transformation Charlie

[Hanugumo]

Andrew is in denial. This is nlt gonna be good. He is pushing people that could help him away. And Charlie has created a mentality that being strong in physical might means that you are not weak. Yet Andrew's mind is getting weaker and weaker and he is getting more and more slave to Charlie. >.=.<;; I so hope that Andrew will get a rude awakening and will see what he is doing and will become both strong physically AND mentally and will be able to stand up to Charlie and say what needs to be said.

[Mdlftr]

MORE amazing dialog from DHalden:

[the history between Charlie and Andrew -  and Andrew's inability to completely deny to himself what is going on - doubtless complicated by unresolved feelings by Andrew (love? lust? desire?) and  maybe Charlie as well?

 

===================================

“And is this the same Charlie that prompted you to begin seeing me in the first place?” Brian sighed, uncrossed his legs, and set aside his pen and paper. “You’ve been coming to see me for nearly two years now, Andrew. We’ve discussed a litany of issues in your personal and professional life. But the one thing we have yet to thoroughly explore is the one thing you stated as being the primary reason you came to see me about in the first place. I have not pushed you on it because, frankly, I believed you had managed to find some resolution with it outside of our sessions. But what I’m hearing here today has me concerned of precisely the opposite. When you walked through my door two years ago and I asked you why you had come to see me, do you remember what you told me?”

 

“Yes,” I said. I shifted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable. Of course I remember. But…things were different then. He was different. I squeezed my hand into a fist and watched as the chords of muscle in my forearms swelled and flexed. I’m different now, for that matter. Better. He made me better. What’s a skinny guy like you know about it?

 

“And does it not strike you as concerning that the very reason you began to see me, that the very person who cemented in you a sense of insecurity that you’ve wrestled with for nearly a decade, is now your roommate?”

 

“Look, what happened between Charlie and me back then was…that was…I’m over it,” I said. “Like you said. I found resolution.”

 

Brian sighed. “I’m more than passingly good at my job, Andrew. I would even say I excel it, if I may be so bold, and what I’m reading into this situation is not that you have found resolution, but that you’re rapidly backpedaling away from it.”

 

“I…that doesn’t even…you’re so off-base it it’s…ridiculous,” I stammered. I flexed again, feeling my biceps bulge against every part of my sleeves. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You’re stronger now. You can feel it in your veins. In your muscles. Strength. Power. You’re not weak. Not anymore.

 

“You’re intelligent, Andrew, its part of what makes you one of my most engaging patients. Detrimentally intelligent, I would venture to say. You manage to convince yourself of ideas that counteract my diagnoses. Yet you always come back to see me. Which tells me that creative as your self-deceptions might be, you’re too intelligent to convincingly lie to yourself.”

 

I sighed. “So if I’m reading this entire situation incorrectly, why not save me the time and frustration and just tell me what sort of self-destructive tendency I’ve fallen into by letting Charlie move in with me?”

 

Brian stared at me with his knowing eyes. Unnervingly knowing, in fact. And sympathetic. The sort of eyes that made you think he could not only see into you, but see all of you, and still find you a decent person. He leaned back in his seat and spread his hands wide.

 

“It is plain to me that this ‘new you’ you’ve begun developing,” he said, “is probably subconsciously linked with some as-of-yet resolved need to prove yourself. To yourself and, more importantly, to Charlie. It strikes me that you have become determined to make yourself physically stronger in order to satisfy the need to make yourselfemotionally stronger. That what happened between the two of you is, in fact, nowhere near resolved. That you still need closure for what he did to you.”

[Drakerus]

I really hope that Charlie and Andy can end up in a romantic relationship. I know they're going to have to move past their demons first though.

[dhalden]

Psst! You guys might want to check back here over the course of the weekend. Just sayin'.

[svrt589]

Psst! You guys might want to check back here over the course of the weekend. Just sayin'.

Not nice >:[

[sevenaside]

Tease

[hardmuscl4life]

Well...where is it?

