Description For Marty, one of the consolations of being short and scrawny was that his best friend, Stan, was in the same boat. And then, suddenly, Stan wasn’t pint-sized like Marty anymore… not even close.
|Updated||20 Oct 2018|
It was cold in the school gym that day and Marty was shivering slightly. His gym uniform, shorts and a t-shirt, weren’t very warm and for some reason the gym was always somewhat cooler than was comfortable. He was in line next to his friend Stan and it was fitness evaluation day, one of things Marty hated the most about gym. He knew he was weak and out of shape. There was no need to shine a spotlight on it. And that’s exactly what this day seemed designed to do.
His one consolation was he was standing next to his best friend Stan. The two of them were toe to toe on this one. Each of them was about 5’ 6” and by far the smallest guys in the class. They would always stand at the back of the line and quietly make snide comments about the muscle heads who always lifted the most weight, climbed highest on the rope, and ran the most laps. The two friends were justifiably proud that they were not caught up in the macho bullshit of trying to be the biggest, the strongest and the fastest.
But today for some reason, Stan was not joining in the glib remarks.
“Ha ha,” sneered Marty, “Look at Walters climbing that rope like a goddamn monkey. Too bad he doesn’t keep his brains in his biceps. Then he might have enough smarts to get out of Algebra 2.”
Marty waited for the appreciative chuckle a remark like this usually inspired, but Stan was strangely quite.
“Yeah,” said Stan, “I guess.”
He guessed? That was pretty damn funny, thought Marty.
“What is it with you today?” asked Marty.
“Nothing,” said Stan. “I just…” Stan looked like he was struggling to say something, but then he seemed to give up before he got it out. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”
“Alright Hopkins you’re up,” said Mr. Bell, the gym teacher.
Marty sighed and said, “Back in a sec.” He slumped over to the rope and put both hands on it.
“Alright son,” said Mr. Bell. “Pull yourself up a little. That’s right. Now wrap the rope around your foot and use your legs to climb. Tap the beam when you reach the top. Remember your legs a lot stronger than your arms.”
“Spaghetti is a lot stronger than his arms,” cried out Alan Parks, “probably thicker too.” That got a general laugh. Ah yes, thought Marty, just part of the endless humiliation that was phys ed.
“That’s enough of that,” said Mr. Bell to the laughing students. “No go on, son, climb on up there.”
Marty stressed and strained and slowly began to climb the rope. It took everything he had but he only made it three feet before his grip gave out and he slid back down. And of course there was more laughter from the other guys in the class, but this time Mr. Bell didn’t say anything to stop it.
“Alright Hopkins, you’re done,” said Mr. Bell, shaking his head and noting something on his clipboard. “Your turn, Stan.”
Marty clapped Stan sympathetically on the shoulder as he passed him and headed back to the sidelines. He turned around just in time to see Stan shimmy three quarters of the way to the top of the rope before his grip loosened and he slid back down. Stan actually got a round of applause from the lugs.
“That was outstanding, Grady!” beamed Mr. Bell. “Maybe you should give your friend there a few lessons.”
Marty was struck dumb. But Stan was grinning from ear to ear as he walked back to his friend, obviously enjoying the praise from the offish gym teacher and their Neanderthal classmates.
“What the fuck was that?” said Marty.
“What?” said Stan, his grin fading.
“That,” said Marty flailing his arm in the direction of the rope.
“Oh,” said Stan. “I don’t know. Got lucky I guess.”
“Lucky?” said Marty. “How do you get lucky climbing a rope?”
“I don’t know,” said Stan shrugging his shoulder. But before Marty could ask another question, Mr. Bell was moving everyone over to the weight room.
“Okay, everyone,” said the gym teacher. “We’re going to do the bench press next.” They were standing at a gym machine, the kind with four different stations and a stack of weights you put a pin in.
One by one each boy would tell Mr. Bell how much weight they felt they could move and Mr. Bell would stick the pin in the appropriate slot.
Most boys would do three or four plates, but there was this one huge kid that did eight.
“Damn!” all the boys were saying, as the kid strained his big muscles, turned beat red with veins throbbing on the side of his neck, and lifted that stack of eight plates – all the boys, that was, but Marty.
Marty just smirked and said, “Someone call Tarzan and tell him we found his ape.”
Again, Stan did not laugh. What was wrong with him today?
“Hopkins, you’re up,” said Mr. Bell.
Marty slid on the bench and barely got one plate up before he collapsed.
“Man,” said Marty stumbling back to his place by Stan. “I think this class is going to kill me. Has anyone ever died from PE?”
But it was Stan’s turn now and when he slid onto the bench he lifted 3 plates.
“Wha… wha… wha…” started a dumbfounded Marty as his friend returned to his side. “You can’t tell me you got lucky with that!”
“Ah… you sure?” said Stan, looking uncomfortable.
“Absolutely sure,” said Marty, accusingly.
“Ah… You remember that weight set my uncle got me for Christmas?”
“Yeah, we laughed about it for almost a week.”
“No, dude, you laughed about it.”
“You mean you don’t think it was funny?”
“Not really. He showed me some exercises and well… I’ve been doing them.” Stan flexed and Marty gasped. His friend actually had a bicep. It wasn’t huge or anything, more like a little lump. But it was there!
“What the fuck is that?” said Marty, starting to get angry.
“What do you mean what the fuck is that? It’s my arm.”
“Yeah, but it’s got… a muscle on it!”
“So now you’re gonna get all muscle-bound?”
“Dude, it’s just a little bicep. It’s not even very big.”
“Wait a minute,” said Marty squinting and looking carefully at the bulge on his friend’s arm. “Is that a vein?”
“You are going to get muscle bound!”
“No, of course not.”
“Then what’s the arm about?”
“You know… It’s just… It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing! You’re trying to get bigger!”
“No, of course not.”
“Go on admit it!”
“Do you swear on your life, on you mother’s life and on your dog, Rusty’s life that you’re not trying to build your muscles?”
“Ah…,” Stan paused. “Maybe just a little,” he said.
“AH HA!” shouted Marty. “I knew it!”
“But that’s not how it started, I swear. At first I really did think it was kind of a joke. But then my uncle got me to try it. He would, like, call me everyday to see what I’d done. He even got my mom into it, making sure I was eating the right stuff and taking vitamins. You know how she always said we don’t get enough exercise?”
“Yeah, and you know how we always ignored her.”
