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About Ozymandias


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    real profile.
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  • 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 :)

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  1. A pleasure as always. I look forward to seeing Woody grow, physically (hehe) and mentally, and maybe even find his muse.
  2. Good to see you’re back on the writing! Very engaging opening chapter, especially the dichotomy within Woody. I look forward to seeing this develop! Thanks in advance for the effort I have no doubt you’ve put into it.
  3. Hey everyone, here's Part 4 clocking in at just over 5000 words (it's a long one). Apologies again for how long it's taken, but I think his part is the best yet! Enjoy. Part 4: the road ahead He was panting, enormous pecs heaving. Cum coated his chest and muscle gut, mixing with sweat. His body glistened with sweat - wanking was a lot of effort for such a massive man. In the year since we had begun, he had ballooned with 167lbs of muscle, growing from 120lbs to a jaw-dropping 287lbs - at a mere 5’7”, no less. A stone a month, on average. He was a muscle god, a monster; this is what he was meant to be. His purpose on Earth was to grow, and my purpose was to help him. We were both stunned when he weighed himself live on video for me. I’d had to read out the weight, as he couldn’t see over his pecs anymore. Just another step in his transcendence of the normal world. The goal had been 250lbs, and I could tell he’d comfortably exceeded that...but 287lbs? Such growth should not have been possible. It took me a moment to actually get the words out; I was speechless, as was he. He sat back down in the chair, which creaked under his weight, and we just looked at each other in silence, smiles of pure joy on our faces. After a few moments, he gingerly asked, “Sir, may I -” I interjected, knowing what he wanted. “Wank like you’ve never wanked before, James. You’ve earned it.” He obliged, asking me the most touching question he could have while he did so: would I make him bigger? It was our equivalent of him asking me to marry him. Here he was, my most magnificent creation. In truth, I’d never expected him to reach the milestones I set - they were deliberately insane, impossible. They were tests of his commitment and determination - how far would he push himself for me, for his dream of more growth? But he demolished them, and surpassed them. I’d never made a man so big. Usually the regime becomes too much for them, and they have to give up, their hunger unsatisfied through their own weakness. Or I discard them when they prove sadly wanting. James, however, had taken the regime in his stride; he seemed to have unlimited stamina, endurance. The grotesquely overgrown and bloated body, swollen with hundreds of pounds of useless muscle, was the result. His life was gone; all he had was me and his oh-so huge body. He’d cut out his friends and family; he’d quit his job. All for growth. All for me. Now he’d grown so much that he could barely even live, struggling to wash himself, clothe himself, even pleasure himself. Yet he still wanted more, so much more. The ultimate addict. No other boy had ever proven themselves worthy - or capable - or advancing to the next, and final stage. James was the first - my first. Poor boy, I thought. So desperate, and oh so so hungry. He’s gone so far, but there’s much further he could go. We both knew it. This was the end of the beginning. I loved him, and I was struggling to hold back the emotions. “Please!” he pleads, he begs, between frantic thrusts, the hopelessly overdeveloped muscles jiggling from the bucking. His eyes crying out to me. “Make me bigger! I need it!” I smile again, the tears of joy and love flowing freely now. Such an eager boy. He is a wonder to behold - and I love him like nothing else. “I think that can be arranged,” I reply, flashing my smile - genuinely this time. There was no other answer I could give. He explodes. *** Sometimes you have decide based on instinct. When James was vying for my attention, he was one of several. Several boys all eager to prove to me that they wanted to test the limits of the male body, desperate to impress me and gain my favour. James was the most handsome, but also the smallest and least-developed. Others had already forced their bodies bigger, and in tearful confession professed their supposedly insatiable hunger for growth. On the surface, James had little to show, and made no grandiose demonstration of his supposed commitment; just a few hurried sentences uttered by a nervous little boy. But there had been something in his voice, a glint in his eye. The suggestion of something truly enormous itching to be released. He had intrigued, more than all the other candidates who had merely spouted on about how they “wanted to get huge”. There was something different about James, and