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  1. Era de mañana en el diario "El Clarín", en una de sus oficinas se encontraba Peter Parker, un chico castaño de 27 años de edad, medía 1.85 y pesaba 90 kgs. de músculo, estéticamente bien distribuido, traía puesta esa mañana una camisa blanca que se ajustaba bien a su anatomía atlética, pero sin ser demasiado llamativo, la camisa se ajustaba bien en su pecho y bíceps, también llevaba un pantalón negro de vestir y un calzado del mismo color, bien lustrado, el cuello de su camisa desabotonado solo para permitirle respirar bien y no sofocarse, pues el viaje matutino usando sus poderes para llegar al diario había sido bastante veloz, tomó las mangas de la camisa y las arremangó para dejar descubiertos sus antebrazos mientras tomaba un folder con fotos de Spiderman, se sonrió entre sí. Estos meses habían sido importantes para él, encontró un traje alien que lo había mejorado por completo, le dió más velocidad, agilidad, fuerza, músculos, y sobre todo un crecimiento en su virilidad que él en un principio no podía creer, aún recordaba cuando solo medía 1.75 y pesaba solo 70kgs., era sorprendente lo que unos meses con el traje le habían hecho, de tener un pedazo de solo 16 cms. de virilidad en erección pasó a tener un monstruo de 25 cms. No dejaba de ver sus fotos, apaleando maleantes la noche anterior, era magnífico, pensaba en el puesto que estaba compitiendo en ese momento como fotógrafo de planta, el otro hombre definitivamente no tenía oportunidad, dió un sorbo a su café mientras seguía sentado y vió la puerta de entrada de la oficina. Llegó alguien, justamente el hombre que no tenía oportunidades contra Parker, era nada más y nada menos que su compañero de oficina, Eddie Brock. Eddie era ya un hombre de 37 años de edad, a pesar de ser mayor en edad que Peter, se veía más joven, era rubio, de cabello corto, facciones joviales, ojos azules y totalmente lampiño, la vida no le había favorecido, nunca tuvo oportunidad de ejercitarse, ni hacer dietas u otro tipo de cosas debido a su físico, medía tan solo 1,65 cms de alto y pesaba tan solo 60kgs., definitivamente no imponía de ninguna forma, todo mundo le pasaba por encima y últimamente alguien en especial. El pobre Eddie llegó agitado y sudando a la oficina, con su maletín color café a un lado. Eddie estaba vestido con una camisa de color azul cielo que resaltaba aquellos ojos suyos, un pantalón café y calzado del mismo color, todo se hubiera visto bien de no ser por que todo le quedaba grande, a excepción del calzado, la camisa le colgaba de los laterales, y ni que decir de los hombros y las mangas, daba la impresión de que un niño se había vestido con la ropa de su padre, debido a ello nunca tuvo oportunidad de ligar con alguien en su vida. Mientras aún respiraba de manera agitada veía a Parker bastante fresco y seguro de su persona. Eddie se cuestionaba cómo era posible que Parker estaba así si vivía más lejos que él del trabajo, a pesar de tener cierto recelo al castaño, lo saludó ... - Hola, buenos días Parker - Se oyó su voz algo aguda, parecía la voz de un joven de 15 años. - ¿Cómo le haces para llegar antes que yo, si yo vivo más cerca? Peter lo miró de reojo y sonriendo mientras tomaba su café, le dijo: - Por que me levanto más temprano que tú, "amiguito". Eddie miró a Parker, notó que el castaño había mejorado mucho su físico en los últimos meses, sabía que eso no era normal en una persona, además Eddie siempre peleaba por entrar en el bus de la primera hora, mínimo debería que ver a Parker en el transporte o llegar al mismo tiempo si es que Peter tomaba el bus de otra ruta. Eddie terminó por mejor dejar de pensar en ello y se metió al baño para refrescarse un poco, aún así no podía dejar de sentirse frustrado, al salir vio al Sr. Jameson hablando con Peter y solo dijo él: - Hola Sr ... Jameson y Parker vieron al rubio de reojo y siguieron en su plática ... si, literalmente lo habían ignorado. Parker le mostró al jefe sus fotos de Spiderman, Jameson quedó satisfecho como siempre con aquellas fotografías, las tomó y se fue sin decir nada, Peter vio al rubio de nuevo ... -Vaya, de nuevo se te fue el avión del éxito " amiguito ". - El castaño volvió a tomar su café y a darle un sorbo mientras se recargaba en el rubio y lo veía como poca cosa - No te preocupes Eddie, siempre debe haber un segundón para que el primer lugar brille más y descuida, cuando me den el puesto , serás mi "asistonto", te lo aseguro. El rubio apretó su puño y saco su hombro del contacto de Parker para después tomar su maletín y probar suerte en la ciudad por unas fotografías. Peter solo lo vió: -Bye "pequeñín". Oye cuando vuelvas de pasear tráeme un café ... - El castaño sonrió mientras veía salir al rubio -Pobre Eddie, casi me da pena el pobre, pero bueno, no puede competir con un súper hombre como yo ... Parker se quedó de ocioso en la oficina mientras esperaba que fuera más tarde para la hora de la comida, total, al final sabía que en la noche tomaría sus fotos, mientras tanto cuando Eddie salía ... - Maldito parker, su actitud ha cambiado , es un pedante ahora- murmuraba el rubio mientras iba a su lugar secreto dentro del diario, era un cubículo abandonado y muy reducido, solo tenía espacio para una silla y unas cuantas cosas, Eddie entró y activó su radio clandestino de la policía mientras seguía pensando en Parker - solo por que ha cambiado su físico y tiene suerte con las fotos me trata así. Ya se había hecho tarde y Parker tenía hambre ya: - ¡Maldición Brock !, ¡¿Dónde te metiste?!, Sabes que quiero mi comida a cierta hora, maldito enano. - Peter salió de la oficina bastante enojado y se dirigió a la calle para comprar algo y así calmar su apetito, ya pudiendo comprar algo se tranquilizó un poco, pero seguía molesto debido a que aún consumiendo lo que había comprado, su hambre no desaparecía. - Comí demasiado y aún tengo hambre, no lo entiendo, ¡¿Por qué me está pasando esto ?! - El castaño empezaba