jwood Posted December 24, 2022 Share Posted December 24, 2022 8 hours ago, arpeejay said: In the Richardverse, Mason, in addition to the 20 inch cock, has... Shoulders that are 4 1/2 feet across A 90 inch chest 45 inch waist 50 inch quads 38 inch biceps (cold, flexed( 32 inch forearms 36 inch neck 36 inch calves Just for funsies! Wonder what his stats would be at 675 lbs... 3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
MadDog Posted December 26, 2022 Share Posted December 26, 2022 On 12/23/2022 at 9:09 PM, jwood said: Wonder what his stats would be at 675 lbs... Maybe if we're lucky enough...!!! 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
DawnFire98 Posted December 27, 2022 Share Posted December 27, 2022 On 12/26/2022 at 5:17 AM, MadDog said: Maybe if we're lucky enough...!!! @MadDog I still sometimes read "Spice" on Metabods. Awesome story 4 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TQuintA Posted December 28, 2022 Author Share Posted December 28, 2022 Chapter 31 The next morning as I was making breakfast, Mason came into the kitchen, practically crowing. “Good morning, Roy.” “You usually don’t get up this early,” I remarked. “I wanted to see your face before you went to work.” He looked at me lovingly, pleased, satisfied. “And check to make sure there was no bruising.” I pulled down the waist of my drawstring pants, flashing him a glimpse of my muscular quad, to show him I was fine. “All clear,” I said. “Even after round three?” he asked, smiling dopily. “Someone looks like the cat who got the canary,” I said. I took a small purple pill off the counter and blessed it. “Here,” I offered, handing it to him. “What’s this?” he asked. “What’s it look like?” I asked in turn. “It looks like Betty Rubble.” “Perceptive,” I said. “Now swallow it quickly before I have to re-bless it.” Mason dutifully popped it into his mouth and swallowed it whole. “They’re chewable, you know,” I said. “Of course, I do. They’re mine. Why did you bless one of my chewable Flintstones vitamins?” “The curse on Dalton gave you superlative physical fitness and health. But, now your body will go through normal wear and tear.” “And a bewitched vitamin pill will stop that?” I nodded. “It was my mother’s favorite spell. She called it the Blessing of General Prophylaxis.” “We’re both men,” Mason teased. “You can’t get me pregnant.” “You know what I mean.” He sat down at the kitchen table, the chair loudly groaning under his ponderous weight. “It means it keeps me healthy and wards off sickness." "Right, but it doesn’t make you bulletproof, I wouldn’t start chugging melted butter, it can’t stop a super-flu, and it won’t correct a genetic disorder. It’s dynamite against most of what ails you, though.” “You’re taking them too, then, right?” he asked, one eyebrow raised. “Already had mine,” I agreed. “You should’ve waited. We could’ve taken our Betties together.” “I didn’t know you’d be up so soon. Besides, I prefer Dino.” “Really?” he asked. “Girls have cooties,” I joked, swatting him on the thigh. “I’ve been trying to figure this spell out for days. Your vitamins turned out to be the key. Every other pill I tried poofed into dust. I’m so happy they worked I’m not even going to ask you why you have children’s medicine in our bathroom cabinet.” Mason shrugged, his massive shoulders creating a cavalcade of twitching muscle fibers. “I like a little whimsy with my multivitamin.” The conversation fell into a natural, peaceful lull as I cooked. A few minutes later, the pleasant silence was shattered by Mason’s phone ringing. “Who would call you this early?” I asked. “No idea,” Mason said. He went into our bedroom to get it. He lumbered slowly, still not used to his enlarged physique and navigating around our seemingly diminished apartment. He got there by the fourth ring. “It’s Sammy,” he called. “Why would Sammy…” I started, but when the phone rang a fifth time, I shouted, “Answer it already!” From the bedroom, Mason relayed the conversation. “Dalton is at that skeezy motel off the highway, just outside of town. He’s in room number 5; he registered under the name Alton Rivers.” “Creativity was never his strong suit,” I said. I turned off the stove and shoveled my overly large breakfast down my throat. “Sammy was happy to do it,” Mason informed me. “Glad to hear,” I responded, grabbing a carton of eggs from the fridge. “If I’m not back in a half hour, call Kayla to open the bakery,” I said. “I’ve already texted her,” Mason said. “Smart,” I said. “Love you. Be back soon.” “Good luck,” Mason responded, meeting me in the living room. “Or break a leg. Or happy hunting. Whatever you say to a he-witch in this situation.” “Fingers crossed,” I informed him. “Fingers crossed,” Mason said, crossing his fingers. I was at the motel in ten minutes flat. I was thinking I’d have to scour the entire motel to find the right room, but I recognized the rusted, green pick-up truck in front of a door clearly labeled 5. The vehicle Dalton normally drove was a tricked out sports car with a vanity license plate (B1GM4N); he drove this shitty car when he wanted to hide from Daddy. I parked next to it, grabbed my eggs, and got out. I knocked loudly on his door, and I heard Dalton inside. “Do not disturb,” he said. “I don’t need any towels or anything.” “Dalton, open up,” I said flatly. “Roy?” he asked excitedly. There was a flurry of sounds, and he opened the door a little too quickly. He was shirtless, his big, hairy pecs and muscle gut on full display. I could tell from the rumpled state of his unzipped, unbelted jeans that he’d been entirely naked when I knocked. He looked to my left, he looked to my right, he even looked behind me in my car. “No Fuck Face?” he asked. “Mason’s at home,” I confirmed. Dalton opened the door wider, inviting me in. I walked past him and saw that the motel room was well lived-in—there was even a weight set, complete with a bench and half-finished bottle of whey protein, in the corner. It looked like he’d been here for a month, not just a week. “You look good, Roy. Big. You hitting the juice?” he asked, closing the door behind him. “Thanks,” I said, flexing my left bicep reflexively. “Something like that.” “Still not as big as me,” he said, flexing his own bicep in concert. “I’m working on it,” I said. “Can we sit down?” “We can do more than that,” Dalton said, dropping his jeans to the floor. To my relief, he was wearing boxers underneath. “I didn’t come here for sex, Dalton.” I looked around the disheveled room. “Is there a place we can sit?” I asked. Dalton sat on his bed, patting the space next to him. “Somewhere that’s not a bed?” I tried. He reached into a tall pile of laundry, sweeping some clothes to the floor, revealing a desk chair underneath. “Perfect,” I said, taking the seat. He leaned back, resting his head on his right arm. “What’s up?” “I owe you an apology.” “For breaking my heart?” He scoffed. “Nah. That was Fuck Face. I was never mad at you.” So Mason was right. Dalton didn’t hate me. “I’m glad to hear that, but that’s not what I owe you an apology for.” “Why are you holding eggs?” he asked, finally noticing. “We’ll get to that,” I assured him, placing the eggs aside. “But first I have to explain why I owe you an apology. How do I start?” I furrowed my brow. “This might be a long story.” “I’m in no rush.” He actually looked pleased to see me. “I’m just happy to spend some time with you again.” I nodded. “Have you noticed any weird things happening to you lately?” “Like my ex-boyfriend, carrying a carton of eggs, randomly showing up to a motel where I’m staying under a fake name?” “No,” I said. “Bad things,” I clarified. “Things that make you feel…insecure.” “So you heard?” Dalton said, sitting up. “Heard what?” “My brother got a Macarthur Grant. He claims he didn’t even apply for it, but then he rubs it in my fucking face.” “You don’t apply for a Macarthur Grant,” I said. “You’re nominated for one. But that’s beside the point. Just before he got the award, did he do or say anything that made you feel insecure?” Dalton grew pale. “Something was wrong with