HUMPING IRON (Part 3 added June 02, 2022)

[LORUS]

19 minutes ago, MrAlice said:

As a nasty fuck, I hope that Brandon winds up destroying peoples’ lives and not even caring

Maybe. We'll see. Chapter 2 almost complete and will be posted soon. I like my characters to grow as people, not just their muscles. But let's see where this one goes.

[LORUS]

HUMPING IRON Part 2

Cheedle the butler arranged for a monster SUV – part of Ralph Braithwaite’s vast collection of  novelty autos – to pick Brandon up at the hospital. Cheedle’s long experience as a butler had taught him never to question his employer(s), and he’d managed to stay with the Braithwaites for fifteen years thus far. His resumé was exemplary, but what he really thought of this family he’d never say to their faces. They were supercilious and crass, with all the moral fibre of a Catholic priest judging a beauty pageant for altar boys.

 

Brandon had had little to say over the phone, ending the brief call with: “Just get Sasquatch. It’s roomier, Cheedle. And get Manny the driver to pick me up a fuck-ton of White Castle on the way over!”

 

“Very good, s—”

 

Brandon hung up before Cheedle was finished. Then: “I’ll check up on you tomorrow, Gaylord,” the muscle hunk said, leaning over Gaylord’s bed to kiss him goodbye.

 

“I don’t think you should be seen strutting down the corridor butt naked and with more muscle than all of the Avengers combined, Brandon,” Gaylord advised, yawning. He wanted more morphine, and then a nap.

 

“I can fix that, just give me five minutes and I’ll be back,” said Nurse Luis, charging out of the private ward. While he waited, Brandon pulled off pose after pose for Gaylord, hitting each one with the grace and style of an IFBB professional. He squeezed his muscles into new and interesting configurations, making both their dicks go hard again.

 

“Come on, sweetie, Gaylord has to recuperate, and sleep is best for that. Don’t make me blow my load again. These sheets already need to be changed. And my pyjamas, too,” Gaylord groaned defiantly.

 

“Get used to it. This is the new me. We’re both bodybuilders now, and when you’re recovered you can get back into training and grow much bigger,” enthused Brandon.

 

“Yes, but your growth is unnatural. I’ll never get as big as you.”

 

“We can make this work. I love you. That hasn’t changed.” Brandon popped a fucking huge double biceps, and decided to leave it at that. The more he flexed his muscles, the hungrier he became. Something bizarre and unprecedented was happening to him. As much as he loved the feeling of instantly growing muscles, he needed to first understand all he could about the gift he’d been given. He needed to control it and not let it control him. Something had happened to him when he crashed the Ferrari. He was determined to find out what that was.

 

Luis returned in under five minutes, carrying a fresh set of porter’s scrubs for Brandon.

 

“Here try these on. They used to belong to a fat lazy fuck named Raoul who only worked here for a week. Tubby piece of shit fell asleep leaning on his mop when he shoulda been mopping up puke. Then he lost his balance and fell down an elevator shaft. But they should fit you fine. You’ll have to pull in the waistband a fair bit though.” Luis realised he’d just been to the uniform closet and back covered in Brandon’s muscle-jizz. 

 

Just then a message for Luis sounded over the intercom speakers:

 

BING BONG: “Nurse Luis is reminded to come when he’s called, and not to allow patients or their visitors to “come” all over him during the hours of duty. Please clean out your locker and be off the premises in fifteen minutes.  Opening in Accident & Emergency for an undocumented junior grade nurse. Please apply to HR and have a nice day. The winner of today’s Miss Wet Neurologist Contest is Doctor Diane Schwartz. Congratulations, Diane.” ER…BONG!

 

“Wow, they really crammed a lot into that announcement,” said Brandon, finding the scrubs accommodating enough, although he had to tie the waistband really tight around his super-sexy thirty-four inch waist. The V-neck of the top revealed quite a bit of his bulging pecs, with light-gobbling dark cleavage set between. He was huge now. Nothing would ever be the same again.

 

Luis frowned and hung his head, almost shamefully.

 

“Dammit, why can’t I hold down a job? I always do dumb things without thinking everything through!”

 

“Don’t worry, Jizz Boy. You can come work for me. You can be my new pool cleaner. You’ll get to live on Braithwaite Campus rent free, and you can hose me down as much as you like. How does a starting salary of a hundred grand sound to you?” Brandon beamed with smugness and affluence. He no longer lived in the real world (not that he ever did). He was a world unto himself, and he couldn’t wait to explore its myriad nooks and crannies.

 

“Wow, really? You mean that?” Luis Ortega-Delgado the Fourth couldn’t believe his luck. And a hundred grand a year? With that kind of money he could afford to pay for fake passports for his entire family, including his  beloved Abuela.

 

“Sure… I’m a man of my word. Besides, you’re fucking hot as hell. You remind me of that dude Rafael from Jane the Virgin; when he had the beard. In fact, how about I pay for the plastic surgery to make you look exactly like him?”

 

“Wow! I know that show. That guy is super hot,” said Luis, “but I never realised I looked like him.” He went to a cupboard and found another bedpan. He used it to look at his reflection.

 

“Wow, I guess I do look like him. I never noticed it before.”

 

Brandon eyed up the bedpan hungrily.

 

“Um… you gonna eat that?”

 

***

 

And so that was how Luis the ex-Nurse from the hospital became Brandon Braithwaite's first employee. More would soon follow. Whilst he waited out front for the SUV to arrive, Brandon idly munched on the bedpan. Would it make him bigger? He wasn’t sure. But on an intuitive level beyond his ability to explain, he assumed muscle-growth only occurred if he ate real food and metal within a short space of time, and then rammed something metal up his ass. Or maybe he needed to do the ass thing first. It was a work in progress, learning to understand his new powers.

 

“I’d better purchase a campus for myself, with a mansion, utility buildings, stables, gymnasium, tennis court, spa, hedge maze, and places for the staff to hang out. Hmmm…” There was a female nurse smoking a cigarette and texting on her phone not far from where he stood. 

 

“Hey, Lady Nurse person. Big muscle-god here wants to borrow your phone. I need to buy a campus with a mansion, utility buildings, stables, gymnasium, tennis court, spa, hedge maze, and places for the staff to hang out.”

 

The nurse looked up from texting on her phone and her eyes widened considerably when she saw how big, muscular and handsome Brandon was.

 

“Sure, just be quick, sir. My break is almost over. I lost my virginity in a hedge maze once,” she said with a somewhat licentious timbre to her delivery. Brandon just thought she sounded like a whore who charged too much.

 

“Well ma'am, you won’t be losing it again with me, ‘cos I take it up the ass. Fuckin’ candlesticks and all, apparently. Excuse me!” If someone were to describe Brandon Braithwaite’s personality they’d be hitting the nail on the head if they said he was the lovechild of Nicky Nichols from Orange is the New Black, and Stifler from American Pie.

