The process

by LuvsMusl   

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When I answered the ad and signed up to be a test subject at the Corelli Institute last spring, I hadn't worked in almost two years. Frankly, the idea of being fed, housed and employed by some big company was pretty appealing at that point. I wasn't eating too well, and I was moving from one friend's couch to another, with a lot of damaged relationships along the way. The next step was going to be living in my car and bathing in gas station rest rooms. So the idea of a roof over my head, nutritious meals, and something to do every day was like paradise. To be honest, men and sex were the furthest things from my mind. My self-esteem was at an all-time low. My gym membership had lapsed months before, and my body—once a point of pride—was soft and saggy (believe it or not!). The thought of taking my clothes off was laughable, and my sex drive was nil.

So it was a real surprise on my first official day at the Institute when I found myself practically pulsating with lust, and struggling to keep my raging boner (my first in weeks) hidden under my little desktop in the Institute lecture hall. I'd seen a video of old Dr. Corelli (a well-toned, severe looking 70) during orientation the week before. But I was utterly unprepared for the sight of his 28 year-old son, Max, the gorgeous scientist who would be putting my test group (a dozen young guys) through various experiments. Max had thick black hair, a movie star's deep tan, and a body that made me sweat the moment I clapped eyes on it.

Max burst into the lecture hall in a button-down, short sleeved shirt and tight blue jeans. He stood probably 5’11, and had a rock-solid 220 pounds of beef packed on a perfectly shaped frame that tapered to a hard, 28” waist. When he gestured toward the blackboard or his wall charts, huge pecs and delts ballooned and jumped under his shirt. You could actually see the deep separations in his shoulder muscles through the thin cotton.

And when he extended his hand to point, the gesture exposed an arm that was a good 19” and looked as hard and sculpted as marble. Most amazing, though, was his skin. It was silky smooth and flawless, and seemed to glow with a kind of vibrant energy.

I'd vaguely known that the Institute was involved in some kind of cutting-edge nutrition and sports medicine. Well, now I believed it. I was in lust, if not in love, and I kept my eyes riveted on Max for a solid hour, until he turned and strode out of the room, giving the twelve of us an unobstructed view of the world's most perfect, muscular butt.

That night in my little dorm room, I huddled under the covers and jerked off three times, trying desperately to conceal my actions from my roommate, Brad. From the silly half-grin he gave me the next morning, I'm not so sure I succeeded.

My second day at the Institute was pure humiliation. When my turn came I was led to a small examining room, stripped to my shorts, and subjected to a battery of tests by Max and his female assistant. I've never been so aware of my bodyfat, my sagging belly, my stringy muscles. For three hours I kept my face turned, avoiding eye contact with hunky, bulging Max as he prodded and pinched and tested me. Only at the end, when my clothes were back on, did I have the courage to look at him and say sheepishly, “I've kinda gotten out of shape. I used to have a decent body.”

“Don't worry,” Max said to me, flashing a row of perfect, pearly teeth.

“We've got a nice surprise for you.” As he winked and left the room, I could only wonder what he meant.

That night I didn't sleep in my room but was brought instead to a high-tech lab and installed in a comfy reclining chair. At least a dozen i.v. tubes, electrodes and sensors were attached to my body. When I was completely rigged, Max came in and briefly explained what was to happen. He said I would quickly get drowsy and would sleep peacefully for at least 36 hours.

While I slept, he said, various restorative nutrients would be coursing through my system. He guaranteed me I'd feel great when I woke up. After Max left, the nurse flipped a few buttons and in seconds I was unconscious.

The next thing I remember was waking up on a soft bed in a snow white recovery room. I remember looking at a clear blue sky and the red tiles of the Institute roof through my window. I had this vision not once but half a dozen times, as I drifted between sleep and waking over the course of a few hours. Mixed in with my recollection is a vague memory of Max, smiling at me, shirtless and glorious, from the foot of my bed. But I think that part was just a dream.

By twilight I was wide awake. The nurse came in and hung fresh clothes on the back of the closet door. She said I could take my time, but that I was free to dress and return to my own room whenever I liked. Feeling completely refreshed and energized, I leapt out of bed and began changing.

I had stripped to my underwear by the time I glanced in the mirror, and when I did I nearly fell back on my ass. I couldn't believe what I saw.

