Diner

by BRK   

Clint tries out a diner near his new house, but ends up with more than he bargained for.

The Ferrytown Diner wasn’t anything special to look at, but it looked like what it was: a stalwart fixture of the local business landscape parked off the jughandle where two state roads bustling with surly, tight-assed locals met and duked it out under the tricolor referee. The place was big and chunky, painted dull white and blue with wide picture windows along the front and sides, and the visible mix of old and new construction made it seem somehow indomitable. The pylon sign out front was smallish but attention-getting, with the name in illuminated azure blue and an electronic display promising comfort-foot fare like tuna waffles and chicken fried steak.

To a newcomer like Clint, freshly installed in a new cookie-cutter home just down the road and with his entire life still in boxes, the diner came off as both insular and welcoming, like braving the menu there and rubbing elbows with the soccer moms and weekend barbecuers stopping by for a pile of flapjacks and a mug of morning joe might just be the rite of passage he needed to make him a local.

Amused by this idea, he turned impulsively into the entrance just as he was about to pass it by and quickly pulled into an available parking space. The shelving he’d gone out to pick up at Lowe’s could wait. He was going to do all the things it took to fit in around here, and a bacon and egg platter and a few rounds of coffee at the local greasy spoon sounded like a great place to start.

As he walked in a bell rang on the door over his head, and a few bored patrons looked over at him. He had a second to feel slightly self-conscious about what he was wearing, the run to Lowe’s having seemed to require only the red sweatpants he customarily wore without underwear, his beat-up off-white sneakers without socks, and a stretchy white tee that clung to his toned, 5-foot-10, 170-pound physique. It was a tad chilly inside thanks to overpowered air-conditioning, and the clientele, mostly middle-aged couples with a few groups of slightly younger men mixed in, seemed dressed a notch or so nicer than Clint was—button-up shirts, new jeans, that kind of thing.

Before he could have any second thoughts, a hostess appeared and gave him a wide, genuine smile as she pulled an accordion-sized menu from a stack and guided him to a small, two-person booth in the middle of the restaurant. The hostess, Ruth, was a short fortysomething woman with short dark hair streaked with ruby-red highlights, and her demeanor was motherly enough Clint felt almost instantly at ease. As he ensconced himself in the tight little booth the patrons went back to talking among themselves and forking gobs of scrambled eggs and syrup-soaked pancake piles into their busy maws. Only the stocky white-shirted man behind the counter with the messy three-day beard and the skinny black tie was still eyeing him warily, as though he expected Clint to cause a fuss. His nametag said Walter, and Clint decided he looked like a Walter. He elected to ignore him and opened the menu, and Ruth poured him a mugful of coffee without asking.

“You know what you want?” Ruth asked as Clint flicked quickly through the starling wide array of options. He was about to ask for more time when he spotted something that called out to him.

“Actually, yeah,” he said, looking up with a smile. “I’ll have the peanut butter-banana french toast with honey drizzle. Also, a big glass of pulpy o.j. if you have it, and keep the java coming!”

“Of course,” Ruth said, as if it were silly to even suggest a coffee mug might stay empty for long in this place. She turned and headed for the counter to put in his order. He wondered idly if there was some sort of short order code for his order, like “monkey lover’s with bee spit” or something, but the diner was pretty loud and the counter was well out of earshot. She tossed him a last friendly look and then vanished into the crowd.

In a trice a runner was bring him his spread, and ten minutes later he was deep into a truly rewarding meal. The french toast was delicious, the mix of peanut butter and banana a revelation and the perfect contrast to the honey-striped bread in both taste and texture. The high-pulp orange juice was cold and refreshing, and the coffee, though milder than he liked, seemed to taste better with every cup.

Just then, Clint felt a sharp, painful prick in his neck. He reached up and pulled out what could only be a honest-to-fuck tranquilizer dart. He held it up between his finger and thumb and gaped at it. It was a tranq all right—it even had the fuzzy pink troll-doll tip at one end. Between the fuzzy end and the thin, vicious-looking needle was a narrow plastic tube maybe a couple of centimeters long. It was empty, only the barest trace of some kind of clear liquid remaining.

Clint gulped. He looked quickly around the noisy diner, but now no one was paying attention to him, staff included. There was no sign of either Ruth, the hostess, or Walter, the stocky bearded guy behind the counter.

He realized he felt funny, all at once, like tiny little atom-sized fireballs were coursing through his veins and pulsing through his nervous system, spreading outward from his neck and shoulders to his arms and legs and even his unconstrained junk, multiplying and teeming inside him like an infestation of malicious, fast-breeding fireflies. His flesh and bones felt thick and heavy and at the same time poised on the cusp of attaining a wild profligacy of mass on a scale and magnitude he could barely imagine.

