Jump to content

Ozymandias

Member
  • Content Count

    85
  • Donations

    0.00 USD 
  • Joined

  • Last visited

Community Reputation

163 Good

4 Followers

About Ozymandias

  • Rank
    50+ Posts

Profile

  • Location
    London
  • This profile is a...
    real profile.
  • Gender
    Male
  • Orientation
    Gay
  • What are your interests?
    Growth, worship, a relationship with a bodybuilder. Aside from that: writing, reading, history, politics, casual gaming, personal fitness.
  • What are you seeking?
    Bodybuilders (preferably 20s but I’m open) to meet, chat with and worship. Definitely interested in something serious with the right guy. Feel free to shoot me a message :)

Recent Profile Visitors

The recent visitors block is disabled and is not being shown to other users.

  1. Thanks - I’m glad you liked it! At heart, that’s what I enjoy about it most as well. Thank you also to everyone else who’s commented and reacted, I really appreciate it! I have some rough notes for Pt 4 but haven’t got around to making them into prose yet. I’m afraid I can’t offer any promises as to when it’ll be ready. But as a teaser, I can tell you it will involve our two characters meeting for the first time.
  2. Apologies for the (ridiculously long) delay everyone, had a lot of stuff going on and my motivation to continue writing faded somewhat. A few days back it returned, however, so I have finally written Part 3, which comes in at just over 2400 words. Without further ado, enjoy! Part 3: the metamorphosis Bodybuilding. Perhaps the most beautiful word in the English language. It just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? Bo-dy-build-ing. For me, it is synonymous with sex. The very word is erotic, is it not? When I hear it, I think of men bloated with muscle, of overdeveloped bodies so swollen they cannot be clothed...of men desperate to force themselves ever bigger, no matter what it takes. Men driven by the insatiable lust for more, more, more. You are perhaps wondering what it is that I get out of this. It’s not control, despite what you may think at first glance. I do not control his actions, I do not force him to grow. Every single step was his choice. I simply gave him the support he needed to do what he had always wanted. The ‘control’ I exercise is merely a tool to focus his mind. So I reject the label of ‘evil controller’. I will concede some slight manipulation, but you must agree it was necessary to help him overcome the constraints society had placed on him? To allow him to become what he had always wanted? What I truly get out of this is joy. The muscle is sexy, don’t mistake me. But it’s the journey, the process, the determination in his heart that truly satisfies me. Seeing him become the man he has always dreamed of being, day by day, pound by pound. Sharing in his development, his transcendence of humanity, is what gives me purpose and happiness. I had a front-row seat to the greatest show on Earth, and damned if I wasn’t going to watch it. Stage 2 involved a punishing routine of steroids, and an escalation of the dietary and exercise regime he had followed in the earlier months. This was not a pure test, like the first stage, but rather a process of getting the boy huge with maximum speed. I liked efficiency, after all. I’m not here for a slow ride. In essence, his body was given a choice: grow, or die. It chose to grow. As I knew it would. The hunger was unchained, and he was like a man possessed. I suppose he was, really. The old him, the skinny boy who secretly lusted after muscle but could never talk about it, was long gone. This was a new man. Even I, who had seen hungry boys before, was surprised by the vigour with which he pounded the weights, stuffed himself with food and dosed himself with roids. As before, I forbid him from weighing or pleasuring himself. This focused his mind on the goal, and allowed him to truly savour the process and the changes he forced upon his body. The boy was drowning in the euphoric orgy of his growth, gorging his hunger so much that not even my assigned programme could keep up. On the one hand it was almost sickening seeing the changes being wrought on his body, what he was doing to himself. But on the other, it was entrancing, erotic and glorious. I was making a monster - and I loved it. He was growing faster than I could ever have hoped. The armpit stretch marks deepened and spread, forking over his pecs, shoulders and lats like the tributaries of a river. That pec shelf began to sag under its own mass, nipples forced downward, overhanging a granite column that was his abdomen, thick with layers of muscle. His shoulders were rounded cannonballs with three leads, capping arms like hams with thick veins feeding the bloated muscles. Tree trunk thighs, so thick he began to waddle, and barn door lats completed the picture. The intricate musculature of his back was like a stone relief, each individual muscle carved by a master sculptor, tensing into fine relief with each movement. The boy looked like a bodybuilder already. *** If I must be labelled, I would rather be called an artist. From my paints of control, lust and muscle I was producing a masterpiece. Perhaps even my magnum opus, my greatest work. A portrait of male potential, the finest example of the male form. The most beautiful man there had even been; enough to make the Greeks weep (and they had good taste). A little boy buried in hundreds of pounds of overgrown muscle. A boy who had sacrificed it all to become a man; to fulfil his deepest, truest desire. 