muscle growth Ejaaz gets Jacked Up (Finished)

[QuoteTheRaven]

Chapter recaps thus far:

Chapter 1  Desert.   A skinny guy injects himself

Chapter 2  To Inject.  To inhale is fleeting, Injecting is murderous but changes Ejaaz

Chapter 3 Agony.  Icy annihilation crucifies Ejaaz pummeling him with cold

Chapter 4 Back to Kurai.  Motorbike fantasies while he returns to the glittering nest he has in the sky.

Chapter 5 The Taqim Mithli Aljins and Humayeraz Beach.  Memories of days spent having an illicit substance turn a big group of friends into raunchy jacked monsters f*king all over the sand.

Chapter 6 Inklings of the New Him. Ejaaz is lost in the mirror engrossed with the emerging him

Chapter 7  A Transformed Twunk at Humayeraz. Ejaaz remember feeling bigger than he’d ever felt before and meets a twink who transforms more completely than any of the others.

Chapter 8  Kindling. Ejaaz’s remembers the fat shaming rained down on him by a reverted Witha.

[QuoteTheRaven]

Chapter 9  Taking Stock.

Ejaaz remembers as he bicycles to the gym. 

 

He motors past elevated concrete beds and building corners on his bike. He could be as fast as the tree-trunk-thighed, pilow-assed professional riders of a World Championship velodrome if he wanted but he respects the risks he would pose to others if he were to collide. Even so, the momentum in the swerves are g-force, a roller coaster of centripetal and centrifugal restraints — all a consequence of his three hundred thirty five earth-mantel hard  and tight pounds. 

He tenses the nue-uber musclulature curled upon the seat and gripping the handle bars. His body steams along locomotively, the wind sweeping past his enlivened skin and his endowed big-man-sized gonads breeze-pouched in his crotch. His gym bag straps across his rock-climber-like fitnessed torso.

 

In TheGym, he swaps clothes in the luxurious locker room — going now for what shows. He dons super skin tight leggings and a Lycra tee and fantastic sneakers. They are unlike the old him — he relishes the transmitting grip on his chiseled surface, on this snake outline for his penis.

In the pin-point lighted mirror above the dark granite floor, he assesses himself. He is angular and a crossover to introductory statuesque — pretty fetching it is clear. He angles this way and that, facing frontward, and spinning for arching looks over his shoulder.  Tall, streamlined. Like living steel encased in the shiny stretchy head to toe suit with balls and penis and ass and back and shoulders and thighs. He wolf grunts himself.

 

In the free weights area outside, his body tremors with interest and anticipation. How fucking much he loves hard iron. And of course Quarium.  

 

The inhaling and Humareyaz raving had been a thrill — maybe more than a fat get-along fuck ever deserved — it had given him life-saving, mind-rescuing fun, meaningful meaningless times — comrades, sailing highs, and memories he’d never forget. He affectioned misted Quarium for the beach-front playphoria she had rocketed up his nose during those episodes — For the joyous crazy celebration it swelled through each rank amateur encounter. He should be fully satisfied and grateful for it. 

 

But as much as he liked sniffed Quarium, as satisfied as he ought have been to sniffing Quary, as undeserving as he is of even that never mind anything more — injected Quarium has literally despot’ed his fealty. It utterly conquers him, wholly owns him piggishly, sluttily, in unlimited supplication.

Allah, he crucifies himself to Quarium’s injectioning powers, quits any comfort for her pledges, inflicts bone-deep dread because he’s so obsessed with pinning. Like radioactivity off the scale of the Geiger counters of the UAE-NERC, Quarium penetrates him, doesn’t she, and marinates him. Through any dose’s maelstroms he implodes, mangled and crashed beneath hell’s harshest glaciers — only to claw a scraping mangledness from beneath each tonnages’ ruination every time, and then stand and watch as he hardens and reassembles and strengthens getting bigger, stronger, and fucking more powerful and invulnerable each time. He knows he suckles annihilation. Fucking utterly I do, he thinks, but just, for your killer attempts to destroy me, I somehow escape and rise beyond. He knows he hazards continuance, but just try to have him not believe that he will survive it because he wants it so insanely that he will have to survive.

Like a runty orphan in the times of the Abassid Caliphate who might have romanticized the sea, then been betrayed by what he hoped for by being bagged by seajacking denizens and thrown in a leaky hold to be whipped til he regretted any homo-masochist fantasy dream he’d ever had. Only to then escape and leap his scrawny brown unmanly Arab bones overboard in waters he’d ought not risk and washed, just surviving, upon shores of strange climes. It’d been a land where the spindly, starved orphan battled with his own hands and nails against beasts with worse of both. Miraculously he bests them and learns to roast their carcasses and devour them. Year by year wild physicality gifts the orphan to accumulate muscle and power and brawn. He finds his way back to Abassid society commanding, the transmuted amplification of that vulnerable boy destroyed in the stature-endowing wilds of that exotic land. It is as though something in that land magically transformed ghulam into rajul dhakm. What Ejaaz gains from Quary magnificates beyond that and will magnificate him beyond that ten thousand fold, will deify him including with astronomical mass, and enthrone him with all-powerful rule. Yes. Yes it will.

 

He’s 20, not even remotely touched by his maturity when he thinks about it. No longer a fat fuck, he is visually much more distinguished already even from just the simply unbelievable hot trim build of a 24 or 29 year old. 

He grunts at the barbell at his feet weighted with seven full plates on each end. Nothing that this pretty boy fitness physique should challenge.

His body, though, crushing in upon itself as it is now with nue-uber cells, will devastate the bar he can tell. He bends to grip it with his still normal seeming hands and still largely normal sized body and he thinks of what had happened that following weekend in the wake of his halting, questionable, un-quaried night with Witha.