on a hunch I’d taken a gamble and chosen him. And that is how I witnessed the most beautiful transformation a man could ever undergo. It was the best choice I’d ever made. Stage 3 was altogether different from those before. Before James, it had always been a hypothetical. No-one had ever made it before; they’d all washed out, unable to withstand the punishment of the process or my exacting demands. But not James. He alone had proven himself worthy. In that sense, this was a first for both of us. Neither of us had been in a relationship (a meaningful one at least) before; now that was going to change. Since I was but a child I’ve had a fascination with muscle. Or, to be more precise, with men growing muscle. Lots of it. Endless amounts of it. Like the hunger, yet different - the other side of the coin. My purpose was to make little boys into gods, rather than become a god myself. While I had gained a shallow form of joy and pleasure from making a number of men balloon, I had always been seeking ‘the one’. He who could take our mutual desires to never-before-seen extremes, he whom I could love, he whom I could adore. It seemed that I had found him, after seven long years. James was to move in with me (the final severing of all ties to his old, much smaller, self) and then, together, in love, we’d then see just how far he could go; just how big he could get. I would care for him as he grew too big to look after himself. He would no longer have to worry about trivial things such as money and food; I would take care of everything now. He could devote himself to his - to our - passion. The endless growth of his body. This is what I had always dreamed of. It was what he had always dreamed of. Our purpose was clear. I’d been paying his rent and bills for him since the beginning of the process, so winding that up was easy, but nonetheless symbolic. I admired his final leap of faith, his ultimate trust in me. If this went wrong, he’d have nothing. In a rational sense, it was a monumental risk. And yet, he knew it was no such thing. In truth, he had nothing to lose anymore. I, and the body we had built together, were all he had. He packed his few belongings in a duffel bag, and travelled to me. I was to meet him at the train station, with my home being a short walk away. As I walked to the station, my stomach was in knots. This was it. I was about to meet - in the flesh (all of it!) - the boy whom I had grown into a man, and fallen in love with. Part of me was panicking - would this work? Fantasy was one thing, reality was another, as I had told so many boys in my time. Were we really in love? This was our first meeting. I fought to suppress the doubts, to remember how I felt when we talked. 11:00am. The last chills of morning had faded, giving way to a temperate spring day. I reached the station, and looked around for the man of my dreams amongst the crowd. It wasn’t hard to find him. A man that large was rather conspicuous, after all. As soon as I saw him, all my doubts melted away. He was looking in a different direction to me, giving me a side-on view. He was simply gigantic. In person, his size was in perspective, making it clear how enormous he really was. So...thick. He had to be pushing on two feet, taking into account all that pec and back muscle. His soft, dirty blond hair was neatly styled, accentuating his stubble (a result of his shaving difficulties I suspected) and prominent cheekbones. He’d clearly put effort in for this meeting - which I found rather sweet. He was as handsome in the flesh as he had been on-screen. He was wearing a white cotton tee and shorts (little else fit him now), which were painted on. His upper body was threatening to explode out of the shirt, which highlighted each massively swollen muscle group. His nipples pressed against the fabric, stretched taut as it was across his overdeveloped musculature. His duffel bag was slung over one shoulder, looking comically small compared to his body. Passers-by were staring at him, mostly in disgust at how someone could do that to themselves. Gaze upon his glory, you ignorant fools, I thought. They didn’t understand. Yes, he was a freak. But he wanted to be one. It was his choice. His destiny. His purpose. As I moved toward him, he must have caught me out of the corner of his eye, as he turned to face me. His face lit up in the most heart-warming smile, and mine involuntarily did the same. We came together, meeting halfway (him waddling adorably). Introductions weren’t necessary, we immediately entered into a heartfelt embrace. The contrast between us was hilarious, and arousing. I was 25, 5’6” and a svelte 110lbs. He was 20, 5’7” and 290lbs (I’d later find out he had grown another 3lbs in the last week). My arms wrapped tightly around him just below his lats, unable to make the slightest impression. His roid gut pushed into my own belly, while his muscles completely smothered me. All around me was muscle - pec, bicep, forearm. I