Weird, But Sweet (Complete Story, 1/18/23, Bonus Material added 1/25/23)

[TQuintA]

Chapter 36

            Before I knew it, it was the next morning.  I groaned as it meant I had to spend the day with Carey.  My entire morning as I got ready, I just kept repeating to myself, “Do it for the new bakery.”  On a loop.  I took the first round of my supplements and my cock-growth pill at home to minimize the questions Carey would ask.  It was already going to be hard enough to hide the blessing I needed to put on his vial.

            I’d told Carey to meet me at the gym at 6.  I got there at 5:55, and he was in his workout gear, waiting impatiently for me outside the front door, tapping his foot, his arms crossed.

            “You’re late,” he said.

            “How can ever I apologize?” I said sarcastically.

            “You got the stuff?” he asked.

            “Of course I do,” I said.  “Do you know your starting weight, or do you want to weigh yourself?”

            “210,” he said.

            It was my turn to look at him dubiously.

            “200, barely.”  Defensively, he added, “I was 210 cut pounds in my prime.  I’ve worked like a madman to keep it at 200, and about 10 pounds of it is extra fat.  Middle age is a bitch.”

            “Our starting point is 200,” I said.

            He followed me into the gym, then into the locker room.  He practically followed me into my locker as I opened it.

            “Back off,” I said.  “I don’t want you to see my combination.”

            “I own this gym, Whitaker,” he said, hovering right on top of me.  “I can look up the combination.”

            “Give me the illusion of privacy,” I insisted.

            He backed off, gruffly saying, “Yes, sir.”

            As I got out the materials, I warned him, “When I pop the lid off this stuff, you’ll have less than 20 seconds to swallow it all in one go.  If it oxidizes, it’s useless.”

            “Sir, yes, sir,” he said, saluting me and going into a rigid military stance.  “Understood, sir.”

            I blessed both vials at once, popped the lids, and handed him one.

            As I guzzled mine down, he stared at the glowing, golden liquid.  His eyes were transfixed, like he was looking at a shooting star.

            “Soldier,” I said, reminding him of the time limit.

            He collected himself and downed the liquid.

            With that, we were into the gym proper to work it out.

            “I feel…” he started, before trailing off.  He eventually finished with, “serene.”

            I was worried I wasn’t going to be able to push Carey as hard as he’d requested while I was high on my own dose of the potion, but before I could second guess myself a third time, I was feeling it too and was too blissed out to care.

            After the first workout, I came down to a soft landing and could finally process that there were people outside my body as well as the screaming torture in all of my overworked muscles.

            “You were brutal,” Carey said, his body dripping sweat, his veins all at the surface, his muscles swollen and large.  “I can’t do any more today.  I don’t care how good your massage is.”

            Despite my own body crying out for release from the pain I put it through, I decided to heal Carey first.

            I told him to lie down on the bench, and he complied.  I whispered the incantation below my breath, rubbing his chest and shoulders vigorously.  When I’d finished, I told him, “Eat.  We’re going again in 5.”

            He stood up tentatively, expecting his body to still be racked with pain, but instead, he felt calm and at peace, entirely painless.

            “That was easier than getting out of bed this morning,” he said.  “Fuck.  I’m ready to go again right now.”

            “Eat,” I repeated.  I healed my own muscles and wolfed down my own food.

            After two more workouts, Carey was mystified.

            “Those workouts went by in a blink, I feel amazing, and I have the best pump of my life.”  He saw himself in the mirror.  “Am I leaner?”

            “Probably,” I said.  “You didn’t bring hardly enough food,” I admonished.  “Thankfully, it’s lunch time.”

            “Fuck lunch.  I want to go again.”

            “Eat to grow,” I said.  “Besides, I need a break for my sanity.”

            “Fuck sanity,” Carey said.  “This stuff is amazing, and I don’t want to waste a drop of it.”

            I crossed my arms and confronted him.  “You said you’d follow my instructions.”

            “You take a break,” Carey, ever the contrarian, dictated.  “I’ll do some cardio while you see to your precious sanity.  No lifting without you; I swear.”

            “You need more food,” I reminded him.

            Carey called out to the front desk.  Jack, place my usual lunch order, but triple it.”

            A scared man at the front desk immediately went into action.

            Carey looked at me.  “Any problems, sir?”

            “When will you eat it?”

            “I’ll choke it down in five minutes while you give me another miracle message.”  He then hopped on a treadmill.  “I’ve been telling you: I know a valuable commodity when I see one,” he said, cranking up the device.  “I’m milking this for all it’s worth.”  With that, he ran like a fiend for ninety minutes while I leisurely relaxed, surfing my phone.  I had planned on going home for lunch, but, as I said when I’d texted Mason, I had to babysit Carey to make sure he didn’t exercise himself to death.