 

****************

 

Discouraging emotions possessed him that weekend, so he’d gone to Humayeraz Beach alone.

 

“Hey, stud,” Hassan who arranged everything had said. Ejaaz looked at how his own body was. So lardish and fat and fucking jiggling. Hassan was a goddamn liar.

But, “Hi,” he had replied

“You’re early.” It was forty five minutes in advance of the usual time.

“I came alone.”

“Oh, yeah?” Hassan asked. It had an inflection of inuendo.

“Yeah,” Ejaaz responded deliberately flatly.

He watched Hassan. Hassan was ruggedly manly, an outlier from the prancing majority.

Ejaaz asked, “Is there something I can do to help?”

“Isn’t there?” Hassan said with a lilt. Hassan seemed to probe any of the guys for what he might get off them. Ejaaz wandered a few feet away.

“Ok, help me with bringing this stuff,” Hassan said easing up and speaking normally.

Ejaaz trendled some blankets and biddled a folding chair over. Meanwhile, in his broad grip, Hassan sported the cooler with the lock — the precious cargo for Hassan’s hands only. It held the Quarium. 

“We won’t get into this until all the gang is here,” Hassan said.

“Sure, whatever. But when we do,” Ejaaz said, “I’m getting in hard.” Ejaaz’s voice was lispy bordering on whiny.

Ejaaz sprattled blankets out into a rumpled mess. Hassan tracked his movements. Hassan’s thing for any of the other guys was stirring something back up in Ejaaz though. Even as a hapless, fuck-clumsy porker, Hassan wanted to connect. But, Ejaaz’s self-disgust was too close to the surface. He couldn’t hazard flirting. He waddled a few steps away. 

Ejaaz thought of Witha. Would he be showing up again? Ejaaz wished he had just left well alone during the week.

“I’m going walking until the other guys arrive,” Ejaaz said.

 

Ejaaz shlumpled four empty kilometers down. As the day ramped up, sunbathers or swimmers would fill the flats. He huffled and stumbled but working to become active and physical had to be the new him.

He found a spot to stop and he thought he’d drown his mood in the temperate bath of the sea. He struggled out of his clothes. 

His body fat made it hard to get fabric on and off. What was under his clothes flailed a raw fashion mistake — a bikini in pink with polka dots in white over the crotch and darts of white diving from the rear of the hips to disappear in points beneath his pudgy rear. It looked like an ill-fitted ugly bandaid on a muttonball. It was way too empty in the front but who could rightly tell with the way that it squished beneath his gut and bludged over his thigh’s mottled circumference. 

He’d ordered it online from overseas. The way it adorned the cropped-headed model’s eight-percent body fat in the photographs had looked so good — he had not been rational or realistic to think it might look good on him.  But as he awaited its arrival, he had fixated on the abuse that Quarium-mammothified muscular buttocks and hounded dog-sausage would afflict on such a Lycra garment and was certain of the raunchiness it could impart to a Quary-bod.

He could already project the hulking muscular mammoth with tiny hips who he’d be while shredding this thing in an hour or so once Qigh. He could sense in his mind’s eye how his core would evaporate and the elastical fabric would tighten onto his ripfield and expand over his porngroin. He’d relish the silky brushing of a sensuous cushing grasp over his atlas-steel ass globes, and its pinching sweetly just below his taint and bronco balls. As he’d plumber the thing’s grip, tubing to or past his hip, the fabric would tug on his Quary-beam this way and that above Quary-monster legs boasting Burj Khalifa anchoring volume. He imagined how the fabric would strain — and his hips and ass and tool wouldn’t ever be even the most hulking part of him.

 

He shlubbed. It had to be fucking fine that this was just him now. He could bear the lard boy reality until he could change it. Right. Yes. Right?

 

No, ungh, Fuck. He wanted so grossly to change, these blubbery swells that rolled down, traitoring the fucking god he fucking fucking deserved to be. He hated himself that he’d porked to this, why had he never credenced a deeper alpha — it could have been different from long ago. But he would make it different now. 

His agitation rose again. Ok, alright, ok, he would do it.  UNGh!

He thought about food, but stopped. FUCK!

He lay his shorts on the sand and stood there.  

Tiny waves tossed themselves at the edge of the water. Crests delineated shallow successions of glassy ripples. 

 

Ejaaz rallied, ploshing muttoniness to the shallows — flap-limbed. As the depth topped his knees, he shuffled further, but lost his balance and tripped plopsing gigantically into the water and sand. His rolls of lard wetted immediately and the squeezy twisty bathing suit got soaked and also filled with grit. Ugggh.

He labored further out on his hands and knees and then finally slop-paddled while breathing raggedly. Eventually, the depth exceeded his height and he flipped to his back. He floated like a brought-along harpooned whale, but at least he could watch sky and birds. He rolled then like so much blubber and hung his full-cheeked face in the water and just deflated. When he took a breath again, he barged in super slow circles for a while. The water buoyed his little wee wee so that it squished up under his husky jello thighs. Unhh.

It all brought him back to just about five years before — being here with Mom, Aunt Suleih, with his older brother Ahmed, and Aunt Suleih’s twin baby girls. 

What a scared, at risk 15 year old he had been — repressed, withdrawn, unsure about school and friends, oh so shamed to be shadh, pouty and immature. Repressed to a degree where he’d wished he could have cut off an arm just to be spared even any contemplation of shadh/‘queer’. 

Now here he was, his very being demanding he change, that he embrace fucking Misli — QUEER! — and he was blaming himself at what he’d done to himself as he’d disappeared in food and in sloth. It couldn’t stay this way, what was emerging he was realizing was a particularly aggressive and supremacy desiring flavor of that homo MISLI identity. 

