growth Damn Dionysus! Part 1: Masturbation

[goremeridian]

Damn Dionysus!

Part 1: Masturbation

 

Ancient Greek psychologists had a pretty simple theory when it came to human behaviour. There were, they claimed, two distinct personalities in everyone’s nature. There was the Apollonian personality, named after Apollo, god of the sun, of medicine: a personality ruled by clear, logical, rational thought. Then there was the Dionysian personality, named after the god Dionysus. Self-indulgence was this particular deity’s province; wine, lust, laughter, entertainment, gluttony and merriment were just some of the spheres of influence over which he ruled. Those with Dionysian personalities were said to be governed by their emotions, their whims; they flitted from one sublime joy to the next, rarely giving much thought to their actions.

 

The trick, according to those savvy Ancient Greek psychologists, was to have a balance of the two. Give in too much to your Apollonian personality and you became cold and emotionally distant. Letting yourself be ruled by Dionysus, allowing your base emotions to dictate your actions, on the other hand, was to invite nothing but trouble as you span wildly out of control. A careful balance of the two, strong emotions held conscientiously in check with rational thought, would, so the theory went, lead to a stable personality type – and, theoretically, a happy and fulfilled life.

 

*

 

Martin was focusing on a very different kind of balance as he groped his way over the slippery rocks leading up to the small pool. He had already lost his footing once and, had it not been for some desperate flailing and a lucky last-minute grab of a protruding root, he would currently be smashed like a sack of broken glass on the black, volcanic boulders below. He shoved the thought aside, huffed again at the ever-present cloud of mosquitos humming about his face, and pulled himself up the last few handholds to the pool.

 

The journey up here never seemed to get any easier. If anything, Martin mused, as he rubbed some life back into his sore limbs, it was getting increasingly difficult each time. He gazed down at the flecks of light playing across the water, pursing his lips. No doubt it had something to do with the fact that his body was running dangerously low on protein. They still hadn’t been able to catch any fish, and aside from the orange berries that grew in abundance over the small island, his stomach hadn’t enjoyed any real food in nearly a fortnight. “We can’t just live on those damn berries – we’ll starve! We need protein,” was his constant refrain.

 

And the reason – ostensibly – that he was risking his neck climbing up to the pool again. He had convinced Sam that where there was water, there was life. That the birds they saw wheeling high above in the endless blue bowl of the sky must surely have to land for a drink and a rest somewhere on the island, sometime – there was no other land in sight – and what better place than a calm, quiet, cool pool humming with buzzing insects?

 

Of course, the real reason was so that he could beat off and cry out Sam’s name in orgasmic bliss without being heard or disturbed.

 

The dangerous climb was worth it for his thrice – and sometimes four times – daily masturbation session. It was a tiny island, barely a twenty minute walk around the circumference. This was the only place he could indulge his fantasies without the fear of the massive bodybuilder discovering him.

 

Today, the pool seemed unusually quiet. The usual fog of insects – mosquitos, flies, and other itsy, luridly-coloured stinging arthropods – that hung over the glistening surface had thinned out, and for the first time Martin could hear the gentle slapping of the tiny stream that fed the waters. Even his halo of mosquitos had dispersed.

 

Perhaps his continued presence here had disturbed the swarms, though Martin doubted it, judging from the fact that the insects seemed to thrive on human blood. Maybe they were sensitive to the smell of his dried ejaculate. He had spilled enough man-juice here over the last fortnight to drown a small animal. He usually aimed his dick-snot at the pool, where after breaking the surface it would curdle into ribbons of twisting cream nebulae that drifted down into the depths. Here and there he could still make out snailtrails of sperm on the pondweeds or the luminous green leaves of the whispering plants at the pond’s edge where his orgasm had fallen short. There was definitely a hot, humid, sun-baked odour of man in the air – not as pungent as when he was in Sam’s presence, but rich nonetheless.

 

Martin found the lack of insects refreshing. He liked the stillness, whatever the reason for it. In fact, a small part of him felt guilty that he was about to shatter it completely with a few sounds of his own.

 

Only a very small part.

 

He slid his thumbs into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and yanked them down, his throbbing penis already at half-mast, his sweaty balls and straining member adding their own meaty, delicious odours to the masculine flavours tickling his nostrils.

 

I’m 35, he thought giddily, as he gripped his cock in one hand and began working the thick tube of flesh carefully, but I’m so horny all of the time these days it’s like I’m a teenager again. I can’t help myself!

