long-form Hard at Work [Part 13c added - April 29, '23]

[hero72]

@scarletic any updates to this story?

[scarletic]

Thanks for waiting! I finally have the time and mental bandwidth to write Part 13. The outline is done; it just needs to be written. Give it a few weeks, because this is probably going to take a few sub-parts. 

[Lutz]

Best Christmas present ever dude!!!!

[scarletic]

Quote

So it turns out I actually had a second draft for Part 13 that I finished some time last year before I started working on the commissioned Thicker than Water but forgot I ever wrote. This still isn't canon, but I figured I'd share it anyway.

 

STILL NOT Part 13

 

Marcus’ sudden growth did not go unnoticed in the office. Neither did Wes’.

It had been two weeks since either of them had grown, and our co-workers silently rejoiced in the possibility that the worst had passed and things could finally go back to normal.

There was a palpable shock in the office when Wes came in bigger than ever at 6'8". He’d even formed a new habit, always tempted to tap his hands against the overhead lights when he walked through the aisles leading to his office. In fact, he was practically parading himself around every half hour or so. He was still too short—ironically—to actually reach the ceiling, but it wouldn’t have been long until he surpassed even Froy’s size at the rate he blew up. Try as my co-workers might to ignore him and his flagrant self-adoration, it was impossible. His handsome face stood out over most of the dividers.

Unfortunately for Marcus, despite his own new spurt, he was shadowed by the once-little man he’d teased for his stature. The blonde model was back to his old height of 5'11" and had enough beef to literally burst out of my medium shirt.

Marcus confided in me and was ecstatic that his online venture was back up thanks to his regained bulk. The cash was flowing in again, even though it had only been two days since. But he still wanted more.

It was a miracle he hadn’t caught on to the fact that he only started growing the moment he took off his necklace. He was still wearing the thing, and it set my heart at ease whenever I saw him around the office with it around his neck.

But I had to push those thoughts aside for the day. It was Friday—everyone’s favorite day of the week, because it meant that work was done and whatever wasn’t could be pushed to Monday.

But this one was particularly special.

A lot of us in HR had been waiting for this day to come since our retreat was cut short a few weeks back; some were more enthusiastic than others. Some, including me, because this Friday was finally Wes’ 32nd birthday. And birthdays only ever meant one thing—party time.

It was a decree Wes’ had put in place when he became manager that HR would have casual Fridays once a month, and he’d planned this month’s well in advance to land exactly on his special day.

There was only one rule: tops needed a collar, pun undoubtedly intended. Everything else was fair game.

A curated playlist of disco music was already playing on the speakers when I arrived in the office, and a lot of my co-workers had come in early in their casual wear. Polo shirts, leather jackets, Sunday dresses. Crocs. There was a lot more color than I was used to seeing (and a lot less style), like a Pride flag bled its colors in the wash filled with boring gray dress clothes. It added a dimension of life to our otherwise mundane office, an air of levity. There was laughter carried in the wind, and I felt like I was pulling the plug on the fun as my computer blared to life.

Jeremy’s bag was thrown over his chair next to mine, and his desktop was on, left unattended with a DVD screensaver bobbing from border to border, never quite hitting the corners. Froy wasn’t in yet either, and for a moment I thought I had some time to myself for once.

As if on command, someone tapped me from behind. It was a co-worker I didn’t recognize. Nor did I care to know his name. It was someone short. 5-foot-6 at most. “Are you Dorian Yale?” he asked, shaking, sweating, as if there were a knife to his back, “some big guys told me to tell you to go to the men’s room.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. But I think the blonde one is your friend. I’ve never seen the other man before though.” He gulped like a man with ants up his ass. “I think you should hurry. They were at each other’s throats before they kicked me out.”

I sent him away with a smile and a quick ‘thanks.’ There weren’t many blondes around the office, and only one who could have ever been my friend. Marcus was up to no good again. The other was a mystery. Our office had enough employees to fill a city, and never recognizing someone walking around was par for the course.

The washrooms were in the elevator lobby, so needing to use the toilet or powder your nose meant going in and out of the glass door.

I heard the familiar golden tenor of Marcus’ voice coming from the men’s room before I even saw the door.

There was another voice mixed in. My brain recognized it too, as I turned the corner, but there was something off about it, as if the door muffling it had lowered it a few pitches.

Then I recalled my co-worker’s words. They’d been referred to as ‘big guys.’ But that didn’t make sense to me—because the other guy was Jeremy.

As soon as I opened the door, there was grunting echoing. The men’s room wasn’t tall by any means (Froy likely wouldn’t have fit inside upright), but it was wide enough to accommodate a bus of people. The noise didn’t stop as the door locked behind me. I searched for it, thanking the heavens it didn’t come from behind a cubicle door, and eventually found its source around the corner.

What I saw baffled me. I was expecting to see Marcus, my big buff blonde friend.

I was not expecting to see Jeremy, back turned towards me, with nearly as much muscle.

My eyes were playing tricks on me, I thought. He even looked taller, possibly an inch or so. Yet even with his four inches of vantage on Marcus, they almost looked identical. Though Jeremy looked more stretched out.

Marcus was wearing a yellow Hawaiian shirt that looked too big on his already-sizeable frame, with only three buttons in the center holding it together. Wes did mention he only needed a collar, not to cover himself up.

Jeremy, on the other hand, was wearing one of Froy’s old white tennis shirts. I recognized it in an instant. Froy bought it a few days after draining someone for the first time. But it had fit him to a T then. It looked like tissue paper on Jeremy now. Painted on. He was big. Very big. The khaki capris he was wearing rode even further up his ankles than they were meant to. Also hand-me-downs from his younger brother.

Both men were leaning forward against one another, with their dominant hands raised high in the air, intertwined at the fingers in a lock. Their faces were beet-red with concentration; they didn’t even notice me staring. It was a game Marcus enjoyed playing from time to time—Mercy. A game of pain tolerance and delivery. Crushing the other’s fingers in-between your own until they surrendered. I hated it dearly. I was his #1 victim when Wes wasn’t around to humor him.

There was relief in my chest when he’d finally found someone else to play with that wasn’t me. The question was: why was it Jeremy? And what happened to him?

“I’ve got the height advantage too, little man!” Jeremy cried out in a laugh. Using his weight advantage to press against Marcus. “I’m already heavier than you. Just give up!”

But the other wasn’t yielding. With a sharp flex, Marcus’ arm was suddenly riddled with veins, strained from considerable effort. “I… don’t lose… at Mercy!”

“Ha! First time for everything.” Jeremy wasn’t even breaking a sweat. From where I stood, he looked downright menacing. His back had expanded beyond what a normal man was capable of and nearly blotted out Marcus from my sight.

It took another ten seconds before Marcus let out a pained yelp and cried out the white flag, “Mercy! Mercy, you ass.”

