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It is very hard to keep any level of originality within the MG genre. This short one is fairly similar to Project Defender and The third report. On the other hand, those of you who like The accident, might find these two other stories fun reading. The accident "Larson, will you please close the vault door?" Larson, the lab assistant, ensured himself, that the test subjects were standing on safety distance from the massive door, and pressed the button. The machinery began to hum. More than twelve centimetres of rubber-coated steel with inserted lead-plates closed behind the test subjects, and the massive cylinders of the lock sealed the chamber hermetically from the outer world. The voice of Dr. Freudenberger turned to address the Brigadier: "The safety mechanisms are rigourous. When the door is locked, and the contrapment is set to active mode, the door will not open again, until the procedure has run the entire protocol. In the beginning, safety concerns for the test subjects weighed against this solution, but workplace safety for the research team, which dwell in the presence of the chamber much more often than the test subjects, weighed in favour of this solution. For every experiment with a living human specimen, the team run dozens of experiments on organic samples." There were three test subjects inside: Swanson, Korhonen and Rasmussen, and the medical team wanted to compare the individual reactions of the specimens to the procedure. It was the third treatment of these servicemen, and all three had reacted very well to the first treatment, at least from a purely tactical point of view. Larson was worried, from a non-tactical point of view. The armed forces of the three neighbouring countries wanted to enhance strength, speed and resilience of their special forces, but Larson thought, that the other team members and the officers responsible didn't take other aspects in consideration. From an academic angle, it was amazing to be a part of a team of international specialists from several backgrounds in medicine and physics, but it was also slightly unsettling and humiliating to be in the presence of all these fit and confident young men from the special operations units. Larson was short and lean, and though he lukewarmly spent some time at the gym each week, he never got any results. He knew, that he was a competent expert in his field of research, but the asserting behaviour of their test subjects caused him to feel shy, inadequate and uncomfortable, when they were around. Korhonen was rather nice: A big, stocky Finlander with a great sense of humour on the rare occasions he chose to talk, but Swanson and Rasmussen had given expression to a rather smug and roughhousing sense of humour, when they ate lunch with Larson in the cafeteria. It didn't seem like the improved performance had caused Swanson and Rasmusson to become less arrogant – rather the opposite. They were impressive. There was no doubt about that. They had already been impressive, before any of them had undergone any treatment, but the repeated and gradually more intense exposure to the procedure had turned the three soldiers into beings who could have stepped out of a bodybuilder's fever dream or a drill-sergeant's homoerotic reveries. They were now around two metres tall. According to readings from the chamber, the third treatment was now increasing their weights to between 160 kilogrammes (in the case of Swanson) and 200 kilogrammes (in the case of Korhonen). Their upper arms were well beyond 60 centimetres at the end of their second treatment, and the team was now able to watch their arms grow further at a visible speed. And these colossal chests! * * * A few days later, Larson was running a few routine experiments with organic samples, while the rest of the team was preoccupied in the lab next door. As the assignment was fairly standard and humdrum, he was becoming absent-minded, and was taken with surprise, when the door closed behind his back. It was Korhonen and Swanson, which was strange. "Oh hello. Didn't expect you here today. I thought you would find it boring to watch me work?" "There was a gap in our schedule." It was Swanson who spoke. Korhonen stood silent and looming inside the closed door. Larson's feeling of awkwardness returned in the presence of the impossibly powerful soldiers. Their camo trousers were green in several shades of green. Their impeccably polished army boots shone glossily. Army tank tops struggled to contain their V-shaped (or, in the case of Korhonen, bear-shaped) torsos, and he could see the visible outline of their six-packs through the fabric. The sides of their heads were clean-shaven. Swanson had left a jarhead buzzcut of golden stubble on the top of his head, while Korhonen sported a tow-haired short mohawk. Their repeated treatment inside the chamber had caused their jaws to become powerful. Larson possibly let his imagination run away with him, because he had read their test-results, but he could swear, that the testosterone-level in the room increased because of the presence of the two special operatives. Larson felt inferior. "Just allow me to expose this sample, okey? We can chat while the equipment run the protocol." Larson entered the chamber, and put the petri-dish on the allotted surface. What happened next, released thousand thoughts in an instance, and panic rose. The security door closed, and he could hear the cylinders move into place in the robust lock with a loud click. He was well aware of the safety mechanism, and he could hear the machinery warm up for the scheduled exposure of the organic sample on the small table. The presence of an un-scheduled unsuitable human specimen never meant for processing was neither acknowledged, nor of any concern. The equipment wouldn't switch off and cool down, until the procedure has run the entire protocol. Panic overwhelmed him, as he heard the hoses emit gas with increasing fervency: The nanite gas with the DNA-altering substances. He tried to hold his breath, but even without the rising feelings of terror, he couldn't have kept his breath for the entire time anyhow. The formula entered his lungs, entered his bloodstream. Larson screamed. He could see Korhonen and Swanson outside, standing with their camo-clad legs wide apart, and with their bulging arms crossed over their massive chests. Swanson tried to say something, but Larson couldn't hear any words through the thick and green-tinted security-glass fortified with a metal net. Korhonen tried to use body language. Pointing at Swanson. Pointing at the button, which closed the door. "Pressed". Pointed at Larson. A gesture with his arms, like someone was flying? No: Growing. And then pointing at Larson. Korhonen smiled and made a thumbs up. Swanson smiled, too. There was smugness in that smile. Larson couldn't take it in. Everything he knew was fear. The humming was thunderous now. Humming. Thunder. The next second, energy erupted and hit every cell in his body. The hypnotic program began to run, and letters ran rapidly on the glass. Subliminal letters. Reprogramming him. The hypnotic subliminals burrowed deep into his soul. Fear waned away. The unit took his program in, and accepted it. The enhancement happened. The unit embraced change eagerly. The unit was proud to be enhanced. Proud to be a specimen. It took a couple of deep breaths and inhaled more of the gas, that filled the chamber. The unit knew, that the gas would make it more enhanced, and increase its abilities. The unit's brothers in arms stood outside, and looked pleased. It felt good to cause it's brothers in arms to look pleased. The unit was bigger now. It adjusted its stance, but, even then, its legs were beginning to rub each other. It felt funny, but it was of no concern. The unit was eager to become an enhanced soldier. With his brothers in arms. They stood outside. They looked more than pleased now. They looked proud. And amazed. Its brothers in arms were in awe of the unit's progress. Triceps rested at wide, huge and firm lats, causing the unit's arms to hang wide at its sides. The unit could feel its back harden, widen, become indurated. The hypnotic subliminals continued to scroll swiftly in blue, phosphorescent letters on the glass. It felt good to take the programming in. Assess. Protect. Defend. Neutralise. Fight. The upper arms felt so hard now, bulging obscenely, and probably approached the same size as the brothers in arms outside. Or even overshadowing them. Bigger! Yes! Even bigger! Huge! Brawn! The chest felt engorged, and impossibly pumped. Present. Assertive. In control. Dominant. Superior. Scientists entered. Scientists panicked. One of them staring wildly, not knowing what to do. Not in control. Undecided. Unlike the unit. The unit felt in control. It accepted the procedure. It allowed the procedure to run the entire protocol. The door wouldn't open until then. The unit was ready to stay inside until entire protocol had run. Proud to be enhanced. Improving himself. A scientist pounded weakly with his bare fists against the security glass. Another one pressed buttons on a display. Didn't they know, that the glass was in place for security reasons? Didn't they know, that the door wouldn't open. Until the procedure has run the entire protocol. Its brothers in arms forced the unnecessarily upset civilians out of the room, and locked the door. One of them changed the contrapment's settings. The power buzzed more intensely now. The gas hissed louder now. Something else happened. The unit was dimly aware, that it had known what would happen in a dim and distant past, but it couldn't remember. So long ago. Another person. Another man. Another unit, then. It was now becoming what it was programmed for. It was becoming bigger than its brothers in arms. It felt good. Confidence and superiority grew. Physique grew. Strength grew. Granite-hard muscle-tissue grew. Steel-hard brawn grew. Power grew. So big now! Power was crammed into its body. Irrupting its muscle fibres. The body was a passive receptacle of raw, pure, undiluted, masculine POWER! One of its brothers in arms was wide-eyed now, and had to sit down on a chair outside the treatment chamber. The other one watched the empowerment inside the chamber happen, with a broad smile at his face. The unit was immersed in the process of empowerment. It now towered over its brothers in arms, and its muscle mass far overshadowed their prowess. It inhaled the testosterone of its own sweat, that filled the chamber. Its heartbeat drummed inside its ears, and was felt at its temples, but there was no end to the process, yet. Not until the procedure has run the entire protocol. Every cell of the unit's body was bombarded by relentless strength-inducing POWER, and it inhaled the very eruptions of that raw POWER. Becoming power. Becoming mass. Becoming a mountain of hefty indomitable meat. Titanic prowess. Bulging steel. An engorged, cocksure being of behemothic power-mass. The unit was no longer aware of it, but, outside, its brothers in arms were increasing the effect of the procedure even further. It wasn't aware of it any longer, as it moaned. It grunted. It roared and bellowed in power-crazed abandon. All it knew was the irrupting force, the increasing magnitude, the cumulation of growth, the swelling fibres, the hypertrophic gains, the exploding mass and the unlimited power, as it increased in a never-ending spiral upwards. Raw. Pure. Undiluted. Masculine ... POWER! The procedure wouldn't stop. Not until it had run the entire protocol.

This is something I started working on today and thought I'd put it out there to see if anyone took to it. It's about a bodybuilding show with a difference and will just be a very short story if I get round to finishing it. Apologies if it's a little rough! THE SHOW “Here, buddie. Take this.” I reached out my right bronzed hand and Blake Woods popped a blue diamond shaped pill into the palm. I looked up at him in confusion. The left side of his mouth was curled into a devilish smirk. “I’m not saying you’ll need it. But it might help ... ease any nerves.” I looked at the mysterious pill and gulped. I’d come this far. What did I have left to lose? I popped the pill into my mouth and swallowed hard. “So, Luke King, are you nervous?” the staggeringly muscular male specimen standing in front of me asked. God YES. More nervous than I’ve been in my bloody life. “A little,” I lied. “You’ll be fine, bud,” Blake reassured me. His sickeningly handsome face softened, and there was genuine warmth in his expression. “Just think of it as a regular show. Don’t feel pressured or obliged to do anything you don’t want to.” I dutifully nodded at the muscle monster before me. Blake Woods. Twenty five years old and one of the biggest muscle freaks on the planet. His tits were humungous, his quads were obscene and all six of his abs seemed to be exploding through his belly in an attempt to escape. “You can just stand on stage and hit some poses if you like. And if you get bored, or you feel uncomfortable, just leave.” I wasn’t sure whether it was because a man as huge and God-like as Blake was being so nice to me, or whether his words were actually reassuring me, but I was starting to feel considerably more relaxed about the rather unique show I’d anxiously agreed to take part in. “Saying that, Luke,” he continued. “I, for one, would be sorry to see you leave.” Something fluttered in my chest. Was there any small hope that Blake Woods was flirting with me, or was he just this nice to everyone? “There’s erm ... just one thing left to do before we hit the stage,” Blake said. I was a little perplexed, but when he raised both eyebrows and signalled down to the one item of clothing I was wearing, a pair of impossibly shiny, blue posing trunks, I knew exactly what he meant. “As awesome as they are, dude,” he began, “you’ve gotta lose the posing trunks.” Oh God. There’s no going back now. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he said, cheekily grinning. He then shook his head and released a short laugh. “God, that was cheesy!” he added. “Sorry, bud. Maybe I’m a bit nervous too.” 300 pounds All American muscle monster and obscenely cocky poser extraordinaire Blake Woods nervous? FUCK OFF! I looked down at his brilliantly purple posers. It wasn’t just his muscles that were big. Blake was fucking packing. Hands down he had the biggest bulge of any current pro bodybuilder, and I was about to see it in all its naked, trunk free glory. Blushing through my bronzed competition tan, I nervously reached for the straps of my bright blue trunks. As I peeled them down my mammoth sized, vein plastered quads, my dick escaped the confines of the trunk material for Blake, and everyone else in the room to see. I was a lot harder than I thought I was, and suddenly exposed, I seemed to be getting harder by the second. Blake, who was still notably wearing his trunks, had a mischievous smirk on his face as he admired my increasingly growing hard on. “I’m not sure you needed that pill after all!” he teasingly exclaimed, still grinning at me. He reached down and whipped off his own posers, all the time his eyes were fixed on mine. If this isn’t flirting then I have no idea what the fuck is. I couldn’t keep from turning my gaze down for long, and when I did, my eyeballs almost popped straight clean out of my skull and on to the pump room floor. Whoever said bodybuilders have small dicks had clearly never seen Blake Woods naked. Pointing right at me was the thickest, hardest cock I think I’d ever bared witness to. No wonder he always looks like he’s shoved something down the front of his posing trunks. Little Blake? Not so bleedin’ little! Not fucking little at all in fact. I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes away from his enormously thick, juddering cock. It wasn’t just the size and thickness that was impressive. The shape of it was magnificent too. So many of those muscle worshippers and admirers out there in the world who lost their loads to pictures and videos of Blake Woods on a regular bases, and they’d never, ever know that he was also the proud owner of the most perfect shaped and beautifully sized cock. From somewhere, I found enough bravery to make a flirty joke with the now fully naked, competition conditioned muscle bull before me. “You don’t look so nervous there either, mate!” Blake’s mouth curled into a devastatingly gorgeous grin in response. Before he had the chance to reply, a loud voice filled the pump room. “OK, guys, two minutes before it’s time to hit the stage.” My stomach suddenly tightened with nerves and I managed to tear myself away from the huge, gorgeous, fully naked muscle bull before me to glance around the room. Four other well known bodybuilders of various size, age and nationality filled up the pump room. Standing around, pumping up, and preparing themselves to head out on stage. It might not have been the most unusual sight if it weren’t for one small factor; every single bodybuilder was now completely naked. A few meters from where Blake and I were stood, 212 class pro bodybuilder Anth “The Tank” Tucker was pumping up his insatiably huge, balloon-like pecs. Almost as wide as he was tall, Anth’s entire, bull-like body looked like it was about to burst at any given moment. Brutally sized biceps, blocky abs which distended from his ever growing roid gut and an ass so magnificently big it left the room ten seconds after he did, were all much loved features on this phenomenally size, late thirty-something American bodybuilder. Just a short distance from Anth, stood German muscle daddy Jörg Roth was with his hands on his hips, his naked glutes looking even bigger than they did when they were half covered with posers, talking to young Canadian bodybuilder Cody Watson. It was unique pairing. Jörg’s tank-like physique was bursting with deliriously thick, solid beef, while Cody’s leaner, six foot frame was packed with gorgeously shredded muscle, not least of all his infamous stomach muscles, which included six of the most insanely shredded and beautifully abs in bodybuilding. Jörg’s masculine, handsome looks, smouldering eyes and devastatingly sexy smirk made him one of the most popular muscle daddies on the planet. Meanwhile, with his ridiculously gorgeous, boyish looks, Cody has earned himself a legion of muscle obsessed fans. Most bodybuilding fans would trip over themselves to be anywhere near either, or most probably both, of these two contrasting muscle freaks. And completing the line up was infamous Australian muscle beast Ritchie “2 Guns” Lee, who was applying a last minute spot of oil into his freakishly shredded quads and tight as fuck, tummy popping abdominals. His semi hard cock sticking out in front of him for the whole room to see. The more he rubbed oil into his muscles, the harder his cock seemed to become. Even though Ritchie Lee’s biceps weren’t flexed, I could still see exactly why they’d earned him his nickname. Both upper arms were ridiculously thick and bulged to an almost laughable degree. I couldn’t wait to see them flexed and blown up in all their freakish glory on stage. It wasn’t just his inhuman sized guns that Ritchie was famous for either. He was known for his loud, extroverted personality, and even louder stage presence. Not only did Ritchie pose in the craziest, cockiest and most animated manner, but he had a habit of loudly shouting and bellowing out with practically every pose he hit. Every single bodybuilder in the room was in incredible, jaw dropping condition, but looking around, it suddenly occurred to me that, behind my All American monster of a muscle mate Blake Woods, I was the second biggest bodybuilder in the line up. “You OK there, buddie?” Blake asked, putting his large sized hand on the side of my obscenely huge right upper arm. “I think so. I mean, yeah,” I replied. “You’ll be fine,” he assured me. “Just think of it as a regular bodybuilding show.” But it’s not. It’s not a normal bodybuilding show at all. One of the guys working at the show, the only average sized, and clothed man in the room suddenly made an announcement to the six naked muscle freaks before him. “OK, guys. It’s showtime!” All of the magnificent bodybuilders started to walk towards the stage like a herd of docile bulls being herded into a ring and my stomach suddenly flipped with fear. Blake Woods ushered me to follow him, and my fellow muscle freaks. “Stick with me, Luke,” he adorably said as I nervously took my first steps towards the stage. Now there’s an offer. As I trailer behind Blake, I almost gasped at the rear image of his physique. I’d literally never seen a back as monstrously wide as his. Pound upon pound of thick, superhuman mass spilled out from his frame. And then there was his ginormous sized ass, which looked big enough to feed a small third world country for a month. The sight of Blake’s excessive sized bum meat cause my exposed, hard cock to fiercely jolt and judder. My stomach was doing somersaults and I tried to think about what Blake had advised me earlier. “Just think of it as a regular bodybuilding show.” “Don’t feel pressured or obliged to do anything you don’t want to.” But I DO want to, Blake. I want to do EVERYTHING that I’ve heard happens at this show. Everything I’ve heard and MORE.

