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Therapy Session II (TheEd) - updated May the fourth


merehuman

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I love it... especially the second part (slight bias on that).  After you wrote the original (which I have backed up), I was so tempted to continue it with the doc being huge.  It also inspired me to write about what could happen should v'd people go to more extremes.  What kind of social nets would be applied, and reasons why such things could happen to something that's supposed to be good while adding the fact that not all v'd people react that way. 

It kinda got out of my control afterward so I would love to see what you'd do with that idea football.  I'm honored that it's even being considered.  I will leave it to an expert. 

Please continue!!  Please!!!   I am a big fan of TheEd stories.  I'm glad you're here and back to writing again!

I  might have a copy of the dad's perspective too!    (rifles through his saved story archives)

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I loved the continuation, even though I hate that Branson, Jr.  has somehow made it so that he can never take "V" even when  he gets older. That just seems to add insult to injury to a guy who's already been traumatized by his father. I like all the parts about the dad intimidating and dominating his son, but why is it necessary to take away the only hope he has for a better future. That said, as dredlifter well knows from Elongro, that doesn't mean I don't still REALLY enjoy the story and look forward to more. The tease at the end with the original psychiatrist being huge now was awesome. I can't wait to see how he interacts with Branson, Jr. Also, I hope we hear stories about Branson Sr. continued to grow and how he treated Jr. as he got bigger and bigger. 

As a realistic aside, the new therapist needs to take a class in bedside manner! He would have the highest suicide rate of any therapist in the country. 

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12 hours ago, Kymuscleboy said:

As a realistic aside, the new therapist needs to take a class in bedside manner! He would have the highest suicide rate of any therapist in the country. 

That’s what I was thinking! WORST therapist I’ve ever heard!

looking forward to seeing just how catastrophically massive Branson Sr has gotten!

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"Come on in, Dr.Breneth."

Even if they wanted to look anywhere else, they couldn't. Both Mr.Branson junior and the young shrink kept their full attention on every inch of the double doors opening inwards. The vertical slit slowly opened showing inch by inch a torso that until then belonged to mythology (and the pornographic arts).

While the younger shrink was breathing faster in excitement to have a Musclegod before him, Mr.Branson wasn't breathing at all. It has been two years and a half since he saw a Musclegod of such stature again (his father). Like in the movies, he watched the doors to open in slow motion. As a typical Musclegod, Dr.Eric Breneth held a natural muscular pose, with his hands on his hips, and even those huge hips looked small next to his legs. His lats fully flexed, tapering out beyond the doorframe. Mr. Branson saw the abs of a God, the armor-like eight-pack that could be seen one by one of in his dark blue compression shirt.  

Being disconnected from the world for so long, Mr.Branson wasn't up to speed when it came to the latest in Musclegod's fashion. The towering He-Man before Mr.Branson wore a long-sleeved compression shirt, stretched to the max from his wrists up to his inhumane forearms, covering his glorious delts, but leaving his huge traps and most of his immense chest fully exposed. The wide scoop t-shirt was designed to show the immensity of the traps of a musclegod bulging out of the shirt. The shirt barely covered his diamond nipples pointed downwards, at the same the shelves of his chest projected outwards, erupting naked from shirt collar. And still, the doorframe only allowed Mr.Branson could only see the lower half of those pecs.

The doors opened ten more inches, and Mr.Branson couldn't yet see where Dr.Eric Breneth's pectorals would end. Those pectorals should be in a museum, like a piece of art, if it had any more veins and striations they would look gross, yet Mr.Bransons couldn't imagine more veins and striations than those in front of him. It was paradoxical to him.

While Mr.Bransons was hypnotized by the two enormities, each pectoral seeming as wide as him. He was already floored. Mr.Branson felt weightless as if the world seemed to have only one final man standing: the great muscle beast at that door.

Mr.Branson felt vulnerable as ever.

