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goremeridian

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About goremeridian

  • Rank
    250+ Posts
  • Birthday 05/14/1979

Profile

  • Location
    London
  • This profile is a...
    real profile.
  • Gender
    Male
  • Orientation
    Gay
  • What are your interests?
    I like extremes, be that extremes of strength, musculature or sheer physical size.
  • What are your stats?
    5"11, 152lbs
  • What are you seeking?
    Stories that make me (in no particular order:) think, gasp, get a whopping great erection, laugh, growl with envy at the awesome writing, and want to re-read to have the experience all over again. It'd be nice to meet people on here with similar interests too.
  • What are your dream stats?
    Hmm, I could probably go for a few more pounds of muscle. So long as I'm at least a billion gigatonnes lighter than my boyfriend :)
  • Favorite Stories
    Grow Your Own Gravity, Mass Hose, Justin (the bigger the better), Graham. Any stories about an unquenchable thirst for massive muscle growth, really.
  • Favorite Bodybuilders
    Peter Molnar, Lee Priest
  • Got Any Fetishes?
    A man's obsession with more and more size, never being satisfied no matter how freakishly muscular he grows, kind of...does strange things to me psychologically. Goood things. :)

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  1. Here it is. If bobaroo objects then of course we'll take it down. I really hope I'm not treading on any toes here. Enjoy Mike's Workout by [email protected] There were several cars and trucks parked in the lot when Mike pulled into a space. "Good," he thought, "everyone is here and ready. Means I can get started right away." He smiled as he walked into the bright sunshine. It was a warm spring day, clear but not too hot. "Perfect for a workout," he thought. "Always can really kick ass when I'm not fighting the weather." The warm sunshine felt good on his back and shoulders as Mike walked forward. He wasn't wearing any shirt; he never did when he exercised in good weather. Mike's skin was already darkening from being out in the sun for hours each day. He was wearing ripped denim cut-off shorts and scuffed heavy-duty construction boots, and that was it. There was a slight breeze that riffled the thick patch of brown hair on his chest, slightly tickling him. Mike scratched at his pec just as he rounded a corner to where Tom and Jeremy were chatting. The two men stopped talking the second they saw him and just stared. Even now after a year of workouts he still had that effect on them. He had that effect on everyone, really, and Mike loved it. He smiled, even white teeth glinting in the sun, contrasting against the dense brown goatee that surrounded his full lips. The men were staring at his arm, the bicep full and peaked even though it hadn’t been pumped at all yet. The sinews in Mike’s forearm twitched around zig-zagging veins as he absently scratched his chest again. Tom’s gaze traveled from the hulking mass of Mike’s upper arm along the rippling forearms to the sausage-sized fingers whose tips were buried in the bush of hair that sprouted from Mike’s chest. Jeremy had been staring at Mike’s chest from the beginning. They were two enormous humps of rounded muscle that jutted out so far that it seemed that anywhere he went that Mike’s nipples would arrive two minutes before his bubble butt ass did. Mike walked over to them and asked, “How’s it going, guys?” in a deep bass that sometimes spooked dogs. Mike towered over the other two since he stood 6 foot 6 inches. Tom and Jeremy forgot whatever it was that they were talking about, and they looked up into Mike’s handsome face. “It’s going good,” Jeremy said. “I’m looking forward to this workout, as always.” Tom nodded, since his mouth had gone a bit dry. The air temperature hadn’t changed, but with Mike’s arrival it was as if additional heat was being pumped into the atmosphere. Tom dropped his eyes from Mike’s to look at the big man’s neck, which was much thicker than his head. Huge trap muscles protruded from either side of the neck, to merge into the gigantic caps of muscles that were Mike’s deltoids. And that brought Tom’s gaze back to the swollen right arm, now hanging at Mike’s side, but pushed out at an angle by the sweep of the lat muscle. Mike smiled, said, “Me too,” then turned and saw a man in the distance, climbing into the cab of a crane that sat 100 feet away. “I see that Little Mike is getting ready. Let’s do that first.” Little Mike stood 6 foot 2 and was a burly construction worker. Under any other circumstances no one would ever have given him that nickname, but compared to Mike he was little. He was one of those guys who are naturally big and strong but when three months ago when he answered the ad for a crane operator he never expected to be dwarfed by anyone. And when he heard what the job entailed, he thought that Mike was crazy. Until he stayed to watch a workout. He quit his old job that day. Mike strode across the dusty yard while Tom sprinted to another crane. Jeremy walked further along, heading for the fork lift that he would be operating later. They were at an old railroad yard that wasn’t in use any more and that Mike had been able to get for his own use after a visit to the president of the freight company that owned it. It was his to use for free, just like the construction equipment donated by a local contractor. All Mike had to do was pay a visit once in a while and show how his workouts were going, provide a few tapes of them and the company presidents gave him whatever he