[dhalden]

My apologies in advance for the much-delayed installment. Life's a bitch sometimes and get's in the way. As always, though, I'd rather give you guys something quality, rather than some shit installment I've churned out in fifteen minutes. I hope you'll forgive me...and enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

 

Goddamn, I swear this appetite knows no end. Sitting at a red light at the corner of Sycamore and Partridge, I had one hand planted on the steering wheel while the other gently massaged my abs, trying to soothe away the series of increasingly loud growls issuing from my stomach. Hunger aside, I couldn’t help but appreciate the stony hardness of my torso. The tight, brick of muscle that was each individual abdominal muscle ratcheted up my gratefulness for them even more. My stomach growled insistently again. I have an honest-to-god six-pack for the first time in my life and I can’t even fucking enjoy it because of this appetite. Oh well…can’t starve growing muscles!

 

It was clear that, given the distance I was from my house and the heavy flow of traffic, I was not going to make it back home without suffering some serious hunger pangs. I glanced in the passenger seat and the empty Tupperware containers lying there. The backup meals that I had recently taken to toting along with me wherever I went had already been shoveled down that morning. Strumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I impatiently glanced around at the vehicles on either side of me. To my left, a middle-aged woman gabbed on her cellphone. To my right, a young man who looked to be in his mid-twenties was busily texting away. He’s in shape, but I’m bigger. His arms are probably, what, fifteen inches max? Fuck that. Never again. I glanced around the rest of the street and the nearby restaurants. Olive Garden, eh? The memory of their famous warm and buttery breadsticks suddenly flooded my mouth. Don’t even think about it. My fingers curled more tightly around the steering wheel. Fuck it. Today can just be my cheat day. I swung into the turning lane to my left at the next available opening and shot into the parking lot. The moment I stepped out of my car, the incredible array of aromas floating outward from the restaurant met my nostrils. Oh yeah. Definitely a good decision.

 

Inside, the waitress greeted me with over-eager smile as she approached my table.

 

“Two orders of the chicken and shrimp carbonara,” I informed her. “And can you just leave the pitcher of water?.”

 

“Are we expecting another guest?” she asked.

 

“No, just me,” I said, smiling. “I’m exceptionally hungry. Oh, and breadsticks. And salad.” Looking surprised, she scribbled down my order and disappeared, returning a moment later with a large bowl of salad and basket of breadsticks. I quickly pulled the entire serving dish toward me and began eating out of directly. “This’ll do just fine,” I said. “Thanks.” The moment she was out of sight, I began double fisting breadsticks between dripping mouthfuls of salad and washing it all down with glass after glass of water. When all but one breadstick remained, I leaned back in my seat and rubbed my valley of abs again. My stomach bulged slightly, but my abs were still remarkably compact and firm. It’s gonna take a little more than salad and breadsticks to do these babies in, I thought proudly. Appetite momentarily held at bay, my mind drifted back to my therapy session with Brian, absentmindedly scratching my arms.

 

He had asked me to think about our session, about his advice to me afterward. I’ll think about it. Think about how ridiculously off-base it was. He’s delusional if he thinks I’m still mad at Charlie about…about that night. What’s he know about it? I recalled Brian’s clear, piercing eyes and shook my head to rid my mind of them. I mean, yeah, okay. Obviously I’m still a little sore about the whole thing, who wouldn’t be? But it’s not like a resent Charlie for it. And what was all that bullshit about growing stronger physically to grow stronger emotionally? Just goes to show he’s wrong. I lift because I love how it feels. The pump. The growth. The muscle. He wouldn’t understand. He’s too skinny.

 

The waitress suddenly returned. “Two orders of chicken and shrimp carbonara.”

