My Best Friend’s Muscles, #1 5 parts Added Sep 2021 Updated 13 Nov 2021 32k views (#277) 4.8 stars (64 votes) 17k words
I posted the human trial to our work Slack expecting the guys to go nuts when they saw it. After all, the results were, in a word, stunning. I didn’t think anyone would react right away, though. It was 2:11 in the morning when I finished preparing the report, sitting in my dark basement, the unhealthy glow of my computer screen the only light. Surely I was the only one awake. I was wrong, though. The channel blew up almost instantly. I guess we’re all night owls. It would fit the stereotype.
“Holy fuck, Rob, these are beyond my wildest dreams,” typed Eli. “Real sci fi shit.”
“You sure you didn’t just give all these guys tren instead?” typed Anderson.
“No way, these results are better than tren,” Eli replied.
“Guys I’m so excited, we’re gonna make a hundred million bucks,” typed Hakan.
“More importantly, we’re gonna make the biggest bodybuilders the world has ever seen,” typed Matteo.
“Haha, you’re always thinking with your dick,” Eli replied to Matteo.
“Tell me you’re not hard as a rock right now,” Matteo replied to Eli.
“I’m dripping,” Eli replied, with a tongue-sticking-out emoji.
You could say ours was not the typical workplace.
We don’t technically have a team leader, but the role usually fell to me, and I knew I had to reel in the others before their excitement got out of hand. Keep their eyes on the prize. They were like puppies, sometimes. Geeky, muscle-obsessed, scientifically brilliant gay puppies.
“Settle down everyone,” I typed. “Go jack off and get some sleep, tomorrow we’ve got to plan how to sell this.”
“You’re no fun,” Matteo replied, adding a gif of a cartoon character dramatically weeping.
“@everyone Brunch on my rooftop, 11 am. Go get your beauty sleep ladies,” Hakan posted. I could always count on him to back me up.
I closed Slack with a smile. I fully intended to take the first half of my own advice. It was definitely wank o’clock. But I had no idea how I’d sleep at all, afterward. This was one of the most exciting moments of my life. We had actually done it.
I glanced through the PDF of the results one last time, already painfully erect, leaking pre as I read.
16 week trial. Control group of 25 men, following a workout routine designed for hypertrophy, eating an identical diet. Average muscle gain, confirmed by DEXA scan: 5.7 lbs.
Group A, 25 men, taking 100 mcg of the compound daily, following the same workout routine, the same diet. Average muscle gain, confirmed by DEXA scan: 20.1 lbs.
Group B, 25 men, taking 200 mcg of the compound daily, same workout, same diet. Average muscle gain, confirmed by DEXA scan: 31.6 lbs.
One man in Group B had added 42 lbs of muscle. In little less than four months. Fuck.
I couldn’t help it. Knowing my teammates were likely doing the exact same, I slipped my underwear down, my hard cock bobbing proudly, a pearl of precum glistening in the blue light of the computer screen. I jerked off to the PDF. There weren’t any pictures, just data tables and graphs, but it was more than enough. My thoughts swirled over what we were about to unleash on the world and I came, hard, hips bucking, body shaking, unable to stifle my moans. At least no one heard me. I guess there are some benefits to living alone.
Like I said, there are five of us working on this project. It’s too long and too boring to tell how we all got in touch with each other, but we’re all gay, we’re all friends, we all work in biotech or medical research, and we all have a thing for muscle. Not just a little thing. Not just a little muscle. We’re all size and growth fetishists of the most extreme bent. ‘Mr Olympia posedown as porn’ just scratches the surface.
As for our little venture… It started as a side project, something we kept under wraps. It began as empty talk in our group text, how we wished we could leave our jobs and be a team of muscle growth scientists with a stable of ever-growing bodybuilders who we could enjoy at our leisure. It was a running gag for a bit, talking about our muscle growth lab/dungeon. Then the talk took a more definite shape over cocktails one fateful Friday night. The various things we were working on, research papers we had fortuitously just read, some inventive lateral thinking, a few productive what-ifs…. We did the modeling. It looked promising.
Then the pandemic hit, and, well… we decided to go for it. Synthesize the compound and see if it works the way the computer says it will. We had so much time on our hands, why not moonlight as a cabal of gay mad scientists in Anderson’s garage or Matteo’s basement? A little borrowed equipment here, a few vials of grey market research compounds there… The theoretical work was already done. Why not see what it does in vivo?
The first tests on rodents showed such shocking results, we knew we couldn’t stop there. That’s where I kind of fell into the leadership role. I took care of the paperwork establishing our company. I found the investors to get us off the ground. I filed the patent paperwork and learned the regulations.
And I set up the human trials. Going around local gyms, recruiting men willing to inject an experimental chemical if it meant they might get bigger.
And now here we were, more than a year later, having successfully captured lightning in a bottle. We had an entirely novel compound that induced extreme hypertrophy in a high testosterone environment. It wasn’t difficult to synthesize. It wasn’t difficult to administer. It seemed to have no significant negative side effects.
And now we just had to sell it to the world and watch the muscles swell around us.
“I’ve got the perfect idea,” Matteo said, his dark eyes sparkling. Short, compact, well-groomed He always looked most adorable when he was enthused about something. We first met on Scruff a few years back, slowly revealing the full extent of our muscle growth fetish to each other over DMs. We met, we fucked like rabbits for about two weeks, and then we smoothly transitioned into being friends, like you do.
“Yeah?” I responded. The four of us were sitting around a table on the roof of Hakan’s downtown Toronto condo, waiting for our host to return. It was a beautiful summer day and we were sitting on a gold mine, debating our next move.