wanted. Tom got into the cab of the crane just as Mike reached a spot midway between his crane and Little Mike’s. He started the engine and Mike bent down, stretching each arm out a bit. When Mike stood up in each mitt he held a thick metal loop, the iron four inches around. He nodded and both Tom and Little Mike moved levers and the cranes started to reel in the steel cables that were attached to the metal loops. When Mike’s arms were stretched out, he started to contract his chest muscles. There was a whine in the air as the crane motors strained as the cables were pulled out again. Mike made the knuckles of each hand touch, then slowly extended his arms again. The whine died down, but Mike was still exerting resistance on the cables, so that they shortened slowly. But once Mike’s arms were fully extended again the whine sounded as the engines labored to continue shortening the cable. But something more powerful was drawing the cables out. Mike’s pectoral muscles contracted, overpowering the cranes that normally would be used to lift girders up at construction sites. Little Mike worked the gearshift with one hand while he held onto binoculars with the other. He saw Mike’s chest as it swelled up, the brutal muscle overpowering thousands of horsepower of machinery. Even though Mike’s muscles were covered with all that hair it was still possible for Little Mike to see the exploding fan of striations in the pecs as Mike inexorably drew his hands closer together. Little Mike started shoving his crotch against the base of the gearshift as he watched his bigger namesake below. After 15 reps the men shifted gears to idle the cranes as Mike dropped the loops. The warm up felt good and Mike could already feel the blood rushing into his chest muscles. This WAS going to be a good workout, he knew it. Mike bent down to start the next set. Tom and Little Mike shifted into a higher gear and the cranes exerted more power this time, as if they were lifting a heavier load of 20 tons. As Mike’s muscles overcame the pull of the machines Tom could hear that his crane was making louder noises than usual. Its engine wouldn’t last too much longer against the superhuman power in Mikes’ chest. Mike would have to pay another personal visit to the construction company soon to persuade the president to donate a new one. He’d have to tell Mike what to ask for because this model was getting too easy for Mike anyway. Mike had noticed the difference in the engine also, and that made his cock stir a little in his tight shorts. He had demolished so many machines by now that he had lost count, but it was a rush anyway each time that it happened. He thought about the locomotive that was used for leg presses. Mike would lie on the train track, knees bent, his feet placed up against the reinforced front of an engine usually used to pull 50 boxcars. Dave the engineer would sound the whistle and then start the locomotive forward. Mike would extend his legs and the wheels of the locomotive would squeal as it was forced backward. Then Mike would slowly bend his knees and the train would move forward, but only about two feet because Mike’s legs would hold it in place. Rep after rep, the train would inch forward, only to be shoved backward by the overwhelming force of Mike’s thigh muscles. For each set Dave would push the throttle forward more, so that more horsepower was driving the engine forward. But no matter the horsepower, it was always halted by Mike. His thighs would be bulging insanely by the end of the last set, and when he stood up and did a thigh flex, gargantuan tear drops of muscle would blast into view. One day Dave had the throttle pushed all the way and Mike just held it in place after the set was done. For ten minutes the wheels of the train screeched as they spun on the rails until two snapped off and went flying, almost killing Tom who was standing on the sidelines, jerking his cock with both hands. A smell of burning insulation also filled the air, and the engineer shut the locomotive down. Mike remembered the feeling of triumph he felt as he stood up and saw the locomotive slightly askew on the rails, its engine wrecked. Dave slowly climbed out of the cab, the front of his pants soaking wet. Mike also remembered the look of the railroad president’s face while he was telling him this, the look in his eyes, the slight gape of his mouth. It was a combination of fear and lust. Needless to say, a locomotive was “retired” from active service that day and driven to the workout yard. Mike crunched out the last rep of the second set of cable flyes, tensing his chest tightly. Then he nodded and slowly released the cables as the operators shifted the gears. Jeremy had come back to watch and he handed Mike a bottle of water from which Mike took a few gulps. He wiped the back of his hand against his mouth and handed the bottle back. Mike noticed that Jeremy had a bulge in his pants, but what else was new? Jeremy saw Mike’s gaze on his crotch and that just caused his cock to throb harder in his jeans which would be showing the pre-cum stain soon enough. Mike got ready and nodded for the third set to begin. The cranes exerted the equivalent of 30 tons of force, but at a certain point Mike’s chest again halted the movement of the metal loops. Last week Mike had had the guys increase the force because 28 tons had become too easy, so he was straining a bit now against the machines. But that’s what would make his muscles grow even stronger, he knew that, and that’s what he wanted. By the ninth rep he gritted his teeth a little and then let the cables retract. Tom sounded a blast on