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  1. CardiMuscleman

    m/f The Ultimates in Lockdown

    Chapter One As the worshipper approached the man about to be worshipped, lying naked on the bench, his entire body covered in sweat from the three hour training session he had forced the worshipper to endure whilst the worshipped had been restrained by a ten thousand pound pec deck exercise and cuffs to the handles, the worshipper moaned "Are you willing?" The worshipee, a word of his own invention, grunted "First, tell me what you want to do?" "Please, I beg of you, pick up those one thousand pound dumbells, hold them in each hand and then on my command flyes, until you cannot do a single rep more!" "Ah" came the chuckle from the man about to be worshipped, "you wish to challenge my pecs, yes?" "Challenge, Worship and Defeat them" came the moaned reply as the worshipper sat on the worshipee's groin and slowly let his twelve by nine monster rub against the worshippe's ass, causing him to moan with desire. As the worshipper lay down, his fingers pressing down on the eight inch long, hard as nails, nipples he could feel the monstrous pec muscle underneath and the titanic heart pounding underneath. As the first stirrings of his groin flooded his mind he moaned, "Flyes, each movement taking five seconds" and with that counted to five as the man he was worshipping slowly made the dumbbells meet in the middle, making his already mammoth chest bulge to an incredible ninety inches. At the pinnacle of the rep, the worshipper moaned "Hold for five" and as the man did as command, his nipples were twisted one way then the other and as the monster lowered the dumbbells at the same pace as he raised them he grunted "Resist me, for I am your lover!" For twenty minutes, the torture continued, each movement accompanied by grunts by the monster, groans from the worshipper and the unmistakable sound of a cock slowly entering a ass. As the worshipper felt himself get closer and closer, he started to suck the titan's nipples, causing the monster to moan with desire as his own fifteen by ten cock started to harden and soon both men were lost in the sensations of worship, their hearts pounding like never before, their cocks on the verge of cumming, their moans of sexual desire... "WILL YOU TWO PACK IT IN?" As the worshipper, Roger Dixon in his guise as the Ultimate Cadet looked up, and the man being worshipped, Porthos in his guise as the Ultimate Titan bent his head at the end of the bench, they both saw a highly annoyed man, his muscles bigger than either on them, sitting on another bench, his elbow on one on his massive quads and drumming his fingers on the other quad with a fed up looking expression on his face. "Mon amis" moaned Porthos, "forgive us, but you know..." As the man stood up to his full height of nine feet, with a loincloth covering an otherwise entirely naked body, he sighed and said "I'm sorry, Porthos, Roger, it's just" and with that sighed again and taking a sword from besides the bench, raised it up and declared "Thy honour is restored" and in doing so shrank down and was replaced by Henry Cardigan fully clothed, who sighed again and said "Look, when I arranged this holiday at the end of last year, how was I to know that we'd be stuck. All I had planned was that I would come over here for a week, have a good set of training sessions with the both of you, get some ideas together and then head back home and start getting back into the gym to carry on where I left off after developing sciatica. I didn't know that the day after I arrived and invited Porthos, there would be a state-wide lockdown in Colorado" "You are angry with me?" asked Porthos, his head bowing upside down "No, I'm not angry, just fed up" came the reply, "For the past three weeks I have had to endure you two spending every moment in the day producing so many muscle worship movies I dare say you are single handedly causing a quadrupling of data usage and that's before all the people working at home. I'm not that way inclined, and well you know it!" and with that Henry sighed "If anyone wants me, I'll be on the roof getting what fresh air I can!" and with that stomped out of the gym in a foul mood slamming the door after him. As Roger sat up and helped Porthos to do the same he said "Henry's right, I'm gay, you're bisexual and yet Henry, Henry's never had a date in his life. When he sees us making love he must wonder what he is missing out on" "Aye" replied Porthos, "and yet whenever a lady congratulates him on some feat of bravery as himself, or some feat of strength or power as the Ultimate Musketeer, he just doffs his hat or bows and says no more about it. You are right mon amis, we are not thinking of him at all. What can we do?" "I've an app for that!" smiled Roger and with that clambered off Porthos and pulled his iPhone out of his pocket and launched "Super Dates" explaining it as a dating app for superheroes, "after all they are on lockdown as well" and with that the two lovers scrolled through the options to find a suitable date for their friend.
  2. Absman420

    m/m PHOLUS REBORN

    PHOLUS REBORN by absman420 When I got the call that my Grandfather had passed, I had an odd mixture of disappointment and relief. I’d just seen him a few weeks ago, when he’d turned 92, still as spry and troublesome as ever. He’d been a landscaper and gardener since coming to America in his youth -- he claimed it a tie to the old country, the old ways. He knew plants and he knew how to love them -- his garden lush and inviting, alive and ready-to-burst, even up to the end, when HIS heart had burst. (I’d inherited that from him -- not the bad heart, the green thumb -- though I only grew marijuana in the basement of my house.) They’d found him in the garden, dead. It was the Executive Manager of the Home who felt the need to inform me -- but still with his disapproving attitude -- that my Grandfather had been masturbating when he’d died. “And in the garden, of all places!” he’d said with mock indignity. I shrugged -- what should my reaction have been? It was the Home’s Resident Mortician who’d pulled me aside and informed me quietly that my Grandfather had been “remarkably blessed” with “prodigious equipment” and that the erection he’d had when he’d died hadn’t gone down. (Sadly, I’d not inherited that from him -- mine was more pint-sized than prodigious.) It was no secret that my Grandfather was the bane of the old folk’s home -- the sexually-forward, inappropriate old man who wouldn’t leave the ladies alone. Or the nurses. Or the staff. Although they had a soft spot in their hearts for him -- everything else was about his hard spot, the one he was constantly playing with. All in all, they were not sorry to see him go. While in his room, gathering his few personal effects -- the things worth anything -- another old man came in, one of his fellow gardeners, and presented me with a towel-wrapped object, saying, “Big Red wanted you to have this.” I’d never felt like I’d connected with my Grandfather -- “Big Red” -- we both shared the red hair, but that was all. I’d always assumed it was because I was gay -- his generation had their old-school outlooks -- and he believed in big, hearty masculine expressions. Potency with him, above all -- fertility. His garden had been a reflection of that. But he wanted me to have something! See? He’d thought of me! Even in death, there’s hope! Rolling back the towel, I was surprised to discover a clay garden gnome, about ten/ twelve inches long -- but at least not the cheap, Disney-fied version with the goofy red hat and cheeky smile. (That would’ve probably made me leave it behind.) This was significantly older, a hand-painted terracotta statuette of a disheveled old man dressed in rags with a lusty half-smile on his face -- the only other noticeable detail about the sculpt was that the gnome had an obvious bulge. (Like the kind you don’t see that on the modern-day Wal-Mart gnomes!) “He wanted me to have this?” I ask the other old guy, trying not to sound ungrateful, like I wasn’t suspicious of a joke. “A garden gnome?” “Gnomes are powerful symbols of fertility,” the old guy said -- just my luck, my Grandfather was pals with a professor — then he added, “Look it up. You’ve got The Google” and I felt a lot better about my Grandfather’s associates. “It’s been in the garden long as I can remember. Your Grandpappy said he’d had it his whole life!” I took the Gnome -- “Thank you,” I said. “I have the perfect place for it.” -- (Ironically, I did!) -- and after I’d gotten all the business and paperwork and payments at the Home complete -- my Grandfather safely in a box being shipped to the family site -- I headed back to my house, a few hours away, the Gnome resting in a box in the back seat. I DID have the perfect place for it -- my little basement grow. I put it down at the head of a row of a hybrid I was developing -- I aimed its little bulge at the marijuana plants. “Let ‘er rip,” I laughed. “Show me the fertility!” And for the next year, it did just that -- my yield increasing by over 65% -- until I carelessly knocked the little Gnome off the shelf and broke it. And that’s where the story really starts. **************************************** According to “The Google”: Act surprised, the Ancient Greeks had a God for it -- a God of Fertility: Priapus. Apparently his power was manifested in his oversized genitals -- but with the Christian invasion (and forbidden sexuality that accompanied that religion), Priapus and his cock became a demon, or represented as a withered old man with an uncontrollable erection, often pushing his giant cock before himself on a cart. Religion made genitals and their symbology a punishment, a curse -- act surprised. So… Gnomes. Little old men with massive genitals -- a European ode to the Ancients. Little clay gods of fertility for your garden -- Priapus through the ages. (They didn’t become “cutesy” until the release of “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” at the beginning of the 20th century -- Priapus becomes Dopey.) I find stuff like that fascinating. ******************************************** Ultimately, it didn’t matter because the Gnome was just a delivery device. I mean, literally. Just as I was about to buy into the idea that a fertility icon in your garden increases yield, I go and knock the fucking thing off the shelf while tranferring a tray of younglings. Fucking stoner thing to do, honestly. I mean, I tried to “catch” it with my foot -- or at least soften the impact. All I managed to do was scratch myself as it bounced off my sandal -- don’t laugh! It drew blood -- and then shattered on the cement, missing the floor mat because of my interference. Fucking idiot. And I was hoping, you know, maybe some glue? But doesn’t destroying it wreck the mojo? Doesn’t breaking it stop the voodoo that it do so well? Isn’t that the folklore? Immediately I thought of my Grandfather -- now a year in his grave -- he managed to get through his whole life without breaking it! Maybe some glue….? Idiot. So I knelt down next to it and gingerly lifted it up -- the front wasn’t cracked, but collapsed from age, barely more than dust -- glue wasn’t going to help. Fuck. And then the discovery. Something inside the hollowed-out middle, wrapped in what seemed to be very old cheesecloth -- very, very old, like great-grandma’s linen that never came out of the box, faded and brittle and delicate beyond possibility -- someone had planted something INSIDE the Ancient Gnome. Eagerly -- nervously -- I carried the whole mess to my work-table and clicked on the