 

Ignoring her disapproving gaze, I picked up my fork and went to town on the two heaping portions of seasoned chicken, shrimp, and bacon, and beds of creamy pasta. Oh hell yes this is hitting the spot, I thought as it dropped into my gullet. Just needed to replenish some dirty carbs. I ate like a madman, barely stopping between mouthfuls to drink, and wiping my mouth on the back of my hand despite the fact that there was a napkin in my lap. With every bite, I could feel my energy reigniting and kick-starting again. Vigor flooded my veins and when I glanced down at my forearms I saw that my veins were, in fact, swollen. Fuck that’s hot. They’ve never stood out like that before. One plateful of carbonara obliterated, I started in on the second. I was not even halfway through it when an awkward tightness began spreading across my back, shoulders, and chest. I leaned back in my seat and stretched, trying to alleviate the constriction my shirt suddenly seemed to induce against my muscles. I scratched at my pecs. I should go shopping soon. Growing too big for my shirts. My jeans, too, were suffering a similar fate though. My quads felt like they were ballooning even as I sat there, straining the denim. A similar, even more uncomfortable straining bulged across my crotch. I surreptitiously adjusted my balls when my fellow diners weren’t looking and paused. Are they…even bigger?

 

I stared down at my half-finished, second plate of pasta, chicken, and shrimp. It was almost as if I were feeding my muscles, cock, and balls directly. But that’s just…ludicrous. Right? I slowly raised another mouthful to my lips. One way to find out. I shoveled in the forkfuls of dripping, creamy pasta and hurriedly followed it with a second, third, and fourth. I hardly chewed, swallowing the delicious mouthfuls practically whole. And with every bite the inexplicable compression of my shirt and pants grew more severe, so much so that as I finished off the last of my meal, I was squirming uncomfortably in my seat, needing to stand up to alleviate the pressure building in my underwear. The itch in my arms and chest had expanded to my abs.

 

“Check,” I said, waving over the waitress. She looked down at me perplexedly as she approached and hesitantly handed over the bill. “What?” I said.

 

“You just…you look…are you okay, sir?” she asked.

 

“Fine,” I said. Thoroughly confused, she hurriedly walked away to serve another table. I quickly slapped two twenties onto the table and hurried into the restroom. Every step constrained my thighs, calves, and crotch so that I had to walk somewhat bowlegged. I must have looked ridiculous and/or in great need of a toilet as I barreled through the bathroom door, scratching my thighs. I glanced under the stalls, found them blessedly empty, and locked the door behind me. I waddled to the sink and glanced in the mirror. Oh fuck yeah. The memory of my reflection in the bathroom mirror of Brian’s office building still fresh in my mind, it was abundantly clear that I was bigger than I had been only thirty minutes before. Bulked. Swollen. Pumped, baby. Freaking pumped. I looked and felt a good fifteen to twenty pounds heavier. My shoulders were wider and rounder than before, my pecs plump and filling my shirt in a way that had not all day.

 

Suddenly, the bothersome itch turned up a notch, racing across my body like an army of needle-legged ants. “Oh, fuck!” I yelped. I scratched madly all over…or where I could reach at least. My arms, my shoulders, my abs and chest: all were wonderfully pumped up, but so much so that made it damn near impossible to access my back. Shirt off! Shirt off! A panicked sweat was rapidly forming on my forehead and, as I saw when I raised my arms over my head, under my armpits. My light gray t-shirt was darkly stained with wet pockmarks of sweat spreading out at the edges of my lats, too. I desperately peeled my hastily soaking shirt from my body, relishing the cool air against my burning skin. The air alleviated the itch some, making it tolerable.

