A deep, pulsing rhythm that pounds into my skull. A beat that I'd been listening to for weeks now. It helped me focus. It helped motivate me in the gym. I needed it, ya know? Though it feels kinda...cold in here. Am I...did I come to the gym in only a thong?
Dumdum-dumdum-dududumdum
I should feel...some sort of shame. Anyone would. But...then again...there wasn't really a reason not to show off his body, right? I had worked so hard for this after all. Months of relentless hard work to get his body pumped and beefy. I had to. After all I...I wanted to...why did I want to...?
Dumdum-dumdum-dududumdum
Fuck...with this loud music, it's hard to think anything cogent. It was difficult to focus when...focus on...focus...focus...I needed to focus. After all, these arms weren't going to pump themselves, right?
Dumdum-dumdum-dududumdum
My arms swell as I do standing bicep curls. Muscles swell as I bend my arms. Though I can't pay attention to them when my arms feel this good. I can feel my heart beating faster, my breath shudder. How many reps am I doing? Fuck, I lost count...forget it. I'll just lift to failure. Once I finished that set after...well I dunno how long, I just let the dumbbells fall to the floor with a loud thud thud against the carpet.
I finally noticed the figure standing in the mirror, eyes finally focusing on something. I barely recognized what I saw. Who was this man? He looks...familiar. Like someone I used to know. Someone who looks real...gooood. Just looking at him makes me hard...
Dumdum-dumdum-dududumdum
It didn't take long to set up the bench press, loading 400 onto the bar. Admittedly, I'd never lifted that much before. But I just...somehow knew that I could. I lay on the bench, gripping the bar tight. I can hear my voice come out as a low, almost animal groaning. My upper body shudders, but I lift it. My movements are controlled and slow, bringing it down to my pecs and then pushing up with enormous effort. My chest bulges as I lift it to its peak...then go for another rep. And another. And another.
Dumdum-dumdum-dududumdum
It feels good. The burn. The strain. The struggle. The pump. Everything sending waves of pleasure from my straining pectorals to my pulsing cock. It feels so fucking good, like I'm about to explode. After eight reps, I finally rack the bar.
I stare down at my body, gasping for breath, sweat glistening. Was this my own body? It seemed impossible. Last I remembered--
Dumdum-dumdum-dududumdum
Last...I...remembered...
Dumdum-dumdum-dududumdum
Who...am...
Dumdum-dumdum-dududumdum
Good...feel so good....every beat...feels so fucking... can't...stop...I...cu...cum...CUM...AAAAAAAAAGH.........
He...hehehe...hugh...aaaaa...master...? Yes....yes I listen...just like master...asked...lifting feel...good...music feel...good...want to make...master feel good...aaaaaaaah
The stage lights burn hot against my oiled skin as I saunter out, the bass thumping through my chest like a second heartbeat. I’ve grown myself from years of iron and discipline. Every ridge of my arms, every swollen curve of my glutes sculpted to perfection...yet here, in this place, I’m nothing but prime beef on display. I can feel the crowd’s eyes rake over me, starving wolves circling a fresh carcass, and knowing that they want to tear into me, to feast on every inch, sends a shiver racing down my spine. My black thong strains painfully against the thick length throbbing beneath it, already leaking, already begging for their attention before I’ve even started.
I dance and flex to the music, showing off the quality of my huge, meaty body. The stage lights show off the way my sweat makes my bulging muscles glisten. My musk wafts off of me, causing the audience to salivate at my presence. I smirk. That poor guy is literally drooling.
I turn my back to them, planting my feet wide, and slowly peel my tiny shorts down just enough to bare the beefy swell of my ass. The cool air kisses the cleft, but it’s their collective murmurs and cheers that set me ablaze. I arch, presenting those twin globes like a butcher proudly showing off the choicest cut; round, dense, marbled with strength. Their hungry mumblings roll over me in waves. I can almost feel teeth grazing the flesh, tongues lapping at the sweat-slick valleys.
I flex hard, every fiber popping under the spotlight, traps rising like mountains, hamstrings knotting into steel cables. The tips rain onto the stage. Crumpled bills sticking to my calves and my thighs, each one a bid to taste me, and I grind back against the invisible mouths. I’m panting now, tongue lolling like a beast in heat, every exhale a low, animal sound that only makes them hungrier.
They want to sink their teeth in, sweat like sauce as they mindlessly moan over my flavor. The thought alone makes me shiver. I reach back, gripping one cheek and spreading it wide, offering the shadowed center like the tenderest morsel on the plate. My cock jumps visibly against the pouch, smearing pre-cum in dark patches, and I growl low enough for the front row to hear. Let them look. Let them starve a little longer. I’m the feast they’ll never stop craving.
I’m just meat tonight, glistening and ready, and fuck if that doesn’t feel like the most powerful thing in the world.
You remember how small you used to be. Skinny arms that trembled under the weight of an empty barbell. A flat chest you hid under oversized hoodies. A body so unimpressive that even mirrors seemed to lose your reflection in a crowded gym.
And then, I found you.
I promised you everything you’d ever dreamed. Size, strength, power...I could provide all of that. All I asked in return was obedience. Simple, right? You nodded so eagerly, thinking it meant early mornings, protein shakes, progressive overload, maybe a few humiliating selfies in the gym locker room for my approval. You were wrong.
The “training” never involved weights. It involved surrender. Day after day, you were broken down bit by bit. By my resonant voice, my possessive hands, my commanding gaze; Rewiring every synapse until resistance became physiologically impossible. You fought at the beginning. Cute little whimpers of “but I thought--!” and “wait, Master, that’s not--” until even forming full sentences felt too heavy for your softening mind.
Now look at you. Sprawled across my couch like a living trophy. Those once-narrow shoulders have ballooned into a thick, wide frame. Your pecs are so full and heavy they sag slightly when relaxed, nipples permanently puffy and firm from constant handling. Your arms, so strong and powerful, rest uselessly at your sides, unable to move without permission. Every inch of skin glistens with the sweat of perpetual low grade arousal. And between those tree trunk thighs, the white thong I make you wear is stretched obscenely, the fabric translucent where you’ve been leaking for hours.
You don’t even speak in words anymore. Just sounds. Soft, needy grunts when my palm settles on your chest. A long, broken whine when I drag a single fingertip down the center of your abs and watch every muscle jump and twitch like being shocked. A deep, animal rumble when I cup the fat, oversensitive mound between your legs and simply hold it...until your hips buck helplessly and drool slides from the corner of your open mouth.
You’re empty now. Beautifully, perfectly empty.
No bills. No deadlines. No decisions. No thoughts more complicated than how to please me. Your entire universe has shrunk to the heat of my body above you, the weight of my forearm pressed against your throat just enough to remind you who owns the air in your lungs, the slow grind of my hips against the soaked cotton that barely contains you anymore.
You used to beg to be big. Now you’re big, and you can’t even remember why you wanted it. All you know is that muscle means pleasure. Surrender is love.