the horn, a signal to ask if that was the last rep. Mike angrily shook his head and yanked on the cables so that they stretched out again, pulled out by the titanic force exerted by his chest muscles. He was gulping air and that caused his pecs to seem as if they were undulating with power. He forced his knuckles to touch, as for every other rep, then nodded his head to signal that he had completed the set. Little Mike and Tom shut down the cranes as Mike let the loops drop to the ground. Mike did a side chest pose for Jeremy and said, “Not bad for a 48-year old, is it?” Between the exertion of the exercise and the warmth of the spring day, Mike had started to sweat so that the hair was beginning to get slightly matted down with wetness. There were some beads of sweat on Mike’s arms that had started to get pumped up as well from outmuscling the heavy machinery. “Come on, I’m gonna need you for the next set, you know that,” Mike said. He turned and walked over to the next exercise, with Jeremy trotting along to keep up. Mike stopped at a concrete pillar that had thick padding on the top of it. He bent down and as if he were doing the limbo dance, he lowered himself down so that he was lying on the pad. He had to bend because there was a steel girder over the pillar. On each side of the girder a boxcar had been bolted to the end of the iron bar so that it was held up by the cars, suspended just over the pad. Mike grabbed onto the girder and his fingers fit into the grooves there. This wasn’t surprising since he had moulded the hand grips himself when the bench press station had first been built. Squeezing into the metal, deforming the edge of the girder so that he would be able to keep a good grip on it. Because he was going to be lifting very, very heavy weights. Mike straightened his arms and the girder began to rise. On each side was an old freight boxcar loaded with the compressed wreckage of old cars, so that Mike was lifting 200 tons of metal. Mike’s pecs were bulging into two thick mountain peaks of muscle, and if you had put a normal barbell pole in between his chest muscles it would be flattened out by now. Up and down the freaky assemblage went, until after 20 times Mike manoeuvred the girder back into the uprights. Jeremy immediately moved the forklift over to a pile of crushed auto bodies that had been brought from a junkyard, 2 tons each. Mike got off the bench and grabbed a cube of twisted metal in his hand and tossed it into the open doorway of one of the boxcars. He walked over and picked up another cube, bending his legs as he did so then straightening up. A truck this had probably been, but it was not too heavy for Mike. He pushed that into the rail car with the other one. He and Jeremy added more metal into the cars until they were up to 220 tons. Mike laid back on the bench and began to press the huge weights up. His chest muscles felt tight, but this wasn’t a major test of his strength. He knew that he could pump out more than 15 reps and he held the weight in full control for each of the ten reps that he did. “Yo, Jeremy, another 15 on your side,” he called out when he was done with the set. The bleep, bleep of the forklift as it backed up rang on and on as Mike grabbed hold of the wreckage of other big SUVs and trucks to put into the waiting box car. The other guys had gathered to watch. Under any other circumstance, a man picking up one of these cubes of metal would have been front page news. But Mike was far past this point. He turned to face the other men and said, “Time to really work these pecs.” He positioned himself back onto the pad and started to lift. The metal raised up and down over and over. Jeremy remembered being concerned the first time that he saw this exercise being performed. After the first rep he asked Mike, “Shouldn’t we do something with the cranes? Loop the hooks around so they can act like a spot?” Mike just grinned and pressed Jeremy’s face against his pumped up chest muscles and said, “These boys are never going to give out on me, don’t you worry.” But Jeremy still watched in awe as those huge humps of muscles contracted and powered the weight overhead. Much more weight than a year ago when he started working for Mike. The girder back in place, Mike roared, “Jeremy, hurry up, we’ve got to up the weight for the next set!” Jeremy ran and soon had 10 more cubes into the left box car. Mike powered out another set, as the other three men counted out the reps. “Another one,” bellowed Dave at the 10th rep finished. Mike pushed it up, obviously more effort than the others, and then Little Mike shouted, “Grow, man, grow!” and Mike did one more, than one more, his teeth gritting as he slowly lowered the weight back down. Mike stood up and the other men gasped at the way that his chest looked, pumped and sweaty, protruding out over his taut waist. Mike was breathing deeply and his chest expanded with every intake of breath and Little Mike whispered, “Oh man, it’s better every day.” Mike heard that and smirked as he stepped down from the platform and headed over to a similar one, the three men trailing him. Dave offered Mike a towel at the next station and the huge man wiped down his chest and stomach and wiped under each deep hairy armpit. He tossed it back to Dave who brought it up to his face and breathed in deeply. Mike laid down on another concrete pillar but this one was inclined at an angle. He grabbed a girder in each hand. A tractor trailer was welded onto the end of each girder and Mike quickly began to do incline flyes with them. He heard the sound of the forklift that Jeremy was driving over, and