            When he finished running, he was drenched in more sweat than I’d ever seen a human produce, and he’d been chugging bottles of water the whole time.

            “Jack, lunch!” he called, collapsing onto a bench.  “Whitaker, massage!”

            I walked up to him and loomed over him, staring lividly.  I wasn’t going to heal him until he was nice to me.  As he lay there, his legs began to cramp, and the pain of the torture he’d just inflicted on himself dawned on his face.

            “Please,” he said, about to beg.  “I’m sorry.  You’re the boss.  I shouldn’t have disobeyed you or ordered you around.  Pretty please and thank you.”

            “That’s better,” I said, rubbing his legs while incanting.

            The relief washed over his face.  “You have magic hands,” he said, soothed.

            I internally snickered.  He wasn’t wrong.

            When I finished my “massage,” Carey sat up and began bolting down his food.  He went through all three lunches in ten minutes flat.

            Afterwards, he rubbed his stomach for a few seconds, then asked, “Can I have a five minute break, Whitaker?”

            “Might as well,” I said, joining him on the bench.  “I told you you’d need a break.  But then it’s right back to it.”

            “Sir, yes, sir,” he said half-heartedly.

            After his break, we were back in the crush.  It felt like I blinked, and then it was quarter past 8.

            I wanted to leave, but Carey dragged me over to a scale, roughly.

            “I know it worked,” he said.  “I felt it work, and I can tell I’m bigger, but I want to see how much bigger.”

            He stepped on the scale.  208.

            “Eight pounds in one day.  Jesus fucking Christ on a dildo!”

            “It was probably 12 pounds of muscle,” I corrected.  “I think you burned off four pounds of fat,” I added, pulling up his shirt, revealing a faint 4-pack. 

            “Fuck me twice!” he shouted, sucking in his stomach to make his abs more pronounced.  “Abs!  I haven’t had abs since my 40s.”

            “You’re welcome,” I said, moving to jog home.

            Instead, Carey grabbed my wrist.  “Come to my office now.”

            He knew he couldn’t drag me there—I was stronger and heavier than him.  But, I relented and followed.

            He offered me a seat, but I stayed standing, wanting to shorten this meeting.

            He locked his office door, lowered a blind, and then spun around and pointed at me.  “You’re a warlock,” he said.

            “What?” I said, taken aback, and a little frightened.  Carey was a dangerous man.  Was this how I died?

            “My suspicions were raised by Mason, but no matter how much I spied, there was nothing abnormal going on.  One day with you, though…  The glowing drugs, the time-altering workouts, the science-defying massages.  You’re a warlock.” 

            I relaxed a little.  He didn’t sound like he was about to grab a torch and pitchfork, more like he was meeting a celebrity.

            Emboldened, I said, “He-witch.”

            “Pardon?” he asked.

            “I prefer he-witch to warlock.”

            “Holy fuck, you’re an actual warlock!”  He sounded so excited.  “I knew they were real.  I’ve had loose acquaintances who’ve had dealings with them, friends of friends—that sort of thing.  Things whispered over cigars at corporate dinners when everyone was already drunk.  But I never thought I’d actually meet one.”  He was deliriously happy.  “You’re not kidding me, right?  You’re an honest-to-goodness warlock?”

            “He-witch,” I repeated.

            “Sorry,” he said.  “Never heard that term before.”  Enthusiastically, he pointed to the front of the gym and said, “You’re the guy who cleaned the gym up!”

            “Pardon?” I asked.

            “One day, a lighting fixture just exploded, and the sprinkler system went off,” he explained. 

            He had to be referring to when I destroyed the lighting fixture with a weight rack so I could sneak Mason out of the gym, right?

            “The very next day, as if by magic,” he’d said those last four words with special emphasis, “the whole place was cleaned up.  That was you, right?”

            It wasn’t me; it was likely Melody and her coven.  I’d just assumed he’d paid to have professionals do it, but I was wrong.  I didn’t clean the mess, but I was the one who caused it in the first place, so he wasn’t entirely wrong.  Rather than explain everything, I just said, “I can take credit for that.”

            He calmed himself down.  “Don’t worry.  Your secret’s safe with me.  You’re more valuable if fewer people know about you.”

            “Valuable?” I asked.

            “I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not going to renegotiate the deal in the middle of it.  I wouldn’t do that even if you weren’t a warl…” he stopped and corrected himself, “he-witch.  But can I strike a second deal?”

