complete novel MadMutter’s Thicker than Water — Chapters 1-8

[scarletic]

MadMutter's

Thicker than Water

by Scarletic

5

This Tall to Ride

When Max first read the name ‘Belmond’ on Jolias’ home-bound itinerary (two months prior), he nearly spat out his coffee. He was familiar with the company; it spoke of luxury, regardless of the product.

His best friend and long-time object of his affection had been planning a trip to South America — Peru, specifically — to visit his grandmother’s wake, and make ends meet with the cash he was bound to receive. They were both three months late on rent. Max wondered how Jolias planned on getting there in the first place; a grandiose tourist trap was the last thing he expected a part-time accountant to fall into.

Max’s size was still within the realm of possibility then. To anyone unaware of his German accent, he would’ve been dismissed as anyone’s average fresh American college graduate: 5’11”, 216 pounds, glasses, some chub. Some brains behind the gray eyes. No brawn. Mediocre looks.

Yet as he stood in the boarding lounge for the Belmond Andean Explorer train — payment for which Dr. Alice gladly covered as thanks for the sample — on the way to Lake Titicaca, Max was anything but average.

All that remained of his Chicagoan shadow was the paper-thin layer of fat that spread across his bed of mountainous abs.

He, Jolias, and Marco made an effort to measure him before leaving Easter Island. Though one wasn’t quite as keen as the other.

Even Marco, now 5’9”, needed a stool just to bring the tape measure to the top of Max’s head.

“…Seven-foot-three,” Marco muttered. “And you were only six-foot-six yesterday.”

Jolias carried on with the rest of the measurements, filling in for Marco’s abrupt exit from the guest house. Max didn’t even notice until they finished.

He weighed in at 406 pounds, boasting 27-inch biceps, 30-inch quads, a 38-inch waist, and 14-inch feet — an insane size 20 shoe in North America. Max couldn’t believe the numbers when he first heard them. Jolias had always been the one in his fantasy racking up those kinds of numbers. Not him. His chest around was 74 inches in circumference: as tall as a 6’2” man. Never could he have believed that his torso alone would’ve swollen large enough to dwarf his old height, eclipsing Jolias completely by eight inches.

And his cock had only grown with the rest of him. Every ejaculation made it shrink back down, but never fully. It always maintained a fraction of its maximum size, always finding new personal records to beat with every bout of growth. This time, he measured in at 15 inches, four inches in diameter. It looked less like a penis and more a miniature baseball bat.

Though, he knew, at the rate he was expanding, a baseball bat would be no more than a toothpick to him soon. And it excited him, just as much as it feared.

The other passengers waiting along with them in the boarding lounge were all Peruvian elites and European tourists and wealthy couples of two — sometimes, three. No one came close to Max’s size; he stood head, shoulders, and sometimes nipples above most of them. He was also a few years younger than half the next oldest passenger’s age. Most of the other riders were in the golden years. Some in their twilight.

Max was only 24. And he couldn’t help but smirk and chide at how he alone had more sex appeal than everyone on board combined besides Jolias and Marco.

It was something he normally otherwise wouldn’t have even begun to think of back in Chicago. Being someone’s living, breathing erotic fantasy. With his newfound size and chiseled face and (miraculously) self-correcting gray eyes, it was something he was growing into: figuratively and literally.

Just standing still, his shoulders spanned nearly three Joliases side-by-side; sideways, nearly two. If he were to squeeze either of his tits, the resulting sphere of muscle would’ve been the size of the sun — Jolias’ head, the moon.

He would never be able to wear his café’s work uniform when he got back. Much less fit behind the counter.

The itinerary they were scheduled on was the Spirit of the Water. A brief one-night stint from Cuzco to Puno, which was a bus ride away from Copacabana. There, Jolias and Marco’s family resided by the Lake Titicaca — a name Max was increasingly enjoying, though he never would’ve told Jolias. Because it sounded like ‘titty’ and ‘cock’, both of which he had in enormous proportions.

It was a struggle and a half squeezing him back in the seaplane.

Thankfully, back in Lima, they managed to dig up some extra-extra-large ponchos that just barely draped over his chest like a waterfall of orange and green fabric. The extra poncho had to be used as a loincloth in the meantime. Max wouldn’t have minded wearing it as a skirt, but his junk needed as much coverage as they could provide.

He was no stranger to teens in his neighborhood being beaten for their cocks being mistaken for pistols.

And he had a bazooka.

Nipples nearly the size of grenades.

The inside of the passenger lounge they entered was, from Max’s perspective, about the size of a bread box. Most people wouldn’t have had any issues with the seven-foot ceiling; Max had to bend his neck and squat ever so slightly just to fit vertically. Horizontally was a different matter. Because in a space as tightly crammed for efficiency like most train cars are, Max’s shoulders nearly grazed both ends of the shell — and that was without the extra walls and doors and fragile decorations getting in his way.

It still caught him off-guard how big he’d actually become. Only a week ago, he was only inches taller and pounds heavier than most of the other passengers. He was already relatively large then.

Now he was something more, something most people didn’t have a word for.

Everyone looked at him like he was a wild beast being boarded on a luxury train ride. But he couldn’t be offended; not when he knew what he looked like. And worse, what he was wearing.

“I feel ridiculous,” he said, out loud, no longer able to bend over to whisper in Jolias’ ear. “What’s there to do here? I want to take off these ponchos before I get a rash.”

Jolias snickered, giving Max’s exposed tit a firm squeeze. “And show off more skin? You’re gonna make these poor sugar daddies feel like wrinkly jars of lard.”

“Then maybe they should go swimming in some prehistoric space goo. At least looking like a muscle freak is free,” Max said, mindlessly stroking his abs, enjoying the way his fingers rhythmically bounced along their ridges. “God, I’m getting way too big. I don’t know how I’m supposed to ride the train to work looking like the Hulk’s European brother.”

Marco coughed, inviting himself into the conversation as he scanned their boarding passes. “I checked the itinerary on the way here. There should be a spa somewhere.” Though he kept his attention away from Max, avoiding each of Max’s attempts at camaraderie. “You and Jolias can enjoy your time together there. Get massaged in the nude.”

Max opened his mouth to speak as they were walking, but stopped, having accidentally knocked an old man to the floor with the side of his torso bumping into his fragile skull. “Oh, hey, are you alright?”

The small man nodded and hastily made his exit, hobbling away as fast as he could. There was a fear in his eyes that Max wasn’t used to. If he needed any proof they weren’t on Easter Island anymore, that was it.

“Already stooping to geriatric abuse, huh?” Jolias joked. “Good thing my grandmother’s already dead.”

Max chuckled. “It was an accident!”

“Stop joking about her like that, Elias.”

“Right, sorry.” Jolias fixed his head of hair.

On the outskirts of the passenger car where the link to the next was, the trio decided to part ways for the meantime. Max had had his eye on the spa, craving a well-deserved bath and massage. Plus, at this point, he would’ve done anything to get naked and revel in his size some more.

“I’ll be in my bedroom if you guys ever need me. I’ve also got to let Dr. Alice know we’re on the train.” Marco turned to face Jolias, peering down into his innocent face. “Are you really sure you don’t want to share the room with me?”

Jolias nodded, giving Marco’s firm cheek a light patting. “Yeah. I’d prefer to sleep with Max for tonight,” he said, winking at the behemoth, riling up his oversized junk, “we’ve got some catching up to do.”

“We do?” Max asked.

Jolias bit his lip and took a substantial handful of Max’s soft and bulbous pleasure stick. “We do now, big guy.”

A sigh left Marco’s lips, him perched against the black-painted railing overlooking the green landscapes, but no one heard. Max paid him no mind.

“Where’ll you be, Jol’?” Max asked.

The smallest of the three whipped out the brochure and hummed a tune as he stopped at what looked like a decadent dining car. It was embellished in scarlet velvets and gold accents that, when combined, had a visceral effect on Max and Jolias that reminded them of rose-perfumed money.

“Eating out their entire pantry, probably,” he said. “Good food like this is hard to come by. I’d say it’s just in South America, but the USA’s been no better, either.”

Marco turned, adjusting his too-small polo shirt. “That’s settled then.”

And off they went, Marco and Max to the back of the train, and Jolias to the front. They would meet up again later in the evening — and Max could only hope he would still fit in the suite come morning.

◊ ◊ ◊

The first step Jolias took into the train’s dining car was about as whelming as a leap on the moon. It was unexpected, to say the least, despite his expectations.

As soon as the entrance door opened, his face was walloped with a Chicagoan blizzard’s worth of ice-cold wind, laced with pungent hints of hot grilled beef and exotic spices. While his eyes adjusted to the bright golden lights that cut through the gap, his ears were audience to a recorded live performance of Frank Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon. Champagne glasses were clinking all around, and suits and furs and dress shoes were rubbing against the velvet fabrics and carpets that covered everything. It was a sharp jump in debauchery that vastly outpriced his modest life’s value.

When he planned on riding the train, he’d only concerned himself with stowing away on-board for free. Max becoming more and more of a public attraction made that impossible. Thankfully, closed doors opened new ones, and he was relieved Dr. Alice was willing to cover the costs.

And then some.

Back on Easter Island, she’d pulled him aside before they flew back to Lima, away from Marco and Max. “So I assume you’ve seen ‘at’s ‘appened to your brother, yes?” she asked, hands in her lab coat’s pockets.

“Yeah, he mentioned it had something to do with your research. I hope you plan on letting me know what it was you did to him,” Jolias replied, watching as Marco threw his bags into the seaplane’s cargo hold from a distance.

“You really are the smarter brother,” she said. “Yes, I used him as a guinea pig to test something for me. I diluted the sample I collected from your ‘umongous boyfriend and ‘ad ‘im take a dose to see what it would do. As we can both see, ‘e’s packed on quite a few pounds.” She turned to face Jolias, a curious glint in her eyes that resembled a knife’s edge. “I’m assuming you want the same?”

The same. More muscle? To become taller? It was something Jolias had been longing for since he started working out and recognizing his boundaries. He’d only recently come to terms with his body’s limits — but witnessing what happened to his best friend reignited that insecurity again.

Was a dose of his own something he wanted? Yes. There was no denying that much. But did he really need it? He’d yet to find his answer.

Dr. Alice seemed to recognize his apprehension and the cogs working in his brain and spoke on his behalf. “What I gave your brother was nothing more than a dose, Monsieur…” she paused, unsure of his preferred last name.

“Castor.”

“Castor,” she continued. “I took a sample of ‘is blood this morning, and there was no trace of the organism. ‘E will not grow more than ‘e already ‘as. I assure you. ‘Owever, I do believe that the organism is still alive in Monsieur Voigt.” She hooked his gaze onto hers, making sure to take up his full attention, their faces as close as they could be without touching lips. “If you were to consume a live sample within the next few days, I am confident that you will become another ‘ost and experience a similar chain of growth.”

Jolias was taken aback, his breath short on air in his surprise. “What, me?”

Dr. Alice adjusted her goggle-glasses. “No, the giant corpses beneath our feet. Yes, you, espèce d'imbécile.”

Jolias glanced at Max squeezing into the seaplane — and tragically failing. “So if I… suck him off and drink his cum, I’ll get to grow as big as him too?”

She shrugged. “I never said anything about a blowjob, but yes. Perhaps even bigger if you end up stimulating the organism more than he has. He’s barely done anything with the poor thing so far; I almost feel sorry for it.”

That conversation bounced around in the back of Jolias’ head like an echo chamber that refused to silence.

Both he and Max knew, even without mentioning it once, that they would be fucking each other silly once night fell. Inevitable, as most things were in lust. There was no better time to test out Dr. Alice’s conjecture and dispel any worry Max had about him treating himself to his possessed sperm.

Experimentation came in many forms — sex was Jolias’ favorite method.

Regardless, the sun was high in the sky. And he was hungry. Starving.

The middle-aged bartender caught his eye and grimaced at his lackluster outfit. A simple ensemble: a red collared shirt, khaki shorts, and hiking boots. Jolias smiled in response and readied himself. He didn’t plan on ending the day on an empty stomach.

Who filled it was a different matter altogether.

◊ ◊ ◊

Even before he set foot inside, Max could already get a whiff of the eucalyptus and lavender scents permeating from the spa car.

Something cracked in the machinations of the brass door handle in Max’s grip, leading him to grimace, the sound of which was definitely heard by whoever was inside the spa car. His strength was still something he hadn’t gotten used to. And he’d forgotten how easily priceless things could break — untested by life’s mettles, conceived in weakness.

He ducked his head and squeezed his shoulders and pressed his glutes together as he pushed open the door and made his way inside. The frame was shorter and slimmer than the others. Already sideways, Max found his voluminous chest to be his nemesis. Its twin peaks took up the entirety of the allotted space, and no matter how hard he compressed them, he very nearly had no choice but to force his way into the spa by tearing down the wall.

A woman’s voice inside panicked, followed by her approaching footsteps, but Max barely noticed.

Not when he propelled himself inside and crashed into her, sending them both the floor, her small head tucked safely in his cleavage. The entire car shook with a tremor. He breathed a sigh of relief. The wind from her fearful gasps felt like warm silk that tickled his nipples, washing over his abs.

He kept mindful of the short ceiling as he rose. There were enough craters in the ceilings leading up to the spa car to tell who caused it and where the vandal was going.

Those, and the noise complaints from bumping into everything.

The interior featured leaf-green walls and cream accents. Stark contrasts from the rest of the Andean Explorer’s gold and ivory and crimson palette. Playing on the overhead speakers was a classical piece Max never would’ve been able to name in his lifetime, not when most of his usual playlists consisted of a discordant blend of Kraftklub and Julian Calor and various Nordic indie artists whose names he had yet to learn how to pronounce.

No one was standing behind the sole counter — because, as he knew too well, the receptionist was only moments ago nearly pulped by a half-ton man.

The Belmond name never would’ve been able to live that one down.

“Are you alright?” Max asked, offering the petrified woman a large white hand, her skin tone dark enough to resemble fine oak. She was beautiful, even pitted against his preferences, her piercing hazel eyes and plump lips enough to impress even him.

