You wanted more

by Zine

You thought you could stop. But you couldn’t, could you?

You thought you could stop. Well, at some point you must have thought you could just quit.

But you couldn’t, could you? You wanted more. Already when we met you were swollen with meat, a 250-pound hunk, 5’9, you were simply massive. But you wanted more, needed more.

So I took you in. We started slowly, with more weights, more food. You still had a job back then, half-time. When you hit 300 pounds you started working from home, no way a guy as big as you could work with customers, you were simply too big. Intimidating even. You kept going. You still wanted more.

I injected you with every roid, every experimental supplement, legal or illegal that I could find. You never asked me to stop, quite the opposite. You still wanted, no... needed more.

At 400 pounds you struggled to walk, every step a fight against gravity, against your own swollen legs. People stared in the streets, called you a freak behind your back, and I know it turned you on. Even between your enormous legs, your erection was clearly visible. That has passed a long time ago, hasn’t it? And you still haven’t stopped growing.

At 500 pounds you became too big to do anything on your own, you tried to tie your shoes one day and nearly fell over. Big loss, you said, and laughed. You didn’t know that year would be the last you competed. They didn’t even let you into the finals: ‘Too big,’ they said. You were devasted all evening, but when we fucked that night you told me to help me get you even bigger. ‘Fuck them,’ you told me, and begged me to show them how much bigger you could be. Not just to show them, but to show yourself.

Things changed after that. You kept piling on more and more mass every month. It was incredible. I still can hardly believe it. After a while we put you on myostatin inhibitors, swiped straight from a research lab. You wanted more, and I had to give it to you. Normal exercise didn’t work anymore—well, not for a guy your size—so we had to get creative. But all the equipment, trainers, and workout assistants could only get you that far.

At 700 pounds you simply got too big even for your gym routine. We tried some workarounds but you were getting simply too big. Unable to pick up the weights, fit into the machines... fuck, even bend your limbs far enough to do much more than helplessly flex. We could hardly even get you through the doors anymore. Your traps were starting to push against your ears, while your chest was pushing into your chin. Your legs were monstrous, your incredibly swollen arms pushed almost straight off your body by your overblown lats. You were a monster, barely even able to walk under your own strength anymore. Simply too heavy, too bloated, simply too big. I asked you one night if we should stop, but you simply shook your head—well, tried to, with the limited mobility you still had. You wanted more.

I tried to reach for your cock while we made love that night but couldn’t reach it. Can you imagine that, growing so freakishly massive that your own cock is buried between your enormous quads. You hardly cared, you still wanted to get bigger. Things escalated from there on. I kept feeding you, never forcing anything on you. You were all the motivation to yourself you needed. Almost selfishly focused on your own mass. I fed you more and more, but it never was enough. You burned through calories like a forest fire.

Half a year later you finally hit half a ton and we had to weigh you on a truck scale. A heaving, impossible mountain of meat, on a scale usually reserved for heavy machinery. When I whispered the weight into your ears you came right there and kept moaning, a shudder running through body. You were impossible, a blimp of meat. Heaving, struggling to even breathe under all that muscle. Your pecs started hanging so low they completed covered your overinflated roid gut, giving you an almost spherical look. It was getting harder and harder to make out which part of that gargantuan heaving mass corresponded to which bodypart. You still wanted more.

A year later, you hit a full ton. I had to feed you intravenously, by then, injecting a constant stream of hormones into your bloodstream to even keep you alive. You had to wear an oxygen mask for six months now, full time. What had once been a gloriously handsome six foot body had turned into a grotesque mountain of flexing meat, rising ten feet tall. Too big to live without constant care. And still: in between your labored breaths you kept grunting a single word: More.

If you ever had the ability to stop you lost it by the next year. Two tons… two fucking tons of meat, an impossibility. I have attached a pump to your cock to give you at least some relief from time to time and your constant moans show me it’s working. I have long lost the sight of your face, only the top of your head is showing beneath your over inflated muscles. Your world is gradually shrinking every day: the next flex, the next eathshattering orgasm, the next feeding. You still want more.

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