Larry's Lucky Late-Night Leg Day Leggins

[6 word request: Bodybuilders Leggings Bulge Stretches Too Big]

[shrinking, body part morph, animal TF, inanimate TF, inflation]

Hank’s Hardcore Gym closes at 10 for most. But I’m not “most” by a longshot. All the guys texting between sets, the crossfitters using six machines at once, and the guys eating up precious gym time setting up the perfect selfie beat it when Hank locks the doors. That’s when I show up, pulling my truck around back and using my key to get in.

Sometimes Hank’s there for a bit, but tonight he headed home early. Big man’s in a serious bulk and needs 9 hours a night to put on the freaky mass he’s after. (I sure hope I’m competing at 60!) When I show up, Kyle’s at the front desk. He’s 21 and an absolute freak; in 5 years he’ll be the serious mass-monster bodybuilder whose name everybody knows. Now, he’s a good 6’5” tall and just under 3-hundo, but the kicker is that pretty face of his: dimples, perfect cheekbones and a jaw you could smash bricks with. He flashes those big pearly whites and his blue eyes twinkle when I walk through the door.

“Damn, Larry, you’ve got your good-luck leggings on!” he says as I head in. He’s right: I squeezed my big redwoods into my bright purple compression tights every leg day. He knows, soon as I strut in stretching those things to their limit, that some serious weight was going to be moved.

“Good to see ya bud,” I say as I walk in, slinging my duffel behind me so I could fist bump him.

“Damn, big dog,” Kyle says, giving me a once over that mostly stayed below the belt. “You’re gonna pop out of those leggings pretty soon. They must be ready to explode with all that stuffed in there!”

“You talking about all this--” I say, grabbing a handful of my ample glute and giving it a jiggle, “or this?” I said jostling the bulge up front. Kyle grins and swipes me in.

Over by the mirrors, Darryl’s stuffed his massive dark-skinned body into a tiny pair of pink posing trunks. He’s running through his poses. Big man is the biggest thing I’ve ever seen at 4% body fat; I can’t believe how lean he stayed all year, thick veins constantly snaking under his shrink-wrapped skin. He hits a pose and I’m blown away just watching his body swell and flex. I never get used to a 300 pound chiseled guy stomping around redefining human anatomy every time he strips down. 

He gives me a head nod and throws out a most-muscular that blew my mind, his whole vascular torso flexed in my direction. He sticks out a tongue as he holds the pose. Once, he hopped into the passenger seat in my truck and the whole thing tilted in his direction. It blpws my mind to think that nearly all of that mass was solid muscle; he looks like even his organs are getting shoved around to make room for more dense flesh.

I’m lucky Darryl and I get along. I’m nowhere near his size and certainly not a bodybuilder--just a big-boned kid with above-average strength and an affinity for steak who got so big he has to special-order his clothes now--but the biggest thing about him is his ego. He can’t stand it when he’s not the center of attention, and was known to push around smaller guys who he didn’t feel gave him the respect or adoration he deserved. The worst he ever did to me was to slap my ass during a pretty heavy squat session.

“Biggest booty I’ve ever seen!” he declared (and to be honest, he was right; I’ve always had a large caboose, and two decades of powerlifting has only made it even more absurd). Luckily my glutes were so pumped from that set that I barely felt it; but I bet Darryl did! Must have felt like he slapped granite.

Over by the leg presses I watch big Ethan pound out a set of what looks to be 50 or 60 reps. I count 9 plates on each side. I’m so impressed I have to whistle; big fucker is just staring dead-eyed at the ceiling while he pumps out rep after rep like a machine. He roars through his last five and then racks the weight, pacing around the leg press to keep from getting totally immobilized by the lactic acid building up in his body.