She took his hand and nodded, unsure which part of his Herculean body to check out first. “Thank you, sir,” she said, Peruvian accent thick, “I’m fine.” As the woman stood, the more of Max’s body she considered, and the worse her stutter became. When she finally got back on her two feet, her eyes were wide as marbles. “A-are you here for a massage, señor?” she asked, brushing her apron.

Her admiration wasn’t lost on Max. He stripped off his upper poncho and tossed it onto the nearby leather couch, wanting to move things along and get comfortable. His over-seven-foot muscle truck of a body was nude save for the loincloth holding up his cock. And he moved with the grace of a newborn cow.

And he relished the way her mouth salivated with every stupefied blink.

Back behind the counter where her computer was, her trembling fingers dashed across the keyboard in a blizzard of fingers. “May I have the name of your reservation?”

Max nodded, cutting the distance between them, his member gently pressed against the marble countertop. “Yeah, it should be Castor. Castillo-Moreno if it doesn’t work.”

“Mr. Voigt?” she asked.

Another nod.

“I can squeeze you in for a…” she paused.

“A?”

“I’m sorry, it looks like you’ve been booked by… an Alice Dupree… for the presidential session.” Her eyes lit up as she raised a hand, leading him to the back of the car nearing the caboose. “If you would come with me?”

“Dr. Alice?” he asked, incredulously, and shrugged. “Alright, I guess. What’s in the package?”

Behind the divider separating the entrance from the main area was a surprisingly spacious room that — while it still was far too short for Max to stand fully — had enough room for four white leather massage beds.

None of which were strong enough alone to carry him.

He’d become too big to rest himself on just one. The woman called for another masseuse who helped move them around. All together, nearly the size of a double bed, it was just enough to accommodate Max.

“She had some personal requests for you,” the other masseuse said, less surprised, more aware. No accent to be heard, her English crisp.

Suspiciously practiced.

Max relaxed and crawled onto the makeshift plus-sized bed on his chest, allowing his arms and feet to drape over the sides and ends. Shoulder to shoulder, he nearly covered the full width of two massage beds.

And in his pelvic center was the intersecting gap between all four, giving him just enough room to fit his genitals into. They swung like pendulums beneath him, their weight more noticeable now with the rest of him suspended.

The second masseuse adjusted her ponytail and subtly raised the tip of her lips. Her expression read of mischief. The head masseuse, he guessed. But no doubt she was more than that. She had an air of something clinical about her; the two working the spa car were nothing alike.

At her breast was a nametag. Nicole.

Did Nicole know Dr. Alice?

Even standing, neither woman’s head cleared the combined height of the massage tables topped with Max’s voluminous mass, the depth of his torso almost as tall as the gap between the beds and the floor.

A fruit could have fit in between the crevice separating his pecs and stomach, and it would have come out unharmed. His pecs were bloated cushions of muscle and fat that flattened and spread fully laid on the tables, almost like miniature exercise balls.

From one of the nearby shelves, the first masseuse pulled what looked like a bottle of oil.

Before she opened it, Nicole put a stop to it with a gentle hand. She said nothing, but Max was observant.

Her hand dug into a small cardboard box set aside, and — though limited by his peripheral vision — Max could tell it was no oil meant for happy endings. The bottle was clear glass and had no label and looked more like viscous water — but it had his name on it. Maxwell Voigt. Why was a question he couldn’t answer. If he had to muster a guess, Dr. Alice was at the top of his list.

“What is that?” Max asked, watching as Nicole uncapped the lid and lathered her hands in its contents; the smell of which was strangely chemical. Artificial.

Nicole smirked, cracking her neck as she planted her knowing hands on his shoulder and ass cheek. “Alice will tell you everything tomorrow. Just relax, big man,” she said, disregarding the scientist’s title suspiciously casually. “You’ll thank her when the night’s through.”

Max was growing uneasy. Too many unanswered elements, too many loose threads the ends and solutions to were being kept from him. For a moment, he thought about leaving. Dr. Alice’s intentions were obscure as fog; he didn’t want her meddling with him more than she needed to.

She got what she came for. What else did she want from him?

Before he found the will to move, the mysterious liquid’s menthol properties began seeping into his unblemished skin, soaking into each pore and numbing his senses.

Nicole’s hands were as skilled as they were manicured, and for once Max didn’t mind a woman’s hands crawling over him.

“That’s it…” she whispered, digging the balls of her palms into his muscles. Less about making a dent, and more about getting as much of the bottle’s contents in and on him.

He groaned, surrendering a losing battle, and suddenly felt a jolt in the base of his penis that riled up his libido. Even half asleep, he found enough energy to recognize the receptionist’s soft hands tugging and fondling his genitals underneath the beds.

There was no use fighting. As his erection rose, his consciousness fell.

Into black.

◊ ◊ ◊

The train’s horn blared in Marco’s bedroom suite, its tight walls acting as drums for the noise to bounce off of.

He was sitting on his twin bed, legs crossed over the other along the length of the mattress, his back against pillows, phone in his hands. There was a myriad of things he could’ve been doing on such a ride, he knew that much. Whoever wrote the brochure made sure not to leave anything out — even the dog parlor next to the spa. The past few days’ non-stop barrage of engagement, however, was wearing him out. Some peace and quiet and solitude was all he needed to recharge —

But as he stared at the vacant, untouched, unoccupied twin bed next to his, he felt infinitely empty. More so than he usually did the past few years.

Jolias should have been there with him, sharing stories about life in Chicago, counting the birds that zipped past the scarily wall-sized window next to them.

They should have been together. But Marco knew better than to keep a wild fox on a leash. Not when Jolias’ other half was worth two of him: literally and figuratively. There was no use fighting. His surrender didn’t come easy.

Even being three inches taller and probably thirty pounds heavier with lean mass, Marco still saw himself as the same weakling he’d always been. His reflection in the mirror, adorned with his side-shaved, buzzcut head of hair, didn’t look right. It didn’t belong. When he imagined Jolias as Jolias saw himself, it was in his current body. Wearing his black tank top. Wearing his white boxers.

The devil in him wondered if Max thought the same way: that Jolias was the more deserving of either of them to have been bestowed with their size. That they hadn’t put in the effort he had. His dedication. His years of hard work, sculpting his tight athletic body.

A week ago, Jolias had been the strongest of them all.

Now he was the opposite. A speck compared to Max’s behemoth.

Before Marco could ride his spiral any deeper, his phone (left silent) vibrated in his hands. It was an abrupt but welcome respite.

Though his relief was short-lived, as the name on the caller stood out and pulled a frown on his face. It was a call from Dr. Alice.

“Hello?” he asked, searching the speaker’s background droning for any clues as to her current location.

She took a moment to reply, but her entrance didn’t come quietly. The distant sound of an airplane taking off competed against the train’s constant rumble before she introduced herself with a phlegmy throat-clearing. “Marco?” she half-yelled.

“Si? Is there something you need?” he asked.

“Are all three of you on the train yet?”

Marco nodded, then snickered, remembering he was alone. “Yeah, we’re all here. Thank you again for covering the trip. Why do you ask?”

There was momentary pause on the other end. “Where are your brother and the German?” she asked, skipping the pleasantries.

He knew where they were. But he didn’t know what Dr. Alice had in mind. “Why? Did you need me to ask them something?” Perhaps he could gleam some information if he held onto the knowledge for a few more questions.

“It’s confidential, Marco. Consider it payment for the vial.”

Another sigh of resignation. She was no cheap for bribery. “Max went to the spa,” he said. “My brother went to have a snack.”

“Already? Monsieur Voigt’s a few hours early to ‘is appointment. Your brother, did ‘e say ‘ow much ‘e would be eating?”

Marco’s stomach growled at him at the mere thought of food. His hand patted his stomach, briefly stunned at the existence of abs he’d forgotten he had. “No.”

“Hm.” She breathed into the microphone, a habit of hers whenever she was considering something. “If you could, please make sure to tell your twin not to eat too much.”

He was caught off-guard at the left-field request. “Why?”

Again, Dr. Alice breathed. “I instructed a colleague of mine to conduct some additional tests on the specimen at the spa. On Max. But they were supposed to call ‘im in later this evening when ‘e was more tired, not wide awake. I’m worried about the potential consequences if your brother sleeps with him later tonight with a full stomach. If you don’t stop ‘im, I’m afraid the outcome may be… less than ideal.” She paused. “For you, anyway. Come morning, you may no longer have a twin.”

Marco choked on his saliva at the sudden implications. “What?!”

“Don’t worry. The boy won’t die. ‘Owever, I—“

She was interrupted by the voice of a distant man, and the sound of a plane’s overhead bin being shut. “Ma’am, for the sixth time, I’m going to have to ask you to put your phone on airplane mode. We’re about to take off.”

“Oh, va te faire foutre, connard! Tu ne vois pas que je—“

The call ended as abruptly as it started, and Marco found himself once again alone in his room. In its absent-mindedness, his finger scrolled down his contacts to his brother’s name. Though it wasn’t quite as he’d left it. Ever since he had a phone, the name he had for his twin had always been Julias Castillo-Moreno. Not Jolias Castor. As if he needed another reminder that they were about as similar as black and white — and Jolias evidently took it upon himself to change the name on his phone when Marco wasn’t paying attention. It hurt to know how eager Jolias was to eliminate any connection he had to his pre-Chicago self, decanting his identity of the Castillo-Moreno name. Marco’s stubbornness to abandon the name didn’t seem to bother Jolias. He cut them off so easily. All of them.

At that, Dr. Alice’s warning of sorts interrupted his train of thought, and as he stared at his brother’s name on his phone — arguing with himself as to whether he should call or leave him be — perhaps whatever Jolias had in store for him was well-deserved.

Whatever it is, he’s got it coming, he thought to himself.

One final look out the window told him it was closing in on twilight, the sun already jagged behind the passing mountaintops lining the horizon. He’d wake in time for dinner. Perhaps, breakfast. He was in no mood to see anyone in his current state. Not Max. Not Jolias. Not Dr. Alice.

He shut off his phone and crawled into his duvet, shutting his eyes, and savoring his isolation. He’d wake up whenever he damn well felt like it.

Whatever were to happen to Jolias, knowing the man’s habit of gluttonous indulgence when money was of no concern, no fault of his.

◊ ◊ ◊

The train rumbled beneath Jolias’ feet, the steady sway now a momentary tremor as it swerved around a corner. Its decorated walls were far enough away from his compact frame to avoid slamming into him, and he’d had enough of a history in gymnastics to understand the ways of his physique and keep his balance. On any other night, heading back to the suite would have been easy.

But Jolias was carrying additional baggage that complicated his rehearsed gait: a loaded stomach’s worth of tightly sardined gourmet food.

If his gag reflex weren’t as exercised as it was, he would have puked it out the moment he left the dining car. As far as Jolias could recall, this was the first time blowjobs were good for more than just instant gratification.

People did, on occasion, attempt to steal a look at him: the strangely young passenger who dressed as casually as a rent boy on the red-light avenue. More so since he still looked Peruvian, dark skin and all. Jolias was, of course, no stranger to the scrutiny; at times, he even played it out, glaring back and putting on a shitty European accent to disconcert their prejudices. Max had taught him as much — though Jolias’ (admittedly racist attempts at) German still needed work.

Once he reached his and Max’s shared suite cabin, he darted inside and heaved a sigh of relief. The sack of food he’d been lugging around hadn’t left his system on the way back. Thank god.

The lights were still shut, and only the moonlight coming in from the wall-sized window cast an ethereal white glow on the furniture, contrasting against evening blues. Even then, it wasn’t great visibility; the mountain ranges they traced caused the moon to strobe in and out. Jolias switched a lamp on and shut the door behind him, enjoying the red and orange Peruvian textiles and fabrics that decorated the otherwise bland bed and walls and table.

Max wasn’t back from his day at the spa yet, and, checking his phone, Marco hadn’t tried to get in touch either. For now, Jolias had the room to himself. No one to share the cooled wind with.

Once Jolias was free of his clothes, save his briefs, he pulled a white cotton robe out of the closet and draped it over. It was a pain moving around, given that it was a size large — but it was comfortable, and at least, unlike Max, he could still actually wear it. Oversized and all.

The bottle of champagne on the table called to him, and he poured himself a quick glass, stuffing his engorged stomach even further. Not that it was distended, of course; far from it: his marble-sculpted abs were protective enough of his physique to camouflage the balloon of food. He’d made sure of that. The calories necessary to gain mass were far more than he usually ate, and he had no intention to let his growing appetite ruin his outward appeal.

Jolias spread himself out on the bed like a starfish and posed in such a way to appeal to whomever came barreling through the front door. One knee up, legs wide, chest in full view. Bulge exposed, one arm resting behind his head.

Dare he say, even without his usual full-body mirror, that he was as much a snack as any at the buffet.

“Now to wait,” he muttered.

He counted the passing footsteps outside their cabin, but none seemed to belong to Max. They were all too light, too soft, too… unpunctuated by the sound of collateral damage. Random passers-by all. Boring.

Nor were any Marco’s. His brother had a way of walking: featherlike steps to propel him forward, maximizing his speed. The added size didn’t change that much.

It was already nine in the evening, and Jolias was in no mood to wait.

He hadn’t forgotten about his twin’s confession. And Max’s hunger for him hadn’t softened in the past few weeks, only grown along with him. Exponentially so.

In Jolias’ mind, it was settled. He was tired of debating. Forced between two choices every passing day.

Whoever came in through the door first would be his, and he theirs. At least for the night.

Five minutes passed.

And Jolias burped in surprise, the sound of someone’s half-ton feet slamming into the floorboards down the hall. The part of him that waited for Marco sank into nothing; but the rest of him, aflutter heart and stomach and lungs, felt paper light in compared excitement. Each breath he took was synchronous with what could have only been the sound of Max’s extremities colliding into everything. Passengers included. At least one overhead lamp as well.

The closer he got, the more Jolias’ head instinctively tilted toward the door in anticipation, and the louder Max’s voice became despite being mere whispers.

“213, 215…” Max said, muffled, counting the numbers on each cabin. “217, 219… Oh, finally.”

 The handle rattled, and Jolias’ eyes were going dry in suspense, his heart about ready to burst. But the door never opened. He forgot only he and Marco had keys. And he’d forgotten to unlock it.

“Shit,” Jolias grumbled, tossing himself out of bed, ruining his perfect pose, “I’m coming! Don’t tear down the door,” he yelled.