It didn't matter the face of such musclegod, or his personality and intentions, the spectacle of his mere breathing, making his polished hard muscles to shift ever so slightly, his inches deep abs to contract and expand like smoldering ember. Against his will, Mr.Branson felt his body giving itself in tribute like in King Kong. He felt small as one inch tall, a little trinket to entertain this musclegod, and be either taken or crushed at his whim.     

Dr.Eric Breneth's dark pants only had a pretense of formality. Like the dark blue shirt, the pants material hugged the monstrous thighs and his immense virility as if it was painted. Mr.Branson fought the urge to embrace one leg and hump it like a misbehaved dog. Mr.Branson tightened his legs as he felt he could even ejaculate accidentally, as the two pillars of pure strength moved one step back, bunching and expanding. If Mr.Branson was indeed embracing one thigh, such a mere flex would break such embrace.

The doors fully opened, and still, Dr.Eric Breneth's airfield width wasn't fully revealed. What happened then, startled Mr.Branson junior, like a tsunami was coming to him, the musclegod was bending down. And inch by inch, he saw more of his monumental pectorals coming to his view, even for such a hyper-muscular torso, the monster's pecs dominated his chest. And now it obscured everything else but the thunderous thighs. Mr.Branson could only gulp at the titanic muscle cleavage. He could stick his arm between them.

Mr.Branson gulped again at the rampant spam of the musclegod wrecking ball shoulders, filling the top of the doors, doors that would fit three men standing side by side with space to spare. With the giant bending down, those shoulders would be within reach of Mr.Branson's arms. He imagined himself touching them, feeling how hard they must be, trying desperately to pointlessly pinch such hardness with the tip of his fingers, punching them and only hurting his fists.  Mr.Branson did not allow himself to breathe, he felt that if he released the air in his lungs, he would wet himself with an uncontrollable orgasm.

Mr.Branson saw the traps coming down like a celestial event, holding a thick bull neck as wide as Mr.Branson's hips, and lastly Dr.Eric Breneth showed his face below the door frame, looking inside the room. Mr.Branson had vague memories of his ex-shrink, but few of those memories matched the god before him.

Mr.Branson only whispered as he saw the seething green eyes looking back at him. He never noticed that the Dr.Breneth had green eyes. They seemed to shine. There were a clear maturity and wisdom betraying the facial perfection of this narcissistic god. Mr.Branson attempted to place the old face he remembered about the doctor, the inward chin, sunken cheeks, the hard lines of his forehead, the dark tired eyes and its bags, the unkempt beard. It was all gone. In its place, the doctor had the superhero jawline highlighted by a silvery stubble, framed by a dashing salt and pepper hairstyle that belonged to a red carpet. His handsomeness seemed out of Hollywood's Golden Age. He was Perfect, Mr.Branson's brain told to itself. He was Perfection. The spell of a Musclegod went in full gears into Mr.Branson's psyche, he could only stare like a zombie at the rollercoaster of muscles.

The Musclegod doctor said something, perhaps his name, perhaps 'hello', Mr.Branson couldn't follow it. He could only sense the deep voice thundering and flooding into the room like a THX theater presentation.

The double doors were too small for someone like an 8'5 feet, 2,50 meters tall Musclegod. This simple thought was giving Mr.Branson a small deceptive relief that he was safe in that room. He was not aware that the world has been adapted to Musclegods, and the doctor unfastened the heavy opaque windows above the door to pass.

The sky seemed to open for Mr.Branson who got then the full view of the towering superhuman looking back downwards at him. "No one deserves to be this tall..." said a voice at the back of Mr.Branson's mind, "no one deserves such musculature, the manliness, the superiority."

For a moment, the young shrink was able to take his eyes off the musclegod's magnificence and glance at the star-struck patient, "he is getting purple," he commented to Dr. Breneth. "I think Mr.Branson forgot how to breathe," he completed.