It wasn't exactly a miracle. (That would come later!) But I found myself staring at an image of my body as it looked four or five years earlier, at a period when I was pumping iron six times a week and was utterly in my prime. The pot belly was gone, in its place a flat, hard stomach. The excess fat and sagging skin had completely disappeared. And while my muscles weren't huge, they were healthy and full, bulging roundly in places where two days earlier there were only straight lines.

The sight of my magically restored physique, coupled with a general surge of new energy, had me instantly aroused. I dropped my briefs and began cranking my hard cock as I stared at myself in the mirror. And then Max walked in.

I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights as I grabbed for a pillow to cover my rock-hard prick, which stubbornly refused to go down. I wanted to crawl under the bed, or jump out the window. But Max laughed warmly, and said, “Don't worry. This happens all the time.”

“I feel like an idiot,” I said, feeling my face turn beet red.

“The body's a beautiful, amazing thing,” Max said. “Never be ashamed.”

And then, as I scrambled back into my underwear, he added, “Let me show you something. Three years ago I was borderline malnourished. I smoked, I drank, and I weighed a hundred and fifty pounds.”

Miraculously, incredibly, he was stripping off his shirt. The boner swelled inside my white Calvins as Max put his hands on his narrow hips and flexed his torso in a mind-blowing lat spread: massive pecs rising toward his throat as thick, widely-flaring lats bulged sideways into an amazing V-shaped “wingspread.”

Before I could catch my breath Max had kicked off his drawstring pants and was flexing his powerful, striated quads. The man was a sculpture, breathtaking. He stood in front of me and flexed a cantaloupe-sized bicep.

“Feel that.”

In a millisecond my tongue was on it, licking, sucking, trying to fit the granite-hard peak into my gaping mouth. When I looked down I could see that Max was stroking his thick nine-incher. I pulled my undershorts to my knees and pumped my tool like a demon, while my lips and tongue explored Max's ripe armpit and made their way to his slab-like pecs. Eventually we both came, my own cum flooding out of me like a geyser. Afterwards, Max pulled me to the bed and held me tenderly, a powerful lion cradling his cub.

Later on he said, “I want to propose something. We have a special project, very cutting-edge and experimental. There's a certain amount of risk involved, but I think it's worth it. And I think you're an ideal candidate.”

Of course I said yes. There was nothing I wouldn't have done for him.

From then on, I saw little of the other test subjects at the Institute. I was moved to a private room—a fully equipped laboratory, actually—and was almost never free of wires, probes, i.v. tubes or monitors. I saw as much of old Dr. Corelli now as I saw of Max. The old man was intense, serious, and even a little scary. He and Max would buzz around me, taking measurements, testing skin and saliva samples, and speaking in hushed tones about “the Process.”

Three weeks into my new regime, I began to get a sense of what the Process entailed. I was put on a round-the-clock course of i.v. medication, and my heart rate, blood pressure, insulin level, and a dozen other parameters were constantly monitored. A day after the new medicine was started, I woke up screaming. I was ravenously, achingly hungry. I felt as if my guts would devour themselves if I didn't get red meat immediately. Max had the nurse bring me a blood-rare steak from the commissary, which I wolfed down in a dozen bites as if it were a tidbit—and then demanded another.

I drank pitcher after pitcher of a thick, foul-tasting protein mix—and as bad as it tasted, I couldn't seem to get enough. Max told me that additional protein was being fed to me intravenously. But almost nothing would quell the hunger in my guts, and I ate everything put in front of me as if it were my last meal.

After four days of this, my dosage was cut in half. I only received the medication at night, while I slept. During the day, I received hourly injections of growth hormone and various steroids and other nutrients. My heart rate clocked a steady 120 b.p.m., and sweat seemed to pour from me ceaselessly. I needed to eat a meal every 30 minutes or so, and my typical ration was a full pound of lean meat and three thick protein shakes.

Astonishingly, my body seemed to burn the food almost as soon as it touched my lips.

Another side effect of the mysterious Process was a little more challenging to deal with. My libido raged twenty four hours a day, and I was never without a throbbing hard-on. It reached the point that I didn't even wait for Dr. Corelli or the various nurses and technicians to leave the room before I'd begin whacking myself to climax—only to be diamond-hard again in twenty minutes. Max would always get a shit-eating grin on his face when he came into the room and caught me stroking off.

On one incredible occasion, when Max discovered me fondling my hard prong he immediately dismissed the rest of the staff and locked the door.

