Twelve steps back

By FanTCMan 
9 parts
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• Latest update: 10 August. Next update: 24 August. (Submissions welcome.)

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Part 1: Twelve Steps Back

He filled the syringe, tapped out the air bubbles, just as he’d been instructed by the doctor, and set it down on the table. He felt like demons were fighting in him, but he had to laugh at them. He could handle it. He wanted to handle it. But he had to set the shit down for a second, take a deep breath, and think about it.

Ian’s road to recovery had taken a few detours. Partying seemed to be an occupational hazard in the advertising business. One day you were prince charming, the next, if you didn’t play your cards right, a toad that couldn’t get a returned phone call. Like most jobs, it was all about who you knew, who you hung with, and, of course, though few would say so, how you looked. As for all that, he held a straight flush in spades, but Ian had played his cards right into rehab. He had to think twice about doing that again. But they loved him, he had the look, and he needed this.

Ian’s looks were his gift. He’d been dealt four aces in that department. As a kid, he was SO cute, an adorable towheaded angel. Through high school and college, he grew into a handsome guy. He hung with the jocks and maintained a cut and sculpted body with the slightest effort—a little time in the weight room and his daily crunches. And a little time was all he could give. There was just too much fun to be had, too many parties.

The partying didn’t seem to take any toll on his exceptional physical appearance. He had the swagger of a jock who knew his popularity was assured. He was smart, socially adept, and naturally built—great butt, broad shoulders, tight waist, slender torso, broad chest with wide, square pecs. His friends joked that he must have a debauched-looking portrait stashed away.

As he moved from fratboy to professional, the parties did, however, begin to interfere with getting to work on time, staying focused when he was there, and incited mood swings that sent him first to anger management therapy, and then to rehab after they dragged him out of a meeting, babbling wildly, randomly, insisting he was fine, with vodka on his breath at ten in the morning and his nose powdered with cocaine he didn’t even realize he’d left there. He raged that they were jealous, had no patience, were a bunch of fucking assholes, and more he didn’t want to remember.

He’d been sober, now, for over a year, which, for a twenty-five year old guy, seemed like a huge stretch of his life. He was glad to be working again, that he hadn’t lost too much momentum, professionally, and he’d even managed to make the bad-boy-reformed thing work for him, once he convinced people he could be trusted to get the job done. But he did miss the partying.

Substitution was the best remedy for that, and he filled the void with working out. At first a sorry substitute, eventually he began to enjoy the feeling of gaining muscularity. Stoking his ego by improving his looks was the only high left to him. He read all the fitness magazines and catalogs that specialized in men’s wear geared to the body-conscious male. More and more, he found himself immersed in the fantasy of really getting into the whole body-culture thing. He hesitated to push himself too much, though, afraid that the people he worked with would think he’d become one of those gay muscle guys, and though he personally didn’t care if some of those guys were into each other’s bodies, he didn’t want people to think of him that way.

Then, at the gym, of course, Ian heard a story. One of the magazines, Littleman’s Body-Conscious Man, had become a sort of physique-oriented A&F catalog, doing for bodybuilding among young guys what A&F had done for the slender, cut-up look. Loose and baggy was losing ground to tight and muscle-revealing.

This company, though, had suffered a bit of a setback when a highly touted experimental formula had been tested by the advertising agency, T. Forrest Inc., that had ultimately merged with them as its sole client. The setback was a result of the new product being too successful. So successful, in fact, that the story of the adman, Tucker Forrest, and his AE, Larry Littleman, had become legend. In fact the name, Littleman, as the company’s public name, was their own ironic inside joke. The two men and, inadvertently, an assistant named Sean, who, in the story, never had a last name, had been the victims of an overzealous test. They’d been retired from public view, but the stories about them had survived among the men who were the targets for the product: bodybuilders, models and other men who were drawn to the legend of three guys growing so massive with muscle and so over-endowed that they could no longer function in the world. Rumor had it that they had been taken away too huge to walk or wear clothes, and in a constant, irreversible, debilitating state of total sexual arousal and perpetual orgasm. Although, according to what many now considered merely urban legend, their faces supposedly bore witness that their feelings were not those of being debilitated. They appeared to have reached a kind of physical-psycho-sexual nirvana. Whether or not all that was true, the drug had, after that initial trial, been put under the strictest restrictions. But, if you had the connections to the right doctors . . .

He had mixed feelings about getting all bulked up with muscle, the way so many guys seemed to be doing. The rebellious streak in him found the look exciting. On other guys. Apparently, the drug caused muscle to mass up and thicken without the bloat that so often went with steroid use. It didn’t harm the body. And it appeared, from the pictures of the models, to enhance other characteristics, also unlike steroids, which lent some credence to the adman legend, and it seemed to be drawing in the guys like bees to honey. More and more, the skinny guys in the baggy clothes were rapidly becoming yesterday’s look. Now is was tight tees or tanks and body-clinging cotton/Lycra hot shorts that were becoming the casual wear of choice for young studs. He wondered how he’d feel more muscled up and wearing Lycra. If those guys could . . .

He’d stared at himself in the mirror, wondering . . . He was, in fact, stunning. His thick hair grew brown at the roots but bleached naturally to straw blond by the time it had grown an inch. He wore it short and spiky. His face—green-hazel eyes, heavy eyebrows and lashes, also brown tipped with blond, almost too-full lips, prominent cheekbones, perfect white teeth, long, deep dimples when his flashed his boyish, impish, heart-melting smile, perfect five o’clock shadow on a square jaw and dimpled chin—was saved from being too pretty by a certain ruggedness in its expression and a small scar that bisected his right eyebrow and the edge of his upper lip. An accident that almost took one eye instead gave him just the right touch of danger, the look of having lived on the edge. Except for the way his hair blonded out when it grew, he could be Colin Farrell’s brother, back from one bar fight and ready for another. Bad boy gone good. He convinced himself he had the edge to pull it off.

The next day he pursued the topic with the guy at the gym who’d told him about it, a guy he was sure was gay, but what the hell. The guy seemed eager to take him, after their workouts, to meet the doctor who would show him how to administer the drug to himself by way of giving him his first dose and explaining the process—how to draw the liquid from the vial into the syringe, how to tap out the air bubbles, and the exact spot, behind his scrotum at the conjunction with the penis root where he would need to inject himself, which he would do the next time he came in. This time, the doctor did it for him.

He had to chuckle at himself on the way home, how surprisingly embarrassed he’d been, sitting there naked with his legs spread wide, when the doctor had so nonchalantly lifted aside his balls and pointed out the spot between his legs, wetting down the hair with alcohol, and how he almost panicked at getting a shot there. But it hadn’t been so bad. The needle was pretty small, and there was almost no residual pain.

Still, driving his car, he noticed a slight buzz, very physical, the way ecstasy felt when it first started coming on. In fact, that seemed to be what was making him chuckle, when he thought about it, or realized it. It felt almost as if he had snorted some coke or X or something, through his dick. And as soon as he realized he felt buzzed, and how really good it felt, he remembered hearing that one of the cautionary reasons for the tight restrictions on the drug was that it was so highly addictive. But the guys at the gym scoffed at that claim, saying it was about as dangerous as alcohol or pot, and it had measurable positive benefits. That was just the claim of the conservatives who resisted anything new and subversive to the established codes of behavior and appearance, branding it, whatever it was, immoral, indecent, against God. But as he felt a kind of euphoria gently filling his senses, sitting at a stoplight, he could easily believe it could be addictive, and that concerned him. A little.

It would be a week before he could go back and get his second shot, and show the doctor he could handle it on his own. Then they would give him a month’s supply at a time, enough for one shot a week. That would be enough to put about ten pounds of muscle a month onto him, but he would have to take a month off after every two months on, and he would have to stop after his first sixty pound gain, go on a maintenance program, and wait a year before starting up again. They did not want anyone to “Tucker out,” as uncontrolled growth came to be known. Rules!

Ian enjoyed the buzz that evening. He had a date with a girl who was a total babe, yet all through dinner, he kept noticing, and trying not to let her see his head swivel, a couple guys with pumped up bodies he guessed must be users. After dinner, in the movie, she had continually had her hands on his body, feeling this hard, cut torso, and it turned him on intensely, but not to want to take her home and fuck her. He found her attention to his body brought his own attention to it, and he faked feeling ill after the movie to go home and strip, and spend quality time in front of the mirror with his imagination. He was still buzzed, and horny. He got out his latest Littleman’s catalog, and jacked off looking at those young bodybuilders showing their stuff.

The week went by slowly, and he threw himself into his work and his workouts, but in no time the week had passed, and Ian did see, or at least feel, the cumulative effects. The changes were subtle, but he’d gained almost three pounds, all solid muscle, and it showed in thicker definition. But more than what he could see, which looked really good, he loved what he could feel, the slow, gradual swelling of solid muscle tissue. And the feeling of a slightly fuller package in his briefs.

This time, the doctor gave him all the equipment to fix his own shot and talked him through it. The idea of taking another dose excited him, and by the time he had to drop his pants and sit on the table with his legs spread, he was plumping up despite being still a little embarrassed. But the bad boy in him was liking this, sitting in front of a young, handsome doctor (he hadn’t really noticed last week how good looking the guy was, how young, and how built, even in his white coat—a user too, no doubt), pulling aside his balls, swabbing himself with alcohol, and, pause, deep breath, shoving in that needle. By the time he’d finished the shot, his heart was pounding and he was totally hard.

The doctor just slapped his thigh and said, “Don’t worry about it. Happens every time. Stuff really messes with your hormones. But in a good way. Since you’re at full staff, anyway, why don’t we measure that thing, so we can keep a record of its relative growth.”

Ian gulped. No response could be the right one, so he sat there, his dick hard as ever in his life, while the doctor pulled a cloth tape measure out of a drawer.

“Name’s Troy, by the way,” the doctor said, as he gingerly held Ian’s prick still while he pulled the tape along its length, pushing the end into his pubes.

Ian laughed, maybe too hard.

“What?” the doctor asked. He made a note on Ian’s chart.

“No way. Troy? Sounds like a gay porn name.” The words escaped. Where the fuck had that come from?

“Seven and a quarter,” the doctor said. “Would you like it to be?” He wrapped the tape around Ian’s cock while Ian watched. “By six.”

“I’m only barely seven.”

“Not any more. Oh, I see you’ve had some interest in that. You’ve got good genes going into this. I think you’re going to love the results.”

“I already do.” Holy shit. Who was talking? Ian felt sweat on his forehead.

“So do I,” Troy said, bracing himself on Ian’s thighs as he leaned slowly forward, his eye’s locked on Ian’s, his lips slightly parted. He stopped inches from Ian’s mouth.

Ian’s drive surfaced like magma blowing the top off a volcano, and he closed the gap between them, feeling, for the first time in his life, the rough stubble of a man’s mouth on his. It was like the first real kiss of his life. He felt the handsome doctor grab hold of his cock as they kissed, cover the head with tissue, and just hold it tightly, and the soaring pleasure of the rough-tender kiss with the sensation of a man’s hand holding, gripping, squeezing his cock caused him to ejaculate. The doctor just continued to make love to his lips and tongue until he’d spent what felt like a huge load. Then, slowly, the doctor pulled back, smiling, as he wiped Ian’s cock clean.

“Like I said. Happens all the time. They’ll take care of you at the front desk. I’ll want to see you again in a month.” With a wink, he was gone, closing the door behind him.

Ian went back to the office, but all afternoon, he couldn’t stop thinking of the fact that packed in his briefs was a quarter-inch bigger cock, and that he had just let that doctor make him cum while he kissed him, he had loved the whole thing. He was buzzed, and he felt great. In fact, he knew he must be looking as great as he felt. No one could know, yet, that he’d started the process of becoming one of those Littleman’s guys, but he saw people checking him out, the women flirting more than usual, guys glancing surreptitiously with that familiar look of envy he’d seen all his life. But someone, it was giving him more of a thrill.

In the mail room, he’d stopped to chat up the mail room guy, a just-out-of-college intern named Matthew. Ian always suspected that Matthew might be bi, the way he checked him out and couldn’t do enough to be helpful, and he didn’t really mind. Ian’s ego allowed him to appreciate being admired by anyone, especially anyone good looking, male or female, and Matthew was a very cute kid. Today, Matthew kept looking at Ian’s chest and down below his waist, and Ian stayed and chatted longer than he should have with a mail room guy just to enjoy the looks. He also felt sure that Matthew knew he was hanging around, letting him study him. Could he see a difference? Could any of them? Soon they would, and Ian wasn’t sure how he’d handle that, when it became obvious that he was bulking up and going for that Littleman look. But the thought brought him back to where he was when he realized it was making him bone, and that Matthew had, no doubt, noticed, glancing down as he talked . . .

“ . . . and give me some tips.”

“I’m sorry?” Ian refocused. He had hardly even been aware that Matthew was talking. “Guess I zoned out for a second. Tips?”

“Workout. I said maybe we could get together after work sometime and you could give me some tips. You’re obviously doing something right.”

“Yeah, okay, maybe sometime.” He was suddenly flustered. That was pretty bold. Or maybe he’d invited the kid to be so forward.

He went to the bathroom where he could look at himself, and the mirror showed what the kid had been staring at. He saw pecs under his oxford cloth, just enough to show their shape, especially at the sides where they pushed out toward his arms. Subtle, but definitely noticeable. Wow.

He could understand why the kid had been checking him out. He turned himself on. The rise in his gabardine slacks pushed against the zipper, and Ian locked himself in a stall and pulled out his stiffening cock. Now that he really looked, he could tell it was bigger, and the thrill of that gave him a hot chill. He quickly aimed into the toilet and, with a few strokes, came hard, the jets of cream splashing as they hit the water. He held his breath, lest anyone should hear what he had just done, and then he stuffed himself back into his pants and headed for his office where he stayed behind his desk until quitting time.

As he was leaving, he ended up walking out at the same time as Matthew. He tried to smile as he would to any employee, but Matthew grinned.

“‘Night, Mr. Larkin,” he said. “Don’t forget.” And he flexed an arm and laughed.

Oh, God, Ian thought, who saw that? What would they think?

The rest of the week went by as the one before had—too slowly. Ian worked out, and he felt like every workout produced the results of a week’s hard labor. He found himself spending longer in the gym, just to be in the company of the men there. The guy who had turned him on to the doctor, and who, Ian noticed, now that he was more aware, wore the Littleman’s look very well—everything tight, abbreviated, and shamelessly body-revealing, in complete reversal of the old look—commented that he was already starting to look like a “user,” and that kept Ian excited. He was really getting “the look.” He was spending more time naked, scrutinizing every difference. His body was an increasing source of both sexual excitement and sexual satisfaction to him, the process becoming such a total turn-on. He was hornier all the time. The buzz never left.

About two days before it was time to give himself the first shot at home, alone, on his own, he realized he was jonesing for it. He took the vial out of the refrigerator several times, thinking, what could a day or two hurt? But he knew the signs of impending addiction. He did not want to let anything, even this, control him again. So he resisted the urges until the appointed time.

When the time came around, that workday seemed endless. Toward the end of the day, as he was cleaning up his desk to leave, Matthew came by with some intraoffice mail and memos. He put it on Ian’s desk, and Ian realized he was still standing there after a few seconds, and looked up.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said. “I was kind of kidding about the workout tips, anyway.”

“That’s okay, Matthew.”

“But if you did want to get together, there’s a bunch of us gonna meet up at the club where all the Littleman’s guys like to hang.”

Ian looked up. Did he know?

“Doctor Troy’s gonna be there.”

He did know. And he was waiting for a reaction. Ian just said, “Huh.”

“Anyway,” Matthew put a folded piece of paper on Ian’s desk, “it’s private, so if you want to come, just bring this to get in, and I’ll see ya. Oh, it’s Littleman’s casual.”

“Huh?”

“You know, how to dress. Like in the catalog.”

He winked, flexed like he had the other day, and said, “You should try to come. Meet some of the guys. It’s hot.”

This time, when he flexed, Ian noticed that for a slender guy, he had some kind of a solid bulge in his shirt sleeve. And now that he looked, he had some pecs going for him, too. He had to be a user, too, and, from the looks of it, about as far along as Ian.

“Thanks,” he said. “Maybe.”

“Cool,” Matthew said, turning his tight bubble butt toward Ian as he left the office.

At home, as Ian got the alcohol swab ready, filled the syringe, got undressed, the whole time he kept thinking about Matthew’s invitation. If “Doctor Troy” were going to be there, and Matthew knew to tell him, then at least some people knew. Maybe it was time to start going public. The five pounds he’d gained were showing. He felt hot. His cock measured seven and a half already. As he pulled aside his balls to swab the sweet spot where the injection would go, his cock was already hard. He was almost shaking with anticipation. He picked up the syringe, paused for only a second, and sank the needle into himself, savoring the slight sting of the drug. It was done.

He went into the bathroom. Maybe he would shower and go. He looked at his body in the mirror. He was not a bodybuilder yet, but he could see those five pounds, feel them, and they looked so hot and sexy on him. The difference was less subtle, now, and he could see the beginning of his body changing shape. He was getting the look. He liked it. He could picture himself, a few more shots, another ten, twenty pounds. Yeah, his doubts were melting away with the buzz of the drug.

He had already bought some clothes from Littleman’s, but when he did, he wondered, vain as he was, if he’d be uncomfortable wearing this stuff in public, even though quite a few guys were, now. Even the models in Vanity Fair ads were getting the bulked up bodybuilder look, wearing the tight, small clothes like these. He hadn’t even tried them on when they came. He’d wanted to wait until after the first shot he gave himself. Well, that would be now.

He showered. Soaping himself up, he noticed again that his pubes and pit hair seemed a little thicker, and his cock felt real good and meaty in his hand. He thought about Troy holding it while he came. He thought about how Matthew looked at him. He would love to see them in their soft, clinging cotton/Lycra shorts. He imagined Matthew in something like gray and black stripes, and Troy in red. Red would be good. Who else might be there? Some of the big young guys that modeled for the magazine? Would they like him? He wasn’t huge. But neither was Matthew. And Ian knew he was breathtakingly hot looking, anyway; he had no doubts about himself there.

He jacked in the shower, couldn’t help it, and he knew, from recent experience, that he’d have plenty left for later. The buzz from this stuff was like turning up the volume on the sex drive, way up. Already he felt the increase in him of whatever this stuff did. The more you did, the better it felt, the more you wanted—more buzz, more muscle, bigger dick, big full package and thick bodybuilder muscles. Yeah, he could really see how this could be addictive.