            “Depends,” I said.  “I have limited abilities, and I won’t do anything I think is unethical.”

            “Of course, of course,” he said, getting excited again.  “After next Wednesday, I’m gonna be bigger and buffer than I’ve ever been in my whole life.  But without magic, I won’t be able to keep it up.  It’ll just wither off my frame, a pleasant memory and a few months of being big.  When I struck our deal, I thought you were giving me an illegal drug, like some new super-roids.  Those I could track down with or without you.  But you’re the only he-witch I’ve ever met.  Can we strike a deal to let me keep the muscle?”

            I did not expect that to be what he wanted.

            “I’m a wealthy man, Whitaker.  I can make it worth your while.  Name your price.  Maybe I could pay for the reno on your new bakery.  Or your new baking equipment.  Industrial appliances can’t be cheap.”

            “We already got a loan.”

            “Then I’ll pay off your loan,” he said.  “Oh, and you can use any of my gyms for free for the rest of your life.  You and Mister.”

            I shifted my weight and grunted.  “The only way I know how to do what you ask isn’t a one-time thing.  It’s a potion that kind of looks and tastes like Jell-O.  You’d have to take it once a week for the rest of your life.  You can’t miss a week, or the spell starts to fade.  And you’d have to start eating it 20 seconds after I blessed it.  Like a lot of my magic, the spell is time-sensitive.”

            “Okay,” Carey said, nodding.  “I can see your expertise and value your time.  I’ll up the price.  I’ll come to your bakery every week at a time of your choosing—3 AM on Tuesdays for all I care.  I’ll buy each individual Jell-O shot from you.  $1,000 a pop.”

            He was making me feel like a drug dealer.

            Apparently, he could read the hesitation on my face.  “Tell you what, I’ll sweeten the pot.  Did you know I own restaurants?”

            I shook my head.

            “I’m a small empire.  I own two diners, an ice cream parlor, and a KFC franchise in this city alone.  Even more outside of town.  I own them through a shell corporation, but I own them.  Easiest way to increase the need for my gyms, you know.  Supply and demand.  You sell me this magic Jell-O once a week, and at both of my local diners, I will only sell desserts made by your bakery.”

            I was impressed.

            “That’s a lot of extra business coming your way, guaranteed exclusive.  Plus a thousand dollars a potion, plus free gym membership, plus paying off your loans.  You’d be a fool to turn that down.”

            “You really want to keep this muscle,” I said, overwhelmed.

            “As I keep saying, I know a valuable commodity when I see one.  I want to keep seducing men in their 20s well into my 70s.  I am one of the vainest sons of a bitch you will ever meet, and I have the money to back it up.  Do we have a deal, Mr. Whitaker?”  He hit the “Mr.” hard and extended his hand.

            I shook it.

            “Pleasure doing business with you.  I’ll see you on Wednesday for the next dose of the gold stuff.  We’ll hammer out the deals about my standing Jell-O order then.”

            I jogged home bewildered.

            At my weigh-in that night (249.4 pounds and 9.5 inches—achingly close to my ideal body), I told Mason all about my deal with Carey.

            “You would’ve been proud of me,” I said as I pulled my pants back up.

            “Meh,” Mason said.  “You did fine.”  He got up and walked to the bedroom.

            “What do you mean?” I asked, following him.

            “You could’ve pressed him more.”  He shrugged and started putting on his pajamas. 

            “Pressed him how?”

            Mason exhaled loudly, thinking.  Then, seemingly off the top of his head, he said, “I doubt his diners make all their desserts on the premises.  He was buying desserts for his diners anyway.  That was just a reallocation of assets he was already spending.  Your ever-growing physique is an advertisement for this gym.  Even without you paying one cent in membership fees, if you get two people to sign up who wouldn’t have otherwise every year, that’s pure profit.  He would want you using his gym anyway.”

            “Yeah, but…”  I didn’t know how I was going to finish that sentence. 

            Mason continued, talking over me.  “Everything else has a high ROI.  If he gets bigger, that will keep people coming back to his gyms, which means more money in his pocket.  He also uses his physical size to intimidate people he does business with, so a bigger physique means even more money in his pocket.”  Mason shrugged again.  “You have the unique product.  All he brings to the table is money.”

            “Yeah, but…”  I still didn’t know how I was going to finish that sentence.

            Mason kissed me on the cheek and said, “Buck up.  You negotiated $4,000 a month for a product it costs you roughly $50 a month to make, factoring in your time and skill as costs, and deducting the fact that you were already making some for me anyways.  You brought in thousands of dollars of additional business for the bakery, you got our 5-figure loan paid off in an afternoon, and you made an important business contact very happy.”