I lean down, lips brushing against your ear. “You’re drooling again, pet.” A thick string of spit slides from your slack mouth onto your own pec. You don’t wipe it away. You can’t. I haven't told you what to do after all. I drag my finger along your sensitive nipple, causing you to quake. “Good boy.” Your whole body jolts at the praise. Back arching, thighs spreading wider on instinct, a long, shuddering moan vibrating through your ribcage. The front of your briefs darkens further. You’re not even hard anymore in the conventional sense; you’re just…always leaking. Always ready. A dumb, dripping faucet tuned only to my voice.
I roughly stroke you through your damp thong. Your breath hitches, high and pathetic. I don't even move with any urgency. My movements are slow and firm. Your eyes roll back. Mouth falls open wider. Hips jerk once, twice, then lock in a trembling bridge as you cum, thick globs filling the inside as they leak through the cloth. I can see your eyes, glassy and unfocused, grunting like a mindless ape. When it’s over you collapse, chest heaving, eyes glazed over. Your drool drips off your chin.
I cradle your jaw, thumb tracing along the edge of your mouth. “Who do you belong to?”
A low, wrecked sound crawls out of your throat. Not words. Just agreement. Surrender. Worship.
I smile. “That’s right.” I wrap my arms possessively around you. “You don’t have to think anymore,” I murmur against your temple. “You don’t have to want. You just have to feel. And leak. And serve.”
Your head lolls toward me, seeking my neck, my scent, my pulse. A soft, mindless nuzzle. A contented grunt.
The garage door is down, with the only light coming from that single flickering bulb overhead. It's late, 2 AM maybe? You couldn't tell. Time stopped mattering somewhere between your last set of preacher curls and the moment you peeled off your soaked tank top, letting it drop to the rubber mats with a wet flop.
You’re sitting on the edge of the bench now, thick legs spread wide, elbows on your knees, head bowed like you’re praying. Except you’re not. You’re breathing in, deep and slow.
Your own scent hits you first; sharp, salty, animal. Not the clean gym smell of metal and rubber. It's hours of pushing iron, grunting through reps, sweat rolling down the deep cleave between your pecs, soaking the waistband of your shorts until the fabric clings. It’s you, concentrated. Potent. Fucking intoxicating.
You lift your right arm without thinking, massive bicep swelling toward your face. The muscle is still pumped, veins thick under sweat-slick skin. You press your nose right into the crook of your elbow, right where the bicep meets the forearm. You inhale so deep your lungs burn.
“Fuck,” you mutter, voice low and wrecked. It’s filthy. It’s perfect. Your tongue flicks out almost on instinct. Broad, flat, dragging slow along the inner curve of your bicep. Rank salt smears across your taste buds. Hot skin, slick sweat, a faint metallic tang. You groan, eyes fluttering shut. You lick again, longer this time, lapping up the sheen that’s been building there all night. Every stripe you take makes your cock twitch harder against your tight shorts, already leaking enough to darken the front.
You switch arms. Left this time. Bigger pump on that side tonight. You bury your face in it, nose pressed against the swollen peak, huffing like you’re trying to get high off yourself. Your free hand drifts down, palm flat against your abs, fingers tracing the slick ridges, collecting sweat just to smear it back up toward your chest. You’re painting yourself with your own musk and you love it.
Minutes pass.
Or hours.
You actually don’t know. You don’t really care.
You’re rocking gently now, hips shifting, bulging legs flexing and releasing as you keep your panting slow and deep. The smell is overwhelming, raw and ripe, like sex and power all at once. Your cock throbs painfully, trapped, untouched, but you don’t reach for it yet. Not yet. You want to drown in this first.
Another long, greedy lick up the underside of your bicep. Another deep inhale that makes your head spin. Your pecs flex involuntarily, nipples hard and aching against nothing but air. Sweat drips from your brow, rolls down the side of your face, and you catch it with your tongue when it reaches your lip. It's sweltering in here just through your own body heat.
You’re leaking so much now the head of your dick is slick against the inside of your shorts, sliding with every tiny rock of your hips. You can feel how swollen your balls are, heavy and full, pressing against the seam.
Still, you don’t touch. You just sit there, huge and glistening and stupid with lust, worshipping the animal stink and taste of your own body like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.
And maybe, right now, it is. You could stay like this forever, lost in your own musk, licking yourself clean only to sweat more. Your mind trapped in this perfect, filthy loop of self-obsession.Your breathing gets rougher. A low, dumb grunt slips out.
The car growls beneath you, engine rumbling like a caged beast barely restrained by his thick, calloused hand on the stick shift. You're crammed into the passenger seat, looking up to the muscular man at the wheel. His straining gym shorts are pulled tight over quads thick enough to crush skulls. The cabin's small, but his body makes it feel tight, his shoulders nearly brushing yours very casually. He keeps talking to you, going over your exercise routine, relaxed and unaware (or maybe very aware) of how his sheer size dominates the space.
He lifts his arm to adjust the rearview mirror, and with it comes a wave of heavy, salty musk. Deep, earthy, and unapologetically male. It clings to the fabric of his tank top, soaked through with post-pump sweat and the faint scent of some spicy body spray you can only describe as "blue". Your nose flares before you can stop it, the smell thick enough to taste, and it makes you shudder in response.
“Yo,” he says with a grin, catching you looking at the bulge of his bicep as it flexes from turning the wheel. “You starin’ again?”
You mutter something to try and deflect, self-consciously rubbing your skinny arms. But he just chuckles, low yet light. He knows. He likes it. His arm comes down, lazy, and rests across your thigh. It's not even subtle. Just lets that hot, heavy mitt sit there like it owns you. You blush deeply from the sensation of his heavy, calloused palm. The size of him compared to you makes you squirm with need.
“You’re lucky I didn’t hit arms today,” he smirks, curling his fingers slightly, pressing into your soft skin. “Woulda really made you melt.”
He did work chest, though. He always did chest, regardless of the day. The car smells like bad body spray, sweat, and sex all emanating from his sweaty pecs. His sweat belt is swallowed into the valley between his meaty muscles. And you can’t stop looking at his nipple, peaking out past his tanktop, big, round, juicy. Your tongue is drooling. You desperately want to taste it, to feel its softness, to inhale his cloying stench.
“Looks like we're not making it to the gym, are we?” he teases, cocky smirk growing into something darker, more possessive. “I'll take you to my place. Do some major warming up. How's that sound?” He asks like it's a question. But the truth is, he's already made your choice for you.
The bathroom was thick with steam, tile walls glistening with condensation as the water sloshed gently around the massive body sprawled in the tub. Arms like steel, flexing with every stroke, his broad chest rising and falling, heaving with primal breath. Suds clung to the mounds of his biceps, to the slope of his pecs, sliding down like snow melting from cliffs of hot flesh.
He groaned, low and gutteral and needy, his voice echoing off the walls. Slow, sluggish, thick like molasses. “Uhhhnn...fuck, yeah…”
This was the fifth time today, not that he could count. Not anymore. Numbers got slippery in his head. Thoughts too. Ever since he started the juice.
A month ago, he was all bones and frustration, jerking off to bodybuilder videos, wishing he could just be one of those gods; huge, thick, worshipped. The syringes promised change. They delivered.
