muscle growth Ejaaz gets Jacked Up (Finished)

[QuoteTheRaven]

QUARY AND THE MUSCLE FAGS OF KURAI by Quote the Raven (c) JANUARY 2021

 

 

 

Of Quarium, all that could be shared I put forward in an ode.

 

 

 

Chapter 1 - Desert (Sahra’)

 

In April each year, Kurai temperatures climb to ninety degrees. They stay there and higher for half a year. - The Non-Arabs’ Guide to Kurai.

 

A hollow concrete form in the center of the Narra al Maktoun Solar Farm 43 kilometers south of Kurai City in Kurai fills a structural role — spacing or reinforcement or something similar. The form sits invisibly amongst hundreds of acres of concrete footings and shiny black glass regiments in an otherwise barren  landscape. 

 

Ejaaz Eud’laat does not know the purpose of the form, only that he has purposefully found it to shelter in its shaded interior. He swelters as he tapes reflective foil sheets to two cement openings at either end, working wall-to-wall, end-to-end, eight layers thick. The sheets block him in making it more suffocating, stifling and hot than this early July day already is. When the changes start though, the layered separation will  not increase the heat, but will do the opposite and enable and protect cold.

 

 

 

As Ejaaz endeavors at the curtaining, nerves unsteady him. They tremor his hands and intensely roil his gut. But desire pushes coveting in his veins so extreme that the rhythm of his heart pumping almost throbs aloud the needing of his efforts.

 

 

 

He talks to himself.

 

 

 

“You’ve done this before, Ejaaz. You’ll do this again. You can do it. You will.”

 

 

 

When the layers of sheeting hang completed, he thinks, Get out of these clothes.

 

 

 

Robes and keffiyeh that served his former obesity swamp off roomily and  effortlessly from his coiled composition — a composition that now only strictly-dieted, intense university cricket or endurance athletics or champion swimming would have forged.

 

He’s never done such training, though, has he. He never went for sport, fuck it, some did, but why could he never have taken to it. He does see now and feel now so palpably how worth it it would have been. He’s never put in years of those kinds of workouts — any fucking kind actually — or that disciplined, necessarily regimented, eating — The eating of the cast iron, forged iron will. He’s never cleaved himself to the half decade that would have forged this goddish muscly whippetness. Oh fuck it up, if only he had fucking done exactly that, what a jack he would have been all along, more so month by month, year by year.

 

 

 

With the layers of sheeting and the concrete’s one-foot thickness, the space is dark now, it steams with heat. That’s too be expected — he resists the temptation to doubt how it will work.  He drips with boiled sheens of fluid.

 

The way he’s prepared the space, the change to the temperature will surely happen — won’t take long. He knows he knows that.

 

Perspiration almost flows from his so recently chiseled jaw and rolls down his so new hard flat brown front. He takes a giant draft of ionized water.

 

It really is the perfect environment now that it’s sealed off — what is to happen in his body will make it work — hard, foot-thick muffling and insulating walls, ultimately remote, and undiscoverable. And just how fucking remote it is, that is the key really — the ultimate reason for choosing here... oh yeah if he could be a betting man why wouldn’t he put money on that. But, fuck, he’s betting much more than money isn’t he anyway.

 

His eyes fall to this body and he is greedy with it. It is indescribably beautiful so shredded and hard and chiseledly trim. Fuck yeah. He knows this is just the start. 

 

His eyes go also to his briefs. A snicker disrespects the member there. You’re good, baby, you really are, he thinks, I’ve been ok with you, have made you work, but really, you’re still so nothing. You’ll preen so much more, won’t you baby. Both you and muscle, when you’re both big fuck bold boys, I’ll preen you hard won’t I, fucks, you are both just part of what I’m meant for.

 

 

 

Prior use has him to this result — improved from so pitiful, so grossly worse than average, so ignorable or really contemptible — the photo of fucking contemptible — doughy, mr full-on gigantic fat load, obese as a fucking fuck — just twenty-one days ago at 20 years old. 

 

Doses have changed him so much already haven’t they though? For sure, but changed him only because of his enduring their evil heinousness, uggghh — abiding the fucking heinous torturing violating heinousness — Allah dammit — oh well, he’s done it now — three times — but he won’t stop now — can only dream now to do it over and over and over and over and over and over again.

 

He mouths, “I. HaVE. to.”