“Could you hurry it up, please!” Max cried. “There are people out here staring.”

Jolias pulled out the key and turned it in the lock. “Keep your nutsack screwed in, I’m unlocking the door.”

The moment it clicked, Jolias was knocked off his feet by it suddenly flying into him. It slammed into the wall and left a dent; yet still it was hardly the draw of attention. Because standing in the doorway was a man whose muscles were so swollen they resembled things with their own individual heartbeats. Max’s head didn’t even fit in the doorframe; only his fibrous neck — the width of Jolias’ own worked-out thighs — came into view, tapering into delts that trailed past the door, bolstering shoulders that could neither squeeze through nor be any smaller than Jolias’ entire head.

Jolias had to step back to allow the first of Max’s feet into the cabin, now unforgivingly tight thanks to his presence. “Sorry I took so long,” Max said, ducking and squeezing and twisting his body to fit inside. “I think I passed out in the spa.”

Max’s handsome face came under the door’s overhead light, illuminating his sharp yet soft features in a golden sheen, his crisp-cut jawbone, his slim Nordic nose. Disheveled hazel hair. Heavenly thick eyebrows uncovered by the absence of his usual glasses, now framing his bright gray eyes.

He smiled at Jolias, and all was forgiven.

He continued his assault on the doorframe, his lats and ginormous pecs demanding more space than they seemed. Most people’s asses paled in comparison to a single of Max’s spherical tits, each with soft pink nipples that could fill a grown man’s palm, pointing down towards his bed of abs, each the size of fists. His abdomen was nestled in between his burgeoning obliques and rock-hard former lovehandles, making his torso wider than it needed to be, strong enough to crush the air out of Jolias’ ribs should he choose.

“Christ, are you going to fit in here?” Jolias asked, stepping even further back to allow his best friend — now double the size he came to South America with — the entire entryway for him to stand in.

“I’m doing my best, Jol’,” Max said, grunting as he squeezed each of his tree trunk legs into the shoebox cabin. “It’s not easy being the biggest guy in the world.”

Jolias rolled his eyes in jest. “Oh, shut up.”

Once Max got one leg in, only then did Jolias realize Max was carrying around enough weight to rival a child’s — in between his legs. Even wearing a white silk blanket draped around his waist, the leg-thick outline of a pristine cock was pressed up against it, the semi-hard mushroom head alone already larger than Jolias’ entire fist (perhaps doubly so). It swung down to his knees, which, for a 7’3” tall giant, were a sizeable distance away from his pelvis. It was akin to a third thigh, with maybe only half the girth of his actual thighs. Still, for a cock, it was undoubtedly the biggest Jolias had ever seen outside of morphs and cartoons.

Max knocked over a picture frame and a flower vase and the framed emergency exit poster on his way in. By the time he managed to make enough room to close the door, there was more beef in the entryway than space to breathe. Jolias could have told room service a storm had brewed and died in that same vacuum of space, and — judging by mess alone — they would have had no choice but to believe it.

“Scheiße, it’s small in here,” Max said. “Were there no bigger cabins?”

Jolias walked over to his giant and dug down and gripped a single testicle in his hands, the size of which felt like an apple. “Not when the average passenger is half your size. This is already the suite. Any bigger and you’ll need a car to yourself.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad of an idea. Fuck, you’d think a train ride worth a Koenigsegg would at least have some decent liquor.” He turned to Jolias. “You think they’ve got alcoholic Häagen-Dazs here?”

Max continued shoving his way into the tight space, nearly knocking over a vase or two. From the corner he was forced into, Jolias noticed that Max’s body was glistening, not with sweat but oil. He looked wet from the neck down, and it stained parts of the silk loincloth he was wearing. There was no grace in his movements. By the time he hit the bed, the walls and ceilings and most of the furniture all had patches of translucent oil that hadn’t soaked into his skin yet.

His muscles jiggled, unflexed, wherever he went, with each breath he took. Like a walking sack of water balloons that swayed with the force of a wrecking ball.

“Finally, an actual bed,” Max said, throwing himself onto the bed, instantly consuming all usable mattress. The bedframe creaked for dear life as wood splinters broke off following his impact. Like Jolias had earlier, he too spread his arms and legs out — only he wasn’t as modest about the space he took. His wingspan stretched out further than the entire queen-sized bed could hold, his fingers pressed against the opposite ends of the walls.

Jolias had to take a step back to avoid being accidentally kicked when Max’s elephantine legs flew towards him as a missile. “Hey, watch where you’re throwing your limbs around. It’s like you forgot you’re three inches away from being two feet taller than me now.”

Max lifted his head from the pillows, and — although obscured by his bulbous pecs — Jolias could see him grinning from beyond the mountains.

“Sorry,” Max said, jokingly. “If you need a place to sleep, you’d probably fit on me just fine.” He pulled away the silk sheet covering his cock, allowing it to point towards the ceiling in obelisk fashion. “This big ol’ didgeridoo would be a pretty good body pillow, too.”

Jolias slapped Max’s knee and carried the bottle of champagne over to Max’s side, maneuvering over and around his body to get there.

“Before we get frisky, a toast,” Jolias said, taking a hearty swig of the drink, and lifting the bottle up to Max’s mouth, “to us.”

“To us—“

Jolias didn’t wait for him to finish before plugging his mouth with the bottle and pouring its contents down his throat. He was met with some resistance, but Max relaxed and allowed the champagne to pour freely into his stomach. It was going to take an army to intoxicate him; Jolias was going to be that for him.

The more Max swallowed, the closer Jolias inched toward his face, crawling up onto his torso, using his chest as a support, meeting his eyes and stroking his oversized cheek that smelt of eucalyptus and lavender. His miniature dark brown hands looked like a doll’s against Max’s white face, and the pointed difference in size wasn’t arousing just him. Not when Max’s monolith of a penis flexed and poked Jolias’ elbow with its succulent head.

Jolias guessed that his entire body probably wouldn’t have been able to wrap around half the circumference of Max’s chest anymore, no matter how far he draped himself from armpit to armpit.

The emptied bottle left Max’s pink lips with a pop, and he smiled at his tiny friend. “That was some good champagne,” he said. “No Carlos Primero, but it’ll do.”

Jolias winked at him and held his face with his hands, admiring how much broader his head alone was compared to his. “No idea what or who the hell that is, but if you like it, then it must be good. Is the big man still thirsty?”

Max mumbled, nodded, and pulled Jolias in with both arms, engulfing his mouth with his own pair of lips, simultaneously crushing him against his tit with an effortless bear hug.

Jolias and Max swapped tongues for a minute, exploring the nooks and crevices of the other’s mouth, surprised at the other’s eagerness to do so. It was a rarity for them both to have something in common to compete over; athleticism had always been Jolias’ specialty (now formerly so), and artistry had always been Max’s. In this moment, however, together, entwined in the other’s arms, they both wanted one thing more than the other—

Each other. And they were giving everything they had to prove just that.

Max released Jolias after another minute had passed, and their mouths tasted the same, their lips sufficiently lubricated and moist. “You taste amazing,” he said, face turning pink from the alcohol, moaning with every breath.

Jolias wiped the excess saliva from his cheeks and snickered, giving Max’s face another lick. “Better than the champagne?”

Max quivered in arousal. “Nothing beats good wine,” he said, squeezing his tits together into a giant amalgamous mass of soft muscle to stimulate his nipples, “and as far as I know, I’ve been waiting millennia to taste you.”

“The darker the berry, the sweeter the juice, yeah?” Jolias said. His eyes then traveled down to the pillar of a cock that hovered over Max’s abs, its wide slit large enough to fit his entire tongue. “Now it’s my turn. I’ve had a taste of German beef, but I prefer my steaks medium-rare.”

Max adjusted and rested his shoulders against the bed’s headrest. “Juicy enough for you?”

Jolias crawled down to the space between Max’s legs and hugged the ivory phallus against his chest, the mushroom head inches below his chin. “Just how I like it.”

A nervous chuckle escaped the big man’s lips before being overcome by his arousal. “Oh, fuck…”

No permission necessary, Jolias bent over and started having his way with Max’s shaft, the girth of which didn’t fit in Jolias’ hands combined.

Still, even with the unnatural amount of swelling it had gone through, the once average six-inch penis remained perfectly unblemished at its now 16-inch immensity. Entwined between two plump veins that wrapped around the bulging urethra, the cock was something out of a fantasy — and Jolias was living it.

Jolias’ fingers prodded the underside of the head, and squeezed it, and molded it like putty in his hands. The effect his controlled stimulation was visible on Max’s face. A state of pure euphoria that turned his cheeks red, eyes shut.

A humongous scrotum fell out of place and landed on Jolias’ lap, surprising even him by how much cum was loaded in Max’s testicles, filling them to a bursting point that stretched its skin.

And Jolias didn’t hesitate to juggle each in his hands. Which meant replacing the work his fingers were doing on the massive cock with his mouth — and by extension, tongue. Fitting, he supposed, since Max was particularly weak to urethral play. A kink he’d never expected him to have, but enjoyed, nevertheless.

“Fuck, Jol’, you’re going to make my balls explode,” Max said.

The thought amused Jolias, and though he couldn’t reply, his mumbling caused Max to stir. The giant adjusted himself to lift and flex both arms behind his head. Even with biceps larger than his head, Max was fully in Jolias’ mercy, and both were enjoying every second of it.

Jolias’ whole life, he’d never expected to be pleasuring such an enormous man before. America wasn’t starved of tall men, many of whom frequented the gym — still, Max made them all resemble children compared to him. Any who came close relied on steroids or miraculous genetic luck. Max had neither, yet he beat both, and was now being beaten off and sucked and pleasured by the smallest and only) boyfriend he’d ever had. No taller than 5’6”. A fact that wasn’t lost on either.

Jolias’ tongue was small enough to fit inside the slit of Max’s fat cock, and big enough to push against its edges, to occupy the entire space and stimulate two deep inches’ worth of the interior. Within seconds, it was lubed from wall to wall in a sweet mix of both their salivas and a generous helping of champagne.

“Holy…” Max groaned, tossing his head back in euphoria.

There was a rumble emitting from the base of Max’s balls that let Jolias know he was almost ready to erupt.

And, unlike that night at the museum, it was going straight to his stomach. Whether Max wanted it or not.

With another squeeze of the shaft, the urethra, its veins, the head, and its underside, and a dragging of Jolias’ tongue against Max’s cock’s slit, the big man was pushed to his limit.

The cum shot out from his balls and up his cock and into Jolias’ mouth faster than the little man could take a breath.

They held the force of bullets and the volume of baseballs. Each spurt just as potent as the last, Max’s seed bursting down Jolias’ throat in a rhythmic force that matched both their heartbeats.

Jolias held on for dear life, nearly flung back from the sheer impact each helping of seed had. He had to be careful not to let any drops stain his bath robe. His fingers clawed into Max’s ass for support, to which he didn’t even seem to notice, his mind clearly floating elsewhere.

The Peruvian was reminded of his overloaded dinner, and his stomach was being stuffed to maximum capacity. Painfully so.

Just as the ejaculation was beginning to subside, he was ready to start diverting some traffic in his esophagus to his lungs instead.

Max’s cock and balls, as usual, shrunk as his bout ended, though strangely not by much. They softened into semis but still boasted nearly as many inches as they did an hour before.

Jolias couldn’t take another second of it. He fell forwards into Max’s crotch and rested his face on the bigger man’s washboard of marblesque abs.

“I should’ve skipped dinner,” Jolias said, gasping, “you didn’t cum this much at the museum.”

“I was a foot shorter then, remember?” Max inhaled deeply and patted Jolias’ fluffy head of black hair.

“And now you’re going to grow some more?” Jolias asked.

“Probably.”

“Excited?”

Max shrugged, pulling Jolias from under his arms and resting his petite body on his chest. “You used to be so much bigger than me before,” he said. “I always thought you were stronger than anyone I’d ever met, even if you are kind of short.”

Jolias tweezed Max’s nipple jokingly and kissed it. “Fuck you. Just you wait, I’ll find a way to get my revenge.”

Both men laughed, and sighed, then waited. Waited for Max’s growth spurt to begin, as it always did. They wondered just how much bigger he would become, how many inches, pounds he stood to gain. Every time he came, each burst outdid the last, increasing in intensity just as he did in size.

Jolias heart lightened from the anticipation. Then he remembered. Max had grown seven inches taller from his last spurt alone. He was 7’3” now. Anything over eight inches of height would take him over the inhuman eight-foot limit.

Was Max ready?

Was Jolias ready? Because the world definitely wasn’t.

“Oh,” Max said, “here it comes.”

His body rumbled, a sudden bodily tremble.

That came and left in the span of a shiver.

Any changes made were invisible to Jolias, too minor for Max to notice, and negligible considering how much more violent his latest experience had been. Nor were there no changes, either. Even Jolias, small and frail as he was, could tell Max had gained at least a few pounds — his pecs a little rounder, his arms and legs a little fuller.

But even his first accident in the plane had had more noticeable effects.

The ordeal bothered Jolias. He was expecting Max to grow; evidently, judging by the uncomfortable wincing on Max’s face, so was he. Only there seemed to be something else.

“Hey, is something up with you?” Jolias asked. “If we need to call the crazy French lady, you’ve got to let me know.”

Max shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, no, don’t worry about me, Jol’. I could tell there was something different… but I thought it was nothing.”

“But you look like you just took a massive dump.”

“Thankfully, I didn’t.” Max’s breathing quickened, his fleshy surface bouncing Jolias up and down like a doll on his lungs. “I don’t know what happened. It’s like, something happened in the spa. I passed out before the masseuses even did anything to me. They just put some lotion on me”—he hefted his balls in one hand—“on my balls, and, next thing I know, I was being sent out of the spa. Headed back here for some sleep. Found you instead.”

“Do you think the alien died?” Jolias asked. “Didn’t think it was possible for an extraterrestrial to be allergic to eucalyptus.”

Max moaned in displeasure at the thought. “Don’t even say that. I don’t like imagining a dead thing floating around in my scrotum.”

The comment moved Jolias to laughter, but, with each passing second, every weakening chortle, his stomach grew bolder.

