m/m Limitless (Part 4 added)

[Ozymandias]

Hi everyone,

You may remember my previous story Control and as-of-yet unfinished (sorry) story Entelechy.

This is a new story that kinda serves as a sequel to Control - not directly, but it takes place a few years later and exists in the same universe. Whereas Control was written form the perspective of the 'grower', this story is written from the perspective of the 'subject'. I wanted to expand upon the theme touched on in Control, but make them more vivid since we're now in the subject's perspective. It's intentionally a little 'psychadelic' - I blur identity, perspective and reality. There are a few subtle threads that I'll be interested to see if people pick up. There'll be a lot of growth and psychology, both described in detail.

This first chapter is on the short side, more of an intro - it'll be one of a planned 7-8. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy!

Limitless

Part 1: Veritas

He dreamt of Him, as he did every night. His fingers gliding over his muscles, squeezing and caressing them one by one. His warm breath against his skin, pulled taunt across the hard, swollen mounds. His soft lips and hot tongue making love to every inch of his flexed, pumped and overgrown body.

It was bliss; Heaven on Earth. There was no greater pleasure.

He was bigger in the dream. He always was. The shape of things to come, He had called it. A prophecy, of sorts – confirmation that he would get bigger yet. And it did; the prophecy was always right. Always bigger, heavier, stronger.

It was Him who had made this possible; He whose ministrations set his body alight with heavenly pleasure; He whose will drove him forward; He whose ambitions he served. He looked down at small man who was on His knees, enjoying the barrels that were his quads, and felt the most euphoric combination of joy, love and pure sex course through his steroid-fuelled body.

Sensing His boy’s gaze, He stopped his lovemaking and looked up at His proud and oversized trophy. A faint smile crossed His lips.

“Does my boy enjoy his hard work being appreciated?”

The voice is soft, refined, authoritative. His manhood throbs at the direct acknowledgement from Him. He gently places His hand on the right quad, softly kneading it. Another wave of euphoria addles his brain; he tries to speak, but nothing comes out. Pleasure or speech? His mind has already made the choice. Not that there was a choice to make.

His smile broadens as He watches His property powerless to His touch, His will, His power.

“Something to say, big boy?”

He kneads the quad again just as he tried to reply, scrambling his brain once again. His manhood aches, the euphoria overwhelming him. A pressure is building throughout his body. He feels like he’s about to explode, in more ways than one. Bliss courses through his veins, straight to his muscles and cock. Is there even a difference?

He gives up trying to form a sentence and instead summons all the willpower to he can, momentarily regaining enough control to crank out a most muscular, flexing the hardest he ever has, mountains of muscles erupting over his body. It provides a moment of clarity, enough time for a single word.

“More,” he says.

He looks up at the monster He has created, fully smiling now.

“I have always liked an eager one.”

His hand reaches out and grabs his boy’s red-hot erection with shocking strength. He screams in pleasure, the pressure surging out of control and his mind going black.

“We’re just getting started.”

***

His eyes shoot open as he orgasms, the golden sunlight of the morning briefly blinding him. He let his hips buck, bathing in the bliss of the ejaculation as the dream faded. He lay there for a moment, letting the light warm him, his mind clearing. He exhaled and raised his head to look upon his body – the ocean of muscle flowing outwards in all directions, swallowing most of the bed beneath it.

What have I done to myself? he briefly, momentarily, wondered. Was this what he’d wanted? He’d wanted to be huge, sure, but this…maybe he’d gone too far. When was the last time he’d seen anyone from his old life? He didn’t actually know. It had all happened so fast, piled on so quickly. His head hurt trying to think about it, to remember it. He vaguely recalled a handsome, stylish, slim young man…had that been him? He supposed it had. But that felt so long ago, so much ago. He had come so far…

He’d been a student, yes. Physics. It was becoming clearer now. At a top university. A very promising student, fawned on by professors. He’d…enjoyed his studies? Yes. A lot, actually. Family…parents were loving. He’d had a good relationship with them. They had been…proud of him. A younger sister. Her name was…Emily. They’d got on so well together. His friends…Jack, Beth…what had happened to them? Maybe they’d graduated by now. How long had it been? He couldn’t remember. So fast…

But that was only half of who he had been. There was…another. A part of him that the other knew nothing about, yet it had always been there, lurking just beneath the surface. The part that furiously wanked to stories about muscle growth, the part of him that was only aroused by bodybuilders…the part of him that, in desperation to ruin himself with muscle, to make himself his fantasy, had reached out to Him.

Unnoticed, the other memories slipped back into the shadows, never to see the light again. They had been displaced by the dream, resurfacing in his mind. He looked at his body again. It was so…little, so unimpressive. He had been so much more in the dream. And He had been so pleased with him. His manhood twitched as he recalled the euphoria. He shook his head, clarity returning to his mind, swinging his feet around and heaving himself off the screaming bed.

Had he wanted this? Yes, he had. A thousand times, yes.

Waddling into the bathroom, he opened the cabinet, revealing dozens of phials, bottles, jars and syringes. The daily routine, all provided by Him. His groin burned. He picked up the first one, smirking into the mirror that could only show his face and traps nowadays.

Too far? No. Not far enough.

***

Truth.

There always came a point where a boy questioned what he had done to himself, how far he had gone, what he had given up. A final moment of clarity, if you will; the last time they have any grasp of their situation.

For the boy, it was their Rubicon; their point of no return. A line in the sand. A final choice of what path they wished to walk. They could take that last step, cross the Rubicon, and see the Process through to its inexorable conclusion. Or, they could turn back, give it all up and reclaim their previous selves. A glorious end, or a dreary, uneventful life. A choice between Me or little old Them.

As if it were a choice.

I had set them free from such banal concerns. They had seen what the Process could do; how it, and only it, could ever satisfy their Hunger. Who in their right mind would give up that freedom? That privilege? They all recognised the value of the gift I had bestowed upon them. That was why I had selected them, after all: they could see past the trivial distractions that waylaid most.

They had always chosen Me. For, in that moment when they stood before the Rubicon, not only was the reality of what they had done to themselves laid bare, but also their dependence on Me. I am the key to everything; I am their sine qua non – without which, nothing. There was no life without Me and my Process. I offered purpose, direction. A long, drab ordinary life did not; indeed, it was no life at all. It could not sate the Hunger. Friends and family could never fill the void. Only I could.