The vial still sat out where he left it. Had he forgotten to put it away, or did he leave it there on purpose? It beckoned to him like the song of the sirens. That feeling. What if he did just half a dose now, just to see how it felt? The legend of the adman popped into his head, cautionary but so exciting, so close to the edge, so dangerously hot. The buzz would feel so hot, going out, meeting those guys, maybe getting into something. He got out a syringe. No. He couldn’t. He would stick to the rules. He picked up the vial to put it away, but before he knew it, he’d drawn half a dose into the syringe. He closed his eyes to imagine the feeling, the buzz. God he should put this away. He tapped out the air bubbles and drew in some more, a full dose. No, just push it back into the vial. He closed his eyes again. Instead of finding strength, he found visions of thick, bulging muscle, young dudes showing big, thick muscle, big hot cocks and balls, getting off on them together. Fuck. He sat on the closed toilet seat, pushed aside his rock hard boner and his balls, and felt the needle go in, slowly, the drug, slowly emptying into him, the sting. Ah, fuck.

He chose aqua shorts with broad, white side stripes. His package looked hot as shit, showing every detail, nice and full, fat dick up front pointing down, and the tank clung to his as and framed his pecs. He truly was starting to get big. Tonight, he would be the new guy. Yeah. He gave himself one last look, adjusted himself one more time, grabbed his ID and money, which he stuck into his shoe, his keys, the invitation, and he strutted to his car, feeling, for the first time, the total liberation, the fuck-you freedom of doing something so hot so publicly, showing his stuff, putting it all right out there, big hung muscle dude, no shame, no guilt . . . and buzzing his fucking head off.

Part 2: Steppin’ Out

Matthew could hardly believe it had been not even three weeks since his buddy Brett had told him he knew how to get in on the new Littleman’s look. Three weeks, and already he could see it happening.

“Dude, listen, this doctor can fix you up, get you started. You can only do it through one of their doctors. But he is so totally cool, and he’s doin’ it himself. I’m tellin’ ya, it feels so hot. I know you want to, dude. That baggy look is so old, and all the really hot guys are going for it, man.”

Matthew knew it was true. The Littleman’s catalog had already replaced A&F as THE hot catalog, and suddenly getting big and showing the goods was what was happening. Models first, of course, and then, as with most fashion trends, the gay guys in the big cities started taking on the look, and soon college guys on campuses all over were getting into it. And then the high school guys. The amazing thing was how fast the trend spread, as though there were some major force behind it. The first catalog had only come out six months ago, taking a giant leap beyond the blatant sexuality of the A&F style. Provocative, loosely draped sexuality suddenly seemed demure, and in-you-face sexuality leapt out of the closet, unabashedly into the open, when the Littleman’s Company had finally released the formula that would allow any guy to take on the look of the bulked up, carved, heavily muscled, hyper masculine bodybuilders that filled their catalog. Suddenly guys who would never have considered looking like bodybuilders were not just considering it, but searching out the connections to achieve it. Matthew was lucky.

Brett worked out at a pretty hard-core gym. Matthew didn’t. Brett was thirty-two. Matthew was twenty-two and right out of college. They had met over a magazine rack, both of them checking out these guys suddenly sporting pecs mounded big and hard on their chests and folded deeply over their rib cages, perky young nipples rolled over and pointing down toward heavily cor rugated abdomens, flared backs exaggerating tight waists and hips, high, tight butts, and arms and shoulders that burst thick and veined from short, tight-fitting sleeves, if there were shirts at all. These guys were Matthew’s age, give or take a few years, some obviously in their teens, and they looked like guys that, a few years ago, you would only have seen in the hard-core bodybuilding magazines. He noticed the other guy looking at the same magazines, and he knew the guy had noticed him.

Matthew was in his typical summer Saturday clothes: tropical print shirt, unbuttoned to show his cut abs and skinny trail, of which he was very proud, running from his navel down into his boxerbriefs waistband, which rode low on his hips, but higher than his board shorts, which barely stayed up, hanging onto the curve of his ass and down to his package in front. He didn’t have much to show, but he was proud of what he had, and he knew he looked as good as most of those Aberdudes. Meanwhile, while he stood there, wishing he could wave a wand and change his look to this new, hot, muscled up and bulging look—these guys on the pages all in skintight shorts cut briefer than his underwear and showing more, or, if they were modeling swimwear, all in skimpy bikinis, showing packages that looked faked, like pictures he sometimes downloaded from the web—this other guy walked up and picked up the same magazine to look at, only he was dressed in the same gear that Matthew was looking at in the magazine.

This was the first one of these guys he’d seen up close and, he could only hope, personal. The guy was handsome, for an older guy, probably in his early thirties. That was okay. Matthew liked men. The guy wasn’t huge, but he definitely was working into “the look.” His arms were muscular, his pecs bulged out of the sides of the tank he wore, and those—gasp—skin tight shorts showed a sweet pair of balls and a hefty piece of meat neatly packaged up front. God, Matthew thought, to wear that shit in public . . . to get all muscular and show it all off . . . everything.

“Nice shirt,” the guy said.

Matthew thought, yeah, right, like you’d wear one of these old island things instead of that muscle hugging tank. He felt himself blush, but he was way too cool to let any of that show.

“Thanks.” Go ahead, don’t be a chicken shit, he thought. He’s just a guy. “Nice shorts.”

“Yeah? You like ‘em? First time I’ve worn this shit out. Name’s Brett.”

The guy offered his hand, a short conversation ensued, and within half an hour, Matthew was in the guy’s apartment getting his dick sucked while he felt the guy’s muscles. An unexpected turn to his afternoon, it brought him a new buddy, and, within a couple days, and several mutual sexual exchanges later, a referral to a doctor who would only see you by referral, and who was a designated distributor of the formula that the burgeoning Littleman’s empire was founded upon.

Brett told Matthew the story of the adman and his buddies that first day, and Matthew had gone home and beat off thinking about those guys so huge they couldn’t even walk, with dicks supposedly a yard long, over their heads, that came and came and came until they had to be carried away in a state of orgasmic ecstasy. What a fate! But since then, the formula had been toned way down, the amounts you could get strictly controlled, and the transference of the effects that had been passed back and forth in their semen, constantly increasing the transforming power, had been modified and diluted to be nearly nonexistent, since the passing around of semen among the guys that took the formula was a given. Still, even if the story was beyond the reach of anyone now, even in its modified form, the formula was a powerful catalyst for a change that was rapidly, with breathtaking speed, sweeping the populace. Rumor had it there was work to produce a similar thing for women but, the fact was, once they tasted it, so Brett told Matthew, none of the guys cared.

Matthew sure as hell didn’t. He got an appointment, and soon, he knew the intense pleasure of being overtaken by his own masculinity. He buddied up with Brett, watching with more than intense interest, as Brett showed increasing signs of the changes the formula would soon be putting him through. Brett had given himself the second shot on his own when he’d met Matthew in the bookstore, meaning he’d had four treatments before he’d felt he had taken on enough of “the look” to don the garb. It was part of the whole thing, the package of attitude that went with the look, that you didn’t get into the gear until you looked like you were one of the guys. It was okay if you looked like you were just beginning to get the look, to show the muscular bulking and genital heft that defined the guys. In fact, looking like a newbie was considered kind of cool, sexy, and the new guys were, Matthew found out at his first party, like a new dish at an epicurean banquet, to be sampled with relish by all. What was definitely not cool was to put on the gear if you weren’t one of the guys, and that meant, even if you’d started the formula, until you looked like you had. You had to have the look going, or it just didn’t work. So he waited.

He went to work, did his job in the mail room, and every day, he looked to see if his oxford cloth shirts showed that he was starting to bulk up. He could feel it, even after a few days. It was subtle, the physical change, at first, but he was getting feelings that weren’t so subtle. What had been normal turn-ons for a gay guy were becoming so strong he could barely control his reactions to them. He was even turning himself on. He was falling in love with his body, all the masculine aspects of it, of himself. If he was bi and leaning admittedly to the gay side before, now he was becoming intensely, deeply, fervently homosexual, and he liked the feelings a lot. While looking at hot guys had always been a favorite pastime, it started to become more. He would almost lose his place in a conversation if some dude walked by that looked good, and if he showed signs of being one of the Littleman’s guys, well, boiiinng, he’d be trying to avoid popping wood right there.

So he would go home and call Brett, and Brett would tell him what time he’d be home from the gym so he could come over. Matthew would shower, not because he needed the shower, but because he needed to get naked and look at himself. And every day he’d be hard as steel before he even got totally undressed. In fact, he’d be boned before he got his door unlocked, just thinking about taking off his clothes to see how he looked. He’d strip for himself slowly, relishing the moments, as when he’d unbutton his shirt and see the cleft between his pecs a little more defined, and, little by little, getting deeper. He could see his muscle swelling almost imperceptibly, but definitely growing thicker, day by day. He would feel his pecs, flex his arms, trace the cuts that were a little sharper every day, and he’d be leaking precum by the time the shower was hot.

By the time he’d been given his own vial to bring home, finally allowed to give himself his first shot, he could see himself starting the get the shape, the look. He could tell his balls were bigger and his cock was longer and thicker. He felt bigger, heavier. He bulged more. And he could cum as often as he wanted, which was more often all the time, and he never ran out of steam. Or cum, for that matter. Maybe it wasn’t all that noticeable yet, but he could tell, now, for sure, and seeing himself starting the change, feeling the extreme sense of his own masculinity growing stronger, more powerful, driving him from such a deep, cellular place that it was forcing him to change, body, mind, and spirit, little by little, hair by hair, fiber by fiber. He jabbed himself with that needle knowing it would make him more of what he was becoming. He have more cum to expel, more desire and need, he’d be more turned on to himself every day until his next shot, and his next, each one making him into a Littleman’s guy. Now he could feel it, he could see it when he wore a tee shirt. Even his loose cargo shorts hung differently on his firmer, rounder, higher ass. Soon everyone would see, even at work, even in his dress shirts. And then it would time to dress in some of those hot Littleman’s clothes and just do it. Just be a Littleman’s guy. He couldn’t wait.

Just about that time, when he was given his own “kit,” was when Brett had told him that he’d also sent some guy from his gym to see doctor Troy about the same time that he’d sent Matthew, some guy that he was pretty sure was an executive or something at the agency where Matthew worked. He described the guy as being so fucking gorgeous that he couldn’t wait to see what the formula would do. He’d be a god. He wouldn’t tell Matthew who he was, though. He said he was sure he find out soon enough.

“Meanwhile,” he also told Matthew, “you’re turning into a young god yourself, if you haven’t noticed. Don’t even try to tell me you haven’t.” He said he wanted to take him to a private party at a club where a lot of the Littleman’s guys hung out. He would have to wear the gear, but Brett said he would lend him some, since he knew Matthew hadn’t felt ready to wear any yet. Maybe not on the street, Brett said, but it would be cool for the party, and you couldn’t get in wearing regular, old-fashioned street clothes.

“So, you want to go?”

“Hell, yes!” Matthew said, and he was so excited to be “coming out” as a Littleman’s guy, he had to jack off twice just to get his dick to stay soft enough to arrange his package and go.

Brett helped him, of course, laughing even while he was saying, “Man, you’re gonna start to show that muscle at work pretty soon, dude. Look at those pecs and guns,” and feeling those muscles, making Matthew so hard, because Matthew knew it was true. Matthew flexed for him, and for the first time, got a real sense of starting to be a muscle dude. He felt so hot. He arranged his stuff up front, the way Brett showed him how to wear it, pulling the shorts up so they fit tight in the crotch, then putting your hand in, pushing the front down and making a pouch and gently laying his nice, heavy balls and fat dick in there, letting the material crease up the sides and make a real, Littleman’s style “display basket.” The term made him laugh, like something from a specialty shop, which he said, and which Brett said was true, in a way, and that made him bone up again, and Brett sucked him off so they could get going to the party.

The club was plush, with sofas and easy chairs and cocktail tables, pool tables, arcade games, and every amenity a guy could want, including stacks of towels, bowls of lube, bottles of lotions, and cases of toys of the sex-obsessed. When Brett escorted Matthew in, the two were surrounded by guys Matthew had seen in the catalog, guys with the kind of body he dreamed about every day growing into, so thick with muscle. Young guys like him, some older, some younger, but just all kinds of hot dudes as big and musclebound as the big pro bodybuilders used to be. And these guys had cocks and balls that hung huge from hairy groins, huge like those morph pictures he loved. Was it a dream? Could this be real? Was this what he was changing into?

By the time someone shoved a drink into his hand, he was already hard, a fact which did not go unnoticed among the pantheon of minor gods of male sexuality that surrounded him. There were hands all over him, and then he was naked and being touched, caressed, adored, even as he adored, to the point of swooning, the muscle and meat that was initiating him into their circle. This was it, the inner sanctum of male sexual beauty, guys being guys with guys, only so built, so hung, and so insatiably horny. Their scruffy, densely whiskered faces, so masculine in a way he was just beginning to feel himself, were all over him.

One guy stood in front of him smiling as though Matthew should know him. Something looked vaguely familiar about his face, but Matthew had never known anyone as hot looking as this stud jock with his totally hulked out muscles, balls hanging almost halfway to his knees, cock thicker than his wrist arching up to his pecs, stiff, hard, jerking with insistent need, his face the picture of the new, intensely masculine beauty that was a hallmark of these Littleman’s guys. His blond hair spiked, messy, so hot, his blue eyes glittering with animal lust, his full lips moist, ready for contact, his thick blond sideburns meeting the square curve of his heavily stubbled jaw.

“Matt, you faggot. It’s Jarrod, dude. Fuck, man, look at you.” He put his hands on Matthew’s chest. “You’re getting there, bro. Yeah, starting to show. Looking fuckin’ hot, dude”

As he leaned in to take a kiss from Matthew’s open mouth, Matthew remembered Jarrod, a guy he’d known in high school, a math geek he’d been friendly to, probably because, nerdy as he was, there was something kind of cute about him. As he felt the guy come into contact with his own mouth and body, that cock, like a curved arm, push on his belly, the before and after picture that flashed in his mind drove his cock so hard he thought he might cum blood. He’d jacked off looking at this guy in the catalog, never realizing, and now, now . . .

Matthew gave himself over to the relentless tide of pure male sexuality as hard-muscled guys pushed against him, opened him in ways he’d never thought possible, made him feel reborn as a new kind of male. He discovered a new, deeper, more dominating, driving sexuality, intense, unencumbered by old concepts, free of inhibition. As he found himself devouring deep armpits thick with male-scented hair, taking thick, hard, huge cock as far down his throat as he could until his face was deep in a tangle of pubes, as he felt pole after pole plunge into him, he knew deep in his soul and his cells that he was changing forever. He knew he was, from that evening, a Littleman’s guy.

The next day at work, he studied all the guys to see who might have visited doctor Troy. It didn’t take much figuring. It had to be that incredible AE, Ian Larkin. The guy was the talk of the whole shop. The women all joked that when he walked by, they stuck to their seats. Matthew couldn’t have agreed more. He’d even heard rumors that Ian might swing both ways, but he wasn’t about to jeopardize his job trying to find out.

Then, one afternoon, there he was, the hunk of hunks, mister too-beautiful-to-be-real, standing in the mail room much longer than he had to, chatting up Matthew. Matthew couldn’t keep his eyes off him. He knew Ian was the guy. He saw the telltale bulge behind the zipper of those three-hundred dollar slacks. He saw the way the material of the guy’s shirt was lifted and pushed out by a pair of pecs that Ian knew, since he’d studied this paragon of maleness closely, were not this big a week ago. He saw muscle fill the shirt sleeve as Ian reached over his shoulder to scratch an itch just below the back of his neck. Had he done that just to show Matthew? Why was he spending so long here? Matthew felt sure that Ian was giving him ample time to admire him and enjoying every glanced he caught.

Ian was so friendly, and Matthew was so sure this had to be the guy, he asked him about giving him some workout tips just as a way to tell him his body looked like he worked hard at it, to see how the guy would react. The reaction was both exciting and disappointing. Ian was obviously turned on by the attention, but did nothing to encourage Matthew. Maybe sometime.

When he asked Brett, Brett said Ian was the guy. He also thought Ian looked, from what he saw at the gym, like he might be ready for his initiation, too.

“Probably should held off a little with you, stud, but you were looking so young and delicious, I gave into my lust. But I bet you could handle another party this week, huh?”

“Are you kidding? Fuck yeah.”

“So, you want to ask him? Tease him a little? Get his blood going?”

“Yeah, if you think I can get away with that. I don’t want to lose my job.”

“Oh, babe, I really don’t think you have to worry about that. Just let him see those pecs and guns you’re growin’. He’ll know. He’s gotta be ripe, and you’re way too delicious to pass up.”

“Am I? Am I getting the look? You really think so?”

“Oh, come on, Matt. You know you are. Look at yourself, man.”

Matt looked into the mirror, which Brett had turned him to face.

It was true. He could see it. No, he didn’t look like a huge, hulking bodybuilder yet, but he was getting the shape. He could see it. The way he stood. The way he walked. And the meat that hung from his dense bush. His trail had thickened up and climbed up his abs some, his pubes had grown seriously dense and spread handsomely, and his pit hair had thickened, too, and it made him feel even more masculine. No one shaved their body hair now, and he looked at his blossoming masculinity and watched with pride as his cock lifted and arched upward toward his abs, while his buddy Brett stood behind him caressing his pecs with one hand and teasing his beautiful hot cock with the other. He was getting the look, for sure. He was hot. God, he was showing muscles. And cock. His shadow was heavier, and he was already stubbly since his morning shave. Fuck. But the muscles. Oh, yeah. He could cum just looking at himself. And tomorrow, he’d be bigger, and thicker, and hotter. He’d go to the office showing this muscle under his dress shirt, showing the package in his slacks, and he’d talk to that Ian, get him to come to the party. Then he’d get into his gear, show his stuff, and he’d be one of the Littleman’s guys to bring Ian Larkin into the circle. And this was just the beginning . . .

Part 3: Geek to God

I’m sure these past couple chapters are a little more expository than some might prefer. “Where’s the sex?” Well, Colin has been masterfully providing a flood of steaming hot action to tide us all (myself included) over, and so, I ask you bear with me a bit. I think we’ll get to it. I hope it will prove worth the ride. And now, a step just a little farther back . . .

Jarrod Hamilton had been depressed for a month when he went home for spring break when most of the other kids were going to Cancun or somewhere cool. He felt like all he’d ever done was get great grades and study, while everyone else was getting laid and partying and having a great time being young. Being young was just a total bummer for Jarrod, and going home for spring break was downright embarrassing.

