Warren's Choice

[Robiqe2]

 

Please remember, I'm not a writer. Body dysmorphia warning. I'll post final parts next week. Enjoy. Feedback welcome.

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To say it was an awkward dinner would have been generous. The table and mood of the diners was downright funereal. The two couples sat guy-girl and the same across the table. Hugh’s wife kept giving furtive glances towards her husband, obviously keen to leave, or run, or be anywhere else than here. Warren’s wife, Emma was a chef, and had worked hard on the dinner of crispy-skin salmon, braised white beans and pea puree. For dessert, flourless chocolate cake. It was, after all, she and Warren’s sixth wedding anniversary. She wore the necklace of rose gold and inset amber that Warren had given before going backstage. Warren was excited about dessert after cutting for nearly nine weeks in his bid to go pro. His stretch T-shirt was purposefully dark, as despite washing off most of the express tan, it always took a few days to return to his normal, somewhat pale skin tone.

Warren Woodrick had come in second place, and would need to travel in several weeks to try again before the off-season started, breaking his promise to go away with Emma. He simply couldn’t risk two weeks of cruise-life with another chance around the corner. He knew Emma would understand. Warren was wrong. It was the last straw.

“Does anyone want to go to the bazaar?” Hugh’s wife, Nancy, was sweet. She was always positive.

“Yeah, sounds like fun. We should all go.” Hugh tried to smile across the table to Emma, but faltered at her Medusa’s glare. Her response surprised Hugh, but that could have been the fourth glass of wine talking.

“Sure, why not. Gives me a chance to get out of this tiny apartment.”

Warren didn’t even look up. The emphasis was clearly a dig at their lack of lifestyle change. Warren didn’t make much, working as a fitness model and “muscle-extra” in films. Living in LA made it easy to get gigs like that, despite all the competition. Emma made more as a sous-chef at a fine-dining restaurant in a hotel. She could have meant the other thing as well.

 

The night was warm, and there were loads of people out at the bazaar. Some stalls were inside the amphitheater while others lined the parking lots. Organically, the men separated from the ladies by simply walking slower in the crowds.

“Oh, come on! We have to go in. When are you gonna have another chance?” It was the argument Nancy had used to get Emma into the fortune teller’s over-curtained and heavily incensed space, after giving Hugh the signal to wander off. Nancy had some regrets. The teller seemed to be hitting a nerve.

“It’s clear, child. A child is what you want.” Emma snatched her palm out of the wizened woman’s grasp.

“What do you know!,” she shrieked. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not me, ya know. It’s him. All that muscle, and for what? Specials shakes! Macros! Bulking! Gym fees! Cutting! Coaching! And all for what? FOR WHAT!? Those tiny BBs couldn’t produce half a teaspoon. Did you know that Nancy? You’re the lucky one. If Warren has it up, you couldn’t even tell. He’s that small. Micropenis, they call it. I’ll say!”

Suddenly, she held up her pinky and began laughing hysterically.

“Oh, honey, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Nancy tried to hug-carry her out, but Emma wouldn’t have it.

‘You didn’t know. You didn’t know? What about Hugh? He’s older. Doesn’t he have the same . . . condition?”

“Um, well, no. I mean, I never measured, but I never thought, well, it’s not been an issue for us. Look, that doesn’t mean . . . .”

Nancy’s laughs changed to sobbing cries. Under the sobs, both women in attendance could hear, “It’s not fair,” on repeat.

“Ladies, ladies,” clapped the soothsayer, I have a solution.” The old woman rose from the circular table with youthful movements to disappear behind one of the wall curtains. She returned a moment later, with a small glass vial, full of round, pearl-colored balls, perhaps pills.

“No, my dear one,” started the teller, moving closer. “A single pearl will solve your problem for one night. Prolonged use, once a week, will have permanent effects.”

Emma, her makeup appearing as a watercolor abstract, looked up. “Really? What does it do?”

“They are wish pearls. As long as the user is focused, a single wish is possible.”

Emma reached out, but the old woman was quicker than expected.

“Alas, wishes are not cheap. $100 per pearl, young ladies. A fair price, almost generous, for a wish to come true. Wouldn’t you say? How many would you like?”

Emma was reaching for her purse, Nancy trying to reason with her drunk sister-in-law, when there was a commotion outside.

Fire! FIRE!

Panic rang out. The ladies ran from the stall, through the curtains, into the mob outside. Fire was streaming down the hill. Smoke had already made its way, while embers lit the dry landscape as fireflies in a dream.

“No, Emma! The boys know where to go. We’re leaving!”

 

Hugh and Warren had left the bazaar, knowing the ladies would be a while. Hugh had suggested they go to a bar he knew close by. His office was nearby, and the spot was good for catching a game, a decent meal, and local attention. A few drinks in,

“Was that about the same thing you’ve been fighting about?”

Warren nodded, “Yeah, she won’t drop it. I told her we could adopt. I thought it was just about the sex,” Warren leaned in closer to his brother, “but you know I’ve always been generous.” Warren took his callused and over-muscular hands off his glass to emphasize the point. Hugh knew of his brother’s problem. They shared a room growing up, and were only two years apart. Hugh was average, if not a little bigger than average, but his brother had always been small. That was likely why he started lifting. At 28-years-old, Warren was just shy of 5’10”, with a 32” waist. Hugh didn’t know all his brother’s numbers, but they could share pants. Hugh was 5’11”, but at least 40lb lighter. That T-shirt Warren wore left nothing for the imagination: massive biceps with that vein bulging out from the seam ridden high on defined and separated shoulders, all accenting full and high pecs. The taper to the narrow waist, which had to be smaller than normal considering his latest cutting, was all produced by back muscles that flared impressively.

“Most people enjoy the ‘trying’ portion of making a kid,” Hugh smirked. Warren patted his brother’s back,

“It’s hard for us. She’s so small, and it’s difficult for me to, well, get in there. We tried a baster, but I don’t make enough. . . . Never mind. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Finish you drink. I have an idea.”