a enfadarse más, pero en ese momento comenzó a activarse su sentido arácnido. - Sí, lo que me faltaba- se fue a un callejón oscuro y metió su ropa de civil en una bolsa de telaraña -Vamos a perseguir a los chicos malos y a tomar fotos. Mientras tanto Brock salía a toda prisa, escuchó sobre un asalto a un banco cercano y salió disparado del diario, directo a la acción. Al salir vió al mismo tiempo a Spiderman ir hacia la escena del crimen, no era lejos, Brock corrió lo más deprisa que podía, pero llegó demasiado tarde, al estar ya en el lugar solo vio cómo Spiderman salía de escena y varios criminales envueltos en telaraña, pegados a los postes de luz, el rubio se sintió fatal, otra escena de acción se le había escapado. - Maldición, así no lograré nada. Tomó fotos de lo que podía y regresó al diario lo más pronto que pudo, tenía en mente lograr ofrecer sus fotos antes de que Parker apareciera, aunque era muy raro, Peter nunca estaba en la escena y aún así conseguía fotos. Al llegar a la oficina se sorprendió, Parker ya estaba ahí, entregándole varias fotos a Jameson. Brock veía como su oportunidad se desvanecía mientras el jefe entraba a su oficina con Peter detrás de él, el pequeño rubio solo se sentó en su escritorio bastante agitado de tanto correr y entonces ... -¡¡¡Brock !!! Parker gritó como si fuera el jefe al entrar en su oficina compartida, mientras que el rubio solo lo veía con enfado y Parker cerraba de un portazo el lugar y Eddie lo cuestionó. -No sé cómo le haces ... Tú estabas aquí en la oficina y vuelves con fotos y no estás cansado ... - Peter se acercaba poco a poco a Brock que aún seguía agitado, pero confrontándolo, el rubio no sabía si eso era una buena idea o no, pero ya lo estaba haciendo. -¡¿Qué quieres Parker ?! -¡¿Qué quiero?! - Parker sonrió con algo de burla, y así tomó del cuello de la camisa con ambas manos a Brock, levantándolo del suelo, mientras el rubio veía como los pectorales, bíceps y antebrazos del castaño se tensaban en la camisa. - Esas no son maneras de contestarle a tu futuro jefe .- Parker acercó su cara a la del rubio - ¡¿Porqué olvidaste mi comida, maldito enano ?! -¿Cu ... cuál comida ?, No me pe ... pe ... pediste na..nada, solo un café... si regresaba, pero ... - ¡Cállate !, Deja de balbucear como estúpido , sabes que si te pido algo tienes que traer eso y más, en todo caso no me trajiste ¡Nada !, Eso no es de buenos amigos. ¿Oh si? Pequeño charal sudoroso. Las venas del antebrazo de Parker estaban dilatadas debido al tiempo de mantener suspendido al rubio. - Tú ... Tú no eras así .... ¿Que te pasó? - Dijo el rubio algo asustado y triste mientras el semblante de Parker cambiaba de ser agresivo a estar algo fuera de sí, soltando a Brock y dejándolo caer al suelo. - Yo ... Yo ..., Vete por comida y no tardes - El castaño le lanzó billetes en la cara a Brock - Hazlo ya ... Después de eso el rubio se arrastró por el suelo, tomó el dinero y salió disparado de la oficina, pero aún le temblaban algo las piernas. - Maldito Parker. ¿Qué se creé el idiota? No, mejor no lo hago enojar más, no se qué más me podría hacer - El rubio vuelve con una ensalada y pechuga de pollo asada, no había tardado nada en verdad. - Ahí tienes Parker, que te aproveche.- Eddie no pudo evitar decirlo con un tono algo desafiante. - Ya era hora - Mientras tanto Peter no prestó atención al tono de Brock, estaba tan hambriento que solo le importaba la comida, el rubio de lejos veía cómo Peter comía, parecía ansioso y desesperado, como un animal salvaje, incluso soltaba unos cuantos gruñidos , así que prefirió salir e ir al baño, mientras tanto solo pensaba en la conducta de Parker durante los últimos meses, se dirigió al baño del piso, abrió la puerta y se dirigió a uno de los mingitorios. Desenfundó su pedazo de carne, solo medía 8 cms., Y eso si fuera erecto, en reposo solo eran 5 cms, así es, el rubio era pequeño hasta en eso. Mientras orinaba y sentía pena por si mismo oyó abrirse la puerta del baño, para su desgracia era nada más y nada menos que Peter que lo observaba, el castaño comenzó a olfatear, cómo si oliera algo en el ambiente y mientras hacía eso su pantalón de vestir marcaba la gran erección de Parker, el pedazo caliente de 25 cms. de su entrepierna, estaba al máximo. - Aaaaahhhh- el castaño parecía apreciar algún olor. - Aquí huele ... - Dijo el castaño acercándose a Brock. -¿Qué quieres decir con eso? - Eddie guardó su falo y subió la bragueta de su pantalón, tenía un presentimiento y pensaba mejor salir lo antes posible de aquel lugar. - Seguro es el baño, está mal lavado, saldré y le diré al personal del aseo. Parker se acercó al rubio y lo tomó con bastante fuerza. - ¡Eres tú! ... ¡Tú apestas! - Parker volvió a cargar al rubio como lo había hecho ya hace rato y empezó a frotar su gran erección en la entrepierna de Eddie mientras al mismo tiempo le oprimía su pequeña hombría. -Quieres ser preñado.- El rubio estaba acorralado y se sintió indefenso, no podía ocultar su rostro de preocupación. -Parker, si ... si ... huelo así es por qué corrí mu ... mucho hoy ... Me pondré des ... desodorante para no mo ... molestarte ... - Tú quieres ser preñado- Parker parecía un animal salvaje que no razonaba. - ¡¿Preñarme?!, ¡¿A qué te refieres ?! Parker soltó a Brock pero solo para tomarlo fuertemente por la cintura. -Sabes que necesitas un macho, pequeña perra.- El castaño empezaba a merodear con su mano de forma lasciva el cuerpo del rubio aún por encima de la ropa de éste, la mano de Peter empezaba a deslizarse hacia la pelvis de Eddie, casi por tocar su hombría, pero en ese momento Parker se detuvo . - No ... No ... Esto no está bien ... No ... - Peter soltó al rubio de inmediato y salió rápidamente del baño. Eddie sudaba frío, solo en el baño, pegado a la pared aún, traumatizado, se sintió débil y frágil, sus piernas no dejaban de temblar, era la primera vez que alguien intentaba violarlo, solo pudo encogerse y quedarse en estado fetal en el piso de aquel baño.