was drowning in a veritable ocean of muscle. He was holding me firmly, but gently (his strength was as insane as his body). We said nothing, holding the embrace for a good minute. I drank in his scent - manly, but soft, with a hint of sweat - and the sensation of his muscles, letting his warmth suffuse into me. It all felt so...right. I could stay like this for hours. Both of us knew, in that moment, that this was meant to be. There could be no doubt. When we eventually broke the hug, we looked at each other. He smiled nervously; in contrast, my nerves were completely gone. For all his great size and strength, he was still the submissive one, needing me to take the lead and set the direction. I took his hand, exercising control, but also making clear to him that we were most definitely okay. I led James by the hand like a puppy to where I lived, ignoring the stares directed towards him. The short journey was a blur, and within a couple of minutes I had ushered him in and closed my door. I turned to face, and stepped close. He dropped the duffel bag on the floor, and I leaned in to kiss him on the lips. He returned it hungrily, and the kiss became more passionate, our tongues battling it out in our mouths. He pushed me against the wall, his pillow-sized pecs holding my measly weight in place. He moaned softly in satisfaction, while I breathed, “I’ve been waiting for this.” My hands eagerly grabbed at his muscles, and I tried to pull his shirt off, but it got caught on his lats. He simply brought his own hands up - calloused from all the weights - and tore the shirt clean in two, from collar to hem, exposing his body to me for the first time in the flesh. I gave a sharp intake of breath. There was just...so much of it. Mountains upon mountains of hard muscle, fighting each for other space. Hundreds of pounds of overgrown mass spilling in all directions, stretch marks testament to how fast he had grown. I broke the kiss, and stood there silently for a moment, admiring what James and I had built. The most glorious body I had ever seen; a monument to our love built of rock-hard flesh. I sighed in pleasure, and attacked that body with my mouth, tongue and hands. I spent the next 5 hours worshipping, appreciating, and sampling every last inch of his gloriously swollen body. For months I had wanted to do this, and I was making up for lost time. I kissed and licked his biceps and triceps - all 24 inches of them - as he flexed and pumped them for me, my tongue tracing the grooves, curves and crevices made by each head of muscle. I buried my head in his armpit - a vast cavern of muscle rippled with stretch marks - and drank deeply of his muscleboy sweat, armpit hair tickling my face. I teased and sucked his nipples while he slowly, methodically, bounced his pecs, and lapped up the fine layer of sweat that covered the downy, pillow-sized muscles, while my hands kneaded his cannonball shoulders. And so it went on, both of us groaning throughout. He obediently flexed and pumped every muscle at my command, enjoying my appreciation at the immense body he had built. He was my trophy, and he was proud of how impressed I was. By the end, we were both naked, cocks aching for release. I got to my feet, having finished savouring his enormous legs, and kissed him again. His hips bucked at the contact, our cocks rubbing against each other. I pulled away. “Suck,” I commanded. He knew what I meant. He negotiated himself to his knees (at his size, it was easy to overbalance) and gently, lovingly, placed his lips over my manhood. I exhaled sharply, looking down at his huge body, on his knees, pleasuring me. This was my dream made real. He hungrily sucked me, eager to taste my seed...I guessed (accurately) that he had long dreamed of this as well. “Pleasure yourself,” I offered, “but don’t make a mess.” One of his hands immediately clamped around his raging cock and began furiously pumping while he sucked me. He did not have to wait long: looking down on my grotesquely huge lover I was soon shooting, cumming like I never had before. He swallowed it all eagerly, a smile of ecstasy plastered on his face. Me cumming triggered him, and his bucked as he shot into his hand. He was careful to catch every drop, as per my command, before eating his own seed as well. My orgasm exhausted me, my brain overloaded from all the sensations. I stumbled on my feet, but suddenly his arms were around me and I was being carried (like a child - I weighed nothing to him) to my bed. He tenderly set me down, and then stood there. I chuckled and gave him permission to join me. The bed positively groaned under his weight, and he caused the mattress to sink, resulting in me sliding into him. Not that I was complaining; I snuggled up to him, resting my head in the groove between his pec and shoulder, while he placed his arm protectively over me. It was a prodigious weight in and of itself, but not uncomfortable. The warmth of his body suffused me. We