That great epiphany was, for all intents and purposes, the end of the Process. No more decisions were required by the boy; he merely had to go with the flow and see it through. Simply continue to do what he had already done. He had, after all, seen the Truth.

[chris9b]

A very promising beginning!

[pnelshra]

I just recently memorized the poem Ozymandias; I'm struck by the precise writing style that you and Percy Shelley share. You don't waste time on exposition or irrelevant details. I'm not sure if this is why you chose your username, or if you just like big words, but I think it's a comparison worth making. Regardless, I'm a fan, and I'll definitely be watching out for more : )

 

[Ozymandias]

23 minutes ago, pnelshra said:

I just recently memorized the poem Ozymandias; I'm struck by the precise writing style that you and Percy Shelley share. You don't waste time on exposition or irrelevant details. I'm not sure if this is why you chose your username, or if you just like big words, but I think it's a comparison worth making. Regardless, I'm a fan, and I'll definitely be watching out for more : )

 

Glad you like it so far!

I chose the username principally because I like the poem a lot - in particular its subtle irony and irreverence. I suppose my writing exhibits some of the same :)

[Tomofbrussels]

Amazing start already !

[Ozymandias]

Hi all,

With apologies for how long this has taken, see below Part 2, Forma, of this story. It's longer than Veritas, and delves more into the psychology of our protagonist. I hope you enjoy!

---

Part 2: Forma

Chris felt his mind wandering again. Quantum chromodynamics was so dull, and the lecturer just made it worse. He was staring through the array of equations on the projected screen as the professor droned on, seeing but not looking; hearing, but not listening. What slipped into his mind was not unexpected, for it had been doing so for months now. A succession of images, showing a slightly-built young man steadily inflate with ninety kilos of muscle, going from normal to toned to built to big to huge to freak.

His name was Jake, and Chris had stumbled upon him four months ago while indulging the secret half of himself that no-one else knew about. This Other had been fascinated by muscle since he was six, when he had watched a cartoon where a boy grew huge. Or, rather, the Other had been born in that moment. The first step on the path.

At first, it had been but a shadow; a curiosity about men who had made their bodies huge that only came to the fore when he happened to chance upon such a man. Over time, the shadow had acquired greater solidity, and Chris began to surreptitiously seek out such men, whom he had learned were called ‘bodybuilders’. He made sure to walk past the gym, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of one, and secretly searched for bodybuilding media online, spending his free time staring like a man possessed at videos and pictures of men who had grown themselves into monsters.

Then, inevitably, came the first time he had touched himself while so engrossed. This was the second step on the path, the next moment from which there had been no going back. A euphoria that his young brain had not known existed flooded his mind, and the Other became as much flesh as he was. It was much more assertive after that, and within a couple of years it was taking over his mind daily – sometimes more than once. It was, of course, only interested in one thing, and when it did seize control Chris was helpless to fight it. But, truth be told, his heart was never in the fight.

He shook head to try and clear his mind. He was no longer sure where Chris ended and the Other began. He felt like it was slowly infiltrating and subverting more and more of him. His sexuality was one thing – the Other had conquered that long ago – but now it was starting to claim the rest of him. Before he had found Jake, he had felt stable…but since then, the Other had been insatiably expanding his demesne.

Faber had been a legend for years on the muscle fetish scene. Supposedly he had grown a guy to death (what made him famous) and was rumoured to take on promising young men whom he called his ‘Chosen’, giving them the same treatment. Loads of people claimed to be him, but they had always been exposed as fakes. Every now and then, an innocuous site would appear, chronicling the journey of some ordinary guy to the heights of freakdom through pictures, videos and an accompanying narrative that seemed to worm its way inside your head. The chronicle would always abruptly end with an invitation for applications to be ‘Chosen’. It was said that these chronicles were Faber’s, but nobody really knew. Whoever it was had to be an incredible editor though, as the monstrous men seemed completely real despite being impossibly huge.

Jake was the latest of these chronicles and discovering him had been the next step for Chris. The Other had posed a question: why not apply himself? After all, judging by earlier chronicles, Jake’s would soon be ending. At first, Chris had dismissed the notion – but the Other’s whispers had been incessant, burrowing through his mind until, one evening, when the Other had asked will you apply? just as he came over Jake’s 150kg weigh-in video, he had accepted the call.

Yes, he had answered, at long last. And so, it had begun.

That had been four months ago. He had told himself it was meaningless, the site just fake. But the Other had begun preparations anyway, and Chris was powerless to resist. Not that he had tried, really.

At the edge of his perception, he noticed the lecture was over. He checked the time: 3pm. Plenty of time for a workout. He shouldered his bag, heavy with food and supplements, and started on his way. In the back of his mind, he was aware that Emily had suggested doing something later, but he couldn’t waste the time. His shirt had been stretched by his bag, highlighting the emerging mound that was his pec. It had been a week since Jake had hit 160kg, and it was around that point the previous chronicles had begun ending. Who knew when applications would open? He had to be ready.

Faber, after all, was known to have high standards of admission.

***

Chris became aware that he was lying on his bed, his body feeling like it had been run over. He knew the cause – it was always like this after a workout. As soon as he stepped into the gym, it was like he was possessed; he could never really remember what happened in there, only that it took three hours (now, anyway; it had only been one at first). His mind came down from the possession slowly; he would always come-to in his bed.

He could remember some things, though, with perfect clarity. Like that he had weighed in at 68kg at the start of the workout. He couldn’t remember actually weighing himself, but he knew the number. 15kg of pure muscle since he had started six months ago (perhaps more, given he’d become leaner too). He was distantly aware that that was impressive, and that he needed to upsize his clothes, but the void inside him had only yawned wider. It had been difficult to think of things other than its ceaseless demands for more.

He had been happy to oblige. In slow increments, he had been substituting studying, lectures, and then socialising, for workouts, eating and masturbation (over the results of the former). All his money was being funnelled into food and supplements and he was starting to get “are you okay?” questions from people concerned at his withdrawal and increasingly neurotic habits. Their voices always sounded so distant, as if they weren’t really there. Sometimes he forgot to reply.

