muscle growth Lucky Me

[TQuintA]

Author's note:  Those familiar with my stories on this site know that I am prone to very long stories, dripping with dialogue, posted over the course of months.  So, I gave myself a challenge: 5,000 words max, no direct dialogue, 24 hours to write the whole thing.  It was a fun experiment.  Let me know how you like the results.
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            I only bought one fucking ticket.  And I only did that because my boss was watching.

            The chances of me winning were astronomically small—no one ever won the big prizes.  Ever.  The ATL (Annual Transglobal Lottery) was supposed to be this big deal, a chance to win large sums of money, luxury items, designer vacations.  You know, big lies to keep the humdrum workers humming with the thought that they might have a taste of the fabulous life.

            But in reality, in my 37 years of life, I’d never seen anyone win anything fancier than a bicycle.  Sure, people always won the small prizes on the low tier—the gift cards, the restaurant vouchers.  And who doesn’t have an ATL pencil in their desk?  The middle tier prizes—the weekend getaways, $5,000 cash—you occasionally heard of people winning those on the news, but I’d never met them personally.  The top tier prizes—a two-story dream home, a sports car, cancellation of all debt—those prizes always went unclaimed.  With over 10 billion adults playing the fucking game, you’d think someone would occasionally luck out.

            A number of cynics like me were convinced the top tier prizes were fundamentally unwinnable.  Which is why I stopped buying the fucking tickets.  But my boss doesn’t like that.  He sees people who aren’t playing the ATL as people who’ve lost faith in the system.  And people who’ve lost faith in the system were always the first fired.

            So, when the ATL salesgirl came around, I was about to fob her off, but my boss was right there watching.  So, I bought a ticket.  I then told her that I’d bought two dozen the day before and I couldn’t afford more until my paycheck deposited. 

            That was a lie she and my boss would believe.  The tickets weren’t cheap, and they were only available for the seven days leading up to the drawings.  And yet, people still drove themselves into deep debt buying hundreds of tickets.  In fact, of the people who still played the ATL, the average number of tickets purchased was 50.  Fucking 50!  Most people could pay a month’s rent for that chunk of change.

            So, despite thinking the whole fucking thing was rigged—a fucking fairy tale to keep workers complacent—I fucking bought a fucking ticket.

            Then the fucking thing won.

            From the top fucking tier.

            Any other prize from the top tier would have changed my life in amazing ways.  But with my luck, I won the one prize I couldn’t have hated more.

            I won the fantasy body makeover.

            As far as I was concerned, I already had the fantasy body—I was a cute little 100-pound, 5’4” hairless cherub of a man.  I wasn’t even insecure about my 4-inch dick because how small I was really got my husband’s engine revving.  Albert, my husband, was a brute of a man—6’5” with 220 pounds of dense, hairy muscle with a 10-inch cock.  And that’s the way we liked it.  He loved saying he was more than a foot taller than me, more than twice my weight, more than twice as hung.  He worked hard to keep up his macho physique—his six pack was proof that the 220 pounds was all muscle.  He went to the gym every fucking day.  I also worked hard to maintain my petite measurements.  Us short folk face the middle age spread too.

            When I won the makeover, I thought I could specify that I wanted to make myself even more diminutive for my man, but the makeover I won was preselected.  It depended on the gender on my driver’s license.  Women who won this prize in the drawing won the deluxe women’s makeover; men who won this prize the drawing won the deluxe men’s makeover.  Interestingly, if I’d had my gender as any of the other approved genders, I would’ve just won the cash equivalent.  Why couldn’t I have had one of those on my fucking ID?  Albert and I could really have used the money.

            After an hour on the phone with the ATL reward people, I learned that the body mod industry had very specific ideas of what deluxe men wanted.  At the end of the process, I would end up bigger than my husband—taller, more muscular, more hung.  Likely, I’d also end up hairier and more ruggedly handsome.

            I wouldn’t accept that lying down.  I had too many anger issues to do that.  So, I fucking fought back. 

            But everything I tried just fell through.  There’s some fine print on these tickets that I never read. 

            Some fun facts that I learned:

1.     Once the drawing has begun, tickets are non-transferable.  If you want to transfer your ticket before the drawing, you have to register the transfer with the ATL.  This way, they said, no one could steal a winning ticket and declare it for themselves.  With most of the prizes, you could just give it to someone after you won it, but there was no way of just giving Albert my growth.  Upshot of this, I couldn’t just give the prize to my husband even though we both would have fucking loved that.

2.     Prizes cannot be refused unless you can declare a bona fide exemption (such as a devout Hindu winning a voucher to a steakhouse).  If I wanted to declare that my religion disallows body modification, I had to have a religious affiliation declared on my file (I have none), and then report that to the ATL prior to the drawings.  Upshot of this, I have to take the prize, whether the fuck I want it or not.

