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Found 14 results

  1. Shahrazad2

    A Couple of Hunks

    (Note, like a lot of my stories, the people in this are based on real people, at least in the beginning. I adjusting names and certain details to make the story more interesting, but I need to give credit where it is due. Let me know what you all think) Stewart and Henry were a married couple. Fortunately for me, their relationship was open, and they enjoyed inviting other guys to play with them. I was only an Italian-American college grad 20 something, kinda lanky, curly-haired and gangly, but 6'2" tall. While I'd been fascinated by twinks in high school and athletes in college, something about the settled, strong, somewhat chubby bodies and easy demeanor of Stewart and Henry drew me. Stewart was Irish-Scottish-American, and worked in some sort of number crunching company. He had bright, twinkling hazel eyes and buzzed hair and a round baby face with a boyish grin and stubble on his lips and chin. He was only about 5'7" tall, but he had a 7 inch long, thin dick that loved attention. His body was also nicely hairy all over, but his fair skin was marred by eczema, and though he said it was about the best it had ever been, he really loved it when I massaged him with the lotion to sooth his discomfort. I admit I was initially surprised, but once he explained the condition and I saw how much he loved being touched I thought of him as a lovable teddy bear, and several times I drove over to their townhouse just to massage him while he watched TV. Stewart's hairy body was fun to touch and play with, and he was very sensual. After a lifetime of being unable to touch anyone for fear of being seen as too gay, I loved caressing him. Stewart was also the more openly horny and the one who was more talkative, and it was he who initially invited me over when we were chatting on Adam4Adam. He liked trashy tv shows and dramas, and he also liked me. Henry was Cambodian-American, and worked as a manager for a mental health company. He had taken his husband's last name, and I was a bit in awe of him. He stood a bit taller than his husband at 5'11" and his body, though soft and smooth, was somewhat stronger from helping the orderlies care for patients. His dark brown eyes seemed to look deep, and he didn't talk much, but he would chat with me on facebook when his busy schedule allowed, and he was always polite and gentle. His skin was a rich bronze, and mostly smooth, except around his loins. His hair was longer than his husband, but only enough to flop neatly on his head, though he sometimes buzzed the sides and back. His dick was thicker than Stewart's, and its shape was sexier, too. Where Stewart got off quickly, Henry liked to take his time with me, both of us cuddling and caressing each other, stroking and sucking and and holding each other as we came, and then cuddling and making out afterwards. Sometimes, while Stewart would get off early and go clean up, Henry and I would spend longer and longer periods in bed, making out and exploring each other's bodies. I admit, if I found Stewart cute and playful and fun to take care of, I yearned for time spent with Henry. He was usually busy, though, and so I became more a friend to Stewart than a friend with benefits to both of them. One evening, though, Henry was working on something while Stewart and I reclined on the couch with his lotion, and while burly Cambodian was usually silent when he had a project, tonight he seemed especially focused on his laptop and some odd device, which looked like a combination of a tablet and a stereo and a whisk. "What's going on," I asked in a whisper to Stewart, who shrugged, and murmured back, "Some sort of mental health psychosomatic reinforcement subliminal message projector thing... there've been a few rowdy patients at Henry's job lately, and he's been trying to invent something to help them make breakthroughs, lower addiction symptoms, etc... doesn't seem to be working too well, if his temper is any indication. Poor guy has been beating himself up over trying to make it work, but I think his coworkers have written it off as a lost cause already. But the good news is he's made some progress on other stuff. He found a new experimental skin cream for me... it's supposed to work wonders... want to try it out?" I smiled. Stewart is cute when he wants something, though his condition can't be comfortable. "Sure thing... but let me wash my hands first... maybe make your husband take a break and start you on it," I reply as I get up, go to the restroom, and, out of habit, close and lock the door. It's not that I'd mind if either of them barged in on me if I was doing things far more private than washing hands, but it's just one of my quirks. Through the door, I heard the following: "Henry, hon, could you at least get me started before Mikey gets back?" "Ugh... I'll need to wash my hands afterwards if I'm going to be working on this piece of junk, but yeah, I could use a break, babe. I swear it is picking up kinky porn channels or something instead of projecting anything. If I could just find the right medium, I'm sure it'd work. Even now it is just loading." "You'll get it right eventually, hon." "Thanks babe. Oof... this jar is sealed tight." "C'mon, big guy, you're really strong... you can open it." "Grrr... I'll show you strong, sexy... finally!" I heard Stewart's mild, teasing applause, then, a moment later, "Ooo... thanks... that feels good, hon." "Yeah, it is nice and smooth... kinda tingly, though, mayb-" Henry was interrupted by a sudden electronic hum, which continued for several minutes. I was a little unnerved by their sudden silence, turned the sink off, and called out, "Guys, you ok?" In unison, both Stewart and Henry nearly moaned, "We ok," their voices sounding strangely flat over the continuing mechanical buzz. I finished drying my hands, opened the door and stood there in shock. Stewart and Henry were frozen in place, the new skin cream smeared over Henry's hands and Stewart's belly. But the skin cream was glowing with a strange golden light, and both men's expressions were blank. It was like they were awaiting something. At the same time, the device Henry had been working on was vibrating, the whisk-part shaking as electric arcs danced between the metal frame. I went over to examine the screen and saw the following message: Medium for personality and physiology alteration found. Connection made... suggestion waves interfacing with subject(s) physiology. Subject 2 has dermal errors... Medium can make repairs with heightened stimulation. Authorize? Y/N? I thought for a moment. Should I do this? Would it really help Stewart's skin? What if it made things worse? How long would this effect last? I took a deep breath, and typed "Y" The device flashed, and the gel flowed over Stewart, coating him entirely. I rushed over to try and pull it off his face, but in a moment, it seemed to have sunk into his skin, save for a few globs in the jar and on Henry's hands. But Stewart started to moan and lean back out of his husband's touch, running his hands over his body and writhing in what looked like pleasure on the couch. "Yeah... oh baby, yeah, yeah, I've never felt this good... fuck yeah!" he cried out. He opened his eyes and locked them with mine. "Mikey, fuck me, please fuck me, I need to get fucked! Fffffuck!" he growled out and yanked off his shirt, exposing his shoulders. I thought for a brief moment that he had snapped out of his earlier trance, but his eyes, though heavy lidded and sex-driven, were still unfocused. I noticed, though, that his skin seemed slightly more clear than before. I made up my mind. "Ok Stewart, I'll fuck you... pants off," I command, pulling off my clothes as I spoke. Something about Stewart seemed stronger, more alluring. No more the cute, sympathetic pup, now, physically tearing his pants and briefs off his legs and revealing a surprising bulge, long and slim and hardening. His neck and arms and chest all seemed thicker, more fire plug powerful, but he also seemed an inch taller. "Fuck yeah, Mikey! Only it's Stu, fuck, not Stewart. Stewart's a dweeb's name, and I'm... fuck... I'm all man." He really was changing before my eyes. His neck was thicker, and his biceps were flexing as he growled and cursed. I was surprised to see a tribal tattoo forming on his arms and shoulders, and his hair seemed to be reshaping into a military high and tight. His facial stubble was thickening. As I positioned myself, I noticed that Henry was still frozen in place, his eyes locked on the empty air where Stewart... Stu... had been when they first froze. But his pants are noticeably bulging, as if he can sense what is going on and can't help but be aroused. I took a deep breath, and slid into... Stu's hole. He felt tight, and he was flexing, his bulky body showing hard muscle underneath a daddylike meat. His cock flopped onto his gut, which was starting to show roid-abs, and he moaned loud and long, his voice deeper as his chest and neck muscles started to swell. His sweat smelled muskier, deeper somehow. I was finding myself lost in his body, seeing how responsive he was to each thrust of my dick. Then I noticed that he was actually getting a bit taller with each thrust. Where Stewart's rash had been, Stu only had flushed skin from the lust he was experiencing. His eyes were rolling back in his head, and nothing but profanity spilled from his now bearded lips as a newborn daddy hunk who lay on the couch beneath me. Eventually, I heard the device beep, and it seemed to trigger Stu's responses. He roared out, "Oh fuck... oh goddamn fucking FUCCCCKKKKKK!" Cum splattered from his dick and across his bulky, hairy chest muscles, and he seemed to pass out in a sexually satisfied stupor. I pulled out, but he didn't seem to notice, just began to snore. I noticed that his cum was soaking into his skin just like the lotion had, though. I went over to the device to see what it had to say about the situation, and saw the following message displayed: Medium for Personality and Physical Alteration suitable. Subject 2 responded extremely well. Save (rename) - Subject 2: __________ I began to type "Stu" into the blank, but autocorrect finished for me and saved him as "Stud." Searching databases... "Stud" qualities applied. Details downloaded from 34,768 pornographic films (see list). Increasing sex drive. Lowering inhibitions. Seeking open relationships or opportunities to spread genetic material. Intelligence shifting from academic to physical and socially and sexually driven. Subject 2 saved as "Stud." "Oh geez... I hope that doesn't make things worse." I mumble to myself, before the device beeped again. I looked to the screen and saw a new message. Medium for personality and physical alteration insufficient. Please apply greater quantities of the medium to Subject 1's epidermis. Failure to do so promptly could result in brain damage from extended halted mental operations. I looked at Henry, and saw that drool was starting to spill from his lips. "Oh geez oh geez oh geez," I yelped as I grabbed some dishwashing gloves from the sink to avoid getting any of the stuff on me, and yanked open Henry's button down shirt to expose as much of his golden skin as possible. I took the jar from his hand and began slathering the lotion onto his body, watching as it glowed brilliantly under the stimulation of the device's signals. When I'd practically emptied the container, I dropped, it, pulled off the gloves so they landed on Henry's bare feet, and returned to the device, where I was relieved to see a new message waiting for me. Medium for personality and physical alteration found. Connection made... suggestion waves interfacing with subject(s) physiology. Subject 1 experienced mild brain damage. Repairs must be made to allow continued functioning. Authorize? Y/N? Without hesitation I pressed Y. I wanted Henry safe and whole. The device flashed again, and the gel coated all of Henry's body, remaining for longer than it had on Stewart before sinking into the bronzed Cambodian skin. Henry showed signs of life, animating and moaning low and loud. Unlike his husband, he didn't say any words... in fact, it seemed like he was acting far more primal and animalistic than Stewart had. He began to growl, deep in his throat and belly, and flex his muscles... which were beginning to pump and swell, making his remaining clothes look that much tighter. Veins seemed to swell in his neck and torso, as if pumping with the gel. His gut seemed to be pushing towards me, but "roid gut" abs were forming on its expanse as well. Henry's shoulders seemed to be getting broader, and his breathing was louder as the changes swept through his body (and presumably his mind). His neck was getting thicker, more bull-like, and I heard his spine crack as he began to get taller. Soon, he was approaching my height! Henry's clothes seemed smaller and smaller, but he took a step towards me, reaching out with hands that spasmed as a response to his arm muscles starting to grow. I felt those twitching, throbbing hands grab me... and push me aside! Instead of doing anything with me, like Stewart... or Stu, or Stud, I suppose... had, Henry went straight for his husband's passed out form on the couch. He bent his knees and flexed with a grunt, and began to flex more seriously. Shockingly, his muscles seemed to bulge and pump and swell even more! In a moment, his shirt had torn off his broad, veiny shoulders, revealing a body that had grown into the muscle, massive gut bulging under pillow-sized pecs capped with erect nipples. As his body continued to flex and expand, soon his pants too started to tear off... and perhaps in preparation for my visit, he hadn't been wearing underwear underneath. His cock, now a solid, massive monster, thick and vein-covered, flew up and smacked his belly as the tattered remnants of his old life fell to the floor. Even his socks ripped off his now bigger bare feet. The newly naked beast of a man wasted no time, leaning forward to bury his face and tongue between the cheeks of his husband's new hairy, unblemished muscle butt. I could hear loud slurping sounds as Henry... or the man who'd been Henry... began to rim Stu's stud ass with long strokes of his tongue. Stu began to moan and wake up. With a string of dialogue that I was starting to recognize from certain porn movies, Stu left no doubt about that. "Oh fuck, hon, you're so big! Look at those muscles... yeah, eat out that tight ass. Our little friend didn't fill me near enough. I need your big meat. Give it to me, hon... give me that. Huge. Fucking. Dick!" Henry complied. It was really hot to watch his body move, his head rising from his partner's hole, his hard dick, now almost as thick and long as my forearm, dripping precum as he lined it up, then placed his big hands on his husband's hairy shoulders and thrust inside the smaller man. The couch, a well-weighted thing that had withstood a lot, actually moved with the force, and Stu's language turned, if possible, even more profane. There was no effort to make sense, just variations on the theme of fucking in between gasps of breath with each thrust Henry made. Until Stu did something that changed things... he renamed Henry: "C'mon, Hank, stop holding back and pound me! FUCK!" Henry... or, I suppose, Hank, now... froze, despite Stu's extremely vocal complaints. "H-hank..." he moaned, his voice rough. "I-I'm H-Hank..." "Yeah, you are, HUNK, now fucking fucking FUCK ME!" yelled Stu. He probably shouldn't have said that. Henry's face seemed conflicted. "Hank... Hunk... Hank... Hunk... Hank... Hunk." As Stu continued to scream profanities, I moved forward, stood on tiptoe (for Henry had inched taller over the last minute or so), and murmured in his ear. "Some people call you Henry or Hank... or even Hunk." Henry's huge, muscular body stilled at my words. "I call you beautiful and powerful and genius and brilliant and sexy and the greatest man I know." Henry's body was shaking as his mind tried to accomodate all the changes it was undergoing at the words I spoke. "You're... Stu's... husband. A hard worker. Really gentle and strong and understanding at the same time. I wish I could call you mine." The world seemed to stop. Was I really going to do this? If I said the right thing, I could claim this mountain of a man for myself, maybe more deeply than anyone else ever would. But... if he didn't choose me, then his only interest in me would be flat and mechanical, right? It wouldn't be real. Henry deserved better than that. Hank deserved better than that. I deserved better than that. I thought for a minute to choose my words carefully, my mind made up, as I blocked out Stu's grumbles, I took a deep breath. "... but you're your own man." He seemed to shudder and sigh, and a smile moved across his lips as he nodded, seeming more at peace. Then, he abruptly returned to fucking his husband like it was the only thing that mattered. Henry... Hank... picked up Stu and started fucking him in mid-air, smooth lips against bearded ones. The harder and faster Hank thrust into his love, the more weight seemed to melt off him. Hank went from bulky to more powerfully built, with greater and greater definition. Cut muscles were revealed across his back and torso, and his ass showed incredible striation as his hips sped up. Sweat gleamed over his body as his huge biceps and powerful legs flexed, and, still sucking face, both men came. I could hear Stu cussing against his husband's kiss, though the words were muffled, and Hank's whole body just shuddered as they coated each other in their seed... which also seemed to melt into their flesh almost immediately. Both men then sank to the ground, wrapped in each other's embrace and drifted off to sleep again. I went over to the device, and found that it had overheated and died, its internal circuits fried sometime during the events of the evening, leaving it as a useless molten piece of junk. The lotion container that Stewart had needed was likewise entirely empty. I tried to clean up, but the guys wouldn't be moved from their spot on the carpet, so I settled in on the couch to be there for them when they woke up. Everything's different now. Stu and Hank (or Stud and Hunk, as they sometimes refer to themselves) have a voracious sexual appetite now, especially for each other. They're the only ones they can really cut loose with, since they are so much stronger and more durable than other men. That hasn't stopped them from pursuing careers as rising stars in the porn world. The public loves Stu's rough and tumble Daddy Bear style, and he's taken to the leather world as well. Meanwhile, at 7'3," Hank is one of the tallest, most powerfully built men out there, and he's seen as the strong, stoic type. Their old minds and memories are hazy at best, and Hank especially seems to be a completely new man. Their sex drives are through the roof, though, and they seem ready to try new things, so they've moved across the country to settle in to new lives where they won't have to encounter their old friends and family. I get a Christmas card each year from them, usually with palm trees and naked guys on it. And, of course, I have ordered every film they've starred in. Nobody knows what went wrong with the weird device and the gel. No one was ever able to replicate the same results with either product. The doctors gave each man a clean bill of health, but their psychiatrists said it might be years before they mentally and emotionally recover from the changes... if ever. They said that Henry and Stewart's nerves must've been hijacked by the malfunctioning device's signal through the medium of the gel, and through those nerves, the rest of their physiology was similarly affected. But doctors and shrinks became compromised after I found one worshipping both partners. It seemed that people just couldn't keep their hands off Hank and Stu... including Hank and Stu. When they left, they were both too into exploring their new muscles and minds that they spent an increasing amount of time having sex and exploring their changes. They didn't even say goodbye. As for me? I'm just living my life, just a normal guy who had a brush with greatness. I'm hoping someday, someone or someones will love me that much.
  2. garrix


    My first story submission on here. Chapter 1: “I can’t stop growing” Jonas muttered between mouthfuls. My mouth was hanging open in disbelief ,I was giving the strangest interview of my life. The man in front of me was this overly-muscled, hairy, half-naked monster. The same guy who only a year or ago had been a top player of a New York City gay kickball league and maybe 180 lbs at best. Now he was enormous, closed off and holed up in his Brooklyn apartment. Jonas hadn’t shaved in weeks, his dark hair had grown long, flowing onto his rounded shoulders. And he sat there in only tight boxer briefs, his bloated, heavy muscles on full display. Normally I’d be turned on by a massively muscular guy, by this monumental hypermasculinity, but instead I was growing concerned. Here was a man who had ballooned up into a massive roided bear of a man in one year, seemingly in denial about it. From a respectable athletic guy into a freakishly beefy offseason mess in one year! “All I’ve seen you do since I got here is eat” I replied. “You’ve been eating non-stop since I got here almost an hour ago.” “I can’t stop. You don’t understand, it’s not a choice.” He replied in frustration. Jonas looked like he was eating some sort of thick gruel, but he assured me it was oatmeal and protein powder. He apologized for his shirtlessness, claiming he was too big for his clothes.. I was tempted to believe him. His once lean build was now so overblown, roided out to an almost grotesque degree that I was amaze he still fit in his apartment. Jonas’ hairy and ample muscle gut sat in his lap as he ate. Massive, fur covered pecs loomed over it, looking like heavy slabs of muscle. His tremendously muscular arms tensed and flexed with each movement. I imagined he had to weigh somewhere north 300 lbs by now. In my whole life I had scarcely seen a man as large. I was a part time writer covering gay sport events for the New Gotham Weekly, a local gay publication. Sports had always been a little passion of mine, and I figure this would be a fun and light side-job. Something to do in my spare time. I had actually met Jonas when he lead his kickball team marching in pride two years back, when he was a different man. He was popular, a 20-something handsome gay boy with jet black hair and a permanent Five O’Clock shadow. He could have stepped right out of some telenovela. And then I met him again when his team won the big kickball division match.I even made a little feature about it. And before all this, he was so classically good looking. When I heard that “hot Jonas” had dropped out of kickball to do bodybuilding it piqued my interest. I decided that I wanted to know what had happened to him. Sightings of him last year in town confirmed that the one-time 180 pound scenester had developed into a serious bodybuilder, and he continued to get bigger and bigger as the months went by. But it had been about 6 months since anyone had even seen him out or heard a word from him. He had cut off communication with his friends, his family. No one knew what was going on. Only the most minimal of communication had been returned. Someone told me he was “concentrating on his bodybuilding career”. That's when I came in. I found his email and I contacted him saying I wanted to interview him, thinking it might be interesting to do a story about a former leading kickball player who’d turned to bodybuilding, and write a bit about life as a bodybuilder, maybe he’d look hot with all the extra muscle, I thought- but I had no idea what I was getting into. Jonas was now this enormous shut-in. He had apparently quit his job, stopped talking to friends, stopped using facebook and only left his cramped one bedroom in Brooklyn to hit the gym. And here I showed up thinking this would be some sweet little puff piece about a particularly sexy ex-kickballer turned bodybuilder. Jonas looked me right at me with these soulful eyes when I asked him about his disappearance from the scene. “I couldn’t explain to people what was happening to me. I couldn’t explain why I had to go home, why I had to go to the gym. My friends were freaking out about the changes, but no one could stop it from happening. The nagging, the comments, it just made everything worse. I couldn’t be around those people anymore, it was too… stressful.” Jonas shifted his substantial weight and lifted his hulking body out of the chair. He lumbered towards the fridge to grab something else to eat. He pulled out a prepared meal of rice and chicken and began shoveling food again. “How long have you been living like this?” I asked. “It started a little over a year ago. It wasn’t serious at first, I thought. I just started eating all the time and my training went into overdrive. I really liked the muscle I put on the first few months. But then the injections started” “Injections?” I asked “Yes, injections. And that's when I really started blowing up. I felt like I was growing larger every day. I stopped liking it. I stopped wanting to get bigger. Right around the time I hit 220 I realized I was getting too big even for kickball. I tried to stop growing, I did everything I thought of, but I can’t stop. Nothing can make me stop” “If you don’t like it, why’d you continue with the injections?” “I told you already” he said, flustered, “I can’t stop” I scribbled some notes to look busy, buying time. “Are you going to try and compete?” I asked sheepishly. I saw a little hint of temper rise up in his eyes “You don’t understand. I don’t want this, I never wanted this” he said, gesturing down at his massive pecs. His rounded shoulders bulged and flexed with each movement of his arms. Jonas was still eating and I was more puzzled than ever. “If you don’t want to get bigger... why do you keep eating?” I asked again, halfheartedly expecting a different response. “Listen, This is not possible. I don’t control this, like I said. I’m eating but I can’t stop. it won’t stop.” That's when I started feeling a little alarmed. I was tempted to try something, but I was unsure how’d he react. “Well what if I…” I said, reaching over to grab the tupperware out of his hands. His huge, powerful build immediately shifted and pulled away, out of my reach. “No, even if you tried, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from taking it back.” No doubt, I thought. This man could crush me in a fight. I sat there trying to let his words weigh on me. What I had halfheartedly expected to be a small, potentially fun fluff piece about a former gay kickball captain was turning into something else entirely. His compulsion, this all-consuming obsession with eating and lifting, could it really be entirely outside of his own mental control? I paused for a moment and an unsettling silence hung in the air of that stale apartment. “Have you seen a psychologist?” I asked in a gentle tone. “It wouldn’t do any good” he quickly snapped back. “This is not a natural thing, this is a curse.” Jonas had finished scarfing down his meal and sat up quickly to grab more food. I couldn’t help but be surprised by how quickly a man of his size moved. “You’re going to outgrow that kitchen” I said to him half jokingly, hoping to lighten the tone. “I’m outgrowing everything.” He sounded deadly serious. “I have no clothes that fit me anymore. I can’t run anymore and everything feels smaller.I don’t know when this is going to stop.” “If you’re upset about getting bigger, why haven’t you seen a doctor about it? Or a phscolo…” “I told you already” he interrupted. It’s just not going to happen.” He sounded more defeated than angry. “Ok, just tell me how you got into this lifting then” I asked patiently. I never thought i’d actually sit for a serious interview for my part time job. “I’ve been lifting for years. But this. All this… “ Jonas said, gesturing at his huge build. “This started last year. I met a man, an older guy. We were out at a bar. A big guy, muscular, older. We were chatting in the bar. I admired his muscles and then he told me he’d love to see me bulk up. I thought it was a weird comment so I just started to ignore him. He was really persistent, telling me he wanted to see me get huge and all this weird stuff. I mean, I liked his arms, he must have noticed, but then he just latched on. I don’t know what happened, but not long after I noticed I was eating a lot. It was subtle at first, but I just found myself eating, and cooking and I started taking up lifting seriously. I don’t know what he did to me. I still can’t figure out how he did it to me, but he’s made me like this.” Jonas had a seriousness to his voice that startled me. Here in front of me was a gargantuan overfed, overgrown bodybuilder who I knew was lifting on his own and eating endlessly on his own, and yet, there was a total conviction in what he said. He didn’t own any responsibility for his current actions, something that made me worry for his own mental state. “So if you quit your job, how are you paying for this apartment and all this food?” Jonas paused a little before taking another swig of a protein shake. “I have a donor, he’s paying rent. I get food delivered.” “Who’s the donor. Is it the guy you met? the older gentleman?” “I…. I might be saying too much.” He muttered. Then Jonas leaning his bulky torso in close to mine. I felt the heat coming off his huge body. “Listen” he whispered “I don’t want anything else to happen. Maybe we shouldn't talk about this.” When I felt his powerful arm against my shoulder I got chills down my spine. This man was huge, and probably out of his mind. I took that as my queue to leave. The guy had gone insane with steroids. That was the only conclusion I could think of. I thanked Jonas for his time and I politely mentioned that I would never publish anything without his approval, fully knowing that I had nothing to run anyway. Headline: Young gay man gets addicted to steroids, loses his fucking mind. Nah, that wouldn’t work. I headed back home to finish a little feature about Roller Derby girls. I had to get back to my real job too. I tried to shrug off the encounter with Jonas and go about my work that week, but on Thursday, a full week later, I got an email from him. He wanted another interview. “I have to tell you what's happening because, I don’t know what's going to happen to me. Lets meet this weekend.” I wanted to ignore it. This Jonas kid was blown up so big that he go into a rage and really hurt me if he wanted. Part of me was too attracted to the idea that this might be a chance for some real journalism, or at least a juicy story. That following Saturday I found myself walking up the stairs of Jonas’ Brooklyn brownstone.
  3. garrix