Smiling devilishly, he slowly took off his clothes and climbed into my bed, where he began chowing hungrily on my engorged dick—an intense pleasure that lasted at least half an hour. And then he let me finish the job as he perched above me on the mattress, posing and flexing his mountainous muscles as I watched and masturbated.

“You see this, Nate?” he said, pumping blood into his huge biceps and delts. “You can be twice this size! Five times this size!”

Feeling the explosive energy grinding inside me like a diesel engine, I somehow knew he was right.

A week into the Process I was weighed, and discovered that I'd gained 23 pounds. It was all lean mass, and it sat on me thickly, solidly. There were no mirrors in my room, but I felt like a balloon version of myself.

(It would be another week before I actually saw the changes that were happening to my body.)

At the end of week one, Max brought me for the first time to the “strength lab.” It was none too soon for me. For most of the week I'd been a bundle of nervous energy—pacing back and forth in my room like a caged cat, or suddenly dropping to the floor to do push-ups to the point of exhaustion.

To call the strength lab a gym would be a huge understatement. There was certainly equipment there that resembled the normal weights and machines in a typical bodybuilding gym. But most of the machines had some kind of hydraulic or electrical component, and all of them were fitted with sophisticated monitoring devices. “When did you work out last?” Max asked me.

I had to think about that. “About three years ago,” I told him.

He started by testing my strength on a military press where the resistance was provided by a big, hydraulic piston. Max told me to start lifting, and said he'd gradually increase the resistance as I went along. The weight felt minimal as I started my set, and even as Max slowly turned up the dial I could feel my body easily handling the load. It wasn't until the tenth rep or so that I began to fatigue. “Keep going,” Max said, and from his eyes I could tell I was doing well.

On the twelfth rep I strained to get the weight locked out, but I managed to squeeze out three more before my delts completely surrendered and I had to drop the handles to their starting position. “What'd I get to?” I asked.

“370!” Max said, a look of amazement on his face. “This is way better than I expected.” I'll say, I thought. I'd never broken 200 on the military press in my life.

A strange thing was happening. Blood was rushing into my shoulders as if forced in through a fire hose. I was feeling a “pump” the likes of which I'd never even imagined, and I nearly passed out from the exhilirating rush. I couldn't help but stretch and flex my shoulders as they seemed to fill up with boiling liquid.

“Damn, Nate, you've gotta see this!”

Max led me out of the strength lab and down the hall to a small bathroom.

When he flipped on the light and I looked in the mirror, my eyes nearly fell out of my head. My traps and shoulders were easily twice as big and thick as they'd been just before my single set of overhead presses. My muscles were pumped insanely. They bulged like overfilled balloons, and showed cuts and striations and criss-crossed veins as big around as my index finger.

As I stared at the mirror in total amazement, I suddenly felt Max's big tool pressing against my butt. He was completely turned on by what he was seeing, and frankly, so was I. I pulled the bathroom door shut and in no time we had each other's clothes off and were taking turns going down on each other's bulging cocks. Ever since I'd started the Process, I was shooting enormous loads five and six times a day. Now, as I stared at the mirror, I was incredibly stimulated by the sight of my own swollen, cannonball shoulders. My balls felt like swelling boulders as I watched my thick, vascular deltoids flex and enjoyed the sensation of Max's warm, greedy mouth around my tool. Before I could control myself I exploded, and fired about a pint of milky cum into Max's throat with the force of a howitzer. After choking for a minute he fell back laughing, and looked up at me in ecstasy as his own cock shot a massive load at the bathroom ceiling. That night we slept together in Max's bed, and in the middle of the night I woke him up and fucked him powerfully for over an hour as he held onto my shoulders.

For the rest of the week, Max put me through long sessions in the strength lab, testing each muscle group and then submitting it to a tough pump/growth session. On Friday I playfully ignored Max's instruction to sit at an elaborate chest machine, and instead headed for the standard flat bench press in the corner of the room. Chest had always been my weak point, and I was curious to see what I could do. I loaded two 45-lb. plates onto each side of the bar (my max lift in the old days) and quickly pumped out an effortless set of 20 reps. For the second set I put four big plates on each side, for a total of 405 pounds. The first ten reps were child's play, but after that I quickly tired, finishing three more difficult repetitions on my own, and one more gut-busting rep with a big assist from Max. At the end of the set my pecs were swollen and bulging like pillows, and when I flexed there was a deep gully between the slabs of pectoral muscle that completely swallowed Max's hand when he laid it against my sternum. Clearly “weak points” were a thing of the past.