He scoped the restaurant again, more nervously this time, acutely aware of how public this space was. He shouldn’t be here. “I should go,” he told himself anxiously under his breath. He dropped the dart on the table and started to shift toward the edge of the booth when, suddenly, it felt like a blow struck him in the back of the neck, like the heel of an invisible hand slamming into his nape. At the same time everything about his body seemed to pop.

All of his muscles went from fit and lean to built. Pecs bulged against his suddenly skin-tight tee, his shoulders straining the seams that were now struggling to bind front and back. Biceps complained at the tautness of sleeve-hems bent around muscle he didn’t recognize. Thighs swelled, filling his once-loose sweats. Both of his feet jumped up in size, crying out in pain against too-small shoes. His testicles inflated, and his dick stiffened in seconds to a full erection the size of a lead pipe.

Clint panted, physically overwhelmed by the deluge of sensations mobbing his brain as his body sent in a thousands urgent reports. It felt amazing being this size, having these muscles. His body wanted them, craved them, and the feeling was so intense it felt like the shouting of his need would be what would catch the attention of his fellow patrons as much as his abrupt jump in size.

A few diners were indeed noticing him now, eyeing him over their coffees across the bustling sunlit space. One of the dads at the far end of the diner was eyeing his pecs with detached interest, as though he’d never quite seen such an impressively proportioned male chest before. Next to him, his pony-tailed, sensible-looking wife was scrolling on her phone as she sipped her apple juice, completely tuned out to the looming catastrophe.

Clint toed off his sneakers, barely aware he was doing so. His feet groaned in relief, but he hardly noticed. All his consciousness was fixated on his sudden growth and especially the embarrassingly obscene erection throbbing against his left leg, which seemed to have swelled much more than the rest of him. The very idea of a fat, monstrous boner growing out of control seized hold of him and the thrill of it, perversely, seemed to red-zone his already extreme arousal. Fuck, he was so turned on he might never get soft—the worst possible result in this situation. He was pushing out precum—he could feel it. Was there already a wet spot by his knee?

Something was building in him, too, an incipient force he could sense all through his swollen flesh. Building. Readying. Coiled to pounce, like a hungry mountain lion.

It was coming. The next wave of growth was coming.

Clint was perfectly frozen, paralyzed with indecision. “I have to go,” he repeated to himself insistently, trying to goad himself to act. It was excruciating being trapped here, drawing more and more stray eyes to his situation, all the while knowing another burst was coming that would make him even more of a spectacle. At the same time, the prospect of trying to escape with a giant, easily discernible (in fact, impossible to miss) erection in his sweats was literally unbearable. He writhed in his seat, anxious and uncertain.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t—

Wham. Another slam to the back of his neck and shoulders, and suddenly he wasn’t just big, he was… enormous.

A second of tension passed and then his shirt ripped, splitting open at the shoulders. The noise of it seemed so loud it cut through the hurly-burly of the restaurant like a scream. Eyes lifted from plates and tablets, pinning Clint, now the size of a morphed bodybuilder, agonizingly in place.

He looked down at himself in dismay. “I’m getting too big,” he whispered helplessly, sweating with mortification and fear.

He could feel everything: the cantaloupe-sized traps flanking his bull neck and spreading wide the torn seams of his stretchy white tee… the boulder-sized delts pulling the sleeves off stone-hard upper arms too big to grasp with both hands… foot-thick pecs that kept him from seeing his plate or even much of the table… an eight-pack that had gotten so tight it felt like it was imploding, half exposed to the cool restaurant air by all the extreme boosting of his upper torso straining his already compromised tee… ass-cheeks as big as basketballs pushing him up from the soft-padded upholstery… thighs and calves so massive they were even starting to test the loose red sweats he was wearing, the elastic hems pulling up his lower leg as he evolved in size as well as bulk… but most of all, above everything else, he was aware of his cock and balls.

Like most guys he’d never given too much though to whether his balls were big or small or just right, but now he was making up for lost time. The size of his balls was crowding out almost everything else. He could feel their weight and their massive discomfort as the two melon-sized spheres were squished on all sides—against each other, against his muscle-dense tree-trunk thighs, against his ludicrously huge, adamantine cock. And that cock… it was as thick as his legs had been before the growth had started and pushed past his left knee, so constrained by the limited tensile strength of his straining pants leg it was literally painful. Those sweats wouldn’t last long, especially if—

Fuck, he could feel it. His stomach flopped, panic rippling through him like an electrical charge. It was building again. Again!!