5 months into Stage 2 I had to up the steroid dosages. He was pulling ahead of my wildest projections; I might as well make the most of his potential. He nearly came on the spot when I told him (in one of our weekly video calls) that I was upping the dosages. His hips were bucking involuntarily, his pecs jiggling from the movement, high-pitched groans leaking from his mouth, his lips pursed in ecstasy. This was his life now, after all...he had discarded everything else to embrace this: growth without end. It was his sexuality. “So big...not enough...more...more…” he desperately stuttered, his brain drowning in pleasure. I intervened. “Don’t you dare,” I commanded. “If you cum, we’re over.” “Ugh!” he half-screamed. Quick, sharp breaths and some admirable self-control saw him slow and then stop the bucking. A lot of pre-cum had leaked from his still-hard cock, but I decided to forgive him that. I was pleased that he’d managed to control himself, and flashed him my smile. He smiled back, his hair plastered to his face with sweat, panting heavily. Our eyes met. Rivulets of sweat ran down his heaving musculature - I guessed he weighed around 220lbs now - and his skin glistened. He looked like a serious bodybuilder, biceps the size of his head, the works. The sweat pooled in the crevice between his slab-like pecs. His chest had originally been smooth, but was now coated with a soft down of light brown hair. I was overcome by a desire to lick the sweat off of that beautiful chest, savouring every fibre of overgrown muscle, feeling them twitch and undulate as he bounced them (yes, I have an especial taste for succulent pecs). He was stunning, even beyond the muscles. He had always been good-looking in a boyish way, but his handsomeness had grown along with his body. His face had grown leaner, accentuating his cheekbones, while the facial muscles had become subtly more pronounced, giving his face a distinctly angular and manly appearance. That face made my knees weak. I, who had owned so many boys before, found myself falling for this one. The greatest one yet. My greatest specimen, my greatest achievement. After what must have been a good ten seconds, the moment ended and our eyes broke contact, but I could not deny what had passed between us. I was now in uncharted territory. In a strange - and unexpected way - I found myself liking it. What was this? Was I falling for a boy? Growing soft? The shame! There was something about him, though. Not just his hunger, his potential...but I found myself actually liking him, his personality, his quirks. Unknowingly he had become more to me than just a boy to pump full of muscle (although I certainly wanted to do a lot more of that). He had become a person, someone I actually looked forward to talking with, rather than just a trophy to appreciate. He spent the next three months in a frenzy of growth. Even with my experience, I had never seen anything like this. The speed of his growth was nothing short of miraculous, perhaps as much as half a pound a day. His body was transitioning from that of a bodybuilder to a ‘mass monster’ - a hugely bloated mass of muscle, all the more so since he was just 5’7”. His BMI was pushing well into the 40s by this point, I reckoned. Some would say he was grotesque, a freak. I thought he was the most beautiful man I had ever known, and only becoming more so. Did he even have limits? I guess we’d find out soon enough. Muscles spilled in all directions, squashed against each other as they battled for space on his increasingly mammoth body. A pair of triangular traps the size of grapefruits framed his beautiful face, flowing into a neck the size of tree trunk and cannonball shoulders the size of melons. With each movement of his arms, the shoulders rippled with muscle, separating into flaring heads of raw power. Stretch marks - testament to his ballooning body - emerged from his armpits to run over the separations between the muscles. The thick layers of tricep and bicep muscle burst out from those shoulders, his arms rapidly widening in circumference. Each head of the triceps, and the many layers of muscle fibres that made them up, were distinctly visible, forming a landscape of valleys and mountains