Jeremy chortled with triumph as he stepped back, crossing his buff arms across his chest and standing tall. “You still think my new size is just for show?”

“How did you even—“

The sentence died in Marcus’ throat when his eyes darted to me. He looked terrified to see me; there was a visible question in his eyes. He was sweating profusely and had already darkened parts of his yellow Hawaiian shirt. His exposed cleavage glistened, and the drops running down his abs emphasized their protrusion.

“Dory?! When did you get here?” he asked, catching his breath.

Jeremy looked at me over his shoulder, and his eyes widened with mischief. Standing close to him, he was undeniably taller, but not by much. 6'3" at the most. His toned frame had exploded overnight. Froy’s old shirt wasn’t standing much of a chance against the sheer hardness of his muscles, even unflexed. He was a Greek statue come to life—only he didn’t have the same humble genitals, not when there was a visible protrusion pushing against his zipper.

“Hey! I didn’t know you were here,” he said, smiling at me, absent-mindedly tensing his pecs under his shirt.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Marcus butted in.

Jeremy opened his arms wide, showing off the clear-cut divide between his biceps and triceps, each wider around than my entire forearm, and welcomed me close. He was big. Jeremy wasn’t supposed to be ‘big.’ Tall, yes. Muscular? No. Not if he wasn’t hit by a meteor. Then I remembered who was: Lisa.

“What’re you staring at?” Jeremy asked, feigning ignorance. “Is there something on my chest?” He bounced his right tit once for punctuation.

I felt the blood rushing to my groin. “What happened to you?” I asked.

“I asked the same thing,” Marcus said.

Jeremy raised his chin, showing off how his neck now matched his head in width, and grinned. Then he winked at me. “I think we both know what happened to me,” he said, leaning forward slowly to look deep into my eyes. “And we both know how. You aren’t very subtle with the info you pass around, you know.”

Marcus looked at me with worry wrinkling his eyebrows. “What’s he talking about, Dor’?”

Standing back to his full height, Jeremy raised his index finger. “One word. Coffee.”

We all looked at one another in silence, prying whatever we could from one another’s loaded stares. Marcus was oblivious. He was hot, and funny, and creative, but deduction was lost on him. Jeremy, on the other hand. He… knew too much. Learned too fast. It was my fault. My fault, that he discovered what Lisa could do. And worse—that he likely discovered her taste in men too.

“What’s this about coffee?” Marcus asked.

Jeremy smirked, coyly. “Who knows.”

Marcus squeezed his eyes and sucked his lips into a snarl. “Oh, yeah? Just because you and Dory’ve got secrets, you think he likes you better than me? Why don’t we do what we asked him here for if you’re going to be so damn cocky.”

Jeremy’s smile broadened until I felt my own cheeks strain. “Me? Cocky? Fine.” He headed back around the corner to the sinks without another word.

“Fine!” Marcus patted me on the back and led me forward, a fury in his eyes I couldn’t cool down. “Come on, Dory. Jeremy and I want you to do something for us.”

“And what would that be?”

“You’re going to tell us which of us is hotter. Right here, right now. Winner takes Lisa.”

Jeremy was already squeezing himself out of his too-small shirt in front of the mirrors, exposing his chiseled wall of eight-pack abs. “I never agreed to that last bit,” he said, loudly.

“Fuck you! You know she still wants me.”

“I promise you, she does not.”

They didn’t give me a choice in the matter; not that I would’ve refused anyway, since I was preoccupied and lost all sense of critical thinking as I watched both men strip in front of the row of sink mirrors.

Both of them were intimidatingly big. But while Jeremy’s torso was toned and tight, likely under 5% body fat if any at all, Marcus had a faint layer of fat that made him look thicker than he really was. Jeremy may have had the striations and cuts, but Marcus had the overcast shadows and the broadest shoulders I’d ever seen possible on a man.

Marcus lifted me by the armpits and set me down on the sink between them. “Now you’ve got the best seat in the house.” He pushed Jeremy back a few steps so they were level with each other. “Don’t stand so close to the judge. That’s cheating.”

Jeremy snickered in mockery but complied anyway. “What’re you going to do? Arrest me?”

Marcus groaned, lifting his pumped right arm and flexing it aggressively. “Come on, Dory. Just tell me I win. I know you know I’m hotter than this dried prune.”

Jeremy wrinkled his brow and lifted both arms to contest. “Hey, I didn’t know we were allowed to flex!”

He started pumping both arms, flexing and unflexing, magnifying just how tall his bicep peaks could rise with every pump. Grunting, knowing, manipulating the way time seemed to flow around him, making my eyes water as they struggled to turn away from his display. Slow.

“I’ve got the bigger arms, right? Lisa taught me this last night.” He peered at Marcus behind his arms. “I had her pinned to the wall, you know. Said you never did that kind of thing before.”

Marcus’ anger was heating up, and he shook his head in protest. “You’re such a dickwad.”

He did the same, lifting both arms to a hard flex. Though he took it further and started bouncing his pecs. His exaggeratedly wide V-taper made his now-flexed upper body take up more space in my field of view. He took one look at my growing hard-on and grinned.

“You remember what it was like to touch all of this, don’t you? I know you liked it. Back at the resort. Just because I was drunk doesn’t mean I don’t remember.”

With a scowl, Jeremy spun on his heels and flexed his back at me. “But wouldn’t you want to get your hands on the better Adamson brother instead?” He then winked at me over his shoulder.

Marcus was getting flustered. “Please. Besides, just because you grew overnight doesn’t mean it’ll happen again.”

“You want to bet?”

Marcus started unbuttoning his shorts and slipping out of his boat shoes. “That’s it! I’m not going to lose to you again. No more rules.”

Jeremy’s eyes widened before settling down from surprise to one of conniving. He didn’t hesitate to start unbuttoning his capris and slicking back his smooth black hair. “Are you sure about that? I tend to win when I’m allowed to play dirty.”

“Is that why you went to prison?” Marcus didn’t hesitate to snap back.

“You asked for it.”

In less than a minute, both men were stripped naked down to their underwear—or, one of them, anyway. Jeremy was wearing white boxer-briefs. Marcus was nude. He’d let his thick pipe of meat smack against his lower thigh.

All three of us were eyeing their two packages incredulously, the fat heads of each staring at the floor. However, where Marcus was undoubtedly thicker, Jeremy’s seemed to weigh down his underwear from the sheer volume, exposing some of his shaved skin. He’d come prepared, apparently. Perhaps it was at the request of Lisa. Perhaps he knew this would happen. Either way, I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

I was painfully hard and sweating as both men stepped forward to take over my personal space. It was only when I heard the sound of something moving did I break from my stupor—Marcus had taken off his necklace. My heart stopped.

He held it out in one hand toward me with a commanding tone. “Hold this for me, wouldya? It’s getting in the way of my big ol’ pecs.”

