The soda machine

Geoff lay sprawled on the bathroom floor, his mind spinning like a top. His stomach was none too happy either. The disorientation of falling on his ass and the queasiness of not knowing what had happened to his body had started his guts heaving in ever-increasing waves. Spots swirled in his vision as if he were getting poor reception. His conscious mind, dulled by fatigue, shock, and nausea, could not string together the simplest thought beyond “What the fuck.”

He was dimly aware of random sensations. The constriction of twisted clothes that were tight in places they should have been loose. Insistent complaints from his feet, now squashed in too-small sneakers. His cock, lolling loose out of his slacks, the head and part of the flaccid shaft resting on the cold tile floor.

Suddenly the nausea became acute. Hastily he clambered up onto his knees and pitched himself into the nearest stall. Though he was on his knees, the bowl seemed as far away as if he were standing. He reach down, tossed up the seat, and bent low, grasping the sides of the bowl with meaty hands while he dry heaved agonizingly, once, twice—once more—then nothing. He slumped into a sitting position, half in the stall and half out, breathing hard.

His mind was starting to clear, along with his vision. He allowed himself a moment to look himself over, nervously biting his lip. His body seemed to stretch away from him, like he was gazing down on some reclining oversized statue of an ancient Greek hero—only this body was flesh and blood, and it was his, he could feel it, from the throbbing in his temples to the increasingly painful constriction of his swollen feet.

The pain was in fact becoming exquisite. Geoff bent forward to untie his sneakers and yank them off—which took some doing, since feet three sizes too large had been mercilessly crammed into them. Finally he wrenched them off and tossed them aside, and he could almost hear his feet gasp in relief. He wiggled the toes in what had proved to be very stretchy athletic socks, and they tingled with joy.

His gaze started to wander up his body, very slowly, forming in his mind as he did so a firm resolution to observe now and figure out, and maybe freak out, later. His loose slacks now exposed a foot of lightly hairy calf and shin, but at least in the legs they weren't constrictive. He realized at a level slightly below consciousness that he had understood and even accepted that he had grown, but he hadn't been sure how. But if he had just gotten larger, his new body the shape of his old body only bigger, then his Dockers would be killing him in the thighs just like his shoes had been. He guessed, looking at his legs, that he had sort of stretched instead. At least, his thighs, built big and firm from years of tennis, still fit in his slacks, but they looked a lot longer. He could feel, now that he was aware of it, that the same thing had happened to his torso—it was bigger, but mostly it was longer, like he'd been converted to rubber long enough to be pulled like taffy, then switched back into flesh and blood. He was aware of his arms, which felt long, amazingly long, and lithe.

He wasn't done with his legs. He wanted to examine what had happened to him, methodically, before he figured out what to do. He flexed his quads experimentally and gasped—the muscles felt shockingly powerful, like he could run a million miles. And they expanded as he flexed—not to hugeness, but big and firm and dense. Before, he'd flexed his thighs and they'd just expanded a little and tightened. But now, they expanded more, filling out his Dockers, and tightened into iron bands.

Speaking of filling out—

His gaze traveled up to his crotch, and what had spilled out of it. He stared at his cock and balls, which lay asleep mostly out of his unzipped Dockers and pulled down underwear. His cock—it still looked like his cock, it was the same shape he'd known intimately since he'd discovered, and embraced, masturbation at age nine: cut, hefty, kind of flat and wide, only wider near the head, like a salmon. But it had easily doubled in size, and was now so long, completely soft, that the head was still resting on the cold floor even though he was sitting leaned back against the stall divider. The rest of his body had stretched rather then growing proportionately, but his cock had done both and more of it, as if cell-replicating microbes had been released in his genitals and told to have a field day.

The slumbering giant seemed to notice the attention it was receiving. It began to twitch. Geoff reached for it with his oversized hands, though they looked barely adequate to the task. The monster started to rise up to meet them, swelling exponentially. In the space of a heartbeat it was hard, and then rock-hard, diamond-hard, pushing open his grasping fists, swelling like a life raft to an impossible size. His heart stopped now for a minute, everything stopped, and all there was to experience was his hands wrapped around his pillar of a cock, wondering at its sensitivity, which seemed to be doubled or trebled as well—the barest sensation felt almost like an orgasm. His heart pounded madly. It felt like it had never been touched before, like it was the first cock ever on the planet. Primeval. Savage.

He was breathing rapid, shallow breaths. Slowly he drew his hands down the shaft. Even as his blood thundered in his veins, blotting out all thought, he was aware of every nuance of his slightly calloused hands across the taut, hot, velvet-smooth skin of his shaft. His teeth chattered involuntarily. He felt a sudden urge to laugh.

