Jekyll and Hulk

[6 word request: Jock Turns Into Gay, Microdicked Bodybuilder]

I’ve been white-knuckling it lately. The gym used to be my safe place, my spot to relieve stress, but all it does is wind me up lately. I go in to do my usual workout and everything’s so easy. I throw on extra weight and in those reps--in that moment of exertion where my brain says MOVE and the weight listens--I get this full body buzz. Last week I just went in to do arms and calves, but ended up with a huge boner and a giant wet-spot on the crotch. I just walked out like there was nothing wrong but everyone could see. Driving home, I had to resist the twitching tent in my pants. It kept calling to me. I knew I had to leave it alone. On the way into my house I could hear the threads in my tank top shredding with every step, every movement of my wide lats.

Time to start shopping another size up.

I can’t even trust my urges anymore. Yesterday, my morning wood was so massive I knocked the air freshener off my toilet because I turned too fast. I figured a nice little tug would relieve some of all this tension, maybe unclench my brain for a bit. Every nerve in my cock was ALIVE, firing off at the gentlest touch. I tried to rub one out quick, but I could feel HIM coming in--that other “me” invading my thoughts. I knew he was coming when I saw my 8 inch pole starting to recede. I knew I should stop when I saw it pull back to six inches--maybe just one more pump or two… then it was four inches, and receding, as my balls started shriveling up too.

I didn’t see how much they shrank because my pecs blew up so big I couldn’t see past them. Last thing I remembered was my ass blowing up before I blacked out.

I woke up in my own bed, thankfully, but it was the pressure of the tiny pink speedo that brought me around. My own cock was too big for it, squeezing against the shiny fabric nearly to the point of snapping it. It was constricting my waist, too. I just had to flex my crotch to pop it free; one grunt and SNAP, my big dick flopped out. It was a relief to see it; lately, it’s the only way I know it’s me.

Although I measured it yesterday, and it was just under 7.5 inches. I know it’s supposed to be 8. It’s been 8 since I was 18. So now, not only are my clothes getting a little tighter every single day, but my boxers are getting roomier. It’s hard to ignore. I wonder when it will start affecting the way I walk. Yesterday I watched myself in the mirror and noticed that my gait has a little bit of a wiggle to it--maybe. I don’t know. Maybe it’s in my head.

*

I know why this happened. I know exactly the second it started.

James and I were at the gym. We were doing abs--hanging leg lifts. And this massive clydesdale of a man (god damn, just the words “clydesdale” and “man” in the same sentence make my dick jump nowadays) lumbered by, wearing the tiniest stringer tank and these itty bitty little shorts. He was so absurdly huge, like an overgrown anatomy chart, and I wondered if he could even fit through a car door or comfortably into a shower. It seemed like just getting around was enough to get that big roided freak winded and sweaty.

I turned to James, ready for him to have a biting insult about how grotesque all that muscle was; instead, his eyes were following the big freak. His silence said everything I needed to know. I was shocked; it was so unlike James, who had been turned off by size so many times before, to actually long for something like that. Jealousy hit me hard; it amplified the comment I made next, the one I would regret for the rest of my life…

“I don’t get why anyone would want to look like that.”

That seemed to break the spell on James. He scoffed immediately after (probably just to cover up the lusty look I’d seen in his eyes) but the big freak paused. He turned his big, wide body around and pointed at me--BANG with his fingerguns, silently. But I felt it. My body twitched. I felt nauseous. And all of a sudden, all I could see was the guy’s junk. His tiny, skin-tight shorts clearly outlined a dinky little nub. BANG, and that nub was all I could think about. It’s all I could see. Something about such a tiny little dick and such big, huge muscles. The combination had me sweating and I had no idea why.