bright, overhead light. I was more afraid of ruining whatever was inside -- especially if it was some sort of message or something. (This was why I wasn’t an archeologist -- it couldn’t possibly be this romantic in real life!) Should I be wearing gloves? I had to break the Gnome a little further to get the package to come out freely. I was a nervous wreck, suppositioning all over the place -- had my Grandfather known about this? Was it my Grandfather who’d planted it? Was this why he wanted me to have the Gnome in the first place? What could it possibly be? The rag or cheesecloth or whatever the hell it was that wrapped it nearly dissolved away, turning to dirty dust even as I tugged on it. Pieces of it came off intact, but it was nothing more than wrapping, no message or clues. Just old -- insanely old -- hundreds of years old. If my Grandfather had known about this, he hadn’t changed anything -- he hadn’t wrapped it in anything new. It was two objects wrapped together. One was an icon, about four inches long, a crude stone carving of an overly muscular man with an enormous phallus -- his dick went practically to his chest -- his eyes dark jewels. The other was a tiny, dark bottle, like a perfume bottle, dark glass, deep blue, a small stopper with a wax seal. Holding it to the light, I couldn’t see through the thick glass, but I could feel it’s age. I spent a few seconds cleaning the bottle, dusting it off and wiping it down gently. Even if there was nothing inside it, the bottle itself was spectacular -- I’d never seen anything like it. I picked up the statue and did the same, wiped it down, cleaned it up, blew off the dust. I was looking in his jeweled eyes when -- I swear -- they lit up, bright red. Not just “caught the light”, not just “sparkled”, they LIT UP and -- I’m not kidding. I’m not making this up -- I had a vision. I heard it speak to me. It said, “PHOLUS” I dropped the little muscular stone like a scorpion -- like a venomous fang. I looked at it in horror as it balanced on its side by its big penis, staring helplessly at the table. What in the name of God? “Name of God!” That’s IT! I pulled out my phone. ********************************************** From The Google: In Greek mythology, Pholus (Greek: Φόλος) was a wise centaur who lived in a cave on or near Mount Pelion. Are you kidding? Pholus is really a thing? A centaur? Weren’t they half-horse? Well, I guess that little statue there is partially-horse, at least. But there was something else. In astronomical terms, Pholus (from Φόλος) is an eccentric centaur (an object classified somewhere between an asteroid and a minor planet) in the outer Solar System, approximately 180 kilometers (110 miles) in diameter, that crosses the orbit of both Saturn and Neptune. It was discovered on 9 January 1992… Wait. What? -- I was born on 9 January, 1992. Pholus and I were twins… which wasn’t funny. It was getting weird. Nicknamed “Big Red,” it’s orbit around the sun takes 92 years and one month… 92 years and one month… my Grandfather -- Big Red’s exact age when he died! Okay, I was fucking freaking out by this time! Too many coincidences. A centaur -- an eccentric centaur -- my birthday -- my grandfather’s orbit -- but that still wasn’t everything. There was one more. When Pholus (from Φόλος) appears in an astrological reading, it represents a spark, a start, grand events set in motion from something small, like shooting oneself in one’s foot, the butterfly effect. When Pholus appears, an unexpected adventure follows. Fuck you, the Google. ****************************************** I leaned against the wall and stared at the work-table for a while, at the askew little icon and the blue-glass bottle. I sat on a stool, smoked a joint, and stared at the stone man, released from his prison, forever erect. How did he talk to me? How had that happened? I’d never heard of “Pholus” before -- I couldn’t have made that up. And even if I had -- there were too many coincidences… there were three different versions of “Pholus” and all of them applied to me! I couldn’t have known about that and “forgotten” -- I didn’t smoke that much weed. No. I’d had a vision -- the icon had spoken to me. Assuming that to be true, I thought, I shouldn’t fear it. If this icon was meant for me -- and it seemed like that was the only conclusion -- then I had no reason for fear. One shouldn’t fear destiny, especially when one knows what it is. Sadly, by the time I worked up enough brave-energy to touch the icon again, nothing happened -- it was just a piece of cold stone. No more flare -- no more sparkle -- no more insight. The little stone dude had a pretty amazing cock… and he seemed so proud… but he’d stopped talking. So, the bottle then. What could it possibly be? Perfume? Wine? Magic Potion? Poison? I mean, it’s ridiculous. I should have it analyzed -- I should find out what it is -- I should know before I unleash some disease, some demon, some genie in a bottle. Maybe ingesting whatever was inside would transform me into a centaur -- well, being gay, maybe a unicorn? I couldn’t see through the deep blue glass, so I didn’t even know if anything was inside at all. I was so busy playing mind-games with myself that I hadn’t realized how much time had passed, even. Sigh. Another joint. Anyway, when I finally got around to opening the stupid thing, it was nearly midnight. The stopper, which was also glass, was sealed with what appeared to be a thick wax. I used a tiny screwdriver to flake it off. It took a little back-and-forth to completely break the seal, but once I did, the little stopper eased out quickly. The Scent. The Scent alone. My cock was rock hard immediately, just on the scent alone -- sex and leather and sweat and metal, the smells of masculinity, from the playful snips and snails and puppy-dog tails of youth to the moment of adult dominance, to the rut of the thrust, the spreading of the seed, it was fertility, the deep, moist earth. It was the Essence of Man. I was compelled to taste it -- I didn’t think twice about it -- it wasn’t until long after the moment that I thought there may have been danger. In the moment, there wasn’t any thought at all, just need -- driving masculine need. Whatever was in that bottle I needed in me. A drop was all -- and barely enough to qualify for the word “drop” -- it rolled lazily out of the bottle like a thick, congealed syrup -- but when it hit my tongue… Orgasm! Immediately, my cock shot -- overwhelming! Like this huge, savage, I’ve-never-felt-it-like-this-before orgasm! Like, so incredibly all-encompassing that every cell of my body was my cock and they were all shooting at once. And then I was able to taste this syrup as it spread across my tongue -- battle and strength and muscle and sweaty maleness mixed with earth and flavored with fire, the taste of heroes and prowess and sweet, hard-won victory. Horse flanks, battle songs and flasks of wine, wrestling for sport and the tight, sweet holes of olive-skinned apprentices -- it was everything dark and earthy, meat and marrow, savagery and strength. It was gloriously masculine. And the aftertaste was dirty, and sexual, and rutted, the nasty, shit-flecked maw of the satisfied fornicator -- the flavor of lust. I was oh, so horny -- I needed to fuck, cock-driven, unapologetic, just lay-in and pound kind of fuck. Not love-making, no gentleness -- playfulness, yes; powerful, definitely -- fucking male on MALE sex! Then came the mental run-down of my fuck-buddy list, too few and too far between, the usual Grindr stall, the seedy bar -- any option. All options. Need to fuck. It was a stranger whose name I sort of remember -- I didn’t care -- all that mattered was the hole. By that time, crazy, stupid needy lust. My little cock was flared and strong, flexing beyond its norm -- serve it, suck it, take it, fuck it. Pholus started the adventure! ************************************************** I woke the next morning in a stranger’s bed, crusty and sweaty, the smell of sex on my breath -- glorious! My cock immediately hardened. He slept on his side, my unknown partner, his back to me, a little blond thing -- his hole was red, swollen, smeared with my dried cum and his ass juices. It smelled glorious -- earthy, sexy -- raw. It was impossible to resist, so I didn’t, licking his hole, loving the taste, digging in and eating. Gripping around his balls, I felt his cock harden with his morning’s piss. Fuck, I wanted that, too. All of it. He woke moaning. “Ohhh, man… stop. I can’t… I’m sore and I gotta pee…” “You taste so fuckin’ good,” I mumbled, slurping his hole. “Lemme just eat it awhile…” “That’s gross,” he said, pulling himself away. “I’m gonna pee -- you should be gone when I get done.” I was laying there with this big hard-on -- I showed it to him. “Aw, c’mon, baby, you can’t leave me like this…” “You got a nice dick,” he said, pulling himself out of bed, “and you sure know how to use it. You fucked me every which way sideways last night and I’m sore as hell right now. But you should be gone when I get done.” “Aw, fuck,” I said, with this impossible hard-on, and these blue-ass balls. Cold little bitch. Where the fuck were my shoes? ******************************************** The Uber driver could smell me -- I could tell. And I know it made him uncomfortable -- he shifted himself in his seat several times. After a while, I realized it was because he had a hard-on, too. That was fucking hot. Cocks were fucking hot. With my fingers, I squeezed mine through the material of my pants while we drove. I knew he saw me -- I didn’t care. It felt too good. Everything felt good. In the shower, I noticed it more in my balls than in my cock -- the growth, I mean -- but also from the undeniable rush of testosterone. The way it felt. I was a man -- all man. I felt like a man -- and I fucking loved it! I gave very little thought to the idea that whatever was in that bottle had adversely affected me -- just the opposite. Whatever was in that bottle had changed me for the better! Somehow, it had awakened something in me -- it had connected me to something greater than myself -- MY masculine essence. I shot off a load in the shower, praising Priapus and Pholus (and Phallus, too!) -- I could phuck them all! Who could deny the power of the cock? Who wouldn’t want this? ********************************************** From “The Google”: Priapism is a condition in which a penis remains erect for hours in the absence of stimulation or after stimulation has ended. Most cases are ischemic. Ischemic priapism is generally painful while nonischemic priapism is not. In ischemic priapism, most of the penis is hard. In nonischemic priapism, the entire penis is only somewhat hard. Aw, fuck man -- that was me in one bold sentence -- nonischemic priapism. My dick hadn’t been flaccid in over two weeks. The only reason it didn’t concern me was because it didn’t hurt -- so why shouldn’t it show itself off? It was a damn nice cock -- it was just putting itself out there. As a matter of fact, it was kind of hot Fucking EVERYTHING was kind of hot! That my sex drive was stuck in high gear was kind of hot -- finding out I have nonischemic priapism was kind of hot. But hottest of all? My dick was getting bigger. My dick, my balls -- bigger. It didn’t help that my cock was semi-hard all the time, it just kept me from noticing it right away. But in the last two weeks, my hard cock had shot up to eight inches! And not in Grindr inches, either -- ACTUAL measurement! And my testosterone production was up, too, like a thousand percent, thanks to my growing balls, over-producing to make up for their past. My workouts had been