Complaints About Edgar

[6 word request: Edgar Snepsts Transfers Height to Pecs]

[Shrinking, Muscle growth, Imbalanced Growth, Reality Rewrite, Personality Rewrite]

[MAJOR homage to amazing writer Onix for this story]

Edgar rolled his eyes as Biff, the gym manager told him to take a seat.

“Okay, Edgar, let’s have a little chat, here,” he said as he locked the door.

Edgar rolled his eyes. “Locking the door? You serious bud? What’s this all about?” He glanced around, wary of what Biff had in mind. He’d always been a little creepy, his gaze lingering a little too long, and every time Edgar live-streamed Biff was one of the first to watch the feed and the last to leave. Edgar prepared himself for some good old-fashioned sexual harassment from the dumpy old perv--maybe he could score a nice law suit out of all this.

Biff sat down, ran a hand through his thinning hair, and tossed a folder on the table. “It’s about this. Some pretty serious allegations here. I’m supposed to be launching an investigation on all this--and that’s the last thing I’m in the mood to do, man. Just tell me none of this is true.”

Edgar stared at the blue folder. “Wait, you mean allegations about me? Allegations of what?”

Biff sighed, folded his hands and leaned forward. “Some of the female trainers have made some… claims.”

Edgar raised an eyebrow. “Was it Cecille? Because all of that was consensual. I have the video.”

Biff waved his hands. “No, nothing like that! Just some… verbal abuse stuff. Harassment.”

Edgar shrugged his big shoulders. He readjusted his tank top and flicked a piece of lint of his tan, bulging pec. “So no criminal stuff. I thought this was a legal thing. What is this, just gym administration?”

Biff shook his head. “Look. The higher-ups are on my ass about this. I told them you’re a big part of this gym! You’ve got a ton of clients, you’re kind of a celebrity… a lot of the members here were brought in by you.”

Edgar pushed his chair away from the table, ready to stand. He was done with this. “What do you mean ‘kind of’ a celebrity?” he said with a sneer.

“Thing is, man, I can’t have this stuff floating around. I can’t have ladies saying you called them, ‘big-tittied trolls,’ man. You have a lot of eyes on you. You need to be better than that.”

Edgar had his phone out, scrolling through his instagram feed. “Biff, it’s fucked up you’d say that, buddy. ‘Big-tittied trolls?’ Does that sound like something I’d say? I don’t speak your crude American vernacular.”

Biff thought about it, then went to respond--but stopped himself.

“Listen, this whole ‘believe the woman’ bullshit is adorable and all but I have a business to run.” He stormed out of the office, slamming the door. “Shred that file. Tell them you did the investigation and you found nothing but good stuff about me. And tell the women who complained to go find the dick they desperately need.”

Steamed, Edgar hung from the pulldown bar and did some leg raises. A nice set of 100, slow and controlled, would give him a nice grinding burn in his abdomen--just the thing to dispel all the stress of this “women complaining” nonsense.

Honestly, this was just the kind of thing he resented about the States, exactly why he didn’t want to come here. In his homeland he was respected for his physique, lauded for it. His flawless body was the mark of his masculinity, a token of his status. He was more fit than other men, in all ways, and it was instantly recognizable. Those below him in the food chain knew there place.

Here in the States, other men were like piranhas. Each of them came at him, looking to take a bite. At that gym alone, he was physically superior to nearly every other athlete, evident at first glance. That didn’t stop those hulking roid-bloated behemoths from trying to intimidate him, or the other trainers, pudgy around their middles without the superior leg development or symmetry that was Edgar’s calling card, acted like they were equals--or even competitors! Unlike the apes who shoveled down food to get even more grotesquely bloated, Edgar saw himself as a sculptor, slowly perfecting a physique to reach its ultimate state. None of the other men ever came close.

The women were the worst. Edgar’s prime genetics were undeniable, from his chiseled face to his well-developed, vascular physique. Any woman would be elated to carry his seed, to bear his perfect child! And the experience of dropping that seed--getting close to his superhuman body, basking skin-to-skin with his ultimate perfection, was a gift that every woman, deep down, was begging for. It was their denial of that urge that made them so miserable.

He saw Eliza training one of her doomed, mopey little clients, and gave her a curt wave and a smile. He knew she had filed the complaint--she was the “big tittied troll” question. She was just under 5’ tall with a set of fake breasts so big she looked like she would nearly always topple over. Another trainer, Clint, had mentioned to Edgar that Eliza was interested in him.

“She’s great,” Clint said, “if you’re into a short fling with a big-tittied bimbo. Super crazy though. Make sure to have an exit strategy.”