It suddenly became painful to move, to breathe, the contents of his stomach — a deadly concoction of proteins and sperm and alcohol — coagulated into a difficult mass that reminded him more of his body after core exercises. Sore and unwieldy.

Max obviously noticed and tried sitting up, “Whoa, hey, are you in pain?” he asked, held in place by a writhing Jolias, curled up on his stomach, ass on the bed between Max’s legs.

Jolias looked up into Max’s eyes and saw genuine fear looking back at him. “Fuck, I don’t know if it’s something I ate, but it feels like a meteor just portaled into my fucking guts.” He knocked against his abs and was surprised at how distinctly separate the boulder in his stomach had become to the rest of him, a thin layer of skin and muscle covering a ball of steel.

“Are you sure it’s okay to be hitting your stomach like that?” Max asked.

This time, it was Jolias’ turn to shake his head. “I don’t even think this is my stomach anymore. It’s like—“

He couldn’t finish his sentence; a sharp pang stabbed into the thing inside him, piercing it from inside, allowing its now viscerally fluid contents to spill, to flow through his bloodstream. It was a hot river of something charged, something loaded with power. A leaking battery.

It was a sensation he hadn’t felt in weeks — the feeling of a warm pump after a productive workout. His upper body felt it first, the blood of infinity coursing into his arms. The biceps, triceps. Forearms. Shoulders.

His chest, each pec becoming wellsprings for the power to circulate to and from. His neck. His delts. Lats. Traps. Back. Obliques.

He fell forward onto Max, his hands firmly planted on skin, holding him up. With every breath he took, the circulation of strength hastened, a feeling that glowed brighter, becoming a white-hot fire that stole his fatigue and converted it into vigor. New life from nothing.

No, not nothing. He knew, it was a combination of everything. The food, among them steaks and barbecues. Max’s cum, the spawn of a living thing inside his balls that fed him with power, the very same that now seemed to revitalize his tired body. It transformed him, was doing so, even as it singed the ends of his nerves. His head down to his toes. Like his very anatomy was being unified into one amalgamation of raw strength. A living, breathing pump.

He couldn’t help but let out a laugh, the pain now a pleasurable thing.

Whatever was happening to him, something he’d originally been afraid of, was now a miracle he welcomed with every fiber of his being.

“…Jol’?” Max called.

Jolias bobbed his head and grinned, teeth exposed, at Max. No reply. Not when he was fully swallowed by whatever was in him. He was holding up his torso, stretching his body, arcing backwards with Max’s legs as supports. He could feel the vim wriggling through his veins, across his webs of muscle sinew.

And then, the second Jolias’ entire body felt unlocked of its mortality, something began to spawn, to grow inside him, to grow him, completely. A tumor-like growth that fed on what he’d fed on to create more of him.

His vision went blank as he stared up at the ceiling — and almost, impossibly so, he glimpsed that it was lowering towards him. The room itself shrinking around him.

“Oh, my god,” Max gasped. “Jol’, you’re… growing!”

Jolias didn’t comprehend what his boyfriend had just said until he saw it for himself the moment he lowered his head and found his chin colliding with something that definitely wasn’t there before: a pec shelf. At least, not at the size he was now boasting.

With each passing second, he found his vision more and more obscured and blotted out by two fleshy spheres that were unceasing in their expansion. They continued to protrude from his ribs forward. And sidewards.

Whatever it was that once formed in his stomach was now gone, replaced by a brick wall of square abs that brushed against one another for space.

The surprises only continued in his arms, when he noticed too late that his once out-stretched arms that were holding him up on Max’s thighs had bent at the elbow and folded into ninety-degree angles. And the muscle he’d already had wasn’t lost amidst the lengthening of his limbs. No, it was only exacerbated. It was added onto, pumped like a sponge into something greater. The peaks of his biceps and triceps and forearms distances themselves from his bones, burying them under pounds and pounds of freshly-baked beef that only grew heavier, bulkier, wider with each breath.

The bath robe had fallen off him now. Yet it couldn’t escape, not when the sleeves were trapped at his shoulders, blockaded by two calf-sized arm muscles he’d never seen at such a size before. Where Max had needed several extra days to accumulate the poundage he had, Jolias’ already developed body seemed particularly malleable and open to fast and sudden growth.

His bones only ached for a second as he felt himself stretch, his body wider, taller, larger. Then it felt good. Then he wanted more.

The legs he had that struggled to take up any amount of space on the double bed were now creeping along the fabric sheets. Max had to move his own legs to make room, pouring them over the side at the knees. Full hams barely even compared anymore.

It was an insane volume of sensations Jolias had never experienced before. A drug he felt drawn to. A calling he’d finally found.

“I feel like I’m getting so big!” Jolias cried, inspecting his hands as the rest of him only continued to surge and swell. It was almost an obscene amount of growth to be doing so quickly. His spine crackled as it extended, making him taller, obliterating his once 5’6” frame, soaring past Marco’s 5’9”, and counting the inches past six feet.

Max, however, held more than awe on his face. There was fear, a crease in his brow, a shaking glance that couldn’t lock onto any one part of Jolias — not when there was so much of him now. Not when there was still so much of him left to grow.

And Jolias understood. It had taken Max three growth spurts to hit Jolias’ dream size of 6’6” — and he’d crushed that boundary in seconds and then some.

With a deep inhale, the bath robe finally gave way and tore apart at the back, falling to his sides, straggling by rags on his shoulders. Those then also fell apart, splitting into a million strands as his volleyball shoulders popped out of their cotton confines. His rich, dark, creamy brown skin exposed, rippling divisions between each muscle so prominent.

Jolias had been so preoccupied by the robe that he forgot about his own undersized underwear. The little thing was designed to be stretchy. But it too had reached its limits, forcefully holding back what looked like an oversized eggplant in the pouch. It was the first to go, bursting at the seams as his gargantuan, lengthening cock flopped out and landed squarely next to Max’s. Both their mouths fell at the sight.

Two erect cocks that were one-for-one in size — and Jolias was still a fair distance away from the size Max attained. But they both knew: it wouldn’t be long.

Because with a flex of Jolias’ dark cock, it crawled along Max’s pelvis as it lengthened another inch, surpassing the once bigger man’s completely.

And it only meant one thing for Jolias, amidst the growth. That his four-inch cock had exploded, multiplying in size by at least four times. Six, if girth were a factor.

Max had to pull himself out from under Jolias as the Peruvian’s legs were becoming far too big. His thighs could no longer be pressed together, each the size of some full-grown men’s entire torsos.

The sheer amount of growth happening in their cabin suite dumbfounded them both, and as Jolias’ was quickly approaching Max’s size, he threw himself over his German lover and marvelled. Because the handsome barista he’d once seen as something unbelievably massive, someone whose pecs alone were shade from the sun… was now visibly an equal. And Jolias was failing to wrap his head around that reality, the two of them losing themselves in each other’s eyes. Utterly speechless.

Jolias mashed his pecs against Max’s and grabbed his face in his large paws, drawing him close. No longer were his lips consumed by Max’s mouth. With his own Hispanic genes, his lips were now marginally thicker.

The supersized Jolias fell over and toppled Max. Beneath them, the bed creaked for mercy as the towering sandwich of muscle men forced its fragile wooden legs to buckle.

From where he was kneeling, Jolias could tell that he had likely surpassed even Max’s size in one night.

His shoulders and chest and arms were wider and thicker around. They hovered above the ends of the bed. His feet were already dangling off.

Then the bed frame buckled and gave and fell to the floor, collapsing beneath them, sending both Max and Jolias to the ground, the entire car — neighboring cabins included — shaking with the force of an earthquake that rattled the train.

Jolias took one look at his arm (or as much of it as he could see, much of his space now gone) and ogled at its immensity. At the gym where he trained men and women far larger than he used to be, someone with 20-inch arms was a celebrity. And there he was, stupefied at how heavy a 30-inch arm was.

With a kiss, Max held his breath, his body serving as a daybed for Jolias to sleep on. “You’re enormous,” he whispered.

Jolias crawled on top of his face, making sure to eclipse the overhead light with his grinning face, his beautiful bronze eyes bright enough to be spotlights of their own. “I know I am.” He laughed, leaning close, brushing away some of the splinter debris at the side of the collapsed mattress. “I don’t know what happened, and we are definitely calling Dr. Alice tomorrow, but tonight? I’m going to have some fun with you first.”

Max’s chub poked Jolias’ scrotum, evidently excited at the prospect. “I’m all yours, big guy.”

◊ ◊ ◊

It was around noon when the Andean Explorer began to decelerate; overhead, the announcement speaker mumbled through grain and soot with a local woman’s voice: “To all passengers, please be advised that the train will be arriving at Puno momentarily. If you would still like to avail of any of our services, please do so at your earliest convenience. All facilities excluding the café will be closed in thirty minutes. Thank you again for riding with Belmond.”

Marco had finished packing (or, more aptly, moving what little he took out from his bags) before the sun’s first rays appeared behind the mountain range.

There wasn’t much reason to go explore, not when fear kept him chained in his room. The uneasy dread that warned him not to leave, not when he knew he would not be able to handle what he could have caught Max and Jolias doing. Wherever they were, anyway.

He was no stranger to being left behind. His choice or no.

He’d been sitting on the vacant twin bed, eyes rushing past the landscapes of his homeland through the window. His phone sat at his hip — five missed calls; three of which were from Dr. Alice.

One, received at the unholy hour of 3AM, was from Jolias. Marco had left that one on purpose. As he guessed, Jolias didn’t make a second attempt.

But one last call was from his father.

Marco did not call him back, either.

Instead, he waited for the train to eventually arrive in Puno, an old, quiet city at the opposite end of Lake Titicaca to his home of Copacabana. Where the buildings were skeletal relics dating back to the Spanish colonization in South America, and only the delicately landscaped shrubberies and fields of grass amid sandstone gave the city some semblance of life. You could stand in the plaza and hear birds chirping from a mile away.

He’d thought about moving to Puno instead of Lima before, months after Jolias had flown to the USA. But it was still too close to home. And his family was prone to visits.

When the train eventually settled into the station, Marco thought to go ahead and wait in the arrival area for his other two companions. There weren’t many people on board, and somehow even less occupying the station. The dying engines on the train were louder than most conversations.

Spotting his 5’6” brother could have been difficult — but spotting an over-seven-foot German would prove to be as simple as spotting a white stain on a black surface.

And he was right. Partly, anyway, for the first thirty seconds or so.

Marco watched from his seat on a bench as Max’s ivory hand revealed itself behind the door of the train.

The massive man emerged, bulging muscles and all, from the door he now outsized. Ducking and twisting had become a usual part of his daily routine, especially when every door in Peru was made for people usually shorter and slimmer — and hundreds of pounds lighter — than he was before coming to Peru. He had to cover himself up with a patterned bed sheet fashioned into a toga. Not that it did a good job of actually covering anything, not when the hem didn’t even graze his knees, and the toga itself was swallowed up by his inhumanly spherical pecs.

From Max’s disheveled head of mocha hair, Marco thought up a number of reasons he could have gotten so riled up. Perhaps he and Jolias had a fight. Perhaps Max caved and fucked with someone more his own size — unlikely as that was. Each passing possibility added another fraction of an upward curl to Marco’s lips, teasing him with fantasies he knew died years ago: a life where he and Jolias were wrapped in a tangle of arms, mouths pressed, cocks hard, isolated from the world in their shared bedroom back home. Before, of course, it was converted into a storage room.

Unfortunately for Marco, the wide-awake dreams quickly took a sour turn and spiraled into nightmares as Max walked out of the train without his little brother anywhere in sight.

Driven by concern for his brother, Marco rushed over to Max, smelling his brother’s familiar musk from his exposed chest, nipples he used as eyes to avoid looking into Max’s.

Up close, Marco had the strangest inkling that Max somehow actually looked… bigger? But it didn’t feel right; things weren’t adding up.

If he did ejaculate again, he should have been at least eight feet. Instead, he just looked heavier, rounder, a few inches thicker all over.

“Where’s Elias?” Marco asked, his voice cracking after hours of disuse.

Max took a step back to see who it was addressing him, as if he didn’t recognize Marco’s (technically Jolias’) voice. “Uh…”

“I’m right here.”

Marco almost managed a smile at the sound of his brother’s voice, but something was up – Jolias’ voice, specifically. Way up.

Jolias should have still been their original height.

So why did it sound like he was talking from the ceiling?

The train rattled before Marco could muster an answer, and Max gently moved the smaller man’s chest with the back of his palm, as if to make room.

But the luggage was the first to go when they arrived, Marco remembered; then it clicked — why his brother had yet to appear, the strange sound of his voice so far overhead, the train rattling. And his greatest fantasy bore fruit in front of him, and it turned into his most dreaded nightmare.

Jolias’ dark skin blotted out the train’s interior as inhuman mountains of sinewy, fibrous muscle came spilling out of the pathetically small doorframe.

A gasp latched onto Marco’s throat and suffocated him as he watched his brother — the man he’d always been of uniform size to, the man he’d outgrown a few nights prior — reveal his own overnight transformation into a godlike thing that somehow made Max seem lacking. Gripping the doorframe alone was causing its metal to bend under his fingers.

Even with the silk-white makeshift toga wrapped around his body, there was no hiding the curves and mounds that swelled with dramatic flair underneath.

Jolias was taller, heavier, stronger, and definitely handsomer than Max had ever been. He had to be at least 7’6”. Maybe more.

Marco couldn’t believe it, nor could anyone else in the lobby, starstruck by the pair of gargantuan young boys straddling their weight around. There was no doubt now, that if both Max and Jolias squeezed their bodies together in an embrace, there would be room enough between them for a full-grown American man. Two, if Peruvian — which, much to Marco’s horror, he was.

Dr. Alice’s little gift for him suddenly paled in comparison to whatever it was Max had done to Jolias in their one night on the train.

Then he remembered: her warnings. The food, the early spa appointment. The bold claim that he would no longer have a twin.

And she was right. Marco wanted to push her off a cliff.

And as Marco ogled at the way his now ginormous brother walked up to him, tucking Marco’s cropped hair underneath the cleft of his juicy pecs, cradled his leg-long cock on Marco’s abs — there was guilt, and lust, and so much more.

But he had to ask himself: did he allow it to happen?

