During my teens and early twenties I tried to be a bodybuilder. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. Most guys who get off on muscle at least toy with the idea of growing some on their own bodies. I didn’t get that far with it, though. Whatever success I had was down to my best friend and eventual college roommate, Angelo.
Angelo and I grew up together in Toronto’s Greektown. We were the same age, went to the same schools. I don’t even really remember how we became friends—our families ran in different social circles. But somehow we were inseparable since we were toddlers.
Angelo’s mom and dad were both bodybuilders, and we started played around with lifting weights in his basement when we were 12 or 13, while his sisters giggled and snickered at us from the stairs. These basement sessions never did much for me, but Angelo clearly inherited his parents’ genes. By the time we were graduating high school, his arms measured just about as big as his age—both 18.
He was gorgeous.
I never found the courage to tell him that. He was so warm, so affectionate, I feared if he found out I was gay he’d turn cold. I didn’t want to lose him. I couldn’t be without his honest dark eyes, his full lips so easily curving into a smile, his perfect skin, his curly black hair, his heavy bulging arm resting easy around my shoulder as we sat and watched a movie, the smell of his deodorant mixing with clean sweat, feeling the gentle rising and falling action of his breath, the warmth of him radiating into me. He was that kind of guy, so big and friendly and self-confident, no concept of personal space, no anxiety about showing affection. He was a stud, he always had a girl, if not two or three. So what if he wraps his arm around his bro while they hang out? We were both about the same height, around 5’10”, but he always felt so much larger than me, a big enveloping presence. No, I could never tell him I thought he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, that I adored him with every fibre of my being. I could never risk losing his friendship. Imagine never feeling his arm around me again.
It had to stay secret.
He must have been juicing before we even finished high school; he was well over 200 lbs and ripped when he graduated. However, I didn’t know for sure until we moved in together that fall at University. He just left a half-full vial of testosterone enanthate out on the bathroom counter one day, absentmindedly, like it was a tube of toothpaste. When I approached him about it he wasn’t even bashful. “Sorry, bro, hope that’s not a problem. I’m not used to hiding it. You know mom and dad are both in the lifestyle.”
I was disarmed by his utterly casual attitude. The conversation rapidly evolved from there. And that’s how I ended up with a needle in my ass later that very same night, one of Angelo’s warm hands steadying me as I leaned against the bathroom sink, the other confidently pushing down the plunger on 1 ml of golden oil, spiky testosterone molecules in suspension. Just a baby cycle, 500 mg of test for ten weeks. But Angelo was going to blow me up. He was determined to see it happen. We were gonna be the two biggest muscle bros on campus.
I couldn’t help my throbbing hard-on as he shot me up with growth-juice, leaning over the bathroom sink in the little home we now shared. There was no way to hide it, either. Angelo just laughed when he saw it, though. “No shame, bro, it bones me up too. Gonna blow the fuck UP!” he yelled comically, flexing as I pulled my pants back up, my dick proudly tenting. He was chubbed up too, I could tell.
But I just never responded to gear as well as he did. I didn’t have the genes for it. Sure, my shoulders broadened, my thighs swelled, my butt got bubbly, my arms thickened, my chest popped. It was a great first cycle. I put on 25 lbs of meat that fall, lifting everything my best friend told me to lift, eating everything my best friend told me to eat. I was a stud.
But despite the training, the food, the roids, my gains slowed and eventually stalled the next spring. By the end of my second term at University I was an athletic and muscular 190 lbs, definitely hunky, but nothing I did in the following years could improve on that. I seemed to have hit my growth potential depressingly early. Further gains simply eluded me, no matter what we did about it.
Meanwhile, Angelo just kept growing and growing. He was the biggest guy on campus by our senior year. Everyone recognized him, he became almost an unofficial mascot on campus. He entered bodybuilding competitions. He had to get clothes custom-made. People blatantly stared at him as he strutted around. By the time we graduated University, he was hitting 250, 255 in the off season and shredding down to 220 for his shows where he was now placing very well, even winning a couple.