“Jarrod, talk to me,” his dad said the second day he was home. “What’s the matter?”

Jarrod tried to brush his dad off, but Colin Hamilton wasn’t a man to be brushed off, and he knew his boy was suffering from the angst of being twenty and still probably a virgin and not very popular. He’d been through the same thing in his own youth.

“Nothing,” was Jarrod’s typical answer, but Colin pushed on until he finally got his son to open up, and when he did, he released the frustration of years. He said that some guy recently had told him he might get a date if he ever started to shave. He’d been humiliated in the locker room for being hung like a hamster, having the pubes of a twelve-year-old, and being built like a scarecrow . . . one the crows had pulled the straw stuffing out of.

The next day, Jarrod found himself talking to a doctor, a good friend of a friend of his dad’s, who worked for some sports medicine and nutrition institute. The doctor listened with great empathy, and then told Jarrod that they were just embarking on a project that he would be perfect for. He explained about a new formulation that was capable of completely altering a guy’s genetic coding to remake him into an entirely different guy. The effects would be extreme, and they were pulling together a bunch of guys to be the first group to go public and model this whole new look. The advertising firm that handled their business would market the whole thing as a package, selling the product as the means to achieve a whole new look, and a line of clothing that would be made just for that look. Jarrod, like the other guys, would be a model for their catalogs.

“Model? Me?”

“Yes, Jarrod. That’s what I’m telling you. They . . . we . . . are going to be marketing this new look as a whole thing. Guys, you, will be developing hypermasculine bodies and putting this whole new look out there, including the line of clothes that we think is going to swing the fashion pendulum as far from those baggy, loose pants and shirts you’re wearing as it can go.”

“But I like these clothes. And besides, look at me. I could never model anything.”

The doctor turned Jarrod to a mirror. “Look at your face,” he said. “You’re a good looking guy who just never quite finished maturing into the man you could be. And I’m proposing taking you way beyond that guy.”

“Wow. How? What do you mean, ‘way beyond’?”

“Why don’t you sit down. Okay, what would you say about being very muscular?”

Jarrod, who had dreamed away half his youth looking at the popular, built jocks, wishing he were one of them, felt his heart speed up. He instantly imagined hours of forced workouts and some muscle-building steroids.

“Or,” the doctor went on, “about having exceptionally large sex organs?”

Okay, this was coming at him too fast. This was a sci-fi movie. He had images, of big meat hanging from his groin.

“And there are other effects, too. But you’d have to be willing to go along with that basic concept first. So what do you think? Put a full, heavy shadow on that face. Real masculine. I mean, extremely masculine. I guarantee you one thing. You’ll never be depressed again like I hear you have been. Unless you’d hate being a prototype of the new super muscle stud. Think you could handle that? You up to giving it a try?”

The next thing Jarrod knew, he was letting the doctor give him a shot in a place he’d never even had anyone touch before. The doctor said he said he should begin to notice a difference in a few days. He would come back before returning to school to finish out the year, learn to give himself the shot so he could inject himself weekly until summer, when he would join the other guys in a sort of training camp while they got the first catalog ready. Meanwhile, the doctor said, he could, and probably should, tell people he was part of this Littleman’s project. They’d be running print promos in fitness and bodybuilding magazines, so people would know about it soon, and, anyway, he’d start to show some changes that would be unexplainable any other way.

By dinner, he was in a better mood. In fact, he felt almost high, in a way he’d never experienced. He felt really good about himself. He looked at himself in the mirror. Maybe he wasn’t so bad looking. He tried to imagine himself more muscular, a jockbod kind of guy. It was hard, but so was he, thinking about it. That was weird. He usually looked at naked girls in Penthouse or something to jack off, but he was, unexplainably, turned on just thinking about that.

The next few days got strange. He found himself thinking about being a model, about whatever that doctor meant by extreme masculinity, just how muscular was real muscular, and, he almost couldn’t think about it, how big was big when he talked about being so hung. He found himself looking at other guys, comparing, wondering, noticing things like their beard patterns, wondering what kind of meat they were packing, how muscular they were, and how he would outdo them all soon, if this was real and not some cruel joke. He also found himself constantly horny and getting boners every time he thought about all that. He even got boners when he’d notice some guy showing pecs or a really good, full shadow of scruff.

When he returned to the doctor, the handsome man came right out and said that Jarrod had probably been feeling all those things that he had, in fact, been feeling, and told him it was all part of the process.

“But,” he said, “I bet you haven’t been feeling depressed.”

Jarrod laughed. That was true. He didn’t feel embarrassed this time to strip while the doctor explained how to fill the syringe and give himself the shot. Then he talked Jarrod through the process, had him do it, and showed him, holding aside his balls and dick, the spot to prep with alcohol and jab the needle. Jarrod felt his dick start to bone up, and by the time he took the needle and jabbed it into himself between his legs at the root of his dick behind his balls, he was completely hard.

“Don’t worry about that. Happens all the time. In fact, why don’t we measure it and the rest of you so we can compare later.”

The fact was, Jarrod wasn’t worried about it, which struck him as odd but cool, a move in the right direction. He admired the guys who paraded around the dorm, showers, locker room, whatever, with apparently no shyness whatever, and now, for the first time in his life, he had a taste of that feeling. He watched with intense interest as the doctor, god, he was handsome, measured him up. Five and a half inches. He didn’t think he was quite that big. Twelve inch biceps, thirty-eight chest, twenty-eight waist, eighteen inch quads, and on and on, all proving how skinny and underdeveloped he was, but strangely, it didn’t bother him. Instead, he was looking at his body as the doctor measured him, thinking about how glad he was he was a guy. Even thin, small, practically hairless, he was still masculine in a way he really liked. He liked being naked in front of this doctor. He was glad he’d gone along with this thing.

Back at school, he found it came naturally, now, that feeling of being cool with being naked in front of the other guys. He also found that he was hornier than before, boning up at the slightest thought of anything sexual, which, more and more, was about guys’ bodies. Within a couple weeks, he was noticing real changes, too. His sparse whiskers were suddenly filling in, his muscles were thickening and defining themselves, and when his dick got hard, it felt so hard that it almost hurt, like it was exceeding its skin-limit, about to burst, and when it went soft, it was not going back as small as before.

About the same time, the ads started appearing in the magazines, cryptic ads that said, “A new era, a new virility, a new look, a new you,” and showed just a close-up shot of a very muscular male body in an article of clothing that fit like skin and emphasized the look of thick, highly developed, bodybuilder type muscle. One ad showed just the shoulder, the outer edge of a huge, bulging pec muscle, and the top half of heavily veined, extremely big biceps in a shirt pulled tightly across the pectoral, stretched to conform to the jutting, rounded contour of the thick muscle, with a sleeve so short it barely covered the delt. Another showed a close-up of a guy’s hip and upper thigh and the side of a low-cut, short-legged pair of shorts made of something like a thin cotton Spandex or Lycra, with the horizontal wrinkles of being stretched tight across the groin, though the picture stopped short of showing the actual crotch. Just the hip, the thick flare of massive striated upper thigh, the flat-sided, high curve of buttock, the hard, oblique angled plain of lower abdomen where the top of the shorts cut low across, and the first ripple of deeply carved abdominals. Yet another ad showed almost the same shot, but the article of clothing was a pair of trunks so small they would be expected only on the stage of a bodybuilding contest. But the caption read “Swimwear,” as the others had read “sportswear.” And at the bottom of all the ads, the name “Littleman’s.”

Jarrod bought them all. He got so hard looking at them, he no longer took girls’ pictures to jack off. He jacked off looking at these, and at the other built guys in the magazines. But mostly, what turned him on, was that he was going to be part of what this mysterious promotion was all about, and he proudly let it be known.

“No way, dude. No fuckin’ way. Look at that shit. Fag clothes, man. And look at you.”

But Jarrod just smiled and said, “Okay, whatever.” And each day he’d notice he was slightly bigger, his dick was just a little bigger, even his balls were growing. His pubes were filling in, his pit hair getting thick, a trail began to appear above and below his navel, even some short hairs sprinkled across his chest. And soon, the other guys noticed, too, and started asking how it felt, what it was like.

“What do you think, dudes? It feels totally hot. It’s amazing. Just makes me so fuckin’ horny”

He gave himself his injections, and the ritual became almost a religious experience. Each time he knew he would soon change a little more, feel a little differently, his confidence growing as strong as his sexual feelings, which were becoming intense. Each shot would make him more horny, more exhibitionistic, more comfortable with his new feelings, and he would look at those teaser ads and think as he jacked off, fuck, yeah, man, soon that’s me. That’s fuckin’ me.

He told the guys that the formula made him so horny he couldn’t help boning up just thinking about how it was making him change. And he’d let them see him bone up, see him hard, see that his cock was getting bigger. By the end of the school year, it had fattened up and reached a hard length of almost seven and a half inches, a difference noticeable to any of the guys who saw it, and he’d let plenty see by then. He was jacking off regularly in front of his roommate, who became the envy of even the guys who said the whole thing was “so gay.” Maybe, but they still wished they were the ones who got so see Jarrod casually sitting around naked, boning up, and just jacking off like he was scratching an itch. And if they happened to drop by, the right guys and the right times, because Jarrod remembered who had treated him like a disease before all this, they just might be treated to the show as well.

“Fuck, man. I’m gettin’ big. Feels so hot. Fuckin’ big dick.”

All during April and May, Jarrod felt his clothes getting a little tighter, which just meant they showed more how his body was thickening, changing, growing more muscular. The flat fronts of his loose hanging pants and shorts started showing a definite bump behind the fly, and the kids at school started talking about how he was in on that Littleman’s thing, like the ads. The initial scoffing and locker room derision behind his back quickly began to turn to envy, and Jarrod found himself with more “friends” than he could handle. Guys wanted to buddy up and girls wanted into his pants, and, oddly, he didn’t mind showing the girls, even letting one or two fondle his cock to get him hard, even jack him off, but he realized he didn’t care about them, and the only thing about them that turned him on was how they were turned on by his changing body, by his new muscles and his big dick. But the guys, well, that was a whole other thing. He liked his new buds. Especially the jocks. Especially the built ones.

Summer came and he was sent to a place above the coast of Malibu, a secluded but huge campus of manicured grounds, dormitories that housed six guys in each, a couple of gyms, several pools, clubhouse, and all the amenities. His first day there, all the guys, and there were eighteen of them, had a brief orientation, were showed to their dorms where they turned in the clothes they’d come in. The counselors, there were three, one per dorm, told them that while on campus they would not be wearing any clothes at all, but when they left campus, they’d find plenty to wear in their closets and small dressers. They all looked, of course, and found nothing but body shirts, muscle shirts, shorts like in the ads, all small and stretchable. All the guys laughed at each other, all naked, all at least partially hard to find themselves in this situation together. And then the counselor for each dorm passed out already filled syringes to “his” guys, and one for himself, and told them they’d be doing this together each week.

Jarrod felt an unexpected thrill. Shooting himself was so hot, he knew every guy had to feel the same, and doing it together, and with this counselor guy, who was a little older and obviously also a user, well, it was too hot. He went totally hard as he spread his legs and held aside his balls and dick. So did the others. They all looked around, all boned up, all taking it to the next level.

After they’d done it, the counselor, Brett, said, “I’m gonna let you dudes get acquainted. Me and the other counselors gotta meet with Doc Troy. Have fun.” And with his big rigid cock swinging as he walked, he left them alone.

They introduced themselves to each other, just passing names around the room, all sitting there totally hard, and soon they were into it:

“So whatta ya think about this? Gettin’ all muscled up. Looks like they’re really gonna hulk us out. What about getting huge dicks and all, with those clothes. Fuck, man.”

Finally one of them said what they were all thinking.

“Anyone else here feel like touchin’ man? Anyone else want to get it on, man? I’m so into it, man.”

It was Jarrod who answered.

“Fuck yeah, dude.” He walked over and put his hands on the guy’s pecs, let their cocks touch. “Mmm,” he said as he felt the guy down the front till he reached his cock.

“Aw, fuck yeah,” the other guy said.

The rest of the summer was an orgy of sex and growing. The guys played and worked out and had sex together as naturally and casually as having a quick game of b-ball or a swim. They went to town and learned how to wear their Littleman’s gear to show off the bodies they were growing, how to place their meat in that stretchy material for maximum display, absolute virility. They were growing so big that by the end of summer, they all looked like real bodybuilders, maybe not hulking pro-sized yet, but not buffed up gym boys, either. They were definitely walking with the swaying strut of bodybuilders, and their meat had grown passed anything that could pass as natural development.

Jarrod’s balls were the size of eggs, his cock boned to fourteen thick inches, his arms grew to a rock hard nineteen, his chest a defined forty-eight with soft, flat hair decorating his swollen pecs, his rippled, carved waist held at thirty, and his quads had almost caught up to his waist at twenty-nine. He was a hunk.

Near the end of summer a photographer shot pictures for the catalog. The guys cavorted in the various items, shirts and shorts, shorts and tanks, briefs, bikini swim trunks. The finished product was on the shelves, and flying off them by the time Jarrod went back to school. He wore his Littleman’s clothes, and, while many faculty eyebrows were raised, more looked with interest, envy, and soon the questions began to inundate him.

How could you get the stuff that did that? Was it expensive? What did it feel like to look like that, wear stuff like that, to show so much?

Jarrod strutted the campus, proud to show his musclebound body, proud of the Littleman’s display package that he and all the guys had learned to place just so, for maximum effect. He’d gone from geek to god, and, after a sadly necessary break from taking the formula, to allow the body to adjust, he’d start the second phase, and then he would really turn into a god, a hulking god with the giant genitalia that would befit what he would become.

Meanwhile, other guys on campus sought out the doctor who could supply them with the life-altering formula, the one in this town being the same one who had started Jarrod and who had attended the summer camp. Doctor Troy became the number to get, and by the time Jarrod was ready for his second phase, guys were showing up on campus with newly swelling muscles, wearing the small, tight, blatantly revealing clothes that defined the new Littleman’s look.

A local club became a hangout for the guys. No one said girls weren’t welcome, but it was known to be a guys’ club—Littleman’s guys. There were a couple of the guys from the original group, Jarrod’s model buddies who came, and Doctor Troy, and that counselor from the camp, Brett, and they began a sort of ritual of initiating guys when they’d had enough treatments to be able to wear “the look.” Those would always be private parties, since the initiation always involved way, way more than a handshake.

Jarrod loved those parties. Especially as he got near the end of his second phase. By then, the third catalog had been released, each with the original guys bigger and hotter and a few of the best of the newer recruits. But Jarrod was famous, now. He swaggered with the confidence that came from twenty-three inch guns, thirty-four inch quads, a thirty inch waist, balls the size of big, ripe, heavy mangoes, and a cock that arched a rigid eighteen inches, to the middle of his huge, thick pecs. He could pec fuck himself, and often did, loving to watch his cream shoot over his head, spill down his hairy pecs, and lubricate his giant cock for another thrust, another fuck.

Brett had called him and told him to be at the club for an initiation that would be great. He’d got this guy from the Littleman’s ad agency, the original adman’s agency, a mail room guy who was turning into a total hottie. When the night came, and Jarrod made his entrance, shoving aside the guys w ho had already surrounded the new guy, he was completely shocked to see a guy he’d sort of known in high school. He’d been too much of a geek to have been friends with this popular jock, and now . . .

When he saw the look on Matthew’s hot, sexy face, he though Matt recognized him, too. He’d probably seen him in the catalogs, but he could tell Matthew was just this instant putting it all together. And in Matthew’s eyes, he saw, in a new way, the complete transformation he’d gone through. In that one instant of recognition he saw his whole change from geek to god. Oh, this was going to be so fucking hot . . .

“Matt,” he said, stepping close, zeroing in, his giant cock arched up so hard the head grazed the middle of his pec valley, practically in Matthew’s face, close enough to smell the potent virility the formula was making this newly transforming stud exude, knowing exactly what was racing through the guy’s head, seeing him, the one-time geek, now one of the original, famous, totally hulked out Littleman’s guys, “you faggot. It’s Jarrod, dude. Look at you.”

Yeah, he thought, compliment him, make him feel as hot as he looks, but what he really felt, as this unexpected encounter made him instantly so much more intensely aware of his power, his massive muscular presence, bigger, stronger, hotter than ever, seeing it reflected in Matthew’s astonished gaze, was, fuck, dude. Look at me!

Part 4: Full Circle

“If you’re going to work with us, be a starting distributing doctor, you have to experience what you’re going to be administering.”

The senior administrator sat behind his desk, his lab coat caressing the overdeveloped muscle that filled the white cotton to capacity, both hiding and revealing a body that seemed incongruous on this corporate/scientist/researcher type of guy, probably fortyish, moderately good looking but with an aura of stunning masculinity that made Troy Adams almost forget his reluctance to follow anywhere close to the footsteps of his old college friend, Larry Littleman.

“Don’t worry about turning into a freak like your buddy. We’ve worked the formula since then, changed the delivery system. With the modifications, it’s controllable now. And, I can tell you, your only regret will be that we have to limit how much you can do, because, ultimately, we need you to remain useful to the project.”

Troy knew he was looking at someone who had tasted the elixir that he was to be administering to guys they would bring into this project. The way they’d presented it to him, this was something that would be huge, that would change things in a monumental way, and he’d be one of several young doctors who would be the originators. Eventually, they would open up channels of distribution to make this formula available to any guy who wanted it, but for now, Troy would be one of the few, and this magnetically hot muscle dude across from him made the decision an easy one.

“I understand,” Troy answered. “So what do we do?”

“Well, I’m going to explain how the formula is given by giving you a taste. We inject a controlled amount near the gonads where it can rapidly effect the changes, since it’s all about male sexuality, physically expressed, and that’s as near as we can get to the source without injecting directly into the testicles.” As he spoke, he filled a syringe. “This is going to be a heavier dose than we’ll give out, since we want to keep the changes slower and more controllable with the general populace. But we think you need to know in a more emphatic way what it does, how it feels, how it changes a guy. We need to make you an example, although not an extreme one, of what we’re going to do for guys. I did it, as you can probably tell, and I can tell you that it’s pretty extreme. But, I promise, no regrets. Drop your pants for me, please. By the way, you’re not gay, are you?”

“Uh, no” Troy said, unbuckling his belt, letting his pants drop, pulling down his underwear, and seating himself again with his clothes around his ankles. “Why?”