 

He crouches into the wall. Remote, concrete-reduced warmth kisses the hard little sweet curvy sweat ass he has cheated himself to now. He wants it fucked right now, but thinks, Thank you. His ass is so perfectly bubbly, little, rock hard....  round. Ohh. It’s so Hard. Unnh.

 

The location gives desolation — his torture chamber will be effectively and brutally unhearable. This jury-rigged, just-passable buffer will grow to be an ample deep freeze chamber against the outside heat, and will let cold accumulate and oh so drive the compound to work.

 

“Fuck you,” he enunciates, knotted inside.“Fuck the fuck.” 

 

Bad language has emerged in him destroying what he was. Self-abuse, even just three doses worth, have rape-assaulted him, roughened him, made it so dirty words vulgarize the changing him — oh how they overthrow his twenty years of prissy, pussy, repressive, Arab-old-lady dictated, fucking mores. 

 

Urges ejaculate all over that fucked submissiveness, don’t they? His upper lip curls back from his teeth and his breath makes an exhaling snarl.

 

He reaches out now and eases a vial from a cooler.  

 

“Fucker!” he spits. It is this vessel’s transforming compound that births the emerging man’s crudities.

 

Tilting the vial, its liquid shifts between silver, green, gold, and blue.

 

Saliva attempts to gather in his mouth, but his pouty lips crack from heat, and from both the charge and the fears.

 

Opening it, the tube puffs a vapor cloud — a shimmering fog. 

 

“Slut,” he seethes, “I hate you,” but also he adds, “I fucking worship you, baby.”

 

He’s so incredibly tempted to snort the Quarium, right then and there, and just have it over, just have it so that he feels...feeeEeeEeels it all here and now — euphoria, greatness, grandeur — everything. But he exerts every last tiny kernel of his too limited willpower — snorting isn’t the way. He needs what’s harder but so much more.

 

So, instead, a syringe draws up the liquid beneath the mist. The liquid is called Quarium.

 

“It’s go time. It is. Now is the time to go. To say go. To do it. Please! Come On. It’s go go go go go fucking go gotime to go.”

 

The dose, Quarium loaded all behind the needle, threatens now and he points the ministration at his so alien taut trim crushingly desirable obliqued side, determined to survive and thrive, but not able to escape feeling totally in danger. He’s engaging in absolute self-deceit when he says, “This is completely safe and easy, Ejj!”

 

What, without exaggeration, would be described as unlimited fear jarringly jitters his hand as he attempts entry and the needle jabs a slashing plunge, nothing that remotely approximates a calm, controlled pin. Nearly no part of Ejaaz’s conscious brain can register anything but anxious terror at this moment. The insertion tolerates the gross inaccuracy of his stab though and offers a still acceptable option for pushing in the dose. 

 

Just be fucking brave and do it, dammit, Ejaaz!! a shred of his will finally proffers, penetrating into the haze of his alarm. 

 

A workable command, his fingers, almost on auto-pilot, squeeze; rivulets thread continuous cold virulence into his flesh.

 

“Yess,” he hopes to say, but more rawly what comes out is “NOOOoOOOoOoOOO!” — so emotional, so afraid at what he knows in an instant is to be intolerable excruciation.

 

The green-silver squelches in, indifferent to any feeling — particularly the rising pulsing fear. The serum, loosened, oozes. It is irretrievable. The poison takes occupation, assumes its subject territory. Ejaaz clenches.... resistance the definition of fucking futility though.

 

Like his prior uses, it’s possible to feel the liquid chill consuming his veins, spilling everywhere through his flesh, ignoring humanity. The blood’s additive pushes advancements depravedly into his body, pillaging, cold-raping, violating progressive landgrabs as it goes.

 

Panic pushes Ejaaz’s stomach into his throat. Ejaaz prays if it would just spew from his mouth, oh, if only that would possibly carry this bottomless fucking fear and destruction from his body.

 

“Oh AllAH. FUCK the great god Quarium!” he shouts. 

 

And then, because his brain is heavy already, he slurs, “You NASTY naStY nassttyt..... fu..fu...fuck-devil...”

 

From the wall, he lists forward and then falls forward. The ripped trim body that is so very very hot — perfect long toned curved legs, cinched ripped waist, jockey shoulders, and rocking swimsuit-model arms, and all still new to him — languors out ravishingly as he smothers into the pillow of the thermic insulating sleeping bag prepared there. A deepening ice age gradually and progressively submerges him, annexing his sylvan flesh, his wiry, whippety torso and limbs, his blood, his bones, his genitals — all that had been obese, fetid, abhorrent just weeks ago. Unconsciousness claims him.

