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Well... here you go. A new story... first part of... maybe three of four. Not really sure. Hope you enjoy it!! Oh... Ive seen so many incredible illustrators out there... if anyone is every interested in illustrating one of my stories... I would love it!!! -Q ThInk It: A Writer's Tool (Based on a True Story) Chapter One: The First Chapter Quinn O’Rourke had never been much of a writer until he began penning erotic muscle growth stories to help further feed his obsession. Finding both mental and physical release through his writing, he lived for sharing his monomania for serious muscle growth and transformation of both mind and body to all of the unknown readers on a website. It made him grateful when he read constructive criticism, and over the moon when people wrote or DM’d him on how much they enjoyed his stories, got off on them, and just like himself, wanted more. His own mania with all things muscle and growth had begun when he was 12 and read a Dungeons and Dragons Choose Your Own Adventure-type book. In it, the hero was a young ninja trying to save his land from a dark magician. As he read, Quinn had become spell-bound when the hero, finding a liquid in a bottle, drank it, and began to grow into a massive and muscular giant. Unfortunately for Quinn, that adventure had ended there as the hero grew and took down the castle, burying him beneath him. Quinn lay there after reading that page… and could feel his blood boiling. He didn’t know why… and he didn’t have the language to comprehend how reading this had turned him on… and how it would mark his future. He did disagree with the ending, and imagined one where the hero rose through the rubble like a God, growing as massive as a mountain, and becoming more and more muscular. When Quinn eventually hit puberty… late… at 16… he hit it with a bang. Up he shot to 6’6, his shoulders became naturally broad, and his body had the musculature of an active teenager. His mother, being somewhat over protective, never let him play after-school sports, but he did excel in gym class, and did go for a swim and run every morning before school. In his bedroom, he jerked off to daydreams of men with muscle beyond imagining, massive penises, and growing to enormous size… his mind always going back to that first story. In college, Quinn worked out for the first time… and took to it like the metaphorical fish to water. Watching his body change, sculpt, and grow became an obsession… one could say… an addiction. By senior year he had really bulked up, adding over 46 lbs of pure muscle, and discovered that his own body turned him on more than anything else… well that was not entirely true… As he stood in front of the mirror, flexing various muscle groups, admiring his own symmetry and size, running his hands over his meaty pecs, and loving how thick his quads were…. he would also fantasise about getting even bigger… more masculine… more muscular, taller… thicker… a beast of a man. Grabbing onto his 7” cock, he would stroke it slowly as he took in his body… imagining growth shooting through him making him bigger and more mighty… more mountain then man. Faster and faster he would stroke, not wanting it to end but needing to feel that orgasmic rush flood through him. Minutes later, sweat dripping from his head and his pits, beads flowing down through the valley between his pecs and over his cobblestoned abs, he would shoot a massive load all over the mirror. Exhausted and panting... he would lean his head against the mirror, frustrated that he would never reach his full potential. Time passed… Quinn graduated… got an internship with a bank… did well… they kept him on… and he began to climb the corporate ladder. He still worked out and took care of his body… but time never allowed him to do it with the same intensity… he was just maintaining. He dated guys… loved how it felt when they worshipped his body and screamed out when he fucked them, but he never could reach the high he was always searching for. Usually when the left or slept, he would go into his bathroom, stand in front of his mirror, flex, lick, and worship himself, imagining his shoulders growing broader, his pecs thicker and larger, his biceps ballooning to sizes larger than his head, and his quads bursting into redwood proportions. Ejaculating to this often satisfied him more than a mouth, ass, or hand could. He once met with a guy who simply wanted to worship his body and muscle, and ‘bask in his masculinity.’ Quinn thought that this might be exactly what he was looking for… but unfortunately it just did very little for him. Perhaps it was that he wasn’t physically attracted to the guy. He did do his best when it came to massaging, licking, cleaning, and all over worshiping Quinn, and even though he was an expert ass-eater and cock sucker… when it was over… it didn’t give Quinn the same high his own overactive imagination could give. Quinn was now 32… he had a high powered job, an office with a kick ass view, a body most 25 year olds would kill for, and a lot of money in the bank. When he was offered the transfer to London to oversee the international sector, with a raise and a bonus of £500,000, he packed his bags and moved. London was an incredible city… always on the move and always alive. There was something to do every second of the day, and when he wasn’t working or working out, he was going to clubs, the theatre, museums, and festivals in the park. It was at Hampstead Heath in July where Quinn’s future took a turn. The Heath, a popular gay cruising site, was a large park with three swimming areas: one for men, one for women, and one for families. With some friends, Quinn went one Bank Holiday to the pond, and there, while swimming, he met Russel. Lying in the sun, they talked, drank, and it was obvious that they both wanted the same thing. As Quinn fucked him at his flat, Russell screamed out words that rang through his head: ‘You’re huge… fuck your muscles... such power… you’re a beast… fuck me harder… use all the strength your body has… use me… show me how Alpha you are!!!’ Using Russell’s words for inspiration, he fucked the life out of him… and when it was finally over and Russell was leaving… he kissed Quinn and said: ‘Fuck!!! If I didn’t have work tomorrow I’d let you do me all night. Never met an Alpha like you! The only thing better would be two of you… or two of you rolled into one! Fuck yeah… muscles going on for days! Fuck… you’d be a mountain of a man! My ultimate fantasy come to life!!! Welcome to London, mate! They exchanged numbers with the knowledge they would never get in touch, and as Quinn lay in bed that night, his cock hard and leaking, he heard the words echo in his head: ‘Alpha… you’re huge… mountain of a man… such power… you’re a beast… use all the strength you have… your muscles… two rolled into one… muscles for days…my fantasy come to life.’ Yes, Quinn thought as he shot all over himself and the bed… that is my fantasy as well… ’ The next day, Quinn made a decision that changed his life. He worked hard but worked out even harder. As his muscles grew larger… he let the hair on his head and body grow out. No more shaving his chest for him… he was a beast... No one at work said anything… but everyone noticed the transformation occurring. You couldn’t miss it!! Within a year and a half he weighed 266 pounds of hard, swollen muscle. He had let his dirty blonde hair grow down to his shoulders, grew a beard, and had several tribal tattoos designed and inked to decorate his body. His exterior matched the Alpha he had always been inside… but as he venerated himself in front of the mirror… as he flexed and licked and touched and stroked… he wanted more… he needed more...he would have more. That was 8 months ago. With months of hard work, some hgh and test, Quinn weighed in at a stacked 293 pounds of ripped muscle. He still did extraordinarily well at work, and even if his boss didn’t like the new look… he couldn’t argue with a man who was bringing in millions each day. Quinn could care less, though. His heart just wasn’t in his job anymore. All he cared about was muscle… fucking… and being the biggest and best in the room. The true Alpha. Through a Google search, he found his way to a muscle growth story web site, and had spent days reading, and wanking. He loved most of what he read, and really respected a good handful of writers… especially the ones who could get him leaking and on the edge of cumming without ever touching himself. Now, those were outstanding stories… but he also felt that many didn’t go far enough. The desire for muscle was one thing… but the need… the obsession… the hunger and the yearning for supremacy wasn’t always there. That erotic mixture of bodily pain and pleasure… that was what Quinn needed. One night, when his fantasies and throbbing cock wouldn’t let him sleep, he decided to try his hand at writing a story of his own. The first couple were horribly cliche, and he wouldn’t dare show anybody. For a while he tried to write at night after work, but found that his imagination was completely fuelled right after working out. \in a new ritual, he would leave the gym swole and horny, his balls churning for relief, take a shower at work, get into a suit that barely fit him anymore, and sit down at his desk to write. Finally, after weeks of hard work, and afraid but willing to give it a shot… he decided to post the first chapter of one of the stories he had been working on… and people actually liked it!!! Soon his days were filled with working out and writing with some work thrown in. The good thing about being upper management of a bank is that everyone below you does the actual work for you. He was just there to manage a team, get the information needed to make the bank even more money, tie it together and deliver with a pretty bow. This gave him plenty of time to write. As he became more captivated by his own words… turned on by his own writing… he wouldn’t let himself cum until what he was working on was perfect! Everything was flawless until the bank put up a new firewall on all of the computers. No attachments could be sent to unauthorised outside computers. If he asked to have his home computer authorised, that would put up several red flags… what could he want to send to himself? If he brought a laptop to work… that would look odd, and if he used a Zip drive in the computer, that was logged automatically onto the system. The only thing he had left to write on was his phone, and his hands were just too large to comfortably hit the right keys on the touch screen. Opening the App Store, he searched for writing apps where he could use his voice to type. Several popped up, but one that caught his eye was called: ThInk It Writing Tool. Reading the app description, it had everything he could want: it was easy to set up, it would detect only one voice if he was outside or somewhere public, it could be programmed to only respond to his voice, it would sink to his cloud, and as an added bonus, it hosted a community of writers and readers if he was ever interested in putting his stories out there to a wider public. The one thing that solidified the deal was the logo: a muscular arm holding a globe with an illustrated brain in it. Waiting till he got home to try the App, he was grateful to see that his friend Jacob, from the States, wasn’t around. He’s probably either at rehearsal, out sightseeing...or whoring around, Quinn thought with a grin as he unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. Any one of those options was a possibility. Quinn and Jacob has been frat brothers in college, and used to play volleyball, and sometimes workout together. After graduation, Jacob followed his dream of staring in musicals on Broadway, and now he was actually doing it. He was in London for the next 8 months playing the role he had originated on Broadway in a West End musical. The production company had rented him a flat, but while it was being recarpeted and painted, Jacob was staying with Quinn. Their friendship was purely platonic, thought being the only two out gay guys in their frat house, they had fooled around together until they realised they were both tops, and just kept the friendship. Jacob fit the quintessential leading man stereotype. His was talented, his voice was amazing, he was an incredible dancer, he was tall, dark, and handsome with a tight hairless muscular body, square jaw, and a smile that could battle the brightness of Piccadilly Circus. The one thing he didn’t have going for him was that he had a small cock. Now, it wasn’t freakish small… it was about 4.5 when hard, and perhaps it was a little thin, but it worked perfectly fine. No one had ever told him that they had a problem with it… but for Jacob, with his height and looks, he was always subconscious. Quinn has never thought this was an issue to Jacob until the other night, when after a few drinks, he began to confess how inadequate he felt. Apparently he had gone home with this cute blonde twink, and found him to be packing a huge piece of meat. Jacob had felt so belittled that he couldn’t even perform and had to leave. He was the top!! The bottom couldn’t have a bigger cock than him!! Totally understanding how Jacob felt regarding his own body dissatisfaction, Quinn tried to talk to him, but Jacob blew him off with a laugh, exclaiming that he had to be joking: Quinn was a muscle master, he said, and he knew it! After that, Quinn never brought it up. Sitting in his favorite chair in the empty flat, a story began to pop into Quinn’s head. He couldn’t help Jacob, but he could write about it. He got out his phone and opened ThInk It! A