His arms blew up first, the veins swelling over his burgeoning muscles. Then his massive, heavy chest. His thick, powerful thighs. Even his cock. ESPECIALLY his cock. From five inches hard, to a monstrous twelve inches flaccid, sixteen when at its full, turgid, hardest. He touched it constantly now, trying to sate a need he no longer had any control over.
His sausage fingers dragged down his shaft, foam parting around the thick meat as he grunted, head tilted back, dumb smile on his lips. “Feels so fuckin’ good, man…can’t stop…”
He’d forget what day it was. Couldn’t remember how to spell his own name last week. Didn’t care. Every time he came, it felt like his brain fizzled just a little bit more. And it made him happier. Dumb, horny, huge...what else was there to be?
He shifted again, water sloshing out over the rim as he braced one giant arm against the tub edge, jerking faster now, his hand working furiously over his glistening length. Foam slid down his abs, caught in the tight grooves like soap-filled trenches.
The mirror across the room caught a hazy reflection. An animal in heat, drooling slightly, flexing out of instinct, watching his own freakshow size and getting harder, all in this strange facsimile of a person. He was close again. Every orgasm rewired something, made him crave more, made him forget more. More. More.
Boyd tilted his head back, throat rippling with thick swallows as the opaque white bottle emptied between his lips. Creamy milk sluiced down his tongue, and he moaned—deep, guttural, and almost lewd—his Adam’s apple bouncing with each swallow. His jaw flexed, eyes half lidded, like he was drinking sex itself. The bottle crinkled in his grip as the last drops hit his tongue, then he let it fall with a hollow thud to the hardwood floor, joining five other crumpled bottles, each leaking drops of white liquid .
His muscles were radiating heat, veins pulsing faintly beneath his skin. His biceps twitched, triceps pulsed, pectorals thrumming with energy. Even now, as he sat half-naked in his tiny apartment, the air smelled like protein, milk, musk, and raw testosterone. Every breath expanded him wider. Every blink made him feel heavier. He rubbed a hand across the cobbled definition of his abs, and groaned again, less like a feeling of satiation, and more like someone close to something filthy and divine.
Boyd didn't start like this. In fact, just a short while ago, he was a very different man. A month ago, he was just another overworked office drone who spent his evenings lifting and scrolling forums between shifts. That was when he found the link.
It was buried in a post titled "Specialized growth formula. Be mindful of serving intake." The website was janky, very scant details or even color. But it promised one thing: Growth Milk. Real results. Permanent gains. A transformation.
Boyd laughed, at first. But something about the testimonials stuck in his head. Guys talking about outgrowing shirts in days. Pants splitting. Arms growing too thick to bend. And yeah, they mentioned some side effects; "minor mental fog," "disassociation from former priorities," and something about "loss of verbal complexity." But who gave a fuck? He wanted to be huge.
So he ordered two cases.
The first bottle was warm, thick, and tasted almost sweet. He felt it within an hour. His chest pumped up like he’d done a hundred heavy bench presses. His traps thickened. He felt his arms flexing involuntarily. He couldn’t stop drinking. Every time he chugged, his muscles swelled, just a little more. And the voice in his head that told him to pace himself? Faint. Distant. Soon gone.
Now it was thirty-two days later, and his apartment looked more like a gym locker room. Milk bottles everywhere. Dumbbells tossed aside like toys. Mirrors smeared with cum and moisture. His phone vibrated constantly, lost somewhere in the apartment. He hadn’t answered texts. Missed all his Zoom meetings. HR had finally sent a letter; termination due to absence.
But Boyd didn’t even open it.
He stood now, slow and heavy, muscles shining with sweat. His shoulders scraped the doorframe. He stared at himself in the mirror, mouth slightly open, eyes glassy with a dopey kind of admiration.
“Daaamn…” he muttered, voice lower, thicker. He flexed an arm, watched the bicep ball up to the size of his own head. Then there was his cock. The milk apparently didn't just work on muscles. Over the month, he's been growing inch after inch every week. He had already gained a little over five inches, and with the shaft thickening in proportion to it, and his testicles slowly inflating with mass and liquid, his briefs no longer fit on him anymore. It wasn't unusual for him to cum at least three times in one sweltering jack off session before he can even remotely concentrate on anything. Even now, cum was drooping from his still throbbing shaft, leaving more drops of thick white puddles across his acrid apartment.
And right now? The mere sight of his own sexy body was causing Boyd to droop his tongue out in desire. “F’kin’… hot.”
He didn’t notice how slow his thoughts were now. He hadn’t done a single spreadsheet in weeks. Couldn’t remember how to multiply double digits anymore. Words kept slipping away.
But that didn’t matter. He had something better now. Something more important than any job. More important than bills. Rent. Names. Thoughts.
Boyd grinned as he grabbed another bottle and twisted it open with a pop. Milk sloshed up the sides. His cock twitched in his sweatpants. His body needed more.
I got really into this story, which means it's really long lol. (Long for Tumblr anyway) Just to let ya know, it's a little over 2000 words. Take your time with it. Embody the meat. Enjoy.
Meat On Display
The posters went up a month ago. Stark black-and-white, with only a silhouette; A hulking, faceless form standing rigid on a pedestal. Beneath it, the words:
"Display meat – Living Art. A Study in Power, Submission, and Objecthood."
No artist’s name. No further explanation. Just a date, a time, and the museum’s address.
Word spread like wildfire. The elite whispered about it over dinner parties. Students debated its meaning on social media. Art critics scorned the premise—"Another empty provocation", yet couldn’t resist the curiosity it drummed up.
By the night of the unveiling, there had been enough interest piqued that there was quite the turnout. A mix of high society and underground voyeurs, patrons with academic curiosity, and patrons with hungry eyes. They murmured amongst themselves, recounting rumors:
"It's a statement on masculinity, how it’s worshipped and destroyed in equal measure."
"No, it’s about control. Or like, the loss of it."
"I heard he’s completely naked. No modesty, nothing. Just standing there like one of the statues."
"More like an animal on display. They say he doesn’t even speak. Just obeys."
Eventually, the velvet ropes parted. The doors opened.
The inside was cool air, a hush of anticipation, the scent of polished wood and dry champagne filling the gallery as guests moved past other installations. Paintings, sculptures, all with seeming to coincide with a consistent theme. Masculine beauty, submission, and its reverence therein.
All paths led to him. The Display Meat.
At first glance, it was easy to mistake him for a statue. He stood in the center of a grand hall, bathed in calculated lighting. A low marble pedestal beneath his feet. Enormous shoulders thrown back, bulging chest thrust forward, every inch of him sculpted to perfection. Arms built to perfection, abdominals carved into brutal symmetry, thighs thick and striated like marble come to life.
He gleamed. A whisper of oil slicked over his tanned skin, catching the light. Golden glitter dusted across his torso, his arms, his legs, enhancing the illusion of something crafted, not born. As the patrons ogled and scrutinized, the details began to set in.
The leash.