 

 

 

****

 

 

 

Twenty hours pass. If unconsciousness cleft the ice shelf of his mind from the main and sank it in North Sea waters, the berg breaching the surface reawakens him.

 

Insulated by foiled layers at the tunnels opening and the sleeping bag, while Ejaaz is gone from this world, his temperature and that in his crafted space dropped to below 0C/32F degrees. In the chamber, rime coats walls and ceiling and everything, even the foiled barrier. It’s a cold dark freezer of isolation — extreme to a degree far eclipsing even any previous shot.

 

Brutally bare except for orange underwear, Ejaaz’s raw skinned body prostrates a heartbreaking, snowstormed, make-model purple corpse — hipbones and ribs and solidified sinews. He’s so abominalized he’s almost beyond aching — but he aches, aches gravitationally. Hoar glazes his skin and the cloth over his tantalizing pubes. Fog streams in and out of his ajar mouth. Invisible Kelvinic blades mutilate his striated flesh in the shoveling thousands. Daggering vectors spear viciously into his drop-dead skull. He can’t move, he’s so ice-tombed.

 

“Noooo,” he whimpers, “enshallah, pleahhe.”  

 

Then he gathers his objections and yaps, “No” — A sound agonized and croaky struggles out because his vocal chords both harden in one position and because hour after hour of comatose screaming have sanded them raw. His sublime jaw mainly freezes open in place.

 

 

 

Outside, the high unchallenged sun flames. Sand scorches about the foundations of al Maktoum, baked worse than a kiln. Concrete and steel footings sizzle. Four square miles of black glass horde sunlight then dazzle it back into the sky. How can it be so inhospitably hot when the nondescript concrete form hidden in the middle of it all shudders with the nihilation of outer space.

 

 

 

In the tunnel, it is Quarium in Ejaaz that generates endothermic extremes, terraforming the concrete to match the exterior of McMurdo Antarctic Scientific Base upon a months-long night. 

 

Unabated by searing heat and injected instead of sniffed, Quarium molecules failed to bind to Ejaaz’s cell receptors, instead entering into his cells. Destiny now unfolds.

 

If instead there were heat — i.e., baking direct Arabian sun — and if sniffed, it would be different. In that situation, Ejaaz’s cells’ receptors would have received the Quarium and bonded, then caused a cloning of cells to explode. A warm environment causes Quarium to make fleeting Shadowcells — desirable musculoskeletal replicas. They flourish in ratios of up to two dozen or more for each native cell. 

 

With sniffing and heat, before a Quarium user’s eyes, an Arab guy’s sweaty, perspiring body expands in girth and power with growth. Shadowcells in him proliferate as uncontrollably promiscuous as a nation’s worth of bare-assed bubbly-butted submariners occupying every square inch of a sirening 1960s erotic cartoon steamy island poster. 

 

The unbridledness of the cells’ replication rams guys’ growth — explodes them into objects of lust — sizeable, full, meaty, snorting, dripping things, like massive studs, like big bull cocks, like brimming djinns — full of libido and power — cut, jacked, huge. It happens in proportion to the Quarium and the thermic source and the guy. 

 

 

 

With extreme heat and Quarium molecules, any poxy loser becomes gorgeously muscular. Cells mass and  magnificate him. They hyper masculinize him — the new found grodiness rages in a metamorphosed rippling gay or bi or even straight fagbeast who has hijacked all the trappings of ultra bodybuilding, porning masculinity while the baking heat persists.  

 

 

 

But the external heat always abates eventually and the circulatory system’s pace recalibrates, and the shadow cells subside upon loss of energy. 

 

 

 

So one ought understand: an inhaled administration of Quarium (misted up one’s nose) when done in great heat expands and then subsides. Orgasmic flexing swells into exquisite being, parades conquering raunchy triumphancy, narcisses and exhibits erectionally, ejaculates climaxingly, and then disappears as the dissipation and reabsorption of shadow cells unfold. 

 

 

 

Contemplate, a wimpy faggot sniffing Quarium with some loser friends in the dazzling Arab summer morning. See their unworked little bodies bulk up and grow fantastic before their lechery eyes. Imagine them narcissistically swept into the lording of the gigantic bodies they receive, ostentatiously wearing bikinis cut so low and so tight that they more than show off what they’ve drugged for themselves, that it reveals every aspect of what they have done on purpose — the hugening of their mountainous chests, bouldering of monumental shoulders, crowding of climbing backs and traps, rising of their incredible biceps, expansion of their enormous curving asses, and the unbelievably thick legs that stage behind awesomely transformed barely-clothed-over himbo dicks and balls. 