“Just wondered.” The muscular scientist came around with the syringe, knelt in front of Troy, and explained the procedure, his arms filling the lab coat to capacity as he bent them to clinically push aside Troy’s balls and dick and plunge the needle into the sensitive spot.

Troy winced. The shot hurt, and he felt a sore tenderness between his legs as he pulled back on his clothes. By the time he was headed back to his apart ment, he started feeling stoned with some kind of supercharged energy. This was stronger than the coke or crystal or ecstasy he had tasted a couple times in school, and much more sensuous. He laughed, it felt so good. He just threw back his head and laughed. His cock stiffened up in his pants, pushing against the material like it might erupt. God, this was downright erotic. Before he could get into the parking garage, his skin felt alive, tingling, itching, and his muscles were suddenly deeply sore but felt fantastic. His cock was lying horizontal in his briefs and it was so hard there would no way to mask his arousal, should he run into anyone on his way up. He remembered a box of books he’d been hauling around in his trunk, and thought now would be a good time to take them up, holding them in front of his crotch all the way. What he didn’t expect was how that weight pressing against his insanely aroused dick would excite him, rubbing as he walked. Some guy he didn’t know got into the elevator at the lobby, and between there and the third floor where the guy got off, Troy shot a load so hard he was amazed the guy didn’t see him spasm, tense, and jerk. Troy held his breath as he creamed his pants, and it felt so unbelievably hot he almost wished the guy would turn around.

Now there was a weird thought.

But Troy didn’t dwell on it for a second. Now he was on fire, and he rushed to his apartment and took off his clothes as fast as he could. Cumming didn’t leave him softening up, and he was so hard he felt like he’d never known what horny meant until now. Even as he dropped his clothes, he felt and then saw that the changes had begun. His stomach felt clenched in steel, his chest and arms, his legs, his back, all thicker. His arms and legs were covered with fine dark blond hairs. So was his stomach, and his chest. His cock was so hard it pointed up along his abs and now he saw that it reached his belly button and was smearing the hair there, the trail where he had been smooth as a baby’s ass this morning, with oozing precum.

He stood in front of his bathroom mirror and suddenly understood everything. He knew exactly how his friend Larry and that Tucker guy had gone to such extremes. He had always had a casual attitude about his looks—handsome but no knockout, athletic but no superjock, a guy’s guy. Now he was in love with the image in the mirror, and it was everything masculine about him that made him lust for himself. He was beautiful, handsome, muscular, hung. The hair appearing all over him was so hot looking and made him feel his masculinity in the same way his swelling muscles and throbbing, growing dick did. Christ, his dick was growing.

Troy watched himself grow, stuck in front of the mirror with far more than fascination and extreme arousal. To be sure, he came several times without jacking off, but simply from watching himself grow more sexually expressive of his own exploding feelings of maleness, a masculinity that was moving deep in his cells, suffusing his brain, mind, thought. What he felt was changing him, and the stronger the feelings, the greater the changes, or was it that the more he changed the hotter he felt? Who cared? As he watched, transfixed, he saw his face grow more handsome, the hint of a dimple in his chin become a cleft in a sharp, square jaw heavily stubbled with a thick, dark blond beard. His body became that of a muscular gym rat, and, as he flexed, admiring the virile strength, he thought of the scientist filling that lab coat with bulging, hard muscle, and, clenching spasm by clenching spasm, as his mind filled with the consuming desire for that kind of muscle, he saw it grow on him, filling his skin, veins popping to the surface, and the man in the mirror was a muscle guy, a bodybuilder, thick and hot and beautiful. And the feelings were so sexual that it seemed natural that his cock was so hard, so unbelievably hard, that it was pushing out of its own skin limits, becoming thicker and longer, his balls swelling and hanging lower. He could easily keep going like this until he was just like his friend Larry Littleman.

Troy never slept that first night, unable to break away from the thrilling fascination of seeing himself change into a musclebound hunk with a huge, thick cock that boned upward toward his thick, cut pecs, slabs of male muscle that wouldn’t allow his cock to get soft, hair in the most perfect masculine pattern of hairiness, not too long and thick to hide his bodybuilder body, but thick and swirling and decorative, emphasizing his muscle and his masculinity. And balls that hung and the cock that stood proud from his groin were beyond his imagination, thick, throbbing fourteen inches of virile power topping a pair of egg-sized ‘nads that were pumping out so much maleness that he couldn’t imagine now wanting anything else.

So this is what he would be giving to the guys that came to see him. This would be his gift. This feeling, this kind of sexuality, this totally new and consuming sense of maleness to show to the world, to share with . . . with . . . with others like him. Troy realized he wanted contact with others like him. Male contact. Muscle contact. He wanted to feel muscle. He wanted to feel hair on that muscle. He wanted to know the feeling of maleness like the incredible meat he had grown, that hung from his hairy groin demanding contact.

He wanted to feel it, man meat like his, to touch it with every part of himself. And he would be creating this. He would be giving this gift to young guys, older guys, guys like him, guys that had been geeks or jocks or lawyers or just dads, and they would all feel like he was feeling, all want what he was wanting.

“So,” the scientist said, the next day when Troy went in to begin his training, “what do you think? Let’s see you.”

And without hesitation, he walked over to Troy and began to undress him. Troy had only been able to fit into a tee, which had been big and baggy and now fit like a muscle shirt, and some baggy drawstring pants, that fit like they had been painted on. He lifted his arms as the white-coated muscle guy pulled his tee up and off.

“Yeah,” he said, feeling the mass of Troy’s pecs, delts, guns, “I knew you’d turn out hot. But then, everyone does.”

Troy was already boned and felt no wish, no desire, no need to hide it. This was the contact he’d been jonesing for. It was as natural as anything he’d ever done to reach over and unbutton that lab coat and feel the thick, hard, muscle under it. And then, total contact, mouth to mouth, mouth to muscle, mouth to cock. Oh, God, he felt like the universe shifted at that moment, and a new reality was being born, and it was all muscle and cock and the hard, rough, hot feeling of total maleness, blatant, right out there, exposed, exhibited, paraded, shown, openly enjoyed with no reservation, timidity, hesitation, or inhibition. In this man’s hands, he melted, and at the same time was forged into something new, something bold, powerfully, massively muscular, something deeply, completely masculine.

Soon, Troy was set up with his own offices, and, soon, the guys started coming to him. First there were those chosen to be the first group, the prototypes, the models. The process was slow—much slower than the rocket he’d ridden, but there was something deeply satisfying about seeing how profoundly the first subtle changes affected the young guys as they changed. By their second visits they would have begun the transformation and their emerging taste for maleness would show itself in how they walked, how they stared with desire at his own muscular body, and the inevitable erections and ejaculations that would accompany their shots.

Of those early ones, his own favorite was a guy named Jarrod, probably because he came in as such a geek, the guy he would have teased in high school, and his transformation was so much more dramatic, seeing him come into his own, his confidence growing into pride as he donned the new Littleman’s line of show-all clothes and grew as sexually aggressive and hot as he was massive and hung. He especially remembered the day, after he’d completed his first six-month cycle and the subsequent six-month waiting period, when he came in to get his vial of the formula to begin the second phase. He’d attended the summer “camp” at the campus out near Malibu, modeled for the catalogs, grown into himself as his body and mind adjusted to that first phase of the treatment, and he was past ready to begin the phase that would take him from looking like a bodybuilder with big meat stretching the display basket of his skintight shorts to one of the prototypes of the new kind of male, beyond bodybuilder, beyond the limits of muscle mass that nature had previously set. The genetic barriers had been broken, and he would be one of the first, since the Forest-Littleman experiment, to literally grow, as the public watched, to embody the new paradigm of masculinity.

“Aww, fuck, Doctor Troy.” He pulled off his shorts, although he hadn’t been asked, sat on the table and spread his legs. “I want you to do it to me, man. Fucking shoot me up, man, start me off.”

“My pleasure, Jarrod.”

There were no rules against fraternizing. In fact, it was accepted as part of the process and as natural as breathing and cumming. Troy had given enough of these shots that he could find the spot without looking. He stood in front of Jarrod, close, aware of his own muscular body filling his lab coat the way the guy that had brought him in had, aware of Jarrod looking at him, his cock jutting up against his hard, cobbled, hairy abs, and filled the syringe.

“Ready to hulk out, Jarrod? Ready to turn into a total freak?”

He snapped a finger on the syringe to tap out the air bubbles.

“Yeah, fuck yeah, man.”

Troy stepped closer, pushed aside Jarrod’s balls, lifting them out of the way with the back of his hand.

“Make this cock grow twice as big. You like that, Jarrod? Fucking huge cock filling that display basket, showing everyone what being a Littleman’s dude is all about?”

“Aww, fuck yeah, Doc. Do me. Come on.”

“Do you know what a hot fuck you are, Jarrod? Do you know how hot you’re gonna be?”

Troy leaned forward, his lips parted, and Jarrod leaned into Troy’s face, the two meeting mouth to mouth, tongues darting, as Troy sank the needle into the sweet spot between Jarrod’s legs and slowly emptied the syringe. Jarrod moaned with ecstasy into Troy’s mouth, and as the syringe emptied, Jarrod’s cock began to spurt its hot cream onto his hairy groin.

Jarrod and the others grew, their masculine beauty meeting and exceeding the company’s expectations, and soon the Littleman’s catalogs were the hottest in the business, and the Littleman’s look became the desire of every guy, from middle school boys who could get their parents’ permission, to college guys, young professionals, then the dads, the middle-aged men who dared reach for this fountain of youth and virility. It spread like an epidemic. The only perceived negative, once the conservative critics of the blatant sexuality of it were silenced by the majority, or just ignored, was that the men who underwent the transformation lost all interest in women. To address that, the company was developing a formula that would do the same for women. Meanwhile, word go around that it felt so hot, and the look became so desirable, that guys just jumped past that hurdle, knowing that after their first shot, they wouldn’t care.

Troy wished, as he spent much of the summer at the campus with the models, Jarrod and his companions, that he could join them. He fought the constant craving to do more, to grow more. But the company was strict about their doctors maintaining at a functioning level. Along with more formula, more growth, they all knew, would go more drive for constant sexual activity, and that would hamper their effectiveness as doctors. So Troy sublimated that desire and got off all that much more on turning all the different guys who came to him into Littleman’s guys.

Brett was a guy he’d enjoyed doing for the sheer pleasure of seeing someone so devoutly straight into a man hungry muscle sex pig. He’d come to him as a gym rat, would-be bodybuilder, who was uptight about going that route because of what so many people thought about bodybuilders. Two shots into “just trying out how it feels,” he was sucking on Troy’s pecs and cock and sending other guys in to get the treatment.

A subculture was forming, and certain clubs began to cater to the Littleman’s guys, with the owners and managers joining the process, and soon parties, or, more accurately, private orgies in these clubs became ritualized, as new guys, after a couple treatments, when they had changed, transformed enough to wear the Littleman’s look, were brought to the club to be “initiated” into the Littleman’s lifestyle, which consisted of the total sexual enjoyment of the bodies and minds that they were transforming into. It was becoming a worldwide fraternity, and Troy was lucky enough to be at the epicenter.

When he heard that this incredibly good looking guy, an account executive with Littleman’s own ad company, and a recovering addict, was coming in, he thought this would be an interesting test, of what he wasn’t sure. He knew the power of the formula over the minds of the guys that took it. Christ, he still jonesed for more. How could this guy be trusted to regulate his dosage, as all the guys did? And then he saw Ian Larkin for the first time.

The man was stunning. He almost took Troy’s breath away. And at the same time, Troy could see the guy looking at him, at his muscle bulging in his lab coat, with more than idle curiosity. When the guy came in for his second treatment, when Troy held the guy’s rigid cock and kissed him as he came in his hand, he felt a powerful attraction unlike any he’d experienced. He knew it wasn’t love. It was this guy’s unbelievable beauty, and the idea of what he would transform into.

And then came Ian’s initiation.

The minute he walked into the club, strutting his growing body and male assets in such an intense display of sexual overdrive, Troy knew that Ian had to have double-dosed himself. So he couldn’t be trusted. But, Holy God was he hot. He was so obviously into the whole thing, this handsome-beyond-belief ad exec thrusting around his big cock, glorying in his growing and already beautiful muscle, and giving new meaning to the concept of sexual abandon. This guy was a total pig, trashmouth, dirty, do-anything muscle slut, and Troy’s attraction kicked into the same gear as Ian the gorgeous. Of course, everyone in the club, including the humongous Jarrod, newbie Matthew, Brett, all of the others, wanted as much of Ian as they could have. But Troy had something none of them had. He had the key, the magic, the elixir. And so Ian came on to him as a supplicant to his master.

If Troy ever wanted to do more, to give up his position and just go for the whole thing, it was then, with Ian.

“Fuck, man,” Ian was whispering in his ear as he bit his neck and earlobe, pushing his cock against Troy’s, crushing his pecs, rubbing his abs, “you are so fucking hot, man. I fuckin’ love you dude, what you’ve given me. You like my muscle, man? Fuck yeah, I know you do. You like my cock? Fuck, you’re the one makin’ it big, man. So hot. God, fuck my ass, Doc. Do me good, man.”

But at the same time, Troy knew it was his position that had this most beautiful of men eating out of his hand. Other guys were bigger, more developed. But he was the wizard. And with that, he had responsibility.

“You double-dosed yourself, didn’t you?”

“Why, man? Okay, yeah. I couldn’t help it. It’s so fuckin’ good, man. Look at me, man. Isn’t it worth it? Who cares?”

“The company cares. You’ve got to stay with the program. What I gave you has to last for four weekly treatments. You’ve used up two now, so you’ll have to go one without any. Can you do that? See what I mean? You’ll have to skip next week, or, if you don’t, you’ll have to wait a week before I can give you any more.”

“Aww, but man, why? Why does it have to take so long? Wouldn’t you love to just do me, man?”

“Dude,” Troy answered as he lifted Ian’s legs and rammed his cock into Ian’s perfect ass, just starting to get some fur, so fucking hot, “you have no idea.”

Troy knew it didn’t have to take so long. He thought about the dose they’d given him, how he’d transformed totally to the way he was now, big as any bodybuilder, in just one night. But he wasn’t about to jeopardize his position. He liked it too much.

“I just can’t,” he said. “But if there was anyone I would,” he stroked Ian’s cock as he pummeled his ass, felt his pecs, stomach, imagined him growing huge, fast, “it would be you, man. You are so fucking beautiful?”

“Yeah? Oh, God, yeah. Aww, fuck, man, for a fuckin’ doctor, you are so hot. Do me, man.”

Troy was about to explode. He had the hottest man he’d ever seen begging him.

“Aww, please, man. Do me. Fuckin’ do me, man.”

They both came, and the explosion rocked the room. Everyone watched, everyone applauded, cheered.

A week later, Ian showed up at Troy’s office. His eyes were glazed and crazed, and he was amped to the point of pacing. He’d gained probably ten, maybe fifteen more pounds of muscle and the bulge in his Littleman’s shorts showed noticeably more heft.

“I can’t wait, man. You gotta give me more.”

“You double-dosed again, didn’t you? Look at you, man.”

“Yeah, look at me. Fuckin’ look at me, man. It’s too fuckin’ good, man. You gotta give me more.”

“You’re not supposed to get another vial for two more weeks. I told you about using it up like that.”

Ian paced. His cock, only half hard when he walked in, was stiffening laterally, riding the top of his thick thigh as he paced, stimulating himself.

“Okay, listen,” he said, “I was thinking, man. You know how that adman in the story and his buddies like totally Tuckered out in one night. Well, so, it has to be possible to do this faster. I want you to do me, man. I don’t want to take two fuckin’ years to get like those guys at the club, but I don’t need to totally Tucker out, either. I was just thinking,” his cock got harder as he paced and talked, “maybe you could do me in, like, six weeks or something. You know, like fix the doses so you could make me like that guy, Jarrod, in six weeks. That a decent length of time, don’t you think?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I know you could do it. Come on, man. I’ll do anything.”

He suddenly stopped right in front of Troy, kissed him, put both hands on Troy’s pecs, slid down to his knees and pulled Troy’s cock out of his pants.

“Anything.”

He started to suck.

Troy closed his eyes, let his head roll back. He could imagine doing that. He would love to do that, to put this guy through the whole transformation in six weeks. Why not? What a concept. Other guys would want to do it that fast, too, if they knew one guy, especially this one, had.

“You’re still an addict, man. I couldn’t give you that kind of dosage. You would Tucker out, man.”

Ian stood up, held Troy’s saliva-slicked dick, kissed him, and said, “Yeah, I know. So you could do me. That’s what I want, man. You do me. Every week, you do me, man. It’d be so hot, man, you know it would. Come on. Fuck man. You got me flyin’, dude. This is so fuckin’ good. Can you just ask? Maybe they’d like to try it. I’ll be the guinea pig. Come on, man.”

Troy put his hands on Ian’s chest. He could imagine making him grow, almost literally being able to watch, to feel these pecs grow in his hands, to see his cock inches bigger every week. Six weeks. Incredible. God, would he love to do that. Even now, this minute, he’d love to give him more, turn him on more, make him his muscle sex slave, at least for a while, however long that might be.

“Okay, you fucking maniac. I’ll ask. I’ll have to make a proposal to the company, but I’ll ask.”

“And make me fuckin’ huge, man? You’d like that, too, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Part 5: Word Spreads

“Come on in, Matthew,” Colin Hamilton stepped back from the door to admit the gawking young hunk. Indeed, in the five weeks since he’d started the program, Matthew had begun to take on the look in an unmistakable change from his former averagely cool self. Standing on the porch of the Hamilton home, even from a great distance, there would be no mistaking that the young guy in the porch light was a Littleman’s guy. The fact would be obvious from the skin tight tank and shorts stretched over the perfectly proportioned body of a heavily worked-out athlete, and, more so, from the size of the bulge that rode the crotch of his tissue-thin, shape clinging square-cuts.

Matthew saw the full-body scan that Jarrod’s father gave him as he stepped back, and a couple months ago, it would have freaked him out. Now, with Jarrod’s dad so obviously himself well into the program, answering the door in a pair of those extremely brief trunks that were becoming Littleman’s most popular kind of swimwear and in-home casual wear, he found himself almost drooling. He hadn’t seen Jarrod’s dad since, well, probably since high school. He’d been a decent looking dad, but a dad. A lawyer. Business suits. Now he stood there with a packed display package riding his thighs, framed by dark, decorative hair that rose through the hilly flatlands of his abdomen, flowing across the hummocks of granite in a rising stream of manliness, to spread and flow across the entire breadth of the twin mounds of strength that were his pecs. Even his face was handsomer, stronger, younger, more angular, and marked by the heavy, perfect beard shadow of a Littleman’s guy.