3.     If you try to pretend that you didn’t know your ticket won, you will be tracked down by the ATL so that they can inform you of your good luck.  If you try to pretend that you threw away your ticket so you can’t claim your prize, they show you your receipt of purchase, quite loudly, and in quite a celebratory way.  This way, people who missed the drawings will still get their prizes.  That was a fucking uncomfortable lunch break—ATL people everywhere, some with tambourines.  Upshot of this, I can’t just fucking ignore them.

            I tried to fight it further, but it just made things worse.  I actually managed to get a decision-maker on the phone—a human decision-maker—and I insisted it should be my right as a winner to transfer my winnings or to refuse them outright.  I even refrained from fucking swearing the whole call.  He never considered someone actually refusing a top tier prize, and he was so upset that I was unhappy with my winnings that he decided to look into ways to compensate me appropriately.  Two days later, an ATL computer called back.  It apologized that I was unsatisfied with the rules of the ATL, so in their infinite generosity, they had reached a consensus that they would increase my winnings—also non-transferable, also irrefusable.  Fighting it had actually gotten me upgraded to the ultra-deluxe men’s makeover.

            This is how I found myself at the body modification center, rolling up my sleeve so they could inject me with the nanites that would, over the course of six months, reprogram my body to grow into the masculine ideal that global corporate interests had decided for me.

            And I just had to fucking take it.

            At first, my growing muscles and stature motivated Albert to push himself even harder at the gym.  In that first month, as I grew three inches in height, added 1.5 inches to my dick, and put on 35 pounds (almost entirely muscle), Albert, with chemical assistance, managed to pack on another 10 pounds of muscle.  He started wearing lifts in his shoes to keep us a foot apart, and he was still practically twice my size in dick.  My increased boost in testosterone came with an increased sex drive, which was fun for us.  That first month, things felt manageable when I was home.

            Work was another story.  Most of the people on my floor were there for the day of a thousand tambourines.  But even if they weren’t, my win had made the global news.  And even if they still somehow hadn’t gotten the memo, my clothes gave me away.  Nothing fit me anymore.  All of my work clothes were fucking tight, and my shins showed off in all my pants.  The world looked different at 5’7”.  I actually met some people’s eyes and was taller than some of the employees.  All the guys on my floor were jealous, the boss included, but I felt like a badly dressed clown.  As part of the makeover, I’d get free hairstyling for a year and a new wardrobe once I reached my full size, but as I was going through my second puberty, I was left to my own devices. I guess the people who can actually afford the ultra-deluxe package can afford a new fucking wardrobe every month.

            The first month groaned into the second.  By the end of the second month, I was now 5’10”—just on the taller side of average.  And at 7 inches, my cock was just on the larger side of average.  And at 170 muscular pounds, my weight in pounds was squarely average, but I was ripped.  I had never been a big fellow, and it seemed that with the weight I was adding, most of the weight was going into my muscles.  I suppose some of it had to be going into bone mass and healthily functioning organs, but I was getting stacked.  I was still eating like I was 60 pounds ago—the nanites apparently pulled in the necessary building blocks from the air and sunshine—so my overall body fat was the same it had been, but it looked very different with all this muscle there.  I was now an above-average male.

            Albert had put up a good fight, but even with chemical assistance, he was only able to put on 5 pounds that second month.  He was still 65 pounds more than me, but the gap was closing every day.  And with the increase in my height and cock, he was less and less turned on every day.  It was only then that I realized he was never turned on by my body—not really.  He was turned on by his body, and my body's smallness made him feel even more superior.  So, as my sex drive was becoming sex overdrive, Albert began spending more time impressing the twinks at the local bars with his chemically-pumped muscles and daddy dick, while I stayed home altering his old clothes into something vaguely resembling work clothes.  If we could afford a divorce, our marriage wouldn’t have survived the second month.

            To work off all the fucking sexual energy, I began masturbating while staring at my body.  My body was hot—I couldn’t deny that.  But I would stare at the mirror and cover my face with a sheet, pretending it was somebody else’s body.  I would watch his pecs hanging over his minuscule waist and taut six pack, the sweat glistening off the swollen mounds as his bicep flexed, his cock pistoned by his hand.  This guy's cock was thick like a cock should be.  And his muscles were made for fucking.  Then I would climax and feel disgusted with myself.  I didn’t want to look like this; I wanted to be fucked by someone who looked like this.