 

They earthquake their strength and vitality, oozing the enthrallment to feel such vast beef across their bodies, weighting them down, mountaining them up, widening them like the Ranhad T’maad span, arching them toward the sky from the great asses they have, planting them in the ground with their bridge truncheons of legs, expanding torsorally with monolithicality. 

 

They feel all these things for every minute of the Sun’s journey across the sky. 

 

And then shift to consider the late day sinking disappearance of the sun, the hot blast easing, the moisture-sparse air of an arid land not retaining the heat it has gained. Envision the gentle cooling from that. And, in conjunction, conjure the thought of thumping heart rates that release orgasms the kind of which these fuck-nothings would piss just to realize existed. They would spuge-detonate after eight or thirteen hours of oversized, so-bare-they’re-more-vulgar-than-naked raunchy foreplay. 

 

Afterward, their cumming-eased heart-rates back down from porn-horny pace. Understand that a diminished, fever-broken bloodflow brings less energy to cells, tires the hosts of those blood cells, has them doze, and know then that shadow cells in the temporary Mr. Olympians say goodbye. Over hours, the cells aerobate until a quarter day later, neither the Quarium, nor anything the Quarium dingle-servingly wrought in the sniff-poxy-pansies exists any longer. Individuals who for soul-joying hours ass-humped as gluttonous gargantuans, muscling more extremely than Grimes or Kai Greene or baby Forslin or Marcello, revert to exactly the fagstupid putrid nothing fucks they had been.

 

 

 

But, that is not Ejaaz here, that is not him now.

 

———————

[QuoteTheRaven]

My posting of this first chapter had some glitch where midway through the text jumped back to the beginning.  I fixed it.  This is just a stage setting chapter for what follows.  Hope it is off to an interesting start.  A lot happens to Ejaaz and others.

[arpeejay]

6 hours ago, QuoteTheRaven said:

My posting of this first chapter had some glitch where midway through the text jumped back to the beginning.  I fixed it.  This is just a stage setting chapter for what follows.  Hope it is off to an interesting start.  A lot happens to Ejaaz and others.

A new story from QTR! My month is made!!

[Ro20316]

What an interesting beggining.

Ill sure read what Ejaaz will become now that he injected himself the Quarium instead of snorting

[arpeejay]

Inasmuch as this appears to be (yes?) the first story QTR has posted in this iteration (nearly seven years on!) of the Forums, it occurs to me that many of you may be unfamiliar with his work. In which case: hie ye to the pre-2007 Archive immediately. You're in for a treat there as I am sure you are here!

[QuoteTheRaven]

2 hours ago, arpeejay said:

Inasmuch as this appears to be (yes?) the first story QTR has posted in this iteration (nearly seven years on!) of the Forums, it occurs to me that many of you may be unfamiliar with his work. In which case: hie ye to the pre-2007 Archive immediately. You're in for a treat there as I am sure you are here!

You are right - and thank you. - x

[QuoteTheRaven]

Chapter 2    To Inject

 

Heat-enabled inhalation is not what Ejaaz does. Ejaaz shoots and spikes. He boots Quarium into his veins. He does.

 

He enables cold.

 

Ejaaz — who always deferred, who Mom and Aunt Suleiah babied — baby him they still think, so f’ing much, who they dress in too small clothes — even when he was young and first grew fat-cheeked, then rotund, and then obese — and four weeks ago still pushed on him black polo shirts, double extra large that didn’t pull down over his belly, and oversized skinny boy pants that split on the seam over his waddle-y bum — he, who needs an excessively muscular man to rise from all that — injects. 

 

He unbridles injecting. In the future, he thinks he will push more even — intense as could be, as he can make himself want, wouldn’t that be awesome. 

