Even when you’ve accepted that you’re small and won’t get any bigger, you might still try the pills from the random email spam. What could happen?
Added: Jan 2013 2,927 words 22,605 views 4.5 stars (8 votes)
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I was never a very big guy, even after I hit the age where you usually stopped growing.
I mean, granted, nobody in my family was bigger than me; 5’8”, maybe 150 lbs soaking wet. My mom was a tiny little thing, barely over five feet, my dad was maybe an inch shorter than me, though a bit wider, if only because he sorta let himself go after being married for a while.
So, by the time I turned twenty-one, I’d sorta grown to accept my fate, though the posters plastered on the walls of my apartment’s bedroom were the same sort of guy that I’d always hoped I could be; Enormous, muscular, tall and bronzed, gods on paper with hardly any (or none at all) clothing on. Bodybuilders and fashion hunks, the kind of guys that you sit and stare at in envy because you’ll never, never be as hot as they are.
I mean, I’m unattractive myself, but I fit the ’emo-kid’ stereotype more than I wish I did; Too-long, shaggy black hair, glasses, skinny, more ’pretty’ than handsome. I’d sorta accepted that, too, apparently, since my wardrobe these days was a mess of black tee-shirts, baggy, oversized jeans that needed a belt cinched tight to have a chance of staying up on my near-nonexistent hips. No facial hair, either; If I did let it grow, it got blotchy around my cheeks and chin and upper lip.
Not sexy at all.
But, like I said, I was fine with it, you know? Accepted my fate to be scrawny and girly and apparently hung like a fucking toothpick.
You’d think the world would be fair and at least give me a decent cock, but no. It was just as puny as the rest of me.
So yeah, totally cool with being a complete failure as a man, yeah. At least I could stare at my posters and jerk off, or surf online and find similar guys boned up and jacking it for a camera. And, hey, I’d had a couple of fairly hot boyfriends in the past, too; The type that liked little guys like me.
So what’d I do when I got a spam email that promised everything that I’d hoped to be for all of my adolescent life? Delete it?
Fuck no, I clicked it.
It was pretty typical; pictures of beyond-ripped, uber-masculine guys in tight Speedo-type underwear flaunting frankly enormous packages surrounding the text of the ad, which promised to grow muscle, add inches to your cock, and change your life, blah blah blah.
Total crap, right?
I kinda felt bad, afterwards; I’d spent twenty bucks on a bottle of pills that’d do nothing.
That was a week ago; The package arrived just now, and it was bigger than I’d expected—Inside was a bigass bottle, too, and inside that was probably five, six hundred little, chewable tablets. Like kids’ multivitamins.
“Ripped off again? No surprise there.”
Yeah, I’d done this before. Gotten sucked into an ad that made too many promises on the off chance that I’d get lucky.
The side of the bottle had instructions;
’Take one tablet twice a day with meals. Supplement with regular exercise and high-protein diet.’
Yep. Ripoff. This was like three years’ worth of pills I had, considering there were two of these massive bottles of tablets in the box.
Below the instructions was a warning:
’Do not exceed recommended dosage—LiveGro Ltd. Is not responsible for any complications that may arise while taking this supplement.’
I popped the cap off of the bottle, pored a handful of the fingernail-sized pilled into my palm, and took a moment to study them—They smelled like sugar, had no markings, and were slightly purple in color. Grape flavored?
I poured the handful into my mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
And cloyingly sweet. Like the kids’ vitamins again.
So I poured and downed another handful, and another, before fitting the cap back onto the bottle and tossing it into the box, and then tossed the box into my hall closet, which had a bevy of similar-sized packages containing similarly useless wastes of money and time.
Whatever; At least I’d get a sugar rush out of this one. The others tasted like ass.
The rest of the day was, as expected, normal; No random growth spurts, no nothing. I hit the gym like usual, tried lifting weights, and, again as expected, couldn’t bench any respectable amount of weight despite my attempts to bulk up.
Instead of gaining size, I’d always just tightened up and stayed about the same.
Damn you, genetics.
I did pop a boner a couple of times while working out, though, which didn’t happen often—I chalked it up to wasting my time with the pills instead of jacking off before classes, like I usually did.
Then I went home, glared at myself in the mirror, like usual, and went to bed.
My dreams that night were… intense, to say the least. I woke up twice to a telltale wetness in my boxers, which I promptly changed before heading back to bed. Embarassing, sure, but I did my own laundry and didn’t have to worry about mom ribbing me about wet dreams, at least.