my Porsche. I couldn’t get it started. He opens the hood, touches two pieces of metal, and it starts right away. He called me a stupid, useless little baby right in front of Dad. And then, blam, out of nowhere, Macarthur Grant phone call, right there on the side of the road. How’d you know that?” “That’s the sort of thing I’m talking about. Have there been other weird things like that this past month?” “A million,” he added. “Such as?” “There was a thing with my dad. While insulting me about how bad I am with money, my already rich father finds a winning lottery ticket. He didn’t even buy it; it was just lying on the floor of his office lobby.” He tried to remember other examples. “This guy on Grindr said roids would shrink my dick, and it turns out he’s got a footlong cock despite saying he only had a 6-inch one in his profile.” He looked me in the eye to make sure he was answering my question. “Shit like that?” “Exactly,” I said, reassured I’d finally correctly deduced the nature of Gramps’s curse. “Shit like that’s been happening for, like, over a month now. The weirdest one? The straight guy who lives across the hall from me is some sort of fashion model, always dressed like a magazine cover. He saw me in my pjs—that bleach-stained t-shirt and pair of sweatpants with the holes in them? He looked disgusted and said he’d make a better gay man than me. That look on his face, like I was dirt underneath his feet… Suddenly, my straight neighbor is fucking five, six guys a week. Loudly. He used to have a different girl at his place every weekend, but as soon as he started fucking men, it was a revolving door of screaming boi bottoms. I had to leave my apartment.” “That’s why you left your apartment?” “I fucking hate that guy,” Dalton said. “You know your father is looking for you, right?” “I’m going nowhere near him. He’s been worse than my brother about rubbing his good luck in my face.” I sighed. “How did you feel when you saw on Instagram that Mason and I were getting married?” He didn’t want to answer me. He looked down at the floor, and after an overlong pause, he said, “Unworthy.” After a pause, he added, “Small. Like half a man. I hit the weights and upped my gear to prove to you I was the bigger man.” Bigger man. There it was. The punishment his subconscious had cooked up for himself. I pressed him, asking, “And when you saw Mason at the gym after failing to seduce me?” “I felt even smaller.” “And when your found out Mason was renting your restaurant?” “Tiny.” “Thank you for confirming what I thought,” I said. “What’s my shit luck got to do with eggs?” he asked. “Promise not to reject this out of hand.” I steeled myself. “Witchcraft is real. You’ve been cursed.” “That fucking explains everything,” Dalton said, relieved. Then, when that reality sunk in, he said, “Wait, I’m cursed? That fucking sucks!” “I know how to end it, though.” “Why would you apologize…” he stopped himself. A look of dread realization lit his eyes. “Fuck Face,” he seethed. Then, he started shouting. “Fuck Face! Fuck Face is a fucking witch, and that fucking fucker fucking cursed me!” He picked up a lamp off the bedside table and threw it, destroying it. “Fuck!” He jumped out of the bed and began kicking random things. “That explains fucking everything. How that skinny little nothing stole you from me.” He kicked the TV stand, causing the appliances to wobble and a vase to fall. “How your bakery started doing so well.” He kicked a pile of clothes, scattering it everywhere, a loose shoe shattering the glass of a framed picture. “How he got so fucking big!” He kicked his weight bench, sending it into the wall, cracking the plaster. His protein powder flew to the floor, surrounding him in a cloud. “Fuck!” he shouted, punching the wall so hard his fist made a crater. “I’ll kill him! I’ll fucking kill him!” He was about to punch the wall again, so I got behind Dalton and placed my hand on his shoulder, comforting him. “Mason’s not a witch.” “He’s not?” Dalton asked, turning to face me. “He got big because you were cursed. The curse on you caused that. You’re right about that, but Mason isn’t a witch.” “But the bakery?” His nostrils flared. He was looking for any excuse to start throwing things again. “He has a head for business.” “And stealing you?” the rage flickered behind his eyes, and his chest still heaved from his recent tantrum. I had to answer this one carefully. “He and I are a better fit than you and me.” That answer resonated with him, thankfully, and calmed him down. “You sure he’s not a witch?” Dalton asked. “He’s not,” I confirmed. “Then why are you apologizing?” The sentence had a bite to it, a sting. “Because it took me forever to realize you were cursed. If I’d realized it sooner, your life wouldn’t have been shit for the past few weeks.” Dalton had stopped fuming, but he still looked angry. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t help sooner. But I’m here to help now.” Dalton’s body relaxed. He unclenched his fists. His brow unknitted. “You came here to help me?” “Yes,” I said matter-of-factly. “I can take off the curse. It’s what the eggs are for.” Dalton looked somewhere between confused and touched. “Even though you left me for Fuck Face, you care enough about me to help take a curse off me?” “I’m not going to leave you cursed, man,” I said, punching him playfully on the shoulder. “What do we do?” he asked. I escorted him to the bathroom, explaining the procedure as we went. I held an egg against his forehead, chanted the counter-curse, and cracked it. He washed the goo off his face incredibly quickly, just as I’d instructed. “Now what?” he asked. “Now we check. Call your father. Stay on the phone with him—just until he makes you feel insecure.” “Shouldn’t take long,” Dalton said, picking his cell phone up off the dresser. “Hey, Dad,” Dalton said into the phone. “No, I haven’t reconsidered reopening the sandwich shop. That was a dumb idea. I’m not good with people.” He exhaled while his father talked. “Okay. I’ll go back to my apartment. Thank you for paying for it, sir.” He exhaled again, practically a sigh. “Fine. I’ll take the job.” He sighed harder. “I know I’ll have to wear a suit.” He started huffing and puffing. “I know my sister will be my boss.” He was full on hyperventilating. “I’m not stupid, Dad.” He was turning bright red. “Fine. Fine! I’ll go back to night school!” He hung up so forcefully I thought the screen would shatter. Then, he looked at me accusatorily. “You happy? I feel three inches tall!” “Did anything good happen to your father?” I asked. A calm came over Dalton. “It did not. Nothing weird happened.” “The curse is gone,” I said. Dalton came over and hugged me. He was still only wearing boxer shorts, and I felt awkward hugging my mostly-naked ex in a motel room. “Thank you. I was going out of my fucking mind.” “If you really want to thank me,” I said, sliding out of the hug, “there are two things you can do to repay me.” “Name ‘em.” “Stop calling my fiancé Fuck Face.” “Done,” Dalton said, cheerfully. “The other one?” “Find a therapist.” Dalton looked furious. “This curse couldn’t have torn your life apart like this if you didn’t have so many deep-seated insecurities. Also, one of the reasons we weren’t a good couple was how angry every little thing made you. Your anger, your insecurity—these might both be the same problem. Even if they’re not, a professional will help you with both.” Dalton was restraining his anger, but I could tell it was there. “I want you happy,” I said. “I don’t think you’re happy right now. I don’t think you were happy before you were cursed. I don’t think you were happy when we were together.” “You want me happy?” he asked, smiling suggestively. “Not so happy I’d cheat on my fiancé, but I do want you happy.” Dalton’s shoulders slumped. “A therapist?” “Yes. A good therapist will help you work through these things.” “Fine,” he relented. I moved to walk to the door, but Dalton stopped me, saying, “Tell Mason he’s fucking hot with all that extra mass.” “He’s put on 250 pounds of muscle since you saw him last,” I said. Dalton’s jaw dropped and his cock twitched. Then, he threw his hands up in the air and said, “I surrender. He’s the right man for you.” “Thank you, but I already knew that.” I said, leaving the motel. 