lay there in thought. “What are your limits?” I asked. He was silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” he softly replied. “Much bigger than this. I still feel so small. Now that I’ve started, I don’t know whether I could stop, even if I wanted to.” I sensed he had more to say, so I said nothing. “I think of the boy I was...I’ve buried him in so much muscle. But the hunger is as great as ever, like I’m still that 120lb nobody. At first I just thought about being big, then a bodybuilder, then a mass monster...it doesn’t end. I don’t think it ever will.” He paused again. “It’s limitless, endless.” He looked me in the eye. I met his gaze, peering into his heart and soul. “Sir...grow me until you can’t grow me anymore. No limits. Don’t stop, no matter what.” I squeeze his lat lovingly, and nod in comprehension. “We’ll start tomorrow.” *** He was no fool. James knew what he had asked me to do. And I had been fully aware when I accepted. I was not surprised, knowing him as intimately as I did. But it was important that this final stage was done by mutual consent, given its end point. On the hand it pained me, loving him as I did. But on the other, this was destiny. It was meant to be. Quite simply, we were going to grow him to immobility and beyond. We did not know how long it would take, only that it would happen. Even his body, resilient as it was, could not endure the process forever. But in so doing, we would live in sublime happiness, exploring the extremities of humanly possible muscle growth. Full-time care, immobility...these were steps on the road. He would die in the end, but he would die a god. First off was helping him wash. My shower was a large walk-in one, meaning both of us easily fit. I gently cleaned every inch of his body - which he could no longer easily do - worshipping him along the way. I didn’t take long before he was on his knees milking me once again. Then it was straight to work. He came on the spot when I injected him with the first dose of his new cycle - one so extreme even the hardened pros would turn it down. He bowed his head in embarrassment, waiting to be punished. I stroked his cheek, raising his head to meet my gaze, smiled and lightly kissed him. “I’ll forgive my boy’s overexcitement this time...just don’t make a habit of it.” With the steroids (and other things) flowing through him, we made love for the first time. I straddled his roid gut, my erection thrusting proudly forward, and looked upon his body, laying spread-eagle beneath me. It was as if I were an aeroplane, flying over the most beautiful landscape below. Acres of muscle stretched in all directions, complete with mountains, valleys and forests. I took a moment to again admire what we had built. And to think it was just the beginning. What would he look like at 350? 400? The best days were still to come. On that note, I dived down to beginning worshipping his muscles once again. An hour later he was on all fours, his enormous backside - two globular glutes the size of my torso - thrust outward. It was time for me to claim him. I was no especial fan of anal sex per se, but this was a symbolic act...and I couldn’t deny that the thought of conquering my massive boy was rather enticing. I scrambled up the huge leg muscles to mount him, noting the ludicrous size difference between us. My tiny body perched upon his Herculean one. I positioned myself, and breathed deeply, before cleanly thrusting all the way inside him in a single motion. He groaned like a horse, and his glutes bucked into my hips, almost sending me flying from the strength. Fortunately, I was using his shoulders as rather sturdy handholds. After another pause while he recovered his composure, I then began thrusting. It didn’t take long before my own composure was lost, and I was pounding him like a jackhammer, with all the power I could muster. He absorbed that power as if it were nothing (and to him, it wasn’t). But he was in ecstasy, roaring with pleasure every time I thrusted. “Conquer me Sir, breed your growing boy...make me immobile…” “You wanna get bigger, little boy?” I panted. “Please Sir, make me bigger...grow me…” he begged. “What was that?” I teased, thrusting ever faster, sweat running down my forehead. “Please, grow me...grow me...GROW ME!” he screamed, as I came inside him. My puny body spasmed uselessly against his grotesquely overgrown mass, firing every last drop of cum I had into him. He was also spasming, but desperately trying not to cum. My edict remained in place, after all: he could only cum with my permission. And I hadn’t given it - deliberately. His eyes rolled back in his head, hips bucking like a bull, as I clung on, fingers digging into his shoulders. After a couple of minutes the bucking slowed, and came to a stop. He’d held it in. I loosened my grip, and stroked his cheek and withdrew from his arse (he whimpered as I did so), the glutes twitching as if hungry for more. “Good boy,” I told him, smiling