Part Three "It is the day of the competition" said the Ultimate Cadet, "for the last twelve weeks you have been striving to make yourself look as muscular and powerful as possible, but it is all an illusion, you are in fact weaker than the weakest Musketeer cadet in history. Even getting through the registration is a trial worthy of the Ultimate Titan!" As the detailed explanation of this apparent oddity of a man, so muscular than men would bow down in deference to him, yet be so weak that he couldn't even lift the smallest dumbbell in existence continued, the Ultimate Musketeer was moaning. His now twenty two inch hard cock had been rubbed for close on an hour without any lubrication and the sensations were making him heave in agony, but the Ultimate Titan was so transfixed by the Ultimate Cadet's story that his action of rubbing the cock had become engrained into his mind and nothing could prevent him from it. "You are all part of the same group of people" carried on the Ultimate Cadet, "all the same size and weight as you are. You all march onto the stage and then, in effect, become slaves. Slaves to the judges who call out what they want to see. They command you to turn in all directions, to show off your mighty chest, your bulging arms, your tree trunks legs and remember, this is all whilst you are at your weakest and under lights that are as hot as the hottest sun in the height of summer. Imagine it my friends, and that's only half the agony you face!" "Please" panted the Ultimate Musketeer, his twenty four inch hard cock now the deepest red, "do not carry on.. I don't think I can stand the torture any longer" "When I am on stage" replied the Ultimate Cadet, "I have to face it and therefore to understand what I face, so must you" and with that carried on by saying "It takes ten minutes to show them what they want and after that time, everyone is unable to carry on. Their hearts are pounding, they are breathing hard and..." and with that he looked at the Ultimate Musketeer and whispered "...their cocks are rock hard!" "Mercy" pleaded the Ultimate Musketeer as he started to pre cum "Mercy?" asked the Ultimate Cadet, "what do you know of mercy? As we walk off stage we are told to be ready to get back on stage ten minutes later for our solo. That means the clock starts ticking, ten minutes to relieve the agony coursing through our bodies. Ten minutes in which to cum and orgasm. And those ten minutes start now" and with that he nodded to the Ultimate Titan who twisted the Ultimate Musketeers cock causing him to scream in agony. "I enter the locker room, find a toilet, enter it, lock the door behind me, drop my posing suit and stand there. I am covered in sweat, dripping onto the floor with my cock fully erect in front of me. Without hesitation, I grab it and start to rub" "Please...please" moaned the Ultimate Musketeer, now in the agonies of his position, "I beg for mercy" "Closing my eyes, I imagine myself with a man of my dreams. He-Man, similar naked, similarly sweaty and similarly horny. We look at each other, smile, and start to rub" "Mercy, Mercy, please" "It is not long before we are both in ecstasy, our cocks as hard and erect as each other" "I...I...I cannot stand any more, please!" "We placed one hand on our pecs, feel the other man's pounding heart and breathe deeply" "Please, my friends, I..." but the Ultimate Musketeers protests were stopped by the Ultimate Titan placing one hand on the victim's mouth and another on his now pulsing pec. "We know what is going to happen, we both accept what is going to happen and then, then it happens. FIVE MINUTES, Five minutes until stage time. Then, we rub!" At the signal of the Ultimate Cadet, the Ultimate Titan took a deep breath and rubbed the now twenty eight inch hard, red and purple headed cock of the Ultimate Musketeer faster than he had ever done so in his life and as he did, the moon started to rise above the horizon. "It is agony, yes, it is ecstasy, yes, and yes, we both want it!" and with that the Ultimate Cadet reached over and placed his hand on the pec and moaned "Yes, our hearts are pounding that fast, our breathing is deep and hard, we know what is going to happen, and we make it happen!" Unable to bear the agony any longer the Ultimate Musketeer screamed at the top of his voice "FOR THE HONOUR OF FRANCE" and let rip three massive shots that seemed to scream out of his cock faster than eagles. As two of them peeled away, the Ultimate Titan and Cadet lay either side, their mouths open to receive the power of the cum that fell into their mouths. As they swallowed it, they started to moan in ecstasy as the Ultimate Musketeer threw the rocks into the air and declared "WE HAVE THE HONOUR!" All three men started to glow as the moon became more and more visible above the horizon until with a mighty roar, the glow exploded to reveal the three most powerful men ever to walk the earth. They all stood twelve feet tall, all had muscles that would make even their Ultimate selves want to worship them, their cocks now hard and bobbing in time to their pulses were still dripping cum and their bodies were covered in sweat. As what had been the Ultimate Musketeer sat up, his twenty pack flexing hard, he moaned "My fellow Musceteeers, we flex!"

Hot!! Finally a rare gem of a story where the bully wins

Three The walk to the pump room felt like the longest sixty seconds of my life. I was still enjoying the rush of, not only unashamedly confessing to another person at least part of my true feelings towards bodybuilders without being completely inappropriate or giving any mention of sticky, cum soaked boxer shorts, but also rendering Billy Horvath speechless. I couldn’t help thinking that if Professor Walsh and my classmates knew this, I’d be welcomed back to college like some kind of hero. The adrenaline caused by my confession was also deterring the slight reoccurring nerves and anxiety which had been practically unbearable not half an hour ago. That was before I had entered an auditorium to be greeted by the image of a flexing, competition conditioned bodybuilder unapologetically plastered on a huge poster, met a camera man and potential like minded muscle lover, who was not only incredibly sexy and unquestionably gay, but also comfortable enough to walk around in t-shirts with outrageously awesome muscle related slogans written on the back and to stand in front of two strangers confidently rolling words like, “monstrous, jacked up muscle bulls” off his tongue, spotted a real life bodybuilder I’d more than once masturbated over in the form of the obscenely sexy Blaine Holton, who, despite being covered up a tracksuit, looked more monstrous than I could ever have dreamt, sat in a small room with two complete strangers and watched the kind of footage of shredded, hardcore muscle freaks I only ever watched in my own company and usually resulting in me filling up my underwear with half a litre of spunk, and then went part way to divulging my real feelings and confessing to another person for the first time how amazing I thought said muscle freaks actually are. And now I was on my way to a room full of those very muscle freaks to witness the superhuman specimens who turned me on more than anything else on this planet not just in real life, but up close and personal. Billy was walking slightly behind me. I didn’t need to be facing him to know that he was wearing a permanent scowl, wishing he were anywhere but here. In front of me was the extremely sexy rear view of Bryan Macleod, those ridiculously awesome words spread across his modestly broad back and the un-flexed upper arm muscle of his meaty tricep peeking underneath his t-shirt sleeve. I suddenly wanted to know what this devastatingly sexy man’s opinion of me was. I’d been sure that that cheeky smile Bryan had flashed at me during the screening of the muscle video was a knowing smile. A smile which had said, “The game’s up, kid. I know you’re a secret muscle lover who’s currently battling an epic sized hard on in those jeans of yours as you sit here watching these uber-human muscle beasts flex and squeeze their God-like muscle mass.” I then I wondered whether I reminded Bryan of himself at my age. Bookish, shy and awkward, blasting loads to pictures and videos of bodybuilders on an almost daily bases, years before he signed up for a gym membership and eventually found himself on a camera crew responsible for filming one of those very kinds of videos, enabling him to meet and be in the presence of the very freaks who turned him on more than anything else in the world. My thoughts then turned to whether, in turn, when I looked at Bryan I was seeing a considerably hairier, admittedly more masculine, and undoubtedly sexier future version of myself. Was this going to be me in fifteen years time, confidently strolling around bodybuilding competitions in cheeky, muscle related sloganed t-shirts, filming footage of some of the biggest, nastiest and most hardcore muscle bulls on the planet in their most shredded, otherworldly conditions? By then, of course, Bryan Macleod-Steatham (nee Macleod) and I would be enjoying our seventh year of marital bliss. It would have been a small, but beautiful ceremony, attended by close family, friends, and a small number of guys from the camera crew. The latter of which would have been particularly amused at the figurines on top of the wedding cake. Two miniature versions of Bryan and I in our matching “LIVE FOR THE PUMP” work t-shirts. A small camera on a tripod, and on the other side of it, a miniature bodybuilder in nothing but a pair of red posing trunks, his muscle bulging as he cranked a most muscular into the miniature camera. Granny Steatham not quite knowing what she was looking at it, but smiling and nodding in admiration and approval anyway. My increasingly elaborate fantasy was suddenly interrupted by the future groom to be himself, who was addressing both Billy and I. “Ok, guys, when we get inside I’m gonna introduce you both to separate camera men. I will be around if you need me for anything, but they’ll be looking after you for most of the day.” My stomach suddenly flipped and a voice in my head cried out, “NO,” in protest. Obvious attractions and ever so slightly far fetched fantasies aside, I felt safe with Bryan. He was warm and friendly, and if my very strong suspicions were right, he not only understood why on earth a guy who didn’t look like he’d spent any considerable amount of time clutching a dumbbell would have any interest or business being at a bodybuilding contest, but was coming from almost the exact same place. Now I was being dumped into the hands of a complete stranger. Not only that, I was going to be losing Billy Horvath too, who, while generally irritating and antagonising me to the point that no other human being had ever done before, had become an unlikely and surprisingly comforting companion in this bizarre but so far brilliant adventure. My thoughts were still in panic mode when I suddenly realised the three of us were heading directly towards two large double doors, and I became fully aware that the walk to the pump room was over. “OK, guys, if you’d like to follow me through.” The doors were swung open, my heart suddenly fluttered and before I had time to process another single thought, I was inside a pump room, backstage at one of the biggest bodybuilding competitions in the country. The first thing which struck me was just how busy the large space making up the pump room was. My pre-conceived imagining of the room hadn’t been massively detailed, but it definitely hadn’t included quite as many people as it actually did. There were a handful of women from what I could see, but most of the occupants were men. Lots of them were fully clothed, and seemed to range in body size, making it hard for me to decipher exactly what they were doing backstage at a bodybuilding show on a Saturday afternoon. Were they part of the film crew? Here to support their buddies who were competing in the show, or actual bodybuilders themselves, hiding tanned, shredded, muscle packed physiques under their clothing? Amongst them, however, were guys for whom there was absolutely no doubt as to what they were doing in a bodybuilding pump room. I had watched numerous video clips featuring superhuman sized muscle freaks backstage at bodybuilding shows, pumping up their phenomenally huge, beautifully carved out physiques, and flexing their barely human, thinly skinned, shredded to perfection mass. Not fifteen minutes before I had been sat watching one of those very clips. And now, I was actually standing in a pump room, witnessing those very kind of superhuman muscle freaks first hand. I was practically walking through a sea of humungous, bronze painted muscle Gods in indecently shiny, brightly coloured posing trunks. Everywhere I looked I saw super-sized slabs, mounds, and bumps of muscle hanging, twitching and wobbling off the frames of these extraordinary men who’d taken their bodies to the absolute extreme. I was surrounded by the kind of hardcore muscle monsters I, along with many others, had been filling up my underwear to since I’d first learnt how to masturbate. It was the most incredibly surreal and uniquely strange sight I’d ever played witness to in real life. It also happened to be the most erotic and sexually charged. It felt like my very first muscle experience of accidentally stumbling across the bodybuilder in the TV listings guide all those years again, only every feeling was multiplied by about a thousand. I’d been edging closer to the world of extreme muscle for weeks, and now I was standing right in the centre of it. I wanted desperately again to adopt that superpower which enabled one to freeze frame time, and just stand there, marvelling at the freaky and amazing sights of hardcore muscle around me. Any nerves had once again evaporated and instead, I was in a complete head spin of the place I’d somehow found myself in. It was only when I realised Bryan was introducing Billy Horvath and I to people who weren’t monstrously sized, tan drenched bodybuilders in ridiculously tiny posing trunks, that I even remembered regular sized people existed. “Guys, I’d like you to meet Stuart, and Baz, two of our camera crew members who’ll be showing you the ropes today.” Standing before Billy and I were two young men who didn’t look like they could be any different from each other in appearance. Stuart Fox was a slim built, fairly handsome, mousey blonde haired guy in a check shirt, who looked about two or three years my senior. Much like Billy and I, Stuart didn’t look like he had any business being anywhere near a bodybuilding competition. And yet, with his seemingly down to earth demeanour, he seemed completely relaxed and confident in his surroundings. Baz Wade on the other hand looked the type of person who wouldn’t hesitate to pick a fight with someone’s eighty six year old grandma if she so much as glanced at him in a slightly negative fashion. Standing at about 6’3, he towered above all of us in height. Not only that, the guy had some serious build to his frame. It would be completely deceitful to describe him as muscular, but a little unfair to describe him as overweight either. Incredibly stocky was probably the only accurate description to give this rather intimidating and thuggish looking guy with a neck tattoo. Baz was probably the type of guy who knew a lot about bodybuilding, hung around and surrounded himself with muscle dudes, meat heads and genuine bodybuilders. He probably had a yearning desire to be a hardcore muscle freak himself, and had no doubt made attempts at becoming one at various points, but so far just remained the stocky, out of shape guy on the other side of the camera. In stark contrast to Stuart Fox’s relaxed, down to earth presence and approachable manner, Baz Wade was looking at Billy and I, although his eye frame seemed to be set more on Billy than me, obnoxiously chewing his gum with a look of sheer contempt and judgement. There was only one person I’d met who’d adopted a look which came even close to matching Baz’s expression of disapproval, and that person was standing next to me, looking right back at Baz with his own unique look of disdain. As he sneered at Baz Wade, there was absolutely no trace of the panic and fear I had seen in Billy Horvath’s face when we’d been watching Bryan’s video, or when we’d first entered the pump room to be greeted by the image of a dozen monstrously muscular beasts as they pumped up their outrageously huge muscle mass. Billy clearly wasn’t threatened or scared of Baz. It obviously had to take something so flat out freaky and unique, such as the sight of attitude filled, vein splattered muscle men flexing and squeezing their superhuman sized muscle mass into a camera lens, to induce any kind of fear in Mr Horvath. I found myself momentarily amused at the sight of these two polar opposite men sneering at each other in equal judgement and distaste, when I then realised, there was a fifty-fifty chance I’d be spending the rest of the day with one of them. I looked at Baz and wondered just how many small animals he’d crushed with his bare hands and eaten for breakfast that morning. Suddenly the prospect of sharing a work experience placement with Billy Horvath seemed almost appealing. Bryan MacWoofityWoof, aka, the future Mrs Charlie Steatham, continued to address the four of us to announce my fate. “OK, Charlie, I’m gonna put you with…” NOT BAZ! PLEASE GOD! NOT BAZ! “…Stuart.” FUCK YES!! “And Billy, you’ll be under Baz’s supervision.” As a Blaine Holton bicep sized wave of relief went through me, I looked at the guy who’d now be by my side for the majority of rest of the afternoon. A guy who appeared so easy going he looked as if he should be lying on the floor horizontal. Stuart was looking at Billy and Baz, both of whose sneering had only deepened since Bryan’s announcement, and clearly trying to mask a cheeky smirk of amusement. Since he’d only known Billy for approximately thirty seconds, this was clearly at his expense for having to spend the afternoon with Baz. I couldn’t help but wonder; was Baz the camera crew’s very own Billy Horvath? “Right then, I’ll leave you guys to it,” Bryan announced. “I’ll keep checking in with both of you throughout the afternoon but any problems just come and find me. Have fun, guys.” And with the temporary exit of the