  2. Here's part 1 of a 3-part story. If you enjoy it, please consider subscribing to my GrowManGrow Patreon page for more like it: https://www.patreon.com/growmangrow It was 2:00pm on Christmas Day. The decorations were all out, the tree was up, and Alexa was playing a steady stream of holiday songs. Hale Hardy sighed, knowing what was about to happen. Any minute now, his relatives would be arriving at his parent’s house, where he was currently living since he couldn’t yet afford a place of his own. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and even some family friends would be showing up for the annual Christmas dinner. The sigh wasn’t for most of them…Hale did enjoy being around his extended family, as they were generally kind and loving and supportive. The sigh was just for one: his cousin Kirk. Hale actually had quite a few cousins, but most were still children ranging from ages 1 to 7 (thanks to his dad being much older than all of his siblings). But he did have one on his mother’s side who was the same age as him, 25, and that was the aforementioned Kirk. They had been close as kids, both had gone to the same high school, and they both came out when they were 18. But during college Kirk had gotten heavy into rugby and lifting weights, and Hale preferred more sedentary activities like reading and video games. They spent less time together, and more importantly, stopped looking so similar. Hale and Kirk still both had brown hair and brown eyes and were 6 feet tall, but Kirk turned into a 220-pound jock and Hale grew into into a 240-pound pear-shaped blob. His job as a McDonald’s Assistant Manager didn’t help…all those burgers ended up right on his belly and ass. Even worse, egged on by his always-trying-to-be-macho teammates, Kirk had turned into a real jerk. He liked to make fun on anyone who didn’t conform to his version of masculinity, and Hale became an easy target. Anytime they were together at family functions, the fat cousin could count on some form of verbal torture from the fit cousin. And today was going to be one of those days, which is why Hale sighed. Soon, the relatives began arriving, and there were lots of friendly hellos, kisses, and hugs all around. Kirk showed up at 2:15 in his typical outfit – tank top and midthigh shorts that showed off his muscular physique – which was possible at Christmastime in always-warm Los Angeles, and eventually made his way over to his favorite target. “Hey, if it isn’t Fail Farty. How they hangin’, bud?” Kirk asked as he nut-tapped Hale. Hale had been standing by the snack table and was about to stuff a handful of cookies into his mouth when Kirk showed up. He attempted to back up to avoid the blow, but ended up tripping on the table leg, dropping the cookies, and falling to the floor. This got a huge laugh from Kirk, of course, who pretended that he was not the cause of the misfortune. “You gotta be more careful, Fail. You might cause an earthquake when that giant butt of yours hits the ground.” He wanted to respond with an insult, but Hale couldn’t think of one as he stared up at his very fit and very tan cousin, so he just played along as usual. “You’re right, Kirk.” “I always am,” Kirk responded with a smile, not bothering to help Hale up. He then pointed to the broken cookies on the floor with his left hand and pulled up the bottom of his tank top with his right hand to reveal his shredded abs. “You know, if you keep eatin’ all the shit, you’re just gonna keep getting fatter. You’ll never have abs like these.” Hale wished it had been colder and he could have worn a sweater to cover up, but the 90-degree weather had forced him to wear a t-shirt to keep from sweating all day. Unfortunately, the shirt he had picked was a little too small (it had fit until he gained so much weight recently), and the outline of his pudgy belly and saggy pecs were quite evident, especially once they started quivering as he stood up. “Maybe that’s not important to me, Kirk. Maybe I don’t want a perfect body.” “Bullshit, man,” said Kirk, now flexing his softball-sized biceps right in front of his cousin’s chubby face. “Every guy wants a body like mine. Men crave big muscles. Especially gay men. We want them more than anything. It’s in our DNA. I know you secretly envy me, Fail, just like every other fatty and wimp around. Can you honestly say you would rather look like you instead of me?” “Um, I guess not.” It was true; Hale would have given anything at that moment to look as good as his cousin. Even though he was rotten on the inside, Kirk’s outside positively glowed with its perfectly sculpted muscles. “Exactly. This body has gotten me everything I need…a great job, great friends, and sex with 5 different studs this week. How many times has your fat ass scored lately?” asked Kirk. Hale hung his head. “Well…not at all.” Kirk laughed and pulled up the bottom of Hale’s shirt, just as he did his own a few moments earlier, and grabbed a handful of the jiggly flab resting there. “It’s probably because the guys can’t find your cock under all this lard.” Thankfully, Kirk didn’t wait around any longer, as he got pulled into a conversation with another set of relatives. Hale, frustrated at not knowing how to stand up to his cousin (or not having the guts to just do so), decided he was going to head outside away from everyone for some alone time. He grabbed two more cookies from the table, waddled to the front door, and opened it, only to find his neighbor, Don, standing on the porch. “Um, hi. Merry Christmas, Don. Is our party bothering you?” “Merry Christmas, Hale, and no, you’re not bothering us. The reason I came over here is because I found this strange object out on the sidewalk, and I thought it might be yours. Or one of your relatives.” Don showed Hale the item he had found. It looked like a small thin vase, was jade in color, and although it appeared like it might be delicate, it was rather rigid and sturdy when held. The top (or perhaps the bottom) was bejeweled and button-shaped, and although it looked like a lid or a stopper, Don said had been unable to remove it to open the item. "Curious little thing, ain't it?" asked Don. "Do you know what it is?" Hale looked over the vase-like object and shook his head. "No, I have seen it before. But I’ll ask around to see if it belongs to one of my family members.” Don thanked Hale, and then headed back home. Hale went back inside and was going to start asking everyone, but he saw Kirk again and went to his room for a while instead. He set the object down on his bed and soon forgot about it. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Thankfully, the family get-together ended a few hours later and Hale managed to avoid Kirk the rest of the time. He helped his parents to clean up the house, and then retreated back to his bedroom. He didn’t see the vase he had put on the bed earlier, and when he flopped down from exhaustion, it was crushed under the weight of his belly. “Fuck,” Hale said as he remembered the vase. He rolled over to see it was broken in several pieces and emitting a wisp of smoke. The smoke swirled up into the air, hovered over the bed for a few seconds, and then formed an image of a powerful-looking man…not solid, more like a reflection. Hale heard a voice say, "Thank you for releasing me. What is your command?" He wasn't sure how to respond, so he just stared at the man in the image for about 10 seconds before saying anything. "Um, are you asking if I want to make a wish?" "No, I do not have exactly that kind of power. My command must take the form of a curse, not a wish. Tell me who you would like to curse, and to which type of curse you would like to subject them." Hale was very confused, thinking it might be some sort of weird prank he had stumbled into. "Um, that's OK, I don't need to curse anybody today, mister." Suddenly, Hale began to feel pain throbbing across his chest and radiating into his flabby arms. "Silly mortal," said the image. "You either must curse someone right now, or you will suffer the consequences." "Consequences?" asked Hale, as his whole body started to shake. "Like this pain?" The man shook his head. "Much worse." Hale was trying to think of what to say when he heard recalled what Kirk had said to him earlier in the day: “Men crave big muscles. Especially gay men. We want them more than anything.” The pain began to grow inside of Hale and the shaking became much worse, as if he was being torn apart from the inside. He then spoke to the mysterious image, "OK, I curse Kirk...and I want to always be more muscular and stronger than him, no matter how big he gets." The apparition nodded. "So you have spoken, so it shall be done!" And then, just as quickly as he appeared, the mysterious man dissolved back into a few wisps of smoke, and then floated away Hale sat on his bed stunned, wondering what would happen next.
  3. QuoteTheRaven

    Ejaaz gets Jacked Up (Finished)

    QUARY AND THE MUSCLE FAGS OF KURAI by Quote the Raven (c) JANUARY 2021 Of Quarium, all that could be shared I put forward in an ode. Chapter 1 - Desert (Sahra’) In April each year, Kurai temperatures climb to ninety degrees. They stay there and higher for half a year. - The Non-Arabs’ Guide to Kurai. A hollow concrete form in the center of the Narra al Maktoun Solar Farm 43 kilometers south of Kurai City in Kurai fills a structural role — spacing or reinforcement or something similar. The form sits invisibly amongst hundreds of acres of concrete footings and shiny black glass regiments in an otherwise barren landscape. Ejaaz Eud’laat does not know the purpose of the form, only that he has purposefully found it to shelter in its shaded interior. He swelters as he tapes reflective foil sheets to two cement openings at either end, working wall-to-wall, end-to-end, eight layers thick. The sheets block him in making it more suffocating, stifling and hot than this early July day already is. When the changes start though, the layered separation will not increase the heat, but will do the opposite and enable and protect cold. As Ejaaz endeavors at the curtaining, nerves unsteady him. They tremor his hands and intensely roil his gut. But desire pushes coveting in his veins so extreme that the rhythm of his heart pumping almost throbs aloud the needing of his efforts. He talks to himself. “You’ve done this before, Ejaaz. You’ll do this again. You can do it. You will.” When the layers of sheeting hang completed, he thinks, Get out of these clothes. Robes and keffiyeh that served his former obesity swamp off roomily and effortlessly from his coiled composition — a composition that now only strictly-dieted, intense university cricket or endurance athletics or champion swimming would have forged. He’s never done such training, though, has he. He never went for sport, fuck it, some did, but why could he never have taken to it. He does see now and feel now so palpably how worth it it would have been. He’s never put in years of those kinds of workouts — any fucking kind actually — or that disciplined, necessarily regimented, eating — The eating of the cast iron, forged iron will. He’s never cleaved himself to the half decade that would have forged this goddish muscly whippetness. Oh fuck it up, if only he had fucking done exactly that, what a jack he would have been all along, more so month by month, year by year. With the layers of sheeting and the concrete’s one-foot thickness, the space is dark now, it steams with heat. That’s too be expected — he resists the temptation to doubt how it will work. He drips with boiled sheens of fluid. The way he’s prepared the space, the change to the temperature will surely happen — won’t take long. He knows he knows that. Perspiration almost flows from his so recently chiseled jaw and rolls down his so new hard flat brown front. He takes a giant draft of ionized water. It really is the perfect environment now that it’s sealed off — what is to happen in his body will make it work — hard, foot-thick muffling and insulating walls, ultimately remote, and undiscoverable. And just how fucking remote it is, that is the key really — the ultimate reason for choosing here... oh yeah if he could be a betting man why wouldn’t he put money on that. But, fuck, he’s betting much more than money isn’t he anyway. His eyes fall to this body and he is greedy with it. It is indescribably beautiful so shredded and hard and chiseledly trim. Fuck yeah. He knows this is just the start. His eyes go also to his briefs. A snicker disrespects the member there. You’re good, baby, you really are, he thinks, I’ve been ok with you, have made you work, but really, you’re still so nothing. You’ll preen so much more, won’t you baby. Both you and muscle, when you’re both big fuck bold boys, I’ll preen you hard won’t I, fucks, you are both just part of what I’m meant for. Prior use has him to this result — improved from so pitiful, so grossly worse than average, so ignorable or really contemptible — the photo of fucking contemptible — doughy, mr full-on gigantic fat load, obese as a fucking fuck — just twenty-one days ago at 20 years old. Doses have changed him so much already haven’t they though? For sure, but changed him only because of his enduring their evil heinousness, uggghh — abiding the fucking heinous torturing violating heinousness — Allah dammit — oh well, he’s done it now — three times — but he won’t stop now — can only dream now to do it over and over and over and over and over and over again. He mouths, “I. HaVE. to.” He crouches into the wall. Remote, concrete-reduced warmth kisses the hard little sweet curvy sweat ass he has cheated himself to now. He wants it fucked right now, but thinks, Thank you. His ass is so perfectly bubbly, little, rock hard.... round. Ohh. It’s so Hard. Unnh. The location gives desolation — his torture chamber will be effectively and brutally unhearable. This jury-rigged, just-passable buffer will grow to be an ample deep freeze chamber against the outside heat, and will let cold accumulate and oh so drive the compound to work. “Fuck you,” he enunciates, knotted inside.