which raised themselves two inches above his arm when tensed. They were complemented by a splendid pair of biceps which, when unflexed, resembled a thick hunk of meat striped with single large vein. When flexed, they turned into veritable Everests: towering peaks of granite, the muscle bellies thrown into shadow. A faint stretch mark could be seen running the length of the belly. His arms were completed by a pair of densely muscled forearms, coated with a soft down of hair, and a pair of manly hands which had grown thicker from all his lifting. Moving across, you come to his pecs. Great pillows of muscle over four inches thick, sagging under their own mass. Like his shoulders, stretch marks ran from his armpits over the sides of the pillows, joined by rivulets of veins feeding the monstrosities. His pecs had grown so large that when he bounced them it created a wave effect, the whole muscle gradually bouncing as the fibres rippled. His nipples were forced downwards by the swollen masses, which were themselves separated by a deep cleavage that I just itched to run my finger down, gathering his sweet scent. As with his forearms, a soft down of hair completed the picture. The massive pecs overhang a rock-hard muscle gut, which thrusts forwards, straining his waistbands. This was a relatively recent addition to his body, the result of the most recent phase of his growth. 8 blocky abs, deeply etched, stood atop the gut, flanked by tiers of serratus muscles. It was the kind of abdomen you broke your knuckles trying to punch. No way you were going to wind him! Below the abdomen carved out of stone where a pair of quads each the size of tree trunks, fighting for space against each other. They spilled outwards when he sat, searching for room, leaving no gap between them. Each enormous head of muscle perfectly defined, far bigger than my hand. Those quads framed his manhood, which was usually erect nowadays, fed by the ocean of pleasure he found himself in. Diamonds quads, carved from stone, finished off the powerhouse legs. I wanted him more than I had ever wanted something before. His sheer size was beginning have consequences. He couldn’t run anymore - any attempts to do so saw him waddle forward for a couple of metres, panting and nearly falling over (it was terribly erotic, me having ordered him to do it a number of times). He found it hard to shave, as his bulging biceps struggled to get past his swollen pecs. An emerging muscle gut pushed forward through feeble clothes and pressured his waistbands. The breadth of his shoulders required him to turn to get through doorways, and his insane proportions made buying clothes next to impossible. He could only clothe himself in tank tops and gym shorts now. I won’t deny it was a sexy look. He was barely able to fit in his cubicle shower, either. My boy - James - was transcending normality, outgrowing the world that had sought to contain him, the world that had taught his desires were disgusting and obscene; the world that had tried to stop him fulfilling his destiny. Furniture groaned beneath him, not designed to hold so much man. Clothes strained over the enormous expanse of his body, bursting at the seams. This world was built by mortals, for mortals - and he was becoming a god. My god, that is. That’s a possessive ‘my’, by the way, denoting ownership. Remember that. His monstrous body was as much mine as it was his. But he liked it that way. Our partnership had...changed. Our calls became more frequent; soon were were speaking at least every other day, rather than just once a week. And we weren’t just talking about his growth anymore, either - but our interests, hobbies, and who we were. We opened our hearts to each other; he really was no longer just another boy to me. He was James. He liked books, games...the same ones I did. How had I fallen for him? He was smart, funny, and our intellectual interests were closely aligned. We were similar enough to have lots of common ground, but different enough to add dynamism and variety to the relationship. Never before had I yearned for someone, yearned to talk to them, to see them, to feel them. Yet I yearned for him. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost unsettling. My stomach roiled, making it difficult to eat. He strayed into my thoughts regularly, and without warning. Was this love? I didn’t know. How was I supposed to tell? I felt lost, and yet anchored - anchored by him. Whatever this was, it was good. I wanted it to continue, to grow. A year since we had begun. At the start, he had told me that he wanted “to be so huge I can’t live a normal life anymore”. Now, that was happening. He was a complete freak, one of the most muscular men on the planet, increasingly unable to live a normal life. And he loved it. His deepest desires were coming true, with my help. This is what he had always dreamed of, knowingly or not - those childhood dreams of huge men, the teenage wanks to posing bodybuilders, the adult euphoria of his first workouts. It had all been leading to this eventuality; his rebirth, his transcendence, his growth. There had been some unexpected twists - for both of us - as well. What a journey it had been. And to think, there was still so much further to go. It was time to see how big James had really grown, and where we were to go next.