A thin, black leather collar encircled his thick neck, a long lead trailing down to a metal ring at the base of the pedestal. Not enough to restrain him, but enough to make a statement: He is tethered. He is claimed.
His nudity.
Every inch of him exposed, raw, undeniable. His cock hung heavy, untouched by shame, neither fully hard nor soft, simply there, visible, another piece of his body to be judged like his pectorals, his quads, his biceps. The sculptor's tools had been nature and sweat, but tonight, he was no man. No individual.
Just art. Only known as The Display Meat. Most simply call him Meat.
And then his breath, shallow, measured, is the only betrayal of his awareness. His chest rose and fell with practiced control, but beneath it, a different rhythm. A quiet, unmistakable thrill. The murmurs began.
"God, look at him."
"I expected a performer, but… he really is just standing there. Not wearing a thing."
"I wonder if he even hears us."
"Look at his cock. He’s enjoying this."
Fingers twitched at the edge of champagne glasses. Eyes traced over Meat in hungry sweeps. Some with admiration, some with mockery. But not a single gaze was indifferent.
The first command came softly, like a breeze before a storm. "Flex." An older man’s voice, firm yet amused. Meat obeyed instantly. His biceps swelled into thick peaks as he raised his arms into a slow, practiced double bicep pose, veins surfacing beneath oiled skin. His shoulders tensed, his thighs locked, every fiber of his body announcing its presence. Gasps and oohs whispered around Meat. Some appreciative, others mean.
"God, look at the size of him."
"It’s obscene."
"So obedient. Like a well-trained pet."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Someone stepped closer a middle-aged lady in an expensive dress, drink swirling lazily in hand. She tilted her head, studying Meat like his namesake, as if swinging on a hook at a butcher’s shop. "Drop the pose." Meat's arms fell to his sides. Relaxed. Waiting. "Smile for me."
He did. A slow, mindless curl of his lips. Bright. Empty. Beautiful. The woman giggled, swiping a single finger down his chest, leaving a streak in the thin sheen of glitter. "He’s enjoying this."
He was.
He couldn’t help it. Heat simmered under his skin, electric and intoxicating. He was seen. Touched. Judged. Owned.
"Tell me, Display Meat. Do you like being watched?" This time it looked like a college student, neatly styled blonde hair above thick rimmed glasses. Meat didn't answer. He wasn’t permitted to speak. The blonde student fondled Meat's heavy balls. It was gentle, but without a hint of intimacy. Meat's skin blushed with warmth, pleasure bubbling from the ministration. Meat didn’t flinch. only let his smile widen, his breath quicken. "Oh, he loves it." The student mused.
Another command, this time from a somewhat tipsy young lass, condescension in her voice: "Turn around! Show us everything!"
He obeyed without hesitation, pivoting on the pedestal. His broad back came into view, muscle shifting with the movement—lats spreading wide, glutes firm, thighs rippling with every adjustment of his weight.
"Disgusting."
"Perfect."
Hands followed words. A palm gliding over Meat's lower back. Fingers kneading into his arms, as if testing his density. A sudden, rough squeeze on his ass.
A moan almost escaped him. Almost.
"Oh, he shuddered." A delighted chuckle. "You like being handled, don't you?"
Meat's cock twitched, a small pulse against his thigh. The room caught it. The crowd saw. "There it is." One of them giggled excitedly.
A man’s fingers, rough and knowing, traced the inside of his thigh, so close to his growing arousal but never quite touching.
"He’s grateful for this. Look at the way his body responds."
"Grateful? He should be. He exists for this."
The words seeped through his mind like warm honey, pooling down through his body and settling in his gut, thickening the dull ache of pleasure already simmering in his core.
The degradation. The approval. The touches. It all melted together, sinking deep into his muscles, his bones, his purpose. Another command.
"Get on your knees." The leash pulled. He dropped.
Meat's face, still smiling, still lost in pure, mindless pleasure, tilted up to his patrons. At this point he no longer needs words. The patrons can tell without hearing him. He's waiting for their next demand.
"Flex like a bodybuilder." Meat struck a classic pose, arms raised, biceps bulging, chest pumped full of air. A few guests clapped politely. Others sneered.
"Oh, come on. That’s so predictable."
"Make him do something fun."
"Something funny, morelike."
"Dance for us, Display Meat."
"Yes! Dance! Do it!"
His feet moved without hesitation. Hips swayed, rolling in slow, exaggerated circles, thick thighs flexing as he ground the air with obscene precision. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t elegant. It was pure, primal sexuality, a mockery of performance, without a hint of art of self-respect.
"Look at that! The muscle god reduced to a common stripper."
A hand slapped his ass. He didn’t react beyond the involuntary shudder that ran up his spine. They weren't wrong. Meat was the picture of masculine strength and virility, and yet he's reduced himself to a circus animal performing for a mocking audience.
"Do a handstand."
He bent forward, his powerful arms catching the weight of his massive frame, legs kicking up into a perfect inversion. His muscles strained, veins surfacing under oiled skin. His cock hung heavy, slapping against his abs, fully on display from this new angle.
"Jesus, he’s really showing everything, isn’t he?"
"That’s the point right? Meat’s just a piece of art. A thing. Things don't have dignity."
He came down from the handstand in one fluid motion, settling back onto his knees, breath coming heavier now. Not from exertion, but from the sheer overwhelming awareness of his own exposure.
"Now make a silly pose—like a gorilla." He dropped into a wide squat, arms curling at his sides, mouth hanging open. The room howled.
A cane tapped against his thigh. An older man smirking, swirling his brandy. "Show us a real trick, Fleshform. Something impressive."
He planted his hands on the pedestal again, launching into a slow, controlled push-up, his muscles bunching and flexing under the spotlight. "Oh, no, no, that’s too dignified." One of them chided.
A younger woman grinned. "Hump the floor while you do it."
Without hesitation, his hips rolled downward with every push, grinding into the pedestal, the motion lewd, obscene.
"Holy shit, he’s actually doing it."
"Look at his face. He’s enjoying this."
The humiliation. The commands. The sheer objectification. It sent molten pleasure through Meat's every nerve, his massive cock now rock hard. Another man circled him, tilting his head in faux curiosity. "What’s it like to have no thoughts, Display Meat? No will? Just a body for us to play with?"
His breathing hitched. Not from exertion. From arousal.
He stayed there, rutting against the cold marble, his cock thick, swollen, leaking a puddle of pre onto the marble. The women giggled. The men sneered.
"He’s such an obedient servant."
"No, if he was a servant, there would be some semblance of shame in that empty skull."
"You're right. Meat is more like a pet."
"A well trained, dancing pet."
A shudder ran through Meat, deep and uncontrollable, his pleasure mounting, his brain long since dissolved into pure, blissful nothingness. There should have been something akin to shame.
Embarrassment. Even modesty or fear. But for all their objectifying comments, insults against his intelligence, his individuality...Meat only got closer and closer to climax. His body obeyed every command with the same dumb, empty-headed silence, the same mindless bliss radiating from his slack face.
The laughter swelled as they watched him rutting against the cold, unyielding marble like a beast in heat. Every roll of his hips sent another wave of pleasure through him, his cock fully engorged, drooling, the sheen of oil and sweat making every obscene motion glisten under the gallery lights.