            I stood there, blinking.  “I can’t tell anymore.  Did I do amazingly, or did I blow it?”

            Mason went into the bathroom to trim his facial hair.  “For someone with the business savvy of a yam, you did stupendously.  If I’d been there, we’d be multi-millionaires.”  He nicked his face with his razor.  “Son of a mother!” he shouted.

            “Okay in there?” I asked.

            “The yoga is making me more flexible, I can tell just from these first two sessions, but it is slow going.”  He fell silent for a few seconds, then came back into the bedroom.  A trickle of blood was on his cheek.  “Is there a witch-y way to increase my flexibility?”

            “Let me check,” I said, pulling out my mother’s book.

            As I flipped through the pages, Mason sat in the bed next to me.  He looked at the book, then back at me, then back at the book, then back at me.  The whole time, I was flipping through the pages, looking for a spell to help him.  “You’re a weird man,” he said.

            I didn’t know what was weird about looking through a book, but he often called me weird unprompted.

            Mason went back into the bathroom to clean up his cut and finish shaving.

            When I found the spell I was looking for, I called out, “Do we have an avocado in the kitchen?”

            “There was only one left, and I had it in my salad at lunch,” he responded.

            “I’ll get one tomorrow.  It might not make you instantly more flexible, but it will definitely make the yoga about 10 times as effective.  Maybe more.”

            “Avocado?  Really?”  He sounded disappointed.

            “Well, we already have the almonds, and I have the enchanted fishbones from the Veridical Transfiguration.”

            “That sounds more witch-y,” Mason said, pleased this new spell wasn’t just guacamole.

            “It’ll be super witch-y when I make you breathe in the vapors,” I teased.

            “Goodnight, Roy.”  That was his polite way of saying, “You can stop talking now.”

            “Goodnight, Mason.”  That was my cute way of saying, “I love you too.”

[TQuintA]

Chapter 37

            The rest of that week progressed without other surprises.  Sure, there were minor happenings.  Kayla added a type of Brazilian cake (she’d learned to make it for her husband, who is originally from Brazil) to the menu without asking permission.  It was a good seller, so I was pleased.  Another surprise was Carey the day after our workout.   He was smiling broadly when I first saw him, but I could tell he was stiff and sore, like after a particularly intense workout.  Since he shouldn’t have been sore at all, I realized he did another workout after I left him at the gym.  That whole day, Carey bragged to everyone that he was 210 again, showing off his abs and crowing about losing an inch off his waist.  Still, these past couple of weeks had completely recalibrated what I considered newsworthy, so these incidents were barely blips.  But, those were the only real surprises.

            At the end of the week, I presented Mason with his flexibility spell.  “Did you always do this much witchcraft?” Mason asked, breathing in the vapors.  “Doing it in shadows, keeping it secret from me?”

            I thought before answering.  “Before I learned I was a healing he-witch, most of the witchcraft I did was curses, and I still really suck at those.  But, honestly?  I used to do shit like this with Gramps all the time.  I was always helping him with a spell, or chanting with him, or preparing for a witch celebration.  Because I’m skilled with an egg, I was handy to have around if a curse went awry.  It was intense bonding.  It’s one of the reasons we’re so close.  Even when he moved away, we’d do stuff over the phone—even just talk about it.  If I still couldn’t talk to you about witch stuff with everything I learned recently, I’d probably be jonesing like a heroin fiend.”

            “I’m sorry I made you keep that a secret from me,” he said, breathing deeply.

            “The world at large makes me keep it a secret,” I corrected.

            “I should be an exception,” he replied.  “I’m not the world.”

            “That should do it,” I said, taking the copper bowl of steaming liquid away from him.  “We will do this three or four more times for full effect.  And, if you stop doing yoga, all the benefits of the spell might evaporate.”

            The flexibility spell was far more potent than I thought.  After one more yoga class, Mason was limber as a belly dancer.  More flexible than he was at 130 pounds.  That shouldn’t have been possible, so I checked my mother’s book.  Oddly, her spell hadn’t called for fishbones, let alone enchanted fishbones.  I had just intuited it would make the spell more potent. 

            “I should’ve learned this stuff years ago,” I said to Mason.  “I have a knack for it.”   Gramps was going to have to explain why he hid this from me.