“But I kinda like it. I mean I didn’t at first. It kind of sucked… and it hurt like hell every day. But the pain got better and then… I started to like it. I like the way it makes me feel—I’m a lot stronger. That’s kind of a trip. I like feeling strong.”
“It’s like Invasion of the Body Snatchers!” cried Marty clutching his head. “What have you done with the real Stan?”
“Dude, don’t you think you’re overreacting a little?”
“You’re betraying the cause, Stan.”
“I knew you were going to be a douche about this. Dude, there is no cause.”
“Yes there is. It’s the cause of us normal guys vs. the muscle dicks.”
“Dude, this is normal,” said Stan flexing his bicep again. “Guys grow muscle. It’s in our genes. It’s what all those fucking hormones are for. We’re supposed to get bigger and stronger and harrier. And I’m telling you, it’s freaking awesome! Muscles are bomb! What’s not normal… is a guy who doesn’t have any!” And Stan turned and walked to the other side of the gym.
“Oh so, now I’m a freak?” Marty shouted after him. “You really have gone over to the dark side!”
That day at lunch Marty sat down at his usual table with his friend Gwen.
“So where’s Stan?” asked Gwen looking around.
“I don’t know,” said Marty, adopting a perfect Schwarzenegger accent, “probably somewhere pumping himself up.”
Gwen giggled. “Stan?”
“Yeah, you should have seen him in gym today. He was a regular Mr. Muscles.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Gwen, trying to suppress her laughter. “Are we talking about the same Stan? Stan Grady? Wimp of the year?”
“Not any more. He disgraced the name of wimp and stood up to be counted with the enemy.”
“I…,” started Gwen, but then she trailed off as the smile evaporated from her face and her jaw dropped open. Marty turned around to see what she was looking at had to struggle to keep his own jaw from dropping.
There was Stan. But sometime between gym and lunch, his t-shirt had lost its sleeves, and now his arms were fully displayed. They weren’t big or anything, but they were perfectly shaped. He had rounded delts, a nice swell at the bicep and the beginnings of horseshoe triceps. His forearms, while not overly broad, rippled with cords and tendons as he moved.
“Fuck me,” said Marty. “It’s worse than I thought.”
“Hey Stan,” called Gwen, waving him over.
“What are you doing?” said Marty. “You don’t want him to sit with us!”
“Of course I do. What’s the matter with you? He’s your best friend.”
“Not any more. How could I be best friends with a muscle head? He probably can’t open his mouth with out an “ugh” slipping out.”
Gwen shushed Marty just as Stan walked over to the table. Stan looked uncertainly at Marty as he pulled out a chair.
“Ahhhhh….” He beagn.
“See what I mean,” said Marty. “Completely brain dead.”
Stan shot Marty a dark look and turned to go.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Gwen. “Marty, shut up and Stan, sit down!” Marty clamped his mouth shut and into a forced grimace and Stan slowly turned and sat down.
“Now, you two are being ridiculous,” continued Gwen. “You guys have been best friends since… well, since forever. Why does that have to change just because Stan is growing a nice pair of arms?”
“You think they’re nice?” accused Marty.
“Of course they’re nice—” started Gwen.
“You’re on his side!” shouted Marty. “I don’t know why that surprises me. You probably think all guys should be big and dumb. You just want us all to be big ol’ stupid muscle bound boy toys!”
“I’m not stupid!” said Stan. “My GPA is higher than yours!”
“For now,” said Marty. “Soon you’ll be spending less time studying and more time in the gym pumping yourself up,” he said slipping into a Schwarzenegger accent.
“You’re crazy,” said Stan. You’re just a crazy man and I don’t think I can even talk to you.” Stan got up to leave.
“No!” said Gwen. “Wait, wait.”
“Stan,” said Gwen, “you’re going away for the summer, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. My parents are going to China on business and I’m going to San Francisco to stay with my uncle.”
“Marty,” said Gwen, “you’re not going to see him for three months. You really want to leave things like this?”
“He’s a traitor to the cause,” said Marty. “But I suppose if he promises to stop working out and returns back to normal, I could forgive him.”
“You know, Marty, you really are pathetic,” said Stan. “You’re not making a life style choice. You’re just being lazy, that’s your cause, and you’ve turned lazy into a fucking religion! Working out takes hard work and dedication and you just don’t have it in you. I know because I used to be just like you. I don’t need to stop working out, you need to start! But you know what? You won’t because you can’t. You’re just that dedicated to being a loser!” And then Stan got up and walked away.
“That was brilliant, Marty,” said Gwen, “just brilliant.”
For the next two weeks before summer vacation, the two boys did not speak. In fact they avoided each other. But Marty could not get his friends words out of his mind. He stood in front of the mirror at night and looked at his skin and bones frame. Stan was wrong. It was a choice to be like this. He could build his muscles if he wanted to, he just didn’t want to. He didn’t want to become a big, dumb lug. He had better things to do with his time. Stan was just being a douche.
But as the last days of the school year wore on, Marty found himself missing Stan more and more. He knew he could always apologize, but that would mean admitting Stan was right, and he wasn’t. Marty chose to be this way. It wasn’t just laziness.
Then on the last day of school, Marty figured out a way to prove it to Stan. Marty would spend the summer working out. He would build some muscle, just enough to show Stan he could if he wanted, then he would stop and go back to normal. That would show him! It was the perfect plan.
The first day of vacation, Marty went out and joined a gym. His parents, although somewhat mystified, were happy to finance his enterprise. Of course, he didn’t tell them his full reason and purpose. He just let them think he’d finally decided to get in shape – which wasn’t that far from the truth.
His first day in the gym, he hired a trainer, a buff collage-age guy named Josh. The guy had him do a bunch of weird stretching and balancing exercises, which were supposed to train his nervous system. Apparently this was necessary since he wasn’t used to working out. They just seemed stupid to Marty. He wanted to get to the weights. After all he only had three months to put on some muscle.
He told Josh he needed to have some muscle by the time school started up. The trainer laughed and told him that everybody had fast gains during the first six months of training, and that if he stuck with it, he’d have nothing to worry about. In fact the skinnier and more malnourished you were to begin with the more dramatic the changes usually were.
Marty protested. He was not malnourished. Still Josh gave him a diet plan, and recommended a whole slew of supplements. Marty looked at the plan and scoffed. That was A LOT of food. He didn’t know how he was going to eat all that food. And what the fuck were all these powders and pills he was supposed to take? Still, if that’s what was needed to put Stan in his place, than that’s what he would do.