Someone noticed first. A man in an expensive looking suit, his smile widening in amusement. “Oh my god. Look at him. He’s about to--”
Gasps. Snickers. Whispers. "Meat. Show us."
Display Meat obeyed instantly, as his body moved with slow, mechanical grace, the leash at his throat dragging slightly against his oiled skin as he repositioned himself. He leaned back onto his hands, legs spread wide, sitting on his knees like a docile display piece. His chest rose and fell in deep, measured breaths, his abs tight, his muscles still flexed from the performance.
But his hips never stopped thrusting.
Just humping the open air, his cock bouncing, slapping against his cobbled abs and thighs with every desperate, automatic motion. It was a humiliating, depraved sight. This powerful man reduced to something utterly pathetic, rutting like a dumb animal, his face still stuck in that blissed-out, empty-headed expression.
And the crowd loved it. His thick cock swung wildly, the wet slap of it against his chiseled torso and thighs filling the gallery like an obscene metronome. Every desperate thrust made his muscles flex, made the sweat and oil shimmer across his skin. And still, his face stayed slack, smiling, eyes hazy with mindless, euphoric pleasure.
"Look at him! So eager, so desperate."
"Dumb fucker is literally just fucking the air huh?"
"Does he even know what's happening anymore?"
"It's a good thing his body is so perfect. There's absolutely nothing else going on up there in his thick skull."
"Jesus, and he’s going to cum just from being watched like a zoo animal."
Meat's body went taut. every limb, every single muscle straining as the pleasure broke over him like a crashing wave. A guttural, voiceless moan caught in his throat as his cock jerked, thick ropes of white streaking across his sculpted torso. It spurted up onto his pecs, dripped between the ridges of his abs, splattered across his thighs, his own seed defiling the body he had spent years perfecting.
And still, Meat just kept cumming, his cock pulsing, spilling more and more of himself. Slimy white cum splattering across his arms, staining his perfect face, even getting some splattering towards his gasping audience, almost splattering them as well. Meat was utterly drenched, coated in the filthy proof of his complete and utter submission.
The laughter rang louder.
"Disgusting."
"Beautiful."
"He came without a single touch. Just from being seen."
"God, he’s even more of a masterpiece now, covered in his own filth."
And through it all, Display Meat just sat there, still posed on his knees, cum dripping down his heaving body, breath slowing, eyes glazed.
You knelt between them, heart pounding. The heat of their bodies was overwhelming, radiating off their sweaty skin. Ben and Bob, nearly identical in their thick, muscled frames, stood over him like living monuments to power and virility. Their chests, vast and heaving, rose and fell in slow, deliberate motions.
Bob tilted his head, flexing his mountainous bicep. The sight alone made you want to worship it with your tongue. “Look at him, Ben,” he murmured, his voice rich and deep, laced with amusement. “Think he knows what he’s gotten himself into?”
Ben chuckled, slow and knowing. His fingers curl through your hair, before grabbing a handful. “Doubt it,” he mused, his touch firm but teasing, tilting Jacob’s face upward. “But I think he’s starting to.”
Ben pulled your face into his crotch, the bulge in his thong pulsing to life with excitement. Bob joins in as he approaches from behind, trapping your head between two gargantuan forces of overwhelming masculinity. Your breath is deep and desperate, licking the fabric trapping the delicious meat within. You desperately just want to rip their thongs off of them, but you know better than to move without permission.
The pressure of their presence alone was suffocating, their sheer size dwarfing you as they play with you. The scent of sweat and musk grew thicker, and you could feel the heat of their thighs against your body, the curve of their muscles shifting as they moved. Their thongs beginning to stretch as they harden, the thin fabric stretched tight over thick and throbbing erections. The pulsing fabric against their dark, bronzed skin making you desperate for their seed.
Bob reached out, tracing a slow, lazy finger along your collarbone, his grin widening as you shuddered under the weight of their attention. “You’re trembling,” he mused, voice dripping with amusement. “Nervous?”
You swallowed, throat dry. Your skin prickled where they touched you, heart beating wildly. The twins exchanged a glance, something wicked and unspoken passing between them.
Ben’s fingers brushed down the side of your neck, tracing the rapid thump of his pulse before drifting lower, the heat of his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “Relax,” he said smoothly, his voice a low rumble, a command wrapped in a promise. “We’re just getting started.”
Niku breathes deeply, eyes half lidded as his sight almost swirls. The ropes dig into Niku's thick bulky body, suspending his bared body in the corner of the collection room. His thoughts were so murky, there was no way to tell how many hours have passed. Or was it days?
A deep whining escapes Niku's lips as a wave of pleasure pulses briefly through him. His heaving pecs quiver. Drops of white leak from his nipples, streaming down the bulging flesh in thin white streams. A man in white enters the room, holding a clipboard.
"It's time for your extraction."
One month ago
The sterile white light of the Hercule-Chem lab flickered overhead. Niku sat on the examination table, feet dangling, fingers nervously drumming on his knee. He looked around nervously, clad only in his white briefs. His lean, wiry frame looked almost out of place in this facility, his slender arms wrapped around his narrow torso. He had always been on the smaller side; 5’5” and maybe 130 pounds on a good day. His metabolism burned through food like a furnace, leaving him perpetually skinny no matter how much he lifted. That was why he had signed up for this trial. Desperation. He was tired of being the smallest guy at the gym, of watching bulkier men press weights he could only dream of.
Enter Dr. Morrow, a smirking, too-clean man in a lab coat, held out a small, unassuming red pill. "This is the latest iteration of our muscle enhancement formula. Fast-acting. Permanent. You’ll be the first human test subject. Just to be sure, per your contract, we will not be liable for any side effects. This is the purpose of the trial after all. Are we clear?"
Niku swallowed hard. He remembered the mini novel of a contract that he looked over...skimmed...bah, who had time for all that anyway? Niku nods, then took the pill from Morrow’s gloved fingers. No turning back now. He popped it in his mouth, washing it down with a sip of water.
At first, nothing.
Then, a pulse. Deep inside his chest, like his heart had begun to overclock. His breath caught in his throat. Fingers twitched. A heat flared in his core, spreading outward like wildfire, spreading down his limbs. His skin tingled, his bones ached, but not painfully. No, it was deep, like pressure moving outward. He let out a slow exhale, but it hitched as something unexpected happened. There was a growing pressure in his nipples, growing painfully sensitive, and a warm trickle slid down his chest. He looked down.
Milky droplets beaded from his nipples, dripping slowly down his flat pecs. “What the--?” He grunts as his muscles clenched, a deep, involuntary flex that made his whole body spasm.
Then, growth.
It started in his arms, veins rising as his biceps thickened. His forearms swelled, the once barely-there sinew expanding into defined, meaty muscle. His shoulders broadened, bones creaking as his frame grew. His pecs pushed forward, swelling with mass and power, his nipples pointing lower as they continued to leak. His abs tightened, each ridge sharpening into clear-cut definition as his waist widened slightly to keep up.