fucking crazy -- they would just go on and on and I’d never lose energy -- two, three hours. The harder I trained, the hornier I felt, my big cock jutting out before me, struggling against the compression-anything I wore. I swear, I was shooing the guys off like flies -- I think my smell attracted them. I think my sweat was becoming some kind of pheromone or something. I was fucking them in the steam room, the shower, one guy in the janitor’s closet -- I was a fucking beast! A beast with big, low-hanging balls. I thought about going to the doctor, but then I thought, why? What’s WRONG with me? For the first time in my life, it felt like everything was right! I was getting muscular -- not huge, not like one of those muscle-heads -- but BIG, you know? Commanding. Six months after I’d been blessed by the gods, I weighed a solid 235, carrying almost no body-fat. I learned (from The Google) that testosterone was a natural leaning agent, one of the reasons teenage boys (at the peak of testosterone production) looked the way they did -- the more I produced, the leaner I got. So, at 235, I looked fucking awesome, even bigger than I really was! I started getting hairier, too. At first, a thicker pelt on the chest, a scruffier beard -- sexy -- but then my shoulders, my back -- I began having to trim back my bush or it would’ve taken over. I became the King of Manscaping. I ended up with a rough beard -- I gave in on that, otherwise I was shaving two or three times a day. But apparently, the boys liked the way it felt on their holes, so I didn’t sweat it. The hair grew thicker in the grooves of my abs, emphasizing them even more. I was so… fucking… manly! By then my cock was nearly 11 inches long in its constant semi-erect state, displaying itself proudly before me. People REACTED to it -- no matter how I tried to hide it at first, once someone saw it, they couldn’t stop looking. (I do believe it’s hypnotic -- but that’s a point for later.) And to be honest, I loved the attention. I thought I would’ve been freaked or embarrassed by having such an obvious member, but it was the opposite -- the bigger it got, the greater my pride and eagerness to show it off. ********************************************* From “The Google”: Erect penises have appeared in erotic (sexually exciting) art for a very long time. Pictures of men with erections appear on ancient objects and in paintings. In the past, the erect penis was also a symbol or sign of health and fertility (the ability to give life). Ancient Egyptians, Greeks and Romans believed in gods that had erect penises. Men with larger penises are often thought to be more handsome, manly and powerful. I became a Brand. There was little else I could do, actually. I mean, why WASN’T I in porn? Why wasn’t I sharing my blessing with everyone? I created the “Pholus” Brand -- and I adopted my Grandfather’s nickname, “Big Red” -- Big Red Pholus, that was who I became. My OnlyFans page… I swear, I put up a video of me commando beneath a pair of loose gym shorts, jumping rope in slow motion, and within two days… money was no longer an issue in my life. I set a record for followers within a week and became an “Influencer” on IG so fast I had to look it up on The Google to find out what an Influencer was. Clothing designers -- I had a guy specifically for underwear and jockstraps -- assistants, an entourage, the works! And this was the weird thing: the worship… empowered me. I mean, it… it made me… more than I was. As I did cam shows and live shows and as my audience grew, I grew, too. Not just muscularly (where I was steadily improving), or scrotally (where I was pushing boundaries), I mean spiritually. Can you imagine what it does to your psyche to have guys pay you obscene amounts of money just to touch your cock? To have them beg you to suck it? To love it the way you do? I accepted it -- I welcomed it. I had been blessed by the gods -- I was something more-than-man. A demi-god -- a demi with a semi. A demi-semi-god! I had a destiny. Sex was easy, constant -- I was either seducing or fucking. Wherever I was, whatever I was doing, it was a prelude to sex. I couldn’t have enough -- there was never a moment when I was satisfied, when I wasn’t eager for more. And men fell under my spell -- whether it was my smell, or my aura, or the obvious swell of my cock -- they all gave it up for me, they all became my bottom. There was nothing I enjoyed more than finding the Big Alpha straight-guy at a strange gym and watching him turn into a weak-willed bitch when he’d ultimately yield to my superior cock. The look on his face when he’d first see it beneath my gym clothes, or more regularly, my compression pants -- shock and awe -- the way he’d try to befriend me, like we could be the cocks-of-the-walk together, buddies -- and finally him on his knees in the locker room, in the posing room, wherever, pounding his own cock while he gave in and worshipped mine. It was the way of men to worship gods. And all men worshipped the god of the phallus -- and now Pholus, who seemed the god made flesh. **************************************** More from “The Google”: In Greek mythology, a satyr (Greek: σάτυρος sátyros, pronounced [sátyros]), also known as a silenos (Greek: σειληνός seilēnós), is a male nature spirit with ears and a tail resembling those of a horse, as well as a permanent, exaggerated erection. Early artistic representations sometimes include horse-like legs, but, by the sixth century BC, they were more often represented with human legs. Like satyrs, centaurs were notorious for being wild, lusty, overly indulgent drinkers and carousers, violent when intoxicated, and generally uncultured delinquents. I gained the ability to make others like myself. It began to happen late in the second or third year since my blessing from the gods, my rebirth. My cock was over a foot long by that point, meaty and thick, my pendulous nads nearly the size of oranges -- even at 6’4” 245, they were out of proportion (I didn’t look anywhere near as freakish as I would’ve if I’d remained 5’9”, but I’d grown steadily since my blessing, so I looked like a really big guy with a REALLY big cock. Who knew where, or if it would end.) I was hairy and gruff, balding from too much testosterone, bearded and beautiful. And naked, I was spectacular. I would watch videos of myself having sex because it was so hot, my big, hairy muscle destroying some boy’s sweet pink hole. My favorites were the little tops who thought they were gonna top me. I mean, imagine having a cock like mine and the guy still wants to fuck me? Like, I’d made some of the biggest Alpha males submit to me, reveled in turning them into big muscle bottoms, but there were particular guys -- usually wrestler/ MMA-grappler types -- who wouldn’t fall under the spell of my cock, whose sweat smelled manly, too, and just went forward with the foreplay as if I were some meaty bottom. The first time it happened, it was this hot little Jersey boy, muscular and sexy with some sweet abs, probably 5’8” or 5’9”, tattoos, steroid scars on his back, skinny legs but a dick to die for. It tasted as pretty as it looked. “You gotta let me fuck you,” he growled. “With that cock, you probably never get fucked as good as you should. Lemme show you, baby…” Eating my hole, he won me over -- fuck, I had to reward an enthusiast -- especially the way he buried his face in my hairy, sweaty crack, like he couldn’t get enough. I’d forgotten how good a dick up inside me felt -- I hadn’t bottomed since my blessing -- and I gotta say, Jersey-boy wasn’t as selfish with it as I thought he’d be. He knew how to fuck. On my back, my huge legs spread wide, he stood next to the bed and pounded my hole, my own hard cock resting between the halves of my chest, inches from my chin, fairly leaking my pheromone-laden pre-cum -- even I was under my own spell. “God damn, you tight,” Jersey-boy muttered. “Not damned,” I panted. “Blessed.” “Gonna cum in your blessed hole…” “Yes,” I moaned, placing my hands on either side of his head. “Yes. Give your offering…” When he shot, driving his dick deep into me, his eyes rolled back in his head. In that moment, I felt -- not only my own orgasm -- I felt this energy leave me through my hands and enter him. I wish I could describe it better. It wasn’t like he took something from me -- it wasn’t like I gave him power -- it was more like I awakened something in him. Yet I felt that change in energy -- I was the cause of it. The catalyst. When he opened his eyes, there was something there that hadn’t been before -- a glint, a lust. The corner of his mouth curled into a devilish smile and I felt his cock re-harden inside me, even harder than it had been, and he just started lust-fucking me. What an incredible fuck that was -- the sudden power, the masculinity, the determination -- we were sweaty and breathless and oh, so hungry. I couldn’t even tell you how many times we came, how many moments of utter bliss we experienced -- how much energy we expelled and exchanged. The cock he pulled out of me was nearly twelve inches long, with heavy, obvious balls to match. Twice as big as it had been before -- nowhere near as big as it would get -- it looked magnificently out-of-proportion with the rest of him. He loved it! The next few weeks were a blurry fuck-fest. He matched me for sexual energy and desire -- his sweat was as irresistible, his personality as seductive -- everything we did, everywhere we went ended up an orgy. At the gym, working out together, watching the big straight bodybuilders fall under our spell, envying our big, gorgeous cocks. At the bars, dancing on the bars, they worshipped us, watching us strut and flex. At the bath-houses, where parties could extend into days, they gave us a never-ending supply of holes to fuck. But after a few months, Jersey-boy began to bore me. He was nothing but fucking. No thought, no drive, no interest, no appreciation -- all he cared about was how to put his cock in some guy’s hole. He didn’t need me -- he had his own circle of worshippers, of devotees -- his entourage. I still loved him -- I was bonded to him, my brother and my son; I could feel him wherever he was -- I just needed my freedom. But it wasn’t long before I created others. The same basic type: the cocky, unrelenting top -- the guy who would insist on trying to fuck me, even after seeing my hypnotic cock. Through the years, I’d created about twenty of them -- same way, they’d fuck me and at the moment of their orgasm, I would give them the energy to open themselves to the Primal Force, their Masculine Power. Like me, they grew -- muscularly, scrotally -- all their lusty appetites, but unlike me, they lost their reason, their love for anything but sex. They became this hyper-masculine, hyper-endowed, sexually-driven fraternity -- a herd of hairy, horse-hung men. Modern Day Centaurs. They fucked with me -- around me -- the world became one never-ending sex party. I loved it, every moment of it, my constant libido, my unsatisfied hunger for sex -- to express sex -- to BE sex! With every fuck, with every orgasm, with every of my centaur’s orgasms, I became stronger. Worshipping the act of sex meant worshipping me. For years it grew -- for years I reigned, continuing to grow. I weighed around 270 by my 40th birthday (52 left, I’d joke) and my cock was a magnificent thirty-inches long, half-hard and hanging like a heavy branch from a sturdy tree. My balls dangled like melons, their weight stimulating me more, producing so much testosterone that I just reeked of it. Huge rings hung from my nipples -- another of the same size pierced my septum. (Many of