How much it would arouse him to display in plain sight, to stand circled by a crowd who watch as he coolly, with ice in his veins (right?), mainlines green-blue-silver gold, into ripped conditioning, yeah oh yeah, bared by low-slung briefs that dick show, unh, that hip brag, aaah. Let them watch as he plunges a tankard’s worth into serrati running down sides steeled and veed, fuck them. Then they can witness him orgasm at how mounting muscles grow so heavy and so incredibly thick on him. Fuckit, he would be so bonehard in front of all those people, made so wild by his fucking most awesome fetish. Massing would grow so big on him that his shoulders boulder, his chest rises and his traps overwhelm his neck and head. Oh how he bones shoving their faces in the pornographic gargantuity that transgressive behavior will bring about. He wants to jack off to the idea of them standing around his magically sprouted physique. Oh, please please, let them lick his dome-mounted nipples, let them place their little bitty worshipping fingers and palms on his Lycra-lumped superhung man ‘nads or upon his scrumptious hard spandex-traced muscle ass.

 

Oh, Ejaaz likes it. Likes it with his dick, with his imaginary ram’s cock. He needs it beyond how those twinky beach faggots have done it, beyond the ways all those twinky beach faggots have done their baby fucky misty whiffs. Fucks. Little fucks.

 

Ejaaz, emotionally keyed up, has never quite escaped his age’s lack of sense — what he does have of sense, he razes sense now purposefully anyway. Wtf yes. 

 

Let the lemmings puff and sniff.  Nnnghgh.

 

He doesn’t really care anymore about the half year of so boomered flex-all and flex-as-if parties at the beach that he’d enjoyed or about how readily he’s been one of the frivolously partying muscle-swellers and muscle-fuckers if it was only so fleeting for a day, does he? 

 

He craves forever, man, pushing beyond normality, pushing to where only unhinged-ness could go. Mutation and unnatural rebirth are a crazy goal to have..., aren’t they, lol? Haha...Breaking every rule of every game, oh fuck please, of course, Yes!.

 

Ejaaz fantasizes what shouldn’t be morally imagined — bones what none morally imagine boning. 

 

Lashings obliterate him for shooting — blows wale suffering down upon him, like wrecking balls crashing down on an unpopped mortal body. But he mustn’t, must-cannot care — if doses are the chance of leaving him ultra human, to a degree no one could imagine, in size, and in strength, in stature, in power, in irresistible might, in insane tightness, how could he care, care at all, care about excruciation, excruciation that violates his body inhumanly, icestorms his veins and soul, and rapes his ass again and again.

 

So he escapes to a desolate hidden location, curtains a hard-floored mad lab, a cold concreted torture chamber, draws up Quarium, a despicable quantity of such overdosed illicit proportions, dreamt to do exactly what it is doing, as grossly as it can and will do, in a depraved syringe. It is more Quarium than a posse of those misty beach fags would dare sniff all together in a year. And, before his will can falter, he intrudes the giant sickness irreversibly in his arteries. It is right deadly, hostile to vitality, dead set against life.  

 

But, again, can he fucking care. For it to seize him, violently shatter and thrash him, wrench his unsophisticated mind through incalculable cranks of the medieval rack. No pain and no cost can be crumpled to — can be permitted to be too high a price. His narcissism rivers hubriety as deep as the Congo, as wide as the Nile. He is egocentric and a young person with a fat boy’s fantasizing about transformation into a stack-built man....the most grossly disgustingly stack-built man.

 

Fucking! You all underestimate my cheek-chubby, mouth-squeezed, fat-face blubberiness! Fuckers! Loser fuckers....just wait until I Lord!!

 

And in the first quarter of the twenty first century is a lad churning such narcissism a surprise? Sprung from anything unanticipated? Ejaaz is the ejaculation of the self-worshiping soul of the age laid out at its most distilled — a version like all the other fag guys, just boosted in his narcissism that nth degree further just enough to take him to a level more extreme than any of them had dared to go. The soul of the age straddles this jackload called Ejaaz that the soul of the age has spurt over the chest of mankind. The soul of the age anoints this obese man-boy who is now just a puddle of stanky spuge, saying “get utterly overwhelmed by the possibilities of your magically self-obsessed addictive thing, you glorious cum-jack.” 

 

Ejaaz is floated as a blimp into the stratosphere of self-involvement where, if he wasn’t so enamored with his own self and the glory of the sun, he would have to squint down from distances so high that he’d barely make out upon the ground miles below the pinpricks of quaint, obsolescent patheticisms referred to as clean, fair, hard work, and accept-oneself-as-one-is. Fuck those! He is going to use Quarium to explode himself ludicrously oversized, jacked and insanely swole. I want it so so so bad!!

 

Ejaaz devours the coveted, and spits at even the question, “Will I survive?” 

