I have always been embarrassed about my deepest sexual fantasy. I finally decided to see if psychotherapy could help me feel more comfortable about it. So I let my fingers do the walking and found a psychologist not too far from my home. With a great deal of trepidation, I called and made an appointment.
The day of the appointment came, and it was hard not to call and cancel. I left my office a little early and drove over to the doctor's office building. My nervousness built with every step as I went up to the fourth floor and down the hall, stopping at the door labeled “Eric Marshall, Ph. D.” I hesitated, butterflies in my stomach, but forced myself to open the door.
Inside was a nondescript waiting room. The receptionist was an attractive young man, somewhat unusual since most receptionists I had seen were women. As I approached I noticed the nameplate on his desk read “Shawn” and with barely more than a whisper, said, “I'm here for my appointment.”
Shawn smiled at me and said, “Of course.” He pressed a button on his phone and said, “Dr. Marshall, your five o'clock is here.”
A voice from the intercom crackled, “Thank you, Shawn. Please send him in.”
My pulse pounded in my ears as I opened the rear door. Beyond it was the office. Against the near wall was a couch, and near the end of the couch, a plush chair. Across the room, Dr. Marshall was seated behind his desk. He was another attractive man, about thirty-five, with brown hair. Smiling, he came around his desk to greet me with a handshake. “Hello, Mr. Smith,” he said. “Why don't you have a seat on the couch?”
I sat on the couch. He sat in the chair, a note pad over his leg and a pen in hand. “Now, what seems to be troubling you?”
The moment of truth was at hand. I'd never directly told anyone this before, and it was a hard, hard thing to do. Fear gripped me. I knew that if I lifted my hand from the couch, it would be visibly shaking. I looked down. Finally, I told him about it.
He thought for a few moments, then said, “I see. I think I can help you. Shall we try a little experiment?”
“Okay,” I replied.
Dr. Marshall reached over to the phone on the corner of the desk, pressed a button, and said, “Shawn, could you please come in here?”
“Coming, Dr. Marshall,” replied the receptionist. A moment later, the door opened and Shawn came in.
“Why don't you stand right there, facing Mr. Smith?” directed Dr. Marshall, indicating a spot about in the center of the room, about five feet in front of me. Shawn went to the indicated spot and turned to me.
“Now, Rob, would you please describe Shawn's physical appearance for me?”
I looked from Shawn to Dr. Marshall uncertainly, but he gave me an encouraging nod. So, looking back at Shawn, I began. “he's early twenties, I guess.” Dr. Marshall wrote something in his notebook. “Average height—five-eight? Slim. Clean-cut blond hair. Nicely defined and solid facial features.” I felt strange trying to muster up a description of him on the spot. I hope Shawn didn't mind.
Dr. Marshall was still taking notes. He looked up. “That's fine,” said Dr. Marshall, putting down his pen and pad. He got up and walked to the corner of the room, where a tall mirror on a wheeled stand stood and pulled the mirror to the center of the room. He positioned it so that I could see Shawn from behind, then returned to his seat. “Now, Shawn, why don't you go ahead and clasp your hands in front of you, about waist height.” Shawn did. “Good. Now roll your shoulders forward a bit. There we go. Now go ahead and squeeze your hands together hard.”
I was puzzled by the whole procedure so far, and looked at Dr. Marshall, a question on my lips. Before I could speak, he said, “Please keep your eyes on Shawn, Rob. I need to observe your reactions.” I looked back at Shawn, who was looking at me. I saw his hands tense as he began pressing them against each other. A few seconds passed. Then I noticed that his shirt seemed to be getting tighter. He was swelling up inside his clothing.
As I watched, his shoulders broadened. The curves of his trapezius muscles began to arc up between his neck and his shoulders. His pecs began to lift and flatten against the front of his button-up shirt. His arms thickened inside the sleeves. In the mirror I could see his whole back widening. I looked down and saw the his pant legs creeping up, and realized that he was getting taller, too. With a snap, the seam on the back of his left shoe tore from the pressure of his growing foot. The right shoe immediately followed suit. He stepped out of them.
My gaze drifted back upwards. The bottom of his pant legs, now hung just above mid-calf, revealing significantly larger calves. His black socks seemed to retreat down his calves as his calves continued to swell like balloons. New curves of biceps, triceps, and deltoids inside newly snug sleeves framed his bulging chest. His shirt cuffs were slowly drawing up his forearms, but I noticed that the bend of his elbow and the increased size of his arms kept the sleeves taut around his upper arms.
Dr. Marshall's voice broke through my reverie. “As you can see, Rob, his clothing is becoming quite tight. It's near the breaking point. Note the effect on the back of his pants from the continued growth of the deltoid, trapezoid, latissimus dorsai, and pectoralis major muscles.” In the mirror, I could see the seam down the back of his pants straining. Threads began to give way, and the seam slowly opened in the middle of his back, exposing an already taut white shirt underneath. A moment later, the shirt also tore, slowly parting to reveal Shawn's creamy skin, contoured with still-growing muscles. The rips lengthened, allowed a larger and larger opening, until finally they reached from his waist to his neckline. The shirt-collar snapped apart, joining the opening down the back with the neck hole, which now stretched wide across his swelling deltoids and trapezius muscles.
