by Zero

 They say you are what you eat—especially true for magical foodstuffs with growth-inducing powers—and wimpy freshman Bradley is about to take a bite.

Added: Feb 2021 1,591 words 12,851 views 4.6 stars (10 votes)


Both hands full of groceries, Bradley clumsily swung the door to his dorm room open and, with very little grace and a loud grunt, hoisted the hefty bags up and onto the kitchen counter. He looked like he’d just run a marathon, shoulders slumped forward, all sweaty and out of breath. It was truly embarrassing how much a carton of milk and a loaf of bread could make him sweat. With his scrawny limbs and short stature, buying groceries was, shamefully, a serious workout. Bradley eyed the celery sticks poking out of one of the bags and noted with chagrin how, in appearance, he wasn’t much unlike the pale, leggy plants. They say you are what you eat, and yet, no matter how much prime beef Bradley consumed, he remained a stalky vegetable.

Man, would he kill to have arms like those jocks on campus. Now those guys were prime beef. Thick and meaty. Bet they never break a sweat carrying food in, he thought. Oh yeah, he could see them now, carrying their grocery bags full of chicken breast and broccoli, strutting down the street, lifting them like weights to pass the time, leaping over obstacles, looking all sexy. Pillowy pecs bouncing, bulbous biceps crunching. And there he was, winded and clammy. Drooling over muscles he didn’t have. Half erect. But hey, at least there wasn’t much food to unpack—just a few things and he could kick back in front of his laptop and fantasise all he wanted.

Milk, check. Bread, check. Ramen, check. Protein bar, check. Wait—protein bar? Bradley didn’t remember buying a protein bar. He blinked a few times, thinking maybe it would turn into a chocolate bar when he wasn’t looking. Nope. Still there. He read the label: ‘Beefcake’. Huh. He didn’t recognise the brand—but then, he wasn’t buying protein bars. Ah, fuck it. He could use the extra boost. With a shrug of his narrow shoulders, Bradley peeled the plastic wrapper open and popped the faux brownie into his mouth, chewing it strenuously, swallowing it quickly. God, even his jaw muscles were weak. He winced a little in preparation for the bad taste he associated with health foods—but it was actually quite a treat. In fact, it tasted like what it was called: cake. Huh. He might even add it to the shopping list. But just as Bradley went to put away the celery sticks, he suddenly felt… a strange rumbling in his stomach. Not to mention, very lightheaded. Almost as if he were about to faint.

And then he did.

Bradley woke up on the kitchen floor, the ceiling slowly coming into focus. Shit, had he fainted? And god, why was he so hot? His entire body was coated in sweat. He was practically marinating in it. And those damn kitchen lights were so bright.

He held up an arm to shade his face—except it wasn’t his arm. Even with blurry vision, he could see that this one was thick with muscles and had a deep tan, not the usual pale celery stick. He must have a concussion. But when he told his brain to move his arm, the juiced-up imposter responded. Holy shit. It was like someone had loaded a thin skewer with thickly cut kebab meat. Bradley sat up on his elbows and, sure enough, there was another, equally muscled and delicious looking arm at the ready. He almost started drooling. He didn’t know what the fuck was happening—but he knew he liked it. Wait. The protein bar. The Beefcake protein bar. The name made a lot more sense now! Must be why his arms looked like this. He flexed them both, watching the juicy muscles ball up, thick and hot. Fuck. A deep groan escaped his lips—several octaves deeper than before! A meaty hand clutched his tree trunk neck, titillated by the healthy adams apple that now bounced up and down as he groaned again in a testosterone-oozing baritone. He lowered his gaze and the groan became a moan; every part of his body had been re-designed. No more celery stick. He was prime beef. He was a beefcake. Laying out in front of him was a pair of thick, porterhouse thighs, the kind that made it impossible to walk without rubbing them together. And they were long. Bradley gripped the counter and pulled himself up… and up, and up, and up. He clenched his eyes closed in a guttural growl as the muscles in his body flexed and relaxed, as if he was stretching out after a good nights sleep. He was fucking huge.