insanely sexy, furry forearmed, possible future version of myself, and probable future Mrs Charlie Steatham, Baz Wade uttered his first words in an abrupt, unfriendly tone. His look of contempt for Billy never wavering for a single moment. “My station’s this way.” He nodded in the direction of a corner of the pump room, and Billy had no choice but to follow the inexplicably large, and frightening looking young man, leaving me to get acquainted with my new supervisor. “I don’t envy your friend,” were the words Stuart Fox used to break the brief awkward tension between two complete strangers who suddenly found themselves having to converse with each other. “I wouldn’t exactly call Billy a friend,” was my reply, which prompted a short knowing huff of amusement from Stuart. “He doesn’t exactly seem like the happiest of guys,” Stuart mused. “I actually think this might be his worst nightmare. NOT a happy chappie.” Stuart Fox beamed and cheekily imitated my last word, which suddenly brought the difference of our nationalities to the forefront. “Chappie! I like that!” In that moment, I couldn’t help noticing how Stuart’s playful smile made him look just that little bit more handsome than he had before. He wasn’t so good looking that you’d break your neck gawping at him in the street, but he was handsome all the same. The awkwardness between us had not only eased at a surprisingly quick rate, but we were now indulging in friendly banter. I wanted to keep it going but my brain was struggling to think of a worthy comeback. “I do that quite a lot,” was all I could muster. Stuart looked at me blankly. Fuck! I’m killing it! “Say things. Words. That people don’t get.” Like now for instance?! You are not making ANY sense! “Since I’ve been here. In America, I mean.” And that sentence was HOW hard to string together?! Stuart Fox’s responsive and friendly smile seemed to relax me and help my find my misplaced social ability again. A brief probing of what had bought me to America and how long I’d been here followed, and then it was seemingly down to business. “So, Charlie Steatham, have you ever used a CX100?” Stuart asked as he slapped the head of his camera to which the question referred to. “No, but I’ve used the CX1?” Stuart playfully scowled. “Your school needs to update their equipment! OK the CX100 is similar to an CX1 so you shouldn‘t have any problems, but there are a few subtle differences.” I probably should have paid a lot more attention to what Stuart said over the next few minutes, but as he started to explain the intricate differences between film camera models, I suddenly became aware of exactly where I was again, and exactly what was surrounding me. Only half listening to what Stuart was saying, my eyes starting to wander around the noisy, crowded pump room. A few yards away from me, an extremely butch looking, mid to late thirties bald guy in shiny black trunks which looked they’d been cut from a bin bag was doing a set of bicep curls in front a camera. Veins spread across his delts and ran down his biceps, which erupted in size to an incredible degree with each pump. The thick cushions of hairless pec meat resting on his chest twitched and jumped with every lift of each barbell. Not far away, a youngish looking blonde dude, with hot jock looks, was mulling around and breathing heavily while messing with the straps of his matte blue posers. His big, blocky abs popped out of his slight tortoise shell stomach, pulsating as he breathed in and out. Meanwhile, hanging over his stomach, were two patio-slab like muscle tits, bronzed and oiled to a ridiculous degree. An incredibly handsome muscle daddy with a goatee I instantly recognised but couldn’t quite name was standing around in a black vest so comically tight it looked painted on. His tits strained through the material, and his outrageously huge, tan painted shoulders and tattoo decorated arms bulged out. On the bottom half, he was wearing nothing save for a pair of bulging, shiny emerald green posers. He caught the attention of a camera man, and unprompted, proceeded to cheekily twist and tense his thick tanned quads, revealing crazy cuts and separation with each twist and turn with a look of pure arrogance and smugness on his supremely hot face. The lucky camera capturing every moment of the crazy display of muscle before it. And then, for the second time that day, I spotted a bodybuilder I was very well acquainted with. Sitting in a chair, still fully clothed in his black tracksuit and looking as wide as a brick shit house was the devastatingly sexy Blaine Holton. I then suddenly clocked what Blaine was clutching in his hands and resting in his lap. A pair of the shiniest bright red trunks I’d ever seen. The hard on I’d inevitably found myself with on entering the pump room and witnessing competition conditioned bodybuilders in tiny sized posers first hand had eased with the introductions of Stuart and Baz. But now, glancing around at these incredible hardcore muscle men, I was fully erect once more and throbbing underneath the jeans that were attempting to tame my raging, muscle fuelled boner. I just about came back to earth to catch the last of what Stuart Fox was telling me about his camera. “So,” he addressed me with the start of a question, “happy chappie?” I smiled at the cheekiness of his question, which in turn, was met with a playful grin from the man who’d posed it. “I do have one question,” I replied. “Shoot!” “Do we just stay in one place and film whatever’s going on around us,” I asked looking at the non-action in front of Stuart’s camera, “or do we move around?” “I do a bit of both. Some guys, like Baz, prefer to just stay put, or stick to one area of the room, but I like to move around. I pretty much just shoot whatever guys I like the look of.” My ears suddenly pricked up at this last statement. “Guys I like the look of.” In what sense what this slightly charming, undoubtedly handsome guy with a cheeky sense of humour and sharp bantering skills talking here? Guys he thought were in great contest shape, combining impressive size with excellent symmetry and definition who looked fantastic on camera, or guys whose shredded, freaky as fuck bodies he wanted to lick every single inch of until he blasted a big creamy load in his undies? And a question which only marginally entered my subconscious before was now suddenly begging for an answer. Was Stuart Fox a gay, muscle obsessed lover of bodybuilders like me?! What then followed from Stuart’s lips only deepened my curiosity. “I wonder how your friend’s worst nightmare is going,” he pondered, nodding in the direction of Billy Horvath. Looking more uncomfortable than I’d ever seen him, Billy was standing clutching a tripod as Baz Wade filmed a young, cute, tracksuit clad bodybuilder in deliciously ripped condition lifting a barbell. I smiled at Stuart, and before I had chance to respond, he posed me a question. “So, Charlie, how about you? Is this your worst nightmare?” Stuarts’s look was a mixture of curiosity and weariness which prompted two words to shout out in my head; HE KNOWS!

Whatever must have been going through Billy’s head was clearly a far cry from what was happening in my own conscience. I had always been curious as to whether I would be turned on by muscle if I were to ever attend a bodybuilding show. I’d be watching competition conditioned bodybuilders in tiny posing trunks flexing and squeezing their alien-like muscle mass, so the odds of me getting hard would be expectedly high, and yet, I’d be in a theatre surrounded by people, and I’d never been entirely sure whether that would prevent me from getting turned on. Following my experience of watching muscle sitting next to Billy Horvath though, I’m pretty sure I now know how that particular scenario would play out. The second that first muscle monster filled up the TV screen with his incredible slabs of carved out mass, I had started to swell, and within seconds I was sporting a fully erect hard on, which hadn’t stopped straining through my jeans since. I was clearly wired to be turned on by monstrously sized muscle men, as discovered that one afternoon when I came across the image of the pro bodybuilder squeezing out a massive most muscular in the family TV listings magazine, and any surrounding influences or people were clearly unlikely to affect that. Just as some excessively bronzed, absurdly handsome muscle stud bought his terrifyingly thick pecs up into a side chest pose, while biting down on his bottom lip with an expression which lay somewhere between adorably cheeky and downright bleeding cocky, Bryan Macleod twisted his head round, and, completely ignoring Billy, made a bee-line straight for me. He shot me a three second look, before turning his attention back to the TV. The initial three words which went through my head at that moment were, “What. The. Fuck?!” I told myself it could have been completely innocent, but even though it had only been brief, it had been a really inquisitive look, like he was intrigued to know what my reaction was to the onslaught of jacked up, carved to the bone muscle bulls I was being forced to watch. I was also baffled as to why his eyes went straight to me, and completely ignored Billy. Did he suspect I was a beef obsessed muscle addict just like him? I relaxed slightly when he turned again, this time to check on Billy, and yet when he did so, a slight twinge of disappointment filled my stomach. I suppose I quite liked the fact that, for whatever reason, whether innocent or less so, Bryan was more interested in my reaction than Billy’s. And then, as if sensing my disappointment, or reading my mind, he shot another look at me, only this time, in another, “What the fuck?” moment, the corner of his mouth curled into a sexy, cheeky smile. I had absolutely no idea what it meant, or why he did it, but my adrenaline levels at that moment shot through the roof. It was a similar feeling to being in a club, and after having spotted a really cute guy you like, and glancing over, trying to be subtle, but really wanting him to notice you, he finally locks eyes with you, and gives you a smile which says he thinks you’re pretty cute too. I didn’t for one minute think that Bryan’s smile meant that he was attracted to me, certainly not if he was, in fact, turned on by bodybuilders in the same way that I was. But it meant, on some level, and for whatever reason, incredibly sexy, twinkly eyed, nicely muscled Bryan Macleod was interested in what I thought. With the incident fresh in my mind, I suddenly turned my attention away from the barely human muscle freaks on the TV screen and towards Bryan Macleod, sitting at the front of the round table. The awesome slogan of “LIVE FOR THE PUMP” scrawled across the blue t-shirt covering his modestly broad back. His elbow and big, furry forearm resting on the table, his upper arm looking impressively thick and pumped. Facing away from me, but slightly turned to the side, I could just see part of his handsome face, but was mostly presented with his extremely masculine and undeniably sexy bald head. Looking at Bryan, I suddenly felt a pang of desire. I started wondering what was hiding underneath that cheeky t-shirt, and what his biceps looked like flexed. I then started to wonder what was going on, both in Bryan’s mind, and his trousers, as he watch muscle monster after muscle monster, flex, squeeze and pump up their amazing mounds of gigantic man meat. And then I imagined Billy Horvath fucking the fuck off, probably to run to the nearest bathroom to be violently sick with disgust and horror at the freaks he’d been endured to watch, leaving Bryan and I alone, and me feeling a surge of bravery, which encouraged me to exit my chair, and walk over to the front of the room where Bryan was sitting. With Bryan looking up and presenting me with a sexy, inviting smile, I’d sit down on his lap, and wrap my arm around his thick back and broad shoulders, as he wrapped his left arm around the back of my waist. There’d be an incredible, and instant chemistry the moment we touched, and he’d gaze at me with those lovely, pretty eyes, make a soft, sensual, “Mmmmm,” sound, and then he’d passionately lock his lips with mine, in what would be the most incredible and sensual kiss. Warm and strong, but soft at the time. The sexual chemistry between the two of us becoming more intense. The kind of kiss, that if prolonged enough, would probably result in one, if not both, of us ejaculating in our pants. As our lips passionately locked together, one of my hands would sensually explore the back of Bryan’s masculine bald head, which would feel both hard and yet strangely soft to the touch. And as we stopped kissing, and he looked at me with the sexiest glaze of satisfaction, I’d cheekily bring my left arm up to his thick pumped upper arm. The moment my hand made contact with his skin, he’d outrageously bring his arm up and flex his bicep, as an adorable, part cocky, part sheepish grin emerged on his face. I’d gasp in amazement at how the muscle exploded before my eyes. Rock hard, and impressively big. Bryan suddenly transforming into a mini version of the massive, rippling muscle monsters playing on the screen behind us, only hotter, because he was here, and real, and flexing just for me. I’d wrap my fingers around Bryan’s mound of rock hard, paper thin encased bicep muscle, sinking into a kind of orgasmic trance as I encountered my first real touch of big, flexed muscle. And with my hand still firmly clamped on Bryan’s bicep, he’d bring his arm down, in order for his large masculine hand to slide to my rock hard cock, straining and bulging through my jeans. And then, as quickly as I had started fantasising about Bryan Macleod, an image appeared on the video playing on the TV screen which pulled me out of it. The most out of this world freaky muscle monster blasting a crab most muscular in slow motion and right into the cameras lens. The most absurdly hot muscle beast with huge, thick balloons of oil and tan drenched muscle mass flexing as hard as he humanly could while fully displaying his clenched teeth, in the most shamelessly cocky grin he could possibly display. The most flat out sexy muscle bull who just so happened to be Blaine Holton. The same Blaine Holton who I’d spotted that morning in the foyer, looking like a tank on two legs underneath his strained black tracksuit. The same Blaine Holton who, at that very moment in time, was probably in the pump room, pumping up his mammoth sized mounds of superhuman mass with a camera mere inches away from him capturing every single moment. A camera which I could quite possibly be standing on the other side of in the next ten or so minutes. The clip of Blaine was the last moment of what had undoubtedly been some of the hottest muscle footage I’d ever sat through. Bryan stood up to turn off the TV and addressed Billy and I once again. “So, guys, hopefully that’s given you an idea of what we’re about, and the kind of videos you’ll be helping to film today. I know some of these guy’s physiques might be a little shocking and extreme, but please don’t feel intimated. If you have to speak to the bodybuilders, they’re usually very friendly guys. They’re just here to pose and show off their huge, ripped bodies, and we’re just here to shoot them doing it.” As my heart fluttered at Bryan saying the words, “huge, ripped bodies,” and I stared at his thick chest bulging underneath his blue t-shirt, and his big, solid looking biceps straining under the sleeves, my eyes suddenly veered south and I almost fell off my chair at what I saw. Any suspicions, and hopes, I had had that Bryan was as crazy about muscle as I was, were pretty much confirmed by the thick bulge straining in the crotch of his jeans. There was no question about it. Bryan MacWoofityWoof was sporting a massive boner. Either it was purely coincidental, or Bryan had become rock hard watching the same enormous muscle bulls flexing their amazingly pumped beef that had caused my boxer briefs to seemingly shrink to half their original size. “OK, guys, I just need to make a brief phone call to my colleague, then we’ll go down to the pump room and get you started.” My stomach leaped, but the adrenaline and excitement were now far outweighing any nerves and apprehension that were left inside me. Bryan exited the room leaving me alone, once more, with Billy Horvath, who didn’t waste any time in voicing what was going on in his head. “Oh my God! What. The. Fuck?!” I groaned internally, and felt immediately infuriated. I looked at Billy, sighing and rolling my eyes, probably in a less subtle manner than I should have. I didn’t like to make a habit of being rude to people, but Billy was the sort of guy who would test the patience of even the most tolerant of people, and I’d already had to endure a fairly large dose of his obnoxiousness earlier that morning. “Seriously, dude. What the hell were they thinking sending us here?” TWAT! “This is seriously messed up. I mean, those guys, they’re revolting.” TWATTY TWATTERING TWAT! “They don’t even look human!” Hmmm. Can’t really argue with you there. FUCK YEAH! “I am seriously gonna make a complaint to the college. I don’t know what on earth they’re playing at sending us to a place like this. Those guys. All that muscle! It’s just gross!” And then I finally cracked, and surprised, even myself, with my response, partly at how calm and relaxed I said it. “Actually, I think they look pretty fucking amazing!” Billy was gob smacked. His mouth was actually hung open for about two seconds, before he closed it, and just looked completely shocked and dumb founded. I waited for his response, but nothing came. For the first time since I’d had the displeasure of meeting Billy, someone had finally managed to render him speechless, and that someone had been me. It was also the first time I’d ever gone any way to giving a clue as to what my opinion of bodybuilders was. As a feeling of pride and satisfaction overwhelmed me, I couldn’t help smiling. I wasn’t sure if Billy saw this or not, but I didn’t care either way. The silence was broken with the return of Bryan MacWoofityWoof, who I’d now also given the second nickname of Bryan aka The Future Mrs Charlie Steatham, who walked back into the room clutching his phone, and said, “OK, guys, I think we’re all set here. Let’s get you both down to that pump room and get you shooting some muscle.”