            In the meantime, I kept up the workout schedule.  At Thursday’s weigh-in, I was 259.8 pounds, 10 inches erect—my ideal stats.  That night, I fucked Mason senseless with my 10-inch club.  I was exactly as big as I’d ever dreamed, and I was just going to get bigger.  That reality, combined with Mason’s new flexibility, spurred me into some of the most frenzied fucking I’ve ever done.  I was fucking a muscle behemoth, and I was still being turned on by my own body.

            Friday, I was 271.1 with 10.5 inches.  Every day, I was bigger and buffer, taking up more space and feeling the world shrink around me.  Every day, I was packing a little more meat, my flaccid bulge showing a little more prominently, with me growing just that much hornier.  I loved having a big crotch bulge.  It was a huge ego-boost.

            Saturday was my first of two days off, so I’d set up a game day with Zack.  When he walked into the apartment, he dropped his Boggle to the floor, stared at me, pointed, and shouted, “Você ficou muito maior!  For the love of god, buddy!”

            “Yeah, I’ve put on some muscle,” I said, flexing my pecs idly, guessing at what he’d shouted at me in Portuguese.

            “Holy fuck!” he shouted, looking at my pecs.  “I was talking about your dick.  You’re big all over!”

            “I’ve figured some stuff out,” I said coyly, closing the door behind Zack.

            “Buddy!  Buddy.  Buddy!”  Each “buddy” was said at a radically different volume and tone of voice.  “You figured out a way to make people’s dicks bigger, and you haven’t told me?  Who’s a bigger size queen than me, your buddy Zack?  How big are you?”

            “By the end of today, I’ll be over 7 inches soft, a full 11 inches hard.”

            Zack fell to his knees and looked longingly at my crotch bulge.  “I could weep.  I could just weep.  It was one thing for Mason to be bigger than Sammy, but both of you?”  He looked up at me expectantly.  “Is it something you could do for Sammy too?”

            I thought about it, then said, “Yes, but I don’t want him to know I’m a he-witch.”

            “Oh,” Zack said meekly, standing up sheepishly.  “Then you’ll need to find a time travel spell, go back in time two weeks, and tell me not to tell Sammy.”

            “I told you to keep this secret,” I scolded.

            “He’s my husband; I tell him everything.  I didn’t think he counted,” Zack said hurriedly.  “I’m sorry.”  He put a hand on my shoulder.  “Covenant of the marriage bed.  I can guarantee you he’s told no one.”

            I had no choice but to trust Zack.  With Mason, Melody, her coven, Dalton (if he had pieced it together), Carey, Zack, and now Sammy, it was starting to feel like everyone knew my secret.  “Since the cat’s out of the bag, then, yeah.  I can make him bigger.  There’s some stuff you’ll need to get me, and he’ll have to take the pills immediately after I’ve blessed them, but it’s doable.”

            In a flurry, Zack bent over to pick up the Boggle pad and a pen, foisting them both on me.  “Write down everything I’ll need.”

            I sat down at the kitchen table to write the list.  As I wrote, Zack asked, “How big can he get?”

            “The way this spell works, there is no upper limit,” I said, making sure to specify edible camphor in my list.

            “No upper limit?” Zack said, practically drooling.  Then, like a supervillain, he announced, “I shall make my husband more cock than man!”

            I stopped writing, and looked Zack dead in the eye.  “You should find out how big Sammy wants to get, then I can help him achieve his goal.  It’s his dick, after all.”

            “You weren’t at our wedding,” Zack responded, smiling.  “He gave me that piece of his anatomy in our vows.  I legally own it.”

            “I won’t help him get any bigger than he wants to get,” I repeated, leaning back in my chair.  “Unless you agree to that, I’m not finishing this list.”

            “Fine,” Zack said begrudgingly.  “I was mostly joking anyway.”  After a second, he admitted, “I wasn’t even slightly joking, but I respect your decision.”  He sat at the table with me, diffidently.

            As I finished the list, Mason came into the room.  “Are you two talking about what I think you’re talking about?”

            “Do you think we’re talking about making Sammy’s cock inhumanly large?” Zack asked.  “If so, then, yes.”

            “If he’s getting more pills anyway…” Mason said leadingly.

            “I’ll go up to a full two, and not a jot over,” I insisted, handing Zack the list.

            “Two what?” Zack asked, looking at the list.  “Two pills?  Two bottles?”

            “Two feet erect,” I said.

            Zack fell out of his chair, knocking it to the ground as he landed. 

