A skinny researcher’s muscle growth experiments on himself make for impressive changes. Then he tries them out on his friend, who’s already muscular.
I was straddling his narrow hips, feeling his gargantuan thighs twitch and ripple beneath my butt, running my strong, square hands over the chiseled perfection of his abs, the mountainous expanse of his pecs. He yawned and stretched, flexing 24-inch biceps and 20 forearms, a sight to set me panting all over again, then he took my hands and pulled me down to him, at once incredibly strong and tremendously gentle. He wrapped his arms around me, arms that could crush a grizzly, and rolled us on our sides, so that we were nose to nose, hip to hip—I felt like a child next to him…
“Whenever you want,” he answered, finally, “but keep in mind we need to make some preparations. If your experience is like mine, you’ll be out of commission for a week or so. And we need to have food on hand—lots of it!”
He was right, of course. In the week after he had injected himself with Agent X, Angelo had added six inches to his height and doubled his bodyweight, ballooning from a lean and muscular yet relatively small 5’8” and 140 pounds into the 6’2, 280-pound mountain of muscle I now found myself with. Having me undergo The Change would require some careful laying of groundwork.
“Let’s get on with it, shall we?” I suggested, eyes glittering with anticipation.
“But maybe we should get it on first?” he countered.
I fell on top of him again…
A week later we were ready and I made some additional discoveries, including:
1. The fact that despite his newfound size, Angelo had enough stamina and aerobic capacity to keep any 10 men happy. To my delight, his supply seemed to be inexhaustible.
2. He was still growing!
We didn’t really notice the latter until the day I was to receive my injection. We decided for the sake of scientific accuracy that I should be weighed and measured so that we would have before and after records for comparison. As expected I came in right at 5’10½ inches tall and 205 pounds. Then we decided to measure Angelo to see whether everything still appeared to be on track. The results, though, surprised us: 6’ 2½” and 290 pounds, a half-inch taller and 10 pounds heavier than he had been the week before.
“At this rate…” he began.
“At this rate you’ll be 6’3 and 300 pounds in another week,” I said. “Who do you suppose will be bigger then?”
We were about to find out…
The injection didn’t hurt but I instantly felt my body beginning to grow. It was if I had had a cable attached to my body and it was beginning to draw electrical current. But the longer it lasted the “fuzzier” I felt; I became less and less aware of my surroundings, focusing only on the fact that I was overwhelmingly hungry and overwhelmingly sleepy. Angelo said later that it seemed like I had turned into a hibernating bear; he didn’t speak to me unless to give me a direct order, which I generally obeyed without thinking about it at all. In the end, it turned out that The Change was even more dramatic for me than it was for Angelo. I had been taller than Angelo to begin with but after his Change he overtopped me by a good four inches. About halfway through the week I realized I was looking him right in the eye.
“Congratulations,” he said, his voice to me sounding as if it were emanating from the bottom of a well, “you’re growing even faster than I did.”
That’s when I realized that I was also bigger than Angelo—by a lot!
“Uh,” I said fuzzily, “any idea about how…?”
“About how big you are?” Angelo grinned. “I’m guessing right at 325 pounds.—I think you’re just about 30 pounds heavier than I am now.”
Which turned out to be an accurate guess, but it was just the beginning.
A week after I had received the injection, I awoke in the morning and realized I no longer felt muzzy—and that the “current” I had felt in my body was no longer pulsing as strongly. I experienced a momentary letdown, then “felt” the current again, realizing that it was still there, just not as strong.
“Hi, there, monster man,” Angelo said, bringing me a breakfast tray that could feed the Chicago Bears. “Are you back with me?”
I sat up and stretched—and saw Angelo’s eyes widen in surprise.
“Well, yes, come to think of it, I guess I am,” I said, hopping out of the bed—and feeling the hardwood floor beneath me thwonging under the impact. I pulled myself up to my full height and turned to face Angelo.
“Oh!” I exclaimed…
“Oh, indeed,” he echoed, sardonically. “You’re just now figuring it out, aren’t you?”
I looked down across my new body and suddenly realized I had grown even more than Angelo had done—taller, wider, heavier, stronger, it was all there.
“Face it, guy,” Angelo said, all 6’3 and 300 pounds of him (he had continued growing, of course.). “Now you make me look like a piece of spaghetti!”