The next day Marty almost gave up.
First, when he woke up he was so sore he almost couldn’t move. Then he ate a breakfast that was so big he almost threw up.
“What am I doing?” he asked himself. “How could anyone torture themselves in this way and think it was a good thing?” Surely he already had enough material to answer any argument Stan might make.
Marty wasn’t supposed to workout that day and he was very, very glad to follow that instruction. He still continued to eat ridiculous amounts of food, more than he could stand, and he swallowed a variety of pills and powders and shakes. And by the time he returned to the gym the following day, he’d made up his mind to quit.
Josh looked at him with sympathy as he explained his position, and when Marty finished talking, the trainer said, “It’s a hard thing you’re attempting. It takes a lot of hard work and dedication and it’s not for everyone. But I think if you stick with it for a while longer, you’ll find it’s worth the effort.”
And suddenly Marty was hearing Stan’s voice saying almost exactly the same thing. Only Stan threw in the words “loser” and “lazy” a couple of times. And Marty realized the rock-solid arguments he’d been coming up with over the past 24 hours were not going to hold any water with Stan at all.
He’d have to go through with it. All the way.
Josh was glad to hear he’d decided to stick with it and put him through another grueling exercise routine. The next day he endured more pain and ate more ridiculous amounts of food and began to question his own sanity.
But as the weeks passed, the pain lessened and he began to enjoy the large meals, even to look forward to them. And something else was happening; he was beginning to grow.
It was subtle at first, just a little pudginess from all the food. But slowly underneath the pudginess bumps and bulges began to form. He would squeeze them and feel how hard and solid they were. They were thicker mounds of sturdier flesh forming on his chest, his back, his arms and legs. And soon he began to see them too. His chest began to protrude from its flatness. His arms were thickening and he could see his hardening thighs beginning to give shape to his jeans.
And as he looked at his progress in the mirror, “Wow…wow…” was all he could say. A confusing range of emotions flooded him. First he was happy because his venture was obviously meeting with success. He was proving to Stan that he could build muscle if he wanted to. He kept imagining the surprised look on Stan’s face when he saw him at the end of the summer. That made him feel good.
But another thought was forming at the back of Marty’s mind. He was looking good, better than he’d ever looked in his life. He looked fit, almost muscular. And he felt good. He flexed and liked the way those rudimentary muscles looked bulging up on his meager frame. But he fought against those feelings. He wasn’t a muscle head. He was the standard bearer for normal guys. He was only doing this to prove it was his choice to be sickly… er skinny.
Sickly? That word had jumped into his mind unbidden. Where had it come from. He never considered himself to be sickly, had he? With a shock Marty realized that his new muscles were affecting his mind. They were trying to take over his personality, to turn him into a muscle head. This experiment was proving to be far more dangerous than he anticipated.
This was exactly what must have happened to Stan. First a little forced workout, and then, the muscle starts forming. It looks good, it feels good and then it begins to overtake your brain! The horror! Maybe he should stop the experiment now, before it was too late!
He placed a hand on his hardening, thickening arm. It was bigger, definitely, maybe even bigger than Stan’s… But was it big enough to make his point? Maybe not. Like it or not, he’d better see this through, stick to the original plan. He’d just be very, very careful to remember why he was doing this, what it was all for. He flexed in the mirror once more, just to check his progress, and fought back the burst of visceral pleasure he felt at the sight of his budding bicep.
Yes, he could do this. He could keep his mind and make his point. It would be ok. But it did look good and it did feel good. Damn, it was gong to be a struggle.
After that day, Marty began really pushing himself during his workouts. He kept telling himself that at the end of the summer, he wanted there to be no doubt that he could build muscle if he wanted to. If there were any doubt when he next saw Stan, he might have to continue with the workouts and that would be way too dangerous. The feelings he experienced when he looked at his growing muscular body and felt his increasing strength were way too seductive. He didn’t know how long he could hold out against them. And he needed to… for the cause.
Finally the day came. It was his last workout before Stan came home… his last workout forever, he reminded himself. His trainer was weighing him. Marty had put on 30 pounds of muscle over the summer and grown an inch taller. He barely looked like the same guy. He had nice biceps, a broad back, wide, bulging shoulders, a prominent chest and a rock hard six pack. His trainer told him most people couldn’t put on 30 pounds in a year, but with of all Marty’s hard work and because he’d been so undersized at the start and with more than a little help from puberty, he’d managed it in only 3 months. That was awesome!
Marty looked at his shirtless reflection in the mirror. His trainer had taken a “before” picture when he first started. He’d been such a skinny little whelp, no muscle on his arms or legs, and a flat chest and stomach. Not any more. He was bigger now, much bigger. He couldn’t deny it. He flexed his thick, corded forearms and good-sized, bulging biceps, and admired his heavy, solid legs. Fuck, he looked and felt awesome. He flexed his arms again and grinned. He wasn’t just bigger and stronger than he used to be. He was bigger and stronger than Stan, way bigger and stronger than Stan! There could be no doubt now. He couldn’t wait to see his friends face now.
The next day, Marty put on one of his old t shirts. It fit him like a second skin now, showing off his bulging pecs and cut six pack. His biceps even filled the sleeves. Stan was in for quite a shock now. Grinning he began walking the few doors down to Stan’s house. Again and again, he went over the speech he was going to give Stan in his head. “I couldn’t build muscle? Isn’t that what you said, Stan? Well look at this!” And then he was going to pull off his shirt and give him a posing routine. The after Stan pulled his chin off the floor, Marty was going to swear never to enter a gym again… for the cause! That would show him.
Marty went around to the back door like he always did and rang the bell. But as soon as the door opened, all thoughts of a speech fled from his mind. Marty was eyelevel with a set of massive, shredded pecs, two huge striated orbs of muscle with the nipples forced into the downward position hovering over abs that bulged out like a massive muscle-brick wall. Holy crap! Clad only in a pair of workout shorts, the immensely muscled torso was wider than the doorway—Marty gulped—and taller, too! Marty tilted his head upward. There flanked by two mountainous traps and perched on top of a thick corded fireplug neck, with an Adam’s apple the size of a golf ball, was a horrifyingly familiar face.
