’t protest this time. Instead, like the rest of them, he stood there mesmerized by the freak police officer and did exactly as he’d been told. All of them did. Jacobs flexed; they stroked. The big policeman enjoyed the worship, facing each of them in turn and doing a special pose featuring a different bodypart, all of which were perfectly—if not overly—developed.

He paused in front of Big Budd, and the two of them shared a smile, then he saw Big Budd’s erect cock, nearly reaching the base of Big Budd’s pecs, and he looked concerned. “You got a big cock,” he said in his deep, rough voice.

“I reckon it’s two feet long,” said Big Budd. “We done measured it this morning.”

Officer Jacobs grunted. “Let’s see if it’s bigger than mine,” he said, unbuttoning his pants. They were so tight that it took him both hands to pull his own monster cock out—it had burrowed down his left thigh, almost reaching the knee.

As the group masturbated, Officer Jacobs and Big Budd pressed their cocks together—Big Budd had to stand on his toes so their bases could be at the same level—Jacobs was at least half-a-head taller than Big Budd.

But Big Budd’s cock was a least a head taller than Jacobs’—a cock head, that is. As they pressed them together, Big Budd’s easily peaked over the top. Officer Jacobs seemed put-off by it. He turned and faced Dane.

“How come if I’m bigger than him, his cock is bigger than mine?” he asked sharply. “What kind of bullshit is that?”

“Probably because he’s had all five treatments,” Dane said, shrugging. “You’ve only had four.”

“Yeah, but I took a cum-bath in that hot tub at Ivan’s gym.”

“No kidding,” Dane said. “Look at ya! You’re freakin’ huge! You’re bigger than ninety-eight percent of the men who’ve gone through the process!”

Officer Jacobs indicated Big Budd. “Maybe,” he said. “But his cock is still bigger than mine! What are we gonna do to fix that?”

Dane stopped masturbating, reluctantly, and went to his medical bag. “How about we give you your fifth amp,” he said.

Officer Jacobs smiled. “That’s what I wanted to hear!”

Dane loaded the guy’s final amp into the back of the transdermal gun and brought it to Jacobs, who’d begun posing in the middle of the circle-jerk again, this time his cock hanging out of his pants.

Look at it, Dane thought. Almost down to his knees and he’s still bitching!

Dane went into the circle and knelt before Officer Jacobs, who stood with his legs spread wide, his hands on his hips, looking down over the shelf of his unbelievable chest. Though he watched Dane’s progress, he addressed the others. “Who else hasn’t had their final shot?” he asked.

Turned out to be everybody except Big Budd and the Bartender. “Go get your guns,” Jacobs said. “Let’s all take ’em at the same time.” He nudged Dane with his foot. “You okay with that?” he asked, as Dane struggled to get Jacobs’ huge balls out of the skin-tight motorcycle pants.

Dane smiled tightly. “That’s why we’re here,” he said. Officer Jacobs’ cock kept smacking him in the face.

So, like they’d done when they’d given themselves their very first amp, all the guys did it at the same time—Dane did Officer Jacobs, kneeling before the behemoth. Jacobs muscles were so large—hell, his arms alone had to top thirty inches!—that Dane wondered if the cop was gonna be able to do anything without assistance, dressing himself, washing his back, tying his shoes. Jacobs was definitely gonna require a slave.

And if Dane weren’t already so gainfully employed, he’d gladly volunteer for the position. “While we’re waiting for this to hit,” he said to the group, “let me tell you the last few things I’m required to.” They stood there gently stroking their cocks while he spoke. “So you won’t have to travel with it on your flights, the company has already delivered all your start-up supplies to your homes—you’ll find them waiting for you upon your arrival. Also, your instructions and quotas and company expectations will be there, too. Pardon the pun, but we’re expecting big things from you.”

The guys chuckled, wagging their dicks at each other like teenage boys in a locker room celebration. Dane continued. “You’re allowed to take on staff members. I mean, some of you have gotten so large that you may require a personal assistant—that’s okay. Just remember, you’re only allowed one staff per five P.I.F.’s.”

“‘P.I.F.’s?’” asked Big Budd. “I reckon I don’t know what that is.”

Dane smiled. “Paid In Full’s,” he said. “Five guys who’ve completely paid for the treatment. Although,” he added, looking up at the mass of Officer Jacobs, “you are allowed to take on a personal assistant at any time.”

Jacobs smiled and gently touched Dane with his foot, pushing their host back onto his ass. “You applying for the job?” he asked in his deep, rough voice.

Dane winked, whacking his dick. “I’d love to,” he said, “don’t get me wrong. But I already got a job. Not that you’ll have any trouble finding someone. Besides, you don’t want them to completely go through the transformation, anyway—they’ll end up just as helpless as you. Read the manual. You’ll understand.”

But understanding was short. Once the buzz hit, the part of their brains that dealt with logic and forethought dissolved into lusts and needs. It could almost be called madness, Big Budd thought, watching them succumb to their growth and their desire for sexual contact. He understood—the same thing had happened to him last night, when he’d taken the final amp of the formula.

The fifth amp didn’t cause as much growth as the others—it was more of a “finishing” dose. It… hardened them, perfected them. It eliminated their flaws and refined their strengths.

It made them want to fuck.

Officer Jacobs wanted to fuck Dane—maybe as punishment for not giving Jacobs the biggest cock, Big Budd didn’t know—but he wanted Big Budd to fuck him at the same time. “I wanna know what a cock as big as mine feels like,” said Jacobs, “so fuck me with it.”

Little Budd sidled up behind his brother as Big Budd got in position behind Officer Jacobs thick and massive ass. “You reckon I can fuck, too?” he asked. “You’ve done me enough times so far.”

“I reckon I wouldn’t mind that,” said Big Budd. “I wouldn’t mind my hot little brother up my ass.”

“Yee-haw, dog!” Little Budd hollered, already working the head of his fine dick into Big Budd’s ass-crack.

“Let’s all fuck each other at once,” said Jacobs to the group. “Instead of a circle-jerk, we have a circle fuck!”

It took a little bit of doing, but they made it work. In a tight, muscular circle, their inside shoulders touching, Big Budd fucked Officer Jacobs, who fucked Dane, who fucked the Football Coach, who fucked the Bartender, who fucked the Oil-Rigger, who fucked the Law Clerk, who fucked Little Budd (after some protest—apparently, the Law Clerk had never engaged in ANY kind of sexual activity before—he’d been a “pose & jerk” kind of guy—but once he had the Oil-Rigger’s beer-can cock inside him, and once he got himself inside Little Budd, he became the same kind of muscle pig the rest of them were), and completing the circle, Little Budd fucked his brother by standing on his toes to reach Big Budd’s ass.

Dane suggested, because they were all different heights, to go to their knees, which they did, each with their own knees inside the legs of the man before them. Someone should have filmed it, Dane thought. Although from above, it probably would’ve looked more like a Busby Berkely porn movie. It would’ve made an excellent promo tool—especially if he’d shown pics of these guys before he’d transformed them, when they never even would have considered such a configuration.

All they knew now, under the influence of the Littleman’s formula, was the ecstasy of being men.

Muscle and cock.

What else was there? What else did there need to be?