We went to the new gym he had installed in his home to measure. He was right, of course, I realized as I looked at the two of us in the mirror—I did make him look like a piece of spaghetti. Still, I was not prepared for what the tape and the scales had to say:
“Six feet six inches tall,” Angelo called out, “and 400 pounds.”
I couldn’t believe it myself: 78-inch chest, 39-inch waist, 40-inch thighs, 32-inch biceps, 27-inch forearms—I reached out when I saw those and very easily, very gently hoisted Angelo, all 300 pounds of him, into the air with one hand.
“Easy does it, big boy,” Angelo said. “You may be the biggest thing anyone’s ever seen but you’re still dealing with a full-grown ox here.”
I nodded my head, then set him down…
“Speaking of oxen,” he continued, “or maybe bulls or stallions, have you, uh, checked out the other equipment…?”
I looked down quickly at those words, then looked back up just as quickly, utterly surprised.
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” I told Angelo. “Surely it’s not real…?”
He snorted, then laughed.
“Maybe we should try it out?” he inquired.
“Maybe…” I replied.
Doorways, for example. They were a problem. Most doorways in apartments and house are about 30-36 inches wide. My shoulders were 40 inches wide, which meant I had to hunch them or turn sideways to get through a door. And the bathtub and shower were even worse. Dropping the soap, for example, was a no-no, because there was no way I could bend over to get it in such a cramped space! Getting into the bathroom was pretty important, too, at least for the first couple of days. It had been a year or two since I’d worn a full beard and I was used to just having a goatee. My facial hair grew pretty slowly and I could go three-four days at a time without needing a trim. Now, though, I was shaving twice a day just to keep up with the stubble, which was darker and thicker than my beard had ever been. After a day or two I gave up and just let it grow; within two days I had a glorious full-beard—dark, thick, and perfectly shaped.
In addition to doorways, there was furniture. My mother always complained about the fact that I tended to flop on the sofa or into a chair; somehow, no matter how many times I’d seen Hermione Gingold instruct Leslie Caron in Gigi, I’d never managed to learn how to ascend and descend in a graceful fashion. It really didn’t much matter when I was just a big old beefy 205-pound Musclebear, but at 400 pounds it made a big (if you’ll pardon the pun) difference. The first time I dropped down on one of the wooden Windsor-back kitchen chairs it literally splintered under me and I landed on the floor. That afternoon I forgot and pulled the same stunt with the sofa—the sleeper mechanism is jammed to this day!
And then there was clothing. Nothing I owned fit me anymore. For that matter, none of the new clothes that Angelo had bought to fit his massive frame, all 6’3” and 300 pounds of it, worked either. It wasn’t just a case of them being obscenely tight—I really had no modesty before I got the body of my dreams, much less afterwards. But the few oversized items tried to put on stretched and stretched and stretched and still wound up splitting at the seams. Angelo went out and bought some fabric and we made me a new set of clothes, concentrating on tank tops and loose-fitting sweat pants. He also bought me a pair of sandals, after scouring every shoe store in town. I could barely get a toe in the 10-wides I had worn previously. After lots of searching he found a pair of Size 15 triple-wides that looked like they’d been designed for some circus giant—but, then, that’s what I had become.
Finally, I was ready to go out and face the world.
“What do you think?” I asked Angelo, modeling my new outfit, which consisted of sandals, a jet black form fitting tank top, and baggy camouflage pants.
“I think it looks good, but the pants are fucking obscene,” he replied, yawning and scratching his immense furry chest. I still marveled that little dweebish Angelo was now a 6 foot 3-inch, 300-pound he-man. He was soooo fucking hot!
I turned sideways and looked in the mirror.
“Oh, yeah,” I replied. “I guess you’re right.”
My stuff, even when it was very average sized, had always tended to thrust forward, so people usually thought I had a bigger box than I did. False advertising, I suppose, but I didn’t design it that way. But now I had stuff that would put a porn star to shame. Fully hard, it was now 15 inches long and 10 inches around and flaccid the monster was still easily 11 inches long. Even though Angelo had made the pants extra baggy in the crotch, my gigantic thighs thrust all of my manhood forward in such a way that the fabric stretched taut across them. And standing there looking at Angelo wasn’t helping matter any.