 

Ejaaz, whore that he shows himself to be, throats the cock of willful stupidity rather than deign a single iota of an atom of a molecule of one cell of a gnat’s ass to the consideration of normality, or modesty, or accepting that which he has always been, or furthest, different  and most of all, to backing off the fucking peril that threatens. 

He en-veins while thinking of himself as being trepidatious, acting so untruthfully as if he’s so scared at what’s to come each time. Sure, fear scares the cartoon out of him, sure it nearly drives his tummy heaving from his mouth, but it does neither to the degree it ought for the threat of maiming and death that chained-protenzymics threaten toward human flesh and beating hearts. Quarium would smite 999,999,999 out of one billion shooters who’d dare attempt doses even half those Ejaaz has done. Ejaaz’s vial offers an amount thirty-one thousand times what fuckyouth like himself are warned of in Royal Ministry of Health bulletins after all. Enshallah, shouldn’t he know. 

 

Ejaaz, so committed to his own juvenility, so incarnating of his age’s concern with narcissism, with superiority, with self-engrossment, doesn’t care, does not want to have even a mascara’ed eyelash’s width of awareness of his myopia.

He ignores it, and only countenances instead the growing irreality of his impossible path forward — the gifts and undeserved grandeur and might and the volcanoing growth and the immoral strengthening that have begun and are to be alpha-almighty him. He considers nothing of toiling for outcomes. He considers nothing of life’s previously existed natural limits. And most suicidally, he considers nothing in regards to the harsh reality if he freezes stone-cold dead upon some, or any, truly probable, misstep, never-mind how fucked-huge a muscled body, with the ability to rip buildings from their very foundations, he might leave behind. 

 

“Fuck the warnings — it will never happen to me,” the brat thinks, if the immature baby dickdrip could be considered to be thinking at all.

 

He choruses simply “Me. Me. Me. I. I. I. I. I. I.” 

 

His impulses flow — the darkest instincts of auto-sthenolagnic yearning in his college-aged mind. Without even knowing the word, he won’t give it up.

 

I Want. I Need. I Want. I Need. I. Want. Need. Want. a. big. dick. Need. want. Need. Need. Want. NEED. Muussttt HAVEEE Huge. Huge. HuGE. HUGE. HHUUUGGEEE MUSSCCLLEs. And even MoRe STRENGTHHH.

 

He’s like a failing-to-launch guy reading his Reddit and fucking around with videogames — too derelict to have a clue about anything, too idiotic to have a clue about boulders balanced on the pins of Quarium — extermination’s boulders sitting on their tips. He is like a back-of-the-class self-satisfied teen proud at the access he grants himself, unregistered, having found the key to a steroid dealer’s unguarded refrigerator padlock. He thinks himself the cock of the wall, so clever with his “I steal some of his and I know everything about it now”, so clever with the changing outline to his hormonal change. Oh how freely he hurtles along his “fuck Quarium” rails.

 

He pours Quarium into a vial, transports it on dry ice, tricks for hypodermics, draws up gurgling death, stumbles past bodily terror by throwing the will of all his brain against it, damagingly floods the pin into the two-foot-deep fat that was what his limited papa and cheating mama faultfully did to him. Through those steps, he unleashes the world’s most bloodthirsty menagerie into his wanton wanting frame. And oh fuck how much he loves it beyond any sanity — awrrrgght. Aawwwrrrgggghhht!

 

Somehow divinely or purposely for all that, self-infatuated Ejaaz does exactly those things. And either Allah takes pity or blind dumb luck has made him mankind’s most accidental chemist, for no force topples a terminating boulder down. Instead, Allah or irreligious glorious secularism spritzers upon the so-far-from-worthy twenty-year-old all of it — the improbable growing of immortality and the pathway to gargantuan supermuscularism. 

 

None of it kills him. He is not stretched out as a corpulent ne’er-blossomed Romeo or Juliet in the crypt. 

 

A dump-chub clutz on a skateboard who rickets imbecilicly past dips and pits is infinitely less dumb than Ejaaz wheeling with no plan past the minefields of damn death, painful death, desperate death, tragic death, and certain death — too stupid to know they are even there, never mind that he lucks by. And in so wheeling, Ejaaz fucking lucks into all of the bequeathments. Oh, Allah, oh Allah, oh enshallah YyyeeAaHhH.