Eleven blocks North, the two brothers were in Koreatown, stepping into a low-height basement.

“Ahh, good evening gentlemen. With bazaar, I not think customers come. What can Foo do fo you?” The short, Asian man was dressed plainly in cotton sweats, a 3-button Henley, and slippers. It was cooler down here. The wall behind the counter had dozens, no, hundreds of small drawers. The smell down there reminded Warren of food co-ops that sold vitamins.

“Cut it out Frank. It’s just me.”

“Ah, Hugh. What brings you here this time of night? It’s a bit early for a refill, innit?”

“We’re not here for me.” It was clear Hugh didn’t want his frequenting brought up.

“Refill?” Warren seemed to wake up for the first time since leaving the bar.

“Don’t worry about it. Suffice to say, Frank, or Foo, is the real deal.”

Through a series of questions reluctantly answered, and crafting time, a small box that was surprisingly heavy was passed to Warren. Inside was a purple powder, a 90-day supply, according to Foo. Warren was to take a small amount, provided by an accompanying wooden spoon holding maybe an eighth of a teaspoon. Foo was clear; he made no promises. Take everyday for ninety days, and then come see him. Could he miss a day? Maybe, but not more than two. It would take time to fix his little problem.

A klaxon from a small television in a room beyond wailed. Frank ducked in to check. When he returned, he told the men he would close up, as another fire was moving down the hill, and he wanted to check on his family.

Home for the night, Warren and Emma insisted Hugh and Nancy stay for the night, as they had a long drive, and emergency vehicles on the road would make it difficult. The latter couple slept on the pull-out couch. The following morning, Emma woke to an empty bed. It was the noise of the front door that woke her to a deserved hangover. Hugh and Nancy were watching the news and making breakfast in the small kitchen: eggs, turkey bacon, bagels and coffee. Warren heaved a giant tub of protein powder on the counter. Half the counter was taken up by supplements, gels, powders, and blender bottles.

“Everyone on the hill was evacuated. Some of the houses towards the highway were lost. A shame. You would think the governor could do something. Coffee Emm?” Nancy did try, bless her heart.

Emma walked in, and looked from Warren to the powders, her face becoming a scowl. The fight that followed was a relief for Emma, to get it all out. She complained about his lack of careerism, his waste of money on goos and potions for an extra pound; that if he spent half the time trying to make their marriage work as he did picking things up and putting them back down, she’d be pregnant by now. She even insulted his penis size and lack of semen production, causing Warren to finally roar back calling her an alcoholic and an insufferable bitch lacking empathy.

Emma finished packing, and Hugh took her bags down to the car. Nancy hurried after, letting Emma know they’d be down in the port after she said goodbye, encouraging her not to leave angry. Emma waved her off, sitting on the bed, while Warren stripped his gym clothes, having just returned from his morning workout. Despite herself, she enjoyed the view: his glutes always made her tingle. She wondered if there would come a day where she didn’t both love and hate her husband’s muscles. Her thoughts were punctured by her disappointment and anger once he turned to face her, completely nude. The entirety of his manhood was as a button, with shriveled mounds in place of hanging testicles, as if they’d never dropped. Emma sighed.

“This is who I am Emm. Am I so disgusting to look at?”

“You’ve never been disgusting to me, Warren. I deserve, we deserve to be happy. I didn’t know this would happen to us. It’s not fair.” Warren moved to hug her, all 5’3” of her. She pushed him away. Damn, his abs were nice. Hard, and carved with those sexy bits on the side. Too bad they led to nothing.

“I have to go. You know how to reach me, the restaurant or my parents. No, don’t ask when I’ll be back. I don’t know if or when.”

Warren leaned in to kiss his wife. She didn’t resist, though she barely kissed back. “I love you.”

“I love you, Warren. It may not be enough.” Emma grabbed her purse from the bed, and walked into the kitchen-living space. She took a water from the refrigerator, hearing the shower in the bedroom start. Emma opened her purse, and removed the small apothecary bottle of pearls. Warren had opened his new keg of powder, as she called it. She uncorked it, and was hit by that pungent, manufactured blue raspberry scent. The coffee grinder was drying upside down on the counter. She wiped it out, and poured the pearls into the cannister. Checking to confirm the shower was still running, Emma ground the pearls into a lavender powder. It was probably nonsense, but she did wish and hope. Oh, how she wished. Over and over she wished. She poured the powder into the protein. The colors were fairly close. Using a whisk, she mixed all she could until she heard the shower stop. She replaced the cap, and rinsed the grinder cannister. The empty bottle, she tossed in the kitchen garbage, and left the apartment, still wishing, but also still angry, and maybe, just maybe, a little sexually frustrated.

“Babe, is that you?” Warren stepped out of the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his midsection. She was gone. Back in the bedroom and fully dressed, he remembered the origin of the white box, with a single Chinese character written on it. Maybe it was Korean, but Warren didn’t know the difference. He was going to throw it out, but Hugh had spent so much on it, insisting it was an anniversary gift. A thought occurred to him. He carefully removed the plastic bag inside the box, holding the purple powder. His new “keg” of powder should last him sixty days. There wasn’t a lot of space inside the container, but he had the old one in the hall to take down for recycling. Emma never liked the bottles or containers to pile up. But she wasn’t here. He took the hallway keg, and the new keg, pouring half in the old keg an eye-measured half of the purple powder. It took him a while to mix the two back and forth, mixing the purple into the light blue powder. Hopefully, it wouldn’t make the taste any worse. These kegs of unsold powders were cheap because they didn’t sell. They didn’t sell because they tasted like shit.

