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growth My Best Friend's Muscles


Mikeytron

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Part Six

 

I could see the warehouse walls buckling outward from the pressure. I felt my heart racing even as my cock throbbed with an erection so intense it bordered on painful. We didn’t think this would happen yet, not for months, years even. Yet the bigger he got, the bigger he wanted to get. How was he even alive? How were his bones not crushed into powder, how was his skin not in tatters, how could his heart and lungs ever hope to oxygenate that much tissue? These concerns flew from my head as I saw his hairy tan skin bulge out of every window and opening, the masonry crumbling, the rebar bending. So huge it was impossible to discern body parts – he didn’t have those any more. He was just… muscle. All muscle. 

He was outgrowing the damn building and there was no way to stop him. I was torn between two impulses. To run for cover, and to run to him, to embrace his enormous deformed muscle blimp of a body, like an ant embracing an overripe watermelon. Bulging veins as thick as my goddamn torso. Feel him throb against me, getting incrementally bigger with every pulsation of his inhuman flesh. My cock felt like it would burst, it had never been so hard, as the largest land animal in earth’s history, my best friend, my boyfriend, grew and grew and grew before my disbelieving eyes. There was no stopping him now, not even if we wanted to. And we didn’t want to. We wanted more. More and more and more and more and more and more and more and

“Hey. Hey babe. Hey. Wake up.”

I was somewhere else. Somewhere dark. Warm. I was holding on to something. Something huge and hard and unyielding, yet smooth, warm, velvet. My skin felt so good against it. My mouth worked against the enormous round protrusion like an infant searching for a nipple, yet there was no give. I was suckling concrete. Warm concrete wrapped in silk. And my hips were thrusting, thrusting, thrusting, my cock dripping, aching.

“Fuck, you’re cute,” he rumbled, his voice so deep, so warm. His love for me so apparent, so beyond doubt. He flexed and I felt my whole body shift with his flexing.

My eyes and my mind focused as I slowly awoke. The warehouse bulging and blowing apart from the ever-swelling mass of muscle inside… it faded. That had been a dream. But this… this was no dream, now.

I was clutching onto Angelo’s heart-stopping quad, my arms struggling to encircle it, my head toward his shins. I was making out with the grotesquely overgrown teardrop like it was a human face, and it may as well have been. If anything it was bigger than a human head, having long buried his kneecap. Even lying flat, his legs were forced into a wide V shape just to accommodate the ungodly masses he had slabbed onto his femur. He shifted the other leg, and I witnessed an avalanche of meat as the muscle’s independent center of gravity shifted  and the gigantic quad-blob flopped into its new resting position.

We had measured his quads at a full 60” just last night. The visual memory surging, unbidden, into my mind’s eye. The tape, which only went to sixty, barely encircling his thigh. Me looking up at his face, barely visible over the protruding mass of his pecs. He was grinning, beaming, his tortured 6XL briefs tenting, a wet spot forming. He wanted more.

And now here we were, in the small dark hours of the morning. Me thrusting my hips over and over, jackhammering, as I awoke from the wildest erotic dream. I felt my cock bump against his, barely emerging from the deep cavern formed by his monster quads and his ridged boulder of a roid gut. He was hard too, slick. At his size, conventional sex was a bit tricky, but we found ways to enjoy ourselves.

I realized my ass was pointing at his face, and when he said “fuck, you’re cute,” that’s probably what he was talking about. My big bodybuilder glutes flexing, round when relaxed, like two giant kidney-beans when contracted, over and over. Maybe a glimpse of hole as I retracted from the previous thrust and prepared for the next one. Yes, he wasn’t the only one who had grown over the last several months, although he so far eclipsed me that any comparison was pointless, if not comical.

I had no memory of how I’d ended up upside-down in bed. We had gone to sleep in a normal orientation, him with his CPAP on, on his back, and me on my side hugging his 40” upper arm like it was an extra pillow. I guess I got energetic in the night. Can you blame me?