    A Big Cheater

    Hey everyone, I've long sort of wanted to create a forced growth story that involved these kind of themes, but never had time to do it before. I thought about breaking it up into chapters, but I decided to go with one long story since this is a one-off anyway. I hope you guys enjoy! _______________________________________________________________________ My boyfriend Aaron cheated on me. I found out the night before our one-year anniversary. I mean, I understand why he did it. He’s been complaining about my new size and my “excessive” body hair, for months. You see, Aaron wants a male model, and I am no longer anything like that. I am “grotesquely” muscular now (I mean, is 250 lbs of muscle on a 6’ guy that huge? I don’t think so) But for Aaron, that’s way too big. I’m way too big for him. He likes men smaller, more submissive. Aaron is a smart man. He’s extremely sharp, witty, funny. He works in corporate giving and has been able to climb a steep career later quickly. All these things drew me to him when we first started dating. The fact that he wasn’t exactly my type didn’t bother me much. He’s very handsome, naturally tanned thanks to his half Mexican ancestry, and after a day or two without a razor, he gets this nice thick designer stubble. The guy totally grabbed my attention when we first started dating. It wasn’t until later I realized how controlling he really was. Aaron likes those Anglo-looking smooth chested Abercrombie model types. He would practically show disdain for other Latino gay guys. He must have had some sort of complex involving his Mexican family. Personally, I don’t understand why. Maria, his mother, is an incredibly loving and caring woman, but he always seemed to act embarrassed by her. For a time, I almost fit the bill for the kind of white boys Aaron fawned over. I used to be pretty thin, 180 or so pounds. I didn’t know this about Aaron at first, but his attempts to control my appearance, to keep me and mold me into his type, became more and more apparent the longer we dated. I’d always been pretty hairy, so I had often been described as an “otter”, which didn’t bother me any. There are some hot guys that identify as otters, but Aaron wanted me to stay shaved and smooth. So I shaved for him. What dope I was. So back to me- I like all kinds of guys. I like big hairy bearish men or thinner handsome guys like Aaron from all kinds of backgrounds, but the type I’ve always really liked the most are those huge weightlifters. Even as a kid I’d lust over those super heavyweight bodybuilders in the muscle mags. Especially the offseason type guys- Big hairy, beefy, powerfully built men, and muscle bears. But who doesn’t like a big muscle bear? Obviously, these kinds of guys are pretty rare in the gay community and they’re thankfully not the only kind of men I am into. I had never actually even dated a big lifter (and I do like them really big). Everyone I’d been with up till then was pretty normal, generally athletic. Roughly same age. In fact, I never really expected to date some bodybuilder either. But eventually, with the ability to make changes in my physique becoming easier, with the certain, shall we say, abilities that I had been blessed with and practiced (as limited as they actually are) I decided to start making changes. The little tricks I could pull, the levitation of small objects or changing the color of cloth, I billed as a magic trick and it made me pretty popular at parties. I enjoyed my reputation as an occasional magician (even though the powers of the council frowned on it). But Aaron never found out about the real spells I could weave into my life, to him it was just parlor tricks. Which is just as well. I had recently began learning and expanding my repertoire, and with much excitement I was getting to the level where I could make the kinds of changes I really desired. Actual changes in the matter and size of an object, and then, of a person. I was starting to learn the spells that for so long had eluded me. I was gaining the technical ability that was going to allow me the body I had always wanted. The kind of body I had always lusted after. First I started to change my appearance with the simple things. Non magical things. I grew out my beard, which I liked a lot, and Aaron didn’t seem to mind at first, but he kept telling me “it’s getting long, you should trim it”. Then, like I mentioned, I let my body hair grow out. Aaron didn’t like this. He said I should shave it or “at least keep it trimmed”. Good lord could he be an asshole. He was so charming most of the time it was easy to forget how obsessed with appearances he could be. His constant preening in front of the mirror should have been my first clue. “you’re getting prickly” he would complain. Once my body hair really started getting thicker after a few weeks I started getting real complaints from Aaron. I told him I was tired of shaving and trimming for him and I liked it and it was my natural appearance and he would get used to it. He didn’t take too kindly to my comments. He thought it was “gross” and needed to be trimmed. Well screw that. Then a month later I began the most serious of grievances. I started my big bulk. With my aforementioned abilities, I’m now able to make physical modifications that can be… rather dramatic. I’d done smaller transformation spells periodically. I’d changed hair color, even dabbled in minor spells that changed weight before. But all that was preparation for bigger things to come. This was going to be the most intense spell I had ever tried to cast, and really stretched me to try something I never thought I’d be able to do. Under the power of my body modification spell my physique began to slowly change. Each day after the spell had been cast I could see my muscles grow fuller, thicker. The gains I made were just slow enough that it might possibly be viewed as steroid induced, but fast enough to provide me with the results I eagerly waited for. Aaron certainly accused me of doing a cycle, which I didn’t mind. Watching my muscles inflated rounder, fuller, thicker day by day turned me on. It was such a rush, and I was getting so much stronger in the gym. In less than three months I grew from 180 to 225. I outweighed Aaron by 30 lbs, and was definitely outlifting him. It bothered Aaron a lot. It’s definitely a power thing, as a top he didn’t care for me becoming bigger and stronger than him. “You’re getting too big” he complained. I got big fast and it freaked Aaron out. He quickly went from being the bigger man to being smaller than me, less muscular and weaker than me. That really upset him, though he tried to hide it. At first he was competitive with me in the gym, but after I started out benching him and out lifting him, he lost interest in working out together and started going in the mornings instead. I know that was because he was embarrassed by how much stronger I was than him. Part of me was sympathetic. Aaron is a control freak and he must have felt like he could control his boyfriend before I started growing. I thought for a time of turning the spell on him and have him grow, but then I figured…He probably wouldn’t want to get that big. It wouldn’t be ethical to change someone without their permission, right? We stopped having sex. I know it’s because I had gotten too big for his taste. I grew to 240 and then some. I loved it. I was benching 275 with ease and with all my chest hair I was looking like a big muscle bear. My muscles budged in all my shirts. My arms were 19” inches around. I began to notice that I was (and am still) getting attention from a totally different set of people, and boy was I getting a lot of attention. The attention was also starting to come from kind of people who I also favored. Other big gay lifters. I had to buy a whole new wardrobe to fit my new size, but I was happy. I couldn’t keep all of my gains totally lean, so my midsection thickened a bit. My face filled out some too, but not too much. I just sort of bulked up into a big guy everywhere. My arms, my chest, shoulders, back, butt, thighs grew beefy and strong. I looked like the offseason bodybuilder, the kind I always wanted. I didn’t care if my abs were defined. My stomach was so hairy I couldn’t really see them anyway. Though, to be honest, I really only feel that big when I see a picture of myself. That’s the only time I really realize how large I am now. And that reminds me of when, a month before our anniversary, Aaron decided he didn’t want me in a facebook photo with him. He said with a half-joking smile “No one is going to recognize you anyway, now that you’re a roided out Sasquatch”. He told me I was “turning into a muscle freak” and that I “needed to stop juicing” so I could look normal in pictures again. I guess part of me knows I should have dropped him right then, or he should have dropped me, but part of me still had this attachment to his charms, which are numerous. And again, he’s also really handsome. For all of his apparent self-hate, I think it’s his mixed ancestry that provided him such stunningly good looks. So then Aaron cheated on me. Apparently he had been cheating on me since I had started bulking up. He was cheating on me before I even really got big! And then, a day after we broke it off, that asshole had the nerve to flaunt his new blond boy-toy in front of everyone on facebook. He didn’t give a shit about me. Now he could bring Elliott out in the open and show him off. The picture he posted of the two of them, with Elliott grinning like an idiot was the last straw. That dumb blonde twink and my idiot ex had really poked the bear, so to speak. He was going to get it. What it was, I wasn’t sure. So I was angry, feverishly thinking about what I could do. I could turn his stupid twink boyfriend into a toad (the council would never let me do that if they found out about it) or maybe I could make Elliot fat, or I could shrink his dick… (again, the council would notice) In actuality, I really couldn’t do any of those things. For one I didn’t know how to and for another, the council monitors the use of spells and especially, especially the use of curses. I think, to be honest, the regular spells don’t receive any attention, but using anything that can qualify as an actual curse lights up their screens like a Christmas tree. It would be seen. And I could get into big, big trouble. So what could I do, then? Something to fuck with Elliott and Aaron, but nothing damaging or hurtful. If I got audited, it would have to be something I could spin as a blessing, as harmless. It also had to be something I knew how to actually do. Something I had experience with. Muscles and hair, naturally. That's what got him to dump me, and well, everyone likes muscle, right? The council could overlook me giving some stupid gay man gigantic muscles, right? What if I made Elliot so big Aaron would be disgusted by him? What if I made Elliot so hairy you couldn’t even see skin on his chest? Or so huge he could barely move? Well , that is exactly what I decided to do. I will be honest, I sort of stalked Aaron and Elliot that week. By the time I cast the spell I had been observing them from afar for several days. I felt like I had to do this to perfect the spell. The greatest thing about my spell, if I do say so myself, is how layered it is. I really did my homework on this one, because Elliott would be oblivious. He wouldn’t notice a hair of his out of place, so to speak. Now that was my masterpiece. That took a hell of a lot of preparation too. Part of me was sure it wasn’t going to work. But sure enough it did. Elliot Zimmerman was soon going to turn into a gigantically overblown muscular furball. ____________________________________ Elliott and Aaron had gone to Palm Springs the weekend the spell took hold. As Aaron drove that Friday evening the first changes began. Dark hair began sprouting underneath Elliott’s shirt. His thin blonde treasure trail began to grow wider, darker and thicker. Oblivious to any changes, Elliott just scratched mindlessly as a fan of short, dark hair began to spread and first over his stomach, then over his chest. Aaron, concentrating on the road, didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The sun was setting, it was getting dark in the car anyway. Elliott’s beard began to sprout, growing high up on his cheeks where no hair had grown before. It came in thicker and darker than ever, contrasting with the light hair on his head. In the dark car, Aaron didn’t even see his boyfriend’s new stubble. The same dark hair began to spread over his forearms and on the top of his hands. Elliott’s body hair spread rapidly and grew long, soon completely covering Elliot’s thin torso. It rapidly formed a forest on his chest and stomach, all the way to the base of his neck. Black hairs began to poke out from under his collar. The growing fur began wrapping around to his back, spreading out into a striking pattern. It continued to lengthen and thicken until his entire back was covered in the same thick carpet of hair as his front. His chest hair had grown so bushy and dense that it began to poof out his shirt ever so subtly. Soon there was unbroken thick coverage from his beard all the way down to his toes.. Elliott had in the course of about an hour gone from a fairly hairless guy into an exceptionally hairy young man. At the same time, Elliott’s shirt started to get ever so slightly tighter around his lean frame. By the time he stepped out of the car in Palm Springs, Elliot was nearly 10 lbs heavier. He didn’t know that was the amount at the time, but it was apparent on his thin body that his muscles had grown. Aaron, upon stepping out of the car and seeing his boyfriend, suddenly became aware of the changes. First and most obvious was the thick stubble, which Elliott never had had before. Secondly, his arms were completely covered in thick black swirls of hair and his collar showed a thicket of long chest hair. “What the fuck is this?” Aaron exclaimed poking at the hair at the base of Elliot’s neck. “And when did you start growing a beard?” Elliot just shrugged. Nothing really seemed different to him, he didn’t feel any different. “I dunno” he replied This seemed to infuriate Aaron even more. “What do you mean you don’t know? You didn’t look like this when we left LA! Is this some kind of prank? Did someone put you up to this?” With his long fingers, Aaron grabbed some of the long hairs at the base of Elliot’s neck with his hand and pulled hard. “OW!” Elliot cried. “That hurt!” Aaron looked at the almost two inch long chest hairs he had pulled out that were now between his fingers. “Disgusting!” he exclaimed. “What kind of prank is this? Did you glue this on? Where’d you get this hair? This is disgusting Elliott, this is really gross.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about babe. Let's get inside the hotel.” Elliott replied calmly. The two made their way inside and into the hotel room. Aaron kept looking over his boyfriend, shocked to see his bushy forearms, covered in thick black hair. The hair continued up his arms and on the other side of his collar, he saw a thick fan of hair extending down his neck towards his back. Aaron could only guess what hairy mess lay underneath that snug tee shirt. And was it his imagination or did Elliott look bigger too? He couldn’t be sure. When they got into the room, Elliott, not keen on revisiting the strange behavior Aaron was displaying, just calmly set his stuff down and started the shower. Aaron looked on in horror as Elliot stripped of his shirt, unveiling what had to be the hairiest torso he had ever seen. Completely covered in swirling masses of black hair, from his stomach up over his chest and shoulders to his back. Everything was covered in a nearly equally thick distribution. Not only that, but the short beard he sported was looking longer, growing farther down his neck and totally merging with his chest. Aaron was beside himself. “Jesus christ, you’re like a fucking monkey! What the hell has happened to you? This can't be, this isn’t real!” Elliott just looked at him puzzled as he continued to prep himself for the shower, pulling off his socks and taking his braclets off. “I mean, this has to be glued on” He continued. Aaron walked up close, reaching out and touching the thick hair with his hand. It felt real, it looked real, but all that was impossible. How could a blonde guy have sprouted a total rug of black hair all over his body in the span of a few hours? Aaron looked up, in the light Elliott’s hair appeared brown, not blonde. “What is going on?! Is this like hidden camera or something?” Aaron continued. “It’s super gross. You’ve got to take this off.” “OK, I’m jumping into the shower now” Elliott said, ignoring the hysterics of his boyfriend. Aaron watched his boyfriend, now the hairiest man he had ever seen, turned his furry back to him and walked nude to the shower. “I think I’m going to hurl!” Aaron yelled back, full of hyperbole. Aaron started poking around the room, looking for a camera or some sort of indication that this was a prank. He tried to figure out if he was on something, maybe he was high? Maybe they were both high and he was hallucinating. Aaron splashed water on his face and then went to bed. He tried not to think about whatever was happening too much. He dozed off only to woken up a half hour later by the feeling of a beard rubbing up against his neck. Elliott was cuddling with him. Aaron could feel all this hair, pressing up against him as his boyfriend snuggled up close. “Off!” He protested “Off of me until you either take that nasty costume off or shave it off” He protested. Elliott again just shrugged his hairy shoulders and turned to face the other way, cuddling with a pillow instead. The next morning Aaron woke up, having nearly forgotten about the night before. Until he looked over and saw the large, dark haired, heavily bearded furball next to him. The man still had the face of Elliott, but his beard looked to be three inches long. Every inch of his muscular body was covered in a carpet or black hair. Even though he was still laying down, there was no mistaking that Elliott was bigger. “Jesus, Elliott, what has happened to you?” Aaron asked loudly. Elliott’s eyes flickered open and he stretched his long, powerful arms “Wha?” the man groaned in response. “Elliott, wake up. I know this can't all be real. Take this disgusting costume off, stop trying to pretend… “ As Aaron said this he pushed his hands into the powerful hairy expanse of Elliott’s newly muscular back, feeling the rippling cordes of solid muscle. There was no mistaking the feeling of pushing into muscle like that. Aaron moved his hands around to Elliott’s larger shoulders. this wasn’t fake, this wasn’t a costume. This was real hair and real muscle. Aaron’s eyes grew wide as he realized that the man he was in bed with was indeed Elliott Zimmerman. Overnight 40 lbs had piled onto Elliott’s frame. The man had rapidly grown from a twink to a superhairy musclebear. Aaron felt like he must have been losing his mind. He had to be dreaming. His boyfriend looked like he was just inflating with muscle. The man half asleep next to him was over 220 lbs of sculpted, hairy, muscular beef. Elliott groaned again: “I’m starving. Can you get me something to eat?” Aaron decided he’d probably need some fresh air. “I’ll get something.” Aaron said, throwing on a shirt and heading out. He tried to clear his mind, figure out a rational explanation for everything. He tried to reason with himself, figure out why he might be hallucinating or dreaming. By the time Aaron return with some coffee and a bagel, Elliot was up out of bed, a shirtless hulking beast hunched over the table in their hotel suite. He was busy cramming food into his mouth. The man looked absolutely massive now. “Goddamn, what has happened to you?!” Aaron exclaimed again Elliott looked up doe eyed. With food in his mouth. “Huh?” He muttered. “Oh, sorry, I got hungry and you took so long… I ran downstairs and got some stuff.” Elliott had now surpassed 250 lbs and was growing just a little larger with each bite. Aaron stood there, mouth agape. He was watching his now dark haired boyfriend grow beefier by the second. With eat bite there would be a slight swell of his rounded shoulders, or a flex of his thickening traps, or a little twinge on his meaty forearms. Aaron stood there silently, able to see his boyfriend blowing up into a furry behemoth right in front of him. Elliott didn’t seem to mind the changes . He seemed actually to not really be aware of them, except for in the sort of most vague terms. He knew his shirts didn’t fit him anymore, but he didn’t really seem to know why. Even when he looked in the mirror, which now reflected gigantic bodybuilder with enormously broad, bowling ball shoulders and massively meaty, extremely hairy pecs, Elliott didn’t seem to process it. Elliott continued to stuff his mouth full of the pastries, sandwiches and snacks he had found downstairs. He had virtually stockpiled food in the hour that Aaron had been away. And soon he was pushing past 270 lbs of offseason fur-covered muscular beef. Something about his heavily bearded face also made him look different. He looked even darker. “There’s a taqueria next door we should go to!” he said with a near perfect accent. “Stop it! Stop it!” Aaron exclaimed. “You’re turning yourself into a monster! Stop eating!” Elliot stopped, but he just stood there, puzzled. Neither of them really knew what they could do next. As the day wore on the growth continued, it slowed down, but it continued throughout the rest of their Palm springs vacation. Aaron was shaking though, the changes put him on edge. Nothing seemed right. Even Elliot’s face was becoming harder to recognize. His hair was black, his skin was tan. His nose, something about his nose looked different. He sounded the same, he was the same height, but everything else was so totally transformed that Aaron hardly couldn’t believe it was real. Much to his own disgust Aaron had to track down a big and tall shop in town to find clothes for Elliott to wear. At his new size, nothing he owed would even come close to fitting. “Gracias mi amor” Elliott said when Aaron returned with his new clothes. “Te quiero muchísimo”. Aaron just sat there puzzled by his flawless Mexican accent. Elliot didn’t ever speak to him in spanish. Part of Aaron wondered what it would be like to parade around with a huge 300 lbs slab of muscle freak on his arm. It might come with a certain cache to be seen with a giant gay muscle freak who could be seen as “his” boy. At the same time, Aaron was still disgusted by how overly hairy and large he was. In his mind, it was beyond disfiguring. Complete excess.Totally gross. He has never been with a man so big, but at least Elliot seemed as placid and under control. Maybe he could turn out to be a giant muscle slave of his afterall. Watching Elliott walk now would almost be comical if he wasn’t so baffled and shocked by the transformation. The huge man now sauntered with his legs apart, thighs bulging so thick that they inevitably rubbed against each other, his back so broad that it forced his hefty arms up from his sides. Later that day Elliott wanted to go to the pool, but no longer owned swim trunks that would even get past his bulging calves, so regardless of the rules, Elliott went skinny dipping behind Aaron’s back. Staying at a gay establishment proved beneficial for the enormous muscle man. They were quite tolerant of his rule breaking. Elliott attracted a huge amount of attention from the gays around him. Aaron was beyond embarrassed. To him, Elliott looked totally deformed from too much muscle. A body warped into a ridiculously unattractive size, covered in so much hair that he looked more animal than human. Elliott’s beard was wild and untamed, growing down to the top of his overgrown chest. Nonetheless, somehow this huge hulk was attracting choruses of “woofs” from the older men around the pool, all of whom were impressed. “Is that your boyfriend?” one older bearish man asked Aaron poolside. Aaron nodded sheepishly. “Man, you latin boys sure can grow nice and big. What are you feeding him!?” Aaron didn’t even know how to respond. Latin? Was Elliott latin now? Sure enough, the dark tan he had developed, the excessive black hair, the strong prominent nose...long gone was that blond waspy look. Elliott could definitely pass for latino now. As he stood there, disapprovingly watching the whole scene unfold, he heard Elliott use the kind of slang his gay cousin would say. “Aye, papi...” he said to one of the 40 something bearish men flirting with him in the pool. What had happened to his boyfriend? Aaron cursed himself internally. He now had an overblown latino gorilla as a boyfriend. Had Aaron been with this freak the whole time? Had the small twink he had envisioned actually been some massively overgrown hairy cholo? Whatever was happening, this wasn’t for him. How was he going to get out of this? Aaron had enough of the gawking and attention from the rather rambunctious older gay crowd. They wanted a piece of his now enormous boyfriend. Elliott liked the attention, flexing his now 25” inch arms and getting a chorus of ooos and awws. Aaron stormed off, something Elliott didn’t fail to notice even in the crowd of his adoring fans. Elliott went out with his new “friends” from the pool, eating and drinking that evening. Even some fooling around. By the time Elliott returned to their room at midnight, he was shirtless, bigger than ever, and drunk. How 350 lbs man could get that drunk was a mystery. They left palm springs the next morning. Aaron didn’t say a word to the overblown muscle bear next to him on the car ride home. He was passed out anyway. There was hardly room to move in that car, with Elliott's shoulders pushing right over the seat into Aaron. It made for a cramped driving experience. Aaron kept looking over with disgust at the overgrown freak next to him. At least he had trimmed his beard back. He was still so gross though, his muscles so bloated, so covered in sweaty, nasty body hair. And his face- he wasn’t even handsome anymore, with that big nose, huge black eyebrows and beard. Aaron said to himself. A disgusting, ratty mess of hair everywhere. And all that enormous disfiguring muscle. He looked totally deformed to him now. How could any man find this pile of meat attractive? Some guys must be into the missing-link look, he reasoned. Aaron heard his soon-to-be ex mutter something in spanish in his sleep. ‘And now he’s Mexican, of course’ Aaron thought to himself. He had the face of some nasty gay cholo like his cousin and his friends. He cringed at the idea of dating one of them. _______________________________ 10 days after I had laid the spell down on Elliott, I gasped at the beautiful,freakishly large muscle hulk my work had created. He was walking in WeHo, crushing the sidewalk and getting stares from every passerby. His thighs rolled around each other, fighting for space. His shirt and shorts were barely containing all his hairy mass. Dark hair, dark eyes and the biggest muscular build I’d ever seen. Every inch of him bulged with extreme mass. I really didn’t even recognize him. He was like a dream. Gone was that twink I hated, here was a overgrown, hirsute latin mass monster I had created. He really did look latin too. Extremely handsome. I was quite proud of my work. The sheer freaky size and furriness factor was the only way I could be sure I was looking at Elliott. 400 lbs superhairy muscle freaks don’t exactly come along every day. And he was far inconspicuous everyone was staring at him as he sauntered along, his huge mass flexing and bouncing with each step.. And clueless Elliott knew no different. It was as if he had always looked this way. He imagined being 400 lbs of rippling muscle was just as natural for him as having black hair and a furry chest. Although now he found himself single again. After Palm Springs Aaron had stopped talking to him all together. He wasn’t even responding to his texts, even the little love notes he had sent in spanish. Elliott was truly a sight to seen. Every muscle bulged and flexed with just the slightest movement. His traps, his massive rounded delts, his huge furry chest and thick, hair-covered cobblestone abs. The man’s massive back was even covered in a carpet of hair. There just were no bodybuilders who compared to him in size now. XXXL shirts were struggling to hold together on his massive frame. His arms were pushed out far to his sides because of the sheer size of his lats. God, he just exuded testosterone. He just exuded a hyper-masculine, overblown sexiness. So much muscle. So much to flex. And Elliott was totally clueless about why he was so special. Our eyes met on the street. Fuck, I wanted him so badly. I wanted that gorgeous, huge muscle beast. And damn it, I was going to have him. ____________________________________________________________ Aaron was still shaken by the weekend with Elliott. How could anyone transform like that over a few hours? He kept looking at pictures in his phone of the smaller blond man he had dated before Palm Springs. A total opposite of the mexican muscle freak he had left with. He wasn’t crazy, he couldn’t be. There was something going on that caused Elliot and even his previous boyfriend, Kevin, to grow into huge bodybuilders. He couldn’t say how, but it must have connected back to Kevin. Aaron had a new man that weekend. Some hookup from Grindr named Spencer. A cute, shorter recent grad from UC Irvine. Spencer had the lithe little build of the white guys he usually went for. It was in such dramatic contrast to the monster he had just parted ways with, not hairy, not dark, not overgrown. The two jumped in bed together the first chance they could. As Aaron lifted Spencer’s legs up in the bed and began pounding his ass, something strange started happening. The few hairs on Spencer’s chest started spreading, growing a little thicker and fuller. With each thrust Spencer’s body inflated ever so slightly larger, growing more muscular, more defined. Aaron looked down after a moment to see a now hairy chested, athletic looking man who was starting to visibly grow in front of him. He stopped pounding him immediately, freaked out by the noticeable developments. “Ay, No terindas!” Spencer said in effortless spanish. Aaron’s blood ran cold. “Fuck!” was all Aaron could mutter as he watched his Grindr hookup’s dark chest hair grew visibly thicker, spreading over his shoulders. At the same time, Spencer’s muscles started to balloon, becoming heavier, thicker and larger right in front of him. This time, the whole thing was happening even faster.
  4. Hialmar

    The Security Squad, part six

    PREFACE This is the most discomforting chapter in the story. The one who doesn't recognize satire, when he sees it, is blind. I also want to thank Arpeejay for a discussion about bodyweight. DISCLAIMER The story takes place in a totalitarian society. Unpleasant political slur of two opposite kinds will occur. Likewise, sexist slur will take place. Violent deaths will be mentioned. If anything of this disturbs you, please be warned. Part one is found here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/10522-the-security-squad-part-1/ Part five is found here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/10576-the-security-squad-part-5/ - - - ”And why do you volunteer for this? You know, that in the past all members of the Security Squad were drafted.” I watched you inquisitively. You seemed to feel uncomfortable before my imposing presence. ”I saw the advertisements. You know, the ones, like, BECOME THE PERFECT MAN: JOIN SECURITY SQUAD or LESS OF A MAN, THAN YOU WANT TO BE? JOIN SECURITY SQUAD, and I thought, that I could perhaps give it a chance.” ”I see. Yes, we have had a considerable influx of patriotic volunteers, since the advertisement campaign was launched.” You squirmed. ”I don’t feel very patriotic. Not patriotic enough.” ”Don’t worry soldier. You will be. You will be fine. Your squaddiefication will take place within a few days. It isn’t something dangerous.” I was allowing my thoughts to wander back in time: How Brad and I, Bill and Sergeant Williams had been tested the days after our own squaddiefication a decade earlier. Bill and I managed to lift a 2250 pounds each. Brad managed to lift almost 1800 pounds. - - - I was hanging out at The Patriot with you and Brad. On our way there, we had passed by the usual political posters: ”Is your wife a secret Terrie?” and ”The Security Squad protects YOU!” The Patriot was officially a local ”member-restricted recreation association for members of Security Squad and their friends”. There wasn’t anything untrue about that description, but it didn’t describe the reality either. The walls were painted in black. Flags and recruitment posters hang on the walls. Sixty percent of the Security Squad’s personnel never frequented The Patriot, which could be a surprise for those, who only knew the establishment from its official description. When you and I entered the building, we had been met by the mixed scents of cigar smoke, beer, male sweat, anti-perspirants, moth repellents and leather. Brad and I towered over you, and I felt protective. You were so young. Comparatively small. Like I had been before my squaddiefication. Recently transferred to the non-enhanced segment of the Security Squad by the enlistment authority. Like Brad and me, you were dressed in the everyday wear of the Security Squad: Black t-shirt or tank top, black woolen army sweater, glossy cargo trousers of black leather (with a belt buckle carrying the crest of the Security Squad), heavy boots, patrol cap and a black bomber jacket. We could have frequented the place in civil attire, but we knew what the squad-fans wanted. Our arrival was met with approving cheers by the ”friends of the Security Squad”. ”Oh look, Chad! They brought a Squaddie-pup! He hasn’t been squaddiefied, yet!” I whispered to you: ”I told you, that you would become popular. Handle it wisely. Don’t let anyone beg you into something you aren’t comfortable with. They are the fans. You are in command. Remember that.” You nodded. Brad towered over you protectively. At 7’6” and 450 lbs he was a living embodiment of what it meant to belong to the Security Squad. Some of the recruitment posters were actually based on him. ”When the Lord Protector signed the Immoral Entertainment Decree and the Indecent Behaviour Decree eighteen years ago, there was initially some hesitation and uncertainty over how they were supposed to be interpreted. Two talkshows on TV were closed down, since they were known of making fun of The Leader. There were some discussion coming from The Leader’s religious backers about closing bodybuilding competitions, beauty pageants and wrestling, but the nationalist backers of The Leader thought there could be a patriotic value in those competitions, so they were retained. I have heard, that some un-patriotic scum fled our country and now compete for other countries, which is a disgrace. Oh, thank you Eric.” Eric, the bartender, had placed three pints of beer in front of us. He knew what we preferred. In several ways. Several other Squaddies — both squaddified ones and non-enhanced ones — stood or sat in other corners of The Patriot, but the major share of the patrons were squad-fans. The squad-fans came in all shapes: Short and tall, thin, overweight and muscular, but they all preferred a decidedly masculine style. All kept their hair short (in different ways). It was in rather general use among squad-fans to sport flags and other patriotic patches on their jackets. The jackets came in several styles: Denim jackets, bomber jackets in synthetic fibres, leather jackets — especially biker style jackets. Some of the squad-fans rode motorbikes, and kept old-fashioned biker style alive. ”Since what was called ’propaganda promoting a gay lifestyle’ was forbidden, there was an abrupt end to Pride events, and gay pubs were closed. The Lord Protector decided to turn existing same-sex marriages into civil unions, but he resisted any suggestions to abolish civil unions. His military advisors adviced him to not re-instate the don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy. Where you grew up, it was probably harsh to be fond of other lads, but, as you see, that is not the entire truth about our country. I’m happy to bring you here.” ”It is a relief after what I went through. This place feel unreal.” You looked at some old Security Squad memorabilia, and some black and white reproductions of Tom of Finland art. The convsersations in the room were rather loud. Drunk laughs from one of the corners. One of the squad-fans approached us. He was a buzzcut bloke in his mid-30s, and dressed in jeans, boots and a squad-sweater replica. ”Permission to speak, Sergeant.” ”Permission granted, civilian.” He gave the impression of usually cultivating a rather cocky demeanour in other surroundings, but, when speaking to us three, he behaved slightly shyly. ”Just exactly is squaddification? The results are, eh, very impressive.” ”Your first visit to The Patriot, mate? That squaddiefication exist isn’t a secret: It is obvious for everyone. But exactly how squaddiefication is done is classified information, I’m afraid.” ”Oh. Sorry for asking. I’m a great fan of Squads on Patriot Channel.” Squads was a reality series about life in the Security Squad. I had watched episode one and two of the first season, but swiftly dropped the habit. The content was extremely edited, and didn’t give an accurate impression about everyday life in the Squad. ”I would guess, that you’re not alone on that account in this crowd. Have you had time to discuss with other fans here?” ”Some. It’s new to me, all of this.” ”Don’t worry, civilian. You are among friends here.” More cheers. I looked in the direction of the entrance, in order to find out why. ”Hello Bill! How is the night going?” ”Awesome Joe. I have spent all night at Beer Burger Bar, and already shagged three squad-hags.” I turned to you. ”You see, my friend, Sergeant Tannen here, is into the vagina business.” I turned to Bill again. His 600 lbs brawn to his 6’6” height couldn’t fail to attract most of the eyes in the room. ”Three? Really? Isn’t it time for you to settle down with kettle and lids, at your age?” ”I don’t disagree with your lifestyle, and you don’t disagree with mine. Isn’t that a deal?” I turned to you again. ”Now you wonder, perhaps, what a confirmed straight guy like Bill is doing here…” You nodded shyly, looking at Bill’s bull-god physique. ”But we have a saying in the Squad. Perhaps you haven’t heard it, yet. The difference between a straight Squaddie and a bi-curious Squaddie is three pints of beer.” Bill roared of laughter. So did some of the squad-fans, who had overheard our conversation. A massive leather-clad biker had approached us. For a non-squaddified man, he was certainly impressive, and a life dedicated to working out was required to carry his outfit the way he did. I was proud of you, when I noticed that your gaze didn’t flicker. ”Please Sergeant, may I speak to the Squaddie-pup?”, the biker asked me. I acted the way he expected. ”Permission granted, civilian. Treat him well. Otherwise, I and Sergeant Smith here have to punish you.” The biker shuddered, but perhaps not purely out of fear. ”When will you become squaddified, Sir”, he asked you. ”In two days. Why do you ask, civilian?” ”I would be honoured if you remembered me during and after your squaddification. Would you do that? My name is Chad.” ”Perhaps I will”, you answered, one part confident, one part acting. ”Do you allow me to make myself worthy of remembering? It would be an honour to make you happy, Sir.” ”I’m sure, that you know what to do, civilian. I’m a squaddie-pup. I am superior.” I could detect a small trace of insecurity in your voice. It would be erased in two days, I reflected. But the squad-fan didn’t notice, or he didn’t care. To be in the presence of me, Brad and you made his day. He began to unbutton your fly. You leaned backwards against the desk, your leather clad legs wide apart, and let the muscular biker become your willing slave. More drunk cheering from a corner. It seemed to make Bill horny again, and he had definitely bucketed down more than three pints this evening. He had found a willing admirerer, too: A bodybuilder type dressed in army fashion, having loop screws in his earlobes. Absent-mindedly I noticed a short heap of flyers. ”The Security Squad needs YOU! Ever considered serving your country?” The The Patriot franchise had been a success as a recruitment ground for the Squad. I supposed that the level of success, in that regard, silenced any doubts some of The Leader’s advisors could have had in other respects, but what would they expect, when they removed all inhibations from a man? - - - It was two days later. I stood between the Zythronic racks, wearing the helmet. Initially, the four of us, who were the original new breed of improved soldiers, used to take turns inside the growth chamber. Later, our group of expert Improvers had been expanded into twelve members. It was my turn, and I liked the job. The twelve of us Improvers reach some small improvements every time, even if the pace of change has slowed down very much. The initial transformation is always the most dramatic, and there is seldom much to add or change, but it felt good to be in the chamber again, exposed to the Zythronic Field, the Vril Power and the two other forms of radiation. This way, the twelve Improvers always were slightly bigger, slightly stronger, slightly faster, slightly better than the recently changed squaddies, and they treated us with respect. The respect we deserve. I watched you: A Potential Domestic Terrorist. We used to say PDT, but the civilians shortened it into Domestic Terrorist, and were very grateful for our work on hunting you down, increasing the security for normal, decent people. We had improved the processing routines, and moved the chairs into the growth chamber. You sat in your chair, and the arms of your chair ended with metallic knobs connected to the Zythronic Racks. You were dressed in your orange-coloured prison-dress, your legs fastened to the legs of the chair, and your wrists strapped to the arms of the chair. ”Are you going to execute me?” ”You are mistaken. This is not an electrical chair.” ”What is it then, you bloody Fascist?” ”Watch your mouth.” ”It’s not like you haven’t abused me. Physically. Verbally.” ”Verbal abuse is more common in the Police Force. We don’t have the habit of calling you Liberal scum, even if you are. As for physical abuse — some prisoners need to be disciplined, but not to the degree, that they would no longer recover. Our off-shore prisoner camps are a valuable asset to the Security Squad.” ”An asset?” You looked like you couldn’t believe what you heard. ”You believe in a cause. That is honourable, even if you are misguided. Men with principles, like yourself, would hold equally firm convictions, if they were patriots. Even defend their convictions, by taking up arms.” ”You may lock me in, but you are not able to change my mind.” ”Let us see about that.” No reason to slow it down or hold back. The green infusion was now administerable by a rather quick injection, and all three biochemical formulas could be administered by the chair. Perhaps better to ease any pain away. Our purpose was not to torture you, but turn you into a weapon: Into one of us, so I let the Zythronic Field trickle through your palms into your body at a modest 8% level. ”Ummmm. What’s that? Ummmmmm. What’s happening?” I didn’t answer. I let the robotic arms of the chair administer the chemicals. Then the wet electrodes lowered themselves to each of your temples. They always scream. Afraid of losing themselves, I suppose. It is true to a certain extent. Memories fade or disappear, but deep-seated personality traits do not die, nor do instincts and urges. I do not remember my own conditioning. It is just a black hole in my memory. When I ask other Squad-members about it, they tell me the same. We do not remember the conditioning. I guess you will forget this pain, as all the others have done. As we all have done. I warmed the radiation emittors under the floor up. Your chair was lit up from the floor, and bathed in a purple light. We had, by time, found, that doing it this way increased the conditioning. ”No, I…” Your mind was surprisingly resilient. I increased the Zythronic Field to 10% and increased the radiation from below. ”No, uh… uh… nnnnnnn” You struggled in the chair. I could notice the physical effects of the treatment, since you began to fill out your prison dress. 12.5% perhaps? ”Mmmmmmm, oh, um, mmmmmm” Close now. After having done this multiple times, I had learned to guide this process carefully, and the helmet helped me to do it intuitively. The sound of your voice changed: The tone of fear turned into the tone of revelling. Look at that neck of yours! You liked this. I could see it on your face. And your hands were becoming larger. And covered with veins. ”Oh, uh, yes. Yes, I comply. Yes, I obey. Oh YES! Fucking YES! Sir! More! Give this patriot MORE!” I was so happy to reward you with what you asked for. And this was just the Preparatory Phase. I was going to process you and the other two, later in the afternoon. - - - I looked through the list. The one who volunteered because the appeal to his vanity and insecurity. The pup who was sent here by the enlistment authority, and found a haven from his repressive upbringing. The one who was successfully re-programmed from terrorism to patriotism. The usual fare. As always, I was proud to squaddiefy you and the other two subjects. There would be no use of destroying expensive uniforms, as had happened the first time. All three of you were dressed in elastic mini-shorts, and nothing else. The Preparatory Phase had had its effect on you. You all looked fit and vein-covered, and your eyes had that familiar dim gaze. ”Soldiers! This is the best day in your lives! You will grow into your country’s finest defenders: The defenders of Improved Democracy. Unlike the inefficient democracy of other nations, slowed down by debates and never-ending official reports, our Improved Democracy implement decisions immediately, because the Lord Protector is given that executive and legislative power. ”Perhaps you watched telly a few days ago, the Prime Minister of Ruritania demanding: ”Mr. Lord Protector, tear down this wall!” But we know the truth: Our Anti-Terroristic Protective Wall protects us against terrorism. Our Anti-Terroristic Protective Wall protects us against unwanted foreign workers, who rob indigenous workers of their jobs. Our Anti-Terroristic Protective Wall protects us against killer clowns. We are the greatest country in the world, and you are the best of the best: You dedicate your lives to protect our liberty. I am proud of you, soldiers. Right now you are non-enhanced Squad members. Within a few hours, you will be full-grown Squaddies. Do you want to improve yourself for your country?” ”SIR! YES, SIR!” ”Then take your stations.” You grabbed your Zythronic racks, like the other two. I knew how the different bio-chimcal formulas were pumping in your blood from the Preparatory Phase. They just needed some more encouragement. I concentrated on the Zythronic Power. It began to stream. You and the other two were silent for a few seconds, but then began to moan of pleasure. I increased the intensity. By the help of the helmet, I could sense the Zythronic Power, and I knew, that the moment I awakened the Vril Power, I would be able to sense your feelings, shape your phiscal forms according to my will and share the pleasure you felt. I increased the intensity further. 65%. You were ready for the Power of Vril. I awakened my own Vril Power, activated the cannons, and my mind reached deep into your own, and caused your slumbering Vril Power to awake. Awake. Surge. Erupt. Consume you. And the Vril cannons bombarding your responsive muscle tissue. A shimmer of gold and bronze surrounded us, letting the Muscle Beast out. Letting the Power Being out. We were all connected now. I could sense your feeling of strength, of power, of confidence, of abandon, of delight and pleasure… Each of you reacted to the treatment in your own particular ways. ”So good. Fucking unreal. Like being Compton. Like being McCarver. Look at these! So unbelievable. Like being Agent Venom. Uhnnnn. Like being Bane. Can’t believe it. Uh, uh! Like fucking becoming The Hulk. Oh! Yes! The power! Can’t believe it! Uhnnn.” ”Oh, yes! Pump me full of it! Unit want more! This patriot can take more! Will crush all resistance. Will crush all threats. Demolish. Pulverize. Able to do that, now. The strenght! So much! Never too much! So free. Not responsible for anything. Just obeying orders. Keep it going!” ”Unbelievable… So good! Oh. Much! Couldn’t have dreamed… Nnnnn. Growing with my brothers… Defend. Protect. Uhnnnnn… No squad-fan any longer… No squaddie-pup any longer… Yes! YES! Squaddiefy me! SQUADDIEFY ME! Yes! Can’t believe it! This! And this! And the power! And the strength! And, uhnnnn… So hard. Uncrushable… Don’t hold back, Sergeant! Give me more! Want it… Crave it… MORE! YES! RAW, BRUTAL, NNNNNNNNNN! SQUADDIE POWER!” I knew how intoxicating it was. At my mere thought, the room bathed in purple, and, at another one, it was exposed to the relentless empowering influence of a blue shimmer. After the Preparatory Phase you had all looked like contestants in Men’s Physique, but, now, your well-defined abs turned into six hemispheric cannonballs of steel. Your shoulders became like bowling balls. Your pecs became like basket balls of warm, uncrushable flesh. Your thighs swelled and bulged into pillars able to carry 1500 pounds or more. Your waists were narrower than your thighs. Your calves looked like rugby balls. Your necks grew in power, your jugular vein pulsing under the relentless pressure of the muscle-building and enhancing forces. 90% 92.5% 95%. The machine working at an efficiency of 97.5%. I knew I had to concentrate on my conception of perfect masculinity, and the helmet would interpret my brainwaves into reality. Inside this chamber, my will was law. I held the all-powerful control of your bodies and minds. The feeling was more than exhilarating. I was able to form my brothers in arms into the fighting machines I wanted them to be, and they wanted to become. Perfect masculinity… Uhnnn. Felt good for the Improver, too. I wasn’t allowed to lose control now. Uhnnn. Despite it was tempting to just let the machine decide… Uhnnn. No, I was in charge. I am The Improver today, and I have to improve you. Yes! Join me, squaddies! Become… Oh! Yes! Become… specimens of perfect masculinity. Specimens of perfect virility. Like… Like Brad. Oh fuck! The chamber convulsed in intangible flames of gold and bronze, blue and purple, when you all absorbed the highest power level, developed your personal physical optimum and reached perfection. - - - There were a handful of things to do by routine. Blood pressure. Blood samples. Urine samples. You were given some time for shower. You received uniforms in your new sizes, and you were, of course, a sight for gods to dream of. Absent-mindedly, I was thinking about what the future had in reserve for you. As usual, the first kill had to happen shortly after squaddiefication. We didn’t want any inhibations to return. It would be inefficient for the needs of the country. I remembered my own first mission. We hd to suppress a potential terrorist threat. We stormed the building in the middle of the night. All domestic terrorists were sleeping. One of the women looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I had seen her before. I only dimly remember her chestnut-coloured hair, her green eyes and a dimple in her chin, because she cried out: ”Joe, it’s me. Why are you doing this?” It was very strange. How did she know my name? I shot the Terrie bitch. The mission was a disappointment, since no weapons were found in the terrorist base. Soon our new squaddies would be sent on similar missions. - - - I returned home. Brad had been busy cooking. ”Lot of paperwork, today?”, I asked. ”Yes. And you must have supervised a squaddiefication. I can see, that your traps are slightly larger than before”, he answered. ”They are?” ”I’m not blind, Joe. I can’t wait to lay my hands on those traps of your’s.” We finished our chicken and rice rather quickly, and decided to eat our apple-and-ginger pie later. We finished in the oversized sofa. Brad gave my traps a massage. The TV was on. The News reported that The Lord Protector had attended the inauguration of a statue of Berzelius Windrip. Then followed a re-run of the 2031 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. We had seen it before, and switched the TV off. I reclined in the sofa, laying on my side. Brad’s back rested on my chest, and I let my right arm protect him. It felt strange, but it felt good. Brad was the most perfect man I knew, but I was heavier than him. At 7 feet and 500 lbs, I was able to lift him and carry him, if I wanted to. I let my lips touch his gold-coloured buzzcut, and whispered: ”I am inspecting the test subject.” I let my hand massage Brad’s right pec through the fabric of his sweater. He let out a whimpering sound, rose and removed his sweater and his shirt. He turned, and removed my shirt. We returned to the sofa, Brad’s back on my chest. I nibbled on his silky ear, and let my hand return to his right pec. With a playful voice, I whispered: ”As I said, I am inspecting the test subject.” I returned to my everyday voice: ”Oh. And by the way. Two of todays new squaddies looked strangely similar to you, Brad.” ”They always do, Joe, when you are the Improver of the day. Unless you feel especially protective of them. Two, you say? I though there were three scheduled for today?” ”There was. Do you remember the squaddie-pup we brought to The Patriot two days ago? He’s the one. I felt protective of him. He reminded me of myself before.” ”Let me guess…” ”Don’t say it. Yes, he became massive like myself. He needed to put some flesh on the bones, don’t you think?” Brad didn’t answer, but he pressed his naked back harder to my chest. It felt good. I knew what Brad liked, so I had kept my leather trousers and boots on, just as he had. I could feel the ravines and ridges of his back towards my powerfully brawny pecs. I let my hand slid to his abs, and continued to whisper: ”I am inspecting the test subject’s abdomen. A hard wall of bricks, nay: steel, is covering his lower torso.” Brad shivered, and I could hear how his breathing became heavier. I swallowed. ”The test subject is still growing and transforming. He is turning into a monster! A hero-monster full of hard, masculine muscle. Bigger than anything I have seen. Bigger than anything I could imagine!” I let my hand slide lower, and I could feel his rod throbbing inside the black leather. I fingered and pressed teasingly. He moaned. I rose, my left knee still on the sofa behind Brad’s back, my right leg standing on the floor, his body between my powerful leather-clad thighs. ”But there is a squaddie who is heavier than the test-subject.” I gave his shoulder a friendly clench, before I removed my knee from the sofa, stood with my legs wide apart in front of him, and let him watch my presence. Then, I bent my knees, grabbed Brad, and held him: One arm under his leather-clad bum, another one behind his naked back. I let my lips nuzzle his buzzcut again. ”And that is Sergeant Wilson.” Playfully, I used him as a barbell three or four times, and then returned to my ordinary way of carrying him. Brad moaned in his deep voice and shuddered in delight, when his behemothic partner carried his 450 lbs frame into our bedroom, the way as usual. I smiled. I loved to be a squaddie.
  5. Hialmar