“Fuck the fuck.” Bad language has emerged in him destroying what he was. Self-abuse, even just three doses worth, have rape-assaulted him, roughened him, made it so dirty words vulgarize the changing him — oh how they overthrow his twenty years of prissy, pussy, repressive, Arab-old-lady dictated, fucking mores. Urges ejaculate all over that fucked submissiveness, don’t they? His upper lip curls back from his teeth and his breath makes an exhaling snarl. He reaches out now and eases a vial from a cooler. “Fucker!” he spits. It is this vessel’s transforming compound that births the emerging man’s crudities. Tilting the vial, its liquid shifts between silver, green, gold, and blue. Saliva attempts to gather in his mouth, but his pouty lips crack from heat, and from both the charge and the fears. Opening it, the tube puffs a vapor cloud — a shimmering fog. “Slut,” he seethes, “I hate you,” but also he adds, “I fucking worship you, baby.” He’s so incredibly tempted to snort the Quarium, right then and there, and just have it over, just have it so that he feels...feeeEeeEeels it all here and now — euphoria, greatness, grandeur — everything. But he exerts every last tiny kernel of his too limited willpower — snorting isn’t the way. He needs what’s harder but so much more. So, instead, a syringe draws up the liquid beneath the mist. The liquid is called Quarium. “It’s go time. It is. Now is the time to go. To say go. To do it. Please! Come On. It’s go go go go go fucking go gotime to go.” The dose, Quarium loaded all behind the needle, threatens now and he points the ministration at his so alien taut trim crushingly desirable obliqued side, determined to survive and thrive, but not able to escape feeling totally in danger. He’s engaging in absolute self-deceit when he says, “This is completely safe and easy, Ejj!” What, without exaggeration, would be described as unlimited fear jarringly jitters his hand as he attempts entry and the needle jabs a slashing plunge, nothing that remotely approximates a calm, controlled pin. Nearly no part of Ejaaz’s conscious brain can register anything but anxious terror at this moment. The insertion tolerates the gross inaccuracy of his stab though and offers a still acceptable option for pushing in the dose. Just be fucking brave and do it, dammit, Ejaaz!! a shred of his will finally proffers, penetrating into the haze of his alarm. A workable command, his fingers, almost on auto-pilot, squeeze; rivulets thread continuous cold virulence into his flesh. “Yess,” he hopes to say, but more rawly what comes out is “NOOOoOOOoOoOOO!” — so emotional, so afraid at what he knows in an instant is to be intolerable excruciation. The green-silver squelches in, indifferent to any feeling — particularly the rising pulsing fear. The serum, loosened, oozes. It is irretrievable. The poison takes occupation, assumes its subject territory. Ejaaz clenches.... resistance the definition of fucking futility though. Like his prior uses, it’s possible to feel the liquid chill consuming his veins, spilling everywhere through his flesh, ignoring humanity. The blood’s additive pushes advancements depravedly into his body, pillaging, cold-raping, violating progressive landgrabs as it goes. Panic pushes Ejaaz’s stomach into his throat. Ejaaz prays if it would just spew from his mouth, oh, if only that would possibly carry this bottomless fucking fear and destruction from his body. “Oh AllAH. FUCK the great god Quarium!” he shouts. And then, because his brain is heavy already, he slurs, “You NASTY naStY nassttyt..... fu..fu...fuck-devil...” From the wall, he lists forward and then falls forward. The ripped trim body that is so very very hot — perfect long toned curved legs, cinched ripped waist, jockey shoulders, and rocking swimsuit-model arms, and all still new to him — languors out ravishingly as he smothers into the pillow of the thermic insulating sleeping bag prepared there. A deepening ice age gradually and progressively submerges him, annexing his sylvan flesh, his wiry, whippety torso and limbs, his blood, his bones, his genitals — all that had been obese, fetid, abhorrent just weeks ago. Unconsciousness claims him. **** Twenty hours pass. If unconsciousness cleft the ice shelf of his mind from the main and sank it in North Sea waters, the berg breaching the surface reawakens him. Insulated by foiled layers at the tunnels opening and the sleeping bag, while Ejaaz is gone from this world, his temperature and that in his crafted space dropped to below 0C/32F degrees. In the chamber, rime coats walls and ceiling and everything, even the foiled barrier. It’s a cold dark freezer of isolation — extreme to a degree far eclipsing even any previous shot. Brutally bare except for orange underwear, Ejaaz’s raw skinned body prostrates a heartbreaking, snowstormed, make-model purple corpse — hipbones and ribs and solidified sinews. He’s so abominalized he’s almost beyond aching — but he aches, aches gravitationally. Hoar glazes his skin and the cloth over his tantalizing pubes. Fog streams in and out of his ajar mouth. Invisible Kelvinic blades mutilate his striated flesh in the shoveling thousands. Daggering vectors spear viciously into his drop-dead skull. He can’t move, he’s so ice-tombed. “Noooo,” he whimpers, “enshallah, pleahhe.” Then he gathers his objections and yaps, “No” — A sound agonized and croaky struggles out because his vocal chords both harden in one position and because hour after hour of comatose screaming have sanded them raw. His sublime jaw mainly freezes open in place. Outside, the high unchallenged sun flames. Sand scorches about the foundations of al Maktoum, baked worse than a kiln. Concrete and steel footings sizzle. Four square miles of black glass horde sunlight then dazzle it back into the sky. How can it be so inhospitably hot when the nondescript concrete form hidden in the middle of it all shudders with the nihilation of outer space. In the tunnel, it is Quarium in Ejaaz that generates endothermic extremes, terraforming the concrete to match the exterior of McMurdo Antarctic Scientific Base upon a months-long night. Unabated by searing heat and injected instead of sniffed, Quarium molecules failed to bind to Ejaaz’s cell receptors, instead entering into his cells. Destiny now unfolds. If instead there were heat — i.e., baking direct Arabian sun — and if sniffed, it would be different. In that situation, Ejaaz’s cells’ receptors would have received the Quarium and bonded, then caused a cloning of cells to explode. A warm environment causes Quarium to make fleeting Shadowcells — desirable musculoskeletal replicas. They flourish in ratios of up to two dozen or more for each native cell. With sniffing and heat, before a Quarium user’s eyes, an Arab guy’s sweaty, perspiring body expands in girth and power with growth. Shadowcells in him proliferate as uncontrollably promiscuous as a nation’s worth of bare-assed bubbly-butted submariners occupying every square inch of a sirening 1960s erotic cartoon steamy island