Description When the CIA’s biggest, builtest, hungest operative gay male operative is seduced by the dominatrix dictator of North Korea, kinky things (and gigantic growth) occur.
|Updated||16 May 2020|
Jack Hardman stood naked in front of the mirror in his suite atop the Pyongyang Hilton.
“Spectacular,” he said.
And indeed he was: At 6 feet 6 inches tall, the 39-year-old former NFL star weighed 500 pounds of totally ripped to shreds muscle, as big as the current Mr. Olympia, Noah Steere, and model handsome. It didn’t hurt that Jack was hung like a porn star. Jack was the biggest, strongest man in the employ of the Central Intelligence Agency and in an hour he was scheduled to meet with the President of North Korea-Daihatsu-General Electric:
Kyrie Jong Park
Madame Park had come to power three years earlier and the rumors about were simultaneously unbelievable and infuriatingly vague. She never left the Presidential Palace in Pyongyang and even though she had met—one on one—with many of the world’s leaders, no pictures of her had ever emerged. The verbal descriptions were short to the point of aphasic with the same words recurring over and over again: magnificent, astounding, colossal, and so forth. And this was from men and women, career politicians all, who were never at a loss for words. The best they’d been able to determine was that she was some kind of giantess and probably a product of North Korea’s highly secretive (yet highly lucrative) genetic engineering program.
Jack slowly donned his hand-tailored clothing, taking care with the fiber optic cuff links, the audio tie tack, and the satellite-linked wristwatch.
“Showtime,” he told the mirror, and called for his car.
“Impressive,” Kyrie Jong Park said to her assistant.
Hardman’s room, as was nearly every other in the People’s Republic, was wired (sound and video) down to the last square centimeter.
“For a man,” agreed Lucy Sorenson, the President’s executive assistant.
Kyrie favored her favorite with a tight smile.
“We could get along fine without men,” Kyrie pointed out. “But what fun would that be?”
Lucy’s arched eyebrow made it clear that she would be happy to dispense with men altogether. On the other hand…
“You do like to crush them, don’t you?”
Kyrie rose to her full height, making the 6-foot Sorenson feel diminutive as usual. Lucy had to take a step or two back to see her boss’s face; from that angle Kyrie’s tailored Prada leather jacket obscured the view.
“Only when they present a challenge,” Kyrie replied. “And so few do.”
This one may be different, Kyrie thought to herself.
“I’ll want to meet him alone, of course,” the President pointed out. “I will give the signal when I want you to enter.”
Lucy nodded, gave her boss a slight bow, and made her exit, silently and efficiently as always. Kyrie pressed a button on her massive desk.
“Send Mr. Hardman directly to my office when he arrives.”
Hardman strode confidently through the corridor leading to Madame President’s office. The corridor looked remarkably like the one in the Wizard of Oz.
Ya gotta be kidding me, Hardman thought to himself. This is going to be a piece of cake.
The doors to Park’s office were 10 feet tall and apparently carved from solid teak; the must have weighed a ton apiece but they glided open silently as Hardman approached them. The office itself was a good 50 feet wide and twice as long with ceilings at least 20 feet tall. A massive carved mahogany desk, easily 10 feet wide, resided at the far end of the office, as if it were an altar in cathedral, a giant leather desk chair behind it facing away from the doors.
“Ah, Mr. Hardman, please do come forward.”
The voice, coming from the direction of the chair and everywhere else all at once, was pleasant and feminine, the accent polished Mid-Atlantic. As Hardman moved forward, the President of North Korea-Daihatsu-General Electric turned her chair to face him.
My God, Hardman thought.
Kyrie Jong Park stood from her chair, smoothly and gracefully achieving her full height, 7 feet when barefoot, closer to 7’6” when wearing the spiked pumps she had chosen for today’s audience.
“My God,” Hardman said aloud, totally incapable of saying anything more.
A soft chuckle escaped Kyrie’s glossy red lips.
“Your Goddess,” she pointed out. “I think those were the words you were looking for, don’t you agree?”
Hardman could only nod his head. What he saw before him…
Kyrie Jong Park defied imagination. A giantess, they had said, but in reality she was just extremely tall, no hint of giantism or acromegaly. But her proportions! Hardman knew a thing or two about muscle; he knew that even in this day and age of out-of-control genetic therapy he was one of the most muscular men in the world. And yet compared to Kyrie he was but a child. Seven feet tall, yes, and apparently as wide as she was tall. The President easily had twice the mass of Hardman, putting her at 1000 pounds or more, and it was all giant, bulging, defined, separated, striated muscle! Kyrie’s arms were the size of Jack’s enormous quads, her chest was wider than his Herculean shoulders, her shapely legs were bigger around than Jack’s chest. She was the personification of power, a mountain of muscle like none he had ever seen, capable of crushing any bodybuilder in the world, male or female, with a single glance.