He whimpered. “What is this?” he muttered, feeling like he was going to explode from the agitated humiliation of turning into…. into this in broad daylight, in the freaking diner in front of everyone. “What is this? Why me?”

He could feel the next one coming like a tidal surge barreling toward him, and all at once the fear-barriers keeping him locked in place gave way like ice floes from a melting glacier. It didn’t matter what he would look like when he ran, he had to go—now, before it happened again. He started to move, then grunted, stymied. He was trapped—his legs, junk, and ass had grown so much he realized he was now tightly wedged between the booth and the table, both of which were solidly bolted to the floor without the slightest give or play. He tried twisting around to see if there was any way to get free, but his pecs were in the way and he gave up, frustrated and anguished.

This was ridiculous. “I’m too big, I have to go, I’m too big…” he babbled, not sure he was even fully grasping what was happening to him. It was getting worse and worse, and there was no way—

Wham!

WHAM!

Two waves of growth smacked into him hard, the second one so strong it almost knocked him out, like a ogre’s roundhouse to the temple. His head swam, and the agony of being trapped became unendurable. He stood up with a jerk, forcing the table to break free of its floor-mounting with the deafening crack of tempered steel snapping in two. He rose jerkily to his full height and immediately smashed his head into the ceiling, panting with the struggle to focus as he was swamped with sensations.

His massive bare feet flexed against the carpet—weirdly, that was what he was most aware of first as his senses came back to him, his toes curling and uncurling against the industrial fibers sturdily withstanding his incredible weight. His muscles were all beyond huge, expanded to a size so ridiculous his mobility was extremely impaired. Even turning his head was restricted by traps bigger than any traps were meant to be, merging high into his colossal neck. His delts felt enormous and weirdly far away. His pecs kept him from seeing anything more of himself—except, of course, the red, precum-spurting, megalithic erection thrusting several feet outward from his (fortunately extremely enhanced and strengthened) groin, held back no more by the ruined sweats now lying useless at his feet.

His awareness of his exposed lower body brought with it the sensation of stretchy fabric somehow still clinging to him below his uncanny pecs. It was uncomfortable, and Clint angrily ripped the last vestiges of his tee shirt away, flinging them to the ground in disgust.

He stared around at the now-silent diner. The patrons—what he could see of them past his massively obstructive pecs—were all staring at him, like they were an audience. His audience, spectators come to see the inhuman beast that called itself Clint. Weirdly, no one was screaming, no one was fleeing in terror—they all just gawped at him. A few were still eating, their eyes fixed on Clint as they slowly gnawed on buttered toast or mechanically shoveled in spoonfuls of oatmeal.

Several phones were aimed at him now, livestreaming the exhibition to the world beyond, though even these patrons, he saw, were defying the usual rules for filming weird events and sudden catastrophes and watching him, not their screens. He saw the dad who’d been eyeing him before from across the diner—he was now staring obsessively not so much at Clint as at Clint’s inconceivably enormous man-sized cock, thrust out as it was into the world like a demand for attention; and that guy wasn’t the only one. Even the young male cashier, a round-eyed, narrow-shouldered college kid, seemed rooted in place, transfixed like the rest of them by the unholy scene before him.

This was all wrong, Clint thought, staring around at them in disbelief. In his mortification he could not understand any reaction to his new, monstrous form but terror and a need to escape—most of all because it wasn’t over. He could feel it mounting again, stronger then ever.

He couldn’t bear it. Rage flooded through his expanded veins and broadened physique, masking his humiliation. “What are you doing?” he roared. The whole crowd flinched but didn’t move. “What’s wrong with you? Run!”

Even as he shouted for everyone to flee, he exploded outward again in a rush of swollen muscle and cock. He ducked as he grew, not wanting to crash though the roof, so it was his shoulder blades that struck the support beams instead of his noggin; but soon the amount of growth was so massive he ended up scraping the ceiling all dow his bare back as he was forced onto his hands and knees.

His cock kept unspooling out between his forearms like a freight train speeding out of a tunnel. It didn’t even wait for the whams anymore, his cock and his balls just kept growing. He had swelled enough now he was trapped again, this time between floor and ceiling, so he could barely move—but his cock was outstripping his expansion from beast to behemoth like its growth could never be stopped.

Finally, someone screamed as Clint’s giant expanding cock barreled toward them. The shriek jolted everyone out of their trances, and suddenly there was movement and pandemonium. Stocky Bearded Guy—Walter—appeared suddenly at the main entrance next to the cashier station, propping open the double glass door and belowing, “Everyone out! Now!”