Amazingly, during the days which followed before my next class, where I would find out the outcome of my placement, my mind felt fairly relaxed. Every now and then I would experience a moment of sheer panic that I had made a huge mistake. To make myself feel better, I reasoned that even if I got the placement and I decided at the very last moment if I couldn’t go through with it, I could always just fake an illness. It wasn’t until I was sat back in Professor Walsh’s classroom that the butterflies started to kick in. I was anxiously waiting for some kind of eye contact from the Professor, wondering whether she would glance at me again and her expression would give away her thoughts on why this slim guy, who clearly had no obvious interest in bodybuilding, would chose it as one of his placement options. So far, there was nothing, but the nerves were growing by the second in anticipation of what was to come. It was only until about ten minutes before the end of the lesson that I was put out of my misery. As copies of the list were handed around to raised, excited voices, my nerves were unbearable. It literally felt like someone was squeezing the insides of my stomach. I desperately tried not to look at Professor Walsh in case we made eye contact. Whatever suspicions had already formed in her head would certainly be further fuelled by the fact I had suddenly turned into a quivering mess. As the pile of lists made it’s way down my row of desks towards me, I suddenly realised how badly I actually wanted to see my name against the bodybuilding placement. A muscle video I had watched the previous night suddenly flashed in my head, and as I thought about the insanely handsome, competition conditioned muscle monster pumping up his enormous, paper thin skin encased biceps backstage at a bodybuilding show in his indecently shiny blue posing trunks I had shot a load to, the list was in my hands, my eyes were shooting down the page, and there it was. Filming Backstage at a Local Bodybuilding Competition CHARLIE STEATHAM YES!! My heart leaped into my throat, and the nerves were suddenly replaced by sheer elation. But then, as I looked again, I noticed I wasn’t the only person on the placement. Filming Backstage at a Local Bodybuilding Competition CHARLIE STEATHAM BILLY HORVATH OH GOD!! BILLY HOR-FUCKING-VATH OH PLEASE GOD NO!! I had been so fraught with whether to put the placement as one of my choices in the first place, and what the Professor would think if I did, that I hadn’t given a second thought to the person I would actually be sharing the placement with, and even if I had, I would have never anticipated it would be the most annoying, obnoxious and unlikeable person in the class. In my few short months at the university, I don’t think I had ever seen Billy Horvath crack anything even closely resembling a smile. He was a pretentious, joyless, friendless individual with an opinion on everything, which was often opposed to that of everyone else in the class, including Professor Walsh. He was just about the last person I would ever want to share any kind of experience with, least of all this one. I glanced over at Billy, who was staring at the list. His face was red, his teeth were clenched, and he looked like he was about thirty seconds away from committing some violent act of crime. Billy was not a happy man at the best of times, but I knew the face of an incredibly pissed off person when I saw it. I usually didn’t waste too much time in getting my things together and leaving the classroom after my lectures had finished, and this one was no different. That was until I saw a flustered and determined looking Billy charging towards the Professor’s desk. I purposely held myself back, pretending to read the lecture notes I had just spent the last hour making, glancing up discreetly to see what was going on between Billy and the Professor. I wasn’t close enough to hear the conversation, but Billy was aggravated and clearly not happy, while the Professor looked diplomatic but stern, firmly shaking her head, which only seemed to aggravate Billy more. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the conversation entailed. Billy was clearly trying to argue his way out of being on his chosen placement, and Walsh was firmly telling him that he was staying on it, whether he liked it or not. As much fun as it was to see Billy getting some sort of comeuppance for generally being the obnoxious person he was, this was one occasion where I would have liked to have seen fate on his side. When an enraged Billy had left, and the Professor was left subtly shaking her head at her desk, I quickly gathered my things to make an exit. Have you ever known something was about to happen before it actually does? Almost like for a split second you develop this psychic ability, and somehow you just know what’s about to occur, and then a second later, it does? That’s exactly what happened to me when Professor Walsh called my name just before I reached the door to exit the classroom, and even though I knew it was going to happen, I was still taken a back when it did. “Charlie!” Fuck! “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Fuck fuck shitting buggering fuck!! A jolt of fear shot through me. Not long before, I had been desperately trying to avoid eye contact with her and now she wanted to speak to me, and I had absolutely no idea what it was she had to say. As I tentatively edged towards the Professor’s desk, she was looking at me with a look of genuine concern. “Charlie, I just wanted to make sure you are OK with your placement?” You mean you want to know why the hell I want to spend an entire day surrounded by a bunch of disgustingly muscular, grotesquely huge muscle FREAKS of nature caked in oil and tan and wearing nothing but brightly coloured posing pouches? Of course, this could have been my opportunity to offer some kind of explanation as to why someone like me would have the slightest bit of interest in being involved in the filming of a bodybuilding competition., even if that explanation were ultimately to be a lie. But I just couldn’t think that fast. “Erm…yeah. I mean it’s an opportunity to gain some hands on experience isn’t it?” I reasoned. And a years supply of material for the fucking WANK BANK in my head!! Grrrrr-RUFF!! “I know it wasn’t your first choice but competition was really tough this year. A lot of students weren’t placed on any of their choices,” she explained. Your bother’s a bodybuilder. Tell her your brother’s a bodybuilder. THAT’S why you chose the placement. You have some small, vague interest and knowledge of bodybuilding because your brother is a bodybuilder. “Well to be honest, I didn’t think my chances of getting a place on the other two were that great, so I thought I’d pick one of the more interesting placements from the obscure options that I didn’t think would that be popular.” I didn’t make a habit of lying but in some instances, like this one, it was necessary. She smiled, and I could see in her face that she was genuine and sincere, and any possible suspicions I thought she may have had were all just paranoid thoughts in my head. “I knew you’d have a mature attitude about the experience, Charlie, and I know you’re the type of person who will gain something out of whatever type of filming you’re placed on,” she continued. I decided in that moment that I actually really liked Professor Walsh. I suddenly had an image of randomly running into her at an obscure book launch in New York in five years time, where she’d confess to me how she’d always thought I was the student who had the potential to achieve the most out of my class. “And you know we’ve had students on this placement before and we’ve generally had really good feedback. Some of the smaller camera crews let you get a lot more involved in the filming than the bigger ones. I think you might be pleasantly surprised, Charlie.” Pleasantly surprised at how many times I manage NOT to instantly ejaculate in my pants?! I was genuinely excited to hear this, and nodded along, but my mind had also, once again, drifted to the online video I’d watched the night before of the bodybuilder backstage at a competition pumping and posing for the camera. More than once whilst watching it, I’d imagined that I was on the other side of that camera, mere inches away from him. It was probably best that the Professor was wrapping up our conversation at this point, as something just a little south of my belt buckle was beginning to swell. I started to leave when she called me back. “Oh, and, Charlie, try not to let anyone…” she paused for a moment, as if trying to find appropriate word to use, “affect your experience.” Her eyes widened, and it was as close as her expression could get to rolling her eyes or acting inappropriately for a Professor. She was clearly talking about my new filming buddie, Mr Horvath. In that moment, and for the first time, I suddenly developed a curiosity as to what Billy would make of the pumped up muscle monsters we’d be filming a week on Saturday. I couldn’t help smiling at the thought of small, weedy, over opinionated Billy surrounded by a bunch of humongous, egotistical bodybuilders, pumping, posing and flexing their superhuman sized muscle. As I left the Professor’s classroom and headed back to my dorm room, a huge smile erupted on my face. The whole situation suddenly felt incredibly surreal and exciting, and for that moment at least, all of the nerves, doubts and fears had all but disappeared. If only they had stayed that way the morning of the work placement. The morning of the actual bodybuilding competition that was about to take the place in the arts theatre I was staring at head on, wondering what on earth I had been thinking to ever believe I could actually go through with the experience. The nerves hadn’t just reappeared that moment either. They’d been slowly creeping back for the days leading up to the placement, getting stronger and more unsettling. With the big day finally here, I felt like my stomach had literally been invaded by a group of miniature people who were tying every single one of my intestines into the tightest of knots. I was an absolute wreck, and before I had time to run in the opposite direction to hide under my duvet, never to face Professor Walsh or set foot in her classroom again, the unwelcome, short, slight figure of Billy Horvath was obnoxiously striding towards me, looking as characteristically gloomy as ever. Billy Horvath always seemed like he was about ten seconds away from saying something that would annoy, offend, or insult you. “So, you’re the other sucker who got this joke of a placement?” Annoyed? Check! “Professor Walsh must think as highly of you as she does of me!” Offended? Check! “Maybe if you actually made some contribution to the class every now and then her opinion might change!” Insulted? Check check fucking CHECK!! Billy clearly liked the sound of his own voice outside of Professor Walsh’s lectures as much as he did during them. “So, Charlie Steatham, can you please tell me what the hell we’re supposed to learn from being at a place like this?” he asked. Oooh…erm…I dunno Billy. How about learning how NOT to be an absolute fucking TWAT?! “Ummm, well we are gonna be operating cameras on a legitimate film crew,” I reasoned. Billy scoffed. “Do you know I didn’t tell anyone where I was going today? I’m that embarrassed,” he exclaimed. “I could be on an actual movie set, or at a television studio right now. Even a music video for a shitty boy band would be better than this. I mean, bodybuilding? Ugh! It’s fucking gross. A bunch of disgusting, brain-dead, meatheads.” Twat twat wanking buggering TWAT!! “And I see your as full of opinions as ever, Steatham?” I wasn’t a confrontational person, but Billy was pushing me to the edge. “Look, Billy, I really don’t care where we are or what we’re filming,” I explained. “I just want to get in there and see what I can gain from the whole thing. You know, make the most of this opportunity? Did anyone force you to come today?” “Oh, he has a voice! Some more of that in class and you might actually end up on a real studio set instead of standing outside here next time.” Billy was beginning to really aggravate me. “I have a voice. I just don’t feel the need to use it at every given opportunity. You see, I also have this thing called social awareness. Knowing when people don’t want to hear my voice. Knowing when people actually want me to shut up.” Billy’s eyes were wider than I’d ever seen them. He’d got the message, so he responded in typically obnoxious, annoying fashion. He sarcastically sucked his lips into his mouth while animatedly nodding, and imitating the action of a zip going over his lips with his fingers. I sighed, and shook my head. I waited for him to say something, but he wasn’t budging. Neither was that idiotic, wide eyed, lips sucked in, “not saying a word” expression. I stared at the theatre head on, and a very slight twitch of nerves fluttered in my stomach, which amazingly, felt pretty good, because it was about fifty times less intense than what I had felt before Billy’s arrival. For all his incredible annoyances, Billy had calmed my nerves. As he followed me towards the theatre, I realised how comforting it was to have someone with me in this incredibly nerve wrecking experience. Even if that person was someone like Billy Horvath. The whole experience suddenly became very real the moment I was stood in the theatre foyer and facing a huge poster with the words BODYBUILDING CHAMPIONSHIPS boldly written on it, and a large picture of the head and upper torso of a massive, ripped, competition conditioned muscle freak. His ridiculously huge, insanely shredded torso was exploding into a crab most muscular pose. Every flat out freaky inch of him was painted in bronzed tan. His body a mass of bumps, ripples and veins. His phenomenally sized arms were flexed to the max, and his traps were bulging up to his earlobes. As he squeezed every incredible, otherworldly muscle, his eyes were jammed tight shut, and his mouth was forced as wide open as humanly possible in the most unashamedly arrogant and testosterone fuelled facial expression. Although it was the kind of image I’d become so accustomed to seeing, ever since I innocently browsed through that magazine in my parents living room all those years ago, it was also the type of thing I’d only ever seen in the privacy of my own bedroom. But here it was in a public setting. This large, bold, unapologetic image of a monstrous sized, shredded to the heavens, outrageously cocky muscle bull in all his absurdly conditioned, arrogantly superior glory. Staring at me as if to say, “Yes, Charlie, this crazy world of extreme muscle you’ve been fantasising over all these years really does exist, and you’ve just stepped smack bang into the middle of it.” I nervously looked over at Billy, who was staring at the poster with his mouth hanging slightly open and his face curled into an expression of confusion, disgust, and pure fear. Before I had time to guess what was going through his head, I suddenly had my first glimpse of some genuine, real life muscle. My heat fluttered and my eyes widened at the image of a bodybuilder who I instantly recognised as Blaine Holton, standing with his arms folded, talking to a regular, non bodybuilding guy. Although he was covered up by a black tracksuit, he looked absolutely monstrous, with a torso which looked about twice the width of the man he was talking to. Blaine Holton was stupidly handsome and masculine looking, with the craziest square lantern jaw, and a massive, gorgeous smile he loved to flash at the camera. He was outrageously cocky too. In the few online videos I’d seen of him, he’d cheekily scrunched up his gorgeous face, and arrogantly snapped his mouth wide open as if shouting a loud, cocky, “YEAH!” while flexing and squeezing his muscle, which just so happened to be astonishingly thick and dense. Like massive, fleshy balloons of beef bulging off his carcass, all shrink wrapped in the tightest and most attractive silky smooth skin. Not only was I very well acquainted with this mountain of incredible muscle, I’d lost countless amounts of cum watching him flex, squeeze, pump and pose. And now, here he was, standing just yards away from me, looking even more incredibly handsome than in any picture I’d seen, or any video I’d watched. His competition ready muscle bursting underneath his clothing, ready to pump and pose for a camera I could quite possibly be on the other side of in the none too distant future. My thoughts were broken as an overly cheerful, slim man in a checked shirt, clutching a clipboard, approached me and Billy. “Are you guys looking for directions?” He’d clearly been trained on how to be pleasant and cheerful, even if someone like Billy, who was glaring at him with a look of disdain, was so unnecessarily rude to him. “We’re here to do some work,” I replied, before pausing. It was absurd given where we were, but I was a little embarrassed to say the words out loud, but I had no choice, so I continued. “Filming backstage at the bodybuilding show?” I felt myself blushing slightly at saying the word “bodybuilding” out loud. It was a fairly controversial word at the best of times, but for me, it also had so much hidden meaning to it. “Ahhh, I’ll just find someone to assist you guys.” As Mr Cheerful disappeared, Billy broke his record five minutes of silence. “I can not believe I am here,” he said slowly through gritted teeth. “Let’s just make the most of it shall we, Billy?” I sighed. I was determined not to let him get the better of me. It wasn’t long before Mr Cheerful was bouncing back towards us with another man in tow. “OK, gentlemen, this is Bryan Macleod. He’s part of the film crew and you’ll be reporting to him today.” Bryan Macleod was in his late thirties, possibly early forties. Although no one could have mistaken him for being one of the competitors in the day’s bodybuilding show, he’d clearly spent a fair few hours at the gym. He was broad, with a full and thick looking chest which bulged underneath his bright blue t-shirt, which also nicely showed off his pumped, modestly sized biceps, and exposed his solid looking, slightly furry forearms. He was bald, but in a sexy way, and although he was very masculine and butch looking, his big, slightly twinkly eyes and the rather gorgeous, warm smile he wore as he introduced himself, gave him a slight pretty boy quality. A very slight femininity in his voice and his general mannerisms couldn’t hide the fact that to the eager eye, he was, in fact, gay. As his warm strong hand gripped and shook mine, I instantly felt an attraction. Bryan gave Billy the same warm, friendly introduction he had given me, and Billy gave him the same rude, unfriendly response he had given everyone that day. “OK, guys, if you’d like to follow me I’ll give you a quick overview of what you’ll be doing today. Then I’ll introduce you to some of the camera crew and get you started.” As Bryan turned, the printed words of “LIVE FOR THE PUMP” were revealed on the back of his t-shirt. I couldn’t help but smile. I’d known Bryan for approximately four minutes and not only did I have a huge amount of respect for him, I also suddenly had a yearning desire to be like him. A confident, well muscled gay guy who not only worked on a camera crew filming huge, shredded muscle freaks at a bodybuilding competition, but was also confident enough to walk around in public wearing t-shirt’s with cheeky muscle related phrases. I suddenly wondered whether there was any chance that he was as completely crazy about, and insanely turned on by muscle as I was? As I followed the built, butch, sexy figure of Bryan Macleod (who in my head I’d now nicknamed Bryan MacWoofityWoof) across the foyer of the theatre, through some double doors and along some corridors, with a sulky Billy Horvath (who in my head I’d now nicknamed Billy Hor-FuckOffAndDisappearUpYourOwnArse-vath) in tow, not knowing what the next few hours were about to entail, the nerves had all but disappeared, and all I could feel now was an overwhelming mixture of excitement and elation.