He wanted it. Liked the idea of wanting it. Knew his life basically depended on being something different than this he’d always been. The thoughts continued for a while evolving and eventually calming.

When he dog-flailed back in and waddled ashore, subject again to the unwieldy bulk of his lard’s rolls, his emotional equilibrium had numbed.

By his clothes, water droplets glinted with the sun on his blimped proportions. 

He snagged his shorts with his pinky. With his other thumb and forefinger, he fished his phone from one of the shorts’ pockets.

I’m going to do a selfie. 

He raised the phone above, watching the display — the perspective looking back down. He snapped.

Checking it over, an image of blimpoed unlimited girth lacked appeal — His shoulders drooped and his chest splayed breast-ily, yet somehow concave too. His abdomen protruded amply 360 degrees and he had vast back fat. He was so rotund and the “hot” suit looked gross minimized under his gut and taped across his legs, squished on his fat so that there was no package. The whole thing offered nothing that would arouse any male the world over. Ha! That he had sat online looking at the suit modeled on the etailer site’s torsoless jacked model falling for the marketing of “just buy this to look this way”. The fucking thing when presented by his ugly buttocks, hips, thighs, and groin was failing spectacularly. A post to Instagram wouldn’t gather even one like, never mind the tens of thousands that show gays would click up instantly with their suggestive Dick outlines and torching bods. 

He started to walk back, but before a hundred meters, he put his oversized shorts back on and donned his top — so judgmentally unworthy in his mind.

[QuoteTheRaven]

Chapter 10.  When Witha is Hubris by Another Name

When Ejaaz returned to the meeting spot, the taqim mithli aljins roiled clumped like grade school footballers — attention solely on Quarium. 

As he neared, Amir and Fadel came into focus, then closer, Cemal, and others of the guys he wished he could legitimately make his friends. They were the guys who abided him. Just know fucking that, he thought.

In the middle stood Witha — damn that fucker was back again. Witha lifted the quari-spoon to his too goddam handsome face — a face drawing Ejaaz, and all the others. A face leaving Ejaaz pissed, and perhaps mostly creating covetousness.  

Ejaaz angled to the right edge to watch, eyes hard to tear from Witha.

The spoon in Witha’s upheld hand tilted forward and the trigger squeezed puffing the djinn’s brew. Witha flinched, his lungs expanding then slowly vacating through his little nose. The quari-spoon was eased from Witha’s hands; the individuals neighboring him shifted so he stood in the clear — negligible, sinewy, lost in momentary pause, clearly Quarium was flinging to every part of his body.

Witha sported a variation of a shapeless tank top, and dragging pajama bottoms draped to the ground. 

Ejaaz stared at Witha as a fucking anaconda emerged slithering beneath the fabric reaching across Witha’s groin to so far on the right side of Witha’s narrow hip that Ejaaz had never seen anyone else get so big. Whatever undergarment Witha wore clearly trained Witha’s soft penis extension to this extraordinary flaccid position. The new size and circumference were something unprecedented and lifted the cloth. 

The tip of Witha’s tongue touched Witha’s lips caninely. Witha moved from the group and naturally neared Ejaaz. Witha’s pajama fabric whirled up and around the enlarged flesh-cylinder. 

Ejaaz met Witha’s gaze and Witha sneered a smile with all his teeth. Whatever might be residually fragile about Witha’s visage, the cocky smile overwhelmed. And then Witha was focused on Ejaaz — almost as on prey. As Witha walked he transformed. A step closer and Witha raised a shoulder, pulled back his neck. Another step and his footfall thudded wider. Growth enlarged him. Another step and he rolled his other shoulder and swung his elbow back, up, and around. Mass expanded into thrallful thickness. Witha was snorting, hoovering intakes and expulsing blows. 

Witha paused and wriggled his entire body starting from his hands which he’d clasped straight above his head and wrenching his way down until his ankles tilted one way and then the next.

He was a few steps away and he lowed,

“Hey, fatty, hey little sad Ejjy. Can you tell I did my Quary hit already? Do you see what a superior fucking Quary God I am, you fucking fag pansy?”

It was laughable. Witha towered thunderingly — a behemothic stud. The moments-ago loose tank and dropping pajamas strained against his gargantuan flesh — little girly doll clothes rupturing across the monumental surface of the destroying he-man. Witha posed a taller and bigger version of the Bahraini and Emirati bodybuilders who were so busily obsessed monstering themselves. On social media one could track them as their bodies went from normal nothing selves to the first addicting pin pricks that gatewayed them to initial roided amplification until they had become such prodigious pharmacologists that they mountained as ripped veiny things more chemical than man. But bull-monstrous hard-on-ening, Witha’s cocky smile opened further radiating unmitigated dominance from a face that had shifted so manfully that it narrowcast the most ball-hormoned lead male warrior concubine of any ancient Arabian king. The green of Witha’s irises virtually emitted their own source of light.  

“Wait for me to take these things off before you go take your turn,” Witha both seduced and commanded. His voice sawed, gravelly, one hundred thousand percent sexual.

“Of course, Witha,” Ejaaz replied.

Witha strode closer. His foot dragged a towel into a wad.

He looked hugely over and onto Ejaaz. Witha slapped the front of his sickly narrow hips where the pajamas manifolded his reproductive composition — it thudded a sound of rock. Witha hooked beneath the waist of the pajamas and lifted. 

The skin splayed titanium-hard across hipbones narrow and punishingly lean. 

Ejaaz’s breath caught. 

Witha teased the waistband down. The shine of suctioned latex peeped out; the string-like band at the hip betrayed a bodybuilder’s fetishistic obsidian black rubber-ware poser rather than any gay beach suit like all had worn before. 