Dr.Breneth took a strong breath expanding his ribcage, and his huge pectorals and lats inflated accordingly, "as expected," he replied with his booming voice reverberating over Mr.Branson's lungs.

Behind the musclegod, the young female receptionist of the office was discreetly fingering herself under her working table let out a small orgasm by listening to his voice alone. Expected as well. His sudden presence would alter the entire mood and small habits of its workers for the whole week. A seven feet Musclegod would be distracting enough, an 8'5 ft one displaced their emotions like a nuclear battleship creating engulfing waves in its wake. 

Finally, the musclegod walked inside the room, turning his shoulder sideways to bypass the double doors entrance.

He looked down at the tiny patient between his pectorals. Meeting people again that he knew before his transformation was fascinating to him. Mr.Branson junior had his mouth wide open like he had a dislocated jaw, dripping a bit from its corner.

"I think you've broken him," said the young shrink.

"Everything can be fixed," boomed the Musclegod with a Ph.D.

Slowly, the musclegod brought his extended right arm downwards to Mr.Branson junior's face. The bicep mountain was larger than Mr.Branson's head and was still not flexed. The extended arm expanded his triceps, also larger than Mr.Branson's head. The cacophony of arm muscles was still enveloped in the skintight dark blue sleeve, following fixed to every millimeter of the musclegod's skin.

Mr.Branson's eyes traveled to the musclegod's hand, a hand that could enclose his skull and utterly squish it like a grape, and the musclegod closed his fingers into a fist and the veins of his massive forearm could be seen in the relief of the tight sleeve.

Mr.Branson was yet fighting a hopeless battle. Was he about to lose control in front of these men? Would he walk home in dump pants and shame? Or worse, was he a bitch for any Musclegod that crosses him?  The forces Mr.Branson was struggling against were overwhelming, he knew he couldn't stop from spontaneously explode in his pants, but he couldn't accept it.

His eyes outlined every single detail and peaks of Dr.Breneth breathtaking muscular arm like he was watching fireworks. He was unable to stop thinking that this single arm flexing in front of him weighted more than his two legs. That it would be able to lift this couch with everything inside of that room in it, including himself and the young shrink. Yet, Mr.Branson junior had still some resolve to defy his own body, he couldn't accept to be a plaything at the hands of these musclegods. He held his breath harder, noticing his cock ready to shoot.   

And then, the monstrous arm started to flex. Slowly, the forearm bent and the inhumanly large bicep started to enlarge even more before his eyes. A large bowling ball with the strength of a dozen men inside it. The dark blue sleeve grew translucent at its almighty peak. That same almighty peak elevated more four inches splitting the first strands of the strong material barely capable to hold the terrifying wingspan of muscles.

The young therapist watched the spectacle, his eyes transfixed on the two holy muscle spheres above his view, Dr.Breneth's butt. Boning up as well, he was fighting the instinct to jump over Dr.Eric Breneth's back and feel those enormous jutting muscles himself.

Mr.Branson still tied to an attempt to save his dignity, nodded a desperate 'no', but his eyes were wide open at the musclegod's almighty bicep.

Dr.Breneth kept his clinical green eyes down at his tiny patient. All of them were tiny. All tinies are unable to stop lusting after him. Some tinies still had troubles accepting it. With a little more effort, his bicep surged even more. Big veins emerged, the clear muscles separations of his arm became stark. The catastrophic failure of that sleeve was imminent. 

For Mr.Branson, was like witnessing a time bomb. He knew it was imminent, and there was nothing he could do stop it.

R-R-R-R-Riiiiiiiip

The colosseum of muscles burst free and Mr.Branson emitted an intense cry that could be heard at the street. His eyes turned around and he fainted over the couch overwhelmed by his runaway orgasm. His cock, even spent, kept its erect position as a homage to the musclegod.

"Good lord," said the young therapist, "talk about repressed emotions. I bet he is not the first one to react over your body like this. Right, doctor?"