This time the patrons obeyed and fled their tables like their breakfasts had come to life and started trying to eat them instead. Abandoning purses, bags, and sweaters they scrambled for the exit, pushing out the door awkwardly in heedless scrum. Clint’s relief at this, however, was short lived: the serum was still going, eagerly multiplying his muscles and junk exponentially with every wave. Would it run out? It had to, right?

Only that wasn’t even the most immediate problem. He was stuck, and getting stucker—if he grew any more, he’d bring the building down. Worse, his still-lengthening cock was, if anything, more sensitive than ever, and the feeling of its eager redwood-sized shaft sliding past his forearms, pressed between his two-foot-thick pecs and the rough surface of the industrial grade carpeting as it grew, was sending him careening over the edge; and he knew his now-bean-bag-sized balls were so huge and his Saturn-rocket cock was so strong his next orgasm would blow the fucking walls off this place, bringing everything down in a scene of utter destruction.

There was no way out. He eyed the glass double doors, but even if he could squeeze through the building toward them he wouldn’t fit through.

He saw Walter, still hustling the last straggling guests out of the diner, and their eyes met. Walter glowered at him and pointed emphatically at the other end of the restaurant, behind Clint. “That way!” Walter shouted impatiently. “Kick out that way!”

Clint blinked at him, then slowly slid his knees backwards until his heels came up against the far wall behind him. It was the side wall, the one without big picture windows. Walter might have a point—that wall might be better to try to—

Suddenly he felt it, swelling up more intensely than ever. He had to act, for once, without question. He’d been too slow and indecisive so far, his whole life really; but now there was no time to waste.

He pushed back decisively with both feet. In a few seconds he was wrenching the entire far wall free of the building with such force it went flying across the empty lot beyond, smashing into a million shards of brick and masonry. He cringed, waiting for the roof to fall in on him, but the building’s integrity seemed to hold.

Without any further hesitation he started crawling backwards, extricating himself foot by foot from the too-small structure. The problem was, while his legs were free to move and he could pull himself back using the inhuman strength of his new thighs and ass, his shoulders, pecs, back, and cock had swollen so huge that his upper body was very nearly wedged in place. He tried pushing with his arms, but growth was now seeping through him in anticipation of the next big tidal wave of physical escalation. Every second his pecs were an inch thicker, his shoulders an inch wider, his cock an inch more massive in diameter—and the latter was still lengthening at an even greater clip, all on its own.

Clint worked against this with all of his monolithic strength, squeezing himself free of the building while at the same time trying to force down both the oncoming storm of growth and the orgasm he was building toward unstoppably. He knew in his heart they could smash together when they came, reinforcing and amplifying each other. He had to get out before then.

He was very nearly free when it happened. Nearly his whole back was exposed and out, though his shoulders and several feet of sandworm-sized stone-hard erection were still in the restaurant when his orgasm and the ultimate growth wave hit at exactly the same moment. He jerked bigger with a cry that shook the building, his shoulders crashing upwards through the edge of the diner even as his cock expanded so massively it filled the entire interior in seconds. The building itself and its contents were pressing in on the shaft and cockhead from all sides like he was deep inside the tightest ass. He cried out again, screaming his orgasm, and as he’d predicted the high-pressure torrent exploded through the wall in front of his cock with the force of a bulldozer, smashing glass, brick, and concrete before it. The human screams of the guests standing too close and forced to flee this cum-tsunami seemed tiny and insignificant in his ears.

His orgasm raged on even as his growth subsided, and he cried out again, his dick pushing another fifty feet past the end of the diner and out into the highway as he came and came. Horns blared and tires squealed as cars skidded on the rushing goo he was geysering sideways out of the building. For a moment he lost sight of himself and rutted the diner like a mindless beast, wallowing animalistically in the joyous friction as it aided his climax. It was several long moments before he realized what had happened, and that not all of him had cleared the diner.

Fighting the sudden euphoric lassitude of his waning release he held onto his reason just long enough to crawl backwards a bit further, getting his many-times-bigger-than-himself colossus of a cock free of the diner at last, the end still spurting the last dregs of his soaring release. Then he slumped onto his back, supine and stupid with bliss, barely noticing the parked cars he crushed under his steel-hard back as he utterly relaxed. His giant, torso-thick, mostly hard cock rested comfortably on his van-sized pecs, the end pushing rudely behind him into the grove of trees behind his head.

As he drifted on a haze of impossible ecstasy, over the noise of traffic and car horns and sirens blaring in the distance he thought he heard someone very nearby, speaking quietly. It sounded like they were talking on the phone, but he only heard the voice say a few words before he drifted off.

“Yeah, it’s Walt,” the voice said, the tone grim. “There’s been another one.”

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