Andro-Gro anonymous

by LucaWLee

 Fresh out of cryosleep in the post-apocalyptic Southwest, Phoenix journeys with a hulking Kassian and a wolfish Fynn in search of an irresistible growth-inducing drug.

Added: Jan 2023 6,673 words 2,771 views 5.0 stars (5 votes)

T

They rudely interrupt me deep in cryogenic sleep, weak as a dove, swirling around in Cryo-Fluid, the pod somehow still intact. Awake, but my head spins, the rubble of plastics and rubbers around me dancing around in a display of grimy whites and bleary grays.

“This one’s alive!”

A gleeful shout, a few semitones too high pitched which causes my sensitive ears to cry out in pain. An arm fishes around the trash and wipes away the dust from the pod glass. His eyes are glued to my crotch, and I am dimly aware of my nakedness. Wild-eyed, frizzly-haired, he’s got a swimmer’s body, a lithe frame snuggled into a wifebeater.

“Kassian!”

Wifebeater Guy nudges another man, this one several heads taller and wider than he is, towering with pectorals and traps and deltoids that jut out aggressively from his bulging neck. Kassian wolf-whistles, his abdomens rippling and sending his sizable package hidden away in tattered sweatpants jiggling.

Brusquely, the pod door is thrust open and I gasp. The outside air is sickly and warm, drifting with strange particulates, quite foreign to the sterile fluid I’m used to.

The one with the wifebeater extends a hand with a toothy grin.

“Fynn,” he says.

“Phoenix.” I don’t shake.

Instead, I clamor out of the pod, knees nearly buckling. I wade through rubble, careful not to step on any metal shrapnel or glass shards or rotted wood with rusty nails, grappling onto a slick steel-braided ladder to hoist myself up.

Kassian frowns. My upper body strength has all but faded, and Kassian extends a musclebound arm to shove me up.

Bunker 021-NM is gone. Ash swirls around what once was a receptionist’s desk. Harsh angry orange light bounces through broken glass and crooked blinders. The sun is dangerously low on the horizon. The blackened remains of a door gives way too easily to my touch.

I cough and retch. The world seems to close in around me, a soft black halo floating around my vision like an iris. The acrid smell of burning, earthy tones of soil gone to rot. Barren earth as far as the eye can see, in a uniform array of tans, so sickly that one would be certainly convinced nothing could grow anywhere if I hadn’t witnessed the greasy tufts of yellowish grass dancing defiantly in the heat.

“What now?” I breathe. The air is oppressively humid.

“We walk,” Kassian grunts behind me.


They slow their pace for me, as I am a newborn fawn, relearning to walk, trying to control my gait on soot-covered gravel that spirals into wasteland. We are trudging next to an ashen road, paint faded, cracked and chipped like old porcelain, sparsely used. The sun’s omnipresent heat radiates above, symmetrical with the road and the horizon that extends. Occasionally, there’s a creek that sidewinds beside the road, leaking around ugly polluted water which we collect and boil on fires. It doesn’t cleanse the metallic taste. They tell me I’ll probably get some waterborne disease at some point. Good.

They hand me some tatty running shoes, a small shirt, and used underwear that smells of sexual fluid, but I don’t complain. They pass me a large backpack stuffed with pots and tent gear and lube. I am to be trained, as a pack mule, carrying shit that they want carried around to wherever they go. But what other choice do I have? They are all that I know.

They say that the people they once traveled with, their Band, was attacked and only they survived. I don’t care enough to ask for more details.

Kassian is strong. He carries the heaviest bag, fitted snugly against his massive back muscles, his lats arcing around the pack like a pair of wings. I reckon he’s about 250 pounds—not freakishly huge, but massive nonetheless, definitely enough to make me drool at his chest, and certainly bigger than anyone we see.

Yes, occasionally we meet other people, other Bands. There’s Kill-Bands and Travel-Bands, Kassian says. The Kill-Bands have guns and knives and will rape you and cut you up and take your belongings. The Travel-Bands will smile with you and trade and laugh, and take your belongings. So we avoid both, which is easy enough with Kassian’s imposing frame. For really mean-looking Bands we fish out an M4, flashing the firearm around like we’re fending off wolves with a firestick.