I was always in the audience with his proud bodybuilding parents. They wanted him to go for his pro card. I had no trouble imagining him in five years, pushing 300 lbs, an utter mass monster, dominating the Olympia lineup. It seemed inevitable—he was only 22, he was addicted to growth, he had the genes for it, his family wanted him to do it…. He was so fucking handsome, a real golden Greek god, bronzed, healthy bulge in his tiny posers, flexing, grinning down at the audience. It felt like his eyes were locked with mine the whole time. Like he was flexing just for me.
I wish I found the courage to tell him I loved him. Even then, after all those years, the idea of losing him was so terrifying that it made me keep my secret.
And then, after graduation, the only job I could get was in Vancouver, over 3000 kilometers away. I left Toronto and lived out west for eight years before finally getting a transfer back. Yeah, Angelo and I kept up during my time away, kinda. We saw each other on holidays for the first few years, but over time we drifted. It’s inevitable, right? Your life changes a lot over the course of your twenties, and it’s hard to keep a prominent place in your life for someone who’s physically absent, someone who’s going down a very different path. We still wrote well-wishes on each other’s Facebook wall on our birthdays, that kind of thing, but little else. It just happens, you know? You don’t hate each other, you don’t have a falling out, you just… drift.
When I finally moved back to Toronto, just before my 30th birthday, we reconnected. I was still fit, athletic, a solid 190 lbs on my 5’10” frame. Angelo had clearly kept up his lifting habits, but his parents’ dreams for him weren’t realized. His dreams for himself weren’t realized. There was a sadness about him, an emotional weight that wasn’t there before. He hadn’t competed in years. He was sitting around 240 now, arms still massive, big muscle ass still capable of causing a car-crash as he waddled down the sidewalk, but with a bit of a belly now. Still super sexy, but not the consummate bodybuilder he had been. He’d lost twenty or twenty-five pounds of lean tissue, gained fifteen or twenty of fat.
He had to take care of his mom after she got sick. His job didn’t give him enough time to train, and what time it did afford him, he was too exhausted to push as hard as he used to. I could see it was a sore subject for him. He tried to be stoic when he talked about it but I could tell he was suppressing some bitterness. He was still a stud, but his dreams of being a freak, a mass monster, an IFBB pro, an Olympia contender, had passed him by. He had the genetics, he had the support, he had the desire, yet life had worn him down.
As for me, I was finally out of the closet. Angelo knew, although I never told him. I was just, well, very gay on social media. When I returned to Toronto I moved into the gay village, I made gay friends, I did gay things. He was no dummy. He could figure it out without me saying it. Angelo never indicated any discomfort with me. He never really mentioned my sexuality at all, actually. Neither of us ever spoke about it. I never told him how I adored him so intensely when we were teens and in college. How his big dark eyes still made my heart do a little backflip every now and then. What would be the point of bringing it up now? What could be gained but awkwardness?
When we were young, Angelo had an endless parade of girlfriends, a new one every month. Now, in our thirties, he was single, but there was never any mention of a girl. Now, it was my turn. A cavalcade of boyfriends, none of them lasting long. Angelo and I met for lunch or a drink every so often, and if I brought a date he always was polite, warm, friendly to them. But did I detect a sadness in his eyes, whenever I introduced him to my latest fling? “Angelo, this is….” insert the name of whatever piece of ass I was regularly fucking that month?
And now we were 33. The magic age. Angelo kept making remarks that he wanted to get back into the gym more seriously. Compete again—it had been eight years since he last stepped on stage, and the pandemic had really brought into focus what was truly important for him. We had all lost a year and a half, we were all getting older, and our lives felt urgent. I encouraged him to do it. Muscle memory, I said. He’d get back to his old size in no time at all. I promised him I’d be in the front row cheering at his show next year.
And all the while my little group of muscle-obsessed gay mad scientists were putting the finishing touches on our world-changing experiment. I had the most potently anabolic compound ever created in my back pocket.
Yes, I knew what bodybuilder I wanted to give it to.
The four pros the guys had chosen all agreed to the sponsorship, although we had to offer quite a bit of money to make it happen. Our investors weren’t difficult to convince—they knew we were about to make a substantial fortune, and saw this as a smart advertising spend.