“Well, nothing I can do about it, I suppose,” I said, grinning ear to ear.
“Yeah,” Angelo replied, “just try not to get any wet spots, okay?”
That evening we decided it was time for an outing and where other than the local gay gym? We piled into Angelo’s bright red Jeep and headed over to Bigger Bodies, the most popular health club in Midtown. Along the way, we had to keep dodging cars whose drivers were mesmerized by the sight of two huge, incredibly muscular guys, apparently a couple of pro football players, literally crammed into a big butch Jeep (sporting rainbow flags front and back, of course) and virtually overflowing it.
At BB’s, jaws literally hit the floor as we walked in. Working the front desk was Toby, a former Mr. Hotlanta. At 6 ft and 225 pounds. Toby looked like a little boy next to Angelo and he was positively tiny compared to me. Toby’s not one to be impressed by anyone other than himself but this time his eyes were as big as saucers.
We headed over to the squat rack where Big Dave Andrews was just finishing up a really intense set. Looking at Dave gave my stuff something to twitch about—always had and it was worse now! At 6’1” tall and 260 pounds of solid muscle, Dave had been a major lust object for me for a long time; he was as good looking as he was big, as personable as he was built. Now, of course, instead of looking up at him and wondering what it would be like to be that big, I just stood behind him and waited for him to notice. Dave was squatting very heavy, eight 45-pound plates on each side of the 45-pound bar, for a total of 765 pounds. When he finished his last rep, he slid the bar back onto its supports, then hung his head down for a minute or so, catching his breath. Then he looked up—and saw me in the mirror. Dave whipped around fast and just stood there staring at me, awestruck. I could see him taking in the fact that my chest was as wide or wider than his powerful shoulders, that my arms were easily the size of his thighs. He looked like he’d never seen anything like it, and, well, he hadn’t!
After a minute or so, I broke the silence.
“Mind if I get in a set?” I asked in my new basso profundo.
He shook his head, like he was trying to shake off a fog. He moved to take of the plates and it was time for me to shake my head.
“Leave ‘em, that’s okay,” I told him gently.
Another little sigh went around the room. It was obvious that I was much bigger and probably immensely stronger than Big Dave but nobody else in the gym could squat as much as he could.
I approached the bar and took hold of it in my immense paw-like, hands. Running my hands back and forth across the cold steel, I could feel the current in my body again, the current that Angelo’s secret formula had activated. It felt like my soul was flowing through the bar. I put my hands in the standard position for squatting but rather than placing my massive shoulders under the bar I pushed it straight up over my head where I held it for a good 10 seconds before I began letting it descend. Gasps and shouts went up as I lowered the bar and began cranking out biceps curls, one after another until I had done an even dozen. By the time I was finished, the veins in my gigantic, 32-inch biceps were writhing like snakes and sweat was drenching my fur-covered body. When I once more heaved the bar into the air and let it gently down on its supports, the whole gym rang out with cheers.
After that Angelo and I spent a good half hour talking and chatting and signing autographs for the 50 or 60 men in the gym that evening. Eventually, we told them, “Enough, let us work out,” and they gave us room. Still, all eyes were on us for every exercise we did that evening. We had thought to shower at the gym after our workout but it was pretty obvious that doing so would cause a riot. Heading out to the Jeep, Dave offered to carry our gym bags.
“Why, Dave, what a sweet thing to offer,” Angelo said, putting his massive 25-inch arm around Dave’s broad shoulders. I could see that Big Dave was bigger in more than just one way; I’d never seen his cock out of his gym pants but it was pretty obvious from the bulge in his sweats that he was carrying at least 8 inches.
When we got to the Jeep, Dave hoisted the bags in the seat, then turned to leave, but I was blocking his way. Reaching over Dave I gripped the roll bar behind his hand with both my gargantuan arms (each bigger than his massive, powerful thighs); they nearly rested on his shoulders and I could see that he was having trouble keeping things—not just his dick, but his breathing—under control. I asked him whether he wanted to go back to our place for a shower and pasta.
“Not that there’s room for all three of us in the shower, unfortunately,” I said, laughing and scratching my brick-like fur-covered abs. “Hell, there’s barely room for one of us in the shower anymore, much less two or three people like us.”