            Still on the floor, he pulled out his phone.  He pressed a few buttons, and then said, “Hey, Sammy boy.  Roy and I were just about to get our game day started, and I was wondering, what’s the absolute biggest you’d ever want your cock to be?”  He paused and listened intently.  “That’s right.  Roy’s he-witch magic.”  He listened again.  “He said there is none.”  He listened again.  “Okay.  I’ll ask.”  Still on the floor, he looked me, “Are there any side effects we should be worried about?”  I shook my head, so he told Sammy, “No.”  He listened intently again.  Then, to me, he asked, “Is there a way to make it bigger and smaller, like impossibly huge during sex, but then normal-sized during the day?”

            As I started talking, Zack held his phone so it faced me, “Not that I know of.  When my Gramps comes to visit, I might be able to talk him into a glamour so it looks normal-sized most of the time, but once it reaches a certain size, it just is that size.”

            Zack put the phone back to his ear.  “Did you get all of that?”  Zack nodded as Sammy talked.  “I know, right?”  He nodded.  “I’d love that,” he said, “but I promised Roy a game day, and if I go home to be ravaged by you right now, he might be too cross with me to make your cock bigger.”  He paused and listened again.  “Love you too, lovely boy.”  He hung up and put his phone in his pocket.  Still on the floor, he said, “We’ll start with 15 inches.  Then, after he sees how that feels, he might go bigger.”  He smiled at me broadly.  “I’ve only known you for, like, two months, but I think you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

            “Do you need help to get up?” I asked.

            He looked around him.  “When did I fall over?” he asked.

            “When I said I was growing my cock out to two feet long.”

          “That sounds like me,” he said getting up.  Then, without segue, he added, “If you want to start with Boggle, we’ll have to pick it up.  But I say we start with Parcheesi.  That usually takes us about an hour.”

[TQuintA]

Chapter 38

            My vacation of growth marched onward.  Every day I grew bigger and more hung.  I could feel myself straining the fabric of my new clothes.  I could see myself take up more space in the world.  I was aware of the growing weight in my crotch and on my frame, and I increasingly understood why Mason called it his favorite part of getting big.

            At Sunday’s weigh-in, I was 283.4 pounds and 11.5 inches erect.

            The guys at the gym eyed with me awe, suspicion, and lust.  People moved out of my way on the sidewalks and gave me a wide berth.  My shape and size warped the space around me, creating eddies of smaller mortals.  Even outside the gym, people began staring reverently at my increasing physique.  When I was around Mason, I noticed that there was more desire in his face, his eyes darting down to my body or crotch and then back up.  He was still impossibly bigger than me, but the gap between us was growing smaller.

            At Monday’s weigh-in, I was 295 pounds and 12 inches erect. 

            I was essentially a 300-pound beast with a footlong cock.  I rode Mason so hard that night that, with the 750 pounds of man between us, we finally broke the bed—shattered it.  Mason said, “Keep going; the replacement’s already being shipped.”  And I continued fucking him in the debris.  Mason got a back full of splinters, but I had that healed in seconds, so we fucked a second time on the demolished frame.

            At Tuesday’s weigh-in, I was 305 and 12.5 inches erect.

            I had crossed the 300-pound threshold.  My body felt hard as concrete, marble, steel—a hardness rivaling Mason’s.  It was surreal to feel such unyielding density underneath my own velvety skin—skin that was unmarred with stretch marks, magically enhanced to keep up with my growing muscles.  My strength was also astronomical—I could even carry Mason across the room.  He didn’t feel particularly light, but it was getting easier to do every day.

            Other changes also became apparent.  The stairs to our apartment felt treacherously narrow, doors were shrinking around me.  The men at the gym, even the Mass Monsters, were starting to look small to me.  My cock and balls weighed heavily at all times, dangling with potency.  Nothing I wore could obscure them anymore.  I was basically as big as Mason had been after his second growth spurt.  My chest stuck out in front of me, always slightly in my peripheral vision, obscuring from me the glorious and ever-enhancing 6-pack I now could only admire in mirrors.  My lats were so wide and thick that taking shirts on and off was a struggle to get it past my width.  I didn’t have Mason’s boon, so I destroyed more than a few shirts just by trying to wear them.

            My shoulders and arms didn’t make it any easier.  My biceps bulged obscenely, even when I was relaxed.  When I flexed them, they rose mightily, giant and prodigious, bigger around than most men’s thighs.  Like my pecs, my shoulders were always somewhat in my peripheral vision.  And like Mason, I was constantly knocking things over.

            And if my top half of was gigantic, by bottom half had kept up.  My thighs were so thick and swollen with beef that my gait had slowed down as my legs rolled around each other.  My calves were diamond-hard, the sinew visible just below the skin, brawny beef filling my legs with power, the skin wrapping around the meat, desperately trying to keep me in.