Iain, Antoine, Regan, and Joe were a different case. They were all competing around 250-260 lbs, all pushing, or even exceeding, 300 lbs in the off season. We promised them at least 20 lbs of muscle gain. Really, we knew the compound flourished in a high testosterone environment, and with the amount of gear circulating in these big boys, combined with their high intensity training, their knowledge of nutrition… privately, we predicted their gains would be at least twice that. “Maybe more,” Matteo commented on the discussion thread, adding an eggplant emoji.
Angelo required a different kind of convincing. The guys were skeptical. They teased me for being a romantic. They delicately pointed out that this would not help our high-profile launch—Angelo didn’t even have an instagram, and his best bodybuilding days were almost a decade behind him. But I countered: most of our customers are gonna be amateurs, average Joe gymrats. It’s one thing to see Regan Grimes go from IFBB pro huge to true mutant freak next level status. But to see a big-but-believable guy explode with mass? Wouldn’t that be the most powerful testimonial of all?
My unofficial status as leader of the group came in handy. Though they’d never stop teasing me, they did agree with my last point. So it all came down to convincing Angelo.
I arranged to meet him after training. He was making good on his post-lockdown promise of regaining his old physique, on working toward a contest in 2022… but I could tell he was struggling. Watching his last couple of sets from a seat by the door, I could see he was really fighting against the current. He wasn’t used to the extra weight around his middle. His cardio conditioning was off, he was winded in a way that cut into his capacity to do the high volume work that both hypertrophy and fat loss require. But he was dogged, determined, doing his best. His heroic Greek face was set, like an ancient soldier on the ramparts staring down an advancing army.
“Good to see you, Rob,” he said as he emerged from the locker room, filling out his jeans and a t-shirt, freshly showered, beaming at me. His face had this way of lighting up when he first spotted you, like he was genuinely delighted to see you. He wrapped his arms around me, our customary hug. He felt warm, he smelled good. I relaxed into his embrace, for a minute feeling like we were kids again. “Sushi?”
“Of course, big guy.”
We went to the all you can eat place down the block. I sat and explained the compound to him as he ate. I told him about the results of the human trials. I told him how the other guys had all recruited IFBB pros, but how I wanted this for him. I wanted to see him get bigger and leaner and better than he had ever been in his youth.
“I really think this compound can not only get you back to where you were when you were 23 or 24, Angelo. I think it can take you past that.”
He swallowed a mouthful of fish and rice. “In ten weeks?” He was skeptical.
“Look, I know there’s a lot of snake oil in the fitness business, but this is legit. The results from the human trial are just jaw dropping. I know this can make an enormous difference for you.”
His bushy black eyebrows knit together as he thought.
“I didn’t mention compensation. We’re offering the pros $10,000 each for ten weeks plus social media posts and an ad shoot. We’d be glad to offer you the same.”
His eyebrows unknit. “Keep your money.” Fuck, I had offended him, hadn’t I? He was going to back out. “Geez, relax Rob, it’s not what you think. Yeah, I’ll take your magic growth compound, on one condition.”
“You take it too, and you train with me.”
I choked on the sip of green tea I was in the process of swallowing. “Excuse me?”
“If this chemical you’ve developed is so powerful, maybe it can finally break through your plateau. We pumped you full of so much juice back in college, fed you like we were making foie gras, I thought some fairytale witch must have cursed you to never hit 200 lbs no matter what you did. But I wanna see that, man. I wanna see you get big, finally. Proper bodybuilder big.”
I was reeling. I had long ago given up on the dream of ever being anything more than athletic. Looking like a crossfit guy, at best.
“Take it or leave it, man. I’m not putting that stuff in my body unless my best buddy is doing it alongside me.”
“… Okay, deal, I’ll do it too.”
“Good man. So, let’s hammer out our workout schedule and your food plan…”
It was only three days into the ten-week trial when Angelo texted me. “Man, is this normal?”
“I’m fucking hungry all the time. Like, starving. Aren’t you?”
“I haven’t noticed anything, no. But some of the men in the study did report an increased appetite.”