Lab records show that in week 2 of the Process I consumed an average of 1200 grams of protein a day, along with 500 mg a day of anabolic steroids and 50 i.u. of various growth hormones. I put on 44 pounds in my second week, while lowering my bodyfat percentage from 10% to 4%. It works out to something like 79 pounds of pure, dense muscle mass that I added to my physique in just two short weeks. On Saturday of week 2 I stood next to Max in front of his mirrored bedroom wall and we both stripped naked and did a series of standard poses to compare our bodies. It boggled my mind that just two weeks earlier I had been so small and flabby that I'd been embarassed to look Max in the eye. Now I outweighed him by ten pounds, had lower bodyfat, and was bigger, fuller and denser in almost every bodypart.

Of course, Max had built his physique over three years, using a considerably less advanced system than the one I was on. There was no telling what he might look like after he put himself through the Process.

“Max, this is the most incredible experience of my life,” I told him.

“Look what you've done with me in two weeks. What'll I be like in two months? In two years? The Process is fucking amazing!”

“Process?” he said, as he watched me admire my huge, sliced-up quads in the mirror. “You haven't been through it yet, Nate. This is just Phase I.

What we've done so far is nothing more than cutting-edge nutrition and metabolic manipulation. The good stuff, the sexy part of the Process hasn't even started yet. ”

I looked at him dumbfounded, unable to conceive of anything more transforming and potent than the two-week course I'd just run. Max must've sensed my concern, because he put his hands on my meaty shoulders and gave me a playful smile in the mirror: “Baby,” he said, “I've still got big plans for you. Massive plans.”

The next week I spent back in my dorm room—Max and his father having decided that I needed a lengthy rest before beginning the final phase of the Process. When I got to the room I was surprised to see a good looking young man with the sleek, tightly muscled build of a champion gymnast coming out of the bathroom. It took me a long moment to realize it was my roommate Brad—who, just two weeks earlier, had been a sallow, untoned wreck with at least thirty pounds of excess fat on his body.

Brad, for his part, was completely nonplused. “May I help you?” he asked, utterly clueless until I said, “Brad, it's me. Nate.”

“Oh, my God!” he shrieked. “Nate, you're a monster!” And with that he ran to gather the ten other test subjects, who all quickly made their way to our room and stared at me in stupid wonder. I have to say that the changes in each and every one of the human guinea pigs were dramatic and impressive. Where there'd been pipestems, now there were muscled arms.

Where there'd been fat and wrinkles, there was tight skin and six-pack abs.

But of course no one had undergone the degree of miraculous transformation that I had.

“Check it out,” I said, as I casually peeled off my shirt and began to move my 230-some pounds of carved-up beef through the graceful stages of an expert posing routine. I glanced in the mirror and saw that the room's overhead lamp was beautifully highlighting every deep groove and sculpted ridge of my powerful limbs, as eleven pairs of eyes watched in mute admiration.

Later that night, as I got ready to sleep, Brad sat on the foot of my bed and talked to me about how he'd been changed by the experience of acquiring a powerful and aesthetic new physique. “I've come to love the male body,”

he told me. “I look at myself in the mirror and appreciate my physique as sculpture. As art.” I told him I thought that was great, and that I felt the same way.

“Do you think it makes me gay?” he asked suddenly. “Should I be considered gay, just because I have a strong emotional reaction to big, powerful muscles?” I said I didn't know, that he'd have to examine his own thoughts and feelings to answer that one.

For a minute or two he peppered me with questions about my experience in the last two weeks. And then, suddenly, he was running his left hand probingly over my massive arms and chest. When I didn't object he became more confident, using both hands now and sighing with pleasure as he squeezed individual bulges and sinews.

As I said, I was rabidly horny almost all the time since I'd started the Process, so Brad's physical attention was more than enough to get my cock marble-hard. As soon as he saw it poking out from under my briefs he threw himself down on it, swallowing my prick to his tonsils with passionate abandon. I knew I could stay as hard as steel all night if I wanted to, and knew that Brad would keep feeding on me hungrily as long as I'd let him. So I lay my head back on the pillow, closed my eyes, and prepared to let my young, heterosexual roommate suck me to sleep.