 

Nearly all the world would judge what he does, would consider him so criminally undeserving. Ejaaz is fine with that. Just wait until Ejaaz flexes a tri-cut bicep the glorious size of an American football and dazzles a hypertrophied Arab youth bodybuilder shredded giganticism with dicklip-narrow hips and monstrous legs. He will thrust his mass in those pussy-faces as he says “think whatever the fuck you want, fuckers — suck my big fat cock, lick my mountain-muscle framed anus.”

 

So Ejaaz, right now, suffers close to crucifixion for his dosing — by magnums of dis-equilibrium — the grotesque quantities an alien larva would be saturated in by scientists who misunderstand the extraterrestial’s biology and give it the one thing that they think will freeze it to death, but instead fuels its change to a rampaging monster. Ejaaz is that larva with Quarium bathing him everywhere so gluttonously that when it falls short of killing him it will metamorphize him into the sickest, most developed monster beast the world has ever seen.

 

Oh fuck, yes, oh fuck, oh fuck, yes, yes, Yes.

 

If he can endure.

 

And what happens scientifically inside, is Quarium finds receptors. It pulls for heat, but too little comes. Reactions strain. They suck for warmth, lowering the tunnel’s temperature, until winter arrives, dressing the space in harsh January regalia, and threatening the most dangerous low. Freezer puffs blow across Ejaaz. All that is his chattering crystallized little lithe body trembles be-stridden by hell’s iced-over lintel. Quarium molecules love so much to be erupted into a joy of abundance, assembling like festival goers transforming the parade route to crowds of hundred thousands. But stolen heat is still not enough to spawn sweet shadow cell growth, and the cold just drops further. Quarium molecules beseech Ejaaz’s cells begging for any last scrap of caloric push that might get the party started — that might ignite that sweet Shadow cell anthem. So dionysiously they push at his cells jiggying for that heat. The gamboling wavers to undercurrents though, then tinges of disruption, when suddenly it all falls apart. The party-hatting Quarium, startled, tumbles through membranes unexpectedly plunging into the very cells themselves.

 

Inside the cells, Ejaaz’s DNA strands shrink frantically away. They cower from the molecular arrivals. The sweet Quarium molecules lay eyes on the DNA by accident. Almost immediately an ugly change happens — gone is the partying birthday boy Quarium, and suddenly spawned in his place is depraving, transparent lustful, debauched homogynistic frat-boy Quarium. And then the cowering by the DNA is for naught, the DNA can’t escape, and suddenly Hyde-ish Quarium fuck-rapes itself hard on to the native DNA molecules in gross-horny exhilaration. The resulting product mutates DNA a sinister degree.

Membrane osmosis introduces more Quarium molecules one by one into the cells’ interiors — the parade stumbles into millions of cells. In each cell, each successive Quarium molecule turns darkly marauderish and then grabs the onslaughted genetic material and copulates its dick-studly self with the fraying y-chromosomes again, until the DNA itself, assault by assault, is stockholmed toward aroused genesis, toward dominance, flirting with what it suddenly detects is growing incalculable superiority. The DNA finds itself becoming magnified, ultimately to a degree beyond what numberless millennia of evolution would have achieved. It grows haughty with the great power of its rebirth.

 

And all of it makes the user, Ejaaz, beyond fucked cold. Even as it ascends him deifically.

 

While Ejaaz remains in freezingness’s embrace, he is enabling its happening. The underdeck, rankless, blubber-bulged, swab boy of the loser gay Arab world is not abandoning a torture ship he has clawed himself upon, upon which the wizened sinuous salts bugger him then seek to see him give up and sneak away in the next port. But despite the ax-hacking pain that reigns everywhere in his corpse, Ejaaz is the loser youth who for some reason stays. While upon that ship, even as he experiences animating damnation,  multiple thousands of Quary molecules are permitted to flow into each cell of his body away from fat boydom to which he will never return.

 

He will emerge from the end of this solipsistic session of suffering with no shadow cells (and their thrilling temporary size and giddy sexual allure and strength), but instead with some further portion of his original cells transformed to a different new kind of existence. He will rip his clothes off and liberate his hardened, lean hammered body — sexual, horny, blindingly devastating. Maybe fifteen or twenty or twenty-three percent more of his cells will be transmogrified to these things never existent before — these nue-uber cells. Nue-ubers are inorganic, transhumanly endowed replacements of what was once mortal. Transcedent attributes make each undamageable, ever-enduring, densened, indefatigable, batteried with excessive strength, permanently changed — and Ejaaz — him they make into an enduringly new him, forever and beyond.