“Hey, little, little bro,” Jolias said, tongue in cheek. “I think we’re going to need another seat ticket on the bus.”

 

 

[citizenies]

Thing works fast

So eager for the next parts and thanks for the new addition

[scarletic]

MadMutter's

Thicker than Water

by Scarletic

6

Homecoming Kings

The bus from Puno didn’t go any further than the entrance to the twins’ hometown. Jolias and Marco led the way up the stone-and-mortar road of Copacabana, leading to the Castillo-Moreno estate at the hill’s peak.

Motor vehicles weren’t a norm where they grew up. The locals preferred travel by foot or moped, and the roads were wide enough to accommodate the daily stream of folk, though slim enough to prevent the casual usage of cars. To Jolias, though it may not have been the Brazilian Copacabana, it was still a lovely place to live — an artisanal community that valued tradition and the arts as much as its locals did family. The people were quiet, kept to themselves, and were kind, almost to a fault. Conservative.

Not that knowing this dissuaded Jolias from leaving in the first place.

Peering down at his ex-twin at his side, struggling to keep up with his elongated stride, Jolias reminisced of a time when the two of them could overlook the cliffs of their town and relish in Lake Titicaca’s immaculate diamond-blue sheen. Eye-to-eye, the same, inside and out.

When he left, he didn’t expect to come back — certainly not with two others in tow, and definitely not with everything that came in between.

In the span of a night’s affair, Jolias outgrew his boyfriend in every department. He was taller than the once 7’3” German and more muscular all around. The reality of his situation hadn’t sunk in yet; not that he could help it, of course. Only less than 24 hours ago, he was still the 5’6” part-time personal trainer who couldn’t breach the 155 pound mark. It was a fact that his coworkers both at the gym and his accounting office often teased him for.

If only, he thought, mustering a smirk, they knew. Jolias preened, still wrapping his oversized head around his two-foot increase in height, his weight from 151 pounds quadrupling without overloading his skeleton.

He couldn’t wait for them to look up at him next time they met, to disappear under the shadow of his chest, to fade into just another swell of muscle if they stood a bit too close. Copacabana’s own streets made that especially difficult, seeing that he occupied nearly as much space as a whole sedan. Marco was all who could fit in the space next to him without becoming a blockade of human meat. His childhood lover literally overshadowed. Marco couldn’t even look him in the eyes, much less raise his chin. Not that he would, even if he could.

It stung, not seeing his “biggest” supporter share in his pride — but he supposed Max had taken that spot now.

Of course, there were stares; that was inevitable. The people of Peru hovered around the 5’ to 5’6” range. Daily attire often consisted of full-body clothing that left little skin ever exposed. Long sleeves, pants, and full skirts were ordinary.

A bed sheet was not — especially when there were two young men wearing them like togas, out of necessity.

For once, Jolias wanted to believe this fantasy was real.

Between Max’s encounter in the cave and his own transformation into the giant of his dreams, try as he might to enjoy the surreality, remembering that it wouldn’t be long until he was back in his parents’ home, surrounded by the worst sorts of people, he was held back from the clouds by a weight that he couldn’t shake off his shoulders.

An inevitable nightmare, he coined it.

He could only hope they didn’t need to stay long. It was a one-night stand he had no intention of reliving again.

MEANWHILE

Having stagnated at the same height range for a while, Max sighed, half with relief, finally having enough time to adjust his gait to befit a man of his size — the other half because it meant he’d likely stopped growing.

As birds flew over head, he stared at the glittering lake in the distance to his left, almost like it called him. Everything was green and bright and serene. It was a comfortable sight, and it was one he felt drawn to.

Germany may have been his paradise for a while. But it grew cold in the winters, too. Especially in the arms of a man who didn’t love him back.

In front, Jolias was leading the way, his expansive brown back exposed. Each muscle immaculately cut and chiseled to resemble a rippling ocean that sent waves of skin and bone swaying with every breath, every step he took. Despite having only had his first growth spurt less than a day ago, Jolias seemed unusually accustomed to the massive changes. It was as if he were used to it.

Like he was meant for it.

Like he had practiced it before.

“This is the first time I’ve ever had to look up at you before,” Max said, a few steps behind.

Jolias didn’t stop walking, only turned his head to reveal his sideways grin. “And I’m enjoying looking down at you.”

Between the Spanish bungalows, vibrant lake, and musclebound Adonis, Max was hardly starved for stimulation. And he cupped his cock, reveling in the way its soft state felt perpetually semi-hard. It was just that big. A 16-inch thing, he reckoned. And he wanted it back inside Jolias; as much as he wanted Jolias back inside him.

Before they even got to the house, Max was already thinking up excuses to pull Jolias aside. Knowing him, he was going to ask for an out. Max wanted to be ready, to make his way in.

MEANWHILE

The sun was overbearingly hot on Marco’s skin, like a million pricks that stung every pore on his exposed flesh. Yet he was the only one in their group who was fully clothed, and now the only one who slept alone, and the only one still below six feet tall.

The only one sweating his life away.

Marco couldn’t be bothered to even glimpse at the lake, his mind already drowning in a flood of thoughts about what had been happening and what was yet to come. Jolias and Max’s glances of infatuation with the body of water came across as nothing more than a curiosity or distraction.

A shower sounded lovely. But not in the lake.

When he looked up at his brother, all he could see was a massive pec the size of an exercise ball, with a thick nipple aimed at him. A poor substitute for eye contact, really. Though he would’ve loved to explore and jiggle the massive tits his brother had for a chest, there was a time and place — in public was not one of them.

He could only hope that his mother still recognized them. The black ornate front gates of the family estate were within sight, and its silence among rows of modest homes told him that the rest of their relatives had probably left for the day. Aunts and uncles and cousins he couldn’t be bothered with the names of.

“I see the house, Elias,” Marco said. “We’re close.”

“What, just now? Damn, I’m not used to you being so puny next to me,” Jolias joked. “I’ve been staring at it for the past twenty minutes.”

Marco clutched his fanny pack close to his waist. “We can’t all be so lucky.”

Jolias sniggered, flexing a basketball-sized arm up to the sun. “I know, right? I wonder if they’ll still recognize me. Us, I mean. Grandpa might break his neck trying to look up at my face.”

“Elias…”

Jolias raised his palms up. “I kid! I kid. Jeez, you were probably thinking the same thing anyway.”

“I was not.”

Marco didn’t even notice Jolias move until he found himself being lifted off the ground by the armpits.

Even while walking, Jolias was holding Marco up like a child in front of him. Face to face, he didn’t even recognize his own reflection in Jolias anymore. Each of his usual features was suddenly magnified. Those bright amber eyes, thick lips, unkempt bedhead of fluffy black hair. Marco was being held up by arms that resembled bodybuilders’ flexed legs, a good distance away from Jolias, the bigger twin’s chest proving too large to bring Marco any closer.

Marco wiggled his feet and couldn’t find the ground, even with his toes outstretched. “Put me down, please?”

Jolias shook his head, curving his lips upward like a cat’s. “But why? Don’t you like being carried by your big brother? I’m saving you the trouble of walking; you should be thanking me, I think.”

The heavy-duty wrists holding Marco up were unaffected by his pounding and futile escape attempts. He may have been stronger than he was before, but compared to Jolias, he felt even weaker than he used to be.

“I’m not thanking you for embarrassing me in front of the neighbors!” Marco glimpsed an elderly couple staring at them from their terrace.

“Fiiine.” With a begrudging sigh from Jolias, Marco was lowered down to the ground and turned to face the house, now a minute’s walk away. He tried speeding up to unlock the gate, but Jolias pulled him back with a granite hand. He’d lost his balance but managed to support himself on Jolias’ cock. It was hard as a steel beam and riding up the length of Marco’s back. “Don’t go too far, though,” Jolias mumbled, “Holding you up like that got me hard as shit.”

Marco planted his feet on Jolias’ feet, stretching his legs apart more than he was used to. “I can’t believe you need a whole person to hide your erection.”

“Can you blame me? I’m not used to having a cock as heavy as a dumbbell,” Jolias said. “Fuck, I need to shove this damn thing in someone already.” He bent over, pinning the back of Marco’s head in his pecs’ cleavage. “Any takers?”

“Not unless you want to tear your favorite brother in half. We both know you and Max are the only ones in the world who can fit in each other without unleashing Charybdis in my anus.” The twins pulled up to the gates, and Marco pulled out his key from his waist pack, unlocking the side door meant for people.

“Wouldn’t hurt to try,” Jolias said, as Marco stepped off his feet and walked onto the lawn.

“Oh, it’d hurt a lot, I’m sure.” Marco spun on his heel and motioned for Jolias, and Max just behind him, to enter through the gate. “Stop teasing me with a good time I can never have, Elias. Now get inside so I can hide that thing you call an erection.”

Jolias ducked and bent over and tried squeezing his massively swollen body into the steel door, but both his shoulders and chest were getting stuck at every angle. Any drastic movements would’ve bent or broken the rusting steel. Only his head and an arm could fit through the average-man-sized hole. Giving up, Jolias stepped back, his face obscured by the ornate decals that ran along the top of the gate. Even when Jolias was standing up straight, Marco couldn’t see anything past his gigantic brother, the entire doorway blocked by literal blockade of brown muscle.

Marco heard footsteps behind him and panicked. “I’ll open the roadway entrance.”

“Good idea.”

◊ ◊ ◊

They told him the twins would be arriving today. He could see some expression of hesitance in his mother’s face, telling him that tidbit of information, and, in a way, she was right to be. Ethan was bouncing off the walls with excitement before his mother even finished whispering it in his ear. The family shot her looks of annoyance, but Ethan didn’t care.

His cousins would be coming home again — Julias and Marco — the only people in their family who could stand to be with him for over a minute.

Not that he knew what others thought of him, of course. He was only 12.

Little Ethan sprinted across the echoing halls of the Castillo-Moreno house and locked himself in the bathroom door, locking it behind him. He took off his shirt and stood at the mirror. A faint whisper of a memory flashed in his reflection: a smaller, shorter him. The him from four years ago, before Julias left without saying goodbye. Skin and bones. He’d lost some baby fat since then, and he’d grown a few inches. A lot — actually — for a boy his age.

“Puberty took its time with me,” Julias had told him, the last time they met, a vivid recollection that moved him in ways he couldn’t yet explain. “I stopped growing at 15. Tía Helen said I was lucky to be taller than my parents, but 5’6”— I mean, 168 centimeters is still pretty small. At least, where I plan on going.” Julias then knelt on one knee, holding up Ethan’s soft, buttery chin, and looked him sternly in the eyes. “So, if you really want to come with me…”

“You’ll have to outgrow me first.”

Ethan was measured a few days ago at the doctor’s. He was 5’2” now. 157.5 centimeters. He folded his curly brown hair to one side and sighed. Disappointed washed over his face.

Still too short, he muttered. Flexing an undeveloped arm, it resembled a twig more than an adult arm.

Marco had told him two years ago when he caught the tyke in a rhythm of desperate leaps at New Year’s to grow taller. Again, before he too left Lake Titicaca. “You look like a dying rabbit. If you really want to get taller, just eat your veggies and sleep early. Don’t be like me. And don’t try to be like Elias — it’s not worth it. Just let puberty happen the way it needs to. You’re only 10 years old, Ethan.”

But he didn’t care. Like he’d overheard the teachers and older kids at school say: fuck puberty. Julias was never one to wait.

“Ethan?” came Janica’s voice from behind the door. His caretaker. “Come downstairs, your cousins are home.”

◊ ◊ ◊

A word became a sentence and became a rumor in the family house, and before either Jolias or Marco even came in through the front door (a rather large wooden thing, hand-carved to needlepoint-perfection with florals and faunas), there was already a brewing storm of paragraphs and complaints being thrown around among the few inside.

Ethan was their favorite cousin, a little boy, and he came sprinting to the foyer from the upstairs. His caretaker struggled to keep up, her breath escaping her as she lagged behind, unable to match her ward’s energy.

An uncle came next, then an aunt, two of several that remained in the house to watch over the grandfather.

And last were the twins’ own parents: Julio and Marcela — Jolias’ and Marco’s namesakes, and the people they dreaded to meet most.

A knock sounded at the door, though it sounded like it was coming from much higher than the twins’ were tall. A blanket of silence swept through the room, and a cacophony of frantic heartbeats broke it.

“Is it them?!” Ethan asked, voice cracking, trying desperately to break free of his caretaker’s grip, much to her annoyance.

Marcela, fastened her hair behind her head, gray with age, and braced herself, standing tall. “Open the door, Julio.” Her voice too sounded scarred with wrinkles.

He rolled his eyes and walked over to the double doors, dwarfed by their seven-and-a-half-foot-height, being only 5’4”. “Si, señora,” he droned sarcastically.

“Don’t be such a child. You’re making Ethan look like an adult.”

As Julio stood at the doors, there was an alien warmth emanating from them, as if there were something on the other side producing an absurd amount of heat. Could it have been an engine, he thought. He didn’t say a word as he gripped the doorknob.

Masked by the sound of Julio’s breathing, he failed to notice his nephew Ethan running at him in full force. It was as sudden as a flicker of light.

And it came as soon as he twisted the knob, and turned his head to see Ethan less than two meters away.

Whatever was behind the door sent it flying against the wall, the full brunt taking Julio as collateral damage. He was knocked off his feet, flung across the marble floor like a ragdoll.

Ethan stopped in his tracks, caught off-guard by the door’s shadow replaced by another shadow just behind it, blocking out the sun. He looked up and saw three things that caught his attention — Marco’s face, a crooked smile that looked more uncomfortable than happy. Second, a protruding pair of nipples that hovered behind (and beside) Marco’s head — and third, Jolias’ face, a hair’s width away from the top of the doorframe.

“Marco?” Ethan asked. “Julias?!”

“Uh, hey, Ethan,” Marco mumbled, his eyes darting to everyone else in the room in horror. “I see you didn’t come to greet us alone.”

Jolias spoke up, reaching a hand under the doorframe to duck underneath, and kicking open the other door to make enough room. He grinned, revealing his full set of teeth, and glued his chin to his pecs just to spot the little boy whose face just barely came up to his pelvis.

“Hey there, little man! I thought I told you to do some growing up when I got back.”