Witha shifted the pajama’s waist band to the right and the left, the cotton riffling over his dick’s smutty girth. He slid the pajamas down now past six excavated quadriceps rooting upon his redwood upper thighs, then tear drops, then his knees and then off of each football large calf. 

He was naked on his lower limbs with a  fantasy-only ratio between his fighter jet nose-cone narrow waist and thirty inch round rocket thighs and hammed proportions. His soft boa constrictor of penis nudely intertwined the poser’s shiny hip strand. Witha’s cock’s weight dragged the line downward. Witha untangled his pet python from the thin cord; he mashed his freed self into the envelope of the stretch-pouch of the garment. The result was a bulbous veneer pulled like opaque plastic wrap over the twists of his train-track cockfold veins and his glansline rim. 

The poser seat, perceivable as his legs twisted out of the pants, edged deep into and high up around a haunch-sinewed ass. The poser was most exhibitionistically the dom-bodybuilder look that none of them had chosen before. 

Witha smiled yet again carnivorously. 

As gorgeous as he was, something more overwhelmingly extreme exceeded the previous week. As jacked up as any of them became, Witha was starting to appear more massive and more conditioned than anyone else. Witha seared the perfection of this incarnation deeper into Ejaaz’s mind.

Witha strained his tank top even as his enormous arms and mountain-lion legs were bare. Carefully he began to tug and slip and inch the tanktop higher and higher onto his conical upper body. The fabric yawned over his smitten nipples and the vein-mapped inner faces of his lats and his cowling back. It stuck at his pits roping him tightly. Witha shimmied this way and that, his legs undulating sirloin beef casts and his dozen-loafed midsection finding crunched pose after crunched pose. 

The right arm hole passed the tipping point and his twenty-three inch cannon-balled bazooka swung free. The head hole swept over his neck and head and the tank was rolled down his beastly left extremity.  

Witha stood utterly relaxed — all 68” chest and larger shoulders and monumental legs and splaying vee, with a physique that posed muscularity like it didn’t even care that it was edging right up to morphlike fantasy. Witha’s teeth bared again with his quariumed voracity. Ejaaz felt hedonism itself blowing off of Witha toward him and through him, smitten — Witha, extreme beyond what he’d or any of them had priorly shown. 

“Witha, others’ muscles have never looked so huge and hard and supreme,” Ejaaz yapped. “How is it even possible?”

Witha chucked his chin above his heaving physique, angled his hips and flexed his monstrous arms up and behind his head, saying, his voice so low it forced Ejaaz to leak little soft-dick gism, “Desire does incredible things, Ejjy. You could know that, faggot fat boy. I feel incomprehensible.” 

Witha snorted through his tight nostrils and it was as though the smoke of some continental dragon trailed out.

“Go get Q’d, Ejjy,” he said lowering his beastly guns and standing with stance splayed, “Just know your muscled ass is mine at the end of the day, lardshit.”
 

 

[QuoteTheRaven]

Chapter 11.  Two Where Only One E’er Gone Before

Two last guys awaited the quari-spoon — One, Dba’de, a Qatari guy with a Qatari mother and a Saudi father, attended for the first time. It was a coup as he was actually studly already — an all-natural bodybuilder, who was married and overtly devout but secretly bisexual. Decent muscle bellies carved a little build covered with a beautifully darker skin as though he’d been mixed with something in his past. 

In the midst of the huddle, he stood blindfolded unknowing of Quarium — he‘d heard Saturday beach parties were “fun” and “out of control”, but hadn’t been told of drugs, of the fact that his pumping to date was about to look irrelevant.  

Now, unseeing, the Quari-spoon rested in his hands — Cemal and Fadel, massive, musclebound, musclehounded, with huge-do-anything-they-wish bodies and dongs, stood to either side.

“Let’s help you take this off,” Cemal bassed as the two slid the blindfold off Dba’de’s dome. They towered in — either of their masses a super heavyweight stagetaker’s suggestion and Dba’de’s local competitor physique so sad in compare. 

Confusion and fixation hi-jacked Dba’de’s expression as his eyes adjusted. Dba’de’s pupils soldered to the glistening might-meat thundering the two Arab blocks of men. 

Before Dba’de could process any further, Cemal’s hand found the quari-spoon trigger beneath Dba’de’s nose. He pulled sharply and fired. Pffft! Quarium spilled and in an instant rose up Dba’de’s sculpted nostrils.  

“Now you’re going to know what it’s like to be Huge, dude,” Cemal crowed.

Dba’de stood in a scant squarecut that actually embarrassed an underdeveloped endowment. But, that changed as Quarium took over and suddenly his penis head shifted to creep under his testicles. His nuts and little weiner fattened forward and upward becoming a beautifully doming big boy dick and ball set protruding perfectly large between his already muscled legs. 

Euphoria swept him and they could all see his head fall back, mouth agape at the sensation of exploded manhood in his groin. 

He was lost in it, and then as a whole his body morphed where he stood - heightening, broadening, triangling, thickening, scaffolding with fat cuts of brawn. His tar-similar Arab guy skin glistened and darkened with his new muscularity growing larger and longer. His smile radiated.

“Fuck, boys,” he cawed and curled his great arm, “Fuck, you should have been careful to do this to me!” He licked his extraordinarily long thewed tongue up and over the mountaintop of his blackish bi, his newly thunderous pec lifted and bunched as he did so.

Dba’de’s face awakened alive and commanding. His stance flex-posed and his breath bellowed in and out. His grade-A mass palpitated in ways that others equal in size didn’t always do.

His grip remained on the quari-spoon as he surveyed the dudes both near and far, all but a few transformed. Dba’de recognized many of them, knew the sorta tasty gays that most were prior to these current builds. He saw now how superior he and they were as a group — alpha men, more than men. But he himself liked more, had both narcissistic and superior streaks. Around him he saw the heaving and it seem inferior to be merely comparable.

