Private Competition [Part 1]

[Second tier patrons and above will get to vote on who changes and how. Soon as the voting results are in I'll post part 2!]

Finally the Men’s superheavyweight competitors took the stage and I felt my mouth water as the four testosterone-drenched bulls took the stage in their colorful posing trunks. I had waited all day for this, through class after class of overpacked women’s bikini and figure classes, through board-short wearing men’s physique competitors with overgelled hairdos… Even through the admirable but not-quite-big-enough lesser weight classes of men’s bodybuilding. But these four were my prize.

It had taken all of my concentration to keep my powers under wraps, especially since I could sense all of this raw masculine energy in one focused place (with me at ground zero, just behind the judges). It was like sitting at the edge of a buffet while my stomach growled, but now I could finally unleash and unfurl my powers like folded wings.

The stage lights darkened as I rose into the air with my arms outstretched. The four competitors stood in their relaxed pose looking wide and bulky, their skins glistening with oil. I could see the shock on their faces as I hovered through the air before them but none of them could move more than their eyes. Each of them tried but their bodies wouldn’t budge. They couldn’t even wiggle a toe if they wanted to now that they were all in my power. I’m sure each of them wondered why no one in the audience or backstage was running to the aid, or reacting at all to the man shrouded in dark energy suspended in midair. I’d frozen everyone else in time, and these four overgrown men and I had all slipped between moments so I could have my way with them.

Before I did anything, I took a moment to examine my prey. First in line was Adam Briggs. This blonde-haired blue-eyed stud weighed in at 260 rock-solid pounds at age 25. He had an amazing future ahead of him--that is, if I allowed it to happen. In another life this stud would spend his days surfing and lounging on the beach, pursued by vapid women entranced by his hunky good-looks, raging confidence and the thick meat between his legs, but in this world he was bitten by the bodybuilding bug at an early age. I stared into his eyes and read his past. Putting on muscle came easy to him. He was regarded as a phenom by older bodybuilders at his gym, a prodigy, and with model good looks atop a massive physique, he gained a lot of attention very quickly. His confidence came off him in waves. I salivated as I basked in it.

Next was Andrey Suleymanov, a 30-year old Russian whose freakish body was the result of Eastern European steroid access from a very young age. He was a full blown muscle tick by age 20, and spent his offseasons comfortably sitting well over 300 pounds. As I examined him I ran my hand over his bald head, just as smooth as the rest of him was, and stroked his ludicrously thick neck. I could taste his desperation to be bigger every second, his dissatisfaction with being anything less than completely immobile from his own beefed up musculature. I saw in his past girlfriends who begged, in Russian, for him to slow down, that he was too big and he was going too far, but he always ignored them. I paused on his memories of noticing that his own dick and balls had shrunken from his gear use… but when he looked at the rest of his body, so big he could barely fit all of him in a mirror, he didn’t care. I could have spent all day just breathing in his obsession.

Third in line was Derek Grove, a massive beast of obsidian muscle. Derek was an absolute beast of swollen sinews with thick veins snaking across every hyperdeveloped muscle. He looked like a photoshop, and his dark oiled flesh shined like onyx in the stagelights. He carried all that beautiful mass effortlessly. I gazed into his past and saw a youth spent excelling at basketball and football, playing football in college, but leaning into his ability to get huge and stay ripped easily. Anabolics and his own freakish genetics turned him into a massive man at the age of 20, and the ten years since then were just spent pouring more and more mass onto that frame and shaping it to perfection. Even during the offseason he had a veiny 8-pack and fuel-lines that ran along his pillowy muscles, and now that he was in competition shape he looked like a warm marble. To complete the package, his bright orange posers held a slab of meat as overgrown as impressively oversized as the rest of him. He had about the mass of a grapefruit stuffed in there, the size and nearly the length of an average man’s forearm swinging between his massive legs. With quads as large as his fellow competitors’ waists and a cock as humongous as his, I imagine buying pants was always a struggle.

Last in line was Phil Timmons. Phil was by far the oldest of the competitors, his body blown out by decades of heavy steroid use and the diminished package between his legs definitely showed how much he leaned into his injections. His titanic physique only further made his little dicklet seem smaller. Tattoos covered most of his upper body, around his torso, along his cobbled abs and down to his smooth groin. Phil had been an impressive man onstage at a young age but never quite nailed his pro card. He spent his time bedding sugar mamas, seeking out heavier and more complex supplementation and competing year after year without success. All of that dedication to hugeness had made him a human parade float with a relatively tiny head swallowed up by massive traps. Every minor stabilizer muscle had been blown up to immense proportions, giving him the appearance of a freakish anatomy chart. He looked like he would be more comfortable leaning forward with and walking like an ape on his thick gnarled fists. I could taste his desperation, his bitterness at struggling so long and being beaten out by younger talent despite his efforts. It tasted delicious. I gazed into his icy blue eyes and wanted to run my hands through his short black crewcut, whispering to him that I could give him whatever he wanted… for a price.

But this wasn’t about what he--or any of the other “competitors”--wanted; this was a competition, and although the rules had just drastically changed, these men had come here to compete. I was there new judge however, and the rewards for success (and failure) would be beyond their wildest dreams.

For the rest of the theater a single second had passed. Even at this, time was flowing far too quickly. I meant to savor this experience. With a thought I slowed time down even further. Then I hovered before the men, basking in their masculine auras and judging their cartoonish physiques, and started to make my decisions.

Adam was clearly the most beautiful. Andrey was the most massive. Derek had the largest cock, while Phil was the most freakish looking. I merely had to decide what the first category would be, and then who the winner was. But for these men, nothing would ever be the same again.