At that moment, Eliza had been passing. She had made direct eye contact with Edgar and smiled. Edgar then chose to reply, at full volume, “Sorry, Clint, she looks like more of a ‘big-tittied troll’ to me. I’d never stoop that low.”

He knew she heard him. He remembered the look of devastation on her face, how she’d hurried off--maybe to cry, the way these weak American women always did when they didn’t get their way. The fact that she ran right to Biff with this accusation only made him feel better about his assessment of her. Worthless, repulsive trash, she was; so angry at the world for her own situation that she was willing to drag down those better off than she was.

Edgar didn’t have time for that. He had a new client--a physique competitor who had sought Edgar out due to his reputation for aesthetic perfection--who was meeting him in 15 minutes. He was a fitness influencer at the top of his game and one of the most finely honed human bodies ever to live; how dare Eliza think she would disrupt that?

*

Biff opened the blue folder and sifted through the pages, one by one. The first complaint was Elizas. He took out a black marker and scribbled through the complaint, writing, ‘Redacted for falsehood’ at the top.

*

Edgar was filling his water bottle when it happened. Suddenly his heart was pounding LOUDLY in his ears. He felt dizzy. He never got sick! One of these miserable American disease vectors must have infected him. He reached to his aching temples to massage them--when he saw his pecs twitching of their own accord. He watched them bounce and crunch, completely beyond his control. He breathed slowly and deeply, trying to make it stop, but they just flexed harder, like a massive cramp. He grabbed the sides of the water fountain as he felt his pecs suddenly lock up. He was staring down at their shredded vascularity, listening to his own pounding pulse, when his pecs suddenly swelled up.

He stumbled, dizzy, as he reached up to touch the new flesh. His pecs had suddenly gotten bigger--he cupped the hard flesh, squeezed it, to assess that it was real. Each pec was heavier, like he’d just gotten the best pump of his life, but each was cold. He wore a stringer tank top, and for a moment, his thickened chest muscles stretched at the newly swollen muscle; a moment later, the tank top hung comfortably, as if it had always been meant for a chest this size.

Then, a sickening rush--the water fountain seem to rise up. He looked around, confused, as he realized, with horror, that the ground seemed closer to him as well.

His pecs flexed again, this time blowing up even more, like someone had just pumped them with air. His tank top nearly tore as they suddenly bloomed, but He looked behind him, about to scream for help, but the other gym-goers and trainers moved on with their day as if he were invisible. The feeling of his bigger, heavier pecs swaying and jiggling as he turned made him nauseous.

Then, again--he felt everything rise up around him. Now the water fountain spout, which had been at waist level to begin, was at shoulder level.

Another growth spurt in his pecs pushed him back from the fountain. The force of his chest suddenly blowing up thick and huge was enough that it knocked him off his feet. He wobbled, unsteadily, as he realized the absurd amount of weight in his chest made it nearly difficult to remain upright. How was this even possible! He looked like he’d slid watermelons into his tank top--but it was all him. He could feel every inch of the rock-solid mass bouncing and jiggling with every movement.

Then, again--he felt himself sinking, and found the water spout at eye level. He examined his hands--the same graceful but muscular digits he was used to seeing--and looked down at his body to see the familiar pristine proportions that had become synonymous with his name. But he had shrunk over a foot. Everything in the gym looked huge to him now!

But most unbelievably enlarged was his chest. He took a few steps, feeling like he had two 45 pound plates strapped to his chest. Plates would have been easier; the full, thick shelf of muscle was so unwieldy that his balance was completely thrown off. He stumbled and wobbled as he got up any momentum, his body wanting to tilt forward at all times. Only a few steps away, he wanted to lie down just to rest his legs. He wanted to set his pecs on a counter just to give his lower back a break.

*

Biff scribbled out the claims on the second page of Edgar’s file: “Edgar repeatedly referred to trainers Tanika and Amy as, ‘Desperate to be objectified by men. Their only purpose is to be treated like objects.’”

Biff knew Edgar had said this; he said it often, about far more women at the gym than just Tanika and Amy. Still, he wanted this issue to go away, so he wrote, “Redacted for Falsehood” at the top and moved on.

*

“You my coach?” said a deep voice.

Edgar looked up--something he wasn’t at all used to!--to the six foot tall man looming over him. The man was BEAUTIFUL--a word Edgar had never used to describe a man before, but it was the first to come to mind and he couldn’t help but focus on it--dark Italian features and a body that looked like it was carved from granite. The last time Edgar had seen such perfection was fifteen minutes before, in the mirror.

“I’m Gino. And ain’t no way you’re anybody else, set of musclejugs like that. Even bigger and juicier looking than your pics!”