 

Still scratching, I turned to the mirror. Fuck. Here we go again. Unlike the previously alarming “manic episodes” I had endured, my skin was not a dispiriting shade of red, but instead it's usual pale shade. Or rather, it was the increasingly caramel shade of tan that it had begun to darken to over the past two weeks. The point being, it was not flaming to the touch as it had during my previous incidences of…of what? What exactly is happening? I stepped nearer to the mirror, trying to discern what, if any changes, my body was currently undergoing. And still all the while that itch. I continued scratching where I could manage to reach and could not help but notice how large my arms looked as I raised them over my head and stretched them around my torso. The strange pump that had overcome me only made them look all the larger. Look how damn big my biceps are. How thick my triceps have become. Fucking horseshoe triceps right there. I must be pushing 18” with these babies. I raised a tight-knuckled fist, cocking my arm parallel to my body, and examined my forearm. No longer was it the slender cylinder of mere skin and bone it had been my entire life. Now it had appreciable size and heft. Like a miniature ham hock, it bulged outward heftily near my elbow, and though it tapered to my wrist, it was appreciably sizable. I rotated my fist at the wrist, watching as the muscle flexed and grew. So much bigger and…hairier? I withdrew my gaze from the mirror and examined my newly thickened forearm up close. Yes, indeed it was hairier. The faint, few hairs that had covered my forearms before had darkened and multiplied into an appreciable covering of man-fur. Even as I looked at it, another wave of itching spread outward from my elbows down to my fingertips. Am I…is it…growing? Surely it was a trick of the light or some unseen breath of air stirring those dark, tiny hairs. Static electricity, I lied to myself. That’s it. Has to be…right?

 

An unnerving chill settled into my stomach. The sort that blossoms in the pit of your bowels in the dead of night when you feel eyes on you in the darkness. This isn’t normal, I thought, a sudden clarity breaking through the euphoria of this newest episode of growth. This kind of stuff doesn’t just happen. People don’t just…just grow this quickly. Not before their own eyes. Was I sick? Maybe I wasn’t pumped at all. Maybe I was infected. Or having an allergic reaction. That was it. Yes, that was it. The itching. The sweating. The swelling. I was having an allergic reaction to something in the food. Bad shrimp perhaps?

 

Charlie. His name surfaced in my panicking mind like a beacon of light in the darkness. I suddenly wanted to be near him, to be with him, to feel the calming, warm security he seemed to radiate. I knew his large, strong hands on my shoulders would instantly drain away this panic; that his deep, rumbling voice would soothe the shaking in my fingers. I whipped out my phone and texted him: You at home? I struggled to pull on my sweat-dampened shirt while I waited for his reply. A moment later, my phone dinged. Soon, his reply said. Finishing up at the gym. Chest day, baby!

 

I unlocked the door and slipped furtively as I could out of the restaurant. I could feel the hostess’s eyes on me as I slipped outside. Guy locks himself in the bathroom and comes out all hot and bothered. The possibilities aren’t exactly endless, I thought. She could never know the truth though. Hell, I’m not even sure of “the truth”, for that matter. I jumped in my car and sped out of the parking lot, heading for home. At the first red light, my phone dinged again. Charlie, I thought warmly. Instead, I saw a notification for a new voicemail message. I pressed play and raised my phone to my ear: “Andrew, it's Brian. You seemed quite flustered when you left today’s session and I just wanted to make certain that you are feeling all right. I know these things can be difficult to face. Please give me a call or shoot me an email to let me know you’re feeling okay.”

 

I rolled my eyes. I wasn't peeved with Brian anymore, if only because I didn't have the capacity to feel both exasperation and growing concern simultaneously. Besides, the fact that my mind went instantly to Charlie for reassurance when I felt such panic only proved I didn't still resent him for what had happened all those years ago…didn't it?

 

I tossed my phone back into the passenger seat and continued home. All the while, my crotch grew more and more uncomfortably overstuffed. Thank god for tinted windows, I thought as I reached down to unbutton and unzip my jeans. I thrust my hand deep into my jeans and hauled out my fattening junk, my heavy balls weightily rolling about as I withdrew them. Look at all that man meat, I thought proudly. And I’m not even hard yet. Definitely growing. Looks like its time for emergency measuring session. As I rounded the corner onto my street ten minutes later, I noticed that Charlie’s car was not yet in the driveway. I parked, half-stuffed my thickening cock and balls back into my jeans and hurried inside, surreptitiously holding my lunchbox and bag in front of my crotch as I walked to the door to spare the neighbors. Inside, I abandoned my bags on the sofa and stumbled into my bedroom. Gotta get these clothes off!