    The Security Squad, part 5

    Last chapter is found here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/10551-the-security-squad-part-4/ - - - It was several minutes later, and this individual unit of our Squad must have been released from the chair. This individual … I … was focused on my duty. In order to become useful for my country, Squad and sub-unit I had to improve myself. As in a dream, I stepped in file behind Bill, and with Sergeant Williams behind me. Bill entered the membrane, then I. We reached each of our stations at the same time, and stood for a moment between the active metal racks of our own stations, our legs broad apart, our boots firmly on the ground. My racks stood opposite Brad’s station, so I could see him well. I had Bill on my right. He faced Sergeant Williams on my left, closest to the membrane. We could feel and hear how the racks vibrated and hummed of power. All three of us grabbed our racks at the same moment, eagerly joining Brad in the enhancing process, and became living Zythronic conductors. The power hit me. The name of the Preparatory Phase was apt: It was just a preparation for the REAL power levels. I couldn’t stop myself from letting out a moan, when I felt how the power current flowed through me, causing my muscles to tense and relax, tense and relax in an upward-spiraling wave of energy. ”Increase levels to 65%”, a British voice instructed someone. Just a few seconds later, I could feel the rush of even more power. I felt pumped. More than pumped. All my muscles were engorged in an incredible way. Real growth was occurring at an unimaginable rate. And it happened to my brothers too: Williams, Bill. And Brad. Bill couldn’t control himself: ”Yeah! Fuck, yeah! Make me a fucking beast!” Sergeant Williams wasn’t speaking. He was immersed in the experience, his eyes shut, sweat trickling from his temples and his naked chest, causing his pecs to become shiny. His neck swelled into a bullneck, and, unlike Brad and me, his waist didn’t shrink noticeably. There had always been something ox-like about his shape, but that aspect was now enhanced and intensified, and it looked that Bill was evolving in that direction, too. Brad welcomed the increased power levels, shouting with his, now significantly deeper, voice: ”Good! So good! Don’t stop it! Keep going, keep going! Uhnnn… YES! More! Give me fucking more! Don’t hold back! I can take it!” He had always had a narrow waist, broad shoulders and a barrel-chest, but these traits were now enhanced in a way I couldn’t describe. I could feel the machine relentlessly work on myself, too — shaping me, making me harder, more defined. My abs felt like the proverbial cobblestones. My back like a brickwall. My former fragile self disappearing in the mindless power blaze, and a stronger, heavy, pain-resilient and confident me emerging out if its energetic forge. ”Increase levels to 75%”. ”Increasing levels to 75%, Sir!” A lesser man would now, undoubtedly, have felt excruciating growth pains, but the four of us had three bio-chemical formulas synergetically pumping in our bloodstreams, and the gradual rise of Zythronic power had raised our resilience to pain. Instead of pain, I felt a rush of pump, pleasure and power, when the energy levels increased and hit me. My hands instinctively cling and grabbed to the conductible racks, not letting any little bolt or spark of power escape my power-hungry brawn. Pump. Pleasure. Power. ”Zey vould now haf ze stamina to bear ze brunt of ze Vril Power. Be ready to avake ze Vril Power within ze test subjects. From vhat I gather, ze mesomorph is likely to handle it best, but I am eager to see its effect on ze ectomorph and ze two endomorphs, too. Ve didn’t have any opportunity to experiment on zeir bodytypes in ze past.” ”Warming up the Vril cannons, Herr Doktor Professor!” ”I hope for your soul and conscience, that you are right this time, Helmut. My heart would break if something happened to these fine boys. For heavens sake, we don’t even know what Vril really is!” Another sort of humming sound began to fill the chamber. Deeper. Like a heartbeat in a far off, long-forgotten, super-nova. Like a heartbeat in the depths of Earth. Like a heartbeat in the middle of my soul. Then, I shut my eyes, and was overwhelmed by black lightning in my mind, stars exploding in violet fire, the primordial song of Nature, and the feeling of something happening in my solar plexus and immeadiately under my navel. A force, that had slumbered inside me, unknown, and unbeware of its own existence, stirred in its sleep, increased in intensity and warmed me up. A sphere of unimaginable force formed between my solar plexus and my navel, then expanded in every direction, affecting my heart, my loins and dick, my legs, chest and back, my shoulders, my arms, hands and traps, my neck and my head. An otherworldly fire burnt in me. Changed me. It felt like I became taller. I had always been short. I grew taller! Like Brad! Like Brad? I opened my eyes. Radiation cannons hanging from the ceiling were emitting crackling bolts and currents of unholy power at each of us four — targets unable to resist, even if we had wanted to. But we didn’t want to resist. Bill was writhing in anabolic bliss, his hands crampingly clenching the Zythronic racks (as did the hands of us all). The heavy presence of Sergeant Williams stood erect and imposing, with his boot-clad feet heavily on the floor. Consumed by the Vril Power, I couldn’t focus, but absent-mindedly noticed, that the floor under Sergeant William’s conductible rack was strewn with unlit dark lenses. I then absent-mindedly noticed, that the same was true about the floor under Bill’s station and Brad’s. Brad! A ghostly shimmer in bronze and gold surrounded him, as it did surround us others, and his skin tone changed into a tan of the same hue as the shimmer, enhancing his mucle definition. He was growing taller — and that at a visible rate. His abs protruded with deep valleys between them, in a way never seen on another man, and his iliac furrow was second to none. His chest had always been impressive, but now it consisted of powerful, hard and well-defined slabs, which pulsated under the combined hypertrophic effect of the Zythronic Field, the Vril Power and the three formulas in our bloodstreams. ”Lyet us now see, which effect, if any, the completyon of Procedyure 59 will have on the specimens. The addyition of nano-technology will have removed the drawbacks from the old version”, an unknown voice said in an Eastern European accent. The Texan answered: ”Better let Procedure 59 go in tandem with Project Atlas. We don’t know how a one-sided treatment would affect the sensitive balance between the two biochemical formulas. And it is better to let the nano-formula work together with the DNA-alteration.” ”Very well”, a comparatively young voice said. ”Warming up both radiation-emittors.” The machine had become a chorus now. Four different contraptions worked in symphony, for the common purpose of transforming me and my brothers into something more than human. The dark optical lenses in the floor, which I had wondered about in a never finished thought, now lit up in an increasingly purple light, and, meanwhile, a blue light, of the same colour as a tanning bed’s, rained down on us from the ceiling, increasing its intensity. The chamber was filled by a blinding multi-coloured light, bathing us all in incomprehensible power. I was no longer conscious about my whereabouts, I just had a very intense and peasurable feeling of expansion. I felt weightless and heavy, as the Earth itself. I was giving myself to this programme. Whatever doubts I could have had in the past were leaving me. I was rid of hesitation. I was now unable to feel fear. The safety for my Squad was my first concern. The security of my country and my Lord Protector was my ultimate concern. I was ready to perform my duty, to protect my brothers in arms, to defend my country against all domestic and foreign enemies — especially domestic. I felt how all inhibations were removed. I was ready to harm or kill an opponent, if necessary, and I would never question a given order. Insubordination is a disgrace. Insubordination is not an option. In… In… What was that word again? I am an obedient individual unit of this Squad, programmed for duty and obedience. Yeah. A real patriot. Serving the greatest leader we ever had. Serving the greatest country on Earth. We have never had it so good. Defend. Yeah. Protect. Defend and protect. Oh, yes! Feeling of expansion. Weightless and heavy. Inhibations removed. So horny. Wanted to snog Brad, my Sergeant. ”What does the readings say?” ”They are all approaching 7 feet, Sir, but their weight-curves behaves according to their individual constitutions and conditions. The mesomorph now weighs 484 lbs. The circumference of his chest is now 90 inches, and his waist 45 inches. His arms 39 inches and his quads 48 inches. As for the others…” I wasn’t able to hear my own meaasurements. The intensity of the power currents were too much, and I was lost in the feeling of unfathomable growth. ”Awaiting further instructions.” ”Keep everything at the present levels, for now.” ”Gentlemen, as you can see we have succeeded: Four separate enhancement projects, that once caused extraordinary results, while still separate, have today been succesfully combined, in order to reach an even higher level of perfection.” ”I very much doubt, that we can proceed any further, by manually controlling the processes from here. Do you think it is time, to test the helmet?” ”You know what I think. Why risk to spoil a succesful experiment with a not enough tested brainwave-coordinator?” ”I say: Let us give the brainwave-helmet a try. At this moment the specimens alone knows how much they could endure, and the fine-tuning is better left to someone, who experience the procedure himself.” ”I am still against it. It is too early.” ”Let’s vote then.” ”Five against two. It is decided then. One of them have to pick the helmet up, and use it.” ”Which one?” ”Does it matter? Pick anyone.” ”I vould vote for ze mesomorph. Look how good he has reaced to the treatment!” ”Oh it doesn’t matter. The mesomorph then.” ”Sergeant Smith? Sergeant Smith, do you hear me?” I could hear the deep voice of my friend Brad. His voice was deeper now. ”Sir, yes Sir!” ”Do you see a helmet on the floor in the growth chamber? A high-tech helmet, belonging to the equipment?” ”Oh. Yes. Aaahrrrgh. Y-yes, I see it.” ”Do you feel all right?” ”Sir? All right? I feel more than… Oh! Uhmmmm… Fuck, yes! Sorry, Sir. Yes, I feel more than all right.” ”Good to hear. Do you think, that you could pick the helmet up, and wear it?” ”Is that an order, Sir?” ”Yes. Pick it up, and wear it. You will be able to control and co-ordinate the processes that affect you and your three mates of this sub-unit. Use your discernment, and improve yourself and your team-mates as much as you deem possible and desirable.” ”Sir! The order will be executed! Improve according to possibility and desireability!” The power flickered for a moment. Then it increased in a much more subtle and seamless way than before. Something else guided the processes, than before — something able to understand the power and the growth intimately. And that something was my friend Brad, my Sergeant. Williams, Bill and myself had all surrendered to what Brad deemed possible to achieve and desireable to achive, and we were clay in the hands of a potter, molten iron at the will of a caster, heated iron before the hammer of an all-powerful smith eager to forge the perfect weapon. The hair on my forearms …, and it felt like a sensual, immaterial fluid, both cold and hot at the same time, ran from the backside of my head down on my entire body. I felt how the beams, rays and power currents merged into something unknown, and I felt how an even more fierce and irresistible wave of Vril Power erupted within me, and I was consumed by its ecstatic embrace. Brad stood at his station, his trousers bursting at the seams, revealing calves bigger than rugby balls (but still growing), tree trunk hamstrings and striated quads. Black leather lay in fragments on the floor under him, but what was left of his trousers formed tight, black and glossy shorts around his lower waist, glutes and groin. The golden-bronze hue of his upper body and naked legs contrasted with the shiny black of his shorts and boots. He was a living embodiment of masculinity beyond all restrictions and limitations, and I knew, that the same was true about myself and the other two. The field around him intensified ever more at the will, and at the urge to grow, of the Sergeant we all wanted to serve and obey, who was my best friend. ”The Zythronic Field is approaching 90%!” ”Shut it down! Levels this high are unaccounted for. We are now in unknown territory.” ”I vant to know ze upper limits of zis programme. Vait anozer minute!” ”90% and rising. Vril Power at 85% and increasing!” ”92.5% and rising. Vril Power at 90%. This is too much!” We shuddered at the impact of the transformation process, but we didn’t want the experiment to be aborted. Not now! ”The generators can’t take it anymore!” The room outside blacked down. The loudspeakers went silent. All available energy was directed to the growth chamber, and Brad’s face was glowing by a lustful and triumphant facial expression. His entire physique was emitting lights. He closed his eyes and moaned, louder and louder. His head arched backwards. ”IMPROVE!”, Brad bellowed. In the next moment, ineffable power currents crackled from his eyes, and hit Williams and Bill, who convulsed and roared under the impact. A similar power current was emitted from Brad’s leather-clad groin and hit mine. I BECAME strength itself. I don’t know what I shouted or which noises I might have emitted. I felt like I could crush rocks and steel with my bare hands, and my back felt like a mountain of brawn. I became dimly aware of movement. With an unfathomable amount of will-power, Brad had let go of his Zythronic rack, and was moving into the middle of the chamber. When he reached the centre of the chamber, I had a short respite to recuperate, and I noticed, that the same was true about Williams and Bill. The lenses, above and below the station Brad had left, went out, which allowed the lenses in the middle of the chamber to intensify. All Vril cannons now turned, so that they pointed in one and the same direction, the cones of light converging in one single point: The centre were Brad stood, eagerly awaiting their brutal impact. And when they hit him, his obscenely engorged muscle mass erupted in further hypertrophy. For a moment, he staggered under the amount of energy, but then recovered his balance, now with a more unwavering and confident stance than ever before. He arched back, lifted his arms and did a double biceps, roaring: ”IMPROVE!” The Vril cannons turned, as they would have a life of their own, back to their original stations, with one exception. The cannons, which had originally been focussed on Brad’s station, were now hitting him in his back. The lenses, at the station Brad had left, were still unlit, and the unused power rushed to the three remaining stations, sending me and the others into heightened anabolic frenzy. ”Yes! More!”, Bill shouted. Sergeant Smith… Brad… approached me. His godlike shape stood for a moment before me, his back bombarded by the Vril cannons (also affecting me, when the Vril Rays continued through him into me) and his brawn sharing the rush of rays bathing us from above and below. He looked me into my eyes, and said: ”I have told you before. I feel proud to grow you. I love to grow you. And now I am able to do it without limits. There is no ’too much’. I want more. I want to be extreme. I want you to be extreme. Join me, Joe. Join me.” Without further ado, he sunk on his knees before me, and slowly began to unbutton the fly of my black leather shorts. One button. Two. Three. Leaving the uppermost one intact behind the belt. He reached out his big paw and released my wildly pulsating rod. I didn’t believe what happened. The next moment, my Sergeant, who was my best friend, had swallowed my rod and placed his hands on my leather-clad glutes. Zythronic Power flowed through me at insane levels, and through me into Brad. Vril cannons, intended to expose two separate stations, now relentlessly irradiated one single station, where I stood, with my powerful legs wide apart, and with an ever growing titanic friend between my legs, robbing me of the last traces of coherence. I couldn’t resist. I let go. And while Brad sucked me off, he transformed myself and himself. ”Oh, Sarge. Oh, Brad. I’m, oh! So beyond all… Oh! What’s happening?” My thews throbbed of strength. My beef became uncrushable. My shoulders and chest must have expanded in a behemothic way, but I was lost in bliss and ecstacy. My mind was lost in unwavering loyalty to my country, my Leader and my Sergeant (who is my friend Brad). And my friend Brad forcefully crammed hitherto unknown levels of power into me. ”Oh. Uhnn. Real ace. So good. So much. So much. So.. Uhnnn. No! NO! IT’S TOO MUCH! I can’t bear it!” A real squaddie obey orders. Sarge has given an order. Improve. There is no ’too much’. Sarge… Brad want me to be extreme. He want me to join him. A real squaddie obey orders. It isn’t something dangerous. Brutally good. Can’t bear it, can’t handle all this! But I will, because a real squaddie obey orders. Even if it kills me, I will die feeling levels of strength no man has experienced before me. And if I survive, I will be a weaponised man. A soldier of a sort the world has never seen before. Together with my brothers. Together with Brad. ”Oh! Oh! Oh, yes! IMPROVE! Want more! Crave strength! MORE! Yes! Increase! Yes! Overwhelm me, Brad! Raw! Pure! Brutal! Nnnn. Overwhelm me! What are you doing to me? What are you making me into? It’s too much! Never too much! Never too much! Increase! Enhance! POWER!” I was Strength. I was Power. I was raw, primitive, brutal Masculinity. I was Virility unbound, free to roam the world. I was a living thunderstorm. I was a powerhouse. I was a living nuclear explosion. I was what Brad wanted me to be. During the final minutes of the growth process, I was lost in mindless ecstasy. Moans, grunts, roars and bellows were heard, accompanied by the terrifying noise of crackling power. Since the entire chamber was connected to Brad’s brainwaves, when he reached orgasm, so did the chamber and all the test-subjects within. - - - Next chapter is here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/10744-the-security-squad-part-six/
  6. Hialmar

    The Security Squad, Part 4

    Last chapter is found here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/10530-the-security-squad-part-3/ - - - It was dark. No, it was just what Brad called chiaroscuro. And warm and pleasant. Like I floated in emptiness. With Brad. Friend. Close. But then Brad's face melted and became the face of Bill. "I told you, I would give you hell, Joe". An unfamiliar German voice said: "Hell. Hölle." And then the person who was Brad or Bill catched fire, and he grabbed me and carried me, and I catched fire. And we screamed. I screamed. I tried to scream, but I couldn't. And then I woke up. It was just a nightmare. I felt dizzy. But rather warm and pleasant. Where? And then I remembered the chaotic memory fragments: Sergeant Williams carrying me into the room with the IVs. Plastic bags containing the dangerous-looking green liquid hang there, ready to flow into the veins of defenceless and unknowing test subjects. But I knew. I had read the files. The potentially deadly consequences. And the strange assertive veiny vigour Brad had exuberated in the gym. How I struggled. A glimpse of a white coat. A sting. Blackness. I looked up in the ceiling. I felt something strange in my arm. The bag with green liquid was just emptying its last content into me. There was no return. It already flowed in my system. I felt warm. Warm and horny. I was no longer just a recruit to the Squad. I was a test subject. One of the test subjects. One of the chosen few. Chosen together with Brad. I didn't want to feel pleased by that, but there was something inside me, that felt pleased with that. I felt like I could lift... lift heavy things. Like rocks. One of the anonymous medics in his late 30s or early 40s checked me. "Let me remove that drip, Private Wilson. You don't need it any longer." It was removed before I was able to answer, and a plaster was fastened over the vein. Veins. "How do you feel?" He checked my blood pressure. "I feel warm." "That happens sometimes. It happened to your friend, Sergeant Smith, too. It isn't something dangerous. Isn't something dangerous. The thought floated through my mind. Wasn't I supposed to be concerned about something? I didn't remember. Something about danger. But the Doctor said, that it isn't something dangerous. Felt good. "I feel good, Doc." "Good to hear that. You are soon going to join your brothers in arms." Brothers in arms. Sounded good. Like a real patriot. Wait. Didn't someone say that before? It felt good. I thought it again: Yeah! LIKE A REAL PATRIOT. I got hard again. It felt good to be a part of the Security Squad. Real men. Real men are not afraid of danger. It isn't something dangerous. The bed had wheels. Doc easily rolled my bed into another chamber. Didn't I know that door? Didn't that look familiar? Laboratory III. Was I supposed to know what that is? There were lots of men in white coats. Many of them were very old and wrinkled. Grey or white hair. Or bald. And big Guards. Yeah. I belonged. Belonged to the same Squad as the big Guards. I wanted to become a big Guard myself one day. Together with Brad. Sleepily I blinked. Sergeant Williams was there. And Brad. Sergeant Smith. Sergeant Smith is Brad. The sergeants were dressed in the same trousers as Bill and I, but unlike us they had uniform shirts. Two strange chairs with technical contrapments stood against a wall, but it was the machine with the chamber, which attracted all the attention. A sort of machine. I reached for a word. I was supposed to know it. A console? And a chamber of glass and steel and some sort of door-thingy. Membrane? And inside the chamber a man. One of my comrades in arms. Private... Private Tannen. Bill. I was supposed to have an opinion about Bill. But he was a brother in arms now. Inside that chamber. Something interesting happened to Bill. He was stripped to the waist. His belly was disappearing. And his cheeks were becoming smaller. Is that normal? He was standing there inside the chamber, between two racks of metal, connected to the chamber. Sparks and bolts were emitted from the rack. And Bill was holding them. So something was conducted into Bill. It isn't something dangerous. His face. Didn't I like his face before? How couldn't I like the face of someone, who was willing to watch my back in combat? Like Brad? Bill looked angelic now. His face in bliss. He moaned something. "Warrior! Yes! Make me into a warrior! I love this feeling!" It sounded nice. It sounded like something I wanted to experience. Why did I feel so sleepy? My friend Brad, who is Sergeant Smith, walked close to me. He spoke to me in a hushed voice. "I'm sorry Joe. I would have prepared you for this. I didn't believe that the stuff would affect me like this. It sounded so good. It sounded like everything I had day-dreams about in the past, but in real life. And then the terrifying accidents happened, and I wanted to cop out, but they had already given me the preparatory treatment. And it IS good. I have never felt like this before, at just the Preparatory Phase. Just imagine what the next Phases could do, if there is no accident. But I thought I could resist it better. I am not sure, what will happen to me in the next phase." "Use the helmet, Brad.", I murmured. "Helmet? Which helmet? What are you talking about?" "You will control and co-ordinate all processes with the helmet. Not them." He frowned, but we were not able to continue our talk. The scientists were discussing the things they were doing. An aloof British voice talked: "As you have all seen, everything needed in Phase One was to reverse the polarity of the neutron flow, and prepare the test subjects with a Preparatory Phase of Zythronic Fields, as our notations from the 40s suggested. By that, their stamina would increase, and with increased stamina, they would better endure the awakening of the Vril Power — or so we have reason to believe. This time, we will have one mesomorph test subject, one endomorph test subject and... I see that the ectormorph test subject is awake. Will you please inject him, Mr. Jackson?" Mr. Jackson, an elderly man, who walked like he had served a long time in the Armed Forces, grabbed something that looked like a pen on a metal table, and walked towards me. "Dont worry Private. It will soon be over." He put the pen towards my belly, and pressed. A brief pain, which soon receded. "The two formulas interacted well in the mesomorph test subject and the endomorph test subject. Will you please remove the endomorph from the chamber, Sergeant Smith?" The scientists turned the knobs of metal and plastic on the console, and pressed some buttons. The humming subsided. Bill looked up with a slightly disappointed expression. Brad helped him out of the chamber. When Bill had left the chamber, he walked to me. I was wary. His eyes were unfocused, but to my surprise he shone up in a smile. ”Wilson? Joe. Didn’t know they were going to give you the treatment, too. We are brothers in arms, then, I suppose. Don’t worry, bro. I might have behaved badly in the past, but if the awesome Sergeant Williams and Sergeant Smith want me to watch your back out on a mission, I will. Otherwise the mission could fail, and this Squad never fails. I love how our ranks are filled with more and more patriots. I love this treatment and my Squad. Welcome aboard, bro.” With his eyes still unfocused he surprised me a with heavy and warm hug. "Sergeant Smith, please help Private Wilson inside the chamber." My friend Brad helped me up from the bed. I still felt dizzy, but also energetic. The membrane felt strange. We pressed against it, and then we were inside the chamber. I noticed something on the floor: a helmet fitting the description I had read somewhere at some point in time. I couldn't remember. "That helmet, Brad. Control and co-ordinate." Brad nodded absent-mindedly, like he didn’t seem to listen to what I said. He helped me stand between two of the metal racks. There were several pairs of metal racks, like several men were able to go through the same thing at the same time. Wait! Were they going to do the same thing to me, as they did to Bill? I had almost no fat at all on my body. Wouldn't this be dangerous? Oh. I forgot. It isn't something dangerous. "Grab these racks, Joe. It will feel nice. It did, when they did this to me. It will give you stamina." "Uhu? Whatever you say, Brad. Sorry, Sergeant Smith." Brad smiled. Then he leaned toward me, and whispered: "I love you, Joe.", and left the chamber. A humming began. I wasn't aware of the changes that began to happen simultaneously in my organism. The green infusion and the small injection began to interact inside me. My DNA was rebuilt, my metabolism was rearranged, my hormone levels changed, but I wasn't aware about any of that. The only thing I was aware of was the power current, that flowed into the rack, and I was the conductor, that closed the circuit and let all that power flow through myself -- changing me, permanently and irrevocably. In that moment, the old Joe began to disappear. Something inside me tried to catch my attention: Something about principles, something about danger, but my dizzy mind let it go, and I lost myself in the overwhelming feeling of the transformative power. I had no idea, for how long I had stood there, when the humming subsided. I heard the loudspeakers transmitting sounds from outside: "Sergeant Smith, will you please remove Private Wilson from Preparatory Phase?" Brad was there. He helped me to the membrane and to the room outside. The two younger scientists rose. One of them took a blood sample from me and checked my blood pressure. The other one put two electrodes to Brad’s temples, and checked a graph — then let Brad look into a gadget which looked it would belong at an optician’s. ”I believe Sergeant Smith is in need of further treatment of your’s, Doctor Pushkin.” An elderly man with an Eastern European accent glanced at Sergeant Williams: ”Sergeant Williams. Will you please strap Sergeant Smith to that chair.” Sergeant Williams obeyed without a word. There was a slight flickering in Brad’s eyes, but he allowed Williams to fasten him to one of the chairs close to the wall. The chair was connected to cables and tubes, and had an uncanny resemblance to an electrical chair, but obviously it wasn’t. ”Sergeant Williams, please pull the switch.” When the switch was pulled, Brad tensed, and if his arms hadn’t been restrained, he would probably had fallen out of the chair. His mouth was open, like he was attempting to let out a scream, but no sound appeared. With a silent whirring sound, an injection needle moved robotically, and buried itself in Brad’s cartoid artery, before removing itself. Brad’s eyes were firmly shut. Likewise whirringly, two small metallic arms with moist electrodes lowered themselves 90 degrees, until they firmly touched Brad’s temples. This time, he was able to scream. A horrible scream echoed in the room, as the last traces of my friend Brad, as I had once knewn him, were erased from his soul, just leaving the Sergeant. The Squad Member. The obedient living weapon. He shaked in the chair for ten or fifteen seconds, and the restraints kept him in his seat, but then the shaking receded. Sweat trickled from his brow. The chemicals within his body must have responded to the treatment, because something else was happening. His neck tightened, and the upper buttons of his uniform shirt were no longer able to resist the pressure. The vein-covered, firm and hemispheric flesh, that was his pecs, forced themselves out of his shirt, and his sleeves were no longer able to resist the pressure from his swelling bicepses. Soon, his shirt laid in tatters on the floor Commanded by the scientists, Sergeant Williams released Brad, who stood up erect, his eyes dead, and awaiting orders. His face didn’t express any emotions. ”Let’s give this a test. Sergeant Smith, please remove Private Wilson’s t-shirt.” ”Sir! Yes, sir!” Without further ado, Sergeant Smith helped me remove my black t-shirt. ”Sergeant Smith, please strap Private Wilson to the chair.” There was nothing I could do. Sergeant Smith forced me to sit in the chair, and by his overwhelming strength he fastened the leather straps around my wrists, forced my leather-clad legs broad apart, and strapped them to the legs of the chair. Sergeant Smith looked quizzically at the scientists, but they shook their heads. ”Not yet. Other things first. You are ready for Phase 2.” - - - "Joe! Join me!” The deep voice of my best friend reached out to me from the growth-chamber. I was half-naked, and surrounded by the grey-haired scientists in white lab coats and the Guards in their intimidating and ultra-masculine uniforms. How did I end up in this terrifying situation? The machines connected to the chamber were humming louder now, and the intensity of the Zythronic Field surrounding Brad must have been much greater, than the preparatory treatment Bill, myself (and probably Sergeant Williams) had gone through. Brad stood at one of the stations, clenching the racks as his life depended on it, stripped to his waist, but still wearing his uniform cargo trousers of black and glossy leather and his heavy boots. He was a living conductor for the heighetened Zythronic Field, and his physique was responding to the treatment. His growth was visible, his bulging torso was covered in sweat, and between the moans and grunts he emitted, he tried to say something: ”Joe! Join me!” ”Zythronic racks working at a level of 45%”, one of the scientists said. ”Increase to 50%”, another answered. ”This is the most stable result we have had, yet.” ”Increasing to 50%. The levels now at 47.5% and increasing… Reaching 50%… Now!” ”Why don’t we save some time, and let the ectomorph specimen go through his conditioning?” ”You are right. Private Tannen, please pull the switch of Private Wilson’s chair.” Bill approached. ”You will become one of us, Joe. There is nothing you can do to stop it.” The effect of of the mind-altering medication must have worn off by then. For a few seconds, I remembered all that had happened: The worry for losing Brad, the atrocious experiments, how I had promised Karen to spy on the Security Squad, in the hope to restore democracy, but it would all be lost, if the Squad succeeded in brainwashing me, as they obviously had done to Sergeant Williams, to Bill and to Brad. Facing the risk of the same death as the burned man, facing the risk of the same death as the giant who was shot, and facing the imminent risk of becoming a mind-controlled machine, I panicked in the chair. But it was too late. The next second, Bill turned the switch on. To be continued. - - - Next chapter is found here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/10576-the-security-squad-part-5/
  7. Hialmar