Matthew said, “Thanks,” and stepped inside.

Jarrod came around the corner from the hallway just as his dad closed the door behind Matthew. He was in the same kind of “ultimabriefs” bikini trunks his dad was wearing, posers rethought to hold the prodigious manhood that the Littleman’s program endowed its participants with and, at the same time, expose as much as was possible and still hold the genitals under cover, thin and shape revealing as that cover was, and show some, the lightly furry top inch or so, of the ass crack. The sight was astonishing.

“Dude,” he grinned, “you remember my dad? You bring your dose?”

“Uh, yeah,” Matthew stammered.

“Cool. You guys can do it together. Nothing hotter than doin’ your dose with another LG.”

“Littleman’s Guy.” Matthew had heard the term a few times among the more advanced of the guys in the program. It made him feel “in” to know what an LG was.

“Yeah. My dad’s a month into his second phase, man. Look at that body. Is he hot or what? His dick is already like fifteen inches, man. But you’ll see. Come on, let’s go in back and get naked.”

Jarrod led the way. Matthew still couldn’t believe he knew someone who looked like Jarrod.

By the time they reached the family room off the kitchen in the rear of the house, Matthew, following behind the massive figure of Jarrod, felt his cock stiffen with every step. By now, getting hard was as natural as anything. Being aroused by the muscular bodies of other LGs was accepted, expected, desirable, and always, still, exciting. These guys were so hot. Jarrod, who still had the boyish face of a fratguy, but with arms jutting out from bouldered shoulders like hams resting on the supporting corbels of his lats, thighs rolling around the girth of each other, more massive with hard, cut, veined muscle than any bodybuilder had been able to achieve until now, until this amazing formulation had come along. And his father, looking younger by at least a decade than his years, built like a guy beyond the junior bodybuilder stage, readying for his pro heavyweight status, and endowed with a maleness that was already beyond anything seen before this program. There was something almost dreamlike about it to Matthew, but, as he felt the blood rush into his heavy, thick cock, it was so very real.

Jarrod pulled off his trunks, forcing his pecs to mound huge with the effort of getting his arms together around them. When his stood up, his cock, an arm-thick hose of flesh that hung nearly to his knees, fat with the rush of tumescence, rose immediately up until its head hovered, throbbing, in front of his perfectly hairy, magnificently shaped, massive pecs.

“Matt, dude, you’re looking really hot, man. That bone’s getting big. Dad, told you he was turning into a hot, big, muscle fag. Come on, dude. Strip. I want to see you do it.”

“Jarrod,” Colin Hamilton said as he removed his own briefs, allowing his thick dick to rise to his abs, “you are such a fucking tease. But you’re right. He is, for sure.”

Matthew blushed as he stripped off his clothes. He knew it was true. He looked into the mirror often enough, and saw in it a muscledude he hardly recognized, someone he could only have dreamed of becoming—a handsome, cut up, shredded muscle guy with big balls churning out so much hormonal juice that he was always horny, and a cock getting big enough to make him fall more in love with his own masculinity every day. In fact, as far as being a big muscle fag, he had to admit that he was in love with masculinity in general, in all its aspects, the bigger or more extreme the maleness a guy exhibited, the hotter it made him. He looked at these guys and couldn’t wait to get like them, to feel what that felt like. He knew it would be that much more of what he was already feeling, and that was enough to make his cock so hard he could feel it stretch its own skin.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You have to pardon my son,” Colin said, getting his syringe out of its case. “He seems to have turned into a total LG slut. Can’t blame him though.” He sat down on the edge of the leather sofa, indicated to Matthew the spot next to him. “It does seem to come with the transformation. Judging by that boner, I think you know what I mean. Come on, let’s show the pigboy what he wants to see.”

Jarrod laughed. “Yeah, let’s see you two do it. I love that.”

Matthew sat next to Colin. “Yeah, Mr. Hamilton. I know exactly what you mean.” He was already leaking precum as he got out his own syringe.

“Call me Colin, son. I think we already got past the formalities.” He turned a little toward Matthew and spread his legs wide, putting the one closest to Matthew, bent, up onto the sofa. His balls hung long and as big as ripe lemons over the edge of the cushion, and his hard cock flopped back against the hairy ridges of his stomach, dripping its slippery juice onto his thick treasure trail.

Matthew followed suit, his attention torn between the raging desire in his own body for his own body—to plunge in that needle and feel the power of the formula ratchet up his already amped energy, male energy, hormonal energy, kicking him into the overdrive that would cause more growth, feeling it all through him, hot, surging, making everything about him change, grow, become a little closer to being like Jarrod, a total LG—and for the unbelievable two-course banquet of muscle and cock, huge, hot, and ready for complete exploration and total enjoyment, that sat before him. He felt so good, so turned on, as he faced Colin, spread his own legs, opening his increasingly hairy groin to his gaze, and Jarrod’s, feeling his own balls, maybe not anywhere like Colin’s or, God knows, Jarrod’s, but, still, bigger than any regular guy’s already and hanging long enough to fall over the edge of the sofa. He licked his lips, ran his tongue around them, knowing that Jarrod and Colin wanted to see him getting off on doing this to himself. He could be as much a slut as any of them. A slight, teasing smile curled up the corners of his lips as he held aside his balls, exposing that hairy, tender, sweet spot that ached with craving for the sharp, delicious sting of the needle, and, with his other hand, he poised the syringe for entry.

“Ready, then, Colin?” he said.

“Oh, yeah, kid. I’m always ready.”

Matthew waited until he saw Colin about to sink the needle, looked over to see Jarrod watching him. God, the guy was magnificent. As he pricked his skin and pushed the needle into himself, he stared at Jarrod, sitting in a leather chair, legs akimbo, balls hanging, cock boned up to the middle of his gigantic, bulging, hairy pecs, arms huge and hard, bent to caress the maleness of his own muscle as he watched Matthew. And, as Matthew felt the needle sink in and the formula begin to flow into him, he saw himself like Jarrod, imagined his feelings, growing into such hot, huge, maleness, so young, so cool. Awww, God, it felt so good.

He looked over at Colin, who, as he emptied his syringe, let his eyes close and his head loll back, letting himself sink into the sensation. Matthew knew how much hotter it must feel in the second phase, already so massive, going to the size of the old pro bodybuilders and then moving past it, beard thickening, cock getting so huge, balls that blared out the fact that here was a total LG, going all the way, walking around the world with tissue thin material stretched over that manhood, clinging, showing completely the size, shape, even the weight of the total maleness of the Littleman’s guy. Then Colin finished, lifted his head, and Matthew saw in his eyes everything he had just imagined. A wildness flashed there, shining, a glint of animal lust that made him suck in his breath with excitement.

“Yeah,” Jarrod said, leaning back, still massaging his massive chest, “fuckin’ hot, man. Dudes goin’ for it, man, getting’ all hulked out, man. You feel, it, man?” he looked right at Matthew, “you feel it makin’ your fuckin’ cock grow, dude? Yeah, so fuckin’ hot. And your balls? Dude gonna get huge fuckin’ balls and show ‘em to everyone. That fuckin’ turn you on, you big fuckin’ muscle fag? You love turnin’ yourself into a big fuckin’ LG muscle fag, don’t you, bro?”

“Yeah,” Matthew could already feel the stuff in him working, “I love it. I fuckin’ love it, man. You know. Fuck, man. It feels so hot.” He was feeling his own chest and abs, now, the furry trail running down the hard bricks his abs were becoming, the soft fur on the slabs his pecs were turning into, rounded and thick but squared in shape, wide, colliding with his thick guns. And that feeling of his cock outgrowing its skin, so hard it could explode, or grow, or both. It jerked against his stomach, and he watched it with awe as he stroked his body. He could never get used to it, how it felt. It kept changing, getting better, hotter, his maleness bursting into physical reality as he changed and grew and got harder and bigger and thicker. No mistaking now that he was an LG.

“Whatta ya think, dad?” Jarrod was toying with his own cock, now, flicking its oozing head, as big as his fist, licking it as he kept his eyes fixed on Matthew.

“I think your bud is a hot little fucker. Maybe if what you said is true, he won’t have to wait so long, either. Love the first phase boys, just getting their size, takin’ on the look, but taking him all the way would be great, son.”

“Yeah. For you too. Love to see you totally there, dad. You’re lookin’ so fuckin’ fine, man.”

“Yeah, would be fuckin’ hot, son. I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I’d love to watch your bud here, man. Be just like a fuckin’ morph movie, only not so fast, a little more time to watch it happen.”

He slid over toward Matthew until he could reach his pecs, pushing aside Matthew’s hands.

“Love to fill out like Jarrod, here, wouldn’t ya, bud?”

Matthew felt the electricity of Colin’s touch on his hypersensitive body, male on male, his muscle hard and thick under the man’s fingers, and his mind churned with the idea of what this moment would feel like if he were built like Jarrod.

“Fuck yeah, man. What are you guys talking about, anyway?”

“About morphing you, dude, like they did me, only real fast, a few weeks maybe. How’d you like that?” Jarrod got up and stood over Matthew, his huge cock resting, not quietly, on his shoulder. “Remember those morphed pictures we used to get on the internet, the ones by those guys like Matt and N? Never thought a person could really get like that, but dude,” he flexed his arms, flared his lats, and became one of those pictures for Matthew’s hungry eyes, “we can, man. We can.”

“So sweet,” Colin said, as he slid both hands up the insides of Matthew’s hairy thighs until they met to surround his meat, thumbs nudging that tender spot that took the formula in. “So hot, so handsome, getting so big.” He played with the base of Matthew’s throbbing cock, teasing out more precum, making Matthew gasp with pleasure, and then he slid his hands under Matthew’s heavy scrotum, teased the tender spot, the thick cord where the base of his cock went deep, and on around until it found the tight pucker between Matthew’s hard, slightly furry ass cheeks.

“Aww, fuck, man. What do you guys mean?”

“Don’t talk, fag. Suck my huge fuckin’ cock.” Jarrod used one hand to lift his heavy meat and slap it against Matthew’s face. “Keep your eyes on that fuckin’ beauty queen you work with, though. I think you might see something amazing.”

“You mean Ian Larkin?” Matthew said.

Jarrod slapped his face again with his cock.

“I said suck, don’t talk. You are a fag, aren’t you? A big, horny slut of a muscle fag?”

“Yeah,” Matthew said, and put his mouth and tongue to work on Jarrod’s meat.

“It seems,” Jarrod said, standing like a towering god of youthful maleness over his young muscle buddy, “that the directors at Littleman’s are considering a huge, and I mean huge, change in the program, and all because of Mr. Blond God’s insatiable appetite. Did you know he was a recovering addict? Don’t look up, just suck, slut boy.”

Matthew let his full attention turn to the gigantic cock in his face, working around the head and down the shaft with his mouth, tongue, and both hands. The formula was suffusing his whole being, now, and he was totally his sexuality. A glance toward Colin told him the hot man working his crotch was in the same place, maybe more so. He felt himself being manipulated, penetrated, and whatever Colin did felt good, hot, so intense. He could completely understand Ian’s insatiable appetite. God, would he love a cock like the one he was working on.

“Dick him, Dad,” Matthew heard Jarrod teasing, prodding, as he continued to pummel his face with that monster cock, “dick him good, man. I love to see you do it. Cock’s getting fuckin’ huge, dad. So hot. Love to see you go all the way. Come on, ram his ass. Dick him hard. Fuck the slutboy.”

Matthew slid toward Colin, his desire so strong all he could think about was muscle and cock, and all he wanted was more, more muscle, more cock. “Yeah, Dad,” he heard himself saying in the same tone as Jarrod. He’d give anything to be like Jarrod, to get just like him, morphed past massive. “Yeah. Gimme that dick. Fuck this slutboy. You like my muscle body? Yeah, so fuckin’ hot, getting hotter. You love to see a first phaser grow, don’t you, man. Yeah. Take me good, man. Let me feel that fuckin’ pole in me, man.”

As he spoke, they came together in the searing heat of their lust, the youth impaled on the man, each grabbing at the other’s hard, thick muscle, wanting it, feeling its size, its unbelievable density.

“Yeah, I love to see you young dudes get fuckin’ huge. So fuckin’ hot. You’re fuckin’ in love with your muscle and cock, aren’t you, slutboy. Just like my boy. You should’ve seen him growing. Makin’ his ol’ dad proud. Total muscle whore, there, my boy is. Aren’t ya, Jarrod?”

“Fuck yeah, Dad.”

“You love your muscles, slutboy?”

Matthew felt almost delirious, totally stoned on sexual need, desire, lust. “Yeah,” he moaned. “Oh, fuck yeah, I love my muscles. I love my cock, man. Gotta get so fuckin’ huge.”

“Yeah,” Colin thrust deep, “I know. Hey Jarrod. Get that fuckin’ pole out of his face and get down here with your ol’ man. This slutboy’s hole needs to get filled. You want it, slut? You want his monster cock in there along side mine? Sure you do. Slut gets double-dicked.”

“Yeah,” Matthew panted, “yeah. Fuckin’ fill my young ass. Yeah. Fuck man. Use me good. Show me what it’ll be like.”

Jarrod slid onto the couch behind Matthew, on the other side from his dad. Lifting Matthew seemed no harder than lifting a down pillow. Matthew felt the huge head of Jarrod’s cock, slick with his own saliva and copious precum, press against his asshole where Colin’s huge cock was already inserted to the root. He felt himself being forced open to a point that made him feel like he might pass out from the exquisite pain, searing, hotter than burning hot. And then Jarrod, the musclegod, was inside him, pushing, sliding in deep, deeper than Colin, and Matthew was filled with unimaginable manhood. Jarrod slid his hips under him until his legs were tangled with his father’s, their groins pressing against each other. How was it possible that he could take it, take cock so huge, so deep he felt it inside his chest? What had they done to alter his internal body to take it like this? But if they could change him, they could change him, and he wasn’t even able to really question it. He thought about what they’d said about Ian, about doing it faster, becoming like Jarrod, doing this to another LG. He realized his own cum was spurting, flowing over his beautiful, growing muscles. With all this, he wanted more. All he wanted was more.

Part 6: New Beginning

“So, what do you think, man?” Ian’s voice on the phone sounded agitated, anxious. “When are you gonna find out? I need to do some more, man. Even if it’s just the same.”

“Calm down, Ian,” Troy answered in his most soothing doctor’s tone, “that’s your old addict talking. I’m going to the center today to meet with the supervisor. I should get an answer, but I won’t be able to get back to you until tomorrow, anyway. I’ve got to go do some stuff at the campus today and it’s going to tie me up all day and evening.”

“But what about later tonight, then? Come on, man.”

“Ian, you’re going to have to get a grip. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Plan on coming over about ten.”

“Ten? Jesus, dude. That’s like fucking forever.”

“Go to a meeting, man. Call someone. You’ll survive.”

Troy hung up the phone in his office and pushed back from his desk. His erection was so hard he was straining his tights and a spot was starting to show at the tip of his flaring cockhead. Hearing Ian wanting it so badly was turning Troy on so much. He wanted the directors to approve his request. He wanted to morph this guy as badly as he wanted it himself. He couldn’t remember feeling such a strong attraction, and he knew it was based entirely on the guy’s looks. Not that Ian wasn’t charming, intelligent, and all those other good things that, at another time, would have drawn Troy in. But now, with his own libido in constant overdrive, like all the guys who had tasted the Littleman’s transformational magic, he simply and purely lusted after the stunning beauty of the man, enhanced as it was, and the thought of actually morphing him, feeding his insatiable hunger, was driving Troy crazy. And, he had to admit, a little jealous. There were times, and this was one, when he thought, for all the benefits of his enviable job, that he’d made a fool’s bargain, agreeing to stay at the level they determined for him, never to be able to taste the delicious erotic pleasure of feeling himself grow again. How he would love to be Ian, to be able to throw care out altogether and just go for it, muscle in the extreme, feeling so hot strutting it, the balls of a human bull, and a cock like, like, yeah, God would he love that, a cock like Jarrod’s and all the other young guys he’d transformed into LGs. But, still, he reminded himself, he did hold the key that was drawing Ian to him like a junkie to his dealer.

At the center, he sat across from his supervisor, having a hard time believing either his eyes or his ears. This was the same senior administrator that had started him in the program, but now he looked five years younger and forty, maybe fifty pounds heavier. Instead of a lab coat, he wore Littleman’s hot shorts and a short tee that fit like skin. He was handsomer, too, that was true, but the aura of masculinity that had been so strong and attractive when Troy had first met him was exponentially stronger. He took Troy’s breath away. He almost couldn’t focus on the words he was hearing, but he heard enough to make his heart race so fast he felt like he’d just done poppers.

“ . . . so we’ve approved your request. In fact, we found the idea rather interesting, not just from the obvious standpoint, but from another, which we’ll discuss another time. But we think this will be the thing to take the Littleman’s thing much wider, penetrate much more thoroughly. But for now, the Larkin guy will be an excellent experiment, with some far-reaching ramifications there, as well. Think of it . . .” Troy stared, trying to stay clear, his mind already ahead of his advisor, “ . . . executive in the Littleman’s company, a testimony to a new protocol . . .” Troy saw Ian in the office, wearing something from the catalog—they hadn’t even bothered to design business wear, thinking that the look as it was would make its way into the boardroom eventually, and business wear would become something as new and different as the whole Littleman’s look was, anyway. “ . . . so you’ll know, from your own experience, what you’ll be doing to him, and, soon, I’m sure, to others.” Wait. He missed some words. “Just like the first time, when you started with us. That’s why we told you we’d need you at the campus tonight. Now, if you’ll just sit up on the table, there.”

Holy shit, Troy thought, as he practically jumped up to the table, pulling off his shorts without being asked, this is a dream. But he knew it was no dream when the musclebound stud advisor, instead of pushing his balls aside to go for the tender spot, lifted them and held them in his hand with a syringe in the other.

“A few of us have tested this idea on ourselves, before you even came with your proposal. But you can probably see that.” Without lifting it up, just standing there with the syringe in his hand, he flexed his right arm, and the muscle hardened and bulged to what must have been a twenty-three inch upper arm. Troy felt his cock stiffen.

“We found that the effectiveness and the speed of the changes are much more pronounced when injected, not near the gonads, but directly into them.”