            By now, work was ridiculous.  My fucking boss, seething with envy, started treating me like shit.  When he wasn’t insulting me to my face, saying things like my brains had been sucked into my muscles, he was constantly writing me up for inappropriate work attire.  On top of that, I started getting thankless grunt work.  If he could’ve found a way to dock my pay, I’m sure he fucking would have.

            The third month brought more surprising changes.  I had grown another three inches, so I was now over 6 feet—officially tall.  If the world had looked different at 5’7”, it looked like a different planet at my new height.  Very few people were taller than me anymore, and they cleared a path for me when I moved through space.  At 205 pounds of cut muscle, I had finally steadily increased the amount of food I ate.  If I tried to eat the way I wanted to—the way I used to—I would get lightheaded and pass out.  It just takes more food to fuel this behemoth I was becoming.  While they built me even more massive, there was only so much the nanites could do without more food.  My cock was also officially huge at 8.5 inches.  It was getting harder to hide how fucking big it was getting at work, even though I was now wearing some clothes Albert no longer fit into.  Albert always wore his pants a bit too tight in the crotch, so they all had faded bits that showed his dick print.  And those dick prints just highlighted my growing bulge.

            By this point, Albert had essentially moved out of the house with a pretty young thing.  A small pretty young thing.  I won’t pretend it didn’t break my heart, because it did, but my hours were too full of monotony to really feel anything other than numb.  I spent so much more time just eating and altering clothes and masturbating.  Oh, was I masturbating.  Although, I couldn’t really call it that anymore.  I was jacking off.  The faceless stud in the mirror just swelled larger every day.  The cleft between his pert pecs grew deeper as they rounded out and covered over with a fine dusting of hair.  His arms looked flexed, even when they weren’t.  When they were at his sides, they sometimes even fought his chest for space.  His legs were also becoming an obsession of mine.  His thighs were thicker and thicker every day.  They were getting as thick as my waist had been only three months ago.  I would feel the striations as I would flex, and the stud in the mirror’s thighs would blow out into large relief.  I could also turn around and see the mirror-stud’s ass.  It was so round and thick.  As the third month ended, I realized why men like Albert like to fuck them.  Asses are just so fuckable.

            At the end of the fourth month, I was 6’4”—almost Albert’s height.  I had to shave every day—the hair came in fast and thick, hairier than Albert had ever dared dream.  His clothes should have fit just fine, but I was more muscular than Albert had been at his biggest.  His work clothes were painted onto me.  My chest was bigger than his had ever been, so the top two buttons were always threatening to pop off, showing a peek of chest hair if I took a deep breath, and the shirt was starting to threaten at the sleeves and the shoulders.  And my lats.  People told me I looked even broader from the back.  I had to take their word for it.  With my growing traps, it was getting harder and harder to turn to look at the reflection of my back half.  Even with all this new width, I had to tighten his belt one hole smaller.  I used to think Albert’s midsection looked powerful—my six pack looked angry.  When I flexed them, I looked like I could stop a bullet.  My stomach was always hard and ridged, even unflexed, and if I turned to the left or the right, all of my ridges were apparent through my shirt.  Albert's pants were also a paradox.  My legs and ass were thick enough to compensate for the missing mass in the middle, but the cock in my pants—the cock that should have been the same size as Albert’s, was bigger.  My soft cock was bigger than his soft cock.  I could easily tell because I overfilled his dick print.  I was thicker and longer flaccid.  And I was definitely thicker when erect.

            It was getting harder to pretend the stud in the mirror wasn’t me while jacking off.  I could feel the mass of my cock as I stroked it.  Everything about me felt heavy and took up space.  My arm constantly bounded off my pecs if I jacked off too furiously.  I had to hold my mighty quads further and further apart to give room to my swollen eggs.  One night, I decided to end the pretense and uncover my face in the mirror.  I’d seen my face every day over these last four months—especially with all the extra fucking shaving I was doing.  But it wasn’t until I looked at my face while jacking off that I realized how different I looked.  How masculine.  How severe.  My thick brow furrowed in concentration, my face drawn tight with cheekbones and a jaw that exuded the effects of testosterone.  The eyes were clearer and brighter, more alight with sexual fire.  That was a stud’s face staring back at me.  I came so hard when I realized I didn’t look like me anymore.  But as soon as the blood was flowing properly to my brain, I realized how fucked up that was.  I didn’t even fucking look like me anymore.