Ethan’s been in the offseason for awhile now, just swelling up like a tick. He used to be a decent-sized guy that just used the gym with the normies during the day, but his obsession hit the point where he got some serious mass-building momentum that carried him into our elite squad. He’s the only guy at the gym with a more pronounced waddle than I have (hey, it’s hard to roll these big fucking tree trunks around each other!). Hard to believe that a year ago he was just 260, and now he’s nearly a hundred pounds heavier. Tons of GH, pretty rigorous cycling and some supreme growth-potential in his genes was helping him blow up into an absolute freak before our very eyes. The thing about Ethan is, he always talks about competing in the distant future. He hasn’t set a date to compete since he hit 310 (without showing any signs of slowing his growth). Makes me wonder just how big he’s going to get.

Speaking of big, over by the power racks (luckily not using the one I want), I see Tod squatting with a fully loaded bar bending over his back. Tod’s a gigantic 6’6” tall and is built as wide and thick as a fridge. He doesn’t give a shit about bodybuilding; he just likes to push heavy weights. He was born to be huge, which is why he and I get along so well. He’s easily twice my size and could toss me around like a basketball if he wanted to, but he never thought about much more than pressing heavy weight.

The story I heard about Tod was that he was the youngest of five boys, all big mountain men, and until he was 15 he was the smallest dude in his high school class. Tired of getting pushed around, the big meathead threw himself into the gym, poured on massive amounts of growth hormones, and now he has to turn sideways to get his wide shoulders through doors. I’ve seen him sit in a chair that instantly collapsed more than once. God bless that big mindless brute. Nothing motivated me on leg day more than seeing that gigantic meat pile grinding out every plate in the house.

The last guy rounding out our late-night squad that night is Pierre, a snooty Canadian guy who’s always on his fifteenth or sixteenth set of abs. Pierre looks like he’s chiseled from marble, seriously--by that I mean both that his body looks perfectly sculpted, and the fact that every inch of him is smooth and shiny. He’s got a big mane of blonde hair that he keeps pulled up in a man-bun, but when he lets it down he looks like Conan’s bigger, better looking brother--or the guy who’s going to leap off the cover of a romance novel and fuck everyone you care about brainless.

Pierre’s the smallest of our late-night crew, by a longshot, but he’s got a flawless physique and a work-ethic that rivals even Ethan’s obsessiveness. After I see what has to be his five-hundredth leg lift, Pierre drops to the floor and does one-handed push ups so slowly I can count to ten from peak to floor.

Some days I don’t feel like I belong in this crew. I’m just a retired firefighter who likes to lift. I grew up going to my dad’s strongman competitions and we had a gym in our basement, so I was deadlifting before I was in middle school. Being big and strong as fuck was as natural for me as taking a shit. I couldn’t imagine a life without the weights. And honestly, if I worked out anywhere else, I probably wouldn’t stuff my massive wields into these skin-tight about-to-burst leggings that showed every minute detail of my gargantuan chassis (almost to the point where my cock and balls looked almost obscene along with my oversized shelf of a rear bouncing with every step). Luckily, with these freaks as my peers, I dont get judged for putting legs the circumference of an average guy’s waist on display.

I hit the locker room first, where I dump a few scoops of preworkout directly into my mouth and chew them back. It’s not long before I feel the tingles, and I get ready to waddle my big ass out there and drop it to the floor with some serious weight on top of me. Leg day is easy: gravity pulls me in one direction, but I disagree. And I always win.

There’s something in the air when I walk back out on the floor. Everybody in the crew is still busy with their own workouts (or in the case of Darryl, hitting some freakish poses in the mirror) but up front, I see a guy arguing with Kyle. Kyle’s a big dope, clearly not taking the guy seriously, so I wonder if I should step in. About five strides closer and I see who it is: Spencer, the loser Hank let go two weeks before.

From what I heard, about ten years prior, Spencer was an up-and-comer big time bodybuilder but a drug problem derailed what looked to be a promising career. Google Spencer’s name and you’ll probably see a half-dozen stills from sites dudes whack their dicks too; that guy whips out his dbol-bloated body for anyone with a handful of change in their pockets. You can tell he has the basis for a serious physique under there, but all I’ve ever seen of him is a ton of water bloat and serious gyno.