in the aftermath of our love. “Now, you go to the gym. If you come back pumped enough I may just let you pleasure yourself.” He nodded like a puppy, and I kissed him. *** He stood naked in front of my wide mirror, studying his reflection as he casually flexed different muscles. His cock was hard, throbbing rhythmically. I came up behind him. “What’s up?” I asked. He brought his arms up for a double biceps, the engorged muscles ballooning larger than his head. I couldn’t help but suck in air, and my cock twitched heavily. He brought them down after a couple of seconds. “I’m a freak, aren’t I? How big I am, how much I’ve grown, that I still want to get bigger...all of it. I’m sick in the head.” I nod. No point in denying it now, given how far he’s gone. I had decided we’d only weigh him every 6 months, to increase the suspense. It had been 3 months since we’d met at the station, and he’s visibly grown since them. I’d guess he was somewhere in the 320s, but at his size it was hard to tell. “You are, yes. It isn’t ‘normal’ to want to do what you’ve done. But then I’m not ‘normal’ for finding it the most beautiful and erotic thing on Earth. If you’re ill, so am I.” I shrug at that, and put my arms around his waist, my chin resting on his mountainous shoulder. “We’re happy, right?” He nods back, smiling softly. “Happier than I’ve ever been. I feel alive for the first time. Knowing that I have built this body. Knowing that every day I’m bigger. Knowing that I’m growing with the man I love.” He turns his head to me, eyes giving me that ‘this is my soul you’re about to see’ look. “This feeling, this lifestyle,” he continues, “Is all I’ve ever wanted. Please...make it never stop.” I smile and kiss him gently. “I’ll do my best.” He picks me up, carries me over to the settee, and sits me down on his lap. This has become a habit of ours, where we’ll snuggle and read together. His enormous quads provide a more-than-ample cushion for me, and his pecs are perfect to rest my head against. His arms enclose around me, enveloping me in walls of muscle. There is little more soothing and comforting for me. I immediately feel myself relaxing into his muscles, feeling them push back against my feeble weight. We do this every day, and every couple of sessions I can feel he’s bigger. Something’s a little harder, or sticks out a little more, or is a little heavier. It’s exhilarating. We’re currently reading Tolstoy’s War and Peace. A bit of long one, I know, but I felt its theme was appropriate to our situation. James enjoyed it as much as I did, hearing of lost characters stumbling through life’s twists and turns, coming together in love. There was more than a passing equivalence to our own tale, we both thought. Not to mention the book was simply great, truly one of the greatest works of literature humanity has ever produced. We sit there in silence, reading one page at a time, occasionally giving small reactions - a chuckle to something humorous, or a tsk when some character is being a dick (not uncommon in War and Peace). I always finished the two pages first, with him a few seconds behind; when he finished, he’d give a sign - usually by flexing a muscle - and I’d turn the page and we’d carry on. *** 358lbs. He groaned as I announced it, precum leaking from his desperately hard cock. 68lbs in 6 months. Slower than his previous rate, but to be expected given his size now. Still damn impressive. I had worshipped his ballooning body every single day of those 6 months. Knowing that his muscles were bigger each and every time my lips and hands touched them was pure sex to me. Stretch marks spread from his armpits across his shoulders, pecs and lats, as his body struggled to keep up with the process. Discovering new ones when I sampled his body was a small joy in and of itself. His face - his beautiful, handsome face - wore a look of perpetual bliss, the pleasure centres of his brain firing constantly from the unceasing cycle of lifting, eating, roids, worship and sex. Our love had only grown with his body, making the last 6 months the best of both of our lives. We were perfect fits in every way. And there was still so much more to come. I took a moment to look upon the monumental body we had built together. His head was framed by traps that nearly brushed his ears, and sat atop a thick bull-neck. That neck flowed into shoulders so broad he couldn’t fit through door frames, each shoulder the size of a football, the three caps of muscle fighting each other for space. From those boulder-like shoulders hang arms the size of tree trunks. Horseshoe triceps that thrust three inches outwards when he flexed, and biceps bigger than his head made for upper arms approaching 30 inches in circumference. After them came forearms the size of my legs, contoured with the striations of the muscles and coated in a perfectly soft layer of light brown hair. I liked to stroke my cheek with that hair when we lay in bed together. Then came his