when he was done with the first set Dave and Jeremy each used a forklift to load a few car cubes into the open doorway at the side of each trailer. “Want to see me lift more?” Mike asked. “Hell yeah!” Tom answered. Mike laid down and quickly did a set, followed by another one once Dave and Jeremy had loaded in 5 more cubes per side. When he finished the last set Mike was panting a little but he felt great. Such power! It boned him up when he lifted like this, and he lifted like this every day. His three helpers watched him walk down slowly from the weight station. They saw the bulge in his jeans and hoped to get a glimpse of the thick head peaking out from the bottom of the cut-off shorts. Mike walked over to them, rather than heading for the decline bench with the cement mixers. “Damn, boys, I’m horned up right now. I think that I have to take care of it before going on with the work out.” The men were thrilled, because usually when this happened they were treated to two sets of muscle sex, rather than one. Mike rubbed his swelling crotch with his right hand while he felt his bloated right pec with his left hand. It was so hard and firm, harder than one of the metal cubes that he had tossed into the box car earlier. Little Mike was hoping that he would get a chance to suck off the big man today – it had been 3 days since he had. Tom felt in his pocket for the tube of lubricant, hoping that he would get fucked again like last week. But Mike had other plans. “Guys, I must have spring fever. So randy that I want to really cut loose now. Sorry, but I’m going to take care of this bad boy myself,” he said as he unzipped his fly. The three men were crestfallen even as their excitement grew at the sight of the thick cockhead pressing Mike’s jock through the open fly. This hadn’t happened before; Mike always let them get off on his muscles. Mike pushed the denim shorts down, exposing the round globes of his glutes. He shifted weight on one foot and the left cheek became streaked with radiating muscle striations. Tom was already fingering his cock through his open fly. Mike fingered the broad head of his cock as it strained even further against the jock, and then he tucked a finger into the waistband and slowly yanked the monster free. Jeremy undid his belt buckle and pulled his pants down to reveal a dick already at full throttle. Little Mike was not far behind, taking his big dripping tool out of his pants. Mike swirled his hand over his purple dick head, feeling the precum smoothing the abrasion of his hard calloused hand as it moved around it. His left hand went back to his right chest muscle, feeling under the rock of muscle and sweeping it around to the front. He grabbed his nipple between thumb and forefinger and pinched hard as his right hand started to stroke his fully engorged rod. He remembered the feeling as he forced out a rep against the big cranes, wearing their motors down. He smiled a broad smile as he thought of the day, probably not so far away, when he would need two cranes for each hand to test his muscles, to make them grow even stronger. Mike moaned at that image, then thought of TV cameras beaming it to a world wide audience. Millions of men and women masturbating as they watched his muscles exerting their unrelenting power against the machinery, forcing it to submit in his quest to get stronger. He said out loud, “Guys, this is going to be something today,” as he squeezed his hand around his shaft and began to jerk it quickly. “Everyday I really get off on fucking you, getting sucked and jerked by you,” he said. “But I always have to hold back.” “Hold back?” Dave asked as he fisted his meat, staring directly at Mike’s chest. “Didn’t you ever think about it? How I could curl fully loaded dump trucks with each hand, yet still grab onto you while I fucked you standing up? The muscle control that’s involved to keep from squishing you like a grape. Then shooting a volley of cum in your ass. That takes control. Holding back.” “Shit, it gets me hot myself to think of how strong I am. The power and muscle. The majesty.” All three smaller men were standing close around Mike now, their own cocks aching in their hands. Mike was huffing harder than when he was benching and they knew that he was close. “Yeah, the fucking power, uggh, uggh, can’t hold back thinking about it!” Mike shouted. “Watch it!” Then a big glob of cum shot out from Mike’s cock, rocketing 20 feet across the yard to a boulder at the edge of the work out area. There was a load crack as the rock split into pieces and then another shot broke it further. The third load blasted it into small bits and the other men had to duck from being hit by the debris. Little Mike screamed like a girl at the sight and sent his own load splattering onto the dirt. Dave had tears in his eyes when he realized what Mike was talking about, as he shot, and Jeremy and Tom were just panting as they pumped cum all over the ground in front of them. Mike’s cum was not going as far now and was plopping a few feet in front of him, kicking up dirt into the air. His hand traveled down the length of his cock one last time, then he stopped and turned to them. “See what I meant about holding back? I would blast the back of your heads off if I didn’t control how hard my balls and crotch muscles pumped out that spunk.” Little Mike pressed his cheek against Mike’s furry chest and murmured, “What a way to go.” Mike smiled and rubbed his rough hand across Little Mike’s shaved head. “Hey, we have three more sets of chest to do today. Maybe when it’s done you can suck me off and think about it.”
  2. goremeridian