 

 

The next few days were uneventful. Warren did his heavy lifting in the morning, but kept mindful of being ready for the next competition. At nights, Warren stretched, went to hot yoga, and continued teaching his plyometric HITT fitness class to offset his gym fees at the second place. The weirdness started on the fourth morning. Tony, his buddy was there, cycling between heavy lifts and updates on something called a “blog,” as he called it.

“So, how’d it go last night, Dub.”

“Whaddya mean? Oh! The shoot? It was the same as usually. I walked in. I was labeled Goon #7. There was a bit of choreography, where I had to get blown up. Nuthin’ serious. They good have used another one, T. One of the other guys canceled, last minute.”

“Who, me? Not with this mug.” Tony chuckled, took his phone, and snapped a selfie, while petting his thick beard. “Where are you?”

“I’m at about fifty. You wanna cycle?”

“Nah, you’re already going. I thought you were warming up because of the weigh, but I just remembered you have another chance in what, like, seven weeks?”

“Six! Alright. Happy lifting. I’m gonna get back to it.”

Warren went back to his flat bench, while Tony went over to the dumbbells to start warming up his shoulders. Warren kept his reps high, and his weight moderate, with full control. The disciplined lifter racked his 200lb barbell whispering “twenty-five” under his breathe. He could stand to up the weight.

“What the . . . ?” Small though it may be, Warren couldn’t help feel his penis becoming erect. He tried to dismiss it, thinking it would go down, but it wasn’t happening, not that anyone would notice. Between the tight joggers underneath his shorts, and his muscled thighs, all his penis did was push into the pouch of his briefs. Warren worked the cable crossovers, and brought the bench weight up to 225lb, thinking if he focused, his situation would resolve itself. He racked. He whispered, “twenty-three.” That should be higher, he thought. If it wasn’t for this damn distraction! Warren even smirked, while walking over to the cable crossover, and adjusting the weight: if he took the blood in his penis, and had it for his chest, he’d have no problem hitting his rep goal. A warm sensation traveled from his crotch to his chest. It felt good, like a full pump. Finally, his erection subsided. Warren almost ran back to his bench. Some kid was loitering nearby, obviously frustrated with having to wait for a bench, but not daring to comment. Warren sat his bench and pushed. When he hit twenty-five, his chest was on fire, pumped, excited. He kept going, racking at thirty-two. His chest felt amazing. Warren moved to upper and lower exercises.

An hour later, in the locker room, Warren striped down to his Hawaiian briefs, and wrapped a towel around his waist. Once in the showers, the pumped man paused in front of the oversized sink mirror.

“Fuck, what did I do?” His chest was high, rounded, and full, his nipples straining against the engorgement of fresh blood and new cells. He couldn’t help it. They were so big, he just had to feel them. Heavy and firm! Warren’s erection made a reappearance, but was ignored again. This wasn’t his first time being turned on by his own pump, but it had been a while. Someone entered the locker room, and Warren hurried to wipe the rest of his hot sweat off. He would shower at home, as home was only ten minutes away. He donned a fresh tank, but his chest spilled out the sides, his nipples fat and angry refused to stay behind the cotton cloth, while his sternal stitching heaved up and down with each step he took.

Once home, Warren shucked his clothes. He needed to see what was happening with his pecs. Half exhausted, half aroused, the bodybuilder flexed his pecs. Blood rushed to his nipples. His erection hadn’t subsided the entire the drive home. Warren peeled off his briefs, filling the room with his sweet musk. With his left, he teased his nipples, with his right he began beating his dick. That may be too generous. Warren beat his entire shaft between his thumb and two fingers. It didn’t take long. In less than two minutes, pleasure racked his body with a decisive grunt. A single drop of cum pearled at the head before his unimpressive shaft shrank and recoiled back to its button face. After cleaning up, Warren took his purple medicine, and left for the day, smiling whenever someone’s gaze lingered too long, or someone moved out of his reflexively. He was, after all, wearing one of his signature tight T-shirts, and today, it was even tighter.

This phenomenon happened again on leg day, and the next day: back. Warren was worried at first, but thought maybe this was normal at reasonable weight with high reps. Maybe this was something mislabeled by bodybuilders. It was the same every time. He would work up to a sweat with good weight, then an erection. He almost had to tell his erection, “No!” His body would get hot, and his erection would go away, the warmth traveling to whatever body part was being worked. Then, the response. It was like every nerve, fiber and strand was in sync, his most perfect pump. Today, he had to meet his coach. He showered at the gym. These “extra-pump” workouts took at least 45-minutes longer than normal. The water hitting his back was almost a massage, and in all the right places. Normally, he would never do this in public, but he was so horny, and his hardon was raging, demanding release. There was someone two stalls over, but he didn’t care. As expected, a grunt and pearl later, it was all over. Warren dried off and put on a pair of light blue posers in the shower before dressing in the locker room. He filled his blender bottle from the fountain, and drank his purple on the way out.

“Oh, good. Let’s get started. Scale first.” Omar’s gym was almost two hours away for Warren, but he was the best coach he could afford. “214! What are you doing?”

Warren was surprised too. He was 192lb a week ago. He was going to discuss the 187lb weight class as an option. He wasn’t eating more, although he was prepping his own food with Emma out of the apartment. But twenty-two pounds was not possible.

“Get off the scale for a sec.” Omar jumped on the scale himself, while Warren checked his pockets for the extra weight. “No, that seems to be accurate. 166, as always. I don’t know what’s going on, but if you’re no longer serious about a pro card, just tell me.”

“No, I am serious. You know that. I must have slipped up, but I can fix it.”

Omar just sighed. “Alright, let’s get started. We’ll review your diet afterwards.”

Warren stripped down to posers, and after some stretches, began going through the mandatory poses for men’s classic physique. They went through the routine seven times. Usually, it was five.