“Look at this!” said an amplified, deeper version of Stan’s voice. “If it isn’t skinny little Marty. Come on in, buddy.”
As soon as the wall of muscle moved away from the door, Marty stepped inside. At first he couldn’t say anything. All he could do was stare at the massive muscle beast in front of him, the defined intercostals, the legs like carved stone pillars. This was Stan? How could this be Stan? This couldn’t be Stan, but that was Stan’s face. It must be Stan.
“What the hell happened to you?” asked Marty.
“You know my uncle’s all into body building, right?” said Stan. “He showed me a thing or two over the summer and… ah… I hit a growth spurt. Pretty cool, hunh?” Stan brought his arms up into a double bi. With a shock Marty realized that Stan’s massive, sculpted veiny arms were now bigger than his head.
“Or maybe you don’t think it’s cool,” said Stan, dropping the pose. “You being Mr. Skinny, and all.”
And then the word “skinny” hit his brain and it stung. He was surprised how much it stung. And suddenly a stilted, injured version of his speech started leaking from his mouth. “I’m not skinny…,” stumbled Marty. “I built some… some muscle… just to show you that I could…”
“Oh yeah?” boomed Stan. “You got some muscle? Let’s see.”
Marty flexed his arms, but suddenly the biceps he’d been so proud of a few minutes ago looked tiny and inconsequential next to the monumental arms of the behemoth standing in front of him.
“Look at that! You’ve got some baby biceps,” said Stan. “They’re so cute.”
Inside Marty was fuming. His biceps were not cute!
“But why’d you do that for?” asked Stan. “I thought you were all into being spaghetti boy.”
Spaghetti boy? “I did this to show you it was a choice to be spaghe—to be skinny. It wasn’t because I couldn’t build muscle!”
“Yup,” said Stan looking Marty over carefully. “I can see got a little muscle going on there. You sure showed me.” Stan casually flexed his gigantic arm and ran his large hand over his immense veiny bicep. “Now what?”
“Now you can give up your weight lifting and we can go back to the way things were.” Marty realized just how feeble his words sounded almost as soon as they left his mouth.
“Go back,” laughed Stan. “Go back to the way I was? Do you have any idea what this feels like?” asked Stan. He closed his eyes and tilted his thick, corded neck back slightly so he was looking up and his golf-ball Adam’s apple thrust forward. “Do you know what I’m feeling right now?”
Marty shook his head.
“My huge, rock-solid traps bulging up against the back of my skull; they feel like a stone pillow. Some times I spend minutes at a time just rolling my head back and forth across them, feeling their size, their hardness up against my head. It’s awesome.”
He placed one hand under each pec and hefted them up. “Fuck. Look at them,” he said. “You feel the weight of them from the moment you wake up. Roll over on them and it’s like laying on two bowling balls. When you put on a shirt you can feel them straining against it, pulling it tight, hating to be caged.” Stan flexed his pecs and Marty watched the striations ripple across their magnificent girth.
“Shirts are so uncomfortable now. I hate wearing them. They just weren’t designed to hold muscles like these—huge, hard, powerful muscles—muscles that want to rip right through them!” said Stan as he hit a heart-stopping most muscular pose. Every muscle in his massive ripped body bulged up and practically exploded out of his skin, showing every striation, every muscle fiber he possessed!
“Muscles like my delts, huge, solid, and round, like boulders. And my abs which feel like large rocks, one piled on top of another. And when I crunch I can feel them rubbing up against each other.”
Stan crunched his brick wall abs in demonstration. “So fucking awesome!”
And my backs wide and thick, like a granite wall. My whole body feels like a mountainside, huge, hard and powerful, as if it was made of rock and steel instead of flesh and bone. And the strength…,” he continued, flexing his massive bicep and grinning at its impossible size and dimensions. “I feel unstoppable, like I could do anything. Everything seems so fragile now. I crush chairs when I sit in them, break doors when I go through them. I have to be careful about everything. I accidentally put my arm through a wall the other day, a fucking wall!” Then Stan turned to Marty. “And you want me to go back?”
“Ahhh…” gulped Marty.
“I was a worm before, a shapeless, formless, weakling nothing! And I didn’t even know it! I only began to guess once my muscles began to grow. But back then, before the summer, even though I knew I liked it, I still had no idea, no idea what it could do for me, what I could become. And then my uncle opened the door, showed me how to develop my body, how change a weakling boy into an massive, veiny muscle beast! I feel like I’ve found myself. Like, I’ve found what I am at my core, what I was born to be. The size, the muscle, the power… This feeling, it’s… I’ll never be done growing, Marty, never! I never could stop now.
“Go back to what I was? I’d die first.”
Stan’s words slammed into Marty. Hit him in ways he couldn’t understand or identify. Marty felt something inside him snap. The old Marty would have said that the muscles had won, that they had finally overthrown his brain and taken over. But the old Marty was gone now. The new Marty knew Stan was right. He’d felt a small part of what Stan was talking about. He know what his friend was experiencing must be insane.
And suddenly Marty felt a powerful urge, one well beyond his reason or ability to control. He had to be big, too, just as big as Stan.
Maybe even bigger.
Marty stared up at they hugely muscled teenage behemoth that used to be his best friend Stan, and gasped, “How did you do it?”
“Do what?” said Stan.
“How did you get so big so fast? What did your uncle show you?”
“Why do you care?” asked Stan. “You’ve proved your point. Being a feeble weakling is your choice. I wouldn’t want you to put up with those brain numbing muscles any longer than you have to. You’re free to devolve back into spaghetti boy.”
Marty looked down at his hard, corded forearms and realized for the first time that he, too, would rather die than go back. Fuck! What had happened to him? He wasn’t sure but he was sure that he liked it.
“No,” said Stan, “I can see it in your face. You like muscles now. In fact you want more of them!” Stan laughed. “That’s fucking fantastic! The universe has such a fucking sense of humor!”
“Just shut up and tell me how you got that big,” said Marty.
“I shouldn’t,” he said.
“What? Why not?” asked Marty.
“Because I promised,” said Stan. “My uncle will kill me if he finds out I told you.”
“Dude, no one’s gonna kill you. No one with any intelligence is even gonna try.”
“Oh yeah,” Stan said smiling and flexing his arms. “Well my uncle has this friend, Jim. He works for a big drug company. He’d been working on this stuff for years, almost his whole life.”
“What stuff?” asked Marty.