I am lucky, they tell me, that they were not a Kill-Band, because they would’ve forced their cocks in my mouth and ass and fucked me dead. Sometimes I think that would’ve been preferable because existence on the road is skin-blistering and starvation-inducing.

Fynn carries the least, just a small sack. Initially, I wanted to complain, but at night I understand why he’s around. In the evenings, Kassian gets a massive erection and Fynn eagerly slurps it down. I’m always in awe at how much meat Fynn is able to accommodate in his throat—Kassian’s cock is easily 10 inches, maybe 11, double my size with girth to match. He grinned the first time I saw him naked, his juicy nutsack swinging low and tantalizing.

“Fynn helps me milk this monster,” Kassian says with gentle eyes eager to share. “Otherwise my cock hurts, my balls swell up, and I leak cum everywhere.”

Because the three of us share one tent, they don’t have sex inside, otherwise the entire tent is quickly filled up with his potent musk. At nights, I can see Kassian’s muscular silhouette bathed in moonlight, illuminated by the campfires, with Fynn kneeled down and gagged with a massive choke-inducing slab of meat. The giant cock’s shadow bounces up and down, amplified with its projection onto the tent. Sometimes, I secretly jerk off to their escapades, fingering my ass and cumming over my stomach.

Very occasionally, Fynn kneels over and Kassian takes him from behind. During these sessions, I can visibly see the bulge forming on Fynn’s stomach as Kassian rams him with immense force. Every grunt of ecstasy, every yelp of pain echoes in the nightlight—of course, for no one but me to hear. Then, Kassian spills his white-hot spunk all over Fynn’s plump ass, fertilizing the grass below with heaps of pungent cum.

“These are a treat for Fynn,” Kassian tells me.

Food is sparse, so usually Kassian gets blown, because Fynn can’t waste a single drop. I’m fucking starving. We have these putrid cans of Nutri-Food, which is sometimes green slop and sometimes brown slop, the texture of very old porridge, flavorless, odorless, and with all nutrients you apparently need.

Sometimes, when we’re scavenging through abandoned farms and roadside motels, we find real food. Tins of kidney beans and quartered peaches. These are good days and good finds, but Fynn never seems happy. Every place he calls a “shithole”.

“Shithole,” he’ll say, as if daring us to say otherwise when we fished out a tin of anchovies from an abandoned gas station.

Scavenging is tough work because most of the places are shitholes, with us digging for hours at a time with nothing to show for. This makes us—but Finn especially—quite irritable, and it’s times like this that Kassian shoves his engorged prick into Fynn’s face, pacifying him like a wounded puppy. Sometimes, Kassian asks if I want to suck him off, and sometimes, Fynn asks if I want to be sucked, but I decline. I still think I must be too good for this world. I haven’t lost my sanity yet. Or maybe I’m the one that’s hallucinating.


“There is nothing here,” I remark.

We are in an abandoned grain elevator, connected to a few silos. Nothing but a layer of dust—all the flour must be licked clean. Graffiti splatters over the walls, some of them are erotic, big-dicked muscle men flexing and cumming.

“It’s a shithole,” Fynn says.

“When is it not?” I ask, whipping my head back.

Fynn exchanges a look with Kassian and smirks.

“When we find Andro-Gro,” he says.

“What is that?”

“Do you ever wonder why I’m so big? Why I’m so hung?” Kassian asks, absent-mindedly groping his package.

“Why?”

“Used to be a military-grade drug they used during the War. Androcyclometesterone, but people call it Andro-Gro. They made you into super-soldiers for hours at a time.”

“It makes you feel so fucking good,” Fynn says, wild-eyed.

“It’s like a web of endorphins,” Kassian says.

“You get super jacked and super horny and…god, I remember my first hit,” Fynn adds.

Both men are moaning now, with raging erections and wet spots on their briefs. Kassian’s underwear looks obscene as it struggles to contain the flesh wrapping around his waist and threatening to explode.

“But you can’t abuse it,” Kassian says. “That’s what I did, sometimes it’s permanent.”

“How could you have abused it when we can’t even find a single bottle of this shit?” I ask.

“He’s ex-military,” Fynn says, breathing heavily. “And you can’t call it shit. Not ‘till you’ve tried it.”