blank white screen popped up. Character/Characters Name: We recommend using the name of people you know to create realistic characters. Using just his voice, Quinn said loudly: Jacob Effortlessly the name popped up on the screen. Yes, he thought. This is going to work out great. Wonderful. If you have additional characters, please return to this prompt. What is Jacob’s goal? To have a massive cock. Wonderful. How will Jacob achieve this? He buys an experimental drug from a sex shop in SoHo. Wonderful. What is Jacob’s location? My flat. Wonderful. Now dictate the first paragraph and we’ll bring your words to life. Jacob sat on the bus a few moments away from his stop. He was sweating and his heart was beating fast as he thought about what was in his backpack. If he got only half of what that guy had, he thought, he’d be a happy man. Pressing the button, Jacob waited for the bus to come to a stop, and got off. Quickly he walked down the street until he came to the door of the street entrance flat he was staying in for a week with his friend Quinn. Jacob unlocked the door hoping that no one was home, and as he ran from room to room, he was positive he was alone. Quinn must still be at work, he said to himself out loud… Quinn was startled as the door to his flat flew open and Jacob rushed into the living room. - Hey man!! How’s it… - Quinn?! You home? Quinn?? - I’m sitting right… Jacob walked right past him and began looking in each room, calling his name. Finally he returned to the living room. - Quinn must still be at work. As soon as he said those very words, Jacob stopped moving and stood frozen in place. - You okay, man? Quinn got up from his chair and walked toward his friend. Jacob appeared before him as if Quinn had paused him on TV. Even with all of his strength, Quinn couldn’t move him. - What the fuck?? A bell tone came from his phone. As he tried to move Jacob again, the bell tone occurred more often and proceeded to continuously get louder. Frustrated, Quinn grabbed it from where he had laid it down. Wonderful start! Jacob is waiting. What happens next? Quinn looked back at Jacob, looked at his phone, and spoke aloud: Secure that Quinn wasn’t home, Jacob grabbed his backpack, sat on the couch, and opened it. From within he pulled a black plastic bag. Quinn had just finished his last word when Jacob started moving again, doing exactly as Quinn had described. As soon as he pulled out the black bag, he froze again. The bell tone rang again and Quinn looked at the screen. Wonderful! Jacob is waiting. What happens next? When you feel that your authorship of Jacob’s story is complete… you will be faced with the options of saving, deleting, or editing.. How, Quinn thought, how can this be happening? He didn’t want to believe it, but it was true: Through the app, Quinn was controlling Jacob’s reality!! Lets see how far we can go with this! From the black bag, Jacob removed a long box. With serious intention, he opened the box, and sitting within with was a large syringe filled with an orange/brown fluid. Quinn laughed out loud as he watched his words come to life. Looking at the frozen Jacob, Quinns cock started to get hard as he thought about all of the possibilities. Soon his cock began to leak as his imagination went wild. Jacob pulled the large syringe out and looked at it, admiring the orange shine. With a steady hand, he placed it on the table. From the box, he removed a typed slip of paper and read aloud: In the chamber are 6 cc’s of compound 8GN. Although human trials have been conducted, we have discovered that the effectiveness varies per individual. As this compound is not diluted, feel free to dilute with saline solution 1:1 to soften results. As the adage says: a little goes a long way. Remember that all effects are permanent. To use, inject into quad. Results are nearly instantaneous. Jacob put the sheet on the couch next to him, stood up, removed his shoes, and pulled off his jeans and underwear at the same time. Taking a quick glance at his own quad, Jacob leaned over and grabbed the syringe. He had never been a fan of needles, but there was no stopping him now. On the count of three, he impaled his right quad with the syringe. Once the needle was all the way in, Jacob stood there questioning what to do next. With a shaking hand, his thumb pressed down on the syringe and watched as 1cc of liquid plunged moved into his muscle. Stopping for a moment, Jacob proceeded again, this time adding two more. Satisfied, he was going to pull it out, but he stopped himself. If this works… I know myself… I’m gonna use it all. That guy who sold it had a solid 12 incher, and that’s exactly what I want. I want some guys to turn me down cause it’s too big! I want a bulge that shows the world I have a serious piece of meat in my pants. I want to be known by everyone for my twelve inches!! I’ll be a fuckin legend!! Filled with new determination, he injected the rest of the compound, and swiftly removed the empty syringe. Returning the syringe to the box, Jacob sat back down on the couch and waited. One minute passed, then two, when suddenly Jacob felt a flush of heat go over him. A third minute passed, and Jacob began to giggle… he didn’t know why… he just couldn’t help himself. By the fifth minute, Jacob was leaning his head back on the sofa and breathing deeply. Rapidly, his cock went from flaccid to hard in less than three seconds. It’s working!!! I can feel it!! It’s fucking working!!! Jacob lifted his heavy head and looked down at his cock with a grin. It had never been this hard or this swollen ever in his life!! Every vein was plumped up as if he was wearing a cock ring, or had some sort of invisible vice around the base of his shaft. His head kept falling back as wave after wave of elation and rapture shot through him. With each heartbeat Jacob could feel his cock filling more and more with blood, but it seemed as if none of it was exiting back into the rest of his body.. Looking down again with a laugh, his cock looked purple and swollen, the head tighter than it ever had been before. His cock was pulsing to his heartbeat now as more blood was forced in. Jacob was beginning to feel serious pain in his cock, and through his euphoria, worried that perhaps he had made a big mistake. With each heartbeat, as more and more veins popped up and fed his shaft, he worried that the skin from his cock was just going to split open and rip his cock in two. Need to call 911 or watEVER… Jacob fell back onto the couch as he felt himself get kicked in the balls over and over again by an invisible foot. The pain was agonising as his body convulsed. Just when he was positive that he was nearing death, the convulsions tapered down until all he felt was a swelling and a dull burning ache in his testicles. Leaning his head on the back of the sofa, beads of sweat dripping down his face, he moved his shaking hands to his balls and could feel that both were much larger than before, and like his heartbeat, were pulsating. Every few minutes the pain would intensify, and Jacob watched as his balls swelled larger. Within four minutes his testicles had grown to two large eggs fighting for space in his sack. Quinn was certainly hard right now watching Jacob in a fit of pleasure and pain. How far was he going to take this? A rush of power went through Quinn as he suddenly realised he held Jacob’s future in his hand… everyone’s future. He simply had to speak it and it came true. An idea came to him that he wanted to try out. In his fog of testicular growth, Jacob was startled when Quinn came home from work. The chime on his phone went off again, stopping Quinn from proceeding. Wonderful! Are you adding an additional character? Yes Wonderful. What is their name? Quinn. Quinn’s name appeared on the screen. Wonderful. What does Quinn want? This remains to be seen. Wonderful! If you need any character goals, please simply say: Goals. Would you like to return to your story? Yes. Wonderful! Quinn took a deep breath and began again. - Fuuuuck!!! Man… I… Yes… Quinn thought. He can finally see me! I’m part of the story now. What the fuck’s going on?? Jacob tried to answer him, but was slipping into an abyss of carnal lust. My cock… growing… soon… gonna have… twelve inches… of…meat… UUURRRGGGHHH!! Jacob’s head was thrown back as he panted and moaned. He knew Quinn was there… but he didn’t care! He could feel it in his crotch… as his balls continued to swell larger… he knew the birth of his new cock was just around the corner. Lifting his head, he could see his balls were as big as large kiwis now and swelling faster. The pressure in his cock was rising, and either it was going to explode with growth, or burst apart. Here…. it… FFFUUCCKKKKK YYEEAAHH!!! Jacob’s cock began to swell thicker. Breathing heavily as if he were in labour, laughing as well… in minutes it was Coke can thick and he finally felt like he had a real piece of meat in his hands. Growing… a… real… ass… ripper... Throbbing pulsing, and growing with his heartbeat, Jacob realised with glee that his thumb and fingers didn’t meet anymore. Almost as… thick as… my… wrist… now… Quinn. I can fucking see that!! Feel… it… feel how hot… and thick… it is… Feel… it… grow… Quinn kneeled down and placed his large hand on the shaft. Fuck, man!! It’s nearly as thick as a Foster’s can!! Only… the… beginning… Jacob spread his legs wider to accommodate his orange sized testicles that were now laying on the sofa. His sack had begun to grow along with his balls now, and Quinn was shocked when he could actually hear them churning, becoming super driven cum factories. In no time at all, Jacob’s cock head flared wider, the slit grew longer, and pre began to shoot from his cock as if he were cumming. Quinn’s fingers were no longer meeting as Jacob’s cock continued to thicken. The room began to smell of bleach and musk as pre was continuously flowing. A couple of heart beats and a couple of throbs, and there was more than an inch between Quinn’s thumb and middle finger. Gonna… have to… train boys… to take… it… FUICCKK!! Jacob’s cock swelled even wider until finally with the pressure, it began to lengthen. Really… growing… Elated, Jacob and Quinn both watched as Jacob’s cock crept up over 5 inches. Once it had started, it seemed to Jacob that his cock made up for lost time. Passing 5 inches… it soon reached six… and then seven. Let me… feel it… growing. Quinn took his hand away from Jacob’s cock, and in the time it took Jacob to place his own hand there, it was 8 inches. Jacob grinned wildly at Quinn, and throwing his head back, began to stroke himself. Quinn could only stare in awe as his best friend stroked his growing python, Jacob’s moans getting louder and more primal as it grew. Jacob’s balls were larger than baseballs, and shooting out more precum in greater volumes. His cock was now most certainly thicker than Quinn’s own wrist, and showed no sign of stopping. Is it… ten inches… yet??? Oh yeah. Should… be… stopping… soon… But, his cock, enjoying its new power, lengthened to eleven inches and then twelve. Quinn noticed that the veins of Jacob’s cock had grown much larger to force more and more blood in, nourishment needed for the newborn monster. When it hit 13”, Jacob’s cock-head began to join in the growth as it swelled thicker, flaring up and outward. Wanting to be larger than the shaft, it began to lengthen as well as becoming meatie,r until Jacob’s cock head was longer than half of his old cock!! With a loud rip, the slit lengthened even more, till it rivaled the length of Quinn’s thumb. As it hit 14”, Jacob moaned loudly as his cock and balls proceeded to swell even larger. Won’t… be able… to fuck… anyone with… this… now…. too… thick.., I know… I… don’t… care!! I… want… a… monster… Make me… a… freak… Quinn.., It’s as if he knows what’s happening here…. Meeting his best friends eyes… as another wave of growth hit him and it stretched longer than 15” Is this what you want? YES!!!! Are you sure? Do… it!!!! Make me… a fuckin… freak!!! Jacob smiled at Quinn. Within moments of speaking those words, his cock proceeded to grow even faster. FUCK YEAH!!!! At over 17”, his cock head much longer than his old erect cock, and his shaft thicker than Quinn’s 22” bicep, Jacob’s cock began to dip down as the weight of his beast began to overtake it. His balls were bigger than grapefruits now, and were constantly producing enough cum and testosterone for ten men. Using two hands, Jacob was frantically trying to jerk himself off. When it hit 18”, Jacob looked at Quinn and spoke in a suddenly surprising deeper voice I… need more… hands!!! Jerk it… with me! Quinn placed his hands on the immense column, and felt waves of superiority coming from it. The musk Jacob was emitting along with the smell of pre was intoxicating… Quinn looked at his friend, and realised that where once he had been clean shaven, a thick five o’clock shadow had taken up residence on his face. My body… is becoming... a tool for... pure… sex…. Quinn stroked the immense stanchion as it continued to get longer and thicker. More and more veins erupted to the surface, thick as hosing, feeding the emerging beast. Jacob’s stroking along with Quinn’s became more vigorous as his cock grew to a whopping 19”. Quinn stood to get a better grip on the upper shaft and head. My God, he thought… Jacob’s head is bigger than two of my hands! Jacob gave up using his hands and started to simply thrust his cock through Quinn’s hands as if he were fucking them. Jacob’s moans got deeper and louder as his cock hit 20” and showed no sign of stopping its incredible growth. My balls… can you hear them… so loud… producing more cum... and testosterone... than