A glance in the mirror as I got ready for class, and—Yep, same as ever. The pills definitely didn’t do a damn thing. I even flexed, just to see, and snorted when my biceps rose to their puny, scrawny little peaks.
Black shirt? Check. Jeans I could drown in? Check. Way too many necklaces, bangles, and bracelets? Yep.
What? I like accessorizing. Fuck you.
By the time I headed out the door to class, I was feeling a little lightheaded. Feverish, y’know? Like I’m swimming around in a bowl of gel, instead of walking through open air.
It got worse as the day wore on, too; I ended up leaving work not an hour after I got there, since I was feeling dizzy and nauseous. It felt like someone had lit a fire under my skin, and every now and then it’d roar to life and I’d hunch over and gasp until it was done.
I also had a boner that wouldn’t quit, which was weird. Last time I had a fever, I couldn’t get it up to save my life.
So I carefully drove myself home, that weird burning feeling intensifying along the way, dropped my shit just inside the door, and stepped inside—
Only to whack my head against the low-hanging light fixture just in the entryway.
Now, like I said before, I’m short. I got a low fixture because I could walk under it with a couple of inches to spare, and I liked laughing at my friends when they smacked into it the first or third time they visited. I never had to worry about that, myself, so why not, right?
Except I wasn’t wearing my boots with the raised heels, and I still walked into it. And I mean, the thing hit me in the nose. It didn’t just graze the top of my head or anything.
It took a minute for me to process just what the hell happened, before a light clicked on in my head; Was I bigger? It seemed like a longshot, but…
I rushed to the bathroom, shut the door behind me, clicked on the lights, and…
Yeah, definitely bigger. Holy shit.
My shirt was pulled tight over my chest and stomach, and had ridden up some four or five inches, exposing the plane of my stomach—I never had managed to get even a bit of abs, but now I could see the muscle underneath shift and ripple, and the skin around my navel was ridged in what definitely looked like a developing set of abs.
The arms of my shirt were pulled tight, too; My biceps had grown, and filled the normally rather loose sleeves to their limit. My shoulders were bigger, too—I could see the way they shifted and moved under the cloth and the way the collar of my shirt, normally pulled tight to my neck, was straining against the sudden influx of muscle.
And even better? As I watched, I was getting bigger.
The faint outline on my stomach solidified, divided, the cloth pulling taut to the ridges of obliques. Even though the cloth was solid black, I could see the shapes of four bricks of muscle pressing against it and outwards, while the one under my navel retained a good shape, but only a slight ridge down the middle. Not quite a six-pack, but damn close.
My chest was getting bigger, too—And holy shit, I fucking loved pecs, so that was fucking great. In fact, they seemed to be growing faster than anything else, distorting the text on the front of the shirt as they grew from barely-there to athletically large, then further, bigger, wider, the bumps of muy nipples showing through as they, too, grew in thickness and length to match the ballooning swells of my tits and started to aim downwards.
My face was changing; The soft, pointed featured I’d hated for so long were squaring out, my jaw widening, setting itself firmly, and I could both feel and see the prickle of stubble as it grew out evenly along my cheeks and chin. Not a beard, but a shadow of one, though now I could grow one if I wanted to.
The only sound in the bathroom had been that of me panting; I was hot, sweating, like the room was on fire, but this sound was sharper, shorter—The sound of cloth ripping.
The seams along my biceps split, unable to contain the vascular, coconut-sized swells of my arms, and when I raised them, bigger, meatier hands clenched and forearms striated and ripped, and did a double-bicep pose, they fucking shredded. I mean, they were still there, but the seams were split up to the shoulders, and there were enough smaller splits around the circumference they they were little more than ribbons attached to the shoulders, now.
Another ripping sound drew my attention elsewhere, even as I tore the shredded remains of my sleeves off entirely.
The collar of my shirt had split down the front, and at the sides, though the one at the hollow of my throat was spreading downward, slowly, but steadily enough that I could watch as the deepening cleavage between by melonlike pecs came into view, and the curls of dark, soft hair sprung up and over the lip of the cloth to greet the fluorescent light I was standing under.
I could see my nipples through the shirt; They were huge, the bumps they made as thick as a finger, meaty and massive, and as I watched, I could see them angle downwards, off to the sides.