Kassian nods. “I know a place in L.A., a stockpile. That’s where we’re headed. And the coast has better water and more food.”

“So you’re junkies, then?”

“Junkies?”

“Addicts.”

“Leave if you want,” Fynn snorts.

“Come on,” he says to Kassian, rubbing his hand over his massive cockhead, palm full of slime, as they disappear behind an empty cart.

“Wanna join?” he asks, but I shake my hand and watch the small puddle of pre-cum Kassian left on the floor ooze towards the drain.

Leave if you want. I had every intention of doing so if we could even remotely get away from the barren wastelands, so by the time we got to bum-fuck-nowhere, New Mexico, I was quite ecstatic to see a group of grumpy old-timers guarding a makeshift wall full of rusty nails and barbed wire. They give us a once-over, but we don’t look like a Kill-Band, so they search our bags, hold our gun for safekeeping, and give us a motion: go in if you must.

There’s only a few rickety looking houses inside, and a squat two-story inn with boarded windows, all built using the same tannish wood that would’ve reflected sunlight had the varnish not faded. Behind the inn, a bright green water tank pumps liquid around, looking rather anachronistic against the town reminiscent of centuries ago. Clean water.

One of the gunmen give me a stare: don’t even think about it.

“Come on, I want a shower,” Kassian says. We smell of sweat and dried semen.

We shuffle into the inn, past grimy tables and wooden stools. It’s empty, save for a squirrely, balding man in the corner who jumps at the sight of us.

“A room?” Kassian asks.

He slides over a few cans of Nutri-Food. The innkeeper grunts and throws a set of keys on the table.

“Nice place,” Fynn says.

The innkeeper nods.

“Clean water, shelter, probably food stockpiled from payments…I gotta ask, are the gunmen really enough?” Kassian asks.

“Concerned for me?” the innkeeper asks insincerely.

“I mean, with a big enough Kill-Band…” Kassian begins.

“I’ll be fine,” the innkeeper grunts. Fine would not be a word I would use to describe the half-crumbling state of affairs that exuded from the environment.

“We could stay here and help,” I offer, and the other two shoot me dirty looks.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got a…” the innkeeper pauses, eyes narrowing, “...very good last defense if I ever needed. My water filters ain’t going nowhere.”

The innkeeper taps the keys impatiently.

Kassian chews his lip a little but doesn’t move. “Don’t you guys sell any…hard stuff?”

The innkeeper cocks his head and narrows his eyes, patience tested. “Sure. ACPE, Feel-Gooders, Enneamorphine.”

“How ‘bout Andro-Gro?” Fynn buts in.

“Should’ve known,” the innkeeper laughs, mirthlessly. “No.”

“Shithole,” Fynn murmurs.

“D’you know how hard it is to get Andro?” the innkeeper asks.

“How?” I say.

“Damn near impossible. Most military bunkers were raided first thing for Andro. I’ve heard few scientists still know how to make Andro after the military collapse, but I think it’s horseshit.”

“We’ve found some,” Fynn says.

“Vet buddy of mine smuggled some for me pre-War,” Kassian offers.

“You lucky bastards. But it’s better this way. That shit will rot you out from the inside. Look, I’ve heard stories from old pre-War buddies of mine. Dangerous stuff.”

“How bad?” I ask.

The innkeeper shrugs. “They had super-soldiers using it twice every day. They were strong, but they fucked each other more than they fought. Eventually some of them got so big they couldn’t move, cocks so heavy that they were pinned down, cumming like a fuckin’ fountain hose. Drowned in their own cum.”

“What a way to go,” I say.

“So, stay off that shit. And don’t go looking for it, because it’s trouble,” the innkeeper says, pushing the keys towards us again, and that’s our cue to fuck off and let him sleep.


It’s nice to be able to sleep on soft cushion for one night. Well, for two of us at least. Kassian graciously offers to sleep on the floor, but I reckon between and the muscle he’ll be padded anyway.

The room isn’t very special—a double bed draped with green and blue striped sheets, small rattan chairs with fluffy lumbar cushions, a wrinkled U.S. flag tacked on the peeling wallpaper. The bathroom is small, just a mirror with a cloudy reflection that overlooks a toilet, and a bathtub to the right that smells of disinfectant.