“Increased appetite? Dude I’m a black hole. I can’t satisfy it. I’m eating non-stop. If this chemical shit just makes me fat I’m gonna be pissed.”
Shit. What do I tell him? “Just stay the course man, I promise you’re gonna add so much muscle with this. Your body probably just wants the fuel to grow.”
Several minutes with no answer. Finally, a picture. Him with his t-shirt pulled up. He looked pregnant. His tan belly perfectly round, firm-looking. Fuck. “I just stuffed at least 10,000 calories in here dude. Probably more. I’m so fucking full it hurts but I’m still hungry. I can’t stop fucking eating. I’ll trust you… at least for the first couple weeks. We’ll see what happens.”
“Trust me man, I’d never steer you wrong.” Inside, I was freaking out. This was definitely not normal. What if he was having a strange reaction to the compound? The human trial hadn’t been all that huge, some kind of one in a million reaction was entirely possible. Maybe he was a fluke and he actually would just turn into a massive blob of fat? A vision of Angelo flashed through my mind, an amateur bodybuilder anchored to the floor by a gut the size of an SUV. No, that couldn’t be. “It’s all gonna turn to muscle, I promise.” Thank god it was only a text message. If he could see me he’d know how nervous and uncertain I was. I never had a good poker face.
“Sure, dude. Whatever you say. See you tomorrow for push day.”
The next day I was a half hour late to the gym because they shut down the subway’s Green Line. I texted him while waiting for the shuttle bus and told him to get started without me, I’d just do my own thing when I finally arrived.
I walked in and he was a third of the way through his chest workout. He didn’t even notice me. The aura of focus and ferocity he gave off was unmistakable. It was frightening. All signs of the record-setting food baby from yesterday were gone. He was ripped as hell, his tanktop draping with room to spare over his midsection. But it was taut over his chest, the straps suspended between his traps and his pecs. His shoulders were veiny tan boulders. His arms looked like they were about to pop, thick ropey veins all helixing down the length of them. He was looking freaky.
He stared straight ahead as he did rep after rep, like he was boring a hole into the wall with his eyes. His execution was perfect. His tempo moderate, no momentum, but relentless. He was grunting with each rep. As the set continued the grunts got louder. The sound of a man being tortured by some kind of merciless machine. I could see sweat dripping off him from across the room. He kept going and going and going, rep after rep after rep. I started to fear there was something wrong with him, he was going to keep pumping out reps til his bloated muscle ripped off the bone.
Finally, he finished, let the weights down with a protracted groan, then shook his head as if emerging from a trance. He looked around, confused. Then he saw me. “Rob!” he called, trying and failing to beckon me over. The lactic acid was just too much, the pump too great, he couldn’t even raise his arm. “How long have you been there?”
“Couple minutes,” I said. “You were really in the zone, weren’t you?”
“Man, it’s crazy, maybe it’s that secret sauce you’ve got me on, but when I get into a set it’s like I go someplace else. Total tunnel vision. The focus is unreal. The pumps are like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Never had a mind-muscle connection like this. Oh yeah! Maybe you were right! I got my abs back. Check it out.” He beamed with pride as he lifted his shirt to show me a taut midsection jam-packed with freaky bulging abdominal muscles. Not only was his food baby gone, he looked like he’d shed all the fat he’d slowly picked up over the last decade.
“Wow… you’ve really made incredible progress,” I said, swallowing, hoping my swelling hard-on wasn’t too visible in my gym shorts. There was nothing to stop it, I could feel it stiffening at record pace as Angelo twisted and flexed his abs for me, veins like tributaries flowing down past the waistband of his shorts.
“What, isn’t this what you expected anyway? You were telling me last night not to freak out because it would all turn to muscle. Looks like it did.” Angelo’s phone beeped. “Time for the next set. We getting food after this?”
“Yeah, bro,” I said, and with no further hesitation Angelo turned. His hands closed around the weights and he was gone again, submerged into the nether-realm of chemical-fueled unnatural muscle growth.
The two-week check-ins went about as we expected, with one major exception.