(God, I loved taking James to the gym. My boyfriend--well, ex now--was so beautiful and bitchy. His petite body was flawless, and he had a smoldering glare that would have me desperate to rip off my clothes as soon as he flashed it at me. I miss those days, of light weights and carb-free weeks and abs and cardio and staying pretty and ripped with angles so sharp they could slice through steel… What I wouldn’t do to have his narrow little body intertwined with mine… But every time I imagine him--sometimes with my dick in my hand--his body blows up like a balloon, and I’m picturing that clydesdale’s bulk pressed up against mine, hearing the furniture crunch beneath our massive bodies…)

*

I lost a modeling job today.

I kind of expected it--which is why I wore a baggy sweatsuit, trying to hide how much my body had changed since I’d sent in my headshot and body stills. The photographer--a real feminine guy named Kendall--had me strip down and put on swim trunks. I turned around before I dropped my sweats, as if I could hide the inevitable from him.

I’d sent him my sizes but of course it didn’t fit--two steps and my big quads shredded it down the sides. He was pissed, but managed to score another suit from wardrobe that fit as long as I didn’t bend too much. As he started lining up the first shot I could tell by the expression on his face that he wasn’t happy.

“I wanted a model, not some himbo musclehead,” he said, looking at my thicker chest and big bouncy ass. I tried to explain myself--”Just been lifting really hard… I can slim down in a week if you want…” He got on the phone and started barking in Italian to someone else. Finally he decided we were gonna give it a shot. “We’ll just focus on face and abs,” he said. The ceiling of the studio was mirrored. I made the mistake of looking up and catching sight of my big bulky arms and my huge glutes. It looked like I’d been doing nothing but pushups, squats and curls for weeks.

After the first few shots, I turned away. He sneered--”That big caboose of yours is too distracting,” he spat--and right before I turned back around, it happened: my stomach just swelled out. To me, I felt the burn in my abs, like I’d suddenly done 500 crunches. Then my gut bowed out like I’d just eating a whole wedding cake by myself.

I looked fucking pregnant! I reached down and rubbed the rock-hard turtle shell my stomach had bloated into. The abs were still shredded, veiny and thick as hell. I could’ve lost a dime in the lines between them. But I had the kind of muscle belly that only guys with a roid needle in their ass four times a week got.

The photographer just rolled his eyes. “The fuck is wrong with you fucking gym addicts these days?” he said. He told me to get out. “Quit the juice, you freak!” he yelled as I walked out in my sweatpants; I hadn’t even taken the time to cover up my puffy-looking torso. I just wanted to be anywhere but there.

“Fuck him,” I thought after I left, looking at my face in a car window outside. I still had a solid jawline, incredible cheekbones, insanely blue eyes… so what if I was a little overly built? The muscle gut looked awful, true--but as I sat there, rubbing its rock hard meaty surface, all I could think of was how I could offset it with some extra size in my pecs--and lats, and shoulders, and...

It was like every bodypart suddenly pumped up as I thought of it. And I knew it was happening. HE was taking over, and I couldn’t stop him. I knew as soon as the sweatpants got so tight I couldn’t walk that he was there--my body was HIS and I was just a passenger. Big unfamiliar paws pulled at my tight sweats with sausage-thick fingers.

The last thing I remembered as I tore them off was how cut my tiny little dick looked between those massive quads--then my pecs blew up so big I couldn’t see past them again and I was out.

The first thing I knew when I woke up was the stink, like concentrated locker room. I was sweating--god, wherever I was felt so damned hot and humid--and I fumbled around in a tangle of damp sheets as I took in my unfamiliar surroundings.

I tumbled out of a bed and stumbled on the floor for a sec before I stood up and realized I was in somebody else’s bedroom. Behind me, snoring loudly, was a man the size of a refrigerator. I didn’t know guys could get that big! Seriously, he had to be 300 pounds of thick mass. He looked like two NFL linemen squished together. I just watched the big brute’s huge chest rising and falling. He had a thick moustache and I got a flash--just a snippet of a memory of me licking it, sucking on it. I winced at the thought; once it was in my brain, I couldn’t get rid of it.