Edgar looked down, not sure what to say. All he could see now was his ample pec shelf, hanging so thick and wide that he couldn’t even see his own nipples, let alone any of the floor around his feet. Still dazed, he reached forward to grab the front of his pecs--but his arms were too short. His chest was now so huge he couldn’t even get his arms around it!

And no one batted an eye. Clint gave him a head nod as he walked by, as if seeing Edgar a foot shorter with pecs that belonged on a 300 pound man was both familiar and banal.

“Yo, Edgar!” the big Italian repeated, rubbing his lantern jaw. He shook his head. “Damn, man. You’re everything your pics advertise and more. Good god, look at those fucking muscletits!”

“Hey!” Edgar said as the man reached down to give his pecs a squeeze. He slapped the approaching hand away, only eliciting a chuckle from the Italian.

“Look, bro, you don’t blow your chest up that much just for looking,” he said, tweaking one of Edgar’s nipples. The shrunken bodybuilder yelped at the sensation. He hated the feeling of invasion, but couldn’t escape the idea that he wanted that kind of touch to continue. It was like his body and his mind were at war.

Gino tapped the screen of his phone a few times. “There we go. Just paid for a premium session. Let’s go, Jugs!”

*

Biff turned the next page and sighed as he read aloud a quote he had personally overheard--and ignored, until Francine, a bikini competitor in her early 20s, had approached him to file a complaint: “The way the women dress here projects their desire to be objectified. They want to be treated like prostitutes or sex dolls, which is why they wear clothes that display them as sexual objects only.”

He scribbled over the complaint, knowing that it was the truth, and then redacted it as well.

*

Edgar, overcome by an unnatural calm despite this bizarre situation, grabbed a clipboard and started to escort Gino to the stretching area. “As always,” Edgar said, “injury prevention is our primary concern…”

“My primary concern is getting a handful of those juicy pecs of yours, big guy,” Gino said with a wink, but he seemed to play along as he folded at the waist and touched his toes.

Edgar took a step forward to guide his “client” when suddenly the tank top that had, until that moment, shifted in size comfortably with his changing body, seemed to shrink wrap to his body. He gasped as it squeezed tightly, fitting like a second skin. The material at the bottom seemed to slowly creep up. He watched the fabric reshape like liquid until it was just strings around his back attached to tiny squares of sparkly pink material around his nipples.

His shorts followed, also becoming threateningly tight before reshaping into what looked like a speedo. He felt chill air gracing the bottom of his glutes and looked behind him to see that not only had his trunks become sparkly and pink like his tank-top-turned-bikini, they also barely got to the bottom of his butt; the bottom two inches of each muscular cheek were exposed to the world.

“Nice top!” said Francine, the slutty bikini competitor Edgar couldn’t stand.

“Th-thank you,” Edgar replied automatically. The response angered him--why would he thank her? Wasn’t she making fun of him? But new memories suddenly took shape and he recalled Francine complimenting his daring fashion sense--wishing she had both the body and the confidence to pull off his looks.

Edgar felt like he was going to throw up. Was he having a fever dream? He felt simultaneously sickened by what was going on and completely calm about it, as if things had always been this way.

Gino cleared his throat, clearly waiting for his “coach” to take charge and do something. Edgar tried to collect himself as he turned in a way that would allow him to avoid looking into a mirror. He knew if he saw himself, he would lose it.

Gino took a step to the left and the big Italian’s body was no longer blocking Edgar from facing his own image. He didn’t recognize what he saw: a cartoonish human, two morbidly overdeveloped pecs atop a short muscular body barely clad in tight, gaudy pink material. It look like a monstrous combination of feminine and masculine extremes. And atop it all was his face--still beautiful, but atop the rest of the mess he felt like Frankenstein’s monster.

*

Biff took a swig from a bottle of scotch in his desk. The fire in his gut was either the warm Johnny Walker or a bleeding ulcer. The next form featured another heartless quote Edgar had said--allegedly, Biff reminded himself, although he knew the truth behind these allegations--in reference to several of the female trainers. Six of them had complained when Edgar had said, “Their knowledge of fitness is incidental. Their ability to train only occasionally overlaps with their desperation to show off their bodies for the adulation of men at all times.”

Biff started scribbling.

*

Icy numbness started at the base of Edgar’s skull before sweeping through his head. His vision blurred. He felt like he had just been struck by a crowbar. He searched for words but couldn’t find even the most basic language to express what he was going through. Then it all faded, like an ice cream headache, and he found himself gasping for breath.

“What’s first, big guy?” Gino said, tweaking one of Edgar’s nipples, making the chest-heavy bodybuilder squeal and jerk away.

“I… uh…” He gazed around at the machines in the gym, confused. He recognized them, certainly, but he couldn’t think of the names of any of them. What bodypart was each of them for? He tried to imagine himself using them--he knew he had before--but his thoughts felt slow and murky.