I decided to work with it, though. I stopped my rhythmic, automatic thrusting and leaned my ass way back, toward his face, letting my glutes pop and jiggle. I heard him groan, felt his cock pulsing under my torso as I edged myself backward closer to his head.

“You’re so huge,” he murmured, which was so funny I had to stifle a laugh. Yeah, I had grown. I had grown so much more than I ever thought possible. 250 lbs with abs, nothing to sneeze at. But he was so much bigger than me. So much bigger.

He kept monologuing as I inched my way closer and closer to his face. “Big bodybuilder...” he moaned. I could feel him struggle to get his hands onto the back of my torso, his biceps fighting against his pecs. He hadn’t been able to clap his hands for a while now, and with every passing week his ability to bring his hands together grew less and less. “Gonna step on stage soon,” he purred, pulling me closer. I could feel his big pecs against my hamstrings now, his hot breath against my ass. I heard him lick his lips. “Big super heavy, peeled and tanned, cocky in your little poser, flexing under the spotlight.” He was mumbling as he drew me closer and closer. I pressed the back of my thighs against his pecs, feeling how unyielding they were. My hands couldn’t stop moving over the vast landscape of his thighs and torso, the endless hard bulging sea of muscle. Finally they found his cock, and I began working it, his precum so copious that my grip moved slick and easy over the flaring head.  I felt his tongue pressing between my glutes, his lips still moving as if trying to continue narrating his fantasy of me. I felt him buck and shudder as I worked his cock mercilessly, but he never relented, feasting on me as if I was his only sustenance.

The fantasy of his would soon be a reality. Me, on stage, in posers, flexing for the crowd. It was impossible for him to do a show, now. He was simply too big, it wouldn’t be an option until there was some kind of accommodation for men like him. But me? I was now in that sweet spot. It was time for me to step on stage in these dying days of conventional bodybuilding, just as the revolution me and my collaborators had begun took hold.

*

Later that morning, he insisted on going to our favourite cafe. It was really difficult to get him out the door nowadays, but he clearly wanted to retain a semblance of normal life for as long as he could manage. There was no way of pulling his custom made jeans over his enormous legs and ass. The very way they were built demanded a different method. I snapped the waistband around his hips, his thick cable-like obliques gapping the fabric. Cum gutters, we crudely called them; but on Angelo they were built to withstand a Noachian deluge of sperm. Then I fastened a snap around each knee and ankle. This done, a robust zipper brought the fabric together over the unheard-of protuberances of his thighs and calves. The fabric contained a healthy percentage of spandex, and the unique garment was only a couple of weeks old, but already I could tell he’d need an even bigger one quite soon. Lucky for us, such a thing was already being made. Sometimes I wondered what the seamstresses must thing when we sent in the patterns and measurements...

The tent-like t-shirt went over his head like normal, although I had to pull it down for him. It was novelty sized, but it barely managed to cover his ridiculous mounded masses of muscle. And, of course, I had to put his shoes on and tie them up for him, like he was a ludicrously enormous toddler. “All done,” I announced as I finished, standing up. Not like he had any way to see for himself.

Watching him stand up was breathtaking. He had to shift his torso back and forth a little to work up momentum, his muscles flopping and flexing wildly as he did, his frame utterly overwhelmed. Like he was morbidly obese, which, I suppose, he was, in a sense. Then he used that momentum to stand, huffing from the exertion, arms elevated comically to his side, his feet so far apart he seemed much shorter than he otherwise would be. Walking was slow, laborious, but I indulged his desire to do it. It was only two blocks. It would take us ten minutes. I swatted his giant ass like two overgrown pumpkins barely contained inside a too-small denim sack. “Let’s go, big guy.”

People in the neighbourhood were somewhat used to him, but they still stared. Who could blame them? I ignored it. Well. That’s not true. I found it fucking hot, is the truth. Me walking my pet monster. Hey, he needs his cardio. Oh, he’s blocking the sidewalk? Sorry. Can’t do anything about that. 