Ethan’s shock molded into pure glee as he started bouncing and laughing. “You’re huge! How did you get so big?!” he yelled, echoing throughout the foyer, shattering the frozen faces scattered around.

Marco walked inside and patted Ethan on the shoulder as he walked past, offering his father a hand off the floor. “Hey, pa.”

At the doorway, another giant of a man appeared from behind Jolias, a milky-white European whose size somehow looked “small” next to the Peruvian giant. He had a youthful face that glowed from a life of comfort, and he followed Jolias inside, not struggling as much to duck below the headway.

Once inside, Jolias shut the doors simultaneously with his hands, reaching both ends without issue. Then he faced sideways, a sharp-toothed grin on his face, and stared down at his diminutive relatives (they may have been thrice his age, but he was thrice their size). “I’m home,” he sang.

Marco brought his father and mother to the two giants, a slowness in his movements.

“Julias?” Marcela asked. “Wh— what happened to you?”

Jolias knelt on one knee, bending forward to burrow into his mother’s eyes, and raised a flexed arm with a spherical peak that made both parents’ heads look like golf balls. Even on the ground, he was still a good few inches taller. “What do you think? I told you before I left: everything is bigger up north.”

Then their eyes turned to Max, the much shier of the two, squeezing his lips into a faint smile beside Jolias. “And you brought a guest…?” Julio asked, gulping at the monumentality of him — of them, standing side by side.

Max raised a hand and waved meekly, awkwardly adjusting his makeshift toga that had been sinking into his succulent pecs for the entire walk.

“Hi there, Mister and Missus Castillo-Moreno.”

Jolias shook his head violently and tore off the top of Max’s toga, allowing his entire upper body to breathe, inhaling and almost visibly inflating even larger as he took a breath of shock. Then Jolias did the same, tearing off his entire toga and throwing his bedhseet to the staircase. He stood there, dressed in nothing but a pillow-sheet loincloth that carried a melon-sized bulge.

“There. Now we can dress more comfortably,” Jolias said. He gestured towards Max with a hand and smiled with devious innocence. “And this is my boyfriend. Max.”

Ethan came up to the parents and squeezed through the gap between them. “Boyfriend?” he asked, curiously. Afraid.

Just when everyone thought Max couldn’t get any paler, he did — in the face, mostly. “Jol’…” he mumbled.

Jolias stretched, standing on his tiptoes, bringing his head even closer to the floorboards of the loft. “Yeah, he’s German.” He stood up to his full height, once again dwarfing everyone in the room but one.

The rest of the relatives gathered around Jolias and Marco, their hands mortified and curious. They poked and prodded where they could, and Jolias let them. He jiggled where he could, flexed where he could, squeezed where he could — and he was reveling in the attention, at the way all the people he once looked up to, the older generation who raised and nursed him, now resembling actual children compared to him. Their fingers felt like nothing, their hands like fingers.

Their mother Marcela clutched her chest as she faced Marco, eyes and brows turned downward. “You… also got taller?” she asked, the disappointment palpable in her shaking voice.

Marco nodded, slinking into the shadows, and heading down the hallway. “Yeah,” he whispered. He left before anyone could stop him.

Jolias almost missed Ethan run up to him, reaching up and lifting the obscene bulge with both his hands. He felt his face run red, and he quickly peeled his puny cousin off him. The little guy’s head was literally level with Jolias’ cock, probably the same width around too if he were hard.

And it wouldn’t have been long now, not with all the physical contact he’d had in the past three minutes. He was always sensitive to touch; all the new surface area only magnified it.

“Tell us what happened to you, Julias.” Julio demanded, albeit with an apprehension in his voice, as if he were holding back, like he didn’t want to know the answer. “I want to know what happened to my sons.”

Jolias bent down and pressed his flexed bicep into his father’s face, hardening it into a complete ball of steel. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of me now. You really don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do this?” He dug a rigid finger into his father’s chest and knocked his balance off without much effort. “I’m more than you’ll ever think of me again. If you think I’m big now”—he stood up and pressed his toes against his father’s—“Just you wait. I’ll show you just how big I can really get.”

The old man gulped and turned tail past his wife, following Marco down the corridor. His wife took one last look at Jolias and Max and wasn’t far behind her husband. Eventually, everyone left. Everyone — even Ethan. The little boy who left with sad eyes, deflating Jolias’ ego just a tad.

Jolias huffed and looked to Max for approval. Instead, he was met with a leery eye that found no voice.

“Jol’, is something wrong?” Max asked, resting a hand on Jolias’ shoulder. “You aren’t the type to go berserk like that.”

Without a word, Jolias grabbed Max’s hand. “Let’s go on a walk.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Lake Titicaca was home to a great number of people who came to enjoy its wet bounty, its serene cyan waters. While most lived on dry land, the shores of the mountainous basin were lined with old wooden fishing boats painted with Peruvian zigzag-like patterns in fading shades of red and blue. In the distance, sharp mountaintops; in the air, a cool breeze that swirled with moss-like perfume.

On this day, the sun was hanging high in the sky, no clouds in sight. Apart from the footsteps of fishermen and women wading through sand and silt, it was a warm, cozy sort of quiet. One that felt like a fireplace.

Marco snuck out the backdoor the moment he caught Jolias and Max leaving from his bedroom window. He hadn’t had the luxury of unpacking.

Following a few steps behind, disguising himself in an orange poncho and sunhat, Marco was no different to the rest of the locals. He was a diminished thing around the normal folk — as if he never got a chance to grow. Because, even though he’d become far taller than average, all anyone could focus their eyes on were the two enormous juggernauts just ahead. They were strolling down the beach, their feet marking inch-deep holes into the sand, wearing nothing but what remained of their torn bed sheets as oversized loincloths.

Though, from what Marco could guess, it wouldn’t have made a difference whether they wore it. The fabric was wet and glued onto their massive endowments, the same way a Grecian statue’s silk illusion hugged a woman’s bosom with pointless modesty.

He eavesdropped on their conversation, following two steps behind for every one of theirs. It was a world of difference between him and his former twin now — Jolias wouldn’t have been able to spot Marco from a crowd any easier than a grain of sand.

That reminder that he was being left behind became his new reality. And there was no way he would ever catch up — not now, not ever.

Max was the first to talk. “We’re here now,” he said. “Your parents can’t hear us from here. So, are you going to tell me what all that was about?” Their voices were so big and loud, Marco didn’t even need to strain his ears.

“I’m really sorry.” Jolias sighed. “I just… I lose control, sometimes. It’s like I regress into a kid whenever I’m around my parents. And I thought it’d be fine since I haven’t seen them in years. But I just saw their faces — and I wanted to break them.”

Max rested a hand on Jolias shoulder. “Did something happen between you? I know you aren’t the violent type, so seeing that just… freaked me out a bit.”

“I know it’s not as bad as some others’ stories, but I… I felt like they just never loved me, you know? They always preferred Marco. Not that I’m mad about him. I love him, but he was always the favorite. He was the one they sent to university to study business, not me. I tried making a joke once, when I was younger — I told them they might have been better off if we only had one celebrant on our birthday.” Jolias’ pace slowed down considerably. “Then I told them before I left that I wanted to work at the gym. But they don’t think being a trainer is worth anything. They were more glad to be rid of me then.”

“And what else did they say? It’s hard to believe the mighty Jolias actually cared about some prehistoric opinion on job choice,” Max said.

“I was— no, am an idiot. You know that, Max. That’s why I took up accounting as a part-time job; I thought it would show them I could do both just fine and still make a living. That’s when I cut them off. At that point, the only family I had left was Marco. To me, anyway. Right now, I don’t care what the rest of them think.” Jolias stopped and held up Max’s chin, tenderly kissing him on the nose. “While I’m here, the only people who matter to me are you and Marco. You mean the world to me.”

“Oh, really now?” Max asked, tauntingly.

Jolias huffed and dug his hand inside Max’s sack, grabbing a handful of his junk and wiggling it around inside. “Yes, really. And don’t you push it. I could take off both these stupid bedsheets and just fuck you on the sand right now, you sexy German bratwurst.”

The European was frozen in place. “Holy—“ he gulped. Loudly. “Not now, Jol’. Please. Not here.”

Then Jolias released his hand and kissed Max again, this time on the lips. “Not now.” And they resumed their walk.

“I’m just glad I… that you told me about that. Thanks for trusting me. I never knew it was like that between you and your folks, but I get it.”

“In hindsight, I really should have told you earlier. We’ve known each other for four years now, and I don’t know if I’ve even told you anything about my life back home.”

Max pinched Jolias’ nipple as they neared what looked like a fishermens’ hub along the coastline. “I haven’t told you anything either, so fair’s fair, right?”

“Fair’s fair in love and war.”

They stopped at what appeared to be some sort of landmark, the only one of its kind in the area. It was an elevated sandstone platform in the center of the coast. On it were two monuments of native warriors from eons past, back when spears were still a norm, clothing still a fever dream. They were muscled — though not as much as either Max or Jolias — enough to look ripped, to look capable of lifting a palm log with ease. Their cocoa skin was painted on, and they wore their long, beaded hair with pride. Symbols of power. Of their heritage.

Marco had seen them before when he walked along the lakeshore with their dad. Ten feet tall, Julio’d told him, when Marco asked how tall they were.

Back then, he and his twin were less than a third of that height.

Now Jolias was less than three feet away; Max not far behind.

“I still can’t believe you managed to make me grow bigger than you in one night,” Jolias said, grinning at Max. “Think you’d be up to go for round two?”

Max coiled his hand gently around Jolias’ hand, together, as they stood facing the monument. “Ad infinitum.” Marco spotted the slightest shift in his shoulders. “But… I think I preferred being the bigger one.”

Jolias raised a brow, folding back his bangs and smirking. “You should’ve thought of that before turning me into the sexiest man you’ve ever seen.” He paused, eyes shifting around. “And just fucking looking at you gets me so hard.” His face drew dangerously close to Max’s, sharing breaths.

Max blushed, and something did a quiet leap in his crotch. “And I want to fuck you even harder.”

“But I thought you wanted to grow?”

“We’ll figure it out when we get there.” Max didn’t bother to hide his encroaching erection — not that he could — an arm-sized pillar of marble that was crawling down his leg, escaping from its silk confines.

“Just think,” Jolias said, “someday, we could end up being even bigger than these statues. We would dwarf them. Think of how tall we’d be then. Fuck, I’m getting all hot and bothered out here.”

Marco approached the pair, and his heart sank with each step a painful cut. The closer he got, the taller Jolias and Max almost seemed to appear, like a concave mirror illusion made flesh. To anyone else, they might’ve been absurd. But to Marco — and apparently everyone on Easter Island — they were gods. And he was related by blood.

Once he got to a meter away, Marco stopped and stared in awe at his brother’s expansive backside. A chocolate palette of muscular ridges that occupied both ends of his peripheral vision. And he knew if Jolias turned that he would’ve been facing a perfectly proportioned row of abs, each protruding a good inch away, and eclipsed by two tits, both jutting out by what felt like a foot.

“I know a place,” Marco said, feeling his eyes and mouth and hands dry at the sudden draw of attention.

Jolias was the first to spin, the sheer volume of his erect cock enough to audibly smack into his little twin’s side. He was wide-eyed with surprise. Not because of the size difference between them; no, not anymore, Marco figured — it was more that Jolias turning in place, his cock out like a baton, nearly knocked Marco off-balance. It was dreadfully stiff, and Marco knew, staring at the obscene thing, that there was no way it was going to budge with any sort of a squeeze. An actual symbol of power.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t think you’d just be there, bro,” Jolias said, pulling his brother, strapping him against his chest. “You said something about a place?”

“Have you been behind us this whole time?” Max asked, wiping his eyes clear of the salt in the air.

Marco bobbled his head side-to-side, evidently avoiding the question. “Who knows. Anyway, does it matter?” He pointed at a tight patch of sand at the opposite far end of the lakeshore. It was hidden in the shade of an overhead cliff, and it was cut off from the rest of the usable sand by a long stretch of shallow water.

“Isn’t that your favorite spot?” Jolias asked, sadly, almost like mourning.

“What’s there?” Max asked.

“It’s fine,” Marco said. “It’ll be too hard for you two to… have sex in the house now, anyway. The others are already coming home.”

Jolias smirked, strapping Marco’s head even tighter against his expansive lats. “And you’re telling us to just fuck out here? Around all these poor, unwitting fishermen?”

“I don’t see why not,” Marco said. “Besides, there’s nothing there. It’ll just be you two, and me, and the fish.”

And, simultaneously, “I’m in,” Max and Jolias said.

◊ ◊ ◊

The din and usual hum of the main lakeshore went mute as it faded into a distant breeze, left behind as Max and Jolias crossed the shallow pool of water leading to Marco’s secret spot.

Jolias’ feet were cold as they sunk into the submerged sand with each step. It was difficult enough managing to lift his legs out of the water with all his new muscle. The weight and new shapes and physical limits were still something he hadn’t had enough time to fully understand — and it wasn’t doing him any favors to be carrying Marco’s petite ass in his hand.

“Remind me again why I’m lifting you?” Jolias asked, turning to his left where Marco’s smaller face was level with his, the shorter man’s hands holding onto the valleys in Jolias’ left shoulder. “I’ve seen you walk this path before.”

“Because you didn’t hesitate to let me know I weighed like a napkin to you this morning now that you’re all massive,” Marco said, matter-of-factly. “That, and I’m wearing my good pants. There aren’t any washing machines back at the house in case you forgot.”

Behind them, Max was making a ruckus in the water. He was much bulkier than Jolias, his oversized mounds of beef covered in a layer of fat. This made him look thicker and wider than he actually was, even next to Jolias’ slightly longer and finely cut mass. And his legs were refusing to cooperate with his futile attempts at peacefully wading through the freshwater. Jolias was having some trouble, yes, but he could tell Max was making the short walk much harder for himself than it should’ve been. If it weren’t for his constant noise, Jolias might’ve forgotten he was a few meters behind — something he knew Marco wouldn’t have complained about. His disappointed, expectant little brother.

“This walk is my leg workout quota for the month,” Max said.

“That’s a new personal record for you. Congrats,” Jolias replied. “You’ve earned it.” Prompting a heavy scoff from Marco.