“I said,” Spencer repeats as I approach, “give me the keys to the safe and then put your hands over your head.” Spencer has a gun! (At least, what looks like a gun; as I get closer, I realize it looks like it’s made of plastic with a spiral for a barrel; it looks more like a prop for a sci-fi costume than a weapon).

“Look,” Kyle chuckles, “I dunno what you think you’re pulling, but there’s a dozen cameras on your right now and you’re clearly identifiable. You’re not gonna rob this place.”

Darryl notices the commotion up front and pulls himself away from the mirror, stepping toward the front with his hands on his huge, oil-slicked hips. It feels good to have backup; not that I thought Spencer was a danger I couldn’t handle myself, but with Darryl’s gigantic nearly-naked body by my side, Spencer would probably bolt out the door before he got physical.

“I dunno what you’re on,” Kyle says with a shrug, “but how about we text Hank and see what he thinks about you trying to rob his place of business?”

That’s a smart move, I think; Spencer is scared shitless of big Hank!

“You realize,” Spencer says with a sneer, “that other than being dense and pretty, you bring nothing to the table, right? You’d make a better lawn ornament than a person.”

Kyle pats his own barrel chest and leans against the desk. “Fine, bro. Whatever you s--”

I realize that Spencer’s got that weird gun thing pointed at Kyle at the same time I hear Kyle’s voice cut off mid-sentence. I can’t believe my eyes at first, but where Kyle was is now a big marble statue, still wearing Kyle’s clothes. The statue's mouth is half-open; I can see Kyle’s tongue about to form his next word. But the eyes are flat and lifeless, the rest of him motionless. His clothes haven’t changed but look silly on a statue.

“Had to do it the hard way, hunh?” Spencer says as he hops the desk, his hands darting into Kyle’s pockets before he fishes out the master keys to the whole gym. “I bet I’ll get a ton of money for you once I cut all that clothing off,” Spencer says to the statue, making me wonder if Kyle can still hear him like that.

I look over at Darryl, who’s frozen just like I am. I can’t believe what I just saw any more than Darryl can. We’re only stuck there for a second until we both leap into action, sprinting around to the front of the desk. The only thing about guys as big as we are: we’re not that nimble. A smaller guy could’ve probably hopped the desk and tackled Spencer to the ground, but big behemoths like us have all of our muscles get in our way, the price we pay for being so huge and strong.

“Darryl, you piece of shit!” Spencer says as Darryl reaches out to snatch the weird gun thing. Darryl’s just too big and too slow; Spencer leaps back and points the gun at him. “Your biggest problem is that massive head of yours. How about I solve that?”

Spencer squeezes what I’m guessing is the “trigger” but nothing happens; no sound, no light, but instantly Darryl’s head just fucking… disappears! My first thought was that big Darryl had his head blown clean off, but there was no blood, no sign of a wound, and he was still moving--albeit clumsily, flailing around wildly. He’s barely able to rise to his feet without losing his balance, all nearly 300 pounds of him crashing to the ground.

Spencer turns to me but I drop behind the desk. I can see Tod on his way over. Despite my efforts to shoo him away, the big idot comes our way.

Darryl--or what there is of him, at least--is on his hands and knees, just crawling along. As he passes me I get a look at him and realize his head isn’t gone; it’s there, perched between his rippling traps, but it’s the size of a thumb. His voice is a barely audible chirp. I can’t understand him but he sounds panicked (why wouldn’t he be?). No wonder he’s like a bull in a china shop: his head’s so small, his body seems like the size of a building to him now. Sadly there’s nothing I can do for him with a maniac with some nightmare pistol on the other side of the desk from us.

“Spencer, what the hell, man?” Tod starts, but Spencer just laughs--a high-pitched, weaselly sound. He’s clearly on something.

“Big Tod, you fucking ogre,” Spencer starts, and I expect Tod to turn into a green hairy monster, but he thankfully he doesn’t.