THE PROCESS (Conclusion) by LuvsMusl@AOL.com

On the day I was scheduled to begin the final phase of the Process, there was an unexpected delay. Max and Dr. Corelli had holed themselves up in a locked conference room all morning, and word soon spread that they were arguing.

At around noon Max found me in the commissary, where I was polishing off a huge roast chicken—my third meal of the day so far. He told me, in a businesslike tone, that I would have to complete a series of explicit legal consent forms before we could continue. “If we continue, that is. My father has certain ethical reservations.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said, “he believes that with as little as one treatment you're likely to surpass the parameters of what's been considered normal human physiology up till now.”

I looked at him curiously, not certain I understood. “Can you say that in English?”

Max smiled, but his expression was still serious. “Nate,” he said, “if you do this you're going to get bigger than anyone's ever been. Way bigger.”

I felt a tingle of electricity in my groin. The thought of it was exciting beyond words: that I could become the biggest, most muscular human who'd ever lived. I looked down at my rippled, gigantic arms and my titanic chest; stared at a body that had continued to grow and improve its shape at an alarming rate. And for the first time, I was unsatisfied.

“The decision is yours,” Max said. “My father agreed that as long as we fully informed you, you could make your own choice.”

“What do you want, Max?” I searched his face for a clue, a signal.

“It's not for me to say.”

“But it is!” I said, looking directly into his deep, brown eyes. “The biggest joy I take in my new physique is that it turns you on. You made me, Max. This body is yours as much as it's mine. I only want to do what's going to make you happy and keep you coming back for more!”

“You want the truth?” he asked, beaming me a dazzling, thousand-watt smile.

“Here's my fantasy. I want to be three times as big and strong and muscular as any man in any gym or weight-pit in the world. …And I want a lover who's so fucking huge and powerful he makes me seem small and helpless. As far as I'm concerned, Nate, the words “too big” have no meaning. I want you as big as a tank. As big as a building.”

I could feel my dick hardening into a pillar, threatening to burst through my pants. “Do it, Max. Make me freaky. I want to be your monster.”

The final phase of the Process took less than a single day. I was taken to a lab in the Institute's sub-basement and placed in a staging area surrounded by thick, lead-lined walls. As an i.v. was attached to my arm and a glowing, reddish-orange liquid began flowing into my bloodstream, Max explained: “This substance contains an incredibly rich and bio-available protein that your body will use to build muscle. Lots of it.” I glanced up and noticed that my i.v. was attached to a huge glass tank of the liquid—a hundred gallons, maybe. “There's a component in the fluid that reacts when we radiate your body with energy particles of a particular type and wavelength,” he continued. “It works at a sub-molecular level to hugely accelerate protein synthesis and cell growth. We know the results will be dramatic. We just don't know how dramatic.”

I looked back at him as he stared into my eyes. “There will probably be some joint and muscle pain. It's hard to say how much. If it becomes unbearable you can signal us by hitting that button. We may or may not be able to stop the process.” He paused a moment. “Last chance to back out,”

he said, looking at me earnestly.

“No way,” I answered. “I'm tired of being a 250 pound weakling.”

Max smiled gently at my joke and my confidence. He patted me on the shoulder, then signaled his assistants and they all retreated behind the lead-covered walls and locked me in the staging chamber. I could see them, dimly, through a small window on the chamber wall. After a moment there was a a loud whirring noise as the particle generator started up. The noise increased to a deafening, high-pitched whine, and suddenly I was bathed in bluish light. Almost immediately, my body felt warm and I was aware of sweat beginning to moisten my skin.

But that lasted only twenty seconds or so. After that point I felt only burning, stabbing pain in every joint and muscle of my body. There was a terrible chemical taste in my mouth, and a horrible smell like burning hair or flesh. I was screaming, and for all I knew I was being roasted to death. But I fought with all my will power against the urge to hit the panic button. I kept my eyes fixed on Max's blurry face in the little window, vowing that I'd rather die than let him down.

After what seemed like hours, the blue light faded and the noise of the generator gradually lowered and stopped. I was bathed in sweat, and my body continued to ache and burn for at least a few more minutes. At some point the door opened and Max and his assistants came into the room and began busily checking my vital signs. It wasn't until the burning pain decreased to a dull, throbbing ache that I was able to open my eyes and look at Max. When I did, he smiled.