There was only one spot in the cafe where we could sit, but thankfully it was free. He’d almost certainly flatten any usual chair he lowered his big butt onto, but there was an iron bench along the wall which took his weight. He sat there, looking awkward and uncomfortable in his hugeness, meat mounded up around his face, while I ordered for both of us. Iced latte for him, with an extra long straw I brought from home so he didn’t need me to hold it up to his face. Black coffee for me. I was on contest prep, after all. 

“Heard from the contractor. They say another three months before we’re ready for move in,” I said as I sat.

He grunted. “Way too far off. I’m outgrowing the house right now. In three months I’ll be breaking through the floorboards.” We had already moved once to accommodate him, into a house that had been designed for a wheelchair user, extra wide doors, ramps instead of stairs. It was doing nicely for us – for now.

I sighed, not wanting to state the obvious. “ Maybe we should… pause your cycle.”

He grunted. “Don’t wanna.” 

“34 years old? More like 4 years old,” I said, reaching over to ruffle his hair. He scrunched his face up adorably, pulling his head down into his traps and pecs like a turtle trying to retract into its shell. “I don’t like it either, big guy, but it’s like… we can put things on pause for a few months, right? It’s not the end of the world.”

A stranger approached our table then. I felt my spine stiffen; this happened pretty much every time we left the house, lately. “I’m so sorry to bother you,” he began. A well-dressed man in his fifties, if I had to guess. Nice polite home owner. White collar. Wife. Two adult children. Rides his bike to work. 

I resisted the urge to answer then why are you bothering us and instead waited for him to finish whatever it was he was going to say, even though the questions had very little variation from day to day.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but how much does your friend weigh?”

Ah yes, the ‘can it speak? Does it understand English?’ phenomenon. It boggled me, but more and more when we were in public people would address me, not Angelo, as if I was his interpreter. Like he was a Great Dane I had out for a walk.

“632 lbs,” Angelo said, as annoyed by this tendency as I was. His dark eyebrows knit together and his full lips compressed.

“So sorry to bother you! I was… I was just curious!” The man retreated. We watched him go. 

Angelo sighed. “I guess in another month, if I don’t give up the treatments, I won’t be able to go out in public anyway. At least I won’t have to answer questions like that every day.” He grew contemplative, his eyes glancing out the window. I gave him a moment to think whatever thoughts he was thinking.

Finally, he sighed, accepting that he was just growing too fast for even our hastiest plans to accommodate him. “Yeah. It makes sense. Let’s pause. Just until the new house is ready. Then...” He smirked. “Boom.”  
 

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Part Seven

 

FOUR MONTHS LATER

Show day. It still didn’t seem real when I looked in the mirror. It was like some kind of magical spell had been cast. Fairy Godmother waved her wand over me, but instead of a gown for the ball, it was a full-body shave, a mahogany tan, and a tiny pair of emerald posers. My skeletal prep-face, sunken eyes, ridiculous grin, stained skin, all of it was proudly unnatural – but it was still identifiably me, from the neck up. 

It was what was under my neck that blew my mind over and over again, kept making me do double-takes. This is my body? For real? In short: I actually looked like a goddamn bodybuilder. I registered yesterday as a super heavyweight. 258 lbs of raw lean beef on a 5’10” frame for my first-ever bodybuilding show. Me, the guy who, for fifteen years, couldn’t break 200 lbs no matter how hard I tried. Who had sat in the audience of so many shows cheering on my best friend, never daring to think it might be me up there, some day. And now...

“You wish he was here, don’t you?” Mateo’s voice broke through my reverie.

We were backstage, in the waiting area. They would be calling for us to line up at any moment. Mateo was my helper yesterday and today. He’d shaved me down, he’d come with me to tanning and registration, he was carrying all my stuff.

“Well, yeah, obviously,” I said. “But that’s not possible, so… I’m glad you’re here.”