Jack licked his lips.
For all of that, Kyrie’s proportions nonetheless would be the envy of any Hollywood pinup girl from an earlier age. Her shoulders were indeed vast but her hips were equally generous. She looked like she could give birth to a baby elephant without a second thought! And despite the enormous size of her pecs it was clear that they had to be that large in order to support her titanic breasts, each of which was perfectly shaped, perfectly round, perfectly huge, and—if he had to guess—harder than polyceramic battle armor. All topped by a head and a face that were classically beautiful, surpassing the efforts of a millennium’s worth of sculptors from China, Japan, and Korea, the almond shaped eyes a startling cerulean, the black-as-night tresses cut with a laser into a stern, practical, yet incredibly sexy pageboy bob.
“I’m gay,” Jack told himself. “I’m gay, I’m gay, I’m gay.”
Kyrie tilted her giant head sideways.
“Mr. Hardman,” she said. “You surprise me, and I’m not often surprised.”
Jack gaped a minute before he was able to utter a single word response.
Kyrie crossed her arms, a movement one could compare to the shifting of tectonic plates, and tapped a blood red fingernail against the Prada leather encasing her enormous bicep.
“All my reports tell me that you are happily, exclusively gay,” Kyrie answered. “And yet…”
The President glanced down at Jack’s crotch, as did Jack.
“Oh my god!” Jack blurted, as he realized the truth of the matter: He was standing before the sovereign head of one of the world’s Superpowers with the biggest boner of his life tenting his trousers.
“No matter,” Kyrie said. “A common reaction, even among your demographic.”
Jack tried to think of something appropriate to say but nothing came out!
“Mr. Hardman, I’d appreciate it if you would stop hyperventilating…NOW!”
With Kyrie’s words, Jack suddenly became completely and totally calm; heart rate and perspiration returned to optimum. The boner remained, however.
“Ma’am,” Jack said. “Please accept my apology. I don’t know…”
The President interrupted.
“Enough of that, Mr. Hardman,” she said. “I do know.”
Jack found himself nodding his head.
“Now take off your clothes, Mr. Hardman. I want to see what you have to offer!”
Without hesitation, Hardman began to strip, only realizing what he was doing when he had completely unbuttoned his shirt.
“Uh, Madame President…” he began, while continuing to disrobe.
Kyrie Jong Park arched an eyebrow—most men in Hardman’s position lacked the presence of mind to say even that much.
“Is this really…?”
Park laughed, a laugh that one would have expected from Julie Andrews or Shirley Jones (well, yes, Hardman was gay and he was a musical theatre buff, so those references would be spot on), not from the largest woman (person?) on the planet.
“I assure you, Mr. Hardman, it is quite necessary.”
Jack had never stopped removing his clothing—by the time Park finished her sentence he was standing before her completely naked.
“They said you were impressive,” Park said, “and I see that they were right.”
It was Jack’s turn to arch an eyebrow. Slowly but surely his equilibrium was beginning to return.
Sure, he thought, I’m standing in the office of the muscle giantess president of one of the world’s superpowers, totally naked and with a painfully hard erection. What’s the big deal?
“I’d have thought you would have seen plenty of photos, Madame President,” he said, managing a cool, even tone that didn’t match his elevated heart rate. Score one for me! “It is not as though I live my life in the shadows.”
Kyrie Jong Park walked around Hardman, eying the merchandise, and even though she did not come within five feet of the CIA operative, Hardman felt the weight of her massive presence, a force of nature like an iceberg on the North Atlantic.
“Ah,” Park replied. “But pictures don’t really capture the man in the flesh, do they? The cock is even more magnificent than reported…”
Hardman found himself blushing, something he hadn’t done since grade school.
“And the fur…,” Park continued, a little sigh escaping her vast bosom. “As an Asian woman I find a hirsute man particularly exotic.”
Jack felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his sequoia-sized quads. What was she getting at? Could it be…?
“No doubt you are wondering what I am getting at,” Park said.
Jack’s head whipped towards Kyrie’s voice—was she a mind-reader to?