They found their rhythm, alternately thrusting and relaxing, until the action of the fuck was almost unison. And still they grew, next to each other, inside of each other. They were one continuous chain of hairy muscle and cock. Powerful and uncontained, they became the kind of men they were destined to be.

And then they shot—separately and together. One into the next. Even Big Budd screamed, joining the animal chorus, and he’d already gone through the final transformation, but cumming into Officer Jacobs’ strong, welcoming ass while staring at the width of his muscular back and the mountainous peaks of his traps was too much. Not to mention his brother’s over-eager cock ramming Big Budd’s hole. I’ll be damned, he thought, sex like this does just get better and better.

He wanted to make sure every man in Kansas knew this feeling—why, he’d transform them all once he got his chance!

Of course, he’d have to get out of here first, and this multi-man orgasm hadn’t even taken the edge off. Thanks to the formula, their appetites had barely been whetted. Big Budd remembered last night, after he and the Bartender had had their fifth dose, they fucked—almost mindlessly—for hours and hours before they’d regained their senses.

They broke into pairs and separate piles—they began new activities. They flexed and marveled and worshipped themselves. They sucked and fucked and ached to explore their limits, even though there were no limits anymore. They were machines. Fucking machines.

Even Big Budd couldn’t resist the spell. When Officer Jacobs lay on top of him and they kissed, Big Budd instinctively wrapped his Quadzilla-sized legs around the larger man’s waist. They pressed their cocks together—Big Budd’s was still bigger. A bit.

“God damn it,” mumbled Officer Jacobs.

“Just fuck me,” said Big Budd.

It was their goodbye fuck, and on some level, they all knew it. Not that it made any of them particularly tender—specifically Officer Jacobs, who never seemed to have a sentimental side anyway—but they all wanted to leave an impression.

They certainly left their mark on the Law Clerk. What a pig he became—what a whore. At one point, now that he’d tasted the joy of sex, he begged everyone to fuck him, he cried for it. So they did. While the Oil-Rigger held him down, they passionlessly fucked him one after the next, then let him clean their cocks with his mouth while the next guy did the same. Big Budd thought it was the best party game he’d ever played, better than “Pin the Tail on the Donkey.” He hated that pussy little Law Clerk—it felt good to fuck him. And fuck him hard—and for a guy the size of Big Budd, “hard” was pretty intense.

“What a fag,” his brother said to him, conspiratorially, after both he and Little Budd had fucked the guy and gotten sucked clean. “I reckon he don’t hold a candle to the Budd Brothers!”

Big Budd kissed his brother—deeply. He tasted like old cum.

It was about then that something beeped in Dane’s computer bag. Turned out to be an alarm in something he called his “Palm Pilot”—Big Budd had never heard of such a thing. “Holy shit,” Dane said, separating himself from the pile and walking to his bag. “It’s noon already.”

“Three hours have gone by?” they all wondered. “Where does the time go?”

Their renewed erections answered that question.

Unfortunately, they had to check-out and get to the airport. Even hotels of this size needed the turnover—not that any of the Littleman’s guys saw anything wrong with turnover anymore. All that mattered was the satisfaction of their cocks, little else.

So the dressed, sliding on their skimpy Littleman’s gear, or their skin-tight leathers or uniforms. Every one of them required assistance to dress, to help force the material over their giant quads, or to lace or tie something in the back—Big Budd realized that that was what Dane had meant about needing a personal assistant. Big Budd didn’t want to have to count on his brother for everything—Little Budd needed his own life. Better to find some stooge who wants to do nothing but serve. Even in Kansas, there had to be some of those—why, Big Budd reckoned he’d drive all the way to Topeka to find one if he had to.

And they paraded out of the hotel in a completely different way than they’d entered two days ago. Huge, muscular behemoths, they held their heads high, their chests out, their dicks half-hard in their own particular confinements. Big Budd was proud of who he was, what he looked like, what he’d become. He was no longer the same fearful, repressed red-neck he used to be, that was for sure and certain—he was so much better now, so much more a man.

The shuttle bus to the airport was a quiet ride, lacking the same kind of high-school giddiness that accompanied them to Ivan’s gym yesterday. They knew they were saying goodbye. They sat quietly, certainly unable to resist playing with themselves and each other, but without the driving hunger that possessed them at the hotel. Officer Jacobs and Big Budd made out the entire way—Big Budd was surprised that the big cop could be so tender, not that he minded. The massive, brutal top was a fantastic kisser.

That was how Big Budd came to San Francisco and never saw the city. Not that he minded a bit.

Dane’s last gift to them was to upgrade their flight agenda. Instead of going commercial, the Littleman’s Group had booked private planes to take them home—one flight going East, taking the Budd Brothers to Kansas, Officer Jacobs to Chicago, the Bartender to Maryland, and finally the Law Clerk to Boston, the other flight heading North, stopping off in Seattle to drop off the Football Coach, then up to Anchorage, for the Oil-Rigger.

They were also able to enter the airport through the VIP wing, avoiding the general public. Big Budd was a bit upset about that—he wanted to be stared at in his Littleman’s spandex shorts and sleeveless flannel shirt, cowboy hat and boots. He wanted people to look at his freaky cock and his gigantic balls. He wanted to show off.

I reckon there’ll be plenty of time for that in Kansas, he thought, as he boarded the small aircraft.

Of course, the seats were much bigger here than on a commercial jet—so were the passengers—and the Flight Attendants were extremely attentive, though none of them were able to take more than the head of Big Budd’s cock in their mouths, not that it stopped them from trying. All in all, it was much more comfortable than their initial flight to San Fran, so Big Budd got over himself.

At one point, Big Budd sat on Officer Jacobs lap, and the cop fucked him so hard that the pilot came over the loudspeaker and said, “We seem to be hitting some unexpected turbulence. But don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll be out of it soon.” Officer Jacobs laughed, saying “Doubt it,” and fucked Big Budd all the rougher. Big Budd was certainly gonna miss his dominant cop. Of course, he could always make another one out of the Sheriff in his home town.

That would be first on his agenda once they got back to Kansas.

And then, as if on cue, the plane began its decent into Wichita. Excitement mixed with sentimentality for the Budd Brothers. And even though they all swore to keep in touch, Big Budd knew he’d never see any of these guys again. As he accepted high-fives and handshakes, only Officer Jacobs kissed him before he exited the plane, and the Budd Brothers silently watched it take off again from the tarmac before they make their way to their truck out in long-term parking.

Big Budd got his wish in the Wichita airport—as the two gigantic, muscular, hairy Budd Brothers strolled through to get to the parking lot, the gasps and stares they got lifted Big Budd’s spirit.

Kansas had never seen anything like them!

The two of them could barely fit in the cab of Big Budd’s truck—and it was a freakin’ Dodge Ram!—which turned the brothers on so much that they sat there and masturbated before leaving the lot—Big Budd’s erect dick reached the top of the steering wheel. God, it was good to be home!

“You gotta admit now that you’re glad we spent the inheritance money this way,” said Little Budd, trying unsuccessfully to put his own cock back in his cut-off jeans.

“I reckon I am,” said Big Budd, leaving his out and draped across his thigh. “I reckon I am.”

He reached over and put his muscular arm around his brother’s wide shoulders, hugged him a little closer, and they drove the three hours back to the cross-roads town they were gonna put on the map.