Niku's thighs followed next, the once slim legs bulging outward as muscle piled on. His quads flared, thick slabs of meat pressing against each other, his calves rounding out, growing into dense, corded muscle. His entire body surged, every fiber packing on mass with each breath.
Heat flooded his groin. Already hard from the intense rush, it pulsed, a wet spot darkening the front of his briefs. Precum seeped freely, more with every heartbeat, an uncontrollable reaction to the sheer power coursing through him. His balls swelled, pulling heavier between his massive, muscled thighs.
"Ahh!!f-fuck--!" Niku groaned, gripping the table as another wave hit. His chest heaved, pecs shaking with the motion, his traps rising thick around his neck. He was massive now, towering over his previous form, easily over six feet, packed with pure, unrelenting muscle.
And still, his nipples dripped. His cock throbbed. His body radiated power, virility, raw masculine force.
Dr. Morrow watched, jotting notes. "Fascinating. Seems the formula is working even better than expected...although those are a little...unexpected." The doctor points to Niku's puffy, leaking nubs. "Customers may not be happy with that...though we can absolutely sell these as lactation and milking pills, turn it into a feature instead of a bug..."
Dr. Morrow was talking more to himself at this point, writing on his clipboard as Niku is panting, feeling himself up. His meaty hands rub up and down the newly grown musculature, fresh nerve endings sending waves of pure sensation through his whole body. Niku let out a ragged breath, licking his lips as he flexed an arm, marveling at the sheer size of it.
With a clack of his pencil onto clipboard, Dr. Morrow gives Niku a too pleasant smile. "Now then, let's begin the extraction, shall we?"
-----------------------------------------
Niku is crying out helplessly, dangled from the ceiling and bound in ropes. His wrists and ankles are tied, unable to free himself, while his arms and legs are secured. The ropes tie around his torso, wrapping under and between his pecs, making his chest bulge lewdly. His ass is exposed, ropes tied around his hips and between his glutes to keep his body secure.
Two suction cups attached to rubber tubes continuously drain Niku of the milk in his fleshy pecs, filling a nearby container for the second time today. Niku's throbbing member is also covered in a suction device, collecting every drop of semen out of Niku's body.
Niku is a quivering mess, as his fluids are collected in the name of science. For the sake of making other men just as big, if not bigger. At least, that's what the doctor said. According to him, there's a lot of data the can be gleamed from his milk and semen about how the drugs affected his body.
But none of that matters to Niku. He gets paid per ounce of fluids extracted. He was no better than a cow at this point. But he wouldn't change anything about his current situation. Why would he? He doesn't have to think. He just does what he's told and gets to feel hours of euphoria AND a paycheck in return.
Although through the fog of his thoughts, he does wonder one thing.
If he took another one of those pills...would he make even more milk?
Head empty. Hips gyrating. Pleasure coursing up and down your brain and spine. Multiple times already come inside your conquest. Your mind is a swirl of sensations, as you continue to
Pump. Pump. Pump.
You don't know how long you've been at it. Five minutes? Thirty minutes? An hour? Keep pumping. Keep dumping. Your pecs quake with effort and excitement as you keep moving. You don't even know who you're doing it with anymore. Do you even care? You look down at the cute submissive muscle boi beneath you.
His belly his round and muscular, shaking with each thrust. His insides slosh with your essence, his face contorted with pleasure as his tongue flops out of his mouth. His insides flex and milk you for more.
Pump. Pump. Pump.
You climax once more. You ride that high for a long while. But for some reason, you can't stop. Won't stop. You look down again at the man before you. His eyes are piercing. Inviting. Wanting.
It was your own undoing. Your workout routine was intense. Your breath came in ragged bursts, sweat dripping rivers down your body. The gym smelled of rubber mats, metal, and artificial cool air...except for you. You were something primal. Raw. Unfiltered.
Everyone in the gym could smell you. Some revulsed, others left the gym outright. Some particularly horny freaks did their best to play it cool, but knew what they were thinking. You could see it in their eyes. And you weren’t immune to it either. Oh you loved this smell. The strong, musky, masculine smell that commanded your attention, whether you wanted to or not. The magnetic force that repulsed some, and drew others in.
You notice that you're getting hard again, and the noticeable bulge was becoming impossible to ignore. You needed a moment.
You escape to the locker room, breathing long and deep to compose yourself. Opening the door and looking around, you sigh in relief because it's empty. Your thick, bulky legs quake as your footsteps bring you by a mirror and look at yourself. You wanted to make this quick. To not linger in here for too long...to wash off the filthy stench that was making you high...but you can't help it.
A quick and simple movement, and you yank your tanktop off, the dark cloth heavy and soaked with sweat. The lights make your muscles glisten, drops of sweat accentuating every bulging detail as you flex your pecs. Then your arms are raised into a powerful double bicep pose, the sight of it making you even hornier.
And the smell, oh lord that rank smell. Just exposing your pits has unleashed a wave of intoxicating, musky testosterone that makes your head spin, nostrils flaring. Even if you wanted to, there was no stopping your hands.
You hide between rows of lockers for a modicum of privacy in this public space, Your shorts are pulled down along with your underwear. Your throbbing member is almost worse. Soaked in sweat and pulsing with aphrodisic testosterone, your mind is swimming as your hands pump the rock hard thickness desperately. Just one quick one. Just to take the edge off so you can escape back home. The smell has you in a musky haze, as climax quickly rises up your your spine.
A creaking sound is heard as the locker room doors open. But you can't stop. It's too late. You groan helplessly, convulsing as your muscles flex violently, your climax causing you to soak yourself in cum, dirty white liquid spewing out like a geyser. By the time you finish, the problem had only gotten worse. Because now, your thick and cloying semen has mixed with your gross musky sweat.
You can only pant in exhaustion, your body leaning against the locker, only barely having the strength to hold yourself up. You hear footsteps. The man who just entered the locker room is coming closer. His shoes echo loudly. You lean against the lockers as your beautiful, bulging muscles are soaked in sweat, stained with cum, and reeking with musk and testosterone. And you were ready to give yourself to whoever came around that corner.
"Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for our big beefy guest this evening!" The host grinned wide, spreading his arms toward the guest like he was presenting a prize racehorse.
The jock lumbered forward onto the set, all beef and no thoughts, a tank top stretched so tight over his chest it close to tearing. His shorts barely counted as clothing, hugging thick thighs that could crush melons and a crotch bulge no one could ignore. He smiled, dimpled and a little dazed, soaking in the attention.
The host motioned him to turn around. "Come on now, give the people what they came for."
The was a chuckle, a deep, boyish sound, as the jock did as he was told. The audience roared as he flexed, biceps bulging, back muscles rippling like carved marble. The tv host stepped up beside him, running a hand lightly down the ridge of his spine.
"Good lord, it's like touching a master class statue!" Mark’s fingers lingered on the curve of Troy’s lower back, dangerously close to the waistband of those scandalously tight shorts. "Tell me, Troy, does all this muscle ever get in the way? Or do you just love being… this big?"