 

I pulled off my shoes, tossing them across the room, and peeled off my sweaty shirt once more; my jeans and underwear joined it on the floor. “Aaah,” I sighed once I stood in my full, naked glory, unburdened by my shrinking attire. I planted my hands on my hips and gazed down at my muscled body proudly. My increasingly hairy pecs were thicker than ever, bulging out enough now that I had to lean slightly forward to see my cobblestone abs beneath them and the treasure trail of dark hair that connected my upper body to my lower body. Further down, my tapering waist drew my attention to my lengthening cock, hefty balls and the robust, muscled legs they hung between. Heck yes. I strode over to my desk, my fat dick slapping to and fro between my quads, and withdrew the measuring tape I kept in the top drawer. I turned on my laptop, clicked open the “Progress Report” file saved in My Documents, and glanced over my recordings:

 

9/27/14 | Soft = 5.75” x 4.5” | Erect = 8.2” x 5.8”

10/5/14 | Soft = 6.0” x 4.75" | Erect = 8.25” x 6.0”

10/12/14 | Soft = 6.0” x 5.0” | Erect = 8.5” x 6.2”

10/16/14 | Soft = 6.45” x 5.25” | Erect = 8.75” x 6.4”

10/27/14 | Soft = 7.0” x 5.9” | Erect = 9.2” x 6.8”

11/6/14 | Soft = 7.35” x 6.3" | Erect = 9.7” x 7.4”

 

To say my cock had been making impressive gains over the past two months was an obvious understatement. It seemed that with every ounce of muscle I packed on, my cock swelled up just a tad bit more, as if refusing to be outdone. I’m becoming a one-man testosterone factory, I thought smugly. I just keep packing on all this muscle, all this hair, all this cock. Feels so good. Feels so right. This is what a man’s supposed to be: muscular, hung, and proud. There was no sense in measuring my semi-hard cock now though; the flaccid measurement would have to wait until later. I gripped my turgid, throbbing dick, marveling at its ever-increasing heft, and began stroking. Instantly, a bead of precum formed on my cockhead; it was quickly joined by another, then another, and another. Soon, a steady stream of the clear, glistening lube was dribbling down between my fingers and my lengthening cock, sufficiently slicking it over. When I felt my cock thoroughly stretching to its limits, I begrudgingly stopped stroking and released the fat fuck-stick. It remained proudly upright, hot and steely against my abs, the reddening mushroom head a good two inches above my belly button. I pressed one thumb against the base, fighting to push it horizontal, and unfurled the measuring tape along it. My eyes grew wide and my stomach fluttered in its usual, surprised flurry of excitement at the number. I hurriedly released my incessantly enlarging cock, letting it slap firmly upright against my abs again, and wrapped the tape around my steel-hard pillar of man meat for the second measurement. I hastily typed them into the log: Erect = 10.25” x 7.6”. I had done it—I had broken ten inches! I had finally, unbelievably, miraculously joined the ranks of that small percentile of men in the world who could honestly claim they were packing double digits in their shorts. This is fantastic! I was hung before, but now I’m a downright horse. And my balls! I cupped them in one palm, finding that I was only just able to do so. They felt so plump, so intoxicatingly heavy with cum, that I gave them a firm, gently squeeze. Time to celebrate!

