The Double B Ranch

by Absman420   

It’s been a while since we checked in with the Budd Brothers from “FanTCMan’s Toys”—let’s visit their Kansas Ranch where transformations and muscle growth are on the agenda.

Hey, friends—in the past three years, I’ve written four novels, and I got out of the habit of writing continuing serials for this site and others, which I love, too. So, while I’m researching my next novel, I thought it would be fun to play with some toys I’ve left in the box for a while.

This story (and another) have been floating around in my head for a while, so I’m having some fun and writing it out. No pressure, but I’ll try to get a new chapter out each week. 

If you haven’t read “Playing With FanTCMan’s Toys,” upon which this is based, there’s still time, but you won’t need to to enjoy this story.

Damn, called into the Coach’s office on the first day of practice—great way to stay under the radar, Greg. He was a good swimmer, but even he didn’t think he’d deserved a full ride to one of the top schools in the country, and this first day of practice all but proved it. 

The other guys were so freakin’ fast! So muscular and strong, hydrodynamic, no body fat at all, just streamlined, swimming machines. Granted, they were upper-classmen and he was only an incoming frosh, but Greg could feel the separation, the gap between them—he didn’t measure up. And now the Coach wanted to see him—on the first fucking day of practice! 

He had his jammers and swim cap on, a towel draped loosely across his shoulders, goggles around his neck. Like most swimmers, he looked both powerful and undernourished at the same time, long and lean and slightly chilly. 

He tapped on the open door to the Coach’s office, adjacent to the locker room. “You wanted to see me, Coach?”

The Swim Coach spun around in his chair to face him. “Gangley!” he said, smiling. “C’mon in. Shut the door.” 

“Is there a problem?” Greg asked, doing as he’d been told. 

“Not at all,” the Swim Coach said, gesturing to the chair next to his desk. “Have a seat.”

A plain old folding metal chair, so his wet jammers weren’t gonna cause any harm, but it was cold on his ass—still, he sat obediently.

“How’d you feel about today?” the Swim Coach asked. He was a former Olympian—one could see it in the way he carried himself, proud and strong. Greg put him in his mid-to-late thirties, in impeccable shape, especially compared to some former athletes who just let it all go, handsome in a DILF-y kind of way. For an ex-swimmer, he was overly muscled, like he’d found the sport of bodybuilding now that he was out of the water, now that he no longer worried about speed.

Greg shook his head. “Those guys are so fast,” he said quietly, almost awed. “Wow…”

The Swim Coach smirked. “What about you?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I used to think I was fast,” he said. “Clearly I have a lot of work to do. I mean, if you’re not pulling me in here to throw me off the team…”

The Swim Coach laughed. “Not at all, not at all! If that’s your expectation, this is going to be a very big surprise!” He turned in his desk chair and faced Greg, his legs spread, and he leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “We—the team—benefit from certain alumni… endowments.” He snorted a small laugh, as if he’d just let off some joke that only he got. “Now, with the NCAA rules, athletes aren’t allowed to get gifts from alumni, but there are certain exceptions—it’s politics.” 

Greg nodded slowly, his eyebrows scrunched together, trying to understand. “Okay…”

“We just got your blood work back,” the Swim Coach said, ruffling through some paperwork on his desk until he found the right form. “And it seems that you are an ideal candidate for one of our corporate sponsors: the Littleman’s Group—have you heard of them?”

The name seemed familiar somehow. Wasn’t that a clothing brand? Didn’t they have a catalog? Athletic wear for bodybuilders or something? “I think so,” Greg said. “I remember a catalog…”

The Swim Coach nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, but the clothing is a sidebar company. Although, I admit I’m wearing their underwear right now.” He laughed, and it was so sincere that even Greg got caught up in it. “The Littleman’s Group is actually a genetics research foundation that has only recently become public. They’ve perfected a number of formulas that allow a man to reach beyond his genetic potential, creating these hyper-masculine bodybuilders out of nobodies. They’ve already set up franchised locations around the country to deliver to clients—I’m sure they’re making a fortune.”

“That’s amazing,” Greg said. Even in his damp, cold jammers, his dick twitched to life. “And they’re our sponsors…?”

The Swim Coach nodded. “They quietly sponsor a number of athletic programs across the country—we’re one of the lucky ones.”

“But aren’t PED’s illegal?” 

The Swim Coached shrugged. “Drugs are illegal, yes. But one, this works on the genetic level and can’t be tested—and two, only requires one treatment and it’s permanent. It will do for you what it’s done for all those guys you were just talking about earlier, what it’s done for me—it will make you the ultimate at your sport, but you’ll test completely clean.”

“So it’s not some kind of super-steroid?”

The Swim Coach laughed. “It’s more like a magic formula. They’ve tailored it to amplify the traits necessary for individual sports—the Swimmer formula, the Football formula, all that.” He leaned forward on his knees. “This could propel you to the Olympics, Gangley. I’d think about that if I were you. I’d think about it real hard.” 

For a nineteen-year-old with dreams and aspirations, the decision wasn’t hard at all.

The Swim Coach happily booked the boy’s trip to the Ranch.

“Again—step, kick, kick, leap, step, kick, touch! Again—step, kick, kick, leap, step, kick, touch! Got it? Going on and turn, turn, touch, down, back step, pivot step, walk, walk, walk. That last part is pivot step, walk, walk, walk. Right! Let’s do the whole combination facing away from the mirror—from the top! Five—six—seven—eight…”

The ten shirtless men and the Choreographer spun to face the empty seats in the audience (except the Judges’ Table in the center front) and did the routine full out. The Young Stripper, Emilio, wanted this job so bad—he’d worked so hard to get here. Fuckin’ Vegas, man! Imagine—here he was, auditioning for the hottest new show on the strip: the Littleman’s Review! 

Chippendales was for dinosaurs—your grandmother was bored in that show! Fuckin’ spandex dance pants and bowties—so old school, such a joke! Then Magic Mike had its fifteen minutes. Those guys were pretty hardcore hot, even by Vegas standards, and most of them were straight (also by Vegas standards) but their stuff was pretty much all the same—air thrusts and worm rolls… whatever.

The Littleman’s Review, however, rocked the previous notions of Strip Shows. Not just that the men were all ridiculously muscular, but there were no secrets in the crotch department, either—these guys had it all! And to see such large men move deliberately with such sexualness, it was breath-taking. Within weeks it’d become the biggest show on the Vegas Strip, out-performing Chippendales, Magic Mike, and the multiple productions of Cirque. 

There were ten guys here auditioning for one open slot. The Young Stripper, Emilio, knew he was probably the youngest—definitely the smallest—but he was serving it up like he was the hottest thing on that stage. 

It didn’t go unnoticed by the judges. 

They stood in a line, panting heavily, as the Choreographer, the Producer, and the Director made their choices in hush-hush voices. Emilio saw them look at him more than once. God, he hoped he’d get it. 

“Okay,” the Choreographer said, stepping away from the group and back toward the front of the stage. “I’m eliminating down to the final three. I want to thank you all for your time today—it’s been a difficult decision. If you are cut, I want to recommend you come back and audition for our road show next month—several of you I’d like to see again. Okay, final three—we’d like to keep Keywon…”

The huge black guy—Emilio wasn’t surprised. He was the best built of the group, though Emilio thought he was over-styled. He hated the guy’s braids. (And he was pretty sure the dude was wearing some gold-colored contacts, too.)

“Alexander…”

That wasn’t a surprise, either. The bearded white boy was hot, lean, though Emilio wasn’t very impressed with the guy’s moves. He was a background dancer, not a headliner. And if Emilio had one thing, it was stage presence.

“And lastly… Emilio, you sexy little thing!” 

Emilio gasped, nearly cried. He was shocked—he couldn’t believe he’d beaten these guys! They were all so big…

Pats on the shoulder, conciliatory hugs, buck-up speeches, the seven cut men cleared the hall, going back to the rehearsal room where they’d left their bags—one of the stage managers led the way.

“Okay, guys,” the Choreographer said to the three dancers left. “The good news is the dancing is over. The last part of this audition is an interview. Keywon, you’re gonna go chat with Don. Alexander, you’re with Michael—and Emilio, you’re with me!” He smiled at Emilio and winked, making Emilio wonder what this “interview” was going to entail?

Well, he didn’t care—he’d fuck the Choreographer if it got him the job. Whatever.

He knew how Vegas worked.

Besides, the dude was super hot. Yeah, he was a little older, bald, but he had a body that wouldn’t quit, and his meggings clearly displayed a package that rivaled the dancers in the troupe. Emilio had had worse casting couch encounters.

The Choreographer led them to one of the star dressing rooms (which actually had a sofa in it)! He sat on one end and invited Emilio to sit on the other. Emilio tried very hard not to make the joke that was on the tip of his tongue. The Choreographer sat back into the corner of the sofa, bringing one knee up onto the pad, spreading his legs wide and displaying his very healthy package. Emilio almost mirrored him exactly. 

“So,” the Choreographer began, a smile on his face, “how’d you feel about today?”

Emilio radiated joy. “I just can’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head. “I wanted this so bad and I was hoping you would judge me by my abilities and not my size—Madre, those guys are so BIG!”

The Choreographer chuckled. “Well, we can give you size, just not talent. Hey, before we go any further, there is one thing we gotta do.” He reached into his dance bag and pulled out a sample cup, like from a doctor’s office—he handed it to Emilio.

“What’s this?” the Young Stripper asked, even though he already knew. 

The Choreographer shrugged. “Part of the hiring process. We need a sample. There’s a public bathroom right outside and to the left.”

“Listen,” Emilio said, “I’m gonna be upfront with you—I smoke pot, but that’s legal in this state. I mean, there’s no reason to take a drug test if you’re not gonna hire me cuz of pot…”

“It’s not for pot,” the Choreographer said. “I smoke pot, too. Just get me a sample, okay?”

Keywon was already entering the restroom as Emilio approached—he waved his sample cup as he shut the door. Emilio laughed. As he stood in the hallway waiting, Alexander burst through one of the other doors—he was furious. “Are you doing that?” he asked Emilio. “Fucking drug test? Are you kidding? There’s no fucking way! No fucking way!” 

Emilio watched him stomp out of the building. He wanted to be sorry, but all he thought was “one less competitor”. 

Back in the dressing room, after peeing and having difficulty putting the lid on the cup, he handed the whole thing to the Choreographer, shrugging. “I guess that guy Alexander didn’t do it,” he said. 

“His loss,” said the Choreographer, who popped the lid on the sample container and dropped a small white tablet in Emilio’s urine—it looked like an aspirin. 

Almost immediately, Emilio’s piss turned bright blue. Emilio wasn’t sure what to make of it—what could possibly have caused that reaction? All he did was smoke pot—and now and again some coke—and why did the Choreographer look so pleased?

Smiling, the Choreographer turned to Emilio. “I’m excited to offer you a job,” he said. 

“Really?” asked Emilio. “Why? What does that blue mean?”

The Choreographer adjusted his package—it was deliberate and sexy.

“It means you have a big future with this company—a big future,” he said. “It means now you’re part of the Littleman’s Review—but mostly, it means you’re gonna be a star.”

Smokey leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic, molded chair (clearly designed for someone significantly smaller than him, probably someone “average”) while the doctor spoke. 

“Overweight, blood pressure’s high, cholesterol is through the roof. Smokey, you are one stressful scene away from a heart attack.”

“That’s why I’m here, Doc.” Smokey patted his substantial belly. “And now my employment’s on the line, which means my pension. I’m too old and fat to start over as a greeter at Walmart, so what am I gonna do?”

The Doctor smiled. “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” he said. “A lot of doctors would start you on a regime of diet and exercise, at which you’re bound to fail—they’d probably put you on medications which would tax the somewhat healthy organs you have left, killing your liver and your kidneys. As far as modern medicine is concerned, you’re a dead man walking.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Smokey tried to adjust his seating in his painfully plastic chair. He tried to cross his feet at the ankles, putting one work boot over the other, even his well-worn Dickie’s weren’t comfortable. He wished he’d had a cigarette. 

The Doctor smirked. “Just trying to tell you how it is. How long have you been a Firefighter?”

That perked him up. “Nearly thirty years!” Smokey said brightly. “If I can just make a couple more, it’ll be a pretty sweet pension. That’s what brings me to you, Doc. Those young bucks are tearing the place up and I’m just getting fatter and more useless.”

The Doctor nodded. “Who turned you on to us?”

“One of the new guys, so fresh out of the Academy that he hasn’t even seen a real fire yet. He said to me that he had a buddy who’d dropped a lot of weight doing your program. Said the guy ended up doing bodybuilding shows!” Smokey laughed. “That’s not necessarily what I’m looking for, but I’d like to feel that proud of my body!”

“You might surprise yourself. A lot of the guys who come to us get into the competition scene. I think you’re right—it’s a pride thing. Part of the journey in changing the shape of your body is changing the shape of your mind. You’re going to feel differently about yourself. At Littleman’s, we encourage that.” 

“The only downside is your program isn’t covered by insurance.”

The Doctor shrugged. “The heart attack you’re about to have is gonna be way more expensive than this. And I promise you it won’t feel anywhere near as good.”

Smokey thought about those young bucks at the firehouse and how good it would feel to put them in their place. How good it would feel to have desire for anything, even sex with his wife—in fact, he didn’t think about it for long.

“Okay,” Smokey said. “What do I gotta do?”

The Doctor smiled. “Pack your bags—you’re headed for a week at the Littleman’s Ranch in Kansas.”

Christian laughed. “I don’t even think I can tell you all the letters that come after my name.” 

The Gym Manager chuckled, looking over the muscular guy’s resume. “You do have a lot of certifications.”

“I collect them,” Christian said. “Like baseball cards.”

“How long have you been training?”

“You mean myself, or others?”

The Gym Manager tilted his head. “Both.”

Christian settled back in the chair, spreading his legs a little wider. He nodded his head back and forth, indicating his thoughts. His body didn’t need any indication—it spoke without words. Christian had as many physique titles as he had fitness accreditations “I’ve been working out since I was fourteen, so I guess… twenty years? I started training other people after I’d dropped out of college, got my NASM—it’s all a success story from there! So ten years—twelve?”

“What’s the end goal?”

Christian paused for a second—he hadn’t really been ready for this question. He’d never even considered it, really. He’d gone to college on an athletic scholarship and managed to flunk even his gut courses. Not that he wasn’t a smart guy—he just wasn’t into academia. And when he’d been young, with a body like he’d had, he hadn’t needed to be. The women were flowing like water. 

“You mean, like, what do I want to be when I grow up?”

The Gym Manager laughed. “Okay,” he said. 

“I don’t know. I guess… I don’t know.” He covered his discomfort with a sudden smile and made a joke. “I’m not planning on growing up anytime soon, how’s that? Not if I have to stop bein’ me! I like training—I could do it forever. If it came with health insurance, I mean.”

“Well, this is a very exclusive, high-end gym. I think you’ll approve of all the perks of the job.” The Gym Manager indicated Christian’s resume. “But I see with all the letters following your name, you don’t have your LTC.”

This clearly confused the trainer—he scrunched his eyebrows together, trying to think. “My what?”

“Your LTC—your Littleman’s Training Certificate. We’ll sponsor you through it, of course, but you won’t be able to take clients until it’s complete. A formality.” 

“What is that?” Christian asked. “I mean, I never heard of it.”

The Gym Manager snorted. “We do things a little differently at this gym. Have you been out on the training floor, yet?”

“No,” Christian said, shrugging. “Front desk just brought me up here. I’m excited to see it though—I’ve heard it’s a state-of-the-art facility.”

“Best in the city! It’s…” A knock at the door interrupted them. “Yes?” the Gym Manager called.

A handsome man stuck his head in the room, very clean cut, shaved bald, very thick jaw. “You need me?” he asked in a deep growl—an accent floated behind it—Russian? 

The Gym Manager smiled. “Ivan!” he said. “Come in.” He turned to Christian and said, “Our Head Trainer.” 

As the man entered the room, Christian’s jaw fell open—a freak! Christian worked amidst bodybuilders, of course, competitors, but this guy Ivan was not to be believed. The mass this guy so easily carried, the size—he had to be hard on the sauce, way harder than Christian! No one could be that big…

“Hello!” the beast said to Christian, a huge smile on his face, extending his hand. “I am Ivan Pretulsky, a pleasure meeting you! You are to be new trainer, yes?”

Christian shook hands. “I hope so,” he said. “He hasn’t made the offer yet.”

“I will make this offer for him,” Ivan said, indicating Christian to spin around—Christian did, if hesitantly. “You will need some size, yes? But I see what I like.” Christian couldn’t miss the big man reaching down to adjust himself. “Popular you will be.”

“Christian has to secure his LTC,” the Gym Manager said from his desk. 

Ivan smirked, still examining the young trainer—Christian felt like meat on the bidder’s block. “This I see,” Ivan said, nodding. “But he will be spectacular after Ranch, yes? Do I say this right?”

Christian laughed. “What are you talking about?”

The Gym Manager smiled. “He’s referring to the training facility for the certificate—it’s called the Double-B Ranch.”

“Double B?”

Ivan laughed loudly. “For Budd Brothers! In one week, they will make new man of you.” He put his hugely muscular arm around Christian’s shoulder—Christian was overwhelmed by Ivan’s masculine scent, like liquid testosterone. “Listen, take offer and go to Ranch. Is best decision you make ever. Trust Ivan.” 

After barely a moment’s length in thought, Christian nodded, a sly smile breaking on the corner of his mouth. “Okay,” he said, imagining himself as big as the beast holding him. “Let’s do this.”

“Senator? Do you have a moment?”

Senator Hardwood looked up from his laptop. Even the posture in which he sat was aggressive, clearly annoyed by the interruption. The Senator looked like he was failing at connecting to a Zoom meeting—technology was never Hardwood’s strength. He held up a finger as he searched in vain for the “mute” button.

“What?” he asked sharply. “Any word?”

“Yes, Sir—we just got a ping on his credit card. Someone’s used it at Reagan National to book a flight to Kansas.”

The look on the Senator’s face—that vein in his forehead. “Kansas? Do you mean he’s gone to that fucking facility? God damn that kid!”

The Aide shrugged. “Well, we don’t know that for sure, Senator.”

“But it’s a fairly good guess, isn’t it? Why else would anyone go to Kansas? I swear to God, that kid just wants to embarrass me—of course in an election year!” He stood and began pacing around the office. “Those freaks and their fucking bodies—it’s immoral what they’ve got going on there! Immoral!” He shook his head in fury, squeezing his fists tightly. Then, after a deep breath, Senator Hardwood continued. “Get after him—bring him back.”

“Yes, Sir—we already have an agent…”

“I don’t want ‘an agent’,” he interrupted, sarcastically. “I don’t trust those fuckers, either. Book yourself a ticket to Kansas and bring my son home. Do you understand me, Ron? Don’t let him get mixed up with those freaks!”

“No, of course not, Sir. I’m halfway to the airport already.” In a perpetual dither, the Senator’s Aide retreated from the office.

The Senator approached his desk, trying to ready himself to go back into his Zoom meeting. “I’m gonna shut those mother-fuckers down once and for all,” he mumbled. “And if they touch my son, I’ll destroy them.”

As a headache formed in the back of his skull, Senator Hardwood pressed the mute button to once again hear the Vice President talk about defense budgets, but he wasn’t listening.

He was already planning his attack.

It never got old—that’s what amazed Big Budd. Standing in the doorway looking out over the ranch, watching the rays of the sun stretch across the horizon, Big Budd’s morning erection fought the confines of the tighty-whities that were tailored to contain him, like it did every day. 

He thought there would come a time when the novelty would wear off, when he wouldn’t be as constantly horny, as hungry and ready as he always seemed to be. It never felt normal to him—even after all these years, it still had that magical angle, that too-good-to-be-true feeling that he thought would be temporary. Perhaps because of his upbringing as a working-class laborer who barely made it out of high school, he always expected his good fortune to collapse. His little brother was much better at living in the moment than Big Budd ever would be—his brother always played the Lottery and expected to win.

When they’d first come back from the Littleman’s Convention in San Francisco all those years ago, a little punch-drunk, they immediately started transforming everybody, all the boys down at Benny’s, the local law enforcement, Little Budd’s no-account buddies from the factory, all of them. It became quite a party—too much so for the town. 

Being a Littleman’s Distributor was so easy at first—there was nothing else like it on the market, there were plenty of entry-level membership leads, and the online content was fun to make and always brought in more clients.To Big Budd—to all of them, it seemed—there was nothing more erotic than to watch a man feel the power of the formula as it entered his system, as his body began to respond, to see him give in to his growing masculinity. 

But it never got old—every time, every man, it never became tired content, a video one had seen too many times, predictable and boring. The excitement, the sexual hunger never abated—Big Budd was always ready, and always wanting more. 

Even now, standing in the doorway in his underwear and cowboy hat, his cock strained against the cotton/ spandex prison, aching for release. He ran his hand along the thick hair on his pecs, down over his rugged abs, and squeezed the base of his cock through the material—electric. He couldn’t help but moan slightly. Where were all the ranch hands when he needed them?

They’d quickly outgrown their family house in town—literally—he and his brother barely fit in the bathroom together, but the endless orgies and recruitments (and complaints from the neighbors) convinced the Budd boys to stop running their business out of their home. 

So they bought Old Man Bowden’s place on the outskirts of town, which came complete with both a barn and—aside from the main house—a ranch house for the hands. 

And there were plenty of hands.

It turned out that the real world wasn’t quite ready for the influx of the Littleman’s Men, who all seemed to view the world as one big porn set. Work production sank immediately at the factory, the line slowing to a crawl as the laborers worked on each other and not their jobs—same at construction sites and warehouses—and soon thereafter police stations and corporate offices. Nothing was getting done but the employees.

Of course, politicians—always the visible puritans—blamed the Littleman’s company, enabling legislation to make the formula illegal. Big Budd didn’t know why that particular bill never made it out of sub-committee, maybe because all the politicians got so muscular they couldn’t sign the papers. Whatever, without the power of a lobby, the threat of government shutdown was forever a shadow over them now.

They couldn’t do anything that made it look like they were trying overtly to take over the world.

And so the Ranch evolved into a sort-of Transformation Center where one would have the procedure and recover from it before heading back to their real life—part of the stay at the Ranch was to help learn techniques to make that transition easier. 

And provide a place where they could experience some uninhibited sex while doing it.

So the Old Barn was converted into a gym on the first floor, administrative and physicians offices in what used to be the loft. Little Budd complained that he missed his horse—he grew up riding on the rodeo circuit—but he would break that poor thing if he sat his hyper-muscular ass on it now.

There was no intent behind the Budd Brother’s business developing a western theme—it’s just who they were. For whatever reason, a lot of men had cowboy fantasies. Maybe it’s the gun symbolism? But across the country, at the distribution centers like the Budds had started, the ones that adopted a theme succeeded. There was a military-themed place, a wrestling-themed place, bodybuilding-specific, leathermen and kinksters, all over the country. The Budds held the midwestern territory and their numbers led the other centers, so the home company pretty much left them alone. But every now and again the suits would appear. They’d drop off their directives, train, fuck, and then hop back on their private planes to go to the next place. 

Big Budd paid them little mind—usually. 

He’d woken this morning not just with his normal massive morning hardon, but also a text from the home company—they would be stopping by the Ranch today. To Big Budd, it sounded like another high-level person was going to go through the process, so the home office wanted to check security and protocol. 

Fine—let them come. Maybe it’ll be some Hollywood action hero, like last time. Like that Reacher guy, who was sexy as fuck—it had been hard to let him leave.

Right now, though, he could use somebody on his swollen cock—his morning wood was getting harder and harder. Where the fuck was his brother?

Just as the roosters started crowing, Big Budd heard the clang of weights coming from the gym in the barn, so he knew where to go. 

A morning workout and a morning fuck—nice way to start the day.

Like he did every day.

And it never got old.

Little Budd racked the weight and flexed for himself. He didn’t have to work out, of course, thanks to the Littleman’s formula, but the pump felt so good—almost as good as sex itself—that most of them enjoyed the gym. Little Budd certainly did. He loved every single aspect of his transformation—the muscle, the libido, the crazy cock—he’d do more if they let him.

Little Budd wanted to be a freak. Unlike his brother, who spent his life being satisfied, Little Budd had big hunger. 

Flexing in the squat rack, Little Budd wore only his work boots, heavy socks, a sleeveless t-shirt, and his CAT Diesel hat—his heavy balls and hefty cock proudly displayed. He’d had a jockstrap on earlier, but he loved looking at himself squat with his junk free—it felt right.

Neither of the Budd Brothers could be described as handsome, but Little Budd believed he had more going on than his brother in the looks department. The scruffy beard his brother had grown had helped, but neither had much of a chin line. Little Budd was certain, however, that no one was looking at his body and judging him by his face. 

Looking at the separation in his hip flexors as he did an abs/ thigh pose was what started his erection—posing trunks (or the band of his overworn jockstrap) would’ve covered up that detail. He knew the IFBB was negotiating to have a Littleman’s Category in the Olympia, and Little Budd could very easily see himself competing if that happened, and hoped they’d negotiate it to be in the nude.

“Well, look at you, doin’ legs this early on a Monday morning!” 

Little Budd turned just enough to see his brother enter the barn, dressed only in his tighty-whities and his beat up crocs, his morning hardon raging in the distended pouch. 

“Pump’s almost as good as sex, I reckon,” Little Budd said, stepping back to the bar. “Come give me a spot.”

“At 315?” Big Budd asked, a smirk on his face. “You don’t need no spot.”

“Maybe not,” Little Budd said, settling the weight on his shoulders. “But I sure do like feeling your hard dick press into my crack as I squat down.”

So the older brother lined up behind the younger brother and “spotted” him, which really just meant hold his rib cage and let nature take its course. 

It wasn’t even three reps in before Little Budd was getting erect himself. “Aw, fuck,” he mumbled. “Now you got me goin’.” Another rep.

Big Budd snorted. “As if you didn’t want it.”

“You know me—I reckon I’ll take it whenever it’s offered.”

He racked the weight and held on to the bar as Big Budd spit on his own dick and thrust into Little Budd’s dry hole.

“Fuckin’ hell yeah, my brother—give it to me good!”

Big Budd laughed, pushing himself in so deep that he could see his brother’s abs distend in the mirror. “What would daddy say if he could see us now?”