“You’ll love it. We do one last trial.” He could see my face souring, he knew I wanted to launch as soon as we could. “Wait, listen. One last trial, each of us asks our favourite bodybuilder to take our compound for 10 weeks and then we use before and after pics for an advertising blitz. We’ll launch at the end of the 10 weeks so we’ll have plenty of work to do. But the impact from instagram alone would be unreal. Regan Grimes adds 35 lbs of raw muscle and he did it all thanks to, uh… whatever we’re calling this.”
“Yeah, Rob, what are we calling this?” Hakan, the fifth member of our group, interjected as he approached the table bearing a tray of fizzing champagne flutes and the half-empty bottle. He always had a flair.
“Well, why don’t we each come up with our best idea for a name and then have a secret vote,” I suggested, accepting the glass Hakan handed me.
“Pfft,” Anderson said, taking a glass. “Everyone will just vote for their own suggestion.”
“So ask all the guys from the trial to vote on it too, whatever, it’s a free focus group.” Eli waved his hand dismissively before grabbing his glass. “You’re all ignoring Matteo’s frankly excellent idea.”
“What’s your idea?” Hakan asked, handing Matteo the penultimate glass before taking the last for himself.
“That we recruit five bodybuilders to be our final guinea pigs and our first spokes-brutes.”
Hakan settled into his seat, compressed his lips as if considering. “I like it. Dibs on Iain.”
“I already called dibs on Regan, and since it’s my idea I get double-dibs,” Matteo quickly added.
“I want Antoine,” Eli added. “If we’re keeping it Canadian.”
Anderson gestured imperiously. “You are all such predictable queens.”
“Well, what super-heavyweight do you want to sponsor, since you’ve just got to be the iconoclast?”
“Who?” Blank looks from the other guys, although I recognized the name.
“And you call yourself a muscle fetishist! Coach Little Joe on Instagram,” Anderson replied with the air of an art snob having to identify Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers” to a room full of ignorant tourists.
“Ooooh, yeah, him, he would be really hot with another 30 or 40 lbs of muscle on him.”
“What about you, Rob?” All eyes turned to me.
I looked around at the guys, their faces shining like kids writing their Christmas wish lists. Derek Lunsford? Hunter Labrada? Nick Walker? Names flickered through my mind, a whirlwind of visual memories, thousands of nights spent with my cock in my hand, scrolling through Instagram and Tumblr and Twitter, gorging my fevered brain on muscle, more muscle, more muscle, more muscle… who would I gift this magic elixir to? What bulging skin-straining ‘roid-freak, already existing at the current limit of muscular possibility, did I want to explode even bigger with another few dozen pounds of raw beef?
“I need some time to think about it,” I said, but I was lying. I knew exactly who I wanted to blow up. “Anyway,” I said, raising my champagne flute. “Cheers, guys. To muscle. To us.”
“Let’s make some monsters!” Matteo exclaimed as he clinked his glass against the others, and we all drank to that.
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.”
A week or so later I let myself into Angelo’s apartment. I had a set of keys, now. Things were kind of surreal. When I wasn’t with Angelo I was in a kind of daze, unable to really begin processing what had happened between us. What it meant.
It started with the handjob. Of course he made full eye contact with me the entire time, his vast musculature flexing involuntarily. Or maybe not involuntarily. Maybe he knew that with every twitch of his pecs my slow erotic simmer got a little less slow, got a little closer to boiling over. But if he was teasing me, it didn’t last long. My talented hand was soon calling the shots, as my too-musclebound-to-jack-off best friend was slowly reduced to a whimpering panting pile of meat on the sofa, his balls pulled up like landing gear as I worked him higher into the stratosphere of erotic bliss.
“Ho… holy fuck… Rob… you’re… you’re so good… hnnngg… you’re so good at this…. Fuck!”
“Takes a man to know how to please a man,” I murmured as I continued working his cock, using his copious precum as lube. If I was going to do this, I didn’t want him closing his eyes and imagining it was really some girl with her hand on his stick shift. I wasn’t going to let myself be a tool, a useful object. I’d fooled around with straight guys before and I knew their bullshit inside-out. I wouldn’t take that from him.
But I needn’t have worried. He kept his eyes locked on mine. Big, dark eyes. Pleading. His full lips parted, his breathing fast and shallow. His head about to be swallowed up by the traps, pecs, and delts rising around him. I leaned in a little closer, daring him to look away. He held my gaze.
That’s when he said it.
It was low, fast, some short phrase pulled from deep inside him. I almost thought I heard him wrong. I told him to say it again, louder.
“K-kiss me. Fuck.” He was whimpering. Pleading. Barely able to form coherent words.
Our faces were only a few inches apart by this point. My lean well-muscled torso pressed against his unnatural bulging mass. My hand still working his weeping cock, I slowly closed the gap, giving him plenty of time to turn away. Well, turn as far as his monstrous traps would let him. I’d accept that, if he did. I’d back off if he gave me any sign. He didn’t. He just kept whimpering and staring at me with those eyes. Begging. His dick literally throbbing in my hand. 400 pounds of heaving muscle between us.
Our lips brushed. My heart was beating so fast I thought I’d pass out and die. All those years I dreamed of doing this. We weren’t kissing yet, not quite. The skin of our lips just barely touched, sticking and unsticking with tiny movements. I was close enough now that if I looked him in the eyes my vision crossed.
I was still jacking him off. I could feel his hips bucking as his breath started to catch. His eyes closed involuntarily. He was so close. “Please,” he begged, his last shred of coherence burning up.
I closed the gap and kissed him, hard, and moments later his cock unloaded, spraying his monstrous over-muscled torso with shot after shot of thick white goo. I was merciless, I eased up the pressure and pace but did not let go. I milked him like a dairy cow even as we feverishly made out. Coaxing shot after shot of thick cream from him. He was shaking, moaning, his breath uneven. This massive heap of beef, over 400 pounds crammed onto his 5’10” frame, was quivering, reduced to an infantile helplessness by the power of my hand.