the centaurs had pierced theirs -- cheap horse-symbolism, but still sexy.) I was magnificent. There was not a man who could resist me, not an enemy I couldn’t dominate -- I had the most powerful men in the world begging to serve me, willing to do anything to kneel before me -- the richest men in the world as my benefactors. And all they wanted was sex. Me. I was sex. ********************************* Again, The Google: Apotheosis (from Greek ἀποθέωσις from ἀποθεόω/ἀποθεῶ, apotheoo/apotheo "to deify"; in Latin deificatio "making divine"; also called divinization and deification) is the glorification of a subject to divine level and, most commonly, the treatment of a human like a god. In theology, apotheosis refers to the idea that an individual has been raised to godlike stature. It is the way of the gods to be apart from humanity, but desire to be a part of it. As I got older -- and bigger -- it became more and more difficult to move about in public. The year I turned 54 -- which coincidentally was the year I’d been elevated for as long as I’d been human, 27 years -- I was 6’5”, 290 muscular pounds, still as lean as a teen, with a cock that was nearly forty inches long and balls that hung nearly to my knee. I was graying, sure, but didn’t look my age in the face -- I looked like my Grandfather at the same age. The Daddy-thing worked in my favor. I separated myself from the others. They never stopped -- they never expressed interest in anything other than carousing and fucking around. It was exhausting. There was no appreciation of arts or literature or the expression of creative thought -- everything was directed at sex. Everything. After a while, I found myself bored, seeking more -- though what more could there be? I desired to travel, but travel was nearly impossible. Wherever I went, sex happened. My smell, my aura, whatever it was about me that men couldn’t resist, it didn’t stop -- I couldn’t turn it off. Obviously, I couldn’t fly -- ultimately, the pilot would be unable to resist the inevitable orgy that would happen and the plane would crash. Maybe if the pilot flew with an air mask? Who knows? To me, it wasn’t worth the try. Fortunately, several of my benefactors had yachts -- massive, sprawling things that they were more than happy to offer me. In that way, I saw much of the world, spreading my seed all around the globe. We were anchored off the shore of Mykonos and I was busy fucking my way through the height of the high season -- oh, the gorgeous gay men who summered in Mykonos -- when I heard rumor of another like me. One of the local boys, whose English was far better than my Greek -- together, we spoke the language of Lust -- told me that I reminded him of the stories he’d heard about a reclusive sex god who was said to live up the coast, on Mt. Pelion. An old man with a giant cock -- the stories said he pushed his cock around before himself on a cart -- his smell, like mine, was said to drive men wild with lust, enough to make them impale themselves on his huge penis until they were dead. It was a story locals told for generations, perhaps in an effort to keep the young men from playing in the many caves along the coast. The boy told me this while impaling himself on my huge penis, so I wasn’t sure how much of it was porn-fantasy on his part. But I heard several corroborating stories over the next few weeks, so with little better to do, I had the captain sail us up the East Coast of Greece toward the Pelion Peninsula. And there was someone -- I could feel him. The closer we got, passing the spectacular cliffs and inlets of this ancient coast, the more I became aware of him. This feeling reminded me of the bond between myself and the ones I’d created, the Modern Day Centaurs -- it had the same longingful pull. The call of sex. I followed this call. Going ashore, dressed in linen pants and loafers, shirtless, my hairy beauty exposed to the world, I unerringly led myself up the mountain to the hidden door of a house nearly invisible in the mountainside of Mt. Pelion, as if someone had taken a cave and had Andrew Lloyd Wright develop it into a residence -- the old and the new melded seamlessly together. An olive-skinned beauty opened the door, dressed only in a short linen skirt and sandals. He was spectacular, young and hairless, his pink, puffy nipples sitting atop his tight, muscular chest -- his pink, pouty lips ready to pleasure my cock. But he wasn’t the scent I sought. “Geiá sou,” I said in my sorry Greek. “Eínai o kýrios sas?” The boy smiled -- probably because of the way I butchered his language. “He is expecting you,” he said in perfect English, opening the door to bid me enter. Again, walking through the house was like walking through a cave that had been made into a house, all the stone and slate, with the sleek, LCD lighting and hidden speakers piping in some old folk music -- it was the kind of place one saw on the Rich & Famous Real Estate shows, a little too over-the-top to be believed. NOTHING could’ve been this nice. How much money had this taken? How many years? The boy walked before me, allowing me to view his spectacular ass -- it was hard to decide exactly what to look at, the house or the boy. We descended a short stairs and emerged into a grotto. It reminded me of the Ancient Public Baths, a large pool dominating the space, with several types of hot tubs adorning the circumference and a magnificent, raised dais on one end, almost like a pulpit, where a massive bed sat ready for use. This was the biggest-budget porn-set I’d ever seen -- as if Spielberg were shooting a Greek fuck-flick. As we entered, the boy’s Master stood from the hot tub, his back to us, as two other olive-skinned beauties dressed him in a white, terry-cloth robe. He was nearly eight feet tall, massively muscular, though in proportion with his height, as if someone had taken a super-heavyweight bodybuilder and blew him up to 150%. An older man -- I would put him somewhere in his early sixties -- with salt-and-pepper hair that favored the salt, but long on top and shaved short on the sides -- his grooming was as meticulous as his house. He sported a beard that was a bit longer than mine, but oiled and maintained with an attention mine had never known. The robe didn’t hide the fact that he was hairy, but why wouldn’t he be? He was the perfect man. The robe made no secret of his cock, either. Like mine, it jutted before him like an extra limb, continuously hard and heavy, ready for more. It had to be over three feet long, but the way the boys had placed it in the material, it was hard to be sure. I’d hoped to find out. Hardly the image of a withered old man with his cock on a cart. When we made eye-contact, he smiled -- and in that moment, I recognized him. I didn’t know how -- not then -- but I knew who he was. I’d known him for thousands of years. “Oh my god,” I said. “Chiron!” “Hello, Pholus,” he said in English, with a glorious accent, opening his muscular arms for a hug. “Welcome home!” **************************************** You know the gag by now: In Greek mythology, Chiron (/ˈkaɪrən/ KY-rən; also Cheiron or Kheiron; Greek: Χείρων "hand") was held to be the superlative centaur amongst his brethren, as he was called as the "wisest and justest of all the centaurs". Chiron was notable throughout Greek mythology for his youth-nurturing nature. His personal skills tend to match those of his foster father Apollo, who taught the young centaur the art of medicine, herbs, music, archery, hunting, gymnastics and prophecy, and made him rise above his beastly nature. Centaurs were notorious for being wild, lusty, overly indulgent drinkers and carousers, violent when intoxicated, and generally uncultured delinquents. Chiron, by contrast, was intelligent, civilized and kind, because he was not related directly to the other centaurs due to his parentage. I couldn’t even tell you how long we fucked before we had a chance to talk. It felt like that sexual communication was almost as valuable as the verbal would be. His age was buffered by his confidence and his ability, his skillful love-making knew no bounds. Our cocks were big enough to be inside each other as we faced one another, each fucking the other while we deeply kissed. “I’ve missed you,” he moaned as he shot yet another load into me. “It’s been too long…” “I don’t understand,” I said while he thrusted himself on my hard pole. “This all feels so familiar.” “There will be plenty of time for talk,” he said, bringing me to orgasm. “But first, we must be what we are.” That first sexual coupling lasted nearly a full week. We fucked in the grotto, we fucked in the pool, we fucked in his bed, we fucked in a sling that was hung deep in the cavernous depths of the mountain. He showed me more ways to stimulate someone than I’d ever known -- or experienced! He was a master at pleasure. “Well, I should be,” he said later, sitting upright against a massive pile of cushions. I sat with my back against him, in the crook of his arm -- we were smoking some of my best bud. “After all, I’ve been having sex for thousands of years. I’ve picked up a thing or two.” “Thousands of years,” I mumbled, taking my hit. Then, upon exhalation I said, “So are you immortal?” “Gods exist as long as people worship them,” he replied, taking the joint from me. “And fortunately, we’re gods of rutty, physical sex -- men will ALWAYS believe in that.” He kissed me deeply, sharing the hit he’d taken. Of course, he was a good kisser, too. He had a staff of the most beautiful men, stunning examples all -- they bathed us and catered to us and fed us. I could feel their adoration and pride and… worship. I let it empower me. The myths held some truths: Chiron was a teacher at heart. He told me everything. “Surely you’ve done some research,” he said, indicating the computer screen before us -- (when I made a joke about the Batcave, he didn’t get my reference, so he didn’t know EVERYTHING). “From the myth of Pholus, we get the phrase ‘shooting yourself in the foot’ -- did you know that?” I shook my head and smiled. “After Heracles finished his fourth labor, he was tasked with wiping out the centaurs. Their drunken, sexual carousing was proving too much for the local populace, so he came to Pholus’ cave here in Mt. Pelion — this very cave — to seek a special Dionysian wine to lure the centaurs out into the open. Ultimately, Heracles slew them all with arrows poisoned by the blood of the hydra. After the battle, Pholus, marvelling at the idea that so small a thing as an arrow could kill something as magnificent as a centaur, dropped the poison arrow on his foot, where it pierced his skin and killed him.” “That’s what happened?” I asked. “That’s the MYTH,” he said, taking another hit. “I love this stuff, marijuana. It’s rare that I have any -- I’ve lost my taste for what passes for wine nowadays.” He exhaled and passed back to me. After taking a moment to adjust his huge balls, he continued. “In fact, it wasn’t Heracles, it was a small armada fighting in Heracles’ name that wiped us out — again, time and telling change the story. And it was understandable -- we’d created too many. We got a little… trigger happy in our play -- there needs to be a balance.” “Centaurs…?” “Right! Well, obviously not men with the bodies of horses -- but you’ve seen what they become, what their COCKS become when we change them. Is it any surprise that they became known as ‘horse-men’ or ‘half-man/ half-horse’ to the people who are left to describe them? Mythology has a wonderful way of literalizing the traits of the gods. We are spirits of nature, sexual spirits, not animals -- organized religion has used