“Well, it’s as I thought. When you walked in, I thought you looked bigger. The good news is your vascularity and fullness are solid. You worked back today, yeah? I can tell.” Omar continued at the nod from Warren, who was sweating and huffing next to the mirrors. “Much is still the same. You need to hit these without use of the mirror. You have good lines, but look a little imbalanced. I don’t know what you did since the last tournament, but if you keep it up, you might as well compete in Open. You need to tell the board if you’re competing in 187 or 192 soon, and at this point, I’m not sure you should cut from where you are. We have a couple of weeks. You’ll decide by then?”

“Yeah, and hey, I don’t know what’s happening, but I’ll take care of it.”

“See that you do.”

They spent the remaining time reviewing the current maintenance routine, editing his back double bicep, and critiquing his meal plan, not that Omar believed Warren showed any restraint from overeating.

That night, while Warren slept, his groin warmed, and spread to his muscle. Throughout the entire night on repeat: erection, warmth, spread to the muscle, as if draining the erection every time. In the morning, Warren felt heavy. He checked the scale. Maybe Omar’s scale was broken, though he felt . . . well, he didn’t know. Warren felt good, real good. 219lb.

“What the shit!” That’s not possible. Last night, he ate a pound of Brussel sprouts, two chicken breasts, grilled, and some heirloom tomatoes for dessert. That’s not 5lb. Something was going on. Even still, Warren couldn’t help getting excited. He could feel the extra weight, the strength. It was there. It was real. Maybe he’d finally figured out what worked for him. If this muscle was so quick to put on, he could definitely cut before a tournament. Warren shoved, with ease, his erection into a pair of Christmas-themed briefs, and pushed the blood into his body, favoring his shoulders and forearms in anticipation for the next few hours.

Tony was early today.

“Dub, arms today, right?”

“What, are you memorizing my schedule, T?”, Warren mused.

“Well, if I can gain like you, I should take notes. You look huge.”

“Gee, ahh shucks, Tony.” Warren playfully scratched at his nape while flexing his biceps.

“Fuck you! Now, are we lifting or what?” The two friends laughed while starting cable stretches.

Warren knew better. He had a plan. But with Tony egging him on, he couldn’t resist. With Tony, he worked his biceps, his triceps, his forearms, and even added shoulders. Tony tried to keep up, bless his heart, but reached his limit only sixty-five minutes in. By them, the power was spreading from Warren’s neck down through his shoulders, and even into his fingers. He rode the edge of muscle-gasm. It warped his mind, demanding he lift heavier and heavier. He wasn’t supposed to. He wasn’t supposed to get bigger, but it felt so good. Almost two hours in, his sleeveless shirt -he only wore this short on arm day – was soaked through. Warren knew his arms were at least 4.0” larger than normal. His shoulders were trying to reach his ears. If asked, Warren would swear he could smell his muscles growing bigger. His erection returned. This was his third: one before the gym, one working out with Tony, and now another towards the back-end of his workout. He tried to banish this one as well, but it wouldn’t listen. He tried over and over again. On his fourth try, a moan escaped his lips as the warmth doubled in his crotch. In the same minute, there was pain, a stretching, nerves that tingled, and still it didn’t go away. Something was moving, traveling down his shaft.

Warren grabbed his floor bag, and retreated to the locker room, much to the displeasure of a young student that was watching him for the last hour. Warren grabbed a towel, and headed straight to the showers. If not for the size of his arms, he would have noticed sooner that his erection was slightly different, just a little bit longer. Warren feverishly began stroking, only just remembering to turn on the water to disguise the sound of his moans. Three minutes of stroking, and he almost collapsed under the pleasure of his orgasm as his tell-tale pearl traveled up and out to freedom, and down the public drain.

The growing man tried calling his wife that night before class. She hadn’t picked up. He checked the scale after his post-workout purple protein: 22lb. Not too bad. Maybe he was finally controlling it. Despite feeling out of control earlier, class went well. That night, his erection cycle happened again, not that it woke him. Every now and then, while he slept, a moan escaped his lips. The following morning, he was only a pound heavier. He went to his day gym to start chest again, going earlier than normal, knowing he would have a long morning ahead of him. As soon as he started his workout, his erection started. This time, it listened to his commands, as he was able to activate his pecs at the start of his workout. No Tony today. Good. He didn’t want anything slowing him down. An hour of cables and his erection struck again, and again, he was able to push it into his chest. He felt it entering his triceps and shoulders too. Omar’s voice rang briefly in his mind, but it didn’t stand a chance. There was no reason. Bar work was next. 225lb. More. 275lb. Warren moved to flat bench, supersetting with dumbbells. 315lb. More. And again, more. More! He couldn’t stop. A third erection. This one, he wouldn’t let stop him. It felt too good. 405lb. 27reps. Had he ever done that many at that weight? No, but he could handle more. 495lb. It feels so good. He needed to rip his shirt off. It was getting in the way, restricting him. The fourth erection, he couldn’t negotiate. His erection swelled, longer and thicker. Warren was oblivious. His muscles gasmed, rippling again and again. He only wanted to get bigger, stronger, more powerful.

Warren read the scale: 229lb. The last hour was a bit of a haze. He remembered coming home, and showering again. He’d sweat all the way home, and that was after showering at the gym. Well, he was supposed to be showring, but he was pleasuring himself the entire time. Even his penis felt bigger. Heck, it looked bigger. But, was that possible? Even standing in his kitchen, cleaning his blender bottle and gallon jug, he couldn’t really remember what happened after his workout, or was it during? He needed to go see his agent. There were a couple casting calls he wanted to discuss. Warren’s mind raced. He couldn’t really stop it. Every minute, the sensations in his chest kept taking over his mind. Get dressed, he thought. He had to repeat it over and over again. An hour later, he was ringing the doorbell outside the downtown office.