an army of men!!! Quinn looked down at the laughing Jacob. Staring at Jacob, Quinn could see that a change was overtaking his friend. The testosterone flooding through his veins had indeed done a number on him, and he was looking more primal… more masculine than he ever been before. Even his face was changing as his brow began to extend a little further and his eyes became deepset. He had a full beard now, and hair all over his body had sprouted and thickened. The smell coming off of him in waves was overpowering… it made Quinn’s head swim and had him thinking that he wanted to submit himself to Jacob and be used as his sex toy. As the essence passed through both of them, it became apparent that nothing on earth mattered except Jacob and the colossus that was wildy emerging from his crotch. Moaning and thrusting himself faster and harder into Quinn’s hands, lost in his world of sexual stimuli, Jacob began barking orders at Quinn. Fucking… lick my.... Cock head… boy!!! His voice, Quinn thought… his voice is so powerful… so loud, so deep, and… and so commanding. What is all of that testosterone doing to him? Trying to keep in his head that he was the only true Alpha in the room, Quinn found himself obeying Jacob and starting to feverishly lick his cockhead. That’s it… boy… worship this cock!!!! I am. How big… am I… boy? At least 25” inches long… thicker than my quads… Am I… a sex… god… now? Quinn struggled to answer… but he knew he had to tell Jacob the truth. YES!!!! All of the world will worship your cock! Never has there been one so huge, so magnificent, so impressive, so potent, and dominant. In a few minutes... I will cum… I can… feel it… Tell me… what will happen? Your cock will shoot up even longer and thicker. Your balls will swell larger, flooding you with more and more testosterone… You live for one thing and one thing only now… SEX!!! Jacob threw his head back and in a voice that sounded amplified, echoing throughout the flat… a deep deep bass… oozing with sex and power. - YES!!!! Jacob thrust twenty to thirty more times as Quinn tried as best as he could to worship this mighty cock. Suddenly, without warning. Jacob stopped moving, stated at him wide-eyed… and Quinn realised in the silence he could hear the torrent of cum rising up from Jacob’s balls. FFFFFUUUUKKKK!!! Jacob tried his best to grab onto his cock, but as the largest orgasm known to man overtook him, all he could do was close his eyes, pant, moan, and shout. A minute later, a geyser errupted from Jacob’s cock, and cum shot all over the room, hitting Quinn and throwing him backward on impact. It was impossible to control the massive hose as it began to spray the walls, the ceiling, several windows, and shattered the screen of his plasma TV. With each pulse that sent more and more cum skyward, Jacob’s cock and balls proceeded to gain more and more size and mass, shooting up past 31” and getting so thick that it was hard to believe this was a penis and not some redwood or stone pillar. After 5 minutes of continual orgasm, Jacob’s cum production began to slow down until he was only leaking from the massive slit. Just when Quinn thought it was all over,Jacob let out a thunderous, FUCK His cock shot up several more inches, and then he collapsed onto the couch, barely able to hold his head up. Quinn looked around at his flat, completely covered in cum. His friend was frozen once again on the couch, a drop of cum leaking from his cock frozen in mid-air. Fuck, Quinn thought… it's really easy to let your imagination run away with you on this app. Needing to clear his head, Quinn opened up a window. I can’t believe I allowed his musk to become so strong that I couldn’t even control myself. A few minutes longer and I might have let him fuck me. Great to go huge my first time!!! Quinn was taking in another deep breath of clean air from the window when he heard the chime from his phone. Wonderful!! Is your story is finished. Would you like to: a) publish it so it lives on forever, b) delete it and no one will ever know it existed except you, or c) take a moment and edit your story with clearer eyes. What will be your choice? Quinn looked at Jacob and wondered what he would want. Is this how he would want to live… a sex dominated stud with an unimaginably massive cock, a musk that held guys in his power, guys falling to their knees to be fucked by him, cumming gallons every time…. is this how he would want to live? Is this how I would want to live? Looking deeply at Jacob, Quinn knew what he had to do. Jacob tried to catch his breath as he came down from his mind altering orgasm. As he looked around the room at the chaos surrounding him… as he took in his slowly deflating titanic cock and balls, and as he began to feel the beginnings of his balls starting to churn again, he moved his eyes up to meet his friend, grinned, and said in the deepest and most sensual voice Quinn had ever heard: Fuck me!! That’s a pretty powerful weapon you got there now! Tell me about it!! You going to keep it? Don’t think I have an option! Well… while you were firing cumshots around the room, I looked online to see if there was an antidote, and it seems that if you...um… rub olive oil and salt on it… … couldn’t think of anything better on the fly, Quinn??? … within the first three hours of injection, it sucks the formula out and everything goes back to normal. Yeah… I don’t think so. Well, you got your answer. This monstrosity is the best thing to ever happen to me. You have no idea how it feels!! For the first time I feel alive!!! Really alive!! I don’t even exist anymore! It’s my master and I need to serve it. My life now is devoted to sexual pleasure only. I need to find more and more people to worship it, lick it, suck it, let me fuck them with it, and cum over and over and over again. I’ve been called for a greater purpose, boy, and I need to minister to it. You understand? Yeah. I think I do. Good. Jacob stood up the best he could and walked on shaky legs to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water. It’s insane, Quinn. My balls are already starting to churn, and it feels even more potent than before, and I think this is how it’s always going to be… getting stronger and stronger… cumming longer and longer, until one day I just orgasm for eternity. How can you carry such weight so easily. The muscles in my groin… I think they evolved to enable me to. It’s heavy… but in a good way!! Love feeling the tug and pull!! Looks like I’m a grower and not much of a shower now! Quinn could see that fully soft, Jacobs cock was only twelve inches long and as thick as a Pringles can. Even his balls had shrunk to something a little more manageable. Take a good look because you’re not going to see it soft like this very often!! I bet! Join me!! Go buy a syringe and join me! I’d love to, man… but I have my own journey coming up… and I think it’s going to rival yours!! Good to hear! I can’t wait. Well, wish I could stay and clean up, but I have followers to initiate into the world of hedonism. Jacob took off the T-shirt he had been wearing and stood in front of Quinn in all of his glory. The testosterone of hundreds of men had perfected his body giving him a larger, muscular frame, and a hairy chest that made his muscles look even sexier. No more clothes for me anymore. Won’t need them. How will you survive? Didn’t I tell you? The day I left America, I bought a lottery ticket… and I won! 50 million dollars!! Good thinking, Quinn!! Give him an even happier ending... a massive cock and 50 million!!! That should be enough to build a temple great enough for this cock. Jacob walked toward the door, opened it, and was about to step out, when he turned back to his friend. Thanks for everything, boy. I might just go to that shop in Soho and buy another syringe or two… see what another dose will do! I bet it will be amazing. I think so too! See you soon, Quinn… and take a hold of that journey you’re about to go on by the balls, and demand the world sees you. Oh… if everything goes to how I imagine it… the world won’t have any option but to see me. Good boy!! It’s our time now. Quinn could hear Jacobs balls loudly beginning to churn and saw a flow of precum begining to leak from his cock head. The aroma hit Quinn right away, and he felt as if he needed to kneel down and worship that God-Cock. Before he submitted, Quinn moved toward the window to clear his head. Bye, Quinn. Don’t worry… we’ll meet again! With that, Jacob left Quinn’s flat. What did the future hold for him? Quinn wasn’t sure, but he knew whatever it was… it was going to be a life satisfying every carnal whim. Exhausted, Quinn leaned against the wall, his own balls aching for relief. Fuck!!! That was amazing, he thought! He was just about to whip his own cock out and jerk off when the bell tone came from his phone. Wonderful! I see your story is complete. Would you like to: a) publish it so it lives on forever, b) delete it and no one will ever know it existed except you, or c) take a moment and edit your story with clearer eyes. What will be your choice? A. Wonderful!!! Your story is now published and out in the world to see. Having completed one story, you have unlocked several new options. We look forward to working with you on your next story. Me too, he thought as he leaned against the wall stroking his hard cock. I can’t wait to see what my next one is!! ... to be continued

THE NEW ADVENTURES OF KAKE & PEKKA (A TOM of FINLAND Rhapsody) By Absman420 It's because of the heavy, pea-soup fog that you don't see the man tied to a tree until you're right on top of him. You've been hiking the Appalachian Trail through the Shenandoah Valley, heading north back home to Maryland for the past few weeks and absolutely nothing has been out of the ordinary -- until this fog rolled in. And the man you find tied to the tree. The fog had caused you to get off the main trail, though you weren't worried about it. You knew that if you continued to head north, you'd eventually come to one of the many small backroads that criss-cross the area and find your way back to where you were supposed to be. Lucky you did, or who knows how long this guy would've been trapped here. He's hugging the tree, tied from wrist to wrist with a course rope. Your first thought is "Thank God he's not dead!" because you see him moving, struggling against his bonds. Then you realize what you see -- and you wonder, "Maybe I've stepped onto the set of a porn movie...?" He's a hugely muscular man, although fairly out of proportion in the upper body -- big arms, shoulders, a thick, bull-like neck -- with an impossibly thin waist that not only emphasizes his upper body, but also makes his ass -- his muscular bubble butt -- pop. He wears calf-high motorcycle boots on his lean, muscular legs and a sleeveless white t-shirt that doesn't even reach his waist. Most telling, the black leather motorcycle cap -- the kind worn by old-school gay leathermen channeling Marlon Brando makes you wonder if you've really encountered someone in trouble, or someone making a movie...? You call to him. "Buddy? Are you okay?" He turns his head and faces you and you're awestruck by his beauty. Impossibly handsome, a strong square jaw and cleft chin, dark hair, long sideburns, beautiful, bedroom eyes hidden beneath the shadows of his cap. He looks tired... but satisfied -- there's a bit of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. "I suppose you are going to fuck me, too," he says, and you can't quite place his accent -- Nordic, maybe. "They told me that others would come -- they promised." "How long have you been here?" you ask, shedding your backpack to access your small hatchet. "It is hard to tell time in all this fog," he says. "Long enough to make me wonder if they are sending anyone. What a waste of a morning. Not even the police could find me in all this fog." "But you're not hurt?" you ask, pulling the hatchet from it's pouch and turning to free him. "Oh, HELL no!" he says, smiling broadly. "Well, only when my cock rubs up against the bark of this tree." He laughs. "Those boys were so HUNG, too! They told me they would sending others -- I was hoping." "I'll have you free in a second," you say, preparing to cut the rope. He looks concerned, which you mistake for fear, until he says, "Are you sure you do not want a go at me before you cut me free? I mean, a handsome young man tied up and helpless and perhaps a little eager, too, yes? Look at this ass -- you would not be disappointed." He wiggles it for you, muscular and round. You don't know how to react -- you stammer. Here is a half-naked man who's been tied to a tree and apparently gang-raped and he wants to know if YOU want a piece of him, too! He takes your silence as a cue to continue. "Oh, I understand," he says. "You are embarrassed with your size! I can see that you are small, but do not worry -- I have a very talented hole, with much control and strength. I will be giving you a great fuck." "No..." you say. "No, that's not..." "Then you are a bottom only? Is that what it is? Would you like to trade positions?" Instead of answering him, you raise the hatchet and cleanly cut through the rope that binds him. When he steps back, you get your first look at the entirety of him -- and your sense of shock doesn't abate. If his backside was exaggerated, it's nothing compared to his front. His chest is impressively large, appearing to be even larger because of his tiny waist. The sleeveless t-shirt he wears clings to his over-sized nipples with the legend "FUCKER" printed across it -- it doesn't even reach to his navel. But all that is secondary to his gigantic genitals. As he stretches, his cock