“He’d say, ‘Would ya’ll just hesh up and fuck? Talkin’ time’s over!’”

Big Budd snorted, pulling back slowly and thrusting gently again, opening his brother up—fucker was mighty tight for being such a slut. “Doubt he’d say that.”

“Well, I’m sayin’ it!” Little Budd griped, showing Bigg Budd the tempo at which he’d like to be fucked by sliding on his brother’s cock. “Hesh up and fuck! Jesus, sittin’ there talkin’ to me with your dick crammed up inside me…”

Big Budd smiled and kissed his neck. “I love you, brother.”

“Fuck me, already!”

And that was an invitation Big Budd happily accepted. 

They spent all that time lifting, squatting, pressing, just to make their thrusting more powerful. Big Budd could probably fuck his way through a cement wall, the relentless pounding breaking away the resistance. Little Budd braced himself, holding on to the bar while his brother jack-hammered his hole—fuck, he had a nice cock. 

This battering went on for a good ten minutes before Big Budd lost himself in the throes of passion and just started slamming himself into his brother’s ass, a desperate animal responding to his partner’s heat. Finally, he came—Little Budd knew the signs, the change in breathing and tempo, the point of no return. And the gush of cum filled Little Budd to the point where his belly expanded from bloating. 

Fuck, that turned him on, looking all full and pregnant.

Little Budd blew his load all over the mirror in front of them—he didn’t even have to touch himself to do it.

He loved being a Littleman’s Man—he’d do more of the formula if they’d let him.

His brother’s cum ran down the inside of his legs, puddling on the floor of the squat rack. 

Big Budd kissed the back of his brother’s neck as he pulled himself out. “That was just what I needed, Little Bro,” he said. 

Little Budd laughed. “It’s there for you anytime you want it. Now let me get my workout done—I got all this extra testosterone in me, now!”

Big Budd laughed as he wiped himself off on Little Budd’s towel and slid himself back into his underwear. 

“Just so you know,” Big Budd said, “we got some doofuses from Corporate coming by today. Apparently, there’s some big wig in our next session.”

“Some celebrity?” Little Budd asked, putting another plate on the bar. “Some celebrity’s kid? Some celebrity with their kid? That’d be super-hot!”

“Dunno, but I reckon they gonna be here ‘round towards ten, so you be in my office by then.”

Little Budd chuckled and began his set. “You got it, boss man!”

Big Budd shrugged. “Well, we be number one for a reason—I aim to keep it that way.” He looked at the puddle of cum forming at Little Budd’s feet. “And clean up in here, too, will ya?”

“I aim to shoot a couple more before I’m done,” Little Budd said, easily repping 405. 

Big Budd snorted. “I expect so.”

Little Budd didn’t see his brother leave, he was so caught up in his set and keeping his brother’s big load inside him at the bottom of the reps. 

Fuck, he loved this! 

Why couldn’t he be bigger?

It wasn’t like the corporate guys were all that much smaller than the Budd Brothers—they were, but not that much. In some ways, they seemed more practical for the real world. They wore these shiny black suits that were perfectly tailored for their perfect bodies. Clean, neat haircuts and manicured nails, one wore rimless glasses that gave him an air of distinction that impressed Big Budd—who knew lawyers could be so hot?

Even though Big Budd was wearing his Littleman’s stretch jeans and logoed t-shirt, his standard uniform, he felt underdressed. Still, he knew his cock was bigger, so it wasn’t like they intimidated him. 

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Big Budd said, smiling, shaking their hands as they entered his office (which was in the main house). “Welcome to the Double B Ranch.”

“Not my first time,” said the blond. “I did my transformation here about seven years ago—I’m sure you don’t remember. I’d just graduated law school and I was preparing for the Bar when I got hired by Littleman’s. I was a sloppy little nebbish then, but my blood work didn’t lie, so I came here for the…” He made air quotes. “...’workshop’.”

Big Budd smirked. “As many thousands have.”

The blond shook it off. “I knew you wouldn’t remember me—I barely saw you. I fucked the hell out of your brother, though.”

“As many thousands have.”

They laughed—the other guy didn’t join in. 

“He’ll be along in a bit,” Big Budd said. “We’ll see if he remembers. Welcome back.”

“Great to be here—again—good times. Many fond memories.”

Big Budd sat at his desk and motioned to the two chairs on the other side. “What can I do for you boys today?”

Even though he’d developed an initial rapport with the blond, it was the dark-haired guy that spoke. “Home Office got a call from the lawyers of Senator Johnson Hardwood last night. Apparently, his son is going to be among the next group of inductees here at the Ranch.”

Big Budd nodded. “So, do I need to beef up security or something?” One thing Big Budd liked was beefing up security guards—he did have a soft spot for lawmen. 

“The Senator has threatened legal action if his son is processed.”

Big Budd looked confused. “Is the kid under eighteen?”

“Birthday today, as a matter of fact,” the blond lawyer said. “But the Senator’s been looking to cause a problem for us for a while.”

Big Budd shrugged. “Well, if the kid’s eighteen, it’s his decision. Who cares what the dad thinks?” 

The dark-haired guys spoke sharply. “This isn’t just some dad, this is a very powerful Senator who’s had the Littleman’s Company in his crosshairs for a long time—he’s just been looking for an excuse to pull the trigger.”

Big Budd looked back and forth between them. “So are we denying service to the kid? Is that why you’re here?”

“No, actually. Home Office has a different outcome in mind, which is what brings us here this morning. Is your chief medical officer available?”

Big Budd perked up. “Dr. Troy?” he asked, smiling. “You bet! Hang on one jiffy.”

He picked up his phone and sent a text—barely a second later and he had a response.

Big Budd smiled at the handsome lawyers. “I reckon he’s on his way. You boys need any coffee or anything?”

“I could use some hot ass,” the blond said. “My partner here is all by-the-book, but I’m still a Littleman’s Man. Never the wrong time for flex and sex.”

They laughed, he and Big Budd.

“My brother’ll be along in a minute—promise. He can smell a needy cock from an acre away. He’ll keep you entertained while your partner talks particulars with the doc. Then I hope we can show you boys some real Double B Hospitality ‘fore you have to head back home.”

The blond smiled. “Just like old times,” he said as he adjusted his brazen package, so beautifully framed with the fine wool of his suit. 

The dark-haired guy didn’t look as confident.

(Another Intrusive Author’s Note: I’d mentioned in a previous note that I’d just come off of writing four novels and the transition back to a continuing series has been a challenging exercise for me. (Remember: Brevity = Wit). Anyway, this chapter is where I betray myself as a novelist– expanding exposition that could’ve been little more than a page of info. Dammit, I just can’t tell and not show! On the other hand, I’m getting to know these characters just like you are– so let’s all relax together and enjoy the ride. I promise, it will all pay off.)

The Double B Ranch had a booth at the airport just like the Rental Car places did—Smokey found it both funny and impressive at the same time. The same setup: some stanchions to create a line, a long counter and a back wall with the logo displayed brightly—in the case of Littleman’s, it was a wall size pic of a hugely-muscled torso with the logo across the pecs like a superhero shield. The picture cut off right above the model’s genitals, but it promised something impressive just out of sight.

The guy behind the counter had clearly gone through the process—look at him, freakin’ huge! One of those bodybuilder types the young bucks at the station were always crowing about—those competitions they always had on TV at the firehouse. Smokey envied them and ached to be like them at the same time—hating and lusting simultaneously. If his fat ass went through this treatment or whatever, would he look like that? All that muscle stuffing that fitted plaid shirt instead of his substantial gut?

His hidden cock twitched beneath his belly. 

There was a kid at the counter already, skinny, clean cut, wearing warm-ups with a windbreaker that said FSU Swimming across the back, so Smokey stood at the stanchion with the “Wait Here for Next Available Agent” sign on it. 

“You’re all set, buddy,” the agent said to the young athlete. “The Courtesy Car will pick you up at the curb outside in about fifteen minutes or so. Stop back on your way out of Kansas—I wanna get a look at you… after.”

The kid was obviously embarrassed—he ducked his head and cast an uncomfortable look at Smokey, like he’d just been caught at something. 

“Uh, sure,” he mumbled and quickly pulled his suitcase away.

The Agent smiled after him then said to Smokey, “Next!”

Leaving his carry-on by the stanchion, Smokey shuffled over to the counter. He really wanted to sit down—his knees hurt from all this standing around.

“Name?”

“Steve Schmidt,” Smokey said, laying his driver’s license on the counter. “Everybody calls me Smokey.” 

The Agent looked at the card and typed into his computer. “Cigars, I hope.”

“Nowadays, yeah—although I’ll tell you, after that flight, I’d kill for a cigarette.”

The Agent smiled—damn, he was handsome. “You think you hate flying now, wait’ll you go through the Littleman’s Process—you won’t fit in the restrooms!”

They laughed together, although Smokey’s tone was clearly a little more speculative. “I’m not looking to get all that big.” He patted his belly with both hands. “I just want to get rid of my gut and pass my physical.”

The Agent had a patient smile—he’d heard this story before. “You’ll be surprised how far you go,” he said, typing more input. “I never thought I’d go this far.” He flexed his bicep in Smokey’s face—the material barely containing the peak of the muscle—then he flicked his eyebrows and adjusted himself in his tight pants. 

“Holy shit,” Smokey said. 

“Yeah—and I was a fat fuck, too, just like you. You wanna see my abs now?” He started to untuck his shirt but Smokey stopped him. 

“No, no… it’s all good.”

The Agent laughed. “Why? Cause we’re in the airport? You’re about to be a Littleman’s Man, Mr. Schmidt. The public is going to notice. But don’t worry, you’ll get used to it—you’ll even like it.” He let go of his shirt and turned back to his terminal. “Now, you’re doing the ‘Ripped and Rugged’ Protocol, yes?”

Smokey nodded, still looking to see if any of the passers-by were noticing them. 

The Agent nodded. “You’re going to be very satisfied with the results—I promise.” He hit a tab and a ticket printed next to him. The Agent put it in a sleeve printed with promo info and area maps and handed it to Smokey. “Here you go. There’s a shuttle that’s going to be leaving from right outside these doors in about ten minutes or so—just look for the sign that says ‘Courtesy Cars’ and get on the right one. Don’t go to the DoubleTree Hotel by accident.” He laughed. “That would be disappointing.”

“I won’t,” Smokey said, plodding back to his suitcase, breathing heavily. “Thank you much.”

“Stop back in on your way out, so I can see how the Ranch treated you! I have a soft spot in my heart for the Ripped & Rugged guys, you know?”

“I will.”

By the time Smokey got outside, breathless and exhausted, the Courtesy Car had already arrived. Good—a chance to sit his fat ass down. 

“Ripped and Rugged,” he mumbled, pulling himself into the van. “Yeah, right.”

Christian had been waiting there for the shuttle when a skinny kid in FSU Swimming gear came up next to him and stood there, obviously uncomfortable. Christian didn’t feel like being charitable, and waited for the kid to start the conversation.

“Am I in the right place?” the kid asked, pretending not to be nervous. “Are you going to the Ranch?”

Christian smirked and nodded once. “Sure am,” he said.

“Really? Wow!”

Christian looked at him for the first time, his beautifully manicured eyebrows pushing together. “‘Wow’? Why wow?”

The kid snorted air, like what he thought was obvious. “You’re already so big!” the kid said in a hero-worshiping kind of way. “What do you need to improve?”

Christian laughed and shrugged slightly. “I guess, yeah. The gym I train at is sending me—they want all their trainers to go through this Littleman’s thing. I think it’s stupid, but whatever, you know. It’s their nickel.” He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll score some strange.”

Greg forced himself to join in his laughter. “My coach sent me—turns out all the Varsity guys at my school have come here—it’s like an athletic scholarship. They’re all so damn fast—I think it’s gonna be cool.”

Christian was entertained by him. “Yeah… ‘cool’.” he said, though now he suspected this whole thing was going to be one big nerd-fest—a bunch of wanna-bes. 

The Shuttle pulled up about then—the guy driving it was even bigger than the guy at the booth! The swimmer-kid gasped audibly, even Christian was impressed (and he’d seen Ivan Pretulsky) when the muscular guy stepped off the bus. 

He was dressed in a white cotton tee, jeans that fit him like a second-skin, cowboy boots, big belt buckle, the trappings of a Ranch except he wore a trucker’s cap with the DOUBLE B Ranch logo. “Howdy,” he said to the guys with a big smile beneath his heavy, handlebar mustache. “Y’all headed to the Ranch, right? Name’s Jackson—I’m one o’ the hands there. I reckon I’ll be drivin’ you today. Wanna load up your bags? We’re waitin’ on a couple more.” 

“How many are doing this?” the swimmer asked, wheeling his suitcase to the luggage bin. 

Jackson shrugged his mighty shoulders, easily lifting the suitcase in—he made a motion to Christian for his bag while he spoke. “Not so many,” the bodybuilder said. “A half-dozen, I expect. Personally, I like small groups—it’s more intimate. You know… you get to know each other better.”

“Does that matter?” Christian asked. “We’re not building a team.”

Jackson smiled, pulling off his cap. “I reckon we are—it’s the Littleman’s Team. The men’s team—and today, y’all are meetin’ your teammates, as well as your new brothers. Believe me, goin’ through this experience is better with a group around you givin’ support.”

Christian rolled his eyes. “Whatever, man. It’s just another cert.”

Jackson laughed. “Okay, then.We’ll have this conversation again on Friday—I bet you’ll feel different.” With that, he chucked Christian’s suitcase in the bin. “Now, who’s who so I c’n check you off’n my list.” He reached in and grabbed a clipboard that had been tucked in the pocket next to the driver’s seat. 

“Christian Marx,” Christian said, boarding without waiting to be asked. 

Jackson rolled his eyes as the trainer passed by—Christian saw it but decided not to be an asshole on his first day. Some fucking ranch hand giving him attitude—whatever.

The swimmer stepped up. “Greg Gangley,” he said, and Christian snorted—what a stupid name. 

Poor kid.

Christian pulled out his phone and started checking out his social media, purposefully trying to ignore the college boy and the ranch hand—but he couldn’t help himself.

“Gangley?” he asked as the kid boarded, without looking at him, keeping his eye on his phone. 

The swimmer sat toward the front and had to turn his head to speak to Christian, in the far back seat. “Yeah, what?”

“Nothin’,” Christian said, playfully. “Livin’ up to your name, I guess.”

And even though Christian didn’t know the swimmer had spent the last nineteen years getting mocked for his name, he could guess it from the kid’s response.

Gangley said, “Yeah, and what’s your name then? Douchebag?”

Christian smiled. “Oh, you got teeth after all—I thought you were just gonna be some fuckin’ geek. I’m already liking you more, Gangley.”

The clean-cut kid pulled out his own phone. “Good for me,” he mumbled, turning away from the blond trainer. 

It was about then that the fat guy hauled his gut into the bus. 

Jesus, thought Christian. A week of losers and cowboys! Can’t wait.

“Hey, gents,” the fat guy said breathlessly as he collapsed into a seat. “Name’s Smokey—I’m from Philly.”

“Greg,” Gangley said, casting a warning glance at Christian. “I go to Florida State. A swimmer.”

“What are you, like, twenty?”

Gangley snorted. “Nineteen.”

“Jesus,” Christian muttered under his breath.

Smokey turned in his seat to look at him. “What’s your problem?” he asked. “I should be more upset than you—I’m in my fifties!”

Christian shook his head, barely looking up from his phone. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m just trying to figure out what the fuck this is—I thought it was some training certification. I mean, the three of us have nothing in common.”

“Y’all are men,” said Jackson, from the doorway, playfully grabbing his big package. “Y’all got one thing in common.”

Although he laughed along with the others, Christian mumbled, “Fuckin’ fag.”

Yeah, Christian had plenty of gay clients, who only wanted to flirt with him, not seriously train, but he put up with them—they helped pay the bills. He knew more gay guys subscribed to his OF page than women. 

Let them—Christian took the worship (and the money), but didn’t want to engage in any actual sexual activity with them (other than let them watch him jerk off). 

Well, maybe if he was paid enough.

The fat guy from Philly kept talking. “Well, I wouldn’t mind havin’ either of youse guy’s bodies!” He patted his gut. “Don’t never let yourselves get one of these—it’s not as sexy as you think!”

Christian couldn’t help but laugh along—Philly was legit funny. But he was kidding himself if he thought he was gonna get rid of that big belly in one training seminar, no matter how built these Littleman guys seemed. Christian was an actual trainer—he knew what it took to get in any kind of shape. The diet—the discipline—the drugs. Mostly the money.

Smokey kept on talking. “And you,” he said to Jackson. “I mean, backseat blondie there is plenty big, but you’re freakin’ huge! Is all youse guys at the Ranch like this? Or are you the eye-candy they bait us with to get us into the bus?”

The over-muscled cowboy laughed, but scuffed the heel of his boot. “I ain’t givin’ away no secrets, sir! But I will confess to bein’ one o’ the first to go through the process, and that was more ‘n a decade ago, I reckon. And I still think it was the best decision I ever made in my life.”

“Wow,” said the swimmer, open-mouthed in awe of the guy. 

Christian laughed. “Aw, Gangley, women don’t want guys that big. They think all that muscle’s narcissistic and gross.” And God alone knows what they make of that freak package.

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Plenty that like it,” he said to the kid. “I ain’t hurtin’.” 

Christian pressed on, clearly trying to establish himself as alpha guy. “Oh, yeah? And when was the last time some chick took that freak dick of yours—like up to the root?”

Jackson adjusted his big package then crossed his arms over his chest. “Just this morning,” he said, smirking. “Right in the bunkhouse—though it wasn’t a chick. It was a big ol’ hairy bull.” 

Smokey burst out laughing—Gangley ducked his head and smiled. 

“Nasty,” Christian mumbled, going back to his phone.

So the ranch hand was a fag—what next?

That was the moment the Latino kid and the big black guy showed up. 

Emilio was cool, Keywon thought, but he talked too much. Even with his beats blasting over his hoodie, it didn’t drown out the never-ending commentary from his traveling companion. Li’l Hombre was clearly new to the business of being a sex worker—he’d have to learn how to keep his cool.

Especially when traveling. There was no need to call attention to yourself, Keywon thought. Not unless you were insecure. For example, there was no one on the plane anywhere close to Keywon’s conditioning and size, but he hadn’t felt the need to display himself, to peacock all over the place—and he could have very easily been King Cock on Strut. 

But he didn’t want to scare anybody unintentionally—he didn’t want to call attention to himself—he knew where they were headed: red state, few black folks. Be careful. 

Not Emilio. That little cutie could charm the pants off anybody. The stewardesses loved him and his toothy smile, his non-threatening twinkish mannerisms. He wasn’t Keywon’s type at all—but he looked like he was packing a nice piece.

In Kansas, as they checked in at the Littleman’s Booth, Keywon noticed immediately the absence of black people in the airport. And he was very aware of the looks he was getting, too, though he pretended not to be. We aren’t on the west coast anymore, he thought. Remember that. 

The dude who checked them in, he was pretty big—bigger than Keywon, anyway—in his fitted plaid shirt and stretch jeans. One of those goofy belt buckles, too. He was drooling all over Keywon like a guy who’d just met his fantasy man. Keywon had seen it a thousand times before—he knew the trope: over-sexed black stallion with a huge tool that fucks like a machine. He’d played that role to death. 

It was time for something new.

There was a courtesy shuttle—more like a minibus—waiting for them right outside the door. It looked like there were already a few guys in it. Another muscular cowboy took their luggage and stowed it in the exterior compartment. 

Jesus Lord, they grew them big here—maybe making this dance troupe was gonna pay off? Keywon had been in the business a long time—he could use a break.

Of course, the bus was full of white boys. 

The college boy in the front, he was kind of cute and geeky—Keywon bet he was a fellow comic book reader—the fat fireman turned out to be funny in a self-deprecating kind of way that Keywon liked—but pretty boy blondie in the back rubbed him wrong from the get go. Another ex-frat boy jock loser, going nowhere and juggling women for the sake of his ego. 

“Are you a trainer?” blondie asked as Keywon and Emilio took seats across from each other after two hours of sitting side by side. “Or some kind of athlete or something?”

“I’m a dancer,” Keywon said, pulling his headphones down but leaving them around his neck. He indicated Emilio. “Me and him are in the Littleman’s Vegas Review.”

A broad grin. “You guys are strippers?”

Emilio barked a laugh. “He is,” he said, pointing at Keywon, who smiled a tight grin and looked away, shaking his head slightly. “Me? Yo quiero—maybe someday even a full-fledged sex worker, you know? OnlyFans, porn, the whole scene!”

It was pretty boy’s obvious discomfort that made Keywon laugh—Emilio, too. 

“Yo, yo, I’m kidding,” the Li’l Hombre said. “That’s just Vegas humor, man. All this is just a perk of being in the dance troupe. I’m excited about it!”

“Seems like we’re all here for different reasons,” the fat guy said. “Let’s get to this Ranch and find out what it’s all about. What do you say, Jackson?”

The big driver plopped his mass down in his seat and turned the engine on. “I’m rarin’ to get back,” the ranch hand said as he started to pull away from the curb. “Now, I reckon it’s about an hour drive from here to…”

And just then, a guy came running out of the airport, chasing after them, yelling and screaming for the bus to stop.

Jackson pulled over and opened the door. “What’s up, partner?”

“I’m supposed to be on this bus,” the guy said, breathless from the run—another white kid—Keywon doubted this one was old enough to drink—just skin and bone. He barely needed to shave. “I just booked my stay this morning—I know it’s last-minute. I may not be on your list…”

“Hold on a second, buddy,” Jackson said, putting the bus in park. He took his phone out to send a text. “What’s your name?”

“Hardwood,” the new kid said. “Rodney Hardwood.”

Obviously, the freak blond bodybuilder was the doctor—he wore scrubs and a white lab coat. This whole place was just one big costume parade, Wesson thought, clearly uncomfortable in the Ranch atmosphere. He’d gone through his own transformation while at Law School, over an entire semester—in those days, there’d been no need for “Transformation Centers” or “Weekend Seminars”. You just dealt with the real-life consequences as they occurred. These Centers reminded him of retreats that rich people went after they’d had plastic surgery, so their “friends” didn’t have to see their recovery. 

Psychological Weaklings.

His fellow Messenger, Smith, came through the Ranch, which was why the Home Office thought he’d be the right choice for this assignment. Smith acted like it was Homecoming Weekend for Alumni—Wesson already hated the place. All the dirty outdoors, the roughness of the working men, the crudity, the whole thing.

But not Smith.

“Dr. Troy!” Smith sang, a huge smile on his face as the man in scrubs entered the office. 

“Hello!” echoed the muscular doctor. They shook hands and hugged.

“I’m sure you don’t remember me,” Smith said. “Hoss Smith. I visited the Ranch about seven years ago—such fond memories. Glad to see you’re still at it!”

Dr. Troy smiled—such a handsome man, so well put together. Unlike most doctors, he didn’t seem on the verge of an exhaustive breakdown—he was in perfect health. “I won’t stop till we’ve transformed the world!” he said. “Good to see you again! Seven years ago, really? We’ve had all kinds of advances in that time—are you here for a booster?” He examined the suited Smith. “We can tweak all kinds of stuff now. Wanna grow those balls a little?”

“Yes,” Smith immediately said before Wesson interrupted.

“We’re not here for us, Dr. Troy,” Wesson said, reaching out. “Dan Wesson.” They shook. “We’re both lawyers for the Home Office.”

Sitting on the edge of his desk, Big Budd spoke. “These well-dressed gents done dropped by this morning ‘cause we’s gonna have us a bit of a celebrity with this next group.”

“Oh?” the doc asked, looking at Smith, but Wesson spoke.

“Not so much a celebrity,” Wesson said, crossing his arms. “The son of Senator Johnson Hardwood.”

“He was the guy done tried to shut us down last time,” Big Budd said to the Doctor, but Troy knew the Senator well—that horrible day testifying before the subcommittee.

“So why is the son coming, then?”

Both Smith and Wesson shrugged.

“Best we can figure is it’s some sort of teenage rebellion,” Smith said. “What would piss your daddy off the most if he was a conservative nut-job and you were a liberal queer trying to get out of his shadow?”

Dr. Troy smiled. “Well, we’ll make a man out of him, then.”

Wesson reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial. “Actually, Doc, the home office has another idea—they believe it’s a good time to test out this new product.”

“And what’s that?”

For the first time, Wesson smiled. “Something that’s going to change the Senator’s mind.”

While Big Budd was busy signing the seemingly endless amount of paperwork Wesson brought from the home office, Dr. Troy leaned over and whispered into Smith’s ear. “Nickel tour?”

Smith smiled back. “I’ve seen the place,” he said quietly. “I transformed here, remember?”

“We’ve fixed it up since then,” the Doc said under his breath. “You should see my office now.” He winked broadly.

Smith glanced at him. “You lookin’ to get me in trouble, Doc?”

Dr. Troy smiled. “Yes, I am.”

That was how they ended up in Dr. Troy’s office in the converted loft of the barn. As soon as the Doc shut the office door, they were in each other’s muscular arms.

“Seven years, you say?” the Doc said as the two kissed. “Pull your pants down and hop up on the table there.”

Smith smiled, complying. “I like how nobody wastes their time around here—no dancing, no negotiation, just right to it.” With difficulty, he slid his pants down over his thick thighs to about the knee, then, still in his shirt and jacket, he hopped up onto the examination table. He wore a Littleman’s brand thong, cut to contain his generous package. 

“Bigger balls, you say?” Troy asked as he unlocked a cabinet and searched amongst a series of vials. “I still have a dose or two of that compound around here someplace.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with the size I have,” Smith said, stroking his softball-sized package held by the stretchy material of the thong. “But there’s just something sexy about a big sac hanging there as you get railed doggie-style, don’t you think?”

“Whatever floats your boat,” the Doctor said. “That’s the world we live in now—a man can live his fantasy.” He held up a vial of light blue liquid. “Here we are!” he said, un-capping the vial and loading it into this silver gun-shaped thing. Smith had seen those pneumatic delivery devices a million times, but he still thought of them as Muscle Guns—he was starting to get an anticipatory hard-on. 

“This stuff is great,” Dr. Troy continued, approaching Smith on the table. “It will give you an initial spurt—pardon the pun—but it takes about twelve hours to complete the entire growth cycle. You should be well home by then.”