 

Within seconds Brandon was onto eBay via Nurse Amanda’s phone, and searched for mansions. On his third attempt he found a mansion campus for sale with exactly what he was looking for. As well as all the amenities he wanted, it came with a velodrome, golf course, and llama sanctuary.

 

“Hmm, that’ll do.” He entered a bid of one hundred million, his entire trust fund from Pop-pop. The campus was going cheap because a heap of billionaires had been murdered there by a psycho in a clown costume a few years back. But Brandon didn’t care about shit like that.

 

“Hah, fucking nice one. Got it on my first bid, with six seconds left. And I outbid Donald Trump, too. Daddy’ll be thrilled.” He handed the phone back to the nurse, who went back to her texting without even noticing that Brandon was snacking away on a stainless steel bedpan.

 

When Sasquatch pulled up out front of the hospital’s main entrance, Manny got out and opened the rear door for the now huge bodybuilding son of his employer. The driver was speechless.

 

“Yeah, get used to it. I’m a massive bodybuilder now. Some fucked up shit is going on. Did you bring me White Castle?”

 

“Sorry, Mr. Braithwaite. It was on fire when I got there. All I could get you was a large KFC bucket with all the sides.”

 

“Hmm… well I guess there has been a lot of arson at fast food restaurants lately. They really need to stop employing pyromaniacs out on furloughs from psych-wards. Not your fault, Manny, although after I eat the chicken, I’m gonna suck your cock. I’m sure your gravy tastes better than the Colonel’s.”

 

Manny’s face went white in a second.

 

 

“Oh stop the scaredy cat act, Manny. Just close your eyes and pretend I’m that Machu Picchu chick from that GLOW show you like, only with more iron and less lava lamp.” Brandon was on a roll. To emphasise his point, he pulled a single bicep pose. A peak hard as platinum shot up and out of his arm where the bicep exploded upward and outward, the sleeve of the scrubs split open with an audible ripping sound. Today was all about discovering himself, now that he was a legal adult with the entire world at his size sixteen feet.

 

***

 

“Pass the salt, dear,” said Allegra Braithwaite to her husband as they sat at opposite ends of a ridiculously long dining table, which itself was the centrepiece to a dining room the size of a football field. There wasn’t much in the way of soft carpeting or drapes with which to absorb vocal reverberation, so her voice carried like it was blasted out of an echo chamber. 

 

“What was that, Sweetums? I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up,” Ralph hollered back.

 

“I said… pass… the salt…dear,” she returned, her voice shriller. This time Ralph heard her.

 

“I’ll send the drone,” he hollered back, and reached for the radio controller next to his side plate. Seconds later a drone appeared by his side. It had a small carrier attached into which Ralph placed the salt shaker. He then sent it all the way along the table to Allegra, who accepted it gratefully.

 

“The drones really do make a difference at meal times, darling,” she gleefully returned, and then shook some salt onto her main course of a single olive, lettuce leaf, and cherry tomato. In contrast, Ralph was having his favourite meal: filet mignon in a gold-flaked truffle and sea urchin sauce, with seasonal vegetables grown in a hydroponics module on the moon. Nothing too fancy, as it was only Tuesday.

 

“How was your tennis lesson?” 

 

“What? Speak up dear!”

 

“I SAID… HOW WAS YOUR TENNIS LESSON?”

 

“Oh, my tennis lesson. It was fine. Fernando is really helping me improve my technique,” Allegra shrilled back.

 

“OH GOOD. I’LL GIVE HIM A BONUS THEN!”

 

“Not necessary dear. I already gave it to him, ha ha ha ha!”

 

At that point, Brandon came downstairs. His parents hadn’t been home when he returned from the hospital, so he decided to take a nap. The nap turned into a three hour sleep. He’d missed the start of dinner, and, as usual, his parents would start without him if he wasn’t on time. All he could find to fit his now massively muscular body was a stretchy lycra mesh tank top and another pair of joggers he’d cut into shorts that stopped midway down his mammoth thighs. He was barefoot, but he managed to hide some of his upper body muscularity by draping another expensive designer sweater around his neck and shoulders. It hung from his back like a boy scout’s neckerchief, barely concealing anything. Although the seven feet tall giant couldn’t hide his size from anyone, much less his parents, he still felt a little modesty was in order, so as to ease them into growing accustomed to his transformation.

 

“Ah there you are, son. Everything go well at the hospital?” Ralph didn’t even look up from cutting his food, and Allegra was suddenly engrossed in the latest copy of “Facelifts of The Rich and Famous” to notice her son was even towering over them and bursting with more muscle than ten ordinary millionaires put together.

 

“Uh… yeah, fine. I got a clean bill of health. A slight concussion, though, which explains my memory problems, but that’s already passing. Gaylord sends his love.” Brandon sat down midway between his parents and began placing items of food on his plate. Everything looked so good. He was still hungry, even after a full bucket of chicken, as well as a dozen milkshakes he’d made Manny stop off for on the drive home.

 

“Oh darling, your father is whisking me off to Paris tonight to meet with Doctor Mutilateur, right after dinner. In fact, the jet is already fuelled and ready to go. I asked Perkins to bring it right up to the house so I don’t have to walk far. You know how I hate to walk.” She thumbed through her magazine idly, failing to notice her transformed son.

 

“What are you having done this time, mom? You’ve had everything on you lifted and stretched. Your ass and the nape of your neck are now the same fucking thing!”

 

“Yes dear, we’re staying for the rest of the week. Your father has business there with his French investors, and I need to shop.”

 

Fuck, Brandon thought. She’s not even listening to me, much less notice that I’m the biggest, most muscular man on the planet. As if he’d read his son’s mind, Ralph looked up from his dinner plate and stared intently at his son for a good thirty seconds. Finally:

 

“You look different son. Did you get a haircut?”

 

“Yeah Daddy, I got a haircut,” Brandon sighed, before picking up a side of beef and planting it down with enough force to break his plate in half.

 

“By the way. I bought my own place using Pop-pop’s money he left me. I’ll be moving out, probably before you get back from your trip. I’ll need an advance on next month’s allowance… for living expenses.”

 

“Oh okay. I’ll wire thirty mil to your account. Will that be enough?”

 

“Make it fifty, dad. I have a lot of new clothes to buy. I seem to have hit a late growth spurt.”

 

“Fine. Fifty it is. Try to make it last an entire month this time. You go through money faster than your mother goes through tennis coaches.”

 

***

 

A lot happened over the next two days. Brandon acquired the services of his own father’s law firm to fast track all the legal shit needed to have the keys to his new campus handed over. Cheedle had been tasked with organising the necessary services required to have the mansion ready for him to move in by Thursday. Gaylord was due to be released from the hospital by Thursday afternoon, as the super-wealthy usually healed faster than middle and working class peasants. Brandon wanted his on and off boyfriend to be transported directly to the new residence. He’d have his own wing of the mansion, of course, so that he had enough space in which to recuperate and make a full recovery.