25 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TQuintA Posted December 28, 2022 Author Share Posted December 28, 2022 Chapter 32 When I got back to the bakery, we were already busy. It wasn’t a crazy mob scene, but it was crowded enough that I was surprised not to see Mason helping out. I ran into the office, thinking maybe he didn’t know how busy we were, and I found him sitting on the floor, his business laptop on top of a small stack of cardboard boxes in front of him, his beefy physique scrunched behind it. “Is Dalton uncursed?” he asked, scrolling as he asked. “Yes. Completely uncursed. He won’t be a problem again. I even got him to start calling you Mason.” “Happy to hear,” Mason said. “Not that the prospect of being 675 pound of muscle monster isn’t appealing, but shaving was a bitch this morning.” The whole time he spoke, he never looked away from the screen, scrolling constantly. “Trimming your mustache is delicate work,” I responded. “And as much as I love you,” he added, still scrolling, “there are some things I just want to do on my own.” I looked at him, and he continued to scroll. “Why are you on the floor?” I asked. “I crushed my desk chair,” he said, pointing to a pile of metal and plastic debris that had once been a chair. It looked like it had been crushed by a steam roller and then had several anvils dropped on it. “How did you do that?” I asked. “I sat in it,” he said plainly. “I’ve had that chair since I went freelance, before I met you. It was meant for a smaller Mason. I’m currently looking for a chair that will support me comfortably.” “Can’t you do that later? We’re busy.” “Kayla banished me,” Mason said. “I’ve unintentionally been a terror all morning. My ass knocked over two bowls of dough and one bag of flour because I didn’t realize how far back it stuck out. My crotch bulge also knocked over a pitcher of milk. Then, I mangled a whisk I tried to wash. After that, I almost shoved Danny into an oven when I bumped into him with my pecs.” “That’s all pretty bad, but Danny shouldn’t have been near the oven. He’s strictly counter, prep, and clean-up. Everything else was an honest mistake. Kayla should’ve factored that in.” “Kayla didn’t banish me until…” he sighed heavily. “Well, you know how we duck under the part of the counter that lifts up rather than open it and walk through?” “Yeah. It’s quicker.” “I ducked into that opening… and I got wedged. I got stuck. I was too big. I should’ve gone the slow way. It took Kayla, Danny, and two customers to pull me out.” “Ouch,” I said. “She was right to banish me.” “I’ll say.” “Once I readjust to this new size, I’ll be able to help out again.” He double clicked. “My new chair will be here tomorrow. It looks comfortable, it’s got adjustable arms, and it’s been weight tested up to 1,000 pounds.” He looked up at me. “Since I haven’t been able to help them out there, I’ve been working in here. I went over the contract Mr. Brooks sent us. Even if I can’t get low interest rates for an equipment loan from Julie, these terms are more than fair, so we can swing it financially. But, who are we kidding? Julie loves me, so we’re going to get a dandy of a loan to help us pay for the new equipment. We have a meeting with her this afternoon at 1. It should be over in plenty of time for your workout, and I already told Kayla. I also called some distributors who are trying to rip us off on their shipping prices, negotiated a new bulk rate from the dairy farm, and looked through some applications for new managers. There’s three promising candidates on your desk. Oh, and I’ve finally picked a wedding planner. Her name is Sandi, with an I. She totally gets our vibe and looks forward to meeting you.” My face practically fell off. “I’ve been gone, like, an hour,” I said. “Sorry,” Mason said, “I would’ve gotten more done, but working on top of cardboard boxes has really slowed me down.” “Not my point,” I said. “You’re a marvel.” “And you’re needed out front,” he said, pointing me out the door. When I got to the counter, Kayla shook her head. “I didn’t know when you’d be back, so I already called in more people. I called in three kitchen people because it takes three people to match your output. I also called two counter people, who are on their way, because it’s gonna be a mad house. There’s no room for you.” She pointed me back into my office. When I rejoined Mason, he looked at me surprised. “Back so soon?” “Kayla banished me too,” I said. “I’m impressed,” he said. “It’s one thing bossing me around. She’s worked here longer than I have. But you’re the man who signs her paychecks.” I collapsed in my chair and picked up the applications Mason had left there. “She must know we’re going to let her run the new store and is showing us she can handle the responsibility.” “Imagine her glee when we let her run this place for two weeks,” Mason said. It only took me two minutes to pick my favorite manager candidate. I set up phone interviews with all three of them later in the day, just to be safe. With that done with, though, I didn’t have anything to do until after lunch. So, I let everyone know I’d be upstairs if I was needed and went back up to the apartment. There, I took out my mother’s spell book and tried to find a way to do as Mason said. To get bigger. Everything I read kept pointing me back to the same thing. If I wanted to put on a lot of mass all at once, that would take a curse. And I sucked at curses. I considered blessing some steroids or other PEDs, but the way those spells worked, the doses of steroids I’d have to take scared me. I considered modifying the Jell-O, but that was about preventing atrophy, not encouraging hypertrophy. The solution I had already come up with was the best I could do without a curse. Out of ideas, I called Zack to see if there was something obvious I was missing or some non-witchy answer that was staring me right in the face. He was busy with work, but he managed to talk to me for two minutes. “Sorry, bud. I don’t know anything about muscle growth, let alone magical muscle growth. Have you called that big guy from your gym? The one Sammy drools over? His name is some kind of heavy machinery. Bulldozer? Wrecking Ball? Forklift?” “Tank?” “That’s the one. He’d be the man to ask.” “I don’t want to tell him I’m a he-witch.” “Then don’t. Just tell him you’re looking to get real big real fast to catch up with Mason. Use his advice to re-approach the witch angle.” “That’s brilliant,” I said. “I know I am,” Zack said. As soon as I was off the phone with Zack, I called Tank. “Hey, Roy. You caught me coming out of the shower.” “You know that Mason got really fucking huge, right?” “Yeah.” Tank sounded equal parts jealous and aroused. “Mister’s a genetic freak. Most of us aren’t that lucky.” “We’re getting married in a few months,” I said, “and I want to get some serious size for the wedding.” “You’re already plenty big,” Tank responded. “And I can see you’ve been slabbing on even more size. Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.” “I was thinking something faster.” “Are you asking for a hook-up?” Tank almost sounded impressed. “My supplier is jumpy around new clients.” “I’m not talking steroids,” I said. “You’re one of the biggest guys I know. I thought you might have some ideas I’d never heard of.” “Ah,” Tank said, a knowing wink in his voice. “You want a magic solution.” “Yes,” I said dubiously. Uncertain if he meant “magic” literally. “I thought you were smarter than that.” I could hear Tank drying himself off in the background. “It’s all snake oil. You might get a few pounds from the placebo effect, but you’re more likely to poison yourself.” “I had to ask,” I said. “Keep at it. You’re doing it the right way, and you’ve got the body to show for it.” “Thanks. I was just hoping for a shortcut.” “Who isn’t?” Tank said. “It’s a lucrative business for a reason. Sure, some people believe their own bullshit, but most people know they’re peddling false hope. They’ll do it for the money.” Something Tank said hit my ears in just the right way. I started looking through the pages of my mother’s spell book. “Could you repeat that?” “They’ll do it for the money.” “No,” I corrected, “the bit about people believing their own bullshit.” “I don’t need to repeat it. You just did.” “I heard you correctly?” I emphasized. “They genuinely believe the crap they’re selling works?” Tank chuckled lightly. “Yeah. Some jerks think they’re selling the real deal when they’re really selling nonsense.” “Can you introduce me to one of these true believers?” Tank didn’t respond right away; my question threw him. “Why would you want that?” “To slake my curiosity.” I found the page I was looking for: Veridical Transfiguration. A spell to turn fake medicine into real medicine. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll give you some numbers at the gym today. I assure you, Roy, that it’s bullshit.” I read my mother’s dainty handwriting: “Warning—practitioners much fully accept the efficacy of their wares.” Out loud, I said, “I know it’s bullshit. I still want to meet them.” 20 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TQuintA Posted December 28, 2022 Author Share Posted December 28, 2022 Chapter 33 “Explain this Veridical Transfiguration to me again,” Mason said. We were waiting in the hallway outside Julie’s office. We were sitting on uncomfortable plastic chairs, Mason precariously balancing on his. His width was so immense that he spilled into the seats on either side of him. He couldn’t even put his briefcase on the chair next to him because his triceps and lats kept knocking it to the floor. We’d walked to the bank so Mason could practice getting used to his huge size, and I’d marveled at his width the whole time—he practically took up the whole sidewalk. He was wearing the silver suit he’d bought to impress Gramps. His broad shoulders and thick chest swelled in the fabric, accentuating just how small his midsection was. Of course, his abs were still clearly present through the material. With those clothes on someone this muscular, he looked like at any moment he would tear off the suit to do a Chippendale’s dance. “This really isn’t the place,” I said. “No one else is in earshot, and they wouldn’t care even if they were. You taught me that.” With an exasperated grunt, I relented. “My mother had a spell to turn a quack cure into a real cure. But, it only works if the person who makes, sells, or gives me the medicine genuinely, honestly believes it works. If there’s even one shred of doubt in their mind that it doesn’t work, the spell fails too. There’s an enchantment that takes overnight to set, then you have a window of about 18 days during which the enchantment’s active to say the final blessing. The final blessing turns their intention into a reality.” “Why didn’t you think of this earlier?” Mason asked. “Quick muscle growth pills always seemed like obvious hoaxes to bilk credulous suckers out of cash. It never occurred to me some scammers would actually buy into their own bullshit. Tank says he knows some people who truly, in their heart of hearts, believe their products work. I’m going to meet with one of them today. If he passes muster, I’ll by his placebo, and turn it into the real McCoy.” “That’s amazing,” Mason said, impressed. “Like a lot of my mother’s spells, the final blessing has to be said within seconds of taking the medicine. If I can ever make her spells shelf-stable, we become billionaires.” As I finished saying that, the door to Julie’s office opened, and she invited us inside. “Come on in,” she said brightly. Mason turned sideways to squeeze through her narrow door, and I followed after. I was happy to see the chairs in this room were wooden and sturdy, but Mason still delicately sat on his, gun shy after wrecking his office chair. Like at every other business meeting I have ever had with Mason, I sat silently unless he prompted me to speak. I was there mostly as the store’s proprietor and the one with the culinary vision and reputation. Mason was the one who knew what was happening and how to angle for the best deal. How he did that at every meeting, though, was different. Mason seemed to just know what would put the other person at ease, a skill I lacked. For instance, half of this meeting was Mason and Julie talking about a ukulele duo who had a new album coming out. We were in this meeting for 45 minutes, and, after we’d all said our hellos, the first 20 minutes were Julie and Mason gushing over ukulele music. Where they’d seen the duo perform live, their favorite songs from past albums, their YouTube channel… on and on like that. I sat there politely, smiling, as though I was interested. Then, Mason mentioned that he’d missed breakfast and asked if it would be okay if he had a “skosh of a nibble”—his exact word choice. Julie assured him it would be okay, and he pulled one of my banana nut muffins out of his briefcase. He tore off a small bite and popped it into his mouth. “That smells heavenly,” Julie said, so Mason split the muffin in half and gave her the bigger piece. She took an appreciative bite, moaning in delight. “This is amazing.” “Tell her the recipe,” Mason said, elbowing me. “You made this?” she asked, shocked. “Fresh this morning,” Mason said. “It’s his original recipe.” “I knew you were a baker,” Julie said, licking her thumb and forefinger, “but this is unearthly good.” “Tell her the recipe,” Mason repeated. I explained to her the intricate, convoluted way I make these muffins, and she said, “They look so simple! If I could cook something as complicated as that, Phil would be a happier man. I am definitely going to be getting some of these at your bakery. My husband will love them.” After that, she and Mason finally got down to brass tacks. The need to purchase new bakery equipment, our history of doing business with this bank, his business plan for our new location, our profits and loss statements, collateral—things like that. The whole time, Julie kept taking small bites of her half of the muffin until there was none left. Then, Mason gave her his half too. Once Julie and Mason had hammered out the details, she went to get some forms from the shared printer, leaving us alone in her office. When Mason and I were alone, I mused, “You bribed her with my muffin.” “We would’ve gotten these terms even without the muffin,” Mason replied. “The small talk and muffin just put her in a good mood so I didn’t have to play hardball.” “You bribed her with my muffin,” I repeated. “I used your muffin as a negotiating chip,” Mason corrected. “You bribed her with my muffin,” I said for a third time, this time with a boastful melody to my words. “I’m not judging you. I just didn’t think my muffins were good enough to be bribes.” Mason chuckled. “You naïve, innocent man. I use your baked goods all the time when I conduct business. I used your marble rye to get a good rate on a car loan. I used your carrot cake to consolidate the bakery’s debt in our favor. I used your chocolate croissants to sweet talk Mr. Brooks. I wouldn’t have invested in your bakery if you weren’t an amazing baker.” “I know I’m good, but…” I trailed off. “False modesty is not your color,” Mason said as Julie came back in. We signed the appropriate paperwork, and then the meeting was over. I went into the hallway while Julie and Mason talked pleasantly for another few minutes. Alone in the hallway, I couldn’t help but feel like a little kid waiting for his mom to finish shopping so he could go home already. In a huge peal of laughter, Mason and Julie finally left her office. Mason gave Julie a big hug, swallowing her in his massive muscles, and then we were off. “The way you two carried on,” I said as we strolled back home, Mason’s thick thighs lumbering slowly around each other, forcing him to waddle, “I’m not surprised Phil thinks you flirt with her.” Mason said, “Nah. Phil’s not going to be worried about me anymore, now that he’s knocked Julie