My body was slowly whiting out as I opened my hand to take it from him. I knew what was coming next, if Monday in the store room was any indication.

Marcus shook himself ready for action, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he started stretching. “Alright. Come on. Get some hand action on me, Dor’. Touch me anywhere you want. You want a feel of my arms? My dick? My tits?” He was flexing and posing and stretching any and every way he knew how.

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “You’ve got two hands, Dory. Use them.”

He pressed his waist against the sink, resting his hefty sack on the marble. He moved more deliberately, slower, less… energetic, more controlled. He grabbed my free hand and pried it open and slammed it into his brick wall of an abdomen. His skin was hot, and his every muscle was firm as obsidian. I tugged a bit of his skin and watched as nothing else seemed to move beneath, as if his flesh were only a layer meant to preserve his well-sculpted muscle.

Marcus saw where my left hand was—running up and down Jeremy’s abs—and snatched my right. “Come on, Dor’. These nipples aren’t going to touch themselves. Just tell me I’m the hotter one. Tell me how much you like my big chest. I know you want to.”

He guided my hand as he cupped his pecs, squeezing and caressing them in my touch, his firm nipple poking against my palm. I didn’t know whether it was of my own choice. But I squeezed it, and I felt it shudder. His bulge at my side did a little jump. Then he pressed his large arms closer to make his pecs look even rounder, his cleavage sucking in my fingers.

“That’s all fat.” Jeremy rolled his eyes, raising his arm and guiding my hand towards it. “But this is real muscle, right, Dory? You know better than I do that I’m what Lisa wants.”

“No. It’s not!” Marcus cried, letting go of my hand and glaring at Jeremy.

I could have dropped my hand. But I chose to keep it on Marcus’ chest. My eyes were drying from my refusal to blink. Without his necklace, Marcus’ body was free to do what it wanted, and what it wanted, and what Marcus wanted, was to grow.

And grow it did.

His skin warmed under my touch, then I felt it tense. The pec in my hand started hardening, as if flexed, and it didn’t stop. It continued growing, pumping ever bigger, heavier, against my hand. It was subtle for the first few seconds as both men were too distracted by their desire for my approval. But it inevitably picked up—not just the rate he expanded, but also our attention.

Marcus grinned as he shut his eyes and moaned. “Oh, fuck… it’s happening again…”

Jeremy stopped flexing and gazed over to investigate. “What’re you talking about—“

He couldn’t finish his sentence; his brain had shut down from watching what was happening to the man beside him. His eyes became a mirror: one where I could watch as every muscle on Marcus’ exposed body started eating up more space, forcing its way into our personal bubbles.

No matter how many times I’d watched it happen at this point, I never seemed to tire of witnessing the impossible made flesh before me.

Both Jeremy and I dropped whatever we were doing, what we were thinking, saying, and stared. Marcus’ muscle growth had evolved and became more akin to a balloon pumping full of air. Every slab of meat that was already protruding from his body, from his pecs to his arms to his thighs and ankles and feet, began to jut out further, widening his shoulders, limiting his range of motion.

Marcus let slip a deep moan from his lips, singing of ecstasy as his eyelids fluttered. “Oh, fuck… “

It was concerning at first how much faster he was expanding towards me. Any more and he would’ve been a cube of muscle, and I could see Jeremy’s eyes shudder with worry, watching this growing man no more than a foot in front of us.

Marcus’ body seemed to understand. Without warning, he started growing taller. His head climbed centimeter by centimeter, second by second, towards the ceiling. He’d already put my body to shame at the start of the week. Now, he seemed determined to catch up with Wes in size as his eyes flew upwards, clinging onto my gaze as he revelled in the distance his growth was creating between us. Even before he’d finished rising, his spherical pecs had already forced him to bend forward just to keep his self-satisfied eyes trained on mine.

“Fuuuck…! I’m so big…” he moaned, turning his head and slapping a hand on Jeremy’s bare shoulder.

It looked so much larger only moments ago; but in the wake of Marcus’ growth, his own overnight spurt had been quickly overshadowed by a raw power far more potent than anything Lisa could’ve delivered. His cock was standing upright, though tilted a bit to the left, the fat mushroom head pointing in Jeremy’s direction.

“Still think you’re the bigger guy?” he asked.

Jeremy shook his head. “Fuck you, that’s cheating!” he yelled.

Then he did what I hoped he wouldn’t: he turned to me, looked down, and glanced—just for a moment, more than enough time for us to consider the other—at the black shard necklace clutched in my hands like a set of pearls. But he said nothing.

Marcus spread out his legs and started swaying his hips hypnotically, bringing up his newly swollen arms up to the air, greater than a basic perpendicular bicep pose, and flexed, and flexed, and flexed. His grin was that of a teen victor’s, smug as all hell, with lower lip bitten and his upper teeth pristine and glowing with pride, accentuating his dimples.

“All’s fair in love and war, asshole.” He pressed himself up against the now-smaller competitor and pulled off Jeremy’s glasses, wearing them as a headband to contain his own wavy golden hair.

Marcus had out-tall’d and out-muscle’d Jeremy in no more than three minutes. Though he still only seemed to loom over the new guy by an inch or two, the way his muscles swayed whenever he moved and bumped into one another made it feel like comparing them to apples to oranges—bodybuilders to amateurs. Despite all the added bulk that would’ve undoubtedly made anyone his old height near-immobile, being 6-foot-5 gave Marcus just enough room to spread out the muscle mass where he wanted it to go, where it needed to be to maintain his self-image as a demi-god-in-training. He’d added Jeremy’s mass to his, making him bigger than even me and Jeremy combined.

I could see it in his eyes. The way he stared through me at the mirrors—though Wes and Froy were still taller, larger, and stronger by far…

“Shit. I’m even bigger than I was the last time I was this tall!” Marcus said, stretching his lips into the biggest toothed smile he could muster. “I’ve missed looking down at you so much. Now this is how things should be. The biggest one in the room. No one else.”

I stopped. It clicked in my brain: Marcus’ first power didn’t evolve. He just gained another one.

That night at the resort, when he’d been shrunken down to his most vulnerable, naked on the floor with a gargantuan Froy towering over him. I knew, probably more than he did, what he wanted. Until then, he’d always been the biggest. More than Wes. More than Froy. His brain had been wired to think that way, to understand that no one else could be bigger than him. No one.

He would always be the biggest.

As long as he didn’t wear the necklace.

“So what’s it feel like to finally be looking up to me?” he directed at Jeremy. “Looks good, don’t it? Feels… correct.” Marcus bent forward and did a most-muscular pose so close his pecs nearly pressed against my cheekbones. I could feel the warmth emanating from his body, magnetic in its pull. “It’s not even a contest anymore. If you thought I was big before, I can’t wait to see how much more this can keep going! You could be as small as my cock in a few weeks, Dor’. Could you imagine? And this guy here thought he was going to beat me at a hotness contest?”