“And, no, I am not a mind reader,” she continued, doing nothing to dispel Jack’s fears.
Kyrie moved towards Jack, standing directly in front of him. An iceberg? More like a mountain range!
“I have been in this situation many times, Hardman,” Park pointed out. “Many times I have had a man such as you brought before me. Many times I have looked him over and made him the offer I am about to make you.”
Jack began to tremble. Madame President’s physical presence was like a narcotic, some supernatural stimulant that caused his entire being to blaze with excitement.
“All of them accepted my offer, Hardman—and none of them survived.”
From her vast height, Kyrie Jong Park looked down on Hardman’s muscular body.
Compared to the rest, she thought, he’s magnificent!
Compared to her, Hardman thought, I’m an insect!
“The thing no one realizes,” Madame President said, addressing Hardman in a soft voice. “…is that I am really an old-fashioned girl.”
Jack goggled. This leather-clad giantess dominatrix, absolute ruler of the most feared techno-geopolitical power on Earth—an old-fashioned girl?!
“Do tell,” Jack said smoothly.
Like a tigress, Kyrie reached down and closed her massive hand around Jack’s 38 inch neck, completely encircling it. With no more effort than Jack would expend on a rag doll, she lifted him a foot off the ground, so that he could see directly into her amazing eyes.
“I want a man, Mr. Hardman, a big strong man,” Kyrie grated, her voice husky with emotion. “Someone I can look up to; someone who can hold me, someone who can make me feel protected, by God.”
She unclenched her hand and Hardman unceremoniously dropped into a heap on the polished marble floor. He gazed upwards but all he could see was Kyrie’s heaving bosom. Hardman sat there and pondered. As he did so, Kyrie returned to her throne-like desk chair, donned reading glasses (surely an affectation given her regime’s bio-engineering capabilities), and glanced through a stack of old-fashioned paper reports. Eventually, Jack stood and approached the desk. With Kyrie sitting, they were almost eye-level.
“But, Madame President, is there such a man?”
“There could be,” she said, in reply. “And that’s what I have to offer…”
An offer? Jack’s ears perked up.
“As you may have gathered, my geneers are, shall we say, very talented?”
Hardman nodded his head in response to the rhetorical question.
“Which in part is what accounts for all of this…”
Kyrie’s giant fingers gracefully indicated her titanic physique.
“Thus far,” she continued, “no MAN has been able to endure the process necessary to make…” again, she gestured “…this come about.”
Hardman put his chin in his hand.
“We’ve had reports…”
Kyrie laughed drily.
“I’m sure you have, Mr. Hardman. So many men have stood where you have stood. So many similarly impressive specimens. Men taller than you, men larger than you, men stronger than you. Men with larger endowments—granted, not by much! Even men hairier than you.”
Jack tilted his head to one side, narrowing his eyes.
Kyrie took a piece of paper and methodically crumpled it.
“Thus far, no one has been worthy…”
“Let me guess: There’s a test?”
“Just so, Mr. Hardman, just so.”
Jack pondered again. It seemed clear to him that there was only one way out of this situation, only way one to accomplish his mission. He had to go forward, no matter what the cost.
“Madame President,” he said, standing at attention. “If I may be so bold…”
Kyrie stood and walked around her desk to stand in front of Hardman. She took off her reading glasses and tapped one earpiece against her full, ruby red lips, as if contemplating.
“Fortune favors the bold, Mr. Hardman. All those men who have come before you, each of them had some quality that out shone one of yours but none of them had your overall magnificence. Perhaps you are the one.”
Hardman tried not to gulp.
“If you pass the test,” Kyrie continued, “I will make you more than you are now, more than you can imagine, more than anyone has ever seen on the face of this Earth.”
Kyrie dropped the glasses on her desk and then, slowly, purposefully, languidly, removed her leather jacket, revealing a plain white sports bra and…
My God, Jack thought. She’s even more amazing than I realized.
Kyrie’s mass was mind blowing but it was nothing compared to her definition, separations and cuts and striations that the best bodybuilders in history would weep to gaze upon. Her every breath caused ripples across her amazing torso, her shoulders, her arms.
“All you have to do,” Kyrie said quietly, seductively.
“All you have to do,” she said.
“All I have to do…”
Kyrie flared her continent-sized lats and flexed biceps that were bigger around than Hardman was tall.
“…is to make me cum!”