He couldn’t do more than grin ear to ear but that was enough. Taking his tight ass in my massive hand I easily popped him into the front seat of the Jeep next to Angelo and then I hopped into the rear. The engine roared and we headed for home.
“I didn’t know you were into gymnastics,” Angelo said, finally.
“I didn’t either,” I replied, grinning, then deftly one-armed Dave out of his seat, pausing a moment to hold him high above me, then slowly lowering him to the ground in front of me. “I guess it just comes with the territory.”
Dave sagged against me slightly, looking simultaneously out of breath and very, very excited. I wrapped one of my tremendous 32-inch arms around his neck and with my other massive paw gently tilted his chin so he could look up at me.
“We’re very glad you could join us, y’know,” I said, as Angelo came up beside him, “aren’t we, Angelo?”
Angelo wrapped one of his 26-inch guns around Dave’s shoulders and squeezed, gently, but enough even so that I saw Dave wince slightly.
“I, I, well, gee, I just don’t know what to say,” Dave blurted, finally. “You guys are just amazing.”
I chuckled, then quickly tucked each one under my arms and bounded up the long, steep stairs going to the house, taking them four-steps at a time, as quick and sure footed as a mountain goat. At the top I set them down so that Angelo could get out his key, then turned and stretched, bending over to grab my ankles and shrug my impossibly broad shoulders.
“You carried us like we were rag dolls,” Dave pointed out, still flustered looking.
I grinned at him.
“But I weigh 260 pounds!” he pointed out, “and Angelo…”
“…outweighs you by about 40 pounds,” I answered. “That’s right.”
Dave frowned slightly, thinking.
“Just how big…?”
“We can talk about that later,” I told him. “Let’s eat first…”
In the kitchen, Angelo pulled out a 1-pound package of angel hair pasta and held it up to Dave, who was leaning against the sink, the veins on his massive 22-inch biceps popping out in a way that was getting my meat hard.
“How many of these can you eat at a time?” Angelo asked. “One or two?”
“Jeez, thanks for asking! One is plenty!”
Angelo pulled out four double-sized dutch ovens, filled each with water, and set them upon the stove. While we were waiting for the water to come to a boil, Dave perused Angelo’s mammoth CD collection, finally settling for some classic Annie Lenox. In the meantime, I stretched out on the floor and started doing push-ups. Dave watched me do 50 and then got down and started doing the same, his face directly in front of mine, pacing me for each rep. After he’d done his first 50—by which time I’d done a hundred—he started slowing down but I just kept cranking them out. By the time Dave had done 50 more reps—and I’d done 75 more—his face was a mask of pain, his massive traps and delts and pecs bright red from the engorging blood, sweat pouring off his body. At that point Angelo, all 300 pounds of him, came and stood squarely on my back while I did 175 more reps. Dave was sitting cross-legged, his powerful forearms sagging against his massive quads, dripping sweat, awestruck, his sizeable cock making a quite noticeable tent in his gym shorts.
“I’m guessing about nine inches, right?” I asked, pointing at the bulge.
He shook his head, as if coming out of a daze, then nodded.
“Yep, right about that,” he agreed, grinning.
As Angelo hopped off me and headed for the kitchen, I stood and stretched yet again, this time shirtless, my 78-inch chest and 32-inch biceps mercilessly pumped and vascular, although I’d only barely begun to sweat, despite having done 350 pushups, half of them with a 300-pound hulk on my back. Push-ups had always made me horny and that set was no exception; my man meat had gotten semi-hard and it was going toward full hard.
“Jesus God!” Dave exclaimed. “What the hell do you have in there? A python?”
I answered by pulling my pants down and letting it flop out. By this time it was fully hard and totally mindboggling, 15 inches long, 10 inches around, a throbbing, pulsating battering ram.
Dave looked stunned, his eyes wide, his hand slowly reaching out toward it, then stopping short. Angelo responded by dropping his shorts, letting his own thick, foot-long rod stand at attention. He moved between me and Dave, kissing the smaller man full and deeply, then turning to take my huge schlong and ponderous balls in his hand.
“I think it’s time we went upstairs,” Angelo said, as I folded Dave in my arms, the entire length of my massive cock pressing against his abs.
“That’s a good idea,” Dave mumbled before I stuck my tongue down his throat.
We headed to the staircase.