starts to harden -- easily as big as your forearm -- exposing the two lemon-sized balls hanging heavily behind it. "Ah, that feels good," he says, raising his arms up in the air and placing his hands behind his head -- then he looks at you and indicates his cock. "Do you want to feel it for yourself?" It is now rock hard, arching up to nearly the base of his pecs -- the head throbs a blushing red, a single pearl of pre-cum on the tip. It's nearly irresistible -- this obscenity -- you find yourself drawn to it, regardless of the insanity of the situation. What the hell is going on here? "Again you hesitate," he says. "Am I not the most perfect example of man that you've ever seen? Even in this land, I am one of the biggest and the best. Yet, you hesitate. Where are you from, outlander -- what repressed, Puritan land do you call home? America?" He laughs at his own joke, but can tell by your reaction that he's stumbled on the truth. "Oh. I'm so sorry." His dick mirrors his emotion by softening a tad, still impressive. "It's not that," you say. "I just don't understand..." He advances on you. "This is not a time for thinking," he says, smirking. "You've just saved me. NOW is the time for rewards earned." He wraps the rope around the back of your head and pulls you toward him. You fall on your knees. With his cock literally in your face, it's impossible to control yourself anymore -- you flat-tongue his big piece from base to tip. It's like licking a baseball bat made of hard flesh. "Oh, fuck yeah," he moans. "Finally." He leans against the tree he was just tied to, putting one booted foot up behind him, releasing the rope so he can pinch his own nipple -- he knows you're not going anywhere. It's so monstrously big you can do little more than lap at it, running the flat of your tongue up and down the thick shaft -- the head alone is the size of a Gallen Apple -- your entire hand doesn't even go around it. How on Earth could you be expected to put that in your mouth, let alone your ass? So you do your best, which seems to be satisfying him, if his breathing is any indication. You're hard as a rock, too -- three weeks hiking the Appalachian Trail alone, remember -- shamelessly rubbing yourself against his boot as you work his enviable cock. You've never thought of yourself as small -- your eight inches has brought you (and others) nothing but delight -- but you're a banana compared to a skyscraper next to him. You're probably gonna cum without even getting your dick out of your pants. And then you hear it -- you both hear it -- voices coming through the fog, out of the woods. "Where the fuck is he?"-- "Over here, not far." -- "Damn fog!" He speaks first, raising his head and pursing his lips. "NOW they come! And after I have been all rescued." He strokes the back of your head affectionately, then pulls you away from his softening cock. "But perhaps we should go," he says, looking in the direction of the sound. "It was a hot scene, but quite brutal. I am not sure you would fare so well against them -- they are lumberjacks... and quite large." He indicates his cock. You're immediately on your feet -- your own erection vanished -- your fear level rising. (There were more like HIM?) "What'll we do?" you ask him, sotto voce. "The road is that way," he says, pointing in the direction opposite of the voices. "It is where I left my bike." Then he smiles. "And my pants." We hear the voices again. "Where are you, Leather Boy?" one calls, the same accent as the man you rescued, the one who now seems to be rescuing you. "Are you ready for more fun?" They're close -- within a hundred yards. "Come," he says to you, motioning to follow him. "Can you run in those... things?" He indicates your hiking boots, top of the line models, like he's never seen anything like them before. "Faster than you," you say -- and you aren't nearly kidding. You grab your pack and follow him blindly into the forest, back into the dense fog. The two of you hold hands for fear of getting lost, but at least he seems to know the way, taking confident strides through the thick pine trees, this half-naked man beside you, his giant cock flopping back and forth. Somewhere in the back of your mind, it registers that this forest is much older than the one in the Shenandoah Valley where you've been hiking -- everything's different. But it occurs to you that YOU are the one in the wrong place, not the other way around. You eventually come upon a road -- although "road" is a bit misleading, barely more than a semi-paved trail through the forest. A Mountain Road, clearly used for little more than logging. His motorcycle is parked just off the packed dirt, next to one of the massive pines that make up the area, his leather pants draped over the handlebars. "There, see? Just where I left it!" "How did all of this happen?" you ask as he puts the pants on, kicking off one boot, sliding his foot through the pant leg and back into the boot again, then repeating on the other side. "I had stopped by the side of the road to piss," he says, carefully tucking his huge cock down the leg -- it reaches his mid-thigh, then buttons up. His over-sized genitals make an obscene bulge in the worn leather pants. "And these loggers came upon me." He snorts his disdain. "Loggers -- they rape the country side," he says. "And anyone they come across in it, as well." That brings his smirk back. "Come," he says, righting the bike and kick-starting the engine. "There is a Service Station a kilometer or so down the road where I work. We will be safe there -- and we can figure out what to do about you." As tempted as you are to go with him, as hungry as you are for another chance at that crazy dick of his, instead you say, "Listen, this is all just a little bit too much for me. Just point me in the direction of the trail and I'll be on my way." He is genuinely confused. "What trail? What trail is this?" "The Appalachian Trail. I can't be more than a couple miles off -- it's gotta intersect around here someplace." "My friend, there is no trail, not by that or any name. Come with me -- we will be safe at the Service Station. We can figure out what is confusing you." You are defensive. "Nothing's confusing me!" "Except you do not know where you are -- you speak of places that do not exist. Your size concerns me enough, but that you do wear such odd things on your feet. Do you not even have a pair of boots?" "These ARE boots!" He sighs, frustrated, crossing his arms before his massive chest while straddling the motorcycle. "Do you even know your name?" he asks. "Well, it's not like we've had time for proper introductions..." He barks a laugh. "Yes! And when being chased by rapists, when is the best time for this? If you must know, I am Kake." (It sounds to you like he said "COCK-uh" -- but with his accent, it's hard to be sure.) "What did you say your name was?" "Kake. K-A-K-E. It is Finnish." (Yup, "cock-uh" -- that's what he said.) You react to this, not his name. "Finnish? Really? My surname is Finnish!" He acts as if he's never heard of such a thing. "'Surname'...?" "My last name," you say. "It's Pekka!" His jaw drops. It's the first time you've seen an emotion on his face unconnected to lust -- in a way, it's disconcerting. "What?" he asks, squinching his eyebrows. "What did you say?" "My last name... is Pekka." He is fighting the smile that's breaking out on his face. "No," he says. "It's not possible. It can't be..." "What?" He studies you more closely than he has before. "But it IS!" he says, rubbing his chin. "I see it in your eyes, in the shape of your face. It's true -- and it explains EVERYTHING!" He steps off the bike and hugs you, kissing you on each cheek -- his cock has come back to life, pushing hard against the constraining leather. "Now you MUST come with me, Pekka," he whispers in my ear. "At the Service Station, there is something I must give you." You assume he means that big dick of his. And there's a part of you -- a growing part of you -- that figures, what the hell? You're not on a deadline and you've gone weeks without -- is this any different than taking advantage of any other bounty that crosses your path? It's the old saw about the hiker and the farmer's daughter... sort of. Which is how you find yourself riding down the road hugged up close to him, your arms wrapped around his waist, the smell of his heavy leather jacket in your nostrils. Between the width of his back and the vibrations of the engine, you can't help but get an erection -- you also can't "help" but press it into the back of his ass. He responds by pressing his ass back into your cock, seductively rubbing it even while riding -- (he must be a fantastic fuck, you think. He seems MADE for it.) With his left hand, he grabs your right wrist and pushes it down, until you take his leather-covered cock in your hand. As you gently squeeze it, it grows, already as thick as your wrist. As you travel out of the forest, descending down into a valley, you notice that the fog has been lifting, becoming merely overcast -- the view is not what you're used to seeing in Central Virginia. Wherever you are, you begin to seriously suspect that you're far, far from home. Far, far from home on the back of some superstud's motorcycle with the biggest cock you've ever had in your hand. Could be worse. Approaching the Service Station, you begin to wonder if you've stepped back in TIME, as well. You're reminded of rural back-woods country -- a farm house that's been converted with a false store front and two fuel tanks in the matted dirt of the front yard. The fading, hand-painted sign reads, "TOM'S -- Fuel and Motorcycle Repair." There is a small repair shop -- about the size of a three-car garage -- around back. Kake parks his bike at the door, but not before revving the loud, growling motor once as he cuts it off. Stepping out of the garage comes another man, another man built -- and clearly hung -- as well as Kake. This guy is a redhead with a flat-top so perfect you could land a plane on it. But for that, he has the same rugged good looks as Kake -- the two could be brothers. He's dressed in an dangerously small pair of greasy coveralls, open to his auburn pubes to expose his sweaty, dirty musculature, but barely containing a package that rivals Kake in size and girth -- also, you can't help but notice that he wears motorcycle boots, too. His name is spelled in cursive writing within an oval on his coveralls -- "Vicky," it reads, which makes you snort. The noise gets his attention, and he sizes you up quickly. And as he is about to speak, a truck pulls into the station, distracting us all. "A customer," Kake says. The blonde -- Vicky -- speaks, his voice deep and sexy. "I know that one -- he is only interested in my ass," he says. "Not in buying Petrol." Kake laughs. "You ass is better than the Petrol. Go take care of him -- we only want happy customers, yes? I must take my friend upstairs and give him something." Vicky looks at you and rolls his eyes. "You have a fondness for the little ones," he says to Kake, chuckling. "I think my small finger is bigger than his cock!" You almost speak up this time -- you're just about sick of these guys making fun of your dick. Eight inches is nothing to sneeze at! You want to say, Sure, you two are monsters, but where I come from, being eight inches is something most guys lie about! Instead, you watch Vicky's incredible ass as he sashays over to the truck and sticks his head in the driver's window. Within seconds, he's leaning in up to his waist, tip-toeing on the metal step -- the "customer's" big hand is holding his ass and pressing up the crack in the coveralls. "Come," Kake says to you. "He will not bother us for a while." The house is smaller than it looks on the outside, very old-fashioned with little in the way of furnishings. Kake takes you up the back staircase to his room, which is as simple as he rest of the country house -- just a big bed and a small dresser. Not even as many mirrors as you would expect. "It is simple but good for fucking," he says cheerfully. "The bed makes all kinds of good noise." You sit on it, unsure of what to do, and the bed groans a metallic sigh. "I cannot believe I did not figure this out sooner," he continues, stripping off his leather jacket and hooking it on the back of the door, revealing his incredible upper body once again, the tight little sleeveless tee reading "Fucker." "If it was a snake, it would have bitten me -- is that how you say it? I think, yes." He opens his closet door and a waft of leather-scent fills the room. "I have them in here somewhere. It has been a long, long time -- but I kept them faithfully!" "I wish I knew what you were talking about," you say, unable to help but stare at the globes of his ass. Indeed, he's made for fucking. "You do not remember," he says, "but you will. HERE they are!" He pulls out a pair of dusty motorcycle boots, almost exactly like his but they have a buckle and strap across the bridges. "What are they?" you ask. He smiles broadly. "They are your boots!" he declares, holding them out to you -- you resist taking them. "I do not joke. Look at them -- look at the inside seam." So you take them from him, these heavy, clunky things and you look inside. There, scratched in the leather -- with a nail or the tip of a knife, perhaps -- is one word, the same in each: PEKKA. "At the very least," Kake says, smiling again, "it explains why you wear those ridiculous things on your feet." "How is this possible?" you ask, examining the boots, hoping for any sign of familiarity. Your mind is racing. You think, maybe "Pekka" is a common name around here -- around here! And just where are