 

All because of Sam.

 

*

 

Martin had always been into impossibly huge muscles. It was a well-known fact among his clique of friends, who teased him for it relentlessly. “Check out that guy!” They would draw Martin’s attention to some hulk at the local club – only to add, “Oh, sorry, he’s under 5000lbs, he’s clearly not big enough for you. S’ppose one of us’ll have to take him home instead, ha ha!” Martin would laugh along with their gentle joshing, but inside he was upset. Not at them, but at himself. Because he knew that no man would ever be big enough to make him happy.

 

He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Since coming out in his late 20s, he had met – and been pursued by – a number of bodybuilders who by any rational standards would be considered huge. But none of them would do. His weekend ritual became a tedious sort of joke in itself, in the end: he would return home from a night of being chatted up by a string of hunks who had all but stripped naked and offered to take him right there, then turn to the internet, perusing websites like The Evolution Forum for hours on end, gazing at grotesquely morphed pictures of the world’s biggest muscle men. At some point – usually around 4 or 5 in the morning – he would reach a point where his desires, his imagination and his disappointing reality blurred together enough that he would imagine some of the men on the screen taking the roles of the bodybuilders he had encountered earlier that evening, only they were much, much bigger than even the morphs, and growing bigger every second. He would furiously stroke his cock as he imagined worshipping their swelling muscles as they bloomed with infinite mass and strength, getting endlessly more vast.

 

These imaginary men managed – with some serious creativity on his part – to bring Martin to a violent, explosive climax every time. He would collapse into bed and sleep until well past midday, until woken (usually) by one of his friends, asking sarcastically if he had actually gone home this time with any of the studs that had been hitting on him the night before.

 

“We’re beginning to think you’re not even gay, Martin!” His friends would laugh down the phone at him as he struggled out of his hungover haze. “You’re having less sex than a nun!”

 

“There’s got to be someone out there,” he would murmur into the mouthpiece, trying to conjure forth the same tone of jollity so he didn’t sound as desperate as he really was. “Someone so insanely huge, who just keeps getting bigger and bigger with no end in sight, who craves muscle nearly as much as life itself…and I’ll find him some day.”

 

“You’re a dreamer, Martin! People like that don’t exist outside of your imagination!”

 

The cold, sad reality would sober Martin up more quickly than any coffee could.

 

*

 

Martin’s hand was a blur now as he pumped his turgid meat over the still waters of the pool. He was close to the edge and if he had wanted to he could have glanced down at his own reflection – a handsome, slim guy who looked at least 8 years younger than he was, stroking his 7-incher with a fury, large balls swinging maniacally as they churned with his hot seed. But it was Martin’s habit to close his eyes when he masturbated, so as not to let reality invade his fevered imaginings.

 

“Sam!” He gasped, drooling spittle down his chin. “Fucking muscle, but not big enough. You’ve got to get bigger, so much BIGGER…so swollen with muscle, ugh, ugh.” The pace of his fapping was maddening. The climate of the island was swelteringly hot already, like a warm, moist electric blanket had been thrown over everything, and yet he could feel an even greater heat spreading from his groin. Like he was catching fire. “Get bigger…swollen, massive – ugh – muscles…never stop, please, keep going!” His eyes rolled back in his head. It was amazing that he could find the words through the steaming miasma of muscle-lust. “Grow infinitely bigger! Fucking huge!” Martin felt his balls clench and his dick swell suddenly in his pistoning palm, causing him to shout out the last three words: “NEVER BIG ENOUGH!!!”

 

He exploded searing hot man-cream all over the pool. It splattered down like hailstones, splitting his reflection up into a million million ripples and circles and waves and fractures, each new globule of cum stealing further pieces of his reflected image and siphoning them off into spiralling kaleidoscopes of cock, fingers, balls, and sperm. For a few moments the entire surface of the water became a living mosaic in homage to Martin’s masturbatory exertions, infinite tiny pictures of light dividing and reforming in some frenetic lucent dance.

 

Martin collapsed to the ground near the pool, spent, still muttering under his ragged breath, as the waters, and his heart, slowly calmed.

 

*

 

In contrast to the way he had come to feel about the bodybuilder, Martin hadn’t thought much of Sam at first. Sure, he’d noticed him – everyone on the cruise ship had. At 6 foot 4 and around 280lbs of steel-hard, defined beef, Sam was difficult to miss. Not to mention he was all anybody talked about for the first day of the cruise.