poster. The unbridledness of the cells’ replication rams guys’ growth — explodes them into objects of lust — sizeable, full, meaty, snorting, dripping things, like massive studs, like big bull cocks, like brimming djinns — full of libido and power — cut, jacked, huge. It happens in proportion to the Quarium and the thermic source and the guy. With extreme heat and Quarium molecules, any poxy loser becomes gorgeously muscular. Cells mass and magnificate him. They hyper masculinize him — the new found grodiness rages in a metamorphosed rippling gay or bi or even straight fagbeast who has hijacked all the trappings of ultra bodybuilding, porning masculinity while the baking heat persists. But the external heat always abates eventually and the circulatory system’s pace recalibrates, and the shadow cells subside upon loss of energy. So one ought understand: an inhaled administration of Quarium (misted up one’s nose) when done in great heat expands and then subsides. Orgasmic flexing swells into exquisite being, parades conquering raunchy triumphancy, narcisses and exhibits erectionally, ejaculates climaxingly, and then disappears as the dissipation and reabsorption of shadow cells unfold. Contemplate, a wimpy faggot sniffing Quarium with some loser friends in the dazzling Arab summer morning. See their unworked little bodies bulk up and grow fantastic before their lechery eyes. Imagine them narcissistically swept into the lording of the gigantic bodies they receive, ostentatiously wearing bikinis cut so low and so tight that they more than show off what they’ve drugged for themselves, that it reveals every aspect of what they have done on purpose — the hugening of their mountainous chests, bouldering of monumental shoulders, crowding of climbing backs and traps, rising of their incredible biceps, expansion of their enormous curving asses, and the unbelievably thick legs that stage behind awesomely transformed barely-clothed-over himbo dicks and balls. They earthquake their strength and vitality, oozing the enthrallment to feel such vast beef across their bodies, weighting them down, mountaining them up, widening them like the Ranhad T’maad span, arching them toward the sky from the great asses they have, planting them in the ground with their bridge truncheons of legs, expanding torsorally with monolithicality. They feel all these things for every minute of the Sun’s journey across the sky. And then shift to consider the late day sinking disappearance of the sun, the hot blast easing, the moisture-sparse air of an arid land not retaining the heat it has gained. Envision the gentle cooling from that. And, in conjunction, conjure the thought of thumping heart rates that release orgasms the kind of which these fuck-nothings would piss just to realize existed. They would spuge-detonate after eight or thirteen hours of oversized, so-bare-they’re-more-vulgar-than-naked raunchy foreplay. Afterward, their cumming-eased heart-rates back down from porn-horny pace. Understand that a diminished, fever-broken bloodflow brings less energy to cells, tires the hosts of those blood cells, has them doze, and know then that shadow cells in the temporary Mr. Olympians say goodbye. Over hours, the cells aerobate until a quarter day later, neither the Quarium, nor anything the Quarium dingle-servingly wrought in the sniff-poxy-pansies exists any longer. Individuals who for soul-joying hours ass-humped as gluttonous gargantuans, muscling more extremely than Grimes or Kai Greene or baby Forslin or Marcello, revert to exactly the fagstupid putrid nothing fucks they had been. But, that is not Ejaaz here, that is not him now. —————————
  4. If this type of story is your cup of tea, please consider subscribing to my GrowManGrow Patreon page for more like it: https://www.patreon.com/growmangrow Part 1 Bryce Starr was used to being the biggest person wherever he went. Thanks to the tremendous genetics, a rigorous workout schedule, and a ton of supplements, he had reached 6’4” tall and 320 very beefy pounds by the time he was 20 years old. Everything about him was huge: his arms, chest, thighs, and especially his ego. He liked being with both the guys and the ladies, and he used his body to get whatever and whoever he wanted. Our story starts on the first day of the fall quarter in Bryce’s junior year of college – it was already warm outside by 8:45am as Bryce walked from his dorm room (which he did not have to share with anyone due to a very accommodating fan in the housing office) and into the campus square. He was wearing an incredibly tight blue t-shirt and khaki shorts, and he got more stares than ever thanks to a growth spurt over the summer. Bryce decided to give the other students a bit of a show by bouncing his boulder-like pecs and then stretching out his chest as wide as possible. He could feel his shirt starting to strain, and as he pulled his arms outward, it split down the front. The eyes of those who were watching grew even bigger as Bryce's muscular torso bulged outward from the torn fabric. "I should be pissed," he thought, "but that was the fucking greatest thing ever. I guess I gotta find another shirt before class." He could have walked back to his dorm and changed there, but a quicker solution would probably be found at the nearby campus rec center. The staff kept a lost and found room there for items left behind in gym lockers, and Bryce had an all-access key given to him by the football coach in case he ever needed to get into the weight room during off-hours. The big stud entered the center and strode to the lost and found, unlocked the door, and went in to see if there were any oversized shirts in the bins. He was pawing through the items when one of the university’s janitors, Myron Turner, quietly came up behind him. Myron was the exact opposite of Bryce in terms of his physique – where people would call Bryce a he-man or stud, the 5’2 and 95-pound Myron was described as a wimp or a weakling. He was also the opposite in terms of looks – Bryce had short blond hair, a cleanshaven face, square jaw, and tan skin, Myron had long thinning dark hair, an unruly mustache, a rounded chin, and pasty skin. "Uh, excuse me, what are you doing in here? You know, um, this room is for campus employees only,” said Myron. The big muscleman could sense the fear in the speaker's voice. He turned around slowly to reveal his Herculean chest poking through the ripped fabric of his shirt, and the smaller man gasped at the sight. Bryce leaned down to take a look at the janitor’s badge and read his first name. "Hey there, Myron, I’m Bryce. My shirt just about ripped right off, and I’m looking for a new one. I knew I was getting a lot bigger over the summer, but I had no idea I would be hulking out of my clothes. I was hoping to find something to cover up, you know. You do want me to cover up, don't you?" Myron didn't respond, but just kept staring at the 20-year-old hunk in front of him. His gaze seemed particularly directed at Bryce's chest and arms. Bryce grinned, knowing his massive