Under Jeremy’s calm facade, I could almost feel the crack of his mask in the air. He was ready to drive the splinters and shards into Marcus’ flawless face. “And I was. But give it a few weeks. Even zeppelins explode.”

Marcus drove a finger into Jeremy’s chest, leaving a dent in his industrial-strength pec. “Please. The only thing that’s going to explode around here is the rate I’m growing if this keeps up, smart guy.” He then connected his forehead with Jeremy’s, sinking his cold stare into his eyes. “And you’ve also probably forgotten. Hard as you may be, rocks drown.”

Before either of the men could say anything else, we heard a loud banging at the door. “Hey! Who the fuck is in there?! Unlock the door! I think that blonde idiot put laxatives in the soda—oh…”

Marcus sniggered, as expected. “It’s about fucking time. Jeez.” He pulled his Hawaiian shirt off the sink and stared at it in a grimace. “Oh boy. You still think I can fit into this?” He gave neither of us time to respond before attempting to shove his arm—which, undoubtedly, was probably girthier around than my own leg—into the small yellow sleeve.

He ended up tearing both sleeves off. And causing a tear to run down his back, exposing his rippling trap muscles to anyone with the balls to stand behind him and disappear in his shadow. In the end, he’d turned his shorts into a pair of boxer-briefs and his branded shirt into a crop-top vest. It was too short for him now, too narrow. He tried for a while to close at least one button. But he’d just become too wide; he would have to expose his entire torso to the office cold for the rest of the day. He was more skin than actual fabric now.

Marcus looked like a ‘Hulk Goes to Hawaii’ cosplay. One bounce of his pecs caused the remaining fabric to fall at his side, revealing his large pink nipples underneath. There was no way he was fitting into any of my emergency shirts now. Then again, no one was complaining.

“I always win,” Marcus said.

“I don’t lose.” Jeremy followed suit and dressed back up, asking for my help to squeeze his own body into his stupidly tight clothes. How he even managed to get into them in the first place, I had no idea. Snatching his glasses off Marcus’ head, he wiped them clean against his shirt.

“We should get going,” I said. “I think we’ve been squatting in the men’s room long enough.” I gave his necklace one more squeeze before giving it back to him and bestowing it over his large head.

The three of us headed out, Marcus triumphantly leading the way. The man who stood outside the door glared at him with the fury of a thousand suns. The blonde hunk didn’t even bother to breathe the same air, much less realize he was there beneath him. Only when the man scurried through and slammed the door behind us did Marcus even question the possibility of his presence. The thought passed immediately.

He turned to me with a smile. “So, bud, you got a gift for our favorite boss?” he asked.

Jeremy was quiet for a moment, but he eyed me, watching what I would say. He didn’t talk much when he lost. And he’d been on a streak recently. Froy first. Now, Marcus.

“Yeah. You?”

He turned to his side and flexed his bicep, pressing his arm against his torso to make it look bigger than it was, as if it needed any help looking like it could break boulders. “What, having me around not good enough? I know you’re helping him grow and all, but don’t think I’m letting him outshine me for long. Now that I’m growing again, I’m going to make sure he ends up feeling puny soon enough.” Marcus shook off his nerves and started heading back to the office, draped in rags. “You coming with?”

Jeremy motioned for me to stay for a while with his eyes. I listened. “You go ahead. I’ve got something to attend to first,” I said. “Karen from Finance said she had something for me.”

Marcus gave a ratchet salute and swaggered back into the office with a cheer.

With him out of the picture, Jeremy pulled me aside into a cubby where no one could see us. He crossed his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall, putting me in the hot seat. “So are you going to tell me what that was?” he asked. “Or am I going to have to make a wild guess?”

“What what was?”

Jeremy furrowed his brow in irritation. “The necklace, Dory. That black necklace. Don’t think I don’t notice. He’s been wearing that thing since the first day I saw him with you in the pantry. You told me he grew passively over time, but until now, that’s never happened. Until now. When he took it off for the first time. And I know for a fact that that’s no shark tooth.”

I was intimidated by how much information Jeremy was gathering and how fast. I was worried that perhaps I’d been too lax. Just how many people were actually piecing together the puzzle I’d tried so hard to keep apart?

“It’s a shard from one of the meteors. I cut it up a few weeks ago when I discovered that keeping it close could ‘turn off’ the growing, so to speak.”

The machinations behind Jeremy’s glazed stare were ticking. “So it’s like… kryptonite?”

“In comic book terms, sure. But they’re no superheroes. Super men, yes—emphasis on that space—but heroes? Nah.”

There was a faint uptick of Jeremy’s lips that concerned me. “I’ll keep that in mind.” His hand shoved me from behind and led me back to the office. “Now, come on. Let’s see who can finish their work first.”

The rest of the day flew by with Jeremy and I back at our desks. Everyone had clocked in in the time we spent in the men’s room; even Froy had arrived, wearing a red dress shirt with its sleeves torn off.

His arms had outgrown some people’s legs. Finding anything that could wrap around his upper arms alone was a feat worthy of the record books.

Like Marcus, he only had a couple buttons holding it together because of the immensity of his torso, his pecs largest of all. Despite having returned to the office, he still crouched as low as he could to shrink himself—but that only made him look stupid, so I slapped him out of it. So many of my co-workers and I enjoyed staring at him and slipping our hands under his shirt to touch the ridges of his abs and chest. With his consent, of course. He blushed every time, and I could tell he enjoyed it.

Marcus had also since joined Wes in patrolling the office. While Froy preferred to limit his exhibitionism to me (and, to his annoyance, Jeremy), the two others were going around chatting up our coworkers and greeting them.

It was Wes’ birthday, so he had every reason to go around and thank everyone for the gifts. He took a more subdued approach in showing off his new assets; at times, I wasn’t even sure if he was actually flaunting his size or just didn’t realize how heavy he was and how easily he could bump and crash into walls and printers. Left and right, I heard his voice: “sorry, I didn’t see you there,” “oh, oops, I hope the warranty on that’s still good,” “why is this walkway so tight?!”

Marcus, on the other hand, was… less subtle. I don’t know who the poor sap was that got saddled with all his work because he seemed to have enough free time to go around and not-so-casually flex whatever muscle was closest to the smaller folks’ faces when he walked up to them.

I think he was making an active effort to avoid coming too close to me since Jeremy was always glaring. But his slight winks and smirks weren’t lost on me whenever he walked away.

When 5pm rolled in, the transition from workplace to nightclub was near-instant. It started with a single light going off in the distance. Then a red balloon that got loose from its string. Once the disco volume started to rise, it wasn’t long until I heard nothing but ABBA, the Village People, and KC & the Sunshine Band. Someone had even taken the effort to cover some of the ceiling lights with multi-colored cellophane.