that metaphor to death. They took our form and made it into their Satan! Yet still, our ways persist -- men still worship us -- religion or not, they put gnomes in their gardens, wards in their crops, they know that fertility IS sex, Nature’s sex -- when the gods are fertile, the land prospers -- we are linked. “No, Heracles’ Armada wiped them out -- nearly all. I’d been hit in the battle and spent the next few months curing myself with herbs and medicines.” He showed me a scar on his thigh, barely evident after all this time. “Rumor had it I’d died -- that’s what the myth said, too -- but that wasn’t the case. I’d just gone into hiding. I WAS too late to help you, though,” he continued, rubbing my pec with the arm he had draped over my shoulder. “You were nearly gone by the time I got to you, so I… did what I could and preserved your essence.” “Excuse me?” He shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it without getting all technical and metaphysical -- I don’t know if you’ll understand it, even then. Suffice it to say that through physics and arcane sorcery, I captured your essence in a form not unlike your favorite thing: Dionysian wine!” He chuckled then, kissing my head. “I was the one who bottled it and guarded it for several thousand years, waiting for the right man, until it was spirited away from me during one of the many wars of the former century. I didn’t know anything more about it until I heard about you on the internet -- my Pholus, come back to me!” Kissing, kissing, always kissing. “Someone sealed it inside a garden gnome,” I said. “It was in my grandfather’s garden. I honestly think it was meant for him -- his build, his attitude (maybe he was a centaur?) -- he had to have known about it. After his death, it was passed to me, where it Lorded over a bunch of marijuana plants until I broke it… and discovered…’ “Your destiny,” he said, grabbing my cock. I stayed with him after that -- he claimed the cave was mine to begin with -- and allowed myself to be his apprentice, his pupil, his son, and his lover. He was trained in all the fine arts -- music, literature, theatre (he adored musicals!), the sciences, herbs, art. “This is what sets us apart from the beasts we make,” he said. “They cannot appreciate the finer things.” He taught me the art of sex, techniques from people long-forgotten. We played daily with each other, the staff, the local boys, visitors who came just to worship -- it was a scene from the great erotic writers, sexual energy providing the energy for everything, from the ideas to the art to the power for life. On my 92nd birthday, the same age as my grandfather when he’d passed, I was just-over seven feet tall -- still a foot shorter than Chiron -- but with a spectacular body and an unbelievable cock. I was vital, vigorous, and very horny. Chiron had re-grown the hair on my head -- he’d concocted some kind of (very) smelly salve, but it worked! After having been bald for most of my adult life, it was fun to have hair again as an “old” man. I certainly wasn’t was some kind of dried-up prune of a thing pushing my oversized cock before me on a cart, no matter what the stories said. I found Chiron in the hot-tub, soaking in the bubbling water with his arms along the edge of the tub -- even from here, I could smell his scent. “There’s the birthday boy!” he said when he saw me. I laughed. “Your favorite eccentric centaur has made his first complete lap around the sun,” I said, standing in the waist-deep water so my giant cock floated just below the surface, like a small shark. “Then you’re really just a one year old, right?” he asked. “That sounds like a good average -- one year for you equals ninety-two for everyone else. So you’ll be around 8,400 when you’re REALLY 92.” I laughed. “And they say I’M the eccentric one,” I said, leaning forward to kiss him. “I’m saying immortality requires a different mindset.” He began to rub the tip of my cock, right beneath the glans -- of course it started to harden. Horny old fuck. I bent forward and kissed him. “So, what’s next?” I asked. “Travel, I think. I should like to see the world! I’ve never been to the Americas, your former home -- and we should see how your centaurs are getting along. I’m curious.” “You’re just horny,” I said, toying with his cock as he teased mine. He chuckled in our kiss. “Eternally,” he said. We began our normal day -- we fucked -- and we made our plans. *********************************************** We leave tomorrow and have been fucking our goodbyes through the local populace. Our personal staff will travel with us and we have people to watch the cave (not that we expect any trouble -- even the worshippers are dedicated and respectful) and of course everything is connected to everything now, so communication is hardly in the Age of Homer, trying desperately to reach Ithaca. I plan to visit my grandfather’s grave and bury the little stone icon of the muscular man with the giant penis there to honor him. He watched over it for so many years in life, I’d like it to watch over him in death. I will thank him too, properly, for the gift he gave me. That’s the purpose of this story, I suppose -- to honor my grandfather. I’ve taken much of the last week writing it -- to help organize my thoughts -- and I’ve struggled with its theme. Chiron has read it and thinks it’s just fine as it is. “Let it speak for itself,” he said. “You Americans and your obsession with plot. It’s a symbolic piece -- it requires more thought than what’s happening in the plot. Let it be.” And so I do. This is my story -- this is what happened when Pholus was reborn. Thank you, Big Red.
  3. Othelo

    m/m Pulled In (Hulk Transformation)

    //TW: Mental Health, Dissociation, and Noncon Bruce Banner was alone in the previously abandoned laboratory, deep into the mountainous wilderness of British Columbia, outside of the Unites State’s usual military patrols. The laboratory was well isolated, taking Bruce three days of driving and two weeks of hiking to reach, but it was well worth it. Half way up one of the many fir and cedar covered mountain was a cliff face with an iron door. Within Bruce found the abandoned treasure. An older radiology lab with rare and experimental equipment, albite it was old equipment, but Bruce was willing to try anything for more information, hoping to cure himself of the life-breaking curse known as the Hulk. Bruce shudders at even thinking his name, always aware of the beast resting inside him, waiting. He shakes his head. He knows the best way to handle his other half is using a ‘out of mind, out of sight’ technique. If he avoids thinking about him, getting stressed about the inevitable change slowly simmering inside him, he can avoid being pulled in to the mind-space where the Hulk is free to… “No, don’t think about that.” Bruce says out loud, brining himself out of his thoughts and back to his work. It was hard though, in his hands was page after page of new test results, which at first thrilled Bruce, piquing his curiosity. In short time that excitement turned to disappointment and pity, as those pages of data told him what every other page of data has told him. He’s messed up beyond normal scientific recognition. None of this was giving him ideas or clues for a cure, it was making him frustrated and depressed. His eyes rolled over graph after graph, the results of the tests so dramatic that it breaks the test’s own result metric. Great. A number so huge it printed right off the page. Spectacular. Oh, what’s this? A page that just reads “ERROR. ERROR. ERROR.” Over and over again. Bruce rests his face in his hands, that exactly how he’s feeling right now. Bruce tries so hard to be strong, to be above his emotions, because the moment he breaks down the Hulk is right there to catch him in the meaty clubs that is his hands, and violate him until he gives up and let’s go. It’s the reason he gets stress nightmares about hulking out in public. Bruce opens his eyes and shivers, his breathing becoming faster. Bruce blocks out those memories of when he’s trapped in his mind with Hulk, the horrible things the beast does, and how deep down he loves it. But as the poor doctor sits at the old aluminum table in the testing lab he can’t help but feel like all of his stress is collapsing in on himself. Day after day of bushwhacking, cleaning the whole lab, getting the generator room in working order, even fixing the plumbing so he could shower and use the toilet; all for this, for what he already knew. Bruce was starting to verge on a nervous breakdown. A familiar panic swells up inside the stress ridden doctor, as his vision start to blur around the edges as the overwhelming negative emotion starts to make him to disassociate. And as he always does, the Hulk rumbles to life within Bruce, sensing the emotional destress. Bruce whips up from his slouched, apathetic posture, body tingling all over with life, like a pulse of electricity inside him. “No! No! Hulk please rest again, I’m fine!” he calls out, only talking to himself. Theirs a heavy silence within Bruce’s mind. “PUNY BANNER HURT BY PAPER... HULK NO LET BANNER HURT.” The Hulk replies in a rumbling growl within Bruce, always acting as Bruce’s “protector”, even if his version of protection completely destroyed Bruce’s life and chances at happiness. Tears roll down Bruce’s face as he desperately tries to catch his breath, bating off negative thoughts and surges of stress and despair. “It’s- It’s just stress, I- I can- AAAHHHHH!” he’s cut off by his own scream, he feels the Hulk’s huge arm wrap around his chest, trying to pull him out of reality and into the mind-space. He looks down and there’s no arm around him but it’s there, he can feel it. Bruce’s eyes widen as he feels a familiar burning sensation in his eyes, the feeling of his iris’s glowing gamma green. Suddenly it feels like time freezes for Bruce, the clicking and grinding of all the machines suddenly disappear, and the lighting of the room feels off and unnatural. The giant green arm wrapped around his waist is their now. Bruce can feel the heavy puffs of air leaving Hulk’s nose blowing against his hair. He was in the mind-space, disconnected from reality. “BANNER REST… HULK TAKE CARE OF IT.” The baritone brute spoke. “No! You can’t just… TAKE ME OVER! You don’t control me!” Bruce retorts, wrenching himself out of Hulk’s surprisingly soft grasp. The Hulk looks unsurprised by this, only annoyed. Bruce snaps back to reality, his head is pounding with a hazy headache, his body feels heavy and sluggish, despite his heartbeat pounding wildly. His body was BEGGING him to dissociate again, desperately not wanting to deal with the trauma of another panic attack. Bruce’s logic fights what his body wants, knowing that letting himself sink lets the beast out. He takes deep breaths, steadying his hands on the table. He tries everything to ground himself in reality again, but it’s an unstable battle, his vision blurs and focuses again, seeing the objects around him but not really recognizing or acknowledging them, in the worst dream-like state imaginable. “I’m ok. I’m ok. I’m…” his head dips as the world goes black around him. This time there is no room around him. It was just Bruce, Hulk, and the never ending blackness of his own subconscious. The 18 foot tall jade muscle giant stood before him, nude and bulging with muscles all over, looking like a hyper masculine Hercules mixed with a primal caveman. “PUNY BANNER SHAKING WITH SRTESS… HULK STRONG.” He states, and deep down Bruce knows it’s true, it’s just so much harder to ignore when he’s face to face with Hulk’s godly masculinity. Bruce tries