  3. Great start - the friendly dynamic between Karen and Cass is well-portrayed and I’m looking forward to seeing what develops between Cas and Blake. The question of TJ and Cas’ relationship will clearly form a focus of the story - what are TJ’s motivations, I wonder? I hope there’s more to it than him simply being a complete bully. My one (light) critique would be that it’s not always clear when perspective has shifted between Cas and Blake. Could maybe be a bit more clearly delineated? Looking forward to Pt 2!
  4. Forever holding out hope of a revival...
  5. A wonderful story so far. Always have a soft spot for these true love type stories, and these first two chapters are brilliant. Your descriptions of Brad’s emotions are perfect, as is your recounting of his experiences. Thank you for writing.
  6. Love the symbiotic nature of the relationship. Always appreciate a new piece from you!
  7. Thanks for the compliments and likes everyone. I’m working on Part 3, but it’s longer and I’m not quite happy with it yet. Will post when it’s ready! It contains some serious growth though :)
  8. Part 2 here. Again, all feedback is welcomed and appreciated. Part 2: realising his potential Let’s pause on that image for a moment. You may be wondering how we got here? How we ended up watching, through a screen, an overgrown freak wank himself off over the thought of more muscle? You see, I’m a facilitator. An enabler. I provide some muscle-hungry boys the means they require to embrace their destiny, to become the men they have always (knowingly or not) wanted to be. Allow me to elaborate. I’m careful with my selections. There are many boys who want to ‘get huge’. Most of them are unsuitable. I’m not interested in someone who just wants to look ‘hot’, and use their muscles to get sex. I didn’t waste my time on such types. No, the boys I’m interested in aren’t about looks at all. My boys are slaves to their hunger, and their only interest is in feeding it. In growing for the simple pleasure of growing. There is no end, no limit, for the hunger never stops. Like all addicts, these boys seek out those who can support their addiction. I am one of those. I give them the means to dedicate themselves to serving their hunger - and they love me for it. His name was James (not that it matters - he was just a boy; they all are). He was a hot boy of 19, 5’7” and 120lbs when he first reached out, saying he wanted to ‘transcend’. He was shy, embarrassed, and insecure as I probed his desires, his motivations. This was the first time he had discussed the hunger - in any depth anyway - with someone. But I was kind, cajoling and encouraging, and he lapped it up. The answers he gave to my deciding questions told me everything I needed to know. My curiosity was, admittedly, peaked as he poured his heart out to me. At just 19, the poor boy was already completely lost to the hunger, and its appetite was already so voracious. Quite remarkable, considering he hadn’t even indulged it much. I wagered that his potential was incredible. He just needed me to provide him with the release - and the permission - to serve his hunger in full. That’s what they always seek. Freedom from the shame of serving the hunger, and the means to do so. Permission to become a bodybuilder, and ignore society’s judgement of their ‘neurotic’ needs. I am only too happy to provide it, for the right boy - and for the right price. As I said, I’m a facilitator; I provide with all they need to grow, should they wish it. “How big do you really want to get?” “No limits, as big as possible.” “They always say that," I countered. It was true - I had encountered, and quickly discarded, many fantasists in the past. "But few really mean it, or comprehend what it takes -” He interrupts, his voice impassioned but desperate. It was the hunger speaking. He couldn’t afford to lose this opportunity, so he was going to come out of his shell...reveal the hunger in all its glory, in the hope that it would be enough to convince me. “This is all I want. All day, I think about it. Every night, I dream about it. I can’t stop. Nothing else makes me hard anymore. Everything revolves around growing. I don’t want a ‘normal life’. I want to be so huge I can’t live a normal life anymore. But I need your help.” I’m silent while I digest this. Party while I think, partly for the suspense. Don’t judge me. One has to enforce dependency from the beginning. But in truth, he’s affected me