“Good,” Smith said. “At least I don’t have to worry about bursting out of my suit in public.” They laughed together. “Any other side effects?”

The Doctor shrugged, cozying the muzzle of the gun against Smith’s lycra-covered ball sac. “Just what you’d expect—a profound increase in ejaculate, higher levels of testosterone in your system, significant pre-cumming, but… wait’ll you see what your pre-cum and ejaculate do to the other guy. I think you’ll be very pleased with the results.”

Smith tilted his head to the side slightly and smirked. “Let’s do it,” he said.

Without hesitation, Dr. Troy pulled the trigger.

For Smith, it had been a while since he’d felt the Muscle Gun inject his nads. It didn’t hurt, but he could definitely feel the transfer of liquid—it felt like that little vial held an entire tankful of fluid. Immediately, Smith could feel the weight in his balls.

“Oh, man,” Smith half-said, half-moaned, immediately cradling himself. “I forgot how intense that was.”

A warm, tingly sensation spread over him—horny, his dick sprang to life.

Smith moaned again, deeper this time.

“Like I said, it comes on pretty quick.” The Doc ejected the empty vial from the gun and tossed it in a small bin. His phone beeped as he did—a text. “Ahhh, they caught us,” he said, chuckling, typing a response. “I have to go back over to Big Budd’s office, but…” He typed once more. “You should continue to recover here for a few minutes, at least. And I’ve arranged a little surprise for you in my absence.”

Smith could barely think, he was getting horny.

“What are you talking about, Doc?”

Just then, the door opened and Little Budd waddled in, his exposed legs swollen and veiny, fully pumped—he wore a sweaty sleeveless t-shirt, work boots and a CAT Diesel trucker’s cap, his own prominent package held snugly in a Littleman’s jockstrap.

“I reckon I got up here as quick as I could, Doc—I was jes’ squattin’ so them stairs was hell—what you need?” He saw Smith on the table, then, just as Smith’s erection escaped the band of the thong. “I know you,” Little Budd said. “I don’t remember your name but I ain’t never forgot a cock.”

“Hoss Smith,” Smith said. “I came through about seven years ago.” His cock started leaking pre. “The Doc just gave me…”

Little Budd smiled. “The Doc just gave you me, I reckon,” he said. “And I was jes’ sayin’ how much I missed ridin’ my horse.”

Dr. Troy patted Little Budd’s shoulder as he walked past. “I gotta head back to your brother’s office,” the Doc said, motioning to Smith. “Enjoy.”

“That I will, Doc,” Little Budd said as he stepped between Smith’s legs. “That I will.” Roughly grabbing the root of Smith’s tender balls, he easily took Smith’s cock deep in his throat.

Smith gasped and immediately began moaning.

Dr. Troy smiled and closed the door behind him.

“Here we are, boys! The Double B Ranch!”

The minibus pulled through the huge gate onto the private road that led to the Ranch itself. Greg didn’t know what he expected to see, but at just a casual glance, this looked like any other working ranch, maybe a little higher end—everything seemed new and well-maintained, like a theme park, almost. Too clean.

The ranch hand, Jackson, barely fit in the driver’s seat, the big steering wheel in his lap. Greg found himself tempted to reach over and blow the horn. (Where had that thought come from?) These Littleman Guys made everything seem so easy and sexy. Greg was equally excited and scared about getting a taste. 

What if they find out I’m a virgin? Will that matter?

“You can see the main house up there in the center,” Jackson narrated in a somewhat rehearsed way, like he’d given this speech before. “That’s mostly the Budd’s residences and the administrative offices. You guys prob’ly won’t get up there at all, but it’s a nice house—they’ve really opened it up, making it comfortable for guys our size. And bigger.”

Bigger? Greg thought. Wow…

“You can see the barn up there on the right. That’s been converted into a gym—weights, steam room, sauna, showers, the works—and upstairs, in what used to be the loft, are Dr. Troy’s offices.”

“No animals?” Greg asked innocently.

Jackson laughed. “Yeah, but the ranch hands don’t count.”

The fireman, Smokey, burst out laughing at that. Greg liked Smokey—he was like the cool dad on the block.

“Seriously, we got animals, livestock, horses, chickens and shit. They all live down in the small barn where they don’t get in our way.” Jackson continued narrating. “Across from the big barn is the bunkhouse—that’s where you guys will be staying.”

“A bunkhouse?” that guy Christian asked with an attitude. “So, like, not private rooms?”

Jackson chuckled. “You won’t need…” he laughed again. “Want… I mean, it’s part of the experience—it’s a western theme. Try to enjoy yourself.”

“I’m all in,” said Smokey. “Just don’t put me on a horse!”

Jackson smiled and parked the bus next to the barn. “I’m sure you’ll be ridin’ somethin’ before the week is over—that’s how it always goes around here.”

Smokey had a big laugh—Greg liked it.

“Hop out, guys,” Jackson instructed, opening the door. “I’ll show you the gym before we head over to the bunkhouse.”

Every path was paved and neatly manicured—it reminded Greg of a golf course, or a theme park, everything a little too perfect to be real. Split-rail fences separated various buildings and land—it was so freakin’ flat here. All six stepped off into the bright sunshine.

Smokey whistled. “Look at all that sky! When you live in the city as long as I have, you forget there’s so much sky!”

“One thing we got ‘round here is abundance,” Jackson said, pulling back the barn door. “So here’s the gym!”

Magnificent. Of course, Greg had been impressed by his University’s training facility, but this was so state of the art it seemed like science fiction. The entirety of the barn was mirrored, too—there wasn’t a direction Greg could turn where he didn’t see himself.

“Holy shit!” Christian said, looking around. “I’m seeing equipment I’ve only heard of—and I’ve been in the game for a lot of years!”

“I reckon I don’t know much about that,” Jackson said. “Other than the home office supplies every Distribution Center with a facility like this. Keeps the staff occupied.” He laughed. “Most of the time. Once you’re settled in, you’re more than welcome to help yourselves to a workout. Also got a steam room, a sauna, showers, locker rooms—the whole bit.”

“No pool?” Greg asked, almost disappointed. 

Jackson smiled. “There’s a pond down yonder with a dock. Ranch hands sometimes skinny-dip after a long day. You’ll see—I reckon someone’ll be takin’ you guys on a tour this afternoon. After you’re settled.”

“Where’s everybody now?”

Jackson shrugged. “Doin’ their chores ‘n such, I reckon—they’re around.” He looked at his phone with his eyes scrunched together, like he was having trouble reading. He grunted. “You,” he said, pointing to Greg, “swimmer guy—what’s your name again?”

“Gangley,” interrupted Christian, smiling. “Like his build.”

Greg sneered at Christian, shaking his head, then turned to Jackson. “It’s Greg.”

“Do me a favor, Greg. Run upstairs and get Dr. Troy—he ain’t answerin’ his texts. Top o’ the stairs—you’ll see his office right there.”

“Sure thing,” Greg said, happy to help, bounding up by twos.

“Doctor’s offices are upstairs in what used to be the loft—I want you all to meet Dr. Troy while we’re here. He’ll be the one responsible for…”

His voice faded off as Greg arrived on the loft, although he could still hear Jackson speaking below—the offices were along the outer wall of the barn, while the other side was a balcony overlooking the gym. Someone could stroll along here, lean against the railing and watch the guys working out. 

What a sweet view.

The swimmer thought he saw movement through the frosted glass of the door to the doctor’s office, but he didn’t think anything of it—he didn’t even take the time to knock—just like in the dorms, he barged right in.

So he saw what he saw—in the long run, even in the moment, he had no choice but to take responsibility for his own actions. He learned his lesson—knock next time, Greg.

Lying on the examination table was a hugely-muscled bodybuilder in a business suit so tight it had to have been stretch material—how had he even gotten the jacket on? His legs were bare, his knees bent over the edge, his pants around his ankles—Greg noticed the shine on his shoes and the elastic band of his socks.

He was being straddled by another bodybuilder, this one even bigger, dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt, work boots, and a well-worn trucker’s cap—Greg could also see the bands of a jockstrap around this guy’s huge ass, but his gigantic cock stuck out the top of it, rising to almost his pecs, as he fucked himself on the other guy, the suit guy, slamming his ass onto suit guy’s hips in a frantic rhythm.

Greg’s entrance startled the guy on the table nearly as much as it did Greg. Involuntarily, he bucked his hips up off the table and must’ve started to cum—he gasped as it began, then the moaning.

The guy riding him said, “Fuckin’ hell, big load—yeah!” and then shot himself, blowing two big ropes nearly across the office. One fell across the front of business guy’s suit like wet snow from a tree branch. 

But business guy wasn’t done—his orgasm went on and on, nearly a full minute of him helplessly thrusting and moaning. Greg could literally see trucker cap’s belly expand. 

It was filthy—and fascinating—and Greg couldn’t look away.

“Yeah, fill me up, Hoss.”

Greg cleared his throat. “Excuse me…”

Trucker Cap held up a hand to him. “Let my man finish, kid—I reckon it’s only polite, like knockin’ on doors.”

“I’m sorry—I didn’t… I was sent… Is one of you the doctor?”

Trucker Cap laughed. “Nah—I reckon he’s at the Main House. Toss me that towel there, would ya?”

Nervously, Greg looked around until he saw a stack of towels—just like at the pool—he grabbed one and tossed it to Trucker Cap who caught it and wiped down Business Guy as Business Guy collapsed back on the table, breathing deeply and heavily, blissfully exhausted.

Trucker Cap chuckled and dismounted—it seemed like Business Guy’s cock slid out forever—there was so much of it!

Trucker Cap wiped it down, making Business Guy shudder, then he cleaned his own ass and inner thighs. “What do y’all need the doc for?” he asked, casually slipping his big cock back into the stretchy pouch of his jock. Greg had never seen anything like it.

Greg indicated the door with his thumb. “That guy Jackson sent me up…”

Trucker Cap nodded. “Oh, the new group’s here. I’m one o’ the owners. Reckon you c’n call me Little Budd.” He held out his hand and Greg nervously shook it—it was sticky.

“Nothin’ little about you,” Greg said.

Little Budd laughed like he’d heard that joke a million times. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe not—but I’d still like to be bigger.”

Greg shook his head. “Geez… wow! That couldn’t even be possible.”

That chuckle. “You’ll see.” He turned to Business Guy. “Hey, Hoss—new group’s arrived. Ain’t that why y’all’s here?” 

Business Guy sat up on his elbows—his dick still hadn’t gotten entirely soft. “Damn, that shit packs a punch,” he murmured. “What’d you say?”

He motioned to Greg. “New group is here—did you tell me your name, college boy?”

“Greg,” Greg said. “Greg Gangley—swimmer from Florida State.”

Business Guy hopped off the table and adjusted his nearly foot-long cock back into the pouch of his thong. “You’re gonna love your new dorsal fin!” he said, smiling, pulling up his tight pants. “I gotta get back to the main house, Little Budd. Duty calls.”

Little Budd nodded. “Take the kid with you, Hoss—I’ll be up in a minute.”

Maybe he had to find some pants, Greg thought. 

Little Budd watched them go, shutting the door behind them—that guy Hoss had some sweet cock, having dumped some huge load in Little Budd’s butt. Whatever that formula was doing to Hoss, Little Budd was buzzing from his cum—he was almost punch-drunk.

Horny—hungry for more.

Little Budd’s hunch was right—the Doc had been called away so suddenly, he hadn’t locked up. His medicine cabinet—all those many little vials—wide open.

Quickly, he searched around the several dozen until he spotted the vial he wanted, one with a red label marked “X-Treme” and, without showing any guilt, he took it, locking the cabinet behind him. 

Little Budd was determined to be the biggest Budd there ever was.

As much as Dr. Troy enjoyed transforming men into supermen, he wasn’t much on ambushing antagonists and forcing them through the change—although there was a contingent of Littleman’s Men that lived that philosophy, Dr. Troy was convinced the reason the public reacted so negatively to the Littleman’s Organization was this “forced take over of the world” mentality. 

Granted, watching some homophobic prick of a man become a slut for muscle was undeniably erotic, but Dr. Troy stuck to his oath about consent—mostly.

In this particular case, this particular senator—the one who’d led the subcommittee that subpoenaed Dr. Troy to testify—he didn’t put up an argument. And this new formula was fascinating in its potential.

Dan Wesson from the home office, in his precisely tailored suit, handed Dr. Troy the unlabeled vial of deep golden liquid and gave the doctor instructions on how to prep the client for what to expect.

There was no reason to believe the boy would play along voluntarily, but Wesson didn’t think the kid even needed to know. He would do what they required just by following his instincts and urges.

“Normally, I wouldn’t agree to a scheme like this,” Dr. Troy said, taking the vial and examining it, “but I’m more than a little fascinated by the advance in the process. I wish we’d be able to study the father first…”

Wesson smiled grimly. “We don’t always get to see the payoff of our work, doc—we just have to trust that it wasn’t in vain.”

Dr. Troy snorted. “In this particular case, vanity is one of the issues.”

Wesson grunted, then clapped his hands together. “All right, doc, that’s what we came for.” He turned to Big Budd, still sitting on the edge of his desk, arms crossed before his massive chest. “Mr. Budd, thanks for taking the time—we’re all anxious to hear the results.”

He reached out and shook Big Budd’s hand—the connection caused both their cocks to come to life. 

“Y’all gotta leave so soon?” Big Budd asked. “Ya ain’t gonna take advantage of our hospitality? Or our ranch hands?”

“I have a vial or two left of what I gave your partner,” Dr. Troy said. “I could bump up your balls a bit.”

Wesson shook his head and smiled. “This Ranch, man—you know, you guys got quite a reputation at the home office. Bunch of sluts, it says on the bathroom wall, not in control of their libidos. Can’t imagine you boys in the city.” He snorted. “Coming from here, no wonder Smith acts like he does.”

That was the moment his partner, Hoss Smith, stepped back into the office. Slightly disheveled, his blond, gelled hair out of place, there was a big schmear of drying cum across his jacket. His tight pants barely held the swollen package that he lovingly supported with his left hand—a dizzy smile on his face. 

“Hey, guys,” he said like a man high on high. “I take it the business is done. The new guys have arrived—I just saw our target exit the bus.” Smith shook his head. “He’s a skinny little nothing—poor thing. This is gonna be so good for him.” He waggled his own balls.

“Did you get authorization for that upgrade?” Wesson asked him, nodding toward Smith’s swollen nads.

Smith shrugged. “Better to ask forgiveness than permission.” He stroked the mound softly. “I don’t think anyone will object.”

“Especially now that his pre-cum and ejaculate makes guys horny and high,” Dr. Troy half-joked, half-exposited. 

“He’ll be the hit of the executive washroom,” Wesson said sarcastically. “God, Hoss, I can smell your stink from here.” He leaned in closer to the stain on Smith’s jacket, the wet rope of cum.

Unexpectedly, Smith reached out and grabbed Wesson’s head from behind, pulling his face into the cum on his jacket. 

Wesson immediately began squirming, trying to push away.

Big Budd stood up from the desk to help, but Dr. Troy motioned him to stop, watching the two suited men with rapt attention.

Wesson’s struggles lessened and then, he was suddenly snorting in the smell, licking at the cum on the jacket. Unable to help himself, he dropped to his knees before Smith and ripped Smith’s pants open, eager to get to the source.

And there was Smith’s heavy cock, hardening in its exposure, a big clear drop of pre-cum forming on the tip.

Wesson dove on it, needing it, needing more—he couldn’t get it in his mouth fast enough. 

“I reckon I gotta go meet the new kids,” Big Budd said. “Do you need me here?”

“No,” Dr. Troy said, not looking away. “But I wanna watch this… for research.”

Big Budd smiled and patted his back. Wesson was desperately blowing Smith, sloppy and wet and hungry.

“We’ll do the tour first and you can do the primer whenever you want after that.”

Dr. Troy glanced at him. “Thanks, Budd.”

“Enjoy!”

Dr. Troy turned back to Wesson and Smith—he idly wondered how pliable Wesson would become after ingesting Smith’s load, especially an entire load. 

He had some other leftover vials he might be able to talk Wesson into.

Emilio thought the bunkhouse was kind of corny—well, the whole thing was way theme park, all carefully planned to look real, a little too clean and perfect. As someone in the business, Emilio recognized theatre. This looked more like the set of Bonanza than it did a working bunkhouse. But in its favor, it smelled like leather, comfortable and manly.

It was a long building, one big room split between bunks on one end and a TV room, with big leather sectionals and hassocks on the other, a great place to relax with your fellow ranch hands at the end of a long day “working” the farm. Off of the bunk end was the communal bathroom and showers—it reminded Emilio of a high end locker room—and off the lounge end was the kitchen and dining hall.

“Y’all claim yourselves a bunk,” Jackson had instructed them after they’d come inside. “Here’s my advice, as a man who’s worked this Ranch for a lot o’ years, don’t waste your time unpacking, just stow your suitcases. Pull out your toiletries and your shaving kits and that kinda stuff, but you won’t need nothin’ else. After today, y’all won’t be wearin’ any o’ the clothes you brung—I promise you that.” 

The big blond pretty boy, Christian, the guy Emilio expected to put up a fuss about everything—entitled white guy—had said, “What? Are we gonna be naked? Is this that kind of workshop? Cause if it is, I’m outta here right now.”

Please let him be out of here right now, Emilio’d prayed. Holy God in Heaven, hear my prayer. Amen. He’d crossed himself as an afterthought. 

Jackson had barked a big laugh. “Sadly, it ain’t. I meant you’ll have Littleman’s Gear to wear around the Ranch—you know, shit that’ll fit you.” He’d once again adjusted himself in his cotton/ spandex jeans.

Dios, Emilio thought, these guys get turned on by the wind blowing. What I wouldn’t give for a cock like that.

Emilio had been quick to claim the top bunk in the corner—this totally reminded him of camp as a kid—and he’d been pleased to see Keywon motion if it was okay to take bottom. 

Emilio had the feeling Keywon wanted to take bottom a lot more.

He’d chuckled to himself. 

Now they were sitting around the lounge waiting on their host, or the owner, or whatever—Emilio wasn’t sure about the proper titles around here. 

Suddenly, the door opened and this huge man walked in. Emilio had never seen anyone so muscular. He’d thought the dancers on the Littleman’s Review were big, until he’d seen Jackson—and he thought Jackson was big, until he’d seen this guy! 

Madre de Dios!

He was half-again the size of Jackson—it was impossible to believe a man that muscular could move with such grace, not plod along like an animated piece of meat. His legs somehow managed to get around each other as he walked, maybe because he was slightly bow legged already. It still seemed more a miracle to Emilio than science. 

He wore the same painted-on jeans that Jackson wore, making no secret of the size of his manhood—again, it didn’t seem possible. Emilio had seen pics online of these “morphs”—but to see something like this living and breathing. It was as hot as it was horrifying.

The painted-on jeans, the cowboy boots, a sleeveless black-t-shirt with the Double-B Ranch logo and a black cowboy hat. The scruffy beard on his thick jaw made him sexy—well, the body made him sexy, his face wasn’t all that much to look at. His eyes were kind of close together. 

Not that Emilio would kick him out of bed—or the toilet stall—or wherever.

“Gentlemen, welcome to the Double-B!” he said, standing in front of the TV, so they could all see him (He needed better lighting, thought Emilio). “My brother and I own and operate the place. You can call me Big Budd—y’all be seeing a lot of us while y’alls here. We want ya to feel at home. Don’t never think you can’t come talk to me—my door’s always open, even up t’ the big house. Now, I reckon y’all have already seen some stuff…”

“I’ve seen some stuff,” the swimmer mumbled, (His name was Greg, right?) sitting there next to Emilio on the sectional, arms crossed, legs crossed, totally closed off. Clearly, he’d not intended to be overheard.

“But I’d like to take you on a full tour of the place—it ain’t that big—then come back here for chow and then Doc Troy wants to do your primers tonight, so we can really get started with your proper journeys tomorrow morning.” Flicking his eyebrows, he tilted the hat back on his head, his muscular arm flexing inadvertently. “I reckon I’ll take any questions you might have?”

“Yeah, I got a question.” 

Of course, thought Emilio, rolling his eyes, entitled blondie…

“Yeah, what the fuck is this?” the muscular trainer asked, sitting against the side of the sectional. “I thought this was some kind of training certification or something and all I’m seein’ is a bunch of gay shit.”

Big Budd smiled and nodded. “Oh, I reckon you’re Ivan’s new guy!”

The blond guy nodded suspiciously. “Yeah, Christian Marx—how’d you know that?”

Big Budd spread his big arms and included all six of them. “You’re all here for different reasons. Let’s go around real quick and introduce yourselves and how you got here, then I’ll talk some and explain.” He pointed to Emilio. “Start with you.”

Leaning forward so they could all see him, he said, “Me llamo Emilio, from Vegas. I just got hired for the Littleman’s Review on the Strip, which is like, the best gig to get right now. If whatever I’m here for turns me into one of these cowboys, I’m all-fuckin’-in!” 

“I’m not here for that,” Greg said, still wearing his warm-ups and hugging himself. “Nothing like that—I’m supposed to be here for my swim team.”

“There’s all kinds of versions of the formula,” Big Budd said. “Back in the old days, it was kinda one size fits all. It pretty much turned everybody into super-huge muscle guys with mammoth dicks. Nowadays…” he waved it away, “Science… they can get so specific, they got formulas for everything. You’ll see, everything can get enhanced, all performance-related abilities: swimmer or bodybuilder or porn star.”

“Which one of us is the porn star?” Entitled blondie asked, interrupting. “You and the black guy are dancers—Gangley’s a swimmer. The fat guy’s a fireman. Is it you?” He pointed to the skinny kid with the raven hair who’d almost missed the shuttle—the one who’d climbed aboard and put his earbuds in immediately while they’d traveled, ignoring the rest of them. “Are you the porn star?” the blond guy asked. “What’s your name again?”

The kid looked down at his feet. “Rodney Hardwood,” he said quietly. 

The blond guy laughed in a tone that reminded Emilio of every bully he’d ever faced. “Are you kidding? Rod Hardwood? With a name like that, you gotta be the porn star!”

The kid was way defensive. “I’m not a porn star!” he nearly shouted.

“Guys,” Big Budd interrupted in a calming way, heading off the confrontation, “you can both be porn stars, okay? Plenty of Littleman’s Guys go into the business. I reckon we don’t shame sex workers here.” He looked at Christian. “Clear?”

Blondie rolled his eyes. “Crystal,” he said. 

Big Budd nodded slowly. “Okay.” He pointed at Emilio. “So, you’re Emilio—Vegas Review.” He shifted to Entitled Blondie. “Christian from Ivan’s place.” He looked at Skinny Raven. “Rod Hardwood,” he said in a playfully sexy voice, rolling his hips gently—the kid smiled. “Where you from, Rod?”

“It’s Rodney,” the kid said.

Blondie snorted. “Rod’s better.”

“Is all you do is make fun of people’s names?” Keywon asked Blondie, inserting himself into the conversation. “You made fun of the swimmer’s name on the bus, you’re mocking this kid now who you don’t even know—does that sound Christian to you?”

Blondie rolled his eyes. “Oh, very clever,” he said, crossing his arms. 

“Tell you what, Christian, my name’s Keywon. You wanna bust on that? Cuz it ain’t gonna be like when you bust on these skinny white boys—you understand?”

Christian nodded but said nothing. 

“Good, cuz I don’t wanna come off like I feel some kind of way about something. I’m happy to be here.” He turned to Big Budd and continued, “Name’s Keywon, or maybe my momma didn’t know how to spell Kevin.” He cast a sly look at Blondie. 

Christian sighed heavily.

“Emilio and I are both in the Littleman’s Review—Vegas. Though I’ve never been to Kansas before. You got horses here?”

“Hell, yeah!” Big Budd said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, Keywon. We’ll have you riding in no time!” He snorted. “You’d be surprised how many times I say that when I first meet guys.”

The fat dude burst out laughing. “I swear to God, everything youse Ranch guys say is a double entendre—it’s fuckin’ hysterical.”

Emilio didn’t know what that meant—he knew the jokes all sounded sexual, though. 

“Name’s Steve, but everybody calls me Smokey—it’s cuz of my stoagies, although I am kind of a bear. I hail from Philadelphia and I’m a massive Flyers fan. I came here to lose this fucking gut and pass my work physical so I can keep on doing what I love—using my big hose.” He laughed. “See? I can do it, too!”

Emilio liked Smokey’s big daddy vibes—but he didn’t love that belly. He wondered what the fireman’s cock was like, buried so deep under there?

Manguera grande? he wondered. Big hose…?

Big Budd clapped once and then put his hands on his hips—he looked like a cowboy superhero amped up on steroids. “Well, all right then—I reckon this is gonna be a fun group. I’m anxious for you guys to meet Dr. Troy so you can get started.”

Emilio hoped it would be soon—everything around here was making him horny. 

There was something in the air.

Although he tried to pretend the smell of Hoss Smith’s ejaculate wasn’t affecting him, Dr. Troy was rock-hard beneath his scrubs. It took everything he had not to dive in and join Dan Wesson in his blissful sexual stupor, filled as he was now with several of Smith’s enhanced loads. 

Wesson was on his knees and elbows, ass up in the air, leaking a steady rivulet of Smith’s cum, a whacked-out smile on his face like he was tripping. 

Smith knelt behind him, tapping his still hard cock on Wesson’s hole.

“How you feelin’, Danny?” Smith asked. “Do you want it again?”

Wesson moaned, dropping his head. “Yeeeeeeeah,” he said. “Don’t ever stop.”

Smith turned his head toward Dr. Troy and smiled. “Damn, doc. You weren’t kidding about what this shit would do.”

Troy shrugged—his own erection was more than obvious, poking hard against the light linen scrubs. “While he’s in this state, he’ll be very susceptible to suggestions. So if there’s anything you want out of him, any behavior you’d like to see altered, now’s the time.”

“Really?”

Smith bent over and lifted Wesson up off his elbows until the two were on their knees together, Smith’s cock pressed against Wesson’s ass crack and lower back. One arm wrapped around Wesson’s torso, Smith wiped a little of his dripping cum from Wesson’s leg and stuck it in Wesson’s mouth—Wesson sucked the finger like a teat. 

The two of them still wore the upper parts of their suits, although Smith had removed his jacket. Wesson’s pants were down around his ankles, soaking in the extra juices.