    Island Story

    Sounds like it might be Damn Dionysus! It was the second story I ever wrote on this site: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 GM
  3. goremeridian

    Strength stories

    Hi there OopsOopsOops, If you like depictions of strength then I posted a selection of story titles in the Clubs section of the site (the club is called Superstrength and Crushing); here's the link:
  4. goremeridian

    How YOU Write CONTENT REMOVED BY THE AUTHOR

    Ha ha! Yes, it's a sort of maddening process and incredibly bad for me mentally and physically. I wish I could just sit - type - send but I guess that's not how my brain is wired. Maybe I should try it once or twice. It'd probably be good for me to get out of my (dis)comfort zone a couple of times when writing.
  5. goremeridian

    What do you want?

    What do I want in a story? Unquenchable greed for more mass. It doesn't matter how big the grower gets, I want to read the magic words "I need MORE pills!" / "3,400lbs is still too puny - gotta get BIGGER!" / "You think I'm huge now? Heh, I haven't even scratched the fuckin' SURFACE of how massive I want to become" or some variation thereof. Statistics - lots of statistics - are a must too. There are some writers on this site who have a true sense of craft. Who write, for want of a better term, beautifully. And I always try to comment on those writers' stories, because I admire that level of skill. But craft is not specifically what I want. There are other writers here who create well-rounded characters. Or weave descriptions into their narratives so vivid you can practically taste the protagonist's sweat. Or conjure stories so left-field, so original, so bursting with creative flair that I can feel my very eyeballs pickling in jealousy as they leap from word to word. These writers are to be commended. Admired. Their stories should be framed, lauded, held up proudly as examples of literary excellence. I love stories like that, I really do. But again, it is not what I want. Take, for example, my favourite story of all time. "Grow your own gravity". Is it well-crafted? No. Does it contain well-rounded characters? Does it have vivid descriptions? Is it original? Again, no, no, and no. But. Does it contain greed? Yes. And then some. And quite a few statistics too. That's why it's my go-to story if I need a quick fix. This site has so many talented writers who have brought me many, many hours of joy. But it also has a handful of oft-unrecognised writers who really understand how to write GREED. So to you I beg, please keep writing about musclefreaks who still see themselves as weaklings, about endless muscle-growth pills guzzled lustily, about planet-sized bodybuilders who will never, ever, ever be satisfied. Because that - more than craft, characters, descriptions or originality - is what I want. GM
  6. goremeridian

    How YOU Write CONTENT REMOVED BY THE AUTHOR

    I asked this same topic in the clubs section a while ago but didn't get many responses. I'm glad to see people are sharing now; it's a fascinating look into the minds of some of the writers here. Anyway, here's what I wrote: For a couple of years The Guardian (a U.K. broadsheet) ran a feature on how writers write: not only the process but where they wrote, any idiosyncrasies they had and so on. I think the feature had a catchy title but I forget. I just thought it might be interesting to see how you guys write. Maybe we could all learn a little something from one another, and perhaps be encouraged to try out different methods. I write sitting in bed. (Ben Okri does the same thing so I'm in good company ). My laptop is on a cushion in front of me and my mouse is on another cushion, on the same height. Even though I'm principally using the keyboard, I like to know that a mouse is attached for occasional clickage; I'm weird like that. I try to sit in the middle of the bed but a couple of years ago two of the wooden beams on the bottom of the bed beneath the mattress on the right-hand side split - I'll leave it to your imagination, ahem - so I have to sit