more than he realises - I’ve never seen such passion (at this early stage anyway) before. He stands at the edge of abyss, begging me to give him the final nudge to take plunge, and be lost forever. Little did I suspect back then that I would be holding his hand as the abyss took him. Fearing my silence, he whispers (while letting out a sound that can only be described as a sob): “Please...make me bigger…” I give a slight nod, to myself more than him, having come to a decision. He has convinced me with his hunger, his impassioned need. I give him a warm smile. Time to give him the release he craves so much. “Fear not, my poor, starving, boy. I will provide what you need.” Then came my price. It was steep - it always is - but they never spurn my offer. I know them too well. In return for providing everything he needed, I would own him. He was to be chaste, only pleasuring himself when I gave him permission. All my commands had to be followed without question. He was to provide weekly ‘progress reports’. He was to abandon all his life - work, friends, the lot. But most importantly, he had to put on 30lbs of lean muscle in 4 months, or I would discard him. He accepted without hesitation, as I knew he would. The trick was, of course, that I never expected him to reach that goal. It was nigh impossible. But his inevitable failure would only push him deeper into dependency on me, closing the circle. Call me cruel, call me a manipulative bastard if you want. But know this: they could always say no. They never do. He said he’d been working out for a year already, and put on 20lbs. I pretended to care. I was not interested in him for what he was, but for what he would become. I looked at him and saw a concept: the limits of human muscularity. I wondered how far he could go. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before he began to show me. Released from his own psychological constraints, as well as the chains of trying to live a ‘life’, he grew - fast. He lifted twice a day, and when he wasn’t at the gym he gorged himself on food and supplements. I was impressed by his devotion; I didn’t even have to encourage him. This is who he really was. And now he was free. He was visibly bigger for each of our weekly ‘progress reports’ - by which I mean a video chat where he flexed naked live and I examined every minute detail of his body, before asking him questions. He was constantly hard, such was the effect of his rapid growth, but I had not given him permission to pleasure himself. He obeyed the terms of our agreement to the letter. It was 2 months in he began to get the armpit stretch marks that are the telltale sign of a rapidly growing boy. I estimated he’d put on 15lbs already - which impressed me. Could he actually do it? Grow 30lbs in 4 months? Maybe. We’d soon find out. I’d forbidden him from weighing himself, to add to the suspense, but I was good at guessing this sort of thing. Call it experience, if you want. Even at this early stage I was developing a sense of his potential, and that aroused me like little else. His shoulders began to widen, his chest thicken, and arms swell. Separations between his biceps and triceps appeared, while his quads began to develop a shape for the first time. I signalled my approval, and he lapped it up. You would do well to ask whom he was doing all of this for. Himself, or me? Perhaps both. I’ll leave you to think on it. I told him how I was going to make him so big he couldn’t scratch his back. So huge he couldn’t run. So enormously bloated and swollen with muscle he couldn’t even wank. I told him how I was going to destroy his life, make him a freak, leave him a useless heap of muscle. And how that, even after all he had lost everything for muscle, he’d still grow bigger. As I told him his future, all he could do was groan while his cock raged. But I denied him permission to pleasure himself. He continued to grow over the next 2 months. If anything, he picked up the pace, inspired by my prophecy of his future. He’d gone from a lithe hot boy to a well-built gym rat, his body carrying a real heft to it for the first time. He couldn’t even begin to conceal the thrill that coursed through him as he saw his body grow. But, of course, I didn’t want him to. That was all part of the fun. To see him amazed, in awe, at his own body. After 4 months came the moment of truth. He weighed himself live for me. He was clearly terrified that he’d not met my 30lbs requirement. Although that milestone was merely a sham I had conceived to ensnare him, it was clear he’d gone much further - to my surprise, I must say - but I wasn’t about to tell him that. I was nonetheless intrigued to see just how much he’d grown, however. Neither of us had to wait long. 157lbs. He let out a sigh of relief. 