Mateo grinned, flashing his white teeth, his adorable features scrunching up. “That’s what friends are for. Plus,” he said, snapping a picture with his phone with zero warning, “I’ve got to keep the Mutant Juice instagram and twitter up to date.” When we formalized the company, Mateo ended up as head of PR. It was a smart move. Our brand has more than a million followers on every major platform. Sure, it helped that we were selling a revolutionary product that turned ordinary men into super heavyweight bodybuilders, and super heavyweight bodybuilders into unheard of freaks, but still. Mateo did excellent work.

He was still holding his phone up, taking a video I realized. “I’m not just the CEO,” I quipped, raising my arms into a double bicep. “I’m also a client.” Twenty-two goddamn inches. It still blew my mind.

“SUPERHEAVIES!” a volunteer bellowed from the door.

“That’s my cue,” I said, turning to lumber my way to the wings, ready to step on stage for the first time in my life.

“Rob.”

“Huh?” I said, pausing, turning back to Mateo. He looked serious, his usual joking demeanor gone.

“I know he’s proud of you,” he said, quiet, intense. Then, the warm sunny Mateo was back, like the mask had never slipped. “Now go get ‘em, tiger.”

*

“You looked great up there!” Mateo said as he rejoined me backstage. 

“It felt good.”

“They put you near the middle and more or less kept you there, I think you’re in the running for top spot.”

I was panting. Comparisons were hard work, I had learned. They asked for pose after pose, and kept us holding them for ages. I just wanted a big drink of water, but I couldn’t, not yet. Finals were still coming up. “Yeah, definitely top three, but I kind of don’t care. I just want to look like I belong up there. I think I achieved that.”

Mateo slapped the back of my head. “Of course you did, dingus. But think about how good it’ll be for our brand if you win.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. because we’re having so much trouble making sales as it is.”

“Just what kind of CEO are you, Robert? Take one for the team and win this thing, OK?” Mateo’s grin showed me he was mostly joking. Mostly. I knew he wanted me to win, and I knew I had a good shot at it. But truly, the field was tight. Almost everyone competing was on Mutant Juice, now. Whatever edge I might have had by starting on it before it hit the market had faded away by now.

It was like he could sense my creeping doubt, my brain in the process of moving its goalposts. “Win it for him,” he said, serious again. “Bring your man a trophy.”

I gulped. Nodded. My heart fluttering.

They had to go through the Men’s Physique categories and all the female categories, then a lunch break, before I had to be back on stage for finals. So we had a couple hours to kill. The show was just a regional amateur, but it was one of the larger and more prominent ones, so there was an expo. And since the Mutant Juice CEO was competing, of course we sprang for a booth for the company.

In my oversized baggy sweats, all stained with fake tan, I waddled out after Mateo as we went to check on the others.

Hakan was minding the booth, taking orders and making sure things went smoothly. Our four Spokesmutants were there too, by now so intertwined with our branding that most bodybuilding fans couldn’t think of any of them without also thinking of our product. Iain, Regan, Antoine, and Joe. Four behemoths. Each of them in a tight custom-made Mutant Juice tanktop and little black bootyshorts (hey, we’re still a company founded and owned by gay men). They had each added more than 100 lbs of muscle from their pre-Mutant Juice days. Living photoshop morphs. Their gains had slowed dramatically by this point – but they hadn’t quite stopped. It was still unclear just how big a normal responder might get with years of use. My personal guess was, at an average height, lean, maybe the low 400s. Antoine was already 430 lbs, although he was a little on the chunky side. All four of them lumbered awkwardly around the expo booth in our company’s livery, like parade balloons that had broken their tethers.

We were selling Mutant Juice subscriptions: monthly deliveries of your doses. For an extra fee, one of the Spokesmutants would take you behind the curtain and administer your first dose personally. The line was long but no one standing in it seemed to mind. 