He could only think of one thing. Heart fluttering, he raised his hands in the air. “We’re going to start…” he said, “with some… jumping jacks.”

Gino smirked. “You fucking kidding me?” he said, a dark eyebrow raised.

Edgar ignored the comment, but started jumping up and down, raising and lowering his arms. His mammoth pecs got a momentum all their own, bouncing and flopping, two heavy sacks of thick flesh. On the upswing, Edgar had to lean his head back, worried the giant pecs would smack him in the face.

‘

But the motion felt too good to stop. The tiny bikini top, rubbing against his nipples, while the heavy leaping muscletits threatened to topple him over at any moment, made Edgar’s dick rock hard. God, he prayed anybody could see what he was doing. He wanted Gino to see. He had never been more proud of his gigantic pecs before--muscles he had lovingly blown up to absurd size just to get others to notice.

What a waste it was, he thought, to have pecs this big without anyone to appreciate it!He knew there were men and women in the gym who mocked his gigantic chest but even that thrilled him.

His dick was rock hard in his shorts, drooling precum that was making a visible wet spot. But it was all worth it when he heard Gino growl, “Fuck yeah, muscletitties… Bounce those big boobies you muscle freak!”

*

The final complaint was from Gina, a member of the gym for 20 years. According to her, Edgar had said, “This woman comes to the gym seeking out sexual assault. Getting harassed by other men thrills her, and she’s able to orgasm just by being objectified.”

For a moment, he felt regret for siding with this guy. Edgar was a real piece of shit, he reminded himself, but he was right; he did bring in a lot of clients and blew up the gym’s brand on social media. It was a business, Edgar reminded himself, and he went to work with his marker redacting the final complaint before sliding the folder aside and finishing his bottle of scotch.

*

Gino grabbed Edgar by the bikini top strings and yanked him out of his jumping-jack-induced-haze. “Let’s go, Jugs,” he said, roughly dragging him toward the posing room.

Edgar wished Gino would let go--he would have gone willingly! He knew what the sly smirks and eye rolls from the other trainers and gym clientele meant. He had a reputation--no! No he didn’t! He had a reputation as a flawless example of genetic perfection! No, he had to accept it: he had a reputation as a pathetic gym slut, and he couldn’t deny that he had earned it.

In the posing room, Gino locked the door, licking his lips as he shoved Edgar to his back. The short bodybuilder was so off-balance, a little force was all it took to topple him over.

His mountainous chest piled high before him, Edgar tried to look past his big tits to see what Gino was planning. The big Italian knelt down, grabbing the sides of Edgar’s pecs with each hand. “You got lube?” the big guy growled.

Edgar whimpered. “Y-yes…” He had dragged his bag with him specifically for that reason. Gino snatched the bottle of lube roughly and tossed the bag aside.

“Good for you,” Gino said, “because I was gonna do this whether I had lube or not.”

Edgar felt the warm, silky lube pour into his pec cleavage. Gino yanked down his shorts to reveal a rock hard cock that he slid between Edgar’s two quivering chest globes… And then the Italian started to fuck.

Edgar couldn’t believe he was getting titty-fucked--actually, yes he could. This wasn’t the first time; closer to the hundredth. Gino squeezed the big pecs together and growled as his hips thrusted. Gino looked forward at the thick cockhead occasionally poking its head forth. He tried to get it in his mouth, only succeeding in kissing it a couple of times, and licking the salty cum from its tip.

Edgar couldn’t believe how satisfying it was. He knew this wasn’t right--he was a MAN, he did the fucking, but he had never felt sensations like the ones emanating from his gigantic chest. All that muscle was so sensitive, like sex organs of their own. Just the idea that Gino was fucking him like he was a thing, not even a person, magnified his enjoyment tenfold.

He came long before Gino did--and then came again, as Gino finished, spurting hot cum all over his face. Edgar hungrily slurped it up, basking in the glow of satisfaction that yet another beautiful, manly man had gotten pleasure from his body.

Gino left the room without a word, leaving Edgar to slowly collect himself. The posing room had mirrors on all sides; Edgar was staring into a thousand images of the nightmare he had become. He gazed into it, making his pec muscles slowly flex and inflate, rippling them. He had such incredible muscle control of these things! He was a human wonder.

Cum and lube poured from his pec cleavage, down his ripped abs and across his still hard cock. God, he thought, I could go again. And he could. He just had to find another guy in the gym willing to use his big chest for what it was built for.

He fished a towel from his bag and tried to clean up. He had to look somewhat presentable if he was going to score another horny guy. He just hoped nobody in the gym complained about him again. The last thing he needed was another sitdown with Biff.