The next morning, Warren chastised himself. He wouldn’t allow himself to lose control like that again. In fact, he couldn’t. Upon arriving at his day gym, one of the owners pulled him aside to give him a warning about attire on the floor. Warren didn’t remember removing his shirt, but apparently, he had ripped it off, slammed his weights, and howled like a Wildman. He apologized, and insisted he wasn’t on any drug, especially steroids. The look the owner gave reminded him of Omar at their last meeting. Was he really 30lb heavier than just a week ago? No, Warren was never good at math. He was 40lb heavier.

Warren used Tony’s pace on legs to control his desires. His erection came more slowly, but it was there. Warren ignored it, or tried to. It was hard, I mean, difficult. What’s worse is that Tony seemed to notice. He didn’t say anything, but every so often, he would look at Warren’s crotch and frown. Warren thought he should say something.

“Sorry, man. It’s all this blood in the lower body.”

“Well, I didn’t think it was for me, but maybe some biker shorts underneath next time.”

And just like that, Warren no longer felt guilty about it. His erection was still raging at home. Isn’t it bad if an erection continues for an extended period? He couldn’t remember. Walking by the mirror in his bedroom on his way to shower, Warren couldn’t help but give a doubletake. Was this him? Was this his dick? Fully naked, he ran to the closet. Emma had a sewing kit on the bottom of the closet. He found what he was looking for almost immediately. This wasn’t the first time he’d measured himself. He extended the tape, placing the 0.0” mark at the base of his penis. 6.2” fully erect. Since when? He didn’t understand. Almost in answer, his legs pulsed warm, desirous. The smallest thought occurred to Warren. What if he could move the muscle to his penis? What an odd thought. He flexed his quads. It was calves, quads, hamstrings, glutes, and abs. They all answered him, a familiar sensation of warmth and power rising inside him. Impossibly, his erection grew even harder. He understood. He moved the warmth to his crotch, and visualized “longer.” He kept focus on “longer.” Pull it from the pump in his quads. Longer. Pull it from the bulge of his hamstring. Longer. Pull. Pull. Pull. The heat from his shaft, he could even feel on his face. In the mirror and right below him, his length extended, and did it again. Looking down, he could even see it past his pecs. Pulling from his abs or glutes was challenging. It was easier from his legs. Even his calves contributed.

In the mirror was something Warren couldn’t understand. It was long, red, angry. Veins wrapped the entire length, with one long, thin vein traveling from base to tip. Was this normal? He remembered the tape, and remeasured. 7.5”. A miracle. Looking in the mirror again, he noticed his legs were smaller. Warren could feel his legs, but his pump was gone. None of that mattered. This engorgement demanded attention. All of his attention. With callused and muscled hand, Warren grabbed his new manhood at the base, and stroked. Yes, he could stroke up and down. He didn’t know how. He squeezed and pulled up. No, too tight. That was painful. He rubbed, and while that sent tingles down his spine, it wasn’t enough. In college, his friends always joked about lotions and oils, and he had plenty of oil. Taking a handful, the excess dripping onto the bedroom carpet, he applied it to the entire length and rubbed it all over. It worked! Like a teen discovering the pleasures of adolescence, Warren stroked. He stroked fast. He stroked slow. The veins pulsed and bulged, and all the while, the waters beat against the dam of his release, growing higher and more urgent. His muscles joined in, singing their approval, when he popped.

“Holy shit! Uhh, fuck. I’m- Yes, I’m cumming. I’m cumming!”

The combination of cock and muscle coming together pushed Warren into a haze, his prostate spasming several times, as he’d never felt before. His single drop traveled up and out, the longer runway extending his pleasure. Warren showered, and downed his purple, and started washing everything in the sink. He thought he understood, but needed to prove it. After drying his hands, Warren rechecked the scale. He was 240lb this morning, and had another large muscle group workout. With the trend from last week, he should be heavier. 224lb. Warren grabbed his crotch appreciatively. Surprisingly, even after several orgasms, his erection remained. Warren searched his body, his new shaft, and summoned the power, that pump. He found the pump in his shaft, and returned it to his legs. It took almost twenty minutes. His erection was gone. Warren pulled his pants down. He was flaccid, and looked close to his previous size. His legs were right. Not pumped, but back to their competition size. Warren checked the scale: 225lb. He understood. There were no moans faintly heard in the Woodrick bedroom that night. If one listened carefully, one would hear a grown man softly sobbing into his wife’s pillow.

It was two days later when the obvious finally occurred to Warren. His weight was still up. If he could learn to control whatever this was, maybe he wouldn’t have to choose. He had to keep going, maybe even to give into whatever this is. At 231lb, he tried an experiment, forcing muscle to his penis. It was after his evening class. He could still feel his shoulder pump from earlier. Warren summoned muscle from all over his body. He kept being led back to his shoulders, but ignored it. He wanted to take from what already existed. His erection grew. 5.0” 6.0” 7.0”. He checked the scale. 209lb. His muscles complained, trying to take back the pump repeatedly. He fought for almost two hours, finally releasing the muscle back to their homes. Exhausted, Warren checked his flaccid size. Flaccid at 4.0”. He was right. It would work. Now, the scale: 198lb. Trying for an erection, and finding he was too tired, Warren slept, and slept hard. In the morning, he had an erection, and couldn’t remember the last time he had morning wood. Wood, ha!. He had wood!

Back in the gym without Tony, Warren was conflicted. He needed to push himself to gain the pump that he could later use. Was he being greedy? No, this was necessary. His wife was angry. She had shamed him. It would be the motivation he needed. Warren worked. He pushed hard. He actually had to adjust his erection. He knew how to control it now, but three erections was his max. Any more, and the muscles took over, infiltrating some lower portion of his brain. Four days later and Warren was up to 260lb. He had a job that morning, and lifted early and heavy. He needed it, had to. He was close to becoming a slave to his muscles, but stopped himself. Taking his blender bottle to go, he barely made the 09:00AM call time. There was a lot of yelling about three hours later. The crew had broken for lunch, and the makeup department was furious.