One hand was holding a shaker to his mouth, his throat working to chug the contents, while the other began to feel his growing body through the thin material of his tight workout top. The burgeoning pecs and deepening abs; the biceps starting stretch the sleeves and the hint of serrations in the quads. There was some insistent tapping sound, but he ignored it, his cock awakening as he thought of the greater things to come, his hand slipping into his shorts.

The tapping had become a banging, piercing his reverie. Someone was at his door. He blinked, mumbled “Coming”, finished his shake and withdrew his other hand. He opened the door to find Emily, her brow furrowed in concern. Her eyes flicked down over his sweat-stained attire, before returning to meet his.

“Chris…have you got a moment?” she asked questioningly, the concern evident in her voice.

No, the Other almost replied for him. He blinked, standing silently for a moment, looking blankly into Emily’s hazel eyes.

“Erm, sure…” he managed to mumble, stepping aside to let her in. He noticed that he had to step back a little more than he used to.

She came in, looking around and taking stock of the chaotic room. Where he had once been meticulously tidy, now every surface was covered with gym paraphernalia (in varying degrees of cleanliness) and a dizzying array of supplements. She gingerly sat on the bed as he sat down on the desk chair to face her. He was not so far gone that he couldn’t read the worry etched on her face.

“So, err, Danny mentioned that you haven’t been going to lectures for a few weeks…”

He just stared through her, already losing interest. Who even was Danny again? A faint image of curly brown hair and glasses fought its way to the surface, before submerging again. There was an awkward silence as he realised that he hadn’t answered her.

“Erm…” he said, scratching the back of his head with sheepish nerves.

Emily leaned forward.

“Is everything okay?” she began, more earnestly this time. “We’ve noticed that you’ve become, err, quite keen on the gym…” she trailed off, gesturing to the mess everywhere.

He continued scratching his head, bemused as to what he could say. Why did this matter? Could she – they, interjected the Other – not see he was bettering himself? He felt his newly-grown bicep push against the short sleeve of gym top, and saw Emily’s eyes flick to it. She’s noticing, he thought, feeling himself beginning to stir. As she should be, noted the Other. He brought his hand down and focused on her.

“I…,” he began, haltingly. “I’m okay. Better, actually. The best I’ve ever been.” He paused, and when he spoke again, there was a hint of defiance in his voice.

“Why?”

“Well, I was just, erm,” she stumbled, unsure how to deal with his obstinacy. “I was just wondering if you wanted to talk about anything?”

His mind was clearer now. She wants me to stop, he thought. She doesn’t understand, observed the Other. None of them do.

“I’m good, thanks.” His voice was deadpan, the defiance hardening into a flinty hostility. He stared at her, eyes narrowing slightly.

She broke contact first.

“Erm, okay…” she trailed off. He continued to stare at her.

They’re just holding you back, said the Other. You make them realise how dull and ordinary they are.

There was a prolonged silence before she spoke again.

“Can I…why are you doing it?” she mumbled, at a loss to articulate what she saw before her.

He cocked his head at her, unsure of how to answer. He rolled his shoulders, lats flaring against the confines of the top and his pecs thrusting outwards. A few more kilos and he’d burst through it. He saw her eyes flick to the muscles again. His loins burned in response. Purpose filled him. He knew his answer. Her eyes returned to his, and she recoiled at what she saw there.

“This is what I am,” he replied, with the blind certainty of a fanatic.

She fled, and he came.

***

That night, Jake’s chronicle was updated with the message Chris had been waiting for.

My children,

Dear Jake has fulfilled his purpose. I was most pleased with his devotion.

I now require another to bestow the gift of purpose upon. Another to help reach his true, untapped, potential. Another to whom I can reveal his destiny.

Most of your reading this will not be of interest to me. Deep down, you will know it too; but you will apply anyway. I encourage you to think twice, yet I know my advice will fall on ears deafened by idle fantasies. Keep dulling your minds with mindless masturbation if you wish; I care not.

But, perhaps there are some of you with potential. Those of you who have felt the loving embrace of the Hunger; those of you who have heard Its call echoing through the void, and answered; those of you who have, by Its grace, been granted a glimpse of what could be.

It is you I invite to beg my favour.

Tell me, child, why I should choose you.

Perhaps I will.

He had stared at the message for what seemed like an hour, reading it again and again. His life for the past six months had been focused on this moment. Now it had come, but Chris felt unprepared. Unready. He needed more time…he should’ve started on the steroids from the beginning. Maybe then he’d be more impressive. What would Faber see in him? He was still so small.

He felt the despair building like water behind a dam about to burst. It would be a while – perhaps a couple of years – before Faber advertised again. He couldn’t wait that long. A small, withering part of him rejoiced at the thought, yearning to be free of this madness and sensing its chance to reclaim him. The Other squashed it like some vile insect.

Faber cares less for what you are, but rather what you can be. You are what he is looking for. I am the proof. You have seen your destiny. Now you must have the courage to seize it.

“Yes,” he said aloud to no-one. With an astounding clarity, his life came together before him. Everything made sense. His whole life had led to this one moment, where his destiny dangled before him. There would not be another chance. He had to apply. If he did not, he would all but die. Nothing else mattered. He exhaled, the despair boiling away in the fire of his determination.

The possession came upon him like a smothering blanket. When he came to, it was 3am and his cursor was hovering over the ‘send’ button. Before him was a 3000-word passion piece, explaining in meticulous detail the Hunger, how it had gradually tightened his grip on him to the detriment of all else, and the revelation of his destiny. It hid nothing; it was the most honest thing he had ever written.

He realised that the Other, the Hunger, had stepped in to do what was needed. Faber would recognise it speaking. Somehow, in the fibre of his being, he knew that had been Faber’s real test. He passed, should he click ‘send’. It had to be him who made that choice, though, hence why the Other had retreated at this moment. He closed his eyes for moment, feeling the currents of fate swirling around him. There was no choice to make.

He clicked send.

***

Form.

Anyone can dream, hope, fantasise. But what have you done to give those desires shape?

