âThanks for finding me these jeans, theyâre perfect. You donât mind if I flex a little, do you? Need to make sure these can withstand my roided flexed mass. Enjoy the show, bro.â đȘđŒ
Gus had tried everything. Three years of lifting, meal plans, bulking, cutting, dirty bulks, clean bulksânothing ever stuck. His genetics were shit, and his metabolism burned through food like a furnace, leaving him stranded in his skinny, unimpressive frame. Heâd spent more nights than heâd like to admit scrolling through fitness forums, watching influencers with thick, veiny arms say âTrust the process, bro.â
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 absurdâguys 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 didnât 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 wasnât dramaticâa 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 wasnât 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 wouldnât 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 werenât just biggerâthey 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. Heâd 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 sessionâthe 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 simpleâjust 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 didnât 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 tooâhe 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 wasnât 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 heâd 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. Heâd 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 couldnât 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 fuckâhe 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 goneâŠHe had a feeling his growth wasnât over yet.
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