Kyrie Jong Park was stretched across the monumental steel-reinforced bed, three meters long by three meters wide, which dominated her private sleeping chamber. Her languorous eyes were heavily lidded, her voluptuous lips half open. Every inch of her magnificent body was bore the faintest sheen of perspiration—in the parlance of long ago, she literally glowed. It was the sweat of vigorous exercise—and sex.
For the first time in her life, Kyrie’s body was contented.
Jack Hardman was stretched out next to her, his head resting on Kyrie’s enormous arm, his massive tool completely spent. He felt like he’d run a marathon while wrestling bears and competing in the World’s Strongest Man competition at the same time (and he had reason to know, having done all three at one time or another).
“How…” Kyrie breathed.
Jack propped his massive, ripped bod on one arm and looked at the woman who’d been under his spell for the last six hours, hostage to his every whim. He felt about as safe as a goldfish in a barracuda tank. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the real Kyrie recovered from her orgasm-induced bliss—the one who had to be in total control of every person, every event. She wasn’t likely to recall her submission fondly.
“Well, you know,” Jack said. “When you’re a gay man, you learn to be extraordinarily attentive towards women. It’s not about what you want. It’s about what they want. I’ve spent my life learning how to give them what they want. Did I succeed?”
Kyrie’s rumbling purr of appreciation was more appropriate to a lioness than a mere mortal woman (assuming, of course, that she was).
“Oh, yes, Mr. Hardman, no need to be coy about it,” she agreed. “You succeeded.”
Hardman lay back down and covered his most precious possession with his baseball-glove of a right hand.
Looks like I won’t die today after all, he thought. It was touch and go for a while there.
“And what boon may I grant you?” Kyrie asked, surprising Hardman once again.
He had assumed that she would renege on her promise, regardless of whether he succeeded in his assignment. He climbed upon Kyrie, straddling her waist, his 15-inch dick at full mast.
“I want this,” he said, gesturing at the mammoth expanse of her body, a body for which the adjective herculean was insufficient, not to mention wildly off-the-mark with respect to her femininity.
“I’m afraid I’m not for sale,” Kyrie pointed out. “But I gather what you really desire is to undergo the process that made me thus? To be the male version of what I’ve become?”
Hardman’s dick throbbed. Damn him, even given his ridiculous musculature and awesome power, despite the decades he’d spent building and refining his body, pushing it beyond all sane expectations, he’d never realized what a muscle whore he truly was. He wanted it. Not just because his country needed it, not because it was his mission to wrest this amazing new biotechnology from the world’s most powerful despotism, but because he wanted it for himself. He wanted to be twice, three times as big as he was now. Who knew how large he might become? The question filled him with lust. And he knew he would do anything, anything at all, sell his country down the river, sell his soul to the devil, to have it.
“No need to answer,” Kyrie said, looking at the python swaying before her.
“That’s all the answer I need.”
The process was surprisingly simple, a cocktail with ingredients that (a) turned off the myostatin gene and (b) restarted puberty.
“Seriously?” Hardman asked.
Sorenson, Kyrie’s blond ice queen dyke personal assistant, nodded her head.
“That and 50,000 calories a day, consisting of high-density protein and other nutritional elements,” she said. “Essentially, the process takes over your nutritional and waste disposal systems entirely. You won’t eat, drink, piss or poop until the process is completed.”
Hardman blanched. What a lovely idea, he thought. Or maybe not so much.
“Plus you’ll be working out constantly,” she added. “Three hours in the gym, followed by a three hour nap, 24-7.”
A week into the program Hardman was 3 inches taller and 300 pounds heavier. At 6 feet 9 inches tall and 800 pounds of solid muscle, he was quite possibly the biggest man who had ever lived.
“Biggest” in more than one way, he thought, looking down to his newly enhanced cock.
“Things are coming along nicely,” Kyrie said when she came to see him. “You are already nearly my size and it has only been a week.”
Hardman looked at his gigantic form in the mirror of the gym that was now his universe. He lifted his arms into a mind-boggling double biceps pose, each arm now more than five feet in circumference. Behind him, Kyrie repeated the pose. Next to her he still looked like a skinny geek.
“Your rate of progress is about what mine was,” she continued, “although it took me much longer to reach the size you have now. Then again I was much smaller when I started.”
Hardman gave her a look.
“Oh, yes,” Kyrie said, “Make no mistake—at the beginning I was only 5 feet tall and weighed barely 100 pounds.”