just left of centre, otherwise one of my arse-cheeks will keep slipping lower than the other as the mattress dips. I hunch over the laptop too, like some old witch stirring a cauldron of ideas. It's incredibly bad for me, and totally unnecessary, but I can't help it. After a while I can't sit back properly without some serious pain. I can't really function as a normal human being until the story or chapter has been squeezed out of me, so it's essentially a blitz of coffee and typing, with occasional bouts of pacing back and forth across my bedroom, massaging my lower spine and talking to myself to get it right, from start to finish. I work best at night, so anyone who walks past my house at 4 a.m. and sees a silhouette through the bedroom blind maniacally pacing, or gesticulating, or arguing two sides of an imaginary conversation, has probably caught me mid-story. I cannot write on a full stomach so usually I won't have eaten anything substantial for around 18 hours or more before putting finger to key. I also can't write if I've been sated sexually, so I have to refrain from masturbation until the story is over. I'm a heavy drinker, so if I've started writing early evening I might have a bottle of wine or a couple of cans of beer next to me to swig from every now and then, though I probably drink more coffee than alcohol. I can't listen to music and so for a long time, the only sounds that my ears register are the tapping of keys and my own manic mumbling. It takes me around 10 to 12 hours to get a chapter or story right. I can usually finish the piece in 6 to 8 hours or so, then I normally go into this crazy mode, because my brain is still fizzing, but I have no outlet. I'm too wired to go to bed so I'll usually calm my brain with video games or take a long walk. I used to chat to my flatmates (in fact, one flatmate used to work on his academic essays while I was writing and we'd both have a large rum in the kitchen when we'd finished, which was very cool) but I live alone these days and don't have any friends I could talk to in that kind of crazy mood where I live now so that's not an option. Normally around midday I'll go back over the story, editing the hell out of it until it's how I wanted it. Then I'll post it, usually editing it again in the process. Then it's a hot bath and a decent meal. That night I am usually so exhausted I have to go to bed early. I try not to look at the forum to see if anyone's read it; I'm in a different timezone to most of the people on the site anyway so anything I post during the day doesn't usually get read until the evening at the earliest. But you can bet the first thing I do when I wake up is check to see if anyone's read it, liked it, and - the most thrilling thing for any writer - commented on it. If I get a comment on my writing it feels that the whole two days have not been a total waste. I know I shouldn't draw confidence and life-assertion from other people, but if people haven't taken the effort to write only a couple of words, it really stings. I don't EXPECT comments (I'm a teacher, so I'm used to toiling thanklessly for hours for others' benefit, lol) but MAN, I like them I can just about write a story or chapter in one weekend, though it nukes my Saturday and Sunday completely, and if I have book marking to do (4 weekends every 5) then it's not an option. I try to wait until I hit a holiday (every 7 weeks or so) to get something done, which is frustrating for me as I always feel I'm letting people on the site down, particularly if a chapter has received positive comments and people are asking eagerly when the next chapter will be out. (Man, we writers are a sensitive lot, eh?) That's my "process", I guess, heh. I'd really like to hear from you guys about how YOU conjure forth such excellent writing. Obviously if you have any questions ("Why do you put yourself through this?" "Don't your neighbours complain about you talking to yourself at 4 a.m.?" "So how exactly DID those wooden beams crack, GM?" etc.) then I'm happy to answer those too. I look forward to your responses!
  7. goremeridian