“It’s not our fault your fucking casting team can’t do their fucking job.” It was the head of the special effects department. Ron? Don? Jon? It doesn’t matter. But public arguments with the director? Several of the cast mimed eating popcorn while watching the spectacle.

“I don’t need your attitude. I need your solutions! Calm down, and bring me plan B.” The director was one of the few Warren had noticed wasn’t an asshole, but when had telling someone to “calm down” ever had the desired effect. The department head just grunted, and stormed off.

Warren risked asking one of the costume chicks what happened.

“Our devil couldn’t get his visa. The cast they made and used in Germany on the first film only fits him.”

“They really can’t replace him,” Warren asked.

“No. Well, probably not. The guy was huge. I mean, you’re big, but that guy was huge.”

Warren felt his muscles anger at being called smaller, and tried to quiet them. The next few hours, everyone milled about. All the devil henchmen were eventually pulled into a side room, likely used for meetings or small conferences. The effects team lined them up.

“See, I told you. Maybe one of these two, but still not close. We’re going to lose at least a day of filming.”

“This one’s not too far off. We can probably- No, that won’t work. The best thing is to recast, both the actor and the mold, otherwise it’ll look like shit.” The designer nodded at the department head’s words, but neither agreeing or otherwise.

“Um, sir. I can do it. I mean, if you show me the mold, I can fit it.” Warren swore he didn’t say that. It was his ego, his muscles. An impatient director answered without looking at him.

“And just how to you expect to replace the girth of a 300lb man by 6PM, young man.” The “young man” was particularly condescending, but Warren’s muscles wouldn’t back down.

“No offense, sir, but I’m a bodybuilder! If you give me til 06:00PM, I can do it.” The laughter was hysterical, and echoed even outside the office. The department head denied his request. Half an hour later, the nice director found Warren outside with the crew at a picnic table. A lot of these gigs where you’re an extra is just that. Show up early. Leave late. Mill around for hours, and get paid very little.

“Can you really do it? You could save us thousands. Lonny doesn’t think you can do it, but I can’t lose another day.” Lonny, that’s his name. I was close.

“I know I can, but not for anything less than you were paying the German.”

“Sold! It’s four now. You’ve got two hours.”

That’s how Warren found himself in a trailer with a devil mold staring into a mirror, thinking of the impossible. Yeah, he was 260lb right now, but this guy was massive. It was clear he was taller than Warren, and wider. The mold was from the waist to the head and beyond, with a cowl of heavy horns with graphic scaling. Likely, this German wasn’t as dense as Warren. There was a gap in the chest piece, exposing the center of his pecs. He could compensate for the height with more muscle in the traps, he thought. He pulled it on, and immediate felt the excess space and sag. Why did he say he could do this? He lost a full half-hour trying to figure out how to do it. Warren thought about being 300lb, taller, larger, stronger. He was rock hard, but his muscles kept demanding control. What if he lost control? He had to take the risk. He started pulling muscle from his legs. He had done it before. The power moved up his body, past his groin to his traps, filling in all the spaces. His neck became thicker sealing the cowl. The shoulders needed to be higher. Pull. Pull. Warren kept pulling. His arms were close to the German’s size. The shoulders sealed in place. His legs left so weak. He pulled more, more from his glutes, more from his calves. The legs screamed in protest. Stop!

But he couldn’t. The chest filled in, and sealed. There was so much back. The cast was a V-taper, and so wide. Warren even tried pulling from his feet, but there was almost nothing there. There was only one more spot to pull. Warren reluctantly summoned from his erection. His upper body demanded it. They were unstoppable. They pulled from the shaft, and kept pulling. 1.0” His lats flared against the cast mold. Muscles pulled again, another inch. His back filled in growing wider. More. They pulled again. The front chest piece was filled. This likely would have passed, but Warren didn’t stop the muscles soon enough. They took another inch. The mold strained against the girth of his body. These weren’t muscles for show. The strength. The power. A bit of drool escaped Warren’s mouth as the unstoppered pleasure quickly consumed him. Why was he here? He didn’t remember. He didn’t care. This was all that mattered.

The mirror. Who was that? Yes, the devil. The devil would have this power. He was the devil, powerful beyond human strength. If not for the knock on the door that interrupted Warren’s near gooning, the mold likely would have been torn off.

It was the phone that woke Warren the next morning. It was his agent, calling to praise him for, “saving the movie.” Even the director was pleased with his performance, noting he played a better devil than the German. They wanted to reshoot all the German’s scenes once Warren recovered. Warren was tired, his upper body heavy. He was going to be late, and Tony was expecting him, probably that weird kid that had been watching him the last two weeks as well. To his surprise, there was also a message from Emma. She was open to going on a date, taking it slow.

[arpeejay]

Awesome work. More, please! Also: whaddya mean yet not a writer?! You wrote this one, didn't you?!?! 

[RealIn2Growth]

Great work!!  Really enjoyed it.  Can’t wait to read more.  Keep going!!

[Robiqe2]

Here's part's 3 & 4

After nearly falling over several times, Warren realized he wasn’t going to make it to the gym on time. The over-pump of his upper body, especially his back, was reduced, but his legs, his poor legs. They weren’t even their normal size. They were scrawny, thin, like a “Bros don’t let bros skip leg day!” poster hanging at Gold’s. He took the tape measure to his thigh. Not even 19”. And what about, well, you know? He didn’t want to check, but knew he must. His briefs were loose, easy to pull down. After all, his glutes were flat as well. There was no need for the tape. This size Warren was well aware, that same button facing he’d had his entire life. It was all gone. He was back to nothing. His erection would be the same, back to 1.0”. At last, he checked the scale: 280lb.