 

Luis would move into the servant’s quarters, itself a semi-lavish house the size of a nightclub.  The estate was in pretty good condition, considering it had been on the market ever since those billionaires were killed. But Cheedle hired reputable tradesmen and interior decorators to make sure it wasn’t lacking in all the gratuitous splendour to which Brandon Braithwaite was accustomed. The butler took care of everything. When it was time for Brandon to leave his parents’ house:

 

“Why don’t you come work for me? Fuck them, they never notice me or pay attention to me. They just buy me off with expensive gifts and throw fuck-tonnes of money at me.” Brandon hoped Cheedle would say yes.

 

“One moment, sir,” said Cheedle and went off to some part of the mansion reserved for the staff, to find a particular object of interest. He returned three minutes later to the capacious hallway where Brandon stood wearing nothing but a thong sporting the colours of the Pride flag. Cheedle began by shaking the can of red spray paint he’d fetched.

 

“What are you doing?” Brandon quizzed, bouncing his pecs with curiosity.

 

“Writing my letter of resignation, sir.” 

 

Cheedle began to spray huge red letters across one of the walls in the main hall, defacing priceless paintings as he went.

 

F U C K   Y O U

 

“I believe in keeping things concise and to the point, sir.”

 

Brandon couldn’t help but approve. “Nice!” 

 

Just then the doorbell rang. Cheedle answered. A hot looking guy in sexy overalls stood there carrying a tablet in one hand and keys to Brandon’s new Ferrari 458-Deluxe Ultra MX Type IV Hybrid with Flux Capacitor in the other. 

 

“Hey there, rich types. I got a Ferrari 458-Deluxe Ultra MX Type IV Hybrid with Flux Capacitor delivery for a Brandon Braithwaite. It needs to be signed for.”

 

“Sorry, but I don’t want it. My parents are cunts. Plus they’re whack-jobs. Take it back,” said the giant bodybuilder adamantly.

 

“No can do, Hulky… it’s already paid for, plus the dealership I collected it from just burnt down as I was leaving, fucking psych-ward pyro-fucks working there, I guess. You’ll have to accept it,” said the sexy delivery guy.

 

“Fine, point that tablet thing my way. You got something to write with?” Brandon was really pissed off.

 

“Just use your finger, Hercules. Christ, you’re big!”

 

“I think the word you’re looking for is huge,” Cheedle corrected.

 

“Sure whatever. That whole muscle macho shit does nothing for me. Whatever you’re into. So, you gonna sign the machine or what?”

 

The tablet looked like a small cell phone when Brandon brought his finger down to write on the screen. He tapped it once, and his finger went right through it.

 

“Oops, silly me. Don’t know my own strength. Sorry about that,” said Brandon, not in the slightest bit sorry.

 

“Dammit,” said Overalls, “they’re gonna fire me for this! This’ll be my fifth job in two months. My parole officer is gonna go nuts. I ain’t going back to the joint.” Overalls looked really worried.

 

“Fuck them… you can work for me. I have an opening at my new estate. You can be my head mechanic, and driver, if you like. How does a hundred grand salary sound? And if your parole officer objects to that, the next thing I break with my finger will be his prostate when I shove it up his ass.” Brandon could be very persuasive.

 

Overalls didn’t require much time to think it over. “Sure, fuck it. Sounds like a tight gig. I’m Eddie, by the way, Eddie Nobauls.” Eddie extended a hand to shake his new boss’s much larger one.

 

“Did you say ‘No Balls’?” Brandon had to bite his tongue not to laugh.

 

“No, sir… it’s ‘No-bauls… B.A.U.L.S. I think it's Scandinavian, or something like that. Kinda suits me, as I got castrated back in the joint in a fight over a pudding cup in the cafeteria. The things you can lose your nuts over. It’s fucking crazy.”

 

“Wow, that’s quite a story. So what happened to your testicles, Eddie?” Brandon was a little disappointed that Eddie probably had no libido or the ability to produce copious amounts of semen in honour of his new employer’s phenomenal physique. He briefly considered not giving him the job, as he quite liked the idea of handpicking all the staff his new campus estate would require for it to run smoothly, and it would be an extra bonus if they each, one and all, had raging boners for Boss Brandon.

 

“Oh they’re still down there. Prison surgeon is a genius. Well, he was until he got shivved. I can’t get it up as good as before, but I got my hobbies. I carve smaller soaps out of larger soaps. I’m pretty good at it.”

 

Brandon tried to like Eddie, but he wasn’t ticking many boxes at this point.  Cheedle was very adept at gauging what was on Brandon’s mind just by reading his expressions. And so he intervened with:

 

“Might I be so bold as to proffer the fact that a bigger, more muscular body is going to require a lot of soap if one is to maintain acceptable levels of hygiene, sir?”

 

“Yeah,” sighed Brandon in defeat. “I guess you can’t have too much soap. Welcome to your new life, Eddie.”

 

About the car:

 

Brandon was now way too big to fit into a Ferrari. He walked around it in the gravel driveway for about a minute, taking it in from different angles. He decided he hated Ferraris, and didn’t want to be near anything that would take him back to the day he almost killed his boyfriend driving one. Then something came to mind:

 

“Say, Eddie, you didn’t happen to deliver another 458 to here, the other day, did you?”

 

Eddie had to think. He wasn’t the brightest spark from the tinder box, not by a stretch. “Nah, that wasn’t me. I think Paulie McNally delivered that. It came from a different dealership  to this one. A place over by South Northington. Owned by a gypsy guy from Europe. Weird guy with a funny large eye, so I heard.”

 

Brandon looked at Cheedle. Cheedle looked at Brandon. This explained a lot. The first Ferrari had to be enchanted, or something. Gypsies could do that, right? This could be the reason for Brandon’s incredible growth. As if reading Brandon’s mind:

 

“I’ll organise tracking down this dealer, sir. And we should maybe gain access to the first Ferrari, or rather what’s left of it. Your muscle-growth is clearly connected to the car accident. Perhaps it triggered something inside you.” Cheedle was so astute ninety-nine percent of the time. Eddie was keen to interject:

 

“I heard the cops released that car over to Clem Dickerson’s junkyard. He usually gets all the unclaimed write-offs when the cops are done with ‘em.” Eddie was already proving to be useful.

 

“Cheedle, I need that car back. ASAP. Get over to that junkyard and pay whatever you need to get it sent to my new place. Something in that car… and its gypsy supplier might explain why I’m like this.” Brandon was getting excited. But he was also in need of a snack.

 

“I’ll send Manny, sir. His family lives in that part of town. It seems appropriate. But might I ask what you intend to do with this splendid example of overpriced vehicular opulence?”

 

Brandon turned to Eddie. “So you need your balls to make your manhood start firing on all cylinders again, Eddie No-Balls?”

