The soda machine

by BRK   

This soda machine doesn’t just dispense soda.

It was a good three months before Geoff started to think that there might be something strange about the Coke machine in the lobby.

It wasn't really a Coke machine, of course. The little Internet consulting company Geoff's college roommate had started in “99 had barely survived the bursting of the dot-com bubble, but to make it they'd had to strip the company down to the bare walls—literally. The five remaining employees sat in a tiny corner of their old office, the rest of their space rented out to an accounting firm whose employees zealously maintained the stereotype of their profession. No stock options, no expensive TV ads—and no Coke machine. The soda machine they had, which presumably cost less to rent than a name-brand model, dispensed peculiar-tasting colas and other soft drinks, in cans so generic that they were marked only with bold black lettering proclaiming the purported contents in the least appetizing manner: COLA-FLAVORED BEVEREGE, etc. Geoff half expected to see fine print that read “for external use only.” True to the nature of the products it disgorged, the machine itself was an ugly snow-white monolith, a foot taller than Geoff, with the single word “SODA” in two-foot-high letters.

All the rest of the company, not to mention the accountants, avoided the “SODA” machine like the plague. There was a deli and a Starbucks just one flight downstairs and a water fountain by the restrooms; the easy availability of alternatives made the benighted machine easy to shun. Geoff, however, didn't really care what he drank, as long as it was wet and sweet. He often worked late, trying to dent a ponderous project load better suited to a staff twice their current size, until the alternatives downstairs closed up shop. And with money as tight as it was—there'd been no raises at “e-Mazing.com” in two years—the 25-cent price was right. So what if the cola tasted like it had been run through a seaweed sieve, and the lemon-lime soda bore an uncanny resemblance to bear whiz?

Geoff found himself developing a taste for the cola, oddly enough, though he could convince none of his coworkers to try more than a sip or two from his can. He fell into the habit of having a can on hand at his desk, and when he emptied it it wasn't long before he got up to get another, especially in the evenings after everyone else had gone home. When the huge Eastwood project fell into their laps, he started working even later and harder, and his cola consumption doubled.

One night he awoke with a start from a doze with an alarming sensation of falling that turned out to be all too real. Even as he realized he was toppling to the floor he smacked hard into the industrial carpeting, shoulder first. He cantilevered himself up on his elbows, dazed and foggy, and looked around him in confusion. The office seemed too bright for the middle of the night.

He struggled to his feet, feeling ungainly and nauseated. His clothes felt twisted and tight as he straightened up. His mind was spinning, and his balance was so far off that he nearly pitched on his face with he first step he tried to take, only steadying himself at the last minute by grabbing clumsily at the corner of his desk. His hands seemed hard to maneuver, as if they were far away and had to be operated by remote control. He stared at them, a little blearily, wondering why he seemed to be seeing them through a fish-eye lens.

He managed to get his feet working, though he had to think about every step. There was some urgency, since his bladder was frantically signaling a critical overload. He stumbled into the bathroom. It looked strange, out of proportion, distorted, and he stared at it numbly for a moment. But as his mind was currently encased in cream cheese, and his bladder was yanking on every available nerve ending, he shook his head to clear it and positioned himself in front of the first urinal, wondering absently why he couldn't remember there having been one positioned low for children before. Renovations? Not on our budget, he thought sadly.

He unzipped his fly and awkwardly hauled out his flaccid cock. It took some doing to extricate it from its cloth prison. Like his hands it felt all weird and oversized, as if it were swollen with the pee than now came flooding out of him. The dizzying relief this caused, however, displaced all other thoughts, and he stood there, dazed and peeing inexhaustibly, for some time.

Something in the back of his mind was trying to shake him by the shoulders, but his brain just wasn't working. He cajoled it into reviewing the evening. He'd been working on the final presentation for Eastwood, he knew that. He felt a momentary panic—the deadline was the next morning, probably this morning by now. But he gradually remember that after long hours of hard work he'd finished the basic document long after everyone else had dropped out and gone home. It had to be 2, 3 o—clock now. He sighed, still peeing. No wonder he was tired. And hungry—suddenly his stomach, which must have been next on line after his bladder, began clamoring for attention.

So what had happened? He remembered the cola tasting strange. The cans were dusty, and in retrospect, though he hadn't paid much attention while he worked feverishly to meet the deadline, drinking can after can as usual, there was an edge to the taste that he hadn't noticed before. It was almost as if the drink had fermented. That would explain why he felt so bleary and lightheaded. He could still taste the sharp aftertaste. He had to get home and sleep the rest of this off—maybe then he would feel normal.

When was he going to stop peeing?

Something tickled the top of his head—like something just rustling his close-cropped blond hair without touching his scalp. He threw his free hand up to brush it off and smacked his hand, hard, against the faux-asbestos ceiling tiles. What the fuck? He drew his hand down and looked at it, then slowly tilted his head up, aware as he did so that the flow of urine was finally subsiding.

The ceiling was right in his face.

He could see its dimples in detail. And its stains—some water had evidently leaked from the floor above, leaving a large brown discoloration directly in front of him, not three inches away. He could even smell the ceiling tile; it had a dusty, musty odor.

He recoiled from the ceiling in horror, thinking it was somehow closing in on him. But there's no way to recoil downward that doesn't result in falling on your ass, and Geoff fell hard and painfully on the cold floor, still gaping at the ceiling, arms and legs akimbo, his cock still loose and dripping silently onto the white tile.

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.

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