Hardman’s mind reeled. Kyrie was now 10 times the size she had been when the process had begun.
“Does that mean…?”
Kyrie shrugged her gigantic shoulders, setting off an avalanche of muscle that was mesmerizing.
“Hard to know,” she replied. “Your before size was five times what mine was. I expect in the end and in comparison to you I will once again be a shy, delicate flower.”
Hardman was instantly hard as a rock, his cock expanding to its new full 20 x 14 dimensions.
“And, yes, I expect that will continue to grow apace.”
Then she mounted him. A week ago she would have overwhelmed him. Now he wrapped his mammoth arms around her suddenly slender-seeming waist and pumped her 1000-pound bulk up and down on his rod as if she were a sex toy.
“I almost feel that,” she said.
Kyrie slid off Hardman’s monster cock, planted her feet on the ground, and flipped Hardman in the air, holding his ankles well above her head. Hardman’s face was perfectly positioned in front of Kyrie’s giant vulva. His head could fit between her labia and he dove in, attacking a clit that would make most male porn starts weep with envy.
“Careful of the tubes,” Sorenson said, earning a bitter glare from her mistress.
Hardman’s subconscious registered the exchange—trouble in paradise?—but his attention was consumed by the task at hand (or tongue, in this case.)
Another week, another three inches taller, another 300 pounds of muscle.
At 7 feet even and 1100 pounds of freakish mass, Hardman now outweighed the President of North Korea-Daihatsu-GE by a hundred pounds. He was undoubtedly now the largest person who had ever lived.
“Never forget that I can destroy you with a single thought,” Kyrie said, admiring her handiwork.
First time she’s ever felt the need to say that, Hardman thought. A good sign, perhaps.
Even so, he knew it was true, and not just in the sense that Madam President controlled a nation of insanely devoted fanatics who would tear him from limb to limb at a glance from their leader. Hardman was the biggest, strongest man who had ever lived and still he was a weakling compared to Kyrie.
“I’ve been living in this body for years now,” she told him after one work out session.
He had nearly killed himself benching a 5-ton weight, only to have her do a quick set of warm up curls with the insane assemblage.
“Some of it is just a matter of learning what you can do.”
Hardman was learning. His now 2-foot dick still wasn’t enough in itself to please Kyrie but he was finding new ways to work with it, ways that on occasion would cause Kyrie’s eyes to widen ever so slightly.
“Oh my god!” Kyrie exclaimed.
She felt it now.
Six weeks into the treatment, Hardman’s dick was now three feet long and two feet in circumference.
He fucked her within an inch of her life.
At 8 feet tall, Hardman now weighed 2000 pounds of solid muscle, making him exactly twice Kyrie’s size and the learning curve notwithstanding he now had 10 times her strength.
I could crush planets, Hardman thought. Kyrie is a mere child in my hands.
“Don’t stop,” Kyrie cried. “Don’t ever stop.”
Will I ever know a man again? Hardman asked himself.
It was difficult to see how it could happen. Kyrie could only barely accommodate his inhuman size and his galaxy-spanning lust. No mere man…
“You are under arrest!”
Sorenson’s amplified voice rang through Kyrie’s bed-chamber, the clatter of Kyrie’s 100-man strong personal armed guard following the Ice bitch.
“For dereliction of duty, for crimes against the collective, for sexual treason…”
Hardman stood in front of Sorenson and her gang, a third again as tall as Sorenson and as wide as any 10 men. His most muscular and ensuing roar would have made the Hulk, uh, well, some deeper shade of envious green!
“Sorenson, you little cunt,” Kyrie cried. “I’ll have you…”
“You’ll have me what, you dumb cock-hungry het whore?” Sorenson answered. “While you were having your little brain fucked out, I consolidated control of the Politburo and locked up the shareholder vote. You’re outta here!”
Hardman looked at Sorenson, looked at Kyrie.
“She’s right, you know. I see no reason for us to stick around.”
Tucking Kyrie under his arm, Hardman squatted, then leapt, his 400-inch quads powering them through the air, his anvil-sized fist punching a whole through the ceiling. Flying into the Pacific Dawn, Hardman looked down at Kyrie’s perfect face.
I guess I wouldn’t be the first gay man to fall for the mother of his children, he thought.
Kyrie buried her face in the acres of soft dark curls that covered Hardman’s mammoth chest. No one knew that she was afraid of heights!
“Just you and me now, kid,” he told.
Just you and me, he thought. A muscle god for a muscle goddess!