I broke the lip-lock and released my grip at the same moment as his cock gave its final few orgasmic twitches. I pulled my face away from his a few inches. His eyes were open but his gaze was galaxies away. As if he’d seen the face of god.
Finally, I saw awareness of himself, his surroundings, return to him. He grinned up at me. “Thanks,” he breathed, exhausted.
“I’ll get a towel,” I volunteered, standing up, walking off. My head was buzzing like a beehive in the walls. There were a thousand frantic thoughts darting and swirling but I kept myself apart from them, my head empty but for the wordless sound.
When I returned he had reclined a little, his enormous arms stretched out behind his head, biceps mashed against the sides of his face, his softening cock nestled into the deep groove of his girdle of adonis, his enormous legs stretched out, each thigh pushing the other apart, calves so huge that his heels—fuck!—his heels didn’t quite reach the floor and the massive veiny orbs of calf meat took the weight of his lower limbs instead. His eyes were closed, as if sleeping, or meditating on what had just happened to him.
When I got close and began to clean off his torso with the towel, his eyes snapped open, he grinned, and his arms and legs closed around me. It had been a trap. I squawked with surprise as he drew me down on top of him, far too powerful to resist.
“What the fuck are you—” I got out before he kissed me again, hard.
He broke the kiss and laughed. “You should see your face!”
“What the fuck are you doing?!” I’d been hard this whole time, but my dick was surging to an even more intense erection as fast as my heart could pump blood. Can you blame it, or me? Feeling all this muscle shifting and flexing under me, seeing my achingly handsome best friend’s face just inches from my own, his huge warm smile just beaming love and positive emotions toward me. Fuck.
“Something I should have done years ago,” he said, then he started kissing me again. I felt my fussy resistance, my desire to clean up his cum to avoid getting his sofa all stained, melt away as I began kissing him back, hard.
We broke apart again, briefly. “I thought…?” I said.
“It doesn’t matter what you thought. Later. We’ll talk about it later.” And then, as if to shut me up, or as if to prove that he was serious, he lifted my entire 216-pound body up so that my straining cock was at mouth level, he pulled my shorts off, and he started sucking my dick like he meant it.
I lasted about 30 seconds and, considering the circumstances, I think that’s not bad at all.
Bisexual, he said he was. Said he always had been. I asked him why he was only ever with girls. He said it’s because that was the path of least resistance. He never had to pursue anyone. He was hot. Girls just threw themselves at him, and he let that happen. He’d never exercised sexual agency in his life—he just passively received the sex that the universe sent his way. But he never felt much of a connection with them, which is why he was on to the next one so quickly.
But he knew he was bi, right back to his early teen years.
“So you always…?”
We lay in bed, side by side, staring at the ceiling. I sensed the warmth—his muscles made him a proverbial furnace—and I felt the subtlest shift in the mattress as the powerful bellows of his lungs did their work of oxygenating all that mass. He created such a canyon in the mattress that I felt gravity pulling me toward him, a small moon to his giant planet.
“I…” my words failed. What could I say? What should I say? I always loved you? I always wanted you? I was so afraid of losing you that my worst nightmare for more than a decade was you finding out?
“I’m sorry, Rob. I… I was scared.”
“I was scared too.”
“I know you were. I always wanted to make you feel safe. Protected. I’d never hurt you. Never.”
My hand found his hand. Even here, his muscles had grown so huge that his shape was deforming from their sheer size. Lacing my normal fingers between his fat ones, squeezing his hand and feeling the meaty tennis ball of muscle between his thumb and index finger bulge against me.
We lay there in silence, holding hands, staring at the ceiling. I don’t know for how long. There were a million things I wanted to say, my head dense with words, but I refused to disturb the peace. We had wasted so much time. It had taken us so long to get here. But at least we had finally arrived, and I wanted the silence. I wanted to dwell in this moment as long as it would last.
There was time for words, later.
“Hey muscle blimp!” I called out cheerfully as I pushed my way into his place. I was spending the night at Angelo’s often enough, since the dam burst, so to speak, about a week ago. But on days that I didn’t, I now came directly to his apartment instead of meeting him at the gym. He was so huge now, so ungainly in his ever-swelling mass, that he needed my help to get ready.
“Hey,” he rumbled from his bedroom. I could tell something was off. He was always bright, happy to see me. Coming from him, this taciturn greeting was practically sullen.
I made my way into his room. He sat on the edge of the bed, naked, muscles so huge and heavy that they hung under their own weight. His soft cock wasn’t small, but it was basically hidden in the deep cavern created by the swelling hills of his quads and the cobbled overhanging boulder of his roid-gut. The mattress sagged under his enormous ass cheeks. He was frowning, his bushy black eyebrows knit together.
“Something wrong?” I asked, gathering up his gym clothes. Man, the room reeked of roidsweat and cum. My fault as much as his, I guess. I paused to open a window and help air it out.
“Work wants us to come back to the office next month.”
My heart lurched. “Ah.”
“I’m too fucking big to drive a car or ride a bike or take transit. I can’t even get dressed on my own. None of my old office clothes are going to be anywhere close to fitting. And that’s now. How much fuckin’ bigger am I gonna be in a month’s time, when they want me back? I might not even be able to scratch my own damn nose at that point.” He sighed.
I wasn’t sure what to say. Did he want practical advice? Comfort? “Do you want that $10,000 I offered you for doing the trial, after-all?”
“I mean, maybe? I’m going to have to quit, or go on disability or something. I don’t even know if they’d let me do that, though. Does it still count as a disability if it’s self-inflicted?”
I sat down next to him and put my arm around as much of him as it could reach. There was still plenty of him left over, beyond my reach. My palm splayed against one of the many hillocks of meat on his upper back. “Do you want to stop?” Fuck, it was hard for me to make myself ask him that. But I had to. I couldn’t destroy his life just because it turned out he was some kind of muscle growth mutant.