    The Security Squad, Part 3

    Last chapter is found here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/10523-the-security-squad-part-2/ - - - Life in the Squad was harsh, but it had some benefits. Now, I had time to spend at the gym, and I liked it. Some sort of friendship developed between those of us, whom had arrived at about the same time -- with the exception of Bill. When I looked at myself in the mirror, and saw my reflection in high tech army boots, leather cargo trousers and a black army sweater was a surreal experience: That was no longer myself -- not my old self -- but another Joe. I felt slightly ashamed of, that I liked the way I looked in uniform. I was not going to become one of them. It was after an extra-curricular workout, and rather late. I was changing clothes in the locker room close to the gym, and was dressed only in my pants. The door opened. Closed. "I told you, I was going to make your life a hell, Joe." It was Bill. His bulldog face was drenched in sweat and shiny. The black t-shirt with the Squad crest ended an inch or two over the lining of Bill's training shorts, but it seemed like life in the Squad actually was improving his health. "I know how wishy-washy your parents are, Joe. There is no chance in hell, that they voted for The Leader, and I doubt, that you did it either. So what are you doing here? Taking up the training assignment, that could be filled by a real patriot?" Although I was faster than Bill, he was heavier, and he used his weight against me. He grabbed my neck, and pulled me in the direction of the loos. "So I suggest, that you ask for resigning from this, and leave your place for someone who can fill it better." He opened the door to one of the bathroom stalls. Somewhere in the locker room a door opened and closed. "And what do you think you are doing, Private?" It was Brad's voice. Bill let his grip go. "Nothing, Sergeant. Just playing with Private Wilson." "There is no place for that sort of play at this facility, Private. If I ever see you repeating this, you will will be discharged dishonourably. Is that understood?" "Sir! Yes, Sir!" - - - The reprimand from Brad did actually have an effect. Bill would often look sullen, and he obviously didn't like me, but, for the rest of the time, he avoided me, which was an improvement. I hadn't forgotten Karen's suggestion, that I would use my involuntary recruitment to the Security Squad by spying on it. I supposed she was a part of the Rebel Alliance -- as some of my friends jokingly referred to the movement -- but I couldn't for my life understand how she could know about my Top Secret draft. The opportunity came sooner than I had expected. After the the initial months of basic training, there came a time of easier work. I was ordered to clean some areas of the base regularly, and one of these areas seemed to be a sort of medical treatment facility. When I was cleaning the hallway in that facility, the door was open to one of the rooms. I couldn't avoid peeking inside. What I saw was confusing. Neither Sergeant Williams or Brad looked ill. Actually, they looked quite healthy, but they laid reclining on medical bunks, and they had IV connected to the blood vessels in their crooks of their arms. The plastic bags hanging over their bunks contained a green translucent liquid. They were not alone in the room. Two other of the Squad members -- two corporals, I believe -- were connected to similar plastic bags. There were also two men in their 30s or 40s dressed in white lab coats, and I assumed they were civilians. One of them was taking the blood pressure of Sergeant Williams. "The readings are normal. Nothing to worry about this time." The other man took notes. "I look forward to meet the old experts tonight. It will be an honour to meet the persons, the research of whom had made this project possible." "I feel warm. Is that normal?", Brad asked. "It might happen in some subjects. We have not found any correlation between that sensation and the measurable effect. There is no reason for concern, Sergeant Smith." I continued cleaning the hallway further down, and hoped that no-one would notice that I had overheard the conversation. Something appalling happened the following night. Since we knew, that Sergeant Williams nurtured a habit of waking us up at unexpected times of the night, most of us had the habit of going to bed early. I noticed, that I had left my army cap at the medical facility while cleaning, and returned in order to pick it up. Sergeant Williams was very insistent on keeping all our equipment in our lockers, and I would avoid a long rant of his, usually followed by lots of push-ups. When I crossed the yard, I noticed several cars -- civilian as well as military -- which not usually were parked like that. When I walked through the empty hallways as silently as possible, I noticed the open door of an empty office, shedding it's yellow and gloomy light into the hallway. I also noticed a strange light streaming from the outline of a closed door to something designated Laboratory III. At first, I guessed, that a sunbed was used inside Laboratory III, since the light reminded me of tanning salons, but then, the light shifted in other colours: From blue into golden, and from golden into purple, and back to blue in several cycles. I could hear sounds and noises: People discussing, the hum of machines, and then -- the increasing screams of agony from a man in pain. A man with a deep voice and in pain. Screaming. Louder. And with the screams the increasing stench of burning flesh. I catched my army cap, and left the building, hoping that no-one would have noticed me. Suspicious and curious, I hid in the darkness outside, waiting for someone leaving the building. It took a while. Two dark silhouettes carried a bier. A vague outline of a huge man under a blanket could be guessed, rather than seen, in the dark, and, when the wind blew from their direction, the ugly reek of burned flesh could be sensed. The bier was placed in a car, which drove away. On the steps to the medical facility the glow of a cigarette lit up the dark, and then the scent of pipe smoke. Two white lab coats stood close to the two smokers. Seven voices. Two young. "We are very honoured by your presence here tonight, Herr Doktor Professor. It is an honour to meet you. And also you, Doctor. And all of you three." "Schtop zat Plappermaul. Ve are not here to exchange pleasantries, but to bring science forvard. And zis experiment hasn't brought science forvard. Ve just repeated a mistake identified and countered already in 1944", an elderly voice with a central European, probably German, accent answered. "That stench is familiar to you, Helmut, isn't it?", another elderly voice with a Brooklyn dialect commented sarcastically. "Hafen't ve discussed zat matter enough, by now, Dr. Goldstein?" An American voice with a distinct Texan drawl interrupted them: "Goddamit. You have been sounding like an old married couple for seventy years, by now. If I and Vlad are willing to work together, despite our long careers trying to defeat each other, why don't you? It's not like I would have dreamed of researching in the same Lab as a former Commie. Lots of Doctor Paperclipses and The Brooklyn Phycisists worked together back in your days. It was before my time." "Doctor Paperclip? Isn't that too kind to you, Helmut? Why don't we all call you Doctor Strangelove, instead?" A British voice suitable for cutting glass interrupted. "May I bring to everyone's attention, gentlemen, that Herr Doktor Professor Hafenreffer isn't exactly correct in his assessment. We did not reproduce exactly the same mistake as in 1944. By combining all these four experiments into one, we are bringing unforeseen parameters into the equation, which were unknown at the time each experiment was performed separately. The present state of research bring us advantages our precursors didn't have." "Precursors?", four voices unintentionally exclaimed in unison. "I am so sorry. Advantages some of us didn't have in the past. I would look upon this event as a minor setback." "A minor setback?", the Brooklyn dialect interrupted. "A soldier just died in there, fried by Doctor Strangelove's non-empirical spook-ray." "Oh please, Aaron. Zere is no evidence, zat it vas ze Vril Power, zat caused ze unfortunate condition of ze test subject. It could haf been Vlad's or Mr. Jackson's chemicals zat interfered, not to mention ze unproven combination with ze Zythronic field, vhich Her Majesty's government has provided us viv." After a short pause, he added: "Ve are all very zankful for Prime Minister April's co-operation." "Nowadays, we need every trading partner we can get.", the British voice commented dryly. "Unfortunate condition? Haven't you learned anything, since 1945, Helmut?" "Oh, here we go again", the Texan sighed. "In your clothes, I vouldn't claim any moral superiority, Aaron. Vat happened to ze American marines you and Mr. Jackson tested in ze 1980s, ven you vere afraid of Vlad's comrades? And vhy vas your governmental research grants vivdrawn?" An embarrassed silence ensued, but I had heard enough, and I had to avoid to be catched while listening. I silently returned to our barracks. - - - I couldn't concentrate the next day. They were experimenting on human beings. I had to tell Karen, but how? I had no leave scheduled for several weeks. And if they had pumped Brad full of that green liquid, his life could be in danger. And Sergeant Williams, too. I couldn't be sure about Brad. I felt so bad: We had known each other for years. He had helped me. He was my friend. The weird chewing gum event suggested, that he wasn't entirely on the government's side, but exactly where did he stand? Would he report me, if I confessed about Karen and the 'Rebel Alliance'. I couldn't avoid smiling quickly. It sounded so silly. Then I became serious again. I had to protect Brad. They were not going to murder my best friend. What should I do? What was their plan? What was the purpose of the experiments? My thoughts run in loops. I couldn't concentrate the next day. I avoided the medical facility the next day. Cleaning the same floor in two consecutive days when the entire base was that vast, would be a suspect behaviour. In the middle of the night, I woke up by gunfire and roars. I wasn't the only one of us new recruits who awoke, but when we had dressed and ran out in the yard, some of the big Guards ordered us to return to our barracks. They tried to block our view, but I could see eight men struggling to carry a bier on which laid a giant. A giant! I don't exaggerate. A dead giant was carried away. There was gunsmoke and blood in the air. - - - The next day was full of physical exercises, and I had no time to investigate about the appalling experiments that took place at the base. Usually, I would briefly meet Brad several times a day, on our ways to different buildings, but that day, I didn't see him at all. What if he had become ill by the experiments? I saw him in the gym after supper. He looked different. He looked slightly bigger than before, if that was possible. He was curling a barbell with unusually heavy weights. I froze in the doorway. He wore a black tank top with the crest of the Security Squad, and it was almost bursting at the seams. His shoulders protruded, and veins I had never seen before crawled over his chest, biceps, forearms and legs. I got hard. My best friend. Big. Veins. Protective. Again, I wasn't sure about my feelings. I wanted to be like Brad, didn't I? Well, yes. And I liked him as a friend? Of course. Was I feeling something more? I admired him. Big. Friendly. Admirable. Like being impressed by another man. Impressed. By his strength. And -- ehrr -- size. And assertive presence. And... and veins. Veins. VEINS! I wanted to warn him, but how could I do that, without telling what I had overheard? I didn't know the answer to that question. I left the gym, and hoped, that he hadn't noticed me. - - - Bill was missing from exercise the next day. I was scheduled to clean a few buildings again in the evening, including the medical facility. Something was happening in Laboratory III, and the door to the room with the IV equipment was locked. I was lucky. The badly illuminated office was left unlocked. I had cleaning gloves on my hands. No fingerprints. I began to peek into the folders on the shelves. Old yellow papers, which smelled of old paper dust. Some from the 1940s. It had been kept secret, but both Germany and the British Empire had raced to be the first country with super-soldiers. In reality! Weird. It was like one of Brad's favourite films. The Nazis had exposed some of their soldiers with a classified power called Vril -- God knows where they had found that strange power. I was into computers and egineering, but I knew enough natural science to know, that there was no empirical base for such a power. But here it was: A detailed description about awakening the Vril Power in soldiers, and then expose them to it. Wait. Awaken... and expose? The first experiments had gone horribly wrong. Soldiers without Vril sensitivity had burst into flames. I felt sick. So they tried to ... awaken... Vril sensitivity. What the heck? And a series of British experiment at about the same time. At something called Torchwood Instute, not far from... let's see... Bletchley Park. Zythronic Beams? Never heard of. That is... not before a few nights ago. Zythronic Beams? It was some sort of science-fiction gobbledygook. And then I saw the black and white photographs. That sort of physique was impossible back then. Both the Germans and the British looked like super-heavyweight bodybuilders from the third millennium, with the difference, that their muscles looked like they were adapted to perform real and heavy work. And engage in combat. They were very impressive. That is, those who survived. The death rates on both sides were high, before the scientists achieved what they hoped for. And a thick stack of papers in Cyrillic script, dated to the late 1950s and early 1960s. I didn't read Russian. More recent papers. An American experiment which ran in 1969-1974, and was revived in 1981, but aborted after some terrible accident in 1985. More photographs. American marines. Very sun tanned. And muscular. Wasn't that oil too much? Oh, yes, it was the 1980s, so it must have been normal for the time. Strange dead eyes. Like their minds were shut off. And sketches of machines. Improved ones, based on the four old ones from different decades and places. A helmet connected to the main centre, intended to control and co-ordinate all the processes. Control and co-ordinate? I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Who have we here? Reading classified documents, Private Wilson?" It was the voice of Sergeant Williams. Sergeant Williams stood there, intimidating as ever. "No harm done, Wilson. You would be briefed sooner or later, but I suppose it is time to begin your treatment." "T-treatment?" I suddenly felt very, very afraid. "Our research team want to compare the effect on different body types. Your perfectly ectomorph build would give a good impression how the treatment will work on soldiers of your constitution. We have mainly worked with mesomorphs in the past, which cause the results to be askew. I had hoped to introduce you to the test programme a day, or so, in advance, but let's face the music. Prepare yourself to become big, Private." - - - Part four is here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/10551-the-security-squad-part-4/
  8. muscledrain

