Brock's Amateur Muscle Worship Session

[muscle drain, shrinking]

[Six word “You Call It” request: Incubus drains bodybuilder during worship session]

I saw his blond jockboy head poke out of the bathroom with a wild grin on his face. “You ready for some real muscle, fag? Better fire up that venmo, bitch.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I just gave him a thumbs up. His head retreated back to whatever he was doing in there to prepare; I assume there was some oiling and maybe some pushups to get a last minute pump going. Maybe he was snorting a little cocaine? I honestly didn’t care.

I was here for a snack, not a meal. I had hours to kill. Those of my brethren, when forced to inhabit this physical plane, would hunt down specimens of masculinity to sate their appetite. Maintaining a corporeal form put a massive amount of stress on us. It was draining to hold on to a body, and every second we existed in this mortal realm made our powers fade just a bit. Sometimes a big beefy musclestud was more than just a meal; he was my ticket home. But not this guy. He was just a little plaything.

For the record, this kind of cocky “cashmaster” stuff wasn’t my usual bag. I was there for muscle, pure and simple (but not in the way my jacked-up muscle guy assumed). I found him online and invited him to my hotel room with the usual offer: “You show me your muscles, I’ll slip you some money.” He burst through the door like an action hero and strutted around, beating his chest and selling me lines like, “You better get that tongue ready--because this beef needs a bath,” and, “You ever see a real man, fag? You’ve never seen a real man like THIS.” He punctuated every line with a flex and a grunt, but nothing fleshy. Just sloppy most-musculars and double biceps. He still had his coat on even. He had a lot to learn.

I’d hired enough guys for muscle worship before that I knew this guy was an amateur, overcompensating for his lack of experience (and probably his anxiety) by making a big show. Maybe if he acted like a big enough man, I wouldn’t realize how terrified he was to strip down for a guy ready to jerk off over him.

Normally, a guy like this would have been beneath me. I didn’t fuck around with amateurs. Honestly, I’d gotten what I needed already that day from a bouncer at a bar. While my low-rent muscleguy prepared, I lay back on the hotel bed and thought back to all that sweaty, masculine muscle from earlier in the day. Just the thought of how all that hard flesh filled out that t-shirt, how bossy he was, throwing around his weight because he knew he was the biggest and strongest in the room. Big cocky alpha bull. At least he was, until I got in touch with him.

“Brock” (as he had introduced himself) burst from the bathroom and did a slow lap around the room, curling 30 lb dumbbells he had brought himself. He was wearing a t-shirt cut-off at the midriff to show off his abs. It hugged his torso tightly. His shorts were cut high too, giving me a nice shot of those legs and that ass.

For what he lacked in experience, he made up for with his appearance. Brock was a big Italian guy; olive-skinned, chiseled face, deep blue eyes and curly black hair. His body was BIG, with a wide frame like an NFL lineman but packed with hard, finely crafted muscle instead of a football player’s untamed bulk.

Those of my “race” had abilities to sense the qualities that made humans “masculine.” Even before he had stripped down to this little costume to show off his muscles, I could see his strength in his aura. It came off him in thick waves. I could smell the testosterone in his sweat. It had a metallic tang to it that made my nose curl. Synthetic hormones, chemicals used to boost his size and push the limits of his body. I preferred an all-natural man, hulking because of his own natural brew, but again, I was just passing the time with Brock.

“All right, fag,” he said, swaying his hips from side to side with a vicious sneer that I could see right through. “For what you already paid me, I’ll flex for twenty minutes. You pay me more, I flex longer. No touching.”

“How much to touch?” I said. All these rules, on top of this posturing, bored me. That he had no idea what lay ahead for him was the only titillating fact that kept my eyes on this prize.

“Five hundred,” he said. “But you only get to touch THREE bodyparts. This ain’t a petting zoo.”

I slipped the bouncer’s wallet out of my pocket, flashing back to the moment when I took all his size from him. He went from a beast of a man that filled the doorway to just a little slip of a thing, barely able to hold up pants that hugged his huge legs just a moment before. I lightly slapped him around and the frail little thing acted like I’d whacked him with a sledgehammer. It was probably the first time in his life he ever felt so powerless, or took a beating of that magnitude.

He ran away with his “SECURITY” t-shirt hanging to the ground like a dress, the only piece of clothing that stayed up. I took the underwear, to savor his smell, and the wallet, to max out his credit cards and spend all his cash. Luckily, my big bouncer boy had some big bills on him so I could tease Brock a little further.

“Oh, yes, daddy,” I said, drawing a circle around my nipple. I could tell Brock wasn’t gay, nor was he accustomed to the affections of a gay man. I wasn’t gay either; what I wanted from this man wasn’t sexual at all. But I’d studied enough men on this planet to choose an appropriate form and a manner of behaving.

“I’m not your daddy, fag,” Brock said. His confidence faltered for a moment. “It’s ‘master,’ got it, fag?”

“Oh, yes, master,” I said as I approached him with the five bills. He snatched them from my hand. I could tell that Brock had spent a lot of time in front of a webcam making money, rather than earning it in person. He was doing his best impersonation of a “muscle god”--and it wasn’t convincing in the least.