“God, no. I wanna keep growing.”
“Do you… like your job?” I remembered him complaining about it, how it took too much time and energy, how it drained him. He blamed his career for wrecking his bodybuilding dreams in the first place—he just couldn’t find the time and energy to train the way he wanted to, with work making such huge demands on him.
“God no, I hated it before the pandemic, doing it from home was the only thing that made it tolerable.”
I swallowed hard. “Angelo…. You’re outgrowing this apartment. You already barely fit through the door even turned fully sideways.”
“What’s your point?” I could feel him tense under me, as if getting defensive while predicting the course this conversation would take. I breathed deep and made myself push forward.
“Move in with me.”
The muscles under my arm relaxed as the conversation sped past the exit marked ‘give up your dreams.’ “But Rob… your place isn’t much bigger than mine.”
“Not move in to where I’m living now. Angelo… you know I’m about to become a multi-millionaire, right?”
I guess that particular penny hadn’t dropped. “What? How?”
“The product. You know. The growth juice that’s made you turn into an ever-inflating muscle blimp? We can’t stay ahead of the orders. The demand is out of this world. Me and the guys, even splitting up what’s left after the investors take their cut, all five of us are set to make a shit load of money in the next little while.”
Angelo was quiet. “I guess I never thought about it,” he said after a moment. Another pause. “I need to think about it, I can’t say yes or no right away.”
“That’s fine, big guy. You know I never want to pressure you into anything. But I’m happy to find us a place where we both can live, with room enough for you to grow. I’ll make enough money for us both. Let me know. Now, are we going to the gym today?”
“You bet your scrawny ass we are. Help me get dressed.” I stood up, grabbed his tent-like gym shorts, and began shimmying them over his bloated thighs. Despite the comical size of the shorts, they were a tight fit. Gotta get some bigger ones custom made, and soon. His waist bulged with muscle, a true roid-gut, but it was still a good deal smaller than just one of his thighs, so I had a lot of draw-string to pull. As I cinched the drawstring, Angelo spoke up.
“Oh, I almost forgot. 422 pounds this morning.” He grinned cockily at me as I lifted my face to meet his gaze. He lifted his arms into a double bicep and flexed. He was so big it was scary. Despite my best efforts with the vitamin E, his skin looked fit to split open, full of stretchmarks. The peak of his bicep pushing toward his fists. “Think I can hit 450 by the end of next week?”
I could see the warehouse walls buckling outward from the pressure. I felt my heart racing even as my cock throbbed with an erection so intense it bordered on painful. We didn’t think this would happen yet, not for months, years even. Yet the bigger he got, the bigger he wanted to get. How was he even alive? How were his bones not crushed into powder, how was his skin not in tatters, how could his heart and lungs ever hope to oxygenate that much tissue? These concerns flew from my head as I saw his hairy tan skin bulge out of every window and opening, the masonry crumbling, the rebar bending. So huge it was impossible to discern body parts – he didn’t have those any more. He was just… muscle. All muscle.
He was outgrowing the damn building and there was no way to stop him. I was torn between two impulses. To run for cover, and to run to him, to embrace his enormous deformed muscle blimp of a body, like an ant embracing an overripe watermelon. Bulging veins as thick as my goddamn torso. Feel him throb against me, getting incrementally bigger with every pulsation of his inhuman flesh. My cock felt like it would burst, it had never been so hard, as the largest land animal in earth’s history, my best friend, my boyfriend, grew and grew and grew before my disbelieving eyes. There was no stopping him now, not even if we wanted to. And we didn’t want to. We wanted more. More and more and more and more and more and more and more and
“Hey. Hey babe. Hey. Wake up.”
I was somewhere else. Somewhere dark. Warm. I was holding on to something. Something huge and hard and unyielding, yet smooth, warm, velvet. My skin felt so good against it. My mouth worked against the enormous round protrusion like an infant searching for a nipple, yet there was no give. I was suckling concrete. Warm concrete wrapped in silk. And my hips were thrusting, thrusting, thrusting, my cock dripping, aching.
“Fuck, you’re cute,” he rumbled, his voice so deep, so warm. His love for me so apparent, so beyond doubt. He flexed and I felt my whole body shift with his flexing.
My eyes and my mind focused as I slowly awoke. The warehouse bulging and blowing apart from the ever-swelling mass of muscle inside… it faded. That had been a dream. But this… this was no dream, now.
I was clutching onto Angelo’s heart-stopping quad, my arms struggling to encircle it, my head toward his shins. I was making out with the grotesquely overgrown teardrop like it was a human face, and it may as well have been. If anything it was bigger than a human head, having long buried his kneecap. Even lying flat, his legs were forced into a wide V shape just to accommodate the ungodly masses he had slabbed onto his femur. He shifted the other leg, and I witnessed an avalanche of meat as the muscle’s independent center of gravity shifted and the gigantic quad-blob flopped into its new resting position.
We had measured his quads at a full 60” just last night. The visual memory surging, unbidden, into my mind’s eye. The tape, which only went to sixty, barely encircling his thigh. Me looking up at his face, barely visible over the protruding mass of his pecs. He was grinning, beaming, his tortured 6XL briefs tenting, a wet spot forming. He wanted more.
And now here we were, in the small dark hours of the morning. Me thrusting my hips over and over, jackhammering, as I awoke from the wildest erotic dream. I felt my cock bump against his, barely emerging from the deep cavern formed by his monster quads and his ridged boulder of a roid gut. He was hard too, slick. At his size, conventional sex was a bit tricky, but we found ways to enjoy ourselves.
I realized my ass was pointing at his face, and when he said “fuck, you’re cute,” that’s probably what he was talking about. My big bodybuilder glutes flexing, round when relaxed, like two giant kidney-beans when contracted, over and over. Maybe a glimpse of hole as I retracted from the previous thrust and prepared for the next one. Yes, he wasn’t the only one who had grown over the last several months, although he so far eclipsed me that any comparison was pointless, if not comical.