“Hey, Danny,” Smith whispered in Wesson’s ear, “you liked this, didn’t you, being full of my big load?”

“Yes, yes—oh my god, yes!”

“You’re not going to tell anyone back at the office about my upgrade, are you? I’m sure you’ve forgotten all about it. When would I have had time, anyway? We came here, dropped off the formula, gave instructions, and came back home. Nothing else, right? Everything went according to plan.”

Wesson was giggly—Smith fed him more cum.

“Yup,” the well-oiled Wesson said. “According to plan…”

“You sure do love my cum.”

“Yeah… I sure do.”

Smiling at Dr. Troy, Smith pressed against Wesson’s ass. “You probably want more of it—probably need it, like you’re addicted to it.” 

It was like a realization for Wesson, a new truth revealed. “Yeah… yeah, I think I am.” His breathing became heavier, like he was panting. “I do—I need it! Oh my God, Hoss, I need your cum.” He began wiping it off himself, licking his fingers like an addict. “Please fuck me again—please!”

“I might need you to treat me better around the office,” Smith said, stroking Wesson’s rock hard erection. “Will you do that for me?”

“Of course, Hoss! Please let me show you how good I can be, then you’ll give me your cum, right? You’ll let me drain these big balls?” 

Smith teased. “We’ll have to see. Why don’t you clean me up right now? We gotta hurry if we’re gonna make our plane.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Wesson dove on Smith’s dick, licking him. “Get you clean…”

Satisfied, Smith winked at Dr. Troy, who was nearly playing with himself.

“Well done,” said the doctor. “I enjoyed seeing that manifest.”

Smith smiled. “Maybe you’d like a taste, doc?”

Troy kept his distance. “It’s taking everything I have to keep away from you, Hoss. I’m trying to be a scientist here. Besides, I have all these new guys to do—including the reason you came, the Senator’s son.” Troy tapped the pocket where he’d dropped the vial they’d given him. “Can you guys see yourselves out?”

He barely got back to his office before he started masturbating—Jesus, that was close! The last thing he needed was to fall victim to his own creation. 

He was a lot more distressed to discover his medicine cabinet unlocked.

Dumb, Troy. Very dumb.

He felt like he was safe though—everything looked okay, the supplies and vials seemed all there. And he didn’t really feel like doing an inventory check when there were new guys to prime. (If there was one thing Dr. Troy liked, it was watching the initial transformation—it was fair to say he got off on it. He could admit that.)

He ended up putting the new vial in the cabinet and then making sure to lock the door. 

Just to be professional and safe—he could totally trust the guys he worked with.

Little Budd held the vial in one hand and his erection in the other. As tempted as he was to do the whole thing at once, that would put him at a serious disadvantage, especially with mobility. Best to do a little bit at a time, until it was too late for them to stop him. 

Or until he was too big to give it to himself.

He loaded the vial into the transdermal gun and carefully set the dosage dial. Then, leaning against the sink, he grabbed the base of his balls with his left hand, almost having to push his erect cock out of the way with his chin. With a bit of nervousness, he brought the muzzle of the gun to his balls, pushing right up against the tight skin. 

When he pulled the trigger, his dick spurted a tiny bit of pre-cum that hit him in the face. Laughing, wiped it off and shook his finger. 

That’s when the growth hit him.

Rodney couldn’t sleep. 

Not just that he was laying here in a western-themed dorm on the top bunk with a guy he didn’t particularly like obviously jerking off in the bunk below, although that didn’t help. 

No, even with his own bloated balls and the non-stop erection, he still lived with the anxiety that one of his father’s men would show up any minute and take him home. Even though he’d been given the primer and could feel it working in his system, he feared his father would show up and ruin it. 

After “chow”, the doctor had appeared—Rodney had crushed on him almost immediately, the daddy vibes—the big blond Dr. Troy, handsome, but not as muscular as everybody else around here—certainly, he’d sampled his own formulas. He’d been so friendly and kind and had answered their questions in the most boring, clinical way. But Rodney hadn’t cared—all he’d seen were little Valentine hearts.

The doctor had explained that they were all to receive a “primer” this evening that would get their bodies ready for their individual transformations tomorrow. Rodney hadn’t been able to help getting excited—if they let him do what he’d planned to do, he’d be so big his father wouldn’t be able to stop him. 

Dr. Troy had shown them the transdermal gun as they sat around the bunkhouse lounge, how he’d loaded it—how it was to be used. Of course, there’d been some initial hesitation about getting shot in the balls—and then in front of each other on top of that—but Dr. Troy had assured them that every single group that had ever come through these ranch house doors had been the exact same way. And he’d promised them that if they’d felt the same way tomorrow, they’d do it differently.

“If this formula does nothing else,” the doctor said, smiling with those perfect teeth, “it gets you over yourself.”

The fireman, Smokey, seated on the sofa next to Rodney, had laughed. “That must mean Christian goes first!”

Even Rodney had laughed at that.

The big black guy—Keywon?—had spoken up. “What are we more afraid of, gentlemen? Getting a shot or showing our balls? I’m not afraid to do either.” Pulling his joggers down, he’d revealed his spandex boxer-briefs. 

“That’s the spirit!” Without hesitation, Dr. Troy had pulled down the waistband, exposing Keywon’s privates—it was the first time Rodney had seen a black man’s genitals. It didn’t disappoint him. 

Keywon stood there as if daring any of them to say anything, but pretending to be dispassionate at the same time. 

Clinically, Dr. Troy reached over and grabbed the base of Keywon’s balls, bringing the muzzle of the transdermal gun into contact. “Here we go!” the doc had said, pulling the trigger.

All of them waited for Keywon to scream, but instead, he’d acted like it was stimulating in a sexual kind of way—it had been an odd moan.

“Oooooh,” said Keywon. “That doesn’t feel so… oh…”

It had been then that he got an erection—it had been just like, pow! There it was. Like someone had broken the nozzle on the inflatable raft—Keywon’s cock instantly thrust out and up. 

“Damn,” he moaned. “That’s… whoa…”

His eyes fluttered as his breath hitched—a smile curling the side of his mouth—then Keywon started stroking. “Dudes…” he said, almost apologetically, “I gotta…” He fell into his seat, his head lolling backwards, panting and moaning as he masturbated. 

“Excellent start,” Dr. Troy said, smiling, loading another vial into the transdermal gun. “Who’s next?”

The fireman, Smokey, was quick to holler, “Me!” As he began to slide himself off the sofa, Dr. Troy motioned for him to stay there, but Smokey still had a bit of a challenge getting his pants down. From his angle sitting next to Smokey, Smokey’s big belly blocked Rodney’s view of his genitals. “If you can find ’em down there,” Smokey joked. “I haven’t seen ’em in a while.”

“They’re just fine,” Troy said, pulling the trigger.

It only took a second. “Okay, that’s weird,” he said. “Feels like there’s extra juice in there. Like…”

Suddenly, he moaned in that same tone that Keywon had used, surprise mixed with lust. 

“Oh, damn,” Smokey chanted. “Oh, damn… damn…”

The moment he started playing with it, his eyes rolled back in his head and a smile spread across his face. Like Keywon, he got lost in his own pleasure.

Rodney couldn’t believe it.

“Do you wanna be next?” Dr. Troy asked him, squatting in front of Smokey. “Since I’m already here?”

In that moment, it all became real for Rodney. Had he been expecting one of his father’s agents to show up and whisk him away before now? He had. As much as he’d thought he’d wanted it—did he really? Or had he been here for the theatrics?

He would love to be muscular, bigger—big enough to stand up to his father, anyway. And there was something about the bulge in Dr. Troy’s scrubs that fascinated him. Rodney had been gay in theory—in that he’d proclaimed it—but not in practice. He’d never done anything but fantasize while masturbating. 

Did he really want to get dragged home as the same, failed loser?

Again?

Rodney tried to be brave. “Uh… sure,” he said, opening his khakis. He wore boxers, simply to be like the other boys at prep school and not get teased, but he hated them, all baggy and bunchy and uncomfortable. 

“Don’t be nervous,” Dr. Troy said as he grabbed Rodney’s balls firmly—he could feel the cool muzzle of the gun press against his skin. “You’re starting out in a good place. These are nice balls, kid—they’re gonna be spectacular! Hell, yours will be transformative!” 

When Troy pulled the trigger, Rodney didn’t know what he was going to feel, but he hadn’t expected it to feel good.

Initially, it had been like his balls filled up with fluid, like that icy/hot stuff that starts off cool then warms up—but the heat had been more than temperature, it was like someone cranked up the horny meter and the furnaces had kicked on. 

For Rodney, who had been at an age where wet dreams and spontaneous, sudden erections were the name of the teen game—but right here, in front of everyone, he was shocked and horrified and oddly proud and ridiculously horny all at the same time. For a brief moment in time, nothing existed but his erection and pleasuring it. 

He knew the others had gotten the shot while he’d been in this state, though he couldn’t remember at all—by the time the last of them had finished, Rodney was pretty well lost in lust. Cumming helped—he could focus for a minute or two after orgasm, but then the lust would rise up again, like waves in the ocean.

Rodney felt like he’d been drowning.

He couldn’t sleep. He tried, laying there in the top bunk, while he listened to that douchebag Christian masturbating in the bunk below. 

Finally, when he heard Christian cum and settle down, hopefully falling into a light sleep, Rodney slid out of his bunk and walked around the L to the lounge where he found Emilio and Greg, the dancer and the swimmer, the other two young guys in the group, sitting on the sofa jerking off together as they watched Magic Mike with the sound down on TV. 

“Hey!” Emilio said. “It’s the porn star! Welcome, amigo!”

“We can’t sleep, either,” Greg said from his spot on the sofa. He still had on his warm-up bottoms, but they and his underwear were around his ankles. He was playing with his cock with one hand and his balls with the other—the swimmer was shaved smooth from head to toe, even his genitals. Rodney thought he had a pretty generous endowment, just a tad longer than Rodney’s own.

“Do you guys mind…?” Rodney asked quietly, pointing to one of the chairs.

“Fuck, no!” said Emilio. “The more the merrier. Let’s see what you’re packing.”

Rodney wore a t-shirt and his boxers still. He clumsily pulled his rock-hard cock out. “This is all so weird,” he said.

“I think it’s super-hot,” Emilio chimed in—Rodney had never seen an uncircumcised cock before. “And this is just the primer! I’m about to come for, what, la decimosexta vez… the sixteenth time… since they dosed us? Imagine what it’s like when they give us the actual shit! They better keep the ranch hands handy is all I’m sayin’!” 

“Think we’ll get as big as them?” Rodney asked. 

“Not me,” Greg said, stroking his smooth dick kind of lazily. “I mean, I’ll probably be as big as the other guys on my team, which I used to think was pretty darn big—for swimmers. I mean, I’m here on an athletic scholarship, not as a bodybuilder.” He whistled. “But still, I wouldn’t mind being half their size.”

Emilio laughed. “I wanna be as big as they can get me so I can still do my job! That guy Jackson looked like he moved pretty good—I bet there are guys as big as him in the troupe.”

“You’d get that big?” Rodney asked—his cock throbbed at the thought.

“In. A. Heartbeat,” Emilio said, then all of a sudden shuddered and came, his orgasm surprising even him as it splattered across his bare chest. “I fucking love this new polla,” he said as he wiped up his jizz with his fingers. “I swear it’s already bigger!”

“Mine just feels like it’s getting harder and harder and growing from all the blood pumping into it.” Greg said, picking up his pace. “Here it comes again!” Suddenly, he, too, blew out a string of cum across his torso, over his shoulder, and onto the back of the leather cushion behind him. “Wow, so hot…”

Rodney played with himself as discreetly as he could, not pulling his boxers down, not taking his t-shirt off. “I keep expecting my dad to come bursting through the door and force me to go home!” 

“My dad was all for it,” Greg said, wiping his cum off the sofa cushion. “I think he was more excited that I was coming here than I was.”

“We’ll keep your dad busy if he shows up,” Emilio said in a seductive way. “I’ll hypnotize him with my hips.” He demonstrated, swiveling his hips around, making his still hard (and dripping) cock bob. 

“Damn,” mumbled Rodney, unable to help playing with himself as he watched. A stripper, Emilio had the moves—it was like he didn’t have a spine at all. That big cock flopping around, so hot. “I’ve never seen an uncircumcised one before.”

As soon as he admitted it, Rodney shot a load so unintentionally that it surprised even him. Just overwhelmed him and blew—the intensity felt so good, and this to a teenager! His t-shirt had a big stain of fresh cum.

“Holy cow!”

“Mira,” Emilio laughed, “my super power!” 

Rodney felt relief for the moment, but it was barely a minute before he was starting to feel the primer again—the other boys obviously were, too. 

Emilio plopped down next to Rodney. “You wanna see what an uncut polla feels like?” he asked. “Go ahead, give it a tug or two.”

“Really?” asked Rodney—just the thought got him hard.

“You ever touch another guy’s dick before?”

“No,” he admitted, though his own never wavered. 

“Well, this dick’s gonna be famous,” Emilio said. “So you can say you were there at the beginning.” He laughed at the thought.

Where had Rodney’s inhibitions gone? Why wasn’t this completely freaking him out? Was there something in the primer that took that feeling away?

Maybe—maybe there was. And for some odd reason, Rodney thought that was hot.

He reached over and wrapped his hand around Emilio’s erection. 

The touch empowered him.

“Holy shit, youse guys! My gut—look at this! I swear to God, it’s shrunk! Lookit! I can see my own dick! I haven’t seen my own dick in years! This is fuckin’ awesome!”

Aside from the unignorable morning wood that woke him—honestly, he’d been so hard, he’d swear his dick was bigger—the first thing Smokey noticed the next morning was how fucked up his center of gravity seemed when he went to take a leak. 

There was a mirrored wall in the bathroom behind the row of sinks where Smokey saw himself. For the first time in a decade, a pregnant bear wasn’t staring back. 

Why wasn’t there a fucking scale in here?

He hadn’t dropped a lot of weight, but enough that he could see the head of his cock beyond the curve of his belly. Smokey was surprised by how much his reflection was turning him on—he couldn’t help but masturbate. 

Overnight—fuckin’ overnight! 

His cock was bigger—harder than it ever had been—certainly thicker. He was as horny as a young buck, like those other young bucks at the firehouse—he was on his way to looking like them…

Smokey screamed when he orgasmed, shooting a rope of cum that hit his reflection.

What the fuck was this shit doing to him?

And this was just the primer?

As he finished his orgasm, Smokey heard someone moan in one of the shitter stalls on his left. Glancing that way, he saw a stream of cum arc over the top of the door and splat on the tiled floor next to him. 

It wasn’t but a moment later when the door banged open and that trainer, Christian appeared, his hair all disheveled, dressed in just cotton briefs that barely held his heavy cock. He made eye contact with Smokey and shrugged. “Hearing you made me blow.” 

Damn, he had a nice body—not as big as all these cowboys, of course, but big enough. “This crap is crazy, isn’t it?” Smokey asked.

Christian snorted. “Do you think it turns you gay?” he asked. “No homo, man, but I can’t stop thinking about my dick. And how much I love my body.”

Smokey laughed. “I hear ya. Whatever this shit is, it’s making me love my body!”

“Are you gay?” Christian asked. “I think all those teens are—and I don’t know what the big black guy is…”

From behind them, someone said, “The big black guy likes to take it up the ass.”

They both turned to see Keywon standing in the entrance to the showers, naked but for a towel over his shoulder, clean and shiny. 

Smokey thought Keywon’s build was the best overall he’d ever seen, even compared to the guys at the firehouse. Keywon looked like a superhero, big but aesthetically perfect, the height and weight balance, the cut. He was a dancer, which explained the grace, but he had serious muscle on top of that. He had a nice-sized cock that bobbed along in front of him, half-hard, nearly pointing the way.

Keywon was casual about his nudity—unaffected, proud. Smokey really envied that.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Keywon said as he strutted to the sink and started applying body lotion. “Black guy with the big muscles is gonna be some fuck stud, right? Over-endowed and over-sexed, some dumbass bull. Maybe that’s your fantasy, right?” He winked at Christian. “I make a lot of money playing that character. But that’s not who I am. At heart, I’m a man who likes to get dominated and fucked—and fucked hard. I guess you’d call that gay, wouldn’t you, Pretty Boy?”

Christian crossed his arms, but his dick didn’t get any softer. “Yeah, I’d call that gay, all right.”

Keywon snorted. “And what do you call yourself, a guy who can only get off on his own reflection? What’s your label for that?”

Smokey blew out a laugh.

“Fuck you.”

Keywon laughed, wiping lotion up the back of his leg, onto his butt cheek. “No, you won’t fuck me, Christian—that’s my whole point. You see what this shit’s doin’ to us and instead of just going with it and enjoying yourself, you gotta hide your fear behind labels. For a guy who’s so hot, you’re a big freakin’ mess.”

Christian took a couple steps across the tile floor toward him. Christian was no small guy, but Keywon didn’t seem intimidated at all. (Of course, Smokey thought, it’s hard to be intimidating when your hard cock is sticking out of the waistband in your briefs.) Christian tried to use his finger to make a point. “No—you know what?” he asked. “I didn’t know what was going on here—I didn’t know what to expect—and so… I’m just… I’m just trying to process it, is all.”

Keywon nodded. “Okay, let’s try this a different way.” He called over to the fireman. “Hey, Smokey, Pretty Boy’s got a nice cock, don’t he?”

Smokey laughed, playing with himself. “Yeah, he does.”

“What do you think, Christian?” Keywon asked as he continued to spread lotion across his torso. “You like that big dick of yours?”

“What?” Christian asked, confused. He couldn’t help but touch himself. “My cock? Yeah, of course I like it.”

“Smokey likes his, too—don’t you, Smokey?”

The big bear growled. “Sure do—my big thick fireplug.”

“And mine?” Keywon said, turning toward the mirror—he met Christian’s eyes in the reflection. “I see you’ve been looking at mine. Nice, ain’t it?” Using the hand he’d been spreading lotion with, Keywon pulled at his dick—it wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t soft, either. 

Christian looked confused, complimenting some guy’s cock while playing with his own—confused by how natural it felt. As far as Smokey was concerned, nothing could be more natural than a bunch of guys being guys together—he lived four days a week at a firehouse, right? Smokey was loving the hell out of this scene. 

“See, Christian, it don’t gotta be a label—it can just be three guys enjoying their cocks together, feeling like men.”

“Fuckin’ yeah, right!” Smokey said from the other side of Christian—it took both hands for Smokey to encircle his dick’s girth. “Why fight that?”

Christian’s cock was so hard, he would’ve accepted any rationale, but for some reason, this rang true to him. As good as he was feeling, he was feeling even more masculine and powerful with a guy on either side of him jerking off with him. And it was even hotter to look at their reflections in the mirror. 

He flexed his bicep with his free arm. “You’re fuckin’ right,” he admitted.

Keywon smiled and flexed his free arm in response. He growled, then he called to Smokey. “What you got, fireman?”

A hungry smile on his face, Smokey flexed a Most Muscular, like the Incredible Hulk and roared while he did it. “I got this!” he hollered, and in that same moment, he blew his load. “Fuck!” he said, gasping for breath. “Fuckin’ awesome!”

“Oh, yeah?” teased Christian. “Bet I can hit the mirror.”

“I’ll take that bet,” said Smokey, between pants.

Keywon was getting close himself—he made sure he was the same distance from the mirror that Christian was. “Let’s see it, Pretty Boy.”

Christian smirked. “This is so fuckin’ gay,” he said, then shot out a big streak of cum which splatted about half-way up the mirror. “What the fuck that was hot,” he said, nearly as out of breath as Smokey. 

“I gotta try it still,” said Keywon. “I’m fuckin’ close. Flex for me, Pretty Boy.”

“Oh, yeah?” teased Christian, who seemed to have lost his apprehension. 

“You mean like this?” He flexed a double bis. ‘Or this?” Side chest. 

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Keywon said, getting serious in his strokes, faster and faster. “Just like that.”

Christian turned his attention from their reflections right to Keywon’s face. “You like looking at me?” he asked. “You like me flexing for you?” He popped his chest, flexed his tris. 

“Yeah. Fuckin’ close.”

Christian got right in his face, flexing a Most Muscular, popping his traps. “Will this make you blow?” he asked, then did an ab/ thigh pose, hands behind his head. “Or this?”

That—it was that that made Keywon blow, that naked ab/ thigh pose. And he didn’t hit the mirror, either—Christian was in the way. 

No, Christian pretty much ended up taking a shower in Keywon’s cum. 

Smokey chuckled. “Okay, that might have been a little gay.”

But Christian loved it.

Jackson woke up in the Ranch house to the feeling of somebody slow-fucking him. He was being spooned by Little Budd with Little Budd’s big cock buried in Jackson’s hole. Little Budd was gently snoring, and dream-fucking Jackson. 

Little Budd had been fucking him since last night, when he’d shown up at the bunkhouse randy even for Little Budd. Little Budd was usually a bottom, eager to ride the ranch hands, but on the rare occasions when Little Budd topped, a man would be a fool not to enjoy that beauty of a cock when offered. 

And damn if Little Budd didn’t have a sweet one—although Jackson didn’t remember it being quite this thick. Or long. 

Of course, he’d spent the night with it up his butt, no doubt he was tired. 

But it really did feel bigger.

Shifting his thighs brought Jackson’s prostate to life, crushed as it was by Little Budd’s intrusive presence. He hitched his breath and moaned slightly.

That woke Little Budd up.

“Fuck,” Little Bud growled, gently thrusting. “What a way to wake up. Fuckin’ nice.” He began moving a little more purposefully, using more and more of his dick. “Hey, Jackson,” he said, rolling the Ranch Hand onto his belly. “Do I feel different to you?” he asked as he lay his weight against Jackson’s muscular back. “Do I feel heavier?”

And strangely, he did. Jackson had been a wrestler in high school, but Little Budd suddenly felt like a whole different weight class. Jackson didn’t think he could escape this hold. 

“Yessuh,” mumbled Jackson into the mattress. “What’d you do, Little Budd?”

Little Budd laughed. “New supplement—I ain’t gonna be Little Budd much longer.”

“You ain’t little now, Budd.”

Little Budd snorted. “You just wait.”

Pushing his nearly foot-long cock into Jackson kept Jackson from thinking about anything at all.

“I’m tellin’ ya, I just woke up like this!”

They were up at the main house, in Big Budd’s office, the Budd Brothers and Doctor Troy. The Doctor wore his usual white coat and scrubs—today’s were green. As muscular as he was, Dr. Troy had always been the smallest of the three.

Today there was some debate about who was number two.

Little Budd, aside from being younger, was also conveniently shorter than his brother, by about a half a head. He had a leaner structure than Big Budd’s solid plod of a body, which added to his youthful appearance in comparison.

This morning, they were the same height—and Little Budd looked like he’d gained about twenty pounds in thickness as well.

Big Budd had called the doc first thing, and Troy was immediately suspicious.

“This isn’t the result of nothing, Little Budd,” the Doctor said, shaking his head and examining the guy. Little Budd was shirtless, wearing only a pair of denim overalls with one strap unbuttoned, his work boots, and his usual CAT Diesel cap—hairy muscle bursting. “You’re taller and you’re thicker. That shouldn’t happen without taking something.”

“I reckon I don’t know what t’ tell ya,” Little Budd said, shrugging his thicker traps. “Maybe something happened after getting fucked by that Home Office guy? Din’t you say his balls was all loaded up with somethin’?”

Troy was confused—he hadn’t considered the possibility.

“But it shouldn’t have had this effect,” he mumbled. “I’ve never seen a reaction like this before…”

Little Budd waved it off. “That’s the only thing I reckon I’ve done different since yesterday—that’s gotta be it.”

“Looks like everythin’s bigger,” said Big Budd, “not just your muscles.”

Little Budd smiled seductively. “You lookin’ to see for yourself, ‘big’ brother?” He started to pull at the shoulder strap holding up his tight overalls—it was obvious he was starting to get erect beneath. “I expects I’ll show ya. Dr. Troy don’t mind watchin’—I reckon he’ll call it research, right doc? That’s what you always call it—research. ‘Cept I reckon you just get off watchin’.”

The doc adjusted his already-present erection. “I wish I had the time, my friend, but I have six new guys to start on their journey today—and you know I get off on that more than I do watching you two fuck for the millionth time.”

Little Budd casually grabbed the Doctor’s hard scrub-covered cock. “That explains this.”

The Doctor smiled, but didn’t pull away. “I’m gonna keep my eye on you, Little Budd.” Little Budd was now taller than the Doctor, causing Troy to look up slightly. “For right now, I’m going to accept that this is some strange reaction to Smith’s ejaculate, but I’d like to put you through a thorough physical, regardless.”

Little Budd squeezed Dr. Troy’s erection. “I reckon you would,” he said.

“Come to my office late this afternoon.”

Little Budd winked. “I’ll be there,” he said. “Be ready.”

“Until then, I’d like you to stay away from the new guys—in case whatever happened to you is viral.”

“What?” Little Budd reacted dramatically, releasing the Doctor’s package and stepping back. “I ain’t contagious,” he said. “I’s just bigger!”

The Doctor nodded. “And until we’re certain of why, you shouldn’t have contact with the new guys. I don’t want to take any chances of contaminating their results.”

Little Budd turned to his brother. “Bro…” he said—odd to hear someone that large with a whiny tone.

Big Budd was contrite, nodding his head from side to side. “I reckon the Doc’s right. Let him give you the all-clear then you can fuck the new boys till your heart’s content—that fair? They won’t be ready for someone your size till tonight, anyway—I ‘spect you know that. You just wanna get ’em all worked up.”

“This is stupid,” Little Budd mumbled. But he couldn’t tell them the real reason he was bigger, because he’d stolen the rarely-used X-treme formula from Dr. Troy’s office and given himself a microdose last night.

A microdose and he’d gotten all this! Imagine what the full vial would do?

“I already fucked a bunch o’ loads into Jackson—I reckon I slept with my cock up his ass all night—he ain’t no bigger!”

“Not yet—we don’t know how long it may take to manifest…”

“I ain’t contagious!”

Dr. Troy wasn’t having it. “You either caught something or you took something. This is not normal.”

In his anger, Little Budd almost spilled the beans. He almost told them about the X-treme formula—he almost lost it.

But he couldn’t—not yet—he had to keep his own secret. Even from his brother.

He had to be more careful.