I was dreading this tech expo. Another out-of-town trip to another interchangeable hotel, with the same old overpriced mini-fridge and the same old hotel-TV porn. Eating at the same old breakfast buffets where you would run into the same old reps who were at the last convention, all hoping to find some new product that truly excited them. It was the first full day of the conference and I was already bored stiff -- or, more accurately, bored flaccid. Nothing aroused my interest as I wandered from booth to booth in the vast convention hall, hearing pitches from either droning geeky techheads with few presentation skills or perky actors and actresses who could memorize their spiels but had no clue what to say if you asked a follow-up question. I was already lugging around two plastic bags stretched to their limits with pamphlets and presentations and souvenir t-shirts and drink koozies. I had taken them all, just to be polite, but I planned to chuck most of them in the trash rather than bothering to tote them back to my room. I was feeling like a nap and was just about to exit the ballroom when I noticed a lantern-jawed young man seated at a booth getting little attention at the moment. The guy had a movie-star face but an appropriately casual, approachable attitude, and his strawberry-blond hair was short enough to suggest serious business but shaggy enough to convey a rebellious streak. (After all these years, I now found myself more fascinated by all the subtle ways that companies tried to manipulate you into checking out their products than by the products themselves.) His company polo shirt was stressed impressively by his shoulders and pecs, while tapering to a narrow waist that tucked into khaki cargos. His hands were pressed against a stool behind him and he was slowly raising and lowering himself, working in some exercise for his stand-out triceps while he waited for people to drop by the booth. He had earned my attention, so I walked over to chat. As I approached, he stood up and grinned, creating two deep dimples on his cheeks. I pointed to the banner behind him which contained nothing but the letters "NU". "What's NU?", I asked. "I dunno, what's new with you?", he replied a bit stiffly, with the weariness of someone who has been making the same lame joke all day. "Actually, it's Nu-You. The N is the Greek letter nu," the guy explained, gesturing to the single demo model which sat on the table in front of him. No wonder the guy wasn't getting much traffic. All he had on display was one little black rectangular product which looked like just another iPhone knockoff. Still, I wasn't about to end the conversation so quickly. Nobody who looked as stunning as this guy would ordinarily have any reason to speak to me in reality, but now for a few minutes in this artificial setting, his job required it. "Okay, I'm game, give me your sales pitch," I told him. "You just need to try it. The product sells itself," the guy assured me. I had heard that before, but it usually preceded a long-winded pitch. Here, this guy let the statement speak for itself. "All right then, who is it for?", I asked. "Anyone." "And how much does it cost?" "Each unit is two-point-three million dollars." I stared at him blankly. "But we're hoping to get that under two million once we are fully operational." A laugh percolated through my body, starting with a subtle vibration in my chest until it built to a chuckle and finally to a cackle that sliced through the loud murmur that constantly filled the hall. I picked up the sample unit, which was attached to the tabletop with a reinforced cable. "So it's for anyone...as long as they have two million dollars." The guy just grinned knowingly and asked, "Would you like to take a demo with you tonight?" He reached underneath the table and unlocked a safe from which he brought out a black box identical to the one on display. He handed it to me, saying, "Take it to your room and try it. Bring it back to me in the morning. Tell me what you thought." "You're giving me a two-million-dollar demo?" "Two-point-three. Yes." "How do you know I won't just wander off with it? Or take it back to my company and reverse-engineer it?" "You'll be back." He seemed awfully sure of himself and his product. He had certainly created an aura of mystery that piqued my interest, even if I still had no real clue what it did." I walked away from the booth with a skeptical smile, stuffing the Nu-You Whatever-It-Was into one of my bags. I thought of grabbing some food, but by this point I was too curious. I needed to investigate the mystery doohickey right away. I headed straight to my room, kicked off my shoes and rested my back against the bed's headboard. I switched on the device and saw the "NU" logo pop up, followed by a screen asking me to select my gender. I clicked on "Male" and a new screen appeared, asking me to select the gender of the person I was looking for. This was the guy's revolutionary product? Hooking people up? Had he never heard of Tinder and Grindr? I almost tossed the gadget aside then and there, but maybe he had come up with some novel twist. Still, one that was worth two million a unit? I had to find out what that might be. I clicked that I was interested in finding a male. I glanced across the room at a mirror above the desk. I definitely was going to need some kind of miracle technology to find a date the way I looked these days. It was a wonder I'd ever gotten laid at all. My thinning blond hair hung at random angles across my forehead. I'm not sure why I still kept my mustache, since it was so close in color to my skin tone as to be nearly invisible. I had a rare combination of a heavy brow, a bulbous nose and a weak chin which made my head look top-heavy, as if my forehead were several feet closer to you than my chin. The drab clothes hanging unflatteringly over my gaunt frame were a study in shades of tan and had been chosen not for fashion but for how wrinkle-free they stayed with all of the packing and unpacking I needed to do in my travels. In short, I was a real boner-killer. If I hadn't already felt hopeless, the next screen offered more discouragement. Under the banner "Choose Your Model", the screen showed a dozen thumbnails of men who ranged from handsome to extremely handsome to painfully handsome. I scrolled down to discover dozens more thumbnails, some of which were grayed out with the words "IN USE" superimposed over them in red. Curious, I clicked on one which caught my eye, and the photo enlarged to full-screen. Staring seriously back at me was a young man, maybe college age, maybe still in high school, his black hair thick and neat, black eyebrows resting heavily over deep, probing eyes. His long straight nose led to slim lips with just a touch of a cocky smile, and his chin was firm but still boyish. He wore a crop-top mesh workout shirt exposing part of his eight-pack before it disappeared again into his bulging silver Lycra shorts. Powerful arms hung out from each sleeve, both fists clenched with determination. Below this photo were two buttons: "Choose" and "Back". I chose "Back", but instead of taking me to the previous screen, it showed me the back of this same young stud. Damn, those shorts looked spectacular pulled tight across his muscular ass, and I scrolled down to inspect his well-defined cyclist's calves. The pressure in my pants was growing painful, so I unzipped and let my five-inch hard-on breathe. These photos were already bringing me so close to the brink of orgasm that I might not need to hook up with anyone, but a device that can show you photos to jerk off to was not worth two million bucks. Nearly everyone in America was already carrying such a device. I stripped off my pants and unbuttoned my shirt. I was down to my boxers when I noticed a red countdown flashing over the photo onscreen. It was at five and ticked down once a second. I picked up the device and stared at it as the count reached zero and displayed the message, "Model Chosen". A red line appeared onscreen and panned down, emitting a red laser-like glow which crossed from my head to my toes, as if my entire body were being dragged across a supermarket checkout scanner. Another message appeared: "Alteration Commencing". A sharp electrical jolt from the device zapped me. I fell back on the bed, woozy, and it felt like tiny ants were invading under my skin. I wondered if these were those nanobots which I'd been hearing about at conventions for years but which never seemed to emerge in any marketable technology. I swore I could even see whatever they were marching from my hand and up my arm before spreading slowly through the rest of my body. There was something undeniably creepy about what I was seeing, yet my mind simultaneously experienced a rush of endorphins that gave me a feeling of unfathomable bliss. I leaned against the headboard again as the sensation washed over me. Through fluttering eyelids, I could see the mirror on the wall and began to notice changes happening to my body. My sunken chest seemed to be inflating itself like an airbag, and my belly button was soon surrounded by ab muscles that appeared to be surfacing from underneath my skin. My shoulder muscles thickened into meaty curves and my biceps became like stone. My hair and eyebrows darkened from dishwater blond to middling brown to coal black in a matter of seconds. My potato of a nose grew sleek and slender and my pathetic chin shifted down and forward, baby cheeks speckled by a hint of stubble. From across the room, my eyes looked dark but with a fascinating sparkle. I was now staring at the young man from the device, only he was me. Or I was him. Or something. When I had gone to the "Choose Your Model" page, I thought I was choosing someone to meet, not someone to BECOME. I swung my legs off the bed, making contact with the floor sooner than expected. My legs hadn't just packed on muscle, they had grown longer. As I stood to my full height, I realized my whole body was taller and perfectly proportioned. With a swagger that came naturally to this new shape, I crossed the room and inspected myself in the mirror. I looked like a wholesome All-American jock, but the thoughts racing through my head were anything but wholesome. I lowered my Jockeys and unleashed a nine-inch cobra which whapped hard against my deeply-etched abs and deposited a sticky dollop of pre-cum above my navel. I wrapped my right hand around my cock. It was a boy's hand, soft and smooth, unlike my usual veiny and rough mitts. Aside from a light crop of hair on my forearms and a thick bush of black pubes around my dick, this new body was hairless, creating no distractions from the sharply defined muscles on display. I began to stroke myself vigorously, while my left hand explored this fresh terrain, eventually finding its way into my tender -- and reborn virgin -- ass. Ooh, that was going to need attention soon. My eyes lingered on the face in the mirror, its youthful cuteness caught in mid-evolution to chiseled beauty. That was the trigger to launch my cum spurting skyward, coating my hand, my chest, my bare toes, the carpet beneath me, the unused ice bucket, and the flat-screen TV. I fell back onto the bed, arms spread, brain tingling, dick still pumping. I must have laid there for ten minutes, reveling in what I had just experienced. Eventually, the jism on my torso began to harden and I felt the need to clean it off. I loped to the bathroom and took the longest and best shower of my life, scrubbing every new curve thoroughly until my focus returned to my cock, which had regained its rigidity. I couldn't resist stroking it and was soon on my way to another earth-shattering, wall-splattering orgasm. As I watched the thick white cream blasting forth and being washed down the drain, I had no idea my body could store so much sperm. Then again, this was not really my body. Or was it? I wiped the condensation off the bathroom mirror and looked closely into -- his? my? -- deep blue eyes. I could see no trace of myself in the person looking back, but I knew I was in full control. Realizing I had not yet spoken, I said "Hi there" to my reflection, and a youthful tenor ricocheted off the bathroom tiles, completely unlike my own raspy, cigarette-ravaged baritone. I enjoyed my stroll back to the main room, my long cock slapping against my damp leg with each step. I pulled open the drapes, shoulders flung back to display my muscles at their best in case anyone in the apartments across the street wanted a cheap thrill. I lay on my stomach across the bed's white comforter, feet crossed and hanging off the edge of the mattress. I picked up the Nu-You device and saw the notification "Alteration Complete". The photo of the stud I had become was now grayed out with "IN USE" over his face. A button labeled "Find Partner" blinked at the bottom of the screen. When I clicked it, all of the faces which were previously grayed out as "IN USE" became full-color, while the other images were marked "UNAVAILABLE". For a product that wasn't on the market, there sure were a lot of people using it. "Duh!", I realized. Obviously I wasn't the only one with a demo of the product. The guy in the booth must have given sample devices to everyone he met at the convention, and now they were all trying it out. My cock grew hard again simply at the thought of so many people simultaneously going through the same sort of metamorphosis as I just had. Unconsciously, my hips began surging forward and back against the comforter, nursing along my latest erection as I scrolled through the faces of all the men who were available. It was like browsing the world's sexiest smorgasbord, and I wanted to eat everything I saw. I first focused on a shirtless surfer dude with killer abs and sun-bleached hair, but his picture faded out and became "UNAVAILABLE" before I could choose it. My attention then shifted to a deeply-tanned weightlifter in a fluorescent orange tank top. I touched his photo on the screen and was alerted that he was in my hotel. Another click sent him "my" photo and an inquiry whether he wanted to meet up. I waited and waited, starting to feel rejected despite it not actually being MY body he was rejecting, but a message eventually popped up, indicating that he did want to hook up. A box appeared asking if I wanted to send him a text, but before I could type a character, I received a message from him: "U WANT ME??" I typed my reply: "Yeah. Do you want to come to me or should I come to you?" I waited for nearly a minute before I got this message: "U BETTER CUM HEAR. DONT THINK MY CLOSE FIT ANYMOR! :)" That was an interesting quandary I hadn't anticipated. I had a lot more muscle and had grown a few inches, so my normal clothes would no longer fit. This body deserved better than my sad wash-and-wear wardrobe, but I had few options. Eventually, I pulled on some gray sweatpants and rubber flip-flops from my suitcase and an XXL t-shirt I'd been given as a freebie at the convention. Not exactly Armani, but at least I was presentable enough to walk the hallways and ride the elevators. I knocked on the door of his room and heard heavy footfalls from inside. The door cracked open and I had to look up to see his brown eye peeking through. "God damn," he said with a low rumbling chuckle, then swung open the door just enough for me to enter. The room was dark, with the shades pulled and only the light of the muted TV casting shadows on our bodies, but he was indeed an amazing specimen in person. My boyish soccer-player's muscles appeared anemic beside this naked, shaven-headed giant who looked ready to become the next Mr. Universe. His massive arms swung wide as he waddled toward me, sporting a long curving dick that made my impressive cock also seem puny. "You ever done this before?", he asked me with innocence and genuine curiosity. "I don't think it's ever been technologically possible before." "No, I mean...had sex...with a guy?" This mountain of a man seemed positively skittish. I smiled and nodded. "Oh, that. Yeah, here and there." He said, "Then maybe you should take charge." I walked over and knelt before him, inserting the head of his cock into mouth, tongue circling it masterfully. I got the immediate sense that the young man I was currently inhabiting had a lot more experience in this department than I did. I had to assume that this was not the first time this body was "IN USE". The man I was blowing put his hands on my shoulders and began a monologue interrupted by frequent gasps as my tongue-bath became more intense. "I'm not a big -- ooh -- technical guy. I'm more of a -- aaah -- salesman. So when -- oh! -- I started playing around with that -- oh my god -- thingamajig, I didn't realize what I was doing. I hit the wrong button and -- owww -- before I could -- oh, fuck, you're good -- before I could stop it, my body looked like this and my brain was -- oh, Jesus! -- was full of all these images of naked guys. Ho-o-o-ly shit!" I hadn't expected him to come so quickly, but those images of naked guys must have gotten him well-primed before I even entered the room. A lot of spunk surged down my throat before he pulled his cock from my mouth. He dropped to his knees and stared with fascination at his mighty organ as its output slowed and it shrank to a mere seven inches. We took a breather, cuddling on the bed, after which I gave him some quick pointers on how he could satisfy me. He seemed at war between his usual self, which thought that what I described sounded awfully painful for me, and the impulses that came pre-installed with his new body, which were already launching his cock into another upward trajectory. Horniness won out, as it usually does, and although he was awkward at first, by the third time he was finding new twists I'd never even thought of. We ordered from room service. I had to pull on my clothes and answer the door to keep out the delivery boy. I overtipped him so he would go away quickly. As I glanced down the hall, I noticed a number of semi-clad men and a few nearly-nude women knocking impatiently on different doors. My companion didn't want to give me his name, and I never mentioned mine either. We spent the night together, chowing down on room service and watching a movie -- a normal one, because we couldn't imagine any porno living up to what we had just done in real life, if you could even describe what was happening that night as "real life". After a couple of beers, he tentatively asked if I would mind fucking him in the ass, so he could know what that felt like. I led him gently through the experience and, although he seemed to be enjoying himself, I doubted he would be going back to it on a regular basis once he returned to his own body. But who knows? Stranger things have happened. Like this entire night, for instance. Suddenly I wondered, what if he didn't return to his own body? What if we never changed back to our original selves? The device itself offered no instructions and came with no explanatory booklet. I booted up his laptop, but Nu-You had no corporate website, no online presence at all. I figured I would just have to wait and ask Mr. Nu-You at his booth tomorrow, but I got my answer sooner than that. We had fallen asleep in each other's arms, but I awoke around dawn to find myself entwined with a stranger. Interestingly, the man I had shared last night with turned out to be young and blond and quite a looker with a slim but very fit body. I could feel myself growing hard as I checked him out. Without any changes at all, he'd have been a nice match for the dark-haired hunk I had been last night. I was glad I woke up first, because I could sneak away without him ever getting a look at the letdown that would be the real me. Then an idea hit me. Maybe I could switch myself back to last night's body and fuck blondie this morning. Sure, he had said he was really straight, but after last night, he had to be reconsidering his options. Sadly, as I checked my device, I found an alert in red letters: "TRIAL PERIOD OVER -- RETURN DEVICE TO NU-YOU", followed by fine print detailing dire penalties for failure to return the device. I imagined that, if you didn't bring it back in a timely manner, it would self-destruct, "Mission: Impossible"-style. Two million dollars, up in smoke. Two-point-three. I slipped on my now baggy t-shirt and sweats and made my way back to my room, letting my mind drift. I already felt a bit sad, marooned back in my real body, and saw how using Nu-You could become incredibly addictive. You could really spice up a relationship if, every so often, one or both of you swapped into another body. Or imagine installing Nu-You suites in every hotel in the country. Business travelers could become a different person every night and fuck other people who also weren't themselves. You could mentally detach and rationalize to yourself that you weren't REALLY cheating on your boyfriend, your girlfriend, your husband, your wife. It was just those sexy avatars who did it. In-room porn rentals would plummet. But how could you control the technology? How could you be sure that someone wouldn't use it to disguise themselves to rob banks or commit murder? The exorbitant price would tamp down demand somewhat, limiting the market to the very wealthy, but that would also make those elite owners prime targets for thieves who wanted to get their hands on a Nu-You for their own purposes. The liability costs alone would be enough of a nightmare to make any sensible investor leery. I got dressed, putting my drab old clothes on my drab old self, and wandered back to the exhibition hall to return my Nu-You device. Looked like I was going to have to wait a while, though. Mr. Nu-You was besieged at his booth, surrounded by dozens of potential investors, some barely dressed, begging to get in on the ground floor -- and, more importantly, desperate to sell their cars, mortgage their houses, or liquidate their 401Ks to reactivate their devices immediately. And no one was more frantic than one young blond looker with a slim but very fit body. Finally, a convention with a little excitement.