I had no memory of how I’d ended up upside-down in bed. We had gone to sleep in a normal orientation, him with his CPAP on, on his back, and me on my side hugging his 40” upper arm like it was an extra pillow. I guess I got energetic in the night. Can you blame me?
I decided to work with it, though. I stopped my rhythmic, automatic thrusting and leaned my ass way back, toward his face, letting my glutes pop and jiggle. I heard him groan, felt his cock pulsing under my torso as I edged myself backward closer to his head.
“You’re so huge,” he murmured, which was so funny I had to stifle a laugh. Yeah, I had grown. I had grown so much more than I ever thought possible. 250 pounds with abs, nothing to sneeze at. But he was so much bigger than me. So much bigger.
He kept monologuing as I inched my way closer and closer to his face. “Big bodybuilder…” he moaned. I could feel him struggle to get his hands onto the back of my torso, his biceps fighting against his pecs. He hadn’t been able to clap his hands for a while now, and with every passing week his ability to bring his hands together grew less and less. “Gonna step on stage soon,” he purred, pulling me closer. I could feel his big pecs against my hamstrings now, his hot breath against my ass. I heard him lick his lips. “Big super heavy, peeled and tanned, cocky in your little poser, flexing under the spotlight.” He was mumbling as he drew me closer and closer. I pressed the back of my thighs against his pecs, feeling how unyielding they were. My hands couldn’t stop moving over the vast landscape of his thighs and torso, the endless hard bulging sea of muscle. Finally they found his cock, and I began working it, his precum so copious that my grip moved slick and easy over the flaring head. I felt his tongue pressing between my glutes, his lips still moving as if trying to continue narrating his fantasy of me. I felt him buck and shudder as I worked his cock mercilessly, but he never relented, feasting on me as if I was his only sustenance.
The fantasy of his would soon be a reality. Me, on stage, in posers, flexing for the crowd. It was impossible for him to do a show, now. He was simply too big, it wouldn’t be an option until there was some kind of accommodation for men like him. But me? I was now in that sweet spot. It was time for me to step on stage in these dying days of conventional bodybuilding, just as the revolution me and my collaborators had begun took hold.
Later that morning, he insisted on going to our favourite cafe. It was really difficult to get him out the door nowadays, but he clearly wanted to retain a semblance of normal life for as long as he could manage. There was no way of pulling his custom made jeans over his enormous legs and ass. The very way they were built demanded a different method. I snapped the waistband around his hips, his thick cable-like obliques gapping the fabric. Cum gutters, we crudely called them; but on Angelo they were built to withstand a Noachian deluge of sperm. Then I fastened a snap around each knee and ankle. This done, a robust zipper brought the fabric together over the unheard-of protuberances of his thighs and calves. The fabric contained a healthy percentage of spandex, and the unique garment was only a couple of weeks old, but already I could tell he’d need an even bigger one quite soon. Lucky for us, such a thing was already being made. Sometimes I wondered what the seamstresses must thing when we sent in the patterns and measurements…
The tent-like t-shirt went over his head like normal, although I had to pull it down for him. It was novelty sized, but it barely managed to cover his ridiculous mounded masses of muscle. And, of course, I had to put his shoes on and tie them up for him, like he was a ludicrously enormous toddler. “All done,” I announced as I finished, standing up. Not like he had any way to see for himself.
Watching him stand up was breathtaking. He had to shift his torso back and forth a little to work up momentum, his muscles flopping and flexing wildly as he did, his frame utterly overwhelmed. Like he was morbidly obese, which, I suppose, he was, in a sense. Then he used that momentum to stand, huffing from the exertion, arms elevated comically to his side, his feet so far apart he seemed much shorter than he otherwise would be. Walking was slow, laborious, but I indulged his desire to do it. It was only two blocks. It would take us ten minutes. I swatted his giant ass like two overgrown pumpkins barely contained inside a too-small denim sack. “Let’s go, big guy.”
People in the neighbourhood were somewhat used to him, but they still stared. Who could blame them? I ignored it. Well. That’s not true. I found it fucking hot, is the truth. Me walking my pet monster. Hey, he needs his cardio. Oh, he’s blocking the sidewalk? Sorry. Can’t do anything about that.
There was only one spot in the cafe where we could sit, but thankfully it was free. He’d almost certainly flatten any usual chair he lowered his big butt onto, but there was an iron bench along the wall which took his weight. He sat there, looking awkward and uncomfortable in his hugeness, meat mounded up around his face, while I ordered for both of us. Iced latte for him, with an extra long straw I brought from home so he didn’t need me to hold it up to his face. Black coffee for me. I was on contest prep, after all.
“Heard from the contractor. They say another three months before we’re ready for move in,” I said as I sat.
He grunted. “Way too far off. I’m outgrowing the house right now. In three months I’ll be breaking through the floorboards.” We had already moved once to accommodate him, into a house that had been designed for a wheelchair user, extra wide doors, ramps instead of stairs. It was doing nicely for us – for now.
I sighed, not wanting to state the obvious. “ Maybe we should… pause your cycle.”
He grunted. “Don’t wanna.”
“34 years old? More like 4 years old,” I said, reaching over to ruffle his hair. He scrunched his face up adorably, pulling his head down into his traps and pecs like a turtle trying to retract into its shell. “I don’t like it either, big guy, but it’s like… we can put things on pause for a few months, right? It’s not the end of the world.”
A stranger approached our table then. I felt my spine stiffen; this happened pretty much every time we left the house, lately. “I’m so sorry to bother you,” he began. A well-dressed man in his fifties, if I had to guess. Nice polite home owner. White collar. Wife. Two adult children. Rides his bike to work.