up.” “Julie’s pregnant?” “Yep,” Mason said. “She just told me.” “Is that what you two were talking about after the meeting?” Mason shook his head. “For a little bit. We were mostly talking about Phil’s penis.” I almost stopped dead in my tracks, but since Mason kept walking, I caught up. “That seems an odd topic of conversation.” “I brought it up,” Mason admitted. “Why?” “They’ve been trying to have a baby for years, but Phil has a very low sperm count. So low that it’s a medical curiosity. It’s one of the reasons he’s been such a jealous husband. Julie desperately wants to be a mother, and Phil’s convinced himself some fertile stud will steal her from him.” “How close are you with Julie?” I asked, dumbfounded. “You should talk to our neighbors,” Mason said. “They’re fascinating people.” Still confused, I redirected, asking, “But why did you bring up Phil’s low sperm count?” “When she told me she was pregnant, I asked if they used a sperm donor,” Mason said, turning sideways so a woman in a business suit had enough room to get by him on the sidewalk. “But she said Phil had been taking this herbal supplement that boosted his fertility.” “Fenugreek and maca root?” I asked. “She didn’t tell me the ingredients,” Mason said through a half-laugh. “You’re learning a lot from your mother, ain’tcha?” I shrugged. Mason continued. “Phil bought them from a guy he met at a pig farm, of all places. He literally sold them out of the trunk of his car. Julie was naturally dubious.” “Naturally,” I echoed. “But Phil seemed convinced, and two weeks after he started using them, Julie got pregnant.” “Interesting,” I said. I had an inkling where Mason was going with this, but I was going to make him say it. “According to Phil, the guy who sold him these pills had all sorts of medicines.” “All sorts?” I said, feigning innocence. “His best seller,” Mason said, “are his male growth pills.” “And the penny drops,” I announced. “You want me to have a bigger cock.” “Your cock is big, don’t get me wrong, and you’re a Viking in the sack, but… well…” “You want me to have a bigger cock,” I repeated. “Is that shallow of me?” “It would only be shallow if my big cock was your one reason for marrying me,” I said as a young mother walked past us, covering her child’s ears. “Your cock’s over a foot and a half fully erect, and I sometimes fantasize about it getting bigger,” I reminded him. Then, I slapped his mighty rear end, my hand stinging from how hard and dense he was. “And now you’ve got enough ass for three men, so it’s craving more cock. Our relationship is evolving. You want me to get a bigger cock? I’ll see what I can do.” “Really?” he asked. “Sure,” I said, shrugging. “I’ve always wanted to be 10 inches. You know, a double digit dick. Did you get this guy’s contact info?” “I did,” Mason said. “I’ll talk to him. But,” I warned, “the transfiguration will only be of use if he actually, wholeheartedly believes his product works.” “Thank you,” Mason said, kissing me on the cheek. His pecs brushed against my shoulder, and I was getting aroused at his size again. “No need to thank me. I expect I’ll like having a bigger tallywhacker.” The day continued as expected, and I soon found myself at the gym. After a particularly grueling workout—well, four of them in a row with restorative magic in between—Tank introduced me to his contact, a wiry, twitchy man named Mel. He was dressed more for a Kinko’s than a gym—solid-colored polo shirt and khaki pants. After I got home from the gym, Mason met me at the door to the apartment and told me that Phil’s pig farm contact was waiting for me in the office. I’d thought I was going to set up that meeting, but Mason was always proactive. Phil’s contact turned out to be a short man named Frank. He was dressed in flannel and denim—clothes that were far, far too big for him—with a black leather messenger bag slung around his torso. The vetting process for both Mel and Frank went roughly the same. “You’re sure your product actually works?” I asked each of them. “Absolutely,” Mel said as he escorted me into the locker room. “100%,” Frank said as he took the seat across from my desk. “How does it work?” I asked. Mel answered, “It bonds with free-floating protein molecules in your bloodstream and attaches them to your muscles.” Frank answered, “Bull shark testosterone. It’s like human testosterone, only amped up. Some of my boar studs weren’t up to snuff, so I tried bull shark testosterone, and suddenly, I had more piglets than I knew what to do with.” “How do I take it?” I asked. “It’s a liquid,” Mel said, opening his locker and showing me several vials of a viscous, off-yellow-orange substance. “Each vial is one dose. Some guys inject it; most guys drink it. One guy makes it into little capsules. I hear it tastes pleasant, almost buttery.” “It’s a pill,” Frank said, pulling a small bottle out of his messenger bag. “Take it on a full stomach. Not before you eat, after it. No more than one a day. If you take more than one, your body can’t process it, and you’ll just piss out the extra.” “What can I do to make it more effective?” I asked. “Take it just before bed or just before a workout,” Mel said, shaking a vial. I watched some of the fluid oozily bubble to the top. “Protein,” Frank said flatly, slamming the bottle on my desk. “None of this vegan bullshit. The more protein-rich the meal is, the more effective this stuff is. Something bloody, especially. Rare steak seems most powerful.” I narrowed my eyes to look closely at each of their faces. “If it’s so effective, why don’t you take it?” Mel smiled wanly. “Once I save up a nest egg, I will. People don’t trust a dealer who dips into his own supply.” Frank smiled broadly. “I did.” He grabbed his crotch with one hand. “I used to have a tiny penis, real embarrassing. I’m now packing 7 and a half inches. I had planned on growing bigger, but the missus asked me to stop. She’s the love of my life, so I heeled. I’ll show you pictures if you want a before/after.” He handed me his phone. “The weight loss is unrelated,” he clarified. “I worked my ass off for that.” “Are there any side effects I should be wary of?” I asked. Mel shook his head. “Some guys get real amped up after they take it; it makes it hard for them to sleep. But that’s excitement, not the medicine.” Frank bobbed his head back and forth, contemplating. He took back his cell phone. “Not really. Kinda. Most guys insist their women double up on birth control, but I don’t think a ’mo like you needs to worry about pregnancy.” He put both his feet on my desk, leaning back in his chair. I cleared my throat so each one would focus. “Do you genuinely, with all your heart, believe that this product works?” Mel put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed affectionately. “Absolutely. In fact, once you see how well this product works, I can make you a distributor. You won’t make a lot of money at first, but after a while, the product sells itself. The guy who made me a distributor, who is buffer than you, started off as a customer himself.” He winked at me and added, “But mind who you tell, and if the cops pick you up, you’ve never heard of me.” Frank snorted. “Brother, I’m living proof.” I pushed his feet to the floor, and he sat up. “If I could trust you not to jump on my johnson the second you saw it, I’d unzip right here and show you my pride and joy.” I was satisfied with what I heard, so I made my purchases. Once I was alone in my office, Mason walked in, unannounced, asking, “What’s the verdict?” “Verdicts,” I corrected, showing him 14 vials of yellow-orange liquid and a small bottle of deep blue pills. “They believe it?” he surmised, seeing my bounty. “Muscle-Potion Mel is, unbeknownst to him, on the lowest rung of an MLM. Whoever pitched the product to him pitched it so hard that Mel thinks he’s a drug dealer.” I grabbed a vial and rotated it back and forth in my hand. “I took a tiny taste. It’s olive oil with turmeric in it.” I picked up the bottle of pills, shaking it like a rattle. “Fuckstick Frank is an idiot who tried to dose his livestock with