Dr.Eric Breneth turned his huge muscular frame to the young man, not appreciating the lack of professional composure before his client. "Neither the last," replied the musclegod doctor with severity in his voice. The young shrink stopped laughing.

The young shrink found himself buried in the shadow of the larger man.

"Do you think you are better than him?" Enquired the Musclegod doctor bouncing his monumental pectorals with muscular authority.

"...no..."

This young man deserved a lesson for life, and Dr.Breneth brought his arms together in a most muscular pose, seemingly doubling his size before the stupified young shrink. With eyes wide as saucers, the young man flinched with his arms like a little girl at the musclegod's shirt collapsing around the gigantic shoulders and double-doors wide muscular back. Under the intensity of the musclegod's green eyes, the young shrink gasped at the shirt shattering apart exposing the full muscular glory of a super being before him. It took five seconds for the young man to convulse and wet his pants as much as Mr.Branson.

"From up here, you are all the same," the Musclegod stated.

He ripped apart the rags of his destroyed compression shirt around his waist and salient abs. And with the wings of his lats fully opened, the Musclegod tossed the ragged shirt over the young man, covering his head and the rest of his body with it. The musclegod ordered his smaller associate: "go clean yourself, and bring my chair here."

"yes, sir."

"And bring me another shirt from my truck."

"right away. Sir," the young man said while still staring at the doctor's immense pectorals.

"NOW!" The Musclegod elevated his voice to shake the windows. The young man fled right away in his stained pants.

"It is time to fix Mr.Branson's life," the doctor said to himself while looking down at the pitiful unconscious tiny patient, whose tiny cock was still hard. 

 

.

 

end of second part of the second part

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9 hours ago, merehuman said:



"It is time to fix Mr.Branson's life," the doctor said to himself while looking down at the pitiful unconscious tiny patient, whose tiny cock was still hard. 

 

Werll it looks liek the Dr wants to help. Lets see what's next.

Im Unpatienly waiting

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He one musclegod who's going to teach Mr. Branson that not all musclegods are monsters.  From my recollection of my continuation... I see 3 more musclegods in the future.   I think...   :P

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21 hours ago, merehuman said:

"From up here, you are all the same," the Musclegod stated.

Holy moly.  That was beautiful. 

Amazing writing, the descriptions were pure poetry.  An absolute symphony for a hopeless giant muscle-worshipper like me, haha. 

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Absolutely brilliant descriptions and a godly doctor. I'm glad the younger therapist got taken down a few pegs. The now musclegod therapist definitely has a soft spot for Branson Jr. I can't wait to read more!

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  • 2 weeks later...

Mr.Branson opened his eyes looking at the ceiling, 'where am I?'. For a moment Mr.Branson thought he was at home. His old house. The same roof he once shared with his father, his wife, and his kids. As his eyes focused, he felt a warm presence, he could feel the heat irradiating off of a massive body by his side, and feeling on his skin the displacing air coming from powerful lungs with 30 times more capacity than his own.

"D... doctor Breneth?" He said looking back at the seated giant, "you've..." his eyes went from the doctor's confident expression and unique handsomeness downwards to the O-M-G bulge enveloped by the tight pouch of his skin hugging dark pants,  "...grown."    

"How are you, Mr.Branson junior?" Said the Musclegod, the deepness of his voice that could replace James Earl Jones' legendary 'This is CNN'.

Intimidated by everything, the size of the Musclegod, his voice, his eyes, his perfection, and his barrel-like upper legs and the enourmous bulge that couldn't escape his view, Mr.Branson had to swallow hard to muster a response, "Fine... no, I'm not fine. I'm... I'm..." He felt butterflies in his stomach, he couldn't even think straight. The Musclegod's presence was dumbing down his reasoning. He felt like a teenager asking a girl out the first time. Or like when he asked his (ex)wife to marry him. Very few life events gave him such twisted feelings.   