“I’m taking a second swig, fags,” he bragged, and before Cemal or Fadel could react, the device lifted and triggered again. A dozen massages’ tension being released sounded Dba’de’s immediate response. His face melted in acceptance and inhalation. His eyes reopened and he didn’t even show the ubiquitous momentary quari-daze. He merely proceeded to get taller, thicker wider and more powerful. “Ahhh, YYEAHh.” He grew seven or eight inches taller than he had been moments before or than the rest of the others would be. His weight climbed to five hundred or six hundred pounds in total, his shoulders reached 100 inches, his arms 33, and his legs almost 55. He rumbled like a desert lion blasted with a transmutation ray so that it was four times its normal size. Releasing the quari-spoon to Quffan, he strode off immensely saying “I’m ready to join in the fun.”

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When the quari-spoon made it to Ejaaz’s palm, an instant thought to follow Dba’de struck. Raising the utensil, Ejaaz dosed himself smoothly, inhaling into his fatty shlub lungs, and then said loudly with his too high-pitched voice, “I’m going to try it again like Dba’de.”

A full second dose of additional icicling mist infiltrated the copious fat cells where only one dose had ever gone before. 

 

The quarium-pause grabbed him and passed. Then assaulted with double upon double upon double the force. His big-bellied, fat-rolled body retched for the ground, and caved to one knee just as cold exploded in his body and brain. An interior squall whipped everywhere and ferociously. He lost sight of what was around him. It terrified him and the sentiment dawned, “What the fuck have I done!?”

 

But a new sensation emerged. The heat, the sun, the 107 degree air around him radiating into the maelstrom. Consciously he perceived what hadn’t risen into consciousness before. The heat drew the cold forces outward replicating shadow cells in their wake like the universe in the trillionths of a second following the Big Bang. He could feel strength and power and size rising out of the deeps enlargening him, pulsing currents of pure joyous dominating grandeur into his mutating flesh. It was happening. He was hypermasculinizing — like a volcano, a tidal wave, a cyclone, all at once. And oh glorious Allah beyond all Allah, then it was done.

He looked down upon himself. Torn and shredded fabric tattered off of him, uncurtaining his pink bikini stretched like a motherfucker on a medieval rack upon his nuclearly shredded hips. Oh, how immediately he comprehended its magnificating a stature that must be six foot ten or eleven or even seven feet, and must weigh six hundred and more pounds. He roared. Roared with the winds of all sandstorms months in the making.  “Fucking Dba’de Trainer-Emperor, here I come.”

 

The transpiration of the day was the stuff of legends. The monstrousness of his 56 inch legs thundered every step. The gargantuanity of his 98-inch-shouldered torso limiting the range of motion of his gigantic 32 inch arms so that he was nearly a block of muscle. He endured all day with Lycra hugging his ass mountains and groinally manhooding him the way that a jilted dude would inconsolably despa-clench a departing muscle-monster husband the entire last minutes and hours before losing him.

As he roamed the sand it was a constant approach of inferiorly muscled sexual friends descending upon him clambering upon him as they attempted to devour his mouth as they let their rock hard rippling bodies trap his perfect two foot log-huge man beam between them.  

 

Dba’de and Ejaaz entered each other’s orbit time and again. Their vast magnifences unparalleled in any past Quary-raving.

 

At last the sun neared it’s setting and the fornication commenced.

 

Ejaaz and Dba’de found each other groin deep in the water, each drawn to nearly 100 inches of heaping beef earth-strata’d layer upon layer on the seven foot-ish other. They leaned their delicious two-basketball-deep huge pectorals into one another, making each more aware of their Jupiterian sizes. Nerve endings equal to the collective headcount occupying the total of all European and the Middle Eastern public football stadiums populated the dense masses of their chests and tingled with arousement and stimulation from the flesh-pressing contact.

“Come let me show you what a sexual muscle slut I am,” teased Dba’de even as Ejaaz’s arms circled Dba’de, even as Ejaaz’s hands fingered Dba’de’s buttocked ass. Their mutual flexing girths and feet of muscle cushion, put Dba’de’s shithole far out of Ejaaz’s reach — Ejaaz’s digital attention was lost somewhere just barely onto the caverned side striations of the Dba’dean glutei.

In the water as they mashed, their Lycra’d baskets stallion-crunched into each other so manfully as to uncontrollably excite both muscle rookies. Fuck, they both knew how incomprehensible and unequaled they were feeling and must be considered by all.  

They waded from the water — Krakens. Upon land they mythicized towering, sky-reaching Stentorians come to possess all firm earth beneath heaven.

Dba’de, remarkable for the impossible fortress of muscle that he had become, took position exhibitionistically behind Ejaaz. Dba’de’s 33 inch-biceped arms slid under Ejaaz’s pits coaxingly. There was fur in Ejaaz’s pits and two hundred pounds of baby back ribs buffering each of Ejaaz’s lats and a wall of Ejaaz’s arms folded up behind his head. Delts,tris, and bis flexed to create a single fortressed muscle assemblage that Dba’de wound his hold through. Dba’de’s hands wrapped back behind Ejaaz’s neck lasciviously. Dba’de eased Ejaaz into a head-locked hold, and sonared into Ejaaz’s ear, “I covet permission to enter that bull meat sphinc of yours?”    

Ejaaz assented and Dba’de, freeing a hand, rent the mortally-strained pink bikini from Ejaaz’s waist band down the center of Ejaaz’s ass. Ejaaz felt his muscular gluted mountains blow into liberation. The pure enormity of their size and degree of their power ungaraged at last. It dizzied him. 