fish hormones. He showed me a before/after pic to convince me his product works. Apparently, no one told him that when you lose over 150 pounds of fat, your dick seems bigger. His dick never actually got bigger; more of what was already there is showing. But he doesn’t seem to know that.” I popped open the bottle and showed Mason what was inside. “These aren’t even testosterone pills; they’re aspirin dyed blue.” Mason was dubious. “These medicines are so obviously fake. They can’t actually believe this stuff works.” I sighed and spun in my chair. “If Gramps were here, he could put a Truth Jinx on them, make them incapable of lying for a few hours without their tongue burning. But Gramps is not here, so I have to go with my intuition. As far as I can tell, each genuinely believes his product works, and neither is smart enough to pull off a convincing scam.” Mason nodded, pleased with the answer. “What’s the next step?” “I go to the only market in town that sells edible camphor. I’ll also need some beeswax candles.” I stopped short, realizing that’s not what he meant. “I won’t bore you with the rest of the spell. It’s…” I searched for a word. “Goofy. It’s goofy. When it comes time to take the medicine, I bless it right before taking it, and use it as directed.” “I meant what’s the next step in your growth journey?” “Oh, right. Get Kayla in here.” Mason grinned, and called out, “Kayla, come in here.” “I meant go out there and get her,” I said, but before I could finish, Kayla was in the office. “Is it happening?” she asked eagerly. I looked blankly at Mason. “You told her.” Mason nodded, saying, “I told her.” I rolled my eyes. “Well, in case Mason didn’t give you all the details, we’re opening a second location. We want you to run it, but we want to make sure you can handle it first. For the next two weeks, starting tomorrow, you’re in charge. Mason will still do the accounting, and bank deposits—all that stuff. But staffing choices, ordering supplies, getting the food made, customer service, keeping everything clean and up to code—all of that will fall on your shoulders.” Kayla’s eyes gleamed with joy. “This won’t start until tomorrow—I have some phone interviews to conduct, some loose ends to tie up this afternoon. Then, while you’re in charge, I’ll still be around, a staycation of sorts. If there’s a major emergency that you can’t solve, you can contact me, but otherwise, I'm gone. I’ll be in the apartment, around town, hitting the gym extra hard, just enjoying myself before the nightmare of opening a new business while prepping for a wedding.” Kayla nodded. “If you pass the test—because a test is what this is—you’ll be running the second store. By then, the funds from the loan will have come through, and we’ll hit the ground running. It’ll still be called Roy’s Bakery or something like that, but you’ll get a hefty bump in pay, and we’ll be leaning on you a little more heavily as we get the new store set up.” Kayla nodded, but I could tell she was about to explode with excitement. “Do you have any questions?” I asked. “Just one. Can I fire Keith?” “Who’s Keith?” I asked Mason. “One of the 18-year-olds from the gym we hired,” he answered flatly. “Oh.” I looked at Kayla. “Why do you want to fire Keith?” “He’s always late and steals food,” she said plainly. “Huh,” I said. “I clearly had no idea who he was. Give him a warning, in writing preferably, and let him know that if he doesn’t shape up, you have the authority to fire him.” “Thanks, Roy,” she said, grinning. “Mr. Lombard.” When Kayla left the office, I asked, “Have I met Keith?” “You’ve worked with him,” Mason assured me. “The kinda buff blond who’s always staring at my ass.” “You just described every blond teenager we hired recently.” “Never mind that,” Mason said. “You have some camphor to buy.” The next two weeks were going to be surreal. 17 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Popular Post TQuintA Posted December 28, 2022 Author Popular Post Share Posted December 28, 2022 Chapter 34 The moment of truth had come. I had performed every other part of the Veridical Transfiguration, I had let the spell set overnight, I had eaten a protein-rich breakfast (even by my standards), and I was at the gym early, ready to start my first workout of the day. All I had to do was say the final blessing for this quack medicine, and it should become real. And I was very, very sure nothing was going to happen. Even after everything I’d already done, the muscle growth elixir still looked like nothing more than olive oil mixed with turmeric. The penis growth pills still looked like nothing more than aspirin dyed blue. In fact, I was positive they still were just olive oil and aspirin. However, I held out hope. The change might not happen until the blessing was complete. Hell, if the spell worked perfectly, the change might be so mystical I couldn’t even see it. I said the blessing over the elixir. Instantly, it went from a cloudy, yellow-orange color to a vibrant, shining gold, actually emitting its own light. It no longer looked oily; it looked creamy and rich. The vial that held it was also much heavier, as if the liquid had taken on more substance. It was so beautiful that I wanted to stare at its eerie brilliance forever. But, if I didn’t drink it fast, it would turn back into olive oil, and all that work would’ve been a waste. I popped off the lid, and I was struck by a strangely exotic, smoky smell, with a tinge of unfamiliar spice to it. It smelled as though I had lit a stick of incense. I poured the elixir down my throat. I was in such a rush, it barely touched my tongue, but I still picked up a hint of butter with a metallic, almost mineral aftertaste. It felt warm streaming down my throat, and when it hit my stomach, a sense of calm and power overcame me. I said the same blessing over the blue aspirin, and it too instantly changed. It now looked glassy, almost crystalline, and its weight became insubstantial, as though it was lighter than air. It smelled exactly like cum, and when I put it in my mouth, it dissolved upon contact with my tongue. It left behind the faintest trace of a taste—something redolent of dirt, bone marrow, and organ meat. The flavor wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it did not match the pill’s luxurious beauty. When the pill had fully dissolved, I had hoped to feel a change to my cock, but I felt nothing. I knew the spell had worked, so I wasn’t worried. Still, I’d hoped to feel something. I went about blessing all my other, usual supplements and leaving the locker room. As I got to the locker room door, I felt a dullness in my balls, almost a vibration or thrum. It was low-key enough that I could push it from my mind, but it was steady and omnipresent. When I did my workout, it was like I went into a hypnotic trance. I could feel the elixir coursing through my veins, nourishing my muscles, encouraging them to try just a little harder, push just a little more forcefully, grow just a little bit more. When I finished my first workout, I felt like I had just finished a meditation. I was deeply, fully centered. Noises were muted, and the world felt like it was at the end of a long corridor. As I stood there in my altered, practically stoned, mind state, Tank came up to me and grabbed me by the shoulder. “Dude, you were a fucking beast out there!” he said, squeezing me. To me, it sounded as though his words had a bizarre rippling reverberation to them, but I was sure he was talking normally. “It was a thing of fucking beauty.” His enthusiasm broke me momentarily out of my haze, and suddenly, I could tell how sore my body was. It felt leaden, heavy, and my muscles screamed in a burning ache. My arms and chest were intensely pumped, painfully swollen and red, the veins pushed right up to the surface. I could practically see the blood surge through me. “Thanks, man,” I managed, the hallucinatory state trying to take back control. “Keep that shit up, and you’ll be a fucking brute for your wedding.” “That’s the plan,” I said. “Want to hit the steam room with me?” Then, to