Warren called the gym to ask someone to tell Tony he was ill. With that handled, he spent the next three hours trying to pull muscle back into his legs. Exhausted and hungry, he was only able to move ten pounds back into his legs. He couldn’t do it without the pump. He had to lift. That night, Warren taught his Body-Pump class, light weight cardio to the beat of early nineties music. The irony was not lost on him. He had a hard time, lowering the weight throughout the class until he was a dripping mess. One of the participants even commented on the way out, “Thanks for doing this. It was clear you weren’t feeling well, but pushed through it. Thanks, man.”

“Hey, man. You al’right?” It was Gus, the night manager of the evening gym.

“Who, me? Yeah, I’m fine. Oddly, I didn’t get my workout in this morning, and seem the worse for it.”

“Says the man who looks like he’s eating the weight,” Gus chuckled. “You’re the size of one of those Gold’s Gym mass-monsters. Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean nuthin’ by it.”

Warren waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. I know what you meant. We all have goals.”

“Hey, if you want, you can stay here, get your workout in.”

“Really? Don’t you have to lock up?”

“I can set it so it arms when you leave, as long as you shut the door behind you. Bertha comes at four.”

“Bertha?”

“Yeah, Bertha. She cleans all the machines, and wipes everything down, vacuums, cleans the locker rooms. She’s kinda awesome. It’s not a problem.”

“Gus, that’s awesome. Thank you!”

“No worries. Just don’t get hurt and don’t let anyone in. I’ll keep the front lights off, and show you where the switch is for the weight room.”

Warren couldn’t believe his luck. All this time, he’d been helping at the gym to offset the membership fees of a second gym, but if he’d only asked, he might have been allowed a private space to create his body. Maybe. That wasn’t it. Gus showed him the switch, and demonstrated the “clicking” of the lock when the door was properly closed. Once in his car, Gus adjusted his hardon. He probably shouldn’t be allowing this, but you didn’t see him. His shirt clung to his body, soaked in sweat. Standing next to him, the heat he was giving off. Every muscle was obvious, bulging. His pecs. His back. Gus was going to have plenty of stock for his own private session tonight.

Finally, alone in the quiet gym, Warren got to work with walking lunges up and down the gym. It took longer than usually, but his lower body warmed. Standing calf raises. Leg presses. Hack squats. Leg extensions. Squats. Squats. And more squats. Lateral dumbbell lunges. He kept going. Almost an hour in, his first erection came. He knew what to do, pushing it into his legs. Forty minutes later, the second erection came, and he remembered his upper body. He could feel those muscles, his body unified under a single idea for pump, but he wasn’t going to abandon his legs. The third erection came while he was leg pressing 660lb. The midnight lifter added another set of 55lb plates, fully embracing the third erection and pump, pushing everything into his legs. He faltered, only briefly. His legs and back were trying to take over. He fought them off, focusing on moving the weights. An hour later, on all fours, sweating onto the polyethylene foam mats of the gym floor. Somehow, he made it to the locker room, showered quickly, and left, ensuring the door leading to the mank, but dark gym, clicked behind him.

On the drive home, he felt tight in his sedan. More important was the hunger. He couldn’t make the thirty-minute drive. Then, he saw it. A Domino’s pizza place. Normally, we wouldn’t dare. He wasn’t bulking, and it wasn’t a cheat day, but he was so damn hungry. He pulled in, his leaden legs taking extra effort to lift over the threshold of the blue and red neon building. A friendly, but clearly exhausted clerk noted the specials.

“Wait, so I can order three medium pizzas, each with two toppings, and its $5 a pizza?”

“That’s right, sir, but you need to order at least three pizzas.”

“Okay, I’ll take six.”

“Um, okay.” Scott, according to his nametag, only gave pause to look Warren up and down, confirming all the pizzas would be for him.

Eleven minutes later, Scott handed the big man the first three pizzas, apologizing for having to batch them. It was so late, the other impinger oven was off. Warren took the first three, and started eating them at a small table in the corner. He could tell Scott didn’t like that. There was a chemical smell to the table, suggesting it had been cleaned, or treated for the night. Scott was dropping off the next three, when Warren was eating the last slice.

“Good timing. Scott, I’m gonna need three more of these.” Scott took the twenty, somehow unsurprised by the man’s appetite. He’d seen college students eat plenty of pizzas. Okay, maybe not nine in one sitting, but more than three. Likely, this beast would eat another one, or two, and have to take the rest with him. Scott was wrong.

Once home, exhausted, there was only one thing Warren knew he had to do before sleeping. It was getting easier to summon the pull from his pumped trunks to his groin, maybe even easier due to proximity. He pushed, almost in reps, ten pounds, twenty pounds, thirty and forty pounds into hi penis. He spent the next hour holding it, forcing the pump transfer to hold. With his legs only slightly less pumped, and his erect penis holding steady at 3.5”, Warren passed out naked on his bed.

No Tony at the gym the next day, but many others were whispering, including a brown-haired young man that always seemed to be present lately. There was little Warren could do to hide his size. The scale that morning was close to 270lb, and somehow his stomach was flat. Warren focused on accessory muscles: anterior tibialis, forearms, neck, abs, core, and grip. It was almost three hours of work. One solid erection triggered, and Warren moved another ten pounds into his penis in a single rep once home, showered, and fed. Erect, he was almost 3.0”. Warren stocked the fridge with stacks of chicken, cooked rice, quinoa, grilled vegetables, baked sweet potatoes, marinated pork loins. He had to run some other errands, including buying new underwear to cover his glutes. That night, much later, Warren headed to the second gym.

“Hey Dub! You’re not on the schedule tonight, are you? We’re close to closing.”

“No, not working, but I need a favor.” Gus’ eyebrows raised in curiosity. Warren moved in close to whisper in Gus’ ear. Gus heard the request, but was distracted by his thoughts as Warren inadvertently rubbed against him, Gawd, he’s smells good. Oh my god! His nipples are rubbing on me. How big is he getting’!? Gus tried to steel himself with professionalism,

“I don’t know, man. Last night was one thing. I can’t lose my job. Maybe, if we ask the owner . . .”