“A compound to build huge fucking muscles in no time flat. But the problem was it would only work on teenagers. That would mean the compound would be really controversial – you know, bad PR. So the company shit canned the whole project. But Jim had some samples and he said if I wanted I could have ‘em. At first I didn’t want to but my uncle said the compound had been proven safe in the lab so I said, “what the fuck?” and I took it. Best thing I ever did!”
“I did what he told me and it was like my body started erupting mass. Fuck, every day I was getting bigger and stronger and bigger and stronger! It was unreal how fast my body grew hard and powerful. Muscles just seemed to explode out of me.
As I grew it was like I was waking up, being reborn into a new and completely different body, a hard body, a body of muscle and power. Everything was different, better. I felt like I’d never really been alive before. Everything around me seemed small, weak, and feeble. Nothing scared me. It was awesome! Just the feel of the raw muscle bulging and heaving on my body is amazing. And it happened so fast. And the bigger I got, the more I liked it, and the more I liked it, the bigger I had to get.
“My Uncle got worried. His friend Jim was actually scared. They tried to stop me, tried to take the compound away from me. But they waited too long and I had already gotten too fucking big. You should have seen my uncle’s face when I pulled off my shirt and he realized how fucking massive I’d gotten. My biceps were concrete boulders. My back was a wide, rolling, wall of muscle. My colossal shredded pecs dwarfed his. He knew he couldn’t get the compound away from me! There was no stopping me, because I wasn’t done. I’m not done yet, not even close. I’m still gonna get bigger and stronger. Stan started flexing his giant veiny biceps, his massive pecs, and spreading his mile wide back.
“Is that why you’re so tall, too?” asked Marty.
“Yup,” said Stan. “Stuff’s fucking awesome!”
“You think I could get some?” asked Marty.
“Nah, sorry buddy. There’s only enough for me and I need it to reach new dimensions of hugeness. Fuck, I’m gonna get so fucking massive! I can’t wait!”
Then Stan started flexing is enormous biceps and clenching his abs and running his hands all over them. It wasn’t hard for Marty to see from the plentiful bulge in Stan’s workout shorts that his friend was getting off on himself.
“I’d help you if I could, Marty,” said Stan once the self adulation stopped, “but I’ve got all the compound that’s left and they’re not making any more, so… sorry.”
Marty couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Stan was going to keep it all for himself! Some friend!
“But you look like you’re doing pretty good there on your own, buddy,” said Stan. “Just keep going the way you’re going and in 10 or 15 years, if you juice appropriately, you might get to be half the size I’m going to be… but I doubt it.” Then Stan started flexing again, leering at his giant veiny bicep, and chuckling. “Yup, it sucks to be puny, little you,” he said. “But, you know, maybe you could learn to like being a worm again.”
That did it. Marty turned and stormed from the house without saying another word. He wasn’t going to put up with this! He still had a couple of weeks before school started. That compound couldn’t be the only thing in the world that could grow giant muscles. He’d find something else!
He raced home and hopped on the internet. There had to be something that could help him in his new cause, the cause to become as huge as humanly possible—no, huger!
He found supplements, workout programs, and trainers; all of whom promised amazing results, just not amazing enough for him. He needed to be bigger than Stan, bigger than Stan could ever hope to be, a massive muscle giant with biceps so impossibly gargantuan, ripped and veiny he could crush cars with a mere flex! But anything that even approached what he was looking for turned out to be fantasy or an obvious fraud.
Nearly defeated, he though of one last possibility and made his way to the gym. His trainer Josh was just getting ready to go as he came in?
“What are you doing here, Marty? I thought you were done with the gym,” said Josh with a knowing gleam in his eye.
“Not exactly,” said Marty. “What do you know about extreme muscle growth?”
“Come on, Marty,” said Josh. “We’ve been over all that. It’s all diet and dedication—”
“No, not that,” interrupted Marty. “I need to move beyond that. I need something more effective.”
Suddenly his trainer’s voice got very low. “You mean steroids?”
“No, no,” said Marty impatiently. I need to get much bigger than steroids will make me, and way faster too!”
“Well,” laughed Josh, “there’s no…” he suddenly trailed off.
“What?” cried Marty. “What are you thinking?”
“It’s nothing,” said his trainer, “nothing at all.”
“No, it’s not!” cried Marty. “I’ve seen nothing. I know nothing. And that is not it! That is something. That is something you don’t want to talk about.”
“Okay,” said his trainer. “At my university, there’s this guy. He’s kind of a professor…”
“A professor?” said Marty. “This sounds promising.”
‘Yeah, well, he’s kind of crazy,” said the trainer, “a real freak for muscles. He’s always coming down to the school gym, trying to get one of the guys to back with him to his lab… for experiments.”
“That also sounds promising,” said Marty, nodding.
“Nobody ever goes,” said his trainer, “because we all figure we know what kind of experiments he’s really interested in.” Josh grabbed his own crotch. “You know what I mean?”
“You mean he’s just a perv,” said Marty, disappointedly.
“Probably,” said Josh. “He’s always promising us impossible gains, but you’re right. He’s probably just a perv, and you probably shouldn’t go anywhere near him.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” said Marty. “I probably shouldn’t.”
Marty turned to go but then turned back. “Where’s your gym?”
That evening Marty met Josh at the university gym, and Josh signed him in.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” said Josh. “This guy might be a lunatic.”
“But what if he’s the real deal?”
‘Doubtful, buddy,” said Josh, “but I guess we can hope. Anyway he might not even show up tonight.”
“Oh well,” thought Marty. “At least I can get in a workout.”
But the guy did show up. Marty noticed a short, weedy guy with glasses come in and start looking around the gym. Oh yeah, this guy was into muscle, no question. But was he for real?
“Ah, excuse me, gentlemen,” said the guy. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Professor Peters. I running some rather cutting edge experiments on muscle development and anyone who would care to volunteer can expect rapid and extreme muscle development… perhaps even some height augmentation. Any volunteers?”
Marty saw one guy gesture to his friend with a limp wrist. The other guy laughed. Marty, on the other hand, practically leapt off the weight bench.
“Me! Me! I volunteer,” he shouted.
Professor Peters looked him over carefully. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in here before. Are you over 18?”
“Oh yeah,” said Marty. “I’m way over 18. I’m so over 18 I’m… almost 19!”
Professor Peters squinted at him. “You look younger.”