            By the end of month five, work was untenable.  My cubicle looked like it belonged to a child, and it was getting hard to type.  Not only were my mitts too massive for the tiny keyboard, but my biceps and pecs were in a constant war these days, which added to the difficulty of typing.  Even outside my cubicle, the office shrank around me.  At 6’7”, I was getting too huge for doorways.  On top of all that, I was squeezed into Albert’s old clothes—and they didn’t even come close to fitting me.  I was taller than him, so a row of my abs showed if I ever lifted my arms even slightly.  And, I was 275 pounds—40 pounds more than Albert ever weighed.  Even with my incredibly tight waist, the pants were getting too fucking tight around me.  One day I sneezed, and the shirt split right down the middle, spraying buttons everywhere, and showing off my ponderous, hairy pecs to the whole office.  The sight of those burgeoning glories started to stir my ever-present arousal.  My soft cock was pornographically obscene—if I stiffened into my full 11.5 inches, I could destroy my pants too.  My boss gave me vacation—well, unpaid leave—until I had reached a stable size.

            With all that time off, I just stared at every inch of my body naked in the mirror.  I don’t know who that man in the mirror was anymore, but he didn’t even jack off anymore.  He fucked his fist with his monster cock.  His balls were so swollen with cum and manly juices that it took six orgasms to abate him, and even then, only for a few hours.  I would gorge and fuck my fist and repeat the process.

            The sixth month was a haze of eating and fucking my fist.

            At the end of the sixth month, I was 6’10, 330 pounds of ripped furry muscle, and sported a 13-inch cock.  My muscles and cock had tripled in size, and I was 18 inches taller than I started.  My head was being swallowed by neck and trap muscles.  My shoulders jutted out widely into infinity.  I couldn’t look down past the shelf of my pecs, my biceps and lats forced my arms out into a widespread stance, my thighs were officially thicker than my waist—even my calves looked like flexed biceps in the mirror.  I was naked all the time now, but I was never cold thanks to the healthy carpet I’d sprouted.  I could see all six of my abs through the forest of hair, and my intense cum gutters.  I'd occasionally peel myself away from worshipping my body to stare at my face.  The beard I now sported in addition to the increased effects of testosterone on my face had me looking stunning.  I understood why Narcissus fell in love with himself.  The man in the mirror didn’t look like me, but he was a god.

            The sound of the front door closing took me out of my reverie.

            Albert will forever blame me for what happened, but it was his own fault for coming back to the house.  He nearly fucking pissed himself when he saw me.  He’d come back to officially move out.  We still couldn’t afford the divorce, but we could afford an amicable, no-fault separation, and he figured I’d be more agreeable now that I’d stopped growing.

            I thundered over to him, my footsteps shaking the floor as my thighs forced their way around each other.  I smiled, looking down on him.  I was five inches taller than him and 100 pounds more massive.  When I saw how much bigger than him I was, I finally understood his obsession with comparing himself to my once minuscule size, and my cock sprang to full attention, three inches longer than his could ever strive to be.  I agreed to the no-fault separation, if I got to fuck him first.

            He did not like that condition, but I came in his ass three times.  He felt so fucking tight and small.  This man who had dominated me with his size felt so small in my hands.

            Albert left, and I immediately felt a little disgusted with myself.  Inside, I was still me, but with all the hormones swimming through my amplified magnificence, I wasn’t sure who me was anymore.  This new me was starting to act exactly like Albert had.

            I stayed in that state of naked introspection for two days, only breaking my shame spiral to occasionally eat or fuck my fist—animalistic actions that intensified the spiral.  I also hated how much I liked this giant body I had.

            I wanted to return to my job, to some semblance of normalcy, but I couldn’t until the ATL board came to finish the makeover, so I was in a bind. 

            For two days, they didn’t come.  On day three, I called them.

            The six month timespan they’d quoted was only for the deluxe men’s makeover.  The ultra-deluxe took an additional three months. 

            When I asked what to expect, they were pleased to tell me that I could expect more. 

            More height, more muscle, denser muscle, increased masculinity, and an even bigger cock.

            I was just going to keep growing more hung, and more massive, and bigger for three more months.

            Lucky me.

[noname]

A very smart and well-written story. Congrats - and thanks for sharing!

[Lidort]

I hope his social and love life luck will improve!

[Rorange]

Amazing as always! But damn... wish we can know what happen in the additional three months lol

[dredlifter]

Great one-off!  

As a writer you and I are very similar in that we are not...concise.  Lol.  I too have tried to challenge myself to write a short story.  You succeeded.  That was a fun read.   

It was the perfect length (that's what he said)

[lsosuke]

*¬* Uffff i love it, I hope he has sex with a big man as him

[MadDog]

Always love seeing the guys in your stories experience the social changes that come with the changes to their bodies, so many stories just gloss over that. I loved it, as always!

[ToolShedCub]

Oh this needs to keep going.  WOOF!

[Bigger]

Omg YESSSS. 

[richard18]

i would love to be in his shoes, abeit without the hairiness