Finally, the short walk along the shallow edge of the overhead cliff ended at a sharp turning corner. It led the trio to the opposite side of the dagger point, cutting off at a small patch of sand. There were some abandoned wooden debris of what resembled a dock, and, tucked into a recess in the stone wall, what looked like a miniature altar. The object of worship was black obsidian, shaped into a crude sphere, wearing a tall crown of black flames.

From up close, Jolias mistook it for a king’s head and his crown. Then Marco instructed him, “step further back,” and he realized what it really was: an ancient diorama of a meteor, falling from the sky.

“That’s insane,” Jolias said. “How long have you known about this spot again?”

Marco tidied up some of the wooden planks, tossed around by rogue waves and harsh winds in his absence. “Since we were kids. That altar thing and this unusable waste of a dock were already here when I found it, but I didn’t know anyone who ever came here besides me. I thought you and Max would want to know about it since… you know.”

Max hovered an inch behind Marco, joining in the admiration of the meteor replica. “I’m inclined to agree.”

Of course, being of similar size, Jolias didn’t fail to notice his German lover approaching; he’d forgotten, however, that Marco was still as spatially oblivious as ever, more so when he seemed to be actively trying to ignore Max’s entire existence — especially when Max was only washing his knees of sand in the water just a moment ago.

“Holy—“ Marco jumped. “Don’t just pop up behind me like that!”

“Oh, sorry,” Max said, stepping back and absentmindedly scratching the underside of one pec.

Jolias mustered a smile. “What, worried he’s going to step on you when he gets even bigger?”

“As if him falling over me now wouldn’t already be enough to pop my organs,” Marco muttered.

Max grumbled sadly. “I wouldn’t do something like that to you,” he said.

Marco walked over to the pile of wood and leaned against the sole post still standing, not wanting to get his sandals dirty. “I know. But accidents happen.”

“Especially when it’s you,” Jolias added.

Max rolled his eyes and bashfully bit his lip, “alright, alright, I get it. I’m a big klutz.”

Jolias admired the altar a few minutes longer, because, ever since they returned to Copacabana, there was this unusual, magnetic pull in the stagnant air, directing him to go somewhere. Though, he struggled to pinpoint where it was coming from. He wondered what the source was, as he’d never felt it before. It seemed like it was emanating from the lake. And now that he was as close as he and Max were ever going to be, he finally confirmed that it was coming from somewhere deep, somewhere, he knew, the sun hadn’t seen in millennia.

He pulled Max closer, pointing at an etched sentence at the base of the altar. “Hey, take a look at this,” he said.

Max nearly tripped over himself, clearly taken aback by Jolias’ surprising amount of strength. “Wh— what is it?”

“Read it,” Jolias said.

It was evident that someone at some point had carved out an ancient alphabet in the stone beneath the meteor. He had only known English and Spanish his whole life, but, for some inexplicable reason, he could almost read what the unintelligible letters and shapes were trying to say — but their meaning was incomplete. Like there were some gears missing in his brain.

Then Max took a breath, and opened his mouth, “To the gods who fell from the sea-black heavens…” he said, garnering a gasp and wide eyes from Jolias and Marco both. “We dedicate this burial site to those among us chosen to rise, to those lost at the heart of the land’s gaping hollow.”

“’Gaping hollow?’” Jolias repeated, snickering to himself, “like an asshole of the earth?”

“I think it meant something more like a giant hole in the ground,” Max corrected, turning his head to the lake. “I think this lake might’ve used to be a pit.”

“Wait, wait,” Marco interrupted, rushing over, and staring at the inscription. “You can read that?”

Max nodded. “I guess, yeah. I didn’t think I could, but… I don’t know, something just switched on in my brain, and it just made sense to me.”

“I can read some of it too,” Jolias added. “But I only got as far as ‘to… who fell… lost… and hollow.”

Marco blinked, and blinked, and blinked, in sheer stupefaction. “How…” he asked. “Did… did the slime somehow make you guys smarter?”

Jolias guffawed. “Ha! You say that like we haven’t always been geniuses.”

“Well, I’m not complaining,” Max said, walking over to the water dipping his toes in. “I’ve always wanted to be better than Jolias at something. Good to know I can actually read.”

Jolias clapped. “Yes, good to know you’re literate, Max,” he said. “Maybe you can be the one doing your own taxes from now on.”

Max teasingly puckered his lips and squinted at Jolias in playful irritation.

Then the innocence in his eyes was replaced by something intense, something that sent a cold shiver down Jolias’ back, something he understood — that same pull he’d been feeling since arriving in town.

Both their heads turned to the water, and Max walked further in, unfurling his silk sheet loincloth and tossing it aside, allowing his entire manhood to swing, its hefty girth and impressive length a marvel that Jolias was unsure even he could take at his current size. Its pink bulbous head grazed the tops of Max’s knees. Framed by two engorged thighs that seemed to have no problem crushing the pulp out of a watermelon. Well-defined yet soft to the touch and on the eyes. Smooth, like milk.

“I… I think I’m going to go for a skinny dip, you guys,” Max said, half in a daze.

There was the proof Jolias needed. Evidence that something connected to the slime slept somewhere in the depths of the cool blue waters, calling them.

Max was already half submerged when Jolias snapped back to reality and followed him in. “Hey, wait for me!” he yelled.

Though there was no way to confirm, Jolias had the strangest suspicion that the water almost appeared to be moving, to be alive, dividing in half and forming an opening with each step he took, following Max deeper and deeper into the lake’s center. It was inviting him in, enveloping him, and there was a subconscious urge that demanded he follow. On a sunny day where the sky was void of clouds, Jolias expected the heat to warm the lake by a good few meters. He didn’t expect the surface to be a sensory illusion of touch: a thinly-veiled layer of inexplicable cold that disguised the unusual heat of the waters beneath — as if the lake were sentient, acting of its own volition to house something, keep something alive. Jolias was only a part-time accountant, but even he knew physics worked the other way around. If those laws applied to extraterrestrial organisms at all.

There were things in life Jolias could explain — even more whose answers eluded even him, and whatever it was pulling him felt familiar, a part of him, and made him wonder whose will it was compelling him forward.

By the time his head almost cleared of the fog, he’d already walked his entire body into the water, only his head still peering out. He hadn’t forgotten he was taller than Max now (no doubt Marco would have been underwater a few meters back), and it was unclear how deep it was Max had ventured; he was gone, not a trace of Jolias’ German lover anywhere in sight. Yet regardless of his disorientation, nothing was stopping Jolias’ competitive streak. He took in enough air for a dive and torpedoed himself towards the lake’s center.

He lasted about two minutes before his lungs began to ache. His eyes had dried, and he could barely see where he was going, much less find Max amid an endless panorama of ocean-black nothingness.

The water grew murkier the deeper he went, and it was strangely heavy — a terrifying thought occurred that he was less swimming after something, than inside something. Wherever Max was, Jolias knew he wouldn’t be able to follow. At least, not while he held air in his lungs.

When Jolias resurfaced and had gotten to the point where Max had disappeared, his knees wet with water after a long pointless dive, he stopped, and he raised his head to see, just as he remembered, Marco was alone — standing at the edge of the sand. Unable to swim, unable to follow. He’d never learned how. Never bothered to in their 22 years together. Max was already gone, dove somewhere deeper in where his ivory skin didn’t reflect the sun’s light, but Jolias’ attention was with Marco. A sort of pity he hated feeling, because Jolias knew Marco hated being pitied.

“Back so soon?” Marco asked, retreating to the altar.

Jolias took a step, back towards the shore. “Hey, Marco, wait!” Before he felt two hands suddenly grope his hips from below the water’s surface.

And he was forcibly spun in place, and just beneath the water he saw Max’s light brown hair flowing in the current like seaweed. Next thing Jolias knew, his cock was being swallowed up by a warm, velvety hole, wrapped with smooth lips, and harassed by a heavy tongue that knew what it was doing.

“Oh, fuck,” Jolias groaned. His knees were going weak, threatening to buckle from the pleasure.

Max escalated his speed, and his head was making waves from bobbing from the head to the base of Jolias’ endowment. Max was subduing the larger Peruvian with devastating ease. Before Jolias’ shaft could even be washed of Max’s saliva, it was immediately slathered with another good licking. He wanted to move — but he was held captive by his boyfriend’s insatiable hunger for his manhood.

He only kept sucking, and going, and sending Jolias’ cock through his mouth, his throat. Jolias was harder than he’d ever felt before. And he’d had to latch onto Max’s hair, the back of his head, just to keep his stiffness from snapping in Max’s esophagus.

Then he felt that warmth again, that familiar bubbling in his balls that heated up into something fierce. It shot through him like a dose of adrenaline, and it erupted from his genitals and fired into Max’s stomach without a drop wasted. Each spurt slid down the German’s throat like hot fire.

When it was over, Jolias fell back onto his ass, making a splash in the water as he collided with the sand. His lungs were drained, putting him in a pant, and his own penis felt raw, painfully sensitive to the touch.

He looked forward, expecting to find Max exploding out of the water and standing over him, blocking out the sun with his barreling chest that puffed out, almost as a sponge would be, filled with water. But his vision was still impaired, and he could only fill in the gaps with his guesses.

Max’s erection would’ve been standing full mast, beating out a Pringles can in girth, length, and, especially, rigidity. Jolias’ imagination ran wild as he continued to picture Max grabbing his tool and giving it a few strokes before sending out his own yards of cum. Thick and white and more voluminous than any Jolias had ever seen before from a man — and he’d slept around with many. Each spurt making a splash before it sank in the water, disappearing into the blue depths.

No normal human man would have been able to cum so much so fast — but he supposed Max was long past ‘average.’ Despite his flesh and muscle and bone, and that adorably youthful face, Max was something more. And Jolias felt it, too, even now, that he was slowly progressing along a similar path.

“Max?” Jolias asked, to no avail.

Not because he wasn’t listening, but because Max wasn’t there. And Jolias realized he likely never was.

An illusion? Hallucination?

Something was amiss, but the heat was starting to become uncomfortably hot on Jolias’ ass as the water rose to a simmering temperature.

He fled back to shore, and tackled Marco to the sand. They were sandwiched together, Jolias’ enormous upper body alone enough to pin Marco in place, each breath making it only so much harder for the littler twin to break free.

Jolias noticed, for the first time, that the shadow of his head was already far larger than Marco’s. He brought up his arms, and held, and caressed Marco’s awestricken face of carved ebony.

“What was that,” Marco muttered. “It looked like you were getting a blowjob underwater, just standing there, gyrating. I thought water was a terrible lube.”

Jolias chortled and grinned. “It is. And I guess that’s the first thing off your bucket list today.” He could feel the scalding waves of bliss coursing through his body, a moment in time he could live in forever.

“What’s the second?”

Jolias bounced an eyebrow. “This,” he said, licking his lips and engulfing Marco’s mouth in his own, exploring the inside of his mouth with his tongue, making sure the only thing Marco could breathe was the air Jolias wanted him to.

He felt his erection crawling up Marco’s jeans, the mushroom helmet resting on the cotton fabric of his shirt.

But something was wrong—

No, different.

A sharp sting caused Jolias to wince and let go, before the sensation dissipated and became like all others: one of pleasure.

He looked down into the gap between him and his brother and saw something other than their dark brown skin: the same blue-green slime that had attached itself to Max’s cock a week ago, only it was larger, heavier. Enough to encompass and swallow the entirety of Jolias’ massive member. It was throbbing, squeezing itself around his cock, reaching forward towards his slit.

And for a moment, there was fear. But it was short-lived, quickly overtaken by a flurry of adrenaline, one that made his heart pump and face grin, knowing what was bound to come next.

Marco looked down to see what it was, and Jolias saw the dread in his brother’s eyes, the pitiful fear of defeat. He squirmed underneath Jolias to no avail, gasping. “Holy shit!” he cried, clawing at the sand around him. “Elias, qué carajo es eso?!”

But Jolias didn’t reply, not when he was drowning in the sensation of his growing erection, almost being plied and molded into something longer, bigger, and thicker. The slime pushed against his abs and Marco’s shirt, clinging onto whatever skin it could latch onto.

Despite having just ejaculated a minute ago, Jolias was already being primed for another go, the slime having its way with his testicles, soaking into his pores and ravishing his genital region.

Then the magic began, and he felt it finally touch the tip of his inflated cock, pulling open its slit and wriggling its way down his shaft, taking every centimeter of space as it enthralled and threshed its way into the base of his penis, settling in his balls and bloating them up into something fierce.

Even without moving, Jolias could feel his balls fall onto the sand. His manhood was achingly sensitive, to the point that it was what could only be described as so insatiably pleasurable that it would have been painful to anyone who didn’t crave it as much as he did.

Then he came.

And it pumped out of him with the force of a firehose, blasting Marco’s clothes, his pants and shirt, his chin and face, with voluminous yards of white splooge that drenched the little man’s body in a matter of seconds. Jolias didn’t want it to stop, he relinquished his control to the slime. He wanted it to have its way with his body. To mold it as it saw fit, to make him grow into the giant he wanted to be.

And, though his balls had emptied, the ecstasy didn’t end. The feeling stayed with him. Haunting him. Reminding him of what was to come next.

“Elias?!” Marco yelled, unable to jerk his way out of Jolias’ enormous body resting over him, trapping him in a cage of muscle and flesh.

Jolias found a moment to react in his euphoria. “Yeah?”

He peered down at his little brother and saw relief wash over his face for a second. “Was that it?” Marco asked.

“No,” Jolias said, as he shook his head and spread out his arms, resting the full weight of his chest and boulder-hard pecs on Marco’s slimmer own, “this is.”

And he relished in the ensuing growth.

MEANWHILE

Marco couldn’t breathe. His cum-soaked chest was being squeezed by a living mountain of muscle and flesh to half its capacity, leaving him breathless, desperate. And Jolias’ breath was scentless yet intoxicating. A heat that soaked into Marco’s skin. His brother, fighting a losing battle against his sexual voracity.

It wasn’t enough that Jolias was seven and a half feet tall, nor was it that his cock had a mind of its own, using Marco’s shirt to stimulate its erotic twitches. Both wanted more.

The heat of the sun couldn’t even come close to Jolias’ body heat. Being fully clothed didn’t help the sweating.