Okay then, fine. Let the doctor examine him—he won’t find anything—and then Little Budd is cleared from suspicion.

And then he can take another dose.

He sighed dramatically. “Okay, then—I’ll see you this afternoon.” He seemed resigned. “I’m gonna go work out.”

As he left, Big Budd called after him. “Clean the mirrors when you’re done!”

Greg had been in Dr. Troy’s office before, but he hadn’t been paying that much attention to the decor, just the two huge men who’d been fucking on the examination table. Greg had never seen guys so big—Greg had never seen guys having sex, much less guys that big having sex—it was difficult to say which had made a greater impression. He’d spent most of last night masturbating to that image in his head. The bodybuilder in the skin-tight suit, pants around his ankles, lying on the table while the bodybuilder in a sleeveless t-shirt and trucker’s cap bounced on his foot-long cock.

Greg was mildly disappointed when he’d opened the office door this morning and they weren’t still there. Fresh paper on the table, though.

“Good morning, Greg! Pleased to see you’re first. How are you feeling? Did you get any sleep?”

Greg would be lying if he said he didn’t have a kind of schoolboy crush on the handsome Dr. Troy, maybe sort of reminiscent of the one he had on his swim coach. Maybe it was just confident men in power? Maybe Greg just liked the daddies.

But damn if the Doctor didn’t look good, blond and handsome and those muscles—not as big as the cowboys, but still impressive on his own. Even his green scrubs were skintight. (Who did their tailoring? Greg idly wondered. Were cowboys good with a needle?)

“I feel pretty good,” the swimmer said, unable to help but adjust himself through his warm ups. “That stuff you gave us packs quite a punch.”

The Doctor chuckled. “Especially for younger guys who are hormonally saturated anyway. I won’t even ask you how many loads you shot. Hop up on the table.”

Greg did, causing the wax paper to crinkle around him.

“We’re going to do an entire physical so I can have a baseline for you, then we’ll proceed with the formula itself. What questions can I answer as we go?”

He began with the usual, heartbeat, blood pressure, breathing—stuff the swim team’s trainers did with Greg everyday.

“Some of these guys here are pretty big,” Greg said. “I mean, if I’m keeping my swimming scholarship, I can’t do that. Can I?”

Troy smiled, listening to the kid’s heartbeat quicken. “Would you like to be that big, Greg?”

Greg laughed nervously. “I can’t imagine even being your size.” He was instantly apologetic. “Not that you’re small! I mean, but those guys I saw in your office yesterday…”

Dr. Troy sat back on his stool, looking Greg curiously in the eye.

“Guys in my office yesterday? What are you talking about?”

The boy was so nervous. “When we got here yesterday, that guy Jackson sent me up here to find you—I found these two huge guys… doing it… instead.” He laughed uncomfortably.

Dr. Troy nodded—the sight of Little Budd getting fucked by Hoss Smith was probably quite a mind-fuck. “Let me ask you a question, Greg. Did… uh… did anything get on you?”

“What do you mean?”

Dr. Troy shrugged, trying to keep it professional. “Well, like any ejaculate or sexual fluids? Did you… engage with them?”

“Oh my god, no!” Greg was defensive. “They’d destroy me! I can’t even imagine…” (Though in fact, he had imagined it—several times last night while stroking his incessant cock, he’d imagined what it would’ve been like to join the scene, confident and assertive.)

Troy nodded, finishing up his exam by having Greg stand on the scale—”179,” he mumbled as he wrote it down. “And you’re six-two?”

“Yeah.” He smiled defensively. “Gangley.”

Troy laughed naturally, not politely, motioning for Greg to get back on the table. “I’ll tell you what, Greg, I will get you as big as I can within the limits of your protocol. Even though the Littleman’s Variant Formula for swimmers doesn’t increase muscle-size substantially—it’s more of a performance-related functional improvement—I can bump you up to the larger end of acceptable. And I can give you a dorsal fin that’ll make the rest of the team jealous as hell.” He winked. “What do you say?”

“Are you kidding?” Greg asked, his cock immediately hardening. “That would be awesome!”

Dr. Troy crossed to his medical cabinet, which he opened with a small key, then pulled out two different vials from different shelves. He relocked the door after and slipped the keyring in his pocket.

Greg’s heart pounded in his chest—his erection was now flagrant.

“Now, this treatment doesn’t preclude you returning to us after your swimming career is behind you and putting on some more size.”

Greg nodded, trying to ignore his cock. “I think that’s what my coach did.”

Dr. Troy shrugged. “Probably. Most athletes return at some point after their careers—some during. These muscles aren’t only good-looking, they’re functional, too.”

“Swimmers train harder than any other athletes,” Greg said, his prejudice showing. “Including bodybuilders.”

Dr. Troy smiled, loading the transdermal gun. “Lower your pants,” he instructed.

The kid was uncomfortable, uncertain.

“Uh… doc… I kinda got a… hardon… from all that treatment talk.”

Dr. Troy smiled patiently—it enforced Greg’s crush.

“I’ve seen it before, Greg. I know what this formula does.”

Greg slipped his trainers down along with the boxer briefs he’d slipped on, now mostly wet from the unstoppable leak of pre-cum. He’d already kept himself completely shaved, his smooth erection sticking straight up in the air, nowhere near what it soon would be.

“The Swimming Variant will keep you smooth,” Dr. Troy said, gripping Greg’s balls firmly at the base, the same way he’d done when giving Greg the primer yesterday. It caused Greg to gasp. “And you’ll secrete an oil that makes you completely hydrodynamic—also permanently lubed.”

They chuckled together as Dr. Troy pulled the trigger—Greg felt that same whoosh of liquid entering his balls.

Dr. Troy pulled out the empty vial and loaded another into the gun. “That was the swimming formula and here’s some extra cock for you.” He shot this one into the other side of Greg’s balls.

It was so much—Greg’s balls felt like they weighed over a pound, pulling against his erection. He was harder than he’d ever been—but the blood still pumped in. He felt like his cock was swelling from the inside out.

“Oh my…” Greg mumbled. “Wow…”

Dr. Troy nodded and smiled. “A major part of your transformation will happen over the next twenty-four hours, but it will take a few days to complete and finalize. You won’t get as big as some of the other boys, of course, but I promise you’ll compete where it matters.” He winked and touched the tip of Greg’s throbbing cock.

“I wish you guys had a pool here,” Greg said, gently stroking his swollen balls. “I feel like I wanna be in the water.”

Dr. Troy stood and turned away, setting the gun on the counter and washing his hands. “Do you know where the pond is?”

“Yeah, we saw it on the tour yesterday.” His cock was solid steel with flesh—swelling. It felt so painfully good. Greg moaned, worried that the Doctor would judge him for it, but Troy just smiled gently. He’d seen it all before—maybe even Greg’s other teammates.

“It’s pretty big,” Dr. Troy said. (Was he talking about the pond or Greg’s penis?) “Why don’t you go take a swim? Maybe you’ll find some hot ranch hand who’s playing hooky from his chores you can race.”

“Yeah… I…” And he shot a big, unexpected load all over himself.

But he wasn’t embarrassed—the Doctor’s warm smile saw to that.

“Get ready for a lot of that today,” the Doctor said. “There are towels downstairs in the locker room. I’ll check in with you again this evening. Enjoy yourself, Greg—this is the fun part! We’re done for right now.”

Greg hopped off the table and tried to pull up his joggers, having difficulty navigating around his swollen nads and his half-hard hardon. His body felt different even in that one move—more powerful.

“Thank you, Doc.”

Even though he was leaning against the counter, Greg could see Dr. Troy was sporting a hardon, too.

“Believe me, Greg—it’s my absolute pleasure.”

Greg smiled. “I can see that.”

Dr. Troy winked. “Go—enjoy the day. And send in Emilio.”

“Gimme what you got, Doc! I want to be as big as I can fucking be!”

Emilio hopped up on the table without the slightest hesitation. He wore a pair of bright red Littleman’s hot shorts that fit him well, displaying his already healthy package—they would be spectacular on him later this evening. Emilio was in good shape, lean and ripped, muscular from dancing, not weight-training. His biggest issue was his lack of height—he couldn’t be more than five-nine (in heels).

“I like your enthusiasm, Emilio,” the doctor said, going through the process of the physical, heartbeat, blood pressure, breathing. “You’re a Littleman’s Man before you’ve even gone through the process.”

Emilio mocked pride. “I aim to please,” he said. “This whole thing has been like a dream come true for me. After I got turned away by the Thunder Down Under, I lost faith that I’d ever find work in Vegas. Nobody wants short Latinos.”

“That’s about to change,” Dr. Troy said, loading a vial into his transdermal gun. “I can’t do much about your height, but I can get you pretty big. I just don’t want to interfere with your flexibility and joint mobility—you’re a dancer, after all.”

“Who would happily switch to porn,” Emilio joked. “I just want an audience.”

“You’ll get a lot of attention—guaranteed.”

Dr. Troy grabbed Emilio’s balls and blew them full of Littleman’s goodness.

“Your structure is magnificent,” Dr. Troy said to Keywon. “I’ve seen a lot of bodies go through this process, and it’s rare that someone in the ‘before’ stage has this kind of structure. You’re going to be magnificent.”

“Hard to improve perfection,” Keywon joked, although his cock took the compliment. “But do I need to be that much bigger? I’m already plenty scary. Can’t you just put a big dick on me so I can keep playing the role of fantasy stud?”

Dr. Troy stopped loading the gun. “Is that what you want?”

Keywon shrugged. “That’s where I make my money, but it’s not who I am.”

“Really? Who are you, Keywon?”

After he’d answered, Dr. Troy picked a whole different vial.

“I gotta be honest with you, Doc—I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Between beatin’ off and feelin’ like that shit was melting my gut, I barely dozed. Fuckin’ the whole room was one big jerk fest—you could feel it go through like waves in the dark. And those boys, they were cummin’ like every five minutes. God damn, I’m such an old fuck! But I’ve been thinking about it, you know? I’m paying for it, not the fire department, not my insurance, so why shouldn’t I get what I really want? Not just some skinny grunt that can run hoses and save kittens—I mean, be who I really am? All I gotta do is pass a physical, run a mile in gear—so I asked myself, can’t a big muscle bear do that? Big daddy bears can do a whole lotta shit. And to be honest, I kinda like having a bit of a belly. So why don’t we just follow the path God started us on?

“Doc, shoot me full of muscle bear.”

“So you’re Ivan’s new hire. Tell me about that.”

Christian wore a pair of Littleman’s Training Shorts with a garish three-inch inseam, which made the pouch stand out all the more. Even before his treatment, Christian filled them out well. He had a great body, only surpassed by Keywon’s overall aesthetic, but Christian had a great set of pecs and mind-numbing arms—obviously a graduate of the frat-boy school of lifting. Bro-science. His legs were good, clearly not his best feature, but nothing to be ashamed of, either. He had the ass of a collegiate football player, tight and muscular.

In Christian’s case—uptight.

But damned if he wasn’t handsome in his arrogance—just like Ivan liked them.

He was going to be a showstopper as one of Ivan’s “Trainers”—not that he’ll be doing much training. Or thinking. But for some reason, Troy felt less bad about their fate when the guy was an asshole to begin with.

“I don’t know,” Christian said, seated on the examination table. “This whole thing is weirding me out. I’m not sure…” He made a sort of empty motion.

“You don’t want to proceed?”

Christian shrugged. “I’m not sure that I do. I mean, I think I don’t. There’s been a mistake made somewhere—I’m not gay. Like, if they’d been clear in the interview, I wouldn’t’ve come this far—maybe that guy Ivan just assumed because I have an OnlyFans page…”

“Not all Littleman’s Men are gay, Christian. We just celebrate our masculinity together. We have these amazing cocks, which I believe are all weirdly connected in a spiritual way, but that doesn’t go against our natural sexual wiring. No one says you can’t fuck women—or won’t want to. Of course, with a Littleman’s-sized cock, it’ll be hard to find a woman who can take it. And I hear Ivan’s trainers make a fuck-ton of money. Don’t walk away from all that because you’re afraid of a little label, Christian. Be a man.”

Christian snorted—then chuckled.

“Christian, no one will ever make you do anything you don’t wanna do.”

“That’s true.”

“But imagine how fucking hot you’ll be with a body like mine—or bigger—irresistible.”

A curl at the corner of Christian’s mouth. “That’s also true.” His straight boy cock started to get erect again.

Dr. Troy held up the gun. “What do you say we do half now and if you don’t like it, we can stop. If you wanna keep going, we can do the rest tomorrow. What do you say?”

Christian nodded slightly. “Okay – okay, let’s do it. But if it makes me gay, I’m gonna be pissed…”

Dr. Troy smiled and grabbed Christian’s balls (in a very not gay way).

As Christian left the office, Troy’s phone beeped with a text. Normally, he would’ve ignored it, but since he was still waiting on his next patient, he happened to look.

BIG BUDD: Doc, you’ll never believe who’s in my office? An aide for the great Senator Hardwood. He’s a blow-hard, making all kind of demands and threats. You seen the kid, yet? Maybe don’t explain to him, just get it done. I can only hold this guy off so long.

Dr. Troy was typing a response when his office door opened.

“Dr. Troy—are you ready for me?”

“Rodney, come in!” The Doctor went to the medicine cabinet and removed the vial given to him by the Home Office boys—the experimental formula. “Hop up on the table,” he said, loading the transdermal gun. “We have a lot to talk about and not a lot of time. How would you like to help us send a message to your father?”

Scared as he was, the boy couldn’t help but smile.

“I assure you, if the Senator’s son does not appear in this office in the next minute, the Senator will bring down such legal woes on you that you’ll wish you’d never gotten involved with the Littleman’s Company or ever heard of their Muscle Growth Formula.” 

Big Budd sat behind his desk, hands behind his head—biceps flexed—watching the tall, lean man rave. “Now, you listen here, Mr…” He let go of his pose and sat forward in the chair. “I reckon I’ve forgotten your name. You’ve said Senator Hardwood’s name near on a dozen times, but only said your’s own once. Was it ‘Cher’...?”

The man stopped his pacing and gave Big Budd a dry look. “Sheridan,” he said. “Ron Sheridan, the Senator’s top aide.”

Big Budd nodded, repeating, “Sheridan. Ron Sheridan.” He grunted. “Now, listen here, Mr. Top Aide, that boy is eighteen years old and any decision he makes is totally within the law. He signed all the paperwork hisself, good and legal, so don’t you come into my office, my home, and try to throw your weight around.” Big Budd stood up—he only had an inch or two on the Senator’s Aide, but he easily had a hundred pounds or more of muscle. “You can see I got a lot more to throw.”

Ron Sheridan didn’t seem all that intimidated. “I just want to speak to the boy, Mr. Budd.”

Big Budd’s phone beeped with a text, distracting him for a second—he held it up to the Senator’s Aide, indicating it. “Rodney’s on his way right now. Doc says we caught him in the nick of time—he was about to administer the formula, but we interrupted him.”

Sheridan crossed his arms. “Well, that’s something of a relief.”

Big Budd shrugged. “I reckon I’d say loss.”

They contemplated each other quietly for a second until the door opened and Dr. Troy walked in, leading Rodney into the office.

He wasn’t the same willowy, Gothy cartoon stick figure that appeared at the Ranch yesterday. Instead, dressed in a t-shirt and gym shorts, he looked more like a high school athlete, a lacrosse player or soccer sensation, healthy and virile, ready to play. He looked… age appropriate—he could be a peer of Greg Gangley, the swimmer.

Not that Sheridan’s reaction wasn’t dramatic. “I thought you said he hadn’t done the formula!”

“He ain’t.”

“Look at him!”

“Mr. Sheridan…”

But it was Rodney who piped up. “Ron, calm down. I didn’t do it.” He indicated his body. “This is just… the Primer, right, Doc?”

“The what?”

Dr. Troy answered. “The formula they take to get their bodies ready for the Littleman’s Protocol.” He held out his hand. “I’m Dr. Troy, the medical supervisor here at the Ranch. And you are…?”

“This here’s Mr. Sheridan, Senator Hardwood’s top aide.”

They shook. “A pleasure,” Sheridan mumbled.

“I’m sure it would be but for the circumstances,” Dr. Troy said as they shook. “I don’t like denying service to patients.”

Rodney put his hand on Dr. Troy’s arm. “It’s okay, Doc. I actually got further than I thought I would.” He smiled. “And I got a pretty nice build out of the deal, even if it is… only the Primer.”

The kid’s laying it on a bit thick, Big Budd thought, but he didn’t react. 

“Your father sent me to bring you home.”

Rodney sighed. “I thought you’d be here sooner.” He snorted. “At least I got one night of freedom.” He turned his attention to Big Budd. “Thank you, Mr. Budd, for all you’ve done and tried to do—I’m really grateful to both you and Dr. Troy. Maybe one day I’ll be back—and who knows? Maybe my father will come with me.”

Sheridan laughed aloud. “Maybe pigs will fly.”

Big Budd hugged him. “I reckon it’s been our pleasure, Rodney. Whenever you want to come back, you always got a place here.”

“Thanks, Mr. Budd.”

Dr. Troy shook his hand, still unhappy with the situation. “Make sure to give your father a big kiss for me,” he said sarcastically. 

Rodney smiled. “I will—don’t you worry, Dr. Troy.”

“Are we done?” Sheridan asked, standing near the door. “Do you have all your things?”

Rodney slipped his backpack over one shoulder. “I’m ready,” he said, casting glances at both Big Budd and Dr. Troy. “Take me home.”

And with that, Rodney left—just as they’d secretly planned.

The pond was surprisingly large, nearly the size of an Olympic pool—and deep, the water clean and cool. There was a rough, timber-wood dock on the barn-side, but no sign of any boats or kayaks or inflatable water toys—just something to dive from, or sit on the edge and take your boots off to soak your sweaty feet after a hard day of ranching. 

When Greg surfaced, he was surprised to see Smokey doing just that—soaking his feet off the end of the dock. The big fireman was enjoying the sun and working a big stogie. He wore a baseball cap with his station house number on it and a pair of those Littleman’s Hot Shorts (flaming red), his boots cast aside while his feet were in the water. 

He looked different, somehow thicker but still leaner than he’d been. His shoulders and arms were significantly more muscular than this morning, and though his midsection was still rounded, it wasn’t a flabby mess anymore, more like a professional wrestler or a powerlifter, like a medicine ball instead of a potato sack.

Greg was surprised to find himself thinking Smokey looked sexy—there was something just casually masculine about him. It was attractive.

Silently, Greg swam up on him. He’d noticed immediately that the water didn’t seem to touch him—it was almost like his skin slid through the water without resistance or drag. He felt like an eel. More, he didn’t seem to tire—he’d been swimming non-stop for nearly an hour, a hard pace, too, but he wasn’t even breathless. 

Whatever this stuff was flowing through his system, Greg felt like a million bucks. Exercise made it feel even better—it wasn’t until he saw Smokey that he realized he was horny as heck, too.

Like Rodney, Greg was a virgin, though he was pretty sure he was gay. He’d just been too insecure to act on it. Who’d want gangly old Gangley? Now, though, now he felt a little differently. When he pulled himself up out of the water next to the dock, he settled on his elbows, so his bottom half was still in the water. 

“Caught ya!” Greg said, smiling.

Smokey snorted, a puff of gray coming from his nose. “Jesus H, boy, you scared the shit out of me.” He laughed, pulling the cigar from his mouth. “Stealing a smoke, yeah. Those boys are all up there workin’ out—I got bored. Look at you.”

“What?”

Smokey puffed. “Your muscles, kid. Have you noticed how much bigger you are or have you just been underwater this whole time?”

Greg glanced down at his arms as he leaned on his elbows—they were bigger! Significantly bigger! His shoulders, too—no wonder he felt so powerful in the water. “Holy cow!” he said, pulling himself up onto the dock. 

That was the first time he became aware of his cock, tucked into the pouch of his speedos. Magnificently huge, it pushed the waistband of his trunks away from his body, looking like the fin on the underbelly of a fish.

“Holy crap!”

The moment he became aware of it, it started hardening.

“Damn, boy—who needs the muscles when you can have a dick like that?”

“I can’t believe it!” Greg toyed with the pouch. “It’s only been a couple hours!”

“Need someone to show you how to work one that big?” Smokey asked, leaning back against the pilon, puffing his cigar, and gently toying with his own growing log. “Anyone ever give you head, Greg?”

Greg looked around. “No, sir.”

“Get over here,” Smokey ordered, smirking. Nervously, Greg stepped across the dock to him. 

With his free hand, Smokey reached over and pulled the waistband of Greg’s speedo down until the swimmer’s cock popped out—it was huge! Easily ten inches, thickening, reaching toward Smokey’s face.

Smokey blew a stream of smoke at the head of Greg’s cock—the gentle wind made the swimmer shiver and moan. “This is what I like,” Smokey growled, wrapping his hand around the base of Greg’s erection. “A cig in one hand and my boy’s cock in the other.”

With ease, the big bear swallowed his prize.

Greg’s moan scared all the other fish away.

Keywon liked to lift, and though he’d been told he’d had the genetics for bodybuilding, he’d never pursued it. All that eating, all that bulking and “off-season” bloat, he’d never wanted to be that kind of freak—he lacked the desire, not the discipline. He simply didn’t like the look.

For the past few years, he’d kept himself at a pretty solid two-forty—for a six-footer, that was big enough. Already too large for most physique modeling (except gymwear and occasional slutwear), so he was going to have to rely on the Littleman’s Review for his income. Or maybe some bodywork, too.

Whatever paid the bills.

Whatever was in that formula, his thoughts kept coming back to sex. Muscle and sex. He hadn’t been this horny since the days of having wet dreams at fourteen. Even now, he could barely focus on what he was doing—his hamstring/ glute workout—and it was barely two hours since he’d had the shot!

He could see a difference already—that was wild enough—but he was horny as hell besides. 

No surprise, Keywon had been primarily focused on the rear chain—traps/ back/ hammies/ glutes—when he did a side chest pose, his hamstrings sloped down off his femur, his ass just popped, round and muscular. He wore a pair of spandex below-the-knee tights and a loose razorback t-shirt. Keywon always thought he looked sexier in something—he liked the reveal of removing his clothes. 

“Yo, homes!” Emilio called to him from across the gym. “Come dance with me!”

Smiling, Keywon happily left the leg press and strolled over to what looked like a stretching area, open space with mirrors—Keywon was certain the cowboys weren’t doing cardio. (Maybe it was for posing?)

Holy fuck, look at Emilio!

They’d all been changing—so quickly, if they just stood there, they could watch themselves grow. (That would be some crazy-ass yoga class, wouldn’t it?) But Emilio, who’d been a normal-looking dude, now looked like a healthy gym rat, like one of those well-muscled yoga instructors who seduced half their wealthy clients.

He wore the same pair of tights Keywon wore—Emilio’s were red—and a crop-top t-shirt, that exposed his newly-formed abs. 

“Look at you, dawg,” Keywon said, smiling. “You look fuckin’ great!”

“Says you,” laughed Emilio. “Look at the junk in your trunk, amigo!” 

Keywon aimed his ass at Emilio and gave it a shake. “I’m curious to see how it moves!”

“You got a booty, baby!” Emilio teased, laughing. “Do you remember the opening number choreography we learned?”

“Mostly.”

Emilio typed something on his phone pad and the barn speakers blasted the Littleman’s Review Opening Number tracks. “Here we go, Key!” He dropped his phone and hit his spot, facing the mirror. “Five—six—seven—eight…”

Keywon joined him in the dance, remembering the steps as they did them. It was hard to stop looking at himself in the mirror—look at his body! How muscular—how sexy. Athletic and virile. Look at that phat ass!

Both of them had erections before the first thirty-two counts had gone by, but since they were in identical tights, it seemed part of the choreography.

They did the sequence any number of times, watching themselves grow while they did. Sexier and sexier and harder and harder.

Sweating and breathing-heavily, wet spots at the tips of their cocks, they couldn’t help but fondle themselves in the mirror. 

“Wanna go down to the pond and take a swim?” Emilio asked. “I think Greg is down there.”

“You could fuck me with that pretty cock of yours first,” Keywon said. While we got the mirrors.”

“Seriously, homes? You aren’t fucking with me? Cuz I’m all over that if you mean it.”

“Dude, did you hear me? I want some fuckin’ cock—this shit’s got my head swimming and I ain’t gonna think clear till I get fucked.” He dropped to all fours, elbows and knees, with that thick new ass sticking up in the air.

Emilio wasted no time pulling the waistband down and burying his face in Keywon’s sweaty crack.

Dios, it tasted sweet.

Christian had spent the last two hours on the pec deck, doing endless sets of flyes and making videos of himself flexing. He sat now editing that video, turned on by how sexy he looked in these shots, pumped and veiny. 

After he posted it, he watched it over and over, hard for himself, getting off as he watched his view-count climb. It wasn’t long before he was fully jerking off—he wanted to film that, too, but he didn’t want to look away from himself on video, either. He was so freakin’ hot.

A video of him beating off to himself would be a huge hit on his OnlyFans page—that’s what convinced him to do it.

Christian found he could seduce the camera with ease—he and his new cock went viral.

In his room up at the main house, the good doctor left behind, Little Budd stood naked in the bathroom, admiring his size in the mirrored wall as he loaded the transdermal gun.

So he gained six inches in height and thirty-five pounds of muscle—not too bad for just a micro-dose. Dr. Troy wasn’t buying the excuse that Little Budd had been trying to feed him—that somehow his new growth had been caused as a reaction to whatever Dr. Troy had put in Hoss Smith’s balls. 

And there was nothing to explain his cock.

Funny how just getting ready for the amp turned him on—his beautiful new dick hardening again beneath the edge of the marble counter, draining the blood away from his brain.

No matter—with a hard cock, what does a man need to think about?

Instead of a micro-dose, this time he went up to a half-cc—that made him start leaking, it excited him so much. 

He couldn’t pretend it was a reaction from getting fucked by Hoss Smith anymore, not that he wouldn’t give it a shot. At some point he’d have to confess to stealing this vial of Extreme Growth. 

Or maybe he wouldn’t.

Just as Little Budd was about to give himself the boost, his big brother stepped into the room unannounced—not that privacy had ever been an issue between the two of them. Though they each had a separate bedroom, they usually slept together. Walking in on each other in the bathroom was common, usually unremarkable.