They only stopped to fuck three times along the way.

Neither could wait to start their Littleman’s foothold—it was gonna be a helluva ride. Big Budd started to get hard again thinking about it. In anticipation, he gave the truck a little more gas to get there faster.

He wanted to be at Benny’s Hackin’ Shack by Happy Hour.

That’s when the action would start.

Benny’s Hackin’ Shack was just outside of town, which is to say, not on the main drag. Easy to get to—take Main Street (old route 56) to the blinking light at the Four Corners and turn south. Benny’s was a hop, skip and a jump—about a mile or so—a run-down old one-story with a fake storefront and about eight trucks parked neatly in front of it in a gravel lot.

Big Budd’s truck—nearly identical to the ones parked here, except for being a bit newer than most—pulled in around dusk. He and his “little” brother had been home in Kansas for a few hours, and they’d both been anxious to get out and be seen, but there had been some stuff to take care of first.

Dane had been right. Waiting for them at Big Budd’s house—their parent’s old house—just inside the screen door on the porch, had been a large brown, cardboard box from the Littleman’s Company. “I reckon it’s our supplies,” Big Budd had said to his brother as they’d carried their suitcases into the house. Sure enough, after they’d dropped their stuff and retrieved the box, they’d found it full of a variety of items—fifty pairs of those spandex shorts, like the ones Big Budd wore, in a rainbow of colors, with the Littleman’s logo on the lower left thigh; fifty pairs of those special stretchy posing trunks, like Little Budd wore, which barely covered him, exposing the root of his sausage-sized cock and the thick thatch of pubic hair where it’d originated; five boxes of the Littleman’s Formula, each box containing a hundred amps; two transdermal guns—nice ones, too, thought Big Budd, stainless steel, like you’d find at the doctor’s office; and a thick booklet labeled “Instructions for New Location Start-Up.”

Neither of the Budd Brothers had been great readers. Though they were both literate, neither of them had ever challenged himself with a book—and now they were less likely than ever to change that. All they cared about now was their muscle and cocks.

Fortunately, the instructions had been designed for a Littleman’s man, a man without a lot of time to focus on details, and the simple, point-by-point, bullet-style prose gave them enough of an overview to feel like they could celebrate their first night home without worrying about anything. The main point was exposure, after all—and both the Budd Brothers felt like they wanted to be seen.

They’d cleaned up together, both squeezing into the shower in the downstairs bathroom. “I reckon we’re gonna have to move to a bigger house,” said Big Budd, soaping up his brother’s hot muscular bod. “This one can barely hold us.”

Little Budd chuckled, flexing his chest while Big Budd ran the bar of soap down his cleavage. “I ain’t even gonna be able to fit in the bathroom at my trailer.”

Big Budd turned his brother around and starting soaping up his ass-crack. “Maybe I can talk you into moving back into here with me,” he said, leaning against his brother so Little Budd could feel his growing erection.

Little Budd accepted the gigantic cock into his ass. “I reckon you won’t have all that much trouble,” he’d said.

On his way to Benny’s Hackin’ Shack, Big Budd had dropped his brother off at the trailer park, so he could pack some stuff and get his own vehicle. “I don’t know if I’ll get back over there tonight,” he’d said to Big Budd, leaning back in the window after getting out. “I reckon I’m gonna give Mitch and Jackson a call, see if they wanna come over and hear about my trip!” He smiled and stuck his tongue between his teeth.

Big Budd nodded. “You got stuff to do ’em with?” he asked.

“Yup. I grabbed a couple o’ amps ‘fore I left. Just gonna give ’em the free taste.”

Big Budd smiled, too. “You enjoy yourself, then. I reckon I’ll see you tomorrow. We got a lot of stuff to do. Don’t be late.”

“No worries,” said his little brother—who wasn’t so little, anymore, with his Olympia-sized body—and he stuck his head through the truck’s window and they kissed goodbye. Big Budd waited long enough to watch his brother waddle up to the door of the trailer, throwing his mighty legs around each other, wearing only a pair of Littleman’s posing trunks, an open-front beach shirt and his CAT-diesel cap. He sure did look like he’d just gotten home from California.

Big Budd pulled his big Dodge Ram out of the trailer park and headed toward Benny’s.

He got there just as the sun was setting, casting long red rays across the flats of Kansas. Surprised to discover himself anxious instead of nervous, Big Budd’s cock actually twitched as he got out of the truck, stepping one strong leg to the ground, then the other, again adjusting to the weight and balance of his new body—it was going to take him a while to get used to it. He was a hundred pounds heavier than when he’d left on Friday.

He wore the light-tan spandex shorts, which seemed to blend right in with his skin tone, though clearly showing the outline of his enormous genitals; his workboots, open and unlaced, battered after only half-a-year at the factory; one of his blue work-shirts with the little name patch that had “Big Budd” stitched in cursive script on the left chest, from which he’d torn off the sleeves, completely open in the front because he couldn’t get it around himself anymore, exposing his massive, muscular, hairy torso; and a brand-spanking new San Francisco GIANTS baseball cap, arrogantly inviting comment.

To think there was a time when he’d been so worried about what these guys would think of him that Big Budd barely did anything. When he left on Friday, he’d had it in his mind to do only a little of the Littleman’s Formula, because he didn’t want these guys to think he was a freak. Now, with an additional hundred pounds of muscle and a cock that broke two feet when it got hard, Big Budd felt a little different about what these guys thought.

And he’d been given the power to convert them all.

So he pulled open the door and went inside.

It was one of those moments when sound just stops—on TV or in the movies, it’s heightened with a sound-effect like someone removing the needle from a record—but in real life, it’s pretty much that anyone speaking or moving completely stops and stares deadpan, like they were now as Big Budd strolled into the bar, except the background noises don’t stop.

“Hey, guys,” Big Budd said loudly, as they all turned to face him, “I’m back!” Simultaneously, he raised his arms and flexed a double-biceps, the cantaloupe-sized peaks popping up hard.

“Holy shit,” they said. “Budd?” “That you?” “What the fuck…?” All of them talking at once. The questions. The confusion.

“Yeah,” Big Budd said, nodding, his smile growing. “What do ya think?” He lowered his arms and flexed his chest, bouncing the halves back and forth. “Ain’t this fuckin’ awesome!”

It was Benny, the bartender/ owner, that little weasel Benny, who asked, “Budd, what happened to you?”

Big Budd smiled, rubbing his stomach as he spoke, running his fingers along the rock solid definition of his brick-sized abs. “I reckon I told y’all I was goin’ to San Francisco,” he said, addressing them all, trying his hardest not to get hard. “Me and my brother, we went up and took part in this… um… experiment… and as you can see, I’m all the better for it.”

Someone else spoke up. This time is was old Travis Murphy. “Your brother like that, too?” he asked, tilting his beer toward Big Budd. “Become a freak?”

Big Budd smirked, sensing the challenge—he wasn’t backing down from it, as he might’ve in the past. No, he was a new Big Budd. And he was gonna convert them all. “My brother’s not quite as big as me,” he said, “but I reckon you won’t find it easy to tell us apart. No, this shit we took made us men. Look at my fuckin’ body, you guys! Look at my fuckin’ cock!”