            My lats were making it hard for me to put on shirts; my ass was making it impossible for me to put on pants.  If it didn’t have stretch fibers sewn into the material, I’d blow through the seat of my pants just by bending halfway over.  I’d often catch Mason staring at my ass, and when I did, I’d give him a little waggle, and then a flex.

            As much as my ass was making it impossible for me to put on pants, my junk was making it doubly so.  In everything I wore, I hung heavily and thickly, distending the front in a bulge.  Zippers complained as I shut them, buttons groaned as I fastened them, seams protested as I moved.  Outgrowing clothes because of my growing muscles, no matter how many times I did it, was an erotic charge.  The first time I outgrew a pair of boxers because of my growing cock, though, I nearly came instantly.  My cock was too big to be contained by all but specialty underwear.  And even the specialty underwear was getting cramped.

            And as I racked on the mass, my face took on subtle changes too.  I was still unmistakably me, but my face looked thicker, meatier.  My neck and traps had swollen with brawn, which was part of it, but my facial muscles themselves had intensified, giving me a more rugged masculinity.  And, since I was only packing on muscle, not fat, my face also began taking on that hollow, competition look that Mason sported these days.  I never thought I’d see my face like this, but it was amazing.

            As my testicles grew, I noticed my body hair was coming in thicker, especially on my chest, in my pits, and on my face.  So, as per Mason’s request, I decided to grow a beard.  It was only three days old, so it was just thick stubble at this point, but it was already taking on a more intense, more vibrant fullness than I could have managed pre-cock-growth.  Mason was delighted with this development and touched my face as often as I touched his ass.

            I went to the gym on Wednesday morning excited and more eager than I’d been in weeks.  I was bigger than I’d ever thought I’d be, and I was only going to get bigger.  Nothing could diminish my cheer, not even another day with Carey.

            When he saw me strut through the doors of the locker room, Carey, who had been staring absently at his phone, dropped his phone to his side and woofed at me.  He actually woofed at me.  I’d never had anyone woof at me.  Whistles, sure.  Catcalls, whenever I was in a gay neighborhood.  But never a woof.  And coming from a beefy, muscle daddy like Carey, it made me feel…powerful.

            “You look amazing, Whitaker,” Carey said.  “You planning to get as big as Mister?” he asked, hopefully.

            “He’s going to remain the big man.  I’m thinking another 50 pounds.”

            “Be still my throbbing cock,” Carey said, grabbing himself inappropriately.

            “Watch your tongue,” I chided.  “I’m a happily engaged man.”

            “You’re the one with the thirst trap Instagram account,” he replied.

            “My Instagram account is private,” I said.

            “No, I meant your second Instagram account.  The new one,” he showed me his phone.  “I was just liking your shirtless breakfast pic.”

            I grabbed the phone out of his hand and looked at the picture closely.  It was a picture of me from less than half an hour ago.  My impossible mass was so broad that I looked like I was sitting on children’s furniture.  I looked even bigger from the outside than I felt from the inside.

            “I prefer Instagram accounts that aren’t a string of selfies,” Carey said, taking his phone back.  “It shows they care enough to hire a photographer.  More professional.”

            “How long has this account existed?” I asked.

            “About a week.”  He looked at me.  “You mean, you didn’t do this?  That’s you in the pictures.  It’s advertising your bakery.  The name of the account is BakeryBeefCake.  For every two shirtless pics of you, there are five of baked goods.”

            I thought about that.  “That means it’s either Kayla or Mason doing this.  Likely both of them together.”

            “You really didn’t know this account existed?” Carey asked, amused.

            I shook my head and opened my locker.

            Then, the look on his face changed.  “Do you feel flattered or violated?” he asked, inching away from me, afraid the he-witch was about to lose his temper.

            “How many followers?”

            “40K,” Carey said.  “But it’s only a week old.  You get thousands more every day.”

            “Then, I’m flattered,” I said.  “Now put your phone away so we can work out.

            I was about to bless the vials, but before I could, the locker room door opened, and Tank sauntered in.  He got in between Carey and me, closer to me, and leaned against the lockers, one swollen, thick, muscular arm stretched up, his overdeveloped bicep almost pressing into the side of his face.

            “Are the stats on your Instagram account true?” he asked.

            “What do the stats say?” I asked in turn.

            “That you’re 300 pounds,” he said, sizing me up.

            “Pretty accurate.  I was just a bit over 300 last night.”

            Tank brough his arm down and began applauding.  “I have once again been dethroned.  Long live the king.”

            “The king?” I asked, confused.