That is the question that my supplicants must answer if they are to receive my attention and stand a chance of being chosen by me. Many a desperate boy will petition me, one hand on their cock while they type their begging letter. They are not serious. The exercise is but another part of the fantasy, a piece of erotica. They say, “make me huge”, but if they truly wished, wanted, needed, to be Chosen then they would have already begun the Process themselves.

Those ones bore me.

Of greater interest are those who tell me how they have started at the gym. How they are spending all their money on food and supplements. How they have begun to choose workouts over meeting their friends. These ones demonstrate potential, the symptoms and words of the Hunger. A select few may be graced by a response from me.

It is a curt, cold response. At this stage I am akin to an examiner, seeking to measure their worth. I ask questions, prodding at their feeble constructed identity. I demand pictures and videos of their progress thus far. I ascertain their potential, their need, their submission to the Hunger.

Most are discarded. Yet, occasionally, a boy passes my tests. He is Chosen, and I give him the keys to his liberation. His freedom from this dull, banal existence where one must associate with insects, with wannabes, with has-beens. I do not conceal the nature of my offer. I will give his desires Form, in return for his life. It is true that they do not tend to comprehend it until they have agreed, but by then they have already fallen. Each successive step in the fall is easier than the last, until the final step is taken without a thought.

Indeed, once they have tasted my freedom the price always seems worth it. Because it is. They have given up nothing – they did not want that obscure life which they surrendered to me. History does not remember the common and the boring; it remembers the dreamers who had the courage to make their dreams real. Those who bent the world to their will.

For what is a dream if not given Form?

[Ozymandias]

Part 3 was lost in the forum reset, so re-uploading it. Part 4 will be re-uploaded in a couple of days as well. Hope you all enjoy!

Part 3: Ordo

Chris leaned against the lamppost, affecting a calm and serenity. But he was belied by his nervous fidgeting, checking the time every thirty seconds and scratching at non-existent itches. His clothes were too tight. He’d wanted to impress, so had worn the tiny XS clothes he’d been fond of before. While they left little to the imagination, they were excruciatingly tight…and he was sweating. Chris didn’t dare lift his arms; ignorance was bliss on that score.

What a mess, he thought, berating himself for screwing this up. He had been pushing himself even harder in recent weeks, punishing himself at the gym and gorging himself on food and supplements; he had wanted to make a good impression today. Instead, he was just a sweaty, nervous mess stuffed into a too-small shirt. His only reassurance was that he had, at least, come this far…He was clearly interested. Right? He shifted awkwardly in his similarly tight chinos, the fabric constraining his thighs and crotch.

It didn’t help that he’d arrived 30 minutes early. The instruction had been clear: at 7pm he was to enter the restaurant and ask for the table. He’d been ready at 5:30, fussed about for half an hour doing nothing, then arrived at 6:30 and spent the last half hour standing around only getting more nervous.

He felt an itch at the neckline of his shirt, where the third button (the top two were a lost cause) strained over newly-grown pec meat. The tops of his pecs were on display to the world, the cool air a relief to his hot flesh. The itch grew more intense. He lifted his arm to scratch it, feeling the taunt shirt strain against his shoulders and upper arms as his biceps flexed. His eyes flicked down and saw what he had known was there but been trying to ignore: a large sweat patch at his armpit.

Then he noticed a slight dampness beneath his pecs too, and inwardly cringed. He must look ridiculous. He closed his eyes, overcome by a sudden wave of despair. He had messed it up, his one chance. No way He would be interested after seeing him like this, like some flustered, over-excited child with no self-control. A little boy desperate for gratification. He felt the tears starting to well.

Stop this nonsense, interjected the Other with disgust. You are precisely what he wants, it continued reassuringly. Trust me.

Chris breathed deeply, suppressing the tears. Whether it was right or not, there was nothing to lose from at least trying, was there? Maybe he could still salvage this, and better to try then go home and cry. More to point, what would he do after that? The university had expelled him last week after he’d skipped the exams for the gym. He hadn’t really seen the point in wasting the time on them, considering he hadn’t been to any of the lectures for ages. And they just weren’t…fulfilling. He had hit a new PR on the bench during the quantum mechanics exam. He remembered there had been some meeting to explain his situation to the university but thought he may have spent that in the gym too. It was hard to distinguish between sessions.

He opened his eyes again. A stray thought came to him – he had not told his parents yet. Then again, he hadn’t spoken to them, bar a couple of conversations lasting no more than five minutes, in months. He took out of his phone, mulling that over, and checked the time again.

19:00.

His heart thudded, thoughts of his parents sinking into the black again. He took another deep breath, before walking around the corner to the restaurant – a pretty high-end French place – and going inside. The man at reception looked at him funnily. Chris tried to ignore it, focusing on his mission.

“Err, hi there,” he stumbled. The receptionist raised an eyebrow slightly.

“I’m, erm, meeting a friend…the table is under the name ‘Alekos’?”

At the name, the receptionist’s look changed, a smile appearing on his face. His eyes briefly flicked over Chris, some sort of understanding appearing in them. He gave a slight bow.

“Of course, Sir. Please follow me.”

Chris followed the man down a spiral staircase to the basement, where most of the tables were. It was stylishly decorated; the walls black with ornate, softly lit lamps and various framed pictures; the tables and chairs of brown wood. It was very atmospheric; edgy yet sophisticated in the way that only French restaurants seem able to pull off. It was reasonable busy, but Chris was not really taking anything in, just following the receptionist like a robot while his mind was an incoherent mess.

It was really happening. He was going to meet Him. The receptionist had stopped; Chris only just managed to avoid walking into him. He noticed that, while the receptionist was a couple of inches taller, he was comfortably bigger. His cock twitched in his tight trousers. They were in an alcove off the main area of the restaurant, secluded and private.

His brain was brought back into focus by the receptionist leaving. Chris blinked to gather his mind and looked at the table. It was laid with simplistic elegance. A book, worn and well-read with a bookmark peeking out, lay on the far-left corner, a hand resting atop it, the fingers folded slightly. He followed the hand into the quality shirt, up the arm, the outlines of some muscles (smaller than his) pressing against it, and to the as-of-yet unknown face of the man who had occupied his every living moment for the past month.

His heart stopped dead.