This time though, it surprised Little Budd enough that he flinched slightly, and instead of giving himself a half cc, he injected the entire vial into his sac.

No, there was going to be no hiding it anymore.

“Oh my God, little brother, what have you done?”

“I dunno, but I reckon I can feel it already—I feel thick!”

Little Budd flexed in the bathroom mirrors naked, his swollen balls hanging like weights, pulling his hard cock down to about ninety degrees. 

“Aw, fuck,” Little Budd moaned. “I gotta get to the gym.”

“We gotta get you to Dr. Troy,” Big Budd said. “What the hell have you done?” He picked up the transdermal gun from where Little Budd had dropped it and ejected the vial. Big Budd saw the X-Treme label.

“I didn’t mean to do it all at once,” Little Budd said, watching himself flex his pecs. “I just…”

He moaned then, uncontrollably, and shot a load at his reflection.

He was already bigger. Taller.

“This feels fuckin’ awesome!”

Big Budd tried not to let his panic show—he failed. He could actually see his brother growing. “Listen, I reckon we gotta get you out the house before you don’t fit through the doors no more.”

Little Budd was already six-five—at least—he hit his head on the bathroom door jamb and laughed. “Yeah, if I’m gonna be trapped someplace, I’d prefer the gym—at least there ain’t no ceiling in the barn.”

As Little Budd struggled to get his mass through the door—he had to turn sideways and duck—Big Budd texted Dr. Troy.

BIG BUDD: We got trouble, doc. My brother. I reckon he’s taken something. X-Treme it says on the bottle. We’re trying to get out of the main house and get to the barn before we have to break a wall. Meet us there.

Little Budd plodded his way through the living room—his thighs were still able to navigate around each other, but he still looked like he was waddling. He knocked over a side table and a floor lamp. By the time he reached the main door, he had to have reached eight feet. Big Budd barely made it to his collar bone. 

“I reckon I’m bigger than the Hulk!” Little Budd laughed, his voice descending in pitch. He’d always been a tenor—now his thickening neck was making him become a bass. “Though I don’t think the Hulk had a cock like this!” He couldn’t stop himself from flexing, from admiring his size, even though he knew the priority was to get out of the house.

“Let’s keep focused, little brother!”

Little Budd snorted. “You just don’t want me wreckin’ stuff—I get it. Besides, I…” He got a certain look in his eye. “Uh oh. I’m gonna shoot again…” he said quietly, stating fact.

“Aim it outside!” Big Budd said, ripping open the door. “Aim it outside!”

But it was too late—if he’d been a second faster, Big Budd wouldn’t be standing there suddenly covered in Little Budd’s cum. When did this story become a physical comedy? 

Little Budd laughed—Little Budd was lowbrow. Literally. 

“Yeah,” Big Budd said, wiping the cream from his face. “Get the fuck out my house!”

Then he got some in his mouth.

Damn, that was tasty—damn tasty.

Delicious.

Instead of wiping it away, he began licking himself clean—suddenly, he couldn’t get enough.

Greg came within seconds of his dick hitting the back of Smokey’s throat. He wanted to apologize, but Smokey swallowed it down like a greedy dog and kept sucking, Greg’s sensitive skin screaming in pleasure. He moaned and flexed—his abs defined themselves a little more as he squeezed them in lust. He never lost his erection.

Smokey took a moment and puffed his cigar, jacking Greg’s cock with his free hand. Exhaling the smoke on Greg’s glans, he offered the cig to Greg—Greg let him slip it in his mouth. He didn’t inhale, but he shut his eyes and pretended it was a dick, tentatively licking the tip. 

Smokey snorted, watching him. “Youse wanna try a real one?” he growled. “Tastes a lot better.”

Greg never once resisted or questioned himself. He answered, simply, “Yes.”

“Good boy,” Smokey said, grabbing him around the neck like a proud coach. That treatment sent shocks of electricity through Greg’s big new dick.

Smokey leaned back against the weathered wooden support beam and spread his legs. Smokey’s cock was so thick—Greg couldn’t even wrap his hand entirely around it. (Much less his brain—but that’s a completely different matter.) 

Wow, it tasted so good! Kind of woodsy and masculine and salty and wild.

He took to blowjobs like a fish to water—why, he even slipped off the dock into the pond, holding himself up by the elbows as he sucked the bulky fireman. He wasn’t into all the hair, but he didn’t hate it, either—it struck him as kind of adult. He knew his fellow swimmers would be as smooth as silk, like him. Didn’t matter—it made the fireman seem more masculine, more of a daddy. And that really turned Greg on.

Wow, he had a big dick—Greg was amazed he could take it without even choking. Maybe that was part of the formula, too?

Satisfied, Smokey leaned back and worked his cigar. Helluva way to spend the afternoon—he could go for this at the Firehouse, too.

Those young bucks there needed a Papa Bear, too—they just didn’t know it, yet.

God damn this Latino kid had some sweet hips, baby!

He wasn’t just a wham-bam kind of guy—sweet mercy, he had rhythm! Anything he might’ve lacked in power, he made up for in finesse.

“Madre, it’s already bigger,” Emilio’d mumbled when he’d first pushed it into Keywon’s hole—but they both knew it was growing while it was inside him. 

That thought was so hot—everything was hot. Getting hotter—getting bigger.

The weights were all show—unnecessary. They were getting more muscular without them—they were growing all on their own. They must work out for the pump. Pump! 

Damn, this kid could pump!

Emilio had some sweet moves—that kid has fucked before. Or at least he’d been observant watching porn. This was less a fuck than a dance.

Keywon’s ass exploded into muscular cushions, round and padded thick. 

“Harder,” he moaned. “C’mon kid, bring it home!”

Emilio kept pulling back and pulling back, exposing more and more of his thick shaft—to Keywon, it felt like a forearm—and he still hadn’t pulled completely out of Keywon’s hole. 

“Dios…”

And when Emilio, just to see what his new cock could do, started slam-fucking Keywon, bouncing up and down on Keywon’s ass like a trampoline, why, there was no thinking to be done at all.

Just pleasure—blinding pleasure.

He couldn’t stop looking at himself. 

Christian had always been a handsome guy—he was vain enough to believe he could be a model, but never used his looks for anything other than seducing rich female clients. 

Now, though, after taking the Littleman’s Formula, something was changing—not just his body, which he wouldn’t have thought could get better, but his face, too. The shape of his jaw seemed thicker, sharper, his cheekbones lifted slightly—he was so handsome. Look at the sparkle in those electric blue eyes—Christian could seduce himself.

He was getting so much good video content. Was there an angle that wasn’t his best?

Look at me! He wanted to shout. Look at my beautiful body! Look at my amazing cock!

Before this first half had even finished, before the first day was even out, Christian knew he wanted to take the rest of the formula. 

Right now, he wanted to find those other guys and parade around them a little. Let them see what hot really was.

He bet he could even get Keywon to want him.

Pulling up his Littleman’s posers over his generous package and grabbing his phone, Christian left the locker room into the weight room in the barn—empty. Where the fuck was everybody? He finally felt like interacting with those losers and they were none to be found. Maybe they were at the pond? In the sun…?

He slid back the barn door at the same moment someone did the same thing from the other side—it threw Christian off-balance slightly. He hadn’t gotten that much stronger. 

Christian knew Big Budd, of course, and the Doctor, but the other guy…

What the actual fuck?

Christian was six feet tall. Most guys taller than him were ectomorphs, lean-ass basketball players, bike riders, or long-distance runners—like that kid, Gangley—long and skinny, never any muscle mass. He’d met a couple of pro basketball players through the gym, so the tallest guy he’d ever met was probably around seven feet (at most). 

But Christian barely came to this dude’s chest—he had to have been nine-feet tall—and what a chest! What a body! He was in perfect proportion to himself—like someone had taken a regular-sized bodybuilder and made him nine-feet tall. Massive, of course, in some ways, difficult to comprehend, especially with two “normal” guys on either side of him. 

He had the same boring facial features as Big Budd, so Christian assumed this was the brother (the “double” in “Double B Ranch” right? Who knew that was literal). Even the enhancements from the Littleman’s Formula could only do so much with a plain-looking guy. 

Not that anybody was looking at his face.

Even the muscle, the crazy mass of muscle, took a backseat to the guy’s cock.

It was easily two-feet in length—at least as long as Christian’s entire arm—anchored in his heavy pubic bush, arcing out over his prodigious balls. Christian didn’t identify himself as gay, but it was hard to look at this beautiful monster and want to do anything other than admire it. Worship it. Cock as God?

It was the kind of cock the Incredible Hulk deserved—even though no comic book would publish this kind of content. This was all fanfic.

And then this guy, the brother, spoke, a deep bass to reflect the size of his throat. “This one of the new boys?” he asked, his cock twitching into erection. “Damn, he’s purty…”

“Oh my god…” Christian mumbled, his eyes as wide as saucers—from fear, so why was his own dick coming to sudden life?

“We don’t have time for that, Little Budd,” Dr. Troy said, putting his hand on the giant’s lower back in an attempt to guide him. “We need to stabilize your reaction before it gets worse.”

The giant, this Little Budd, laughed. “We could barely get me out the main house, doc. I ain’t fittin’ up there in your office, am I, ‘big’ brother?”

“No,” said Big Budd, and Christian thought he sounded kind of weird, like he was in a daze. “You ain’t.” What was wrong with Big Budd?

Then big Little Budd spoke again. “So, Doc, why don’t you run upstairs and get whatever you need and I’ll keep myself entertained with this cute little blond boy here. My brother will keep anything from happening, won’t you, ‘Big’ Budd?”

“Yes… anything…”

Dr. Troy didn’t seem happy. “I don’t like this—but unfortunately, you’re right. I’ll be very quick.” He addressed Christian. “Don’t let him cum on you, not unless you want to end up like his brother.” He indicated Big Budd, who looked at his huge sibling with the worshipful gleam of the heavily drugged. Dr. Troy headed for the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”

Christian turned back to the brothers. Big Budd was on his knees masturbating, watching the giant Little Budd who was distracted and ecstatic by his own reflection—Christian had empathy with that.

How cool would it be to have cum that made guys into dumb-ass worshippers?

“Look at me!” the giant said, smiling, growing erect. “Look at me!”

He shot—just by flexing, he shot—big gobs of white cum all over the mirror, spoiling his view. 

Christian could smell it from here, salty and sweet and darkly tempting…

Big Budd had already attacked it, licking it off the mirror selfishly, protecting it from competitors. 

“That’s the way, ‘big’ brother.” He turned to face Christian. “But maybe pretty boy here would like some.”

Christian backed away. “No, I…”

“That wasn’t a question,” the giant bodybuilder said, grabbing the base of his ever-growing cock, stroking himself as he stepped forward. “I reckon you’s gonna be mine, like my brother is now, ‘n like the doc soon will be—like ev’rybody’s gonna. See, Pretty Boy, I’m becoming a god—and a god needs worshippers. So take my cum-union…”

His eyes rolled back in his head—Christian would swear he could see the man growing—and Giant Little Budd blew another viscous load.

The boy hadn’t spoken the entire flight home—Sheridan had tried to engage him several times, then finally thought, Fuck him. If he wants to sulk, let him. I just have to deliver the little shit, not make him feel better. 

It was weird enough that wispy little Rodney Hardwood now looked like a high school varsity athlete, the kind dripping with arrogance and cheerleaders. The boy had muscles! Legit muscles—the t-shirts that were normally loose on him fit him tightly across the chest and shoulders. His khaki seemed painted on, filled with a confidence that had never existed before.

And the way he sat, legs spread, one hand almost always on his crotch, Sheridan wondered what would’ve happened if they’d given him more than this “Primer”—like he wasn’t going to catch hell from the Senator for not stopping that!

At least Rodney wasn’t one of those freaks—Sheridan had kept that from happening—and to be honest, the boy looked pretty good right now. Maybe the Senator wouldn’t overreact. 

And maybe muscular pigs would fly.

As the car arrived at the Senator’s Georgetown duplex, Rodney was quick to exit and slam the door. Sheridan rolled down his window. “Rodney!” he called after the boy.

“I think I got it from here, Ron. Why don’t you head home for the day knowing you’ve done your best to ruin my life.”

“Rodney, I’m only doing what your father…”

“Fuck off!”

Sheridan grunted—maybe there’d been some testosterone in that Primer? Rodney was suddenly acting like a normal teenager. Sheridan got out of the car.

“My instructions were to deliver you…”

“Fuck your instructions.”

“...to your father upon return, just to make sure you don’t sneak off again.”

Dialing the combination into the keypad, the front door unlocked for Rodney—he slid inside quickly and gracefully and used the door to bar Sheridan from entering. “I got it from here,” Rodney said firmly, filling the open space between the door and the jamb. “If you really feel the need, you can text my father and tell him I’m coming upstairs to his office right now. You’re gonna anyway. Thanks a lot, Ron.”

He slammed the door in Sheridan’s face—the sound of the lock engaging—like Sheridan didn’t know the code and couldn’t just follow him.

Ah, fuck him. Sheridan thought. Let him face the firing squad without me running interference. I’m done—I should have left him with the freaks.

Without looking back, Sheridan hopped in his car and drove away.

He didn’t even text the Senator a warning.

Senator Johnson Hardwood had several offices, depending on the demands of any particular day. His small office at the D.C. Capitol Building, of course, which he only used on days where his presence was demanded for a vote or hearing, his formal office downtown in the Senate Office Building, the most frequented by his staff, and his home office in Georgetown, when he wanted to read a bill in peace without interruption, or he had to travel, or it was a weekend.

He worked at home today because he was waiting for his son’s arrival. Still dressed for the office, suit and tie—though he’d hung the jacket over the back of his chair—a slim man, the Senator had always been fastidious and formal, believing more work got done when one was dressed appropriately. He’d tried to get that through to his disconnected son, but nothing seemed to register with that boy. He’d gone to the finest private schools, had the best breeding, exposed to the right people, and still he was a willowy wimp who thought these Littleman freaks were “men”. 

Those over-muscled, dick-loving, pea-brained idiots were nothing more than a cult, a bunch of drug-addled hedonist homosexuals who’d lost their path from the true God, Capitalism.

The Senator would show his son what true power was.

“Father?”

Hardwood snapped his head to the door—why hadn’t he had any warning? Where was Ron…? No, it was…

His son…? 

What the hell had happened to his son?

The boy stood in the doorway with confidence, with better posture than he’d ever had before, straight and true, almost proud. He’d been nothing but skin and bone the last time the Senator had seen him, now a lean athlete appeared in his place. 

“Rodney?” the Senator asked. “What’s happened to you?”

“They tried to get me,” the boy cried, tears forming in his eyes. “They wanted me to be a freak! Oh, father!”

He crossed the few steps between them and threw himself into the Senator’s arms, sobbing.

The Senator had been expecting a very different scene—he was confused. This wasn’t the angry confrontation he’d prepared himself for. He hadn’t hugged his son like this since… Had he ever hugged his son? 

And not just a hug, either—an embrace!

His son clung to him, his new, stronger arms surrounded the Senator’s torso like an octopus, or a constrictor. 

Why was he crying?

“Son,” the Senator said, uncomfortably stroking the boy’s back, “it’s okay. You’re away from them.” 

“I know,” Rodney said, pulling his head away, looking his father in the eye. “Back in the protective arms of my father where I belong. Where love can flourish, and we can grow…”

“What?”

“I love you, Father.”

And with that, Rodney kissed the Senator on the lips, holding their heads together, forcing his tongue into the Senator’s mouth. 

The Senator tried to struggle, but it was too late.

His son began to grow in his arms.

Dr. Troy stood in front of the open medicine cabinet, looking over the many vials he stored there. How had he not noticed that the single vial he’d had of X-Treme was missing? (And it had had a bright red cap, too—so he wouldn’t overlook it.) He shook his head.

It had to have been when he’d left Little Budd and Hoss Smith fucking on his examination table. Little Budd must have taken the vial then and probably micro-dosed himself, attempting to blame his sudden growth on Hoss Smith’s enhanced cum. Dr. Troy hadn’t bought into that excuse for a minute, but the truth hadn’t occurred to him, either. Little Budd could’ve gotten away with it if he’d stolen something the doc had plenty of—enhanced balls, strength, cock, ability—Dr. Troy would’ve never noticed a vial missing. Instead, Little Budd had gone for the extreme stuff.

What the hell was wrong with that man?

They all knew the stories—the origins of the formula.

Over two decades ago now, an Ad Man by the name of Tucker Forrest got a call to create a promotional line for what was then being called a Sports Supplement. During a luncheon with the supplement’s inventor, one Larry Littleman, Littleman slipped the drug into Forrest’s drink without Forrest’s knowledge.

At first, it was a comedically uncomfortable scene as Forrest began growing there in the restaurant, ripping through the seams of his pants, popping the buttons on his shirt, choking on his tie, afraid of what was happening to him, but at the same time, intrigued, turned on even. The surge of male hormones had an effect on his mind, as well as his body. 

He and Littleman barely made it to Littleman’s mansion before they were helplessly fucking each other. Unexpectedly, their enhanced cum had a strange effect when combined—it caused the two of them to grow even more.

It wasn’t long before, in Littleman’s backyard pool, they were caught in an endless cycle of grow, fuck, cum, grow, fuck, cum. 

By the time they were discovered by one of the office interns sent some days later to find Littleman, they’d grown so large Forrest and Littleman had to be removed from the pool with a crane and forklift. The mixture of cum they’d left behind in the pool was so potent, the intern that slipped into the pool also grew to hyper-size, as well as several of the first responders. The phenomenon of Littleman’s Men mixing their cum to form a sort of super growth formula has been noted before, even within the group the Budd Brothers had transformed in. The old man in that group became another of the Hypers, a group rumored to be kept by the Littleman’s Company on a private island somewhere, away from the prying eyes of the press.

Ultimately the Littleman’s Corporation created a formula to stabilize this reaction in the rare instance that this very scenario might play out—they’d actually gone over it at company medical training. 

The trick in this case was Little Budd’s cum itself. Maybe that was the effect from Hoss’ injection, who knows? Little Budd’s cum seemed to enslave whoever ingested it, making them somewhat mindless worshippers of his. Dr. Troy would have to be careful when administering the stabilizer or he might become a victim himself—fortunately, Little Budd’s balls were some pretty big targets. 

Dr. Troy found the vial he searched for and loaded it into his transdermal gun—he held this like a side-iron in a cowboy movie and exited his office in the loft of the barn. He could hear Little Budd’s deep basso voice below, moaning and mumbling things like “fuckin’ look at me” “sooo big” and the like.

The stairs were mounted along the south wall and Dr. Troy was able to see that, even in the few minutes since he’d run upstairs, Little Budd had grown. He stood somewhere between nine and ten feet while his musculature continued to thicken and grow. That he still had mobility shocked the Doc—but somehow, even with his mass, he still had some kind of athletic grace. 

(The stories were that both Littleman and Forrest, once given the Stabilizer Formula, went on to live very productive, somewhat normal lives. Hell, look what an empire Littleman has created since—not that he’s seen in public all that much.)

Big Budd knelt before the mirror facing Little Budd who faced his own reflection—he was enraptured by his brother’s transformation, enslaved by his brother’s enhanced ejaculate, mindlessly jerking off with a look of absolute bliss on his face. Had he gotten bigger, too? It seemed so to Dr. Troy—nothing would surprise him right now.

Where was the other guy, the new guy, Christian? 

Had he escaped?

That would certainly lessen the danger. 

Hopefully Big Budd was so out of it, he wouldn’t get in Troy’s way, either. 

Little Budd continued to flex in the mirror, his huge erection bobbing before him as he posed. Each squeeze of the muscle seemed to make them grow more, which obviously turned him on—his cock leaked clear, sweet precum like a trail of syrup, thick and slick. Dr. Troy could smell it from ten or so yards away. 

Tempting, even knowing its dangers.

Little Budd was fast approaching another orgasm which meant another growth spurt—Troy knew that was the time to strike, while Little Budd was reloading. 

Just like that, Little Budd stood firmly, flexing his entire body at once, and he shot a magnificent load toward his reflection, covering his brother like a blanket of snow. 

Now! Troy thought. The time is now!

And just as he was about to move, Little Budd laughed. “I see you over there, Doc.” He moaned slightly as he leaked out a little more—he thickened. “I see the gun in your hand. I reckon you ain’t gonna stop me from growin’. I won’t let ya.”

Troy approached tentatively. “We’ve gotta stabilize this, Little Budd, before it gets out of control.”

“I reckon the bigger I get, the better I feel—stronger, sexier, more powerful and manly. Why would I want it to stop? Not yet, Doc—maybe never.”

Troy took another step toward him. “That’s the drug talking, Little Budd—it’s designed to make you feel like that.”

“Don’t come no closer,” Little Budd said menacingly. “I see what you’re tryin’ t’do—I done rodeo long enough to know how to rope a bull. You ain’t stoppin’ me, Doc.” While keeping his eye on Dr. Troy, he called over his shoulder, over his enormous trap. “Hey, ‘big’ brother, Doc’s tryin’ t’ hurt me. Stop him, will ya?”

Big Budd, still smeared in his brother’s ejaculate, wiping his face and licking himself clean, putting himself even more in his brother’s power with each drop, suddenly focused on Dr. Troy, his expression becoming angry and protective. “Not… hurtin’... my brother!” he growled, curling his hands into fists. “Stop… you…”

Without warning, Big Budd launched himself at Dr. Troy like he was back on his high school football team, angry and pumped and eager to score.

Little Budd laughed, flexed in the mirror, and continued to grow.

While the other guys were getting all the ridiculous muscles, Greg’s enhancements were performance-oriented, gains in stamina and strength, ability and adaptation. Greg got Smokey to cum using only his throat—and the salty flavor of Smokey’s cum had an aftertaste like chlorine from the pool. Greg loved it immediately—this morning a virgin, but now sure to be the team’s blowjob captain when he returned home.

Smokey continued to thicken through the shoulders, chest, and arms, and though his gut used to be his dominant feature, now it was just added thickness, his distended set of tortoise-shell abs, his popped-out belly button. Smokey was as hairy as Greg was smooth but both were hot in their own way, just opposite ends of a spectrum.

They were joined there on the dock by Emilio and Keywon, both of whom had made appreciable gains since they’d last seen them—Emilio resembled a gymnast or a wrestler, tight and strong but still plenty muscular and graceful. His thick upper back and shoulders led the eye to his almost impossible waist, his tight, sweaty abs and loose Latin hips. He could suck his own dick because he was that flexible—not like Greg, who could suck his own dick because it was that long.

Keywon was huge—thick, dense, and solid. His legs were still slimmer than his upper body, making him look more like a dancer and less like a bodybuilder—even his package, though obviously enhanced, didn’t look completely out of proportion like Greg’s did. The biggest change in Keywon was his pronounced backside, his spectacular bubble-butt. 

No man could look at it and not wonder if it was as cushiony soft as it appeared—what would it be like to fuck that thing?

Wow.

All four made a production out of their changes, posing for each other and talking at once, all eager to display themselves—even Papa Bear. How hard they all were, flexing for each other on the dock. 

Keywon was enamored with Greg’s cock. “You ever fuck with that big thing?” he asked, fondling his own. 

Greg laughed. “I never fucked with it when it was a small thing.”

Keywon nodded. “Time to start.”

That’s how they ended up Keywon bent over the edge of the dock, legs in the water, as Greg fucked that beautiful butt of his while Emilio straddled Keywon’s back to allow Greg to suck his uncut Latin cock.

Bliss—it was freakin’ bliss! thought Greg, able to do more with Emilio’s cock orally because it wasn’t the firelog Smokey sported.

“Youse boys are better ‘n porn!” Smokey called, puffing and stroking. 

Emilio, his hand on the back of Greg’s head as Greg greedily blew him, turned to Smokey and said, “Get in the game, Papi—don’t keep that sweet polla all to yourself.”

Smokey snorted and rolled up onto his knees, sticking that big, hairy maw right into Emilio’s crack, slobbering as he began eating Emilio’s hole, getting it wet enough to take his big fireman’s hose. 

Greg kept thinking it couldn’t get any better, but it continually improved as they grew, as the formula shaped them. Even Greg, who wasn’t gaining the muscle size the others were, still continued to improve aesthetically, definition and power. His core was as rock-solid as a marble column, carved by an artisan from the very hardest stone, an anatomical study of perfection.

The cock was a compensatory gift from the gods.

Like Greg, it just hung long, slightly tapered with a triangular head, looking like it could pry its way into any hole and drill deep—he absolutely loved it, especially the way it distorted his speedos. He was gonna rock the swim team!

So there they were, Greg slowly fucking Keywon as Keywon laid with his arms out to his sides, hugging the dock, while Greg sucked Emilio’s big burrito, while Smokey, puffing away on a cigar, fucked Emilio’s talented hole. 

Just yesterday they’d been strangers.

They hadn’t taken much time to think of their missing comrades. They would’ve missed Rodney before they’d miss Christian, of course, but maybe the changes brought on by the Littleman’s Formula would make Christian a little more palatable. 

“Guys!” 

Speak of the devil.

Christian was running down the hill from the barn, wearing only blue Littleman’s posers. When they’d arrived, Christian already had a rockin’ bod—which he’d clearly known and capitalized on—even if he’d been lacking slightly in the package department. He had that sort of frat boy confidence that Greg envied as much as hated. 

Seeing that Christian had improved along with the rest of them was both aggravating and somehow exciting at the same time. Maybe he’d lost some of his straight-boy hangups. He was the biggest of the group now, even surpassing Keywon in overall size, nearly the same as one of the ranch hands. Massive yet somehow beautiful. He ran like a machine, his form magnificent, his enhanced package bouncing back and forth between his robust thighs, the sides of his Littleman’s briefs low on his hips, his blond bush poking over the top. 

With a cock like that, it’d be easy to forget what a dick he was.

“Guys! Guys!”

Although he’d been sprinting, he was barely winded when he came bounding down the dock. If he’d processed what he was seeing, he might’ve reacted differently, but he seemed hell-bent on his own agenda.

Typical.

“Well, holy shit, look at you!” Smokey said, turning slightly from Emilio but leaving his cock deep in his friend’s ass—a fireplug. “You’re gettin’ pretty damn big yourself.”

But Christian wasn’t distracted. “Guys, something’s wrong!”

Keywon barely lifted his head. “No, I think everything’s going exactly as it’s supposed to.” He looked sideways at Greg. “You’re doin’ good, swim boy. Find a rhythm.”