The curtain twitched aside and handsome Joe waddled out, swinging each massive 40” thigh wide around the other, 32” arms elevated permanently by his lats, his twin medicine balls of an ass flexing and bulging in those black short shorts with each step. A flustered man in his mid twenties followed him out, grinning, red-faced, one hand rubbing his left glute, perhaps unconsciously. He looked like an average gymrat, some muscle on him but nothing special in the crowd at a bodybuilding expo. I wondered how he’d look in six months. Would he be an average responder? Another 60 or 70 lbs of muscle on him? Or would he be something more, an outlandish freak barely able to totter around without help, something both more and less than human at the same time?

He and Joe posed together; Hakan took a photo on the kid’s phone. Even as this happened, I saw Regan take the next person in line behind the curtain, a little vial of Mutant Juice in his big muscular paw of a hand, a grin on his face. They all loved this, our Spokesmutants. They loved making more monsters, seeing the awe and excitement on the little guys’ faces, unable to be contained.

Our crew spotted us approaching, waved and called out to us. “I gave the boys a break to duck in and watch you on stage,” Hakan said as we got closer. 

“Solid presentation, man,” Iain said, nodding.

“You’re right there in the mix,” Joe added in agreement.

“Thanks, guys. I just wanted to look like I belonged up there, so I guess mission accomplished.”

“Fuck that man, you’re there to win it!” Antoine interjected in his Quebecois accent.

“That’s what I keep telling him,” Mateo said, grinning.

I felt my phone buzz in the baggy pocket of my oversized sweats. I fished it out. It was an email from the NPC. Keeping me in the loop. This was a new and unexpected development over the last few months, as our product quickly became essential to competitive bodybuilders who wanted to keep up with the quantum leap in muscular size that we’d instantiated. 

I skimmed the email quickly. “Good news, guys,” I said. “They’re going to do what we’ve been asking for. Keep this under your hat. But next week they’re going to announce a new weight class for men’s open: megaweight. Looks like that’ll be over 290 lbs? Or possibly 300. It says they’re still ironing out the details.”

“Fucking awesome.” “About time.” Our four freaks had all been vocal on social media in favour of this proposed change.

Then Hakan spoke up. “What about the new division? Leviathan.”

I scanned the email. “Nothing in there.”

Hakan made a frustrated noise. “They can’t pretend it doesn’t exist forever.”

Leviathan. That’s what people were already calling it. A hypothetical division for the super-responders. These very rare men whose bodies responded so well to Mutant Juice that they just kept piling on muscle, more and more and more, to the point of severely restricted mobility. 

So far only two already-prominent bodybuilders had turned out to be Leviathans. The chances were quite small that there were even that many, truly. There was Behrooz Tabani in Iran, over 500 lbs according to his Instagram and greedy to keep growing, shuffling around in his videos with a goofy grin on his face, arms so fat with muscle they looked comically useless, stranded on top of his unheard of lats. And there was Ole Kristian Vaaga in Norway, even bigger than Behrooz, so obese with muscle that he looked deformed by it, unable to touch his own face or clap his hands, the peaks of his traps just about level with the top of his bald head, ass like two yoga balls stuffed into his signature white tights, stretched so thin they were just about transparent. We suspected Ole was overdosing on the product, actually, despite his extreme sensitivity to it – he was just exploding with so much meat, so fast. 

A few others had emerged, normal guys or low level competing amateurs who discovered their bodies soaked up the Mutant Juice like dry sponges, kicking off a muscle growth frenzy that would continue as long as they kept taking the product and kept eating and lifting. And that’s what all of them did. We had a disclaimer just the same, and we printed it everywhere.

WARNING: For a very small percentage (<0.01%) of people, Mutant Juice will cause extreme muscle growth. If your gains exceed 10 lbs / 4.5 kg a week, we strongly recommend ceasing use to avoid a level of muscular development that will impede normal function and may cause severe health issues. If use is continued, Mutant Juice assumes no liability.  