“Yeah,” said Marty, shrugging. “I get that a lot.”
“Okay,” said Professor Peters “In that case, a muscular young man, like you, is just what I’m looking for. Come with me.”
“Wow,” thought Marty. “That was easier than buying beer. This guy must really be desperate… or he’s lying his ass off.”
Professor Peters led Marty up a dark stairway in an empty building to his lab on the top floor.
“Here we are,” said the Professor.
Marty looked around. There was a lot of equipment around but it clearly wasn’t state-of-the-art.
“What’s going on here?” asked Marty. “This stuff looks ancient.”
“Well, the university doesn’t exactly sanction my work, so I have to make do with the equipment I can find.”
Marty was starting to smell a fraud.
Professor Peters picked up a small bottle of capsules and handed it to Marty. He looked very excited. “Go on, take one.”
Marty took out a capsule and eyed it suspiciously. He’d heard about date rape drugs and wondered if that was what he was looking at now.
“What’s the matter?” asked the Professor.
“What will it do?” asked Marty.
“Change you forever,” said the Professor.
“Oh well,” thought Marty. He’d come this far. And this was his only possible chance to get as big as Stan. He may as well go through with it. He swallowed the capsule.
Instantly he felt a rush and a kind of high. Every cell in his body seemed to come alive and start throbbing.
“Oh yeah,” he said, “this stuff works good.” And then his body started kind of shifting like it had a mind of its own and he cold see and feel it moving under his shirt. Marty felt his shoulders kind of broaden and his pecs kind of jut out. His shape just seemed to change.
And suddenly Marty’s body was… different. All of Marty’s boyish fat seemed to have melted away. The boy standing in the mirror had a lean face with pronounced cheekbones. And his arms, they were the biggest shock. The were bigger and all he could see now was muscle, lean, thick cords of it running from above his wrists all the way up and disappearing into his t shirt. He looked bulky and strong.
“Whoa, Prof,” said Marty, leaning back and stretching his arms… Damn, his voice sounded… scratchy; like it had dropped some… Marty slowly brought up his bigger, ripped arms into a flexing position and felt a rock-hard tennis-ball-sized bicep burst up out of each of them.
Damn, they looked and felt hard as steel.
“Oh yeah,” he said checking himself out in my mirror. “I like this.”
But it wasn’t just his arms. His whole body was different. He slid his hands up under his t-shirt and began feeling up his torso. “Man, I’m so fucking hard,” he said, probing his chest with his fingers. “I didn’t know bodies could get this fucking hard?”
Damn, Marty’s body felt like stone, like warm stone.
“Great,” the professor said. “It worked splendidly. Now let’s run some tests.”
“Oh no, not yet,” said Marty. “We’re not done yet, not even close. I think it’s time for another capsule.”
“You’re only supposed to take one dose every week,” the professor said.
“Why?” asked Marty. “Will another one hurt me?”
“I don’t know,” said the Professor. “You’re the first one ever to take one of these. We should take it slow just to be safe.”
“Fuck safe,” said Marty and he swallowed another capsule.
“Oh man!” he said. “This stuff’s intense!”
Holy crap he was getting bigger. There could be no doubt; he was growing. His pecs were starting to push out under his t-shirt. His shoulders got broader and his delts had become globes. And all those cords and sinews that were rippling up and down his arms were noticeably thicker. And holy crap he was taller too; it looked like an inch. Damn.
“Excellent,” he said. Whoa, his voice had dropped. It was definitely deeper. Then he flexed. Holy crap. His biceps had practically doubled in size. They looked about the size of a softball now and just as fucking hard.
“Ha,” said Marty, “you should see your face, Prof.” Then he checked out both his bis. “And I’m just getting fucking started.” Then he pulled up his shirt, revealing his muscular, shredded torso, his ripped six pack, and the large mounds that were his pecs. He flexed his softball bicep again and squeezed it. “So much bigger already…” he said. Then he ran his hands up and do his torso, and felt himself get noticeably stiff. He knew why. Fuck, did he know why!
“My muscles… my body… everything is just so fucking hard already. I feel so fucking awesome. And I just keep thinking about how every capsule is going to make me bigger and bigger and bigger. I’m going to be a fucking beast, a fucking monster! I bet I get so gigantic, so swole with massive, rock-hard, vainy muscle that no one will even recognize me. …And I just can’t fucking wait!” Then he downed the rest of the bottle.
“Marty NO!” shouted the Professor but it was too late. Marty had swallowed them all!
“I feel it Prof! I feel it!” shouted Marty. He raised up his arms and flexed. “Arrrrrrrgh!” he yelled as those soft balls bulged up and then started to get bigger and bigger and bigger. There was a POP TEAR as enormous veiny biceps ripped out of his sleeves.
“Fuck yeah!” shouted Marty as he felt his frame start to widen and grow taller. His back grew wider and thicker, stretching the hell out of his shirt, popping threads and finally tearing, as his great, thickening back muscles ripped his shirt to shreds revealing pulsing, shredded slabs of powerful sinew. “OH YEAH!” he yelled as big globular shoulder muscles tore out of the arms. “Yes!” he cried, flexing as his expanding muscles savagely ripped through his shirt reducing it to rags. With one muscular arm. Marty ripped it off and tossed it into a pathetic heap on the ground.
“Look at me, Prof! Look at me!” shouted Marty flexing his big muscles. He seemed to have stopped growing.
Marty looked in the mirror. Damn, his body was now insane. Pecs like softballs, a six pack that looked like it was carved out of him, a thick, broad back that made him look almost twice as wide, huge bulbous shoulders right above those giant biceps, which had to be at least 19 inches. And he’d gotten taller, too. He was at least 5’ 10” or 5’ 11”.
But he still wasn’t as big as Stan, and he had to be. No, he had to be bigger! He would need more capsules. The professor must have more capsules.
“And now, Professor Peters,” he said striding ominously toward him. “It’s time to talk about the other bottles.”
“W…what other bottles?” he asked unable to take his eyes from Marty’s huge muscle-ridden torso.
“Don’t play games with me!” he growled as he reached out and grabbed the professor by the collar with his big meaty hand and shoved him up against the wall. Professor Peters was helpless. He tried hitting Marty but he couldn’t do a thing to him. In fact his useless attempts were making Marty laugh.