“If you don’t mind,” I said, removing a small white doll from my pocket, “I’m going to put this idol on the table next to you.” I set the doll, a soft carving of a thin little man, on the table next to him. Brock looked at it skeptically.

“Idol?” he said. He picked it up (as I’d hoped; his contact with it would establish the link I needed to take what I needed). “This is just a fucking doll. I’ll be your ‘idol,’ bitch!” He flexed a huge arm and presented it with a, “smelling the air” sneer. I had to resist the urge to roll my eyes--but, to his defense, that big arm had to be at least 24 inches.

Size was one thing Brock had on his size. He was easily 6’3” tall, and just a hair under 300 pounds. Despite the chemistry he used to attain his dense bulk, I could sense that he used to have big, healthy balls that churned out loads of all those tasty hormones. As I spent time near him I got flashes of his past: Brock was a big baby, always the biggest in his classes, the brute of his friends and a star athlete due more to his size than his athletic talent. He was big and strong, put on muscle easily, and steroids made it even easier.

Deep voice. Thick neck. Big, bulging muscles. It was a rare day when Brock encountered someone in the gym bigger and stronger than he was. I could take all of that away from him, of course, but I was in a rare mood. I wanted to do something even more fun.

“Three bodyparts, hunh?” I said, approaching him slowly. I surveyed his huge body, reaching out with my fingers but staying inches from him. I didn’t want accidental contact to count as one of my three “touches.”

“Yeah, you pick one, fag,” he said. He stomped a leg down and wobbled his quad back and forth. The size! This man was a true clydesdale. Legs would be the first stop on my journey.

“Obviously you don’t skip leg day,” I said, running my hands over his huge quads. I traced the veins from just under his shorts down his quads, into his massive calves. He had two big melon-sized glutes behind them, but I’d be focusing on the legs for right now.

“Damned right I don’t,” he said. “I can squat a fucking bus.” To demonstrate, he flexed his leg. My eyes went wide. I was inches from a buffet.

I could have drained him instantly, of course. I could have leeched the vitality from him, accelerating his age until all that mass just turned to soft, useless flesh that sagged off his aging frame as he hunched into a wrinkled, feeble mass. Without even touching him I could shrink him into a desiccated husk, just skin tightly wrapped around bones--still living of course, but barely able to do anything but moan and crawl. I’ve even gone further than that, in the past. With a snap of my fingers, I could make big Brock into a warm sentient pool of goo that no one would ever recognize used to be a human. But no, Brock wouldn’t be living out the rest of his life as a helpless puddle. I had different plans.

Brock couldn’t see it, but I watched as all that masculine energy trapped in his massive legs wafted off him like vapor. It traveled in long tendrils through the room, swirling around the little doll I’d set on the table.

“Big legs like a horse,” I said.

“You’re damned… damned… right…” he said. Clearly he was feeling the effects of my powers but he was too cocky to admit it. That just made it all the more delicious. I made the drain slow: just a few inches from his legs at first. He probably just felt tired, but I had a front row seat as all that hard mass evaporated from his legs. The skin tightened as the mass faded.

“Very nice,” I said. “Very nice.” He put a hand to his head and stumbled on his feet. I had to keep the big lug steady! He hadn’t noticed his lost size yet. The effects of the draining usually cloaked the victim’s senses in a bit of a fog. Lucky for me, I would have a little extra time to play.

“Next,” I said, letting my fingers slide around his torso, “how about that big, muscular back?” I grabbed onto his thick lats, like two massive sides of beef. “Goodness, you must be able to deadlift two tons!”

“Probably… probably more…” he said. He flexed his back, unaware that it was only about two-thirds the thickness it had been a moment ago. Wide, rippling wings of six-foot thick muscle just waned and flattened out as his legs were.

Unbeknownst to Brock, the doll on the table was changing as well. Its stick legs got wide and round, like Brock’s had been a moment before. Now its back was growing as well. The doll, with its big legs and back but nothing else, looked just as ridiculous as Brock now did (only in reverse).

“And these arms,” I said. Brock was so overwhelmed by my assault that his eyes were closed. He was swooning on his feet, so I just grabbed his thick cannons and ran my fingers over them. He flexed them instinctively and I felt the big biceps crunch into hard mounds beneath my fingers before running my hands around the sides of his arms. He flexed his triceps and I felt the two tubes of manly flesh, so thick I couldn’t even get my hands around them. I ran my hands along the fuel-line thick veins running up his arms. Through those veins, I triggered the drain. The big logs of mass melted between my fingers, withering away.

“Fuck,” Brock said, stumbling away from me. He must have sensed something in my touch but was too weak to defend himself against it.

Gone was the cocky strut of my big mammoth man. Now, he was completely off-balance. His legs were now narrow and weak, his arms just spindly limbs sticking out of his torso, the muscles of his back completely deflated. I had left his big, beefy shoulders, his thick neck, his huge pecs, that big ass, and his decent-sized dick. He looked ridiculous now--which was perfect; just as ridiculous as he sounded.