you, exactly, that makes you think there's an "around here?" "As I say," Kake says, leaning against the wall, sexy even when he wasn't trying, "it makes complete sense, given the parts I know. My friend Pekka loved the lumberjacks, the mountain men -- he loved the brutal and clumsy way they fucked, their big cocks. And one morning, one morning like today, thick with fog, my horny friend Pekka disappeared during his hike to their camp. Days later I found his boots deep in the woods -- I have held them ever since. That was long ago, though time is difficult to feel here. But now you reappear, looking weaker for sure, like you've lost your manhood, without boots -- well, it all makes sense. You are back! My Pekka has returned to me!" "But... how...?" He waves you off. "'How' does not matter," he says, gently touching the side of your head. "'Why' does not matter. All that matters is you are back -- you are finally back. Now, put on the boots and be whole again." Okay, so you're sure you're the victim of mistaken identity -- however incredible it would be to actually BE this Pekka of whom he speaks -- but you're not against putting on a costume and doing a little role-play, either. If the most incredible man you've ever seen in your life wants you to put on some boots before you fuck, you put on the boots, right? There's humor in the way he holds your hiking boots, like they were some dead animal carcass or the laces were snakes or something, after you've untied them and stripped them off. He tosses them deep into his closet, as if even looking at them will ruin the illusion. Whatever -- you still wear your thick cotton hiking socks, the most comfortable in the world. The boots are dusty, which to you is no big deal, and incredibly well-worn, like this "Pekka" never took them off. Kake apologizes for it. "At least I kept them," he says, rubbing the leather that covers his cock. "Perhaps we will stumble across someone who wishes to shine them, perhaps even lick them, yes?" This thought gives his dick a jolt, pushing it that much further down his thigh. "Perhaps that someone will even be me..." You chuckle, saying, "Tease," while sliding on the right boot. And the coincidences continue to pile up -- the boot fits like it was made for you. You're... shocked at how comfortable it is, how beautifully it supports your arch, pads your heel -- the leather is supportive, yet yielding. You've never felt anything like it. Suddenly, this scene has become less about acting -- no need to pretend fucking in boots is hot if fucking in boots IS hot... "It fits!" you exclaim. Kake is unsurprised. "Of COURSE it fits," he says. "They are your boots." So you put the left boot on and you're jubilant when it fits the same way -- no, more. More than ecstatic. You're... You're hot. You're turned on by them -- by you in them. You stand, and even your stance is more confident, more manly. More sexual. You start to get a hard-on, your dick coming to sudden life beneath your cargo shorts. No, more than a hard-on -- it's almost like your dick is thickening, but not getting harder -- like it's growing. It makes you feel confident and masculine, feelings you do your best to encourage, rather than frighten away. Because fear is one of the first things to disappear, followed quickly by shame and guilt. You love how it feels to be a man, to get hard and be comfortable with your body -- with your beautiful, masculine phallus. Wearing these boots reminds you what it's like. What it used to be like. And your clothes are getting tighter in the ass and thigh, but looser in the waist, and nearly painful in the crotch. Your whole body's getting an erection, swelling and growing more muscular. The bigger you get, the more confident you become, the more erect you become and the more turned on you become, which causes you to get bigger, continuing the cycle. You don't know what's happening -- you don't CARE what's happening -- just that wearing these boots is helping you remember what it is to be a man. No... what it is to be a gay man -- the ultimate gay man. You are Pekka. You realize it with a clarity and a simpleness that makes it impossible to deny, even if you'd want to deny it. You remember everything as if your brain suddenly found all the forgotten neural pathways. You remember your homeland, your backstory, your hunger for woodsmen and sailors -- visiting a logging camp staffed by three horny brothers in a water-colored haze -- your nearly insatiable need for cock -- in your mouth, down your throat, up your ass, all at once. You are the ultimate expression of gay male sexuality and pride. Your cock is huge again -- you are restored. Pekka is once more. Your upper body ripples with muscle. Your pecs are nearly out-of-proportion with the rest of your body -- your nipples are larger than a 10-markkaa piece, full and inviting. Your skin is so smooth, it shines like a delicate pencil-on-paper drawing. Your chest and your ass are your best bodyparts, as they've always been. Your big, bulbous buttocks can take a battering from the biggest men and bounce back for more. It's hungry for a fuck right now -- it's been so damn long... Fortunately, Kake is there -- and few men have bigger cocks than Kake. You grab it through the leather even as you pull him in for a kiss. He immediately begins massaging your ass as his tongue slips deep into your mouth. He spins you around, so you're gripping the metal bedframe, and he presses his bulging package into the crack of your ass, reaching around your torso and roughly pinching your gigantic, tender nipples. "Do you remember now, Pekka?" he whispers gruffly. "Do you remember how much you love my cock up inside you?" "Fuck me, my brother," you answer, your voice back to its sexy, gravelly timbre. "Fuck me the way you used to -- the way you did before I got lost. Fuck me until those memories of that other place fade away to nothing. Fuck me back to Pekka." He chuckles slyly and drops to his knees, slipping his fingers into the hem of your cargo shorts and yanking them down your muscular legs, burying his face into your deep crack and attacking your hole with his tongue. You moan -- it's so good, so familiar -- and you pinch your own nipples, your cock springing up and slapping your upper abs. He's so aggressive, spitting and licking, lubing you up for that gigantic cock of his -- it's been so long, you're liable to be ridiculously tight. What a great fuck this will be. What a way to come back. (Hopefully, you've returned before the fleet rolls into Helsinki.) And just as he pulls out that magnificent cock and touches it to the bud of your hole, there is a commotion just outside the window, down in the lot. You both see two pick-up trucks pull into the station and several huge, gruff men step out. "Those damn lumberjacks," Kake says, his huge erection hanging out of his leather pants. "Looks like they found us after all." You smile. "That's okay. I think I'm more than able to handle them now." Looking up, they see you both in the window and -- monstrous dicks swelling -- yell for you to come down. "Where will we fuck down there?" you call. "On the gravel? Come up here and use the bed like civilized men! Fucking lumberjacks!" As they lumber up the stairs, you help Kake strip off his leather pants, easily taking the head of his cock in your mouth -- Pekka will show these lumberjacks a thing or two, you think, as the mist finally burns away to reveal your new world, and a hunger that you'd nearly forgotten completely takes you over. You are Pekka. And you and Kake are together again -- and you will fuck the world. END [AUTHOR'S AFTERWORD: I know it's unusual for the author to address the audience AFTER the work, but I figured if I got all intellectual in a foreword, some might not read the story, figuring it to be too cerebral, so I'm commenting here. Hopefully, you've taken the time to clean up first (hopefully, there's a need for you to clean up!). As a young gay man in the 1980's, Tom of Finland had a major impact on me, how I saw myself, and how I saw the gay community. He showed me that gays could be strong, masculine men to whom sex was a pleasure, not a punishable offense. In his images were the men I wanted to be and, in a funny way, idolized. I've had a "man wakes up in Tom of Finland World" story floating around in my head for a number of years, but it wasn't until I recently read a new, complete collection of Kake cartoons that the penny -- or in this case, the markkaa -- dropped and I was able to craft the story. Clever readers may recognize some of the images that pack this text. Most of the settings are based on specific ToF drawings, although I've taken some liberties with the physical look of Pekka. (Pekka appeared in a water-color series that Tom did in the 70's -- although Pekka's appearance is much more "classic 70's" -- sandy blonde requite with cheesy mustache -- I've given him the standard 1980's ToF body, MUCH more muscular and thick.) Of course, my hope is that readers unfamiliar with Tom of Finland can enjoy this story, but those who are fans can find some of my little in-jokes and nods to the Master. Please let me know one way or another if I've succeeded. I have strong feelings about this piece and want to know what you all think. Thank you for your indulgence. Please -- if you haven't already -- search out Tom of Finland's work. His drawing will speak to you and you may just like what you hear. Absman420 or... Tom of Maryland Oct09]

The Prologue is found here The preceeding chapter is found here. Preface The song lyrics The times they are a-changin' were written by Bob Dylan in 1964, which is hereby acknowledged. The use of quotes thereof in this story is for non-profit literary purposes, in the belief that this is fair use. Please let me know, if anyone want these quotes to be removed. The Orgone Accumulator: Part Six "I really appreciate, how therapy dissolves the feelings of guilt and shame, Dr. Witt, but I don't think Reich was right, when he expected homosexual men to eventually become heterosexual." "Perhaps he wasn't. Some German psychologists suggested already in the 1860s, that the homosexual condition is a permanent personality trait, even to such extent, that it is possible to talk about a third sex: Uranian men with female souls. Would you think, that that describes your personality?" He felt slightly irritated. At some times Dr. Witt sounded very much as a man of an elder age. No, he wouldn't think, that that described his personality. He might have been shy and guilt-ridden when he was a teenager (and when he began his analysis by Dr. Witt), but he didn't feel like a female soul. Neither was he attracted to camp men -- he had encountered a few camp men of his own age in San Francisco recently, and, although many of them were fun and witty, he didn't fall in love with them. How would he describe this, without Dr. Witt beginning predictable tirades about repression? "To be honest, I don't think it does. Aren't there any other possible explanations? Dr. Witt fell silent, and it took some time before he continued: "I've had the impression for some time now, that I don't know how to help you further, but Dr. Silberstein find some un-orthodox explanations useful. I am not trained in those methods. Would you dislike to begin analysis with Dr. Silberstein instead?" Silberstein had arrived to The Foundation very recently, with a fresh degree and with diplomas from several different schools of psychology. He wasn't much older than The Young Man, preferred to wear suits of a very modern cut and with a hair-style resembling the Osmond family. Perhaps it was worth it to change. "No, I would be very grateful if I was allowed to continue my self-exploration with Dr. Silberstein, but I am very grateful for the help you have given me these years." When he returned home to his cottage, he switched his transistor radio on: * * * He had eventually found an athletic facility in a smaller town located between San Francisco and the countryside where The Foundation was located, and he went there three times a week. It had begun as a boxing-club, but in the recent years it had gradually changed more and more into the emerging new sort of "gym", as they were called. The use of dumbbells, barbells and cable stands had revolutionised his physical exercise. He was ever learning more about new exercises. Muscles he hadn't known existed had begun to form, grow and become visible all over his body. It had also increased his appetite. Those nights he chose to eat at The Foundation the kitchen staff were joking about his ability to eat unexpectedly large amounts of food. He assumed, that all other men at that athletic facility were hetero. It gave him some smug satisfaction, that he was able to lift heavier than some of them. Heavier than them. Stronger than them. Beginning to look more like the imaginary men in the beefcake drawings. The imaginary men had been ideals to lust for. Be attracted to. To be overwhelmed by. But now something else was happening: He was becoming one of them. One of Tom's men. It didn't take much time until he lost his patience with the rusty used car he had bought when he moved to The Foundation. Everyone owned a car. He wanted to be himself. He wanted a motorcycle. As soon as he could afford a motor cycle he bought one: A black shiny motor cycle: A symbol of liberty. A black shiny leather jacket was already a part of of his leisurewear, and rumour had it, that it had caused some gossip among middle-class and upper-class guests: Let them gossip! He was becoming himself. It was evening and his day off. He returned home to his cottage after one of his usual trips. His muscles