Fynn, to my left, is sleeping soundly, naked and erect, as if he was going to jerk off but fell asleep. I drape the sheets gently over his glistening cock.

The bathroom doesn’t lock, and I find out the hard way, as I swing open the door to find Kassian, ass-naked, facing the mirror and touching himself. The room barely contains him, his broad shoulders nestled picturesquely between the walls. I am startled because I still think he is sleeping. He is started, too, and does a one-eighty, whipping my stomach with his massive hard-on.

“Christ, will you knock?” he hisses.

Embarrassed, I quickly exit the inn room, grabbing a can of Nutri-Food and wiping the precum off of my midriff. It coats my hand, sickly sweet, and Kassian’s veiny, engorged, ass-quivering prick burns into my brain. Maybe I’m getting radiation-rot in the head. I need to masturbate. I also need a drink.

I should be able to trade my daily ration of Nutri-Food for a shot of something, but the innkeeper isn’t there. I wonder where he keeps his liquor, because they’re not displayed behind the bar, nor are there cabinets to store them. I wonder where he keeps the Nutri-Food he collects. I remember our conversation. How good was this innkeeper’s “last defense” against robbery?

Inspiration. Perhaps clouded over from arousal and anger and pent-up stress. There’s a back window to a different room where the innkeeper presumably lives. Not too hard to figure when there’s one other room in the entire place. Outside, gunmen are on high alert, scouring the walls. They’re quite a few paces away and I’m shrouded in the night. I can hear conversation. The back of the inn, though, is quite unscalable. Solid brick wall with no footholds.

I go back up. Into the room. Into the bathroom where Kassian is still savoring his erection.

“Came back to suck me off?” he murmurs.

I give him a playful lick on the warm head of his cock, twisting his slimy pre around my tongue.

“Do you want to put this beauty to good use?” I whisper. I tell him my plan. Kassian goes wide-eyed.

We get to work. I grab a pair of bolt cutters from my bag. Kassian practically deadlifts Fynn’s sleeping body into the bathtub. And I wait in the shadows of the stairs as I hear knocking above. A murmur of a conversation. The innkeeper must be a bigger pervert than I thought because immediately there’s a gasp and a moan and a slam of a door.

That’s my cue. The innkeeper’s room has been left ajar. Where is the goddamn last defense? I rummage through dirty clothes, all musky and unwashed. Old coins and cigarette butts. Open tin cans. I try not to move anything as I wade towards a small cabinet behind his bedside. Bingo, the bottom drawer is locked. One of those very shitty skinny gold locks. Oh, the hubris! I snap it open with the bolt cutters. Inside, a small case, leather, no bigger than my hand. I shove it down my underwear.

FOR EMERGENCY USE ONLY, it says. I’ve got it, I’ve fucking got it.

If I wrangle the lock, I can get it to a position where it doesn’t look too tampered. It’ll have to do, because I hear scuffling and I narrowly make it towards the hallway before the innkeeper lolls around.

“Everything okay?” he breathes, cross-eyed and stiff-legged. His mouth smells of Kassian’s semen, the scent of which I have become acquainted with, and he’s limping around, ass plowed. He’s nearly passing out, so I have to convince myself that it will be fine.

“Good.”

Kassian’s wiping some stains when I enter.

“How was it?” I whisper.

“Did you get it?”

I hold out the small pouch and Kassian gives the biggest ear-to-ear grin.

“I fucking knew getting you in the Band was a good idea. The innkeeper, Rellis, he said his name was, cries like a bitch,” Kassian says.

“We should wake Fynn up and get out.”

“Fuck that!” Kassian hisses.

“We have it!”

“We’re taking it now.” A hungry, crazed look of a man severely starved.

It wasn’t long before I am standing in the bathroom, with Kassian and Fynn (now alert and awake, for obvious reasons) outside in the doorframe, all looking as I slip my hand into the pouch and pull out two small needles.

They’re no more than two inches in length, so I’m careful not to drop them, with their neon blue liquid sloshing around like water.

“Goddamn,” Fynn says.

“We’ll share one, you take one, since you found it. Only fair,” Kassian says. “Inject it anywhere, doesn’t matter.”