I resisted the urge to answer then why are you bothering us and instead waited for him to finish whatever it was he was going to say, even though the questions had very little variation from day to day.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but how much does your friend weigh?”
Ah yes, the ‘can it speak? Does it understand English?’ phenomenon. It boggled me, but more and more when we were in public people would address me, not Angelo, as if I was his interpreter. Like he was a Great Dane I had out for a walk.
“632 pounds,” Angelo said, as annoyed by this tendency as I was. His dark eyebrows knit together and his full lips compressed.
“So sorry to bother you! I was… I was just curious!” The man retreated. We watched him go.
Angelo sighed. “I guess in another month, if I don’t give up the treatments, I won’t be able to go out in public anyway. At least I won’t have to answer questions like that every day.” He grew contemplative, his eyes glancing out the window. I gave him a moment to think whatever thoughts he was thinking.
Finally, he sighed, accepting that he was just growing too fast for even our hastiest plans to accommodate him. “Yeah. It makes sense. Let’s pause. Just until the new house is ready. Then…” He smirked. “Boom.”
Four months later
Show day. It still didn’t seem real when I looked in the mirror. It was like some kind of magical spell had been cast. Fairy Godmother waved her wand over me, but instead of a gown for the ball, it was a full-body shave, a mahogany tan, and a tiny pair of emerald posers. My skeletal prep-face, sunken eyes, ridiculous grin, stained skin, all of it was proudly unnatural – but it was still identifiably me, from the neck up.
It was what was under my neck that blew my mind over and over again, kept making me do double-takes. This is my body? For real? In short: I actually looked like a goddamn bodybuilder. I registered yesterday as a super heavyweight. 258 pounds of raw lean beef on a 5’10” frame for my first-ever bodybuilding show. Me, the guy who, for fifteen years, couldn’t break 200 pounds no matter how hard I tried. Who had sat in the audience of so many shows cheering on my best friend, never daring to think it might be me up there, some day. And now…
“You wish he was here, don’t you?” Mateo’s voice broke through my reverie.
We were backstage, in the waiting area. They would be calling for us to line up at any moment. Mateo was my helper yesterday and today. He’d shaved me down, he’d come with me to tanning and registration, he was carrying all my stuff.
“Well, yeah, obviously,” I said. “But that’s not possible, so… I’m glad you’re here.”
Mateo grinned, flashing his white teeth, his adorable features scrunching up. “That’s what friends are for. Plus,” he said, snapping a picture with his phone with zero warning, “I’ve got to keep the Mutant Juice instagram and twitter up to date.” When we formalized the company, Mateo ended up as head of PR. It was a smart move. Our brand has more than a million followers on every major platform. Sure, it helped that we were selling a revolutionary product that turned ordinary men into super heavyweight bodybuilders, and super heavyweight bodybuilders into unheard of freaks, but still. Mateo did excellent work.
He was still holding his phone up, taking a video I realized. “I’m not just the CEO,” I quipped, raising my arms into a double bicep. “I’m also a client.” Twenty-two goddamn inches. It still blew my mind.
“SUPERHEAVIES!” a volunteer bellowed from the door.
“That’s my cue,” I said, turning to lumber my way to the wings, ready to step on stage for the first time in my life.
“Huh?” I said, pausing, turning back to Mateo. He looked serious, his usual joking demeanor gone.
“I know he’s proud of you,” he said, quiet, intense. Then, the warm sunny Mateo was back, like the mask had never slipped. “Now go get ‘em, tiger.”
“You looked great up there!” Mateo said as he rejoined me backstage.
“It felt good.”
“They put you near the middle and more or less kept you there, I think you’re in the running for top spot.”
I was panting. Comparisons were hard work, I had learned. They asked for pose after pose, and kept us holding them for ages. I just wanted a big drink of water, but I couldn’t, not yet. Finals were still coming up. “Yeah, definitely top three, but I kind of don’t care. I just want to look like I belong up there. I think I achieved that.”
Mateo slapped the back of my head. “Of course you did, dingus. But think about how good it’ll be for our brand if you win.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. because we’re having so much trouble making sales as it is.”
“Just what kind of CEO are you, Robert? Take one for the team and win this thing, OK?” Mateo’s grin showed me he was mostly joking. Mostly. I knew he wanted me to win, and I knew I had a good shot at it. But truly, the field was tight. Almost everyone competing was on Mutant Juice, now. Whatever edge I might have had by starting on it before it hit the market had faded away by now.
It was like he could sense my creeping doubt, my brain in the process of moving its goalposts. “Win it for him,” he said, serious again. “Bring your man a trophy.”
I gulped. Nodded. My heart fluttering.
They had to go through the Men’s Physique categories and all the female categories, then a lunch break, before I had to be back on stage for finals. So we had a couple hours to kill. The show was just a regional amateur, but it was one of the larger and more prominent ones, so there was an expo. And since the Mutant Juice CEO was competing, of course we sprang for a booth for the company.
In my oversized baggy sweats, all stained with fake tan, I waddled out after Mateo as we went to check on the others.
Hakan was minding the booth, taking orders and making sure things went smoothly. Our four Spokesmutants were there too, by now so intertwined with our branding that most bodybuilding fans couldn’t think of any of them without also thinking of our product. Iain, Regan, Antoine, and Joe. Four behemoths. Each of them in a tight custom-made Mutant Juice tanktop and little black bootyshorts (hey, we’re still a company founded and owned by gay men). They had each added more than 100 pounds of muscle from their pre-Mutant Juice days. Living photoshop morphs. Their gains had slowed dramatically by this point – but they hadn’t quite stopped. It was still unclear just how big a normal responder might get with years of use. My personal guess was, at an average height, lean, maybe the low 400s. Antoine was already 430 pounds, although he was a little on the chunky side. All four of them lumbered awkwardly around the expo booth in our company’s livery, like parade balloons that had broken their tethers.