“Hello, hello, again, handsomes.” The two Adamson brothers and I turned at the sound of the voice, somehow able to penetrate the deafening chorus of Mamma Mia. It was Sammy, wearing a garish violet suit that complemented his red hair in vibrancy. “Are you ready for the party?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s not like I have a choice, do I?”

Froy only nodded and scratched at his bicep. He didn’t meet Sammy in the eyes, likely still ashamed about the mess he caused back at the resort.

“Who are you?” Jeremy asked. He had never met him before, I realized.

Sammy cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, flicking his loose bangs behind his ear with a limp wrist. “Why, you’re a meaty young thing, aren’t you? They sure do breed a lot of you in HR. You should have received a memo about it. I’m the new owner of the company.”

There was a visible shudder in Jeremy’s seat. “You’re Mr. Samuel?”

The red-headed twig bowed, with the dramatic flare of a butler. “Correct. Proud CEO of H&B and your Mr. Smith’s #1 Fan.” His head flung back in a jolt as he stared Jeremy dead in the eyes. “Now, may I ask, who are you?”

“Jeremy Adamson. I’m”—he turned to Froy, who was idly unwrapping a lollipop he’d bought from the convenience store—“his older brother. I just started here last week.”

“That explains one thing,” Sammy said, standing on one leg, hand on his hip. “But”—he squinted—“I suppose the questions can wait after the cake is cut.”

I waited until my computer shut down completely before speaking. “So what brings you here? Are you lost?”

Sammy snorted and rolled his eyes as a valley girl would. “Me? Lost in my own building? It’s more likely than you think. But no. I always know where to find my husband. It’s a connection we share.”

“I don’t remember being invited to any weddings. And as far as I’m aware, Wes is still happily married with kids of his own.”

“Happiness is relative. Besides, I’ve got big plans now that I legally own him.” Sammy drove a finger into the crevice of Froy’s chest. “And you too, big boy. If you lovely lads need me, I’ll be in the conference room. Wesley promised me some private time, and I intend to have it.”

The moment he was gone, Jeremy spun around to face me and took a deep breath, straining the top button of his shirt. “How do you manage to talk to him so casually?”

Froy and I stared at him for a moment. “I’ve spent enough time digging him out of holes.”

[citizenies]

Thank you! Such a good read and not part 13 yet ~

[spacevlad]

Really fantastic not chapter 13, and it makes me even more excited for the final version! Great to see that you're back working on this story (Thicker Than Water was fun too of course!).

[Lutz]

Lovely comeback. I can't wait where thid is headed!

[hero72]

Love this! Can’t wait for the real chapter

[StochasticQuetzal]

That was so good! Almost a shame that it’s not canon

[scarletic]

Quote

Hi, so I've started on Part 13. I'm not sure how evident it was before this that I was aiming for every part to be ~6,000 words each, but, moving forward, I won't be hitting that made-up quota anymore. I may still hit it from time to time, but more than likely I'll be settling for maybe 1,000 to 2,000 words below on average. This is just so I don't force myself to write worthless fluff for the sake of hitting a pointless quota. I hope you guys understand. Anyway, here's the first sub-part of Part 13. It's not too exciting (yet), but I needed to set the stage.

Hard at Work: Part 13a

It was probably right after Wes’ birthday that everything fell out of control, but I couldn’t tell how much of it was my fault.

The world, everyone in it, relishing in their undisturbed status quo, wasn’t ready for the living outliers that were Marcus, Wes, and Froy — who, by the end of the night, ended up being bigger than the next; but it wasn’t like all the blame was on my head. Sammy, Jeremy, and Lisa had their own parts to play. Still, I seemed to end up caught in the middle of it all. Perhaps it was my meddling that got us all into this mess.

I was in the office that Friday morning well before the festivities were underway. In Froy‘s absence, the usual workload he saddled onto himself was thrusted onto me, on top of my own backlogged duties as an HR personnel for a conglomerate with enough employees worldwide to populate Seattle two-fold.

And, on top of the food chain was Sammy Beringer. Knowing him (and his infatuation for a certain Thai man), it wasn’t unfair to assume he had a goal in mind when he bought out the multi-billion-dollar company.

My desktop was set to ping me at noon to remind me to eat, but I already had one eye shut, the other lost in a memory of Marcus at the gym. He’d only just started noticing he was growing then, when he was already a whole four inches taller than he used to be at 5’11”. He texted me a few days ago to update me on his most recent growth spurt in the fire exit: “holy schmoly fuark dor im back to being a six footer hooo”.

I had to remind him to call me if he had something to say, because my phone’s dedicated Marcus dictionary was getting too tedious to maintain. That, and it would’ve put Merriam-Webster to shame.

Then, as I was about to doze off at my computer (the usual crux of working with numbers and spreadsheets all day), I felt a firm hand that weighed like a brick land on my hair. The force of which, I’d like to believe, was enough to knock an inch off my 5’10”.

“Are you really working on a Friday? Don’t you have men besides me to babysit?” Marcus asked, bending over to flash his shit-eating grin in my eye-bags. His wide-toothed smile was something he wore like a badge of honour and never took off.

“You know I get paid more than you do for a reason,” I sighed, reaching for a phantom mug of coffee I didn’t have. “Once Froy gets back from his maternity leave and takes all this work back on his plate, mommy will change your diapers, okay?”

I loved Marcus’ random interruptions and distracting self on the best of days — but not when those days involved two weeks’ worth of backlogged work, some of which was his to begin with. A warning would’ve been appreciated, especially since, in the coming weeks, he quickly became an all-consuming time-sink in my life.

Marcus spun my chair around and parked my line-of-sight at his crotch. It was swollen like he’d stuffed his crotch with a grapefruit. There wasn’t much room to manoeuvre, not with his khaki capris practically plastered onto his quads and calves.

He was wearing an undersized, yellow Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned all the way down to his belt-line. “Do I look like a guy who wears diapers? Actually, scratch that— Do I look like a guy who wears underwear to work?” He wagged his (clearly) semi-hard erection in my face. “As if I’d hide this eleven-inch moneymaker from anyone with the money to look. I just post a random hard-on selfie, and I get a thousand buckeroos to spend within a day.”

“Wow. It’s like everything about you’s bigger than the last time you were a six-footer. Especially your ego.”

“I know, right?” Marcus rocketed a hefty upper arm up to his ears and gave his bicep a powerful flex, giving it a few rubs with his other hand. “Just look at this bad boy. It’s just”—he flexed it hot and cold, disturbing the sleeve on his floral shirt—“begging to grow. Ha, I could probably pop open your head like a nutcracker if I pinned your eager little face between my biceps.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Marcus stopped and gave his palm a good lick before styling his slick, blonde hair. “Sometimes, I forget you’re hella into me. Let’s see about getting Froy back in here before you end up”—he flicked open his shirt, exposing his plump left pec and even perkier nipple—“suckling on Marcus’ mommy milkers, you horndog.”