Warren didn’t know how, but he knew he had him. He flexed his pecs, left, right, and double-double,

“Come on. It’ll be our little secret, like you’re helping me get big. You want me bigger, don’t you?”

Warren helped Gus return some weights, reset benches, rewind the music tapes, reset the blocks in the stepper room for the guest aerobics instructor in the morning, before pushing the desk clerk out into the parking lot. Before Gus could get to his car, Warren was already stacking weights for a combined upper body bulk. Two hours and two erections in, barrel-chested and naked to his waist, Warren downed some purple. With the gym mirror as an aid, Warren pulled his tights and sweats down to his knees. He still looked around the quiet gym to make sure no one was there. It was Warren’s way of confirming tonight he would push himself. Only forty minutes later, the third erection was pushed back into his muscles. Warren fought his body with his mind, each rep, each set made more difficult. The muscles in his back were pressing around his spine, reverberating down to his legs and out to his abs. The pulse up his spine was the most dangerous; it seemed to surround his brain, releasing something that made focusing more difficult. Warren went to grab the dumbbells, and thought about grabbing his penis, about cumming. All he wanted was to cum. Yes, that would be best. Give in, just cum, cum all over the weights, all over the gym, all over these muscles. He had to shake his head to stop himself, reciting, “Pick up the weight! Pick up the weight!” over and over.

The fourth erection came a half-hour into his battle. Pushing it back into his muscles was easy. It pushed into his spine, into his heart, and traveled throughout his entire body. It moved to his muscles, and kept going, even to his bones. Warren felt the pain in his feet, his hands, and his spine, every vertebrae vibrating, and back into his legs, pinging throughout his body, like a pinball machine, but the pleasure was stronger. It was the attempt to get to the weights that did him in. Only one step, and his entire body came, first his upper body where the pump was, but it traveled down, grabbing every muscle along the way. Once the muscle orgy reached his feet, it bounced back to his neck in seconds, penetrating deeper portions of his brain. It started as a series of grunts, growing into a scream, and ending with Warren bellowing. Even flaccid, he stained his sweats with his tell-tale drop of mancream.

Sense returned to Warren after the half-hour it took him to recover. Looking around, he realized he needed to clean up. The mats were soaked in his sweat, weights were scattered, including all the third-tier dumbbells of 120lb and up. Olympic bars were strained with weights on multiple benches. Warren showered, and made sure the door clicked on his way out. Walking in, Scott just smiled, and asked the big man, “How many tonight?”

At home, Warren pulled the eighth pizza towards him, looking down the barrel of the other four pies. He would finish them all. Wiping his mouth twenty minutes later, he worried he had gone too far, with a rounded gut rising to compete with his chest pump. He knew what to do next. With a naked weight of 314lb, Warren focused on his penis, noticing again how easy it was to rep his way into greater length, the only difficulty being keeping it there. Fifty pounds later, Warren hefted an 8.0” monster, noticing how sensitive the skin on the head was. He pulled the length in one hand so he could compare it the length of his hand. Maybe, it was true what they said about big hands, he mused with himself. Warren watched a replay of the baseball playoffs, all while maintaining that weight in his penis until he passed out on the couch.

Warren almost didn’t hear her leave, but she dropped a mug while trying to unlock the door. Snapping awake, he noticed Emma staring at him with a look that said she had no interest waking him, and was caught.

“Em, you’re back.”

“No! I’m not. Why would I be?”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

With no patience remaining, the practiced look she gave her husband gave all leverage to Emma,

“I would ask you where you were last night, but it’s clear what you were doing. It’s clear that without me, you intend to embrace the dumb jock, meathead mentality you’ve always craved.”

“What? Last night? What do you mean? Emma, I-“

“No! Too late. I waited. I waited like an idiot at that restaurant by myself, and here you are, dishes and pizza boxes piled, the refrigerator filled with nonsense, the bedroom floor rank and covered in your sweat rags, the laundry basket overflowing. Protein powder all over the counters, attracting roaches, and God knows what else. Is that why you want me back? To be your maid? Why are you naked on the couch?”

Warren wracked his brain, and it came to him. It was his idea to splurge, and go to the seafood restaurant by the wharf, a favorite spot of Emma’s. He rose from the couch, as she was trying the front door again, after collecting her mug. The box had other items from the bedroom in it. She was leaving him.

“Em, please. I’ll find a way to fix this. There’s a lot going on. No, that’s not an excuse. I just . . .”

He didn’t mean to. He was trying to grab the box, to stall her, so he could explain, but the box ripped down the side, and contents fell out. They both reached down to gather everything.

“Oh, damn, Em. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Here, let me-“

That’s when he saw it. Emma tried to grab it first, but Warren’s large arm blocked her. It was bright red, a fire hydrant red. Warren held it up, the base in his palm. It bent towards him. Shaking it slightly, it proved flexible moving back and forth in an arc. He knew exactly how long it was: 8.0”. He had that in his hand last night, but this red intruder was superior. Thicker! Comically large veins ran up and down the girthy wand, casting a spell on Warren. Is this what she wanted? Here he was, working hard for her, and it wouldn’t matter. She came back here for this. That’s when it came to him, like a lightbulb. Her side table drawer, the one she always kept locked. Warren always assumed there were things like pads, or a journal, maybe some jewelry, but not this. Emma moved to snatch it from him. He let it go. Cradling the ripped corner, she finally managed the door open.

“Warren, don’t contact me.” Warren stood, still in shock. Now, his full height, without tree trunk legs blocking the view, his 6.0” flaccid penis swung released. Emma gasped in shock,

“How? What did you . . . ?” Steadying herself, she secured her box remnant,

“No, it doesn’t matter.” With that, the door slammed behind her. Warren was still standing there. 

[Robiqe2]

I have to figure out how to post these correctly, and tag them.