They looked—they saw what he had, and were amazed—they realized they were looking, and they looked away. And to avoid the subject, they attacked what he was wearing instead.

“What are you in here in your underwear for?” asked Benny. “Good God, show some decency.”

“This ain’t underwear,” said Big Budd, happily displaying, half-turning to show them his great muscular ass. “It’s spandex shorts. Gym shorts—you wear ’em to the gym. They ain’t indecent.”

“This ain’t a gym, neither.”

Big Budd shrugged. “Hey, I just wanted to show off a little. I just wanted to show you what I done, what’s happened to me. Thought you’d be curious to see. What I really want’s a beer.”

“I ain’t servin’ you no beer dressed like that! This ain’t some San Francisco fag joint!”

“Aw, Benny, I ain’t no fag,” said Big Budd, picking at the sudden life in his cock. “I’m all man, just like always. I just got a new body, is all—and no pants that fit. Don’t be like this…”

As he approached the bar—that is to say, lumbered toward it—Benny held up his hand, palm flat. “No! Standin’ here in your underwear like it’s nothin’. Wavin’ your dick around for everyone to see—it’s obscene!”

Big Budd shrugged. “I can’t help what the formula did to me,” he said, sidling up to the rail. “I got a big cock now. Look, you can’t even see it over the edge of the bar. Don’t worry, it ain’t gonna do nothin’ obscene—less’n it gets hard, then fuckin’ stand back!”

This time it was Ed Jiggers who spoke up—one of the other regulars, over there next to old Travis Murphy. “That shit you took made you bigger… down there… too?”

“Hell, yes!” said Big Budd, turning to face them, to let them see. “You should see it now. It gets up to two feet when it’s hard—I ain’t fuckin’ kiddin’ you—two feet!”

As if it knew they were talking about it, Big Budd’s cock started to show some more spunk beneath the spandex.

“You guys should try it!” Big Budd continued, including them all with a sweep of his massive guns—his weapons of mass induction. “The formula! Seriously, I reckon I got enough to give a sample to my buddies. Put a little muscle weight on ya, put a few inches on your dicks, that won’t hurt any of ya none.”

Old Travis Murphy again—damn, he was a cynic!—”You want us to do steroids so’s you can feel better about doin’ steroids yourself?”

“I didn’t do steroids,” said Big Budd earnestly, quietly, flexing his arms in front of himself. “This is permanent. This is way better than any steroid.”

Quiet for a second, then Ed Jiggers slowly said, “Now, I reckon I wouldn’t mind me havin’ a bigger dick ‘n all, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t want to be as big as you. That’s too big, Budd. What would my wife say?”

Old Travis Murphy took the punchline. “You’d finally weigh more than her!” he cackled. Laugher across the bar, even from Big Budd, who knew how big Tina Jiggers was—he reckoned they couldn’t even get her out of her trailer!

“One hit ain’t gonna get you as big as me,” explained the muscle-bound Budd. “‘N you can stop doin’ it anytime you want. I’ll tell you, though, I didn’t reckon I wanted to get this big when I started, either.” He ran his hand across his hairy, heavy chest, down the brick-work abs. “But I liked it,” he said. “I liked it a lot.”

And that’s actually what made his dick get hard. That comment—that admission—that’s when he lost control. His big cock filled with blood, and as it grew, those feelings began to overwhelm Big Budd again—those hot, horny, masculine feelings—that hidden muscle-whore reawakening inside him and groping toward the surface.

“Feels so fuckin’ good…”

That’s when you could see the head of his cock over the top of the bar, growing inside the spandex shorts, pushing its way toward the low waistband. The guys who were watching sort-of gasped, and Big Budd thought, “Save your applause. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” He was surprised and pleased to discover that he wanted to show them. He wasn’t embarrassed—no, he was fuckin’ proud!

But Benny was horrified—though still focused on it, it’s not like he pulled his eyes away—he started to protest. “Okay, that’s obscene!” he shouted angrily. “I don’t know what you think you’re doin’, but you ain’t gonna do it in my bar.”

“Aw, c’mon Benny,” Big Budd said, putting his hands behind his neck and flexing his abs. His big cock was stretching past his hip bone. “Tell me you don’t want to be hung like this. What man wouldn’t? Which one o’ you guys here wouldn’t?” He showed them all his body, flexing from pose to pose, not even trying to stop his erection now. He was so fucking hot. “Who’s brave enough to join me?”

“Get out of my bar,” said Benny, trying to be calm. “Get out of my bar before I have to get my gun.”

Big Budd reached down into the spandex and grabbed the base of his cock—now almost as thick as a can, but still ridiculously sensitive—(Big Budd almost gasped at how good it felt)—and waived it at Benny. “Your gun as big as mine?” Big Budd asked, exposing the fleshy expanse of cock. “Mine’s already loaded.”

This time, Benny really did reach for his gun—a shotgun, under the front bar by the taps. He’d had it in case they were ever invaded by terrorists, or them homos from the city—he never thought he’d use it on one of his regulars.

But Big Budd just laughed, like he was Superman or something and the bullets would just bounce off. He showed no fear—as a matter of fact, he seemed to show pity. He felt bad for them? He was the one who was a freak!

Or maybe… maybe he actually did like being that way. All those muscles—all that hair.

And his cock was freakin’ huge…

“All right, all right,” Big Budd said, shaking his head slowly and backing up. “I’ll go. But I reckon you’re making a really big mistake here.” He forced a smile—and a joke. “All I did was come to the bar in my underwear.”

“You get out,” said Benny, holding the gun but making no move to aim or shoot. “And don’t you come back here.”

Big Budd smiled, resigned as he stepped toward the door. He addressed the group. “My offer still stands,” he said, filling the doorway with his muscular bulk. “Any of y’all interested in trying the formula, I’ll still give you a taste for free. Don’t pass up an opportunity because of his fear.”

“Get out, you fuckin’ fag!”

Big Budd spoke loudly, perhaps a little more angrily than he’d intended. “I ain’t no fuckin’ fag!” he barked. “I’m all man—and I could make you all men, too. Hell, even you Benny. I reckon I could even make you into a man.”

Benny raised the shotgun to his shoulder.

That’s when Big Budd finally left.

In his truck, peeling out of the gravel lot, Big Budd thought, “I reckon that didn’t go all that well,” while he absently played with his cock—the same way he used to play with the gear shift knob on the truck. It was a shame—he was so fuckin’ horny, he just wanted some action. This sure wasn’t San Francisco.

He wondered how his brother was faring.

Though he didn’t particularly like his brother’s buddy Jackson, he always thought Mitch was pretty cool—and once they felt the effects of the formula, Big Budd was sure to like them BOTH a lot more (and they’d no doubt like him). Maybe he’d head over to his brother’s trailer.

Then he thought about calling some of the guys from the factory, maybe Johnny Silvio or Pete Donovan, which led to the internal debate of whether he’d even keep his old job at all. Once he started actual recruiting for the Littleman’s Group, money would no longer be a problem. And he would look pretty foolish at his current size working the assembly line. Oh, why work at all when sex was so good?

Why wasn’t he able to make these guys see that muscle sex was so good? Maybe this was why Kansas was a red state.