pecs. Pecs had always been my favourite muscles, and James carried the most enormous pair I had ever seen (virtually or physically). They were the size of pillows, with a cleavage so deep it swallowed my hand all the way to my wrist. Sagging under their own weight, it took nearly a second for him to bounce the whole muscle, creating this glorious slow-motion ripple effect of muscle as he did so. The ensemble was completed by a coat of soft fur that made them sublime to rest my head on. The width of his shoulders required him to turn sideways to get through doors, and the thickness of his pecs meant doors were becoming narrow in that orientation as well. Just another step on the road. Worshipping those gigantic mounds of muscle alone could make me cum. Below his prodigious pec shelf came his roid gut. 8 abs, each the size of my hand, ideal for running my tongue over. I particularly enjoyed lapping up the sweet gym sweat from the crevices between each of the muscles. If it hadn’t been for the rest of his muscle, the gut would’ve made him look obese from its size. The gut was framed by a set of lats that stretched over a foot outwards when he flexed, forcing his arms to rest at a 40 degree angle to his sides, and fjords of intercostal muscles. It was as if every muscle in his body, from the greatest to the smallest, was stupendously overgrown. It served to give his abdomen the appearance of a granite column. Then came his manhood. Permanently erect from the sheer pleasure of his vast body, and from being high on an obscene cocktail of drugs, his penis stood at proud attention, almost saluting our efforts to make him even bigger. It was framed by two mammoth sets of quads, each bigger than his waist (which was very bloated from his roid gut), the four heads of muscle engaged in a ferocious battle of space. They bulged out in a landscape of peaks and troughs, taking up so much space that James found walking tiring. Each step required him to swing his leg out wide to get it around his other leg; it was slow, tiring work but gave him a delightful lumbering waddle. The bulging quadriceps flowed into calves the size of my head, rising an inch outward when flexed. Even his feet had accommodate his ever-increasing weight. I spent the whole day worshipping every millimetre of that body, culminating in me claiming him with such passion I nearly passed out. As we snuggled in bed afterwards, my head resting on his pec (he covered the whole bed nowadays), I softly asked him an important question. “Where next?” I sensed him pondering the question. Although I wanted him to get bigger (limits were for the weak), it was important that we both understand where each of us was coming from. His size was having a lot of consequences for him now, and if he didn’t want to go further I would accept that. There was more than enough of him to enjoy as was; more would of course be nice, but not essential. I felt a rumble develop through his pec, indicating he was about to speak, and looked up to his (still boyishly handsome) face. He was smiling, but his voice carried worry that I doubted him, that I wasn’t going to make him bigger. “I’m still mobile, Sir. You promised to make me immobile. I’m still just a little boy. Please Sir, make me a big boy. Please.” It was partly sex talk, but also serious. I flashed him my smile. “You won’t be mobile for much longer if I have anything to do with it, believe me. We’ll make you a big boy, you have my word.” His smile broadened with simple joy.
  4. Part 4 is nearly done. Apologies for how long it’s taken, I’ve had a lot going on and writing has taken somewhat of a back seat. I’m hoping to have Part 4 in the next few days! Thanks again for all the positive comments, it’s much appreciated.
  5. I like Marcus’ personality - on the surface a bit of a dick, but a good guy underneath it all. Your description and portrayal of his growth is really captivating - you really get across how it’s out of control. Where does it end, I wonder? Did the meteor make Marcus addicted too? Will he have a revelation about what’s happening?
  6. Was kinda hoping Lewis and our protagonist would get it on... Again, fantastic to see you come back to this. You’re writing is masterful in conveying ecstasy and passion of muscle and all that comes with it.
  7. At first I thought my eyes were deceiving me, but no! Thank you for continuing this masterpiece, Florida.
  8. 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.
  9. 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.
  10. 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!
  11. Forever holding out hope of a revival...
  12. 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.
  13. Love the symbiotic nature of the relationship. Always appreciate a new piece from you!
  14. 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 :)
  15. 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.”
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