“Your formula worked too well, professor!” Marty shouted gleefully “Feel this! Feel my fucking arm!” he shouted. Professor Peters reached out and felt it. Fuck, as the professor felt his arm Marty could feel it under the professor’s feeble fingers; it was huge, bulging all over with muscle and hard as iron. And his strength…. Fuck, it was ridiculous! The professor was pounding on that big steel arm of his and it was like the man was doing nothing!
“I could fucking break you in two now, Prof, so don’t fuck with me!”
He shook his head rapidly. And Marty noticed from the bulge in the man’s pants that he wasn’t entirely unhappy with the situation.
“You have more. I know you do. It belongs to me! Where is it? You better tell me. I don’t want you to get… damaged.”
“In the cabinet,” he pointed gulping.
In a flash Marty dropped the professor and retrieved three more bottles from the cabinet.
“Yes!” he said as he uncapped all three of them. “Let’s have some fun!” Then he downed all three bottles, one after the other, just chugged them without taking a breath.
“Yeah! yeaaaaAAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!” And suddenly Marty exploded upward as bulging, ripped, gargantuan muscles just erupted out all over him everywhere you looked. “YEAH! HUGER!” he shouted as his shoulders stretched out further and further and grew into huge balls of rock hard flesh. Monumental traps rose up from his thickening back and he could feel his neck getting thicker.
“AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH AWESOME!” he yelled as his pant legs exploded into shreds, releasing two immense, ripped-up, thighs which throbbing and writhing bulged out to an unbelievable size. Marty reached down and felt the cement hardness of his legs as they stretched taller and wider at the same time developing into huge fucking boulders of muscle, packed tightly together and bulging out in all directions.. In an instant those huge muscles, tore apart his pants completely, leaving him naked.
“YEAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” he shouted as he flexed his already massive arms and watched them bulge up and grow and grow and grow into veiny peeked mountains! He threw back his head and roared again as his shoulders stretched outward, further and further, exploding into great boulders of incredible size. His back pushed out further, causing his entire upper body to grow wider and wider as he continued to grow taller and taller. His pecs exploded out of his chest into massive, striated muscle balls. Mary felt like a god! He was just fucking gargantuan now, eight feet tall and a raging ton of massive muscle!
“Look at me, Prof!” he roared. “Look at my arms!” Grunting with a savage euphoria, Marty flexed his biceps making them expand from the size of watermelons to car tires, unimaginably huge with thick veins like garden hoses running all around them and up to his planetoid sized delts. And they looked and felt like impossibly hard veiny planetoids of power!
He looked in the mirror and admired the rest of his impossibly muscular form. He was about six feet wide at the shoulders, with a neck wider than his head flanked by huge thick mountainous traps. He had gigantic, striated delts nested on top of enormous, veined wrapped upper arms that looked like a heap of massive muscle boulders. His forearms were as thick around as a barrel. His chest was two mammoth globes hard, solid and ripped. His abs were ten concrete slabs of muscle leading down from his pecs to his waste.
“And look at my legs!” He bent his leg and suddenly giant masses of sinew surfaced and bulged out of his pylon legs. Just one of his thighs was the size of two men put together, but much denser, thicker and heavier. He could see the striations and thick veins ran all up and down them.
“It worked! I’m fucking ginourmous!” yelled Marty. “I could crush that fucking whim-boy Stan with one fucking finger!”
The he looked at the professor. “And I can’t believe how tiny you look!” Before he knew what happened, Marty reached down and grabbed the professor and lifted him effortlessly into the air.
“You’re just like a toy,” he laughed.
“Marty stop!” He cried. “That’s enough. Put me down.”
“Yeah?” said Marty. “What if I don’t wanna? What are you going to do about it? Try and get out, go on, try.” The professor tried to fight back by pushing on the palm and trying to unbend the fingers, but he couldn’t. Nothing he could do would even budge the giant powerful hand.
“Hahaha,” said Marty. “But you like this, don’t you? You like my impossibly huge, powerful, muscular body, don’t you?”
Then suddenly Marty eased the pressured and set the professor on the ground. “I’m just messing with ya,” he said, grinning. “But remember, I could squash you like a bug.” And he flexed those behemoth sized arms of his making the incredibly massive, veiny biceps leap and dance like mountains in an earthquake. “…if I wanted. So you better keep quiet about all of this if you know what’s good for you.”
“I will. You bet I will,” said the professor. Marty could see the man still had a massive erection that had not once faltered.
“Good,” said Marty. “Now get me some clothes!”
On the first day of school, Marty rolled into the building wearing a skimpy muscle top and a pair of basketball shorts. All of his impossibly massive, bulging, muscular limbs were completely on display. He looked awesome now. A lot of people saw him and just ran. Who could blame them? Fuck, his biceps alone were bigger and stronger than any of them! He was all bulging, rippling, iron-hard muscle now and it was glorious. He could hardly wait to see Stan.
When he got his schedule he couldn’t help but grin. His first class was gym, and they always started the year with a fitness evaluation.
When he walked into the gymnasium, everyone just stopped and stared. That was alright. He was used to it by now, and really fucking loved it. He could tell each and every guy in there was just ogling his body, his size, his obvious power and unbelievable muscularity, and envying it. By the time this class was over, he’d give them something to fucking envy alright.
But suddenly everyone stopped staring at him and started staring behind him. He turned around to see what could possibly have upstaged him and had to fight to stop himself from staring. There was Stan, but wholly crap he’d gotten bigger from when Marty had last seen him, way, way bigger! In fact, he was almost as big as Marty now; he might even be as big!
“How’s it going, spaghetti boy?” said Stan, flexing a pair of impossibly monumental ripped-up, veiny biceps.
“Well, if it isn’t Stan the stick?” replied Marty, hitting a similar pose, letting his boulder-like biceps explode into their magnificent massiveness, and scrunching his cinderblock stomach to boot.
“Looks like someone’s been playing with his chemistry set,” said Stan.
But before they could go any further, in came Mr. Bell to start the class. It was actually remarkable how quickly he got over the change in two of his students. But as a high school gym teacher, he must have seen his share of short & skinny to big & muscular transformations – of course not on this scale. But it probably explains how he was able to get the class started with only a minimal delay due to shock.
First up was the rope climb.
“I’m going first!” shouted Marty, clenching his fists and making his gigantic massively hard and powerful arms bulge and flex.