Here you go! Felt guilty after the smallness of Part 5. Been working on this most of today. Hope you enjoy!! Superior: Sixth Part Her hand was so small, like a child’s. It was the last thing he saw of her: pale digits writhing frantically, clutching desperately for a hand that wasn’t there, as she was pulled into the bronze melee of muscle and sweat. He fancied – momentarily – that she waved goodbye, before his view was blocked by the bunched Christmas tree brawn of an Alpha’s glistening back. But it could simply have been his imagination. And then Clothilde was gone. The fact that the mob’s backs were turned to him was probably the only thing that saved Lewis from being swept too into the churning sea of straining flesh. It certainly wasn’t his speed or stealth; stumbling and cursing through the humid night air, it took the scientist nearly a full ten minutes to hobble away from the crowd and throw himself down a comparatively-dark side-street. The screams, cheers and grunts of the bodybuilders dogged his footsteps. Even as he crouched in the shadow beneath the plastic awning, they echoed demonically through the city streets, every roared syllable causing his heart to beat that much faster. Damn lorry. He rubbed his swollen ankle. It hadn’t been the lorry's fault, of course, not really. But right now his panic and fear were curdling into anger, and he needed something to throw it at. In the madness of this dystopian future, even ire at some vehicular personification didn't seem too far-fetched. Wincing slightly as his fingers pressed against the snapped bone, Lewis’ mind flicked back to the moment when the mission had all gone horribly wrong. * He had been surprised and relieved at the lights at first. The city had been steadily darkening and more than once Lewis had lost his footing in the gloom. The orange glow of streetlamps, the white warmth of house lights and the pulsing flicker of fairy lights strung up about the awnings above bathed the centre of the city in a welcome electric glow. Until Holly had pointed out how difficult things were likely to become now that they could no longer rely on the darkness to hide them. “Damn,” she cursed hotly. “I was hoping to be in and out before they turned this shit on. Getting to the Festival Hall has just gone from difficult as hell to near-impossible.” She pulled them into the alcoved doorway of a grocery store. “Especially at the pace we move,” Martha chipped in with a grumble, onion breath hot on the nape of Lewis’ neck as she pressed close into the shadows. “I didn’t think they’d have electricity,” he murmured, ignoring the bait. “I mean, the rest of the city is so ruined.” “Was the first thing to be restored,” Holly’s voice was beside him. He turned to see her face. Even half-hidden in the dank blackness of the alcove he could make out the lines of stress and worry. Her face muscles were so strained it looked like they would burst through her very cheeks. “Even gods have to be able to see at night.” She paused while a particularly violent shout shook the buildings around them. The last fifteen minutes had been peppered with such hollers. Lewis wondered what there was to cheer about. “It was one of the reasons the Epsilon class was created. Keep the lights on, the power going, that sort of thing.” “How many are there?” Lewis whispered. “Epsilons, I mean?” She didn’t reply and for a moment Lewis wondered whether she had heard him above the manly rumbles before them. Then, quietly, her voice sounded in his ear. “Who knows?” “Who cares?” Martha huffed loudly, interrupting. “All these questions aren’t getting us any closer to the damn hall. We should be moving, not crouching here in this stupid doorway while Mr Amnesiac tries to piece together his fucking memory.” She wriggled uncomfortably next to him, as though disgusted at being so close to someone she clearly viewed as being so utterly useless. “And when was the last time you checked the radiation on your little screen, scientist?” Holly cut in before Lewis could respond: “That’s enough, Martha. Look, we’re all tired and scared-” Martha snorted at that, “but Lewis is just as much part of this team as Clothilde or I, so keep your opinions to yourself. Besides,” she squeezed Lewis’ shoulder, “you checked about three minutes ago, right? I saw your face light up from the screen.” Lewis nodded. “Still nothing, though.” The chronal radiation spewing from his craft was still blocking that of the sun. Still. The word hovered in his brain, unwelcome, like a mosquito in a hot night bedroom. Still. “Guess we’ll have to…” He paused. “Can you hear that?” “A vehicle,” Holly muttered, as the rumble of an engine sluiced through the night. “A delivery,” Martha grunted. “Delivery? What are they delivering?” The beam of a headlight shattered the gloom about them. “Roof. Now.” Holly’s voice had lost its warmth. There was a rattle of a door lock, then Lewis felt himself pulled inside the grocery store. Martha and Clothilde were already ranging ahead, weaving through the ruined rows of mashed food towards the stairs at the back. Lewis tottered after them while Holly closed the door. He was amazed at his ability to respond quickly to orders, to pause the thinking part of his brain and just act. How different he was to the little scientist who had arrived in this scorching horror a lifetime ago. Now he was one of them. One of the Resistance. The stairs led to a hatch. Before Lewis could attempt the climb himself, Martha’s strong hands grabbed him from beneath his armpits and pulled him up. So it was that, ten seconds later, the quartet found themselves crouching by the edge of the roof, peering down into the streets below. Lewis had heard the bodybuilders, of course. Had even seen a few at the end of streets, or through windows (Holly, able leader that she was, had always ensured that they never got closer than that). This was the first time he had pictured them all, together. This was the centre of the city. The hive. The goddamn tenth circle of hell. * Like a bronzed maelstrom, the freakishly over-muscled bodies of Alphas swirled through the streets. Knots of striated mass formed in squares and other open spaces as the bodybuilders fought one another, or fucked (it was hard to tell which.) Every few minutes bits of debris – cars, street signs, bus shelters, and crumbling parts of buildings – would explode upwards from the throng of muscle in a roar of raucous laughter and disappear into the night sky far, far above. "You can see...everything," Lewis murmured. "All the streets." "Where'd you think I go when I scout ahead?" Came Holly's reply. "Don't get many Alphas up here. Roofs don't support their weight." “Then couldn’t we just cut across the rooftops?" He nodded at the Festival Hall rising up from the twisting urban maze, an island of hope to the battered quartet atop their crumbling parapet some half-mile away. "Wouldn’t it be quicker? I mean, the subway's out, the streets..." He looked down at the squeezing, straining throng of packed muscle filling the metropolis' avenues, alleyways and roads. "Are getting more and more dangerous. Wouldn't this be a better solution?" Holly shook her head and allowed herself a faint smile. It seemed at odds with her serious face. “This isn’t like Agrabah from Aladdin, physicist; you can’t jump from rooftop to rooftop.” And certainly not with me in tow, thought Lewis glumly, his gaze returning to the illuminated cityscape that stretched out below them. Many of the streets, like the one they had just escaped, were covered with awnings – to block out the glare of the sun during the day, Lewis understood – but there were still a few without. In one such street Lewis watched a handful of naked Alphas performing a bodybuilding show on an impromptu platform made of two mashed buses. It was oddly...fascinating. Lewis felt drawn to the spectacle. Back in his own time he had never been inclined to watch a bodybuilding show - but the chance to view one now, where the smallest competitor was over 2,500lbs of brawn, tickled his scientific curiosity. He leaned closer. Street lamps had been twisted round to shine like stage lights down on the Alphas' hideous muscles as they performed pose after pose for their cooing Epsilon audience. The biggest among them had to be nearly 20 feet tall, his muscles so bloated with power as he flexed them arrogantly to the little people at his knees that Lewis wondered how he could even walk, let alone pose. One of his rivals, a smallish bodybuilder whose Hulk-like, grotesque, writhing bulk belied his young, handsome face, clearly grew tired of the competition and instead turned his attention to the audience. Hopping off the stage, he seized an Epsilon in each hand, humungous cock swelling horribly with blood in his excitement, then turned and leapt off into the night, deep chuckles nearly drowning out the terrified squeals of his captives. The gargantuan bodybuilder in the centre of the stage didn’t even notice, so into himself was he. And he wasn’t even the biggest. The same sense of curiosity that had driven the scientist to watch the bodybuilding show drew Lewis' eyes into the murky distance, where his view of the heavens was blocked by the vast, twitching, v-shaped back of a monstrous Alpha. Lewis realised he was holding his breath. How big did the Alphas get? And could radiation - mere solar radiation - do all this? He had to get answers, and quickly. But in the meantime...just while they were resting up here in relative safety, and to sate his scientific hunger...he continued to stare in disbelief. The man could only be compared to a Titan from Greek mythology. Though his vast, boulevard-wide shoulders were turned to the quartet on the roof, it was clear that he was masturbating. Ignoring the waves of Alphas crashing against his thighs in the streets below, he grunted his pleasure into the night. With each stroke of his vast, car-crushing hand on his godlike penis, the twin globes of his perfect naked buttocks, like bronzed hills, squeezed together. Lewis doubted that anything could survive between them. It was a horrifying and yet somehow majestic sight. Like he was both shocked and privileged to view such hugeness, such power, all at the same time. The scientist turned away quickly before the titan finished, his eyes distracted by yet another staggering spectacle. This time it was a massive structure to the east. Not a building. More like… He saw it rise slowly, glinting metallically in the lights from below, and then fall, with a CRASH that he felt in marrow of his bones. … More like a weight machine. “Impressed, scientist? We built that for the gods nearly half a year ago,” said Martha, even her gruff voice sounding eerily small in the tide of man-sounds whirling up from the streets. “Thousands of tonnes compressed into each plate. We thought it would keep them busy…you know, play on their competitive nature? Now even the smallest can lift the whole damn lot. All 40 plates.” She coughed a laugh. “Thing’s the size of a building and it doesn’t even phase them.” The laugh returned, gravelly, cruel. “Shame the same thing can’t be said about you, heh. You look like you’re about to throw up, scientist.” His eyes felt burned, scorched by what he had seen, worse than they had in the glare of the sun. These bodybuilders redefined what it was to be human. What was science in the face of this power? He would never admit it, but a small part of Lewis - a very small part - finally caved and came to accept the Alphas as the gods that people in this time saw them to be. How could it not? These beings' strength sneered at physics. Their muscles rewrote the rules of biology. Their physical make-up sent chemistry running for its momma. Lewis shook his head as though that might shake the horror and disbelief from his eyes. Eyes that caught a glint, like that of a shiny penny in a rainy street, and followed it to its source. Through a window opposite he watched as a 800-lb Alpha slowly forced a struggling Epsilon down on his cock, his pathetic jaw buckling as his throat filled with man. A bead of sweat moving slowly down upon the striated mass of the Alpha's right pectoral - the source of the glint - was the muscleman's only sign of exertion. He was an older bodybuilder, maybe 40, 45, though his partner looked to be in his early 20s. Grey streaks peppered the rich, black hair on his head and the ample bush at the foot of his grossly swollen member. That, and the one or two wrinkles at the edges of his cocky smirk, gave away his age - his physique was certainly not that of a middle-aged man. Realistically, it wasn't the physique of a man at all. His biceps bunching bigger and thicker than footballs as he leaned back on the bed, the muscles of his wrists standing out in bold relief like bands of power, he chuckled down at the squirming Epsilon. No, it was the physique of a god. Lewis watched, sickly fascinated. Car-crash fascinated. “Mmm, you’re gonna swallow the whole fuckin’ thing, little shit,” the behemoth grunted, loud enough that Lewis heard the sound above those of the other yelling, snarling, hypermuscled freaks clogging the city below. Then another noise caused the scientist to glance west. A large tear in the yellow awning revealed a monstrous hispanic bodybuilder flexing for an excited television crew. His mass was crammed into a tiny pair of black posing trunks - the first Lewis had seen since looking out across the city. He assumed it had something to do with the cameras. The sound had been the collective gasp of the crew, a skinny cameraman and two diminutive producers, one male, one female, when the bodybuilder's biceps had swollen twice the size of his own head. The mewling, worshipful unprofessionalism of the crew increased as his flex grew more and more strained, pumping his arms bigger and bigger as blood rushed to the muscle. Lewis couldn't blame them. How anyone could keep their composure and objectivity before such massiveness was beyond him. Even with a shield of scientific detachment about him, he doubted that he would fare much better than they. Memories of Shawn and Daniel flickered unbidden to his mind. He shoved them aside and, rubbing his eyes, continued to watch. Were they just filming the bodybuilder's mass? Surely the public had had its fill of hypermuscle? Then a strange sort of twinkle sparked in the hispanic muscleman's dark eyes. The Alpha turned and, crouching, tight glutes straining against the flimsy material of his posing trunks, dug his fingers into the building behind him. It was such a fluid movement, Lewis barely had time to work out what was happening. These Alphas just moved so FAST. With only the smallest of grunts the bodybuilder stood up and RIPPED the entire façade from the building, concrete dust filling the street like a choking fog, and held it above his head with one arm. The clouds of dust could not hide the awesome display of muscle playing across the bodybuilder’s physique, nor his wide, cocky smile as the camera crew backed away from the crumbling masonry. “See?" His voice rumbled with a delicious Spanish lilt. "This is why we should bring back ‘Challenge the Alphas’. Fuck your soap operas and your sitcoms. This is what people want to see, right? Fuckin’ POWER!” And with that, he hefted the mass of concrete and brick THROUGH the awning with a tremendous ripping sound and sent it spinning up into the heavens. Lewis didn’t doubt that within seconds, it would be in orbit. It was some time before he found his voice. “It’s like…it’s like…” It was like Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights transformed into some twisted hypermuscled homoerotic hell-fantasy. Instead, he said, “It’s awful. And...amazing, at the same time.” Clothilde's, Holly's and Martha's expressions were smug, like he had just cottoned onto something that they had known about for a long time. “Here comes that vehicle,” Martha gestured. * He followed her gaze to where a long, white, unmarked lorry was edging forward into the square below where they crouched. Low headlights flashed across the sordid remains of the square, illuminating broken shop windows and smashed builidings, silhouetting the brawny melee of figures pressed together. Lewis watched with fascination as the Alphas backed away to allow the vehicle room, muscle squeezing against muscle in the narrowing space, then quickly closed the circle behind it. Lewis was reminded of some footage he had seen of a grub surrounded by hungry ants. Though some of these ants towered above even the tall lorry. The engine slowly grumbled to a stop, though it was a good minute or so before the lorry door opened and a small man climbed out. No, not small, the scientist reminded himself. He just seems that way compared to the Alphas around him. He could be 6"4 and built like a rugby player for all I know. Lewis couldn’t make out the man's face from this distance, but from his hesitant, shaky walk, he imagined that it was twisted in fear. The man was wearing dark clothing and something – an ID badge? – was thrust out before him, clutched in panicked fingers, white and clean in the gloom. Like it was a relic that would protect him against the muscled swell of men. He was saying something to the amassed throng, but Lewis couldn’t hear anything above the sounds of the city. Explaining himself, perhaps? Begging for mercy? Whatever it was, none of the bodybuilders were moving. Lewis thought he felt a horrid sense of tension in the air. Perhaps the bodybuilders were waiting to find out what was in the lorry, just as he was. A groan rumbled through the city, and Lewis, ever the scientist, hurriedly turned his eyes to the source. The titan was cumming. With a tremendous moan that shattered nearby windows, his vast godcock splattered car-sized globules of scalding man-seed onto the straining, bodybuilder-choked streets below, his massive toes curling in ecstasy, crumbling concrete and buildings alike, an errant elbow smushing a skyscraper to scrap. This time, Lewis held his breath for so long that he actually coughed and choked before realising it. “Food delivery?” Said Martha, drawing the scientist's attention slowly away from the mind-blowing, once-in-a-lifetime spectacle of a giant muscleman orgasming, and back to the scene below. It was one awe-inspiring scenario after another. Lewis' eyes ached with disbelief. The driver moved to the back of the lorry. “No,” Holly said. Even as his eyes readjusted themselves to the scene below the rooftop where they huddled, Lewis heard a faint cry to his right. His pupils flicked to the bedroom window he had noticed earlier. Somehow the struggling Epsilon had fulfilled the bodybuilder’s request. The Alpha’s cock was thrust to its hilt in the poor, struggling man’s face, curling pubes tickling his brow. Lewis shuddered. That was over twenty inches of dick. He was no biologist, but was cleanly aware of what was and