    I Can Change

    This is a short one shot from me. If you want to view the story with images, simply go here: http://malebodyexchange.blogspot.com/2016/01/i-can-change.html Warning: This story contains dominance (master/slave) themes as well as muscle growth, revenge, bullying/bullied, piss play, dick shrink/growth and brainwashing themes. "I Can Change" by muscledrain My name is Sammy Reardon and I know I can change. This is my story. I know I can change because I've been part of a study. You see, I'm almost 40 but I don't look like I've aged quite that much since college. I'm a genetic rarity. I've been told by many people that I have "hit the lottery" in the looks department. I don't really feel that way, though. I get carded all the time. It's not a great feeling. I know, I shouldn't complain. But it has led to some incredibly interesting developments. I contacted a geneticist through a few contacts. I've got a corporate job and have done well for myself. Better off than most of my friends from college. I worked very hard to get where I am. Anyway, I wound up getting together with a geneticist because my doctor mentioned a study being done, and said it could be very lucrative. He explained his friend was looking for candidates that could give samples that could lead to genetic breakthroughs and the compensation could be extreme if they found what they were looking for. All this is hush hush. Secret deals are being made in a few instances of people who have genetic variations that are extremely rare that can be potentially duplicated. You won't hear about it on the news. I was told to keep a low profile on it. I met with some doctors. They had records of my medical history. They took samples. I was paid for my time and a short time after that they really wanted to talk to me. They said I had compounds in my cells which they could not account for. I was assigned with a doctor whose name was Harvey, and we began to talk about the potential. The company was interested in my cellular biology because my cell health was a little bit different, the telomeres didn't degrade as fast and Harvey began testing me with huge compensation. I mean, the company paid me four times my salary. They asked me to quit my job and offered me enough money to retire off of. Among the things they thought they could do was to use my cells to react to chemicals which other humans didn't react to. One of the things Harvey told me was they had been doing studies for years, in secret, on how to increase the size of male genitalia. He said that no other human showed signs of being able to react to the chemical they had designed, which had worked on rats, and they explained there was very little chance of potentially harmful side effects. I signed off right away. I should mention that Harvey and I were both gay and we finally admitted there was an attraction but in order for him to keep his job he couldn't admit this to the company and we decided to keep a lid on it for the time being, until he was either off the project or they finished with testing their theories. He was also incredibly excited to watch me change. It was like one of those daily affirmations guys listen to. "I can change. I can do better". I told myself there were no limits. We talked about this and over the next few weeks, I felt more and more confident as my dick grew in size. I was never really ashamed of myself for it, but I was only 4 inches long. Not the greatest length. I always wished I could be the size of the tops I often found myself paired with. I tried to fill my time with busy work, projects of my own with writing books I'd always wanted to, and watching TV and movies. Caught up with old friends. Harvey came over and sucked my dick when he could, and we would make out. He got more and more excited. He was really shocked by the results... This is me now and I can hardly believe it. Jesus I'm so huge now. It takes my breath away. My dick is so sensitive and I cum probably five times was I used to. The orgasms just go on and on. It's fucking heaven. The company is thrilled with the results and they are hoping that by analyzing my DNA they can break the codes that will allow them to give big dicks to any client that pops a pill. Wouldn't THAT be something? Forget Viagra. try the new Gargantua pill, sure to make your man a fat dicked giant in the sack! I would love to write the ads for that but I doubt it would amuse the higher ups in the company...they are pretty humorless here. As the company began to implement designs for their next experiments, I talked more with Harvey about my past. I had been bullied horribly as a child and was just beginning to confront those feelings. It may seem silly to you, but having a big dick now reminded me of being in the locker room and the trauma of being mocked mercilessly by Evan Mason, my old high school and junior high school bully, still held me back. I mean, I'd gotten over it enough to have a career, but it haunted me emotionally. We talked about it, and Harvey convinced me to maybe reach out to him. It was a mistake. Evan was no saint back then and he was even worse now. He owned his own mechanic's shop and made a living off of swindling people as much as possible. He was just as quick to prove he was the alpha male in charge and I didn't remind him of who I was when I met him. I had drove a hundred miles just to pretend there was something wrong with my car (there wasn't) and he of course "found a problem". I saw him push his employees around by constantly mocking them. I could tell it was tense around the place and with jobs so scarce a lot of these guys just hated their boss, hated having to be there. It was not a great feeling to see that some bullies genuinely succeed in life, in spite of all the bullshit the media tells you. Arrogance, money, entitlement, and most of all an aggressive attitude are rewarded in this world with more money and more success. Don't be fooled by all the anti bully hype. It's all well and good while kids are in class but in the boardroom or in a mechanic shop or wherever, bullies still exist and they can thrive if they know how to get away with it. It's about finding just the write way of doing it so you can continue to get away with it. An offhanded remark here or there. Oh, I'm just kidding with you. Don't be so sensitive. He said these words as he joked about his employees having small dicks. I left with a smile on my face. I hacked into his computer that night. It wasn't hard for me. I hack people for fun. That's my territory. Harvey said he was impressed. I looked at Evan and his perfect big dick. The asshole. The bastard! I mean, to be fair he wasn't as big as I was now but that hardly made me feel right. I was filled with the desire for revenge. I was so upset Harvey promised me he would do everything in his power to make things right. I tried to reach out to him on Facebook, thinking maybe he could be given a chance for redemption but his only reply was "queers get what they deserve, you were a little faggot...what else do you expect being a fag haha?" Indeed, Evan Mason. Indeed.What else DID I expect? The next experimental trials made my knees weak when I heard. I thought they would go in this direction but now it as a set deal. Stronger lung capacity. Stronger heart. They were going to increase the efficiency of my organs and their cell health. And when those trials were done, months later, they went after my body's various muscles. They said that they had to work from the inside, and they were able to somehow determine that those cells were healthy with x-rays, having me run on a treadmill, and all the samples of my fluids. Essentially I now had organs that would last me a hundred years. They said I could take up smoking and my lungs would heal instantly. They actually asked me to sign a waiver and offered me a ton of cash to start smoking cigars. Something which I took an unexpected liking to. Their data concluded no harm was attaching to my lungs. They were overjoyed and worked diligently to reverse engineer my cells for designer pills for future clients. The big day came when they said they wanted me to start bodybuilding. They were going to go after my skeletal structure, and muscle groups. This was going to take several years and if their calculations were correct, they could turn me into one of the most powerfully built men on the planet. Just imagine that, I thought. Me. Little Sammy Reardon who used to get tossed into the trash bins by Evan fucking Mason, who got scores of kids to mock me and not include me, to make me into a pariah for his pleasure. During all the months they were developing new pills, Harvey found a way to crack the code. He didn't tell the company, but he told me that he was able to pretty much create and design drugs that could tell cells what instructions he wished to carry out. This had never been done before. He took the results of my big dick testing and was able to create another result in rats through his brilliance. He made rats with much, much smaller dicks. Microdicks. After six months of the new Growth Pill, I shot up in height. I went from an unassuming 5'7" to 6'2" which thrilled me. I was thrilled I had to buy new clothing every month. I was thrilled I could walk down the street and stare down at most other men. I was starting to feel on top of the world...and that is when the real shit kicked in. I started packing muscle. All the fat drained away one week. In one week. I started growing and growing. I can't even describe to you the emotion and fucking elation that came with my orgasms now. I fucked Harv every chance we got and he ate up all my cum like it was candy. Finally, my plan was ready. I joined a gym. I shaved my head. I looked completely different. I had gained something like 30 pounds, which left me at 6'2" and 180 lbs, which was fairly lean. I joined 24 Hour fitness because you can go to any of their gyms...including the one Evan Mason. I casually looked at his water bottle and remembered it. The next few days I waited for the opportunity to see him again and finally saw him. I worked out nearby him and when his back was turned I switched the bottles and walked off. I watched him out of the corner of my eye drink the whole thing. The next step in my plan was a work of such genius on the part of Harvey I don't even know where to begin. He not only concocted a formula which would shrink someone's dick over time, he made a second chemical that would make a person do whatever you told them to. I could see he was looking a little strange. He looked confused. I walked over to him and gave him his first order. "Follow me outside. Don't say a word. We're going to my car." He followed me without a word. Holy fuck the research Harv must have done. We are talking twenty years of studying all known drugs and then creating something that affected the control center of the brain without any other functions being affected. I told Evan to buckle up. I told him to drink more of the Dickshrink juice and then some more Control Juice, as I dubbed them. We went to his place. I'd done my research in advance. He had a girlfriend. "Break up with your girlfriend. Tell her you are having a secret affair and you are only going to take a few things with you, only one suitcase of clothing, and then leave. And when I give you commands in the future, answer me with 'Yes, sir'." "Yes, sir," Evan said dully. I heard some shouting and screaming and a woman throwing things around. Evan came out calmly, in the same dull stupor. He moved in with me in my apartment and I couldn't be more thrilled. I told Evan who I was. I told him that the chemical he had ingested made it impossible for him to break the commands of the person talking to him. Among his new orders: * He was never to take orders from anyone but me. I was his new Master. He was my slave. * He was to stop working out. * He was to concentrate on cleaning my place and being my maid, and going on errands when I told him to. * He was to be naked at all times. * He was to beg forgiveness once a day for bullying me for six years of my life. He was to grovel and beg, to be more specific. * He was not fully homosexual, and would beg me to suck my dick and be fucked on a daily basis. I started him right off the bat with dildos so I could have a nice boy hole to fuck. It was great stuffing his mouth with a gag while I worked on his hole for hours. It was great to use him as a human footstool when I wanted to watch TV and it was satisfying to see him beg for my forgiveness daily. I told him I wanted to give him the ability to talk to me as he wanted, to awaken. He immediately begged me to stop. He said he would rather die than be gay. I told him he should have thought about that before I reached out to him. Now he was just a faggot slave for life, and I was his Master. I told him to shut the fuck up and go back to being my dumb slave who didn't open his mouth for any reason other than to do my bidding. "Oh and we are gonna do things with you, buddy boy. We are gonna start with that nice thick dick of yours. I think that has to go. Oh no, don't worry, I'm not going to chop it off. I'm not into trannies. No, I want humiliation. I think you'll enjoy what's coming. Your dick is going to get smaller and smaller. Yes, it is! Yes, we can do that, I can see it in your eyes, you think I must be joking. But I have power to fucking make you my bitch just with vocal commands, you think I can't take your big dick away as well?" I forced him to unrobe every day when he got back home from doing all my errands. His dick shrunk every day just a little bit until he had just the tiniest nub. "Hey, Nubby!" This was my new name for him. He was no longer allowed to think of himself as "Evan Mason". He was Nubby and nothing else. Nubby the house slave. I fingered his tiny little prick. "Looks like someone has an itty bitty problem." I scoffed. "Get down on your knees, faggot and worship me." He did, because he had no choice. "Now I want to talk to the real Evan for a little while. You may talk freely, Evan." Evan panted. He had just finished sucking off my dick, with its ample juices, some of which hung off his mouth. He winced and cried. He brought his hand to his mouth as if he couldn't believe what was on it and then looked at my cum in horror. "Please, Sammy. I'm sorry," he cried. "I only have a tiny dick now. You took my fucking dick away from me. Please! Please, I'm begging you! Please give it back! Please man. I'll do anything! Please!" His tears graced my floor. "Lick my piss off the floor, faggot." I began to pee on the floor. "That's an order. You have no choice. Do it." Crying, he did so sometimes I ordered him to drink from my dick, which he did so with gusto. "Yeah, drink that piss, homo! Swallow all of it!" He wanted to shout but couldn't. He was so horrified. "Yeah, drink that piss. Alright, I'm done...lick the rest off the floor. Do you ever wanna see your dick back to normal? Tell me how you feel, Evan." "I feel degraded. I feel awful. Please don't make me your slave anymore. I'm SO SORRY! So sorry. I...please dude, please..." He begged in front of me, groveling on the floor like a true slave, bowing as he had been for several months, conditioned to serve and be utterly subservient. "Kiss my feet, bitch." Evan did so lovingly. Carefully. He kissed my feet like he was in love with them. "Now get up." "Okay." I smacked him across the face. He immediately got on his knees and bowed. "I'm sorry! What did I do?" he cried. "You didn't say my title." "Master! Okay, Master! Sir, I'm sorry, please forgive this slave." "Oh, Nubby." He cried as I said his name. "I order you to go back to being my slave and not speaking as Evan anymore. I just want my slave back. Now go get me a beer, faggot." I patted his face patronizingly. "Yes, Master." As the months grew, I got bigger and bigger. Harvey worshiped me every week I grew and I started to wear more revealing clothing much more often. I remembered how it felt in junior high when I had to hide my body because I didn't want anyone to see how rail thin I was and how now I had this...commanding alpha presence everywhere I went. I was also thrilled that the excess hormones and physiology made me look more mature, more my age. They gave me a pill for more facial hair growth and I had to shave every day now, which thrilled the shit out of me. My biceps and chest outgrew clothes. I stopped seeing old friends because no one would believe it was me. I looked at the progression of my photos and stats and got hard just thinking about how I was now 6'8". I fucked the shit out of Harvey, who eventually came out as my boyfriend and we got married shortly thereafter. I got some tattoos and the guys at the shop marveled over my body and made jokes about how I was one of the biggest guys they'd ever seen. They called me "My Giant" and I now towered over most men. The weight I gained was unbelievable. I weighed close to 350 lbs by the end of the year. I went by Big Sam if anyone used my name at all. I was the perfect example of manhood. Harvey's six foot and looks like a kid next to me.They were still trying to crack the codes that Harvey already had. We talked about it, about the potential for any man to become like a god. He said that it was actually more like 1 in 10 that would respond to treatment. I had thought of a world where only a tenth of men were able to rise like gods above their smaller counterparts and wondered what the world would look like some day. I gave him the go ahead to patent it. Negotiations between him and the company lasted for several weeks but they offered him a solid billion for the deal. He accepted, even though it would probably change the face of society and make fifty times that. "Hey fag, it's time for you to get fucked. Present your hole, stupid." I say, my voice as deep as Vin Diesel's, and even more commanding. It makes him quiver. "Yesth, sir." He speaks in a lisp now, as I've programmed Nubby to. "Right away, Master," We have a fairly abnormal life, and Harvey has no desire to reach the gigantic proportions that I have. I strut around and give orders to him and my slave bitch Nubby and it feels like this is how life is supposed to be, even though I vividly remember being bullied for years, remember being underneath someone's heel, remember begging to be loved and understood. I tried to be Evan's friend but he wouldn't have it. He wanted a whipping boy. Now his life revolves around my comfort and making sure all my needs are attended to, and I don't really having a fucking problem with that. Would you? Well I don't fucking care. I'm completely in charge here and I don't need anyone's fucking approval. I run a mansion with my own personal gym and pushing Nubby around is one of my favorite things to do. "Hey dumbass. You done with my boots yet?" "Almostht, Master." "Get the fuck up here. Let me see how little you've gotten. Oh yeah, you got real small with that new pill we gave ya. You look like a kid in comparison to me. You look like you're in high school again, mmmm." I helped myself to his delicious little mouth and it turned me on to feel his slave collar with my hand. I kissed him deeply and then crossed my arms as he awaited my orders. I backhanded him across the face once, for effect. He was thrown to the floor, and got up again, looking admonished. It's not something I do often. I just like him to know how much I've changed. **** Harvey's Log Day 435 My husband continues to be Alpha with all designed personality details with flying colors. He implements protocol exactly as I designed him. He is proof that the Dominance pill works and the army will of course receive all research accordingly. So far, he does not suspect that chemical influence has affected his own behavior but of course this is in turn with the company's wishes. It has been determined to be an ineffective battle agent as soldiers need to work in tandem with each other, but the Subservience pill may be used to great effect in future battle scenarios. I did meet recently with one of the higher five star army generals and they think that a little Alpha pill would be good when raising deserving men to command. The studies still continue in the various army camps where trials are ongoing. I am very satisfied having always dreamed of a perfect alpha male who will both love me and be in charge of the relationship and have no complaints. Sam is happy and has the body of a god...what more could I possibly ask for in a marriage? End log
  9. The house was a wreck when we got inside. The communal bathrooms hadn't been updated in years, and the kitchen was barely functioning. As the team moved in to stake out their rooms, Colin and I retreated to the study. "Colin, this place is a disaster. Are you sure it's a good idea to move in here?" He put a hand on my shoulder, and I was immediately reassured. “I’m going to call Marcus’s father for help now.” Dan Cunitz was one of the most successful real estate developers in the state. He was also an alumnus of the school’s football team, and had been very generous to the school over the years. He had both the means and the resources to help rebuild the house. “Dan, we are going to need a complete rebuild of the bathrooms and kitchen, for starters. You WILL send over all the plumbing materials we need.” There was a pause as Dan spoke, then Colin replied: “No, not next week. Tomorrow. You will send the materials tomorrow.” I flinched a bit just overhearing Colin’s direct tone: Dan Cunitz had a well-deserved reputation as an aggressive, hard-nosed negotiator. I wasn’t sure this approach would work well with him. “You want to see what I can do with the team?” Colin said. With that, he barked at Jackson and me: “SHIRTS OFF!” Without hesitation, we obliged. I looked at Jackson and was impressed with his build. His shoulders seemed impossibly wide, with cannonball delts, a thick chest of armor, and a ripped 8-pack of abs. His biceps were huge and peaked, even while he was relaxed. He put his hands on his narrow hips and just casually flexed it all. Then he looked over and acknowledged me for the first time that day. With a blank look on his face, he put his huge hand on my neck and gave it a firm squeeze. He even reached over and slapped my hard midsection a few times, and said, “Colin did nice work on you, bro.” Even I was surprised at how my abs withstood his playful, but strong slaps. With that, Colin held up the phone, took some photos of us and sent them to Dan. I could only overhear pieces of Colin’s side of the conversation: “I can train Marcus…. In four weeks, he’ll be as big as my brother, in the photo…. at least that big, yes…. then eight weeks…. yes… 275lbs…. I know you are familiar with Jackson’s athletic record… Marcus has the potential to pass him. I know how to motivate that kind of growth, yes… but we’ll see how training goes, Marcus may not even be suited for baseball in a few months.” Did Colin just promise to have Marcus as big as me in four weeks? Bigger than Jackson in eight weeks? I knew better than to doubt him. And he had Mr. Cunitz eating out of the palm of his hand, which was probably the most impressive feat of all. There was another pause, and then I saw a knowing smile come across Colin’s face. “You can have it delivered today? That’s even better Danny-boy.” He was calling one of the most powerful men in the state Danny-boy. Even the university president addressed him as Mr. Cunitz. “Send over some staff to do the installation as well. Oh, and you’ll also have 600lbs of grass-fed beef shipped to the house each week. We need to eat well.” And in a deeper, much more authoritative tone, Colin concluded the call, while looking directly at a shirtless Jackson: “Let me know when you want to visit, I’m certain you will be pleased with the results.” Colin seemed to have an inside track on how to motivate Mr. Cunitz. Mr. Cunitz agreed to all of Colin’s demands. After the call, Colin summoned the entire team to the weight room, which was in an addition to the main house. The 6,000 square foot facility was stripped of most equipment, save for a 14-foot long pull-up rig, which was bolted to the concrete wall. “Good news. Marcus’s father has agreed to pay for the renovation of the house, which will start this afternoon. And, he will have the weight room fully functioning in a couple of days. But first we have to take down this rig.” “Colin, this rig is in perfectly good shape. It’s perfect for pull-ups, squats, and so much more. Why would you take it down?” I asked. “Jackson, show him.” Colin said. Jackson sauntered over to the rig, where the pull-up bar was eight feet off the ground. Staring right at Colin, he just reached his massive arms up and gripped the bar, with his feet planted firmly on the ground. “A pull up bar is no good if your feet can reach the ground,” Colin said, matter-of-factly. “Well not all of us have Jackson’s height, or wing span for that matter,” I interjected. “Not yet,” Colin said, with chilling confidence. “Take the rig down Jackson.” With his arms still extended overhead, Jackson tightened up all of his muscles and started to pull. At first, I thought the rig wouldn’t yield without more assistance, but Colin calmly coached Jackson: “Tighten up your core Jackson,” he said quietly. And we watched, breathlessly, as each of Jackson’s cobble stone abs activated, one by one, as he inhaled slowly, looking directly at Colin. “Now show me what those lats can do.” Jackson’s lats slowly started to flare out, as he inhaled, to immense proportions – much wider than anyone had ever seen. Colin gently placed a hand on Jackson’s upper back and softly said “That’s it Jackson, activate here now.” He started to exert all of his muscle, and after about a minute of silence, the rig started to creak. There was a loud groan coming from the concrete wall, as the iron bar started to yield to Jackson’s raw power. Jackson’s biceps, triceps and forearms were flexed up as well, showing his truly colossal muscle. The room was completely quiet except for the groaning of the rig, which steadily increased. I looked at the team, and everyone was riveted to this display of undisputed strength, most especially James, the power hitter. The cinderblock walls started to loosen, imperceptibly at first, but they slowly started to crumble. Then Colin said “NOW JACKSON, LATS!” and the whole rig separated from the concrete wall. Cinderblocks tumbled down onto the floor as each of the 16 wall fasteners popped off, sounding like gunfire, one by one. All that was left were the floor anchors. Jackson stood triumphantly under the crumpled rig, a stunning sight of 275lbs of raw muscle. His arms hung at his sides, pushed out by his still immensely flared back. His massive chest heaved slowly, as his breath started to return to normal. Jackson was about to deal with the floor anchors when James stepped forward and addressed Colin: “Let me take out the floor anchors. I want you to see what I’m capable of.” “You know the rule, James. Shirt off, and get to work.” Next to Jackson, James looked diminutive. But when he pulled the hem of his shirt over his head, he revealed a solid, dense build of 195lbs of power hitter muscle, and legs like a thoroughbred racehorse. James had a beefier build, and his neck and trap muscles were remarkable. He moved to the thick vertical bar that anchored the rig to the floor and gripped it. He got into a quarter squat, inhaled slowly and started to exert upward pull on the bar. At first, it seemed like an impossible task, since it was difficult for anyone to get leverage in that position. But after a few seconds, with James glutes completely fired up, the bar started to come up out of the cement floor. The bar continued to groan with resistance, but finally gave up. With one last immense rumble, the concrete floor started to crack, and then opened up and released the anchor, yielding to James’s coiled muscle. A glistening James smiled at Colin, knowing he had redeemed his stature on the team. The entire team was riveted to these two feats of inhuman strength. Colin’s training program was underway. The next two weeks were a complete blur. Marcus and I were sharing a room, and our schedule seemed to revolve around his workouts. When we weren't at the gym, we were planning his next sessions, or his diet. His earlier animosity towards me seemed to dissipate, and he had a newfound respect for me. His progress at the gym was impressive - slow, steady, deliberate. For a guy who barely weighed 145lbs, he was benching his body weight in no time. He seemed a bit apprehensive anytime we mentioned his father’s sponsorship of the team, but I was able to keep him focused on his regimen. Brendan and Jeremy had taken over the supervision of the overall team, and it was paying off. Their collective body weight had increased a remarkable 15% in the first few weeks. Brendan now tipped the scales at 210lbs, up from 180, and he had all but abandoned his dream of becoming a pro wide receiver. "Just too damn big for that," he said with a huge smile on his face. Jeremy was now up to 240lbs himself, easily one of the biggest guys in the house. He had all but tossed out his wardrobe, since he inexplicably grew taller. At 6 5, he walked around in tight shorts and whatever tank tops he could find. He spent his days happily coaching, eating and lifting. Jackson spent all of his time with Colin. For a guy we all remembered as a typical alpha-male athlete, his attitude had changed dramatically. He was entirely subjugated to Colin now: following him around 24/7, almost mindless in his devotion. Everywhere that Colin went, we were sure to see Jackson two steps behind him, and he would either be shirtless, in just shorts, training shoes and a backwards baseball cap, when he wasn't wearing a custom-made 150lb weight vest. Any verbal interaction we tried to have with Jackson was met with a blank look, since he now only communicated through Colin. After two weeks of intense training, he stood at 6 7, and weighed in at 325lbs of ripped muscle: the biggest and strongest athlete in the history of the university. And although he lost any ability to think for himself, his GPA had soared from a paltry 2.7 to a perfect 4.0. Then Colin got a call from Mr. Cunitz, who said he was coming to visit and wanted an update on his “investment.”
  10. Before I go to the train, I post a short story. Muscle Growth in Plato’s Republic I see that you are awake. Hush. There is no reason to yell. You will only damage your ability to listen, if you yell that loudly inside your chamber, considering its lack of furniture, its lack of cloth and the fact that the walls consist of metal. Who I am, is not your business, but I am permitted to reassure you, that I speak on behalf of The Leadership. I speak to you through these loud-speakers. That mirror is actually a window. I watch you through it. Hello to you. There is no reason rant like that. What would you prefer? The old systems were apalling. One of them categorised persons after their pigmentation, and put some persons in ovens. Another one robbed persons working in agricultural production of their homes and working tools, boasted over alleged equality, while their leadership lived in an opulence that the productive classes were denied. A third one was ruled by the rich one percent. A fourth was ruled by skillful demagogues. Almost all of the old systems put too much executive power in only one person’s hand – a system waiting for to be abused. Seriously, do you really want to have any of these systems back? Ah. You are returning to more immediate questions? The reason for not remembering, is that you were anaesthetized during sleep. Your whereabouts… Let me return to that shortly. You can’t accuse The Leadership of that. Come now. Really? You ought to be well aware, that The Leadership lives in considerably more ascetic conditions than the Productive Classes. Moderation is a virtue. The Productive Classes are given the sort of housing they desire, the food they desire, credits to buy clothes of their own choice from the 156 different licenced brands, and unlimited access to all TV and film. They are given exactly what they want. How many of their forebears actually used their so-called suffrage before The Great Reform? Freezing? Yes, of course you are freezing. You are stark naked and strapped to a metal bench with a plastic cushion. Anyone would freeze under those conditions. Don’t interrupt me. Your new buzzcut suits you, by the way. But, as I said before, The Leadership lives in considerably more ascetic conditions than the Productive Classes. Equity! Prudence! Bravery! Moderation! The Productive Classes are allowed to have appetites. The Leadership are not. Or like that eastern writer, of whom our Founding Parents were so fond, put it: The Leadership shall show benevolence to the subjects, and put public duty before self-interest, while The Defenders and The Productive Classes shall show due respect to The Leadership. Is it too much to ask? We who belong to The Leadership do not own any private property, are not allowed to chose which clothes to wear, and our food is carefully calculated to be healthy, but not exactly tasty. I know the difference. As so many else of us, I grew up in The Productive Classes, just like you, but my achievements at the diagnostic tests in school brought me to the attention of The Supervisor, and I was transferred to a B-class for evaluation, and, when the evaluation turned out Code Green, to an A-class for further education. Do you know, that we have to study mathematics until age 30? We are not allowed to watch TV or films, since entertainment is distracting from duty. There are benefits and drawbacks with every position in society, but it is constructed in order to make all of us happy, regardless if you belong to The Leadership, The Defenders or The Productive Classes. Different personality types find happiness in different sorts of lifestyles. Nowadays I like the serene, uncluttered surroundings in The Leadership quarters, and find the over-decorated homes of The Productive Classes slightly tacky. My parents regard the lifestyle I have to lead is too stern and joyless, but the thing is: We find happiness in different sorts of things. Why is it important to wear a shirt with a particular embrodiery on one side of the chest and not another one? You are right. I talk too much about myself. I haven’t got rid of some Plebby traits enough. I have to consult my shrink tomorrow. Let’s talk about you instead: Transferred from C-class to B-class at a very early age, but was returned to C-class at age 14 when puberty distracted you. Performed well in social studies before age 14, but began to behave in rebellious fashion from that age on. Good results in PE. Produce less than average at your office employment. Your registered attendance at institutions for physical exercise is higher than average. Shows ability to sacrifice time and unhealthy food, for the higher goal of fitness. Your social life is mapped and evaluated to have a high exchange of known dissidents. Warmer now? Good. I thought it was just a matter of time, before you would feel better in your metallic surroundings. Of course we have to make use of surveillance of everyone’s life! Otherwise the terrorists will win. And we will have The Defenders patrol the streets, in order to ensure public safety and security. Personally, I admire the Defenders: These tall, powerful men in uniform, who serve to protect all of us. I definitely lack what it takes to become one of them. Wrong personality type. Not understand why anyone would join The Defenders? As I said before, our pursuit is to assure that everyone in society will be happy. The Productive Classes wish to consume commodities, even if that mean that they will not enjoy suffrage. The Leadership enjoy unlimited information, the opportunity to use of our minds, and responsibilities in government, even if that mean we have to refuse property and close relations. The Defenders… Have you noticed… Oh. Sorry. Do you feel well? That spasm looked uncomfortable. No? You are fine? Good. You must have noticed how badly performing children are demoted to The Productive Classes if they are evaluated Code Red in school. And you must have noticed how children from The Productive Classes are transferred to A-classes if they are evaluated Code Green in school. Our Founding Parents was adamant, that we were not supposed to become a caste society. Meritocracy and mechanisms, to ensure movement from one state of life to another, were the foundations on which this Republic was built. But have you ever noticed anyone to be recruited to The Defenders in school? Or have you ever met a child of Defender parents? My questions are rhetorical of course, this fine art, which Cicero was an expert of. The problem with the police and the armed forces in the old systems in the bygone world, was that they sometimes attracted the wrong sort of people. Someone, who would be prone to abuse his power, would be unsuitable as a Defender, but in the old systems the position as a Defender attracted that sort of people. There existed dutiful and idealistic persons too, of course, but, despite that some of them sincerely wished to serve and protect, there was a risk with the old system. I don’t know if you remember the ancient state called Turkey, for instance. Several times its army toppled the democratically elected government. Similar things happened in a state called Burma, but I don’t know if you read about that in C-class history lessons. Even in C-class you must have read about the atrocities committed by Gestapo and Stasi? Oh my! That looks uncomfortable. Is there anything I can do? No? Good? Feels so good? That sounds fine and dandy. Nothing to worry about, then? What is happening to you? Actually, I was just on my way to explain that. That muscle tone suits you, by the way. Oh, yes! The Defenders, then. The conundrum for every state, is to be sure that persons guarding the state and the general public against enemies without and within, don’t abuse their power. A state like ours, for instance, could risk to be toppled by The Defenders, and turned into a military dictatorship, and we can’t have that, can we? The solution our Founding Parents choose, was to ensure that The Defenders don’t have offspring, and actually is the least free of our inhabitants. That doesn’t mean that Defenders are not happy. As I said before: There are benefits and drawbacks with every position in society, but it is constructed in order to make all of us happy, regardless if you belong to The Leadership, The Defenders or The Productive Classes. Different personality types find happiness in different sorts of lifestyles. And I now come to the question: How would you find happiness? Your outspoken views about The Leadership are misguided, and easily corrected by the mind-control program that is running in your brain just now. Your wariness of power-abuse, on the other hand, is a useful virtue in a society like ours. It ought to be encouraged, especially in a Defender. Not a Defender? Oh come now. At this stage you must understand what’s going on. Defenders are not born. They are made. I read your psychological profile. You like to be re-programmed. Thinking of it: I don’t any longer have to read your psychological profile to see that you like the re-programming. Some gymboys work out in order to compensate for something, but I notice that that reason don’t apply to you. Shouting abuse despite this high frequency of brainwave re-programming? That means that you have a strong will. Good. That’s another virtue of a Defender. The warm feeling, which drives the cool temperature away in your chamber, is caused by the injection you received while asleep. Based on your height, weight, age, and the time which has lapsed since the injection was administered, I would make an educated guess, that it is still intensifying in effect. If you enjoy this feeling, I can bring you pleasure by informing you, that the enhancement of your body tissues and physique has just began. When this process has reached its goal you have become a Defender. That’s the spirit! It seems like some inhibitions are removed? Yes, you are right. These biceps are indeed ’fucking big’. And yes, these abdominal muscles are very hard, but don’t you think that overuse of the word ’fucking’ is emptying it of its rhetoric impact? Yes! Give in to it! You know that you like re-programming! Ooops. Not all of the recruits shout that much. So. So. Just breathe. It breaks you in order to rebuild you into a stronger being. Yes, just like that. That sounds confident. Yes, I agree, these vein-covered quads and thighs are, as you put it, ’awesome’. I’m literally full in awe over the muscle mass you are achieving, and it seems like you are, too. I know, by experience, that it is best to inform you, that the process will now enter the next phase. Yes, that’s right. This is just the beginning. No, there will be more. No, I’m not kidding. Yes, you don’t have to ask for it. I will ’bring it on’. You can trust me in that regard. You start and wrench unusually much. Are you okey? Never felt better? Good. I hoped that you would accept the process at last. Proud to be a Defender? Good. Yes, I hear that you think it’s good, too. Too good to be true? But it is true. Wait for phase three. Yes, there are further phases. Can’t take any more? I’m sorry, but the procedure must go on, when it has started. Safety protocol demand that we finish this. Oh, look at those lats! And your traps and shoulders! You respond unusually well to the treatment. Yes, you are unusually big, already. I can’t imagine how you will look when this is finished. I don’t need any encouragement. I’m already looking at you. And what a sight you are! That’s my cocky lad! If that is a good expression at your age. Damn. I am beginning to sound unusually emotional. I must see my shrink tomorrow. If I can’t compose myself, I might be demoted to the Productive Classes. If I'm willing to pay that price for watching your humungousness? I… I… I don’t know. Oh, aren’t you a miracle? Those hard pillows of a chest… Becoming like basket balls now. Yes, I would moan too, if that happened to me. Initiating Phase three. I thought, that you just said, that you can’t take any more? Give you all? Yes. Everything in due time. More? Yes, you will have more. I adjust the controls here manually, to quicken the process somewhat. We can’t hurry too much outside the ordinary parameters. No one knows what would happen to your organism then. ’Beef?’ That’s a word for it. ’Powerhouse’. Yes, that’s another one. Oh, my! You broke your restraints. They were for your own safety, you know. A lot of subjects shake so violently, that they risk to harm themselves. Yes, I’m looking at you. Oh. Yes. Definitively as volleyballs. And these football shoulders! You are not supposed to do that. Hot? Well, ehrm… We in The Leadership are not supposed to think about such things. Initiating Phase Four. No. I can’t. Oh. I’m not supposed to… I’m here to guide you through the process, not watch you in another capacity… Oh! Oh, uh! No! I can’t… Don’t tease me like that. Goddammit, I’m a doctor, not a … And those veins! Covering your legs and your chest… I don’t believe my eyes! A behemoth of raw untamed power! And the monumental calves of yours, protruding, bulgingly, still pulsating… The hypertrophic powerfield surrounding you… stimulating you… No! No! I said, don’t tease me! I don’t… You insanely ultra-masculine brute, you don’t understand, I can’t… Oh! Uh! Join you? No, I can’t… No, I can’t, oh… So this is how the sluice works? What am I doing here? I’m not supposed to… I return out of this sluice. It’s too dangerous. I’m not evaluated… I’m not scheduled… I don’t fit the personality test… Uhn. Enter. YES! TOGETHER WITH YOU! BECOMING A DEFENDER! THE POWER! THE ALL-CONSUMING POWER! TOO MUCH… I… OH! YES! UHN! UHN! COMPUTER: INTENSIFY PROCESS Process intensified, and increasing
  11. In chapter three, I take a closer look at one of the former minor characters. As usual, I hope that you will tolerate my unintentional linguistic errors. Chapter One is here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/5059-project-defender-–-chapter-one/ Chapter Two is here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/6609-project-defender-–-chapter-two/ DISCLAIMER This story do contain an element of internalised homophobia, at least in the beginning. If you are offended by this, please read no further. Project Defender - Chapter 3 He always wanted to be huge. But he wasn’t. Kowalski had grown up in a small municipality just outside Warsaw. He had been bullied in primary school, but when he entered secondary school he joined a gym, and although his results were modest, his newfound muscles kept the bullies away. His parents – especially his mother – were devout Catholics, and he joined them, when they attended Mass on Sundays. He felt like having two minds when it came to physical exercise. On the one hand, it felt amazing in the end of each training session, when his body released all those relaxing substances, and blood pumped into all his newly trained muscles, causing him to feel hard in a very good way. On the other hand, he felt uncomfortable that he often became horny after workout. He had tried to mention it to his vicar during confession once, but Father Wójcik had reacted in horror: ’You are having dirty thoughts, young man. Do you hear: Dirty! The only normal thing to feel aroused by is your future wife. I hope you will find a suitable girl sometime during Technikum. Now avoid to think dirty thoughts again. I absolve you in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.’ He hadn’t dared to mention the topic again. During his studies at Technikum, he had to go by bus to Warsaw each day, and he joined a bigger and more well-equipped gym inside Warsaw. He must have been eighteen when he found out that one of the adult guys at the gym was a British Jesuit, teaching in the capacity of Guest Professor in astrophysics at the university for a time. Father O’Kelly seemed to enjoy exercise himself, although he mainly used the treadmill and the step-up-machine, so Kowalski dared to take up his embarrassing worries. O’Kelly laughed somewhat, and had a much more relaxed view on Kowalski’s perceived problem: ’Listen, son. Now and then in the history of the Church, a few people have – mistakenly – believed that the human body is something bad. It isn’t. Evil is only able to harm things. Evil is not able to create and nurture life. Some saints were wrong about some issues, and a few of them were anorectics or neurotics. We do good if we try to do the same sort of good deeds those saints achieved, but we ought not to follow their mistaken personal opinions or quirks. The human body is an amazing thing: Our brain and our hands cooperate in a way that made engineering and art possible. The human body functions the way God intended – perhaps not perfectly, since we have a free will, but the basic processes are there, because it is for the best. St. Paul writes that the human body is a temple for the Holy Spirit. That isn’t something bad or evil, is it? Men like you try to make their temple as fitting and embellished as possible, and there is nothing wrong with that, at least if you don’t become obsessive about it, and forget the needs of persons around you. Excessive vanity would make the life complicated for you, but in the right amount it is just confidence, and confidence is good to have. Human sexuality is a strong feeling, that sometimes blur peoples judgment. Those consequences of a blurred judgment are sometimes evil, but not sexuality itself. God created it. I would advice you to exercise more, not less, since exercise helps to diminish exaggerated arousal, but I would also advice you to thank God for your ability to feel good. In the future you will probably find a cute girl. If sex had been something intrinsically bad, matrimony wouldn’t have been regarded a sacrament, would it?’ After his discussion with Father O’Kelly, Kowalski felt much better. He continued to work out at the gym, and achieved a lean and very hard physique, but he wasn’t able to become big and burly the way professional bodybuilders looked. During Technikum, some of the girls had found the combination of his short stature, ripped physique and cream coloured downy hair irresistible, and he had snogged a number of young women, but nothing serious. Since his early childhood, his favourite saint was St. Michael the archangel. The church his mother attended had several smaller adjacent altars, and his favourite one was dedicated to St. Michael. A broad shouldered statue of St. Michael was there, his enormous wings outstretched protectively, and his big chest decked with chainmail, a sword in his muscular arm, trampling the devil underfoot. It was an icon of masculine heroism, and Kowalski wanted to be a hero. To protect people, and defend them. When he graduated from Technikum, he first applied to the fire brigade, but his application was rejected since he didn’t fulfill the regulated minimum height. He then applied to the Armed Forces of the Republic of Poland, and was accepted. He scored very high on endurance tests, and he managed to lift heavier backpacks than men his own size usually did. He was very good at diving. He was extremely good at parachute jumps, but one part of his test results differed significantly from the rest: He scored low when it came to the ability to lift really heavy equipment, and he felt frustrated over this. Now and then, he shyly asked himself if he possibly could be gay. The Church’s position on the issue was clear, and that made him uncomfortable: He liked attending Mass now and then, and he appreciated to slip into an almost empty cathedral in the middle of the afternoon, experiencing the soothing silence and stillness. The Army officially maintained a non-discriminatory policy when it came to sexual orientation, and had always did, but the personal opinions among some of the senior officers and some of the other squaddies was another thing. As far as he knew, no-one had suspected anything. He knew that he often became horny when he read magazines about bodybuilding or watched action films with muscular heroes, but he wasn’t sure if that was a desire for the men themselves, or if it was rather a lust for becoming just as huge and ripped as them, excelling in masculinity. Gays are not masculine, are they? When TV news reported about Gay Pride parades in Warsaw, he didn’t feel anything for the men who walked by on the television screen: Trannies trying to look like women. Soft and wimpy men with rainbow pennants, some of them with glitter on their faces. They looked happy. He wished them luck with their everyday lives, but he didn’t feel attracted to them in any way. They seemed uninteresting. He had nothing in common to them. So he couldn’t be gay, could he? He had nothing against gays, as long as they didn’t hit on him. The Army became like a second home for him. He liked being challenged to achieve feats beyond his former limits. A couple of years went by. Then the Space Attack occurred. His family was evacuated from the Warsaw area to the countryside. He was sent to the Pan-European Military Research Facility, since he had been deemed suitable for experimentation. He had felt excited when he became aware of the purpose of The Program. De Vries had been a pain in the ass, but most of the international guys had been pleasant enough to work with. Among the scientists he felt most comfortable with the Norwegian one they called ’Viking Guy’, who had been friendly and polite. Coach was so well-trained, that he made Kowalski feel small in comparison, and there was something with the tiny Englishman, Smith, that made Kowalski feel awkward. He didn’t know what. He missed Soares. They had met the first day at the Facility, in the gym, and found a common bond in how much they liked workout and their disappointment with being hardgainers. Soares had a good sense of humour. Under cheering sounds from the other squaddies, they had sometimes wrestled at the living quarters, pitting each other’s strengths against each other. They had shared stories about their home countries and their worries for their families. Soares was also Catholic, so Kowalski had given him his St. Michael pendant as a gift of brotherhood. Soares had a good heart and kind eyes the colour of hazel nuts. And now he was comatose, because of an experiment gone wrong. Kowalski had sat beside Soares sick bed at Infirmary every evening since the accident happened. He felt angry at the scientists, but he also felt a bad conscience for his anger, since Viking Guy had told him that they worked on a treatment. He couldn’t sleep. He clothed himself, and tied his boots. The Infirmary lay in darkness, with the exception of a single lamp at the desk. To his surprise, neither Johansson’s nor Soares’ bed were there. After the initial surprise, he found Fischer, the night working nurse, tied to a chair. ’The recruits! They wheeled the patients away to the Lab.’ As soon he had freed Fischer from the chair, Kowalski jogged to the Lab, walking silently in suspicions the last distance. He peeked carefully into the Lab. Jones was there: He was a funny one, with a good sense of humour, at least when Kowalski could manage to understand his dialect. And Varga! Varga had behaved as an elder brother to Kowalski and Soares. Why had they of all persons disobeyed orders? If they actually had disobeyed orders. Weren’t they programmed to behave as perfect soldiers now? And who was the tall and muscular uniformed man typing at a screen? No! It couldn’t be… Doctor Smith? It’s impossible! He was so tiny, bespectacled and plump yesterday. This is like magic. He’s even bigger than Varga. And Boffin! And Viking Guy! And… O saint Mary in heaven: Coach was humongous now! What were they doing? Kowalski noticed the movable sickbeds. Empty. And the Chambers were activated. It dawned to him that Soares and Johansson were inside the Chambers, so it seemed that they tried to cure them from their comatose states. Cautiously, he stepped inside the lab. CHAMBER ONE IS [OCCUPIED][AND RUNNING PHYSICAL REPROGRAMMING PROTOCOL] Cpl. Soares Weight: 56 kilo grammes Now:[iNCREASING] [AWAITING DATA] Height: 168 centimetres Now:[iNCREASING] [AWAITING DATA] Chest: 91 centimetres Now:[iNCREASING] [AWAITING DATA] Waist: 70 centimetres Now:[iNCREASING] [AWAITING DATA] Arm: 34 centimetres Now:[iNCREASING] [AWAITING DATA] Thighs: 56 centimetres Now:[iNCREASING] [AWAITING DATA] ’Brain activity detected and intensifying.’ ’Pulse, breathing and temperature stable.’ Soares had grown inside the chamber. Muscles bulged and protruded from him. He was far from the size of the men in the Lab, but it was obvious that he was still growing in the golden shimmer. ’Kowalski? What are you doing here?’ Viking Guy had noticed his presence. The other large men looked in his direction. He felt uncomfortable. ’I was worried for Soares. Why did you tie Fischer?’ ’Did you tie Fischer, Jones? Why?’ ’Ah dinna thought mooch abuht ed. Ah wanted ’im to be outovva way. The Program kicked in.’ ’But why in the world would Fischer want to hinder us from curing the patients? Although it is in the middle of the night? Which is – ahem – unconventional.’ A short and confused discussion took place, but the safety for the patients soon redirected the focus of all present to the Chambers and the persons therein. Fischer peeked inside the room, but, although some of the men probably noticed him with their enhanced military senses, they all focused on the patients. Since Fischer didn’t have any patients to guard any longer, he sat down on a stool. ’Good to have you here, Kowalski.’, Doctor Green said. ’I know that you have sat beside Soares’ bed several nights. He knows you well. You are friends. He would listen to you.’ ’Yes?’, Kowalski asked. ’There is no damage to his brain. Whatever may have damaged himself before is perfectly healed by Morphogenetic Fields by now. I suspect that a psychological factor would help him to awake, under the condition that he remain in the Field during awakening. Human contact. You were scheduled for The Procedure the day after tomorrow, I believe. Would it disappoint you very much, if we rescheduled your treatment till tonight, instead?’ ’You mean. To become like you? Now?’ ’I understand that it comes of a sudden, but I really think that Soares would benefit from you talking to him, while you both go through The Program together.’ It came so suddenly. Kowalski felt confused. ’He is very close to awakening, but something delays it, and I believe there is a human factor to this. Your voice and your presence would hopefully lead him back to consciousness, but since that would expose you to The Program, you need to go through it all, with nano-inhalation, nutrition-IV and everything.’ Although it was buzz cut, Kowalski felt the hair on the back of his skull raise. He felt a pleasant shiver at his back. A lump emerged in his throat, and his mouth became dry. He silently observed the absurdly titanic men in the Lab – even the scientists looked like imaginary super-soldiers by now. He watched the growing Soares and Johansson in the Chambers. He should join their ranks tonight already. Everything felt unreal, like it was one of his silly teenage fantasies coming true. Absentmindedly, he answered: ’Yes. Of course I accept a reschedule. I want to help Soares. And it is – ehrm – actually quite exciting.’ He blushed somewhat, and untied his boots. The T-shirt fell on the bench. The trousers as well. Socks. Pants. It still felt unreal when Green applied the IV and the neuro-helmet. ’May I have a glass of water before I enter?’ Varga handed over a large plastic mug filled with drinking water. Kowalski devoured it. Green tied the breathing mask over Kowalski’s face. ’There is a microphone in the mask. If you feel strange, you may tell us. Most of the guys who have went through this Process have felt very well. Thank you for helping us to awaken Soares, and good luck inside.’ [CONNECTING] [ACCESSING DATA] [AWAITING SPECIMEN] Cpl. Kowalski Weight: 57 kilo grammes Height: 169 centimetres Chest: 91 centimetres Waist: 69 centimetres Arm: [AWAITING DATA] Thighs: [AWAITING DATA] CHAMBER ONE IS [OCCUPIED BY 2 SPECIMEN][AND RUNNING PREPARATORY PROTOCOL] [CONCOMITANTLY TO] [PHYSICAL REPROGRAMMING PROTOCOL][MULTI-THREADING] When the inner sluice opened, his entire body was struck by a violent wave. It caused all his bodily consciousness to tingle and buzz, in a way that was impossible to describe. He stepped inside the chamber, and the feeling became more intense. For a while it shut out all his other impressions. He tumbled into an intense vision of golden flashes and flares, in which his physical body ceased to exist. In its place he consisted entirely by raw, primordial power. Buzzing. Crackling. Emitting bolts. Devouring bolts. A voice which was not his own was saying something inside his mind. He didn’t actually hear it, since it was in his mind. He couldn’t hear clearly: It was not audible. It was more like a thought – an implanted thought. The intensity of the implanted thought increased: Do you accept The Program? He was rather strong minded. He couldn’t be forced to accept. Do you accept The Program? But it was because of The Program he was here. This reminded him of something a drill officer had said during basic training: ’I will break you down, in order to rebuild you!’. This was something similar. Do you accept The Program? Far, far away, he was vaguely aware that his physical body was involuntarily mumbling and grunting random words, but he didn’t pay attention to it: He was deeply immersed in his inner experience of integration into The Program. Do you accept The Program? He would become like the unbelievably huge titans outside the chamber. He shivered unintentionally in delight. Do you accept the Program? And he was here to help Soares. But what would happen if he tried to refuse The Program? You will accept The Program Fear arose. His instincts told him, that, if he accepted, he would no longer be entirely the same. From a certain point, he would no longer be himself. The instincts of fear became stronger. You will accept The Program You will accept The Program Damn it! It was his duty to endure this process, in order to help mankind. It was his duty to become… Becoming Defender Yes. To defend his fellow men against the invasion, and to defend his brothers-in-arms in danger. Becoming Protector Yes. To protect the weak and innocent… You will accept The Program Yes. To become a part of the same Program as the other optimised lads. United. Together as the first generation space marines. United… in… the… same… Program. You will accept The Program You will accept The Program You will accept The Program You will accept The Program You will ac ’SIR! YES, SIR!’ CHAMBER ONE IS [OCCUPIED BY 2 SPECIMEN][AND RUNNING NEURO-REPROGRAMMING PROTOCOL] [CONCOMITANTLY TO] [PHYSICAL REPROGRAMMING PROTOCOL][MULTI-THREADING] A small part of him knew, that the experience he re-lived wasn’t his own, but borrowed from someone else, like the one just before, and the one just before, but it felt so real, and it felt so much a part of his own experience… It was like he had been through this for years, by now: Years of painstaking exercise to perfect his ability to… …triumph in close combat… …swiftly and effectively handle weapons of innumerable types… …make tactical decisions… …defuse explosives… …hack into computer technology… It went on and on. He re-lived the lives of countless experts in their fields, and all were implanted and coalesced in him. Becoming consummate individual unit His confidence exploded and went off the scale. Nothing would ever make him feel awkward or uncomfortable any longer. Neuro-Reprogramming Protocol aim achieved Neuro-Reprogramming Protocol accomplished Closing according to Program Running: Physical Reprogramming Protocol [undivided] … [both specimen] [according to same matrix] Enhancing He was awake. He was present in a cylinder with another man. O, yes! The Chamber. The Process. Soares. His friend Soares. It felt good to be close to Soares. CHAMBER ONE IS [OCCUPIED BY 2 SPECIMEN][AND RUNNING PHYSICAL REPROGRAMMING PROTOCOL][iNTENSIFYING] The fluid around him was crackling with power discharges, and it caused his entire body to tingle in an incredible way. The power was crackling around Soares too, and he had grown amazingly big and well-defined, still pulsating of growth. Now, the same power surged through Kowalski, making him grunt with uncontrollable pleasure. An ugly sound of bones breaking and reforging was transmitted through the fluid. Kowalski was dimly aware of pain, and for a while his consciousness drifted away into darkness. When he awoke, he felt different and elongated in a strange way. The power emissions buzzed: in the fluid, on the surface of his skin, and through the essence of his entire body. He concentrated, and managed to speak. ’Soares. Wake up. It’s me, Kowalski. Please, Soares.’ And Soares opened his eyes. ’Kowalski? Oh. It feels… Mmmm.’ ’You are awake!’ ’So they continued to… Mmmm. …physical phase anyhow? Oh, this is good… Uh!’ Soares shivered in delight. He contracted his arms and tensed his abs. His dick awoke. Soares shivered again, and closed his eyelids again. His grunts revealed that he hadn’t drifted back to unconsciousness. Kowalski was so relieved that Soares had awakened, that he let his dogged determination go. His awareness tumbled into the flashing, buzzing, bubbling experience of bodily change, of transformation. The irresistible power surge… The Field… The radiation… He felt himself pack on meat in an incredible speed. His back broadened, became more massive, and his shoulders too, filling out, full, round, meaty powerful globes of human flesh. There was nothing he could do to stop it, but why would he want to do that? He was programmed to do everything necessary to optimise and maximise the performance of himself and of The Program. To enhance himself. To augment himself. And Soares. His legs felt like they were able to support incredible amounts, tree trunks widening, pillars of uncrushable steel, voluptuously huge calves. It was like pump, but intensified, and instead of just feeling like they grew, his muscles actually became larger, harder, more defined. His traps and pecs contracted in a deliriously delightful way, while they swelled up into uncrushable ridges and mounds, and he revelled in the feeling of his hyper-charged biceps and triceps, and of the vein covered steel cords, which once had been his forearms. His abs and iliac furrow burnt intensely while they became more and more well-defined, but the feeling gradually changed into the same buzzing and brimming feeling of power which filled the rest of his body. His firm gluteus had filled out into diamond hard orbs. [ACCESSING] [sPECIMEN DATA] Cpl. Kowalski Weight: 220 kilo grammes [AND INCREASING] Height: 215 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Chest: 228 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Waist: 114 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Arm: 100 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Thighs: 120 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Cpl. Soares Weight: 220 kilo grammes [AND INCREASING] Height: 215 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Chest: 228 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Waist: 114 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Arm: 100 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Thighs: 120 centimetres [AND INCREASING] [iNTENSIFYING] [according to same matrix] He didn’t become what he had ever dreamed of: He became something beyond the limits of his wildest imagination, and he diverted himself in the mindless roar of anabolic ecstasy. When he closed his eyes he heard the rushing sound of his pulse and of his blood stream transporting growth enhancing substances to every fibre of his pleasantly convulsing body. He grew in a way beyond what he could comprehend. He was a living battery, charged with the power current from a high voltage line. The power of vitality itself filled him limitlessly. Nuclear bombs exploded inside his body and inside his mind. The ineffable powerblaze stormed in every atom. He brimmed of unlimited and unconquerable might. Suddenly, he could feel Soares' hand on his left pec. It felt good. Soares’ hand had grown in size, but so had Kowalski’s pecs. Soares’ grip had increased, and a man of softer build would have been crushed by this, but Kowalski was no ordinary man. His pec resisted steel-hard the squeeze of Soares'. It felt good. Actually, it did feel amazing, since the empowering current of force, which made him grow, now streamed through him with redoubled intensity. It was like the power current streamed through him twice, and he could hear from Soares’ roar that the effect worked in both directions. He grabbed Soares’ incredible pulsating shoulders with both of his hands. His touch gave Soares a start, and for a couple of seconds Soares upper body went rigid. Then he relaxed – as far as the convulsing and pulsating state his muscles found themselves in could be called relaxed. Soares let his right hand move to Kowalski’s left bum, and the left hand soon followed. The hypertrophic power current now streamed through them again, again and again, in a heightened state of intensity. The Chamber bubbled of liquid. Thunderbolts of morphogenetic power struck their inner cores. The breathing masks hindered them from kissing each other, but both opened their eyes. Staring deeply into each others eyes, Kowalski’s ice blue eyes into Soares’ hazelnut brown ones, they could see how the heightened energy state began to affect their tissue. Golden power sparks arose in Soares’ eyes, and Kowalski could feel a strange, but pleasant, buzz arise in his own eyes. Then their eyes became interconnected to each other by two sparkling power currents of golden fire. Something happened at their groins, and the pulsating steel rods between their legs suddenly became interconnected by a similar crackling power current. Their muscular fibres became more and more unyielding. Their bodies became ever more covered in uncrushable brawn. They shook in pleasure. When Kowalski thought it couldn’t become better, more pleasurable, more ecstatic, the feeling intensified further. They both became monstrously titanic behemoths of ultra-masculine perfection. They roared. They raged. They bellowed, and hugged each other in steel hard embraces, but when the transformation process of The Program reached its climactic optimum, they both fell into velvet black unconsciousness. When Kowalski awoke, he found himself lying in a hospital bed at the Infirmary. Soares was lying in another one, and, since he was reading an e-book, any suspicions about a relapse into coma were dispelled. Two weeks ago, they had been the smallest of the recruits at the Facility. Now they both looked enormous. The story continues in https://muscle-growth.org/topic/7121-project-defender-chapter-four/
  12. For you who like army experiments and science-fiction techno-lingo just as much as I do (but as far as I can remember, there is not yet any need to reverse the polarity of the neutron flow). This continuation could probably need more proof-reading, but here goes. Dr. Skrefsrud, the timid Norwegian, is still the narrator. That may change in following chapters. Chapter One is found here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/5059-project-defender-–-chapter-one/ DISCLAIMER The following story do contain a small amount of racial slur and homophobia, a small amount of violence and sexual innuendo. Please do not read further if you are offended by anything of the aforementioned. The author does not sympathize with what the antagonist in the story may do or say. Project Defender – Chapter Two We kept Jones and Bjarnarsson for observation at Infirmary overnight, and Green agreed to take the night watch. Their results in the Gym had been impressing. They lifted amounts of weight probably no other living man on the planet was able to lift. Restoring a barbell to its stand, Jones looked at Smith and László part cockily, part beaming. Bjarnarsson lumbered around after the exercises with a smile, but was able to restrain his reaction to a larger extent than Jones. All samples looked more than perfect, so we let them eat breakfast at the Mess with the others. Jones and Bjarnarsson were greeted by cheers in the Mess, and during the following meals, I found the atmosphere less hostile against our scientific team. The nicknames used by Jones began to spread among the crew, which probably was a sign of acceptance. Some of the men stared at Jones and Bjarnarsson. ’Nice of y’u ter let us leave de ozzy. Ah feel ready ter hit the iron at the gym aftah brekkie.’, Jones informed us. ’Hey, Viking Guy!’, shouted Varga – a 33 year old Hungarian test subject – ’Can you assure us, that your experiment will not shrink our balls? I want to keep mine intact!’ The men at Varga’s table laughed. ’It is rather Gospodinov’s area of expertise, but as far as I understand, the formula doesn’t replace your own production of hormones, but increases it. Why don’t you ask Jones or Bjarnarsson, if you dare?’ I smiled. Varga’s table roared with laughter. I put down my tray besides the nice Poles, Zielinski and Kowalski, and sat down. Kowalski stared impressed on Jones and Bjarnarsson. Zielinski and Kowalski were eating their egg white omelette with spinach. I had a bowl of porridge. I chatted with the friendly and polite Poles until, suddenly, a loud quarrel disrupted our concentration. It was De Vries, one of the Dutchmen, and Taylor, the Caribbean-British test-subject, who quarrelled. By the look of it, it seemed that De Vries had bumped into Taylor. The latter’s breakfast lay at the floor. ’Watch where you’re going, monkeyboy! I thought this was a project for Europeans? Who let the apes out of the cage? My granddad didn’t leave South Africa for the Old Country for this, I can assure you.’ The initially calm Taylor froze rigidly, and his gaze changed into a burning mode. The Dutchman stared arrogantly on him with his green eyes, but suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. ’That’s not acceptable, corporal.’, Major Murphy said. He had swiftly left the table of honour, when he became aware of the situation. ’This is a warning. Never behave like that again. Is that understood?’ De Vries looked down in the floor, with a surly expression. ’Is that understood, corporal?’, Major Murphy roared. ’SIR! YES, SIR!’, De Vries answered. The other Dutchman, Van Gelder, approached Taylor with a concerned expression: ’I’m so sorry. Most of us from The Netherlands are not like him.’ ’I know.’, Taylor answered, ’It’s not your fault.’ The breakfast-eating men returned to their meal. Van Gelder invited Taylor to his table. De Vries had left the Mess Hall in a hurry. As usual, morning hours were full of scheduled interviews and medical examinations, and when the research team returned to The Lab after lunch, I looked at the list with disappointment. ’O no!’ Smith, Lamarck and Gospodinov looked up, surprised. ’What is it?’, Smith asked. ’Look at the list of test-subjects scheduled for this afternoon. De Vries! The man who behaved so badly in the Mess at breakfast, and was a nuisance at the gym some days ago.’ When the event happened, Lamarck and Gospodinov had already left the Mess, so I and Smith told them what had happened. Gruber lurked unseen behind the screen in the corner at the neuro-programmer, as usual. László returned from the gym, still sweating. ’The Schedule was determined long before this happened. He has to be processed sooner or later, anyhow.’, Gospodinov said. A few minutes later, Green checked the waiting room. Corporal De Vries and Sergeant Varga sat there, waiting. ’Ah. A fellow countryman! Hungarian brawn!’, László joked with Varga. The joking manner in which it was said, aside, it was very true. Like László himself, the thirty-three year old Varga seemed to be very interested in physical exercise, and genetically blessed, at that. A hint of envy could be seen in De Vries’ eyes, when he looked at Varga. We repeated the process which Jones and Bjarnarsson had endured, with only slightly enhanced settings. Gruber attentively studied the brainwave patterns of the test subjects. ’Oh! Um. Um. Um… nagy, nagy,! Ummm. Igen. Nagy. Mmmm… …Jól! Oh, um… kiváló… Mmmm… Ungh, ungh… nagyobb! Oh, oh, oh! Több. Több, több, több: IGEN! … Uh, nagyobb! NAGYOBB! Ough, oh, um, nnn, erősebb! Umngh… hatalmas, umngh… roppant, umngh… erőtejlesnek, umngh… óriásiabb, umnnngh, óriásiabb, umnnngh, óriásiabb, óriásiabb, óriásiabb, ÓRIÁSIABB! ÓRIÁSIABB!!! AH! UNGH! AAARGH!!!’, Vargas mumbled and shouted in his mask-mic, unaware of his surroundings. Under the pressure of The Program, both test subjects had mainly reverted to their native languages, and had given in to the overwhelming transformation experience. A very, very strange sound emerged from the speakers, like someone tried to stuff a leather sofa with raw meat. ’Ah! Um, keihard! Uh, uh, uhmm… onbreek…mmm, nnnn… Aan- OH! -genaam… Ja! Meer! Meer! Veel meer! VEEL MEE… UNGH! Ungh, ungh, ungh, goed, zo goed… umngh! Uhn! Heel goed!!! Umnh, uh, unnn… …ben ijzer sterk! Ungh, zal… uh, uh, tegenstand… vernietigen… Nnng… Ja! Ja! Unnnh! Allemaal… umngh, breken… EINDELOOS!!!’ De Vries had been the smaller of them when he stepped into the Chamber, but when Green had released them from their IV’s, and Gruber released them from their neuro-helmets, De Vries and Varga were of the same size, about two metres and with chests around 190 centimetres or so. Both had grown somewhat in height, but above all they had developed large amounts of well-defined and well-proportioned muscle mass. If Varga had been well built before the process, he now resembled an ancient statue of Hercules, although clean-shaven and with a buzz cut. Gospodinov and Green were preoccupied with the upcoming blood-tests, and Lamarck and Gruber watched the naked men in the same cool, objective way they would have watched a piece of cold meat for dissection on a slab. I felt awkward and somewhat threatened by the presence of the huge naked men, and I was not alone among the younger scientists to be shaken in my professional calm. A small suggestion of envy could be seen in the glance of László, and Smith’s ears were blossoming in red. With a delighted countenance, Vargas squeezed his chest muscles and biceps. Despite their maturely masculine features, both László and Varga broke up in boyfully delighted smiles, and their friendly warm brown eyes lit up in joyful mischief. They began to discuss in their own language: ’… nagyobb mint Vörös Zoltán, Molnar Peter…’ I didn’t understand a word, but they seemed enthusiastic. If the Hungarians’ eyes were filled with delight, the green eyes of De Vries were filled by something much more unsettling, in a mix of smugness and disdain. ’Don’t like what you see, Doctor Smith?’, De Vries said with a malicious smile, ’Or perhaps that is exactly what you do, don’t you?’ De Vries took a step forward, and ripped the white lab coat open from the embarrassed Smith’s tiny frame. Smith’s crotch bulged inside the fly. ’I will not allow a small fat faggot ogle me.’, the enraged De Vries said, and gripped Smith’s throat in an incredibly fast movement. De Vries lifted his other arm, and aimed for a stroke. ’I will not allow any pervert ogle me.’ Smith was suffocating. In the same moment a powerful hand grabbed De Vries’ lifted arm. It was Sergeant Varga. With the crook of his other arm, he grabbed De Vries’ neck, and tried to wrestle De Vries to the floor. The men struggled, and, since they were of the same size, the fight was even. Gospodinov and Lamarck hid in Gruber’s corner. László looked like he was considering joining the fight. Smith sat on the floor, dizzy. Jones and Bjarnarsson had taken up the habit to help the nurses with the amniotic fluid, which was heavy to carry. They now stepped inside the lab door, carrying large plastic containers, and observed the situation for a second. The next second Varga, Jones and Bjarnarsson had achieved a lay-out, and led the delinquent to Major Murphy. Jones had stayed behind while Varga and Bjarnarsson left, carrying De Vries between them. ’’ang on a mo’! Glad we could ’elp yuh, Doc. That gobshite divvy of a Dutchman ’ad ed coming. ’e be’aved like a tosser ter Taylor a’ breakfast, and, truth be said, ’as be’aved like a whopper all week, waiting tuh be marmalised. ’e orta calm down, otherwise ’e will receive a good thrashing by the entire Company. Yuh may be a posh twat, Doc, even a little bit of a pooftah, but yer our pooftah, zapping us all with yer magic machine over there, so for me it is more important tha’ yuh are a good scientist, than wha’ever makes yuh ’orny. Yuh do yer part in the war against the space squid by turning me and me crew into fuckin’ unbelievable fighting machines, an’ tha’s great. Yuh duhn't deserve ter be treated the way tha’ Dutch feller treated yuh. Ah suppose ed is flattering in a sense, tha’ yuh consider me an’ others in d’crew tuh be real bruisers. Just try ter avoid staring tuh much on me, so am Ah boss with ed.’ ’I never intended to embarrass you or De Vries or anyone else. I am, rather, embarrassed myself.’, Smith answered. ’No worries, Doc. I consider yuh a mucker nuw. Cotton me right: Ah will not deny two perfectly straight lads ter ’ave fun with each uvver, after surviving an air attack. Such things ’appen. D’thing Ah not like is ponceyness. Anyhuw, if the divvy cause up any shute again, duhn’t hesitate to tell me.’ He patted Smith carefully on the shoulder, and went. The next day Corporal Janssens, one of the Belgians, and Corporal Radu, one of the Romanians, went through the Procedure, and reacted just as well as Jones and Bjarnarsson did. Gruber decided to take brainwave samples of all specimens who reacted well to the treatment, in the hope to soon awake Soares and Johansson from their comatose state. With six successful cases, the mood in the Mess Hall had definitely improved. ’You are welcome to sit at our table if you want, Viking Guy.’, Kowalski told me at the queue with a serious expression. When we sat, eating, he asked: ’Do you think you will be able to awake Corporal Soares soon? And Corporal Johansson, of course.’ While Zielinski and two of the Czech test subjects listened silently, I explained our hopes as comprehensible as possible. ’Oi! Doc! You can’t let Jones have this advantage on me. How soon will you put me in the magic box?’ ’By the look of it, Radu’s wife will be overwhelmed of joy when he comes home. Hey there, Boffin! Can you assure all of us the same marital happiness?’ Roars of laughter. Radu throwing a roll on the man who spoke. A proud Janssens shouted: ’Anyone who want to watch when Coach measure how much I lift by now?’ When I went to bed at Hall 3-6-3, it was with the feeling of relief and optimism. From now on, everything would probably go better, without any unscheduled hiccups or accidents. I didn’t know how wrong I was. *** I awoke by a sound. Subdued noises came from the neighbouring room and the passage. I was sleepy and confused. Barefoot and only wearing a pair of pyjamas, I peeked out in the passage. It was Gruber and Varga. ’You will end this stupid joke immediately’, Gruber said in a harsh voice. ’Negative.’, Varga answered: ’You are not a part of The Program.’ ’I demand that you obey orders, soldier!’, Gruber said heatedly. ’I am programmed to obey The Program, Doctor. You are not a part of The Program.’ ’I am scientifically responsible for this Programme, soldier. Now obey my orders!’, Gruber shouted. ’Negative. You are not a part of The Program. Stay back, civilian. You are not part of this Program.’ Varga carefully pushed Gruber aside, and, oblivious of the Professor’s rage, strode away, and found me there, listening. He observed me unimpassionately for a second, and then said: ’You are not a part of The Program. You have been found attuneable to The Program. You will be integrated into The Program.’ When we entered the main corridor, I found Jones waiting there with an almost naked László, who had been pinioned with skipping-ropes from the Gym, and silenced with a towel. Something was strange with Varga’s and Jones’ eyes, like they were drugged, hypnotised or not really there. They bound a towel over my mouth. Without any comment, they led me and László to the Lab, and without further ado, they started the equipment the way they had seen us do it a couple of times. László, who was only dressed in a pair of jockstrap pants, and looked like a drowsy but angry commercial for nutritional supplements, tugged in his ropes, and was red in his face by his attempts to release himself. He was unable to speak, but his gaze viewed Jones and Varga with defiance. ’You will be integrated into The Program, Doctor Skrefsrud.’ ’This is ridiculous. Is this a joke? I am not a soldier, but a scientist. Will you now please release me and Doctor László.’ ’Incorrect. You will be integrated into The Program.’ Somewhat of Jones own personality broke through: ’Honestly, Viking Guy. With tha’ starving greyhound build of yours, ed would be bright ter pack onna few pounds o’muscle.’ I was unable to stop Jones and Varga from carrying out their insane plan. Their large and strong hands undressed me and threw my pair of pyjamas on a bench. They swabbed my skin at the spot where my subcutaneous implant was, and administered the IV. Electrodes monitoring my heart were placed at the ordinary places, the neurohelmet over my head, and the breathing mask over my face. I felt the strong warm hands of Varga helping me into the sluice. The doors behind me shut and the doors to the chamber opened. The humming increased in volume. CHAMBER ONE IS [NOT OCCUPIED] AND [WARMING UP] [Preparing for] Specimen: Dr. Skrefsrud Weight: 68 kilogrammes Height: 179 centimetres Chest: 96 centimetres Waist: 71 centimetres Arm: 35 centimetres Thighs: 55 centimetres Theoretically, I knew what to expect, when the machine began to hum softly, but to be present inside the claustrophobic cylinder during the procedure was something entirely different, than to impartially observe and document the process. Weakly, I pounded in panic against the steel and glass walls of the cylinder. But the entrapment was neither the only reason, nor the foremost reason for my fear. I knew, that soon the machine would expose my mind and my body to a Program built for highly trained soldiers, and highly trained soldiers prophylactically prepared in days and weeks before, at that. God knows what would happen if an unprepared civilian underwent the treatment. I knew my duty in this war: To use my scientific knowledge in order to help The Boys achieve their highest standard of performance, but not become a useless civilian test subject. It went against all reason – tactically and otherwise. With a gurgling sound the liquid began to pour and stream into the chamber, but the sound quickly changed into a resounding noise reminiscent of a faucet filling a tub, or a small fall streaming into a brook. The level rose quickly. My useless attempts to break free from the cylinder were soon swallowed by the near-oblivious state caused by the analgesic and tranquillising components of the IV-formula devised by Gospodinov and Lamarck. I wasn't fully aware about it, but my body was infused with the genetic modifiers, the hormonal stimulants and the highly concentrated nutrients necessary. My body braced itself, and was primed for the upcoming transformation. When I regained consciousness, I was floating weightlessly in the comfortably warm liquid, and one second of panic over the risk of drowning was quickly driven away by the reassuring hissing from the comfortably tight-fitting breathing mask. Everything was shimmering in a beautiful blue colour, and the inside of the cylinder had become almost mirror-like, only vaguely hinting about the human shapes moving or standing outside. I had been worried before. Why had I been worried before? Everything was warm, pleasant and blue-shimmering now, and very still and calm. With a whirring sound the helmet’s eyeshield lowered itself before my eyes. A black display with brightly coloured text and graphics filled my range of vision, and shut the view of the Chamber out. I saw the digital graphic charts of my present physique and the settings of the Morphogenetic Fields. CHAMBER ONE IS [OCCUPIED] AND [iNITIATING] [NEURO-PROGRAMMING PROTOCOL] Suddenly, something began to hammer relentlessly against my mind. No! I don't want to... No! No! No, no, no, no, oh no, oh, oh. Oh, oh, oh, uh, uh, uh, uh, ungh, ungh, ngh, nng, nng, nng, mnng, mnng, mnng, mnng, uh: Sir! Yes, Sir! Yes! O, yes! 101 0000… … 101 0010 100 1111 100 1010 100 0101100 0011 101 0100 010 0000 100 0100 100 0101 100 0110 100 0101 100 1110 100 0100 100 0101 101 0010… I integrated into The Program, and merged perfectly into the Project, becoming one of the test subjects, and evolving into another specimen of the new breed of super soldiers. Correction: Becoming one of us, and evolving into a part of the unit. This individual unit will obey the direction to protect the military unit and all civilians. This individual unit will do everything necessary to optimise and maximise the performance of himself and of The Program. No-one will be permitted to abolish or limit the aim of The Program. This individual unit is now attuning perfectly. This individual unit of The Program is now becoming enhanced. This individual unit is now becoming augmented according to plan. Words does not suffice to describe what happened in a matter of seconds: Instantaneously I became an expert on hundreds of weapon technologies, and my ability to make fast and correct tactical decisions in a situation was intensified in an incredible way. Close combat skills I never had were now deeply ingrained in my primal instincts, and I didn't feel fear: At least not the sort of fear which paralysed in a situation. I was still equipped with the ability to recognise and assess danger. The mental and emotional turmoil of the reprogramming was fading into focused serenity again. The liquid was warm against my skin, and my body felt warm and comfortable. I opened my eyes, and saw the display still folded down before them. The outline of my present physique stood out against the black background, sketched in blue lines, and the outline of the Morphogenetic Fields was drawn in green as usual. Suddenly, someone outside the cylinder was obviously editing the standard settings, in contradiction to the usual protocol. The cursor clicked on the traps, delts, pecs, lats and every other muscle of the anatomical drawing glowing in green, and made the skeleton taller and more broad shouldered. For a second, I reacted alarmed by the changes: Someone was compromising the safety of The Program, and the green anatomical drawing was now depicting a brutally built titanic individual. The next second I relaxed: This individual unit will do everything necessary to optimise and maximise the performance of himself and of The Program. Another change of settings almost escaped my attention, since the display now folded upwards: Hypertrophic radiation 300%. I could now see my blue-shimmering surroundings again. The next moment liquid blue was turned into flaming gold. I had always been absent minded. When sitting at a desk, my thoughts were always preoccupied by the studies and reports I read, not of my physical environment, my bodily posture, or my own breathing. When my legs walked through corridors at hospital or university, my thoughts and my self always wandered somewhere else. Actually, I had never been really and fully aware of my own bodily presence. It was different now. I felt my heartbeat resound in all my blood vessels, and my lungs greedily drank the oxygen-mixture hissing into my mouth from the breathing mask. And I felt how my personal awareness entirely filled up my body: my hardening torso, my broadening back, my now powerful thighs, my calves. And my arms! O, my arms! A hard, warm feeling filled my triceps’, bicep’s, the vein-covered fore-arms, and there was no part of my body, not fingers, nor toes, which was not entirely and perfectly a part of my intense, conscious, bodily presence. For the first time in my life I was aware. Present. Embodied. Physical. Me. That was just the beginning. Lightning struck. Power streamed into my being. Energy surged into my core. The flaming gold changed me, transformed my shape, enhanced my physique, transmuted the ore of my existing muscles into the steel-hard, pulsating cords and bulges of unyielding, raw, ultra-masculine brawn. I was oblivious of my surroundings now, ecstatically and deliriously consumed by The Program’s anabolic bliss. Then, this individual unit was optimised and maximised according to The Program. Strange stretch… But so pleasant. Pain. Excitement. O yeah! Height soaring. So tall, now. Lava heat in lats, broadening. Pump-like, entirely. Oh, oh, oh, uh! The feeling! Massive thighs, and fucking incredible calves. Cannonball glutes. Dense, hard, ripped, rocky, burning abs! So hard, mmmnnngh, so indestructible. Warm, heavy and insane arms. Unbreakable arms. Mountains! Pecs like armour! Titanic delts. Ridge of granite traps! Uh! Uh! This individual unit fluctuated between being entirely controlled by The Program and being aware of individuality. The desire to grow muscular may have existed in the deep recesses of the unit even before, or it may not, but anyway it now burned with this one focus: To optimise. To maximise. To be a useful instrument of this military unit. My one mission at the moment was, for my brothers’ sake, to increase my ability to run, haul, tug, lift, tear, throw, punch… The change! The powerblaze change! Growing. Hardening. Defining. Don’t stop it! Don’t end it! Raw power charging every atom! More! Unit want more! Optimise me! Maximise me! Increasing fire! Increasing power charge! Yeah! O yeah! Fucking yeah! So amazing! Pervading power… Yes! More! Unit will comply. Unit will protect. Unit powerful. Unit… mmmnnngh! Will use enhanced… Yes! Yes! … to defend… Yes! …mmmnnngh! I was losing control entirely, and wasn’t aware of which words or sounds I emitted. I dived, oblivious of the outer world, in a sea of radiant energy. I only knew that I craved to be even bigger. The separation between what was my bodily frame and the surrounding sea of energy began to blur. It felt like the entire ocean of power gushed into me. The power ocean filled me. I was the power ocean. O God! Uh, uh, grow, uh, uh, uh, unstoppable, uh, uh, uh, big, uh, uh, uh, hard, uh, uh, unh, unh, unh, power, unh, unh, charged, unh, crackling, unh, loaded, ungh, ungh, brimming, ungh, buzzing, ungh, umngh, umngh, umngh, mmmm, ah! Mmmm, ah! Mmmm, AH! MMMM AH! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! AH! AH! I AM INVINCIBLE! …! I had become a living weapon. When this individual unit regained consciousness, the liquid was fading, and the surface of the liquid was at my waist. The liquid no longer kept me floating in weightlessness, and I had to stand on my feet. My large feet felt vaguely unusual for me, but anyhow I knew that I was perfectly able to use them in close combat. The receding solution revealed to me the feeling of this heavyweight body and the faces of my team-members outside the hypertrophic chamber: Worried but awe-struck (László), embarrassed but excited (Smith) and triumphant (Jones and Varga). When only a negligible amount of remaining liquid was whirling at the bottom of the glass cylinder, it opened, and Smith relieved me from the breathing mask and the neuro-helmet. ’I don’t know what to say’, Smith murmured. I eyed one of the screens, which still reported my new statistic data in light blue letters: CHAMBER ONE IS [NOT OCCUPIED] AND [iN STANDBY MODE] Specimen [leaving chamber]: Dr. Skrefsrud Weight: 197 kilogrammes Height: 205 centimetres Chest: 203 centimetres Waist: 109 centimetres Arm: 79 centimetres Thighs: 101 centimetres ’The insurgence of the test subjects is unnerving, and their insane idea to meddle with the settings made me worry for your and Green’s lives, but it doesn’t seem to be that dangerous. Quite contrary, as it seems. Do you feel alright?’ ’Green?’, I asked. ’Yes. As soon as they had placed you in Chamber 1, they put Green in Chamber 2. Do you feel alright?’ Outside the cylinder I began to notice the full consequences of the process. I was looking down on Smith who eyed my abs before he reached up to remove the IV tube. My vivid memory of once being a hardgainer now seemed as a bad joke. My broad shoulders were melons of marble, and my chest consisted of well-defined steel-hard pecs, separated by a deep valley continuing downwards between the cobblestone abs. My upper body had achieved a perfect V-shape. I felt confident, energised and content. ’I haven’t felt better in my entire life. Trust me. This is incredible, truly incredible.’ Smith swallowed. ’You look indescribably well, Skrefsrud, although I feel a little bit intimidated by you. Will you please help me to release Green from Chamber 2, so we can discuss the problem of the test subjects.’ ’The problem?’, I asked. ’Which problem?’ ’O come on, Skrefsrud. I mean the insurgence. They can’t use the lab against our permission, and experiment on persons who are not even test-subjects. We have to awake Major Murphy or Captain Melnyk.’ ’I see no problem. You are attunable to The Program. This individual unit will do everything necessary to optimise and maximise the performance of himself and of The Program.’ ’O God! It can’t be true? You have become one of them!’ ’I am a part of The Program. You will become a part of The Program. Do not worry, citizen. You will become an enhanced and augmented unit. Jones enjoyed the procedure. Varga enjoyed the procedure. I enjoyed the procedure. You will enjoy the procedure.’ Jones and Varga observed with equal amounts of sense of duty, glee and compassion, when I began to undress Smith, who looked like a trapped animal. Intense fear shone from his eyes, when I put the neurohelmet on his head, and fastened the breathing mask over his nose and mouth. The experience of standing naked, surrounded by three insanely muscular men, of which one was stark naked and two were uniformed, seemed to involuntarily cause conflicting emotions in Smith. He sported an obvious hard-on. I pressed my powerful hand to his tiny shoulder, in order to steady him when I placed the IV tube in his subcutaneous membrane. He panicked, but his voice became inaudible when I closed the doors of the hypertrophic chamber. Next, we released Green from Chamber 2. He had reacted well to The Program, and followed it as dutifully as expected, but, by unknown reasons, he hadn’t grown entirely as much as myself. Jones, Varga, Green and myself were one in purpose when we turned around, and looked at László. During the struggle before my transformation, László had maintained a cocky and defiant attitude towards Jones and Varga, but now he sat bound to his chair with his shoulders sloped in a resigned expression. Jones let me free László from the ropes, and in silence László began unprompted to undress, and stepped into Chamber 2. His resigned expression was mixed with something else, and when I administered the IV-tube, he looked on me with an eager smile. Anticipation shone from his warm brown puppy eyes. ’I have worked out my entire life, Skrefsrud. If this is my destined way to achieve my dreams, so be it. I very much doubt, that I will resist the treatment the way you and Green tried. Bring it on, soldier! All you have, and then some. Fiddle with the settings if you believe it will benefit The Project. See you on the other side.’ Jones closed the doors, and Green activated Gospodunov’s anabolic formula. In order to alleviate Smith’s fear, the tranquillisers and analgesics were administered in a somewhat higher dose. We looked at the screen: CHAMBER ONE IS [OCCUPIED] AND [RUNNING PREPARATORY PROTOCOL] Specimen: Dr. Smith Weight: 85 kilo grammes Height: 170 centimetres Chest: 106 centimetres Waist: 96 centimetres Arm: 30 centimetres Thighs: 66 centimetres CHAMBER TWO IS [OCCUPIED] AND [RUNNING PREPARATORY PROTOCOL] Specimen: Dr. László Weight: 92 kilo grammes Height: 176 centimetres Chest: 121 centimetres Waist: 81 centimetres Arm: 48 centimetres Thighs: 66 centimetres ’Which settings do we prefer?’, I asked Jones and Varga. They thought for a few seconds. ’Let’s experiment. You don’t know the outer limits of the procedure yet, do you?’ The four of us looked at the screen. After some thought, Green adjusted the balance of the nutrients slightly. Jones asked about the levels of hypertrophic radiation, and, after a discussion between myself and Green, we combined a 350% level with an increased saturation of nano-particles. We modified the morphogenetic field even further than during the processing of me and Green. Thirty minutes later, Lászlo roared in excitement. ’Make me into one of them! Make me… Yes! Make me into one of you! Yes! Yes! Make me into one of… Uh, uh, uh, into one of us! Yes, yes, YES! Sir, yes sir!’ His speech faded into guttural noise, when the proficiency and behavioural patterns were implanted into him. He hadn’t resisted The Program. We turned our attention to Smith’s Chamber. He was awakening for the reprogramming. ’Don’t meddle with the settings! Let me out! Are you still out there? The walls are like blue mirrors now. I can’t see you. Hello? Are you there? Don’t put the machine on. Ouch! I’m burning! Ah! Ah!’ We were able to see Smith from the outside of the Chamber. The translucent cylinder revealed his small, pale and portly body floating weightlessly in the blue solution like a dark-haired pallid pear. ’No! I will not! I will certainly not! Will… Mmmm. No. Not! Mmmm… No! I refuse! I… Mmmm… We will… I… Mmmm… Oh! The Program! Mmmm… We… Uh, uh, uh, ah, ah… Mmmm… SIR! YES, SIR!’ His body stiffened and arched a moment, but then relaxed. The reprogramming took over, and Smith’s pulse slowed down from the dangerous rate Green had monitored cautiously. After a while the usual humming sound began and increased in volume, until the golden lightning bombarded László’s and Smith’s defenceless bodies. Through the golden red flares the outlines of our new recruits were only dimly seen, but it was obvious that they grew in height and muscle mass. Body fat swiftly burned away from Smith under the pressure of the energy-consuming process, and hints of an emerging six pack could be faintly traced. The screen reported their changes better, than an observation of the actual chambers did, since the light from the bolts and surges was nearly blinding in the beginning of the process. The anatomic charts in blue lines were gradually moving closer to the surrounding charts in green lines. Inside the chambers László and Smith murmured, grunted and groaned without coherent sentences, lost in their intense experiences, in a manner not unknown for anyone who belonged to The Project himself. Smith’s voice had deepened into a pleasant bass. From the fragments of their moaning, it seemed like they were able to see their own reflections in the inside surface of the chambers. From the speakers connected to László’s mask we heard: ’Oh. Ah. Oh. Mmmm. Ah. Fucking pump! Nnnn. Uh. So awesome! Oh, yes. Oh, yes! Oh, my abs! Mmmm. Ah. Fucking Lesukov pecs! Coleman back! Love this feeling. Uh. Ah. Oh! Better than exp… Oh! Yes! More! Ripped! Mmmm, ah! Look at these! Mmmm. I’m so… oh! Uh. Yes! Brutal! Beyond! Nnnn! Nnng! Will defeat… Uhnnn!’ From Smith’s mask-mic we heard: ’Yes. Yes, yes. Attuned… Nnnn. Enhanced… Nnnn. Um. Augmented… Nnnm. Resist every… Nnnm. Mmmm. Immense! Mmmm. Herculean! Mmmm. Powerboast! Oh! Gigantic! Titanic! Oh! Oh! OH! This unit… mnnn… defend … Oh. Ah. Oh! So full, tight, hard, oh, uh, uh. Mmnngh, massive, mmnngh, brutal, fucking, oh, nnnh, ah. So… uhnn, uhnn.’ Through the raging glow of the hypertrophic radiation we saw László and Smith change. László had been in very good shape already, but even he was changing. He was taller now, and more broad shouldered than before. His shoulders were like volley balls, and were still growing. His twitching pecs were like basket balls pulsating of their own life. His abs were like tightening tennis balls cast of some strange uncrushable metal. In the case of Smith, the ongoing transformation was even more sensational. His once fragile and unhealthy appearance had lost all traces of bodyfat, and now loomed inside the Chamber, like some tall, overwhelming muscular living monument, purposely designed to instil wariness, respect and awe in the beholder. He was built by unbelievably powerful, still growing, muscles contracting and pulsating in the glow of the empowering emissions of buzzing hypertrophic bolts. His enormous bull-neck and insanely defined abs, obliques and serratus made it hard to believe it was the same man. His chin had grown larger and was now indented by a little dimple. He had been well-shaven at the moment he had been forced into the Chamber, but now his chin and cheeks were covered in short, dark stubble. The transformation process just went on and on, for a longer duration and with more extreme results, beyond what we had thought possible. Jones and Varga looked fixedly on the men in the chambers. The golden light from the rays illumined their facial expressions of obedience to The Program, pride over their new recruits, and awe before the intimidating and insanely bulging behemoths of bronzed steel inside the cylinders, radiating confidence, superiority, ultra-masculinity and strength. Green checked the screen. CHAMBER ONE IS [OCCUPIED] AND [RUNNING PHYSICAL REPROGRAMMING PROTOCOL] Dr. Smith Weight: [213 kilo grammes] [AND INCREASING] Height: [209 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Chest: [210 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Waist: [118 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Arm: [82 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Thighs: [110 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] CHAMBER TWO IS [OCCUPIED] AND [RUNNING PHYSICAL REPROGRAMMING PROTOCOL] Dr. László Weight: [215 kilo grammes] [AND INCREASING] Height: [211 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Chest: [212 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Waist: [120 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Arm: [85 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Thighs: [109 centimetres [AND INCREASING] The charts in blue lines almost conformed to the charts in green lines, and the difference between the charts diminished every second. The grunts and moans from the recruits changed into bellowing roars of excitement. ’Big! Big! Big, big, big, big, big, oh fucking ah!’ ’Process intense! Uh, uh, uhngh! Affirmative!’ ’These… Oh, yeah! And these… O my God!’ ’Oh, in-du-ration … of … mnnngh! Ah, oh, uh! Achieving!’ ’Uhnn, uhnn, uhnn, ah, oh, ah, ah. AH! AH! AH! Yes! Yes! YES! YE… AAH! AAAH!!! THE POWER! …!’ ’Optimising! MAXIMISING! Nnngh, mnnngh, AAH! AAAH NGH!!!’ The humming sound from the chambers subsided, the thunderstorm in gold abated, and the fluid flushed into the draining gutter. When the chambers had become free from the liquid, the test subjects stepped outside. *** For me and Green it was obvious that we now had enough useful data about a healthy way to execute the Procedure. ’Lieutenant Jones. The data needed for reawakening of Corporal Soares and Corporal Johansson are most probably gathered by now. The Program demand their integration and reinstallment.’ ’Yes, it does, Doctor Skrefsrud. This will be undertaken.’ While Jones and László went to Infirmary, the now uniformed Smith looked at his goggles on the desk: ’I have no use for these anymore. My sight is perfect after the morphogenetic treatment – a positive side-effect we hadn’t considered.’ He grabbed his spectacles with his huge hand, and crushed them into pieces, throwing the remains in the recycling boxes for glass and metal. A few minutes later, the thuggishly built Jones held Soares’ fragile and defenceless body in his powerful arms, with a concerned and protective expression. He cradled Soares’ unconscious body carefully, and gave me the impression of an alpha male wolf protecting a wounded cub. Similarly, but even taller, and with his brutal build, László loomed at the far end of the Lab with – the already slightly transformed – Johansson. Only a man built like László could have been able to carry Johansson on his own. The synthetic amniotic fluid in the chambers was replaced by a cleaning chemical and emptied. The machines were already warming up for another step for The Program and some of its recruits. Several hours remained of the most eventful night of the experiment. The story continues in https://muscle-growth.org/topic/7120-project-defender-chapter-three/
  13. muscleandsweat