 

“Meh, I don’t really care for that stuff no more. I got my soap. I like needlepoint, too.”

 

“Fuck that. I’m giving you your libido back. You’ll be gay afterward, but trust me… it's fucking shit better than ploughing chicks, not that I’d know anything about that. Right… prepare to blow your fucking load!!!”

 

Right there in the Braithwaite Mansion driveway, Brandon ripped off his rainbow-coloured thong, allowing his huge, slightly warped schlong to spring free and grow thick and long. Precum made it glisten in the outdoor sunshine.

 

Eddie stood there, gawping. This was all new to him. Sure, he’d had more than his fair share of taking it up the ass in the joint, but that stuff was the norm in every prison. You did it for smokes, or shivs, or little bars of soap. You did what you had to. Cheedle stood there, his expression stony and devoid of interest. He was a pinnacle of professionalism and dispassionate decorum.

 

Brandon cranked out a massive most muscular pose, and his body responded by bursting out in all directions with rock hard, super-strong muscle globes with lots of  bumps and slabs and wedges; all kinds of sizes and shapes flashed across him like some kind seething globular mass. But there was nothing freakily disturbing about how he made his body burst with size and power. Every inch of the preppy, affluenza-stricken teenage hunk was the personification of youthful beauty and health.

 

“Doing anything for you yet, Eddie No-Balls?” Brandon held the pose, snarling and making other manly noises in order to kick his masculinity up more than a few notches.

 

“Um… hmmm, well you do look pleasing to the eye. But I dunno, bodybuilders were ten a penny back in the slammer. Not as big as you, of course, but I’m kinda desensitised to the whole muscle thing. I mean, what’s the point of wasting so much of your life pumping iron in the gym, only to lose it all eventually anyway? Feels like you missed out on a lot.” Eddie wasn’t in the mood for a debate on the subject.

 

“What about now?” Brandon raised his right knee as high as it would go and moved the corresponding foot over the hood of the Ferrari. He jerked his cock a few times before raising that arm aloft to bend out a wrecking-ball of a bicep, which just kept getting harder and more vascular. Then he brought his right foot down to connect with the pressed aluminium hood. The foot punctured the alloy effortlessly, burying itself into the innards beneath. That engine’s combustion days were now over.

 

“Sheeesh, man, you coulda warned me… er…boss, sir,” wailed Eddie, jumping back unexpectedly. Cheedle, in contrast, stood his ground in a most dignified and practised manner.

 

“Heh heh… I’m just getting started. To you the skin of this sports car is made of aluminium and various pressed alloys. To me… it’s fucking tissue paper!” And to demonstrate, Brandon removed his foot and then ripped the hood off the car, exposing its damaged innards. He then proceeded to roll up the metal hood like it was the aforementioned tissue paper. Once a cigar shape had been met, Brandon nodded to his butler.

“Cheedle… if you wouldn’t mind.”

 

“Erm… are you sure this is wise, sir?”

 

“Yeah, Cheedle. It’s fucking wise. It’s the fucking wisest thing I’ve ever come up with, short of investing my fortune in Tesla. Please… do the fucking honours!” Brandon was growing impatient. He hadn’t had anything metallic up his ass in days. He needed to be absolutely sure of the order in which he needed to eat real food, chomp on metal, then finally allow a sizable amount of it to enter his fudge factory.

 

Brandon spread his sequoia thighs into a comfortable stance, and placed his hands down on the exposed engine of the Ferrari, assuming the optimum position for pleasure. He turned to look at Eddie, and gave him a mischievous wink. “Bet you had this done to you plenty of times in prison, No-Balls!”

 

“Actually, the closest I got to that was trading my ass for a pack of Jolly Ranchers, via a rolled-up copy of TV Guide from 1967. Lucille Ball was on the cover, which is sorta funny in itself.”

 

“Damn, you’re tough to crack. I’ll make you a muscle-god addict if it kills me,” Brandon vowed. “Cheedle… ram this fucker up my ass so I can grow! Grrrr!”

 

“May I have a pay rise if I do, sir?” It was never the wrong moment to discuss a raise.

 

“Yeah, whatever… just fucking do it!!!!”

 

“Very good, sir!”

 

Cheedle launched himself towards his mighty master, the aluminium lance gripped between white hot knuckles. He charged for his master, but also in salute of his native England. He ruled the moment now, but he also ruled Britannia in his mind. This was a blow for the Commonwealth, once a most powerful empire. He thought of the Queen, and suddenly Freddie Mercury came into his head, screaming: “I want to break free! I want to break FREEEEE!!!”

 

Well, Brandon the spoilt brat had given him the means to break free from the senior Braithwaite’s employ, for which he couldn’t be more thankful. Yes, he was doing this for himself as much as for his metal-ravenous master. It all made sense in the grand scheme of things.

 

He rammed the rolled up hood solidly into Brandon’s rippling rectum with all the reserved behaviour of a crowd of crazed shoppers bursting through the entrance to Walmart on Black Friday. Brandon’s back arched, as his ass tightened against the onslaught. He threw his head back and laughed near-maniacally. 

 

“Awwwwwwww…… so good. More… more. Harder, for fucksake!!!”

 

“Very… unghhh….fucking….unghh… good….sir!!!!!!!!!!” Cheedle leaned his weight into the sodomisation of Brandon the behemoth bodybuilder with a newfound strength he never knew he had. It energised him and gave him new determination to meet the needs of his new master in a way he’d hitherto been incapable of comprehending.

 

“Again… again!!! Put enough metal in there so my colon can pick up police radio.  Don’t fucking stop. Grrrrr!”

 

Cheedle put every ounce of strength he had into carrying out Brandon’s command. He counted in his head how many times the bodybuilder muscle-god allowed the metal to hump the shit out of him. When he reached forty-eight humps, he had to quit from pure exhaustion. He removed the rolled-up hood and allowed it to clank to the ground.

 

“Sorry, sir… it may be made of a very light metal, but I’m afraid it’s gotten the better of me. One needs to catch one's breath.” The years were definitely catching up with Cheedle.

 

Brandon got up from the car. He turned to face his loyal butler. He looked down at the rolled up hood on the ground, some of which was slick and moist from his internal juices. 

 

“Damn, it’s intact. Not like the drip stand at the hospital. My ass devoured most of that and it made me grow. Maybe I need to eat some metal before I allow metal up my ass.” 

 

At least Brandon was learning about how his power worked. There was a certain order to it. He diverted his attention back to Eddie.

 

“Lucille Ball, huh? Fuck, you’ve suffered enough.”

 

And with one final “Fuck You!” to his parents, Brandon lifted the 3,500+ lb sports car up off the driveway, and raised it over his head like it was a shopping basket. He used every muscle in his body like a coiled spring, releasing incredible energy that allowed him to send the entire car soaring upward. Not that he’d actually been aiming for anything in particular, but the car came crashing down through the sprawling veranda in the middle of the mansion’s upper floor. The car crashed through the glass doors to the master bedroom, completely levelling Ralph and Allegra’s marital suite. Not that either of them actually used it much. 