"Disoriented?" said the Musclegod, writing down on his notebook.

With the Musclegod's eyes down on the paper, Mr.Branson took the opportunity to gawk at the doctor's chest once more. He changed his shirt. Another color. Most of his godly pectorals were still exposed. Just as his oppressively large traps. Even seated, Mr.Branson saw the four pairs of stones under a compression shirt that belonged to the Marvel movies.

"Yes..." Mr.Branson's eyes were still trapped on the doctor's tectonic pectoral shelves on full display.

The Musclegod looked on his big watch, noting the hour, making his absurd bicep to twitch into a hardball.

"You... don't need glasses anymore?" Mr.Branson asked looking back the green eyes above him. The seated Musclegod doctor could see that his patient was more willing to talk about musclegod features than his own woes. As usual.

"My visual acuity is up to 20/100 these days."

"Jesus... what it means?"

"I can see the license plaque of that Prius," the Musclegod said with a single glance to the large window outside. Mr. Branson could only one car at the whole deserted street, it was three blocks away turning into a bridge.

"Is that even a Prius?" He felt even more intimidated by those same inquisitory eyes, aware that this Musclegod's vision could see every pore and imperfection of his face and body.

"To tell the truth, I need to exam them again," the musclegod said while still writing, making his huge writing bicep to bulge like a solid sphere under the highly stressed sleeve. "My vision is always improving," he completed.

Mr.Branson's eyes fixed once again on the musclegod's biceps and had a flashback of the sleeve of the prior shirt tearing apart at his face. His felt uncomfortable with his pants all messy and wet, making him feel dirty, ashamed of such position before a huge Musclegod, completely exposed and defenseless, and yet waning more of it, savoring these same memories the shirt exploded by sheer mass of the doctor's immense muscularity. The Musclegod doctor noted his wanting, and flexed an arm for his patient, watching Mr.Branson's pupils to dilate as the colossal muscles piled on the musclegod's bent arm, "I take that has been a long time since you last have been close of a Musclegod?"

How did he guess? "Yes... I've been living in an old cabin not too far from here, Dr. Breneth. I... just disconnected from the world... I didn't want to be found... by them."

"By Them, you mean your family?"

"Yes... I tossed my phone on the road, tablet, everything. Stop using internet. I just couldn't bear any more. With the little money I had, I rented an old cabin in the woods, hiding. Hiding from those monsters."

The godly muscular doctor kept writing, Mr.Branson never saw a pen moving so fast, in a little more than a minute, his sharp and precise handwriting covered yet another page.

"For how long?"

"Two and a half years..."

"900 days completely disconnected from the world, Mr.Branson?"

"Yes. There was not even a radio signal on the lake valley. I knew if I ever appeared in front of a computer, or a security camera, dad would find me. Dad has now connections with the CIA, NSA, the Army! I'm absolutely sure that he'd put the entire nation after me!"

The Musclegod doctor didn't react to any of those possible delusions, because he had contacts himself within the major government offices as well. The giant brought the conversation back to Mr.Branson's life, "how you kept yourself occupied there for over two years, Mr.Branson?"

"Books. Books are my passion. I know I'm a good businessman but I never had the time to do my calling. I can write. I always knew I had the knack for it. Every English teacher told me. I spent my time there reading all my favorite authors during the night and writing in the morning. I decided to make a sort of autobiographical novel, to be truthful about the unfairness of the world, make sense of the hell, and yet still aspiring,  but..."

"You abandoned it," the Musclegod doctor completed while filling out yet another full notebook page on his patient like a stenographer.

"It was too depressing. Every page was like cutting my own wrists. One day drunk I just burned every page. It was fit of rage. All those drafts gone. Like it never existed. I guess I won't be on the NYT list any time soon."

The Musclegod raised his eyebrow, "did any member of your family ever hurt you physically?"