    Peter (2 parts)

    This is one of my first creations. A short story in two parts. First part: The sign outside read "Help Wanted"; and as Peter was looking for a job to pay his way through school, he rang the doorbell. A buzzer sounded and he walked through a stately marble parlor and into an open reception area. A very handsome secretary greeted him, handed him a clipboard after he'd stated his reason for being there, and bade Peter to the waiting area, to fill out the forms he'd been given. After filling out the forms, Peter returned them to the secretary, who briefly looked them over, and then bade him wait again, for his "screening". After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, Peter was called back into a set of corridors that looked much like a Doctor's office, and was placed in one examination room. He was told to take off his shirt and shoes, and to sit on the table. After a short wait, a man in an overcoat, who introduced himself as "Doctor Terry" entered, and looked briefly over a clipboard. "Ah, I see that all the release forms have been signed, so we can begin the screening, to determine whether you can be of use to the firm", he said, raising his eyebrows and hesitating at the word "use". He bade Peter to breathe deeply, and removed a stethoscope from the wall, with which he proceeded to listen to Peter's heartbeat. After nodding appreciatively a few times, Doctor Terry proceeded to scribble something on his pad. He then bade Peter to open his mouth, and say "Ah". Peter did, and he felt a metal rod on his tongue. His "ah" was cut short when he felt a liquid hit his tongue, and he reflexively gagged. The doctor said sympathetically that it was some disinfecting gel that he had forgotten to remove from the rod, and that it was harmless. He bade Peter to swallow it. The liquid had a metallic taste, and was bitter. The doctor removed the metal rod, and then shone a light in each of Peter's eyes. "Very good", said Doctor Terry reassuringly. For some reason, this pleased Peter very much. That Doctor Terry was happy made Peter happy. The light made Peter happy, too. Peter began to feel very sexy. With the light dancing back and forth in front of each eye, Peter began to fumble with his belt buckle. It was a puzzle to him. Everything was a puzzle to him at the present, except the feeling of hotness that overwhelmed him. He felt incompetent. He was also drooling. "Yes, those pants are restricting, aren't they?" said the Doctor, which of course was true" "Shall I help you get them off, Peter?" the Doctor offered. "Yes, please", Peter said indifferently, apparently only focused on the light. The doctor pocketed the light, and quickly retrieved a spiral, and, planting it before Peter and turning on its blue light, proceeded to help Peter out of his pants and underwear. With Peter undressed, the Doctor lead him through a number of induction rituals that tied pleasure to trance in Peter's mind, and also increased the level of trust and devotion to Doctor terry and the firm. Doctor Terry additionally sucked Peter's cock, and proceeded to lubricate his asshole, all the while coaxing him away from orgasm. As the point of no return seemed imminent, Doctor Terry summoned an assistant, who entered the room promptly. The assistant was an enourmously muscular man who wore just a pair of boots and sunglasses, entered the room with his ramrod cock pointing the way, approached the prostrate Peter, and proceeded to enter him, while the latter moaned. No sooner was the assistant to the hilt, did Peter's dick proceed to spurt shot after shot of cum, mostly against his own stomach. The muscular man pulled out with a plop and immediately left the room. Doctor Terry allthewhile was commenting "very good" and scribbling furiously in his notebook. *** Peter awoke with a start. He was in his own bed. The previous day was a blur to him, and he wasn't quite sure when and how he'd gotten back home. In any case, he felt quite horny, and his dick was hard as a rock. He looked down at his dick and saw a note tied on a string around it. He was surprised, and fumbled with the note, which was written in his own handwriting. "Appt. today at 11:30 at RD" it read. As it was close to 10:30, he thought he'd better make his way quickly to the appointment: perhaps he'd get the position! The receptionist smiled a devilish grin as he entered the office, and somewhere he felt he recognized that superlative build, but maybe it'd just been from his visit yesterday. For some reason he couldn't remember leaving the office yesterday, but Peter pushed that thought aside as the receptionist handed him a box and lead him to an examination room. He told Peter to take off his shirt and pants, and to wait on the table again. Peter did so, setting the box on the table beside him. As soon as the Doctor entered, Peter felt immediately relaxed and obedient, and a faint air of sexiness overcame him. The Doctor congratulated Peter and suggested the company could use him, and then said that one of his immunizations was not current, but the Doctor would handle that. "First, though", said the doctor, "I need you to open the box next to you and put on its contents". Peter grabbed the box, and, opening its lid, pulled out a pair of very stylish sneakers. "Without socks?" Peter asked. "Sure, there's a special fluid absorbing coating on the insides of the shoes, no worries", said the doctor. Peter put on the shoes, and, feeling a slight prick on his heels, bent to take them off. Doctor Terry stopped him, saying, "don't worry, they're special custom designs. They'll adjust to your feet." Peter's feeling of sexiness increased, and he stretched out to his full stature, somehow feeling fuller and manlier than ever, and feeling very open and receptive to Doctor terry. "Here, try these on", said the latter, handing Peter a black rimless pair of sunglasses, the aviator kind. Peter put them on, and was immediately greeted by lovely spirals that would occasionally change to pictures of big hulking men, apelike save for their hairlessness. Peter, who never considered himself gay, moved to protest as he saw these images, but each time he moved his feet, he felt the pleasure travelling up from his heels increase. Then the heat began. The doctor was telling him how pleased he was to have Peter on the team, and about his new role at Rainbow Delights, but Peter was barely able to focus his attention. All over his body, he felt extremely hot. It was as though ants were crawling under his skin. He also felt swollen. "I see you're beginning to feel the process" the Doctor smiled at Peter, whose shoulders had begun to noticeably broaden. "Yes, it happens very quickly", the Doctor continued. "We perfected in recent years a special formula, which completely inhibits Myostatin, a hormone which limits muscle growth in humans. Your shoes have been equipped with mini-syringes that inject a small amount of a serum containing this compound, and a number of muscle enhancing drugs we've produced directly into your bloodstream. You see, we here at Rainbow Delights specialize in providing extremely muscular male companions to a growing market." At this point, Peter's lats spread, blossoming like flowers, and his pecs ballooned outward and drooped. "The market is booming so quickly, in fact, that we're in constant need of new recruits. It's a convenient relationship: we offer our boys extraordinary bodies, and they offer their improved and enhanced bodies to our clients for a fee. Since we don't have the time to invest in watching our boys grow over a period of months and months we've actually been able to speed up the process, so that we can give a man a superb build in a matter of hours. No part of the body is spared." As the Doctor said this, Peter's dick began to visibly lengthen and thicken, much beyond its former stature. Peter was unable to speak, in part because of the pleasure coursing through his body, and in part because he wouldn't be able to find the words were the former not the case. He began to mumble something. Doctor Terry cut in: "Yes, Peter. you're well on your way to being an absolute muscle stud, one among many in our team. You like that, don't you, Peter? You want to be a huge man with big muscles, right?" Peter moaned, and nodded. His new and improved body was hard everywhere. His biceps were huge peaks, crowned with impeccable delts, and an impossily thick neck. His legs were cords of muscle, and his stomach a rivetted pool of obliques and abs. "You like working for your team, right Peter?" the Doctor asked. Peter, the big drooling new ape, nodded dumbly. "Peter, your new body makes you incredibly horny, hornier than you've ever been in your life. Thinking about the things you're going to do for the firm with your new body gives you a painfully hard erection." Peter groaned, the exam table straining under his new bulk. His fat new tool, adorned with a shiny helmet head, stretched to his belly button. "Peter, when I count to five, you are going to cum, and you are going to realize it is the best orgasm you've ever experienced, and that all the orgasms to come from your work for the firm will continue to be better and better, and that you were made for this, to work for the team. Is that right?" Peter just moaned, and a spout of precum dripped onto his hard, ripped belly. "One…" "Two…" "Three…" Peter moaned loudly. "Four…" "Five" Peter, the newest addition to Rainbow Delights, erupted in a fountain of cum and muscle. He was going to enjoy his new job… Part 2 (shorter): Peter quickly grew accustomed to his new lifestyle. If he had any reservations before about sleeping with men, they disappeared when he saw his reflection in the mirror, a stunning image of a colossus of a man, with mammoth traps and delts that looked like armour. Fucking a man's love chute for possessing such a cannonball body was a small price to pay. His back was enormous, with wing-like lats that spread farther than he would've thought possible before his job and his transformation began. He turned himself on, and he had plenty of time to do so as his uniform consisted of his boots and shades. As the team members were always driven to clients, they had no need for clothes, and this gave him plenty of time to inspect his and other team members' bodies. As the muscle building serum injected through their heels also kept their obscenely large members constantly erect, they resembled a stable of stallions, and conversations between the guys was usually restricted to "Can I fuck your face with this?" Peter recounted his first John, a voluptuously muscled police officer who had a fetish for muscled guys. Peter had had reservations in the car ride over. He'd never consciously been with a man before, and he didn't know if he could get it up. His conditioning and the serum helped, however, and, by the end of the night, one might be troubled not to ask the reverse question: could his virility find its limitations? The answer seemed an assured "no", and the police officer eventually collapsed on top of Peter, with Peter's python still in his back door. Peter, of course, soon gave up his studies to focus on his fucking for Rainbow Delights, and on improving his body. The latter he did by working out twice a day in a state of the art gym on the campus of RD.. where he soon moved. This latter option was only available to the highest-earning stallions, and Peter's short black hair, burning gray eyes and his dedication to building the most exquisite body on the planet -- in part reinforced through the flurry of images of huge, muscular and big-dicked men that accompanied his every waking moment via the sunglasses -- garnered him a place among the select studs within the firm. Of course, all the stallions were completely hairless, except for on their heads, and most of this was kept short. Each man underwent a laser procedure, in which the follicles were burned out. Peter's procedure was preceded by weeks of continual presentation of images of muscular, smooth men via his shades, and the association of arousal with touching his smooth skin. Peter enjoyed the feeling of jerking himself with one hand on top of his head in front of the mirror, so he could see his bulging biceps and his hairless armpit. All the time he didn't spend eating, sleeping or fucking willing clients, was spent working out his huge muscles. In this particular instance, Peter was just returning from a crushing shoulder workout, when, upon returning to his suite and, after showering and moving to rest a few moments on his huge bed, he saw a tiny silver sliver on the bed, with two antennae protruding in a ramshackle way from it. Looking closer, he saw it was an MP3 player. Doctor Terry often made tapes for his most prized studs, especially as rewards after particularly outstanding client sessions or muscular development in the gym. Peter figured, in his case, it must be both, and he rested on the bed and stuck the plugs in each ear. The next thing Peter knew he was experiencing an earth-shattering orgasm, his prostate buzzing and his cock shooting out volley after volley of cum. He looked down, and thick ropes covered his chest and a puddle had formed in the corrugated patchwork of his abdominals. These grew denser as he continued shooting, every muscle in his body tense and covered in a sheen of sweat. The cum even covered some of the veiny expanse of his thick, brawny bicep. He looked and saw his hands resting at his sides: the Doctor had made him experience this without once touching himself! This realization increased his devotion and submission to the Doctor, and he felt he'd do anything for Doctor terry, especially after he'd given him this amazing body. He looked down at his chest, now covered in sweat and cum, and began massaging the cum into his thick and meaty pecs. His nipples were incredibly sensitive, and he shot one or two more labored volleys as he fondled them, the stimulation sustaining his orgasm a few more moments. Doctor Terry was good to him in that way. He could keep his orgasms going forever, if he wanted, and as long as Peter was obedient to Mr. Terry, he would keep growing bigger and stronger, and he would keep feeling pleasure.
  14. The Teaser for this story is found here: http://muscle-growth.org/topic/5008-teaser-for-the-new-story-project-defender/ DEDICATION I dedicate this story, which is my first, in gratefulness to all the persons who have given me advice: Scriptboy and Alexdrake who assisted with the translations in Chapter 2; Jocaflo, who taught me about Portuguese name customs; Arpeejay who gave me advice on stats (although I only followed most, and not all, of them); gecko888 who declined to let the French become main protagonists, but taught me a few thing about the French Armed Forces; and T. and W. who proofread (you know who you are). All quirks and oddities are the author’s own. Since English isn't my native language, please send me a message, if I am incomprehensible. Some things may have become corrupted in translation. DISCLAIMER The following Chapter do contain descriptions of verbal abuse, nakedness and sexually aroused men, a military-industrial environment, speciesism, a library scene with religious and atheist books, jokes about national stereotypes, a smaller amount of uncouth speech, together with a lot of Northern European irony and sci-fi references probably best understood by the age range born 1960-1990. If you may take offence of anything aforementioned, you are hereby strongly reckommended to not read further. Please, go away. You have been warned. DON'T PANIC Oh, and another thing: If the complicated background (which is two thirds of Chapter One) tire you out, you can jump right to 'It was afternoon again. Lamarck and Gospodinov had beeen unusually...' after three stars ***, in order to come to the growth bit, but you wouldn't understand the sci-fi-scientific lingo then. Project Defender – Chapter 1 My heart sank in my breast, and I felt a feeling of foreboding coldness in my belly, when the army jeep entered the slope leading down into the subterranean tunnel. On our way there, I had watched the skies nervously for any vessels, but the Pseudo-Crustacean Extra-Terrestrial Organisms had seemingly chosen to attack another part of the European mainland that day, so we arrived unharmed. When we had passed through the Outer Perimeter a few minutes earlier, I had heard conversations in Finnish, English (with an Irish accent) and a handful of languages I didn’t recognise among the rugged, camouflage-painted snipers around the smoking wood-fires. Several days later I was briefed, that Finland, Northern Ireland, Croatia, Bosnia, Serbia and Ukraine had volunteered to man the Outer Perimeter. I didn’t envy them, but sent them my thoughts of gratitude, since it was their dangerous duty outside, which made my assiduous work inside possible and undisturbed. The jeep continued on its way downward in the asphalt-coated meandering tunnel. On two consecutive levels we had to await the opening of armoured steel gates painted in black and yellow. Outside the first gate, the air was moist, and smelled of gasoline and rubber, but inside the gate, the jeep switched into electric mode. Silently purring without any fumes, the vehicle took us to our destination. I wasn’t surprised to find out, that my phone-watch didn’t work under the surface. The Inner Gate at the end of the Parking Hall (a natural cavern, enlarged and carved into rectangular shape by human hand) was connected to a keypad lock with microphone and speaker. ’Doctor Skrefsrud reporting for duty.’ I hoped that I used Army Speak correctly. University research teams were not environments, which trained for dealing with servicemen. ’Welcome, Doctor Skrefsrud.’, answered the metallic voice of the speaker. The gate opened for me and the driver, revealing a man-sized concrete passageway leading into Research Facility B. It was at this facility we had been ordered to assist in the defence against the Extra-Terrestrials (or PCETOs), by ’improving the performance of military human resources’, as the classified report preferred to express the purpose. All of it wasn’t classified actually. Certain parts of the scientific tools had been reported in newspapers, and an early undefined Pan-European plan about ’space marines’ had been debated in public several years ago, but nothing had happened then. And now a space invasion occurred. If the Project had been led by the European Union, several states, such as Iceland, Norway, Albania or Ukraine would have been unable to participate, and Switzerland, the Republic of Ireland and Sweden would have refused to participate if the initiative had been taken by NATO, but since the Project was now launched by an entirely different international European body, they all agreed to do their part. The member countries had reacted in very different ways. France enthusiastically backed the project financially, and sent us their two required test subjects according to the letter of the agreement, together with a chef. UK told us, they should ’explore other means beside this laudable initiative’, but sent us lots of medical supply, two officers with a past in the SAS, a physicist and a sports medicine physician. The German negotiators obliged to take the major part of the financial burden for the Project, but informed us, that they declined to send any men at all, due to domestic political concerns. The Italian negotiator – a former Prime Minister – assured that Italy was willing to support the Project financially in many small amounts of money delivered according to a long-term plan, and tried to convince the coordinators, that a much larger share of Italian test subjects would be reasonable, ’since Italian men are more masculine than other Europeans’. I later heard a rumour, that the Spanish and Greek representatives tried to leave the negociations in an angry hurry at that moment, but our coordinators (Norwegian and Swiss diplomats, together with military officers from Ireland and Ukraine respectively) politely declined the offer: The Italians had to send just their agreed number of two men, and the placated Spanish and Greek representatives remained at the meeting until it closed. We had no fuzz with the smaller countries, but were somewhat surprised, when Liechtenstein, Andorra, San Marino and Monaco sent two test subjects each. Iceland have no army in the ordinary sense, but sent two coast guards instead. Vatican City informed us, that we ’served in a just war, if we defended the innocent’, but, due to a treaty, Vatican City was hindered to send any participants itself. Switzerland was constitutionally hindered to send any combatants on its own behalf, but sent us two Swiss Guards on the behalf of the Vatican instead. None of us on medical staff complained: The healthy, weapon-trained twenty-five year olds, sent by the Swiss, were probably more attuneable to the Project, than a pudgy, middle-aged, non-combatant, retired Ethics professor, a clerical office boy, or whatever the Vatican otherwise had been able to spare. I was met at the entrance of my new environment by Doctor Smith, an acquaintance from an international research conference. I didn’t know him very well, but, a couple of years ago, he had presented an interesting paper about Morphogenetic Fields. ’Nice to see you again, Doctor Skrefsrud. Let us skip Army Speak, while we are among fellow scientists. You will see, that the Research Facility keep us in three different areas: Military personnel at Hall 3-6-1, administration and nurses at 3-6-2 and us clever ones at 3-6-3.’ I followed Smith through the corridors carved into the stone. Research Facility B was a very vast complex of cavernous halls, coldly lit by old-fashioned fluorescent tubes. We passed an office hall with desks, computers and folders, staffed by the coordinators, Hansen and Müller, Novák, the Amanuensis and Andersson, the Registrar. ’Initially, Sweden and the Czech Republic – who had been given responsibility for the bureaucracy – wished to send women as office staff, due to equality concerns, but the European level decided against it – being worried about the risk of harassment, I suppose. Actually, several countries wished to send one male and one female soldier, but that was vetoed by Gospodinov, our endocrinologist. It was something about oestrogen balance and bad experiences from female shot-putters, back in the days. I didn’t listen attentively, I’m afraid, since endocrinology is not my field. We are only men here, now. An unusual environment, compared to my usual Oxford lab team, but I do not complain.’ Then we entered the mess hall. ’Since the Project is such a small unit, hastily gathered together in an emergency situation, there is no reason to uphold the difference between several different mess halls. I suppose the presence of us civilians has contributed to upset the ordinary structures somewhat. They didn’t know how to organise us, really.’, Smith said. ’But Major Murphy and Captain Melnyk usually sit at the short table close to that wall – reminds me of Refectory back at St. Cynhelm’s, actually – and the entire scientific department is allowed to sit there, if we wish. We have been given some slack, and we are allowed to eat together with the office staff or the test subjects if we wish. I don’t expect the grunts to read Einstein, Hawking or Vera Rubin, though.’ Smith pointed out the corridor leading to the test subjects’ living quarters, the corridor leading to the officers’ and office staff’s living quarter, the laundry, the gym, the showers, Inventory, Infirmary, meditation room, and the corridor leading to the research area. ’We have eighty-four test subjects at our disposal, organised into eleven smaller squads. Even if the result wouldn’t be optimal at the first trials, it wouldn’t take too long until we understand how to facilitate the procedure to maximum extent, or so I hope, anyhow.’ Smith was of slightly short stature, and, despite the years still left until his fortieth birthday, a somewhat rotund belly had began to grow at his mid-section. I was a few years younger than him, and had achieved my doctoral degree at the age of 31, some years before. When he brought me to the scientists’ living quarters, I found out that Smith, Green (the British sports medicine physician) and László (the hunky Hungarian nutritionist and trainer) and myself were scientists in our 30’s, and that the remaining three scientists all had passed their 60th birthday. We were assisted by four male nurses in their late twenties. We arrived at the living quarters for scientific personnel. I put my belongings in a locker, washed my face, and brought a handful of files with me to the lab. *** The following day I was focussed on directing the engineers while they unpacked most of our scientific equipment, but – to the consolation for all of us – the Dark Matter cyclotron had arrived and been installed long before my own arrival. I was therefore not fully aware that the corridors began to echo of arriving recruits, the youngest of them recently promoted to the rank of corporal at the instance they accepted the assignment to this very specialised company – the first of its kind. The briefing took place in the evening. Each of us had been instructed to give extremely short lectures in laymen’s terms – not necessarily an easy objective for a bunch of persons so accustomed to University. Major Murphy ordered silence, and in very few words presented The Program, and Captain Melnyk presented himself for the sake of the late arrivals, who hadn’t met him yet. They then assigned the scientific team to present the different aspects of The Program. ’Gentlemen. I am Professor Gruber. My area is brain physiology. My field of expertise is an entirely new way of imprinting new knowledge and new habits into the brains of persons, and enhance the speed of such things as reflexes and tactical decisions. I look forward to work together with you.’ The gaunt and bald Austrian neurological expert in his very strict grey suit, looked out over the audience with his penetrating ice-blue eyes, and ended his short speech. Gruber’s dry, aloof and abrupt style of addressing non-academicians only served to enhance László’s more relaxed and humorous style, when the latter spoke to the soldiers the same way he was accustomed to address footballers, weightlifters and bodybuilders, when he coached them: ’Hi. I’m Doctor László, but you may call me Csaba. The politician and the footballers are no relatives of mine, if you wonder.’ He chuckled. Only the two Hungarian test-subjects laughed. Under his lab coat László was dressed in a sweatshirt, tracksuit pants and sneakers. A stopwatch hanged around his neck, and he wore a heart rate reading device around his wrist. ’I am sorry that your meals will be measured with precision, and you will not be allowed to eat more than what I and my colleague here, Doctor Green, will allow. The meals will follow a planned and calculated pattern, with larger servings some days, and smaller servings some days. I assure you, that this is not at random. Theoretically, the pattern of your nutritional intake will cooperate with the other augmentation factors of The Program, to make you the best of the best. Every morning the nurses will take blood samples, urine samples and check your blood pressure. I will give you a training programme for physical exercise, and – as those of you who arrived early already have found out – we have an excellent gym at the Facility. Each one of you will see me and Doctor Green at least every eight day during the project, and the training programme will soon become individually tailored. The good news are, that servings at the meals will become larger for those who have undergone the procedure, and that it was decided that France and Italy would be responsible for sending chefs to The Program.’ Cheering from the Italians and the French. No-one else seemed to disagree, however. I looked out over a crowd of men of almost every European nationality. All of them had finished at least basic military training and served a few years, but, beyond that, their years in service ranged considerably. The youngest were 21 years old, while the most experienced of them were in their mid-30’s like László, Smith and myself. They had been sent here, not because of their age, not because of their years in service, or their military rank, but because of their performance ratings. A slender, clean shaven and rather tall man past his sixtieth year, dressed in the latest fashion suit under his lab coat, took the microphone. A moderately short carpet of dark grey frizzled hair covered his head elegantly, and a scent of a luxurious after shave was unavoidable to notice. His dark, sad and thoughtful eyes looked out over the audience. His pronunciation of English words was humming with the slightest French accent. ’ I am Doctor Lamarck. I research in genetics. The biological genetic makeup of each individual is a factor which determines the way he looks, many of his abilities and the way he reacts. Some diseases are not contagious but hereditary. In our research to cure hereditary diseases, we have discovered mechanisms, which could potentially be used to enhance physical prowess in healthy individuals. The limits of how fast, strong, enduring and quick thinking an individual is are determined by genetic factors, but we now believe that we are able to remove these limits. ’Most of you have heard about viruses, like that which cause the common cold. Besides bad viruses, which causes diseases, there are useful viruses. There are also neutral viruses – as it were – which neither cause good or bad effects on us. Modern genetic studies use such neutral viruses as a sort of vehicles or carriers of the sort of modified human DNA we hope will cure a patient. The patients’ immune systems will remove the viruses after a couple of days, but the modified DNA will stay and multiply. This method may also be used in order to enhance speed, endurance, strength or quick thinking. ’A more recent method use something called nano particles. The patient inhale the particles, which are programmed to rebuild the genetics of the patient. This is still on an experimental stage, but my team has researched for a long time, by now, how to use viral treatment and nano treatment in tandem. I have read that all of you are very good soldiers. I will rebuild you into perfect soldiers.’ The audience was murmuring excitedly for a few seconds. The sight of the men confirmed the impression I had gathered by reading their files: They were all very fit, but that common characteristic didn’t mean that they all looked the same. Far from it. Many seemed to enjoy frequent time at the gym, but without any considerable interest in fat loss or competitions. Some slim and lean (but very hard, sinewy and defined) soldiers, like the little Portuguese and his Polish friend, had very good ratings when it came to endurance tests and extremely long marches with lighter backpacks, and looked like what sprinters or fitness competitors would have looked, if they had developed more functional physiques. More than a handful of the test subjects were into bodybuilding. One of the Icelanders had competed in Strongman competitions, and had an entirely different type of physique. Some of the test subjects were under average height, but most of them were slightly above average. A handful of them were very tall – among them the Icelander and my fellow Norwegians, I proudly noticed. Doctor Gospodinov was a Bulgarian endocrinologist, close to retirement age. His hair was a formless tufty mass of grey and white, trying to escape in every direction. He was a broad shouldered man with dark brown eyes, somewhat under middle length and with a pot belly. He had unusually large cheeks, looked tired (which wasn’t surprising, since all of us had worked hard with the engineers to make the prototype chambers working), and was puffy under his eyes. He was dressed elegantly in a timeless three-piece suit under the white lab coat, and, while the rest of us had left watches and phones behind us years ago for contemporary phone-watches of different brands, he had an old-fashioned pocket watch in his waistcoat. He gave the impression to dislike the public speech situation, especially since the audience wasn’t composed of medical students. ’I am Doctor Gospodinov. I teach medicine, and I have researched on athletes my entire life. I will not bore you with giving you a full lecture in medicine. The reason that you were all surgically given a subcutaneous implant before arriving here – and as a matter of fact all of us were, although by different reasons – was to ensure easy access into your venous systems. The viral treatment by Doctor Lamarck and the hormone treatment by me will be administered through the membrane under the skin of your chest. If you want to enhance the performance of a man, it will not do to just tinker with one of the hormones, and it may even be counterproductive. A heightened dose of one performance-enhancing chemical may lower the dose of another useful and beneficial chemical. You need to take all biochemical substances naturally produced and used by the human body, and make them all interact in the right direction, in a concerted effort. If you believe that my job in this Project is to inject you with any new super-steroid, you are wrong. The negative side-effects of such a substance, if it existed, would outdo any positive effects – I suppose some of you may have heard about the bad complications of overuse of cortisone against inflammations? My job in this Project is to stimulate your own bodies to permanently produce the optimal balance of all the body’s own performance enhancing substances. After the initial treatment with this new stimulating formula – the exact composition of which is actually classified – you will not need any ongoing medication, and the effect will come from within yourselves, not from any injections or pills. The effect will remain the rest of your lives. Doktor Skrefsrud?’ Gospodinov had misjudged how much medical knowledge the recruits possessed, and he had lost most of them, despite his attempt to dumb down the subject. The awake and intelligent glimmer in the eyes of a lean and small Pole and his wiry and slim little Portuguese buddy did, however, show that not the entire class was asleep. It was my turn to speak now. I cleared my throat, and felt intimidated by standing before this sort of audience. A Dutch test subject had a very arrogant body language, and looked intently on me and the other scientists in an unnerving way with his green eyes. I cleared my throat. ’My name is Doctor Skrefsrud, and I am a physicist, just like Doctor Smith here. I will not go into any boring details, but I guess, that you will feel easier about what’s going on, if I explain the basic idea about what you will endure. You have all read about the Big Bang in Science Class at school, I suppose. The Universe expands at unfathomable speed. All visible material things are composed by a sort of matter we call ’baryonic matter’, since it is built by particles called ’baryons’: We can easily observe it, weigh it, measure it. What is less known, is that the Universe behaves in such a way, as there ought to exist another sort of matter: not easily observed, not easily measured. The expansion of the universe would render asunder the galaxies, if this other matter didn’t exist. We call it ”dark matter”, but please do not attach any importance to the word ”dark”. It is just a figure of speech.’ I had become accustomed to be perfectly clear on this account, when I educated undergraduates. The most silly and unfounded ideas could be spawned by the randomly chosen word ’dark’. It doesn’t mean ”bad”. ’There also exist ”dark energy”. For many decades, dark matter and dark energy were only hypothesised by the means of mathematics. Then, quite recently – in the early 2020’s – dark matter particles were observed by revolutionarily new means of observation. If you read science-fiction stories or comics in childhood, you know stories where the heroes get strange powers by radioactivity. In real life it doesn’t work that way: Too high amounts of radioactivity would give you cancer, not super-powers.’ The audience chuckled in a low voice. ’But dark energy radiation is not the same thing as radioactivity, since it is not baryonic.’ The audience abruptly fell silent. ’My mentor’s team has researched in several years on the probably beneficent effects of certain dark matter particles and radiation frequencies, in the hope to apply it medically. We are already in the early stages of successfully curing muscular dystrophy. In the future, we hope to help people who’ve lost a limb to grow a new limb. I know it sounds like science-fiction to you, and we haven’t reached our goal yet, but we have reason to believe, that we have the means to make Earth’s defenders against the PCETOs much better soldiers: More fit, more physically persistent, more powerful. I call this technology ’Hypertrophic Radiation’. Doctor Smith will now tell you more about how physics may help us in the war.’ Hair colours of all sorts gleamed in the artificial light, short-cut in different fashions: Buzz cuts, flattops, jarheads, short mohawks or shaved entirely. Ash-blond and fair brown seemed to be the most common hair colour among European men. Neither ’black’ nor ’blond’ are very good words to describe the variety of other actual hair colours: The glossy ’black’ of the Portuguese lads was something different from the velvet ’black’ of the two hunky Hungarians. Although you may have called the rye and golden hues of some Scandinavian test subjects ’blond’, these were actually two different colours, and these two colours also differed from the cream-coloured or almost white ’blondness’ of the two Estonians, one of the Ukrainians, one of the Finns and one of the Poles. Three of the test subjects were ginger: One of the Norwegians, one of the Britons (who stood there side by side to his Caribbean-British colleague) and one of the Irishmen. One of the men sent by France looked like he was of Polynesian-French descent. Since performance trumped everything, they didn’t share exactly the same background. Some of them were recruited from Special Units of several sorts, some from frogman units, paratroop units or marines, also depending on the various ways armed forces were organised in different European countries. ’Besides the discovery of hypertrophic radiation, which Doctor Skrefsrud just mentioned, the breakthrough in Dark-Matter-research, after a while, also confirmed the existence of Morphogenetic Fields, or Sheldrake-fields, as they also are known. Rupert Sheldrake had hypothesised about Morphogenetic Fields back in the 20th century, but very few scientists took his hypothesis seriously. That changed when Dark-Matter-research grew out of its initial phase. Now you ask: What is a Morphogenetic Field? We already knew the importance of the biological genetical makeup of each individual, as Doctor Lamarck already has described. Secondly, potential personal traits and abilities may blossom or lay dormant, dependent on outward factors such as education, physical exercise or food. But besides these two groups of factors, we now know a third group of factors: Morphogenetic Fields influence our physical development. It also seems like Morphogenetic Fields would contain and guide Hypertrophic Radiation to stimulate brain tissue, skeletal and muscular growth in certain ways. It seems like we are now able to control in which ways the Morphogenetic Fields form an organism. Each of the factors we work with in this scientific team would, on its own, enhance and augment your capacity, but the combined effect of all these factors together is so much greater. If you have any further questions, don’t hesitate to ask me after this briefing.’ *** The interviews began the following day. At the end of the day, I was exhausted by interviewing twenty-four of the men, and so were all my colleagues, with the notable exception of the inexhaustible Professor Gruber. It took us four days to interview them all. By then, László and Green had given them their individualised training programmes. The individualised meal-plans would reach the Mess Hall Kitchen next morning. Although the Project was officially meant to be performed in English, French and German simultaneously, it didn’t took long time, until we found out that it would be more practical to use English as main spoken language (although notes were written down in all the three languages). The Polish and Czech test subjects spoke German much more fluently than I did myself, but anyhow seemed reluctant to speak German. I tried to be polite, when I interviewed the Belgian, Swiss, Luxembourger, Andorran and Monegasque test subjects, and so using French, but they seemed to enjoy an opportunity to practice their English, especially one of the Belgians (who spoke Flemish at home) and the Swiss, the native tongues of whom happened to be Arpitan and Romansh. The French test subjects listened very amused to my stumbling pronunciation of the French vocabulary, and then proposed that the interview ’should continue in English, perhaps?’ The Liechtensteiners and Austrians (including Professor Gruber) would have preferred German to anything else, but since everyone else spoke English, they quickly adapted. It made the work much easier, not only for me, but also for Andersson, the Registrar from Sweden, who – although he read both languages – was reluctant to speak German or French. When I interviewed the two test subjects from UK, Jones and Taylor, I found out that they, too, were relieved when the trilingual rule was softened: None of them spoke anything else than English, and they had initially felt sheepish when they had been addressed in French or German. We worked much longer working days, than the usual eight hours, since time was essential, and a swift breakthrough in our experiment could mean life or death for so many persons. The four nurses were initially scheduled with extra recreation, since we knew that they had to be rested when night hours at Infirmary began. We needed, however, some sleep and recreation in order to think clearly, in order to not put the test subjects at risk. I found out, that our elder colleagues kept together in our free time, and seemed like fish out of water at the Facility. It took less than three days, until Gruber, Gospodinov and Lamarck began to keep together outside working hours. Most of the time they sat in the living quarters at 3-6-3, but sometimes they gathered in the Lab, since Gospodinov had a habit of smoking his cigars under the fume hood. The alternative for the four of us younger researchers, was to spend free time together, or together with some of the test subjects or office workers, either at Mess or at the Gym. *** Green and László had mainly worked together with athletes during their professional careers, and both maintained an overall healthy life style even privately. It was easy for them to befriend those among the test subjects who were interested in weight training (although that was far from all). Despite my resultless experience of weight training, I had nothing against following Green and László to the gym during lunch hour. ’Have we heard anything more from the Yankees or the Russians?’, Green asked László on our way into the gym. ’No. It seems like the transatlantic cable broke and several satellites went down quite early in the attack from the Space Squid. Kiev lost telephone- and web-connection with Moscow and Beijing. We don’t know what happens elsewhere. It is up to us now. This experiment got to work correctly, and that soon.’ László changed subject, and eyed me professionally: ’Have you worked out before, Skrefsrud? I see that your body fat is low?’ ’Actually, I worked out at a gym during my graduate studies, in order to give it a try,but since I didn’t achieve any visible results, and continued to be scrawny, I quit the gym, but continued jogging. Is the word ”hardgainer” a current one? Some of my fellow students used that word about me.’ ’Oh yes. It is a rather common situation. Some people have to eat incredible amounts in order to achieve any muscle gain. Perhaps you followed the meal plan of dieters or a baseline one. It is useless for ectomorphs.’ The scent of steel, subtly corroding of salty sweat, filled the gym, but was mixed by whiffs of talcum powder, rubber carpets and cheap anti-perspirants like Lynx. The clang and clink of weight-plates hitting each other or steel bars hitting power rack stands echoed among the stone walls, only slightly subdued by the rubber carpets. Some of the recruits had made themselves at home in the gym from Day 1. László stopped at a leg curl machine, used at the moment by two British SAS-officers: The ginger Lieutenant Jones and the Jamaican-British Lieutenant Taylor – the latter with the good looks of a young Cassius Clay. I listened absent-mindedly for a few seconds, but thought it a good idea to say hello to the men at the nearest bench. It happened to be the rather tall Polish frogman Sergeant Zielinski, his compatriot, the short paratrooper Corporal Kowalski, and the short Portuguese, Corporal Soares. Soares was lifting a bar of probably his own weight. Many of the test subjects were rather clamorous and boastful individuals, but the 21 year old Kowalski was unusually silent and reserved. Almost shy. He had a lean physical constitution, witnessing an ability to persevere and endure in extreme conditions. I had noticed that he worked out very seriously at the gym, but, despite this, he hadn’t achieved any typical bodybuilder-physique. The downy stubble on his scalp was cream-coloured and almost white. A silver pendant hung around his neck in a rather heavy chain, but I wasn’t able to see what it depicted. Corporal Soares was of the same age and same body-type as Corporal Kowalski. When he had restored the bar to the stand, he observed his surroundings with an alert and humorous gaze. ’Two other hardgainers.’, I thought for myself, and felt sympathy for them. I had finished my scheduled exercise for the day, and was on my way to the showers with László and Green, when we heard shouts from the calf raise machine in the corner. ’Who the hell brought the small fry to this project? How do you think you could meet the Space Squid in battle, or be useful subjects for these tests? Midgets!’ It was Corporal De Vries, one of the Dutchmen, who stood leaning over Kowalski and Soares. Kowalski answered less noisily, and I couldn’t hear what was said. De Vries gripped Kowalski’s t-shirt and lifted him up in the air, saying things I couldn’t hear from this distance. László was already on his way to the corner, followed by Taylor. I couldn’t hear what was said, but Taylor gripped De Vries by the shoulder. De Vries put Kowalski down, and László said something heatedly to De Vries, of which I could only hear: ’My gym. My rules.’ When Kowalski and Soares left with Taylor and László, De Vries gave them the finger behind their backs with an angry expression on his face. *** When I arrived to the Lab after lunch, Smith and Gruber were discussing their fields of research, respectively. ’Is the breakthrough of your’s recent, Professor Gruber? I’m not sure that I have heard anything about it before.’ ’The first breakthrough was with mice in 2014. We cured them from depression, by stimulating their hippocampus and reward centre simultaneously. By developing the neuro-helmet a few years later, it became possible to stimulate various parts of the brain without any cranial surgery.’ ’But what will happen now, when the same technology is applied militarily?’ ’I have scanned the brain-wave patterns of a great number of expert soldiers, and brought them together in a standardised high achieving pattern. In layman’s terms, you could say that I will implant memories or habits into the specimens, by using recordings, as it were, from other individuals.’ ’Are there any dangers to it, Professor Gruber?’ ’Not any I am aware of. Nowadays we even have equipment to translate mildly hypnotic verbal suggestions into brain wave patterns, by the help of an AI, and it has worked very well to treat insomnia and stress disorders in individual civilians. A military application is something new, and will probably need some milder adaptions and adjustments before working optimally.’ ’So it is the first time you apply it for a military purpose?’ ’Yes, and it is the first time I try to use it in this scale. How does your own part of The Program work, Dr. Smith?’ ’Initially, we had to program every detail of the Emmeffs from scratch, and in the process we blew up a lot of fruit flies and some mice, I’m afraid.’ ’Emmeffs?’ ’Oh, sorry for that. Morphogenetic Fields. It takes so long to say, so, within the team, we call them Emmeffs. After a while the mice were lucky and survived. Anyhow, later on, the computer engineering department assisted us in simplifying the programming of the fields. We had a grotesquely large prototype programming device, which determined how a standard mouse should look. We put a poor little fellow in the Chamber – he suffered from muscle dystrophy – and, voilá! – he was cured. And he didn’t explode. Later on, the engineers were able to slim down the size of the Programmer – which was a great relief, since the Black Matter Cyclotron was space consuming as it was, without the Programmer competing for space. From then on, the experiments behaved a little more – eh – standardised, I would say. One of my colleagues performed a series of experiments on a dystrophic hamster, and later turned it into a birthday present to her nephew, who called it ’Hulk Hamster’. As you see on this display, we have a sketch of a man here…’ He pressed a button. A drawing of an average man, sketched in blue lines against the black background, glow on the screen. The drawing was anatomical, and each muscle was marked in fine detail. With another button Smith could display the inner layers of those muscles who consisted of several layers. ’which is the starting point of The Process, and then…’ He pressed a third button. Another line drawing lit up on the screen – this one in green lines. It was only slightly larger than the blue drawing, and looked like it was projected outside and around the first man, enclosing him. ’…this one, which is the desired goal. It is possible to grow the green chart proportionally…’ He pressed another key, and the green man became taller and wider, but retained his average physique. ’… but it is also possible to click on each muscle, and redesign the way he looks.’ Smith moved the cursor, clicked on a number of individual muscles, and clicked some boxes. ’Ooops. This combination of changes would make him deformed. It is important to maintain symmetry and functionality. We have some templates approved and authorised by the Command. Let’s see…’ Smith’s fingers danced at the keyboard, and a green anatomical chart popped up on the screen. The depicted man was huge and looked dangerous. If anyone looked like that, he would probably have good chances to win a weight-lifting competition, or perhaps bodybuilding. Smith shut the machine down. ’I would prefer if we begin with the Neuro-Reprogramming Phase. If he becomes physically enhanced but without self-control, we could have a situation here. We don’t want to endanger The Project, would we?’, Gruber suggested. ’Who’s the first one in the pipeline?’ It happened to be Corporal Soares. The fit little Portuguese was briefed about the process, and told that his physical conversion wouldn’t occur, until we were sure the Neuro-Reprogramming worked correctly. He left his boots, cargo trousers and T-shirt on a bench, and took somewhat shyly off his socks and pants. On the top of the pile he put a silver pendant in a heavy chain. I noticed that the pendant depicted St. Michael the Archangel. Gruber put the neuro-helmet on his head and the breathing mask over his nose and mouth. ’Good luck! And just relax!’, László said, when Soares stepped into the sluice, and reached the cylindric chamber, built of glass and steel. ’Synthetic amniotic fluid activated’, Lamarck said, while the light blue liquid began to fill Chamber 1. ’Body temperature 37,4 Centigrades’, Green reported from the body scanner. I still feel worried and disappointed about what happened the following hour. A few minutes after Gruber had activated the Neuro-Reprogrammer, Soares screamed in agony and fear. His pulse and body temperature were abnormally high, and we had to abort the process. When Chamber 1 had become sufficiently emptied of liquid, László and Nurse Dubois entered the sluice and carried the unconscious Soares out of the Chamber, and put him on a paper-covered medical bunk, before moving him to a moveable hospital bed. László and I were shaken, but luckily Green kept his mind cold, and gave Soares a physical exam. He consulted with Gruber, but the diagnosis was outside my own field of expertise. Somehow, the reprogramming had caused Soares a comatose state, but his life wasn’t endangered. Green connected him to IV-nutrition, and Dubois wheeled the hospital bed away to Infirmary. The following day came. Morning was scheduled for interviews and medical tests as usual, but I felt worried over the afternoon experiment. Would that go wrong as well? This time it was one of the Swedes, Corporal Johansson, who sat waiting in the waiting room. Johansson was somewhat over medium height and robustly built, although not conspicuously so. His golden hair was cropped, his nose slightly upturned and his eyes sky blue. ’We will not lie to you: The Program is still in a prototype phase, and may be dangerous, although not lethal. It would be unethical to keep this information away from you.’, Green said. A worried expression came and went in Johansson’s eyes, but he answered: ’Give it a try. I was aware that the Project was experimental when I agreed to go here. Do your best. It is my duty to give you a chance to develop The Program, isn’t it?’ He left his clothes on the bench. The neuro-helmet, the IV and the breathing mask were placed where they should be, and the experiment began. The Preparation Phase for reprogramming took almost forty-five minutes. Tranquillising and analgesic formulas devised by Gospodinov and Lamarck circulated in Johansson’s blood vessels, and Gruber had modified some settings in the Neuro-Reprogrammer. This time we would try to change both the mind and the body of the test subject. ’Do you hear me, Corporal Johansson?’, Green asked into a microphone. ’Mmmm, yes… So sleepy…’, came the answer from the microphone in Johansson’s breathing mask. ’Do you feel okay?’ ’Oh, yes. Go ahead.’ ’Initiating Neuro-Reprogramming.’, Gruber reported from his corner. A low humming sound was heard in the Lab. ’Pulse increasing’, Green reported from the body scanner. We could hear how Johansson’s breathing becoming faster. ’No. No, no, no. NO!’, he shouted into the microphone. I felt uneasy. ’No, it… no, um. Umngh.’, the protests subsided and changed gradually into moaning or grunting sounds, until a sudden change in mood seemed to have occurred: ’Yes. YES! I will comply! All orders will be executed! Becoming integrated into The Program!’ ’Pulse decreasing’, Green reported. The breathing was still faster than normal. Now and then Johansson mumbled. ’Brain activity as expected’, Gruber said. Fifteen minutes later, it seemed that the neuro-reprogramming had went well this time. ’Initiating Physical Reprogramming’, Lamarck reported. ’Endocrinal stimuli working’, Gospodinov answered. ’Viral activity increasing. Nano saturation increasing’, Lamarck echoed. ’Twenty millisheldrake, and increasing.’, Smith reported from his screen. ’Hypertrophic Radiation 110% and increasing’, I answered from the screen in my part of the Lab. The hypertrophic radiation (although invisible when projected in gas, vacuum and most liquids) became visible when it was projected into the specially devised synthetic amniotic fluid together with the Morphogenetic Fields. Slowly we increased the stimuli. After a while it was obvious for the naked eye that Johansson had become visibly more muscular, but suddenly something went wrong: ’No! This is not my body! Where has my body gone? I can’t move my legs! I can’t feel my arms!’ The frightened screams increased, then suddenly fell silent. Gruber reported that the specimen had become comatose. The events from yesterday repeated themselves, and the setbacks took their toll in most of us. Their upbringing helped Smith and Lamarck to keep up a polite and neutral facade, but unlike the unperturbed Gruber, they seemed anyhow to feel concern for Soares and Johansson. The rest of us were unable to hide our feelings of worry, concern and guilt. I had honestly believed that the safety level of The Program’s each component was higher than this. What had we done to these young men? The next morning, it was impossible to keep what had happened a secret. Major Murphy told the recruits during breakfast that Soares and Johansson were unconscious in Infirmary. Someone called Gruber ’Doctor Frankenstein’, and someone threw a paper cup in the back of Smith’s head. László was avoided by his training buddies at the gym. Corporal Kowalski stared accusingly on me without a word. The mood at the Facility deteriorated. The ginger haired Lieutenant Jones complained over how László had planned the meals: ’Yuh’ll be kidding me! No bloody jipper ter the veggies?’ We cancelled any scheduled afternoon experiments, and went through all readings and notes again and again.Gruber asked all of us in the scientific team to record our brainwave patterns, in the presumption that we all had ’healthy brainwave patterns’, whatever that meant. *** I went to bed early, but couldn’t sleep, since Lamarck and Gospodinov were drinking wine in the neighbouring room. I drifted into the Lab again. It must have been after midnight, but Gruber worked late. I heard him talk into a microphone in a way which reminded me of relaxation sound files a friend of mine had used: ’You will be in perfect control of your body. You will be in perfect control of the abilities you have achieved by integrating into The Program, regardless of how much your physical form changes. You feel calm and relaxed. Your physical performance will be enhanced. It feels good to enhance your physical performance. You are in perfect control. You are perfectly present in your body. Everything will be fine. You will obey The Program. You will integrate everyone attuneable into The Program. You will obey the direction to protect the military unit and all civilians. You will do everything necessary to optimise and maximise the performance of yourself and of The Program. No-one will be permitted to abolish or limit the aim of The Program. You will attune perfectly. You will become enhanced. You will become augmented according to plan.’ Gruber pressed a button. A metallic voice answered: Vocal instruction translation into brainwaives initiated executed and accomplished The recording translated from speech into a brainwave pattern visible at one of the screens. Gruber pressed some other keys on the keyboard. A pattern labeled ’Smith’ flashed on the screen and was mixed with the first pattern. A pattern labeled ’László’ was glimpsed for a moment, until Gruber mixed it with the other two. I left the Lab, since I wanted to be alone. Somehow, I drifted into the Infirmary. It was Nurse Dubois who served at nightshift. A single lamp was lit close to Soares’ bed, in the light of which a silver pendant glinted on the bedside table. A plastic bag with nutrition hang from a stand, connected to Soares’ IV with a thin plastic tube. He wasn’t alone. Kowalski sat on a chair, looking sadly on Soares. I felt my bad conscience return, and I left the Infirmary silently. Since I was an Agnostic and a non-practicing member of Church of NorwayI hadn’t felt any reason to peek into the Meditation Room before, but I did it now. First, it lay in complete darkness, but a dim point, turning out to be a LED, guided me to the graded switch. At 50%, the grey ovoid concrete room rested in a soft and calming illumination. The floor consisted of polished stone. No images were to be seen. No chairs, but concrete benches fixed to the wall and surrounding a moderately large open space. Right. Le Corbusier meets IKEA. Ceiling-high cabinets were folded into the wall at some places, alternating with the grey concrete. In one part of the room, close to the entrance, the cabinet doors were made in dark oak, but gave place to several shades of gradually lighter brown woods in the middle, and with fir panels at the opposite end. ’Obvious committee work’, I thought. ’The British and the Greek had probably voted for oak, and the Norwegians and Swedes voted for fir. But the architect solved the problem tastefully. Probably someone from France or Switzerland.’ I continued to explore the room. In one cabinet I found bookshelves: The Christian Bible in thirty languages. Three books with the title ’Chumash’, which turned out to be the Hebrew Bible with translations into English, German and French. Six translations of the Koran in several languages. A highly decorated book in Greek, which I couldn’t read, and two similar ones in two eastern European languages I couldn’t identify. A German book called ’Gotteslob’. A number of booklets with latin text and several vernaculars in parallel columns. A handful of small A6-booklets in bright colours announcing: A Common Eucharist and Evening Prayer: As agreed upon by the member churches of the Porvoo Communion 2019. A handful of similar booklets in duller – or perhaps more serious – colours with the title: Gottesdienst in Kriegszeiten. Ein Leuenberger Agenda für EKD, SEK, FEPS und GEKE 2021. Bhagavadgita in English, German and French. A slightly damp-damaged booklet with the title Sandhya Vandanam. Samyutta Nikaya – what on earth is that? Oh – Buddhism in English translation. The Lotus sutra. Platform sutra. Guru Granth Sahib – hmm… Oh – Sikhism! Dawkins: The God delusion with a sticker: ’Donated by the National Secular Society’. Russell: Wisdom of the West. Oh, there seem to be something for everyone here! Someone has been thinking. We didn’t have any permanently stationed chaplain at the Research Facility, since the stay was – hopefully – expected to be short, but preparations had been made to facilitate devotions according to several religious beliefs or non-beliefs. I riffled absentmindedly through the pages of Bhagvadgita. I wasn’t Hindu, and only knew it by name: ’Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’ Not uplifting, but hadn’t I heard these words before? Read somewhere… No. I couldn’t remember. Another cabinet contained a number of prayer shawls, two types of chalices for Eucharist, and a number of foldable carpets. As a matter of fact, a few of the uppermost carpets were folded slightly more carelessly than the lower ones, so probably they had been used more recently. A timer. A Byzantine icon of Christ folded in protective velvet, and a copy of Our Lady of Czestochowa, similarly contained. An electric fake candle. A lighter. Batteries. A crock filled with sand. A cylindric aluminium box marked ’Spaghetti’. Spaghetti? I opened the box, and a scent of sweet wood of some sort greeted my nose: It contained incense sticks, which reminded me of the habits of a former girlfriend. Most of the space in that cabinet was, however, consumed by small foldable meditation benches in different sizes. When I observed the polished stone floor, I became aware of a very subdued mosaïque, which informed the directions of East, Mecca, and North. Why North? I was puzzled. Both the southern wall and the northern were equipped with handles in waist height, which made me curious, but it turned out to be two foldable altars. Why two? Whatever belief anyone had – or not – the room was soothing, at least when the cabinets were closed and the altars folded back to the walls. I sat there in the stillness for more than twenty minutes, until I returned to my bed. *** It was afternoon again. Lamarck and Gospodinov had been unusually silent and gloomy in the morning, and didn’t melt until lunch, when they had consumed unusually large amounts of mineral water and buttered bread. Smith and Green absent-mindedly looked through their notes again, and László emitted whiffs of Lynx. ’Nice Einstein hair-do, Gospodinov!’, was the first words, when Lieutenant Jones entered the Lab. Jones, it had come out during the interview almost a week earlier, had a long time background in SAS, and was divorced. During childhood he had moved around frequently with his divorced mother between several places in the north: Liverpool, Manchester, Blackpool, Wigan, Bradford, Newcastle… – a litany of place names. His head was covered in a red haired buzzcut, and his ears were more protruding than in an average person. He was of pink composure, and built like a human version of a pitbull terrier. His military tattoos made him look perilous, but towards the scientific team he behaved protectively and irreverently in a humorous and good-natured way. It seemed that László and Jones had bonded well at the Gym already, and that helped to make Jones cooperative, despite of the sour mood in the Mess Hall. ’Ah dinna thought tha’ the avvy would come so suuhn. After wha’ ’appened ter Soares and Johansson, we all feel a li’l bi’ worried abuht the effects, out there. Wharryl ’appen ter us inside the Magic Boxes?’ Smith and Green seemed to understand Jones’ argot well enough to answer him, but for me, who was only familiar with schoolbook English and TV-programmes from BBC sent by Norwegian broadcasters, Jones was incomprehensible. The elderly scientists also seemed to be confused by Jones’ version of English. Smith explained: ’The Program is still in a prototype stage, but we believe that we may have fixed the bug now. If you two react well, and we have reasons to believe you will, the readings from your transformations will probably help us wake Soares and Johansson from their unconscious states.’ Corporal Bjarnarsson had stood silent near the doorway from the waiting room, looming. He was a twenty-seven year old giant of a man, with a past in strongman-contests. ’Ah. Corporal Bjarnarsson! For you the Procedure will probably cause less strain. The change will be lesser in extent, since you are in such a good shape already.’ For a millisecond Jones eyed Bjarnarsson somewhat enviously, but then changed back to his usual irreverent humorous chattiness. László took their measures, as befitted their coach. Curious, I peeked over László’s shoulder in order to see the Pad connected to The Program: Ltn. Jones: Weight: 95 kilogrammes Height: 186 centimetres Chest: 115 centimetres Waist: 91 centimetres Arm: 40 centimetres Thighs: 66 centimetres Cpl. Bjarnarsson: Weight: 156 kilogrammes Height: 199 centimetres Chest: 160 centimetres Waist: 104 centimetres Arm: 60 centimetres Thighs: [AWAITING DATA] ’When Ah was rather nuw in the Service, abuht fifteen years ago, or thereabuht, me an’ me mates went ter cinema an’ watched th’film ”Captain America”. ’s like being in the middle uvv something similar ’ere, innit. Please duhnt knock me uuht like yuh did ter Corporal Soares an’ Corporal Johansson.’ Jones continued to talk while the IV, the neuro-helmet and the mask were placed on him and Bjarnarsson. Bjarnarsson was reticently silent. Then they moved into the sluices and the Chambers. ’Tranquillisers and analgesics distributed.’, said Gospodinov, looking at a monitor governing the IV. ’Forty millisheldrake, and increasing.’, Smith reported from his screen. ’Hypertrophic Radiation 125%, and increasing’, I reported. ’Endorphins activated. Myostatine blockers activated. Testosterone production rising. Oestrogen moderated. Adrenalin moderated. Kortisol moderated. Somatropin level rising.’, Gospodinov said. ’Viro-treatment active. Saturation level of nano-particles increasing’, Lamarck echoed. Something looking like ghostly flames in a strange golden hue flared and filled the entire cylinders, surrounding Bjarnarsson and Jones. Something looking like electric bolts (although we knew they didn’t have anything to do with electrons) hit the defenceless bodies of the two test subjects. Gruber attended their Neuro-Reprogramming. It went well this time, but it was too soon to triumph and feel relief. Soon both bellowed lustfully their acceptance of, and obedience to, The Program, and the Competence Programming was encoded into their brains. Meanwhile, the analgesics, the endocrine treatment and the DNA-altering formulas circulated in their bodies, preparing the way for the upcoming Physical Reprogramming Phase. They fell into oblivion for a while, when their bone tissue adapted with an ugly scraping sound. They regained consciousness. Their breathing became heavier. They clenched their fists. Their shoulders and legs tensed. Their manhoods awakened. An eerie pulse of force caused their muscles to tense and relax, tense and relax… A change occurred in Bjarnarsson. The already very huge man didn’t become taller, but his body composition went from big-bellied to what my student-day gym-buddies would have called ’ripped’. Any unnecessary body fat was burned away by the altered metabolism induced by The Program, and Bjarnarsson’s already well-developed muscled swelled. The changes of Jones were much more tremendous. When he entered the Chamber, he was padded of tight but undefined muscles like an overstuffed Chesterfield, but now his brawn was growing, and when body fat burned away, his muscles became visible like protruding spheres and bicones of terrifying strength. ’Uh, uh! Ah! Oh, it’s so fuckin’ unbelievable! It’s so friggin’ brilliant, innit! Duh yuh hear me ouht there? … Oh yes! Really ace! All hard flesh… meatier… Am beefing up! … the feeling! It’s… oh, OH! Am connected to this amazing power surge, nnnn, mmmm, aah! Charging me! Powerload! Powercharge! POWERHOUSE! Um! Nnng! Ah! Yes, yes! Yes! Um! Nnngh, nnngh, AH!’ We lost verbal communication from Jones, since his words devolved into incomprehensible excited moans and grunts. His body was not easy to see by now, since the golden shimmer from the rays enfolded him, but, from what could be visibly observed and from the growing blue digital chart of his body, his physique quickly adapted to the extreme ideal of the green digital chart of the Field. In the other Chamber, Bjarnarsson emitted similar noises as Jones. A pulsating pump raged in every muscle of Jones’, but, unlike pump at the gym, this actually increased his muscle tissue here and now. His back muscles contracted, relaxed, hardened and swelled. Incredible back muscles protruded increasingly, forming a map of valleys and ridges. His lats broadened. His glutes formed into globes, and then globes indented, forming ’C:s’ patterned like spruces. His shoulders became boulders. His neck filled out into steel wires plaited into cords, forming an uncrushable bull neck. His calves became insane rugby balls of rock, defined by a valley into twin ridges. Both the front and the back of his thighs swelled into jaw-dropping vein-ridden monuments of masculine might. Deeply defined abs formed an unconquerable brick-wall of warm flesh, and his chest was composed of two expanding shields of engorged bulbous brawn, radiating of vigour. Under the influence of the treatment his vein-patterned triceps, biceps and forearms, fortified by hypertrophic power, were ever hardening, bulging and toughening. When The Program reached its culmination both test subjects shouted in hypertrophic bliss, bellowed in anabolic ecstasy, and roared in testosterone-fuelled power-craze. Green noticed that both specimens ejaculated. He looked at Gospodinov, who answered: ’Probably a side effect of the extremely heightened testosterone-production. The nurses have to clean the Chambers before next experiment.’ Nurse Fischer looked up from his notes with a disgusted expression. For a few seconds both test subjects passed out, and for a while we were all very worried that our failures would repeat, but Jones and Bjarnarsson soon regained consciousness, while the fluid receded. As soon as possible, László and Nurse Fischer opened the sluice doors and helped the subjects out. They actually could walk by themselves, but seemed elated and dizzy-headed. While they used their towels, we could notice that they transpired a lot of sweat. Worried, Smith asked: ’How do you feel?’ ’Ah feel really boss, nuw. Gobsmacked, really. Yuh duhn’t have ter worry abuht me, Doc. Am really made up. Feeling buff as hell. Wha’ stonking arms!’, and, eyeing his new complection he added: ’An’ its the first time Ah got a real bronzee, mate. At vacation in Ibiza and Lanzarote, Ah uhnly got pink, scolded and peeling. Dis’s unusual. But Ah can’t stan’ ’ere starkers all day. Yuh said something abuht a nuw sorta uniform?’ Calmly, Bjarnarsson said something about feeling fine. Green took measures of Bjarnarsson, while Smith took the measures of Jones,in order to assure that the data on the screen were correct: ’Oh by Jove!’ Ltn. Jones: Weight: 180 kilogrammes Height: 200 centimetres Chest: 188 centimetres Waist: 97 centimetres Arm: 76 centimetres Thighs: 96 centimetres While László was ransacking the Inventory for the new prototype uniform, Smith explained: ’The prototype uniform was engineered for several reasons. Since a traditional uniform would probably risk to either fray or to be a chunky inconvenience in action, something adaptable and stretchable was needed. Since the PCETOs seemingly use IR-perception as their primary sense, it was important to use a fabric which conducts excessive body heat in an unnoticeable way, while still warm enough. A new way of arranging carbon atoms has been demonstrated to hold the capacity to protect from projectiles and edged weapons. Since some of your future operations probably will take place in space, the uniform had to be easily used in combination with conventional space suits and the new prototype space armour. The same material is actually used in the tarpaulins at the Outer Perimeter, in order to camouflage the wood fires.’ László returned from the Inventory with a number of items of clothing. I hadn’t seen the new uniform myself, so I was as astonished as the recruits themselves. The stuff was black and glossy, with no hints of spun threads. Most of all it had a sort of leathery surface, but it had pliable qualities, and formed after the wearer. ’Dis pura kecks is tuh tight. Du yuh ’ave any larger pair uvvem? A’ve no’ any sparrer legs, anymore. Lewk at these ’amstrings an’ calves!’ László had a broad grin on his face, and handed over a larger pair of uniform trousers. It turned out that size 11 boots were too small, and we all waited while Jones tied the bootlaces of his size 12 army boots. When Jones and Bjarnarsson had dressed, we inspected the results. The uniforms looked painted on them, but, regardless of this, there seemed to be no risk of fraying or rips at the seams. The black, glossy and leathery material cling in a snug-fitting way to their enormous shoulders and pecs, saliently enhancing the presence of the shoulder straps with insignia and the breast pockets – the short sleeves leaving the forearms bare. The shirt buttons were designed to be non-obstructive and easy to button. The trousers were snug around the calves, but were tailored like cargo-trousers around the thighs, in order to facilitate the typically useful pockets. The trousers were reinforced over the groin, in a way bringing anti-riot equipment to mind. The belt buckle was adorned with the heraldic crest of this prototype Company. There was something vaguely intimidating to the rather high bootlegs, but, despite being advanced in ways which went over my head, the boots looked like typical military boots designed for practical usefulness rather than looks. They were smoothly polished, but with the new material the entire uniforms had the look of being polished by military standard shoe polish. The results were stunning. The uniforms didn’t hide their muscular physiques, but revealed and highlighted them. It felt somewhat unsettling to be in the presence of the uniformed and huge recruits. ’Yuh ’aven’t given ed a thought to take a trip into the Magic Boxes yerself, Doc? It luuk like yuh could ’ave use fer ed, eh? An’ yuh, Coach? Yuh would certainly like ed. Mooch be’er than slapping the monkey.’ Smith looked away with an embarrassed expression. His ears and cheeks were purple. Green interrupted: ’You will need some rest in the Infirmary. Later tonight or early tomorrow we will go to the gym and measure how your performance has increased.’ When Jones and Bjarnarsson had left for observation in Infirmary, Smith commented our conversation with Jones: ’There is something you mainland Europeans don’t understand: That UK is a kingdom divided by a common language.’ Chapter Two is found here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/6609-project-defender-–-chapter-two/