 

The naked muscle-man left his parent’s estate… in something of a state. He could have done a fuck-load more damage, but he was content to call it quits by flinging a car. 

 

It was time for new beginnings… and new adventures.

 

[FallenAway]

This is hilarious.  A pleasure to read.  More fucking, please.

[MrAlice]

I’m enjoying this! Hoping to see him eat a whole car at some point

[LORUS]

34 minutes ago, MrAlice said:

I’m enjoying this! Hoping to see him eat a whole car at some point

Cars are just finger food to Brandon. Heh heh. I'm so glad you're enjoying this story. I'm having a lot of fun writing it.

[jontron]

Whenever I read Cheedle's lines it cracks me up since it reminds me of Woodhouse, Archer's Butler.

 

Been loving the series so far, keep up the great work!

[LORUS]

HUMPING IRON Part 3

 

Gaylord Bentley-Pugh, the gorgeous-looking blonde haired and blue eyed rich bodybuilding himbo boyfriend of even bigger (way, way bigger) blonde haired and blue eyed ultra-rich preppy spoiled brat Brandon Braithwaite, was released from the hospital, having made a miraculous full recovery. Alas, on the way home he was run over by a getaway car from a bank heist. This time his legs were completely crushed and damaged beyond repair.

 

Fortunately a top animatronic bloke that worked on his dad’s blockbuster movies was able to rig up a pair of bionic legs with state of the art technology, with life-like sensors, skin and other cool stuff. When Gaylord eventually regained consciousness, he didn’t even know his legs had been replaced. They matched his skin-tone, and even the muscles could inflate as he continued to bodybuild and get bigger. Because Gaylord had been through quite a traumatic last few days, his father decided not to tell him about his new legs.

 

“There’s something different about you, honey,” Brandon said to Gaylord when he moved into the mansion campus.

 

“Maybe it’s my magnetic personality, darling,” he replied as they sipped mimosas by the pool.

Brandon just happened to have a magnet in his pocket, which he liked to lick in between meals. He tossed it to Gaylord and it instantly stuck to his muscled thigh.

 

“Um!” Gaylord looked down at the phenomenon. Then he looked over at his massively enormous bodybuilding boyfriend.

 

“I knew it. Since I started growing huge and eating metal, it’s as if I’ve developed a sixth sense or something. I knew the magnet would stick to your legs.”

 

“But the damage from the crash wasn’t that serious. I made a miraculously quick recovery. Oh wait…” Gaylord was really lacking in brain matter, requiring only his looks, physique, and wealth to get him through life with ease. Then he remembered getting hit by a bus leaving the hospital.

 

“It’s all coming back to me now. I had another accident. Maybe they put steel plates into my legs. They feel fine, however. I guess I’m lucky to be alive.”

 

 

“No, it’s more than just steel, I’m sensing. Stand up, honey-lover, I want to test a theory,” said Brandon, excitedly. He got up, towering over Gaylord. He flexed his mighty muscles and completely burst out of his button-up shirt, exposing his rippling, bulging torso, which he then followed up by destroying his khaki shorts with one tug. He now was clad only in a star-spangled airforce blue spandex g-string that struggled to contain his enormous cock and balls. To add to the stain on the string, Brandon had fashioned himself a cock ring out of a Rolex watch. It made his dick harder and bulge with more veins. It was such a massive piece of meat.

 

“Wow, you’re fucking bigger than ever. So, what would you like me to do?”

 

“I want you to kick me into the groin. As hard as you can,” said Brandon, his dick growing bigger and harder at the thought of his lesser-muscled boyfriend inflicting harm on the biggest, strongest bodybuilder ever to exist.

 

“No way, I don’t want to hurt you, big fella. I just got out of the hospital, in case you’ve forgotten.”

 

“If my hunch is correct, I think you’ll be fine. And you’ll kick me into the middle of next week, too.” Brandon’s cock continued to harden and grow longer and thicker. His ball sack was stretched to bursting point as his testicles produced more and more industrial-grade semen.

 

“Well, okay. If you insist. I love you and trust you, Bodybuilding Brandon!”

 

That said, Gaylord put all of his strength into the kick.

 

WHAMMMMMM!!!!

 

Brandon took flight, soaring over the treetops demarcating his huge property. He soared hundreds of feet into the air, flying with incredible momentum.

 

“FUUCCCCKKKK!!!! That hurt like a fucking BITCH!!!!!!

 

He smashed through a billboard affixed to which was a poster for Byron Bentley-Pugh’s new blockbuster movie, Robo-Cock 5: The Roostening. It was about a cyborg cock (the bird, not the schlong) that fought crime but was also a porn star in its spare time. It also had a very big schlong. It would be Gaylord's biggest role to date, playing 'Dead Body on Sidewalk #87'. The sign exploded with the force of Brandon hitting it, but it thankfully slowed his momentum a little.

 

He came down in the exercise yard of the State Pen, just as the inmates were doing their bodybuilding, prison style. He landed with such force that he cracked the concrete and sent the inmates into a panic.

 

“It’s okay, guys. I won’t hurt you. Damn,” said Brandon, dusting himself off and checking for cuts and bruises. There weren’t any, of course, apart from a huge and sore set of gonads. 

 

Then he thought: Gaylord has super-powered legs now. What a fucking turn-on.

 

“Dayum, you one huge muthafucka,” said the biggest bodybuilding inmate, Jackie Jacksonson. He had a physique to be envied by the rest of the inmates, and he got fucked more than anyone else, even by most of the prison officers.

 

“Yeah, I’m enormous,” boasted Brandon, crunching out a most muscular pose that made his muscles nearly burst apart. Many of the inmates came out in hard-ons and started jacking off right there in the yard. Three officers appeared, all of them wielding night-sticks. 

 

“Okay, break it up, people. Move it,” they said. “You… Hulkfucker… get the fuck out of here and stop stimulating the inmates,” one of them barked at Brandon.

 

He read the surname on his uniform shirt. It read: “BURKE”. He was also a bodybuilder, almost as big as Jacksonson. Brandon liked how his shirt looked too tight for his muscles to contain. He also didn’t wear a tie, so you could see how the buttons were strained as his pecs rolled and heaved inside the shirt. Brandon got really turned on. Muscles and tight shirts were really his thing.

 

“Okay, I’m going… but I like you, Burke. You’re super hot. How much are they paying you to watch all these losers day after day?” Brandon was cocky to a fault. He didn’t care about authority anymore, except when he was doing the authorising.

 

“My salary is none of your goddam business, faggot!” Burke snapped.

 

“You don’t like faggots, huh? Hmm… you look like the biggest faggot here, Burke.” It wasn’t Brandon’s intention to rile Officer Burke, but he made him lose his cool nonetheless.