    AJ & Noah

    To describe your skills as a writer as anything short of professional-level would be doing you a disservice. The plotting has a great and varied pace to it, allowing us to slow down every now and then to focus on internal monologue (terrific both for building character and to showcase some of your trademark humour), whilst at other times deftly spurring us forward to the next scene...all the while keeping our anticipation tickling. What I admire most is the level of control you seem to have. I can't help but rush through my narrative when I write. It could be a stylistic thing, it could be a fetish thing, but I want to get to the growth / sex / strength / cock thing as soon as possible. I want my five course meal, NOW. Yet you have lured your readers in with an effervescent aperitif, following it up with a tantalising vol-au-vent or two...and we haven't even sat down at the table. That takes great patience and skill. In short, it makes me want to keep reading. I'm really, really looking forward to seeing where this goes. And from the sheer number of likes and comments, it's clear that, in this, I am far from alone .
  8. goremeridian

    Growth by Association CONTENT REMOVED BY THE AUTHOR

    Terrific and original storytelling. Loved the left-field ending. Great stuff, RPJ!
  9. goremeridian

    Americanised Stories

    What a fascinating topic! I've never once thought about changing my lexis to suit a principally-American audience. I love reading words from another country. Expressions like "High School" and "Varsity" and "10th Grade" sound exotic to me; they resonate with a magic, an electricity, because they are so far removed from my own sphere of experience. I would assume that if I told a story about a pair of dank Year 11 scallies getting plastered on WKD and having a pissed shag in the minging carpark round the back of the old Watford Woolworths you'd all find it equally magical ? I say write what you know, with your voice.
  10. goremeridian

    The Arpeejay Formula CONTENT REMOVED BY THE AUTHOR

    I wouldn't worry about having a "formula". I envy the way each of your stories has a coherent and seamless plot. They're all so easy and engaging to read, which is a testament to your skill as a writer. I'm in the same boat as sithspawn. I'm sort of trying to develop a formula myself, as it would sure make structuring a narrative a hell of a lot easier.
  11. Hey you want talk about GIGA macro stuff?

  12. goremeridian

    The Muscle Machine CONTENT REMOVED BY THE AUTHOR

    I've never read this before. I LOVE Max's insatiable greed for more size! Terrific stuff
  13. goremeridian

    extreme muscle growth stories

    Thanks for the mention, noname!
  14. goremeridian

    "Please, Sir. I need it."

    A staggeringly well-written story, Buffling. Your broad lexis and your fluency with language - including sizzling similes ("My groin felt like a loaded weapon, with the special sauce serving as the ammunition") and metaphors (I particularly liked "fjords of intercostals") - creating a really vivid picture. I am seriously impressed (and very horny at the same time, ha ha )
  15. What an electric story. Very, very hot - and I love the way you have woven the protagonist's sense of humour through the narrative. Terrific stuff, an0n12
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