Joe, Regan, Antoine, Iain… They were all between 7 and 9 pounds heavier, but the visual difference in their photos was compelling. Antoine was off-season, going all out for mass. He’d ballooned to 318 pounds, his massive thighs giving him a comical gait which he cartoonishly exaggerated in Instagram videos, always the clown. Regan had been hesitant about taking a growth compound. He was sixteen weeks out from a show, not the time to be bulking. He had the lowest weight gain, but it was clear he’d gained more muscle and lost fat, so the scale weight was deceptive. He looked like he was 4 weeks out, not 14, and he was busting out at 288 pounds. It was a similar story with Joe and Iain. They were heavier, but leaner. Their muscles popped. They looked even freakier than usual. “I thought you guys were just bullshit peddlers, and I apologize, this shit is legit,” Iain wrote in his email.
As for me? Well, I still hadn’t broken 200, but I was close. 196 pounds, with sharper abs and veinier arms than I’d ever had before. Not bad for two weeks.
Angelo, though. Angelo was the major exception. I knew something was wrong with how he was responding, but even after the food baby incident I couldn’t have predicted the runaway muscle growth my best friend would experience.
In short, Angelo was exploding with mass. Before we began, he weighed in at a kind of soft 237. At the two-week check in, he was 278, naked, right out of bed. Crisp. He looked like he was just a shave and a tan away from stepping on stage. Ready to steamroll the super heavyweight class at any show you could name.
Watching him train was scary. His muscles inflated with pump to a supernatural degree, so that he could barely bend his joints by the end of a session. It looked like his skin would split open as he relentlessly did set after set after set, his range of motion diminishing with each one, until he was basically doing isometric work, flexing against an immovable object as his beautiful face broke into a snarling rictus. I had to wipe the sweat off his brow and lift his water to his lips.
He didn’t know his own size. He kept bumping into walls and corners, misjudging doorways. Angry red stretch marks spread across his skin like crimson lightning. This was muscle growth on a size and scale that biology had never intended, at a pace the human body struggled to handle.
He was giddy about it. “You weren’t fucking kidding, man! Fuck, if I’m blowing up like this, what must be happening to the pros? Can they even fucking walk?” I didn’t tell him that the pros, while making great progress, were gaining only a fraction of the muscle that he was.
But I had to tell the guys. My partners in the business. There was no sense trying to keep it secret, we were sharing the results from all five of our sponsored athletes, and it would be noticed if I didn’t provide an update on Angelo.
“Angelo’s a super-responder,” I said simply.
Multiple people are typing.
“What do you mean?” “Explain.” “Sounds hot bro.”
I attached the Week 0 and Week 2 photos. “He gained 41 pounds in the last two weeks.”
“More than 41 pounds of muscle, he’s a little chubby in the Week 0 pics, and he’s ripped to shreds in the newer ones.”
I watched the little dancing dots as people typed, deleted, typed, deleted.
“He looks… a little uncomfortable.”
“I think he feels a little uncomfortable, that much extra weight with no time to get used to it. But he loves it. He’s excited for the rest of the trial.”
More dancing dots.
“I know this is our fetish, but this is potentially really bad, guys. That much muscle that fast probably has medical consequences. If this happens in even a tiny fraction of people, it could get our product pulled.”
“I’ll have the doctor check him out twice a week, if it makes you feel any better.”
“Maybe he should stop taking it.”
“I doubt I could convince him of that. Right now, he’s loving it. Maybe when he gets into the 300s and he can’t even tie his own shoes anymore, he’ll reconsider…”
More dancing dots, more typing and deleting, typing and deleting. Finally, a simple last message from Anderson, the most cautious and conservative of the group. “Just be careful. Don’t let your hard-on for this guy fuck things up for all of us. I know you’ve been in love with him since you were both kids, but you need to stay objective here.”
I frowned, my thoughts racing. Yeah, I used to be in love with Angelo, but that was a long time ago. I could keep my cool now. I could be rational, prudent, cautious. Stay focused on the big picture.
“Don’t worry about it” was all I typed, though, and no one said anything else. The conversation shifted to our progress on distribution deals with supplement shops and work on the website.
All eyes were on Angelo. How could they not be? The entire gym watched him as we went through our workout.