wasn't humanly possible. Even with lust pushing the little 20-something year-old to handle more than he would normally, nobody could take that much mancock without splitting in half. The Epsilon barely looked human, his mouth stretched so wide and his throat swollen hideously large to accommodate the hulking brute’s freakish dick. His tiny hands clawed futiley at his neck as he struggled to breathe, tears falling down his cheeks and running in rivulets down the veined expanse of the muscleman’s hyper-huge fucktool. “Mmm, FUCK yes,” the bodybuilder’s eyes had closed. Flexing a striated chest that was wider around than Lewis was tall, he pulled out a little with a horrid slurping sound, then shoved his immense manhood back in. The Epsilon’s jaw seemed to buckle and Lewis swore he lost some teeth. “An’ just think – next time we do this I’m gonna be even BIGGER, ha!” … The back doors of the lorry were open when Lewis’ gaze returned. A large cry went up from the hulking crowd. The scientist felt the thrum of excitement from the Alphas. A throb of cock. He smelled it, too…that rich testosterone scent, like a steroid freak’s gym locker room, curdling up through the night air. Not just from the titan, who had finished his godly ejaculations and stomped off across the city to find some fun, but from the mass below. The whole damn centre of the city reeked of MAN. “No,” said Holly again. “Not food.” Something came off the back of the lorry. Lewis squinted down. The bodybuilders began to move forwards. “Sex toys.” As though obeying a silent signal, the straining sea of men surged forward. Grunts of pleasure and deep, animalistic roars of “MINE!” trumpeted horribly through the square as they closed in about the lorry. The driver disappeared from view instantly. Then Lewis saw them: two, seven, fifteen, twenty, thirty – thirty four people, some stumbling out of the lorry, others pulled by monstrous hands and held aloft like human trophies. Within seconds, the atmosphere below turned hot, violent, as the Alphas fought each other for these new prizes. The lorry was quickly tossed over into an adjacent street. Lewis lost sight of the diminutive human arrivals in the melee. Holly’s hand on his shoulder pulled him around. “We’d better get going. Things here are turning ugly.” Lewis struggled to his feet. “But they’re…sex toys? I don’t understand.” He caught sight of Martha’s smirking face. “I mean, I thought the Alphas just had sex with anyone they wanted?” Martha shrugged, an oddly calm gesture contrasting with the chaos below. “Yeah but these guys volunteer, scientist. They're people who actually want to be fucked by Alphas. Makes 'em special." Lewis shuddered despite the heat of the early evening. "They want to have sex with Alphas?" He tried to keep his eyes from returning to the bedroom window. "But most Alphas are huge. Even those under eight feel tall have oversized genitalia. I mean...how can these people survive?" He noticed the three women frowning back at him. An odd moment of silence passed between them. "Why don't you save that question for Richard?" Holly quipped, grabbing his arm. Yeah, thought Lewis as he felt himself getting tugged along. I'll add it to the list. People into worshipping grotesquely huge muscle men? Having sex with them? Lewis pondered. It made no less sense than any of the other crazy truths he had been forced to swallow since arriving in this warped future reality. The way Big Adam and Richard talked about the Alphas...it wasn't hard to see how that awe and reverence could turn to devotion. Perhaps, Lewis thought, we're just pre-programmed as a species to worship those more powerful than us. ... And that's where it went wrong. Because he was too busy thinking like a scientist, instead of acting like a Resistance fighter. That, and because the building collapsed. * After a stomach-lurching fall that made Alton Towers' Oblivion feel like the teacup ride, the scientist found himself sprawled headfirst in a pile of rubble and rotten fruit. It had happened so quickly that for a moment, he half-believed this topsy-turvy world to be the real world and the real world to be nothing more than a product of his own straining psyche. Then his crutch came whirling out of the night air like a thunderbolt and slammed into the ground beside him. His legs were still kicking feebly in the emptiness above. He stopped them. He might have murmured a "what the hell" but the swelling noise of the crowd drowned out all other sounds. Even as his mind began to right itself a huge coughing form of a monstrous blonde bodybuilder shrugged itself out of the debris beside him. He rose genie-like from the cloud of dust, trailing concrete bricks and slivers of wood and masonry. Dust and sweat ran in rivulets between the freakishly pumped, straining striations of his grotesquely overmucled physique as he pushed a fruit-stained boulder the size of Lewis' time machine off himself with a grunt. "Fuckin' city," he spat. "Gets more and more fragile every fucking day." Lewis froze. Even if he had been on his feet the man would have been monstrous. Prone, as he was, on the ground, the man looked big enough to wrestle one of Tolkein's trolls. Maybe all three of them. The scientist recognised the man, for once. The face of some protein powder or other. Justin Compton. The hulk sniffed and glanced down at Lewis. "Stay there, runt." Deep, resonating with potency, it sounded like a command from God. "I'm fucking horny. If I don't get my own sex toy from that fucking lorry, I'll be back for you. Got it?" Lewis nodded, hurriedly, but the god had already tottered back into the throng. No, the scientist corrected himself. Not god. Alpha. No. Bully. Bully. That's what they are. Bully. His own thoughts sounded wrong in his head. But then, so did Clothilde's voice. He sat up. All around, grotesquely huge biceps flexed, thighs tensed into teardrops of horrific magnificence, pectorals pumped freakishly huge, chests slamming against chests with the muscle-straining, explosive force of bombs, abdominals clenched into serrated, titanium walls, sweat shimmered on hillocks of swollen brawn and glittered in the valleys between them, monster cocks swung and slapped like meaty pendulums, and throats spilled hatred and curses into the air. An ocean of MAN sloshed and strained from one corner of his eye to the other. A moving, erotic, horrid tableau of muscle writhed and swelled and flexed - and, scientist that he was, Lewis could not turn away. Nor could he close his eyes. Wait. Clothilde's voice? "Scientist!" He turned slowly, still dazed, to see the petite Frenchwoman's eyes sparkling before him. "Are you hurt?" It took a while for him to realise that she was talking to him. Had he struck his skull in the fall? Was he, even now, reeling from some brain damage? He felt the edges of his head. No bleeding. "I'm...ok. Just stunned." Her little face sparked into a smile. "I think we both are. You can stand?" She handed him his crutch. He allowed the diminutive former investment banker to help him to his feet. "A fall like that, and here we are, huh? Not a scratch." Her eyes flicked heavenwards. It was a faint, and quick, gesture, but scientist that he was, Lewis noticed it nonetheless. "I guess someone is looking out for us, huh?" Against the straining backdrop of adamantine sinew, her faith seemed misplaced, somehow. Like she was placing her hope in the wrong thing. Lewis blinked. Perhaps he was just dazed. "I think the others got away," Clothilde coughed. "The roof - it only collapsed beneath the two of us. We should regroup. If we head back towards the alcove for the grocery store..." It was strange. This was the most that Clothilde had ever spoken to Lewis. And it was also the last time she would speak. With a roar, the crowd fell backwards towards them – and Clothilde disappeared into a clenched wave of striated flesh. * Lewis sat rubbing his ankle and staring at the screen of his radiation device for some time before stirring. His misplaced anger at the lorry had fizzled away. He was left with a sort of numbness. Like a blanket between him and the events going on around him. He felt…detached from himself. It was shock, he knew, and he welcomed it. Better to feel nothing at all than the alternative. The time would come when he would have to face his feelings: his nervousness, his terror, his anger. But for the moment, he was numb and at peace. Fear was knocking at the door, a distant sound, but he felt no inclination to let it in. The knocking, however, was persistent. Blinking away the cobwebs, he tried to focus on it. No, it wasn't knocking, more like...a steady pulse of beats. Morse code, or..? He glanced down at the screen again. Still, it shone with the unbroken sickly green tinge of chronal radiation. Maybe the sound had been in his imagination. A repurcussion of the fall, or residual damage from the solar radiation. Hell, it could merely have been his sanity snapping. Surprising that it hadn't happened sooner. Then the message appeared. Hey dickhead, it went. He grinned, his whole face straining at the expression, dust flaking from his cheeks. But it was a welcome strain. Richard. Seems like you're in need of some assistance. Lewis almost choked at the understatement, before another message swam into view. When Big Adam says "we're all coming with you", he means "we're all coming with you". The scientist frowned. His eyes, witness to so much pain, so much horror, so much awesome power, itched. A tear oozed into life and began to run slowly, slowly down his cheek. And another. And another. The screen blurred as fear, anger and horror were squeezed out, and relief - solid, cling-to-able relief - filled him. ... So he nearly missed the last words. Look up. Though he needn't have seen them. The shadow, eclipsing not only his crouching space but a good half of the doorway beyond, had fallen across him. And he knew he was safe. "Hmph," the man before him grunted. There was a faint straining sound, a snapping of threads. "Seems like you lost your team, physicist. Heh. Wanna join mine?" Almost imperceptibly the shadow about Lewis seemed to swell, slightly. "I can't guarantee we're gonna be very stealthy, but - heh - it seems like this last stretch to the Festival Hall is gonna be more about MUSCLE, anyway." Again, the twang of ripping elastic and the shredding sound of tearing cotton whispered faintly in the night. "So whadda you say, physicist?" Lewis looked up. The tears were flowing freely now, unrestrained. "Ready when you are, Big Adam," he replied.

Just a short one. Again, guys, thanks for the support. You have no idea how amazing your comments are. Superior: Fifth Part They heard the Alphas long before they saw them: metallic crashes, grunts, and raucous, heavy laughter, reverberating through the dusky bones of the ruined city. Lewis realised that his concerns over the noise of his crutch – and his inexperience in being sneaky – had been unfounded. Judging from the cacophony ahead, the bodybuilders would not have noticed had a million A-class tanks come whirling down through the yolk of the sky and impacted like an armageddon hailstorm. They were having too much fun. “What are they doing exactly?” This to Holly, as she checked the map in the wavering yellow light sluicing in through the broken teeth of the window pane. “Whatever gods do,” she shrugged, the tip of her cigarette dancing like a firefly. She was clearly not in the mood for idle chit-chat. Back in her Default Antisocial On-The-Mission Anxiety Mode. His other companions weren’t much better conversationally. Clothilde, a petite Frenchwoman who in a former life had been an investment banker, was quiet as a shadow. And Martha, the fortysomething housewife-turned-Resistance fighter, just grunted at him to “shh” whenever he tried to engage her in dialogue. Even now in the near-dark inside the ribcage of the gutted supermarket, Lewis could sense her frowning at him. Distrusting. “When was the last time you checked?” Her voice, deep for a woman’s, came out as a throaty whisper. “About five minutes ago,” he replied. “Back at the junction.” “Don’t you think it’s time you checked again – instead of sitting there distracting Holly?” Lewis let out a long sigh. Full of charm, this one, he thought wryly. But he let it go. No sense getting into an argument. Maybe anger and gruffness were just Martha’s way of coping with the tension. Besides, if he could detect and analyse the radiation from here, then it was mission over already and they could get back to the safety of the underground. And Martha could get back to…whatever his name was, the hefty man he had seen her sneak a hug with before departing. Not her husband – Lewis had learnt that he and Martha’s three children had been hurled into space in their Audi Q5 four months earlier by a rampaging Ronny Rockel – just a fellow survivor. They had clung together briefly, firmly, like two tiny bubbles in a churning river, and Lewis fancied he had seen Martha’s grey eyes close for a moment, like she could shut out the whole damn world and all its pain. “K, give me a second.” The scientist plucked the radiation scanner out of the sagging folds of his rucksack, fingers playing across the screen. He had done this so many times now he could have performed the action in the dark. Again – just as he had expected – nothing. Just the chronal radiation from his goddamn vessel, like a fizzing blanket, blocking out any other readings. He would be a liar if he said that worry wasn’t beginning to nibble at him. They were deep into the belly of the city now, far enough away from the time machine that surely – surely – something else should register on the device. He wasn’t expecting a complete analytical reading of the strange solar radiation, but he should at least be able to detect it. The device was clearly exceptionally sensitive by dint of the fact that he could detect his vessel’s output from miles away, yet there was not a whisper of whatever radiation had transformed the bodybuilders into gods. “Well?” Came Martha’s dulcet tones. Not for the first time Lewis felt the enormous pressure he was under as the only physicist in the Resistance. The theory about solar radiation was the one thing keeping Big Adam going. If results were incoherent, inconclusive, or – as it seemed they would be – inexistent, the muscled behemoth’s already strained psyche could splinter right down the middle. And the Resistance wouldn’t take long to follow suit. Lewis was, in a very real way, carrying hope in his hands. He switched the device off, the little rectangle of light shrinking to a pin-point before fading altogether. “No. We still need to go further in. Much further in.” “Funny,” said Holly, turning. He had almost forgotten she was there. The bright yellow of the day had faded to a rich gold, silhouetting her slim figure against the jagged window behind her. “There isn’t a ‘Much further in’. The Festival Hall is only two miles from here.” She paused – for dramatic effect? – and gestured towards the noise. It seemed to swell in response, the deep-bellied booms of laughter and the screams of metal like howls dragged up from the very bowels of hell. “In that direction.” * Minutes later the group ran into their first Alpha. He was surrounded by a fly cloud of Zetas, buzzing and squeaking about his vast, bronzed form, shimmering with man-sweat in the dying light of day. Camera flashes illuminated the fingernail-deep striations between his glistening golden pecs, threw back the shadows of the clenched sweep of his symmetrical eight-pack, exposed the tight twin bubbles of his glutes, barely contained behind the thin, stretched black fabric of a posing strap. Questions filled the dusk air, hurried, desperate, sliced through by the occasionally deep grunt of a response from the big man himself. As the figures scurried to keep up with the hulking brute’s steady, powerful gait, Lewis saw the metallic sheen of Dictaphones clutched in trembling fingers. Were they…journalists? “Alexander Federov,” Holly whispered in his ear, pulling him back gently into the darkness of the alleyway in which they were crouched. “One of the smaller ones.” Small he may have been, but he still towered a good head, shoulders, and nipples above the journos. Indeed, as much as it sickened Lewis that his fellow Zetas were granting this bodybuilder so much attention, he couldn’t help but admire their guts. He knew first-hand what one of these muscle freaks were capable of. And the men didn’t seem to be granted much in the way of special compensation just because they were journalists. More than once the scientist observed one of them knocked to the pavement by a swollen thigh the density of concrete, or clunked by an elbow as Federov raised an arm to flex his freakish bicep for the cameras. Simply because they lingered too long over a shot and were too slow to get out of the bodybuilder’s way. Dazed, it would take them a good minute to struggle back to their feet, snatch up their cameras and Dictaphone and stagger after the goliath once more. Against the cacophonous backdrop of clangs and roars that thrummed through the twilight air, Lewis couldn’t make out what the journalists were actually asking the huge bodybuilder. His replies, grunted and thick with his Russian accent, were equally unclear. Loud though it was, his voice sounded more like the rumbles of some fantastical beast than a human. If indeed he is human, Lewis mused. The jury is still out on that one. Federov’s bulk swept past the opening of the alley and the small, cramped space filled with his raw, potent musk. Forcing himself to breathe through his mouth rather than his nose, Lewis choked out a quick question. He didn’t – couldn’t – take his eyes from the man’s monstrous, hyper-muscled physique, but he felt his companions pressed close to him. “I thought the Alphas-” That term still felt strange coming out of his lips, but less so now, “Just killed Zetas on sight? That’s the impression I got from everyone.” “They do.” Martha’s cracked voice sounded in his left ear. “Those are Epsilons.” “Epsilons?” Martha just sighed, the hot air unpleasant in his antihelix. “Don’t you know anything?” “He has amnesia,” Holly replied from somewhere behind him, then, gently in Lewis’ other ear, before he could object to being talked about in the third person; “Epsilons are what the gods call Zetas who are useful to them in some way. The media, doctors, people like that…” She cleared her throat. “Don’t know what’s worse. Being a Zeta and getting caught by the Alphas, or being an Epsilon and forced to serve them.” Lewis shuddered. Holly must have felt him, for she placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Only a mile and a half to go now, physicist. How are those readings coming along?” If only she knew. "Let's keep moving," Lewis said, faux bravado masking the tickle of his rising anxiety.