I nod, and they leave me to be. I sigh. What am I doing? I close the door and remove my clothes, inspecting my body in the mirror. Definitely tens of pounds thinner than my pre-cryo-sleep self, and messy hair. My cock stands defiantly erect, as if anticipating what’s to come.

I accidentally dribble a little onto my leg as I try to inject it into my thigh. The liquid runs down my legs, the smell pungent and full of ammonia, like a very old cumdump. My thigh feels hot to the touch, I need to lie down a little because it feels strange and crampy, so I rest my body in the tub.

Then, the first wave of ecstasy hits. Pure endorphins, starbursting between my eyes, enveloping my brains, tendrils of pleasure. Not like a normal drug-induced high, far from it, but rather a feeling of being so dominant, so insurmountably powerful, sheer virile masculine energy flowing through the air causing it to become thick. A strange pump all over the body.

The tub becomes cramped. My head falls behind and into a fleshy mass of deltoids and traps and pectorals that balloon skywards, sweat trickling down from nipples, musky armpits that decorate exploding lats that literally crack the bathtub as I shoot wider and wider. I breathe heavily, rippling my newfound abs, and through my ecstasy I am dimly aware of a gargantuan cock that snakes over my torso, angrily inching further higher and farther.

Wave two of pleasure. I groan, penis expanding again, now encroaching my new barrel-sized chest, forcing its way through the well-defined valley of my pecs, dragging sensitive glans skin and I shudder. A newfound massive weight grumbles against my crotch, and I see my testicles, now the size of oranges, grumbling and vibrating. I go to squeeze them.

Big mistake. This is all that my hyper-sensitive cock needs to go over the edge, unleashing a massive torrent of cum directly into my face. Phoom! It stings, I get whiplash, the gargantuan jet of love juice oozing from my nostrils and coating my hair, so potent and manly…

I need to get up, because I can’t seem to stop cumming. I have to arch my back to spray the back wall so I avoid my face with hose after hose of semen, plastering the walls and dripping down on my neck. My newfound legs, muscular, with striated quads popping and bulging, pushes me past my bath of musk, but I don’t control the wild snake that I carry, which whips semen all over the wall, its sheer thrust cracking the mirror.

“Kassian! Fynn!” I groan. I need to shuffle sideways to get out of the door, and even then I only barely do it.

When you’re on Andro-Gro, especially at this dose, you don’t have sex for the first few minutes. You just cum. And they did.

Complete bedlam, cum-streaks whipped around like an abstract impressionist piece around the room, with lamps and chairs as calamities. A growing mass of Fynn, now as big as Kassian was before, has a hand stuffed in his mouth, trying to silence what would be orgasmic shouts as he cums onto the ceiling and splashes all over himself. Still the same elfin grin, but eyes crossed in pleasure.

Kassian stretches on the floor, a wriggling mass of muscle and meat, trying to tame his thrashing cock that is drooling everywhere, grunting, in pleasure from all the liquid spewing from his immense cockhead and in pain from all the liquid still built up. His obscenely wide arms and gratuitous pecs sends me over the edge and I cum again, onto the floorboards which groan in complaint of the sheer liquid of three hulking sexual beasts now draped over it.

Eventually, the endorphins are suppressed a little bit, our heart rate comes down slightly, and we can assess the damage, ogling our lurid bodies, wiggling our pecs and grabbing our fat cocks while eye-fucking each other, shaking our torsos so that cum flings onto the others—a fight with sperm.

And, it’s not long before we start exploring the deep crevices of each other’s perfectly sculpted bodies, fleshy and meaty like one of those weird Belgian cows all jacked up with fucked up hormones, prizing each other, judging each other. I cup Fynn’s pec as he fondles my balls and Kassian kneads my ass.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Fynn says, kissing me, licking me, shoving his tongue aggressively in my mouth. He wants to clamor back on the bed, but Kassian has the foresight to flip the mattress on the ground, overhead pressing it as if it were a feather. The mattress lands squarely at our feet, squelching against the fluids below. Our sheer masses would have collapsed the bed, no doubt.