My belt snapped; The muscles on my hips had grown, and I was no longer assless; The structure below my waist was perfected now, and as I turned to glance, I could see that the once-baggy pants were now clinging to an ass the size of a couple of volleyballs, huge and meaty and disproportionate to the rest of me, but still fucking hot as hell. My thighs, too, had grown to the point that the jeans were stretched over them as well, striated and pillarlike.
But, the best thing? I could feel the strain behind my zipper. It was uncomfortable, but it was delicious.
I pushed back, away from the counter, and tipped my head down; The front of my jeans were bowed out around a frankly enormous bulge—to say it was simply large would be like calling Mount Everest a hill.
I undid the button, tore down the zipper before I ruined the pants for good, and sighed with relief.
The trail of dark hair that ran between my abs and under my navel thickened into a dense, dark bush past my waist, and my boxer-briefs were stretched over my hips to the breaking point, thanks to the globelike swells of my ass and the oversized lump barely contined up front.
I was soft, surprisingly, but even now I would see the wrist-thick root of my dick thanks to the front of my boxers being pulled out and down by the rest of my meat.
Wait, not even wrist-thick. Thicker than that.
It took one hand to pull my boxers down in front, but it took two to manhandle my junk out into the open. And holy shit, I was better hung than anyone I’ve ever seen.
I was always uncut, but now the extra skin had nearly engulfed the head of my dick entirely, and I could barely see the darkskinned tip underneath it.
I was soft, too; Hardening, now that I was free of my shorts, sure, but still almost entirely soft, and the thing hung from my groin at a meaty ten, maybe eleven inches in length, girthy enough that I couldn’t even wrap one of my much-larger hands around it—I needed both, in order to do that.
Underneath? My balls were fucking massive. And I mean, even compared to the monstercock I’d been admiring, they were huge. Like a couple of grapefruits, stuffed into a sack two sizes too small, nearly round and hairless and heavy as fuck. I could see finger-thick veins under the surface of them and my cock, as they fed blood to the massive, hardening slab of meat.
I was still growing. Slower, now, but I could feel it, hear it as the cloth of my shirt and jeans groaned at the slightest movement, and just that was enough to make my dick shoot forward, filling with blood in an instant before lifting and slapping me square in the middle of my chest, then dropping down and onto the countertop with a meaty, messy thwack.
I didn’t have a tape measure, but looking at myself compared to how tall I used to be beside my medicine cabinet? I had to be at least 6’5”. And considering the fact that the head of my dick hit me straight in the middle of my chest? I’d say I had to be sixteen, maybe seventeen inches long, and thick enough to make most peoples’ biceps look scrawny in comparison.
Ramrod straight, I watched as the meaty fuckpole drooled clear glaze onto the countertop, leaving the shiny surface of the counter slick and sticky and stinking of musk and male.
Both of my hands closed around as much as they could of my massive pole’s girth, lifted up, and stroked like my life depended on it.
Precum blasted from my tip like a watergun, pencil-thick jets of slimy, clear stuff that painted my bathroom mirror, counters, and myself in it, gluing my shirt even more to the bulbous swells of my muscletits, running in rivulets between the divisions of my abs, leaking down into the crease between my bloated, oversized balls and then spattering messily on the floor.
I wish I could say it took minutes to blow my load, but it was more like seconds—As turned on as I was, as huge as I was, there was no way I was going to last much longer than that, anyway, and I just had time to lean forward and drag my tongue over the wide dome of my cockhead, under the chubby lip of my foreskin, before the first blast of searing-hot, ivory-white jizz splattered against my chin and cheeks and lips.
One blast turned my face into a creamy mess, the second left a thumb-thick, gooey streak on the mirror and ceiling.
I sort of lost count after that, but I think I ended at something like twenty or so volleys, before it came down to just dregs and dribbles—both of which were still far more than a normal guy could produce in just one load.
I was soaked, the floor was covered—Hell, everything was covered—in steaming, gooey jizz. There had to be gallons of the stuff spread around the bathroom.
And me? I was too busy sinking down the only clean patch of wallspace—the one directly behind me—to do much more than try not to go crosseyed with pleasure.
My dick was still rock-solid, my balls felt just as full—maybe moreso!—and I couldn’t stop my hands or mouth from working along that arm-sized pole with everything they had.
I only had a brief moment of clarity that night. Just one. It came somewhere after my fourth or fifth orgasm.
Just who am I going to use the rest of those pills on?
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Originally Added: January 2013
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