 

“Have you seen that bodybuilder?”

 

“My God – look at his arms!”

 

“His arms? What about his cock – which his shorts aren’t doing a good job of hiding by the way!”

 

“Fuck! I get hard just looking at him! Do you think he’ll be at the welcoming party tonight?”

 

“God I hope so. I hear there’s a foam machine on the dance floor. That means he’ll definitely have to take his top off, right?”

 

“Not like you can’t tell what’s under that t-shirt from across the deck, ha ha! I can make out his six pack from here!”

 

“Six? That’s an eight pack if ever I saw one! Maybe even a ten!”

 

“Well, we’ll find out tonight!”

 

Martin had quickly grown bored of all the lusty gay chatter drifting about the open deck and, after swigging the last drops of his complementary cocktail, had retired to his cabin. His friends, bless them, had sent him on this cruise as a “last ditch effort” to get him laid. It was a nice birthday present. His best mate Paul had assured him “it’s just sex, sex, sex all the time on gay cruises – that should help work this weird fetish of yours out of your system!”

 

Martin knew they meant well but even “Mr Stud”, as he had nicknamed Sam, who was clearly the biggest guy on the ship, was far, far too tiny to get him excited. He went through the motions for the first few days for his absent, well-wishing friends’ sake, got chatted up and pretended to like it, even gave a ripped 20 year-old personal trainer a blowjob on the second night (whilst imagining, of course, that with every suck of his cock the young god would gain 1,000lbs of muscle – which was enough to keep him focused, if not particularly aroused) but soon maintaining the façade of enjoying himself grew tiring.

 

He was just getting back into his old routine, downloading some pictures of monstrously morphed bodybuilders to his phone from The Evolution Forum one evening in his cabin after a Hawaiian themed party on deck three where some muscly bear had spent the past four hours whispering in his ear at the side of the dance floor, trying to persuade Martin that he had “the biggest cock on the cruise, just ask anyone” and that Martin should experience it for himself…when the ship exploded.

 

At least, that’s what it seemed like.

 

One minute, Martin was staring avidly at the screen of his iPhone as the head and swollen delts of some inhumanly morphed bodybuilder scrolled into view, then…

 

BOOM!

 

The craft lurched maddeningly to one side, the lights went out, and…

 

The next thing he knew, Martin was here. On the island. With Mr Stud leaning over him, giving him the kiss of life.

 

*

 

When the two men had discovered that they were alone on the island, the only survivors of the storm that had pulled their cruise ship down into the belly of the ocean, Martin was convinced he was one of the luckiest people on Earth. How had he and Sam alone been spared? It made no sense. Martin couldn’t even remember leaving his cabin. How he managed to swim to the island after a dozen mojitos, in a storm of nearly biblical proportions, was beyond him. He was convinced he had banged his head at some point too. He had a nasty bruise on his temple and his logical thoughts just didn’t seem to be able to coalesce. They jangled independently of one another like a set of keys on a fob.

 

The first day had been a strange waking dreamscape of hot sun, baking sand crunching beneath their feet, pounding hearts, worry, tears, the occasional mad bout of incredulous laughter at their strange stew of fortune and misfortune, mutual comfort, shared life-stories, joy at finding fresh water, and muscles, always Sam’s muscles, flexing in his broad back and tight glutes as they explored the beach, or swelling in his arms as he tore down tree branches for a fire, or tensing into striated perfection in his chest as he hunched over Martin to assure him for the dozenth time that everything was going to be all right, their survival was his No. 1 priority.

 

The glare, the heat, the exhaustion and the head injury had woven a spell over Martin. He wasn’t usually so horny but he realised that in the space of a few hours he had begun to get a strange sort of crush on the muscle man.

 

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that they were both survivors. They had bonded in a deep way that went beyond anything that Martin had ever experienced before. A shared sense of life, of vitality, tied them together.

 

As the sun dipped down on their first day on the island, and Sam relaxed back onto the sand, his brick-like eight-pack flexing magnificently in the semi-darkness, Martin realised that was just a load of crap.

 

The reason he was beginning to have a crush on the bodybuilder was simple.

 

Sam was growing.

[TrueBlueBB]

AKA.....I've been waiting for you.

 

Looking forward to this story.  Nobody does it better for me.

 

Good to see you here, like an old friend.