***

His eyes flickered open, squinting in the blinding sun of the summer morning. He blinked once, twice, as his eyes adjusted and the last cobwebs of sleep fell away. He was in a strange bed in a strange room. A momentary confusion; then realisation and recollection. The alluring, entrancing voice; the sex and worship; the beating and humiliation; the orgasm and the injection.

He had been Chosen.

Nothing would be the same again, that much he knew. Faber had worshipped his developing muscles, and in the act he had bestowed a revelation – the first of many – upon Chris. He had potential. Great potential. He could be huge. Really, really huge. As big as Jake. Maybe bigger. Before he had dreamt of being Pro size; now he realised how puny his ambitions had been. It was like opening a floodgate. Size had taken on a new meaning. A word had scratched his brain; a concept he had never before thought of; a possibility that could be reached.

Immobile.

Faber had sexually tortured him for hours, reducing Chris’ brain to a soup of sex, muscle and submission. He had experienced nothing like it ever before; all his previous sexual experience – admittedly limited, due to his shyness – was exposed as the pathetic fumbling of a child who had not embraced his Hunger. In the heavenly space between agony and bliss, that transcendental state, he had seen visions of what he could be. Punishing himself in the gym, screaming like a madman, muscles spilling out of his clothes. The scale flashing 90kg. Conquering a little muscleboy. Too big for a toilet cubicle. Injecting a colossal pec. Then something else. A ceiling, stretching high above, lights hanging down. Cool air against his skin. A phenomenal heaviness, vastness. A mountainous landscape stretching as far as the eye could see. Endless, limitless muscle. Immobile.

Faber had brandished the syringe and offered Chris the choice.

“In ancient times, Julius Caesar had stood at the banks of the Rubicon and faced a choice: cross, and risk everything for the chance of realising his greatness; or stay his feet and decline his destiny. He crossed, and triumphed. But that outcome was not certain when he faced, and made, his choice.”

“Now, you stand at your Rubicon. You can receive this injection; cross the Rubicon. You will have the chance to realise the dream – the destiny – which has dominated your mind since you first saw that cartoon all those years ago. It will be perilous, and, in all likelihood, you will fail. Even if you succeed, there will many a price you must pay. But success will everything – more, in fact – that you have ever dreamed of.”

“Or, you can decline the injection. We will part ways and never meet again. Your dream will be out of reach forever, but you will have the chance to regain the life you have begun to lose. You can go back. You will not face any of the hardships of crossing the Rubicon.”

Faber paused, face deadly serious, and looked into Chris’s eyes, penetrating his soul.

“What is your choice, Christopher?”

Chris knew that this choice was irreversible, a point of no return. It was the turning point of his life. A decision of immense magnitude. Really, he should think it over properly. Ask for a few minutes, at least. But he was one with the Hunger now and felt complete for the first time. In his ecstasy, there was clarity of purpose. There was the endless landscape, the high ceiling. The choice was simple.

“Inject me, Master,” he whispered.

Faber remained serious.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “There is no going back.”

“Please, Sir. I need it. More than anything. Please.”

His face softened, and He smiled.

“Well done, Chris. Remember, greatness belongs to those who have the courage to seize it. Now turn over.”

As the needle pierced the virgin skin, he came, and came, and came. As he did, there was only one word on his mind.

***

Order.

With Form comes Order. Until this point, the boy has been living his life without guidance, purpose or motivation. He has been but a child – an unknown, unrealised, prospect waiting for a loving parent to guide and nurture him. Now, everything finally falls into place for him; he sees what he could be, the potential I have revealed to him. So, it begins.

Everything thus far has been a test. Now, like a great artist satisfied with his canvas, I begin my work. Liberated from the restraints imposed upon by him by lesser men, my subject can set aside the fears which have held him back and let me paint a masterpiece. His own efforts thus far have been like those of schoolboy smearing cheap watercolours on a piece of card; now he will see why I am the Master. He is, of course, not my first – nor my last – work of art.

It is at this point that he truly begins to understand the meaning of growth, that most erotic word which – for those blessed by the divine spark of the Hunger – invokes a flood of images whose power cannot otherwise be grasped through prose. Liberation from servitude to his ballooning body; freedom from surrender to his insatiable need for more; emancipation from submission to his Master. The cacophony of triviality which had once held him back – the fear of himself, the expectations of others, the judgement of society – is shut out, giving a tranquil silence. Peace from Order. In this tranquillity, he can, for the first time, focus on his destiny.

What I mean by all this, of course, is that I now control his life. I have freed him from all those limitations. No more friends and family to judge him, no more job to distract him, no more bills and rent to subvert him. It is all taken of; he need only grow. And that they most certainly do. Always. I am the Master, after all; the greatest artist there has ever been. And they are the canvas on which I paint my masterpieces.

[Ozymandias]

Long, quite heavy, chapter here, but this forms the final pivot of the story. It's only bigger from here.

As always, comments and thoughts appreciated!

Part 4: Chao

The air was cool against his skin, soothing the skin flushed from his workout and steroids. His manhood throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. The hood blinded him, leaving his skin sensitive and yearning for His touch. His 81kg body stood ready for appraisal by Master; by He who had freed him from the banal existence he had been living. He who had shown him muscle, growth, and sex.

He didn’t know what day it was. Master never told him. Then again, it didn’t really matter. Every day was the same; he had his two workouts, injected himself, and gorged on food. His appetite was insatiable; Master said that was to be expected for a growing boy. It was all becoming a blur, a continuous orgy of growth. He wasn’t even sure how many months it had been since had been Chosen. Two? Maybe three?  It was all happening so fast. Three, it had to be. It was autumn now, right? The Other whispered,

Three months already and you’re still a weed.

A flush of panic. He couldn’t fail Master. Master had done so much for him already. He’d be nothing without Master. Orphaned memories of the skinny nobody briefly coalesced. Abject, utter horror. No. He couldn’t go back. He’d rather die.

Exactly, continued the Other. So, stop holding back. What is it you fear?