not to look at it, but his eyes glace down at Hulk’s massive cock. It dangles long, wide, and fat like a lazy snake laying on top of two massive forest-green bull nuts. The tip of the deep emerald cock head peeking out the thick foreskin. Bruce hates that, he’s circumcised, but Hulk regrows a full head of sensitive dick skin. Hulk feels Bruce’s eyes on him and hits a masculine pose. Raising his arms above his head and flexing his iron cannonball biceps. His huge fat pecs bouncing with life, shelves of muscle with just a bit of padding to keep them round and juicy. Big round abs like a swollen brick road. Massive treetrunk thighs bulge as they flex and rub against each other, and Hulk’s massive, green moons of ass flex and strain, but remain round and padded with a layer of fat. Hulk was simply overflowing with masculinity. Hulk hoped Bruce wouldn’t struggle this time. Bruce stuttered to life, breaking out the trance of Hulk’s impressive form. “N-N-NO! I don’t want to be a monster! I worked so hard to get the lab back up and running, I can’t let-“ “LAB MAKE BANNER ANGRY, LET HULK SMASH!” the big green giant roared back in retort. “NO! I CAN’T LET THIS ALL GO TO WASTE!” Bruce screamed back. “YOU CAN’T TAKE WHATEVER YOU WANT FROM ME, I WORKED SO HARD TO GET HERE I-MMMPPHHH!!!” Bruce was cut off by Hulk’s massive hand, fat green fingers pressing over his mouth. Hulk’s heard enough puny excuses, he doesn’t care what comes out of Banner’s mouth, he’s here to protect him from the breakdown causing them distress “HULK NEVER GET BANNER…” he rumbled out. Bruce wiggles and thrashes but it’s nothing against the vice like grip of Hulk’s huge bear paws. Bruce panics again, he was being overpowered per-usual, he felt helpless, a small voice in the back of his head starting to say “let go… let it turn black… it’s useless to fight.” Bruce wanted to cry, but then a spark of courage lights inside him. This is the head-space, normal rules don’t apply he realizes. “I’m stronger than the Hulk, I’m stronger than him!” He thinks, trying hard to convince himself. “BANNER NOT.” Hulk says like it was a plain fact, hearing Bruce’s thoughts. With one concentrated thrash Bruce breaks free of the Hulk’s grasp, sending the mighty titan back a bit. Bruce takes in a massive breath, snapping back up. The weight and stress of the panic attack flooding his senses immediately. If his headache was pounding before it was a jackhammer against his skull now. His vision almost fully blurred and tears wet the sides of his face. His heartbeat was fast like the spokes on a runaway train, beating wildly. The veins in his body are bulging, turning into a glowing green spiderweb. His muscles feel swollen and used, like he was just at the gym. He can feel patches of sweat in the armpits of his white button up shirt, in fact his whole body was running hot. Bruce could feel the energy of the Hulk surging all over within him. He stood up, the stool under him being shoved over by Bruce’s thighs. He presses his hands down on the metal table to steady himself, but Bruce’s hands dent the metal; just a drop of Hulk’s strength. Bruce can feel his muscles wanting to stretch, flex themselves bigger. He stagers away, eyes dopey, trying to form coherent thoughts. “Bruce Banner…. I’m me… I can fight it…” his voice was a few notes deeper already, and his voice sounds scratchy and hoarse. Suddenly Bruce falls to his knees, yelling through grinding teeth and a clenched jaw. A wave of hopelessness and overcharging stress crashes over Bruce as Hulk grabs his brain, trying to drag him back into their mind. This all overwhelms Bruce, distracting him from focusing on his grounding his body and calming his heart rate. Bruce cries out as his clave muscles flex out of his purple pants, tearing the fabric. His shoes bulge as the fabric of his shirt bursts around his back, pecs sending buttons flying. Bruce’s green eyes roll up, the feeling of the change is too much, too powerful, His breathing becomes uneven and despite his powerless protest, Bruce is dragged back into the blackness of his mind-space. Hulk wraps both of his arms around Bruce, holding him so snug Bruce can’t even wiggle. Something’s different this time, he’s nude like the Hulk… oh no. “BANNER STRUGGLES AND FIGHTS TO HURT HIMSELF MORE. STUPID PUNY BANNER.” Hulk sounds fully ticked off now. Bruce is completely panicked, wriggling like a worm and gasping out “No!” between labored breaths. “BANNER NEEDS TO CALM DOWN.” Hulk stated in his booming, flat voice. Hulk brings Bruce’s face to his muscular armpits, dripping with sweat. Fresh, manly, raw musk radiates from the wet black wild pit-fur that carpeted the big armpit. Bruce shakes his head in panic, knowing what’s coming next. Bruce’s face is squished against Hulk’s manly armpit, lungs filling with Hulk’s powerful musk. It’s intoxicating and potent, making a thick layer of funk in his nostrils, assaulting his tastebuds with every breath. Hulk holds Bruce there, keeping him still and making him breathe in his strong scent. Bruce feels every inch of Hulks hot, muscular body squishing against his smaller form, the massive pecs hugging his torso, and iron hard abs his legs squirm against. Hulk grips Bruce until the fight leaves his body. It seems like an eternity, but finally he stops struggling against Hulk’s force, now fully ashamed and turned on. Hulk looks at the smaller than average human erection sprouting from Bruce’s thin hips. “HEHE… PUNY.” He chuckles, Bruce can only look down in embarrassment, cheeks cherry red. Hulk looks over his fightless body-mate, happy by the lack of struggle and dejectedness “BANNER READY NOW.” Bruce looks up to Hulk’s brutish face, making eye contact, looking like a sad puppy “Noooo…” he moans out, not consenting, but unable to fight back any more; Bruce felt weak all over, he just wanted it to be over now. Hulk couldn’t care less, now that Banner couldn’t fight any more he could end the distress. Hulk grabs Bruce by his hips and slams him into the ground, his free hand comes to his hanging cock, stroking the huge green floppy snake. Hulk drops to one knee, leaning forward and letting his massive hanging nuts rest against Bruce’s face. “SMELL.” Hulk orders. Bruce whimpers before leaning in and taking a whiff of Hulks nose burning ball musk. “GOOD. BETTER THAN BEING OUTSIDE, RIGHT?” Hulk asks. Bruce looks down again, and chokes back a sob. “Yes… Better than going through the panic attack.” Hulk makes a grumble of cocky happiness and superiority in response. “BANNER REST NOW, LET HULK SMASH OUT ALL THE STRESS.” Bruce doesn’t respond, he just hangs his head and his body quivers. After a minute of stroking Hulk’s massive, over 6 foot tall erection stands tall and proud, hyper in size like all his muscles, drooling thick precum like a river. Bruce looks at the hulking green cock in dread and lust, thicker than the average humans shoulder span and bobbing with Hulk strong heartbeat. “Please don’t… I’ll fade… I’ll let go...” Bruce begs through his quivering breaths. “BANNER TOO TENSE TO LET GO. HULK HELP. HULK GENTLE.” He responds in the regular Hulk monotone. Hulk ungently grabs Bruce’s calves and spreads his legs, humongous cockhead lining up and rubbing against Bruce’s tiny, tight, virgin asshole. Bruce groans in despair, knowing that he won’t just get torn in half, since there’s no rules in the mind-space. Bruce cries out as the huge green monstercock starts to plunge into his ass. Stretching his hole past human limits. The further Hulk presses his hip in the more Bruce becomes his condom, his gut distending as Hulk forces his cock in deeper and deeper. The worst part is, it doesn’t hurt. Bruce can feel all the stretching and his organs being shoved around by the beast inside him, literally. It feels good, warm, completely overwhelming. Every nerve and sense in Bruce’s body is focused on the huge cock using him as a sex toy. Bruce starts to black out and snap back as he feels that massive cock entering his throat. He chokes and gags as it forces itself further up his neck, and with one final gurgle from Bruce’s mouth Hulk humps his cock all the way through, fat cockhead peeking out Bruce’s stretched maw. Precum flows down and pools all over Bruce’s face like he was a decoration under a fountainhead, going down his nose and splashing in his eyes. Bruce was now truly helpless, his thin form bulging and skewered by Hulk’s mighty cock. Bruce was simply overwhelmed, as he always is when he’s in this situation. It’s not the first time he’s been here, exactly like this, and he knows it won’t be the last either. He couldn’t think, only feel as every inch of him is used. He was exhausted, and his body was on fire. The overstimulation finally won over, as Bruce loses focus in his eyes and lets them close. The poor scientist fading into sleep or amnesia, completely overpowered by the Hulk. Hulk smiled and gently patted Bruce’s head, comforting him. It was over, Bruce gave into the blackness and Hulk came to the front of the consciousness. In the real world Bruce’s body was swelling all over. A mighty roar escaped his lips as his muscles started to explode with size, no resistance to the change left in his body. His whole form swells and grows, skin changing from pink to an off-olive. His muscles swell to non-human proportions, sweat dripping all over as growls rip out his throat. Bruce’s face scrunches as his jawline expands, becoming square and brutish, the green in his skin becoming brighter. His forehead grows out, sloping over his eyes as his eyebrows grow thick and caterpillar-like. Nose becoming small and high on his face, giving him Hulk’s signature brute visage. His pants and shirt are ribbons of fabric on the ground, and his underwear finally snap off as his massive balls fatten and distend, cock growing hard and already bigger than any humans. With a wall shaking roar the jade titan finally stands up. Muscle hard as iron, body steaming hot and dripping sweat, thick black body-hair covering Bruce’s once nude pecs, abs, ass, back, legs and arms. His massive cock splashing precum all over. “HULK SMASH PUNY LAB!!!” he roars out in rage, raising his arms above his head and crashing them down against the old, one of a kind machine, completely destroying it and the table it was resting on. Hulk stomps over to the next machine, grunting loudly as he raises a thick leg, stomping the radiation analyzer and cracking the floor under it as the metal snaps and collapses. Hulk was shoulder to wall in the lab, head bumping against the roof. He was cramped and it pissed him off. He stomped his way to the mountain side exit, anything in his path getting crushed, smashed, or demolished. The Hulk finds his way to the iron exit, path of destruction, sweat, and pre behind him and those huge muscular asscheeks, bulging just as big as Hulk’s wings of back muscles. Hulk runs straight at the door, his 18ft monstrous frame breaking through the iron and rock cliff face like it was styrofoam, crumbling down over him, leaving the smashed lab in his wake. Hulk sighed as the wind ran over his bulging, masculine form. Eyes taking in the sunlight and all the mountains and trees. So much room to play, so much stress to relieve. The Hulk smirked, punching a towering cedar tree near the lab entrance, watching it crumble and fall under the force of his fist. His hard dick throbbed at the display of super strength. He looked back to all the trees and the span of tall mountains. So much… SO MUCH TO SMASH!!! Hulk flexed his meaty thighs before launching into the air, aiming to crash down on the nearest mountain peak with an incredible shoulder smash. Fin.