muscles were mesmerizing the janitor. "Cat got your tongue, Myron?" Myron continued just to stare, so Bryce reached down and hoisted the janitor off the floor with virtually no effort from his superhuman biceps, and then held him so that the two were eye-to eye. "Myron, do you like my muscles?" The janitor finally blurted out, "Well, yes, but I’d like them better on me. I’m tired of being so small. It sucks when even the tiniest freshman girls are bigger and stronger than me. It’s so unfair.” Bryce laughed. “Well, who said life was supposed to be fair? Some people are meant to be big and strong, and others are going to be small and weak.” “I’d give anything to be like you," Myron said. “Anything.” Bryce put the janitor back down and laughed. “What could you possibly have to give for muscles like mine? You’re a fuckin’ teeny tiny janitor.” Myron brushed off the insult and took a shot with the only thing he had to offer. “I have a passkey to all the professor’s offices. If I helped improve your grades on their computers, would you help me become a stud like you?” Bryce didn't really care about improving Myron’s miserable life, but he did need to pass his courses so he wouldn’t get kicked off the football team. "You've got a deal, little man. If you can prop up my grades so I don't have to waste time studying, I can show you some routines to get bigger." Myron instantly agreed, and two set a time and date to meet at a gym in two away from the campus. Bryce didn’t want to be seen by his friends at the campus rec center working out with a nerd. The sessions started out positive, as Bryce demonstrated to Myron some basic exercises and spotted him as he pumped iron. But Bryce was easily distracted – he wanted to go back to the rec center and show off his increased strength to other students, he wanted to go to parties, and he wanted to get laid – so he began to leave Myron more and more on his own. Sometimes he would show up and get the janitor started and leave early, but other times he would just send a text with a list of exercises. Within a month, Bryce had stopped making any effort at all to help Myron. This infuriated the janitor, so he strode up to Bryce one afternoon at the rec center and quietly gave him an ultimatum. "I've done all you wanted. I’ve raised your grades to a passing level, but you know what? I can change them back to Ds and Fs just as fast. I need you to really help me.” Bryce was surprised at the threat, as he never thought Myron really wanted to work out with him. He figured the little man was just gay and wanted to worship Bryce's bulging muscles, but it turned out that Myron was a hardcore heterosexual who really wanted to score with the ladies. Unfortunately, not many women were attracted to his weak physique and below-average looks. But Bryce did take Myron’s words seriously. He needed to play college ball so he could eventually get drafted into the NFL and earn his millions, and he could kiss those dreams goodbye if he flunked out. "OK, I'm sorry, Myron. I promise to do better." Myron smiled. "Thank you. And I expect results – I want to get much, much bigger by the end of the school year. I want to be hulking out of my clothes, too.” The muscleman nodded and agreed to meet Myron a few hours later for their next workout. But Bryce knew that hard work wasn't going to be enough for the janitor to get bigger – it can be next to impossible to seriously bulk up when you're starting with a small frame...unless you have a little outside help. He considered looking for some steroids, but Bryce figured he would have to go deeper and darker for the type of transformation that Myron desired. "Of course, I don't want him looking too good," thought Bryce. "I'll improve him enough just to get some pussy, but certainly not enough that he would be any real competition for me." He hopped into his truck and drove to the more east part of town, where he knew the artsy folks had some pretty strange shops. Bryce eventually found a parking space on the street and got out to look around. After a few minutes he noticed a place called, "Wildest Dreams," and figured he would give it a shot. He crossed the street and went inside, and a little bell tinkled as he opened the door. The place was dark and cramped full racks containing old books, strange figurines, and bottles of colored liquids. A thin man came out of the back room – he was wearing all black from head to toe, and looked a little like an emaciated version of Lance Armstrong. "Hello, sir" said the clerk as he eyed the very large body of his latest customer. "How may I help you today?" Bryce shot the shopkeeper a smile and flexed his chest a little, as he typically did the first time he met someone. "Hey there, buddy, what kind of place you got here? Why is it called Wildest Dreams?" "Well, we help people overcome obstacles and accomplish things they never thought possible." "Well, I have a friend who wants to get big like me. I mean, he's obsessed with turning into a muscle stud, even though he's kinda on the wimpy side. But I owe him a HUGE favor and he's not going to let me forget that debt until I help him grow big. So, I was sort of hoping you might have something..." The clerk interrupted, believing he knew what was coming next. "You would like something to make this friend grow more powerful?" "Correct," said Bryce. "You got anything that can help?" The clerk then leaned a little closer to the Bryce. "Well, I have three things that could possibly do the trick. But I cannot create something from nothing – I need some raw materials in order to make these new muscles for your friend." "OK, what are my options?" asked Bryce. "The first is a potion that basically copies your essence – your spirit, your strength, and your confidence – and gives it to another. It's a very powerful formula, but it may end resulting in your friend getting as big as you." "And the second?" asked Bryce. "The second is similar, but it transfers essence from the buyer to another person. So you'd lose some of your power, and he'd gain it. I could make a weak version so he would not take too much of your essence, but ultimately you wouldn't remain as big as you are right now." "And the third?" "The last option is a little different. You would give up your ability to gain more essence, which basically means your friend would take all of your muscle-building ability. All the of power you have now to grown bigger and stronger would go to him. That doesn't mean you'd be weaker, but you'd never be able to get any bigger...and he would." Bryce did not particularly like any of the choices offered to him. He felt that the second option of him losing some of his own powerful physique was not acceptable, and the third option of never being bigger than he was presently was also not good for him – he enjoyed growing and getting bigger more than anything. The first option of giving his spirit, strength, and confidence to Myron concerned him the least as he did not think that the janitor could possibly maintain the discipline to