“No—no! Up at the barn! Something’s happening…!”

And just then, the wall of the barn exploded and two giant bodybuilders came rolling out, wrestling with each other, deep in combat—or was it foreplay?

It was hard to tell—but as these two giant identical freaks rolled down the hill toward the guys on the dock, nobody had much time to think.

The Senator hadn’t held his son in his arms since the boy had been a babe—and not that much, then—they paid a nanny, after all. And the son he’d been used to was a willowy thing who required an anchor in a strong wind, lest the gusts blow his bird-like bones into the air. Whatever they’d done to him at this Ranch, he was already a very different young man—the athletic build, the solid lines. It was as if he’d hit puberty all at once overnight.

And then the boy started weeping, which was always the Senator’s cue to hand things over to his wife—the Senator didn’t tolerate emotional children well. Unfortunately, his wife was back in their home state, managing the house and the other children while the Senator worked in DC and kept track of Rodney in Private School, readying him for University in the Fall. 

At least he’d been a typical teen in his rebellion—although the Senator would’ve preferred Rodney had just gotten a tattoo to this Littleman’s nightmare. Obviously, the boy chose the Ranch because he knew that would get under his father’s skin more than some ink. Tattoo regret can be fixed—there’s no Buyer’s Remorse for the Littleman Protocol. 

Obviously, from his odd behavior, the boy had had some kind of weird experience while there. The slight weight gain, the change in posture—they’d done something to him—but now the emotional release, it was confusing. You’d think, at least starting to look like a man, he’s yell like a typical teen, not weep like a baby anymore.

Regardless, the Senator attempted to comfort him, but not surprisingly, he lacked the necessary skills for consolation.

And then the most unexpected moment of all—the moment his son Rodney kissed him. Not just some little peck, either, a full blown kiss on the lips. Rodney used his new-found strength to hold the two of them together, to keep Senator Hardwood trapped in his grip. 

And then the tongue!

Good Christ, if it wasn’t bad enough his son was kissing him in a romantic context, it’s that the boy forced his tongue into the Senator’s mouth, holding the Senator’s head in place with his hands.

Wet, sloppy, kiss—so much spit. 

And then, just as suddenly, Rodney pulled back, a thin line of spittle connecting their mouths, a faraway smile on his face. 

“Rodney, what the hell is going on?”

The boy moaned slightly. “It’s starting to happen,” he said. 

“What?”

But his son twitched in his grip, nearly doubling over—was he in pain? Something was happening—it felt like Rodney was getting bigger in his arms. 

“Yes!” Rodney said, smiling, breaking away from his father. “Oh my god, yes!!”

The boy’s erection was obvious in his gym shorts, pointing proudly north. 

“Rodney?”

His son laughed, his voice seeming somehow deeper than even a moment ago. “You were the trigger—your spit!” He couldn’t help but flex, which almost seemed to help his muscles grow. 

Dear God, the boy was growing before the Senator’s eyes! How was that possible? What had they done to him?

His bones lengthened—he was taller than his father for the first time—but instead of pain, the transformation seemed to be causing him ecstasy. Bringing his arms together before him, flexing his back, the Senator could hear the boy’s t-shirt rip, unable to contain him any longer, the material giving way. Joyous, the boy flexed his biceps just to watch them tear away from the sleeves.

“YES!” Rodney cried. “LOOK AT ME!”

He was panting, breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling, thickening—and was that hair? Was he getting chest hair, too?

His father changed tone from astonishment to anger. “RODNEY!” he said sternly. “Stop this!”

And then the boy reached in his shorts and grabbed his stiff member. “Oh, fuck no!” he growled. “I’m not stopping anything!”

Because of his thickening thighs, the baggy gym shorts had become almost as form-fitting as yoga pants before they, too, split open, revealing his son’s hairy new package. The boy’s penis had to be nine or ten inches long by this point—and it seemed to be growing in the same way his muscles were—filling from the inside and expanding. 

So horrified, the Senator didn’t know how to react. He wanted to run, but to where? For what? He wanted to stop this nightmarish transformation somehow, but he didn’t know how to do that, either. He couldn’t call for help—his phone was on his desk and this monstrosity was between them.

What had been a willowy, delicate boy was now a massive meathead, a bodybuilder, a side of beef. Over six and a half feet tall, close to three hundred pounds (he’d no doubt break three-hundred before the transformation had finished), the behemoth that was once his son, still with his son’s youthful face, stood there breathing deeply, taking himself in, flexing and finding his best angles, an evil smile on his face.

He stroked his newly enhanced penis—the Senator was disgusted.

“Stop that!” the Senator tried to command, tried to maintain a fatherly role and tone. “It’s disgusting! Bad enough these freaks did this to you—get something and cover yourself up!”

“Cover perfection, father?” the boy said, smiling, stroking himself. “Why would I do that? It feels so good…”

A tiny pearl of pre-cum appeared on the tip of Rodney’s cock, leaving a trail behind as it slowly sank down to the floor. 

“So close…”

“Rodney, stop this!”

They boy smiled. “But it’s your turn, father.”

“What?”

Rodney laughed, stroking himself that much faster. “I’m gonna…”

And then he climaxed, orgasming in front of the Senator, his father. Rodney blew a ridiculous load, easily a bucket-full of cum.

And it hit the Senator square in the face, like a cream pie in a low-brow comedy.

It got in his eyes, his nose, his hair—his mouth.

Disgusting.

But there was something about the taste… 

Big Budd attacked Dr. Troy with all the mindlessness of a zombie, or a creature enslaved, or a man under the influence of some mind-altering drug. In this case, his younger brother’s ejaculate, which presented its own unique set of problems for Dr. Troy to figure out, though now wasn’t the time with a three-hundred pound bodybuilder charging him. 

Fortunately, Big Budd was no combatant in real life, not even high school wrestling, so all he had as an advantage was his size—and he had Dr. Troy by a good fifty pounds.

In his heart, Dr. Troy knew the ultimate weakness with the Littleman’s Formula—the bigger a man got, the less he cared about anything other than muscle, cock, and sex, his own maleness. It was the reason Troy had allowed himself to only get so big—he never wanted to lose his rational mind. He never wanted to succumb to the lust that ruined the rest of them. (Tempting as it often was.)

Little Budd—though he would soon need a new nickname—had injected himself with the X-Treme Formula. It hadn’t even been in his system an hour yet and he was already nine-and-a-half feet tall and probably four or five hundred pounds of mass, growing by the moment. While Big Budd was busy attacking Dr. Troy, Little Budd flexed for himself in the mirror, in awe, in lust, masturbating his growing cock, enraptured by his own hypermuscularity.

Big Budd was under the spell of Little Budd’s cum—it had done something to him. He was completely in Little Budd’s power. And Little Budd had known that Dr. Troy had the antidote.

And Little Budd didn’t want it—so he sicced Big Budd like a dog, and Big Budd was only happy to obey, coated in Little Budd’s mind-controlling jism. 

Because Big Budd was slick with his brother’s cum, slipping out of his grip became relatively easy. Keeping it out of his own mouth was going to be more of a challenge for Dr. Troy—he didn’t want to end up another smitten musclehead. Big Budd grabbed at the Doctor again, arms encircling the Doctor’s waist—Troy could feel Big Budd’s erection against his thigh. 

“Budd, listen to me!” Dr. Troy pleaded. “Shake it off!”

But Big Budd was angry. “Won’t… let you… hurt…my brother!”

He slammed Troy down on the matted floor and covered the doctor with his cum-coated body. 

“I’m not gonna hurt him, Budd—I’m gonna help him!” 

Big Budd rolled him over, like he was pinning him—or maybe he was thinking he was going to fuck the doc? 

Because of his size, Big Budd was significantly heavier and stronger than Dr. Troy—the Doctor stood little chance of escape. How was he going to get to Little Budd? What would Big Budd’s ejaculate do to him?

“Budd—stop!”

And then something occurred to Dr. Troy—maybe he didn’t need to give the stabilizer to Little Budd after all. Maybe it could be delivered in a different way, by a different carrier?

Why not? The genetic similarity…

When Big Budd shifted his weight, Dr. Troy rolled over, exposing the transdermal gun which he quickly and deftly blew into Big Budd’s balls.

Almost immediately, Big Budd twitched, wretched slightly like he was about to puke and then flexed his entire body, moaning loudly. 

“Doc?” he asked, quietly, breathing deeply. “What’s… happening?” He held his swelling balls. “What’s going on?”

Dr. Troy breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God that worked—your brother…”

Big Budd glanced over and saw the condition of his younger sibling, now a good three or four feet taller with a body that would be an obscenity if it weren’t so attractive and masculine, muscular and hairy. Little Budd was obsessed with his own reflection, flexing and masturbating and unaware of them completely. 

“What the hell…?”

“I tried to stop him, Budd, but he’s too big for me. But not for you.”

“What… what are you talkin’ about?”

Dr. Troy sighed. “I shot you full of the stabilizer,” he said, pointing to Big Budd’s swollen nads. “The antidote.”

Big Budd palmed his heavy sac. “What? Are you serious? What am I supposed to do?”

“You need to fuck him, Budd. You need to get your cum in him. I can’t get close to him—but you can! He thinks you’re under his spell. You can just walk right up to him.” Dr. Troy was very close to Big Budd’s ear—he could smell his brother’s semen in his hair. “You’re the only one who can do it—you gotta save him!”

Big Budd took an enormous deep breath, swelling the pillows of his chest, then he released it as a sigh.

Growling, he hoisted himself to his feet, ever shiny from his brother’s cum, Dr. Troy could see the big bubble of pre on the tip of Big Budd’s growing cock.

Growing…?

Not just his cock—all of him. Big Budd was growing.

Why was Big Budd growing? What in the name of biochem was going on?

Little Budd was on his knees facing the mirror when Big Budd approached him. Standing, Big Budd wasn’t as tall as Little Budd on his knees—but his cock was lined up perfectly with Little Budd’s not so little ass. He tried to reach around his brother’s torso and failed, like trying to grab the trunk of a sequoia, but he bit the back of Little Budd’s neck playfully as he slid his cock into Little Budd’s surprisingly tight hole.

Familiarity.

Little Budd loved it, rolling his head back and flexing a double bi—his massive cock sprang up and his orgasm began. He tried as hard as he could to get it all over his shoulder to his brother, into his brother’s gaping mouth. He wiped handfuls of it on his brother’s face.

The cum fed him—Big Budd grew as he fucked his brother. 

Dr. Troy was less stunned than afraid.

And then Big Budd shot—a load that should be laced with the stabilizer. The orgasm lasted nearly a minute by Dr. Troy’s observation. Big Budd pumped it right into Little Budd’s waiting ass. 

But it didn’t stop the two of them, not at all. Big Budd splashed down on his back into a puddle of his brother’s jizz—Little Budd spun around and now rode him, straddling his hips, dwarfing Big Budd between his legs.

But Big Budd continued to grow, his skin seeming to absorb all of it.

Until Little Budd shot again, his cum bubbling up out of a cock that was nearly the size of Dr. Troy’s torso and completely covering his brother beneath him. 

Yet he kept growing.

Both of them were growing.

Something was terribly wrong.

Something was wrong—his sweet innocent son stood before him as a hulking bodybuilder, one of those horrid Littleman’s Men, massive, mature, and muscular, but with Rodney’s youthful face. He’d torn through his t-shirt, burst from his gym shorts and now stood naked before his father, Senator Hardwood, with an erect penis that had to be a foot long!

The boy was flexing and mindlessly masturbating as he examined his sudden, new body. Unfortunately for the Senator, there were no mirrors in his office to distract his son while the Senator escaped to get help—if help was to be gotten.

Rodney laughed, a deep, villainous chuckle—because his neck was so thick, his voice had gotten deeper. He sounded like one of those dumb jocks whose testosterone-addled brains ruin fine society and dominate action movies.

“Look at me!” the boy said, flexing. “Who’s got the power now, father?” With quickness and athletic grace, the boy grabbed the Senator by the shirt and tie, pulling him close. 

“Rodney, what have they done to you?”

Rodney smiled. “They gave me something to give to you, father.”

He wiped the pearl of pre-cum that had formed on the tip of his cock and wiped it across his father’s lips. The Senator struggled, trying to shake himself free.

“Yeah, fight me,” Rodney said. “That kind of turns me on, the change in dynamics.”

He struggled getting the Senator’s belt unbuckled, which was the only moment the Senator felt he had any real chance of getting away. He didn’t know what Rodney had in store for him, but the Senator didn’t think he’d like it much, one way or the other. 

Of course, he couldn’t. Even as he started to move, Rodney tightened his grip on the Senator, holding him in place with intent. “You’re not going anywhere—we need some father/ son time.” He wiped another glob of precum from his cock and shoved his finger in the Senator’s mouth.

The Senator didn’t know what he expected it to taste like, but certainly not so sweet. If anything, he thought it would be salty and bitter—he hadn’t expected it to be delicious. His tongue fairly followed his son’s finger as he pulled it out—ambrosia.

“What the hell…?”

“I can tell you like it, Father. Look, there’s a whole lot more where that came from.” They both examined Rodney’s penis, the pre-cum bubbling like a geyser about to blow. Rodney swiped it with his finger and offered it to Senator Hardwood (who was starting to get wood). 

“No…” the Senator said, unable to take his eyes from it, licking his lips.

But then he went for his son’s finger like a fish to a lure.

“Gets you all horny, doesn’t it, Father?”

The Senator suckled the boy’s finger, loving the taste.

And Rodney was right about another thing—the Senator was getting excited.

He knew it was wrong—a sin—but he couldn’t help it. His body betrayed him—his own penis wasn’t on his side, a covert spy. How could he be turned on sexually by his own son? His own son’s muscles?

His own son’s huge endowment?

His son’s penis was right there between them, nearly a foot long, gurgling, leaking the fluid that the Senator wanted—the dreaded Littleman’s Formula, wasn’t it? 

Damn it—those bastards. He couldn’t let them win—not like this.

“Stop fighting it, Father—you’ve been fighting it for too long.” He pushed the Senator to his knees. “Right now you should just… suck…”

Right there in his face—how could he get away? So aromatic, so horny…no escape.

He didn’t take Rodney’s cock in his mouth—he couldn’t—but he began licking the slit like a melting ice cream, desperate to not let the sweat cream get lost down the hard cone. 

So horny…

His own cock was erect—loving its sin. 

Maybe he had been protesting too much? Maybe he really hated these Littleman’s Men because he’d wanted to be one so badly, but just couldn’t admit it outside the darkest depths of his fantasies? 

His own son displayed more bravery—more truth.

“That’s the way,” Rodney coached, his breath getting heavier. “Here it cums, Dad. Here it cums.”

The perversity—the sickness—he barely had his son’s glans in his mouth before the boy orgasmed, his thick, formula-laden cream filling the Senator’s throat to overflowing in barely two shots. 

He had no choice, swallow or choke. 

So he swallowed—he didn’t stop swallowing, even as more and more came.

The Senator could feel his own belly expanding, filling him with warmth.

It was almost a relief when his own growth began.

Little Budd was somewhere around ten feet tall, though he still got thicker—Big Budd continued growing. Already he was closing in on his brother’s height—Dr. Troy guesstimated it at eight feet. It was hard to tell in that position.

Big Budd was fucking his brother, lying on his back as Little Budd straddled him, shooting an endless load between them which both of them seemed to absorb. 

They were lost in the throes of passion. 

Like wrestlers, they suddenly rolled over until Big Budd was on top, fucking Little Budd on his back, legs up on Big Budd’s shoulders. 

They were wrestling with each other while they fucked—they were playing.

They were boys again—brothers.

Giant brothers.

They were laughing and moaning and teasing and coaxing, endlessly cumming.

They tore through the wall of the barn like tissue paper, rolling down the gentle slope toward the pond, leaving a trail of cum behind them. 

Dr. Troy grabbed his phone and called the home office immediately.

This was serious—they were going to require extraction before anybody else got involved.

“Hello. Welcome to the Littleman’s Medical Emergency Help-Line. Your call is important to us—please hold for the next available agent.”

Shit.

Where had Christian gone? And where were the rest of the new guys? Dr. Troy knew he had to get them isolated, too. 

That’s when he heard the commotion down at the Pond. 

Now what?

He knew it was happening—the Senator could feel how tight his shirt was around his neck. He felt the button pop as he sucked on his son’s glorious penis. The more of cum he drank, the thicker he became—he knew it, but he didn’t stop what he was doing, either.

The Senator felt his shirt tear along the back and side seams as he grew out of it—it didn’t explode, it was as if it was filled with yeast and it just expanded in every direction. He could feel the thickness of his own body. He resisted the urge to flex, intent on taking in more cum. 

He burst from his pants in largely the same way.

God forgive him—it felt so good!

Yes, he was sucking on his son, but it was his own erection that fascinated him. It swelled harder than it had ever been, just like his body, growing from the inside out. The Senator dropped his left hand from Rodney’s cock to feel his own—so sensitive, even touching it caused him to gasp slightly. It felt like a different tool—something so familiar to his hand yet something suddenly so different, so much bigger. 

“Oh my dear God!” the Senator said and shot a very unexpected load—the orgasm was almost crippling in its intensity. He’d never felt anything like it.

And it didn’t abate. After he’d finished, he was still just as horny—more.

Rodney laughed. “Now you see,” he said, smiling. “Now you understand.”

The Senator felt so good. “I gotta see myself,” he said, standing on significantly stronger legs. “Gotta get to a mirror.” He flexed for himself. “Why does it have to feel so good?”

“That’s why I wanted it so bad,” Rodney said, still leaking. “To be a man like you.”

At full height, the Senator was taller than his son, and he knew he was bigger—he could tell. Just in the way he had to carry himself to move through the room—he could feel his new width. 

They went to their home gym in the basement where there were mats on the floor and an entire wall was mirrored. He walked naked and erect with his son through their house and didn’t think anything of it all—what had this stuff done to his sense of shame? To his inhibition?

Why couldn’t he bring himself to care?

When he saw himself in the mirror—Senator Hardwood’s head on a Littleman’s body—he would’ve freaked out if he hadn’t found himself so attractive. Muscular and hairy—he wasn’t like those vain men that shaved and oiled and tanned and flexed onstage—he was raw, masculine, hairy, powerful. He raised his arms in a double biceps and his cock immediately sprang back to life, raging up out of the dense forest of his pubic bush.

Standing beside him, Rodney mimicked the pose, his own erection having never abated.

For the first time, Senator Hardwood could see the genetic connection to his son—the same hair patterns, the same muscle and bone structure, the same cock.

“Look what you’ve done to me,” the Senator said, looking at himself from all sides—what a perfect ass! “You’ve made me into one of those freaks!” He grabbed his son and pulled him into a hug. “And you made me love it!” he said, kissing the boy on the mouth.

“Oh, father,” Rodney moaned. “Would you just fuck me already? I’ve been waiting so long.”

Senator Hardwood didn’t make him wait a second longer.

Smokey was loving what this hot Latino boy could do with his hips. Fucking this kid was like fucking the best hundred-dollar whore down at the strip club. And whatever this formula had done to Smokey’s cock was just beyond expectation—the bigger and thicker it got, the more sensitive it became. He’d gotten into this Littleman’s thing to get rid of his gut, anything else was just gravy. 

And what gravy it was, white and creamy and loaded with muscle. 

Damn, this kid could fuck. 

“You got a great _polla, Papi_—it’s so thick!”

Smokey patted Emilio’s ass as he casually puffed his cigar. “You’re takin’ it like a pro, kid!”

Meanwhile, propped up on his elbows as he lay over the end of the dock half submerged in the water, Keywon sucked Emilio’s cock while Greg, the lean swimmer with the monster dick fucked Keywon from behind. 

And the pleasure just kept amping up, growing along with their muscles. It was five-alarm-fire hot.

Smokey would never have considered himself a queer—he hadn’t had sex with anybody in nearly a decade, so what did labels matter? But he loved fucking ass. And he loved being called Daddy.

He was already thinking things were gonna run differently back at the station.

And then suddenly, there was that mug Christian running down the hill from the barn, yelling his face off. Funny how Smokey hadn’t missed him one bit during this transformation scene on the dock—frankly, he was more interested in Rodney’s tight little butt—but Smokey conceded that the Littleman’s Formula had improved even snotty-ass Christian. 

He wasn’t as big as the rest of them, but he looked damn fine. Smokey’d have to see him out of the posing trunks, of course…

“Guys! Guys!”

He was trying to warn them about something, but before he could get it out of his mouth, that something burst through the side of the barn. 

These two guys—these two giant guys! They actually looked like two of the same guy, same hair, same scruffy beards—they had to have been brothers!

Yeah, one of them was that Big Budd guy—the owner—they’d met him last night when they’d gotten the Primer. Hadn’t he mentioned a brother?

Double B, right?

Big Budd—what was the other guy, Giant Budd?

They were huge—were they still human? Twice the height of Smokey, so ten to twelve feet tall, massive, muscle-laden beasts. 

Were they fighting? Was it foreplay?

They were wrestling as they rolled down the short hill toward the pond, aimed straight at the dock and the five new guys. 

Smokey barely had time to yell, “Get out the way!” before the Budd Brothers steam-rolled down the dock. Smokey grabbed Emilio around the waist and threw the two of them into the pond—Greg and Keywon ducked down at the end of the dock into the water, so the Brothers rolled right past them.

Ironically, the only person who hadn’t gotten out of the way was the one who’d warned them in the first place, Christian. 

The Brothers bowled over him like a spare pin in the tenth frame. 

They went airborne, despite their great weight, splashing down in the center of the pond, laughing and kissing each other, their massive erections spewing non-stop, a lava flow of cum, spreading out into the water.

And there was poor Christian, crushed between them, coated in a thick layer of their combined ejaculate, like the heavy woolen layer on a sacrificial lamb. He didn’t look like he was breathing.

Holy God, was Christian going to drown in their jizz?

Smokey was immediately a first-responder.

“One o’ youse get me a rope!” he called to the boys. 

“I can get him,” Greg shouted back. “I’m a lifeguard!”

And he was swimming out into the pond before anyone could stop him.

The first time the Senator fucked his son, it was facing the mirror, doggy style. Watching his son’s youthful face moan as he received the Senator’s huge new penis corrupted the Senator completely. Look at his huge, powerful, hairy body—the excess of muscle, the raw pheromones and the laden genitals. Why had he feared this for so long?

He wasn’t quite ready to see himself fucked, though—not yet—intrigued as he was—instead, he and his son found their way to the hot tub where he mounted his son while he sat on the boy’s lap.

Ecstasy. 

His son had barely gotten inside when the Senator began to orgasm.

Rodney made some off-hand joke about filling the hot tub with their cum.

Senator Hardwood was all for trying.

Strangely, they found their bodies reabsorbed it before it could really amass.

They kept growing.

The water was cloudy with the brothers’ cum and Greg wasn’t wearing his goggles, but he found Christian pretty easily—he was the only human-sized object between the pillars of the brothers’ legs. Greg tried as hard as he could not to breathe or ingest anything, but he failed miserably. 

By the time he wrangled Christian to shore, he was hard and horny himself—maybe he’d just roll Christian’s body over and fuck it while he was still unconscious. Snotty jerk would deserve it…

Greg’s cock was just about to do the thinking for him when the other guys ran up. 

“Nice save, Baywatch,” Keywon said, patting Greg’s shoulders, noting how much bigger Greg’s dick had gotten—Christian’s, too.

“Is he breathin’?” asked Smokey, rolling Christian onto his side and pounding his back. Laying him back down, Smokey began doing mouth-to-mouth.

Christian was coated with the sticky cum from the Budd Brothers, but it seemed to be absorbing into his skin like lotion.

After a few puffs from Smokey, Christian suddenly coughed up a sludge of thick white cum—Smokey caught a good deal of it in the face—then the blond pretty boy began to breathe on his own. 

The guys cheered.

Christian felt up his muscular body—not even a thank you. “Do I still look okay?” he asked. “Am I still hot?”

The Budd Brothers were like a fountain in the middle of the pond, blasting a never-ending stream of thick ejaculate. That which wasn’t reabsorbed mixed with the water, forming a marbled silt, which looked almost like diluted smoke or egg drop soup that lacked color. 

For their own part, the brothers were obsessed with their repetitive cycle of flexing, fucking, and cumming. 

And growing,

Even seeing it, it was difficult to comprehend their size. Twelve feet? Maybe more. 

Each of their cocks was as big as a normal man.

It was unimaginable—the brain simply couldn’t compute.

The new guys stood on the shore for a long time, watching the brothers in their endless cycle, unable to help jerking off as they witnessed the growth before them.

Around five-o’clock, the ranch hands showed up. “I reckon we were comin’ up to invite you boys to a barbeque down t’ the Ranch House,” Jackson explained. “But first we was gonna skinny dip.”

Dr. Troy tried to curtail them, but a few jumped in anyway.

It wasn’t until sunset that the rescue vehicles arrived—and the Littleman’s Hazmat team. 

That was really the end of the party.

In some ways, the home office was happy for the opportunity to restaff and slightly repurpose the Ranch. Although the property itself was owned by the Budd Brothers, the Littleman’s Company had underwritten the loan for the mortgage, so it took very little legal maneuvering for them to claim the property outright. 

Given their current circumstances, neither of the Budd Brothers seemed to care.

The home office installed Hoss Smith as Chief of Operations which seemed a good use of his talents—and got him out of the Executive Washroom and the glory hole that suddenly had appeared there. His accounting abilities and personnel skills really were unrivaled—as were his oral skills—he had a way that put new clients at ease and simultaneously kept the old ones happy. 

Significantly better than the well-meaning, but inept number-bungling of his predecessor, Big Budd. A sweet guy—everybody agreed—who kept his attendance high and the cash rolling in, but it was more because the ranch hands were good with their ropes, not because of Big Budd’s business acumen. 

And the useless younger brother wasn’t even worth discussing.

The Littleman’s Company ultimately drained the pond on the Ranch where the two Budd Brothers had deposited so much ejaculate that the water remained contaminated nearly a week after the event. Even though it had been fenced off, the Ranch Hands kept breaking through (more likely jumping over) and swimming anyway. Even after a week, the waters were still causing them to grow slightly—so the company drained it, no doubt intending to sell the water themselves, probably as a “sports drink”. They were so transparent.