 

“I’ll fucking break you in half, fucker,” Burke howled, completely ignoring the fact that Brandon was many times his size, and therefore obviously way stronger.

 

Burke charged towards the bodybuilding behemoth. Inmates had formed a circle around them, and they were chanting for Burke to be fucked up by the giant that fell from the sky.

 

Brandon’s cock continued to get harder and larger, the front of the string now completely saturated with precum. He stood superhero style, with his hands on his hips. He flexed his pecs, just as Burke’s head slammed right into them. The brutal prison guard bounced right off Brandon’s granite chest, the force of which knocked him on his ass.

 

“Hahaha, that felt like nothing, Burke, you shit,” laughed Brandon. He flexed up a full lat spread and his humongous musculature swelled and swelled. But he really needed to grow some more. The correct order of ingestion with which to trigger growth was: Eat Food; Then Eat Metal; Finally get Metal-Fucked up the Ass.

 

Fortunately as sirens wailed across the yard, several more officers charged out from within the sprawling complex. One of them, a big fat fucker with red hair and an even redder face, waddled out with his fitter co-workers, his night-stick in one hand and a partially eaten two-foot long hoagie in the other. Brandon could smell it from a hundred yards away.

 

“Mmm… that smells delicious. I think I’ll help myself,” said Brandon, charging with super speed towards the oncoming snack. Several officers dived out of the way, but Fatty was too slow. His big belly slammed into Brandon’s steel-walled abs, knocking Fatty flat. Brandon snatched the sandwich out of the air before it could splatter the concrete, and in two bites had the whole thing devoured.

 

“BURRRRRRP!!!!” His burp was even louder than the sirens, and several inmates came in their pants when Brandon punctuated the burp with an enormous double biceps.

 

“That wasn’t half bad, but I need to chase it with some metal.” Brandon began scanning the immediate area for something to eat. He spotted Burke picking himself up off the ground, liking how the cuffs on his belt glinted brightly in the sunlight.

 

“You don’t mind if I borrow these, do ya, Burke? I promise I’ll pay for any damages. Don’t want to get on the bad side of the law now.” Brandon pulled the cuffs off Burke and squashed them into a tasty ball. Burke and the other officers looked absolutely stunned by how strong this young man was. Brandon swallowed the metal with barely a chew to be seen.

 

Burke was fuming now. He nodded to a co-worker to toss him the standard issue pump-action shotgun he was carrying.

 

“I’m going to blow that cocky smirk right off your pretty face, you prick!” Burke primed the weapon and aimed down the sights at Brandon.

 

Brandon wasn’t sure if he was impervious to shotgun rounds, but some quick thinking came to his rescue:

“Before you shoot and waste perfectly good ammunition, there’s something better you can do with that big, loaded weapon, Burke. You’ll get more satisfaction, I can assure you. And in doing so, I’ll get a fuck load of satisfaction in return.” Maybe it was the way Brandon suggested it, but Burke lowered the gun and looked a little confused, only angrily so.

 

 

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

 

“I’d like for you to ram that shotgun up my ass as hard as you can. Please, please, pretty please.”

 

Some of the inmates (the ones that hadn’t jizzed themselves) got even more turned on by hearing this.

 

“Are you out of your frickin’ mind, kid? Why in holy high heaven would you want me to do that?”

 

“You’ll see. And it’ll blow your mind, which is much better than blowing my head off, Burkey-burke-burke!”

 

“Just do it so we can go back to our lunch, Burke, for chrissakes,” one of the other officers goaded.

 

“Yeh, Burke. That muscled fucker ate my hoagie. If you don’t want to do it for yourself, at least do it for the hoagie,” Fatty added.

 

“Fuck this. If it’s what you want, you’ll fucking get it, Big Man!!!”

 

Brandon ripped off his g-string, and stuck out his delicious and hungry bubble-butt. He flexed it and tightened his hole for extra friction.

 

“Come on, Burke. Fucking ruin my bodybuilt hole. FUCKING RUIN IT!!!!” 

 

“YOU PRICK!!!! RAAWWWWWWR!!!!!” Burke went hell-for-leather, running towards Brandon’s ass like a runaway train, the shotgun aimed before him.

 

Brandon beamed with delight as he braced for impact. 

 

Burke rammed in the shotgun right up to the stock, then kicked the rest of it in with his boot. Inside Brandon came the muffled sound of a round going off.

 

“BURRRRRPPPPPP!!!” Brandon excused himself, knowing that the gun had completely disappeared inside his incredible physiology. He could feel the transformation coming on.

 

His muscles began to grow… and grow… and fucking grow!!!!!!

 

Cannonball biceps turned into basketball biceps. His forearms grew to adolescent bull shanks. His neck thickened considerably. His chest ballooned into beach ball-sized tits, and his nipples swelled to the size of small fists. His abs developed another row; his intercostals tightened and brought his waist in, further emphasizing his immense V-taper.

 

His junk got bigger, heavier, thicker… longer, pushed upward and outward by ever-increasing rolls of muscle rippling out of his thighs. Hamstrings, quads and calves each bulged hugely. His lats got wider and thicker, creating a bigger delta-spread. His height shot past the eight-foot mark. He was colossal. But he still wanted to get bigger. Much, much bigger.

 

Burke was stunned, along with the inmates and his co-workers. How was it possible that a massively huge bodybuilder could become an even more massive bodybuilder? Surely the gun blast should have torn him up internally. But now he was even bigger, stronger, and without an injury to be seen.

 

“Oh what a rush. I really got huge that time. Thanks for that, Burke. I really appreciate it. Say, how’d you like a new career, working for me? I’m fucking rich as fuck. You can be my head of security with thousands of acres to patrol.”

 

“Huh?”

 

And then, to Fatty:

 

“Hey Pork Loins, did you bring that hoagie from home?”

 

“Uh-huh,” said Fatty, as his belly popped a button on his shirt. He really was fat as fuck; really… a fucking blood pressure explosion waiting to happen.

 

“You make it yourself? Or do you have some fat wifey at home packing all your lunches with way too many carbs?”

 

“Uh… I live alone. I make all my own meals.”

 

“Well then, how’d you like to come work for me? You will be in charge of all the catering. My bodybuilding mansion campus will soon be fully staffed and they’ll  be hungry a lot, living up to the demands of their fucking super-rich bodybuilding boss! And then, of course, there’s my appetite to consider.” Brandon was really enjoying talking down to people (literally now that he towered above everyone). But he also liked throwing people lifelines, just like Eddie and Luis from before.

 

Fatty didn’t have to be told twice. He hated this job. It didn’t pay near enough to a decent wage, as his food bills alone were as enormous as his belly.

 

“I’ll start you and Burke  on a salary of a hundred grand apiece. You’ll also get to live on the campus with all the comforts money can buy.”