He pulled into the driveway of his parent’s old ranch, parked, and was heading inside when the Sheriff’s car appeared. “Well, how ‘bout that?” Big Budd thought. “Benny’s done called the Sheriff. What an asshole.”

Big Budd waved his meaty arm at the lawman as he stepped from his patrol car. Yeah, Big Budd had always harbored a certain attraction to men in uniform—cops, especially—look at how he’d responded to Officer Jacobs—but he’d never been into Sheriff Coltraine. Well, physically—the paunchy Sheriff had a typical lawman’s attitude, which Big Budd liked, but he was a fairly slovenly man, which killed any sort of feelings Big Budd may’ve had.

“Well, holy shit,” the Sheriff said, hitching up his pants by grabbing his gun belt. “They wasn’t kidding. Look at you!”

Big Budd smirked. “I reckon I’ve put on a little size since you last seen me.” He flexed a double biceps from there on the porch.

“My God, look at you! Look at you!” He seemed to be stunned as he walked up the driveway toward Big Budd. He kept a safe distance, hand on the butt of his gun. “What the hell happened to you?” the Sheriff asked.

Big Budd smirked, but didn’t stop posing. “My brother and me spent our inheritance money on a few self-improvements. What do you think?” He made sure the Sheriff got a good look at his spandex-clad package—how he loved to show it off!

“That’s what you done in San Francisco? Got turned into that?”

Big Budd stopped posing and gave the Sheriff his complete attention, he smirked as he gave the Sheriff a slight nod. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s where I done got turned into this.” He couldn’t help but feel his muscular torso—he couldn’t keep his hands off himself—but he knew to win over the Sheriff, he had to bring it down a notch. You scared the guys at the bar with just a chubby, he reminded himself. “Why don’t you come on inside,” he offered, “we’ll have a beer and talk about it like men instead o’ Sheriff and suspect.”

And though the Sheriff didn’t seem exactly sure whether he thought Big Budd was actually a threat or not, he accepted the invitation inside. His gun gave him a certain sense of security, though Budd was awful big, now.

He looked even bigger inside, huge amidst the spindly furniture his mother had favored. Here, in the clear light, the Sheriff got an even better look at Big Budd’s new body, the unbelievable muscle, the freakish cock. The Sheriff had never seen anyone the size of Big Budd—he’d never seen a bodybuilder outside of the ones on TV, and even they didn’t seem real, just some illusion or trick or something—and even in those stretchy shorts, he was overwhelmingly masculine. His voice, his demeanor… that cock…

“You want a beer?”

“Yeah,” the Sheriff said, nodding slightly. “I could use it.”

On his way back from the kitchen, two bottles of Bud in his hand, he knocked over a floor lamp accidentally with his shoulder. Barking a laugh, he bent over to pick it up. “I ain’t used to all this size yet,” he said. “I keep bumping into things. I took out a doorjamb when I first walked into the bathroom.” He handed the Sheriff one of the beers, then sat in the center of the sofa, the only piece of furniture wide enough to fit him. He spread his arms across the back of it. “Have a seat,” he said, adjusting his big balls beneath the spandex.

The Sheriff numbly took the wooden chair across from him, taking a swig of beer like a life-saver. He asked, “How…?” and gestured to Big Budd’s big body.

“A formula,” Big Budd said. “A series o’ shots. I’ve had five—no, six! They done gave me something extra to really pop my dick.” He touched it casually, running his fingers along its impressive length.

“Five shots turned you into that?” The Sheriff took another swig of beer.

“Six,” Big Budd said, drinking almost half his bottle in one gulp—the beer looked small in his hand. “They don’t recommend doin’ it as fast as me and my brother did—they say a normal dose is one shot a week—but we was at somethin’ like a training seminar… and they grew us up pretty fast.” He flexed his own arms for himself. “I still ain’t used to it.”

The Sheriff’s next question was the one Big Budd’s training told him was asked ninety-five percent of the time as either the first or second question. “What’s it feel like?” the Sheriff asked.

Fortunately, Big Budd didn’t need the script to answer that one. “It’s fuckin’ amazing,” he said, rubbing his big pecs, hefting their mass in his hands. “I’ve never felt more like a man in my entire life. Fuckin’ incredible. You should try it.”

“Try it?” the Sheriff asked, surprised. “What do you mean, try it? You got some of that stuff here?”

“Yeah,” Big Budd said. “I reckon I’m becoming a distributor—that’s why I went to the seminar, to learn how.”

“You’re gonna sell that stuff? Here, in town?”

“Now, don’t you fret,” Big Budd said, taking another swig of beer and absently playing with himself. “It’s gonna be a legitimate business. I’m goin’ down right tomorrow morning and fill out the paperwork with the county clerk. Nice and legal. Ain’t gonna sell a thing ‘til I do.”

“You’re gonna be sellin’ drugs outta your livin’ room?”

“They ain’t drugs,” said Big Budd. “They’re supplements. Can’t call ’em drugs for the sake of the FDA. They’d want a piece of it, I reckon. So we call ’em supplements. They’ll supplement your manhood, they say we should say.” He shifted in his seat, leaning his mass forward to speak to the Sheriff. “So how ‘bout it?” he asked. “You reckon you want to try it? Just a sample, a free one—I ain’t sellin’ ya nothin’.”

The Sheriff considered a second, then shook his head and took a swig of his beer. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if I want to get up as big as you.”

Big Budd smirked, popping the halves of his chest quickly. “You ain’t gonna get as big as me off one hit.” (How many times would he end up saying that, he wondered silently.) “But it might… uh… clean you up a little bit,” he said, gesturing to the Sheriff. “Take care of that gut, maybe give you an inch or two on your dick, a swagger in your step. What do you say?”

“I don’t know…”

“What? You afraid those guys are all gonna know you’ve done it? So fuckin’ what? You’ll be strong and in-shape and satisfying your sexual conquests with a bigger cock. Who gives a fuck about them? I reckon that was my lesson, Sheriff—I worried too much about what people thought instead of fulfilling my own fantasies. Learn from me. Do it.”

The Sheriff considered—another swig. “And I can stop…?”

“Anytime you want,” Big Budd interrupted. “No one’s gonna make you do more ‘n one if that’s all you want. I ain’t gonna force nothin’ on ya.”

The Sheriff nodded silently, then said, “All right then,” in a quiet voice. “I reckon I’ll try it.”

Big Budd wasn’t surprised at how happy his cock was to hear that—it sprung to life beneath the spandex. “Good choice,” Big Budd said seriously, even though he was smiling. “I reckon you’ll be glad you did it. And first in your neighborhood on top of it.”

As he walked to the bedroom to get the supplies, the Sheriff’s eyes were glued to him, examining his mass, his size, his cock—surreptitiously, of course, but Big Budd knew it. He could feel it. After collecting the tools from the Littleman’s box in his bedroom, Big Budd came back, explaining the procedure to the Sheriff.

Not surprisingly, the Sheriff was less than thrilled about receiving a shot to the balls, even if it was delivered in this new-fangled “transdermal” gun, even if Big Budd swore he wouldn’t feel any pain. “Everybody says what you’re sayin’ when they first see this thing,” he said, waving the gun, “but pretty soon they’re beggin’ for it. Trust me. It don’t hurt none.”