Dr. Marshall said, “The combination of increased length and increased circumference of his arms also has a unique effect.” His sleeves, stretched tightly from shoulders to elbows, had already begun to come loose at the shoulder seams, revealing smooth, round deltoids that were swelling past cantaloupe-size. As the sleeves pulled further away, the seams running from neck to shoulder split, freeing the top part of the front of his pants and shirt to fold down, revealing the tops of his thick pectorals pressing tightly together in the center of his chest. The sleeves finally pulled completely away, and the side seams of the pants and shirt, running down from his armpits, started to “unzip” from the top down, allowing his clothes to fold down further. The back, already split all the way down the middle, fell away first, revealing an insanely wide, thick musculature. Then the front of his pants fell down over his clenched hands.
I gasped at the sight of his bare torso. Until now, I couldn't see it through his clothes. But it had kept pace with the rest of him. Mighty pecs pressed together, forming a deep channel down the center of his chest. His pecs were thickly firm spheres, just grazing the biceps which framed them. His abdomen was paved with cobblestones of muscle.
Then the seams of his sleeves gave way down his upper arms, all at once, and the fabric fell away to hang from his elbows. Shawn's upper arms were huge deltoids curving into gigantic biceps and triceps. His attire hung from his in tatters, his muscularity almost inhuman—and still he was growing taller, wider, thicker, stronger.
Dr. Marshall spoke again. “Shawn's body fat is still about at fifteen percent, Rob. Shawn, see if you can attain that 'anatomy chart' look.” His muscles had been smooth in appearance, until now. They continued to inflate, but now his skin seemed to stop accommodating the growth. Striations crept across his pectorals. Definition appeared in his external obliques and serratus anteriors. The groove between his pecs extended down to his waist as his abdominals bulged under his skin. His deltoids became like small pumpkins, both in size and appearance, deep vertical cuts running down them. Even though his triceps were extended, I could make out striations on the outsides of his arms. Shawn's quadriceps hung impossibly far out over his knees. His calves were obscene. My attention was suddenly averted as I noticed a meaty, beefy bulge developing in his pants. I watched in awe as his dick conquered his underwear, its obscene thickness and length no longer able to be contained. With a tantalizing rip, his juicy veined rod found freedom as it shot straight out, growing another three inches in time with the pulsing of his blood. Finally, Shawn finished growing. He stood before me, that cute face unchanged but now atop the body seven foot mass of pure muscle. His trapezius muscles alone formed an arc as wide as a normal man's shoulders, and his deltoids flared out inches wider. His pectorals were as thick as a phone book. His abdominals were so pumped they actually pressed against each other, forming a grid of grooves between his chest and his waist. Shawn had turned into the incarnation of pure male masculinity. He was a great, big, hulking, bulging, behemoth of muscular manhood, clad in tatters hanging from elbows and waist because no clothing could possibly fit him. He looked like the most powerful human I had ever seen and was also the most erotic thing I had ever imagined.
“Well, Rob,” said Dr. Marshall, “our time is just about up for this week. I'll see you again next week?”
I nodded, unable to take my eyes off Shawn, not really paying attention to his words. Then I realized what he said. “Huh?”
“Shawn, would you please show Mr. Smith the way out?”
Shawn relaxed his pose and walked over to me. I stared up at the towering musclegod standing in front of me. Then he reached down and scooped me up, his right arm under my knees and the left across my back. I felt his bulging biceps pressing into my thigh and my back, his pecs pressed against my side. Carrying me out to the waiting room, he smiled. “Right this way, Mr. Smith. Oh, you must be uncomfortable,” he said, eyeing the bulge in my crotch—the bulge he caused by growing from an ordinary man into a muscular male powerhouse. “Let me see if I can help you with that.”
He shifted my legs up so that he could curl his right arm around them to reach my fly. He unzipped it, reached in, and with his long, strong fingers, tugged my erection out. The feeling of his fingers on it was electric. Then he set me down to grasp me by the waist and lifted me high enough that I was looking down at the top of his head and his massive shoulders. Then he wrapped his lips around my cock. I gasped at the soft, warm, wetness encircling me. To brace myself, I put my hands on his wide upper arms. My fingers splayed across rock-hard biceps and triceps of Herculean proportions. He bobbed his head up and down, licking and sucking on my cock. Within seconds, I hit orgasm, feeling the cum building up. I desperately pulled at his arms, trying to force myself deeper into his mouth, my fingers trying to find purchase in the dips and swells of Shawn's bulging muscles. He continued to pull at my cock, tormenting me with ecstasy. The sensation built and built, going on for three seconds, five seconds, ten seconds, his mighty arms holding me effortlessly three feet off the ground in front of the hugest, strongest, most masculine body on the planet. Finally, the semen exploded out of me, spasm after spasm, his tongue relentlessly stroking the underside of my penis.
Eventually my orgasm ended. Shawn put me down gently and wiped my flaccid member dry with the tattered remains of his shorts, tucked it back into my pants, and zipped up my fly. He opened the door for me and said, “See you next week, Mr. Smith!”
And I dazedly walked out.