“H-hey, look,” Tod says, glancing down at me and Darryl, then up at Spencer and the Kyle-statue behind the desk. “I dunno what’s going on, man, but you and I always got along good, right? I mean, just take it easy with that thing…”

Spencer scoffed. “You buffoon. You think being that big can hide the fact that you have the worst case of Little Man Syndrome of anyone I ever met?”

“Sure I do,” Tod said, trying to negotiate. Pierre and Ethan were starting to approach as well. God, why the hell didn’t these idiots just run? “You know that just as well as I do. I can’t argue with that.”

Spencer clucked his tongue. “Let’s make things easy for you,” he said. “Let’s make you as small on the outside as you feel on the inside.”

In an instant, Tod was gone, just like Darryl’s head. His clothing remains, slowly billowing to the ground in a pile on his shoes. I think he’s been vaporized until I see a hint of movement underneath his deflated tank top. A little nub wriggles helplessly. I’m too far away (and it is way too tiny) to see what it was, but I imagine that enormous powerlifter Tod is now the size of a bug. My brain doesn’t want to accept it as real, but as I glance over to the mammoth black bodybuilder with a pea-sized head struggling near me, I come to accept that the rules of physics are out the window. I hold a finger to my mouth to quiet Darryl but his head must have been too small to see. Instead, I dig a finger in the strap of his posing trunks and give it a hard yank back. The pressure on his tightly packed cock and balls plus the feeling of the wedgie must have overwhelmed his tiny brain enough to make him sit still for a second.

“Hey, Pierre!” Spencer says, coming out from behind the desk. I make sure to crawl around the other side as he came around--because this lunatic is clearly hell bent on exacting whatever psychotic revenge he could on every one of us! “What’s a gym-rat like you eat for a diet?” Pierre stands, stunned. “Give up? I’ll help you out!” He points the ray-gun. “Cheese!”

Pierre writhes like he’s been shot but there’s no visible wound. Tiny hairs sprout all over him and in seconds his hairless muscular physique is covered in light fur. He opens his mouth and moans, his eyes rolling wildly as whiskers--I shit you not--poke out from his cheeks. He grabs his face and groans as it pushes forward into some sort of muzzle. At the same time, a stringy tail bursts out from the back of his shorts. He lets out a high-pitched, animalistic screech as he drops to all fours, beginning to shrink out of his clothes as his face twitches wildly.

“And you, Ethan,” Spencer says to the mass monster, who was backing toward the locker rooms with his hands in the air, as he continues his spree. “Y’know, they all say you’ve been blowing up like a balloon, and I have to say…” He points his gun and squeezes the trigger. “I agree.”

It’s evident on Ethan’s face at first: his thick, bulky face puffs up. He’s got sumo cheeks a second later. He reaches up with puffy hands to feel the new growth as his gut starts to swell out as well. He looks like he’s going to explode out of his clothes, but his round form suddenly shrinks. He opens his mouth to say something but his voice comes out high-pitched, a helium-high squeak, as he shrinks into his sweat-soaked gym clothes. Through the neck-hole of his compression top, a fat pink helium balloon floats out. It’s vaguely man-shaped, with a little nub for a head and five smaller nubs (hands, feet and, I’m assuming, cock?) on a larger spherical body. The balloon floats up toward a slowly spinning ceiling fan. I wince as the Ethan balloon is swept up into its blades--and then batted away toward a wall it ricocheted lightly off.

That’s my moment, I realize. I make a break for it. “Where do you think you’re going, you gigantic ass?”

I don’t even listen, just lunge for the front door. Every step gets harder. It feels like I’m pulling a bus behind me, and I can feel my thighs getting pressed apart by something. I reach for the door handle but something’s pulling me back.

I hear a loud tear and look behind me in horror to see my big glutes blowing up like tires, bursting through my now-shredded leggings. “Shit!” I yell as I try to take a step forward, but the growing weight on my backside keeps me from taking any more steps. I fight as long as I can before gravity wins and I topple backward. My fall isn’t as long as I expected. I land on my giant pillowy glutes and stand there, confused. No matter how I flex my massive legs, I can’t get that much weight off the ground. My giant ass has me pinned to the spot.