clarify, he added, “No head, just two bros chilling. I wouldn’t ask you to cheat on Mason.” “I’d love to,” I said. “But that was just the start of my workout.” “The start? Shit, man.” “I know, right?” I hoped I was coming across as my usual self, but I felt like I was both shouting and whispering, so who knows how loud I actually was and how strangely I was behaving. “Don’t push yourself too hard,” he said, squeezing my shoulder again. “It won’t get you to your goals any faster, and you could do some serious damage.” “I appreciate the advice,” I said. “I’ve got a plan, and I am taking all proper precautions.” The words felt like cotton leaving my mouth. “Alright. Later, man.” Once Tank was gone, I was finally able to heal myself up. It was such a relief to flush all that lactic acid out of my system at once. Then, I went back and I did two more workouts. Both times, I went into a meditative, almost religious focus, and I could feel the magic working on me. I probably would’ve gone right into a fourth workout, but an alarm on my phone went off, reminding me it was time to head home for lunch with Mason. Lunch? Three workouts, no stops between them except to refuel on protein and heal away the pain. I got here at 6 in the morning—I expected it to be 9:30, 10 at the absolute latest. It was, in fact, noon. Not only were my workouts more intense, they were longer. I gathered my things, and went to jog home. Carey, the owner, was talking to the receptionist, but the receptionist wasn’t listening. Instead, he was staring at me. A look of awe, nearly reverence, was on his face. I jogged home, but as I did, my body felt off. Everything felt… a little… well… bigger. I wasn’t the Hulk or anything like that, but I’m very in tune with my body, and everything felt bigger than it should. Not just pumped. Bigger. And not just the muscles I’d worked out. Though, over the course of six hours, I’d worked out just about every one of them. All my muscles felt a little bigger, harder, denser. Looking down at my body as I jogged confirmed it. My pecs looked bigger than they should have, stretching out the front of my workout shirt, taxing the fabric. My arms were beefier, too. The sleeves had entirely ridden up, and the vein that ran down the crest of my arm looked particularly prominent. My thighs rubbed against each other a little more insistently. I couldn’t be sure how much was the mother of all pumps I had and how much was newly grown muscle, but it couldn’t all be pump. I know what a pump feels like, and even through my fog, this felt different. In concert with my overall increased bigness, the dullness in my balls had graduated into a heaviness. They didn’t feel any bigger than they did this morning, but it felt like I had shoved two rocks down my pants. There was the faintest razor’s edge of pain, but it was an enjoyable pain. I got home and showered immediately. In part to get clean, in part to sober up. I wanted to be fresh for my man. When I stepped into the shower, I again had external confirmation I was bigger—my naked muscles looked more intense, more engorged, more present than they had this morning. I looked like I’d been hitting the weights hard for a few weeks, not a few hours. The shower did its trick, and I felt more like myself afterwards, fewer cobwebs in my head. I didn’t linger in the shower because I didn’t want to be late for Mason. I decided to put on an old t-shirt to wear to lunch, especially since I was likely heading back to the gym after lunch. As I pulled it on over my head, it shredded in half over my pecs. Granted, I hadn’t worn this shirt in a while—since I was 190 pounds—but it should’ve still fit. Instead, my chest and back were massive enough to rip right through the fabric. It was perhaps the most erotic thing to happen to me when I was by myself. I put on a larger t-shirt, which fit nicely (when it was supposed to be a little loose) and went out to join Mason in the kitchen. A lascivious glint bloomed in his eyes. “I was going to ask you if the spell worked,” he said, “but I can see it did.” I flexed my biceps, and they bunched up larger than I’d ever seen them. “What, these?” I said innocently. “This is nothing.” “Far from it,” Mason said. I went to fix us lunch, but Mason steered me out to our bedroom, where he kept our new scale. “You were 215 pounds last night. Let’s see how much you weigh now.” I stepped on the scale, saying, “You know some of this is a pump, right?” Mason ignored me and pointed to the digital readout: 221.3. “Six pounds in one morning,” he said slyly. “My my, someone is an overachiever. That’s from five workouts, right?” “Three, actually,” I said. “The muscle growth medicine is a bit trippy. I get this stoned feeling, and then get kind of lost in my workouts, and they go longer than they should.” “Are there three more workouts planned for this afternoon?” “At least two. I would like to spend some time with you after you finish work.” “Make it three, bucko,” he ordered. “Sammy is taking me to his yoga class after work, and then we’re going out for dinner with his yoga friends. I don’t expect to get home until 8 or 9. “Yoga, huh?” I said, surprised. “I got to get back some of my flexibility in this Mack truck of a body.” I smiled lustily. “I like the idea of a flexible, huge Mason.” “Thought you would,” he said, heading back to the kitchen. “Whatever you were planning on making yourself for lunch, double it. Triple it. Feed. Gorge. Grow huge. It will please me.” After lunch, per Mason’s orders, I went back to the gym, my bag loaded down with more food so I wouldn’t have to leave for dinner. I arrived at 2 PM, exactly two hours after I’d left. Carey was still there, and he was shocked to see me back. I blessed my second batch of supplements for the day. I was worried that the elixir I’d had that morning would’ve worn off, especially since I was feeling perfectly coherent, but as I went into another workout, I slipped right back into the trance. The three workouts blurred into each other. If I didn’t stop to heal myself and eat between them, it would’ve felt like one long, pleasant blur. When my alarm went off again, I was shocked. I had set my alarm for 8 PM. Six hours had passed again, and it simultaneously felt like six days and six seconds. When the shrill ring snapped me out of my reverie, Carey came up to me. He surveyed me up and down, brutally. “If it isn’t Roy Whitaker, my favorite client.” Carey knew my name? “Looking big, Whitaker. You’ve been hitting the iron hard,” he said, challenging me. In my altered state, it almost looked like his canine teeth had become fangs, and his words had taken on a growling quality. “Getting big for my man,” I said. “No one works out that insanely and leaves with a spring in his step,” he said, almost as a threat. “You’re on something." I could swear he barked that last sentence. “Half the men in this gym are on something,” I said, moving to go around him. He stuck out his arm, stopping me. “Give me the name of your supplier.” He bared his fangs at me. “What?” I was too buzzed for this conversation. More slowly, he growled, “Give me the name of your supplier.” “Why?” Carey looked me up and down. “I know a valuable commodity when I see one. Get me the name of your supplier.” The more I stood there talking to Carey, the more I was returning to myself. His fangs slowly receded, and his voice gradually returned to normal. “Why should I?” “Give me the name of your supplier, and I’ll make it worth your while.” “How?” I’m glad my head was clearing up for this part of our discussion. He thought about it for a second and said, “I hear you’re opening up a second bakery. Probably gonna need some reno.” “Some. Not much,” I agreed. Yep. That implied threat had left me stone cold sober. “As I’ve told your fiancé, I’m tight with the mayor. Give me the name of your supplier, and I’ll get her to expedite your permits, and any other formal paperwork that comes up in the process.” “I’ll run it by Mason,” I said. Then, after a pause, I added, “and my supplier.” With my head cleared, on the second jog