            “The king of the gym,” Carey answered.  “You’re now the biggest guy at this gym.  Tank’s been stalled at 290 for about six months.”

            “You’re only the king if Mister doesn’t come back, of course,” Tank said.

            “I’m the biggest guy?” I asked.

            “Like you didn’t know.  I’ve been publicly complaining about my plateau for months, and you blow right past me without even noticing?  Likely story.”  He affectionately punched my shoulder.  “What shall we make your big guy name?”

            “Sorry?”

            “When I became king of the gym, I stopped being Giles, and everyone except Mason started calling me Tank.  When Mason became the biggest, everyone except you started calling him Mister.  What’s going to be your big guy name?”

            “Can’t it just be Roy?” I asked.

            “Funny.  Real funny.”  As he slowly exited the locker room, he said, “I’m going to try to get everyone to call you Beef.  Short for Beefcake.”

            “He’s a baker, Tank,” Carey said.  “If you aim for Beefcake, everyone will call him Cake.  Plus, the irony of calling an incredibly fit man a pastry?  It’s nickname gold.”

            But, by then, Tank had gone.

            Carey looked at me.  “What are you waiting for, Cake?  Make with the magic.  We got half a dozen workouts to do.”

            By the end of the day, everyone was calling me Cake.  There was a reverence in their voices, and they clearly meant it respectfully and in a friendly way, but, still, they were calling me Cake.

            At my weigh-in that night, I was 317 ground-shaking pounds heavy and 13 ass-shattering inches long.

            “Did you start an Instagram account for me?” I asked Mason as he put away the tape.

            “Kayla and I did, yeah.”

            “Without telling me?”

            Mason scoffed.  “You specifically told me you wanted to be an Instagram thirst trap.”

            I thought back.  I guess I had.

            “Besides,” Mason said, “it’s excellent advertising for the bakery.  We were so crowded today, I had to step in to help.  I haven’t done that for 150 pounds.  We ran out of practically everything.”

            “And it’s because of the Instagram account?”

            “At least thirty people specifically asked if they could see the hunky baker.  Even more asked how I grew a mustache so fast, mistaking me for you.”

            “You’re way bigger than me, and our hair….”

            “Take the compliment,” Mason said, interrupting me and swatting my stomach.  “It’s going to happen even more once your beard is fully in.”

            He was right about that, so instead, I asked, “Did you have to name the account BakeryBeefCake?”

            “It seemed fitting.  You are a bakery beefcake.  Honesty in advertisement.”

            “The guys at the gym started calling me Cake,” I said, showing my discontent.

            “Aw!  You got your big guy name today. Congrats.”

            “They’re calling me Cake,” I repeated emphatically.

            “I heard you.  Short for Beef Cake.  It’s sweet.”

            “It’s weird,” I said.

            “Then it’s perfect for you,” he said, grabbing me by the cock and leading me to the bedroom.  Even in Mason’s massive mitt, my cock still looked thick and huge.  That was a little worrying.

            “If I grow to two feet, I’ll get too big to fuck you,” I pointed out.  “What’ll we do when that happens?”

            “Celebrate,” Mason said.  “Besides, you did a spell on me that increases flexibility,” he said, kicking his leg up and nearly hitting himself in the face like a Rockette.  “I’ve done some tests.  The spell doesn’t distinguish between flexibility and stretch-ability.  With all my mass and all my flexibility, I can take two feet easily.”

            I swallowed hard.  “You’ll still be able to take all of me?”

            “As long as I keep up with the yoga, I could take more,” he teased.  “You should do the spell yourself.  Join me and my yoga friends.  Now, come on.  I want Cake to fuck me hard.”

            “Yes, Mister,” I said, sweeping him off his feet and carrying him the last few steps to the bed.

[ToolShedCub]

I fucking love this story!  OMG please don't make us wait too long for the next set of chapters!  

[Ayoayoayos]

They better call the she witch to undo all the spread of information before it's too late.

I wouldn't want gramps to have to save them who knows what curses are going to do 

[citizenies]

Ooooh a lot of people benefitting from Cake ~ cant wait for the next parts 

[jwood]

Cake being a literal and a figurative connotation of "sweet" is perfect

[CurlyJinrlyJin]

I won't be able to get this image out of my head till I draw these men with 2 feet of pole and almost 1k lbs between them

[arpeejay]

ALL my buttons have been pushed! Thanks!

[actorsarecool]

I had mondays and Wednesdays marked down on my calendar already, but I just gone and circled next Wednesday like a madman.  Can’t wait to see what happens next and how much more massive Cake gets.  Hopefully Mister gets back in the game soon!