  4. //TW: Mental Health, Dissociation, and Noncon Bruce Banner was alone in the previously abandoned laboratory, deep into the mountainous wilderness of British Columbia, outside of the Unites State’s usual military patrols. The laboratory was well isolated, taking Bruce three days of driving and two weeks of hiking to reach, but it was well worth it. Half way up one of the many fir and cedar covered mountain was a cliff face with an iron door. Within Bruce found the abandoned treasure. An older radiology lab with rare and experimental equipment, albite it was old equipment, but Bruce was willing to try anything for more information, hoping to cure himself of the life-breaking curse known as the Hulk. Bruce shudders at even thinking his name, always aware of the beast resting inside him, waiting. He shakes his head. He knows the best way to handle his other half is using a ‘out of mind, out of sight’ technique. If he avoids thinking about him, getting stressed about the inevitable change slowly simmering inside him, he can avoid being pulled in to the mind-space where the Hulk is free to… “No, don’t think about that.” Bruce says out loud, brining himself out of his thoughts and back to his work. It was hard though, in his hands was page after page of new test results, which at first thrilled Bruce, piquing his curiosity. In short time that excitement turned to disappointment and pity, as those pages of data told him what every other page of data has told him. He’s messed up beyond normal scientific recognition. None of this was giving him ideas or clues for a cure, it was making him frustrated and depressed. His eyes rolled over graph after graph, the results of the tests so dramatic that it breaks the test’s own result metric. Great. A number so huge it printed right off the page. Spectacular. Oh, what’s this? A page that just reads “ERROR. ERROR. ERROR.” Over and over again. Bruce rests his face in his hands, that exactly how he’s feeling right now. Bruce tries so hard to be strong, to be above his emotions, because the moment he breaks down the Hulk is right there to catch him in the meaty clubs that is his hands, and violate him until he gives up and let’s go. It’s the reason he gets stress nightmares about hulking out in public. Bruce opens his eyes and shivers, his breathing becoming faster. Bruce blocks out those memories of when he’s trapped in his mind with Hulk, the horrible things the beast does, and how deep down he loves it. But as the poor doctor sits at the old aluminum table in the testing lab he can’t help but feel like all of his stress is collapsing in on himself. Day after day of bushwhacking, cleaning the whole lab, getting the generator room in working order, even fixing the plumbing so he could shower and use the toilet; all for this, for what he already knew. Bruce was starting to verge on a nervous breakdown. A familiar panic swells up inside the stress ridden doctor, as his vision start to blur around the edges as the overwhelming negative emotion starts to make him to disassociate. And as he always does, the Hulk rumbles to life within Bruce, sensing the emotional destress. Bruce whips up from his slouched, apathetic posture, body tingling all over with life, like a pulse of electricity inside him. “No! No! Hulk please rest again, I’m fine!” he calls out, only talking to himself. Theirs a heavy silence within Bruce’s mind. “PUNY BANNER HURT BY PAPER... HULK NO LET BANNER HURT.” The Hulk replies in a rumbling growl within Bruce, always acting as Bruce’s “protector”, even if his version of protection completely destroyed Bruce’s life and chances at happiness. Tears roll down Bruce’s face as he desperately tries to catch his breath, bating off negative thoughts and surges of stress and despair. “It’s- It’s just stress, I- I can- AAAHHHHH!” he’s cut off by his own scream, he feels the Hulk’s huge arm wrap around his chest, trying to pull him out of reality and into the mind-space. He looks down and there’s no arm around him but it’s there, he can feel it. Bruce’s eyes widen as he feels a familiar burning sensation in his eyes, the feeling of his iris’s glowing gamma green. Suddenly it feels like time freezes for Bruce, the clicking and grinding of all the machines suddenly disappear, and the lighting of the room feels off and unnatural. The giant green arm wrapped around his waist is their now. Bruce can feel the heavy puffs of air leaving Hulk’s nose blowing against his hair. He was in the mind-space, disconnected from reality. “BANNER REST… HULK TAKE CARE OF IT.” The baritone brute spoke. “No! You can’t just… TAKE ME OVER! You don’t control me!” Bruce retorts, wrenching himself out of Hulk’s surprisingly soft grasp. The Hulk looks unsurprised by this, only annoyed. Bruce snaps back to reality, his head is pounding with a hazy headache, his body feels heavy and sluggish, despite his heartbeat pounding wildly. His body was BEGGING him to dissociate again, desperately not wanting to deal with the trauma of another panic attack. Bruce’s logic fights what his body wants, knowing that letting himself sink lets the beast out. He takes deep breaths, steadying his hands on the table. He tries everything to ground himself in reality again, but it’s an unstable battle, his vision blurs and focuses again, seeing the objects around him but not really recognizing or acknowledging them, in the worst dream-like state imaginable. “I’m ok. I’m ok. I’m…” his head dips as the world goes black around him. This time there is no room around him. It was just Bruce, Hulk, and the never ending blackness of his own subconscious. The 18 foot tall jade muscle giant stood before him, nude and bulging with muscles all over, looking like a hyper masculine Hercules mixed with a primal caveman. “PUNY BANNER SHAKING WITH SRTESS… HULK STRONG.” He states, and deep down Bruce knows it’s true, it’s just so much harder to ignore when he’s face to face with Hulk’s godly masculinity. Bruce tries not to look at it, but his eyes glace down at Hulk’s massive cock. It dangles long, wide, and fat like a lazy snake laying on top of two massive forest-green bull nuts. The tip of the deep emerald cock head peeking out the thick foreskin. Bruce hates that, he’s circumcised, but Hulk regrows a full head of sensitive dick skin. Hulk feels Bruce’s eyes on him and hits a masculine pose. Raising his arms above his head and flexing his iron cannonball biceps. His huge fat pecs bouncing with life, shelves of muscle with just a bit of padding to keep them round and juicy. Big round abs like a swollen brick road. Massive treetrunk thighs bulge as they flex and rub against each other, and Hulk’s massive, green moons of ass flex and strain, but remain round and padded with a layer of fat. Hulk was simply overflowing with masculinity. Hulk hoped Bruce wouldn’t struggle this time. Bruce stuttered to life, breaking out the trance of Hulk’s impressive form. “N-N-NO! I don’t want to be a monster! I worked so hard to get the lab back up and running, I can’t let-“ “LAB MAKE BANNER ANGRY, LET HULK SMASH!” the big green giant roared back in retort. “NO! I CAN’T LET THIS ALL GO TO WASTE!” Bruce screamed back. “YOU CAN’T TAKE WHATEVER YOU WANT FROM ME, I WORKED SO HARD TO GET HERE I-MMMPPHHH!!!” Bruce was cut off by Hulk’s massive hand, fat green fingers pressing over his mouth. Hulk’s heard enough puny excuses, he doesn’t care what comes out of Banner’s mouth, he’s here to protect him from the breakdown causing them distress “HULK NEVER GET BANNER…” he rumbled out. Bruce wiggles and thrashes but it’s nothing against the vice like grip of Hulk’s huge bear paws. Bruce panics again, he was being overpowered per-usual, he felt helpless, a small voice in the back of his head starting to say “let go… let it turn black… it’s useless to fight.” Bruce wanted to cry, but then a spark of courage lights inside him. This is the head-space, normal rules don’t apply he realizes. “I’m stronger than the Hulk, I’m stronger than him!” He thinks, trying hard to convince himself. “BANNER NOT.” Hulk says like it was a plain fact, hearing Bruce’s thoughts. With one concentrated thrash Bruce breaks free of the Hulk’s grasp, sending the mighty titan back a bit. Bruce takes in a massive breath, snapping back up. The weight and stress of the panic attack flooding his senses immediately. If his headache was pounding before it was a jackhammer against his skull now. His vision almost fully blurred and tears wet the sides of his face. His heartbeat was fast like the spokes on a runaway train, beating wildly. The veins in his body are bulging, turning into a glowing green spiderweb. His muscles feel swollen and used, like he was just at the gym. He can feel patches of sweat in the armpits of his white button up shirt, in fact his whole body was running hot. Bruce could feel the energy of the Hulk surging all over within him. He stood up, the stool under him being shoved over by Bruce’s thighs. He presses his hands down on the metal table to steady himself, but Bruce’s hands dent the metal; just a drop of Hulk’s strength. Bruce can feel his muscles wanting to stretch, flex themselves bigger. He stagers away, eyes dopey, trying to form coherent thoughts. “Bruce Banner…. I’m me… I can fight it…” his voice was a few notes deeper already, and his voice sounds scratchy and hoarse. Suddenly Bruce falls to his knees, yelling through grinding teeth and a clenched jaw. A wave of hopelessness and overcharging stress crashes over Bruce as Hulk grabs his brain, trying to drag him back into their mind. This all overwhelms Bruce, distracting him from focusing on his grounding his body and calming his heart rate. Bruce cries out as his clave muscles flex out of his purple pants, tearing the fabric. His shoes bulge as the fabric of his shirt bursts around his back, pecs sending buttons flying. Bruce’s green eyes roll up, the feeling of the change is too much, too powerful, His breathing becomes uneven and despite his powerless protest, Bruce is dragged back into the blackness of his mind-space. Hulk wraps both of his arms around Bruce, holding him so snug Bruce can’t even wiggle. Something’s different this time, he’s nude like the Hulk… oh no. “BANNER STRUGGLES AND FIGHTS TO HURT HIMSELF MORE. STUPID PUNY BANNER.” Hulk sounds fully ticked off now. Bruce is completely panicked, wriggling like a worm and gasping out “No!” between labored breaths. “BANNER NEEDS TO CALM DOWN.” Hulk stated in his booming, flat voice. Hulk brings Bruce’s face to his muscular armpits, dripping with sweat. Fresh, manly, raw musk radiates from the wet black wild pit-fur that carpeted the big armpit. Bruce shakes his head in panic, knowing what’s coming next. Bruce’s face is squished against Hulk’s manly armpit, lungs filling with Hulk’s powerful musk. It’s intoxicating and potent, making a thick layer of funk in his nostrils, assaulting his tastebuds