Troy’s grin widened. He shifted his weight, causing his pecs to bounce slightly, making the crowd lose their minds. "I dunno, dude, I kinda like it when people stare. Makes all those hours in the gym worth it, y'know?"
Mark hummed approvingly, stepping back to admire him from another angle. "Oh, and we certainly appreciate it, don't we folks?" He reached for Troy’s bicep, squeezing hard. The audience cheered even louder.
Troy flexed again instinctively, veins popping along his biceps, his body glistening under the stage lights. He smirked, shifting his stance just enough to draw the eye downward, to the absurd definition of his thighs and the way those shorts strained to contain him.
Mark raised an eyebrow, eyes gliding over him like a sculptor appraising his masterpiece. "You know, I think our viewers at home deserve a closer look. Would you be a sport and… lose the clothes?"
The crowd went wild.
The big beefy himbo laughed, big and booming, before grabbing the hem and peeling the tank top off in one slow, practiced motion. His chest was obscene. Thick, large, heavy with strength and mass. The deep valley between his pecs cast suggestive shadows under the lights, his round gut massive and shaking playfully.
Then off came the shorts, which revealed a tiny pair of shiny pink posers. They wrap tightly around his generous package as the thin straps hug his big, bulky waist. The jock smirked as he turned, revealing his huge bulging glutes, inciting more cheering. The shiny thong is swallowed by his deep, perky ass cheeks, as his thick tree trunk thighs flex with each step. The mere sight of his body silently calls out to be groped and to be worshipped.
The hungry host pressed a hand to his own chest like he might faint. "Holy hell, wouldja look at that." His hand shot out again, fingertips grazing along the bared, heavy muscle gut, following the sculpted ridges like they were begging to be traced.
The big hunk bit his lip, just a little. He liked being touched. He loved being looked at. His muscles weren’t made just for strength. They were built for display.
Mark leaned in, voice low, teasing. "Tell me, big guy. How much more are you willing to show?"
You push open the office door, your thickened fingers barely registering how small the handle feels now. That's strange, you think. Were the doors always this tight to get through? The moment you step inside, the usual buzz of keyboards clacking and conversations stutters into a halt, phones ringing in the awkward silence. Heads turn. Eyes widen. No one recognizes you.
Your face feels hot. You wonder if you accidentally dripped mayo on your crotch again. It's that special footlong sandwich from the local eatery, you just can't help yourself! But then you catch your reflection in the glass of a nearby office partition and nearly stumble. The man staring back at you isn’t the one who left for lunch. This version of you is thicker, broader, impossibly powerful. Your once modest dress shirt is a ruin—buttons clinging for dear life across your chest, the seams straining to contain your massive shoulders.
You're not sure what possessed you, but you raise your left arm up. Maybe you wanted to test it out. Or maybe you were showing off. But when you flex your bicep, it destroys the sleeves with little effort. Your eyes widen. So do your coworkers'.
Whispers ripple through the office. Someone gasps. A woman from HR claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes flicking over you like she’s seeing something forbidden. A guy from accounting stares openly, feeling emotions he's experiencing for the first time in his life.
Heat crawls up your neck. You should feel embarrassed. Should cover up. Shouldn’t be standing here like a paper towel mascot for adults. But beneath the shame, something else stirs. A thrill.
Your thighs rub together as you step forward, the sudden resistance reminding you just how much mass you’ve packed on. The waistband of your slacks strains, your quads too thick, too dominant for the fabric to handle. You hear the faintest pop of a stitch. And for crotch is definitely feeling uncomfortable, burgeoning pass threatening to destroy the zipper and reveal itself.
"SMITH. My office. Now."
Your boss’s voice cuts through the murmur of the office like a knife. You meet his gaze. There's a fierceness to his voice as always. But behind the scowl, you think you see something deeper in his eyes. Impatience? Hunger?
Your stomach tightens. The way he’s looking at you, half-scolding, half-ravenous, sends a pulse of hear straight through your core. You force yourself to move, feeling every single eye on your body as you cross the room, your new form demanding attention with every step. For every step you take, you can feel your pants tearing more and more, teasing the power laying just beneath the fabric.
As you enter his office, he closes the door behind you. The click of the lock is deafening.
Gus had tried everything. Three years of lifting, meal plans, bulking, cutting, dirty bulks, clean bulks—nothing ever stuck. His genetics were shit, and his metabolism burned through food like a furnace, leaving him stranded in his skinny, unimpressive frame. He’d spent more nights than he’d like to admit scrolling through fitness forums, watching influencers with thick, veiny arms say “Trust the process, bro.”
Fuck the process.
That was why, when he found an obscure bodybuilding forum thread discussing Hercule-Chem, he barely hesitated. The before-and-after pictures were absurd—guys doubling their size in a month, pecs popping out like slabs of meat, veins crawling across their forearms like living things. And no one could find anything about the company. Some underground, high-end shit, then.
He ordered without hesitation. A bottle of 30 pills, one a day, no refunds, $300 flat. The package arrived in a plain brown box, no return address, just a single white bottle inside. Bold black letters read:
HERCULE-CHEM GROWTH ACCELERATOR.
DOSAGE: ONE PILL PER DAY. DO NOT EXCEED.
No ingredient list. No disclaimers. Sketchy as hell.
He popped the first pill that night.
Gus didn’t expect much. Maybe a placebo boost at best. But when he woke up, there was a weird warmth in his chest. His body felt heavier, denser, like wearing a thick sweater.
Looking in the mirror, it wasn’t dramatic—a little more thickness in his biceps, maybe a little more shape in his pecs. Probably nothing. But in the gym, every rep felt smoother, stronger. He wasn’t lifting more, but his muscles burned differently, deeper, like they actually wanted to grow for once.
That night, he was starving. He demolished two plates of pasta and still wanted more. His cock was half-hard for no reason, a dull pulse of need lingering in the back of his mind.
By day three, it was undeniable. His shirts were tighter across the chest. His arms looked fuller, thicker, veins surfacing across his forearms when he flexed. His jawline looked sharper, and his morning wood was insistent, relentless, a throbbing ache that wouldn’t go away until he jerked off twice in the shower.
His appetite was bottomless. Breakfast was three eggs, two protein shakes, and a full stack of pancakes, and an hour later, his stomach growled again.
Gus worked as an accountant, usually diligent and sharp. But lately, he caught himself adjusting his bulge, feeling a weird, slow-building heat in his groin. It was distracting and overwhelming, and his coworkers noticed, giving Gus strange looks.
Dinner that night was a whole rotisserie, with two protein shakes and a bag of salad. Even tonight, he had to jerk himself off twice just before he could sleep. He went up 10 pounds in his lifts overnight. He was gaining.
By the end of the week, Gus had put on twenty pounds. Twenty fucking pounds.
The scale read 175. He started at 155. His arms weren’t just bigger—they were striated, rounder, pushing against the sleeves of his old T-shirts. His pecs had real weight to them now, pressing forward when he stood straight. And his cock? Jesus Christ. He’d never measured before, but it felt thicker, heavier in his grip, swelling harder, faster. Even his balls were heavier and hung lower.