Troy’s eyes widened. He watched from some distant place, it seemed, as the hunk forced one testicle tight against the skin of his scrotum and poised the needle. Then the prick, the sting, and a feeling like he’d been kicked in the balls, if getting kicked in the balls, that feeling that went right to your gut, could feel unthinkably erotic. He jumped, but not much, and half the syringe felt like a pound of fluid went into his ball. When the guy squeezed up the other one, he was more prepared, and barely jumped when the needle went in, but a deep moan escaped his throat as the erotic sensation in his groin and gut doubled.

“You see,” the guy said to him, still holding his balls in his hand as he set down the syringe, “you really couldn’t tell the guy what to expect, or even know how he might react, without knowing yourself, could you? Kind of extreme, but then, extreme is what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

Troy was suddenly so horny and felt so good, he was floating. If this guy, his advisor, had looked hot to him a few minutes ago, now he was a walking package of masculine power that Troy couldn’t resist feeling, touching. He stared at his body, his muscle, his cock, straining the thin material of his shorts, showing that this guy was as turned on by what he’d just done, what he was doing to Troy as Troy had felt earlier when he thought about Ian. His hunger for the guy’s maleness overcame him as his own maleness overtook him completely, and he leaned forward, as he let the cum begin to jet spontaneously from his throbbing, hot cock, put both his hands on the guy’s incredible pecs, and kissed his full, stubble-surrounded mouth.

It was a smooth move, a lift and a slide, for the guy, Troy realized he didn’t even know his name, to pop out his mammoth boner and then pull Troy to the edge of the table and right into position to receive his manhood with one insistent, slow push. Troy remembered the feelings he was getting now, suddenly, rushing stronger and stronger, from his first transformation. But this was so much more intense. He wanted this guy in him, on him, any way he could drink his masculine essence, and if his cock had been an arm, a leg, if the whole, massive muscular body of this hunk could be the missile, the delivery system of his maleness that was penetrating him right then, he would happily, hungrily have taken it.

They were whirling through space as Troy felt the guy empty himself inside him, and then, knowing he had to complete the circle, Troy pushed him down on the table, turned him around, grabbed onto the wings of muscle that flared up and out from his beautiful, hard, round ass, and shoved himself inside. Fuck. His cock was already bigger. He could swear it was. He knew it was. Already. As he began the rhythm of shoving himself deep and hard into the guy, making him moan, he felt the size and weight of his own body, and he knew the change had begun. He felt the power that was so strong it would have to change him. He loved this guy for doing this to him. He loved his body. He knew already he would be so hot, feel so hot, bigger, more handsome, all the things he’d wished so much he could experience.

They kept him at the center that night until they knew he was stabilized enough to leave. They told him that what they’d given him would work for a week, that it would be a week before he saw the full extent of the change they’d planned for him. Still not “all the way,” but enough that he and everyone else would know the difference. About like his advisor’s own change, they said.

As soon as he got home, he stripped to look at himself in the mirror. They’d given him the package of formula that would take Ian all the way in five more doses. They said what he’d already done would be about equal to the first dose, maybe not quite, but these five would do the trick. Troy knew Ian would be ecstatic, hearing that he would be “doing him” in even a week less than he’d asked for. But standing in front of the mirror, flexing his twenty-one inchers, feeling the mass of his pecs, the hard ridges of his abs, the spread under his guns that lifted them out, he also knew the drive that had turned Ian into the addict he was. He knew he had a week to go, to grow. He imagined how another fifty pounds of muscle would look on him, how it would feel. It made him cum again, spontaneously, all over the mirror, thinking about it. And he could take one of Ian’s doses and make it better still. God, he would so love to do that.

But he had his responsibility, and through his own erotic frenzy, he could still hold on to what that would mean to him. Keeper of the keys. He would do it to Ian. And to Matthew, and Brett and all the others. He would bring in guys he hadn’t even seen yet, and guy by guy, he would begin to change the world, to spread the new concept of ultimate masculinity. They would flock to him, he would take their balls in his hands, and he would change them, transform them. Grandmas and grandpas might faint, but soon the tide would turn forever. A new kind, a new race of men was being born, and he would be one of those to release the magnificent new creatures from the cocoons of their old, ordinary bodies and minds. He felt like a god.

“Hello, Ian?”

“Yeah. Troy? What’s up, man? I thought you were going to be busy tonight. What time is it?”

“It’s almost two. They said yes, Ian. Do you want to come over?”

“Are you fucking kidding me, man?”

“Meet me in the office.” He hung up.

When Ian opened the office door, Troy was sitting on the edge of his desk. He’d put on a pair of shorts, thinking he should wear something but wanting to show what he was feeling. His hard cock jutted out past his hip, stretching the fabric, pointing sideways, parallel to the floor. Already, more hair had begun to sprout on his pecs, legs, arms, down his belly, and his stubble was thick and rough.

“Holy shit, man. Look at you.”

Ian stopped dead inside the door, and his own shorts showed his meaty dick swelling, stiffening fast, as he scanned the doctor leaning against his desk.

“Yeah,” Troy said, “look at me. Already. They gave me a taste so I’d know. It’s good, man. It’s real good. But it’s different, the delivery. You ready?”

“Dude, I am so ready.”

Troy could hardly wait to do it to Ian. He looked at him standing there, boning up. He was so fucking gorgeous. His muscle was already thick, beautiful, carved, from the double-dosing he’d been doing, but he just had the body of a fitness god, not a bodybuilder, yet. He face was rugged and refined at the same time, but the wild look of his hunger glinted off his eyes. His dark-rooted, extremely blond hair was messed beyond spiky, probably just the way he got out of bed. He stood there as if in suspended animation, waiting for Troy to say something, and Troy let the moment sit, while he looked at Ian now, already a golden god, and imagined him in a few short weeks.

Troy walked over to him, all the way to him, until their bodies were touching, kissed him, and ran his hands down Ian’s sides until he hooked into the waistband, if it could be called that, riding so low on his hips, and started to push them down.

“Mind if I take these off you?”

“Be my guest.”

Troy stared into Ian’s eyes, pausing again. Ian was so fucking sure of himself, of his male beauty. His complete self-assurance gave him a casual cockiness that just magnified his magnetism. But enough delay. He pulled the shorts down, all the way, until his face was in Ian’s pubes, teasing with the brush of his stubble as he pulled them below his ankles so he could step out of them.

“Okay,” Troy said, returning to his desk where the prepared syringe waited. “Why don’t you just go over and sit up on the table then?”

Ian sat, his legs spread as usual. Troy approached with the syringe.

“Whoa,” Ian said. “That looks big. A lot more than before. Cool. Gonna fuckin’ grow me, man. Do it.”

He spread his legs and pushed aside his heavy balls to give access to that familiar sweet spot between the legs, but Troy just smiled as he took Ian’s balls into his hand.

“No,” Troy said, “This is a little different. They found a better way to deliver the effect.” And he squeezed one testicle up tight against Ian’s ballsack.

“Oh, whoa, man.” Ian’s eyes widened with the realization of what Troy was about to do. “You’re not going to . . .”

Troy paused, the needle poised, and smiled at Ian.

“Yeah,” he said, “I am. You ready, bro? Big breath.”

Ian sucked in a gulp of air as Troy gently but firmly plunged the needle into his testicle. As Troy emptied half the contents of the syringe, Ian emptied his lungs in a long groan.

“One more time,” Troy said, readying the other testicle.

“Fuck, man. Go for it, dude.” And Ian sucked in another breath and exhaled another groan.

“There,” Troy destroyed the syringe and threw it away, “that’s all there is to it. Pretty intense, huh? But you wanted it intense.”

“Fuck, dude. My whole fuckin’ belly’s on fire. Dude, my balls. Shit.”

“Just sit there for a second. How do you feel?”

“I don’t know, man. Hot. I feel hot. Jesus. I’m fuckin’ rushing my head off.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I called you in the middle of the night. This was too good not to share. I know you’re a sucker for a good rush, and they don’t get any better than this. Still going up?”

“Fuck, man. I’m gonna explode. Aww, yeah. This is so good. Fuck, dude, I gotta cum. Here it comes. Aww, yeah, fuck. My whole body is alive, man. Oh, yeah, dude. You’re the man. Come over here, doc. My body needs your body. Fuck, you’re hot. Thanks, dude. What can I do for you man, to repay you? Fuck.”

“Just grow for me, man. Get huge. Get totally fucking beautiful.”

Troy fitted his mouth over Ian’s, and he felt the muscle that would soon be more god than man, but all man, totally, completely man.

Part 7: Some Ride

No one really questioned Ian’s excuse for missing a day of work. No one believed his was sick, either. Rumor had spread that Ian was treading dangerously near the path that Tucker Forrest and Larry Littleman had taken, or something like that. Matthew had told a couple of guys to check Ian out when he returned, and men and women alike were curious if it could be true.

Ian felt like days had passed in a matter of blurred, cum-soaked, muscle-clenching hours, and he could hardly believe he had to go back to work, but, in some strange and very exciting way, he didn’t mind. How long had it been since his almost frenzied drive to Troy’s office, since that needle had plunged into both of his testicles, changing him profoundly, forever, though the changes had only just begun? The hours had been a montage of sweat, internal fire, passion, mounting erotic sensation, and sex. He’d had sex with Troy—magnificent, drop-dead good looking doctor that had sent him into orbit where he still spun out of control. They had devoured each other, starving for the masculine power each felt growing in them, and making them grow. They clawed and grabbed and pounded at thick, hard, dense muscle, feeling it grow, and giving themselves to the meat between their legs that weighed heavier and heavier on their groins and on their minds. There became room in Ian’s mind for little other than sex, muscle, cock, and all of that mostly his own. Troy was great, as would be any hung muscle stud, especially one able to work Troy’s magic, but he, himself, was enough to keep himself sexually charged to the point of insane desire, and he stood in front of Troy, or the mirror, and loved himself totally.

By the time he’d left to drive home, it was early morning, people were on the streets, having their morning walks or runs, in their cars going to work, kids on their way to school, and Ian, his Littleman’s shorts and T shirt hugging impossibly hot muscle and meat, was nowhere near ready for sleep. His mind rac ed. Was it possible he’d ever had second thoughts about going this route, taking on the outrageous proportions and overdeveloped masculinity that marked all the Littleman’s guys? Was is possible he’d ever thought that male sexual bonding could be anything but amazingly hot? As he made his way through town, his nearly-ten-inch cock, thick and heavy, lay across his thigh, hard, insistent, driving his brain as though it were the seat of his consciousness. In fact, it seemed, since the needle-penetration of the source of his maleness, his testicles had become increasingly the center of his being, all thought and sensation coming from there in floods of mind-and-body-altering, genetically mutated hormones.

He thought of those hours with Troy, not with an emotional attachment, but with the physical sense-memory of pure sexual sensation. Touching, feeling such thick, hard muscle, the mutual arousing of cocks that both of them found irresistibly attractive, not just on each other, but each his own, like a child discovering his organs for the first time, an adolescent discovering sexual arousal, each moment was discovery of size, weight, and pure maleness, the total, ultimate guy-ness of their bodies, alone, in front of each other, with each other.

And now, alone in his car, those same feelings were no less intense. Maybe there were also women and girls on the streets, but all he saw was the guys. The persistent erection that strained at the stretchable material of his shorts was as involuntary and natural as breathing, and every guy he saw stirred it in some way, aroused him more. He found himself amazed at seeing how many of those guys were showing the effects of the spread of the Littleman’s influence. He’d noticed, before this, a few guys here and there, in the gym, like that Brett guy, or even in the mall or grocery store, getting the heavily muscled and endowed look that the Littleman’s style, the look, favored with its tight, minimal, show-all clothing line. Hell, he’d been influenced enough to get him here. But now, it seemed, they were everywhere. A dad, running on the sidewalk pushing one of those large-wheeled baby carriages that so many young breeders were using (which always made Ian think of rickshaws in some old movie about China), dressed in the low-on-the-hips, high-on-the-thighs running shorts and the short, ribbed, skintight tank right out of the catalog, bounced his thick rounded pecs as he ran, his oversized package showing that he was in the program. Ian wondered how his wife was handling it. He chuckled and his dick got harder.

A group of kids heading to the high school all sported the look, all wore longer legged shorts, mid-thigh, what would have once been running shorts or hot shorts but were now the “in” look for everyday wear, extra low on the hips to show as much of the hard, flat bellies and the spreading hair that decorated them, even on guys as young as these, and the T shirts that barely capped their delts, showing the juncture of deltoids, bis, and tris, all bulging and cut w hile totally relaxed, as the boys walked along teasing each other about their muscular bodies, punching, flexing, showing off, like budding young bodybuilders, their packages in proud display, dicks clearly outlined, showing the rims of their cockheads, their balls, all pulled up forward and settled into the stretch fabric in the Littleman’s display package style that the cool guys, obviously more and more, were emulating from the pages of the catalog. Ian could even tell which of them were circumcised and which weren’t. They couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, which meant they had to have had their parents permission to get the formula and enter the program, and yet they sported the stubble, strutted the masculinity, walked with the muscled-up walk of LGs in the making. Ian felt his cock strain harder and begin the tingle that would lead to inevitable ejaculation. Then one of the guys spotted him driving by. He jabbed his buddies and said something, and they all turned to look at Ian. He hadn’t realized he’d been driving so slowly. One of the boys, bigger than the others, ahead of them by a treatment or two, gave Ian the thumb-out-first-finger-up “L” sign that recognized another Littleman’s guy and acknowledged his coolness, and flexed an arm for him. Ian flexed back for the kid, and when he did, even he was amazed and turned on by how thickly his arm mounded up and peaked. He felt huge and he loved the feeling. The boys began to bone up at the sight of his arm, none of them caring that they were showing their teenage arousal right there on the street, one of them even pointing at another’s stiffening dick and laughing. The sight of that, and the attention to his own muscle, gave Ian such an erotic rush that his cock spontaneously, uncontrollably, began to pump out yet another huge load of thick, warm cream, staining his shorts and turning him on even more, just to be cumming in his car while these teenaged LGs boned up over his muscle.

He drove on, in no hurry to change out of his cum-soaked shorts. In fact, there was something almost surreal about how turned on he was feeling, even about that. He rubbed the wet spot, wetting his fingers, and licked the salty-sweet-bitter taste of himself. A few more blocks, and he was passing close enough to the middle school to see a couple of even younger teens showing the signs, wearing the look. It was even penetrating that young. God, that was so hot, that such young guys were doing it, and getting that ultra male maturity as casually as changing a hairstyle. They must have just recently entered puberty, and already the couple of guys he saw, walking along with others still in their long, baggy shorts, were carrying the muscle of serious young weightlifting jocks, and the packages of well endowed guys of any age, and unlike their buddies, who could probably not grow a decent sideburn or goatee or mustache yet, these two kids had almost a full beard of stubble on their young faces. Ian wondered what else was growing inside those shorts, under their tees.

He couldn’t believe how hard he still was. He must have cum twenty, maybe thirty times since Troy shot up his balls, and since then, his cock had softened up maybe half way a few times, but as soon as he even thought about his cock—fuck, it was already getting so big, and was going to get so much bigger so fast—or his muscles—they already felt the surge of growth inside them, making him thicker and bigger and hotter, so much hotter—he would bone up totally again, and if he didn’t jack off or have Troy to fuck or suck him off, he would just cum from the complete turn-on this new mode of treatment had thrown him into. He had only hoped, never really believed, when he’d begged Troy for a faster route, that they would go along with it. That they did, that he did, that it was happening, even as he drove home in his car, was like a total fantasy, a sexual dream. He’d never been so horny in his life. He’d never felt so hot in his life. Even in his imagination, even after double-dosing on the old formula, he’d never imagined it could be like this, and he loved it with a fervor that bordered on insane.

Near his building, he passed a guy out working on his yard, obviously well into his first phase, getting sun on his incredibly perfect muscled body and wearing a pair of the Littleman’s bikini trunks that barely covered anything, pulling so low with his bulging package that his nest of dark pubic hair was mostly exposed, running upward, blending into a thick trail that ran up his carved abs to his heavy pecs and spread out again in swirls out to his armpits and up to his shoulders. Ian swallowed hard as he felt a strong surge of hormone-activated blood heat his body and bone him even harder. When had body hair like that on a guy become such an intense turn-on? Even as it grew on his own body, it got him hot, but seeing this guy, out here, just showing it all . . .

He drove by slowly enough that the guy noticed and nodded at him with a smile, as if to say, “Like what you see? Yeah I know. So do I.” Ian knew the feeling. He wished right then that he was that guy, out there in those tiny trunks, showing his masculine beauty to the world. But soon he would be so much better, and then he would show it. Yeah, he would show it all the time.

He turned the corner and drove around the block to get another look, just to see how this whole thing, this new way for guys to be, was getting to be popular enough that a guy could get away with being out in his yard like that. As he approached, slowly, the guy had moved down to the patch of lawn by the curb, and when he saw Ian’s car coming around again, he stopped, grinned, and nodded again. Ian slowed to a crawl.

“Morning,” the guy said, leaning down to look into Ian’s car window and flashing the “L” sign as a greeting.

Ian stopped at the curb. “Morning,” he said, returning the sign. He realized the guy could see how totally boned he was and the big cum stain on his shorts, and he not only didn’t care, he felt all that much more turned on. “Lookin’ good.”

“Thanks.” The guy looked around his yard. “I try to keep it up. Like being outside.”

“Yeah, I can see. But I didn’t mean the yard.”

“Oh, yeah? Thanks. Been doin’ it for almost two months. How about you, man? Talk about lookin’ good.”

The guy’s cock started to push the bulge out and down, exposing more of his pubes, and he made no attempt to cover it up.

“Thanks,” Ian said, looking the guy over, lusting for his body, and turned on still harder by his admiration. He knew he was looking hot. He knew he was fucking gorgeous. “Just started a new program, faster, more intense. Got me so horned.”

“I can see. Wanna come up for a minute? Let me open the garage, you can just pull in.”

The guy walked up to his garage, opened the door, and waited just inside for Ian to pull in. When he turned around, his cock was pushing down on the briefs so hard that a good two inches of it was bared, and the guy stood there letting it bone, stroking his abs up and down his hairy trail. Ian pulled into the shadows of the garage. The door closed.

By the time Ian got out, his ten inch boner raging in his shorts, the guy was standing by his door. As soon as Ian stood up, the guy pulled his tank over his head and leaned in to take a hard, tonguing kiss while he frantically felt Ian’s chest and arms with one hand and pulled his cock out of his shorts with the other. Ian groped at the guy’s body, pulling his cock out, and for a few minutes they leaned against Ian’s car, groping each other, kissing.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” the guy said, breaking free to pull off his trunks and then Ian’s shorts.