"Physically? Oh, yes, once my monster of a father broke my shoulder! He almost tore my arm from its socket!"

"How exactly it happened?"

"I... well, okay. It wasn't his fault. We were crossing a street and I was so disturbed that I didn't saw a bus coming and he yanked me towards his big chest so hard that he broke a few bones of mine. I think the bus would hurt less."

"Did he blamed you?"

"Yes! I mean, no. Actually, it was the one few times he got 'nice' with me. At least until it was healed."

"So, he still cares about you."

Mr.Branson did not reply to that, choosing to look the other way. "I... I have to say that I don't have 2000 dollars to pay for this."

"You do not need to worry about my fees,"  said the Musclegod. Two thousand wouldn't even affort the doctor three days of food, or the pay back the custom made compression shirt he just destroyed to remove Mr.Branson out of his catatonic state.  "I don't do this for the money, Mr.Branson."

"Why charge 2000 then?"

The Musclegod wasn't used to be questioned by tinies anymore, and neither he liked the scrutiny coming from such a tiny patient, the doctor's titanic chest took a deep breath to calm himself and not let his domineering nature to get better of him and teach Mr.Branson why a Musclegod should be always addressed by SIR.  "I have countless other more profitable options than this, Mr. Branson. But those heavy fees are there to discourage new clients as my available time became too limited. Either way, I do make more than enough money to keep my old career, and it let me give guidance to my long-standing clients, like I'm doing for you,  Mr.Branson."

"Do you have a new career?" Mr.Branson asked.

Both heard a small knock on the door.

The young shrink was back, making his presence known to his own office. Breathless like he just came out of a marathon, the young man approached the Musclegod with a wide and heavy 600-page book in his hands like a trophy,  "I've got one, Dr.Breneth!"

"Why you took so long to find me a copy?" The Musclegod noticed that the hard cover book was used, very often used.

The young man treaded lightly "w... we don't have any more copies in this office, Dr. Breneth. It is not Janine's fault. Or mine. We asked for more copies last week, and they're all gone, again. Now every client asks for them. It is still hard to find it in online stores. You know it."

Doctor Breneth inspected the book and found his own autograph,  "is this yours?"

"Yes. I... went home to pick it up for you as you asked, Dr. My home is not that far. And it is a very well preserved copy. We wont need it so soon. Actually, my girlfriend prefers the audiobook version, she listens to your voice all the time, it helps her to get in the mood... to, hmm, give her... clarity... about the world. I prefer the book than the audiobook, but Mr.Branson needs it more than me."

"Well, then, now it belongs to Mr.Branson," said the Musclegod extending his blue-sleeved veiny python arm handling the book to the small (for him) patient.

"It looks expensive," said Mr.Branson.

"No, seriously, you need it way more than I do," said the young shrink honestly, but their eyes didn't meet, as for the whole time, the young man could not tear his eyes apart from Dr.Breneth's hypnotic ocean of musculature, always shifting and moving as the Musclegod adjusted his 1000 pounds body (450 KG) in his large creaking military-grade office chair that took half of the free space of that room.

While the book seemed small in the Musclegod hands, it felt like a slab of concrete once it got in Mr.Branson's hands.

Its BIG title: "THE NEW NORMAL", and the subtitle: "The New Era's Bible"

On the book's 'deep space' black cover had the picture of a cosmic herculean arm with our planet by the tip of its fingers. In golden letters was the author: 'DR.ERIC BRENETH, PhD.' The arm in the cover was just as cut and big as the relaxed arm on in front of Mr.Branson's couch. On the back cover another picture, this time with the Musclegod's chest, and again, with a tiny planet Earth being compressed between the muscular enormities of his twin chest mountains.