 

Burke thought about the offer. His divorce had almost crippled him. He could really use the money and finally move out of the shitty trailer park he’d had to move into. Further to this, the bodybuilding lifestyle was far from cheap.

 

“You’re weird, and a prick, but you got yourself a deal,” said Burke, finally calming down and showing his nicer side. He bounced his pecs in appreciation.

 

“Great, clear out your lockers. Don’t bother with the warden. I’ll slip him fifty grand to keep his mouth shut. He’s probably more bent than any of the cons in here, am I right?”

 

Just then a drone appeared overhead. The sirens wailed loud again. 

“Shoot that fucking thing down. Don’t let any contraband get in here,” one of the other officers hollered. Shooting down drones was a common practice in the prison, with at least three buzzing over the perimeter each week. This one, however, was different. It dropped a cell phone down to Brandon, before it was blown into a hundred pieces by one of the officers. Brandon caught the phone easily. It seemed tiny in his now larger hands. Still, he managed to answer it when it rang.

 

“It’s Cheedle, sir. I took the liberty of tracking your unscheduled departure from the grounds of your estate, and am wondering if you’d like me to send a car to pick you up.” Ah good old Cheedle, always anticipating the needs of his hulking master.

 

“Yeah sure, Gaylord kicked me over two miles, I reckon. Those are some fancy new wheels of his. And there will be two new employees on staff as of today. Oh yeah, we’re gonna need a bigger Sasquatch. I just grew like a fuckin’ tonne of new muscle.”

 

“Very good, sir. Oh by the way, sir… Manny still hasn’t returned from his expedition to South Northington. His wife said he’s run off with some alcoholic prostitutes and won’t be back for days.”

 

“Hmmm, up to his old tricks again. I’m going to have a serious talk with that guy. He needs a good shaking up. So no word yet on the gypsy car dealer?”

 

“I’m afraid that the dealership has ceased operation. It was turned into a fast food restaurant, which subsequently burned down. But the Ferrari wreckage is at the junkyard. Maybe you could just–”

 

“I’ll get it back myself tomorrow. But for now I want to get back home and do some serious damage to my boyfriend’s ass.”

 

With nothing more to say at this time, Brandon devoured the phone, swallowing it whole. 

 

Just a little snack, of course.

 

***

 

When Brandon got back to Muscle Mansion, Gaylord was busy in his wing of the huge house. He’d invited over a couple of his bodybuilding buddies from the gym, Hector and Horatio. They were beautiful, identical twin bodybuilders from Brazil. They were ridiculously hot-looking, with dark hair, manscaped beards, naturally tan skin, and a shitload of insanely hot muscles all over them. They glistened from head to toe with a body wax balm that made their muscles look bigger and hotter as they bent and refracted light.

 

Gaylord was the filling in between a Hector and Horatio sandwich, with one twin on either side of Gaylord as they took up every inch of free space on the specially made bed.

 

“Hi honey, this is Hector and Horatio, two of my beautiful gym buddies. Seriously, you need to be seen at my gym. Every guy there is so fucking hot, and every one of them gay, too. I hope you don’t mind them having a little fun with Big Gaylord.” Gaylord knew Brandon wouldn’t mind. But it was nice to ask.

 

Hector excitedly licked Gaylord’s stunning left nipple, rolling the tip of his tongue repeatedly over the sensitive nub. His brother caressed his right pectoral, cupping the weighty mass with a  hungry hand. Gaylord enjoyed every moment of it.

 

“Not at all, sweetie, you know I don’t mind that. Nice bodybuilders you got there. And I’m fine, by the way, thanks for asking,” said Brandon, a little pissed that Gaylord said nothing about kicking him in the bollocks, sending him over two miles through the air and all the way to the State Pen.

 

“Oopsie, me! I forgot all about the kick. My brain is like a sieve these days. Hahaha!” Gaylord paused speaking in order to ram his tongue down Hector’s throat. Horatio was already moving down in the bed to fill his face with Gaylord’s throbbing eleven inch ramrod.

 

“Jeez, this is really turning me on, you guys. Please continue while I fondle my enormous junk. Horatio took all of Gaylord’s pretty prick into his mouth, deep-throating continuously and with increasing fervour, whilst his beautiful twin brother positioned himself in such a way that he straddled Gaylord whilst plunging his own rod of delight down past Gaylord’s larynx. The beautiful bodybuilder gagged a couple of times, but he soon got used to it. He sat on Gaylord’s bulbous pectorals, bucking his pelvis forwards and backwards in an attempt to get as much of his meat into Gaylord as the oral route would allow.

 

Brandon was so turned on now, as he watched the twins pulverizing his boyfriend from both ends. Brandon’s cock got longer and harder, bulging with more and more veins as he jerked his meat in a furious rhythm to what was happening on the bed before him. Precum splattered outwards in spurt after spurt, peppering the threesome on the bed and also causing pools of it to gather at Brandon’s feet. The carpet was the same type used by kings and queens the world over, but fuck it, he was too rich to care if it was ruined by his jostling juices. As his dick curved further upwards, it was now big enough to cause his own precum to splash back on him. Soon his pectoral globes were drenched in it, and he even managed to slurp some off the top of his pecs with his huge, sexy tongue. Everything about him had become bigger, thicker, longer, and more pleasurable.

 

SNAP!!!

 

There went the Rolex cock ring, the band of gold and jewels snapping apart as his cock exceeded the strap’s ability to contain it. Fuck it; he had a crate of the fucking things in one of this many closets.

 

“Fucking destroy my boyfriend, you hot sexy bastards,” he urged the Brazilian twin bodybuilders. Hector and Horatio were only too happy to oblige, not that they could stop themselves.

 

“Oooooh, this is too much, gasp… but don’t stop… urrgh,” panted Gaylord, as Horatio withdrew from his mouth and decided to fuck his pec cleavage, whilst brother Hector sucked his balls with the power of a vacuum cleaner. Both twins were lathered in sweat and soiled with their own precum. Hector then decided to bounce his hungry hole up and down on Gaylord’s meaty prick, which was a little too big for Hector’s hole to handle at once. He squealed in pain and pleasure, both of which accosted his senses at once, driving him to the point of orgasm.

 

“Don’t fucking come yet. I’m the biggest and baddest bodybuilder in the room. You’ll come when I say you can,” Brandon angrily commanded, as his lust completely re-wrote his demeanour. He was close to jizzing, too, but he mentally commanded himself to hold off a little longer; he was enjoying himself way too much. But he badly wanted to fuck the fudge out of all three of the delicious bodybuilders driven delirious by the throes of muscular mayhem.

 

“I’m bigger, stronger, and heavier than all three of you put together,” said Brandon, flexing his muscles to make them harder and harder, and as big as possible. Finally he could take it no more, and launched himself towards the threesome. He slammed down on Gaylord, Horatio, and Hector, unable to stop himself from ravaging them with his might. He grabbed each twin and flung them off Gaylord. They went flying across to opposite sides of the tennis court-sized bedroom, hitting the walls so hard they were knocked unconscious.