I humoured him with a chuckle. “So, I’ll see you at the party tonight?”

“As if I’d miss my favourite, supersized Asian’s birthday! I even wore my good shit, see?” he said, flaunting off his undersized wardrobe. “And by ‘good shit,’ I do mean the only shit in my closet that actually fits me right. This used to fit me to a T before we found that first meteor. Now I’m just an inch taller but, what, a hundred pounds heavier? Frickin’ none of my 180-pound-man clothes fit anymore, dude. Gonna have to go shopping this weekend. You up to join?”

“And pass up the chance to see you try on a hundred branded clothes that’ll never fit you right? Just give me a call. You know where I live.”

“Huh.” Marcus saddled up closer to my seat, almost sitting right on my much-slimmer legs and trapping me between his arms as he held the back of my chair. “I’ve gotta ask. Just between us guys. Who do you jack off to the most? Me, Wes, or the pup?”

“That’s not a fair question. I’ve known you way longer.” His pine cologne was disorienting and quickly getting me aroused. We were confusing the office for a strip club.

Then Marcus leaned forward. He made sure to press his pecs against my chest, rubbing our cocks together, trapping my neck in his biceps, and breathing warm down my nape. “So does that make me the winner? You know I’m the competitive type. I don’t care how much you and Fro-yo’ve fucked. I want to be the first and last man you see when you cum”—he squeezed my cock, with his cock, even harder—“and I want you to cum till your balls ache every time you do.”

“Marcus, u-um…”

He leapt off me, patting me on the shoulder with a hand that lacked his usual spirit. “Pretty convincing, right? Ha, I could totally feel you getting hard as fuck,” he said. He tidied himself, fidgeting with the meteorite dangling in the crevice of his chest.

“I could report you for sexual harassment, you know. There are cameras all over the place,” I said. “Could you imagine? Getting fired and going to jail for a social media bit?”

He bounced the thought in his head, squeezing his nose as if to think, before landing on a thought. “Yeah, but we both know you’re never going to do that. You enjoy my company too much to make me hate you.”

“That’s true, too. If you ever need a side-hustle, you could totally be a porn star. There’s high demand for muscle sluts on the market these days.” I had to cover the tenting erection he’d sprung to life with a notebook.

Marcus jiggled his voluptuous ass cheeks as he sauntered over to the elevators. “And what makes you think I don’t know that?” he asked, before heading down for lunch.

The day’s food was handled exclusively by Sammy’s private group of catering companies, the very same that supplied the buffets at his resort. And, for good measure, he’d had every cafeteria staff in the workplace take a paid vacation off for Wes’ birthday. Anyone who came in forfeited the bonus. Our building had the good stuff: Thai-American fusion food — courtesy of Wes’ long, long list of favourite foods and Sammy’s seemingly infinite supply of cash.

I headed down to our building’s cafeteria where preparations were well underway for the night’s buffet and refreshments, the menu of which might’ve qualified for a spot in the record books for the most ambitious combination of quality and quantity.

Sammy, our new president, was there, flogging a chef for toning down the spice. “It’s Thai, you idiot”—he mocked with a Southern Californian valley girl accent—“not buttermilk chicken with lemon drizzle. This is why everyone calls us caucasians unseasoned tofu! Get back in that kitchen and add as much spice as the recipe says, or, so-help-me-god, I— Dory!”

He ran up to me, dismissing the poor cook, the heels of his leather shoes echoing against the food hall’s tiles. Hardly two weeks had passed since we spent some quality time as acquaintances at his resort, enjoying our mutual adoration for the big man between us. Now, he’d bought out the company. And my entire livelihood was at the mercy of his whims. Where there should have been some comfort in seeing him after so long, as one would an old friend, was instead the dreadful black hole of something heavier.

“So happy to see a familiar face. Everyone here looks like they just had their balls chopped or tubes tied. You’re here for lunch?” he asked, his delivery a cocktail of joy and confusion. “Where’s my Wesley? Why aren’t you together?”

“I don’t normally wait for him to go have lunch?” His question saddled me with guilt I never asked for. “He usually eats on his own time.”

Sammy pulled away, pouting almost. “Oh. Well, you can sample the menu for tonight. The lunch menu is wagyu steak, rare and bloody, with tamarind chicken and a metric shit-ton of shrimp pad thai. Wesley’s personal recipes. Desserts are over there, and Italian wine imported from my cousin’s vineyard by Catania are down by the balcony doors.”

It was a struggle, I admit, to commit that entire lunch menu to memory. “Um, great! That’s… a lot. Thanks. So, I’m assuming there’s going to be enough food for tonight?”

He flicked a limp wrist at me and scoffed. “Of course! Everything for my handsome Wesley. A big man will have a big appetite, and I intend to please. I’m going to feed that big, sexy hunk of a man till he bursts — or grows bigger, whichever comes first.”

I got myself a generous serving of steak and rice noodles, and Sammy wasn’t lying. They were prepared exactly how Wes liked his food: thick and juicy.

Later that day, I headed down to conference room 7, our building’s largest venue, encompassing the entire 7^th floor, with tall 13-foot ceilings and enough space to accommodate everyone in our corner of the complex. Haley & Bennett’s only ever used it for grandiose marketing events with prolific celebrity spokespersons or board members. A birthday party was unheard of — especially if it was just for an HR manager. Strings were pulled, I’m sure. By whom? I can’t say. I had my suspicions; we all did.

I only hoped that the 13-foot ceilings were going to be enough by the end of the night. It was a trembling thought to imagine that any one of Wes, Marcus, or Froy might’ve one day been tall enough to touch them, or bang their head against them, or worst of all: burst through them. Still, I was a man of vivid daydreams, and I was an experienced lucid dreamer.

Wes, Marcus, and Froy were good people. And, despite everything, regardless of their differing personalities, incredibly, they all had one thing in common: the unstoppable need to grow, the undiluted desire to simply be, well, big.

I was the idea-guy people came to to make things happen — and I intended to make things happen. It was a battle of wills, really; my brain understood the need for control, my heart didn’t, and — worst of all — my penis handled most of my thinking.

The venue was under construction with the set-up and tech checks when I arrived. A lot of faces were familiar; too many to count were plucked from the La Vida Resort, the fear obvious in their stark-white expressions. They would glance my way and shudder as if they’d just stared death in the face.

I didn’t expect them to forget. Marcus and Froy traumatised a good number of them, probably for life. I could only imagine how much Sammy was paying them to even stand in the same vicinity as us.

I made a mental note to ask for a raise.