And fuck, was he horny. Not just the kind that faded with a quick jerk-off session—the deep, constant, gnawing kind. He kept catching himself staring at his reflection, feeling the flex and pull of his own body with something almost… obscene. He liked the way his arms tensed, the way his abs popped just a little more when he twisted. He found himself posing in the mirror before bed, half-hard, admiring himself like he was someone else. And he needed more.
The idea hit him at the gym. People liked watching this shit, right? Gym bros with perfect bodies, pumping iron, flexing, showing off.
So, that night, he made an OnlyFans. And in just a few days, he had hundreds of subscribers. It started simple—just shirtless flexing, showing off his progress. But then came the DMs. Requests. Tips. People wanted more. They wanted sweaty gym videos, close-ups of his biceps bulging under heavy weights. They wanted to see his chest pump, his abs glisten. And holy fuck, they paid for it.
Gus didn’t even have to work anymore. He had quit his job at the office, much to the mixed concern and relief of his coworkers. People who were close were concerned about his rapid changes, telling him that he should really think about what he's doing. Others were relieved, saying he was stinking up the place, his musky body odor getting stronger. He was also becoming worse at his job, and one time he was caught jerking off in the restrooms.
By now, Gus was 190 pounds. His arms were thicker than some guys' legs, his shoulders broad enough to make old hoodies look comically small. His cock and balls were bigger too—he could tell. It throbbed every morning, every night, every time he watched his own videos.
And the hunger? Jesus. He was eating six meals a day, and it still wasn’t enough.
At the end of week two, he was 205 pounds. Fifty fucking pounds in two weeks. And people were obsessed with him. His streams got thousands of viewers. He was making more money than he’d ever dreamed of, just by being big, being desirable. His body was freakishly perfect now; thick, broad, shredded as fuck. His chest jutted out like a shelf of muscle, his abs were carved, and his arms were unreal.
But every time he popped one of those pills, one thought kept creeping into his mind. What if I took two? Because one a day had turned him into this. What would two a day do? And before he could think too hard about it, he twisted open the bottle, pulled out a second pill, and swallowed it dry.
Gus felt the second pill hit almost instantly.
His veins burned, and his muscles tightened, swelled, thickened. He barely felt anything from his workouts the next day. Every rep felt too light, too easy. His skin stretched taut over expanding chords of muscle.
By the time he got home, his body felt too tight for itself. His cock ached, his stomach growled, his pulse pounded in his ears. He downed an entire family-sized meal in one sitting, but the hunger barely faded. He jacked off five times before bed, thick ropes of cum splattering his abs, but the need never went away. And the next day? He woke up even bigger.
Fifteen pounds overnight. Gus laughed. Fifteen fucking pounds. His traps were swallowing his neck. His arms hung thick and heavy at his sides, every step making his pecs bounce with obscene weight. His abs were still there, but there was something different. His waist, once tight and tapered, was thickening. Not fat, but pure, dense muscle, a gut of solid power pressing against his skin.
And holy fuck, was he hungry. Breakfast was two full rotisserie chickens, a gallon of milk, and an entire loaf of bread. And he still wanted more.
His cock throbbed through his sweats, an almost constant pressure. He streamed later that night. Just lifting, flexing, eating. He barely even tried, just let the camera drink him in. Tips flooded in. Viewers went insane watching him shove food down his throat, watching his body drink up every calorie like fuel for a growing monster. And every night, he took two pills, every day for the rest of the week until he was out. And the results?
305 pounds. His scale barely handled his weight. He was a monster.
His arms were bigger than his head. His chest was so thick and round, his obscene nipples started leaking white. His gut was pure, heavy muscle, stretching the fabric of his shirts tight over his rounded mass. His thighs had swollen to the size of tree trunks. His shoulders made moving through doors normally, a challenge.
He could barely fit into his apartment anymore. The bottle was empty. But he was nowhere near done growing. His cock throbbed at the thought. In fact, jacking off did nothing anymore. His balls pulsed with weight, heavy, throbbing with pent-up loads. He streamed every night, showing off, flexing, feeding, letting thousands of viewers watch him consume, grow, stroke himself through his sweats as his body demanded more until he was soaked from his own jizz.
Gus needed more. More food, more muscle, more cock, more everything. He needed more. But Hercule-Chem had vanished. No search results, no forum threads, no record of his order. It was like the company had never existed.
He panicked at first. His brain struggled to process it. He’d never been the smartest guy, but now? Thinking was getting hard. He could feel it. Like his mind was slowing down, like the space between thoughts was stretching longer and longer. How was Gus going to keep growing?
Gus' mind spiraled until his head literally exhausted itself. Was thinking even really worth it anymore? He was huge. Bigger than anyone in his gym by at least fifty pounds.The biggest. The thickest. The strongest. The dumbest.
And holy fuck, was he desirable.
Day 30
Gus could barely fit through doors. His pecs pushed forward so far he couldn’t see his feet. His arms hung heavy at his sides, biceps bloated with obscene size. His gut was pure, thick muscle, round and powerful, pushing against every shirt he owned until they tore from the sheer bulk. His thighs were so thick he had to walk with a wide stance, his cock permanently stuffed down one side of his sweats, throbbing, leaking, aching.
Thinking was impossible now. But fucking? That was easy. And everyone wanted him. The moment he stepped into the gym, they took him. Hungry men. Dominant men. Men who saw him for what he was. A muscle slut, a dumb, eager mass of pure size, built to be filled, used, worshiped.
He let them. He begged for it. They fed him until his stomach bloated, fucked him until he couldn't even think, filled him, milked him, more, more.
One man bent him over the bench press, gripping his thick waist, filling him deep while another stuffed his mouth full of cock.
Another pressed him against the mirrors, groping every inch of his monstrous bulk, his round gut, his swollen pecs. They twisted and pulled on his nipples, squeezing him of his pec milk.
They wanted him. They needed him. And fuck—he needed them. His OnlyFans exploded. His streams got millions of views. He was no longer just Gus. He was the biggest, dumbest, hungriest, most fuckable muscle slut alive.
And even though the pills were gone…He had a feeling his growth wasn’t over yet.
I'm currently struggling to pull my pants up over my juicy ass, since it's grown even more since yesterday. The fabric bunches up around my thighs, refusing to budge as I yank and twist, but my backside has swelled too much overnight. Every tug feels like a battle against my own curves, the waistband digging into my skin as if protesting the impossible task. My butt has been growing really fast lately ever since I took those growth pills from that online pharmacy last week. At first, it was a fun little experiment—just a slight boost to my figure—but now, every morning, I wake up feeling heavier, fuller, stretched taut in ways I never expected.
With enough effort, I eventually get my waistband past my cheeks and up to my waist. But it's a really tight fit. The seams strain dangerously, and I can practically hear the stitches groaning in protest, barely holding together against the sheer size of me. Every breath, every shift of my hips, makes the fabric creak, and I swear if I move too fast, it'll all come apart in an instant. I think about what would happen if it tears while my body is still growing. The thought sends a thrill through me—because at this rate, there's no telling how big I'll get.