 

Although precum was oozing freely from my cockhead all over my ten-inch prick and coating my abs, I reached into my nightstand and squirted a bit of Astroglide into my palm for good measure. I started to move toward my bed to lie down comfortably, but stopped, catching a glimpse of myself in the full-body mirror attached to the inside of my open closet door. I edged open the door with my foot and stood back to get a full picture of my increasingly muscular, increasingly hung bod. Fucking A. There was no denying it: I had become a full-blown muscled stud, complete with a dick to make a donkey jealous. I inhaled deeply, inflating my pecs, and flexed. Deep striations flushed across them. I relaxed and gave them a little bounce, watching as the plump flesh jiggled about. I busted out a double biceps pose next and smirked darkly when I saw the brawny peaks form. Better get these guns measured properly, too. They’re looking bigger than ever. A single prominent vein now ran the length of each of my forearms, even when I wasn’t pumped, incessantly coursing with testosterone. I gritted my teeth, dropped my arms, and busted out a front lat spread. Beneath my thickening, muscled arms, wings of muscle flared out in either direction, instantly giving me a V-taper to die for. Yes, yes, yes! Look how big I look. I never thought I’d get this muscular…but fuck, if I can pack on this much mass, I can pack on more. I need to.

 

My hugely erect dick throbbed angrily again, drawing my attention back to it. I stopped flexing, gripped it at its fat, thick root and started stroking. Between the hot precum and warm lube, my hand glided silkily up and down my dense pillar of cock flesh. “Uuunhh.” I increased my speed, eagerly jacking, my fingers teasing the flare of my broad cockhead on each upstroke and tickling the huge, sensitive corona on each down-stroke. I bit my lip and gripped my dick harder, my fingertips barely touching each other. “Such a fat cock,” I groaned. I debated briefly whether or not I should edge and really build up a massive load or just go ahead and shoot wildly all over my bedroom. But then I remembered that Charlie would be home any second and that this celebratory orgasm promised to be a loud one. I redoubled my efforts, kicking my stroking up a notch, and watched as my huge dick grew a deeper and deeper shade of red, as purple veins began to plump up all over it. “Oh shit…oh shit…” I panted. I glanced in the mirror again. Hell yeah. Look at all that muscle. All that size. So damn big. With one hand still busily tending to my rock-hard cock, I raised my free hand over my head and brought it down behind my head, tensing and flexing my deeply cut obliques. A deep growl escaped my lips as I tensed and flexed again, really bending to crunch and flex my side abdominals.

 

A thought suddenly occurred to me. Still flexing, I glanced down at my cock. Its new, incredible length made it just about halfway up my abs. I wonder… I released my pose and double-fisted my dick, bending over at my waist, and extended my tongue, gingerly brushing it against my cock head. The combination of my hot, slippery tongue massaging my hypersensitive, rubbery cockhead proved too much and a single thought—Oh, wow!—blitzed through my mind before the floodgates were unlatched. Cum barreled up my ten inches of fiery, rock-hard dick at record speed, the lips of my huge cock head spread wide, and the first rope of steaming seed splashed against my face. I quickly stood tall again to avoid a second icing as a second rope shot toward the ceiling and came splattering back down on my shoulders and pecs.

 

“Oh, yeah!” I cried. “Uuuuunnnh!” I kept jerking madly, demanding that my cock produce rope after thick, heavy rope of cum. My balls did not disappoint. More than a dozen shots of my steaming jizz rocketed into the air, never diminishing in size, each splashing down wetly all over me: my chest, my arms, my face, my hair. “Oohh….”

 

When my bucking bronco of a dick finally finished, I stumbled backward toward my bed, the edge of my mattress kicking my quaking knees out from beneath me, and collapsed backward onto it. Hot, oozing cum dribbled across my heaving chest as I panted, pooling in the hairy cleft between my pecs, trickling down into my armpits. I grinned dumbly and closed my eyes, not daring to touch my hypersensitive fuck pole in its post-orgasmic state, just letting it lay fat and pleased across my cum-covered abs. Oh, yeah, this is the life. I could just lay here like this forever…

 

That was when I heard the front door open.

 

“I’m home!” Charlie called. “Where you at?”

[mario2007]

dhalden, never apologize to us!  I mean it.  We grateful fans appreciate your creative art.

[Aronymous]

Now this is what I call good writing.