He stumbled back, not used to the high altitude he now stood at, and something on his chest bounced. His eyes dropped to the main course, the plat principal: his pecs, which had ballooned out into two ginormous, rounded slabs of pure beef, his deep gasps causing them to bounce up and down in time with his breath. No way. No fucking way. He moaned in-between gasps as he brought his hands up to grope and jiggle them, digging his fingers eagerly into the mountains of pec meat protruding from his chest. They were equally as hard as they were soft. Bounce, bounce, bounce. This was hot as fuck! Jolts of pure sexual electricity shot through him as he brushed his hands over his new, extra sensitive nipples, craning his thick neck forward to see the two tanned, salami sized culprits hardened to attention, just begging to be sucked and squeezed. He was about to flick them when he noticed how big and meaty his hands had gotten, thick sausage fingers connected to palms that would have engulfed his old ones, and yet somehow still weren’t big enough to fully cup either of his pecs.

Suddenly he had an idea he couldn’t resist. Giggling, he took a big meaty finger, stuck it between his big meaty pecs, and started fucking them with it. He was fucking his pecs! He moaned out his own name, laughing as he did, getting faster and faster, groping his ass with his other giant paw of a hand. Fuck, was that his ass? He craned his neck around to get a look at what felt like two ginormous globes of pure butt—and that was a pretty apt description. If his muscles were the beef, this was definitely the cake. And god, did he desperately want a hot stud to put some icing on it. He was so caught up in his muscled ass that he barely noticed the nine inch bratwurst sausage between his legs thicken up, fat and hard. Everything was so big. Fuck, he was sexed-up. Even his sweat was sexier. The pearly droplets simmered on his muscled-up skin like oil in a hot skillet—like he was a tenderloin being cooked by his own immense body heat. It felt incredible. It was as if now instead of sweat, every pore on his body produced fat drops of hot precum, rolling down and lubing up every new bulging inch of him. His jus. Was there anything that little bar of Beefcake hadn’t changed? He wiped the sweat away from his face, and something felt different. Actually, his whole face felt different. Fuck. He had to see this. Bradley took off with huge, lumbering strides to the bathroom mirror.

Woah. He was gorgeous. He was blonde. And his eyes had crystallised into two glittering, chalcedony gemstones, framed by a pair of seductive eyebrows that gave him a permanent look of charm. He traced a thick finger down his newly squared and angular jawline, all the way to his superhero chin. Oh, shit. His mouth. His medium-rare lips were huge, and his long, thick, meaty tongue felt like it barely fit in his mouth. He opened wide and it spilled out with a meaty slap, hanging just below his chin. Oh god, his tongue must be bigger than his dick used to be. He had a fuck-machine in his mouth! A deep moan quivered out of his throat as he slid it over his pillowy lips, his giant knees threatening to buckle. They tasted good; juicy, tender and salty with sweat. Cooked to perfection. There must have been a crumb of Beefcake still on his big lips, because they suddenly tingled and puffed up even bigger—he almost went cross-eyed at the sensation. He gave his best lets-go-back-to-my-place smirk to the mirror, followed by a fuck-me-harder face that made him wanna fuck himself. Screw eye candy. Bradley was a full course meal. An eye buffet. Except, he wasn’t Bradley anymore. He was Brad.

And Brad… Well, Brad was hot, sweaty, pumped and hard. He had two thoughts: lift and fuck. Brad needed to try out his new body—find a big jock with an ass as fat as his to pump his beefcake load into. And that meant he was headed to the gym. He bounced his pecs, gave his hungry dick a hefty grab, and winked at the mirror. Before he left, though, there was one thing he needed to do.

Brad swaggered into the kitchen and grabbed those thin celery sticks with his goliath hands, crushing a few just from his grip, and tossed them straight into the garbage. With that out of the way, it was time for a taste test.

So, then. Which one of those lucky jocks would be the first to take a bite?


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