 

“Fuck your super-powered legs. Your ass is mine, now. GRRRRR!!!!” Brandon flipped Gaylord over, exposing his ripe, muscle-ass, just as the blonde bodybuilder screamed with what Brandon interpreted as the throes of passion. He rammed his giant junk into his ass and pounded it over and over with increasing force.

 

“Aarrrrrghhhhhh, the pain… the pain… Too much. Morphine… get me fucking morphiiiiiiiine!!!”

 

“You’re getting something better than that, sweetie,” Brandon growled. And with ten more furious bucks of his pelvis, Brandon pounded the fucking ass off his boyfriend, drenching his internal cavities with a torrent of jizz that seemed to gush without end its Tsunami of salty cream. Gaylord went into shock and passed out.

 

His eyes shut from the force of his release, Brandon arched his back and let out a mighty howl which caused paintings to fall off the wall, and several chandeliers to shed their crystal adornments.

 

The combined weight of Brandon and Gaylord turned the bed into so much kindling, but fortunately the floor stayed intact. Finally, when Brandon’s climax hit its height and then quickly fizzled out afterward, he rolled off Gaylord and lay beside him, contemplating a post-coital cigarette. Something wasn’t right, however…

 

“Blood? What the fuck?”

 

Brandon was covered in blood. But it wasn’t his blood. But where did it come from? He got up from the bed and saw what had happened to Gaylord. The bodybuilder had been knocked out cold from the force of Brandon’s fuck. This really was for the best, however, considering both of his arms were missing.

 

“Shit… no way!  Cheedle!!!! Cheeedle, fucking get up here!!!!”

 

The butler promptly appeared, almost seeming to blink into the room out of thin air. Brandon towered over him, a true giant muscle god, now.

 

“Oh dear, sir. It would seem one doesn’t know one’s strength. Master Gaylord has clearly seen better days.”

 

“I fucked up, Cheedle. I let my new size and strength get the better of me. Where the fuck did his arms go?”

 

Cheedle looked around the room and his attention settled on the unconscious twins lying on opposite sides of the bedroom floor. Both of them were clutching Gaylord’s missing arms.

 

“It would seem they were holding on to Master Gaylord for dear life when you, um…”

 

“I – I – couldn’t help myself. Oh my poor sweet Gaylord. You’re really having a shit couple of weeks.” Brandon’s mood softened as tears came to his eyes.

 

“I’ll organise some wine coolers with ice… for the severed limbs. Maybe they can be re-attached?” Cheedle, always the optimist.

 

Cheedle placed several pillows on either side of Gaylord to soak up the blood. Then he dialled 912, the Illuminati-owned alternative to the emergency services, which only super rich wankers had access to. Within minutes a medical helicopter was on the scene, and a team of paramedics set to work stabilising Gaylord.

 

“Can you make him better? Please, make him better,” Brandon pleaded with the paramedic in charge.

 

“This new gel we’re using will seal him up and keep him alive until he gets surgery,” said the paramedic as he sprayed a mist all over Gaylord, which instantly turned into a sort of shrink-wrap, but with medical properties. Once a little breathing hole had been poked in it, Gaylord was moved onto a stretcher and taken to the helicopter. Brandon wanted to go with him, but the chopper wouldn’t have been able to take off with him aboard. 

 

When the commotion passed, Brandon took a moment to gather himself. Horatio and Hector had woken up at this point, and were downstairs eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Since they didn’t speak much English, they had very little to say.

 

Brandon decided he could use a stiff drink. He found an expensive bottle of scotch and downed half of it in one go. He decided to relax by the pool and allow a drunken delirium to take him hostage for a while. He soon fell asleep. Cheedle arrived some time later with a dinner gong in his possession. He banged it close to his master’s ear.

 

“Your whale en croute is about to be served in the dining room, sir!”

 

“Yeah, I'll be along in a minute.” Then something over in the hedge maze caught his attention.

 

“Hey Cheedle, something over in the hedge maze has caught my attention. Go see what’s going on.”

 

Sure enough, some kind of quadrupedal interloping was occurring within the foliage. There was a barking sound; ostensibly that of a large dog.

 

“What the? I don’t own any dogs. I’m fucking allergic!”

 

A dog suddenly burst out of the hedge maze, a big fucking Cujo-sorta thing. It ran excitedly across the lawn towards the pool area, clearly carrying something in its drooling chops.

 

“Keep that fucking thing away from me,” warned Brandon, suddenly forgetting he was the strongest man ever to exist, and a dog was absolutely nothing to worry about. Except Cujo 2 was.

 

“I believe that’s Manny’s dog, sir. He must be missing his master. I had no idea he was keeping it on the grounds. I will accept full responsibility for this  most unexpected occurrence, sir.” Cheedle was clearly distraught. He’d strayed from his normally pristine reputation for upholding order and finesse as a butler. His family would disown him for this. Oh the shame… the shame of it all.

 

“What’s that thing in his mouth?” Brandon demanded to know.

 

“Oh dear, sir. Oh this is not good, not good at all,” wailed Cheedle.

 

Cujo 2 was carrying one of Gaylord’s muscular, and partially eaten arms.

 

“Oh sir, Master Brandon… the paramedics must have forgotten to retrieve the arms for reattachment. Oh this is most unacceptable. I shall tender my resignation at once.” Cheedle wrung his hands together in dismay.

 

Cujo 2 dropped the slobber-covered limb and decided to take a plunge into the pool.

 

“Fuck it, he’s ruining the pool with his dog DNA! Where’s Luis, my pool cleaner. Ain’t no way I’m getting back in there until it’s been cleaned and refilled.” Brandon didn’t like where this day was heading.

 

“He’s still away at the clinic recovering from the extensive plastic surgery you paid for him to get so he will look like that… erm… how do you say it? Ah yes… that “hot fuckin’ dude Rafael from Jane the Virgin”, sir!”

 

“Oh right, I forgot about that. He’s getting muscle implants as well that inflate the more I turn him on. He’ll be so hot… and so fucking huge as well. Then he’ll bodybuild for real, too, and get even huger!” Brandon cheered up a little, as he allowed his mind to wander off to the image of Luis looking like a fucking muscle god. Then:

 

“You’re not fired, Cheedle. I’d be lost without you taking care of things. Anyway, Manny is the one that should be fired, fucking off with alcoholic hookers and leaving Stephen-fucking-King’s best friend here to chow on my boyfriend’s arms and shit in my fucking pool!”

 

“That is most benevolent of you, sir. I promise I will have set all of this to rights by the time you finish your Whale en croute. There is caviar ice cream and cloned dodo and blueberry pie for dessert, a favourite of yours.”

 

Suddenly food was on Brandon’s mind. Fuck the rest of everything. It was time to fill his belly.