He was sure he could squat something like the Kaaba upon his back to the adulation of the masses with the overwhelming sense of pulsing strength that each beautiful glute surged into his hips and throughout his entire body. 

His freed might-globes sensed first the pressure of a cedar tree log passing their volume into the valley they framed until the log’s end was poised at his anus. He then felt a continental stretching and filling as anal-copulation and then mindful hungry fudgefucking commenced. Throughout, his ass remained a granite expanse of Bruno-Moraes-being, alive with its superhumanity only allowing asshole entry because of the length of Dba’de’s beam that could traverse more than eighteen inches of gluteal chasm depth and still have endowment to fill Ejaaz whole. Ejaaz flared the hundreds of pounds of pterodactyl back mass he had been given, beyond proud at the spectacle of masculine mythicality he raged. The oil-rigger’s derrick of an endowment that serviced Ejaaz’s extreme muscular anus left Ejaaz feeling more sexually encumbered and prostrate-feted then he had thought a man could be. 

The joint action of the two of them could have been the preen-bellying of hypersexualized mass monster CGI superheroes if callously calculating studio heads had lit up the big screen with such images to fetishize the minds of a vast and malleable young dick-carrying public. If Ejaaz and Dbadje were right now those movie producers’ Kronos and Titan they would be incarnating an epic where the cynical denial of lubricious homoeroticism was tossed aside at last to deliver sweet, slow, fully pornographical tool-to-asshole stroking. It would be occupation made explicit for the satisfaction of every gay fan bro who’d boned for decades yearning to see long spells of superhero gay buttfuck sex finally admitted. And, unexpectedly, the portrayal would trigger every straight dude as well, tindering unspeakable latent desire. They would frack to little driller stiffness in their groins like they never had before.

 

The two gods coitused languorously about the beach — physique and gorgeous slow magnificent power. They chose to create swaths of destruction because of their heightened abilities to affect the physical world — they cracked concrete benches as they just fucked through them, rubbled sidewalk edges with their weight, and jarred concrete lampposts from footings as part of their mid-fuck activity when they inadvisedly thrust backs and asses upon them and fornicated. 

Throughout, Dba’de’s rooting dick snuggle-attended Ejaaz’s hole until finally orgasma bubbled forth wetting Ejaaz’s contracting anus before pouring down into a river upon the sand.  

 

Ejaaz had never felt so good — so vast, so conscious of flesh. The joining of beyond-the-bounds enormities — his and Dba’de’s — awakened him and elated him. Their sweet jumboed conjugation washed mental and corporeal perceptions of himself. Skin fifty plus inches circumferencing his legs brushed Dba’de’s rising muscle bellies with heightened pulsing uber-conscious sensation. Patches of downy fuzz upon the lowest portion of Ejaaz’s spine, just above his buttocked mountains, were brushed by Dba’de’s manly massive hands and spoke to the sweet beauty of detail in such astronomical magnificence. The epidermises atop the square-inched peak of Ejaaz’s biceps, in countless embraces of Dba’de, drank in the sensation of Dba’de’s scrumptious Oman mountain peaks. The electricity of the sensation of these segments of skin enlivened connection to himself and to this Cyclopsian Uberman as passionately and meaningfully as the roll that filled him with dark semite big cock. The creases of his Adonis belt caverned the connection to his monstrous legs and fluttered with the tiptoeing touch of Dba’de’s thoughtful muscleman fingertips. Ejaaz’s balls oil-tanked full. The lightest glancing of Ejaaz’s and Dba’de’s lush lips together had recorded eternity in Ejaaz’s atoms. The triggers up his hips and into his ass and the whole experience had edged him bigger in body, spirit, and mind. It was as though his consciousness transformed into his own body‘s beef. The perfected heaving contact of his and Dba’de’s bodily Mr Universality gave him the ultimate easy boner of space-destined alloy, while he comprehended that at his own disposal were kilotons of pounds of masstrophity — his to experience any gorilla yen — his to megalomaniacally experience in a savored interstice of space and time — his to comprehend the concept of all the things he could forever indulgently lord if this were him unending.

He felt consumed, felt this enormous mass imprisoning him with its white star giantness. The swoop above his scrumptious middle eastern butt globes held all the knowledge of the ages. The bulging brawn that billboarded out and high across his chest — also muscled him everywhere, muscled even the backs of his fingers and his hands — spoke with the authority of all millennia of prophets. The Jupiterian coat of muscle that smothered his ribs, heart, and groin coded the seven hundred most fundamental laws of physics. The Great Pyramid of Giza traps that fortressed his neck suspended his endless torso with the philosophy of all humankind in their sinews 

Unioning, in this incarnation, with this awesome and utterly perfect Arab god-man body — unioning his own body with the deity of Dba’de’s attentive sensualized brown mutant-roidish perfection, had made Ejaaz feel meatier, in fact like meat, pure meat. Could he be any different than prime extending thousands of feet upon an open wharf roaring and flexing to the sky while holding the capacity for infinite destruction in his embrace. He bellowed and all that he was gave off radiating waves of energy.

Bodybuilding would endow this, Ejaaz pulsed, would artificially push a guy to some version of this even such that a guy might become an insanely massed Morgan Aste, Florian Poirson, Ronnie Coleman, or Josh Maley. Anabolics could make him unnatural in girth and shit-high in strength, could make him emulate this — strong as all fuck all of all fucks. 

He comprehended how awesome his steroidal, hormonal plans were — drugs an elixir, an elixir to bring about the enlargening of his muscles until they swole upon him — screw any physical threat —  let them let him approach a pulsing thrumming, thundering god — his liver would prove different than other men, full speed ahead. 