A clarity. He recalled Master’s injunction that he alone could claim his destiny; all Master could do was to show him the way. Only he, Chris, could walk it. Yet the old him, the parasite, was staying his feet. It was not yet dead; he still thought, every now and then, about the old days. It sung its siren song. He still, deep down, feared going all the way. Though he knew he couldn’t turn back. He had made his choice the night he had been Chosen. His thoughts hardened. The parasite must be purged. Buried. Buried by muscle and weights and food and steroids.

He exhaled. Now he saw. Master had not expected him to simply ‘follow the plan’. No, he had to push himself far, far beyond it. Lift more, eat more, roid more. Walk the Path.

Some days Master would visit. Those were the best. He would worship, beat and breed Chris senseless. He would tell Chris He was coming, and Chris had to be ready: naked and hooded. He had not seen Master’s face – in the flesh, anyway – since he had been Chosen. Today was one of those days. Now, though, aware of his failure, he felt apprehensive. Looking back, he saw the hints of dissatisfaction Master had displayed in His last visit. There had been less worship, less breeding, and more beating. In the stinging pain and pleasure of the lash, he sensed a fading interest. Master was a busy man, after all. He could ill afford to waste His gifts, His generosity, on an unworthy boy.

Out of nowhere, he felt the soft hand of Master stroke his pec. It was always this way; He did not announce his presence. Chris gasped, his hips bucking. The hand withdrew, leaving him yearning for it, vainly leaning forward slightly to try and feel His touch again. He knew to keep his arms by his sides, though.

Master spoke, cold and dispassionate.

“You disappoint me.”

Chris knew.

“Master, I –”

The lash branded him like a bolt of lightning, searing across his chest. The pain was shocking – though his manhood still twitched in response. He screamed, collapsing to his knees. Master had never lashed him so hard.

“My patience wears thin.” Another lash, like an axe blow, split his back. He screamed again.

“I invested in you.” Again, the lash cracked. Chris fell face-first onto the floor. His head was screaming; all he could feel was the pain, and all he could hear was the godly voice, punctuated by each crack.

“Yet you do not reciprocate.” Crack.

“I wonder whether I have made a mistake.” Crack.

“I cannot tolerate mistakes.” Crack.

“So, I find myself in a predicament.” Crack.

“Give the ungrateful boy a second chance,” crack, “Or cut my losses.” Crack. Master paused. Chris sobbed into the carpet, delirious from the pain, slipping into unconsciousness.

“Do not try my patience.”

Crack. Crack. Crack.

All went silent.

***

He awoke, naked, on a cold stone floor. He opened his eyes to a dim corridor, lit by sconces. The ceiling was shrouded in liquid, inky darkness. He felt…okay. Shaking his head, he got to his feet, feeling oddly light, as if…he looked down. His heart stopped.

He was small again. All the muscle was gone. The precious, beautiful muscle. He was repulsed by his puny nakedness. A wave of revulsion overcame him. He almost threw up there and then; only some deep breaths steadied him. What new horror was this?

A voice called to him. It took him a moment to place it. A relic of a forsaken world. Jack, his old friend from school and university.

“Chris! Come on! This way!”

The voice seemed to be coming from around the corner up ahead. He looked behind him; the corridor terminated with a wall, covered mostly by a deep, rich relief, depicting a robed-and-cowled figure reaching for the stars. A memory stirred. Him looking at the stars as a child. The feeling of awe…and a curious, childish anger. Anger at how the twinkling lights taunted him, forever out of reach.

He turned back in the direction of Jack’s voice, following it around the corner. Another corridor, identical to that behind, stretched before him.

It had to be a dream. But it was much more immersive than any dream he had had before. He could feel the floor, see the light and shadows, breathe in the air. He walked on, passing closed doors and side passages. He tried one of the doors, out of curiosity, but it was firmly locked. He heard Jack’s voice again, breathless and impatient.

“Hurry up, Chris! Come on!”

He carried on, now feeling almost a tugging sensation deep inside him, pulling him forward. He passed an open door, and briefly looked in. There was a cold, gloomy room beyond, occupied only by a large mirror with a naked teenager stood before it. He looked about 18, and was running his hands over his skinny, feeble body. Chris looked at the youth’s reflection in the mirror: there, he was a beautiful mass of muscle, upper end of pro-bodybuilder size. The youth was talking to himself, faint whispers reaching Chris:

“So big…so much muscle…more…make me huge…”

He wondered what the mirror would show for him. That guy didn’t know the meaning of huge. He stepped forward, only to remember what Master – Faber – had written when Chris had applied to be Chosen.

Most of your reading this will not be of interest to me. Deep down, you will know it too; but you will apply anyway. I encourage you to think twice, yet I know my advice will fall on ears deafened by idle fantasies. Keep dulling your minds with mindless masturbation if you wish; I care not.

He stepped back into the corridor. He was not like the youth, forever dreaming and never doing. He had grown, he had let Master’s roids flow through his veins, he had been Chosen. But he had also held back. He could’ve gone further, harder, bigger. Always bigger. What else mattered?

He continued forward. There were a set of doors before him, which opened as he approached. He was entering a great hall from the side. Columns lined it. Standing, next to the nearest one, was Jack. He was cute – handsome face, curly blond hair and sharp blue eyes. But he was small and weak. Chris’s cock would never respond to that.

Jack looked scared. He beckoned Chris over, gesturing for him to be quiet. He didn’t seem to notice Chris’s nakedness. Chris tiptoed over, reaching Jack, who just pointed behind the column as he opened his mouth to ask Jack what was going on. He peaked around.

At the end of room, sprawled upon a huge bench, was a colossal, naked, man. The biggest man Chris had ever seen. He was maybe eight feet tall. Chris couldn’t guess at his weight. His face was beautiful: framed by luscious, short brown hair, chiselled features, the perfect dusting of stubble. His eyes were closed, his mouth open slightly, head tipped a little back. Like he was sleeping.

Below the chin, his body simply exploded. Chris had never seen so much muscle. Shoulders the size of watermelons, biceps the size of an ordinary man’s waist, pecs the size of pillows. A heavy roid gut sat in his lap, and an enormous penis, hard and throbbing, sprouting from beneath and projecting forward. Thighs so huge the man must be barely able to walk. Even his hands and feet were oversized, with thick veins running across his body to feed to the hungry muscles.