“Jol’—“ he said, stopping himself, finally realizing what it was that made Jolias’ face split into a beaming grin that glowed like sunshine.

It started in his chest. The pecs that were pressed flat against Marco’s chest were pushing out further, becoming wider, more expansive, broader, bigger, fuller. Worst of all, heavier, as Marco felt the sand under his back shift and tighten.

Jolias was growing — actually growing this time — and Marco wasn’t just a spectator, a bystander to his living fantasies; he was a casualty.

Marco strained to escape as his brother wasn’t only lenghtening even taller, his head and feet stretching further away from Marco’s own — his entire body seemed to be pushing up higher from the sand. Yet even with the extra space Jolias’ longer, thicker arms provided, Marco was held prisoner by the new curves and hardening valleys of muscle and sinew that kept him in place.

The cock that once tickled his navel bounced once, and Marco felt its bulbous, apple-sized head slide into the divide of his chest.

It was impossible to tell what Jolias’ weighed or how much girth each of his muscles held now. But he was taller than 7’6”. If another three inches added themselves to Jolias’ already obscene height, he would have become a whole two feet taller than Marco.

And he loved wanting it to happen.

He couldn’t see much apart from Jolias’ Adam’s apple forcing his eyes to roll back as his tree-trunk neck crawled past his eyeline, but it didn’t take a full body inspection to know Jolias was more muscle than man at this point. Max may have been the fluffier of the two, sure. In pure aesthetic value? Hardcore muscle, cut to the bone and each individual fiber? Jolias took it home. It was no contest.

Then Marco felt Jolias dig a giant hand under his head, lifted him up, and forced him to motorboard his swollen pecs. “Fuck, I’m so big,” he said. “Suck my tits, and tell me I’m gigantic. You know you want to.”

Marco was in disbelief and locked in a state of bliss. And he did just that, unabashedly in love with every breath he took seemingly pouring into Jolias’ chest, pumping it even bigger, larger.

Then Jolias pushed up against the sand and rose to his full height, taller and higher and closer to the sun than ever. He looked downright statuesque, the sun’s light casting a shadow that surrounded Marco on all sides. He almost looked like a stretched out bodybuilder, but — with a legs-spread double bicep pose — every muscle in his body seemed to explode in girth, becoming several inches thicker all over. It was more than enough to overcompensate for the added height.

Marco hadn’t even noticed until his brother stood that his entire body had been pressed into the sand enough like a mold to make an impression.

“Holy shit.” Marco gasped. “You’re gigantic!”

Jolias bounced his head in a swift nod, smirking with self-satisfied lips. “You fucking bet I am,” he said, bending down to one knee, and grabbing Marco by the collar, lifting him several feet off the ground with the power of a single arm. A limb with bicep, tricep, and forearm muscles so engorged that it alone could have easily outweighed both their old 5’6” bodies. Boasting a chest that was twice Marco’s, a face similarly broader.

There was no way Jolias was fitting in through the front door of their house anymore.

“Still think you’re the only one who can grow?” Jolias asked, provocatively.

Marco wrapped his legs around Jolias’ chest, allowing his hard-on to rest in the tight ravine between Jolias’ pecs. “Guess I can’t really call you my twin anymore.”

“And now you’ve got first-hand experience; little brothers always do end up bigger.” Jolias lifted an arm and flexed its peak next to Marco’s face, the full expanse of his upper arm already surpassing that of his whole head. Both their heads. “Even if it is a four-minute difference.”

MEANWHILE

Unbeknownst to the brothers, on the other side of the lake, Max emerged from the water, panting.

“Oh, where am I…”

He’d been swimming off the deep end, wandering closer and closer, deeper, to an inexplicable magnetic pull that stimulated a flood of vibrations in and around his pumped-up balls and cock. The water itself was almost like a vacuum, in the way that it sucked and demanded his orgasm. It wrapped around his manhood, almost with an alien sentience. Squeezing, motioning from the base of his shaft up to the mushroom cap, and repeating in an endless cycle of pleasure. His sperm moved on its own, pulled out of his testicles and flowing out of the slit of his penis into a steady stream of off-white yarn.

He watched each spurt sink to the black depths of the lake. His mind was still racked with fog, but for the most part, he believed that was that. Odd, yet sexually gratifying at that.

As he was about to run out of breath, he caught — in the corner of his eye — an ominous blue glow coming from the abyss. The size of the moon’s reflection. It flickered for a moment before dissipating into the bubbles that surrounded him. Then more bubbling appeared, and Max swam in a beeline towards the shore, panicking, desperate to escape. Something had come alive. Something he didn’t want to be a part of. Something he knew was far more monumental than he could have ever imagined.

His swimming skills left much to be desired, so the air pockets quickly caught up with him, enveloping him, propelling him to the surface, and spitting him out onto the shore. There, he limped and crawled towards dry sand, presuming it to be sanctuary.

“Scheiße,” he groaned, his voice cracking from the stress. And he coughed.

Looking back at where he’d exited, the bubbling had intensified. Being a barista, paid to watch kettles boil, he knew it meant only one thing: whatever the source was was getting dangerously close, following behind him — a dangerous realization.

Then he looked down at the blue of the water, and he saw it wasn’t flat. And his head told him to run.

But something else was telling him to stay.

Ripples in the water laid where there shouldn’t have been, curves and unusual mounds of what appeared to be a bioluminescent blue-green slime. It reminded him of the cave in Guatape, though there hadn’t been much light then. It was a deep underground cave…

…filled with water. And, only then, did he finally connect the dots.

Dr. Alice had mentioned slime-like organisms arriving on meteors. She failed to mention their affinities for dark, wet, and terribly stagnant places.

A part of him then felt slightly offended the slime took refuge in his genitals, of all places.

Only, whatever it was they found in that cave was no more than the size of a squirrel’s tail. His palm was enough to hold the little thing. Max’s eyes went dry as he witnessed that same creature emerging from the lake, except far larger than the first, almost human in size, enough to engulf an American man — and it had found him. Not the other way around.

Water dripped off its frame in showers of droplets, and the sun’s rays were passing through its translucent body, causing the sand to glow a bright shade of crystal blue. Tendrils of slime were hanging off its sides, taking the form of arms and fingers intertwined. The organism didn’t appear to be a solid (because of its perpetually wet coat) nor was it a liquid (as it could hold form).

Regardless, whatever it was wasn’t of the earth. And it was stepping forward, toward a paralyzed Max.

Before he could turn and run, the massive creature lunged for him, tackling his impressively stocky 7’4” body and sending him collapsing to the ground. Max’s front was pressed deep against the sand as the slime lingered on his back.

He wanted to flee, but the organism was smooth and cool to the touch. Sedative in nature. It massaged the muscles in his back, relaxing him. A drug that made him want to want it. To want it in him. Opening his body for change.

He stopped struggling and savored the moment as the creature found his legs, his ass, his genitals.

It spun him around, to face his obelisk to the sun, fondling the head of his cock in its lubricative slime, causing him to stiffen and harden against the sand. It was dangerously sentient; it knew how to please a man, to make him hard, to make him cum.

And, no different to the event in the cave, the wet slime found the tip of his cock’s slit. The inexplicable creature took on a warmer, more lubricated body as it enveloped his waist, touching and prodding and tugging at his balls and penis.

Max wasn’t expecting his balls to be doing the same from inside him. The sampler he’d been blessed with in the cave had come alive, churning around inside his sack, transforming his entire nether region into an overwhelmingly potent erogenous zone from the tip of his cock to the crack of his ass. The organism didn’t need him to exert any effort at all. It moved in, and through, and on, and across him with the semi-liquid manifestation of euphoria itself, causing his pelvis and cock to thrust and throb at will.

In that moment, Max didn’t want the sensation to end. His face was burning from the ceaseless worshipping, and the world around him dissolved into a white heat.

Then it started slithering its way into his slit.

“Fuck!” Max was exasperated, in total disbelief that it was happening again.

He watched as the massive mound of slime was pumping its way into him, filling his cock and pushing against all the walls of his shaft, practically forcing his girth to widen, to accommodate more of the slime.

It moved in thrusts, taking breaks — almost breathers — before tearing its way down his shaft again. When he felt it collide with his pelvis, he was lost in a violent storm of exhilarating pleasure as it burrowed and sank into his balls like a flood. In two breaths, his balls had filled out entirely, erasing what few wrinkles his sack had had to begin with — yet the man-sized mound of slime continued to ravage him from the inside-out. Hardly a fraction had entered, and more and more of it was entering his slit, his shaft, with almost no end in sight.

Though Max couldn’t see past his mountainous pecs, he knew his balls were inflating and dragging along the sand. His genitals rubbed against his inner thighs and only continuing to grow.

Seemingly discontent with its own speed, the slime glowed briefly around Max’s cock, heating up past his body temperature.

And he watched as his cock lengthened higher and higher, thicker and fatter than any penis he’d ever seen before. It resembled a grown man’s leg almost, and it bloated ever larger as the slime penetrated his shaft with a constant flow. It had transformed his manhood into a chute to enter from, and, within seconds, the slime had dislodged from his ass, crawling up his balls, his dick, and poured the last remains of it into his slit, a faint tickle as it disappeared from sight. Though not out of mind.

Max was in petrified disbelief at what had just transpired; he carried his left leg but discovered his ball sack grazing against his knee. It weighed a metric ton, and it was pinning him to the ground. The enormous pink cap of his penis still aimed at the sky.

“Oh, god… oh, fuck, yes,” he moaned. As the fever settled down, he was finally beginning to wrap his head around things. And he was turned on, ready to unleash a storm of cum out of his geyser. What was inevitable needed no preamble: Max knew what was bound to happen once he ejaculated. And he wanted it. He wanted to grow even bigger, to surpass Jolias, and finally become the giant he was destined to be — a god among men.

The first spurt was a veritable explosion. It was a violent rush that surged from his balls, contracting them, reverse-gushing out his shaft and flying towards the sky. Each drop was heavier than usual as it crashed into him, coating his entire body in his spunk.

Max continued to cum, and cum again until his balls deflated into a more manageable size, cradled in-between his upper thighs. With each splurge that escaped him, his penis too followed and appeared to shrink — though Max didn’t feel much of a difference; the foot-and-a-half-long schlong was still granite-hard. Each glob of cum was a visible sphere that fired up his urethra, landing and forming puddles around him.

There was no room to breathe. Not when the slime was swirling and bouncing from wall to wall inside his ball sack, already disseminating whatever it was causing him to grow to every end of his impressive body.

Max couldn’t bear to open his eyes — though the sun had no part in it. In fact, he was at the mercy of his body, of the sentient organism fusing its body with his. It was making him grow, and he would, in moments, experience that bliss again. Exponentially more powerful than before.

It began without fanfare, as Max felt himself expand, a visceral sensation of his body being inflated from within. Pounds and pounds of muscle and bone and flesh compounding onto his enormous frame, growing him bigger, stronger, taller. His bones popped as they lengthened, and he could feel his already boulder-like back spreading to new corners along the sand, forming small granular walls that pathetically resisted his growth, to no avail.

In seconds, he could see nothing by raising his neck — his pecs had risen even taller, protruded even further from his ribcage, demanding half his field of vision. Max knew, without a doubt, there was no way he was ever going to see anything past his cleavage again.

That is, not unless he raised a leg forward. And what a third leg it was, his already burgeoning cock growing along with him, rising higher and higher, tall and wide enough to dwarf a small child.

Yet still Max wanted more. He could feel each wave of seething euphoria burning inside him.

His entire body was on overdrive, producing new matter out of nothing to build him bigger.

There was no telling how abundantly titanic he had become; Jolias wasn’t around to measure him, the only man in the world who could reach the top of his head without a support — but Max wondered, and elated himself at the possibility that Jolias wouldn’t even come close to his shoulders the next time they saw each other. It would have to be back at the estate, where a dozen miniature replicas of people would barely surpass his waist. The thought turned him on to unbearable levels. His balls ached for release, but they had already been drained of everything only moments ago.

Max lifted himself out of the crater his body formed in the sand. It amused him how much his body’s silhouette looked like a starfish, and in its center was his former self, a visible reference for how much he’d grown. No doubt in his mind that he’d likely supersized himself by at least half of what he was minutes ago. His 7’5” self would have squeezed fit inside what was now a leg the size of a small oak.

“I’m humongous,” he exclaimed to himself, affirming his situation and understanding that no part of it was a hoax. No fiction. Only fact.

He hadn’t yet broken into macro territory, no, but he knew he was getting there, and with the latest tenant in his Herculean body of man-sized limbs, there was no way he was flying back home. Not unless they paid for a private freighter.

“Jol’s going to freak when he sees me again.”

Next to him was a palm tree, the smallest of the bunch, but he knew it had had to be at least ten feet. And his face was an arm’s reach away from pulling coconuts from its head. Little brown marbles he once needed to hold with two hands. Now he could crush five with a finger.

And, still, he wanted more. His heart couldn’t keep up with his excitement, pounding against his ribs, as he lifted his neck to the sky (now wider than his own head), and found no limits.

He wouldn’t wait another two days.

Jolias’ family would watch as he ascended into a god. No, not only them. He wanted all of Copacabana. All of Peru, and South America, to realize a giant was being created on their very soil.

“I fucking love growing.”

[ibron888]

I loved the way Jolias playfully humiliated his father! Can’t wait for the next chapter! 

[citizenies]

So hot with all that growth going on ~  but dang only 2 parts left for thw story 

[scarletic]

2 hours ago, citizenies said:

So hot with all that growth going on ~  but dang only 2 parts left for thw story 

I’ll be posting them this weekend in time for Christmas. 

[jujumusclelover717]

Just started reading this and wow, love it!!! Anything regarding Jolias gets me going, if you know what I mean...  can't wait for more growth!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[TrueBlueBB]

I just wanted to chime in.  This is a *really* great story, and I'm looking forward to the rest.  Thanks for all your time, attention to detail and creativity.

[RealIn2Growth]

Just wanted to say how much I love it!  Can't wait to read the last two chapters, but I'm going to be sad to see it go.  Great work!!!

[citizenies]

22 hours ago, scarletic said:

I’ll be posting them this weekend in time for Christmas. 

Thanks in advance for this gift

And a thanks for adding to family affairs