home, I felt even bigger, even more thick and muscular. In the shower, my second one that day, I was again confronted with how big I was. I was bigger than even that morning. I took up more of the shower, my arms were fuller and more solid, even my thighs were prominent and corded. While I showered, Mason came home and joined me in the bathroom. “How was yoga?” I asked through the shower curtain. “Unlike anything I’ve ever done before, but it’ll do the job,” he said a little loudly so I could hear him over the running water. “Sammy and I are going to make it a regular thing.” “Cool,” I said. I then explained Carey’s proposition and asked his opinion. “Run it by Mel first,” Mason advised. “If Mel’s okay with it, I say go for it. Those permits can take months. And besides, if you say no now, Carey can use the exact same connections to make the permits take even longer.” “That was my fear too,” I said and turned off the water, finished with my shower. When I stepped out, Mason stood there, silently staring at me. His eyes were wide, his jaws slightly slack. I was still dripping wet, but Mason was between me and the towels, so I just said, “Hi.” “Scale, now,” Mason commanded. I followed him, leaving a trail of soggy footprints behind me. I stepped on the scale, and in seconds, it beeped. 227.2. “Holy shit,” I said solemnly, practically a prayer. “Twelve pounds in one day,” Mason said. “Twelve pounds in one fucking day.” Mason looked excited, and then burst out with, “Math! It’s time for fun with math.” He calmed himself down and said, “This is magic, so I’m going to assume a constant rate of growth.” “Assume away,” I said. “Given that base assumption, by the end of these two weeks you’ll be…” he paused to crunch the numbers. “385 pounds, give or take a few ounces.” I stumbled backwards off the scale and crashed into the wall. “You’re fucking kidding me.” “Are you questioning my arithmetic?” I shook my head. “I wouldn’t be dumb enough to do that.” “I am ordering you some new clothes tonight, I might even buy you a new engagement ring—even though I bought the first one. I’ll even pay for overnight shipping. I’ll get the new clothes in sizes from XXL to clown tent. They’ll be unfashionable and shabby, but we need fast. You are going to get massive, and I want you street legal. I’m also buying a ton of food. Any that won’t fit upstairs, I’ll hide it in the bakery’s storage. Oh, and some vitamin E cream to minimize the stretch marks.” I could enchant the cream to prevent any stretch marks whatsoever, but I couldn’t tell Mason that right now. I was still reeling from the number 385. “Again, I’m not questioning your math, but let’s not put the cart before the horse.” Mason looked at me puzzled, so I said, “I did six intense, grueling workouts today. I think the constant rate is two pounds a workout.” “Mathematically speaking, the end results would be the same.” Mason seemed unmoved. “Distributive property and all that.” “Well, I feel fine because healing magic, but I can’t keep up that pace. Psychologically, I mean. I barely saw you today, and I had no downtime to myself or to hang out with Zack or anything like that. I don’t think I could do that for 14 days in a row. Especially since this is supposed to be a vacation of sorts.” “I see your point.” “Also, your schedule has me working out every day. I normally only work out five days a week. Six when I’m trying to get bigger.” “Fair, fair,” Mason said. “Let’s logic this out. If you had one day off to rest each week, and you only did five workouts on the days you did work out, could you keep up that pace?” I nodded. “That’s pretty close to the load I was already doing before I told you about the enchanted supplements. Not working at the bakery and five of these new intense, trancelike workouts instead of three normal ones—that’s pretty much a wash, time-commitment-wise.” Mason muttered under his breath as he readjusted his calculations. “That would bring you up to just shy of 340 pounds. 337 to be precise.” He looked at my 227-pound bulk. “Is it worth driving you to the breaking point for an additional 48 pounds?” He thought about it, but ultimately shook his head. “Tempting as the thought is, it’s not. I love you too much.” “Plus, you said you wanted me at 350. I think 337 is the universe telling us something right there.” Inspiration struck Mason. “I’m doing yoga three more times this week, and four times next week. Sammy and I had planned on doing some of them in the morning or afternoon, but if we do them all in the evening, that’s seven extra workouts for you. 14 extra pounds. Bringing you to 351.” Then, he waggled his hand back and forth, adding, “Give or take.” “That’s a deal,” I said happily. 350 was gigantic, but it was a reasonable compromise—a tantalizing one, too. “Good, now get an erection so we can measure that too.” I shook my head. “The penis pill is definitely working; I can feel it working. But my cock isn’t bigger yet.” “It’s bigger,” Mason said matter-of-factly getting my fabric measuring tape. “It is not,” I replied insistently. “I know your cock better than you do,” Mason said. He pointed at my penis and snapped, indicating it was time for me to get hard. “I bet you a million dollars you don’t,” I laughed. “You’d lose that bet, honey. I am intimately familiar with that penis from every angle, some of which you could never reach without the aid of mirrors and/or video cameras. Blindfolded, I could draw what it looks like from the underneath. Now, get it erect.” “Could I get some motivation?” I asked. Mason came over to me and dragged his stubbly chin all around my lips before he kissed me, pressing his giant, hairy, steely, meaty pecs against my own now bigger body. I was hard in seconds. “There we go,” he said perfunctorily. With all the workouts and the drug-trip I was on, I hadn’t had an erection all day, so I hadn’t noticed the growth, but Mason was right. I could see it now too. I was visibly bigger. Mason put the measuring tape against my cock. “8.5 inches,” he reported. “You are now officially more hung than Dalton.” “A half an inch in one day?” I was thrown. “Your balls are bigger too,” he informed me as he stood up. “I fucking love witchcraft,” I said. I’d always wanted a 10-inch monster; now I’d have it in three more days. As if he’d heard my thoughts and needed to contradict them, Mason said, “In two weeks,” he stroked my cock with his thick, beefy hand, “you will be 350 pounds of muscle with a 15-inch dick.” “You want me that big?” I asked, my voice unsteady from the pleasurable stimulation to my cock. That was a whole cock bigger than I planned on getting, a whole cock bigger than my fantasy dick. 50% more than I was mentally prepared for. “How many pills did Frank sell you?” My cock quivered and lurched, excited. “His smallest bottle: a month’s supply,” I said as quickly as I could so it didn’t come out just as a moan. “Mm,” Mason said, allured. “In a month, you’ll be 23 inches. Just shy of two feet.” With a sexual thrill in his voice, he added, “Three inches bigger than me.” “You want me that big?” I asked again in a gasp, micrometers from orgasm. That was more than twice the size I’d ever pictured myself in my wildest fantasies. “If you’d bought more pills, I’d want you even bigger.” I exploded in an orgasm. 29 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
citizenies Posted December 28, 2022 Share Posted December 28, 2022 Thank you !! Can't wait what happens next and when grandpa comes back ~ 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
hugeman2 Posted December 28, 2022 Share Posted December 28, 2022 Like... this story feels like an erotic Rose Apothecary, Schitt's Creek sequel. The quips, the town feel, the obvious love, the wit. Chefs mf kiss my guy. 3 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
MadDog Posted December 28, 2022 Share Posted December 28, 2022 The dream of 675 lbs is dead, but I can hardly complain when we're being promised 23 inches of cock~ 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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