We had yet to hear of anyone deciding to stop. Every super-responder seemed ecstatic – blissful – to feel their bodies slowly explode on the Juice. I was beginning to think the experience of extreme and unlimited growth was addictive. It had to be. The bigger these Leviathans got, the more they wanted to grow. Loss of mobility and eventual total dependence on the care of others never fazed them. 

Certainly my experiences with Angelo would bear that out.

No, stop thinking about that right now. Focus on the job at hand. You’re on the clock, Mr Ceo.

You’ve got a contest to win. A company to represent. An empire to build. Monsters to grow.

*

When I made it into the top two, the world seemed to stop, right there on stage. The music and the crowd all went quiet and slow, like my head had been plunged underwater. And then they announced second place and it wasn’t me.

It legitimately took a moment for the realization to hit me. Holy fuck. I’d just won. I’d just won my first bodybuilding show. Not just my class. The fucking overall. The big trophy.

I don’t even remember posing with the officials on stage for photos. I don’t recall how I got off the stage. I hope I was gracious to the others. But I was on autopilot. I was in shock.

I floated backstage somehow. Volunteers and other competitors were congratulating me, slapping my shoulder, telling me how awesome I was. I was still dazed by it. The trophy weirdly heavy in my hand. I stepped into the corridor and saw Mateo, Hakan, and, surprisingly, Eli. I thought he was back in Toronto. They were all ecstatic and rushed toward me, although it took them a moment to break through.

“Rob! Rob! Holy fuck! You did it!”

And then I saw why Eli was there. He was holding an iPad, and Angelo’s handsome face filled the screen. Even from this distance I could see his head being crowded out by his own meat. But he was grinning. The crowd was so loud, I could see his mouth moving but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. 

I couldn’t help it. I started crying. I felt my friends gather around me, their arms encircling me. “You’ll get tan on you,” I sniffled.

“Like we care about that,” Hakan murmured as his warm arms circled my chest.

Eli fished out some earbuds and popped them in my ears. The din of the backstage faded and Angelo’s warm baritone filled my head.

“I’m so proud of you, babe,” he said. “I saw the whole thing.”

I made some sort of incomprehensible sound in reply.

“You looked phenomenal up there. Your posing was so good. You have such good flow. I always knew you’d be amazing at this,” he said. I stared at the iPad, which Eli was helpfully holding in front of my face as Hakan and Mateo embraced me. The familiar hillocks of Angelo’s traps filled the remainder of the frame. His gorgeous eyes. His beautiful mouth. Fuck, I wanted to touch him.

I made some other stupid utterance. Probably they were actual words, I don’t remember.

“Get back soon, OK? I miss you. I can’t wait to see you.”

This time I do remember what I said. “I miss you too. I can’t wait to see you. I… I love you.”

“I love you too, big guy. Always have. Always will. Stay safe. Eat some pizza. Get home to me. I’ll be waiting.”

*

I stepped through the front door and the smell of testosterone and sweat hit me like an avalanche. The custom-built house was barely one month old, and was kept very clean, but there just wasn’t any way to get rid of the smell. His unheard of supercharged biology was too much for any cleaning product to handle, he had already marked the walls with his scent just by living here. “I’m home!”

“In here,” he called. Not that I needed the help finding him. Moving him from room to room was quite the operation, at this point, so he was typically parked in one of just a few places. 

I stepped through to the living room. Despite having been gone for only about a week, my jaw newly dropped. 

There was just no frame of reference for what Angelo had grown into. What he had become. 

He stood under his own power – barely. Limbs starfished, his extremely wide stance almost comical. Arms propped up on lats that reached out almost to his wrists. Pecs that curved up from his clavicle, such that more and more of his field of vision was simply his own pec-meat. I wondered if there would come a day when those twin orbs of beef would fill his field of vision totally. He looked fit to split his skin.