I tried to be quiet as I searched the guy’s room for something I could reasonably wear. At one point he rolled over--big fucking whale of a dude--and I dropped to the floor. I saw his big arm patting the side of the bed I’d woken up on. But then he was back to snoring, like a loud chainsaw I could feel in my chest.

The best I could find for clothes was a pair of shorts with a drawstring. They hung down past my knees and still were baggy even when pulled tight, but it got me out the door. I saw some massive workboots by the door and I recognized them--but that couldn’t be; they were something crazy like size 14 and I’d never seen them before in my life. I don’t even know why I did it, but I held one up to sniff it. The funk that came out was familiar… I knew it was mine, somehow.

The shorts were going to be all I could salvage before I made an escape, I realized; the guy I’d fucked--holy shit, no, he fucked me!--was 6’5” tall and big as an elephant. His boxer briefs were nearly the size of a pillowcase.

His name was Derek. He was a powerlifting world champion. Now he had a mass handler, just some guy who controls his gear and lifting, trying to make him as big as humanly possible. I remembered his big hand on my shredded roidgut, my hand on his solid keg belly. There was something so sexy about a man who was just pure, unadulterated size. His chubby muscles, my veiny muscles, 69ing like some perverse yin-yang of masculinity. I could have sworn I tasted Tren in the load he dumped in my mouth. He dumped a few more loads into my ass.

But that wasn’t possible. I knew it. I felt like I’d been saved when I saw my phone under his bed, and snatched it before I fled to the door. I heard him calling my name as I ran down the hallway, frantically punching the button for the elevator. I didn’t even know what floor I was on.

Imagine, I thought as I jogged away, if he’d woken up to me in his bed. I knew what he remembered, how ludicrously juiced out and misproportioned I’d been when we fucked the night before. The memories kept flashing into my head; being so big I had to turn my whole torso to see behind me, legs so huge I had to waddle around, but with a dick smaller than my pinky finger. A mastodon like Derek wouldn’t touch me the way I looked normally; he only went for serious size freaks. I remembered him saying that. If only he knew that the roided-out rhino bouncing on his dick the night before was a 5’9” prettyboy model?

*

I saw the clydesdale again yesterday.

I should have known it was going to happen. I got all the way to the door of my apartment and stepped out before I realized I was almost nude. It was my hard nips, perked up at the chilly air, that snapped me out of my daze. Then I realized I was just wearing a neon-orange thong and high-tops that matched.

It was still my reasonably-sized body--I wasn’t hulking out or anything--but it shocked me how comfortable I was heading to the gym with nearly nothing on. Even worse was when I put on my usual gym attire--basketball shorts and a hoodie--I felt like I was going to jump out of my skin. I felt so restrained, so weighed down by all the clothes. It--HIM, whatever the huge beast I turned into when I blew up and my dick shrank to nothing should be called--was really taking over.

I saw him leaving, getting into his truck, as I drove up. I dropped my bag and sprinted to him. I could feel my pecs starting to blow up as I ran, bouncing more and more. I felt the roominess in my shorts as my dick pulled up, my nuts shriveling to nothing. I looked 60 pounds heavier by the time I got to him. I banged on the hood of his truck. He just smirked and put it in park. As I approached his window, the nipples on my big bouncy jugs were so damned sensitive that I nutted in my pants. I think he knew, too, the way my body tensed up and my face contorted, exactly what had happened.

“The fuck did you do to me?” I moaned at him, my voice already getting deeper, more gravelly, rumbling in my still-growing chest.

“Sorry, babe,” he said, looking me up and down. (GOD, the way I felt as he appraised my body--it’s all I wanted, just to be judged by men; and somehow I knew it would have been even hotter if he’d insulted my physique than if he’d complimented it.) “It’s a curse. Gotta pass it along, y’know?”