were still warm and filled with blood after his weight-training. He switched the radio on. Something about the Soviet troops in Czechoslovakia and President Johnson's reply to recent international developments. He felt so alive. Earlier that day, he had found a retailer selling and repairing leatherwear. He liked the scent inside the shop. He had found trousers in his size, but he had a nagging thought in his head, that there was a risk, that they soon would become too small, if his thighs continued to grow in the same pace. He had also found a pair of shiny boots suitable for those who ride motorbikes. He had arrived at his athletic facility wearing his new biker wear. It gave him some satisfaction to take the gazes from the other men in the locker room in: Puzzlement, respect, perhaps some awe and some fear, too. He lapped it up. Something similar happened, when he returned to the locker room after his exercise and changed from his sweat-drenched training clothes back into his leathers. Then he ride home on his motorbike, and felt the wind rush around him. The enticing feeling of speed. Then his thoughts wandered to the Orgone Accumulator. The Orgone Accumulator was a part of Reichian treatment, but its usefulness was a matter of discussion among the guests as well as the staff. The first time The Young Man entered an Orgone Accumulator, it had been a slightly underwhelming experience. It looked like a wooden wardrobe with a seat inside. He was told, that it was constructed of alternating plates of wood and metal, which were supposed to accumulate his bodily Orgone, which was named after the human orgasm. He was supposed to sit inside wearing a thin layer of clothes of natural fibres, but some enthusiasts shocked the other guests by suggesting, that full nakedness would be more efficient. Did he feel anything? Well, yes. The inside of the box felt slightly warmer than the surrounding room, and he thought he felt some sort of pleasurable tickling feeling in his skin, but it could have been his imagination running wild. Since he moved to his cottage at the Foundation premises, he had undergone Orgone treatment once a month, and although some treatments had been pleasant in some vaguely undefinable way, he wasn't sure if it really added anything substantial to the analysis sessions and the massage. He enjoyed the massage. The new masseur, Jack, was a man his own age, and they were slowly becoming friends. But now his thoughts wandered to the Orgone Accumulator. No-one was scheduled for it this late in the night. Most guests and staff were probably asleep. With a sandwich in one hand and a glass of orange juice in his other hand, he decided to give the Orgone Accumulator another try. He finished his meal. He had removed his t-shirt, because it was damp of sweat, and he was too lazy to wear it. He took his leather jacket, wearing it without anything under, and walked over the grass to the main building in the moonlit night, dew causing his boots to become wet. The Orgone Accumulator. There it was. The lights in the room switched off, and the treatment floor abandoned for the night. Moonshine entered the windows, and formed a pattern of silver-light on the floor. He left his jacket on a chair, and entered the Accumulator wearing his new leather trousers and boots. With the door closed, the Orgone Accumulator was entirely dark. Sometimes he had noticed what looked like a dim light form around his body during treatment. It could have been his retina being exhausted. Or it could be a proof of the existence of Orgone. He didn't expect much. He felt calm and relaxed sitting there in the darkness, his boots on the wooden floor, his leather-clad legs wide apart, and his upper body naked inside the moderately warm box. The hair on his arms were bristling. His skin began to tingle pleasantly. The scent of his new trousers and boots filled the Orgone Accumulator. He enjoyed that scent. He enjoyed the smooth and glossy surface of his leather trousers. Leather -- reminding him of primordial hunters triumphing over game, using its hide for clothes. His muscles were still warm, firm and blood-filled after the exercise. He clenched his right biceps with his left hand. Warm. Firm. And Blood-filled. He clenched his right pectoral muscle. Warm. Firm. And Blood-filled. It wasn't the only part of him becoming warm, firm and blood-filled. His dick throbbed inside his new trousers, rubbing itself against the leather. Glossy. Black. Rubbing itself. His now muscular legs enclosed by black, glossy leather. His now sexy bum enclosed by black, glossy leather. New boots hugging his feet. He remembered how the other men had watched him. Their gazes. He felt so present, so bodily present. Embodied. Relaxed in his body, in a way he wasn't in the past. Calm and relaxed. Skin tingling. Dick throbbing. Warm, firm muscles. So hard. Hard everywhere. Hard dick. Hard mind. Hard body. Hard muscles. Leg-muscles hugged by black, glossy leather. Manhood. He wanted other men to be attracted to him. Lust for him. Be overwhelmed by him. Him: The muscleman in leather, the unknown biker. Feeling so alive. So free. Alive. The memory of his colleague Jack, the masseur floated through his memory. Jack's kind eyes. Jack's powerful arms. The physical sensations of his body caused the mental image of Jack to fade. Strength flowing through his veins. Strength flowing through his muscles. Strength flowing through his dick. Manhood. Embodied. Present. Powerful. His power to change himself. Changing. Becoming his dreams. Becoming others' dreams. So big and hard now. The Strength. So alive. The Power. Skin tingling more now. Muscles buzzing more now. Of Strength. Of Power. Alive. His entire physical extension. Full of Strength. And Power. And Hardness. Tingling. Buzzing. The wave of energy inside his entire being. His veins afire of Pleasure. His mind connected to a cosmic grid of golden light and red mists inside his eyelids. Cosmic grid of Strength. Cosmic grid of Power. Buzzing. Wave. Uh! Yes! Himself so buzzing of Power, brimming of Power. The Wave intensifying. Throbbing. His entire body throbbing. His entire Self throbbing. Throbbing of the Powerwave. Powerwave. Even more! Yes! Powerwave. He is Muscle now. He is Strength now. He is Manhood now. He is Power now. He is ... Uh! The Wave! So good! Hadn't thought ... Never had experienced ... The Orgone? It's true! The Orgone! Filling himself with Orgone! More Orgone! Becoming Orgone! The Wave! The Wave! Uh! Oh God, it's ... It's ... Power. Becoming. It's ... It's ... Wave ... Uh ... STRENGTH STRENGTH MANHOOD STRENGTH POWER STRENGTH WAVE STRENGTH WAVE blissful WAVE blissful WAVE blissf ... WAVE WAVE WA- !!! !!! !!! !!! !!! *** Part Seven is found HERE

The Prologue is found here The preceeding chapter is found here The Orgone Accumulator: Part Four It was evening. He was back at The Foundation, and all the guests (and the analysts) were eating dinner in the dining room. Snippets of conversation reached his ears, but he found it hard to follow, for several reasons. "... and then I told him, that the meditation room was entirely unnecessary, and that the money could have been spent on improved massage benches. And there was no reason to include a lot of Carl Jung and Carl Rogers in the library. All that money on Eranos yearbook was mis-spent, in my opinion. It is supposed to be a Reichian collection." "By the sound of it, you seem to be obsessed by some sort of Reichian purity. I'm interested in psychological methods that really works, not in any attempt at doctrinal Gleichschaltung. Do you forget the entire work on liberation from authoritarian ethics? An authoritarian person will never reach full orgastic potency ..." "... very nice potatoes. Did you read those news about the dangers of pesticides? Who could have known? In retrospect, I think it was the right decision to farm The Foundation's own vegetables. And this sauce! So delicious ..." "... will watch TV with me in the TV room tonight? There will be a new episode of Perry Mason. I never miss ..." "... as Camus put it: 'The Soviet Union isn't really socialist, and the United States aren't really liberal', and by that he attempted to say ..." "... a new car, a mint-green one with large fins, and then she said ..." "... not the same since Dr. Witt returned from his sabbatical at the Esalen Institute, but I do not complain: If clients become healthier and more liberated by mixing Reich with other methods, the aim of The Foundation will be reached ..." "... opinions about the Vietnam War?" "Well, it is complicated. We can't allow the Communists to trample another country, but on the other hand, I'm not entirely sure if war is the best method to ..." "... listened to a lecture by Alan Watts a few months ago. Zen Buddhism is fascinating." "I don't know anything about Zen, though I read The Dharma Bums once. In my opinion ..." "... the new masseur? Isn't he a dream?" The young man didn't listen. He had spent most of the afternoon and the early evening in San Francisco with The Businessman. It was much bigger, than his hometown, of course --- he had expected it to be -- but it was not just the number of inhabitants: People were individuals there, at least some of them. Of course, there were lots of men hiding who they were by wearing identical suits and ties, but there were also young people in colourful clothes, young men with long hair and beards -- beards! It looked ridiculous, of course, but at least they had made a decision to stick out from the crowd -- from other crowds than their own one. The Businessman had bought him a milkshake at a milk bar, and there had been two bikers at a table nearby. He couldn't forget the bikers. Their hairstyle. Their tight denim jeans. Their posture. Confident. Faces. Laughing. Happy. Their leather jackets and boots. Black. Glossy. For a moment, he had felt like The Businessman was reading his thoughts, and he had felt very embarrassed, but The Businessman continued talking. Telling stories about The War. The young man had used the word 'war hero', but that had only caused The Businessman to sound irritated. "Terrible things happen in war. There is nothing heroic about it, most of the time. I've seen atrocities. But what would have happened, if we had allowed Hitler to win? It was necessary. There were good things about that time, though. I have never, before or after, had better friends than I had when I served in The Army. Friends from all walks of life." The Businessman fell silent and finished his coffee. The bikers left the milk bar, and started their motorbikes. Legs wide. Boots. Black. Glossy. Confident men. Riding their bikes. The speed. The Businessman watched them, too, through the large window. "Enjoying their life, I guess. More than some people do." He didn't continue that line of thought. Instead, he asked the young man about his home town, family, work. About how Dad left. How Mom was still working at a bakery. That college was not even a thought. About working at an office. "Do you find psychoanalysis helpful? You don't have to answer, son. I've no right to intrude." "I'm glad, that Dr. Witt listen to me, Sir. The massage is nice. Dr. Witt told me, that I have inhibations, and that a wounded soul cause tensions in the body. Dr. Witt repeatedly tells me, that man is both body and soul. I think, the analysis help me to become comfortable with that." "Did you ever enjoy sports?" "Not particularly. Some of my friends were recruited to the football team, but I wasn't." "What about tennis? I played tennis in my youth, but for some reason I never continued doing so." "I don't know, Sir. I think tennis is not widely popular in my town." "Have you considered boxing? You look like you could toughen up, son." The young man blushed. "No, I haven't considered boxing, Sir. Work at the office by day and going to the theatre some nights is what my life consist of." "You are young. You have life before you. Don't waste your youth. I'm not telling you to mismanage your work. I'm just telling you to have fun when you don't work. Society is changing -- I don't understand exactly what happens, to be honest -- and the world is changing. They send spacecrafts into space, and they are able to cure diseases thought incurable. The colonies are free now, and young people in the free world are enjoying life." He shook his head, and continued: "By 1990 they will probably have flying cars. Don't waste this first step of mankind's modern progress by feeling sad. I like to watch young people enjoy life -- even those strange incomprehensible beatniks." "Thanks for your encouragement, Sir. And thanks for the milkshake." On their way home in The Businessman's big fancy car, they had bought some cigarettes, fruits, candy and magazines. Among the newspapers and magazines in the newsstand, the young man had found magazines he had never seen before: They seemingly were all about physical exercise. A jolt went through his spine. He had to swallow. The hair on his head bristled, and he felt blood rush to his still boyish cheeks. The drawings of men on the covers. So built. Impossibly big muscles. A muscular biker talking to a muscular man from The Navy on one of the covers. A big man on a beach on the other. On the back cover there was an advert for Charles Atlas' correspondence course about physical exercise. He bought two of the magazines, and hoped, that The Businessman didn't notice his choice of reading material. On his way home, he hid the magazines in the brown paperbag, where he had put his fruits, candy and cigarettes. Next morning, he began his day by doing push-ups at his room at The Foundation. * * * Next chapter is found here.