Maybe the most humiliating part was getting the shot in the balls—that’s what Big Budd had thought—though he didn’t share that with the Sheriff. “Can’t believe I’m doing this,” the Sheriff mumbled as Big Budd pressed the business-end of the gun against the Sheriff’s gonad.

“No worries,” said Big Budd, amazed that such an important lawman could have such tiny testicles—boy, this formula would sure help him—and pulled the trigger.

The Sheriff twitched on the “clack!” that the firing mechanism made, but Big Budd had been right—there’d been no pain. As a matter of fact, the Sheriff wasn’t at all sure that Big Budd had given him anything. Maybe this had all been a joke.

No. No, there was something in his balls. Fluid, or something. Something that made them feel swollen—like they’d been as an overly horny young man, before the gut. Before the disappointing life.

“That’s that,” said Big Budd, standing and blowing on the end of the gun, like an old-time wild-west shooter. “I reckon you’re on your way.”

Then the Sheriff asked the next most-asked question. “How soon will I notice it?” he asked. “How soon will I feel something?”

Big Budd smiled, popping a few poses in the mirror before sitting back down on the sofa. “Soon enough,” he said. “Might as well finish up your beer.”

And there was an awkward time during the next few minutes where the two of them tried to make small talk—Big Budd would become exceptionally good at filling this time with flexing and showing off eventually, once he learned the rhythm of the transformation, once he’d mastered a couple of them—but for now, the two of them talked uncomfortably about nothing.

He could tell something was happening, though. The Sheriff had a sudden rush of energy, like the coffee had hit. He shifted around on the sofa, a light sweat on his forehead. “I’m feelin’ it, I reckon,” he said. “I’m feelin’ kind o’ weird… hot…”

Big Budd leaned back, that smile still plastered on his face. “But not ‘bad’?” he asked. “You don’t feel bad?”

The Sheriff stood—and when he did, Big Budd could see the man’s cock hardening beneath his uniform pants. The Sheriff saw him see it, too—he gave Big Budd an odd look of confusion, of awareness, of embarrassment, of pride. Big Budd had seen that look before—on himself. “Don’t worry,” Big Budd said, indicating the Sheriff’s erection with a wave of his hand. “Happens to everybody. It’s part of becoming a man. See?” he continued, standing himself, pointing to his own. “Mine’s gettin’ that way, too.”

The Sheriff just stared at Big Budd’s growing cock. “It’s so fuckin’ big,” he mumbled, unaware of touching himself. Touching his own cock while staring at another. “So fuckin’ big…”

Big Budd hit a big double bis, holding the pose, showing the melon-sized peaks of his biceps, while he said, “I’m big everywhere. Get a load o’ these.”

The Sheriff stood there dumb-founded, losing himself in a haze of unexpected pleasure.

“Go ahead,” Big Budd said. “Touch ‘em.”

The Sheriff’s normally strong hand reached out tentatively, almost shaking from excitement and anticipation, and touched the rock-hard peak of Big Budd’s left biceps, easily the size of a melon. The Sheriff felt it, fascinated by it, discovering himself lusting for it, then he allowed his hand to wander, under the arm to weigh the triceps, over the thickly striated delts, that mountain of a left trap that gave the appearance of Big Budd having no neck, and finally, inevitably, into the hairy mass of Budd’s outrageous pecs.

“Yeah,” teased Big Budd. “How’s that feel?”

Panting, lost, the Sheriff mumbled, “Gonna cum…” and shot that first uncontrollable orgasm—Big Budd remembered it well.

Long ropes of it, a climax that went on for a good minute, the Sheriff’s back arched, arms out to his sides, pants open, thrusting his cock into the air—flexing his muscles for maybe the first time in his life. Yeah, Big Budd knew just what the Sheriff was feeling.

He also knew that the end of the orgasm didn’t mean the end of the buzz. Matter of fact, that first orgasm barely primed the pump. When they made eye-contact, Big Budd could see the change—that spark was there, that twinkle, that lust caught in the light. Yeah, the Sheriff could feel it now. He was already one of them, whether he knew it or not.

“This is fuckin’ amazing!” said the Sheriff, hitting poses half-hazardly, just to feel his muscles flex. “I ain’t never felt like this! I just love my cock!”

“Imagine what one the size o’ mine feels like,” Big Budd said quietly, pinching the base of his big drill slowly, teasingly. He loved his cock, too.

The Sheriff looked at it for a second, half-hard there in the spandex shorts, and found he couldn’t take his eyes off it. “Holy shit,” he said, subconsciously playing with his own while he spoke. “How big’s that thing get when it’s hard?”

Big Budd smiled, finally allowing his erection to happen. “I reckon you can see for yourself,” he said as the head of his mammoth cock pushed against the waistband above his left hip, like a blind boa seeking freedom.

“Holy shit…”

Big Budd shrugged. “Aw, this ain’t nothin’ yet. Watch…” He started flexing then, which always got him full-mast. Two full feet of Big Budd cock, all right there for the Sheriff to see. When Big Budd cradled his hands behind his neck and flexed his abs, the fist-sized head of his dick pressed into his lower pecs. “Look, I can fuck my own tits.”

“Holy…”

“Yeah,” Big Budd said, breaking the pose and standing straight before the Sheriff. “We can get yours this big too, I reckon.”

The Sheriff was fascinated by it—hard himself, playing with his own cock while mesmerized by Big Budd’s, not even aware he was doing it. “Big as you…?”

“Sure,” Big Budd said, rolling his shoulders and sending a quick bounce through his muscles, as if the Sheriff needed to be reminded of his new size. “Hell, I reckon you’re bigger already,” he continued, nodding toward the Sheriff’s erection. “Look at yourself. You’re so fuckin’ hard, it looks like your dick’s gonna grow outta its skin.”

“I ain’t never been this turned on,” confessed the Sheriff. “I ain’t never felt like this—so masculine. So fuckin’ horny! What is this shit?” He grabbed his dick then and immediately began masturbating himself, almost losing himself in the pleasure. His dick, his muscles, all connected… and Big Budd was so fuckin’ big… so hot…

“Yeah,” Big Budd murmured. “Your cock feels good. But why don’t you feel a real one?” He thrust his hips forward, nearly putting his erection in the Sheriff’s face.

The Sheriff was so lost in the formula, he barely paused to lick his lips before he reached out and tentatively touched Big Budd’s thick rod. Big Budd inhaled sharply at the contact, shockwaves of pleasure darting through his body—he’d nearly lost all control already, the lust he’d been trying to repress ‘til now began to win. And when the Sheriff gripped him firmly and began masturbating him, Big Budd finally let it.

“Fuck yeah!”

They orgasmed together, erupting in a volcano of cum—two men.

It would be that easy—Big Budd would convert the entire town, one by one, man by man if necessary, voluntarily or not. He’d make them all Littleman’s men. All of them—and then deliver the rest of Kansas as well. And know this—he’d fuck each and every one. 
Starting with the Sheriff…

It was really only the beginning that had been difficult—and much of the reason was that Big Budd wanted to fuck, but none of these guys were ready for it, yet. (Big Budd reminded himself that he hadn’t been ready to fuck until his third shot.) Psychologically, anyway. Even after their initial exposure to the formula, they could physically accept a cock the size of Big Budd’s—he’d proven that at the country-western bar in San Francisco—but none of these small-town Kansas men were ready mentally. Better to wait, he thought. Go at their pace, even if that pace was killing him.