“Well, you’re not first on the list,” said Mr. Bell, “but I suppose if you want to…”
“Any objections?” asked Marty, making his monumental sized pecs bulge and ripple under his muscle shirt and glaring at his classmates, all of whom remained mute. That was one thing Marty really loved about his new body: people rarely argued with him.
He marched up to the rope, gigantic quads pulsing and writhing under his skin.
Mr. Bell looked him over and said, “I thought it was overkill when they told me the rope had a steel cable in the center to reinforce it, but now… maybe not. Tap the beam when you reach the top. Remember your legs are stronger than your… never mind. When ever you’re ready, Hopkins.”
Marty grabbed the rope with his great, thick hands, and began pulling himself up using no legs at all. He was pretty damn heavy now, but his bulging, heaving megalithic arms were more than up to the challenge, and he quickly reached the top. The rope was affixed to a steel I-beam which ran along the gym ceiling. Marty grabbed it with one hand and squeezed with all his might. With a triumphant joy, Marty felt the metal give way under the pressure from his massively powerful hand, and when he pulled it away, there were indents, the size and shape of his fingers indelibly impressed in the I-beam.
Then Marty let go of the rope and let himself drop to the gym floor. He bent his muscle pylon legs and when he hit the floor, they absorbed the impact like a pair of giant, bulging steel springs. However, there was a tremendous CRACK as the wooden gym floor shattered into splinters beneath his colossally muscled body.
Marty looked around his classmates, growled and treated them all to a heart stopping most muscular pose where he felt every hugely overdeveloped inch of him expand into new dimensions of ripped, striated massiveness. He was such a fucking monster now!
“Okay, Hopkins,” said Mr. Bell, shaking his head and surveying the damaged gym floor. “You’ve made significant progress since your last evaluation. Congratulations.”
Marty grinned, did a quick massive double bicep pose, and headed to the side lines.
Mr. Bell checked over his list and said, “Okay, next up is—”
“Me!” shouted Stan. “I’m next!” All eyes turned to the equally gigantic and massively muscled young man.
“Ah…,” said Mr. Bell, looking a little dumbfounded, “any objections?”
No one said a thing and Stan marched up to the rope.
“Tap the beam when you reach the top,” said Mr. Bell. “Remember your… Forget it. Just go.”
Stan spit in each of his huge thick hands, rubbed them together and grabbed the rope. Stan strained and strained. Marty could see the massive tectonic plates of muscle on his back, bulging and heaving, but he wasn’t moving up the rope!
Marty was about to laugh out loud, when he heard the sound of creaking metal. He looked up and could see the I-beam start to bend. Then it hit him, Stan wasn’t trying to pull himself up to the beam, he was trying to pull the beam down to him! And it looked like he was doing it! CREEEEEK! The beam bent lower and lower. Stan’s incomprehensibly powerful muscles were bulging and writhing on his frame. His face turned red, his neck swelled up thicker than his head with throbbing veins, cords and muscles, his traps expended into mountains reaching up to his ears as he slowly but surely put one hand over the next and brought the beam closer to the floor.
Suddenly there was a SNAP and a CLANG. The students scattered as the steel cable inside the rope broke and the steel beam came crashing to the gym floor. Nonplused and grinning, Stan looked around at the destruction he had just caused with his impossibly muscular bare hands, reached down and tapped the bent and twisted beam.
That fucking show-off, thought Marty. I’ll show him who’s biggest and strongest!
“Okay,” said Mr. Bell. “That’s going to do it for rope climbing. Move on into the weight room, while I report the… ah… damage.”
The entire class including Stan and Marty moved into the weight room. It was a lot smaller and more cramped than Marty remembered. But as soon as he got in there, without waiting for Mr. Bell, he headed straight for the bench press weight station. The thing looked way too small for him to even fit in, but suddenly he got a great idea. He grabbed the entire mechanism with his massive bulging arms and hefted it up over his head and began doing military presses with it. Fuck, it was effortless. He could feel his massive, hard, muscular shoulders handling the load with ease!
Then there was a jerk to the side. He looked over and saw Stan had grabbed the mechanism and was trying to rip it out of his hands. He fought back.
“Hey! It’s my turn, Stan!” yelled Marty.
“No, you had your turn,” said Stan. “Now it’s my turn!”
“Fuck that!” said Marty. “Let go!”
The two behemoth boys pulled on the mechanism, gigantic, hard, ripped muscles bulging and flaring, veins swelling and throbbing, until the weight stations started bending and warping and then suddenly flew to pieces. The rest of the class rushed from the weight room to avoid the flying pieces of metal.
“Now look what you did!” the two gigantically muscled boys yelled at each other simultaneously.
Then they lunged at each other, two sets of massive hands, each trying to get a hold on the enormous rippling stone-like body of the other. The rolled across the floor like colossal twin muscle boulders. Anything in their path, usually steel weights and exorcising machines were demolished, reduced to bent and twisted wreckage.
“Stop! For God’s sake, stop!” yelled a voice.
The two immense boys looked up and saw their friend Gwen, dressed in her gym uniform. They stopped immediately and looked somewhat ashamed.
“I had to see it to believe it,” she said. “What the hell happened to you two…? No don’t tell me; I don’t want to know.”
Then she surveyed the wreckage and shook her head. “You guys are going to get suspended over this one.”
“But he…” started both boys simultaneously.
“Zip!” said Gwen. “Zip it! I was there last spring. I know exactly what happened and I’d say Marty has something to say to Stan, don’t you Marty.”
Marty looked at the ground. He knew what she meant and he knew she was right.
“Sorry, Stan,” said Marty, not taking his eyes off the floor. “Muscles are cool and they look awesome on you.”
“You really think so?” said Stan flexing his monumental bicep.
“Yeah,” said Marty. “How big is that thing?”
“30 inches,” said Stan. “How big is yours?”
“Mine’s 30, too. Can I feel yours?” said Marty.
“Sure,” said Stan offering his massive, bulging, shredded arm to his friend.
Marty grabbed it. “Damn, hard as steel,” he said.
Stan reached over and grabbed his. “Whoa, yours too.”
Then Marty grabbed Stan’s planetoid pec, and Stan ran his hands over Marty’s cinderblock stomach, and one thing led to another and pretty soon they boys were rolling around on the floor again, but this time for an entirely different reason.
“Well, can’t say I didn’t see that coming,” said Gwen, turning and leaving the room to give the two massive muscle boys some privacy.
“And I hope they lift happily ever after,” she said, closing the door behind her.