“Yeah,” Ian said, “fuckin’ hot, man. You love my fuckin’ body, dude?”

“Yeah, man, I do. I love your hairy muscles, bro. I love blond hair on a dude’s muscle body, man.”

“Yeah.”

“You love my body, too, man. You drove around the block.”

“Yeah. You looked fuckin’ hot out there, man, showing it all like that. You love getting huge, showing it all, don’t you?”

“Fuck yeah, man. Don’t you? Getting all hulked out, man. Feels so fuckin’ hot.”

“Yeah.”

That was all the conversation. Ian pushed the guy over the hood of his car, on his back, hoisted his legs up onto his shoulders, and slowly, so he could feel every thick inch, but with rough determination, pushed his way into the guy’s furry butthole while he groped his muscled ridges and mounds, the cuts and veins, the hair and thick, dense muscle while the guy groped him back with one hand and jacked his thick dick with the other. In a few frenzied minutes, they came together, loud cries of release filling the garage. Then they wiped off, dressed, and Ian got back in his car. The guy opened the door, and Ian started to back out.

“Get fuckin’ huge, man,” he called to Ian.

“Yeah, dude,” Ian answered. “Get fuckin’ huge, man.”

Ian could see the guy pulling his skimpy briefs back on as he backed down the drive.

That whole day he spent in front of the mirror. He called in sick, and then just flexed and jacked off all day. He was stunned by himself. He could feel how much more powerful this was. He felt his balls, swollen with masculine power and hormones, pumping all that into every cell, forcing him to change. He couldn’t see drastic change from minute to minute, but he could feel it happening, and little by little, but constantly, he was aware that, even in relatively subtle degrees, he was bulking up, growing, changing, transforming. He couldn’t get enough of himself. He kept looking at his face, his hair. He truly was so handsome he took his own breath away. The cut of his angular bones, his full lips, the straw-blond hair, thicker now than ever. He thought of Narcissus, and he understood.

The next morning, after a few hours of sleep, he awoke to feel his mass anew, and just getting out of bed felt like a fantasy made real. His cock and balls flopped heavily against his thick, deeply cut thighs, denser than before.

His arms rested thick and heavy on pylons of muscle that protruded even more under them. His pecs were the stuff of his dreams, the blond fur creeping up a little more, out a little more, more masculine, on the muscle so thick and wide and dense. His nipples were disappearing under the mound of hard flesh when he looked down, driving him to the mirror again.

He showered, soaping himself up in a ritual of self-adoration. He came four times before he could get out the door and to the office. He had no choice but to don a pair of his Littleman’s shorts and a T shirt. He was too big for his old clothes now. But he had a feeling that word would have got around the office, anyway, and he wanted them all to look, to stare, to know.

He was right on all counts. Matthew was in his office within minutes of his arrival on the pretext of delivering the mail that had come in the day before, when he’d been out.

“Man.” He just stared at Ian and instantly boned. “They told me to keep my eyes on you, man, but holy shit. The word on you spread to the mailroom like a tidal wave, dude. You should hear people talk. Fuck, man. You look like you put on at least ten pounds of muscle in three days.”

“Fifteen,” Ian said, leaning back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head, knowing how that would make his biceps flex up huge.

“Jarrod told me about doing it fast, almost like morphing, but I couldn’t believe they could do that. Now, man . . . holy shit.”

“Remember the adman, dude. He and Littleman did it in one night. Four more treatments, man. Just a little more than a month, and I’ll be right there with Jarrod and those other original LGs, man.”

“God, that’s so hot. I want it, too, man. It must feel incredible.”

Ian let his cock grow stiff inside the soft, stretchable material of his shorts. He didn’t care who saw. He thought of those kids on the street, just boning up and laughing about it. Why shouldn’t he? It was what they wanted. If he was being used as a test subject, that was way okay with him. He’d be the best test subject they could have picked. He grinned at the gaping mailroom stud, all muscular and bulging and showing his stuff, cute as shit, intensely masculine, and in awe over him for his muscle, his meat, his downright stunning handsomeness. Ian had studied himself in the mirror so hard, he could see his own chiseled, dimpled, scruffy, full-lipped, square-jawed, perfect face right now just as Matthew was seeing it. He was so turned on, so horned up, so full of animal lust. He loved what he was becoming. He wished he could rip off his clothes and make love to himself, but the next best thing would be to let Matthew do it.

“Close the door, muscle fag,” he said, “and shut the blinds. I know what you want.”

Matthew swallowed hard but quickly closed the door and the blinds.

“But what if someone . . .”

Ian was already standing in front of him and put his hand over Matthew’s mouth to shut him up. He twisted the lock with his other hand, reaching around Matthew to do it, which put them in full body contact, his hard rod pushing against the stiff cock straining Matthew’s shorts. As he locked the door, he whispered into Matthew’s ear, just before biting it,

“Do you really care?”

Part 8: Meanwhile, Back at the Office

Ian made sure that Matthew didn’t work much longer in the mailroom. After his second fast-track treatment, when he suddenly, within two weeks’ time, had grown to the proportions of the LGs finishing their first six-month cycle, heavy and solid with thick bulging muscle and meat, he became the obvious choice for the top model position. The new catalog was shot featuring Ian in everything from the most minimal swimwear, barely more that a soft, silky, stretchy sling to hold his prodigious maleness up front of his massive thighs, exposing the rich wealth of soft, blondish hair that seemed to explode from his crotch to spread decoratively over his legs and up his torso, to what had become the new business wear, as various lengths of low-cut tights, from mid-thigh to full length for dressier wear, made their way onto the pages and into the boardrooms. Loose shirts and traditional slacks were rapidly going the way of the dinosaur. Only the hopelessly conservative, older male clung to that outmoded, traditional dress, and more and more of them were discovering the fountain of masculine youth that the Littleman’s formula promised. The Look became so pervasive that Littleman’s became more of a brand name than the definition of the look, as company after company dashed off lines to compete and grab some market share. The popular mall shops carried their own brands of stretchable shorts, tights, T shirts, tanks, and swimwear suddenly consisted of a variety of bikini cut trunks, the only style options being color, print, or degree of minimalism. But the most conservative now showed pubic hair, being so low cut and having to carry such heavy packages of male meat churning ever stronger surges of growth-producing hormones.

Matthew sat outside Ian’s office, which had been moved to a corner office twice the size of his former one, and he was responsible for most of Ian’s personal public relations, answering mail, setting appointments, appearances, and interviews. Everyone wanted a piece of the god, and Matthew was in the lucky position of having some input as to who got through and who didn’t.

Ian’s rise was meteoric enough that people in the office chalked up his seemingly complete distraction to having so much attention thrown at him, and, to a degree, that was true. How could he not be distracted when every day he showed up with a bigger bulge in his work tights or shorts, the material stretching thinner and thinner as his balls grew heavier, pulling down, filling it up with their size and weight, and his cock thicker and longer, lying curled like a serpent wearing a helmet, displayed as proudly as the Elizabethans displayed their stuffed and embellished codpieces in a show of blatant masculinity intended to draw the gaping admiration of any and all onlookers. Every day his muscles, which felt to him like extensions of his penis, so sexual did they feel in their swollen, dense, striated, veined, and cut massiveness, every day, were a bit thicker, denser, bigger. How could he not be distracted, when he was constantly looked at like a god, recognized on the street from the catalog, asked to flex on national television, and expected to exude, display, and evoke a total sexuality of unleashed, uninhibited, nearly uncontrollable erotic masculinity?

The fact was, his sexuality was becoming uncontrollable. He knew he was once again addicted, and this time, it was to, not the formula, although that was the source, but that sexuality. He was a slave, and he recognized it, to his cock, his magnificent, huge balls, and his unbelievable muscle. As he felt himself growing day after day, he felt a growing intensity of love for masculine sexuality in all its physical expression. He would cum flexing his twenty-two inch guns. He would feel his cock stiffen as he walked through the office, feeling the girth of his massive thighs forced to roll around each other and his arms swinging in wide, heavy arcs, propped out by the thickness of himself, the hardness. He would stiffen up and thrill himself that this was expected of him, that they, everyone, loved seeing his thick, heavy cock stretch the material as he walked and show, for all of them to watch, how he felt about looking like this, being this way, what he was becoming. If he could, he would fuck himself in front of them all. As it was, he’d just, finally, reached the point where he could suck himself off, though not dry, never dry. There was so much cum in him he could never go dry. Sometimes he would get hormone rushes, maybe three or four times a day. They would hit him like a big lungful of poppers, making him throw his head back and grip his chair, or just stop still and tense, and he’d be flooded with an orgasmic tide of overpowering maleness, a mental and physical sensation of intense waves of a masculine sexuality that would grip him from head to toe, like a two or three minute climax, deeply internal and sublimely erotic. He would lean back in his chair, look at his huge, bulging meat boning up, throw a big stretch that became a double biceps flex, and wish so much that he could have another shot, amp up the feelings even more, and then fuck himself, hard, right in his office.

Matthew’s desk phone rang with the intercom light. He picked it up.

“Are you a fuckin’ LG muscle fag, or what, man?”

Matthew wheeled around in his chair to see Ian standing behind his desk, grinning, leering at him, his cock lying almost sideways across his leg, but so heavy and big that it was pointing down his thigh at a forty-five degree angle, the huge head sticking out to the side right about where the flair of his massive outer quad began to recurve in toward his knee. He licked his lip, felt up his heavy, overhanging pec through the thin, ribbed material of his T. Everyone nearby could see him through the windows of his office, and everyone knew that Matthew had been moved to his new position to service the god who also happened to be his buddy. The fact that everyone knew made Matthew’s cock instantly swell with hot throbbing desire. There was something so deliciously hot about how out in the open it all was now. Matthew himself could have anyone he wanted, and he knew it. He’d started the fast track, too, and was only somewhat less a paragon of masculine sexuality and muscle than Ian himself. But being treated as Ian’s toy in front of everyone carried an excitement with it that made the others jealous and gave Matthew a thrill that got him hard every time in an instant.

“Fuck, yeah, man. I’m a total LG muscle fag. Why, you want my hot, young ass, you fucking muscle queer? You queer for my hot muscle?”

“Yeah, fucker, I’m queer for any muscle, but yours’ll do for now, slutboy. Get in here.”

Matthew hung up the phone. Everyone was watching. He stood up, his dick stretching the material of his shorts out past his hip. He looked around quickly and smiled a nasty little eat-your-hearts-out smile, and turned to go into Ian’s office. His shorts rode tight up his ass crack, tight on his high, perfect glutes, low on his hips. Past junior bodybuilder in stature, not quite heavyweight yet, a week behind Ian on the fast track, his retreating body looked, from behind, like a perfection to be envied, if so many others weren’t right along with him, setting a new standard, not just of male beauty—that would be Ian’s role—but of just how guys looked now, in this new, rapidly evolving world.

Ian shut the door, closed the blinds, and turned to Matthew.

“Fuck, man. You looked so hot sitting out there, man. All I could think about was feeling your body, bro, touching your muscle, fucking your ass.” He jerked Matthew’s shirt over his head. “You fuckin love this, too, don’t you. I can’t fuckin’ think about anything else, man. It’s like being totally addicted again, but I don’t want to quit. I want more.” As he talked, he continued to strip Matthew, pulling down his shorts, going to his knees to pull off his shoes, pull them over his feet, and then back up to grab Matthew’s ass and pull his groin toward him, burying his face in Matthew’s thick bush, smelling his maleness, running the length of his throbbing, hard rod with both his teeth and his tongue until he heard Matthew sucking in air is spasmodic gulps. “Yeah,” he said, pulling off Matthew’s cockhead with a loud sucking pop, “I know you fucking love this, too.”

“Yeah,” Matthew said. “Fuck yeah I love it. I know what you mean. Come ‘ere.” He pulled Ian to his feet by grabbing his T and lifting him with it as he pulled it off over his head, forcing his arms up, too, which he greedily licked from the thickly hairy pits out to the swells of biceps muscle.

“Fuckin’ muscle pig, man. Total queer boy,” Ian said when Matthew pulled off his tights, letting his rod free to spring totally hard and rise past parallel to the floor, despite its amazing weight.

“Yeah I am, man.” Matthew darted toward Ian’s face, bit his lip as he grabbed a kiss. “Total.” He squeezed the swollen head of Ian’s cock. Smiled.

“Takes one to know one.”

“Fuck yeah.” Ian grabbed the short hair on the back of Matthew’s head and pulled it back, hard, sucked at his neck like a vampire.

Matthew pushed Ian backward until he hit the leather sofa, then he pushed him back, the toy playing with the man, until Ian was prone on his back. Then Matthew held Ian’s cock, spread the copious precum and his own saliva over it, and backed himself onto it until it pushed at the tight but amazingly expandable fuckhole between his grabbing muscle cheeks.

“This what you want, Sir?”

“Yeah, fag, you know I do.”

“You like my muscle, Mr. God, Sir?”

“Fuck yeah, boy.”

“Are you the hottest most handsome muscle god on the planet, Sir?”

“What do you think, slutboy?”

“I love when you call me slutboy. Total fuckin’ muscle whore for you, dude. Yeah, I think you are. You’re fuckin’ gorgeous.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’m gonna be more gorgeous when I’m big as Jarrod. You like that, slutboy?”

“Fuck yeah, Sir. I wish I could give you the shots myself. But I’m only a week behind you, Sir. Gonna be a huge muscleslut, then, man. You like that?”

“Yeah.”

“You want my ass, Sir? Right here, right now?”

Fuck yeah, slutboy, right here in my office, like the total whore you are. Show me that muscle.”

“Fuck yeah, Sir.”

Matthew flexed up both arms, pulled the muscle tight, and, with arms and chest quivering from the effort, feeling the power of his own mass, the raw sexuality of his formula-inflated size, he sank onto Ian’s cock, slowly, feeling each inch enter him until he could feel Ian inside his chest, behind his thick, hard pecs. He had to nearly stand to lift himself up enough to let Ian’s cockhead rim pop out past his grasping sphincter again, then sink to the squat, and up and down in faster and faster squats until they were both in a muscular, rhythmic, gymnastic sex-dance that would have worn down lesser men, until Ian finally exploded inside Matthew’s belly and Matthew spontaneous ejaculated onto Ian’s thickly muscled, hairy torso and face.

“Ah. Ah. Ah,” they shouted as the climax came and was spent, no thought given to the listening ears outside the office.

Outside, work stopped, and cocks went hard, cunts moist at the sounds of Ian, the god, and his muscle hunk toy getting off as they did often, every day. There was not a person in the office who would not have changed places with either of them. Soon after, while Ian and Matthew were cleaning up with one of the towels Ian kept in a cabinet, several guys disappeared into the bathroom stalls, some alone, some in pairs, to relieve their own needs, stimulated by the top stimulator in the company.

Ian felt, as he sent Matthew back to his desk and surveyed the roomful of eyes staring with envy and lust at his face, his body, his crotch, that he had truly become the master of his domain. He knew he could get away with fucking anything because he was the man, the cover model, the top dawg, the alpha among alpha males. He was all about his sexuality and everyone knew it and loved him for it, wished they could be him. He knew they all knew he’d just fucked the shit out of Matthew, and it was somehow totally cool. More than cool. He could have anyone here. He could pull off his shorts and jack off and they’d love the show. They’d cum watching him. They stare at his crotch anyway, look to see how big his cock is, watch to see him bone up when he turns himself on by walking or realizing that someone is looking. Turning them on turned him on. They’d probably love to have watched him fuck Matthew. They’d probably love to watch him fuck anyone.

Just then, the new mailroom boy appeared at the back of the large room full of desks carrying a load of interoffice envelopes and memos. He was young, very much younger than Matthew had been, probably only about sixteen or seventeen. He’d started a week before, when Matthew had been brought up to his new position, and it was obvious that he was also a new guy in the program. He wore the LG look as a proud young newbie, tight, buff, hung, and showing it all off for the first time. He wasn’t long in the program, but already Ian saw that his musculature had thickened noticeably, his beard shadow had grown much heavier and fuller since he’d started, his maleness quotient, his raw masculinity, had begun to increase, and he was starting to walk the walk. He glanced at Ian staring at him, and the attention caught him off-guard. He looked back at Ian for a moment, and when he went back to dropping envelops on various desks, glancing at Ian from time to time to see if he was still watching him, Ian’s attention to him caused the inevitable stiffening of his dick. He’d had enough of the formula that he was not shy or embarrassed by his growing erection, and he let Ian see that.

Matthew, sitting at his desk by Ian’s door where Ian was standing, saw what was happening, the look in Ian’s eye, and smiled.

“He’s a pretty one, isn’t he?” he whispered up to Ian.

“Uh huh.”

The boy moved closer to Ian’s office in his deliveries until he was standing in front of Ian. He’d boned up completely, and, seeing the effect he had on the kid, Ian had boned up as well, standing at his door, feeling his cock once again stretching the material of his tights, pushing out to the side of his leg below his hip, everyone looking, everyone feeling the sex in the air. Ian, most of all, felt it. He was driven by it. Obsessed. His addiction had him by the throat, like a savage lover that he desired with all his being. He wanted this kid, not just because he was hot and fresh and new and pretty, but because Ian could have anyone, anywhere, and they would all love to see him do it. He was pure sex.

“Mr. Larkin,” the boy interrupted his reverie, handing him an envelope.

Ian took it and set it down on Matthew’s desk without looking at it.

“Thanks. What’s your name?”

“Jeffrey.”

“Well, Jeffrey, I see you’re in the program. You must be enjoying it. It looks like you are,” he said with a nod toward the boy’s boner.

“Yes, sir. I am.”

“You must have had to get your parents’ permission. How old are you?”

“Sixteen, sir. Yes, I did, but my dad’s doing it too, and so’s my little brother.”

“Really?” Ian said. “You’ll have to tell me about them sometime. So, Jeffrey, are you looking forward to becoming a big muscle guy, getting hairy, seeing that stuff down there grow?”

Ian spoke as casually as if they were alone, but Jeffrey looked around, noticing that everyone was listening. But he couldn’t turn away from someone like Ian.

“Well, yes sir, I am.”

“Looks like you’re getting a good start. You’re a very good looking young man. You’re wearing that new muscle very well.” The boy grinned and flushed, and Ian went on. “Heavy beard for a sixteen-year-old. Oh, some hairs starting to climb out the neck of that T shirt. Now that’s very hot on a young guy like you, don’t you think? And such a nice, thick trail your growing down there.” Ian pointed at the inches of dark hair converging in an unbroken line from the bottom of the boy’s tight T, a couple inches above his navel, down into the waistband of his gray, skintight shorts, worn so fashionably low that a few dark pubic hairs climbed out and spilled over. “Oh, no. Look. You’re getting a spot there on your shorts. Maybe I can help you with that. I have a special place in my, uh, heart for mailroom guys.”