Chapter one is found here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/13680-the-company-chapter-1/ The Company Chapter Two He felt strange. He felt exhausted and empowered at the same time. The jacuzzi had stopped bubbling, and the UV lights were turned off. He felt different. He touched his shoulders and chest. Disbelief and excitement mixed in his mind, as he felt the sensation of hard, well-defined muscles. His hard, well-defined muscles. An hour ago he had been a wrinkled, fragile and shy octagenarian from a conservative mid-western town. To begin with, he wasn't fragile anymore. He remained in the hot liquid, and tried to focus. Bill, his PT, returned, cheerful and encouraging. The hot and damp air caused Bill's polo shirt to stick to his torso, revealing Bill's aesthetic, but not exaggerated, physique. He could feel desire arise. Before the treatment, he had felt impressed by Bill, and trusted Bill as a professional, and felt protective in the way he often did towards younger men – and most men were younger these days. Now he felt confused. Bill helped him up, out of the water, but, unlike the case when he entered the jacuzzi, he didn't need much help when he return out of it. Powerful legs stepped the metal stairs. A big hand clenched the handrail. The dressing gown didn't fit anymore, and Bill joked about it. By the sound of it, the joke wasn't new. No longer surrounded by liquid, he felt taller, and he felt unaccustomed to his new improved physique. He adjusted his stance, and tried to find a suitable posture. He felt more confident. It felt good. Bill handed him a plastic cup of mineral water. "You are probably dehydrated because of The Treatment, sir. You need water and sodium. This is ordinary mineral water. Do you feel dizzy?" He drank three glasses of water. The dizziness faded. Bill listened to his heartbeat with a stethoscope, and had his blood pressure measured. "Your clothes will be tailored for your new measurements, sir. Will you please step into the changing room?" His old clothes hang there. They were obviously too small now. Then he turned to the full-length mirror. Lust erupted. A wave of arousal surged through him. He noticed that he didn't need his glasses anymore, and the face, that stared back at him in the mirror, could have been drawn by his favourite erotic artist: Handsome, playfully charming in a masculine way. The face of men he never dared to approach. A powerful muscle rolled between his strong neck and his bulging shoulders – his nephew called it traps. The chest of a hero. Narrow waist – extremely so – contrasting to his broad shoulders and wide chest. Six hemispheric tiles formed a washboard. The wave of arousal intensified. The mirror image stared in disbelief, its blue eyes boyishly innocent in a baby face empowered by mature masculinity. Full lips. Cute nose. Dimples. And that face placed over the mature muscularity of a bodybuilder of – let's say – twenty-five years' experience. He couldn't believe it was his own reflection, but his reason told him it was. His mind drowned in rapture – he didn't know for how long – and he could feel his cock spasm pleasantly, and more powerfully than ever before. He opened his eyes. One hour ago, he would have been devastated by embarrassment of letting this happen in the sight of Bill, but now he only felt mildly sheepish. The mirror was stained by large spots of his own cum, which now slowly trickled down the surface of the mirror. "I'm sorry for that." Bill only smiled leniently: "In this profession I have seen everything, already. You are not the first one." He nodded towards a spray can of detergent in a corner. Without further ado, Bill used a measuring tape which had been there all the time. While Bill did what he had to do, the customer changed his stance and posture, looked at his reflection, and suddenly noticed a framed reproduction hanging in the changing room: It was one of Tom's drawings. An almost naked, but very confident, muscular young man having his measures taken at a tailor's, while an obese man, waiting for his turn, looking embarrassed. His cock awaked again. For which time, now? This time it didn't spew. Bill was soon finished with his job: "Oh, and another thing: In order to protect the anonymity of our guests, each guest is given a username during their remaining stay, by which they will be known by other guests. Do you have any suggestion, sir?" He had been told about the usernames before. "Is 'Tom' already taken?" "I'm afraid it is, sir. That is a very popular choice." He thought a few seconds. "What about 'Brett', then? Is that taken?" "No, I will immediately register the username 'Brett'." "Thank you, Bill." "Your gymwear and your chosen attire – I see that you have chosen the biker option (a classic one!) – will be delivered to your room within two hours. Many customers take a nap after The Treatment. Other guests take a shower. I am sure, that you will find a way to spend the waiting time. Before you go, will you please chose your underwear from the stand, and one of the big size bathrobes? None of the underwears were smaller than size L. Some of the styles were unfamiliar to him. Why not test something new? He finally found a leather jockstrap, took a look in the mirror and felt how his cock began to throb inside, rubbing itself against the leather. He felt dazed. This wasn't happening? The being in the mirror wasn't himself? Too good to be true? He girded himself with a very large white terrycloth bathrobe, and found a heap of large rubber slippers. Thus attired, he walked through the corridors. Brett walked through the corridors. He smiled. It felt unreal, but in a good way. Brett squeezed his manhood through the terrycloth and the leather. Brett needed a nap. And a shower. While he waited for his biker gear.

The teaser is found here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/13634-teaser-for-the-new-story-the-company/ The Company Chapter One "What is it like? The Treatment, I mean." The elderly man sat in one of the restaurants owned by Physical Potential Foundation, and felt embarrassed and exhilarated at the same time. A young muscle-god had decided to sit down at his table, which caused a wave of mixed feelings. The younger man had obviously been through The Treatment already, and his shoulders unopposedly claimed the space of the opposite seat, as they protruded out of the sleeveless plaid shirt. Several upper shirt buttons were unbuttoned, and revealed a pec cleavage worthy an ancient statue. Even if his pecs were hard as marble, they were far from as pale as marble: A bronzed, hairless chest teased the elderly man with its body heat and whiff of anti-perspirant, but the most amazing thing with the other man was his eyes: Although men built like him had the opportunity to behave condescendingly or smugly, this man's greenish-brown eyes sparkled of fun and mischief, like sunlight through the foliage of beeches, reflected in a well. A smile, expressing relish, was upon his face above the powerful jaw and dimpled chin. The young man answered: "The Treatment is awesome. Some guests worry about pain during adjustment of their bone-structure, but you are given some sort of analgesic with the DNA-altering and hormone-stimulating formula. It will feel great. Don't worry, gramps. You will enjoy it. And you will have fun afterwards. Which option have you gone for?" The elderly man felt embarrassed again, and he could feel his willy awake inside his pants, hearing the description of The Treatment. His silvery white hair was wavy. His suit didn't look cheap, but it wasn't luxurious either. With his suit and tie, he looked slightly misplaced in the restaurant. Indirect daylight was admitted into the room, but the southern wall lacked any windows, and the air conditioners struggled. The walls were panelled, and wooden logs ran from one wall to another under the ceiling. Many of the other men eating dinner were dressed in black leather, and looked like the drawings he had enjoyed in the 1960s and 1970s. Other men were dressed in a way inspired by the army: Crewcuts, jarheads, camo trousers, dogtags. One or two cowboys looked displaced in the environment. Judging from the scents in the room, the preferred style of meal was steak, barbecue, grill. Although most of the dialects heard in the room came from one or another part of the States, the elderly man could hear the odd Canadian, British or Irish dialect now and then, and some men probably spoke with unidentifiable European accents. He had seen a, supposedly wealthy, Saudi arrive in traditional Arabian garb, and descend the stairs an hour later in tight denim jeans, sneakers and an expensive-looking slim-fitting t-shirt, and with a sturdy golden chain around his neck. One of the muscle gods was probably Hawaiian, and he guessed one of the pre-Treatment guests was a Filipino. "I have chosen Fountain-of-Youth and Option Two." The young man smiled, causing dimples in his cheeks, and the glittering joy in his eyes returned. "You will love it, I guess. You are old enough to actually have been able to meet Tom of Finland. Did you meet him?" The elderly man ate one of his fries, and smiled for the first time, though the smile was shy, and his ears became dark pink. Dark pink contrasted nicely against his silvery white hair. "I am not very experienced, I'm afraid. My life went by, and I didn't engage with the wider gay community, until very, very late. It took me a very, very long time to accept myself. The times were different." He fell silent for a few seconds, and then repeated: "The times were very different." His thoughts briefly drifted away. Memories. "Tell me. I'm curious. My great grandfathers died when I was too young to understand anything, but I have always wanted to hear more about the past." So he told him. The musty scent of an underground cellar, used to store food the first years of his life. Ice preserved under saw dust, but replaced by a very bulky and noisy refrigerator inside the kitchen a few years later. Bicycling as a child: Playing in the nearby prairie. President Roosevelt on the radio. Charlie Chaplin in the theatre. War news. New suburbs emerging. The outhouse replaced by an indoors bathroom with water closet, which was an improvement in the cold winters and warm summers. Magazines with comics or short stories printed on cheap paper, which aged quickly, and became yellow and brittle, and smelled dusty and funny. Meals from tin cans. Jazz music. President Truman on the radio. He didn't remember much from wartime. He was a teenager when the Korean war ended. There was something impressive about the veterans who returned home, but it had made him feel embarrassed. His family became wealthy enough to buy a car: A mint green one with large tails. He didn't do well in sports, but one of his best friends played in the football team, and protected him from bullying. His mother had been deeply religious, his father less so, but the entire family went to chapel every Sunday. Many years afterwards, he learned, that the chapel had been into social gospel decades earlier, and performed a lot of charity work in the past, but, at some time shortly before the war, a new preacher had arrived, and the congregation had taken a more revivalist turn. Lots of emotions during Sunday meetings, and bible readings from an incomprehensible translation. "God's own translation", as his mother had used to say. "Thee" and "Thou" and "Shalt". Especially "Shalt not". One Sunday after chapel, he had asked his mother: "What's a sodomite?" Her expression had become rigid and disgusted, and she had explained: "It's a sick and hell-bound man behaving unmanly and unnaturally, worse than a beast. Promise me to never, never talk about such things again." So he didn't. There was a lot of fear of nuclear war, and everyone feared the Communists. And everyone feared traitors within, like fags, who were supposed to be Communists, all of them. His parents had voted for Ike, and Ike won. "Ike was a war hero, and back then there was a realisation in Ike's party, that people of colour (as we used to say back then – I'm afraid that it doesn't sound polite today, but it was intended to be back then) still suffered, despite slavery had been abolished eighty years earlier. Ike's party was the party of Abraham Lincoln, who abolished slavery. The other party was frankly outright racist back then, at least in the south. The sixties changed all that in a way you youngsters don't understand. I voted for Nixon, because I sympathized with the civil rights movement, but Kennedy won. Must sound self-contadictory to your generation. Lyndon and Carter changed the party-allegiances in the south. Some people my age became beatniks. A few became hippies, though most hippies were many years younger than us. Some were drafted for Vietnam. I became an office clerk, and later an accountant." When rock and roll emerged, he had initially continued to listen to jazz music, but there was something dangerously rebellious and appealing with Elvis Presley. He spent a lot of time in the theatre, watching films. He had watched a film called The Wild One, starring Marlon Brando, and Rebel without a cause, starring James Dean (who wasn't much older than himself). And then there were a wave of slightly childish but entertaining films about ancient Greek heroes or ancient Romans: Hercules, Ben Hur, The Slave. Steve Reeves and Charlton Heston were big names back then. Since he didn't marry, he had a lot of time left for other things. In his leisure time, he joined the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, which engaged in a lot of beneficial charity work. It was important to him, to assist less fortunate persons. Once or twice a year, he took a weekend trip to a big city several hours away, and visited an opera house: The bombastic music of Wagner telling stories about hero-figures like Lohengrin, Parzival and Siegfried spoke to him. It was an age of soap, cleanliness, mild colognes and horn-rimmed glasses. TV was something new then. People met at home and played bridge. He had a guilty pleasure: He read and collected a magazine called Physique Pictorial. It was supposed to encourage physical exercise, but he wasn't the sporty type of person. Anything else than golf or tennis would have been unthinkable in the social class he had entered in his adult and middle-aged years. He wasn't sure if it was intentional, but some of the artwork in the magazine, especially by someone called 'Tom of Finland', caused him to feel horny, despite the lack of women in the drawings. The drawings only depicted confident and very masculine men, especially lumberjacks, bikers and servicemen. At some time in the 1970s, he admitted to himself that his sexuality wasn't mainstream, but according to all men around him, fags behaved like queens, and the things he enjoyed weren't queenish at all, so he didn't know how to understand the matter of arousal and pleasure. In the 1970s and 1980s, the art of Tom became uncensored and explicitly sexual: Tall, powerful men in leather or uniforms pleasured each other. He felt guilty and ashamed, and the young schoolboy – in his past – repeatedly heard his mother's words – in the past: "Never, never talk about such things again." Sick and hell-bound? But not unmanly, surely: The beefcakes surpassed his old schoolmates (who didn't play football or baseball any longer), the straight men in the accountant firm, the straight men in the golf course, his straight brethren in The Elks. And the men in the drawings looked like they had fun. Not riddled by guilt. Just having fun together. Ultra-masculine fun. Homosexuals became