Marcus was there as well, putting his regained size to good use. There were still tens of tables that needed unfolding and setting up, and people with Marcus’ strength were a sight to behold — Froy and Jeremy may have been gods behind the computer, but Marcus was no slouch in the gym. He lifted each hardwood table from the backrooms over his shoulder like child’s play. He’d taken over the jobs of at least seven guys and doubled their work speed. It was atypical of Marcus to offer any sort of help without repayment (speaking from experience), but it was plenty obvious to understand what he wanted, and was receiving, in turn; he was basking in the glory of a dozen worn-out resort employees who cheered from the sidelines as they cracked open cans upon cans of cold beer.

He was too occupied to spot me from a distance, so I didn’t have time to volunteer my aid before my phone rang.

It was the front desk; apparently there was some trouble that specifically called for me. Because, these days, of course, trouble always involved me.

The issue was obvious before the elevator doors even walked me out onto the lobby.

“—No, don’t tell me what to do; I’m calling the police!” a woman’s voice howled. “This is an office building, not the red light district. I won’t tolerate indecent exposure!”

“Ma’am, please. Clothing restrictions in Building E were lifted today for an event on the 7^th floor. You are making a scene.”

The elevator next to mine had been wrecked. Thankfully, it was the only one. It was hanging onto its cables by threads, dangling just below floor level, impossible to enter, and the doors were pried open by what I could only assume was a claw made of crowbars, as if it had been dropped from the penthouse with a boulder inside.

I approached the concierge, a no-name young lady, in a contest of patience against a middle-aged woman I could only assume was in marketing — it was always marketing, especially the account managers.

“Look, ma’am, I understand your frustration, but— ah, Mr. Yale! Thank you for taking my call,” the receptionist said, waving the obnoxious woman away. “Forgive the ignorance, but is there a Froy Adamson in HR?”

Correct. I nodded. “He’s my intern. Why?”

“I believe your intern may have, um, damaged one of the elevators when he tried to board it.” She gulped. “He gave me his ID, but… his physical description didn’t match. I was hoping you would be able to make some sense of it for me, and perhaps find a way to help him upstairs.”

“Oh, that’s my bad. I forgot to send a warning to reception about his, um, condition. You see, he, uh— he has delayed gigantism. Yeah. His ID’s pretty old, so it doesn’t have his current size measurements. Where is the kid, anyway?”

She pointed at the staff-only double-doors that led to the maintenance corridors. “He told me to call you and said he would wait for you,” she said. “And… is that true? About the gigantism?”

I readied myself to walk. “Yeah, why?”

“It’s just that, my mother had it, too, but she… she didn’t look like that. She was frail, and deformed, and she’d lost control of her organs, and didn’t last too long after having me. But that boy looked insane. Like, obscenely healthy. Not to offend, but I’m usually afraid of bodybuilders, and he looked like he’d had a few bodybuilders for breakfast!”

“He’s an outlier. Don’t let it get to you. And my condolences about your mother.”

“How big is he, anyway? Out of curiosity, if you don’t mind me asking. I’ve just never seen a man that big before.”

I couldn’t contain my smile. For anyone to call Froy a ‘man’ felt almost like a jab. That kid, my boyfriend, was a child in an oversized young man’s body. “He’s 20 years old. H’just had his birthday two months ago. And he’s around 7’6”, probably 600 pounds or something. The numbers don’t mean much to me.”

She scribbled something out of sight. “Alright, I see.” And slammed the pen into the wooden desk. “600 pounds, huh? It’s no wonder the elevator gave way; that’s about 200 over the weight limit. You should probably go check on him before he breaks another elevator.”

And that I did, as I gave the receptionist a warm wave goodbye, heading into the restricted maintenance corridors.

According to her testimony, Froy was wearing — what the hysterical woman succinctly described as — ‘a two-piece bikini.’ Knowing him, it was probably just his old digs: some old boxers, a tank top or vest, or a kids’ tent that shrunk in the wash.

There weren’t too many staff walking around back, and the few who were knew exactly where to point me to. It wasn’t every day a young guy went scampering around with the size to tear apart a forklift.

Froy was sitting idly on a pile of sandbags when I found him. He was every bit as massive as the day I last saw him. My stomach closed as we approached one another for a hug; every movement he made, however subtle, seemed to summon gusts of wind that took me by surprise. Since when had he started developing a gravitational pull, I wondered.

Then I stopped wondering — because his bodacious tits swallowed my face whole, and my brain was deprived of oxygen. His fat, succulent pecs were heavy. They jiggled whenever he moved even an inch, and I knew all of it was muscle, primed for a quick flex that would harden them into domes of marble.

As I figured, he wasn’t wearing a ‘two-piece bikini.’ It was just a crudely-stretched string tank top that (quite ridiculously) only covered three inches worth of his basketball-sized shoulders. It resembled a reverse thong — squeezing his eye-boggling pecs together, making him seem all the more swollen — as if his chest needed any more mass. One cup size larger and they could’ve been confused for two redneck beer bellies, complete with protruding belly button nipples.

“Oh, sir, thank god, you’re here,” he said, lifting me off the ground in his pulping embrace. “I didn’t know the elevator was going to break when I walked inside; I’m sorry. I panicked, so I, um, made a bit of a mess when I tried getting out.”

Needless to say, getting a word in was practically impossible. Why? Because my entire body was hovering a whole foot off the concrete floor, held up by my head like Play-Doh pinned in Froy’s bosom, restricted by two arms the size of a roided gorilla’s wrapped around my dainty, little skull. They had to be at least in the 42-inch range. I tried prying myself off but the ends of my hands didn’t even make it halfway around the circumference of his ribcage, inches away from making it to his armpits.

“I hope I didn’t make your life too hard without me,” he said, oblivious to the fact that my life was seconds away from being forfeit if he didn’t let go.

I twisted his swollen nipple, and he let me go, my face smashing into his watermelon-sized quads on the way down. “Ugh, you know I’m always hard when I’m with you,” I said, coughing, catching my breath. “Just not when you try to kill me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I—”

“Actually, never mind. I think I enjoyed the choking.”

While I was on the floor, I couldn’t help but marvel at the illusion his body created standing underneath the overhead lights in the dim corridor. He still had that delicate European face, but everything neck down was something out of a giant’s fairytale.

Arms with visibly engorged muscle groups hung at a not-so-lean 40-degree angle from his chest, forced apart by his lats that doubled the width of his torso, with basketball-sized shoulders that outgrew his head. Cascading shadows ran down his neck — spanning the circumference of my thigh — and his clavicles, each tender pec, the ridges on his abdomen, the cuts and striations and tender veins that traced along his huge forearms. His upper body was a certified dirigible of muscle mass. While baby Froy didn’t have the immensity of Marcus’ or Wes’ at their peak sizes, he still boasted enough beef to make Marcus sweat.

His legs weren’t left out of the fun, either. Each hamstring, Froy’s goddamn quads, were bigger and rounder around than my own lesser torso. Froy couldn’t even stand straight like he used to anymore. His legs were perpetually swollen to the point that he had to waddle and keep his feet as distanced as his shoulders, creating an imposing posture that somehow didn’t detract from his superhuman, ceiling-bumping height.