I shall simply use steroids everyday, and take Quarium on top just for fun, he delirioused to himself swept up with the probability of what only a fraction of fags actually risk making happen.

 

Dba’de withdrew and Ejaaz turned supremely naked save for the stray swimsuit hems around his thighs. His chest dirigibled its 90-inch drive-in breadth and height. His arms swung 40-inch beefsides hung in some defiled meathouse. His cock and balls swung. His pelvis pivoted down and his Adonis creases folded muscle that etched a story of all anthropogical history. His ass meated globally and ached in a way that made him want to launch into the sky torpedoing about and about into the clouds, plunging invulnerable into the sun. He was beyond indescribable in his size.

“Enjoy the afterglow, sweet son of man Dba’de,” he said kissing Dba’de’s serious and sensuous mouth, “while I continue to be a god.”  

[Ro20316]

FUCK! this last few cha`ters had been amazing! Ejaz found a partner that wants to grow just as him

[QuoteTheRaven]

Chapter 12. Fucked

Ejaaz turned away and rolled his shoulders and hefted butcher cuts unlimited on his humongous shoulders and back. His raised hands crossed over to fondle each of his king-pillowed pecs and finger his own perfect little pet nipples. 

“Oohhoh,” he moaned. 

His hulking lush buttocks heaped around the dirty channel that had commercially sucked Dbadje of ejaculate and Quarium. Ejaaz’s Samsonesque thighs militarily tanked him across the sand.

 

More than one of his friends came up to him then, stretching up to nipple-maul and marvel at how simply big and jacked beyond god he was, how he had muscles that were bigger and huger, more than double any of theirs. How ripped he was. How he was meat upon beef upon beef upon beef upon beef upon meat upon beef. He was impervious to all, pushing their two hundred seventy five and three hundred fifty pound bodies to the side with his gargantuan-bellied limbs with the most negligible effort. He was magnificated by Quarium and ecstacized by the manhoodiority of his strength and all of what it was to be what he was at that moment.

 

At last Witha approached. He was unequaledly Witha. Somehow a greyhound and a super heavyweight simultaneously. The queer poser painted a thermaseal vacuum pack on Witha’s Greco-Roman slim hips and atop Witha’s endowed Arab cock. The muscle pornography couldn’t be more clear. Witha planted one toe by the other foot and lifted the first heel. He flexed the Burj al Arabs of his thighs, arched his buttocks and couldn’t keep from protruding the exhibition of his dogdick. He bulged big 22.5” arms on his 6’2” height. His obliques hammered imaginary laces on his fat-wasted girdle wrenching it to snaky 27.5” narrowness at his waist — perfect for photographic extremism, his bulge even more exaggerated and sculptural in contrast to those crazy sexy hips. His core abdominals tight-wrenched a stretch of sandbar ripples. In the air along his head, his biceps rolled boules balls. His lats flowed ogees decorating wolf-furred pits, wide as a barn at his shoulders, descending to needle-of-heaven hips. 

Witha released the posture and let his torso hulk above an android tinkered core and whale-head organ.

“Are you ready for your fucking, pig boy?” Witha prostituted.

“Fuck you,” horned Ejaaz, “Do you see what a Mammoth Goliath I am. I’m going to rape you hard, cunt. Look at my seven feet, my six hundred pounds, my 30” arms, my 90” chest.” He monstered in hulking snorting.

Witha parried Ejaaz, “Oh, ‘Jaaz....You are such a sweet and funny Fatty fuckhole....but, no it’s not going to go that way. Don’t you know you’ll always be a little bitty sub bitch fuck boy, ‘Jaazy fuck.”

Fucking condescension spilled from Witha, face and body. 

Ejaaz approached Witha’s lesser humongity with monolithic massivity and grabbed the 325lber like he was a 120lb twink.

“Oh, Allah, this is going to feel mind-bendingly rapturous, you big favor prick, Wit,” Ejaaz said.

But, Witha cocked his arm back and drove his fist toward Ejaaz’s sternum with the flashing speed of a fortress crumpling trebuchet. 

The blow connected. Unbelievably the mountain that was Ejaaz went down, all heaping,bulging six or seven hundred pounds of him. And then Witha was on him, fucking Ejaaz’s ass, fucking his face. Cumming grotesquely in all the orifices he chose to nozzle into while simultaneously stroking Ejaaz to passive excruciating orgasm.

 

Ejaaz expired in the fullest post-coital stupor he’d ever experienced. He unfolded on the sand and smiled up at Witha, “Superior job, ravishing Wit. Somehow you over-dominated me. You are an indescribable fuck. Enshallah, thank you.” With the massivity of Thanos he drifted off to sleep.

*******

Witha knelt beside the monolithic Ejaaz.

Spunk dangled and smothered everywhere on Ejaaz, and it dripped, oozed, and spattered from Witha’s muscles onto Ejaaz’s nose and eye lashes and hair. Drips came dangling off left and right drizzling Ejaaz’s prostate bulk. 

“Don’t you know the price you are going to pay for double dosing, fucky fatboy Ejaaz?” he murmured to unconsciousness, “You are going to be crucifyingly hung over. You’ll be annihilated for a week.” Witha dipped his fingers into various pools of manjack and carried repeated portions to his mouth to consume.  

Finally he slurped up the man seed from the muscled topography of the giant Ejaaz with his tongue. Witha sighed. He said to the sleeping hulk, “You may never feel as good again as you felt right then. I see how much you want this. It is hot as hell.”

[QuoteTheRaven]

Chapter 13.  Afterfuck

 

Witha wanted to lay down then and across Ejaaz, to feel him, to mate lips to try and sense what was driving this pathetic fuck, to try to sense him in embrace, but Witha still had a sense of true conscientiousness beneath his masculine dominance. It drove him to stand and his abilities allowed him to do so. 