He was naked, as always, in part because, since moving into our new custom-made home and resuming his growth, he never left the house. It was also in part because we couldn’t find any clothes that would come close to fitting him. I suppose in an emergency a tablecloth or bedsheet could be jury-rigged into a kind of loincloth or toga…

Despite being exhausted, jetlagged, my cock quickly began filling, firming up, harder and harder with each of my rapid heartbeats. 

He was so fucking beautiful. And huge. And mine. I raced over and pressed my puny super heavyweight body against the massive collection of fleshy boulders that comprised his bizarrely overgrown body.

“I’m SO PROUD!” he said as he let me hug him, unable to return the gesture, his own cock visibly stiffening. Back before he grew, he’d actually been very well hung, a proudly uncut 8”. His cock hadn’t shrunk, nor had it grown, but it was simply so dwarfed by the vast heaps of muscle around it that it looked small by comparison, now.

He took a slow, shuffling step. I squawked in alarm and grabbed hold of whatever meaty protrusions I could. “Don’t be stupid!” I often worried about him falling. That much weight coming down on a bone at the wrong angle, it would shatter.

He huffed, whether in exertion or annoyance at my fussing, I couldn’t be sure. He took another slow, deliberate step, his range of motion so limited that it was almost more of a side to side shuffle. Tottering forward like walking a refrigerator down the sidewalk.

“You weigh almost 900 lbs, Angelo, if you fall over I can’t get you back up.”

“920 lbs,” he panted. His cock was hard as steel now, a shining pearl of precum appearing in the bright kitchen light. “You’ve been gone a full week. I grew.” I could hear the grin in his voice. I fully knew that, if he kept growing, he wouldn’t be able to walk at all. And he was hellbent on that – on continuing to grow. Maybe these steps he was laboriously taking right now would be among his last. I should let him do it. Let him walk a bit while he still sort of can. Let him have what little independence remains to him while it’s still possible.

“Where are you going?” I asked, trying to calm myself as he took a third slow, heavy step. I could feel the floor shake.

“The bedroom,” he said, grinning at me, his dark eyes sparkling. 

During the period when Angelo’s growth had paused, we spent some time figuring out how he’d sleep when he resumed getting bigger. For now he usually slept on a kind of contoured inclining board that took the weight off his feet without putting too much of it onto his chest. We were still trialing a liquid sleeping environment, although I was nervous at the idea of a fallible oxygen mask keeping him alive while he was submerged every night. I should get used to the idea, though. A dim vision of the not so distant future came to me, where Angelo’s ever-increasing size meant he would permanently require the buoyant support of a liquid environment. We had long ago surpassed the known limits of human biology, and we would have to make some wild choices in the future if he kept growing. And one thing was clear: Angelo very much wanted to keep grow. “Never again,” he’d growled when we’d finally resumed giving him his Mutant Juice doses.

“What’s in the bedroom?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.

“Your present,” he said between heavy breaths, sweat now beading on his forehead. He hadn’t been able to wipe his own brow for a long time now, so I did it for him, feeling the hard heavy mounds of muscle flex and shift as I leaned in to do it. He was grinning even wider, his eyes crinkling at me. I kissed him, then. I swear even his lips have gotten stronger. I felt my body melting into his. I was light-headed. This couldn’t be real. This was some stupid wet dream.

But we finally broke the kiss and he was still here. Still three times bigger than last year’s Olympia winner. Still naked with a throbbing hard-on. Still grinning at me.

“My present?”

“Yeah.” Another slow step. “I figure.” Step. “The super heavyweight champ.” Step. “Deserves to fuck.” Step. “The biggest bodybuilder ass.” Step. “That’s ever existed.” Step. “920 pounds of meat.” Step. “And growing.”  

It took every ounce of strength I had not to blow my load right there, all over the living room floor, as I followed my best friend and his muscles into our bedroom to celebrate our victory.
 

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Super intense and hot. Awesome job. I’m so hot in particular for Rob. The de facto leader.  And unnhh has he been made into a heaving muscular beast.  I want to be him on the stage in a puny poser with a huge body taking home first place.  Great great job

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