The three of us pile onto it, a ball of freakishly large flesh. We wrestle, squeezing each other’s juicy arms, matted with sweat. Kassian lays supine, spreadeagle, grotesquely proportional like a bronze sculpture buffed up, spilling seed over his chest. I spread my powerful arms and legs out like a starfish, mirroring his movement, collapsing on his massive body, our cocks rubbing between our abs, the friction between the massive pricks blissful.

I look up to see Fynn’s now massive package dangling in front of my eyes, his cum-churning orbs resting gently on Kassian’s forehead, inviting me to crane my head forward and bury my nose into his musky bush, harshly scented.

“Phoenix,” he breathes gently, coaxing my mouth onto his cock, of which I can only take half before sputtering and gagging.

Fynn shoots me a dirty look, warranted, because I am an amateur. He kneels on all fours on the floor, pillowy ass pointed to me, and I roll off Kassian, much to his dismay, who grunts and stops rubbing our big pricks with our cum.

Fynn licks his lips, taunting us. Kassian has made his choice, giving a painful precum covered slap with his cock on Fynn’s hole, so I take the front entrance, my dick prodding his nose. Fynn is going to show us how it’s done.

On our knees, Kassian and I thrust at the same time. Fynn is spitroasted with more cock than humanly possible, arguably a combined 40 inches, and I wonder if Andro-Gro gives you some stretch to your orifices. Fynn looks ridiculous, with massive poles sticking from either side, visible masses sliding up and down his throat and stomach.

Fynn punches my thigh frantically, a tap out. I return his dirty look from easier, he’ll manage, right? Orgasm is easy with his tight throat. Cum washes through Fynn, a used cocksleeve dripping with unimaginable amounts of fluid, causing his cock to pelt us with cream. I trade glances with a concentrating Kassian, who seems also to have finished, pulling out of Fynn’s ass with a satisfying pop as liquid gushes down both their thighs.

Giddy, giggling, the three of us collapse back onto the mattress, a cacophony of flesh and sweat and pre-ejaculate and semen, a dizzying symphony of ecstasy and neurotransmitters flashing through our minds like supernovae, pounding like drum beats, swirling around like the dying embers and last hurrah of the universe before all melting away, fade to black.

It is Kassian who is sensible enough to wake us up at daybreak, shaking us out of our sexual stupor. Our nostrils are bombarded with the dizzying scent of masculine fluid, which clings to the walls like a heavy fog.

Already, Fynn and Kassian have returned more or less back to their original sizes, the Andro-Gro ebbing out of their system, save for an inch here, an extra muscle fiber there. I give a fleeting smile at Kassian, who gives a perturbed frown which does not suit his face. Quickly, he nudges Fynn, and Fynn goes slack-jawed, tensing his dick.

Puzzled, I look down. My body, once meager and wilting, had kept a good half of the powerful size Andro-Gro had blessed me with. Not all the size, but still caressed with an armor of seductive chiseled flesh, still carrying a package which rivaled a horse. My frame nearly matches that of Kassian’s, my cock sizing up to his nicely.

“Wha—” I begin.

“I have heard,” Kassian says, his breath raggedy, “that some people don’t process Andro well enough. A disorder where chemicals aren’t flushed out faster than they’re absorbed.”

“That’s concerning,” I say.

“Yes,” Fynn agrees, with a hungry look.

“It is a problem, because Rellis, the innkeeper, will know what we’ve done,” Kassian says. “We should leave right away.”

Hastily, we gather all our belongings.

“Surely the guards will see that I look different?” I say.

“We’ll afford to risk it.”

So we did, scampering out of the inn like the thieves we were. The gunmen outside scowl at us, discerning what was different, perhaps they had sharp memories of the only people who came and went around these parts and would realize instantly, or perhaps the isolation ate away at the brain and they were as dumb as rocks.

The makeshift gate behind us now, we hear angry shouting from somewhere up high. We hightail it and don’t look back. Behind us, gunfire. Angry sounds of metal being clicked and lead being pelted into earth, screams of fury. But all the walking from before gives us endurance, all the fear gives us speed. We don’t intend on returning.


This section of the American Southwest is even drier and hotter than previous. No more polluted rivers to cool us off, instead, we are shown the dry riverbank maw, gleefully laughing with barren sand.