He looked around for guys who could aid him and saw the veed torso that must belong to Quddus. Deliciously lithe movements were arching and driving the beachball buttocks of Quddus’s bodybuilderly ass. Witha saw that Quddus was with Yusuf, pumpfucking hulky-bulky Yusuf grubbily in the rear.

 

Quddus and Yusuf shuddered with gay male orgasms and then separated. 

Witha watched Quddus slide his dripping dong behind the orange-and-red lightning bolt that graphic’ed across the crotch of his pure black gaykini, protruding it in that only-possible-by-an-expanded-Quary-queen way. The visual presentation differed unendingly from the appealing geek-nerd that Quddus would soon revert to. 

The other guy, Yusuf, also recovered himself. He pulled back up a fagcut knit designer garment textured with vertical stripes of beige, olive, and cream, and periodic threads of black. His hypertrophied panting mass looked nothing like the skinny, bony-limbed nice guy with an oval-shaped birthmark on his left flank that he was when he was sober. His overmanly pouch, devourably hard-risen buttocks, and too big and too hypertrophied treniffiric body hyper-manned-up the look of the swimsuit that the fashionista who’d created it might have thought of for a boyish twink when patterning it while half stoned.

 

Witha re-sheathed his finally softened member and called “Quddus! Yusuf!” to the powerful, desirable, muscular Arab gay dudes they still were, “Come help me with Ejaaz and Dba’de. I don’t want them to stay here and suffer as they sleep this off.”

They strutted over, their feet tracing arcs to accomodate their crush-capable thighs and dumping groins. Witha guided them to where they could lift Dba’de.

“Get him to the jeep.”

Yusuf positioned between Dba’de’s mammoth’s legs, Quddus stood behind Dba’de’s shoulders. With straining effort, they craned the Stonehenge-y slab of Dba’de into the air and levered his crushing weight onto their gorgeous broad bodybuilder shoulders.

“This big boy is fuck heavy,” Quddus said. Quddus threw a single arm flex of his softballed bicep peak showing how bulging it was, and said, “It takes this kind of man-brawn just to lift him.”

“You heard these two double dosed, didn’t you?” Witha responded.

“I heard, of course,” said Quddus, “I was right there. How bad do you think it’s going to be?”

“I think I might be the only one who ever tried it before. On my own. It was really bad....” responded Witha. “I should have gone to the ER it was that dire. But I refused to go. Instead, I had a drughead friend set me up on an IV.  In the end though it helped me learn I have an astronomical threshold for pain. And a demoniacal taste for power.”

“Shit, Witha,” said Quddus.

Yusuf interrupted grunting, “I’m being crushed here. Stop the gab.”

Quddus and Yusuf took several staggering steps. “Witha, you’re going to need help with Ejaaz,” said Quddus who was slightly less overloaded.

“Nah, I can do it,” Witha replied.

Witha bent double over Ejaaz, and stroked Ejaaz’s obliqued flank. Then he reached beneath Ejaaz’s left shoulder and through Ejaaz’s monstrous legs taking a hold beneath Ejaaz’s left buttock. With a single motion every great muscle on the expanse of Witha’s q-steroided antelope back ripped and contracted. The cantilever yoke of his shoulders condensed a steel beam of support. And then Ejaaz was up in the air, over Witha’s two shoulders, as Witha straightened up to full height. Ejaaz was pure monolithic muscled nakedness and his gargantuan Tarzan-exploded body sank onto Witha’s round, far-spanning deltoids like a head of cattle lifted impossibly by a jocked-up rancher. Ejaaz’s feet of penis flapped on the back of Witha’s lat.

Witha planted his feet wide and raised his chest high as though a cape ought to be blowing behind his superhero body, naked but for that black latex posing suit. 

“Shit, Wit,” Yusuf grunted, laboredly working with Quddus to shuffle their load to the car, “How the fuck are you doing that? That lift is stronger than any Quary dose, never mind that you should be starting to lose your strength.”

Witha walked easily toward the Jeep and tossed his sculpted jaw, “Its all what you’re willing to endure, Yus,” he answered. 

“If. you. say. so,” huffed Quddus thinking Witha referred to some ability to mask the burden that Witha must be equally feeling — but Witha wasn’t feeling the burden equally, something he’d started doing a few months before was leaving him with glorious power. Power that felt like nothing he’d ever felt the barest hair of before. That none of the rest would have any idea of. He was risking everything in his very being to gain it.

[Ro20316]

6 hours ago, QuoteTheRaven said:

Power that felt like nothing he’d ever felt the barest hair of before. That none of the rest would have any idea of. He was risking everything in his very being to gain it.

The plot tickens. Maybe thats why it was so easy for him to overpower Ejazz.

He is doing something and gaining strenght from it

[rmorris]

This story is like reading a dream. I can't get over how good it is. And so good to see another author who does Arabian-based stories!

I can't explain it though, I've just spent like an hour or more reading all of this and it's totally intoxicated my mind at this point. Need a walk to go and flush it out my brain haha.

This is amazing, thank you.

[QuoteTheRaven]

On 7/14/2021 at 12:49 PM, rmorris said:

This story is like reading a dream. I can't get over how good it is. And so good to see another author who does Arabian-based stories!

I can't explain it though, I've just spent like an hour or more reading all of this and it's totally intoxicated my mind at this point. Need a walk to go and flush it out my brain haha.

This is amazing, thank you.

Hey rmorris Thanks for taking the time to read the story and share your comments.  And, with sharing your comment, thanks for introducing me to The Arab Prince (https://musclegrowth.net/topic/16118-the-arab-prince/)which having just read is incredibly deeply hot and beautiful. It says something that feels solid and so imaginable