37lbs of muscle in 4 months. I was impressed, and gave him a smile to show I was pleased - the first time I had done so. He licked his lips in response, and began flexing for me. There was a confidence, a cockiness, in him - the boy liked his new muscle. “Have I grown enough, Sir?” My smile faded as my eyes met his own. “No,” I replied, deadly serious, my face deadpan. His confidence faltered as did his erection; the desperate boy was still there. He was confident in being my trophy, nothing more. The confidence was submissive in nature - he was entirely dependent on me, and the imbalance between us was only going to grow with his body. It was thrilling. “You’ll need to at least double in size before I think of the word ‘enough’. Don’t ever mention it again.” His raging cock told me exactly what he thought about that, as did his terrified eyes. Terrified at the thought I was not happy with him. That he would fail me. I smiled again to reassure the boy. “But you’ve done well. I’m proud of how much you’ve grown. Time to move up a level.” This was the final step, really. There were more stages to come in this process, but this was the last time he’d be able to walk away. I knew he wouldn’t, of course. I would never have chosen him otherwise. Once he was on the steroids and lost control of his ballooning body, there would be no going back for him. The boy wasn’t stupid - he knew that. But he was willing. Steroids are a crude tool. If I’m honest, I don’t especially like them. They lack the finesse and elegance of natural bodybuilding. Of perfectly disciplined diet and training. That was the true, pure growth. I cannot, however, deny their effectiveness. For extreme and rapid growth, they are an unfortunate necessity. Needs must, as they say. The end justifies the means. His cock, rock hard, twitched and leaked as I detailed what Stage 2 would involve. He moaned as I listed the steroid stacks and cycles he’d be taking. His hunger lapped it all up. It seemed the boy liked steroids more than I did. Or perhaps he liked what they would do to him? I didn’t much care; the result would be the same. “In 8 months’ time - a year since we began - you must weigh 250lbs, or I will discard you.” There was a sharp intake of breath, his cock tensed, and his hand moved to grasp it...but his control won out, and his hand stopped mid-air. I had not given him permission. I had, however, commanded him to grow 93lbs in just 8 months. It seemed impossible. Normally it would be. It was another sham milestone, like the last. But with him, perhaps not. Time would tell. With the hunger, growth will come naturally. I couldn’t wait to see my 5’7” boy that swollen. My cock (hidden from his view, of course) aches at the thought. It would be glorious...but still only the Second Stage. His eyes were begging me, his breath ragged, but he dare not ask. I gave him my smile again, and saw him melt. “Pleasure yourself, my growing boy. You’ve earned it.”
  9. Don't know if it's me, but there seems to be a great selection of masterfully-written stories floating around the forum at the moment!? Thanks for writing this.
  10. Hi all, this is my first bash at putting up a story. Part 1 is a little on the short side, but serves as the introduction. I write primarily for fun, but enjoy the process (when writer's block doesn't strike, that is) - so any and all feedback is very much appreciated. Part 1: The Hunger He can't stop growing. Not that he wanted to, of course. He was addicted. It always ends up that way. The hunger is dormant at first, biding its time. Like many appetites (or should I say addictions?), it requires a trigger - a first taste. That first taste of muscle is like nothing else after; it stays with him forever. Often it’s a cartoon, featuring some character growing more muscular. Depending on the when he first imbibes, it may not even arouse him...merely intrigue - fascinate - him, for reasons he can’t yet grasp. But the hunger is awakened, and over time it starts to make itself known. Almost subconsciously, he will begin to seek out more. The hunger is insidious, and insatiable. Inevitably, it enslaves them. With each indulgence, it only grows more voracious. Stories of growth are joined by videos of bodybuilders; but the hunger soon demands more. He then joins a gym, and starts to grow, clothes tightening and giving way. Yet still the hunger is not satisfied. Each fall, deeper and deeper into the addiction, is easier to stomach than the last. It starts becoming easier to embrace the hunger. At first he resists the allure of steroids, but that resistance falters when the growth slows. As it happens, the ones who resist tend to perform the best; those who give in early often self-destruct, which just cuts short the pleasure. Inevitably, he succumbs to the promise of more, and faster, growth. Another fall. It will be followed by more - stacking numerous drugs, again and again. By this point, the hunger is all that’s left. Day and night revolve around feeding it. Such an