So when the Sheriff had made some hasty “better get back on patrol” excuse, Big Budd rolled his eyes but ultimately understood. Let the man sit at the side of the road and masturbate in his patrol car for a few days, Big Budd thought. He’ll come back. And when he does, he’ll be a helluva lot better lookin’.

The only good news had been that Little Budd had fared little better. About an hour or two after the Sheriff had left, the boy showed up at the family house wearing only workboots, the Littleman’s posers—which barely, barely held his prodigious equipment, his swollen balls and half-erect cock—and his CAT-Diesel cap. Little Budd was thick with muscle and the smell of sex, but frustrated, just like his older brother.

“I reckon I got ’em both,” he said, tossing his overnight bag down and immediately checking himself out in the mirror over the living room sofa—the one right over Big Budd’s head. “I got Mitch AND Jackson.” He flexed his chest and grunted at his reflection, running his hands down the outside of the hard muscle, pinching his nipples as he spoke. “Hell, they jumped at it, chance to be fuckin’ huge and have a cock this size.” He reached down and squeezed his manly prize as it grew hard, pointing straight down in his posers. “So, what happens? They feel the buzz, shoot them first couple o’ uncontrollable loads, and then, just as I’M primed to start fuckin’, they make excuses and run out! And I’m all left there, like, what just happened? You know?”

“Yeah,” Big Budd said, smirking, pinching his own nipples, fiddling with his own cock as he watched his brother pose in the mirror above his head. “I reckon the same thing happened to me. They threw me out of Benny’s, you know.”

“They done what?” Little Budd said, smiling widely, stepping in closer to his brother on the couch. His attention alternated between the mirror and Big Budd’s growing cock—God, that was a big cock… He could really use… Well, wasn’t that why he came over…? 
“Yeah. I reckon they called my spandex shorts indecent. They threw me out—called the Sheriff on me.” He reached out and cupped his brother’s balls in his hand, hefting them through the scant material of Little Budd’s posers.

“Did they now?” asked Little Budd, chuckling, still flexing as he thrust his hips forward slightly.

Big Budd reached his thick middle finger back and pressed it against Little Budd’s asshole—he almost poked through the material. Little Budd started to squirm. “Yeah,” said Big Budd, playing with himself and his brother. “I got him to try the formula instead, so he’ll be on our side, too. But the same thing happened—he tried it, he felt it, then he split just as I was ready to fuck.”

“Took us a while to ready for it ourselves, I reckon,” said Little Budd, bending his knees slightly to move his body forward. “Luckily, we got each other ‘til they’re ready.”

Big Budd pulled his brother’s posers down over the boy’s over-developed thighs, releasing his thick cock, exposing his thick ass, and tackled him back until they crashed through the coffee table. And Big Budd fucked him there, amidst the wooden ruins—a quick fuck, a power fuck—and then took him in the bedroom and fucked him slow, with long, savage strokes—countless hours and orgasms passing—finally, in the shower as the sun rose, he let his brother fuck him, let him get inside Big Budd’s manly ass.

They continued that way for weeks, as much out of necessity as pleasure.

Finally, slowly but surely, guys began to join them. Mitch and Jackson, Little Budd’s buddies, were the first to sign on—though where either of them had found the money to afford the entire treatment was a mystery to Big Budd. (Later, he learned that Mitch had sold his trailer and he and Jackson were shacking up someplace, not that it much mattered by then—both of them were at the Budd’s house so much, they might as well have lived there.) He’d never been fond of Jackson, but he’d always liked Mitch well enough. He thought Jackson was kind of smarmy and insincere—still, after about three weeks into Jackson’s transformation, after putting on about fifty pounds of muscle, Big Budd started to find him kind of attractive. And the guy was an amazing fuck, a greedy pig of a fuck. Okay, more than attractive, Big Budd started to like him.

The Sheriff, too. Sure, the Sheriff placated them somehow at Benny’s that night—told ’em some yarn about speaking to Big Budd, lecturing him about decency. Everything was fine. When they pressed him for information, the Sheriff tried to downplay it, but admitted that he found out Big Budd was going into the supplement business—he was selling this “treatment” that would allegedly give guys the bodies—and the cocks—they’d always dreamed of.

“Somethin’ happened to ’em in San Francisco,” the Sheriff said. “I hear his brother is the same way.”

He didn’t tell them he himself had tried it for another few days. He thought it was all bullshit anyway—and he was more than a little embarrassed by what happened earlier at Big Budd’s house—so no need to face the ridicule of these losers. But just the opposite ended up happening. The buzz he felt at Big Budd’s that night never went away—if anything, it got more intense as time went on. By the end of the week, his erections were insistent, he had the drive of a teenager and the tireless enthusiasm of an ingenue. On Saturday night, having a beer at the end of his shift—horny enough that he should’ve been out chasing tail, yet here he was, more comfortable around the guys—finally, he told them he’d tried Big Budd’s supplement, and tomorrow was the day he could do it again.

“I tell you,” the Sheriff confessed, “I feel great—I got a ton of energy—my waist has gone down two belt notches, and I’m fuckin’ everything that moves.”

A chorus of “no shits” and “damnations” until Benny’s icy-cold sarcasm cut through the din. “You done turned queer, yet?” he asked, far enough away from the bar to avoid the Sheriff’s fist, should he choose to swing it.

“This shit don’t turn you queer,” the Sheriff said, sighing. “Big Budd ain’t a fag, neither. Look, he gained over a hundred pounds of muscle and grew a dick that’s almost two feet long in a single weekend. Reckon he didn’t want to show off? Give him a fuckin’ break. This shit makes you so fuckin’ horny you don’t know what’s goin’ on.” Hell, just talking about it got the Sheriff’s dick hard—he fought the urge to show them. Show them what he meant. So horny…

And then suddenly Ed Jiggers spoke up and saved the moment. “He’s right,” Jiggers said, from over at his corner of the bar. “Whatever it is, it makes you horny as hell.”

“You tried it, too?”

“Damn straight!” the beanpole known as Ed Jiggers announced, almost relieved to get it off his chest. “I done went over and seen Big Budd Monday morning early, before my shift at the plant. Sheriff is right—it’s fuckin’ incredible! I’m not even on a week, but I know I’m goin’ back for the next.”

“Tomorrow for me,” the Sheriff said, checking out Ed Jiggers to see if he noticed a change—the way he could with himself. Yeah, there was definitely something different about Ed Jiggers—he seemed heavier, a little bit around the chest and arms. More, he had that glint in his eye. “And I’m definitely going back.”

It wasn’t really until mid-way through the second week that the others noticed the differences. The Sheriff looked like he’d put on about twenty pounds, yet his gut completely faded away, seeming to melt right before their eyes. Hell, even Ed Jiggers was putting on some size. That’s what finally convinced old Travis Murphy to give it a shot—pardon the pun. He’d sat on the barstool next to Ed Jiggers for almost ten years, and if this shit Big Budd was pedaling could get Ed Jiggers into shape, it could work for old Travis Murphy, too.