We were selling Mutant Juice subscriptions: monthly deliveries of your doses. For an extra fee, one of the Spokesmutants would take you behind the curtain and administer your first dose personally. The line was long but no one standing in it seemed to mind.
The curtain twitched aside and handsome Joe waddled out, swinging each massive 40” thigh wide around the other, 32” arms elevated permanently by his lats, his twin medicine balls of an ass flexing and bulging in those black short shorts with each step. A flustered man in his mid twenties followed him out, grinning, red-faced, one hand rubbing his left glute, perhaps unconsciously. He looked like an average gymrat, some muscle on him but nothing special in the crowd at a bodybuilding expo. I wondered how he’d look in six months. Would he be an average responder? Another 60 or 70 pounds of muscle on him? Or would he be something more, an outlandish freak barely able to totter around without help, something both more and less than human at the same time?
He and Joe posed together; Hakan took a photo on the kid’s phone. Even as this happened, I saw Regan take the next person in line behind the curtain, a little vial of Mutant Juice in his big muscular paw of a hand, a grin on his face. They all loved this, our Spokesmutants. They loved making more monsters, seeing the awe and excitement on the little guys’ faces, unable to be contained.
Our crew spotted us approaching, waved and called out to us. “I gave the boys a break to duck in and watch you on stage,” Hakan said as we got closer.
“Solid presentation, man,” Iain said, nodding.
“You’re right there in the mix,” Joe added in agreement.
“Thanks, guys. I just wanted to look like I belonged up there, so I guess mission accomplished.”
“Fuck that man, you’re there to win it!” Antoine interjected in his Quebecois accent.
“That’s what I keep telling him,” Mateo said, grinning.
I felt my phone buzz in the baggy pocket of my oversized sweats. I fished it out. It was an email from the NPC. Keeping me in the loop. This was a new and unexpected development over the last few months, as our product quickly became essential to competitive bodybuilders who wanted to keep up with the quantum leap in muscular size that we’d instantiated.
I skimmed the email quickly. “Good news, guys,” I said. “They’re going to do what we’ve been asking for. Keep this under your hat. But next week they’re going to announce a new weight class for men’s open: megaweight. Looks like that’ll be over 290 pounds? Or possibly 300. It says they’re still ironing out the details.”
“Fucking awesome.” “About time.” Our four freaks had all been vocal on social media in favour of this proposed change.
Then Hakan spoke up. “What about the new division? Leviathan.”
I scanned the email. “Nothing in there.”
Hakan made a frustrated noise. “They can’t pretend it doesn’t exist forever.”
Leviathan. That’s what people were already calling it. A hypothetical division for the super-responders. These very rare men whose bodies responded so well to Mutant Juice that they just kept piling on muscle, more and more and more, to the point of severely restricted mobility.
So far only two already-prominent bodybuilders had turned out to be Leviathans. The chances were quite small that there were even that many, truly. There was Behrooz Tabani in Iran, over 500 pounds according to his Instagram and greedy to keep growing, shuffling around in his videos with a goofy grin on his face, arms so fat with muscle they looked comically useless, stranded on top of his unheard of lats. And there was Ole Kristian Vaaga in Norway, even bigger than Behrooz, so obese with muscle that he looked deformed by it, unable to touch his own face or clap his hands, the peaks of his traps just about level with the top of his bald head, ass like two yoga balls stuffed into his signature white tights, stretched so thin they were just about transparent. We suspected Ole was overdosing on the product, actually, despite his extreme sensitivity to it – he was just exploding with so much meat, so fast.
A few others had emerged, normal guys or low level competing amateurs who discovered their bodies soaked up the Mutant Juice like dry sponges, kicking off a muscle growth frenzy that would continue as long as they kept taking the product and kept eating and lifting. And that’s what all of them did. We had a disclaimer just the same, and we printed it everywhere.
WARNING: For a very small percentage (<0.01%) of people, Mutant Juice will cause extreme muscle growth. If your gains exceed 10 pounds / 4.5 kg a week, we strongly recommend ceasing use to avoid a level of muscular development that will impede normal function and may cause severe health issues. If use is continued, Mutant Juice assumes no liability.
We had yet to hear of anyone deciding to stop. Every super-responder seemed ecstatic – blissful – to feel their bodies slowly explode on the Juice. I was beginning to think the experience of extreme and unlimited growth was addictive. It had to be. The bigger these Leviathans got, the more they wanted to grow. Loss of mobility and eventual total dependence on the care of others never fazed them.
Certainly my experiences with Angelo would bear that out.
No, stop thinking about that right now. Focus on the job at hand. You’re on the clock, Mr Ceo.
You’ve got a contest to win. A company to represent. An empire to build. Monsters to grow.
When I made it into the top two, the world seemed to stop, right there on stage. The music and the crowd all went quiet and slow, like my head had been plunged underwater. And then they announced second place and it wasn’t me.
It legitimately took a moment for the realization to hit me. Holy fuck. I’d just won. I’d just won my first bodybuilding show. Not just my class. The fucking overall. The big trophy.
I don’t even remember posing with the officials on stage for photos. I don’t recall how I got off the stage. I hope I was gracious to the others. But I was on autopilot. I was in shock.
I floated backstage somehow. Volunteers and other competitors were congratulating me, slapping my shoulder, telling me how awesome I was. I was still dazed by it. The trophy weirdly heavy in my hand. I stepped into the corridor and saw Mateo, Hakan, and, surprisingly, Eli. I thought he was back in Toronto. They were all ecstatic and rushed toward me, although it took them a moment to break through.
“Rob! Rob! Holy fuck! You did it!”
And then I saw why Eli was there. He was holding an iPad, and Angelo’s handsome face filled the screen. Even from this distance I could see his head being crowded out by his own meat. But he was grinning. The crowd was so loud, I could see his mouth moving but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
I couldn’t help it. I started crying. I felt my friends gather around me, their arms encircling me. “You’ll get tan on you,” I sniffled.