We were 8 weeks into the 10-week trial. Muscles had blossomed on my body under Angelo’s guidance. He finally broke my 200 pounds curse. Nowadays I was a ripped 216 pounds. I looked like a classic physique competitor. My arms were a healthy 18”, my chest a proud 48”, my waist a relatively waspish 33”. My thighs and ass were stunning; I could feel all the gays eating me up with their eyes as I walked down Church street. The rest of the guys in the group were kind of annoyed at me for taking the compound myself, even though I pointed out that nothing was stopping them from doing the same. Whatever. They’ll get over it.
Anyway, who cares about me. Next to Angelo, I was a footnote, an afterthought.
He had continued to grow. And grow. And grow. The compound caused run-away muscle growth in him. It’s like his body didn’t know how to switch it off. Extreme, uncontrolled hypertrophy. He didn’t waddle. He shuffled. He didn’t turn his head to look at things, because his traps and delts wouldn’t let him. Instead he rotated his entire jaw-dropping torso. His ass stuck out a mile behind him, straining the limits of his XXXXXL gym shorts. He couldn’t lower his arms to save his life—he was four feet wide across the lats, at least. His arms were bigger around than my waist. His handsome Greek face was a tiny precarious island perched in the middle of this heaving sea of male flesh. His eyes sparkled as he looked at me, chin nestled between his ponderous pecs. His generous lips curving into a smile.
“Time for your next set, Rob. Gotta keep up, man.”
Angelo weighed 403 pounds that morning, and there were still two weeks to go in the trial. He was still only 5’10”. He was not off-season in appearance. In fact, his body fat was so low it was kind of alarming. No matter how many donuts and cheeseburgers he inhaled, he never added an ounce of fat. There had never been a bodybuilder this big, this freaky, not ever.
The pros in the trial didn’t know about him. We made a decision as a group to keep it quiet. But rumours were starting to get around. Creepers taking videos of him mid-workout. Or just candid videos of him blocking the sidewalk on the Danforth as he slowly and laboriously made his way. He was a literal balloon animal of muscle, a meat balloon looking fit to pop. Old ladies and kids and jealous dudes stared openly as he maneuvered his massive bulk past them, like a heavily laden container vessel navigating a narrow canal.
How were the pros doing? Antoine was still in off-season mode, so on paper, in terms of raw weight, he was next most impressive, after Angelo. 348 pounds of massive hairy beef, in love with every ounce of himself, raving on his instagram about our product. He didn’t have Angelo’s freaky leanness. Apparently for normal people our compound didn’t have that intense fat-burning aspect. Although it was clearly appropriate for guys on a cut, too. Regan, Joe, and Iain, they were all growing into their shows in a big way now, thanks to our magic muscle growth elixir. They were all solidly over 300 pounds and in contest shape, or close enough. Within the next few weeks they would shock the world, the three largest bodybuilders to ever step on an IFBB stage by a significant margin.
We opened the website for preorders a week ago and it crashed on the first day. Too much volume. Our production had yet to scale up, so we were sold out in minutes. We were scrambling to find a way to make enough to satisfy demand. Everyone wanted this magic growth juice.
I wondered if there were any other Angelos-in-waiting out there. Guys who would put on more than a hundred and fifty pounds in barely two months. He can’t be the only one in the world who has this extreme response to our product. Can he?
It was a struggle for me to keep up with my duties as we shepherded the company toward launch. Angelo took up more and more of my time. He needed help to do things now, like getting dressed. I felt responsible for him. I could tell the other guys were getting frustrated with me, rolling their eyes. Assuming I was still in love with my teenaged crush.
After our workout at the end of the eighth week, the same day he’d weighed in at 403 pounds, I went with Angelo back to his place. After his mom passed, his dad sold the house and retired to Florida, and now Angelo lived in an apartment over a shop a few blocks away from where we grew up. He was a Greektown lifer, for sure. I walked behind him as we climbed the narrow stairs to his door, his gorgeous, oversized ass right in my face. All I could think about was diving right in, suffocating in there, between those hairy globes, each far larger than my own head. I pushed the thoughts aside and focused on his precarious progress up the stairs. He barely fit, his shoulders brushing the walls of the staircase. I fully expected to have to push him one of these days, or to call the fire department to come and free him. I could hear the wood creak ominously under each of his heavy footfalls.