be as big as he was over time. Bryce decided to go with option #1, and he flirted with and flexed for the clerk to get the price down to a reasonable amount. After the mini-worship session, he headed for the gym to meet Myron and went straight to the locker room. He took out the vial he was given and thought about the clerk's very specific instructions: each of them was to drink half of the solution, with the giver going first and the getter going second. As long as they both drank half, the getter would end up getting an exact duplicate of the giver's essence, and the process would happen fairly gradually. But Bryce thought of a better plan in his head, even though he actually had no idea if it would work. "What if I take more than half? That will leave less for Myron, and he won't get nearly as big as me." It seemed logical, so that's exactly what he did – Bryce downed 3/4 of the vial and was swallowing it when Myron walked around the corner. The teacher was already dressed in his black tank top and black athletic shorts, looking like a little kid in the get-up of a bodybuilder. "Thanks for making it this time, Bryce. I was beginning to think you weren't going to hold up your end of our deal." Bryce smiled. "You ready to get bigger, Myron? Turn yourself into the ladies’ man you've always wanted to be?" Myron nodded vigorously. Bryce held out the remaining solution. "Great, drink this first. It'll help boost your performance during the workout." "What is it?" asked the teacher as he took the small vial into his hand. Bryce took a step closer and hit a most muscular pose, almost ripping his tight white t-shirt off of his 6'4" 320 pound body. "Just think of it as man juice. It'll help turn you into a man like this." Myron didn't hesitate and gulped the solution down. "That's good, Myron. Now go warm up on the treadmill, and I will join you out there in a minute." The janitor left, and Bryce changed into his workout clothes. He took his sweet time, enjoying the gawking from the other men in the locker room who were jealous of his massive physique, and he made extra sure they were able to see his thick 10-inch cock when changing into his shorts. Myron followed instructions and headed for the treadmills. Because the gym catered mainly to hardcore lifters, not many people used that the aerobic equipment, so Myron did not have to wait for one to be available. He hopped on the first treadmill he came to and began walking at a medium pace. After about a minute, Myron began to feel a little dizzy, so he stepped off and sat down in a nearby chair. He was not sure what was happening at first, but then realized he could feel his body growing bigger and bigger, and he watched as his chest muscles thickened. "Fuck, yeah," he said under his breath. "It's working." About 30 seconds later, Bryce came around the corner to see Myron sitting down. "What's going on? I thought you were going to warm up?" he asked. Myron stood up, and Bryce was surprised that the little guy wasn't so little anymore. He was sprouting muscles all over his body. "Whatever you gave me is more than just warming me up, Bryce. It's making me hot!" The former weakling hit a most muscular like Bryce had done a few minutes earlier, and as he did so, his chest and arms filled up the once-baggy tank top. Myron smiled and just said, "Boom!" Bryce was shocked. "What the fuck is happening? I thought it was supposed to be gradual!" Myron continued to swell up, adding pound after pound of rock hard beef and inch after inch of height. He also gained access to Bryce's memories as the essence transference continued, so he knew exactly what was going on. "You didn't follow the directions, Bryce, that's what the fuck is happening. In trying to keep me from getting as big and swallowing 3/4 of the potion, you caused the reverse to happen. I'm going to get even bigger than you!" Bryce tried to keep control, but he was getting more frustrated at the thought of losing his place as the alpha male of the campus. "No way!" Myron smiled as he stretched up his arms and his torso seemed to grow right with them. 5'4", 5'8", 6'0", 6'4"....he continued to grow upward and outward. The poor tank top couldn't take it anymore and snapped right off, revealing the torso of a well-sculpted bodybuilder, and the shorts were so tight they threatened to shred as well. Bryce looked down and saw that, beneath the janitor’s football-sized calves, Myron's shoes tore off as his feet grew from size 7 to size 17, and soon after the socks exploded off as well. "But the clerk said you wouldn't get bigger than me!" said Bryce. Myron, however, didn't stop growing. He sailed past Bryce in height, stopping at about 6'10", but his body continued to bulge up with muscle. 300 pounds, 325, 350 375, 400...and he just kept getting bigger. "Even better, Bryce, I'm getting access to all your abilities, too. All those years learning about sports, becoming more and more coordinated and skilled. I'm getting all that talent as well, in fact I'm getting an enhanced version of your abilities. I'll be an even better athlete than you." Bryce wanted to run away, but he was too frightened to move. "But...but...why would that matter to you? You're a janitor!" Myron laughed with his now much-deeper voice. "Correction, I was a janitor. Look at me, Bryce. In addition to your memories and enhanced abilities and strength, the potion is also copying your youth. I can feel my body regenerating everything back to the time when I was 20. I'm going to re-invent myself as a classmate and take over the school. You'll just be second fiddle now...or maybe lower, depending on what I do to you." "But...but...that's so unfair!" "Ha! Who said life is supposed to be fair?" replied Myron, hitting a double bicep pose for the first time in his life. "Nice, right? Making you look a little puny. I bet I can curl whatever you normally squat.” Bryce didn't know how to respond, as Myron's muscles were clearly much larger. Finally, as he sailed past 425 pounds to his final weight around 450, Myron's shorts couldn't take it anymore and ripped right off of his body, leaving him only wearing an extremely tight pair of white boxer briefs that had a cock bulge so big that there was no doubt it was also longer and thicker than Bryce's manhood. The giant man took a step forward and stood with his massive chest right in front of Bryce's face. "Oh, yeah, one more thing...I’m bi now just like you. So we’re going back to my house to have a little fun.” Bryce gulped. Everything about Myron was enormous and wide and pumped, and he couldn’t help but feel a little afraid for the first time. “Why would I go with you?” he asked. Myron smiled. “Because of the essence transference, I know all about you now. I know you enjoy dominating others, but really you’re dying to be dominated yourself. You’ve been desperate for an even bigger man to take control, but there was never anyone more powerful than you…until now. And I’m ready to take on that challenge.”
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