“What the… fuck?” he said, looking down at his misshapen body.

I picked up the idol. The legs, arms and back I had stolen from the muscle man had appeared on the doll.

Brock finally opened his eyes and looked down at himself. “Jesus, fuck,” he said as he noticed the changes. Strangely, he was staring at his pecs. They were unchanged, still two massive mounds of thick corded muscle that bounced with every step, but next to his shriveled arms, they probably looked as if they’d gotten bigger. “What did you do to me?” he said, standing up. His big ass looked stupid with those two skinny legs coming out of it. His center of gravity was all off: he was now wasp-waisted with a real hour-glass shape. He lacked a strong core to keep all that mass upright. Poor fellow kept toppling forward or stumbling backward.

“How did you do this?” he said, the confidence gone from his voice. The shorts and shirt stayed on, held up by his unchanged pecs and ass, but they hung loosely around the rest of him.

I moved forward, my fingers grabbing at the air. “How much to touch more of that body?” I said, wagging my tongue at him. He scooted back on the bed, trying to push me away, but there was no strength in his bony arms now. He tried to kick me away but there was no muscle in those limbs. He panicked as his formerly powerful body didn’t do a thing to help him out of this situation.

“Get away!” he shrieked. “Get away from me!”

“Oh, fine,” I said. His panic and confusion was just as delicious as the bizarre shape I’d left his body in. “But I paid you. I want a show! And if you cooperate… maybe I’ll normalize that body of yours.”

“O-okay,” he said. He hopped to his feet and bounced his pecs--which were most of the muscle left on his body now--and flexed his pathetic arms. “What do you want to see?” he said.

“Do pushups,” I said. He dropped to the floor, his arms shaking as he tried to support his body. He couldn’t even do one: he collapsed to the ground, cushioned by his big musclejug pecs.

“Fine,” I said, yanking him to his feet. “Curl those dumbbells then!” He could barely lift them off the ground. His face--still thick and muscular, untouched by my power--turned red, veins popping from his forehead as he struggled to budge weight he had tossed around easily before.

“How about this,” I said. “Give me back all my money and I’ll put your body back to a more consistent proportion. Sound good?”

He threw the five hundred dollar bills at me. “Take it!” he said. His hands shook as he tapped on his phone. The money I originally wired to him popped back into my account. “Please, just… you can’t leave me like some kind of a freak!”

I smiled. Those of my ilk treasured these transactions. It wasn’t about taking size or strength. Those were concrete, mortal things. But the transfer of power as the most energizing thing an incubus such as myself can experience. Truly I was always in control, but Brock hadn’t realized it until I made a little rearrangement of his body.

“You think you’d be grateful,” I said as I ran my hands over his shoulders. He cringed at my touch. “I left all this big, juicy muscle behind! But you want your body to be the same all over, don’t you?” I grabbed a handful of his big ass. He flexed at my touch, and the warm globe hardened to steel beneath my fingers. My fingers slid between his cheeks for just a moment as he whimpered.

“Fine,” I said. Of course I had been intentionally misleading. I wasn’t giving him anything back. I exhaled and the rest of his muscle drained away--with one exception. His shoulders shrank down to nothing, his neck receding, even his head got smaller to match the rest of his spindly frame. His legs and spine contracted as his height dwindled down to about five and a half feet. The two mounds of gluteal muscles beneath him deflated, giving him the sensation of sinking down to the bed.

“There. Now you’re skinny all over,” I said. He stared back down at his pecs, the one muscle I left untouched. “Except those. THey’re too beautiful. Too perfect!” I ran a hand up his shirt and grabbed a big, juicy nipple. He struggled against my approach but now, except for his big juicy chest, he was just a scrawny little guy.

He whined for a bit, and begged, but I just ignored him. I picked up his phone and snapped pictures of him. “Wait! No!” he begged, but I sent pics of his mostly-deflated body to all of his contacts. I quickly uploaded the shots to his social media as well. He slapped at me, trying with all of his pitiful strength to get his phone back, but I kept him at bay with one arm.

“W-what am I supposed to do now?” he said after I gave his phone back. He patted his hands over his newly pale, scrawny body, but his fingers stayed away from those hulking pecs. He was almost afraid to touch them. I understood why: on his tiny frame, they looked monstrous. He flexed one, then the other, probably shocked that they responded to his commands.

“Wet t-shirt contests could be a thing,” I said as I gathered up the money and headed for the door. “I bet with some creative camera work you could still do your webcam shows, right?” Before I stepped out the door, I noticed one thing I had overlooked.

“Oh, one final detail,” I said. A large dick sprang into shape beneath the muscular legs of the little doll in my hand. Meanwhile, Brock’s big dick, looking like a third leg on his new body, shrank away like it was retreating for cover. When I was done, it was limp and scrawny like the rest of him, save for that big beautiful chest. “You should feel lucky,” I said. “I bet there are hundreds of guys your size who would kill for a chest like yours.”

I suppose it would have been more merciful to drain him completely, but Brock was nothing more than a way to pass the time.