"We are releasing the third edition with updated pictures. My assistant will mail you a copy,"

"Third edition!? It is a hit, then, doc! Congratulations." Mr.Branson opened the big book. It was damn heavy because every single page had a glossy finish, and every even page of the book had a full picture of Dr.Breneth; the first chapters were a diary of his transformation into a Musclegod. The first pictures were clinical and detached images of an old man fighting cancer. And progressively, as the old decrepit Dr.Breneth started to win over cancer and get muscles instead, the pictures became more stylistic than clinical, by the third chapter of the 600-page book Dr.Breneth was a whole other person, breaking the two meters tall barrier (or seven feet), and every photograph then on was a work of art, of passion and commitment, elevating the Musclegod into a mythical being. 

One picture in the middle of the book grabbed his attention, taken at the second that the doctor's extreme quads burst a 501 to shreds like a collapsing dam, "that's... great photograph." If Mr.Branson had that book earlier, he would find more things to keep him occupied in the cabin by the lake valley.

"My son is the photographer." the Musclegod said. "All pictures completely untouched. Just as in real life"

"Oh, your son, that's why they feel so... intimate."

"My life is literally an open book. His partner and he followed me every single day of my transformation for over three years."

On page 202, at the start of the chapter titled 'Eight Feet and Beyond,' the Musclegod was reaching his 'final form', with two SUVs worth of concrete against his explosive chest on a concrete bench, splitting and cracking to accommodate both massive weights. "Your son does really have the talent to make them... rather dramatic."

"He always had a huge talent and he found a subject worthy of his talent," the Musclegod said making one huge pectoral to bounce magnanimously for a brief moment. Most Musclegods had the habit of bouncing their pectorals while talking about themselves. Even psychologists couldn't escape from having such Musclegod subconscious antics, and anytime they bounced like this, it would take Mr.Branson breath away. 

Mr.Branson couldn't flip the pages further without the first photo his eyes laid on grabbed his whole attention, on page 353, the chapter titled, 'The Spiritual Limits of Domination', the Musclegod wore nothing but a white toga drenched in water. His cock at half mast and nearly thick as a two-liter pepsi bottle, fully diplayed at the center of the picture. No inhibition at all. Mr.Branson turned to another page in hope to find such cock completely hard, just to phantom its size.   
 
"On page 505 there is a picture of me with son. He won more awards for those pictures than me as a writer. I'm very happy for him."

"I wish my father was like you," he said turning on page 505, the Musclegod's son was his age, an average man like himself, being dwarfed by his Musclegod dad with a gym/superhero outfit like he once was.

"Your father is like me," the Musclegod said bringing his hand to his chin, making gigantic forearm to fiercely compete for space with an even greater bicep. "Like me, he can do great things."

But was that book a great thing? Mr.Branson thought. Surely, Mr.Branson would buy the book without thinking. Some would say it was vulgar, but he couldn't stop turning its pages, almost addictively. But his father was into GREAT BIG things since he came to be a member of the Three Comma Club. By 2018, Mr.Branson Senior owned an entire fleet of ocean liners being refurbished to allow big Musclegods to spread and show off their muscles free from social norms. A Carnival business where Musclegods had little to pay, and lines of ordinary young men and women hoping to buy a cruise ticket to be with them. His father was making billions. 

Mr.Branson opened a double page picture at the middle of the book, with several beautiful young girls screaming fighting between themselves to touch the Musclegod's bicep like a rockstar in a concert. How could a single picture be so heart-stirring, hair-raising, and spine-chilling... how it could steer such strong emotion in himself? Mr.Branson thought. The Musclegod's pride oozed from its glossy finish. Great photograph with an even greater subject, sure, but not anything as BIG as his father was able to attain as a Musclegod. People would be lured by such nearly obscene, lustful epic pictures of Dr.Breneth, but not the writing, Mr.Branson thought.

Janine, the receptionist knocked on the door, "Dr.Breneth, HBO is on the phone's office, again." Janine in her early twenties, still in college, not only was biting her lips while stripping the Musclegod naked with her eyes, but her nipples shown like little bullets in her flannel shirt, tied with a knot urging for the Musclegod to unfasten it. 