His pecs bunched under his chin as he unlocked the door, struggling to see what he was doing under the ever-swelling meat-shelf projecting off the front of him. Each forearm writhing with muscle and veins, as big around as a normal man’s thigh. Finally he managed to open it. Then he turned sideways and shuffled through. Entering head on became a thing of the past a couple weeks ago. I could see that, even sideways, he wouldn’t fit soon enough.
We had a routine now. I helped pull him out of his clothes—he couldn’t manage it on his own anymore. Then I grabbed two massive protein shakes out of the fridge, which I’d prepared before the gym. We guzzled them in unison. I noted that he was starting to have trouble reaching his mouth, and that I should invest in some wide gauge straws sooner rather than later.
Then I busted out the vitamin E cream and began rubbing him down. His Mediterranean skin was tan, warm, smooth. He was so hairy, but I took care of that too, shaving him down just like he liked every few days. It was a huge job, and getting huger, the sheer acreage of his skin was just so overwhelming. As I rubbed the cream into his skin, hoping to help it stretch just that little bit more, he moaned involuntarily.
“You like that, big guy?”
He moaned again. “Fuck yeah… your hands feel so good, Rob. Fuck, I swear I can feel myself growing just while I’m sitting here…”
He was in a pair of boxers that may as well have been a thong, the way his ass cheeks ate the fabric up. I could see his dick hardening. I felt my breath growing heavier.
“Fuck. I just keep growing and growing and growing. Just how big do you think I can get, Rob? 500 pounds? 600 pounds? More?” Fuck, his voice was so sexy. Quiet, deep, masculine. Penetrating.
“I dunno man… you’re already bigger than I ever dreamed…”
“Yeah… I’m fucking huge. Guess what?”
I paused my massage. “What?”
“I don’t want to stop at ten weeks.”
My mouth went dry. “W-What… what do you mean?”
“I mean, I want you to keep giving me that compound of yours. I wanna see just how deep this rabbit hole goes. I don’t care if I’m totally immobile. I don’t care if I weigh a literal ton. I want to keep growing. More and more and more. Bigger and bigger and bigger. Big as a house. Unnfff, fuck. Bigger than a house.” His cock was visibly twitching and throbbing, untouched, in its cloth prison.
“B-but….” I thought back to the guys, the slack messages, the warnings to be careful, the plans to launch the product and make millions of dollars. A 350 pound Antoine Vaillant was one thing, that would move units. Some unknown amateur bodybuilder going from 230-something to… how big? 450? 500? 600? More?! That was… another.
“I remember the day at the sushi restaurant. You told me the human trials ran for 16 weeks. So why cut me off at 10? When I’m growing like a weed. I know it turns you on too, man.” My mouth was too dry to speak. “Keep rubbing in that cream man, my skin’s got a lot more stretching to do. We’re on week eight. Gonna be twice this size by week sixteen.”
My mouth was dry. I kept rubbing in the vitamin E cream even as my vision swam and blurred. I could feel my heart pounding in my ears, hard. I tried to focus on buying his over-taxed skin a little more time to try and stretch to hold in his relentlessly swelling muscles. The only sound I could hear for a minute was our breathing. Both of us were panting shallow and fast. My dick was so hard it fucking hurt. I’d never been more erect in my life. Neither had he, as far as I could tell.
“Guess what else?” he said, his voice deep and rumbly as a big pipe organ.
“I got so excited this morning when I saw I’d broken 400. My cock was going wild. I’d never been more turned on in my life. I look like a fucking morph. But, ah…”
“… I can’t reach anymore, bro. Too damn big. My biceps mash against my pecs. My hand stops just a couple inches short.”
“Fuck, Rob, you’re a smart guy, do I really need to spell it out for you?”
My heartbeat was thundering in my ears and my hands faltered. I could feel the heat radiating off his insane musculature. I swear I could feel his body growing under my palm. I couldn’t speak.
“I need you to jack me off, bro.”