About a month or so after Big Budd had gotten back into town, the Sheriff showed up at Benny’s Hackin’ Shack wearing only a pair of beige spandex shorts, his gun belt loose around his hip, his uniform shirt, open, untucked and sleeveless—the sleeves had been ripped off at the shoulder—his workboots and cowboy hat.

He was gigantic—as big as Big Budd. Maybe bigger. Thick, ridiculous muscle, a heavy coating of body hair, a huge cock, held up front on display. The Sheriff walked with the gait of a bodybuilder, a cocky athlete, a sexy stud—the way Big Budd had when he’d first walked into the bar after his trip to San Francisco. He stopped just inside the door and hit a double-bis. They stared shocked at his bowling ball-sized biceps—Ed Jiggers and old Travis Murphy let out a whoop and a holler from their end of the bar. They’d been gettin’ pretty big themselves. And chummy. When the Sheriff walked in, both of them reached beneath the bar and adjusted themselves. He was so freakin’ hot!

“I done the last one,” the Sheriff growled in his low, husky voice, going from pose to pose. “I reckon I’m a real Littleman’s man, now.” His cock started to thicken at the mention—not that he tried to hide it, or even be discreet about it.

That’s what Benny hated.

“I’ll tell you the same thing I done told Big Budd,” Benny lectured the muscular lawman, gesturing fearlessly at him. “I don’t want you in here dressed like that. This ain’t that kind of bar.”

The Sheriff smirked, adjusting his dick in the spandex—perhaps taking a moment or two too long with it—and quietly asked, “Oh, yeah? Well, what kind of bar is it, Benny? I mean, if your whole clientele is turning into a bunch of muscle fags, then what kind of bar is it?”

“Muscle fags?” Benny asked, confused, his suspicions made fact so quickly that he couldn’t quite take it in. “What do you mean?”

The Sheriff openly smiled, then nodded toward Jiggers and Murphy. “Show him,” he said to the two barflies. And they stood, revealing their own massive hard-ons, throbbing there beneath their pants—both had the same lustful smirk as the Sheriff as they stripped their shirts over their heads, revealing chiseled, athletic torsos, tight and muscular—Jiggers quite a bit bigger than Murphy—but both as hard as statues, as ripped as teenagers. Without prodding, they kissed each other, their hands roaming, feeling the muscled contours of the other’s body.

Benny gasped.

“And that’s nothing,” laughed the Sheriff. “Wait’ll the happy hour crowd gets here—Mitch Ambrose and Jackson Hewitt. Jackson’s fuckin’ huge, Benny. Wait’ll you see him—he’s got a cock that rivals the Budds. And fuck, you ain’t even seen Little Budd, yet. Ain’t nothin’ ‘little’ about him no more. And lemme see… they all got Johnny Silvio and a bunch o’ them second shift guys down t’ the factory to try it—they’re all gettin’ pretty big over there. Shit, pretty soon they’re gonna have every guy in town, Benny.”

“That don’t make this ‘that kind of bar’…”

The Sheriff shook his head. “True enough,” he said, then gestured to the door. “But this will!”

And in walked the Budd Brothers—Benny recognized them immediately. He’d seen Big Budd before, of course, but was taken back again by the sheer mass the man had gained. Big Budd had to have been a hundred pounds heavier than before his trip, and there was no evidence of bodyfat anywhere Benny could see. And there was little of Big Budd left covered—he wore the same spandex shorts he had on last time.

Benny hadn’t seen the brother yet, but once he had, he knew the Sheriff had been right—there was nothing little about Little Budd anymore. His body was almost a carbon copy of his brother’s, dense with muscle but ripped for shit. They had the same pattern of bodyhair, the same structure, the same basic look. Hell, they could be twins but that Little Budd looked his age—early twenties—and his dick wasn’t quite as big. Unlike his brother, Little Budd wore only a pair of posing trunks, which didn’t even completely cover him, his workboots, and his CAT-diesel hat.

Several guys came in with them, all with varying degrees of musculature, all dressed in the same scanty gym-wear, a couple as big as Little Budd—Benny recognized Jackson Hewitt’s, although he now had the body of a superhero. But all of them, big or not so big, had the same look on their faces, same as the Sheriff and the other guys who’d tried this formula Big Budd was promoting. That look of lust and need and sexual hunger. That look of masculine confidence.

“Hey, Benny,” said Big Budd, putting his hands on his hips, casual and relaxed. “It’s great to be back.”

Benny was defensive. “I done told you I didn’t want you people in here dressed like that!” he yelled. “I don’t know what’s happened to you, but I want nothin’ to do with it! I don’t want a bunch of muscle queers takin’ over my bar! Now, you boys get outta here before…”

Big Budd interrupted him, taking another few steps into the bar, closer to Benny. “Before what?” Big Budd asked him. “Before you call the Sheriff?”

Next to him, the Sheriff laughed. As Benny turned his head to acknowledge the sound, the Sheriff winked, quickly popped his massive pecs, flexing them so they bounced. The lawman couldn’t help but touch himself beneath the spandex.

“We only want a place to hang out,” Big Budd continued. As he spoke, the others began to fan out behind him. “A place to have a few beers, relax… socialize with each other.” He flicked his eyebrows, emphasizing his intent. “My house is already too small and there’s barely a dozen of us, so we decided to move the party here.”

“No,” said Benny, taking a step back. He realized he’d made a mistake coming out from behind the bar. Like a squirrel or rabbit, he realized he was unprotected—nowhere to hide against a predator. “I don’t want you here.”

Big Budd snorted. “That’ll change,” he said, and pulled out some sort of gun—it looked like something Benny would see at a doctor’s office. Taking another step back, Benny bumped into a wall of muscle—the Sheriff had moved behind him, further separating him from his sanctuary behind the bar.

In Benny’s defense, it took not only the Sheriff to hold him, but a couple of the other guys had to grab his legs to stop his thrashing long enough for Big Budd to cozy the gun up to Benny’s testicles and pull the trigger. It didn’t hurt—not like he expected—but rather like his nut was being filled with some sort of liquid. Uncomfortable, to be sure, but it actually felt kind of good.

Big Budd aimed the gun at his other ball. “I’m giving you a double dose,” Big Budd said, pulling the trigger. “Like I say, I reckon I really want you with us, so I’m givin’ you a bit of a jump start. I’ve seen guys go a little… animal… gettin’ this much at once, so I want you to be careful.”

Though the guys let go of his legs, the Sheriff held him for a good long time. Benny struggled at first, but soon realized that it was useless—the Sheriff was simply too strong. The huge, muscular arms wrapped around his body could easily contain him.

Useless—they were forcing this on him. Against his will. He didn’t want to be like them—muscular as they were, powerful as they were, athletic, handsome, young…

Why wouldn’t he want…?

The Sheriff held Benny until someone pointed to Benny’s erection and said, “Don’t look like he’s strugglin’ no more. Looks like he’s enjoyin’ it!”

And when he felt the Sheriff’s firm hand on his rock-hard dick, Benny shot the load of a lifetime.

Soon after that, it did become that kind of bar.

That kind of factory. That kind of firehouse. That kind of college. That kind of town. Big Budd kept his word—he delivered Kansas to the Littleman’s Company.

Hopefully, the others were experiencing this much success. 

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