At that moment, not far away at a desk near the men's room, a telephone rang shrilly, tearing through his ecstasy. The real world clanged shut around him. He didn't even know what time it was—early morning, but how early? People could start arriving any minute. They certainly couldn't see him like this. For the first time the panicky thought came: Could they see him at all?

He pushed that dangerous thought brutally aside and clambered to his feet, hauling himself up by the tops of the stall dividers. The creaked ominously but faithfully supported him as he straightened, and it occurred to him briefly, even in the midst of his alarm, that he must be a good deal heavier than he'd been before. He straightened up, cautiously, but he couldn't stand up all the way. He was now too tall for the room. He had to hunch, head bent down, chin in the notch between his slightly enhanced pecs.

It looked as though he hadn't stopped growing when he first noticed what was happening to him. It was only a few minutes before, but it felt like hours.

Because his head was bent forward he was staring at his cock, which was pointing straight up, staring back at him, still painfully hard. He glared at it, but it wouldn't soften. Even now he felt waves of pleasure emanating from it, as if it were a radioactive source of joy.

He had to get out of here. He had to get home. He could think no further than that.

He couldn't even button his trousers, such was the girth of his monstrous cock. There was nothing here to hide himself. How could he—Wait! There was a blanket in the lounge, from the early days when all-nighters were common around there. He could wrap himself in the blanket and at least hide his obscenity, if not the rest of his growth.

With an effort of will, fighting the urge to freeze, he started moving. It was easier after the first couple steps.

He got to the door. The doorknob was much lower than where it should have been. Slowly, silently, he opened the door just enough that he could twist down and stick his head out.

The corridor was deserted. At the end of the hall there was a large square window several feet across. It was, to his relief, still dark out.

He opened the door the rest of the way and folded himself to squeeze through, his damp cockhead brushing against his bristly cheek as he did so, causing a thrill of fire to run through his body.

Once through the door he was able to partially straighten again, and he padded in his stocking feet down the carpeted corridor, hunched over, his long arms dangling down from his shoulders. He though briefly of an ape, but he thought, no—this isn't devolution, this feels like evolution. And that stray thought brought him an unexpected sense of peace.

As he got to the end of the corridor, however, he started to hear, progressively louder, a sound that created butterflies in his stomach: someone, somewhere nearby, was vacuuming. Now he was near it, and he knew with sick certainty where the vacuumer was: in the lounge, where the blanket was.

It was just around the corner. Incautiously, knowing who it must be, Geoff snuck his head around the corner to peek into the lounge.

Yep, it was Manny. Geoff had been admiring his ass and broad shoulders in his not-too-loose coveralls for months now, and now that his body was saturated with arousal he couldn't help staring at him in spit of the danger. Tall, built, and languid, Manny had caused more than one wet dream in the privacy of his home, and even once—well, twice—a furtive, covert session in the very men's room he'd just left.

Geoff's breathing became ragged again as he watched Manny work. Without even realizing it he wrapped his fists slowly around his cock.

In his hyper-sensitive, overstimulated state, one slow stroke, staring at Manny's bod, was all it took. Suddenly it seemed like his entire body surged, and he knew he was going to come and come hard. Desperately he pulled back around the corner, and hunching down he wrapped his mouth around the cockhead to catch the come, but there was far too much, and he choked, the overflow coating his face, cock, hands and chest with thick, hot, running globs of come.

He heard Manny stop what he was doing, heard his footsteps moving toward the noise he'd heard, and cursed inwardly even as he kept swallowing his mouthful of come in a series of gulps. Frantically he turned and ran, turning a corner near the other end of the hall even as he heard Manny stop and call “Hey!”

He was running hard now, his powerful legs launching him along at several feet to the stride. In a moment he was in the lobby. He folded down to fir through the main doors and he was out, in the dark parking lot.

He heard running behind him. A part of him wanted to turn and wait for Manny—wanted, for that matter, to scoop Manny up and carry him off—but at the moment he could think of nothing but getting away unseen. He would have to trust to the darkness.

He launched himself through the parking lot and onto a dark side street. He ran as fast as he could, his size and power giving him unbelievable speed. In a few moments he was gone, vanished into the night.

Manny hustled out into the parking lot. He caught the barest glimpse of a figure of a man—not a man, a giant—but it was fleeting, less than a second, and it was lost beyond buildings and trees. The glimpse he'd gotten in the hallway had been even briefer, but he knew it was a man, a huge man. And some subliminal sense made him think that it reminded him of someone. He didn't know who. But he was sure it would come to him.

He stared out into the night for a long time, hoping for another look, feeling a strange stirring deep inside that he did not understand—but that he did not want to go away.