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The Mass of Us - part 4


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CW: FMG, muscle worship, extreme muscle, blood.
(read part 3)



My life is fucking pain.

And I love it.


I don't know what that means anymore. There was someone there... but it's hard to remember anything trapped inside the thunderous growth of my own body.

Diana? No. Not her name. What was her name? She felt like... love. I think. Can't remember. Fiona? Deena... Dinah! That's right. She was Dinah. I remember. She loved me. Once upon a time... when I was human.

I can't see her anymore. Can't remember what she looks like. It's darkness now. Crushing darkness and heat and pain surrounding my skull, pressing in on all sides, drowning in my own power. So much power…

Sometimes I hear her voice. Sometimes I sense her presence. She's like... softness. Something soft. That's it, soft in a world of crushing stone. A soft light I can't see, only feel. I know when she's nearby. Her voice sounds like it's buried under the earth, under the sea, miles away in another life. I'm buried alive, too, head gripped by all my mass like a vice of flesh, hard to breathe, suffocating, but I can't find her. My Dinah... I don't know how I could forget her. Dinah. I have to repeat her name. Have to remember. Dinah.

Dinah… What do you look like? Is your face as soft as your memory? Were you human and healthy and lovely? Or… were you like me… a woman transformed into a living weapon?

I can remember only one face now. My own. What I used to look like. I remember I was a normal teenage girl once upon a time. I had... green eyes. No. Gray. Brown hair. I can remember running, the wind in my hair. I can remember laughter.

I remember the sweet face of that girl, my face, looking into the mirror, daily watching my body take over. The old man–how could I forget the old man, what was his name?–he said it was my genetics. Unique genes. I was immune to some kind of virus. Can’t remember. My genes did this to me. This is who… what… I was meant to become.

I can remember undressing, when I used to be able to wear clothes, feeling my heart leap at the sight of a little progress. The excitement that ran through the tips of my fingers as I traced them over the gentle line running up from my belly button to my rib cage… barely visible unless the orange lantern light hit them just right. The sign of abdominals to come, new definition to be celebrated.

I didn’t even know how to flex my abs. So young… so naive. I thought that’s what real power was, a few pathetic lines cut into my stick of a figure. But I was proud of them, proud of my progress. In a normal world, I could’ve worn a bikini to the beach. Turned some heads. Had attention for the right reasons.

I stayed proud for… a long time. Maybe too long.

Those soft feminine lines curving around the bottom sides of my tiny biceps, carving up sections of my stomach like lines in the sand, radiating out from the center of my chest over my visible ribs–I’d never had breasts, never been well-endowed in that department, but my chest was girlish then in a way it could never be again. Not anymore.

Days turned into months. Months turned into years.

I could see my metamorphosis in that dirty, broken mirror, leaning against the sink as the weight of my body continued to increase, showing no signs of stopping. Still proud of my progress. Still naive about what it would mean. But pride was slowly turning into horror… and beneath that, something even more terrifying. The unshakeable feeling I tried to bury, to deny in repulsive disgust… that I enjoyed what was happening to me.

The shattered glass spread like chaotic spiderwebs across the face of the mirror, making me look even more like the freak I was becoming. The broken glass barely obscured the similar pattern covering every inch of my body: my revoltingly extreme vascularity. The first thing to hint that something was wrong. I’d put on some muscle, nothing too major, rounded out my shoulders, defined what was already there, gained some extra pounds, but my veins… they were like worms writhing under my skin, surging so bloated and distended it looked like I could fit my finger under them and pull and bleed myself out.

They formed ravines and chasms and valleys all over my flesh, up my neck, on my scalp and cheeks and forehead, rendering my face into a quilt of flushed skin spit into patched sections by my throbbing veins. If I closed my eyes, I could just hear them carrying the irresistible sound of my own heartbeat like a wardrum summoning an army inside me. I was a network of vines. I was a mesh of branches and twigs, a hoary tree in the winter stripped of its leaves until it’s nothing but rock hard bone-like wood.

But this was just the beginning. That thought, I remember having it, I remember the anticipation setting my imagination ablaze. I pictured the women in a magazine I’d stolen. It was a fitness magazine of some kind. I was just a kid. Didn’t know any better. Probably wasn’t ready for those images.

Barely clad in anything but their tiny two piece swimsuits, the women in the magazine posed and flexed and lifted weights as their misshapen male-like bodies puffed and panted and pumped. I thought some of them were men. I thought they were just fat. I didn’t realize that a woman could look like that with enough work, the right diet, lifestyle changes, and so on. And I never thought it would happen to me.

My prominent ramified bugged-out veins… the new vascularity was preparing me. I realized that now. My body was prepping itself for the deluge of weight it meant to gain, whether I wished it or not. The old man–god, what was his name–he knew what to do. Forced me to eat till I threw up. Forced me to get under things and lift because my life depended on it. Told me I needed to be stronger. Told me I was special. I believed him… that nagging feeling inside of me enjoying becoming a monster… it wanted to believe him.

But it’s hard to explain what it was like gaining so much muscle in so little time, stepping in front of that mirror every day to watch how my body went from trashed, torn, and ragged the day before, rebuilt overnight into an ugly image of steel welding.

When I was a little girl, I filled up this water balloon. It was pink and it had stars on it. Why do I remember this? More and more and more water poured into it but my hand was on the faucet. I was going to shut it off. Just a little more, I said to myself. The pink latex stretched and stretched. Growing transparent.

I was squatting on my heels, I leaned forward amazed it hadn’t popped yet. How much could this balloon take? Inside, the water swirled and bubbled and rushed in, stained reddish by the color of the balloon, like it was filling up with blood. I didn’t want it to pop, but… I grew excited thinking about how big it could actually get.

Just a little more.

The sound. I remember the sound. Stretching. I put my face against the side of the balloon, pulled taut by the pressure building up inside of it. Heard the water rumbling. Anticipation kept my heart racing but at the same time, I felt peaceful. Relaxed. Let it burst. Let it drench me.

My hands were under the balloon now, hefting its weight. So heavy. So, so heavy. I even bobbed it up and down, felt it jiggle in my hands and then… the top of it tore off the faucet. It didn’t pop, just fell off the spigot and hit the ground. Water everywhere, but I felt only disappointment.

I was filling myself up now. I had no girlish pink or cute little stars. There was almost nothing left about me that resembled a girl, except for my face, and even that was raked with the wrinkles and circles of my anguished exhaustion, the pain I endured, forced my body to suffer, and the veins like fingers creeping up my neck… a neck that was soon thicker and wider than my head.

Had to get strong enough to defend my family. Had to use my genes like they were meant to be used. Had to listen to the old man. Wanted to. Wanted to feel like that balloon.

Just a little more.

Until something burst. I didn’t want a little more… I wanted a lot more. I wanted so much. There was no going back, anyway. I realized long ago that that little girl playing with water balloons and flipping through a magazine of female bodybuilders, she was dead and she wasn’t coming back. The world had changed. I would never go to high school. Never have a prom. Never get accepted by a college. Never go have dinner and a movie and then wind up in the back seat of a car. Never wear dresses or two piece swimsuits. Never get married. Never bear children.

None of that.

No going back.



(access the full story and library at patreon.com/pumpculture for just $5 a month)

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