 

He will emerge reconceived — tight, hard, primped in his bulk, improved in his looks, studded phallically, amplified stronger, with new capabilities of other kinds hinting as well. He’ll need to be half-naked as much as he can make possible, he’ll need to exhibit even if clothed. 

But he won’t  be huge nor visually a beef-feast YET — he will be intense and will thrum with champing feral power beneath his fat-free, newly ravishing but still unmassed surface, in such an immortal way. He will be chiseled facially and made drop dead handsome. But he won’t have swollen up YET.

 

But he will mass up as he continues his regimen of devoting his life to his liquid liege. For those gorgeously created and omnipotent nue-ubers have a final and anabolic attribute — they generate nue-uber stem cells while at rest. Not bodybuilt jacked muscle cells, just infinitesimally small things without even height and breadth. His increasingly nue-uber body will be able to manufacture those stems in grand quantities. 

Onlookers will miss their gathering, latency stashing about him as he goes about his days, but that latency accumulates — hollow stems stashed, laid like rebels’ ammo stores hidden everywhere about the land.

The stems posture nothing. They sit as only membranic receptors and DNA. They are nothing of a muscle cell that can lift anything or flex a braggartly shape, nothing that’s ever been engaged or worked out or hypertrophied or given girth in any fashion. 

 

The stems, however, definitively add to transformable cell counts. There is more for Quarium to work on the next time a user abuses — Raising more fleeting shadow cells when sniffing or, fucking better, transforging more unconquerable full nue-ubers when Quarium is next booted. Those nue-ubers take the dimensionless stems and give them rippling, mightful girth. It will unstoppably layer him unimaginably grandly and invulnerably over time.

 

Nue-ubers by his program of serial abuse will come to stratify thews of mountain range muscularity atop him. Ejaaz accelerates the timing as much as he can endure so that that crowning is as fast as he is able to make it.

 

A Quarium injector who deigns to use repeatedly and then surpasses four doses, begins to get bigger with every dose. And at a more rapid pace each time.

 

As his body grows, biggening snowballs — fewer than a few thousand new muscle stems laid after dose three are joined by several hundred thousand after dose four, three quarters of a million after dose five, one and three quarter million after dose six. By his tenth dose, he is creating more than ten million. By his twentieth... don’t even think about the acceleration and the increasing limit to his potential.

 

Ejaaz is doing a fifth dose. Enough of his original normal cells have now converted to nue-ubers that finally truly desirable quantities of fresh muscle stems are going to lay hiddenly in the days that follow. They will dictate the first gaining future  conversion of a young guy brimming with how he covets transforming into a man endowed with bodybuilding definitional mass.

 

The fucker who comes back to Quarium, signs up for greater harshity as well, though.

 

The freezing worsens — more cells to freeze make more violent squalls,

right? Who can bear that? Fucking no one — only annihilation lies that way, agreed? Wrong, no one can bear it except if there’s some overweight queer who is twenty and hasn’t taken any pathway to actually mature and fantasizes only about this. No one can bear it unless there is someone who loathes fucked loser-strafed childhood obesity. No one can bear it unless he feels so intensely he’s fucking mama’s-boy’ed and fagged his life away. Now he does nothing but delireate the coiling, writhing, gigantic, sexual, musclegod he’ll be — the most desirable male monster specimen that will unleash untold power till all succumb.

He’s so fuck hungry for it that he devours pain that scales only termination. 

But even as ruination sledgehammers him, he gains what he has determined destiny must fucking give him, what he’s never going to give back, what some other pukes might be driven from getting or be too panty-wasted to keep once given it. He will defend it to his last breath once he has it, will grasp it with the superhuman strength with which he will have become endowed. He will be more colossal than even the bigorexiest of the giants on the internet has ever conceived to be. And he will roar, brutally strain, and orgasm.

 

===============

Jacking Break

[QuoteTheRaven]

I can see that.  Left to my own devices.....

 

Onward and upward.

[cregssatx]

7 hours ago, QuoteTheRaven said:

I can see that.  Left to my own devices.....

 

Onward and upward.

Personally, I enjoy the style.  It's almost poetic prose.  It flows smoothly and is engaging even outside of the actual content.  Looking forward to more.  Thanks, QTR. 

[QuoteTheRaven]

Recap:

Chapter 1  Desert.   A hot skinny guy injects himself with iridescent ooze.

Chapter 2  To Inject.  To inhale is fleeting, consequence-free muscle-growth high. Injecting is murderous cold to begin change that the world has never seen.

Onward.....