“You did pretty well,” he said. “Look…” He nodded toward the huge supply tank of the fluid, which was nearly empty. “You used about sixty gallons.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Well….” He took out a pocket calculator and tapped at it a moment.

“Allowing for the portion of the fluid that's burnt off or excreted, it means you've synthesized about four hundred pounds of new cellular material.” I looked at him blankly. Science was never my strong suit. “I estimate your current weight at about six-fifty.”

“Six hundred fifty pounds??”

“Give or take.” He gave me one of his megawatt smiles. “Don't worry, you definitely carry it really well. Soon as you feel back to normal you can come with me and have a look.”

I got up immediately—shaky on my feet, at first—and followed Max out of the chamber. He had his assistants stay behind as he led me into a darkened examining room and shut the door behind us. I could dimly tell there was a mirror on the far wall of the room. And then Max turned on the lights.

My first impulse was to scream in horror at what I saw in the mirror. It was… well, it wasn't human. I stared for a few seconds, just trying to find my head. The one part of me that hadn't grown significantly, it now sat on my massively thick neck like a melon set on a tree stump. And below it was a physique like nothing I'd ever seen.

As if massive boulders had been piled on top of each other and bolted together in the approximate shape of a man, unearthly slabs of thick, dense muscle bulged obscenely, straining against each other along deeply cut furrows where muscle met muscle. Even standing relatively still my body rippled and flexed—its steel-cable fibers jumping and tensing fiercely into high relief in response to my slightest, unintentional movements. It was almost hard to see a human shape within the mountain, the living fortress of solid beef that I had become. Having hypertrophied ten times, a dozen times beyond anything nature intended, my body was no longer a structure where muscles existed to power a human frame through its normal movements. No… I was Muscle for the sake of Muscle, plain and simple. I was pointlessly, absurdly, irrationally huge—a product, a thing: the ultimate technological expression of Freakishly Exploded Human Beef.

“I'm… I'm a monster,” I said solemnly, as I looked at the reflection of the hideous being I'd turned into.

“Not a monster,” Max said, smiling at me with an insane-looking combination of lust and pride. “A new human paradigm.” My gaze met his glowing eyes.

“It just takes a little getting used to,” he said. “It's like looking at the ocean for the first time, or confronting the vastness of outer space.”

I looked back at myself in the mirror, still trying to somehow humanize and identify with the bizarrely proportioned tower of pulsing, sculpted meat that was—irreversibly—the new me.

“Anyway,” Max said, “to get the full effect you need to see yourself in motion. Why don't you move around a little, Nate? Hit a few poses.”

With absolutely nothing to lose, I swiveled a half-turn to my left, threw back my left leg and raised my right hand in a single-arm biceps pose, instinctively tensing every muscle in my newly-gargantuan body.

Immediately both Max and I began laughing uncontrollably in hysterical shock and delight. The act of flexing hardened my physique into what looked like shimmering, suntanned titanium, and the ridiculously huge muscles of my arms, shoulders, back, thighs and calves inflated cartoonishly, by easily an additional twenty percent. We found ourselves staring at a superhuman, outrageously morphed caricature of strength and virility, and the effect was both insanely comical and overwhelmingly erotic… as the massive bulge in my own tent-canvas loincloth and the one in Max's khaki slacks both attested.

I proceeded to writhe and power through the entire catalog of standard bodybuilding poses with comic grandiosity. As I did, my Doctor Frankenstein and I howled in hysterical amazement at both the hilarity and the sheer, cock-hardening, overblown eroticism of the sexy moves and stances—each pose amplified by my nearly seven hundred pounds of chiseled, exquisite muscle. It was probably the funniest, and yet without a shred of doubt the absolutely hottest fucking thing either one of us had ever seen.

Giddy with laughter, I took the game to a new level by tearing off my loincloth in a single swipe and continuing to pose—now with my beercan-thick, lethally rock-hard dick sweeping upward in a scimitar-shaped curve above a pair of balls that would do any bull or stallion proud.

Purple-faced and breathless from his laughter and from the incredible hormonal rush, Max had by now dropped his trousers and was vigorously cranking his own substantial and exceedingly engorged prick with both hands. In a flash I wheeled toward him and picked him up like a toy. Quickly, I stripped every scrap of clothing from his body as if I were peeling a tangerine. Balancing his muscular 220 pounds on my left palm with complete ease, I licked my right middle finger and worked it slowly and expertly into his muscled ass, lovingly teasing and coaxing his tight hole. Max rested his legs on my haystack-sized shoulders as his perfect rosebud twitched and began to loosen in response to my touch.