He was the most beautiful man, apart from Master, that Chris had ever seen.

A niggle in his brain made him look again at the face of the god. There was something familiar in the contours of the face, the shape of the nose and mouth. A realisation dawned. The god was him.

No, interjected the Other. It is me. What you could be.

He tore his gaze away from the god, noticing for the first time his parents huddled behind the column directly opposite. Like Jack, their faces were painted with fear and horror. His parents looked at him, eyes seemingly asking if he was okay.

He looked back at the god, then down at his pathetic body. He stepped out from behind the pillar.

Jack grabbed his arm. Chris turned to look at him.

“What are you doing?!” Jack urgently asked, a desperation in his voice.

Chris thought for a moment.

“Let go,” he replied, voice deep and steely.

Jack was confused, started to protest, then saw the fire, the Hunger, in Chris’s eyes. He let go.

Chris turned and saw his parents desperately gesturing at him to hide, to save himself.

He stared at them for a second, then turned away, facing the god. He walked forward, feeling a tingling sensation inside him as he drew closer. The sensation grew stronger, almost uncomfortably so, a kind of heat joining it. His penis was rock hard, like a magnet being drawn to the god. Before he realised it, he was before the colossus. His scent – roids, muscle and sex incarnate – filled his nostrils, and he basked in the heat radiating from his body.

Touch me, instructed the Other.

He reached out with his left hand towards the enormous foot and gingerly touched it.

His brain was overwhelmed by a flood of images, of visions, of endless workouts, of injections, of orgies, of Master, of a body ballooning at an inhuman rate. It was glorious.

His eyes opened with a gasp. The room seemed different, lower, and his body was so heavy. He looked down, seeing only a huge shelf of pec meat, his roid gut and beautiful manhood emerging from beneath. His brain jolted.

He was the god.

He heaved himself to his feet – the effort making him sweat – and began to worship himself. So much of him, everywhere. So much. He couldn’t get enough. Licking, kissing, caressing every part of his colossal body. He could sense his parents and Jack watching with horror. They were fit only to be slaves to his glory.

His manhood burned, as did his back, his chest. The ecstasy grew, his hips bucking. There was only his body, his muscle. He needed more. It still wasn’t enough. So far, yet so little. He was still mobile. He could get so much bigger, he knew it. A useless, immobile heap of muscle. That was his destiny, his purpose, and Master’s will. He couldn’t fail Master. Master had been so kind, so generous. Chris would die before he let him down. Literally. He’d max himself out. Limitless. The burning was like fire wrought in sharp lines across his back and chest, while his cock raged like an inferno.

“I’m gonna be a god!” he screamed, cumming like only a god could, Jack and his parents screaming.

Chris awoke on the bedroom floor, his body cut and bleeding from Master’s displeasure, a pool of cum around his cock.

He knew what he had to do.

***

The club music pounded, its entrancing beat trying to capture his limbs and make Chris dance like a puppet. He knew Jack would be here – it was his favourite club. He’d had a monstrous workout, punishing himself for being so small and failing Master, before heading home to eat, inject, freshen up and dress for the club. A black hoodie, hood up and sleeves ripped off (by hand) to expose his bulging arms, and skinny jeans which accentuated his quads and crotch, was the outfit of choice. Sexy, big and mysterious – he didn’t want to reveal himself to Jack until the right moment.

His strong shoulders easily pushed through the crowd as he hunted for his prey. It didn’t take long: there was Jack, with Emily no less, and some of their other friends. Once, he would’ve been among them, prey hoping to be blessed by a predator. Now he was the hunter. He could tell Jack was tipsy; all the easier. The deep hood left most of his face in shadow, allowing him to approach unrecognised behind Jack. The others looked him over, hunger in their eyes. They didn’t know the meaning of the word.

He tapped Jack on the shoulder. He turned in a slightly exaggerated way. He eyes widened as he took in the hunter, gaze lingering on the crotch, the exposed arms, the proud pecs thrusting forward. He seemed nervous. Chris’s cock twitched. Jack noticed, swallowing.

“Err…” he began, not sure what to do.

Prey, whispered the Other.

“You’re cute,” stated Chris, deepening his voice to continue the deception.

Jack blushed.

“You’re huge,” he blurted, before blushing more and looking down.

Chris chuckled.

“Wanna see?” He offered his calloused hand. Jack took it.

Jack’s hands were all over his body in the taxi, grabbing and kneading every muscle he could get his hands on. Chris had obligingly flexed for his prey, his manhood straining the too-small jeans, but had kept the hood up and refused to kiss. He hadn’t said a word on the journey back to Jack’s apartment, despite Jack’s repeated, impassioned declarations of how big, how hot, how sexy, he was.

They were soon in Jack’s bedroom. A room which Chris has spent many a day and night before he was Chosen. Before he was a hunter. It looked the same as he remembered. Exactly how he envisaged.

As the door closed, Jack moved to make out with him. Chris stopped him with a single hand on his non-existent chest and pushed him hard. James staggered back, falling backwards onto the bed. Chris spoke for the first time since the club.

“Strip.”

Jack wasted no time. He was naked in a moment, his skinny body framing a hard cock. Chris smiled. Now for the reveal.

He pulled down the hood.

Confusion swam across Jack’s face.

“…Chris?! What –”

He ignored the bleating of his prey as, in a practiced move, he pulled off the hoodie and flicked it onto the floor. He similarly pulled off his jeans and underwear to reveal his sweating (from the tren), heaving, muscular glory in full – and his manhood, eager to conquer. He was careful to hide the scabs on his back. He looked at the stunned Jack, his mouth open, and began flexing. Double biceps. Side chest. Most muscular. Each movement spurred a jolt of pain from the wounds on his back; a reminder of his failure.

“Oh shit…” mumbled his childhood friend. “So big…how…”

Chris smirked, strode over to the bed, grabbed Jack’s waist and flipped him over. There was a full-length mirror opposite him. No doubt Jack used it to admire himself in the preppy clothes he liked. Chris, however, saw only his muscle, so big yet so puny – the faintest hint of what he could be – reflected at him, his prey beneath. He positioned himself.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

He thrust.