The Musclegod was not amused by the session getting interrupted, "and why is that important?"

Janine kept focus, "a man told him that another man told him that if you don't sign their contract by the end of the week, they will phone Dr.Memphis."

"Dr.Memphis? He is a HACK!" The glass over the table trembled at the doctor's full voice. Both Mr.Branson and the young shrink protected their ears, while Janine's legs trembled as his loud voice alone was edging her to multiple orgasms, she was THAT sensible to his powerful voice, more so than all other countless young women and amazons the sex symbol doctor encountered.

"You," the Musclegod pointed to the young man, "stay here with Mr.Branson while I resolve this."

"No problem, Dr.Breneth. I'll do anything you want. Anything..." The young man noticed he was being too pushy, "I'm just glad to help," he said not being able to avoid looking at the pants-life-threatening bulge resting on the Musclegod's supremely powerful looking thighs.

Watching a Musclegod standing up was a spectacle in itself. Rising higher and higher, always perplexing to the ordinary people around him. Mr.Branson surely had his share of this experience with his father. Didn't matter if this simple act was a daily, or an hourly occurrence, it would invariably impress him like the time he saw naked breasts for the first time as a teenager. There is something that snaps when a Musclegod breaks the two-meters/seven feet barrier. And it happens again at two and a half/eight feet, becoming unbearably too hot to anyone too close.

And then, they watched his apotheotic swagger as the 8'5 feet Musclegod thumps on the ground as he turned to the door. They kept their buggy eyes at the big bulge package bouncing as it was so big and heavy as the Doctor's overwhelming muscles. Janine could not stop mentally comparing the volume of that package with the size of her hands. Even soft, those balls and the mass of cock would overflow her open palms. "Oh, shit..." Janine cried while crossing her legs again as if she needed to pee urgently. She forced herself to stop those impulses as there was a client in the room. Not just any client, but DR.BRENETH's client. He must be important, she thought while her eyes feasted at the butt, as hard, big and jutting as two bowling balls rolling one over another, walking away from the room by the narrow (for him) double-sized doors.

Their clear lack of self-control made Mr.Branson feel somewhat more 'normal' about himself. The 'New' normal, he thought. How many times he didn't found himself in this same situation with his father. Of course, Mr.Branson junior never told any of those moments to Dr.Breneth. It was just, too damn private to get hard beyond any control for his Musclegod dad. The more he attempted to avoid fantasies and daydreams involving his father's muscles, his cock wouldn't avoid it, it would rebel.

"HBO?" Mr.Branson asked once his senses allowed. "Is he going to be on Game of Thrones or what?"

"A deal on the book. That's what we know," said the young shrink.

"Seriously? How quaint. It must be a vanity project." Both Janine and the young shrink looked back at Mr.Branson like he was crazy, "what?" Mr.Branson asked back.

"Dude, he sold 80 million copies," said the young shrink. "Everyone is talking about it. It is... controversial."

"80 million! Those are Harry Potter numbers!"

"Were you living under a rock?" Asked the young shrink.

"You should know, you are the therapist here."

"I'm only doing this for the credits. I'm probably the worst shrink in the whole United States." The young shrink did not mention about his fixation fever on the Musclegod doctor as the major (and sole) reason for being there. Everyone had their secrets about a Musclegod.

Mr.Branson looked back at the heavy book with the tacky muscle cover. "80 million?? That's Da Vinci Code Big. He must be a millionaire by now."

"He's making 20 bucks on each copy, do the math. He is making fucking bank! He is so awesome. Dr.Breneth don't even sell his face. He could make much more money if he wanted to. But he says that integrity doesn't have a price... which makes them even offer more money."

"Did Dr.Breneth got on the NYT list?"

"The 'New Normal' IS on the TOP of the NYT bestsellers, Mr.Branson."

.

end of the third part (of the second part)
 

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