I can hear Spencer giggling behind me as he runs toward Hank’s office and, I’m assuming, the safe. I’m planted to the spot; I can’t even turn myself around because of my Goodyear-sized butt. I reach toward the fire alarm on the wall but it’s way too far. I reach toward the door, wondering if maybe I could throw it open to scream for help, but my fingers just barely graze the handle. I’m not going anywhere.

Above me I see the Ethan balloon floating toward an air conditioning vent. It’s blasted down toward me and I manage to get a hand on it. In my hands, the squeaky little rubber thing continues to wriggle. I look closely to see it has eyes that are looking around in a panic. The puckered knot sits where his mouth should be. “Damn, Ethan, I’m sorry,” I say to the little guy as the nubs of his hands and feet wiggle.

Behind me I hear some squeaking. The Pierre rat seems to be chasing something. I try to turn to see what the commotion is when a pale little mass runs past. I have to lean forward and squint to make out what looks to be an inch-tall Tod, naked and lumbering along as best as his meaty legs would carry him.

“Shit!” I say as Pierre squeaks and darts for little Tod. I swipe at the Pierre rat, wondering if there’s anything left of the ultra-vein physique model or if his rodent impulses have fully taken over. I manage to stomp a foot down on Pierre’s tail. The little beast shrieks but it gives tiny Tod a chance for a head start--for as much good as that’s going to do. Tod’s impossibly small legs aren’t going to keep him from being Pierre’s lunch forever.

I jump as I feel hands on my big ass but it’s just Darryl, still stumbling along. He pats his way up my huge glutes, toward my arched lower back, then to my shoulders. He pulls himself in close enough so I can see his tiny little face. I’ve never seen Darryl look so terrified before.

“Calm down, big man,” I say, and Darryl’s whole body flinches. I’m guessing his tiny ears are hearing everything at a magnified volume. At a whisper, I continue: “You’re okay! Just chill…”

“Holy shit, Larry!” Darryl’s tiny head squeaks while his gargantuan physique flexes and trembles. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“My ass got… huge,” I say, reaching down to rub my big quivering globes. “It feels like I’m sitting on a beanbag chair except it’s… me…”

“How long are we gonna be like this?” Darryl squeaks and I rub his shoulder to try to console him.

“I dunno,” I say, “but you’re our best bet at getting help. Do you think you could get out of here? Maybe call the police or something?”

Darryl’s eyes dart around, no doubt taking in the impossible gigantic doors behind me. “You can do it! Remember, only your head’s small. Your body’s as big as it always was!”

Darryl’s body squats down and he drives a shoulder into my ass. “Maybe… maybe we can get you up?” he squeaks. “If we get you on your feet, I can help keep you walking if you can guide me…”

“Don’t bother, freaks,” says Spencer, who walks confidently toward us with a duffel bag in one arm and the crazy ray gun tucked into the waistband of his sweatpants. He’s wheeling along a dolly with the Kyle-statue strapped into it. “I’ll be long gone before any of you can do anything about this.”

Darryl stands up to his full height, his mass flexing, and then swings his massive fists at Spencer--but the psycho easily sidesteps the attack and big Darryl crashes into the wall and then collapses, dazed. I reach toward him, wishing I could get up from my spot, but Spencer just chuckles and kicks the Ethan balloon out of my hand as he opens the door. Ethan floats out, lazily hovering across the street before a gust takes him up into the sky.

“So just so you know,” Spencer says, “if you keep your mouths shut about who did all this, you should turn back to normal in about three days--if you make it that long,” he adds, looking up into the expanse of sky that swallowed Ethan. “But if you mention that it was me, to anyone…” He snickers and points the ray-gun at me. “I’ll make you limbless little cocksnakes. Imagine, just your head, perched on your wriggling cock and balls, just flopping around, desperate to get touched, barely able to move. How does that sound?”

I clench my fists but can’t do much else. Spencer waves goodbye and takes off. I watch the Pierre rat scurry out the door as it swings closed. It looks like it has something in its claws.