At precisely the right moment, as I stared into Max's beautiful dark eyes, I suddenly flexed my chest. My pecs exploded into a massive precipice of striated beef, unquestionably the thickest, widest and hardest configuration of muscle that ever graced a human body. Max moaned deeply, and I could feel his asshole surrender all resistance, and by pure reflex open hungrily.

I pulled his body tight against me and smothered his mouth with mine, at the same time gently working him down onto my big, stiff tool. His ass accepted my huge cock with surprising ease, and then tightened around it greedily—squeezing and milking my enormous manhood with a desperation I'd never seen in Max before.

His hungry butt was clearly starving for the taste, the touch, the blood-boiling affirmation of my newly-godlike strength and virility. For several minutes I relaxed and enjoyed this new Max, sweaty and wild-eyed, reduced by my overwhelming physical superiority to a mindless cockslave, a desperate muscle-junkie. I knew he would go on fucking my giant cock with his hungry muscle ass all day if I'd let him.

But as I felt his passion approaching its peak, I started—slowly at first—rhythmically sliding Max's body up and down the shaft of my dick.

As if he weighed no more than a feather, I slid his huge, gorgeously muscled physique back and forth with one hand, using him like a living toy to masturbate my thick, hard rod. Moaning in pain/pleasure, he clamped his eyes shut and held on tight to my huge left bicep with both hands as I pumped him up and down my throbbing cock, gradually faster and faster.

My upper arm measured easily over 35” around, and Max's big hands barely managed to maintain a grip on the two interlocked heads of my left biceps, a mass the shape, size and density of a bowling ball. Utterly helpless to do anything but hang on for dear life, Max soon went limp and his eyes rolled back in his head as he meekly submitted to a superhuman power-fucking that lasted a good two hours and far surpassed anything either one of us had ever imagined. When we finished I was bathed in steaming sweat that gushed down the crevices of my back, and formed salty pools in the deep furrows between my abs. And Max was limp as a rag doll, soaking wet and barely conscious, his broad chest heaving as his lungs struggled for air.

…As it turned out, the huge particle generator in the Institute basement was used only once more after that day. Soon, in fact, old Dr. Corelli retired and closed the place down for good, putting all his papers and research in storage and heading off to a tiny island in the Indian Ocean to finish out his days studying butterflies.

Max and I ultimately opted for a quiet existence, as well. Shocking the world with our gargantuan strength and muscle mass was fun for a while.

But, in the long run, getting gawked at and poked and photographed grew tedious fairly quickly. So we took the millions we'd made from lectures and personal appearances and photo books and TV commercials and built “Olympus,” our rambling, isolated compound in the Maui high country.

Now we spend our days sunning, playing in the waterfalls and natural rock pools that dot our property, tending to our orchids and our groves of exotic fruit trees, and reading or talking or just watching the setting sun paint the tops of the cloud fields that surround our mountain hideaway.

And of course we spend a lot of time eating. We eat just about constantly, with almost a ton of muscle to feed, between us.

We've kept training, too, both for the sport of it and as our one nod to scientific research: after three years we're still trying to see if there's any limit to the size and strength we can pack on. If there is we haven't found it yet. I'm a little over eight hundred pounds now, and still as dense and ripped as ever. Which makes Max extremely happy, since he likes me bigger. He's a scrawny six hundred eighty-five pounds, but I tease him and tell him not to feel bad, since his movie star good looks make up for it.

I'm thinking of training hard again this year, maybe seeing if I can break the thousand pound mark. I'm pretty sure I can. At which point the two of us will go back to the mainland for a few weeks, and I'll do some photo sessions and video shoots for whoever's willing to meet my outrageous price. Of course, we're always careful never to stay away from home too long.

People ask if I get bored, or feel isolated, living such a solitary life in the middle of nowhere. I suppose I do have a wistful moment now and then.

But most of time I stay focused on the warm sun, the bracing, cool air, the constantly changing cloudscape and impossibly green mountain vistas…and on the beautiful, godlike man cuddled close in my arms. None of this would be good without Max, I know that. And I know we'd probably be just as happy together if we were a couple of skinny boys sharing a cramped walkup in some noisy, polluted city. But… for whatever reason, it didn't happen that way.

See, sometimes you just get lucky.

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