He bred Jack senseless, finally seeding him after two hours of relentless pounding. He hadn’t looked at Jack, of course, but rather at his own reflection, flexing and worshipping his own muscles as he conquered his former friend and everything he represented. He saw himself not as he was, but as he could be. Control, power, growth.

As he seeded his prey, he felt – almost physically – the penultimate chain, the penultimate tether, of the old him break. He had been right.

Jack begged to see him again. Chris listened to the pleading in silence.

Pay a visit in a couple of months, instructed the Other. Show him what you are.

“Give me your number. I’ll text you.”

***

“But what about being a research physicist?” asked his mother dumbly.

She doesn’t get it at all, he thought to himself. He bounced his pecs, the muscles straining against the tiny XS vest he’d worn just for this occasion. He saw his dad look. Chris’s cock twitched.

“What would I have ever been doing that? A skinny nobody huddled in front of a computer?” He rolled his shoulders to emphasis his point.

His parents said nothing for a moment, lost for words.

They can’t argue with what you’re becoming, observed the Other.

After an awkward silence, his father spoke.

“Chris, I get that you want to, err, bulk up and be more confident in yourself but –”

He interrupted him with a laugh.

“Bulk up? Fuck that. I’m gonna be huge. A freak.”

His father swallowed. He was a middle-class type, professional, and struggling to comprehend the foul-mouthed, ballooning, muscle-crazed son in front of him who had doubled in size in just 10 months. What happened to the thoughtful boy who had been so bright?

“Okay, okay,” he conceded, holding his hands up. “We just want you to think of your future; err, bodybuilding and personal training isn’t a secure career –”

Chris laughed again, louder this time, with a hint of anger.

“Personal training? I’m not some fitness model.”

They’re just holding me back.

No, replied the Other. It’s much worse. They’re trying to stop you.

They’d always doted on him, encouraged his pursuit of maths and physics. It had seemed loving at the time, but now he saw what it really was. They had impeded his destiny, his purpose, his apotheosis. He could’ve joined a gym, started earlier. Been Chosen when he was 16. He’d be so much bigger now. A lost destiny flashed before him. He’d finally broken free, but they were trying to sink their claws in again.

No.

He stopped laughing, face hardening.

“You want me to stop, don’t you?” he asked, voice cold and laced with anger.

“Well, err, we…” his father spluttered.

For all the drugs and muscle-soaked madness, Chris’s mind remained. The truth was out.

His eyes narrowed. His mother leaned forward.

“We’re worried, Chris. You’ve dropped out of university, broken off contact with your friends, with us, all for…” She waved her hand futilely.

“For what?” he spat. She remained silent, wincing at his fury.

“For this?” He flexed his right arm, the peak of bicep rising high, exposing the hairy armpit and the heavenly, intoxicating scent of roid sweat that flowed from it. His manhood twitched as he breathed in the heady perfume.

He kissed the hard, pulsing muscle, licking it, worshipping it. He saw his parents look in disgust and vainly try to hide it.

Slaves, whispered the Other.

He smirked, flexing his left arm.

“This is what I am.” He pumped his arms again, pushing blood into the engorged muscles. His manhood hardened.

He lowered his arms and stood up, erection visibly pushing against his tracksuit bottoms.

“My whole life I have yearned to be this. Now, I am doing it. I’ve freed myself. I’ve buried that nobody. He is dead, and I killed him. I’m not going to stop, and don’t you dare try. I’d rather die than stop.”

His voice was venomous, dripping with pure, unadulterated hate at their obstruction of his destiny. How dare they try and stop me? Deny the Hunger? Fuck them.

His parents sat in shock, unable to respond. His mother breathed in sharply. Pre-cum leaked from his burning loins.

That’s right. Your little boy is dead and thank fuck. Thank you, Master. Thank you for gift, your beneficence, your love. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

His erection was now obscene. He tore off his vest, sweating heavily now, muscles glistening.

“I’m going to be the biggest man there has ever been. Master is helping me. I’ll never be this small again. Tomorrow, I’ll be bigger. The day after that, even bigger. No limits.”

He began flexing again, manhood throbbing and leaking while he imagined being 90, 100, 120, 150kg, being the god from the dream. Not even that was enough. Why stop himself? Why limit himself? Limits were for the weak.

“More, more, more!” he screamed.

He looked straight at them, hips bucking, muscles bulging, lost to the euphoria of destiny.

“You could never understand. Master was right. It’s just two of us. I’m gonna be immobile, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

His mother was crying. His father was slack-jawed. He slammed into a most muscular, screaming, crotch thrusting forward, face screwed in fury, fervour and ecstasy.

“I’m gonna be a god!”

He came, and the final chain was broken.

***

Chaos.

From Order, Chaos. I have shown him the way, but how to walk it? This is the question he grapples with. He thought he knew what it meant to be Chosen, but he is still trapped by the old paradigm, the world before; the world of expectations, of standards, of dull and puny men. I have shown him freedom, but he must seize his destiny. I cannot do it for him – indeed, it would defeat the point for me to do so.

This is the War Within, the War with Himself. He must break the chains that bind him. Only then can he realise his purpose, embrace his Hunger and free his body. I provide help, taking on the trivial burdens that so easily distract – money, bed, food, steroids – allowing him to focus his energy on his liberation. But I cannot sever the ties that bind; only he can.

It is not an easy thing, destroying the old. The mind, like the muscles, must be torn apart and built anew. The struggle within is intense; a struggle for mastery between the destiny I offer and the old chains that seek to contain and restrain. This is the great contest, though I have, of course, stacked the deck. Surprised? What did you expect? That, having been given a taste of the potential I can unleash, he could possibly let his old masters prevail?

No, I am his Master now. I own his mind, his body, his very soul. It is the only way, and he knows it. Not only must he break his chains, but he must demonstrate his mastery by enslaving his old masters. Showing them his glory, his muscle; reducing them to pathetic submission. In submitting to him, my property, my slave, they submit to me.

Chaos is not to be feared, no. It is an opportunity. If one chooses to take it.

[Hialmar]

@Ozymandias, you cruel, seductive, dangerous, sly, erudite, taunting, expressive, visceral, clever writer. Top notch!

[phil67]

Please continue! Can't leave us on a cliffhanger like that for so long!