I’ve come to understand and sympathize with Kassian. He lets me measure my cock against his, erection against erection, and I’m a hair smaller, just shy of 11 inches he tells me. I think that perhaps the half-life of Andro-Gro is simply slower in my body, but I show no signs of reverting to my original size.

I’ve never been a grower, but a shower, now at 9 inches flaccid. Plum-sized balls churn away, producing fertile seed. I try to ignore it at first, I like to think that I am still sensible, not a freak, but the sharp stabbings and achiness in my sack and the sheer volume of horny pre-ejaculate is enough to drive one mad. I needed Fynn.

Fynn, the deviant he is, doesn’t mind our “release sessions”. He’s got plenty of experience already with Kassian, and sometimes Kassian and I get blown together, two rigid beacons stretching his mouth and fighting for dominance in his throat. It’s harder to cum during these sessions since Fynn can only reach half our lengths with double the girth, but an intimate bonding experience nonetheless. And it’s worth it to see Fynn’s mouth explode like a water balloon.

The lack of a river meant dirty clothes. Even with Fynn’s service, precum dribbles endlessly, my briefs become increasingly stained and sullied. I have started walking naked, and the pre bounces and dribbles harmlessly onto the ground, sometimes flinging trails on my legs easily licked clean. Mouths will keep the flesh from dirtiness.

Sometimes I see Fynn dig through my knapsack to smell my underwear. Once or twice I have caught him in the act of masturbating into my briefs. He isn’t ashamed or embarrassed, he just flashes me a wolfish smile before looking into my eyes and continuing to rub with the funk-scented waistband.

I tell him that he needs to respect my property. He sticks his tongue out.

“Blow me,” he says. Half of the time this is an insult, and I have to wrestle with him for my precious underwear. The other times this is an invitation—sometimes I am too angry to oblige him, other times I am too horny to not.

The larger problem was the food and water. Our stockpiles of Nutri-Food are dwindling, and this hellish area has no settlements to raid. Our ex-Andro’ed bodies seem defiant on parading their sizes, but even we know that it might not last if food runs out.

Even then, the copious amounts of cum spilling from our cocks seem to indicate otherwise. Calories in, calories out, they say. My cock seems to produce a lot of calories out from very little calories in. Sucking each other off was pleasurable, but it was also vital. Sustenance both sexually and physically. It was fluid, too.

Fynn had tried to cheer us up with jokes and stories, many of which involved his pre-War escapades, which were highly colorful. Other times he would mix up our “release sessions” with a sexy striptease or a finger shoved up our mouths. We rewarded him with more cum.

At times, we felt scarily intimate. I knew their bodies, their crevices quite thoroughly. I knew that if you licked the big vein on Kassian’s cock you could make him groan. I knew that if you played with Fynn’s nipples you could make him cum quicker.

At other times we were strangely distant. Businesslike. Acquaintances sharing a world on happenstance, moving forward at a moderate place to a shared location, without a care for each other’s stories or motivations.

Other Bands are much rarer these days. We had one group, all women, which was very rare, who walked by without a word. Another group, men with scarred legs, who glanced at us hungrily. They teased us and asked us for sex, but we turned them down because they wouldn’t pay us with food.

“They’re for the dogs,” Kassian says.


Aleph Ranch is an oasis. Broad, tanned, tastefully decorated with pine and surrounded with cacti, it is a shining temple in an unworldly wasteland. We are not the first weary travelers here, Kassian says, so be careful. Our gun was never returned from the gunmen back at the inn, so be extra careful. Nothing comes for free and it’s an odd location.

We’re greeted by Aleph himself. Tall, bronzed, donning jeans and a leather jacket and a cowboy hat, a nod to older times. He’s jacked, not overtly so, but comfortably tight in his clothes, a neat bulge gently tucked below.

He nearly closes the door as quickly as he had opened it when he spies us, and a closed expression forms over his face. He waves off security, we relax a little as the guns are pulled away.

“We’re looking for food and water,” Fynn says.

“Do come in,” he says, and we exchange pleasantries.

Large mahogany tables, adorned with silver, jut around marble countertops. Aleph motions us to sit.

“Eat.”