Author's note - this is an ongoing story I started in 2011 and posted on the old site. I managed to write and post 14 chapters of Part I. The 15th and last chapter has languished untouched for years because, well, let’s just say the past few years have been very stressful and challenging. But I’m back and continuing work on Chapter 15. I’m going to post the existing chapters one at a time unchanged from the original. Speaking of which, here is Chapter 1. * * * A few months had passed since my 39th birthday and for the first time I was beginning to feel old. Ten years before, I had promised myself that by 40, I would weigh over 250 pounds, own my own home in Manhattan, and have a partner. So far I was zero for three. I was striking out at my own game, not that I had anything to complain about, at least physically. At a few inches shy of six feet tall and 240 pounds with around nine percent body fat, I was impressively built. But we are never big enough, are we? My name was Jamal and I was somewhat of a mutt. My dad was half Syrian and half Native American, my mom half African and half Samoan. The combination resulted in a Mediterranean appearance with olive-brown skin and green eyes beneath dark eyebrows. I usually sported a thick black beard and after ten years of busting my butt, I had built up a hard, thick musculature that as a bonus was covered in dense, black hair. So yeah, many guys considered me hot. Some might say exotic. I thought I was okay. I worked construction, which I learned early on was unusual for a gay man. Most guys thought it a turn on, but sometimes I would happily push paper in a comfortable office rather than sweat or freeze in the typical New York weather. How did I get into it? A straight friend of mine hired me after high school and that was that. I averaged a decent five-figure income, but certainly couldn’t afford to buy where I lived. Project-based jobs usually don't promise a steady income, but in the end I found it satisfying to have something tangible to show for my effort, so I stuck with it. I was single. In fact, I had always been single, though I certainly had lots of sex. I loved to fuck, and guys loved to get fucked by a big guy like me. Why was I single? The short answer to that was that no one understood me, which is a nice way of saying that I was hard for most to put up with for long. Was I a jerk? No. The problem was that I cared too much, which is a good place to begin this story. I had a studio apartment in the West Village near the Meatpacking District. It was nice enough. Five flights up, good view to the west, lots of light in the afternoon, and yes – a window unit air conditioner, which I was sitting in front of after taking the elevator up and hanging my sweaty tank on the doorknob. My workout had been good, and I leaned back in my old, stained brown leather chair and closed my eyes. My sweat-soaked body relaxed in the cold breeze of the a/c, which was a blessing on a hot day like today. I felt my nipples grow hard from the cold air and looked down at my heavy, meaty pecs. My chest was certainly my strongest body part. I was pretty lucky with my genetics – everything responded well to training – but my pecs were exceptional. They were perhaps a bit too big for the rest of me, but I kind of liked that. I watched as a bead of sweat somehow dodged the thick forest of hairs on the mound of my left pec and rolled down until it disappeared under its shelf. My cock twitched and I thought about calling Hank, my best friend and preferred fuck buddy. But I didn't. Instead, I swallowed the rest of my second post-workout smoothie and turned on the television. It took about ten seconds for my blood pressure to skyrocket. Every time I paid attention to the news, I promised myself I would start ignoring it. The television wasn't an entertainment device. It was a window into chaos. In less than five minutes, CNN reported terrorist attacks across Europe by Al-Qaeda, several murders of gays, blacks and Mexicans in America's more “red” states by assorted extremist groups, Palestinian rockets striking Jewish neighborhoods amid Israel's demolition of Arab housing in east Jerusalem, sectarian strife in Iraq and Afghanistan, the violent crackdown on worker's riots in corporate America's Asian sweatshops, widespread conflicts over water rights in Africa... I wasn’t the brightest bulb in New York, but it didn't take a genius to see that most of human misery was self-perpetuating and completely unnecessary. Why hadn't I hitched up? Apparently, I was “too compassionate.” I let the human-inflicted suffering of others bother me too much. I allowed myself to get too worked up over events I couldn't control. And everyone was right. I did let horror stories get to me. The news gave me nightmares. I lost sleep over each new round of ethnic cleansing. I didn't have any control over these things, but they still felt wrong. And so I agonized over how cruel people were to each other, and after a few months of dating, it drove away potential mates. So I didn’t date. I had sex. I had fun, but didn’t let anyone under my skin because they never lasted. I exhaled slowly and tried to center myself. I changed the channel. Local weather. A cold front was on the way that would end the current heat wave. It was October already, but summer remained in overtime. Then they switched to national news, covering a senator from Oklahoma who was speaking to reporters and saying that America was facing a three-pronged attack from homosexuals, illegal aliens and Muslims and that these groups needed to be eradicated. “Fuckin’ moron,” I mumbled. I changed the channel. A news bulletin announced the execution of a gay man who was found guilty of hate crimes against a Christian group in Texas. He had been captured by three members of a church group while leaving a bar in Waco, taken to the country and beaten, though he managed to fight back and break the neck of one of his abductors. The other men got in their church van and fled. The man called the police on his cell phone – and was arrested. The trial and sentencing had ignited a media firestorm worldwide but to no avail. The Texas governor had refused to stay the execution because she wanted to show that attacks on Christians would not be tolerated. “It is essential that people of faith be free to express their beliefs,” she said. Two seconds later a thirty-pound dumbbell shattered the television screen. “Fuck!” I yelled, as much at myself as at the moronic governor. I jumped up from the sweat-stained chair. My heart pounded in my chest. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” It was beyond outrageous. They executed a man for defending himself and called it justice. I was filled with frustration and anger. Extremists continued to gain more and more control over people's lives – and deaths. My stomach cramped, severely, and I doubled over, falling to the floor. My face and neck burned. A voice pierced the thick haze that surround me… “… the mass execution of homosexuals has been resumed by Iran's hardline government…” a man was saying. Despite my sudden disorientation, I realized that audio was still playing through the receiver. My rage intensified and I saw red. Red. Rage, apparently, was red. For even with my eyes open it was the only color that existed and as I writhed on the floor it engulfed my body, tingling as if every part of me had been deprived of blood only to have it restored minutes later. At the same time, the heat in my face and neck spread across my body until my skin burned. Saliva filled my mouth and I vomited. Then there was nothing. * * * I was wet. Actually, I was covered in sweat. The voice of a male anchorman filled the room and I opened my eyes, blinking in the glare of the early afternoon sun pouring through the window. I could smell urine and … something else. To my horror, I realized that I had not only lost control of my bladder, but my bowels as well. What the fuck? I sat up, fumbled for the remote, and turned off the entertainment system. Next, I carefully removed my gym shorts and tossed them in the trash. After unplugging the TV, I walked into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Receding hairline. Dark, thick eyebrows. Heavy mustache and full beard. Black with a few strands of white. Generous body hair, particularly on my pecs, forearms and legs. My skin glistened with sweat. I shook my head. “You let yourself get so worked up you had a seizure,” I said to my reflection. “Nice.” After a hot shower and a quick lunch, I felt human again, if still agitated. I left a voicemail for Terry, a truly huge power lifter I had dated for a while who was now my doctor, and stood naked in the main room of the studio apartment, cell phone in hand. I needed a distraction. I dialed Hank but got his voicemail. After leaving him a short message, I decided that Plan B would be a beer. No. I needed several beers, and I pulled on an old pair of relaxed-fit Levi's, the belt required to hold them up and a fresh white tank top undershirt. In no time I was out the door. It was hot, but the sun was refreshing as I walked the several blocks to the Eagle. I greeted a few guys I knew, nodded at a few more I wouldn't mind knowing, and by the time I entered the two-story brick building that the bar occupied I was feeling pretty good. My negative funk had long since evaporated. I pulled off my shirt. Two hours and six beers later I was on the roof top patio, sitting on a bench and leaning back against the brick of the taller building next to the bar. The music was loud, the patio was packed and I stared relentlessly at an extraordinarily hot kid, probably ten years younger than I, who was standing in front of me but deep in conversation with some daddy bear who I didn't recognize. I watched the kid. He was tall – probably about six feet, maybe six one, and sandy blond with a full beard. He listened attentively and laughed easily; moved confidently but naturally. I found myself wondering how the scruff of his facial hair would feel between my thighs as he sucked me off. Time passed and I imagined the bliss of repeatedly ramming my cock between his perfect butt cheeks and into the soft heat of his hole. This little fantasy drifted lazily in my mind as I enjoyed the hot sun on my chest. I could feel myself growing hard – yet somehow drowsy. The sun felt amazing against my skin. I closed my eyes and wondered why I’d never noticed that before. Someone was shaking my left shoulder. I had fallen asleep. “You’re gonna get a sunburn, big guy,” I heard a voice say. I opened my eyes to find the scruffy blond kid standing immediately in front of me. His deep blue eyes were almost hypnotic, but he glanced downward at the wooden deck before looking at me again. Despite the confidence I had observed earlier, he seemed shy. The kid was beautiful. He had removed his t-shirt to reveal his lean, athletic torso. His well-developed chest was covered with a fine coat of blond hair that swirled around his eager nipples. I was so aroused that I was fully erect. “I haven’t seen you before,” I said as I covered the prominent bulge in my jeans with my tank-top. “I’m Jamal.” I held out my hand. “Where are you from?” “Matt,” he said quickly as we shook. “Cleveland. I mean ... I’m from Cleveland.” He’s nervous, I thought before he spoke again. “Well, I should get back to my host,” he said awkwardly. “I just didn’t want you to sunburn.” You mean you just couldn’t think of a reason to talk to me, as dark as I am it would take me a few hours to burn. I smiled. “Thanks,” I said and shrugged my shoulders. “Nice to meet you.” I watched his butt and sighed as he walked away into the upstairs bar. I waited for my disappointment to extinguish the heat in my crotch, but it didn’t. The need to fuck persisted. In the absence of distraction I noticed that we, or now I, had a small audience. Although I recognized a few of the faces, no one particularly interested me. I stood to leave and immediately noticed that my Levi’s seemed smaller. My cock strained uncomfortably against the fabric, which clung to my upper legs as if painted on. My muscles felt unusually full, as if fully pumped after a workout. It was a puzzling, but welcome feeling. I felt unusually strong, but dismissed it as part of the residual buzz. I used my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face, shoulders and chest before walking back inside toward the stairwell. All eyes were on me as I left, which ordinarily would have made me feel self-conscious, but today I liked it. It seemed right. I was an alpha male, after all. My cock twitched but I paused at the top of the stairs. Alpha male? Where did that come from? I jogged down the stairs, enjoying the feeling of my thick muscles bouncing slightly with each step. The downstairs bar was clearing out. Matt stood in a small circle of guys with his lean, muscular back and perfect ass pointed right at me. The waist of his jeans hung very low on the beautiful white globes of his ass – how kids these days liked to wear them. I usually find that look sloppy but on him it was incredibly sexy. He turned around as if sensing my presence and I nodded. My heart pounded and my loins ached. I wanted him, but I didn’t feel comfortable pulling him from his friends. I continued forward until I was out on the sidewalk, where I stopped. I could just as easily go home and try Hank again. If he wasn’t available, there was always the memory of Matt’s backside and my right hand. I started walking back toward the Meatpacking District and home. His image remained in my mind with perfect clarity. The farther away I walked the more strongly I felt the need to return, as if I were pulling a giant elastic band that was growing more and more taught. “Oh, what I would give to see that boy naked,” I said aloud. I had almost reached 10th Avenue when I heard someone call out from behind. “Hey! Jamal!” And I turned to see Matt running toward me. My god he is beautiful, I thought as he approached. The slabs of his pecs bounced above his perfect, well-defined abs as he ran. Again my cock grew fully erect, which surprised me because it hadn’t responded that spontaneously in years. Then again, I couldn’t recall feeling that stimulated in years. “I’m just going to say it,” he began once we were face to face. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” He glanced briefly at the ground before looking up again. Was he genuinely nervous or just a good actor? Either way, I found it endearing. “Are you doing anything? Do you want to, you know, hang out? I’m not...” I didn’t let him finish. I pulled him to me and drove my tongue into his mouth at the same time I wrapped my arms around his tight, muscular form and grabbed the firm mounds of his butt. Immediately his hands were all over my torso, feeling the spread and thickness of my lats, exploring my huge pecs. He pressed his crotch against mine and began grinding, either oblivious or apathetic that we were standing on a public street in full daylight. “Get a room!” A man in a car yelled as he drove by. I laughed and pulled away. “Good idea,” I said. “I probably shouldn’t rape you in public anyway.” “You can’t rape the desperate,” he said. I took his hand and began leading him to my place. “Somehow you don’t strike me as the desperate type.” “Just desperate for you,” he said. “I know it’s cliché, but you really are my fantasy man.” I chuckled and rolled my eyes. I’d be wealthy if I had a dollar for every time I’d been told that. Yet they always changed their mind... “Your jeans are kind of tight though.” My left eyebrow went up and I looked at him. “That’s a bad thing?” He was correct, however. Only hours ago they fit just fine and now they were skin tight – except in the waist. The only explanation I could come up with was that I was retaining a lot of water, but even that seemed unlikely – and inadequate. “You should leave something to the imagination,” he said. “No secrets here.” “No secrets? Okay, what happened to your back?” He had noticed the scars. “Hmm. Later,” I said. “Try again.” “Sure,” he said graciously. He didn’t press the question and that impressed me. “Okay. How much do you weigh?” This was The Question. Guys always wanted to know how much I weighed. How much I could bench. How much I could squat. How big my arms were. What supplements I used. It could be tiresome, but I didn’t mind him asking. “I hover around 240. I’ve been as heavy as 250 before but I can’t break it.” “No way. I’d say you’re at least 250 right now.” I shook my head. “Weighed myself this morning. 238.” “Dude. You’re huge. Your scale is broken.” “You seem very sure of yourself,” I said. “I am.” I smiled. “Well, Mr. Know It All, I have an old mechanical scale in my closet. We’ll just check it when we get to my place.” “Deal,” he agreed. “So what do I get when I’m right?” Some degree of cockiness was emerging through the shy behavior he had displayed until now. I found I liked it. “To get fucked by your fantasy man,” I said. “And if you win?” He asked. “I get to fuck my fantasy boy.” “I like it,” he said, smiling. “A win-win.” “Damn straight.” Next Chapter: http://muscle-growth.org/topic/1194-transformation-part-i-mutation-chapter-two/

I loved reading this story when it was originally posted and thoroughly delighted to see it again! Looking forward to the coming (and cumming!) chapters! -- RPJ