innocent beginning. Such a glorious end. *** He is wanking furiously, pleasuring himself with dreams of enormity. His pecs - heaving as he grunts and groans - are so bloated he can’t reach his arm around to properly grasp his cock, forcing him to violently buck his hips. The chair is smothered by his mass, and creaks ominously with each thrust. His grotesquely swollen body glistens with sweat from the exertion (it’s hard work moving that much mass), filling the screen through which I watched him. He is monstrous. He is beautiful. His face - which looks comically small and awkwardly placed atop his body - is the sole remaining physical hint of what he once was. Boyishly handsome, dirty blond hair and brown eyes. Even contorted in pleasure - as much mental as physical - he remains handsome. That face is all that’s left of the days when he was a mere 120lbs at 5’7”. Today, he tipped the scales at 287lbs. I gave him a smile, to show I was happy with how far he’d come. “You’ve grown into quite the big boy!” I comment. He thrusts and groans as he hears my compliment. Something in the chair breaks. His shoulders are too broad to fully fit in the screen, and with each stroke of his hand striations ripples across the deltoid heads. His arms are swollen with power, each the size of his head, with the intersections of the deltoids and biceps etched in stone. My mouth salivates at the sight of them. Below the pec shelf, so heavy it sags, comes his rock-hard abdomen, with eight thick abdominal blocks carved in splendid relief, as if my a master sculptor. Framing his engorged manhood are splayed quads thicker than my waist (by several inches), the hugely overdeveloped heads of muscle flexing slightly with each buck of his hips. Between his moans - and dreams of being so much bigger - he manages to whisper: “More...please, more…” I cock my head teasingly, pretending not to have heard him. In truth, though, his question has deeply affected me. Tears almost come to my eyes. I can’t help but admire the hundreds of pounds of perfect, beautifully overgrown muscle desperately fighting for space on his tortured body. He has pushed it hard, punishingly so...but it did the only thing it could do: balloon, and balloon, and balloon, with muscle. He can easily go further. How much further? I don’t know. But we both want to find out. Poor boy. So desperate, and oh so so hungry. He’s gone so far. “Please!” he pleads, he begs, between frantic thrusts. His eyes crying out to me. “Make me bigger!” It’s curious. He knows he’s a freak, a monster. And yet, he doesn’t. He sees the great mountains of muscle he has grown, but doesn’t quite comprehend them. He never thought he could come so far, but he cannot imagine stopping now. It’s a vicious - or perhaps virtuous, depending on your viewpoint - cycle. Growth simply spurs the desire - the need - for more. A feedback loop of transitory pleasure. Each fix sets the stage for the next. It does not end. But that is what makes it oh so glorious. I smile again, a tear flowing this time. Such a beautiful, eager boy. He is a wonder to behold. “I think that can be arranged,” I reply. He explodes.
  11. I, for one, forgive you. Writing is hard, which is often forgotten. I know myself - ideas come, bloom spectacularly, and then suddenly die. It’s really rather difficult to keep a story alive, and just as difficult to satisfactorily end one. The idea peters out, and it’s orignal attractions to you fade. With that, your motivations fade too. And writing without motivation is quite simply a chore. You’ve set in motion a series of events, and it turns out to be almost impossible to properly tie things together. The number of endings - from stories here to full novels - that I’ve actually liked are few and far between. Often, the best stories have some of the most hollow endings - it’s usually just not possible to close Pandora’s box in a single chapter. Something always feels missing, the end anticlimactic. Great writing. Thank you for taking the time to write this love story and share it with us.
  12. This is a great story. The pas de deux between Dane and Pete is conveyed very well, as is Pete’s emotional turmoil and personality. I really hope Dane doesn’t become a ghost though!
  13. Ozymandias

    Smitten

    This is great! The structure of the story works very well, and our protagonist is brilliantly portrayed. Keep it up!
  14. Have the feeling our protagonist and Lewis are going to get intimate at some point...
  15. Loving this story - transcendence type stories are one of my favourites. Lets see what a god our protagonist becomes...
×
×
  • Create New...

Important Information

By using this site, you agree to our Guidelines, Terms of Use, & Privacy Policy.
We have placed cookies on your device to help make this website better. You can adjust your cookie settings, otherwise we'll assume you're okay to continue..