more visible in society. The Stonewall riots must have happened in New York in 1969, but he wasn't aware of it at the time, and in rural small towns a lot of things went on as they always had. After hippies came disco, but he preferred opera. The number of television channels exploded, and became incalculable. It was an age of synthetic fabrics and too much sweat. Preachers in the chapels he attended preached against the increasing visibility of homosexuals, and talked about cures and therapy. AIDS happened, and he thought that it had been wise of him to avoid sex, otherwise something terrible could have happened to him. He felt embarrassed, guilty, full of shame, that he enjoyed Tom's art, but he noticed that Tom made an advertisement for safe sex. After disco came heavy metal and electronic music, but none of it appealed to him: He stuck with jazz music and opera, but he would listen to Bruce Springsteen now and then. It was an age of sporty anti-perspirants and young people with sticky goo in their hair. The hairy hairdos introduced by The Beatles and the hippies became unfashionable, and civilian young men began to favour crew cuts (or modern hairdos inspired by crew cuts). An increasing number of young men began to exercise, and it became usual to see wannabe bodybuilders in the stores and in the streets, and he felt embarrassed when he became impressed by, and aroused at, the sight of twenty year younger jocks (or even thirty year younger ones). In the 1990s, the advertisement industry abandoned any regrets against showing male nudity: Actors and soccer-players began to sell underwear. By that time, he had become decidedly un-political. The Soviet Union didn't exist any longer, and any difference between the major parties wasn't obvious. Since he didn't have any children of his own, he took delight in spoiling his nieces and nephews at Christmas and birthday parties. One of them, Brody, returned home from university at some point in the late 1990s, at about the same time as he considered retirement himself. Brody hadn't shown much of an interest in sports in elementary school, but had later began to work out in a gym, and, during university years, Brody had achieved an impressive physique. Brody had visited his uncle one of his first nights back home, and brought a bottle of Jack Daniels. Uncle had preferred something some more sophisticated, and they had each shared one balloon glass of imported French brandy, before they opened the bottle brought by Brody. "Better enjoy the brandy with taste buds intact.", as Brody had agreed. He remembered Brody as a rather shy and frail kid in the 1970s, brought up with Sesame Street and the usual fare, but the young man who now sat in the other armchair was a confident young male with a powerful chest. He had left his leather jacket inside the door, and was dressed in jeans, a sturdy leather belt with a conspicuous belt-buckle, army boots and a snug polo shirt. Brody had brought two cigars, and, after small-talk about many different things, they had – somehow – floated into quite private and personal matters. Brody had come out of the closet to his uncle, and Uncle had fallen silent for a while. Then he had told Brody his own story, and Brody had been very supportive. By the help of Brody, he had taken a few steps outside his comfort zone, and he began to donate to gay-right charities. He had decided to attend a more liberal and mainline church instead, and found that environment supportive. He remained a member of The Elks and the golf club, but he had lost some of his old business affiliates. He felt too old to look for a partner, but he enjoyed when Brody invited him to meet Brody's gay friends. Some of the young men had lost contact with their parents, especially Dads, when they had announced that they were gay, and he became an Uncle to several of them. He couldn't believe his ears when same-sex marriage was introduced. It was a few months ago, when Brody, now a successful middle-aged professional, had a talk with him about The Company and The Treatment. "One of my friends in the leather-scene consulted that company. The Treatment they give is unbelievable. I will probably give it a try when I become slightly older. They give something called 'Fountain-of Youth', and it is allegedly just what its called. Even men of your age return from the centres looking like several decades younger. To some relatives, it is rather shocking, but I thought, that it would give you a second chance, or at least an opportunity to spoil yourself. You deserve that, uncle. I will pay a part of the cost if you have any doubts." His awareness returned to the restaurant table. He watched the muscle-god before him and ate a few of his, now cold, fries. The handsome young man listened attentively. "It is hard to understand how it was in the past. It gets better, doesn't it?" - - - It was the day after. He was scheduled for The Treatment. He had been introduced to Bill, his PT, when he checked in yesterday, and it seemed like Bill was one of the men in charge of The Treatment. Bill was dressed in tracksuit bottoms and sneakers, a snug polo shirt and a white lab coat, and smiled at him. "The big day has come, Mr. A. I hope you will enjoy it, and we have several activities booked for you in the upcoming days. We also expect our guests to have fun with other guests, if they so prefer. You have Fountain-of-Youth selected, I see. It's one of our popular choices, especially among men of a certain age. Please drink the content of this glass and change into rubber slippers and a dressing-gown over here. I will be back, soon." He looked at the drinking glass, actually made of plastic. It contained a milky, yellow liquid. He tasted it. Vanilla, covering some bitterness. He took a deep breath and emptied it. Better done with it. He removed his tie and shirt, undershirt and trousers. The air in the Treatment department felt warmer and moister than usual, like a bathhouse. He let his underwear and socks go, and put his rubber slippers on. He still felt shy and vulnerable, wrinkled and fragile, as he now was naked under the dressing-gown. He moved the curtain aside, and entered the Treatment Room. A jacuzzi was sunk into the floor. Equipment indistinguishable from a tanning bed hang from the ceiling rather close to the jacuzzi. A scent of essential oils, reminding himself of some cologne, steamed from the surface of the hot water: A scent like wood, nuts, leather and citrus. Bill returned. "Will you please enter the water, Mr. A. I have seen naked men before, you can hand me the dressing-gown. Step carefully, so you don't slip. Yes, like that." Bill helped him down the stairs into the jacuzzi. "Now sit in a comfortable position, Mr. A, and I will repeat the information. You have been briefed twice before, but we use to repeat, in order to remove any worries. The formula you drank will alter your DNA, permanently increase your own production of certain hormones, and, since you have chosen this particular option, it will also help your body to rejuvenate. The formula in the water will activate the formula inside your metabolic system, and you will be sensitive to the ordinary UV light of the same sort given in tanning salons. During one hour or so, you will be able to absorb the energy of UV light and metabolize it into muscular tissue. Most guests find the process enjoyable. While you undergo The Treatment we will play some music from the loadspeakers, if you want. Did you chose any particular music when you filled in your form? Oh. Wagner, I see. Prelude to Tannhäuser? Now, just relax and enjoy the experience. I will leave you some privacy. If you feel strange, please press the alarm button hanging from the ceiling here." Bill left. The illumination went soft and dim. The jacuzzi activated, and hard jet streams of hot water began to hit his tensed back muscles and other parts of his body. The loadspeaker began to play Tannhäuser. The UV equipment in the ceiling lowered itself and activated: A blueish-purple light. He felt warm and comfortable. Relaxed, yet with some traces of worry left in his gut. A shiver of anticipation. A wave of warmth coming from inside, rather than from the surrounding hot water. Another internal wave of warmth. His bicepses tensed. Blood rushed to his willy. His quads tensed. His chest felt more... more present, in a way, like he had never noticed it in the past. Brody and his friends called the chest muscles pecs. He had pecs, too. He remembered the pecs of his old friend who had played American football in school – he had attended his funeral two years ago. He remembered the pecs of the men in the erotic art he enjoyed. He touched his own pecs. He could feel them grow. Uhmmmm. Grow. Pecs. He fingered one of his nipples, and moaned. The jacuzzi began to feel smaller, like it was shrinking. Then he realized, that he was growing taller, and, in the moment he realized that, his willy hardened into something probably better called a cock. He caressed himself with his right hand, and moved it to his mid-section, and he could feel six abs forming. Six marble-hard abs, like the young muscle-god yesterday. The jet streams intensified, and he became acutely aware of his physical presence, the extension of his body, and the increasing size of his now POWERFUL muscles and the delightful awareness of his own MASCULINITY. He had to tense and flex his bicepses. His legs. His bottom – what Brody used to call glutes? His back felt different. He moaned again. And again, louder now. It felt... He didn't know how to describe it, and he didn't need to describe it. He was absorbing the PURE POWER from the UV equipment, and turned it into STEEL-HARD brawn. He moaned again and thrashed around in the water, experienced spasms of movement, of flexing, of EMPOWERMENT. The Wagner music repeated for the third time. The prelude increased into a crescendo, and in his mind his ecstasy increased into a prolonged indescribable state of pleasure. He orgasmed once, twice and again. The pleasure never ended, but returned ever again in even higher states of intensity. He was no longer aware of his surroundings. Everything that existed was the triumphant background music, the pleasure that consumed every other thought, and the overwhelming EMPOWERMENT. Empowerment! Empowerment! Emp... Oh my God! Uhu uhu uhu uhu uhu uhu uhu uhu And the music climaxed too. - - - Chapter two is found here.

Physical Potential Foundation, good afternoon. How may I help you? Yes, that's one of the companies we own. The Foundation assist in scheduling customers, in order to optimise their experience according to their particular goals and preferences. Have you received the paper copy of the form, or do you sign it online? I see, Sir, yes I am delighted to assist you. I am well aware of, that it might seem overwhelming, but it is for safety purposes and in order to ensure customer satisfaction. Location, yes? Well, you see, Sir, some of our customers prefer to stay at our centre located in the tropics, because of the weather: To enjoy the sun and have opportunities to take a bath in the ocean. We call it The Physique Pictorial Experience. Other customers prefer our northern centre – especially popular for stays during Christmas and New Year, and particularly popular among those who enjoy the company of bears, if you catch my drift? Our northern centre has several very authentic Finnish saunas, with easy access to snow and ice-covered bathing lakes. Our western centre is particularly popular among bikers, and our Atlantic one among punks, scallies and skinheads, but I can assure you, that there's a great deal of overlap. Many customers prefer to consult the centre closest to their home, in order to cut the travelling expenses short. Aha? Okey? Yes, I see. No, sir, there is nothing to be shy of. We have seen and heard anything by now. Yes, that particular part of the form is in place, to ensure satisfied customers. If you click on that link, you will see some photographs of former customers with blurred faces. So, to begin with, we have the first alternative, which we call FITLAD. It's highly popular, especially among our younger customers and among middle-aged professionals, who have to take their professional career in account. Then we have the second offer, HUNK, which is primarily targeted at young customers. Middle-aged and elderly customers usually prefer our third option, FOUNTAIN-OF-YOUTH, with practically the same effects as the HUNK option. Our remaining options are called BRUISER, SUPER-HERO and BULL, but if you click the links... You do? Yes? Yes, Sir. I see. If you change your mind, you still have the opportunity to select another option up to ten days before arrival. No, Sir. All visible employees are male, but we have many female employees behind the scenes, as it were. We want to create a certain type of ambience. Those boxes are there, to ensure that you doesn't feel embarrassed. Some customers are not easily embarrassed, and go for the second option, which include access to our nearby theme-park, Tom's Land. You have to sign, that you understand the legal nature of a 'no', and, if you tick any of the optional boxes, you will be given a colour-coded hanky-badge at your arrival, in order to prevent misunderstandings. The third option is legal at the geographical locations of the centres, yes, but customers who chose the third option are housed in other buildings than guests who go for option one or option two. We want to avoid embarrassment. Yes, prophylactics are mandatory. Yes, I understand, if the next set of boxes look unusual, but some of our customers want to add one or another of these specifics, to ensure that they are surrounded by the right crowd of fellow customers after The Treatment: Big feet, ginger and shot wound scars. Otherwise, you just tick 'Doesn't matter'. Yes. Yes, I see. No, Sir. We don't do racial profiling. It's an early decision from when the Foundation started the companies, and it still remain in force. Neither do we accept customers or employees younger than 21, for several reasons. You will meet employees and fellow customers of all and every ethnical background, everyone over the age of 21. The gyms? Each centre have five gyms. Two of these do not allow sex in the locker rooms. Non-embarrassment policy, again. The options are: Mainstream, Hardcore, Steamy locker, Fetish and Naked. Yes? Oh, I see, Sir. No. No reason to apologise, Sir. You are very welcome. Do you need more information about the restaurants? No? Online information enough? Very well, Sir. We take the utmost care to combine high nutritional value and an inviting masculine atmosphere, and you will be given the opportunity to plan each meal with our PTs and waiters. You will also be sent information about our work for charities: Preventing STD, projects against bullying, and scholarships for working-class teenagers and young men. Affluent customers like to donate, less affluent customers shall not feel any pressure to do so. Actually, we have stipends to make it easier for less-affluent customers to receive The Treatment. We cultivate a sort of brotherly spirit at the Foundation. Our founders took a certain interest in all these areas, and all our companies try to maintain and realise our founders' vision. No, it was a pleasure to help you. Your form will be processed within 24 hours, and we will give you optional dates to chose between within three days. Just remember, that the waiting-list is quite long, as you might expect. Yes. Yes. A pleasure. You are welcome. Bye. - - - Chapter one is found here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/13680-the-company-chapter-1/