“Like we care about that,” Hakan murmured as his warm arms circled my chest.
Eli fished out some earbuds and popped them in my ears. The din of the backstage faded and Angelo’s warm baritone filled my head.
“I’m so proud of you, babe,” he said. “I saw the whole thing.”
I made some sort of incomprehensible sound in reply.
“You looked phenomenal up there. Your posing was so good. You have such good flow. I always knew you’d be amazing at this,” he said. I stared at the iPad, which Eli was helpfully holding in front of my face as Hakan and Mateo embraced me. The familiar hillocks of Angelo’s traps filled the remainder of the frame. His gorgeous eyes. His beautiful mouth. Fuck, I wanted to touch him.
I made some other stupid utterance. Probably they were actual words, I don’t remember.
“Get back soon, OK? I miss you. I can’t wait to see you.”
This time I do remember what I said. “I miss you too. I can’t wait to see you. I… I love you.”
“I love you too, big guy. Always have. Always will. Stay safe. Eat some pizza. Get home to me. I’ll be waiting.”
I stepped through the front door and the smell of testosterone and sweat hit me like an avalanche. The custom-built house was barely one month old, and was kept very clean, but there just wasn’t any way to get rid of the smell. His unheard of supercharged biology was too much for any cleaning product to handle, he had already marked the walls with his scent just by living here. “I’m home!”
“In here,” he called. Not that I needed the help finding him. Moving him from room to room was quite the operation, at this point, so he was typically parked in one of just a few places.
I stepped through to the living room. Despite having been gone for only about a week, my jaw newly dropped.
There was just no frame of reference for what Angelo had grown into. What he had become.
He stood under his own power – barely. Limbs starfished, his extremely wide stance almost comical. Arms propped up on lats that reached out almost to his wrists. Pecs that curved up from his clavicle, such that more and more of his field of vision was simply his own pec-meat. I wondered if there would come a day when those twin orbs of beef would fill his field of vision totally. He looked fit to split his skin.
He was naked, as always, in part because, since moving into our new custom-made home and resuming his growth, he never left the house. It was also in part because we couldn’t find any clothes that would come close to fitting him. I suppose in an emergency a tablecloth or bedsheet could be jury-rigged into a kind of loincloth or toga…
Despite being exhausted, jetlagged, my cock quickly began filling, firming up, harder and harder with each of my rapid heartbeats.
He was so fucking beautiful. And huge. And mine. I raced over and pressed my puny super heavyweight body against the massive collection of fleshy boulders that comprised his bizarrely overgrown body.
“I’m so proud!” he said as he let me hug him, unable to return the gesture, his own cock visibly stiffening. Back before he grew, he’d actually been very well hung, a proudly uncut 8”. His cock hadn’t shrunk, nor had it grown, but it was simply so dwarfed by the vast heaps of muscle around it that it looked small by comparison, now.
He took a slow, shuffling step. I squawked in alarm and grabbed hold of whatever meaty protrusions I could. “Don’t be stupid!” I often worried about him falling. That much weight coming down on a bone at the wrong angle, it would shatter.
He huffed, whether in exertion or annoyance at my fussing, I couldn’t be sure. He took another slow, deliberate step, his range of motion so limited that it was almost more of a side to side shuffle. Tottering forward like walking a refrigerator down the sidewalk.
“You weigh almost 900 pounds, Angelo, if you fall over I can’t get you back up.”
“920 pounds,” he panted. His cock was hard as steel now, a shining pearl of precum appearing in the bright kitchen light. “You’ve been gone a full week. I grew.” I could hear the grin in his voice. I fully knew that, if he kept growing, he wouldn’t be able to walk at all. And he was hellbent on that – on continuing to grow. Maybe these steps he was laboriously taking right now would be among his last. I should let him do it. Let him walk a bit while he still sort of can. Let him have what little independence remains to him while it’s still possible.
“Where are you going?” I asked, trying to calm myself as he took a third slow, heavy step. I could feel the floor shake.
“The bedroom,” he said, grinning at me, his dark eyes sparkling.
During the period when Angelo’s growth had paused, we spent some time figuring out how he’d sleep when he resumed getting bigger. For now he usually slept on a kind of contoured inclining board that took the weight off his feet without putting too much of it onto his chest. We were still trialing a liquid sleeping environment, although I was nervous at the idea of a fallible oxygen mask keeping him alive while he was submerged every night. I should get used to the idea, though. A dim vision of the not so distant future came to me where Angelo’s ever-increasing size meant he would permanently require the buoyant support of a liquid environment. We had long ago surpassed the known limits of human biology, and we would have to make some wild choices in the future if he kept growing. And one thing was clear: Angelo very much wanted to keep grow. “Never again,” he’d growled when we’d finally resumed giving him his Mutant Juice doses.
“What’s in the bedroom?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.
“Your present,” he said between heavy breaths, sweat now beading on his forehead. He hadn’t been able to wipe his own brow for a long time now, so I did it for him, feeling the hard heavy mounds of muscle flex and shift as I leaned in to do it. He was grinning even wider, his eyes crinkling at me. I kissed him, then. I swear even his lips have gotten stronger. I felt my body melting into his. I was light-headed. This couldn’t be real. This was some stupid wet dream.
But we finally broke the kiss and he was still here. Still three times bigger than last year’s Olympia winner. Still naked with a throbbing hard-on. Still grinning at me.
“Yeah.” Another slow step. “I figure.” Step. “The super heavyweight champ.” Step. “Deserves to fuck.” Step. “The biggest bodybuilder ass.” Step. “That’s ever existed.” Step. “920 pounds of meat.” Step. “And growing.”
It took every ounce of strength I had not to blow my load right there, all over the living room floor, as I followed my best friend and his muscles into our bedroom to celebrate our victory.
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