Dr. Troy was written up—he’d left his medicine cabinet open, after all. Not that someone with the size and determination of Little Budd couldn’t have broken through the glass easily, but the fact remained that Dr. Troy had left the door wide open when he’d been called away to Big Budd’s office. 

Hoss Smith himself hadn’t known about the thievery—and he’d been with Little Budd at the time—so he had empathy with Dr. Tory, but the write-up remained in his personnel file anyway. 

Of course, the home office, being the home office, assigned Dr. Troy an assistant, not medical, but administrative. Seems like the home office wasn’t quite ready to trust him, yet. 

Whatever—it actually made his life easier. And his assistant wasn’t hard on the eyes, either, another cute little blond with the body of a god. Their relationship didn’t remain professional for long (especially after Troy secretly boosted his assistant’s libido). 

Dr. Troy would always be Dr. Troy, after all—continually giving away company material for nothing other than his own aesthetic preferences. 

The home office was certain he’d manipulated the batch of men that had been present during the Budd Brothers’ transformation, but it was difficult to discern because they’d all been exposed to the pond water, making it impossible to tell which mutations were purposeful and which weren’t. Since all five of that class weren’t displaying any adverse effects, they were vacated from the Ranch the next day, ending their week stay two days early. 

No refunds were offered.

The Ranch continued—one could even say it prospered—under its new leadership and formatting, but it still maintained the name DOUBLE B with a picture of the Budd Brothers mounted right in the main office. They were their old cowboy selves, too big for their jeans and plaid shirts, sleeves torn off, smiling with their arms around each other’s shoulders.

They weren’t like that anymore.

“And Rudder takes the lead!”

“Go, Rudder!” his teammates hollered, trying to egg him on. “Bring it home!”

“Rud-der—Rud-der!” they chanted.

Even as he slid through the water, pounding out the stroke cadence, Greg could hear them yelling his new nickname. He laughed to himself even as he free-styled it to the finish line. He’d been made anchor leg on the 4x200 relay, an honor for a freshman, and he intended to prove his worth. That he was a half lap ahead of his closest competitor spoke to his effort.

When they’d been sent home three days early from the Ranch, Greg had decided to show up unannounced at practice and surprise everybody. He’d been so excited about seeing their reactions—none of them could possibly expect Greg to have achieved such a level. He knew his Coach would be blown out of the water. 

Maybe someone would blow Greg in the water?

Golly, he was such a horny thing! 

That’s the one aspect of the transformation he hadn’t really expected—that his teenage sex drives would get even stronger! He could spend hours gooning now and still not get enough. My god, the way he’d been fucking those guys at the Ranch…

He still hadn’t bottomed, yet. “Not with a dick like that,” Keywon had said. “Who’s gonna wanna fuck you after they get a look at that?”

Greg hadn’t known, but he’d been kinda hoping that big ol’ Smokey would have. Well, Smokey probably would have if we hadn’t been sent home.

Admittedly, that had been a big bummer. They’d had only one good fuck scene before the whole thing had blown up. 

Those guys from the home office in the hazmat suits had been a bunch of dicks, poking and prodding and taking every sample possible. All five of the group had had exposure to the Pond water, of course, to greater or lesser degrees, but nobody seemed to have really suffered for it.

But the home office tested them like lab rats before ultimately clearing them and sending them home.

Greg couldn’t imagine what they’d been exposed to to cause that much concern—of course, he didn’t know the company’s origin or its history, either. 

What he had known was he’d put on a lot of size for a swimmer. 

And his dick—well, that was something all on its own.

He’d slipped into the locker room after the other guys had gone to the pool to begin warmups. Empty, every action he’d made seemed to echo through the space. After very little deliberation (really, just seeing himself in the mirror), Greg decided to wear speedos rather than jammers. Jammers were super-tight and there was no pouch built in, so a swimmer’s junk (if big enough) ended up going down one leg or the other). Greg looked ridiculous in these, like he’d been trying to shoplift a ham. But in the speedos, he could tuck himself in front—and though the size of his cock pulled the waistband of the trunks down, exposing the bare root of his tool, he looked masculine in these, at least. It still didn’t hide the fact that his dick was oversized, but at least it looked natural.

He mosied out onto deck like he had no place better to be, but dying for someone to notice him. Most of the guys were in the water already, swimming their warm-up. It was the Coach who saw him first.

“Gangley?!?”

Greg smiled and put his hands behind his head, showing his bare midsection, his stone-carved abs. “Hey, Coach!” he said. “What do you think?”

The coach crossed the cement deck toward him, a suspicious smile on his face. There was a time when Greg thought the Coach was pretty big, now he just saw him as another body.

“What the hell, Gangley? Look at you! How much you gain?”

Greg laughed. “Five days ago, I was six-two, one seventy-nine, right? As of this morning, I’m six-four, two-fifteen.” He flexed. “And as you can see, carved from marble.”

The Coach was awed, studying the swimmer like a zoo exhibit—he put his hand in his pocket and adjusted himself as he did. “But you’re so big—the protocol’s never gotten anyone that big.”

“Yeah, I know,” Greg said, turning around and giving him a view of Greg’s v-taper and thick lower traps—he seemed made to butterfly. “My class got exposed to something while we were there, something in the water. We all got more than we bargained for.” He inadvertently stroked his package. “But you don’t see me complaining.”

“No,” his coach said, licking a tiny amount of drool from the corner of his mouth as he stared. “But do you think you can swim with that thing?” 

He had been more than able to swim. Like the underside fins of a fish, his new cock aided his ability to steer and maneuver—it was literally a rudder.

That had been what the boys on the team started calling him—“Rudder”—and Greg accepted his new nickname and the social status that came along with it. 

He’d never taken a Performance-Enhancing-Drug, so he’d never experienced his body being able to outdo itself. All he knew now was that everything was easy—he slid through the water as if it didn’t create any drag at all—he never tired. Yes, he could push himself hard and be winded for a few seconds, but nothing exhausted him—he bounced back almost immediately.

The same had been true for his sex drive. 

He’d only jerked off with the seniors in the locker room shower a few times, but he’d fucked the coach nearly every day after practice. “Better for team bonding if you only jack together,” Coach said. “Fucking can lead to feelings.”

“I’m fucking you,” Greg said, fucking him.

Coach smiled. “And I love the way it feels.”

A few years later, Greg “The Rudder” Gangley made the Olympic Team and brought home more than a few golds. And after his retirement, after the endorsement deals, after his fifteen minutes, he went back to the Ranch.

And he got even more.

Emilio Caderas was the darling of the Littleman’s Review Company. Not only was he liked amongst his peers, the other dancers, but he treated the stage crew with respect and courtesy, which was always so rare among performers, so they all loved him, too. Even though he was clearly worthy of the spotlight, Emilio was no diva. He just loved to dance—and he was damn good at it. And because of his height, he almost always ended up in the front, which the audience loved.

He hadn’t really come in contact with the Budd Brothers’ cum—Smokey had pulled him into the pond, but they came ashore before it was contaminated—but Emilio’s body was damn fine for a Littleman’s Man. He was muscular and flexible and his uncut cock was stupidly sexy. Yeah, he was a little shorter than the other guys—the standard Littleman’s Man—but he didn’t see the problem. “I’m bite-sized,” he’d joke, “with a creamy filling.” His height just made his cock look bigger.

Time flew by in a haze of gyrations and orgasms.

Their contracts lasted only a year and when Emilio had his renegotiation meeting, he felt certain the producers were going to offer him the new National Tour he’d heard they were developing.

But that wasn’t what they’d had in mind at all.

The Littleman’s Corporation was seeking to create an erotic content arm for the company, using a core group for the first year or so and then adding to the stable as the demand grew. 

“Littleman’s Porn?” Emilio asked. “Are you kidding?”

One of the producers, Michael, asked, “We’ve heard you’d expressed some interest in breaking into erotic content. And after reviewing your TikTok and online presence, we think you’d have just the right kind of energy and charisma to help launch this new venture. What do you say? Join us?”

Emilio hadn’t even needed to see the contract before he’d agreed—fortunately, the contract was more than fair. One could even say generous. Doing what he loved and getting a paycheck for it? 

Emilio took that to the bank.

Several of the guys from the troupe left to do the porn-thing, but not Keywon. He’d been tempted, of course, but ultimately decided it wasn’t for him. He could only play the dom top so many times before somebody would talk him into bottoming on camera and that was a side of his sexuality that he kept vehemently private. He made his money from playing this Alpha role, he didn’t want anyone to see him being dominated.

He lost the braids and buzzed his head down, looking even more intimidating to the poor old ladies on the streets of Vegas (the ones who didn’t recognize him from the show). Fortunately, he lived away from the strip, up in Red Rocks, so he had something of a real life—still no boyfriend. Of course, a six-eight, three-hundred-pound man had trouble fitting in anywhere, even Vegas. 

Keywon was almost the biggest guy in the cast—there was this Samoan guy, stage name Maui… not even to be believed. His Haka Dance stopped the show every night. But Keywon’s aesthetic was much cleaner, sexier. 

As Emilio always said, Keywon was the superhero with the super-booty.

Then the producers offered him the new national tour, promising to develop a solo number for him that they’d incorporate into the main show when the tour ended.

And that was how Keywon ended up shaking his booty all across America, listening to audiences scream when he twerked in his lycra superhero threads. A dozen guys on that tour formed a brotherhood even more powerful than the one Keywon had with the guys at the Ranch, and each city they rolled into gave them so many new choices and opportunities in partners and playthings that his time in Kansas became nothing more than a memory, another stop on the road. 

When he got back into Vegas after the two-year tour, Maui the Samoan was there waiting.

And that’s a whole different story—because he wanted to get bigger, too.

“Hey, Pops—we’re gonna wash Engine One!”

In Philly, life at the firehouse had changed significantly. He hadn’t come home with the prize-winning, stage-ready build the younger guys sported, but Smokey wasn’t anything less than spectacular in his own right.

He’d been big to begin with—thick. His bones were used to hauling heavy weight, sturdy and strong. Of course, that’s when he’d had a body fat measurement of over sixty percent, not the six it was now. 

He had muscle, slabs and slabs of thick-cut beef, a rounded set of pecs that looked more like muscular breasts over his medicine-ball sized roidgut, all held up by a set of tree-trunk legs and an ass that defied imagination. (Second only to Keywon, he’d laugh to himself.) In just his work boots, his Dickie’s, and his station t-shirt, he looked like the kind of hero he’d always imagined himself being as a fireman. 

Of course he’d passed the physical—his Doctor had been blown away. Nobody had expected the extra boost some of them got from ingesting the Budd Brothers’ cum—and Smokey’d only gotten a faceful of if from when he’d given Christian mouth-to-mouth. Barely anything and he’d gained another fifty pounds of mass. 

No pretending he didn’t love it.

He’d weighed in over three-hundred pounds—still overweight technically, especially when one considered his BMI, but once he’d gotten stamped as having attended the Littleman’s Program, all of that went out the window.

He completed his run, not in record time, but well before the cut-off. Seeing Smokey run was mind-boggling in itself, that something that massive could leave the ground, that those legs could navigate each other. Who knew rhinos could sprint?

Fortunately, the boys in the firehouse were more than happy to take care of him.

It hadn’t been long before he was the Firehouse Daddy.

They started calling him “Pops”—most of them. The ones who needed to called him “Sir”—but he found “Pops” playful and respectful, so he allowed it. He’d begun living at the station full-time, letting the boys keep their revolving schedules, although some of them chose to stay there full-time with him. (And his monstrous cock.) They competed for his attention and the honor to serve him, as was due him in his position, they often slid down his pole, and he loved every minute of it.

Like right now, washing Engine One—a nice gesture, but it was just an excuse to be shirtless outside, to show off to the public. 

Smokey chuckled, watching those heavily-muscled young men clown around as he smoked a cigar in the garage door frame. The public was indeed staring—they’d drawn quite a crowd, these hunky young men of Station Sixty-Nine. 

Washing the truck will probably get as much social media attention as their silly Firemen’s Calendar (with Puppies)! But it didn’t matter—Smokey was loving it. 

He was glad he’d taken his doctor’s advice and got his weight problem under control. He would live a lot longer—and have a way better quality of life.

Chuckling as he puffed his cigar, Smokey stroked his rock-hard belly.

He was starting to get hard again—smoking always made him horny—so he looked for the soapiest boy to help him out.

“I am Ivan Pretulsky—welcome to my Dream Gym!” 

The man stared saucer-eyed at the bodybuilder before him, stuffed into the branded gym wear, the too-small joggers and the collared shirt with the embroidered gym logo. His muscle exploded from every opening. (And was there something stuffed in his pants?) It wasn’t until a few moments later that the man realized that this Ivan Pretulksy was completely void of hair, his head, his face, his body, perfectly smooth.

Not that the man had much hair himself, sporting a gray horseshoe-shaped hairline, as men his age often did. The stress of building a Fortune 500 company alone had probably cost him his hair—and his build, if he’d ever had one. 

No, now he was just another flabby billionaire who could afford a personal trainer—and one of his buddies from the club suggested Ivan’s, so here he was.

“Yes, hi,” the man said, approaching the desk. “I’m David Stern, of Levi-Strauss.”

They shook hands, or rather, Stern’s hand was enveloped by Pretulsky’s.

“Of course, Mr. Stern. It is an honor for me to have you here—Certain am I you will like what we do—our training methods are rated Best in City of San Francisco!” Ivan glanced briefly at the computer on the reception desk between them. “And you have our new trainer, Christian, I see! Working hard to fill his books, he is—giving you his best, he will. Pleased I have been with his work! The feedback I get has been glowing, with smiles of satisfaction. You will like him.”

And then another huge bodybuilder entered the room, this one even bigger than the smooth Russian. Six-four or five, at least half-a-head on Stern, who was nearly six-feet himself. This guy was mammoth, blond, with a chiseled, angular face and dim-witted, puppy-dog eyes.

Compared to Ivan, this blond was obviously hairy, even though he wore a tight t-shirt, his chest hair poked through the neck and his ham-hock arms were covered in a light blond mat—his legs as well, though Stern gaze hadn’t quite gotten down there, yet, to look at the blond guy’s tree-trunk legs, somehow in the tiniest of gym shorts, the only thing tiny about him. 

What did he have to take to be that big? 

Stern was blown away by how hot the guy was, like one of those fantasy AI images come to life.

“And now here he is!” said Ivan, smiling broadly and presenting. “Christian, your client was almost waiting!”

The massive blond beast bowed slightly toward Stern. “My apologies,” he said quickly. “I should’ve been here to meet you.” He extended his hand. “Christian Marx.”

“David Stern.” They shook—again, Stern’s hand lost in a muscular grip.

That beautiful, dim smile. “Well, I am excited to be your new personal trainer, Mr. Stern. If you’re all done here…?” He looked over at Ivan, who gave him the thumbs up. Christian nodded and focused again on Stern—he led the skinny-fat man toward the interior of the gym. “I’m sure Mr. Pretulsky will talk to you about memberships and packages when we’re finished. What do you say we get started? Do you need the locker room?”

Stern indicated his outfit. “I came dressed to train today.”

“That’s fantastic!” said the trainer, casually putting his massive arm around Stern’s shoulders. “Now, what would you like to watch me train today?”

“Excuse me?”

Christian shrugged and checked his iPad. “Well, it doesn’t look like you preselected anything. As a member, you can pick both the workout you’d like to see as well as my wardrobe. Today, I just wore my standard outfit, but as you’ll see on the app, there’s a ton of options for you to choose from—I’m happy to wear whatever turns you on.”

Stern was clearly confused—he scrunched his eyebrows together and shook his head slightly. “Wait… I watch you train?”

Christian smiled slightly. “Yeah. Honestly, I could really go for an arm workout, if you’re into it—or shoulders. I’ve done legs for the last three clients and I’m ready for a different pump.”

“I don’t understand…”

The big trainer chuckled. “Mr. Stern, that’s what makes this gym different from the rest. For the next few hours, I’m yours. You can watch me train, pump up, worship me, enjoy me in the sauna, or the steam room, or the private showers. You can fuck me or suck me or anything you might want to try with me. I love it all—I love the attention.” He flexed his bare arms into a double bis pose—his armpits were deliciously hairy. “So what do you say? Arm day?”

Stern was still unsure. “But all the guys who’ve recommended this place say they’ve been getting in great shape. How do I get in shape from watching you train?”

Christian’s smile was devilish. “Mr. Stern, why don’t you trust me and we’ll see how you feel at the end of your session, okay?”

And Stern, who had never really found time to indulge in his sexual fantasies, gave in to this one. Watch this massive beast work out and flex? Be allowed not just to touch, but to worship him as well? Locker room antics, too? 

At first, his erection embarrassed him and he tried to hide it, but Christian was ecstatic that Stern was hard—it meant he was doing his job, he said—and he encouraged it.

Flexing his biceps, allowing Stern to lay his hands on the muscle during Christian’s sets, to feel the work, the blood pumping, the flow. In between sets, he allowed Stern to lick the pumped muscle, taste the trainer’s sweat.

Stern saw how that seemed to turn Christian on—that big log of his came to life beneath those tiny, tiny shorts, fighting for its own freedom.

Later, in the posing room, Christian flexed in the tiniest Littleman’s posers, cut to contain his girthy package, while allowing Stern to get off on him.

Finally, kneeling before Christian, Stern pulled those posers down, exposing Christian’s incredible, fantasy cock, already with a dollop of precum on the tip. 

“Don’t waste a drop,” Christian said. “You won’t get big unless you take your protein.”

It was the cum—that’s what he realized later. There was no other way to explain it—it wasn’t possible that Stern could actually get in better shape by watching (and worshiping) someone else—but there it was. At the end of the workout, Stern’s physique had improved, especially his arms. It had to be the trainer’s cum.

It made no sense—but he signed up for three times a week with Christian, anyway. Costly, even for someone in his position, but worth every penny so far. At his age, results mattered.

“Do you take tips?” he’d asked Christian after the workout as they’d exited the locker room.

Christian had laughed. “Mr. Stern, for you I’ll take it all the way to the root.”

That had sold him.

A knock on Ivan’s office door. The big Russian looked up from his computer to see Christian standing there. “You wanted to see me?” 

Ivan broke into a wide smile. “Christian, my boy! Come in, come in! I wish to tell you how pleased I am with your performance here so far. Sales are up, my boy—I just booked another three-per for you! Whatever they did to you at the Ranch, your clients are having a terrific response to your cum. I am very pleased.”

Christian shrugged it off. “I appreciate you hiring me and sending me to the Ranch in the first place. I fought it at first—I didn’t think I could get any better than I already was—but then I was in the pond with those brothers and things changed. I changed. I reached beyond my potential—I think I became something more than man. And now my cum turns men into my muscular slaves—it’s so hot, don’t you think, Mr. Pretulsky?”

Ivan pulled Christian into his arms, kissing him deeply—Christian could feel Ivan’s erection, not that his cock was hard to miss.

“I would like some of this cum now, please,” Ivan said. “I have been craving it.”

Christian smirked as Ivan knelt and pulled the waistband of Christian’s shorts down, exposing his foot-long cock. Without hesitation, Ivan took it in his mouth.

“I think you’re becoming addicted to it, too,” Christian said as Ivan bobbed his head.

Ivan mumbled something, but never let up his intensity.

“I thought so,” Christian said. “I have a feeling pretty soon I’m going to be running this place, too.”

All that mattered to Ivan was getting that delicious cream.

Rodney ended up going to American University, which was just a mile or so north of Georgetown, allowing him to continue to live with his father in Northwest DC. He majored in PoliSci and was already interning in his father’s office. Legacies occurred less often in politics than in Hollywood, but nepotism was still a handy tool to have either way. There was no shame in hiring a relative—this was politics, after all—and the Senator was a conservative.

A popular student, not just because of his build or his father—or his father’s build—but rather his self-deprecating humor and his insecure humility. He didn’t play any sports—though they begged him to be on the wrestling team—nor did he join any fraternities. He tried as hard as he could to not involve himself in any scandals that could hurt his father. 

Which wasn’t to say he didn’t fuck anybody, but he tried to have some discretion. 

Now that he and his father were on the same side, their relationship blossomed like he’d always dreamed it would. 

His father joked that once his term was over, the Hardwoods would have an OF channel—Rod and Johnson Hardwood, it was like they were created for it—but Rodney knew that was just pillow talk. 

Which isn’t to say he didn’t fantasize about it.

“I bring to the floor bill HR69—the Littlemans’ Deregulation Bill—and call for a vote!”

Whatever else the rest of the House thought about Senator Hardwood, they couldn’t fault his tailor—his suit fit him so perfectly, it was almost as if he wore nothing at all. DC wasn’t called “Ugly Hollywood” for nothing—the media-savvy politicians were nothing to look at, but still had power. Someone in shape was rare—someone with the shape of Senator Hardwood had never existed in the ranks of the House before.

Bodybuilders in suits tended to look like men wearing tents, but someone had taken the time to create a look for Senator Hardwood that seemed almost form-fitted to his overdeveloped body. They had to be some stretchy, spandex-laden fabric to get around those thighs, that muscular ass, and that crazy package.

When the Senator first strolled into the House for a vote, they were aghast. 

That he seemed so casual and so won-over by his transformation made them all suspect he’d been compromised somehow.

But though he admitted they’d done it against his will—he never would have agreed to it otherwise—he confessed how much he loved what he’d become.

“The power I feel,” he explained, squeezing his fists closed, “the strength. Now I understand being a man. Now I understand how wrong I’ve been.” 

Within a month, his assistant, Ron Sheridan, and most of his inner office had spent a week at the Ranch, all of them transforming into these hyper-muscled paralegals, their own advocacy group, their own lobbyists for the Littleman’s Company.

(There was a rumor floating around already that the Senator was debating a run for President. The way he wrapped people around his finger, the way his audience couldn’t look away—he had a real shot.)

His son, too—Rodney, or “Rod” as they called him in the office—they’d become so close, so devoted to each other. The boy interned in his father’s office while he worked his way through law school. He stayed by his father’s side even as his mother and the other siblings stayed behind in their home state. (Rumor also had it that the Senator and his wife were amicably separated, only married on paper—that sexually, they weren’t compatible anymore.)

What a devoted son.

And now the Senator was submitting a bill that would lift all the restrictions placed on Littleman’s because of his own earlier bills. In essence, he was negating everything he’d done over the past decade. It wouldn’t be long now before Littleman’s Pop-Ups would appear on every main street in the country.

Soon, it would be accepted by the mainstream. And as more and more men joined them, it would be the mainstream. That was the world the Senator was now committed to create—the country he wanted to live in. The united state of muscle and cock, from C to leaking C.

The Clerk began calling the roll for the vote on the Senator’s bill—it would win by a landslide.

There’s an island someplace off the coast of Central America—not the one with the dinosaurs, but within sailing distance—a person with the right reference base might mumble “Skull Island” or joke about King Kong when it first comes into view. It’s large, but only accessible by boat through a dock on the south side where the rock walls and shoals allow entry—nearly impossible to land anything bigger than a motorboat, so most everything is loaded in through helicopters. 

All of the inhabitants had to be brought in this way, via Chinooks, massive freight choppers. A challenge—it isn’t always easy to restrain the living cargo—not just because of their mass, but their will—and knocking them out takes quite a bit of tranquilizer. More than an elephant, they’d discovered through experience, and it didn’t last as long, not with the metabolisms these things possessed. 

The Budd Brothers had to be separated from each other—and that alone proved to be a challenge. (It was a rarity that collection of these specimens was required at all—never two at once!) It took massive amounts of tranq-gas to put them down—and keep them down as they got the bodies out of the pond, itself a pool of transformational cum—it required a crane. Quite a few of the first responders walked out of that call with some extra size, a spring in their step, and a strange, unabating feeling of horniness. 

When Big Budd regains consciousness, he awakens on what appears to be a helipad. From the temperature and air quality, he knows he isn’t in Kansas anymore—and the helipad is on a high enough peak that he can see the water surrounding him. Where the hell is he? What’s happened? The last thing he remembers…

When he lifts his arm, he realizes how massive he is. His body… how…?

He stands easily enough, but he knows he’s different—he’s nearly the same height as the palm trees that line the beach. Twenty feet, maybe more. 

He’s a giant! 

Instead of horrifying him, the thought turns him on.

He’s a horny giant.

And look at his giant cock!

It’s probably the same size as Big Budd when he’d been human, but now, it’s a thing all its own.

Just as he’s about to stroke it and give in to his desire to stimulate himself, he hears a voice.

“Ah, finally awake!”

Big Budd turns to see his brother, standing next to another man, another giant of a man, although Little Budd is taller, but just as freaky muscular and over-hung. 

“Little Budd?” he asks, surprised by the new bass end of his voice. “What’s goin’ on? Where are we?”

His brother shrugs his massive shoulders, his impossible traps. “I reckon I ain’t so sure about where, but the set-up here’s pretty amazing…”

The other man speaks. Light brown hair, handsome, a sexy, scruffy beard along his pronounced lantern jaw. He looks like the kind of guy Budd would expect to see in a fancy suit, except his body and cock are so freaky. 

“Now that you’re awake, why don’t we head down to the settlement and I can explain?” he asks, his voice deep and smooth. “You’ve both been through a traumatic transformation experience compounded by the degrading way they knock us out to ship us here—it’ll take a day or two to pass through your system.”

“Where are we?” Big Budd asks, as he approaches them, his tree-trunk legs solidly hitting the ground with each step. (He must weigh a ton.)

The stranger raises his arms as if he’s a game show model. “This paradise is where they send all of the Littleman’s ‘mistakes’—there’s a whole community of us.” He looks at the brothers wryly. “A growing community.”

“I don’t understand.”

The stranger smiles. “Many years ago, Larry Littleman and I had an accident similar to the one you and your brother experienced. And while he went off to expand the Littleman’s corporation, I couldn’t live my life as a public freak—not in the same way Larry relished it—so I withdrew from polite society. We bought this island and ever since then I’ve been collecting the men who go too far, who OD, who find it impossible to live in the real world. There are quite a few of us living here, together, and now you’ll be joining us. I’m the leader here—my name is Tucker Forrest.”

Tucker hugged the Budd Brothers as best he could, attempting to wrap his arms around their thick upper backs. 

“Gentlemen, welcome to Hyper Island!”

(End TOYS pt2: THE DOUBLE B RANCH)

### Coming Soon: FanTCdude’s TOYS pt3—“HYPER ISLAND”

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