My glutes were pulsing with my heartbeat, the massive muscle in my chest pounding blood to my still-enlarging body. Deep between those big ass muscles there was something else; a ferocious tickle, a needy itch that started to pervade every thought. I leaned into his truck to see his dick and felt my enlarged heart fall as I noticed his empty basket.

“Oh, don’t think you can get that from me, sweet thing,” he said, licking his lips. (I swear, he could see the thirst in my eyes and he LOVED IT.) “I used to be a cocky little twink, too, before I pissed off the wrong muscle mary, and now look at me!” He hit a double biceps pose and I nutted in my shorts again.

(Fuck, I had to get out of those shorts! All these clothes felt like a prison!)

“I’m guessing you’ve been blacking out, waking up with giant men? Getting off on walking around in nearly nothing? Gaining size everywhere except your dick--where you’re steadily losing it?”

Just hearing about the symptoms of this nightmare had my spent dick twitching again, firing up for another load. God, being humiliated was such a turn-on.

Some guys from the gym walked by--guys I’d chatted with in the locker room every day for over a year. No way could they recognize me now, my body blowing up into a cartoonish shape while I salivated over a 300 pound roid queen in a truck.

“Pretty soon, it’s just going to be you,” he said, licking his lips as he reached out and tweaked my nipple. (My pec jumped and I nutted again. God, I was so pathetic… and that was such a turn-on…) “You won’t be blacking out anymore. Pretty soon, you’ll be awake all the time--and you’re going to love what I did for you. You’re going to thank me.”

I wasn’t listening to him anymore. I was watching the guys in the parking lot, imagining their dicks, wondering if they wanted a big muscle stud to ride them--a quick, discreet fuck, no questions asked, for free. God, I fucking needed it.

He leaned out--god, his traps were so huge!--and laid a big kiss on me. It was like it sealed the curse. My clothes burst as my body blossomed into its new form. I was so massive with impossibly wide shoulders, an ass as wide as a car bumper, and a tiny wasp-waist that blossomed into a grotesque roidgut. I knew everyone could see me.

I didn’t care. I wanted them to see.

I lost myself in my strut as I headed back to my car, totally naked and totally unphased. Fuck, my car was WAY too small for a guy my size! It was time to find a new ride--and with a body like this, I knew I could find it.

*

I saw James at work today. I didn’t recognize him at first, but then he turned away from his new boyfriend and made eye contact with me for just a moment. Something inside me cracked and I remembered my old life. It seemed like it had happened a hundred years ago, before I was sucking dick for Tren and synthol injections, blowing up so huge I could barely fit in most elevators, fiending for dicks the way most people fiended for cigarettes.

Normally a little slip of a guy like James would have been invisible to me, but as I danced on that box, shaking my mass for dollar bills stuffed into my purple g-string, he suddenly reminded me of the life I used to have.

That guy on his arm--the quarterback looking guy, the guy smaller than one of my legs now--should have been me. For some reason I thought that James might be the key to reversing it all. Maybe if I could get him to think I was hot, maybe if he could cum in my ass just once, I’d shrink back to my old self and he could rescue me from this life.

But as I approached, his scrawny little prettyboy of a boyfriend got between us. He sneered at me, looking at me like I was a huge muscle clown. (He was right; I was.) I could have squashed him into the ground for that, broken every bone in his tiny little vegetarian body with less effort than I gave to my warmup sets, but something else occurred to me.

I pointed at him, made a fingergun… and BANG. I know he felt it. I sure as hell did. Whatever made me this way had spread. In a month, this all-American-looking redhead would be big as a buffalo and desperate for attention from men, his intellect just draining away.

I couldn’t wait until he came looking for me. I couldn’t wait to see what I’d created. Maybe he could get a job as a gogo dancer at this bar too and we could humiliate ourselves together and ride bat-sized dildos every night.

But as they left, I reached toward James’ back. I wanted to scream for him not to leave me--not there, on a box at a bar with old men licking their lips and waving dollars at me, but the year before, when he told me he found someone new. But he had no idea who I was. Neither did I, anymore.