with every breath. Hulk holds Bruce there, keeping him still and making him breathe in his strong scent. Bruce feels every inch of Hulks hot, muscular body squishing against his smaller form, the massive pecs hugging his torso, and iron hard abs his legs squirm against. Hulk grips Bruce until the fight leaves his body. It seems like an eternity, but finally he stops struggling against Hulk’s force, now fully ashamed and turned on. Hulk looks at the smaller than average human erection sprouting from Bruce’s thin hips. “HEHE… PUNY.” He chuckles, Bruce can only look down in embarrassment, cheeks cherry red. Hulk looks over his fightless body-mate, happy by the lack of struggle and dejectedness “BANNER READY NOW.” Bruce looks up to Hulk’s brutish face, making eye contact, looking like a sad puppy “Noooo…” he moans out, not consenting, but unable to fight back any more; Bruce felt weak all over, he just wanted it to be over now. Hulk couldn’t care less, now that Banner couldn’t fight any more he could end the distress. Hulk grabs Bruce by his hips and slams him into the ground, his free hand comes to his hanging cock, stroking the huge green floppy snake. Hulk drops to one knee, leaning forward and letting his massive hanging nuts rest against Bruce’s face. “SMELL.” Hulk orders. Bruce whimpers before leaning in and taking a whiff of Hulks nose burning ball musk. “GOOD. BETTER THAN BEING OUTSIDE, RIGHT?” Hulk asks. Bruce looks down again, and chokes back a sob. “Yes… Better than going through the panic attack.” Hulk makes a grumble of cocky happiness and superiority in response. “BANNER REST NOW, LET HULK SMASH OUT ALL THE STRESS.” Bruce doesn’t respond, he just hangs his head and his body quivers. After a minute of stroking Hulk’s massive, over 6 foot tall erection stands tall and proud, hyper in size like all his muscles, drooling thick precum like a river. Bruce looks at the hulking green cock in dread and lust, thicker than the average humans shoulder span and bobbing with Hulk strong heartbeat. “Please don’t… I’ll fade… I’ll let go...” Bruce begs through his quivering breaths. “BANNER TOO TENSE TO LET GO. HULK HELP. HULK GENTLE.” He responds in the regular Hulk monotone. Hulk ungently grabs Bruce’s calves and spreads his legs, humongous cockhead lining up and rubbing against Bruce’s tiny, tight, virgin asshole. Bruce groans in despair, knowing that he won’t just get torn in half, since there’s no rules in the mind-space. Bruce cries out as the huge green monstercock starts to plunge into his ass. Stretching his hole past human limits. The further Hulk presses his hip in the more Bruce becomes his condom, his gut distending as Hulk forces his cock in deeper and deeper. The worst part is, it doesn’t hurt. Bruce can feel all the stretching and his organs being shoved around by the beast inside him, literally. It feels good, warm, completely overwhelming. Every nerve and sense in Bruce’s body is focused on the huge cock using him as a sex toy. Bruce starts to black out and snap back as he feels that massive cock entering his throat. He chokes and gags as it forces itself further up his neck, and with one final gurgle from Bruce’s mouth Hulk humps his cock all the way through, fat cockhead peeking out Bruce’s stretched maw. Precum flows down and pools all over Bruce’s face like he was a decoration under a fountainhead, going down his nose and splashing in his eyes. Bruce was now truly helpless, his thin form bulging and skewered by Hulk’s mighty cock. Bruce was simply overwhelmed, as he always is when he’s in this situation. It’s not the first time he’s been here, exactly like this, and he knows it won’t be the last either. He couldn’t think, only feel as every inch of him is used. He was exhausted, and his body was on fire. The overstimulation finally won over, as Bruce loses focus in his eyes and lets them close. The poor scientist fading into sleep or amnesia, completely overpowered by the Hulk. Hulk smiled and gently patted Bruce’s head, comforting him. It was over, Bruce gave into the blackness and Hulk came to the front of the consciousness. In the real world Bruce’s body was swelling all over. A mighty roar escaped his lips as his muscles started to explode with size, no resistance to the change left in his body. His whole form swells and grows, skin changing from pink to an off-olive. His muscles swell to non-human proportions, sweat dripping all over as growls rip out his throat. Bruce’s face scrunches as his jawline expands, becoming square and brutish, the green in his skin becoming brighter. His forehead grows out, sloping over his eyes as his eyebrows grow thick and caterpillar-like. Nose becoming small and high on his face, giving him Hulk’s signature brute visage. His pants and shirt are ribbons of fabric on the ground, and his underwear finally snap off as his massive balls fatten and distend, cock growing hard and already bigger than any humans. With a wall shaking roar the jade titan finally stands up. Muscle hard as iron, body steaming hot and dripping sweat, thick black body-hair covering Bruce’s once nude pecs, abs, ass, back, legs and arms. His massive cock splashing precum all over. “HULK SMASH PUNY LAB!!!” he roars out in rage, raising his arms above his head and crashing them down against the old, one of a kind machine, completely destroying it and the table it was resting on. Hulk stomps over to the next machine, grunting loudly as he raises a thick leg, stomping the radiation analyzer and cracking the floor under it as the metal snaps and collapses. Hulk was shoulder to wall in the lab, head bumping against the roof. He was cramped and it pissed him off. He stomped his way to the mountain side exit, anything in his path getting crushed, smashed, or demolished. The Hulk finds his way to the iron exit, path of destruction, sweat, and pre behind him and those huge muscular asscheeks, bulging just as big as Hulk’s wings of back muscles. Hulk runs straight at the door, his 18ft monstrous frame breaking through the iron and rock cliff face like it was styrofoam, crumbling down over him, leaving the smashed lab in his wake. Hulk sighed as the wind ran over his bulging, masculine form. Eyes taking in the sunlight and all the mountains and trees. So much room to play, so much stress to relieve. The Hulk smirked, punching a towering cedar tree near the lab entrance, watching it crumble and fall under the force of his fist. His hard dick throbbed at the display of super strength. He looked back to all the trees and the span of tall mountains. So much… SO MUCH TO SMASH!!! Hulk flexed his meaty thighs before launching into the air, aiming to crash down on the nearest mountain peak with an incredible shoulder smash. Fin.
  5. dw2098lj

    no sex Ken's self-worship

    This is a short story I've written inspired by the "self worship" thread (https://muscle-growth.org/topic/7756-self-worship/) - all about guys who are turned on by worshipping their own muscle bods. Check out this forum member's instagram who is the "Ken" of the story: https://www.instagram.com/ken_austin_fitness/. Ken Ken stood in front of the locker room mirror, his body covered in sweat and his pecs still heaving from the heavy work out. He couldn’t help pulling his pumped arms up into a double biceps pose. “Mmmm….FUCK!” he grunted as river-like veins popped up over his mounds of rock hard muscle. He held the pose, flexing harder and harder as more and more veins exploded under his skin, revelling in the power coursing through him. Soon, his arms were screaming in agony but still he held the flex, pushing himself, almost willing his muscles to grow even bigger. Just as he was about to pass out from the sensation Ken relaxed, letting his arms fall down by his side. A second later though he had pulled down the front of his vest, exposing his striated pecs which he then started to flex and bounce. “Look at these pecs,” he murmured under his breath as he hit each one in turn over and over, enjoying the feeling of the unyielding muscle under his fists. The sweat-soaked stringer vest had to come off. It was like Ken was in a trance as he pealed the vest up his torso and over his head before chucking it carelessly on the floor. He was lost in total self-worship of his amazing muscle body. Next Ken ran a hand up and down his cobbled 6 pack abs, flexing them hard under his fingers. “I’m a muscle God,” he moaned sexually as began to caress various muscle groups in turn – biceps…pecs…shoulders…abs…over and over, his hands continuously moving, his pumped body performing the most amazing muscle dance under his exploring fingers. He started to moan. Totally subconsciously. Lost. His cock was swelling. And swelling. Pressing out against his skin-tight gym shorts. Ken loved his body. He’d worked hard at it for this very reason. He loved being a ripped muscle God. Not caring that someone could walk in at any moment (‘Let them’, a subconscious part of his brain thought), he slipped his fingers into the waistband of his gym shorts and started to ease them down over the colossal mass of his thick tree-trunk-like quadriceps. This was some undertaking and Ken loved seeing the fabric stretch around the huge muscle bulk of his upper legs. Soon though he had them down and kicked off to somewhere on the other side of the locker room. Standing in front of the mirror still, he was now only wearing a jockstrap which failed to conceal the growing bulge of his thick muscle cock. “Look at these quads,” Ken growled as he flexed each one in turn. He loved the diamond shape which adorned the front of them and how they touched in the middle at the top of his legs, pushing his sizeable package forwards. This was why he lifted. This was why he wanted to grow and grow. “Total BEAST!” he roared, each of his muscles jumping out as his animalistic cry echoed around the locker room. He couldn’t wait any longer – the jock strap had to come off too. Ken nearly ripped it in his excitement, eager to be totally naked, everything on display. Soon his hand was wrapped around his growing cock as it quickly swelled to its full length and thickness. He started slowing jerking it, a now continuous stream of groans and moans escaping his lips. Ken’s other hand continued to explore his sweaty, pumped body, lingering over each sweaty striation, every rock-hard mound. “I LOVE MY MUSCLE BODY!” he roared. Surely people in the gym would hear him. Fuck it. Ken jerked his massive cock faster and faster. His moans were getting louder. He was a muscle animal, appreciating his own body. “Look at these massive pecs,” he groaned. His free hand kept coming back to them. Ken loved his pecs. He bounced them over and over under his exploring fingers. “Yes…SO STRONG…SO BIG!” he screamed as his cock erupted. Rivers of cum shot across the mirror, running down to the floor as Ken collapsed in a heap of pumped, sweaty Muscle God.