“What are we—”

Servants bring forth goblets of cream and chalices of wine. Cheese, crackers, fresh fruit. Vegetable spreads and rice. I had never seen this much fresh food at once since the War, and judging from their faces, neither had Kassian nor Fynn.

Famished, we stuff ourselves. As much as we can, shoveling bite after bite, and washing it down with liquids. The cream is thick and potent, tasting of semen, but I don’t mind, in fact it gives me a bit of dirty pleasure, a gush of blood entering my cock.

Kassian tries some of it, too, his face flushes. “Is this–”

“Most of this food is imported from New Zealand,” Aleph says, with a slight drawl. “We’ve got a lot of privileges here that most people don’t enjoy.”

“How can we ever repay you?” I ask.

“Come.”

We are standing on a path to the barn now. A myriad of cacti and aloe vera bloom between the gravel as Aleph strips us down naked. He grips our meat and fondles our balls like a grocer checks the ripeness of fruit. He smells mine and gives Kassian’s tip a nuzzle.

“How big?” he asks Fynn.

“5 or 6,” Fynn says.

“I reckon 7 and a half. I’d say you’ve grown. Do you always grow?” Aleph says.

Fynn says nothing.

“I didn’t realize. You are all so virile, so young,” Aleph says.

He curses. “Stay right here. I will grab something.”

As Aleph rushes inside the mansion, Fynn makes a sprint towards the barn. We follow.

We could not have prepared for what was inside. Four box stalls, each decorated with massive iron chains that swing to the roof, tying down behemoths. Monsters of size, pectorals larger than we could’ve imagined, thighs wider than our torsos. Arms sculpted clumsily, as if the artist could not keep up with the ridiculous sheer volume of muscle that had to be bound to one limb. Cocks that stretched for feet in the air, spewing out cum into pneumatic tubes that sucked them into massive translucent vats of semen. We can only exhale in amazement.

Three of them had glazed over expressions, dazed with ecstasy. One of them, the runt of the group, bronze glistening skin, lolls his tongue out and jerks his head up as he sees us.

“What are you doing?” I ask, rather dumbly.

“Get out,” he says. Curt and sharp.

I stare at him, marveling at the sheer amount of flesh surrounding his body. Cascades of triceps and abdominals, and a cock that leers over us, pumping away into the tube. Fynn shakes the chains, they’re solid, unbudging.

“Andro-Gro?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“You’re being milked like a farm animal.”

“Astute.”

“Is it enjoyable?”

“Yes. Too much so. I am on a week or so of consistent 24/7 Andro-Gro. The others,” he says, jerking his massive frame to the side, “months maybe. The chains are an afterthought, it’s the pleasure that traps us here.”

“We can free you, you know.”

“The ones you don’t see have collapsed, dying out from exhaustion or being crushed to death by their own flesh.”

“Don’t you want to be free?”

“Leave now.”

He ejaculates, cum billowing out like a waterfall. He heaves his chest, tenses his watermelon-sized biceps.

“What’s your name?” Fynn asks.

“Dusty the Stallion. But my real name is Aurel.”

“Aurel where is the Andro?” Fynn asks.

“You’re an addict,” Aurel notes.

“I’m not,” Fynn snaps.

“I was just like you. If you want, you can ask Aleph to make you one. I’m sure he won’t object, it would save him the hassle.”

“Make me one of you?” Fynn asks slowly. For a second, I feel as though Fynn would seriously consider it.

“I don’t want to die,” Fynn whispers. “Can he give it slowly, in doses maybe?”

Aurel laughs. A childish suggestion. “It’s a pleasant enough death to die cumming your fucking brains out.”

“Where does he keep it?”

“Away. Heavily guarded, presumably.”

Aurel looks at us. Is it envy or pity?

“You Andro-Users have one way to go. Eventually the altered neurotransmitters coalesce into wanting growth only. Sheer volumes of it. You’ll get clean or you’ll go out like them,” Aurel says, pointing at the behemoths. “If not now, when?”

“You’re wrong,” I say. “We choose to use in moderation.”

“I warned you,” Aurel says, biting his lip and turning away as the barn doors swing open.

“We ship almost everything from New Zealand, but the cream we make in house,” Aleph says, smirking around us. He flicks a needle of blue liquid. Behind him, a dozen or so guards cock their automatics.

 

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