I wanted so bad to wrap my arms around his legs, or ride on his shoulders, and sit in his arms’ cradle, and he would carry me around — but that could wait. He’d already spent so much time masturbating in his room that I was surprised his foot-and-a-half-long and foot-thick cock hadn’t exploded yet.

“I, um, need something to change into… sir,” he said. “I can’t go to the party with just this”—he plucked the strained fabric of his string tank top like a guitar—“and these”—he flexed his quads, jiggling them in my face, showing off a pair of cargo shorts he made look like undersized boxer-briefs.

“Why’d you even come if you had nothing to wear?”

“Because I wanted to see you,” he said, smiling that guileless smile. “And I wanted to fuck you.”

My manhood sprung to painful hardness in my slacks, and I felt sweat form as my face flushed red. I couldn’t look away as Froy’s third leg erected directly over my head, blocking out the light, making it impossible to see anything but his beautifully obscene organ and grapefruit-sized testicles — both of which had burst through the zipper of his cargo shorts.

“Did I say that out loud?” he asked, helping me to my feet. “Oops.”

“I really can’t tell anymore who’s hornier: you or Marcus.”

Froy styled his black hair back to its mangy, spiky self. “I think he’s just louder about it,” he said, punctuating his sentence with a knowing tongue bite.

I smiled. “Let’s find you something to wear.”

I’d memorised the layout of the building, so I was familiar with most of the facilities our building had that most employees were oblivious to. Among them were a private gym (which Marcus refused to use), a hookah room, and, our destination, the security office. Stashed away somewhere in their storage was the company’s lost and found, the ‘found’ part of the name being more of an option. Things were only ever lost. There was enough junk back there to make a hoarder’s antique shop look bad — I would know; I was the only one who ever used the service.

It’s why I was aware there were clothes back there. Froy could probably try some on and see if something fits. The dress code for men was just, after all, a collared top and covered genitals.

The security office, as expected, was unmanned. Even security guards had to eat sometime.

I unlocked the door and let myself in. It was a tight fit inside the small room, the desk covered in trash and leftovers taking up a third of the floorspace. For once, I was content being a normal-sized human being. I’d forgotten that’s all I was; being surrounded by massive guys all the time had a way of rewiring your memories to make you believe otherwise.

Froy, on the other hand, didn’t have quite the ease I did — he was a seven-and-a-half-foot-tall klutz in a world made for people half his size. He had to tilt his neck, and bend his back, and crouch, and twist to the side, latch onto the doorframe, pull himself in, and refrain from damaging the plaster ceiling with any part of his body. It was a treat to watch, like Superman squeezing himself into a hobbit hole.

He paused halfway through the doorframe when he probably caught me struggling to hide my amusement. “Are you laughing at me?” he asked, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“It’s fun to watch you struggle.”

The boy-giant squinted at me with pinched lips, and I knew he was up to something. “Oh, is it?”

“Just drain yourself and get small enough to fit inside, duh.”

Froy grunted and gritted his teeth as he tensed his pecs and shoulders to fit his torso through the door. The rest of his body followed along easily enough (at least, as easy as manoeuvring one man-sized leg through the door at a time could’ve been).

He rose to his full height, teetering over to me and blocking out the overhead lights with his torso, pulling an amateurish lat spread to widen his space of influence. I couldn’t get away from the wall fast enough. Froy had effectively locked me in a prison between an immovable object and a hard place — and, judging by the firehose he was quietly flexing in his doll-sized shorts, it was obvious to tell where the ‘hard place’ was.

“You missed me, right?” he asked, bending down to press his button nose against mine. “You wanted me to be here, right, sir?” Froy propped his muscular arms against the wall at my sides, creating a cage of flesh.

I was a terrible liar. He didn’t even need an answer to know what I was going to say.

He didn’t ask for permission; he breathed my face, swallowed my lips in his mouth, tasting every inch of my tongue. Froy invaded my mouth with a tongue twice the size of mine, thrice as moist. My throat was swallowing more of his warm saliva than my own, and he exhaled into my face with the sexual hunger of a predator.

As if he read my mind, Froy, the tease, pressed my head down till my chin hit his groin. I could already tell by the way he jiggled his engorged penis in my arms that he was hungry for a blowjob.

I, of course, obliged. Froy wasn’t anywhere near as violent as his brothers, but all that anger — that hot, steaming fervour — had to go somewhere, and no one in their right mind was about to deprive a sex-motivated muscle freak his pleasure — especially when I was the one who let him get as big as he was.

I was the one who wanted him to get as big as he was. Needless to say, I wanted more.

I could hardly fit the tender head of his firehose of a cock in my mouth. We had to find other ways to rouse his balls; thankfully, my tongue still fit where no tongue had any business going: his slit.

The mentee had become the mentor in our case, and I mimicked all he did to my mouth to the opening in his manhood. My tongue tasted the insides of his delicious penis, relished every drop of pre that leaked onto my chin.

Froy, without warning, blew within seconds of me violating his urethra. Missile after missile of cum fired from his testicles and painted my face white, staining the floor with enough sperm to start a bank.

My own pathetic load (in comparison) ruined my pants in timed unison. Froy chuckled when he noticed he’d made me make a mess without even laying a finger on my junk.

“Clean-up on Aisle 7,” I joked.

Then Froy lifted me by the arms, up to his eye level, bending his knees just enough to avoid colliding with the ceiling. “You called?” he said, slathering his pink tongue across my cheeks, relishing the taste of his ejaculate as much as I did.

“When’d you get so good at this?” I asked.

“I had a lot of time to think after the retreat,” he said, lowering me to my feet. “And I— I decided to be someone who deserved to be big. Because that’s what you like, right?” He smirked, his brows innocently shading his large eyes. “You like it when I’m big, right, sir? You love it when I make you feel small. I could see it on your face my first day here, when it rained. That’s why you made me strip. Then you put me in your little boy’s shirt and made me tear it. And when we found out I could drain people, you found ways to make sure I always ended up biggest. Right?”

I was on the cusp of exploding in my slacks a second time.

“It’s okay, sir. I… I like it, too. I’m going to make sure you’ll never have better sex in your life. My cock?” He wrapped his hand around his girth, unable to connect his fingers. “This big thing was made for you, sir. And your tight, little hole was made for me. I’m going to get bigger”—he smacked his cum-soaked cock against my chest, inches away from my mouth again—“and you’re going to stay so small. Someday, though, I think you’ll be too tight.”

“We’ll just—”

“We’ll get creative,” he said, tearing his string tank top down the center with the strength in his wrists, then discarding of his ruined cargo shorts as if they were a tearaway prop. He stood in the center of the room and basked in his immensity.  “Now let’s find me some clothes. I wanna show Marcus and Wes why I’m the one who drains people.”