He winked at Matthew, who was watching the show with a grin.

“Well, I, uh. . .”

“You’re not still shy, are you? Usually one taste of the magic, and that all goes away.”

“Well, not really, but . . .” He looked around at everyone watching, listening, and his dick got harder.

“Good, then, here,” Ian reached right into the guy’s shorts, “let’s just get that out where it won’t stain your shorts. Matthew, would you go get us a clean towel?”

The boy gulped but no attempt to move away. Matthew’s smile changed to a look of surprise, but he did as he was asked. The others around the room watched wide eyed. Ian was aware of the looks, the stares, the common held breath. How far would he take this? He wanted to push it. He needed to. He was getting a rush that made him almost high. He pulled the kid’s cock out of his shorts, pushing the already low waistband down. Then he did the same to himself. He let his own foot-long cock bounce for all of them to see. They always wanted to see it. Well, here it was. He took the towel from Matthew and held it under both their hard cocks, but didn’t hold onto the boy’s, or even his own. He just stood there, enjoying everyone watching, enjoying his overpowering sexuality, while the kid stood not knowing what to do, his hard-on out there for all to see, bouncing, jerking with the inevitable arousal the attention was causing, and his proximity, in such a way, with the handsome musclegod, Ian Larkin. Ian relished the moment.

“Don’t worry kid. I’m not going to molest you. Just letting you be free. Go ahead. I know you need to shoot. I’ll shoot with you. Aww, yeah, don’t you feel it? Here is comes.”

Just as Ian began to spurt into the towel, the kid, with an expression that mixed shock and relief, let his own climax come and, as he came into the towel along with Ian, smiled the smile of one very proud young guy.

When they finished, and both used the towel to wipe up, and pulled their clothes back up, Ian grinned and slapped Jeffrey on the shoulder. Loud enough for the room to hear, he said, “I bet you thought . . . Well, never mind. Welcome aboard, Jeffrey.”

Later that week, though he’d only skirted dangerously near taking public advantage of an underage guy, the higher ups in the company thought it might be best if Ian spent some time away, amongst the others like himself, undergoing the radical fast-track transformation, at least until he adjusted to himself and found a way to channel his excessive erotic energy.

“They want you to go to the campus and finish out your treatment. It’s probably a good idea. We’re finding out some stuff with you we didn’t totally expect. Like just how powerful the changes are, how they can overwhelm you, push you toward some behavior . . . well, let’s just say that an adjustment period might be a good thing. And we can all mutually benefit. The program is ready for some outreach, some sales, and you can help us with that.”

“Just give me the fuckin’ shot, Troy. I’ll do whatever you guys want.”

Part 9: Studmaker

Troy couldn’t complain about having a boring job or a bad life. The Littleman’s project had propelled him into a life beyond his wildest fantasies. He’d become the kind of muscleman that he used to see on the internet in those fantasy morphed pictures of young guys with muscles to shame a pro heavyweight bodybuilder, perfect masculine pattern body hair, and a cock and pair of balls that still seemed like fantasy to him. After that taste of what he’d be dishing out, he’d become his own fantasy, and getting used to feeling like that, living inside that body, while he grew accustomed to living with it, was something that could never become just routine. Every moment of every day, walking, sitting, interviewing a new patient to start the treatment, seeing their eyes when they saw him, the mass of his body, the pure masculine sexuality of his bulk, the size of his organs displayed in material designed to display, he teetered on the edge of orgasm.

He gave Ian the shot he’d begged for, and, when Ian was flying out of his brain with the erotic rush that followed, he’d driven him out to the campus and set him up in one of the dorms with some of the LGs who spent most of their time there. Six guys to a dorm, and even though Ian was the size of a pro bodybuilder, he was far from the biggest guy there. Even Troy, after that night and the unexpectedly big dose he’d been given, had quickly grown more massive than Ian. But some of these guys were ten years younger than Ian and bigger than Troy, as big as Jarrod, easily seventy-five pounds heavier than Ian.

But Troy left Ian to learn the ropes of being one of the “inside” LGs. He’d done the catalog, become a star, but he still had to learn to hit the road, as they said, represent the company to groups of men interested in the treatment, wanting to see and learn more about it firsthand. A request would come in saying so-and-so was interested in participating in the treatment, possibly requiring it of their employees, partners, whatever, and they’d heard that for a (large) fee, one of the LGs would be sent to show them firsthand, up close and personal, the effects of the formula, even giving out a small trial to sample how it felt. Troy loved doing this, and it excited him to know Ian would be out there, dishing out the formula in the “small taste” version, easily transported in a dropper vial, a couple drops per man to send them into sexual hyperdrive. The “seminar” would turn quickly into something more like a satyrs’ orgy than a business meeting. Inhibitions, fears, reservations would immediately dissolve as they would understand completely the nature of the LGs’ intense eroticism, no need to question further the attraction of massive maleness, and an evening of intimate contact would inevitably inspire them to go for the full treatment.

Troy really loved this newer dilute version of the formula. Not that the full treatment on a guy wasn’t the most godlike thing he did. Meeting each new guy was a thrill, picturing how the guy would change. But a couple drops from a small vial he could carry anywhere—tasteless, odorless, and easily slipped into a glass of water, a beer, a coke, or just dropped on a willing tongue—well, it was a new kind of thrill. Instant seduction, as if he or any of the guys needed it. But it did have its uses, and sometimes, slipping it to a guy, overcoming a bit of reticence, or just for the fun of it, to party, to amp his own drive a bit while he turned some unsuspecting dude into a feverishly turned on, instantly homosexual, muscle starved sexpig was just so hot.

Walking down the street during a huge Fourth of July celebration, seeing a young, maybe twenty-year-old security guy all pumped up, obviously juiced up, eying him, and stopping, saying, “Hey, Roidboy. How big are those, guns, dude?

Lookin’ pretty buff,” the guy saying proudly, “Almost nineteen, man, but nothing like you got,” and saying to the kid, “Give me your water a sec. See if you like what this feels like, and if you do, come by after. I’ll be there with some buds,” putting a couple drops in the water, handing him a card, and walking on . . . knowing the kid would come by later, horned to the max and in extreme need for muscle, big muscle, and big, LG cock.

“Dude,” the kid says when he shows up a few hours later as Troy knew he would, standing at the door in his security T-shirt pulled tight across his roided pecs, shoulders, arms, his shorts, made loose, but hugging tight on his roided butt and thighs and tented by his persistent, insistent hard-on, “what the fuck was that you gave me, man? It was some of that formula, wasn’t it? Fuck, man,” he babbled on, not stopping for answers, staring at Troy and the three other massed up buddies sitting around the living room naked, sporting boned cocks anywhere from fifteen to eighteen veiny, thick inches, all watching, smiling, “I’m no homo, but I got so horned I couldn’t stop myself from boning up, man, all night after you left. I thought I was gonna cum in my pants, man, and I just kept thinking about muscles. My muscles, dude. I fuckin’ love my muscles, man. I want to get big like you, man. Bigger. I want the treatment.

I want to do it.”

He did. A couple more drops on his eager tongue, and there was no turning back.

And so did so many others. In a way, Troy thanked Ian’s addictive personality for forcing the company’s hand on fine-tuning both the fast-track treatment, which had almost totally replaced the old method of the two six-month cycles, and the dilute tasting version. As the treatment evolved, so did its uses. The tasting version, developed as a sales tool to get new guys into the treatment program, became a party drug as the program and the Littleman’s look became more and more the accepted, desired look and way to be. The age range widened and it skipped across countries and classes. Soon, the company, realizing how pervasive their success was becoming, unleashed the ultimate winning card. Their PR machine, headed, of course, by Mister Magnificent, Ian Larkin himself, began to spread the word that this treatment, and its corresponding treatment of women—creating beautiful creatures of extreme femininity who became obsessively interested in pleasing the needs of each other to the exclusion of the muscled men who only satisfied each other as well—this whole process was, in fact, the answer to the unanswerable question of how to stop the overpopulation of the planet and, thus, conserve its resources and allow the human race to exist into the future. It would be a different future. Men would no longer be able to have intercourse with women, whose vaginal openings would have tightened correspondingly as the men’s genitals grew, making copulation impossible. Artificial insemination, carefully controlled, would be the only means of reproduction.

But none of that mattered to the guys who were going to offer themselves up for morphing into the totally, outrageously hot dudes that were showing up everywhere. All that mattered was getting the look, growing massive bodies, huge, thick muscle jock bodies, with cocks and balls of mammoth size on full display, free to bone up at the mere sight of each other, unable not to, so strong was the erotic charge they gave off. Young guys, older guys, they all swaggered with the walk of the massive muscledude, all dominated by the pull of the heavy packages of their bulging baskets, all raw male sexuality proudly, unashamedly looking for mutual satisfaction.

“So your dad and mom sent you in?” Troy asked the very young guy slouched in the chair before his desk.

“Yeah,” the kid said. “They’re both doing it, and they said now that I was fourteen and starting to show the signs of puberty, it was time I had to do it. Me and my little brother, too. He’s a year and a half younger, but he got some pubes already, so they think he should, too.”

“You don’t sound like you’re very excited about it, uh,” Troy looked down at the official permission paper the kid had handed him, “Charles. They call you Charles?”

“Scooter.”

“Okay, Scooter. Well, I know it’s a big step but . . .”

The boy shifted in his seat, letting his unbuttoned shirt fall open, showing a few fine hairs below his navel. “Dude,” he interrupted. “I totally want to do it. I talked my dad into it. I even showed him my pubes so he’d let me. I said, ‘you don’t want me screwin’ some girl, gettin’ her pregnant do you? I’m gettin’ pretty horny all the time.’ So he decided it was time, and then I said the same thing about Davy, told him he was gettin’ some pubes already. I can’t wait to hulk out with Davy, Doctor Troy.”

“Well, then,” Troy said, standing up and motioning toward the paper-covered leather exam table, “why don’t we just get you started.”

His cock projected sideways pushing the material of his shorts out its full sixteen inches. Scooter looked at as he stood up.

“Wow,” he said, “is my dick gonna get like that?”

“Bigger,” Troy said. “Now why don’t you just take off those shorts?”

The boy stripped the lower half of his body and jumped up onto the table, his small, immature dick already hard and pointing straight up.

“This is gonna hurt, isn’t it?”

“You’ll get through it. Deep breath.” As he injected the boy’s balls, the boy squirmed and yelped and groaned, but he watched the process with relish. When he’d finished, Troy added, “Next time you’ll be looking forward to that feeling.”

“Can I put my clothes back on now?”

“Why don’t you wait just a minute. There’s usually a pretty quick reaction to the shots. Best if you have it here and not in the elevator.”

“Oh, my God,” Scooter put his head back and clenched his teeth. His whole body went into a sort of contraction. “Oh, God,” he spread his legs and grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself. “I see what you mean, doc. Holy shit. I feel like I’m . . . I’m gonna . . . Oh, shit, I can’t help it . . .”

“That’s fine, Scooter,” Troy said, “happens all the time. Just let it go. You couldn’t stop it anyway. Here.”

He handed the boy a towel just as he started to spurt, and the boy looked at his cock in total surprise as it shot streams of warm cream into the air, more than he’d ever shot jacking off. Scooter just watched as he came and came until his legs and groin were covered, the faint ring of fine pubic hairs that surrounded the base of his cock were plastered down, and drops slid over the edge of the table and into pools on the floor.

“Okay, Scooter. Clean up and get dressed,” Troy turned back to the desk, glanced at the schedule. “I’ll see you next week. Enjoy it. Why don’t you send in Davy? And by the way, tell your dad hi for me.”

“Okay, I will. You know my dad pretty well?”

“Oh, yeah. Pretty well.”

Over the next couple of weeks, Troy imagined the two boys sharing the experience together, and, had he been able to see into their rooms at home, would have seen just how accurate his imagination was. They both, fourteen year old and twelve year old, began to mature quickly, jetting through puberty, their voices changing, their soft young faces growing more angular as facial fuzz became darker and soon had to be shaved daily as it spread into full beard shadows. They grew taller, achieving adult height in only a couple of weeks. Their body hair grew into their pubic regions, their armpits, their legs, then their arms, and soon began to sprout on their chests and stomachs, which were rapidly defining, tightening, swelling with hard, cut muscle. And, daily, they compared the sizes of their genitals, giddy with the excitement of their new sexuality, hardly able to wait for the point when they would feel they were too big to fit inside a girl. But by design of the amazing formula, they could fit inside each other, and it didn’t matter that they kept getting bigger. They could always fit, which they confirmed as many times a day, in the morning before school, after they got home, after dinner, as they possibly could.

The little boy, Davy, looked like a bulked up high school guy and Scooter like an even more bulked up high school guy, almost moving toward the bodybuilder look, both unmistakably Littleman’s guys. They’d just had their second treatments, and their dad, Jake, was on the table getting his fourth treatment, when he invited Troy to his country club.

“You’ll be amazed,” he said. “They’ll love you. You gotta see how it is now. Marsha wants you to come, too. She’s invited her doctor, and she couldn’t believe what it’s like now. You guys get all wrapped up in your offices and the program and all and hardly see the real world out there. Come on, Troy. I guarantee a good time.”

He stood up, naked, pressing his fourteen inch cock into Troy’s boned crotch, kissing him hard, deep, holding the back of his head until they had to break for air.

“Okay, I’ll come.”

“More than once, I promise. Great.”

Poolside at the country club confirmed for Troy how completely he and the others were changing the world. Scooter and Davy were there, of course, cavorting with their buddies, all of them wearing the most minuscule trunks that they could get, proudly parading their bulges, showing the hair that was sprouting on their muscular bodies, their play the overtly sexual teasing of young guys not trying to pretend that they were not turning each other on, and that, when they wanted, they could, and would, disappear to satisfy their cravings. Their parents watched them just as proudly. The dads, the college age guys, even the geezers, although it was impossible to tell really who was old, all wore the ultra-brief swimwear that had replaced the long loose trunks of just a year or two before. Likewise, the women wore bikinis that barely covered their nipples and their nether regions. Family units remained family units, but the men openly eyed each other, boned over each other’s muscular bodies, even as they chatted by the pool, cocktails in hand, and their wives or female friends nearby eying each other, caring not at all about the hunks flexing for each other, any more than the men cared that their women flaunted their curvaceous bodies, their voluptuous breasts.

“Look at our boy, Scooter,” Troy heard Jake’s wife Marsha say, “Isn’t he just looking beautiful? And his brother, Davy, is only twelve. Can you believe it? Only twelve. Look at him. Look at all the hair on those pecs he’s getting.”

“Just like his old man,” Jake joked, flexing a twenty-one inch arm.

“Oh, stop, Jake,” Marsh laughed, “as if your big muscles can turn me on anymore. Or your big anything.” She patted the huge sausage in his tiny trunks. “Now why don’t you show your doctor friend here some Five Oaks hospitality. I know you boys can’t go longer than an hour without getting those big rocks off, anyway. Why don’t you show him the men’s lounge?”

Jake led Troy past others talking, drinking, teasing, inside to a large comfortable room with a bar, television sets playing various videos of LGs in assorted configurations and positions of flexing and fucking, and club members, most of them familiar, former patients, in the same positions on the various sofas and easy chairs, flexing for each other, sliding their poles into each other at one end or the other, hands all over bodies, mouths engulfing mouths, muscles, and cocks. He got them each a drink at the bar. The bartender, wearing only some very small, very tight hot shorts, was enormous and gorgeous, with flashing eyes and pearly teeth, and when he poured the drinks, he raised his eyebrows to Jake in a wordless question, to which Jake answered, “Sure, why not.” The bartender took a small vial from under the bar and measured two drops from it into each drink. Troy was getting a taste of his own medicine and he liked it . . . a lot.

Sipping was obviously out of the question, as Jake threw back his drink, and Troy did the same.

“I love what you’re doing to my boys,” Jake said.

Troy was already flying, like mainlining straight, concentrated testosterone poppers. But he waited. This wasn’t his party, or his club.

“And to me,” Jake said, feeling the mass of his own pecs.

“He’s the man, Jake,” some guy said from some sofa.

“Yeah, the studmaker. Do him, Jake.”

“See, doc? I told you they’d love you.”

Jake put his mouth over Troy’s, and Troy submitted to being worshipped for what he’d done, what he was doing. Other mouths joined Jake’s, and other hands, and in an instant he was naked, flexing, every inch of him being teased, touched, tickled, tantalized, until he felt himself being lowered onto a sofa, a huge cock, Jake’s, sliding into him, as some familiar musclegod sat down on Troy’s own throbbing meat, the guy’s cock slapping against his face. Hands groped his pecs, his arms, mouths explored his armpits, his legs, his neck, as the rhythm of fucking slowing took over and he felt himself as part of an organic whole, a whole made of hypermasculine scent and feel, of muscle and hair and balls and cocks and rough, hard jaws with soft full lips, together, moving, faster, heaving, bucking toward orgasm.

Troy had never felt more like a god, or maybe like Doctor Frankenstein, if his experiment had been a rousing success rather that the failure that poor Mary Shelley had written about. But god or studmaker, Troy had his work to keep his feet on the ground, and each new face that came through his door was another adventure into the ultimate erotic thrill. Each one would come in a regular guy, expectant, nervous, and Troy would bone up thinking about how they would change, how they would feel.

Some were more exciting than others, when they first came in to start the treatment, anyway. Ian Larkin was one of those. Beautiful to begin, stunning as he developed. Even a homely guy, a skinny geek, a fat slob, an old saggy man, would soon tighten, grow younger, or, if a boy, older, reach their ideal physical age, drop any bodyfat, find their features changed to create a certain handsomeness that projected the intense masculinity that marked the new man. But now and then, he’d get one through his door that would make his heart speed up thinking of how he would look changed, being already so handsome that Troy would instantly bone and have to resist the desire to jump the guy before he’d even given him his first shots.

This guy walked in wearing a white wifebeater and a pair of 501 Levis, and he was a stunner, right out of an old TV commercial, masculine, handsome, confident, no qualms about doing this. He spoke all that without saying a word. Troy smiled, introduced himself, and felt his hardening cock stretching his shorts as he shook the guy’s hand.

The guy glanced at Troy’s bone, then looked up with a crooked, cocky, confident smile, and said, “Cory. Cory Callahan.”


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